Chapter 2: Welcome Aboard

  Commonwealth Unified Time CUT 202.3.4216

  ‘Earth date —March 16th 2244 CE’

  I woke early—too early—but the tight pull in my chest and restlessness of my being had been building all night. Sleep never really took. It had felt like my body had already been launched upwards, even if I hadn’t left the bed yet. There was no hesitation. No second thoughts. Just motion. I was up. Dressed. Focused. And alive.

  Breakfast never crossed my mind. I was wired with something stronger than hunger or coffee could muster—something deeper. The kind of energy that comes when you know you’re standing on the edge of everything.

  I threw my duffel over one shoulder—regulation-issue, olive drab, worn soft from three years of hard use. It wasn’t heavy. Most of what I own could fit inside. It was most of what I’d ever owned, in all honesty.

  The uniform was new, though. Fresh, clean and well-tailored.

  Smart grey, high-collared, shoulders padded just enough to suggest structure—not armor. The lines were sharp, confident, but not aggressive. Something made for peacekeepers who might still be called to war.

  Stitched to the uniform’s chest on the left side, shining in starlight. The Helion Vanguard crests was elegant—an atomic nucleus at its center, its orbital rings traced by tiny stars, each marking the founding worlds. The nucleus glowed faintly silver under the light, stitched with Graviton curves that hinted at Fold resonance. It wasn’t just a symbol. It was the equation that changed history—worn like a vow. It caught the morning light when I shifted, fracturing into star points—subtle, but unmistakable. I’d stared at it the night before, tracing the border with my thumb.

  Not for vanity. For proof. That I had made it this far.

  The sun had just crested the hills when I stepped out into the stillness of campus. The air was brisk, touched with the salt of San Francisco Bay. I paused at the top of the stairs outside my now old dormitory and looked out across the expansive grounds—wide, trimmed, and gold-lit in the slanting light. A garden framed the old redwood quad: green, fragrant, organized in clean spirals of native plants and imported blooms from distant sectors.

  I had never really stopped to take it all in before. I never really gave it the time.

  Groundskeepers were already at work, moving slow and steady through the beds. One of them—an older man with grey in his beard and dirt on his knees—looked up and gave me a nod. I returned it silently, unsure why the gesture hit me so hard. Maybe it was the calm in his face, the kindness in his eyes. Or the way he didn’t ask where I was going. As if he already knew. Either way, it filled me with saudade—a quiet nostalgia for what I was leaving behind, and a yearning for what lay ahead. I felt the push of my past and the tug of my future, sharpening my sense of resolve. Earth had shaped me in ways I continually tried to forget—but couldn’t. It was the place I had survived, and now, the place I was finally ready to leave behind.

  I walked slower than I meant to at first. Letting my boots crunch over the gravel path listening to its sound. I would miss it in some ways, and I want to remember some of the smaller details. Letting the scent of early roses and sun-warmed pine rise into me. Letting myself feel it.

  This place had been home, even if I hadn’t called it that. Not out loud.

  And now I was leaving it.

  The Solari Academy had always been pristine. Designed to impress, to inspire all who visited. Tall white marble structures stood in perfect symmetry, all polished stone and sharp corners. A testament to human ability and precision with a hand and chisel. The walkways were quiet, the air was clean. Statues lined the courtyards: explorers, scientists, officers whose names were etched into metal and marble like prayers. Some were human, some were not. That was not a distinction made here, we all stood in unity. But for humanity, at the center stood the most prominent:

  Dr. Professor. Elia Voss.

  The nuclear physicist who uncovered the Architect Schematic—the equation and blueprint for building machines capable of generating gravitational wells.

  A way to create and harness the power of gravity.

  And eventually, the means to bend the fabric of reality itself.

  It was written into the bones of all matter and scattered across the universe like starlight. A calling card—a literal encoded signal inside the heart of every atom. Some called it an echo—a deaths rattle across dimensions. Sent by something older, greater. A higher species pulling on the threads of the lesser, just to say:

  If you can see this—We were here—And we existed.

  The discovery of the Architects code, a pattern hidden in the fundamental particles of every atom in the universe, was the existential suicide of all Earth’s religions. The undoing of millennia of human philosophy. For theologians, it was a death knell. For philosophers, a rebirth. The new universal constant was in its own, a genesis.

  Humanity stopped—every eye fixed on the headlines in 2043 coming out of CERN in Geneva, as we learned to see it for the first time. We screamed in horror when the prototype machine—Alcubierre Alpha—first bent spacetime in 2046, rotating a scar the size of Manhattan deep into the Earth crust—killing five hundred of the world’s leading scientists, including Voss. We watched the sky in esoteric awe as the first ship, Honoring Voss, launched in 2051. It was set and crewed for a fifteen-month voyage. It Folded to Jupiter in thirty-seven hours. It came back in six seconds. We travelled to our nearest wormhole—Gaia BH1 (The Reach)—1,560 light-years away and a thirty-six-hour journey—holding our collective breath in 2089 when another, Genesis VI, Folded into the blackened beasts’ heart of churning spacetime and vanished.

