Chief Engineer Aris Thorne wiped his oil-stained fingers on a rag that had once been white but now displayed a colorful history of mechanical fluids. The summons to Hangar Bay B-7 rested on his workbench, the official-looking letterhead causing his eyes to narrow with suspicion. Another inspection? Another bureaucrat ready to lecture him about "following proper maintenance protocols"?

He grabbed his custom toolbox—twenty-five kilos of carefully organized implements, many modified by his own hand over the years. If some administrator wanted to waste his time with paperwork, fine, but he'd bring his tools. There was always something that needed fixing around this place, and he'd be damned if he'd let standard-issue equipment slow him down.

The walk to B-7 took him through the busy corridors of Forward Base Gamma-7, past techs and soldiers who nodded in greeting. Thorne's reputation preceded him—the ornery chief engineer who could coax life from dying systems, who valued results over regulations. Some admired him for it. Others stayed clear, afraid his tendency toward insubordination might be contagious.

Hangar Bay B-7 had housed the 103rd Fighter Squadron, but the entire squadron had been MIA for months. As Thorne approached, he noted the unusual quiet. No mechanics calling to each other. No power tools whining. No pilots lounging near their craft, trading tall tales. Just silence and the distant hum of environmental systems.

The massive doors parted with a hydraulic hiss. Thorne stepped inside, his heavy boots echoing in the cavernous space. The squadron's fighters were, predictably, absent. In their place sat a single medical shuttle. Not standard-issue, either. This was a GX-450, the latest model, its sleek lines gleaming under the harsh overhead lights.

But it wasn't the shuttle that caught Thorne's attention. It was the two figures standing beside it, examining a holographic schematic that floated in the air between them.

One was a woman—auburn hair pulled back in a practical bun, the single mark of a Chief Medical Officer on the collar of her uniform. Even at this distance, Thorne recognized CMO Helena Reeves. Her reputation among the medical staff was legendary: brilliant, demanding, and utterly focused on saving lives, even if it meant bending protocol.

The second figure made Thorne stop in his tracks.

Bastion. The Second Prince. Here, in this hangar—a full-blooded fracking royal—and Thorne had kept him waiting.

I should have taken the archons-damned shuttle.

His first impulse was to turn around and walk out. Nothing good ever came from royalty taking a sudden interest in your work. But before he could retreat, the prince looked up, a pair of strangely illuminated eyes zeroing in on Thorne like targeting systems.

"Chief Engineer Thorne," Prince Vylaas called, his voice carrying easily across the open space. "Thank you for coming. Please, join us."

It wasn't a request. With a resigned sigh, Thorne approached, his grip tightening on his toolbox. As he drew closer, he noted the subtle movements across the surface of the prince's armor—the fabled Chimera, constantly shifting and adapting. It was both fascinating and deeply unsettling.

"Your Highness," Thorne said, offering a nod that barely qualified as respectful. "CMO Reeves." Another nod, marginally more deferential. "Nice shuttle. Why am I here?"

The CMO's eyes narrowed at his bluntness, but the prince's lips quirked into what might have been a smile.

"Direct. Good." Prince Vylaas gestured to the holographic display. "We have a project that requires an engineer who values results over regulations. Your name came up quite prominently in our search."

"My disciplinary record, you mean," Thorne said, setting his toolbox down with a deliberate thunk.

"Your innovation record," the prince corrected. "Six official reprimands, yes, but also seventeen commendations for maintaining transport efficiency under extreme pressure. Including several modifications that were initially unauthorized but later adopted as standard protocol. The bio-foam injector integration was particularly impressive."

Thorne crossed his arms. "If you're here to dress me down for that—"

"We're here," CMO Reeves cut in, her voice crisp, "because those 'unauthorized modifications' saved lives. Lives that would have been lost if you'd waited for proper channels and official approvals."

"Precisely," the prince said, nodding, "What we're proposing requires someone who understands that sometimes the system fails those it's meant to serve. Someone willing to work around those failures."

Thorne's eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you proposing?"

In response, the holographic display shifted. The medical shuttle's schematics expanded, various systems highlighted in blue. Then, overlaid in red, appeared a series of modifications—radical alterations to the engine configuration, shield generators, and medical systems.

"Project Asklepios," the prince said. "A rapid response medical shuttle designed to reach casualties faster and with more effective on-site treatment capabilities than anything currently in service."

Thorne stepped closer, his engineer's eye automatically assessing the proposed changes. "You're talking about increasing engine output by at least thirty percent. These shield modifications would barely fit in the existing housing. And this medical bay reconfiguration..." He shook his head. "It's ambitious. Reckless, even."

