CHAPTER 225: THE SMUGGLER’S DREAM AND EVERYONE’S DEMISE

"In the shadow of giants, even small dreams can shine."

High above Earth, the colossal Orbital Rings hummed with newfound purpose. A continuous stream of newly produced ships, born from the joint innovation of SpaceX, NASA, and Bytebull’s advanced fabrication systems, moved in and out of Earth’s atmosphere. These weren’t just military vessels; the majority were civilian transports, sleek and massive, designed for the grand exodus. They were the visible promise of humanity’s future, a testament to Richard’s vision.

Among them, however, moved a different kind of vessel. A cargo ship, nondescript and boxy, just finished smuggling a consignment of illicit supplies from a pirate den nestled deep within the asteroid belt. Its hull bore the scars of countless unauthorized runs, its transponders constantly shifting frequencies to avoid detection by the increasingly vigilant UEDCC patrols.

At the helm of this rust-bucket freighter sat Robert Do’herty. Once a hotshot pilot in the US Air Force, his career had ended abruptly after a well-aimed punch to the jaw of an arrogant, by-the-book officer. Dishonorably discharged, he’d found his niche in the shadows, first smuggling undocumented immigrants across borders, then graduating to space-faring contraband. The Cartel, a sprawling network of independent traders and opportunistic entrepreneurs who now saw their destiny out among the stars, had been kind enough to let him pilot one of their coveted cargo ships. He was experienced, reliable, and more importantly, he knew how to keep his mouth shut.

The Cartel, like many others, was evacuating. Not out of fear of the Chaos Dragon, not directly, but out of a pragmatic desire to be far, far away should the "mad lizard decide to do anything funny." They had already established their sprawling, ramshackle bases spreading throughout the asteroid belt, a new frontier for their illicit operations. They would soon be known as the "Beltalowda," a term whispered with a mix of pride and disdain, inspired by an old Earth television series, and forever hating the "Innyalowda"—the inner planet dwellers, with their rules and their governments.

Robert, however, wasn’t thinking about grand sociological shifts. He was thinking about the particularly high reward for this run: 300,000 credits. Credits were the new standard currency, rapidly replacing the old, unstable national currencies of Earth. One credit equated to 100 USD, meaning 300,000 credits was a staggering 30 million USD. Enough to buy his own sprawling, multi-chambered home in the belt. Enough to buy three female androids as his personal harem, programmed for limitless pleasure and domestic perfection. It was his ultimate dream. With three beautiful, compliant wives by his side, doing housework or serving him unlimited pleasure, what more could a man ask for? It was a huge reward, more than enough to ignore the unsettling chanting echoing from the cargo hold behind him. He was smart enough not to ask questions, especially if these guys were from that cult—the Krill loyalists.

It was already hard enough transporting these bunch of traitors. Rumors spread like wildfire in the underground community: the "Infernal Order," a bunch of cruel black ops marines, would always find them. The name, whispered with a shudder, referred to the Ordo Infernalis, a shadowy arm of the TRC. Tales circulated of their ruthlessness, their penchant for torture, using the banned Geneva Conventions list as a checklist of achievements.

A few lucky pirates, those who had encountered them and lived, told terrifying tales of their silent, black-armored forms, their cold efficiency, and their utter lack of mercy for anyone associated with the Krill or their cultists. Fortunately for most pirates, these black ops guys only went against Krill loyalists and cultists, leaving the common smuggler alone. Unfortunately for Robert, he was currently transporting a bunch of cultists.

They were gathered around a transparent cylinder, glowing with a dark red, ominous light, chanting in a guttural, alien tongue. The Cartel had said they would be dropped off on Mercury, a simple, quick delivery. That was easy enough for him, especially now. Every ship, even a battered freighter like his, now had a Warp Drive, thanks to the famous demi-god, Richard, who had basically shared the advanced FTL technology, once hidden by global elites for years. It was now available for everyone’s taking, though only for the ones who could afford to build their own ship anyway or commission Bytebull to build a custom ship, which still cost a ton of credits. Everyone who can’t even dream of stepping into their own ship just saved a bunch blueprints, documents and files they can’t even begin to understand. It was just that feeling of having an advanced FTL Technology saved on your phone.

A few minutes in warp space to Mercury and back to Earth, and he would receive his reward. After that, no matter what happened in the solar system, it was not his responsibility. He wasn’t a hero, just a man looking out for himself. As Robert smiled, staring at the monitor displaying the cargo hold security cameras with the cultists still chanting, he sipped his lukewarm coffee, leaned back in his worn pilot’s chair, and muttered, "Three hundred grand. Here we go." His dream of a quiet, pleasure-filled life in the asteroid belt was almost within reach.

Robert typed in the coordinates for the warp destination to Mercury. The ship’s engines whined, the spooling sequence for the Warp Drive beginning. A countdown timer appeared on his main console: 30 seconds to jump. He felt the familiar vibration building in the deck plates beneath his feet.

