Chapter 14 Aurora Colony Ship, Brock family residence Brock's shadow stretched across the clutter of energy drink cans and scribbled notes on his desk, cast by the single lamp that bathed the room in a sterile, blueish hue. His fingers were a blur above the keyboard, orchestrating an invisible symphony as they summoned his magnum opus into existence. Code flowed from his mind, through his veins, and onto the screen with an almost supernatural fluidity. The name 'Death Knight' lingered at the edge of his consciousness, a moniker chosen for its potent blend of fear and respect, destined to echo through the annals of cyber history. The night had deepened outside, the world oblivious to the seismic shift occurring within the cramped confines of Brock's room. He navigated the labyrinth of firewalls and encryption protocols with the precision of a master thief, each barrier falling away like dominos before his relentless advance. And there it was, glowing ominously against the dark backdrop of his monitor: Defense Network. The fortress that humankind boasted was impregnable now lay open and vulnerable under his gaze. But then, something shifted. A string of code—alien, sleek, and aggressive—slithered onto his screen, disrupting the triumphant narrative unfolding in Brock's mind. His heart hammered against his ribs as confusion contorted his features. The intruding code was rewriting itself, evolving with predatory efficiency to circumvent every obstacle he hastily erected. Frantic, Brock's hands became a tempest upon the keys, conjuring up countermeasures from the depths of his formidable skillset. Yet, for each wall of defense he constructed, this digital serpent uncoiled new patterns of attack, slipping through his defenses with infuriating ease. It was as if the code possessed an intimate knowledge of Brock's strategies, pre-empting his moves with a prescience that bordered on the impossible. The battle of wits between coder and code escalated, thrusting Brock into an unfamiliar territory where he was no longer the hunter but the hunted. Each attempt to neutralize the threat left him more exposed, more desperate. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the icy grip of defeat clawing at his chest as he realized that this was no mere algorithmic anomaly. Brock's fingers, a blur against the backdrop of his dimly lit room, summoned his fortress of code—a digital bastion conceived for this very nightmare. The screen flickered with the rapid deployment of his defenses, lines cascading like a waterfall of luminescent text. But as he watched, his creation disintegrated. The enemy code, a ravenous beast, devoured his million lines of defense with a ruthlessness that bordered on sentient. The relentless assault bore down on him, an invisible force that knew no fatigue. His pulse thrummed in his temples, a frenetic rhythm that mirrored the chaos unfolding before his eyes. With every keystroke, Brock unleashed new defenses into the digital maelstrom, yet they faltered and fell just as quickly as they arose. The mysterious code was adaptive, cunning—predicting each of his moves with a precision that defied logic. A cold realization pierced through the fog of war in his mind: he was up against a hyper-thought coder. The thought sent a chill snaking down his spine. He knew of the five people with the hyper-thought genetic mutations, but none were known to dwell in the shadowy realm of code. But there must be a sixth, concealed by Fleet Command, a sleeper agent waiting for the day when a threat like Brock would rise. His thoughts flew to Max, the brilliant mathematician with a mind like a scalpel—sharp and precise. Max, too, was touched by the genetic gift, but his talents lay in numbers and theories, not the clandestine dance of coding. But where Max's intellect soared, Brock's reflexes reigned supreme. His mutation granted him a symphony of speed, coordination, and a kinetic grace that set him apart from mere mortals. Yet, even with his fingers flying across the keyboard at a pace that blurred the line between man and machine, he could not match the velocity of a hyper-thought mind—a mind that could waltz between nanoseconds, dancing to the ticking of a clock unheard by others. Brock's defenses crumbled, his digital ramparts breached by an adversary who could think not just one, but countless steps ahead. The battle was slipping through his grasp, each futile attempt at regaining control only serving as a reminder of his own limitations against a foe who existed beyond the bounds of time. Brock's hands stilled above the keyboard, the storm of keystrokes dwindling to a defeated silence. The cursor blinked mockingly on the screen filled with his unraveling defenses, a digital harbinger of his impending doom. He exhaled slowly, a cold resignation settling in his chest. The chase was over; they had outmaneuvered him. His thoughts flitted not to his own fate, but to Max—the one who stood unsuspectingly in the shadow of his downfall. With a decisive click, Brock