Chapter 10 Destiny Colony Ship Two months before Graduation The sterile fluorescent lights of the dormitory cast long shadows over desks strewn with open textbooks and scattered notes. Brock's eyes flitted across the pages of advanced mathematics, his fingers tracing the diagrams as his mind worked to imprint every detail into memory. Around him, a symphony of hushed voices and rustling papers provided an oddly comforting reminder that he was not in this crucible alone. "Two months," Brock muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper, "just two more months." He flipped a page, glancing at the countdown he'd scribbled in the corner. In three days, the finals would commence—an exhaustive test of five years' worth of knowledge and training. He paused, rubbing his temples, feeling the weight of impending challenges. Not just the academic gauntlet that lay ahead but the hands-on exams that would push them to their limits. No extra duties now; every waking moment was dedicated to study, every cadet singularly focused, as if the silence itself were a cloak of concentration they had collectively donned. Only the seniors were on campus, the younger cadets had been whisked away for a year end camping trip. His gaze shifted to the empty space next to him, where Max, his steadfast friend and organizer-in-chief, would normally be. Brock owed much of his orderliness to Max, whose meticulous nature kept both of them on track. But even Max had been compelled to escape the constant barrage of inquiries from fellow seniors seeking his guidance. Brock couldn't blame him for seeking refuge in the library's quietest corner. Max's dedication was something to admire, his discipline unwavering even when the stakes were higher than ever. It wasn't just about passing anymore—it was about excelling, about securing their future assignments. The thought spurred Brock back into action, and he resumed his studies with renewed vigor. In the solitude of his focus, Brock allowed himself a momentary daydream of the years ahead. After the pomp of graduation, he'd dive into the demanding world of Marine Special Operations training while Max attended advanced Flight Training. The image of Max, calm and collected behind the controls of a scout ship brought a fleeting smile to Brock's face. "Stay sharp, Brock," he whispered to himself, his finger finding its way back to the complex equation that had troubled him earlier. The particularly troubling calculus equation would need some extra attention. All the teachers were on stand-by in their classrooms to help students needing help. He checked the schedule on his computer, the calculus teacher was available in two hours. Brock put himself in a 15 minute block and set his alarm to give himself enough time to make it to the classroom. The relentless march of days melded into one another, each indistinguishable from the last, a maelstrom of study sessions and mock exams. Brock's world had narrowed to the confines of his textbooks and the incessant ticking of the clock, counting down to finals. But time, unyielding and cruel, hastened forward, bringing with it the grueling reality of the start of finals. The night before exams would begin, the academy's exam auditorium, usually a place for ceremonious gatherings, had transformed into a makeshift dormitory. Desks were pushed aside in favor of sleeping bags and alarm clocks set to an orchestra of different chimes and buzzes. Cadets, too fearful of losing precious minutes of rest at their own bunks, opted to slumber amidst the very tables they would test upon come dawn. On the third day of testing, as the sun cast its first tentative rays through the high windows, two cadets failed to appear. Whispers turned to gasps as stern-faced administrators strode down the aisles, their footsteps a somber drumbeat against the silence. The two cadets had slept in the dormitory and missed the required time to be at their desks. Cadets rushed to the doors of the auditorium to watch in shocked horror. The unlucky pair was promptly ushered out, their dreams of a commission dashed in an instant. Brock watched the retreating figures with a leaden heart—the finality of their expulsion a grim reminder of what was at stake. It was later that same week when another incident shook the school. Midway through a particularly vicious engineering exam, a cadet's composure shattered like glass under a boot heel. His cry pierced the concentrated hush—a raw, guttural sound that seemed to claw its way up from the depths of his being before he bolted, leaving a wake of disquiet behind him. It was this tension, palpable as the electric charge before a storm that sparked the impromptu game of push-ball in the quad that evening. There