Then, all of a sudden, the open channel comms blared, a crisp, authoritative voice cutting through the hum. "Call sign Big Betty! Unspool your drive! You are heading towards a restricted area! Repeat, unspool your drive!"

Robert cursed, slamming his fist lightly on the console. "Shit!... I just changed the transponder a day ago! Did they find out? Already?" His mind raced, calculating the odds. A UEDCC patrol? Or worse, the Infernal Order?

Behind him, a shadow detached itself from the dimness of the cargo hold access hatch. A hooded man, one of the cultists’ leaders, appeared silently, his face obscured by deep shadows, his presence unsettling. "Do we have a problem, Mr. Robert?" His voice was low, devoid of emotion.

Robert snapped and jumped out of his seat, spilling a little coffee. "Jesus, man! Don’t scare me like that!" He wiped his hand on his worn uniform. "No, I hope not. Just a routine check, probably." He forced a casual tone, though his heart hammered.

The comms repeated again, sharper this time. "Call sign Big Betty! I repeat, shut down your drive or we will be forced to do so!"

Robert grabbed the radio. "Uhh... hold on there for a second, fellas! I’m already trying to fix my drive! Give me a second!" he stammered, trying to come up with a believable lie to buy time. His eyes darted to the countdown timer: 15 seconds.

10 seconds later. The comms crackled again, the voice now cold, metallic, and devoid of patience. "Call sign Betty, this is your last warning! Shut it down now! We have a firing solution locked!"

Robert watched the timer tick down: 3... 2... He grinned, a reckless, defiant smirk. He leaned into the radio. "Suck my fucking dick, you bitches!"

As the ship entered warp space, the stars outside stretched into blinding streaks of light, then vanished into the swirling vortex of the jump. The hooded man patted him on the back, a surprisingly firm gesture. "What a luck you have there, Mr. Robert."

Robert turned back, letting out a relieved sigh. "Good thing it wasn’t the Infernal Order, hell, I don’t think they would even give a warning. They just show up and then you’re gone." He shuddered, remembering the rumors.

A few minutes later, the Big Betty shuddered again, the warp field collapsing. It entered real space, emerging into Mercury’s high orbit, perfectly positioned in the planet’s shadow, covered from the sun’s deadly rays. The cockpit was bathed in the faint, silvery glow reflected from the planet’s surface.

The hooded man came back again, stepping into the cockpit, a small, dark object in his hand. "Mr. Robert, I’d like you to do one last thing for us." He showed a small, glass disk, no bigger than a coin.

Robert, confused, took it. "Uhhh... I know, I’m not obliged to ask, but I’d really love to know what this is, ’cause I hope that isn’t a self-destruct sequence." His dream of android wives and a Beltalowda home flashed before his eyes.

The hooded man’s voice was flat. "No, Mr. Robert, this is a remote control software for a torpedo we brought with us. A very special torpedo."

Robert accepted. He really wasn’t obliged to refuse, not with this guy’s unsettling calm. He took the disk and inserted it on one of the data core module slots below the helm. He typed a bit of code, the screen flickering before turning green, confirming the upload. "There, that’s it. All yours."

Then, suddenly, a distance away from them, a fleet of silver ships materialized from warp. Their transponder codes flashed: ANV B-1, ANV T-2, ANV X-3, and so on. It was the ANV fleets, the Android Naval Vessels, assigned for patrol in the inner system. They charged up weapons without warning, their automated targeting systems locking onto the Big Betty.

Robert’s eyes widened. "Ahh... shit."

The hooded man gulped, a rare flicker of panic in his eyes. He shoved Robert away from the seat, grabbing the controls himself. "I apologize, Mr. Robert, but failure isn’t an option for us." He began frantically piloting the ship, attempting evasive maneuvers.

In the cargo hold, the cultists, their chanting reaching a fever pitch, inserted the glowing red cylinder into a torpedo tube, replacing the standard warhead. They moved it towards the airlock, their eyes gleaming with fanaticism.

The ANV fleet’s warp cannons flared, a silent, deadly light ripping across the void. Beams of pure energy lanced towards the Big Betty, painting its hull with a sudden, searing brilliance. Inside the cargo hold, the cultists, their faces contorted in a final, ecstatic frenzy, screamed their devotion. "For Lord Xa’Mharr!" The torpedo ejected, a dark, silent speck against the blinding energy, drifting towards a predestined route, appearing as nothing more than space debris to the automated sensors. The Big Betty exploded in flames, vaporized by the ANV fleet’s opening volley.

On the bridge of the lead ANV ship, the android captain, its optical sensors glowing, calmly stated, "Target terminated. No visible life signs on radar."

Lina’s voice, a holographic projection appearing on the bridge, clear and authoritative, instructed the android captain. "Rally towards Mega-1-O-B6. Prioritize arming BH-7 torpedoes and await further instructions. The Target is inbound."

The android captain responded, its voice synthesized and precise. "Orders confirmed. Executing now."

The android naval fleet, their mission accomplished, did not detect the small, silent torpedo, now drifting towards the Sun, a tiny, deadly seed of chaos heading for a new target.