This Royal Navy has expanded and welcomes the following courageous soul: Siklembik.
As your Fleet Admiral, I, Crimson_Reapr, welcome you, honor your commitment, and thank you for your service. May our power reach beyond the edges of charted space, and may ruin fall upon all who stand against humanity's strength.
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3rd Person POV: Mark Shephard
After having gone through such an event, Mark thought it would be a much better idea to just go personally to the orphanage rather than leaving it up to the security detail he had hired, which was just now arriving at the shipyard. The team from Enzios Private Affairs looked competent enough, four guys in armored vests who looked like they ate raw scrap metal for breakfast. But after having a gun held to his head in his own office, Mark wasn't in the mood to trust his daughter's safety to anyone else's hands just yet.
He asked Kenjiro if he wanted to accompany them, thinking the engineer might need some fresh air after the adrenaline crash, but Kenjiro opted to stay behind.
"I have an idea," Kenjiro had said, his eyes already drifting back to the holo-table where the schematic of a new thermal regulation pump was floating. "Something I was forced to stow away while working for SIGS because it was deemed 'too efficient for the planned obsolescence cycle.' If we have the capital now... I think I can make the average Corvette's reactor output look like an AA battery."
Mark had just laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and told him not to blow up the shop while he was gone.
Mark made his way out of the Industrial Sector with Lyra in his arms, the security detail trailing a respectful ten meters behind. He took his time, walking with a deliberate slowness that was foreign to his usual efficient stride. He found himself looking, really looking, at the station around him.
Mechanicus Station wasn't beautiful like the views he's experienced in his previous life on Earth. It was a cathedral of function. The walls were scarred metal, the air smelled of recycled ozone and noodle broth, and the "sky" was just the underside of the upper deck, crisscrossed with pipes and conduit bundles. But today, to Mark, it looked rather precious.
The events of this morning had shown him just how fragile life could be. One minute you're drinking coffee and watching your kid play. Next, you're calculating the force required to crush a man's windpipe. His peace had been broken, and though he had glued it back together with violence and victory, the cracks were still visible to him.
He felt the need to spend more time with Lyra than just the rush of mornings and the exhaustion of late evenings. He needed to remind himself of what he was building this empire for. Was it for him? For Lyra? For Anahrin? What was the real purpose of advancing humanity? What satisfaction or fulfillment did it bring him?
"Papa?" Lyra asked, tugging on the collar of his bomber jacket. "Where are we going? School is that way."
She pointed a small finger toward the transit lift that led directly to the residential sector where the orphanage was located.
"We're taking the scenic route today, bug," Mark said, shifting her weight easily on his hip. "I thought we might stop by the Commercial Ring first. I heard a rumor that there's a place that sells ice cream made with real milk, not the synth-powder stuff."
Lyra's eyes went wide, displacing the memory of the morning's shouting. "Real ice cream? Like in the movies?"
"That's the rumor," Mark grinned. "Want to investigate?"
"Yes! Let's investigate!" she cheered, throwing her arms up.
They moved into one of the Commercial Rings, a bustling, neon-lit artery of the station that served as the primary marketplace for the billions of people who called Mechanicus home. It was a sensory overload of noise and light. Holographic hawkers shouted prices for water filters and atmospheric scrubbers. The smell of frying meat from street vendors mixed with the chemical tang of cleaning solvents.
Usually, Mark moved through crowds like a tank, with people just naturally getting out of his way because of his size. Today, he felt more like a tourist than a resident. After all, he hadn't really taken the time to appreciate the place he was living in, mostly heading straight to the orphanage and staying at the shipyard or bouncing from dock to dock selling the vents.
They stopped first at a small boutique that sold clothes made from actual fabric, not the standard-issue disposable jumpsuits. Mark let Lyra pick out a scarf, a bright, obnoxious yellow thing that she immediately wrapped around her neck three times.
"Very stylish," Mark commented gravely. "You look like a solar flare."
"I'm a sun princess!" she declared, striking a pose in front of the mirror.
"And how much is the sun princess's scarf?" Mark asked the shopkeeper, an elderly woman with cybernetic ocular implants and a mechanical left hand, who was eyeing Mark's massive frame with suspicion.
"For the little one?" the woman croaked. "Fifteen credits. For you? Don't touch anything, I'm afraid you'll break it."
Mark chuckled and paid the woman twenty, and they continued down the promenade. The security detail shadowed them, their eyes scanning the crowd, hands hovering near their concealed sidearms. Mark appreciated their professionalism, even if he doubted them due to their absence in this morning's hectic wake-up call.
