Chapter 300
Chapter 300
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 300
Chapter Title: Infiltration (3)
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In Cult society, the position of Knowledge Custodian commands considerable prestige.
The Knowledge Custodian's role is to assist the captain in ensuring the ship completes its mission safely.
To perform this duty, they acquire vast knowledge spanning numerous fields. They also master psychic techniques that allow them to exchange that knowledge with fellow Knowledge Custodians.
Even among the Cults, who possess potent psychic abilities, becoming a Knowledge Custodian is no simple task. It demands years of relentless effort to earn the honor of undertaking this sacred responsibility.
As such, the title of Knowledge Custodian is one of great honor, quite apart from its importance. Though the formal rank falls below that of captain or Warrior Commander, its prestige stands equal to theirs.
Charaas, the Knowledge Custodian assigned to the Aur Sector Surveillance Bureau, enjoyed the full respect of the ship's crew. More than once or twice, her insight had steered the vessel clear of peril.
Unlike the crew's view, however, Charaas placed little stock in her profession. To her, it was merely one stepping stone in her long life.
Her true ambition was a seat in the Imperial Assembly.
With no faction to back her—just the plain goat horns of a commoner—that was her only path forward.
'Not much longer now.'
Since boarding a vessel in the Surveillance Bureau's elite fleet, she had racked up several key achievements. A few months back, that had earned her an overture from the Providence Faction, one of Verzan-02's most prominent groups.
Would she care to join them, if she had any stake in the Empire's future?
'The Providence Faction's not a bad place to start.'
After Jason, the faction's leader, took the fall for the "Saigil-08 Catastrophe" and was ousted, they had suffered a severe setback. Lately, however, whispers of the Outspacers' grand invasion had begun circulating in the Assembly, breathing new life into their cause.
The Providence Faction's central tenet: to uphold divine providence and safeguard the Empire's security, overwhelming military might must be wielded without hesitation. They stood in direct opposition to the Innovation Faction's disarmament push, thriving whenever imperial stability wavered.
To Charaas's eye, their prospects looked bright indeed. The intelligence she'd gathered in her duties painted a grim picture—not just for the Empire, but for the universe at large, teetering on the brink of chaos.
The Mega Corp space city's destruction. Star Union's brazen show of force. The recent "Kesha Arma" crash. Unheard-of calamities were piling up in rapid succession.
The takeaway: as cosmic disorder mounted, the Providence Faction's call for providence enforced at gunpoint would gain traction. Their ascendancy seemed set to endure for some time.
'Perfect for a rookie like me who needs solid political credentials.'
She savored rosy visions of her future for a moment, then buckled back down to work.
The ship she crewed was holding position at the site of the unidentified magnetic anomaly, ready to investigate any recurrence.
Beyond the vessel's primary orders, the Surveillance Bureau had tasked her separately: they were scrutinizing her links to the "Three-Headed Devil," so she needed to keep compiling and forwarding data.
Only after hours of nonstop labor did she wrap up. She dispatched the curated reports via the transmission arts exclusive to Knowledge Custodians.
'Maybe grab a drink.'
Her head pounded from the psychic overexertion. Nothing hit the spot like a Verzan-02 cocktail.
Charaas stepped out, fancying the cocktail's sweet tang. She felt no regrets about leaving this ship—save for the bar's exquisite house cocktails.
She navigated the geometrically adorned corridors to the unmanned lounge and ordered her usual Verzan-02 blend.
Exhaustion from the workload? The headache? Whatever the cause, she drank more than usual. She left the bar with a pleasant buzz in place of the throbbing pain.
Headache gone, her night boiled down to crawling into bed.
'Ah.'
All but for one loose end.
'Meteor strike on the turret, right?'
Situation room chatter that afternoon: a rock had clipped Turret 15's outer hull, tripping the barrier safeguards. No word from the gunner on duty—she'd let it slip her mind.
'Annoying, but...'
Tech crews had likely sorted it by now, but verification was prudent. She couldn't afford any hiccups before sealing her Providence Faction deal.
She pivoted toward the Shield Management Office, overseers of the ship's barriers and shields. Where the Warrior Unit tangled with boarders in melee, this team defended the hull itself.
Her steps a touch unsteady, she traversed the corridor to the office.
No crew in sight here, just as at the bar. Most had turned in for the cycle.
"......"
The passage looked unchanged from her trip to the lounge—same layout, merely different geometric motifs etched into the bulkheads.
Yet unease slithered up her spine.
Every inch of this ship was an open book to her. Cameras lurked within those distinctive wall patterns.
