Federation Calendar, Year 58
The admiral's office thrummed with the low hum of orbital life-support systems, a constant reminder of the void just beyond the reinforced viewports. Adrian Vale stood ramrod straight before Admiral Marcus Sterling's expansive desk, the weight of the command orders still warm in his grip. But it was the admiral's piercing gaze—sharp as a targeting laser—that set Adrian's nerves jangling. Those steel-gray eyes seemed to peel back layers, dissecting secrets Adrian had buried deep since his arrival in this universe.
"Commander, easy on the stare-down," Adrian said, forcing a lopsided grin to mask his unease. "You're making me feel like I'm under tactical scan."
Sterling leaned back in his high-backed chair, the leather creaking faintly under his frame. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Cut the act, kid. Everyone's got skeletons in the hold, but with your lineage? You know the storm we're sailing into. Pick your moments to play coy with that talent of yours."
Adrian swallowed, the reference to his father's shadowed position hitting like a proximity alert. Solomon Vale's influence was a galaxy away from the academy's bubble, but here, in the heart of the Fourth Fleet, it loomed large. "Point taken, sir. I accept the charge. I'll wring every bolt from that base. And hey—I've been chewing on some upgrades lately. Expect breakthroughs soon."
Sterling's nod was curt, approving. "That's the spirit. Your shadows are your own; I won't pry. But when the void calls for it, don't choke on your aces. Clear?"
"Crystal, Commander."
A sharp rap echoed from the hatch. "Enter," Sterling called, his voice regaining its parade-ground timbre.
The door hissed open, admitting a crisply uniformed adjutant. "Reporting as ordered, sir. Major Lena Sterling present."
The name clicked into place as the woman stepped forward, her boots clicking precisely on the deck plating. Adrian stole a sidelong appraisal, careful not to gawk. Early twenties, she'd have turned heads in any docking bay—raven hair pulled into a severe bun, features chiseled like Martian granite, every bit as striking as Adeline Hart's fiery elegance. But where Adeline burned with restrained passion, this one radiated an arctic chill.
Her epaulets gleamed with a major's bars, solid and unyielding. At her age? That wasn't handed out with morning rations. Cheats aside—like Adrian's Interface-fueled edge—this spoke of raw, relentless competence. Yet her aura was a force field of frost. Adrian half-expected rime to form on the bulkheads. The room's ambient temperature felt like it had dipped five degrees since she crossed the threshold, the air growing taut and brittle.
Sterling cleared his throat, a rare flicker of paternal warmth softening his cragged features. "Adrian, meet Major Lena Sterling. Your new adjutant. Make it work—synch your orbits, or we'll all feel the drag."
Adrian's brow furrowed as he met her gaze—cool, unblinking, like staring into a nebula's heart. Sterling caught the expression and sighed inwardly. My girl, when will the thaw come? he thought, masking his helplessness behind command poise.
What could Adrian say? The admiral's fond exasperation painted the picture clear as a star chart: father and daughter, worlds apart in temperament. Poor Sterling, saddled with an iceberg for an heir.
"Understood, sir," Adrian replied, snapping a salute.
"The 101st is yours now. Don't scuff the paint."
"Aye, sir!"
As Adrian absorbed the weight of it all, a dual chime sang in his neural feed: Ding! Mission 1 complete: True fleet command secured—ten-plus vessels under your flag. Reward unlocked: Warp Drive schematics.
Ding! Overachievement detected. Hidden bonus activated: Industrial Automation Protocols.
Adrian's pulse spiked, joy bubbling beneath his stoic mask. A hidden perk? First time for everything. With a squadron, a fabrication-ready dock, and now warp tech plus robotic assembly lines, the pieces were slotting into place. Near-perfect. Almost. A cadre of egghead specialists would seal it—he couldn't moonlight as lead researcher amid command drills.
"Report," Sterling prompted, arching a brow.
Adrian blinked back to the moment. "Sir, any chance of loaning some lab coats to the 101st? I'd rather not pivot to full-time boffin."
The admiral chuckled, a gravelly rumble. "Anticipated that. Team's assembled—waiting at your port."
"Grateful, Commander."
"Orders in hand—now clear out, both of you."
Sterling flicked a dismissive wave. Adrian saluted sharply, pivoted on his heel, and strode for the hatch. Lena fell in step a precise meter behind, her presence a silent shadow.
