[Orton’s PoV]

  "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 inwardly tsked at the audacity of the question. A silent click of his tongue echoing in the chambers of his mind. It was glaringly evident, a truth as stark as day and night, yet negotiating with someone so blissfully ignorant of the Empire's politics amplified his challenge tenfold.

  'If only he knew,' Orton pondered, '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 with a lot of luck instead of skill? Would it be smart to tie him to our cause? Is he a real mining boss who pulls wealth from shattered worlds, or a scavenger who got lucky and found a rich vein?'

  Orton studied Atlas from head to toe, noting every detail. The suit’s lines were perfect. The fabric gave off a faint hum from a hidden basic defense armor. Atlas moved with calm and 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.

  "Blackwell," Orton began, deliberately omitting the honorific to reclaim a sliver of dominance, his voice measured. 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, his words carrying the weight of hard-won battles, "we've clashed with imperial forces hundreds of times. Battles that turned planets into graveyards of twisted wreckage."

  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, his tone filled with raw fervor. "Rangers who answer solely to the Emperor himself. Elite Purple Rangers, indoctrinated from the moment of adoption, forged into living weapons. Each one is an apocalypse by itself, capable of dismantling a cruiser single-handedly."

  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 remarked, his voice cutting through the ambient noise, "is their essence. They're engines of war. Machines crafted for the sole purpose of domination."

  "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 elaborated, gesturing to underscore the vast disparity. "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 in any other moment in our history."

  "But?" Atlas prompted, his eyes narrowing with the shrewd glint of a magnate sensing the pivot in a high-stakes deal.

  "But," Orton continued, adopting a pedagogical cadence, "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." His confidence was unshakeable.

  Orton arched a single eyebrow, a subtle twitch betraying his posture. The admiral's mind raced, trying to figure out the opponent. 'Where did this confidence come from? Does he know something?' He'd delved into the Governor's dossier before embarking from Lot's orbital docks.

  Atlas Blackwell, Academy alumnus, has risen to the Officer rank through sheer intellect rather than valor, assigned to a backwater post far from the front lines, untouched by the war. Never faced Orks and has no experience commanding desperate stands against an enemy—a desk-bound strategist at best.

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  Orton shook his head faintly, a gesture of resignation as he abandoned the path of persuasion. His gaze swept the cityscape one final time, like he was bidding farewell.

  "Then I'll have to escalate the pressure in our negotiations," Orton stated flatly.

  "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, his voice laced with enigmatic certainty. "And do ask your President about why he covets us in the Republic. Rest assured, it's not for our numbers or our Rangers." Atlas's confidence hung in the air.

  Orton nodded curtly, his admiral's poise unbroken. "Farewell," he intoned, severing the dialogue, pivoting on his heel to retrace his steps through the Refuge's streets. The city's disorganized sprawl receded behind him, a tapestry of stacked steel habs and flickering neon that whispered of fragile independence. 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. The admiral's mind savored the bitter poetry of resupplying in the very place they might soon attack. Aquarius's unwitting generosity is fueling the engines of its downfall

  Yet he couldn't shake the Governor's unyielding confidence. 'Either he's unhinged, a mad visionary, or a genius veiled in eccentricity,' Orton judged, his thoughts drifting to Atlas's enigmatic 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 whispered in the quiet like someone telling secrets.

  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 echoed through the Dawn’s halls and hangars, pushing the crew into a rush. 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.

  It took agonizing minutes for the behemoth to defy gravity's clutches. The structure shook as repulsors strained against the planet's inexorable pull, bulkheads groaning with the escalating power surge. Finally, the Dawn ascended, clawing skyward in a thunderous ascent that rattled the Refuge's outskirts. Clouds parted before its prow until the atmosphere thinned into the black velvet of space. The ship settled into a low orbit where Aquarius hung below like a vulnerable orb.

  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.

  Sure of their position, he pressed the comm. His voice went shipwide, and everyone stopped what they were doing, tools held mid?task, heads turning toward the speakers.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," Orton proclaimed, his voice a resonant thunder that filled the corridors and bays, "today's annexation talks with Aquarius ended in failure. Yet our mission continues." He paused, letting the words sink in, the crew's collective breath held in suspense.

  "The citizens of Aquarius have grown complacent in their peace, insulated from the Empire's shadow. We must illuminate the chasm between those who merely survive on the borderlands and those who wage unyielding war against imperial tyranny." His tone hardened, a blade forged in the fires of conviction.

  "Transmit to the assault fleets. Starting this moment, we initiate a blockade of the Aquarius solar system." Orton sealed the command.