CHAPTER 24
GVIF Rheeavher
Ceryorka System, Cavaglatar Sector
Date: Zeran 23, Year 4731
The Rheeavher crept forward, its prow cutting through starlight. Jagged protrusions marked its long slender midsection, while its engines flared pale blue-white at the rear.
Ahead lay Fernes, a muted sphere of green and gray surrounded by an asteroid field. Its lone moon hovered nearby, its surface streaked with murky shades of deep blue. Nestled in the precarious Ceryorka System, Fernes belonged to the Elycron species’ territory, though it remained an undeveloped world. The Elycron homeworld lay elsewhere within the star system. Pirates and raiders roamed unchecked, exploiting the absence of order. Only a handful of worlds offered even a semblance of security, making unprotected travel a perilous gamble.
Major Legate Caul Malocktus stepped onto the bridge, his Bruiser bodyguards taking position by the arched entrance, stationed near the supporting pillars. Elsewhere on the bridge, armed soldiers stood stiffly, holding their positions—armored and with weapons gripped firmly.
Above, the vaulted ceiling bore etched depictions of Vorcon gods.
Caul’s cloak swept across the floor, his mere presence tightening and silencing any unnecessary motion or sound. The crew’s eyes locked on their stations, movements mechanical, as though a glance might summon his ire. The sound of Caul’s slow, rasping breaths was the only disturbance as he approached the ship’s second-in-command.
“Commodore Gahlenka,” Caul rasped, his voice dragging over the name as though savoring each syllable. “State the situation.”
Commodore Gahlenka kept his focus forward, suppressing the frustration that threatened to crack his calm. He held it for a second before shifting his full attention to Caul. Rados Gahlenka felt things always went smoother when the Major Legate stayed confined to his chambers or roamed the ship’s halls in search of other distractions. On any other vessel, Gahlenka would have commanded outright with his rank of Commodore. Here, aboard the Rheeavher, his authority was diminished—a commander in name, yet forever under the force of Caul’s authority.
“Major Legate, we are in position. The outpost is within range,” Gahlenka said. Pointless distractions, Gahlenka thought bitterly, his eyes briefly flicking to the elevated command chair at the center of the bridge. First Chiex, now this. Why involve the Grand Vorcon Imperial Force?
The Commodore occupied a secondary command seat, less prominent and overshadowed by the Major Legate’s throne-like chair.
Behind them, the tactical map table displayed the Rheeavher’s position relative to Fernes and the concealed pirate base, its display adjusting constantly with incoming data.
Caul studied the tactical readouts from the monitors above the table, which provided additional data. From what he could gather, the outpost had been fortified enough to repel minor skirmishes and local forces.
But a Vorcon assault was another matter entirely. It was unlikely these pirates had anticipated such a strike. Why would they? Their presence held no strategic value, no real threat to the Vorcon Empire. They existed merely as a convenience, a stop along the way—an opportunity for annihilation that Caul Malocktus deemed necessary to impart a greater lesson.
“Commodore Gahlenka.” Caul’s voice lingered on the name. “The source of this intel?”
The Commodore straightened with effort, rising from his chair to move closer to Caul. As he braced himself against the console, pain flared in his joints and back, sharper than usual. He refused to let it dictate his posture. Despite his efforts, the strain was etched on his face. Fighting the urge to hunch or wince, he held himself with as much composure as he could muster.
“Reports from scout ships, cross-referenced with GVIF intel,” Gahlenka replied. “The intel is current, Major Legate Malocktus.”
The Vorcons, while focused on rebuilding over the last decade, had maintained an expansive network of scout ships throughout the galaxy. Supplemented by data from syndicates and informants, their intelligence remained accurate and reliable.
Caul nodded slowly, accepting the report. He understood the effort it had taken Gahlenka to sift through the data and identify this target—one far removed from the high-priority targets the GVIF typically concerned themselves with. Though he didn’t voice it, the Commodore’s diligence and efforts satisfied him. With Caul, silence often carried the weight of praise.
