The House of the Reaper has opened its arms to welcome 5 new Novices, 2 new Operators, and a new Director! The following are our most recent additions:
Novices jbli, devor, LordAbyssGate, Nikhil Malekal, and 10016.
Operatives Carl Garrett, Michael Lau, and John Donley.
Director Karkoff Kakkov!
Their contributions and dedication to our cause will be honored through the Net and through the Stars.
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The Shepherd was alive, but she was wounded. Her heavy internal vibrations were a sullen, throbbing reminder of the catastrophic violence they had just barely survived. Operating at a hard ceiling of seventy percent reactor output, the massive frigate drifted in the pitch-black void of an unmapped and unexplored solar system. Outside the thick and angular viewports, the severed front half of the Vanguard destroyer Rod's Belle hung in the vacuum, tethered to the Shepherd by thick, high-tensile carbon-weave cables.
Mark made his way up from the primary engineering bay, his boots echoing in the dimly lit access corridors. Without counting the mercenaries on the damaged frigates, he had six hundred civilian lives scattered across a crippled fleet, and a hundred surviving mercenaries trapped inside a dead, venting hulk of armor just a kilometer off his starboard bow.
He wasn't a hero by any means, but he had to get them out.
Mark made his way toward the lowest ventral sections of the Shepherd and navigated the narrow hallways until he reached a reinforced blast door marked with yellow hazard striping.
He keyed the manual override, and the door hissed open, revealing a specialized, cramped compartment.
Extraction bridges were small, heavily fortified rooms located at the very bottom of just about every vessel. They were designed specifically for the grim reality of interstellar salvage and rescue.
The mechanism was brutally simple but incredibly effective.
It would extend a thick, heavily armored tunnel across the void that would physically ram into the hull of a derelict ship, cut through the target's exterior plating, and establish a sealed and pressurized corridor between the two vessels. Most standard ships had them, and they were the only safe way to board a dead ship without relying on EVA suits.
Mark stepped into the center of the extraction room, noticing the cooler air inside.
He walked over to the primary control console, wiping a thin layer of dust from the haptic interface. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale blue glow across his face. He quickly keyed in the command sequences, syncing the bridge's targeting telemetry with the magnetic tethers holding the Rod's Belle steady.
"Marcos," Mark called out, his voice echoing in the small room. "I'm initiating the boarding sequence."
He hit the final execution command, and immediately, the deck beneath his boots began to vibrate intensely. The sound of massive gears churning and heavy hydraulics engaging echoed through the small room. Beneath the floor plating, a thick, articulated tunnel wide enough to fit two people side-by-side began to physically extend downward, pushing out of the Shepherd's ventral hull and crossing the dark void toward the severed remains of the Rod's Belle.
Mark watched the telemetry screen. The distance closed rapidly. Twenty meters. Ten meters. Five.
A resonant THUD shook the deck floor beneath his feet, severe enough to make him briefly brace himself against the console. The extraction bridge had made physical contact.
A series of grinding noises followed as the bridge's automated plasma cutters engaged, slicing directly through the destroyer's outer hull plating. Moments later, the heavy locking clamps slammed into place, creating an airtight seal between the two ships.
The console on the wall flashed from a warning amber to a bright, solid green.
"Pressurization complete. The seal is holding," Marcos announced.
He tapped a sequence on the console again. With a hiss of pneumatic release, a circular section of the deck floor directly beneath him split down the middle and retracted smoothly into itself, revealing the dark, cylindrical drop into the extraction tunnel.
Mark didn't know exactly what state the Vanguard crew was in.
Panic did terrible things to people, and he wasn't going to take any chances walking onto a ship filled with desperate, armed survivors.
He focused his intent, opening his Subspace Inventory.
A heavy rifle materialized directly out of the ether, its matte-black weight settling comfortably and familiarly into his hands. It was one of the things he had bought before leaving Mechanicus station, a variant of a weapon that had survived over 1000 years of warfare since its creation. In his hands was an AK-947-ASR.