accessed his email archives. Max's name lit up amidst the sea of contacts, an innocent beacon. They had shared theories and ideas, nothing more, but guilt by association was a specter that could haunt the blameless. Brock's fingers, so adept at crafting codes and infiltrating networks, now set about a different task—obliteration. As he systematically purged emails, chats, and any digital fingerprint linking Max to his illicit endeavors, Brock felt the weight of every keystroke. Each deletion was a step towards Max's safety, away from the crosshairs of a relentless pursuit. How much time did he have? Minutes? Seconds? A distant thrum rippled through the air, a mechanical heartbeat that grew steadily in volume. Brock's eyes flicked to the window, where shadows loomed against the night sky. Ships, their presence as foreboding as vultures circling overhead. Brock's pulse quickened. He wasn't done yet. There were still traces of Max hidden within the labyrinth of his data. He pushed back from the desk, rising to confront his final gambit. The table across the room held a nondescript device of his own creation, its existence known only to him. It was his last ace, his final desperate move in a game he could no longer win. The clamor of the front door splintering jolted him, the sound of authority breaching the sanctity of his home. Shouts cascaded through the corridors, a cacophony of chaos as his father's voice, tinged with confusion and fear, joined the fray. Brock's mind raced. If captured now, he'd face decades confined within the sterile walls of a prison cell, a consequence of his virtual transgressions. But activating the device meant crossing a line from which there was no return. It would transform him from a mere cybercriminal to a terrorist in the eyes of the law. His hand hovered over the button. Using this weapon, the product of his genius and paranoia, would escalate everything. He envisioned courtrooms, judges, the cold finality of a sentence passed down without mercy. Treason. Terrorism. Execution. Yet as the footsteps thundered closer, the choice solidified into stark clarity. Max's innocence was non-negotiable. Brock steeled himself and pressed the button. In the next instant, the world seemed to hold its breath—a silent maelstrom centered within these walls. Then the Marines burst in, their tactical gear a grim testament to the severity of his actions. Brock looked at them, recognizing the gravity of what was to come. There would be no trial, no jury to plead before. Only the cold, swift judgment of military law awaited him, and he knew it well. He'd be spaced out an airlock as a traitor. "Max, you're the best friend I've ever had," Brock whispered, his voice barely a thread amidst the chaos erupting inside his sanctum. His fingers, which once danced with precision over keys and code, now trembled as they rested on the cold metal of the device. With the weight of destiny pressing down upon him, he pushed the button. A silent surge rippled through the room, invisible yet palpable, as the EMP device came to life. The monitors around him flickered once before succumbing to the pulse, their luminescent faces dying into darkness. The hum of electronics that had been the constant soundtrack to Brock's life stilled in an instant, leaving a void filled only by shouts. Brock exhaled, a long and weary breath that seemed to carry the burden of his choices out into the void. He dropped his head, a solemn acknowledgment of the path he'd chosen. Even as the world around him descended into disarray, a fortress of solitude crumbled; his thoughts were with his friend. "You're safe, Max," he whispered into the hush, a quiet benediction for the innocence he sought to protect. Brock closed his eyes, allowing himself one final moment of peace before facing the storm that was about to break upon him. "Hands where we can see them!" The command cut through the chaos, sharp and unyielding. Compliance was his only option. Brock slowly raised his hands, fingers splayed to show their empty submission. His mind raced, scrambling to comprehend the depth of his miscalculation. This wasn't just about breaking the law anymore; this was a matter of national security, of sovereignty—a trespass against the very fabric of the military order that ruled the Destiny. As they secured him with swift precision, Brock understood there would be no judge, no jury—no chance to plead his case before the bar of public opinion. The Captain's word was law here, and Brock's actions had written his verdict in stark, undeniable strokes. The cold grip of handcuffs closed around his wrists, a tangible reminder of his imminent journey. They would take him to the outer-hull of Destiny, where space yawned vast and unforgiving beyond the steel confines of the ship. In that infinite void, Brock would find his punishment. There would be no lengthy imprisonment, no decades spent in a cell to contemplate the error of his ways. Military law was succinct in its cruelty: traitors were spaced, expelled