PLANETARY DEFENSE FORCES CORVETTE “POLARIS”
USHER SYSTEM, 16062480, 0630 SGT.
The autocook let out a sharp beep and opened its door. Hioni pulled out two plates from its glowing interior, placed them on a tray, and carried the food to the table with focused care.
Devora was already seated, so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the wolf set her breakfast in front of her. According to the ship’s chronometer, it was early morning, and aside from Hioni and the High One, the mess hall was empty.
Right after leaving the medbay, Devora tried to talk to Captain Dreks about what to do next with the Gitche Gumee and when they could transport it to the nearest shipyard. The captain said it was impossible for now and asked for more time, promising to gather everyone and explain the situation.
Polaris was still lingering in the asteroid belt. Resigned, Nokomis and Hioni had moved aboard, taking up crew cabins. The High One hoped this would all be over soon, and she and the wolf could fly away.
Hioni sniffed the steam rising from his plate.
“Army food. Let’s see what they feed the heroes of the Starfleet!”
“The autocook here is barely good for anything,” Devora replied haughtily.
Hioni licked a piece straight from the plate, then, after savoring it, dove into the meal. He wielded a large spoon with the deftness of someone familiar with hunger and hard labor.
“You’re too harsh. It’s damn tasty,” he mumbled through a mouthful. “And check out this bar! I’ll grab us something…”
“The captain here has decent taste,” Devora noted, eyeing the glowing shelves. “But isn’t it a bit early for drinks?”
“I was thinking of you… All this stress you’re under…” the wolf started, but the High One cut him off.
“What’s the state of the Gitche, Hioni?”
The engineer scratched behind his ear with a paw, thoughtful.
“The damage is severe. If they let me use the Polaris’s repair bots, I could get her running in a couple of days. Without them — two weeks, maybe a month.”
Just then, the door slid open, and Omela stumbled in, clutching a bottle with barely a splash left at the bottom. The lynx fixed a bleary, tear-streaked gaze on the High One and Hioni, then turned to the bar, comparing her bottle to the ones on the glowing shelves, searching for a match to keep drowning her sorrow.
Hioni looked at the small, forlorn figure, set his food aside, and approached the lynx.
“Omela…”
“G-get away!” she hissed suddenly, swatting away his outstretched paw. She downed the last of the liquor and flung it into a corner. “You’re a-all fine, huh? Alive and well, escaped? But back on Avalon, e-everyone’s dead! Everyone!”
“We know, we know,” Hioni murmured softly.
“You know, huh? And she knows?” Omela’s fur bristled as she shot a glance at Devora, who sat impassively over her plate. The alcohol had stripped away the lynx’s sense of propriety when addressing the High Ones. “Why’s she so… so calm? Knew it was coming, didn’t she? Maybe she… maybe she brought the ones with bombs!”
Devora rose from the table, inevitable as a typhoon. Hioni pinned his ears back, while Omela, shocked by her own words, locked eyes with her.
“I am deeply sorry your planet was lost,” Devora said evenly.
“Sorry? You say that so calmly, huh?” the lynx snapped, tears streaming as she sniffled loudly, swaying on her feet. “Let me tell you something! You don’t give a damn! It’s all you! I’ll—”
“Enough!” A growl cut through. Elinor Fry strode into the mess hall, her paw resting on the grip of her service pistol. “Wein-Bloome! I order you to stop this tantrum! Don’t forget where you are!”
The tigress’s entire demeanor screamed readiness to prevent a brawl at any cost. Fry approached Devora, dipped her head slightly, and spoke in a calmer tone:
“I ask forgiveness if Pilot Omela Wein-Bloome’s actions or words offended you, High One. Please, consider her situation.”
“I forgive her,” Devora replied. “This Ascended One doesn’t know what she’s saying. And I forgive her because I’ve been in her place.”
Omela didn’t have time to process the High One’s words. Swaying, she grabbed the bar counter for support as the tigress’s heavy paw settled on her shoulder.
“Pull yourself together. The captain expects you in twenty minutes,” Fry ordered.
“O-okay,” Omela squeaked.
Fry waited as the lynx splashed water on her face, then led her down the first-level corridor of the corvette. Besides crew cabins, this level housed the ship’s core systems and the bridge.
Omela, struggling through the alcoholic haze, tried to figure out why the captain wanted to see her personally. She would’ve asked Lieutenant Fry, but after the scene she’d just caused in the mess hall, how could she? What a disgrace, mouthing off to a High One…
The captain would surely punish her now, maybe even kick her out for undermining discipline on a combat vessel. Things were bad enough already, and now this…
Fry led the dejected lynx to the cabin closest to the bridge and pressed the call button. Moments later, the door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the dim interior of the captain’s quarters. Fry gestured silently for Omela to enter. Nodding, the lynx stepped over the threshold and looked around.
The cabin was identical to those assigned to everyone aboard the Polaris — a table, a couple of chairs, a bunk, a shelf for personal belongings, and a door leading to a shower and toilet. But Omela’s eyes widened as she noticed, in the dim light, that the shelf was lined with real books, antiques in an age where data was almost exclusively digital. Even more surprising, the cabin wasn’t lit by wall panels but by wax candles on the table, casting a soft, yellow glow.
The table was cluttered with maps of planetary systems unfamiliar to Omela, and at its far end rested an antique, lacquered wooden chessboard. Omela mentally estimated its value and felt a fresh wave of dread.
The captain stood by the observation port, gazing at the slowly tumbling asteroids of all shapes and sizes. A hiss sounded behind Omela, and she instinctively glanced back — it was just the door sliding shut. The tigress had entered too, now standing by the entrance with her paws clasped behind her back.
“Omela. Omela Wein-Bloome,” the captain said, and the lynx flinched. Drex turned to her with a faint smile.
“I heard you had a run-in with Captain Nokomis.”
“Y-yes, sir, that’s true…” Omela replied, wishing the floor would swallow her.
“And the reason, if it’s not a secret?”
Omela scrambled for an explanation for her shameful outburst but sighed, deflated. “I’m ashamed. I shouldn’t have said… that…”
“That they’re to blame for what happened?” Drex finished for her.
Omela only nodded.
