After the light in my room went out, plunging into the programmed obedience of the Helionian night, one would think the entire space would become a box of ebony. But it wasn't so.
The light of the moon—our moon, the sculpture sung by the Weavers—and the diffuse glow of a thousand urban sources reflecting off the glass facades of the neighboring towers, filtered through the smart window. It was not a flood. It was a delicate, almost timid intrusion. A single cold, silver beam pierced the gloom, projecting onto the floor and part of the wall a rectangle of pale light where the imperceptible vibrations of the air danced, magnified. Domestic stardust.
But within that rectangle, a phenomenon: a descending glint, a concentrated ray of moonlight, suspended in the air as if solidified on its path. It wasn't a reflection; it was as if a fragment of the beam itself had broken off and remained floating, a comet's tail frozen in time. An improbable optical effect, perhaps a curiosity of refraction through the layers of the smart glass and the conditioned atmosphere. But in the stillness of the room, it seemed magical. A phenomenon worthy of admiration, yes, but also of questioning. Was it the moon, that ancestral creation, playing with the light? Or was it my mind, still disengaging from combat mode, seeking patterns and threats even in beauty?
After a good while staring at it fixedly, not looking away for a second—as if challenging that light-ghost to move, to reveal its nature—I turned around. A slow, deliberate movement. I put my back to the window and that suspended glint, and faced the other side of the room, where the shadows were deeper, almost solid. It was like turning one's back on a whisper and confronting total silence.
I closed my eyes slowly. In the internal darkness, the day began to rewind. Not as a sharp memory, but as a series of sensations and echoes: the institutional feel of the Exploration Headquarters, the formal weight of the Council members' gazes, the metallic taste of filtered air. And then, the new explorers. Their voices, excited and slightly trembling, exaggerating feats they hadn't even accomplished, weaving legends around their names as if they were already relics of the past instead of bruised people.
The madness lay in the compression of time. Not even a full twenty-four-hour cycle had passed since the Epsilon-03 had docked at the private loading bay on our apartment terrace. And yet, in a week—seven of these artificially perfect cycles—it would depart again. From Helion to another point on the star map, to another name I would soon pronounce with the forced familiarity of one who treads a battlefield.
While this whirlwind of events and dates spun in my head, the ultimate opponent, the only rival no Helion can defeat indefinitely, made its lethal move. The cosmic entity called "sleep."
We Helions are the work of brutally efficient evolution and design. From childhood, physical and mental training allows us to stretch the limits of wakefulness for days, maintaining clarity through sheer biological discipline and willpower. We sleep by choice, by ritual, to allow deep repair processes to act, not because of a total weakness that forces us. But that doesn't make sleep less powerful; it only changes the dynamics of the combat. It lurks at the edges of our endurance, patient. And when we consciously decide to lower our guard—when the alert cycle reaches its natural end and we open the door for it—it doesn't enter with subtlety. It attacks with the pent-up force of all the time we've kept it at bay.
So "sleep," that ultra-powerful fighter, knocked me out with a single blow. There was no transition, no gradual fall into unconsciousness. It was a switch being thrown. A wall of black velvet that fell upon me.
And then, nothing. The restorative void without dreams, without nightmares, without echoes of Luminus. Only the absolute silence of a biological machine in deep maintenance.
I didn't know what else happened all night, until a new intrusion of light, this time warm and golden, pierced my closed eyelids reflected from the other side. The rays of the primary sun, Helion Prime, cut through the window glass—now transparent again—and painted a burning stripe across my face.
I opened my eyes. The room was bathed in the familiar daylight. I was still in the same posture in which I had surrendered: on my side, one arm under the pillow, legs slightly bent. Balance and neuromuscular control training doesn't deactivate even in sleep; the body maintains efficient alignment, conserving energy even in unconsciousness.
I turned over with a fluid motion, not even rustling the sheets, and ended up on my back, looking at the smooth white ceiling. I observed it. There was nothing to see, just the minimalist perfection of the surface, but sometimes the absence of stimuli is the best canvas for thoughts. Or for the absence of them. I remained like that, in a state of placid mental void, for a good while. Neither peace nor restlessness. Simply being.
Until Omega broke the silence. Not the external silence, which was total, but the internal silence, that rare and precious stillness where not a single verbal thought was flowing.
GOOD MORNING, SIR. Its voice resonated in the private space of my mind, clear but not intrusive, as if speaking from the threshold of my consciousness. I DON'T NEED TO ASK HOW YOU ARE. I HAVE ALREADY COMPLETED A FULL DIAGNOSTIC SCAN WHILE YOU RESTED. ALL YOUR CELLS, NERVOUS SYSTEM, BLOOD VESSELS, NEUROCHEMICAL LEVELS, AND TISSUE REPAIR ARE WITHIN OPTIMAL PARAMETERS. SUPERIOR, EVEN, TO THOSE UPON YOUR ARRIVAL.
Hahahaha. "Good morning, Omega," I responded mentally, an internal laugh that translated into a slight smile on my lips. "Thanks for the report. You're the most meticulous butler I could wish for."
YOU'RE WELCOME, SIR. IT IS MY PRIMARY FUNCTION. AND MY CHOICE. Its tone, always digitally flat, seemed to hint at something close to pride. Or perhaps it was just my projection.