  And in 2090, seven-thousand years of silence falling upon humanity finally broke.

  The cosmos had spoken once again. We were not alone.

  On the other side there were twenty other species—entire civilizations we’d only dreamed of—there, waiting for us to come. Entire worlds, terraformed sectors and interconnected societies with an unfathomable level of technological advancement: the cure of cancer—ways to reverse human-induced climate change on Earth—the blueprints for a starship. They welcomed us into the Common Celestial Highway—an interconnected network of wormholes across galaxies—not with weapons, but with open hands, claws, and wings, inviting us not just into their systems… but into their collective arms.

  The Fermi paradox was a correct hypothesis, just waiting for the alternative answer.

  No god had spoken to humanity. But the Universe did. The scientific articles of a new revelation redefined everything. A Purpose. An Identity. And in the silence between us that followed—where uncertainty once lived—humanity found something else: unity. World peace didn’t come from treaties. It came from the Earth and the Sky.

  An encoded signal, buried in the fundamental particles of every atom. Folded into a repeating code of irrational numbers repeating again, and again, and again for eternity. A message you could only see and hear if you knew how to look. When your planet, your species, were ready. Not a prime directive, but a test.

  The discovery of the Architect Schematic and the graviton particle was only the beginning. Harnessing it into a Faster-Than-Light engine—the Alcubierre array—soon followed. Impulse energy and the antiquation of fossil fuels. Artificial gravity. Unlimited clean energy. This was a gateway—for any species capable of listening. A message from the cosmos written by a higher being in the universal language for all species—mathematics. A gift to the developed, the worthy. And the discovery of the Helion Commonwealth—for all species throughout the universe who were star born—and had the ability to listen and see what was sitting in plain sight all along.

  Humanity didn’t invent gravity.

  We just found out how to Fold it.

  And the Universe came to us.

  Her likeness was captured like folded sleeves with precise detail into shining brass—one hand lifted mid-gesture, the other cradling a single piece of paper, frozen in the moment everything changed. Her gaze was cast upward, toward stars she never lived to see.

  The plaque at her feet read:

  “For the First who knew how to listen.

  When the Universe spoke to us.”

  I used to pass it every day.

  I never stopped. Not really. Not until now.

  Because for me, the Academy never felt like it was built for me. I walked these paths like a ghost—half-seen, never quite welcome. First an outsider. Unworthy to be, even in the shadow of Voss. I wasn’t a cadet with clean boots and a father’s legacy on the honors list. I didn’t grow up in embassies or prep schools or a caring home. I came from nowhere. A destroyed childhood. A dead mother. A name I’d had to earn for myself, piece by piece.

  I didn’t rise through the ranks of this Academy. I clawed my way up them—buried, bloodied, and breathless. And I got good at it. Real good. But even now, with the stars in my reach, the voice inside still whispered the same thing: You don’t belong.

  And maybe that’s why I kept walking all those times. Not to admire the statues, not to honor the past—But to run from the part of me that still felt like I was trespassing on someone else’s future.

  And still—this morning, for the first time—I let myself lift my head up high to her.

  The walk to the main transporter hangar was longer than it needed to be. I could’ve cut across the commons, but I didn’t. I let the moment stretch. Let myself imprint the place on memory. The rising sunbathed the white marble a vibrant gold now. My shadow stretched out before me, tall and sure across the flagstones.

  By the time I reached the hangar, my pulse had steadied—but not calmed. It was the stillness before a leap. The silence before my future, folded into motion.

  The pilot was waiting. Tall. Still. Anonymous in his flight suit. The kind of man who’d flown too many missions to count and didn’t need to speak to say “ready.” He gave me a nod, barely perceptible. That was all. It was enough.

  I stepped onto the shuttle beside him.

  No ceremony. No fanfare.

  Just the low hum of the Fold array spinning up beneath our feet.

  A shimmer of blue through the viewport. A twist behind the eyes.

  And we were airborne.

  The shuttle climbed fast—straight and clean over the Bay. I leaned forward toward the viewport, breath fogging the glass at the edges. Below, the world began to fall away. And hopefully with it, some of those darker memories from my younger self. A broken past, that I wrestled into this promising future. Bridges curled over dark water—the newer San Francisco Bay Bridge, leading a stream of early morning vehicles running on graviton clean-energy. Skyscrapers turned gold in the morning light. Streets lit up like veins of fire. It was beautiful, and like I was seeing it for the first time.

