Gardenia heard the door shut behind her and almost ran to her cabin. If she didn’t consciously control her limbs she would be jittering from overwhelming anxiety.

She was certain her heart rate was well in the triple digits, and that was not because of the lingering fear of the sample collection she had just been through.

That was the simplest of things, really. She had imagined the whole process to include a fair amount of pain and discomfort, yet the sergeant had been professional to a fault–everything she would have wanted in a field medic and much more.

No, it had nothing to do with the procedures and a lot to do with the actual person. Her instincts were screaming at her that something was off. He seemed less…less human, like what was said about those pre-war Genomes thousands of years ago who had given up on their humanity.

She couldn’t quite place the feeling, however. It wasn’t his features, the strong jawline, the thick brows that made him look quite angry, or his short blond curls, no, those just made him look intimidating, it was the aura around the man that made her neck hair stand tall.

But in her mind boiling above all other thoughts were the recent memories of battle.

Memories of her going through the motions, mechanically, since even a stray thought might spiral into a full-blown panic attack. She was spacediving while a heatlazer melted right through other poor souls flying in space alongside her, their coms muffed so no one could hear their last moments, and that feeling even juiced up in mood stabilizers …it was pure terror.

Yet as her nightmare continued it appeared her muffled prayers had not been said in vain after all. She landed on the enemy battleship and a towering Sergeant awaited right there–a firm presence to ward off the chaos.

From then on, it was as if there was a direction to follow. A feeling that things would work out eventually if only she followed along with his commands. Apart from his size, there wasn’t anything extraordinary to note, he was wearing a standard biosuit with a few custom alterations. But the presence he had made all the difference.

When the ambush took place he hadn’t even needed their help. A group of trained enemy soldiers had been all but an annoyance to him, toying with their lives so easily that it had seemed to her as if at any moment he could kill them all. So ruthless he had been, and it made her fear him.

But, despite the savage one-sided battle, he had protected her and the other marine. They had made it out alive from that hellish battle, and even before she had the chance to break down crying in frustration, the sergeant disregarded their uselessness and made them an extraordinary offer.

It was unreal.

So the first thing she did after changing back to her SFC uniform instead was to ask around about that Genome sergeant.

The first questions she asked the older cohorts brought out hard stares and thin lips from the older higher-ranked marines. Until she explained how the sergeant had saved her life, and she only wanted to thank him for it. Then, weirdly, they all seemed eager to chip in and talk about that towering Sergeant Amon.

He had a reputation for being capable and trustworthy, but even when she learned more she wondered why so many different people sang him high praises. The whole situation had cult vibes going on. It was creeping her out.

But it was a small thing compared to the benefits she would receive. All that mattered was if he could deliver on his offer, and from what Gardenia had heard, he would. So she made a point to visit him early before he changed his mind about the bioupgrades.

Her confidence had taken a serious hit through that first battle. While she had been aware of the danger, it was another thing to experience how utterly unable to act she had been. She always thought that there would be something, anything, she could do to protect herself. Now she knew how wrong that thinking had been.

When she was forced to join the SFC, a mere 8 months before this day, she felt she could survive her mandatory years of service before buying out her freedom. She was not so certain anymore.

Gardenia closed her eyes and cursed the moon lord of T2X1 who raised the subscription costs throughout his territory. She cursed the planetary council of T2X for raising the moon lord’s taxes, thus by proxy making it unaffordable for her family to maintain 3 children on their yearly credits.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

She didn’t curse her little brother for being born, nor her older sister for simply wishing to better herself in her studies.

To any beings that may be listening, send forth swarms of alien Zith to the space cruisers of any nobility from T2X.

Be they damned, and eaten. Be they vanished, for all eternity.

—-

Training in a battleship is more for the marines to vent pent-up energy than for any actual combat improvement. For many, it's not the combat that wears them down; it’s the wait, the endless days of anticipation in a closed-off metallic cage.

Even through the mood stabilizers we ingest daily, strong emotions simmer underneath, and this downtime can be especially volatile for so many people cramped together.

Given the grief, anger, and anxiety filling our days, it's a wonder we travel through the stars without the ship descending into chaos.

The training is carved into rotations, shifting between strategy, operations, and strength training, for 6 hours daily. They often pass in the blink of an eye, during which my mind usually wanders and my body works on autopilot.

But today is not just another day, today is different–the first day after an assault.

In the later part after all the training is finished, instead of joining in the commons we congregate elsewhere. A ceremony has been arranged in the ship’s main hold. It’s a day to remember the fallen. Those unfortunate enough to meet an earlier end.

As I walk into the hold with Tommy by my side I see them gathered there. There is a quietness; a stillness settled over the crowd.

