Riven stood rigid, his hand snapping to his forehead in a salute that was technically perfect but vibrated with the kind of tension usually reserved for bomb disposal.

  “Sir,” Riven barked, his voice cracking only slightly. “My apologies, Sergeant. The shuttle pilot… uh… well, I was not flying the shuttle, Sir. I exerted maximum passive effort to arrive sooner.”

  Passive effort? Riven thought, mentally kicking himself. What does that even mean? I sound like a droid.

  He stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with the scar that bisected Phillean’s face. Instead, he focused on the chest plate of the Sergeant’s armor. Above the standard Inquisition eye-and-sunburst, there was a unit patch: a heavy warhammer hovering over a stylized, white-dot galaxy.

  However, SFC Phillean didn't blink, just staring at Riven’s salute. The silence stretched out, filled only by the hum of the hangar’s atmospheric scrubbers and the heavy breathing of Noxin.

  Then, Halloway snorted.

  The Quartermaster covered his mouth, but the snort turned into a chuckle, and then Phillean’s stone-cold expression cracked. The Sergeant let out a breathy laugh and shaking his head.

  “‘Maximum passive effort,’” Phillean repeated, his voice losing the gravelly bark and settling into a rough baritone. “That’s a new one. I’ll have to remember that for the Captain.”

  “We got him,” Halloway grinned, leaning against a crate. “Look at him. He’s shaking in his boots.”

  Riven lowered his hand slowly. “Sergeant?”

  “Relax, Cadet Holt. Or rather Private Holt now,” Phillean said, stepping back and resting a hand on his lance by his side. “You aren't late. We just like to mess with the newcomers and I’ve been sitting in orbit for six hours waiting for the newbie to show up. They said the ceremony would be over by eight in the morning Terran time.”

  “Oh,” Riven said. He felt the adrenaline crash leaving him slightly lightheaded. “Yea. The Overseer’s speech lasted four times the amount he was supposed to speak.”

  “Damn, I heard the Imperial academy was all about public relations and self important shit stains. Guess I heard right,” Phillean deadpanned. He turned to Halloway. “You got the goods?”

  Halloway reached into a pouch on his pristine uniform and tossed a vacuum-sealed bag to the Sergeant. Phillean caught it with supernatural reflexes.

  “Spicy Terro-Nuts,” Halloway explained to Riven with a wink. “Phillean has an addiction. And since I control the supply chain, he has to be nice to me.”

  “I don't have to be nice,” Phillean corrected, tearing the bag open with his teeth. “I just have to not shoot you.” He poured a handful of nuts into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He gestured to Halloway with a gloved hand. “Lesson number one, Holt: Make friends with the Quartermaster. He controls both the food and the ammo. Everyone else is expendable, including the Captain. But never piss off the guy who makes sure you have toilet paper.”

  “Noted,” Riven said.

  Beside him, Astrix nudged Riven with her snout, nearly knocking him over.

  I am leaving, she projected. The large purple one—Noxin—says he will show me the nesting areas and the flight deck. Try not to get lost, Riven.

  “I’ll do my best,” Riven muttered.

  Noxin let out a low, thrumming sound that vibrated the floor plating, a dragon’s version of a laugh, before turning and lumbering toward a massive blast door at the far end of the hangar. Astrix followed, her sleek black form looking small compared to the Low Born giant, but she moved with a predator’s grace that made even the deck crew stop and watch.

  “Right,” Phillean said, swallowing his snack. “Your oversized lizard is in good hands. Noxin is the oldest Kinetic on board. He’s seen more combat than half the fleet combined. Now, let’s get you settled.”

  Riven hestitated for a moment. “Sergeant, what’s a Kinetic mean?”

  “It’s what we call the so called low born dragons. We don’t do demeaning titles on this ship. You got Kinetic Class dragons which are on the front lines and Radiant Class dragons who disrupt the enemies with their psychic wizardry. On the human size of things you got the staff and the Lancers. You don’t need to talk to the staff in anything other than yes sir, no sir, or I don’t know you should ask SFC Phillean.” Phillean looked at Riven’s face for understanding before he turned and began walking briskly toward the interior of the ship. Riven scrambled to keep up, his boots clanking on the metal grating.

