We honor those who've stepped into our ranks and give proper recognition to every new warrior who joins our cause.
Since the release of the last chapter, this Royal Navy has expanded and welcomes the following courageous souls: NaT, Nik, rose ッ, Delta and Mudd.
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.
---
The holographic feed of the Galactic News Network (GNN) exploded onto screens across the various systems under the IUC banner with the urgency of a red-alert siren. The standard, soothing azure background of the network's interface was gone, replaced by a stark, flashing banner of crimson and black that read "BREAKING NEWS."
In the meticulously manicured living rooms of Elyse Station, the gritty cantinas of Mechanicus, the governmental buildings on Celestine Prime, and the command decks of independent haulers drifting through the belt, the same image materialized.
In "The Rusty Piston," a notorious dive bar clinging to the underside of Mechanicus Station's Sector 4, the usual din of gambling chips and drunken arguments died instantly. Patrons, miners with carbon-scored lungs and dockworkers with hydraulic exoskeletons still strapped to their backs all looked up in unison. The air, usually thick with synthesized tobacco smoke and the smell of ozone, seemed to freeze. Even the automated bartender droid ceased its mixing, its optical sensors locked onto the overhead monitor. It wasn't often that the GNN red alert flashed. Usually, it meant a solar flare or a pirate raid. But this felt different.
The camera focused on Seraphina Kross, humanity's most trusted and usually most composed news anchor. She sat behind a desk of floating glass, backlit by a projection of the IUC capital, Celestine. Usually, Seraphina was a picture of serene detachment, a voice designed to deliver stock prices and weather reports with a smile. Today, her hair was slightly out of place, and there was a sharpness in her eyes that mirrored the chaos unfolding on the ticker tape scrolling beneath her.
"Good evening. I am Seraphina Kross, and we interrupt your scheduled programming for a developing story that is currently sending shockwaves through the corporate and financial sectors of the Novellus System," she began, her voice steady but urgent. "What began as a quiet Monday morning has dissolved into absolute turmoil for one of the system's largest conglomerates, Starship and Inter-Galactic Solutions, better known as SIGS."
The screen behind her shifted, replacing the capital city with a chaotic, shaky video feed. The footage was clear as day, stamped with a time code from barely an hour ago, and clearly recorded by someone's G-comm camera that had been hacked or ripped from a secure server.
"The images you are about to witness may be disturbing. Sensitive viewer discretion is advised," Seraphina warned. "Video evidence has surfaced within the last hour depicting a violent, unauthorized military-style raid on a registered Limited Capital Company aboard Mechanicus Station. The assailants, however, were not pirates, nor were they rebels."
The video played, showing a darkened industrial corridor, thick with steam. A squad of armored operatives in matte-black gear appeared, their optical camouflage undone. But the camera focused on the man behind them, a man in an expensive suit, his face contorted in rage, shouting orders at the tallest of the operatives, a hulking figure in a tactical vest labeled 'Security.'
Seraphina's voice cut over the footage. "The man you see shouting orders has been positively identified by facial recognition software as Alistair Thorne, the Regional Director of SIGS for the Novellus System. The two armed men accompanying him are the remnants of a squad that has been identified as a private corporate security detail, operating well outside of their jurisdiction."
The footage on the screen dissolved into chaos. In the video, Thorne shouted, "How dare that bastard refuse me? Me, Aliastar Thorne. He's going to regret ever doing that. Burn it! Burn it all down!" just before a hail of automated turret fire erupted from the ceiling of the facility. The perspective of the camera jerked violently as the cameraman took cover. Sparks showered the corridor. A massive, seven-foot-tall armored silhouette, barely visible through the smoke, stepped out from behind a blast door, wielding an energy rifle, opening fire on an operative before going to take cover as shots were returned his way.
"The target of this unprovoked attack," Seraphina continued, as the feed froze on a clear frame of Thorne's panicked face, "was a small, independent startup known as Shepherd Orbital Works, or SOW. Located in the Industrial Sector of Mechanicus, SOW has been quiet, but this attack has prompted us to dig into what could have caused it. We found out that recently, SOW made headlines in the engineering community for the patenting and release of a revolutionary Thermal Flow Vent that boasts a verified efficiency rating of over 50%, a figure that dwarfs the 7% standard currently offered by SIGS's flagship Mark IV units."
