Enchanting hands greedily stroked his perfect, transhuman body. He presented himself in his full naked beauty. His burly muscles, his soft blond hair, and that noble, superior look in his golden eyes.

  “L-Lord Commander,” Rhiv stammered.

  The living image of a god turned his attention toward him.

  “Sergeant Mordo. I have been expecting you.”

  “Expecting me? How could he know I would come?” Rhiv asked himself.

  “It is good to see you again. From what I can see, the wounds from the last battle have healed well. Though it did take a long time. You spent two whole months in the healing capsule.”

  His deep yet confidential voice nearly numbed Rhiv’s ears.

  “But tell me, what brings you here?”

  “Lord Commander, I bring word that we will soon reach our destination. Should you need any details about the mission, you’ll find everything on this datapad.”

  Rhiv handed it to him. The Lord Commander rose like a mountain from the sea. Hands withdrew from his muscles. He towered over the sergeant like the giant he was—two and a half, perhaps even three meters tall, Rhiv estimated. He took the datapad and read the report.

  He turned and said in a calming tone, “I must now attend to my duty. Therefore, I request a private audience with Sergeant Mordo.”

  The bodies emerged from under his blanket. Rhiv recognized them instantly. They were young men from the moon Ekury. Due to their delicate and feminine physiques, they were very popular—especially among the imperial navy. Unlike women, who had no place aboard warships, these youths could easily be thrown into uniforms during an inspection and presented as a “special mercenary unit.” Precisely because of their popularity, they were expensive to hire, and so far, Rhiv had only heard tales about them. But now he saw several at once.

  They shyly slipped out of the room. Some didn’t even bother to get dressed again. As they passed Rhiv, one of them—a lightly tanned one—blew him a kiss.

  His thoughts went wild—he felt torn between the Lord Commander’s bottomless decadence and the game of his own easily influenced emotions.

  Shortly thereafter, a heavy silence fell over the two men left behind. Rhiv felt uncomfortable. He wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

  “Solomo,” the Lord Commander said.

  “Uh… excuse me?”

  “Solomo is the name of the young man who blew you a kiss. I thought you might want to know,” he said while still analyzing the report.

  “Oh, I see. Thank you.”

  Now he finally raised his head and asked, “So, we don’t know what we’re dealing with. We have almost no intel on the enemy’s army strength. But we will be victorious. Do you know why we will win?”

  Rhiv hesitated. He had the feeling that his next words might decide his fate.

  “Because we always win,” he said uncertainly.

  “Yes, that too. But I was thinking more along the lines of: because we have you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Word has reached me that you are one of the most competent ground force officers under my command. You also showed bravery and strategic skill during the siege of Crutharu. Therefore, I have decided to promote you to leading general of the ground invasion—effective immediately. From now on, you report only to me.”

  Rhiv didn’t know what to say. Though already a sergeant, having led entire regiments into battle, becoming a general was something else entirely. Still, he bowed humbly.

  “Thank you, Lord Commander, for bestowing this honor upon me.”

  Even though he tried to keep his composure, the Lord Commander’s transhuman senses could see through him with ease.

  “Do not worry, Sergeant Mordo. I will fight beside you. Not only in the planning room but also down on the battlefield. After all, I am the supreme commander of the entire outer core. But to be honest, I’m sick of all this bureaucracy. Maybe a good slaughter will help me unwind.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He was about to say more when a strong jolt shook the ship. The sirens blared. That was the signal indicating the fleet would soon exit interstellar space.

  “This ship is old. Just like me. The warp drive isn’t the latest model anymore, so turbulence like this can happen,” the Lord Commander remarked.

  Suddenly, a beep sounded. His large hand reached for the communicator mounted on the wall.

  “Lord Commander, this is the bridge. We have possible enemy contact one hundred and fifty kilometers away.”

  “That close! What kind of enemy?”

  “Well, it’s a ship. But it looks pretty destroyed. Still, it could be a trap. What are your orders?”

  “The Iron Fury stays back. Send the accompanying frigates ahead as vanguard. If they detect any signs of life, they have my permission to open fire.”

  “Understood.”

  The Lord Commander pressed a button on his communicator.

  “Decimus, can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Lord Marcelus.” Rhiv recognized the voice on the other end as transhuman.

  “Prepare my transport. I will inspect that shipwreck personally.”

  “Will do, Lord Marcelus. Shall I alert the Custodes to get ready to deploy?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Understood.”

  The Lord Commander hung up. He looked into Rhiv’s eyes with an unintentional darkness. Rhiv held his gaze surprisingly well before he involuntarily broke eye contact.

  “I will go now and prepare,” Marcelus declared.

  “I shall do the same.”

  “No, you will stay here and begin the invasion planning.”

  Rhiv didn’t reply. Instead, he bowed and swiftly left the Lord Commander’s chambers. He hurried through the corridors without defiling their sanctity.

  Servants of the Ordo Custodum led Marcelus into his armor chamber. It was a small room—at least compared to the massive throne hall—full of relics, both his own and those of his predecessors. He stood in the center, his face turned toward the rounded corner where a shrine was located.

  He didn’t care much for religious rituals, but he performed them because it was part of his duty. He knelt and lowered his head. Soothing sounds filled the room as priests and monks of the Ordo Reliciam emerged from narrow crevices in the walls. They intoxicated Marcelus with holy vapors and anointed his body with consecrated oil. Then a bell rang. At the third chime, the Lord Commander rose.

  Servants removed the sparse clothing he wore. Other attendants—more machine than man—dressed him in his “second skin,” a skin-tight suit made of bulletproof materials with neural connection points. These allowed the warriors of the Ordo Custodum better control over their massive combat armor.

  Once the second skin was applied, extenders were attached to the connection points. Then the mechanical servants withdrew. Next, Marcelus stepped into the exoskeletal frame of his armor. Once connected to the exoskeleton, all locking mechanisms engaged and secured him in place.

  Large, muscular attendants brought in the heavy ceramite plates. They clicked into the frame and were secured by the robotic servants.

  The final piece was the armor’s core. Reverent attendants of the Ordo Reliciam carried it in while chanting additional praises. It was a cylindrical atomic reactor. They gently inserted it into the back module of the armor and sealed the hatch.

  The armor came to life. Servo motors hummed, systems beeped.

  The last attendants offered Marcelus his helmet. He took it and tucked it under his arm.

  He left his armor chamber with swift but careful steps, careful not to step on one of the many attendants.

  Clad in his battle armor, his quarters no longer seemed quite so vast. He opened the wooden gate and descended the stairs. He had once destroyed these very stairs with his own weight as a young and reckless commander, charging through these halls.

  Back then, he had been young and full of energy. Now, he felt old and uninspired.

  One wouldn’t know by looking at him—he was still considered one of the most beautiful men in the Imperium. But he remembered well the time when he had truly been young.