Finally, some peace and quiet. As the party drew to a close, nearly everyone in his faction looked forward to the potential spoils. Counting their chicks before they hatched, as they say. If the Empire had not maintained its neutrality all these years, they could have easily cimed more for themselves. From his youth, they had been drilled in the art of warfare—tactics used by great men: the cshes of European knights, the disputes between Arabian warlords, and the cavalry charges of Mongolian hordes. Yet, for centuries, their borders had remained unmoved, their warriors and strategies stagnating while the nations around them vied for power.

  What was the point of having one of the most powerful navies in the world if all it ever did was escort merchant ships or scare off pirates? Their technology far outmatched any potential enemy—even the Europeans would cower if they truly knew its extent. Only the fmes of war could awaken this long-slumbering Empire, heating its blood into the roaring beast of its former glory. And if the Belgians had to be crushed under its heels to achieve that, then so be it. “I am doing this to ensure the Empire remains in the tapestry of history,” he reminded himself.

  He sat down behind his desk and gnced at his scribe. “So, what are the rumors?”

  The scribe hesitated. “Sir?”

  “The lights! That Athos speaks of—what are they?” His voice sharpened. There could be no mistakes. Capturing the Congo would be easy; it was guarded only by svers and mercenaries—no match for the Empire’s regur troops. The real problem was getting there, and he didn’t want anything obstructing the operation. Whatever these ‘lights’ were, he needed to prepare.

  “But, my Lord, I don’t understand. Didn’t you say it was just nonsense?”

  “General Athos may be an insufferable old bastard, but he is no fool.” He still remembers the look on the general’s face… Rowall shook his head. “I may hate the man, but I’m not stupid enough to ignore the obvious. So, I ask again—what are the rumors?!”

  The scribe flinched and bowed deeply, his voice trembling. “I have no excuse, my Lord. Forgive me.”

  “Useless!” Commander Rowall hissed through clenched teeth. “Send a messenger back to the garrison. I must know more about these newcomers.”

  “.....”

  “.....”

  “I’m surprised you have nothing to say about this, Professor,” Era said

  Reed sighed, her fingers drumming idly on the table. “You already have the Memento Mori, so my position is effectively obsolete. I’m only here because the Admiral allows it. While I have my reservations about his pns, refusing wouldn’t do me any good.”

  “That’s not why I brought you here, Professor,” the Admiral interjected. “I don’t want a puppet who agrees with everything I say. But you are correct about one thing—you don’t have the option to refuse this time.”

  Olivia grumbled quietly under her breath, slumping slightly in her chair.

  Era, gncing at the document in front of her, raised an eyebrow. “I have to admit, Admiral, I didn’t expect you to go down this route. I get the rough idea, but I’m not sure it’ll work.” The file was sparse, the pn little more than an outline. It would take significant work to flesh out.

  The Admiral leaned forward as he expined. “We’re at our limits. Technology and resources can only take us so far. Take the food crisis from the other day—we postponed it, yes, but no amount of science can make livestock multiply faster than we’re consuming them. Cloning is out of the question; vat-grown materials aren’t reliable, nor are they resource-efficient.”

  Reed perked up. “I heard there was a European at the gates the other day. Why didn’t we ask him for assistance?”

  The Admiral frowned. “An explorer, perhaps a missionary. He had little to offer—trinkets and religion, neither of which we need.”

  “What about that other group?” Era asked. “The one getting close to our perimeter?”

  “Envoys, I’d assume,” said Olivia, her tone cautious. “They had fg bearers, which suggests some kind of royal procession. As for their intent, we don’t know. It’s odd that the closer Europeans haven’t sent anyone yet, but this group is making the effort.”

  “Whoever they are, they’ll find us eventually. And no, wiping them out isn’t an option—it would only raise suspicions.” Samuel turned a pointed gaze at Era, whose smirk betrayed her thoughts.

  “I didn’t say a word,” Kane said, raising her hands in mock surrender.

  “So, what’s the pn?” Reed asked. “Meet them? Lie to them? Either option has its risks.” She gnced at Era. “Maybe we create an eborate tale—something like El Dorado. The city of gold. Use that tale to keep them busy.”

  Era leaned back in her chair, unimpressed. “I didn’t realize I was the resident liar on this ship, but I think you’re overestimating my abilities. Unless you want me to turn the entire crew into ONI agents, the truth will come out sooner or ter. A few bottles of beer could loosen anyone’s tongue.”

  The Admiral rubbed his temples, He had hoped to keep the base a secret longer, but clearly, fate had other pns. Finally, he spoke. “Suggestions?”

  “I’m leaning more towards the truth, Sir. It’ll be a lot easier to convince them with honesty than to lie and risk destroying any trust we might build ter on. They could refuse to accept reality, but that doesn’t change the facts,” Era said. As an ONI operative, secrecy was usually her modus operandi, but this time, any covert pns would only dey the inevitable.

