Chapter 15 Destiny Colony Ship Lieutenant Harris' boots echoed with a determined rhythm against the sterile metal floor as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors of Destiny. The air was thick with the tang of ozone, a remnant of chaos that had recently unfolded. He approached the holding chamber, where the weight of his duty seemed to press against his chest like the gravity of a foreign planet. A boy whose shoulders were too slender for the burden they bore stood, his eyes, once brimming with the light of uncounted stars and dreams, now held a void as deep as the space that surrounded them. Yet, beneath the surface of that desolation, Harris caught a flicker of defiance—a flame refusing to be extinguished by the cold vacuum awaiting his verdict. "Jonathon," Harris began, his voice betraying none of the conflict that churned within him. "You understand the gravity of your actions?" The boy nodded, his jaw set in a silent challenge to the universe that had suddenly narrowed to this singular moment of reckoning. Harris studied Jonathon, searching for some clue, some hint of remorse or understanding. But Jonathon was an enigma, a closed system of youthful rebellion and potential that Harris could not fully penetrate. "Your brilliance could have fueled a thousand suns, Jonathon," Harris continued, the words heavy on his tongue. "Instead, you chose a path that led us here, was it worth it?" Harris asked, the question as much for himself as for the boy before him. Jonathon's gaze lifted then, locking onto Harris's with an intensity that belied his years. In that look, there was a depth of conviction, of a belief in something greater than the sum of codes and circuitry. It was a look that spoke of battles fought not just in the digital realm, but within the heart and soul. "Speak, Jonathon," Harris urged softly. "Help me understand." But Jonathon remained silent, his secrets sealed behind a barrier as impenetrable as the airlock's titanium walls. Harris felt the invisible weight of his responsibility shifting, settling into a resolve that was clear and unwavering. "Whatever comes next," Harris said, his tone firm yet not unkind, "know that I will seek justice, not vengeance. That is my oath as an officer and as a man who still sees the promise within you." Lieutenant Harris walked away, the echo of his boots now a somber beat against the cold metal, carrying with him the weight of the future. He boarded a private shuttle craft, his thoughts of evidence he’d collected. As he flew through the interior of the massive colony ship, the aftermath of Jonathon’s Brock’s EMP device were everywhere–a device that Jonathon had grossly underestimated when he’d built it. Emergency crews on the ground beneath him worked furiously to restore power, water, and life-support. Thirty million colonists not in Cryo were still bunkered in the emergency shelters and tunnels beneath the main habitat. Three days ago when the sunlamps, for the first time since they’d left Earth, began flashing red and sirens blared, the ship was thrown into chaos. The Fleet had scrambled to deploy its entire defense force, not knowing if they were under attack, or if they’d hit an asteroid, or some other catastrophic failure had befallen them. As he neared the Brock residence, Marines could be seen in defense positions, waiting vigilantly to repel boarders–the general population didn’t yet know the cause of this disaster had been a thirteen-year old boy. That nobody had been killed in the minutes and hours after the electromagnetic pulse had sent millions fleeing to the shelters was a miracle. Lieutenant Harris's boots made no sound as he navigated the chaos of Jonathon Brock's room. The hum of the Destiny's life support systems were conspicuously absent, though there was no danger of running out of air, the Destiny’s vast artificial habitat filled with trees would protect the ship until they were repaired. His gaze swept over the detritus of a life interrupted: empty energy drink cans congregated in haphazard clusters on the desk, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the grim situation at hand. Scattered notes, covered in mathematical formulas and scribbles of code, told a tale of genius misdirected—a mind that could have propelled humanity forward, now on the precipice of oblivion. Harris reached out, fingertips grazing the edge of a paper, feeling the indentations of hasty pen strokes. The weight of potential squandered settled heavy in his chest. The computer, once the heart of Jonathon's digital escapades, lay exposed and gutted. The forensic team had been meticulous; the hard drive's removal left a gaping cavity within the metallic carcass. It stood as a testament to the finality of the investigation, the end of the line for Jonathon's cybernetic exploits. His attention shifted, drawn to an array of sports trophies that adorned the shelves—gleaming symbols of physical prowess and competitive spirit. They reflected the multifaceted nature of the boy whose fate now teetered on the edge. Harris let his hand linger on the cool sheen of a trophy base, contemplating the duality of Jonathon's existence: both athlete and hacker, victor and villain. The distant thrum of engines crescendoed into a rumble that vibrated through the floor, pulling Harris from his contemplation. He approached the window with measured steps, taking care not to jostle the telescope—a silent sentinel to the last thing Jonathon had viewed through it. He had decided to withhold this small clue, lest an innocent life fell in the shadow of Jonathon’s choices. Outside, dust and debris stirred in the wake of the landing shuttle, settling around the figures now disembarking. Through the pane, he watched as General Gregory Meyers and Colonel Russel Hobbs of Fleet Command emerged into the harsh artificial light, their somber faces etched with the weight of duty. The cadre of Marine guards fanned out with precision, a steel-clad testament to the heightened state of alert. Harris took a deep breath, feeling the insignia on his chest press against the fabric