RSIA Primary Operations Command

  Blackwell Station, Morelus

  The Rhyus System, Karbay Nolan Sector

  Date: Zeran 30, Year 4731

  Garen, Conus, and Amar walked from the Preyon to the briefing hall. No one spoke at length—only a few passing remarks, the kind of casual exchange that filled the space between heavier thoughts.

  Admiral Lavont was eager to begin. The operation’s launch had already been delayed for some time, and he had no intention of letting it slip much further. The updated timetable he’d authorized would see the Preyon departing sooner than anyone had anticipated, giving Garen and his crew little time to settle in before deployment. The journey into Vorcon space would have to serve as their only preparation.

  There was no more time to waste.

  Amar wished they’d had more time—more briefings, more drills—but that was no longer an option. They needed to get underway. And more importantly, he needed them underway before the Council of Seven could change their minds.

  Before they learned the full truth.

  Garen Rivers hadn’t accepted an official commission. In the most technical sense, he was still a civilian—a contractor placed in command of the RSIA’s most advanced, most dangerous stealth ship. A vessel carrying a payload capable of reshaping galactic diplomacy in a single strike.

  Amar could only hope the time they’d had was enough—for Garen, the crew, the mission. That by the time they reached the Vorcon Empire, the crew would be ready.

  The crew had been brought together under the same directive: a mission of the highest importance. Some had been reassigned from other operations. Others had returned early from leave. A few had spent weeks assigned to seemingly meaningless tasks around the base—kept occupied, but never informed. Just close enough to be ready when called.

  They all knew it was important—that much was clear. But Amar doubted any of them truly understood what lay ahead.

  Garen moved with a mix of anticipation and dread. He knew that once he stepped through the door of briefing room B, there would be no turning back. No second-guessing. From that moment on, the crew would look to him as their leader—and self-doubt had no place. If he was going to command this mission, he needed to be all in. He had to believe—or walk away now.

  He didn’t feel ready. Not entirely. But that wouldn’t matter. Once he committed, he would have to lead.

  Whatever doubts remained, he would bury them—for their sake, if not his own. Any hesitation on his part would ripple through the crew. That couldn’t happen.

  He needed to project confidence—and rely on his officers. Get to know them. This mission wouldn’t be easy for any of them. Maybe none had faced the Vorcons before. But they were experienced. They were RSIA. They were covert operations specialists. Together, they’d have to find a way to succeed.

  Garen didn’t truly understand the full scope of the RSIA’s work. Not really. He knew enough to be wary. If this mission was any indication, then the RSIA wasn’t just running surveillance operations and gathering intelligence—they were involved in things that placed people in dangerous, volatile situations. And maybe that was necessary. The galaxy had changed. Threats weren’t always foreign. While the Vorcons remained the clearest external danger to the Seven Worlds, there were others—less visible, just as destructive. Still, it made him wonder—at what point did defensive strategy cross into interference? When did countermeasures become justification for overreach?

  Conus felt the pressure mounting as well.

  His role wasn’t just to help Garen readjust. It was to show up for the crew—be present, dependable, trusted. On a mission like this, morale wasn’t just important—it was essential. If General Rivers was the core of the mission, then Conus had to be the link connecting command to those who would carry it out.

  It felt like a heavy responsibility for a first-time Executive Officer—especially one assigned to assist a general who had spent years away from the fleet. A man who, until recently, had refused to return to the Seven Worlds—who hadn’t wanted anything to do with any of this.

  That was the man Conus was supposed to support.

  He’d built up an image of Garen over the years—based on the war reports, the archived interviews, the stories passed around by officers who still revered him. But when Conus had first met him on Chiex, the reality hadn’t matched the legend. Garen had seemed distant. Cold. Almost disappointing.

  But as time passed, Conus had started to see it—glimpses of the man he’d read about. The man Garen had once been—and maybe, just maybe, the man he could become again.

  Garen, Conus, and Amar stepped into the wide meeting room where every crew member assigned to the mission had already gathered. The scent of coffee hung in the room. Overhead, the lights were bright—harsh and functional. Several long tables had been arranged in clean rows, and a large central display occupied the front wall—dark for now, but waiting.

