AN: Up to 20 Advanced Chapters on my Patreon
https://www.patreon.com/cw/Crimson_Reapr
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The void rippled as Admiral Kaelen Strathmore's fleet tore into the system. Indifference led the way, followed by the Whisper of War, the Lament of Innocence, and the Aide of Death spread wide, their drives flaring as they slipped into formation. A few seconds after them, the hulls of their escort frigates and corvettes, along with the carrier, finished their jump into the system.
"Set the heading toward the Station... and maintain radio silence for now," Strathmore ordered.
The Indiferene and the rest of the fleet all turned their hulls and started to move in the direction of Station Vought.
"Sir, we'll be reaching Station Vought in about 12 hours," called out the navigation engineer.
Strathmore simply nodded and spoke. "I'll be in my quarters if I'm needed," he said as he left the bridge, heading back to his quarters. It hadn't even been an hour before he was getting pestered with notifications summoning him back onto the bridge.
"Admiral on the Bridge," came the call from the XO as soon as Strathmore entered the bridge. Every single person on the bridge straightened their backs, holding one arm to their chest and the other to their flat against their side. Those who were sitting stood up and did the same, saluting the man.
"As you were," Strathmore said, dismissing the crew.
After saying so, the female communications officer chirped up to inform Starthmore. "Station Vought is pinging us. What are your orders, Sir?"
Stations might technically belong to an empire, fly their banner, pay taxes or tribute, and recognize the empire's overarching intergalactic laws (things like bans on slavery, piracy, or the transport of forbidden tech). Those laws are usually broad, universal standards meant to keep trade flowing and prevent chaos across an empire's territory.
But because stations are often isolated, they enforce those laws on their own terms. Neither one of the empires bothered sending a judge and garrison to every dock that wasn't within the immediate vicinity of their most populated areas of space. Instead, the station's local administration, stationmasters, councils, or corporate boards usually act as both government and law enforcement, interpreting the law in ways that protect their own interests first.
They might adopt an empire's currency, but they levy their own docking fees, licensing rules, security protocols, and even local ordinances about trade, weapons, or immigration. A station's local laws can be far stricter or far looser than the empire's, depending on its culture, leadership, and economic niche.
Both empires tolerate this because it's pragmatic, and as long as the station pays its dues, doesn't rebel, and doesn't create interstellar-scale trouble, it's easier to let it govern itself than to micromanage it from light-years away. Stations like Station Vought are loyal when it's profitable, yet fiercely independent when it's not.
Strathmore simply gave the communications officer an uninterested response, "Ignore them for now. We'll check in with them once we're halfway there."
And ignore them, they did. For the next 7 hours, the fleet got constant pings and requests for communication that Strathmore's fleet simply ignored. That was until the fortress, a sprawling wheel of docking arms and habitation rings, its hull bristling with turrets and private hangar wings marked in House Deirdik's red-and-gold sigils, locked its weapons on the fleet.
Noticing the station's actions, hundreds of civilian ships peeled away from the incoming fleet to not get caught in the possible crossfire.
The fleet's tactical board lit crimson with targeting alerts, and on the bridge of the Indifference, officers stiffened and hands hovered over countermeasure commands, but Strathmore only leaned against the command table, his expression serene.
"Let them point their toys," he muttered, low enough for only his XO to hear. "They know damn well they don't have the balls to fire."
The standoff situation remained for the next 4 hours, but the order to fire on the fleet never came. This time, the Indifference got another familiar ping and request for communication from the station, but an interesting name was attached to it: Gared Deirdik.
"Patch him through," Strathmore ordered.
Gared's upper torso, covered in an elegant red robe, and his obviously tired face were immediately projected in a floating hologram above the command table. Strathmore put on a fake smile and opened his arms wide to greet the man. "If it isn't the great head of House Deirdik. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"
Gared sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes. "Admiral Strathmore, may I kindly ask, what is it you're doing?"
Strathmore kept the fake smile plastered on his face as he clasped his hands. "Me? Nothing, just making a small trip to Station Vought."
Gared took a deep breath before sighing again. "I've been informed that the Station's personnel have been trying to get in contact with you for the past 11 hours, and you haven't even bothered to answer. Yet now you're within weapon's range, you decide to do so. What is your goal?"
