The Key of Astrea

Unity

In the depths of outer space, there was a flash of light as hundreds of ships appeared out of nowhere. Day by day, hour by hour, thousands of people and goods traveled across the galaxy using the Terminal. As the ships exited the ring-shaped artifact, new ones quickly took their place, huddling together in a ball like a school of fish. Once full, the ring glowed an ominous blue, and a thick black mist enveloped each ship. A mote of perfect black formed in the center of the Terminal; it expanded in an instant, swallowing the ships, and for a moment nothing existed inside the ring, not even light.

There was another flash, and a new school of ships filled Lan Terminal. Among these new ships was one that bristled with antennas. It broadcasted the galactic daily news to the Lan System while simultaneously accepting new information. Among those receiving their dose of gossip and entertainment were over a hundred thousand citizens living aboard the space station that orbited the Terminal. The station was composed of a primary and secondary ring, plus 240 pods mounted on spokes.

It was in pod L-137 that a thin man named Hocco glanced nervously at the Terminal through the skylight in. He sat on a couch in a large common room, and two dozen armed members of the rebel group Unity milled about the open space. Some wore old fatigues and sat cleaning their rifles and counting their ammunition. Others were eating breakfast. A pile of pans and dishes sat unwashed on the kitchen counter. At the far end of the common room, others whooped and cheered as they watched spaceship racing on the vidscreen. They were all here for a common purpose, to protect Hocco—or, more accurately, the secret he carried.

"You look nervous, Hocco," said a man with a thick black beard and long gray hair that hung in front of his creased face. "You're starting to make me nervous, and when I'm nervous, I lose my appetite," he said before taking another bite of synthetic meat covered in gravy.

"Sorry, Boros," Hocco said as he tore his gaze away from the Terminal and wrung his hands. "I've got a bad feeling today."

"Have something to eat." Boros pushed a plate across the table toward him. "You'll feel better, and you need it."

Hocco was whip-thin. A result of genetics and a constant state of nervousness due to living in fear over the last few months. His guts clenched at the sight of the synthetic meat. Stop it, Hocco thought. We've been here for weeks. If Tyr knew where we were, then they'd have attacked by now. He pulled the plate closer.

"You know," Boros said as he sipped from a yellow mug, "you do make a damn fine cup of coffee."

When you lived on a space station millions of kilometers from the nearest plantation, your coffee-brewing technique was invaluable. Hocco was the best brewer on Lan station, and had often been called an artisan of the craft.

"I know how good my coffee is." Hocco didn't mean to sound flippant, but his nerves didn't allow for a sweeter tone. He brushed his long black hair behind one ear and took a sip from his own mug. The warmth settled his stomach but failed to calm him down.

Boros laughed. "I suppose you do." He nudged the plate closer. "Eat."

Hocco didn't move.

A boy who was no more than twenty spoke up. "Is it true what they say about him? About the admiral?"

"Vae Victus?" Boros chewed the simulated meat. "Depends. What did you hear?"

"That he has an eye as black as space. That he can take over your body with just a look—"

Boros interrupted. "That he's assassinated world leaders by possessing their bodyguards, closest friends, and even their lovers." He waved his fork at the boy. "I don't think any of it is true. It's all a bunch of propaganda meant to keep us in line. All I know for sure is that we're safe here, and my breakfast is getting cold."