  At first, their entrance went largely unnoticed. The crew was scattered in small clusters—some quietly talking, others absorbed in their own thoughts. But gradually, heads began to turn. Conversations faded. Movement stilled.

  One by one, they realized who had just walked in.

  Conus scanned the room, his first instinct to size up the crew. His augmented eye adjusted, quietly calibrating as he took in each face—cataloging those in attendance, building a mental picture of who exactly would comprise the team. A few faces stood out. He had even worked with some before.

  Then a woman’s laugh carried from across the space. Something in that sound caught him.

  He glanced briefly toward her and saw her: RSIA medical uniform, dark hair, speaking with another of the crew members. Then, as if the sound had meant nothing, he moved on—further into the room.

  Garen paused just inside the doorway, eyes shifting across the room but never truly focusing—observing without searching. Nothing caught his eye, but everything passed through it.

  The room was filled with unfamiliar faces. His crew. People who would look to him soon enough. He would need to learn their names. That mattered to him—not just as a commander, but as someone who intended to bring them home.

  Realization didn’t knock. It seeped in—settling in his gut like something swallowed wrong.

  He no longer had the advantage of time. He’d never led a crew that began like this—so unfamiliar, so untested, with the stakes immediately so high, and the outcome carrying the potential to affect so many.

  But here they were. And they were his now.

  It might have surprised some to learn General Rivers would be leading the mission. Word had already spread—thanks to Veeda, Jes, and Rayvo, who had told the rest of the crew. At the time, most dismissed it as idle speculation or an odd joke. But once Garen stepped into the room, all doubt vanished.

  As Garen moved through the hall, he clasped each hand, giving each person a moment of his attention.

  Lieutenant Rayvo Oswin, Senior Pilot and Navigator, met Garen’s eyes with the calm assurance of someone who’d flown through hell and made it back. Some of the best pilots Garen had known were cocky, arrogant bastards—loud, reckless, convinced they were untouchable. He knew, because he’d been one of them.

  He’d already been told Rayvo had both skill and confidence. From the look of him, that held up. The man had plenty of skill—and enough confidence to be dangerous if it ever tipped too far.

  If things went bad out there, Rayvo might end up being one of the most important people on the ship.

  The thought of leading the Preyon into a real fight felt distant—and wrong. Garen didn’t know the ship. Didn’t trust it yet—not in battle. It was powerful on paper. But they’d be one ship in enemy territory. Any advantage they might find themselves with would be temporary at best.

  Major Jes Kaius, Senior Communications Officer, offered a controlled smile. She looked more comfortable than she had during their first meeting back on Rhyus. When Garen greeted her by name, her smile widened. A few crew members nearby took notice.

  Major Veeda Soren took it upon herself to personally introduce the engineering team to both Garen and Conus. There was pride in her tone, and her introductions were efficient but thoughtful—each engineer acknowledged with name, rank, and specialty.

  Major Merrick Rhoman, Senior Sensors Officer, was more reserved. His voice was soft, and he seemed hesitant to meet anyone’s eyes for more than a second or two. Garen didn’t press. He wasn’t built for small talk. That much was clear.

  Major Rena Cyra, the ship’s cybersecurity officer, didn’t come forward until Terra gave her a small wave. She offered Garen a clipped greeting and stated her name—barely above a whisper. Her posture said she’d rather be anywhere else—but her eyes told a different story: sharp, focused, entirely present. Garen didn’t push. He’d worked with her type before. Quiet. Brilliant. The ones who never needed the spotlight to matter. Who preferred to be left alone.

  Major Adlar Damon, the ship’s senior weapons specialist, stepped forward with a grin—and a look that said he wasn’t entirely sure this was the right move, but he was going to do it anyway.

  "General Rivers," he said, shaking Garen’s hand. "Pleasure to be here."

  "Good to meet you, Major," Garen replied evenly.

  Adlar gestured casually toward the man beside him—Major Eron Kyne.

