The House of the Reapr welcomes Operative Kitsune01 to its ranks. Their contributions and dedication to our cause will be honored through the Stars.
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.
Also, I think I'll return to having no titles for chapters.
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The transfer of funds in the IUC was rarely a simple affair, especially when dealing with military-grade capital. But Elena currently carried the absolute authority of the 7th Fleet's quartermaster division on her shoulders. She stood in the center of the primary gantry, pulling a heavy, encrypted naval datapad from the breast pocket of her immaculate uniform.
Mark watched as she inputted a complex, multi-tiered alphanumeric cipher, her fingers flying across the hardened glass screen. The drydock around them was filled with the sounds of heavy industry winding down as the automated drones retreated to their charging alcoves once again.
"Transferring the first half of the payment now, Mr. Shephard," Elena said, her voice echoing slightly. "Twenty million credits, drawn directly from the Fleet's discretionary emergency repair fund."
Inside Mark's ear, Marcos's voice chimed with a crisp, satisfying ring. "Incoming secure transaction verified, Mark. The naval cipher is authentic. Twenty million Imperial Credits have been deposited into the Shephard Orbital Works routing node. I have preemptively set aside five million for the Imperial tax escrow, bringing your active Helix Business account balance to exactly 25,328,500 Credits."
Mark felt a subtle, involuntary release of tension in his shoulders. It was the most money he had ever possessed, a number that fundamentally shifted the reality of what he could accomplish. He looked at Elena, extending a calloused, grease-stained hand.
"The funds have cleared," Mark said, his voice grounded, betraying none of the internal relief washing over him. "She's all yours. Try not to let your helmsman scratch the paint on the way out."
Elena reached out, grasping his hand in a firm grip that bespoke years of naval service. "We will put her to good use, Shephard. If this S-Alloy holds up to a Volnar kinetic barrage the way your simulations claim... You can expect the 7th Fleet to come knocking for a lot more than just thermal vents."
"I'll try to reserve a spot for you lot," Mark replied with a confident smirk.
He stepped back, gesturing toward the heavy, pressurized boarding umbilical that stretched from the gantry to the corvette's primary airlock. Elena nodded to her pilot and the three heavily armed Marines. They filed into the umbilical, their boots clanking against the corrugated floor. As Elena stepped through the seal, she offered Mark one final, respectful nod before the heavy internal blast doors of the Vengeance slammed shut, locking with a series of deep, resonant mechanical thuds.
Mark tapped his comms collar. "Kenji, clear the deck. Marcos, initiate the departure sequence. Let's get her out of the cradle."
"Initiating standard depressurization protocols," Marcos replied through the drydock's main speakers.
Mark stood behind the reinforced safety glass of the observation deck as the massive, meter-thick internal blast doors of the drydock began to grind shut, completely isolating the gantry and his office from the primary bay. Once the internal seal was established, the massive atmospheric pumps roared to life. Mark watched the pressure gauges drop as the breathable air inside the cavernous chamber was violently sucked back into the station's holding tanks, leaving the drydock in a state of hard vacuum.
Only then did the colossal, interlocking exterior doors of the station begin to part. The heavy durasteel gears groaned under the immense strain as they slowly pulled open, revealing the blue planet of Nova Celeste.
The magnetic clamps holding the Vengeance disengaged. The corvette's newly retrofitted sub-light thrusters flared, burning with a brilliant, silent blue intensity in the vacuum. The ship slid forward, her dark, sloped S-Alloy armor swallowing the ambient light of the station as she drifted out into the void.
Mark watched her go until she was nothing more than a blue speck against the hustle and bustle of the system. He took a slow, deep breath, the satisfaction of a job perfectly executed settling in his chest.
But the momentary peace was fleeting, as he still had a pest problem in his office.
Turning away from the observation glass, Mark walked back toward the heavy personnel door that led to his front office. It slid open, and he stepped into the stark, fluorescent lighting of the reception area.
Victor Vance was still there.
The Director of SIGS was standing near the faux-wood desk, his heavy fur-lined greatcoat draped over his shoulders, his bruised jaw tightly clenched. His three elite Praetorian guards and his security chief, Kril, were arranged in a tight, defensive semi-circle around him. Unlike the last time, they weren't twitchy or gung-ho. Their hands simply rested passively on their weapons, holding a posture that was completely statuesque, exuding a quiet, professional lethality.
Mark didn't stop walking. He moved behind his desk, leaning his hands flat against the metallic surface while staring Victor down.
"Alright, Victor," Mark said, his voice flat. "The Navy is gone. You've had your time to run the math and consult with whatever corporate algorithms dictate your life, and I'm on the clock. So tell me, what's the verdict?"
