The slave house stank of sweat and rust. It was a dim cavern of iron bunks and flickering orange lights. Ten-year-old Diovis Sol crouched beside his younger sister Nira, nine and restless, in the corner of the shared quarters. Thirty other human slaves—gaunt faces, hollow eyes—pressed against the walls. Their breaths were shallow as the Skrell guards’ boots clanged closer outside. The air buzzed with dread. Whispers of a cracked rebellion had spread like wildfire through the camp that morning.

The steel door slammed open. Three Skrell elites stormed in, their obsidian armor glinting under the weak bulbs. Their leader, a towering figure with jagged mandibles and a plasma whip coiled at its hip, dragged two figures bound in chains: Diovis’s parents. His mother, Lira, stumbled forward, her dark hair matted with blood. His father, Toren, stood taller despite the bruises, his jaw set like the rebel commander he was. Between them, clutched in the guard’s clawed grip, dangled a shard of crystal—a data shard, glowing faintly with stolen Skrell secrets.

“Traitors!” the lead guard hissed, its voice a guttural rasp through the translator implant. “You thought your pitiful uprising could outwit the Empire? We’ll carve the lesson into your flesh—starting with them.” It gestured at the crowd. Then it shoved Lira and Toren to their knees in the center of the room.

Diovis’s heart hammered. He grabbed Nira’s wrist, pulling her behind him. “Stay down,” he whispered, voice cracking. She squirmed, her wide eyes darting toward their parents.

The guard raised the shard, its light casting cruel shadows. “This was found in your bunk. Plans to overtake the Aqualor-7 research station. You die for it—publicly.” It turned to the slaves. “Watch, or join them.”

Lira’s gaze found Diovis, a flicker of panic breaking her calm. “Diovis, Nira—look away. Please.” Her voice trembled, but Toren stayed silent, staring down the guard like he could burn through its skull.

Then Nira moved. She slipped free of Diovis’s grip, peeking past his shoulder with a gasp. “Mama—” The word barely escaped before a second guard snapped its head toward her, mandibles clicking.

“Curious one,” it snarled, lunging forward. It seized Nira by the arm, yanking her into the open. Diovis lunged after her, but the third guard slammed him back, pinning him against the bunk with a claw at his throat.

The leader laughed, a wet, grating sound. “Another example, then. Bring her.” It tossed a jagged blade—a Skrell ritual knife—onto the dirt floor in front of Diovis. “Boy. You’ll slit their throats, or we start with her.” It jerked Nira’s head back, exposing her neck. She whimpered, tears streaking her dust-caked face.

“No!” Lira cried, struggling against her chains. “Take me—leave them, please! They’re children!” She twisted toward Diovis, her voice breaking. “Diovis, listen to me. You have to do it. Save Nira. Save yourself. Please, my brave boy—just do it.”

Diovis froze, the blade glinting at his feet. His hands shook, bile rising in his throat. “I—I can’t—”

“Do it!” Toren barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. His eyes locked on Diovis, fierce and unyielding. “You’re weak, boy—always were. Don’t make her die for your cowardice. Pick it up!” His tone was harsh, biting, but beneath it trembled a father’s desperation—not hate, but a frantic push to make Diovis act before the Skrell did worse.

The guard tightened its grip on Nira. “Now, human.”

Diovis’s vision blurred with tears. He snatched the blade, its weight alien and cold. The crowd held its breath as he staggered forward, standing over his parents. Lira nodded, her lips moving silently—It’s okay—while Toren glared, jaw clenched, willing him to finish it.

“I’m sorry,” Diovis choked out. The blade wavered, then slashed—first across Lira’s throat, a wet rip as crimson gushed down her chest, staining her ragged tunic; then Toren’s, a ragged gash that sprayed blood across Diovis’s face, warm and coppery. His mother slumped with a final, gurgling wheeze, her eyes glazing over; his father twitched once, a low groan escaping as he collapsed into the pooling red. The room erupted in gasps and stifled sobs.

Diovis stood there, the blade slipping from his trembling fingers, clattering on the blood-slick floor. His face was a mask of horror—mouth slack, eyes wide and unblinking, Lira’s blood streaking his cheeks like war paint. Her lullaby—a faint hum from nights in the slave pits—echoed in his skull, drowned by Nira’s wail as she threw herself onto their mother’s body. “Mama! Papa!” she screamed, her small hands slipping in the gore, staining her ragged tunic crimson. She turned to him, eyes raw and accusing. “You killed them! You—you let them die!” Her sobs choked her as she curled into herself, blaming him with every shuddering breath.