of his uniform. His reflection in the glass—a man defined by service and ambition—stared back at him. With meticulous care, he smoothed down the lines of his jacket and ran a hand along the sharp crease of his trousers. Each motion was deliberate, an embodiment of the order he was sworn to uphold. With his spine rigid and head held high, Harris awaited the entry of his superiors. The anticipation of their judgment mingled with his own certainty of the case's merit. As the investigating officer, he had delved into the darkest corners of Jonathon Brock's life, unearthing the truths that would either condemn or absolve. In this moment, the path of his career hinged upon delivering justice with unwavering conviction. The clatter of boots echoed through the corridor, a percussive harbinger that set Lieutenant Harris's heart to an arrhythmic cadence. It was the sound of authority approaching, the weight of consequence in each step resonating against the walls of a home torn apart by one poor decision. The anticipation knotted his stomach, a visceral echo of Academy days when the footsteps of an instructor could herald either praise or punishment. Harris snapped to attention as the two superior officers entered. General Gregory Meyers, the embodiment of military prestige, crossed the threshold with the air of one who commanded not just the room but the very fate of the stars themselves. Beside him, Colonel Russel Hobbs, a tactician whose mind was as sharp as the medals adorning his chest, followed with measured stride. "Begin your briefing," said Colonel Hobbs, his voice carrying the weight of command and an expectation for clarity. The order was delivered with an economy of words, a testament to the efficiency valued by those who inhabited the upper echelons of military strategy. Lieutenant Harris held the report out to Colonel Hobbs. The Colonel's hand met the report, the transfer symbolic of the trust placed in Harris's ability to navigate the complexities of justice on the fringes of known space. Harris felt the gaze of both officers upon him, their discerning eyes seeking the truth amidst the chaos Jonathon had wrought. It was time to brief the men who held the power to alter the course of lives with the stroke of a pen and seal of a verdict. "Sir, three days ago at 0145, the hacker known as Death Knight, Jonathan Brock, breached the Defense Network," Harris began, his voice unwavering despite the tension knotting his stomach. The room seemed to contract around him, the air thick with anticipation. "The Fleet Special Intelligence Officer known as 'Alakazam' immediately deployed additional cyber defenses, resulting in a ten-minute cyber battle with Death Knight." General Meyers' eyes narrowed slightly. Harris could almost hear the swift calculations running through the General's mind, assessing threats, considering responses. Meanwhile, Colonel Hobbs stood motionless, but Harris knew the man's thoughts were far from still. "At 0150, Alakazam found the physical location of Death Knight, and the Marine Fast Reaction Unit was deployed." Harris paused for a brief second, allowing the implications to settle. "At 0200, the Marine unit entered the residence of Jonathan Brock; however, before Jonathan could be taken into custody, he deployed an EMP device, destroying his own computer, as well as causing significant damage to the Destiny." The muscles in Harris' jaw tightened as he listed the aftermath. "The current damages are estimated at over one trillion. Damages include all computers in the Northern Hemisphere, as well as nearly half the computers in the Southern Hemisphere, four data centers, six oxygen generators, the water works, resulting in significant flooding, half the sunlamps, and the Northern Hemisphere's hydrogen power plant, resulting in a blackout of the Northern Hemisphere power grid. Power was only partially restored a few hours ago." Silence hung between them for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, as the severity of the situation sank in. Then, General Meyers broke it with a question that felt as cold as the void outside the hull. "Is Jonathan Brock guilty beyond reasonable doubt?" Harris' throat felt dry, but duty fortified his resolve. The answer he gave would echo through the halls of justice and could condemn or redeem a life hanging in the balance. Lieutenant Harris stood rigidly, the weight of evidence firm in his voice. "Yes, Sir," he replied. "His fingerprints are on the EMP device, and the Marines saw him push the button as they entered the room." He could feel the gravity of those words, how they anchored the fate of young Jonathan Brock to an irreversible conclusion. General Meyers, a man whose stern face rarely betrayed emotion, nodded thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the implications. The room seemed to hold its breath, the hum of the Destiny's life support systems a faint whisper in the background. "Very well, your prosecution of the case is impeccable," Meyers said finally, his voice carrying the weight of command, the authority that had shaped the lives of countless soldiers under his leadership. "Now put on your defense attorney cap and convince me there is reasonable doubt." Harris felt a momentary flicker of surprise at the General's request; it was unusual for a man so accustomed to decisive action to entertain hypotheticals. "Sir?" Harris's voice cracked slightly, the single word hanging in the air between them. General Meyers fixed him with a steady gaze, the kind that had stared down many a crisis without flinching. "Everyone will be clamoring for justice," he began, his tone even but firm, the lines around his eyes deepening with the gravity of what was at stake. "Right up until someone leaks the security footage of a 13-year-old boy tumbling out of an airlock. The Labor Party would like nothing more than to plaster it all over the news that I'm murdering children." There was a cold pragmatism in Meyers' words, a recognition of the political chess game that played out behind the scenes of every decision made aboard Destiny. It was