"I have to go immediately," you tell Seubi as you hurry down to the hangar bays. He follows along, groggy and not quite awake. "You'll have to run the show for a while, I'm afraid. Can you spare ten for rearguard defense?"
"What? Why for?"
"Contingencies," you reply calmly. That's true. Seubi probably think it's because of the ENEMY's ghost fleets, the ones that probably did all those sudden regime changes without you getting wind of 'em until they were a done deal. A ghost fleet showing up in your rear echelon is going to be a headache and a half. Faked IFF, auth-codes, and suchlike. They could look just like a fleet from Central. Coincidentally, you are heading into a situation where there would be a non zero chance of a fleet from Central arriving at your citadel to arrest your staff for complicity in treason.
Convenient, eh?
"I'm gone, Luca's gone, and no one's getting paid. Perfect time for the ENEMY to launch a sneak attack," you continue. "Don't let anything pass the final defense line. Go get'em."
He salutes and leaves off. You take your squadron of marines and board a rapidtrans shuttle and jet off for Port Calaay. You wanted to bring another division, but on the balance that would be overdoing it. And besides, at this stage of the thing you're not sure which way the troops would jump if you said right and they said left.
Wait. At this stage?
Get it together, you remind yourself. You're not planning a rebellion, you're trying to stay paid and not die of poor. If the Empire wants to audit you, let them! You frankly are not paid enough to contemplate rebellion, because that's called self-employment, which is the most risky of pension plans!
You belt on a handgun nevertheless.
Port Calaay becomes first a speck on black when the rapidtrans exits the solar warp. Impotent solar radiation lashes at the shuttle, radiation, mixed with the afterwash of the powerful energies needed to slingshot tons of metal and air across parsecs of distance, fuzzes the sensors. Only for a moment. "Aaah, man," you mutter to yourself, pacing the room with the nice wall to floor display. "I should have taken some stomach medicine."
"Take mine," one of your guards offer, slacking around.
You go through the motions. Of greeting Khoulin, who looks really happy now that you're in the shit. Shaking hands, greeting the garrison. You've found Luca, who looks like she's been harangued by an army of ten thousand cloned grandmothers. Shaken and beaten, like a dog. At least your division is fixed, save for the division flagship, Xakoro, who's damage can't be patched up by Port Calaay's facilities anyways.
And now to face the piper.
"Marquis-Admiral! Good to see you. Thanks for taking your time out of your busy schedule, the ENEMY's always about, eh?"
The inspector is a thin, conservatively dressed man. Sensible shoes. Sober pinstripe jacket. A face that's just south of memorable and a resume that involves a lot of deniably named positions in various organs of the Imperial State. This is Inspector-General Ploskiy Tan, and behind him are the enforcer mechanisms of Empire.
"First, let me tender the most sincere apologies on behalf of the revenue service," he says as the two of you sit down in one of the boardrooms in Khoulin's command spire. "It's a mess back there, the proles are rioting and the gens are finding every reason to withhold their taxes for their own private militia." He makes a twirling gesture with his hands.
"Inspector-General," you remark, leaning back on the chair, "I hope the very next words out of your mouth is, 'so I've found you your pay.' Because in periods of chaos, frontier soldiers devoid of pay turn to--"
"--We are all grown men here, Marquis-Admiral," he forstalls you. "You'll threaten rebellion, following the natural laws of history and psychology. Well, you are right. I have in my convoy what money your allies and the bureaucratic protocol-sticklers could scrape up. It should tide you over for the foreseeable future-- that is, one months."
"A piddling sum," you note. "Is this the extent of the ruin? A single month-- inspector, the military pay periods are yearly!"
Inspector-General Ploskiy Tan puts both his elbows on the table. "Correct." All pleasantries are gone now. "You are not running an independent fiefdom, admiral. You are a border guard, nothing more, nothing less. Furthermore, the Centre wishes to convey to you that no campaigns against the ENEMY are to be carried out, because we do not wish to see any grand defeats or budget sucking forever wars."
It is at this moment that an aide-de-camp rushes in and salutes. "Sir!" he states. "Reports of invasion amongst the entire northern front! The North Relative Fleet is engaging in a massive invasion across the board!" The aide retires, looking a bit silly since he was talking to the one that ordered it.
But fuck fuck fuck. "Well?" Inspector-General Ploskiy Tan says in tones acidic. "What does the Honored Margrave-Admiral have to say for himself?"
You sigh. "Firstly, my dear Inspector-General, as I had no way of knowing you would carry such an order, I did what I had to do. Secondly, those nations were recently on our side, and it was the ENEMY's petty scheme that saw them flipped. Under new management. An authoritarian junta that rose to take power in the chaos. And so--"
"And you admit that you could not prevent this?"
"Thirdly, I am the one doing the talking and you will let me finish, you bureaucratic dogsbody. It was an invasion of our sphere. Chaos in heaven! Oh, to be the fly on the wall when you break it into the populares that the ENEMY is at our doorstep!"
He scoffs. "They don't care about that-- they never have. It's entertainment to them, Admiral! Nothing more than a form of sports, to cheer, to jeer, and to spectate on! What they care about is that their pensions are missing and that their stocks are plummeting. Any two bit gens with a linage dating back to their grandfather can tell them to bend over and get fucked, and they will get fucked! A simple two story duplex costs as much as a private space station! You, who know nothing but war, bring war like a stench wherever you go!"
You click your teeth in irritation. "You will continue to fund my army-- that's non-negotiable."
"It may yet be impossible," Ploskiy Tan shrugs. "Wrap up your campaign and do it fast. The Centre doesn't need any upsets."
You snort. Man proposes. God disposes.
SHAPE OF THE CAMPAIGN
[]- NEBULA STORM: Look, it's been a huge success. Why stop here? Why aim for the status quo, for mediocrity? Strike forth! Into the ENEMY and their pet barbarians! Finish the whole affair once and for all! Who cares about the increasingly furious missives from Centre asking what the hell are you doing?
[]- THE HOLDOUT: You need to input some personal attention. They formed a confederation resisting you, Seubi reports, with all the diehards left cooped up on a system called the Rock Defiant. Since that's a fairly badass fortified system, he wants you to take over, since you're both experienced and you'll take the blame.
[]- AH CRAP: Oh dear. Oh my. Looks like they've even managed to push you back out of the rebellious territories. Dear Centre, if you don't want to keep on eating shit please fund me. Or else. Hint. Hint.
