As the StarShade unfurls its petals into the void, its docking bay pulses with the rhythm of the universe. Shuttles arrive and depart in a synchronized dance, each movement precise and purposeful. Like diligent pollinators, the shuttles glide in and out, their sleek forms reflecting the starlight, while the hum of engines and the scent of ionized air fill the bay.
Every galactic-day, the haulers are the lifeblood of the station, their shuttles bringing vital supplies, trade goods, and skilled professionals from across the galaxy. Each shark plays a crucial role in the complex dance of logistics, ensuring a steady flow of resources in and out that keep the station thriving.
Yet, the vastness of space harbors unseen dangers—unknown microbes, alien viruses, and bacteria from distant planets. To protect life within the station, quarantine and cleansing areas act as vigilant sentinels. Upon arrival, each vessel is secured and subjected to rigorous scans and cleansing processes. These zones ensure that every ship, even the seasoned ones, undergoes thorough scrutiny. No one escapes this meticulous examination, for the safety of the galaxy, planets, and stations like the StarShade depends on it.
As each shuttle from the haulers approaches the station, they encounter a shimmering barrier—a special shield emitting a soft, radiant glow. This shield uses a combination of ultraviolet light and electrostatic fields to cleanse the vessel, purging it of harmful microbes and alien contaminants.
As the shuttles glide through the multi-colored shield, a faint crackling energy accompanies the sterilization process. Slowly, the ships emerge on the other side, landing softly on the docking bay’s hardened surface. Powerful, adjustable clamps extend from the walls and the roof, securing each vessel in place, their metallic fingers embracing the ships with a firm yet delicate grip.
Behind them, space is locked away, and within, the ships undergo a second stage of purification. A fine mist of chemical disinfectants is sprayed over their exteriors, neutralizing any remaining pathogens. This process ensures that even the most resilient microbes are eradicated. The mist, carefully formulated to be effective yet non-corrosive, leaves the ships’ surfaces pristine and safe.
With exteriors gleaming from thorough cleansing, the ships are guided forward by the massive metallic clamps through a third stage. Iris-like gates open, welcoming them into a cavernous interior buzzing with activity. Sleek robotic workers and articulated mechanical arms move in a synchronized dance of precision and purpose. These automated sentinels methodically unlock and inspect each shuttle’s cargo hold, their sensors sweeping for the faintest trace of contaminants. Throughout this process, AI voices, eerily human in their intonation, resonate through the bay: “Cargo hold sterilization in progress. All personnel, please proceed to designated quarantine zones for processing.”
As the ships move forward to the final area, a gate opens and closes behind them. Now in the heart of the bay, the hum of machinery gives way to the lively chatter of technicians in sleek uniforms, logistics personnel with data pads in hand, and robotic guides ready to assist. They converge on the newly arrived ships, moving with practiced efficiency. Each person knows their role in the intricate ballet of unloading and reloading.
Sleek robots with powerful arms assist the crew, handling heavy machinery and cargo with ease. Controlled by sentient hands, these robotic assistants complement human efforts, lifting and transporting the heaviest loads to efficiently service even the largest shuttles. Their fluid and precise movements work seamlessly alongside the human crew, ensuring every task is completed swiftly and accurately. Crates and containers are carefully lifted and transported, their contents meticulously cataloged and sorted. Fresh supplies, rare commodities, and essential equipment are directed to their designated areas and biodomes within the station, while goods produced within the StarShade, destined for far-off worlds, are prepared for their journey. Every item is handled with precision and care, ensuring that nothing is out of place.
“Attention all personnel: Unloading and reloading tasks are now complete. Pilots and crew members who are not staying at the station, please return to your vessels. Prepare for a safe journey back to your generational arks or haulers. The cleansing process will be repeated with your respective ships. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Shuttles, like a swarm of metallic pollinators, streak back towards their motherships. The docking bays of the hauler ships yawn wide, swallowing their children whole in a practiced dance of precision and timing. As the last shuttle docks, a subtle shift ripples through the ships. Massive megalodons—not creatures of flesh and blood, but behemoths of steel and quantum power—move with a grace that belies their bulk. Thrusters flare to life, pinpricks of blue-white against the void. They pull away from the station, each movement deliberate and majestic. Distance grows, meters turning to kilometers, until the fleet hangs like a constellation of man-made stars against the black.
