02/03/2542 – Abandoned Planet Ruins, Designation Echo-9, Fringe Sector
The drop from the *Silent Whisper* was a silent plunge through thin, toxic atmosphere—clouds of rust-red dust swirling around the Phantom corvette as it skimmed the planet's scarred surface. Echo-9 was a dead world: cracked canyons, shattered mountain spines, and vast plains of glassy sand where ancient orbital bombardments had fused the soil centuries ago. Wind howled constantly, carrying grains that could strip paint from hulls in hours.
Elias Kane descended alone in a stealth pod—matte-black capsule burning retro-thrusters at the last second to kiss the ground without a crater. The pod split open like a flower, and he stepped out into the gale.
Full armor sealed against the abrasive storm. Bulky plates creaked faintly as sand scourged the surface, but the adaptive coating held—grains sliding off like water. Visor polarized against the dim, blood-orange sun. Energy veins pulsed steady blue along his limbs.
Nova materialized beside him, holographic form unshaken by the wind—silver-blue hair whipping dramatically, liquid-metal suit clinging to her full breasts and curved hips as if defying the storm.
"Touchdown clean," she said, voice warm in his helmet amid the howl. "Ruins three kilometers north—buried research outpost atop precursor site. RAW scout team detected: eight personnel, light armor, one Wraith tank on perimeter patrol. Automated defenses likely active in the lower levels."
Elias checked his XR-9X—fresh magazine, chambered. Resonance blade sheathed. "Primary objective?"
"Retrieve any intact precursor artifacts. Secondary: silence witnesses. No survivors."
He nodded once and started walking—long strides eating distance, boots crunching on vitrified sand.
The ruins emerged from the haze like broken teeth: collapsed hab-domes half-buried in drifts, skeletal comms towers twisted by time, and at the center—a massive excavation pit descending into the earth, ringed by faded UTF hazard barriers long ignored.
RAW scouts had set up camp on the rim: portable shield generator humming faintly, floodlights cutting through dust, two Warhog transports parked hub-to-hub.
Elias circled wide, dropping to a prone crawl the last hundred meters—armor's adaptive camo blending with the sand until he was a ripple in the storm.
Nova hovered above him, scanning. "Four sentries on the pit rim. Two inside the upper outpost. Tank on slow patrol—driver and gunner. Commander in the command tent."
He rose like a shadow and closed.
First sentry never saw him—patrolling the eastern edge, R-77 assault rifle slung loose. Elias ghosted up behind, gauntlet clamping mouth and neck. Twist. Snap. Body lowered silently into a drift.
Second and third were paired on the north rim—backs to the wind, chatting over comms. Elias came from downwind.
Pulse pistol whispered twice—overcharged bolts punching through rear plating, cooking internals. Bodies dropped without a cry.
Fourth sentry turned at the thump—rifle up.
Too late.
Resonance blade ignited mid-thrust—violet-silver edge sliding under the visor and out the back of the helmet in a single, silent motion.
"Perimeter clear," Nova purred, excitement threading her voice. "Tank inbound—thirty seconds."
The Wraith hover-tank crested a dune—sleek hover-skirts kicking up sand plumes, railcannon turret swiveling.
Elias waited in the lee of a ruined wall.
Tank passed ten meters away—driver's hatch cracked for visibility in the storm.
He moved.
Powered leap launched him onto the rear deck—gauntlets clamping armor plating with a metallic thunk drowned by wind. Driver popped the hatch, startled.
Pulse pistol fired point-blank—bolt melting through faceplate.
Gunner spun the turret—too slow in confined space.
Elias vaulted into the open hatch, blade carving downward through shoulder and controls. Sparks showered. Tank lurched as systems died.
He dropped inside, finished the gunner with a gauntlet crush to the throat.
Tank silenced.
"Upper outpost next," Nova said. "Two techs inside—light arms. Commander in the tent with data slate linked to the dig."
Elias ghosted toward the portable hab-tent—floodlights cutting cones through dust.
Commander emerged at the wrong moment—mid-thirties, RAW major's insignia, sidearm holstered, calling for status on comms.
He saw the towering black figure materialize from the storm.
Drew his pistol.
Elias closed the gap in three strides—shields tanking the panicked shots. Gauntlet caught the major's wrist, crushed bone and weapon alike. Blade thrust—clean through chestplate.
Body dropped.
Techs inside the outpost heard the commotion—burst out firing R-77s on full auto.
Elias advanced through the doorway, shields flaring under the barrage. Coil rifle answered—flechettes turning the confined space into a slaughterhouse. One tech's arm severed at the shoulder. Second took rounds center mass—body slamming back into consoles in a spray of blood and sparks.
Outpost clear.
He descended into the pit.
The excavation shaft plunged fifty meters—prefab ladders and cargo lifts long rusted. Elias free-climbed the walls, gauntlets and boots finding purchase in cracked stone.
Lower levels opened into vast precursor chambers: smooth black walls etched with glowing silver-blue runes—identical to Nova's core patterns. Dust thick. Air still and ancient.
