Orn had changed his clothes. He was now dressed in the
full uniform befitting his rank—crisp, formal, every crease perfect. His
signature half-face mask was back in place, and his previously eerie deep-blue
eyes had shifted back to a more socially acceptable grey through the optical
camouflage built into the mask's internal systems.
After the attack that had torn his family apart—the
attack that had at minimum caused the deaths of his mother and sister, if they
were truly dead—George Reese, already an established general of the empire at
the time, had decided the best way to keep his son safe was to ensure his
identity remained hidden. To this day, Orn had never received a full
explanation from his father about why such extreme measures were necessary.
In the end, with his growing Psionic powers and the
increasingly obvious effects his unmasked eyes had on normal people, it wasn't
too much of a stretch to say that Orn had found his own value and utility in
the masks beyond simple identity protection. The masks kept him safe from
enemies he didn't know about—enemies his father still refused to name or even
acknowledge existed.
Eventually, he'd simply gotten used to it. Even now,
Orn didn't know how to live or function without his mask. It had become more
than a tool—it was a comfort, a security blanket, an extension of himself that
made him feel safe in an empire that had proven itself unsafe time and time
again.
But then again, considering the kind of power an
individual of his caliber possessed, one had to wonder: what exactly did he
need to keep himself safe from?
Orn had been through his fair share of combat. Fourteen
major campaigns over five years. Thirty-eight separate battles, and he had
never been on the losing side in any of them. His record was flawless—though he
knew that luck only lasted so long.
He heard a door hiss open behind him. He turned to see
Hera standing in the doorway, her posture rigid and formal. She carefully
avoided looking directly at where his eyes would be, even through the mask. She
stood at attention and snapped out a crisp salute.
Orn studied her for a few moments longer than was
strictly necessary, contemplating the strange situation they now found
themselves in. In the end, he simply shrugged beneath his uniform.
"Send word ahead to the bridge," he said, his
voice taking on the tone of command. "We'll be initiating launch sequence
in ten minutes. Let's get out of here."
Hera nodded sharply, pulling up her wrist-mounted
communicator and connecting to the ship's intercom system. Her voice was calm
and professional as she relayed his orders.
Orn ignored the specifics of what she was saying as he
stepped out of their shared quarters. She fell into step directly behind him,
maintaining the proper distance for a subordinate officer—though they both knew
their relationship was far more complicated than that simple designation
suggested.
As they walked, Orn pulled out his personal
communication device and connected to the Empire's secure military network. He
needed to check on the status of his chosen officers.
By now, they all should have received the recruitment
notifications and formal offers he'd sent out earlier. The military frowned
upon wasting time—decisions were expected to be made swiftly and decisively.
Hesitation was viewed as weakness.
To his satisfaction, every single one of them had
accepted. They had all agreed to serve under his banner, to become part of his
fledgling army.
This was excellent news. The people he'd chosen were
relatively unknown throughout the wider empire, and some of them hadn't even
been the best performers in their respective training cohorts. But Orn had
always had a good eye for raw talent and untapped potential.
More importantly, he wanted to severely limit the
influence that the empire's politicians could exert over his military
operations. He didn't need some privileged scion from a Senate family coming
aboard to sabotage his plans or redirect his resources to serve agendas that
had nothing to do with actual military objectives. Those pampered fools thought
they were running the empire from their comfortable offices, when in reality
they were just parasites feeding off the blood spilled by real soldiers.
Orn didn't see what his father saw in that world. He
couldn't understand how a great warrior—a lion among men—would willingly choose
to abandon the battlefield to go frolic in a den of snakes far more poisonous
and dangerous than he could ever be.
For a brief moment, Orn actually felt something like
sympathy for his father. He hoped the old man didn't end up biting off more
than he could chew because of his overwhelming ambition.
They both knew better than anyone just how precarious
and dysfunctional the empire's internal political situation truly was. They
were strong and united when facing external enemies, fiercely dedicated to
preserving their way of life against outside threats. But Orn had read
somewhere that a man's worst enemy often came from within his own household.
That ancient wisdom had proven tragically true for the
Aegean Empire time and time again throughout its long history.
And this fundamental difference in perspective was what
truly separated Orn from his father. While George Reese wanted to rush to the
center of galactic power, to claim a seat at the head of the table alongside
all the other liars and schemers and backstabbers, Orn wanted power where it
actually mattered—on the battlefield.
Because only true power, overwhelming might exercised
without hesitation, could give you what you wanted in this universe. His father
wanted to waste energy on political maneuvering, endless plotting and scheming,
moving pieces on an imaginary chessboard while pretending it mattered.