These colossal ships require significant space to safely charge their quantum drive capacitors. The immense energy needed for longer jumps demands a careful buildup, free from nearby structures. As the ships align for a short jump, a low-frequency vibration resonates through their hulls, a prelude to the immense energy about to be unleashed. The vacuum around the ships glimmers with the buildup of energy, creating a multicolored halo of light that pulses in rhythm with the drives.
Then, in a heartbeat, where they stood, space-time snaps back like an elastic band, folding reality like cosmic origami. The ships vanish, reappearing moments later near the gas giant. Now far from interfering with the StarShade’s systems and fleet ships, the megalodons align again, preparing for their final destination. This time, they take their time to fully charge the quantum drives for the next six hours. The process is meticulous, with energy conduits glowing brighter as they draw in power from the ship’s core. Engineers monitor the systems closely, ensuring every parameter is within safe limits. The ships’ hulls hum again with anticipation, the quantum drives now a throbbing cosmic heart ready to propel them across the stars.
Once the busy schedule settles, the central bulb at the StarShade’s core ascends, blooming slowly as smaller biodomes unfold, elevating, resembling a starshade flower at night, ready to provide supplies and mechanical assistance to the weary battleship from the Sword Fleet, the Invincible, a ship too large to dock.
The logistic bays exhale a final breath of bustling activity, a symphony of motion winding down to its coda. Logistics personnel, their datapads flickering with completed checklists, nod to incoming night shift workers. Guides, their voices hoarse from hours of cheerful explanations, pass on last-minute notes to their replacements. Engineers, hands smudged with the honest grime of a day’s work, secure their tools with practiced efficiency. The soft hum of machinery and the faint scent of oil linger in the air, underscoring the transition from day to night.
As if orchestrated by an unseen conductor, the changing of the guard unfolds with clockwork precision. The once-vibrant hub of activity gradually quiets, the hum of conversations and the clatter fading into serene silence. Overhead lights dim to a soft glow, mimicking the onset of twilight. The bays seem to sigh, settling into a state of restful alertness.
Maintenance crews move in, their task to ensure everything is ready for the next hauler visit in a couple of days. They attend to the robotic assistants, performing routine checks and repairs. Tools clink softly as engineers secure equipment and systems, their hands moving with practiced efficiency. Logistics personnel review schedules and inventory, ensuring all supplies are accounted for and in place.
But as one world slumbers, another awakens.
Beneath the logistics bays, sealed behind layers of security protocols, the Epsilon-Bay surges to life. The transition is stark—from the warm, inviting biodome above to the crisp, efficient aura of military precision below. Blast doors open, admitting a flood of fleet mechanics.
The air in this secluded spaceport crackles with potential energy. The scent of ozone mingles with the faint metallic tang of high-grade lubricants and the clean burn of precision welding tools. Holographic displays flicker to life, bathing the bay in a cool, blue glow and projecting schematics of sleek of their assigned starship. Engineers and technicians move with purpose, their eyes reflecting the blue light as they study the holograms.
At the heart of this sanctuary stands a mechanic. Her posture is a blend of professional poise and barely contained excitement. Her gray uniform bears the insignia of years of service, but her eyes hold the spark of someone waiting for reunion. She takes a deep breath, savoring the familiar scents of oil and metal, and the hum of machinery, ready to welcome her friend.
Sylvia’s eyes were fixed on the massive metallic gate, its surface adorned with an illuminated dragon symbol that pulses with a soft, ethereal purple glow. The emblem seems alive, writhing and shifting in the play of light and shadow. Around her, the bay thrummed with purposeful activity, but she barely noticed. Diagnostic drones flashed online, their sensors ready to probe for the slightest anomaly. Robots gracefully maneuver replacement parts into position. The clipped and efficient chatter of the mechanics, a language of serial numbers and technical specifications, faded into the background. All she could think about was the ship’s arrival, her heart pounding in sync with the bay’s rhythmic hum.
And so it begins...