was no organization, no teams—just a collective need to expel the anxiety that had wormed its way into every muscle and sinew. Brock found himself amidst the fray, throwing himself into the chaos with reckless abandon. They played until the sky bruised purple with twilight, until laughter punctuated each collision and grunt of exertion. It was during an overzealous attempt to gain possession of the ball that Brock felt the sharp sting in his left hand, immediately knowing something had gone wrong. "Broken," he muttered, cradling his finger, feeling the telltale throb that confirmed his suspicion. But when the sun lamps rotated to dawn once again, there he sat, his injured hand wrapped haphazardly in gauze, ready to face the next trial. Around him, other cadets bore similar marks of the previous night's abandon—a mosaic of splints and bandages. The ritual continued, unabated by physical pain or mental fatigue. Each cadet, including Brock, understood an unspoken truth: injuries could heal, but the opportunity before them was fleeting—a chance that would not come again. At last the final exam ended, the final pencil set aside. The stillness of the auditorium was broken only by the screech of chairs against the floor. Brock stood, stretching his legs and back, muscles aching from long hours hunched over the exams. With meticulous care born of ingrained discipline, he stacked his textbooks, ready to return them. The finality of this act wasn't lost on him; it signified the end of an era. He joined the others in the march down the hallways, their arms laden with the weight of knowledge now committed to memory—or so they hoped. The books turned in, their attention turned to preparing the dormitory for a new class that would arrive next fall. They scrubbed every inch of the dormitory, erasing the evidence of years spent in academic warfare. Their movements were mechanical, but their eyes betrayed the anxiety that simmered below the surface. Not a word about scores was spoken, yet it was all anyone thought about. Four days dragged on, each minute an insufferable companion. Until finally, the moment arrived. A collective breath held as a list was posted on the noticeboard with the force of a verdict. Brock pushed forward, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm against his ribcage. "First..." He read his name atop the column for Marine Cadets, then scanned quickly to find Max's name leading the Fleet Cadets. His grin spread uncontrollably, pride swelling within him like a tide. Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone and dialed, the rings echoing his rapid pulse. "Mom, Dad... I did it. First in my class. Max too." His voice was a mix of elation and relief, a stark contrast to the tense cadet from days before. "Yeah, yeah, we're getting that scout ship, I promise." Graduation day dawned crisp and clear, the sky a brilliant blue that seemed to herald new beginnings. Brock, in his freshly pressed uniform, watched as Max stood straight, the sun glinting off the Lieutenant bars now adorning his shoulders—pinned by the strong, steady hands of Brock's father, a retired Master Gunnery Sergeant and personal guest of the Commandant to assist in the ceremony. The pride in his parents' eyes mirrored the emotion in his own chest—a cocktail of respect, joy, and anticipation. Then it was Brock's turn. He stepped forward, meeting his father's gaze. There was a gravity in the exchange, a silent understanding of the mantle being passed. As his father affixed the Sergeant insignia onto his uniform, Brock felt the weight of responsibility settle upon his shoulders. But it was the next moment that would be etched into his memory forever. The Commandant presented a shiny emblem, the symbol of a Marine's honor and duty. Yet, it was the worn emblem from his father's pocket that found its way to Brock's chest—an anchor with an eagle perched atop the globe of ancient Earth—it was the Marine emblem worn by his father, and his father before him, and his father before him, and beyond for countless generations . It was a testament to the legacy and sacrifice that coursed through Brock’s veins. As applause erupted around him, Brock's chest swelled, not just with the emblem pinned to it, but with the realization that he had crossed an invisible threshold. The future loomed large and uncertain, but for now, he stood in the sun, basking in the glory of accomplishment and the promise of adventures yet to come. The Aurora Colony Ship Shutter Territory Brock’s shadow melded with the alley's darkness, a silent observer of the Shutter territory's nocturnal rhythms. His inquiries about a Fleeter had earned him nothing but skittish glances and swift retreats, sealing the locals' lips