Corporate War

The First Corporate War

, waged between 2004 and 2006, marked the beginning of a new era in the world’s economic and political structure. It was the first large-scale conflict fought not between nations, but between powerful multinational corporations—specifically Euro Business Machines (EBM) and Orbital Air. This war laid the foundation for the rise of direct corporate militarization and aggressive tactics that would become common in later decades.   The conflict began with EBM's attempt to execute a leveraged buyout of Transworld Airlines (TWA), a floundering but still strategically valuable airline company. TWA controlled critical air traffic facilities and infrastructure, making it a high-value acquisition. EBM opened negotiations with TWA's CEO in 2004, intending to absorb the company and its assets into their expanding portfolio. However, the negotiations unexpectedly collapsed. Unbeknownst to EBM, Orbital Air had been making its own backroom deals, aiming to purchase TWA for its air traffic control capabilities, which would enhance Orbital Air’s expanding aerospace operations.   When EBM discovered that Orbital Air had deliberately sabotaged its acquisition effort, the corporation retaliated. Rather than go through legal or business channels, EBM covertly hired a terrorist group to intercept and kidnap Orbital Air’s corporate negotiation team as they traveled to finalize their agreement with TWA. The kidnapping attempt failed, and within weeks, intelligence leaks and deep net investigations revealed EBM’s direct involvement in orchestrating the attack.   Orbital Air responded swiftly and decisively. They aligned themselves with Zetatech, a rising technology firm with advanced netrunning capabilities. Zetatech launched a sweeping net assault against EBM’s data infrastructure, trying to cripple their operations and publicly humiliate the company. But EBM had invested heavily in net security and countermeasures. Their digital defense was strong enough not only to withstand Zetatech’s attacks but also to trace and counter them effectively, eventually forcing Zetatech to withdraw from the conflict.   With cyberwarfare proving insufficient, both EBM and Orbital Air escalated the conflict. They began targeting each other's physical assets. This included acts of sabotage, corporate espionage, and direct strikes carried out by highly trained corporate solos and third-world mercenaries acting as proxies. The battlefield expanded across the globe and into space. Corporate terrorism became commonplace, with both sides using underhanded tactics to undermine one another—planting bombs, bribing officials, and launching covert assassination operations. The financial cost of the war was staggering, with both corporations bleeding hundreds of millions of Eurodollars over the course of the conflict.   The first major battle in the war took place in low Earth orbit. After EBM successfully hijacked and seized control of one of Orbital Air’s orbital facilities, Orbital Air retaliated. Their elite commandos launched a daring space assault, boarding and capturing an EBM space station. This exchange of orbital strikes outraged the European Space Agency, which condemned both corporations for endangering the integrity of international space agreements and called for a ceasefire in LEO. Their protests, however, had little real impact on the war's progression.   The final and decisive confrontation occurred in 2006. In a coordinated and surgical strike, Orbital Air’s special operations team infiltrated the private compound of EBM’s CEO, Ulf Grunwalder. The compound, located in a heavily guarded location, was thought to be impenetrable. Yet, Orbital Air’s operatives successfully breached the defenses, forced their way inside, and took Grunwalder hostage. The capture of the EBM CEO was a massive humiliation for the company and left it without strong leadership in the middle of an already destabilized infrastructure. Grunwalder was forced to surrender unconditionally, marking the official end of hostilities.   The legacy of the First Corporate War was monumental. It demonstrated that corporations could not only compete with one another economically but could also engage in open warfare to protect or expand their influence. The war served as a case study for future corporate leaders and strategists, proving that military-style engagements were not only possible but could be highly effective in corporate power struggles. In the years that followed, more corporations adopted paramilitary tactics, and corporate conflicts became a regular part of the geopolitical landscape, culminating in even greater and more destructive wars in the decades ahead. The First Corporate War had rewritten the rules of global conflict, replacing treaties and diplomacy with data raids, orbital strikes, and armed commandos.    

