The Stardust slipped back into realspace.
The warp engine's hum faded, and the kaleidoscopic tunnels of light collapsed into a cold, profound darkness. This was not the United Earth Government's territory.
There were no streams of civilian freighters, no neon advertisements drifting in the void. Even the starlight felt clinical and distant.
In the shadows of the star system's edge, several black, angular warships patrolled on fixed vectors. They were devoid of decoration—stripped-down predators bristling with sensor arrays and railgun muzzles.
The Stardust, with its sleek lines and pristine hull, looked like a swan that had blundered into a wolf's den. Almost instantly, three interceptors launched from a carrier's hangar, boxing the ship in a tight triangular formation.
"Unidentified vessel, kill your engines and state your purpose," a flat, synthesized voice crackled over the comms. "Any unauthorized maneuvers will be treated as a hostile act."
Reinhardt complied, cutting the main thrusters. He opened an unencrypted broadcast. "This is the Stardust. I am an unarmed civilian with no hostile intent."
He gave the name of the ship's previous owner. A long silence followed while they ran the data.
"That ID isn't in our local logs, and your warp trajectory wasn't registered. Where are you from?"
"A distant place," Reinhardt said. "A world forgotten by time, destroyed by xenos."
The silence returned, but when the voice spoke again, the mechanical tone had shifted into a hard command. "Stardust, you are being requisitioned. Follow our lead to 'Vanguard' for inspection. Move now."
Vanguard was less a base and more a hollowed-out asteroid, its surface a jagged mess of turret emplacements and missile silos. Under escort, the Stardust touched down in a cavernous underground hangar that smelled of ozone and heavy machine oil. Rows of utilitarian military transports stood in the dim light.
As the Stardust's ramp lowered, soldiers in slate-gray fatigues leveled rifles at the exit. Reinhardt walked down barefoot, his rags fluttering in the recycled air—a sharp contrast to the luxury ship behind him.
A scanning drone hummed over him, its red beam flickering across his skin.
"No weapons detected. No cybernetic anomalies. Vital signs normal. Human."
The soldiers didn't lower their rifles, but the tension eased slightly. "Come with us."
Reinhardt was led through corridors of exposed pipe and raw steel. Every junction was guarded by an automated heavy turret. It was a place designed for one thing: the efficient application of violence.
He was brought into a sterile interrogation room where a man in a Major's uniform waited.
"Sit. I am Victor, Security Chief," the officer said. "Tell me who you are and why you're at the Dominion border."
"My name is unimportant," Reinhardt replied, his gaze steady. "I come from a human world overrun by aliens. My people are dead."
Victor frowned. "Which world? We have no record of it."
"It was an old colony, lost for millennia. You won't find it on a map."
Victor leaned in. "And the ship? It's registered to a UEG merchant. That doesn't fit the 'lost survivor' narrative."
"I killed him and took it."
The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Victor scrutinized him. "Why?"
"He traded with monsters. He bartered human resources for alien luxuries and tried to marry his daughter to one of those creatures to secure a contract. Such a man does not deserve the breath in his lungs, and his property belongs to the cause of humanity."
Victor searched Reinhardt's eyes for madness or a lie. He found neither—only a pure, bottomless hatred for the xenos and those who collaborated with them. It was a look Victor saw every day in his own veterans, but in Reinhardt, the fire was absolute.
In the observation room, Colonel Marcus watched the feed.
"He's not lying," Marcus muttered, rubbing a scar on his chin. "But his ideology... it's more aggressive than ours."
"Our policy is survival and isolation, sir," his adjutant noted. "This man speaks of a sacred duty to purge."
Marcus didn't answer. He stood up and walked into the interrogation room. Victor immediately rose to salute.
"Your words are fine, stranger," Marcus said, looming over Reinhardt. "But words are cheap. You say you came to find warriors. You say you want to cleanse the stars. Fine."
Marcus tapped a holographic map, highlighting a desolate mining world.
"Mining planet K-7. We abandoned it a week ago, but a small alien scouting party has moved in. I was going to send a platoon to wipe them out, but I've changed my mind. I'll send a five-man squad, and you'll go as the sixth. Consider it an interview. Show me what this 'purification' looks like."
Reinhardt stood, his expression unchanging, as if he had seen this moment coming long before he arrived.
"This is not a test," Reinhardt said. "This is a ritual."
Marcus felt a strange, heavy pressure radiating from the man—something that felt less like a prisoner and more like an authority. He mask his unease with a sharp nod.
"Take him to the armory," Marcus ordered Victor. "Issue him standard gear."
As they left, Marcus remained in the room, staring at the empty chair. A ritual? The man was either a lunatic or the catalyst the Dominion had been waiting for.