Chapter 11 Destiny Colony Ship Max's jaw clenched as he stood rigid amidst the chaos of celebration. His orders, gripped tightly in one hand, became a crumpled symbol of his indignation—a stark contrast to the jubilant faces of fellow graduates boarding the rows of shuttle buses. He barely noticed them, his vision tunneled, zeroed in on the big white building across the parade grounds. He had envisioned himself at the helm of a swift scout ship, not bound for the grueling monotony of hauling space rock. He cast a fleeting glance through the sea of crisp uniforms for Brock, but the void where his friend should have been stung sharply. The two had forged a bond deeper than the academy's steel structures, an unspoken pact between brothers-in-arms. Now, with Brock en route to elite training and Max shackled to a cargo pilot’s seat, that bond seemed like a relic of a bygone dream. A hot surge of defiance propelled him forward, his boots digging into the immaculate parade field with purpose. With each stride, the murmurs of new assignments and excited plans from his peers faded into irrelevance. He would not seek counsel from the Academy Commandant; the man was a chapter closed. He was Lieutenant Archer now, and he deserved more than the dismissal his orders implied. The headquarters of Fleet Command loomed ahead, a bastion of authority where decisions were carved into the destiny of thousands. Max's resolve hardened. He'd scale its steps and stand before the Fleet Commander, demand the honor his achievements had earned. His heart pounded in rhythm with his march, pumping fury through his veins. Answers were owed, and he would pry them from the hands that penned his fate. Max's mind was a cyclone of rehearsed arguments and righteous indignation as he marched towards the monolithic structure of Fleet Command. His fists clenched rhythmically at his sides, each mental run-through of his impending confrontation adding fuel to the fire that raged within him. Unfair... an insult... these words became a mantra that echoed in the hollows of his chest with every heartbeat. His eyes were narrow slits, fixated on the looming entrance of the building that housed the architects of his future—a future he was not willing to accept without a fight. He was the best of the best; his academic accolades and flight simulations scores were irrefutable evidence of that fact. The orders clutched in his hand had to be an administrative error—a clerical oversight that he'd see rectified or else. So deeply entrenched was he in his tunnel vision of fury and determination that the world around him had all but disappeared. Max's foot hit the curb, his body leaning into the momentum to take the road in a determined stride. But before his boot could touch asphalt, a shadow loomed, a sudden eclipse in his peripheral vision. A vehicle—the unmistakable black bulk of the Academy Sergeant Major's car—pulled abruptly to a halt before him, its engine a low growl against the hum of departing buses. The window descended with a mechanical whirr, revealing the weathered visage of the Sergeant Major. His features were carved from years of service, an expression of stern authority etched into his skin. Those eyes, which had witnessed the growth of countless young men and women into soldiers, now fixed upon Max with an intensity that could halt even the most headstrong charge. "Get in, lieutenant," the Sergeant Major commanded, his voice carrying the weight of stone and the certainty of steel. Max's glare met the unyielding gaze of the older man. "Sergeant Major, with all due respect, I'm not a Cadet anymore. I'm going to see the Fleet Commander." His words, infused with the heat of his anger and pride, were a direct challenge to the order given. The air between them crackled with tension, a battle of wills playing out in mere seconds, yet it was a pivotal moment where the course of Max's immediate future hung delicately in balance. A muscle twitched in the Sergeant Major's jaw, a small but telling sign of his growing impatience. The sun glinted off his insignia, a symbol of respect that Max had learned to recognize and heed over the years. The air hung heavy with the scent of jet fuel and the promise of confrontation. "Son, get in this car right now, or I'll get out and tie you to the hood." The threat, absurd as it might have sounded coming from any other mouth, carried a gravity with the Sergeant Major's gruff delivery. Max felt a shiver of his old cadet self, the one who would have jumped at the command without a second thought. But he was different now, wasn't he? A lieutenant, forged by tests and trials, yet the hard edge in the Sergeant Major's voice cut through his newfound rank like a blade. Reluctantly, Max circled to the passenger side of the vehicle, each step measured, an internal struggle between defiance and discipline. He gripped the handle, feeling the heat from the metal baked by the midday sun. It was almost as if the car itself was warning him—reminding him of the countless times he'd been on the receiving end of the Sergeant