Location: Low Orbit above Kelthar-3 – TRNC Black Recon Cruiser “Talon’s Edge”

  Fleet Captain Valeria Zhukov in command

  The Talon’s Edge dropped out of the slipstream in a silent ripple of broken starlight, positioning itself high above the blue curve of the planet. Systems clicked over to combat mode. Shields recalibrated. Engines quieted.

  From orbit, the planet looked quiet. Untouched.

  Valeria Zhukov knew better.

  She stood near the edge of the war room, arms folded behind her back, eyes locked on the tactical display.

  The tactical grid flickered on the center hololith. Sleek red overlays painting Kelthar-3’s northern quadrant in pulsing danger tones. The primary ping: Republic Forward Command Spirepoint Echo. A tall, narrow structure embedded in the ridge-line of the capital district.

  It was blinking.

  Red.

  Like a warning heartbeat.

  “Status,” she said, with an edge.

  “Facility breached,” her second-in-command replied, fingers dancing over his console.

  “Internal sensors confirm unauthorized entry on sublevel three. Turrets are down. Comms blackout. No response from the guard detail.”

  Then another officer chimed in, voice lower.

  “Something… moved through the entire facility in under thirty minutes. Squad vitals terminated. All of them.”

  Valeria’s eyes narrowed. “Confirm target classification.”

  The tech flinched. “Unknown. Organic. Fast. Slips cameras. All we’re getting is flicker… Whatever’s in there, it’s not human.”

  She stepped closer to the hololith. Her gloved fingers touched the edge of the projection. A ripple of static followed her motion.

  “I want a full optical trace. Thermals. Pathing data. Show me everything that thing touched.”

  The image adjusted. The flicker of a blurred humanoid trail stitched through floors like a ghost, entering through the front door, ascending like smoke, leaving only death and silence in its wake.

  “It's alone?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then why is it still alive?”

  No one answered.

  Valeria turned her gaze toward the viewport.

  Beyond the glass, the blue curve of Kelthar-3 shifted beneath her, cloaked in storms and static fields.

  Down there, somewhere, he was waiting.

  And now... something else.

  Something fast.

  Something lethal.

  Moving through the extremely well-guarded tower like it wasn’t even there.

  It wasn't random.

  It wasn’t a coincidence.

  Whatever had been unleashed down there, it was connected to him.

  She could feel it.

  "Prep for low-orbit skip," Valeria said. Her voice cut across the war room like a whip.

  "Combat configuration. I want them deaf, blind, and begging by the time we land."

  A ripple of unease spread among the bridge officers.

  "Ma'am," her second-in-command ventured carefully, "planetary clearance—?"

  Another officer spoke up from the flight control station, tone tense but professional.

  "Atmospheric disruption from a standard re-entry will cause sonic booms and plasma trails," he reported.

  "A low-orbit skip, near ground level... it’ll rip pressure differentials apart. Create localized micro-quakes. Blow out windows. Fry comms. Sensors. Could destabilize the entire urban grid."

  Valeria’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile.

  "Good," she said, turning her head slightly, casting a cold glance over her shoulder.

  "I’m not asking."

  The officer swallowed hard.

  "Acknowledged. Vectoring descent now."

  The Talon’s Edge trembled as its engines cycled into phase-skip configuration, systems growling to life.

  External plating shifted. Internal gravity flexed.

  Alarms flickered silently across auxiliary stations as the ship reconfigured itself for a descent few vessels dared attempt.

  Across the war room, officers traded uneasy glances.

  "Stop the with all these upset looks. The city belongs to the Republic on paper. In reality?"

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  She smiled thinly.

  "Thieves. Cartel rats. Traitors clinging to crumbling spires."

  She pivoted back to the viewport.

  "Who cares if a few of them lose their windows."

  The ship bucked like a living beast then skip-jumped.

  Reality folded.

  A crack of thunder split the sky.

  Talon’s Edge reappeared less than two thousand meters above the city center.

  The shockwave hit immediately.

