Chapter 36

  RSIA Primary Operations Command

  Blackwell Station, Morelus

  The Rhyus System, Karbay Nolan Sector

  Date: Zeran 30, Year 4731

  Garen Rivers, Admiral Amar Lavont, and Colonel Conus Taylen walked the long corridor toward the hangar housing the Preyon—the vessel assigned to carry them into the Vorcon Empire. They passed several other hangar doors along the way, each sealed and identical.

  Admiral Lavont turned to Conus with a proud smile as they walked.

  "I hear congratulations are in order."

  "Yes, Admiral," Conus said, allowing a brief smile before returning to his composed expression.

  "Well done on being named Executive Officer."

  "Thank you, Admiral Lavont. I’m grateful to be assigned to such an important mission."

  "I am confident you will do well in this role, Colonel."

  "It’s going to be a big job, Colonel." Garen kept a straight face. "You’ll need to keep me in line—I’m probably a little rusty on protocol."

  "I’ll do my best, General Rivers," Conus said.

  Amar felt a moment of satisfaction. Conus had waited for this.

  Conus had been ready for the role for years—his competence never in question—and many believed he had the makings of a General, if given the chance. But Amar saw his talents serving a different purpose.

  Even before Amar Lavont became Director of the RSIA, he’d believed Conus belonged in the RSIA—where his skills could make a real difference.

  Though it wouldn’t be until after Amar’s appointment as Director that Conus officially joined, Amar had tried to bring him into the RSIA even before then. He had known the previous Director well, but his request was declined. His influence hadn’t been enough.

  Amar needed exceptional officers if he was going to protect the Seven Worlds of Rhyus from threats the RDF couldn’t handle. The RDF did its job well—but it lacked the surgical precision the RSIA required to act in the best interests of the Seven Worlds of Rhyus. Invasions came in more than one form—not always in force, but in influence, subtle and corrosive. The kind that didn’t breach walls, but minds.

  Conus was loyal—to the RSIA, to Amar.

  And loyalty mattered, now more than ever.

  He wanted Conus on this mission—needed him. From the moment he chose Garen for command, he’d seen Conus as the ideal Executive Officer. His role was more important than he likely realized.

  He believed Garen could reach something in Conus that he himself could not. The colonel was holding back—not by choice, and not with awareness. Amar knew full well there were barriers beneath the surface, ones even Conus hadn’t yet recognized. And Garen, of all people, might help him discover how.

  The last colonel Garen had mentored had become exceptional—if not misguided.

  Even so, he hadn’t forced the decision. Instead, he’d extended the courtesy to Garen—to choose his own XO. He didn’t have to. But he wanted Garen to feel ownership of the mission.

  The crew had been selected for him—at the very least, he could choose his own Executive Officer.

  That was also why he hadn’t put up much of a fight when Garen insisted on bringing Klamarez on for the mission. Amar believed the Camerian would make little difference either way. But if it kept Garen focused—if it meant he wouldn’t have to worry whether his old friend had gotten into trouble—then it was worth it.

  That was why he’d sent Conus to retrieve him in the first place—hoping that, during the trip, Garen might begin to trust him.

  What he couldn’t have predicted was what actually happened.

  The Vorcons had shown up. And not just any Vorcon—Caul Malocktus. They attacked Conus’s team, killing them all and leaving him stranded. They destroyed Garen’s home, forcing the two of them to work together. It had forced Garen’s return. It had played out as if Amar had orchestrated it. He hadn’t—but someone had.

  He wouldn’t say he was glad the Vorcons appeared when they did, but the timing was too perfect. Too coordinated.

  Someone had wanted these events to collide—and Amar intended to find out who.

  All the same, if the attack hadn’t happened, Garen might not be here.

  Someone else could be commanding the mission.

  Or the mission might not have moved forward at all.

  It wasn’t luck—but things had worked out for the better, despite the cost. Despite the questions it raised.

  But Amar knew better than to mistake fortunate outcomes for security—chance favored no one for long.

  And he had no illusions that anyone had done it for the RSIA’s benefit.

  He had Garen back now—and when this mission was done, he believed Garen would be so involved, so emotionally invested, that he’d stay.

