The House of the Reapr welcomes Operative Erik J Johnson 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.
---
3rd Person POV: Victor Vance
The bio-synthetic brace wrapped around Victor Vance's left forearm hummed with a low, barely audible frequency. It was a medical marvel, injecting localized bone-knitting stimulants and heavy painkillers directly into the shattered radius and ulna that Gregorio Volanti had crushed like dry twigs. Yet, despite the billions of credits of pharmaceutical engineering coursing through his veins, Victor could still feel the phantom sensation of the stratospheric wind whipping against his face. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the dizzying, four-hundred-and-fifty-story drop to the brutalist concrete of Celestine Prime.
He stood on the observation deck of the Gilded Sovereign, looking out into the cold, unforgiving black of the void.
The Sovereign was a luxury battle destroyer, a class of vessel that existed purely because the upper echelons of the IUC refused to travel in anything less than absolute opulence, even in a galaxy defined by warfare. She was four hundred and fifty meters of obsidian-glossed, heavy tungsten-carbide armor plating, relying on the sheer, impenetrable density of her armor. Her lines were sleek, hiding the recessed spinal railguns and the retractable banks of 40mm rotary point-defense cannons beneath layers of architectural gold filigree.
Flanking the Sovereign in a perfect, synchronized tetrahedral formation were twelve SIGS private security corvettes. They were the hounds of the corporation, following humanity's usual design style, blocky, ugly, and bristling with armaments. They moved with a predatory grace, their sub-light thrusters burning with a uniform blue intensity as they escorted the Director of Starship Inter-Galactic Solutions across the stars.
It had been three weeks since Victor's meeting with the Devil himself. Three weeks of jumping from system to system, utilizing one of the 4 massive, ring-shaped jump relays that had allowed the IUC to expand its borders as far as they had.
Victor took a slow sip from a crystal tumbler of three-hundred-year-old scotch. The liquor burned pleasantly down his throat, but it did nothing to warm the ice in his stomach.
"Director," a voice spoke softly from the shadows of the observation deck.
Victor didn't turn around. He knew it was Commander Kril, the head of his personal security detachment. "Report, Commander."
"We have just cleared the final jump relay, sir," Kril said, his boots completely silent on the thick, imported wool carpet. "We are officially in the Novellus System. ETA to Mechanicus Station is roughly four hours at current sub-light cruising speed."
"Very well," Victor murmured, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Have the corvettes assume a parade-ground escort formation. I want them tight. I want everyone within the system, especially anyone looking out of a viewport on that station, to see exactly who is arriving."
"Understood, sir," Kril paused for a fraction of a second. "And regarding the target, sir? Mark Shephard?"
Victor closed his eyes, the name sending a spike of genuine, unadulterated stress straight to his temples. He walked over to the heavy mahogany desk in the center of the room and tapped the glass interface. A massive holographic file sprang to life, illuminating the dim room in a harsh, blue light.
It was the heavily redacted, incredibly frustrating file of Mark Shephard.
"He isn't a target anymore, Kril," Victor said, his voice laced with a bitter, metallic taste. "Targets are things we shoot at. Targets are things we destroy. Mr. Shephard has proven... exceptionally resistant to being destroyed."
Victor stared at the holographic image of the man. It was a grainy surveillance still taken from the Novellus courthouse. Shephard was tall, impossibly broad, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite.
For three weeks, Victor had studied this file in the quiet hours of the transit. He had watched the horrifying, soundless security footage recovered from the mangled memory cores of the Class-A Simulacrums. He had watched a man, a random flesh-and-blood mechanic, rip hyper-alloy limbs from their sockets. He had watched him move with a speed and deal blows that defied every law of human biology.
Gregorio Volanti had been right. It was the only thing that terrified Victor more than the man himself. Shephard wasn't a bug to be crushed. Rather, he was a predator. He was a wolf that had somehow wandered into the sheep pen of corporate politics. And when you corner a wolf, it tears your throat out.
"We are not here to kill him," Victor said, tracing the rim of his glass. "We are here to buy him."
Kril frowned, the scar tissue pulling tight around his cybernetic eye. "With all due respect, Director... you are the head of SIGS. You could have dispatched a team of elite corporate negotiators. You could have sent the VP of Acquisitions. Why are you personally flying out to hand a mechanic a blank check?"