  "You’ve clearly got the best weapons specialist in the RSIA," Adlar said, "and... maybe the eighth-best tactical officer."

  Eron side-eyed him. "Seventh."

  Adlar smirked. "Not after the Debari incident."

  "That was not my fault." Eron didn’t even look at him.

  Garen’s brow lifted slightly, forcing back a smile. "I take it you two have worked together before."

  "Unfortunately, yes," Eron said it plainly.

  Adlar shrugged. "We’ve been trying to get some intel on this mission. But no one’s saying anything. I usually like to have a few presets lined up, depending on who we’re facing."

  "As Tactical Officer," Eron added, "I should’ve received a pre-mission briefing. You need options, General."

  "I know little more than the both of you," Garen said.

  "But still more than we do," Adlar pushed.

  "Come on, General. We all know it’s the Vorcons—especially after what happened with you and the Colonel."

  Garen gave them both a look—somewhere between amusement and warning.

  "I suggest you pay close attention to the briefing."

  Both men straightened, serious now.

  "Understood, General," Eron said.

  As Garen moved on, Adlar and Eron stepped away, making their way over to Lieutenant Rayvo Oswin, who was leaning against the table, sipping from a mug.

  "Wow," Rayvo said, grinning—somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

  "Best weapons specialist in the RSIA?" Rayvo asked, like the words soured on the way out. "Bold claim. I can think of a few names who might argue otherwise."

  Adlar held up both hands. "Then why am I on this mission and not them?"

  "Availability," Rayvo said dryly.

  "I think you know better," Eron added.

  "Alright, alright. Though I can confidently claim the title of best pilot in the RSIA."

  "Really?" Eron glanced at him, unimpressed.

  "This is a covert op," Adlar jumped in, glancing at Eron. "You know what that means."

  "You know what this ship has?" Eron added, barely looking up.

  "New SFG," Adlar said.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Stealth Field Generator. Newest model," Eron clarified.

  "Best pilot or not," he continued, "no one’s going to see you. Could be anyone flying this mission. No skill required."

  They laughed—half joking, half resigned. None of it taken too seriously.

  Across the room, Garen watched the exchange. Then Terra stepped up beside him.

  "I assure you, Garen," she said, following his gaze, "they’re up for the task."

  "If you say so," he replied. "If you weren’t going on the mission too, I might be worried."

  Terra laughed quietly.

  His face barely shifted—but there was a trace of amusement. Just enough to catch, just enough to show he was listening.

  "We might need that kind of attitude out there," he said. "Reminds me of some of the old crew. I trust you’ve put together a fine team, General Anteia."

  "Thank you, General Rivers," she said.

  They shared a brief smile.

  "Let me introduce you to Master Sergeant Rainis Makel," Terra said.

  Off to the side, the Preyon’s marine squad was casually chatting among themselves. At the front stood their leader—Master Sergeant Rainis Makel—broad-shouldered, weathered.

  As Garen and Terra approached, the squad straightened up instantly, shifting from relaxed to disciplined without a word.

  Rainis met Garen’s eyes and gave a firm nod. "General," he said, voice low and gravel-thick. "Just say where and when. We’ll handle the rest."

  He came forward and offered his hand. "And General—an honor to meet you, sir."

  They shook hands—firm, brief, with full eye contact.

  "Let me introduce you to my team," Rainis added, motioning back to the marines behind him. Each of them stood tall as Garen moved down the line, offering words, nods, or handshakes where it fit.

  One of the marines—a tall, square-shouldered woman with short hair and sleeve tattoos—stepped forward just slightly ahead of the others.

  "Corporal Lorin Galors, Tech Specialist," she said. Her voice was calm.

  Garen shook her hand. "Good to have you aboard."

  She gave a short nod, then stepped back into formation.

  Behind her, a hulking figure with a heavy plasma repeater slung across his chest offered a slow nod.

  "Rand Sopon," he said. "Heavy gunner."

  Garen returned the gesture.

  "Let’s hope we don’t need you," Garen said.

  Rand shrugged. "You will. Just got a feeling about it," he said, like someone who had already made peace with whatever came next.

