我来为你翻译这篇小说的第三章,保持原有的叙事节奏和情感张力,同时让英文表达自然流畅.
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# Chapter 3: The Direct Fleet
Orion Ember followed Sheer Midas to the "Starport."
Not the public harbor of the military academy, but the Sheer family's private docking zone, located on the outer ring orbit of the Seventh Sector. Through the viewport, he could see the light from three artificial suns filtered into a soft, warm yellow, illuminating the docked ships like slumbering beasts.
"Which one do you like?" Sheer leaned against his hoverbike, making no move to dismount. "Pick one. It's yours."
Orion didn't move. He stared at those vessels. In the game's 3D models, these had been nothing but background textures—the Sheer family's private fleet, described in the setting document with a single line: "Immense wealth, number of ships unknown." Now they sat before him in reality, every hull number crisp and legible.
"Young Master Sheer," he said, "Thirty million is already more than enough."
"Thirty million bought your afternoon," Sheer raised an eyebrow. "These are gifts from me. Pick one, or shall I choose for you?"
He snapped his fingers. The nearest frigate suddenly lit up with running lights, and the name "Meteor-II" emerged from the darkness along its hull.
Orion's fingers went rigid.
Meteor-II. In the game's lore, this was the support vessel designed for the "Meteor" mecha—a concept built on "human-machine integration," allowing the pilot to directly interface with the ship's control systems. Three months from now, it would appear on the black market alongside the Meteor mecha, selling for seven hundred million credits.
"This was another 'gift' from Shen Cetus last year," Sheer smiled with perfect innocence. "It matches the mecha, but I don't have a license, so I can't fly it. It's yours anyway. You're a defective product, it's a defective ship—a perfect match."
The same humiliating rhetoric. The same astronomical figures.
Orion looked at the ship and suddenly understood what Sheer was doing—he was investing. Wrapping resources in the guise of "insult," pouring them into someone he found "interesting," gambling on the returns this person might bring.
In the game, Sheer was the only one who helped Peregrine Cinder collect the bodies. Not out of loyalty, but because before he died, Peregrine had handed Sheer the blueprints for the flagship "Celestial Dome"—the Empire's highest secret, worth more than the entire Sheer consortium.
"I'll take this one," Orion said. "But I have a condition."
"Speak."
"Teach me to fly it."
Sheer paused, then laughed. This laugh was different from before—less playful, more... appreciative?
"Interesting," he said. "Does Peregrine know you're this greedy?"
"He knows I took thirty million," Orion said. "He doesn't know I want a ship."
"Does he know what you want the ship for?"
Orion fell silent for a moment.
"To run," he said, his voice barely audible. "In eighty-six days, the Seventh Sector will fall. I want a ship that can run."
Sheer's smile froze on his face.
The starport's lights flickered suddenly, as if from voltage instability. Orion looked up at the dome—the three artificial suns burned as steadily as before, but a chill ran down his neck. He'd said too much.
"What do you know?" Sheer's voice had changed. The frivolous playfulness of a dilettante had vanished, replaced by something sharp, almost dangerously calm.
"A guess," Orion said, using the same line he'd used with Peregrine. "Zerg activity frequency, defense vulnerabilities, and..."
"And?"
"And intuition."
Sheer stared at him for a long time. Long enough that Orion thought his lie had been seen through. Long enough that he'd already begun calculating escape routes from the starport.
"Get on board," Sheer said suddenly. "I'll teach you. But you'll tell me where this 'intuition' comes from."
---
They spent six hours, from basic operations to emergency jumps. The Meteor-II's control system overlapped eighty percent with the 3D models Orion had designed. He learned fast—so fast that Sheer frowned.
"You've flown before?"
"No."
"Then how do you know to cool the engines three seconds before jumping?"
"The manual says so."
"The manual is six hundred pages," Sheer said. "You only read it once."
Orion didn't answer. He looked at the starmap on the main screen—the Seventh Sector's defense nodes like pearls strung into a net. In the game's lore, this net would be torn apart by the Zerg in eighty-six days, and the first point of rupture would be exactly where they now sat: the "outer ring orbit."