with dread. The ease in which he moved through the Shutter’s territory should have raised his suspicion, yet it was the ostentatious figure Lord Shutter himself who found him that truly caught him off guard. Striding with an air of misplaced majesty, Lord Shutter emerged from the murk, his cloak a riotous tapestry of hues stitched together without rhyme or reason. Atop his head sat a crown so preposterous it could only be the product of folly—a shuttle thruster repurposed into a royal mockery. The man beneath this garish ensemble carried himself with the confidence of someone who had embraced their own absurdity. The man looked like a human rocket prepared for an inverted launch. The Lord’s hulking escorts moved in sync, their presence a clear statement of brute force. The larger of the two bodyguards, muscles bulging as if to test the limits of his skin, stepped ahead of his master and fixed his gaze on Brock. “Put your arms out to your sides,” he commanded, voice brooking no argument, crude sword gleaming dully by his side. Brock assessed the man before him, noting the stance of a seasoned fighter despite the rudimentary weapon. The order hung in the air, a challenge poised between them, the tension coiling tighter with each silent second. His voice steady as the ground beneath him, Brock met the man's demand with a calm defiance. "That's not going to happen," he replied, his stance unwavering. The guard's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Brock with a newfound intensity. He seemed to size him up in a way that went beyond the physical, seeking an essence that lay beneath the surface. After a moment of silent appraisal, a grudging respect flickered across the man's stony features. "It's clear despite those filthy rags you where that you are a son of Ares, but so am I," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of a challenge, "and you are not displaying your weapons as required by our code of honor." As the words hung between them, charged and heavy, Brock remained motionless, his resolve etched into the set of his jaw. His mind was a fortress, thoughts strategically placed like sentinels along its walls, prepared for the battle of wills that had just begun. A shaft of moonlight glinted off the second man's blade as he stepped out of the shadow cast by his companion. His gaze, sharp and inquisitive, sliced through the air to Brock. "Jon," he interjected, his voice a low rumble, "I see a gray uniform beneath those rags. He might be a POG Priest—they aren't required to show their weapons." The first man, Jon, paused mid-threat, his posture easing ever so slightly. Curiosity supplanted the aggression in his eyes. "Are you a POG?" he asked, tilting his head to get a better look at the subtle shift in Brock's attire. Brock remained still, feeling the weight of the term hang between them. It was an old word, heavy with history, and its use here felt like an anachronism, a relic from a forgotten time. The way it rolled off the tongue of these men spoke volumes of their lineage, their past, and perhaps their reverence for ancient codes. His fingers twitched involuntarily near the concealed fabric of his disguise, knowing that the slightest move could reignite the tension. Brock's mind raced, calculating the risk of revealing too much against the potential gain of trust—or at least, a momentary ceasefire. His gaze flickered to the second man, seeking any telltale sign of recognition or deceit. With the stillness of the artificial moon lamps above them casting a pale light, Brock's hand moved with deliberate calm to the frayed edge of his concealment. His fingers grasped the fabric—a subtle cue of acquiescence or perhaps a gambit—and tugged it aside just enough to bare the dull glint of metallic insignia against his collar. The captain's bars lay subdued beneath the rags, an unspoken language of rank and history. Jon's burly frame tensed as he registered the revelation, the crude sword at his side suddenly feeling inadequate. He took a measured step back, his eyes darting from the bars on Brock's neck to the eccentric silhouette of Lord Shutter. "You don't pay me enough to fight a POG High Priest," he declared, his voice betraying a hint of relief mingled with newfound respect. Brock noted the shift in the air, the change in the guards' demeanor with an inward sigh of cautious victory. The bars had spoken louder than any challenge he could have voiced, a testament to his status and a bridge across the chasm of time and tradition that separated them. The man also knew the term POG, but suspected he didn’t know the true context of the word or where it came from. It was another devolution of the language in this dystopian world. POG meant