Author - "Its showtime baby"
Terra, New Avalon. Voss Family Complex.
Terran Year: 2470 GrS Year: 32,673 BBY: 3590
I awoke groggily, eyes heavy, to the constant and rhythmic sound of far-off construction going around the Voss family complex in New Avalon, apparently installing new versions of the anti-orbital energy shields. Why it had to start so early I will never know.
With titanic effort I lifted myself upright on my bed, frazzled dark brown hair scattered every which way atop my head, light green eyes staring at the wall in front with no thought behind them, as if the power cable was only half way connected.
I stayed motionless for a good minute before remembering I have legs. Yes, I have them. I should probably use them to go to the bathroom and start my day already, since the construction won't pause my sleep.
I trudged toward the bathroom and did my morning routine half-asleep, thinking about the chores and school work I need to complete today before I can be free for the rest of the day.
My name is Nathaniel Voss. I'm ten years old, and today is another morning of too much noise, too many rules, and not enough sleep.
The mirror wasn't kind. Pale from too many indoor lessons, slightly bagged eyes from staying up with my datapad too late again, and a small reddish bruise near my temple from bumping into the edge of the stairs yesterday while running from my cousin Rael. Smooth. I poked it. Still hurt.
Outside, the sun was beginning to climb above the towers of central Avalon, casting soft gold through the reinforced windows. Even through the soundproofing, I could still hear the clanging of the support struts being welded into the upper shield pylons. Someone yelled something in the distance, followed by the sharp bzzt of another fusion cutter igniting.
As I pulled on my grey tunic, marked with the small crest of House Voss on the shoulder, I wondered if I could skip one of the lectures today. Maybe hide out in the gardens like last time. That earned me two days without comm access, but it was almost worth it. Almost.
The hallways were already active. A few members of the household staff walked briskly past me, nodding politely, datapads in hand. I passed by the family strategy room—doors sealed, as always—and caught the muffled hum of a holo-briefing underway. Probably my father, Jackson, meeting with one of the frontier governors again. He's always busy. I barely see him lately unless it's something official, and even then, it's just short words and long silences.
I don't think he knows how to talk to kids. Or maybe just not to me.
Downstairs, breakfast was simple: nutrient loaf, sliced fruit from one of the indoor towers, and tea. I ate alone at one of the small secondary tables. Some of the older cousins were already out on training patrols, the younger ones still asleep. I heard Aunt Kiren somewhere in the adjoining study room barking at someone over a commlink. Something about orbital scheduling errors.
It's always something with the Voss family. Always something to fix, protect, or command.
Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like not to have a name everyone knows.
After finishing, I walked toward the atrium, datapad slung under one arm, schoolwork reminder blinking on the top right corner of the screen. History of Outer Rim political partitions, ethical warfare lectures, and another essay on Dominion restructuring after the Triumvirate. Same old. I'd read most of it before—probably could recite half of it backwards if asked.
Before I could sneak off again, the familiar voice of my tutor, old Master Halden, echoed through the hall.
"Nathaniel! Don't even think about it."
I stopped in my tracks and sighed loudly. Maybe I'll escape later. Maybe.
But not now, cant wait for break.
By the time I made it to the central study chamber, the lessons had already started. Master Halden stood in front of the main holo-terminal, arms crossed, face like carved stone. He didn't look at me as I slipped into my seat—he didn't have to. Just a small pause in his words let me know he noticed.
"Ethics are not inherited," he was saying, pacing slowly as glowing symbols hovered above the terminal. "They are built. Case study—Dominion anti-slaver campaigns from 2280 to 2300. Effective, yes. Justified? Debatable. Discuss."
I slumped slightly and activated my desk's terminal. The text I'd skimmed the night before flashed to life—battle reports, census results, loss counts, and a few old vid logs marked declassified. One showed a shattered outpost still burning as Dominion banners were raised. Another showed soldiers standing over shackled Zygerrians. It didn't feel like history. It felt too recent.
I half-listened, scribbled a few notes, then got caught doodling a crawler tank firing at some imaginary alien warbeast with six heads. Halden didn't say anything, but I saw the twitch in his jaw when he passed by. I erased it and tried to focus.
An hour passed. Then another.
After lessons, it was time for drills.
I changed into training gear and joined the others in the open sparring yard, the sun now bright overhead, casting long shadows across the polished stone. The heat made everything shimmer, but the padded flooring stayed cool underfoot. Aunt Kiren was leading the session today—unfortunately.
