“Those living Creatures do not bear sentience. Synapts are a requirement as the Mastodons become an extension of the Synapt’s body when linked. The Order of Athena devised them this way to ensure control.”
From “Treatises on the Living Vessels: The Technomagical Legacy of the Empire" by Archmagister Quintus Valerian - Great Empire’s Library.
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The Reaper hung silently in the vastness of space, a dark silhouette broken only by the faint glimmer of orange and blue runes etched across its steel-black hull. They pulsed gently, like stars shimmering on the edge of an abyss, betraying the ship’s otherwise ghostly presence. A monolithic figure, the Reaper's sleek body, with its forward black glass command deck and ominous side wings, cast a foreboding shadow. A warning to any who might chance upon its path.
Prefetto Lorenzo Caprini was one of those rare, reluctant witnesses. He stared at the array of blue holographic squares projected before him on his console, each report compounding his unease. A bead of cold sweat slid down his wrinkled, bare scalp, tracing a path along the creases of his forehead. He wiped it away with his sleeve, leaning heavily on a veneer of indignation to hold his composure.
“Who does he think he is?” Caprini muttered, voice tinged with a forced bravado that cracked under the weight of his worry. "Did he make contact? Is he trying to make me look weak?"
“Sir, The Reaper isn’t in our transmission area,” responded a blonde technician, eyes fixed on her console below the Prefetto's platform, hands flying across the controls.
“I don’t care if he isn’t," he snapped. "Get ready to request assistance from Central.”
Caprini took out a small, crumpled tissue from his pocket, his chubby fingers trembling slightly as he dabbed at his forehead again. “Damn pirate. Thinks he can come and go as he likes,” he muttered, his words barely a whisper, meant more for himself than the busy technician.
Prefetto Lorenzo Caprini had been granted the honor of leading this station by Patrician Aurelia Medici herself.
Station Testudo, located on the Empire's fringes, light-years from the primary spatial routes, had once been a sanctuary. Its secluded location meant few visitors, and it boasted luxurious apartments and state-of-the-art facilities. A blessing in every way.
But two decades ago, things took an unexpected turn. Out of nowhere, pirates from the outer territories discovered Testudo, drawn by its ample reserves of supplies and isolated position. Caprini, then restless from boredom and tempted by profit, began accepting bribes from the occasional rogue passing through. Before he knew it, the station had transformed into a central hub in this part of the galaxy, infamous and teeming with criminals.
Of course, Caprini had taken measures, cultivating a network within House Medici to secure protection and forging alliances with the pirates themselves, who acted as an unconventional yet effective security layer. Still, he despised surprises, and there was an etiquette to all dealings. The last time that damn Cassian and his crew had docked, they’d nearly sparked an all-out war with other pirate factions.
Now, as the greasy Prefetto’s expression twisted between anger and dread, the gears in his mind spun furiously, scrambling for a way to stave off the impending storm.
“Sir, The Reaper’s entering our area. I’m picking up a signal,” the blonde technician - Avili Keinst, if the Prefetto remembered her name correctly - reported, her tone steady and professional. “Your orders?”
“Yes, accept the communication,” Caprini replied, fingers tapping anxiously on the rails of his floating platform. “Let’s hear what this madman wants.”
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Sitting comfortably in his chair, facing a desk cluttered with a map of the Galaxy and holographic projections casting a soft blue glow on his chiseled face and rough, unkempt beard, Cassian’s sharp eyes were focused. Four years had passed since they last docked at Testudo, and it had taken its toll on the Mastodon’s reserves. Supplies were running low, but the storage bays were now crammed with looted goods. A fitting exchange, he thought. It was time to reap the rewards, perhaps even throw a well-deserved celebration for his loyal crew.
“Sir,” came Lark's voice from behind, steady and clear, “we’re nearing Testudo.”
Cassian didn’t respond immediately, and a quiet settled between them as his second-in-command waited, eyes fixed on him expectantly. He shrugged casually, his fingers adjusting dials and flicking switches as he opened a communication channel.
“You’re actually greeting the Prefetto, sir?” Lark asked, stepping closer to the console, her green eyes wide with curiosity.
