This Royal Navy has expanded and welcomes the following courageous soul: Brian Giljamse.
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 watched through the viewport as the blast doors of his shipyard sealed shut, hiding Kenjiro, who looked terrified to be taking care of Lyra, who was waving enthusiastically at the departing "space car." He held the wave until the angle of ascent cut them off, a sharp pang of protective instinct tightening his chest.
He sat opposite Commander Elena Rhen. The shuttle was a standard-issue Valkyrie transport, utilitarian and cramped, smelling of hydraulic fluid, burnt ozone, and the distinct, stale sweat of nervous men. Two Marines sat by the rear hatch, their helmets on, the perfect little soldiers of the IUC, their rifles locked into magnetic clamps.
"You're quiet," Elena noted, her voice cutting through the hum of the atmospheric thrusters. She wasn't looking at him, instead she was scrolling through a datapad with rhythmic, practiced swipes, but her attention was clearly fixed on the man sitting across from her. Her posture was rigid, the posture of an officer holding onto protocol to keep from falling apart.
"Just thinking about the work," Mark lied smoothly. "These Corvettes aren't going to fix themself. And the Swift Justice... she's going to be a nightmare of structural welding."
"No," Elena agreed, finally looking up. "They aren't. But you have a lot of confidence, Mr. Shephard. Although some might call it arrogance. Telling an Acting Admiral you can do in months what the Imperial Yards take a year to accomplish?"
Mark leaned back against the crash webbing, looking out the viewport as the sprawling metallic ring of Mechanicus Station began to shrink below them, becoming lost against the high traffic of the system and the backdrop of Nova Celeste.
"Arrogance is thinking you're better than you are. Confidence is knowing exactly what you're capable of," Mark replied, his voice steady. "I know my craft, and I also know that the IUC Navy over-manages everything to the point of inefficiency."
Elena's lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It was a familiar expression, one Mark had seen plenty of times in the past. It was the look she gave when a junior officer said something stupid but technically correct, a look of begrudging respect.
"Kaelen used to say that," she murmured, almost to herself, her gaze drifting to the bulkhead. "He hated the bureaucracy of the shipyards. He used to say that if he could run the fleet with a wrench, a roll of duct tape, and a bottle of whiskey, we'd have won the Cold War that's been going on for hundreds of years against the Vickies."
Mark felt a physical pang in his chest, though he kept his face impassive, forcing his heart rate to remain steady under the scrutiny of the biometric sensors he knew were embedded in the shuttle's seats.
"Sounds like a smart man," he said.
"He was," Elena said, her voice hardening, correcting herself instantly. "He is."
The shuttle banked hard, the inertial dampeners whining as they fought the G-forces, and the view shifted.
Looming ahead, eclipsing the starfield, was the 7th Fleet.
It was a magnificent, terrifying display of power. It was one of the largest fleets of the IUC, consisting of dozens of Frigates and Corvettes, Destroyers, Heavy cruisers, and a Carrier. They held a defensive formation, a sphere of steel and weapons tech, their running lights blinking in unison like a constellation.
In the center sat the Indifference.
She was a Dreadnought-class Heavy cruiser with a stepped angular shape. The only thing that separated a Heavy Cruiser from a Dreadnaught-class Heavy Cruiser was firepower. The Indifference was over a kilometer of titanium and violence. But as they drew closer, the cracks in the facade became visible. Her hull, usually a pristine blue and white, was scarred and pitted. Scorch marks streaked across her port side like claw marks, and armor plating was missing in patches, revealing the skeletal superstructure beneath.
Mark swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew every inch of that ship. He knew that the ventilation in Deck 7 rattled when the sub-light engines hit 80% because of a loose rivet no one could ever find. He knew that the mess hall on Deck 12 served the best synthetic coffee because he himself had illegally modified the replicator flow rate. He knew that the Captain's chair on the bridge had a scratch on the left armrest where Kaelen unconsciously dug his class ring in during combat.
"She's seen better days," Mark commented quietly, the engineer in him cataloging the damage even as the son in him grieved. "Structural damage to the port hangar. Scorch marks on the sensor array. Looks like she took a glancing blow, lucky it didn't ricochet into her."
"She survived an ambush at the Theta Relay," Elena said, her eyes fixed on the ship with a fierce protectiveness. "That's more than most can say. We lost three corvettes in the first volley. The Indifference took the brunt of it to cover the retreat."
The shuttle began its approach towards one of its entrance hatches at its Cargo Bay. With a heavy metallic thud that vibrated through the floor plates, they docked.
The hatch hissed open, the smell of the ship rushing in to meet them.
