His Majesty fails to appear, and so do any further catastrophes.

The samples for breakfast and lunch get finished before the food processors have to be supplied, so the crew misses only one meal. 644 out of 1473 containers processed by Tobugir Agricorp, reference code TBG8, turn out to be adulterated. No other supplier seems to be affected. A further analysis of all products supplied by Tobugir finds the same isotopic signature in both the fural and the unadulterated samples, further evidence that the company is actually involved and not just had their label appropriated as a front for the real scammers.

All throughout the galaxy, SciCorps officers are checking the provisions of their ships and General Supplies is checking their stocks. The galaxy literally hates me, now – I ruined the week for millions of people.

Oo oo oo oo oo oO

After ten very hectic – and socially strenuous – days, I find a summons among my messages, for a meeting in one of the tactical presentation rooms near the bridge, at 0800 tomorrow. I swallow my panic, inform the officer in charge of my shift – Osin made Lieutenant Commander, who would have thought – and try to get all the facts about this whole sordid affair into my head as well as on a datapad.

By 0600 I'm perfectly prepared, by 0755 I'm close to crumbling and that's before I step into a darkened, sound-proof room to find the Captain, the flint-eyed general – whose name is Veers, I found out in the meantime – and a number of other officers waiting. Not for me, fortunately, I'm just waved over to sit among the other junior officers, nor for his lordship, technically speaking, who enters the room exactly on time, but for the portly Admiral Ozzel, who arrives about a minute late. Once the admiral has finally found his seat, the Captain opens the meeting by quoting the abstract of the final report on our analyses almost verbatim, and I relax, slightly. I'm back at full alert when he finishes with "The Executor will make orbit around Jiguk Four in twenty-two hours," and relinquishes the floor to General Veers.

Jiguk Four, reference code JK4, an agricultural world I had never known existed, until I checked out a certain container. One of the many, mostly unheard of, breadbaskets of the Empire. Homeworld of Tobugir Agricorp. Which, in turn, is about to receive a very rude awakening, the details of which the general is currently displaying for the Dark Lord's approval.

It looks like Operation Overkill to me, the place is a foodstuff plant, not an enemy fortress, for stars' sake; but on second thought, the installation – processing most of the planet's harvests – is gigantic, so anything but a fast, well coordinated raid will leave the guilty parties with enough time to disappear the evidence and/or themselves. On third thought, the general probably relished in the chance to set up a real-life, planet-side exercise for his men, bringing all his nifty toys to bear.

His lordship asks a few questions, briskly answered by the general, gets the individual unit commanders pointed out to him – they account for most of the junior officers around the table – and finally nods consent.

Then the gleaming helmet turns to me. "Lieutenant Malan will accompany the second wave and secure the evidence."

I will? Uh, well, obviously, I will. A number of other heads turn towards me, most of the younger stormtrooper officers look less than impressed until the general gives me a curt nod.

"Due to her unique familiarity with the case, Lieutenant Malan is predestined to find all the evidence."

Oo oo oo oo oo oO

Later that evening someone knocks rather forcefully at the door of my cabin. I get up to answer it with some trepidation, the social disgrace has not yet dissolved into physical violence, but in a place where literally everyone has at least some hand-to-hand training, that option always exists. When the door slides aside, I stare into a wall of white armor.

"General's compliments, sir," the wall says, pushing a heavy bundle into my hands, "Hangar 57D at 0530."

"My thanks to the general," I call after the retreating trooper, then start to unwrap the unexpected gift. When I'm done, my jaw drops.

The general has sent me a Class Four tactical armor vest that actually fits me – and such a thing should not exist. Class Four is frontline combat armor that can stop a blaster or even rifle shot at point blank range, anything portable at more than that and even light vehicle guns at middle distances. High-ranking stormtrooper officers wear Class Four in battle. Women, however, are banned from all combat positions – which leaves SciCorps one of the few branches where one can actually make a career in the military – and even if that weren't the case, I'm still a couple of centimeters below the minimum height requirement for stormtroopers. Eerie.

The vest was wrapped inside the matching overtunic, and around a datapad that contains all troop placements for tomorrow – I already had those – plus another list of units, that seems to be a summary of the employed troops. It takes me a second reading to realize, that it's in fact a list of units consigned to Mess MV 37.

The general has made sure that every single trooper about to drop on top of Tobugir Agricorp has a personal stake in the mission.