City of Andora. Three days after the Andoran Massacre.
Three days have crawled by since that ghastly battle. Every poor soul who sided with that thick-headed brat is now fertilizer—the idiot sent one-hundred-and-fifty thousand men to die without the faintest chance of victory.
I was in my study, mapping out the next moves of my newborn empire. I hadn't been wasting those three days. I'd already founded the first public school for the children of hard-up families—tuition paid by the state. An industrialization plan for the city was on the table: vast factories for consumer goods and, naturally, the Military-Industrial Sector. First order of business— a plant to produce "Mountain" field rations; buying food for the clones every other day is bleeding my Credits dry.
The Imperial Security Bureau (ISB) is up and running too: one hundred agents graduated from the Barracks, kitted out for black ops, counter-intelligence, and anti-terror. Their headquarters now rises beside the Adventurers' Guild, though once I seize the capital of Oldenburg, the HQ will move there. This building will either become a branch office or the empire's first state university of the exact sciences—my bureaucracy is starving for talent. Wilmor is doing his best, but he isn't an immortal cultivator; he tires, he ages. Future ministers are a must.
N.B. For those who've forgotten: ISB stands for I'm-a-Beat-Bastards—crude, but it keeps the recruits motivated.
I also pulled a special character out of the barracks—a Colonel to act as Guildmaster. Name: Shepard—make of it what you will. Ten minutes after I pinged him by holo, he marched into my office and snapped a salute: mid-forties, maybe fifty, silver hair, a proud moustache, decorations gleaming on his left breast.
"Reporting as ordered, Your Majesty!" he barked, ramrod-straight until I told him to stand easy.
"Colonel, this city hosts a certain organization of rather powerful types," I began, still seated. "They work for the empire's good but have… unruly tempers. Before you arrived they had the gall to oppose me and were punished accordingly. Your task is to take command of the Adventurers' Guild. They rake in a fortune for us—trade, monster-hunting, the works. Should you sense even a spark of dissent, a report lands on my desk and we stomp it out."
Shepard understood and left for the guild. I do hope nothing eats him on the way.
Twenty minutes later I decided to stroll through town with my guard in tow. To avoid the usual pomp, I swapped into plain clothes; the guards fanned out, posing as patrolmen. Down the market street I passed bright faces and laughing children—music to an emperor's ears. I even caught myself smiling.
A side alley beckoned. Halfway down stood a heavy door and a man knocking. A slit slid open; someone inside demanded a password. Keen ears never fail me: "Fire Feather." Interesting. I told my escort to hold position and approached the door—steel plates reinforced the frame. Knock. The slit opened; two suspicious eyes. I gave the password, and in I went.
Purple walls, roses strewn like confetti, beast-folk girls gyrating in collars—damn it all, a brothel stocked with animal-eared slaves. Disgust hit me like a backhand.
"Hey, guard," I muttered, masking my revulsion. "First time here. What're those collars?"
"Hah? You really don't know? Slave collars, friend. That dumb Emperor outlawed slavery, but this place is off the books—screw his ban."
"Got it, thanks." You sons of bitches want a duel? Fine—duel accepted.
I wandered, eyes cataloguing misery—cat-girls, wolf-girls, foxes, tigers, even dogs, all wearing despair. At the bar I ordered a whiskey to blend in, listening. Soon a nearby table began whispering about an assassination attempt—mine, of course. Well, gentlemen, now you've earned yourselves a front-row seat to imperial justice.
I slipped into a back room and contacted Major Fox via holo.
"Major, I'm in an illegal slave den. Slavery is banned by imperial law, and I just overheard a plot to kill me. Assemble twenty-five ISB agents and get here on the double. I'm sending my coordinates; four clone troopers from my guard will meet you."
"Understood! Deploying at once."
Excellent. This dive is living its final minutes. The ghost of Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin approves.
Back in the lounge I approached the conspirators.
"Gentlemen, mind sharing what you're discussing?"
"Beat it, kid," growled a man in a grey cloak.
"No need for anger. I'm aware of your plan to eliminate the Emperor—and I support you. By the way, rumor has it he's out walking today. Where are you from?"
A woman wearing a dragon pendant smiled. "Thanks for the tip. We'll repay you—we hail from the Aras Empire."
"Oh? The Aras Empire? What business have you with a mere city-state?"
"There can be only one empire. The other is just a pretender, so we'll punish its ruler," she sneered.
Arrogant nationalists. You'll taste imperial steel soon enough.
"Funny," I said, grinning wickedly. "Because I get the feeling the Emperor's men are right outside that door."
"Wait—no, it can't be—" The fellow in red spun toward me. Realization dawned, along with panic.
[SFX: Heavy pounding on the door]
"IMPERIAL SECURITY BUREAU! OPEN UP! HANDS IN THE AIR OR WE BREACH!"
"Ha! Magic a door open—go on, I dare you," the grey cloak scoffed.
Silence—then the blast.
[SFX: Door blown off its hinges, skittering across the far room]
"HANDS UP! GET ON THE FLOOR! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
Clone troopers and ISB agents flooded in, blasters barking. The brothel's guards folded—those who charged head-on earned a bolt through the skull.
Major Fox strode through the sunlight, spotted me, and hurried over.
"Your Majesty, you're unharmed—I'm relieved. As ordered, we've detained every owner, employee, and patron."
"Splendid, Major. Transport the collared girls to the Castle, question them about how they were enslaved, and work out how to remove those collars.
"As for the bosses and staff—arrest them. Send them to the mines; let them dig ore for my factories. And that group in cloaks…" I pointed. The would-be assassins bolted but found every exit sealed.
"DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!" Fox barked. ISB agents swarmed; moments later the lot were trussed up.
"Release me, you mangy dogs!" the dragon-pendant woman shrieked.
"What of these, sire?" Fox asked.
"On your way here they were plotting my murder. They're Aras spies; other nations are clearly paying attention. Interrogate them, learn everything, then execute them—beheading, discreetly."
"At once, Your Majesty."
"Oh, and start sweeping the city for more rats."
Fox saluted and left.
Business concluded, I opened the Remote Building Management System. Factory profits: ₵ 780,000; population tax: ₵ 180,000; treasury total: ₵ 960,000.
[System Notification]
I had a feeling—my new aircraft plant. The system, in its usual breathless tone, obliged:
Congratulations, Master! Your aerospace factory is complete. Two new craft are now available: TIE fighter (₵ 350,000) and TIE bomber (₵ 500,000).
"Sweet mother of stars… three-hundred-and-fifty grand for a fighter, half a million for a bomber. For that price they'd better hit like thunder."
"System, purchase one bomber and a trained pilot."
Total cost: ₵ 501,000. Proceed?
"Yes. Build my bomber—I have cities to flatten."
Purchase confirmed. Production and pilot induction will finish in 1 day, 30 minutes.
Air power at last—the perfect herald for a Great Conquest. Brace yourselves! THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK!