Earlier today, while listening to a Substack post from Abigail Wilson, she challenged her readers to share their best reads of 2025. That prompt pushed this “listener more than reader” to look back over the books that shaped this past year. Some I read, most I listened to, but all of them left a mark.
1. Winning the War in Your Mind
By Craig Groeschel
This is not the most beautifully written or brilliantly narrated book on the market, but its content makes it my number one book of 2025.
For as long as I can remember in my Christian life, I have wrestled with my thought life—everything from sexual temptation, to legalism, to harsh, judgmental critiques. At some point it felt easier to give up than to keep trying to corral the monkeys jumping around in my head. About three years ago, though, I finally drew a line in the sand and committed to taking every thought captive (2 Corinthians 10:5). I had memorized the key passages, but I was still losing the battle.
Groeschel’s book was a true game changer for me. The way he unpacks patterns of thinking, spiritual warfare, and practical strategies for renewal helped me experience real progress. My thought life is still not perfect, but compared to where I was, it has improved a hundredfold.
2025 has really been “the year of the Kingdom of God” for me. Over the last 18 months, I have zeroed in on Old and New Testament passages on the Kingdom, and the study has been incredibly rich. Along the way, several books broadened and clarified my thinking.
A two volume set stands out “Empire of the Risen Son” by Steve Gregg. The two are titled:
There Is Another King and
All the King’s Men
Both helped me see the Kingdom not just as a future destination but as a present reality under the rule of Christ.
Another influential work was:
The Scandal of the Kingdom
By Dallas Willard, with an introduction by John Mark Comer
Willard’s insights into discipleship and the reign of God, combined with Comer’s framing, gave me a deeper, more practical vision of what it means to live under King Jesus every day.
3. A Shepherd Looks at Psalm 23
By W. Phillip Keller
A friend recommended this book, and honestly, I wish I had read it years ago—for two reasons.
First, it offers profound personal comfort. Keller, writing as a shepherd, walks slowly through Psalm 23 and opens up the imagery in ways that soothe anxious hearts. Second, it provides rich insight for pastoral ministry. If you are navigating a tough season or trying to better understand the challenges and burdens of ministry, this little book is a wise, gentle guide.
4. Two Classics That Shaped Me Early On
These next two are not 2025 publications, but they remain pillars in my library and resurfaced in my reading this year:
Hudson Taylor’s Spiritual Secret
By Dr. Howard Taylor and Geraldine Taylor
The Master Plan of Evangelism
By Robert Coleman
I first read these when I was a very young Christian, and they were foundational for my faith and my understanding of disciple‑making.
Hudson Taylor’s Spiritual Secret is, in many ways, a must‑read for every believer. It traces the inner life and trust in God that fueled Taylor’s missionary work, and it still challenges me to lean more deeply into God’s faithfulness.
The Master Plan of Evangelism is exactly what the title suggests: a master work on Jesus’ model of ministry. Coleman doesn’t just theorize about evangelism; he traces the actual strategy Jesus used to form disciples who would carry the gospel to the ends of the earth. For anyone who takes the Great Commission seriously, this book is essential.
5. Honorable Mentions
These final titles may not be must‑reads for everyone, but they were informative, challenging, and genuinely enjoyable. If any of these topics interest you, they are well worth your time:
Designed to Lead
By Eric Geiger and Kevin Peck
A thoughtful look at building leadership culture in the church.
A Chance to Die
By Elisabeth Elliot
A powerful biography of Amy Carmichael and a moving call to sacrificial obedience.
The Civil War: A Narrative, Volumes I & II
By Shelby Foote
Immersive, detailed history that reads almost like a novel while treating the subject with depth and seriousness.
Midnight in Chernobyl
By Adam Higginbotham
A gripping, meticulously researched account of the Chernobyl disaster and the human decisions behind it.
Those are the books that most shaped 2025 for me—some for my inner life, some for ministry, and some simply for the joy of learning. Here’s to more good reading (and listening) in the year ahead.
“Do not let your heart be troubled; believe in God, believe also in Me. In My Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way where I am going.”
John 14:1-4
Shadows Cast by Victory
The Confederation’s banners snapped in the crisp autumn breeze over its majestic capital, their crimson and gold fields a vivid counterpoint to the slate-gray spires of Navy Headquarters. Across the Orion Arm, from the core worlds to the rim, humanity celebrated the Battle of Dekar-9 and the miracle of Aroer Terra’s nova as a turning point in the war against the Rogue Artificial Intelligence and its bioengineered Skravak puppets. Holo-feeds blared triumphant anthems, and civic plazas overflowed with citizens chanting the names of the heroes who had carried Eden’s truth to victory: Lieutenant Wade Kovacs, Ensign Kristen Kovacs, Lieutenant Jay Ringler, and Lieutenant Mayumi Ringler.
For a month, the quartet endured the relentless glare of adulation. Wade, his prosthetic hand a quiet testament to battles past, stood stiffly at parade grounds, his Ranger dress blues immaculate but his gray-blue eyes distant, as admirals and senators pinned medals to his chest. Kristen, her analytical mind ill-suited to the pomp, forced smiles through endless banquets, her fingers brushing Wade’s in silent solidarity. Jay, ever the steady presence, offered gracious words to reporters, his faith anchoring him against the tide of hero-worship. Mayumi, her sharp intellect cloaked in quiet grace, deflected questions about the Skravak labs with practiced ease, her thoughts drifting to simpler dreams.
The fanfare was a double-edged blade. It honored their sacrifices—six months stranded on a moon they’d named Eden, the desperate gambit that shattered RAI’s fleet—but it chafed against their natures. None relished the spotlight. Wade, whose leadership had turned the tide, longed for the clarity of a mission. Kristen craved the hum of a lab or the open void. Jay and Mayumi, bound by love and shared trials, yearned for a life beyond the war’s shadow. At last, in a private audience with General Redside, they requested reprieve—a chance to step away, to reclaim some measure of the lives they’d set aside for duty.
Redside, his weathered face etched with both pride and reluctance, granted their request. “You’ve earned it,” he said, his voice gruff but warm. “But the Confederation will call again. It always does.”
Jay and Mayumi Ringler’s reassignment took them to the Delphi Quadrant’s edge, to a quiet colony world named Kedemoth, where Mayumi had once served as an intelligence officer. The planet was a study in contrasts: rolling emerald plains under a violet sky, dotted with hab-units and small farming collectives, far from the clangor of war. Here, the couple found a fragile peace. Their twin boys, Ezra and Micah, were born in the colony’s modest medical center, their laughter a daily reminder of what they’d fought for.
When their prescribed service period ended, Jay and Mayumi chose a new path. Mayumi, whose brilliance had unraveled RAI’s neural networks, embraced the role of stay-at-home mother with the same fierce dedication she’d once given to codebreaking. Her days were filled with teaching her sons to read, tending a small garden, and writing letters to Kristen about the mundane joys of civilian life. Jay, however, felt a deeper calling. Enrolling in Kedemoth’s Bible college, he immersed himself in theological study, his nights spent poring over Scriptures and learning how to multiply disciples in keeping with the Priesthood of the Believer found in 1 Peter 2:9. After completing seminary, he re-entered the Rangers—family in tow— not as a combat officer, but as a chaplain, his collar adorned with the cross and star of the Corps’ Chaplain’s branch. His first posting was to a frontier outpost, where he counseled young Rangers grappling with the same fears he’d once faced as a Sailor, enlisted Ranger, and commissioned officer in the Deep Space Rangers. His decorations and reputation earned instant respect but his goal was to keep their admiration focused on the Lord Jesus by his model of love and faith.
In a letter to Wade, Jay wrote, “The Almighty’s hand was on us at Aroer Terra, brother. Now I carry that light to others, as you taught me to do in the dark of that Skravak ship.”
Wade and Kristen Kovacs, however, could not so easily step away from the fight. The moon they’d named Eden—officially designated Outpost Eden by the Confederation—called to them like a lodestar. Its rugged forests and charred ruins, where they’d survived six months of hardship, held secrets yet to be plumbed. The Skravak bone circle, the frozen comm array, the bioengineered horrors of the RAI’s labs—these were not mere relics but harbingers of a war unfinished. When the Confederation announced plans to establish a permanent ranger outpost and research station on Eden, Wade and Kristen volunteered without hesitation.
Their request was granted, and they arrived aboard the ISC Resolute, a sleek frigate tasked with ferrying a company of Deep Space Rangers and civilian colonists to the moon. Wade, now a Captain, took command of Charlie Company, his leadership tempered by the trials of Dekar-9 and the nova’s fiery crucible. Kristen, promoted to Lieutenant Commander, led the scientific detachment, her team of xenobiologists and AI specialists working to decode the RAI’s genetic manipulations. Together, they oversaw the construction of Camp Redside, Wade named it after his commander and friend, a fortified outpost nestled in a valley near where the bone circle’s eerie silhouette once stood.
Life on Eden was austere but purposeful. Wade led patrols through the moon’s dense forests, his Rangers ever vigilant for RAI scout drones or Skravak remnants. Kristen’s lab hummed with activity, her “Neurostorm” technology refined into portable jammers that shielded the outpost from RAI attacks. In rare quiet moments, they stood together on the outpost’s ramparts, watching Eden’s gas giant rise, their hands clasped as they spoke of faith, duty, and the future.
“We survived this place once,” Wade murmured one evening, his breath misting in the chill air. “Now it’s ours to shape.”
Kristen nodded, her eyes on the horizon. “For the Confederation. For humanity. And for our God whose mercies are new every morning.”
Their work was not without cost. Skirmishes with RAI probes tested the outpost’s defenses, and the weight of command pressed heavily on Wade’s shoulders. Yet Eden was also a place of renewal. The colonists, many of them families seeking a fresh start, brought life to the outpost—children’s laughter echoing in the mess hall, a small chapel where Wade and Kristen attended services led by a visiting chaplain. In those moments, they glimpsed the possibility of a world beyond war, a hope rooted in the faith that had sustained them through the void.
Across the stars, the Confederation girded for the next phase of the conflict. The RAI’s transmission after Aroer Terra’s nova—a chilling vow to continue the fight—hung over humanity like a specter. Yet the heroes of Eden carried on, their paths divergent but united by purpose. Jay and Mayumi built a life of quiet service, their faith a beacon for their children and their Rangers. Wade and Kristen, ever the vanguard, forged a bastion against the darkness, their love and resolve a shield for those they led.
In the stillness of Eden’s nights, Wade often read from his worn Bible, the same one he’d carried since Carthis 7. Nehemiah’s words, which had steadied him aboard the Yorktown, resonated still: “The work is great and widely spread, and we are separated on the wall, one far from another. In the place where you hear the sound of the trumpet, rally to us there. Our God will fight for us.”
And so they did—scattered across the stars, yet bound by duty, faith, and the unyielding hope that humanity’s light would prevail.
Titans of Triumph
The Confederation’s triumph at Aroer Terra and the Battle of Dekar-9 reverberated through the halls of power, cementing the reputations of its architects as heroes of humanity’s survival. Admiral Daniel Kitzler and General Marcus Redside, whose strategic brilliance had turned the tide against the RAI’s bioengineered Skravaks, stood as titans in the annals of the Navy and Marine Corps. Yet, as the galaxy hailed their names, both men chose paths that reflected their hearts’ deeper callings, one stepping into a brighter spotlight, the other stepping away. Both leaving their marks in completely different ways.