  “This deck is Logistics and Hangar Support,” Phillean explained, pointing out various bulkheads. “That’s where the androids recharge. That’s Munitions Storage—don’t smoke near it, there’s a room for that. That’s Cryo-Storage for long hauls, though we rarely use it.”

  They navigated a maze of grey corridors. The ship felt alive, humming with power and the distant thud of boots. It was strictly utilitarian without any gargoyles or filigree. Almost barren compared to Terran architecture. It reminded Riven of home in a way.

  They turned reached a T intersection. To the left the corridor head widened, but it was blocked by a heavy security checkpoint. Two automated sentry turrets hung from the ceiling, their red laser sights sweeping the floor. Standing guard were not humans, but two heavy combat droids, their chassis reinforced with ablative armor. Behind them was a blast door thick enough to stop a railgun.

  “That’s the Engine Room,” Phillean said, not slowing down as he veered into a side passage away from the checkpoint. “You don't go in there. I don't go in there. Only the authorized mechanics and the Captain go past those droids.”

  “Why?” Riven asked. “Is it radiation?”

  “Classified,” Phillean clipped. “But let’s just say the sentries are set to lethal protocols. They don't give warnings. You step across that yellow line, you get vaporized. Understood?”

  “Lethal protocols. Got it,” Riven swallowed. “I’ll stick to the hallway.”

  “Smart kid.” Phillean continued his walk.

  They took a lift up two decks to the Habitation Level. The corridors here were wider, the ceilings higher to accommodate the dragons moving between their quarters and the hangar.

  “Here we are,” Phillean said, stopping in front of a door marked SQUAD 3 – HOLT/ASTRIX. He palmed the lock, and the door slid open.

  Riven stepped inside and blinked.

  The room was massive. It had to be, to fit a four-ton dragon. One side of the room was a reinforced nesting pad with thermal heating coils in the floor—luxury for a reptile. The other side was a standard human barracks setup: a desk, a black pod, a weapon rack, and a bed.

  But it was the bed that caught his eye.

  Sitting on top of the standard-issue grey mattress was a blanket. It was pink and frilly. It looked like it had been stolen from a princess’s bedroom in a fairy tale. Resting on top of the blanket was a plush toy shaped like a cartoon black dragon with oversized eyes. Next to it was a basket of snack bars.

  Riven stared at it. He looked at Phillean. He looked back at the pink fluff.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Is this… regulation camo?” Riven asked, picking up the plush toy. “Am I supposed to hide in a nebula? Or maybe a candy store?”

  Phillean chuckled as he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “That standard issue for the NG—the New Guy. The squad chipped in. Vex thought the pink would bring out the color of your eyes.”

  “Vex sounds charming,” Riven deadpanned. He poked the frilly blanket. “It’s surprisingly soft, actually. I might keep it. It adds a certain… Feng Shui to the room.”

  “There’s snacks in the basket,” Phillean said, ignoring the sarcasm. “And inside the pod is your real gear.”

  Riven dropped the plush toy and walked over to the tall dark glass pod, impossible to see through. He placed his hand on the biometric scanner. It beeped loudly and a female voice echoed out.

  Biometric scanned. Private Riven Holt recognized.

  Inside the glass hovered a segmented spine of matte-black metal, looking disturbingly like a mechanical centipede. Underneath the plating, thousands of translucent micro-filaments twitched in the stasis field, searching for a nervous system to latch onto.

  “It’s a Direct Action Infiltrator Reconnaissance Suit or DAIR suit for short,” Phillean said, his voice holding a note of respect. “It has kinetic shielding, active camo-capabilities, localized thrusters for zero-G maneuvering.”

  Riven looked at the spine long metal centipede. It was much larger than a normal Nerve Gear. He felt a phantom itch at the top of his back. Like all citizens, he had received the neural implant interface when he was twelve. It was a small metallic port at the top of the spine that grew with the body. It was used for everything from medical diagnostics to operating heavy machinery.