The Second Corporate War

, fought between April 2008 and August 2010, was a brutal, wide-reaching armed conflict between two oil megacorporations: Soviet World Oil Incorporation (SovOil) and Petrochem. Where the First Corporate War had already shattered the illusion that corporations would restrain themselves to financial sabotage and covert operations, the Second Corporate War laid bare just how far they were willing to go—igniting naval clashes, military occupations, assassinations, and ecological devastation across the Pacific Rim.   The roots of the conflict can be traced back to 2006, when SovOil entered the CHOOH2 fuel market. CHOOH2 was an alcohol-based, biomass-derived fuel that had effectively replaced fossil fuels in most of the world by the late 1990s. Petrochem had pioneered this energy solution and was the primary global supplier, holding a near-monopoly over its production and infrastructure. When SovOil began developing its own CHOOH2 processes, Petrochem proposed a partnership—offering SovOil advanced drilling and production technologies in exchange for shared rights to Siberia’s vast, mostly untapped oil reserves.   SovOil initially agreed, and negotiations went well into 2007. However, right before the contract was to be finalized, SovOil’s engineers made a game-changing announcement: they had independently developed their own drilling technology, rendering Petrochem’s offer unnecessary. In a swift and deliberate move, SovOil canceled the deal. The rejection created a rift between the two giants, filled with distrust and growing resentment.   Tensions escalated further when both SovOil and Petrochem began expanding their operations into the resource-rich and geopolitically sensitive South China Sea. Skirmishes between contractor fleets and sabotage of logistical routes signaled the rising temperature of the situation. But it wasn't until the explosion of the Petrochem offshore platform Sabina Bravo in April 2008 that war became inevitable. Petrochem accused SovOil of sabotage, claiming the platform had been destroyed by planted explosives. Diplomatic channels between the two corporations broke down completely, as public accusations and counter-accusations flooded the media.   Petrochem retaliated with precision and violence. Their military-trained divers were deployed to sabotage SovOil’s facilities in kind, successfully destroying a major offshore platform. The attack formally began the Second Corporate War. Almost immediately, both sides committed vast private military resources to the conflict, engaging in full-scale naval and aerial warfare. Their focus was clear: destroy each other’s fuel extraction and refinement capabilities.   Within the first few weeks of fighting, the intensity was devastating. Both SovOil and Petrochem lost approximately seventy-five percent of their oil platforms and related infrastructure. The waters of the South China Sea and surrounding regions were littered with wreckage and slick with fuel. The skies were darkened by the smoke of burning refineries. Civilian and commercial shipping was virtually shut down in the region, and several smaller nations that depended on these facilities for power and revenue found themselves thrust into chaos.   SovOil had the initial upper hand. Their fleet, which had departed from Vladivostok, was heavily armed and professionally coordinated, built for both traditional naval operations and sea-to-land bombardments. They began sweeping through Petrochem’s holdings with ruthless efficiency. But Petrochem quickly adapted. In mid-2009, they managed to gain a temporary but critical strategic advantage by capturing the Spratly Island chain—key logistical points in the South China Sea. They also launched one of the most daring operations of the war: the assassination of SovOil’s CEO and founder, Anatoly Novikovo. Using military aircraft covertly provided by the Malaysian government, Petrochem forces tracked and eliminated Novikovo in a targeted strike, hoping to paralyze SovOil’s command structure.   For a time, it worked. SovOil was shaken by the loss of its figurehead, and Petrochem pressed the advantage. But SovOil’s corporate leadership was more resilient than anticipated. In late 2009, they reorganized, tightened their chain of command, and redoubled their efforts. Their forces began systematically pushing Petrochem out of the Spratly Islands, reclaiming ground and restoring their supply lines. Petrochem, after a string of failed offensives and a steadily degrading fleet, began to lose momentum. By early 2010, SovOil had de facto control over the entire South China Sea. Their naval superiority was unchallenged, and Petrochem’s attempts to break the blockade were costly failures.   As the war neared its end, investigations revealed a bitter irony: the original explosion of Petrochem’s Sabina Bravo platform, the incident that had sparked the war, had not been caused by SovOil. It had been an internal accident—likely due to a mechanical failure or poor safety protocols. The war, which had claimed countless lives and wrecked entire ecosystems, had begun over a false assumption.   Both corporations emerged from the war bloodied and scarred. SovOil could claim victory in a territorial and tactical sense, but the cost was incalculable. Both SovOil and Petrochem had flagrantly broken national and international law throughout the conflict. They had conscripted proxy soldiers from Pacific Rim nations, used espionage to manipulate governments, and even installed puppet regimes to protect corporate interests. SovOil, in particular, had operated with complete disregard for sovereign boundaries, engaging in unauthorized military actions and ignoring ceasefire requests. In the aftermath, they were forced to pay reparations to several smaller Pacific nations for damages caused by the war.   The environmental consequences were catastrophic. Entire swaths of the Pacific Rim coastline—especially around the South China Sea—were left blackened by oil, ravaged by fire, and rendered ecologically inert. By 2020, these areas were described by independent observers and environmental scientists as “all but uninhabitable.” The waters remained choked with pollutants, and many aquatic ecosystems collapsed entirely.   The Second Corporate War did more than redraw power lines in the energy sector. It cemented a new global reality: corporations had fully stepped into the role of military superpowers. They no longer relied on national governments to mediate their disputes or protect their interests. With fleets, armies, and access to advanced technology, they could go to war entirely on their own terms, regardless of the human or environmental cost. The Second Corporate War proved, without question, that the age of nation-states was fading—and the age of megacorporations had arrived.    