Major's uncompromising mentorship. "Do not slam that door," the man inside warned. It was more than a command; it was a test, another lesson wrapped in simplicity. With a restraint that tasted bitter against his pride, Max eased the door closed, the sound a soft click rather than the satisfying crash of anger he craved. He settled into the seat, the familiar smell of leather and aged paperwork enveloping him. It was the same scent that clung to every corner of the academy, a mixture of tradition and duty. He caught a glimpse of himself in the side mirror—his uniform crisp, his bars shining, yet somehow diminished by the reflection of the Sergeant Major's stoic profile. In that moment, Max was acutely aware of the balance of power, the gulf of experience, and the hard lessons that still lay ahead. "This isn't fair!" The words erupted from him, shards of his shattered expectations piercing the quiet within the car. "Those bars going to your head already?" The Sergeant Major's voice cut through the tension, edged with the authority that comes not from rank, but from respect hard-earned and freely given. Max turned, ready to spit fire, but there was something in the Sergeant Major's steady gaze that quenched the flames. The old soldier spoke again, each word deliberate, "You listen to me, son, and you listen well. You have the ability to be the best pilot Fleet has ever seen." His tone, an alloy of reprimand and belief, forged a silence between them. Max's grip on the orders loosened slightly; the paper now seemed less like a sentence and more like a script yet to be understood. The potential the Sergeant Major saw in him—a beacon in the mist of his indignation—beckoned for calm waters over which Max might navigate anew. The car's interior hummed with the tension of a charged silence. Max, his jaw clenched, could feel the weight of his orders in his hand, as heavy as if they were carved from lead. He shot a sideways glance at the Sergeant Major, whose profile was etched with the lines of countless battles, both won and lost. "Then why am I being assigned to an asteroid catcher? I aced every exam, I'm top of my class," Max blurted out, letting his frustration bleed through each word. The Sergeant Major's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, as if navigating more than just the military base's thoroughfares. "You aced all your exams because of that brain of yours," he said, a note of pride threading through his gruff tone. His gaze flickered momentarily towards Max, sharp as a laser. "And Sergeant Brock dragged you the rest of the way through every physical challenge. But as evidenced by this temper tantrum—" He gestured vaguely toward Max's tightly balled fists, "—you are not prepared to fly a scout ship." Max felt as though he had been slapped by the words. The whirling red mist of anger that had clouded his vision began to dissipate, replaced by a cold draught of reality. The notion that his intellectual achievements were only half of the equation stung, but the truth in the Sergeant Major's statement was undeniable. Brock had been there, a crutch for his physical shortcomings, a silent partner in his academic victories. He sank back into the seat, feeling the contours of the leather against his spine, suddenly aware of how much space there was between where he sat and the pilot's chair of a scout ship—a gulf spanned by experience he had yet to earn. The accolade of being top of his class should have been his golden ticket, not this detour to an asteroid catcher that felt like a consolation prize. "I don't understand, I'm the best!" said Max, his voice a strained whisper. The paper in his hand crinkled, protesting the tight hold of his frustration. The Sergeant Major's posture remained unflinching, his eyes steely, reflecting years of service and the countless young officers he had shaped into weapons of the Fleet. "Not yet, you're not," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of authority and an undercurrent of unwavering conviction. "But, I've never failed," he argued, the words laced with an incredulity that felt foreign on his tongue. It was a statement of fact, one that had been his shield and spear through every challenge he'd faced until now. The Sergeant Major's lips formed a thin line, his gaze unwavering as he drove his point home. "And that is why you're not ready." The car hummed beneath them, a silent witness to this pivotal crossroads in Max's life. "You have never experienced failure; you don't know what to do when things don't go your way." The world outside blurred into a streak of colors as they moved, but Max hardly noticed. His mind was trapped in the echo chamber of the Sergeant Major's words, each syllable hammering against his certainty. "Eventually, you will make a mistake," continued the Sergeant Major, his voice as firm as the discipline he instilled in his cadets, "and Brock won’t be there to catch you." There was no malice in his tone, only the brutal honesty of a veteran who had seen too many bright futures snuffed out by arrogance and untested