After Dorian left the planet Luminus and left it behind, he initiated the interdimensional jump toward Astra Helion. The estimated time was six hours and fourteen minutes—a relatively short trip by Helion standards, but an eternity for someone who had just experienced what he had.
Dorian was sitting in his seat, and the blue lights from the holographic screens shone inside the Epsilon-03 ship, casting geometric patterns on his tired but alert features. The ship was not as large as the Sigma-12, which had housed dozens of crew members, laboratories, cryo-chambers, and redundant systems.
His was a single-person ship: a solitary vessel designed for deep reconnaissance and, when necessary, quick escape. A technological shell containing only him and Omega—two conscious entities crossing the void between stars.
There were other ships in the Helion fleet larger than the Sigma-12—war colossi, carrier ships, colonization arks—but Dorian didn't pilot one of those monsters. He preferred the intimacy and agility of the Epsilon-03, where every system knew his touch, every response was synchronized with his reflexes.
Outside, beyond the observation glass, the interdimensional tunnel unfolded like a geometric dream. Particles fine as blue threads danced in currents of pure energy, weaving a corridor of altered reality connecting two points in the cosmos too distant for conventional physics.
They were beautiful, hypnotic, and Dorian watched them with the mix of awe and familiarity of someone who had seen this spectacle hundreds of times but never ceased to marvel.
Though his ship was small, for him alone it was more than enough. And it was, undoubtedly, advanced even by Helion standards: full-signature camouflage systems, fourth-generation jump engines, discreet but lethal weaponry, and a neural interface that responded to his thoughts faster than to his verbal commands.
Dorian found himself, in essence, between two AIs. The first, integrated into the Epsilon-03, was functional but limited—a navigation and systems intelligence with basic personality, designed for operational tasks.
The second was Omega, not merely a ship program, but an entity housed within Dorian's neural implants, also functional but infinitely less limited and more practical. Omega was memory, tactics, analysis, companionship.
He was more of a companion to Dorian than a virtual assistant—a constant presence that had seen his thought patterns evolve, that knew his reflexes better than he himself did, and that, in the darkest moments on Luminus, had been the only voice reminding him he wasn't completely alone.
A few hours remained until reaching Astra Helion when the communications system emitted a soft alert tone. An incoming video call. The identification glowed in the air: NAIRO ASTRA – ELDER BROTHER – FAMILY PRIORITY.
Dorian took a deep breath before accepting. The screen materialized in front of him, and his brother's face appeared. Nairo Astra shared the same bone structure, the same intense green eyes, the same black hair with those orange highlights that were the genetic hallmark of their lineage.
But where Dorian had a contained energy, ready to burst into motion, Nairo radiated a deep calm, almost meditative. He wore his hair longer, tied in a low ponytail, and his expression was gentle but penetrating.
"Hey, little brother," said Nairo, his voice a tone deeper than Dorian's, but with the same familiar cadence. "How did your exploration go? Are you injured?"
The question wasn't formal. Nairo visually scanned him even through the transmission, looking for stiffness in his shoulders, shadows under his eyes, any sign of damage Dorian might try to hide.
"Though not everything went well," Dorian replied, forcing a smile he knew wouldn't fool his brother, "I'm still in one piece, hahaha."
"That means you were having fun," Nairo retorted, with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Though I already know you put yourself in danger. But you're right, you're still in one piece."
"Of course I didn't put myself in danger!" Dorian protested, his voice deliberately exaggerated like someone blatantly lying. "Who do you think I am?"
"You think you can fool your big brother," Nairo murmured from the other side of the screen, a playful smile appearing on his lips. "You're more mischievous than I thought."
Dorian let out a genuine laugh this time. Nairo could always spot his lies, even light-years away.
"And how much longer until you arrive?" Nairo asked, changing the subject with elegance.
"For now, about an hour and a half," Dorian replied, checking the timer in his peripheral vision.
"Good, then I'll wait for you," Nairo said, and his expression softened. "I'll cook something for you to eat when you get here."
That simple offer made something warm bloom in Dorian's chest. Of all the things he had missed on Luminus—familiar gravity, clean air, the comforts of Helion technology—nothing compared to his big brother's cooking.
"Alright, big brother," Dorian responded, and this time his smile was authentic, effortless.
"Good, then take care. We'll talk later," Nairo said, and the screen faded, leaving only the blue glow of the interdimensional tunnel.