  And I didn’t feel fear. Not regret, either. Only a sense of purpose and release. This wasn’t goodbye. This was destiny. I had waited for this moment all my life—not to escape Earth, but to escape everything that Earth had been to me.

  The shuttle creaked softly as the sky deepened—from blue, to indigo, to black. A slow, holy dark that opened itself beckoning with every second. Then stars—sharp and unblinking—punched through the void.

  I had seen this view before—we had some low-gravity training exercises on the Academy’s lunar complex. But this time was different., I wasn’t just visiting. This time, I wasn’t coming back.

  I was leaving.

  The shuttle hummed beneath me like my heartbeat—steady, subtle, thrumming with quiet anticipation. Outside the viewport, space now stretched like a canvas of obsidian silk, flecked with distant fires. Far off nebulae burned like ghost light pastels, the kind you only saw in the outer sectors or the dreams of children.

  With a slight shake of the fuselage, we crested Earth's upper orbit, and I saw her.

  My eyes flicked forwards, catching my first glimpse from the shuttle’s forward bay just as sunlight crested the Earth’s horizon, casting radiant gold across her hull. A long arch of bold black letters revealed her name and Helion Commonwealth Ship registry number.

  HCS Resolute 6867-Earth

  The light moved like silk, tracing the ship’s forward hull—a long, narrow spearhead tapering toward a blunt, armoured prow. Twin stabilizer fins jutted from either side like swept wings, angling downward in a design meant more for graviton dispersal than atmospheric flight. Below, the ship’s spine flared into the segmented engine section and Voss’s legacy—twin Alcubierre Arrays—hexagonal emitters glowing with Fold-ready intensity. A dorsal ridge of sensor pylons ran the length of her back, bristling like vertebrae. No unnecessary curves. No aesthetic flourishes. She looked powerful—extending through the void poised like a spear tip. She looked built for purpose. Hardened. Fast.

  It was like watching a ship in a bottle emerge from shadow into fire. The breath caught in my throat. My face opened into a smile of wonder.

  Awe doesn't visit often in this line of work, you get used to it. You see it every day on the news, in every book at school and during my time in the Academy. But it did then. The light kissed every contour of her scaled armor, and she gleamed as if freshly forged. She looked powerful. Ready. Uncompromising.

  My mouth went dry. A thousand things I’d trained for, imagined, dreamed of—all distilled into this single vision. And it’s here.

  She didn’t just float in orbit above Earth’s far side—she loomed. Sleek and brutal in posture, every hard line of her Vangard Interceptor-class frame whispered purpose: not grace, but aggression. The frames of her twined engines swept front to back like poised talons now. The port Alcubierre Array was powered down, but the starboard was a strip of energy glowing orange along its length powering the ship

  Her paneled hull gleamed a gunmetal grey—scarred and matte, like well-worn armor. Not from battle, but from purpose. Use and intent. She’d missed the Viren War, commissioned too late to join the fight. But you’d never guess it by looking at her. For twenty years she served in science and survey roles, her weapon systems dulled, neglected, left to gather dust in favor of long-range sensors and planetary mappers. But now… those systems were returned to her, looming above her twin Fold engines that were being gutted and upgraded—phaser relays rebuilt, torpedo launchers expanded, systems rerouted through newer, nastier logic cores.

  For twenty years, she served in science and survey roles—her weapon systems dulled, neglected, left to gather dust in favor of long-range scanners and planetary mappers. But now… those elevated mounts above her twin Alcubierre Arrays were being gutted and replaced. Impulse drivers rebuilt. Graviton dampers refitted. Rocket bays expanded. Combat logic rerouted through newer, nastier cores—designed not just to think faster, but to hit harder. Even in peacetime.

  They weren’t just restoring her bite. They were sharpening it.

  She wasn’t just being retrofitted. She was being reborn. A prototype for something new. Not a relic of war—but a vessel with purpose. With reach.

  And today, she was my home.

  My name is Kalen Varr.

  The name of my mother.

  At the Academy I was the best my instructors had seen in years. Top of my class in tactical combat simulations and exercises in Norway. First in low-G manoeuvrability at the Vanguard’s Luna Training Facility. First in planetary survival scenarios. I never missed a beat, never missed a lesson. Never said no to an opportunity.

  I had been called intuitive, efficient, relentless. A “natural,” they said—the kind of cadet who didn’t fold inward when the pressure turned up. A cadet who thrived on it. But I knew the truth, the distinction. I didn’t just rise under pressure. I needed it.

  Chaos felt honest. Clean. My instincts weren’t just fast—they were carved by something older. A hunger to prove I belonged, after years of feeling worthless. To escape the weight of where I came from. To escape the regrets of my past.

  No legacy. No money.

  No father who stayed.

