YEAR 2480 OF THE NEW ERA.
PLANETARY DEFENSE FORCES CORVETTE “POLARIS”, RIPPER-CLASS.
HELION SYSTEM, 13062480, 0210 SGT.
CREW: 2.
CARGO: 32ND ASSAULT DROP COMPANY, COLONIAL EQUIPMENT AND SUPPLIES.
The hangar bay doors clanged shut behind him, sealing off the main hold, and an unfamiliar, oppressive silence pressed against his ears. Technically, it wasn’t complete silence: even an idle ship hums with countless background noises and faint vibrations. But compared to the cacophony in the main hangar, this was nothing. For weeks, that space had been a roaring chorus of machinery, grinding loaders, rumbling shuttles, and the bellowing of anyone with a command to bark. Now, though, it was genuinely quiet, with only the hollow echo of the captain’s footsteps bouncing off the walls and open corridors leading to the other parts of the corvette.
“Lieutenant?” the captain called. “Bridge, ten minutes.”
On the transparent screen of his datapad relocation orders, received just moments ago, still glowed.
“Copy, already on my way,” came the lieutenant’s slightly distorted voice over the comm. “They finally remembered us?”
“Looks like it.”
A sharp beep rang through the comm — an incoming call on the general channel. The captain slowed his pace.
“Yes, Major.”
The major’s voice was barely audible over the clamor of voices in the background.
“Yes, that’s correct. Departure time matches my instructions exactly,” the captain replied to his question. “Where to? Can’t say yet. Awaiting orders any minute now, same as you.”
He glanced at his datapad and sighed resignedly. Lately, the sheer volume of chatter with their new “passengers” had pushed past all reasonable limits. The major, in charge of the assault company attached to the Polaris, always kept things professional but obsessed over every detail on board — be it billeting regulations or cargo loading.
“Of course, everything’s on schedule,” the captain assured the impatient major. “Stand by for an intercom announcement. Out.”
Around the corner, the bridge doors came into view — the one place where he could, for a moment, switch off the annoying comm and focus on the job.
“What a damn bore he is…” the lieutenant’s voice crackled through the comm.
“Are you saying your flight academy instructors were any different?” the captain asked, pressing his palm to the scanner by the bridge entrance.
“Quite the opposite, sir. Feels like they all graduated from the same school.”
The door slid open, revealing the bridge that was half-lit. Instrument panels and auxiliary equipment flickered with greenish light. Main lighting was dimmed — as it was throughout the corvette — except for active workstations. A few hours earlier, the controls had switched the ship to night mode.
Exposed cable conduits snaked along the ceiling and walls, their uncovered panels lending an illusion of crampedness. In truth, the bridge could comfortably accommodate a crew of six. Behind the empty seats of the first pilot and navigator stretched wide, rectangular viewports, framing the turquoise orb of Helion Prime — the Confederation’s key strategic planet in the Border Worlds. Skirting his chair and the projection table nearby, Captain Dreks sank heavily into the first pilot’s seat and set his datapad aside.
In a few minutes, they’d execute a subspace jump to deliver the major and his troopers to their drop zone — and that’s where the real work would begin. Running a hand over his close-cropped, graying hair, Captain Dreks tapped the control panel, initiating the automated sequence to rouse the ship from standby. He watched the command lines scroll by as systems woke up one by one. A long-awaited signal chimed: an incoming message.
“Copy to datapad. Display on screen three.”
Instead of the ship’s computer commands, decrypted text began streaming across the projection.
Incoming Message: #341.77, 13062480, 0220 SGT
From: Confederation Colonial Agency Headquarters, Admiral Wilford, Commander of Border Worlds Planetary Defense Forces
To: PDFc Polaris, Captain Richard Dreks
“Two days ago, we received reports from Avalon of escalating unrest among civilian personnel, both on the surface and at the orbital shipyard. Avalon, the Confederation’s largest deep-space outpost and the only habitable Earth-type planet in the Escher System, serves as a transit hub for external trade routes. The subspace Gates in this system remain fully operational, linking numerous resource-extraction regions. Given the current situation across the Confederation, we cannot afford to lose control of this outpost.
You are hereby ordered to depart immediately for the Escher System and reinforce the colony Administration’s security with all available assault units. The Polaris is to take up orbit in a state of heightened readiness, monitoring movements and providing cover for transport vessels.
Additionally, your request for increased crew complement has been reviewed. A suitable candidate for the position of first-class navigator has been identified and will join you at your destination. All necessary background checks have been completed, neural network access granted, and their personnel file and authorization codes are attached to this message.
I expect a report confirming successful deployment at the location no later than 1730 tomorrow.”
The captain tapped a few keys and leaned back in his chair, gazing thoughtfully at Helion Prime. The Confederation’s military forces were stretched dangerously thin, barely sufficient to secure critical systems and trade routes. A couple of months ago, the Colonial Agency had been granted authority to deploy PDF units — Planetary Defense Forces — to maintain order across all Confederation space, operating with full autonomy.
Until now, the PDF had only guarded their assigned colonial systems against small pirate squadrons. When a more serious threat emerged, they’d signal the nearest military base, and at least one heavily armed battlecruiser would arrive. That luxury was gone now — especially at the edge of explored space, near Avalon.
Dreks tapped the touchscreen keyboard. At that moment, the bridge door slid open silently.
Against the text on the screen — PDFc Polaris to Confederation Colonial Agency Headquarters — a striped reflection appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Without turning, the captain shook his head and continued drafting his reply.
“You know, Fry… There’s always been one thing about you that amazes me.”
Message 341.77 received and acknowledged.
“What’s that, sir?” came the reply from behind.
Estimated time of arrival at destination: 36 hours. End of message.
“Persistence. Specifically, your persistence in trying to scare the life out of me,” the captain said, rising from his chair and turning to face the Polaris’s pilot. “You know that trick doesn’t work on me.”
Lieutenant Elinor Fry stood in the doorway, clad in the gray flight suit of Confederation pilots. She was of The Ascended Ones — beings artificially engineered from Earth animals in the ancient times. Such sentient creatures were initially designed to serve Humanity, but after the Long Night they became full members of the society.
Fry was a white anthropomorphic tigress. A stellar career at the flight academy and years of test-flying cutting-edge Confederation prototypes had secured her the pilot’s seat on the Polaris since its launch from shipyards on Mars in 2475.
“No such thing crossed my mind, sir,” she said, her green eyes narrowing with a smirk. “May I?”
“By all means! I’ll be much more comfortable here…” Grabbing his datapad, the captain returned to the center of the bridge and settled into his chair on a small pedestal, positioned to oversee the ship’s main terminals and crew actions. Fry took her station.
“Lieutenant, ship status. Pre-flight check,” Dreks ordered.
Fry began inputting commands, and the bridge lit up with dozens of monitors and holographic panels displaying the ship’s status and core systems.
“Standby disengaged successfully. All systems in the green, Captain,” the tigress reported. “Initiating self-diagnostics on propulsion.”
“Plot a course to the Escher System, Avalon outpost.” Dreks checked his chronometer, entering a query via the small touchscreen built into his chair.
“Copy. AI’s calculating subspace jump parameters… Five minutes, and we can head for the Gates, sir.”
“Excellent. Notifying Helion flight control.”
After closely examining the galactic map, where the destination coordinates flared brightly, Fry turned to the captain.
“Captain, permission to ask a question?”
Dreks looked up, tearing his gaze from the holographic panel displaying nearby ship trajectories.
“Yes, of course.”
“How long are they sending us this far out for? And when will our crew be equipped with at least a navigator and an engineer?”
The captain sighed. Besides the shortage of warships, the fleet also critically lacked qualified personnel. Complicating matters even further, the Polaris, a prototype of a new series, was equipped with artificial intelligence. As envisioned by engineers, this self-learning ship handled most of the work, requiring a smaller crew.
After launching from Mars, it took nearly two years of trials to optimize the ship’s systems. Remarkably, no AI glitches had occurred since, but much of the crew — including the engineering team, a neurolinked navigator, a weapons specialist, and even shuttle pilots — had been reassigned to other vessels. All of this reduced the Polaris’s speed and combat efficiency in one way or another: some aspects of the AI’s training have stalled, while others were simply neglected.
“Based on what I’ve been told, acquiring a full crew is delayed indefinitely… But it seems like they’ve found us a navigator. We’ll meet them soon.”
After exiting the subspace Gates, the Polaris took up high orbit around Avalon, brusquely integrating into the orbital network that managed planetary defense and flight corridors from the Gates. All civilian ships were ordered to remain anchored, awaiting further instructions.
“Captain, Colony Administration’s on the line,” the tigress said, flipping a couple of switches on the panel. “They’ve issued a ban on intersystem travel. Requesting further orders.”
“Have them stand by on an open channel. We’ll get back to them.”
All ships, except resource transports, drifted to a halt, sending queries to the Administration for clarification on the bans’ reasoning and duration.