Personnel not a Grunt, and referred usually to the Marine Special Operations Group. The Marines were the only branch of all the Earth’s various militaries that had transitioned to the space age, and with it they had brought all their traditions with them. Even Fleet was still an adolescent compared to the Marines, having diverged from the Marines only shortly before the Titan-Class Colony ships had launched from Earth–a division of responsibilities necessary to protect the moon-sized feats of engineering built during the golden age of Earth’s technology. A hush fell over the gathered onlookers, their breath caught between curiosity and fear. The tension in the air was almost palpable as Lord Shutter, adorned in his flamboyant cloak and precarious crown, regarded the solitary figure before him with a quirk of his head. For a man who had just witnessed his protectors’ step aside, he bore an expression of bemusement, though the faintest glimmer of apprehension danced behind his eyes. "Why are you in my territory, Priest?" he inquired, his voice laced with a mock formality that did little to disguise the undercurrent of intrigue. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere, saving the weak from their inevitable fate?” Brock's stance remained unyielding, an island of resolve amidst the sea of uncertainty that surrounded him. His reply came with a measured tone, betraying none of the urgency that propelled his quest. "I must be in the right place then," he said, his words simple yet laden with meaning, an echo from worlds far beyond the scattered remnants of history strewn across this land. The stillness lingered for a heartbeat longer, as if the very ground beneath them acknowledged the gravity of Brock's mission. He stood there, the enigmatic POG High Priest, etching his presence into the annals of a world teetering between the vestiges of a bygone era and the untamed wilds of a future unwritten. Lord Sutter laughed, oblivious to how close to disaster he stood. “I pay well, would you consider taking employment with me.” Brock’s reply was simple. “No. I want the Fleeter you are holding.” Lord Shutter's lips curled into a sardonic smile, the patchwork of vibrant cloth that swathed his frame rustling as he shifted weight from one foot to the other. "Ah, the Fleeter, yes, he was here," he confessed with an air of nonchalance, waving a dismissive hand as if to sweep away the weight of the admission. "But a Fleeter is too much trouble to hold, I'd have every Warlord on Aura at my doors." He paused, his eyes glinting with a shrewdness that belied his eccentric appearance. "He was only here a day, and already I have a warrior priest skulking about my territory. I sold him to the nomadic Sunners. He's already gone." Brock felt a cold fist clench around his heart as he digested the words, his mind racing to unravel the implications. 'Sunners' – the term was alien, yet it seemed to carry a weight of significance he couldn't immediately grasp. His gaze hardened, focusing on the peculiar lord before him, while his thoughts spiraled in contemplation. Aura and Sunners. The former was a term he could place—a twisted echo of Aurora, the name now worn and weathered by time and tongues unacquainted with its origin. But the latter? A new enigma added to the sprawling jigsaw puzzle of this fractured world. Brock's instincts told him that these 'Sunners' were not a pivotal piece to his unfolding quest, but would be a problem. They had taken advantage of the situation and secured a valuable asset. Brock’s guess was that Max would quickly be traded to another faction–one that had the advantage of strength a nomadic group would not. He remained silent for a moment longer, the gears of strategy clicking into place behind his stoic façade, he needed more than the cryptic breadcrumbs offered by Lord Shutter's cavalier reveal. Brock's resolve crystallized; knowledge was power, and he would need every shred of it to navigate the treacherous landscape that lay ahead. "Where are the Sunners now?" Brock asked, his voice steady despite the simmering anger for the man who had bartered away a life as if it were mere currency. He could feel the heat of vengeance threatening to rise, but he tempered it with the steely discipline that had been ingrained in him since his days at the Academy. Lord Shutter's nonchalant manner was like a slap across Brock's already taut nerves. "Your guess is as good as mine," he drawled, his hands flapping dismissively. "Chase the sun, those sorcerers never stay in one place long." The words hung in the air, leaden with disinterest from the lord, yet heavy with meaning for Brock. Chase the sun—the Sunners. It seemed they were as elusive as their name suggested, nomadic