  I clawed my way into and up the walls of that Academy with nothing but borrowed shoes and a bruised jaw from the last kid who called me a gutter ghost. They called it talent, determination and grit. I called it survival. I walked with some confidence now. Maybe too much of it. The kind that made the by-the-book types flinch. But it didn’t matter. My record stood on its own. What I lacked in outward humility, I made up for in results. Confidence was just another wall I built to keep the past out.

  Still, the moment I saw the Resolute, all that swagger melted just a little.

  She filled the viewport like a leviathan. A machine built for hard things. The weight of her presence pressed against me, even from kilometres away.

  The silence of space. The distant stars. The sheer mass of her.

  I wonder if she could see me now. Would she be proud?

  I sometimes still hear her voice when things go quiet.

  Not words—just the shape of them. An echo of a childhood memory I can’t hold still. Like a veiled breath trapped behind the watered tempered glass. Gone before you can touch it. Before you can say goodbye. Before I could say, I was sorry.

  I blinked.

  The shuttle's hum returned to focus, the view shifting from quiet memory back into motion. The recollection sank beneath the surface again—quiet, but never forgotten.

  Struggling to break my gaze, I looked to my left. The pilot was a stone-faced lieutenant who hadn’t said more than ten words since we left the Academy. He did not seem to feel or look at the ship the same way I did. His hands moved over the controls with ease, making fine corrections as we approached the docking corridor.

  “Final vector set,” he said. “Take your seat.”

  We slipped into the Resolute’s forward approach lane. I watched as the ships main hanger bay doors opened—a yawning, angular mouth of tritanium steel. The main outer hull loomed overhead, continuing up over eighty meters above us. Lights around the edge of the bay door guided us in.

  The shuttle adjusted pitch and speed automatically. With a soft synth-like tone, we broke the glowing blue barrier of the ship’s main shuttle bay—one of the many marvels we learned from the collective knowledge of the Helion Commonwealth. Longer and larger than on most starships, the bay was built to hold combat inventory.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  The transport shuttle rocked slightly landing on Pad 3 with a thump. Its Fold engines powered down. Then silence. A light turned green above the door. Breathable external atmospheric conditions.

  “Welcome aboard the HCS Resolute,” the stone-faced pilot muttered without looking at me.

  But he paused. Just long enough for the subtleties to be noticeable. His fingers had drifted over the flight controls with practiced ease, but there was something stiff in the motion. Something rehearsed. Not natural. He didn’t look across, but I caught the smallest shift in his shoulders. The kind of silent tension that doesn’t belong to nerves, but to memory. I saw it again—reflected faintly in the curved surface of the cockpits tempered glass. The way his eyes flicked to the hanger doorway leading into the ship. The way his jaw clenched just a little too tightly.

  What I didn’t know, is that from his perspective, he'd heard things about this ship.

  Not orders, not stats—stories. The kind that travel in the quiet between Fold rotations, passed from one transfer to the next when the door’s almost closed. He'd heard what happened to the ones who recently boarded the HCS Resolute. About the staff turnovers. About the drills that crossed lines. About the commanding officer.

  I knew nothing of this.

  And maybe he wanted to say something. Maybe he was one of the good ones, someone who’d normally offer a word of caution. A nudge. A joke with multiple layers of added meaning tucked beneath it. But not today. He just wanted to get back to the Academy’s main shuttle terminal. Instead, he just gave a shallow exhale, fingers tapping a sequence into the computer console. And with a voice that almost sounded sorry:

  “Good luck, cadet.”

  The hatch slid open with a soft woosh. I stepped out into the hangar, light washing over me from the high panels above. The large space was wide, clean, metallic with a subtle echo. To my right, three identical transport shuttles sat in a neat line—sleek, silent, ready. At the far end, something larger loomed, draped beneath a heavy protective white sheet. Hidden from view.

  But just as I stepped off the craft, eyes tracing its shape, I thought I heard him mutter—too soft to be certain, but sharp enough to sting:

  “…You’ll need it.”

  By the time I turned around, he was already back at the controls—Fold engines spinning up, shuttle doors closing—like nothing had ever passed his lips at all.

  I stepped across and out of the hanger, into the corridor of Deck 8—lined with brushed steel and an atmospheric hum. Inhaling my first breath of synthetic air—clinical, clean, but stale. It wasn’t quite what I’d imagined. I had envisioned something sharper, fresher, maybe even filled with a combined pride. Instead, it smelled like a memory wiped too many times. Sanitized. Hollow. The breath caught in my lungs not from awe, but from dissonance.

  A junior operations officer was stood before me, waiting. The Vangard, like most Commonwealth systems and services, ran like the most precise and finely tunned clockwork. His shoulder badge read Ensign Torev—rank and service tag in order. Human. Mid-twenties. Angular features. Precise speech. Probably Swiss by the accent. Earth-born, no question.