mettle. "So, I have to fail to get a scout ship?" Max asked, the bitterness evident in his voice. It seemed counterintuitive, unjust even, that failure could be a prerequisite for advancement. The Sergeant Major glanced at him with a look that had turned many cadets' insides to ice. "Don't seek it," he replied, his voice carrying the gravelly timbre of experience. "But it will come, and when it does, you'll need to learn to handle it. Fleet won't give you a scout ship until you've proven you can handle failure." The Sergeant Major's declaration hung in the air between them, a challenge and a prophecy wrapped into one. Max stared out the window once more, watching the last remnants of his fellow graduates pull away in the shuttle buses. "Great, then what?" Max's voice was a mix of defiance and desperation, the question hanging in the stale air of the vehicle like a challenge. He could feel the weight of his future pressing down on him, as if the stars he yearned to chart were bearing down upon his chest. The Sergeant Major maneuvered the car with a practiced ease that came from years of navigating more than just parade fields. As they curved around the perimeter, the procession of shuttle buses dwindled until only one remained, its side emblazoned with the insignia of the cargo pilot division—a stark reminder of the path chosen for Max. Pulling up in front of the solitary bus, the Sergeant Major cut the engine, bathing them in an abrupt silence. "I haven't finished training you yet, son," he said, turning to face Max squarely. His eyes held a depth of sincerity that seemed to pierce right through the young lieutenant's armor of indignation. Max's hands clenched unconsciously, the orders crinkling further under the strain of his grip. The idea of more training, of not having reached his peak despite his academic excellence, gnawed at him. It was a bitter pill, laced with the acrid taste of humility. "Failure," Max repeated softly, the word unfamiliar and unwelcome on his tongue. It was a ghost he had outrun at every turn, a specter now being invited to his doorstep by the very man who had taught him to be relentless. The Sergeant Major's nod was curt, affirming. "When the day comes that you fail, my door is open, come to me and we will work through it." His tone brokered no argument; it was a directive as much as it was an offering of support. "Is that understood?" "Understood," Max muttered, the word carrying a newfound gravity. He finally uncurled his fingers, releasing the crumpled paper, and watched as it settled lifelessly onto his lap. A silent concession of his current defeat and the tacit acknowledgment of challenges yet to come. "Get your gear and get on that bus," continued the Sergeant Major, his gaze unyielding, as if his eyes could pin Max to the very path he was meant to walk, whether he liked it or not. Max spared one last glance at the parade field, its emptiness echoing the hollow feeling inside him. With a resolute turn, he approached the remaining shuttle bus, its hull gleaming like a promise in the light. The doors hissed open, waiting to swallow him whole and deliver him to a future unforeseen. Aurora Colony Ship Six years later Max's pulse steadied as he eyed the four figures encircling him, their wooden clubs raised in a primitive display of authority. "You are now a prisoner of Lord Shutter!" one yelled, spittle flying from his lips, his eyes wide with fervor rather than malice. Max could almost smell their fear beneath the stench of the crumbling world around them. Despite the dread landscape that lay before him, an incongruent calm settled within. Brock's voice echoed in his mind, a mantra of martial arts discipline and control that had been drilled into him over countless training sessions. "Easy," Max said, raising his hands—not in surrender, but as a signal of his intent to avoid unnecessary violence. The sight of the desolate habitat still haunted his vision; a twisted mirror of a world once brimming with promise. He took a slow breath, analyzing each man's stance, his grip on the wooden weapon. They were cautious, yes, but inexperienced and easily readable. "Who is Lord Shutter?" Max asked, his voice even and devoid of the tension that gripped his captors. One of the men jabbed at him with clumsy bravado. Max's reflexes, honed to instinctual sharpness, kicked in. With a fluid twist, he disarmed the man, the club spinning from his grasp like a leaf caught in a sudden gust. A brief flicker of surprise crossed the face of his would-be captor. Maybe they were even less of a threat than he'd imagined. "That was unnecessary," Max stated, discarding the club as though it were no more significant than a twig. His tone carried an edge of finality. "Take me to Lord Shutter." Their response was a cacophony of outraged cries, labeling him a Fleeter, the scourge of Aura. Their voices blended into a litany of accusations and hatred that seemed to last an eternity before they finally gestured for him to move forward. Max complied, his feet crunching on the debris-littered road, each