Victor adjusted his cuffs, his eyes completely calm, though a deep exhaustion lined his features. He took a slow, measured breath.
"I have spent the last half-hour communicating with the upper echelons of my board, Mr. Shephard," Victor began, his tone carefully neutral, entirely lacking the arrogant bluster he had carried during their first meeting. "I presented your counter-offer along with the financial projections, the lack of a non-compete clause, and the sheer audacity of your demand."
Victor paused, letting out a short, hollow sigh. "It took pulling a lot of strings. I had to leverage decades of goodwill and burn through a significant amount of political capital to even get them to entertain the notion. But ultimately... it was not my call to make."
Mark's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as he could tell, due to the subtle shifts in Victor's eyes and a slight twitch of his eyebrow, that he was lying through his teeth. He pushed himself off the desk, his jaw locking.
'So, they were rejecting the deal and were choosing the hard way,' Mark thought to himself. He should have known better than to trust a corporation to see reason over absolute control.
"I understand," Mark said, his voice dropping. He pointed a heavy finger toward the doors leading out to the concourse. "Then I believe that we're done here. Please collect your people and get the hell out of my shipyard before I lose whatever patience I have left."
Victor held up a hand, completely unbothered by Mark's aggressive shift in posture.
"Shephard, just wait a second now," Victor stated calmly. " You misunderstand me. I never said anything about not buying the patent."
Mark stopped, tilting his head slightly, his expression shifting to profound skepticism. "Then what exactly are you saying, Victor?"
"I am saying," Victor replied, smoothing the lapels of his coat, "that an acquisition of this magnitude, specifically one that violates our standard operating procedures regarding non-compete clauses, requires authorization from the absolute summit of our hierarchy. And who is that, you may be wondering? Well, he is none other than the head of House Volanti, and he would like to have a discussion with you directly."
Mark let the silence hang in the room. He didn't know much about the Houses or how they worked. He only remembered he'd had a shitty run-in with some bastard from one of the houses called Jarl Dierdik. But that was years ago.
"A discussion," Mark repeated slowly, a dark smirk touching his lips as he leaned back against the desk. "As you wish."
Victor nodded and turned to his security chief. "Kril. Step outside and secure the concourse. Give us the room."
Kril didn't protest, simply giving a sharp, single nod of his head, before he gestured to the three Praetorians, and they all filed out of the office in perfect, silent unison. The doors slid shut behind them, sealing with a resonant thud.
Mark and Victor were, once again, left alone.
Victor reached into the deep pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a heavy, metallic disc, roughly the size of a dinner plate. He set it down gently on the center of Mark's desk and tapped a sequence onto the surface of the device.
The disc whirred to life as a series of high-intensity micro-lasers shot upward, rapidly weaving a high-definition, volumetric holographic projection in the center of the room. It wasn't the grainy, blue-tinted static of standard comms arrays. This was a billion-credit piece of proprietary tech, rendering the image so perfectly that it looked as if the man were physically sitting in the office.
The hologram depicted a lavish, opulent study. The walls were lined with physical, leather-bound books, a flex of unimaginable wealth in an era where paper was a commodity reserved for the elite. Sitting in a high-backed, tufted leather armchair was Gregorio Volanti.
Mark's eyes narrowed slightly as he analyzed the projection.
The man sitting in the armchair appeared to be in his absolute physical prime, perhaps early thirties at most. His hair was a flawless, jet-black sweep, his skin entirely unblemished, and his features possessed a strange, statuesque perfection that bordered on the uncanny. He wore a suit that made Victor's expensive tailoring look like mass-produced rags. He held a crystal snifter of dark red wine in one hand, resting it casually on the arm of his chair.
Gregorio took a slow sip of his wine, his sharp eyes studying Mark through the holographic feed.
"Mr. Shephard," Gregorio's voice echoed from the projector. It was deep and resonant, lacking the frantic, desperate energy that Mark had noticed Victor constantly radiated. It was the voice of a man who owned the ground he walked on, no matter what planet he was standing on.
"You must be Gregorio Volanti," Mark said, crossing his arms and refusing to yield an inch of his posture. He looked entirely unimpressed.
"Indeed," Gregorio nodded slightly, a small, amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I must confess, Mark, if I may call you Mark, I have been following your recent exploits with a great deal of interest. It is rare that a single man manages to send such violent ripples through the placid waters of my corporate empire."
"Well, you see, your corporate empire tried to drown me," Mark replied bluntly. "Unfortunately for it, I'm quite the strong swimmer."
