This Royal Navy welcomes Grant Williams and Sheppard3rd to its ranks.
As your Fleet Admiral, I, Crimson_Reapr, welcome you, honor your commitment, and thank you for your service. May our power reach beyond the edges of charted space, and may ruin fall upon all who stand against humanity's strength.
---
The morning sun of Nova Celeste bloomed, a phenomenon specific to the atmospheric composition of the planet. It left a unique scattering of light through the upper ionosphere that turned the dawn into a bleeding watercolor painting of violet and gold before settling into the soft, perpetual azure that defined the day.
Greta Müller watched the bloom from the comfort of her bed. The sheets were woven from genuine Lyran cotton, an import that cost more than a small shuttle, and they felt cool and crisp against her skin. She lay there for a moment, simply breathing. Unlike the recirculated atmosphere of a space station, the air in her apartment was not recycled and scrubbed. It was real air. It carried the faint, sweet scent of the Celestian Blossoms that lined the boulevards of Aurelia, the capital city of the IUC's second crown jewel.
She stretched, her body arching, and glanced at the holographic chronometer hovering silently above her bedside table.
06:00
She had woken up right on time. Greta did not need alarms. Her internal clock was synchronized to the corporate rhythm of the city, a biological metronome tuned to efficiency and grace. She sat up, her feet sinking into the plush, white carpet that felt like walking on a cloud, and padded toward the kitchenette.
Her apartment was a testament to her position. Located on the 75th floor of the Silver Spire residential complex, it offered a panoramic view of the city that sprawled beneath the massive, shimmer-shielded dome. Everything in the room was sleek, white, and curved. There were no sharp edges here, as it was largely believed that sharp edges were for the industrial sectors, for the mining colonies, and for starships. Here, on Nova Celeste, life was smooth.
She tapped the interface on the wall and spoke to it, "Coffee. Black. Colombian blend. 85 degrees."
The machine hummed, and the rich aroma of coffee beans filled the room. It was one of the few vices she allowed herself, real coffee, grown in the hydroponic agri-domes of Sector 4, not the synthesized caffeine sludge the lower-level employees drank.
She poured the dark liquid into a ceramic mug, another luxury, heavy and imperfect in a way that signaled craftsmanship, and set it on the counter. She didn't drink it immediately as it was part of the ritual. The coffee needed to breathe; it needed to cool just enough so that the bitterness receded, leaving only the complex notes of the roast.
While the coffee settled, Greta walked into the bathroom whose walls were lined with reactive tiles that shifted color to match her mood, currently settling on a soft, energizing amber. She stepped into the shower, which had no knobs to turn. She stood there for a few seconds, waiting until the sonic-cleansing field activated, sending a gentle hum that vibrated the dust and dead skin cells from her body, followed instantly by a cascade of water that had been mineral-balanced to be perfectly pH neutral for her skin type. This is where engineering had been mastered, in making the life of the rich truly enjoyable and enviable.
She stood under the spray, closing her eyes. This was what everyone in the galaxy fought for, killed for, and died for. A hot shower with real water on a planet where the gravity was natural, and the sun was real. She had worked for ten years to get here. Nobody had believed in her, a nobody who had been abandoned at a house of worship by her parents when she was just 5 years old.
She had spent the last ten years climbing the corporate ladder, enduring the grueling mocking and bullying from all the rich kids she had gone to school with, thanks to her scholarships, and later interned with at the orbital logistics hub. But from all of them, she had been the one who navigated the cutthroat politics of the junior executive pool with ease.
She had survived. She had won. She was the Executive Assistant to Director Alistair Thorne, the Head of the Novellus System for Starship and Inter-Galactic Solutions (SIGS). She was the gatekeeper to the man who controlled the thermal dynamics market.
Greta turned off the water and stepped out, the air dryers instantly wicking the moisture from her skin. She wrapped herself in a robe and returned to the kitchen. She took a sip of the coffee, letting the warmth spread through her chest, and walked to the window. The coffee was perfect now.
Below her, Aurelia was waking up.
From this height, the city looked like a utopia dreamt up by an artist who had never seen a slum. The streets were paved with a composite stone that gleamed like pearl. The buildings were soaring spires of glass and white, twisting into the sky like crystal stalagmites. But it was the color surrounding it all that always caught her breath.