All Orn wanted was to spill blood and be done with his
problems.
This was war. He was a soldier. It didn't get any
simpler or purer than that.
Orn and Hera arrived at the bridge just in time to see
the temporary civilian crew taking their positions at various control stations.
The bridge wasn't particularly large compared to the massive command centers on
capital ships he'd visited before. But it was still spacious enough to
comfortably accommodate a working crew of at least fifty personnel when fully
staffed.
The frigate was brand new and admittedly on the smaller
side of its class. Orn had no intention of making The Honest Star his permanent
flagship—its firepower and overall combat capabilities were questionable at
best. But conventional wisdom held that smaller ships were generally faster and
more maneuverable. He hoped this vessel could at least survive the hell he was
planning to put it through over the coming months.
He already had contingency plans in place to acquire a
more appropriate command ship—something with proper armor and weapons systems.
His Grigarian friend and technical advisor, Janus, was out there right now
working on potential solutions to that problem.
Orn shook his head, dismissing those future concerns,
and moved to take his seat in the captain's chair positioned at the center of
the bridge's command tier.
The moment he settled into it, the chair hummed softly
beneath him as integrated systems came to life. Holographic displays flickered
into existence on either side of the armrests, bathing his uniform in soft blue
light.
He decided to gather some basic information before they
departed. He addressed the interim pilot currently manning the helm—a
middle-aged man whose name Orn didn't actually know.
"Before we leave," Orn said, his voice
carrying clearly across the bridge, "can you give me a comprehensive
rundown of this ship's specifications and capabilities?"
The pilot immediately turned in his seat and delivered
a crisp salute before bringing up several holographic information screens. With
a practiced gesture, he sent them floating through the air to arrange
themselves in a semicircle in front of Orn's position.
There was a substantial amount of technical data
displayed, but the pilot helped by verbally summarizing the most important
details.
"Sir, this is an Honoris-class frigate," the
pilot began, his tone professional and precise. "It's classified as a Tier
Seven direct-action warship. It's considerably smaller and lighter than a
standard destroyer, but it can match—and in some cases exceed—the speed of a
Tier Nine corvette. Current maximum velocity is rated at two times
faster-than-light when conditions are optimal."
The pilot paused, then added with appropriate honesty,
"Of course, FTL capabilities cannot be relied upon too heavily given our
lack of a dedicated AI navigator. That limitation makes sustained
faster-than-light operations significantly less efficient and more dangerous
than they would be otherwise. However, this vessel is currently documented as
the fastest frigate in active service throughout the empire—the only one of its
kind aside from the original prototype, which is currently stored in a secure
vault somewhere on Aegean Prime."
He gestured to another display showing the ship's
weapons systems. "Primary armament consists of sextuple-barrel railgun
turrets, each with one-hundred-fifty-meter barrels. Due to the fact that this
ship was designed and built for speed rather than sustained firepower—as most
frigates are typically optimized for—the primary munitions are significantly
smaller than standard. However, this also means they have a dramatically
increased rate of fire. The rounds possess armor-piercing capabilities. Unlike
conventional rounds, these projectiles require approximately fifty percent less
kinetic energy to successfully breach the hull of a Tier Five destroyer-class
vessel."
Orn raised an eyebrow behind his mask, impressed
despite himself.
A ship that was incredibly fast, equipped with
lightweight but devastatingly effective weapons, and apparently capable of
punching well above its weight class against larger vessels? Of course, that
theoretical capability would only matter if they could survive long enough in
an actual engagement against a destroyer to exploit those advantages. But all
things considered, even with just the primary weapons systems, this ship was
far better than he'd initially expected.
At least for now.
He continued listening as the interim pilot rattled off
additional specifications.
"Secondary defensive armaments include six
Primordial-class missile launch boxes with automated targeting systems, and ten
triple-barrel 25-millimeter rotary point-defense guns strategically positioned
across the hull for close-range threat interception." The pilot brought up
a technical schematic of the hull itself. "The entire outer hull structure
from bow to stern is coated with one-hundred-times-compressed Threnodian steel
alloy. This provides basic anti-Psionic reflective properties in addition to
exceptional kinetic and energy resistance."
He highlighted one final system. "Power generation
and propulsion are provided by a Honoris-77 Simian Drive engine core."
Orn had to admit, even if only to himself, that The
Honest Star was genuinely impressive for a vessel of its size and class.
The Honoris Shipwrights had been constructing vessels
for the various powers of the galaxy for over six thousand years. They were a
strictly neutral organization that trained apprentices in the ancient arts of
ship construction, then sent them out to build for whoever could afford their
services—regardless of political allegiance.