“I’m just playing with the buttons, Lark. I like the sound and light,” he replied, his gruff voice tinged with dry amusement.
“You’re making fun of me again,” Lark replied, pretending to be indignant, a playful pout crossing her face. Cassian merely gave her his signature silent stare. But before she could add anything more, the rune-engraved ring on the table flickered, projecting the holographic image of a chubby, aging man.
The image of Prefetto Lorenzo Caprini materialized, his round face glistening with a nervous sheen as he eyed them with a mix of annoyance and tension, clearly unsettled by the unexpected arrival.
“When was the last time? Three… no, four years ago?” The holographic image of Caprini started, his tone laced with irritation. “What are you doing here, Cassian?” he asked, the silence stretching uncomfortably as Lark's gaze darted back and forth between her captain and the projected Prefetto.
“I have goods. I want to resupply,” Cassian replied, his intense stare fixed squarely on Caprini, whose nervousness showed in the glistening sweat beading on his brow.
“You nearly started an all-out war last time. I can’t have that here,” the official retorted, his voice betraying a thread of anxiety as Cassian’s unflinching gaze bore into him. Behind her captain, Lark paced slowly, trying to make sense of the tense exchange, the silence punctuated only by the hollow hum reverberating through the cabin.
“Fifteen percent tax on our sales,” Cassian stated flatly, his tone resolute. “That includes the cost of supplies. I can’t go any higher, Caprini.”
“Fifteen percent? That’s only a five percent increase!” Caprini's hologram flickered as he sputtered, his irritation barely masking the calculating gleam in his eyes. But as he glanced over the documents Cassian had sent, his expression shifted. The fat man swallowed hard, mentally tallying the potential profits.
“That’s a lot of money, Cassian. Seventeen percent, and we’re settled. I’m adding two percent to cover supplies,” Caprini responded, his previous anxiety replaced with a glint of greedy satisfaction.
Cassian regarded him, his face unreadable, then gave a curt nod and pressed a button, cutting off the transmission and letting the hologram vanish.
Lark, who had watched the entire exchange with a quiet focus, finally spoke up, her tone wry. “This could have gone better. I’m pretty sure you could’ve pushed him to accept fifteen percent. Maybe even less.”
Cassian turned, his intense gaze sweeping over her. “Caprini’s right. That’s a lot of money. That pig will remember it,” he said, his voice flat but laced with an edge that hinted at a larger scheme.
Lark tilted her head, considering his words. “So… you’re angling for a long game with him, keeping him fat and content?” She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity veiled but sharp.
Cassian simply gave her his typical gruff silence, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth before he shifted to practical matters. “Supervise the loading and unloading,” he ordered, his tone signaling the end of the conversation. Lark straightened, bringing a hand to her temple in a mock salute.
“Sir, yes sir,” she replied with a hint of amusement, before turning to head out of the captain’s cabin.
“Lark.” Cassian’s voice halted her just as she reached the door. She looked back, catching the slight shift in his tone. “Check in with Duncan. Keep the boy’s leash tight.”
The subtle tension in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She nodded, her eyes briefly serious before she exited, closing the door quietly behind her.
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The massive Mastodon docked swiftly at Testudo Station, the large runic glass sphere encasing the station shimmered, melding around the spaceship’s exterior to hold a breathable atmosphere.
Workers immediately set to work, unloading crates full of loot from the storage bays and piling them in a large holding room, where they would remain until ready for sale.
The Reaper’s captain stepped off his ship, a tricorn hat tilted low, casting shadows across his face as he strode through the dock, one hand resting on his signature firearm.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
This weapon had been his steadfast companion since his days as a Praetorii. Its sleek black surface gleamed faintly, modified to remove the army’s tracker. Easy to handle and precise, it packed a formidable punch with its powerful runecraft, capable of piercing most shields and runic barriers. Over time, Cassian had added sound-dampening and protection runes, enhancing its stealth and durability.
His long black mantle flowed behind him as he walked with decisive steps through the circular corridors connecting the station’s various modules. The upper sections of the corridors, crafted from reinforced glass, offered sweeping views of the space surrounding the station and the red, telluric planet it orbited. PX-716 lay too far from the main galaxy routes and lacked valuable resources to warrant any substantial investment, yet it served well as an anchor for Testudo Station. Beneath its rocky surface, pockets of water could be found, sustaining a handful of settlements.