A lighter clicked. After taking a drag on a cigarette and exhaling, Dreks sent a cloud of smoke through the holographic planetary system. It drifted through hundreds of dots marking ships — from cutters to transport barges — before rising toward the vents and vanishing into the filters.
“Let’s begin. Open the main hangar. Fry, contact the major. Tell him they can launch shuttles at their discretion. And one more thing…” The captain paused, spotting a high-priority call on the auxiliary screen. In all his time commanding the Polaris, this had never happened. The tigress turned to Dreks, a flicker of concern in her eyes.
“Put it on speaker,” Dreks said calmly.
Admiral Wilford’s voice filled the bridge:
“Attention all Planetary Defense Force warships! I’ve just been contacted by the Sol sector fleet admiral. Eight of ten subspace Gates in the Solar System have failed during the transfer of Saturn Seventh Tactical Fleet. Half of the ships were destroyed by residual subspace vortices. We still have contact with Earth, but all interstellar transportations to the Solar System have ceased. Fleet reconnaissance reports a possible hostile contact of unknown nature. We recommend…”
The transmission cut off abruptly, replaced by static for a moment, then silence. The captain sank into his chair without a word.
“Captain… Your orders?” Fry’s striped tail twitched nervously.
“Proceed with shuttle launch. Shields to one-third power, weapons to standby, activate telemetry intercept from all nearby ships. And reopen the colony channel! We may need every combat-ready ship they’ve got.”
After putting out his cigarette and jabbing it into the ashtray, Dreks fixed his gaze on the viewport. Whoever was behind this pulled off the unthinkable. Despite all efforts by intelligence, word of the Solar System incident will soon leak through standard channels to the Border Worlds, and a new wave of panic will be unavoidable.
***
“Who’s tiny!? I’m not tiny at all!” Omela fussed, jumping to catch the melancholic tiger bartender’s gaze at least for a moment. He didn’t glance at the bristling lynx, only held the betting tablet higher over the counter, out of her reach.
“You’re not even eighteen,” the bulldog next to her at the bar declared smugly.
“But I am!”
“And… uh, Charlie, check this out! She bet on herself! Elemental — that’s your ship, isn’t it, Omela Wein-Bloome?”
“How do you know me?” the lynx asked with grudging pride, turning to the bulldog.
“Last week’s paper had a disciplinary write-up on you,” the dog explained. “Yo, Charlie, is she even allowed to race this time?”
“Pfft,” the tiger bartender replied.
“Ugh, damn you all,” Omela muttered, quieting down just in case, and retreated to the tables.
Plopping into the nearest chair, she pulled out her communicator.
“Tis, bro! Total bust, they won’t take my bet. You gotta place it for me!”
Tis was indeed her brother — eldest of the Wein-Bloome lynx family. He lived on Avalon with another brother and sister; their parents were long gone. Omela, the wildest and luckiest, roamed near-orbit, jumping into every race she could find. Her ship, Elemental, that fairly won in a past race, never let her down. It was how they survived: Omela sent her winnings planetside, and Tis and the younger siblings cheered her on.
“Placing it,” Tis reported. “Oh, hold on, something’s wrong… The bet’s not going through… Rejected, and again…”
“Bets are off!” Charlie the tiger roared across the bar. “Do you all hear me? Races have been canceled!”
“What do you mean, canceled?” the bulldog barked.
“I mean they ain’t happening!” Charlie growled, slamming the tablet onto the counter in frustration. “Look! Orbit’s in lock down! Flight corridors are sealed! Some bigwig showed up, no doubt.”
“How’s that even possible?” Omela mewed in sync with the bar’s chorus of yowls, howls, and barks. “What’s going on?”
“Gray net’s buzzing — some war corvette rolled in and shut everyone down!”
“Confederation’s useless.”
“We were fine at the Border Worlds, and now…”
“That’s all lies! Charlie’s cheating!”
“Aaaargh! Yo, boys, we trashing this bar or what?”
“You trash my bar, I’ll trash you!” Charlie snapped.
“It is truly lamentable to hear the races have been canceled,” a lone, clear voice rang out, silencing the chaos instantly. All eyes turned to the speaker — a High One.
Heads swiveled as the Woman glided calmly between tables, stopping before the bar. A silver sheath with a samurai sword gleamed at her waist. A gangly gray wolf that trailed her looked like a servant to a noble lady.
“Forgive me, High One,” the massive bartender lowered his gaze. “The reasons were beyond my control. If you’d like a drink, it’s on the house.”
“Very kind of you,” the Woman said, giving a slight bow.
Omela, dumbstruck, ducked behind a chair. When she peeked out, the High One and the wolf had settled at her table.
“Oh,” the Woman said. “I thought this was free. My apologies, esteemed Ascended One. We’ll leave at once.”
“Um… er… cough…” Omela stammered, mortified. She’d never seen a human before. “I mean… please, stay! It’s… a great honor! Really!”
Her nose burned, paws trembled, but she bravely slid the electronic menu toward the High One.
“T-treat yourself…”
“Thank you,” the Woman said calmly, her narrow, slightly slanted eyes meeting the lynx’s. “May I know your honorable name? I am Devora Nokomis of Lilac Fields, and this is my friend Hugo Hioni.”
“Hioni,” the wolf echoed in a high, slightly raspy voice.
“Omela Wein-Bloome,” Omela exhaled. “So, you’re bummed about the races being canceled too?”
“Man, we really needed the cash,” the wolf said, scratching his scruffy throat with a long finger. “For repairs!”
“Hugo Hioni is a mechanic,” Devora explained in a measured tone. “He maintains our ship, Gitche Gumee, and yes, we were counting on this race.”
“So you’d hit the track even with a busted ship?” Omela grew bolder on a familiar ground.
“You bet,” the wolf said with a spark. “And nobody would stand a chance! Trust me!”
“Any word from our dragon?” Devora asked Hioni casually.
He pulled out his communicator and scrolled through messages with focus. He was clearly eager to answer her as comprehensively and quickly as possible.
“Nope, nothing, but I’ll call her now…”
Then the tiger appeared, bringing snacks — for the High One, the wolf, and, shockingly, Omela too. Score! — she thought, digging into the delicious synth-meat. Meeting a High One, making friends, getting free food — races canceled? Whatever, they’ll schedule new ones!
***
Akrongi Ran sat perched on a high stool in his room — in the finest hotel on Avalon — clutching an Asteropian olikkirattu in his claws. He plucked its curved strings thoughtfully, as if searching for something hidden in their melodic hum. The winged lizard was rather large; the instrument, which he held like a guitar, would pass for a double bass in the hands of an average Galactic citizen.
His thoughts were simple: When would the order come? What ship would he be assigned to? Where would it go? One can’t foresee the future, but sometimes it would be nice to speed it up.
Akrongi Ran in his native language means “beautiful song”. He was one of the rare Ascended Ones — a winged lizard resembling the dragons of ancient Earth legends. Before the Legion of Doom’s rise, rumors claimed these “dragons” were Earth’s first inhabitants, older even than the Humans. After the Legion’s rebellion, the Confederation labeled all related data a top-level secrecy indefinitely.
Anyways, in this Galactic sector, he was just a rare species, which suited Ran fine. He awaited orders from command, unsure if they’d provide transport to his assigned ship or if he’d need to fend for himself. If the latter, he’d have to ask Devora for a lift on her Gitche Gumee — she’d get him there in no time. Assuming, of course, she and Chioni hadn’t jetted off to some local race, as planned.
His musings were interrupted by a communicator ping — a call from Hioni. “Sometimes things happen just as you wish,” Ran thought, accepting the call.
“Hey, Ran. Devora’s worried about you. Races got canceled,” Hioni’s voice crackled through the communicator.
“I’m assigned to a warship,” Ran rumbled back, his low, rhythmic voice resembling an ocean tide. “Thank the lady for her concern, but my ‘flight’ won’t be canceled. Unless they lock down the orbital corridors…”
“They’re already locked, dragon! And… Devora says we can give you a lift if needed,” Hioni replied. “So, pack up your… omeli-what-not…”
“Olikkirattu.”
“Right, my bad, got tangled up… Be ready. Grab your stuff. We’re on standby. Whether you want a ride to your ship, or to roll with us on the Gitche Gumee.”
“I’d rather wait…”
“Devora says waiting’s not an option. End of transmission. Catch ya!”
Ran slammed the communicator shut and walked to the window, gazing out at Avalon’s sprawling colony, cloaked in night’s shadow. Far to the west, where the main spaceport lay, two heavy shuttles descended. They slipped the blockade — probably the last ones. A distant siren wailed.
“Sometimes things don’t go quite as you wish,” Ran muttered to himself, smirking.
Spreading his claws, he carefully packed his olikkirattu into its case, gathered his papers, sealed his briefcase, and headed for the door. He spread his wings briefly over a lonely butler bot, which scurried to assist, and ordered a taxi to the spaceport’s launch pads.