Gregorio let out a low, genuine chuckle. "A poetic way to describe dismantling four of my multi-million credit Simulacrums with your bare hands. Director Vance here," Gregorio gestured lazily with his wine glass toward Victor, who stood rigidly at attention off to the side, "was quite thoroughly humiliated by the entire affair. It seems he fundamentally underestimated the caliber of the man he was dealing with."
Victor flushed, his bruised face darkening. "Sir, with all due respect, the intelligence we had on Shephard Orbital Works was-"
"Silence yourself, Victor," Gregorio said without raising his voice or yelling. He simply uttered the words with such absolute, crushing authority that Victor's mouth snapped shut instantly, his spine stiffening as if he had been physically struck. "I am speaking with a man of importance, an architect, if you will. At this moment, you are merely the messenger."
Mark watched the exchange, a slow, dark chuckle escaping his throat. He uncrossed his arms, walking around the desk to stand closer to the holographic projection, deliberately placing himself in Victor's peripheral vision.
"Well, well," Mark said, looking down at the Director of SIGS with sheer condescension. "It appears like everyone has a boss, Victor. Even the man who walks into my shipyard acting like a king is just a dog with quite an impressive owner."
Victor's hands clenched into tight, trembling fists at his sides. The absolute humiliation of being dressed down in front of the mechanic who had beaten him bloody was visibly agonizing, but he didn't dare speak out of turn. He simply stared straight ahead, swallowing his pride.
"Do not mistake his subservience for weakness, Mark," Gregorio noted, swirling the wine in his glass. "Victor is a very capable hound when pointed in the right direction. He simply overstepped his leash. But let us put the unpleasantness of the past behind us. We are men of vision, are we not? From the information I have received regarding the undeniable mathematics behind your thermal flow vents, you truly possess a blessed mind."
"You can say I was taught by the best there ever was," Mark corrected him. "Someone who taught me to understand how things break, and how to put them together so they don't break again."
"A rare and invaluable perspective," Gregorio agreed, leaning forward slightly in his leather chair. "It is a profound shame that a man of your talents is unwilling to join me. With the infinite resources of House Volanti at your disposal, there is no limit to what you could create. You could have an entire planetary foundry under your command. You could design the next generation of dreadnoughts from a penthouse on Celestine Prime."
"Yeah...." Mark trailed off as if in thought. "No thanks."
Gregorio sighed, a sound that was almost melancholic. "I understand your resistance. I truly do. Every man of innovation, every true genius born into this universe, eventually seeks to leave their mark on humanity. A man like yourself believes that stepping into my fold will dilute your name."
"You don't understand me at all, Gregorio," Mark said, his tone utterly dismissive. He stepped right up to the edge of the holographic projection. "I may care about leaving a legacy, but I don't seek to leave a 'mark' on humanity so some historian can write a book about me in a hundred years. I seek to revolutionize humanity. And, well, you have physical copies of books. You must know that no revolutionary, in the history of any world, has ever achieved anything by being a dog tied down to the whims and profit margins of another man."
The office fell completely silent. Victor looked at Mark as if he had just declared war on the sun itself. To speak to the head of House Volanti with such brazen, disrespectful audacity was tantamount to suicide.
But Gregorio Volanti didn't order an execution or summon a hit squad. He simply smiled. A cold, heartless, and practiced aristocratic expression.
"A revolutionary," Gregorio mused. "You have impossibly high aspirations, Mark Shephard. But... I understand you. It is not about leaving a mark for you. It is about becoming a beacon. A burning light that humanity will always have to look back on."
Mark didn't nod. He didn't accept the compliment, simply letting out a sharp, cynical scoff, seeing right through Gregorio's poetic bullshit.
"A beacon," Mark repeated, his eyes locking onto Gregorio's holographic gaze. "That's a beautiful way of putting a target on my back, Gregorio. We both know what a beacon really is in the dark of the void. It's a double-edged sword. It tells every pirate, every corporate hit squad, and every hungry predator exactly where the meat is."
Mark leaned forward, bracing his hands on his desk. He wasn't playing the humble mechanic anymore. He was laying all his cards on the table.
"You're offering me this deal not because you respect my vision," Mark stated, his voice ringing with absolute, arrogant certainty. "You're offering me this deal because you figure if you let me shine bright enough, the galaxy will tear me apart for you. You're hoping I burn myself out, or that someone bigger and meaner comes along to put me down, so you can sweep in and claim the scraps."
Gregorio's smile widened by a fraction of an inch. "Quite the astute observation. The void is dark and full of terrors, Mr. Shephard. It has a way of consuming those who draw too much attention to themselves."
