Chapter 147: Chapter 141

Several hours later, Captain Jeonjo “Omen” stalked the halls of his submarine, hidden in the depths of the East China Sea. Most of his fleet was still making their way from the small islands off the southern coast of Japan, where they had been sheltering and gathering supplies from the abandoned Japanese villages and towns along the coast. 

The earthquake and subsequent tsunami had claimed thirty-one of the souls under his protection. A tragedy, but thankfully no vessels had been lost.

All the vessels in his fleet were submersible craft and they had hidden from the violent waves in deep water. Some were forced to leave crew members behind in order to escape in time, but all fifty-seven vessels had survived. 

Once the floating city was lined up and protected on all sides, they would begin carefully moving over the Marianas trench, toward the open Pacific Ocean.

The captain still wore a uniform, though he had removed the insignia that had once adorned it. North Korea and his diesel submarine were a memory, nothing more. He’d been a disloyal captain anyway, using his submarine to smuggle people out, whenever possible.

Now his uniform identified him as the captain of the WHS Seoul, callsign: Whalehunter. His warship was the most impressive in their fleet, but the Whalehunter Salvage affiliate boasted a dozen ships that were combat capable. 

All under his command.

Most of the fleet ships were dedicated to primary needs. Food, fuel, medicine. Every ship in the fleet was capable of desalinating ocean water for drinking now, but at the start, their desalination ship had been the biggest target in their fleet.

Captain Omen still remembered the thirst after it had been lost. Days of it, as crew members from the various ships filtered aboard the Seoul for their meager rations. 

Everybody took the hit, especially the captain. 

It fosters loyalty during times of hardship to see the highest among you suffering equally, after all. When their rations had been cut in half, his had been reduced to a third.

The various aliens his ship and fleet had picked up had all proven trustworthy, but Captain Omen had preferred to use humans from Earth whenever possible. He refused to call it ‘Nu-Earth,’ and bristled anytime one of his crew used the moniker. It was disrespectful, a very American way to refer to the planet, in his opinion.

The fleet had gathered, piece by piece, over the five weeks since BuyMort’s arrival. Captain Omen had upgraded from his former vessel the very first day, abandoning the North Korean government. 

He was no simple enlisted man, filled with propaganda and crystal meth. 

Captain Omen knew what North Korea would become, and what its immediate neighbors would become.

So many of those people he’d saved, in the years since he’d begun the enormous task of smuggling humans out of the oppressive dictatorship, died when war between the Korea’s wiped out Seoul and its suburbs, in a rapid, desperate war.

He doubted Pyongyang fared any better. The initial nuclear blasts were followed by an immediate, and angry extermination of all remaining North Korean military. Hiding at the bottom of the sea in the dark with all his engines shut down, pretending to be a stone, is all that saved him in those first desperate hours. There was nothing of any worth he could do, his fellow soldiers were hopelessly outdated. Their gear and training wholly substandard, a mockery of proper military service.

At the orders of a madman, they’d killed half of Sourth Korea, and South Korea killed them whole-sale in return. The peninsula became a ruin.

Instead of despair, Jeonjo had felt resolution. Those lives, his life, had all been practice. Expertise for a time of greater need for all mankind. He scavenged the shattered remains of both Koreas, selling everything he could find that hadn’t been claimed by a MortBlock, and used the funds to buy a new submarine. With it, the WHS Seol, he had set off in search of survivors.

The new submarine was an impressive machine. Its design originated on another version of earth, one where the seas were much harsher. It came equipped with an aqua-compressive shield that could be used to divert incoming projectiles, dissuade large animal attacks, and even protect the vessel against explosives by hardening the molecular structure of the water around it to form temporary armor.

Captain Omen placed a hand against the bulkhead and listened to the sea, and the ship. The intermingling of the two, now familiar vibrational patterns that could be used to gauge general states. 

It felt so different from his diesel. 

With the water shield around the vessel, Captain Omen had initially expected the ocean to be silent, but instead it sang through the bulkheads clearer than ever. Almost as if the two were one. The diesel had been a foreign object in the water. This submarine, a natural ally. 

All was well. 

The seas around the world were still angry, but they had begun to calm already. The danger of the earthquakes was past, for the moment. His ship, and his fleet, were ready for what lay ahead. Ready for the test, now forced on them, of crossing the Pacific, hopefully sneaking past their great foe in the Marianas Trench system.

The man smiled softly, before removing his hand and resuming his stern glare. The mess hall was his next stop, and it was always good for the crew to see the captain judging them. To remind each of them exactly how serious their mission was.

Fourteen thousand souls floated along behind the Whalehunter, in various vessels. Each had the ability to submerge, or move at speed on the surface, but few enough were armed. Certainly none were armed as well as the Whalehunter.

