Chapter 643: Hideout

The shuttle’s engines ignited, and dazzling rings of light spread from the edges of the anti-gravity generator, rippling through the ever-misty atmosphere of the Gray Dwarf Star. The lightweight aircraft slipped through a radar blind spot at the edge of the city, then accelerated along a beam of sunlight toward orbit.

Old Joe felt a lot of strange “noise” in his logic chips—thoughts and emotions that didn’t seem to belong to him were stirring inside his mind. They brought unease and lingering doubt, making him more and more irritable.

He attributed these “glitches” to damage sustained during his earlier clash with that bizarre giant—and the impact from being thrown to the ground by that “little animal.”

He had to finish repairing this shell as soon as possible.

The thought pounded through his mind over and over, even temporarily drowning out the other chaotic ideas churning in his head.

But questions still arose from time to time—was Luo really dead?

At first, the question only flickered through Old Joe’s mind when the shuttle took off. But as time passed, this sudden unease only grew stronger, making him subconsciously replay the situation over and over, reviewing every detail of the ambush from the beginning.

He realized he hadn’t actually seen Luo die. In the instant the bunker and the shield behind it collapsed, the flash of gunfire and smoke had blocked his view. Then the incendiary bombs raining from above and that giant snake-woman who had appeared out of nowhere interrupted everyone’s attention on the target.

Old Joe slammed the console in front of him, cursing every vicious curse he could think of.

But he no longer had the courage to return to that dark lost city to search for Luo—he had already lost a huge number of clone troopers, drones, and walkers down there. And this was, after all, the Gray Dwarf Star, a planet with a complex situation where countless military groups were entangled. Those raiders and warlord factions all considered this star their sphere of influence. He couldn’t deploy any more ground forces to this planet anymore.

At least not in the short term.

What’s more, Luo’s current trump cards were unclear. At first, she had acted like a stray dog, hiding in a cozy nest in the upper city with only a few personal guards. But now he thought about it, she had probably been playing a role from the very beginning… That bitch really had lost a Pioneer Laboratory and a large number of troops, but clearly, during the days she was captured by the Borderlands, she… had obtained some other “help.”

He had been careless.

The shuttle broke through the atmosphere, crossed the vast and cold darkness, found the frigate parked at a secret “dark harbor,” and then quietly slipped into the frigate’s hangar.

After boarding, Old Joe immediately scanned the personnel on the frigate and plugged himself into the ship’s main computer to confirm the status of the entire vessel.

He trusted no one—not only the clone troopers loyal to him, but even the AI systems on his own ship.

He would never let his true body come into contact with those dangerous “potential traitors” outside, and even when interacting with the outside world using avatars, he was extra cautious.

Only after confirming everything was normal did he let out a slight sigh of relief, then ordered the frigate to jump directly away from this star.

The priority was to leave first. Everything else could be dealt with in the long run.

The ship slowly accelerated from the departure point of the dark harbor, received a secondary boost near the large jump bridge, and the entire vessel rapidly collapsed into a phantom in real dimensions before disappearing into space.

It flew straight into the depths of the Dark Meteor Domain, transferring between a series of hidden jump points. Midway, it used forged stargate jump codes to make several more jumps through illegal stargates built by the Black Spot Group or certain large warlord factions. After an unknown number of jumps and “stargate leaps,” the small frigate finally emerged from the edge of an ancient gravitational collapse point, returning to normal space.

This was a desolate and dark stretch of space, silent on all local channels—not even the most resourceful black-space captains or smugglers had ever discovered this place. A dying dark-yellow star floated in space, surrounded by only two barren and ugly rocky planets. Beyond the orbits of those two planets was a sparse asteroid belt, where broken celestial fragments slowly drifted under the star’s gravitational pull, along with a few unstable ice clouds shrouding the belt.

The frigate flew straight into the depths of the asteroid belt, finally arriving beside a large “rock” that looked like a piece of space debris—pockmarked, metallic, and gleaming.

Suddenly, lights appeared on a certain area of the rock’s surface, and then a navigation light beam over ten kilometers long projected into space.

Two small frigates and space fighters emerged from the surrounding darkness, but after identity verification, they quickly retreated back into the shadows. Old Joe piloted the ship through a hatch on the surface of that “space rock,” which silently closed. The holographic projection around the hatch flickered a few times, hiding everything again.