  “Well? What are you waiting for? Get in the pod,” Phillean ordered, gesturing to the cylindrical chamber. “And fair warning: when it attaches it may pinch slightly. The DAIR suit jacks directly into your spinal interface to eliminate lag. The suit damn near becomes your second nervous system.”

  “Define ‘pinch,’” Riven asked, eyeing the glass tube warily. “Are we talking ‘grandmother’s cheek’ pinch or ‘crab with a vendetta’ pinch?”

  “It’s no more painful a static shock,” Phillean said waving his hand slightly, “Just don't tense up. If you fight back against when it attaches, the Nerve Gear could misalign and that would end badly for us both. But mainly you.”

  “Reassuring, truly.”

  Riven stripped down to his underlayer and toss them out of the pod before stepping into two footprints escribed on the floor of the pod. The glass door hissed shut as his feet settled into place, sealing him in. He took a deep breath, trying to relax his shoulders.

  It’s just some static shock. Okay. I can handle a—

  Mechanical arms slowly descended from the ceiling of the pod and rose from the bottom. They clamped around his shins and forearms with hydraulic force. That was new. Riven felt something hovering in the twilight zone between fear and regret.

  Then, the rear arm engaged. A cold, metallic probe aligned with the port at the top of his spine—the interface he’d had since childhood.

  CONNECTING…

  It felt like someone had poured liquid nitrogen directly into his spinal column, followed immediately by a lightning bolt.

  Riven’s back arched violently, his mouth opening in a silent scream as the air was sucked out of his lungs. It was absolute agony. He felt the Nerve Gear stitch itself into his spine, fiber by fiber. It felt less like technology and more like a parasite burrowing into his skin. His vision went white, then red, then snapped into crystal clarity as the pain instantly vanished, replaced by a sudden, jarring sense of lightness.

  The mechanical arms of the devil himself retracted into the walls. The door hissed open.

  Riven stumbled out, gasping for air, clutching the doorframe to stay upright. Although there was no more pain, his nervous system felt like it was vibrating. But instead of the glass pod or metal frame he felt a sense of weightlessness.

  He looked down. The black mesh undersuit gripped him like a second skin. Over that, heavy composite plates had locked into place over his chest, shins, and forearms. They were angular and scarred, that looked like it was aerodynamic. Despite the angles, it looked heavy enough to crush a man, yet when he moved, the suit moved weightlessly.

  “You said... it would feel… like a static shock,” Riven wheezed, glaring at the Sergeant.

  “I lied,” Phillean shrugged, leaning against the wall. “If I told you it felt like getting struck by lighting and melted by acid at the same time, you would have either ran away or flinched. Running away means you would be AWOL and if you flinch during the Nerve Gear sync of that size you could end up paralyzed. So… you're welcome.”

  “I appreciate the honesty,” Riven managed to say, straightening up. “Post-torture, of course.”

  The armor seemed to help him stand. He flexed a hand, and the black composite gauntlet moved instantly, faster than his own fingers usually did. The grip made an audible mechanical whir as he clenched his fist.

  “Welcome to the heavy calvary, Private,” Phillean said. He pointed to the emblem on Riven's chest. “You see that hammer?”

  Riven looked down. There was a white warhammer over his heart engraved on the uniform.

  “There are four platoons in the Inquisition,” Phillean lectured, his voice dropping into a teaching tone. “We are first platoon and usually the first to be sent out. The first squad are scouts. They are responsible for finding the enemy and gathering intelligence during active operations second squad is security they protect our flanks and ensure that there are little to no external variables. We are Third Squad. We are the Hammers. We don't scout the enemy. We don’t protect the area. We are the anvil that breaks whatever gets caught in the middle. We carry the heaviest armor and the biggest guns, and we accomplish the mission not matter what.”

  “Right. The anvil. Break things,” Riven muttered to himself, checking the armor on his gloves. “I was hoping for something further back. Maybe ‘The Cushion’ or ‘The Sternly Worded Letter.’ But sure, Hammer works.”

  “We will train you on the way over. Just tap the emblem for now,” Phillean ordered. “It will engage the HUD.”

  Riven tapped the hammer.

  Nanotech fluid surged up from the collar, sealing over his head and hardening into a thick helmet. The world outside disappeared, replaced by a high-resolution digital feed.

