Chapter 3 Max's fingers drummed a silent rhythm against his thigh, the sound drowned out by the Academy Commander's voice echoing through the auditorium. The weight of hundreds of eyes on him pressed like gravity, each gaze an invisible chain tethering him to the stage where he sat alone. "Service to the Destiny," the Commander intoned, "requires sacrifice, dedication, and relentless hard work." His words, meant to inspire, felt hollow to Max as they bounced off the walls adorned with banners of valor and commitment. Max shifted in his seat, his posture stiff and formal. He was here to be recognized for having achieved the state of Hyper-thought, his mind a vessel that traversed the intricate expanse of calculations with unprecedented speed. Nineteen seconds—he'd held onto that state for nineteen seconds, nearly brushing against the standing record. Hyper-thought was an evolutionary leap discovered two-hundred years ago, though only a handful of people had ever achieved the feat, yet it brought Max no sense of pride, only a heightened sense of isolation. As the Commander's speech drew to a close, the imminent call for Max to stand and be recognized loomed over him like a dark cloud. The applause that would follow, the trophy he would receive, none of it mattered. To them, he was merely a curiosity, the boy who thought too fast, who solved problems that others couldn't even begin to understand. The applause for the Commander’s speech was a distant rumble, like thunder rolling over the horizon. As the Commander beckoned Max to his feet, his legs were leaden, reluctant, as if they too protested this public display. With each step towards the center of the stage, Max could feel the weight of every gaze, heavy with expectation and curiosity. Still, he moved forward, driven by a sense of duty that was both his armor and his curse. "Cadet Maximilian Archer," Commander Verris' voice boomed through the auditorium, "stands before us not just for breaking barriers in hyper-thought, but for harnessing it towards a breakthrough that secures our future." There it was, cradled in the Commander's outstretched hands—a trophy so modest it paled in comparison to the significance of what it represented. It wasn't the fleeting triumph of a record nearly beaten; it was what Max had brought back with him from his 19 seconds in hyper-thought. Max had solved an equation that would increase the efficiency of the hydrogen collectors by 9%; an accomplishment that was a beacon of survival in the cold expanse between stars. Max took the trophy, its plastic surface cool and smooth against his palms. He turned it over, contemplating how such a simple object could signify something that had nearly claimed him. That fateful dive into hyper-thought had been a gambit he hadn't fully understood until he was within it, surrounded by a cosmos that thrummed with infinite possibility. In those nineteen seconds, Max had walked a razor's edge, narrowly focusing on the complexity of the hydrogen collectors, while the rest of hyper-space lurked at the periphery, whispering of eternity. To wander there without purpose was to surrender to an endless labyrinth, with no promise of return. But Max had returned—secured by the slender thread of a single, crucial thought. "Your achievement gives us more than improved technology, Cadet Archer," Commander Verris continued, his words slicing through Max's reverie. "You've given us assurance, the kind that can only be born from the brilliance and bravery of our finest minds." Max's legs felt like they were filled with the weight of neutron stars as he stood, the auditorium swimming before his eyes. The scattered applause from his peers pattered against the backdrop of his own tumultuous thoughts. It was a moment that should have been flush with pride, yet within him churned a sea of disquiet. His gaze flitted to Brock, whose hands thundered together in the front row, standing out with a fervor unmatched by the tepid response of others. It was an exaggerated display, one that resonated with insincerity. As Max watched him, a sense of isolation crept over him, wrapping its cold fingers around his heart. Brock's clapping, so vigorous it seemed almost violent, was not the comfort it pretended to be. Max recalled the first time he caught on to the charade, the day his epiphany had crystallized into bitter certainty. He'd seen too many instances where the physically unimposing cadets—those destined for cerebral roles within the Destiny's ranks—found themselves inexplicably shielded by someone stronger, more capable. A secret cadre assigned to act as guardians to the academy's most vulnerable minds, and Brock was seemingly part of that hidden infrastructure. The realization had stung Max deeply. The friendship he thought he had fostered with Brock was merely another cog in the academy's machine—a safeguard masquerading as camaraderie. Perhaps Brock was recompensed with credits or promises of advancement; either way, it left a sour taste in Max's mouth. He wanted to believe that there was some genuine rapport between them, but the evidence pointed toward an alliance built on duty rather than mutual respect. Brock, the human anomaly amidst a sea of indifference, turned his head sharply and fixed a marine cadet with a steely glare. The message was clear, even