a warning and a lesson rolled into one; the currency of power wasn't just about right or wrong—it was about perception, about narratives woven and unraveled in the court of public opinion. Harris felt the weight of that reality settle on his shoulders, understanding that the path to justice was seldom straight and rarely clear. Harris straightened his posture, his fingers grazing the cold metal of Jonathon’s now abandoned desk as he gathered his resolve. He knew that beyond the looming silhouette of General Meyers and the stern scrutiny of Colonel Hobbs, the truth was a delicate and dangerous thing to wield. It could cut through the fabric of order on Destiny, or it could be smothered, buried under layers of necessity and command. "General, if I may," Harris began, locking his gaze with Meyers', ensuring his words carried the weight of his conviction. "There is something that might indicate Jonathan was not acting alone, or perhaps being influenced by a powerful hyper-mind." "Go on," prompted the General, his voice low but resonant in the stillness of the room, like the distant hum of Destiny's engines. Harris felt the gravity of every eye in the room upon him, every breath held in a collective pause. The shadows seemed to lean closer, pressing against the boundaries of the moment with silent anticipation. Harris stepped forward, his boots imprinting a firm resolve on the soft carpet as he approached the map. Destiny's interior was always well kept, but this room felt different now—stained with the residue of betrayal. His hand hovered momentarily before touching the tattered edge of the map, the one piece of physical evidence that contradicted the precision of Jonathan's digital purge. "Jonathan made a mistake, he erased his tracks in cyberspace with surgical precision," Harris explained, pointing to the signature scrawled at the bottom corner of the map. The ink there seemed to taunt them with its permanence—a stark contrast to the ephemeral nature of the electronic footprints Jonathan had so effectively obliterated. "But here, he left something tangible." He tapped on the childish handwriting of the words 'Brock and Max, Friends Forever', each letter a breadcrumb leading to a truth yet uncovered. The General leaned in, his seasoned eyes narrowing to dissect the clue presented before him. The harsh lighting of the room cast a sheen over the glossy surface of the map where the signature lay—a child's script, innocuous at first glance but now laden with implications. "An accomplice?" The General's voice held a tinge of skepticism mixed with curiosity. He looked up from the map, meeting Harris' steady gaze. "Do we have an identity on this Max?" Lieutenant Harris settled his gaze on the map, a silent beacon of truth amidst the chaos of digital warfare. "Yes, Sir," he affirmed with a calm assertiveness that carried the weight of his investigative efforts. "We traced the print date to just prior to a 4th Grade mandatory field trip to the outer-hull. This map was sold at a gift shop in the outer-hull. "Security footage shows Jonathan Brock, and one Maximillian Archer purchased two maps, this is one of them." He gestured toward the artifact that may as well have been an ancient relic, its significance magnified under the current scrutiny. His finger barely grazed the edge as he pointed out the transaction that now linked the two boys, a transaction that had been ordinary at the time, but now was laden with consequence. General Meyers' expression shifted, the lines of command and years of service etched into his face grew taut with contemplation. "Max Archer?" he murmured almost to himself, as if the name conjured a myriad of unspoken narratives. "Possibly the strongest hyper-mind we've ever encountered." The General's stance hardened, a reflection of the gravity of the situation they faced. "You're suggesting Maximillian influenced Jonathan to commit the crime." It wasn't a question so much as a summation, the strategic mind of General Meyers piecing together the unthinkable scenario from the evidence laid bare. A slight exhale escaped his lips—a commander coming to terms with the complexity of the battlefield before him. "So, now we’re looking at spacing two thirteen-year old boys?" There was a hint of incredulity in his tone, a touch of the personal struggle behind the mantle of leadership. It was clear the General grappled with the moral quandary presented, the lives of two prodigious youths hanging in the balance of his decision. “We’ll have riots in the streets, this is not helpful, Lieutenant.” Colonel Hobbs' eyes narrowed, the map absorbing his entire focus. His hand hovered over its surface, tracing invisible lines between the scattered points that only he seemed to perceive. The silence in the room was a thick veil, punctuated only by the Colonel's deliberate breaths. "Sir, I think there is something here far greater than what Jonathan did," he finally spoke, his voice carrying a weight that demanded attention. General Meyers stepped closer, his presence commanding yet cautious. He watched as Hobbs' finger paused over a particular mark on the map, an unassuming dot amidst a sea of coordinates. "What did you find, Colonel?" the General asked, his tone conveying both authority and a keen interest in the implications of Hobbs' discovery. Colonel Hobbs' forefinger danced with precision across the map's expanse, each stop a star, a planet, or a celestial marvel that had ignited dreams in explorers for generations. "There are destination points marked on the map, all places I'd like to see myself," he said, his voice carrying the undertone of a man who had spent his life chasing horizons yet unseen. But then his finger halted, lingering over voids where no notable landmark should exist, where the blackness of space reigned supreme. "But, there are points marked in places where there is nothing but space." Lieutenant Harris felt a prickling sensation along the back of his neck—a mixture of anticipation and dread. He stepped forward, his gaze shifting from the Colonel's absorbed expression to the anomalies