After that, Dorian took an energy bar from the ship's reserves—a flavorless but efficient mix of synthetic nutrients that would keep his body running. But it lost its effect almost immediately after Nairo's words echoed in his mind: I'll cook something for you. The bars were survival. Nairo's food was home.
Of the things Dorian liked—challenges, controlled danger, the thrill of exploration, encountering strange creatures and ecosystems—nothing compared to that simple, profound pleasure from childhood that persisted until now: his big brother cooking for him. It wasn't just the food; it was the ritual, the attention, the silent care Nairo put into every dish, as if he were repairing with spices and warmth the parts of Dorian that the universe tried to wear down.
He could no longer wait to reach Astra Helion, land, and run to the apartment they shared in one of the blue-glass skyscrapers. The hunger he felt now wasn't physiological; it was nostalgia turned craving.
After passing the final hour and a half, the blue lights of the interspatial tunnel began to fade, dissolving like threads of energy fading into nothingness. Dorian's Epsilon-03 ship emerged from the dimensional corridor, and normal space reestablished itself around it.
And there, growing in the window, appeared Astra Helion.
It was a blue and white sphere, wrapped in bands of perfectly ordered clouds like the lines of a giant circuit board. It didn't have the organic green of Luminus or the alien purple; its dominant color was blue in a thousand shades—ocean blue, ice blue, the electric blue of the cities that shone even on the day side. Dorian hadn't even entered the atmosphere—no, he wasn't even close to the planet—when Astra Helion's ultra-advanced defense systems activated their scanners.
Invisible energy beams, so precise they could distinguish an iron atom from a cobalt atom ten thousand kilometers away, swept over the Epsilon-03. They didn't just scan the ship; they penetrated the hull, the systems, and swept over Dorian's body in milliseconds, verifying his genetic signature, his neural implants, even the unique pattern of his Blue Helion. There was no privacy before the planetary defenses, but he didn't need it: he was a son of this world.
<< SHIP CONFIRMED: EPSILON-03. IDENTIFICATION CONFIRMED: DORIAN ASTRA. HELION SIGNATURE: BLUE. STATUS: ACTIVE. ACCESS GRANTED: MAY ENTER PLANETARY ATMOSPHERE. WELCOME HOME, DORIAN. >>
The planetary defense voice was androgynous, impersonal, but the last words had a small programmed wink—a touch of warmth in the infinite protocol.
Dorian guided the ship into the atmosphere. The descent was smooth, almost as if the planet were receiving him in its gravitational embrace. He passed through layers of perfectly stratified clouds, and below, the Helion world revealed itself in all its splendor.
Skyscrapers of blue crystal rising kilometers into the sky, their reflective surfaces capturing and redirecting the light of the three suns hanging in the firmament—Helion Prime, a bright yellow star; Helion Secundus, a smaller blue dwarf; and Helion Tertius, a distant red giant that tinged the horizon with copper tones at sunset.
Between the buildings, aerial avenues traced perfect routes along which silent flying cars glided, their translucent hulls showing relaxed occupants. On the ground, geometric parks with bio-luminescent flora and artificial lakes of water so pure they seemed like liquid glass.
Dorian piloted the ship toward the residential district where he lived with Nairo—a slender tower of dark blue crystal, with terraced levels housing private gardens. He landed smoothly, like a true professional, on the designated rooftop platform, until finally the landing gear touched the surface with a soft clunk.
Then the cockpit opened. The air of Astra Helion rushed in.
Dorian stepped out of the ship, placed his right foot on Helion ground, and the breeze hit his face—not like something violent or strange, but like a whisper saying welcome home. It was filtered, ionized air, with the slight scent of clean ozone and the nocturnal Helionian flower that Nairo cultivated on the terrace. His black hair with orange highlights began to move in the wind, and his green eyes shone with an emotion he rarely showed openly.
It was the breeze of his home. The breeze of a warm welcome.
Dorian raised his head, looking toward the sky where the three suns aligned in an eternal orbital dance. A spectacle he had seen since he could remember, but which now, after Luminus, seemed miraculously familiar and comforting.
Then he walked briskly toward the terrace entrance—not as if he were escaping or terrified, but like someone who could no longer bear the hunger and wanted to eat what his big brother had cooked. He slid open the glass door, and the aroma hit him like a warm wave: Helionian spices, meat marinated in crystalline fruit juices, the sweet perfume of freshly baked bread.