***
Thirty light-seconds from Avalon, a small crescent-shaped ship without any markings drifted in an asteroid belt that had formed at the birth of the local sun. All active systems and navigation lights on its slate-black hull were offline, but its sensitive sensors tracked nearly everything within a light-minute radius.
This was a heavy Nomad-class fighter that belonged to the Mystic faction, whose headquarters were located on Mercury in the very Solar System that used to be Humanity’s cradle. The Mercurians were a reclusive, tight-knit group, always moving in secrecy, drawing no attention, and aligning with no governing body on Earth or in the Cosmos. Such a ship — unmatched across all Inhabited Worlds— could only be acquired either with wealth enough to build the entire First Earth Tactical Fleet or earning a Mystic’s trust.
Mercury reluctantly admitted that once a decade, such sales occurred. But trust? Only once in a century had a Mystic’s trust been won. No one could fathom the Great Teacher’s mind, but four years ago, in 2476, an unprecedented ship, Sun Spire, was gifted to a non-Mystic and had served its owner loyally since.
The Spire’s owner reviewed the past hour’s data. In the cockpit’s darkness, pierced by a green holographic glow, symbols of a forgotten language flickered. The ship’s “machine spirit” spoke, conveying not just words but emotions on a mental level. A crude translation might read:
“Gates to the system. Remnants, pitiful remnants of a vanished race. Ancient. Wise. Edge of human reach. Many souls await change. Await calamity. Ascended Ones… all alone, losing hope for peace… Few warriors. Trained to kill for their worlds’ sake… Three High Ones. Three High Ones. Three…”
The black shadow, draped in a thin cloak, leaned forward — symbols and whispers vanished. In their place, a projection of Avalon’s orbit and nearby ships flared to life. One red arrow pointed to the planet’s surface, another to a small shuttle lifting off, and a third…
A warship. However small, but a Confederation combat vessel nonetheless. Its captain — a Human. Humans were rare beyond the Sol sector. Once, nearly every warship had dozens of High Ones. Now, you’d be lucky to find a Human on one ship in a hundred. Endless wars had scythed their proud race…
Beneath the ship’s projection, Earth-language text scrolled:
Polaris, launched from Mars shipyards in 2475. Planetary Defense Forces corvette, Ripper class.
Crew: 10 / Minimum crew: 2.
Passenger compartments: 180.
Weaponry: 2 ion cannons, 4 torpedo tubes, 2 missile batteries, 12 PDCs, 12 close-range fragmentation guns.
Onboard system: Confederation Armed Forces AI, fifth generation.
Power plant: C-12 thermonuclear reactor.
Hangar: 2 Aurora-class atmospheric shuttles.
“Well, well, almost the s-s-same age as mine…” the shadow hissed, a smile in its sibilant voice. Then, an order:
“Crew data, pleas-s-se.”
Data Query, Military Network Search:
Richard Dreks, High One, 39 standard years, captain.
Elinor Fry, Ascended One, 32 standard years, lieutenant.
“Simulate combat scenarios-s-s,” the shadow hissed.
In one minute, hundreds of battle simulations flickered through the air, each ending with Sun Spire victorious. The Polaris AI lacked the Spire’s fluent, elegant decision-making. Plus, the corvette required at least a pilot and navigator for full efficiency. It seemed a navigator was missing.
“S-s-send the data to Wanderer,” the shadow ordered.
The projections vanished. For five minutes, only the faint hum of the AI calculating Avalon’s orbital paths filled the cockpit. The planet gleamed like a bright pearl against distant stars and the galaxy’s dim core. Then static crackled, and a lively voice — living or synthetic, hard to tell — cut through.
“…Connection encrypted, switching channels every two seconds on delta-tango-bis-seven-ten… Got something juicy, thanks to old contacts. Sending via short bursts.”
“What is-s-s it, Wanderer?”
“In brief: Elinor Fry joined Planetary Defense Forces in ‘65. Assigned to Polaris in ‘75. Green, no real combat experience. The Human’s more interesting, but no surprise there… Joined Earth Alliance Forces in ‘59, served ‘63 to ‘67 on the cruiser Retribution through the hell of the Dead Sun campaign in the Border Worlds. Reminds me of my youth…”
“Youth later,” the shadow snapped.
“Right, got sidetracked. Here’s the good stuff: late ‘67, Dreks was transferred to a search-and-rescue cruiser Atlantis, a frequent visitor to Earth Alliance flagship Dorian Gray… You listening?”
Fragments of memories flashed: relentless fire on the Lexington. Explosions across all decks. A scream — “Turn the ship! Ramming speed!”
“Listening. S-s-sorry.”
“Here’s the kicker: in ‘71, two years before Dorian’s destruction, Dreks was suddenly transferred to Spacefleet Academy HQ on Earth. HQ! Then a record of his Polaris assignment in ‘76. Not a word about what happened in between, when… You know. Finally, something juicy! A real prize if you can verify this lead — it’ll push our search forward. Just no torture interrogations. Leave that to me! I’ll get there when I can — martial law’s kicking in, total chaos. Like everywhere. Out!”
Silence reclaimed the cockpit as Avalon’s projections drifted across screens. Sun Spire hummed to life, running standard checks on systems and weapons before engine ignition.
The cloaked shadow stirred, its gaze fixed on Polaris.
Time to meet the crew in person. And if one of them is the key…
A faint signal blinked at the edge of the scanner’s range. Then another. And a dozen more.
***
Dreks and Fry stood in the conference room before a table projecting a tactical map of surrounding space. Through static-laden speakers, amid the hum of transports and a flurry of anxious voices, the colony leader’s voice cut through:
“…Correct, Captain. We’ve secured two combat-ready ships. I know it’s not what you expected, but it’s the best we can offer out here on the Confederation’s edge. Orders for temporary transfer have been sent to their captains. They’re under your direct command now. Over.”
“Thank you,” Dreks replied, inputting commands into the hologram console. The map displayed the assigned ships. Dreks felt a sinking dread. Fry, wide-eyed, stared at the miniaturized ship models.
“Oh, hell no! Are they mocking us, Captain? One frigate and… a light frigate?”
One ship, Gitche Gumee, bore visible damage—likely a stray meteor strike. Dreks shook his head. They’d do to fend off marauder fighters, but are useless against a serious threat. No choice here. Fry was practically snarling:
“I swear, I’d rip the head off whoever thought leaving supposedly vital trade routes without—”
“Lieutenant! Enough.” Dreks raised his voice slightly. “They’re vital. Our job is to protect them. Get me a line to those ships’ captains.”
***
Devora Nokomis, surprised for the first time in ages, showed no outward sign. She sat calmly in her pilot’s chair, strapped in for flight, scanning orbital reports. In a separate window, red text blazed: Gitche Gumee reassigned to Planetary Defense Forces.
“No sense in this,” Devora muttered.
“None!” Hioni agreed, avoiding her gaze. Her cool composure held too much ice today. “We’re busted! We need repairs! Combat? No way!”
At the High One’s gesture, instruments flickered to life. Gitche Gumee awoke, exiting power-saving mode.
“But it’s our duty,” Devora said. “Can you patch us mid-flight?”
“‘Course I can,” the wolf nodded. “We got what we needed, and the lizard hooked us up with the rest. By the way, thanks, Akrongi.”
“My pleasure,” Ran rasped, appearing in the doorway. The cramped bridge barely fit two; with the lizard, empty space basically vanished.
“Look, Ran, we’re assigned to Polaris — right where you’re headed,” Devora pointed out. “Not bad.”
“Good for me, but you, High One? I know your distaste for military types,” Ran said.
“True, but duty calls,” Devora repeated. “Our commander might be some crude commoner, unworthy of a blade, but—”
A sharp incoming call cut her off. She tapped the comms panel.
“Captain Devora Nokomis, frigate Gitche Gumee, standing by,” she said, studying the screen as Richard Dreks’ face appeared.
The captain’s stern, piercing gaze didn’t scream “crude commoner.” He introduced himself. Devora bowed ceremonially, hands cupped, then straightened. A human — her second surprise today. It’s rare to meet kin in this fringe sector.
Next to Polaris’s image a signal appeared from another ship. A lynx’s face popped up on the second screen:
“Omela Wein-Bloome, light frigate Elemental, reporting!” she said, wide-eyed,- a second High One in one day!, “Captain, it’s a great honor! Here! En route to you!”
Her second screen lit up, revealing Devora.
“Whoa, hi! So we’re teammates now!”
“Indeed — since we missed racing each other,” Devora replied. She turned back to Dreks. “Captain, be advised, civilian frigate Gitche Gumee joins your command with moderate damage.”
Dreks gave a faint smile.