  “I don’t know how they’ll react to the truth, but we aren’t exactly desperate yet. We could always wait for the next envoy and hope they’re more adventurous than the st,” Professor Reed interjected, though her tone remains cautious. “Honesty with a potential ally is commendable, but it’s risky.”

  Samuel considered this. Even with the cloaking technology they’d found in the Icarus database, hiding more than ten thousand crew members moving around the camp, along with daily ship ndings, was nearly impossible. It would be easier to be upfront than to deal with a steady stream of curious adventurers discovering their presence.

  Commandeering ships, assets, ammunition, and resources is what the military usually does. With the fate of all humanity at stake, considerations of private property often take a back seat. But this time, things were different. They needed something tangible to offer their soon-to-be allies.

  “I suppose we could offer them something—trade,” Samuel remarked. “Even if they find our very existence improbable, I doubt they’ll have any compints once they see the benefits.”

  “Trade them what? Gold? Silver? We don’t have a usable currency,” Reed countered. “It’s not like we can stamp some insignia on coins and expect them not to cry counterfeit.” Likewise, flooding the market with precious metals could destabilize the global economy, obliterating the gold standard.

  “What about rubber?” Era asked. “Didn’t this region trade rubber with the Belgians? We can produce that, right?” Synthetic rubber required crude oil, as she recalled. “Apollo. Oil fields. Somewhere nearby.”

  Apollo’s calm voice broke the brief silence. “Checking historical records, Lieutenant.” A pause. “None, ma’am. Most known deposits are coastal.” A projector fred to life on the table, marking oil-rich regions on a map.

  “There’s one option,” the Admiral said, zooming the map outward until the pnet itself shrank out of view. He scrolled through several celestial bodies before pausing on one. “There.”

  The projection settled on Titan, Saturn’s rgest moon. Once colonized as an industrial hub, Titan was rich in hydrocarbons, with entire kes of liquid methane and ethane. It wasn’t a pce known for its tourism—it literally rains oil there.

  “There we go,” Era said, leaning back. “We can offer them rubber, petrol, and whatever ores or resources we extract from Mars. Let them handle the logistics. Afterward, we sell our goods to other nations through their name and use their currency.”

  “That’ll only work for now, but I’ll need assurances for the future of this operation,” Samuel said, his tone firm. The concept of money was the same regardless of era. Handling things like the economy is a part of any officer’s education, to act as a military governor when a colony is out of reach. He might need to review a manual somewhere.

  Era nodded in agreement, then gnced toward Professor Reed. “You don’t seem too happy with this, Ms. Reed.”

  Olivia shook her head. Everyone in the room already knew her stance on the matter; she’d argued against it enough times to anticipate the outcome. “Nearly every piece of fiction on this subject warns us that what we’re doing is a bad idea.”

  “If we feed them, give them medicine, their wars will never end,” Samuel countered. “Fewer sick and hungry people mean a surplus of manpower for their armies. With enough hatred, they’d go to war armed with spoons if they had to. That’s why we’re trading materials instead—resources, weapons. An army of a thousand can’t wield a million rifles. It’s the same for us: what’s the point of having a shipyard and a thousand ships if we don’t have the people to crew them?”

  Reed listened silently. Perhaps the Admiral was right, and she was being naive. They were just as desperate as anyone else. Though there were no guarantees things would unfold as Samuel predicted, his reasoning made sense. Pying devil’s advocate in her mind, she wondered: what if she somehow managed to convince him to provide these struggling nations with simple preserved goods instead? What made her think those supplies would actually reach the starving and the poor? The thought struck her with sobering crity. The road to hell was paved with good intentions.

  “I kinda feel cheated,” Mitch finally spoke, breaking the silence. He had been staring at the far wall where holographic targets were projected, much to Red’s growing irritation.

  “You? You feel cheated? I’m the one working my ass off here, and you’re the one who feels cheated?” Red snapped, his tone ced with annoyance. Everyone in the base was busy, yet Mitch was here, lost in his thoughts. Shaking his head, Red refocused, firing another round at the target. He double-checked the rifle’s chamber and action before pulling the bolt back to rack the next round.

  “I was curious, you know,” Mitch continued, undeterred. “If this has happened before. So, I did a bit of light reading.”

  Red couldn’t resist. “You can read? That’s news to me.” Another shot rang out as he fought the urge to turn and shoot his so-called friend.

  “Very funny,” Mitch retorted dryly.

  Racking in another round, Red pushed the bolt forward, sealing the chamber. “So, what did you find in your ‘research’?” he asked, firing the rifle once more. He figured if Mitch didn’t spill his nonsense soon, he’d never stop talking.

  “Nothing much, really. Mostly a bunch of theories using words way above my pay grade. But I did find a few things in the recreational database—fiction and novels on the subject,” Mitch replied casually.

  “That’s not exactly helpful to us, is it?” Red fired another round, then stretched his arms. The repetitive motion was starting to wear on him.

  “Well… true, but it might give us some insight into what to expect,” Mitch countered.

  “And has it?” Red fired the st round in the clip and checked the action for any remaining shots in the magazine. Nothing seemed wrong with the rifle. Was it the new rounds? Surely the eggheads back at R&D had accounted for this, and yet here they were.

