Coordinates: 0.018 light-years from the Darwin Nebula. Destination: Hades Rim. Remaining voyage time: 1.5 years.
In the profound blackness of space, a formation of twelve military prisoner transport starships sliced through the dark at sub-light speed, trailing ghostly blue ion wakes.
This was a one-way ticket to hell.
Ship Specs:
- Average Volume: 1.33 × 10^8 m3
- Artificial Gravity: 0.8g
- Rotation Period: 24 seconds
Flagship (Center Formation):
- Max Capacity: 800 souls.
- Military Personnel: 400 (Command, Weapons Defense, Surveillance).
- Prisoners: 300 (Assembly, Maintenance, Farm Labor: Hydroponics/Algae Towers, Waste Disposal, Radiation Zone Cleanup).
- Life Support: 100 (Chefs, Medics, Psychologists, Chief Agronomist).
Dong... Dong... Dong...
The ship's bell tolled three times, deep and low.
Marcus Drake woke from his slumber. His right index finger and thumb instinctively pinched a black crystal amulet hanging on his chest. In the dim cabin light, the wing-shaped crystal flowed with an eerie liquid gold luster, as if it were alive.
He sat up and began to pray in a whisper: "Mother, thank you... for granting me another day. What time is it?"
As he spoke, he buttoned his nightgown all the way from the hem to the collar, fastening the very top button.
A tall man standing by his bed handed him a white towel, folded into a perfect square, with both hands.
"06:10 AM, sir," the tall man replied respectfully.
Drake pressed the warm towel against his temples. "News?"
"A minor friction occurred last night between Cell 7 and Cell 9. One person sustained slight injuries." The tall man handed him an electronic data pad.
The screen lit up, displaying only the top line in ghostly blue font:
"Karl von Reiss. Appointment Time: 08:00."
Drake swiped the screen lightly and pressed confirm. Then he began to browse the other news, just the routine happenings aboard the ship in the last 24 hours.
The Prison Corridor.
At the end of a long hallway sat a table.
Von Reiss followed a tall guard down the brightly lit corridor. The prison was empty now, save for them. All other prisoners were laboring in the work zones to earn their day's ration.
Drake was the former President of the Interstellar Chamber of Commerce, controlling trade networks across three star systems. Countless people worked for him. His wealth was an enigma. It took a joint operation by five nations and a tip from a deep-cover agent planted for thirty years to finally bring him down. That agent's identity was classified Top Secret—known only to two or three people alive.
The only sound in the hundred-meter corridor was Von Reiss's own footsteps echoing alongside the guard's.
Even captured, no one on this ship dared to cross Drake. Not unless they wanted to gamble with the lives of their entire family.
He excelled at creating invisible pressure before you even saw him. In this long corridor, you felt lonely, insignificant, and tense. It was a psychological test. He wanted to see if you were qualified to sit face-to-face with him. Cowards often turned back halfway.
At the end of the corridor, behind that plain table, sat the man who controlled the black market of three galaxies. Four prisoner-bodyguards parted like statues, revealing Drake in the center.
Seeing the tall guard approach with Von Reiss, they automatically stepped aside.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The guard pulled out the chair opposite the table.
"Please sit, Mr. Von Reiss."
"How is your family doing recently? Is your sister's condition stable? It must have been a hard journey for you," Drake asked with unsettling consideration.
"Mr. Drake, thanks to your help, my sister is stable. Her genetic defect... the medical costs for gene therapy are something I could never afford in a lifetime."
"That is good. The Holy Mother always looks after those who know gratitude." Drake touched the liquid gold wings on his chest again.
Von Reiss had noticed the amulet long ago. Rumor had it that it was an heirloom from the era of Old Earth, capable of storing energy from sunlight and bringing luck to the wearer.
"I came today to discuss the demand for Elysium Echo. We are approaching Hades Rim. I need more Elysium Echo to cover the military's expenses."
"Friend, Elysium Echo is not so easily made. Do you know the black market price for one gram? 500 Credits. An ordinary colonial laborer works 16 hours to earn a gram... while my prisoners work 16 hours clearing radioactive waste just for a bowl of nutrient paste. But yes, Hades Rim is coming. They will need more of that 'Golden Filter' to forget who they are."