“Unfortunately, I have no choice. I’ve declared quarantine and martial law, effective immediately. Per the planetary threat clause, all vessels, including civilian, fall under the senior Confederation Spacefleet officer or Planetary Defense Forces in their absence…”
“Then we’re en route to you, Captain Dreks,” Devora replied. “We have a passenger who needs to board your ship. Akrongi Ran, a navigator.”
Ran’s elongated snout appeared on-screen. Omella, lost in thoughts of High Ones and her luck, flinched. She heard of rare Ascended species like Akrongi but never saw one. Orbital bar regulars whispered they were tied to pre-Confederation events in the Pleiades sector. Omella nearly said “brrrr”, but caught herself in time. The lizard introduced himself to Dreks, arranging immediate transfer to Polaris.
“And me, Captain?” Omella asked timidly. “I can do anything!”
“Contact with command has been severed,” Dreks said, addressing Devora and the lynx. “We don’t know if Subspace Gate failures stem from an external threat. Until we get clearer intel from HQ, Gitche Gumee will patrol Avalon’s high orbit, monitoring Gate corridors and relaying data to Polaris.”
“Understood, Captain,” Devora agreed. “We’ll send a shuttle with Akrongi Ran and proceed to high-orbit patrol as ordered.”
“While Elemental provides cover for the ships,” Dreks added.
“Roger!” Omela responded eagerly.
She began circling the formidable corvette, eyeing every detail. Her tiny Elemental could fit easily in Polaris’s main hangar. Raised in a colony, Omella had never seen a Confederation warship up close, even a modest one.
“And this is just a ‘cover ship,’” she muttered, ensuring the comms to Dreks were off. “I can imagine how powerful the attack vessels would be then! I wish I could steer one of those!”
***
Akrongi Ran arrived from Gitche Gumee in a small shuttle, landing smoothly in Polaris’s hangar as the clamps hissed into place. He was extremely flattered to see the High One himself waiting on the deck, accompanied by a tigress, both sporting officer insignia.
Carefully setting down his luggage and standing at attention, Ran handed Dreks a datapad with his credentials. Dreks took it, giving the lizard a scrutinizing look, mirrored by his striped aide. Ran towered over them like a winged statue.
“Midshipman Akrongi Ran, reporting for duty, Captain Dreks.”
“Welcome to Polaris, Navigator. On behalf of command, thank you for volunteering for Planetary Defense Forces for…” Dreks glanced at the pad, eyebrows rising, “ten years. Meet Polaris’s lead pilot, Lieutenant Elinor Fry. She’s been here since the corvette’s launch.”
“Thank you, Captain. Lieutenant, it’s an honor,” Ran said, nodding to the tigress. “How large is your crew, sir?”
“Recent AI advancements have minimized crew needs,” Dreks explained. “Most tasks — minor repairs, system monitoring — are automated. But we still need some personnel. Your arrival brings us to that minimum… three.”
“Oh, I see…” Ran scanned the hangar, filled with cranes and repair gear operating without crew. “Honestly, I expected—”
“A bustling crew of hundreds, noise round the clock?” Fry grinned.
Ran nodded. “Something like that.”
“Until recently, that’s how it was. Now, you’ll have to get used to the hum of ship systems. The Confederation fleet’s growing like crazy, and crews are stretched thin — especially for the PDF. No reinforcements until the Avalon mission’s done,” Fry said, adding, “Hope that doesn’t bother you.”
“I understand, Lieutenant. Silence suits me — helps me focus,” Ran replied.
“Good,” Dreks said, gesturing toward the transport system. “Fry, show Ran his quarters and workstation. I’ll be on the bridge in twenty.”
“Aye, sir. Follow me,” the tigress nodded to the lizard.
After a private meeting with colony leaders, Dreks entered the crew lounge, built for thirty to forty with its own bar and a small kitchen. The lights were dimmed, chairs tucked neatly under the tables — usually, Dreks would stop by at lunch for a quick bite or a chess game with Fry. Grabbing an ashtray from the bar, he sat at the nearest table, lit a cigarette, and reviewed Ran’s file. Skimming recommendations, he opened the full profile:
Name: Akrongi Ran
Species: Winged Lizard
Age: 98
Homeworld: M’Tanga
Occupation: Navigator, spacecraft classes H, HI, Io, and above
Rank: Midshipman
Flight Hours: 556,629.111
Intergalactic Hours: 476,868.433
Mnemocourses: [Languages List]
Navigation Training: [Systems List]
Combat Experience: [List]
Recommendations: [List]
Last Posting: Fast brig Innocent Smith, Captain W. Gohr
Traits: Composed, diligent, reliable
Bad habits: None
Health Issues: None
Diet: Standard
Lifestyle: Standard
Injuries: Left wing, right forelimb, left lung; fully recovered
Special Notes: Large dimensions officer, requires expanded workspace
M’Tanga… Seven years ago, we passed through that system in transit… Wait. That many hours outside the Galaxy?
The former Legion of Doom and now the Confederation conducted deep-space recon, but only a handful of their ships ventured into the galactic halo and beyond, where stars lay hundreds of times farther apart. Those ships and their navigators charted the Galaxy’s current maps.
A navigator of that caliber… We’re damn lucky to have him. Now, what does he know about himself?
Dreks stubbed out his cigarette and headed to the bridge. Ran was already in the navigator’s chair, right of the pilot’s console, fitting only after sliding the seat as far back as it would go. Fry didn’t turn at the captain’s footsteps, pretending to be busy while sneaking glances at the exotic lizard.
Taking the captain’s seat, Dreks activated his command console.
“Midshipman Ran, plug in.”
Fry handed Ran the neural interface cable, linking the navigator to the ship for precise subspace jump calculations and seamless AI coordination via thought. Though these technologies, merging navigator and vessel, were developed decades ago, they remained too costly for most ships and were prioritized for recon and dreadnoughts. With the Confederation’s rise, they were slowly integrated into combat vessels, but navigators took decades to train, and most veterans moved to higher roles beyond Planetary Defense Forces. The odds of snagging a first-generation navigator from an explorer ship were slim, yet Polaris had hit the jackpot.
Ran carefully inserted the connector into a small slot implanted beneath the scales near the base of his skull. The port was linked to specific brain regions via a network of ultra-fine optical fibers. A chime sounded, followed by a mechanical voice:
“Interface activated. Standard activation protocol.”
A pulse of mild pain surged through the lizard’s body, and the bridge instantly blurred, darkening as if frosted glass had been placed before his eyes. Gradually, his vision cleared, bringing new sensations. Akrongi Ran began to feel the ship — the hum of the fusion reactor, solar wind battering Polaris’s stern, the readiness of guns to unleash thousands of deadly projectiles. He gazed at the stars, deeply sensing the vast distances between them. He could hear other ships’ transmissions in his mind and anticipate their maneuvers.
Polaris’s AI fed the navigator real-time, comprehensive data, allowing him to focus on any ship and instantly grasp its capabilities.
Yet, for a split second during connection, Ran sensed a shadow — as if the ship was startled by a mind intruding into its logic.
Dreks watched the console intently, monitoring Ran’s connection and data stream. So far, all was normal.
“How do you feel… Akrongi?”
Ran lightly touched his console, slightly reducing the data flow, then turned his head. His yellow eyes burned with the fire of knowledge.
“Remarkable, Captain. Thank you.”
Dreks rose from his chair and approached his crew, hands clasped behind his back.
“Lieutenant, break orbit!”
***
The Elemental cruised alongside yet another heavy ore transport.
“Named it Chimera, huh,” the lynx grumbled. “Like it’s hauling diamonds or something. It’s ore! And I’m stuck guarding it! Missed the Gate schedule, and now it’s just floating around here… Wait, what’s that? What’s that?”
Omela’s ship was the first to detect a distorted echo near the subspace Gates. She jolted upright, claws clattering on the console, scrambling to pull data from the scanners and contact Polaris. But someone was jamming all comms frequencies.
The lynx tried sending small data packets via a tightbeam to Polaris. Even comms with the ore carrier, just 200 kilometers away, were shaky.
“Chimera! Chimera, come in!” Omela called. “This is Elemental! I’m picking up phantom contacts near the Gates. Are you seeing them? Confirm!”
“Negative, Elemental,” the Chimera’s captain crackled through static. “We’re only getting the Gate beacon. Check your gear.”
“My gear? Seriously?”
Omela paused, then tried reaching Dreks again. No luck. She switched to a special transmission mode: data from long-range scanners was amplified and sent to Polaris in short, timed bursts. With luck one might get through. Now she could focus on something else—like activating the ship’s weapons!
But glancing at the radar, Omela’s paw froze: all was clear. The viewscreens showed the distant Gates, with Avalon’s moon Galfrid — locally nicknamed “Red-Eye” — filling a third of the sky. The second moon, Britannia, or “Tiny,” was hidden behind the planet. Nothing interesting, let alone threatening, was in sight.
