CHAPTER 310: SPACESHIPS

Only one woman at the long table—seated just slightly off-center to the right, her blazer too pristine for the stress in her voice—had the nerve to speak.

Her lips barely moved as she asked, voice tight and thin but still trying to sound composed, "What happens to our orbital assets?"

Seraphina didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to. She turned just enough for her heel to meet the polished floor with a soft, exact click, the sound that didn’t need to be loud to carry weight.

"Liquidated," she said, and there wasn’t a drop of hesitation in her tone.

Then she walked to the lift without giving them a second look.

The glass doors slid shut behind her with barely a whisper. No dramatic pause. No flourish. And certainly no apology.

Just a clean transition, like she was already thinking about something else entirely.

Before the elevator even finished its first drop, the soft hum of her lens interface activated across her right eye, displaying the next round of briefings—asset transfers, facility takeovers, and upcoming auctions that had cleared legal limbo just hours ago.

Her assistant’s voice came in through the comms, professional as ever, but just a little breathless.

"Contracts three through seven confirmed. Docking facilities in Sector Nine are fully clear. Would you like to review the Astracore auction package now, or after two o’clock?"

"Now," Seraphina said without pause.

A slight hesitation flickered through the channel. A breath. Maybe a surprise. But the assistant didn’t push it.

Six files opened in the lens interface, sliding one by one into her view. All of them are dense. All of them are clean.

The last page bore a dark banner stamped across the top in sharp lettering:

ASTRACORE VESSEL YARD – PARTIAL AUCTION CLEARANCE GRANTED

Her expression didn’t change.

Two months ago, touching that asset would’ve sparked outrage. Stepping into orbital defense manufacturing without a high council vote would’ve guaranteed political fallout, rival lawsuits, and possibly investigations meant to delay her for years.

But the cult incident had changed things.

It had left wounds in the system, fissures in bureaucracy.

And Seraphina didn’t waste openings.

She studied the banner again, as if seeing something most people wouldn’t bother to notice. Then she said quietly, "All of it."

There was a faint, sharp breath on the other end. Not disagreement. Just confirmation that the words were understood and that the move had consequences no one in her team seemed afraid of anymore.

"Understood," the assistant said, voice already moving into execution mode.

The lift continued its descent, floor after floor of the Consortium blinking past in her lens—each one carrying pieces of other people’s ambition, old money, aging power, outdated fears.

Seraphina adjusted nothing about her posture. She didn’t shift her weight. Didn’t even blink too quickly.

Her thoughts were already further ahead—three steps beyond the auction, five steps beyond the current market conditions, seven layers past where her rivals assumed her focus had stopped.

She wasn’t just taking ownership.

She was repositioning the rules.

She was buying the very ground people thought they were still standing on.

When the elevator opened into the main gallery level, a few junior staff members nearby looked up instinctively.

One made eye contact, then glanced away almost instantly. The others didn’t speak. They didn’t nod. They just stepped to the side, letting her pass.

It wasn’t fair anymore. It wasn’t even reverence.

It was something quieter.

Recognition.

A kind of respect that didn’t ask questions. The kind that simply accepted that power had changed hands and no one had stopped it.

She walked through the gallery toward the glass-lined observation deck where the skyline was partially hidden behind reinforced panels, but still open enough to show the arc of supply ships and transport lanes carving clean paths across the high atmosphere—white trails against pale clouds, like veins carrying liquidity instead of blood.

"Spaceships," she murmured.

Not with wonder. Not with fantasy. Just a calculation.

Her assistant came back on the line. "Seventy-two hours to full clearance. After that, the yards will be legally yours."

Seraphina nodded once, just enough to confirm she’d heard. But her eyes weren’t focused on the horizon anymore. They were already looking past it.

Because this wasn’t just about cleaning up after the cult’s collapse.

It wasn’t about recovery.

It was about reshaping the future.

Not from the ground up.

But from orbit down.

She didn’t want access.

She wanted a monopoly.

And by the time anyone realized, she wouldn’t just control the infrastructure.

She’d control where the sky began and ended.

—

The tram ride to the lower district took only five minutes, but it might as well have been another world.

The terminal at the bottom of the Consortium’s outer ring wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t meant to be.

It was buried far beneath the glamor, built into the industrial arteries of the structure where most executives didn’t go unless someone forced them. And no one forced Seraphina.

Two security squads were already waiting for her at the bay doors—both ex-military, both loyal to her payroll. They didn’t speak. They saluted and fell into position.

She didn’t return the gesture.

She walked past them like it was normal. It had always been like this.

The prototype bay ahead wasn’t made of new alloys or clean walls. Old steel beams and visible weld lines cut through every corner.

Patches of soot and age hung over the railings, and scorch marks told stories of systems that had been pushed too far during early testing.

But the space was real. Honest. And full.

Four hangars stretched wide in front of her.

The first was still a frame—barebones, ribbed, with wiring sticking out like veins in open skin. The second had been half-armored, stabilizers mounted but still naked in places.

The third was floating slightly, held in place by a basic grav rig, shifting gently like it already wanted to leave.

But it was the fourth bay that pulled her full attention.

Powered down. Silent.

But complete.

The lead technician stepped up as she approached. He wasn’t young.

His coveralls were scorched at both sleeves, and deep lines carved under his eyes like they’d been earned rather than aged. But he stood straight when she got close.

"She’s ready for first-stage ignition," he said without fluff.

"Fuel load?" Seraphina asked.

"Purged until test cycle. Safety’s locked."

"Structural integrity?"

"Simulated at one-fourteen above max strain."

"AI?"

"Not installed yet. We’re holding core sync until your confirmation."