Reaching for the transceiver clipped to his belt, Caul activated the device. “Inquisitor,” he called, his voice a cold whisper.
“Yesssss, Major Legate,” came the reply, expectant. Nelve Rellocha’s voice carried through the channel, her tone serpentine.
“Inquisitor Rellocha,” Caul said. “A target has been identified. Take command of three wings of Standard Fighters. Leave nothing behind.”
“As you command, Major Legate,” Nelve responded immediately.
Ending the communication, Caul allowed himself a faint smirk. Nelve was holding on—for now. Her performance intrigued him, but the trial ahead would reveal her true worth. Her melee combat showed exceptional promise, though she fell short of the best warriors Caul had encountered.
Failure was a tool. The death of an agent, if the task demanded it, was acceptable—as long as the mission succeeded.
It was a lesson Nelve had yet to fully grasp—a truth he would ensure she learned. She needed to believe in the cause, not merely obey it, to become truly effective.
Acceptance over anger. Anger over fear. Fear instilled in others.
The future held many possibilities. Caul knew his wasn’t the only ambition lurking in the Empire. Others schemed, hungry for power, each with their own aspirations and visions. He would have to remain vigilant, patient, and ready to adapt, aware that even his meticulous plans could only account for so much. Presuming himself infallible would be the arrogance of a fool—a mistake Caul refused to make.
Over the years, he had trained many, each with a specific purpose, though not all had proven worthy. Some failed to meet his expectations; others had betrayed his trust. Loyalty—unquestioning, unbreakable loyalty—was what he demanded above all else. And it remained the rarest trait of all. Many could be loyal, but only to a point.
***
Inside the main hangar bay of the Rheeavher, Inquisitor Nelve Rellocha sat in the cockpit of her Predator-class fighter, a heavily armed and armored assault craft. The bay was lined with dozens of ships, their pilots seated and preparing for launch. Maintenance crews, having completed their checks, stepped aside as the final preparations were completed.
The Transceiver Uplink Array Console illuminated as Nelve activated it.
“Wing leaders, report in,” she commanded, her voice carrying a rasp and faint hiss.
“Tarnoveth wing ready,” the commander’s voice low and slithering.
“Kyronthis wing ready,” echoed the second commander.
“Drekaroth wing ready,” added the third, his voice rasping, rough and broken.
One by one, the leaders of the three Predator-class fighter wings confirmed their readiness. Each wing comprised five ships, with Nelve’s own craft bringing the total to sixteen. She would lead all three wings into battle.
He won’t break me. I’ll die first if I have to. The thought tightened in her mind. Maybe that’s exactly what he wants. A cold realization followed: the trials ahead would demand strength she could scarcely comprehend.
That morning, Nelve had trained extensively with the Stryder Servatron before facing Primus Thar Golvosran. Caul’s faint smirk during her matches with Thar lingered in her memory. Despite winning several rounds, the experience had left her drained after an already grueling training session earlier. The exhaustion lingered, her only reprieve a brief moment in Caul’s office before taking her seat in the cockpit of her fighter craft.
Normally, at this time of day, she would unwind, meditate, and refocus before studying the texts Caul had given her. Whatever Caul had planned, was a test of some sort, this much she felt was certain.
The Brotherhood of Velor, steeped in the legend of Velor’s sacrifice, was forgotten by most—dismissed as myth or ignored, as though acknowledgment might grant it power. Yet there were those who feared it, who knew it to be real and dangerous. For them, the name Velor provoked dread, hanging over those with much to lose.
It struck her with sudden clarity: a part of her had died the day she was assigned to the Rheeavher, placed fully under Caul Malocktus’s command. Was my fate ever truly mine? Many believed the gods controlled every Vorcon’s destiny, but she was beginning to feel as though only one held sway over hers.
The more time she spent in his orbit, the clearer his nature became. Caul’s depths were far greater than she could fully fathom; he revealed only what he wanted others to see.
