Chapter 17

The Seeker

Approaching Eteren One Orbital Starbase

Mottmor System, Venddral Raidezel Sector

Date: Zeran 19, Year 4731

The Seeker advanced in the queue toward Eteren One, an orbital space station encircled by vessels of all shapes and sizes. Trade ships docked mid-space to exchange goods, while smaller cargo vessels ferried and tugged long, rectangular containers toward the station. RDF fighter squads wove through the congestion in tight formations of five, while larger RDF vessels held their positions farther out. Below it all, the emerald-green planet of Eteren spread wide, its moons faintly visible against the backdrop.

Garen, seated at the helm, his eyes following a cargo shuttle as it weaved toward Eteren One, disappearing behind larger ships before reemerging. “The divide between the RDF and RSIA is worse than I thought,” he said. When Conus mentioned there were issues, Garen hadn’t expected things to be this fractured. “General Maylone was... suspicious.”

“Suspicious of you?” Klamarez asked, his ears twitching. “She seemed pleasant enough to me, though I didn’t exactly get a breakfast invitation from her. Now, Colonel Nolvin...” Klamarez grimaced, his tone making his opinion clear.

Conus recalled his meeting with Colonel Nolvin, the memory of the man’s sharp, narrowing eyes resurfacing. They had lingered on his augments, heavy with disdain.

Garen nudged the ship forward in the queue with a quick burst from the velocity engines. “I think they were told to treat us like threats,” he said.

“From Command?” Conus asked. Garen nodded. Conus tilted his head, skeptical. “Cautious, maybe. But threats?”

“We were under guard the whole time,” Garen replied. “Every time I stepped out of my quarters, Sergeant Wallace just happened to be there.” He let the statement hang, inviting Conus to draw his own conclusions.

Conus reflected on his experiences. Security had always been present—closer than necessary. “Now that you mention it, I noticed that too,” he admitted, replaying the moments in his mind like reviewing an old clip.

Garen’s attention remained fixed on the Seeker’s controls as he guided the ship toward Eteren One. He kept it aligned within the row of illuminated docking beacons that clearly outlined the approach path for incoming vessels.

Klamarez recalled slipping into the hangar bay without proper clearance—a blatant violation of security protocols aboard the Resilience. He chose not to mention it, realizing that if he hadn’t encountered the friendly maintenance crew, the situation could have unfolded very differently.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” Garen said, though his tone suggested otherwise. He kept his focus locked on the forward screen. “Still, let’s stay alert on the station. The RDF’s still here, and their suspicion might carry over to Eteren One too.”

After a pause, he glanced back toward Conus. “So, what’s got the RDF so concerned?”

Conus leaned back, choosing his words carefully. “RDF Command isn’t happy with how Admiral Lavont has been running the RSIA. As you know, General Rivers, it used to focus almost entirely on intelligence gathering and providing intel to the RDF. But under Lavont, things have changed drastically. He’s expanded operations, increased the number of agents, and even built a small fleet solely for the RSIA. The agency is more effective than ever, but the RDF doesn’t like being kept in the dark. They believe Lavont only shares intel that suits his agenda, and they’re not thrilled that the RSIA has essentially become its own force compared to its previous role.”

Garen groaned. “Sounds like a mess,” he muttered, picturing Lavont—composed, methodical, once a trusted friend. Now distant, caught in the center of a growing divide. After all Amar’s service, they turn against him? He turned over what Conus had revealed, the pieces falling into place. Garen could see why the RDF might not be thrilled, though it still left him uneasy. But this wasn’t all Amar’s doing; he could only have done it with the Council’s approval.

“Don’t the RDF and RSIA both serve the Seven Worlds of Rhyus?” Klamarez asked, trying to understand the issue. “They’re under the same government, right?”

“Yes, but it’s complicated,” Conus replied.

“Sounds more than complicated,” Garen said dryly.

“It comes down to access,” Conus explained. “The RDF wants the same access to RSIA intel they used to have, but that’s changed. There’s a power struggle over control. Things have gotten tense between Lavont and RDF Command.”

“Why now?” Garen asked. “What changed to cause this?”

“It started with the intel leaks,” Conus said. “They forced the RSIA to tighten protocols and raise clearance levels, but the damage was done. Their security was breached. They needed someone new to stabilize things. That’s why Lavont was brought in. He rebuilt trust, got results, but his methods rubbed the RDF the wrong way.” Conus hesitated, his tone sharpening. “Efficient—maybe too efficient for them.”