noted on the charted expanse. The silence hung heavy, as if the room itself held its breath, awaiting his input. "Yes, Sir," Harris interjected, his voice steady despite the gravity of their situation. "We already know what those are. They're maintenance way-points where you'd have to stop to do maintenance on the cryo pods." Colonel Hobbs's brow furrowed, his gaze never leaving Lieutenant Harris's face as he spoke. "That is one possible theory, Lieutenant, and a clever ploy to hide their true meaning." In the taut silence that followed, Harris felt the weight of the Colonel's scrutiny like a physical force. He maintained his composure, his stance rigid, every muscle in his body coiled tight with tension. The warning in the Colonel's eyes was an unspoken command—stay silent, don't challenge, don't question. Harris understood the stakes now; this game had escalated beyond the realm of law and military order. It was a chessboard where political machinations overshadowed the black and white of right and wrong. The Colonel's next move would be critical, and Harris knew his role was to be the unwavering soldier, not the maverick. Around them, the room seemed to shrink, the scattered remnants of a young man's life suddenly insignificant in the shadow of power plays. The boys, Jonathon Brock and Maximillian Archer, were mere pawns caught between giants, their fates hinging on the whims of those who held the reins. The Colonel's authority filled the space, as palpable as the very air they breathed. He was about to spin the narrative, to reshape the disaster into something manageable, something controllable. And with each word he would utter next, the truth would bend and warp until it served the desired purpose. Harris's jaw clenched, a quiet rebellion against the charade unfolding before him. Yet, his voice remained locked behind disciplined lips. He knew that in this moment, silence was his only ally. As much as he yearned for justice, for accountability, he recognized that the boys' lives now depended on the protective veil the Colonel and General would provide. In this room, where the destiny of two young souls hung in balance, it was clear that justice was not blind—it was watching, calculating, and ever strategic. The map rustled slightly as Colonel Hobbs ran a fingertip over the constellation of marked points, his touch leaving a faint smudge on the glossy surface. The room was tense with anticipation, all eyes fixed on him as he formed his next words. "What do you think they are, Colonel?" asked the General, his voice cutting through the silence like a laser through the darkness of space. "Sir," Hobbs began, his gaze not leaving the map, "I believe Mr. Archer has seen something in hyper-space, something located within these points, but doesn't understand what they are yet." He paused, allowing the significance of his statement to sink in among those present. "He is an untrained hyper-thought mind." Harris felt the weight of the revelation press against him, his own thoughts racing as he considered the implications. The Colonel had just shifted the narrative, transforming an innocent mark on a map into a tantalizing mystery. "The problem is," the Colonel continued, "Mr. Archer has to make it through the Academy before he can tell us what he saw." He straightened up, locking eyes with the General. "However, while Mr. Archer is academically prepared for the Academy, he cannot pass any of the physical requirements." There it was, laid bare—the unspoken truth that Maximillian Archer possessed a gift that could be pivotal to the Destiny's journey, yet his path to potential greatness was obstructed by the limitations of his own body. Harris observed the exchange, knowing this new angle would change everything for the boys, especially for Jonathon Brock, whose fate was hanging by a thread. The General's nod was almost imperceptible, a mere dip of the head that carried the weight of unspoken strategy. "I see, he needs someone to assist him, someone he can trust, a confidant, a friend." Lieutenant Harris stood rigidly, keenly aware of the electric tension that arced through the room. His gaze flicked between the two men, their postures betraying nothing of the inner machinations at play. "Yes, Sir," replied Colonel Hobbs, his voice steady as steel. "He needs a strong hyper-flex that can protect him, and drag him through the physical requirements of the Academy." The Colonel's eyes held a glint of something—perhaps resolve or calculation—as he delivered the next line with deliberate gravity. "But, the only such person I can think of is standing in an airlock waiting for his sentence to be executed." The words hung in the space, stark and resounding. Harris felt a chill run down his spine at the ridiculous scheme the Colonel was weaving. Harris felt the gravity of the General's gaze fix upon him, his voice a low rumble of authority as he gave life to the fantasy the Colonel was creating. "This is a matter of the highest national security, all other issues are secondary to this. Lieutenant, offer Jonathan a plea deal. His sentence is suspended under the condition that he assists Maximilian Archer to graduation. If he does, I will have his record purged. And, Mr. Brock is never to speak of the plea deal to Mr. Archer. This matter is settled." The words ricocheted through Harris’ mind – a plea deal, an unexpected lifeline for Jonathon Brock dangled before Harris with the cool expectation of obedience. Every muscle in Harris’s body tensed, a silent battle raging within him as he stifled the instinct to challenge the decree. He could feel the weight of his own career, balanced precariously on the edge of this very moment. "Yes, Sir," was all he managed, his voice a controlled veneer over the turmoil that churned inside him. As the General and Colonel exchanged a brief, knowing look, Harris's trained eyes caught the subtle play of power between them. The unsaid truths spun a web that ensnared not just Jonathon and Maximilian, but himself as well, in a future that was anything but certain. A shiver of foreboding traced