  That he could turn Garen’s temporary role in the RSIA into a permanent one.

  Amar knew him too well—Garen only stayed where duty ran deep. And this mission was designed to bind him in more ways than one.

  As they continued walking, Conus realized he had finally reached a milestone he’d been working toward his entire career. This was the opportunity he had waited for.

  He didn’t doubt that he had earned it—had deserved it. Nevertheless, the appointment had been General Rivers’ decision, and Conus couldn’t help but second-guess himself. Had he truly earned it—or was he simply the obvious choice?

  Of course he picked me. The General didn’t know anyone else. It felt like circumstance, not merit.

  Many had told him he would never receive a command. He had been passed over more times than he cared to count—and the frustration lingered.

  Not because he lacked the qualifications—his record spoke for itself. But real command opportunities had always remained just out of reach. Too many hesitated to place true authority in the hands of someone as heavily augmented as he was.

  Some had called him names—slurs—because of it: "Type-A," "Halfer," "Aug."

  The slurs had long since lost their sting. Emotions came to him in muted waves—never raw, never lasting. It made him seem distant. Detached. Many mistook it for coldness, making it difficult for others to connect with him. Most never saw beyond the surface.

  What gave him pause, though, were the slurs meant for synthetics—when they were directed at him. To many, Conus wasn’t just augmented. He was something else. Something less.

  "Skinner."

  "Zero."

  "Nuller."

  "Sim."

  Terms meant for synthetics, flung at him as if he had crossed a line into something no longer human. Each time, there was a brief moment where something coiled in his gut, half-buried, threatening to emerge—tight, instinctive. Not pain. Not anger. Just pressure. Gone in a breath.

  There was a wide range of synthetic beings—some designed for basic functionality, others with true, developing personalities. And yet, Conus often felt they were treated with more acceptance than he had been. Because they weren’t hiding what they were. They didn’t pretend.

  He’d never felt like he was pretending. He was part human, part augment—but still human. At least, that’s what he told himself. Sometimes he wasn’t sure he believed it. Or if he only told himself as reassurance.

  The RSIA hadn’t been his first choice. He’d wanted to rise through the ranks of the RDF, to follow the path he had always envisioned. His dream was to one day command a capital battlecruiser—just as Garen Rivers and Amar Lavont had. But his career path in the RSIA had made that goal impossible.

  Fortunately—regardless of how he felt about the circumstances—this mission would finally give him real command experience.

  And if he failed here, it wouldn’t just be the mission that unraveled—it would be proof to every voice that had ever doubted him. Proof that maybe Augments, as artificial as he was, had no place in command positions.

  Conus was thankful Admiral Lavont had brought him into the RSIA, to give him opportunities he wouldn’t have had otherwise. There was no way to join—it wasn’t by invitation. Members were selected based on need.

  Conus had first met Amar during his graduation from the Academy.

  Graduation ceremonies often drew high-ranking officials, especially those looking to recruit promising candidates. Though Conus’s instructors had praised him, he received little attention.

  Many cadets had several visits from generals and admirals during the ceremony. Conus had one—Amar Lavont.

  Few at the ceremony had managed to draw the attention of someone at Amar’s level. But Admiral Lavont had spoken directly to him, even saying that meeting Conus was his reason for attending. At the time, it had meant more than Conus could express. He might have gone unnoticed by the others that day, but one of the fleet’s most respected admirals had sought him out—and spoken with Conus, and only Conus.

  The war with the Vorcons wouldn’t end for another year after that meeting. Amar was still in command of the 8th Fleet then. For him to take time away from his duties to attend the ceremony—that wasn’t something Conus had taken lightly.

  When they first met, Conus had the strange feeling he’d seen Amar before. Amar was well-known—famous, even—so it made sense. But something about it had always felt different. As if there had been another meeting, buried in memory, a fragment he couldn’t quite place. Just a feeling—but one that never left him. It had never amounted to anything more.

  Garen, Amar, and Conus arrived at the next shuttle bay. As the doors slid open, there it was—the Preyon, occupying the bay.

