We reached an agreement on the construction of the base.
Now, it was time to build!
...Or so I wanted to say, but the planets in this sector were below even Baron-class. They were fundamentally non-terraformable.
Whether it was because the atmosphere contained unpurifiable toxins, or diseases that even chlorella couldn't fend off, or the fact that they were gas giants with no solid ground to stand on—they were hopeless. If a planet was merely "teeming with dangerous lifeforms" like Planet Shiramber, the Empire would have been tripping over itself to develop it.
When even the Galactic Empire, a regime famous for its casual disregard for human life, judged development impossible, you knew it was a lost cause. I suppose if there were so much as a single pebble worth mining, they would have slapped a "Go Forth and Die!" sticker on the project, but these rocks had nothing.
It was a hellish environment.
How did the pirates actually live here? The answer was simple: they lashed together multiple decommissioned starships and operated the resulting mess as a substitute for a colony. I suppose "slum colony" was the best way to describe it.
Wait, I thought. Wouldn't the gravity devices be weak? Wouldn't that shorten their lifespans?
As it turned out, their lives were indeed remarkably short. Of course, the pirate raiding parties spent enough time "trading" on other planets that the impact on them was minimized. However, for the residents who never left the slum colony, life was brief and brutal.
The population was a mix of criminals, refugees from frontier planets, and rebels along with their families... yeah, they were the sort of people whose lifespans would have been short even if they weren't living in a junk pile. I suppose not being executed by the Empire was as good as it got for them.
It made me realize that my Marquis territory—despite being ruled by an idiot—had been running quite well. As expected of a territory belonging to a Marquis House. The environmental conditions and strategic location were just too powerful to mess up.
We maneuvered our transport ship into the slum colony, being careful not to bump into anything. We touched down in a ruin that didn't even deserve to be called a spaceport. When we landed, a violent clatter-clatter-clatter echoed through the hull, making my stomach do a flip.
We stepped out into what appeared to be the interior of a ship that had once been a battleship.
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.
A chaotic, unregulated sprawl of extensions and additions stretched out before us. I really didn't want to walk on this floor; it looked like it would collapse if I sneezed too hard.
A guide was waiting for us at the "port." He was a tall, slender man. His clothes were high-end, luxury-brand suits, but his overall style screamed "yakuza." I mean, what was with that yellow amoeba-patterned dress shirt? Was that supposed to be paisley? His shoes were genuine crocodile leather, and they were those weird, ultra-flat loafers.
Where did he even buy clothes that tacky? That was a look that had gone extinct even in my backwater home planet. It wasn't like he was a comedian, a cocky college student, or a male prostitute. Successful criminals love high-end brands, but when they’re isolated from actual high society, the cultural dissonance becomes jarring.
Take that diamond-encrusted watch on his wrist, for instance. The actual upper class in the Imperial Capital wouldn't dream of wearing something so gaudy. Their style was about subtlety—wearing things that only those with equal taste could appreciate. They didn't bother performing for the uneducated rabble. This need to intimidate everyone by flaunting wealth was the hallmark of a pauper's mindset.
How foolish. He should have just stuck with worker boots and a combat suit instead of overcompensating. He’d probably dressed up because he was negotiating with a Princess, but it had the exact opposite effect. The moment this guy showed up as our guide, he’d already lost any shred of respect.
"Imperial Princess, I am Secretary Fay," he announced.
"Ah, yes. I am Veronica."
My wife kept darting glances at me. I had no choice but to lean in and whisper in her ear.
"He’s wearing that outfit in all seriousness. He’s not trying to provoke us, and he’s not joking."
"R-Really?"
"Yes. Just consider it the local culture."
I made sure to maintain a polite tone. Observing this made me realize that Ohno really had been a proper noble after all. He’d understood the concept of time, place, and occasion. He might have dressed down, but he always maintained a level of dignity that wasn't insulting. From the perspective of a dignitary from the Capital, Ohno was acceptable, but this guy felt like a walking insult.
It’s like when a member of the upper class shows up to a meeting in work clothes—the commoners see it and think, This bastard... he’s looking down on us!
"I-I see," Veronica managed. She wasn't acting like her usual self. In a way, she was overwhelmed by the sheer "off-ness" of the situation. Her expression suggested she was debating whether she was supposed to execute him for such an aesthetic crime.
Meanwhile, Piggett looked like he was about to blow a gasket. He clearly took the man's appearance as a personal insult. At this rate, he might actually kill the guy.
"Lord Piggett. Please, restrain yourself. He means no harm."
"...Hmph. Lord Groom. My apologies."
After walking a short distance, we reached a waiting vehicle. A hovercar. I’d heard they were popular in the ancient past. However, this one had an ultra-gaudy paint job. The body was finished in a thermal-reactive paint that shifted from blue to purple based on the temperature, shaped like a pointless old muscle car. It was accented with meaningless gold pinstripes and featured a "bamboo shoot" muffler that served absolutely no mechanical purpose.
Its lack of sophistication was so extreme it was almost impressive. Veronica just stood there, her mouth hanging open.
"Please, just accept it," I said.
"T-The failure of education..."
They probably hadn't received an education at all, these people.
We climbed in, and the interior was limousine-style, reeks of cheap perfume. Piggett’s mood soured further. He had the expression of a demon who was seconds away from tearing the car apart with his bare hands. A mysterious disco ball inside the cabin glittered, casting light over a space so stupid and tacky that only a "real" amateur could have designed it.
We sat in stony silence. It was... exhausting.
The car crawled through passages that were never intended for vehicles. Tent stalls crowded the edges of the path, and pedestrians walked right alongside us. A sour stench hung in the air, and trash was scattered everywhere. Because of the clutter, we couldn't pick up any speed; we were moving slower than a bicycle.
...That’s the kind of place this was.
Eventually, we reached a heavily decorated door. It was a room covered in redundant gold trim. This had to be Lily’s quarters. We exited the car and headed inside.
Lily was waiting for us.
"You've come," she said.
"Yes. Though the journey here was exhausting enough on its own."
"I suppose it looks filthy compared to the Imperial Capital."
It’s not just the dirt, Veronica's expression said.
"I will build a colony here," my wife declared.
"Heh. And how many years is that going to take?"
"It won't take long at all."
Veronica was brimming with confidence. I hadn't heard the specific details of the plan yet, so I felt a little uneasy.
"My subordinates are en route. Wait a while. I shall show you something interesting."
"Ha! I’m looking forward to it!"
Lily was acting tough, but I could tell she was terrified. It wasn't hard to guess why—Piggett’s killing intent was radiating off him in palpable waves.
"Fay! Bring the contract!" Lily barked, and Fay disappeared into the back.
In his place, a massive man stepped out. He was bald, his face was a map of scars, and he had the kind of build that was both incredibly muscular and prominently pot-bellied.
"This is my bodyguard, Huma."
Despite his size, the man seemed strangely cowed and intimidated.
"Hm? What's the matter, Huma? Does the knight over there bother you?"
Piggett was still in a foul mood, which I could sympathize with. But Huma just shook his head and muttered under his breath.
"What are you talking about, Boss? He’s way more dangerous than that knight. That guy right there."
Eh? Me?
Huma's knees were visibly shaking.