step taking him further into the heart of decay. As he walked, the pungent odor that permeated the air clawed at his senses. It was a miasma of degradation, a tangible cloud of despair. The squalid hovels that lined the path were cobbled together from remnants of shuttle crafts, their metal skins repurposed into crude shelters against a world falling apart at the seams. How had the Aurora, once a pinnacle of human achievement, devolved into this dystopian existence? A surge of people ebbed and flowed around him, their numbers a stark contrast to the intended capacity of the ship. Max's brow furrowed as he realized he had neglected to check the population indicator. The Aurora was never designed to sustain such a mass of life outside of cryogenic slumber. With a mere nine years left before its inevitable descent into the gas giant's maw, Max grappled with the dire thought that perhaps none would survive to witness that final plunge. The once-majestic Shuttle Command's Headquarters loomed before Max, its grandeur now marred by a makeshift facade of sovereignty. What used to be a beacon of control and order was a shell of its former self, its exterior walls scrawled with crude insignias claiming allegiance to Lord Shutter. The interior, dim and hollow without the pulse of functioning lights, echoed with the distant sounds of shuffling feet and muffled conversations. Max stepped over the threshold, his eyes quickly adjusting to the murk of the repurposed castle. Shadows clung to the corners where light once held court, and he felt the weight of history in the silence that draped the halls. It was an eerie mimicry of authority that had no place in the rational world he knew—the Aurora, a marvel of engineering and human ambition, reduced to a plaything in a child's game of tyrants and kings. The group ushered him through the labyrinthine corridors, each turn an insult to the ship's prestigious legacy. As they reached what was once the heart of operations, Max's breath caught at the sight of destruction. The control room, which should have been alive with the flicker of screens and the hum of activity, lay barren. Monitors that should have shown the ballet of shuttles navigating within the massive colony ship were either shattered or torn from their mounts, the technological sinews ripped out and repurposed for more primitive needs. In the epicenter of this desolation sat a man adorned in absurdity—a shuttle pilot's chair serving as his makeshift throne. Upon his head, a thruster cowling was twisted into a grotesque crown, while his shoulders bore a cape that seemed to have been dyed in every conceivable color, as if to mock the spectrum itself. His attire was a collage of pomp and parody, and Max could not help but question whether he stood before a ruler or a jester masquerading as one. "Lord Shutter, I presume," Max thought, though he kept his musings silent, his expression impassive. The man's eyes, alight with a madness or perhaps a cunning that was not immediately discernible, fixed onto Max with unsettling intensity. The throne room, stripped of its purpose and dignity, was an apt stage for the man who claimed it, a symbol of the decay that had claimed the Aurora. And at its center, Max faced the embodiment of that decline, unsure whether to bow or to laugh. Max stepped forward, the echo of his boot on the cold metal floor cut through the silence that hung over the room like a shroud. The man who fancied himself a lord tilted his head, the thruster cowling atop it catching the dim light in a way that made it momentarily gleam like an actual crown. "A Fleeter?" His voice held a note of incredulity, tinged with something darker, more dangerous. He leaned forward, scrutinizing Max with eyes that seemed to dart from one possibility to the next. "Indeed," Max replied, his voice steady. Though he stood unarmed and outnumbered, his stance was composed, betraying no hint of anxiety or fear. "Greetings, Lord Shutter, my name is Captain Archer. I've come as diplomatic envoy of my people." The silence returned for a moment, stretching out uncomfortably between them as the man considered Max's words. Max held his gaze evenly, aware of the weight of each second ticking by, of the history these ship-bound walls had witnessed, and of the delicate balance that now rested in his hands. Lord Shutter's eyes flickered with a cold resolve, and the words fell from his lips like stones into still water. "Kill him," he commanded without hesitation, his gaze never leaving Max's. "Fleeters are too much trouble." The room tightened around Max, the air growing thick with the threat of violence as the men with clubs edged closer, their movements synchronized with the dark intent of their leader's command. In that razor's edge moment, where life teetered precariously on the brink of death, Max felt the world slow to a crawl. His heartbeat became a languid drum, the rise of his chest a study in motion, as his mind slipped seamlessly into hyper-thought. Here, in this space within his consciousness, time stretched