Year 4832.The dawn of the Baraken Empire.
It was a year etched into the bones of history — an age when humanity first bent light to its will. The invention of the first light-speed engines had shattered the ancient boundaries of distance. In the span of a few short years, worlds once thought unreachable were suddenly within reach.
But contact brought chaos. Unknown planets answered back. Machines that floated through the void descended upon colonies, cracking heavens and burning skies. Worlds fell — not to gods, but to the merciless ambition of sentient steel.
And then, from the ashes of disorder, unity was forged. The first intergalactic empire rose from the fractured systems of man — the Baraka.By the third year of their rule, they had already conquered entire sectors, crushing savage aggressors beneath the banners of their new dominion. The expansion had begun.
Now — ten thousand years before their own time — the crew of the Tartarusios stood face to face with that beginning.
The other ship drifted before them, silent and imposing. The crew stared, their hearts heavy with disbelief. Zoma's words still hung in the air like the echo of thunder.
They were in the past. Ten thousand years in the past.
Zoma's eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light of the control room. "Wanderers," she said, her voice calm, almost reverent, "I thank you. You have done what no one else could — you have brought me home. To my creators."Her tone softened, but the weight behind it did not. "The reason for my existence is finally complete. My last mission has begun."
The words settled over them like dust in a tomb. They had resurrected something ancient — and now it had purpose again.
Oscar slammed his fist on the console, his voice breaking the silence. "And what about us, Zoma? How the hell are we supposed to get back now?"
She turned to him slowly, her expression unreadable. "You have your ship," she said simply, her voice low and cold.
"What do you mean, you have your ship?" Oscar demanded.
Zoma's gaze drifted toward the floor — toward Youri, lying half-asleep with a bottle still in his hand, unbothered by the chaos around him. Her finger lifted toward him. "Ask your friend. It's not the first time he's walked out of a corridor stranded in another world."
The room went still. Zoma stepped toward the communications panel, her holographic hand brushing across its surface. "I will update your translator," she added softly. "So that you may speak with my creators. Consider it my final gift… for bringing me to destiny."
Then — the voice returned. Deep, steady, human.
"You will follow us to the station," said the man from the other ship. This time, every word was perfectly understood. And with it came the cold realization — they had no choice.
The Baraken space station loomed ahead — a massive, hulking relic orbiting just beyond the golden haze of Baraka's atmosphere. It was no marvel of sleek design. It was raw metal and human grit — a fortress of rust and iron, built not for beauty but survival.
Its hull was patched and uneven, seams welded thick, plates darkened by centuries of burn and corrosion. Docking rings rotated sluggishly around its center, and giant mechanical arms stretched outward, some broken, some frozen in place. Amber light from the planet below painted the steel in dim, dying color.
The Tartarusios and the other ship docked side by side, their airlocks hissing open in unison. Oscar, Halley, Bjorn, and Mario stepped onto the station's cold deck, Zoma's flickering projection beside them.
And there — waiting — was the man from the transmission.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his blonde hair brushed neatly back, his uniform pressed and pristine, the blue of his eyes clear as frozen water. His presence radiated control — not arrogance, but certainty born of command.
"I am Captain Mahin, of the Barbados, first ship of the Baraken fleet," he said, his voice deep and formal. "Who are you?"
The crew exchanged glances. Before anyone could speak, Zoma stepped forward. Her tone shifted — solemn, resonant, almost divine.
"We are gods," she said."We have come to grace you with our wisdom."
Mahin froze. The word struck him like thunder. Gods. Only hours ago, he himself had escaped the corridors — the very phenomenon that legends said belonged to divine beings. Could these strangers truly be what the old texts spoke of?
Zoma's gaze held his. "We are not from Sacros," she continued, her voice calm yet commanding, "but from far beyond. Will you grant us audience with your higher council?"
Mahin hesitated. By every rule of logic, he should have ordered them detained. And yet — he had seen too much. The corridors had opened before him. He had stared into the void and lived.
Common sense no longer applied.
He straightened his back, his tone steady but cautious. "Very well," he said at last. "Come with me."
As he led them through the echoing steel corridors of the station, the old metal beneath their boots groaned — as though the structure itself sensed the weight of what was unfolding.
History had just met its own ghost.