The silence after Colonel Kane's address lingered like pressure before a breach.
Heinrich remained at attention as the assembly hall slowly came back to life—boots shifting, controlled breaths released, nervous systems recalibrating. The words hope to see at least half of you echoed in his skull with an unpleasant clarity. Kane had not meant it as motivation. It had been a statement of expected loss.
That, more than anything else, made it honest.
A sharp tone cut through the hall. The Covenant chime—two short pulses, one long. Instruction incoming.
"Recruits," a disembodied voice announced over the intercom, neutral and automated. "You will proceed to group bunks for initial assignment and equipment stowage. Movement will be orderly. You will be divided into two provisional training companies: Crimson Knights and TwinBlades. Follow the illuminated deck lines corresponding to your designation. Any deviation will be noted."
The lights embedded in the floor flared to life—deep red lines splitting away from a stark silver-white set. Heinrich glanced down. Red.
Crimson Knights.
The name felt deliberate. Old-world martial symbolism layered onto modern war doctrine. Aggression tempered by structure. Direct force, disciplined violence.
The recruits rose as one, falling into columns with minimal correction. Heinrich moved with them, senses alert, cataloging motion, posture, breathing. Already, the weak points were showing—micro-hesitations, uneven spacing, eyes darting instead of forward.
They haven't learned to trust structure and organization yet, he thought. They still think individuality matters more than cohesion.
It wouldn't take long for the Academy to correct that misconception.
The corridor widened as the Crimson Knights peeled off toward their assigned sector. Overhead, bulkheads slid open and sealed behind them with hydraulic finality. The architecture of Astra Primus was oppressive by design—high ceilings broken by visible reinforcement struts, lighting calibrated to prevent shadow comfort. Everything about the station reminded recruits that it was built for endurance, not ease.
The group bunks were stacked compartments, modular and efficient. Sixty racks per bay. Minimal personal space. No privacy beyond a retractable divider that offered visual cover but no sound dampening.
Heinrich stopped at his assigned rack and set his kit down with practiced precision. Before he could finish aligning his storage locker, a voice cut in beside him.
"Well," the voice said, bright with forced cheer, "either we're about to become legends, or we're about to become cautionary footnotes."
Heinrich turned.
The man extending his hand was tall—six-two at least—with a solid, athletic frame that suggested real-world labor rather than curated training environments. Latino, mid-brown skin, dark hair cropped short but not regulation-perfect yet. His eyes were alert, expressive, carrying humor without carelessness.
"Arkyn Reyes," the man said. "Looks like we're bunk mates. For however long that lasts."
Heinrich took the hand. The grip was firm, confident, unpretentious.
"Heinrich Wynn."
"Good to meet you, Wynn. You strike me as the type who survives at least the first catastrophic mistake."
"That so?"
Arkyn grinned. "You're standing like the deck owes you money. Means you're either disciplined or terrified. Either way, you'll last longer than the screamers."
Heinrich studied him for a moment. Humor as a coping mechanism. Confidence without arrogance. No visible tremor in the hands. No darting eyes.
Interesting.
"What made you enlist?" Heinrich asked, keeping his tone neutral.
Arkyn shrugged as he began stowing his gear. "My family runs freight out of the Belt. Lost two ships during the Neptune pushback. I figured if the universe insists on being hostile, I might as well get paid to punch back."
A pragmatic answer. No religious fervor. No romantic delusion.
"And you?" Arkyn asked.
Heinrich hesitated just long enough to be honest. "I don't like living under someone else's shadow."
Arkyn paused, glanced at him sidelong. "That sounds… ominous."
"It's efficient."
Arkyn laughed. "Fair enough. Just don't turn into one of those types who forgets why we're doing this."
Heinrich's eyes sharpened. "And why do you think that is?"
"To keep people alive," Arkyn replied immediately. "Not flags. Not statues. People. If that stops being the priority, we're just another problem wearing better uniforms."
There it was.
Heinrich had asked the question deliberately. A pressure test. Arkyn hadn't flinched.
"Good," Heinrich said. "I'm glad you're my bunk mate."
Arkyn blinked, then smiled. "High praise from a man who looks like he plans his breathing patterns."
Before either could respond, the intercom crackled again—this time sharper, commanding.
"All recruits. Immediate assembly for drill and ceremony. Repeat: immediate assembly. Crimson Knights report to Main Facility Red. TwinBlades to Facility White. Move."