"Papa, look!" Lyra squealed, nearly launching herself out of his arms.
She was pointing at a flashing, multicolored sign above a wide entranceway: THE PIXEL PALACE - ARCADE & SIMULATION.
The sounds of digital explosions, synthesized music, and the clatter of physical tokens spilled out onto the "street."
"An arcade, huh?" Mark mused. "You know, I was the high score champion of Asteroid Breaker back in my day."
"You're old," Lyra said matter-of-factly. "There is no way you beat me."
"Ouch," Mark feigned injury, clutching his chest. "For that insult, I am going to have to destroy you in air hockey."
"Old man," Lyra giggled.
They entered the arcade. It was a chaotic, glorious mess of old-school tech and modern holographic interfaces. There were rows of classic cabinets, VR pods where teenagers screamed as they piloted virtual fighters, and claw machines filled with plushies of questionable origin.
Mark set Lyra down, and she immediately darted toward a Whack-A-Mole machine that featured popping Vulpininan heads.
"Here," Mark handed her a handful of tokens he had exchanged at the counter. "Go get 'em."
He watched as she furiously hammered the aliens with the padded mallet, her tongue sticking out in concentration. She was terrible at it, her timing was off, and she kept missing the fast ones, but she was laughing. And her laugh made the moment all worth it for Mark.
"She's got a good swing," a voice said beside him.
Mark turned. One of his security guards, a man named Russo, had stepped up beside him. He wasn't looking at Mark. Instead, he was scanning the upper level of the arcade, watching the walkways.
"Though I'm not her biological father, she probably gets it from me," Mark said softly.
Russo cracked a smile, though his eyes never stopped moving. "We saw the footage, Mr. Shephard. I wouldn't call that bash with the butt of your rifle a good swing. That was more of a demolition derby."
Mark didn't respond. He just watched Lyra finish her round and collect her three measly tickets.
"Papa! I got three!" she beamed, waving the paper slips.
"We're rich," Mark laughed. "Let's see if we can get more."
They spent the next hour moving from game to game. Mark was surprised to see that they still had a basketball hoop shoot this many years in the future. He had been pretty decent at it in his last life, having played for his high school's varsity team when he was a teen. So naturally, he dominated the basketball hoop shoot, his added height allowing him to practically drop the ball into the net, much to the annoyance of a group of teenagers who did not like the 32-year-old man with a child interrupting their attempt to impress their dates. He lifted Lyra up so she could play a light-gun shooter where they had to defend a pizza parlor from zombie rats.
And then, they found the Air Hockey table.
It wasn't just air hockey. It was a zero-G magnetic puck table. The puck hovered over the table, and you had to use magnetic paddles to slam it into the opponent's goal sphere.
"Prepare to lose," Lyra announced, standing on a stool Mark had dragged over so she could reach the controls.
"You may be a child, but trust me, I will show no mercy," Mark promised, gripping his paddle.
They played. The puck blurred back and forth, glowing neon green. Lyra was surprisingly fast, her reflexes sharper than the average child her age, especially one who didn't have the sense of sight a mere few months back. Mark had to actually try, using his enhanced senses to track and predict the ricochets.
"Goal!" Lyra shrieked as the puck slammed into Mark's net, flashing red lights and sounding a siren.
"That was a lucky shot," Mark grumbled, resetting the field.
As they played, Mark noticed the atmosphere in the arcade shifting.
At first, it was just a few glances. A kid in a hoodie whispering to his friend. Then, someone held up a G-comm, aiming the camera at him.
Mark ignored it, focused on defending his goal from Lyra's vicious backhand shot.
But then the whispers got louder.
"That's him," a voice drifted over the noise of the games. "That's the guy from the news."
"The giant?" Another voice asked. "The one who took out the SIGS guys?"
"Yeah," another confirmed. "Just look at him. He's huge."
Mark caught the puck, holding it in the magnetic field of his paddle. He looked up, and a small crowd had gathered around the air hockey table. Teenagers, parents, and spacers on shore leave. They weren't looking at him with the usual suspicion or fear that his size normally garnered. They were looking at him with awe.
One man, a burly dockworker with grease stains on his jumpsuit, stepped forward. He looked nervous.
"Excuse me," the man said, clearing his throat. "Are you... Are you Mark Shephard?"