"On your feet," Elena commanded, snapping back into her role. "Stay close and don't wander around. This is a warship, not a tourist attraction."
Mark stood up, adjusting his jacket. He felt like an imposter in his own skin, wearing a mask over a mask. He walked down the ramp and stepped onto the deck of the Indifference.
The cargo bay was bustling, but the energy was different from what he remembered. It was the desperate, focused grind of damage control. Techs were running diagnostics, and loaders were moving crates of munitions with frantic urgency. Sparks showered down from the upper gantries where welders were patching hull breaches.
"This way," Elena signaled, leading him toward the internal bulkheads. The two Marines fell in behind them, their boots clanking rhythmically on the deck plates.
They walked through the corridors, and every fifty feet, a bulkhead door stood open. Mark had to consciously force himself not to nod at the crewmen they passed. He saw faces he knew, faces that had aged a decade in the last three years.
He saw a Chief Petty Officer yelling at a junior spacer about a loose coupling. It was Chief Michael. The man had grey in his beard now, and a limp he hadn't had before.
They took a turbolift deep into the belly of the ship, past the crew quarters, past the mess halls, down to the secure decks.
"Medical is on Deck 5," Elena said as the lift hummed, the lights flickering slightly, a sign of power fluctuations in the main grid. "It's a restricted zone. The Admiral... requires specialized environmental controls. The ship's ambient life support isn't stable enough for his condition."
"Is he conscious?" Mark asked, though he already knew the answer. He needed to hear it. He needed the reality to settle in.
"No," Elena said softly, staring at the floor numbers ticking down. "He's been in a coma since the extraction. The trauma to his system was... extensive. The doctors say his mind is active, his brain wave patterns are erratic, but strong. It's just that his body has shut down to repair itself. We kept him in stasis to prevent organ failure and to stop any pain."
The lift stopped with a jolt. The doors opened to a pristine white corridor that felt miles away from the grimy cargo bay. The noise of the ship faded here, replaced by the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft, insistent hiss of high-grade ventilation.
A security checkpoint manned by two heavily armored Naval Guards blocked the path. They held K-273 Rifles, the ones with conventional ammo, and their visors were opaque.
"Commander Rhen," the lead guard saluted, snapping to attention. "And... guest."
"He's with me," Elena said, her voice brooking no argument. "Authorization Rhen-Alpha-Nine. Visitation protocol. Override level: Command."
The guard scanned Mark with a handheld device. It beeped green, though Mark felt a spike of adrenaline as the beam passed over his eyes, eyes that weren't human, eyes that were gifts from a species the IUC didn't even know existed.
"All clear," the guard said. "You have twenty minutes, Commander."
"Ten," Elena corrected, glancing at Mark. "Mr. Shephard has ten minutes."
She led him down the hall to the final door. It was marked ICU - BIO-STASIS. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Elena placed her hand on the panel. The biometric scanner flashed. The heavy blast door slid open with a whisper.
Mark stepped inside, and the breath left his lungs as if he'd been punched.
The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the massive, cylindrical tank in the center of the room. It was filled with a translucent blue fluid, thick and viscous, bubbling slowly from the filtration units at the base.
Suspended in the center of the tank, floating weightlessly, was Admiral Kaelen Strathmore.
Mark took a step forward, his legs feeling heavy, as if the gravity plating had suddenly been dialed up to ten Gs.
"Oh, Kaelen," he whispered, the name catching in his throat.
The man in the tank was a ruin.
Kaelen had always been a mountain of a man, a broad-shouldered, strong individual. He was the kind of man who filled a room just by standing in it. But the figure floating in the gel was broken, diminished.
His legs were gone. Both of them. Amputated high above the knee, the stumps were capped with silver surgical sealants and interface ports for cybernetics that hadn't been attached yet. The emptiness where his limbs should have been was a stark, horrifying void.
His back... Mark moved closer to the glass, fighting the urge to look away. Kaelen's spine was visible through the thin, pale skin of his back. It was encased in a terrifying exoskeleton of metal rods and braces that had been surgically bolted into the vertebrae. It looked less like medical treatment and more like scaffolding holding up a collapsing building.
His chest was covered in scarring, angry red lines that hadn't fully healed yet, shrapnel wounds, and scarring from surgery. A breathing mask covered the lower half of his face, tubes snaking out to the machinery above the tank like an umbilical cord.
He looked small. He looked like a tragedy.
Mark felt a stinging sensation in his eyes. He pressed a hand against the cold glass of the tank, his fingers spreading out as if trying to reach the man inside. This was the man who had taught him honor, duty, and how to fly. This was the man who had grieved for Mark when he "died."