During humanity's civil war, the arms maker JSC Kalashnikov Concern reinvented their already perfect design, starting off the AK-900 line of rifles. Since then, almost 500 years have passed, and only 47 iterations have been made to the AK-900, with the AK-947-ASR, or All-Situation-Rifle, being its latest iteration.
Mark checked the magazine, chambered a round with a metallic clack, and slung it loosely over his broad shoulder.
He then turned to the bulkhead, grabbing the telescopic boarding ladder mounted to the wall. Despite its size, the advanced composite material made its lightness surprising. He extended the rungs, carried it over to the open hatch, and hooked the stabilizing clamps into the two reinforced holes drilled specifically into the edge of the deck.
Mark took a deep breath, securing his grip on the ladder, and began to climb down.
The descent was claustrophobic. The interior of the extraction tunnel was lit only by dim, pulsing orange guide lights. The air grew noticeably colder the further down he went, the ambient temperature of the Shepherd giving way to the freezing temperatures of the dead destroyer below.
As he reached the bottom of the ladder, he stepped through the still-glowing, perfectly circular hole the plasma cutters had carved through the Rod's Belle's thick armor.
He dropped down into one of the destroyer's primary forward corridors and was immediately greeted with a completely dark hallway, save for the erratic sparking of severed power conduits hanging loosely from the ceiling. The air was thick and heavy, carrying the stench of scorched ozone, vaporized copper, and the undeniable, metallic tang of blood. The artificial gravity was offline, replaced by the faint, disorienting pull of the Shepherd's mass above them.
"Rodrigues!" Mark's voice boomed down the ruined corridor, his mechanically amplified tone echoing off the buckled bulkheads. "It's Shephard! The bridge is secure!"
For a long moment, the only response was the hiss of escaping steam. Then, the beam of a utility flashlight cut through the darkness at the far end of the hall.
"Hold your fire! We're coming out!" a desperate voice called back.
Slowly, the survivors of the Rod's Belle began to emerge from the shadows of the forward command center.
It was a procession of ghosts. The Void Vanguard mercenaries, men and women who had built their careers on projecting lethal authority, had been reduced to shell-shocked survivors.
There were roughly a hundred of them, less than half of the destroyer's original two-hundred-and-fifty-man crew. The rest had been lost to the void.
The ones who had survived were in terrible shape. Their clothes were torn, some scorched by electrical fires, and others soaked in grease and blood. Men leaned heavily on each other, limping on fractured legs. Women clutched makeshift bandages over deep shrapnel lacerations. Their eyes were hollow and wide as they stared straight through Mark, locked in a thousand-yard stare.
"Come on. Keep moving," Mark urged, his voice softening, stepping back to give them room around the base of the ladder. "The gravity is stable on my ship, and the air is clean. Just get up the ladder."
The evacuation was agonizingly slow. Climbing a vertical ladder in gravity while suffering from concussions, broken bones, and severe blood loss was a monumental task. Mark stood at the base, physically catching those who slipped, his strength easily supporting the weight of two fully grown men in heavy armor. He practically lifted the most critically wounded mercenaries up the first several rungs, offering quiet words of encouragement.
It took over an hour to haul the hundred shattered survivors up through the extraction tunnel and into the Shepherd's lower airlock.
Finally, the corridor of the dead destroyer was empty.
Mark waited in the dark, his hand resting on the side of the ladder. He knew there was one man left. Then a lone figure stepped out of the shadows, the beam of a flashlight sweeping across the buckled deck.
It was Juan Rodrigues.
The Vanguard commander looked nothing like the immaculate man Mark had spoken to on the encrypted comms just weeks prior. The left sleeve of his jacket had been completely burned away, revealing a blistered burn that wrapped around his forearm. A deep gash crossed his cheekbone, the blood dried and caked into his dark hair. He looked exhausted, carrying the soul-crushing weight of a captain who had just lost more than half his crew in the blink of an eye.