The grass in the parks and median strips was not green. It was a vibrant, electric blue, Cyan fescue, native to the planet. It rippled in the gentle, climate-controlled breeze like a living ocean. And contrasting against that blue were the trees. The Celestian Blossoms were in full bloom, their leaves a shocking, vibrant pink that resembled the ancient cherry blossoms of Earth, but larger, and luminescent.
Blue and Pink. White and Glass. It was a candy-colored paradise, one she never would've imagined living in.
Down on the streets, she could see the people who looked more like ants than anything else. Even from here, she knew they were smiling. On Nova Celeste, unhappiness was a breach of etiquette. Why would anyone be unhappy? They had universal healthcare, guaranteed housing, and the protection of the most powerful military force in history.
Sure, the IUC had technically lost the war against the VIC, but that was hundreds of years ago. Since then, the IUC has been rebuilt better than ever, and it wasn't thanks to the government; no, those idiots in control were only good to be bought and controlled by someone. The state of the IUC today was all thanks to the corporations and the houses that backed them.
Greta's eyes drifted to the street corners. There, standing like statues in their pristine white exoskeletal armor, were the soldiers of the IUC. They were everywhere, yet they never felt oppressive. They didn't hold their energy rifles at the ready; instead, they slung them casually over their shoulders. They didn't scowl either, and their helmets were often retracted, revealing often handsome, smiling faces that greeted citizens with a nod.
They were the guardians of the Garden of Eden that humanity had created on this planet. They kept the weeds out and ensured that the chaos of the outer systems, the pirates, the rebels, the dirty industrial accidents, stayed far, far away from the glass domes of Aurelia.
"Computer," Greta said softly, sipping her coffee. "What is the current threat level?"
"Threat level is Green," the apartment's AI responded in a soothing, gender-neutral voice. "Weather is optimal. Traffic is flowing at 98% efficiency. Have a pleasant day, Ms. Müller."
"I intend to," she whispered.
She finished her coffee and moved to the dressing room, running her hand over her wardrobe of perfectly pressed suits. She chose a navy blue ensemble today, a skirt suit with sharp lines that expressed professionalism while showing off her femininity. She pulled her brown hair back into a severe, intricate bun, securing it with a silver pin that doubled as a biometric clearance key. A touch of light makeup, just enough to accentuate her green eyes without looking vain, and she was ready.
She grabbed her datapad, checked her reflection one last time, perfect posture, perfect smile, and headed for the door.
The commute was a seamless transition between bubbles of luxury. The elevator whisked her down seventy-five floors in seconds, the inertial dampeners making the movement imperceptible. The lobby of the Silver Spire was a cavern of marble and gold, staffed by androids that bowed as she passed.
She stepped out onto the street, and the air hit her once again, but stronger. It was fresh, smelling of the pink blossoms and the faint, clean scent of ozone. She walked to the mag-lev station, her heels clicking rhythmically on the pearl-white pavement.
"Good morning, Ms. Müller!" a young man in a baker's uniform called out from a shop front, waving a fresh pastry.
"Good morning, Julian," she waved back, flashing the smile that was part of her uniform. "Not today, I'm afraid. Meeting at 09:00."
"No worries!" the young man replied with an enigmatic smile. "Have a great one!"
Everyone was polite, clean, and there was no trash on the streets. Cleaning drones, small and silent, scurried along the gutters, vaporizing even the smallest speck of dust.
Greta boarded the mag-lev train that had hovered silently into the station. It was a sleek silver-looking thing, resembling the bullet trains of Japan from Earth. The doors slid open, and she stepped into the Executive Class car, which was nearly empty, occupied only by a few other high-ranking corporate officers.
She nodded to a Vice President from a "terraforming" conglomerate (more like a dome-building conglomerate. Same same, but different, but still same), who was reading a news scroll on the newest G-comm available. It was called the G-comm Workstation due to all of the things you could do from it, and the fact that it held groundbreaking nano-technology that allowed your screen to change in size up to 30 inches by 30 inches.
The train accelerated, gliding through the air. Outside the window, the blue and pink blur of the city rushed by. They passed the residential districts, the high-end shopping promenades, and the vast, manicured parks where children in matching uniforms played gravity-ball under the watchful eyes of their nanny-bots and the distant, benevolent gaze of the IUC patrols.
