011 Training Arc 11: Fusion Growth
The damage was significant. Can't afford to be complacent anymore—hubris is out.
All of this mess stemmed from getting cocky and underestimating the situation.
Things that could’ve been avoided with caution were ruined by that very carelessness.
The rental ship No. 10 is damaged. Compensation for repairs is now unavoidable.
The enemy vessel was already non-operational, heavily damaged, and then hit with the shockwave from the rock cluster detonation (purge), leaving its armor plates dented and crumpled.
How much can you even sell it for now? Forcing a full capture isn’t an option anymore.
We captured the enemy ship, but it’s dead in the water—so we’ll have to tow it with rental ship No. 10.
Towing a 200-meter-class vessel using a 30-meter-class craft? That’s beyond ridiculous.
Should we call for help to tow it? No—costs will probably eat into the profits, maybe even turn it into a loss.
(Should I just shut up and let the rented ship number ten handle this? Seems like the easiest way.)
The rented ship ten answers my thoughts.
‘Requesting permission for fusion.’
‘If it’ll wrap things up neatly, I’ll grant it.’
I reply lightly, already considering the words.
‘Initiating fusion sequence. Fusion field activated. Main power will fail—switching to emergency backup. Fusion duration: three days. Until then, we’ll meet again after completion.’
‘Wait a sec.’
Before I can finish, the CIC power cuts out—emergency lights flicker on.
The CIC goes dark. Only the emergency glow remains.
All screens vanish. Cold. Need to pee.
Pilot suit has a diaper function, sure—but three days? Come on. Even I have limits.
"Three days...? What about food and the toilet? And are we even supposed to be missing?"
The words barely left my mouth when I heard a dull thud from behind the pilot seat.
I leaned over. Hidden behind the seat was a storage compartment—out of it popped a survival kit.
Inside: seven days' worth of rations and water, basic medical supplies, and a paper survival manual.
First, I flipped to the manual.
The first page was full of "survival basics" nonsense.
"CI C is durable. Rarely destroyed," it said. Something about how if it were destroyed, I probably wouldn't be reading this manual anyway. Dark, much?
But what really mattered to me? The toilet.
Right now. Real life.
I flipped the page.
There it was—Toilet.
Apparently, the entrance was on the right side of the pilot seat.
The left side's the boarding entrance, so it's set up symmetrically. I step in right away.
Standard Western-style flush toilet—nothing special, nothing like Earth’s version.
You’d think zero-G toilets would be the norm in space, right?
With artificial gravity, it’s probably just... usable.
***************
Three days had passed. Time was easy to track thanks to the wristband.
Suddenly, the CIC lit up.
I scramble into the pilot’s seat. (I’d been sitting on the floor before.)
Then I feel my brain directly linking up with the rental ship’s neural interface.
I instantly take stock of the ship—but something’s off. Really off.
"Has it... gotten bigger?"
The rental ship #10 had fused with the enemy vessel, now a 200-meter-class warship.
All the weapons systems from the enemy ship were now operational.
The virtual screen before me displayed a new R10 avatar.
It stood there armored in chest plate, waist armor, gauntlets, and greaves, wielding a Long Barrel railgun in its right arm, a massive shield in its left, beam cannons strapped to both hips, missile pods on both thighs, and a high-output thruster pack strapped to its back like a schoolbag.
I finally got it. This was what “raising a space battleship” actually meant.
“Ah—crap! I accidentally upgraded a rental ship instead of my Personal Ship!”
I groaned, clutching my head, already dreading the aftermath.
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