The humor drained from Arkyn's expression, replaced by focus. "Guess that's our cue."
They joined the flow of bodies moving through the corridors. As they passed beneath a wide archway connecting sectors, Heinrich's attention was pulled instinctively to the opposite route. TwinBlades. The silver-white group moved with surprising cohesion for fresh recruits. At their head walked a man in his early twenties, posture immaculate, stride measured. He didn't bark orders. He didn't need to. The group adjusted to him unconsciously. As if sensing the stare, the man turned his head. Their eyes met across the distance. The look the TwinBlade leader gave him was not curiosity or assessment. It was something of a challenge. Pure and immediate, like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. Heinrich felt a cold awareness settle into his gut but The moment passed as the archway swallowed the opposing group. Arkyn leaned slightly closer. "You feel that?"
"Yes."
"Good," Arkyn said quietly. "Means you're alive."
Main Facility Red was a hardened briefing chamber, all steel surfaces and reinforced transparisteel panels. The Crimson Knights filed in and snapped to formation as a figure stood behind the central desk. Captain Arlo. Heinrich registered the man in pieces. Six foot eight. Lean to the point of looking fragile, but held together by tension rather than muscle. Dark, tightly curled hair. One eye a sharp, unmodified blue. The other—cybernetic. The implant was advanced, seamless, but it couldn't hide the scar tissue surrounding it. Flesh pulled and warped where something catastrophic had once happened. A wound that had not been allowed to end him. Cybernetics had become standard after 2186—first as necessity, then as enhancement. Veterans who would once have been discharged were returned to duty, stronger, sharper and Arlo was one of them of recent ones.
"Atten—shun!"
The command cracked like a rifle shot. Sixty bodies snapped into place.
"At ease. Sit."
They did. No hesitation. Arlo's gaze moved over them, analytical, unsentimental. He began roll call, voice clipped, precise. Each recruit responded cleanly. When he reached Heinrich—"Wynn, Heinrich"—the reply came without delay.
"Here, sir."
Arlo's unmodified eye lingered on him half a second longer than necessary. Data being cross-referenced, Heinrich suspected. Performance projections. Psychological flags. When roll was complete, Arlo clasped his hands behind his back.
"You are Crimson Knights," he said. "Provisional designation. Sixty of you. Thirty men. Thirty women. Balanced by design. Don't get attached." A ripple of understanding passed through the room.
"Only half of you will still be here by the end of the cycle. Maybe less. That is not punishment. That is preparation."
He let that sink in.
"Today, you establish your internal hierarchy. This is not rank. You are all recruits. But hierarchy governs efficiency. Efficiency governs survival."
He activated the wall display. Physical conditioning metrics scrolled into view.
"Army Fitness Test. Extended endurance runs. Calisthenics. Obstacle courses. Failure is removal. Top performance establishes temporary leadership positions."
Heinrich felt anticipation coil in his chest. This is it, he thought. The first cut. As they exited the facility, Arkyn exhaled slowly. "Well. No pressure." Heinrich almost smiled.
The conditioning grounds were deliberately positioned opposite the TwinBlades' course. Wide open. No barriers. Competition, manufactured and intentional. As they assembled, Heinrich noticed movement across the way. TwinBlades were already watching. Their leader stood front and center, posture unyielding. Captain Arlo followed Heinrich's gaze and smiled faintly. Not a happy smile, a smile that gave way for the happiness to see a challenge or rivalry. The run briefing was brutal in its honesty. Twenty miles. Weighted packs calibrated to half the projected mass of full combat suits.
"The armor you will wear will weigh triple this," the instructor barked. "If you can't carry this, you will die under the real thing—or worse, get someone else killed."
The run began. Pain arrived early. Heinrich welcomed it. Regulated breathing. Optimized stride. The pack dug into his shoulders, but his legs responded exactly as trained. Mile after mile fell away. He crossed the line first. Second was a red-haired woman—rare, striking, expression unreadable. Third was Arkyn, breathing hard but grinning.
"Guess we're not footnotes yet," Arkyn said between breaths. Five recruits had already dropped. Med teams moved in. Their journey ended here. Heinrich's gaze drifted across the archway while resting at the finish line and noticed The TwinBlade leader was staring directly at him. Even from this distance, Heinrich could see it—resolve sharpened into defiance and anger. This is only the beginning, Heinrich thought. And he intended to stand at the top for as long as the Abyss would allow.