"The Corporates aren't the best allies."
"Agreed. Deceitful. Greedy. Bad reputation. Unfortunately. But strong."
For the first time in a long while, we were all gathered together. Having notified my comrades, I told them without concealment about the offer from the Corporate Sector authorities. There was no point in hiding it, so now we were having a constructive dialogue.
Well, as much as one is possible among Assassins and old friends.
Filling the glasses, I set them before the brothers, receiving grateful nods in return. Everyone already had snacks and drinks scattered on the table, and only I, like a black sheep, drank ordinary juice made from fruits from different planets.
That, by the way, had become my new and pleasant hobby—trying food from different parts of the galaxy. When for long years you eat tasteless paste that reminds you of corpse starch bars from a certain well-known universe, and then you eat the shitty Hubba-gourd for eight years...
In short, I got hooked on delicious food and sometimes behave like an addict. Fortunately, I train every day and often personally participate in operations, otherwise I'd already be bigger than Jabba.
"I wouldn't advise you to get involved with them either," the holographic image of Talia, the only one who couldn't fly to us, flickered as the girl threw her legs onto the table and stretched out relaxedly. "But as you yourselves understand, there's no choice. The Cartel is strong, and although the Hutts are losing a lot of money, as long as Jabba's daddy—Zorba—is at the head of the clan, they won't leave you alone. We were lucky that in Jabba's caches, which you managed to find, there was so much compromising evidence... Without it, they would have strangled us already."
"True, and once we get rid of Zorba, especially while hiding behind an alliance with the Corporates, we'll be able to conclude a peace. All the blame will be dumped on the Desilijic kajidic, and the remains of their empire will be divided among the other Hutt clans."
Taking a sip from the glass, I suppress the shiver running through my body. Rare winter berries from Pandora, from which they usually brew all sorts of expensive booze, were given to me by a couple of Traders who had signed a protection contract with us. I just made fresh juice out of them. An indescribable taste, like winter itself piercing to the core and seasoned with the aroma of blackberries.
"A fictitious peace," while I indulged in hedonism, Somnia turned on and displayed a large screen before us, showing approximate charts and calculations. We had labored over them for two days and now presented approximate statistics of expenses and income, as well as the probabilities of attacks, agreements, and other details that would occur in the event of peace with the Cartel. "They will continue to probe us and cause trouble, and strike if given the chance, especially if they can remain unpunished."
"That's the problem with all large associations. We were prepared for this when we started all this..."
Interrupting me, Shorty sat closer to the table, deftly tossing some bugs into the darkness of her hood.
"I am concerned. The price. For peace."
"The price will be good, at least for them. The Desilijic empire consisted of more than just podracing and smuggling. Spice stations, pirate dens... Slave markets." I pronounced the last through gritted teeth, because as much as I wanted to do something about it, we couldn't right now. "They will take a lot and divide it; we will focus on what we have and..."
"And?"
Everyone simultaneously raised their heads and began to stare more intently into my eyes. I looked over my team, which had been joined by a couple of new members we could more or less trust. Arkam Sula—Jaster's former comrade, who had integrated quite successfully into our team. Battles, a code of honor, and good profit—his three criteria were fully met, so he swore an oath of loyalty to me and said he would follow me as long as I gave him that.
Beside him stood Brag Fesat—a Ukian of fairly stereotypical appearance. A simple and loyal hard worker who knew his business well and handled the technical support of our small host. Having lost his entire family due to the former aristocracy of his home planet, he had joined the ranks of the revolutionaries with all his zeal, and after the victory, he made his way to us.
The last member to join the command staff was the Twi'lek Mira, a slave we had rescued whose mind had slipped a bit. Having assembled a squad of similar former vengeful slaves, she championed our ideas more than anyone and literally hung on my every word. It was she who led those Helldivers who jump at enemies in pods from orbit. If not for the special body structure of Twi'leks, she would have gladly participated with us in the storming of Jabba's palace, something she still regretted to this day.
We had quite a group assembled. Deep inside, a doubt gnawed at me that many of my companions weren't Humans, but I was gradually rooting that out—convincing myself that they had simply changed under the influence of different planets. Unlike the upright-walking flies, slugs, mantises, and other freaks inhabiting the galaxy. Exhaling tiredly and casting aside doubts, I finally broke the formed silence and said:
"We will take the end of the Corellian Trade Route, starting from Christophsis and ending with the sparsely inhabited planets in the Smuggler's Run."
