Federation Calendar, Year 58
The auditorium's vast dome thrummed with restless energy as Dean Malcolm Reid's voice cut through the chatter. "Cadets, today we honor an exceptional talent who has cleared his graduation assessment ahead of schedule. Five-Star Admiral Marcus Sterling will personally confer his rank!"
Admiral Sterling strode onto the stage, his presence a gravitational force. The crowd erupted into a frenzy of whispers, a tidal wave of awe and disbelief.
"Who's so elite that the Federation's God of War himself is pinning their bars?"
"Sterling! Humanity's savior, right here in the flesh!"
"Wait, isn't his profile locked under triple-S clearance? Is this even allowed?"
"Clearance is for civilians, not us. We're the Federation's future fleet!"
"Think I'll get court-martialed for a quick holo-snap?"
"Try it and find out."
The murmurs swirled, a chaotic hum filling the auditorium's tiered expanse. Cadets craned their necks, eyes wide, soaking in the sight of the legendary commander.
"Silence!" Dean Reid's bellow sliced through the din, restoring order with the weight of his authority. Though known for a puckish streak in private, his command presence was ironclad. "Where's your discipline? You're soldiers, not gossiping spacers! Now, summon Cadet Adrian Vale, Cohort 55, Fleet Command Division, to the stage."
Adrian Vale. The name sparked instant recognition. Of course it was him—the academy's once-in-a-millennium prodigy. No wonder Sterling himself was here.
Murmurs settled into nods of understanding. Adrian's legend was no secret. In fleet command, he was untouchable, outclassing every instructor in sims. Even Colonel Victor Black, the fleet's golden boy touted as Sterling's heir, had been humiliated in a one-on-one sim, his squadron obliterated by Adrian's tactical brilliance.
But Adrian's genius wasn't confined to the bridge. His scientific contributions were equally staggering. Over three years, he'd unleashed a stream of breakthroughs across disciplines, each one a bombshell. Most iconic was his artificial gravity matrix. Before his arrival, the academy's halls floated in zero-g, a constant hassle. Adrian's design—now standard across Federation fleets—had grounded the campus, making it feel like Earth.
He'd claimed, half-joking, that the tech was just a "side effect" of his Interface's task rewards. No one quite knew what he meant, but the results spoke louder than words.
Clad in the Federation fleet's sleek black dress uniform, Adrian marched to the stage. His posture was parade-ground perfect, his salute to Sterling crisp as a laser's edge. The admiral's eyes gleamed with approval as he lifted a rank insignia from his adjutant's tray and pinned it to Adrian's shoulder.
"Congratulations, son. As of this moment, you're a commissioned officer of the Federation Navy."
"Sir, I won't let you down!" Adrian's voice was steady, resolute.
The crowd froze, eyes locked on the insignia. Colonel's bars. On a nineteen-year-old. The auditorium seemed to hold its breath. A colonel at his age? Unheard of. Yet, as the reality sank in, it felt... right. Adrian's dual mastery of tactics and science made it almost inevitable.
No objections rose. Instead, applause thundered, a rolling wave that echoed off the dome's curve, sustained and fervent.
Onstage, Adrian's pulse quickened, not from the ovation but from a chime in his mind: Ding! Congratulations, Host. Task 2 completed: Attain rank of Colonel. Reward: GeneForge Serum, one dose. Deposited in Interface vault.
A gene-enhancing serum—straight out of pre-starflight sci-fi. His heart raced at the thought, but discipline held firm. No way could he pop it here. His face remained a mask of stoic pride.
Below, Adeline Hart sat in the sea of cadets, her applause mechanical as she stared at Adrian. Her lips moved, barely audible: "Next year, Mars. I'll find you."
By 4 PM, the ceremony wrapped. Adrian exchanged farewells with Dean Reid, then joined Admiral Sterling for the voyage to the Martian Garrison. Three days later, their Swallow-class destroyer breached Mars' orbit, revealing the sprawling nerve center of the Fourth Fleet.
Adrian pressed against the observation port, drinking in the view. The base was a marvel: a compact space city orbited by thirty-eight massive spaceports and countless smaller docks. The Fourth Fleet's 20,000 warships mingled with civilian craft, a constellation of steel and light. The civilian ships were here for one reason: the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, humanity's sole resource lifeline.
But the belt was no safe haven. Since the great clash of Year 52, the Orcus Empire had kept up a relentless guerrilla campaign, sending small squadrons to harass Federation mining operations. The Fourth Fleet's Second Division patrolled tirelessly, shielding the miners. The past six years had seen countless skirmishes erupt amid the belt's rocky chaos.
Of the base's thirty-eight major ports, eighteen serviced mining and transport vessels—a testament to the belt's critical role.
"This is the Martian Garrison?" Adrian breathed, awestruck. A nearby military port held over a thousand warships, their hulls gleaming under the dock's floodlights. Knowing nineteen such ports ringed the planet fueled a surge of adrenaline.
The destroyer glided into the central space city's dock, the fleet's command hub. Adrian disembarked, trailing Sterling through bustling corridors to the admiral's office. There, Sterling gestured for his adjutant to summon someone named Lena Sterling. Adrian noted the name but let it pass, his focus elsewhere.
"Your orders," Sterling said, sliding a holo-pad across his desk.
Adrian scanned it, his breath catching. The document was a bombshell: By recommendation of Admiral Marcus Sterling, Commander, Fourth Fleet, Adrian Vale is hereby promoted to Colonel, Federation Navy, and appointed Commander, 101st Combined Squadron, Fourth Fleet, effective immediately.
A fleet. His own. One hundred forty-four warships: nine carriers, nine battlecruisers, eighteen cruisers, thirty-six destroyers, seventy-two frigates. And a dedicated medium spaceport as their base.
His mind reeled. A medium port could house fifty battlecruisers or five hundred destroyers. For just 144 ships? It seemed excessive.
"You're wondering about the port size," Sterling said, reading his expression.
"Yes, sir."
"It's no ordinary dock. It was built as a warship R&D facility. Berths for just over a hundred vessels, with the rest of the space packed with fabrication bays and labs. Clear?"
Sterling's gaze carried a weight Adrian couldn't quite parse—expectation, challenge, maybe both.
He nodded, gripping the holo-pad tighter. The 101st was no ordinary command. It was an experiment, a crucible. And he was its alchemist.