Beta'd by Benigitsune
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
A month after my involvement in the downfall of Cixon Industries (which was now split up into ten or so smaller companies with single common major shareholder among them), I received a letter.
That's right. I received a letter, not an e-mail. It was a proper envelope and proper paper. I was intrigued. Who would send me such a letter and why?
Since my days on Earth, paper became a luxury good. Trees that people used paper for didn't grow on every single colony, though there were many that they did grow on, and the advent of commercial space travel made paper obsolete. Now, possessing a library of actual books was a sign of wealth and power because to have space to maintain your own paper library was enormous in space.
Back to the point, I got a letter, and I wondered who it was from.
There was no return address, so I assumed that the person who sent it was trying to be mysterious or something.
With a quick swipe of my finger across and a quick pull, I had the letter in front of me. I opened it.
… It wasn't a letter. It was an invitation paper.
"To Duke David of the Freyr Sector,
You are invited to the Bazaar that will be open on September 11th, 2690 AD, 8 p.m. standard imperial time. When you are ready to join us, stand in front of a closed door while holding this invitation, speak 'One invitation from the Bazaar,' and open the door.
Please refrain from discussing the Bazaar with those who didn't get the invitation.
Sincerely hoping to see you there,
The Keeper of the Bazaar."
… Awfully weird letter.
What had me curious, though, was the fact that I could sense lingering mana on this letter.
Yes, this was a letter of invitation from magical community.
The question was thus: why was I invited, who was part of this magical community, and how should I respond to this?
Who and the why couldn't be answered easily. I had no knowledge whatsoever regarding magical communities. As for why … I suppose it was possible that my own progress with my magic prompted the delivery of this letter. Kind of like "welcome to our secret club" kind of thing.
Of course, this could all just be a trap. Myths and legends about magicians and wizards were usually about how secretive and devious they are; how much they want to steal others' magic; what kind of diseases they set upon the people; or when the wizards go mad, how truly frightening it can be for others around them.
So it could be a trap, but why trap me? Maybe mind control me to gain access to my resources?
… No, that's unlikely. I may be a duke, but I am a duke of a Rimworld sector, one of the poorest systems possible. While the Quentius Systems has been getting better economically, the entire sector's riches were still piss poor on average.
Then what? Could it really be a welcome invitation for a newcomer? I hoped so.
'It's two months away,' I thought to myself. 'I have time to think.' With that, I turned back to my paperwork at hand. 'Captain Frisky wants a bathtub installed on his bridge...? Denied.'
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Crusier Captain Frisky was having a good day.
Instead of being stuck in a patrol fleet, he had been moved -as per request- to a scout fleet, and after the last scout fleet commander's devastating incompetence, he had also been promoted to the rank of sector commander of the 2nd Freyr Scout Fleet.
His fleet was composed of 1 industrial freighter, 3 cruisers, 15 frigates, and 20 corvettes. It was the perfect size to scout out the sector. The corvettes could, once the fleet entered a system, easily spread out over the system and scan everything down while the cruisers and frigates held ground. Once the corvettes' jobs were done, everyone would refuel from the industrial freighter and move onto the next system.
Ping, ping, ping.
Frisky "opened" his virtual avatar's eyes and looked at the source of the alert. It was a report from the FSN Civic Duty.
"Reported pirate base has been spotted."
Frisky grinned.
This was the last enemy base. The last pirate base in the entire sector.
"Block off all escape routes, shut down the stargates if you have to," he ordered the fleet. "Boys, we're calling in the cavalry."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
When Solomon got the call, he immediately turned his entire 1st Freyr Patrol Fleet from their patrol route towards the system where Captain Frisky reported from.
He and his fleet, 3 battleships, 15 cruisers, 93 frigates, and 100 corvettes, zoomed towards their destination with murder in mind.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"Aw shit," one of the pirates aboard the pirate base whined when he saw a fleet heading towards the base. "This can't b-"
To his own shock, the local patrol fleet didn't even give the customary warning. They just fired.
Energy lances, kinetic lances, and one single Hyperdrive Antimatter Missile all came charging in.
There was one big bad boom, destruction of a large asteroid...
And it was over.
All pirate bases and pirate fleets within the Freyr Sector had been wiped out.
/\/\/\/\/\/\
I smiled when I heard the news.
"Get everyone a week long paid vacation on rotation, commander," I told Solomon through our face-to-face comm chat. "You've all earned it."
Solomon, ever the stoic man that he was, nodded stoicly and the comm cut off.
I leaned back.
"Finally, I can get started on my new projects," I said to myself.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The project I had in mind was the ocean planet, Y-7123-5. It was a world with thousands of islands, and although gravity there was stronger than standard (at around 1.9G, it was pretty strong for normal people), it was a planet perfect for training soldiers.