“I can’t fault you for reacting that way, but I want you to know — they had no part in it,” Dreks said. “Captain Nokomis shared data from her ship, which was in orbit and recorded everything. From what I gathered, at the last moment, Hioni activated some kind of cloaking field that made their Gitche appear to the enemy as a completely destroyed vessel.”
“A field…?”
“Yes, that wolf’s apparently quite the genius to pull off cloaking like that. Our regular fleet can only dream of such tech,” Dreks nodded. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
Stepping closer, the captain looked into her eyes.
“Omela, I’m truly sorry for the friends and loved ones you’ve lost.”
The lynx believed him without a shred of doubt. This High One was calm, but not detached like Devora. His words carried genuine warmth.
“I have a proposal,” he continued. “If you want to help find those responsible, stay with us and pilot the Elemental under the Polaris’s command. I’ve already seen what a capable pilot you are.”
Omela froze — not because the choice was hard, but because it was overwhelming to realize her life could have a purpose again. A chance to ensure no other inhabited world shared her home’s fate…
“Yes!” she blurted fervorously.
The captain smiled and nodded. “Welcome to the crew, pilot. Fry will provide everything you need, including access to the main hangar. In half an hour, I’ll have a comms session with command. Afterward, I’ll gather everyone and clarify what lies ahead.”
“Understood, sir,” the tigress nodded, stepping to the captain’s table and moving a chess piece a few squares forward.
“Great, now I’ve got something to think about for the next half hour. Thanks, Fry,” Dreks muttered under his breath to the smirking tigress.
Devora, unfazed by the clash with the lynx, sat back down at the table. She picked up a bottle from the bar, and now it seemed the glass of aged wine held her full attention. But Hioni, who’d known Nokomis for ages, saw through her. He circled the table and sat across from her.
“We’ve been through a lot,” he said. Devora, who treated Hioni (and other Ascended) far better than she let on, nodded and gave a faint smile.
“But you’ve never told me where you’re from or why you carry that sword,” Hioni pressed bluntly. “And now you say… you’re like that lynx?”
“Yeah,” Devora replied in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, twirling her glass so the wine caught reddish glints. “I’ve never told you. What’s there to tell? There is even less left of my planet than Omela’s. But in my heart, it’s forever whole, alive, blooming. I’m teaching you the swordsmanship to protect yourself, Hioni, but our blades couldn’t save us the day when enemy lasers tore the sky apart. They ripped and carved it like cloth, and we could do nothing. Our ruler, the Purple Dawn Over Sacred Waters, Sole Wisest Emperor, was too weighed down by state affairs to notice minor orbital skirmishes with some smugglers. His beloved Lilac Fields, where the Dynasty marveled each spring, bore the most beautiful flowers under the heavens. But those flowers were a resource for synthesizing one of the universe’s most potent, expensive drugs. When the drug lords realized the Great Emperor couldn’t be bribed or swayed, they banded together and attacked our home. But they weren’t professional soldiers, Hioni.”
Devora slowly raised her eyes to her friend, who sat hunched, paws covering his face.
“And so they triggered, and then couldn’t stop, a chain reaction. The Lilac Fields covered one and a half of our seven continents and then none were left. The planet itself was gone.”
Hioni shook his head in grief, at a loss for words.
A strange sound broke the silence — half moan, half mewl. Devora and Hioni turned to see Omela at the door. Her paws trembled, her pupils wide, nostrils flaring. She tried to speak, but only pitiful kitten-like whimpers came out.
“That’s why,” Devora continued, “we share the same grief, Omela. It’s good you came and heard it yourself. We both want the same thing—for planets to have lived, not perished.”
“With all my heart,” Omela rasped, stepping forward hesitantly and pressing her furry cheek to Devora’s outstretched hand.
Through the static, the admiral’s voice crackled:
“…Glad you survived, Captain. I’ve reviewed the records from the frigate Gitche Gumee — Confederation intel is already sniffing around them. But the situation’s grim. Within an hour of the Avalon attack, our most populated colonies in the Enio and Lennox systems, key points on the Border Worlds’ trade routes, were hit. The PDF tactical fleet defending Enio-V’s mines was crushed in minutes but managed to transmit an image of an unknown ship. It’s identical to the one that hit Avalon. Earth’s been informed, and an hour ago, all Confederation military HQs got orders via secure channels to put their fleets on full alert. Same goes for Planetary Defense Forces across all sectors.”
“Am I correct in assuming a search-and-rescue group will be sent to Avalon to recover ship debris for investigation?” Dreks asked.
“No, Captain. Per intel, the Avalon system is considered lost to the Confederation until the conflict’s resolved. We can’t spare a strike group to cover colony restoration against an unknown enemy. Richard, are we speaking privately?”
“Of course, Admiral,” Dreks replied after a brief pause.
“We’re on the edge of a major crisis. Intel dug into fragmented Legion archives from a wrecked ship six years ago. They know this unidentified vessel is tied to the Keeper somehow. It’s ten times smaller, but the tech’s the same. Hell, even the hull material’s similar! Captain, I’m giving Polaris a special assignment. Half of Confederation intel’s chasing this ship, but they don’t know what you do. I think you can track down the Keeper and figure out why this happened — and how to stop it. Not long ago, Keeper helped form the Confederation and stopped a war that could’ve ended humanity. I don’t buy the higher-ups’ theory that the enemy’s acting in its name.”
“Sir, can I use additional fleet resources?”
“No, Richard. Recruit who you need for your crew, but keep it quiet. It’s a delicate situation. One lead: our esteemed intel missed this, distracted by bigger priorities. A month ago, five systems from Avalon, the colonizer ship Westinghouse passed through, heading beyond Confederation space to scout habitable systems. It last reported before a subspace jump to coordinates I’m sending you now. Nothing since. This case wasn’t investigated yet due to the mass Gate failures, but note: six years ago, a border patrol in that region last detected the Keeper’s signature.”
“Coordinates received.”
“Time’s running out. I expect your report within two weeks. Out.” A sharp beep signaled the channel’s closure.
