Chapter 38

  RSIA Primary Operations Command

  Blackwell Station, Morelus

  The Rhyus System, Karbay Nolan Sector

  Date: Zeran 31, Year 4731

  Garen sat behind his desk in his office aboard the Preyon, the ship still docked at Blackwell Station on Morelus. Earlier, the Preyon had run a series of test flights around the moon—pushing the engines, testing the stealth field generator.

  He recalled the moment the engines had roared to life, the vibration of power thrumming beneath his feet.

  He’d issued a quick command to test the ship’s maneuverability. The vessel had responded well. The test flights helped the crew adjust, but to Garen, the Preyon felt unlike any command he’d held before.

  It didn’t feel wrong, exactly. Just unfamiliar. Unproven.

  He leaned back, fingers digging into his beard like he might find answers tucked behind the years.

  All he felt was gray.

  He had always formed bonds with the ships he commanded, saw them as more than tools. A ship was like a friend you had to trust implicitly. But commanding a ship and truly knowing it were two different things.

  How much could the Preyon handle? How much could he push her? He used to know the answer to that kind of question. Back then, it came without hesitation—without doubt. But now he second-guessed everything.

  Was that age? Or exile? Or something deeper he hadn’t yet named?

  He didn’t know. But the doubt was new.

  His mind wandered back to his first command as a general—the Warpstar. That ship had meant something to him. It was supposed to be a stepping stone, a necessary link in the chain toward greater command. But it had grown into more than that. He'd come to respect it, care for it.

  Still, the Riftkin had been something else entirely, more than just a ship he grew attached to. It was the one he'd spent years working toward.

  It had been his first assignment, the place where he’d risen through the ranks all the way to Executive Officer. He could still picture the day he took the command chair for the first time—Amar Lavont giving him a silent nod of approval on the bridge, then stepping aside. Commanding the Riftkin wasn’t just a promotion. It had been the goal all along.

  Amar had been promoted to Rear Admiral and given command of the RDF 8th Fleet. Garen could tell he had been reluctant to hand over command of the Riftkin—at least outwardly. But Garen knew full well that Amar had been more than ready to accept his new post.

  It wasn’t that Amar didn’t care about the Riftkin—he did. He cared about the crew. As a general, he had been calm, patient, and approachable, and he’d taught Garen how to command. But by the time Garen earned his own promotion, Amar had been looking ahead—eager to step into the next chapter. He was ready to leave the Riftkin behind, already envisioning his career as an admiral, planning for what came after the war.

  There hadn’t been time for reflection back then. The war was in full stride.

  Inqua 29, 4714.

  Garen laughed softly at the thought—it was the day he took command of the Riftkin. It surprised him, how that date had never left his mind.

  That was then.

  And this was now.

  He wondered if this would become one of those days that etched itself into memory—his, or someone else's. Maybe not. But a day like that felt near. Some dates had a way of imprinting themselves in memory, whether you wanted them to or not. Garen couldn’t say why, but he could feel it—something was building. And he needed to clear his head.

  "Fuck," he muttered, slamming his hand down on the desk—disappointed it didn’t leave a dent.

  Garen slid the corner of a datapad out of alignment, then nudged it back into place. He leaned back further in his chair and exhaled through his nose.

  He remembered the rush of responsibility that had come with those first orders.

  The bridge had felt like a stage, and every decision he made had an audience.

  On capital battlecruisers, the general commanded from the center of a wide, circular room, surrounded by tiered stations rising outward. During routine travel, the captain sat in the command chair on the lowest tier. But in battle, the general took the central floor—directing the ship from that position, visible to everyone.

  During the war, Garen had spent hours a day in that center ring.

  He could still see their faces. Some had looked to him with confidence. Others with fear. But all of them had stood with him. Some still haunted him. Others, he missed. The family that war had given him.