I was explaining this concept to some of my trusted men and women.
"With its high gravity, soldiers would have to condition themselves to train simply to survive. Couple that with reflex and dodging training, any soldier who even just survived the training course would be considered elite.
"Imagine this: a regular soldier with their entire equipment weighs in around at 100 kilograms to 120 kilograms (or 220 pounds to 265 pounds). On a world that exuded 1.9 G, a soldier would feel double their weight. Unless they train to adjust, they can't even walk.
"Now, let's assume our soldier, let's call him John, survives the most basic of trainings on the world where he can walk, run, sprint, swim, and even dodge a couple of shots from a gun. Pull him out of the planet, let him adjust to normal gravity, and what do you get?"
The men and women before me paled at the implications.
I grinned.
"They might not be strong as me or any of the royal bodyguards who have the same bionics as I do, but they will be unstoppable to a regular soldier."
"My lord, how did you come up with ideas like this?" someone asked. I squinted my eyes a little to see who that was, and saw that it was Commander Solomons. The man was so diligent that even on his vacation, he stayed on Onuxal in case he was needed. A really good man!
"Well, when I was younger I used to write science-fiction novels and whatnot. With the time available to me, some research on the internet, and very intense conversations with some of the doctors, I figured that this project was possible. Now, keep this in your mind: I was not the first to suggest this, just the only one crazy enough to suggest that we actually do this instead of passing it off as a thinktank."
"Someone else suggested this before?"
I scoffed. "Plenty have. The military geeks, for one, loved this idea on the internet so much that they have a little club that petitions the high brass at Mars to make such a colony happen. Of course, the expenses are too much, and the past emperors have always said no, so they couldn't.
"The military does, however, possess artificial gravity generating room where soldiers can fight in simulation. Now, they are limited in space and the facility itself is also limited to the Core Worlds."
"Then why don't we just build one of those instead of setting up an entire facility?"
"Simple," I grinned. "Because I want it to happen."
There was a groan.
I cackled in return.
It was how I ran things. I did calculations on my own, did the designing myself, and then introduced the concept to my advisers and secretaries. And by secretaries, I really mean people assigned to jobs like "Sector Secretary of Defense," "Sector Secretary of Internal Affairs," "Sector Secretary of Commerce," and "Sector Secretary of Justice." Basically, the duchy/provincial level ministers for me.
After I tell them what I want, we gather together, fix my design a little bit, and give it a go.
Considering that we had a carrier being worked on, several new cities on the Quentius planet, construction of new parts of the Onuxal Station, import of "indentured laborers" (read: politically correct term for legal slaves made from debtors, pirates, prisoners, and criminals) from several different Inner Sector nobles (serfs that were going to be freed once they arrive), and a whole lot more other stuff that I thought of before my advisers(who should've been implementing such measures anyway), I knew that they were going to follow through without too much of a grumble.
Commander Solomons, my Sector Secretary of Military Affairs, seemed like he was trying to calculate whether or not he was going to have to go through this new project as a guinea pig.
"How much do you think it'll cost, Edward?" I asked my Sector Secretary of Commerce.
Edward Nusecres was a Core World accountant who I hired as my own accountant after having been referred to by my connections. Edward was a short man who had been under the service of a local noble on Mars. But not getting paid enough had led the man to start embezzling his liege... which didn't quite turn out right for him. He got caught within the year. When I got hold of him, he had spent the last five years in prison. So I offered him this: "give me honest, diligent, and efficient work for the next ten years, and I'll give you a barony on Quentius."
Essentially, I was offering a position of nobility.
He took it immediately, and for the past few months or so, he has been living up to his part of the bargain.
He was also the one sweating the most as well as being the palest of the sector secretaries.
"Ah... Ah..." He looked down at his datapad and began to furiously type in numbers. "... thirty-seven thousand credits at the least for the construction of the facilities there alone, regular suppl-"
"Don't worry about the supplies," I grinned. "All soldiers going there will have to hunt for their own food."
Solomon looked like he really needed to take a shit.
"I see..." A pause. He typed in more numbers. "Disregarding supply runs and only taking into account facility, equipment, and maintenance, it'll cost at least fifty thousand credits to start up, seventy-five thousand by the end of the construction, and two or three thousand credits biannually to maintain."
"Where are you getting those numbers from?"
"Construction material fees, manpower fees, data of average equipment breakdown during construction taken from construction works done on above average gravity worlds, colony world type, and everything adjusted for what will soon be the only place where humans have gone to for extended period of time with more than 1.5G."
As I said, Edward has been living up to his part of the bargain very well. 'I think he deserves a very good barony,' I thought to myself.
I blinked. "Wait, are you telling me that there aren't colonies out there with more than 1.5 G?" I asked.