without words. The cadet—a mountainous figure who could easily be mistaken for a statue—rose to his feet, clapping mechanically. One by one, other marines followed suit, their claps echoing hollowly through the room. Max could almost see the invisible strings that bound them, each protector tethered to their charge, guardians of genius but not friends. "Say a few words, Cadet," prompted the Commander with a nod. Max couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to, his throat had closed tight. It was Brock who saved him from the swallowing silence. Raising his fist high, the burly cadet's voice boomed across the auditorium, "For Destiny!" It was the spark that ignited the room, a rallying cry that no one dared ignore. Soon, the chant was taken up by every student, a thunderous affirmation that filled the space with fervor. Max stood, mute, amidst the resounding creed, his eyes scanning the faces before him. Hostility lurked behind some eyes, envy in others, and indifference in most. As the chant waned, a heavy realization settled within him. Tonight, the shadows would lengthen, and the bullies would seek to tarnish his triumph. "Yep," he thought, the weight of the plastic trophy grounding him to the moment, "If I don't get beat up tonight, it will be a miracle." 8 years later… Max traced the edge of the metallic table with a finger, his gaze fixed on the holographic projection that hovered above the briefing room's central console. The image flickered, showing the irregular, pocked-marked surface of the asteroid they had brought back—a jagged behemoth against the void. "Nothing," he murmured, echoing Lieutenant Tom's report, his voice tinged with disbelief. "These are scans of our initial survey, how did we miss the tracking device." Tom, the fighter ship's pilot, sat back in his chair, a frown creasing his brow as if the very laws of space had personally slighted him. His fingers danced across the light-screen, bringing up streams of data, sensor readings that stuttered like a silent symphony. "Our scanners are top-tier, Max. If there was something to spot, we would've seen it." Brock leaned forward, arms folded over his chest, muscles tense beneath the fabric of his uniform. Despite the years, his protective instincts hadn't waned; his presence was like a barricade, an unspoken promise of safety amidst uncertainty. Captain Harris's fingers paused mid-flip through the stack of statements, his gaze lifting to fix on Brock with an intensity that seemed to slice through the ambient noise of the briefing room. The air was thick with tension, a palpable current that buzzed and crackled as if charged by the collective focus of all present. "Sergeant Brock," he began, his voice even but carrying a sharp edge, "you said you told Lieutenant Archer about the tracking device when you got back to your ship. Why didn't you tell him immediately?" Brock stood straighter, if that was possible, the lines of his uniform razor-sharp, mirroring the precision in his posture. His jaw set firm, a testament to the discipline and resolve honed over years of service. There was a moment, just a heartbeat, where Max saw the muscles in Brock's neck tense before he responded with unwavering confidence. "The iron core of the asteroid was interfering with my com-link, Sir," Brock replied. His words were delivered with such clarity that they seemed to resonate, leaving no room for doubt or second-guessing. Captain Harris maintained his scrutinizing stare for a beat longer, as if searching Brock's face for any sign of falter or fabrication, but found none. His nod came slowly, deliberately, as if weighing each word before giving them voice. "I think it very likely the iron in the asteroid was also interfering with the tracking beacon, and our initial scans," he mused, his fingers tapping against the sheaf of papers that held their statements. "It's why the signal was bouncing against your ship and interfering with the internal intercom instead of heading out into space to notify the other Colony ship where it was." He paused, allowing the implication of his words to settle over them like a shroud. "I think the reason we found the asteroid out here in the middle of nowhere, and no other Colony ship around, is because their Scouts found the asteroid, tagged it, but the iron core interfered with the beacon, and their asteroid recovery ship couldn't find it again. So, the asteroid just kept going." A hint of relief broke through the stoic facade of Captain Harris's face. "I think we dodged a bullet here. Our engineers are deactivating the tracking device." "So, that's it?" Max asked, his voice tinged with incredulity. It felt almost anticlimactic, this silent dance they had unknowingly performed with an unseen adversary. The weight of what could have been a catastrophe sat heavy in his chest, even as relief tried to rise like a buoyant force through the tension. Captain Harris paced the length of the briefing room, his boots thudding against the metal floor with each step, the rhythm a steady drumbeat against the tension that filled the space. Max watched him, eyes tracking the movement, hands clasped tightly behind his back. The silence was taut, a string pulled to the brink of snapping. "Here's the plan," Harris finally said, stopping mid-pace to face them squarely. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, the lines on his forehead deepening with the weight of command. "We're going to be doing a wag the dog maneuver for the next hundred years or so to make sure we don't have a tail, and we're sending a scout out to look around." Max's mind raced, analyzing the strategy. A wag the dog maneuver—a diversion, an intentional distraction to throw off any potential pursuers. It was clever, it was necessary, but it also meant an intricate dance through the stars, one false step away from disaster. "Travis and Cassin is the only scout team not in cryo," Max noted, the names coming easily to his lips. They were colleagues, capable and reliable; their presence in this equation a small comfort in the grand scope of uncertainties. Captain Harris reached into his pocket and retrieved the Master Key for a ship. He tossed the key to Max without hesitation. "Travis' mother is sick and went into cryo pending us getting someone trained in the specialty she needs. So, to keep her and Travis in timeline synch, he went into cryo with her last week. Cassin went into cryo with them as well." The ship's Master Key landed with a solid weight in Max's palm, its cool surface belying the heat of opportunity that surged through him. "Congratulations, Lieutenant, you got the Scout ship you wanted. You leave tomorrow. There's a team out explaining to your families, and offering them cryo so all of you will stay in timeline synch." Max's fingers closed around the key, his grip a physical anchor as his mind raced ahead to the stars, to the unknown. His thumb traced the insignia etched onto the key's surface, a tactile confirmation of his new command. "How long will we be in cryo?" The question slipped from between his lips, not just a query about the mission's duration, but a whisper of deeper ponderings about the time he would lose, the life he would leave behind, and the silence of space that awaited him. Captain Harris met his gaze, a sobering clarity shining in the older man's eyes. "For however long Destiny needs you, Lieutenant," he rebuked Max for even asking. Max's fingers lingered on the cool metal of the Master Key, its presence a solid reminder of the future that loomed large and mysterious. The weight of it seemed to grow with every passing second, a symbol of the responsibility now resting on his shoulders. "About 600 years," Captain Harris conceded, his voice softening. It was only natural that Max would be curious how long they would be in cryo aboard the scout ship. “You may go say goodbye to your families, but be back by 0800 tomorrow. Beside him, Brock shifted, a subtle movement that drew Max's attention. There was a tension in Brock's posture, a hesitancy that was uncharacteristic of the burly sergeant known for his unwavering confidence. “Sergeant, is there a problem?” asked Max. "My parents won't go into cryo," Brock's voice cut through the air, each word heavy with a mixture of resolve and regret. Max turned to look at his friend, seeing the lines of strain around his eyes that hadn't been there before. "I was an accident," Brock continued, the corners of his mouth twitching in a bitter half-smile. "My parents had me late in life, they're too old now to start over in 600 years." The room felt suddenly still, the hum of the ship's systems fading into silence as the implications of Brock's words hung between them. Max saw something new in Brock's expression, a vulnerability that was rarely allowed to surface. "May I be dismissed, sir?" Brock's request was formal, but his voice held an undercurrent of urgency. "I'd like to spend as much time with them as possible before we leave." "Granted, Sergeant," Harris replied, the softening of his features acknowledging the gravity of the moment. Brock gave a curt nod, his usual bravado tempered by the solemnity of the situation. He turned sharply on his heel and strode towards the door, his back a rigid line that spoke volumes of the inner turmoil he was wrestling with. Max watched his friend exit. Brock, the indefatigable protector, the one who always had his back, was facing a final goodbye to his parents. A pang of empathy surged through Max, a thread of connection binding him to Brock in their shared journey toward sacrifice. "We can swap him out with someone else," offered Captain Harris, the words spoken with a commander's authority but softened by an undercurrent of empathy. Brock's eyes met Harris’ squarely, his jaw set in a familiar resolve. "No, Sir. Brock wouldn’t want that, and neither would his parents. His father was a Master Gunnery Sergeant and so proud when Brock was selected for the marines, they would see it as an insult to remove him from the mission." "Understood," Harris finally acknowledged, giving a respectful nod that conveyed more than orders could ever dictate. Brock's loyalty wasn't just to duty; it was to family, to the people who had shaped him. “Will there be any objections with your family, Lieutenant," Harris asked. "No, Sir. My parents are still fairly young," Max said, his tone even but carrying an undercurrent of resolve. "I already know they'll agree to Cryo." “Your parents live nearby, go sign a vehicle out of the motor pool to use until tomorrow. I’ll see you for mission brief at 0800.” Max stood, and saluted. “Thank