Mob No. 126: “Things smell fishy lately. Be careful.”
While waiting for González’s spirits to recover, I sat on a chair in the corner of the pharmacy. Almost immediately, the next patient arrived.
Another old man—but this one seemed normal, handing over a prescription without fuss.
González, without showing any sign of weariness, replied,
“Understood. Please wait a moment.”
Then he headed to the compounding room in the back and began preparing the old man’s medication.
Even though he’s a pharmacist, actual compounding is rare. His main job is to measure and dispense pre-made medications according to prescriptions, ensuring no mistakes in dosage or duration.
Of course, he can compound when needed, but it’s not frequent.
In fact, large hospital pharmacies are almost entirely automated—handling everything from compounding to portioning—so pharmacists there just input prescriptions without errors.
Still, giving the wrong medicine or miscalculating quantities could cost lives, so his expression was deadly serious.
Once the medication was ready:
“Mr. Suárez, your prescription is ready.”
Though he probably thought nothing of it, his cyborg-enhanced beauty made his smile dazzling.
No wonder Levin got hooked…
After that, patients kept coming in rapid succession.
Most were elderly, but there were also young men and women, parents with kids, and even students.
By the time he finished dispensing to everyone, about an hour and a half had passed.
González, figuring there’d be a lull, temporarily closed the pharmacy.
Finally, I could get to my real objective.
“So, you’re not here for medicine, right?”
Tiredly chugging a bottle of lemonade, González turned the conversation to me.
“Yeah. I need intel on the pirates—no, the privateers—that’ve been increasing lately. Also, the security situation around the border.”
I placed a cash-filled envelope on the counter.
“I found one lead earlier, but I’ll dig deeper and give you everything together.”
Stashing the envelope, González plugged a cable into the port on the back of his neck, closed his eyes, and went still.
About an hour and a half later, he moved again.
Unplugging the cable and finishing his lemonade, he began relaying what he’d gathered.
“First, the conclusion: Nekirelma is using military ships disguised as privateers for commerce raiding. The military and the guilds already know this. They’re spread out, mostly near the border. But… if commerce raiding was the goal, why push deeper into our territory?”
“If they’re using warships, they’re not really hiding it.”
“Second—this is older intel—but they’re searching for a combat craft that fires a crimson beam. The one you saw on the battlefield.”
“That thing…?”
“They’ll take the pilot, steal the machine, whatever. Either works.”
Yeah, that’s impossible.
Given Miss Gerhilde’s personality, anyone trying to board uninvited would get vaporized.
Still—why was Miss Gerhilde with the 7th Fleet?
Logically, someone she liked must’ve been there.
Given Rear Admiral Salamas-Toonchid’s high approval ratings, it’s plausible.
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“Next, rising anti-nobility and anti-emperor sentiment among imperial citizens. Those activist groups lately.”
“But those guys have been around forever, right?”
They hadn’t been as flashy before, but these groups—or whatever they were—existed long before we were born.
“They’re being funded now. And through them, Nekirelma’s making contact with the remaining anti-emperor nobles in the empire.”
“After already failing once?”
“Not sure if it’s because of that failure or despite it. Either way, the nobles are hated by citizens and activists alike.”
“Shortages, arrogant nobles, simmering public anger—eventually, it’ll explode. And they want to be the ones holding the match.”
“Doubt it’ll work.”
“Chancellor Kaiese Dowin seems to think so.”
“Reminds me of our student council president back in the day.”
“Oh yeah… painfully earnest. Hard to forget.”
Both of us pictured that suspiciously intense guy with his shady speeches—and the overzealous, unpopular student council president.
“So, you heading to the border?”
“Mmm… I don’t wanna do long-term patrols. Two-week temp gig at most.”
Leaving my apartment empty too long feels risky, and honestly, I just don’t wanna stay out there.
“Things smell fishy lately. Be careful.”
“I know. Later.”
After that generic farewell, I left the pharmacy.
The next day.
The job I picked up at the mercenary guild looked like this:
Job Details: Patrol/security duty in the Zanzaha sector, starting from Planet Gulpei.
Duration: 2 weeks (Galactic Standard Time).
Shift System: 8-hour shifts, 16-hour standby/rest (3 rotations).
Conditions: Free lodging (capsule hotel-style) in the management colony. Free meals provided.
Starship fuel supplied.
Requirements:Must bring your own ship.
Repair costs for ship damage are your responsibility.
Must respond to emergencies even during standby.
No leaving the colony during standby.
Payment:Base: 700,000 credits (flat rate).Bonus for combat engagements.
An easy job—if no fights break out. But odds are high they will.
According to old man Loans, a lot of people are taking it, even some Royal-Class types.
“Doubt it’s patriotism. Royals get way higher pay for patrols—no wonder they’re eager.”
He muttered this while processing my paperwork.
“Wish one would come to my sector…”
“That’s unusually starstruck of you.”
“Makes the job easier.”
With a Royal around, enemies would either get crushed or avoid the area entirely.
Might be a cowardly thought for a merc, but it’s true.
“When’re you heading out?”
“Tonight. Got a few things left to prep, but I’ll be done by then.”
“Alright. Come say goodbye before you leave.”
“Got it.”
After that exchange with Loans, I left the guild and headed to [Anime Member].
Gotta grab some new books if I can.
Wonder if Cursed Death Battles has a new volume out…?
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