“Now that’s the most interes-s-sting part,” the manticore hissed, plucking a microscopic earpiece from her ear. “Things are taking a new turn, and my goal’s getting clos-s-ser…”
She sprawled on the couch, mulling over the intercepted conversation between Dreks and the admiral. To stay in the loop, she had planted a bug on the Polaris’s bridge a couple of hours ago. Shandaris had no doubt it would serve her well before self-destructing — Mystics crafted spy tech like no one else, undetectable even if you knew where to look.
The bug was her only way to gather intel. She’d tried probing the Polaris’s network for vulnerabilities through a standard residential cabin terminal, but the corvette’s systems were guarded by an AI tweaked by Mars’ finest.
Shandaris decided to keep tabs on the captain and his crew day and night. Not entirely clear who this Human is… Day and night, but not right now, she thought, settling more comfortably on the couch and closing her eyes. The past two days had been sleepless, and she needed rest.
Barely five minutes passed before Lieutenant Fry’s voice crackled over the intercom:
“All personnel aboard, please proceed to the conference room on level one.”
Opening one eye and dragging herself to her paws, the manticore grumbled under her breath:
“Meetings-s-s are usually called when there’s nothing better to do…”
Some ships managed to fire up their main engines and escape the orbital shipyard before it began disintegrating under direct hits. But it didn’t save them — targeted salvos took them down one by one. The surrounding space lit up with explosions and returned fire from heavier vessels desperately trying to break through to the unknown ship. The planetary defense system kicked in within minutes of the attack — thousands of missiles were launched from the planet’s surface, racing toward the enemy vessel, but only a handful reached their target, seemingly causing no significant damage.
By then, the enemy ship had entered Avalon’s low orbit and unleashed its first orbital bombardment, firing energy weapons of unprecedented power. In the frenzied atmosphere, dozens of blindingly bright pillars of light ignited, incinerating everything in their path as they struck the planet’s surface, erupting into brilliant flashes. From orbit, the destruction was chillingly clear.
“Stop.”
The holographic display dimmed and dissolved into the air. Dreks scanned the conference room. Fry and Akrongi Ran settled close to the captain, eyes wide. Omela and Hioni sat with heads down, while Devora loomed over them, her expression unreadable. The manticore, Shandaris, lurked in the shadows, no longer hiding her appearance under long robes. Her black wings, pressed against her back, resembled a folded raincoat.
The tigress, growling softly and twitching her tail nervously, spoke first:
“Who are the bastards piloting that ship?”
“Unknown at this time,” Dreks replied. “The unidentified vessel’s attack destroyed the main colony, all settlements and the orbital infrastructure. Estimated losses: two million, nine hundred twenty-six thousand, including the PDF ground forces we had delivered to bolster colony security.”
Omela stared at the table. Hioni whispered something comforting, and with a nod, the lynx looked up at the captain.
“What’s next, sir?” she asked, sniffing.
“Thirty minutes ago, I spoke with command,” Dreks said. “They informed me that the very same ship struck Confederation targets in two neighboring systems. Everything I’m about to tell you all is classified and hasn’t been made public.”
At this, Shandaris’s ears perked up.
“Having analyzed all attack records, Confederation intelligence concluded this ship is linked to the Keeper and, somehow, to the mass subspace Gate failures,” the captain continued.
“The Keeper! But that’s a legend, a legend!” Hioni exclaimed, half in disbelief, half in awe.
“What legend?” Omela asked.
“A ship of unimaginable power, awakened from a thousand-year slumber to aid Humanity. Right?”
“Not quite,” Dreks said, shaking his head. “I have access to certain information. The Keeper drifted near the galactic core for millions of years, abandoned and forgotten. Seven years ago, the Legion of Doom discovered it’s not just a warship but possibly the first colonizer vessel, maybe even the one that seeded life in our galaxy.”
“No way,” Omela whispered.
“The Legion found a way to revive it to obtain its ancient tech, aiming to bolster their authority and build their Empire,” Dreks went on. “Fortunately, the combined forces of the Earth Alliance and the Pleiades Federation thwarted them. What happened next is unclear, but the Keeper awoke, made contact with military fleets, and later helped broker diplomatic ties between Earth and the Pleiades Federation. Then it headed beyond the Border Worlds and hasn’t been seen since.”
By the stunned looks around the room Dreks realised no one knew this — with a single exception.
“Assuming that’s true,” the tigress said, tilting her head skeptically, “you mentioned intelligence suspects a link between this ship attacking the Confederation and the Keeper. What’s the connection?”
“They use the same technology,” the captain explained. “This unknown ship was built with the same ancient tech as the Keeper.”
“So, we’re assuming there was a colonizer ship and several warships protecting it,” Akrongi Ran mused, his voice a soft rustle. “We’ve encountered one of them. But given the Keeper’s contributions to the Confederation, it seems illogical that it — or something like it — would destroy the colony. Captain, who even controls the Keeper? Did we really make contact with a race that visited our galaxy millions of years ago?”
“That information is beyond my clearance,” Dreks said. “All I can say is there’s a theory that the Keeper is a ship with a high-order AI, carrying the memories of an extinct race. But it’s just a theory. No one even knows what that race looked like.”
Dreks felt a strong urge to light a cigarette. One can’t just spill all information or else too many details no one’s supposed to know will surface.
“Regardless, Polaris has new orders,” he said, raising his voice slightly and activating a new projection. The room was filled with a map of the galactic sector, marked with jump points between star systems. One system glowed blue, indicating the Polaris current position. “The Confederation is hunting the enemy ship and addressing the Gates failures. Our mission is to find and make contact with the Keeper, gathering as much intel as possible on this threat.”
“Where do we even start?” Hioni asked, mesmerized by the kaleidoscope of star systems. “Where did the Keeper go after leaving Confederation space?”
“According to PDF intel, a month ago, contact was lost with the Westinghouse, a colonizer ship charting unexplored worlds, five systems from here.” A star on the hologram flared red. “That same sector is where the Keeper was last seen six years ago. It’s our only lead.”
“Good luck finding it,” Omela muttered under her breath. “Needle in a haystack, assuming the Keeper even exists…”
Shandaris, catching every word, stepped forward. She pulled a small crystal from her cloak’s pocket and spoke calmly, her voice hissing slightly: “It does-s-s. Everything the captain says is true. May I?” She glanced at Dreks, who nodded.