"But possible," the prince pressed. "With the right engineer."

Thorne snorted. "Possible, sure. Get me unlimited resources, no oversight, and six months, I could make it happen."

"You have two weeks, minimal oversight, and whatever resources I can requisition," the prince replied evenly.

"Two weeks?" Thorne nearly choked. "To completely overhaul a GX-450? That's not possible, even for me."

CMO Reeves stepped forward, her expression hardening. "Every day we delay, soldiers die. Not just from enemy fire, but from a medical response system that's too slow and too limited. I've watched good men and women bleed out waiting for transports. I've called for evacuation, only to be told that the nearest shuttle is twenty minutes away—when my patient has five."

Her intensity caught Thorne off guard. This wasn't administrative frustration. This was the raw anger of someone who'd lost too many people on her operating table.

"The standard medical response protocols are failing," the prince added quietly. "Budget cuts, aging equipment, bureaucratic inertia—it all adds up to preventable deaths. We need to change that."

Thorne turned back to the schematic, studying the proposed modifications more carefully. These weren't minor tweaks. This was a complete reimagining of what a medical shuttle could be. Faster, more maneuverable, with better on-site stabilization equipment.

"Even if I could do this," he said slowly, "the brass would never approve it for deployment. The modifications you're suggesting go way beyond safety parameters. They'd shut it down before the first test flight."

The prince and the CMO exchanged a look.

"That's why this is a pilot program," the prince explained. "Unofficial. Under my personal authority. We prove the concept works, save some lives, then present the results as a fait accompli."

Thorne let out a low whistle. "Risky. If something goes wrong, it's your head on the block."

"And if we do nothing, it's soldiers in body bags," Reeves countered. "I'm willing to take that risk."

"As am I," the prince agreed.

Thorne walked a slow circuit around the shuttle, his mind already cataloging what would need to be stripped, replaced, or reconfigured. The work would be extensive. Challenging. Potentially career-ending if it went sideways.

"Why me?" he asked finally, turning back to face them. "There are better engineers in the fleet. Ones with cleaner records. Ones who've designed shuttles from scratch."

"Because you've shown a willingness to put lives above regulations," the prince replied. "Because when the system fails, you find ways to make it work anyway. Because you've seen first-hand what happens when medical transports aren't fast enough or well-equipped enough."

"And," Reeves added, "because you know these systems better than anyone. You've been fixing them, improving them, for twenty years. You understand their limitations, their potential."

Thorne wasn't immune to flattery, but he'd been around long enough to know when he was being handled. Still, there was sincerity in their voices. And the project itself... it was the kind of challenge he'd dreamed about. A chance to build something that mattered, something that could make a real difference.

"I'd need freedom," he said, testing the waters. "Real freedom. No committees, no endless approval chains."

"Done," the prince said immediately.

"And I'd need access to experimental components. Things not strictly approved for medical shuttles."

"Whatever you need," Reeves assured him. "Within reason."

"And when this goes sideways—not if, when—I want it in writing that I was following direct orders from the royal family. I'm not taking the fall for this."

The prince's lips quirked again. "We'll draft the documentation immediately. Your career will be protected."

Thorne picked up his toolbox. "Then I guess we're doing this." He turned to the shuttle, already mentally planning his first steps. "I'll need to strip the interior first. The current configuration is wasting space. Then we'll tackle the engines."

"We?" Reeves asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Me and whoever you assign to assist," Thorne clarified. "I work fast, but I'm not a miracle worker. I'll need help."

"Chimera and I will assist with the technical modifications," the prince said. "CMO Reeves will consult on the medical systems. Beyond that, we're keeping the team small. Fewer people means fewer questions. If you have people you trust, you can forward me their info—but I want minimum hands here."

Thorne nodded. That made sense. Still, there was something odd about this whole setup. A prince, a CMO, and a chief engineer with a disciplinary problem, working in secret to build an experimental medical shuttle.

"One last question," Thorne said. "Why are you really doing this? What's your stake in it?"

The prince's expression shifted, something deeper and darker flickering behind his eyes. "Because I've seen too many people die from systems that failed them. Because sometimes the only way to fix a broken system is to work outside of it."

There was a story there, Thorne realized. Something personal. But before he could press further, the hangar doors hissed open again. A junior technician appeared, looking nervous.

"Chief Thorne, sir? Engineering says they need you back. The life support systems in Section 8 are acting up again."

Thorne hesitated. Section 8 housed the recovery ward for the most critical patients. If life support failed there...