Victor looked at his security chief. Kril was a good soldier, a brilliant killer, but he lacked the vision required to survive at the top of the spire.
"Because a messenger can be ignored, Kril," Victor explained patiently, his voice cold. "A negotiator can be haggled with, intimidated, or thrown out of an airlock. But when the Director of one of the largest military-industrial corporations in the known galaxy walks into your greasy garage to offer you a fortune... it changes the dynamic. It shows respect. It shows absolute sincerity."
Victor looked down at his broken wrist, encased in the humming brace. 'And because if I fail, my master will throw me off a building,' he thought to himself.
"I am not disgusted by this, Kril," Victor continued, turning back to the window as the distant, gleaming light of Nova Celeste began to peek out from behind a gas giant. "I didn't inherit my position. I wasn't born in a high-rise penthouse. I clawed my way up from the logistical slums of Ouros III. I know what men like Shephard want. They think they want revenge, or justice, or to 'disrupt the market.' But at the end of the day, every man has a price. You just have to find the exact number of zeroes that makes them forget their principles."
"And what if he refuses, sir?" Kril asked.
Victor's eyes narrowed, the reflection of the stars burning in his pupils. "He won't. I am going to offer him a sum of credits that will make his current naval contracts look like pocket change. I am going to offer him a seat at the table of the gods. I will buy his vents, his patents, his proprietary alloys, and his silence. He will sign a non-compete clause that binds his bloodline for a century."
Victor downed the rest of his scotch, setting the glass on the desk with a sharp clack. "Prepare the men, Commander. We are going into the belly of the beast. Dress uniforms, full tactical loadouts, but weapons remain slung. We are businessmen today."
Kril nodded. "Yes, Director."
Four hours later, the Gilded Sovereign and her twelve heavily armed escorts slid into the orbit of Mechanicus Station.
The Sovereign did not dock in the lower, smog-choked bays where the independent freighters and mercenary gunships moored. Victor Vance commanded the ship to the absolute highest tier of the station, Ring Alpha. This was the ring reserved for planetary governors, visiting Senators, and corporate royalty. The docks here were massive, pristine caverns of polished white durasteel, large enough to even house dreadnoughts and luxury liners.
As the massive airlock seals clamped onto the hull of the Sovereign, Victor stood in the primary deployment bay. He wore a bespoke suit cut from Nebular-Weave, dyed a deep, intimidating charcoal, tailored perfectly to hide the brace on his left arm. Over it, he wore a heavy, fur-lined greatcoat, a symbol of extreme wealth in a galaxy where real animal fur was rarer than diamonds.
Flanking him were twelve of his absolute best men. These weren't the standard corporate security grunts that Thorne had wasted. These were the Praetorians, veterans of the border wars, heavily augmented with subdermal plating, their eyes hidden behind the opaque, glowing red visors of their helmets. They carried compact, heavy-slug submachine guns and the rarest melee weapons in humanity's arsenal: vibro-blades.
The airlock hissed open, equalizing the pressure.
Victor stepped out onto the pristine decking of Ring Alpha, where a delegation of station officials, dressed in their finest and sweating profusely, were waiting to greet him. Victor didn't even slow his stride. He walked straight through them, his Praetorians parting the terrified bureaucrats like a wedge driving through soft wood.
"Director Vance!" the Station Master stammered, jogging to keep up with Victor's long strides. "We are honored by your presence! If we had known you were coming, we would have arranged a banquet-"
"I am not here on a social call to eat, Station Master," Victor cut him off, his voice carrying the sharp edge of a guillotine. "I require a private, high-speed descent elevator to the industrial sector. Docking Bay #2. Do not log my destination in the public manifest."
"B-Bay #2, sir?" The Station Master frowned and tilted his head in confusion. "But that's... that's the heavy industrial zone. It's dirty, sir, the air scrubbers down there barely function-"
Victor stopped, turning his head just enough to pin the Station Master with a glare that could freeze a star. "Did I ask you for a meteorological report?"
"No, sir!" The Station Master shook his head. "Right this way, sir!"
The descent through Mechanicus Station was a physical manifestation of Victor's bruised pride. He was a god of the upper atmosphere, forcing himself to descend into the underworld.
