Watching teams of automated lifters pull cargo from his massive freighter, Cenk idly scrolled through local buy and sell orders, hoping to find something worth moving on. Not bothering with the small-time or short-term “deals” vying for his attention, he sipped his coffee and wondered how the war was waging at home.
He heard the regular broadcasts of The Scope, same as everyone, but often it seemed they were regurgitating PR fluff pieces more than doing any real investigation. While men and women died and were reborn on the front lines, in “civilized” space victory was won or lost by marketing.
Cenk flew no discernible flags on his ship, hailed from nowhere near the explosive Southwest regions, yet all of his efforts went to keeping his side of the conflict supplied. Day in and day out he transported billions of ISK worth of goods between trade hubs, making the most of razor-thin margins. The sheer number of contracts he fulfilled should have made him a rich man, but almost every cent was funneled back home – to a home he had never seen.
Caught up in the adrenaline rush of ship to ship combat, the front lines rarely thought of where their ships came from, he mused. They were ignorant the sheer amount of logistics it took to ensure a constant supply of raw material and components made their way to the legion of builders that churned out the weapons of war. Every maket trade was an opportunity to come out ahead or behind, and his successes or failures would trickle down the supply chain, compounding at every step.
Catching the latest holovid release from the front, he continued to mull over his next moves, all calculated to help the war effort, no matter how far away.