"Go," the prince said. "We'll be here when you're done. The project isn't going anywhere, and even with a royal seal I can't get all the paperwork this will require done instantly."

Thorne nodded, turning to leave. As he reached the door, he heard the prince call after him.

"And Chief? Thank you. Our success here might mean more than you know."

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

Thorne didn't turn back, just raised a hand in acknowledgment. He had a lot to think about.

----------------------------------------

Six hours later, Thorne returned to Hangar Bay B-7, his uniform stained with coolant and his temper frayed by bureaucracy. The life support issue had been simple enough to fix—a faulty regulator valve—but the paperwork had been a nightmare. Three forms just to access the maintenance shaft, another two to document the parts he'd used, and a written explanation for why he hadn't waited for the parts request to be processed through official channels.

Because people would have died, that's why.

He expected the hangar to be empty. Normal people—even royal ones—kept reasonable hours. But as the doors slid open, Thorne found the prince almost exactly where he'd left him, examining the shuttle's engine compartment. The CMO was gone, presumably returned to her patients, but a stack of data-slates on a nearby workbench suggested she'd left her input for the medical systems.

The prince looked up as Thorne entered. "Section 8?"

"Fixed," Thorne said, dropping his toolbox with a heavy thud. "Though I had to bypass two safety protocols and 'requisition' a regulator valve from storage without proper authorization." He made no attempt to hide the bitterness in his tone.

The prince nodded, understanding in his eyes. "And I'm guessing the system made it as difficult as possible for you to do your job."

"Five forms, an essay, and a verbal dressing-down from Lieutenant Halsey," Thorne confirmed. "All because I didn't want to wait three days for a part that costs less than a decent meal in the mess."

"And if you had waited?"

Thorne's jaw tightened. "Best case? Patients would have been extremely uncomfortable. Worst case? The backup systems would have failed, and we'd be shipping body bags home."

The prince closed the engine compartment. "Then you did the right thing, and damn the bureaucrats."

Thorne moved to the workbench, examining the datapads the CMO had left. Her notes were detailed and precise, focusing on critical medical systems and triage capabilities. She'd prioritized speed and on-site treatment—smart, given what they were trying to accomplish.

"You still haven't told me why you're personally invested in this," Thorne said, not looking up from the pad. "What's your stake? Political points? Popularity with the troops?"

The question hung in the air for a long moment. When Thorne finally glanced up, he found the prince watching him with an unreadable expression.

"A decade ago," Prince Vylaas said quietly, "My core was sealed—suppressed with a modified slave collar on order of my father. I was seen as weak, unsuitable for the role I was born to."

Thorne knew the stories—everyone did. The weak second prince. The disappointment. But hearing it directly from the source hit differently.

"After that, I was forced into military training," the prince continued. "Where I watched good people suffer and die because of rigid systems that prioritized rules over lives. Where compassion was seen as weakness, and questioning orders was treated as treason. It might have left me with some misgivings about authority."

He gestured at the shuttle. "Asklepios isn't about politics. It's about giving a damn. About refusing to accept that 'this is just how things are done.' About being the change instead of waiting for permission to make things better."

"Nice speech. But I've heard plenty of those before," Thorne said, setting the datapad down. "Actions matter more than words. I know as well as anyone that you've been going around playing Hero for the last two years, and you've saved a lot of lives. So I'll see this through—but if I catch even a whiff of political bullshit, I walk."

Vylaas smiled, and his armor rippled, Chimera shifting in response to some unspoken thought. "Then let me show you action." He extended a hand toward the engine compartment, and silver tendrils flowed from his armor, slipping into the access panel. "I've spent the last six hours working to bond Chimera to this shuttle. In that time, she's been analyzing the current engine configuration and identifying thirty-seven potential improvements. She's provided detailed schematics for each."

The holographic display lit up, showing intricate modifications to the shuttle's propulsion system. These weren't amateur suggestions. These were professional-grade enhancements that would significantly boost performance while maintaining stability.

"We've also," the prince continued, "secured priority clearance for parts requisition under Project Asklepios. No forms, no questions asked. Whatever you need, whenever you need it."

Thorne circled the display, examining the proposed changes with a critical eye. They were good. Damn good. Some of them were ideas he'd had himself but never been allowed to implement.

"And what about safety regulations?" he asked. "Some of these modifications push well beyond established parameters."

"We maintain basic safety protocols," the prince replied. "But otherwise, we focus on results. If it works and saves lives, that's what matters. I'll take full responsibility for any deviation from standard procedures."