  Blue data streams cascaded down his peripheral vision. Targeting reticles swept the room. The system tagged the bed (OBJECT: SOFT), the chest (OBJECT: STORAGE), and then snapped to Phillean.

  A yellow box appeared around the Sergeant.

  [TARGET: SFC PHILLEAN]

  [THREAT LEVEL: MEDIUM]

  “I think it’s working,” Riven said, his voice amplified by the helmet speakers. “I’m reading you as a medium threat, Sergeant. Don't take it personally.”

  “I don't,” Phillean said.

  In a blur of motion, Phillean drew the heavy kinetic pistol from his hip. The yellow box around Phillean remained, but a flashing red box snapped onto the gun barrel.

  [KINETIC WEAPON DETECTED]

  [PROJECTILE TRAJECTORY: CHEST]

  [RECOMMENDATION: EVASIVE MANEUVER]

  “Wait—” Riven started, his muscles tensing to dodge.

  BAM.

  He wasn't fast enough. The impact hit him like a sledgehammer to the sternum. Riven was thrown backward, back into the pod he had just walked out of.

  [KINETIC IMPACT: 1200 J]

  [ARMOR INTEGRITY: STABLE]

  [BRUISING DETECTED]

  “What the hell is wrong with you!” Riven yelled, scrambling back to his feet. He checked his chest. There was a smoking scorch mark on the black plate, but no penetration.

  Then, the suit moved on its own. Under his astonished gaze, the black material rippled like liquid. Nanites swarmed the impact site, knitting the composite plate back together and erasing the scorch mark until the armor looked pristine again.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Sergeant?” Riven demanded again, looking up.

  “Relax, Private,” Phillean said, holstering the weapon calmly. “It was just a Terran standard kinetic round.”

  “Just a standard round?” Riven sputtered. “I don’t know about you, but I generally prefer not to be used for target practice on my first day!”

  “You’re still standing,” Phillean countered, crossing his arms. “You got a real-time tutorial. Your HUD will warn you of threats but will not always be reliable. It will suggest a course of action, but it will not move you itself. And most importantly, it helped you understand that while the armor can stop a bullet, and even heal itself, it can't stop physics. You still take the bruising.”

  “I’m filing a grievance,” Riven groaned, rubbing his chest where the bruise was definitely forming. “As soon as I figure out who handles ‘my boss shot me’ complaints.”

  “Take it up with the Quartermaster,” Phillean smirked. “He loves paperwork.”

  The door chime interrupted them. It slid open, and a logistics droid rolled into the room. It was carrying a long, rectangular case sealed with heavy biometric locks. It stopped in front of Phillean, but Riven felt almost a connection to it.

  Riven forgot about the bruise on his chest. He forgot about the ache in his spine.

  He stared at the case. It was matte black, devoid of markings save for a single, faint pulse of blue light along the seam. But it wasn't the look of it that froze him; it was the feeling. It hummed with a resonance that vibrated in his teeth, a low-frequency song that his new spinal interface recognized instantly.

  “Is that…” Riven started, his voice losing the sarcasm, dropping to a whisper.

  “It’s not a lunchbox,” Phillean said softly.

  Riven took a step forward, his armored boots clanking on the deck.

  Every child in the Concordance knew what that case meant. On the mining colony, Riven and the other dust born kids used to run through the slag heaps with rusted pipes, pretending they were Lances. They would strike heroic poses, mimicking the recruitment posters where golden-armored knights held their weapons high, promising salvation and glory.

  The Lance was the symbol. It was the physical proof that you were more than just a citizen. You were a protector. A Lancer.

  Riven reached out, his gauntleted hand hovering over the biometric lock. He hesitated. It felt almost sacrilegious to touch it. He was just a kid from the dirt who happened to be make it to the Imperial Acadmey. He wasn't one of the heroes on the posters.

  “It’s yours, Holt,” Phillean said, his voice cutting through the doubt. “Astrix gave over her scale willingly. The Tech-Priests forged it over the past year. And now it’s waiting for you.”

  Riven reached out and placed his hand on the case, the hum of the metal vibrating through his gauntlet like a second heartbeat.