The manticore inserted the crystal into a reader and entered a long code on the terminal. The galactic map vanished, replaced by a vivid image: a massive ship, overlaid with schematics and numbers. Even without the figures, its immense size was obvious. The glowing lines on its hull were clearly rough estimates, based on visual observation. No living soul had ever been inside the Keeper.
Hioni leaned forward so eagerly he knocked a plastic water bottle off the table. Nokomis picked it up, placed it back, and stepped away, her eyes fixed on the projection as if recognizing something. Akrongi Ran craned his neck, reading the text overlaying the image.
“Over thirty kilometers long… What’s this? Docks, massive ones… huge hangars…”
“Shipboard weapons,” Omela Wein-Bloome chimed in, sounding like an expert despite only encountering warships in video games until today. She was right, though—each weapon was larger than her Elemental or Devora’s Gitche.
The Keeper’s hull material resembled scales, much like the ship that attacked Avalon’s colony. Yet they differed: the Keeper was far larger, with distinct hull details.
“These pics were taken by Mystic recon in the system where the Earth Alliance negotiated with the Pleiades Federation,” Shandaris explained.
“Astonishing…” Hugo exhaled. “It’s perfect.”
To his dismay, the manticore shut off the projection and retrieved her crystal. Then, with a hint of arrogance, she addressed the captain: “I, too, will s-s-seek this needle in a haystack. Mystics don’t collaborate with anyone, but I’ll make an ex-s-ception. We must join forces and find the Keeper before the situation worsens. Too many deaths… No more can be allowed. We’ll learn who controls the ship sowing panic in the Border Worlds. And who’s disabling the Gates-s-s.”
“I gratefully accept your support, Shandaris,” Richard Dreks replied. “Captain Nokomis, I propose that you join our search.” Devora raised her brows, but Dreks pressed on. “In return, you can freely use our engineering deck and repair bots to restore your ship.”
Devora didn’t respond immediately. Hugo looked at her pleadingly. “Don’t you see…”
“I do,” the High One nodded. “Captain Dreks, that image surprised me and my mechanic. The Keeper resembles our ship — the one in your hangar. I… never bought the Gitche Gumee. Hugo and I found it in space. Empty. Abandoned…”
“And alien,” Hugo added in unison.
Akrongi Ran flared his narrow nostrils, letting out a surprised growl. Shandaris watched the High One unblinkingly.
“Hugo Hioni’s been studying its properties,” Devora continued. “Working with it. And now, it seems…”
“Yes,” Hugo said, excited. “The resemblance is undeniable. The Gitche’s appearance is a disguise. It’s not what it seems. Its mystery’s clearer now, thanks to Shandaris’s image.”
“Well, then,” Devora concluded, “my ship and my sword are at your service, Captain. And thank you for the repair bots and engineering deck.”
Hioni was so thrilled he practically bounced. “I’ll collect the Gitche’s data for you, Captain!” he promised. “You’ll see how unusual it is. Almost like the Keeper!”
“Very well,” Richard Dreks nodded to Devora Nokomis. “We’ll work together. Ran, Fry, start plotting the course. I want us to reach the target while avoiding tracking stations and without using stationary subspace Gates.”
“How are you holding up?” Hioni asked Omela as they stepped into the corridor.
“It’s… a lot,” she admitted with a sigh. “But you know what I just realized? I’m gonna be serving alongside two Humanses!”
Dreks was the last to leave the conference room. By the wall he spotted two dark silhouettes — Shandaris and her shadow.
“Captain Drek-s-s…” the manticore began. “I’d like to be present at launch. My modes-s-st navigation experience might aid Ran with calculations-s-s if needed.”
“On one condition,” Dreks replied.
Shandaris immediately narrowed her eyes, wary. Dreks chuckled and gestured for the mystic guest to follow.
“It’s a long journey, so after launch, you’ll get some proper rest.”
Shandaris fell silent, surprised. A High One showing concern for someone like her — it was unexpected.
“Deal. I’ll rest,” she finally said, a smile in her voice as she padded softly after Dreks. “Even if it feels like a luxury in times like thes-s-se.”
***
As the Polaris prepared for jump, its main engines roared to life, navigation lights and hull illumination flaring as it exited the asteroid belt.
Lieutenant Fry worked the control console, activating a dozen screens on the bridge’s left side, displaying ship systems and proximity radar data.
“Trajectory confirmed. We’re clear of the belt,” she reported.
“Good,” Captain Richard Dreks sat in his chair, reviewing coordinates for the first jump.
Shandaris stood beside Akrongi Ran, offering hushed advice: “Here it seems-s-s better to adjust the course by s-s-six seconds. We’ll exit subspace at Shelton-VII’s moon three minutes earlier, staying in its shadow one-and-a-half times longer.”
“Good thinking,” Ran approved.
“Thank you… Before the second jump, we’ll need extra time to recharge the subspace drive,” Shandaris added, pointing a claw at the coordinate list on the navigator’s main screen.
“That makes sense,” Ran said respectfully, sending the finalized figures to Dreks.
“Lieutenant?” Dreks prompted.
Fry smirked. “Looks airtight to me, but I’m more of a normal space pilot…”
Dreks scanned the adjusted data once more, then leaned back in his chair.
“This is the first and only inhabited system on our route, the next four were barely explored. We’ll comb each one for the missing colonizer Westinghouse and any trace of the Keeper. Let’s make sure no one knows where we’re going or why. Proceed.”
Fry and Ran nodded, initiating pre-jump checks. Shandaris stepped back from Ran, standing beside the captain, watching the crew’s synchronized efforts from the bridge’s elevated platform.
“Twenty percent to main engines,” Fry announced.
“Watch the fourth,” Ran cautioned.
“It has been repaired but it’s still not fully operational. Compensating.”
“Aligning for jump. Shutting down in five,” Fry said, smoothly pulling a control lever with one paw while flipping overhead toggles with the other.
“Engines off. Building up the pulse, twenty seconds to jump. Go ahead, Ran, the ship is in your paws.”
Ran nodded and connected to the console via the port at the base of his skull, activating the neural interface. The ship’s computer redirected to him data flow, providing precise calculations and flight analytics.
