After leaving my apartment, I walked through the streets under the moon—the moon my ancestors had sung into existence—to make my way to the Exploration Council headquarters. The streets of Helion at night were a different creature: the blue crystal towers didn't shine with reflected sunlight, but seemed to emanate their own light from within, a cold, elegant glow that illuminated the avenues without the need for streetlights.
I still had my hands in my pockets, not because it was cold—the climate was perfectly controlled—but out of habit. As I walked, my eyes caught the advertisements on the holographic screens covering the building facades. They weren't simple commercials; they were moving works of art: landscapes of distant planets, exotic creatures, offers for interstellar travel, announcements of new jump technologies. All in perfect synchronization, without intrusive sound.
And people. Many people. Helions walking with that efficient grace we possessed, some talking quietly, others laughing, groups sitting on floating benches eating something from street stalls emitting deliberately tempting aromas.
I observed every detail of what was happening around me with an intensity that surprised me. Like a curious child going out for the first time with his parents, or alone with a tutor. I had been on other planets for so long—alone, alert, in survival mode—that the bustling normality of my own world now seemed strange and fascinating to me.
As I walked, I stopped at a stall selling cristalinas—Helionian sweets made of crystallized sugars and essences from fruits of other planets. I bought a small bag and continued walking towards my destination, eating the translucent pieces that shimmered with soft colors.
They were delicious, with that perfect balance between sweet and sour that only Helionian master confectioners achieved. But even so, they didn't compare to the meals my older brother prepared for me. Nairo didn't follow perfect recipes; he cooked with memory, with intention. His dishes tasted of care. These sweets only tasted of something fleeting.
After walking a bit longer, I finally arrived in front of the Exploration Council headquarters.
It was a structure that inspired respect not for its height, but for its presence. It wasn't very tall—only about seventy-four floors—but each floor was massive, with facades that curved gently like outstretched wings. The material wasn't blue crystal like the residential towers, but an alloy of silvery-white metal that seemed to absorb and re-emit the moonlight. During the day, under the three suns, it must have been blinding, but it isn't. Now, at night, the thousands of windows lit from within made it seem like a column of solid light, imposing and beautiful at the same time.
As expected, there was a constant flow of people entering and exiting through the giant sliding doors. I saw everything from children—probably on educational visits—to young aspiring explorers with eyes shining with enthusiasm, and adults with the more tired but determined look of veterans. The Council wasn't just a place of bureaucracy; it was the beating heart of Helionian expansion and understanding of the cosmos.
I was still outside, watching the comings and goings, when I finally made up my mind and crossed the grand entrance.
Inside, the space was so vast that for a moment I felt like I was in a public square rather than a building. The central atrium rose to the ceiling seventy stories high, crossed by transparent walkways and elevators that moved silently like drops of mercury in glass tubes. There were even more people here than outside, forming a constant but not overwhelming murmur.
Groups conversed in circles, others reviewed floating screens with mission data, some were absorbed in their personal monitors. On the curved walls, giant screens displayed real-time information: stellar maps with flashes indicating ongoing explorations, news of recent discoveries, announcements of ship design competitions, commercials for state-of-the-art equipment.
I tilted my head back a little, looking up. In the center of the atrium, suspended in the air by anti-gravity fields, floated a dynamic sculpture of the Helion system: our blue-white planet, with the three suns—Prime, Secundus, and Tertius—orbiting it in a slow, eternal dance. The suns were solid spheres, and condensations of light that pulsed softly. It was an artistic representation, and a scientific one, but it captured the essence of our home: a balance forged by will.
I turned my head slightly and saw people on the balconies of the upper floors, some looking down as I had done, others leaning on the railings talking, some simply observing the central sculpture. Life here was vertical as much as it was horizontal.
After a while of simply observing, I remembered why I was here. I headed towards one of the reception desks, where a Helionian woman with short silver hair and an impeccable uniform attended with a professional but genuine smile.
"Good evening," I said. "I came to receive... praise from the superiors. A medal."
The receptionist—her badge read "Lyra"—raised an eyebrow slightly, but her smile widened. She must have been used to explorers with direct, unceremonious ways of speaking.
"Identification?" she asked, her fingers already on the holographic touch interface of her desk.
I showed her my ID. A beam of light scanned my card and confirmed my biometric signature.
Lyra looked at her screen, and her eyes opened a little wider. She must have been seeing the summary of my mission on Luminus: "Survival in high-level hostile environment," "Contact and neutralization of major ecosystem entity," "First confirmed contact with planetary psionic network," "Planet christened and registered: LUMINUS."