you, Sir.” The motor pool was dimly lit, resonating with the hum of machinery at rest. The keys to the rover jingled lightly as Max clipped them to his belt, signing off on the vehicle requisition form with brisk strokes. Nodding to the attendant, he walked out to find his assigned rover—a sturdy model with dust on its panels and a history of reliable service. Slipping into the driver's seat, he fired up the engine, the familiar purr of its motor grounding him in the reality of what was to come. Max navigated through the compound, the buildings gradually giving way to the open terrain that stretched between the academy and his family home. The road was mostly empty, save for a few automated supply trucks making their routine rounds. He watched the landscape roll by, the horizon painted in hues of the dawn—a gradient of endings and beginnings. Arriving home, he found the cabin as it always had been, an island of peaceful domesticity in what always seemed the chaos of his life. The moment he stepped inside, the scent of roasting vegetables and simmering broth enveloped him, a sensory tether to countless evenings of familial ritual. His mother was a whirlwind of activity, her hands moving deftly as she shuffled between tasks with practiced ease. She flitted from countertop to stove, then to the open fridge where she assessed its contents with a critical eye before beginning to clear its shelves. Her voice floated through the cabin as she spoke into her com-link, offering perishables to neighbors with cheerful insistence. "Mom, you don't have to clean anything," Max interjected gently, his words slicing through the bustle. She paused, turning to face him with a smile that faltered at the edges—an echo of the undercurrent of anxiety they both felt. He stepped closer, reaching out to still her hands with his own. "The whole cabin will be lowered into the vault. You'll take a pill to make you go to sleep in your own bed, then the medical team will transfer you to the cabin's cryo pods, and when you wake... I'll be standing right here to say good morning." Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, a mother's love warring with the pride of a soldier's parent. She nodded, yielding to the reassurance in his steady gaze. Max wrapped his arms around her, holding onto the moment—their shared strength a testament to the resolve that ran through their lineage. "Let's just enjoy dinner," he whispered, the promise of his presence upon their awakening a comfort that would need to sustain them across the chasm of time that loomed ahead. After the emotional exchange, Max focused on being present for his parents. The hours slipped by as he assisted his mother with simple tasks around the house, tasks that seemed to carry more weight under the circumstances. They worked in a companionable silence, punctuated only by the occasional clink of dishes or rustle of packaging. His father had retreated outside, perhaps seeking solace in the open space that surrounded their home. As the sun lamps began their turn away from the lower hemisphere, casting an amber glow of dusk through the windows, Max found his father at the river's edge, fishing rod in hand, gazing out over the rippling water. Joining him wordlessly, Max accepted the spare rod his father extended toward him. Together they cast their lines into the water, the familiar motion a soothing ritual amidst the uncertainty of the future. "Remember when you were ten," his father said, breaking the silence, "and you caught that trout bigger than your arm?" Max chuckled. "How could I forget? You took photos and sent them to everyone we knew." "Thought you'd be a fisherman for a while, not chasing stars." His father's voice was tinged with nostalgia and pride. "Guess I'm just catching different kinds of fish now," Max replied, sharing a knowing look. Dusk settled upon them, and the river's surface shimmered under the caress of twilight. They didn't speak much; words were unnecessary. This was their way—simple moments together, each one precious and fleeting. Eventually, they reeled in their lines and headed back to the cabin, where his mother had laid out a feast. The evening progressed gently, filled with laughter and stories. When the time came, Max poured wine for his parents, his fingers brushing against the small vial in his pocket—their bridge to a distant tomorrow. He was going to give them a sleeping powder, sparing them the anxiety of taking the standard pill and waiting for sleep to come. As they raised their glasses in a toast, Max met their eyes, silently conveying everything that needed to be said. They sipped from their cups, and soon, the warmth of the room and the day's emotions drew heavy eyelids down. Max watched tenderly as his parents succumbed to sleep, their heads tilting softly against the backs of their chairs. It was then that he reached for his com-link, his thumb hovering over the call button before pressing it decisively. "Medical team, this is Lieutenant Max Archer," he spoke quietly into the device. "It's time." The team arrived with efficiency, moving with practiced care as they prepared to transition his parents into cryo sleep. Max observed every step, ensuring their gentle handling matched his expectations. He couldn't help but hover, directing a pillow adjustment here, a blanket