Scattered domes dotted the planet’s terrain, their once-white surfaces stained red by the planet’s pervasive dust. These small colonies guaranteed a steady flow of basic supplies up to the station, allowing Testudo to remain self-sufficient despite its remote location.
The Captain moved through the sprawling space settlement until he finally stopped in front of a cabin. He knocked on the door in a distinct, rhythmic pattern, and soon it swung open to reveal a scruffy old man with wild, unkempt hair. The man adjusted his oversized round goggles, which obscured most of his face, save for the wiry white hair sprouting from his nose and chin.
“Cassian? Is that you? How are you, my boy?” the old man exclaimed cheerfully, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Come on in, come in! Make yourself at home.”
Cassian stepped inside, taking in the cluttered main room. A table covered in scattered papers, worn-out chairs, and various runic devices filled the cramped space. He pulled up a chair and sat, his hand still resting on his gun.
“Mole,” he greeted, his rough tone softened with a hint of amusement as he regarded the eccentric figure before him.
“Still on the quiet side, aren’t you? Some things never change,” Mole chuckled, his delight evident at seeing his old friend again. His eyes sparkled with anticipation. “I guess you didn’t come empty-handed?”
“No, I didn’t,” Cassian replied, placing a rune-embedded plate on the table. Mole quickly snatched it up, activating the device. He scanned the documents displayed, and his eyes widened behind his oversized goggles.
“Did you raid an entire fleet?” he asked, momentarily stunned, but Cassian’s silence met him, prompting a swift return to business.
“Never mind. I can sell all of it, but… that’s quite the sum. I can’t pay for everything in one go,” Mole said, glancing at Cassian cautiously.
“Seventeen percent for Caprini. Half of what’s left goes to Malkor. Neither of them are going away anytime soon,” the captain stated, his voice gruff, darkening at the mention of Nexus 73's criminal overlord. Cassian and his crew were deeply indebted to Malkor, and he knew better than to cross the infamous kingpin. Malkor’s influence stretched far, and despite his charming exterior, his cruelty and ruthlessness were common knowledge.
“Of course, that makes things more… manageable. Everything has been unloaded from the Reaper?” Mole inquired, already busy filling out papers and adjusting various devices on his cluttered table.
“On its way,” Cassian replied, his gaze appraising the old man’s movements.
“I’m running low on nerve-wrackers. And piles,” he added, his tone blunt.
“I’ve got a few stashed away. I’ll deduct them from what I owe you from the sales,” Mole replied, with a casual shrug. He paused, giving Cassian a sideways glance. “Cassian, my boy… Are you really alright with all this work?”
Cassian’s gaze hardened, and Mole quickly raised his hands in mock surrender. “Never mind,” he muttered, stuttering slightly as he tapped his fingers nervously on the paper-strewn table. After a beat, Mole leaned in, his voice dropping. “I have some information that might interest you.”
Cassian’s gaze sharpened, a silent signal for Mole to continue.
“The Iron Pegasus has been spotted. Alone.”
At the mention of the Imperial Mastodon traveling unaccompanied, Cassian’s eyes widened, a rare reaction from the seasoned captain.
“Alone? Why would Gladius be traveling away from Nexus 73? Especially this far out in the Outskirts.” Cassian mused, suspicion threading his voice. “Are you certain about this?”
“Absolutely. Captain of the Red Kite told me he saw it with his own eyes, drifting through space,” Mole replied, his voice dropping as he added, “I looked into it. Word is it’s carrying something straight out of the Imperial vaults.”
Cassian fell silent, his gaze growing distant as he weighed the implications. “Interesting… and risky. Gladius is sharp. Going after him would be like trying to break into the Imperial Palace,” he said, his voice thoughtful.
“That’s the beauty of it,” Mole said, his eyes lighting up. “He’s traveling with only a small team. Elite, sure, but small.”
“Send me everything you’ve got on it. I’ll decide with the crew if it’s worth the risk,” Cassian replied, closing the subject with finality.
