"However, you're mistaken, Admiral. I have no need of the Republic. On the other hand, you need me. So drop the pride and enlighten me. Why should I ally with you?"
Orton tsked at the audacity of the question. A silent click of his tongue echoed in his mind. The answer was obvious, yet negotiating with someone so ignorant of the Empire's politics amplified his challenge tenfold.
If only he knew, Orton thought. If he'd endured even a single clash against the Empire's might—the fires of dreadnought barrages shattering shields, the scream of Rangers slicing through formations—he wouldn't be so resistant.
Orton studied Atlas again. Was he a wide-eyed boy too innocent to understand his position, or a lucky fool mistaken for skilled? Would it be smart to tie him to their cause? Was he a real mining boss who pulled wealth from shattered worlds, or a scavenger who had found a rich vein?
Orton studied Atlas from head to toe. The suit’s lines were perfect. The fabric gave off a faint hum from hidden defensive armor. Atlas moved with calm confidence, yet carried no battlefield scars.
However, Orton’s attention kept drifting to the android at Atlas’s left. Its outfit was ridiculous. A white T‑shirt and bright floral shorts, like it was dressed for a beach sim, not a diplomatic meeting.
He has… unusual tastes, Orton thought. He pushed the idea aside and refocused on his reply.
“Blackwall,” Orton began, deliberately omitting the honorific to reclaim a sliver of dominance. He paused briefly, his eyes flicking to a nearby street vendor, a grizzled figure hunched over a makeshift stall of salvaged tech.
“In the six years we've waged this unrelenting war against the Empire,” Orton continued, “we've clashed with imperial forces hundreds of times. Battles that left wreckage in orbit and cities burning below.”
Atlas listened intently, his gaze locked on Orton's face with piercing focus.
“We've confronted Mechas generations ahead of our own. Colossal beasts with adaptive armor that regenerates under fire, their limbs crushing corvettes like fragile pods,” Orton pressed on. “Rangers who answer solely to the Emperor himself. Elite Purple Rangers, indoctrinated from the moment of adoption, forged into living weapons. Each one can dismantle a cruiser alone.”
Several hover-cars zipped past in a blur of anti-grav hums and gleaming chassis, their cargo bays laden with crates of ore or salvaged tech modules.
“What they all share in common,” Orton said, “is their purpose. They're engines of war.”
"And yet, you're fighting back," Atlas countered, his tone laced with a casual curiosity, as if dissecting a minor anomaly.
“But we stand as three Great Houses,” Orton said. “With resources dwarfing yours by factors of thirty to three hundred. Vast shipyards churning out dreadnoughts, mineral hauls from entire asteroid belts, and legions drawn from worlds teeming with recruits. You've mustered a thousand Rangers? Commendable, truly. A feat that would turn heads.”
“But?” Atlas prompted, his eyes narrowing with the shrewd glint of a magnate sensing the pivot in a high-stakes deal.
“But,” Orton continued, “even with them and that titanic vessel of yours, you lack the technological edge of the Great Houses, the inexhaustible industry, and certainly the endless ranks of soldiers.”
“I see,” Atlas replied, his posture unyielding amid the avenue's chaotic flow. “Still, we've no interest. Something tells me the Empire won't come knocking.”
Orton arched a single eyebrow. The admiral tried to figure out his opponent. Where did this confidence come from? Does he know something? He had reviewed the Governor's dossier before embarking from Lot's orbital docks.
Atlas Blackwall, an Academy alumnus, had risen to Officer rank through intellect rather than valor. Assigned to a backwater post far from the front lines, he had never faced Orks or commanded desperate stands against an enemy—a desk-bound strategist at best.
Orton shook his head faintly, a gesture of resignation as he abandoned persuasion. His gaze swept the cityscape one final time, as though bidding farewell.
“Then I'll have to escalate the pressure in our negotiations,” Orton said.
“Do as you must,” Atlas retorted, his eyes locking onto Orton's with unblinking intensity. “But remember, we'll respond in kind.” Before the admiral could withdraw, the Governor spoke once more. “And do ask your President why he wants Aquarius in the Republic. Rest assured, it's not for our numbers or our Rangers.”
Orton nodded curtly, his admiral's poise unbroken. “Farewell,” he said, pivoting on his heel to retrace his steps through the Refuge's streets. The city’s stacked steel habs and flickering neon receded behind him. He headed for the outskirts, where the hangar waited, a vast cave carved into the planet’s rough rock.
He walked up the Dawn’s cargo ramp. The air smelled like oil and hot metal, and automated loaders clanked by as they hauled crates of supplies. Orton's lips curled in a silent, ironic chuckle. Aquarius’s unwitting generosity was fueling the engines of its downfall.
Yet he couldn't shake the Governor's unyielding confidence. Either he was unhinged or he knew something Orton did not, he judged, his thoughts drifting to Atlas's android companion. Whichever it is, he knows too little of war. He'll need to be schooled in its harsh lessons.
Orton stepped into the command cabin, a sleek room of curved consoles and glowing holo displays. He sat in the central chair, which adjusted to fit him the moment he leaned back.
His two commanders were already in place. Maxwell sat on his left, hair neat as always, eyes sharp with controlled impatience. Nathaneal sat on his right, dark hair a bit messy, a hungry look in his eyes that hinted he was ready for action.
The pilots, comm officers, and other crew hadn’t returned yet. Their stations hummed on standby. The air recyclers hissed in the quiet.
Maxwell and Nathaneal stared at him, waiting. Their questions hung in the air, tense and heavy, like the charge before a storm.
“How did the meeting with the Governor go?” Maxwell asked, sounding only mildly interested as his fingers tapped on the console.
“Nothing came of it,” Orton said flatly, leaving no room for questions.
“Postponed? Another meeting later?” Maxwell pressed, frowning.
“No,” Orton said, leaning forward. “We’ll move to more forceful measures.”
“He wouldn’t even negotiate?” Nathaneal asked, a spark of eagerness lighting his eyes as he straightened.
“He’s set on staying independent,” Orton said, his face hard, holo light casting thin shadows across it.
“He’s… he’s crazy,” Maxwell said, eyes wide, as if refusing the Republic made no sense, like breaking the laws of physics.
Orton pressed the communicator button embedded in his seat armrest, his voice booming through the ship's internal relays. “All hands, return to stations. We lift in thirty minutes.”
The order sent the crew rushing through the Dawn’s halls and hangars. From the hangar, soldiers and officers sprinted across the huge bay. Lifters whined as they hauled the last crates aboard. Moments later, the engines woke with a deep, heavy rumble that shook the hull. Short thruster bursts spat hot plasma in bright jets that scorched the hangar floor.
Minutes passed before the ship lifted clear of the hangar. The structure shook as repulsors strained against the planet's pull, bulkheads groaning with the escalating power surge. Finally, the Dawn ascended, rattling the Refuge's outskirts. Clouds parted before its prow until the atmosphere thinned into space. The ship settled into a low orbit above Aquarius.
Orton stayed alert, eyes fixed on the displays. They showed bright arcs for orbital paths and scans marking threats in red and amber. As the ship climbed into safe orbit, the planet shrank to a small blue marble, out of reach of most weapons.
Once the Dawn reached orbit, Orton opened a shipwide channel.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Orton proclaimed, “today's annexation talks with Aquarius ended in failure. Yet our mission continues.” He paused.
“The citizens of Aquarius have grown complacent in their peace, insulated from the Empire's shadow. We must show them the difference between those who merely survive on the borderlands and those who wage war against imperial tyranny.” His tone hardened.
“Transmit to the assault fleets. Effective immediately, blockade the Aquarius system.” Orton sealed the command.