sorcerers dancing just out of reach on the horizon. A challenge, certainly, but Brock was no stranger to playing the long game, no stranger to hunting shadows until they yielded their secrets. But, he needed to find them before they traded Max again. "Which way did they go?" he bit out, each word punctuated with barely suppressed ire. Lord Shutter gave another wave of his hand, his fingers adorned with scraps of metal twisted into makeshift rings. "That way," he said, pointing toward the horizon where dusk had painted the sky in hues of fading orange and deepening purple. The direction was as enigmatic as the man himself, yet Brock noted the angle of Shutter's extended arm with precision, etching it into his mind's map. The path he pointed to cut through the remnants of a world that once thrived on order, now a canvas for the chaos of survival. Brock stepped closer, the air thick with the tension of unspoken threats. His voice was cold, deliberate. "If I discover you are lying to me..." Lord Shutter held up a dismissive hand, the garish cloak swaying with his movement. "I gave you the information you want, now leave and never return." Shutter turned to the bodyguards, their broad figures like pillars of uncertainty in the dimming light. "Escort the priest to the border and point him the right way," Lord Shutter commanded, authority ringing hollow against the backdrop of his absurd attire. As Shutter turned to leave, the makeshift crown atop his head shifted precariously. The chamber nozzle threatened to topple from its perch. With a hasty shuffle, Lord Shutter adjusted the crown and quickened his pace, eager to put distance between himself and the unforeseen complication that Brock represented. Brock watched the man retreat, noting the slight tremor in his step—perhaps fear, perhaps anticipation. It mattered little. What mattered was the path ahead, the uncertain direction pointed out by a lord who looked more jester than ruler. With the fading echo of Lord Shutter's departure, Brock steeled himself for the next leg of this relentless pursuit. The dawn was coming fast, and with it he would lose the anonymity of the night. His resolve hardened as he followed the guards; every step forward was a step toward revelation or confrontation—a chase as old as time itself, and the chase was just beginning. The ruins of the old world stretched out like skeletal fingers under the twilight sky, casting long, forlorn shadows across the cracked earth. Brock followed the guard who had been ordered to escort him, a silent phantasm leading the way through the desolation of Shutter territory. They arrived at an arbitrary line where the remnants of a crumbling wall stood as a testament to borders long forgotten. The lead guard extended a calloused hand, pointing toward the horizon that was now painted with the first hues of dawn. "They went that way," he said, and his voice held a note of resignation, as if he was recounting a tale of ghosts and lost souls. "But following them won't do you any good." Brock considered the guard's words, weighing the significance of his tone against the urgency that pulsed within him. There was knowledge here, unspoken truths shrouded in the cryptic language of these people, and he sensed that the paths ahead were intertwined with more than just the pursuit of the elusive Sunners. Brock's gaze followed the direction of the guard's outstretched arm, past the line where shadows mingled with the fading light. He turned back to face the man whose stoic expression had cracked just enough to reveal a sliver of concern. "And why is that?" Brock pressed, his voice low and steady, demanding an answer that might shed light on the mystery of the Sunners. The guard shifted uncomfortably, his eyes scanning the desolate landscape as if searching for the right words amidst the ruins. "We've tried to follow them before," he admitted with a reluctant sigh, the weight of defeat pressing down on his broad shoulders. "But they're sorcerers, as soon as we start following them, they vanish without a trace." Brock's mind raced, parsing the guard's statement for any hidden meaning. Sorcerers–it was more likely they knew where the access to the underground maintenance tunnels were. With a curt nod, Brock pivoted on his heel, his mind teeming with stratagems and subterfuge. A hand on his arm stalled his departure. The guard's grip was firm yet cautious, betraying a tension that ran deeper than his words. "Wait," the guard murmured, his eyes darting to the encroaching shadows. His voice dropped to a hush, laden with the gravity of secrets unspoken in polite company. "Not many people know how to read, but I do, my mother taught me." Brock paused, appraising the man anew. In