She had to escort Chimera for another thirty minutes. Omela was still squinting skeptically at Galfrid when a fragmented targeting system alert sounded.
Space flared with beams that shot by just two meters from the ship, and Omela yanked the controls, pulling the frigate out of the kill zone. She could see on the screen that an unidentified vessel streaked underneath Elemental at incredible speed. Omela maneuvered, closing in with the Chimera and finally activated her guns with full authority.
“Polaris, come in! Hostile contact, sending coords! Chimera, come in! Where is everyone?!”
The unknown ship, roughly Elemental’s size, flickered on radar through static. But the screens clearly showed it banking, charging the Chimera at breakneck pace. Space lit up with multilaser volleys, shredding chunks from Chimera’s hull.
Omela yelped, firing at the intruder. Her rounds hit the vessel and exploded causing no harm. The targeting system silently clicked, locking five more targets emerging from behind the crimson moon.
The enemy ship adjusted course, drawn by Elemental’s resistance, and opened fire. Omela dodged desperately, shouting:
“Chimera, respond! Change course, it’s a trap! Chimera! Chimera!”
The Chimera was silent — its bridge and crew were vaporized by the first discharge. It drifted helplessly, spewing debris and venting oxygen. Pushing her ship to its limits, Omela weaved frantically, while her mind was racing for options. She’d never faced this before.
The enemy closed in, still shrugging off Elemental’s relentless barrage — shells detonated meters from its hull. Omela braced to flee — when space erupted in a blinding glare.
“Elemental, stay behind us!” Fry’s distorted voice crackled.
Polaris came to the rescue.
“Subspace jump complete, thirty minutes to recharge,” Ran reported.
“Engaging intercept. One target is within weapons range, five more closing,” Fry activated combat mode.
The lizard proved his skill: his pinpoint short-range jump placed Polaris between Elemental and the unknown vessel.
“You guys rock, so awesome!” Omela squealed with relief. “Oh… sorry, High One…”
Dreks leaned forward in his chair, studying the enemy data on the screen. The ship’s structure registered as unknown, but he’d seen its kind before. Shaking off stray thoughts, he shouted:
“Ran, turn to target, course 0-2-0. Fry, weapons at the ready! Shields to max! Close the viewports, image feed to screens!”
The unidentified ship wasn’t fazed by the corvette’s arrival, barely adjusting its course, tweaking its fire. Polaris’s shield flared under strain, absorbing the laser barrage.
“Shield at ninety. Eighty-five,” the tigress reported, paw steady on the fire control console.
“Hold it!” Dreks stood, approaching the screens, hands clasped behind. Fry glanced back, nodding at the corvette’s status display.
“Forty seconds to the nearest approach, permission to fire, sir!”
Dreks eyed the multilaser flashes and the enemy’s nearing silhouette. Polaris’s aft shield was draining too fast. If this was their main weapon, what else did they have?
“They’ll need to recharge sometime, Lieutenant. Ran, execute ‘Echo-3’ pattern after shields drop!”
“Understood, Captain,” Ran replied. He rested his paw on the manual control lever, tilting his head as if consulting with the ship on the maneuver. Three seconds later, the enemy ceased fire. Dreks spun to Fry:
“Drop shields, ion cannons, plus three! Fire missiles, plus four!”
Two brilliant blue energy beams erupted from the corvette’s bow guns, striking the enemy ship. In 2.3 seconds, they collapsed its shields and sliced through its hull, punching clean through. Four seconds later, Polaris fired five missiles and veered off course. The missiles quickly closed the gap and detonated, tearing the enemy apart. Out of control, it drifted ten meters past the corvette.
“Status!” Dreks roared, pointing at the wrecked ship. Ran, eyes fixed on the approaching enemies readying to fire, replied:
“Target disabled, Captain! The computer IDs it as a heavy bomber. Data shows moderate hull damage. No biological activity detected…” Ran glanced at the scrolling data, startled. “…and neither on the incoming ships! Sir! They’re drones!”
“I’m aware!”
Fry shot a surprised look at the captain, but he shook his head — “all questions later.”
“Course 0-7-4, full speed! Close in, break their formation! Elemental, stay behind us—they can’t see you through our engines. Target any ship we strip the shields from!”
“That I can do. That should be easy,” Omela replied, her voice tight with strain.
Polaris accelerated, dropping frontal shields and unleashing a salvo of missiles and ion cannons. The range was too far for optimal accuracy, but thirty percent of the missiles hit, destroying or weakening shields on two enemy ships. Moments later, the enemy responded with dense multilaser fire and launched two torpedoes per ship.
Polaris’s crew barely raised shields in time.
“Ten torpedoes incoming!” Fry shouted.
The corvette shuddered from engine strain and sporadic hull hits. Dreks gripped the pilot’s headrest tighter.
“Shields to max! Flak batteries and PDCs on torpedoes, brace for impact!”
Dozens of point-defense cannons opened fire. Shells exploded near targets, releasing shrapnel that shredded armor and engines. Six torpedoes were destroyed by Polaris’s barrage, one veered off course, but the remaining three struck one by one. The first two obliterated the shields, and the last grazed the hull and exploded, breaching the plating and incinerating several compartments. The blast hurled Dreks into the comms terminal. Sparks flew as severed wires dangled from the ceiling. A cable duct broke in half, crashing onto Fry. The darkened bridge glowed with emergency lighting and filled with smoke from fried wiring.
“Don’t stop firing!” Dreks roared from the corner, struggling to his feet, clutching his left arm.
Sharp pain suggested a cracked bone, maybe a fracture. Ran, unharmed, shuddered from mental feedback as Polaris took hits. Recovering, he reported:
“Compartments 7 and 8 on deck two sealed! Enemy formation is breached, one drone is down, shields collapsed on two more! Elemental’s covering us, taking some hits!”
Fry growled hoarsely, blindly retargeting missile batteries, blood trickling from her mouth. Dreks staggered toward her, scanning the tracking screens. Polaris’s firepower held the enemy at bay, but the drones were now aiming to exhaust them, targeting critical systems.
Omela pushed Elemental to its limits, lining up shots on the bombers while dodging crossfire. Polaris had stripped shields from two drones, now her primary targets. Locking onto one, the lynx tailed it and fired a laser burst. It barely dented the drone’s armor—she’d never seen such tough plating. Aiming between its engines, she got lucky. A weak explosion rocked the drone, likely frying its controls. Tumbling, it drifted toward the crimson moon.
Omela exhaled, glancing at Polaris. The corvette blazed with gunfire, but a bright, plasma-wreathed speck caught her eye near its engines. The first drone that was hit dragged toward Polaris’s thrusters.
“Polaris! On your tail!” she screamed into the mic, too late.
Mere meters away, the drone erupted into a fireball. Polaris’s engine cut out, the blast knocking the ship off course. Burning plasma flooded the lower engineering deck, flames cutting through the hull like paper.
Life support and gravity systems strained to compensate for the lurching course, the ship’s frame barely holding. Screeching metal echoed as the vessel nearly tore apart. The bridge took less damage this time, and Dreks, cursing in an ancient Earth dialect, clung to a support beam to avoid being flung across.
As soon as the ship’s vibrations eased and gravity stabilized, Ran gritted his fangs:
“Engine four offline, Captain. Fuel line sealed, compensating…”
“Fry, evasive maneuvers! Drone status?” Dreks reached his pilot. “Fry!”
The tigress lay still. In dim emergency light, Dreks saw a deep gash on her back from the fallen cable duct, blood pooling on the floor. He stepped over sparking wires and debris and checked her pulse with his good hand. Ran closed his eyes.
“Sir. I sense something… close.”
Still fumbling with the tigress’s safety harness, Dreks snapped:
“I know, thanks.”
“No, not the drones. Scanners aren’t picking it up, but it’s on our tail. Can’t pinpoint distance… a kilometer, maybe less. Detecting a strong energy surge.”
Dreks shut his eyes for a moment. He needed to come up with a plan and fast.
“Ran, take full control of the ship. Hard turn to 1-2-0, start a new approach! Keep them at range! Stay in the fight!”
The lizard nodded without speaking, honored by Dreks’ trust.
Freeing Fry, Dreks slung her arm over his neck, supporting her with his good hand, and dragged her toward the exit. The medbay was one deck below, and it took five grueling minutes to reach the nearest backup lift by the command module. The ship groaned, vibrating from flak batteries, and Dreks prayed Ran’s skill could hold the enemy off long enough — he couldn’t leave his pilot to die. Staggering into the medbay, he laid Fry on the cybermed table, standard automated surgery for every warship. Fry stirred, eyes cracking open, and whispered:
“Sorry… I failed…”
“Don’t speak nonsense, you’ve got nothing to apologize for.” Entering her data into the terminal, Dreks waited for the rapid scan results and stepped back as “cybersnake” manipulators emerged, cleaning her wound with antiseptic for tissue repair.