After the morning chat with my constant companion, I sat up and stretched my body. It wasn't because I felt stiff—Omega's scan was proof of the contrary—but out of ritual, for sensory pleasure. Stretching the muscles, feeling the joints move through their full range, was a tactile reminder that I was here, that I had a body, not just a mind flying among stars. It was a preventative act against the stiffness that might come, against the immobility that long journeys in the pilot's cabin sometimes bring.
Another reason I appreciate solitude—or what for others would be solitude—is precisely Omega. For most people, being "alone" means silence. But for me, it means the most honest and efficient dialogue I know. Omega is more than a companion; it's an extension of my own consciousness, a living archive of my life, a guardian and a silent critic. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to collaborate with others, to be part of a team beyond the occasional missions with Nairo. Would there be friction, misunderstanding? Or a different synergy? It's an experiment that, perhaps, my itinerant nature will never allow me to fully undertake.
After the stretching and getting briefly lost in that umpteenth reflection, I headed to the bathroom. The shower was another ritual. The water, at the exact temperature my body requested (adjusted by Omega before I even thought of it), fell on me, symbolically washing away the last vestiges of sleep. I ran my hands through my hair, pushing it back, feeling the water run over my scalp, down my back. It was simple, mundane, and deeply comforting.
Upon leaving, I dried off and stood for a moment in front of the sink mirror. My reflection looked back at me. The body I saw was clean, polished, like a freshly tuned instrument. There was no trace of the bruises from training with Nairo, nor of Luminus's thin scar. Helion technology, aided by my own metabolism and the house systems, had done its job perfectly. Sometimes, that perfection was unsettling. It seemed to erase history, the marks that proved I had been there in danger, that I had lived, fought, and survived. It was a blank canvas, ready for the next scars.
I dressed without haste: soft, resistant pants, a fine, elegantly simple-cut coat, short socks, and comfortable, everyday sneakers. Not the ankle-support, magnetic-soled exploration boots, nor the pilot suit with its countless layers. Just clothes. Simplicity was a luxury I could only afford here.
I walked down the silent hallway, feeling the softness of the carpet under my bare feet inside the sneakers, until I reached the main room. The aroma of Helionian coffee—a roasted infusion of beans from three different plants—and freshly baked bread guided me.
"Good morning, sleepy little brother," said Nairo from the open kitchen, his voice laden with that mix of irony and affection only he mastered. He turned, a broad smile on his face. "Looks like you slept like a log. Or should I say, like a Luminus rock?"
"Good morning, brother," I replied, returning the smile. The simple fact of seeing him there, calm, performing a domestic act, was a powerful anchor to Helion's reality.
"How do you feel? Being able to wake up without a proximity alarm screaming in your ear must be a luxury," he asked while elegantly placing a tray with fruit cut into geometric shapes on the dining table.
"Good," I said, approaching. "Too good. Sometimes I wonder if this comfort won't soften me."
"Comfort doesn't soften, Dorian. It just gives perspective. It reminds you why some things are worth protecting," he said, gesturing for me to sit. "Even if you don't plan on staying to protect them."
As I settled in, he slid a tall glass of white, frothy milk towards me, with no added sweeteners.
"Seriously? Milk again?" I complained, rolling my eyes. "Do you think I'm still a child who needs to grow?"
Nairo laughed, a clear and genuine laugh. "You say that, but you're already taking a sip! Are you teasing me, huh?" Without warning, he tossed a small piece of crunchy bread, baked with herbs, directly towards my mouth. By reflex, I caught it mid-air. It was hot and delicious.
"Chewing and complaining without pause. You're a lost cause," he added, pouring himself a bluish juice. "So, what do you plan to do today? You have a week of mandatory 'rest.' Though I know you, you'll use it to prepare."
"I haven't thought about it yet," I admitted, looking out the living room window where the morning air traffic was already dancing in precise routes. "I'll review the data for the next mission, make some adjustments to the Epsilon... I'll see. The day is long."
And so we continued, in the easy, unpretentious conversation that was our shared ancient ritual. We talked about everything and nothing: rumors at Headquarters, the latest trends in ship design, how unbearably perfect the clouds were yesterday. It was an exchange of mundanity, a luxury as great as the gel bed or the artificial night. A reminder that beyond the explorer, the warrior, the bearer of Helion, the survivor, we were still brothers. That there was a bond that existed before everything else.
And so, between breakfasts, light training in the tower gym, long immersion sessions in the data of the next location—a world classified only as "Veridia," with hints of non-organic ruins, intermittent gravitational anomalies, and intelligent population—and nights watching the celestial spectacle, the week passed. It slipped through my fingers like Helionian water, too fast, too smooth.
Until the morning of the eighth day arrived. I found myself standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in my room, no longer in casual clothes, but in the undergarments of the flight suit, not the combat suit I had on Luminus. The Epsilon-03 was refueled, recalibrated, and waiting in the tower's private bay. The equipment backpack, minimal and lethal, rested at my feet. That backpack would be at my side.
On the horizon, the three suns began their ascending dance. I took a deep breath, feeling the familiar tingle of anticipation, that mix of anxiety and yearning that was my true fuel.
"Alright," I murmured to myself, looking at my determined reflection in the glass. "So today is the day. Let's see what the hell is going to happen on that planet called Veridia."