Diovis’s knees buckled, but he caught himself, fists clenching until his nails bit into his palms—warm blood mixing with theirs. The Skrell sneered, dragging the corpses away, and Nira stumbled after them, shrieking until a guard’s boot cracked into her chest. She hit the dirt, gasping, tears carving tracks through the grime. Diovis couldn’t move, his gaze locked on her crumpled form, the whip’s first lash searing his back a distant roar. I saved you, he thought, but the words lodged in his throat, bitter as the copper on his tongue.

When the Skrell finally left, dragging the corpses away, Diovis lay trembling, Nira pressed against him. The slaves averted their eyes, but he felt their stares—pity, fear, shame. No one dared approach children of rebels. Then Max Over, a skinny, bruised 11-year-old, crept forward with his parents. Max’s mother knelt beside Diovis, her voice soft. “We won’t leave you.” The father nodded, jaw tight, as Max touched Diovis’s shoulder. “I’m here, okay? We’re stuck together now,” he mumbled, voice shaky but earnest, like a scared kid clutching at hope. His hands, still sticky with blood, clenched into fists. The Skrell had made him their tool, their pawn. But in that moment, a vow burned through the pain: he’d turn their game against them, no matter the cost.

[Six years later, on a battleship…]

Diovis, now 16, stood rigid, dark eyes fixed on a Skrell warship looming like a shadow against the black. His face, sharper than the boy who’d knelt in blood, bore the weight of a vow forged in grief. At 14, he’d rallied slave kids—Max, Nira, and others—sabotaging Skrell patrols, stealing rations, and spreading coded messages through the camps. That early rebellion, sparked by his parents’ sacrifice, had grown into a fragile network, his mind a chessboard of strategy, haunted by the Skrell’s words: “This was found in your bunk. Plans to overtake the Aqualor-7 research station. You die for it—publicly.”

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Nira, Max, it’s time we find out what our parents wanted,” he said, voice low but resolute. His gaze lingered on the Skrell warship, then shifted to Aqualor-7, the moon research station glowing faintly in the distance. “They died for those plans. We’ll take it—or burn it. And we’ll coup d'état Easton—free the slaves there with our ground troops, an army of one thousand men, ready to rise.”

A figure shuffled beside him—Max Over, 17, who put on quite a bit of weight, a faint whiff of his liquor clung to the air around him. He leaned against the console, hands trembling as he fumbled with a cigarette, lighting it with a shaky match. “Are you sure, D? Aqualor-7’s a damn tomb—I’ve seen enough blood to last me a lifetime.” His voice cracked a flicker of fear beneath the bravado. “But I know someone who can help—Larissa. She helped us back when we started at 14. I vouched for her then.”

Nira Sol, now 15, stood at a holographic display, her fingers tracing equations with quiet intensity. Her voice crackled through a separate comm, cloaked far from Aqualor-7, hidden in the moon’s shadow to avoid detection. “I’ve mapped their patrols. Cloaking tech can get you in. I’ll handle comms from here—stay sharp.” Her tone was steady, but static hissed, her position precarious yet unseen.

“Bring her in,” Diovis said, nodding. “We start there. The Skrell Empire won’t let Aqualor-7 fall—it’s their capital for research, the heart of their tech. We hit it, and we force their hand.”

[A few days later…]

Diovis’s elite force—small, battered stolen battleships, their hulls patched with scavenged Skrell tech—approached Aqualor-7. The moon hung in space, a jagged, gray rock covered with craters and streaked with ice, its surface scarred by volcanic fissures and Skrell mining rigs. Aqualor-7’s research station loomed on its equator, a sprawling complex of obsidian towers and domed labs, glowing faintly with blue energy shields, its spires piercing the thin atmosphere like claws. The Skrell Empire, the galaxy’s strongest nation, guarded it fiercely—its capital for research, housing secrets that fueled their dominance, making it a prize they’d die to protect.

Max piloted one of the battleships, his hands unsteady, a flask clinking in his pocket as he took a quick swig, wiping his mouth with a shaky breath. “Steady, D,” he muttered, voice slurred, the ship’s engines humming unevenly under his weight.

Nira’s voice crackled through comms, guiding them from her cloaked position. “The Skrell’s patrol grid flickers blind for three seconds—Nira’s tweak,” she mumbled to herself, her tone calm, but static hissed, her distance keeping her safe but tense. “Hold… now.”