"Stance check!" she barked.
We all dropped into defensive position. I adjusted my footing quickly to avoid the sting of her training rod. Last time I wasn't quick enough, and my thigh still had the yellow bruise to prove it.
"Strike combinations, set three!" she ordered.
Fist. Elbow. Palm. Dodge. Step.
Over and over.
My arms burned. My legs ached. But I didn't want to be the first to drop out. I never did. Some of the older cadets were already slowing down. I wasn't the strongest. Not yet. But I was fast, and I remembered every combination we'd ever been taught.
Eventually, Aunt Kiren blew the whistle.
"Good. Again in two hours. Hydrate and report for conditioning."
The others scattered, groaning. I collapsed onto one of the shaded benches near the edge of the yard, towel over my face, chest heaving.
Then I saw him.
Down near the lower promenade, near the old statue of Marcus Voss, a tall figure in a dark coat walked alone—hands behind his back, posture straight despite age and a noticeable limp. A patch was sewn onto the shoulder, mostly faded, but I recognized the crest. Naval Command, Battle of Irexis Reach.
Uncle Matthew.
My mother's brother. A veteran of the border conflicts, long since retired. He didn't visit often—always claimed he hated politics. But I always liked him. He spoke less than most of the others, but when he did, it was never empty talk. He was rather tall, lean and mean looking, he had black hair and greyish eyes, dressed in a military officer's garb, Golden and crimson hat, greyish jacket with gold and black accents with same trousers and black polished boots.
I jumped up, grabbed my flask, and jogged toward him, still a bit sore.
"Uncle Matthew !" I called.
He stopped and turned slightly, his sharp gray eyes squinting in the sunlight. Then the corner of his mouth lifted into the smallest of smiles.
"Nathaniel," he said. "You look half dead."
I grinned, out of breath. "That's training for you."
"Hmph. They are still teaching you the 'new efficient strikes' that don't work on anyone taller than a Dug?"
"Something like that."
He nodded, turned fully to face me. His coat fluttered slightly in the wind. His beard was shorter than I remembered, and the scar across his cheek looked more faded.
"You're growing," he said, tapping my shoulder lightly. "Faster than your father did, I think."
I wasn't sure what to say to that, so I just nodded. He looked out toward the statue of Marcus in silence for a moment.
"You walk with me?" he asked.
"Sure."
And so we did, past the edge of the garden terraces, where the spires of New Avalon shone like pillars of light in the distance. I didn't know why he was here, just glad he was.
I walked beside him now, trying to match his long strides.
"Did you ever get to wear a uniform with the crest on the shoulder?" I asked, eyes flicking to the emblem on the outer walls ahead—our family's mark reminiscent of Dominion, with predominant grey, black and blue, with a blue sword going through the Dominion chevron, it was right next to the bigger Dominion's mark.
"I did," he replied simply. "Though it was mostly training patrols and station duty. Nothing flashy."
"No real battles?" I asked, trying to hide my disappointment.
He smiled faintly. "Not everyone has dramatic stories. Some of us just made sure things run smoothly. Cargo escorts, supply routes, flight checks. Kept the Navy going."
"Oh," I said. "But… did you at least fly one of the big ships?"
"I flew a mid-range escort frigate for three years. Not exactly big, but reliable. Name was Resolute."
"That's a good name," I said, imagining it in my head. "What did it look like?"
"Long, sharp, and ugly. Like someone forgot to polish it after building it. But she did her job."
We passed by the small courtyard where the old statues stood—weathered stone figures of past leaders, most I barely recognized. I looked up at one that always seemed a little sad, though no one ever talked about him.
"Uncle," I asked, "do you remember the Rebellion?"
He stopped for a moment looking ridiculously in my direction "How old do you take me for you brat?!."
"How old is the Dominion again?"
"I will tape you to the prow of my ship"
I gave a small smirk. "You promise? I am bored here, I want to go and explore."
"Everyone does," Matthew said. "Untill you run into pirates thinking they have a shot at you and you are scrambling to the command centre half dressed, still dripping water from the shower."
I thought about that for a bit.
"Have you ever killed someone" I said quietly.
Matthew nodded. "I did, entire small ships in fact. Blown to bits by my command"
I looked up at him. "You did it to protect your people and the Dominion"
"Exactly."