"You've got to be joking."
"Damn it, Sam."
"No chance."
Many expressed their opinions. And I didn't even doubt that's exactly how it would be. Last night, when I told Somnia about my ideas, she actually threw a monitor at me. Cursing viciously and making terrible faces, the girl was ready to strangle me with her bare hands, promising all the torments of Hell if I didn't take my words back.
But I simply couldn't do otherwise. The end of this Corellian Run is a real cesspool and a breeding ground for crime and other shit, the likes of which you can only find there. Of course, the galaxy is full of much more horrific places, but here was the full set of everything that annoyed me so much.
Drugs and slaves from Ryloth.
Dictatorship and factual slavery on Christophsis, where everyone who doesn't have a wealthy lineage of ancestors living on the planet is considered a second-class person.
The Smuggler's Run, the name of which speaks for itself. And they don't sell weapons, equipment, or jewelry; they bring Ryll, spice, and slaves into the Mid Rim. While I can still somehow come to terms with the first items, the last one...
Striking the table with my fist, I gather the attention of my arguing comrades, who were very actively discussing how much I'd lost my mind. As if a war with the Hutt Cartel wasn't enough, by interfering in the affairs of Ryloth, we could turn the other slug clans that feed off that planet against us, as well as senators and, of course, the Black Sun crime syndicate, which is watching the development of events with interest, preparing to strike the winner.
In general, we all understood this, and as soon as the war with the Cartel ends, the syndicate will set upon us, and at that point, no Corporate authorities will stand up for us.
Which, in general, I explained to my friends. And with every word I said, their faces became gloomier and even more resigned.
Only Mira shone with burning eyes, ready right this moment to rush off to Ryloth to start liberating her kin.
"That's why we don't really have a choice. At the negotiations, I intend to hint at this to the Hutts, and I think they will agree to such conditions."
"Too early. Haven't won yet."
"True enough," nodding in agreement with Shorty's words, I asked Somnia to turn on the next image, and before us opened the contract the Corporates wanted to sign with us. A real, official hire; all that remained was to send the consent and discuss the detailed terms at a personal meeting.
***
"I'm glad we finally reached an agreement." The representative of the Corporate Sector (CorpSec) simply wouldn't shut up and was constantly hanging around me. According to information from Dicker, this was their usual behavior; I'd even say more—as soon as he stopped doing that, all the other Corporates would start suspecting him of something. "It's pleasant to see two such different forces working together for the good of the Republic."
Skinny, which was very unusual. Dressed in a businesslike brown suit, in the midst of Helldivers packed in armor and soldiers in naval uniforms, this strange type stood out among us like a white spot.
Hair slicked back, a small transparent-blue Visor over his eyes.
A strange style of communication, business, and self-presentation. Although... maybe in the upper echelons things are much better for them; we're small enough fry that they can dump a pigeon like this on us, but the more serious guys likely don't put on such scenes.
Leaning on the tactical table, I briefly exchanged glances with the Admiral of the Corporate Fleet, who was supposed to take the main blow in the cosmic battle. And they had assembled a fleet that wasn't small—worthy of fighting a Hutt clan and not dying in the process.
Two dozen dreadnoughts, as many Gozanti-class cruisers, Carrack-class light cruisers, Consulars, Corellian corvettes of various modifications, and a pair of converted transports packed to the brim with Fighters.
This entire crowd, nearly fifty ships, was now sailing through the Ando system toward the planet Ando Prime. A small Ice World, which was our target.
The ships also carried nearly five thousand landing troops with combat equipment.
Large forces—which could well capture many planets.
Except our Helldivers PMC could field not much less, especially in terms of people. Three thousand Helldivers were now scattered across different planets and ships, guarding our investments and protecting partners. Armed to the teeth, packed in armor, crazy, trained to kill all sorts of scum, and constantly fighting the Cartel's lackeys.
Not wasting money on all sorts of crap like booze, slaves, whores, drugs, and other joys in the form of useless gilding and rare beasts.
Waging a constant war for survival and recruiting ideological psychos or their equivalents into our ranks.
In just a year and a half of our company's existence, we had gathered extremely large forces. While the Corporates had the advantage in heavy ships, our mosquito fleet was larger and the quality of our vessels was better.