At Caul’s age and birth status, commanding an armada was considered unjust, unfit, and unearned. Whispers about Caul Malocktus abounded—rumors, theories, and infamy. Yet when the next war began, Caul Malocktus would command a sizeable armada, with the Rheeavher serving as its flagship and Major Legate Malocktus at its helm.
Yet, to Nelve, one truth was certain: this power was not enough for him. What would be enough? She wondered. At what point would his ambition be satisfied? The Malocktus family had earned themselves quite a reputation, their house well known and recognized. In recent years, they had become more influential than some noble houses of the Vorcon Empire. But even that seemed insufficient for Caul. What was enough?
“Launch now,” she ordered.
The wing leaders relayed her command.
The Predator-class fighters lifted off in unison, sixteen in total. Thrusters ignited, propelling the ships upward and forward. The hangar doors slid open, revealing the energy barrier beyond. One by one, the fighters passed through, their hulls briefly enveloped by the energy field before emerging into the expanse of space.
The wings formed up behind Nelve as they pulled away from the Rheeavher. Each wing of five craft moved in tight formation, with Nelve’s fighter at the head, commanding the entire strike force. The Rheeavher’s imposing form diminished behind them as the fighters gained distance, engines firing pale blue-white exhaust. Nelve led the wings onward, their trajectory locked on the asteroid belt. The pirate outpost, hidden within the debris, registered as a marker on her Ra-Dar.
As they approached the planet, the asteroid field started sparsely but grew denser as they ventured deeper, the gaps between debris narrowing. The Predator-class fighters wove through the maze of rock and ice, holding their formation. Nelve’s Ra-Dar pinged—a cluster of ships and defense turrets hidden within the field. Signals on her screen confirmed the proximity of other craft. The pirate outpost was near.
The pirates had clearly detected the Vorcon presence before arrival. Stealth, however, had never been the intention.
Resistance came swiftly. Pirate fighter craft—a disorganized mix of models—launched from hidden positions among the asteroids. Some darted nimbly between rocks, while others lumbered forward, their heavy weapons compensating for a lack of speed. Most were single-pilot vessels, though a few carried additional crew to man rear-facing or side turrets.
Nelve assessed the unfolding situation.
“Open fire,” she commanded.
Dark blue energy streaked across the battlefield, threaded with violet arcs. The pirate ships retaliated with erratic blasts of orange, acidic green, and pale yellow, their shots scattering uneven ripples.
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The Predator-class ships responded in synchronized volleys, their disciplined assault overwhelming the pirates’ scattered defenses. Nelve counted over twenty enemy ships on her Ra-Dar as additional turret platforms, built into asteroids with stabilizing thrusters, poured fire from multiple directions.
“Tarnoveth Wing, focus on the defense platforms! Kyronthis Wing, engage the heavier ships—target their engines!” Nelve ordered. “Drekaroth Wing, stay with me. Target and eliminate.”
The Predator-class wings advanced, taking up their assigned roles.
Nelve led her wing deeper into the asteroid field, weaving deftly between tumbling rocks and streaks of enemy fire. The pirate formation disintegrated under the precise Vorcon strikes. Shields absorbed the brunt of the pirates’ scattered attacks, while superior firepower tore through their disorganized ranks. The pirates’ mix of light and heavy weapons proved useless against the Predator-class fighters’ coordinated strikes and advanced shields.
Two pirate ships broke formation, veering between asteroids in their frantic attempt to flee. Nelve’s wing responded instantly. A coordinated missile volley from Drekaroth Wing slammed into the first ship. Its shields flared briefly before collapsing, and the vessel exploded in a violent eruption of flame and debris. The second ship, attempting to retreat, fell to Nelve’s direct assault. Her energy barrage struck its engines, leaving them sputtering and lifeless. The ship swerved uncontrollably into a nearby asteroid, detonating on impact.
