The Major and the Mercenary

The sky over Veridia Prime was bleeding. A lurid palette of bruised purple and gangrenous orange painted the upper atmosphere, a permanent stain from the orbital bombardments that had ended the Sunsfire Rebellion a decade ago. They called it victory. I called it a poorly healed wound.

The medal felt heavy in my gloved hand, a cold, polished disc of imperial silver. The ��Star of Valor.�� They��d pinned it on my chest in a sterile, airless ceremony room filled with stiff uniforms and the faint scent of recycled oxygen and regret. Major Kaien Varrus, the Butcher of Cygnus, the Hero of the Outer Rim. They gave me titles like they were prescriptions, hoping one of them might cure the ghost in my eyes. It never worked.

��You��re thinking too loud again, Major.��

I didn��t turn. Captain Eva Rostova��s voice was as dry and cool as the recycled air. She came to stand beside me at the observation window of the cruiser Vengeance, her reflection a stern, elegant ghost against the backdrop of the swirling, toxic clouds below.

��Just admiring the view, Captain,�� I said, my own voice flat.

��It��s a graveyard, Kai,�� she replied, her tone softening almost imperceptibly. ��Don��t mistake it for a triumphant vista.�� She knew. Of all the high-ranking sycophants in the Hegemony fleet, Eva was one of the few who had seen real combat, who understood that victory was just a prettier name for survival.

��My promotion came through,�� I said, changing the subject. My reflection showed nothing. A woman with short, severe black hair, eyes the color of storm clouds, and a face that had been trained to show no emotion at all. A good soldier. A perfect weapon.

��I know. Head of Operations. A two-year survey mission to the Arachia Quadrant, under my command.�� She finally looked at me, her sharp eyes searching my face. ��It��s a gilded exile, you know that, right? The Admiralty Board wants the ��Butcher of Cygnus�� out of the public eye while they rewrite the history books. They��re giving you a shiny new title and sending you to the ass-end of the galaxy to count rocks.��

��I��m aware of the politics, Eva,�� I said. I didn��t care. Politics was a game for men and women with something left to lose. All I had was my duty. And my nightmares.

��Just be prepared,�� she said, turning back to the window. ��The Arachia Quadrant is uncharted. It��s quiet out there. Too quiet. Makes a woman antsy.��

My hand instinctively went to the hilt of the standard-issue pulse rifle slung across my back. Good. Ansy was a state I understood. Quiet was an enemy I knew how to fight.

The real enemy, the one that stalked me in the dead of night, the one that whispered to me in the ghost-voice of a thousand civilians caught in the crossfire of my ��ruthless but effective�� tactics�� that was an enemy a rifle couldn��t touch.

The ship chimed, a soft, electronic tone signaling our imminent departure. We were leaving Veridia Prime, the heart of the Hegemony, and plunging into the great, silent dark.

I looked down at the medal in my hand, its polished surface reflecting a distorted, monstrous version of my own face. They were rewarding me for my sins, giving me a prettier cage.

Little did I know, I was flying straight into the jaws of a hell far older and hungrier than any I had left behind. And in that hell, I would meet a devil with a rogue��s smile and the galaxy��s most infuriating laugh. A devil who would either be my salvation or my final damnation.