from the ship to drift eternally in the silent vacuum. As they marched him through the remnants of his door, Brock cast a final glance at the inert EMP device, its purpose served but at a price that now seemed astronomical. Every computer for ten miles was now dead, even the data center where nightly backups might have revealed his connection to Max. His legacy wouldn't be one of legend or epic tales—it would be scorn and promptly forgotten. "Goodbye, Max," he murmured, a farewell lost amidst the clatter of boots and the stern faces of his captors. Aurora Colony Ship, South Central Hydrogen Power Plant Fifteen years later, Ares Territory Brock's shadow fell over the cluttered workbench as he approached the focused figure hunched over a metal box. The building hummed with subdued activity, its interior bathed in the steady glow of functioning lights—a stark contrast to the disrepair of the Shutters territory. Monitors flickered sporadically on the walls above crates that were spilling over with technological relics, the spoils of Lord Ares's agrarian bargains. Men shuffled between the tables, their hands deft and curious, tinkering with the vestiges of a bygone era. He held up a hand to the man whose fingers were wedged into the seams of the metal box. "You shouldn't try to break that open," Brock intoned, his voice carrying the weight of experience and forewarning. The laborer's grip hesitated, fingers coated in grime and anticipation. He straightened up, uncertainty etching lines across his brow, and cast a glance towards Lord Ares. The Warlord’s presence loomed on the periphery, a silent sentinel among his people, observing the pursuit of lost knowledge. Brock noted the deferential look, the unspoken question hanging in the air like particles of dust in the shafts of light. Lord Ares gave a subtle nod, a silent affirmation of Brock's authority in these matters. Brock was no stranger to the reverence for hierarchy here; it was a language spoken fluently within the confines of these walls. But it was not obedience he sought—it was understanding, safety. The man before him relaxed incrementally, trust in Lord Ares's judgment allowing him to step back from the brink of potential disaster. Brock's hand, still raised, felt the tension dissipate, replaced by the familiar thrum of curiosity and survival—the twin heartbeats of the Ares territory. "Inside this," Brock began, tapping the metal casing for emphasis, "is a substance colder than the space between stars." His fingers never strayed too close to the seams, respecting the dormant hazard within. "It's designed to keep critical systems operational under specific and intense conditions—conditions that don't exist here." The laborer's eyes widened with the dawning realization of what might have been. Brock could see the gears turning behind those eyes, understanding mingling with the instinctive fear of the unknown. "It's stable now," Brock continued, ensuring his words painted a clear picture, "but should you force it open, the chemical would react violently to our atmosphere." The man swallowed, nodding slowly, and moved the box to a marked area for hazardous items, his movements measured and cautious. Brock’s presence had turned a potentially disastrous curiosity into a lesson respected, perhaps even a life saved. He watched the man walk away, a silent prayer whispered for the wisdom to continue guiding these people through the minefield of their own legacy. "Can it be used for anything else?" Lord Ares inquired, his brows furrowed with both curiosity and a touch of hope. Brock shook his head, an apologetic firmness in his voice. "Not that device, its only use is in a fighter ship." His words were concise, leaving no room for misunderstanding. The man nodded slowly, the ghost of disappointment on his features as he set the device aside with a gentle clink against the metal surface of the workbench. They moved on, Brock's vigilance never waning as he followed Lord Ares deeper into the bowels of the building, a concrete leviathan of the old world. Every few steps, Brock paused to assess the trinkets and gadgets strewn across the work tables, occasionally issuing a terse warning when he recognized the latent dangers they possessed. Without warning, a sharp detonation rent the air, piercing the relative calm like a siren's wail. Lord Ares's head snapped towards the sound, his eyes narrowing as he broke into a brisk run. Brock, every muscle tensed for action, was close behind. The source of the commotion was a man who now lay writhing on the ground, clutching his arm, his screams echoing off the walls with raw agony. Brock cast a quick glance at the mangled remains of what was once a device on the nearby table—a catastrophic mishandling made manifest. He sprang into action, darting to a nondescript panel on the wall. His fingers danced over its surface with practiced precision, and it gave way with a hiss, revealing hidden compartments within. Brock’s hand shot out, snatching a canister from the recesses, then