The pirates unleashed a desperate barrage, their weapons firing without pause, but the Predator-class fighters absorbed the onslaught. Each impact rippled across the shield barriers, scattering bursts of energy into the surrounding field. Minimal damage registered on the Vorcon ships, their design built for prolonged skirmishes.
Outmatched, the pirates retreated deeper into the asteroid field, relying on its jagged terrain for cover and adopting hit-and-run tactics. They darted erratically, leveraging the debris for fleeting moments of reprieve.
Nelve’s confidence held firm. Their numbers mean nothing.
The battle approached the pirate base—a mining outpost built into a large asteroid. Stabilizing thrusters held the structure in place, though it offered no offensive capabilities.
A single pirate fighter, larger and better equipped than the others, broke through their formation. Heavy cannons fired from its forward hull, while a rear-facing turret unleashed suppressive fire. The barrage caused significant damage to several Vorcon craft before Nelve’s wing split to intercept.
One fighter drew the pirate craft’s fire, maneuvering to keep its attention, while the rest flanked it from both sides.
Timing her assault perfectly, Nelve unleashed a concentrated barrage, targeting the pirate ship’s engines. A missile found its target, jolting the vessel violently. Systems failed, and a final explosion tore the hull apart.
***
Caul Malocktus stood on the bridge of the Rheeavher, gazing out the observation window. Beyond the thick glass, streaks of energy lit the distance as the battle continued, flashes punctuating the darkness.
For now, he kept the war galleon out of range. He wanted the pirates to believe they had a chance—to push back with every ounce of desperation. If I move the Rheeavher in closer, they’ll scatter. This needs to be a... battle.
Only in adversity could Nelve’s worth be revealed. Velor’s teachings surfaced in Caul’s mind: True strength emerges only when forged in suffering. To cast off the chains of mortality, one must embrace the shadow of death. Only then can one grasp the essence of life itself—a life that extends beyond the realm we understand.
“Should I begin moving the Rheeavher closer, Major Legate?” Gahlenka asked, breaking the quiet. His tone carried a hint of caution, though the suggestion seemed practical enough. Why risk losing fighters unnecessarily? Even this rubble could get lucky enough to inflict damage.
Caul turned slowly, his rasping voice calm, almost conversational. “Commodore, maintain our position. No interference unless I request otherwise.”
The calm tone left no room for debate.
Commodore Gahlenka nodded, though the order sat uneasily with him. Caul’s demeanor was more unsettling than the instruction itself. The pirates were insignificant, after all. Yet withholding the Rheeavher’s might made no tactical sense. For once, could he tell me what his plan is? Gahlenka thought, swallowing his frustration.
The battle unfolded just as expected: the pirates were being torn apart in a systematic assault. Nelve’s leadership was evident, though it was not a leader he required.
Through the observation window, Caul watched faint trails of light breaking the darkness within the asteroid field surrounding Fernes. A smirk stretched across his pale features, his bone-white skin exuding an icy coldness.
***
The Vorcon wings maintained their formation, but unexpected pirate reinforcements briefly pushed them to the brink. Nelve pushed her Predator-class fighter to its limits, executing evasive rolls, feigned retreats, and sudden reversals. Yet the pirates pressed their advantage. Several defense platforms had been destroyed, but others continued firing, their barrages.
Her fighter shuddered as a golden bolt struck, her shields flaring before absorbing most of the impact. Warning lights flickered across her console, and sparks shot from the control panel as system integrity faltered.
“Shields at fifty percent,” the computer droned in its unfeeling monotone.
Nelve growled in frustration, gripping the controls tighter. She surged forward.
The pirates fought with mounting desperation, relying on their dwindling numbers in a vain attempt to gain the upper hand. Their ships darted in and out of the asteroid field, using the terrain for cover and pushing their engines to dangerous extremes. One smaller fighter, unable to correct its trajectory in time, collided with an asteroid and erupted in a fiery burst.
