The Zeta docking bay is a cavernous expanse that seems to stretch into infinity; at least as far as a human eye can glimpse. As the repair crews assigned to the Orion step out into the docking area, the ship’s massive silhouette cast long shadows over the bustling activity below. For as large as this housing in the Epsilon docking bay is, the massive ship of war consumes much of the space without any company. This heavy cruiser is ushered in with a deliberate grace, engines humming a deep resonant note reverberating as it cycles down for maintenance.
The cavernous docking bay thrums with activity as Admiral Waldermara stands motionless, her piercing golden eyes fixed on the approaching cruiser. Her brown hair, styled in a braid, catches the harsh bay lights, creating a halo effect that mirrors the commanding presence she exudes. Despite the bustle around her, she remains still, as the constellation on her forehead blinks softly, a subtle signal of her connection.
As the enormous articulated arms guide the Orion into its berth, Rigel feels as if they are extensions of her own limbs. The movements are precise, almost organic, cradling the massive vessel with the care of a jeweler handling a precious gem. She can almost feel the cool metal against her skin as the ship is guided home.
Rigel smiles as the Orion responds to her presence with a series of soft, rhythmic pulses of light along its hull, a silent greeting from its AI. The ship’s surface bears a matte, light-absorbing finish that seems to drink in the very essence of space itself. Deep space black dominates, broken only by the limited gleams and glints of battleborn imperfections. Blood-red trim accents key structural lines, more for flair than function, while occasional flashes of burnished silver mark where armor plates meet. These colors represent the very essence of their mission: the darkness of space, the blood shed in battle, and the silver lining of hope they bring to the stations they protect.
As her gaze travels the length of the ship, Rigel sees not just a vessel, but a slumbering bird of prey. The Orion’s sleek, curved form stretches across the bay, its elongated main body tapering to a sharp prow. The long, avian-like neck holds the command pod where she stood just moments ago. She can still feel the hum of the ship’s systems, a phantom sensation left by the neural link.
Her eyes move to the raised superstructure amidships, housing the main sensor arrays and weapons stations. The AI senses her inspection and responds with a soft hum, acknowledging her presence. At the aft, the hull widens to accommodate the massive engine housings, oversized for a vessel of this class. Four colossal plasma drives remain active, their deep blue glow visible through specialized heat-dissipating vents. The sight brings a surge of pride to Rigel, smiling wide—the Orion’s speed and maneuverability have saved them more times than she can count. “Sometimes I forget how handsome you are.”
Weaponry bristles from the Orion’s surface, seamlessly integrated into its design. Two oversized rail gun turrets, each barrel as long as a frigate, promise devastating long-range firepower. The Admiral’s hand moves unconsciously to her side, remembering the recoil she felt through the neural link when they fired these behemoths. Particle weapon emitters, shorter-range missiles concealed beneath retractable armor plates, and numerous smaller turrets complete the Orion’s formidable arsenal. Each weapon is a tool, a protector and a harbinger.
Atop the superstructure sits a large, spherical primary sensor dome, protected by retractable armor plates. Smaller sensor clusters distributed across the hull provide 360-degree coverage. These are the Orion’s eyes and ears, extensions of her own senses when they are linked.
As the docking procedure completes, Rigel feels the last tendrils of the neural connection fading. The Orion settles into its berth, systems powering down one by one. To her, it is like watching a giant predator curl up for a well-deserved rest in its nest.
“Sleep well, my slumbering giant,” she whispers, her voice carrying a mix of affection and respect. The ship responds with a final, gentle pulse of light, a silent acknowledgment of her words.
The docking bay is now alive with activity. Maintenance fireflies swarm over the Orion, their tiny lights flickering as they inspected every inch of the ship’s exterior. Scans are intensive and precise. Swarms of technicians in brightly colored uniforms designating their assignments also move as a less organized swarm around the Orion. Like industrious social ants, their movements purposeful and directed. Holographic displays flicker around the ship, showing detailed schematics and diagnostic readouts. The air hums with the sound of tools, voices, and the low thrum of energy fields.
She moves with a singular purpose. Her stride is measured. Her expression is inscrutable as she acknowledges greetings with brief and curt nods. The crowd of crew members and blue-collar workers part before her, sensing the weight of command and responsibility that hangs about her like a vibrant pendant or cloak.
Her path take her across the bustling and gigantic docking station, where the imposing silhouette of her heavy cruiser looms within. Approaching a set of stairs that seemed oddly anachronistic amidst the technological marvels she ascends, the cacophony of the bay fades quickly. It is replaced by an anticipatory hush. The hum of repair and recovery is juxtaposed by the peace walk to the security checkpoint waiting above.
