The void stretched endlessly beyond the curved theadian viewport of Niki Priddy’s private office aboard the station, the stars hanging in silence above the slow, steady rotation of the deep space station. From here, in the Mid Rim, the galaxy’s chaos felt distant but never far enough to ignore.
The hum of the station’s reactor thrummed faintly through the deck plating, a constant reminder of the power flowing to the shipyard arrayed outside her window.
Holo-blueprints floated before her desk, a mid-class starship design hovering in perfect scale. Niki adjusted a contour line, smoothing the curve of the forward hull into something sleeker, more graceful. Her stylus moved with precision, the act of creation always pulling her focus.
“Mistress Priddy," purred the modulated voice of The Queen Mother, the artificial intelligence that served as her omnipresent advisor and analyst. Its cultured, Core-accented tone carried perfectly through the room’s recessed speakers. “Shall I deliver the latest summary of galactic affairs?"
Niki didn’t glance up from her schematic.
"Go ahead, Mother. Make it quick."
“Trade volumes in the free market have increased twelve-point-seven percent following the Free Commerce Accords of Munto Codru. The Outer Rim along with significant portions of the Mid Rim remains volatile—skirmishes between various smaller factions over the new lanes continue. No news to report from behind the Blackwall as to be expected. More concerning, the Galactic Empire has begun to expand their military incursions into the Core Worlds. Information provided by the Mystril Shadow Guard suggest large operations reported to be aimed at Arkania, Champala, and Ord Lithone."
Niki exhaled slowly, rotating the hologram that held her attention with a flick of her wrist. “The Empire is unsurprisingly bold. They’ll choke the entirety of the Core before long if no-one can push them back.”
“Indeed," the AI replied. “Would you like projections for—" The Queen Mother’s voice fractured into static, replaced by an urgent, distorted burst of data. “—urgent—High Republic forces engaged—source: blackbox telemetry—"
Niki’s eyes snapped to the central holoprojector as the air between them bloomed with fragmented feeds; Hull identification codes, transponder bursts, and scrambled distress pings. The names of vessels she knew intimately, ships her company had helped design and assemble, flashed before her eyes.
“Location: Wielu system," The Queen Mother continued, voice now brisk, almost strained. “Hostiles confirmed: Black Sun Syndicate vessels. Engagement severity—critical. Casualties—undetermined."
Niki leaned forward, her elbows on the desk, studying the chaotic swarm of red and blue contact markers. The flotilla was small, fast, and agile… but Black Sun’s apparent numbers would smother that advantage in minutes. More concerning than the battle, was the sheer numbers of hostiles reported by the limited information.
"Mother," she said quietly, “Pull up the High Republic naval registry. Current fleet compositions, recent procurement contracts, and shipyard output."
“Immediately." the AI replied, replacing the chaotic battle feed with crisp tactical schematics and production charts.
Niki dismissed her elegant starship design with a flick. Her eyes aglow as she examined the intimately familiar designs and systems she had helped put into place despite the incessant nagging of the conservative senators.
"They need heavier hulls. Cruisers at minimum, maybe even battlecarriers. And the Senate will need more than speeches to survive what’s coming if that is the mission I believe it to be. Protective tech. Personal shield emitters, discreet armor, anything that’ll keep a VIP alive long enough to make decisions. Such as when to leave."
The Queen Mother shifted its projections to show prototype personal defense devices. Some already in R&D, others barely sketches released from Niki’s mind. Her mind already calculating costs, resource chains, and timelines.
She straightened, watching the battle map of Weilu one last time before it faded. The High Republic’s survival wasn’t just politics anymore. It was a new market, and one she intended to profit from.
"Mother," She spoke with purpose, her voice steady despite the excitement that began to form. "Prepare a new proposal. Personal defensive systems first. Heavy warships second. And make sure the High Republic’s procurement committee sees it before this fight is over."
“As you command,” The Queen Mother replied, already turning her vision into orders, into construction schedules, into alloys.
Beyond the viewport, the station’s tendrils glimmered under the starlight, waiting for the next great fleet to be born.
