We honor those who've stepped into our ranks and give proper recognition to every new warrior who joins our cause.
This Royal Navy has expanded and welcomes the following courageous souls: Lasse and Exal.
As your Fleet Admiral, I, Crimson_Reapr, welcome you, honor your commitment, and thank you for your service. May our power reach beyond the edges of charted space, and may ruin fall upon all who stand against humanity's strength.
---
3rd Person POV: Mark Shephard
The air inside Docking Bay 1 of Shepherd Orbital Works tasted different than how it had a week ago. The acrid sting of ozone and the heavy, metallic taste of laser-cut plasteel had settled, replaced by the crisp scent of a finished product.
Mark Shephard stood on the upper gantry, his arms resting on the railing, looking down at his creation.
The Vanguard-One sat in the center of the bay, bathed in the cool white glow of the overhead floodlights. He had moved the shepherd out of the bay and into the second bay that had previously been used for storage, storage that had been rearranged and stacked to occupy less space and allow the Shepherd to sit comfortably.
The Vanguard-One was unrecognizable from the battered, limping wreck that Commander Vorn had dropped off. It didn't look like a Kodiak Valkyrie anymore. The standard Valkyrie was angular, sure, but it was still closer to a flying brick than a graceful bird.
But this... what Mark had done was turn a jagged knife into a fine, Damascus steel Katana.
He had widened the hull, which meant that the gunship now spanned forty-eight meters across the beam, the armor plating sloping outward in a graceful, aggressive curve that shattered its previous silhouette. The hexagonal armor tiles interlocked like the scales of a mythical reptile, shimmering with a matte-black finish that seemed to drink the light and would give the idea of a stealth ship.
"Oh, she looks angry," a voice rasped from the doors behind him.
Mark turned to see Klaus Vorn standing at the entrance to the bay. Mark had been expecting his people to come pick it up, but it was a pleasant surprise to see that Vorn wasn't surrounded by his usual entourage of armed guards. He had chosen to come alone, dressed in a fresh flight suit, his helmet tucked under his arm. His cybernetic eye whirred softly as it zoomed in on the ship, the aperture contracting and expanding in a mechanical display of awe.
"She's not angry," Mark corrected, walking down the metal stairs to meet the mercenary leader. "But she's ready for blood."
Vorn walked past Mark, his biological eye wide, his hand reaching out to touch the hull. He ran his gloved fingers over the new plating. It was cool to the touch, smooth as glass, but harder than diamond.
"You widened her," Vorn noted, walking the length of the flank. "By what? Eight meters?"
"Eight meters exactly," Mark confirmed, falling into step beside him. "We were going to brute-force it, and we tried to, but I had to expand the internal frame to accommodate the Hellfire capacitor banks and the new heat-sink lattice. But the extra width is actually a boon for you. I re-aligned the maneuvering thrusters to the outer edges of the new cowling, giving you a wider moment arm for rotation."
Vorn stopped and glanced back at Mark. "In English."
Mark grinned. "It means she turns faster. In theory, I haven't tested it out myself, but all the simulations suggested so. Despite the extra mass, the leverage from the thruster placement gives you a seven percent increase in yaw and pitch response compared to a factory Valkyrie. She'll dance, Klaus."
Vorn shook his head, a low chuckle escaping his throat. "Seven percent. Do you know what seven percent means in a dogfight? It means I'm behind the other guy before he realizes I've turned."
"I know," Mark said. "It was just something I had to do since space was an issue, you know, give and take."
They reached the prow of the gunship, where the real money was. Vorn stopped dead, staring at the weapon sponsons. The "Needler" railguns were long and slender, jutting out like lances. But beneath them, tucked into the new chin assembly of the cockpit, were four menacing barrels that hadn't been there before.
"Mark," Vorn whispered. "What's this right here?"
"Well, you see, there was some extra power overhead," Mark explained casually, crossing his arms. "The Hellfire capacitors I developed are efficient, too efficient. In fact, if the Vanguard-One just ran the railguns, you'd be dumping excess charge into the heat sinks constantly. So, I added a dump valve in the form of added weapons."