The rest of their transaction proceeded swiftly, with papers signed and rune plates exchanged.
“It’s been a pleasure, Cassian. Don’t wait another four years before you let your old friend see you again,” Mole said as he walked him to the door, his voice tinged with both fondness and resignation. “Assuming I’m even still alive by then.”
Cassian gave him a nod, shook his hand firmly, and stepped out of the cabin, his thoughts already churning over the information he did just received.
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The last crates had been unloaded from the Reaper, and the workers had begun filling it with fresh supplies. Energy piles, food, water, and fuel were efficiently moved using displacers, small, magical hand devices that reduced the weight of any object they touched. Though limited by specific weight and dimensions, displacers were ideal for tasks like this, allowing the workers to maneuver heavy supplies with ease.
Cassian strode through the dock, his sharp gaze taking in the work around him. He spotted Lark, clad in her usual brown overalls and white shirt, locked in a heated argument with Buster.
Buster, their demolition specialist, was a hulking figure with a bald head and a round, chubby face—a look that contrasted sharply with his intimidating build and notorious short temper. Yet, Lark seemed entirely unfazed, meeting his intensity head-on.
Cassian approached them silently, watching the exchange with a glint of interest.
“Captain said to lay low. Do you understand what that means, you retard ?” Lark’s voice was sharp with frustration.
“The numbers are off. That rat must’ve stolen a crate, Lark,” Buster growled, his eyes blazing, a prominent vein pulsing near his temple.
“I don’t care. You’re not blasting his damn head off. Cap’ will handle this when he’s back,” she shot back, clearly exasperated.
“What’s the matter?” Cassian’s voice cut through their argument like a knife.
Buster jerked a thumb toward a worker crouched on the ground behind them, visibly trembling, his left ear bleeding. “This rat stole my supplies. Without ‘em, no bombs, Cap’.”
Lark fell silent, rolling her eyes and giving a sigh that conveyed her irritation to Cassian.
Cassian’s gaze shifted from the terrified worker to Buster, his expression darkening. “And you thought it was a good idea to hit him?” His voice held a simmering anger.
He turned his focus to Lark. “I thought I ordered you to keep a tight leash,” he snarled, his tone cold and biting.
Lark flushed, a mix of embarrassment and frustration on her face. “I tried, but…” She gestured toward Buster, drawing attention to the stark difference in their sizes.
“No buts. I don’t care if you slice his ear or whatever. next time, keep it under control.” Cassian’s voice was low, ominous, the threat hanging in the air as his intense gaze locked onto Buster’s. The giant man visibly recoiled.
“S… Sorry, boss. I lost my temper,” Buster muttered, shrinking under the captain’s stare.
Cassian gave a sharp nod, then cast a pointed look at Lark before stepping over to the worker still cowering on the ground. He hauled him up to a sitting position and fixed him with an unyielding glare.
“Did you take our supplies?” His voice carried a deadly undertone.
“I… I… Ouch…” The worker stammered, wincing and looking around, clearly disoriented and terrified.
“Answer. Now.” Cassian’s tone was ice-cold, brooking no delay.
The worker’s trembling hand gestured toward a container a few steps away. In front of it, a broken crate lay scattered with various supplies.
Cassian sighed, then glanced at Lark. “Give him a pill.” He turned back to the worker. “And you, get that crate back on my ship.”
Lark handed the worker a small pill, which he swallowed quickly, visibly relieved as his bleeding stopped. Still unsteady, he stumbled over to the scattered supplies, beginning to gather them into a new crate.
Cassian’s attention shifted back to Buster. “Keep an eye on him,” he ordered, adding with a steely edge, “No violence.”
Then he turned to Lark once more. “Gather everyone in the meeting room.”
Lark shot him a curious glance, catching the determination in his eyes. She shrugged, turning briskly on her heel to carry out his orders without another word.
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The Reaper's meeting room hummed with the subtle buzz of various magical installations embedded in its dark walls. Cassian stood at the head of the table, his gaze distant as he observed the vastness of space through the small viewport, his expression thoughtful and brooding. He waited in silence, a quiet but powerful presence.