  "I don’t think making noise is going to be part of the plan," Rainis Makel said, looking to Garen.

  "Hoping we don’t have to fire a single shot," Garen replied.

  "Or ignite our Scalar Falcatas," Rainis added, referring to the blade Garen once carried—a weapon he had not possessed since his exile.

  Not long after, Conus joined Garen and Terra. He had finished making his own rounds—shaking hands, receiving congratulations, accepting a quiet string of promises from the crew.

  Conus hoped it would hold. He didn’t want the respect handed to him just because of his title—he wanted to earn it.

  And when the time came, he intended to. But he could only do that if the crew gave him a chance.

  Toward the back of the room, Garen spotted Klamarez, sipping coffee and observing quietly. He stood slightly apart from the others—focused, not uncomfortable.

  His ears twitched occasionally—subtle, but attuned, like they were picking up threads of conversation.

  Garen knew that look. Klamarez was watching, listening—taking everything in. He’d be paying attention to names, roles, quirks. He always did. If Klamarez was tracking the room like this, he intended to contribute—and likely already had ideas of how.

  Conus continued his own rounds.

  He approached the woman he had heard laugh earlier, finding himself coming face to face with her.

  "Colonel Conus Taylen," he said, extending a hand.

  The doctor turned and returned the gesture. "Doctor Nira Aylen," she replied.

  Then her voice shifted. "Congratulations, Colonel. I hear this is your first outing as Executive Officer."

  For a moment—just a fraction of it—her voice sounded different than it had before.

  A strange tension crept into the base of Conus’s skull where augmentation and flesh met. It wasn’t recognition—not quite—just a hint of familiarity he couldn’t explain or even begin to articulate.

  Not pain—something older, like a fracture running through a thought too deep to name. A sense of knowing that didn’t belong to memory.

  As if some part of him reacted before his mind could catch up.

  The change was subtle. Different cadence. Slightly softer vowel shapes. A tone that felt... familiar.

  Not to his conscious mind. But something deeper recoiled—like a whisper pulled from fragmented memory. He didn’t understand why it unsettled him—but it did.

  Her expression remained calm.

  But something about that voice...

  It wasn’t the voice she’d used moments earlier.

  If the doctor had noticed Conus's change in expression, she didn’t show it. Though her eyes stayed on him.

  Amar Lavont stood alone near the front of the room, reviewing the documents for the briefing a final time.

  The ship’s assigned synthetic, Operations Officer O-One, stood tall, pale, and clad in RSIA black. He carried a crate of mission-assigned data tablets. He crossed the room and approached Amar without delay.

  "Admiral," O-One stated flatly, holding out a tablet. "This unit presents compiled data for all mission personnel. Roles, protocols, and task alignment for Operation Droppoint."

  Amar accepted the device. "Thank you, O-One."

  "No deviation was detected from projected readiness benchmarks," the synthetic added.

  With no further comment, O-One began distributing the tablets—each tailored to its recipient. He made no small talk, no unnecessary gestures, identifying crew members by name, rank, and station.

  When he reached Garen, he paused just long enough to complete his task.

  "General Rivers. Mission profiles have been preloaded. Supplementary data is accessible via secured submenus."

  Garen gave a faint nod and ran a hand along his beard. "Understood. Thanks O-One."

  "At your service, General." Then O-One said nothing more. He moved on without pause.

  Admiral Amar Lavont stepped to the central front of the room. His presence alone quieted the crew. One by one, heads turned toward him as he conducted a precise roll call, each name spoken clearly. The conversation faded, replaced by a hush thick with what was coming.

  Chairs creaked softly as the last few crew members adjusted their seats.

  Rumors had spread—conversations danced around what each person might know, what they might expect from the mission.

  Now they would find out exactly what they had signed up for.

  "I’d like to welcome you all here today," Amar began. "Before we get into mission specifics, there is one point that must be made clear."

  He paused, ensuring he had full attention.