He pointed to the four barrels. "These are Kronus' Quad-link 105mm rotary autocannons. Short barrels, high traverse speed, fed by a kinetic loader. Their rate of fire is tuned to 400 rounds per minute each. This should be a given, but they aren't for sniping. They're for when you get close and personal, in a dogfight with fighters or something. They'll shred through hull plating like a buzzsaw."
Vorn looked at the guns. He looked at Mark. He looked back at the guns. He looked like a child who had asked for a pony and received a dragon.
"Where... where is the ammo storage?" Vorn asked, trying to wrap his head around the logistics. "105mm shells take up space."
"I utilized the expanded hull width," Mark said. "The ammo drums are linear, running along the flanks of the ship behind the armor. It acts as additional spacing against kinetic impacts, and it feeds directly into the chin turret. You have two thousand rounds ready to rock."
Vorn let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a minute. "You're a fucking madman, Shephard. A beautiful, terrifying madman."
"Come on," Mark gestured to the lowered ramp. "The outside is just the wrapping paper. Let's see the inside."
They walked up the ramp. The interior of a standard Valkyrie was Spartan at best, with exposed wires, metal grille flooring, and seats that were little more than canvas straps. It was a troop transport converted into a gunship, and it usually felt like one.
However, the new interior of the Vanguard-One felt like a luxury yacht designed by a paranoid general. The airlock cycled with a heavy, reassuring thud. The lighting inside was warm, recessed LED strips that banished the harsh shadows of industrial space travel. The floor was covered in a high-density, acoustic-dampening polymer that silenced their footsteps.
Mark led Vorn into the crew habitation deck.
"Since it was a full refit, I took the liberty of ripping out the troop benches," Mark explained. "You said this is a command ship, your command ship. Meaning, you don't haul grunts in this, but rather your more elite crew. The Void Vanguards tend to do multi-day patrols, and every once in a while, y'all do some deep-space escorts. Morale matters in those types of missions."
He opened a door to the left, revealing a crew cabin. Not a closet with a hammock, but a genuine cabin. Two bunk beds were built into the wall, but they were wide, with thin memory-foam mattresses and privacy shutters. There was a small desk, personal lockers, and a dedicated climate control unit.
"Holy shit. Double bunks," Vorn noted, running a hand over the brushed steel of the locker. "Is this for my gunners?"
"And the engineer," Mark nodded. "Considering gunships tend to have 8 to 10 crewmembers, there's another one across the hall."
He led Vorn further in, past a galley that actually had a heating unit, a refrigeration block, and a table that magnetized to the floor. "Now you no longer need to squeeze ration paste tubes and have the option to cook a real meal in here."
Vorn looked at the coffee maker bolted to the counter. He touched it reverently. "My men are going to fight to the death over who gets stationed on this ship."
"That's the idea," Mark said. "Now on to your private quarters."
Mark opened the door at the end of the corridor, just before the cockpit. It wasn't huge. Space on a gunship, or any ship for that matter, was always at a premium, but Mark had maximized every inch. There was a single bed mounted on gyroscopic stabilizers to minimize turbulence during sleep. A workstation with a direct feed to the ship's tactical sensors. A small, private refresher unit with a sonic shower. And on the wall, a viewport that Mark had cut into the hull, shielded by blast-glass, offering a view of the stars.
Vorn walked into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at the viewport.
For a long moment, the mercenary commander said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy with an emotion that men like Vorn rarely showed.
"I haven't slept in a bed on my own ship in ten years," Vorn said quietly. "Usually, I sleep in the pilot's chair, or in a hammock in the cargo hold."
"Well, now you can. A commander needs rest, Klaus," Mark said, leaning against the doorframe. "A tired pilot is bound to make mistakes. If you make mistakes, people will die. You will die. Don't think of this as a luxury, though it kinda is. Think of it like a necessity, something to improve tactical efficiency."
Vorn looked up at Mark. The cybernetic eye was still, but his biological eye was glistening slightly.
"You didn't have to do this," Vorn said. "Your only obligation was to repair the damaged armor, guns, and a few systems. Not give my ship a whole makeover."
"Meh, I kind of like to fix things," Mark shrugged. "And when I saw your ship... I just had a bunch of ideas about what I would feel like an ideal ship for me. If I wouldn't fly and live in it, then it shouldn't be something I make. Plus, it didn't really cost much to do this."