  “Nah,” Mitch admitted with a shrug. “I’m just disappointed we didn’t get teleported to a much cooler reality, like one with dragons and magic.”

  “We’re stuck in the past, trying to prepare this pnet to raise an army against the Covenant, and you’re thinking about dragons? What’s wrong with you?” Red set the rifle back in its rack and reached for the next one. “Are you going to help me with these things or not?”

  Mitch groaned and finally stood from where he’d been lounging. Grabbing one of the guns, he muttered, “Why are there so many of these, anyway?”

  “Allegedly, they kept jamming, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to replicate it.” Red double-checked the rifle before loading a stripper clip. According to the manuals, these rifles had originally operated on outdated .276 Enfield cartridges. Could that be the issue? Now rebuilt to use 7.62x51mm rounds, any problems should have been rectified thanks to advanced UNSC engineering.

  “That’s impossible. Weren’t these things designed by a Smart AI?” Mitch asked, inspecting the rifle before him. The M14E rifle was an approximation of what the construct Apollo had deemed the ideal bolt-action rifle for this era. It was mostly based on the Winchester Pattern 14 Mark 1 rifle. The scope—to be sold separately—had also been improved for more accurate shooting. Its magazine had been extended to hold ten rounds instead of five. The length of the bayonet was also shortened, making it resemble more of a combat knife than a sword and the barrel’s length was also reduced by two inches. While it was still unnecessarily long compared to standard UNSC small arms, cutting it down any further might alienate potential buyers.

  “Well, I’ve tested about a dozen of them already while you’ve been wasting your time. I have to admit, though—there haven’t been any errors so far,” Red replied, aiming at the target again. He adjusted for windage, ensuring the rifle fired accurately. Given the precision machining involved in these weapons, Red was convinced the alleged jamming was caused by something they hadn’t yet identified.

  Mitch grumbled as he examined his firearm, finding no faults. “Man, I can’t wait to get better shit than this.”

  “Apparently, they’ve got some new toys for us in a couple of weeks,” Red said, lowering his M14E for a moment. He ticked several checkboxes on a datapad resting on a nearby table.

  “Any cool ones? An automatic rifle? A shotgun, maybe?” Mitch asked, his voice perking up.

  “There’s one designated as an LMG, but it’s top-fed, which might take some getting used to. As for shotguns—no, there weren’t any. I was curious about that too, so I asked. They said trench guns are deemed too inhumane to use on people in this era.”

  “Trench guns, huh? Then why the hell are we using them in our era?” Mitch quipped.

  Red replied with a smirk. “Can’t be a crime against humanity if the thing you’re shooting at isn’t human.”

  The 7.62x51mm rifle round and the .45-caliber pistol cartridge were the UNSC’s standard ammo of choice. In this era, however, neither had been adopted yet on a wide scale, let alone invented yet.

  Convincing a nation to switch from one ammunition type to another was easier said than done. To establish their foothold in the arms-dealing market, they needed to stake their cim in unstable and disorganized regions—nations that would trade their mishmash of assorted arms for standardized gear. It was a calcuted risk, but one that could pay off if executed correctly.

  With Apollo’s assistance, the weapon list underwent multiple revisions. Various designs were combined to skirt around patent ws and to eliminate features historically deemed impractical by their users. Helljumpers rigorously tested these firearms, and so far, the results were overwhelmingly positive—though some soldiers compined about the reduced volume of fire compared to modern weapons. Clearly, they were simply spoiled by contemporary firepower.

  The ck of anti-tank weapons, however, remained a pressing concern. While tanks had not yet been invented in this era, history showed they would emerge within a few decades, transforming the battlefield permanently. The team hoped that spreading knowledge of these heavy weapons now would prepare their allies for the eventuality—and serve as a defense should the Covenant ever invade.

  After weeks of grueling training, speed and accuracy among the troops had improved significantly. Officers were now learning how to employ their new weapons using manuals from a time long past—modernized with contemporary tactics and expertise. These officers would soon become the trainers tasked with preparing their future allies.

  Several firearms were selected during the testing trials, but some were deemed too dangerous to provide to unstable nations. For instance, the debate over which machine guns to export had been particurly contentious. Surprisingly, both the Admiral and the Colonel agreed on one thing.

  At first, the idea was to supply upgrade kits based on Charlton or Howell designs—kits that could convert bolt-action rifles into semi-automatics. However, the simplicity of these systems posed a problem: they could be easily replicated, resulting in an uncontrolled proliferation of rapid-firing rifles. Shooting down the idea altogether.

  So while the export of LMGs were put on hold, the Finnish L-34 Sampo was chosen for training purposes. Designated as the M34F, rebuilt to chamber UNSC ammunition. For sidearms, troops were issued M11A handguns, essentially an updated variant of the Colt M1911A1. Dr. Reed, ever the advocate for fairness, insisted they find a way to compensate the original inventors of these firearms. It was yet another task to add to ONI’s already overloaded pte.