Phillean pressed his hands against the biometric seals. The suit’s gauntlets peeled back slightly to allow the scanners to read his prints. The case beeped, and the heavy locks flipped open with a hiss of depressurization.

  “All yours,” Phillean chuckled, stepping back. “Don’t be shy.”

  Riven didn't need to be told twice. He opened the lid with a heavy, satisfying thunk. He prepared himself for the awe of receiving the lance. Wielding a weapon that allowed a rider to against hordes of bugs.

  Riven found a stick.

  Resting in the molded high-density foam was simply a cylinder of matte black metal, roughly two feet long. It looked like a heavy-duty relay baton, or perhaps a very expensive paperweight.

  “It looks… great,” Riven said, forcing a smile. “But I think you may have left the rest of it in the warehouse.”

  “Just pick it up, Private.”

  Riven reached in and as soon as his gauntlet brushed the metal, the weapon lit up. A vein of icy blue light raced down the length of the shaft. Even through the gauntlet Riven swore it felt warm, almost vibrating against his palm.

  “It has a resonance responsive frame,” Phillean explained, watching Riven’s face with amusement. “It’s top of the line technology that we get access to as Inquisitors. Right now, it’s in CQC mode. It’s convenient for transport and for cracking any drunk quartermasters who try to take your food. But mainly it conceals your lance until you need it. Go ahead. Twist the grip and punch it forward.”

  Riven gripped the baton, twisted his wrist, and thrust his arm out.

  SHINNNG.

  The sound cut through the room, sharp and violent. The metal liquefied and surged outward, snapping rigit into a five-foot lance in the blink of an eye. A angled lance like the shape of extended diamond from the hand hold. From the tip and flowing down the edge of the angles with a light blue glow was distorted haze.

  “Okay,” Riven breathed, feeling the perfect balance of the weapon as he gave it a slow spin. The air hissed as the lance sliced through it. “I take it back. I can work with this.”

  “That’s the showpiece.” Phillean said, unimpressed by waving lance. “Good for stabbing bugs up close, but it’s better to kill them before they get in biting range. Pull the grip back towards your shoulder.”

  Riven grabbed the baton with his left hand and hauled the grip backward and the geometry shifted instantly. The spear tip retracted and blossomed outward. The base thinned, extending into a long, rifled barrel. The grip flowed backward, morphing into a skeletal stock that locked firmly against his shoulder.

  A high definition reticle snapped into existence on his HUD. Riven stared through the digital sight. As he focused on the door, it zoomed in on the seam with a crystal clear image.

  “By the Resonance this is insane,” Riven grinned behind his faceplate, turning the weapon over in his hands. “What can’t this do?”

  “It’ll keep you alive,” Phillean said, his voice quiet. He stared at the weapon in Riven’s hand with a distant gaze, as if seeing a memory rather than the metal. “If you learn to respect it.”

  Then he seemed to snap out of it. He reached back into the crate and grabbed a heavy, rectangular box.

  Phillean tossed it through the air and Riven snatch it. The magnets in his palm helping him secure the weight.

  “Here is your kinetic ammo,” Phillean said, back to his usual tone. “They are high density tungsten fifty Cal ammo. They are made to punch through Ravager carapace, which means they go through duracrete like wet cardboard. Don’t ever use it on a civilian planet; you’ll pierce through the buildings like paper. Load them into the intake on your hip. The suit will feed the ammo directly into the weapon when it’s in Rifle Mode.”

  Riven found the intake port on his left thigh armor and slid the box home. The suit swallowed the ammo with a hungry mechanical grind, instantly distributing the weight across his frame.

  “You look like a kid on Starfall Day,” Phillean laughed. “Stow it. We should go see the captain.”

  Riven collapsed the weapon back into baton mode and let it magnetize to his hip with a solid clack. It felt good. Like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

  “So, the Captain,” Riven asked, falling into step behind Phillean as they exited the room. “What’s he like? I heard to be an officer you have to be a noble. Is that the same in the Inquisition?”

  “Captain Kaelen is the best officer I’ve ever served under, bar none,” Phillean said, his voice turning serious. “He’s a True Drakeon, nobility born, but he doesn't act like it. He actually listens. If a Corporal has a better idea than him, he uses it. He fights for us, too. He makes sure we have the best food, best repair cycles, and best pay in the company.”

  “Sounds too good to be true,” Riven muttered.

  “But it gets results. We rank first in the company consistently during training exercises because of the catch,” Phillean winced as he admitted. “He rides us hard. He makes the Sims unpredictable and damn near unfair on purpose. When he first got here, we all hated him for running us into the ground. But the next time we had to go clear a Ravager outbreak, it was a joke in comparison to what we trained for. We all came home uninjured and alive. He’s won over our loyalty since.”

  Phillean turned to Riven, stopping just before a T-intersection in the corridor. The humor was gone from his face.

  “One rule, Private. A big one. Kaelen is Riderless.”

  Riven froze. The word hung in the air like a curse “His dragon died?”