Her wing tightened its formation, weaving through the asteroid field as platforms rained fire around them. Their precision strikes hit hard, cutting through the pirates and igniting a surge of confidence within her. They sliced through the pirate lines, and the reinforcements that had briefly shifted the balance fell one by one, restoring the advantage her forces held before the pirates' counterattack.
Victory seemed imminent—until Caul’s voice cut through the Transceiver uplink.
“Inquisitor Rellocha,” he hissed. “Order Tarnoveth Wing and Kyronthis Wing to retreat. Immediately.”
Nelve froze, her mind racing. Retreat? Now? The pirates are scattering, their defenses collapsing. She only needed time to complete her objective.
“Major Legate?” she managed, keeping her voice steady despite the confusion.
“Now, Inquisitor,” Caul ordered, his hiss slicing through the channel. He offered no explanation.
Nelve hesitated, her thoughts spinning, doubt and anger warring within her. Is this what he intended all along?
“Tarnoveth Wing and Kyronthis Wing, fall back to the Rheeavher. Now,” she commanded, her voice firm, even as doubt stirred within her.
The squad leaders relayed her orders, though traces of confusion were evident. The retreating wings peeled away from the battle, their ten Predator-class fighters regrouping as they headed toward the Rheeavher. The pirates, recognizing their intent to withdraw, refrained from pursuit.
This left Nelve and the five fighters of Drekaroth Wing suddenly outnumbered. The pirate ships, sensing the shift, turned their focus on Nelve’s squad. Their attacks were swift and brutal, emboldened by newfound confidence.
“Stay close! Use the asteroids for cover!” Nelve spoke into the uplink, her voice cutting through.
The balance had tipped, and her wing was now on the defensive. Outnumbered and under siege, they fought to hold their ground.
The pirates’ destruction had felt inevitable moments ago, yet now survival had become her sole focus.
Nelve dodged another blast. If I’m to become an effective agent of the Brotherhood of Velor, I must embrace the possibility of death. This is the Brotherhood’s way.
Her wing darted behind asteroids, evading the pirates’. The battle devolved into a struggle for survival. Nelve’s remaining fighters tightened their formation, weaving through the asteroid field in a desperate attempt to evade the pirate ships and the defense turrets embedded within the rocks. The pirates pressed their advantage.
The pirates concentrated their fire, attempting to overwhelm the Predator-class fighters’ shields. The Ra-Dar flashed with proximity alerts. Other screens showed shield levels dropping across the board.
“Keep moving! Our shields will hold!” Nelve commanded. Yet the truth on her display was undeniable—her wing teetered on the brink. The relentless attacks intensified as the pirates sensed the Vorcon shields weakening. There were too many ships, too much incoming fire to hold for long.
Nelve’s focus locked onto a narrow opening between two massive asteroids. Streaks of dark blue energy threaded with crackling violet arcs sliced through the space around her. The two massive rocks ahead teetered on the brink of collision.
“Follow!” she commanded.
Her fighters darted into the narrow corridor just as the asteroids behind them collided, scattering debris. Some pirate ships peeled away, while others pushed forward, determined to continue the chase. Emerging on the far side, Nelve tightened their formation, bracing for the counterattack.
Nelve’s squad executed sharp turns and unleashed a sudden, coordinated barrage. The pirates, caught off guard, were trapped in a devastating crossfire of energy weapons and missile fire. Ships that had moments ago seemed overwhelming threats now burst apart in fiery explosions.
The victory was short-lived. While the pirates had suffered heavy losses, their sheer numbers began to overwhelm Nelve’s battered and outnumbered wing. Each strike pushed her squad closer to its limit. Their shields, nearly depleted, couldn’t withstand the sustained assault. There was too much incoming fire to evade it all, their shields only capable of absorbing so much.
“Hold formation and push forward!” Nelve ordered, leading her squad behind a larger asteroid for cover as the pirates closed in. Just as they regrouped, a separate group of enemy fighters intercepted them, leaving the Vorcon craft caught in the middle, surrounded by pirate ships on both ends.
