Chapter 4 - Genesis Platform

“We don’t want other worlds, we want mirrors.”

—Stanisław Lem

Athan’s hands gripped the railing as the Triumph of Darron’s attitude jets flared white-hot against the star field, pushing his son’s ship away from the docking port. The ship was stuttering in space, its thrust uneven, overcorrections on the port side kicking the tail wide. The kid was flying scared, too much power and not enough finesse, but at least he was flying.

The ship jolted again as a misfired thruster kicked the tail out of alignment. He got out. That’s all that matters. They got out.

Beyond the Triumph, Genesis’s crews kept working. Ore tugs queued while yard shuttles threaded between unfinished hulls and two freighters held on approach. A firefight would trap half those crews in the traffic pattern.

At the airlock, the soldiers in United Earth Republic uniforms were putting on a show. Two of them were yelling into the comm panel while a third pounded on the sealed airlock, his fist striking the metal in steady, useless beats.

Genesis had no night. Welders and cargo crews moved through the cross-corridors behind his security line; he’d diverted them around the jetway. With nearly five thousand people aboard, a standoff could end in a body count.

“Sir, should we...” one of his security guards started.

Athan didn’t turn. “No.” He kept his voice even. “We don’t interfere. Not unless they breach protocol.”

“But if they’re not legit, shouldn’t we...”

“I said no.” He finally looked at the young officer. “We can’t afford to pick a fight with the Republic. Not today.”

The lead trooper spun away from the airlock and stormed toward Athan.

“Commander Rossi,” the man barked, his voice distorted by his helmet’s speaker. “Your son just stole Republic property. I demand you order that ship to return, immediately.”

Athan turned slowly. The insignia was wrong, and so were the boots. Whoever had trained these men, it wasn’t the Republic.

“Demand?” Athan spoke with the same tone he’d used on Luca when the boy had tried to sneak out at fifteen. “You boys seem to have forgotten whose station you’re standing on.”

The marine’s helmet tilted slightly, and Athan caught a glimpse of pale eyes through the visor. The man couldn’t have been older than his mid-twenties. “Sir, we have direct orders from—”

“From who, exactly?” Athan interrupted, stepping closer. “Because last I checked, the United Earth Republic doesn’t send teams without prior notification. Where’s your warrant?”

The pause stretched too long. Real marines would have had their documentation ready before they’d even docked. These amateurs were improvising.

“That’s classified, sir. We’re operating under emergency protocols.”

“Gentlemen, I think it’s time you returned to your ships,” Athan said pleasantly, like he was suggesting they try the coffee somewhere else. “We don’t appreciate visitors who can’t produce proper identification.”

The soldier hesitated for a moment, then jerked his head toward his companions, and they began backing out of the jetway toward the hangar bay where their shuttles waited.

Athan watched until they’d disappeared around the corner, then immediately activated his comm unit. “Communications office, this is Rossi. Reestablish the encrypted channel to Director Stevens. Full security protocols.”

The reply crackled back almost immediately. “Understood, sir. Connecting now.”

If these weren’t real Republic soldiers, then who the hell were they? Were they corporate mercenaries? Were they a faction within the UER?

His comm chimed. “Channel established, sir. You’re connected to Director Stevens.”

Karen’s voice came through. “Athan, we just confirmed what we suspected. They’re not UER. They have no knowledge of any seizure operation targeting the Triumph of Darron. I double-checked.”

Athan’s jaw tightened. “So it’s a rogue operation. Any idea who?”

“Not yet. But we’re working on it. I’ve sent messages to the UER and Marisol, but no response.”

“The Triumph Initiative has full Republic authorization under the Alpha Centauri Survey Expedition Charter. Any action against that ship or the kids would directly violate federal law. You have every right to respond, Athan. Do not let them board.”

Before he could respond, the channel crackled as static burst through the line.

“Karen?” he snapped. “Say again.”

His personal radio crackled to life, the communications officer speaking with barely controlled panic. “Sir, we’re under attack! Multiple armed intruders are forcing their way toward the command center and communications array!”

Athan was already moving before the communications officer finished speaking. “Security teams, converge at the armory. Combat protocols, full authorization.”

The service corridors had become evacuation arteries. Supervisors counted crews into sealed muster compartments while medics pulled a burned technician the other way. Every bottleneck was a potential kill zone.