Strathmore dropped his act and steeled his gaze. "You and I have things that are of the utmost importance to discuss. The Indifference and a handful of escort frigates will get into orbit, while most of my fleet will stay within 20 minutes of the station. We'll talk in about an hour, in person."
Gared's tired expression was replaced by one of confusion as he processed Starthmore's words. "So, all of these theatrics were simply because you wanted to have a chat with me? Do you know how much panic your fleet's appearance has caused in the system?"
Strathmore sighed before replying. "I guess you truly don't know how bad your son has fucked it, do you?"
Gared took a deep breath and closed his eyes, nodding his head before speaking. "I'll have Dock 1A34 prepared for your arrival. But your dreadnaught is too large for it, you'll need to use another ship."
Strathmore didn't even thank or acknowledge the man, simply nodding before cutting the communications.
"Sir, the station's weapons are no longer tracking us."
The defenses of Station Vought that had previously glared at the fleet suddenly turned away. Moments later, a corridor of green lights cut across the display with clearance for docking.
The council chamber inside Vought was thick with luxury and hypocrisy, polished marble floors and chandeliered ceilings masking the stink of corporate rot. Gared Deirdik sat at the head of the table, his broad shoulders draped in velvet and his expression inquisitive. His armed guards flanked him, but it was Strathmore who carried the weight in the room.
Strathmore entered with no pomp, his coat draped heavily across his frame, the medals on his chest muted by the chamber's light. Once he reached the table, he did not sit, he didn't even look at the refreshments laid out. He only placed his hands on the obsidian table and fixed Gared with a stare sharp enough to cut through steel.
"I'm guessing you know why I'm here by now," Strathmore stated blankly
Gared let out a long sigh. "Yes… I've been informed. Jarl… my son… the bastard has dug us into a pit far deeper than he could ever climb out of. I give you my word that House Deirdik will not shield him from what he's brought down upon himself."
Strathmore's eyes narrowed. "Do you know that Mark Shepherd is dead because of him. One of the finest officers the Academy ever produced is gone because your bastard wanted to make you proud, wanted to make you money. I only came here to record you saying that you wouldn't pursue any sort of recompense, because I was going to see justice carried out, with or without your blessing."
For the briefest moment, a flicker of anger cracked through Gared's composure, and his lips pulled tight as his nostrils flared at the mention of Mark. But just as quickly, he buried it under a mask, nodding though his jaw clenched so hard the tendons strained.
"You have my authorization," Gared said at last. "My family will clean its name, and my son will answer for his own arrogance and ambition. There is no place for such a failure in the family, and I recognize that he is beyond saving now. Do what you will, Admiral. I will not stand in your way."
Strathmore's stare lingered on the man for some time, searching for cracks, for deceit, but found only exhaustion painted across his face. Without another word, he straightened, turned on his heel, and strode out of the chamber.
As soon as the chamber doors sealed, Gared's mask fell, and his hand shook as he reached for the glass on the table. He downed the last of its amber contents in one swig and hurled it at the door. The crystal shattered and fragments were sent scattering across the polished marble floor.
A single tear cut down the line of his cheek, but he quickly scrubbed it away with the back of his hand before turning to his aides. "Find Jarl. Now. Double his security, move him to safe quarters, and burn any trail that may lead to his discovery. Strathmore will not get his trophy so easily."
The guards saluted sharply before filing out, leaving Gared seated with his hand gripping the armrest of his chair until his knuckles turned bone-white.
The docking clamps released, and soon Indifference's shuttle slipped free of Station Vought, cutting silently across the void back to the dreadnought. The moment Strathmore stepped onto the bridge, the crew straightened.
"Admiral," the communications officer called out. "We just intercepted a long-range laser transmission originating from the station. Its encryption was weak, but… their intentions were clear enough."
She turned, and the message unfurled across the holo-display with Deirdik security codes, movement orders, and relocation directives. Every word pointed to one thing: Gared had lied.
Strathmore stared at the display, the glow of the holo casting deep shadows across his scarred face. His lips curled into something between a snarl and a bitter smile.
"That fucking slippery bitch," he growled, low and venomous. "He just couldn't help but itch. Couldn't help but make a move. Thinks he can play me."