The Third Corporate War,

spanning from February to November of 2016, was a different beast compared to the violent, high-casualty conflicts that preceded it. Where the First and Second Corporate Wars were characterized by physical confrontations—naval assaults, assassinations, and scorched-earth industrial sabotage—the Third Corporate War played out primarily in the digital world. It was fought in cyberspace, within the sprawling and heavily fortified networks of powerful financial institutions, and it served as a brutal demonstration of how destructive a conflict could be when the battlefield was made of code rather than concrete.   The conflict began quietly, almost incidentally, when examiners from the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce stumbled onto a confidence scheme. These investigators uncovered financial misconduct involving certain investment counselors at Merrill, Asukaga, & Finch—one of the most powerful banking and financial management firms in the world. The scheme in question was targeting private investors through manipulative use of the Rothstein Fund, a subsidiary of the Bank of New York City. The Rothstein Fund, previously a close financial ally of MA&F, was unknowingly being used as leverage in fraudulent dealings.   The Chamber of Commerce immediately passed its findings to the Los Angeles District Attorney's office, which launched an official investigation the very next day. Realizing the implications and likely fallout, the Rothstein Fund took swift action. Eager to clear its name and disassociate from the scandal, it dumped all of its internal documentation on the matter into the DA’s hands. But they didn’t stop there. Rothstein also hired a contingent of independent street netrunners to begin actively infiltrating MA&F’s data fortresses in search of further evidence and leverage. These runners—freelance hackers with powerful black-market tools—were given near-free rein to probe, penetrate, and expose MA&F’s digital secrets.   This move was interpreted by MA&F as a declaration of war. Rather than rely on legal defense or damage control, they responded with aggression. Their internal netrunners and digital security teams retaliated immediately, initiating a coordinated wave of attacks against Rothstein. These operations began with precision strikes aimed at financial databases—deliberately crashing systems, manipulating transaction records, and locking up assets. But MA&F quickly escalated their tactics. The net war moved from economic disruption to digital annihilation. MA&F launched direct, destructive incursions into Rothstein’s servers and system architecture, aiming to permanently cripple its ability to function.   The Net became a warzone. Over the course of several days, a chaotic melee unfolded across cyberspace. Data fortresses—once designed as secure storage for sensitive information—were rapidly transformed into virtual bunkers, each protected by ICE, black ICE, logic bombs, and psychotropic counter-intrusion systems. Dozens of third-party netrunners and corporate security entities either fled the Net or were pulled in, unsure of who was fighting who, or why. Collateral damage spread across unrelated systems. Some networks buckled under the strain; others collapsed entirely.   Netwatch, the international regulatory body tasked with overseeing net activity and protecting users from criminal abuse, intervened quickly. It limited open-access Net channels, restricted movement through public nodes, and launched a massive wave of arrests. Several netrunners were flatlined—killed by overclocked ICE or captured during physical raids on suspected hacker dens. Yet despite these efforts, the core conflict remained unresolved. Both Rothstein and MA&F began preparing for a new stage of the war: physical escalation.   For a 12-hour period, the digital battle spilled into the real world. Both corporations hired corporate mercenaries, cyber-enhanced operatives, and independent solos to target the physical infrastructure of their enemies. These squads launched surgical strikes aimed at communication relays, server facilities, satellite uplinks, and Net towers—any location capable of hosting or transmitting large-scale data operations. These battles occurred both on Earth and in low-earth orbit (LEO), where orbital data platforms had become essential for global communications. The damage was severe. Several buildings were destroyed, multiple installations in orbit were damaged or completely vaporized, and the human toll was not insubstantial. Dozens of corporate agents were killed, and civilians caught near strike zones suffered injuries or death. The cost of material destruction ran into the hundreds of millions of dollars.   And then, almost as quickly as it had begun, the physical violence ceased. The corporate war returned to the Net. For the next six months, endless net raids were conducted by both sides. Runners infiltrated systems, ICE dueled ICE, AI defenses were turned loose, and entire corporate divisions were relocated or restructured to avoid detection. But for all this activity, very little progress was made. The majority of these incursions were indecisive. Firewalls held. Logs were erased. Backdoors were shut. Each side would suffer minor breaches or temporary outages, but nothing as devastating as the physical assaults from earlier in the year. The conflict entered a grinding digital stalemate.   By November 2016, the situation became untenable. Rothstein Fund, battered from months of unrelenting attacks, began to collapse. Servers failed. Systems shut down. Their netrunners were either arrested, defected, or flatlined. In the final move of the war, Merrill, Asukaga, & Finch handed over the bodies of two of their own executives to the Los Angeles DA—those found to be responsible for the original financial scheme that had triggered the entire war. MA&F made this symbolic gesture to avoid further criminal investigation and to position themselves as cooperative victims of rogue internal actors. However, they weren’t let off the hook. They were slapped with an enormous financial burden, forced to pay for the damages done during the real-world attacks on LEO and Earth-based communication centers.   The legacy of the Third Corporate War was ambiguous. By 2016, the public had already become somewhat desensitized to the idea of corporations fighting one another with military force. But the way this war unfolded—primarily on the Net—was a new and deeply unsettling development. Analysts speculated that this was a preview of a new paradigm, where future wars would be fought with code instead of bullets, where firewalls replaced frontlines. Others, especially those in the corporate security world, weren’t so sure. They argued that boots on the ground, solos with guns and cyberware, would never become obsolete. While the Third Corporate War hadn’t left a trail of scorched earth like the wars before it, it demonstrated just how vulnerable the world’s digital infrastructure had become—and how easily a corporate rivalry could plunge global systems into chaos.