"Young Master Sheer," he said, "If I want to survive when the campaign breaks out, what preparations do I need?"
Sheer leaned back in the co-pilot's seat, saying nothing. His fingers tapped against the armrest in a rhythm Orion couldn't decipher.
"Buying a ship isn't enough," he said. "You need passage permits, route clearances, you need to know which channels won't be locked down by the military. And all of that..." He paused. "Requires Peregrine's authorization."
Orion turned to look at him.
"Are you teaching me to use him?" he asked.
"I'm teaching you to survive," Sheer said, his voice light as if talking to himself. "Peregrine won't live much longer. Everyone knows. Genetic collapse syndrome, berserker episodes, loss of control... The fact that he's held his position as heir this long is already a miracle."
Orion's heart skipped a beat.
In the game's lore, Peregrine died "covering civilian evacuation." But Sheer's words hinted at another truth—the Empire's high command, at least within the Five Great Families, knew about Peregrine's condition. They all knew he wouldn't survive the next major battle.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
Sheer smiled. That smile was different from Peregrine's—no warmth, but no calculation either. Just... exhaustion?
"Because I don't want to die either," he said. "If the Seventh Sector really falls in eighty-six days, I need to know which way to run. And you," he looked at Orion, "you seem to know the answer."
Orion was silent for a long time.
The starport lights flickered again, this time for three full seconds. He stared at the starmap of the Seventh Sector on the screen—those defense nodes he'd designed with his own hands, those Zerg invasion routes he'd preset, those death lists he'd written into the setting document.
"Outer ring orbit," he said. "When the campaign breaks out, the military will prioritize sealing the inner ring channels. The outer ring becomes the blind spot. Jump from here to the Third Sector—seventeen seconds, enough to escape the first wave of spore clouds."
Sheer's fingers stopped.
"How do you know about the spore clouds?" he asked.
Orion realized he'd said too much again. In the game's lore, the Zerg's "spore clouds" were a secret weapon deployed late in the campaign. The military didn't receive intelligence about them until the day before the fall.
"A guess," he said, using the excuse for the third time. "Zerg biological characteristics, suitable for large-scale dispersion..."
"Enough," Sheer interrupted. "I don't want to know how you guessed. I only want to know—if I invest in you, what return can you give me?"
Orion met his eyes. In those rounded, utterly unaggressive eyes so different from Peregrine's, he recognized something familiar—back in his previous life at the game company, every investor who held a project's fate in their hands had worn this expression.
"I can keep you alive through the war," he said. "In return, you'll do three things for me."
"Speak."
"First, this ship goes in my name, now. Second, before the campaign breaks out, you'll help me prepare supplies for three hundred people to evacuate. Third..." He paused. "If Peregrine loses control during the campaign, you'll help me knock him out and get him on board."
Sheer's expression changed.
Not surprise—something deeper, more complex. He looked at Orion as if seeing a madman, or perhaps... a kindred spirit?
"You plan to save him?" he asked, disbelief in his voice. "You know his disease is incurable, know he'll die in the campaign, and you still plan to save him?"
"He let me smell snow," Orion said, his voice barely above a whisper. "When my mother died, it was snowing in the Seventh Sector. It was the only snow she'd ever seen—not the artificial kind, but real snow."
This was the original host's memory, and his own. After transmigrating, those emotions had flooded in like tides. He could no longer distinguish which belonged to him and which to the nineteen-year-old youth who had vanished.
Sheer was silent for a long time.
"Deal," he said. "But I add one condition—if Peregrine can't be saved, his flagship blueprints are mine."
Orion looked at him and suddenly understood.
In the game's lore, Sheer helped collect Peregrine's bodies not out of loyalty, but for the "Celestial Dome" blueprints. Now he'd moved that transaction up by eighty-six days, trading a frigate and supplies for three hundred in exchange for the Empire's highest secret.
"Deal," he said. "But if he survives, the blueprints stay his."
Sheer smiled and extended his hand: "Pleasure doing business, Orion."
