After Omega told me that the Exploration Council had requested my presence to receive a medal—for my performance, the discoveries I made, and my "good work" on the planet Luminus—I declined without a second thought.
Not out of arrogance, but because of that feeling of inadequacy that had taken hold of me ever since I contemplated and remembered how it was created, the moon my ancestors had sung into existence. A medal? For what? For surviving where others died. For purifying a corrupt fragment I shouldn't even have touched. For naming a planet that already had its own name in the silent language of its ecosystems.
But I still had to go to the Council headquarters. It's not like I was rebelling against them or anything. As Nairo said on one occasion, this is just my… post-mission rebellious phase. A phase where every award feels insufficient, every pat on the back sounds hollow.
Maybe it was because I was thinking about my ancestors, "The Twilight Weavers," that I felt what I had done on Luminus was no big deal. They tamed suns. Created a moon. Wove night into the firmament. I… killed a big monster. Wrote a report. Almost died several times.
But thinking about it now, I am not, nor am I anywhere close to being what they were. And maybe I never will be. Maybe that level of power was lost with them, or maybe it just sleeps in some corner of our genetic code, waiting for someone crazy or inspired enough to awaken it again.
So, thinking it over, I should go receive it. It's not like they're going to announce it to every inhabitant of Helion. It'll be a discreet ceremony in a blue marble hall, with three or four elders from the Council, a hologram of my report floating in the background, and a handshake.
And it would also be strange to refuse it. It's the first time I'm receiving one, after all. And technically, I discovered remnants of ancient Helions—the Sigma-12—and completed a high-risk mission with total success. It's what's expected of an Astra.
I also told Omega to reply to my brother's message, saying I was coming down now.
I continued observing the night city for another good while. The reflections of my eyes in the glass now looked as they really are: green, with that orange spark inherited from our genetic line. Not the icy blue of activated Helion, but the color of my normality. Or of what passes for normality.
After a blue flash in my eyes that lasted only a few seconds—a residual echo of the power, a phantom pulse—I stepped back from the window. I headed to the bedroom door and left.
Passing through a silent hallway illuminated by strips of blue light integrated into the floor, I arrived at the room where Nairo had already prepared dinner.
"What were you doing in your room that you're only coming down now?" he asked without looking up from the plate he was finishing with aromatic herbs.
"I was standing by the window, looking at the city," I replied, not lying entirely. I didn't mention the existential crisis. He'd sniff it out anyway.
"Alright. And they still haven't called you about your achievements," he said, changing the subject with the elegance of someone who knows exactly when to push and when to let go.
"Ach…ieve…ments," I responded, my mouth full of a piece of meat so juicy it almost made me forget that Omega had told me about it just moments before.
"Yes, from the Exploration headquarters," Nairo added, pouring me more water.
"Oh, yeah. They already contacted me," I admitted, taking another bite.
"Good, then you must go tomorrow. Though it's not like you couldn't go right now anyway," he pointed out, in a tone that wasn't a suggestion but a barely disguised fact.
"But I'm not going now," I protested, knowing it was futile.
"Aren't you happy about your first medal?" Nairo asked, with a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. That smile that said, "I'm studying you, little brother, and I don't like what I see."
"Of course I'm happy, but…" I tried to explain, but he cut me off before I could finish.
"No buts, nothing. Once you finish dinner, you'll go there immediately," he declared, this time not smiling. His tone was that of a commander, not an older brother.
"Are you already further along in your rebellious phase? Though it's not like you're obedient," he added afterward, with a touch of affectionate exasperation.
I knew when a battle was lost. I took a deep breath, set down my fork, and nodded.
"Fine, fine, whatever you say. I'll go after dinner."
"That's more like it, little brother," Nairo said, and his smile returned, genuine this time. To celebrate, he took a grape from the center of the table and tossed it to me. I caught it mid-air with my mouth. A childish, ridiculous gesture, yet it reminded me of a thousand past dinners, a thousand fights, a thousand lost battles.
After dinner, I headed to my room. I didn't need special attire—my everyday clothes were sufficient for a discreet Council ceremony—but I opened a drawer and took out my chain. It's not a piece of technology, nor a Helion artifact.
It's just that: a simple metal chain, of a dark silver, from which hangs a small stylized sun symbol, with three rays entwined. Nairo gave it to me the day I graduated from the Exploration Academy. "So you don't forget where you come from," he said. "And to which suns you owe your existence."