The guards at the checkpoint, recognizing her admiral’s insignia, snap to attention. At the station, scanners hum briefly, a formality for someone of her rank. She also receives crisp salutes as they facilitate her passage.
Before her looms the entrance to the Verilia Biodome #7, also known as the Bastion, a portal between worlds. Where travel amongst the stars meets life amongst the stars facilitated by extreme innovations. Rigel pauses, taking a moment to compose herself before stepping through. The transformation is instant and breathtaking. Artificial moonlight filters through a lush canopy, casting long shadows on a forest floor carpeted with soft moss and delicate ferns. Above, the dome’s advanced projectors paint a stunning panorama of Verilian skies, complete with majestic mountains shrouded in mist.
Rigel steps forward, inhaling deeply. The air is perfectly calibrated, carrying fresh and cool air. For a moment, the weight of command seems to lift from her shoulders. Here, surrounded by this meticulous recreation of her homeworld, she could almost forget the vastness of space and the responsibilities that came with it. Her reverie is short-lived; eyes lock onto the sleek, almost hidden elevators at the far end of the biodome. These are the arteries of the station, connecting each biodome to the central stem. She approaches, her credentials granting her access to a private area.
She approaches with a soft speediness, her footsteps barely audible on the polished floor. As she nears the control panel designated for Fleet personnel, the sensor detects her neural interface. Instantly, the Orion constellation flickers to life on her forehead. The panel alights in response and EDI’s familiar voice greets her, recognizing her credentials without hesitation. “Welcome Admiral.”
With a barely perceptible sigh, Rigel steps into the private lift. The transparent walls offer a panoramic view of striking biodome. As the doors whisper shut, the familiar cadence of her own voice, intertwined with Admiral Thorne Messer’s, fills the confined space:
“Citizens of StarShade Station, this is Admiral Messer and Admiral Waldermara…”
Rigel’s gaze was fixed outward, but her eyes are now rolling at the subtle voice of Messer through the speakers. Her eyes, sharp and attentive, scan the scenes unfolding beyond the glass. The neural interface on her forehead flickers its soft light reflecting in the transparent walls, silently demanding her attention. Still, Rigel ignores it, her focus unwavering on the life pulsing through the biodome. There remains within her an eerie fascination with the drum and droll of life from which she’s been disconnected.
“For generations, our ancestors dreamed of a future among the stars. Today, we stand as the living embodiment of that dream.”
The lush greenery of the Verilian Biodome gave way to the station’s industrial heart. Rigel observes technicians and military personnel working in perfect sync, their actions a carefully choreographed dance maintaining the delicate balance of their artificial world. Her mind races consumed with thoughts of how each of their roles contributed to the greater whole.
“Our fleets stand vigilant, not just as defenders, but as explorers pushing the boundaries of known space.”
As they pass Gamma’s floor within the central stem, Rigel notes with keen eyes the scientists bent over workstations, oblivious to the world beyond their experiments. In Beta, the elevator offers a snapshot of the station’s pulsing lifeblood—people from a hundred worlds, their paths intersecting in this floating city among the stars.
Throughout the journey, Rigel’s reflection ghosts in the glass, a constant but ignored presence. Where Messer might have preened and adjusted his uniform, Rigel’s attention remains fixed on the life around her. The weight of responsibility settles heavily on her shoulders, not as a burden of personal glory but as a sacred duty to protect and serve those thousands of lives on their unique and intersecting paths. She feels a responsibility for each one.
As the elevator nears its destination, Rigel’s posture straightens, her spine stiffening not out of pride but in preparation for the challenge ahead.
Within the command room, there is a comfortable recliner. When anyone but Messer is there, it is occupied. The old and worn recliner is able to conform to and cradle the seated. However, it is known that Admiral Messer sees comfort as a weakness. Thus, this brown, faded, and opulent seat always remains empty. Instead, at the center of the room, the Admiral stands with perfect posture, a gaggle of his operatives reading out to him enemy ship movements. Like good children, they take turns offering morsels of information to the large, feline-spliced authoritarian. Standing erect with impeccable posture upon bare, furry, clawed feet, the Admiral assesses his color in the mirrored surface of a plaque commemorating the names of those who died in the construction of the StarShade. His furry, cat-like raised ears shift at certain mentions of larger ship formations. Seeing his collar is correct; he smooths wrinkles from his chest. “Very adequate attention to detail, all of you.”
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The polished glass door slides open, admitting the other Admiral. She strides in, dressed casually in sportswear, what she wears beneath her spacesuit, exuding a readiness for action. To the uninitiated, it simply looks like she’s wearing athletic clothing, but those in the know recognize the practicality behind her attire.