  Garen’s return to the Riftkin had been one celebrated. Amar’s promotion to Rear Admiral was far from a secret—what had been in question was who would take command of the Riftkin.

  Garen had built his career on the Riftkin and expanded his reputation during his time aboard the Warpstar. So when he was officially assigned as the Riftkin’s new commander, the crew celebrated. There was pride—but also disappointment among those on the Warpstar, losing the general who had reshaped the ship’s legacy.

  Before Garen took command, the Warpstar had been a reliable assault frigate, but unremarkable. Under his leadership, it became one of the top-performing vessels in the 8th Fleet and across the entire Coalition of Allies—a military alliance the Rhyus Defense Fleet had helped found. At the time, the RDF made up 54 percent of the Coalition’s total combined forces, a dominant presence among its many member factions.

  The celebration over his transfer to the Riftkin didn’t last long—but the morale boost it brought to the crew became a fixture. They were still on the front lines, and the war was far from slowing down.

  Since arriving back on Rhyus, he’d found himself thinking about those days more often. Not memories he’d forgotten—just ones he hadn’t allowed himself to revisit. Until now.

  He glanced around his new office on the Preyon. Rising briefly to pace, he sat back down just as quickly when a sharp ache throbbed through his left knee.

  "Too much waiting," he muttered, rubbing it before stretching the leg out. The pain subsided, but not fully—it came and went as it pleased—stubborn and unpredictable.

  Instead, he remained seated, eyes drifting around the room again.

  The Preyon, for all its advanced systems and capabilities, felt empty by comparison. More showroom than ship.

  Sterile corridors. Pristine bulkheads. Everything was too clean, untouched. It was a far cry from the Riftkin, where every scuff and scratch told a story.

  His office felt sterile—no personal touches, nothing from his past commands. Just like the Preyon—new, efficient, and cold.

  He trusted Terra, was grateful Klamarez had come. Conus had potential—just needed experience. The rest were strangers. If this mission was going to work, they needed a leader—and he needed to become one of them.

  The day didn’t feel like a milestone—but it was.

  The RSIA crew began settling into the Preyon, making it their home for the mission—even while still operating out of the RSIA base. The general crew moved into their shared quarters, while Garen, Terra, and Conus were each assigned private rooms—accommodations reserved for the top three in command.

  Terra, regardless of rank, would serve as second officer. Officially, her role was listed as an advisor to the mission. But in reality, she held far more authority than the title suggested. She had the right to assume full command if necessary—granted jurisdiction equal to Garen’s, or even the authority to override it, should the mission demand it.

  O-One, the RSIA’s longest-serving synthetic, would serve as fourth in the command chain.

  As Garen sat in his office, reviewing the Preyon’s specs, he recalled a slight delay during the initial test—the stealth field generator’s activation had lagged by a few milliseconds.

  The issue, while minor, had been identified and resolved. But what other quirks were still waiting to surface? And did they have enough time to find them—let alone fix them?

  In Vorcon territory, one unnoticed quirk could be enough to light them up on any Ra-Dar grid in the Prine System.

  One misstep. One fluctuation. One moment—and they’d be surrounded, isolated.

  No backup. No escape.

  Amar Lavont had already made it clear what detection meant.

  This mission wasn’t about showing force—it was about ensuring they were never seen.

  Garen had experience with stealth. He’d led several commando teams on the ground during his early RDF career. But that had been many years ago.

  Everything looked perfect on paper. His body knew it before his mind would admit it—this mission was different. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were heading into something they weren’t fully prepared for.

  Would their stealth systems hold?

  They had to. Because a fight was a no-win situation, and capture was not an option.

  Capture was failure—and possibly war.

  Garen’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime at the door.

  "Open," he commanded.

  The door slid open, and Terra stepped inside with a smile. She carried a long case in one hand and a small box tucked under her arm. There was something in her expression—like she was holding a secret, or eager to share something.

  But as she stepped fully into the room, her smile faded slightly. She watched Garen closely, catching the tension in his posture.