“After it patches you up, you’ll be good as new. Rest.”
Painkillers and sedatives kicked in, and Fry slowly closed her eyes, slipping into unconsciousness. Dreks glanced at the terminal — the cybermed estimated a day for full tissue recovery.
Taking a moment for himself, he bound his possibly fractured arm with elastic fabric, downed a painkiller, and sprinted back to the bridge.
The shield generators were slowly recovering from the drone torpedoes. Polaris maintained heavy fire, enemy laser strikes mostly dissipating before reaching the hull. Without turning at the door’s hiss, Ran reported:
“Holding defense, but can’t drop shields for an offensive. Elemental took direct hits but is still fighting, trying to draw the three remaining drones.”
Slumping into his chair, Dreks scanned the sensor readings.
“What’s with that energy surge behind us?”
“Sensors barely detect it, can’t visually confirm,” Ran said, closing his eyes briefly. “It’s still there, waiting, sir… at the edge of scanner range. Six more contacts approaching from the Gates. According to my calculations we lack the firepower to confront eight drones at once. I suggest preparing Polaris for a jump.”
“Negative! There is nowhere to retreat! Time to contact?” Dreks switched the missile guidance system to his console.
“No more than five minutes, sir.”
“Then we’ve got four to clear the current mess! Max power to transmitters! Gitche Gumee should be in high Avalon orbit — cut through the interference, signal Administration about hostile forces! Get planetary defenses on full alert!”
The computer pinged an incoming signal, and Ran immediately patched it to the bridge speakers. A strange voice crackled through the static:
“Seems-s-s you need help with your current… issues-s-s.”
Dreks shot Ran a questioning look.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Ran nodded, cross-checking data and opening a new comm channel.
“Unidentified vessel, state your designation.”
“Look, here I am.”
A black fighter streaked past Polaris, unloading a barrage on the drones. Its pilot’s voice carried a playful hiss:
“Polaris-s-s… I’m the one looking for you. My ship’s Sun Spire.”
***
Gitche completed another orbit around Avalon. Its scanning systems ran on autopilot, so Devora headed to the gym for her daily workout to pass the time. Soon, panting heavily, Hioni trudged in — he exercised too, but didn’t exactly love it.
“Ready?” Devora called from the dimmed far end of the gym.
“Yeah!”
Hioni, standing in the center under the lights, took a fighting stance on bent legs. He raised his training sword, admiring the light gliding along its smooth blade.
A split second later, the blade flew to the corner. Devora stood before him, her weapon seemingly untouched, though Hioni knew his sword hadn’t fallen on its own.
“Not like that,” Devora said matter-of-factly. “You watched the blade, not me.”
“Ugh,” Hioni sighed, slouching further. “Training’s not my thing. I’m a lousy shot with a pistol as well. Weapons just aren’t for me.”
“If trouble comes,” Devora said, “you must be able to stand your ground, right?”
“Weapons don’t solve everything! Sure, you’d take out an enemy, no problem! But what if some grand cause demands killing a friend? Huh?” Hioni asked.
“Yes. If that’s the situation… a friend too,” Devora replied darkly.
Hioni snorted skeptically but didn’t get to argue. A shipwide alert blared, summoning the crew to the bridge. The computer announced: “Proximity warning. Transition point detected twenty-five kilometers from current position.” Exchanging glances, Devora and Hioni bolted to the bridge.
“What’s happening?” Devora asked, dropping into her chair and activating the ship’s main systems. Screens flooded with data: Gitche Gumee had been passively scanning Avalon’s high orbit. Armored shutters slid open, revealing a horrifying sight: a Confederation carrier, venting oxygen clouds and hull fragments, barreled toward them. Moments later, a subspace flash spat out a heavy cruiser, its reactor unstable per quick scans.
“By the Heavens!” Hioni yelped.
“Twenty-degree bank, full reverse,” Devora said, gripping the controls as if nothing had happened.
Hioni shook, activated emergency protocols, and switched to manual control, handing it to Devora. Gitche Gumee groaned at the sharp maneuver, engines hitting max power in three seconds. Devora veered the ship off the carrier’s path, and it drifted past them toward the planet, its hull riddled with breaches spewing debris and crew remains. Hioni stared in horror; Devora, with calm sorrow.
The combat giant still showed signs of life — perhaps survivors, or maybe its emergency maneuvering system, though Hioni couldn’t tell from the patchy sensor data. Either way, the carrier’s engines roared to life, fighting inertia to avoid Avalon’s pull. After moments that felt like eternity to the anxious wolf, one engine exploded, triggering a chain reaction. The once-mighty vessel split in two, its halves drifting into Avalon’s upper atmosphere. Panic erupted among trade and transport ships near the orbital shipyard, their engines flaring as they scrambled to escape.
“Activate main systems. Combat readiness!” Devora ordered, steel in her voice, and initiated the de-orbiting maneuver. Glancing at their other neighbor, the heavy cruiser, she noted its engines were offline — likely to prevent a reactor meltdown.
Hioni stayed silent, alternating between scanning his console and staring, horrified, at the carrier’s wreckage dissolving in fiery streaks.
“D-Devora,” he finally stammered. “Incoming signal.”
“Who? Coordinates? Target?”
“It’s Polaris… Requesting retransmission. The signal’s weak, like it’s being jammed.”
Hioni focused on the comm terminal, inputting decryption and relay commands. His eyes froze on the decoded text.
“Captain Dreks orders immediate activation of planetary defense systems. Message cuts off after that.”
Devora’s calm, dark eyes met Hioni’s, his own radiating raw terror. Polaris was likely engaged by hostile forces, unable to return to orbit, or Dreks would’ve brought her back by now.
“Relay what we’ve got,” Devora commanded.
Gitche Gumee began a slow turn, aligning its stern toward the subspace Gates’ beacon.
“Message away,” Hioni reported. “Now, are we heading to help Polaris?”
A blinding red glow erupted before Gitche Gumee, flooding all visible space. In an instant, it turned white, searing the cockpit and dazzling Devora and Hioni. A massive rift tore through space-time, and from the wormhole emerged a ship — vast, ten times larger than any strike cruiser, its alien form unlike anything from any known worlds.
Its hull, scaled like ancient flesh, shimmered with a million years of existence. A head-like prow hinted at a monstrous origin, as if birthed from some cosmic abyss.
Bathed in the pink glow of Avalon’s moon and the yellow rays of its sun, the Outsider ascended to high orbit, slowly turning its starboard side toward the silenced cruiser and the nearby orbital shipyard.
Devora flinched, and for the first time the wolf noticed confusion on her face.
“What’s wrong?” Hioni asked as she powered up the ship’s weapons.
“It wants…” Devora muttered. “It’s turning to…”
“Stop! What are you doing? What — are — you — doing?!” Hioni roared, lunging for her arm. With a subtle flick, Devora sent him sprawling to the corner, just as his sword had flown earlier. He whimpered indignantly but fell silent, noticing the Confederation cruiser, its reactors offline, also turning its remaining guns on the Outsider.
Neither ship acted in time. Devora stared, frozen, as dozens of blinding beams and short salvos ripped through space. The Outsider targeted Avalon. Hundreds of swift, deadly projectiles launched from its surface, streaking toward the planet. Each struck the atmosphere, blooming into white-hot explosions. Hioni screamed in terror. Pale as death, Devora slammed the triggers, unleashing futile fire. Blood trickled from her bitten lip as she fired at the colossal beast, powerless to stop its carnage.
One of the Outsider’s beams grazed Gitche Gumee’s engines. Amid the blood-red alarm, Hioni activated the distress beacon and entered a final command before darkness claimed him. Devora, too, lost consciousness, her fingers still clutching the useless triggers in defiance.
***
Standing behind the focused lizard, Dreks watched as the final enemy drone erupted into flames under the relentless barrage from Sun Spire and Polaris. The static in the corvette’s cockpit vanished, and targeting system distortions cleared. Dreks scanned the long-range sensors — positioned behind Avalon’s large, reddish moon, the corvette and its escorts faced no further threats in lunar space or the corridor.
Leaning wearily over the pilot’s console, Dreks opened a comm channel to Elemental and Sun Spire:
“This is Polaris. All vessels, report damage.”
“Minimal damage, Captain Dreks-s-s,” the hissing voice from the Spire seemed like a shadow of sounds
“I’m pretty banged up — hull breaches, engine stabilizers barely holding,” squeaked the lynx from Elemental.
“Land Elemental in our main hangar immediately!” Dreks interrupted. “Transmitting ID codes.”
“Uh-ha… I mean — aye, Captain,” the lynx replied.
Akrongi Ran, monitoring Elemental’s approach, muted the mics and reported:
“Moderate damage here. Fire on engineering decks is extinguished, fourth engine is offline, two compartments are exposed to vacuum. Auto-repair systems are activated and are managed by computer. With most power diverted to engines and weapons, subspace drive recharge will take about an hour.”
