So far their entire journey had been relatively uneventful.
By this point, they'd already left Aegean Prime and all of its habitable neighboring planets far behind. Of course, this was still the Inner Rim, which meant this was still the most prestigious and carefully controlled region of the galaxy to live in.
The Aegean Empire was administratively divided into five distinct regions: the Inner Rim, Upper Rim, Lower Rim, Central Rim, and Outer Rim. The empire itself encompassed three entire galaxies and controlled close to two hundred forty-six fully habitable planets, along with nearly four thousand uninhabitable worlds—many of them serving as nothing more than resource extraction sites, penal colonies, or dumping grounds for the empire's industrial waste.
The moon Orn had inherited from his mother was one such forsaken rock. Of course, it was called a moon because it orbited a much larger planet and functioned as that world's natural satellite, trapped in its gravitational embrace.
Space, it turned out, was not as devoid of traffic as one might expect—even out here. Every once in a while, they'd pass other ships of various sizes and classifications: some moving in the same direction, others overtaking them as they headed farther out from the rim, and still others traveling inward toward any one of the numerous inhabited planets or back toward Aegean Prime itself.
All in all, it had been a rather uneventful three-day journey.
And Orn had to be honest with himself—he was getting incredibly bored.
If this was what it meant to be the one giving orders, then he'd clearly gotten a lot of his priorities twisted over the years. He'd thought this was supposed to be the glamorous life—sitting in an impressive chair looking authoritative while casually issuing commands. You'd sit on your ass while everyone else, people far more technically skilled than you, actually ran your ship and fought your battles. And then at the end of it all, you'd take most of the credit.
Yeah, he'd clearly been missing something fundamental in that assessment.
Either way, his boredom was mercifully short-lived.
All of a sudden, a steady electronic beeping sound rang out across the bridge, cutting through the ambient hum of the ship's systems. Orn sat up straighter in his command chair, his attention immediately focusing.
He turned toward the helmsman. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Admiral, I am picking up a distress signal over an open frequency," the pilot reported, his hands already working his console to pull up more information. "It carries a Senate private identification key."
Orn raised an eyebrow at that. It was… unusual, to say the least.
A distress signal? Here in the Inner Rim?
Everything within this part of the galaxy was supposed to be tightly controlled and heavily patrolled specifically to prevent situations like this from occurring. The Inner Rim was the safest region in the entire empire—or at least, it was supposed to be.
"We're receiving a distress call from nearby, Admiral," the pilot continued, reading the data streaming across his displays. "It carries a Senator's identification protocol. We appear to be the closest ship to their position at the moment, sir. Should I respond?"
Orn held up a hand, gesturing for him to wait. He turned to the interim navigator. "We're still deep in the Inner Rim. Senators always travel with large retinues and extensive security details. There shouldn't be anything in the Inner Rim dangerous enough to require a senatorial convoy to broadcast a distress signal." He leaned forward slightly. "Pull up the navigational charts for the area where that signal is originating."
Some of the officers present might think he was being overly cautious—perhaps even callous—when someone as important as a senator was potentially in danger. But Orn had just survived an assassination attempt orchestrated by his own wife less than a week ago. He could never be too careful.
"There's… there's nothing there, sir," the navigator said, confusion evident in his voice. "How is that even possible?"
The navigator was right. The tactical chart was brought up on the main display, and while they were definitely receiving a distress signal from that specific location, absolutely nothing was showing up on the charts to indicate any ships, stations, or installations present in that area of space.
"Can we establish direct communication with whoever is sending the distress signal?" Orn asked.
The pilot shook his head. "We can attempt to hail them, but it's entirely up to them whether they respond or not, Admiral."
"All right, then send the hail. Trace the signal while you're at it—I want to know exactly where it's coming from." Orn paused, then added, "And switch your sensors to the Psionic spectrum. Check the area for any Psionic activity, no matter how faint."
The ensuing result of that query genuinely shocked everyone on the bridge.
The navigational chart transformed, now displaying a massive swirling vortex of red and green energy—like some kind of violent storm system you might see in a planetary weather report. But this wasn't atmospheric disturbance. This was concentrated Psionic energy, and there wasn't just a small amount of it.
There was heavy Psionic activity saturating that entire region of space.
The navigator audibly gasped. The pilot couldn't help himself. "What the hell is that?"
Orn turned to him, his voice calm despite the tension building in his chest. "Well, I think we're about to find out. How's the hailing coming along? Do we have a response yet?"
The interim communications officer—a young woman who looked increasingly nervous—turned in her seat and answered, "Negative, Admiral. However, I've been receiving fragmented pieces of signal encoding mixed in with the distress beacon. I believe it's some kind of code, but it's not in any format I've studied before. This is probably military-grade encryption, and it's beyond my current expertise to decode."
Orn nodded, having expected as much. He turned to Hera, who'd been standing silently at her station, observing the developing situation. "Major Hera, I believe you minored in ancient and modern military logistics and communications protocols. This should be right up your alley. You have five minutes to crack it."
"Yes, sir!" Hera responded immediately, already moving to the communications console with purposeful strides.
Orn raised his voice to address the bridge crew. "Also, get me a direct line to high command—specifically to the office of Grand Imperator George Reese. Cite urgency level as Orange with high potential to escalate to Red."
He turned back to Hera. "Where's my decoded message?"
"Two more minutes, Admiral," Hera replied, her fingers flying over the console as streams of encrypted data flowed across her displays. "The code is military standard, but it's a more official variant primarily used among the Old Guard—the senior officer corps. This at least confirms that military involvement or intervention is both required and warranted."
She paused, still working. "Should I display the message once I've finished decoding it, sir?"
Orn nodded. "The moment you have it."
Hera's hands moved with practiced efficiency, and less than two minutes later, she flipped her completed translation onto the main holographic display for everyone on the bridge to see.
The decoded message read:
SENATOR SEN SERADIN AND FAMILY. ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT IN PROGRESS. TWENTY-FIVE DEAD. FOUR SURVIVORS INCLUDING SENATOR. ASSASSINS CONFIRMED AS PSIONICS. ESTIMATED NUMBER: SEVEN. THEY HAVE BROUGHT A VANGUARD… A NORKEL.
Everyone present on the bridge took a collective sharp breath as the name of the creature was mentioned