Then—
Light.
I blink. The ceiling above me is smooth, white, featureless. The hum of ventilation, the distant chime of the intercom. The scent of disinfectant, old plastic, recycled air. My seat. My row. The waiting room.
I jolt upright. The sudden movement sends a spike of nausea through my gut. My head swims. I grip the armrests, forcing air into my lungs.
The chronometer on the far wall glows in clean, blue digits.
Eleven hours.
Day seven.
Panic surges, sharp and immediate.
How did I get back here?
I scan the room. The same rows of chairs, the same nervous faces. A few new ones. A few missing. I search for the examiner, for some sign—anything—that will tell me if I passed. If I missed my name being called.
If I failed.
Nothing.
I look down. My flight suit is still smudged with grease from the shuttle. My fingers ache. A bottle of water sits in the chair's console beside me, condensation pooling at its base. Next to it, a new ration packet. Unopened. I ignore it, grab the water, twist off the cap with stiff fingers, and down half of it in a single pull.
I need to move. I need answers.
Then I realize I need something more immediate.
I stand too fast, stumble, steady myself. Make for the restroom.
The walk is automatic. I force myself not to run. My legs know the way. A week now of pacing this waiting room have ingrained the route in muscle memory. The door slides open, the lights flicker to life. I barely register the pristine tiles, the chrome fixtures, the wall-length mirror reflecting my own exhausted face back at me.
I don't waste time. Relief is immediate—almost.
The tension lingers, a deep, stubborn knot low in my gut. Six days of protein slurry. Six days of sitting, waiting, my system withholding. No time for mandatory aerobics, no space to stretch, no routine to keep the system moving. The strain tightens, worsened by the adrenaline still coursing through me, by the panic clawing at the edges of my mind.
I close my eyes.
Breathe. Try to relax. Let it go.
Minutes pass. My body resists, then relents. The pressure eases, the discomfort fades.
I brace a hand against the stall wall, exhaling slowly through the momentary euphoria.
Dominion absolute.
I flush.
I rinse my hands, splash water onto my face, gripping the edges of the sink as I force myself to breathe. The mirror reflects my own exhausted face back at me.
It's fine.
I press my palms against my cheeks. The coolness helps.
I didn't miss anything. If I failed, they would have told me. If I passed, they would have called me.
Unless they did.
Unless I was asleep.
Unless I missed it.
The panic threatens to rise again. I shove it down.
I push back through the door, stride toward the information desk. The portly woman behind it glances up, her expression neutral, almost bored. I force my voice to steady, force my words to come out measured.
"I—"
The intercom crackles to life.
"Calla Rider, report to flight simulator 7-A."
My breath catches. Simulator. The second exam. Extraction.
I passed!
I scan the room, pulse hammering once more. A man in a black uniform stands near the far exit, clipboard in hand. He sees me, lifts a hand in a wave.
I straighten my shoulders.
I step into the simulator room.
The air is cold, sterile, humming with quiet machinery. A single technician stands at a console, eyes flicking across the readouts. He barely acknowledges me. The Dominion crest glows above the entrance—two wings encircling a star.
The simulator pod sits in the center of the room. Egg-shaped, matte gray, cables coiled along its base. The hatch is open. The seat inside looks standard—a snug fit, control panels curving around the cockpit. I climb in, securing the harness across my chest.
The door seals with a hiss.
I sit and strap myself in, moving without thinking, fastening the six-point harness without looking.
Just another day. Just another flight. Just relax.
The screen in front of me flickers to life, then a voice—bright, patronizing, and terrifyingly familiar—fills the cabin.
"Welcome, Pilot! Flying is fun!"
The voice sounds like staring into the sun feels. A manufactured cheerfulness engineered for attention-grabbing, mind-numbing obedience.
"Let's go over the basics! Your go-stick moves the ship, your gogo buttons make it zoom zoom, and the beep-boop panel keeps you safe!"
I grip the flight stick without thinking as the familiar phrase triggers automatic responses so ingrained that I don't even notice my knuckles going white.
The screen flashes with cartoon diagrams—round, smiling faces stamped onto panels and switches. A child's hand reaches out to the
go-stick, nudging it gently, the shuttle responding with perfect precision. A rainbow arcs across the sky. A chime plays, affirming a job well done.
"Remember! If you want to go up, pull the go-stick! If you want to go down, push the go-stick! If you want to go faster—"
I swallow. My stomach twists.