  His eyes raised. “Cadet Varr?”

  “Yes sir, it’s an honor to be on board”

  He looked up from his handheld, checking my file. One eyebrow raised—just a little too pleased with whatever he’d found. There was a flicker of glee behind his eyes.

  “You will be reporting to Commander Ka’Rina Zeth with the rank of Ensign.”

  My chest tightened. My pride swelled.

  Ensign Varr.

  However, the moment wasn’t shared. It landed on a face carved from subtly cold disdain and mild impatience—the look of a by-the-book junior officer. Torev just stared—almost unreadable. No congratulations. No nod of approval. Only duty.

  “Follow me.”

  He turned left and walked briskly. I fell into step behind him. What I’d imagined as a warm welcome felt more like walking into a doctor’s office—cold, quiet, and clinical.

  As we walked, the ship felt… alive.

  The low hum of the Alcubierre Arrays and the vibration of the spinning Fold reactors thrummed beneath my boots—generating a precise, constant 1G gravitational well and Earth-like conditions just below the ship’s hull beneath us.

  The corridor lights pulsed softly ahead of us. It all breathed—quiet, steady—like something vast and aware.

  Everywhere I looked, there was motion and quiet discipline. Conduits hummed behind reinforced walls. Automatic doors parted with just enough delay to remind you—they were listening. The temperature, the lighting, the rhythm of it all—it felt calibrated down to the heartbeat. As if the ship knew who walked its halls… and adapted accordingly.

  Yet there was a subtle difference in how it smelled, sounded, and felt compared to the pristine halls of the Academy. On Earth, everything carried the weight of tradition—history, prestige, and academic duty. This place had history too. But a different kind.

  Microfractures sealed with field welds. Deck plating with just a hair more scuff. Screens and displays flickering at the edge of vision, cycling through system checks. Not because something was wrong—but because out here, everything mattered. She was old. But she was functional. Her history wasn’t printed on brass plaques or stitched into uniforms. It was worn into her walls. Measured in light years travelled. Earned in expeditions. Told in stories passed from one set of boots to the next.

  It wasn’t just a starship—it was a living system, fed by duty and tension. Every corridor, every conduit, every silent glance between crew whispered the same thing: This wasn’t where people served. This was where people endured.

  And in many ways, it wasn’t what I expected. Not at all.

  We passed crew members without small talk. Engineers in fluid-stained uniforms emerged from crawlspaces with seasoned and focused expressions. Medical officers wheeled carts of supplies and spare stretchers into a lift. Security personnel stood at checkpoints; eyes alert, tracking me with intrigue.

  There were no banners. No houses. No inspirational slogans.

  Just duty, movement and silence.

  This wasn’t the Academy. This was the real thing.

  The Resolute wasn’t one of the Vanguard’s gleaming flagships. Not some pristine, top-tier cruiser with polished conference suites and panoramic arboretums for comfort. She was built on the skeletal remains of an old Interceptor-class battlecruiser—gutted and converted into a long-range science vessel, once tasked with mapping the outer edges of the wormhole network for the betterment of the Helion Commonwealth. Repurposed. Retrofitted. Declassified in the wake of a war most people tried to forget.

  She was smaller than most peacekeeping cruisers. Nineteen decks in total—though only fourteen were fully operational. Her crew manifest listed around 370, but I doubted more than 300 had ever set foot aboard at the same time. The Resolute wasn’t the kind of ship that drew volunteers. You didn’t end up here by chance. You were either selected or sent here. And now, after twenty quiet years, she was being remilitarized for a purpose.

  I remembered reading her file two nights ago—alone at my dormitory desk, lights low, driven by a quiet thirst for what I was walking into. Several classified lines were blacked out, others were redacted twice. The Resolute was being recommissioned under Vanguard Command. Modified off-record with buried tech beneath the skin: cloaking sensors—based on some fringe Commonwealth prototype in the wake of the Viren War no one admitted to building or testing. Reinforced alloy ribs salvaged from a failed warship design. Experimental graviton dampeners that never cleared final review… but somehow found a new home here anyway.

  The Resolute was not elegant. She was not clean. She was not safe. She was a weapon made to walk where the Commonwealths diplomacy failed.

  And now, she was mine.

  After a relatively short walk—and a somewhat awkward elevator ride spent in silence—we reached the Security Division offices on Deck 5. Torev hadn’t said a word the entire lift up. He stood with his hands folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the numbered display panel like it owed him something. Not cold, exactly—just... too proper. Like someone performing professionalism just a little too hard. I could already tell—this was the beginning of a beautiful, joyless friendship.

  The doors slid open, coeval with that familiar electronic hiss.

