Warship construction was an extreme test of overall industrial capability. Clearly, the African Union did not possess such capacity, and Wakanda—while agriculturally advanced—was no exception.
But that was fine.
The U.S. Navy had, through a stroke of bad luck, delivered four ships straight into their hands.
And with Atlas Group backing this side, high-end technology was not in short supply. Refitting and expanding ships was comparatively much easier.
Comprehensive scanning yielded complete structural schematics of the vessels. Through analysis—and discreet assistance from the Secretary of State—Leo quickly came to understand their internal design.
The refit of the propulsion systems was handled entirely by workers and robots working in tandem, with the whole process under Leo's supervision.
The original engine rooms were expanded and replaced with ultra-compact SCFR reactors.
Unlike conventional ships, these vessels required complex power-distribution networks to supply power armor and exoskeletons, while the main guns were replaced with experimental semi-plasma turrets—
Essentially enlarged plasma weapons.
Larger coils.
Longer rails.
More heat-resistant and thicker armor plating.
More powerful motors.
What they fired was no longer plasma, but projectiles that were effectively solid-state. This should push muzzle velocity to several times the speed of sound.
Metal footsteps echoed through the hull, busy and relentless, as final inspections were carried out.
Most of the workers were local Black Africans—
but a little over a month ago, they had been pirates.
Szz—
An exoskeleton arm fitted with a welding tool worked steadily, aided by skill-chips at the neural interface that stabilized control, making the weld smooth and precise.
Judging purely by the weld, one might think this was a veteran with years of experience.
In reality, a month ago he'd still been a pirate.
On his last job, they'd stolen a U.S. Navy warship.
The young man finished welding and lifted his face shield to breathe.
Thud.
Footsteps sounded behind him. He turned and saw the robot that represented Leo.
This robot differed from other engineering units. It carried no tools; instead, it was packed with high-precision sensors for information gathering.
Leo had come not only to check the ship refit progress—but also to meet this young man.
In name, he was now the African Union–recognized head of the Somali transitional government.
"Hello, Mr. Lee!"
The Somali youth snapped to attention. His exoskeleton swung up with a clack near his temple as he saluted.
His name was Abdi.
"I've been busy lately—didn't have time to come by. Let's talk."
Leo turned toward the stairs, planning to chat while confirming the ship's readiness.
Abdi hurried after him, a little nervous.
As Leo walked, gathering data, he asked, "Any abnormalities after connecting the neural interface?"
"Nope! Everything's great—I even dream about working when I sleep!"
"That's an abnormality. Neural hyperexcitability. You haven't been resting?"
Atlas Group's standard schedule was four workdays a week, one day for implant checks, and two rest days.
Voluntary overtime existed—but it was most common among people like Abdi.
They had gained a lot, and the risks they faced were enormous.
Abdi clearly hadn't expected this to be a problem. He froze for a moment. "But I'm not tired at all."
"That's your nervous system lying to you. Exoskeleton use creates false feedback—immense strength paired with fatigue levels far below normal. Stack those together and this is what you get."
"So what do I do?" Abdi looked at his hands.
"So obedient?" The robot's eyes flickered. "Increase force feedback. I've already adjusted it for you. The manuals should cover this."
Abdi immediately felt his limbs grow heavier.
That sparked another question. "Isn't it good to just keep working? Why bother with this?"
"A person needs to feel the world to remain human. The psychological pressure of strangling someone face to face is not the same as ordering a dog a thousand kilometers away to bite someone to death."
Leo's words left Abdi confused.
Leo didn't elaborate. Philosophical courses would eventually go online; they could learn when they wanted.
What Leo wanted to understand was Abdi himself.
"The Somali transitional government doesn't recognize you. What do you plan to do?"
The so-called transitional government was the former nominal Somali state.
Its control was pitifully weak—barely stronger than the various terrorist groups and factions scattered across the land.
"They don't deserve to be a government!" Abdi said angrily. "They've existed for nearly ten years, and nothing's improved here!
They're weak and incompetent—that's why we had to become pirates!"
So much fire?
Leo considered it. Not surprising—Abdi was only nineteen.
Yes.
Abdi was just nineteen years old.
But there was something else beneath his words. Most pirates didn't complain about the government this clearly.
If people didn't know what a stable government could bring, they wouldn't care whether one existed.
"You don't want to be a pirate."
"Who wants to be a pirate?" Abdi shot back. "I know outsiders despise us, see us as a cancer on shipping lanes.
But what else can Somalia do? Compared to others, we're already the most restrained pirates—just tolls, no kidnapping, no killing, barely any attacks.
I know that if piracy grows too rampant, merchants will eventually offset security costs by choosing longer routes.
When that happens, even piracy stops being viable!"
Leo nodded slightly. "How long have you been doing this? How did you operate?"
"Two and a half… maybe three years," Abdi calculated. "I used radio positioning to track merchant ships."
That genuinely surprised Leo. He glanced back at Abdi.
There were many Somali pirates.
A technically skilled pirate slipping under the radar wouldn't necessarily draw attention.
Seeing Leo's reaction, Abdi grew a little proud. "It saves us a lot of trouble—basically, a lot of money.
I record every dollar we collect. I know how much to spend on recruiting, how much on weapons.
When you earn more than other pirates, you grow bigger. That's how I opened a small corridor.
I told merchants that once they paid, they could pass freely through that stretch.
Ninety-nine percent cooperate. I even have the contact info of many captains.
Mr. Lee, choosing me was the right decision. I understand what knowledge and rules can bring—unlike other pirates, and unlike the useless government forces.
Those people just kneel to the U.S. Navy, begging for mercy and pocketing kickbacks. But I—"
"You'd lead your people to the front, selling your lives to fight steel soldiers for me?"
They had reached the top of the stairs.
The question stopped Abdi cold. Leo kept walking and stepped onto the deck.
Abdi was smart—but when smart people grew desperate, they often shared one flaw:
They became self-righteous.
Clearly, Abdi believed Leo needed fighters—people to stand on the front line and die for him.
But was that what Leo wanted?
Judging by Abdi's hesitation, probably not.
Leo looked out toward the port's residential districts. Instinctively, Abdi followed his gaze.
Galkayo had endured war, terrorism, and massacres. Rather than a city or a port, it was more like a densely populated cesspit of ruins.
People like him were thin and small, as if a gust of wind could knock them over.
Yet many households hid a battered firearm—
Maybe one day, they too would turn to piracy to survive.
Violence was intoxicating. When you stared into someone's terrified eyes, when you held power over them, people lost control easily.
When violence became a means of survival, things changed.
Abdi was a local. He'd been stolen from, and stolen from others. Robbed—and robbed others.
Friends had been killed. He had killed others.
Maybe yesterday someone murdered his friend, and tomorrow that killer stood beside him, no different from the dead companion.
He hated such companions—and himself.
And yet, he mourned them.
He wanted to live well.
And he wanted his people to live well.
More tragically, he'd wracked his brain trying to escape this fate—reading, learning via radio, extracting scraps of knowledge from chaos.
All he saw was a future without prospects.
To survive, robbery became instinct. But in others' eyes, it was simply theft.
After seeing this latest massacre, he understood clearly:
Either people would find a way around Somalia—
or one day, they'd grow tired of it and wipe them out.
Both outcomes were catastrophic.
Selling your life wasn't tragic.
What was tragic was selling your life and still having no way to live.
So he made his decision—
If that was the case, then he'd sell his life.
"Yes, I—"
"Think carefully before you answer, young man. Selling your life for someone else is also a dead end."