The memory comes fast, unbidden.
I am eight years old, strapped into a simulator that smells of fresh plastic, the faint, sterile bite of ozone and the ancient puke of small children that's seeped into every unreachable, uncleanable nook and cranny of the cockpit. The screen in front of me is filled with the same shapes, the same colors, the same nauseating encouragement.
"You can do it, little pilot!"
Eight year-old me sneezes.
The go-stick jerks. The simulated shuttle rolls hard, a full 180-degree spin before the auto-assist wrenches it back into place. Red flashing warnings, a happy,
chipper voice telling me that accidents are just lessons in disguise.
I barely pass Basic Flight For Concrete Operational Stage Learners.
I force my breathing to steady. I am not eight. I am not in a toy simulator with assisted steering cranked so high that breathing wrong can send you into a barrel roll.
The tutorial continues, unbearably cheerful.
"If you need to land, press the round-down button! If you need to stop fast, push the big-long orange bar! If something goes wrong, don't worry—"
The cartoon hand pushes a red, oversized switch. The shuttle halts midair, perfect, weightless. A sunbeam catches the hull.
"—just call an instructor!"
I close my eyes.
Inhale. Exhale.
The colors, the music, the voice—like the memory of walking over broken glass. It grates against my nerves, digging under my skin like an itch I can't scratch.
The screen flickers.
A burst of static. A moment of silence.
I exhale, relief bleeding into my muscles.
Then—
"And remember! A happy pilot is a safe pilot! So keep smiling and—"
The voice crackles back to life, like a corpse that doesn't know it's dead.
I jolt. My hands are damp against the controls.
The screen sputters, pixels stretching unnaturally. The cartoon shuttle freezes mid-flight, its stupid round face grinning wide.
The sound cuts out again.
Darkness.
I realize I'm panting.
My grip on the go-stick—damn it— the
flight-stick is too tight, my fingers aching with tension. I flex them, forcing myself to let go, to breathe.
A full ten seconds pass. The tutorial does not return.
I lean back, pressing my head against the seat, staring at the blank screen.
The technician must have seen my file. Recognized my flight certification. Canceled the opening tutorial.
Efficiency.
I exhale.
Dominion all encompassing.
I whisper a quiet thanks to the seven beatitudes of Ordered Unity*.
Recited daily, whispered in gratitude, printed on every government-issued meal tray, and occasionally embroidered onto throw pillows (where available). The Beatitudes remind every citizen that happiness is not a state of mind, but a measurable effect of proper alignment with the Dominion's will.
For example, "Blessed are the Ordered, for they shall never stray from their path" is not just a sentiment—it's a warning. Stray too far, and one may soon find themselves on a path that leads to Necessary Reeducation.
Likewise, "Blessed are the Happy, for they embrace Ordered Unity" is less about feeling happy and more about being happy, which is statistically verified by mandatory mood reports. Any unexpected deviations from blessed happiness should be reported immediately.
In this way, the Seven Beatitudes serve as both moral guide and performance evaluation. Follow them diligently, and a citizen may find their life efficient, peaceful, and fulfilling. Ignore them, and they may find their life… abruptly reassigned.
Blessed are the Ordered, for they shall never stray from their path.
Blessed are the Loyal, for betrayal is the only unforgivable sin.
Blessed are the Selfless, for service does not pause for comfort.
Blessed are the Uniform, for individuality is the first step to treason.
Blessed are the Obedient, for they shall know no chaos.
Blessed are the Efficient, for their labors serve the Whole.
Blessed are the Happy, for they embrace Ordered Unity.
The screen remains dark. No more instructions, no more adolescent flashbacks. The technician outside must have shut it off. Obviously, they know I've flown before. No need to waste time.
The simulator reboots.
A hangar materializes around me, vast and cavernous, stretching beyond the limits of the display. Munitions line the walls—missiles taller than my shuttle, artillery rounds stacked in neat columns. I sit at the edge of an open bay door. Outside, stars burn against black.
The comm chimes.
"Two minutes until atmospheric entry. Land within the designated coordinates. Extraction window: 120 seconds from launch."
I grip the flight-stick. The engines hum beneath me, steady, waiting. This shuttle is smaller than my cargo hauler, sleeker. The controls are familiar, but the responsiveness is sharper, more immediate. A glance at the instruments confirms readiness—thrusters primed, trajectory locked.
