Years ago. . .
Aboard the SABER mothership—a leviathan of dark steel and humming dread—galactic leaders from across the stars gathered under one roof. Silver and black walls pulsed faintly with crimson veins of energy. Holograms of past rulers flickered along the upper levels, watching silently as history prepared to repeat itself.
In the center chamber, a table shaped like a jagged ring hovered above a glass floor showing the void of space beneath. Dozens of planetary heads sat in tense silence.
Then came the voice—measured, cold, final.
"Good evening, esteemed delegates," boomed a pale, towering figure at the head of the chamber. His skin was white as starlight, marked with red tribal etchings that spiraled down his arms like ancient circuitry. His eyes glowed red, gleaming like ruby-cut weapons.
"I am Abbott. You've all been summoned here to decide whether peace still has a place among your galaxies. You each hold power. You each hold responsibility. But only one choice stands before you today."
No one interrupted. No one dared.
Then came the sneer.
"I would appreciate," muttered a representative from the Starbolt system, "if the Zen-Barian across the table would kindly avert her gaze."
Across the chamber, a young woman with sharp emerald eyes tilted her head and smirked. A knife hovered beside her, suspended mid-air in a field of glowing green energy.
"She's threatening me with that thing."
"I'm looking at you," the woman replied calmly. "If that threatens you, perhaps this treaty isn't for you."
"Polaris," said Abbott from his throne without looking. His tone was bored. "Let the Sentuarian stew in their own cowardice. Don't bait them."
With a dramatic sigh, Polaris, daughter of Abbott, rolled her eyes and allowed the blade to dip lower, still twirling at her side like a coiled serpent.
She turned to the now-flustered diplomat. "Trouble concentrating? Or is it just difficult for you to function without someone shielding you?"
The Sentuarian averted their gaze, lips pressed thin. Polaris smiled with satisfaction but withdrew the blade.
She knew better than to test her father too far. At least not here.
Abbott stood. The air shifted.
"Now. If we're finished with schoolyard games," he said, letting his gaze wash across the room like ice water, "let us speak of the future. One with fewer wars… and clearer allegiances."
A flicker of blue light shimmered over the table. From its center, a holographic contract rose slowly, pages hovering in sequence like transparent ghost-scrolls. At the bottom of each page, a line awaited a fingerprint.
Abbott gestured smoothly, as if sealing centuries of conflict was no more than stamping a letter.
"At this point," he said, "I request you all sign the agreement. Completely. And refrain from any… foolish gestures."
A low hum of dissent rippled through the room—until a woman stood up sharply, fire flashing in her eyes. Her voice cracked across the chamber.
"This is absurd, Abbott! We fought together—bled together—defended entire systems from threats that were not our own! And now you expect us to just kneel to your authority like cattle?!"
She stepped forward, her armor glinting faintly under the overhead lights.
"You speak of peace, yet your empire thrives on coercion. You've hijacked the eternal resource network, rationed energy to starving planets, and now you hold it over their heads like a guillotine. That's not peace. That's conquest with a smile."
From the far side of the table, one of the seated diplomats spoke up. His tone was bored, but his gaze flicked toward Abbott for approval.
"Do not exaggerate, Infinity Spark. A fingerprint is a small price to avoid another war. And if your people refuse… well, SABER has never shied away from dealing with problems directly."
The contract blinked silently. Most of the council had already signed. All but one.
The woman—Lux—stood frozen, eyes scanning the room. One by one, her allies looked away. Shoulders hunched. Faces grim.
She clenched her fists.
"This was not the deal," she said softly.
She looked at each delegate, voice rising with every word.
"We made a pact. Galaxies united—together—to end this tyranny. What happened to that spirit? Where is that courage now?"
No one answered.
"I see," she muttered. Her breath was shallow now, hands trembling—not with fear, but fury. "You let fear chain you down. You'd rather serve than risk losing. That's not strategy… that's surrender."
From the other end of the table, a Zen-Barian elder leaned forward, tone heavy with reluctant realism.
"Lux. Be honest with yourself," he said gently. "Even if our combined forces stood together, what would it matter? The Martians tried. The Drakari failed. Abbott has crushed every resistance. His daughter alone wields enough power to level moons."
He sighed, old and tired.
"We aren't cowards. We're survivors. Please… spare your people. Sign the dotted line."
The room fell into silence.
All eyes were on her.
Even Polaris, still twirling her blade silently, paused to watch.
In the corner of the chamber, draped in shadows and smug authority, Polaris sat perched on a throne of silver alloy, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. Her fingers hovered inches from a levitating blade, which spun slowly in midair—an extension of her mood, her boredom, her power.
She chuckled quietly as the last sparks of Lux's rebellion flickered out.
"Well, that was adorable," Polaris said, voice smooth as sharpened glass. "Did you expect a standing ovation, Lux? A sudden spark of courage from a council that's been bowing to SABER for years?"
She stood, letting the blade slice down gently into her hand with a magnetic click.
"I'll admit, your plan had... flair. But reality is a cruel mistress, and it seems your coalition remembered who she answers to."
Lux said nothing. Her silence now spoke louder than her protests ever had.
At the head of the table, Abbott rose slowly, gaze sweeping across the delegates like a god dismissing his court.
"You are all dismissed," he said with finality. "Go home. Or, if you still fancy yourselves revolutionaries… by all means, test your fate. History has already recorded what happens to those who do."
Chairs scraped as leaders stood quickly, eager to flee the stifling weight of the decision they'd just made. One by one, they departed the chamber—heads bowed, spines bent.
Only Lux and Polaris exchanged glances as they passed. No words. Just fire and frost colliding.