A dozen converted corvettes, modeled after the Freedom Rider. Five Carrack-class light cruisers, stuffed to the gills with small craft, and in the center of it all, our brand-new dreadnought, capable of much even alone.
And we provided all of this! A small PMC from the edge of the galaxy. What kind of capabilities do the Corporates have compared to us, or should the Judicial Forces have...
"Greedy office traders and corrupt senatorial rats."
Casting aside these thoughts, classic for any world and time, I focused on the data coming from spies and Drones, which arrived promptly on the tactical map.
Zorba the Hutt's Headquarters was a horrific sight. Just flipping through the sent images from the streets of local cities and villages, it became clear that in six months, a generally decent place had turned into an analog of Tortuga from my first world.
Only there were many more slaves and involuntary prostitutes here.
Dysentery, disease, ruin.
Spice was traded openly on the streets; here and there, prostitutes of varying degrees of wear and tear hung around.
Gangs walked the city streets boldly, sometimes getting high and starting fights, shootouts, orgies... As long as none of this bothered Zorba, the bastards could do whatever they wanted.
"Disgusting."
The Admiral of the Corporate Fleet curled his lips in distaste. Even if this man was a corrupt dealer like his masters, even for him, basic human values weren't alien. In principle, even if I didn't like my current allies, they were better in every way than the Cartel and other sewer rats calling themselves authorities, gangsters, and rulers of empires. Corporates at least care about those they shear money from. Basic sanitation and normal food, at least...
But with the Cartel, outside their home space, it's as if that doesn't exist.
Though, perhaps I'm biased against Hutts in general, since I haven't seen anything good from a single representative of their people.
Perhaps Zorba himself was just such a piece of shit that he doesn't understand the value of the people living on his planet?
"Apparently, that's why he was handing all his affairs over to his son. He turned out to be a shitty manager and an even shittier gangster."
"We are moving into designated positions. Once we advance further, the sun's radiation will no longer conceal us, and the Cartel ships will become aware of our presence," Admiral Vahr reported dryly, interrupting the momentarily silenced clerk and briskly returning to his duties, making it clear he wanted no part of the rest of the conversation.
"Then I'll head to my vessel. We'll stick to the plan: we follow right behind you, then fly beneath the battle zone, immediately deploying onto the planet..."
"I still can't believe you're doing it this way." Shrugging his shoulders, the Corporate Sector representative shuddered, and the Admiral standing nearby nodded in agreement, bristling his comical, thin mustache. "Ever since I saw it, I haven't been able to forget it..."
"You're always welcome to try," I said, clapping him on the shoulder and exchanging a glance with the Admiral, whose laughing eyes were hidden behind a cough as he suppressed a smile. "Well, good luck to us all. I hope this fickle lady is on our side."
***
In the sweltering vacuum of space above the planet Ando Prime, where explosions and flashes of light pierced the darkness, an impressive cosmic battle erupted between the Corporate Sector (CSA) Forces and the sinister pirates, thugs, and soldiers of the Hutt Cartel.
On both sides, starships circled in a ruthless struggle, twisting in a carousel of maneuvers. Like cunning lightning bolts tearing through the starry sky, they fell upon one another, sparkling with thousands of laser bolts.
As soon as the CSA commander, Admiral Conor Tiss, gave the order, fifteen Dreadnaughts, representing the fleet's primary strike force, surged forward. Formed in a tetrahedral wedge, the Dreadnaughts advanced inexorably toward the enemy, forcing them to concentrate all their fire on them.
"Launch the bombers. Have them fly at the tail of the wedge and await my command. Prepare for target distribution."
Stroking his thin mustache in a nod to corporate fashion, the elderly man, who had spent long years in a naval uniform, did not hide his surprise, marveled by the diversity and power of the pirate flotilla.
"Hmph, sometimes the imagination of sentients is astounding." Right before his eyes, a merchant vessel with a bulbous hull opened its holds, unleashing a massive planetary cannon awkwardly bolted to the ship's interior. "Four through eight, concentrate fire on that target."
A torrent of fire from massive turbolasers tore the merchant barge to shreds, leaving it not a single chance.
While the Dreadnaughts locked horns with the enemy's most massive ships, his bombers picked apart targets, preparing to strike at the very heart of the foe.
At the same time, Gozanti-class cruisers and CR-90 corvettes released the fighters stationed on their decks, which were already racing toward the enemy squadrons.
