“A cruiser,” I say. “Top-tier. Hardened comms, jamming resistance, boarding capability. Something that doesn’t fold the second a Nine jammer sneezes.”
The room erupts in murmurs.
A logistics chief shakes his head. “Boss, that’s a fortune.”
“So is losing Jordan,” I reply flatly.
Fyr’s mouth twists. “You’re gonna buy a warship with tribute money.”
“Yes,” I say.
A captain—Jessa—raises an eyebrow. “We’re criminals. Not a navy.”
I look around the room at faces lined with fear and greed and loyalty and doubt.
Then I smile, slow and sharp.
“That’s why we win,” I say.
They blink.
I step forward, voice rising just enough to carry.
“Soldiers fight fair,” I say. “They line up. They declare. They follow rules. Criminals don’t.”
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter moves through the room.
I let it.
I point at the map of Terranus V’s orbital lanes.
“We don’t do a fleet engagement,” I say. “We do sabotage. Disable relays. Cut reinforcement comms. Strike command nodes. Disappear.”
A tech lead nods slowly, already seeing the angles. “Asymmetric strike doctrine.”
“Exactly,” I say. “We’re not going to outgun everyone. We’re going to outthink them and cheat better.”
Fyr lets out a rough breath that might be approval or pain. “That’s… our style.”
“That’s our survival,” I correct.
I start assigning roles.
“Fyr,” I say.
He straightens, wincing. “Yeah?”
“You stay behind,” I tell him.
His eyes flash. “Bullshit.”
I step closer. “You’re injured and you’re too valuable to risk. You act as internal commander. You hold Gur. You keep ceasefires. You keep civilians alive. You keep my territory from collapsing while I’m gone.”
Fyr’s jaw works like he wants to argue, but the pain in his shoulder makes him swallow it.
“I don’t want to babysit,” he rasps.
“This isn’t babysitting,” I say. “This is command.”