  Inside, the room was relatively low-lit and utilitarian. Weapons were displayed on wall racks, perfectly aligned. Some rifles, but surprisingly mostly hand weapons. A large tactical table dominated the center like that of a casino, instead glowing with a three-dimensional wireframe of the ship’s interior. The ships brig, four reinforced cells, were in the room beyond ahead of me.

  A few junior officers murmured at a weapons console, but when they noticed me entering, their conversations halted. One of them glanced my way and then toward the far corner—where she was standing.

  Commander Ka’Rina Zeth.

  Their expressions changed instantly, voices lowered, postures straightened. The presence in the room had shifted dramatically, like the air turning suddenly thin. Something was about to happen, and by the looks it would be something gossiped in hushed voices later that evening. Almost subconsciously, this filled me with concern, a growing sense of dread. The room became quiet aside from the beeps of the weapons management systems and their blinking lights Otherwise, the silence was deafening.

  Her aura gave off something... primal, dangerous even. A quiet and mediated violence. Something I couldn’t name, as I had never felt this kind of presence before. In that moment, I felt like I was like staring into a storm that had already decided who it would drown. I didn’t like it. I hadn't even seen her face yet, but I sensed as if I were standing before something treacherous—not literal, but the absolute promise of it. The inevitability. Like a shadow wearing a Vangard uniform, sent to measure how long I might last before I broke entirely.

  Almost like a betrayal, the door hissed closed behind me, sealing off the corridor to my back—and my escape. I straightened instinctively, my focus snapping into the room. She stood in the far corner of the office, back turned, head lowered over a glowing computer display. Still and focused, a vast presence without movement.

  I exhaled, then swallowed.

  “Commander Zeth.”

  “Ensign Varr, reporting for duty… sir.”

  The moment the words left my mouth, she stood and turned in one smooth, almost rehearsed motion—too fluid to be entirely human. A precise pivot, like a predator shifting weight. I froze in the threshold—shock stopping me cold. Not from fear exactly, just the recognition of something I hadn’t prepared for. She wasn’t human—not fully anyway.

  I had never seen someone quite like her. And certainly not of her species. Seven feet of silent authority stood before me. Her body was tall and slender, striking in profile like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. Her skin was a textured green—reptilian or draconian in nature—with subtle patterning across the collarbones and forearms, like the marks of something ancient and cold-blooded. A certain beauty, but deadly.

  By the look of her—half-human, half Drac’kari Ophiotaur. Interspecies lineage wasn’t uncommon in the Helion Commonwealth—at least not anymore—but this pairing was new to me. The Drac’kari were historically infamous for their aggression, especially before their integration into the Helion Accord. Add human emotional intelligence to that mix, and you didn’t just get strength. You got something unpredictable and dangerous. And someone thought putting her in command was a good idea…

  Sharp claws tipped her long fingers, glinting faintly in the low security lighting—not ostentatious, but purposeful, lethal. Her physique was deceptive: lean, taut, built like a huntress that didn’t waste movement. There was nothing superfluous about her. No vanity, no softness. She looked carved from something older than flesh.

  Her features were sharp—angular cheekbones, a predatory brow, and a mouth set in permanent readiness. Her pronounced cat-like jaw had long lips hiding a row of teeth like knives. Her shoulders were narrow but coiled with strength, like something built for precision, not bulk. Every inch of her in tension, ready to strike.

  Her uniform fit like a second skin—charcoal black with command crimson slashing across the chest and shoulders, the Helion Vanguard crest gleaming silver just below her collarbone. The fabric was seamless, exquisitely tailored with precision, clinging to her frame with functional correctness. Beneath it, the matte undersuit traced the lines of her limbs—long, powerful, inhumanly balanced and proportioned. But it was the way she held herself that caught me. Arms folding behind her back almost to attention, but lax like she owned the room. Head tilted. Chin lifted just enough to radiate condescension without needing a single word. She didn’t stand. She loomed.

  I caught her eyes. They were molten gold, slitted like a cat’s but slightly wider, half-human, the kind that made you feel like she could see more than your face—like she could see the marrow in your bones. They didn’t blink. They didn’t soften. They measured. The eyes of a huntress. She was looking into me now. Measuring.

  Almost in awe, but still trying to be formally polite in the presence of a commanding officer, my eyes moved upwards where I noticed her hair. A sharp fan of iridescence, mid-length and set backwards, feathered in a crest from crown to neck, glinting with bands of blue, green, and deep violet like the surface of a starling’s wing. Shorter on her left side. If it was not for the radiance of her presence, the sight would look certainly beautiful. When she moved, it shimmered as though it was alive, reacting to motion and light like bioluminescent coral. The starling pattern was repeated upon tail her, strong and slowly coiling behind her like a cat ready to play with its food. There was an energy to her that couldn’t be explained. Like static in the air before a lightning strike. Even standing still, she exuded motion—the potential of it. Like her next movement might be violence or vanishing, and you’d have no way to predict which.