The feed cut back to the studio. Seraphina turned slightly to her left, where a holographic projection of a severe-looking man in a grey suit materialized. "Joining me now is Jonas Vane, senior market analyst for the Orbital Financial Exchange. Jonas, we are seeing numbers on the board that look like a crash. Put this in perspective for us."
"It's not just a crash, Seraphina; it's a bloodletting," Vane said, his voice clipped and dry. "SIGS built their entire fiscal projection for the next decade on the Mark IV ventilation contracts with the Navy and the reputation they have built with all independent parties. They leveraged nearly forty percent of their liquid assets to secure those manufacturing rights. If this SOW vent is real, and the fact that Thorne was desperate enough to try and burn the factory down suggests it is very real, then SIGS is holding a warehouse full of paperweights. Institutional investors are fleeing. We're seeing a sell-off volume that we haven't witnessed since the Mining Guild collapse of '39."
Seraphina nodded gravely as the feed cut back to her, showing a graph that confirmed Vane's assessment. SIGS' stock was plummeting in a vertical red line.
"The implications of this footage are catastrophic for SIGS. Its release has prompted allegations to come flooding in that Director Thorne personally led a 'kill squad' to destroy the facility and likely eliminate the competition. However, the raid appears to have been a spectacular failure. Not only were the SIGS operatives repelled by SOW's automated defenses and the proprietor, Mark Shephard, but the entire operation was captured on the G-comms of bystanders, on internal surveillance, and, ironically, the operatives' own body cameras, which were subsequently leaked to the GNN mainframe by an anonymous source known only as 'The Rabbit'."
Seraphina paused, touching her earpiece.
"We are now receiving reports that this is not an isolated incident. Since the footage went live forty minutes ago, the floodgates have opened. Dozens of small business owners, independent researchers, and former startup CEOs are coming forward with allegations of hostile takeovers, intimidation, and industrial sabotage orchestrated by SIGS subsidiaries."
The screen split, showing a grid of faces. Some were tearful testimonials, others angry rants, and cold, hard facts being presented by victims.
"One report comes from a propulsion engineer on Station B-14, who claims her prototype jump-drive was seized by SIGS lawyers hours after she filed for a patent. Another, a hydroponics developer from the Outer Rim, claims his facility was subjected to a 'safety inspection' by armed contractors that resulted in his lab burning to the ground. For decades, these incidents were dismissed as bad luck or corporate maneuvering. But after today's unfolding events, they look like a pattern."
"We reached out to SIGS headquarters on Nova Celeste and the authorities of Mechanicus station for a comment," Seraphina said, her tone sharpening. "Both parties have refused to speak, with SIGS citing an 'ongoing internal investigation,' and Mechanicus authorities claiming an 'ongoing criminal investigation.' However, sources close to the Board of Directors suggest that the corporation is in a state of complete lockdown."
The image on the screen changed again. This time, it showed the sleek, fractal-like design of the SOW Model 1B vent side-by-side with a clunky SIGS unit.
"At the heart of this violence is this innovation," Seraphina explained. "Market analysts are already calling the SOW vent a 'legacy killer.' With 50% efficiency, it renders nearly three trillion credits worth of SIGS inventory obsolete overnight. It appears that rather than compete with this technology, Director Thorne attempted to erase it or seize it. And in doing so, he may have erased the credibility of the entire organization he represents."
The ticker at the bottom of the screen flashed: SIGS STOCK DOWN 43% - TRADING HALTED ON ELYSE EXCHANGE - IUC MAGISTRATE ANNOUNCES INQUIRY INTO MECHANICUS INCIDENT.
"We will continue to follow this story as it develops," Seraphina said, shuffling her digital papers. "But in a shift from corporate warfare to galactic defense, we turn now to a story of hope."
The crimson "BREAKING NEWS" banner faded, replaced by a sleek, silver logo: AEGIS AEROSPACE INC.
