Federation Calendar, Year 58
In the research bay of Medium Orbital Starport 27, holotanks glowed with intricate schematics, casting sharp light over Dr. Harold Bennett's weathered face. His silver beard glinted as he studied Adrian Vale's latest gift: industrial automation protocols that dwarfed the Federation's clunky robotics. Current models were costly, rigid, and only marginally better than human labor—a poor trade-off that kept them niche. Adrian's designs were a leap beyond: five times the efficiency, agile precision, and dirt-cheap materials sourced from humanity's own reserves. Mass production was not just feasible but inevitable. Bennett's eyes sparked with fervor as he barked orders, techs scrambling to unpack fabricators amid the hum of powering systems.
He pinged Admiral Marcus Sterling, voice crackling with urgency. "Marcus, I need more hands—hundreds. These automation specs are game-changers, but we're spread thinner than a hull in a debris field!"
Sterling's holo flickered, his nod brisk. "Approved, Harold. Reinforcements by next cycle." The call cut, and Bennett dove back into the data, the warp drive's shadow still heavy in his thoughts.
With the lab sorted, Lena Sterling led Adrian through the starport's maze of corridors to his command suite. The air buzzed with the pulse of conduits, laced with the sharp scent of coolant. The office was stark but practical: a desk with a holo-console, a viewport framing Mars' red haze, and a side door to private quarters.
"My office is adjacent," Lena said, voice cold as deep space. "Call if you need me." She turned and was gone before Adrian could reply.
He shook his head, a half-smile forming. Ice queen strikes again. Noting the bedroom and bathroom, he nodded—critical for what came next.
Locking the hatch, he accessed the Interface, summoning the gene-enhancement serum. The vial appeared, sky-blue liquid gleaming like captured starlight. He downed it in one go, the taste neutral, expecting the tropes from his old life's novels: sudden sleep or a foul detox purge. Hence the quarters check—better to have a bunk and shower than face a bio-crisis unprepared.
Settling into the commander's chair, he closed his eyes, waiting. Minutes passed. No drowsiness, no stench. Just the starport's hum and his steady breath.
"Huh," he muttered. "No theatrics? Too many novels skewing my expectations?" Curious, he called up the Interface. "System, show my stats."
A virtual panel flared:
Host: Adrian ValeStrength: 350Agility: 350Reaction: 350Stamina: 350Spirit: 350IQ: 380Normal human attributes: 50-100Lifespan: 500 yearsBrain Development: 20%Command Abilities: Artillery Command (B), Evasion Command (C), Formation Command (A), Mech Command (C)Mission 1: Destroy 500 Orcus Empire warships. Current: 0/500. (Reward: Energy Shield Technology)Mission 2: Attain rank of Major General. (Reward: Basic Gene-Enhancement Serum Technology)
"Five hundred years?" Adrian whistled. "Nice perk." But his body felt the same—no new bulk, no electric surge. Stripping to his shorts, he checked the mirror. Same lean frame, no visible change. "What's the deal?"
As if on cue, the hatch slid open. Lena stood there, her gray eyes widening a fraction, a faint flush on her cheeks breaking her icy mask. Adrian froze, glancing down at his near-naked state. The silence screamed louder than an engine flare.
"Misunderstanding!" he blurted, hands up like he was dodging a missile.
"Apologies, Commander," Lena said, voice sharp as a blade. "I didn't know you worked... minimally attired." She stepped back, the hatch closing with surgical precision.
Adrian groaned, palming his face. "Goddamn it..." Embarrassment etched imaginary lines across his forehead.
He threw on his uniform, fabric snapping with his frustration, and hit the comm. "Major Sterling, my office. Now."
A knock came ten seconds later. "Enter."
Lena walked in, her blush gone, face back to its frosty norm. "Commander, you needed me?"
"Let's clear this up," Adrian said, eyes firm. "That was a mix-up. I don't have a habit of working in my underwear."
"Whether you do is irrelevant if it doesn't affect the mission," she replied, tone flat. "I don't care."
Adrian's jaw clenched, irritation spiking. "...Fine." Adeline Hart's guarded warmth felt like a bonfire next to Lena's tundra. He started to retort, but the comm buzzed—Admiral Marcus Sterling. He answered instantly.
"Commander," Adrian said, voice crisp.
"Adrian, you're fresh in the chair, but we've got an urgent op. The 101st needs to move now."
"Understood, sir. Orders?"
"Asteroid Belt, Sector 279—thirty resource collectors are pinned by an Orcus fleet, hiding in a cluster. Brief's on your tactical optic. Review en route."
"Affirmative. We're launching now."
"Your first real fight, son. Stay sharp."
"Count on it, sir."
The call ended. Adrian glanced at Lena, already working her wrist-optic, fingers flying. A klaxon blared seconds later, the Level 1 alert electrifying the starport.
Annoying, but damn good, Adrian thought. He nodded, and they moved out, striding to the docks, the starport alive with the clatter of boots and powering systems.
The 101st's flagship, the battlecruiser Vanguard's Edge, waited, its hull spiked with lances and drone bays. They boarded fast, hitting the bridge where the command crew stood ready, optics synced, air thick with focus. Adrian took the captain's chair, its interface lighting up with feeds. Lena stood rigid beside him.
"Major, fleet departure status?"
"Reporting: ready in seventeen seconds, Commander."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. Seventeen seconds, exact? Her real-time data crunching was eerie, outpacing even his Interface-boosted brain. She's a damn computer.
"Commander, focus on the mission," Lena snapped, catching his glance.
He snorted, half-laughing, half-irritated. "Your personality's a war crime, Major. When we're back, I'm fixing it."
"Reporting: fleet ready to launch." She ignored his jab, face all business.
"Cast off. Full speed to Sector 279."
"Acknowledged."
The Vanguard's Edge rumbled as clamps released, the fleet's 144 ships peeling out in formation, engines blazing blue as they tore toward the target, 0.2 AU away. At 3,000 kilometers per second, they'd hit the belt in three hours. Adrian hoped the collectors could stay hidden.
He pulled up Sector 279's topography on his optic. A jagged mess of asteroids—some city-sized, others mere rubble—made large fleet maneuvers impossible. Two hundred ships, the reported Orcus count, was the max for navigating the chaos. The terrain was an ambusher's dream: endless hideaways, shadows for traps. Adrian's instincts screamed setup. The collectors weren't the prize—200 ships for thirty miners was overkill. A micro-squadron of ten would've done the job.
No, this was bait for the relief force. A classic trap.
Adrian smirked. "Besieging the point to hit the reinforcements? Our ancestors played this game to death."
"Major," he said, eyes locked on the feed, "adjust course. Target Sector 280."
Lena's fingers paused, a flicker of curiosity cracking her ice. "Sector 280, sir?"
"Trust me," Adrian said, voice low and certain. "We're not falling for their script—we're rewriting it."