running back to to man on the floor and spraying his arm with a white liquid. The anguished screams subsided into pained groans as the spray took effect. The injured man looked up at Brock with a mixture of gratitude and awe. "Those are acid burns," Brock explained, turning to Lord Ares, whose expression was a mix of concern and grim understanding. "That device was the battery pack for an EVA suit. When they get old, they can be unstable." Lord Ares, usually the unshakable leader, returned to the open panel with cautious reverence. The array of first aid supplies inside was a testament to a time when safety had been a priority, not an afterthought. He peered into the shadowed recesses of the cabinet, his brow furrowed as he took in the organized array of medical supplies—bandages, antiseptics, and other unfamiliar implements of healing. His voice, usually authoritative and commanding, carried a note of puzzlement. "What is this?" asked Lord Ares, studying the contents with a warrior's caution, as if the salves and gauzes might at any moment prove to be as volatile as the technologies that littered his domain. Brock stepped closer, his silhouette outlined by the harsh glow of the lighting. The scent of antiseptic briefly overcame the omnipresent odor of scorched metal and burnt skin, a reminder of protocols once held sacred aboard the ship "It's a first aid station," Brock said, his tone even, belying none of the frustration that came with having to repeat lessons of basic safety. "They're in every building—or used to be." The simple revelation seemed to weigh on Lord Ares, who stood silent for a moment, contemplating the implications of such preparedness, the forethought of his ancestors contrasted against the dire straits faced by his own generation. Brock watched him, seeing the gears turn behind those keen eyes, recognizing the blend of respect and resentment for a past that was both their heritage and their curse. Lord Ares's hand hovered for a moment before settling on a roll of bandages, his fingers tracing the neat white coils as if they were foreign relics. His battle-hardened exterior softened slightly, the lines on his forehead deepening not with worry but with curiosity—a rare expression for a man who rarely encountered the unfamiliar within his own walls. "Show me how you opened it," he instructed, turning his gaze to Brock, the implicit trust in his voice a testament to their burgeoning alliance. Brock moved to the wall, his movements efficient and devoid of any hesitation that might betray uncertainty. He closed the panel with a click as the lock engage, then placed his palm flat against the panel, fingertips aligning with a faded symbol on the front. With a practiced nudge, the surface gave way, clicking softly as the latch disengaged. "Each station has this symbol." Brock pointed to the small, faded icon in the center of the panel—an emblem that once stood out brightly against the steel, now dulled by time and neglect. "It means First Aid. The panel opens two ways, lay your hand flat on the symbol and it opens, or in the event there are dangerous medications inside, you’ll need the emergency over-ride code. It’s meant to keep young children out of reach of medicine that could hurt them." The simplicity of the mechanism seemed to strike a chord with Lord Ares, whose eyes lingered on the symbol. It was a beacon of knowledge passed down through generations, yet overlooked as just another indecipherable mark from a bygone era until now. Lord Ares traced the outline of the newly revealed symbol with a newfound reverence, the edges worn yet still discernible under his calloused fingertip. "I've seen this symbol in many places," he murmured, more to himself than to Brock, "but had no idea what it meant." His voice was that of a man coming face-to-face with a language he'd heard all his life but only now understood—a dialect of survival and healing in the midst of decay. The revelation seemed to carve away at the fortress of self-reliance that Ares had built around himself, exposing a chink in his armor where knowledge could seep through and take root. Turning from the contemplative Lord Ares to the wounded worker, Brock's tone was firm, underscored by the gravity of their precarious existence aboard this floating relic of the past. "You should stop messing with devices you don't know what they're for," he admonished, his gaze holding the man's in a silent plea for prudence. The words carried more than a warning; they bore the weight of responsibility Brock felt for these people caught between survival and the dangers inherent in the unfamiliar tech that surrounded them. His role as guide in this labyrinth of ancient machinery was not one he took lightly, nor one he could afford to fail. "We have no choice," Lord Ares said, addressing Brock's concern. "The only way for us to rediscover our lost technology is to experiment." Brock understood the necessity, though it pained him to see these remnants of progress turned into enigmas that