  “Three years ago he was protecting a royal convoy. A terrorist attack occurred and his dragon took a bomb meant for the king. Kaelen survived the backlash of his dragons death, which is a miracle, but he never bonded again. He refuses to. So, don't ask where his mount is. Don't look for it. And for the love of the Resonance, don't bring up Astrix unless he asks.”

  “Understood,” Riven said, swallowing hard.

  They continued in silence for a minute before stopped at a single, unmarked door in the middle of a long hallway. It slid open with a hiss, and the air poured out cool, crisp, and smelling of recycled sweat.

  “Is this the Bridge?” Riven asked, peering into the room.

  “Nah. The Captain hates just sitting down in a chair. Whenever he has downtime, he’s down here at the sparring deck,” Phillean muttered, stepping through the door. “He says he thinks better when he’s bleeding.”

  They walked into a cavernous observation room. The floor was padded with high-impact mats, and the walls were lined with racks of dulled practice weapons. In the center of the room, a heavy combat droid was moving with the speed of a master martial artist.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Fighting it was a monster.

  Riven stopped dead. He had seen pictures of True Drakeons on the news feeds, had them as teachers at the Academy, and even as peers. But he had never seen one moving at this combat speed.

  Captain Kaelen was seven feet of coiled violence. He was shirtless, revealing a torso that looked like it was carved from obsidian and emeralds. Patches of shimmering green scales covered his shoulders and ribs. A thick, muscular tail swept behind him, acting as a counterbalance, while two large, leathery wings were folded tight against his back, snapping open occasionally to drastically shift his momentum. Horns swept back from his brow, giving him a silhouette that was equal parts demonic and regal.

  The droid lashed out with a spinning kick. Kaelen flowed around it with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for something that size. He caught the droid’s leg, spun, and slammed the figure overhead into the mat with a force that shook the floorboards.

  Match Complete, the computer chimed.

  Kaelen stood up, his chest heaving slightly. He turned, his slit-pupil golden eyes locking onto Riven.

  “At ease,” the Captain said. His voice was deep and resonant, but warm.

  Riven realized he had snapped to attention without thinking. He relaxed slightly, but kept his eyes forward.

  “Captain Kaelen,” Phillean said, stepping forward. “This is Third Squad’s new Hammer. Private Holt.”

  Kaelen grabbed a towel from a hovering drone and wiped his face. He walked over, the floor mats compressing under his weight, until he was towering over Riven.

  “I heard we were getting a Valedictorian,” Kaelen said, his voice surprisingly warm. “And the Dust Born at that. It’s the first time I’ve heard of one holding the top title.”

  “I work hard, Sir,” Riven said.

  “I’m counting on it.” Kaelen walked around Riven, his golden eyes inspecting the new armor and the lance magnetized to his hip. He paused at Riven’s chest. “Phillean shot you?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Riven admitted, blinking in surprise. He glanced down, wondering how the Captain had spotted the damage on the already repaired amor.

  “Good. Trust the armor, but don't rely on it.” Kaelen tapped the point where the bullet hit. “It breaks just like everything else on this ship.”

  Kaelen cricled back and stopped in front of him.

  “I run a different ship than the Academy, Holt. Here, your bloodline doesn't matter. Your rank in your school doesn’t matter. Your bank account doesn't matter. All that matters is you survive the battlefield and covering the man standing next to you.”

  “I understand, Sir.”

  “I hope so.” Kaelen tossed the towel back to the drone. “Your status as Valedictorian tells me you have potential. But potential doesn't kill Ravagers. Discipline does. I want to see what you are made of. Sergeant Phillean, take him down to the pods and get a solid assessment of his abilities. Get him on a training program to flesh out his weaknesses. We head out tomorrow morning for a mission.”

  “Yes sir.” Phillean nodded and motioned for Riven to follow.

  Kaelen turned back to his training, hauling the heavy combat droid robot off the ground and over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Riven fell in behind Phillean as they exited the gym and entered the maze of corridors. They walked down a hallway that seemed to stretch on forever, the air getting noticeably cooler and humming with the sound of server banks.

  “So,” Riven started, trying to keep his voice casual despite the knot forming in his stomach. “What should I expect? They had top of the line pods at the academy, but we usually only faced off against other pilots or pirates.”

  “Our pods are a little bit different than those.” Phillean said, not breaking stride. “Captain Kaelen disengaged the safety protocols to emulate real combat.”

  “Safety protocols? Like the ones that stop the hologram from walking through walls?”

  “Like the ones that stop your brain from processing trauma,” Phillean corrected. He stopped in front of a heavy blast door marked SIMULATION BAY – RESTRICTED. “In the Academy, I’m guessing you get hit, the screen flashes red and you lose some health. Here? The pod jacks directly into the DAIR suit’s spinal tap. It bypasses your optic nerve feeds sensory data straight to the cortex.”

  River stared at him. “You don’t mean… Wait. Sergeant. I just got here.”

  “Yes, but you are now an Inquisitor. And as an Inquisitor you don’t want to die because of some pain distracting you in the middle of battle.” Phillean said, his voice dropping into a serious, veteran tone. “It is better to feel the skin tear and the bones crush in this sim than to realize what it feels like in real life when it’s too late.”