He leaned forward, placing both hands on the command table, the muscles in his arms taut as cables.
"No matter what games he plays, no matter how far his little shit runs, that little bastard will pay."
The bridge was silent with every officer holding their breath, waiting for what Strathmore would command next.
---
Mark spent most of the next day sitting on the dais, his back against the cool, humming wall, while his body ached in ways that didn't make sense. There were no tubes, no machinery, nothing that would hint at the dais being some sort of advanced medical device, yet he could feel himself being healed. A painfully tingling sensation ran throughout his body as if every atom of him had been asked to remember and morph into a shape it didn't quite fit into.
When he closed his eyes, flashes of memories that felt like the most vivid of dreams danced through his mind. They felt like a life he'd lived, yet in an extremely foreign way, as if they weren't quite his. Like the music he'd listen to back on Earth, the dais had some sort of effect that would force his mind to float off into the distance, being pulled into a trance of a younger version of himself that ran through fields with vegetation that was simply foreign to him, vegetation that wasn't Earth's. He thought it funny that there was technology that seemed straight out of science fiction there, yet he was living that science fiction outside of his memories too.
And the people, God the people, he couldn't see their faces. It was a simple act that tormented him and had him jolting awake, hands shaking as he whispered incoherent babbles, telling himself what he was seeing wasn't him, but some part of him knew it was him.
Anahrin did not intrude much. His towering figure would remain near the room, glancing into the chamber every now and then to check in on the peculiar human he'd come across. An unexpected ray of hope for the survival of the knowledge he'd been planning to teach the man if he took up his offer, even if it may be primitive in comparison to what he himself had been taught.
The Strathari busied himself with cleaning up the sand and sut that had accumulated throughout the remnants of the facility, choosing not to interact much with Mark, not to interrupt his processing, aware that it would be detrimental if too many words were spoken to the man after their conversation.
Occasionally, a cough would escape him. It was soft and restrained, the kind of sound that a man would make when they didn't want their weakness to be noticed. The sound would bounce off the walls and just barely reach Mark's ears, who felt almost guilty for being healed while Anahrin, an ancient being and the one who chose to save his life, would be dead within a year.
Another day came to pass, and Mark had begun to push his body, exercising by walking the length of the chamber, slowly and heavy-footed, leaning against the wall as his legs threatened to buckle.
But what unsettled him more than his weakness was the strength that was somehow threatening to break free from within him. His steps had weight. His grip left light and barely noticeable dents in the railing of the dais when frustration overtook him. And when he caught his reflection in a smooth and polished pane of metal, he saw someone he didn't recognize.
He already knew he was taller, that he had more muscle, that his voice had changed, but he didn't expect changes to his appearance to be this drastic. His dark brown hair had changed to a mixture of pitch black and pure white. What stared back at him was no longer two brown eyes on the face of a man in his 30s whose facial hair only grew in patches.
The changes had turned him into the perfect image of what one imagines when they think of a leading man. He now featured a strong, square jawline and a prominent chin adorned with a full, heavy stubble that gave him a commanding presence. His cheekbones are high and well-defined, adding to his chiseled appearance. His eyes were a deep-set of icy gray that seemed to be able to stare into someone's soul, framed by thick, dark eyebrows that accentuated his gaze. His nose was straight and proportionate to his symmetrical face, while his lips were full and balanced.
Instead of the pleasant surprise one would expect when seeing these changes, panic bubbled up within him. "What the fuck… I'm not me… what the fuck have I become?"
Anahrin was walking past the chamber when he heard Mark's trembling voice. He sighed softly and approached Mark, placing his unnaturally long fingers on the man's shoulder, deciding to finally break the silence. "You mistake shape for essence, child," he said softly, causing Mark to almost jump out of his skin. "I'm sorry for what I've done to you, truly, but you must know that what you are has not been replaced. Only strengthened. You are no less yourself. Rather, you should view this as if you are more refined, almost perfected, but you are still you."
Mark hated how calm Anahrin sounded. He hated how much sense, for some twisted reason, his words made.
