Today is Ya boy's birthday, I'm turning big unc 23, so I'm posting an additional chapter for my current works!
The House of the Reaper has opened its arms to welcome:
Novices Edward Brian and Instep.
Operatives SocialSystem[zf], Robert Downey, and Will.
Their contributions and dedication to our cause will be honored through the Net and through the Stars.
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For two full days, the Shepherd hung in a stable, high orbit above the majestic world of Rubrae I, acting as a lone, silent beacon in the vastness of the newly charted trinary system. Below them, a sprawling continent of vibrant emerald green and deep burgundy vegetation rotated peacefully beneath swaths of white clouds and an indigo sky. Above them, the immense void of space offered nothing but silence.
Then, the deep-space telemetry sensors on the central holotable finally pinged, marking the ships that were moving inward at a steady sub-light crawl. The seven battered ships had most of their leaks fixed. However, during the wait, they discovered micro-fractures in impossible-to-reach places, leaving them trailing a faint wake of the Helium-3 Mark had given them. The four civilian haulers were flanked by the three surviving Vanguard mercenary frigates, their armor heavily scarred and pockmarked from the Volanti ambush that now felt like a lifetime ago.
"About damn time," Juan muttered, crossing his arms as he watched the digital icons slowly crawl across the holographic map toward their position.
"They seem to be leaking fuel, though it's not much," Kenjiro noted, pulling up the telemetry from the approaching ships. "They still have a week, maybe two weeks of juice left in the tanks from what we transferred them. They took their time, but it should be alright for now."
"Marcos, establish a fleet-wide comms link," Mark ordered. "Bring the frigate captains and the civilian captains onto the holotable."
"Establishing connection," Marcos replied, his holographic avatar flickering for a brief second before the bridge was filled with a chorus of static and heavy sighs.
Seven distinct holographic windows materialized around the central table. The faces staring back at Mark were drawn and shadowed with fatigue. The civilian captains looked exhausted from spending the last two weeks sitting in dimly lit bridges, while the Vanguard captains, hardened men and women who had seen their fair share of corporate warfare, looked completely drained of adrenaline.
"Mr. Shephard," the captain of the Aegis Prime, an older man with a thick, greying beard, spoke first, a tired smile breaking through his beard. "When we received the tight-beam transmission with the navigational data... we thought we were hallucinating. But it seems as if you actually found a habitable world in the middle of nowhere."
"We found a paradise," Mark nodded. "But looking at it from orbit isn't going to get us on the ground. Let's talk logistics. You've got about a week or two of fuel left in the tanks."
The holographic faces nodded in agreement.
"We do, Mr. Shephard," the captain of the Aegis Prime confirmed. "We can hold a stable orbit here for a couple of weeks to prep for a coordinated drop."
"A coordinated drop with what?" Mark asked, his tone flat. "We were supposed to go to a place with its own station, a place that would have transport to the ground. There's not a single bit of orbital infrastructure here, and because we weren't planning on going around colonizing a random planet, we don't have atmospheric transports to ferry everyone down safely. Every day we wait up here is another day we burn through the last of our safety net, just staring at the dirt. I say now that you're here, we take the fleet down and land."
A heavy, nervous silence fell over the civilian captains.
"Mr. Shephard... landing an industrial hauler is not a gentle procedure," the pilot of the Stellar Dawn said nervously, wiping sweat from her forehead. "These freighters are essentially massive, aerodynamic bricks. They were designed to move cargo between established orbital stations in a vacuum, not dive into an atmosphere. If we suffer a mechanical failure on the descent, or if the atmospheric friction burns out our secondary thrusters, we won't glide. We will drop like stones."
"A crash landing in one of those haulers would completely pulverize the lower passenger decks," Juan agreed, his tactical mind immediately analyzing the threat. "It would be a mass casualty event."
Mark stared at the holographic projection of the heavy freighters. They were bulky, unwieldy, and completely unsuited for the intense gravitational and aerodynamic violence of atmospheric entry. But they possessed heavy machinery, agricultural printers, and other foundational supplies that he didn't want to have to go through the process of re-printing and assembling, and the colony desperately needed. Leaving them in orbit wasn't an option.
"How many civilians are currently spread across the four freighters?" Mark asked.