I key the comms.
"Flight control, Lifeline-Class shuttle awaiting clearance for launch. Requesting confirmation of deck clearance and authorization for launch burn."
There's a brief delay, the static hum of an open channel. No response.
I glance at the bay doors ahead. Beyond them, the void stretches out, vast and waiting. The munitions stacks around me loom high, inert giants watching from the shadows of the hangar. Everything is still.
A flicker of unease tightens in my chest. I focus. Exhale. Push forward.
The beep-boop panel flashes green.
"Acknowledged control, engaging gogo-button."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. My stomach seizes up. I freeze.
Chaos!
I catch it too late, heat burning up the back of my neck. My grip on the flight-stick tightens. I force my voice steady, correcting myself before anyone can react.
"Engaging hover burn. Raising landing gear. Requesting final clear check of the flight deck."
Silence. Too long.
I stare at the comms panel, pulse hammering.
Did they hear that? Did they think—no, it was nothing. A slip. An instinct. Years of childhood training surfacing where it didn't belong.
The pause stretches. My harness is too tight. The simulator is unbearably hot.
Then, at last, the comm crackles. A voice—hesitant, uncertain.
"Uh… flight deck is clear. You can… um. Zoom zoom, now."
I close my eyes. A sharp inhale.
Professionalism. Precision. Dominion efficiency.
The mantra plays out in my head and I force my hands to relax their death grip.
I am a professional. I am orderly. I am efficient.
"Copy that," I say, flat and clipped, shoving down the urge to sink into my seat and disappear.
I push forward.
The bay doors open, and the shuttle drops into the void.
The planet swells below, a smudge of brown and gold. I tilt the nose down, lining up my trajectory. The atmospheric entry warning flashes, but the craft remains unnervingly smooth. No turbulence, no violent shuddering as I break through the upper layers. Just a steady pull of gravity and the flare of superheated air.
I make a note, speaking aloud for the recording.
"Minimal buffeting on reentry. Likely due to optimized aerodynamics of the Lifeline-Class Extraction Shuttle. Superior stabilization over Longhaul-Class Lander. Minimal G-force present."
The altimeter spirals downward. Still no resistance. In a cargo lander, I'd be fighting against the weight of the descent, adjusting thrust to keep the nose level, doing vector calculus in my head. Here, I barely have to correct course.
The comm stays quiet. No enemy warnings. No distress calls. Just the countdown ticking in the corner of my HUD.
The first thing they teach you in flight school,
adult flight school, is the danger of silence. As the infamous Haley (The Killer) Adams once said:
"Silence is space waiting to kill you."
Of course, history is a fickle thing, and while the phrase is now proudly stamped onto every Storm Valkyrie recruitment poster, its true origins are somewhat less glamorous. It was first muttered by an anonymous deck-hand who had, regrettably, left his helmet mic on while absentmindedly hauling trash into the depressurized launch bay.
His insight was undeniably profound, but fate is rarely kind to the philosophically inclined. He later met an ironic end when he was struck by an improperly secured external speaker that had come loose during a zero-G rave.
His name was lost to time, but his words live on—uttered with reverence by pilots who have never once questioned why someone called "The Killer" would be known for making insightful comments about vacuum physics.
I scan my displays, mind moving through the checklist of things my cargo lander doesn't have.
"LPI radar active. Emission control nominal. No traceable footprint."
The stealth system hums quietly, filtering the return signals. No unexpected pings.
"Stores Management System operational. Ammo belts reading 14000 rounds, gimbals show stable."
The under-wing rotary cannons are locked in passive mode. I cycle through the interface anyway, muscle memory from years of running weight manifests on my cargo hauler.
"Radar Warning Receiver online. No active radar locks detected."
I tap the screen. The display stays clean. Nothing reaching for me. So much faster and far-reaching than anything I've used before.
"Missile Approach Warning System tracking. No infrared or ultraviolet threats logged."
I check the angles. Nothing spiking. No incoming signatures. According to what the manual said.
"Chaff dispenser armed, inventory full. Flare dispenser armed, inventory full."
Both untouched.
"Electronic Warfare Self-Protection system running passive scans. No jamming detected, no ECM active."
The system sits idle. Another safety net I hope I won't need.
Everything in place. Nothing out of order.
I've read it. I know it. Just like the manual. Just breathe. Show them. I am a professional. I am order. I am efficient.