I put it on. The metal was cold against my skin for a moment, then took on my temperature. Then I left the room.
Since Nairo and I lived on the top floor—the 100th floor, though technically the 96th is the last habitable one; the four above are for maintenance systems, the training rooms among other things we have for ourselves—I took the private elevator. The doors closed silently, and the descent began, so smooth I barely felt the movement.
I was alone inside the cube of polished glass and metal. My reflection stared back at me: a young guy in simple clothes, a chain around his neck, and an expression I couldn't tell if was annoyance or resignation. I descended 95 floors. Our building wasn't the tallest in the district—there are towers that disappear into the clouds—but it wasn't among the shortest either. It was right at the sweet spot: high enough for privacy and the view, close enough to the ground not to feel completely disconnected.
When the doors opened onto the main lobby, the air was different. Not the filtered, personalized air of our apartment, with its scent of Helionian flowers and ozone-clean freshness. Here it smelled of crowds, of dozens of personal perfumes mixed together, of the remnants of food from the restaurants integrated into the tower's base, of the static energy of hundreds of portable devices. It smelled of urban life, of everyday Helion.
I was on a wide balcony—though it could be considered an entire floor. I could see the people below: couples strolling, groups laughing, individuals absorbed in their floating screens. Some wore elegant tunics, others functional work clothes, others outfits that seemed straight from exotic planets. The diversity of Helion, at least in this part of the city.
After looking around—not searching for anything in particular, just absorbing the spectacle of normality—I descended a staircase of blue-lit steps and exited through a large automatic door that slid open without a sound.
And then, like a beautifully cold slap of reality, the live nocturnal beauty of Helion presented itself before me.
No longer through the glass of my room, filtered and distant. This was immersive, tactile, complete. The night breeze—almost artificial in origin but real in sensation—hit my face, moving my hair. The air smelled of clean ozone, the distant sweetness of vertical gardens, and that metallic, electric something that always smells of progress, of living technology.
Before me, the main avenue stretched out like a river of light. The blue crystal skyscrapers didn't just glow from within; their facades displayed moving patterns, subtle advertisements, generative artworks that changed according to the city's data traffic. Silent vehicles glided along aerial lanes at different heights, leaving phosphorescent light trails that slowly faded.
On the sidewalks, people walked without haste but with purpose. Floating objects—delivery packages, robotic pets, discreet surveillance drones—moved in harmony with the pedestrian flow.
And above it all, the moon. Their moon. The moon that the Twilight Weavers had created. It shone with a cold, silvery light, so real, so physical, that it was hard to believe it hadn't been there since the beginning of time. It illuminated the edges of buildings, created deep, poetic shadows, reflected on the water surfaces in the parks. It was beautiful. And it was a monument to the power of my own blood.
The Exploration Council headquarters wasn't far—about a twenty-minute walk from my tower. So I decided to walk. I didn't call a vehicle or ask to go with my brother. I didn't activate my propulsion boots (which, by the way, I already had a new pair, identical to the ones destroyed on Luminus). Nor Helion.
I put my hands in my pants pockets, feeling the fabric automatically adjust to the outside temperature. My hair moved with the breeze. The city lights danced in my peripheral vision. I passed by a holographic fountain projecting shapes of distant constellations. I passed by a group of Helion children—their eyes shining with excitement—watching a street artist create light sculptures with gloved hands equipped with emitters.
Everything was… normal. Perfect. Controlled.
And for a moment, I missed the organic chaos of Luminus again. The real danger. The smell of damp earth and green blood. The sound of the singing trees. The certainty that at any moment, something could try to kill me.
It's as if I left something… a part of myself there.
But this is my home. This was what my ancestors had created so I would have a place to return to. A safe place. A place to receive my brother's care. After surviving what, outside these walls of crystal and order, was just another day's work.
So I kept walking, hands in my pockets, green eyes observing everything, the chain with the sun hanging against my chest, heading toward headquarters to receive my medal.
Not out of pride. Not out of ambition.
But because sometimes, accepting the award is part of the job. And because Nairo was right: a rebellious phase is fine, but even rebels need to know when to bow their heads and accept recognition.
At least for tonight.
At least under this moon my ancestors gifted me.