  Conus took in the sight, his augmented eye adjusting as he absorbed every detail—measuring hull thickness, structural lines, and concealed seams most would never notice.

  The stealth vessel awaited. Its black hull absorbing the light around it.

  Garen stopped, taking in the sight—his new post. Temporary, he reminded himself.

  For a brief moment, he felt like a junior officer again, standing in awe of his first ship. But it vanished as quickly as it came. Just as fast as the ship stirred something in him, it turned heavy—no longer a vessel, but a burden.

  This was a far cry from the Riftkin or the Warpstar, his previous commands.

  The Riftkin had been a capital battlecruiser—the largest class in the RDF fleet. The most prestigious.

  Reaching the rank of General was an achievement, but being granted command of a capital battlecruiser was another matter entirely.

  Many officers earned the rank—few were ever trusted with such a vessel.

  It wasn’t given lightly. Most had to serve in multiple commands, proving themselves with smaller ships before being considered.

  Before the Riftkin, there had been the Warpstar—an assault frigate Garen had fought hard to earn.

  It wasn’t handed to him. He had fought for every step before being deemed worthy of the Riftkin.

  Now, standing before the Preyon, he faced something altogether different—a vessel barely a fraction of the size of either. He didn’t measure the vessel by its size, but by its intended purpose.

  Amar paused, allowing them a moment to take in the ship’s design before offering a few details.

  "The Preyon is built for evasion," Amar began. "Though it is capable of more."

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  "You think this thing's got what it takes?" Garen asked, skepticism heavy in his voice. He glanced at Conus. "What do you make of it, Colonel?"

  "I'm confident the Preyon is well equipped," Conus said. "Though I'd prefer to review its specifications before I fully endorse the vessel. I have faith in what’s been built—but I’d like to verify its capabilities firsthand."

  "Doesn’t look like much to me," Garen muttered, narrowing his eyes.

  The Preyon was untested—untested against a real enemy. Garen didn’t care how many simulations they had run.

  Surely the Vorcon Empire had advanced just as much, if not more. Whatever new technology they possessed remained unknown. Garen only hoped they weren’t underestimating the enemy—and overestimating what this new ship was capable of.

  Brute force had always been the Vorcons’ strength—but not their only one. Far from it.

  To consider them nothing more than mindless warriors—a species that existed solely for war—was a mistake. One the media of the Seven Worlds had reinforced for years. That was always the story: violent, unthinking conquerors. Simple. Easy to hate. They were in fact structured, strategic—and far more cunning than most gave them credit for.

  "I do, General Rivers. If not, I assure you, this mission wouldn’t be moving forward," Amar said.

  The ship’s exterior had an almost predatory design, with its top and bottom levels slanting inward toward the central deck. Garen’s eyes traced the contours, instinctively analyzing the vessel’s strengths and vulnerabilities as if preparing for a battle not yet declared.

  Amar led them aboard, guiding them up the ramp. Boots struck the deck with a hollow snap that echoed faintly as they climbed.

  "Welcome aboard the Preyon," he announced.

  The bottom level held the cargo bay, armory, and access to the Dimensional Rift Drive. Stairwells on either side provided access to all levels.

  The engineering section spanned all three decks at the ship’s rear, housing workstations and a dedicated stealth systems chamber. Its field generator suppressed outgoing signals to near-complete undetectability.

  But nothing was foolproof. If they got too close, there was still a chance they’d be spotted. Space was unpredictable, and no system was perfect.

  Garen had a few tricks up his sleeve—and Rayvo Oswin, the pilot, had been personally vouched for by Conus, Amar, and Terra. If things went sideways, they might have a chance to make a run for it—assuming they didn’t end up surrounded by a Vorcon armada.

  On the second level—the ship’s primary floor—they toured the senior officers’ living quarters: cabins for Garen, Conus, and General Terra Anteia, along with a briefing room.

  They passed the server room housing the ship’s quantum computer, a medbay, and a science lab.

  Finally, Amar led them to the bridge. The consoles were powered down—their screens dark, polished, catching reflections as they moved past. The bridge felt untouched, unused, not yet lived in—not even a scuff to be seen. The air still held the sharp scent of new upholstery and sanitation.

