A convoy of Qoshisu Alliance ships had been spotted a few days before, slowly making their way through disputed space between the Uferay and Ahechash systems. Commander Paul Shaumberg planned to use his squadron’s weekly ordnance allocation to pay them a visit.
“Golf Seven, set for purchase: two hundered shares of Severin Shipyards. Initiate trade on engagement,” Schaumberg addressed DeSantis, the squadron’s Field Broker. “Golf Flight, target the frigates first. Secondary targets at your discretion.” Most of the flight already had their targets set up, anticipating his command based on the put order.
“Trade ready, Golf One.” DeSantis responded, “Projected return is around eight-hundred Kilo based on sum target value minus fees.”
“Let’s make sure those ships are unsalvageable, boys,” added Lt. Garrett, the squadron’s second in command. “Each one they can repair cuts into our portfolio.”
“We’re in range. Open fire!” the commander ordered. DeSantis transmitted the purchase order. Salvos of anti-ship missiles streaked from under the wings of each fighter as they dodged heavy laser fire. Working in teams of four, the squadron made quick work of the frigates. The convoy was in chaos, with escorts moving to protect the most valuable ships and drone fighters peeling off to repel the attackers. Several other bulk transports and support vessels, sluggish and unable to maneuver out of the fray, proved to be easy prey as usual.
The flight regrouped just beyond the range of the convoy’s guns, their rear-mounted laser turrets cleaning up the few dozen fighters that pursued them. Sensors told the story: the frigates had all been destroyed. The enemy would need to replace those ships, and would do so within a couple of months. Severin Shipyards, like all military contractors in the galaxy, sold to all sides. They were the sole provider of frigates of that type, so the squadron’s fresh shares in that company would soon increase in value dramatically.
The commander checked his status readout. His group was intact, with minimal damage to a few fighters. “Great job, flight. Golf Seven, do we have confirmation?”
“Affirmative, sir,” DeSantis reported, “the trade was accepted before the first missile hit.”
“What’s the ticker say?” Garrett asked.
“Looks like the market’s heard about the attack,” said DeSantis. “Speculation on Severin is heating up.”
Schaumberg smiled as he heard the hoots of his squadron over the radio. Another profitable victory. “Outstanding, Golf Seven. Wait, what’s this?”
One of the medium-sized ships of the convoy had piqued the commander’s interest. “Golden Hope…?” He scrolled through the ship’s details on his main monitor. “Golf Seven, run the numbers on Keuren Naval Engineering, symbol Kilo November Echo Bravo Romeo.”
“Stanby, Golf One…” the Field Broker punched the stock symbol “KNEBR” into his finance computer and performed some analysis. “Down one point today, trending down thirteen for the month on low construction orders.”
“Well, they’re about to get a pretty big contract,” Schaumberg replied. “Boys, we’re going for another run. Target Golden Hope with everything you’ve got left. Golf Seven, purchase three thousand shares of KNE. Initiate now so there aren’t a bunch of questions about the timing.”
“Affirmative, Golf One.” A few seconds passed. “Trade sent. Responses are delayed due to heavy activity. The markets just opened on Hahn and New Gibraltar.”
Shaumberg broke hard left and dove for the transport. The rest of the flight followed. As they closed in on the transport, Garret checked his forward camera and saw the large red cross painted on its side. “Ah, Paul, that’s a medical ship. Recommend we abort.”
“Negative, Golf Two,” the commander replied,”we’ll say it was caught in the first attack.”
The fighters continued their dive. Garrett protested, a slight panic in his voice, “Sir, there are twenty-two hundred wounded on that ship. Recommend we abort this attack!”
“Casualties of war, Matt,” Shaumberg said, irritated. “Once that trade’s confirmed, light her up, boys. Makin’ some bank today.”
“Schaumberg, listen to me! Call off the attack!” Garrett shouted into his mic as Golden Hope came into visual range.
“Golf One,” DeSantis’ voice carried a tinge of doubt and confusion, “the trade is complete.”
“Golf Flight, open fire!” the commander ordered.
Garrett yelled and pounded his console with his fists as a swarm of missiles streaked from the rails beneath their fighters. “God damn it, Schaumberg!” The missiles slammed into the side of Golden Hope, tearing it nearly in half as they penetrated the hull of the ship and detonated deep within. A single tear fell down Garrett’s cheek as he watched the bulkheads collapse and countless bodies were flung into space by secondary explosions.
Garrett had mostly regained his composure by the time the flight regrouped. “I tried to stop you, Paul,” Garret’s voice was still shakey as he addressed his commander on a private channel.
“Another day at the office, Matt. You gotta let it go.”
“Those men…” Garrett’s voice trailed.
Schaumberg was indignant. “You mean those bastards who were trying to kill our men up until they wound up in comfy hospital beds? Screw ‘em.”
“No, Paul, you don’t get it,” Garrett was starting to lose it again,”Those men…were all covered by Orion Life, the standard insurance carrier for Qoshisu med transports. About a quarter of our portfolio’s tied up in Orion subsidiaries. We may have just lost millions.”

