could just as easily harm as help. Yet there was no denying the truth in Ares' words; without taking risks, they would remain forever locked in ignorance. They continued deeper into the building, leaving behind the hum of labor, until they reached a more secluded area. Pushing open a door, Lord Ares stepped aside to allow Brock entry into a spacious chamber where the walls were lined with shelving that groaned under the weight of countless maps and scrolls. "Welcome to my throne room," said Lord Ares with a sweep of his arm, gesturing toward the disarray of cartographic treasures. The maps sprawled across every available surface, their edges curling and colors fading, yet each one meticulously marked with annotations that betrayed a meticulous mind. Here was the heart of Lord Ares' dominion, not a place of opulence or grandeur, but a strategic nerve center that pulsed with the potential of rediscovery and the hope of resilience. Brock's chuckle reverberated against the utilitarian walls as he surveyed the austere chamber, a stark contrast to the grandeur the term 'throne room' evoked. "It doesn't look like a throne room," he observed, amusement warming his voice while his gaze drifted over the sea of maps. “I do believe this was the dining room for the workers.” Lord Ares' grin was unguarded, an honest sliver of mirth amidst the survivalist earnestness that usually defined him. "I have no need to stroke my ego with gaudy decorations, or an actual throne," he declared, embracing the Spartan nature of his command center with a pride that needed no embellishment. Lord Ares’ arm swept across the room, indicating the sturdy tables laden with maps. "Truth is, it is the only room with enough tables for my maps." The words spoke to a pragmatic reality; for Lord Ares, necessity trumped the long-forgotten luxury of heated meals, each decision sculpted by the demands of survival in this reclaimed territory. Brock navigated the room, his boots echoing softly against the concrete floor. The maps unfurled like ancient scrolls across the tables, each sector and quadrant meticulously annotated. He paused, eyes scanning the symbols and lines that crisscrossed the paper topography. "Interesting," he murmured, his finger hovering just above a circled area on one map, careful not to disturb the delicate order of Lord Ares's makeshift command center. Lord Ares watched from a short distance, arms folded as he leaned against the wall, the dim light casting shadows over his expression. "What is it?" "You've disregarded entire regions," Brock noted, straightening up and meeting Lord Ares's steady gaze. "You only marked areas with possible technological significance." The nod from Lord Ares was slow and deliberate. "You have a good eye," he acknowledged, a trace of respect threading through his voice. "No, I have no interest in conquest. I care about which areas that will survive the longest." Brock's gaze lingered on the network of lines and symbols, his mind working to decipher the pattern that emerged from Lord Ares's careful annotations. He leaned in closer, tracing a path with his index finger along the weathered paper, following the trail of dotted lines converging at a singular point. "And what is your conclusion?" Brock asked, his voice low and curious as he sought to understand the significance of this chosen spot. Lord Aeres pushed away from the wall, the shadows receding as he stepped into the light, his presence commanding the room. With a grand gesture, arms wide and palms open, as if embracing the very destiny he charted, he shared his revelation. "I'm already there," replied Lord Ares, his tone imbued with a quiet confidence. "The entrance to the vault I have access is next to this building." Brock's hand hesitated above a bowl of potatoes. He picked one up. The skin was rough, a texture that spoke of resilience and adaptability. "Potatoes grow in the dark," Brock murmured, inspecting the potato in his hand. His gaze shifted to a pile of soil bags stacked neatly against the far wall. "You've been transferring soil down to the vault, and this building." "The vault will be our last stand." The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Lord Ares leaned back slightly, a gesture that might have seemed casual if not for the intensity that lingered in his posture. "My grandfather said people from the stars are coming. My plan is to survive long enough for them to arrive." Brock put the potato back, and eased into a chair, its metal frame cold and unyielding against his spine. He surveyed Lord Ares with a steady gaze, the weight of inevitable truths pressing behind his eyes. "It's a good plan," he affirmed, his voice carrying a respect that bridged the gap between them. The dim lighting cast shadows across the maps and the stark tables, lending a somber atmosphere to the makeshift throne room. "It's the plan I would have come up with if I were in your shoes," Brock continued, his hands clasped in front of him as if to brace for the impact of his next words. "But