"While SIGS faces scrutiny for stifling progress, another giant of the shipbuilding industry, Aegis Aerospace, has announced a historic breakthrough that could redefine humanity's survival in the cosmos."
A video footage began to play showing a testing range in deep space. One of their very own Monarch-class destroyers sat immobile, a translucent curved wall of golden energy in front of it. A target drone, modified with heavy-assault capacitators, fired a heavy plasma torpedo at the ship.
The torpedo struck the shield, but instead of exploding against the hull, the energy flared gold, rippled like water, and dissipated.
"Earlier today, Aegis successfully tested the 'Guardian-Class' shielding array," Seraphina narrated, her voice taking on a tone of awe. "For centuries, humanity has relied on thick armor plating and point-defense cannons. Energy shielding was a theory, a dream of science fiction. But today, it is reality, and Aegis is leading the charge."
On the screen, a second torpedo hit. The shield flared again, holding firm. Then a third torpedo struck, and the shield wobbled, turning a violent orange before then collapsing, allowing a fourth shot to impact the hull armor.
"While the prototype only sustained three direct hits from heavy ordinance before faltering, Aegis engineers are calling it a massive success," Seraphina continued. "Dr. Aris Thorne, a man with no relation to the disgraced Nova Celeste SIGS Director, stated that this technology is scalable. This development comes at a critical time, as tensions regarding deep-space exploration continue to rise, and worry about recent Vulpinian sightings has brought the question of another Great War."
The screen displayed a grainy, historical image: a terrifying, sleek, black ship with jagged, organic lines. It was an image that every human child recognized from their history books. The Vulpinians were not just an enemy; they were a trauma etched into the collective human genome.
"The fear isn't just academic," Seraphina added, her voice dropping an octave. "Last month, a deep-range listening post in the K-Sector went silent. There was no distress beacon or debris. Just silence. With the ever-present, though currently dormant, threat of the Vulpinians and their advanced fleet capabilities that nearly extinguished humanity hundreds of years ago, the ability to stand toe-to-toe with high-yield energy weaponry is a game-changer. For the first time since the Great War, humanity may soon have a defense that doesn't rely on sacrificing mass for survivability."
Seraphina smiled, a practiced, reassuring expression. "Aegis Aerospace has promised a public demonstration of a Mark II shield within the year. It seems that while some corporations fight over vents in the dark, others are looking to the stars to keep us safe. I'm Seraphina Kross. Stay with GNN for more on the SIGS investigation."
The screen went black.
Not because the broadcast ended, but because a crystal tumbler of whiskey, hurled with the force of a major league pitcher, smashed directly into the center of the wall-sized holographic display.
The glass shattered into a thousand glittering diamonds, raining down onto the plush carpet of the penthouse office. The amber liquid, whiskey aged 50 years, worth more than the annual salary of the newscaster who had just delivered the report, dripped sadly down the blackened screen.
Victor Vance, Chairman of the Board for Starship and Inter-Galactic Solutions, stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving.
He was a man of seventy, though bio-sculpting made him look forty. He wore a suit of midnight-blue silk that shimmered with micro-threads of gold. His office was not on Nova Celeste. It was on The Apex, a private orbital station that served as the headquarters for the Galactic Commerce Guild orbiting Celestine Prime. From here, he looked down on everyone, literally and metaphorically. The room was a testament to absolute power, real mahogany wood from Earth preserved before its destruction, a desk carved from a meteorite, and a view that cost billions.
But right now, he felt like he was looking up from the bottom of a pit.
"That bastard," Vance hissed, his voice trembling with a cold, pure rage. "That absolute, incompetent, arrogant bastard."
He wasn't talking about Mark Shephard. He didn't care about Mark Shephard. Mark Shephard was a bug. A variable. A rounding error. He was talking about Alistair Thorne.
Vance walked over to his desk, stepping on crunching glass before stepping on the carpet. He slammed his hand onto his intercom.
"Get me Legal," he snarled. "And get me PR. And get me a hitman. In that damn order."
"Sir," his assistant's voice trembled over the line. "Legal is already on the line with the IUC Magistrate. They are trying to argue that the footage is a deep-fake."
