Men stood in formation, their expressions grim as most of the other soldiers celebrated their discharge, dressed in pristine white uniforms. Cheers and laughter filled the air, a stark contrast to the regiment of the damned.
Agraripa, a lush jewel in the neighboring solar system to Earth, was alive with festivity. A planet of unparalleled beauty, it was surrounded by immense solar panels that blocked harmful radiation and controlled the weather. These panels stretched like colossal wings across the heavens, connecting Agraripa to Severest, Holand 7, the distant gas giant, and the mining station, Expel 1.
But no light of celebration reached the regiment of the damned.
"Did you hear?" a civilian murmured in the crowd. "Ninety percent casualty rate!"
Another scoffed. "What were their officers thinking? Must've been incompetent leadership."
The whispers cut deep, but the soldiers stood in silence, their heads held high, refusing to let the judgment of those who had not bled diminish their sacrifice.
Samuel stood apart, gripping the flag of the Spear of Defiance. It hung limp in the still air, its once-proud colors dulled and torn. It was a symbol of their unit—of what they had once been, and what they had lost.
His gaze fell on the men and women who remained. There were so few of them now. Hollow eyes, battered bodies, and faces haunted by the memories of comrades who would never return.
The crowd cheered louder, toasting to the end of a long war, blissfully unaware of the price others had paid for this moment of peace.
Samuel clenched his jaw. He felt the weight of the flag heavier than ever, not just in his hands, but in his soul.
"We're not here to celebrate," someone muttered from the ranks, barely audible.
"No," Samuel whispered to himself, his voice like a promise. "We're here to mourn."
The wind stirred, catching the edge of the flag. Samuel raised it higher, his movements steady despite the tremor in his heart. His voice, hoarse but resolute, broke the silence.
"For the Spear," he said, loud enough for his regiment to hear.
And as one, they echoed him.
"For the Spear."
The celebration continued around them, but for the regiment of the damned, it was a day of remembrance. A day to honor those who had fallen. And though their numbers were few, their voices carried a weight that no amount of cheers could ever match.
Samuel lowered the flag, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
The stage had been set with precision, adorned with banners bearing the insignia of a new era. A sleek podium stood at its center, equipped with advanced holo-projectors to broadcast the moment across the stars. The crowd's energy shifted as a young man stepped forward, the very embodiment of this new epoch.
The President of the Galactic Council, a man of striking youth and ambition, approached with confidence. He was from the Galenter Party, a rising force in galactic politics that had shaken the foundations of the old powers. For decades, the United Earth League, the Red Mars Service, and the Cry-Tech People's Commune had held a stranglehold over the political landscape, their influence spreading across systems.
But now, the Galenter Party had disrupted that balance.
The President, with his crisp attire and sharp gaze, symbolized the aspirations of a new generation—one that sought to move beyond the legacies of Earth and its colonies. His every step carried the weight of change, and the soldiers in white turned their attention to him, eager to hear the words of this charismatic leader. His name
Alexander Freynum
He paused at the podium, his hands gripping its edges, as he surveyed the sea of faces. His voice, calm yet commanding, broke the silence.
"Today, we honor those who fought for the freedoms we now enjoy," he began, his tone steady and measured. "Today is a day of celebration for many, a day to reflect on the hard-won peace we've achieved. But for some, it is also a day of grief."
His eyes flickered briefly toward the regiment of the damned, standing apart from the jubilant crowd. His gaze lingered, acknowledging their loss without needing to speak it aloud.
"I stand here not just as a President, but as a reminder that this peace was not given freely. It was earned through sacrifice, through the blood, sweat, and tears of men and women who put everything on the line."
The crowd quieted, sensing the gravity of his words. Even those who had whispered earlier about incompetence and failure now listened intently.
"It is the duty of this new era, of this administration, to ensure that such sacrifices are never forgotten—and that they are never in vain. To the Spear of Defiance, to the regiment of the damned, I offer not just thanks, but a solemn promise: Your names, your struggles, and your losses will be remembered. Always."