And Mark hadn't been there to protect him.
"He was piloting the Retribution when it rammed an escaping ship," Elena said from the doorway. Her voice was devoid of emotion, a dam holding back a flood. "A structural beam pinned him, structural rods penetrated him, his lungs were collapsing, his chest was crushed... By the time we got him out and into surgery, the nerve damage was too severe. The spinal trauma was also... they did what they could."
Mark didn't look away from the floating figure. "Why did he ram a fleeing suspect?"
"Based on your file... I trust you can keep your mouth shut," Elena said, her voice cracking slightly. "It was personal."
Mark nodded slowly. He took a shaky breath, steadying the tremor in his hands.
"Commander," he said, his voice thick. "Could I... could I have a moment? Alone?"
Elena hesitated. "Protocol dictates-"
"Please," Mark interrupted, turning to look at her. The plea in his eyes was genuine, raw, and unguarded. "Just five minutes. I need... I need to say a prayer. For his son. For Mark. It's... It's a promise I made to a dead man."
Elena studied him. She looked at the pain etched into his face, pain that mirrored her own. She saw something in his eyes, a depth of grief that a simple contractor shouldn't have felt. She nodded once, curtly.
"Five minutes, Shephard. I'll be right outside the door. The Marines are watching the cameras, but the audio feed is cut. Don't make me regret this."
"Thank you," Mark said, genuinely.
The door slid shut, the hiss of the seal isolating Mark in the blue-lit silence of the mausoleum.
Mark waited for the latch to click. He turned back to the tank. He walked up until his forehead was resting against the cold glass, the condensation chilling his skin.
"Hey, pops," he whispered.
The word hung in the air, heavy and secret. It was the first time he had said it aloud in three years.
"I know you can't hear me," Mark continued, his voice trembling. "Or maybe you can. They say stasis is like a long dream. I hope it's a good dream. I hope you're fishing on Gaia-4. I hope you're sitting on that porch you always talked about building. I hope you're not... here."
He looked at the stumps of Kaelen's legs, the violence of the amputation making bile rise in his throat. Mark's hands curled into fists until his knuckles turned white.
"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm so sorry I didn't let you know I was alive. I just didn't know how to tell you I was alive when I... when I look the way I do. So I decided it would've been better to just... stay dead. But that left you with the desire for revenge... and just look at where revenge landed you."
Mark stepped back, pacing a small circle in front of the tank, his energy too frantic to stay still.
"It's a hell of a story, old man," He said. "You wouldn't believe it. Shit, I barely believe it myself."
He looked up at Kaelen's closed eyes. "I didn't die in the first crash into the atmosphere. Or hell, maybe I did during the descent. But, I sure as hell did die after falling almost 2 kilometers. My heart probably stopped... My lungs definitely collapsed. But I didn't stay dead. There was... something there. Someone."
Mark touched his own face, the face that wasn't his, the face that Kaelen wouldn't recognize. He traced the jawline that Anahrin had sculpted. "His name was Anahrin. He's... he's not human, pops. He was something else, something older. His race... is the parent race of humanity."
Mark let out a dry, humorless laugh. "He saved me, stitched me back together. But he didn't just fix my body, he changed it. He gave me this new face, kind of an upgrade, I'm sure you'd agree. I have strength that surpasses all human standards, and my mind... It's like I can absorb information like a sponge and learn things very quickly."
He looked at his hands, turning them over, remembering the feeling of tearing the Simulacrum apart. "He taught me so many things, so much about technology, especially ship engineering. So I began my journey here, to one of the best places to start a company. I came to Mechanicus station, where I thought I could just... exist. With my newfound knowledge, I wanted to create new things. To help advance humanity."
He smiled, a genuine, soft smile that reached his eyes for the first time since entering the room.
"And then I came across Lyra." He looked at Kaelen, wishing the man could see the picture of the little girl in his mind. "She just turned nine, and she's... she's a handful. She's smart, pops. Too smart. I found her... I found her aboard a pirate frigate I had disabled. Her mother was a slave, and she died during the battle. Her father was the piece of shit pirate captain who saw the attack as a chance to get rid of her. I saw her on her knees before her mother's corpse. I thought she was in a state of shock, but no... she was just blind and deaf. And I... I saw myself in her. I saw the kid who stared into the alley where his mother's dead and empty eyes looked back at him after the attack on our colony."
