Channeling my inner videogame villain, tower defense strategy, or being an Andromeda-damned menace is surprisingly fun. I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes playing hide and seek, setting traps—some explosive and some just plasma vortex spellforms—has kept me on the move, gradually advancing toward a mid-ships control center. I wish I had time for space dilation traps combined with plasma vortices, but magic can only do so much. Sure, I’d thought about making it happen with small jumps back in time, but I’m betting on needing considerable amounts of aether to confront the cat in charge.

Where I have been diligent in blacking out the cameras I could see, their technology is not the same as Astoria’s and I’m not the kind of technophile that geeks out over what other people are doing with cameras and sensors. I am also not my ex-wife with the ability to infiltrate electronic systems. My infiltration skills are largely mechanical: See locked door, see locked door go boom. In this case, I want to cut through it so I don’t kill myself in the blast.

I have three different kinds of energy weapons that could do the job: Plasma saber with metal spine, plasma saber that looks like a sci-fi movie knock off, and a jury-rigged plasma cannon. Each method has its upside, however, the sci-fi knockoff’s spellform and shield can be altered to whatever I want, so it is a prime candidate for live testing of my thought of the day—Void Saber. I spend a minute prying off panels that specify plasma vortex and the shield that is tuned toward plasma-based aether and leave the conduits so I can project the forms myself.

The ‘wub wub’ ripple of sound that emits from the shuddering-black blade is satisfying on a visceral level. I plunge it into the doorway and it eats a hole as I slowly drag it to form a door for me. I stop halfway through to inscribe a reversed gravity rune on the door so I don’t have to strain to get it out and continue cutting. A few traps behind me trigger, but I pause only long enough to check that the threat is handled. I have no misgivings about the kind of threat that awaits me on the inside of this room, so I’ve got some grenades and am building up some multi-layered shields around my tier 3 suit shields.

I push the newly liberated plate of metal into the control room and as soon as I do, the plate gets bombarded. I tap some of my pre-prepared vortex runes to the corners of the plate and blip backward while I trigger the thrust on a nearly weightless plate of metal, or I should say, gravity neutralized as the impulse that it will convey to a body should be crushing. I crouch back into the room and start blasting cats holding weapons with my jury-rigged cannons—one shot each—then switch to my saber and pistol combo and handle some close-in work until there are no more living cats holding weapons.

“Greetings Herrati crewmembers. Please convey to the commander of this fine armada that I would like to discuss a cease of hostilities.”

One of the uniformed cats at a console speaks at the display, but not quit enough for my suit’s sensor suite to pick up: “War Acolyte Bashir, an enemy agent is here to speak with you.” It seems to be listening for a moment, something I can’t hear, before responding. “She’s in a suit of unidentified make with a sword and a small Merc. Inc. sidearm.”

They know of my company? Should I be mad or flattered that they can identify my weapons? I’m distracted from my thoughts as one of the remaining bridge crew has snuck over to a fallen comrade and picked up a weapon. I crouch and put a pulse in their face, already rushing forward to apply my saber with extreme prejudice when the cat falls forward leaking pinkish blood from their head. Huh, courageous, but armor less.

“Can we not do that again? At least until I talk to your War Acolyte? While breaking stuff is fun, I’m tired and want to go home.”

“That is the kind of talk the Herrat expect from slaves.” A large cat scoffs, some lion derivative, walks in an armored mantle on their shoulders, a tech-based headband, belt and crotch banner, and finally bracers. I’d wager it is a shield anchor of sorts, like the kind I made for Zia. I hope Jenna and Francesca are keeping her safe.

“Oh, so I should just murder everyone and talk to a full War Leader then? That’s still on the table.”

He smirks, showing some impressive teeth. “Alright little worm, I will listen. However, if it does not come with significant compensation, I will not entertain a cease fire.”

“I’ll bite, what do you consider ‘significant compensation’?”

“Ten million tokens and ten million slaves.”

I start laughing. “Be serious. You can’t believe I would give you slaves when that’s why you declared war with us in the first place.”

“Then we will take the hundred million at first to determine your races worth and come back for the rest as it suits us.” He’s being awfully proud for a race that is reportedly only tier 2 and can’t warp for shit.

“How about this. I transfer you a million in tokens for you to walk away, you leave my people alone for at least 100 years, and I won’t commit egregious war crimes to keep my people from being enslaved by the Herrat ad aeternum.” The snarl in my voice must have been aided by a visual response from my body as the War Acolyte shows the first signs of taking me seriously.

“I seriously doubt that a tier three human with tier two technology can do anything of the sort. I’m sure that with that fire, your people will make excellent workers.”

“I mean, sure. We do, our history is replete with slavers. They enjoy a decade or so of being I control, usually less, until the base nature of Humanity overcomes our fear. We are an irascible bunch at the best of times, but we have an uncanny knack for turning anything and everything into a weapon and for a perseverance that borderlines manic. If you persist with this, your people will suffer.”

“We have our ways with disobedient animals. If you will not meet our terms of compensation, then it’s time for you to leave.” He pulls one of my company’s rifles out of spatial storage and fires a round at me.

My shields laugh it off. So I too pull items out of spatial storage. “Cute, but attacking me with my own weapons is stupid beyond reason.” I show him the two lightly yellow orbs with black centers. “Do you know what these are? I don’t sell these and I’ll show everyone why.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

I pulse my will into the grenades to teleport them, hitting resistance at the big cat’s shields. I grunt and growl with determination and flood the area with my aether. When I feel my will punch a small hole in the shield that was weakened by my aether flood, I grin maniacally and back off my aura.