  "What’s all this, Terra?" Garen asked.

  "Do you really think I’d let you take a new command without something for your office?" Terra said, setting the box and case on his desk.

  He needs grounding. Memory. Something familiar.

  She hadn’t wanted this for Garen—not at first. She’d quietly argued against it behind closed doors.

  He had found peace, and dragging him back was unfair.

  "I guess I should’ve known better," Garen replied.

  It was hard for Garen to believe they had spent so much time apart. The more he interacted with her, the more it felt like they had never been separated. His mind flashed back to a night on the Riftkin, when they had laughed over some old joke from their cadet days. How easy it had been then, with the war still a distant threat. How different everything seemed now. How different he must seem to Terra.

  She was familiar—still the same in many ways—but the years had shaped and changed her just as much as they had changed him. He didn’t know much about what her life had been like in the years between.

  Terra pointed to the box on his desk. "Go on, open it. Just a little something."

  Garen knew better than to protest. "Alright, alright," he said, opening the box.

  Inside were three separate picture frames. The first was a photo of the Riftkin crew from the time he and Terra had served together, when Amar Lavont was still the commanding general. He and Terra had both been Verta pilots then.

  The next photo showed Garen on the bridge of the Warpstar with his full bridge crew.

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  The last featured the Riftkin crew under his command during the later war years. Terra was in that one too. Garen had always found reasons to ‘borrow’ her from Lavont’s ship for certain missions.

  “It’s an important mission, Lavont, and she’s the best strategic analysis officer in the fleet,” he remembered saying more than once. Words he’d used like clockwork whenever he needed her on his team—even if Amar already knew what was coming.

  At the time, Garen commanded the Riftkin in the 8th Fleet, while Amar served as the fleet’s commanding admiral. Terra had been officially assigned to Amar’s ship—but Garen always found ways to get her transferred, even temporarily. She was the lead intelligence officer for the 8th Fleet, and Garen trusted her insight more than anyone’s.

  He studied each picture closely, recognizing crew members he had served with for years, and realized he didn’t know what had become of any of them.

  He thanked Terra for the gift and carefully arranged the frames along the back of his desk. His eyes lingered on the photo of his crew when he commanded the Riftkin, particularly noting his former executive officer.

  "What happened to Colonel Aneick?" Garen asked. "He could have gotten his own command by now, years ago. Might even be an admiral for all I know."

  Her eyes drifted to the case.

  "He left the fleet a few months after you did," she said—her tone light, but Garen caught something underneath it.

  Garen’s eyes lingered on her for a moment. "Really? That’s surprising. I thought he was a lifer for sure."

  “I thought you were a lifer,” Terra said, her voice neutral.

  "So did I, at one point," Garen replied. "Do you know where he ended up? Colonel Aneick?"

  Terra paused for a moment, thinking it over. "He started working for a corporation with some military contracts, last I heard," she said.

  "Mercenary? Really? I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. He’d racked up some debt, if I remember right. I was close with him—but in a lot of ways, he kept to himself. I think he had some health issues toward the end of the war," Garen said. "I hope he’s alright. I’d like to catch up with him again."

  "If he wants to be found," Terra said.

  "What makes you say that?" Garen asked.

  "He cut contact with everyone I know. Myself included," she replied.

  "Really? That doesn’t sound like him," Garen said.

  "No," Terra agreed quietly. "So he was unwell?" Her eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Yeah, I’m not sure how serious it was, but he was seeking treatment,” Garen replied.

  “Interesting, I didn’t know that,” Terra said, her expression thoughtful as she filed away that information.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then Terra moved, grabbed the meter-long case and handed it to Garen. "I think you forgot about this."

  Garen stared at the case for a moment.

  "Go on," Terra urged.

  "I know what it is," he said lowly.

  “Are you sure?”