Mark's voice cracked, a sob escaping his chest. "I didn't want to care. I tried not to. I told myself I wasn't father material. I told myself I was a broken man who didn't even know where he was going to end up. But I fell for it. I fell for the trap. I grew attached, and when I was going to give her away... she called me... Papa."
Tears were streaming down Mark's face now, dripping onto the pristine white floor. "Well, what can you do when a child innocently calls you Papa as you're about to turn her in to an orphanage? I adopted her. I'm a dad, Kaelen. And it's... it's a gift. But it's the hardest thing I've ever done. Harder than the Academy. Harder than the skirmishes I fought. Harder than dying."
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, sniffing loudly. "And because of her, I decided to build. I started a business called Shephard Orbital Works. And though it took its time, it's taking off now. I just signed a contract with the Navy, and another one with your fleet. I'm going to fix your ships. In the future, I'll try my hardest to make it so that a ship can protect its users... so that no other son has to see his father in a tank."
He laughed through the tears. "But of course, nothing is easy. Someone tried to kill me. SIGS sent a hit squad of men, failed, and then sent in a hit squad of Simulacrums."
Mark's expression darkened. The sadness evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard edge. "But I killed them. I ripped the Simulacrums apart with my bare hands. And in those moments, all I could think about was that I could not leave Lyra alone. I realized then... I realized why you did what you did all those years. Why you forced me to try so hard. To do so well. Why you fought so hard."
Mark took a deep breath, steadying himself. He checked the chrono on the wall. Two minutes left.
"I'm going to fix this, pops," he promised, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm going to fix your ships, and if I can, I'm going to fix you. I'm going to build an empire that can protect Lyra. But at least you got the bastard that did this to you."
He placed his hand on the glass one last time, pressing hard enough to turn his fingertips white. "One last thing... I have something straight out of fantasy. A system. It's locked for the time being, but one of the hidden missions I accomplished was called 'The Shepherd is a Wolf'... I guess that it'll be some time before this wolf bears its fangs, but when I do... I'll burn SIGS down to the ground. And if the galaxy is just as fucked as these corporations? Then I'll tear the galaxy apart and rebuild it if I have to. There are other, bigger threats to us out there. And if humanity can't get their shit together..... then I guess I'll be forced to do it for them."
Due to his heightened sense, he heard footsteps approaching from outside the door. The five minutes were up.
Mark closed his eyes, composing himself. He wiped his face, pushing the grief and the rage back down into the box where he kept his past. He straightened his spine, rolling his shoulders back. He assumed the mask of Mark Shephard, the confident, slightly arrogant pu-and-coming businessman.
But before he pulled away, he reached out and softly tapped the glass of the stasis pod twice. It was their signal. It was the thing Kaelen had always done to Mark's shoulder before going on an assignment. It meant "Stay sharp. Come home."
"Sleep well, old man," Mark whispered. "I've got the helm."
The door hissed open behind him.
"Mr. Shephard," Elena's voice came from the doorway, soft but firm. "Time is up."
Mark didn't turn immediately. He looked at the floating figure one last time, etching the image of the broken hero into his mind. He would use that image. He would use it as fuel for the fires of his printers. He would use it to burn away his hesitation.
He turned around. His face was dry, his expression somber but composed. He walked past Elena, nodding his head in thanks.
"He's a fighter," Mark said as he passed her, his voice steady. "He'll wake up. He's too stubborn to die."
"I hope you're right," Elena said, her voice small, the command stripped away for a fleeting second.
They walked out of the room, the heavy blast door sliding shut behind them, the pneumatic hiss sounding like a final breath, sealing the Admiral back in his blue tomb.
Mark walked away, back to his daughter, back to the life he had built from the ashes of the one Kaelen had given purpose.
But back in the room, inside the pressurized tank, the fluid drifted lazily around the suspended form of Admiral Strathmore. The blue light cast long, shifting shadows across his scarred chest.
The machines hummed. The heart monitor beeped a slow, steady rhythm, a metronome for a life on pause.
And there, in the corner of Kaelen Strathmore's closed left eye, a muscle twitched. The firing of a synapse that should have been dormant.
Slowly, a single tear squeezed out from beneath the eyelid.
---
Book 2 has wrapped up at Chapter 50, which is a short 13,400 words, and Book 3 has hit the ground running with new chapters! That means that you can read up to 28 Advanced Chapters on my Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/cw/Crimson_Reapr
But listen closely now. I'm currently writing Chapter 15, so that number will naturally increase to 29 by the end of the day.
Also, since spring break just began, I'll be trying to shoot for about 4-5 chapters a week, maybe even more, on Patreon.
Crimson_Reapr is the name, and writing Sci-fi is the way.