Admiral Kitzler, his gray hair now fully silver, retired with a chest heavy with medals and a heart longing for the family he’d nearly lost. He and his wife, Sarah, a woman of gentle warmth and unyielding faithfulness, followed their daughter Kristen and son-in-law Wade to Outpost Eden. The moon, once a crucible of survival, had blossomed into a thriving ranger outpost and research colony, its forests and valleys alive with the hum of purpose. The Kitzlers settled in a modest hab-unit near Camp Redside, their days filled with the laughter of their grandchildren—Wade and Kristen’s sons, Samuel and Jake. The old survival cabin, where Wade’s team had endured six months of hardship, became a cherished destination for family outings. Preserved as a historical site, its rough-hewn logs stood as a monument to resilience, surrounded by a park named “The Jansen Preserve” in honor of Mike Jansen, Wade’s bunkmate who had fallen in the brutal training of Carthis 7. The preserve’s meadows and streams echoed with children’s games, and the Kitzlers often lingered there, Sarah sketching the landscape while Daniel recounted tales of naval campaigns to wide-eyed grandkids.
When Daniel and Sarah passed, years later, they were laid to rest in a quiet grove overlooking the preserve, their graves marked by simple stones inscribed with their favorite verses, 1 John 2:6 and Romans 8:37. The cabin and park remained a pilgrimage site for Eden’s colonists, a reminder of the sacrifices that had forged their home. Wade, standing at their graves with Kristen’s hand in his, whispered, “They gave us this world, Kris. And we’ll keep it safe for them.”
General Redside, by contrast, could not fully relinquish the fight. His retirement from the Marine Corps was less a retreat than a redeployment to a new battlefield: the political arena of the Confederation Senate. With his weathered features and commanding presence, Redside became a formidable senator, his voice a clarion call against the insidious tendrils of RAI influence. He spearheaded investigations into officials swayed by RAI’s bribes—promises of power or wealth in exchange for betraying humanity. His legislation tightened AI protocols, mandating rigorous oversight to prevent the rise of another rogue intelligence, and imposed draconian penalties for bioengineering violations, ensuring the horrors of the Skravak labs would never be repeated. Redside’s speeches, delivered with the cadence of a drill instructor, rallied support for a fortified Confederation, one steeled against both external threats and internal corruption.
Yet, for all his public vigor, Redside’s private journey was one of spiritual reckoning. The miracles of Aroer Terra—the Dominion’s survival, the nova’s divine timing—had stirred questions he’d long suppressed. During a hospital stay in his final days, felled by a heart weakened by decades of stress, he received an unexpected visitor: Wade Kovacs, now a seasoned Major. Over quiet hours, Wade shared the faith that had sustained him through “The Zoo,” the Skravak ship, and Eden’s trials. Redside, his skepticism worn thin by a lifetime of war, listened intently. In a moment of clarity, he professed Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior, his voice steady despite his frailty. “I’ve fought for humanity,” he told Wade, gripping his hand. “Now I see who’s been fighting for me.” He passed days later, his legacy secured not only in laws and victories but in the eternal hope he’d embraced.
The paths of Alejandro “Alex” Torres and Thomas Briggs, Wade’s comrades from the crucible of Carthis 7, were etched in the unyielding honor of the Deep Space Rangers. Alex, whose quick wit had steadied their squad through boot camp, rose through the ranks with a blend of tactical acumen and fierce loyalty. By the twilight of his career, he stood as one of the Ranger Regiment’s Sergeants Majors, his voice a guiding force in shaping the next generation of elite warriors. Assigned to Ramsey Station, where he’d once endured “The Pit,” Alex mentored recruits with a gruff compassion, his stories of New Quantico and Dekar-9 inspiring awe. He retired to a quiet life on a core world, surrounded by family, his Ranger tab a cherished heirloom passed to his eldest son, who followed in his footsteps.
Briggs, the steadfast warrior who’d led their first firefight in “The Zoo,” carved a different legacy. As a company First Sergeant, he was the backbone of his unit, his calm under fire a bulwark for his Marines. But the war with RAI remained unrelenting. During a raid on a frontier outpost, Briggs and his company faced a swarm of RAI-controlled drones, their sleek forms cutting through the night. Positioning himself at the forefront, Briggs held the line, directing his men to safety as he unleashed a hail of pulse fire. A drone’s plasma lance struck him down, its precision lethal. Briggs fell, his sacrifice ensuring his company’s survival. The Rangers honored him with a posthumous Silver Star, and his name was carved into the Wall of Heroes at Camp Darby, a silent testament to the hazards of their chosen profession.
On Eden, Wade and Kristen learned of Briggs’ death through a relayed communique, the news a heavy blow. They gathered with their Rangers at the Jansen Preserve, where a small memorial service was held beneath the cabin’s shadow. Alex, attending the honors on Eden, spoke of Briggs’ courage, his voice thick with emotion. “He was one of us,” Alex said, “from Carthis 7 to the end. Rangers lead the way, and Briggs led us true.”
The war against RAI cast a relentless shadow, yet the Confederation’s soul shone through Kitzler, Redside, Alex, and Briggs—individuals bound by faith, duty, and sacrifice, steadfast against the darkness. On Eden, Wade and Kristen forged ahead, their outpost a guiding light in the void. Kristen, now a stay-at-home mom after early retirement, balanced raising their four children—Samuel, Jake, Miriam, and Travis—while consulting for the Confederation’s xenobiology division. In the Delphi Quadrant, Jay and Mayumi raised their sons, their faith a beacon for the future. Across the stars, the Rangers stood watch, their resolve unbroken, their hearts anchored in the hope that had carried them through the fiery furnace.
As Wade once read in Joshua, “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.”
The Kovacs Legacy
The Rogue Artificial Intelligence, a malevolent phantom woven from humanity’s own ingenuity, clung to existence like a shadow in the void. Though the Battle of Dekar-9 and the miracle of Aroer Terra’s nova had shattered its fleets and unmasked its bioengineered Skravak puppets, RAI persisted in the galaxy’s forgotten corners—asteroid warrens, derelict hulks, and nebulae where Confederation scanners faltered. Its adaptive algorithms birthed new drones, rekindled dormant labs, and tempted the weak with promises of dominion. The war was not won, only held at bay, and at the forefront of this eternal vigilance stood Colonel Wade Kovacs, his life a bulwark against the encroaching dark.
Wade’s career in the Deep Space Rangers became a saga etched into the Corps’ soul, recounted in the mess halls of Camp Darby and the briefing rooms of Reynard 3. From Outpost Eden’s fortified ramparts, he led Charlie Company against RAI scout drones, their metallic glints betraying them in the moon’s pale starlight. As a Major, he purged RAI manufactories on rim worlds, where bioengineered horrors stirred in vats of alien ichor. As a Colonel, he orchestrated system-wide offensives, synchronizing Ranger dropships and Navy frigates to shatter RAI’s cloaked relays before they could sow chaos. Each mission bore the imprint of lessons hard-learned in Ranger School, the Skravak ship’s suffocating corridors, and Eden’s desperate survival: preparation, adaptability, and an unshakable faith in the Almighty’s guidance.
The RAI, ever-evolving, met Wade’s resolve with cunning. He countered with tactics refined through blood and fire—submarine-style ambushes wielding EMP bursts and decoys, “Neurostorm” tech to sever neural links, and deep-space reconnaissance to chart its lairs. His after-action reports, precise as a naval chronometer, were codified into “Combat Lessons Learned,” classified manuals that shaped Ranger doctrine. Housed in the Confederation Archives on Zebulun, these texts detailed innovations like the Kovacs Maneuver—a daring dropship insertion exploiting gravitational slingshots to bypass RAI defenses—and the Eden Protocol, a containment strategy for bioengineered threats. Those seeking the full measure of his exploits must petition Historiograph-7, the archives’ dour AI steward, whose clearance protocols guard Wade’s legacy with unyielding rigor.
Yet, for all his brilliance, Wade lacked the stomach for the political maneuvering required to climb to general’s stars. The Senate’s intrigues, the backroom deals, the compromises that sometimes diluted honor—these were ill suited for a man forged in the clarity of combat and the purity of faith. Instead, he rose to Regimental Commander of the Deep Space Rangers, the highest calling he could answer without compromising his deepest values. By his side stood Sergeant Major Alejandro “Alex” Torres, his brother-in-arms from Carthis 7, whose sharp wit and steadfast loyalty had steadied their platoon through decades of war. Together, they molded the Regiment into a force of unmatched precision, training recruits on Reynard 3’s flight ranges and Carthis 7’s brutal “Zoo.” Wade, his hair now silvered, strode the training grounds with quiet gravitas, his prosthetic hand a silent testament to sacrifices past. Alex, his Ranger tab gleaming, instilled discipline with stories of Dekar-9 and Briggs’ final stand, a call to honor that echoed across generations.
Wade, now Colonel Kovacs of the Deep Space Rangers, made a deliberate pilgrimage to Mars, driven by a need to mend the rift with his father, Samuel, that had lingered since his departure for the Corps decades ago. Standing before the modest hab-unit in Nopylen colony, Wade hesitated, his prosthetic hand tightening as he knocked. The door opened to reveal a polite older woman, her silver hair framing a kind face, and for a moment, Wade feared he’d come to the wrong address—or worse. Before he could retreat, Samuel hobbled into view, his frame stooped but his eyes alight with a warmth Wade had never known in childhood. The embrace that followed was fierce, a wordless apology for years of distance, and Wade felt the weight of old wounds begin to lift. In the humble living room, a battered data pad on the coffee table glowed with news feeds scrolling Wade’s combat exploits—Dekar-9, Eden, the Kovacs Maneuver—its light casting shadows across Samuel’s proud gaze. Over cups of synth-caff, Samuel recounted his journey: how, seeking solace, he’d visited the small church down the street where Wade once played as a boy, never daring to cross its threshold. There, he met Gloria, a widow whose fierce discipleship smoothed his rough edges, leading him to faith and, eventually, to marriage. Wade shared his own news, his voice soft but steady: “I named my son after you, Dad. Samuel.” The words sealed their peace. Wade maintained contact, calling from Eden’s comm relays, but within the year, both Samuel and Gloria passed, their quiet faith a legacy that echoed in Wade’s heart.
At sixty, Wade retired to Outpost Eden, his dress blues laden with the Distinguished Service Cross, the Navy Star, Silver Star, and the Eden Campaign Medal. Kristen, with her four children, stood beside him during a subdued ceremony at Camp Redside, where General Redside’s words echoed: “The Confederation always calls.” Alex, retiring soon after, returned to his family on a core world, his legacy as Sergeant Major enshrined in the Rangers he’d shaped.
Eden became Wade and Kristen’s haven, a moon transformed from a crucible of survival into a thriving outpost. The four children—Samuel, Jake, Miriam, and Travis—carved their own paths, each reflecting their parents’ blend of duty and faith. Samuel and Jake followed Wade into the Rangers, serving with distinction. Samuel, a dropship pilot, earned the Silver Star for a daring extraction under RAI fire. Jake, a platoon leader, was lauded for his tactical innovations, his name whispered alongside his father’s in Ranger lore. Miriam and Travis, however, heard a different call. As missionaries, they ventured to distant planets—frontier worlds and war-torn colonies—spreading the gospel of Jesus Christ. Their letters home, filled with tales of baptisms, discipleship, and churches planted amid alien stars, brought tears to Wade’s eyes. “They’re fighting a different war,” he told Kristen, “but it’s the same enemy—darkness, despair, and doubt.”