He grinned, then lightly nudged me with his elbow. "Come on, let's get inside before your mother finds out I'm distracting you from your lessons."
I smirked and followed, feeling a little better, even if I didn't fully understand why.
The sun dipped low behind the marble spires of New Avalon, casting long orange beams across the courtyard tiles. The dome's reactive shielding shimmered faintly overhead as dusk approached, filtering the sky into muted purples and cool blues. I sat on the garden bench, legs tucked up, a datapad resting forgotten on my lap.
Lessons had ended hours ago. History, tactics, languages, star navigation… all interesting in parts, exhausting in others. I'd done well today—aced a planetary vectoring quiz and even impressed my mentor in ethics with a question about AI code limits. Not that anyone noticed. Not really.
The garden was quiet now. The construction crews had finished for the day, and the complex was hushed save for the occasional chirp of nighttime insects and the low hum of atmospheric filters. Somewhere above me, second-floor shutters creaked open.
I looked up. The master balcony. The one that overlooked the courtyard.
Voices floated down. My parents'.
I shouldn't have listened. I know that. But I didn't move.
"…Elena's latest thesis was accepted by the Solar Academy," my mother said, her voice proud but quiet. "Top percentile. Again."
"She's exceptional," my father replied. "And Darren's now in command rotation for the eastern fleet garrison. The youngest to ever pass the simulations at that grade."
There was a pause.
"I just worry about Nathaniel," she added softly. "He's… bright. He's clever. He's got a fire to him. But he's young. Too young to keep up with the rest."
"He's not supposed to," my father said. "Not yet. He'll find his path. He has time."
"Time didn't help you or your father. Or your grandfather. The galaxy doesn't wait. Not for Voss blood."
My fingers dug slightly into the edge of the bench.
"I'm not saying he's unworthy. He's just… different. You've seen how he is. He drifts between studies, changes focus mid-thought. Talks to the servants more than his tutors. He's curious, but distracted."
"He's ten."
"Exactly. And yet sometimes I see him watching the old monument wall, lost in thought like he's carrying something too heavy for his age."
I didn't hear what came next. The shutters closed. The voices faded.
I sat there a little longer, the evening breeze brushing over me.
Different. Curious. Distracted.
Maybe they were right.
But I didn't feel distracted. Not really. I just saw more than one thing at once. I asked more questions. I remembered the old names carved in the rotunda. I wondered why some statues were never cleaned, and others always gleamed.
I liked hearing the workers talk about their home worlds. I liked sneaking down to the hangar just to watch the docking arms move in synchrony like a machine ballet. I didn't want to be Elena. I didn't want to command like Darren.
I just wanted to understand.
Even if no one thought I would.
The stars began to blink overhead, faint and filtered through the dome. I leaned back and stared up at them.
Later that night, long after the garden lights dimmed and the upper halls grew quiet, I lay sprawled across my bed, the soft hum of the personal terminal casting a pale blue glow across the sheets. The room was still, save for the faint tap of my fingers on the screen.
I should've been asleep. I'd told the house assistant I was, and it hadn't bothered to check.
Instead, I was buried deep in the archives.
It started as idle scrolling—old starship models, past battles, Dominion coat-of-arms variations. Then I found the historical database for the Voss family.
The first name that caught my attention was Marcus Voss.
I tapped the name, and the display reshaped itself into a branching timeline. His face appeared—stern, square-jawed, with cold but focused eyes. There was a sense of weight in his posture, the kind that didn't come from armor or medals, but from decision. From burden.
The entry was long, filled with citations and scans. General Marcus Voss. Earth Defense Initiative. Operation Deep Crown. He'd been one of the first to step into the unknown. He led the team that boarded the derelict alien vessel that started it all. Before the Dominion, before the wars, before the galaxy even noticed humanity existed—there was Marcus.
I stared at his face for a while. He didn't look like the statues. Or maybe he did, but more tired. Less perfect.
I swiped forward.
Then came Nicholas Voss, commander during the Crimson War. Killed in orbit during the Dominion's first real push beyond Terra. Lost with his ship. It said he died buying time to evacuate a slave world they'd liberated. One of the few officers ever awarded posthumous honors from every branch of the military.
Then Jace Voss, the steady voice in a rising storm. Calm and calculating. He tried to keep the Dominion balanced before it shattered. Betrayed. Executed? No… arrested, framed, then killed when the Triumvirate made their move. His name was still whispered in military academies with respect.