"It's not a deep-fake!" Vance roared, grabbing a heavy statuette from his desk and hurling it across the room. It smashed into a bookshelf, knocking over a row of antique navigational sextants. "It's Thorne! I know his ugly mug when I see it! The man went down there personally! PERSONALLY! And then he stated his own name! The fucking idiot!"
Vance paced the room, running his hands through his silver hair, ruining the perfect coiffure. His heart was hammering a rhythm of pure panic against his ribs. The news cycle was one thing, but the investors were another. He could already feel the vibrations of incoming calls from the Board, demanding explanations he didn't have.
"Sir," the assistant chimed in again, voice barely a whisper. "The Magistrate... they aren't buying the deep-fake narrative. They have biometric data from the leaked body cams and, apparently, confirmation of the arrest of Aliastar Thorne and three other men on Mechanicus Station. They're talking about freezing assets pending a criminal tribunal."
"Freezing assets?" Vance stopped dead. His face drained of color. "If they freeze the accounts, we can't pay the suppliers. If we can't pay the suppliers, the production lines stop. If the lines stop, the stock hits zero."
He realized then that this wasn't just a scandal. This was an extinction event.
"He was supposed to be surgical," Vance muttered to himself, his mind racing through the damage control scenarios. "He was supposed to send a proxy. A shell company. A lawyer. Hire mercenaries through exterior sources. You don't take a damn kill squad to a station and get filmed by your own body cams! It's... It's fucking amateur work!"
He stopped at the window, staring out at the stars. Somewhere out there, SIGS stock was burning. Shareholders were screaming. The IUC, usually so compliant, so happy to take their bribes and look the other way, would be forced to act. They couldn't ignore this. The public outcry was too loud and the footage too visceral.
And the worst part? The absolute worst part?
The damn vent worked.
Fifty percent efficiency.
Vance knew what that meant. He wasn't an engineer, he was a businessman, and he knew that 50% wasn't an upgrade. It was a monopoly killer. If SOW started licensing that tech... if they sold it to the Navy... if they sold it to the haulers...
That sector of SIGS technology was dead. Their inventory was scrap metal.
"Thorne, you stupid fuck," Vance whispered, the name tasting like bile. "You didn't just fail. You handed them the gun and showed them where to aim."
He walked back to his desk, ignoring the mess. He sat down in his high-backed chair and tapped a secure frequency on his terminal. A black screen appeared, waiting for a connection.
"Sir?" the voice on the other end was distorted and mechanical.
"Thorne is burned," Vance said, his voice dropping to a flat, emotionless monotone. "He is a liability who has just exposed the company to criminal liability and caused irreparable damage to the brand."
"What are your orders?" the voice asked.
"Maybe he's currently being transported from Mechanicus," Vance said. "Or he's stuck there while arrested. I don't know, and I don't fucking care. Send in the Revenant Corps. Find him, and make sure he doesn't make it to the quarterly review. Don't let them be seen by any authorities."
"The simulacrums?" the voice asked, sounding slightly surprised even through the modulation. "Do we really need to deploy them for such a menial task? The Revenants, though extremely experienced, are... messy."
"Menial task?" Vance half-shouted, half-asked. "Do you know just how much our stocks have plummeted in the last hour because of that idiot? Forty fucking three percent. Forty-three!"
"Understood," the voice replied. "And what about Thorne's targets? Shephard? Takagi?"
Vance paused. He looked at the shattered remains of his TV screen that only the rich still used because it was "vintage." He thought about the SOW vent. He thought about the Aegis shield news. The galaxy was changing. The old ways of simply crushing the little guys were failing because the little guys were starting to hit back harder.
"Leave them," Vance said, gritting his teeth. "If we touch them now, with the spotlight on us, we'll be crucified. Let the media cycle die down. Let them think they won."
He leaned forward, his eyes cold and dead. "But keep track of them. If they try to leave the station... if they try to sell that patent to Aegis or the Navy... burn them."
"Copy that," the voice responded. "Contract active."
The line clicked dead.
Vance sat back, exhaling a long, shaky breath. He looked at the empty spot on his desk where his whiskey glass used to be.
"Fifty percent," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "How the hell did they do it?"
---
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