"Two hundred and forty," Sister Elara's voice came through the comms. She wasn't on the bridge, but Marcos had smartly linked her into the command channel from the lower decks.
"Juan," Mark said, turning to the mercenary commander. "None of our ships are meant to do this. The only things that can safely drop into an atmosphere are specialized transports, which we don't have. Your frigates are space-combat vessels, but they are smaller, lighter, and their armor is thick enough to survive the friction without instantly breaking apart. And since the rest of your surviving mercenaries are already packed in here with me, your three frigates only have their standard operating crews aboard."
Juan nodded slowly, seeing exactly where Mark was taking the strategy. "That's true."
"Fill them up," Mark half asked, half ordered softly, but with authority. "I want your three frigates to squeeze in two hundred and twenty of those two hundred and forty civilians. Pack them into the armories, the mess halls, wherever they fit. I don't care if they have to sit on each other's laps. Get them off the freighters."
The Vanguard captains in the holographic feeds nodded firmly, recognizing the harsh necessity of the order.
"That leaves twenty people on the freighters," the bearded captain of the Aegis Prime noted, swallowing hard.
"Just the essential flight crews," Mark confirmed, his gaze locking with the captain's. "The men and women who actually know how to operate them. The captains, pilots, co-pilots, and everyone else who helps operate the damn things have to stay behind to land them. You are the only ones who can."
It was a grim calculation. The civilian captains looked at one another, the weight of the order settling heavily onto their shoulders. They were being asked to ride massive bricks through an inferno, knowing full well they might not survive the impact. But they all knew there was no alternative to ensure the safety of their people.
"Understood," the captain of the Aegis Prime said softly, his jaw setting. "We'll guide them down."
"Good," Mark said. "Marcos, you've had two days to analyze the planet. Please tell me you found us a landing zone?"
"Indeed, I have, Mark," Marcos replied. The holotable shifted, zooming in on one of the vast, emerald and burgundy continents of Rubrae I. The digital map locked onto a massive, relatively flat geographical basin located near the equator, bordered by a towering mountain range to the north and a vast, sprawling freshwater lake to the south.
"The topography here seems to be incredibly stable," Marcos explained, highlighting a specific, circular patch of purple grass. "It is a natural clearing, roughly ten kilometers wide. The tree density is exceptionally low, perhaps a few hundred scattered burgundy trees in the entire ten-kilometer radius. According to the telemetry from the last probe we sent down, the soil composition is a dense, packed loam that should be capable of supporting the massive weight of the freighters without causing them to sink. Furthermore, it provides immediate, walking-distance access to a clean freshwater source, and the mountains flanking it are rich in a new, unrecorded mineral and other metals. A good source for materials to feed the printers."
"I guess that's going to be our new home," Mark said, his eyes tracing the digital contours of the clearing. He looked back at the holographic feeds of his captains. "You can't just talk the talk and not walk the walk. The Shepherd will take the lead. We will act as the pathfinder, punch a hole through the atmosphere, and lock down the landing coordinates on the dirt. The Vanguard frigates will follow one by one, and the freighters will bring up the rear. Take your time, ride our wake to reduce aerodynamic drag, and keep your noses up."
"Understood, Mr. Shephard," all seven captains responded in near unison.
"Commence the civilian transfers immediately," Mark ordered. "The moment the last passenger is aboard a Vanguard frigate, we'll drop."
The comms feeds cut out, and the orbit above Rubrae I exploded into an organized flurry of activity.
Finally, after about four hours, the open comms channel crackled. "Mr. Shephard, this is the Vanguard Frigate 'Ironclad'. The last civilian is secure. We are ready for descent."
"Copy that, Ironclad," Mark rumbled. He reached out and killed the localized comms, turning his attention entirely to his own ship.
The Shepherd was carrying over four hundred civilians in its lower decks, plus the orphans, the nuns, and the surviving Vanguard mercenaries who had been with him since the rescue. Five hundred and sixty lives, packed into a frigate designed for fifty, about to undergo a violent atmospheric entry in a ship suffering from structural warping.
"Marcos," Mark said, his jaw tightening. "Please cast a shipwide broadcast."