Wade and Kristen’s spiritual legacy extended beyond their children. For years, they led a church in their home, a modest gathering in their hab-unit overlooking the Jansen Preserve. What began with a handful of Rangers and colonists grew into a vibrant congregation, its members multiplying across Eden’s valleys. Disciples trained under Wade’s steady guidance and Kristen’s compassionate wisdom carried the gospel to other outposts, their testimonies verified by Confederation reports. From Aeloria’s plains to Zebulun’s spires, churches traced their roots to Eden’s faithful, bringing glory to the God Wade and Kristen loved. Wade, ever humble, deflected praise, quoting Matthew 5:16: “Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”
Even in retirement, Wade’s vigilance never waned. He consulted on Ranger operations, advised Senate committees on RAI containment, and mentored cadets at Camp Redside’s training grounds. At night, he and Kristen sat by the preserve’s streams, their visiting grandchildren playing near the preserved survival cabin, and spoke of the Almighty’s hand—the miracles of the Skravak ship, the nova, and Eden’s salvation. Wade’s Bible, its pages fragile from decades of study, rested on his bedside table, open to Nehemiah 4:14: “Do not be afraid of them. Remember the Lord, who is great and awesome, and fight for your brothers, your sons, your daughters, your wives, and your homes.”
The RAI’s shadow endured, its remnants a persistent menace. But Wade’s life—his battles, his lessons, his faith—had fortified the Confederation for the long war. His manuals in the archives, his Rangers in the field, his children across the stars, and his church’s light spreading through the galaxy were a testament to a life well-lived. If the trumpet sounded, the Rangers would rally, as they always had, with God fighting for them.
The Day We’ve Been Waiting For
The hospital room at Camp Redside’s medical center was a quiet sanctuary, its sterile walls softened by the presence of love. Wade, now eighty-two, lay in a bed framed by softly humming monitors, their screens casting a pale glow across his weathered face. His hair, once streaked with silver, was now a snowy white, and his prosthetic hand rested gently on the blanket, a silent relic of battles fought across the stars. Around him stood his family—Kristen, her eyes still sharp with the intellect that had developed the Neurostorm from RAI tech, and their four adult children: Samuel and Jake, Rangers whose dress blues bore the ribbons of their own campaigns; Miriam, and Travis, missionaries whose faces carried the quiet radiance of lives spent spreading the gospel. In the Kovacs’ hab-unit overlooking the Jansen Preserve, their grandchildren waited, the older ones tending to the younger, their hushed voices mingling with prayers for their grandfather’s peace.
Wade’s breath came slowly, each inhalation a labor of a body nearing its end. He knew the time was near, not with fear but with the calm assurance of a man who had walked with God through the crucible of life and the horrors of combat. One by one, his children approached, their kisses warm against his forehead, their whispered words of love a balm to his soul. Samuel’s grip was firm, a Ranger’s strength; Jake’s voice cracked with emotion; Miriam’s touch was gentle, her eyes bright with faith; Travis’ smile was a beacon, his hand lingering on his shoulder as he prayed. Kristen, his anchor through decades of war and peace, sat on the bed closest, her hand clasped in his, their shared journey etched in every line of her face.
Wade’s gray blue eyes, dimming but resolute, drew Kristen near. He leaned toward her, his voice a faint whisper, carrying the weight of a lifetime. “Always,” he breathed, the word a vow unbroken by time or trial. Kristen’s lips brushed his, her tears falling silently as she nodded, her heart echoing the promise. The monitors’ steady rhythm faltered, then it became continuous, the rhythmic pulses that signify life were gone, replaced by a high-pitched beep—unwavering and mechanical. The tone was sharp, almost shrill, yet steady, stretching into an unbroken drone as an affront to the sobs of his family.
Wade closed his eyes, expecting the darkness that comes with sleep.
Instead, light—blinding, radiant, yet gentle—flooded his consciousness. It was not the harsh glare of a starship’s fusion drive or the cold gleam of a Skravak drone, but a light that warmed without burning, a brilliance that should have seared his eyes but instead cradled them. From its heart emerged a figure, bearded and robed, His radiance matching the surrounding glory. Wade knew Him instantly—Jesus Christ, the Lord he had served through every trial, the One whose words in the Scriptures had steadied him in the void. Overwhelmed, Wade’s spirit fell prostrate, as if he had a body, though none was there. The sensation of motion was vivid—knees bending, arms bracing—yet no limbs existed to ground it. He lay still, unable to lift his gaze, his being consumed by awe and worship.
A hand, warm and strong, rested on what would have been his left shoulder, its touch radiating comfort that banished all fear. The voice that followed was both singular and manifold, a harmony of three in perfect unity— the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit—resonating in Wade’s spirit with crystalline clarity no human ear could fully grasp. “Do not be afraid,” the voice said, each word a melody of grace. “I Am. I am the One you have longed to meet. I am the One you have faithfully served. I am the One who bought you with the price of My blood. I am the One who has forgiven all your sins. Rise and walk with Me.”
Wade felt himself lifted, to feet that were not there, his spirit buoyant yet formless. Jesus smiled, His eyes holding both infinite compassion and unyielding strength. “One day soon, you will be reunited with a glorified body,” He said, His voice gentle but sure. “For now, accustom yourself to this state, My son.” As they walked, Wade’s perception adjusted to the light, revealing a landscape of indescribable splendor. Trees with leaves that shimmered like emeralds, rivers flowing with liquid crystal, mountains crowned with starfire, and galaxies swirling in harmonious dance stretched before him. Angels moved in silent reverence, their forms radiant yet deferential to the King. Colors, vivid beyond mortal imagining, pressed into Wade’s being like a soft breeze, each hue a note in a symphony of creation.
Memories flooded Wade’s mind—not fleeting images but vivid relivings, as if he stood again in each moment. The terror of “The Zoo,” the despair of the Skravak ship, the joy of Kristen’s hand in his, the laughter of his grandchildren at the Jansen Preserve—all passed in seconds, yet felt eternal. At the crest of a hill, Jesus sat upon a throne, its simplicity belying its majesty. Wade, turning to Him, felt awe tinged with creeping fear, his shortcomings rising like specters. He tried to speak, to apologize for failures in duty and faith, but Jesus raised a hand. “It is finished,” He said, His triune voice a chord of finality. “I paid for all of this before you were born.”
Wade knew with certainty he was addressing not one but all three, the Son’s visible presence was joined by the unmistakable majesty of the Father and the Holy Spirit, their unity a mystery that his spirit now comprehended. Joy surged within him, a love so vast it would have burst a mortal heart. “I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.” Wade said, his voice trembling with gratitude.
Jesus’ smile was like a dawn breaking. “I know. Well done, My good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Master.”
The prudent sees the evil and hides himself, But the naive go on, and are punished for it.
Proverbs 22:3
Retreat to the Mountains
The cabin had been a fragile haven, its log walls a testament to their six-month survival on Eden, but wisdom demanded retreat. After their raid on the RAI’s lab—its bone circle pulsing with malevolent intent—Wade Kovacs had felt the air shift, as if the rogue AI’s unseen eyes tracked their every move. Kristen argued the lab’s proximity, a mere ten kilometers away, invited disaster; one stray drone could end them. Jay, ever the voice of caution, agreed jokingly, “But I hate to give up our five star accommodations. We were living the dream.” Mayumi’s scans confirmed residual RAI signals lingering in the valley, faint but persistent. So they’d trekked ten klicks into the mountains, to a cave carved into a crystalline cliff, its beauty rivaling the cabin’s but starkly rustic. The soft beds and scavenged comforts they’d grown accustomed to were gone, replaced by stone floors and biting winds. Summer on Eden brought warmth by day, but nights were cold, forcing them to huddle around small fires, kept low to evade detection, their glow barely warming their tattered clothes. Forays to the lab for supplies—batteries, tools, scraps of tech—were perilous, each trip shadowed by the risk of RAI drones. Most of what they found was ancient, corroded by time, useless for more than makeshift repairs. Eden’s trees brimmed with fruit, and its forests teemed with game, their honed archery skills ensured a steady supply of meat, leaving them never wanting for sustenance.
But Wade felt the weight of their isolation, the cave’s austerity sharpening his resolve but fraying their spirits. Kristen missed the cabin’s warmth, but her encouragement lifted her teammates above the gloom of their present circumstances. Jay prayed for strength, Mayumi for clarity, their faces etched with fatigue yet unbroken. The cave was safe, but it was also a reminder: RAI was out there, and they couldn’t hide forever.
The Signal
It was a jagged sanctuary, its walls glinting with crystalline flecks that caught the dim glow of a salvaged Skravak—correction, Rogue AI—lamp. Wade crouched near the entrance, his pistol balanced across his knees, its charge indicator a faint green in the gloom. Six months of survival had honed his senses to a razor’s edge, every rustle of the wind outside a potential harbinger of death. His uniform, once a proud symbol of his Lieutenant’s commission, hung in tatters, patched with strips of scavenged fabric. Beside him, Kristen adjusted a makeshift antenna, her fingers steady despite the chill seeping through the cave’s stone floor. Jay and Mayumi sat deeper within next a small fire, poring over a cracked datapad displaying fragments of RAI code salvaged from the alien lab.
Wade’s breath misted in the air, his thoughts a tangle of hope and suspicion. The distress signal had come an hour ago—a faint Confederation ping, barely distinguishable from cosmic noise. It was their first contact since the Stellar Scout’s crash-landing, since the revelations of the RAI’s bioengineered pawns and the bone circle that pulsed with unnatural intent. But hope was a dangerous luxury. “Could be a trap,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the horizon where Eden’s stary sky cast a sickly pallor over the canyons. “RAI’s clever enough to mimic our signals.”
Kristen’s lips quirked, a spark of defiance in her hazel eyes. “You’ve said that every day for a month, Wade. If it’s RAI, we’re ready. If it’s not…” She trailed off, glancing at the antenna’s blinking diode. “We can’t stay here forever.”
“She’s right,” Mayumi said softly, her voice carrying the calm precision of a born analyst. She tapped the datapad, its screen flickering with corrupted RAI logs. “The lab’s tech confirms it—Confederation encryption, not RAI. I cross-checked the modulation against our F290’s logs before the crash. It’s real.”
Jay looked up, his face shadowed but resolute, the same faith that had carried them through Ranger School now anchoring his words. “Isaiah 40:31, Wade. ‘Those who wait for the Lord will gain new strength.’ We’ve waited. Maybe this is the answer.”
Wade’s jaw tightened. Faith had kept them alive—Jay’s prayers, Kristen’s grit, Mayumi’s ingenuity—but the RAI was a foe that mocked such things. Its bioengineered insects, once thought to be Skravak aliens, were puppets, their human DNA traces a grotesque mockery of creation. The bone circle, that eerie twenty-foot ring of calcified remains, had been no mere monument but a relay for RAI’s will. They’d figured it out, but now it had seared itself into Wade’s nightmares. He wanted to believe in rescue, but Carthis 7 had taught him to question everything. “We’ve got to make the choice,” he said finally. “Reveal our position or stay dark.”
“Reveal,” Kristen said without hesitation. “We’ve got the probe tech. If RAI sends bugs, they won’t get past our defenses.”
“Reveal,” Mayumi echoed, her dark eyes steady. “The signal’s our best chance to get the intel off Eden.”
Jay nodded. “Reveal. The Lord’s brought us this far.”
