"I can't understand this place."
When speaking later about the "Emperor" and the changes in Talia, Boothill said as much.
"Hey, it's like someone saying they're going to grow a forest in a radiation-filled wasteland... Everyone thinks he's a fool, but I admire him because he actually did it, and without that annoying atmosphere of the Interstellar Peace Corporation. Ha! Dammit, it's all his fault. Now I can't just say 'IPC dog' whenever I want... because it might hit the wrong target."
He had originally come with thoughts of "wiping out sweatshops" and "rescuing the enslaved," while seeing if he could gun down a few fugitives or run into some muddle-fudgin' corporate sweethearts along the way.
Boothill took another swig of liquor, his gaze sweeping over the lit windows with a complex expression.
If this was "enslavement," then how many people in the galaxy would be willing to be "enslaved" like this?
In this place, he hadn't seen a single person going hungry.
Not a single one; it was too bizarre.
No matter how developed a planet was, there would always be those who had fallen on hard times.
But there were none here at all. It defied common sense.
"Hey! You, the newcomer! Galaxy Ranger!"
A crisp voice interrupted his thoughts. Boothill looked up and saw Guinevere running up the hillside out of breath, holding a... lunchbox?
"Here!" The young girl shoved the lunchbox into his hands, her small face flushed from running. "The cafeteria is serving food. I didn't see you there, so I brought you a portion. The Boss said that even people temporarily staying here get fed!"
The lunchbox was warm, emitting the scent of real, savory food.
Boothill looked at the lunchbox in his hands, then at Guinevere's clear, pure eyes, momentarily dazed.
He opened the lunchbox in silence. It was packed full: a large, fragrant piece of grilled synthetic steak, a heap of vegetables, and a spoonful of thick sauce drizzled over rice.
It wasn't nutritional paste or expired canned goods; it was a hot, decent meal.
"Eat up. It won't taste good once it gets cold," Guinevere urged.
"Haha, I don't need to eat."
He gave a dry laugh.
"I'm made of iron from head to toe. Do I look like I need to eat?"
"Here, this cup is machine oil for you. Justin and Dean like drinking it."
They actually prepared some.
Boothill opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to say he'd be fine with just some liquor, but in the end, he silently accepted it.
"...Thanks, kid." He finally took the cup of machine oil, his metallic fingers gripping the side with a faint scraping sound. He didn't drink it, just held it like a hot potato.
"You're welcome. After all, you'll be doing three days of community service here."
Community service?
"Yeah. No matter who you are, if you speed, you have to work for three days as punishment. Room and board are included. Even though there's no pay, if you perform well, you can finish early. The last person who caused trouble... uh, the negative example, she has to work until the Boss is satisfied."
"Son of a nice..." Boothill plopped back down onto a nearby rock. "Fine! Three days it is! I want to see what kind of Wubbaboo's Clockie this wonderland of yours can cook up."
Boothill's "community service" experience began in this state of mixed frustration and curiosity. His first assigned task was to go to the newly built Ecological Agriculture Experimental Base and assist Rogal Dorn in... hauling organic fertilizer.
Boothill did an excellent job. Although he hadn't done this kind of work in a long time, he hadn't forgotten how.
Only sometimes, he would sit to the side as if lost in thought, staring blankly as if reminiscing.
On Caelus's side, he had received a third... "collaboration."
The first collaboration was with Herta, and the second was with Screwllum.
Now, the group from the Interstellar Peace Corporation coming to discuss collaboration had ranks ranging from P25 to P35.
"P35, Kent Ash." The man bowed slightly, his movements meticulous. "I have long heard the great name of the 'Cosmic Junk Company,' Mr. Caelus. Your achievements in the Talia Star System are truly impressive."
Caelus didn't stand up or shake hands. He just leaned back lazily in a wheelchair cobbled together from discarded tires and steel plates, his feet propped up on the table, his oil-stained boots swaying.
"Oh? What does a corporate big shot want with a small-time junk dealer like me? Surely you're not here to collect a trash management fee?"
The smile on Kent's face remained unchanged, as if he hadn't noticed Caelus's rude posture. "Mr. Caelus, you joke. We at the Interstellar Peace Corporation are committed to maintaining the prosperity and stability of the galaxy. We maintain an open and supportive attitude toward any commercial activity that can promote regional development and improve people's livelihoods. We have noted that your company's resource recycling and infrastructure work in the Talia Star System has been highly effective."
"Right, then let's get straight to the terms. I don't like talking in generalities. What I can provide will depend on what you offer. I hope the terms you bring are better than the technology the Screw Star sends my way every month."