the lieutenant's spine. Harris understood then, with a clarity that pained him, that these two men before him, seasoned architects of fate, would never truly allow Jonathan and Maximillian their freedom. They were chess pieces in a game that never really ended; players might leave the board, but they were never allowed to leave the game. It wasn't about what was right or lawful anymore – it was about control, about ensuring that no loose thread unraveled the tapestry of their power. And in this realization, a fierce resolve took root in Harris's heart. He silently swore an oath to himself, a promise etched deep into the fiber of his being. By the time these boys had served their purpose and the shadows of the General and Colonel loomed over them once more, ready to snuff out their futures with the cold finality of an 'accident,' he would be there. A Wing Commander, with the influence and means to spirit them away, to grant them the fresh start they deserved far beyond the reach of the Destiny's long shadow. Aurora Colony Ship Ares Territory The tension in the air was almost tangible as the Warlords, a motley crew of power and fury, faced each other with narrowed eyes. Not one of them showed any interest in the provided chairs that stood awkwardly amidst the potato plants, its very presence an insult to their sense of standing. The field inside Lord Ares' compound had been transformed into a makeshift conference ground, the rich soil beneath their boots a testament to the lord's preference for potential crop damage over having such volatile guests within his stronghold. In the midst of this standoff, Brock positioned himself as a living barrier between the war leaders and Max, who was engrossed in his task, the charcoal stick in his hand dancing across the shuttle's metal skin. The equations and diagrams seemed foreign to the dusty earth they stood on, cryptic symbols that held answers Brock could not fathom. As Max continued his arcane scribbling, a subtle movement caught Brock's attention. Some of the Warlords, under the guise of casual interest, were pocketing potatoes from the field. They did so with an air of entitlement, as though the produce of the land was theirs by right. Brock's gaze flickered to Lord Ares, whose complexion now matched the crimson hue of the setting sun, veins throbbing at his temples in suppressed rage. He remained silent, however, the promise of Max's revelations outweighing his anger over the petty thievery. Suddenly, impatience sparked action. A Warlord, broad-shouldered and bristling with offense, attempted to bulldoze past Brock towards Max. His progress was abruptly halted as he collided with Brock's immovable form. With a swift motion, Brock used the man's momentum against him, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. The fallen Warlord's grunts filled the brief silence as he floundered under Brock’s hold, his dignity uprooted like the tubers around him. Brock watched without expression as the man struggled, the soil clinging to his ornate attire. Only when the lesson had sufficiently sunk in did Brock grasp the back of the Warlord's tunic, hoisting him effortlessly to his feet before shoving him back toward the assembly with a stern look that quelled any further thoughts of rebellion. "Patience," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the rustling of leaves and the murmur of discontent among the ranks. "You'll want to hear what he has to say." With that, he turned his attention back to Max, ready to intervene again if necessary, a sentinel guarding the thin line between order and chaos. Brock's gaze swept across the assembly of Warlords, noting the subtle divide between those who seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation and those who were merely opportunists in the guise of leaders. A select few stood slightly removed from the throng, their keen eyes surveying the scene with a patience that spoke of experience and strategic minds. They understood the stakes without needing to voice them, their silence an unspoken challenge to anyone who dared underestimate their resolve. The arrival of these Warlords had been as swift as it was silent; they had converged on the Ares compound within a day of Max's flight through the Aurora skies. Their armies now lay like dormant beasts beyond the compound walls, a latent threat that underscored the tension of the gathering. Amongst the formidable figures, Lord Thor and Lord Odin emanated an aura of primal power, their presence commanding attention like twin peaks rising above a rugged terrain. Lord Da'Vinci's sharp eyes flicked with curiosity, his mind no doubt dissecting each variable of the crisis. Lord Khan's sheer physicality was a testament to his battlefield prowess, while Shogun Takanata's composed demeanor hinted at disciplined strategy rather than brute force. Brock mused at the bizarre tapestry before him, the Warlords appearing as if plucked from disparate eras and flung together in this moment of reckoning. It struck him as a surreal parade of Earth's history, the vibrant and varied garb contrasting starkly against the backdrop of the greatest engineering achievement ever attempted by humans. His attention lingered for a moment on the lesser-known Warlords, whose features bore no legendary trademarks but whose eyes gleamed with a darkness that was all too familiar. There was Lord Shutter, whose calculating gaze missed nothing, and the odd figure beside him—a man whose flamboyant attire and forced eccentricity would have been comical if not for the predatory glint in his eye. As the wind whispered through the fields, carrying the scent of earth and anticipation, Brock remained vigilant, an anchor amidst the storm of personalities. The dance of diplomacy would soon give way to the harsh chorus of survival, and he knew that when Max spoke, the world as they knew it would tilt on its axis. Max's shadow stretched long and stark across the potato field as he wheeled around to face the Warlords, his figure backlit by the dimming light that filtered through the compound's protective