Orion took that hand. Sheer's palm was warm and dry, utterly different from Peregrine's burning heat. This was a merchant's hand, a gambler's hand, the hand of someone who wanted to live.
"Pleasure doing business," he said. "Young Master Sheer."
---
Orion returned to the academy at dawn.
The lights were off in Peregrine's quarters, but he knew the other wasn't asleep—a sliver of holographic blue light leaked through the door crack, along with the faint scent of black coffee.
He pushed the door open quietly and found Peregrine sitting on the sofa, silver hair loose, golden pupils gleaming faintly in the darkness. On the screen was a battle report titled "Third Fleet Monthly Simulation War · Begins Tomorrow."
"You're back?" Peregrine didn't look up.
"I'm back."
"I smelled you."
Orion started. He sniffed his own collar—the disinfectant of the Sheer starport, the engine exhaust of the Meteor-II, and... his own pheromones, the dense, snow-like scent they took on when he was nervous.
"Sheer didn't touch me," he said. "Just taught me to fly."
"I know," Peregrine finally looked up, golden eyes locking onto him. "If he'd touched you, you wouldn't be standing."
A chill ran down Orion's spine. He didn't know how Peregrine knew, but he realized this crown prince's intelligence network was vaster than he'd imagined.
"The simulation war," Peregrine said suddenly. "You'll participate tomorrow."
"I'm just a companion student..."
"I'm telling you to participate," Peregrine interrupted. "Sheer taught you for six hours. I want to see the results."
He stood and walked toward Orion. Each step was slow, but the pressure multiplied exponentially. Orion stepped back, his back hitting the wall by the entrance—nowhere left to retreat.
"Young Master Peregrine," he said, "My psychic rating is C. It's not enough to pilot a mecha..."
"Use the Meteor," Peregrine said. "Extreme mode. I want to see what you can do."
His nose brushed Orion's neck, inhaling deeply. The gesture was the same as last night—predatory, greedy—but this time Orion sensed something different. Peregrine was trembling.
"Your pheromones," Peregrine's voice was muffled against his collarbone. "They smell afraid. Why?"
"Because you're too close."
"Last night was closer."
"Last night you weren't this... clear-headed," Orion searched for the right word.
Peregrine laughed softly and stepped back. His golden eyes gleamed in the darkness like some nocturnal creature's.
"Tomorrow," he said, "Lead your squad and destroy the enemy flagship. Do it, and you'll be promoted to warrant officer, assigned to my direct fleet. Fail..." He paused, "And it proves Sheer misjudged you. You're just a defective product with good luck."
Direct fleet. Orion's heart raced.
In the game's lore, Peregrine's direct fleet was completely annihilated in the "Fall Campaign." Not a single survivor. It was the crown prince's most trusted force, and his heaviest loss.
And now, Peregrine was inviting him to join.
"I'll do it," he said. "But I have a question."
"Speak."
"What is the direct fleet's mission in the campaign?"
Peregrine's expression changed. Not surprise—something deeper, more obscure. He looked at Orion as if examining a weapon that had suddenly revealed its edge.
"Cover civilian evacuation," he said, his voice barely audible. "If the Seventh Sector falls, we're the last line of defense."
Orion closed his eyes.
Exactly as the game's lore described. Peregrine's death script had been written from the moment one joined the direct fleet.
"I understand," he said. "I'll do it."
He would destroy the enemy flagship, would be promoted to warrant officer, would join the direct fleet. Then, in eighty-six days, he would change that script—not as a spectator, not as a designer, but as a participant.
As Orion Ember.
---
The simulation war began the following afternoon.
The Celestial Dome Academy's simulation wars were monthly routine events, with various fleet reservists mixed into teams for virtual battlefield combat. Orion was assigned to "Gray Team," teammates with five mixed-blood commoners, equipped with the academy's oldest mass-produced mechas.
Their opponents were "Silver Team," led by Shen Cetus, all pure-blood nobles equipped with the Shen family's newest "Star-Chaser" series mechas.
"How do we fight this?" One teammate, a mixed-blood boy named Chen Mo, wailed at the equipment list. "Star-Chasers have three times our firepower, five times our armor—this is a massacre!"