Nelve’s fighter shuddered violently as a missile struck. The blast rocked her ship, and warning lights flared across her console. Though the physical damage to the hull was minimal, the missile had been designed to disrupt systems.
Alarms blared as her control systems grew sluggish and unresponsive.
“Critical systems failing,” the computer droned.
Smoke stung her eyes, curling from the damaged panels as sparks erupted. Nelve steadied her breath, forcing herself to focus against the chaos. A quick glance at her display confirmed the reality—her ship was crippled. Systems were failing one after another, and the pirates pressed their relentless attack. It was only a matter of time before her fighter was destroyed and her with it.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nelve caught sight of another of her fighters struck by enemy fire. The ship spun aimlessly, adrift, before a final barrage tore through its hull, obliterating it in a fiery explosion.
I will not give up. Her thoughts churned as her fighter drifted, vulnerable and exposed.
Communications were down, isolating her completely.
The teachings of Velor came to her. His sacrifice—the ultimate martyrdom for the Vorcon Empire—had become the foundation of the Brotherhood of Velor. He had faced death willingly, knowing it served a higher purpose. But there’s nothing noble in this. My death here would be forgotten. It would mean nothing.
Her hands tightened on the unresponsive controls. Am I nothing more than a sacrifice?
Her fighter drifted, powerless, one strike away from destruction. Just as the killing blow seemed inevitable, a burst of energy cut through—raw and unrefined, yet unmistakably Vorcon. More followed in rapid succession. Reinforcements surged into the field of battle, energy weapons blazing and missiles streaking.
The two retreating wings had returned, now bolstered with additional fighters, their firepower overwhelming. The Vorcon ships ripped through the pirate fleet, shredding their ranks and breaking their formations. Fighter craft and the station’s weapon platforms were obliterated, the tide of battle turning decisively in the Vorcons’ favor.
Nelve sat motionless in her seat, watching as the reinforcements obliterated the last of the pirates. The enemy ranks, caught off guard, crumbled under the assault. Ships disintegrated, debris scattering across the asteroid field. Little remained of their mismatched hulls.
It was over in moments.
Tilting her head, Nelve caught sight of a retrieval craft approaching—a wide, stubby vessel built specifically to haul damaged fighters back for repairs. For a brief moment, she felt relief at the sight, But the anger and frustration returned, stronger than before. My rescue shouldn’t be necessary.
The retrieval craft extended a retractable arm, clamping onto her damaged fighter. The jolt shook Nelve within the cockpit, further fueling her irritation. Slowly, the retrieval craft began towing the crippled fighter back toward the Rheeavher, navigating carefully through the asteroid field.
Approaching the Rheeavher, Nelve’s fighter was pulled through the protective energy barrier that separated the hangar bay from the vacuum of space. As the craft settled into the docking bay, aided by the retrieval craft, it touched down hard.
She unstrapped herself from the pilot’s seat and shoved the cockpit open. Stumbling out, Nelve’s legs trembled, but she quickly adjusted and masked her face with calm.
A medical Servatron approached, scanning her while a Vorcon medical officer observed. After completing its scan, the Servatron turned to the officer and intoned mechanically, “No injuries.”
The medical officer glanced at Nelve. “Any concerns, Inquisitor?”
She shook her head numbly, barely registering his words. Satisfied, the officer moved on, the Servatron following to assess another pilot.
The blare of crews surrounded her, other craft landing within the bay. Maintenance teams and pilots discussed their ships—most of which had returned undamaged.
Nelve pulled out her transceiver. “Major Legate Malocktus,” she said.
A voice answered—but it wasn’t Caul’s. It was one of the ship’s officers.
“Inquisitor Rellocha, the Major Legate is currently unavailable,” the officer said.
“Unavailable?” Nelve repeated, her tone sharp. “Where is he?”
“The Major Legate is headed to the pirate base,” the officer replied.
Why would he go there? Her gaze drifted to her battered fighter, its hull scorched and dented, trying to make sense of it.