Dark space before the corvette was illuminated with a blinding flash and Akrongi Ran gripped the controls. He reignited all the engines, which spewed a trail of incandescent gas. The corvette surged forward, diving into the roiling light.
It vanished from reality, entering subspace — a chaotic, continuously shifting realm that felt like a delirious, distorted painting to any living mind. No stars, no galaxies, no waypoints familiar to navigators from normal space.
Before the eyes of the observer extended an ever-changing, deep-blue glow. Its ripples hinted at massive matter clusters or automated beacons marking Gate entry and exit points.
The perspective twisted, distorted, and deceived, overwhelming with a sense of wrongness. If not for this, subspace flight might have resembled drifting through a planetary nebula.
Navigating the subspace demanded rare skill, honed over years. The Polaris’s computer guided the ship toward another system, tracking a Gate beacon’s signal, but it needed oversight. Closing his eyes, Ran let the system channel even more data through his mind. A thin red thread appeared in his mental view — a three-dimensional course projection, filtered through layers of stabilizers, stretching into the distance.
“Course stable, seven hours to exit point,” Akrongi Ran said dully, opening his eyes. He now tracked the Polaris’s subspace path “inside his head,” ready to take manual control if needed. The bridge and crew appeared as faint projections.
“Acknowledged,” Fry replied, switching her console to navigator mode.
“Good work. Fry, update the log, please. Ran, keep an eye on the course. The Polaris is yours for the next seven hours,” Dreks said, rising from his chair and grabbing a datapad with fresh data from Hioni. He’d be studying it for at least a couple of hours.
“Now it’s time to check”.
Shandaris closed her eyes, focusing, trying to place herself in Ran’s mind. What does he feel? How does he see? Who is he? Where’s he from? Ran, who are you?
Ran flinched, briefly seeing only the real world.
“Did you hear that?” he asked Fry.
“Hear what?” She glanced at him, puzzled.
“Like a whisper… Never mind, it must be my imagination. Apologies.”
Fry shrugged, checking the neural interface status on her screen. Everything was stable.
“Fry, I’ll be in my quarters. Are you coming?” Dreks asked, glancing at Shandaris.
“Let’s go. Res-s-st wouldn’t hurt,” she echoed.
The mental call to Ran had drained her more than expected, sparking a throbbing headache. She stumbled to her quarters and was only able to open the door on the third try. She reached the sink, splashed water on her forehead and met her reflection’s gaze.
He heard me… but he knows nothing.
Minutes later, Shandaris curled up on her couch, asleep. In her dreams, she wandered in sunlit ruins, older than any known civilization. Among the regal wreckage walked the last of the people born at time’s dawn. She and Ran were among them.
***
Dreks lit a cigarette, unlocked his datapad, and sat at his desk, diving into Hioni’s reports on the Gitche Gumee. Initial analysis revealed that the ship could flawlessly alter its appearance, taking on nearly any form, unrestricted by its actual size.
She was discovered drifting in Sector 24, the outer reaches of the Upsilon Orionis system, abandoned by the crew long ago. Though it resembled an Earth Alliance vessel, its interior and cloaking systems suggested otherwise — a ship of alien origin, its age impossible to pinpoint. Oddly, its command bridge and controls closely mimicked those of old Earth Fleet ships, hinting at possible retrofitting by the Alliance. The medbay was standard, save for a tiny, opaque capsule of unknown purpose, roughly child-sized. The Gitche’s computer matched those on Alliance warships, but its flight logs and journals were missing. Hioni’s data offered no clues about its origins or ties to the Earth Alliance — if any existed at all.
The Gitche Gumee’s specs were uploaded to the Polaris’s database, where the AI began cross-referencing them against known vessels, searching for matches or clues to its origin.
Dreks stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and headed for the door but paused, turning to the terminal.
“Computer, open external comms. Query transit cluster and PDF personal records for keywords ‘Ancients,’ ‘Sun Spire,’ ‘Shandaris,’ from 2474 to 2480, any matches. Send via short encrypted bursts.”
***
The main hangar of the Polaris buzzed with activity for the first time in ages. Repair bots — spherical drones with manipulators fitted both for delicate electronics work and heavy-duty tasks like welding hull plates — hovered, darted, and circled the Gitche Gumee, executing their programmed tasks. Hioni oversaw them, occasionally glancing at the studious Omela, who was manually welding a seam on the Elemental’s hull.
Devora sat inside Gitche just by the entrance, finishing her coffee.
“Is she gonna live?” she teased, nodding toward her ship.
Hioni, dead serious, replied, “Eighteen-point-five… no, eighteen-point-seven-three percent restored.”
“Pleiadian precision,” Devora smirked.
Hioni’s stern expression didn’t waver as he monitored the repairs. The cloaking generator, his prized system, was being painstakingly revived. When it came to transformations and disguises, Hioni turned borderline obsessive.
“I was concerned how Gitche would handle such damage,” he said passionately. “You know, Devora, her shape-shifting is paradoxical. Remember when we passed as a garbage scow?”
“Oh, yeah,” Devora grinned, recalling their bold stunt under the customs officers’ noses.
“All thanks to Gitche!” Hioni nodded eagerly. “I’ve dug deeper and deeper, and now I can transform almost any ship beyond recognition. All because our little lady hides such secrets…”
“Solving her mysteries is food and drink to you,” Devora said, patting Hioni’s shoulder. “And this door lying here — is it real or imaginary? If it’s real, shouldn’t we call a repair bot to put it back?”
Before Hioni could answer, footsteps echoed from the dark corridor.
“Hioni? Are you there?” Omela’s voice bounced off the walls and bulkheads.
“Here, come on in!” Hioni called. “And, Omela, if you spot any rusty repair bot loafing around, drag it here.”
“Yeah, right, like they’d listen to me,” Omela grumbled, appearing in the doorway. “Oh, High One… Have a nice coffee! Hope I’m not interrupting?”
Devora waved dismissively. “There’s no need for formalities. On my planet, those distinctions barely existed — maybe because we had so few Ascended. I’ve been trying to drill that into Hioni for star-cycles.”