barrier. The crisp turn of his body cut through the murmured conversations and redirected every eye upon him. "Everyone in this habitat will die in three months," Max declared, his voice carrying an edge sharper than the swords some of the Warlords wore. The assertion sliced into the gathering like a scythe, and an immediate stillness befell the group, the weight of his words settling over the field with an almost tangible heaviness. Brock watched from his position, his gaze shifting between the assembled leaders whose expressions had frozen into masks of attentiveness. Lord Thor's brow furrowed deeply, the lines etched there a testament to countless battles of wits and weapons. Beside him, Lord Odin stood as immutable as the mountain he ruled, yet even he seemed taken aback by the gravity of Max's proclamation. "The trees were designed to be part of the life-support system," Max continued, unspooling the dire facts with clinical precision. "A tree produces 274 liters of oxygen a day, and humans consume 550 liters of oxygen a day." Brock could see Lord Da'Vinci's fingers twitch, as if aching to sketch out the problem and engineer a solution. Shogun Takanata's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, perhaps calculating the odds of survival or considering strategies for what was to come. Max did not pause, ensuring the momentum of their focus remained unbroken. "There were originally enough trees to support 70% of the oxygen requirement for a maximum of 68 million humans. The mechanical oxygen generators supplied the remaining 40%. The trees are now gone, and only 4 of the 10 oxygen generators are still working." The severity of the situation settled like ash on the crowd. Brock sensed the shift in the air—fear and realization mingling with the scent of disturbed soil as some Warlords subconsciously clutched the pilfered potatoes in their pockets, symbols of life they were on the brink of losing. In the silence that followed, Brock surveyed the Warlords. Their stoic facades betrayed by the subtle tightening of muscles, the unconscious readiness for action, the primal instinct to fight against the encroaching shadow of death. It was clear that Max had successfully captured the undivided attention of every warlord present—a feat as impressive as it was necessary. Now came the time for solutions, for plans, for a united front against extinction. Brock steeled himself for what was to come, knowing that their very survival hinged on what Max would say next. It took mere moments for the inevitable question to arise, cutting through the quiet like a sword through silk. "You are a Fleeter, can you fix what is broken?" Lord Thor's voice was steady, and his eyes focused as sharp as the sword that hung from his waist. The Warlord's eyes, hard as chipped flint, bore into Max, searching for the thread of salvation only technology could provide. "Thirty years," Max began, his voice carrying a weight that matched the gravity of the revelation that had just unfolded before them. "In an ideal world with resources at our disposal, it would be plausible." He let the statement hang in the air, punctuating the hopelessness of relying on traditional repairs. The silence was palpable, thickening with each second that ticked by unclaimed by further explanation. It was Shogun Takanata who shattered the quiet, his voice a calm counterpoint to the underlying tension. "You have a plan," he stated plainly, every word deliberate. There was no question in his tone, only the certainty of a leader accustomed to reading the undercurrents of strategy and intent. Max nodded slightly, acknowledging the Shogun's perceptiveness. In the eyes of these hardened men, the smallest gesture spoke volumes, and Max was well aware that his next words would either forge a fragile alliance or incite chaos among them. He chose them carefully, ready to set in motion events that would redefine survival for all aboard the Aurora. Max's fingers danced over the surface of his wrist device, the subtle glow casting an eerie light on his determined features. "Indeed, I have a plan," Max said, his voice a steady beacon amidst the sea of wavering alliances and concealed fears. "Some of you already know this world you live in is a ship floating in space." "Ridiculous," shouted Lord Shutter, his voice cracking through the tense air like a whip. His eyes, gleaming with the same cruelty that had marked his rise to power, now darted around, seeking validation from his peers. He was a man unaccustomed to having his reality challenged, and Max's declaration was an affront to the order he believed he commanded. Lord Thor's gaze, however, held a different spark—a glint of intrigue perhaps, or the beginning of understanding. Brock noted the subtle shift in Thor's posture, a readiness to consider the inconceivable. And Shogun Takanata, ever the astute observer, remained silent, his thoughts undoubtedly turning over each implication with the precision of a grandmaster contemplating a complex board. "Your skepticism is noted, Lord Shutter," Max continued, unfazed by the outburst. "But what I speak of is fact, not fancy." Brock stood sentinel, his presence a silent testament to the gravity of Max's words. Each Warlord would have to choose—cling to the realm of disbelief, or embrace the stark reality that their entire existence hinged upon a vessel adrift in the cosmos. Max's gaze hardened as it met Lord Shutter's incredulous stare. With purpose, his fingers moved deftly over the slick surface of his wrist device. A subtle click emanated from it, barely audible over the collective breath held by those gathered. "I have assumed command of the ship," Max declared, his voice steady and commanding, "and now control all functions." His tone left no room for debate; it was a statement of fact, delivered with the confidence of one who held the power to alter their fates with a mere flick of his wrist. A tense pause followed, stretching out like the vast expanse of space that cocooned them. Max continued, "I have no time for disbelief, now see the truth." The air itself seemed