The other party seemed prepared, but the more Caelus read the contract, the more his brows furrowed.
"You mean you want to bring your corporation's rules and regulations over here? You want my people to follow your... rank divisions, performance evaluations, workdays of over 6 system hours, and... clauses about 'voluntarily' giving up certain benefits in exchange for 'promotion opportunities'?"
But clearly, Kent had come specifically to target Caelus's "3 to 4 system hour workday."
Because as a galactic mega-corporation, the Interstellar Peace Corporation's selection process had always been "strict," and its internal systems were very "humane."
And when an entity like the Cosmic Junk Company grows large and has dealings with Geniuses... acquisition is the first choice.
"By introducing these regulations, we can help you expand your commercial empire, giving you a green light for trade with other star systems... Your assets could reach tens, hundreds, thousands, or even tens of thousands of times what they are now. All that is required is your agreement to introduce these new systems and allow us to bring in our own personnel."
"Wow, ten thousand times? Really?"
Caelus put on an expression of being tempted.
Seeing Caelus's nouveau riche expression, a hint of smugness flashed deep in Kent's eyes, but his smile became even warmer. "Given your company's current scale and potential, this is by no means an exaggeration. The Interstellar Peace Corporation possesses channels and resources throughout the galaxy. As long as we join forces, the future of the Talia Star System will no longer be a frontier junkyard, but a new economic hub!"
"In other words, this place can be built into a second Penacony?"
"Haha, you joke, but a 'Little Penacony' isn't out of the question!"
"Hahahaha..."
Caelus nodded slowly.
"Alright then, just you wait. I'm going to go gather the opinions of my company's shareholders now."
"Of course."
Caelus's so-called "gathering shareholder opinions" was, of course, no board meeting.
It was a speech.
"Good. Everyone who can be here is here. Today, I have a question for you all."
Standing on the platform, Caelus's words were broadcast live to Terra and several planets still under construction.
"Right now, the Interstellar Peace Corporation has extended an invitation to our company. They want to join forces to develop this star system and together uphold the will of Preservation. What do you think... about that?"
Caelus chuckled.
Boothill, who'd just finished work, turned pale, but he kept silent, staring at Caelus's face on the screen.
"Of course, they'll provide massive technical support. They told me they'll turn this place into something wonderful—something that could even rival Penacony, that star of galactic festivities you've only seen on TV."
"All we have to do is sign this contract: extend working hours, trim your insurance and cafeteria benefits a bit, and Talia will prosper. All our lives will improve."
Caelus sent every terminal a simple yes-or-no question.
"Now, tell me—what do you think?"
The corporate team exchanged glances, clearly caught off guard.
On-screen, the "yes" bar leapt ahead at first; the reputation of the Interstellar Peace Corporation and the promise of a future to rival Penacony held strong appeal for many who'd only just escaped survival crises and longed for better lives.
Kent and the company team behind him finally smiled, certain of victory.
The green bar climbed overwhelmingly, nearly filling the entire gauge, pushing the red "no" bar to the edge, insignificant.
Though some dissenting voices spoke up, the vast majority ultimately agreed to the Interstellar Peace Corporation's entry and the accompanying cuts to their own benefits.
"We trust the boss."
"We trust the Emperor."
Watching the overwhelming tide of "yes," Caelus laughed out loud.
"Excellent." His voice carried clearly through every speaker. "It seems everyone has made their choice."
The corporate delegation laughed along.
Hahaha.
Hahahaha—"Funny, isn't it?"
Caelus stopped smiling. He raised the document, then tore it to shreds.
"You call me Emperor, you trust me, you work under me," his voice echoed across the planets, "and you think I'd trade your lives, your health, your happiness, your families for f***ing credits?!"
"Because I am your Emperor, from this moment on I will exercise my imperial right: I veto the choice of the majority, and I reject the Interstellar Peace Corporation's investment!"
Pieces of paper fluttered down like white snowflakes. In the square, thousands of eyes fixed on the figure onstage; time seemed frozen. At first, there was dead silence—no wind, no sound.
The shout struck like a boulder hurled into a lake, instantly raising towering waves.
"Emperor!!"
"He... he vetoed it!"
"He didn't sell us out!"
After a brief hush, volcanic cheers erupted.
"Waaah—Captain!" March 7th's tears burst free; she didn't bother wiping them, laughing and crying while pumping her fist. "Captain, you're amazing! Absolutely amazing!"
Dan Heng stood beside her, his usually calm face clearly moved.