Bright, pale lights illuminated the long corridor. Cold metal textures surrounded everything. The tall, imposing metal body walked into the airlock, passed through a series of connecting passageways, and walked alone into the base.

Only in this familiar and safe environment did Old Joe finally fully relax.

He scratched his shoulder, which had started itching again for some reason, and headed straight for a certain room in the base.

All systems were running automatically, responding strictly to the master’s habits—the lights adjusted their intensity, the nearby walls changed their color and surface texture, and the equipment in the room had already started up on its own before the master entered.

Old Joe walked into the communications room. The holographic projection device in the center of the room was already lit, and a faintly glowing communication interface displayed an “encrypted” tag. The processed, blurry image flickered slightly.

“We are hoping for good news,” came a monotone, synthetic voice from the communicator.

Old Joe walked up to the projection device and, as if venting, pressed both hands heavily onto the console: “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. That woman is more troublesome than you imagined…”

“Your imagination, not ours.” The voice from the communicator was notably calm.

“It doesn’t matter,” Old Joe’s metal face contorted into a stiff, sarcastic smile. “Anyway, she’s ready to laugh at your expense—this is what you deserve for hiding key intelligence from me.”

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the communication: “…What do you mean?”

“How about we start with that ‘out-of-control’ incident on your side?” Old Joe’s mouth curled upward. “‘A great void sufficient to make angels descend’—that’s not what you told me before. You said everything was under control, you just needed the raw data of the Zorda Black Stone to optimize the charging process of the ‘Gate of Eden.’ You acted so relaxed. Good thing I had my suspicions earlier…”

This time, the silence on the other end lasted longer. In the flickering, blurry image, figures seemed to be whispering to each other. After a long while, the processed voice came out of the speaker: “This is an internal matter of the Church. It does not affect the transaction between us. We only need that data—for which the price can be adjusted again.

“Now, we need an accurate answer—are you still capable of completing this transaction?”

The living metal coating on Old Joe’s face twitched a few times. After temporarily muting the microphone, he cursed viciously: “…Fucking bunch of cultist idiots, uncivilized low-life organisms, no wonder you live like inhuman monsters wallowing in a cesspool…”

Then he unmuted the microphone and spoke through gritted teeth: “The deal can continue, but I need some time to prepare again. The ‘negotiations’ with the target have broken down. Now I’ll have to use other methods to deal with her.”

“Very good. We trust in your ability and commitment.”

The mechanized voice came from the other end of the communication, but just before the call ended, Old Joe suddenly spoke again, this time with an even colder tone: “Listen, I took a huge risk this time. I even sacrificed my future in the Black Spot Group to complete this deal… I don’t mean anything else, I just need to remind you that your problem is bigger right now.”

“…We are all taking what we need,” the voice from the communicator seemed to suffer some interference, crackling with noise. “Don’t worry. The Path of the Holy will record everyone’s merits and faults. All contributions will be rewarded on the day of reckoning.”

The voice faded. The holographic projection above the large device flickered a few times and gradually dimmed.

Old Joe stared at the faint glow lingering in the air for a few seconds, then let out a dissatisfied grunt from his chest.

He withdrew his hands from the console, but as he lifted them, he frowned in confusion, looking at his palms, then at the console.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but when he had lifted his hands just now, he felt his palms were a little… sticky.

As if they had been stuck.

He checked, but found no sticky substance on his hands, and the surface of the console was also clean.

Perplexed, Old Joe scratched his shoulder again, which had started itching, then began scratching his chest, arms, and lower back.

The strange “itch” spread everywhere, making him irritable.

The equipment lights in the room flickered unnaturally. The ventilation duct let out a sound like a wheeze, as if someone had tracheitis. The surveillance camera in the corner slowly adjusted its angle, the cold lens inside the protective casing staring at Old Joe’s bald metal head.

Sensing something, Old Joe suddenly looked up at the corner, but found nothing.

His irritation grew. He muttered a few words under his breath, turned, and left the room, crossing the hallway outside to another brightly lit area.

When he was in a bad mood, he would come here to admire the art he had created and relax.

The sliding doors in the wall hissed softly. The lifting mechanism on the ceiling descended gently. Display cases buried under the floor rose from the far end of the room, and a gentle Algradi melody came from the speakers in the corner.

Old Joe sat down on the sofa in the center of the room, leaned back contentedly, a satisfied smile on his face as he admired the “art” he had meticulously crafted and carefully maintained.

Those robust limbs, beautiful eyeballs, smooth skin, and healthy spines.