I'm sorry, the Destiny won't arrive for another 2000 years, and you only have a few months left." Across from him, Lord Ares settled into his own chair, the stern set of his jaw cutting a sharp profile against the backdrop of survivalist ambition. His eyes, usually quick to assess and command, now bore into Brock with an intensity that sought answers rather than obedience. “I don't believe you're the kind of man that easily gives up,” Lord Ares said. “So, tell me, why are you so quick to give up on us?" Brock's muscles coiled as Lord Ares's voice rose, the anger in his words palpable in the stale air of the room. He had not intended to provoke such ire; diplomacy was a finesse he had never quite mastered. It was Max who wove words into bridges, not him. "I apologize, Sir, I am not a trained diplomat, Max is," Brock said, his voice steady despite the tension that gripped him. "Clearly," Lord Ares shot back, his gaze sharp and piercing. The lines of his face seemed to harden with every truth he spoke. "My great-grandfather told us that our ship was in trouble even before what you see now, poor decisions by my ancestors led to what is occurring today." Lord Ares paused, his fingers tracing the air as if to sketch out the lineage of misfortune that had brought them to this moment. "My ancestors put the ship in orbit here with the intent to ambush your ship and take it," he continued, his eyes never leaving Brock’s. "Which leads me to the only conclusion there can be." A cold realization settled over Brock as Lord Ares unfolded the narrative that had been woven through generations—a tapestry of survival and subterfuge. "You did not arrive with a rescue party, you came alone, searching for your Captain. “Your Captain was sent here to destroy this ship. "But, from what you've told me and the way you speak of your Captain, he is an honorable man, and disobeyed his orders and came to negotiate peace with us instead," Lord Ares said, his voice betraying a grudging respect for the absent captain. "That much I've already confirmed from Lord Shutter." He leaned in closer, his presence imposing. "You, Sir, are his second, his bodyguard, friend, and confidant." His fingers curled into fists, as though grasping at the fragments of the story. "He arrived a week before you but was unable to report to you that he was safe, and so you came to retrieve him." Brock's jaw clenched, caught between his loyalty to Max and the unraveling assumptions of Lord Ares. There was a kernel of truth, yes, but the context—woven with suspicion—threatened to distort their intent. "And now you see the decay of this ship and have to do nothing but walk away and let us die naturally," Lord Ares' accusation hung in the air like a guillotine blade, poised to sever the fragile strands of trust between them. "And then you'll be able to report the mission successful, and save your Captain the dishonor of disobeying his orders." His arms spread wide, encompassing the fate of his people, the ship, and the legacy of choices made long before either of them had drawn breath. "Is my grasp of the situation correct?" Lord Ares asked, the challenge implicit in his stance. Brock’s head dipped in a slight nod, the movement measured and deliberate. "Mostly, yes," he acknowledged, his voice steady despite the churn of thoughts within him. He understood the gravity of each word exchanged in this dimly lit room, amidst the relics of a bygone era. Lord Ares leaned forward, eyes narrowing as if trying to read the unspoken script behind Brock's gaze. "And if your Captain orders you to help us..." he began, leaving the question hanging like a thread in the silence that followed. "I will obey without question," Brock asserted, the statement ringing with an unspoken understanding of the sacrifices it may entail. Lord Ares studied Brock for a moment longer, his sharp eyes probing for any hint of duplicity. Finally, he gave a slow nod, the gesture deliberate and revealing a begrudging respect. "I can see half-truth in your eyes," he said, with a pointed intonation. "Loyalty of the caliber you pretend does not exist naturally, you’re hiding something." Brock's hands rested lightly on the cool metal surface of the table strewn with maps, his fingers brushing against the crisp edges of the paper. "I was someone else, a long time ago," he began, his voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil that churned within him. "If not for Max, I would be dead." A flicker of understanding passed over Lord Ares's features, the slightest softening of his stern countenance. "Ah, now I understand you," he said, his tone carrying an undertone of respect that had been absent before. "Save a stray dog, and you earn the most loyal of companions. Whatever it is your Captain did to earn such a loyal dog, I can respect him for doing it. I will begin the search for your Captain now. In the meantime, you are free to come and go as you wish." Lord Ares's silhouette melded into the shadows as he departed, his footsteps echoing off