to tremble as he activated the command. The armored shielding, which had stood unyielding since their departure from Earth, began to retreat with a symphony of mechanical groans and clicks. The two massive hemispheres of the cylinder habitat peeled back slowly, revealing a sliver of the outside cosmos. First came the natural light—a gentle cascade that painted everything in hues of dawn. It was a stark contrast to the artificial glow they'd grown accustomed to, and it prompted squints and awed murmurs from the assembly. Then, as if the heavens themselves were opening up, the gas giant they orbited made its grand entrance into their line of sight. Its colossal presence hung like a deity in the void, bands of swirling storms adorning its surface with a majesty that was both beautiful and terrifying. None among them could tear their gazes away as realization dawned, and the once-mythical expanse of space was laid bare before them. Max's voice cut through the stunned murmurs like a knife through the tension-thick air. "In three minutes, we will come out of the dark side of the planet, and you will see the sun for the first time." The mechanical symphony continued its crescendo, gears and hydraulics singing the prelude to revelation. The armored shield of the Aurora, a steadfast guardian against the void, now relinquished its duty. It retracted with deliberate grace, betraying no hint of the centuries it had stood sentinel. Lord Ares, his anger over pilfered potatoes forgotten, watched with a warrior's intensity. His hand twitched at his side, a reflex of a mind grappling with strategy even in the face of the unknown. Brock, the silent sentry amidst the gathering, maintained his stance between the leaders, his gaze following Max's every move. As the sliver of outer space widened, the first shy rays teased the edges of the habitat. There was a collective intake of breath among the Warlords as the promise of daybreak loomed. Lord Thor's massive frame seemed to lean forward imperceptibly, as if his strength might hasten the celestial event. Max, the harbinger of their fate, stood resolute. The fabric of his suit caught the nascent light, casting him in the role of a prophet illuminated by his own prophecy. He waited, the gravity of his command settling upon the shoulders of every person present. And then, with the subtlety of a new dawn, the first genuine rays of sunlight pierced the darkness that had shrouded their lives. The light fanned out, bathing the assembly in warmth and color so vivid it seemed to paint their world anew. For a moment, all grievances, all machinations of war and dominance, were forgotten. The Warlords, regardless of their histories or ambitions, shared the same hallowed ground—silent witnesses to the awakening of a star that had been nothing more than a legend to them until now. The golden coronet of the sun crowned the horizon, its rays unfurling like a banner across the sky. "Gentlemen, your first sunrise, but not your last," Max announced, his voice steady against the swell of light that bathed the warlords' awestruck faces. As the full majesty of the sun ascended into view, an unexpected movement caught Max's eye. Lord Odin, whose presence had always been immovable, was lowering his massive frame. His knees met the ground with a soft thud, and his head bowed reverently toward the burgeoning dawn. Around him, the other warlords followed to their knees, their expressions ranging from disbelief to wonder, their eyes fixed on the spectacle before them. Max's brow furrowed as he watched their act of veneration. It had been thousands of generations since these descendants of Earth had seen the true light of a star, their lives spent under artificial luminescence. Their technological heritage had frayed to myth and superstition, and now, as they gazed upon the raw power of a sunrise, Max understood how easily these hardened warriors could interpret this celestial event as divine. Silently, he contemplated the implications. This moment might be the seed of a new mythology, a belief system born from the awe of nature's grandeur rather than the cold logic of science. In the eyes of these men, who had never witnessed such a sight, what else could this be but the hand of a higher power? Max let out a quiet sigh. There would be no stopping the tide of faith that might arise from this. Their new religion, whatever it would become, would have to run its course. He could only hope that it would be a force for unity rather than division, guiding these people towards a future where they could once again embrace their lost legacy of stars and space. The ground beneath their feet began to tremble; a shiver that crept like a whisper through the soil, escalating into a vibration that rattled the very air. Brock's stance shifted to compensate for the unexpected tremor as he steadied himself against the shifting gravity. The collective awe that had held the Warlords in thrall fractured, uncertainty creeping into furrowed brows and tightened grips on ancient weapon hilts. "My God, Max? What are you doing?" Brock's hushed words slipped out amidst the din of stirring warlords and unsettled whispers. "Warlords," Max began again, with a commanding tone that rose above the subsiding tremor, "this is but the beginning of your salvation's trial." His gaze swept across the faces, each marked by the legacy of battles fought and territories won. "Your strength, your resolve, has been honed in the crucible of this world's chaos. But now, you face a challenge unlike any other—a battle for survival that requires a unity that transcends old feuds." Brock watched as Max addressed each lord in turn, invoking not just their titles, but the latent potential he saw within them. To Lord Thor, whose might could inspire; to Lord Da'Vinci, whose intellect could innovate; to Shogun Takanata, whose strategy could prevail—they all were essential cogs in Max's audacious plan. "Your cooperation is not a request," Max continued, his tone laced with the weight of inevitability. "It is the only path forward if we are to navigate the perils