Captain Omen halted at the door to the mess, stiffening his already rail straight backbone before the door scanned him and slid open. He was not used to having so much room to move on board a submarine, and instinctively raised his feet higher than needed to cross the threshold.

The television was on, blaring church news to his crew. Captain Omen slid unnoticed to the back of the gathered crowd and sat down at an empty booth. All eyes were glued to the psychic television, as they were anytime the man in the mirrored helmet made an appearance.

The unkillable Tyson Dawes. Window-puncher, they called him. Captain Omen scoffed silently, eyes narrowed. What such a buffoon was doing running a nation-state was beyond him. But the man sat among a panel of high level representatives from the various major players involved in the latest Nu-Earth scandal. He was powerful, and he played games with dangerous opponents.

“I hired a specialist team. As part of my responsibility to the church, and to Dearth’s investments in the area, which I have had to take over operation of,” Tyson said. He was seated, shirtless, a cybernetic device shining from his chest. He sat in a chair at a round table in front of a large screen, with three other representatives. One for the church, one for Dearth, and a host from the network.

An extraordinarily beautiful female Nah’gh had begun hosting round table conversations around the time this chrome-headed fool had taken Arizona away from Dearth. Captain Omen had dealt with Dearth before, first in self-defense, then begrudgingly in trade. 

He could not fault the man for taking their elevator away from them. But he never wore a shirt, displaying that obscene metal starfish to the entire multiverse like a holstered sidearm.

“Brash,” Captain Omen thought, crossing his arms. “Arrogant.”

You are reading story BuyMort: Rise of the Windowpuncher – How I Became the Accidental Warlord of Arizona. Apocalyptic GameLit at novel35.com

“Another artful dodge, warlord,” the Nah’gh host flirted. Her face was enhanced with makeup, causing her dark green scales to sparkle in the studio lighting when she smiled. “But you didn’t answer the question. How, specifically, did you stop the tsunami?”

“I can’t answer the question, because I don’t know exactly how my specialist team did their job and stopped the tsunami. They came with a high enough price-tag, I can tell you that,” Tyson replied. 

Canned laughter filled the studio and Tyson rolled his eyes before sitting back down.

Another woman, an orc in church robes shook her hooded head. Gilded lower tusks glinted as she sat forward to speak. “Of course, if we were to ask about this specialist team that can stop a five hundred meter tsunami dead in its tracks, you would suddenly be forthcoming with details, I’m sure,” she scoffed.

“Who sharpened your tusks?” Tyson asked casually.

The church representative bristled.

“No, seriously, I love detailed work like that. It’s excellent, I can see the razor’s edge from here. Tell me each and every detail about your specialist, please. Right here on multiversal television for all to see.” 

The chrome plated human spread his arms, a movement that belayed both real-talk and a sense of animated belligerence. 

“You make strange demands of honest affiliate owners, Drel’vaga, I’ve told you that before. We should get together sometime, have a cup of mush-bug tea, and figure out why we don’t get along, I just cannot understand it. Silken Sands and the church of BuyMort are friends, we should be too.”

“This is not helping any of us understand why Silken Sands has violently invaded, and taken, Dearth Conglomerate property, yet again,” a stiff-necked dark elf wearing a narrow-waisted, pinstriped suit interrupted. He wore spectacles over his red eyes and straightened his thin, black tie. 

“The story here is not about Silken Sands rescuing the Pacific west coast from the result of an attack on us all, it is about the open aggression this affiliate displays against its neighbors, in direct contradiction with public statements from you and your spokespeople.”

“I’ve told you before, The Dearth Conglomerate is a valued trading partner for Silken Sands. Check with your finance department if you don’t believe me. Our trade volume has increased by over a million morties this last month alone. We do not act in aggression against our trading partners. That would interfere with aforementioned trade, and the smooth operation of the elevator we all rely on to move cargo off-world. Every mortie saved by using that elevator instead of BuyMort’s transport costs is profit for every single affiliate that uses it. That’s the entire Nu-Earth market we’re talking about here. What you accuse us of is overt nonsense,” Tyson said. 

He shook his chromed mask and sat back. “The question of competence and corruption for certain Nu-Earth boards is a serious one, however. Just look at what happened here.”

The human sat forward, leaning on the glass table they all gathered around. “Dearth forces, strictly from the former Southern West Coast Board, attacked a church facility on Silken Sands property. Silken Sands’ response may have upset some folk at Dearth, but I have to wonder how upset the church is going to be, given the close relationship between all our affiliates. Kidnapping attempts on honored church personnel are a serious matter.”

Tyson sat back again, turning his mirrored head to the beautiful Nah’gh host. “Shalla? Would you play the footage Silken Sands has provided?”