  Garen rose from behind his desk, ignoring the pain in his left leg. He had often wondered what had become of it; it seemed only natural that she would safeguard it through the years. He knew what it was the moment he saw the case. He felt the cool metal under his fingertips, holding it there a moment, almost hesitating before he unlocked the clasps, breaking the seal to reveal its contents. Gazing down at the weapon, then back at Terra, he asked, "You’ve kept it all this time?"

  "You didn’t really think I’d throw it away, did you?" Terra responded with a playful smirk.

  Her hand brushed the edge of the case for a moment.

  "No, I suppose not," Garen conceded.

  "I thought about selling it a few times," she joked.

  "Did you now?" Garen turned back to the case. "Would’ve fetched you a lot of credits. Maybe a really nice meal."

  "I’m sure some collectors would pay a great deal for it," said Terra.

  Inside lay the Scalar Falcata—a weapon that had become legend within the Rhyus Defense Fleet. Unlike the standard-issue melee arms seen throughout the RDF, this one was rare. Personal. A fusion of ancient design and Scalar Energy technology. Its curved blade was forged from Seraphite, the iridescent metal shifting between deep black and violet as it caught the room’s light.

  As Garen lifted it, memories surged—nights spent perfecting his form, the sharp vibration as it cut through air, the raw moments in battle when it had saved his life more times than he could count.

  He could still remember the activation—the snap of energy and that low, resonant vibration that filled the air just before the twin coils of crimson and emerald energy sprang to life.

  More than just steel and energy, the Scalar Falcata had been a mirror—reflecting who he once was, and what he had once believed he was meant to do.

  The blade rested in his grip, unchanged—but something between them had. There was a time it had been part of him—fluid, responsive, an extension of thought as much as muscle. He used to draw it without thinking. Now, it sat inert in his grasp. It felt like holding someone else’s weapon.

  Just like the ship.

  The Preyon responded when he gave orders—but it wasn’t his.

  The weapon was a relic from a time when he’d been certain of his place in the galaxy.

  It felt distant in his grip, as if time had rewritten their connection.

  He reached absentmindedly for his holster, only then realizing his blaster wasn’t strapped to his waist.

  Would sheathing the Falcata and holstering his blaster make him feel ready again?

  Old instincts said yes.

  But instinct needed to be honed. His had shifted over the years—refined in different ways.

  On Chiex, it had been the instincts of the forest: knowing the land, reading the wind, sensing predators. Not combat reflexes, but survival. He didn’t feel dulled. If anything, his instincts were sharper than ever—just focused on different things.

  When they arrived on the moon, he’d be the one leading them to the suspected site—and who knew what they’d face?

  Garen studied the dormant Scalar Energy tech built into the hilt. His thumb instinctively sought the activation mechanism. A mere press—a simple yet decisive gesture—would unleash the Scalar Falcata’s full potential.

  Once activated, the blade would refract light, encased in a Scalar Energy field. Its surface would ripple with quantum patterns and lines of light—crimson and emerald energy running through the core. Against the raw, unrefined plasma of a KleKor Blade, an unpowered Falcata wouldn’t stand a chance. It would be cut in two.

  But when its energy was unleashed, it was a formidable match for any energy weapon.

  Memories of confrontations with Vorcon warriors surged through his mind. There was no ceremony in remembering what the blade had done.

  He’d used it up close—against enemies who had looked him in the eye before they died. Those moments still lived in him.

  The Scalar Falcata had proven its worth in tight quarters, where battle left no margin for error. It had no patience for inexperience. Or for doubt.

  And it didn’t excel in every skirmish.

  Its strength was reserved for moments that demanded precision—and for warriors who had mastered its use.

  And it definitely helped when combined with the use of barrier fields.

  Garen had seen others rush into battle with similar weapons. It was unadvised.

  The Falcata—or any melee weapon, for that matter—demanded skill and extensive practice to wield effectively, especially against a Vorcon trained from youth in the art of close combat.

