[Disengaging from sublight velocity…]
Space warped and rippled as the Hyperion emerged from near-light travel. The black fortress cruised into view like a judgment cast in alloy, its titanic hull blotting out distant stars.
At the Pluto Border Outpost, dozens of station staff froze as the ship's shadow consumed their monitors.
"What the hell is that?"
"Is that… an S-Class?"
"No escort vessels. No registry matches. This isn't in the Sol databanks. It's… unregistered."
"A private S-Class dreadnought?"
Whispers spread like wildfire. Across the security command center, personnel stared in stunned silence. Then came the thunder of boots—Commander Rourke, lead officer of the Pluto Outpost, stormed into the room.
"What's the status?" he barked.
"Sir, unidentified S-Class warship just arrived at grid point zero-five. Broadcasting no fleet transponder, no military clearance. It's requesting customs authorization under the name… Hyperion, registry number 666."
Rourke's jaw tightened. He turned toward the live feed. The ship was monstrous—layered in obsidian plating and etched with gold inlay that pulsed like a heartbeat. Ancient. Regal. Predatory.
"…Clear them."
"Sir?"
"I said, grant them passage. No scans. No delays."
"But it's—"
"I don't care if it's Death incarnate. You want to explain to the Solar Ascendancy why we blocked an S-Class cruiser with zero escort? Stamp the credentials. Now."
The crew obeyed. Moments later, a soft chime echoed through the Hyperion's bridge.
[Clearance granted: Pluto Border Outpost]
[Access corridor confirmed for deep-space traversal]
[Solar Ascendancy record updated]
Silas raised a glass as a Marvin-class bartender drone returned with his drink. He took a sip and smiled. Too easy.
Pluto was the final checkpoint. Any ship not registered through its orbital array was considered a rogue entity upon re-entry or return. With this clearance, the Hyperion could now travel through Ascendancy space unhindered—at least for now.
[Check-In Location Detected: Pluto Border Outpost]
[Would you like to initiate Check-In?]
He blinked. Even Pluto Outpost counts?
[Check-In Successful.]
[Reward Unlocked: 1,000 Predators]
[Status: Stored in Arsenal Dormant Pods. Deployable on command.]
Silas grinned as he read the system log.
Predators. Not drones. Not automatons. Predators.
Unlike the basic Marvin units who maintained ship function, the Predators were engineered for combat—tactical infiltration, internal defense, boarding suppression. A thousand of them, lying dormant within the Hyperion's armory halls, waiting to be awakened.
Now it's a real warship, Silas thought.
He was just about to initialize the awakening cycle when a comms alert chimed.
[Incoming Communication: Pluto Outpost Sentinel]
Silas arched a brow. He opened the channel.
"This is Captain Vire of the Hyperion. What's the issue?"
The face of Commander Rourke appeared—weathered, with sharp blue eyes that tried (and failed) to mask curiosity.
"I just wanted to… check in, Captain," Rourke said. "You're the registered master of this vessel?"
"I am."
"May I ask where you're headed?"
Silas narrowed his eyes.
"My next waypoint is unconfirmed. I navigate the Void of Space freely."
There was a pause.
Rourke coughed awkwardly. "Forgive me. The outer system has been volatile lately. Pirate activity has increased—ambushes, slaver traps. I wanted to offer a fleet escort if you plan to cross beyond the outpost."
Silas chuckled.
Escort?
If he accepted, the pirates wouldn't dare approach. But then—what would be the point of coming this far?
"Your concern is noted," Silas said, "but unnecessary."
Rourke nodded slowly. "Of course. Forgive the interruption. Safe travels, Captain."
The screen cut to black.
Silas leaned back.
He didn't need an escort.
He needed bait.
—
Outside the outpost, the Hyperion passed silently into deep space, engines humming like ancient drums. Its wake caused lesser ships to drift off-course in its gravitational signature.
On the bridge of a nearby pirate vessel, a scout peered through magnified scans.
"Boss… You seeing this?"
The feed transferred to a larger projection.
A massive black ship. Alone. No escort. No support.
A growl came from the back of the command chamber.
"I'm not blind," said Krell, the crocodile-morph overlord of the Crocodile Fleet.
His eyes gleamed with greed.
An S-Class warship. Alone.
"If we take that ship," one of his lieutenants hissed, "we could burn our names into the Inland Ring."
Krell clenched a clawed hand around the iron railing.
"Does it have support craft?"
"No sir. No frigates. No fighter wings. It's moving alone."
He laughed—an ugly, wet sound like gravel rolling in his throat.
"Then the void's blessed us tonight."
He turned to the gathered command crew of mutants and gene-forged raiders.
"Deploy shadow cruisers. Maintain range. When it clears Pluto's range, we strike."
"But boss—if it's really S-Class—"
"Then we take the ship intact. And if not… we strip it for parts and leave the corpse floating."
The Crocodile Fleet began to fan out in the dark, hiding behind Pluto's shadows.
What none of them saw—what none could know—was that the Hyperion's command bridge had already detected them.
Silas Vire watched the blips appear on his internal display, one by one.
So predictable.
So easy.
The predator had not entered enemy territory.
He had lured prey into his own hunting ground.