As they neared the command module, the distant hiss of energy weapons reached him. Someone was putting up a fight, which meant his people were still alive and organized. He held onto that.

“Sir,” Rodriguez said quietly. “How many hostiles are we looking at?”

“I don’t know,” Athan replied, his hand resting on his sidearm as they approached a junction. “But they had enough resources to fake Republic credentials and plan a coordinated assault. Whoever’s behind this has deep pockets and knows what they’re doing.”

He buckled the clasps on his old [Minuteman Medium Armor], the ceramic plates locking into place. He hadn’t worn it in years, but it still fit. It was New Hampshire gear, the same as the musket and the tomahawk on his belt, all of it tied to the regional Minuteman class he’d taken at level 10 before the stars were anything more than a dream he shared with Maddie.

His energy musket felt right in his hands. He coupled it to his armor, cutting the delay between shots, and set it to maximum draw. The full cell would give him ten shots at that output. The scope synced automatically with his visor’s targeting system. It was older technology than what his security team carried, but he knew it better than anything else he owned. The energy tomahawk locked to his belt last.

“Rodriguez, take point. Mills, back him up. Chen, you’re on overwatch. Williams, stay tight on my six.” His team fell in, each man checking his gear, and they moved clean.

Through the armory’s viewport, Athan caught the shape of a mining hauler sliding against the star field. That was Carl’s ship, the Asteroid Queen.

He activated his comm system, cycling through frequencies until he found Carl’s personal channel. The mining captain’s weathered face soon appeared on his display.

“Carl, this is Athan,” he said without preamble. “We’ve got hostiles on the platform. I need your crew armed and moving to the hangar levels. Ten minutes, max.”

Carl’s eyes narrowed. “How bad?”

“I don’t know, but they’re organized and well-equipped. Hit us from multiple angles at once.” Athan checked his musket’s power cell one more time. “They came in pretending to be Republic soldiers, then attacked when that fell apart.”

“Understood. My boys have been itching for some excitement anyway. We’ll hold the hangar bays.”

“Sir,” Rodriguez called. “Teams are in position. Carl’s people are moving to the hangar levels. We’re ready to move out.”

Athan drew in a slow breath. Outside, his platform was under assault by people who thought they could take what belonged to his family.

He moved out.

Athan led his security team through the service corridors at a controlled jog.

The corridor ahead opened into the main thoroughfare leading to the communications center, and Athan raised his fist in the universal signal for halt.

“Contact front,” he said low into his comm. “Three hostiles. Rodriguez, take the left flank. Chen, you’re with me down the center. Williams, hold overwatch position.”

The first energy bolt shrieked past Athan’s head close enough to scar his helmet. He dropped low and raised his energy musket. The targeting system painted red acquisition markers across his visor display. His first shot took the lead hostile center mass, the energy bolt punching through the man’s chest armor in a burst of superheated ceramic and metal.

Both sides opened fire. Across the corridor, bolts cut through the space his people needed to advance. Impacts chewed into wall plating and fouled the recycled air with ozone.

Athan dropped to a knee and reached for the mental trigger. The moment he accepted the strain, the corridor resolved into firing lanes and weak points in their armor.

His skill, [Marksmanship Familiarity], surged to the forefront. His grip realigned without thought, and the barrel tilt corrected by half a degree. The enemy trooper crouched behind a storage tank, his elbow exposed. Athan fired. A red bolt sheared through the elbow in a flash of vaporized bone, then tore into the man’s chest, blowing him open from the inside.

From behind a support column, two more moved to flank them. His eyes snapped to the angles and he rolled left before he’d consciously decided to, using a fallen bulkhead as a wedge of cover just as the bolts sliced through the space he’d been kneeling in. His instincts had already mapped the third target, the one with the steadier grip and the better gear, and flagged him as the real threat.

His temples throbbed and his breath came ragged, but the world had never been sharper. Four years of the System and it still sent you the bill. He pushed the migraine to the edge of his awareness and kept firing.

Mills was advancing on the left flank when the hostiles’ concentrated fire struck him. The energy bolt hit center mass and Mills simply ceased to exist as a standing man, the armor gone, smoke rising from the ruin of his chest.

Athan’s stomach dropped. Mills. Goddamn it, Mills.

“Mills is down!” Rodriguez came over the comm.