Mark straightened up, his hand instinctively moving Lyra slightly behind him. The security detail stepped in, Russo moving to intercept the man.
"Back up," Russo ordered, his hand raised.
"It's okay," Mark said to Russo. He looked at the dockworker. "Yeah. I'm Mark."
The dockworker's face split into a grin. He extended a hand that was missing two fingers.
"I just wanted to say... thank you," the man said. "I run a small repair skiff out of Bay 42. SIGS tried to squeeze me out of my berth last year. Raised the rent, threatened my suppliers. I had to sell half my tools just to stay afloat."
He shook Mark's hand vigorously.
"Seeing you put that bastard Thorne on the ground?" The man laughed, a sound of pure vindication. "It was the best thing I've seen in ten years. You stood up for us, big man. You showed them they can't just walk over us."
"I just wanted them to leave me alone," Mark said humbly.
"Doesn't matter why you did it," a woman in the crowd spoke up. She was holding a toddler. "You did it. Nobody says no to SIGS or any of the other corporations. But you did."
"Merchant of the Dockyards!" a teenager shouted from the back. "SOW for life!"
The crowd cheered as a warm, rippling applause filled the arcade. People were clapping. Some were raising their drinks.
Mark stood there, stunned. He looked at Lyra. She was beaming, soaking up the attention, waving to the crowd like the sun princess she claimed to be.
"Papa, you're famous!" she whispered loudly.
"Yeah," Mark muttered, feeling his face heat up. "Let's hope not too famous."
He realized then that the anonymity he had cherished was gone. First, it was the altering of his identity from what Anahrin had created, and now he had become a symbol. A symbol of resistance in a system that crushed the little guy.
"Alright, folks," Mark said, raising a hand. "Show's over. I have to get this little monster to school before she misses lunch."
The crowd parted for him, respectfully this time. As he walked out, carrying Lyra and her three tickets (plus the five hundred he had won and given to her), people patted him on the back.
"Good luck, Mark."
"Give 'em hell, Shephard."
"We'll be buying your vents, Mark!"
Mark walked out of the arcade and back into the main thoroughfare. The security detail formed a tighter phalanx around him now, sensing the change in the environment.
"We should move, sir," Russo murmured in his ear. "Crowds are unpredictable. And if SIGS has any other assets on the station..."
"I know," Mark said. "Let's go straight to the orphanage."
They moved faster, no longer strolling through the station. But even as they walked, Mark noticed heads turning. The news had spread fast. His face, or rather, the terrifying armored visage of him during the morning's altercation, was on every public terminal screen.
By the time they reached the residential sector, it was past 1:00 PM.
Mark set Lyra down at the gate entrance of what was the orphanage's "yard."
"Alright, bug," he said, kneeling to straighten her yellow scarf. "You're late, but I think Sister Elara will forgive us this once. Go find Jory. Tell him I said not to eat the paste."
Lyra giggled and hugged him around the neck. "You're the best Papa."
"I try," Mark whispered, hugging her back, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the faint metallic smell of the station that clung to everything. "Go on."
She ran through the gate, joining a group of children playing kickball in the small courtyard.
Mark watched her go, the smile lingering on his face until she disappeared inside the building. Then, he stood up, his face settling back into its usual stoic mask.
"Mr. Shephard," a calm, melodic voice called from the doorway.
Mark turned. Standing on the steps was Sister Elara.
"Sister Elara," Mark nodded respectfully. "Sorry she's late. We... took the long way."
"I saw," Elara said, her eyes twinkling slightly. "The arcade. And the spontaneous rally."
"You saw that?"
"Mark, I run an orphanage, not a sensory deprivation tank," she smiled, walking down the steps to join him. "The news is everywhere. 'The Merchant of the Dockyards.' 'The Man Who Broke SIGS.' It's quite a title."
She gestured for him to walk with her to a bench in the small garden beside the entrance, a rare patch of real soil on the station where she grew actual vegetables.
"I didn't ask for the title," Mark said, sitting down. "I just wanted to build ships."
"And yet, here we are," Elara said, sitting beside him. She folded her hands in her lap. "Mark, we need to talk."
"Is it about the donation?" Mark asked quickly. "I can wire more. With the new orders coming in, I can-"
"It's not about money," Elara interrupted gently. "Well, it is, but not in the way you think."
She looked out at the courtyard, watching the children play.
"You have started something, Mark," she said. "Something big. You didn't just win a skirmish. You disrupted a market. You humiliated a Director. You showed the galaxy that the gods bleed."