A low, resonant chime echoed through every single corridor, cargo bay, and maintenance alcove of the Shepherd.
"Attention all passengers," Marcos's voice rang out, stripped of all its usual sarcasm, delivering the warning with absolute, chilling clarity. "I am Marcos, this ship's AI. As you all know, the place we are going to is not the place we had originally intended to go to, but the only place we found. We have mapped out a landing zone and are about to commence atmospheric entry. Entering an atmosphere in a ship this big is not really a fun ride for anyone, let alone with the structural damage we've sustained to our outer plating. This descent will not be smooth. It will be violent, it will be incredibly loud, and we will experience severe turbulence. Find a secure location. Sit on the deck. Put your backs against a solid surface, link your arms together, and hold on to anything and anyone you can. Do not stand up until we are on the ground."
In the lower decks, utter panic threatened to seize the exhausted survivors. The wide, pristine hallways were filled with the sound of people scrambling, mothers pressing their children tightly against their chests, and grown men bracing their boots against the metal grating.
In the primary crew quarters, which had been entirely surrendered to the church, the scene was one of profound, desperate faith. Dozens of orphans were huddled together in the center of the room, crying softly as the ambient hum of the engines began to violently pitch upward. Sister Elara knelt on the deck, her arms wrapped around three terrified toddlers, her eyes closed tight.
Beside her, Father Michael had finally recovered from the injuries he had suffered. The older priest looked pale and gaunt, but his spirit was entirely unbroken. He stood in the center of the quarters, gripping a battered rosary, his voice rising above the rising mechanical whine of the ship.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil," Father Michael prayed, his voice a steady, unwavering anchor in the terrified room. "For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Protect this vessel, Lord. Guide the hands of the man at the helm, and deliver us onto solid ground."
On the bridge, the doors slid open with a soft hiss.
Mark turned his head to see Lyra standing in the doorway.
She was wearing a thick, oversized sweater that hung down to her knees, clutching her battered stuffed animal in one hand and her digital tablet in the other. Her large eyes were wide, taking in the flashing red tactical screens and the massive projection of the approaching planet.
She didn't look terrified. She just looked incredibly determined.
Mark felt a sudden, profound softening in his chest. "What are you doing up here, bug? You're supposed to be down in the quarters with Sister Elara."
"I'm the co-pilot," Lyra stated, her small voice carrying a surprising amount of weight. She marched across the bridge, completely ignoring the stunned looks from Juan and Kenjiro, and climbed up into the secondary command seat to Mark's right. The heavy leather chair completely swallowed her, but she diligently pulled the heavy, five-point crash harness over her small shoulders, clicking the buckles into place with practiced ease. She set her tablet on the console and gripped her plushy tightly. "You need me up here, Papa."
Mark stared at her for a long moment.
"Yeah," Mark said softly, reaching over to gently tap her helmet-sized sweater. "I do. Hold on tight, bug."
Mark turned back to the main console. He reached out and slammed his hand down on the primary manual override.
A heavy, mechanical clunk echoed through the deck as the autopilot disengaged. The steering yoke extended from the console, locking into place with a sharp metallic snap. Mark gripped the heavy controls, his massive muscles instantly tensing as he felt the sluggish, dead weight of the heavily burdened frigate responding to his physical input.
"Marcos, push all auxiliary power to the inertial dampeners and the forward cooling systems and lock down the internal bulkheads. If a seal blows, I want it contained," Mark ordered, his eyes locking onto the sprawling, vibrant world expanding in the viewports.
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, sending a silent prayer to whatever god or being out there would care and protect them. Then, he pushed the yoke forward, and the Shepherd dove.
The moment the frigate hit the upper exosphere of Rubrae I, the sky in the digital viewports transformed from a deep, peaceful indigo into a violent, blinding inferno of superheated plasma before going dark as shutters closed to protect the ship's cameras.
The ship shuddered violently. A terrifying, deafening roar ripped through the hull as the atmosphere compressed and ignited violently against the forward armor plating. The sheer aerodynamic friction clawed at the ship, desperately trying to tear the Shepherd apart.
On the bridge, the vibration was brutal. The deck plates rattled so hard that it blurred Mark's vision. Alarms began to scream in unison, bathing the command deck in flashing crimson lights.
