After the Free States Alliance's closed-door military conference in Sacramento concluded—
Whirr—
The suborbital flight route from the Alliance capital to Oakland in the East Bay spanned roughly 130 kilometers.
Inside the quietly cruising airship, Vela sat with her eyes closed, feigning rest.
With her stamina, she could have easily stayed awake, but there was no need. Keeping reserves of energy was her way—never exposing her limits unless absolutely necessary. And even then, what was true before didn't have to remain so now. She always improved.
Under the warm, sleep-inducing glow of the cabin's ambient lights, an Arasaka shinobi stood silently at the entrance to the core chamber, embodying the Arasaka Security Division's principle of the "Three Monkeys, Four Don'ts."
At least on the surface.
Outside the porthole, dark-gray stratocumulus clouds layered like scattered cotton, dense and heavy. A faint rain drizzled down in streaks.
A northwesterly wind had begun to blow, carrying traces of radioactive dust from the Golden Gate nuclear blast. The fallout mixed into the vapor and clouds, drifting toward the coastal mountains. But such things were minor issues. What was a little radiation pollution, really?
In the cyberpunk world, people were long-time wasteland survivors.
Everyday life was already filled with industrial waste and toxic microparticles—acid rain was no easier to endure than fallout.
Thanks to the underwater detonation and the weapon's small tactical yield, most contaminants mixed with seawater, sand, and vapor walls, eventually returning to the lagoons and being diluted by tides and currents.
Of course, there were still consequences.
The Golden Gate Bridge and those unlucky enough to be on it—and their families—spoke for themselves.
Lately, San Francisco residents had been obsessively consuming anti-radiation meds: amifostine, potassium iodide, and Prussian blue.
Bay Area City Hall had already launched an "emergency cleanup operation" to wash away the radioactive dust. The plan sounded good on paper—but how much of it would actually be executed? Would the effort stop at the rich districts, City Hall, the corporate zones, and the CBD… or would it extend to the slums and common folk? That was anyone's guess.
In any case, Arasaka hadn't lost a thing.
Their pharmaceutical division—both cooperating and competing with Biotechnica—was raking in massive profits. Their radiation-shielding fashion line, co-developed with Japanese luxury brand Jinguuji, was breaking sales records. And their own new self-developed Family Kabuto home shelter systems were selling like hotcakes across the Pacific Rim.
Unless every megacorporation fell together, this was what corporate prosperity looked like—universal dominance.
Whir–clang!
Amid the steady hum of the cruising engines—expected to end in just ten minutes—a faint, undulating roar rose outside.
Vela's eyes opened instantly.
Pulling away the blanket, she sat up smoothly.
"Lady Vela—it's troop movement," the shinobi guard at the door reported.
"I see it."
She stepped to the porthole and looked outside.
Beyond the sparse drizzle, a massive fleet of transport airships surged eastward through the low clouds. Hundreds—if not thousands—of rotor-type Valghest patrol drones and Octant-class heavy attack UAVs zipped past the formation.
Higher up, sonic booms echoed faintly as several matte-black Arasaka Navy carrier-based fighters and their unmanned escorts sliced through the cloud layers in tight patrol formations.
On the formation's outermost perimeter, silver-gray aerospace strike fighters left gleaming Mach rings across the horizon.
Ding—
Shipboard AI: "Two connection requests received, ma'am."
Without a word, Vela shifted the pop-up interface into her retinal HUD.
After identity verification, the requests were displayed:
[Arasaka Navy / 7th Fleet / CVW-5 (5th Carrier Air Wing)]
[Arasaka Air Force / North America Task Group / 1-AF (1st Air Wing)]
The first was expected. The second—Air Force...
[Authorize.]
Moments later, one piloted craft from each group disengaged and slowed, maneuvering side by side with Vela's customized command airship—matching its subsonic cruising speed and maintaining secure distance.
Once authorized, they already knew precisely which side of the vessel Vela was on.
Zzz—!
Vela saw them clearly.
At the nose of the aircraft, the rectangular panels of its nano-armor rippled like water, retracting to reveal the cockpit. The smart polarized glass quickly shifted to transparency, showing the pilot inside, clad in an anti-G flight suit, raising his hand in a formal salute.
[Naval Carrier Pilot: Honoring you, Lady Vela.]
Following behind came the Air Force craft.
The same maneuver—though this one was larger, heavier, with a bulkier, more exoskeletal G-suit that looked more like a space suit.
Through the sealed high-altitude flight helmet laced with cables, Vela could see his face—heavily cybernetically enhanced.
In the cyberpunk world, piloting a high-performance aerospace fighter as a baseline human was practically suicide. Most who tried never even made a sound.
[Air Force Pilot: Honoring you, Commander Russell.]
"Good work," Vela replied softly, the faint glow of comms data flickering across her pupils as she returned each salute.
Soon after, the two aircraft broke formation, rejoining their squadrons to continue the patrol escort.
Once they were gone, Vela turned her head. "Descend."
Shipboard AI: "Yes, ma'am."
As the airship lowered altitude, the scene below slowly came into view.
On the ground, long chains of military trains thundered along steel tracks.
Even the long-abandoned interstate highways were alive again—armored convoys speeding east, engines roaring, dust trailing in the wind.
Columns of mechanized vehicles, lines of combat robots, squads of cybernetic soldiers—all heading east.
Arasaka. The Free States Alliance. Pro-Arasaka mercenary groups… distinct banners, yet converging toward the same command.
Hers.
"But... a war to end all wars?"
Recalling some media outlet's description of the Fifth Corporate War, Vela's lofty confidence quietly receded.
That sort of talk was dangerous.
"Logistics and regulation…" she murmured, lowering herself into the seat.
That was where her focus would have to remain.
Corporate wars were different from those of nations.
A company's military force had a different purpose—protecting data and facilities, not territory.
When corporations waged war, it was usually through rapid strikes—targeting a rival's projects, resources, or intelligence. Such operations were conducted in secrecy, carried out by elite covert units.
Ninety percent of corporate warfare took place in boardrooms, financial markets, and cyberspace—only a small fraction on actual battlefields.
But Arasaka and Militech were exceptions.
Both were megacorporate empires with full-fledged military and governmental structures. Their enmity was historic, their alliances stained with blood, their borders overlapping and disputed.
When they fought, it wasn't quick or surgical. It was ponderous, brutal, and unstoppable. Because both sides knew—skirmishes and sabotage wouldn't destroy the other.
The cost—the so-called "price" neatly summarized in official reports—could devour everything Vela had seen on this journey.
"We can't afford complacency."
Resting her chin on her hand, her fingers tapping lightly against the metal tabletop, Vela stared into the mirror-like wall across from her.
In its reflection sat a tall, golden-haired, blue-eyed woman—her own faint double gazing back.
"I'll need insurance," she said quietly. "More insurance."