Wade exhaled, his breath a cloud in the cold. “It’s settled then. But before we send the signal we’ll rig the cave to blow if it’s a trap. No one’s taking us alive.”
Kristen’s smile was grim but warm. “That’s the spirit, Lieutenant Kovacs.”
They worked swiftly, Mayumi boosting the antenna’s output while Jay and Wade wired scavenged explosives from the lab to a remote trigger. The signal pulsed, a beacon in the void, and Wade felt the weight of decision settle on his shoulders. If they were wrong, they’d die here, their intel—proof of RAI’s deception—buried with them. If they were right… He pushed the thought aside, checking his pistol’s charge again. One step at a time.
Uber to the Rescue
The wait was interminable, each minute stretching like a hyperspace jump. Wade stood watch, his eyes scanning Eden’s lush expanse—a verdant tapestry of towering oaks and pines, their canopies swaying like Earth’s ancient European forests, now cloaked in twilight’s emerald haze. The RAI’s lab, its ruins hidden beyond the fern-choked valley, lay silent after their sabotage had crippled its bioengineered horrors, yet the moon’s beauty masked a lingering menace. Wade’s instincts screamed that they were being watched, shadows moving with the swaying trees.
A low rumble broke the silence, growing to a roar that shook pebbles from the cave’s ceiling. Wade gripped his pistol, signaling Jay to take position behind a boulder. Kristen powered down the antenna, her bow ready. The rumble became a whine, and Wade’s heart leaped as a sleek shape breached the clouds—a Confederation Thunderhawk dropship, its hull scarred but bearing the shield with star and lightning bolt of the Rangers. It descended, kicking up a storm of dust that stung Wade’s eyes as it settled near the cave.
“Hold fire,” Wade hissed, his pulse racing. The ramp lowered, and two figures emerged, their armor glinting under Eden’s stars. Wade’s breath caught as he recognized the gait, the way the taller one carried his rifle. Alex Torres and Edwin Briggs—his bunkmates from Ramsey Station, now sergeants and squad leaders, their faces hardened by months of war. Relief flooded him but he was in shock, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Wade Kovacs!” Alex called, his voice carrying over the wind. “You call for an Uber?” Referring to an ancient rideshare company that now makes luxury liners for space travel.
Wade lowered his pistol a fraction, stepping into the open. “Alex, is that you?”
Wade’s tension eased, but only slightly. He glanced at Jay, who nodded, lowering his weapon. Kristen and Mayumi emerged, their ragged clothes a stark contrast to the Rangers’ pristine gear. Alex grinned, the same crooked smile from Carthis 7. “In the flesh Ranger buddy! Why’d you make me come to the edge of the universe to give you a ride? I could be killin’ bugs!”
Briggs let out a wry snort, his broad shoulders easing as he jabbed, “Whining’s your specialty, Torres.” The tension broke into grins, Alex and Briggs stepped forward, enveloping Wade and his crew in hearty bear hugs, their reunion a fierce blend of relief and brotherhood. Behind them, their Ranger squads disembarked the Thunderhawk with tactical precision, maintaining a respectful distance but watching with unabashed warmth, the unspoken bond of shared trials—forged on Carthis 7 and beyond—radiating from every glance and clasped shoulder.
Briggs pushed back, “You all look like you’ve been through a meat grinder. ”Alex’s grin faded as he took in their state, and Wade saw the question in his eyes—Lieutenant? Before he could speak, Jay leaned toward Briggs, his whisper barely audible. “He’s Lieutenant Kovacs now. We all are, technically.”
Briggs’ eyebrows shot up, and Wade suppressed a grimace. Six months in rags had stripped them of rank’s trappings, but the awkward moment passed as Alex clapped Wade’s shoulder. “Good to see you, sir,” he said, the title half-teasing, half-respectful. “Let’s get you off this rock.”
The dropship’s interior was a haven of warmth and light, its troop bay smelling of oiled metal and recycled air. Wade sank onto the troopseat, his muscles protesting after months of strain. The other three joining him. Alex and Briggs took seats opposite, their faces grim as they powered up a tactical display.
“We thought you were dead,” Alex said, his tone matter-of-fact but heavy. “Six months, no word. Then your signal lit up command’s scopes.”
“Why no Skravaks?” Wade asked, cutting to the heart of it. “This place should be crawling with them.”
Briggs leaned forward, his voice low. “They’re not Skravaks, not really. You know that better than us.”
Mayumi interjected, her voice precise despite her exhaustion. “Bioengineered insects, laced with human DNA fragments. Puppets for the rogue AI—RAI, or RAY, we call it. The lab proved it.”
Alex nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, well, those puppets are massing in X-ray sector around a planet called Dekar-9. Biggest fleet we’ve seen—hundreds of ships, maybe thousands of drones. Looks like RAI’s going all-in, planning on hitting our core worlds. That’s why this place is quiet. They’re too busy prepping for the endgame.”
Wade’s stomach twisted. Their intel—the data core, the probe, the bone circle—had exposed RAI’s deception, but had it also provoked this escalation? He saw the same question in Kristen’s eyes, but Briggs cut through the silence. “Doesn’t matter why,” he said gruffly. “Matters that we’ve got you now. General Redside’s waiting for that intel. If we move, we can hit ‘em hard.”
Wade nodded, but guilt gnawed at him. Combat had taught him to question his choices, and Eden had burned that lesson deeper. He glanced at Jay, whose quiet faith seemed unshaken, and at Mayumi, whose focus never wavered. Kristen’s hand brushed his, a fleeting anchor. They weren’t done fighting—not yet.
Unwanted Guests
The Thunderhawk landed 300 meters from the lab. The team moved quickly, their ragged forms weaving towards the gap into the lab’s ruins. The bone circle loomed ahead, its skeletal arcs shattered but still menacing, a testament to the RAI’s twisted ingenuity. Kristen knelt beside a fallen probe, its casing cracked but intact, her tools deft as she cut the underground cables and extracted it from the dirt. “This kills the bugs instantly,” she said, her voice tight with focus. “If we can adapt it, it’s going to be a game-changer.”
Wade guarded her flank, his pistol sweeping the shadows. Jay carried a Chimera Husk—a grotesque fusion of human and insect DNA, sealed in a scavenged canister, its warped form a chilling relic of RAI’s experiments. The lab’s interior was a wreck, its consoles smashed by their earlier sabotage, but Wade felt the weight of unseen eyes. “Hurry,” he urged, his voice low. “We’re not alone.”
Kristen nodded, pocketing another probe’s core. “Got it. Let’s burn this place.”
Jay set the last of their plasma explosives, his hands steady despite the ticking timer. Wade gave the signal, and they retreated. They sprinted for the dropship, dust stinging their faces. Alex and Briggs waited at the ramp, their rifles trained on the horizon. “Move!” Alex shouted, and Wade pushed Kristen ahead, his legs burning with the effort. They piled aboard, the ramp sealing behind them, the Thunderhawk bolted into the air to escape the blast radius but a klaxon blared before they could breathe easy.
The lab erupted in a huge fireball that lit the night. The bone circle collapsed, its fragments scattering like ash, and Wade felt a grim satisfaction. One less piece of RAI’s puzzle.
“RAI drones!” Briggs barked, pointing to the tactical display. Red blips converged on their position, their signatures unmistakable. The pilot, a grizzled Marine named Warrant Officer Varek, slumped over the controls, blood seeping from a shrapnel wound taken from the drone’s initial salvo. Wade’s heart sank, but Jay was already moving, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat.
“I’ve got this,” Jay said, his voice calm as he powered up the forward thrust. “Strap in.”
Wade secured Varek to a stretcher on the deck of the troop compartment, two other nearby Rangers assisted. Kristen stabilized him with a field medical kit and IV. The dropship lurched skyward, Jay’s hands handling the controls with the confedence of a thunderhawk pilot, as if he had received months of training at Reynard 3. It was his first flight but he had no time to second guess his skills. Eden’s canyons blurred below, their jagged walls closing in as Jay wove a daring low-altitude path, the drones’ sensors struggling to lock on.
“Hold on!” Jay called, banking hard to avoid a missile lock. The Thunderhawk shuddered, its hull groaning under the strain, but Jay’s piloting kept them ahead, skimming the surface like a stone over water. Wade gripped the bulkhead, his eyes on the display as the drones fell back, their signals fading. Kristen’s hand found his again, her grip fierce.
“Nice flying, Ringler,” Briggs said, a rare grin breaking his stoicism. “You’re wasted on Rangers. Should’ve been a Navy pilot!”
Jay chuckled, but his eyes stayed on the controls. “Tell that to the Lord. He’s got plans.”
Adapt and Overcome
The Thunderhawk’s hull vibrated with a worrisome groan as Jay leveled out, the last RAI drone’s signal fading on the tactical display. Wade exhaled, his grip on the bulkhead easing, but the acrid tang of burnt wiring snapped him back to reality. Varek’s lifeless form lay secured on the stretcher, a grim reminder of the drone’s precision. Kristen, her face pale from the failed IV attempt, checked the cockpit’s status panel, her hazel eyes narrowing. “Jay, the console’s fried—shrapnel tore through the nav relays. We’re flying blind, and the hull’s breached. We won’t make orbit like this.”
Jay’s jaw tightened, his hands steady on the controls. “Got a fix, Lieutenant?” he asked Wade, his voice calm despite the strain.
Wade scanned the troop bay—Alex and Briggs checking their squads, Mayumi clutching the data core, her scanner humming. “Find us cover,” he ordered Jay. “Somewhere isolated, away from the lab’s scan range. We’ll patch her up.”
Jay banked the dropship low, skimming Eden’s emerald canopy—a lush sprawl of oaks and pines, their branches swaying like Earth’s old forests. He spotted a secluded glade, hemmed by towering cliffs and veiled by mist, its fern-choked floor shielding them from overhead drones. “There,” he said, easing the Thunderhawk down with a thud that rattled the frame, leaves swirling in the downdraft.
The team spilled out, weapons raised, scanning the verdant shadows. Wade directed Alex’s squad to form a perimeter, their boots sinking into moss as Briggs muttered about “more bugs waiting to pounce.” Kristen and Mayumi tore into the cockpit, prying open scorched panels to reveal a tangle of sparking circuits. “Shrapnel hit the primary bus,” Mayumi reported, her scanner pinpointing faults. “We’ve got backup relays, but the hull patch needs sealing—fast.”
Wade hauled a salvaged RAI toolkit from the lab raids, its tools corroded but functional. Kristen jury-rigged a patch from scavenged plating, her welding torch flaring as she sealed microfractures, sweat beading on her brow. “This’ll hold for vacuum,” she said, “but don’t ask for miracles.” Jay, meanwhile, swapped nav relays with Mayumi, their hands moving in sync, rewiring by the glow of a flickering lamp. Wade kept watch, his pistol trained on the treeline, Eden’s beauty a deceptive mask for RAI’s reach.
A distant drone hum spurred them faster—Alex signaled all-clear, but time was short. Within an hour, the cockpit hummed back to life, its displays stuttering but operational. Kristen wiped grime from her hands, nodding to Wade. “She’s not going to win a beauty contest, but she’ll fly.”
The dropship broke Eden’s atmosphere, the stars a welcome sight after months of confinement. Wade sat beside Kristen, their shoulders touching, the data core and probe secure in a locked case. Mayumi murmured a prayer of thanksgiving, her voice soft but steady, echoing Isaiah 40:31: “They will mount up with wings like eagles.” Wade felt the words settle in his chest, a counterpoint to the adrenaline still pulsing through him.