The private, heavy-duty cargo elevator was massive, essentially a falling room suspended on magnetic tracks. The descent took over forty-five minutes, plunging through the stratas of the station. Through the reinforced glass of the elevator car, Victor watched the environments change.
They passed through the commercial districts, neon-lit and bustling with high-end merchants. Then down into the residential mid-levels, where the lights grew dimmer and the architecture more utilitarian. Finally, they broke into the industrial sector.
Here, the world was cast in a perpetual twilight of harsh, amber work-lights and the strobing blue flashes of thousands of plasma torches. The air inside the elevator shaft grew tangibly warmer, vibrating with the continuous, rhythmic thud of heavy mass-stampers forging armor plating for the Navy.
Victor looked out at the sprawling, chaotic mess of the shipyards. He didn't feel disgust. He felt a profound sense of familiarity. Stations like Mechanicus were the engine of the galaxy. This grease, this smoke, this deafening noise, this was the raw material that he spun into quadrillions of credits. He respected it, just as a butcher respects the slaughterhouse. But he also knew he belonged above it.
The elevator finally ground to a halt with a heavy, hydraulic hiss. The doors parted.
The smell of a pungent mix of vaporized coolant, burnt ozone, and cheap recaf hit them instantly. The Praetorians instantly formed a protective wedge around Victor, their hands resting casually but dangerously near the grips of their weapons.
"Form up," Kril ordered over the local comms. "Keep civilians back. Anyone reaches into their pockets, break their arms."
Victor stepped out into the concourse of Docking Bay #2. It was a massive, cavernous thoroughfare, bustling with dockworkers, forklift mechs, and independent contractors.
As Victor and his imposing, terrifying escort began to walk down the main avenue toward Shephard Orbital Works, a ripple of absolute silence spread through the crowd. The heavy, magnetic clank-clank-clank of the Praetorians' boots on the metal grating sounded like a marching execution squad. The dockworkers took one look at the twelve heavily augmented killers and the man in the fur-lined coat, and they parted like the Red Sea. Forklifts reversed into alleys. Mechanics dropped their tools and pressed their backs against the bulkheads.
No one spoke. They recognized power when they saw it, and Victor Vance radiated it like a dying star.
They walked for ten minutes, passing by a small squadron of Marines escorting a little girl as they navigated the labyrinth of heavy blast doors and active drydocks, until they finally stood before the massive, heavily armored gates of Shephard Orbital Works.
Victor stopped. He looked up at the crude, holographic sign hanging above the door. It was so remarkably pedestrian, so utterly insignificant, that it almost made him laugh. This was the epicenter of the earthquake that was currently shaking the pillars of House Volanti.
And then, Victor heard it.
It started as a low, vibrating thrum in the metal grating beneath his custom-leather shoes. Then, the heavy blast doors, which were slightly ajar to vent heat, amplified the sound. It was a driving, aggressive, deeply rhythmic sound. A heavy guitar riff, backed by drums that hit with the concussive force of a kinetic slug.
AC/DC's 'Hells Bells'.
Victor blinked. He looked at Kril. The security chief looked back at him, the red visor of his helmet betraying a profound sense of confusion. The other Praetorians exchanged glances, shifting their weight. They were prepared for traps, for automated turrets, for a kill-zone. They were not prepared for ancient, deafening Terran heavy metal.
"Is this... a psychological tactic?" Kril asked over the secure channel, his voice tight.
"No," Victor said, a grim, humorless smirk touching his lips. "It's the sound of a man who thinks he's untouchable. A man who isn't expecting the Devil's tax collector."
Victor adjusted the cuffs of his coat, hiding the brace perfectly. He took a deep breath, slipping the mask of the ruthless, accommodating corporate Director perfectly onto his face. "Commander Kril, you and one other man will accompany me inside. The rest of the squad holds the perimeter. Do not let anyone in, and do not let anyone out unless I give the order."
Kril hesitated. "Sir, taking only two men into an unknown-"
"I am offering him a fortune, Kril, not declaring war," Victor interrupted sharply. "If I walk in there with a twelve-man hit squad, he will assume I am here to finish what Thorne started. I want him to be relaxed. I want him greedy."