Each of the CSA ships was forged in the strict spirit of corporate military discipline, and the crews looked resolute despite the lack of a clear numerical advantage.
Conor was confident in his men. They might not be such improvisers or desperate bastards as the pirates. They might lack the combat training of the Helldivers and their weaponry.
But nonetheless, these were battle-hardened officers and sailors who looked forward with confidence, unafraid of a superior enemy.
"Rotate positions, ships begin maneuver, re-form clockwise. Lower shield energy on the side facing away from the enemy."
In response to the powerful enemy fire, the ships of the Hutt Cartel, reflecting the nature of their criminal status, displayed a dangerous unpredictability.
Their fleet consisted of dreadnoughts and various types of captured and refitted merchant vessels, creating an impressive and motley picture of chaotic colors, sizes, and decor.
Decorated in every possible way, covered in paint of a hundred colors, with crests, symbols, or the bones and corpses of beasts and Humans on the hull plating. Dozens of vessels advanced in a ragged formation, unleashing everything they had.
Sinister fighters of predatory shapes and black colors, adapted for speed and maneuverability, scattered in different directions and performed rapid maneuvers, trying to break through the CSA defensive perimeter.
Braving the dense fire of the escort ships, these suicidal, drugged-up pilots rammed the ships' bridges, hoping to take as many corporate rats with them to the afterlife as possible.
"Increase fire in the forward hemisphere. Recall a couple of fighter flights..."
A localized chaos emerged around the main battle: enemy ships smashed into one another, a series of powerful shots pierced enemy dreadnoughts, but every such salvo was met with furious return fire. Torpedoes and missiles traced lines through the darkness of space, reaching their targets or burning up in the laser fire of point-defense systems.
The Corporate Sector (CSA) Forces treated the situation with cold calculation—their task was to hold out until the Helldivers landed on the surface of Ando Prime. Every second, every minute was critically important as the allied fleet advanced toward the planet.
Twirling his mustache even more nervously now, Conor Tiss leaned his hands against the command table. Something was clearly wrong, and his gut screamed that the pirates had planned something more complex than a banal pincer trap.
The CSA had excellent ships, trained crews, and enough strength to easily fight "space junk" on two fronts.
"No, something is still... Hm." Wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, the Admiral only became more convinced that his intuition wasn't lying. Weighing all the pros and cons, he decided to halt the progress of the battle, pulling his forces back. Even if this might expose the Helldivers fleet, his own men and ships were more important to him than some mercenaries. "All ships. All stop. Slow down and begin a smooth turn in a wide arc. Escort ships shift parallel to the course, taking cover behind the capital ships..."
However, just as very little time remained before the mission's execution, the Hutt Cartel fleet lunged into the attack like a pack of hungry predators.
Seeing that the Corporate forces had slowed down, the pirates themselves rushed forward, confirming Conor's fears.
The Cartel dreadnoughts began ramming the CSA ships, and their command decided to risk everything to capture or destroy the enemy. Massed ramming strikes led to destruction and the deaths of thousands of people in an instant.
Sparing no thought for themselves, the pirate scum slammed into their enemies at full speed.
But the main danger wasn't them. Following the large ships, most of which were already drifting as wreckage in space, the well-maintained and elegant ships of the Cartel flew forward.
True warships of yellow coloring, decorated with the white maws of monsters.
Nearly five hundred meters long, massive and dense even in appearance, they were war machines from ancient eras.
And the first ship to reach a CSA Dreadnaught released hundreds of shuttles and boarding pods from its interior, which rushed to storm the vessel.
Forced to defend against boarding actions, the CSA commanders began to suffocate under the pressure of the Cartel army's attacks. And it was exactly that—an army. Not small pirate gangs, but real soldiers, working in tandem with combat droids, flooded the ships, easily breaking through defenses and undermining the morale of the CSA fleet.
The Cartel stopped at nothing: Shock Troopers burst onto the decks of their dreadnoughts and small ships, sparing neither themselves nor their enemies. Noisy gunfire and the sounds of skirmishes rang out in the black abyss of space, which suddenly seemed so close and so real. Against the backdrop of the raging battle, Admiral Tiss realized that time had been wasted and a race for survival had begun.
Now he still needed to stall for time, but now the lives of the people loyal to him depended on it.
At this critical moment, the Helldivers, having received the signal for intervention, abruptly changed course and rushed back, leaving the wastes of the Ice World behind.
***
Read early on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan