05/07/2530 – Colonial Outpost, Haven's Reach, United Terran Federation Border World
The sun over Haven's Reach hung low and golden, bleeding warm light across endless fields of bioluminescent wheat that rippled like an ocean under the evening breeze. The stalks glowed faintly—soft blues and violets engineered into the grain so harvesters could work through the night without floodlights. The air smelled of sweet pollen and turned earth, the kind of clean, living scent that made off-world visitors pause and breathe deeper than they ever did on a station or ship.
Eight-year-old Elias Kane didn't care about any of that yet. He was flat on his stomach in the dirt at the edge of the field, chin propped on folded arms, watching a family of iridescent hopper-bugs dance from stalk to stalk. His dark hair was already too long, falling into sharp green eyes that missed nothing. He wore a faded blue jumpsuit cut down from his father's old work clothes, sleeves rolled high, knees patched twice by his mother's careful stitches. Bare feet dangled behind him, toes crusted with soil.
In the distance, the low prefab domes of the settlement curved against the horizon—white and ochre plastoid catching the sunset. Smoke rose in thin, peaceful columns from cook-fires. Somewhere closer, his mother was calling his name, voice carrying soft across the rows.
"Elias! Supper in twenty—don't make me come fetch you!"
He lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgment but didn't move. Not yet. The hoppers were performing their evening courtship spiral, and he wanted to see how it ended.
That was when the sky tore open.
No warning klaxon. No ominous shadow falling across the fields first. Just a sudden, violent roar as three matte-black dropships punched through the upper atmosphere at illegal velocity, heat shields glowing white-hot. They came in low and fast, repulsors flattening the wheat in perfect circles as they flared for landing half a kilometer away.
Elias scrambled to his knees, heart kicking hard against his ribs.
Pirates. Everyone on the frontier knew the stories. But Haven's Reach was UTF territory, supposedly protected by patrol frigates that were weeks overdue. Supposedly safe.
The first armed figures were already spilling from the ramps—black tactical armor, visors down, no insignia. They moved with drilled precision, not the chaotic greed of raiders. Two squads peeled off toward the settlement domes; one headed straight for the Kane homestead at the field's edge.
Elias ran.
His small legs pumped, wheat whipping at his face and arms as he sprinted the furrows toward home. Behind him, the whine of pulse rifles cracked the air—stun rounds, he realized later, because no one fell dead. Just crumpled. He heard his father shout once, sharp and furious, then nothing.
He burst into the clearing around the house as the first armored soldier reached the porch.
His mother stood in the doorway, tall and straight despite the fear in her eyes. Auburn hair loose around her shoulders, still holding the wooden spoon she'd been using to stir supper. His father was on the ground ten meters away, unconscious, a stun dart protruding from his neck.
"Stay behind me, Elias," she said quietly, voice steady even as the soldier raised his weapon.
The man in black hesitated—only a fraction of a second—but it was enough for Elias to see the subtle UTF hazard trefoil stenciled beneath the shoulder plate, half-scratched away as if to hide it.
These weren't pirates.
The soldier fired. His mother dropped without a sound.
Elias screamed—raw, eight-year-old rage and terror—and charged the armored figure like a wild thing. A gloved hand caught him mid-leap, lifting him clear off the ground by the back of his jumpsuit. He kicked, clawed, bit. The visor turned toward him, featureless and cold.
"Subject acquired," the soldier said into his helmet comm, voice flat and modulated. "Genetic marker confirmed. Priority extraction."
Another soldier approached, pulling a hypo-sprayer from a thigh pouch. Elias thrashed harder, but the grip was iron.
"Sedate him. Minimal bruising—Dr. Voss wants them intact."
The needle kissed his neck. The golden fields blurred. The last thing he saw was his mother's hand stretched toward him across the dirt, fingers still curled around the fallen spoon.
Then darkness.
**06/07/2530 – En Route to UTF Black Site, Aboard Phantom-class Stealth Corvette "Silent Whisper"**
Elias woke in a restraint cradle, small body cocooned in shock webbing inside a dimly lit troop bay. The low thrum of the corvette's drives vibrated through the deck. His head throbbed; his mouth tasted of copper and chemical sleep.
Across from him, five other children—none older than ten—sat in identical cradles. All wide-eyed. All silent. A girl with braided black hair was crying without sound, tears cutting clean trails through dust on her cheeks. A boy with freckles stared at the deck as if memorizing it.
Armored guards stood at either end of the bay, visors reflecting the red emergency strips. No one spoke to the children.
Hours passed—or days; there were no viewports, no clocks. Nutrient paste was pressed into their mouths at intervals. Bathroom breaks under armed watch. No explanations.
Eventually, the drives changed pitch. Descent.
The ramp dropped, and cold, recycled air rushed in, carrying the sterile tang of underground facilities.
They were marched single-file down a long, gun-metal corridor lit by harsh white strips. Doors hissed open ahead, revealing a vast subterranean hangar carved into bedrock. Phantom corvettes and Nightshade frigates nestled in cradles like sleeping predators. Far above, blast doors sealed the sky away forever.
Waiting at the end of the ramp was a woman in a pristine white lab coat over a charcoal UTF jumpsuit. Mid-40s. Auburn curls escaping a loose bun. Kind hazel eyes that looked genuinely pained as they took in the line of frightened children.
Dr. Mira Voss knelt to Elias's height as the guards released his cuffs. Her voice was soft, almost maternal.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I know this is terrifying. My name is Mira. You're safe now—no one here will hurt you further."
Elias stared at her, small fists clenched, green eyes burning with a hatred he didn't yet have words for.
Behind Mira, in the shadows of the hangar, a taller figure watched—silver-haired, cold blue eyes, expensive civilian suit that didn't belong in a military black site.
High Chancellor Victor Kane allowed himself the faintest smile.
Phase One had begun.
Twenty-three children entered the facility that day.
Only one would ever walk out again.