And then Tavian Voss. The Rebuilder. The one who survived the purge, rallied the rebellion, and refused to take a crown. They called him Executor of the Restoration. He had no grand armor or throne. Just conviction. And scars.
I blinked. I'd never read them all at once before. Not like this.
Each one had shaped the Dominion in some way—heroes, leaders, martyrs, reluctant rulers.
And now there was Jackson. My father. Calm. Measured. Strong in a way different from the old legends. He didn't seek glory or war. He believed in keeping things standing, not conquering them.
I stared at the screen.
All these Vosses… they had legacy. They had weight. Some were forged in fire. Some in silence.
And me?
I hugged the pillow under my chin, the datapad slowly dimming beside me.
What did I want?
Did I want to be remembered like them? Did I even want to follow their path?
A part of me wanted to. Another part wasn't sure. I liked machines more than politics. I liked exploring back hallways and asking questions people avoided. I liked the stars… but not war.
What did I want?
I didn't know yet.
But as I lay there, eyes drifting toward the narrow slit of sky through my window, I promised myself something.
One day, I would.
The next few months passed in a haze of routine—days that blurred together like the shifting clouds above the Voss complex. Morning wake-up. Conditioning drills. Dry theory lessons from old tutors with stricter posture than their students. Holographic classrooms covering Dominion legal code, colonial history, emergency fleet protocols. And afterward, the same recycled news: another diplomatic handshake in the Outer Fringe, another rogue freighter intercepted near the Veil Line, another quarter of record growth.
Everything worked. Everything ran smoothly.
Too smooth.
Sometimes I'd sit in the rear of my study chamber and tap the desk just to hear something break the rhythm.
But then, the rhythm did break—when they all came home.
My siblings.
It was Alina who arrived first, her sleek diplomatic cruiser descending over the capital with silent grace. She didn't need to announce herself. The city already knew. The daughter of House Voss, decorated envoy to half a dozen neutral systems, the architect behind at least three successful non-aggression treaties. She was barely in her thirties and already stood at the nexus of political respect and strategic subtlety.
When I greeted her at the complex gates, she greeted me with a kiss on the head and that perfect poised smile. Her clothes were immaculate, her posture honed by years of courtroom and conference table. But her eyes were tired—calculating even when relaxed.
Then came Darien.
He landed with less subtlety.
His ship was military. A Dominion escort flanked by two Shrike squadrons, the lead fighter doing a loop over New Avalon before dipping into the clouds. I knew before I saw him that the city would talk about it for weeks. Darien Voss. The eldest. The Fleet's golden heir. Commander of the Sovereign-class Iron Resolve, credited with leading three successful sector purges of pirate elements in the Southern Wards.
When he stepped out onto the landing pad, all crisp uniform and polished boots, he looked like a holo-poster come to life. Everyone saluted him. I just stared.
And then Darren returned—quieter, but no less important.
Darren had always been more methodical than Darien. If Darien commanded with presence, Darren commanded with precision. Tactical operations, planetary deployments, officer training regimens. Where Darien was the hammer, Darren was the scalpel.
He wore a more faded uniform than Darien, lacking the same flair, but I noticed the eyes of the guards tracking him with just as much reverence. They said he once coordinated three simultaneous rescue extractions on Veltraine IV without losing a single soul. He never bragged about it.
He didn't have to.
And then Elena.
The scholar. The mind.
She returned from the Academy of Velis Prime, having spent the last six years immersed in pre-Dominion histories, offworld linguistic theory, and archaic Terran philosophy. She was softer-spoken than the others, rarely raised her voice, but when she did—everyone listened. Even my father once said she could out-argue a Triumvirate judge and win by the second sentence.
Elena didn't bring fanfare or fleets.
She brought questions. Conversations. The kind that stayed in your head long after they ended.
And then there was me.
Nathaniel Voss. Youngest of five. The one still figuring out where to place my elbows at formal dinner, or which fork to use for the salad course.
They filled the halls like legends walking through memory.
At meals, the air hummed with stories—Alina detailing tense negotiations with the Dathomiri outliers, Darien recounting a high-gravity orbital maneuver near the Draxen Belt, Darren dissecting shipboard failure drills, and Elena calmly raising an eyebrow at all of them before explaining the cultural implications of trade routes lost during the Triumvirate collapse.