Nairo was already waiting for him in the main living area, standing by the table that was already set. He was, as always, an image of domestic calm amid the elegant chaos of the apartment—data books floating on shelves, screens showing galactic news, and in one corner, a photo of him and Nairo hung on the wall.
"Welcome home, little brother," Nairo said, and his smile was wide, genuine. "The food is ready. Come and eat."
Dorian didn't need to be told twice. He went straight to the table and sat down, while Nairo served generous portions onto plates of dark blue ceramic.
"By the way you look," Nairo murmured as he placed a piece of juicy meat in front of Dorian, "without your combat suit and just in the compression set… it seems you didn't get into any trouble, right? Everything went perfectly, no risk. Isn't that right, little brother?"
His tone was light, but there was a glint in his green eyes that Dorian knew all too well. It was Nairo's look when he already knew the truth and was waiting to see how long it would take Dorian to admit it.
<< Sir, that smile is not good. You are in serious trouble, >> Omega whispered directly into his mind, with a hint of alarm.
<< I already figured that out, Omega, >> Dorian responded mentally, while taking a bite to buy time.
"I can explain that, brother," he finally said, his mouth half-full. "But let me eat first."
"Alright, as you say," Nairo nodded, sitting across from him. "And tell me what happened."
And so, between bites, Dorian began to tell him. He told him about the Predator—classified as such by Omega— then described the living obsidian plates of the "Apex," its six limbs, its psionic roar, how its mere presence had frozen his nerves in a way he would never forget.
He also told him about the discovery of the Sigma-12, the crewman's journal, the corrupt fragment pulsing like a diseased heart. He described the creative and desperate fight against the Cenzontlis, using their bodies as stepping stones in the sky. And finally, the battle against the Primordial Guardian, the activation of Helion, the four minutes and seventeen seconds of pure power that had purified the fragment and dissolved the colossus.
He told him everything he had seen while exploring: the bioluminescent river, the singing trees, the amber fruits, the builder crabs. The intertwined beauty and hostility.
He also mentioned the cover-up—or what he thought was a cover-up—but his brother gently corrected him, lifting a weight off Dorian's shoulders that he didn't even know he was carrying.
"Cover-up?" Nairo asked, tilting his head.
"Yes, cover-up," Dorian confirmed. "Because I found nothing in the central Helion archives about the Sigma-12, only that it was lost in deep exploration. But they found something big, something the planet was protecting. And everyone died. Someone covered it up."
Nairo set down his fork, looking at Dorian with that calm, analytical expression that made even Helion veterans feel like students.
"According to you, why would it be a cover-up?" he asked. "As you're telling me, the entire operation was a failure, everyone dead. What's so cover-up about that? What would Helion gain by hiding such a complete disaster?"
Dorian fell silent. He hadn't thought about that. He had assumed bad faith, but Nairo was right: what sense did it make to hide such an absolute failure?
"It's not as if that helps Helion in any way," Nairo continued softly. "And besides, cycles have passed since it happened. Bureaucracy sometimes files away tragedies without details, not out of malice, but out of… cold efficiency. But one never knows; maybe there is something more. However, you don't have to worry about that."
He paused, pouring Dorian more crystalline water.
"Besides," he added, and now his smile was genuinely proud, "what you did was a great discovery. You not only resolved a dangerous anomaly, but you mapped a complex alien ecosystem, identified flora and fauna, and survived to tell the tale. That's worth more than any bureaucratic secret."
Dorian nodded, feeling the tension he had carried with him from Luminus begin to dissolve. Not completely—the memory of the Guardian, the Apex, the fragment would always remain—but here, at this table, with his big brother unraveling his worries with logic and care, he felt… safe.
He finished eating all the food Nairo had prepared, each bite tasting like home, like normality, like the life he had outside of exploration and danger.
As the rays of the three suns—yellow Prime, blue Secundus, copper Tertius—penetrated the skyscraper's crystals, projecting triple shadows and spots of colored light on the floor, the synthetic silk curtains moved with the controlled artificial breeze. It was the feeling of being home: not just a place, but a state of being. A space where he could lower his guard, where his big brother would watch over him, where even Omega could enter low-power mode because, for now, there were no threats to analyze.
Dorian looked at Nairo, who was clearing the plates with fluid movements, and felt a gratitude so deep it almost burned his throat.
He had returned. He had survived. And for now, that was enough.