“We are the StarShade. We are the Unity Accord. We are the future.”
Messer sniffs the air, recognizing the scent of his rival immediately. However, he doesn’t turn to look. Instead, he exaggerates the sniff, pretending to catch a foul note. “Did one of you forget your hygienic routines?”
She locates him, her expression instantly souring with a distaste she can’t hide. The announcement continues to echo, fading just as the elevator doors slide shut.
“Sweat? Yeah, that happens when you actually pilot a ship instead of just barking orders. Or do you mean from running here? I just came from the docking bay. I didn’t see the Cat’s Eye or the Star Prowl down there. Did you forget to send them again?”
One of the males in Messer’s company cannot help but ogle in a way the others are too practiced or refined to let slip. Pale of skin but with hair of crimson, the operative behind the others takes in the display of Rigel’s body, tight and giving purpose to the meaning of athletic wear. His smile says what the others will not. Lucky for this unpracticed adherent to Messer’s order, his Admiral has shifted focus to Rigel and her questioning. “Nothing is forgotten. It is simply unnecessary. When you do not suffer failures, your ships do not require repair. Resupply ships, the bulb, and work crews can accomplish what the docking bays here can do in a fraction of the time. But we will not keep you, as you seem to be out of uniform. Was your duty wear all caught in a decompression?”
She bites her lower lip, fighting a sneer, folding her arms before her stomach. “What kind of failures? Are you referring to the maintenance procedures we agreed upon when we were assigned to this post? Or are you talking about the numerous failures against Admiral Abressal? Because there have been plenty of those.”
“Failure?” He growls, the insinuation clearly an affront pushing past his proper and dignified presentation with perfectly pressed uniform and shined buttons. His teeth bar, and many in the officer’s area know this to be dangerous for lessers. His operatives are new, however. They react with interested surprise at the exchange while the other officers quickly retreat. “I have Atrius coming to me. Even now, he creeps closer to this station, seeking his own annihilation. I would caution you on how you designate failure.”
She met his growl with a steady gaze, her eyes locking onto his without a flicker of fear. Her posture remained relaxed, shoulders loose and spine straight, as if his violent reactions were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “This is old news. He’s pulled this stunt before. You keep falling for it, then dive in headfirst, only to slink back with your tail between your legs.”
“My tail,” and the one at his back swaths the air swiftly, making his operative with red skin step back away, “is exactly where it needs to be. While you seem almost utterly exposed before me. I, and this pathetic excuse for a new operations squad, have analyzed Atrius’ patterns. He requires a real victory to continue his rising legacy, which will make him arrogant and easily anticipated. Soon, I’ll crush him in my claws. While you,” and he pauses for effect. “What exactly would you say your function is here when I secure the nebula?”
“Your so-called ‘strategy’ is bleeding the Unity Accord dry, Mess-er. Losing on purpose to make Atrius more arrogant? It’s costing us billions in repairs. How can you measure Atrius’ arrogance and failure based on suspicion alone?” With a casual grace, she leaned against the wall. “Questioning my function? Well… it’s quite simple. While you’re busy with your pathetic interstellar one-upmanship against Atrius Abressal, I’m here defending the station, the haulers, the harvesters, and dealing with every threat within 10-light-years. So, yeah, while you’re off playing ‘my dick’s bigger than yours,’ I’m here, holding down the fort and fending off every attack and securing every visit from the whales and sharks. No biggie. Just another day in the life of an admiral.”
Thought flash into Messer’s mind. Violent ones. A simple slash of his claws across her neck to watch her blood dirty the carpet of the command briefing room. Perhaps grabbing her by the throat and ripping the activewear to reveal what she is taunting him with. But they are fleeting thoughts. Victory will taste far better than a reprimand. “Then go occupy yourself with your hero’s duties. I must show my space dick to Admiral Abressal and metaphorically castrate him. Away with you.”
She stepped forward, her hand twitching into a fist before she restrained herself. The elevator doors slid open, and the same annoying ad blared out:
“We are StarShade. We are the Unity Accord. We are the future.”
“You need your ‘space dicks’ at peak efficiency to even think about that. The Cat’s Prowl? It should be undergoing repairs and maintenance next to Orion.” She took a deep breath, her fingers tapping rhythmically against her elbow. “Do you even listen to your mechanics? They’re practically begging you to fix the Blood Moon’s armor after it lost shields in a single fight weeks ago.” She paused, her jaw tightening momentarily before continuing. “And your fighters? The shields on your Bitters and Stingers are flickering erratically in a critical state, and you want to bring them like that against Abressal’s forces?” She fixed him with a steady, piercing gaze, her frustration barely contained.