“Intel leaks?” Garen’s voice hardened. “The RSIA was created to supply intel to the RDF, not lock them out. It wasn’t supposed to become a fighting force.”

“They weren’t just leaks,” Conus said grimly. “Critical information went missing—missions were compromised. The Seven Worlds’ security was at risk. The RSIA was infiltrated completely. That’s when Helix emerged.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and unsettling.

“Helix?” Garen asked, bracing himself. “What’s that?”

Conus lowered his voice, as if the name itself carried danger. “A faction made up of former RSIA and RDF officers who broke away. But it’s more than that—private sector operatives, shady investors, even ex-government officials.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “Some of them... former Council of Seven members. It’s a sprawling network, pulling from every sector.”

Garen stiffened. “That’s quite the group. Former Council members? How is that even possible?”

Conus hesitated. “Some believe in Helix’s ideals—or maybe they’re just against the ideals of the Seven Worlds. They want change. And... some of them were your supporters during the war,” he said evenly, his features composed. “Back when you opposed the peace treaty.”

“And now they’re working against the Seven Worlds?” he asked, struggling to piece it together.

“In a way, yes,” Conus clarified, his tone sharpening. “Helix wants control. Complete control of the Seven Worlds. To shape it how they believe it should be shaped.”

“So, the RSIA is fighting Helix? Is that why they’ve grown so much?” Garen asked.

“Yes, but it’s not a direct fight,” Conus admitted. “They’re counteracting Helix’s methods more than confronting them outright.”

“That hardly sounds effective,” Garen said, skepticism creeping into his voice.

“It’s not,” Conus replied bluntly. “Helix has their hands in everything—politics, research, even military contracts.”

Garen’s expression remained unreadable, but his mind churned as he pieced together the implications. “How big is this group?” he asked quietly.

“We’re still figuring it out,” Conus said grimly. “Helix is everywhere. Banned medical research, weaponized psychological operations, destabilized regions—they’ve infiltrated the RDF, RSIA, even the government. Their methods are ruthless: propaganda, blackmail, disinformation.”

He paused, his tone darkening. “But they’re not one entity. Helix is a network—loose alliances, shifting loyalties.”

Conus and Garen exchanged a look, the weight of the revelation hanging heavy between them.

“At the center, though,” Conus continued, “there’s a core group pulling the strings. Their rise was gradual, stretching back years—long before anyone started calling them Helix.”

Garen exhaled heavily, turning his gaze back to the forward screen. “I don’t want to deal with this,” he muttered.

Yet even as the words left his mouth, Garen knew the truth: there was no avoiding it. He’d stepped into something far bigger than he’d anticipated.

A heavy silence filled the cockpit as the Seeker edged closer to Eteren One. Garen replayed his recent interactions with General Maylone, her words now loaded with implication. The way she’d spoken suggested that Chiex had been nothing more than a convenient cover story—as if his ten years there were fabricated. But they weren’t. Every harsh, isolated moment had been real, and yet now even that seemed to be under suspicion.

It all pointed to the RDF’s growing paranoia. They weren’t just fighting a war of information—they were losing it. Instead of accusing the RSIA of dishonesty, they should have been working with them to counter Helix, to prepare for the threat of the Vorcon Empire. What the Seven Worlds needed now was unity, not division.

Conus’s explanation confirmed what Garen had already suspected: the RSIA—and Amar Lavont—had no choice but to tighten security. Lavont wasn’t keeping secrets for power’s sake; he was safeguarding the Seven Worlds of Rhyus—the very worlds that both the RSIA and RDF were sworn to protect. The distrust between the two organizations was misplaced—fueled by fear, not facts.

The past ten years felt even more burdensome. Had I unknowingly given support—or worse, inspired—a movement I wanted no part of? The thought stung.

Still, Garen reminded himself that he didn’t know the full story yet. This movement likely had roots far beyond anything he’d done. Even so, the possibility left a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t like how it made him feel—powerless, culpable.

A light blinked on the communications console, followed by a quick beep. Klamarez input a command, bringing up the message. “Docking clearance granted for Bay N-7,” he announced, a small grin flashing briefly.

