The St. Francis sliced through the black sea toward the coordinates, engines a low growl under our feet. Harvey had disappeared into the engineering bay the moment we boarded—locked the door, muttering about “new tech” and “Foundation magic.” I left him to it. My mind was already racing ahead.

  I leaned over the viewing deck rail, wind cutting sharp across my face. That voice from the disc… deep, calm, measured. I’d heard it before.

  Somewhere in the past. Laughing in a lab corridor. Whispering theories at 3 a.m. It clawed at me, refusing to let go.

  Gina sneaked up behind me, now in full fatigues—boots silent, uniform crisp. She joined me at the rail, elbows brushing mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Still thinking about the voice?” she asked, voice soft against the wind.

  “Yeah. It’s familiar. Too familiar.”

  She exhaled, breath clouding in the cold. “Marcus.”

  The name hit like a slap. I didn’t want to say it out loud. Didn’t want to open that door. But her eyes—those damn eyes that had seen me bleed, seen me break, and never once looked away—melted every lock I had left.

  I felt like I wasn’t a soldier anymore. Just a man carrying too many ghosts.

  “Yeah,” I said, voice rough. “Marcus.”

  Gina waited. She always did.

  “Marcus Torres,” I started, staring at the dark water. “If I wasn’t filled with so much anger toward him, I might say he’s the best dude on the planet. But he’s the emperor’s nephew… and the Union president’s nephew too. Caught between two monsters who both think they own the world.”

  We were friends once. Started when we were ten. He was clumsy, awkward, always tripping over his own feet, but brilliant even then. Back when he could still walk. We lost touch for years—life, training, wars pulled us apart. Then we reunited when his uncle, Arthur—still a general back then—became my high officer. Marcus was already in the labs, already the genius everyone whispered about.

  Three words describe him fully: genius, observant, cunning.

  Gina exhaled slowly. “He could walk before.”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  I looked out at the endless black. “And that, Gina… is the one thing I can’t tell you. I made a pact with the devil himself not to speak of the incident.”

  She smirked, soft and sad. “Okay. I understand.”

  She leaned closer. “So… he invented Christanium?”

  “Actually… yes and no.” I laughed, bitter and hollow. “He discovered it. Planted the first seedlings. Named it. But he’s not that religious—but a believer. He believed it was a gift from God, a miracle for humanity. Not a weapon. But his Uncle Arthur needed it, so he have to give it.”

  Suddenly she wrapped her arms around me from behind—warm, solid, real. I froze for half a heartbeat, then let myself lean back into her. Her chin rested on my shoulder. Her heartbeat against my back.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Wow,” I murmured. “This feels… good.”

  She tightened her hold just a little. “You needed it.”

  The comm crackled before I could say more.

  Jerry’s voice, steady as ever: “We’re nearing the location. Arrival in exactly—”

  BOOOOM!

  The deck lurched hard. Alarms screamed. Red lights painted everything blood.

  Twenty aircraft exploded out of the night—buzzing like angry hornets, Imperial markings stark on their wings. Missiles streaked toward the hull in bright, vicious lines.

  They hit… nothing. Foundation shields flared brilliant blue-white. Impenetrable. Missiles detonated harmlessly in mid-air, fireballs blooming like flowers.

  “Battle stations!” Jerry roared over comms.

  We fought back. St. Francis launched fifteen Phoenix fighters—our finest. VTOL drones beasts built by Harvey, designed by the Foundation. Hover-capable, super-powered weaponry, the future of air combat.

  They took off clean… then froze.

  All fifteen hovered in mid-air, engines glowing, but not moving. Not responding. Like puppets with cut strings.

  “What the hell—” Gina breathed beside me.

  Then the sea beside us rippled violently. A flash of blinding light. Another ship materialized—teleportation jump. A sleek destroyer, Imperial colors on her mast. Six sets of massive dual plasma cannons. Bigger. Meaner. Deadlier.

  Our Phoenixes turned. Slowly. Deliberately. And flew straight to the destroyer’s deck like obedient children returning home.

  We were stunned into silence.

  Boarding parties hit our deck in seconds—grapples, ropes, blue-armored marines pouring over the rails. Armor medium-thick, electromagnetic plating humming with power—5x strength enhancement. They moved like machines. Too fast. Too coordinated.

  Hands up. Weapons down. Tied. On our knees.

  It was so quick, I didn’t even have time to pull my sidearm. Gina fought—elbowed one in the throat, kicked another’s knee—but they swarmed her too. Plastic cuffs bit into wrists. Cold metal on skin.

  As they dragged us toward their ship, I caught the name stenciled on the hull: FS St. Francis' Revenge.

  FS? But it was Imperial. Should be I.S. My brain screamed the wrongness, but there was no time to think.

  All 300 of our crew were forced aboard the destroyer. Pushed to our knees on the hangar deck, heads forced down. I caught glimpses—Dead Men bound, helpless, faces pale with shock.

  Then Harvey appeared—unbound, relaxed, walking freely between two blue-armored guards.

  I wanted to scream, but a guard shoved my head down harder.

  A buzzing motor sound. A wheelchair.

  I forced my neck up for a glimpse.

  Marcus Torres.

  Long curly hair flowing, glasses glinting, thin mustache, that despicable smirk that made my heart pound like a war drum. Breathing rapid.

  Harvey walked straight to him. Shook his hand like old friends.

  “Good job, sir,” Harvey said, handing Marcus a small remote-like device. “I followed the instructions. It’s all good to go.”

  I couldn’t take it. With every ounce of strength left, I surged up against the guards, shouting,

  “Harvey, you rat bastard! You son of a bitch! What are you doing?”

  Harvey just stood there, looking almost confused. “What’s the matter, boss?”

  “You betrayed us, you asshole! You betrayed the Foundation!”

  Harvey spoke calmly, like he was explaining the weather. “But boss… he is the Foundation.”

  Guards yanked me down again, knee in my back.

  “It’s okay,” the voice said, smooth and amused.

  “Let him be.”

  Marcus rolled closer. Looked down at me with those sharp, knowing eyes.

  “Hello there, my old friend.”

  I was about to roar—ask where Jerry was, where my brother was—but then I saw him.

  Escorted by blue guards, unbound, not forced. Calmly walking.

  Jerry.

  He took one quick glance at me—eyes flat, unreadable—then turned away.

  He raised his only arm and saluted Marcus crisp and perfect.

  “As you requested, Your Excellency.”

  Marcus smiled—slow, satisfied. “I appreciate that, Admiral. Good job.”

  Jerry lowered his arm. “Sir, everything is clear.”

  Behind him, Harvey nodded once. “Okay! Fireworks time.”

  Marcus thumbed the button on the remote.

  BOOOOM!

  The explosion ripped through the night like thunder from hell. The FS St. Francis—our home, our fortress, our last piece of freedom—erupted in a blinding fireball. Flames licked the sky, metal screamed as it tore apart. The old carrier listed hard, then sank like a stone, swallowed by the black sea in seconds.

  I stared, numb. Confused. Broken.

  What’s going on?

  What’s happening?

  Blood rushed to my brain. My vision tunneled—

  Jerry’s salute, Harvey’s calm face, Marcus’ smirk, the burning wreck that used to be our ship.

  Everything spun.

  And then everything faded to black.