A murmur spread through the crowd, some civilians nodding in reluctant agreement, others visibly moved. The President stepped back, offering a respectful salute to Samuel and his soldiers.
For the first time that day, Samuel saw recognition in the eyes of those around him. Not pity, not judgment—just acknowledgment. And though it didn't erase the pain or the loss, it was enough to keep the flag of the Spear aloft, if only for a little while longer.
The President took a step forward, the crowd silencing as his voice echoed through the air.
"Today, we honor those who have given more than was ever asked of them. Their courage, resilience, and unwavering commitment have carried us through the darkest of times."
He paused, then called out the first name.
"Lieutenant River Green."
A young woman stepped forward, her uniform crisp, her expression one of quiet pride. The President nodded to her.
"For acts of valor and leadership under extreme conditions, you are hereby promoted to Captain." He tapped her shoulder, then saluted as the crowd applauded.
"Sergeant Alec Veyra."
A burly man with a scar across his cheek marched up, standing tall.
"For your dedication and bravery in the field, you are promoted to Lieutenant." Another tap and salute followed.
"Corporal Jenna Reese."
A petite woman, barely in her twenties, stepped forward with a firm stance.
"For extraordinary courage and ingenuity during critical operations, you are promoted to Sergeant."
"Private Ethan Kord."
A young man, his face a mixture of surprise and pride, walked up to the stage.
"For your resilience and unwavering commitment to your comrades, you are promoted to Corporal."
"And Specialist Mikhail Anders."
A middle-aged man with graying hair and a steady gaze strode forward.
"For your tactical brilliance and exceptional service, you are promoted to Master Sergeant."
The crowd cheered for each name, their applause growing louder with every promotion.
Finally, the President's voice rang out once more, commanding absolute silence.
"And last... Captain Samuel Hatten."
Samuel took a deep breath, steeling himself as he stepped forward. His boots hit the stage with precision, each step a reminder of the soldier he had become. The banner of the Spear of Defiance remained in his hands, held high even as he approached the President.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
He halted in front of him, tapped his heels together, and stood to attention. His voice rang clear and strong.
"Captain Samuel Hatten of the Spear of Defiance reporting for duty."
The President studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, in a solemn motion, he raised his hand, tapping Samuel's shoulder lightly before bringing it to a sharp salute.
"Captain Hatten, for your unparalleled leadership, unyielding determination, and for carrying the weight of your regiment's legacy, I salute you. Your service shall never be forgotten."
The crowd erupted in applause, but Samuel barely noticed. His focus remained on the banner in his hands, the weight of his fallen comrades heavier than ever. Yet, as he stood there, he knew one thing for certain—he would carry their memory forward, no matter the cost.
"For this, I give you the Iron Swords for unrelenting aggression in the face of danger," the President announced, his voice steady, resonating across the silent crowd.
"The Stalwart Defender, awarded for your exploits during the Storm Siege."
Samuel's gaze remained forward, unflinching, though his grip on the Spear's banner tightened ever so slightly.
"The Steel Man Commander, for your exceptional leadership in the most dire of circumstances."
A pause lingered as the weight of the final medal settled over the moment.
"And the Purple Star, for unparalleled bravery in the face of insurmountable danger."
The crowd murmured in awe, the significance of each award sinking in. Two officers stepped forward, their polished boots echoing against the stage, and carefully buttoned each medal to Samuel's chest. The weight of them was not just physical but symbolic, a testament to the blood, sweat, and loss that had led him here.
Samuel stood still, his posture unyielding, the embodiment of discipline and resilience. He could feel the weight of countless eyes on him, the whispers of those who doubted and those who mourned. Yet, he stood tall—for he must.
The President took a step back, saluting Samuel with a crisp motion. "You carry the honor of your regiment, Captain. May you continue to inspire those who follow."
Samuel didn't respond with words. Instead, he raised the banner of the Spear of Defiance high, the colors catching the light. It wasn't just a salute to the living but to those who had fallen, their legacy immortalized in the man who now bore the weight of their memory.