I check the range to the Vanguard's beacon. The sensor suite pings back precise coordinates, feeding me an optimized descent path. The nose stays locked on target, angle perfect, approach smooth.
Still no alerts. No contacts. No threats.
This is a test. It's all a test.
I keep my hands steady on the controls.
I do not let the silence relax me.
The surface rushes toward me. A battlefield, but it doesn't feel like one. Wreckage lies scattered, charred remains of enemy vehicles and synthetic bodies. But there's no fire. No movement. Not even smoke.
A single figure stands at the extraction point.
He is
flawless.
Pristine white armor, edged in Dominion gold. A rifle slung across his back, Dominion flag planted at his feet, the pole held with casual ease.
He doesn't crouch, doesn't brace for an emergency boarding. He waits, unshaken, as my heat wash kicks the flag into violent motion.
The Vanguard approaches with perfect confidence, stepping onto the ramp as though stepping into history.
I watch him with a deep swelling feeling in my gut.
The landing gear deploys. I ease the shuttle down, smooth and controlled. The timer on my HUD ticks under thirty seconds.
The ramp release blinks green. I press it. A hiss of decompression, the metal unfolding, touching the ground with engineered finality.
The Vanguard approaches with perfect confidence, stepping onto the ramp as though stepping into history.
Except—no.
The simulator hatch behind me hisses open.
I freeze.
A shadow steps inside.
I twist in my seat, the simulation still running, the HUD still displaying the virtual pre-lift-off, but I don't see the screen anymore. I see
him.
I stare, unable to look away.
I remember the posters. The propaganda reels. The Dominion Net broadcasts dissecting every recorded mission. VOU Vanguard are the sentinels of Ordered Unity, the ones who stand between chaos and civilization. I once joined a fan group dedicated to them. I memorized their names, their battles. I knew which monickers had the highest kill counts.
Now one of them is
here.
Not the simulation. Not the rendering.
Real.
The same armor. The same insignia. The same impossible, inhuman perfection. As though he has stepped out of my screen, crossed into reality.
He moves with certainty, stepping up into the simulator pod, the pseudo-hatch closing behind him. He seals it with a practiced flick of his wrist, locking us both inside.
He sits.
The single seat behind the cut-out cockpit has always been empty, meant only for a passenger dummy. It isn't empty anymore.
I gawk.
The Vanguard.
A real one.
Here.
Inside my pod.
I snap forward, hands gripping the controls like an anchor. My brain fights itself, flipping through explanations, but there is no explanation, or if there is, my brain has stopped speaking a language I understand.
My breath is too loud. I can't help it. I turn around again.
He moves with precision, strapping himself in with practiced ease. Not a word, not a wasted motion. He is beautiful. No scuffs, no grit from the battlefield clinging to boots. The enemy never even touched him.
He's a Vanguard.
Of course they didn't.
I key the comms.
"N-no enemy contact. Extraction proceeding with zero resistance. Medical crew not required on the flight deck."
The Vanguard doesn't react. He sits straight-backed, unmoving.
I should say something.
I
should say something.
The words tangle in my throat. What do you say to someone like him? Someone who embodies everything the Dominion exalts? I feel the weight of his presence, the way he sits with absolute certainty in himself.
The silence stretches. I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
"Service is unity."
It's clumsy. A useless phrase in this context. I immediately regret it.
The Vanguard unstraps.
He stands.
I grip the controls tighter, heart slamming against my ribs as he steps forward. I see him behind me, pristine white and gold armor reflected by the screen of every display. He moves like a statue coming to life, smooth, effortless.
Then he places a hand on my shoulder.
"Unity is victory," he says.
The weight of his hand burns through my flight suit.
Dominion all encompassing.
I forget how to fly.
I forget how to breathe.
Stacy will never believe this.
The comm beeps.
"Objective Complete."
I yank the stick, forcing the shuttle's nose up, aiming for open sky. My hands are sweating. My thoughts are gone. The numbers on the dials have lost all meaning. I mumble something about proper seating protocol.
He doesn't reply. He simply returns to his seat, as composed as before.
We break atmosphere.
I swallow hard, keeping my eyes fixed on the controls, forcing myself to focus. Stars. I'm aiming for the stars. Up up up…
But all I can think about is the pressure of a Vanguard's hand on my shoulder. I am
never going to wash this uniform.