"Warning! Hull temperature exceeding critical parameters!" The ship's actual AI stated in a deadpan tone over the deafening roar of the atmospheric fire.
Marcos' holographic avatar glitched and distorted as the ship's sensors were overwhelmed by the heat. "Mark, the plating is buckling under the drag!"
"Not much I can do about that!" Mark roared back, his biceps straining against the fabric of his undershirt as he physically wrestled the yoke. The structural warping from the blind jump, along with the massive hole on the Shepherd's right wing, was throwing its aerodynamics wildly off balance. The ship wanted to spin out of control, to roll over and tear itself into a million burning pieces.
But Mark refused to let it. He used every ounce of his enhanced strength to hold the yoke perfectly steady, fighting the immense, crushing G-forces that, if not for the inertial dampeners, would have likely snapped everyone's spines. Beside him, Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her plushy tightly against her face as the harness dug into her small shoulders.
"Altitude twenty thousand meters!" Kenjiro shouted, his hands flying across the engineering terminal as sparks showered from a blown conduit near the ceiling. "Armor is holding, but the ambient heat is cooking the outer hull!"
"Punching through the cloud deck!" Mark yelled.
The roaring inferno of plasma suddenly vanished, replaced by a violent, blinding rush of white mist as the Shepherd tore through the cloud layer.
Instantly, the shutters that had been protecting the exterior cameras retracted, and the digital viewports cleared, displaying the ground that was rushing up to meet them at terrifying speed. Below, the sprawling, breathtaking tapestry of Rubrae I filled their vision. Massive, emerald-green and deep burgundy forests swept past them in a blur of color. The massive, pristine freshwater lakes flashed like mirrors under the three ruby suns.
"Ten thousand meters!" Marcos called out, the tactical overlay frantically adjusting to the new terrain. "Adjust the trajectory toward the designated LZ! Bearing two-seven-zero!"
Mark banked the heavy yoke hard to the left, and the Shepherd groaned in agonizing protest, the metal hull screaming as it carved a massive, sweeping arc through the indigo sky.
Ahead of them, nestled between the towering, snow-capped mountain range and the sprawling lake, was the clearing. Ten kilometers of flat, vibrant purple grass, dotted with a few hundred massive, thick-barked alien trees.
"Five thousand meters!" Kenjiro yelled. "We are coming in way too hot, Mark! The weight is dragging us down!"
"Engaging reverse and maneuvering thrusters!" Mark roared, slamming his hand down on the deceleration throttle.
The entire ship violently lurched backward as the thrusters ignited, blasting massive pillars of blue fire forward from the top and bottom of the hull while the maneuvering fired a steady stream at full power toward the approaching ground. The sudden deceleration was agonizing, throwing everyone on the bridge hard against their harnesses and ping ponging everyone in the lower decks.
But it wasn't enough. The Shepherd was carrying over five hundred people and a cargo hold packed to the absolute brim with heavy industrial equipment and food. The inertia was simply too massive, especially now that they were under the direct effects of gravity within an atmosphere.
"Brace for impact!" Marcos' voice resonated throughout the entire ship.
"Deploying landing skids!" Mark shouted.
Beneath the belly of the ship, the heavy, hydraulic landing struts slammed down, locking into place just seconds before the Shepherd hit the ground.
The Shepherd belly-flopped onto the alien dirt with the force of a meteor. The deafening screech of tearing metal echoed across the clearing as the sheer, immense weight of the burdened frigate instantly shattered the port-side landing skids. The massive hydraulic pistons crumpled like cheap tin, snapping under the pressure.
With its left side collapsing, the Shepherd slammed violently into the soil.
The momentum carried them forward, and the heavy frigate became a terrifying, uncontrolled plow, sliding across the clearing at a terrifying speed. It tore a massive, deep trench through the vibrant purple grass, churning up tons of dark, rich soil.
"Hold on!" Mark roared, gripping the yoke so hard the metal bent under his fingers.
The sliding frigate smashed into a cluster of the thick-barked burgundy trees, the massive trunks exploded into splinters upon impact. The heavy branches whipped violently against the hull of the ship, with some managing to strike a few of the exterior cameras, destroying them. The ship violently pitched to the left, dirt and mud flying high into the air, obscuring the sky entirely.
