Federation Calendar, Year 58
In the opulent confines of the Federal Presidential Office on Earth, Solomon Vale sat behind a polished obsidian desk, the panoramic viewport framing the blue-green curve of the homeworld. His brow furrowed, a rare crack in his composed facade, as he processed the latest dispatch from Mars. His son, Adrian Vale, had barely set foot on the red planet before diving into combat with the Orcus Empire—and emerged with a staggering 0:208 victory, no Federation ships lost, and the Ninth Imperial Prince in custody. Even Marcus Sterling's legendary first battle paled in comparison.
Solomon rubbed his temples, the weight of paternal pride warring with exasperation. Reports of Adrian's prodigy status at the Interstellar Military Academy had trickled in for years—whispers of a tactical genius who outmaneuvered seasoned instructors. Solomon had dismissed it as youthful flair, assuming even a prodigy couldn't outshine Sterling, the Federation's war hero. But then came the tech breakthroughs: civilian innovations at first, then military designs creeping into the arsenal. A year ago, Adrian's artificial gravity generator had nearly given Solomon a heart attack—a leap so profound it rivaled century-old milestones. Was his son misplaced, better suited to a lab than a bridge?
The past year had been quiet, lulling Solomon into thinking Adrian had settled. Then came the Academy's graduation sims, where the kid almost defeated Sterling. Now, on Mars, he'd unveiled warp drives and industrial robotics decades ahead of the Federation's curve—and topped it with a battlefield masterstroke, capturing an Orcus prince. Solomon sighed, a wry smile tugging at his lips. *A genius son is hell on the nerves.*
Shaking off the thought, he turned to the pressing matter: the Ninth Prince. A bargaining chip like that demanded strategy. He tapped his comm, summoning aides. "Get the diplomatic corps and security advisors in here—now. We've got a prince to leverage."
---
At Medium Orbital Starport 27, Mars Base, the 101st Combined Squadron's warships nestled into their berths, docking clamps locking with resonant clangs. The port was a cavernous expanse of alloy and conduits, its air heavy with the tang of coolant and scorched metal. The crew didn't disperse; over 30,000 souls formed ranks along the gangway, faces solemn, not a whisper breaking the silence. Admiral Marcus Sterling stood at the forefront, flanked by Adrian Vale and Lena Sterling, their uniforms crisp despite the battle's shadow.
From the *Vanguard's Edge*, a procession emerged—pairs of crewmen, faces grim, carrying coffins draped in the Federation Fleet's starry banner. Three hundred forty-three caskets, only 148 holding remains, the rest empty tributes to those obliterated by the void's merciless weapons. Space warfare was a brutal calculus: particle beams and plasma lances left little to recover, a single hair a miracle in the debris.
Adrian's voice cut through the stillness. "Salute!"
With a unified snap, thousands of hands rose, eyes tracking each coffin as it passed, the weight of loss etching red rims around hardened gazes. These were comrades hours ago—laughing, cursing, alive. Now, they were names etched in memory, their caskets destined for a final voyage into the deep black, a Federation tradition to honor the fallen.
The last coffin launched, a silent streak against the stars. Adrian's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. "Dismissed."
Sterling stepped forward, clapping a hand on Adrian's shoulder. "Well done, son. You didn't just meet expectations—you blew them to hell."
Adrian's eyes flickered to the departing caskets. "I could've done better. Three hundred forty-three lives—"
"Stop," Sterling interrupted, voice firm but kind. "No war's bloodless. You pulled off a miracle—208 enemy ships, zero losses to our fleet. Most commanders would've buckled." He'd seen too many break under the guilt of fallen subordinates, their talent drowned in remorse. He feared that for Adrian, but the kid's steady gaze—steely beyond his years—eased the worry. *Not an ordinary man,* Sterling thought, recalling the Academy sim where Adrian had outfoxed him.
"I get it, sir," Adrian said. "Just want to be sharper next time."
"Good. Now, new orders." Sterling's tone shifted, all business. "That prince you nabbed? The President's team met and decided he's our ticket to negotiate with Orcus. A diplomatic convoy's inbound in a few days. You and the 101st will escort them."
"Yes, sir."
"You've earned a breather after that fight. Get some rest." Sterling gave another pat and strode off, his boots echoing in the cavernous port.
Rest? Adrian's gene-enhanced body—strength, stamina, all 3.5 times human norms—felt no fatigue. But sleep was a necessity, not a luxury. He hadn't closed his eyes since arriving on Mars. Heading to his suite, he collapsed onto the bed, still in his uniform, and activated the Interface. "System, spin up an escort mission sim in the asteroid belt. Level 5 Orcus opponents, 101st as friendlies."
**Ding. Battlefield set. Enemy and friendly fleets configured per request.**
**Main objective: escort mission. Starting in three seconds.**
"Atta boy, system," Adrian murmured, diving into the virtual fray.
He didn't hear the hatch hiss open. Murphy's law, ever faithful, struck again—unlocked doors invited chaos. Lena Sterling stepped inside, her boots silent on the deck. Finding the office empty, she glanced through the open bedroom door and froze. Adrian lay on the bed, eyes closed, uniform rumpled but intact, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he battled in the sim. For a moment, her icy mask slipped. A soft smile curved her lips, warm and unguarded, her gray eyes softening as she watched him, unaware. The prodigy who'd turned an Orcus ambush into a slaughter, who'd woven a trap so intricate it left her in awe—this was him, vulnerable yet unyielding.
If Adrian had seen her, he'd have been floored. *Lena, smiling?* The ice queen, whose default was a stare that could freeze plasma, showing warmth? But he was lost in the sim, blind to the moment.
A minute later, Lena's expression hardened back to its frosty norm. She slipped out, the hatch sealing silently behind her.
---
At the Interstellar Military Academy, Dean Malcolm Reid sat in his office, the holo-display casting a soft glow over his cluttered desk. He was mid-call with Marcus Sterling, his old friend's voice crackling through the comm.
"You're pulling my leg, Marcus," Reid said, squinting at the battle report. "Adrian Vale commanded that? A 208-nil rout with a prince captured?"
"Would I fake this?" Sterling's laugh was gruff. "Kid's the real deal."
Reid leaned back, stunned. An hour ago, the report had hit his desk—a routine dispatch of frontline battles for the Academy's command curriculum. Humanity's interstellar wars were sparse, real combat data rarer than stable isotopes. But this? A freshly graduated cadet, days out of the Academy, had crafted a textbook ambush reversal, now flagged as a classic by Mars Base.
"I'm still wrapping my head around it," Reid admitted. "He was brilliant here, but this?"
"Remember how he smoked me in the sims?" Sterling said. "This is just him turning theory into bodies."
Reid nodded, memories of Adrian's Academy dominance flooding back. No student had ever pushed Sterling—or him—to such limits. "Fair point. This battle's going in the syllabus. Tomorrow, I'm hauling the command cadets in and breaking it down myself."
Sterling chuckled. "Give 'em hell, Malcolm. And tell them Adrian Vale's name—well, as much as the gag order allows."
Reid smirked, already planning the lecture. The kid who'd graduated days ago wasn't just a commander—he was a legend in the making.