  Riven’s jaw dropped. “You want me to voluntarily step into a machine that is programmed to torture me?”

  “It’s not torture, Holt. It’s education,” Phillean said, waving a hand dismissively as if discussing a mild weather forecast. “Pain is the best teacher in the galaxy. It creates muscle memory faster than any lecture I can give you.”

  “I feel like ‘don’t get eaten’ is a lesson I can learn without the physical agony,” Riven argued, looking at the blast door warily.

  “Wrong. If you don’t fear getting hit, and think it will be like a painless simulation, then you will get sloppy. You will begin to take risks you can’t afford. And out in the Void, risks get you killed. It is infinitely better to scream over imaginary pain in here than it is to die for real out there. I’d rather you wet yourself in a pod than bleed out a moon because you thought you could tank a hit.”

  “Put that on the recruitment poster,” Riven muttered. “Join the Inquisition: We promise you’ll wet yourself.”

  Phillean smirked and palmed the door control. The blast doors groaned open, revealing the Simulation Bay.

  It was impressive. The room was a vast, circular chamber dominated by a central cooling column that pulsed with blue liquid light. Radiating out from the center were rows of pods that looked like like obsidian graves.

  They were sleek, egg-shaped vessels suspended in magnetic fields, free-floating. Thick bundles of cabling ran from the ceiling into the spine of each unit, looking like the tentacles of some mechanical beast. Frost curled off the cooling vents.”

  “Pod 8C is yours,” Phillean pointed to the back right vessel. “Don’t worry. The system monitors your vitals. If your heart stops, it will auto-eject you.”

  “That is a very low bar for comfort, Sergeant,” Riven said.

  He walked up to the pod. The hull split in a smooth seam through the middle and rose upward. It revealed a cockpit that looked like a fighter jet. Riven took one last longing look at Phillean who just motioned toward the pod.

  He sighed heavily before stepping inside, settling in the seat which molded around his armor. He felt a connection against the back of his neck with his armor.

  “Phillean?” Riven called out as the canopy began to lower.

  “Yeah?”

  “If I scream like a toddler… delete the footage.”

  “No promises. Good hunting, Hammer.”

  The world sealed shut. Total darkness.

  INITALIZING SIMULATION…

  SCENARIO: RANDOMIZED… URBAN SURIVAL

  DIFFICULTY: ERROR

  DIFFICULTY: ERROR

  DIFFICULTY: OVERRIDE [HELL]

  NEURAL FEEBACK: 100%

  SIMULATION START

  Riven gasped, his lungs suddenly filling with air that tasted of sulfur and ash.

  He wasn’t on the ship anymore. The cool, recycled atmosphere was gone. He was standing the middle of ruined colony street. The sky above was bruising shade of purple, choked with smoke. Building of crumbled duracrete towered over him, their windows shattered like jagged teeth.

  It felt real. The gravity pulled heavier than Terra, pulling at his armor. The wind grit against his faceplate.

  Riven’s heart hammered against his ribs. He didn’t want to get hit. He didn’t exactly want to feel the crush of his bone or the tearing of skin that Phillean had promsied

  Click.

  But that just meant that he just had to avoid getting hit.

  A wet, snapping sound echoed from the alleyway ahead.

  Riven turned. A shadow detached itself from the grey rubble, moving with a jerking, unnatural twitch. At first it looked like a large dog, but then it seemed to unfold on itself, rising up on four multi-jointed legs.

  A Ravager.

  It stood nearly as tall as Riven, covered in pale, slate-grey chitin that blended with the concrete ruins. It would have been invisible to the naked eye, but his HUD instantly snapped a red overlay onto the creature.

  Two massive, scything talons extended from its shoulders, dripping with some clear, viscosity. Its head was like a wedge of bone, eyeless with pits twitching along it snout as if it was tasting the air.

  Riven stared at it. He swallowed the bile at his throat. He knew that if those claws connected, the pod would simulate his skin tearing, and his bones crushing. The phantom pain would agonizing.

  But beneath that fear, a strange sense of relief washed over him.

  Finally.

  The noise in his head went silent. The anxiety about the Inquisition, the awkwardness with Astrix, the feeling of being a fraud in a room full of aristocrats. It all evaporated.

  Combat was simple. You live, or you die. You dodge, or you bleed. It didn’t require politics or money. It just required him to move his body before his mind could overthink it.

  Riven exhaled, and the world slowed down. The Academy hadn’t just tested his math scores; they also tested his lethality. And there was a reason Riven was the Valedictorian of best military school in the galaxy.

  He reached for his hip. The baton snapped into his hand. With a flick of wrist, he punched forward.

  SHINNNG.

  The lance extended instantly, the blade humming with blue energy.

  The Ravager hissed, its mandible clicking together like shears, and charged.

  Riven grinned behind his facemask. It was a sharp, feral expression shaping his face into something nigh unrecognizable.

  “Come on, ugly,” he whispered, dropping into a stance. “Let’s see if you bleed.”