"Congratulations, then," she said, and this time her smile was warm, not just professional. "You're here for your medal. Proceed to the central elevator to the fifty-seventh floor. Councilor Zed is waiting for you. Have a pleasant journey."
"Thank you," I replied, taking the physical access card she handed me—"just in case," her gesture said. On Helion, there was always redundancy.
I headed to the central elevators—not the fast individual capsules, but the large panoramic cabins that rose along the exterior of the atrium. I pressed the destination, and the doors closed without a sound.
I wasn't alone. Inside were three other people: an older man with stellar cartographer badges, a young woman in a jump systems engineer uniform, and a teenager looking around with wide eyes, probably his first time here. No one spoke. Helion elevators had that unspoken etiquette of silence, unless you knew each other.
The cartographer got off on floor 22, the engineer on 41. The teenager and I continued upward, him shooting me furtive glances. Finally, he got off on floor 53. I was alone for the last four floors, watching through the transparent wall as the Helion system sculpture grew small below.
Ding.
Floor 57. The doors opened.
This level was different. Quieter, with thick carpet underfoot and walls paneled with petrified wood from some distant planet. There were no crowds here, only a few officials walking with purpose. I followed the holographic directions to a discreet door marked simply: COUNCILOR Zed - REWARD RECEPTION.
Upon entering, I found a small but elegantly furnished room. At a minimalist design desk sat Councilor Zed—a middle-aged man with closely cropped graying hair and penetrating gray eyes. He wore the simple dark blue tunic of high Council officials. In front of him, on a black silk cushion, rested a medal.
"Dorian Astra," he said, his voice serene but weighty. "Take a seat."
I sat in the chair facing him. There were no long speeches, no questions about mission details. Zed must have had access to my full report and the data I had Omega send. On Helion, we valued efficiency.
"The Council recognizes your exceptional service in the Luminus mission," he continued, taking the medal. "Not only for surviving and fulfilling exploration objectives, but for demonstrating discernment in handling a High-class anomaly, and for adding a name to our stellar map."
The medal was simpler than I expected. Not an ostentatious golden disk, but a dark blue metal hexagon, about the size of a large coin. In its center, a geometrically patterned engraving with atomic precision that, upon close inspection, seemed to contain a miniature map of the constellation where Luminus was located. It weighed almost nothing.
"It's not an ornament," Zed clarified, as if reading my thoughts. "It's a high-priority link to the Council, and an access key to certain... reserved resources. Always carry it."
I nodded and took it. It was cool to the touch.
"There's something else," Zed added, and his tone changed slightly. "Your next mission is scheduled for within a week. And it will be a team mission."
He waited for my reaction. I said nothing, but he must have noticed the slight change in my posture.
"I know your record is mostly solo operations or with your brother," he continued. "But this objective requires multiple coordination. It's a world designated 'Veridia' in the preliminary catalogs. Readings indicate... ecological complexity and signs of sophisticated intelligent activity. Not the brute-force type of Luminus. Patterns of construction, long-range communication, possibly art."
A world with intelligent inhabitants. Not just beasts, but a civilization. The kind of place I had been thinking about just hours before.
"The team is already being formed," Zed said. "You will be assigned a role of advanced reconnaissance and primary contact, given your recent experience. You will receive the details and the profiles of your teammates within three days."
I wasn't furious at the idea of a team, but I wasn't jumping for joy either. Teams meant coordination, compromise, having to worry about others besides myself. I had only truly worked in a team with Nairo, and that was different. He was my brother. We understood each other without words. With strangers... it would be an adjustment.
But it wasn't a bad option either. And a part of me—the part that had grown bored watching advertisements on the street, the part that yearned for another world to explore—was already intrigued. Veridia. A name that sounded of life, of green, of growth.
"Understood," I finally said, standing up, the medal already secure in an inner pocket.
"Have a pleasant journey home, Dorian," Zed said, and for the first time, a very small smile appeared on his lips. "And good luck with the team."
I left the room, the headquarters, and returned to the moonlit streets. The medal weighed little in my pocket, but I could feel it. And the idea of Veridia, of a team, of something new, was already beginning to take root in my mind.
I shouldn't be worrying so much, I reminded myself. I've survived a Primordial Guardian. Could a team of Helion explorers be worse?
Or maybe they could.
But I could hardly wait to find out.