My parents beamed with pride. They had raised leaders. Heroes. Icons.
I smiled, too. Said all the right things. Laughed at all the right jokes.
But sometimes I caught my mother glancing at me with the faintest touch of concern—like she knew I wasn't in those stories. Not yet.
I was proud of them, truly.
But I couldn't help the quiet voice in the back of my mind:
Where do I fit in all of this?
The soft hum of lights flickered to full as the evening meal was served. The long dining hall was warm, filled with the comforting aromas of slow-roasted meats, seasoned grains, and fresh garden fruit. The Voss family, all returned under one roof, shared the table like a constellation reunited after years apart.
Darien sat at the head beside their father, his broad frame still upright and commanding, the faint silver in his temples betraying his age. His uniform jacket hung on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up as he spoke with his usual calm authority.
Across from him was Darren, younger and more animated. He'd barely touched his food, too busy retelling the details of some recent border operation near the Velin Rim. "They didn't expect a full response time under eight minutes," he said, grinning. "We rerouted power from life support just for the sublight burn. Almost blacked out the crew, but it worked."
Their father chuckled. "You always had more courage than restraint. That will catch up to you someday."
"Maybe," Darren said. "But not today."
Elena, seated closer to their mother, rolled her eyes and reached for the fruit platter. "You two talk like everything's a battle. I spent three weeks compiling a lexicon for the dialects on Virellus-9 and almost had a meltdown when the archive server crashed."
"You didn't call for backup though," Darien replied with a smirk.
"I didn't need to," she shot back. "I actually plan ahead."
Their mother gave a light laugh, sipping from her glass. "It's good to have all of you here," she said softly. "Even if just for a while."
Nathaniel sat quietly at the far end, hands in his lap, fork pushed absently through his plate. He watched them all with a strange blend of pride and silence. Each sibling was a world of their own—Darien, the stoic war veteran; Darren, the daring maverick; Alina, the serene diplomat who could outtalk a senator; and Elena, endlessly curious, endlessly brilliant.
The chatter swirled around him like the breeze from the open windows.
Alina was the one who finally noticed his quiet.
"Nathaniel," she said gently, turning her attention toward him, "you've barely said a word. Everything alright?"
He blinked, caught in the moment. "Yeah," he said quickly. "Just listening."
She smiled and leaned in slightly. "You've always listened. But that doesn't mean you don't have thoughts."
There was a pause.
"I guess I was just… wondering what it's like," he said finally, not meeting their eyes. "To be out there. To do something real."
Darren raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Darien, ever the quiet anchor, just nodded. "You'll get your chance. Sooner than you think."
Elena gave him a warm smile. "And you'll be ready."
Nathaniel looked up, met their eyes for a brief moment, then returned to his food. "Maybe."
There was comfort in the noise again. The kind of comfort that came from knowing they didn't expect him to have it all figured out. Not yet.
He listened again—this time not from the outside, but from within the circle. And for a few fleeting minutes, he didn't feel so far behind.
Dinner had ended hours ago. The warmth of the meal, the glow of familial laughter, and the rare sight of the full Voss family gathered under one roof had faded into the quiet evening hum of the complex. Nathaniel had slipped off to his room unnoticed. His mother and Elena had migrated to the east wing solarium, their conversation soft and melodic, a discussion of recent academic publications and the minor diplomatic visits from Dathomiri elders.
But in the western study—a room shielded by thick stone, lined with decades of Dominion charts and sealed books—four figures lingered. The study was old, its walls etched with star charts and the old sigils of planetary alliances that no longer existed. A map of the current Dominion space flickered over a recessed holotable, slowly rotating, casting pale blue light over the faces around it.
Jackson Voss stood at its center, posture strong but wearied by years of quiet stewardship. His sons, Darien and Darren, stood nearby. Darien, the eldest, leaned over the table in full military posture, one hand resting near the edge of the map display. Darren lounged more casually, his coat half-unbuttoned, his demeanor more relaxed but eyes just as sharp. Alina remained silent for the moment, fingers clasped behind her back as she watched the projection.
Jackson's voice broke the silence. "There's been another incursion near the Ordon Reach. Zygerrian patrol cutters swept too close to our colonial mining grid. We held position, but… the message was clear."
"They're testing again," Darien said, voice taut. "Waiting to see if we'll flinch."