  He pointed out the interactive display table used for strategic planning. Terra’s station was situated nearby for data analysis. Garen’s command chair stood front and center, complete with a retractable interface screen. Conus’s station was close by. The pilot’s seat was positioned at the forefront, offering a clear view of all navigation data. There were no viewports—external visuals were handled entirely through sensor and camera feeds.

  "I’ll admit, Amar," Garen said, his voice low and gravelly. "This ship... it's going to take some getting used to."

  He said it quietly, as if speaking more to himself than anyone else.

  "Feels a long way from a battlecruiser. I’m used to having a full command crew—a full arsenal at my side."

  “You didn’t always have them," Amar replied. “You earned them over time. You managed long before you had command. I trust your instincts, Garen. You’ve faced worse odds."

  "Maybe," Garen muttered.

  "And you’re not used to having a full arsenal at your side anymore, either," Amar added. “It’s been years since you’ve commanded anything."

  "Makes me seem less than ideal for this mission," Garen said with a dry laugh.

  "My point is, even if you were given a larger vessel, it would still be an adjustment. After your absence, any assignment would be."

  "You’re not wrong, Admiral. Still... this sneaking around. I don’t know." Garen’s tone dropped lower. "Slipping through cracks…"

  "It’s a covert operation," Amar said. “I wouldn’t call it sneaking around."

  "You’re sure this ship is ready?" Garen asked, watching him closely.

  "Yes," Amar replied, short and direct.

  "Then let me put it differently," Garen said. "Can it handle what we’re walking into?"

  Amar’s eyes narrowed before he blinked it away—just enough for Garen to catch. Garen almost cracked a smile. He was testing Amar—and they both knew it.

  Amar reminded himself why he’d chosen Garen in the first place—because he would ask the hard questions. Because he wouldn’t simply accept things at face value. It was the same trait that made him the right man for this mission—and the reason Amar trusted him more than anyone else. But Garen’s need to challenge everything tested every ounce of Amar’s patience.

  "You already asked that," Amar said evenly, though the shift in his expression hinted at a man far more used to issuing orders than defending them. With his position in the RSIA, he answered to the Council of Seven—and no one else.

  Garen recognized it. That subtle reminder. Amar had forgotten how often Garen liked to push—sometimes just to see where the edges were.

  Garen offered a quick smile. “I’m asking again," he said after a pause. "Maybe I’m just checking if the answer changes."

  Conus watched quietly, observing the exchange. He had always known Admiral Lavont to be a man of great patience—but with Garen, it seemed thinner.

  Does he enjoy frustrating the Admiral? Conus wondered. He’d seen Terra disagree with Amar before—but her approach was different. Garen, though, didn’t just question Amar—he challenged him outright. It wasn’t disrespect, but something closer to old familiarity, like they were still circling an unresolved argument from years past.

  "She’s been tested thoroughly, Garen. You’ll have to trust the Preyon," Amar said.

  Garen studied him. "Trust is earned, Amar." Garen’s tone leveled out. "This ship hasn’t had the chance to earn it yet."

  "It will... with time," Amar added.

  Garen hadn’t forgotten how easily trust could fracture.

  He trusted Amar now—but not like before. That kind of trust had been lost years ago. Amar was no longer the mentor Garen once served under—he was now the head of the RSIA. A man full of secrets, half-truths, and calculations.

  He was playing a game Garen had yet to fully grasp—or even begin to understand.

  Garen hadn’t said it aloud, but he felt it—he was out of his element.

  Garen looked around the bridge, his eyes settling on the command chair. Trust and reliance in a ship took time—time he didn’t have. He would be taking this vessel into what might be the most dangerous situation he had ever faced. He’d been in danger before, plenty of times—but never with consequences like this. With a crew he didn’t know.

  Amar smiled faintly.

  "I remember you saying the same thing about a replacement Verta fightercraft after yours was out of commission," he said, remembering the incident well. "You were furious about having to use another one."

  Garen couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

  "I remember that. But this is hardly the same."

  "I’ve found most Verta craft to function the same," said Conus.