His friend Janus was a former Grigarian Technoid
apprentice who'd been expelled from the Honoris program under somewhat
controversial circumstances. The Technoids were the acknowledged ruling class
of the entire Grigarian species—scientists and inventors who worshiped science
and technology above all other pursuits, even survival.
Apparently, Janus had asked too many uncomfortable
questions and his experimental projects had a notorious tendency to be...
explosively unpredictable. But that was practically a cliché at this
point—every military unit in history had "that one guy" who was
brilliant but dangerously unconventional.
Janus was currently 378 years old and had spent
virtually all of that time obsessively learning and mastering countless
different technical disciplines.
Regardless of his checkered past, a Honoris Simian
Drive was nothing short of revolutionary. That engine design was one of the
most sought-after propulsion systems in the known universe. It was specifically
built for speed, with a power core that could recharge itself by drawing energy
directly from stellar radiation.
The drives were unique in that they eliminated the need
to constantly stop at various planets and resource stations to refill
conventional fuel cells—a logistical nightmare that plagued most military
operations. It took an enormous weight off Orn's mind knowing he wouldn't have
to worry about fuel procurement and supply lines, at least not for propulsion.
Of course, there were still significant risks and
potential dangers associated with operating a ship that literally fed on stars.
Solar radiation could be unpredictable. Coronal mass ejections, solar winds,
unexpected flares—any number of things could go catastrophically wrong during
the recharge process. Not to mention that a star's immense gravitational field
could potentially grab hold of the ship if they got too close, dragging them
down into a fiery plasma grave from which there would be no escape.
But every system had trade-offs. This one seemed worth
the risks.
Orn nodded his approval to the pilot, who immediately
returned a sharp salute before turning back to his console and beginning the
formal launch sequence to take them out of orbit.
"Power levels at thirty percent and rising,"
the pilot called out, his hands moving efficiently across the controls.
"Forty percent... sixty percent... eighty-five percent... one hundred
percent. We have achieved full ignition and all systems are nominal. What are
your orders, Admiral?"
Orn smiled behind his mask—a gesture that couldn't be
seen but that he felt nonetheless. He was genuinely happy. He had his own ship
now. His own command.
Even with all his father's considerable connections and
influence, this was something Orn had never imagined he'd achieve so early in
his career. He'd served in the Empire's military for the compulsory three-year
term and made his mark in the official records—earned a reputation, proven
himself in combat. Then for the following two years, he'd served as part of his
father's personal army, essentially as an extension of George Reese's will.
He'd honestly thought he'd never get a command of his
own. He'd assumed he would simply continue to serve and slowly climb through
his father's command structure, eventually inheriting the entire army when the
old man finally died and went to serve in the mythical "Immortal Army of
the First Emperor"—whatever that actually meant.
But now he had a genuine chance to make his own mark on
history. To build something that was truly his. That wasn't something he would
ever take for granted. He was lucky, and he was genuinely thankful for it.
"Bring the Honest Star to standard departure
vector," Orn commanded, his voice firm and clear. "Watch for
traffic—we're still very close to Aegean Prime and the shipping lanes will be
congested. Set coordinates for the Keres Jump Gate. We'll rendezvous with the
rest of our recruits at the station there." He paused, then asked,
"How long do you estimate the journey will take?"
The pilot rapidly entered calculations into his
console, numbers and trajectory projections flickering across his displays.
After a moment, he answered:
"If we experience no significant delays or
navigational complications, we should arrive in approximately three standard
days, Admiral. Possibly less if we were willing to utilize FTL travel for
portions of the journey." He hesitated, then added honestly,
"However, neither I nor anyone else currently aboard possesses the
training and neurological modifications necessary to safely navigate at light
speed. I'm afraid we'll have to settle for the longer conventional journey,
sir."
Orn nodded his understanding as the ship began to move,
the gentle thrum of the engines vibrating up through the deck plating beneath
his feet.
The excitement in his chest grew more intense as The
Honest Star smoothly joined the endless river of traffic flowing to and from
Aegean Prime—thousands of vessels of every size and description, all moving in
carefully controlled patterns to avoid collisions.
He settled more comfortably into the captain's chair,
allowing himself a moment to simply appreciate what he'd accomplished. The
frigate was departing, leaving behind everything he'd ever known.
He was going to miss this place. Aegean Prime was home,
after all—the only real home he'd ever had. But a new journey awaited, and he'd
just taken his first real steps toward an uncertain future.
Orn smiled ruefully beneath his mask and whispered to
himself, too quiet for anyone else to hear:
"Onwards and upwards,
Admiral. To the sea of stars and its shining depths. To destiny."