[The Forge - Command Center]
The holographic console was flashing red with notifications.
[Incoming Transmissions: 4,192.]
Alex sat on the throne of User 006, casually stirring a fresh cup of Earth-grown espresso. Outside, the smoke stacks of the metal planet were working at maximum capacity, printing new warships from the scavenged asteroid iron .
"Dawn," Alex asked, looking at the overwhelming number of calls. "If I take these meetings one by one, how long will it take?"
"Assuming five minutes per negotiation, Sir, it will take approximately 14.5 days of non-stop communication."
"I don't have 14 days," Alex checked his debt clock. "I owe the Iron Bank fifty million in six days. Group them."
"Sir?"
"Merge all 4,192 channels into a single broadcast," Alex ordered. "We are hosting an auction."
[The Auction Room]
The massive screen in the command center splintered into thousands of tiny windows. Aliens of every species—Governors, Warlords, Corporate Presidents—all shouting in panic as their respective planets burned from invasions, rebellions, or pirate raids.
Alex tapped his microphone. A deafening feedback loop silenced the thousands of alien leaders instantly.
"Good morning, Galaxy," Alex smiled, straightening his custom-tailored suit. "I am Alex, CEO of Pantheon Defense Solutions. You all saw the broadcast. You saw what my ships can do to a Hive Mother ."
A frantic avian-alien spoke up. "Please! Sector 9 is falling! We need a fleet immediately! We will pay your standard rate!"
"There is no standard rate," Alex corrected him. "I currently have 50 Void-Cruisers rolling off the assembly line. I will divide them into five fleets of 10 ships each."
Alex leaned forward, his eyes flashing gold. "There are over four thousand of you. And I only have five fleets. Bidding for a Pantheon Defense Contract starts at 20 Million Galactic Credits. Do I hear 25?"
[The Frenzy]
The chat exploded. Planetary governors began bankrupting their treasuries to outbid each other. They weren't just bidding for ships; they were bidding for survival.
[Bid: 25 Million - Sector 4 Mining Guild.] [Bid: 30 Million - The Royal House of Vax.] [Bid: 45 Million - Neo-Sparta Republic.]
"Fifty Million!" A desperate warlord screamed into the camera. "Fifty million for one fleet!"
"Sold to the warlord with the eyepatch," Alex slammed a digital gavel. "Dawn, dispatch Fleet Alpha through the Bifrost Gate to his coordinates. Next lot!"
In less than twenty minutes, all five fleets were sold.
[System Alert] [Auction Complete.] [Total Revenue Generated: 280,000,000 GC.] [Current Balance: 292,500,000 GC.]
[The Payment]
Alex exhaled. The adrenaline of the cosmic trade floor was intoxicating. "Dawn. Connect to the Intergalactic Banking Guild network. Transfer 150,000,000 GC to the Iron Bank of Sector 1."
"Processing... Sir, your interest payment was only 50 Million."
"I'm paying the 100 Million principal too. Clear the debt. I hate owing people money."
[Transaction Complete.][Iron Bank Debt: Cleared.]
[Collateral Released: The Aegis Prime / Lunar Base.] [Current Balance: 142,500,000 GC.]
[The New Enemy]
As the debt cleared, the holographic screen shifted. The 4,192 desperate clients were gone. Replaced by a single, imposing figure. It was a massive alien clad in golden, heavy mercenary armor, sitting behind a desk made of solid diamond.
[Designation: High-Commander Torvus.] [Affiliation: The Intergalactic Mercenary Alliance (IMA).]
"You move fast, human," Torvus growled, his voice vibrating through the hull of the Forge. "You just absorbed 5% of our regional market share in twenty minutes."
"I call it market disruption," Alex replied coolly. "Is there a problem?"
"The problem, primitive, is that you are operating an unlicensed military corporation," Torvus slammed a heavy fist on his desk. "The IMA holds a monopoly on all sanctioned violence in this quadrant. You haven't paid your union dues. And you haven't bought our license."
"How much is a license?" Alex asked, amused.
"For you? A billion credits. And a 50% tax on all your contracts." Torvus sneered. "Cease operations immediately, or we will classify the Pantheon as a rogue pirate faction. Our fleets will blockade your Forge by tomorrow morning."
Alex looked at his remaining balance. 142.5 Million. He couldn't buy the license even if he wanted to. But Alex didn't like monopolies unless he owned them.
"Torvus," Alex smiled. "I don't join unions. I buy them. Tell your fleets to bring their wallets when they come to blockade me."