"I know the production line for Elysium Echo requires complex logistics. Raw materials like Indole, Tryptamine, and Tryptophan derivatives are all subject to strict AI security checks by the Supreme Council resolutions. Especially the Brain-Targeting Nano-Vesicle Coating Equipment—a lab-grade precision device only found in two S+ class labs in the nation. And you are my only option. I know this request is excessive, but I cannot disobey orders from above," Von Reiss explained in a low voice.
"The last batch was intercepted by quantum scanners at the third transfer station. The whole line—people and machines—evaporated. I had a friend who took a puff of a defective batch. For ten hours, he snapped his fingers at me 66 times... and kept whispering, 'I already have everything, why do I still need to breathe?'"
"In the end, he really stopped breathing. Because he felt breathing was redundant."
"Mr. Drake, we need money. Not just for the army, but to... maintain certain delicate balances."
Drake was silent for a long time.
He stood up slowly, walked around the table, and didn't answer Von Reiss. Instead, he walked slowly to his side. He patted the back of Von Reiss's right hand twice with his left hand.
Then, without looking back, he walked into Cell 666.
As Von Reiss walked out of the prison, his back was damp with cold sweat. He suddenly recalled the liquid gold amulet trembling slightly under the lights—as if the Holy Mother already knew that the price of this deal would ultimately be paid in more souls.
Admiral's Quarters.
Admiral Heinrich Brenner stood by the massive bulletproof porthole, gazing silently at the ink-thick deep space outside.
Six more months, and the fleet would reach Hades Rim. This would be his final voyage as the helmsman of the premier military family of the Ashen Protectorate of Lethe.
This wasn't just a patrol; it was a carefully calculated political funeral.
In his last call with the President, a deal was struck: his second son would marry the President's eldest daughter. The cause? His "upright" character had forced him into early retirement at the peak of his experience.
The military tribunal, a year ago, felt like yesterday. Brenner had testified against a government official for corruption within the military. The evidence was irrefutable, and the official was exiled. But Brenner was "promoted to obscurity"—given supreme fleet command, simply because that official was a proxy for two powerful families who controlled 30% of the President's votes. The President had no reason to blame him, but needed to appease those families. The condition: after this voyage, Brenner must "retire with honor."
The media was watching, hungry for scandal. The President wanted reelection next year. So, a private dinner, a one-hour talk in the study, and a promise: the Brenner family's glory would continue.
Everything was a transaction.
Brenner raised his crystal glass and downed the amber liquid in one gulp.
Stardust Whiskey.
The top note was the spiciness of power.
The middle note was the sweetness of false promises.
And the base note, lingering on the back of the tongue, was a long, dusty bitterness.
Just like his life.
From the ruler of his strict father, to graduating second in the academy at 21, pacifying the Nyx Veil smuggling lines at 28, suppressing the "Red Dawn" rebellion at 35, and becoming the youngest Commodore at 42. He built the Protectorate's ironclad starship security system, but he never expected the breach to come not from enemy fire, but from a political dagger in the back.
If he left now, before the younger generation of his family matured, the power vacuum would be torn apart by wolves. He needed a gatekeeper. Someone capable, ambitious, but with unstable foundations, forced to rely on him.
Karl von Reiss.
The young Colonel was perfect. Steady, decisive, with a fire for climbing the ladder hidden deep in his eyes.
"A soldier who doesn't want to be a general isn't a good soldier." Brenner sneered.
But he was too young. No matter how great the ambition, in the face of absolute family legacy, he could only be a useful pawn.
This time, Brenner gave him a lucrative task—"Weapons Equipment Iteration."
Fancy words for scrapping perfectly good equipment still in service. It wasn't corruption; it was "Logistics Science."
Brenner finished the last drop. Spicy, sweet, bitter. Only he understood the flavor.
Ding—
The internal comms broke the silence. The secretary's voice came through: "Sir, Colonel Von Reiss reporting for duty."
Brenner put down the empty glass, adjusted the medals on his collar, and restored his mask of authority.
"Let him in."
He took one last look out the window. The deep space, which had twinkled with a few faint stars just moments ago, was now completely swallowed by the massive shadow of the nebula.
The stars were gone.
The curtain of darkness had fallen.
(CH117end)