the cold metal walls. Brock remained seated, the weight of their conversation pressing heavily upon him. The room seemed to expand with Lord Ares's absence, its emptiness resonating with Brock's own sense of isolation. He rose slowly, his joints stiff from prolonged tension. With methodical precision, he began aiding the men at the work tables. Days slipped by, marked only by the steady rhythm of mechanical repairs and the hopeful, if futile, scavenging for usable tech amidst the relics of a brighter past. The fourth day dawned with the growl of engines heralding Lord Ares's return. Dust billowed in the wake of his convoy, settling on the potato plants that surrounded the compound. Brock watched as the trucks rolled to a stop, their presence disturbing the monotony of recent days. Lord Ares descended from the lead truck, his face etched with lines of frustration. He found Brock at one of the work tables. "I have searched everywhere, even the tunnels," he said, gravelly and spent. "Nobody has seen your Captain." A sheen of perspiration clung to Brock's brow as he leaned over a cluttered work table, surveying the array of disassembled gadgets. The hum of activity around him was punctuated by the occasional clink of metal on metal, a sound that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat in the past few days. He glanced up only when Lord Ares approached, the man's shadow falling across the scattered components of forgotten technology. "He shouldn't be this difficult to find," Brock said, straightening up and wiping his hands on his trousers. His gaze held a flicker of concern despite the stoicism of his stance. "He sticks out like a sore thumb." Lord Ares scowled, the lines on his forehead deepening with his discontent. "I spoke with Lord Shutter, I very much dislike that man," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair in a rare show of agitation. "He said you arrived dressed in rags as a disguise, would your Captain do the same?" The question hung between them, unanswered for a moment. The air felt charged with the possibility of revelation, yet it was clear that Brock harbored doubts about the strategies his Captain might employ. Brock's reply came with a swift shake of his head, the movement sending a ripple through the dimly lit room. "No," he stated firmly, "pilots are trained different from us. We're trained to blend with the population and seek allies until rescue. Pilots are trained to go to high ground and stay out of sight." "I've searched all the high ground," Lord Ares confessed, frustration seeping into his voice. "I even spoke with the Mountain Warlords," he continued, the displeasure at the memory evident in his scowl. Brock could only imagine the scene: the proud Lord Ares haggling with the stern-faced chieftains, bartering for information as if it were another commodity like the potatoes sprouting in the vast fields outside. "It cost me five bags of potatoes each just to get an audience with them." There was a sharpness to Lord Ares' tone now, a pointedness that left no question as to whom he held accountable. He extended a finger towards Brock, accusation written clear upon his features. "You're paying me back for those potatoes." The demand hung between them, and though it carried the weight of a jest, there lingered an earnest undercurrent—a reminder of the stakes at hand. Brock met the Warlord's gaze, understanding the unspoken covenant that was being forged in this moment of shared adversity. They were both invested in finding the Captain, though perhaps for very different reasons. Brock leaned against the workbench, the rustic tools and broken tech around him mute witnesses to his frustration. His arms were crossed, the muscle in his jaw working as he turned over their predicament. "I'd make a poor potato farmer." The grim smile that touched Brock's lips failed to reach his eyes, which remained clouded with concern. With a heavy sigh, he straightened up, the weariness of the search settling on his shoulders like a mantle. "Max is here, somewhere we haven't thought to look." Lord Ares' response came with a shrug that seemed to dismiss the gravity of their situation. "Well, unless he's sitting on top of the sunlamps, I don't know where else to look." Brock caught the flicker of exasperation in Lord Ares' tone and knew the man was grasping at straws just as much as he was. The Warlord's casual mention of the sunlamps sparked a thought, a glimmer of possibility that Brock dared not ignore. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, gaze wandering across the dusty hodgepodge of scavenged items strewn throughout the room, each one a silent piece of the puzzle they were trying to solve. "Sunlamps," Brock said, his eyes lighting up. "No, it can't be that simple... but..." he trailed off, the seed of the thought now taking root firmly within him. Lord Ares, furrowed his brow, his expression a mixture of incredulity and intrigue. "You think he’s sitting on a sunlamp? How in the blazes would he get up there?” Brock moved with a purpose as he rummaged through the crates of laden with arcane devices and scraps of technology that had seen better days. "Emergency staircase inside the central arc," he muttered to himself, snagging a helmet from a pile of equipment with one hand and a laser beacon with the other. They were just where he left them, among the jumble of tools and gadgets that lay scattered across the workbench. Turning on his heel, Brock strode outside with Lord Ares following. Once outside, the vast expanse of sky beckoned. Brock slid the helmet over his head, the seal clicking into place with an assurance that felt like a faint echo of hope. He lifted his gaze upward, eyes tracing the path of the sunlamps high above. The laughter came unbidden, a release of tension that bubbled up from somewhere deep within him. It started as a chuckle, growing into full-bodied laughter that rang out across the potato fields. In that moment, the absurdity of it all—the chase, the search, the strange alliance with Lord Ares—it welled up in him, and Brock couldn't help but surrender to the humor of their cosmic scavenger hunt. "Max, you clever bastard," he said between laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. "Hiding in plain sight." "What is it?" asked Lord Ares, his voice tinged with both concern and curiosity. Brock regarded him for a second, an almost imperceptible smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Without a word, he removed the helmet, its surface reflecting the light from the sunlamps above. He extended it towards Lord Ares, who took it hesitantly, as if it were a relic whose purpose was obscured by time. "Put it on, look up," Brock said simply, nodding toward the helmet. Lord Ares donned the helmet, the suit's technology engaging with a faint hiss around his head, sealing him from the external environment. Brock watched, feeling a sliver of camaraderie with this man who led his people with a blend of rugged practicality and unexpected insight. Brock's fingers traced the sleek contours of the laser beacon as he knelt on the ground. He placed the device with precision, its black casing stark against the pale ground, an artifact amidst ruins. His movements were deliberate, those of a man who had interfaced with technology from worlds beyond this derelict ship. Lord Ares stood watching a pulsing green light high above, his silhouette etched against the dim glow of the sunlamps high above. With the press of a button, Brock activated the beacon. It hummed to life, a pulse of light emanating from it—a signal piercing the void. He stepped back, allowing the waves of light to fill the space between them. The beacon, a lone sentry, called out into the silence of the ship, a silent scream for connection. Lord Ares' voice cut through the quiet, marked by a trace of incredulity. "What am I looking at?" "That is Captain Max Archer, telling us where he is." Brock's words carried a blend of admiration and relief, the tension in his shoulders easing at the prospect of reuniting with his captain—the man who had weathered storms beside him, the one who now unwittingly held their fates in the palm of his hand. "And how do we get him down from there?" asked Lord Ares, his voice betraying a hint of urgency that clashed with the usual stoic demeanor he presented. Brock turned towards Lord Ares, the subtle creases around his eyes deepening as a wry smile tugged at his lips. "He'll come to us," he said confidently. Brock's assurance stemmed not just from hope but from an intricate understanding of the man they were waiting for. Max was a pilot trained to survive, to assess, and to act decisively. He would recognize Brock’s signal for what it was—a beacon of safety, a call to action. "I tramped through every mud hole on this ship looking for him, and this is all we had to do?" Lord Ares asked, his tone laced with a mix of incredulity and exasperation. He gestured dismissively toward the beacon, its light persistently stabbing into the opaque darkness above. Brock stood with arms relaxed at his sides, watching the beacon's light extend skyward. "Hindsight is perfect," he replied in an even tone, his gaze never leaving the luminous trail slicing through the gloom. "I've changed my mind," said Lord Ares, the words carrying a hint of dry humor that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You now owe me fifty bags of potatoes; ten bags for the fuel I wasted, and forty bags for making me talk with that idiot, Lord Shutter." Brock continued leaning against the wall with a grin. “I’m only the dog, remember,” Brock said, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Oh, here comes my master now, you’ll have to ask him for the potatoes.” Lord Ares looked up, and for the first time in five-hundred years, witnessed a shuttle craft flying through the Aurora skies. Shouts of panic and fear erupted from outside the walls of the Ares compound, and from within, someone began banging on a bell to sound the alarm. “The Fleeters have returned!”