  "Capture is not an option. If the mission fails, the ship must be destroyed. Our primary objective is to complete this mission without detection. While success is crucial, our presence must remain undetected. If there is any objection to that condition, you may leave now. Remaining means you accept that possibility."

  He gave the room a moment. No one moved.

  Amar continued. There was no urgency to his tone. "This is the most important operation the RSIA has undertaken since its inception."

  He looked across the room, pausing briefly on General Anteia, then on O-One’s featureless faceplate, before returning forward. "General Anteia, O-One, and I have been planning this operation for months. General Anteia selected each of you personally. I have full confidence this mission will succeed—despite the challenges."

  "Success may bring about some hard truths for the Seven Worlds and the Rhyus Defense Fleet. This mission could hasten the onset of another war with the Vorcon Empire—or prevent one entirely."

  He drew a steady breath. "If we succeed, we stop the Vorcons from deploying a weapon designed to spearhead a new campaign of conquest."

  Amar stepped aside, turning the briefing over to General Terra Anteia, who moved to the front of the room with confidence.

  Her eyes moved across the crew as she began. Most were exactly as she’d intended—handpicked, competent, reliable. But the marine squad she’d requested hadn’t been approved. Reassigned at the last minute, replaced by another team. Reputable, but unfamiliar. For a mission this critical, she would’ve preferred the ones she trusted without question.

  The Preyon’s launch had already been delayed. Amar had told her it was due to competing priorities, and she believed him. That was how the RSIA worked—only Amar and his top two officers ever had full visibility. Still, she suspected her original marines had been diverted to the Helix project, which had been draining personnel for months.

  Her eyes shifted briefly to Conus, hoping Amar hadn’t made a mistake by placing so much responsibility on him.

  "Our initial task is the repair of the Warning Array," she began, motioning to its location on the map behind her. "It’s situated near Vorcon space, just beyond the Prine System. While repairing the station isn’t critical to our mission, it functions as an early warning platform. If our primary objective fails, this array may give the Seven Worlds advanced notice of a potential Vorcon fleet buildup."

  She then continued.

  "Once the repair is complete, we proceed into enemy territory. Our stealth profile should allow us to operate without detection."

  She moved to the next phase without pause.

  "Our primary objective is the identification and assessment of a suspected bio lab. Intelligence suggests the facility is either nearing completion or already operational. We believe the Vorcons are developing a bio-weapon with long-range delivery—capable of targeting inhabited planets and moons within the Rhyus System. Built specifically and designed to target human DNA."

  She looked up.

  "Our mission is to confirm the lab’s existence, determine its purpose, and, if it poses a threat—eliminate it."

  A few heads lifted across the room. She didn’t pause.

  "We do not have confirmed coordinates for the weapon’s delivery system. However, neutralizing the lab itself is the highest priority. Stealth remains paramount throughout this operation."

  Terra made it clear they were prepared for any outcome.

  "The Preyon will land several miles from the target site," she said. "We’ll conduct a ground inspection. Marines will secure the perimeter, General Rivers will lead the team on-site, biologists will assess the lab, and explosives will be planted to ensure a controlled detonation if warranted."

  She let that settle before continuing.

  "If, for any reason, ground engagement becomes unfeasible, we’ll shift to an aerial strike using onboard warheads. But let me be clear—an aerial attack is a last resort. The environment around the site is unpredictable. We must remain flexible. Plans may need to change on the ground. We've gathered what intel we can, but several variables remain unknown."

  There was no ambiguity in her delivery. The mission parameters were clear, but so was the need for improvisation. Across the room, the crew absorbed the gravity of the task ahead—and the reality that not everything could be predicted.

  When Amar nodded in his direction, Garen stood.

  He brought a different kind of presence—no less commanding, but quieter, grounded in experience rather than protocol.

  "The opportunity to work alongside each of you fills me with anticipation," he began. "I’ve been where you are now—standing at the edge of the unknown, guided by instinct, training, and trust."

  He let the moment breathe. His eyes swept across the room, then he continued.

  "I remember my first encounter with the Vorcons. We made it through because we trusted each other. That’s what kept us alive. That’s what matters now."