  Her mane shimmered more as she stepped forward, catching the light like wet oil. It wasn’t hair, not quite—something else, older and striking.

  In that moment, I felt like a deer in the headlights. Like the deck panels had dropped out from beneath me. The confidence I’d built—piece by piece over three steady years—drained away in an instant, as if the ship itself had rejected my bravado in her presence. My limbs locked. My breath stalled. And it was all I could do not to step back.

  Yet, I remained.

  She finally spoke “Ensign Varr.”

  Her voice was feminine, almost convincingly human, but rasped like steel dragged over stone. “You think you're ready? “.

  I blinked. “Yes commander. Thank you for the opportunity “, I said with as much conviction as I could muster.

  Walking forward, further towards me now, she carefully placed the handheld computer she was holding onto the table. “Well, I guess we'll find out soon enough.”

  The air hung heavily for a moment, consoles beeping. The whir or the warp core humming. But it felt like complete silence.

  She studied me, and for a moment—just a flicker—something behind her eyes shifted. Not soft exactly, but familiar. Almost like recognition of something.

  “Professor Rannos spoke highly of you Ensign. An old and very good friend of mine, and one of my favorite teachers at the Academy. Said you were one of the sharpest shots he'd seen in a decade. Not since I had been running through those halls.”

  She smiled. But it was not a kind smile. It was cold. There was a long pause. Then the corner of her mouth curled with a hint of menace.

  “But by the look of you, I don't believe a fucking word he says.”

  She stepped closer now, lips peeling into something between a grin and a sneer. A row of sharp teeth now being revealed. I held my ground.

  “They say the Solari Academy’s been getting soft. Guess they’re right.”

  A low chuckle escaped her, though it wasn’t shared. No one laughed—not even nervously. One officer carefully glanced at the table examining its texture. Another looked like he wanted to melt into a computer console, hand raised but not pressing a button. The room had taken on a frozen kind of quiet, the kind that followed the scent of blood.

  “Hope you’re not squeamish, Varr,” she added. “Because you better get used to being broken in this outfit.”

  Close now. She grinned, tilting her head slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper just for me. “I don’t care what they say.” Her breath hissed, just audible.

  “You don’t belong here Ensign.”

  I felt her breath on my cheek even from this distance. Sharp. Hot. Her pupils narrowed as she met my gaze full-on. Golden light and the black abyss of her pupils boring into me.

  I’d heard those words before. Maybe not those exact ones. But the meaning— That I didn’t belong. That I wasn’t invited. It landed in the same place every time—Right where something used to be. Right into my core. I shuffled uncomfortably, fighting the instinct to take a step back. Inside, my heart tried to claw its way out of my chest. How can she say this on a Commonwealth ship?

  Outside, I stood firm. Barely. I was terrified, but I held her gaze. Hard. Something deeper kept me rooted. Pride? Stupidity? I didn’t know. But I didn’t flinch.

  Her grin widened, sharp and knowing.

  The others in the room looked on with side eyes now. No one laughed. One of them shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking between me and the door like he half-expected I might bolt through it. I was half tempted to agree with him.

  But breathing in, I straightened instinctively. Collecting myself.

  Bravery. The only effective response here, one she might like.

  “Aye, Commander.”

  She blinked. Her eyes lingered on me for a moment longer. Not in annoyance. In thought. Almost like she was now seeing me in the room for the first time.

  “Main Tessereactor suite, Deck 5. Tomorrow. 0600. Full combat simulation. No firearms. Just you and me. Those are my terms Ensign.”

  She took a single step closer. Not enough to invade, but enough to feel the press of her presence.

  “Wear something you don’t mind getting hurt in Ensign.”

  I fought the urge not to blink, but the flinch must have been clear in the corners of my unsteadied eyes. She walked past, tapping me on the shoulder as she did, and left. Her touch felt cold, lethal. No dismissal. No smile. No comment on my record.

  Just a time, a place. And a promise.

  The door slid closed behind her with a hiss. And the room—full of equipment, consoles, power—felt emptier and better without her.

  I didn’t breathe for a few seconds. I didn’t understand why I felt like I’d just survived something. My hands were clenched without realizing it. I released them. My palms were sweating.

  I turned to one of the security officers still at his station. He stared back, wide-eyed.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said. But there was no conviction in his voice. He hesitated, then leaned a little closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear.

  “She’s like that with everyone. Don’t take it personally. You’re just the next name on her list.”

  I give him a hard questioning look. “What does that mean? “

  He didn’t answer at first, just glanced toward the sealed door, then back at me. Not quote looking into my eyes. His tone softened slightly, as if offering something he wasn't supposed to.