"Well, after his threat, SIGS deserved it," Mark grunted.
"They did," she agreed. "But gods don't like to bleed. And when they heal, they get angry. SIGS is wounded, yes. Thorne is now gone. But corporations, especially the ones like SIGS that have their hands on almost every market of space travel, are like a mythical hydra. Cut off one head, two more grow. And next time, they won't send a pompous Director with a kill squad. They will send lawyers, lobbyists, assassins, and..... maybe simulacrums."
She turned to look at him, her gaze piercing.
"Mark, I'm afraid you need an exit strategy," she said with a solemn look.
Mark frowned. "Exit strategy? I'm just getting started. Hell, after the events this morning, I got a whole bunch of new orders to fill. I have a contract with the Navy pending sitting in my inbox right now."
"That is exactly why you need one," Elara said firmly. "Growth brings visibility. Visibility brings danger. Right now, you are the hero. But in six months? When SIGS eventually force the Station Authority to revoke your lease? When they cut off your raw material supply chain? When they bribe the unions to strike against you?"
She leaned forward. "You need to make your money, Mark. Make as much of it as you can, as fast as you can. Build your war chest. But don't build your castle on Mechanicus. This station... all stations, they're a trap. It's owned by the very people you are fighting. By the very people who pull strings and make the IUC ."
"Where else would I go?" Mark asked. "This is where the ships are."
"There are other places," Elara said softly. "Quiet places. Independent systems in the Rim. Places where a man with your talents can build a shipyard on a moon and own the sky above it. Places where Lyra can run in a field of real grass, and where she won't need a security detail to go to school."
Mark looked at her. He thought of the threat Thorne had made. He thought of Calloway's gun at his head.
"You think I should run?" he asked.
"I think you should pivot," Elara corrected. "You are a businessman now, Mark. A CEO. You need to think in fiscal quarters and risk assessment. The risk to Lyra here is becoming... unmanageable."
Mark stared at the nun. She was speaking with a vocabulary that didn't fit her. 'Fiscal quarters.' 'Risk assessment.' 'Supply chain.'
"Sister," Mark said slowly, narrowing his eyes. "You seem to know a lot about how these corporations work. For a woman of the cloth, you talk a lot like... well, like Kenjiro."
Elara smiled. It was a sad, knowing smile that reached her eyes but didn't quite light them up.
"You think I was born in this habit, Mark?" she asked, smoothing the gray fabric of her skirt. "You think I have always been Sister Elara of the Sanctuary?"
"I assumed," Mark admitted.
"We all assume," she said quietly. "Before I came here... before I found God, or whatever you want to call the conscience that finally woke up... I had a different name. And I had a different life."
She looked up at the smoggy sky of Mechanicus, as if seeing through the metal to the stars beyond.
"Thirty years ago," she began, her voice dropping to a storytelling cadence, "I wasn't running a charity. I was running a division of Titan Logistics. I was the Vice President of Acquisitions for the Core Worlds."
Mark's jaw dropped slightly. Titan Logistics was one of the biggest freighter companies in the galaxy. They were the ones who moved the food, the ore, the fuel. They were bigger than SIGS.
"You were a VP at Titan?" Mark whispered.
"I was," Elara nodded. "I was ruthless, Mark. I was efficient. I acquired competitors. I stripped assets. I fired thousands of people to make a line on a graph go up by one percent. I sat in boardrooms just like the one Thorne probably sat in, and I drank whiskey that cost more than this orphanage's yearly budget."
She looked at her hands, hands that were now rough from gardening and washing clothes.
"I know how they think because I was one of them," she said. "I know the playbook because I helped write it. And I am telling you, Mark... they will not stop. Thorne was clumsy and very arrogant. But the next one? The next one will be cold. They will come at you with leverage you didn't even know existed."
She turned back to him, her eyes fierce. "That is why you must listen to me. Save your credits and don't spend them on luxury. Spend it on freedom. Build your reputation, sell your vents, fulfill the Navy contracts... but keep your eye on the door. Because the day will come when you need to leave this station in the middle of the night, and you need to have a place to land."
Mark sat there, processing this. The kindly nun who wiped noses and taught scripture was a retired corporate shark. It explained so much: her negotiation skills, her ability to manage the orphanage's meager budget so effectively, her lack of fear when dealing with station bureaucrats.
"Why did you leave?" Mark asked. "Titan, I mean."
Elara sighed and looked up. "I was too eager... and it cost me... everything..."
---
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