But his posture was still impeccably straight. He was a real ship captain, through and through, and the captain was always the last man to leave his vessel.
Juan walked up to the base of the ladder, looking up into the tunnel. He then looked at Mark, shutting off his flashlight.
"I was just making sure there was nobody else left. Are my people secure?" Juan asked, his voice rasping like dry sandpaper.
"They're on my ship, Juan," Mark assured him, stepping aside and gesturing to the rungs. "Let's go. There's nothing left for you here."
Juan looked back down the dark, ruined corridor of his flagship one last time. A flicker of profound grief crossed his cold eyes. He gave a slow nod before turning back to the ladder and beginning to climb.
Mark followed right behind him, ensuring the wounded commander didn't lose his grip.
When they reached the top of the extraction tunnel, Juan hauled himself up onto the solid deck of the Shepherd's extraction room. He stumbled slightly, his exhausted legs betraying him as the frigate's artificial gravity took hold.
Mark climbed out right behind him. He reached out, his hand grabbing Juan firmly by the shoulder, steadying the man before he could hit his knees.
Juan took a deep, shuddering breath of the scrubbed, pine-scented air of the Shepherd, leaning heavily against Mark's grip. He slowly turned his head, looking up to thank the man who had just pulled him out of the grave.
Juan's eyes widened, his head tilting further and further back. He was not a tall man. He stood at exactly five feet six inches, relying entirely on his commanding presence and intellect to fill a room.
Mark stood at a towering seven feet tall, a result of the rewritten DNA Anahrin had been forced to do just to save his life. His bone density and his frame were packed with thick, dense muscle. Covered in grime and sweat, and carrying an AK-947-ASR, Mark looked less like a shipwright and more like an apex predator.
Juan blinked, the sheer physical disparity briefly overriding his exhaustion.
"Holy shit," he stammered, his usual composure cracking. "You're a giant."
Mark let out a deep chuckle that echoed in the small extraction room. He released Juan's shoulder, offering his hand instead. "It is a pleasure to have you aboard my ship. Though I sincerely wish it had been under different circumstances."
Juan looked at the massive hand, then reached out and shook it firmly. Despite his injuries, his grip was strong. He offered a tired, cynical chuckle of his own. "Tell me about it, Shephard. I appreciate the rescue, but you officially owe me a heavy destroyer."
"With the way things are looking right now, Juan," Mark smirked, slinging his rifle higher onto his shoulder, "I might just offer you full-time employment and call it a day."
The humor faded from Juan's eyes, replaced by a deep, weary longing. He leaned back against the bulkhead, rubbing his uninjured arm. "You know, under normal circumstances, it would be nice to start over. To take a commission far away from the core worlds and the corporate meat grinder. But I can't accept, Mark. I have a wife and two kids who are still waiting for me back on my home planet, Exios IV. As soon as we get to Aurelius, I'm going to have to find a way to return across the border."
Mark's expression sobered immediately. The grim reality of their uncalculated emergency jump crashed back down upon him.
"About that..." Mark said quietly, his voice heavy. "It is going to be a very, very long time before the Shepherd itself can even travel that far. Let alone the ships from your own fleet. They didn't just suffer massive electrical failures during the blind jump. They also took damage from stray shots before we slipped. We aren't anywhere near the Aurelian system. We are sitting at the edge of an unexplored fringe. It's going to take months to get anywhere near civilization."
Juan stared at Mark, the words slowly sinking in. The veteran commander closed his eyes, his jaw clenching tight as he processed the sheer, impossible distance that now separated him from his family. He didn't argue or panic, opting to simply nod and accept the brutal reality he was being faced with.
"Then we'd better get to work," Juan whispered.
"Come on," Mark said gently, gesturing toward the blast doors. "Let's get your people settled."