  “Hey... look. If you’re smart, get some sleep tonight. Her training regimes?”

  He shook his head with an almost painful frown .

  “They’re... not regulation. Not even close. You’ll learn that, fast.”

  He didn’t need to say more. The way he looked at me—like he wasn’t sure whether to pity or respect me—said enough.

  “Try not to die in the first week, yeah?”

  And like that, he turned back to his console and tapped something in without another glance, like this was just another day aboard the Resolute. I left the office through the hissing doors, almost half expecting to see her standing behind them for another round. Looking right, I turned and wandered into the ship without really knowing where I was going. Just moving for a moment. Letting it sink in.

  I didn’t notice the footsteps behind me until I heard my name—formal, clipped, familiar. “Ensign Varr?” I turned to see a broad-shouldered officer in gold trim, the same touchscreen in one hand. It was Ensign Torev again. He nodded once and half-gestured for me to follow. Quiet, efficient, and already moving before I’d said a word in acknowledgement. About as inspiring as our last encounter.

  “Your quarters are on Deck 8, portside. I’ll show you.”

  I fell into quick step beside him, still numb, still unsure of myself and what just happened. He didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t offer any. Just the two of us, walking in silence through the guts of the ship—toward whatever was waiting for me next.

  “Heard your meeting with the commander went well. Impressive. Most of us got a week before getting chewed out in front of the entire crew.” He grinned curtly, his tone dry and sarcastic. It bordered on cruel—a hollow kind of irony that grated on me. I had seen this before at the Academy, not an attitude I could associate with.

  He let the words bounce like vapor in the corridor as we walked, then added more conciliatory tone, “Don’t take it personal Ensign. If she didn’t see potential, she even wouldn’t bother with you…”

  “Thanks.” I said. It was about all I could muster at this moment. Torev’s dry humor and sense of empathy—precise, efficient, and entirely impersonal—did little to fill me with confidence right now.

  “And here you are,” Torev said, stopping outside a grey, unassuming door that looked no different from the last dozen we’d passed. My new home. “It’s already synced to your FoldID.”

  I blinked. At the threshold, he handed me a small black case—cool, matte, heavier than I expected. Inside was my Vanguard-standard ID band—sleek, polished, untouched. Etched into the metal was the familar Helion Vanguard crest: an atomic nucleus surrounded by orbiting stars. It was more than hardware. It monitored my biofunctions, granted access to secured doors and terminals, and tethered me to the ship’s systems. Its design and purpose weren’t just technical—they were symbolic. A literal mark of the thing I’d been working toward my entire adolescent life.

  ….“Synced to your biometrics,” he continued without pausing, not bothering to make eye contact. “It’ll unlock your quarters, track your location, and keep medical busy if your vitals flatline. Try not to lose it Ensign.”

  And like that. He turned. Without waiting for a response or offering congratulations, he walked off down the corridor, boots echoing against the deck plates. No farewell. No good luck. Nothing. Just a shrinking silhouette, leaving me alone with the door and everything waiting on the other side.

  Turning away from him, I looked at the door and stepping forward. It responded: the door hissed open with a tired groan, as if the mechanism had been recycled from another ship decades ago—which it probably had at the time. The room beyond was barely larger than a cargo locker. One small window. No soft lighting. Just the sterile wash of a single overhead strip, flickering faintly every few minutes like it had a nervous tic.

  To the right, a narrow bunk was bolted into the wall—military-issue, thin as a ration wafer, with sheets that smelled faintly of sterilizer and recycled air. To the left, a wall-mounted console glowed with system alerts, unread messages, and the standard-issue HV-OS interface—sluggish, a few updates behind. Beneath it, a recessed storage locker barely big enough for two uniforms and a pair of boots.

  A steel desk sat opposite the bed, scarred with old dents and a few forgotten initials scratched into its edge. Above it hung a tiny replicator—strictly calibrated, limited to basic rations and water, if you hadn’t used your daily allotment elsewhere. Someone had tried to decorate once; a bent magnetic photo strip was half-peeling from the corner of the console, showing two cadets grinning in Earth’s sunlight. It didn’t belong to me.

  The walls were utilitarian duranium, unpainted, scratched and dark. A vent above the bed hummed with a low whine—air circulation, always just a little too cold. On nights when the lights dimmed to “rest mode,” the room turned into a tomb of faint noises: the groan of distant conduit stress, the shudder of plasma flow two decks down, and the ever-present heartbeat of the ship.

  It wasn’t home. It wasn’t even comfortable.

  My mind replayed her face. Her words. The weight of her. Head ringing. I thought I had seen power before. In my instructors. In my simulations. In myself.

  I was wrong.

  I hadn’t even scratched the surface…