infinitely, giving him the luxury of deliberation while mere seconds ticked by outside. He analyzed each twitch of muscle, the subtle shift of weight in his adversaries' stances, the trajectory of potential strikes. He envisioned counter-moves, feints, disarms, calculated the exact angle and force required to neutralize without causing undue harm. Scenarios spun out before him, branching and multiplying into a web of possibilities only he could navigate. Max remained still, externally placid as the latent chaos churned around him. Internally, he raced through hours of strategic planning compressed into the span of two heartbeats. The men waited for some sign of fear, some plea for mercy, but Max offered neither. And then, just as suddenly as it had decelerated, time resumed its normal pace. Max returned to the present, decisions made, mind resolute, prepared to carve a path through whatever outcome awaited. The guards tightened their circle around Max, clubs raised, a silent threat woven into their stance. Max's fingers danced over the surface of his wrist device. As he executed a series of swift gestures on the interface, a knowing smile curled at the edge of his lips. The Aurora and Destiny had been built at the same time, orbiting the same planet in the solar system of humanities birth. Some systems would be specialized to each ship’s needs, but the fire alarm was a universal need and his wrist device easily found and merged with it. "Activating emergency protocol," Max announced with feigned urgency. The air vibrated with tension as the room erupted into a cacophony of flashing red lights and piercing alarms. His voice boomed over the din, each word punctuated by authority and calm deception, "I have activated the doomsday device. It will detonate in 15 seconds." Pandemonium ensued. Guards stumbled over one another, their terror palpable as they scrambled for an exit. Lord Shutter leaped to his feet, the facade of control crumbling from his face as dread consumed him. "Make it stop!" he bellowed, desperation clawing through his orders. Max watched the scene unfold with detached amusement, his expression unchanging as he counted down the moments. Only when the fear had reached its zenith did he casually deactivate the alarm, leaving the room in sudden, stark silence. "Perhaps it would be best if the Fleeter comes with us," suggested a man emerging from the shadows. The man was adorned in sorcerer-like garb, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. A circuit board necklace dangled from his neck, catching the light as he moved. Lord Shutter, regaining some semblance of composure, focused on this new player. "What will you give me for the Fleeter?" With a flourish, the robed man presented a small device, its purpose shrouded in deceit. "This is a mind stunner," he claimed confidently. "It clouds the thoughts of your adversaries during negotiations." "Deal," Lord Shutter declared, snatching the item with greedy hands, his eyes never leaving the enigmatic trinket. Max fought back the urge to laugh. It was a training stun grenade, evident from the blue band that wrapped around it. The only thing it could do was whistle for ten seconds when it impacted with the ground. Max had used them many times during training exercises at the Academy. The man with the necklace made of circuitry turned to face him, the light glinting off the metallic components hanging around his throat. "You are now the property of the Sunners," he intoned gravely, though his words carried no weight for Max. "Do not make me bind you in chains. I assure you I have the means to make you obey, but I would rather allow you to walk freely." Max raised an eyebrow skeptically, contemplating the empty threat. He could sense no real power behind the man's posturing; this 'Sunner' was just another player on the stage of this decaying world. Still, there was nothing to gain from further challenging the clownish figure who had moments ago sat enthroned amidst broken dreams. "Lead the way then," Max said with a dismissive shrug, feigning acquiescence. His voice dripped with indifference, betraying none of the calculated thoughts swirling in his head. As they moved towards the exit, Max took note of the shadows that clung to the corners of the repurposed Shuttle Command Headquarters—remnants of a past where control and order reigned supreme, now just hollow echoes of what used to be. With each step away from the makeshift throne room, Max felt the absurdity of his situation deepening. Yet, he followed the circuit-clad man out into the uncertain gloom, driven by the necessity to navigate through the chaos. The path ahead was unclear, but Max Archer was no one's pawn. A group of other ridiculously clad self-claimed sorcerers joined them. Max, nestled at the center of the group, walked not as a captive, but as a silent observer, ready to turn the tables when the moment arose. "Where are we going?" he asked, scanning the faces of those who had come to escort him. "We are taking you to Lord Sunner," replied one, his voice carrying an undercurrent