"I'm not afraid of such possibilities," Mark challenged, a feral, unapologetic grin spreading across his face. "Because what you and the rest of your board fail to realize is that I'm not just a light. I'm a goddamn supernova. Anyone who gets too close is going to burn to ash. But you just let me worry about the future, and let's get down to business. Are we doing this deal or not?"
Gregorio laughed, a booming sound that filled the sterile office. "I admire a man who knows exactly what he is worth. Then let's not stall this any longer than we have to. I hereby formally authorize the deal between you and Starship Inter-Galactic Solutions for the sum of two billion Imperial Credits. We will purchase the proprietary patents, the architectural schematics, and the metallurgical formulas strictly and solely for the Thermal Flow Vents."
Gregorio looked directly into the optical receptors of the holo-projector. "There will be no non-compete clauses and no restrictions on your future innovations. This will be a clean severance of intellectual property with no strings attached."
"Send the ledger," Mark commanded.
Victor, moving with stiff, mechanical obedience, pulled a secondary data-slate from his coat and placed it on the desk, sliding it across the faux-wood surface toward Mark.
Mark didn't pick it up immediately. He tapped his comms collar. "Marcos. Read the digital contract."
"Accessing the data-slate now," Marcos replied, his digital presence instantly infiltrating the SIGS hardware. There was a brief pause, the silence stretching as the AI scoured thousands of lines of dense, corporate legalese.
"The contract is surprisingly straightforward," Marcos finally reported. "I have scanned for embedded clauses, sub-routines, liability traps, and hidden addendums. Yet there are none. It is a simple, direct transfer of the specific patent rights for the thermal vents in exchange for two billion credits. Everything is in order."
Mark looked down at the glowing screen of the data-slate. He picked up the stylus attached to the side of the device, looked at Victor, and then at the holographic projection of one of the most powerful men in the galaxy.
"Whether you corporate vultures believe it or not," Mark said, his voice steady as he pressed the stylus to the glass, "humanity will have much to benefit from thanks to this deal."
With a swift, decisive motion, Mark signed his name across the digital ledger.
The data-slate flashed bright green, emitting a sharp, trilling chime that signaled the completion of the biometric lock. The contract was sealed.
"Mark," Marcos's voice chimed almost instantly. "The transaction has been executed. Two billion Imperial Credits have been wired directly into your primary Helix business account. It has successfully bypassed standard station holds. I have automatically set five hundred million credits aside for taxes, as this was logged as a formal business acquisition."
"What's my new balance?" Mark asked.
"Your Helix Business account balance is now 1,529,641,000 Credits," Marcos confirmed.
Victor let out a breath he looked like he had been holding for the entire week. He reached out, taking the data-slate back and sliding it into his greatcoat. He looked at Mark, his bruised face attempting one last semblance of corporate grace.
"It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Shephard," Victor said.
"Yeah, no, it hasn't, Victor," Mark replied, dismissing the man entirely. "But I appreciate your money."
Gregorio Volanti raised his empty hand in a slight salute. "I understand you still have hard feelings against SIGS for their previous actions, but I hope the next time we meet again, you won't be so harsh. Until we cross paths again, Mark. Try not to burn the galaxy down before we can profit from it."
The holographic projection abruptly collapsed, the micro-lasers dying as the disc powered down. Victor snatched the device off the desk, turned on his heel, and strode briskly toward the exit. The door slid open, releasing a low hiss, and the Director of SIGS disappeared into the concourse to rejoin his Praetorians.
Mark stood alone in the quiet office for a few seconds. He then walked slowly around the desk and dropped heavily into his own chair. He tapped the surface of the desk, bringing up his personal financial interface on the built-in holographic monitor. The glowing green numbers hovered in the air before him.
Helix Business: 1,529,641,000 Credits
Set aside for taxes: 508,507,125 Credits
Helix Checkings and Savings: 178,495 Credits
Over one point five billion credits in liquid, accessible capital. It was a number so large it felt entirely abstract. A string of zeroes that represented total, absolute freedom. He had just beaten a corporate giant at its own game.
"Hey, Mark," Marcos's voice broke the silence, cutting through the glow of the financial readouts. The AI's tone lacked its usual snark, sounding deeply serious. "Before we celebrate, there is an anomaly regarding that transmission I feel you need to be aware of."
Mark frowned, tearing his eyes away from the screen. "What is it? Did the credit transfer bounce?"
"No, the credits are fine," Marcos replied. "It was the holographic feed itself. Gregorio Volanti... was not human."
Mark froze. He thought back to the impossibly flawless face, the lack of aging, the cold perfection of the man's features. "What do you mean, not human?"