Orion said nothing. He sat in the Meteor's cockpit, neural interface tendrils wrapping around his neck, familiar burning sensation flooding in. Extreme mode, three hundred percent interface intensity—he could feel every tremor of the mecha, every degree of temperature change.
"Listen to me," he opened the team channel. "The Star-Chaser's weakness is at the knee joint. To improve mobility, Shen Cetus sacrificed structural integrity. Concentrate fire there, one hit will cripple it."
"How do you know?"
"A guess."
This was the fourth "guess" today. He was tired of the excuse, but had no choice.
The countdown reached zero. The battlefield opened. The virtual environment was the Seventh Sector's asteroid belt—chaotic gravity, limited communications. A map Orion had designed himself, the position of every rock etched in his memory.
"Follow me," he said, Meteor's thrusters at full burn, "To sector B-7. There's a passage there."
"B-7 is a dead end!" Chen Mo shouted.
"Trust me."
Five outdated mechas followed him like wolf pups trailing their alpha. Orion weaved through the asteroid belt. In extreme mode, he could feel the gravitational disturbance of every rock, could predict the trajectory of every collision.
The Silver Team's Star-Chaser mechas caught up, firepower covering, plasma beams tracing arcs of death through the void.
"Scatter!" Orion shouted. Meteor made a sharp turn, skimming the surface of a massive asteroid. "Chen Mo, go to the east side of B-7, there's a gap!"
"What gap? The map doesn't show..."
"Trust me!"
Chen Mo gritted his teeth and turned. Three seconds later, his mecha passed through what looked like solid rock wall—there was a fissure, marked by Orion with Meteor's searchlight, detectable only at extreme mode's high sensitivity.
"This... this is a secret passage?" Chen Mo's voice shook.
"A design flaw," Orion said. "Shen Cetus knows about this passage. He thought we'd hide inside, then seal the exit."
"So we're going in?"
"No," Orion smiled, "We're going out the other side, hitting his flagship."
He changed direction, Meteor tracing impossible arcs through the asteroid belt. Five outdated mechas followed him like a dagger, stabbing toward Silver Team's heart.
Shen Cetus's flagship sat in the center of the asteroid belt, guarded by twelve Star-Chasers. From any angle, this was an impenetrable defense—except directly below, where a neglected shadow zone marked the flagship's sensor blind spot.
Orion knew, because he'd designed that AI's perception logic himself.
"Stay close," he said, "Three, two, one—"
Meteor erupted from the shadows, plasma blade piercing the flagship's energy core. Not a frontal attack—from below, at an impossible angle that existed only in 3D models, piercing theoretically impenetrable armor.
Time seemed to freeze in the virtual battlefield.
Then the flagship exploded, Silver Team's communications channel descending into chaos.
"Enemy flagship destroyed," the system's voice announced coldly. "Gray Team wins. Time: 4 minutes 17 seconds. MVP: Orion Ember · Meteor."
Orion disconnected the neural interface and climbed from the cockpit. The interface point at his neck was still bleeding, but he didn't wipe it.
He looked at the spectator stands. Peregrine stood there, silver hair and golden eyes, utterly apart from those around him. Their gazes met in midair, and the crown prince's lips curved upward in an expression Orion had never seen in the game's CG.
Not the perfect, calculated smile, but something... real, touched with pride.
"Orion Ember," Peregrine's voice came through the broadcast system, filling the entire training ground, "Promoted to warrant officer, effective immediately, assigned to my direct fleet."
The training ground fell into dead silence, then erupted. A companion student, a defective product, publicly promoted by the crown prince himself.
Orion lowered his head, assuming a posture of submission. But he knew that in unseen corners, several gazes were fixed on him—Shen Cetus's scrutiny, Sheer's amusement, and... Jordan Thorn's naked hatred.
In the game's lore, Jordan would frame him before the "Fall Campaign," causing the original Orion to lose his evacuation chance and die in Zerg jaws.
But now, the script had changed.
"Your servant thanks you for this grace," he murmured, so softly only he could hear. "Young Master Peregrine."
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