The situation room tracked them live—she knew that full well. Still, dread pierced her skull like an awl.
Something unspeakable waited beyond the glaring lights.
The thought doused her buzz like ice water.
'Something's off.'
A Cult versed in myriad psychic arts, she trusted such instincts never fired without cause.
She fumbled a wall motif. Click—it reshaped, ejecting a compact communicator wired straight to the Internal Surveillance Team's corridor feeds.
"This is midway to the Shield Management Office. Anyone else on this stretch?"
"Internal Surveillance. You're alone, Custodian. Clear for two hours straight."
"Two full hours?"
"Affirmative. Trouble?"
"Negative. All good."
"We'll monitor closely regardless."
"Appreciated. Good cycle."
Only their assurance—no one else in the corridor—eased her nerves. Short of a total camera blackout, it rang true.
The spinal chill receded. But fresh trouble nagged her.
'What the hell is that smell?'
An alien stench saturated the air, utterly unfamiliar in her lifetime.
Indescribably grotesque. Like incorporeal vermin burrowing inward, it invaded her nostrils and throat.
The reek thickened with proximity to the Shield Management Office.
'...Check fast and bail.'
Buzz evaporated, she jogged the rest of the way.
The odor aside, nothing else seemed amiss. She arrived unscathed.
The door parted; motion sensors blazed the interior aglow. Technicians gone two hours prior, per Surveillance—no one inside.
She scanned the console posthaste. Shields and barriers checked out clean. Techs must've quietly fixed gunner 15's no-show report.
'Whoever dropped the ball gets an earful tomorrow...'
Vexed by that gunner's negligence, she powered down the terminal.
Then—a noise tickled her ear.
"!"
She spun, heart leaping. Bright lights revealed only dormant Cult consoles. Nothing else.
"Mishe..."
No sooner the doubt than it repeated: like metal struts clattering on deck plating, several at once.
Charaas clocked it instantly—hard legs, multiples, scraping alloy.
There: between consoles, a shadow dwarfing a Cult skull skittered free on elongated limbs.
'Hal, hallucinating?'
Throat dry, she pooled psychic energy in her palm. Next glimpse, she'd vaporize it.
"......!"
It came again. Multi-legged silhouette darted through the console maze.
'Out—now!'
Not every Knowledge Custodian mastered combat. She knew her limits best—bolted for the hatch.
Sudden: a nearby console pitched forward, unbidden. She unleashed her queued Psychic Impact.
Whoomp—air ruptured; the blast fizzled harmlessly. Then, from behind the toppled unit, a figure sprang up, hands high.
"Do-don't shoot!"
The Cult male from nowhere nearly drew a shriek from her.
"You?"
"I'm-I’m the turret gunner."
"Number 15?"
"Y-yes! I slipped in earlier to fix it before you showed, Custodian. Was wrapping up to ghost out when—you showed..."
He wore the gunner jumpsuit, as claimed.
"No formal report, skulking around like this? You right in the head?"
"New to the post—my mistake. Sorry."
"Won't cut it with me. Discipline board first thing tomorrow..."
Grotesque skittering cut her off. Both heads snapped toward it.
"Wh-what was that? You hear it?"
Backup present, her calculus shifted.
'Nail this, and...'
No Surveillance ping. She'd leverage this fool to bag the win.
He'd snuck in—couldn't claim squat. His kill, her credit. One more feather pre-Providence.
"Unknown organism loose in here somewhere."
"Huh?"
"Assist now. Clean resolution, and I'll lighten your punishment."
"R-right!"
He looked hopeless, flailing. But gunners drilled basic combat. Militarily, he'd outmatch her.
"Sound's from the tool locker."
The panel hung ajar, as she said. No glow inside—just inky void.
"Light up?"
"N-not my forte..."
She conjured her own psychic glow, probing the locker.
Floor chaos: toppled crates, tools strewn. No marauder in sight.
"Spot it, end it."
"Roger."
"And no idiot yelps like before..."
"Ma'am?"
Their exchange clicked something wrong. She clamped her jaw.
"Can't spark light, you said?"
"Eh? Right."
"Lights auto-fired on my entry. Before that, in pitch black, you..."
He'd admitted no light craft.
Meaning: console fiddles blind.
Even lights-off for stealth, anomalies lingered.
Surveillance: corridor dead for two hours.
So: two hours dark, him and the thing—what?
"Ah. The lights."
As if it'd slipped his mind.
No.
'It', cloaked in gunner 15's husk, spoke.
The Shield Management Office harbored multiples.