Lark was the first to enter, her light footsteps barely audible. She took in her captain’s stance with a small, approving smile, admiring the air of command he exuded, the way he seemed carved from steel in his calm poise. She quickly moved to her seat, her curiosity flickering through her eyes as she settled in, waiting.
Next came Grim, the ship’s Synapt. The pale-skinned man moved like a shadow, his face stitched at the corners of his lips, giving him a perpetual grimace that had earned him his nickname. His expression was unreadable as he took his seat; his connection to the Mastodon was absolute. The Reaper was in essence, a part of him due to the years of linking with it.
Shortly after, Milo and Mila arrived, the twins entering together as they always did. Milo, the pilot, normally had an expressive face that matched his dynamic flying skills, but today he wore an uncharacteristic silence, a crease of deep thought across his brow as he took his place. Mila, the navigator, had a different air entirely. Carefree as ever, she seemed almost oblivious to the tension, plopping into her seat with a casual grace. She produced a rune plate, already engrossed in its glowing script as if they were merely waiting out a routine meeting.
Finally, Sophar Aristis entered the room, his presence bringing a weighty calm. The aged technomancer's eyes glowed faintly, ringed with intricate runes that circled his irises and traced the deep wrinkles around them, marking him as a seasoned Sophar Logos. Aristis was quiet as he took his place, his gaze calm yet intense, as if each glance held the accumulated wisdom of a lifetime. He had once been part of the Order, and leaving it to follow Cassian into exile was a betrayal few would dare, yet he had done so without hesitation.
Aristis, Milo, Mila, and Grim had all served in the same Praetorii unit under Cassian. Together, they had chosen loyalty to him over loyalty to the Empire, a decision that had severed them from their pasts and bound them irrevocably to their captain.
“Friends,” Cassian greeted them, turning to face his crew with a steady gaze. He placed the rune plate filled with information from old Mole onto a cone-like device at the center of the table. With a hum, the device projected a hologram into the middle of the room, casting a blue glow as the Iron Pegasus materialized before them.
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
“You don’t mean…!” Lark’s voice trailed off, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
“Are you nuts?” Mila blurted, her rune plate forgotten as she leaned forward, staring at the projection.
“Explain yourself, Cassian,” Sophar Aristis’s voice cut through the astonished silence, with a calm but piercing tone.
“It’s exactly what you think. And more,” Cassian replied, his eyes reflecting a glint of something almost hopeful. “A small team, traveling alone. Carrying a treasure straight out the Imperial vaults.”
“I trust you, Cap’… but this?” Lark murmured, her gaze shifting between the holographic projections. Her excitement was tempered by uncertainty, her mind racing.
The twins, Milo and Mila, exchanged a look before settling into a focused silence, waiting for more details. Grim remained as he always did,
hollow, silent, and inscrutable.
“Gladius, then?” Aristis asked, his tone contemplative. “The Iron Pegasus is a marvel of a Mastodon. Breaking in won’t be easy.”
“We have an edge,” Lark interjected, her mind already working through the possibilities. “He’ll expect pirates, maybe mercenaries, but not us. We’ve got the harpies, the nerve-wrackers…”
Cassian cut in, his tone firm. “We decide as a team. This is more risk than we’ve ever taken on.” Silence filled the room as he let his words sink in. His voice softened but held a steely resolve. “But I want to do it. An Imperial treasure… it might be our way out of Malkor’s clutches.”
His crew fell into contemplation, each weighing the stakes. All except Lark, who was watching her crewmates with barely restrained excitement, her face lit up with anticipation.
“Come on, guys! This is huge!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying a note of marvel.
“I…” Milo began, only to be interrupted by his sister.
“I’m in. It’s time that traitor remembered we exist,” Mila said, her eyes blazing as she glanced toward Aristis. “What do you say, Aristis?”
Aristis sighed, his expression thoughtful. “It’s dangerous. But not impossible. I’m in.”
Grim pressed a button beside him, signaling his agreement with a green light that flickered to life behind his seat.
Cassian’s gaze swept over his assembled crew, seeing their commitment. “Then it’s decided. Whatever Gladius is transporting… will be ours.”
Lark punched the air in celebration, her joy sparking through the room as the meeting came to a close.