Larissa’s fleet, assigned to hover cloaked above Aqualor-7, ensured no ships escaped. Her voice, steady but tense, came over the comms in a clipped, military cadence: “Holding position. Cloaks stable—stand by.” A faint crackle, then a screech of static cut her off—“Stand—” Red lights flashed across Larissa’s ship, hull plates rattling as alarms screamed. Plasma cannons flared below, Skrell warships swarming from the moon’s surface, their obsidian hulls glinting under Aqualor-7’s pale light. Larissa’s fleet—five battered battleships—shuddered, caught in the net, grappling hooks dragging them into Skrell hangars. Her voice vanished into static, her ships swallowed by the moon’s shadow.

Panic gripped Diovis’s fleet. “Larissa’s gone!” Max shouted, cigarette dropping, flask spilling liquor across the console. His hands shook, the battleship veering as he gripped the controls. Nira’s comm hissed, her voice urgent. “They’ve surrounded the moon. Get inside—now!”

Diovis cursed, redirecting the fleet. “Inside—now. We can’t risk the surface.” The rebellion’s forces abandoned their ships, diving into Aqualor-7’s station. Diovis led his squad—a small battalion of 50 men, gaunt rebels with plasma rifles, their faces tight with fear. They stormed the obsidian corridors, boots pounding on cold metal, the air thick with the hum of Skrell energy shields and the tang of ozone.

Troops muttered, voices rising. “What now, Diovis? We’re trapped!” a wiry male rebel yelled, plasma rifle shaking. “Larissa’s fleet’s gone—ours could be next!” Another, older man, growled, “We’re sitting ducks. Orders?” A third, sweat-soaked skinny man, gripped Diovis’s arm. “They’ll slaughter us! What’s the plan?”

Diovis’s jaw clenched, eyes scanning the station’s core. “Are the ground troops armed and ready for when we start negotiating so that they can take over Easton?” he asked, voice sharp, cutting through the chaos. A scout nodded, breathless. “Yes, sir. An army of one thousand on Easton, plasma rifles primed, ready to rise—slaves are ready for uprising, waiting for your signal.”

“Then take control,” Diovis ordered, voice steady but urgent. “Plant the bombs—suicide style. We’ll take this station down with us if we must. It’s our leverage.” The battalion nodded, splitting into squads, plasma fire erupting as they clashed with Skrell guards. Diovis and his men wired explosives in key places—data vaults, power cores, weapon labs—setting timers linked to their bio-signs. If they fell, Aqualor-7 would fall too, a final strike against the Skrell.

They fought through the station, securing a lab where Skrell scientists—tall, mandibled figures in black coats—cowered behind consoles. Diovis pointed his gun at the lead scientist, voice cold. “You’re hostages. One move and we detonate, taking you with us.” The scientist hissed, mandibles clicking, but stayed still, fear flickering in its eyes.

Diovis grabbed the lead scientist’s arm, dragging it to a separate room off the lab—a dark, sterile chamber lined with Skrell tech. “Max, your squad—torture it for information. Everything on their defenses, the Skrell leaders’ plans, Aqualor-7’s secrets.” Max nodded with a twisted grin, calling over five rebels—gaunt, hardened men with plasma knives and cold eyes. They shoved the scientist against a wall, blades flashing, its mandibles snapping in pain as screams echoed faintly.

Diovis returned to the lab’s comm console, hands steady but heart pounding. He activated the channel, a holographic screen flickering. A towering Skrell appeared—Emperor Zeith, his obsidian armor carved with sharp runes, mandibles gleaming, eyes cold as the void. Diovis’s breath caught, surprise flashing across his face. “Zeith himself…” he whispered, barely audible.

Diovis stepped back, mind racing. Zeith—the mysterious, unseen ruler of the Skrell Empire, the galaxy’s strongest power, now staring down at him on the comms. Alone in the lab, Diovis’s voice dropped to a murmur, a monologue spilling out. “If Zeith’s here, on this call… Aqualor-7 must hold something insane. Not just research—something vital, a weapon, a secret so deep they’d risk their emperor’s voice for it. My parents knew. They died for it. This station’s the key.”

He shook his head, refocusing, and spoke into the comm. “We’ve planted suicide bombs. Recognize the rebellion’s sovereignty over Easton, a peace treaty, and release our POWs—Larissa and her fleet. Otherwise, we detonate taking the station with us.”

Zeith’s mandibles clicked, a sneer forming. “A child’s gambit. I’ll weigh your terms, but the Empire crushes pawns, not negotiates with them.” The screen faded, negotiations looming, but Diovis felt the weight of Zeith’s power, his forces gathering in the shadows. The bombs, armed and tied to their lives, became their leverage—remote detonation a final act. Imprisoned in the station, Diovis stood in the lab, feeling as if a noose was around his neck tightening each second, mind racing.