this world of lost knowledge, literacy would be a rare treasure, hoarded like the artifacts of a bygone era. It bespoke a history sheltered from the ravages of time, a lineage that clung fiercely to the remnants of civilization. "Your mother was wise to teach you," Brock acknowledged quietly, sensing the weight of heritage in the guard's admission—a flicker of kinship in a world fragmented by war and superstition. "When you showed us your rank of priesthood, I could see the patch under those thin rags of your disguise. I’ve seen similar patches, but yours was different. My mother said others would come one day, from... out there," the guard gestured vaguely skyward, his fingers trembling in the dim light, betraying the fervor of beliefs long dismissed as fantasy. His gaze sought Brock's, hungry for confirmation. "Your mother was right," Brock said, his voice low and resonant with the gravity of their shared understanding. "There are other worlds like this one." The air between them thickened with the weight of revelation, charged with the pulse of ancient histories and the vast, uncharted potential of the cosmos. Brock could see the flicker of hope ignite in the guard's eyes—a beacon that cut through the fog of ignorance that had smothered this world for too long. "Where are you from, because you’re not from here," the guard whispered, the words falling from his lips like a dream not to be believed. Brock kept his answer simple, not attempting details the man couldn’t understand. “I’m from a world like this one, called Destiny.” The man’s hand went to his neck and lifted a necklace with an emblem attached to it. His fingers closed around the chain as he showed it to Brock. “This has been in my family for generations, my mother says it’s sacred. Could you bless it, Father?" The man's request hung between them, laden with a history that transcended the dystopian decay surrounding them. The necklace dangled from his grasp, its presence a quiet testament to lineage and lore, seeking benediction from a stranger bound by similar codes of honor and duty. Brock reached out and lifted the emblem, the metal felt cold and solid under Brock's fingertips, a link to a past both revered and forgotten. He held the emblem, imbued with the weight of generations, and offered a silent entreaty for guidance in a world where the lines between myth and reality were indistinguishably blurred. "This is the emblem of the Marine Corps," Brock’s voice low and measured. His gaze shifted from the worn metal to the man's face, seeking the faintest glimmer of recognition in those earnest eyes. "But you already knew that, you recognized my rank insignia. You are the descendant of a Marine." “Who were they?” asked the man, his tone reverent and steeped in wonder. Brock’s answer might not be understood, but perhaps this small bit of knowledge could change this man’s life. “They are a military order older than this world, older than my world. They are from the ancient world the human race was born on.” Brock paused for a moment to let the man consider the implications before continuing. “To wear this is to be the very embodiment of honor. You have my blessing, but I will leave you with something more valuable than the blessing of…a POG Priest. This world is not called Aura, it is called Aurora. Serve her, not that silly man in a rocket ship hat.” “Thank you, Father. You shouldn't bother trying to find the Sunners, they'll just vanish on you." His voice was earnest, the advice issued from experience rather than malice. "You should go see Lord Ares. Our territory is on the old rim road, next to the stairs to the sun. You’ll have a better chance finding the Fleeter if you talk to him first." Brock released the emblem to sway slightly against the man’s chest. “Marines call each other, Brother. I will call you, Brother, and I hope the next time we meet I’ll find you in better company than that prancing idiot wearing a thruster cowl on his head.” Turning on his heel, Brock faced the night, its darkness now a shroud for his thoughts. He set off, each step deliberate upon the fractured road, moving like a shadow among the relics of a time long forgotten. The choice before him wrestled in his mind—pursue the Sunners and Max, or seek out Lord Ares. As the ruins whispered memories of grandeur, Brock's path veered, decision made. The Ares territory beckoned, promising answers hidden within its dominion. Silence enveloped him as he traversed the decay, save for the crunch of broken asphalt beneath his boots—an echo of the resolve that propelled him forward. His mission was clear; his determination unwavering. For now, he would embrace the unknowns of the Ares, leaving the mystery of the Sunners for another day.