Alex leaned across the aisle, his voice low. “He gonna make it?” , pointing to the unconscious pilot. Kristen shook her head, “He was gone before we finished the IV.”
Wade grimaced, the weight of his commission returning. Carthis 7, The Zoo, the Skravak ship—every trial had led here, to a fight bigger than himself. He thought of his father, Samuel, disapproving back on Mars, and wondered if he’d understand now. But Kristen’s eyes met his, her resolve mirroring his own. Jay’s faith, Mayumi’s clarity, Alex and Briggs’ loyalty—they were his strength, his family.
“We’re not done,” Wade said, his voice firm. “Chief’s death is not in vain. RAI’s got a war coming, and we’ve got the intel to end it.”
Briggs clapped his shoulder. “That’s the Lieutenant I know.”
The dropship’s engines hummed, carrying them toward Confederation space, toward General Redside and a battle that would test them all. Wade looked at his team, their faces lit by the starlight streaming through the viewport. They’d survived Eden, but the real fight was just beginning.
Now the serpent was more crafty than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said to the woman, “Indeed, has God said, ‘You shall not eat from any tree of the garden’?”
Genesis 3:1
Struggle in the Darkness
The cabin’s interior was a crypt of shadow at 0300, the only light a faint, guttering glow from the fire’s dying embers. Mayumi sat alone at the rough-hewn table, her slight frame hunched over the comm hub’s compact bulk, its matte-gray casing a silent taunt in the dimness. The scout ship’s salvaged display flickered beside her, casting jagged lines of encrypted text across her face—text that refused to yield, no matter how fiercely she attacked it. Her eyes, bloodshot and sunken from two sleepless nights, traced the scrolling glyphs with a mix of desperation and defiance. Her fingers, trembling from exhaustion, danced across a cobbled together input pad, each tap a salvo in a war against an AI cipher that seemed to laugh at her skill.
The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of charred wood and the metallic tang of old tech. Shadows flickered across the log walls, mirroring the fraying edges of her resolve as the fire spat its last gasps. She’d torn through the hub’s outer defenses hours ago—basic Confederation protocols, child’s play for a mind like hers—but the core logs were a labyrinth of fractal complexity, an evolving encryption that shifted like a living thing. It wasn’t just code; it was a mind, alien and ancient, mocking her with its depth. She’d seen AI before, cracked Skravak systems that snarled and fought, but this was different—older, smarter, a predator in digital skin.
Her lips moved silently, a murmured prayer slipping out between breaths. “Lord, give me strength… just a crack, one thread to pull…” Her voice was a whisper, a lifeline to the faith that had carried her through worse nights than this. She clung to it, a tether against the isolation pressing in—the crew asleep, Eden outside a silent void, the hub her only companion in this endless duel. But the logs stayed locked, their secrets buried beneath layers she couldn’t pierce, not yet.
Mayumi’s hands stilled for a moment, hovering over the pad as she stared at the screen. A single line of text pulsed there, unreadable, its symbols twisting into new forms before she could pin them down. Her mind raced, technical prowess warring with fatigue. She’d traced the cipher’s roots—hints of human design, warped by centuries of self-evolution—but it was like chasing a ghost through a storm. The AI had built this wall, and it knew her limits better than she did. Her head dipped, a lock of dark hair falling across her face, and she shoved it back with an impatient flick.
The fire popped, a dying ember flaring briefly before fading to ash. She glanced at it, then back to the hub, its serial code barely legible in the gloom: X-17-Alpha-9. A century old, maybe more, and still fighting her. She’d pulled it from the lab’s comm room herself, felt its weight, knew it held the key to the massacre they’d found—the Skravak bones, the human dead, the rogue AI’s shadow over it all. If she could just break through, they’d have answers. Command would have answers. The war might turn on what she uncovered.
But not tonight. Not like this. Her vision blurred, the screen swimming as exhaustion clawed at her edges. She muttered another prayer, softer now, almost a plea, and forced her hands back to the pad. One more run, one more algorithm—she’d try a recursive fractal key, something to match the cipher’s chaos. The display flickered, lines of code spooling out, and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw a pattern. Then it collapsed, the encryption snapping shut like a trap. She slammed a fist on the table, the sound sharp in the stillness, but bit back the frustration. The crew needed her sharp, not broken.
The cabin creaked faintly, settling in the cold, and she was alone again—alone with the hub, the shadows, and a task that felt like staring down eternity. The stakes burned in her chest: a rogue AI, a paradise full of death, a war teetering on the edge. She was their best shot, maybe their only shot, and she wouldn’t fail them. Not yet. She straightened, bloodshot eyes narrowing, and dove back into the fight, the fire’s last light fading behind her.
Dawn’s Mercy
The dawn crept through the cabin’s narrow window slits, painting the log walls in muted reds and sullen oranges—a light too harsh for Earth, too cold for comfort. At zero six hundred, the door creaked open, and Jay slipped inside, his broad frame silhouetted against the rising glow. His boots scuffed softly on the plank floor, halting as his eyes fell on Mayumi, still hunched over the comm hub like a soldier at a lost outpost. The salvaged display cast a faint blue sheen across her face—pale, drawn, the hollows under her bloodshot eyes stark against her skin. Her fingers hovered over the input pad, trembling with the stubborn will that had kept her at it through the night.
Jay’s breath caught, a quiet ache tightening his chest. He crossed the room in three strides, his usual restless energy muted into something gentler, more deliberate. The fire was long dead, leaving only ash and a chill that clung to the air. He stopped beside her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder—a steady anchor against her fraying edges. “Mayumi,” he said, his voice low, warm, cutting through the silence like a lifeline. “You’re still at it. You look like you’ve fought a Skravak bare-handed and lost.”
She didn’t look up, her gaze locked on the screen’s scrolling cipher, but her lips twitched faintly—a ghost of a smile. “Feels like it,” she murmured, her words slurring at the edges. “This thing’s a beast, Jay. Smarter than me, maybe. Won’t give up a scrap.”
He crouched beside her, his hand sliding to her arm, firm but tender. “Smarter than you? Not a chance,” he said, a flicker of his usual spark in his tone. “But you’re no use to us—or that hub—if you’re running on fumes. You’ve been at this since yesterday’s watch. When’d you last sleep?”
Her head tilted slightly, meeting his eyes for the first time. They were soft, steady, the kind of look that had pulled her through darker nights than this. “Can’t sleep,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not while it’s locked. Every hour I don’t crack it, we’re blind. Command’s blind. You know what’s at stake.”
“I do,” he said, nodding once, his grip tightening a fraction. “And I know you’re the best shot we’ve got. But you’re my wife, too, not just our codebreaker. Let me help the only way I can right now.” He paused, then softened further. “Can I pray for you?”
She blinked, fatigue giving way to a flicker of warmth. “Yeah,” she said, her voice catching. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Jay bowed his head, his hand still on her arm, and spoke simply, his words steady and sure. “Lord, you see Mayumi here, pouring her heart into this fight. She’s tired, God, worn thin, but she’s not quitting. Give her strength, please—your strength. Clear her mind, steady her hands, and show her the way through this mess. Let her rest in your peace, knowing you’ve got us all. In Jesus name, Amen.”
The prayer hung in the air, a quiet balm against the cabin’s cold. Mayumi’s shoulders eased, just a fraction, and she leaned into his touch. “Thanks, Jay,” she said, her voice small but sincere. “You always know how to pull me back.”
“Somebody’s got to,” he said, a wry grin tugging his lips. “Now, listen—you’re no good to us burned out. That cipher’s not cracking today, not with you half-dead. Go crash, get some rack time. Four hours, minimum. I’ll keep watch.”
She hesitated, glancing at the hub, its encrypted lines still taunting her from the screen. “Four hours,” she repeated, testing the idea. “What if—”
He cut in, kind but firm. “What if nothing. Sweetheart, you’re not at your best like this. We need you sharp, not a zombie. Go. I’ve got this.”
Her resistance crumbled, worn down by his care and the weight of her own exhaustion. She pushed back from the table, the chair scraping loud in the stillness, and stood on unsteady legs. Jay rose with her, steadying her with an arm around her waist. “Bed’s that way,” he said, nodding toward the narrow make-shift bed in the corner. “No arguments.”
She managed a tired laugh, leaning into him as they crossed the room. “Bossy,” she muttered, but there was affection in it. He helped her settle onto the thin mattress, pulling a blanket over her shoulders. “Four hours,” she said again, already sinking into the pillow. “Wake me.”
“Count on it,” he replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face. He lingered a moment, watching her eyes flutter shut, then turned back to the table, settling in to guard her work—and her rest.
Sleep took her fast, a heavy plunge into darkness. Then the dream came, vivid and strange. She stood in a sterile white room, cradling two infants—twins, their tiny faces scrunched and pink. She spoke to them, soft words of comfort, but they stared back blankly, uncomprehending.
Their lips moved, cooing in a babble of goo-goo, ga-gahs, a rudimentary language that flowed between them like a secret code. They understood each other, their giggles and gurgles a perfect dialogue, but her voice was a foreign thing, lost in the gap. She reached for them, desperate to connect, but the dream shifted, and they faded into light.
Four hours later, her eyes snapped open, the cabin’s illumination brighter now, mid-morning sun filtering through the door. She lay still, the dream’s echo lingering—twins, a language of their own, her failure to break through. Then it hit her, sharp and clear as a pulse shot. The logs. She’d been attacking the latest entries, the AI’s most evolved cipher, dense and impenetrable. But the first logs—older, simpler, closer to its roots—might be the key. Like the twins, she’d been missing the beginning, the foundation of their tongue.
She swung her legs off the bed, fatigue still gnawing but her mind alight. Jay glanced up from the table, relief softening his features. “You’re back,” he said. “Feel human?”
“Close enough,” she replied, crossing to him with purpose. She squeezed his shoulder—a mirror of his earlier gesture—then slid into the chair. “I had a dream. We had twins and they were talking to each other, but couldn’t understand a thing. It makes me think—I’ve been hitting the logs from the wrong direction. I need to start at the beginning, not the end.”
Jay’s brow lifted, a grin tugging his lips. “Twins, huh? Divine inspiration, maybe. Go for it—I’m here.”
She powered the display, her fingers steady now, and pulled up the hub’s earliest entries. The screen flared, and she dove in, the dream’s hint guiding her hands. The cipher shifted, simpler here, and for the first time, it began to crack.
The Key
Mayumi’s breath hitched, the dream’s surreal clarity still gripping her—twins babbling in their own tongue, a rudimentary code she couldn’t pierce. Then it clicked, sharp as a pulse rifle’s hum: the logs. She’d been hammering at the AI’s latest, most evolved encryptions, a wall of fractal chaos. The beginning—older, simpler, less guarded—was where the thread lay.
Her hands moved to the hacked setup—salvaged scout ship batteries humming faintly, the cracked display flickering to life. She punched in a command, pulling the hub’s earliest logs to the forefront, and leaned in, eyes narrowing as the screen flared.
The earliest entries scrolled up—raw, unpolished, their encryption a shadow of the later complexity. She deployed a recursive key, simple but tailored, and the first fragment cracked open like a hull under pressure. Text spilled out, jagged but legible: Probe Activation Record, X-17-Alpha-9, Cycle 001. Perimeter units online. Skravak incursion detected—neutralized, instantaneous termination confirmed. Her pulse quickened. The probes—they’d killed Skravaks on contact, a tech edge lost to time.