  Vorcons held the advantage in melee engagements. They didn’t just fight. They practiced the art of it.

  When the war began, Some had foolishly tried to match them up close without proper training. Many were skilled, yes—but most were better off relying on ranged weapons and barrier fields.

  Vorcons trained with blades from childhood. And only those with the right preparation had any chance of surviving a clash with a trained Vorcon warrior.

  Within the RDF, only a small number of soldiers received formal melee training—it was a secondary skill at best for most. But there were others, like Garen, who had excelled. Warriors who made melee their own, wielding unique weapons.

  "It looks better than I remember," Garen remarked.

  "I had it professionally cleaned and serviced."

  "You did?"

  "It’s been a long time since it saw use."

  It had been a while.

  At the war’s start, the Falcata had rarely left his grip. But rank had its cost—and command left little room for drawing it himself.

  He huffed—something close to a laugh, but not quite.

  "Yeah… it has. Hopefully I won’t need to use it."

  "Do you still remember how to use it?" Terra asked.

  "I might need a little practice," Garen admitted, laying the Scalar Falcata back in its case. He had trained with a non-lethal Falcata from a young age, making it a natural choice when he joined the fleet. Though he never stopped practicing, using a wooden replica on Chiex hardly counted. He closed the lid and resealed it.

  He met her eyes. "Thank you, Terra."

  As he opened his arms, leaning in for a hug, she embraced him willingly. They held each other tightly before gently pulling away. Garen walked back around his desk, moving the case to a countertop on the side of his office.

  "You're welcome, Garen. I’m glad you’re back. Whether you believe it or not, this mission needs you—more than most of us realize," Terra said.

  Garen exhaled through his nose. Praise never sat well with him—especially when it came wrapped in expectation. There might have been a time when he would’ve accepted it.

  "I’ll let you get back to what you were doing," she added, stepping out of his office.

  As Terra left Garen’s office, she glanced back at him. She knew the path ahead would be difficult, for all of them, but especially for Garen.

  The door slid softly closed behind Terra. The photos on his desk seemed to stare back at him.

  Garen couldn’t escape the feeling that this was more than just another mission—it was a test of everything he had left.

  Back during the war, the fight had felt clear. Good versus bad. Right versus wrong. But things had stopped being that simple a long time ago. The lines had blurred—replaced by harder choices, by decisions that weren’t about being right, but about doing what righted more wrongs than it caused. His sense of idealism hadn’t vanished—it had been reshaped, reformed, tempered by experience. Yet somehow, it still aligned with who he was. With who he had always tried to be.

  He turned back to the console on his desk. The Preyon’s specs stared back at him from the dual monitors, the technical details cold and impersonal.

  He barely had time to consider them before another chime sounded at the door.

  "Open," Garen said.

  The door slid open, and Amar Lavont entered with his usual composure—but something in his stride lacked its familiar certainty. He entered alone, but something followed—something unsaid, but not unnoticed.

  His eyes landed on the Scalar Falcata case. He didn’t ask. Amar never asked questions he already knew the answers to.

  He handed Garen one of the two coffees and sat across from him.

  "After the tests, what do you think, Garen? You’ve seen her move now. Thoughts?" Amar asked.

  "I think the ship will be fine," Garen said, watching Amar closely. Something was off—enough to stir a quiet alertness in his gut.

  "And you?" He asked it gently.

  "I think I’ll be just fine too," Garen said.

  Amar nodded, distracted—his thoughts clearly elsewhere. He masked it quickly, shifting gears. He set his coffee down, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "I’ve got some more intel for you, General."

  Garen sighed. "I’ve reviewed the tablet as much as I can today," he said, hoping to avoid whatever was troubling Amar.

  "That’s okay," Amar said, subdued, almost reluctant. "What I have to tell you isn’t something I can leave lying around in a tablet." He paused, clearly wrestling with how to proceed.

  Garen raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued.