that await us. The stakes are nothing less than our collective existence." As the murmurs of trepidation settled into contemplative silence, Brock knew that Max had planted the seeds of necessity. Here, between the trembling earth and the light of a new dawn, they would have to forge an alliance or face extinction. The choice was stark, and time, as ever, was unyielding. The engines' roar settled into a persistent thrum that vibrated through the soles of Brock's boots and into his bones. It was a sound that heralded change, an inescapable force propelling them toward an uncertain future. Max's voice cut through the hum, steady and sure. "I have ignited the Aurora's engines," he declared, gesturing toward the heavens where a tapestry of stars sprawled across the sky. His finger pointed to a particular celestial body, barely distinguishable from the myriad of twinkling lights. "If you look to the left of the sun, you will see a bright point of light. That is the fourth planet of this solar system. That is your new home. We will arrive in four months." In the silence that followed, the Warlords exchanged wary glances, the gravity of Max's words weighing heavily upon their armored shoulders. The stoic Lord Thor, a pillar among his peers, turned to face Max, his eyes narrowing beneath the furrowed brow of a warrior who had weathered countless storms. "You said we only have three months of air left," Lord Thor stated, his deep voice resonating with the authority of one accustomed to command. Max's fingers danced across the wrist device, manipulating unseen controls with swift precision. His nod was curt, an acknowledgment of the grim arithmetic that put their lives in the balance. " I will need everyone to evacuate to the vaults and maintenance tunnels. Less volume of air is needed down there, it will give us another month until we arrive." A shiver ran through the assembly as his words conjured images of subterranean refuge, a warren of survival against the clock's merciless tick. The sun, now revealed in its glory, cast long shadows over the faces of the Warlords, etching their uncertainty in stark relief. Lord Thor's gaze did not waver; the towering figure seemed carved from the mountain territories he ruled. "And then what?" he demanded. His voice, though quiet, harnessed the tension of the moment, demanding the final piece to a puzzle only Max held. Max's gaze drifted past the assembly of Warlords, beyond the walls of the Ares compound, and settled on the colossal ring that adorned the Aurora like a crown. He extended an arm, pointing to the structure with a steady hand, the metallic glint of his wrist device catching the sunlight. "Do you see that ring outside the Aurora with the shiny domes attached to it?" His voice was measured, each word chosen with care to shepherd the minds of those before him toward an unfathomable future. "There are one hundred of those domes." A collective murmur rose from the Warlords as they followed the trajectory of Max's gesture, their eyes squinting against the brightness of the new day. The domes, a hundred promises of salvation, gleamed under the sun's caress. "We will divide the population among the domes," Max continued, the gravity of every syllable pulling more heavily than the altered tides below their feet. "When we enter orbit around the fourth planet, those domes will detach and land on the planet." Lord Thor's brows furrowed, his mind grappling with the scale of the endeavor. Around him, the other Warlords stood transfixed by the audacity of the plan, their previous grievances rendered petty against the backdrop of survival. Max's gaze swept back to the men before him, ensuring he had their undivided attention. "You will not be able to leave the domes without a spacesuit, but you will get a second chance to rebuild your civilization—a second chance to live and fix the mistakes you've made." The declaration hung in the air, a lifeline cast across the void of despair that had threatened to consume them. It was an offer of redemption, a challenge that would either doom or deliver them all. Brock’s head snapped up at the odd choice of words–they resonated strongly with him, a litany from long ago. Max caught his eye, a look of understanding passing over his face. Max reached into his pocket and retrieved a faded map, folded and creased. Brock’s breath caught in his throat, it was the map of the galaxy that both of them once charted with their dreams. “You knew?” Brock barely choked out the words. “I knew,” Max replied, “but we both had to play our parts carefully if we were ever to be free.” “What are you planning?” asked Brock. “This ship can be fixed,” said Max, his voice a whisper only Brock could hear, “but only once she no longer has the weight of a hundred million people tearing her apart. Once these people are safely in their new home, the ship will easily support two lifeforms in cryo pods. And while we slumber, the maintenance bots will have a thousand years to repair the ship.” “What of Lieutenant Alara, and the Destiny?” asked Brock. “I am leaving Lieutenant Alara and her mutineers with the colonists, and for the Destiny, we owe it nothing. They sent us here, thinking the Aurora was still a powerful ship. They expected us to die, to cover the loose ends of a mistake two boys made. I am taking this ship, it is my prize for the fear I had to live every day. I am plotting the course we dreamed of when we were boys.” “Max, you were innocent,” said Brock, the conviction of his belief in his eyes. “No, I wasn’t, but you stood ready to take my punishment alone. I gave you the equation to build that EMP device, and in that I was guilty. I didn’t know you were going to build it, you idiot, but giving you that equation was a terrible misuse of my unique abilities. I was too scared to stand up and say anything. I knew what they were about to do to you, but I was a coward.” “I would have gladly died to protect you, and still would,” said Brock, a smile crawling across his features and a hand reaching out to rest on Max’s shoulder. Let’s go to the stars.” The End.