Vorn stood up. He walked over to Mark and extended his hand. It wasn't the perfunctory handshake of a business deal. It was the grip of a man pledging his sword.
"You did much more than just fix it, Mark," Vorn said, his voice rough. "You have given her a soul."
They shook hands.
"I'm transferring the remaining balance now," Vorn said, tapping his G-comm. "Plus a one-million credit bonus for all this you've done. Don't argue with me on it."
"I wasn't going to," Mark grinned. "He who turns down extra cash is a dumbass."
Vorn laughed, the tension breaking.
---
Four Days Later, Monday Morning
The office of Shepherd Orbital Works was quiet. The frenetic energy of the Vanguard project had dissipated, replaced by the steady, rhythmic hum of the business operating at cruising altitude.
Mark sat at his desk, staring at the holographic display of his business account.
Current Balance: 11,278,500 Credits.
Kenjiro had decided not to invest in SIGS due to the way Mark's business was going, meaning that the number was everything Mark had made since he arrived at Mechanicus Station. He had already made his way up to the eight digits and was in line to make much more. It was "fuck you" money. Even after the tax algorithm automatically siphoned off the IUC's cut, a painful 2,819,625 Credits currently sitting in an escrow hold for the quarterly filing, Mark was left with nearly eight and a half million credits in liquid capital.
He was rich by most people's standards. Just like most of the stations orbiting Nova Celeste, Mechanicus Station had both very wealthy and very poor people. By the current standards, he was royalty to most of its inhabitants, but a pauper to some of the higher-class residents. And by the standards of Nova Celeste, he was... well, he was still "new money," just barely scratching the bottom of the barrel, but surely making his way up.
"Hey, Marcos," Mark called out, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head.
"What's up, Brochacho?" Marcos responded in a rather Hispanic accent.
"I'm going to need you to move two million into my checking account. I'll be using that as the 'Run Away' fund. We won't have a need to touch it for the time being, and with the way business is picking up, we might not have to touch it ever unless the station is exploding."
"Say less, holmes," Marcos replied. "I'll be processing the transfer of two million credits into your checking account. It is currently earning a nice little 4% interest."
"What's up with the vato accent?" I asked.
"What vato, guey?" Marcos asked. "This is just me, fool, I'm Marcos, always have been this way holmes."
Mark sighed and let out a dry chuckle. "Sure... Anyways, take another three million and earmark it for the contract with the 7th Fleet. I'm pretty sure the nanoprinters have chewed through a good 20% of the material we have, and will be chewing through the rest just to get us started on all those vent orders. So do me the favor of getting us more raw materials. It doesn't have to be the best. It's clear that Strathari Printers somehow turn the worst shit into premium shit, somehow. Get iridium, durasteel, glass, rubber, wiring, and whatever else you think we'll be needing to feed the printers. If I'm going to be working on Admiral Strathmore's ships, they need to be perfect."
"I see fool," Marcos replied. "You're trying to make daddy dearest proud. I can respect that. I'll be allocating the funds and drafting those supply orders right now. And just so you know, I'm going to be taking the liberty of ordering a crate of high-grade tea and water for Kenjiro. The vato has been complaining about the station's water quality impacting the flavor profile. And you know what they say, fool. Happy employee, smooth business sailing."
Mark chuckled. "It's not just about making my adoptive father proud. I also have to leave a solid impression with the IUC, showing that I'm not just some Thermal Vent retailer and can be trusted with building and repairing ships. Shit, who knows, maybe I'll end up contracted by them to design new and better ships. I mean, shit, Aegis has just developed ship shielding, that alone is going to open a shitton of doors for new ship designs. As for Kenjiro's tea, get the man what he wants."
He looked around the office. Kenjiro was currently in the back, supervising the installation of a new localized server rack that would handle the increased processing load for the defensive grid that they had been reworking for the past couple of days. Lyra was at the Orphanage, probably being taught by one of the sisters, 'showing off her bright mind' as one of them claimed.
Things were starting to calm down and felt... normal. But Mark knew better. Calm was an illusion, and as the saying goes, the calm always comes before the storm.
*BZZZZT*
The console before Mark buzzed.