Garen adjusted the controls, steering the Seeker out of the queue and toward their designated docking bay. Coordinates displayed on the helm guided their approach to Eteren One. A distance marker on the screen ticked down steadily, with proximity alerts chiming at regular intervals.

Docking Bay N-7 came into view, its alphanumeric markers etched clearly into the station’s reinforced plating. As they neared, the bay doors parted smoothly, gears and mechanisms producing deliberate clinks as they slid open.

With careful adjustments to the thrusters, Garen guided the Seeker into the bay. The landing gear extended, and with a muted clunk that briefly echoed through the hangar, the ship settled into position.

Klamarez moved to the rear of the ship, flipping a series of switches. The steady vibration of the Seeker’s systems faded, leaving it in a powered-down state.

Garen rose from his seat, stretching his arms. “I don’t want to be here longer than a day,” he said, casting a glance toward Klamarez. “Think that’s enough time for you to give the Seeker a proper look-over?”

“It’ll be enough,” Klamarez replied confidently. “This thing is going to purr.” Mentally, he was already cataloging the adjustments he’d need to make—fine-tuning the backup regulator’s current flow and replacing components strained by the Vorcon weapons fire.

“I can help,” Conus offered, standing up from his station. “Just tell me what you need.”

Klamarez flashed a quick, appreciative smile. “Thanks, but I can handle it. I’ll let you know if I run into trouble, though.” He glanced at his console. “I need to restock supplies too. It’s a long way to Rhyus, and I’d rather not be out there without spare parts.”

He handed his PDA to Conus, who scrolled through the displayed list. “That’s quite a list,” Conus remarked.

“You never know what you might need,” Klamarez said with a shrug. After a moment, his tone shifted. “I’ve got a few ideas I’d like your input on. Nothing urgent, but your insight could be useful.”

Conus’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely, Klamarez. I’m more than happy to have a look.”

“Great,” Klamarez replied. After a pause, he added, “And about those funds... I’ll need that transfer you mentioned.”

Conus retrieved his PDA, stepping closer. “Sure. Show me your transfer code.”

Klamarez extended his device, displaying the code. Conus scanned it with his PDA. As the transaction finalized with a faint beep, the amount—thirteen thousand standards—flashed on Klamarez’s screen. His breath caught. Thirteen thousand!?

“Is that enough?” Conus asked, his tone neutral.

Keep it together, Klamarez, he told himself. Out loud, he replied smoothly, “Oh, yes, more than enough.” Sliding the device back into his belt, his thoughts raced. This could cover repairs and then some... maybe even upgrades. His account now held thirteen thousand six hundred forty-eight standard credits, to be exact.

Before disembarking, Klamarez moved to a storage locker at the rear of the ship. He retrieved two small devices: short-range communication RemLinks, simpler than the one attached to his chest. Handing one to each of his companions, he explained, “Keep these on you at all times. We’ll stay connected, and we can locate each other if there’s any trouble.”

“Trouble?” Garen asked, clipping the device to his belt.

“You never know,” Klamarez replied with a shrug.

Conus chimed in, his voice cautious. “The RDF might have a presence here, but the station—and the surrounding area—isn’t fully under their jurisdiction. The Mottmor Trade Union governs it. The RDF handles most of the station’s security, runs its technical systems, provides maintenance, and oversees general administration. However, decisions about charges or enforcement ultimately rest with the Trade Union as part of their agreement. Technically, they’re guests.”

“Which means the law here is a mess,” Garen surmised. Sounds like the fleet was eager to get a foothold here.

“Crime’s low on the station itself,” Conus clarified, “but the legal framework across the system is chaotic. They’re more focused on maintaining peace than enforcing strict laws.”

Garen nodded thoughtfully. “I see. This system had its share of crime last I heard, but that was years ago.”

“It’s about the same as far as i know,” Klamarez remarked dryly. “I doubt even the RDF could fix that.”

Conus added, “I’d agree with that. Take YDN, for example—that moon’s a mess. Infamous for its high crime rate, lots of organized crime. Definitely not somewhere you want to be.”

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Klamarez shook his head. “I’ve heard some wild stories about that place. Someone once told me they had their hat stolen there. A hat. Who steals a hat?”

The absurdity of the anecdote drew a brief laugh from Garen.