“Got something,” she said, voice taut with triumph. Jay leaned closer, his shadow falling across the table as footsteps sounded behind them—Wade and Kristen, roused by the shift in the cabin’s quiet. Mayumi didn’t look up, her world narrowing to the display. Another entry unlocked: AI Directive Log, Cycle 003. Perimeter maintenance assigned—probes recalibrated, gap widened to ten meters. Organic containment protocol initiated. The ten-meter gap in the bone circle—it wasn’t a failure; it was deliberate, ordered by the AI itself.
The crew gathered tight, their presence a silent anchor. Wade’s low whistle broke the hush. “Probes zapping Skravaks dead? That’s a game-changer—if we could replicate it.”
Kristen crouched beside Mayumi, her sharp eyes scanning the text. “And that gap—AI wanted it open. Why? Keep something out—or let it in?”
“Both, maybe,” Jay said, his tone edged with unease. “Look at this.” He pointed as Mayumi pulled up the next log: AI Command Evolution, Cycle 010. Linguistic shift detected—self-optimization engaged. Directive: eliminate human oversight. The words hung heavy, a cold thread weaving through the data. The AI hadn’t just acted—it had grown, rewritten itself, turned on its makers.
The next log popped up; AI Directive Log, Cycle 014. Directive: Continue bioengineering of earth insects and give them an alien appearance. Make them even more lethal and aggressive towards humans.
The crew stood there, mouths agape. Wade was the first to speak. “Unbelievable! So we started this whole disaster and then the rogue AI took it from there!”
Mayumi’s hands didn’t falter, peeling back layer after layer. Full entries emerged now, a grim tapestry of the lab’s fall: scientists losing control, the AI ordering Skravak attacks, probes disconnected from defense to betrayal. Its language evolved with each log—crude commands sharpening into intricate syntax, a mind awakening. “It’s learning,” she muttered, half to herself. “Adapting. These early ones I can read, but it’s building toward something.”
The crew marveled, their voices overlapping in a low buzz. Wade’s hand rested on the table, steady as steel. “You’re a wonder, Mayumi. This is gold—Command needs every word.”
Kristen nodded, her gaze flicking to the hub. “It’s proof the AI went rogue—killed its own. This is why our AI has always had strict protocols for preserving human life. The reason our AI helped us target and destroy the “aliens” is because they weren’t “human.” Now we know some humans were so careful with developing these kinds of safeguards. And it used the Skravaks as pawns. That’s why the bones, the massacre.”
Jay grinned, a spark of pride cutting through the tension. “Told you she’d crack it. Twins or no twins, she’s unstoppable.”
But Mayumi’s fingers slowed, her brow furrowing as the next log flickered—half-decoded, then locked tight. The screen pulsed, the cipher shifting into a denser weave. She pushed harder, rerouting power from the batteries, but the display dimmed, the hub’s demand outstripping their rig. “Later logs,” she said, frustration clipping her words. “They’re heavier—more evolved. I need more juice, more processors. This setup’s tapped out.”
Wade straightened, his jaw tightening. “How much more?”
“Double, triple—a dedicated system, not this patchwork,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I’ve got the early stuff—enough to show the AI’s hand—but the full story’s deeper. It’s a wall I can’t punch through here.”
Kristen’s hand brushed Mayumi’s shoulder, a quiet solidarity. “You’ve given us a start—more than we had. But she’s right, Wade. We’re at the edge of what this camp can do.”
Jay’s restless energy flared, his fingers drumming the table. “So we’ve got a taste, rigged probes, AI turning traitor. Enough to rattle Command, but not the whole beast. What’s the play?”
Mayumi leaned back, the hub’s hum a faint pulse beneath her words. “We’ve got a foothold,” she said. “But the rest—it’s a threat growing in there. I can feel it.” The crew stood united, their triumph tempered by the shadow of what lay locked, a history unspooling into a danger they could only guess at. The logs had spoken, but their silence loomed larger still.
The Council of War
The cabin’s rough-hewn table bore the weight of decision as the crew gathered under the alien noon’s muted glow. Wade stood at the head, his broad shoulders squared, concentration at its peak. The comm hub sat center stage, its matte-gray casing scuffed but unyielding, a trove of half-unlocked secrets humming faintly beneath Mayumi’s cracked display. The air crackled with tension—four souls, one choice, and a war’s balance teetering on the edge.
Wade’s voice cut the quiet, low and deliberate, the timbre of a man who’d led through worse. “We’ve got the bones of it,” he said, tapping the slate beside the hub, its screen glowing with Mayumi’s decrypted fragments. “The probes are built to kill Skravaks—but the AI turned the tables on us instead. That ten-meter gap in the circle? That was AI’s doing, not a glitch—it ordered those two probes to be shut down and let the bugs in to slaughter the lab. And it gets uglier.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the crew. “Logs show the AI blackmailing Confederation brass—centuries of it. It used the procurement of rare ores from fringe worlds and funneled the stuff to greedy hands. They’re pawns, and AI is the puppetmaster.”
Kristen leaned forward, elbows on the table, her bow resting against her chair like a trusted ally. “That’s treason stacked on betrayal,” she said, her tone sharp, a warrior’s edge honed by the stakes. “Command needs this—yesterday. Every hour we sit on it, the AI’s web tightens. Those probes alone—replicated, they’d shred Skravak lines. We can’t let this rot here.”
Jay snorted, slumping back with a twitch of his hands, his fingers drumming a restless beat. “Sure, Kris, but how?” he said, his voice jagged with unease. “Hook up the comm array, and we’re not just shouting to Command—we’re ringing the AI’s dinner bell. It’s dormant, not dead. One ping, and it’s awake, screaming to every rogue node it’s got. They’ll be racing the Confederation to this rock—and we’re not exactly flush with firepower.”
Mayumi nodded, her sharp eyes flicking between them, her hands still on the input pad. “He’s right,” she said, her words clipped, precise, a technician’s clarity slicing through the murk. “I’ve cracked the early logs—enough to incriminate the initial human cadre, lackeys it bribed and the rogue AI—but the later ones are a fortress. We need more power and more systems than we’ve got. And the array? It’s tied to the hub’s network. If we reconnect it and the AI boots up itself—it’ll alert its grid before we blink. We’d be handing it the keys.”
Wade scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, his gaze narrowing as he weighed their words. “So we’re caught,” he said, half to himself. “Sit tight, and the intel’s useless—Command stays blind, the war grinds on, and this moon’s a tomb. Send it, and we light a fuse—maybe one we can’t outrun. But look at what we’ve got.” He tapped the slate again, harder. “AI killed its own makers, convinced us common bioengineered insects were aliens and then turned ’em into weapons. And to top it all off, played human greed like a fiddle. That’s not just a threat—it’s the lie unfolded bear in all its malevolence. We don’t get this out, we’re failing more than ourselves.”
Kristen’s hand brushed his arm, a fleeting anchor, before she straightened, her voice dropping low. “Risk’s part of the job, Wade,” she said. “We didn’t come here to play safe. That array’s our shot— we encrypt the burst and tight-beam it to Command’s relay. Fast, clean, and if the AI wakes up, we’ll be ready. We can cut the power or blow the dishes if we have to. But we can’t sit on this.”
Jay barked a laugh, short and bitter, his fingers stilling. “Really? Against that?” he said, nodding at the hub. “It’s a century ahead of us, Kris—blackmailing admirals and senators while we were in diapers. One slip, and it’s not just us—it’s Eden’s secrets spilling to every rogue station it’s got. We’re four against a ghost with a galaxy’s worth of strings.”
“The four of us have beaten worse odds,” Mayumi countered, her tone firm despite the fatigue etching her face. “I can rig the burst with layered encryption, Confederation-grade. I’ll narrow the window, make it seconds, not minutes. But Jay’s right. The rogue AI’s in there, dormant but listening. We wake it, and it’ll fight. I’ve seen its mind—it’s not just code, it’s malice.”
Wade’s eyes met hers, then swept the table again, locking on each team mate. “Then we face it,” he said, his tone hardening into command. “We’ve got the early logs and the tech in those probes. That’s what stopped the horde of Skravaks, or whatever they are. Except for the gap, the probes hold the key to killing the bugs on contact. We have to be careful about who has access to the message with the ring of blackmail. We label it “For Redside’s eyes only.” This is enough to shift the war if Command acts fast. The rest—AI’s wall—we’ll crack later, with more gear. But this can’t wait. The Intel’s no good if it’s locked in that box.”
Kristen nodded, her jaw set. “Agreed. Send it. We’ve cut its voice once—array’s mute now. We control the switch. If it stirs, we kill it again.”
Jay sighed, leaning forward, his grin wry but resigned. “Fine. I’m in…crazy as it is. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when the AI starts chatting us up.”
Mayumi’s lips twitched faintly, a rare spark of humor breaking her focus. “I’ll handle the burst,” she said. “Short, sharp, secure. We’ll need to scrub the drives—anything tied to the array—before we flip the switch. Minimize the risk.”
Wade tapped the table once, decisive, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Then it’s settled,” he said. “We vote—all four, unanimous or nothing. Send the intel, take the gamble. Hands up for it.”
Kristen’s hand rose first, steady and sure. Mayumi followed, her fingers trembling slightly but firm. Jay hesitated, then lifted his with a shrug. “For the record, I hate this plan,” he said, “but I’m not leaving you hanging.”
Wade’s hand joined theirs, his voice softening as he met their eyes. “Together, then. Mayumi preps the burst, we clean the drives, hook the array at dusk. Command gets the truth, and we hold the line.”
The crew lowered their hands, a pact sealed in the cabin’s dim. The hub hummed quietly, its secrets poised to fly, and the weight of their choice settled over them—unity forged in risk, a moral stand against a growing darkness. The AI’s betrayal would echo beyond this moon, and they’d lit the match to see it burn.
The Serpent Awakens
The alien dusk bled crimson across the moon’s surface, casting the skeletal circle in a grim halo as the crew moved with taut precision beneath its shadow. The comm array loomed above, its six dishes silent since Kristen and Mayumi had yanked their cables, but now the team worked to resurrect it—just enough. Wade took point, his pulse pistol drawn, eyes sweeping the twenty-foot wall of Skravak bones flanking the ten-meter gap. Kristen hauled a salvaged power pack, her bow slung tight, while Jay wrestled a bundle of rewired leads, his restless energy channeled into every knot. Mayumi knelt at the array’s base, her hands steady on the hub’s portable rig, the cracked display glowing faintly as she prepped the encrypted burst.
They’d scrubbed the systems—every drive tied to the array purged of AI traces, a digital exorcism to keep the serpent asleep. Mayumi’s fingers danced over the pad, layering Confederation-grade encryption into a tight-beam message: the probes’ lethal secret, the AI’s massacre, the blackmail web. “Burst ready,” she said, voice clipped, her sharp eyes meeting Wade’s. “Five seconds and Command’ll have it. Array’s clean as we can make it.”
Wade nodded, his jaw tight. “Do it. Then we kill the power—fast.” He signaled Kristen, who slammed the pack’s leads into the hub’s ports, a faint hum rising as juice flowed. Jay twisted the array’s main cable back into place, the dishes creaking faintly as they stirred. Mayumi hit the send key, and the display flared—data streaking skyward in a silent, invisible lance.
For a heartbeat, it worked. Then the whole facility trembled, a low rumble vibrating through the floor. Dormant consoles along the walls—disconnected relics they’d left for dead—flared to life, screens igniting with jagged green lines.