Mills had been a veteran who’d chosen to spend his retirement years protecting the shipyard. He’d deserved better than a corridor and raiders who wouldn’t even show their faces.

Athan settled the musket against his shoulder. He would mourn Mills after everyone else was safe.

“Press forward,” Athan ordered. “Mills knew the risks. Honor his sacrifice by completing the mission.”

They advanced through the smoke and wreckage, stepping over the still-cooling remains of the hostiles Athan had eliminated. The corridor branched ahead, with the communications center visible through reinforced viewports, and Athan was already scanning the angles when movement flared in his peripheral.

Corporal Chen was covering their right side when an enemy trooper opened fire from a maintenance access they’d missed. The bolts struck the gap at his neck and shoulder where the ceramic plates ended. Chen spun and went down hard, his rifle clattering across the metal decking as blood pooled beneath him.

“Flanker right!” Williams shouted, swinging his weapon toward the new threat.

Athan focused as [Tomahawk Throwing Proficiency] slid into place, his stance shifting. He spun and hurled the energy tomahawk down the corridor. It whirled silently and cracked into the enemy’s visor in a blur of red light. The glass shattered and the helmet buckled. The blade sank deep, chewing through bone.

An explosion of scorched flesh and brain matter painted the bulkhead behind him.

“Communications center, thirty meters,” Rodriguez reported, steady despite having watched two teammates die. “No visible hostiles, but the entrance looks compromised.”

Once Athan seated a fresh power cell, the musket’s counter reset to ten full-power shots. He needed fewer for the approach. Under the hard red emergency lighting, blood and scorch marks looked no different from the walls.

The communications center’s blast door had been blown open with shaped charges, the reinforced metal peeled back in jagged strips. Athan stepped through the breach with his musket raised, scanning for threats, but found only the dead.

Three staff members lay sprawled across the floor. Sarah Nikitina, the night shift supervisor, still had her sidearm in her hand, her body positioned to protect the main console. He’d hired her straight out of a logistics program in New Hampshire and she’d never once complained about the hours.

The central communications array was a smoking ruin, its circuitry reduced to slag by targeted energy weapon fire. Banks of servers lay burned and broken, their data cores physically destroyed. Athan’s mouth went dry. Whoever these people were, they’d been thoroughly briefed.

But in the corner, partially hidden behind an overturned desk, one terminal still flickered with yellow standby indicators. Athan dropped to his knees beside it and worked to establish an outbound connection. The system responded sluggishly, most of its processing power diverted to compensate for the destroyed hardware.

“Come on,” he muttered. “One clean channel.”

The connection finally stabilized, and Athan quickly input the Triumph of Darron’s frequency. Static filled the channel for several agonizing seconds before his son’s voice broke through, distorted but clearly alive.

He gave Luca what he had. Fake marines were in pursuit, the platform was compromised, and the kids had to get out and keep going. He chose every word for maximum impact in minimum time, because the channel could go dead any second and Luca needed the facts more than his father’s feelings.

The transmission cut out before he could say everything he wanted to. There was no time to tell his son he was proud of him, no chance to tell him what Maddie had always believed about where the family was headed. He’d have to survive long enough to say it in person.

Athan stared at the dead terminal, his reflection ghostly in the darkened screen.

Footsteps echoed through the corridor, and a small squad emerged from the smoke with their armor blackened with scorch marks. Athan raised the musket, then recognized the silhouette as one of the platform’s adventuring squads. He lowered the barrel, and the nearest one lifted his visor.

“Matteo?!” Athan asked, his words coming out sharp. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in bed!”

Matteo flinched at the tone but didn’t back down. “I saw the alarms go off, Dad. I geared up. I thought... I had to help.”

Athan strode forward and grabbed his younger son by the shoulder. He checked him for injuries, then pulled back. Matteo was clad in his level 32 medium armor, holding his Energy Carbine.

“Goddammit, Matteo.” Athan pressed his forehead briefly to his son’s helmet and kept his voice low. He wanted to scream, wanted to drag him back to the apartment by his ear, but instead all he could do was hold him upright. “You shouldn’t be here. But… I’m glad you are.”

His grip tightened for a second before letting go. “Rodriguez, take Matteo under your wing. He stays with you at all times, or I swear I’ll have your head when this is over.”

Rodriguez nodded silently and pulled Matteo gently into formation.

Someone had told these people exactly where to hit, someone who knew this platform the way Athan did.