And then, with a final, agonizing groan of twisting metal, the Shepherd ground to a sudden, violent halt.
Total, absolute silence fell over the bridge as the alarms had ceased. The roaring engines powered down, leaving only the sound of the soft, rhythmic ping of the cooling reactor and the erratic hiss of ruptured hydraulic lines somewhere in the belly of the ship.
The Shepherd was tilted heavily to the left, resting entirely on its crumpled port-side belly, dug deep into the alien dirt.
Mark sat in his chair, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. His muscles burned with a dull, persistent ache, and a thin line of blood trickled down his temple where he had slammed against the headrest.
He slowly turned his head to the right.
Lyra was sitting perfectly still in her oversized harness. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, her knuckles completely white where she gripped her stuffed animal. Slowly, she turned her head, looking at Mark.
"We stopped," Lyra whispered.
Mark let out a sudden, breathless bark of laughter. He reached over, unbuckling her harness, and pulled her into a massive, crushing hug. "Yeah, bug. We stopped."
Suddenly, from the decks below, a sound began to rise. It started as a low murmur, bleeding through the floorboards and the ventilation shafts. Then, it grew louder. It was the sound of weeping. Then, cheering. And finally, a deafening, unified roar of absolute, unadulterated triumph from over five hundred people who had just realized they were still breathing.
They had landed, and miraculously, no one had been injured beyond a few bruises and cuts, but they were alive.
Kenjiro unbuckled his harness, collapsing back into his chair with a heavy sigh, a wild grin spreading across his face. Juan stood up, looking out the cracked, dirt-smeared cameras that projected the display of alien trees right outside.
"Not your smoothest landing, Mark," Juan noted dryly, though his voice was thick with profound relief.
"Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing," Mark grunted, standing up and lifting Lyra effortlessly into his arms. "Marcos. Give me a damage report, and open the main cargo doors. Let the people out."
"The port-side landing struts are completely obliterated, and the ventral hull has suffered significant abrasive trauma," Marcos reported smoothly, appearing on the tilted holotable. "But the reactor is stable, and the life support is nominal. Dropping the primary cargo ramp now."
"Come on," Mark said, looking at Juan and Kenjiro. "Let's go see our new home."
Mark carried Lyra in one arm, leading the way out of the bridge and into the central lift. As the doors opened on the lower decks, the scene was pure, chaotic elation. The crowded corridors were a sea of tears and laughter. Civilians were hugging some of the heavily scarred Vanguard mercenaries. Sister Elara was weeping openly, clutching Father Michael's hands.
As Mark stepped out of the lift, the crowd instantly parted for him.
They looked at him with an awe that bordered on reverence. He was the man who had dragged them out of the dark, pulled a miracle out of the void, and wrestled a burning ship to the ground to keep them safe.
As he passed a group of the younger children, a small boy nervously tugged on the edge of his heavy jacket.
"Thank you, Mr. Mark," the child whispered, eyes wide. Mark offered a gentle smile and nod before pressing on.
He made his way toward the massive cargo bay at the rear of the ship, Juan and Kenjiro following closely behind.
The moment Mark stepped into the cargo bay, he saw the true cost of the crash landing.
Because the Shepherd had snapped its left skids and slid violently into the dirt, the entire ship was resting at an awkward angle that was still walkable, but let's just say it wasn't healthy for keeping cargo upright. Inside the massive hold, the meticulous organization of Mark's supplies had completely failed. The sheer inertia had caused everything to violently slump to the left side of the bay. Massive crates of MRE rations, heavy industrial servos, steel support struts, and the 25-meter-radius printer, along with its 8x8m counterpart, had all shifted, forming a chaotic, towering maze of tilted metal and packed crates.
"Careful," Mark warned Juan and Kenjiro, shifting Lyra in his arms as he navigated the treacherous, tilted deck plating.
They climbed over fallen crates, ducked under hanging cargo webbing, and slowly navigated the maze of shifted supplies. Behind them, the massive crowd of civilians began to follow, their excitement driving them forward, eager to see the sky of the new worlds they were now in.
Finally, Mark reached the rear of the cargo bay.