The transit to Medium Orbital Starport 27 unfolded in oppressive quiet. The shuttle's cabin, sleek and utilitarian, amplified the void between them. Adrian shifted in his acceleration couch, the hum of the fusion drive mocking his discomfort. Finally, he cracked.
"Major Sterling—Lena—we're in this for the long haul. What's your wheelhouse? Strengths, specialties?"
"Everything," she replied, her tone flat as vacuum, eyes fixed on the passing bulkheads.
Adrian blinked. "Uh... narrow it down? What shines brightest?"
"Everything."
The word hung there, an impenetrable barrier. Adrian rubbed his temple. "...Fine. Mind guiding the way? Mars is still Greek to me."
Without a syllable, Lena unstrapped, rose, and advanced two paces to the fore. She marched onward, back ramrod straight, not a glance spared.
Adrian trailed, jaw clenched against a sigh. Sister, dial it back—this is frosty on frostbite levels. Reshaping Adeline's guarded spark seemed child's play next to chiseling warmth from this glacier. Ten meters ahead, Lena pressed on undeterred. Adrian lengthened his stride, matching her relentless clip.
Thirty minutes blurred by in that wordless procession: shuttle hops, maglev sprints through echoing concourses lined with humming conduits and flickering status holos. Lena's silence was a masterclass in endurance, her expression an unchanging alloy mask. Adrian's mind raced to fill the gap—Gorgeous adjutant? Should be a perk. Instead, it's like bunking with a cryo-unit. He vented inwardly, a torrent of wry quips unspoken, teetering on the edge of exasperated laughter.
At last, the shuttle kissed the docking clamp at Starport 27, the 101st's new nerve center. Adrian shook off the frost, steeling himself. First command, first address to the ranks. Botch the tone, and he'd be swimming upstream from day one.
The airlock cycled with a pneumatic sigh, spilling them into the port's cavernous berth. Adrian paused at the threshold, drinking in the vista: one hundred forty-four warships cradled in skeletal gantries, their hulls a symphony of angular lethality under the floodlamps' glare. Carriers loomed like predatory behemoths, battlecruisers poised as swift enforcers, cruisers and destroyers in tiered ranks, frigates darting like schooling predators. A flawless array, humming with latent fury.
Satisfaction bloomed in his chest. Ideal lineup. Almost. If only the ice sculpture at his elbow could muster a smile.
"Adjutant, muster the fleet—all hands to the starport."
"Affirmative."
Lena's fingers danced over her wrist-optic, interfacing with the base net. Her voice, amplified and edged with command synth, boomed through every comm grate and personal implant: "All personnel, assemble in the starport immediately. Repeat: full muster, starport assembly, now."
The klaxons whooped once, then fell silent. Echoes of boots on deck plating swelled as crew streamed in from every hatch and ladderwell—engineers wiping grease from callused hands, gunners in scarred vac-suits, bridge officers with data-slates clutched like talismans. They formed ragged ranks under the port's vast arch, a sea of black uniforms rippling with curiosity and fatigue.
Adrian activated his own optic's broadcast mode, volume cranked to fill the expanse. He stepped forward onto a maintenance gantry, the metal thrumming under his boots, and faced his new charges. Spotlights snapped on, bathing him in harsh white, casting long shadows across the deck.
"Shipmates of the 101st Combined Squadron," he began, voice steady and amplified, carrying to the farthest fringes. "I'm Adrian Vale. Nineteen standard years. Your new commanding officer."
A ripple passed through the formation—murmurs, shifted stances, skeptical glances exchanged like contraband. Nineteen? Colonel's eagles on that fresh face? Taking the conn of a battlegroup? The whispers ignited like plasma flares.
Kid from some core-world dynasty, slumming for polish?
Front's a meat grinder—gilding the lily with nepotism?
Major general's slot for a bootie? Federation's lost its vector.
It wasn't paranoia; the math didn't parse. A squadron this heft—carriers slinging drone wings, battlecruisers packing spinal lances—warranted a flag officer with decades in the black. Not a teen phenom, no matter the hype.
Eyes turned on Adrian, hardening from curious to cold. Distrust etched lines in weathered faces, a wall of folded arms and narrowed stares. The air thickened, charged with the unspoken: Prove it, whelp, or step aside.
Adrian met their scrutiny unflinching.