Mark led the Vanguard commander out of the extraction room and up through the utilitarian corridors of the lower decks. The hundred surviving mercenaries were clustered tightly together, leaning against the bulkheads, entirely unsure of what to do next.
"Alright, everyone, get your shit together!" Juan barked, his voice instantly finding its commanding edge despite his exhaustion. "We're following Mr. Shephard!"
The crew slowly shuffled into a loose, battered formation, following Mark as he guided them up the primary access ramps.
Mark led them directly to the central recreation deck of the Shepherd. It was a wide, open space located at the junction of the main crew corridors, a dedicated atrium-like common area measuring roughly twenty by ten meters. Mark had designed it specifically so a crew wouldn't go insane staring at steel bulkheads during long-haul flights. The walls were lined with smooth, dark metal interspersed with vibrant, printed panels of faux-greenery, and the ceiling was embedded with soft, warm-toned lighting panels designed to perfectly mimic natural sunlight.
When they arrived, Sister Elara and the fifty orphans from St. Jude's were already there, resting beneath the artificial leaves.
The contrast was stark and heartbreaking. On one side of the atrium stood a hundred heavily armed, bleeding, and traumatized corporate mercenaries. On the other side stood fifty terrified children, clutching stuffed animals and threadbare blankets.
Sister Elara didn't hesitate. The moment she saw the state of the rescued crew, she immediately began directing the junior nuns, organizing a makeshift triage corner, pulling out the first-aid supplies Mark had stockpiled in the cargo holds.
"This is going to be your sleeping space for the time being," Mark announced, raising his voice so the entire Vanguard crew could hear him over the low murmur of the children. He pointed to the wide, faux-grass deck of the atrium. "It isn't luxurious, but the air is clean, and the temperature is regulated. I have enough sleeping bags and pillows for all of you."
The mercenaries looked around the pristine, green-accented space, a collective wave of relief washing over them. It was a palace compared to the freezing, venting wreckage they had just crawled out of.
"The supplies are down in the primary cargo hold," Mark continued, looking toward Juan. "You can send a detail down with me right now to carry them up, or you can wait here, and I'll have the utility drones bring them up in a few minutes."
Juan looked at his exhausted, bleeding crew. "We'll wait for the drones, Mark. These people need to sit down before they fall down."
"Yeah, that was a dumb question," Mark nodded. "Rest up. We will assess the fleet's total damage tomorrow."
Mark said his goodbyes for the evening, stepping away from the gathering crowd of mercenaries. He walked across the atrium, moving gracefully despite his massive size, and approached Sister Elara and the children.
Lyra was sitting cross-legged on the deck, holding a small, bruised boy's hand, whispering quiet words of comfort to him. When she saw Mark approaching, her face lit up with absolute, unfiltered joy. She scrambled to her feet and ran toward him.
Mark smiled, a genuine, warm expression that erased the cold, ruthless commander entirely. He bent down, wrapping his massive arms around her, and lifted her effortlessly into the air, settling her comfortably against his hip.
He looked at Sister Elara. The deep gash on her forehead was no longer bleeding, but the bruising around it was severe, turning the skin a dark, angry purple.
"Sister Elara," Mark said softly, his tone brokering no argument. "I want you to go straight to the medbay, sit down, and let the tech get that gash sorted out before it gets any worse."
Elara reached up, touching the edge of the wound with a wince. She looked at the chaotic atrium, then back at Mark. "Thank you, Mark. Truly. But we cannot ignore the reality of our situation. We need to have a very serious conversation about logistics and rationing later on. With a hundred extra mouths to feed and our destination unknown..."
"Tomorrow, Sister," Mark interrupted gently but firmly. "I have enough rations in the hold to feed everyone for years. Nobody is going to starve tonight, so go and get some rest, you earned it."
Elara let out a long, weary sigh, the rigid tension in her shoulders finally dropping. "Very well. We'll speak tomorrow."
Mark turned his attention to the rest of the orphans and the three junior nuns. They looked exhausted, terrified by the prospect of sleeping in the open atrium alongside the heavily armed mercenaries.