A deep, resonant growl fills the bay, reminiscent of a dragon’s roar. It is accompanied by a soft, rhythmic rumble, like the steady heartbeat of a powerful beast. The anticipation builds as the heavy machinery and mechanical clamps vibrate through the sealed areas of the cleansing bay. The sound weaves through the air, a symphony of power and grace, heralding the return of the Draco.
Behind these formidable doors, the pride of the Sentinel Fleet, the corvette known as the Draco, a ship as much legend as a machine, undergoes its meticulous cleansing ritual, a force unseen but not unfelt.
Sylvia stands motionless, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of activity around her. Her long blonde hair cascades down her back, catching the harsh bay lights and softening them into a warm, golden halo. Her light skin, dotted with freckles, speaks of countless hours under artificial suns. But it’s her eyes that truly capture attention—hazel orbs flecked with gold, like twin nebulae swirling with stardust. They remain fixed on the gate, as if she could will it open through sheer force of desire.
The hiss of pressurized mist escapes from behind the metallic doors, like a dragon’s breath made manifest, carrying the whispers of power, of gleaming surfaces, and systems ready for repair. Sylvia inhales deeply, savoring the familiar scent that speaks of both longing and adventure.
Next to her, defying the station’s artificial gravity, hovers her perfectly arranged toolset. The antigrav field hums softly, a counterpoint to the rhythmic tapping of her fingers against the back of her tablet.
Her tablet, a marvel of engineering, its translucent surface alive with scrolling data and pulsing diagnostic readouts visible only through her glasses. Sylvia clutches it with both hands, her knuckles white with tension.
Her anticipation is a living thing, electric and contagious, radiating from her in waves that cause nearby technicians to glance her way with knowing smiles. They’ve seen this dance before—the reunion of the young mechanic and her beloved ship. For Sylvia, the Draco is more than just a task. It’s a friend, a life assignment, their destiny written in the stars and etched into the very fiber of her being. As the final cycles of the cleaning process wind down, Sylvia’s breath catches in her throat. The moment she’s been waiting for is almost here. Her fingers tighten on the tablet, her mind already racing with diagnostics to run, systems to check, and improvements to implement.
The sealed metallic door hisses open, unveiling a breathtaking vista that steals Sylvia’s breath away. Suspended in the expanse of the docking bay hovers the Draco—an extension of the Sentinel Fleet’s very soul. Sylvia stands rooted to the spot, instinctively finding the perfect vantage point to drink in every detail of her beloved corvette’s approach.
Time seems to slow as the Draco glides into the bay, a ballet of precision and grace. The ship’s sleek silhouette cuts through with silent majesty. Every curve, every line of the Draco speaks on a level beyond words, a symphony of engineering and artistry that resonates with the deepest parts of her being.
Alerts signal the approach. The corvette lives up to its draconic namesake in every aspect. Its elongated body tapers to a pointed prow that pierces the void like a dragon’s snout, promising swift and sure passage through the star-studded expanse. The hull, a masterpiece of metallurgy, glimmers under the harsh bay lights. Each panel tells a story of meticulous craftsmanship and unyielding strength. The deep, matte black of its skin drinks in the light, yet hints of iridescence dance across its surface—a cosmic camouflage against the harshest elements of space.
From the Draco’s flanks, unfurl wings house advanced thrusters and weaponry, giving the illusion of a dragon poised for flight. These appendages, adorned with intricate patterns mimicking layered scales, are a testament to the ship’s unparalleled engineering. At the rear, the sleek and powerful tail section conceals the main engines—the beating heart that will propel the Draco across space with unimaginable swiftness.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Seamlessly integrated into this design are arrays of sensors and communication nodes, invisible to the casual observer, granting the ship an almost omniscient awareness of its surroundings.
Every inch of the Draco’s surface is a marvel, a perfect marriage of high design and cutting-edge technology. Its sleek, angular form maneuvers with unparalleled efficiency, protected by specialized coatings against cosmic radiation and micrometeoroids.
Sylvia watches, transfixed, as the Draco eases into the center of the bay.. The docking clamps embracing the ship with a gentleness that belies their strength. Only when the ship is secured does Sylvia allow herself to move, her steps measured and reverent, as if approaching a shrine.