She flicked her tongue out and back in, smiling. “Of course.”

The screen behind them lit up, camera footage showed a palatial estate on the bank of a lake. BlueCleave hobbs had black-armored Dearth forces on their knees outside the main gate, in zip-ties. Behind them, a smoldering hovercraft burned in the desert.

“Now, this is Fumble-Bee footage, am I correct in saying that?” Shalla asked.

“Yes of course.” The chrome helmet bobbed in agreement.

“Which means it hasn’t been altered in any way, for the fans at home,” the host said, turning in her chair to face the screen.

“What you doing here?” grunted a BlueCleave hobb.

One of the prisoners, a human male, blinked and sighed. “We had orders to extract Garthirst.”

The footage blinked off and the Dearth representative opened his mouth with a chiding click of his tongue. “Such specific footage, lacking context. There is no way to ascertain who was behind the orders he speaks of, or even if this man was pressured into repeating a captor's lie.”

“Garthirst, son of Garthrust, whom you killed,” said Drel’vaga.

“Now, hold on. Garthrust betrayed the church, and Dearth. He drugged a priest of BuyMort and ordered her death. My operations manager has already provided the BuyMortMercMart receipts, we know for a fact that Garthrust hired mercenaries to kill Molls Shevelanth, Silken Sands’ church representative. I tried to stop him without resorting to such violence, but he forced my hand. Twice, I might add. I showed restraint, out of respect for the church and all Orkreshi,” Tyson said, one hand to his chest.

“He corrupted two members of a Nu-Earth board and put the elevator at risk with his actions, which means he put everyone’s affiliates at risk, if you’re part of the Nu-Earth market. Taking Garthrust’s life was unfortunate, and necessary, to prevent any further damage to both the church, and Dearth. He also happened to have been trying to take my own life at the time. I deeply regret that it came to blood, and hope to one day help you see that, Drel’vaga,” Tyson finished. He nodded slowly as he sat back, in sync with the flirtatious Nah’gh host.

“Now Dearth is attacking his son’s compound, which I took as an attack on the church itself,” Tyson finished.

“The church does not own the MortBlock for that territory,” Drel’vaga protested.

“Silken Sands has had to keep most of that, out of security concerns, I’ve explained that before. It is a temporary situation, which I am operating at great personal expense in order to provide a young Orkreshi the time he needs to properly grieve his father,” Tyson answered, hands raised defensively. 

“He refuses to leave the world his father died on and is in no shape to manage his own defenses, let alone make public appearances. Arizona is still a dangerous place, and this is the way we respect his personal wishes for privacy while ensuring he has the safety required to heal, and one day reclaim his father’s lost honor. The boy has expressed a keen interest in that task to me personally. Garthirst himself has an entire building’s worth of MortBlock coverage, of course, but I cannot tolerate the risk to his person that wide-spread external MortBlock ownership would represent at this point. It’s the same with the MortMobile coverage blackout and the no-fly zone, they’re all in place for Garthirst’s and the church’s protection,” Tyson finished with a sigh.

The Dearth Conglomerate delf shook his head. “Distraction and deception, Garthrust’s actions are not under debate here. And honestly, neither is Silken Sands. The Kraken Corporation has a great deal to answer for in the Nu-Earth market. They are the primary cause behind the earthquakes, the tsunamis, and the disruption to everyone’s affiliates.”

“I don’t know,” the host, Shalla said. “Seems to fit the pattern Silken Sands has been laying out for us all the last month. This conflict between affiliates does not seem as simple as Dearth might like it to sound.” 

She spun to face the camera, scaled breasts pressed upward from her suit jacket to face the camera. “More on the Kraken Corporation’s response to these allegations shortly. We’ll return after these messages.”

You can find story with these keywords: BuyMort: Rise of the Windowpuncher – How I Became the Accidental Warlord of Arizona. Apocalyptic GameLit, Read BuyMort: Rise of the Windowpuncher – How I Became the Accidental Warlord of Arizona. Apocalyptic GameLit, BuyMort: Rise of the Windowpuncher – How I Became the Accidental Warlord of Arizona. Apocalyptic GameLit novel, BuyMort: Rise of the Windowpuncher – How I Became the Accidental Warlord of Arizona. Apocalyptic GameLit book, BuyMort: Rise of the Windowpuncher – How I Became the Accidental Warlord of Arizona. Apocalyptic GameLit story, BuyMort: Rise of the Windowpuncher – How I Became the Accidental Warlord of Arizona. Apocalyptic GameLit full, BuyMort: Rise of the Windowpuncher – How I Became the Accidental Warlord of Arizona. Apocalyptic GameLit Latest Chapter