“Thank you, Ran. Excellent work,” the lizard nodded gratefully. Dreks turned to Sun Spire’s pilot — the fighter that turned the battle. A monitor displayed its silhouette and preliminary data from Polaris’s archives:
“Spire, we recognize your Mystic faction auth codes, but our system can’t identify you as any known Sol-sector vessel.”
A chuckle crackled through:
“No s-s-surprise, Human. Beyond Mercury, you’re the first to have the honor of s-s-seeing my ship. I wish to discuss what happened — not over comms-s-s. In person.”
The lizard glanced at Dreks, who nodded silently.
“Sun Spire, transmitting ID codes.”
***
The shadow closed its eyes. Questions gnawed, making even the approach to the corvette a struggle — too many thoughts swirled, and Spire reacted skittishly, like a Mercurian firesteed bucking at a yanked rein.
At first, it seemed simple: make contact, verify data. Now, these drones. Why did they attack? Where was their carrier? “The Watcher”. Who controlled it now?
Each minute brought more questions.
***
Ran and Dreks entered the main hangar where Elemental had just landed, the air still warm from its recently powered-down engines. Omela tumbled down the ramp, fur ruffled from nervous tension, though a mischievous spark lingered in her eyes. Seeing the damage to her beloved Elemental, she sobered briefly but perked up at the sight of the High One.
She ran toward the captain, snapped to attention, and blurted, “Omela Wein-Bloome, pilot of the frigate Elemental, at your service!”
Grinning, Dreks extended a hand. The lynx, ears flattening in surprise, cautiously shook it.
“I don’t deserve it — I botched the escort mission!” she said.
“You did all you could. Fine work, pilot,” Dreks replied.
“Correct. Your combat performance was highly rated by the AI,” Ran added.
“Really?” Omela’s spirits lifted.
“Unfortunately, there was nothing you could do to save Chimera,” the lizard said, his gaze softening toward the small lynx.
A metallic clang echoed above as the hangar’s massive doors slid open. The ship’s atmosphere was now held by a transparent force field, through which Galfryd’s disk gleamed — until Sun Spire’s shadow eclipsed it.
The Mystic fighter passed through the field, descending with a blast of hot air from its landing thrusters, washing over everyone on the deck. It was roughly twenty-five meters long with a ten-meter span of crescent wings; Spire’s seamless black hull — forged from Mercury’s newest alloys — showed no joints or welds.
Dreks noticed Ran staring, awestruck; clearly, the lizard was unfamiliar with this ship type. Spire touched down softly twenty meters from Elemental, lowering its ramp. A figure, slightly taller than human, cloaked in dark robes, descended slowly. From a distance, Dreks could only discern it was an Ascended One. Ran leaned in and whispered, “Captain, that’s no Mystic — they’re usually shorter than humans.”
As the figure approached, Dreks sensed that, despite its calm demeanor and lack of overt aggression, it could effortlessly annihilate them if it chose. Reflexively, his right hand brushed the pistol grip at his belt.
“I’m Richard Dreks, captain of the Planetary Defense Force corvette Polaris,” he said softly but firmly, stepping forward.
The shadow loomed closer, growing darker. A wide hood fell back, revealing two saffron eyes with slit pupils scanning the group. Catlike eyes, a panther’s head, and a cascade of sharp horns ran from the crown of their head to spine. Another razor-sharp spike gleamed at the tip of a black, fluffy tail, cinched by a broad golden ring. Beneath the cloak, wide wings, borrowed from the night itself, stirred faintly.
“My name is Shandaris-s-s. Indeed, I am no Mis-s-stic,” the manticore said, her gaze piercing Ran, almost entirely ignoring the human.
“Pleasure to meet you. Ran, please assign Omela a cabin on the first level,” Dreks said, turning to the lynx. “I’ll personally ensure your ship is transferred to Avalon’s orbital docks for repairs upon our return. For now, rest.”
“Awesome,” Omela whispered, thrilled to be aboard the “cool” warship Polaris.
Minutes later, Dreks and Shandaris entered a dimly lit, empty conference room. Above the central table, a holographic projection of Galfryd’s moon showed Polaris’s position relative to it. Approaching the control panel, Dreks tapped a few keys. The display shifted, revealing additional data on when Avalon’s tracking stations would emerge from the moon’s shadow. Mere minutes remained until contact with the colony could resume.
“So, if not a Mystic, then what?” Dreks turned to the manticore, who’d been studying him as if trying to unravel a puzzle.
“As your navigator aptly noted, I don’t quite fit the Mystic profile — too tall,” Shandaris said with a hint of irony, crossing her paws. Her gaze pierced Dreks through the holographic projection’s blue lines. “Do you know anything about the s-s-ships that attacked you?”
Leaning his hand against the table’s frame, Dreks met her impenetrable eyes. Mystic intelligence, based on Mercury in the Sol sector, had avoided collaboration with Earth’s military or the Confederation for decades, only engaging in rare, self-serving contacts. It was too early to lay all his cards on the table.
“I’ve heard rumors from fleet captains about similar vessels, but nothing concrete until now,” Dreks said, shaking his head. “All we know is they’re drones, with hulls and weapons unlike anything human-made.”
Shandaris nodded slowly, though Dreks sensed she didn’t buy a word of it.
“You’re searching for reasons why the Gates failed at the border sectors-s-s, on Earth…” she hissed. “Many are. They failed because of these drones. Mos-s-st likely.”
Dreks felt a twinge in his bandaged arm. Wonderful “new-s-s-s.” This meant the enemy was somehow bypassing border perimeters and inner-system outposts.
“Is it just a guess?”
“Yes, a guess for now,” Shandaris said, her pupils narrowing. “Two days ago, by your reckoning, in a neighboring s-s-system, my Spire detected a vessel like those drones — s-s-same signature. Moments later, the Gates there shut down.”
“Any information on how they do it?” Dreks asked, grappling with the implications and wondering how much Confederation intelligence or Planetary Defense knew.
The hologram showed Polaris emerging from Galfryd’s shadow, entering direct comms range with Avalon’s relays.
“Unknown,” Shandaris hissed after a pause. “No one knows-s-s their method. No physical or logical changes in the Gates’ s-s-structures. Yet all signs point to this system as the next target for a portal shutdown. That’s why I’m here. I track sabotage. I document its process-s-s.”
“My experience tells me that no matter how advanced or self-sufficient these ships are, there’s always a carrier nearby,” Dreks noted.
The manticore nodded thoughtfully but was cut off by the intercom:
“Captain Dreks, report to the bridge,” Ran requested. Flicking a switch, Dreks asked, “Urgent?”
“Afraid so. We’re out of the shadow, but Avalon’s relays aren’t responding.”
“And where is-s-s your pilot?” Shandaris hissed.
“Fry has been injured, and is now in medbay,” Dreks replied.
In the main corridor of the first level, Dreks and Shandaris met Omela, who stood by the closed doors leading to Polaris’s bridge. She turned to the sound of steps and anxiously glanced at the Human.
“Captain, I overheard… Can I come in too?” Omela nodded timidly toward the doors as Dreks entered the access code. The doors slid open silently.
“Allowed,” Dreks said, nodding.
The trio approached Ran, who was struggling to get the comms working, scanning a manual while entering commands at a terminal.
“Sorry, Captain. I’m no comms officer, but our equipment seems fine.”
Brushing aside cables dangling from the ceiling, Dreks reached the control panel and ran a systems diagnostic himself.
“Where are the automated beacons? Anything on wideband?”
The radio analyzer showed only microwave noise, and the subspace receiver was silent, picking up no signals from the orbital shipyard or navigation satellites.
“Maybe it’s like in our last scrap — systems glitching?” Omela asked hopefully.
Dreks shook his head silently.
“Midshipman Ran, what do sensors show?”
The lizard tilted his head, eyes closed, accessing the navigation module’s data stream mirrored on a bridge screen.
“Running long-range scans,” Ran said. “I see… unknown ships in Avalon’s orbit, but too far to identify.”
Dreks turned, heading to his chair. Options were slim — they had to return Polaris to orbit, risky as it was.
“Prepare for a short jump. Shields to maximum.”
As the reactor diverted power to the subspace drive, the ship hummed faintly. Main engines warmed up, ready to propel Polaris. One engine signaled a fault, but Ran corrected the load coefficients manually.
“Omela, Shandaris, hold on to something,” Dreks said grimly, nodding to his bandaged arm on the armrest. “Don’t repeat others’ mistakes.”
“I was told the High Ones don’t make mistakes-s-s,” Shandaris hissed through gritted teeth, gripping, however, a nearby handrail.
Omela tensed — her words sounded like an insult — but Dreks’s reply carried a smirk:
“I hope you didn’t believe that.”
“Engine charged, ready for jump, Captain,” Akrongi Ran reported. “Exit point set, vector confirmed. Shields recharged, weapons armed. Countdown: five… four…”
The vibration intensified, the hum of the engine growing as it prepared to unleash energy for a subspace breach.
