The years after the Writ were not years of peace. They were years of steel.
Arcadia's survivors carried themselves like iron, but iron bends with time. The wounds of the fall, the scars of the Rogue Trader's war, and the Mechanicus assault had taken their toll. Harlock knew they could not endure forever without new blood.
And so, the Arcadia opened her steel halls to outsiders. Refugees from ruined colonies. Mercenaries abandoned by their lords. Drifters who swore loyalty to the Skull Prow. They came in trickles, in waves, sometimes in whole families. They were not Arcadian by blood — but survival blurred such lines.
Training decks became crucibles.
Old Arcadians, scarred and weary, stood as instructors. Children born aboard the ship learned to march before they learned to read. Outsiders sweated and bled to prove their worth. Wooden cutlasses cracked against each other in endless drills, while las-fire snapped across live-fire ranges. The mess halls grew louder, fuller, their accents mixing into a rough Gothic dialect unique to the ship.
Harlock watched the change from the shadows of the galleries. He saw boys stumbling beneath the weight of rifles, girls grinning through bruises, and men from other worlds bowing their heads as they swore oaths to Arcadia. He saw veterans limping as they drilled their replacements, some too broken for the next war but determined to pass on what they knew.
And he began to notice individuals.
On the gunnery deck, a girl no older than fourteen leaned into the recoil of a practice-cannon, her small hands sure upon the levers. Her instructor muttered that she had the aim of a hawk.
In the lower engine-works, a former Mechanicus bondsman bent over conduits, ignoring the old litanies and muttering her own, half-prayer, half-curse, as sparks rained across her scarred face. The Arcadians eyed her warily, but no one denied the engines ran smoother after her work.
Among the new recruits, one voidsman stood out — not by flash or arrogance, but by sheer survival. Drill after drill, fight after fight, he endured, steady and unbroken.
And in the training halls, Harlock's eye lingered on a voice like a rasping whip — an old soldier barking orders, his frame bent but his spirit unyielding. Children snapped to attention at his command, as if his very words carried iron.
Harlock did not speak to them. Not yet. They were seedlings, not trees. But he remembered their faces, their voices. In time, some would rise. Others would fall.
The Arcadia was no longer only a ship of survivors. She was becoming something else — a ship of generations. A ship of outsiders reforged into Arcadians.
But nations born of steel bred enemies. And Harlock knew each boy and girl drilling in the halls would one day be needed.
For the galaxy was watching, and it would not forgive the Skull Prow.
⚔️ This version plants the seeds of future crew but doesn't elevate them yet. They're glimpses in the crowd — waiting for later chapters to grow naturally into roles of importance.
Would you like the next chapter (XXIX) to show Harlock navigating the political weight of his Writ — his first cautious dealings with Imperial officials, while his people slowly sharpen themselves into a true fleet?