  Pressure walls snapped outward in concentric rings.

  Windows blew out for blocks.

  Air traffic control collapsed under scrambled EM readings.

  Hovercars spun out of control.

  Antennas and light poles toppled like brittle trees in a hurricane.

  Below, alarms screamed once again across Kelthar-3’s Spire District.

  Static fried every comm channel within range.

  Valeria’s lips barely moved.

  "Deploy the guns. Sweep the rooftops."

  Turrets extended from the ship’s undercarriage, sleek black barrels locking onto every automated anti-air platform hidden among the towers.

  Targeting data poured across the bridge and Talon’s Edge immediately opened fire.

  Pulse-rounds vaporized flak turrets.

  Sniper nests hidden in maintenance hatches exploded into shrapnel.

  The few civilian transports brave enough to lift off dropped back to the ground like stones, engines fried by EMP bursts.

  Within ninety seconds, the city's upper defenses were ashes.

  Valeria stepped forward, hands clasped behind her back, watching the fires spread.

  "Clear me a landing corridor," she said.

  "I want to walk through the front door."

  Her officers moved to obey.

  The bridge lights flickered once.

  A low, almost imperceptible hum vibrated through the Talon’s Edge.

  The systems stabilized, but every man and woman on the bridge stiffened.

  A sensor officer's voice broke the silence, thin and strained.

  "Ma’am... new contact. Approaching fast. No transponder. Trajectory..."

  He hesitated, eyes wide.

  "Straight at us."

  Before Valeria could even respond, the viewport filled with movement.

  Another ship tore out of the upper atmosphere.

  A sleek black Specter-Class stealth corvette with no markings, no running lights, just a blade of void cutting through the chaos.

  It positioned itself perfectly, precisely one hundred meters off their port side.

  Valeria’s eyes narrowed.

  A chime echoed across the war room.

  Incoming hail.

  The comms officer looked at her, uncertain.

  Valeria gave a sharp nod.

  The viewport shimmered.

  A man appeared seated casually in the cockpit of the obsidian ship, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, the other holding a half-eaten ration bar like he had all the time in the world.

  "You were told to bring him back alive, not to shatter the damned capital."

  He let out an exaggerated sigh.

  "Varro will want a word."

  "I assume you're still capable of opening a door for a guest."

  Of course it would be him.

  Of all the dogs Varro could have loosed, he sent the worst one.

  She gave a clipped motion toward the comms officer.

  "Docking clearance," she ordered.

  The Talon’s Edge adjusted vector automatically.

  Locking clamps extended with a metallic groan.

  The Specter corvette slid into position

  Mag-lock engaged.

  Pressure equalized.

  An eerie silence settled over the war room as the docking corridor cycled open.

  Then footsteps.

  Every officer on deck turned instinctively and dropped to one knee as the man in black combat armor crossed the threshold — his presence heavier than a dozen rifles.

  Blackhand

  Beneath the matte-black tactical armor, the faint whine of cybernetic servos stirred with every step.

  As he paused near the drop bay, he reached up and adjusted the strap of his chest rig.

  For a moment, the motion tugged the collar of his armor aside, revealing a thin, jagged scar running from the base of his jaw to just under his ear. An old wound, healed poorly, left to weather like a relic.

  Valeria was already moving to intercept him, her coat trailing behind her.

  They met halfway down the main corridor, near the assault deck where the drop shuttles prepped for launch.

  Behind her, one of her lieutenants spoke up, desperate.

  "Ma’am, you can't deploy groundside. Not after the disruption field. Not without—"

  Valeria silenced him with a look.

  Then turned her full attention back to Blackhand.

  She dipped her head slightly.

  Not a bow. Not submission. But close.

  A warrior acknowledging the predator that even she wouldn’t provoke without cause.

  "I was already preparing the drop," she said flatly.

  Blackhand’s lips twitched.

  "Good," he said.

  He stepped past her without waiting for permission.

  Crew members scrambled to clear a path without being told.

