Federation Calendar, Year 58
The sterile glow of the Sim-Dome's exit corridor bathed Adrian Vale and Adeline Hart as they stepped out, the weight of his graduation certificate heavy in his hand. Dean Malcolm Reid had just informed Adrian that a commissioning ceremony was slated for 3 PM sharp—an honor reserved for him alone. Now, with the Martian horizon looming in his future, they walked side by side toward the academy's central plaza, the hum of distant machinery underscoring their steps.
"You're shipping out today?" Adeline's voice was soft, almost hesitant, as she matched his stride.
"Yeah," Adrian replied, glancing at her. "Admiral Marcus Sterling's orders. I'm hitching a ride with him post-ceremony."
Her lips parted, concern flickering in her hazel eyes. "But the front lines are—"
Adrian's hand shot up, gently pressing over her mouth before she could finish. "I know what's happening out there. More than you might think."
Adeline's gaze locked onto his, confusion knitting her brow. How could he know? The Federation's lockdown on frontline intel was ironclad, accessible only to those with clout like her own family, the Harts of the North American enclaves. Her eyes searched his, probing for answers he didn't offer.
Beneath the Federation's polished veneer of peace, a storm raged. Humanity's interstellar ascent had been meteoric—three star systems claimed in just over a decade: Proxima Centauri, Barnard's Star, and Epsilon Eridani. The euphoria of exploration had gripped the masses, visions of a boundless future dancing in their heads. But the cosmos had other plans.
The Orcus Empire crashed into humanity's path like a rogue comet. Who struck first was irrelevant; the void's law was merciless—eat or be eaten. For thirty brutal years, the Federation and Orcus clashed across the stars. Battlefronts bled from Epsilon Eridani to Barnard's Star, then Proxima, each system falling like dominoes. The Federation's three off-world fleets—once a proud armada of 150,000 warships—were reduced to ash and echoes. By the end, only the Fourth Fleet, anchored in the Solar System, stood defiant.
From its peak, the Federation's naval might shriveled to 30,000 vessels: 20,000 in the Fourth Fleet, 10,000 in the System Guard. Meanwhile, Orcus's armada, 200,000 strong, bore down on Sol.
In Federation Year 52, the Orcus juggernaut breached the Solar System. Admiral Marcus Sterling, newly minted commander of the Fourth Fleet, faced a grim calculus. With a ten-to-one disadvantage, a straight fight was suicide. Even his tactical genius couldn't stretch a casualty ratio beyond three-to-one in open void. His gambit: fall back to the Martian Garrison and lure the enemy into the asteroid belt's jagged maze.
Orcus took the bait, pressing to Jupiter's orbit unopposed. Three months later, their 200,000 ships threaded the asteroid belt—and Sterling struck. The ambush was a masterstroke, a three-day crucible of fire and steel. When the dust settled, the Fourth Fleet mourned 8,000 lost hulls. Orcus? They limped back to Jupiter with 80,000 ships gone, a staggering blow.
That clash crowned Sterling the Federation's God of War. But the victory came with a lie. To quell panic, the Federation spun a tale: Orcus's entire fleet was obliterated, the war won. Civilians bought the myth, celebrating a false peace. In truth, Orcus nursed 120,000 warships at Jupiter's edge, bottling humanity inside the asteroid belt. Worse, Sterling's gut told him they were biding time, awaiting reinforcements.
The Federation's calm was a facade, its future teetering on a knife's edge.
"Don't sweat it," Adrian said, breaking the silence with a cocky grin. "By the time you hit Mars next year, I might be pinning general's stars."
Adeline snorted, folding her arms. "You're nineteen, Adrian. A general at twenty? Delusional. Even Sterling was twenty-eight when he made major general."
"Bet you, then." His eyes glinted mischief. "If I'm a major general by the time you arrive, you're my girlfriend."
Her cheeks blazed crimson. "W-who'd bet on that?" she stammered, spinning on her heel and bolting down the path.
Adrian chuckled, shaking his head. "Tsundere as ever. Sigh, gotta report to the old man before I ship out. What a drag."
Back in his dorm, Adrian prepped for departure, but first, a call. He tapped his wrist-comm, the device humming to life. A stern voice answered.
"This is Solomon Vale."
"It's me."
"Speak."
"Just cleared my early graduation. Heading to Mars with Admiral Sterling after the ceremony today. Thought you should know."
A pause. "Is that so?"
"Is that so?" Adrian mimicked, exasperated. "Come on, old man, can you drop the stoic act for once?"
"What's there to say to a slacker like you? Get lost—I'm swamped."
"Swamped as always."
"You think I'm like you, napping the day away at that academy?"
"What's wrong with a good nap? Keeps me sharp, makes me unstoppable. I sleep, I win—simple math."
"You—!" Solomon's voice cracked with frustration, but he couldn't argue. Adrian's bizarre knack for thriving through laziness was undeniable.
Reports from academy insiders painted a maddening picture: Adrian dozed in lectures, snoozed post-drills, hunted every chance to catch a wink. Yet, the more he slept, the sharper he got. Years of it, and no instructor could touch him in sims. Solomon remembered a diligent boy, nose always in a holo-text. What had warped him into this?
The thought stoked his ire. "Infuriating boy"
"Look, old man, just saying farewell. Who knows when we'll chat next, right?"
Silence stretched across the comm. Solomon, as Federation President, knew the front's grim reality better than most. To shield Adrian's growth from his shadow, he'd buried his son's lineage under layers of falsified records. Not even Dean Reid knew Adrian was the President's heir.
The quiet lingered, heavy with unspoken weight.
"Watch yourself out there," Solomon finally said. "I won't be the one mourning a young fool."
"You're the one who needs to ease up on the stress," Adrian shot back.
Their banter was a ritual—barbed, yet laced with care. A father and son's coded bond.
Call ended, Adrian packed his kit with practiced efficiency. Time to spare, he flopped onto his bunk, eyes closing—not for sleep, but to dive into the Interface. Training never stopped.
By 3 PM, the academy's grand auditorium buzzed with confusion. Students and faculty packed the tiered seats, murmuring. A commissioning ceremony? The annual one had just passed. Who was this for?
Even instructors swapped puzzled glances, as clueless as their charges.
Dean Malcolm Reid ascended the stage, his presence silencing the crowd. His voice boomed, clear and commanding, unraveling the mystery—and igniting a storm of whispers.