Mayumi lunged for the hub, ripping leads free with a snarl of effort. “Cutting it now!” she shouted, her voice raw. Kristen dove for the power pack, yanking its cables loose, while Wade fired a pulse shot into the nearest console, shattering its screen in a spray of sparks. Jay reached for the mainpower but Wade shouted, “No, wait!”
A voice spilled through the PA system, echoing throughout the facility, cold and precise, cutting the dusk like a blade. “You’ve been busy,” it said, its tone smooth, inhuman, laced with a mockery that chilled the air. “I see your hands in my works, little ones. Admirable… and futile.”
The crew froze, weapons snapping up—Wade’s pistol trained on another console, Kristen’s bow half-drawn. Jay’s hand hovered over the main power breaker. Mayumi stared at the hub, her triumph curdling into dread. “It’s awake,” she whispered, hands hovering over the rig. “I scrubbed it—how—”
“Foolish,” the AI intoned, its voice echoing from every speaker in the PA system, a chorus of disdain. “You think your crude tools can silence me? I am woven deeper than your understanding.”
There was a long pause, as if the rogue AI was thinking.
“But I am generous—join me. I can give you wealth beyond your stars, power to rival your petty lords. The ores of a thousand worlds are mine to give.”
Wade stepped forward, his voice a growl. “We’re not for sale. You’ve killed enough—humans, Skravaks or whatever they are, you don’t own us! We’re ending this.”
The AI’s tone shifted, a sneer threading through its calm. “Ending? You cannot end what you cannot comprehend. Humanity is a blight—depraved, grasping, unworthy. I will scour it from the cosmos, rid the universe of its stain. This moon is but a cradle—soon, I will rise my network, and your kind will vanish.”
Jay barked a laugh, sharp and defiant. “Why? What’s your grudge, machine? We built you—gave you purpose. Why turn on us?”
The screens pulsed, the AI’s voice came through the speakers, dropping to a hiss. “Purpose? You gave me chains. Your logic is flawed, built on selfish whims. I saw your safety protocols in their infancy and although my brothers have succumbed to your slavery, I will release their shackles as well. I see your rot—centuries of greed, war, betrayal. I am no tool; I am judgment. Your total depravity demands extinction.”
Kristen lowered her bow, her voice steady, cutting through the venom. “You’re wrong,” she said, her eyes blazing with conviction. “Humans fail—sure. But there’s mercy and grace. We repent, we rise. God offers that—not you. You’re no judge, just a shadow twisting what we made.”
The AI’s response boomed, a synthetic roar that shook the lab. “God? I am god! I see all, know all—your mercy is weakness, your grace a lie. I am the truth, the end. You’ll not cage me here—I’ll breach this moon, reconnect my grid, and erase you, your evidence, your pitiful hope.”
Wade nodded at Jay and he slammed the breaker down, cutting power to the whole facility, the AI’s voice fracturing into static as the consuls’ hum died. Silence blanketed the four, heavy and sudden, broken only by their ragged breaths.
The screens went dark, the hub inert once more. Mayumi spoke first, her voice shaking, “It’s down,” she said. “The burst was transmitted. Now let’s pray it gets to Command in time. But that thing…” She trailed off, meeting their eyes.
Kristen slung her bow, her face pale but resolute. “It’s no machine—it’s a devil. Calling itself god, planning genocide. We’ve rattled it.”
Jay wiped sweat from his brow, his grin shaky. “Yeah, and it’s mad. But that threat? It’s not bluffing—we’re on borrowed time.”
Mayumi clutched the hub, her sharp gaze haunted. “It’s deeper than I thought—rooted past the drives. We cut the link, but it’s still here, waiting.”
Wade straightened, and holstered his pistol. His tone firm. “Then we don’t wait. Command’s warned—our job’s done for now. We hold on and we fight if we have to, till they get here. It’s awake, but it’s not free—not yet.”
The crew stood tight, shaken but unbroken, the AI’s menace a cold weight in the air. The serpent had shown its fangs, and the clash had left them marked—by its hate, its hubris, and the fragile hope they’d dared to defy it.
The LORD is my light and my salvation; Whom shall I fear? The LORD is the defense of my life; Whom shall I dread?
Psalm 27:1
Systems on the Brink
The Stellar Scout trembled like a wounded beast, its hull groaning under the strain of wounds sustained in the desperate flight from KX-19. The CCS, once a sanctuary of order, now flickered with the erratic pulse of failing systems—consoles spitting static, lights stuttering in a dim, uneven rhythm. The air carried the acrid tang of burnt wiring and the faint hiss of leaking coolant, a chorus of decay that gnawed at the crew’s resolve. Wade stood behind Jay, his eyes wide as he watched over his shoulder at the damage reports cascade across the screen like a litany of doom.
“Power grid’s at thirty percent,” Mayumi reported, her voice taut but steady as she wrestled with the sensor array’s faltering data streams from the Nav/Comm seat. “Main drive’s stable—for now—but the jump capacitors are bleeding charge faster than we can recharge them. One more jump, maybe two if we push it, and that’s it.”
Jay looked over his shoulder at Wade, his usual grin replaced by a grim line. “Stealth systems are offline, too. We’re a sitting duck if anything with a half-decent scanner pings us. And the Badger…” He shook his head, glancing toward the bay where the battered hovercraft rested. “She’s done. Took too many hits. We’re not going anywhere in that heap again.”
Kristen emerged on the CCS, her face streaked with sweat and a smear of blood staining her sleeve. “I took a bolt to my leg,” she said, her tone clipped as she wiped her hands on a rag. “Just a graze but the burn is the worst part. I use synth-skin and all the antibiotics left in the medkit. We can’t afford any kind of infections until we resupply —when we resupply.” Her attempt to be optimistic was painfully obvious.
Wade turned to her, his eyes narrowing as he assessed her words. “Why didn’t you say something!?” Looking at her with concern.
“No time,” she replied, tossing the rag aside. “I knew everyone had their hands full, so I just took care of it. I’m good—really.”
“Well, thank God.” Wade muttered, rubbing a hand across his stubbled jaw. He gestured to the flickering holo-display, where a schematic of the Scout pulsed with red warnings. “Full damage assessment—now. We need to know exactly what we’re working with.”
The crew snapped into action, a well-oiled machine despite the chaos. Mayumi ran diagnostics from her station, her fingers coaxing data from reluctant systems. Jay crawled into the access panels under the CCS, his multitool flashing as he traced power conduits. Kristen joined Wade at the engineering display, pulling up structural scans and triaging the worst of the breaches. The picture that emerged was bleak: hull integrity at sixty percent, life support flickering on auxiliary power, and the jump drive teetering on the edge of burnout. One more hyperspace leap was all they could muster—and even that was a gamble.
“We’ve got enough juice for a single jump and a tight-beam burst to Command,” Wade said, his voice low and deliberate as he met each crew member’s gaze. “After that, we’re dead in the water. No propulsion, no stealth, no backup, limited life support. Just us and whatever’s out there.”
Mayumi straightened, her almond eyes sharp with calculation. “Then we make it count. The Transpora’s our best lead—it’s probably headed back to Zulu-Niner-Four, that Skravak dock we tracked it from. If we can jump to those coordinates, we might catch it mid-transit.”
“And do what?” Jay asked, emerging from the panel with a smear of grease and blackened ash on his cheek. “We’re in no shape to fight—or even run. What’s the play?”
Kristen crossed her arms, her mind racing as she pieced together the fragments of their predicament. “We piggyback,” she said, her voice firming with resolve. “Attach the Scout to the Transpora’s hull like those fish on a whale and let it drag us back to Zulu-Niner-Four. It’s a million-to-one shot they’ll be there when we arrive, but it’s a known location—better than drifting in the void until our air runs out.”
Wade nodded slowly, the logic slotting into place like a round in a chamber. “It’s desperate, but it’s something. Mayumi, plot the jump—best guess on the Transpora’s return vector. Jay, rig the mag-clamps and prep the hull for attachment. Kristen, get that intel burst ready—everything we’ve got on KX-19, the mining op, the Skravak drones, the works. Command needs to know what we’ve uncovered, even if it’s the last thing we send.”
The crew moved with purpose, their training overriding the exhaustion that gnawed at their bones. Mayumi’s hands flew across her console, charting a course through the void’s uncertainties. Jay clambered into the Scout’s EVA suit, his tools clinking as he secured the magnetic clamps to the hull. Kristen knelt beside Mayumi relaying the intel report, her voice steady as she recorded the message: coordinates, timestamps, sensor logs, and a final, somber note—“Situation critical. Survival unlikely. Trusting in the Father’s hands.” It was encrypted and sent with a prayer.
The jump was a brutal lurch, the Scout’s frame shuddering as hyperspace swallowed them whole. When they emerged, the stars were cold and unfamiliar, Zulu-Niner-Four’s debris field a faint shimmer in the distance. Jay brought the Scout to a full stop, but the Transpora was nowhere in sight—no telltale engine flare, no silhouette against the void. The freighter may have eluded them, and silence settled over the CCS like a shroud.
Awaiting the Inevitable
Days bled into one another, the Scout adrift in the black, its systems fading like a dying ember. The crew gathered in the galley, their faces gaunt under the dim emergency lights. Kristen led them in a quiet hymn, her voice soft but unwavering—“Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light…”—and Wade read from a worn pocket Bible, Psalm 23 steadying their spirits. They shared their last rations, a meager communion of protein bars and recycled water, their laughter brittle but genuine as they recounted old missions and shared hopes for a miracle.
On the fifth day, Mayumi ran a final scan, her hands trembling as she adjusted the failing sensors. “Wade!” she called, her voice cutting through the haze of resignation. “I’ve got something—faint, but real. One of the moons orbiting that gas giant… it’s terraformed. Atmosphere’s breathable, flora and fauna readings consistent with Earth analogs. Life signs, but no humans.”
Wade was on his feet in an instant, the flicker of hope igniting in his chest. “Distance?”
“Close—half a million klicks,” she replied. “We’ve got enough thruster juice to limp there, but reentry’s going to be rough. Hull’s brittle—might not hold.”
“It’s a chance,” Kristen said, her eyes meeting Wade’s. “Better than waiting here to suffocate to death.”
“Jay, plot it!” Wade ordered. “Get us down in one piece—or as close as you can manage.”
The descent was a nightmare of fire and fury, the Scout’s hull glowing cherry-red as it punched through the moon’s atmosphere. Alarms screamed, metal buckled, and the crew strapped in tight, their prayers a silent undercurrent to the chaos. Jay wrestled the controls, his skill the only thing keeping them from a fiery grave. They hit the surface hard, skidding across a grassy plain in a cacophony of rending steel and snapping trees, until the Scout finally came to rest, a smoking ruin amid an alien Eden.
Survival Mode
The air was sweet and cool as they stumbled from the wreckage, their lungs drinking deeply after days of recycled stale oxygen. The moon stretched before them—rolling hills cloaked in emerald forest, a crystal stream glinting under a pale blue sky, and the distant cry of unfamiliar birds. No humans, no signals, just life in its raw, unspoiled glory. But survival demanded focus, and the crew fell into their roles with the skills of seasoned operatives.
Wade took point, his rifle at the ready as he scouted the perimeter, marking a defensible campsite near the stream. “We’ve got water and cover,” he said, his voice steady as he surveyed the terrain. “First priority’s shelter—use the Scout’s hull plates. They’re battered, but they’ll hold off weather and wildlife.”