“You mean…” Omela’s eyes widened. “You’re saying… it was a Human planet?”
“Yup,” Devora replied casually. “Come in, grab some coffee — mug’s over there. I’m off to the gym.”
She squeezed past the broken door, and soon her commanding voice rang out in the hangar, barking orders at the bots.
“Wish I could do that,” Omela said, twitching her ears.
“They don’t listen to you?”
“Nope. They ignore me! Can you help?”
“Easy. Let’s go. For those outer hull plates you were welding, there must be a compound-repair unit somewhere around — big guy made of smaller bots, seals seams, tests them. We’ll track it down. Grab your mug.”
“Don’t you need that compound-repair unit yourself?.. Take a look at your ship’s hull…” Omela asked, glancing at the Gitche.
“Gitche?” Hioni’s eyes gleamed maniacally. “Who needs hulls? We’ve got cloaking! That’s the real deal! Want me to slap a module on your Elemental? Cops, research ships — no one’d know the difference!”
“I do, I do!” Omela nodded excitedly.
Hioni led her outside, found the compound unit and bickered with it for a while, then watched it work with satisfaction. The massive machine positioned a dark, thin-looking hull plate — made of a vacuum-shining, ultra-durable alloy — against the ship. Instantly, tiny “repair mice” poured from its “sleeves,” multifunctional bots swarming the armor, each tackling its own task.
“Don’t be shy around Devora,” Hioni blurted, as if his thoughts slipped out. “She’s not like the other Humans, splitting the world into ‘us’ and ‘them.’ I was her slave — well, until she found out. The moment she did, she set me free. Came with her status, y’know, Emperor’s daughter and all that… That Emperor, from that dead planet, was her dad. But Devora? There is no arrogance in her. We’ve been through so much together! What about you — High Ones give you trouble often?”
“The first time I saw one was yesterday!” Omela said. “What, can they offend you or something?”
“Not Devora. Nor Captain Dreks, I’m sure. Look — good patch job?”
The Elemental gleamed with its freshly repaired hull. The repair bot hovered before Hioni, then drifted toward the Gitche, blindly waving its manipulators over the hull.
“Looking for a starting point! Quite a puzzle for it!” Hioni chuckled, waving his gray-fringed arms toward a small platform at the ship’s center. “You can’t find anything that easy, that’s our Gitche. That’s the only stationary platform. Everything else? I can reshape it into anything. Truth is, I don’t even know Gitche’s real size! I set it myself… every time I want her to look new. She can be huge — a battleship from the outside! Or a rusty old barge. And listen, Omela, listen!”
Hioni brandished a screwdriver. “For our Gitche, ‘seeming’ and ‘being’ are the same thing.”
“Huh?” Omela squeaked.
“Yeah! When the cloak’s operational and activated, you walk on real decks, touch real walls. If it breaks though, you’re left with the bare frame. Still would still be livable — airtight and all. We found her like that, a skeleton drifting among the stars… Scary at first. But she’s saved our lives a hundred times since. And you know what?”
Hioni flailed his arms again. “You probably can’t crack all of her secrets in a lifetime! I’ve tinkered for years and still know nothing! Once she’s fixed, I’ll show you how she shifts — it’s a gorgeous sight!”
“That’s so cool!” Omela caught Hioni’s excitement, darting around the Gitche, scattering tiny bots.
Then she spotted that in the distance in the hangar’s darkest corner, the Sun Spire stood. It was black, yet shone like a mirror, without a single seam or hatch.
“Ooh, a Mystic ship!” she gasped. “Hioni, we’re so lucky! They say they only travel in secret, all mysterious! And here it is!”
“Insanely lucky!” Hioni’s eyes glinted with wolfish greed as he stared at the Sun Spire. “Tachyon time-dampers, neuroquantum tech, perfect stealth, perfect shielding. I wouldn’t be shocked if it’s alive. If only I could touch its armor, huh?”
“Nah, I’m scared,” Omela admitted.
***
Devora climbed to the corvette’s second level, where crew and passenger cabins lined the corridor. All were empty now and only her footsteps echoed, breaking the silence. She passed a dozen closed doors and reached the training hall’s entrance.
Inside, the spacious room gleamed with rows of training weapons — from blank-loaded firearms to daggers and swords. Behind another door lay a massive hall for Planetary Defense Force drills. It was usually empty, as troop transport was handled by specialized ships. But it was equipped for anything: close-combat practice or holographic simulations of planetary battles or boarding actions, every detail recreated.
Devora, as though lost in thought, entered the cavernous training hall, carrying only her ever-present sword, sheathed. The High One paused near the edge, glancing across the empty space. Slowly breathing in, she began the first phase of the Lilac Fields aristocracy’s daily training — focus. Motionless, as if deep in thought, she absorbed the hall’s emptiness with her entire being, sensing air currents along the walls, hearing the faint hum of vents and the subtle buzz of power in the walls. Her senses sharpened, like a honed blade, and she realised that someone was coming here by the outer corridor. She clearly heard footsteps on the grated walkway first, then softer on gravirubber right next to the training arsenal.
“Did it really cross someone else’s mind to kill their free time like this” a low voice sounded far behind.
Dreks entered the hall, having traded his uniform for loose PDF camo pants and a light flight leather jacket. A training pistol and spare magazines hung at his belt, and his right hand gripped a sword. Devora noticed it wasn’t from the arsenal. Its perfectly sharpened blade bore runes in an unknown language and its handle was carved from real wood. Devora noted he held it in a style unlike her own.
“It only looks like training is killing time, but it saves lives later,” she replied, “unless, of course, your opponent’s better trained. If I’m in your way, Captain, I can head to the greenhouse.”
“Not at all, it’s been a while since I sparred with someone,” Dreks said, tapping a receiver on his belt. Holographic projectors hummed, vents shifted, spraying the scent of fresh greenery. The walls vanished, replaced by a majestic forest. Everything felt real, even the drying grass rustled under their feet. Devora spun, glancing at the trees and hanging vines, noting the artificial sun’s height, then slowly nodded at Dreks.
“I consider it an honor, Captain,” Devora said, standing as if lost in thought.
“Drop the formalities. We’re the only High Ones in this space sector. One-on-one you can call me Richard.”