placement there. As the medical staff secured the last of the cryo pod's clasps, Max's gaze lingered on his parents' peaceful faces. There was no room for error—not with this. "I don't want them woken until I'm here," he said firmly, meeting the lead medic's eyes. His voice held the command of a lieutenant and the protective insistence of a son. "And I want them placed back in their chairs exactly as they fell asleep." "Understood, Lieutenant," the medic responded, nodding with the gravity of the promise they were entrusted with. The medic held out several documents to Max. He signed them quickly, and handed them back. He was giving his parents his allocation for a child. If anything happened to him, they were still in their thirties and young enough to have another child, and a new life. Max watched as the cryo pods, holding the two most important people in his life, were wheeled away. He allowed himself one deep breath—a momentary surrender to the weight of his decision—before steeling himself once more. "See you in the morning," he whispered, though they could no longer hear him. With that, he turned and walked out of the cabin that had been his world. The chilled night air nipped at Max's skin as the crunch of gravel underfoot cut through the silence of the night. Above, stars twinkled with a cold indifference to the gravity of his departure. He paused for a moment, letting the stillness settle around him like a familiar blanket. "Everything's secure, Lieutenant," the medical officer announced from behind, voice soft but carrying. "I'll make sure the instructions are in the log. You're not the first pilot to do it this way for family." Max offered a curt nod, his eyes fixed on the medical officer's crisp uniform that seemed to absorb the moonlight—another reminder of the life he was about to reenter, one ruled by precision and protocol. Glancing back, he saw the silhouette of the cabin now just a shell—a temporary tomb for the living. It would be lowered into the cryo vault, an airtight embrace preserving this fragment of his past, while outside, life would march on relentlessly. He stopped and looked up at his old treehouse, perched high among the branches that swayed gently in the breeze. Memories flooded back—of sun-drenched afternoons spent hammering nails and hoisting weathered planks, of laughter and scraped knees, of dreams whispered into the leaves. The treehouse stood as a testament to a youth untouched by the complexities of his present world. Max's gaze lingered, tracing the rough contours of the wood, the faded rope ladder swinging ever so slightly. A pang of bittersweet nostalgia gripped him. By the time he returned, nature would have reclaimed this handcrafted perch of his childhood imaginings. It would be swallowed by time, just as the faces of those he held dear would blur in the expanse of his absence. With a deep inhale of the crisp air, Max filled his lungs with the essence of home, imprinting this moment, this feeling, into the tapestry of his mind. Then, with a final, lingering look, he turned away, his figure retreating into the pre-dawn shadows, moving toward a destiny that awaited beyond the sky's canvas of fading stars. The hanger bay was awash with the electric hum of activity as Max stepped into the vast chamber, his boots echoing on the metal grating. Shadows moved rhythmically across the hull of his new ship, cast by mechanics engrossed in their meticulous work. The scent of grease and coolant filled the air, a vivid reminder of the industry at hand. He approached the scout ship, its metallic skin gleaming under the high-intensity work lights—a sleeping beast awaiting the call to journey through the stars. Max ran his hand along its side, feeling the cold smoothness beneath his fingers, a silent promise of adventures yet unfurling. "Morning, Lieutenant," greeted a voice, snapping Max from his reverie. It was the senior mechanic, clipboard in hand, eyes squinting up from a list of tasks still to be ticked off. "Morning," Max replied, tucking away the last remnants of his previous emotions like a well-worn map into the pocket of his mind. "What can I do?" The senior mechanic chuckled, a knowing look in his eye as he gestured toward the ship. "Figured you'd want to be hands-on, even now. You should be getting some rest, but I guess you'll be sleeping soon enough," he said with a nod towards the cryo chambers that awaited him and Brock. "Get up in the cockpit and we'll start going through system checks." Max climbed the access ladder, each rung a step closer to the reality of his command. Inside the cockpit, he eased into the pilot's seat, the familiar contours of the chair hugging his form like an old friend. His hands danced over the console, waking the ship's systems with practiced ease. As the displays flickered to life, revealing rows of green indicators, Max felt a swell of pride. Among the readouts, the improved hydrogen catchers—his own innovation—promised efficiency and safety. "Let's begin," Max said, his voice steady, commanding, as he initiated the first sequence. He may have left behind his treehouse, his family, his past, but here, in the heart of this ship, he was ready to navigate the uncharted expanse, for Destiny. The first hints of dawn streaked across the sky as Brock's silhouette appeared in