Thorne crossed his arms. "And when this project is done? When Asklepios proves successful? What then? You take the credit, get a nice commendation, and I go back to fighting for basic maintenance supplies?"

The prince didn't flinch at the accusation. "If Asklepios succeeds, we push for systemic change. New protocols. Better funding. A complete overhaul of the medical response system. And you get recognized as the chief architect. Full credit, official commendation, and a position heading the expanded program—if you want it."

It was tempting. So tempting. But Thorne had been around long enough to know how these things usually played out. Grand promises, minimal follow-through.

"Words," he said dismissively. "That's all I'm hearing. Show me action."

The prince tilted his head, considering. Then, without warning, the armor covering his forearm retracted, revealing bare skin. A moment later, a small blade extended from Chimera's surface. The prince drew it across his palm, opening a shallow cut that immediately welled with blood.

"What the hell are you doing?" Thorne demanded, stepping forward.

"Making a blood oath," the prince said calmly, as if self-injury was a perfectly normal negotiating tactic. "In the old tradition. A promise that cannot be broken without dire consequences."

He extended his bleeding hand. "I swear on my blood, Chief Engineer Aris Thorne, that if Asklepios succeeds, you will receive full recognition for your contributions. That I will use all my influence to implement systemic change in medical response protocols. And that your career will be protected, regardless of the outcome. This I swear."

Thorne stared at the outstretched hand, momentarily speechless. Blood oaths were ancient history—the stuff of dramatic tales and historical documents. No one actually used them anymore. Except, apparently, for princes making promises to skeptical engineers.

"You're insane," Thorne said finally.

"Sincerity has become so rare in the Empire that it might seem that way," the prince responded, his expression unchanging. "But I'm sincere, not mad, and there is a difference."

Thorne hesitated. The sensible thing would be to walk away. To go back to his regular duties, to fight his small battles within the system. But the thought of what Asklepios could become—a genuine lifesaver, a real change to a broken system—was too compelling to ignore.

With a resigned sigh, Thorne pulled a clean rag from his pocket. "Put that away before you bleed all over my new shuttle." He handed the cloth to the prince. "I don't need dramatic gestures. A good contract is enough."

The prince accepted the rag, wrapping it around his palm. "So you'll do it?"

Thorne turned to the holographic display, studying the engine modifications again. "Someone has to make sure you don't blow yourself up with these changes." His finger traced a particular alteration. "This power coupling won't handle the increased load. We'll need to design a custom solution."

The prince smiled—a genuine smile that transformed his formal features. "I'll leave the engineering to the expert. Chimera and I are at your disposal."

"First rule," Thorne said, already mentally cataloging what they'd need. "No more cutting yourself. I don't care what ancient tradition it is. We work with our brains, not our blood."

"Agreed." The prince nodded, clearly suppressing amusement.

"Second rule: No royal privileges in the hangar. In here, I'm the authority on all things mechanical." Thorne pointed at the shuttle. "You want something done, you ask. You don't order."

"Reasonable," the prince acknowledged.

"Third rule: No shortcuts on crucial systems. We push boundaries, yes, but not at the expense of the people this shuttle is meant to save. I won't be responsible for a craft that kills its patients."

"That goes without saying," the prince agreed soberly.

Thorne nodded, satisfied. "Then we have a deal. I'll need a full assessment of the shuttle's current systems before we begin stripping it down. And a list of available parts."

"Chimera has already compiled both," the prince said. "The data is waiting on your workstation."

Efficient. Thorne could appreciate that. He moved to the nearest console, quickly scanning through the detailed reports Chimera had prepared. The synthetic intelligence had been thorough, identifying not just the shuttle's specifications but also its quirks and potential weak points.

Thorne nodded. This was insanity, but of the sort he could get behind.

"Alright, Your Highness. Let's build your miracle shuttle."

The prince extended his hand again—the uninjured one this time. "Vylaas. In this hangar, I'm just Vylaas."

Thorne considered the offered hand, then clasped it firmly. "Aris," he returned. "If we're dropping formalities."

Something shifted in the prince's—in Vylaas's—expression. A subtle relaxation, as if a mask had loosened slightly. "Thank you, Aris. For taking this chance."

Thorne released his hand and turned back to the console. "Don't thank me yet. We haven't built anything worth thanking for."

But as he pulled up the first set of schematics, Thorne felt something he hadn't experienced in far too long: genuine enthusiasm for a project. Not just the satisfaction of fixing a problem, but the thrill of creating something new. Something that mattered.

Two weeks to build a miracle. It was impossible.