The memories worsened that night when Mark tried to sleep. No longer did fragments and scenes of events pop into his mind, but entire sequences, meals with strangers who felt like family, and victories in battles he couldn't really recall ever participating in. He woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, calling out a name he didn't know but that felt like it belonged on his lips.
To Mark's surprise, Anahrin was standing over him when he awoke, staring at his body as if he were undergoing an examination.
"You have to stop fighting them, your memories," Anahrin said. "Stop treating them as if they are foreign. They are yours. By all means, approach them with a grain of salt. However, you have to learn to embrace them and try to figure things out. The only thing that is currently tormenting you and stopping you from being you is yourself. Your doubt, your weariness, your lack of acceptance."
Leaving him with these words, Anahrin turned in one swift motion and quickly left the chamber, his slender fingers wrapped around some piece of equipment.
Taking Anahrin's words to heart, Mark stopped fighting the memories. He allowed himself to sit in utter silence with them instead, letting them wash over him like a rising tide. He noticed that Anahrin was right. The more he resisted his memories, the more they hurt, the more they tormented him. The more he accepted, or at the very least was open to experiencing them, the more they folded themselves into him, as if missing pages of a book were being put back in place.
He spent the rest of the night and the whole morning like this, and by the middle of the day, he had come to a shaky but resolute conclusion filled with acceptance: Unless he was like that one guy who got knocked out and lived a whole life until a lamp broke the illusion, all of the memories in his mind were his. The dull, gray memories of his colony life, his parents, his childhood scars, the cruelness of life, those were his. But so were the bright, impossible memories of another existence, a fun childhood and adulthood as well, friends that cared for him, the only downside being his dead-end 9 to 5, of yearning for the stars. Memories that were sharper than life had any right to be.
'Memories of my past life,' he thought. The words felt ridiculous, but there was no other way to explain it. He had lived before, and maybe, just maybe, the brightness of that life had forced the current one into its shadow, until his encounter with the system brought them all surging back.
Anahrin, for his part, seemed to have finished cleaning. The halls and walls would be gleaming, if not for the fact that they were extremely faded due to the wear of time. He stood by the doorway, appearing content to watch Mark's self-acceptance.
Honestly, to Mark, it was nothing short of a miracle that this place hadn't been reclaimed by nature ages ago. But it also made some sense. This place was in what appeared to be a desert on a long-dead planet that had no vegetation. The fact that it was still standing and functioning, even if barely, was just chalked up to good engineering and a fuckton of luck.
Anahrin studied Mark like one might study a young tree bending in the wind, not judging, barely interfering, but weighing its resilience and worth. He thought of how quickly Mark had adapted to his new surroundings, how quickly he seemed to have accepted his existence, how violently he resisted, and of the power the mind held over the body, even when in perfect health conditions.
More than once, a flicker of something like pride touched the ancient Strathari's face. Anahrin turned from the chamber, slowly walking away, his eyes staring unfocused into the distance. There was something in them, and though they appeared to be tired, that wasn't it. What filled Anahrin's eyes was a sorrow, a deep sadness that he wouldn't get to fully witness how Mark would change his civilization's future through ship crafting.
As he walked down the empty corridors, he softly slid his slender fingers on the walls, as if reminiscing about the time that had passed, about the changes that had happened. For him, the cataclysm that had brought the end of his people occurred less than a year ago. But time is cruel, and reality was that it had been ages since the civilization he once belonged to had collapsed.
Yes, there is the fact that humans are their descendants, though far off, they're descendants nonetheless. That fact brought a slight relief to Anahrin, but that didn't change the reality of things. He was the last one of his kind, and the changes he had made to Mark's body only made him an evolved human in truth, better than his peers but nowhere near close to the Strathari.
For the first time in his life, Anahrin truly felt it and accepted it. There was no one else like him in the entire universe, something that made him unique, something that made him reflect. After waking up and learning of things, reality had finally dawned on him, and for the first time in his life, Anahrin was... alone.