The massive ramp had been deployed. But because the Shepherd had dug itself deeply into a raised ridge of dirt during the slide, the ramp didn't reach the ground. Its lowest side hung suspended in the air, creating a sheer, ten-foot drop from the edge of the metal lip down to the churning, torn-up alien soil below.
Mark stood at the absolute edge of the ramp.
The alien air rushed into the stale, sweaty cargo hold. It was incredible. It was cool and perfectly crisp, carrying the profound, earthy scent of rich pine, ozone, and clean, fresh water from the distant lake. The sky above was a breathtaking, sweeping canvas of deep indigo, illuminated by the warm, bleeding light of the three ruby suns.
Behind him, the hundreds of refugees slowly filtered out of the maze of crates, stopping short as they saw the light pouring into the ship.
Mark turned around, looking at the tired, battered, hopeful faces of the people who had followed him to the edge of the universe. He saw Sister Elara, her hands clasped in prayer. He saw the orphans, their eyes wide with wonder. He saw Juan's surviving mercenaries, their shoulders finally dropping from their perpetual tension.
"To escape certain death, we took a blind jump into the dark," Mark's voice boomed, echoing loudly through the cavernous, tilted cargo bay, reaching every single ear. "We lost good people. We lost ships. We spent weeks staring at the void, unsure if we'd survive or just wait to suffocate."
Mark turned back, gesturing outward to the majestic, sprawling emerald and burgundy forests, to the towering mountains and the bright indigo sky.
"But death didn't claim us," Mark declared, his voice ringing with absolute, unyielding conviction. "As the man who discovered this system, I named it the Trisolis Rubrae System. And the planet we are standing on is Rubrae I. This is the end of the line, and the beginning of everything else. A place where no corporation will tell us what we can do, where no gangs will haunt us, a place where pirates do not exist. We may not be where we wanted to be, but this place is a hundred times better, and with our very hands, we will build this place up ourselves."
The crowd erupted into a deafening, echoing cheer, the sound of five hundred voices screaming in pure, unadulterated joy after the treacherous weeks that had gone by.
Mark turned back to the ten-foot drop. For a normal man, a ten-foot plunge while holding a child would risk broken ankles. For Mark, it was absolutely nothing.
He took a step back, held Lyra securely against his chest, and leaped from the edge of the ramp.
He fell through the cool alien air, landing perfectly on his boots with a heavy, grounding thud. His knees bent slightly, absorbing the impact effortlessly. He didn't even stumble.
Slowly and carefully, Mark lowered his arms, gently placing Lyra down.
The little girl's boots touched the soft, dark soil of Rubrae I. She took a tentative step forward, her small boots crunching against the vibrant purple grass. She looked around, her eyes reflecting the crimson starlight, and then she smiled.
Mark stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the dirt as a loud, piercing roar tore through the indigo sky.
Mark tilted his head back, looking up. High above the emerald canopy, tearing through the cloud layer, were the seven ships. Leading the pack was the Ironclad, followed by the other 2 mercenary frigates. A few seconds later, the figures of four separate freighters entering the atmosphere could be seen, screaming in a wake of fiery plasma, plunging downward toward the clearing.
Behind Mark, the ten-foot drop from the Shepherd's cargo ramp was quickly bridged. Kenjiro and Juan didn't hesitate, vaulting over the edge and landing with heavy thuds in the soft loam. They immediately turned back to help the others. The surviving Vanguard mercenaries, moving with the practiced discipline of soldiers even in the face of sheer exhaustion, organized the civilians at the edge of the ramp. They began lowering people down, strong arms catching trembling bodies. Father Michael and Sister Elara helped lower the orphans one by one into the waiting arms of the mercenaries below.
Within minutes, dozens, then hundreds of people were spilling out onto the vibrant purple grass of their new world. They spread out across the clearing, taking deep, shuddering breaths of the crisp, pine-scented air. Many fell to their knees, weeping openly, running their hands through the alien dirt to convince themselves it was real. For some, this had been the first time they had ever witnessed nature with their own eyes, and for a brief, beautiful moment, it was a scene of pure, unadulterated salvation.