Her hand extends, trembling with anticipation. Fingertips, calloused from years of work yet infinitely sensitive in this moment, brush against the cool metal of the hull. The contact sends a shiver through her body, a connection built through the years. Though she touches but a fraction of the massive corvette, it feels like coming home.
As if sensing her presence, the Draco powers down, systems falling silent one by one. A soft exhalation—like a dragon’s contented sigh—escapes the ship as the main gate unlatches with a pneumatic hiss. Sylvia’s lips curve into a smile, her voice barely above a whisper as she greets her other half:
“Welcome home, friend.”
Her calloused yet gentle hands trace the intricate patterns etched into the ship’s exterior. Each groove, each line is a familiar path, a story she knows by heart. Yet, as her fingers dance across the surface, she detects subtle changes—new scars from battles fought far from home, micro-abrasions from cosmic dust that speak of uncharted territories within the Crimson Veil.
“I’m so jealous. So many adventures,” Sylvia murmurs, a hint of envy in her voice. “But I haven’t lost hope. One day, Kano will finally get the approval to let me fly with you.” The ship’s external lights pulse in response, flickering in a playful pattern. It’s as if the Draco is agreeing with her. She smiles. “I’m eager too.”
Sylvia steps back, her eyes roaming over the Draco’s magnificent form. She takes in every detail, from the sleek curve of its hull to the dormant weapon systems nestled within its wings. Her gaze is that of an artist admiring a masterpiece, a lover memorizing every feature of their beloved’s face.
“Let’s see what stories you have to tell,” she says, reaching for her tablet. The device, entirely transparent, looks like a mere pane of glass to onlookers. Only through her AR glasses can Sylvia see the streams of data and diagnostic readouts. To others, it might seem as if she’s playing with her imagination, but to her, it’s a beautiful symphony of numbers and code. Her fingers fly across the tablet’s surface, initiating a deep scan of the Draco’s systems.
In this moment of transition, as Sylvia reluctantly prepares to shift from friend to mechanic, her reverie is interrupted by a familiar voice.
“And no hug for me? How rude.”
Kano, a tall young man with short blond hair, steps forward. His deep brown eyes and the abstract tattoo of the Draco constellation on his forehead give him a distinctive look. High cheekbones and slightly almond-shaped eyes balance his strong jawline. He spreads his arms, expecting a hug from his sister, but Sylvia ignores him. Instead of being upset, he hugs himself. “I missed you too, brother. You’re such a wonderful pilot. You brought back the Draco in one piece! Good job, Kan. Good job.”
Sylvia pauses momentarily, letting out a small chuckle as she watches his arms still wrapped around himself. “I heard that self-hugs are the new trend,” she says with a hint of dry humor. “And yeah, bringing back Draco in one piece is kind of your job. No big deal.” Her tone is playful yet sincere, and she has no qualms about teasing him whenever she gets the chance.
“Ouch. So cruel...” Kano feigns pain, clutching his chest dramatically before breaking into a chuckle. “It’s okay. I still love you.” As if amused by their banter, the Draco’s external lights flash briefly, casting playful glimmers across the bay.
“Why act so surprised? You know I love Draco more.” Sylvia smiles at his dramatic act. “But anyway, enough of that... Tell me, how was it? Flying the big boy again?” Her tone shifts slightly, still warm but with a hint of genuine curiosity.
His smile fades slightly, followed by a long exhale. “It felt good. Nothing like a bit of high-speed maneuvering in zero gravity to shake off the cobwebs.” Despite his words, the subtle tension in his posture speaks volumes. His shoulders are slightly hunched, and his eyes avoid Sylvia’s, betraying the conflict he tries to hide.
Sylvia frowns slightly, opening her mouth to interrogate him further, but they are interrupted by the symphonic precision of the incoming mechanics. The interior of the Draco buzzes with activity, metallic robot arms attending to the exterior. Forced to move away, Sylvia and Kano walk together to her workstation, where she continues her diagnostics.
“Good! Continue that way, and you’ll feel like your old self in no time,” she says, her tone dismissive.