Dreks inhaled deeply, adjusted the grip on his sword, and asked, eyes gleaming. “One-on-one or a team game?”
“Richard,” Devora savoured the name, “let’s gauge each other’s strength first. I suggest a duel. Both our blades are sharpened, but I promise no cheap shots and won’t forget this is just training.”
Having recited the ancient vow, Devora felt a strange joy laced with sorrow. Her gaze locked onto Dreks’ eyes. Her sword remained untouched and she stood with her shoulders relaxed — as if lingering by a bar or a betting kiosk, waiting for credits. Should we note that such spots often were the ones where her fights would begin?
“So be it,” Dreks nodded, raising his weapon. “Let’s begin.”
He swung swiftly, lunging at Devora, anticipating how she would block. But seemingly she didn’t even glance at his charge, sidestepping into a tree’s green shadow. No gesture betrayed the focus this maneuver took. His strike missed.
“Does your school teach an opening swing?” Devora asked courteously. “Mine says the sword sleeps in its sheath, waking for a split second. Like this.”
A silver flash flickered for a mere second and then vanished — light and shadow dancing through leaves, her deadly blade singing faintly at the edge of hearing.
“They say the less your sword awakens, the more you drift away from it and the less you feel it,” Dreks countered, turning around.
“It depends on what you’re doing,” Nokomis replied and sidestepped again. In a heartbeat, she was beside Dreks, her ancient blade humming once more.
Dreks merely caught her thrust, barely blocking it. Their swords clanged with a ring. In a split second a series of lunges followed, sparking a flurry of strikes.
“Interesting theory,” Dreks said, straining to track her blade, his focus sharpening as he sensed her skill.
“It’s proven in practice, ending the lives of many of the Emperor’s foes and saving many loyalists,” Devora replied, her sword vanishing back into its sheath, imperceptible. “Richard, I understood how we should fight together if we were to face multiple enemies and be on the same side. You strike boldly — a dragon in the sky. I’m the snake in the grass, unseen. Our styles combined would be deadly if we stay sharp. Solid technique. Who trained you?”
“An Ascended friend,” Dreks shrugged vaguely, a fleeting shadow crossing his face. “A very long time ago.”
He tapped the receiver. Structures materialized among the trees, accompanied by distant explosions and the crackle of approaching gunfire.
“The task is simple: we must reach those buildings without ‘dying.’ The computer counts a death if a projection hits you twice or makes direct contact. Kill them by crossing their projection with your blade or…”
A vivid holographic trooper in an unmarked combat suit emerged from the trees. He raised a weapon, but Dreks drew his pistol and fired three shots. The figure dissolved into thin air. In a moment eight more troopers emerged, wielding short blades. They charged towards Dreks and Devora shouting war cries. By the sound of it, at least two more groups were approaching from the buildings.
Devora laughed softly. “I’ll take the right, if you don’t mind.”
She vanished into the trees’ shadows, reappearing behind the rightmost trooper. Her sword flashed, erasing the hologram, then struck again, felling another — all in silence, her eyes never leaving Dreks.
Dreks ducked under a gleaming blade, slashing upward with his sword. He shot another trooper point-blank, then spun, firing toward Devora, taking out an enemy creeping behind her. His still-healing arm throbbed from the pistol’s recoil.
Two more troopers flanked them, and distant pops signaled projectiles whizzing close.
“Advance, covering each other!” Dreks shouted, letting an enemy pass him before slicing its back. Devora appeared closer, dispatching one of the two attacking him.
“Yes,” she agreed, darting like a cloud’s shadow toward glowing energy bolts. Ten seconds later, she stood by a nearby tree again, while enemy fire thinned significantly.
“Five and two,” Nokomis reported. “Eight more from the south. Leave some for me. By the way, there are minefields in the program, aren’t there?”
“Oh yes!” Dreks chuckled, winking. “It’s not your imagination!”
Reloading, he sprinted forward, avoiding open ground and aiming for cover. The buildings were 150 meters away when another enemy group appeared, unleashing heavy, haphazard automatic fire. Dreks crouched, switched to auto, and emptied his clip in seconds. Some attackers fell; survivors drew blades, advancing under covering fire.
Devora’s gleaming blade couldn’t deflect energy bolts. Speed and near-supernatural instinct — sensing every movement, dodging bullets — were her only defenses. The world fell silent around her, vibrating like a thousand interwoven threads.
She surged forward and sideways, covering half the distance to the target when a red flash and a ceiling buzzer signaled a hit — one “wound.” Undeterred, she accelerated, slicing through a trooper with her precise, honed motion.
Dreks, with a figure-eight sword flourish, erased two more projections. Their advance slowed as the remaining enemies, as if in unison, charged from all sides, aiming to overwhelm them with numbers.
“Think we pissed them off…” Dreks muttered, gripping his sword tighter.
“I get why,” Devora replied, diving forward.
She saw Dreks’ blade spin into a shining arc, cutting down foes one by one. Tireless, she fought, herding enemies toward the minefield. “Let them trigger it.”
Catching her plan, Dreks pushed the two remaining foes toward the mines, laying down rapid pistol fire while jabbing with his sword, forcing them back step by step. His last two bullets hit one trooper; a hasty sword strike finished it but he was left open for attack from the second. The final trooper, driven by the AI’s cold calculus, lunged, covering five meters in a second. Dreks couldn’t dodge — the holographic blade looked too real, and for a split second, his blood froze. A long buzzer sounded; the computer announced his “death.” Simultaneously, explosions erupted ahead — Devora’s plan taking effect.
“Plebeians,” Devora scoffed, eyeing the building. With Dreks out, the fight grew trickier. No risks, no delays — she’d be flanked otherwise. Light as mist, she darted to the minefield’s edge, scarred with craters, aiming to reach the goal in one sprint. She could hear and avoid mines but hadn’t accounted for modern tactics, just as the Emperor once hadn’t. Troopers fired at her back, inescapable amid the deadly ground. She leapt, but a buzzer signaled her “death.” Stopping, she turned, walking calmly through fading enemy projections.
“Not bad,” she said to Dreks, flicking imaginary blood from her blade. “Your program’s adaptive, Richard. Those troopers pinpointed our strengths and weaknesses by the end and used them. Thanks for the fight.”