  Garen let out a dry quick laugh. "Back in the day, if you got a good one, you held onto it. Maybe they pumped them out faster then. They were the same—but always a little different."

  Amar resumed the tour, showing them the tactical and weapons stations. Across from the bridge was the operations console. The top level of the ship housed the rest of the crew’s quarters—a mess hall, gym, and a small recreation room.

  As they returned to the bridge, Amar turned to them.

  "So, what do you think?"

  "It’s a well-designed vessel," Conus said. "Still, I’d like the opportunity to look deeper into its systems."

  "You’ll have that chance," Amar replied.

  "I know this is supposed to be a stealth mission," Garen said. "But if that fails—can this thing fight?"

  "This ship operates in two distinct modes—stealth and combat," Amar explained. "Its systems are power-intensive. The ship can only function effectively in one mode at a time. But if stealth fails, the Preyon is armed and equipped to give you a fighting chance."

  Garen didn’t look convinced. Amar saw it in his eyes.

  "You’ve always been thorough, Garen," Amar said. "So I’ll give you enough to think it through."

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly.

  "The Preyon carries two pulse turrets. Full rapid-volley."

  Garen ran a hand down his beard. "That’s a start. And?"

  "Two lance cannons," Amar continued.

  "And if something bigger shows up?" Garen asked.

  "Railguns. Hypervelocity slugs. Long-range precision."

  "Torpedoes?"

  "Threlon-torpedoes."

  Garen gave a faint nod, still processing—absorbing the details.

  "You say this thing can’t be detected. What you really mean is it’s hard to detect."

  "Yes," said Amar.

  "Anything else?" Garen asked.

  "Grav displacement mines," Amar replied. "They scramble propulsion and throw off pursuit systems. Gives you the opportunity to reestablish stealth mode—should the need arise."

  "That should work, as long as we don’t take damage," Garen muttered.

  "The Preyon was designed with full electronic warfare integration. Our cyber unit can jam communications and potentially infiltrate hostile systems."

  "We’ve also got a spike emitter that knocks out targeting systems for a few seconds—just enough to move, dodge, or strike. And a holo-field array—projects false echoes, mimics derelicts, ghost signals."

  “You’re really trying to sell me on it.” Garen leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he studied Amar.

  "No. I’m reminding you that this ship wasn’t just built for infiltration—it was built for survival."

  "Fair enough. Still, we can only survive so long if we’re detected."

  "These tools can help reestablish stealth mode and avoid detection. But if we get swarmed—it won’t matter."

  "That would be the worst-case scenario," said Amar.

  Garen turned to Conus.

  "What do you think, Colonel Taylen?"

  "I think we have a chance to escape if stealth fails," Conus without pause, making eye contact with Garen, his mind already processing scenarios. "But if what I understand about the stealth systems is accurate, we shouldn’t need to use any of it. The stealth systems will keep us hidden."

  "I don’t rely on anything a hundred percent," Garen replied. "Who’s to say the Vorcons haven’t improved their detection tech? Who’s to say we won’t light up every sensor the moment we step into the Prine system?"

  He was talking to Conus, but his question was clearly directed at Amar.

  "That’s a fair point, General Rivers," Amar said. "I should have informed you—we’ve sent unmanned probes into the Prine system equipped with the same tech as the Preyon. They went undetected."

  "Undetected or just not destroyed?" Garen asked.

  "Both," Amar replied.

  "I would think it likely the Vorcons would destroy anything detected in their system," Conus added.

  "I agree with you, Colonel. Still best to ask 'why'—what if?" Garen said.

  "We’ve tested the tech against more than just the Vorcons," Amar added. "The systems work."

  "Okay, Admiral," Garen said, his tone quiet but not fully convinced.

  Amar’s tone shifted. The lightness faded from his voice. He hesitated for a moment, then looked between them.

  "There’s one more feature you need to be aware of."

  Conus’s expression sharpened. His posture shifted—more rigid, almost mechanical. Garen narrowed his eyes, already catching the subtle change in Amar’s stance.

  Amar hesitated—just for a second. Then: "The Preyon is equipped with four VEKTORIS-class warheads."

  Garen stared at him. “Warheads?” You bring me back for this?