"The holographic feed wasn't captured by a camera or a microphone on his end," Marcos explained, the digital hum of his processors working overtime. "The audio and visual data were being rendered synthetically and fed directly into the transmission stream from an internal processing unit. It was an incredibly sophisticated digital masquerade, designed to perfectly mimic biological micro-expressions, breathing patterns, and vocal resonance."
Mark stared at the empty space above his desk where the hologram had been.
"It was very well hidden," Marcos continued. "Tier-one encryption layered over proprietary masking protocols. But nothing can really hide from me on the web. The entity on the other end of that call wasn't a biological human sitting in an armchair. You were talking to a machine, Mark. A highly advanced Simulacrum."
Mark leaned back in his chair, a slow, dark realization settling over him like a heavy shroud. House Volanti didn't just build Simulacrums. They were ruled by one. The head of one of the largest military-industrial corporations in the Union was a human brain uploaded into a piece of software wearing a synthetic skin.
"Well," Mark breathed, rubbing a hand over his face. "That certainly explains why they love their droids so much."
He shook his head, pushing the terrifying reality of Gregorio Volanti aside. He couldn't fight a galactic AI conspiracy today. He had a shipyard to run.
"Marcos," Mark said, his voice hardening as he looked back at the numbers on his screen. "I think it's time we start getting ready to leave Mechanicus Station and the Novellus System altogether."
"Given our new financial resources and the revelation regarding Volanti, that is highly logical," Marcos noted. "What parameters should I set for the search?"
"Get in contact with real estate agencies across the G-Net," Mark ordered, standing up and walking over to the window that overlooked the drydock. The automated loader mechs were already slowly dragging the mangled, horrific wreckage of the Swift Justice into the primary cradle. "I want to find a place in neutral, unconquered space. A sector where the pirates are not seen often, but are still there to keep the corporate fleets terrified of venturing in without a full armada."
"You are seeking a highly specific, high-risk operational theater," Marcos acknowledged. "What type of facility?"
"Preferably a habitable moon with an existing station orbiting it," Mark specified. "Something with massive scale. I want the ability to manufacture. Price range is up to a billion credits."
"Alright," Marcos said. "And what is our timeline for relocation?"
"There's no immediate rush," Mark said, his eyes tracking the sparking, broken hull of the Swift Justice. He had spent over two hours speaking with Gregorio Volanti. The drones had charged and returned to work, stripping down the Swift Justice. "But the place must be found, purchased, and secured before we finish the retrofit of the Justice. We have a five-month window. Once that ship is done, S.O.W will be packing up shop."
"I will get right on it," Marcos said. "A five-month operational window is more than sufficient."
"One more thing, Marcos," Mark added, turning his attention back to the datapad on his desk. "Get in touch with GalNet and Commander Calissa Majors about our existing contracts for the vents. Let them know the patents have been officially acquired by SIGS, and that their next scheduled shipment will be their last."
"They are likely to express significant dissatisfaction," Marcos said with an urgent tone. "Shall I prepare our legal defense sub-routines?"
"Don't bother, just point them to the fine print," Mark said, a smirk touching his lips. "It's written right there in the contract: 'if the patent for proprietary technology is acquired by another company, SOW is only legally responsible for providing one final shipment.' Tell them not to try any legal approach, because they don't have a leg to stand on. If they want more vents after that, they have to negotiate with the new patent holder."
"Touché," Marcos said with bemusement. "I will draft the notifications and highlight the relevant clauses. Sending them to call Victor Vance should be quite amusing."
"Yeah, let Victor pick up our slack," Mark muttered.
The comms clicked off, leaving Mark alone in the quiet hum of the office.
He pressed his hand against the cold glass, looking out at the chaotic beauty of the shipyard. He had won, and now he was building his exit. He was going to build his own kingdom out in the dark, away from exterior influences.
But as he stared out into the amber-lit cavern, a deep, heavy knot formed in his stomach.
"I have the capital," Mark whispered to the empty room, his voice thick with a sudden, suffocating guilt. "I'm building our exit..."
He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool glass.
"But how the hell am I going to break it to Lyra?" he muttered softly, the reality of his kingdom-building crashing down on him. "How do I tell her that in half a year's time, she will no longer be seeing those friends from the orphanage? Or Sister Elara? Or Sergeant Miller?"
Mark opened his eyes, staring at the broken warship waiting for his hands to fix it. For all his genius, for all his strength and his billions of credits, he had absolutely no idea how to navigate breaking the heart of a little girl whose reality he was about to completely uproot for a second time.
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