The applause roared, but Samuel barely heard it. His thoughts were with Harold, Nobu, and every soldier who had given everything for the cause. Standing tall was not a choice—it was his duty.
The President raised his hand to his shoulder, then broke it into a sharp salute. His voice rang out with finality, "With this, I conclude the ceremony. TO THE FEDERATION AND THE PEOPLE!"
The crowd echoed the words in unison, their voices a resounding wave. "TO THE FEDERATION AND THE PEOPLE!"
A volley of ceremonial gunfire punctuated the moment, the sharp cracks reverberating through the air as applause and cheers filled the square. The celebration had officially begun.
Samuel stepped down from the platform, the weight of the medals on his chest feeling heavier than they should. He allowed himself a deep breath, scanning the jubilant faces of the civilians and the somber expressions of his fellow soldiers.
"Mr. Samuel."
The voice was calm but firm. He turned to see two men approaching him. They were dressed in black uniforms, their presence commanding and austere.
"Yes?" Samuel asked, narrowing his eyes slightly as they stopped in front of him.
One of them reached into his coat and produced a badge. The insignia on it was unmistakable—a covered dark side of a bright moon.
"...Light Keepers," Samuel murmured, recognition dawning in his voice.
The men nodded, their expressions unreadable.
"Better come with us," one of them said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Samuel hesitated, his eyes flickering to the insignia again before looking back at the men. His voice was steady but laced with suspicion. "Does the Solar MPs know about this?"
One of the men responded, his tone serious and cold. "They can't interfere."
Samuel's jaw tightened as he processed the weight of those words. Whatever this was, it wasn't ordinary, and it certainly wasn't under standard jurisdiction. Still, he nodded, his instincts kicking in as he readied himself for whatever lay ahead.
"Lead the way," he said, his voice calm despite the unease swirling within him. The Light Keepers nodded again, turning and motioning for him to follow as the celebration roared on behind them, oblivious to the shadow that had just descended over Samuel Hatten's path.
--------
The sterile hum of machinery filled the vast chamber aboard Alma 7. Panels of glowing data streams lined the walls, casting a cold blue hue over everything. In the center stood the towering figure of Obsidian, its sleek black frame reflecting the dim light. Opposite him, Professor Vos paced with measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Obsidian," Vos began, his tone sharp, "your performance was adequate, but not without flaws. However, our bigger concern lies elsewhere."
The machine tilted its head, the faint glow of its optics shifting as it focused on Vos. "You're referring to Commander Kaelen Stroud?"
Vos stopped pacing, his expression sour. "Yes. His incompetence is becoming a liability. He undermined critical decisions during the Thermus engagement. His delays nearly cost us the mission. It's unacceptable."
Obsidian's optics flared slightly, an indication of its agreement. "Stroud's refusal to authorize preemptive measures forced unnecessary complications. His insistence on outdated protocols compromised operational efficiency."
Vos nodded, his jaw tightening. "We need to address this formally. A demotion is the only logical course of action. The Lightkeepers won't tolerate his recklessness much longer if we present the data objectively."
Obsidian turned to a glowing panel, its mechanical fingers dancing across the interface. A series of incident reports and tactical logs materialized, detailing Stroud's decisions—or lack thereof. "I have compiled evidence of his delays during the Steel Knight encounter, as well as his disregard for my suggested countermeasures," the machine said.
Vos leaned in, scanning the data. "Good. Send this to the Lightkeepers' adjudication council. We'll request an expedited review. Stroud's position on this mission's chain of command is untenable."
Obsidian's optics flickered. "Agreed. Removing him will allow for more streamlined operations. His absence will not be missed."
Vos straightened, his demeanor shifting. "Now, let's move to more pressing matters—the star coordinates retrieved from Thermus."
Obsidian's fingers danced over the interface again, bringing up a three-dimensional star map. The coordinates pulsed on the display, marking an uncharted region of space.
"The data was extracted during the final moments of the facility's collapse," Obsidian explained. "These coordinates are tied to an ancient network of beacons. Their purpose remains unclear, but the energy signatures suggest immense power—possibly Polaris Prototype facilities."