  Amar nodded. “Phase Destabilizer Warheads. PDWs. Designed for when there’s no other option left."

  Conus said nothing, but the implications settled heavily in his thoughts. The use of such a weapon would restart a war. It would cast the Seven Worlds in an unfavorably light across the Karadolex Galaxy.

  This goes against the Coalition Agreement, he realized.

  He had sought the chance for more authority—but to be given this much?

  The United Coalition Regulatory Assembly—of which the Seven Worlds of Rhyus were members—had banned the use of PDWs since its founding, after the last war with the Vorcons. While the Assembly held no real authority, it remained a diplomatic forum where member nations discussed galaxy-wide issues, negotiated resolutions, and set shared norms. The members were loose allies, their bond forged during the Vorcon War, when they had united in military opposition.

  No system was formally bound to another, but diplomatic ties stayed strong. Some believed a major war might revive the Coalition in full—though only war would prove that true.

  He had followed their sessions closely over the years and found it fascinating to see which issues drew attention and which were quietly ignored. But on the subject of PDWs, there had never been any sign of change. As far as he could recall, the ban still stood—clear and absolute.

  "These aren’t standard torpedoes," Amar said.

  He didn’t sugarcoat it. His tone carried the dispassion of someone who saw it as part of the equation.

  "Each PDW initiates a localized phase cascade—collapses structural cohesion across multiple spatial layers. Doesn’t matter how thick your armor is. Doesn’t matter how strong the shield. These don’t just destroy—they erase."

  Garen exhaled through his nose. "I didn’t realize we were bringing annihilation weapons into this mission."

  His fist tightened. I’ve seen enough things get erased.

  “They wouldn’t have authorized this unless they saw no other way," Conus suggested.

  Garen groaned. He’s too smart to be this na?ve.

  "We're stopping genocide with mass destruction... one atrocity smothering another," he said a little louder—but without raising his voice. It came out loud and clear.

  "The use of the weapon is a last resort, and if its use is required, it will be on a Vorcon moon with little to no population. As far as we understand, there are no settlements on this moon," said Amar calmly.

  "I still don’t like it," Garen said, "but that does make a difference."

  "That is natural. I understand this is not an easy predicament I’ve placed you in, General Rivers." Amar then looked to Conus. "On you both. That’s how serious this mission is, gentlemen." He kept his tone level.

  "And the launch protocol?" Garen asked.

  “Both the commander and executive officer carry physical launch keys. Both must insert and turn them at the same time. Verbal command codes follow."

  The quiet didn’t feel empty—it felt loaded, like something waiting to break.

  Garen didn’t flinch, but Amar had seen that same stillness before—when delivering orders he knew Garen would resist.

  Conus’s augmented eye shifted slightly, scanning around the bridge, finding and locating the key inserts on a console near the weapons station.

  "That’s a hell of a responsibility to hand someone," Garen said, voice quiet.

  "Maybe now you understand why I needed you, Garen—not just as a leader, but as a conscience."

  "Yeah," Garen muttered, rubbing the side of his neck. His head started to hurt. He had questions—too many.

  "The full briefing will make things clearer, Garen. As to why this is necessary."

  When Terra had shown Garen a brief glimpse of the Preyon back in his suite on Rhyus, he’d noticed the warheads—but hadn’t known their true capabilities. Now he wondered: what if he used them incorrectly? What if everything went wrong?

  He had thought Caul Malocktus’s assault on Chiex might spiral into something uncontrollable. It could have been the spark that reignited the war—but it hadn’t.

  Years ago, Garen had warned them the war would return. To see the future, he’d said, one only had to look into the past. The Vorcons were far from simple, but their cycle of war was—simple, in its own way. Predictable. Easy to see, if anyone had been willing to look.

  Could he now be the one to start a full-scale war between the Seven Worlds and the Vorcon Empire?

  Would the warnings he gave—ignored for so long—only lead to him becoming the very cause he once tried to prevent?

  No. He would do everything in his power to ensure it never came to that—even if it meant sacrificing himself.

  And suddenly he believed it—believed what Amar had said.

  He needed to lead this mission.