“What kind of usless attack was that?” he chuckles moments before the grenades I teleported into a lung and his stomach explode his arrogant ass into chunky soup that splatters against his shields. When the items he was wearing contact each other, the shield comes down and the blood and bone sludge of what used to be a cat pools over the area he was standing.

“So who know how to contact one of your War Leaders on your home world of Peshmal?” They all point at the puddle of cat on the ground. Well, those that aren’t vomiting anyway. Perfect. Maybe there’s a chip in his gear or something that will let me use his authority. He seemed arrogant enough to do something like that.

I point at the Herrat that contacted the War Acolyte in the first place. “You seem to know the communications suite onboard, open a fleet-wide broadcast if you will?” They look at me without moving. I point my pistol at them “Please.” With widened eyes and a smidge of panic, the cat pushes a few points on the screen and then nods at me.

“Herrat Fleet and its crew, I am Empress Astoria and I have taken command of your flag ship with the death of War Acolyte Bashir. You will stand down your hostilities against Humanity, pull back your shuttles and fighters and I will give you a choice between Living on a colony moon with no means to leave it for 100 years, a ship capable of supporting Herrati life with no warp capability, or death by whatever means you chose. You may be thinking that fighting is another option, and it is, but you will be dooming every member of your ship to death. Ship by ship it will be so. Choose to fight and I will personally make you a part of a debris field. Chose to stop fighting, and you can chose how you live. Sadly, I cannot trust you to go home as the leaders of the other ships of this fleet are likely sending messages back as I relay this message.

“To the other commanders, withdraw your fighters and shuttles, or don’t and I will take that as your choice. To the crews, you are in a unique position to enforce your will on your commander without lasting repercussions. Take that as you will. You have fifteen minutes to decide.”

“Communicator,” I say pointing at the cat I’ve been talking to, “what is your name and will you help me collect this crew’s choices?”

They look around the room to the other living members of the bridge crew before answering me. “I will. My name is Amaya Bashir.”

“Oof. Sorry about your relative, Amaya. I am Penny Astoria. With that out of the way, I’d like you to make a list of who choses what. You can keep names within your crew, but I need to know numbers so I can arrange logistics. To be clear, I have no interest in running the day to day of your people, but I will provide lodging and subsistence via ansible as I would with the remainder of my Empire.”

“I believe I understand, Empress.” They begin tapping furiously on their console. I shrug at that, and decide to “clean” the armor pieces by pulling out a blank and carving a water rune to sluice the gear off so that I can collect it. It leaves a reprehensible pool of filth in the middle of the room, but that is a problem for after I decide to blow up these ships or not.

I take the still-wet gear into the room I saw the War Acolyte exit from and survey the opulent collection of what seem to be spoils of past wars or rewards for service? I certainly cannot tell. I do see what appear to be a desk and a nest of sorts and a cubby that must be a waste area. Leaving the bed and the toilet alone I see if there is an interface at the desk, to find what I expected in a coded access. I slump the gear on top of it and a message pops up.

“Uh, myself, Empress Penny Astoria, of the Matrix.”

“Yes, I would like to assume control of the fleet.”

“Well, the gear thing was dumb, so can I do my aether signature or something?”

I let my void, space, and will controlled aether migrate to my skin before pushing it out in three controlled bursts with enough variance to be considered a signature. I task my ever-working multi-tasking mind to keep track of it. My brain scoffs at me.

“First, while onboard military craft, I prefer Admiral. Second, I need to sync Agressor’s comms with my own. Can I set up a secure channel to you and have you disseminate through appropriate channels as requested.”

“Oh, and please switch to chat, text, or verbal replies instead of this Matrix announcement stuff.”

“Your preferences are noted.” /Your preferences are noted.

They reply in both forms, the voice is clearly feline in it’s smooth, yet formulaic grace. That’s neat that AI’s have different tones from different civilizations. A part of me wants to skip the consolidation part of this encounter, but negotiating with this conflict resolved is a stronger position.

“Can I issue command authority to run silent with weapons and engines powered down?”

/Yes, our Fleets are setup with those checks. However, the leader of a ship can override that setting with sufficient justification.

“I imagine being boarded and mutiny is sufficient reason. It should interrupt any current plans to sneakily bombard me though.” I’ll wait until a few minutes are left to throw that wrench into the mix.

/It will do as you say.

At twelve minutes into my ultimatum, I issue the silent running command via the Agressor to the fleet. I immediately get a response from one of the cat Captains, ship leaders or whatever.

“Did you think a silly trick like that would work on seasoned Leaders?” A cat on the farthest ship from me scoffs.

“Got you to paint a target on yourself.” I send a priority target message to my fleet, though I’m in no particular hurry. I add a second message to indicate I have commandeered their flagship. I didn’t get another response from the ship leader, but powering up their engines without much focus on their weapons was a signal of their intent. Works for me, my ships are better equipped for chasing than these are for running.

When the 15 minute time elapses I receive two communications, one per ship, saying the crew has agreed to bargain. No energy signatures are evident on the final ship—meaning that comms and engines are down, or the crew is otherwise indisposed. I instruct the two crews to connect with Miss Bashir on what numbers and what choice they’ve decided to accept.

With a sigh, I mentally prepare to teleport to the last ship that could cause me trouble in today’s conflict, breaking out my last galaxy fruit I can eat today without risking side-effects. “Miss Bashir, I’m stepping out for a bit. I recommend locking yourself in the bridge or your relative’s quarters while I’m gone.”

With an effort of will, I transport to another ship and hope that the Warleader in charge of this little slave gathering mission will see us as more trouble than it’s worth. If that doesn’t work, soul-scarring villainy under the guise of diplomacy probably will.