"He... he actually refused..." Lancelot murmured. Looking at the brothers who'd once braved death with him and now had tears streaming down their faces, his own eyes reddened.
"Yeah, big brother..."
On the hillside, Boothill witnessed this dramatic scene.
"Well, I'll be damned..." The cowboy cursed under his breath, yet the usual disdain in his catchphrase was gone, replaced by pure admiration. "Now that's a tough bastard."
"Get lost."
Caelus dropped the shredded file and spat.
"Mr. Kent, and you other 'distinguished' guests from the corporation," his voice was calm again, but carried an undeniable chill, "we appreciate your 'kindness.' But the Cosmic Junk Company is a small temple; we can't house such a great Buddha. Here, we only believe food tastes better when you earn it yourself. Please leave."
Kent drew a deep breath, fighting to keep his anger in check for one last attempt: "Mr. Caelus, please think carefully! Opposing the corporation will do your company no good! The future of the Talia Star System..."
"The future of this star system will be decided by the people who live here!" Caelus cut him off, voice resolute. "Not by the ledgers of your Interstellar Peace Corporation! Escort the guests out!"
Lancelot stepped forward with a squad, still observing the barest courtesy, but his eyes left no doubt that guests were no longer welcome.
Caelus left the podium and was instantly mobbed by frenzied well-wishers. They tossed him into the air and caught him again.
"My Emperor! We follow You forever!"
"Boss! You gave us a second life!"
"Gwah! Emperor, we wuv you wid all our teef!"
"Enough, enough! Put me down!" Caelus flailed in mid-air until he finally landed. He straightened his rumpled clothes, cleared his throat, and raised the megaphone. "Now get lost, the lot of you! Back to work—stop tailing me like ducklings!"
"Lancelot! Rogal Dorn! Clear the crowd! Shift change—some to the docks, some to the mess! Touch my shirt again and the cost comes out of your pay!"
The threat worked. Under Lancelot's wry supervision the throng began to disperse, every face still flushed with excitement, craning back for one more worshipful glance at Caelus.
Caelus finally squeezed free—one button gone, hair a bird's-nest. He dropped onto a crate, wiping imaginary sweat.
"Captain! You were just… you were so—" March 7th stammered.
"So handsome?" He arched an eyebrow.
"So reckless!" She stamped her foot, tears mixing with laughter. "That was the Interstellar Peace Corporation! They won't let this go!"
"So what if they don't?" He waved it off. "They'll send a fleet to flatten us? Costs more than their promised investment. The bean-counters hate red ink. They'll just trip us up in trade and sling some mud. Worst case, they boycott our scrap. They can't cancel credits or refuse ours—kill their own credibility. If they try, who gets crushed isn't so certain."
Dan Heng approached and handed him a bottle of water.
"Thanks." Caelus drank, then eyed him. "Think I was too rash?"
Dan Heng shook his head. "It's your style. You made your choice."
Smack!
A hand slapped Caelus's shoulder.
Boothill flashed a mouthful of shark teeth.
"That was fragging glorious."
The slap nearly toppled him off the crate. He steadied himself and grinned. "Finished your community service? Pass the exam?"
"Screw the exam!" Boothill spat. "This place… feels more real than most."
Caelus said nothing, only watched.
Boothill inhaled the dusty air, as though to etch the memory deep, then turned toward the docks. Over his shoulder he waved.
"See you next time—no speeding, I swear!"
"Show's over—back to work! Hours we lost get made up tomorrow. Miss quota, lose snacks!"
"Aye, Captain!" March 7th laughed through her tears.
Dan Heng gave a slight nod and headed for the industrial zone.
Alone, Caelus stood while the sunset stretched his shadow. He knelt, gathered the shredded contract scraps, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed it into the recycle bin.
He dusted off his hands and looked skyward.
The star had already slipped below the horizon, painting the sky a blazing orange-red.
Rejecting the Corporation's olive branch meant a harder road ahead—trade embargoes, tech barriers, smear campaigns; trouble aplenty.
His "empire" rose from a trash heap; it thrived without the need of Preservation.
No distant Deliverer reigned here—only ordinary folk who refused to rot in the muck, fighting for a lifeline and trying to pass it on.
Himself included.
"Beyond the window, neon cuts the sleepless night…"
He hummed the unknown tune, hands in his pockets, ambling toward the bright cafeteria.
However vast the cosmos, dinner comes first.
As for tomorrow?
Tomorrow will bring fresh junk to pick and new miracles to turn over.
The Cosmic Junk Company's story has only just begun.
"Remember—only when you close your eyes do you truly wake."