“Are you remaining to entice me to your bed? I can see no other reason than pure infatuation with perfected genetics. But your attempt to be relevant is more annoying than educational. Again, be away.” He turns away from Rigel, showing his disinterest.
Despite her chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, she licked her front teeth before clicking her tongue, a subtle gesture to calm herself. “Sure, keep ignoring everything I say. All I’m going to say is this: I wouldn’t get too comfortable in that battleship of yours.”
Her gaze fell to the hardened floor, and she shook her head, her frustration evident. Turning on her heel, she walked away through the opened elevator door. Only the operative with red hair and pale skin watched her intently, eyes following the form-fitting athletic wear hugging her rear. Messer, meanwhile, studies his reflection, expecting the operatives to continue their recitations.
Once she is gone, he pulls another of the operatives closer, a frail operative with blue hair and skin, whispering quietly. “See to the repairs she mentioned. If anyone learns of those repairs, you will be punished.”
“Why should anyone be punished for that? There’s no shame in doing what you’ve been asked to do,” a different female voice rings out from the elevator. Nysari, with her hypersensitive hearing, had overheard part of the conversation.
Messer growls; his wife’s scent was hidden from him. He moves reflexively to slash at the blue operative, wanting to spill his blood as promised yet, he’s abruptly stopped. “You’re present amongst us. How fortunate are we?” He looks expectantly at the collection of young, impressionable, moldable operatives, a threat of harm in his eyes. “Very.” They say in unison. “An extreme honor,” says the pale one with red hair. “We hope we didn’t disturb you,” chimes a female of red hair and skin. The bug-eyed and blue operatives do not speak.
“I’ve stayed my hand. I won’t bleed this pathetic one for failing his task before he starts.” Messer lowers his clawed hand slowly. Strangely, the blue frail figure didn’t cover, even for a moment.
“And why are your operatives in the restricted areas? Only the three of us are authorized here.” Nysari steps forward, her posture commanding and authoritative. Her golden fur-covered body glistened under the lights, the stripes on her face accentuating her deep blue eyes and the menacing black lines around them. She glanced at the operatives, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Let them be elsewhere.”
He only needs to sneer in their direction, and they move off after formally bowing. They exit swiftly without a word to Admiral Messer or each other. Their movement is a speed walk, needing to hustle while they can. Messer waits till the doors were sealed. “I was not expecting an audience. First Rigel. Now you.”
She hasn’t budged from her spot, and neither has he. Frowning, she scrolls through data and checklists on her tablet. “You leave us with no choice. You keep missing our meetings. I’m sure Rigel is tired of calling you without getting a response and I’m tired of waiting for you to chase echoes across the nebula.”
“Chasing enemies. The expectation is one of control by the Accord. Full control of this nebula. Not an illusion filled with delayed whales and pilfered shipments. An end to opposition.”
“Zybiria is of the many voices behind the Accord—an important voice, true.” Her heels clicked as she approached, her presence commanding attention. “Yet, the loudest among them.” She paused, her gaze steady. “Regardless of what you think, Rigel is not here to come after you. She’s an admiral, just like you, fulfilling her duties as tasked by the Legion.”
His movement counters hers, closing the gap between the animalistic pair. “Yes, competition. If we are to rise, it requires unparalleled success. Transcendence. Not caution and stagnation. Would you remain with me if I offered no chance at advancement?”
“I didn’t marry you because of your position. We are bonded for life, as we promised since we were young Ensigns, and that still stands. But if there are consequences, I won’t be able to follow.” Nysari steps closer, her deep blue eyes softening as she reaches out to adjust Messer’s collar. Her fingers brush against the brown, black, and specks of yellow in his fur, a reminder of his lion-like appearance.
She smooths out the fabric of his uniform. “You’re always trying to present yourself as more than you are,” she murmurs, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Transcending is important, that is true; but the Accord faces a larger economic and political war beyond the brute force we’re dealing with here. You need to focus on the bigger picture which is: Abressal isn’t the ultimate goal.”
He moves closer still, sniffing at his neck. “He is an obstacle. One in the present. The present must be addressed before we move to the greater prosperity.”
Nysari let out a defeated sigh, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “So stubborn,” she murmured, her tone softening. “I suppose I can’t persuade you to lie low for an entire 8-hour shift, can I? At least for your more vulnerable ships? That’s all I ask.”
“I tasked the blue welp to see it done. If it takes eight hours, you’ll need to find creative ways to occupy me.”
“Admiral Messer, are you asking the StarShade’s Commander already burdened with countless duties to entertain you? Or perhaps you wish to consult your wife, who might have a plethora of creative suggestions?”
“A wife with several ideas sounds more enticing than an overtasked Commander,” he purrs, his voice lower and chest rumbling.