It was a world without friction. A world where everything worked exactly as it was designed to... as long as you had the money for it.
As the train banked around the central lake, its water so clear you could see the filtration systems humming at the bottom, the Greta's destination came into view: The SIGS Headquarters.
It was a monolith. Standing at 150 stories tall, it was a needle of obsidian glass and steel that pierced the sky, dwarfing everything around it. It was the tallest building in the sector, a physical manifestation of the company's dominance that was just 50 meters shy of touching the dome above it. It didn't just house the offices of SIGS, but also a few levels were rented out by other heavy hitters like Stellar Dynamics (SD) and Spatial Propulsionary Solutions (SPS). This tower housed the future.
The train slid into the station at the base of the tower. Greta disembarked, joining the stream of employees flowing into the lobby.
The lobby of SIGS HQ was designed to intimidate. Its ceiling was five stories high, its walls were lined with massive holographic displays showing the company's achievements. SIGS didn't just focus on making thermal vents. A heavy hitter like that wouldn't make it to where it is today if it didn't have diversity. They also focused on starships' Jump drives and owned quite a big share of a few terraforming corporations. Besides all of its achievements was the famous SIGS logo, a blue star rotating slowly in the center of the room, ten meters wide.
"Identity confirmed. Welcome, Ms. Müller," the security scanner chirped as she walked through the gate without breaking stride.
"Good morning, Greta," the receptionist, a woman named Sarah, smiled from behind a desk that had actually been a large piece of scrap from a ship that attempted the first SIGS jump drive experiment, something that was an utter failure. However, today it stood as a marker of how far they had come.
"Morning, Sarah," Greta greeted the woman. "Did the floral arrangement for the atrium arrive?"
"It just came in," Sarah nodded. "Celestial Orchids, just like you ordered."
"Excellent," Greta clapped her hands, a smile plastered on her face. "Director Thorne hates lilies. If you would be so kind as to make sure none of them slipped in."
"Sure thing!" Sarah nodded.
Greta took the private executive lift. There were forty elevators in the building, but only this one went to the top two floors. It required a retinal scan, a voice print, and a genetic sample from her thumbprint.
She provided all three, and the doors slid shut, providing a rapid ascent. Her ears popped gently, equalizing automatically. She watched the city shrink away through the glass back of the elevator. The cars became dots, and the people became invisible as she ascended to Olympus.
The doors opened on the 149th floor.
The entire floor was dedicated to the administrative support and the tactical operations of the Novellus System Directorate. It was quiet here, and a plush carpet was laid throughout the entire floor, absorbing all sound. The lighting was soft, focused on the workstations where junior analysts and secretaries worked in hushed tones.
Greta walked to her desk, though it wasn't really a desk. It was more like a command station situated right outside the double doors that led to the Director's office on the 150th floor. It was a semi-circular curve of white oak, an extremely rare tree species original to Earth that had barely been cultivated, and floating holographic interfaces.
She sat down, placing her datapad on the sync-surface, causing the system to hum to life, logging her in.
"Welcome back, Greta," her personal interface greeted her. "You have 47 unread messages. 12 priority flags. 3 meeting requests."
"Sort by priority," she murmured, adjusting her headset. "And give me the schedule for the day."
"Director Thorne has the quarterly review with the Galactic Board at 10:00. A lunch meeting with the Admiral of the IUC's 7th Fleet at 12:30. And a golf simulation at 15:00."
"Standard Monday," she said, relaxing into her ergonomic chair.
She loved Mondays. Mondays were when order was re-established after the chaos of the weekend. Mondays were fresh starts. That was the idea she had engraved into her mind, something that pushed her through her studies in her earlier years and had pushed her to the position she is in today. It was something that made her feel efficient, powerful, and as if she had everything under control.
She began to sift through the emails. Most of it was routine. Budget approvals from the mining sector. A request for a leave of absence from a junior engineer. She would often approve these if they had a valid reasoning, since she knew how life was. But there was a lack of detail on why the junior engineer needed the leave, so she simply denied it. She then read an email for a catering menu for the upcoming gala, which she approved, but swapped the synth-salmon out for real trout.
Then, she saw it.
It was buried halfway down the list. It had been sent on Saturday morning at 08:42. The subject line was blank, but the sender flag was red, which meant this was of high priority and internal origin.