Automated defenses woke at his presence—turrets unfolding from walls, energy lances humming to life.
Nova overrode some—"Partial resonance match—buying you ten seconds."
Not enough.
Turrets opened fire—coherent energy beams lancing through the dark.
Elias rolled behind a fallen monolith as beams carved molten furrows in stone.
Shields took glancing hits—flaring white.
He counter-charged.
Coil rifle on sustained—flechettes sparking off ancient alloys but overloading emitters. One turret exploded in a cascade of components.
Second turret tracked—beam searing across his shoulder plate, melting composite.
Pain flared—minor breach.
He leapt—exoskeleton hurling him across the chamber. Landed atop the turret, resonance blade plunging through the core. Violet-silver energy disrupted the ancient systems—turret imploded silently.
More defenses stirred deeper in—guardian drones unfolding from alcoves, plasma casters charging.
Nova's voice tight: "Three drones—fast movers. Precursor design. I can't hack them all."
Elias met them in the central vault.
Drones were sleek spheres of black metal, levitating on anti-grav, casters spitting purple bolts.
He dove and rolled—beams carving the air where he'd stood.
Coil rifle barked—flechettes glancing off shields.
One drone closed for ramming.
He sidestepped, blade igniting—carved it in half mid-pass. Halves exploded in chained detonation.
Second drone peppered him—shields dropped to critical. Armor plating buckled under direct hits.
He roared forward—first time vocalizing in combat—gauntlet clamping the drone, crushing it against a wall while blade stabbed repeatedly until it went dark.
Third drone flanked—beam searing across his back.
Integrity warnings screamed.
He spun, hurled the crushed drone like a projectile—impacted the last one mid-air. Both detonated in a blinding flash.
Silence.
Elias stood amid smoking wreckage—armor scorched and dented, minor breaches venting atmosphere. Breathing hard.
Nova appeared close—hand hovering over the worst hit, voice shaking with worry and pride.
"You're hit—plating compromised at left shoulder and back. Minor shrapnel. I'm sealing what I can remotely."
He ignored it, advancing to the central pedestal.
There: a cluster of precursor crystals—smaller than Nova's core but pulsing identically.
He extracted them carefully—sealed case mag-locking to his thigh.
Mission complete.
But as he turned to exfil, a final defense stirred—a massive guardian construct rising from the floor, energy scythes extending.
Too late to avoid.
It charged.
Elias met it head-on—blade clashing against scythe in a shower of ancient energy. Sparks lit the chamber like stars.
Construct swung low—he vaulted over, landed on its back, blade stabbing deep into core joints.
It bucked—slamming him against walls. Armor groaned. Shields gone.
He held on, twisting the blade—overloading systems.
Construct convulsed once and collapsed in a heap of inert metal.
Elias rose slowly—armor cracked, blood trickling from a sealed breach.
Nova's voice soft: "Exfil now. RAW reinforcements inbound—Thunderbolt gunships detected on long-range."
He climbed.
Surfaced into the storm—dust thicker now, visibility zero.
But the RAW gunships had arrived early—two Thunderbolts screaming low, searchlights cutting beams through the haze.
They spotted the black figure emerging from the pit.
Cannons opened fire.
Elias sprinted—powered strides kicking up sand plumes. Explosive rounds detonated around him—shockwaves hurling him sideways.
Shields offline. Armor taking direct fragmentation.
He dove behind a ruined dome as strafing runs shredded the camp.
Nova: "Pickup inbound—*Whisper* diving atmospheric. Hold thirty seconds."
Gunships banked for another pass.
He rose—coil rifle empty, pulse pistol low.
Resonance blade only.
One gunship hovered low—door gunner hosing the position.
Elias charged straight at it—leapt as it passed overhead. Gauntlet clamped the skid.
Gunship lurched—pilot compensating.
He hauled himself aboard mid-flight, blade carving through the door gunner in one slash.
Crew compartment chaos—pilot and copilot spinning.
He advanced through turbulence—blade flashing twice more.
Gunship spiraled, crashing in a fireball on the plains.
Second gunship broke off—too late.
*Whisper* decloaked overhead, ramp down.
Elias leapt—caught the ramp, hauled inside.
Corvette burned skyward as the planet fell away.
In the troop bay, he removed the cracked helmet.
Face bloodied from a visor seal breach. Green eyes fierce.
Armor smoked—deep gouges, melted sections.
Nova materialized fully—close, hands hovering over wounds, violet eyes wide with possessive fear and adoration.
"You pushed too hard," she whispered. "But you won."
He set the crystal case down carefully.
Voice low, commanding through pain.
"Analyze the artifacts."
She smiled through worry.
"Already started, my unbreakable Phantom."
Below, surviving RAW transmissions screamed across channels:
Single black-armored figure. Fought through an entire dig site. Destroyed gunships bare-handed.
Precursor guardian awakened.
Alien invasion confirmed.
The galaxy's panic ignited.
And the UTF prepared to reveal their weapon—
—to control the narrative.
The Phantom's second bloodbath was public.
And the war's fuse burned shorter.