"Sir, respectfully speaking, your plan is batshit insane."
I chuckled. "Go on. Tell me why."
"Soldiers aren't super-humans. You can't expect to just drop them off on the planet and survive without issues. If that's actually how you intend to run this planet, then I suspect a 90% death rate for newcomers."
I raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. Solomon will make sure those who do get sent can at least bench their own weight with standard being able to hold up … I think 1.5 times their own weight for a long time."
"I am?"
"Who did you expect was going to oversee the entire operation once it comes online?"
"...You, sir?"
"Solomon, don't jest during meetings."
"Go on, Edward. What else if that particular issue is covered?"
Edward scratched his head a bit before he spoke. "You said that the soldiers will be hunting for their own food, but do we even have a comprehensive report on the planet itself?"
"We do. Just enough to know that as long as the soldiers test for anything poisonous with their poison kit, they'll be fine."
"... Okay, then I'll have to adjust the monthly maintenance to compensate for higher survival chance."
"Edward, please don't think so harshly of me."
"Can't help it, sir."
"You are forgiven."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
To my surprise, the usually impeccable (meaning she was usually on time) Mrs. Sheperd just messaged me that she couldn't come for her vacation. Apparently, her youngest daughter just went into labor.
I shrugged. My offer for her family's vacation was a standing offer; she could take it anytime.
Now, on the other hand, I had a issue to deal with.
Namely, the invitation to the Bazaar.
I now had seven hours before the time, so I was stressed out trying to make the decision. I had, of course, tried to think about it for the few days. So far, I've come to four points of pro's and con's.
The pro was this: I would get connected to actual magicians and may be able to hire their help to improve my sector. The con was this: I could be enslaved and everything I built up would be used to spread chaos (if the wizard/magician who invited me followed the "evil" magician archetype in the myths and legends).
So I thought about how magic might control to prevent those nasty outcomes.
Thus, I proposed to myself scenarios about how they might kill or enslave me.
If they had a whole ambush ready, I would die, simple as that. It could simply be me being spaced. To that end, I installed a black box, built-in rocket thrusters into my legs and forearms (very small with limited fuel), and distress signal amplifier as well as a cyrostasis-inducer (basically, a device that caused my entire body to be encased in ice at speeds near instantaneously and also thaw me near instantaneously, thus preventing damages to my remaining organic parts).
If they were going to enslave me, I needed a way to either break free or prevent that I was enslaved so as to see why they did what they did. In this case... I was stomped. For one, I didn't know how magic interacted with the mind, the brain, and the "soul." I didn't know what magic existed that could control me and how those "spells" went about doing exactly that.
My own magic was not helpful in this regard because outside of the two fire elemental spells that I made up, I could learn no more (or it was really hard, kind of like being on a threshold and not being able to cross it).
To that end, I did three things with myself. First was an upgrade to my brain implants. I ordered very advanced ones from the Core Worlds and had my best doctor implant them. They were Doctrine Implant, IPI-6 (faster processing implant, made by one of the subsidiaries of the former Cixon Industries), and TCT-009
The first implant was known for its usage by the covert ops of the empire. What I got was a older version of what the empire's covert ops used to prevent being brainwashed or scanned, but it did its job (hopefully). IPI-6 was in case they used magic in front of me with full incantations or the like (so that I can steal them and use them for myself, if I can that is).
...And lastly, TCT-009, or Model 9 of the Transferred Consciousness Tranferer. It was essentially a brain implant that -upon command or set condition- captures a "picture" of the brain at work and literally transfers the consciousness of the person with the implant to whatever target the implant had been told to send it to. Usually, there was a designated Transfer Consciousness Centers in Core Worlds and some rich Inner Sector colonies. Mine was set to Mars- the Royal Palace of Mars.
I had that particular implant installed in me should everything else fail and death of my body was the only choice.
Did I mention that TCT-009, should you order it as a person of importance or on mission, comes with a deadman's switch that acidifies the body?
'Covert ops just love it, apparently,' I chuckled to myself in my mind. And why wouldn't they? The covert ops agents often have to risk death. To not have to fear death with one brain implant? Which agent wouldn't do it?
I mean, I just fucking did it to myself.
But … if this was a legitimate invitation, I couldn't go underdressed, now could I? It would be an insult to the host if I were to appear in my combat fatigues of all things. So I dressed myself in fine black widow spider silk suit, the most expansive of the new suits I bought for myself (a thousand credits! A bloody thousand credits for a single suit! I could buy a house on imperial capital with that!).
The alarm rang.
5 minutes til.
I took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
It was time.
…
…
…
"One invitation from the Bazaar."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
When I blinked, I was in my office.
When I blinked again, I was in a opulent ballroom.
"Hello, good sir. May I take your invitation?"
I looked down and saw …
A goblin?