Sender: Takagi, Kenjiro - Lead Engineer, Thermal Dynamics Division.
Greta frowned. Kenjiro? He never sends emails on the weekend. The man was a ghost outside of office hours. He refused to live down on Nova Celeste and was usually holed up in his high-end apartment reading physics journals or whatever it was geniuses did on Elyse. And a blank subject line? That was sloppy and quite unprofessional.
"Computer, open message from Takagi," she commanded, taking a sip of her water.
The holographic text scrolled open in front of her.
It wasn't a report. It wasn't a budget request.
It was a single paragraph.
"To the Board of Directors, Regional Director Thorne, and whoever else is currently leeching off the corpse of innovation:
I hereby resign, effective immediately. Regarding the "Researcher of the Year" award and the 0.3% efficiency celebration: I have left the plaque in the trash receptacle of my office, which is where it belongs, alongside your business ethics and your vision for the future. I am going to find actual work. Do not look for me. Do not contact me. And for the love of physics, stop using aluminum-ceramic blends in the Mark V. It's fucking embarrassing and laughable.
- Sincerely, go fuck yourselfs,
Kenjiro Takagi"
Greta stared at the floating blue text.
She blinked and read it again.
"He... he put the plaque in the trash?" she whispered, her brain snagging on the absurdity of the detail before the magnitude of the rest hit her.
She looked at the metadata. The email had been sent over 39 hours ago.
"Computer," she said, her voice rising slightly. "Status of Kenjiro Takagi's employment file?"
"Employee Takagi, Kenjiro.
Status: Terminated.
Flag: Resignation/Hostile.
Assets: Frozen.
Clearance: Revoked.
Security Alert: Active."
The AI had done its job. The moment the resignation was processed by the keyword algorithm, likely triggered by phrases like "leeching off the corpse," and the other expletives, the system had locked him out. It had frozen his bank accounts on Elyse, locked his apartment smart locks, and wiped his access to the SIGS mainframe.
But it hadn't alerted anyone.
'Why?' Greta wondered. She checked the logs and realized that the system had flagged it as a "Non-Emergency HR Event" because it happened on a weekend, and Director Thorne had a strict "No Bad News on Weekends unless the Building is on Fire" policy programmed into the notification filters.
"Oh god," Greta breathed.
She stood up, her chair knocking back against the wall.
Kenjiro Takagi wasn't just an employee. He was the brain of this whole thing. He was the one who designed the Mark IV. He was the one who kept the IUC contracts secure. He held the secrets to the proprietary cooling algorithms in his head.
And he hadn't just quit. He had quit with intent. "I am going to find actual work."
What did that mean? Where was he going? You didn't just walk away from SIGS. Greta knew that from the moment you sign on with SIGS, you were SIGS property until you died or retired.
And the snark. The sheer, unadulterated disrespect. "It's fucking embarrassing and laughable."
Greta felt a cold sweat prickle under her navy suit. This wasn't just an HR issue. This was a corporate security disaster. If the Board found out that their Lead Engineer had been gone for two days and nobody had noticed, heads would roll. And the first head on the chopping block would be Director Thorne's.
She looked up at the ceiling, toward the 150th floor.
Thorne was in a meeting. A Holo-conference with the other Regional Directors. One thing he hated above all else was interruptions. He had once fired a junior secretary for buzzing him during his tea time.
But this... this couldn't wait.
Greta didn't hesitate. She grabbed her datapad and sprinted.
She bypassed the elevator and hit the emergency stairwell access. It was only one flight up. She took the stairs two at a time, her heels clacking loudly on the metal steps, the sound echoing her rising panic.
She burst onto the 150th floor.
The Director's office was a sanctum. The entire top floor was one massive room, walled entirely in glass with louvers to control how much sunlight came in. The view was godlike. You could start to see the curvature of the planet from here. The floor was made of black marble, and in the center sat a desk made of petrified wood that had been extracted from a destroyed Earth.
Alistair Thorne stood in the center of the room, surrounded by hovering holographic projections of four other men and women, the other Regional Directors.
Thorne was a man who looked like he had been bred in a vat for the sole purpose of wearing a suit. He was tall, silver-haired, with a face that projected an air of bored aristocracy. He was holding a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, laughing at something the Director of the Sol System had just said.