Krill hesitated, then nodded. He signaled to a massive Praetorian named Vance to follow.
Victor stepped forward, pushing the heavy personnel door open.
The sound inside the reception area was deafening, the music pounding against the walls. The office was Spartan, smelling of ozone and fresh coffee. Through a large, reinforced glass window behind the main desk, Victor could see the massive expanse of the drydock.
His eyes widened slightly. Suspended in the cradle was the Vengeance. The intelligence reports stated the ship had arrived less than three weeks ago as a warped, unsalvageable wreck. Yet, there she hung, her internal skeleton completely, immaculately rebuilt with a gleaming alloy Victor had never seen before.
'He really is a genius,' Victor thought, the realization sending a thrill of corporate greed through his veins. 'With SIGS manufacturing behind this man, we could monopolize the entire Naval repair industry.'
Victor stepped fully into the office, Kril and the second guard stepping in behind him.
And then-
*SLAM*
The heavy, pressure-sealed personnel door behind Kril slammed shut with the force of a kinetic hammer. The locking mechanisms engaged with a heavy, quadruple CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK that sounded like a vault sealing shut forever.
Victor spun around. Kril immediately raised his heavy submachine gun, taking aim at the door.
Instantly, the deafening heavy metal music cut off, the audio feed severed at the source, leaving the office plunging into an agonizing, ringing silence.
Then, the lights died.
The overhead fluorescent strips snapped off, casting the office into absolute, pitch-black darkness. The only illumination came from the dim, amber industrial lights bleeding through the reinforced glass window looking out into the drydock.
"Director, get down!" Kril barked, his combat training taking over. The two Praetorians instantly moved to physically shield Victor, raising their weapons, their internal optics frantically trying to adjust to the sudden lack of light.
But Victor didn't move. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The air in the room suddenly felt incredibly heavy, thick with a predatory tension that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.
A heavy, mechanical whirring sound echoed from the ceiling.
Above them, hidden in the shadows of the ventilation ducts, two massive, automated heavy-caliber rotary turrets dropped down from concealed panels. The servos whined as the barrels instantly locked onto the two Praetorians. Laser targeting sights, burning a bright, lethal crimson, painted the chests of Kril and the other guard.
"Do not move a single muscle, Kril," Victor commanded, his voice trembling slightly despite his best efforts. He knew military hardware when he saw it. Those turrets were loaded with depleted uranium rounds. If they fired in this enclosed space, they would be turned into a fine red mist in less than a second.
The two elite guards froze, their fingers hovering over their triggers, the red lasers illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Then, the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed from the far corner of the darkened office.
*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
It wasn't the sound of standard boots. It was the sound of a man carrying a terrifying amount of mass.
From the absolute darkest corner of the room, a set of eyes ignited.
They weren't human. They glowed with a dim, baleful red luminescence in the dark, floating at an impossible height. From the seeping lights of the drydock, they could tell that the man standing there was about seven feet tall, his silhouette so broad it seemed to swallow the dim light bleeding in from the drydock.
Victor felt the breath leave his lungs. He was looking at the ghost that had ripped his Simulacrums apart, but he was different. It felt like he was staring at royalty. Not even when he had met with the emperor had he felt like this. Not even in the presence of Gregorio Volanti. He felt like he was staring at the last remaining line of the most perfectly crafted death machine in human form.
The massive figure stepped forward, just enough for the amber light to reflect on the rest of his armor. The man standing before him was dressed head to toe in a sleek black and red armor that spoke of danger. The fur around his wrists and neck made it feel like he was a hunter. But the half cape hanging from his right shoulder sealed the deal.
In his hands was a long barrel of matte black with red running stripes that seemed to pulse softly in the dark. Looking at it closer, Victor realized that it was some terrifying custom variant of the K-272 energy rifle.
Mark Shephard didn't raise his voice. He didn't yell. His tone was perfectly, terrifyingly calm, carrying a deep, gravelly resonance that vibrated in the floorboards.
"Now," Mark said, his glowing red eyes boring a hole straight through Victor's soul. "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't splatter you all over my office, Mr. Vance?"
---
Check out my new Fanfic "Cyberpunk: Whispers of the Blackwall"
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