Inspecting the RemLink Klamarez had handed them, Conus tilted the device in his hands. “Is this an Omega-7?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Klamarez’s grin widened as he held up the device, clearly eager to elaborate. “It is—the best model of RemLink ever made. And this one’s modified: Extended range, and extra encryption. You never know who might be listening in.”

Conus turned the device over in his hands. “Can I interface this with my PDA?”

Klamarez shook his head. “No, they’re not compatible. It runs on a very strict frequency.”

Klamarez initiated the ship’s exit sequence. The hatch slid open with a low shudder, revealing the hangar bay beyond—a spacious area large enough to comfortably house the Seeker, with plenty of room for maneuvering or repairs.

Conus took the lead, activating the hangar bay’s main door to access the station’s corridors. Docking Section N greeted them: a long, utilitarian passage stretching in both directions. The surroundings were sparse—just the occasional crate or cargo container scattered along the walls. In the distance, a maintenance worker focused on a computer console. Floor lights traced a clear path toward the station’s main security gate. Following the illuminated route, they reached a lift. Inside, Conus selected the level for security.

When the lift doors opened, the trio stepped into a security checkpoint. Ahead, a small line of travelers waited for clearance to enter the merchant sector of Eteren One.

Weapons had to be surrendered—though theirs were already secured aboard the Seeker. Identity verification came next, conducted under the watchful eyes of RDF Marines and Ottorin security officers. Energy turrets were discreetly embedded in the walls and ceiling.

The Ottorins, natives of Eteren, were distinguished by their elongated ears, earth-toned eyes, and terracotta skin. They handled the scanning and verification process. RDF Marines, in full tactical gear and carrying weapons at the ready, stood nearby.

Garen stepped forward, pressing his hand to the scanner. The device quickly detected the dermal implant embedded beneath his skin, projecting his image onto a nearby monitor and granting clearance. The process was seamless. He passed through the checkpoint without issue, and Conus followed moments later, his own clearance just as smooth.

Klamarez, lacking a dermal implant, presented his credentials on his PDA. An Ottorin officer meticulously examined the records, scanning for inconsistencies. After a moment of scrutiny, she asked a few routine questions. Speaking Interling Basic with a thick accent, she slightly slowed the exchange, but the process remained efficient. Satisfied, the officer nodded and granted clearance.

With their identities verified, the trio passed through the checkpoint. Nearby, a secondary line of travelers waited for additional scrutiny—likely flagged for inconsistencies or further questioning.

As they continued, Conus suddenly stiffened. A sharp, searing pain radiated through the side of his skull, where organic tissue met the synthetic framework of his augmentations. His hand flew instinctively to his right temple, as if pressing it might drive the pain away. The sensation was brief but intense, like a pinpoint strike deep within. Just as abruptly as it came, it faded, leaving behind a dull ache—not unfamiliar to him.

Conus darted a glance toward his companions, searching for any sign they’d noticed. If they had, they gave none, continuing ahead without pause. Grimacing, he fell back into step behind them. This wasn’t the first time—it had happened before on Chiex. Headaches were a known side effect of his augments, usually dull and lingering. But this? This was sharper, more intrusive. And for a moment, he thought he felt… something else. A flicker at the edge of his mind—a ghost of a memory, fragmented and elusive. Yet just as he reached for it, any hint of recognition slipped away.

Stepping onto the promenade, they were greeted by a space alive with energy, with beings from every corner of the known galaxy. Walkways filled with activity—individuals browsing storefronts, weaving through the steady flow of foot traffic, or pausing to exchange words in a chorus of languages.

The crowd included the nine native species of the Mottmor system. Among them were the deep blue-skinned Nsalron; the iridescent Netraxians, their skin catching and reflecting light; and the insectoid Kirlu from Quillwren, their chitinous limbs clicking softly as they moved. Other Mottmor natives blended seamlessly among them.

Scattered throughout were humans from the Seven Worlds, some in RDF uniforms, others dressed casually. Visitors from star systems near and far mingled with the locals.

RDF Marines stood at intervals that appeared random but were anything but, their presence alone maintaining order. Nearby, Eteren One Security personnel, in lighter armor and representing a mix of Mottmor species, patrolled calmly. On a raised platform, an unarmed security Synthetic observed the promenade, its advanced sensors quietly scanning for anomalies. Occasionally, its calm, mechanized voice exchanged updates with other security units.

Elsewhere, a service Synthetic managed an intricate map display, its tone a gentle programmed warmth. It offered directions and assistance to anyone who approached.