"They won't get what they're hoping for," Darren said, folding his arms. "Not unless they want to see half their command chain splattered against the hull of an asteroid."
Jackson didn't smile. "They're becoming desperate. Their reach is thinning, the Syndicates are breaking apart into private fiefdoms again. Slave raids have started to push eastward into neutral corridors, just shy of our mapped boundaries."
"They must think we've gone soft," Darien added. "Our silence has made them bold."
"It's not just the Zygerrians," Alina interjected, walking closer to the table. "Small signals from the Hutt mid-tier worlds have increased. Borga's line is tightening control over trade routes. There was a report from an independent scout—claimed he saw cartel-affiliated vessels refueling at old slaver depots. Ones we never marked as reactivated."
"Could be old smugglers," Darren muttered.
"Or new ones using old names," Jackson said. "Either way, we keep an eye on it."
Alina swept her fingers across the interface, adjusting the map. "The Hapes Consortium has made overtures to us again. Quiet ones. Coded messages sent via neutral traders. They want limited exchange. Educational envoys. Cultural data."
Jackson raised an eyebrow. "Do they trust us now?"
"They don't trust anyone," Alina replied. "But they're cautious, and cautious is better than hostile."
"Any word from the Geonosians?" Darien asked.
"Minimal," Alina answered. "They're rebuilding still. Their automated foundries are active again, but most of their designs are internal use only. However, one of our exploratory envoys reports a single Geonosian queen—possibly a splinter faction—offering to trade advanced hull material for non-invasive terraforming tech."
Darren scoffed. "Geonosians asking for our help with terraforming. Never thought I'd see that."
"We've also confirmed movement from smaller nomadic collectives in the southeast fringe," Jackson said, his tone more cautious now. "Some of these factions are old—fragments from wars long past. One of them, calling itself the Tarkan Exodus, has settled near our frontier zone. They've sent no message. No response to hails. But they're armed."
"And the Chiss?" Darien asked. "Any further signs?"
Jackson shook his head. "None. Only one deep-range probe picked up faint ion wake trails near the Dead Spiral—a region we suspect they patrol. Still no formal contact. No transmissions. Just ghosts."
A heavy silence followed. The kind that only settled in rooms where people knew the weight of what they were truly discussing.
"It's been nearly a century since anyone in the Core truly noticed us," Jackson said, finally. "And that's worked in our favor. But these movements—these shifts—they're not a coincidence. There's an undercurrent stirring across the Outer Rim. We're being watched again."
A pause
Darien leaned toward the edge of the table. "Any new factions rising in the north?"
"Actually, yes," Jackson replied. "The Ruurian Assembly's re-emergence from isolation. We lost contact with them for nearly a century. They've returned with significant cybernetic integration—half their fleets now run by neural-linked pilots."
Alina tilted her head. "Voluntary?"
"So they claim," Jackson said. "They're reaching out diplomatically. They remember Terra. They say our mutual non-interference pact still holds. We'll have to evaluate their sincerity carefully."
Darren with a quieter voice asked. "Any word on Dathomir?"
Alina exhaled through her nose. "That planet always resists classification. The matriarchal clans are in flux again. The Night families are splintered—half traditionalists, half pushing for galactic outreach. Some rogue groups have even been spotted far from their homeworld, acting as mercenaries."
Jackson nodded. "We've intercepted three separate freelance witch covens offering escort services to deep-space traders. They're selling protection… and rumors."
Darien leaned forward. "What kind of rumors?"
"That the galaxy will soon shift again," Jackson said. "That the stars themselves have been speaking to them. Old prophecies stirred by movements in the Force."
The room grew quiet.
Alina finally broke the silence. "We've heard that kind of talk before. From Force cults, from Jedi splinters. It rarely amounts to anything."
Jackson gave a thin smile. "And yet… history often begins with a whisper."
The hologram flickered as the datafeed concluded, returning to a silent spin of the galactic plane. Each blinking system, each fading star, a marker of unknowns still waiting.
"We watch. We prepare. And we wait," Jackson said. "Let the galaxy move at its own pace. When the time comes… we'll know our role in it."
None of them spoke for a long while after that.
Outside the windows, New Avalon slept in silence—shielded, fortified, and far from the chaos of the galaxy.
But its people were listening.
And somewhere in the halls above, the next generation was beginning to dream of the future.