  At the edge of the room, Doctor Nira Aylen hadn’t moved. She stood perfectly still, eyes locked on Garen—not with admiration, but with an intensity that didn’t match the moment. She blinked once, slowly. Then turned away.

  Klamarez listened from his seat near the back, ears angled forward, eyes fixed.

  Garen continued.

  "Know your roles. Know your tasks. That’s the only way we survive. I advocate for an environment where questions and concerns can be addressed openly—at any time during this mission. You don’t know something, you ask. My leadership is built on openness and approachability. If something needs to be said, say it. My door will remain open. If you think something’s off—even if it’s just a feeling—I want to hear about it. It’s important all voices are heard."

  Near the front, Jes Kaius gave a small nod.

  Across the room, Rena Cyra adjusted her posture slightly, arms still crossed but eyes sharp—watching Garen the whole time.

  Veeda’s lips pressed into a tight line, giving nothing away.

  He let the room settle before pressing on.

  "The journey we’re about to undertake is dangerous. It demands trust and unity from every one of us. While I hope for a smooth operation, we should expect the unexpected. Our strength will come from how quickly we adapt—and how much we rely on each other."

  He paced lightly across the front of the room, his attention shifting from one crew member to the next.

  "The Preyon is a compact vessel. Disagreements may arise. That’s natural. What matters is how we handle them. Respect, clarity, and understanding must guide us. At the end of the day, our success may hinge on nothing more than the trust we place in one another."

  He paused, then shifted his stance.

  "For Executive Officer, I’ve chosen Colonel Conus Taylen. He is insightful and has earned my trust and respect. And I know he will earn yours as well. "

  Conus stood—stiff at first—then offered a brief nod of acknowledgment. He hadn’t expected the recognition, and now he wasn’t sure how to respond. He lingered, caught between speaking and silence.

  Conus didn’t know what to say. Garen gave him a moment, but when Conus said nothing, Garen was already continuing.

  The moment passed.

  "I’ve been given a fine crew here, but it’s on all of us to ensure this mission is a success."

  Conus sat back down, wishing he’d said something—but too slow to commit.

  Garen stepped aside, concluding his address and returning the floor to Amar.

  "Today marks the beginning of your acclimation to your new assignment," Amar said. "Tomorrow, you’ll move aboard the Preyon."

  Amar took a moment.

  "This isn’t the kind of mission that ends in celebration. Success might look like nothing happened. Failure might not be obvious until it’s too late. But the consequences will be real. It’s a move the Seven Worlds must stand behind, even if no one speaks of it publicly. What you do may prevent a war—or expose the one that’s already begun. I won’t be on that ship with you. General Rivers and Colonel Taylen will lead. The rest will fall on your shoulders. That’s why you were chosen."

  Many of the crew shared brief glances with one another, fully realizing and accepting the mission they had agreed to.

  Conus sat still, posture straight, eyes ahead—but his thoughts drifted.

  For a moment, the room dissolved.

  White light spilled through a ceiling panel. The scent was sharp—sterile.

  He was lying on a bed. The sheets shifted beneath him. He couldn’t move—couldn’t feel his right side.

  His head throbbed. His vision narrowed.

  He looked down. No arm. Just a socket, a fitting ready to receive a new one.

  But there was no panic. Just a crushing stillness.

  Footsteps echoed.

  A figure stood in the doorway—shrouded in light, face hidden by shadow and blur. The shape flickered—unstable, like a corrupted image feed struggling to hold form.

  Then came a voice.

  "Don’t move. You’re safe."

  It landed wrong—familiar in a way he couldn’t place.

  The sound lodged itself deep, vibrating against something buried.

  Conus blinked.

  And it was gone.

  The room around him returned.

  Warm light overhead. Officers sitting at attention. Admiral Lavont speaking from the front.

  Conus pressed a hand to his right temple. The pain surged briefly—sharp, focused, and old.

  He hadn’t fallen asleep. Hadn’t even closed his eyes. But whatever that was—it had found him anyway.

  And the voice remained—quiet, patient, waiting. Just beyond reach. Another fragment of memory.