The promenade was vast and multi-leveled, its open design stretching several floors upward. Observation windows offered views of the traffic around the space station and the emerald planet Eteren. Storefronts, taverns, eateries, and kiosks lined both the main floor and upper levels, interconnected by crisscrossing glass walkways.

Vendors displayed an astonishing array of goods: practical tools, stylish attire, protective gear, weapons, salvage parts, and interstellar maps. Aromas from food stalls merged into an enticing blend, pulling passersby toward stalls offering everything from rare spices to exotic delicacies. Rare books and advanced gadgets were showcased alongside medical supply stores offering both traditional remedies and cutting-edge innovations. For the curious, foreign pets from distant systems.

Holographic displays projected vivid advertisements into the open space above. Glass lifts glided smoothly between levels.

Travel agencies flashed alluring ads, promising adventures among the stars—distant worlds and daring expeditions just a booking away. Nearby, psychic service providers beckoned with cryptic promises of insight, while long lines formed at recruitment centers, where eager applicants hoped to secure positions aboard trade ships, security teams, or exploration crews. Spaceship dealerships operated next to lively taverns, where melodies from live musicians spilled out into the promenade, mingling with the steady flow of conversation. Groups of onlookers gathered around performers, some drawn by the music.

Garen, Conus, and Klamarez instinctively stepped aside, allowing the steady stream of denizens to flow past.

Garen paused. It had been years since he’d seen anything like this. This station seems like a remarkable achievement, he thought, looking to the intermingling of species from the Mottmor system. Does it truly unite them? He couldn’t judge yet, but based on what he’d observed, Eteren One felt like the central hub of the entire star system. Perhaps this is a good thing, he considered. Yet the irony wasn’t lost on him—while the RDF was suspicious of him, he found himself equally wary of their motives and long-term plans in the Mottmor system.

He reminded himself that forming a complete opinion would take time. Returning to the broader galaxy after years of isolation, Garen knew he had to stay open-minded, relying on the instincts that had served him well. It takes time to see beyond the first layer, he reflected. And something of this scale surely has many.

Klamarez, who had ventured beyond Chiex on rare occasions but never as far as Eteren One, found himself mesmerized by the station’s offerings. None of his previous trips compared to what Eteren had to offer. The sheer variety filled him with an eagerness he hadn’t felt in years.

For Conus, visiting the station marked a personal milestone. His drive to explore the galaxy had been a key reason for joining the RDF, fulfilling a childhood dream of witnessing the universe’s farthest reaches. Growing up aboard his father’s trade ship had exposed him to countless sights, though many were now faded, fragmented memories. Here, every new experience felt like saving a fresh file in his mind.

Garen’s gaze shifted to the merchant stalls and kiosks scattered along the promenade. “Since I’m here, I might as well update my gear,” he said, scrutinizing his current outfit. If I need to fight, I’ll want better protection.

Conus nodded in agreement, his attention briefly drawn to the activity around them.

Klamarez, however, was already distracted. “I’ve got to start those repairs and hunt down the parts. Who knows what treasures I’ll find here,” he said, his voice brimming with excitement. Without waiting for a response, he disappeared into the crowd, his eyes glued to the map on his PDA.

Garen and Conus exchanged glances, mildly amused by Klamarez’s abrupt departure. Moments later, they spotted him weaving back through the throng, still focused on his PDA. He veered off course, heading in the wrong direction. Grinning sheepishly, Klamarez passed them again, this time heading the right way.

“Well, I guess I’m off to explore the station—unless you need assistance, General,” Conus said, his tone light but polite.

“I’ll be fine, Colonel. Where are you headed?” Garen asked.

“There’s a viewing port on one of the upper levels with a fantastic view of Eteren. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to see it?”

“Don’t want to pass that up,” Garen replied, arching an eyebrow. Of all the things here, that’s what catches his attention?

Conus ventured off, leaving Garen to his own thoughts.

As Garen surveyed his surroundings, he began considering his priorities. He needed something specific—practical casual wear and tactical gear capable of handling any scenario. Starting down the promenade, he navigated the steady flow of beings, mindful of the motion in every direction. With so many species intermingling, he paid extra attention to his steps. Don’t want to step on anyone.