Then again, impossible had always been Thorne's specialty.

----------------------------------------

Those first two weeks were a blur of organized chaos. Vylaas secured a team of engineers and mechanics and placed them under Thorne's direction. Thorne, once he’d accepted the ridiculousness of his situation, transformed from skeptic to visionary. He barked orders, parsed schematics with lightning speed, rerouted power conduits, jury-rigged diagnostics stations from salvaged components, and generally whipped the dormant workshop back to life with a force of sheer will.

Their first prototype, the Asklepios-One wasn't merely an improvement on existing medical transports—it was a radical reimagining of the entire concept.

The chassis was reinforced with a newly developed reactive alloy only just emerging from the labs—it was both incredibly light and impossibly strong, capable of withstanding extreme gravitational forces and energy fluxes. The fully unlocked engine, a hybrid plasma-ion drive, promised acceleration and speed far beyond anything currently deployed in medical transport.

And then there was the medical bay itself—a marvel of compact, integrated technology. Bio-regeneration chambers utilizing accelerated cellular mitosis. Cryo-stasis units capable of preserving critical patients indefinitely. Automated surgical systems guided by advanced diagnostic AI. And at the heart of it all, a resonant mana conduit, drawing directly on Vylaas’s Life and Restoration affinities, capable of amplifying healing energies and accelerating recovery for anyone in the ship. Normally such systems were reserved for the advanced Armored Division cultivators, but Vylaas pulled enough strings to make the installation happen.

They worked relentlessly, fueled by adrenaline, caffeine, and a shared sense of desperate urgency. Sleep became a luxury, meals were nutrient paste gulped down between calibrations, and the flickering fluorescent lights of the workshop became their constant, unwavering sun.

They were building more than just a vehicle. They were building hope. For the medics struggling to save lives on the front lines. For the wounded soldiers clinging to life in the blood-soaked trenches. For a system teetering on the brink of collapse, choked by its own rigid protocols.

Asklepios-One began to take shape, rising from the dusty workshop floor like a phoenix from ashes. Sleek lines of reactive alloy curved and flowed, forming the aerodynamic hull. The engine matrix pulsed with contained energy, an inverted vortex of controlled plasma and ion streams. The medical bay, humming with nascent life support systems, began to glow with a soft, internal light.

Eventually, the final weld sparked blue-white against the hull. Thorne stepped back, lifting his protective mask. Sweat ran down his face, but his eyes shone with pride as he traced the seamless connection point.

"She's ready."

Vylaas ran his hand along the smooth curve of Asklepios-One's hull. The metal felt warm, alive under his touch. It was, he knew, at least partially true. He had been working to bond Chimera to the ship at every phase of construction. This was what the symbiote was meant for, after a fashion, and Vylaas saw no reason not to leverage all the tools at his disposal. Chimera's presence hummed through his neural link, sharing his satisfaction at what they'd created.

The workshop fell silent. The constant rhythm of hammers, the whine of power tools, the shouts of engineers—all ceased as the team gathered around their creation. Weeks of endless work, of failed attempts and breakthrough moments, had led to this.

"Beautiful," one of the engineers whispered.

And she was. The transport's lines flowed like liquid metal, its hull catching the workshop lights in rippling waves. Through the view ports, the medical bay's soft glow pulsed in steady rhythm. Vylaas traced his gaze along each graceful curve, each seamless junction, each system honed beyond his initial vision.

"Time for the initial power-up sequence." Thorne's voice carried an edge of excitement he couldn't quite hide. "Everyone to their stations."

Vylaas took his place in the pilot's seat. His hands settled naturally on the controls without even having to look. With Chimera fully integrated with the shuttle, Vylaas could feel the ship. Displays flickered to life around him, bathing the cockpit in a cool blue glow.

"All systems nominal," Thorne called from his diagnostic station. "Plasma-ion drive... stable. Life support... green. Medical systems... responding. She's purring like a kitten."

The engine's low hum resonated through the hull, a perfect harmony of technology and bio-energetic resonance. Vylaas felt it in his bones, in his blood, in the mana that flowed through his core.

"We did it," he said softly. "We actually did it."

Around him, the engineering team broke into spontaneous applause. Some hugged, others wiped tears from their eyes. Thorne simply nodded, a rare smile breaking through his usual stern expression.

Tomorrow they would begin flight tests. Tomorrow they would push Asklepios-One to her limits, prove her worth to the skeptics and bureaucrats. But for now, in this moment, they allowed themselves to simply feel the pure joy of creation, of bringing something new and vital into the world.