“Thanks for joining me,” Dreks sheathed his sword. “We should hit this place more often in our downtime.”
Devora bowed courteously: “Anytime.”
***
Omela left Hioni near the Sun Spire and retreated to her Elemental. The wolf, moving with a leisurely gait, returned to the Gitche, lingered there briefly, then emerged with a custom-built portable scanner. Glancing around, he prowled toward the Mystic’s ship, activated the device, and stared hungrily at the screen.
If the scanner was accurate, the Spire’s hull was exotic metal alloy, eight times stronger than the steel of standard ships like the Polaris or Elemental. Hundreds of thousands of delicate lines crisscrossed beneath the hull’s surface, pulsing with electrical currents like a living nervous system.
Hioni slightly touched the ship’s hull — smooth, almost warm. A faint dizziness grew, minute by minute, followed by a soft whisper in his head. To his shock, he understood the words.
“So you’re truly alive…” he murmured, awestruck, scanning the ship’s underside for the entry hatch. He feverishly plotted how to board this unique scout-fighter, unlike any in its class.
The Spire captivated Hioni so much he forgot about its winged owner. He didn’t even register what knocked him down.
All this time Shandaris had been watching from the high technical catwalks. At first, she felt a flicker of pride at the wolf’s fascination with her ship. But when he touched the hull, anger surged — this outsider lingered too long. The Sun Spire wasn’t just a ship; it was her home, her friend.
Leaping from the railing, wings spread, Shandaris dove with a muffled growl. She slammed into Hioni, sending him skidding meters away. Before he could recover, the manticore pounced, seizing him by the collar and lifting him slightly off the ground.
“Explain,” she hissed, “what you’re doing snooping around my s-s-ship?”
“Hey, easy!” — Hioni choked out, not resisting. — “I wasn’t looking for anything, didn’t even know what to look for. Check the scanner yourself, it’s a mess! Your ship’s incredible, that’s all… Uh, I definitely couldn’t hurt it by poking around. Even a subneutron beam wouldn’t dent it. I’m a mechanic! Just curious… Sorry, sorry, you’re a bit nervous, Shandaris.”
The manticore released him, nodding toward the scanner.
“Is it recording? Any data s-s-saved?”
“Yeah, it is,” Hioni admitted, rubbing his neck guiltily.
“Delete it. Pleas-s-se,” Shandaris softened. “No one studies it without Council approval…”
“Fine,” Hioni agreed, grabbing the scanner and showing her as he erased and formatted it. “But I gotta ask. When I called your ship alive, it responded. Maybe it sensed my curiosity. Said you’re its master, then added two words: “Raccoon Skunk.” Was it owned by Ascended before you? If it’s a secret, don’t answer, but don’t get mad either, please. It told me itself…“
Shandaris stared at her ship, silent. The risk of its origins being exposed threatened her goals. More unsettling was Hioni hearing the ship’s mental transmission — something he shouldn’t be capable of. A fluke, perhaps, but a worrying one.
“Nomad-class ships are rare… Each of them is unique. Alive, almost. A master crafts them, nurtures them, lives for them — like a child. No two are alike. The master must be exceptional. Skunk created the Sun Spire,” she said, shifting her gaze to Hioni.
Hioni grinned involuntarily, reminded of Devora’s talk of her sword. He realized his Gitche Gumee could become what the Spire was to this mysterious Skunk.
“Guess it sensed I’m a master too,” Hioni mused, gesturing to his ship. “No secrets here. Take a look if you’re curious.”
“I already have,” Shandaris replied, eyeing the Gitche. There was no doubt — it was an Ancient’s ship, although almost completely rebuilt, as if someone tried replicating it without the right tech.
Fry’s voice cut through the loudspeakers:
“Attention, crew! Thirty minutes to jump!”
“S-s-sorry about that,” Shandaris offered a faint smile, pointing at Hioni’s neck. “I didn’t mean to hurt you…”
“No big deal, I’m used to it,” Hioni shrugged. “Well, fair stellar winds for you, Sun Spire!” he called to the silent ship, which opened its hatch and lowered its ramp as Shandaris approached.
Hioni grabbed his empty scanner and headed to his beloved Gitche, issuing orders to repair bots along the way. One bot chirped about fixing the Elemental, rattling off percentages. Omela’s ship was patched up, so Hioni dismissed it.
At the Gitche’s ramp, inspiration struck him — a poet’s word, not a mechanic’s. He laid a furry hand on the hull, waiting nearly a minute. Nothing. Then, a faint pulse, like a timid heartbeat, stirred deep within and fell silent, as if afraid to reveal its secret.
He sighed and stepped onto the bridge.
Minutes later, Devora appeared, stepping past the disassembled cloaking control panel scattered on the floor. She rummaged in the fridge for a juice.
“Is Gitche fixed?” she asked casually.
“Yep, fully. Elemental too,” Hioni reported. “How was training?”
“Me and Captain Dreks against a couple platoons. Both died. Well, me and the captain.”
“Ouch,” Hioni shook his head. “What’s the Polaris’ captain like?”
“A man of duty, a man of honor,” Devora said thoughtfully. Hioni nodded — high praise from the High One. He tapped the auto-chef for a sandwich.
Devora drew her sword, inspecting its blade.
“Want my scanner? Save your eyes,” Hioni offered, chewing.
She shook her head, studying the blade closely. The pristine steel, unscathed from her duel with Dreks, gleamed.
“You know I live for this,” she said with a smile, polishing the blade with an ornate suede cloth. “Like the old days.”
“And I live for the ships,” Hioni replied dreamily. “I checked out Shandaris’ ship — though she got mad at first. When ships like that fill our skies… perhaps there’ll be no need for war. Maybe that’s what Keeper meant.”
“I don’t get how war could ever be ‘unneeded,’” Devora countered, her blade singing faintly as she spoke. The polished sword flashed and slid into its sheath. “If you don’t fight, someone who does will come. And that would be the end.”
“But if no one fights… then there’s no one to… ugh, it’s complicated,” Hioni muttered, waving a paw and washing down his sandwich with cold juice.