"I don't know why a part of the Universe's origin has attached itself to him, to reveal its secrets to him. But if it wills to use him, then who am I to deny its choice. I will do my best to teach him the things that matter most. I will teach him to be a kind yet firm leader, a wise man, a man whose ideals will not be challenged. And of course, ship crafting." Anahrin's glowing blue eyes had dimmed when he was reflecting on his existence, but they shone brighter when he thought of teaching Mark the ins and outs of ship crafting. "But will he accept? Oh, what am I thinking? Of course, he will. No one would ever turn down my teachings, but I fear I will have to dig through my mind to find something more... fitting for the times. He wouldn't even be able to craft a civilian vessel's armor without the necessary information. It'd be like trying to teach one of the little ones Theoretical Calculus without teaching them Algebra first. I have to adapt my knowledge to the times, to think of something he could craft."
Lost in thought, Anahrin bumped into a sharp edge of something big covered by a tarp and sand. He had unknowingly walked into one of the chambers he had not cleaned and bumped into an atomic printer. He slowly gripped the tarp covering it and pulled it off softly, or at least attempted to, as the fabric easily ripped since time had long taken its toll on it.
Once he managed to clear the tarp off the machine, he remembered what it was. When his father had gifted it to him, it had been an old and outdated, yet acceptable, atomic printer. Now it could barely be recognizable. He slowly traced his hands over the alien metal, and a holographic interface glowed in a ghostly color, as if threatening to disappear. Anahrin was truly surprised to see the ancient thing still operational.
Though he was proud of the Starthari's ability to craft things that would be preserved through the passage of time, he knew this shouldn't be possible. Machines were one of the few things that had to be replaced every century or two. Parts wore out, things broke down, and sometimes they would just call it quits.
Words in an alien language glowed in the holographic interface:
"Zorak-7 klyntar vesh'tar, n'krilak thar'gon. M'kralak sharn'tar k'veth (1 print left before catastrophic failure. Maintenance required immediately)."
A rare and bittersweet smile spread across Anahrin's face. "Father, if only I had known just how much of a blessing the thing I called a curse would be."
He manipulated the interface and searched for all of the printers that the atomic printer could manage to make while in its current condition. From all of the blueprints, the machine only had enough to print a single extremely outdated 8-meter by 8-meter nanoprinter from the time before even he had been born. His finger hovered over the confirmation momentarily before tapping it.
The old machine stuttered and whined, its inner mechanisms grinding with the sound of mountains shifting. Faint blue light bled from its seams, struggling, flickering, as though the act of remembering how to create was agony in itself.
Metal screamed, sparks leapt, and the scent of ozone and burnt alloys filled the chamber. The machine coughed out strands of raw material, weaving them together, breaking them apart, recalibrating a thousand times in a single heartbeat. Each adjustment seemed to take years off its dying frame.
Anahrin stood silently before it, watching with patience, but his long fingers curled behind his back betrayed his portrayed confidence. He could hear every cough of the machine like an echo of his own body, straining against inevitability.
And just like that, bit by bit, the nanoprinter took form. A skeleton of gleaming struts, latticed with strange alloys, rose while the ancient printer shuddered, belching smoke, but pressing on. Panels fused themselves seamlessly; conduits spiraled through like veins in stone. For a moment, Anahrin allowed himself the smallest nod, a salute to a dying ember of the past. When the last piece fell into place, the ancient printer gave one final convulsion, like a dying animal straining for breath, and collapsed inward with a dull, sorrowful groan. A burst of sparks rained against the floor. The silence that followed the ruckus was so deep that it felt louder than the commotion that had come before it.
All that remained was the thing it had birthed, a modest 8x8 meter nano printer, crude in comparison to what Anahrin had become accustomed to, but functional enough for Mark, carrying the seed of creation in its frame. Anahrin placed his palm gently against it, remembering his days as a student, and though the machine hummed weakly, it hummed true. "A relic from a relic," he whispered. "The old must always clear the path for the new, even at the cost of itself."
He looked at the pile of twisted wreckage where his father's gift had finally perished. For a long moment, he let the sorrow roll through him, but it did not stay sorrow. The last of the old to build the first of the new.
"Mark," he murmured to himself, "you will need this. To forge your path ahead, you will need this and all I can teach you."
The blue glow in his eyes flickered faintly as he turned away, the faintest shadow of triumph cutting through the fatigue in his body. The Strathari were gone, yes. But this… this was how their hands would reach forward, through him, through the child of humanity who had stumbled into his tomb. Through the one who had been chosen by the Universe's origin.