The Nightingale's command center buzzed with frenetic activity long after the weapons fell silent and the corridors cleared of smoke. Commander Jaxon Cole sat heavy in his chair, the eerie blue-red flicker of holographic readouts alternating across his hardened features. Centered on the table before him, the stolen pulsating device thrummed steadily—a silent enigma whose rhythm braided through the tense air and the unspoken fears of the crew.
Lieutenant Carl Bennett hovered at Jaxon's flank, rubbing a red scrape on his cheek where the intruder had struck him minutes earlier. "Sir, the crew's shaken. Morale's dipping—rumors of ghosts and curses are spreading faster than after-action reports. People are scared."
Jaxon's steely gaze lifted, unreadable but razor sharp. "We survive because we're warriors, not because we shy from ghost stories. But I won't lie—there's something off about this. Something the training sims never prepared us for."
Corporal Izzy Tran adjusted digital charts, her dog tags clinking as she leaned into her console. "I've been combing through the encryption on the device. It's… a code structure like nothing in Earthfleet's intelligence database. Honestly, the technology looks older than anything in the Solar Archives. Maybe even predating the first space war."
"Predating the first war?" Jaxon repeated, brow furrowed. He glanced at the softly pulsing artifact, suspicion growing in the pit of his stomach. "So this isn't just stolen contraband. This could rewrite everything we know about our galaxy."
A heavy silence stretched across the command center—just long enough for doubt to settle—before Bennett cleared his throat. "Sir, Captain Riven Dresk's message implied this device 'belongs' to the Reavers. But who exactly are they, really?"
The hiss of the door opening was matched by the entrance of Sergeant Milo Crane, who cast a sharp eye around the room before stopping at the table. "Pirates, mercenaries, and worse." His voice was flat, implacable. "They're infamous for raids, slave trading, and rumors of trading in forbidden tech. But this—" He gestured at the artifact. "—is bigger than ordinary black-market stuff." Milo's voice dropped a shade. "Crew legends say the Orion Reavers have ties to an ancient secret society—something called the Crimson Veil. No one's ever proved it, but—" he shrugged "—the stories line up."
Jaxon's knuckles whitened on the table. "If we're tangled with secret societies and pre-war technology, then we're in a knot tighter than any firefight."
The door whispered open once more. Dr. Laina Morozov, the ship's chief scientist, marched in, her arms folded and brows knit with grave focus. "Commander, the device's power readings just spiked. It's… active now."
Jaxon stood abruptly, eyes steel. "How long before it triggers something irreversible?"
Dr. Morozov hesitated, watching the readings as mathematical patterns danced. "Impossible to say. It's unlike any energy source I've ever studied. Whatever it's building, it seems stable—for now."
"Bring me all data you can find on Project Lazarus," Jaxon ordered. "And prep the ship for immediate lockdown protocols. If this thing so much as hiccups, I want the Nightingale locked down so tight nothing gets in or out."
The room buzzed with orders and urgent calculations. For a moment, Jaxon's mind drifted far from the armored hull and the chorus of alarms. He remembered Epsilon-9—the endless winds that howled around the mining rigs, and the first time he looked up at the night sky and wondered if ghosts were watching from the black. He'd survived then by sheer grit and resolve. He would need both now, and more.
The ship felt colder. The Nightingale's ghosts—memories, fears, maybe more literal enemies—were waking, and the signal that brought them was a summons Jaxon Cole could no longer ignore.