  Valeria followed reluctantly.

  The launch bay buzzed with urgency.

  Blackhand boarded the lead shuttle without a glance at the crew scrambling to adjust their loadouts around him.

  Valeria followed, signaling her second to hold back the others.

  They needed a moment.

  Away from the ears they couldn't trust.

  The shuttle's hatch sealed behind them with a hiss.

  For a long second, neither spoke.

  Only when the final lockdown light blinked green did Valeria move closer. Just enough that her voice wouldn't carry.

  "You’re not supposed to be here," she said, low.

  Her tone wasn't accusation.

  It was simple fact.

  Blackhand leaned back against the bulkhead, arms crossed loosely.

  "I go where I'm needed."

  "There are already rumors you're loyal to my uncle. If the wrong people see you with me—"

  "Let them talk," Blackhand cut her off.

  Valeria's jaw tightened.

  She hated this.

  The optics.

  The politics.

  The reality that no matter how precise her record, he could unravel it all with a single appearance.

  "I’m still TRNC," she muttered.

  The words felt thin even as she said them.

  Blackhand snorted softly, but there was no humor in it.

  "You’re still a uniform. That’s all they see."

  His tone was dry, almost bored.

  "You serve," he continued. "You smile. You obey their little rules. While they plot how to throw you into the fire when it’s convenient."

  "My uncle needs eyes inside," she said. "And I can still do more for him here than in exile on that shitty little rock he calls home.

  "Maybe." Blackhand shrugged. "Or maybe they’re just waiting for the right moment to gut you like the others."

  The shuttle shuddered as the atmospheric thrusters kicked in, rattling the frame.

  Valeria met his gaze — cold steel against cold stone.

  "I haven't forgotten who I serve," she said.

  Blackhand’s lips twitched into something almost like approval.

  "Good," he said.

  "Because when the time comes, girl..."

  He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper that curled into her ear.

  "...TRNC won’t even find your body."

  Valeria sighed. "How'd you find me?"

  Blackhand smirked, rolling his shoulders lazily.

  "Your security is worse than the old man’s," he said. "And he’s basically living in medieval times, girl."

  Valeria scoffed under her breath, and pressed the door button.

  The docking hatch behind them clanged open.

  Her second-in-command, along with a half-dozen soldiers, quickly boarded

  They moved to their harnesses without a word, instinctively giving Valeria and Blackhand space.

  Valeria held out a hand.

  Her XO passed her a datapad without needing to be told.

  She flicked it alive with a gloved thumb, scrolling quickly, then held it up toward Blackhand.

  The grainy footage played, a blurred, almost impossible figure flickering, teleporting, tearing through soldiers like paper.

  Blackhand watched, unblinking.

  "Interesting," he murmured. “Well... if that’s him, he didn’t have those powers when we were kids."

  Valeria’s head tilted slightly.

  "What powers did he have as a kid?"

  "Mostly the same shit anyone had if they survived longer than five minutes," he said.

  "Genetic reinforcement. Accelerated reflexes. Bone density mods. Neural link compatibility."

  He paused, then added with a shrug:

  "And there were rumors he could kill people with his brain."

  Valeria’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

  "You ever see it?"

  Blackhand shook his head once, slow.

  Slowly, he peeled the glove off his right hand.

  The synthweave leather rasped against reinforced plating as he pulled it free, revealing the nightmare beneath.

  His hand was blackened cracked skin fused with cybernetic grafts and thin metallic tendrils that wound through exposed muscle.

  At the wrist, crude reinforcement studs jutted against bone.

  At the fingertips, faint micro-filament implants gleamed under the shuttle lights.

  He flexed the hand once, slow, stiff, almost mechanical.

  "Yeah," Blackhand said quietly.

  "Once."

  The shuttle’s internal comm crackled to life.

  The pilot’s voice, clipped and professional, came over the channel:

  "Landing sequence initiated. Touchdown at Spirepoint Echo, sixty seconds. Prepare for combat deployment."