“Yeah,” Kano replies, his voice tinged with sarcasm. He then sighs, sounding more defeated. “Sure. All I need is time.”
Sylvia’s brow lifts, her curiosity piqued; however, she prefers to change the conversation. “I heard there’s a new hatchling for Cygnus. How was the flight with them?”
Kano’s jaw tightens, his expression hardening. “The new pilot? They’re inexperienced. The Cygnus was fine by itself. It knows everything it needs to know. This change is an insult to what the Cygnus represents.”
Sylvia glances around and then back at Kano, shushing him gently and whispering. “Kan, keep your voice down. Complaining about the Admiral’s decisions here in the open doesn’t look good. I understand, okay? But it’s been six months. Even Cygnus needs a pilot to evolve. We all knew it had reached its limits as an AI. A ship without a pilot for this long is useless and expensive.”
Kano sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Fine, fine. You’re right. Just... not used to having someone else in the Cygnus’ cockpit. That’s all.”
Sylvia glanced up, her eyes softening. “Please, just give him time. Nobody will replace Jak. He was amazing. But give the rookie a chance to prove himself. Just like you had to prove yourself before Draco years ago. People age and don’t live as long as ships, unfortunately.”
“I know, Sylvie. I understand the logic. It doesn’t stop it from making me angry.”
Sylvia interrupts him abruptly, her voice firm. “Then remember what your adopted mother used to say: ‘Anger is the part of you that loves you the most.’ You hated when Phoenix moved on from your mother and accepted Mikki as its new pilot. And guess what? You ended up sleeping with Mikki after a month.”
“That’s not it.” Kano scratched the back of his head, his expression troubled, his cheeks turning red. “They are not...” He paused, shaking his head. “Never mind, forget about it. I’m going to bug Sophie instead.”
“Oh no, no, no, Kano, no. Sophie is a very busy engineer. You know how much she hates you bugging her. The Regenesis has a crucial conference today, and she needs to keep the biodome at peak efficiency. Just like I’m working here, and you’re still on your shift. Your priority is to rest.”
Kano’s face contorts with annoyance, his fists clenching at his sides. He playfully sneers and hisses at Sylvia, who sticks her tongue out at him in return.
“Fine. You win. I’ll rest. But I’ll sleep in your room instead. Hell no, I’m not sleeping in mine.” He extends a hand, expecting something.
“Come on, Kano, again? Go to Mikki’s room instead.”
He looks offended, crossing his arms. “Ah. No.”
“Why not? It’s public knowledge now.”
He extends his hand again. “Access, please?”
Sylvia sighs; she can never say no to him. “Just... promise me you won’t touch my things.”
“I don’t do that!”
“Yes! You do! All the fucking time!”
“Fine. Fine. I promise I won’t touch your things.”
She sighs, defeated. Her movements are deliberate as she searches her pockets for a small device—a sleek, metallic plaque with a screen. Pressing her thumb to it, she activates a neon fingerprint. Her voice, soft yet authoritative, breaks the silence. “I grant the great Draco’s Vanguard access to my quarters for two hours.”
Kano winks at Sylvia, taking the device, his fingers brushing against hers for a brief moment. “Thank you, Sylvie. You’re the best sister.”
Sylvia squints, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You said that to Shimmer, Sadie, Sydney, and Sophie too.”
Kano lifts his hands in defense, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I did? How odd, I don’t remember!” He chuckles lightly, the weight of his problems momentarily lifting. “I promise I won’t read your smutty stories again.”
“If you do, I’m telling Mikki about it!” Sylvia yells as Kano walks away, causing a few transiting mechanics to glance around in confusion. She watches him with a sigh, the artificial light casting long shadows behind him.
She sighs again, turning back to her glassy station. “Anyway, Draco. Where were we?”
Kano paces across the Draco’s private bay area, his footsteps echoing softly against the metallic floor. The hum of robotic machinery and the distant chatter of mechanics created a familiar backdrop as he navigates the winding corridors. This is where most of the blue-collar workers spend their free social and break time; a sanctuary amidst the hustle and bustle of the ship.