“Two… one… Go.”
A blinding flash erupted before Polaris, momentarily dazzling the bridge crew. The corvette surged forward, diving into the glow, trailing ionized gases. The short jump — 420,000 kilometers — lasted a thousandth of a second. The void outside the viewport instantly gave way to Avalon’s disk.
Fires raged across one of its continents, visible even from orbit.
Polaris emerged in low orbit, 20 kilometers from the shipyard — or what was left of it: scorched and shattered wreckage. Stunned, Ran nearly missed a shuttle-sized piece of debris hurtling toward them.
“Evasive maneuvers!” Dreks roared.
Ran steered Polaris clear of the largest fragments. A hundred smaller pieces pierced the shields, pinging the hull. For a tense minute, impacts echoed through the ship until Ran guided it to a debris-free zone and cut the engines. The wreckage caused minor damage.
Dreks broke the silence, his voice unnaturally quiet: “Status. Comms.”
No one could tear their eyes from the carnage beyond the viewport.
“Shipyard’s gone,” Ran said, eyes wide open, scanning the comms analyzer. “I see fragments of the orbital station and other vessels — civilian transports, passenger ships. No enemy presence confirmed. No comms. Not even beacons.”
Wreckage and frozen, charred bodies drifted in chaotic orbits alongside gutted ships, consumed by fires and explosions. Civilian vessels, docked at the shipyard, had perished instantly, engines cold. Below, Avalon burned with atomic fury.
“Tis,” Omela moaned. “My brothers, my sister…” She sank to the floor.
“Surface,” Dreks ground out through clenched teeth.
A topographic map of the continent appeared, the computer marking strike points.
“Preliminary data indicates 47 orbital strikes with unknown weapons. Residual radiation detected,” Ran exhaled. Omela whimpered. “Nothing remains of the colony and nearby settlements but rubble. The air temperature within a thousand kilometers exceeds 400 degrees. No comms. Bioscanners detect nothing… What in the world…”
“Real-time tactical map!” Dreks ordered, snapping out of hesitation. “Watch around us — the enemy could still be near! Broadcast ID codes on emergency frequencies. Scan orbit with bioscanners. I need to know who did this!”
They searched for what felt like forever. Time seemed frozen in grief, yet they kept scanning for survivors, broadcasting calls into the void to no avail. Omela wept quietly, slumped on the floor, bathed in the grim red glow from the viewport. Ran, outwardly calm, hunched closer to the projections than usual. The horror was in the eternity of it all: the atomic fires on Avalon raged unabated, wreckage and bodies drifted in brutal clarity, distant stars shone indifferently, and the ether remained dead silent.
Another eternity passed before Ran straightened, his voice cracking as he addressed Dreks:
“Finally! I’m picking up an emergency beacon pulse! It’s faint — someone must’ve activated a backup reactor…”
“Can you identify it?” Dreks winced, wary of an ambush. The lizard closed his eyes.
Through the debris, Ran discerned a hazy frigate hull. There — a reactor’s pulse, 30 kilometers starboard. A fading heartbeat of an interstellar ship, its steel reflecting Polaris’s radiation waves through the heavy background noise. The ship seemed blind and deaf, ignoring the corvette’s hails. Bioscanners detected faint signs of life at this distance. Matching the reactor’s signature to known vessels in the database…
The AI spat out an answer. Ran’s eyes snapped open, claws striking keys. A flickering ship silhouette appeared on a monitor.
“It’s the Gitche Gumee!” Ran shouted, elated.
Dreks leaned forward in his chair, staring at the blurry frigate image.
“Are you sure? Any signs of life?”
“Yes! Polaris confirms a 90% match probability. Bioscanners aren’t precise at this range, but there are faint life signs! Devora! Hioni!”
Dreks sank back, eyes closing, heavy as lead after the last 24 hours.
“Plot a course.”
***
Compared to the Gitche Gumee, the Elemental in Polaris’s main hangar looked pristine. Devora’s ship had crippled engines, forcing Ran to use a tractor beam to tow it.
On the blazing planet below, a chain reaction had begun. The atmosphere ignited, a massive vortex of flame devouring land, drying seas, and annihilating life. Blackened clouds loomed, smoldering cities beneath, their fires painting orbiting wreckage pink. The large moon, Galfrid, glowed as if it was bleeding.
Dreks understood that no one else could be found or saved from Avalon. Once the hangar’s docking clamps secured the Gitche Gumee, Polaris jumped to the asteroid belt.
Now, the corvette drifted in standby mode, with all active systems off to avoid detection.
“Hugo! Devora!” Ran burst into the hangar, grabbing a cutting torch from a toolbox at the entrance. He tried the main airlock, but it was warped.
Without hesitation, the lizard ignited the torch, sparks cascading onto the deck. Dreks stood behind, portable medkit ready. Shutting off the torch, Ran backed up ten meters, flapped his wings for momentum, and slammed his shoulder into the hatch. The metal chunk crashed inward, a brief draft hitting them from the pressure difference. The inner airlock doors were open, revealing a dimly lit corridor leading to the ship’s core. Without pause, Ran and Dreks sprinted through the frigid compartments to the command center.
It was freezing cold on the bridge. Most devices were offline, the rest showing critical system failures. On the floor the wolf — Hugo — lay, panting heavily. In the pilot’s chair, Devora Nokomis slumped unconscious.
“She’s alive! Get them out!” Dreks shouted, checking the High One’s pulse.
“The wolf too,” Ran hissed, satisfied.
Thirty minutes later, Devora stirred, followed by Hugo. Both were weak from oxygen deprivation and cold but had only bruises and contusions, per the cybermed’s scans.
“Thank you for pulling us out,” Devora said, waving off the medical bot’s breathing exercise prompt. “Hugo activated the emergency systems so we could be found among the debris…”
Hugo, oxygen mask on, could only nod.
“How long were we out?” the High One asked.
“About 20 minutes, maybe half an hour,” Dreks replied, leaning against the medbay wall. “It took us 15 to dock your ship after picking up the beacon.”
“Then Avalon started dying half an hour ago,” Devora said flatly.
“Who did this, Devora?”
Instead of answering, she pulled a small data crystal from an inner pocket and handed it to the captain.
“This will provide access to the Gitche Gumee’s computer, including its logs. I don’t know what it was. Something… very alien. See for yourself.”
***
Apparently, the ship’s lighting was dead — the decks glowed only with the faint reddish light of a dying star seeping through the viewports. Fry moved slowly through the lower levels toward the bridge, listening to the eerie silence. Normally, she’d hear the reactor’s hum or the clatter of loading mechanisms and repair bots in the main hangar behind her. Now, the ship was mute, and it terrified the tigress. Attempts to reach the captain via intercom failed — nothing but static.
A minute later, Fry reached the heavy doors to a backup lift for the upper decks. She froze, whipping around.
She swore she’d heard breathing nearby, but the corridor remained empty. Turning back to the access console, she punched in her code but yanked her paw back — a deafening bang warped the doors from the inside. Trembling slightly, Fry drew her pistol, aimed, and backed away. Another blow. Then another. She spun and sprinted, pursued by the screech of tearing metal.
Why are you running? a whisper hissed behind her.
Frey burst into the dark, empty hangar, sweeping her pistol side to side. Despite her effort to stay calm, her tail tip twitched, revealing her tension. A noise echoed from the far end — up on the catwalks near the airlock.
Laughter, growing louder with each second.
“You can’t escape us! The Rebirth is coming!”
Something massive landed behind her. In slow motion, gasping, Fry turned toward the clump of darkness and pulled the trigger. A blinding flash dazzled her, the explosive round bursting from the barrel, leaving a smoky scent — almost like a cigarette.
Fry jolted, squinting against the harsh medbay ceiling lights. Through the haze, she saw Dreks sitting nearby, watching her intently, a lit cigarette dangling from his relaxed hand.
“Captain?” Fry tried to sit up on the operating table but winced, a dull ache radiating from her back on the right.
Carefully standing, she glanced in a mirror. The cybermed had finished treating her wound three hours ago but couldn’t fully heal it yet — a scar stretched from her shoulder blade to her lower back.
“How long was I…?” Fry turned to Dreks, now noticing his haggard look, like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Just over a day,” he said, taking a drag and nodding toward a chair where a new pilot’s jacket lay, “PDFc Polaris” embroidered on the back.
“What happened? Did we beat the enemy? Are we waiting for backup?” Fry frowned, slipping her paws into the sleeves. Her still-recovering motor functions made the motion clumsy.
Dreks stubbed out his cigarette in a near-full ashtray, stood, and replied:
“Seven hours ago, we broke radio silence, and I sent a report to Admiral Wilford. We got a brief order for a comms session with Planetary Defense HQ. We lost the Avalon, El.”