  "There’s something you need to know," Amar continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

  He leaned closer, eyes scanning the room like he was checking for unseen listeners.

  "It’s about… one of your officers."

  Pressure built behind his ribs—a tight, sinking pull. Amar’s expression said more than his words—the tension in his hands, the movement of his fingers against the chair. "Which officer?" Garen asked, keeping his tone even, though his mind was already running through possibilities.

  Amar hesitated.

  "I knew this could become an issue," he finally said. "Or maybe not an issue—just a circumstance we can’t ignore."

  "What kind of issue are we talking about?" Garen pressed, his voice low.

  Amar looked down, collecting his thoughts. When he met Garen’s eyes again, they were darker—tight with concern.

  "It relates to Helix."

  The word hit Garen like a blow.

  "Helix," Garen repeated—surprised.

  "Yes."

  "Are you saying we have a double agent?"

  Amar shook his head slowly. "It’s not exactly like that, Garen," he said. "It’s... difficult. Hard to explain."

  "Then just spit it out."

  "This isn’t a conventional threat—it’s something you just need to be aware of."

  "Are you going to tell me?" Garen asked, holding up his hands.

  Amar didn’t look up right away. He knew what was coming next wouldn’t land easily. But this was part of the plan. Reveal just enough. Anchor Garen. Not overwhelm him.

  "Conus Taylen—his past is far more complicated than you realize, Garen," Amar said.

  Garen took a moment.

  "That doesn’t surprise me. He’s been through a lot. If there’s more, I’m not shocked. But you’re saying there’s a concern? He’s connected to Helix?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn’t you bring this up sooner?" Garen asked, his voice sharp, though he tried to temper it.

  Amar met his gaze, the lines on his face deepening. "I needed to be sure you were fully committed—before I told you something that might change your view of all this."

  "I am committed to this," Garen replied firmly.

  "I know that now," Amar said, his voice heavy.

  "This changes my view, however," Garen said.

  "You understand why I had to wait," said Amar.

  "Yeah." Garen muttered. "So his loyalty’s in question?" Garen asked, more out of disbelief than suspicion.

  "He doesn’t know, Garen. He doesn’t know any of it. As I said, his past and history are far more complicated."

  Amar didn’t flinch at Garen’s stare. He knew what this sounded like.

  “So what do we do? Are you saying Taylen’s a threat?” Garen asked, though he didn’t believe it—not for a second.

  "No, Garen, I don’t believe he is. I wouldn’t have placed him in the position I did if I believed that. But his past raises... many concerns."

  "I’m not sure I like this," Garen said.

  "I don’t either," Amar admitted, his tone resigned. "But it was necessary."

  "You haven’t told me anything," Garen said.

  "I’ll start from the beginning. Then you’ll understand," Amar replied.

  "Alright," Garen muttered.

  He wondered—if there was no threat, why did he need to know? The question wouldn’t leave him alone. The worst truths were the ones delivered with a quiet voice.

  They talked long into the night, Amar filling in parts of Conus’s past—events Conus had no memory of.

  He’d done nothing wrong.

  Conus wasn’t to blame—not for any of it.

  He’d been a child who had gone through a traumatic experience, lost everything, and been given a second chance at life—at a high cost.

  You don’t get rebuilt unless someone still needs something from you.

  None of it was Conus’s fault.

  But one question lingered: who had altered Conus? What purpose was it meant to serve? Someone had made that choice for him.

  Garen would follow Amar’s lead—for now. But Garen would find the full truth. One way or another.

  Conus’s past had started as a curiosity for Garen—something to keep in mind. But the new information Amar had told him made that impossible.

  Truth was never clean. It came in pieces—each shaped to suit whoever was speaking. And Amar was too careful to ever tell the full story all at once. The problem with telling stories was that there were always many versions of the same one—so many that truth became a point of view.

  And if this was only the surface, he had to be ready for what lay beneath.