"Hey, fool, you have an incoming transmission," Marcos announced, still keeping up the act of a Vato from Earth. "Oh shit. It's Priority One, originating from this very station's Legal Division."
Mark sat up straight as he heard Marcos drop the act in the middle of his sentence. "Alright, patch them through."
A hologram before Mark flickered to life. Mark wasn't really sure who he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't Lieutenant Beatrice Schultz. She looked tired, her uniform slightly rumpled, but her eyes remained as sharp as they were a week ago.
"Mr. Shephard," she nodded.
"Miss Schultz," Mark replied. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Are you receiving complaints about all the ships orbiting near my yard?"
"Not today," Beatrice said, offering a small, tight smile. "I'm calling to give you a heads up. We just got word that the IUC Magistrate has expedited the arraignment for Alistair Thorne. The preliminary hearing is tomorrow morning at 0900 hours. It will take place at the Station Courthouse, on the 3rd ring, by sector 1."
Mark frowned. "Tomorrow? That's unusually fast. I mean, these corporate cases tend to drag on for months before they even get to the court."
"It is fast," Beatrice agreed. "Too fast, in my opinion. But the video footage you leaked lit a fire under the administration's ass. Then there's the massive public outcry and rising dissent on the station's lower levels. The station's board of directors and the owners of the station, House Hollosmith, do not like the attention such an event taking place on their station has garnered. They kind of want this to go away as soon as possible, and the fastest way to make it go away is to throw Thorne to the wolves publicly and quickly."
She leaned closer. "Your presence will be required there, Mark. After all, you're the primary witness, the victim, and the man who put 5 operatives in the figurative dirt and 2 others in a healing pod."
"I thought I had already given my statement," Mark said, feeling a cold knot form in his stomach. He hated courts. It was a hate he had carried over from his previous life on Earth. He hated jury duty and the fact that courts were places where words were twisted, where the truth was secondary to procedure, and where people could be bought off. "Can't I just attend via a holocall or something?"
"Nope. Especially not for a capital case involving a Regional Corporate Director," Beatrice shook her head. "You need to be there in person. And Mark... bring your lawyer. If you don't have one, get one. Thorne's legal team is going to be a shark tank. They'll try to paint you as the aggressor and say you baited him to act."
"Oh, they can try to spew their bullshit," Mark growled. "But I have video evidence, and the universe is calling for his head,"
"Yeah, sure, the video is good," Beatrice admitted. "But lawyers are better. Just... be ready. And wear a suit."
"Alright," Mark sighed. "I guess I'll be there."
"See you in the morning, Shephard," Beatrice said before closing the channel.
Mark stared at the empty space where her face had been. Now he needed to buy a suit. Or he could use his pendant to... no, that he would be relying too much on it.
"Welp," he groaned as he stood up. "Time to go shopping for a suit."
---
The Next Day,
Tuesday, 08:30
Mechanicus Station - Sector 1, Judicial District
Aside from the residential and commercial rings of teh station, the Judicial ring of Mechanicus was the only part of the station that tried to look like it wasn't a factory. The walls were paneled in synthetic wood, the floors were carpeted in a deep, judicial crimson, and the air was scented with artificial sandalwood. It was designed to project authority, stability, and gravitas.
However, today, it looked like a riot.
Mark stepped out of the transit car, adjusting the collar of the suit he had bought yesterday. It was a charcoal gray, double-breasted cut that cost four thousand credits. It was tailored to fit his frame, but he still felt like a bear squeezed into a tuxedo. Plus, the tie felt loose, and the fabric felt flimsy compared to the clothing the pendant usually provided, and it was less comfortable.
Beside him, Kenjiro walked nervously, clutching a briefcase that contained the patent flimsies and the raw data logs from the attack. Kenjiro was also wearing a suit, a sharp, navy blue number that he actually looked comfortable in. It was a remnant of his SIGS life, pulled from the bottom of his luggage.
"You look stiff," Kenjiro whispered as they walked down the corridor toward the courthouse entrance.
"I feel like I'm wrapped up in plastic," Mark muttered, tugging at his cuffs. "I fucking hate boardrooms."
"Yeah, tell me about it," Kenjiro chuckled. "Just... try not to glare at the judge. You can be quite intimidating."