He passes by a few familiar faces, exchanging nods and brief waves. The camaraderie is palpable, a testament to the tight-knit community formed over countless years and far more missions. As he approaches the private breakrooms, the noise fades slightly, replaced by softer sounds of laughter and conversation.
Suddenly, the walls of the bay rumble subtly, sending gentle vibrations through the corridors. Kano feels the tremors like a whisper, pausing at the scanner. His attention is drawn to a new sound resonating through the fleet’s speakers—a tranquil, melodic tone, reminiscent of a bird’s gentle call, accompanied by a soft, harmonious hum. He hears a distant mechanic revealing the origin: the Cygnus has returned.
Kano hesitates, his head turning to follow the sound, eyes narrowing as he listens intently. Each note vibrates through the thick layers of the structure, its presence felt even from a distance. Desperately, he returns to the door and the scanner, pressing a hand to his chest, his breathing labored. With his heart pounding in his ears, the small device in his hand feels heavier than it should. Trembling, his hand signals the scanner, opening the door’s mechanism. With a soft hiss, the door retracts and he steps inside, his movements surreal. The vibrations from the bay still resonating through the floor beneath his feet.
He presses the button several times, urgent overkill, rushing the door to seal. The vibrations fade. His chest burns and heaves as he exhales, hands trembling uncontrollably. He steps away from the door, eyes fixated upon it. The muscles of his torso tighten while his legs feel like jelly. Stumbling backward, he bumps into the edge of a table. This sudden contact jolts him back to the present. Another deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as hot sweat and tears stream down his face. Slowly, he straightens up, his hands finding the table’s edge, grounding him.
He takes a deep breath, and another, and another.
Kano’s eyes dart around Sylvia’s room, the fake windows cycling through projections of lush forests, serene oceans, and sandy landscapes. “Shore... a... beach,” he babbles with a dry mouth to the room’s intelligence. The projection shifts to a tranquil, moonlit beach with gentle waves lapping at the shore, casting soft, shifting lights and shadows across the room. Devices embedded in the walls adjust the ambient lighting, breeze, and temperature to match the projected environment, enhancing the immersive experience. Wave sounds follow, attempting to complete the setting.
He spots Sylvia’s bed, a decent size that fits his tall frame perfectly. He had promised Sylvia not to touch anything, but the need for a tighter, safer space overwhelms him. His eyes drift over her meticulously organized room. Despite his promise, he can’t resist the urge to mess with the organized environment.
Kano reaches out, pulling the sheets and a pillow from the bed. He arranges them beneath the table, creating a makeshift nest. The soft hum of the room’s systems and the gentle rhythm of the waves from the projection wash over him. He takes off his boots, the sound muted as they hit the floor. His freshly cleaned clothes feel comfortable against his skin.
He settles beneath the table, the thick sheets conforming to his body as he presses his back against the wall. He picks up Sylvia’s electronic eye mask from the table, hesitating before putting it on. The mask fits snugly, and he closes his eyes, letting the projection’s sounds blend into a soothing symphony. The gentle rhythm of the waves, the distant call of alien animals, and the soft rustle of leaves create a cocoon of calm around him.
The projected lights and shadows dance across Kano’s closed eyelids, creating a virtual beach reality that feels almost real.
Kano’s breathing slowly steadies, each wave on the projected beach guiding his inhale and exhales. The panic doesn’t vanish instantly, but recedes in stages, like a tide going out. His muscles, tense from the attack, begin to unlock one by one.
The familiar scent of Sylvia’s room—a mix of engine oil and her favorite perfume—pierces through the fog of his panic. It grounds him, reminding him where he is, that he’s safe.
Minutes pass. The trembling in his hands subsides to an occasional twitch. The weight on his chest lifts incrementally. He’s still far from calm, but the acute edge of panic has dulled.
Kano remains under the table, the small space still comforting—the exhaustion, the lingering anxiety—will stay with him for hours, maybe days. But for now, in this moment, he’s weathering the storm.
Unbeknownst to him, the Draco’s constellation on his forehead, a silent sentinel of his neural interface, blinks softly. Each pulse, a whisper to the stars, carries the unspoken weight of his distress. The devices on his wrist flicker in tandem, transmitting a silent cry for help woven into the fabric of his being.