His path eventually led him to the Tailoring Couture Emporium, its storefront softly illuminated beneath elegant signage bearing the subtitle Custom Tactical Gear. Looks expensive, Garen thought, noting the elaborate displays visible through the glass.

Luxury had never appealed to him during his RDF service. Over the years, he’d quietly amassed considerable savings, funds that had remained largely untouched during his time on Chiex. Living off the land had kept expenses minimal, and his isolation had left little room—or reason—for spending. Even before Chiex, wealth had never been a priority.

He paused, a memory surfacing—a vague recollection of an investment he’d made in his final years of service. At the time, it had been more about helping a family member in need than securing personal gain. He hadn’t thought much about it since, but now, standing here, he wondered if that investment had matured into something more substantial.

The store’s exterior drew him back, the outfits in the window catching his eye—practical tactical gear that aligned perfectly with what he had in mind. The standard designs were impressive, but the promise of customization truly intrigued him. This might be exactly what I need, he thought, stepping closer to the glass for a better look.

He hadn’t previously associated Uxian craftsmanship with tactical gear, but the displays made it clear the store specialized in high-quality, versatile equipment. Many of the outfits were tailored for human figures, though designs for other species were prominently displayed as well. RDF field uniforms had served him well in the past, but now he needed something different—something uniquely his own.

Garen stepped inside. Tactical outfits were displayed on mannequins throughout the room, a balance between utility and style. At the center of the store, computer stations paired with circular platforms clearly indicated the process: customers could select and customize their gear.

Approaching one of the terminals, Garen selected his language from the displayed options. The interface prompted him to step onto the adjacent platform, where a cascade of scanning lights enveloped him, recording his measurements.

When he stepped off, a full-color, 3D holographic projection of himself appeared, slowly rotating. Garen stared at it for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. What happened to you? he thought, scrutinizing the image. The longer hair, the beard, the streaks of gray—it all struck him differently, laid bare in sharp, artificial detail. I look twenty years older than I should.

The computer screen sprang to life, presenting an array of customizable features. Each adjustment Garen made was instantly reflected on the holographic projection, letting him see the results in real time.

He spent considerable time designing the outfit to his specifications. The ensemble would be multi-layered, beginning with an underlayer of armor weave engineered to absorb and distribute energy upon impact.

For the lower half, he chose black tactical pants reinforced with protective fibers, featuring ample pockets for gadgets and tools. He paired them with a lightweight leather belt designed for durability under strain.

For his torso, Garen selected a gray shirt crafted from the same protective fibers as the pants. The centerpiece of the ensemble was a black jacket with a minimalist aesthetic, equipped with specialized compartments for his PDA, communication device, and other essentials.

In the accessories section, Garen added a holster for his right hip and a sheath for a larger melee weapon positioned on his back. A smaller sheath on his left hip completed the setup.

He also opted for a forearm-mounted shield, a model of the FSPS (Forearm Shield Projection System), designed to emit adaptive energy shields. These shields projected shapes based on the system’s design, capable of deflecting melee strikes or blocking incoming weapons fire. To complement the FSPS, Garen selected a personal ABF (Adaptive Barrier Field) unit—a full-body energy-defense system. When activated, it generated a dynamic barrier that adapted to various threats, absorbing significant damage before needing a recharge.

Both systems could sustain only a finite amount of damage before needing to recharge, requiring careful, strategic use in high-risk situations.

As Garen finalized his selections, movement in the corner of the room caught his eye. Three identical female Uxians entered, their steps perfectly synchronized. Standing around five and a half feet tall, they embodied a balance of delicacy and strength. Their hairless skin seemed to possess a subtle sheen, and their deep green eyes carried a welcoming warmth.

For a moment, Garen found himself captivated as their harmonious voices greeted him in unison. “Welcome. We are pleased you have found what you are looking for,”

Garen voiced his concern about the time required to prepare the outfit. The triplets responded with reassuring smiles. “We assure you, sir, your new outfit will be ready by morning at the latest,” they said warmly.

Relieved, Garen confirmed his intent to pay immediately, retrieving his PDA. For a moment, the final cost caught him off guard, inflated by the station’s steep taxes.

“Sixteen thousand credits?” he muttered.

“We only offer quality,” they replied, their confidence unwavering.