"Alright, everyone," Mark called out gently. "It's time to return to your rooms. The ship is safe."
"Mr. Mark," one of the older boys spoke up nervously, shifting his weight. "The doors to our rooms won't open. The lights are red."
"That was just the emergency lockdown," Mark explained with a reassuring smile. "I fixed what was broken, and the power is back on, so it should be all good now. Come on, follow me."
Mark turned, carrying Lyra in one hand and his rifle in the other, and led the group of children out of the faux-greenery of the atrium and down the wide corridor of the main crew deck. The junior nuns followed closely behind, keeping the children in a neat line.
As they approached the individual crew quarters, the doors, which had previously been sealed tight by the ship's automated defensive protocols, recognized the restoration of the primary power grid.
With a series of soft, pneumatic hisses, the doors slid smoothly open, revealing the warm, comfortable, and intact rooms inside.
A collective cheer went up from the children. The simple sight of their beds was enough to break the remaining tension. They rushed into their respective rooms, the junior nuns hurrying after them to ensure everyone was settled.
Mark stood in the corridor, watching them go. He offered a tired wave to the sisters as the doors slid shut, sealing the children safely inside for the night.
Finally, Mark was left alone with Lyra.
He walked down the corridor, his boots making no sound, until he reached the door of his personal captain's quarters. The door slid open, revealing a spacious, functional room dominated by a massive bed, a large desk covered in holographic schematics, and an attached, private bathroom.
Mark walked in, the door sealing shut behind him with a definitive, comforting click.
He walked over to the edge of the massive bed and gently plopped Lyra down onto the mattress. She bounced slightly, letting out a small, tired huff.
Mark stood over her, crossing his massive arms over his chest, and gave her a highly exaggerated, deeply critical look. He sniffed the air dramatically, wrinkling his nose.
"Alright, kiddo," Mark said, pointing a thick finger at the door of the washroom. "Go take a bath. You stink."
Lyra's eyes went wide in mock offense. She looked down at her soot-stained jacket and her grimy hands, then looked back up at Mark. A giggle erupted from her chest, the sound pure and sweet, creating a tiny, yet defiant spark of light against the darkness of the stranded space they were currently trapped in.
"I do not!" Lyra protested, though she immediately slid off the bed and scrambled toward the washroom, her plushie dragging behind her. "You're the one who smells like a giant metal can!"
Mark let out a laugh. "Guilty as charged. Now go scrub!"
The washroom door closed, and a moment later, the sound of running water echoed into the room.
Mark's smile slowly faded, replaced by the crushing weight of command. The sweet, wholesome moment was the anchor he needed to keep his humanity intact, but the reality of it all was starting to fall on him.
He stored his rifle back in his inventory and walked over to his desk, leaned heavily against the dark metal surface, opened one of the drawers, and took out a bottle of scotch and a glass. It wasn't one of the premium ones, but it had still cost him 1000 credits. He unscrewed the cork and poured it into his glass until it was over halfway full.
"Marcos," Mark said, his voice dropping. "I want you to contact the surviving twenty-two ships in the civilian fleet. Tell their captains to hold their positions. Then, I want you to maneuver the Shepherd into the center of their formation."
"Maneuvering thrusters engaged," Marcos confirmed. "And once we are in position?"
"Once we're close, you are going to deploy the entire swarm of drones," Mark said. He paused and took a drink of his whiskey. "Just do the same thing we did with the freighters when we got ambushed by pirates a year ago. Patch their hulls, weld their broken comms arrays, and stabilize their failing scrubbers. I don't want to lose more people in this damn trip."
"You got it," Marcos replied, a note of deep respect in his tone. "Initiating fleet repair protocols now."
Mark stood in the quiet of his quarters, listening to the soft sound of Lyra splashing in the bathroom. He took another drink of his whiskey as he prepared himself for the road ahead.
---
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