the hangar, his frame less imposing than usual, his steps hesitant. He stopped below the cockpit where Max was still ensconced within, lost in a world of diagnostics. "Hey," Brock's voice barely carried over the hum of machinery, but Max heard it. "Hey yourself," Max replied, noting the subtle shadows under Brock's eyes, the way his smile didn't quite reach them. Brock leaned against the ladder, his gaze flickering to the side. "Parents are proud," he murmured, "but, you know..." His words trailed off, leaving the weight of unspoken goodbyes hanging between them. Max descended, placing a hand on Brock's shoulder. "My mom says you’re to start coming to our house for holidays and stuff from now on." Brock nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you.” Time slipped by quietly, filled with the sounds of a waking fleet and the soft chatter of pilots and mechanics prepping for the day. As 0800 approached, the hangar swelled with uniforms—a sea of blues and grays under the harsh white lights. Captain Harris entered, the clink of his medals audible even amidst the murmur of the crowd. His arrival hushed the assembled officers, all attention fixed on the man who embodied the spirit of the Destiny. "Officers, today marks a momentous occasion." Captain Harris' voice resonated, clear and authoritative. "Lieutenant Max, please step forward." Max moved, almost mechanically, the nerves he had harbored since childhood coiling in his stomach. The faces around him blurred into an indistinct mass as he stood beside Harris, who held out a small box containing the insignia of command. "Your ship awaits, Captain," Harris intoned, pinning the insignia onto Max's uniform. Applause erupted around them, but it was distant, overshadowed by the sudden expectation that fell upon Max. "Say a few words, Captain," Harris encouraged, stepping back to give Max the floor. His throat constricted, Max's mind raced back to the auditorium years ago, to the jeers and the loneliness. But then, cutting through the fog of memory, he saw Brock. His arm shot up, fist clenched, his voice booming, "For Destiny!" The mantra—a lifeline thrown across the tumult of doubt—galvanized everyone in the hangar. "For Destiny!" echoed back, a chorus of solidarity. Max met Brock's steady gaze, understanding dawning like the morning light. Brock's presence, once a source of uncertainty, had become his anchor. This was no facade, no charade of protection. It was genuine, unwavering support, forged through trials and time. "Thank you," Max said, his voice finding strength. "We stand on the cusp of the unknown, ready to extend the reach of humanity. For Destiny, for each other, for the future we will discover together. Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant Brock, for standing with me when I couldn't stand alone. For Destiny!" Brock looked confused for a moment, he was a Sergeant, not a Gunnery Sergeant. A Gunnery Sergeant was the next rank up. Max motioned for someone to come up front. Brock turned around and saw his parents stepping around the two large marines they’d been hiding behind. “Mom, Dad?” Brock’s confusion deepened. “Max, what’s going on?” “We waited until you were on the public shuttle back to the base, then had an academy shuttle pick up your parents so they would get here first.” Captain Harris grinned, enjoying the moment. “I was still little, long before I attended the academy. Brock, your father was my father’s Crew Chief. Uncle Karl spent most holidays at our home when they weren’t out chasing asteroids.” Brock looked to his father. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” “Wouldn’t have been appropriate, son. You had to earn your way on your own, and you did. We made sure you never got any special favors,” replied the elderly Master Gunnery Sergeant. Max opened his hand and held out a set of rank insignia to Brock’s parents. Captain Harris lifted his voice and announced: “Attention to orders. The Captain of the Destiny, acting upon the recommendation of the Fleet Commander, has placed special trust and confidence in the abilities of Sergeant Nathan Brock. In view of these special qualities, Sergeant Brock is promoted to the rank of Gunnery Sergeant, effective this day.” Brock’s parents, each standing to one side of their son, pinned the new rank on him with pride that radiated from them like the sun. Someone rolled out a table with a congratulatory cake on it for both Max and Brock. The next hour was filled with the warmth of family and comradery. As it came time for the launch, Brock placed a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Thank you for this, it meant the world to my parents.” Max shrugged. “It’s what friends do.” Brock raised a brow. “You didn’t always think I was your friend.” “I was trying to solve the question of friendship with equations and numbers,” replied Max. “I really thought there was some secret society of protectors paid to watch out for us weaklings.” “You were never weak,” said Brock. “You just didn’t know how strong you really were, but I’m surprised you figured out about the Secret Society of Protectors.” Max paused in his tracks. “Wait…What? There really is a secret society?” Brock grinned and ran up the ramp into the ship. “Hey, are you pulling my leg?” said Max, chasing his friend into the scout ship.