Garen quickly rationalized the expense. That’s steep, even for custom work. But it’s worth the price, especially if it keeps me alive, he thought. Despite his success against the Vorcon soldiers on Chiex, Garen had no illusions about his readiness for future confrontations. I was lucky on Chiex. The transaction was completed without further comment. After taking his contact information, the Uxians retreated to a room beyond sight, leaving Garen to his thoughts.

The realization that his recall had been orchestrated by the RSIA, not the RDF, still stung. Is this how the RDF sees me now? After all he had given to the Seven Worlds, surely that still counted for something. Yet their treatment suggested otherwise.

It was clear this was entirely Amar Lavont’s doing. From what Conus had shared, Lavont’s transition to the RSIA had complicated his reputation. Garen couldn’t ignore the symmetry between Lavont’s struggles and his own past conflicts—the shifting alliances, the weight of distrust. The parallel nagged at him, dredging up old frustrations he thought he’d long buried.

With his next priority clear—securing accommodations—Garen set out to find lodging. Eteren One offered a variety of options, ranging from modest quarters to opulent suites. Opting for comfort over frugality, he chose a higher-tier option. A middle-aged woman in casual attire handled the booking. Once the reservations were finalized, Garen used his RemLink to notify his companions of the arrangements. After forwarding the access codes to Klamarez and Conus, he found himself wandering the station’s merchant center once more.

As he moved through the promenade, his attention was drawn to a barber shop nestled between a pawn shop and a recruitment center. Groups of job seekers gathered around the recruitment center, their conversations focused on wages and opportunities. Many seemed down on their luck, their weary postures hinting at desperation.

At first, Garen nearly overlooked the storefront labeled The Silver Shear, but his gaze eventually settled on it. The shop featured a single barber chair and one solitary operator. The salons scattered across Eteren One reminded him of how far he’d drifted from the disciplined image he once upheld. His overgrown beard and unkempt hair spoke of a decade in isolation. With a faint sigh, Garen stepped into the barber shop.

The barber, Eron, a Bolvatan with a professional yet warm demeanor, greeted him with an easy smile. “Please, take a seat,” he said in a soothing tone.

Garen settled into the chair, his eyes briefly scanning the understated surroundings. Eron studied his hair thoughtfully. “You have remarkable hair, sir,” he said, flicking his own thick, vibrant locks. “I could give you a style that truly stands out.”

Garen chuckled awkwardly. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m looking for something simple. Short on the hair, keep the beard but clean it up,” he said.

Eron nodded knowingly, giving Garen’s hair and beard one final appraising look. “Of course,” he replied. He suggested a few subtle adjustments to complement Garen’s features before beginning his work. The subtle sound of the trimmers whispered through the room.

A map on the wall caught Garen’s attention, depicting Delchar Rennar, a peaceful system renowned for its diplomatic ties and thriving trade agreements. He recalled the Bolvatans’ pivotal role as peacemakers, particularly in its role in brokering the treaty between the Seven Worlds of Rhyus and the Vorcon Empire.

“Have you ever visited?” Eron asked, glancing at the map that had drawn Garen’s focus.

“Yes,” Garen replied. “A couple of weeks on Atha, including a few nights in Sentha.”

“Business or pleasure?” Eron inquired.

“Pleasure—a vacation,” Garen said simply, though the memory of who he’d shared that trip with lingered quietly in his mind.

As Eron finished, Garen caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. The man staring back at him resembled his younger self, except for the now neatly shaped beard. Satisfied, Garen tipped Eron generously and thanked him before stepping back into the corridors.

Pausing at a viewport, he watched a squadron of Verta fighters streak across in tight formation.

Unbeknownst to him, a figure lingered at the edge of the promenade. The man, clean-shaven and draped in a weathered coat, bore tattoos that crept across his neck and every patch of exposed skin except his face. His sharp eyes locked onto Garen, recognition flashing within them. Though his posture seemed casual, the focused intensity of his gaze betrayed a calculated intent.

Pretending to browse the wares of a nearby vendor, the man’s eyes never left Garen. The brim of a hat shaded part of his face, but his piercing stare was unmistakable. His neutral expression gave little away.

As Garen turned slightly, glancing toward the merchant sector, the man tilted his head just enough to avoid drawing attention, keeping Garen firmly in his peripheral vision.

“It’s been years, General,” the man muttered under his breath, his voice low.

Garen disappeared into the crowd, but the figure remained, watching. His posture stayed casual, though a faint smirk formed.