"...so I told the Admiral, if you want the engines to run quieter, stop buying cheap fuel!" Thorne chuckled, his British accent crisp and authoritative.
Greta didn't knock or buzz. She slammed her hand onto the palm reader of the double doors, causing the lock to disengage with a hiss, and the heavy doors swung open.
"Director!" she gasped, stepping into the room.
Thorne spun around, his smile vanishing instantly. The holographic heads of the other Directors turned to look at her, their expressions ranging from annoyance to amusement.
"Ms. Müller?" Thorne's voice was ice. "I am in the middle of the Monday Summit. Unless the building is currently plummeting from the sky, I suggest you explain why you just barged in here like a frantic lemur."
Greta didn't care about the insult. She walked straight past the security line, clutching the datapad to her chest.
"Sir, you need to terminate the call," she said, her breath coming in short gasps.
"I will do no such thing," Thorne scoffed. "We are discussing the quarterly projections."
"Sir," Greta said, stopping five feet from him. She looked at the other holograms. "It's about Dr. Takagi."
Thorne paused. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing. "What about Kenjiro? Did he ask for another raise? Tell him to file a Form 404."
"No, sir," Greta swallowed hard. "He... he's gone."
"Gone?" Thorne frowned. "Gone where? To lunch?"
"He resigned, sir," Greta said. "Two days ago."
The silence in the room was absolute. Even the holograms seemed to freeze.
"Resigned?" Thorne repeated the word as if it were in a foreign language. "Don't be absurd, Greta. People like Kenjiro Takagi don't resign. They are fixtures. He's probably having an episode. You know how moody he gets when his simulations fail."
"He sent an email, sir," Greta said, holding out the datapad. Her hand was shaking. "His office has been cleared out, and the AI confirmed it. He threw his award in the trash. He said... he said the Mark V is embarrassing and laughable."
Thorne stared at her. He looked at the datapad, then back at her face. He saw the genuine terror in her eyes.
"And," Greta added, dropping the hammer, "he said he is going to find 'actual work'."
The color drained from Alistair Thorne's face. It wasn't a slow drain, but a rapid drain that left him looking like a wax figure. The crystal tumbler in his hand tilted dangerously, a drop of amber liquid spilling onto the priceless black marble floor.
"Actual work?" Thorne whispered.
"The AI locked his accounts on Elyse, sir," Greta said rapidly. "But he hasn't been seen on the station for 48 hours. He's not in his apartment. He's not in the labs."
Thorne looked at the holograms of the other Directors. They were no longer amused. They were watching him like sharks sensing blood in the water.
"Alistair," the Director of Sol System said, his voice deep and warning. "If your Lead Thermal Engineer has defected... and if he takes the cooling algorithms with him..."
Thorne didn't answer him. He looked at Greta. His eyes, usually so bored and arrogant, were wide with a dawning horror.
"Clear the room," Thorne said, his voice cracking. "End the call. Now."
"But Alistair-"
"END IT!" Thorne roared, smashing his hand down on the console.
The holograms vanished. The room plunged into silence, save for the heavy breathing of the Director.
He looked at Greta.
"Find him," Thorne hissed. "I don't care what it costs. I don't care who you have to bribe. You get Security Chief Calloway on the line. You get the IUC tracking division, I DON'T GIVE A FUCK HOW YOU DO IT!... You find Kenjiro Takagi."
He walked to the window, staring out at the beautiful, perfect, blue-and-pink city that suddenly looked very fragile.
"Because if he's gone to a competitor," Thorne whispered to his reflection in the glass, "we aren't just looking at a quarterly loss, Greta. We might be looking at the end of the empire."
Greta stood there, clutching her datapad, the beautiful morning completely forgotten. The bloom of the sun was still beautiful outside, but in here, it felt like the sun had just gone out.
"Yes, sir," she whispered.
But as she turned to run back to her desk, she had a sinking feeling.
They were two days late.
Kenjiro Takagi was already gone. And somewhere, in the smog and grime of a station they wouldn't even think to look for, the future was being built without them.
---
You can read up to 25 Advanced Chapters on my Patreon, with 2 more on their way for today, totalling 27, at https://www.patreon.com/cw/Crimson_Reapr
Crimson_Reapr is the name, and writing Sci-fi is the way.