They rounded the corner toward the main plaza in front of the courthouse, and before them was a wall of sound. There was shouting, camera shutters clicking, drones buzzing around, and people moving like crazy. It was a shitshow to put it mildly.
"There he is!" someone screamed.
"Mr. Shephard! Mr. Shephard!"
A sea of people surged forward, and it wasn't just a few of them. He was assaulted by a mob of people with cameras floating on anti-grav sleds, reporters from GNN, from the Financial Times, from the Mechanicus Daily. There were protesters holding signs, some anti-corporate ("DOWN WITH SIGS!"), and some pro-SOW ("THE MERCHANT PROTECTS!").
Station security had set up a barrier, but it was straining under the weight of the crowd.
Mark stopped. The lower rings had shown respect and admiration for him, sure, but it was still calm. This was something else.
"What... the.... fuck..." Mark whispered to himself.
The reporters kept on bombarding him with questions, making Mark blink and grumble in confusion. "I don't have a statement."
"Just walk," Kenjiro murmured, falling into step beside him. "Keep your chin up and make sure to look boring."
They kept on walking, and as soon as the security guards saw Mark, they quickly opened a lane through the barricade.
As Mark stepped into the gauntlet, the shouting became deafening. Microphones were shoved into his face, hovering inches from his nose.
"Mr. Shephard! Is it true you turned down a two-billion credit buyout from Aegis?"
"Mark! Mark! Over here! What do you have to say to the victims of other SIGS' hostile takeovers?"
"Is SOW planning to weaponize the Hellfire capacitors for the private market?"
"Mr. Shephard! Are you running for the Station Council?"
"Running for the Station Council? The fuck?" Mark thought to himself, but he outwardly ignored them. He kept his eyes fixed on the courthouse doors, which were just fifty meters away.
Flashes of light blinded him, and the heat of the crowd was stifling. He felt hands reaching out to touch his suit or to grab his arm, but he brushed them off.
"Mr. Shephard!"
A voice cut through the din. It wasn't loud, but it was definitely the type of voice that would make a head turn. It came from a woman standing right next to the security checkpoint, holding a datapad with the logo of the Starlight Inquisitor, an independent investigative journal known for digging up bones.
She just spoke calmly as her eyes locked onto Mark's with a terrifying intensity.
"Mr. Shephard," she said clearly. "Your service record is sealed by the IUC High Command. But we found a discrepancy in the registry of the colony Strara O86."
Mark froze, and the crowd around him seemed to blur, the noise fading into a dull roar. He turned his head slowly to look at the reporter. She was young, maybe twenty-five, with red hair and a look of hungry determination.
"The records show that the only Mark Shepherd from Strara O86 died two years ago," she said, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the lull in the crowd that her statement had caused. "Listed as KIA during a pirate ambush in the outer rim. His body was never recovered."
She stepped closer, undeterred by the massive man looming over her.
"So," she asked, holding her recording device up. "If Mark Shepherd is dead... who are you? And why does the 7th Fleet have a private logistics channel open to your workshop?"
The silence that followed was absolute as every camera turned to Mark. Every reporter held their breath as the question hung in the air.
Kenjiro looked at Mark, his face pale. He didn't know anything about Strara O86 or who this other Mark Shepherd they were talking about was.
Mark looked at the reporter. He felt the cold sweat trickle down his back under the expensive suit. He felt the phantom pain of the fall, the memory of the water, the feeling of dying, and waking up different.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a sound, the heavy oak doors of the courthouse swung open.
"Mr. Shephard!" a bailiff shouted from the steps. "The court is in session! Your presence is required immediately!"
Mark looked at the bailiff and then back at the reporter. He didn't answer her, turning on his heel and walking up the steps, leaving the question hanging in the air, like a grenade with the pin pulled, waiting to explode.
As the doors closed behind him, shutting out the noise and the cameras, Mark let out a breath he felt he had been holding for two years.
"Mark?" Kenjiro whispered, tugging at his sleeve. "What was she talking about?"
Mark straightened his tie. He looked at the courtroom ahead, where Alistair Thorne was waiting.
"Nothing you have to worry about," Mark said, his voice hollow. "If you want, we can talk about it at some other time."
He pushed open the inner doors. The trial was about to begin. But on the steps outside, a whole new can of worms had just been opened.
---
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