Today we honor the fallen, but as we do, we also remember ourselves and the grim future ahead. Not all marines joined by force, some chose this life for the credits, but for all nevermind their reasons, death appears chillingly close in this place of mourning.

The crowd of marines and personnel opens a path as they notice me looming over them. The open space pulls me ever forward, and yet without due reason, in the end, I find myself standing at the forefront.

Before me, a monument of steel carved with names stands almost as tall as I do. The crowd is still, the crowd is silent and they wait. An anticipation I share, but they look at me, the tallest among them as if I am better qualified for what's to come.

My mouth is dry, I gulp down the dry air of the hold involuntarily. I have no intention of voicing my internal struggles for all to hear.

I remain as lively as the dead.

It doesn't take long for the Major General to appear. I know him well enough, but I won’t stain the dead's memories with thoughts of him, so in a similar fashion to everyone around me I salute. The MG is standing apart, on a parapet, shadowed by a couple of the bred brutes, dressed to impress only to uncaringly imply that there is a difference between our stations.

It's hard to leave the distaste out of my features yet still taste the bitterness on my tongue.

“MARINES OF THE SFC!” He shouts in a magnified voice that echoes around the hold. “WE STAND HERE TODAY TO WITNESS BRAVERY AND TO REMEMBER…”

The monologue is long and arduous to my ears but no amount of suffering can stop me from paying my respects to the lost souls, curved on the cold piece of metal we will shortly send out for eternal rest among the stars.

I save the file my optics recorded without any sensory block. When I relive it, alone in my cabin, I want to feel exactly how I felt this very moment. Every beat of my heart loud and ominous.

It’s a catharsis that washes away any doubts and fears I might have.

—-

The long hall of the commons is packed to the brim. I believe every off-duty member of the SFC is here, except, of course, the top brass and their ilk.

I’m sitting on a long oval table with Tommy and a few others, Nik, Ginny, and Ella, all as dear to me as I am to them. Some others hover around our table toasting drinks, and between my musings, I notice Gardenia is one of them. Despite her fidgety nature, she is making an effort to approach me. She has good instincts it seems.

Tommy fills up my cup with a cloudy cocktail. For once I wish for real alcohol, but there is not a drop of the substance in the common’s area.

The cocktail we drink tastes like empty sweetness and elicits a light drunkenness that normally won't last more than an hour. In my case, it will be closer to 10 minutes as my nanos attack and absorb its dampening effects from the inside.

Yet for 10 minutes, I can let my mind drift without my usual heavy thoughts burdening me.

Around me, the marines let go of their emotions. Grief is evident, but laughter can be heard too. Different people have different coping mechanisms and who am I to say which is more suitable for the occasion?

A fight breaks out somewhere in the hall but I’m uninterested. I cope with silence, and my comrades know it so they let me nurse my drink as they talk around me.

My mind runs through past events and plans, steps for increasing my arsenal, and completing research on the various projects I work on during the downtime. There is so much requiring my attention that days usually fly by without me noticing.

I have 24, no, 25 people who rely on me. It's a burden I carry freely but I worry I’m overdoing it. What started simply as me trying to keep my friend Tommy alive has evolved into something else.

The cocktail’s effect has worn off even faster than last time. The nanos are building natural resistance to the drug.

It's time for me to leave.

I stand and wave the others down as they try to follow along. They should enjoy each other’s company for longer.

Once I reach my cabin, I throw myself to work. I pull the box where I keep my miniscout drone stock from under the bed. I will repair the battle damage on the existing miniscouts and replenish the numbers with the ones I will upgrade with cloaking tech.

The desk chair being small for my size, is mighty uncomfortable on my rear and legs, yet I barely feel the discomfort when I lose myself to the workings of machinery.

Connecting the Type 3 sensors is simple but delicate. My hands are stable, trained for precision, and wrap up each drone swiftly.

The cloaking tech I use for my drones is phantom cloaking–a light/heat molecule redirection forcefield powered by the internal drone battery.

The drones are small enough to make this choice viable, each the size of a finger. The cloaking I use on myself is different however, the phantom-coating cloak does not require a sizeable battery that I don't have the extra space for.

The con of the phantom-coating tech is obvious. It can be spotted by Type 2 sensors from the leaking heat particles. A problem I am considering fixing with the new materials I got from the Helion Syndicate vessel but it will require some experimentation to get it right.

The Dreadnaught I'm in, accompanied by the second one, is speeding ahead of the bulkcarrier, and the heavily damaged Helion battleship.

I’m checking the map route in the mainframe often, just in case our pathing diverges. I want to know in advance any changes to our destination.

As it stands, I have roughly a month until we arrive in the SFC main hub, where we will get the details of our next operation. Enough time to do what I must.

But not enough, never enough for what I plan.