of pride or perhaps delusion. Max nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself as he fell into step with them. They traversed the broken landscape, where the ground crumbled beneath their feet like the remnants of civilization itself. The Sunners moved with a sense of purpose that belied their bizarre appearance—a procession of the absurd weaving its way through a world unrecognizable from its former glory. Abruptly coming to a halt, the group huddled around a nondescript patch of sand. With concerted effort, they unearthed an access hatch, its edges corroded by time. Max watched, his instincts on alert. Such hatches were meant to be sealed, safeguarding against unwary citizens falling into the maintenance tunnels beneath the surface that housed all the machinery needed to keep the Aurora alive. Yet here it lay, forgotten and exposed. Without awaiting instruction, Max descended the ladder into the darkness below, his senses heightened as the last slivers of light from above vanished. The tunnel stretched out before them, shrouded in an oppressive gloom. He noticed the Sunners' indifferent gazes as they passed control panels that would have given them supreme power over the many factions that now claimed patches of territory like children playing Capture the Flag —mute testaments to a technology they no longer understood or revered. Time became elusive in the shadowy corridor, the silence punctuated only by the scuff of boots on metal and the occasional drip of condensation from the ceiling. They journeyed for what felt like an hour before the group signaled a respite. Max seized the opportunity. His eyes settled on an airlock nearby—another relic treated with nonchalance by his captors. His mind raced with possibilities; each open airlock they passed was a breach in safety protocols, a vulnerability. Yet, it seemed none among the Sunners grasped the significance of these safeguards. Quietly, he approached the airlock, feigning a casual stretch as he examined its interface. It was clear the Sunners' attention was elsewhere, engrossed in whatever sustenance or reprieve they found in their satchels. "Rest while you can," Max thought to himself. "This is where we part ways." It wasn't merely a lack of need that drove Max's decision—it was the realization that whatever answers he sought wouldn't be found following this peculiar band. They were ignorant of the very foundations of their existence, a danger to themselves and others. With a final glance at the resting Sunners, Max turned away, stepping quietly towards the next chapter of his odyssey through the bowels of the Aurora. "Do not go far," the leader's voice echoed down the tunnel, a cautionary growl that rumbled through the stale air. Max nodded as if in compliance, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk as he muttered about a necessary human function. "I have to relieve myself," he said, slipping into the open airlock that would seal his freedom from the group. The real question was why all the airlocks had been left open by the last generation that had understood the purpose was to provide safe sections for citizens to seek shelter in the event of a hull breach. The shadow of a Sunner loomed up behind him, but Max was swift. He pivoted on his heel, and with a deft touch, he engaged the airlock's control. He held his breath for a moment, hoping against hope that the backup power still coursed through the veins of this neglected ship. With a satisfying hiss, the door glided shut, leaving the curious Sunner on the other side. Quick fingers danced over the panel, securing the lock. The dull thumps of the thwarted Sunner's fists were almost comical to Max, who chuckled under his breath. "Well, that takes care of that problem," he mused, alone with the drumming echo of his own heartbeat. Where should he head now? The Shutters, the Sunners, they had been blind to the lifeblood of their own world—technology, once revered, now reduced to mere trinkets and trophies. Was every group in this shattered society so blind? Max unclipped the survival flashlight from his belt, its beam slicing through darkness like a beacon of rational thought. His thumb found the next light control panel—a familiar friend in an otherwise alien tableau. A swift tap and the tunnels awakened, bathing him in artificial daylight. "Intact," Max whispered, relief washing over him. These maintenance paths, shielded from the scavenging hands above, offered a semblance of the past's order—a stark contrast to the chaos that now reigned. With renewed purpose, Max's stride quickened, boots pounding a rhythm as he ventured deeper into the bowels of the Aurora. Answers were out there, hiding in the silent hum of the ship's forgotten arteries, and he would find them. He remembered a conversation years before with the Academy Sergeant Major. The man would be long dead now, but his warning had never been forgotten. Max whispered to his long ago mentor as he walked. “Not yet, Sergeant Major, I have never failed, and I will not fail now. I will save this ship.”