Then, the deafening roar of atmospheric thrusters shattered the peace as the Ironclad and her two sister frigates came in low and impossibly fast. Unlike the Shepherd, they weren't weighed down by a gargantuan cargo hold filled to the brim with industrial printers and colony supplies, nor were their profiles compromised by jump-space warping. But they still lacked the vertical-thrust capabilities of a dedicated atmospheric dropship.
Mark shielded his eyes from the dust as the Ironclad flared its reverse thrusters, a blinding blue wash of energy scorching the purple grass before the warship hit the dirt.
The landing was a brutal, grinding slide that tore up hundred-meter trenches of soil, but it was undeniably softer than the Shepherd's catastrophic belly-flop. The frigates ground to a halt one by one across the wide clearing, their hulls smoking, their landing struts groaning under the immense stress, but ultimately remaining intact.
"They made it," Juan breathed, standing next to Mark, his eyes fixed on his surviving warships. "Now for the hard part."
High above, the four civilian haulers were dropping fast. They were never meant to fly in an atmosphere. They were massive, ungainly bricks of industrial steel, fighting a desperate battle against gravity and friction. Three of the freighters, the Aegis Prime, the Stellar Dawn, and the Iron Will, were maintaining a tight, staggered formation, riding the thermal wakes of the frigates ahead of them to reduce the drag.
But as the crowd of survivors watched the sky, shading their eyes against the glare of the three red suns, a collective, horrified gasp rippled through the clearing.
Mark noticed it instantly. Three of the freighters were far ahead, but the fourth, the Horizon, was lagging dangerously behind. Its angle of descent was slightly too steep, the massive hull fighting a losing battle against the atmospheric density.
Then, a sound like thunder cracked the sky, a loud, concussive explosion that echoed violently off the distant mountain range.
Mark looked in the direction of the explosion, his enhanced vision immediately locking onto the struggling ship. High in the atmosphere, a massive plume of thick, oily dark smoke erupted from the rear port engine of the Horizon. The massive industrial hauler violently shuddered, its trajectory entirely compromised by the blowout. With its primary thruster gone, the sheer aerodynamic drag seized the ship. It veered sharply to the left, spinning wildly off course and out of the designated landing corridor.
With eyes wide, the hundreds of people who had managed to leave the Shepherd's cargo bay stood frozen in the purple grass. The cheering died completely. Lyra grabbed Mark's leg, burying her face against his pants to hide from the noise while Mark watched, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, entirely powerless to stop what was happening.
The Horizon plummeted toward the towering, snow-capped mountains bordering the northern edge of the basin.
The crowd watched in stunned horror as the freighter slammed into the side of a jagged peak and simply tore apart into hundreds of thousands of pieces. The sheer force of the impact sheared the entire top half of the mountain off, sending a massive, billowing cloud of pulverized rock, snow, and shredded metal high into the indigo sky.
The few big chunks of what remained of the Horizon, massive sections of the cargo hold and the bridge, barrel-rolled slowly with brutal impacts down the steep side of the mountain. They crushed towering alien trees and kicked up massive trails of dust before finally coming to rest in the foothills miles away.
The booming echo of the impact washed over the clearing a few seconds later, vibrating heavily through the soles of their boots.
Then, absolute silence returned.
On the far side of the clearing, the three freighters hit the dirt, sliding to brutal but successful halts in the mud and grass. But nobody cheered for them. The joyous celebration that had filled the air just moments ago evaporated, entirely replaced by the chilling, brutal reality of the frontier.
A somber, heavy atmosphere settled over everyone standing in the alien grass. Mothers covered their children's eyes, and Vanguard mercenaries, along with other civilians, lowered their heads.
The captain and the flight crew of the Horizon had stayed behind to guide that ship down, knowing the risks, so that the civilians could live. Five lives, traded to get the rest of the fleet and its needed materials to the dirt.
Mark placed a heavy, protective hand on Lyra's head, his eyes locked on the smoking scar on the mountainside, when suddenly a system notification popped up.:
*Hidden Quest Complete: A Place to Call Home*
System Booting Attempt # 1...
System Booting Attempt # 1,420...
System Booting Attempt # 9,013...
System Booting Attempt #710,921...
System Booting Failed. Complete the remaining hidden quests to unlock the system.
System Name: She^&e@d &^ Hum@n(ty
This Quest has an Additional Reward: ...
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