Vos's eyes narrowed, his curiosity piqued."Hmm Prototype Facilitates you say."
Obsidian interrupted, its voice steady. "We must proceed with caution. The Steel Knight's presence suggests anomalies likely to spawn around the coordinates. This will not go uncontested."
Vos smirked, a glint of ambition in his eyes. "Let them contest. If what's out there is as valuable as I suspect, we'll need every advantage we can get. Prepare the ship for a jump to those coordinates. I want a reconnaissance team ready within the hour."
Obsidian nodded, the faint hum of its systems intensifying as it processed the command. "Understood. Shall I accompany the team, or remain to oversee operational strategy?"
Vos hesitated for a moment, then replied, "You'll stay. Your presence is too valuable here. I'll send Stroud's replacement to lead the mission—assuming we have him demoted in time."
The room fell silent, save for the soft whirring of machinery. The stakes were rising, and Vos knew they were venturing into the unknown. But he also knew that fortune favored the bold, and he had no intention of letting this opportunity slip away.
-------
Samuel sat in the cold, featureless room, his gaze fixed on the blank metal table in front of him. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional hum of the ventilation system. He adjusted his posture, the weight of his medals still fresh on his chest, but they felt hollow—a reminder of a mission that had cost him nearly everything.
The door hissed open, and the two Lightkeepers stepped inside, their black uniforms pristine and their expressions unreadable. One of them carried a slim black folder embossed with the symbol of a shrouded moon—the Lightkeepers’ insignia.
“Captain Hatten,” one of them began, placing the folder in front of him. “We appreciate your patience. This won’t take long.”
Samuel raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “What’s this about? You’ve been vague enough already.”
The second Lightkeeper opened the folder, revealing a single sheet of paper. Its surface shimmered faintly under the room's light, lines of text scrolling as if alive. At the bottom, a blank space awaited his signature.
“This,” the first Lightkeeper said, “is a Signature of Silence contract. It’s a mandatory non-disclosure agreement for operatives involved in classified missions.”
Samuel’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the page. “You’re telling me I need to sign this so no one ever hears about Thermus? About what happened to my regiment?”
“Exactly,” the second man replied, his tone cold and precise. “Your actions on Thermus, the nature of the mission, and the details of what you encountered are now classified under Federation Directive 921. Discussing it with anyone, including superior officers not cleared for this information, is strictly prohibited.”
Samuel let out a bitter laugh. “So, you want me to keep quiet about losing ninety percent of my men? About the fact that you threw us into a death trap?”
The first Lightkeeper’s gaze hardened. “This isn’t about blame, Captain. It’s about containment. What you experienced on Thermus isn’t just a tragedy—it’s a threat. If word of this gets out, it could cause panic across the Federation. We can’t afford that.”
Samuel’s jaw tightened as he stared at the shimmering paper. “And if I refuse?”
The second Lightkeeper’s voice dropped, the tone colder than before. “Refusal isn’t an option. Signing this ensures that you and your surviving men remain under the Federation’s protection. It also ensures your continued service—or retirement—without interference.”
Samuel clenched his fists, but he knew there was no way out. The Federation didn’t make requests—they issued orders, wrapped in bureaucratic niceties. He picked up the pen that one of them slid toward him and hovered it over the paper.
“Anything else I should know?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
The first Lightkeeper gave a faint smile. “Just that once you sign, you’ll be free to return to duty—or to whatever future you choose. But Thermus will remain buried, as it should be.”
With a deep breath, Samuel pressed the pen to the paper. The shimmering surface absorbed the ink instantly, and the text shifted, displaying his name alongside the Federation’s seal.
“It’s done,” he said flatly, dropping the pen on the table.
The second Lightkeeper closed the folder, tucking it under his arm. “Good. You’ll receive further instructions soon. Until then, Captain Hatten, enjoy your respite.”
Without another word, the two men left, leaving Samuel alone in the silent room.
Samuel sat there for a moment, staring at the table, the weight of the contract heavier than any medal on his chest. He muttered under his breath, his voice laced with bitterness.
“Retirement. Right...."