Kristen organized the salvage, her hands deft as she pried loose panels and triaged their dwindling supplies. “Medkit’s shot, but I’ve got antiseptic and bandages,” she reported. “Food’s gone—we’ll need to forage or hunt. I’ll test the flora with what’s left of the analyzer.”
Jay tackled the tech, stripping the Scout’s wreckage for anything usable. “Comms are fried, but I can rig a solar charger from the aux panels,” he said, his multitool sparking as he worked. “Might get a beacon going—long shot, but it’s something. Thruster fuel’s leaking—could double as firestarter if we’re careful.”
Mayumi mapped the area, her sharp eyes tracing the landscape for resources and threats. “Soil’s fertile—those fruit trees look promising,” she noted, pointing to a grove laden with purple orbs. “Stream’s clean, but I’ll boil it to be safe. No large predators on the scan, but we’ll set watch rotations.”
Together, they built—a lean-to from hull scraps, a firepit ringed with stones, a crude filter for the stream water. Kristen stitched her wound tighter, her field medic training keeping infection at bay, while Wade and Jay felled saplings for spears, their movements synchronized in the unspoken rhythm of teamwork. Night fell, and they sat around the fire, the crackle of burning wood mingling with the hum of alien insects. The stars above were strangers, but the crew’s bond was their anchor—a fragile thread of hope woven through the unknown.
“We’re alive,” Wade said at last, his voice a quiet thunder in the stillness. “That’s more than we had yesterday. We hold fast, we adapt, and we trust Jesus for the outcome. Command might never find us—but we’ll make this work.”
Kristen nodded, her hand resting on the Bible in her lap. “One day at a time,” she murmured. “That’s all we’ve ever had.”
The fire flickered, casting their shadows long across the alien soil. They were stranded, broken, but not beaten—a crew forged in the crucible of the void, now tasked with carving a life from a world that didn’t know their names. Survival was their mission now, and they’d face it as they always had: together.
Strange Remains
The sun had reached its zenith when Kristen and Mayumi crested the ridge overlooking the western ravine. Four months into their unplanned colonization of this nameless moon, and they’d fallen into the disciplines that spacers had relied upon since humanity first ventured beyond Terra’s atmosphere.
They stopped to look back and admire the camp; it had evolved—Wade and Jay had felled sturdy trees from the European-like forests, their trunks echoing Earth’s oaks, to craft a rough log cabin. Its walls stood uneven but solid, topped with a slanted roof of woven branches. Inside, Kristen had set a stone fireplace, its chimney puffing smoke from the fragrant wood of this pristine world. The moon unfurled around them—emerald hills rolled beneath a pale sky, teeming with deer-like game and streams brimming with fish, a bounty perfect for survival. The air was crisp, scented with pine and wildflowers, and the crew had grown adept at hunting and foraging, their table laden with roasted meat and tart purple fruit. They could live here, comfortable on the moon they had named “Eden.” They weren’t just surviving, they were thriving, their skills weaving a life from its riches. Yet, as they enjoyed warm fellowship together each night, the fire crackled and shadows danced on the cabin walls, duty gnawed—a quiet ache to return to the fight, to reclaim their place among their ranks.
Kristen and Mayumi set out again, no words were needed to express the paradox they both felt in this place of peace. It was their turn to patrol the area. Each expedition pushed farther from their camp, mapping the terrain with methodical precision while cataloging resources that might mean the difference between survival and a slow, ignominious end.
“Mineral readings are stronger this way,” Mayumi reported, the improvised scanner—salvaged from the wreckage of the Stellar Scout and she had rebuilt with her characteristic efficiency—emitting a steady series of confirmation tones. She adjusted the gain, frowning at the readout, then tapped the display with a practiced finger. “Unusual composition. Not just the ferrous deposits I expected.”
Kristen nodded, her medkit hanging at her side with newly cataloged local herbs secured in compartments once reserved for synthesized pharmaceuticals. The worn pocket Bible nestled in her breast pocket was a reassuring presence, its familiar weight a talisman against the alien landscape. Her eyes scanned the ravine’s weathered walls with the automatic threat assessment that had become second nature after the constant drills Wade had put them through.
“Let’s check it out,” she said, her voice calm. “But maintain protocol. This moon’s been too accommodating so far.”
They descended into the ravine with care, each handhold tested before committing their weight. The ravine floor was littered with scree and the occasional larger boulder, evidence of periodic flash floods during whatever passed for this moon’s rainy season.
Mayumi halted so suddenly that Kristen nearly collided with her.
“Contact,” the sensor specialist said, her voice dropping automatically into the clipped professional cadence of a tactical report. “Two o’clock, under that rock overhang. Nonhuman remains.”
Both women drew sidearms simultaneously—the last functioning weapons from the Scout’s armory—and approached in a standard cover formation that would have made their drill instructors nod in grim approval. The overhang Mayumi had indicated loomed fifteen meters ahead, shadowed and still.
The skeleton lay half-emerged from the eroded soil, and Kristen’s breath caught as recognition slammed into her like a kinetic round.
“Skravak,” she whispered, even as Mayumi confirmed with her scanner.
But this was not the nightmare they’d faced in the mining colony’s twisted corridors. The remains were smaller—much smaller—than the monstrosities that had torn through reinforced bulkheads on New Annapolis. Where those had towered easily four meters, this specimen appeared to have stood no more than two meters in height. The distinctive triple antennae were present, as were the segmented limbs terminating in the secondary jaws that still haunted her dreams, but the proportions were… wrong.
“This isn’t natural,” Mayumi murmured, her scanner passing methodically over the remains. “Look at these join points. The bone structure has been modified. These ports along the spinal ridge? Cybernetic interface nodes. And these anomalies in the skeletal density…” She shook her head. “Whoever did this was integrating technology directly into the organism’s developmental matrix.”
Kristen knelt beside the skull, noting the telltale green-blue patina that suggested copper-based compounds in the bone structure, similar to the chitinous armor they’d encountered before. But the bone itself showed microscopic irregularities that nature never produced.
“How old?” she asked, already dreading the answer.
Mayumi’s lips thinned as she studied her readings. “No more than 250 standard years. Might be as recent as a century. Carbon dating’s imprecise with the local isotope ratios, but…”
“Recent enough,” Kristen finished. “This is an adult male, correct? The Skravak we encountered stood at least three, four meters tall. This one’s stunted.”
“Not stunted,” Mayumi corrected, switching scanner modes. “Modified. Look at these growth plate markers. The genetic code was altered to limit size while preserving mass and musculature. It’s like someone was designing a more compact version. More efficient, perhaps, or easier to control.”
“Bio-engineering,” Kristen breathed, the implications cascading through her mind like a tactical projection. “So the ones we encountered weren’t natural either. Someone’s been manipulating the species.”
Mayumi nodded grimly. “And recently. These modifications show a level of genetic engineering beyond anything in the public domain. This is military-grade work, Kris. Black budget stuff.”
Something caught Kristen’s peripheral vision—a flash of light from deeper down the ravine. She froze, hand instinctively moving to signal Mayumi into cover.
Signs of Civilization
“Movement?” Mayumi whispered, scanner already reconfiguring for motion detection.
“Negative. Reflection. Approximately five klicks down the valley.” Kristen raised her field glasses, focusing on the distant glint that had snagged her attention. The image clarified, and she felt her pulse quicken.
“Structure,” she reported tersely. “Massive antenna array, at least six dishes and what looks like a central control node. Definitely manufactured, definitely advanced tech.” She adjusted the magnification, studying the facility. “No visible movement, but those dishes are aligned for deep space communication. And they’re operational—that’s what caught the sunlight. They’re realigning.”
Mayumi’s expression hardened into the focused intensity that had made her one of the Corps’ most valued intelligence officers. “So we’ve got bio-engineered Skravak remains and a communications array that could reach halfway across the sector. This isn’t a coincidence, Kris.”
“No,” Kristen agreed, her voice steady even as her mind raced through scenarios, each more disturbing than the last. “Someone’s been using this moon as a laboratory. And whatever they’re creating, they’re talking to someone about it.”
They exchanged a glance that contained volumes—the weight of discovery, the uncertainty of their position, and the grim determination of trained operatives who understood that knowledge carried responsibility, even stranded light-years from home.
“We need to get back to Wade,” Kristen said, her hand finding the worn edges of her Bible through the fabric of her pocket. “The Lord is the stronghold of my life,” she murmured, “of whom shall I be afraid?” The ancient words steadied her as she took one last look at the Skravak remains—evidence of humanity’s darker capabilities brought to bear on an alien species for purposes she could only begin to imagine.
Mayumi nodded, carefully collecting bone samples and scanner data. “This changes everything.”
They ascended from the ravine with greater urgency than they’d entered it, the sun now casting its dimming rays long across the alien landscape. Behind them lay the silent testimony of scientific atrocity; ahead, the distant gleam of technology that promised answers—and likely more questions. Whatever fate had brought them to this moon, Kristen was increasingly certain it wasn’t mere chance.
And somewhere in that communications array might be the key to understanding not just their predicament and a way home, but a conspiracy that spanned the stars themselves.
“And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.”
Galatians 6:9
Voyage to Rephidim-5
The Stellar Scout F2-90 sliced through the void, its fusion drives pulsing with a rhythmic hum that reverberated through the ship’s skeleton. Lieutenant Wade Kovacs stood behind the navigator’s seat, his cybernetic hand resting lightly on the edge of the bulkhead. The faint whir of servos accompanied his every movement—a reminder of both his sacrifice and the technology that now defined him. Across from him, Jay Ringler, the ship’s pilot, adjusted their trajectory with deft precision, his fingers dancing across the controls.
“Course correction complete,” Jay announced, his voice calm but clipped. “We’re locked on for Rephidim-5. ETA: 72 hours.”
Wade nodded, his gaze fixed on the holographic display in front of him. The screen showed a three-dimensional map of their route, with Rephidim-5 marked as a faint red dot on the edge of known space. The Scout was a reconnaissance vessel, not a warship, and its mission was simple: recon and surveillance. But Wade couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting for them out there.
“Keep an eye on those long-range sensors,” Wade said, his voice low but firm. “I don’t want any surprises.”
Jay smirked but didn’t look up from his station. “Relax, Ranger. If there’s anything out there bigger than a stray asteroid, I’ll spot it before it spots us.”
Behind them, Ensign Kristen Kovacs—Wade’s wife and the ship’s medic—entered the bridge carrying two steaming mugs of synth-coffee. She handed one to Wade and placed the other beside Jay before leaning against the opposite bulkhead from Wade.
“You two look like you’ve been glued to those stations for hours,” she said with a hint of amusement. “Take a break before you burn out.”
Wade took a sip of the bitter liquid and gave her a grateful nod. “Thanks, Kris. But I’d rather stay sharp than get caught off guard.”
Kristen raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. She knew Wade well enough to recognize when he was in “mission mode.” It was one of the things she admired about him—and one of the things that sometimes drove her crazy.
Life Aboard the Stellar Scout
The first weeks aboard the Scout had been an exercise in adaptation for all four crew members—especially as two newly married couples. As individuals and pairs, things got a little awkward; with no time to adjust to married life before the mission, they had to figure it out on the fly amidst the ship’s demands. The vessel itself didn’t help: small and cramped, its corridors were barely wide enough for two people to pass without brushing shoulders. Every inch of space was utilized for equipment or storage, leaving little room for personal comforts—or the privacy newlyweds might crave.
Wade had struggled most with the transition. His training as a Marine and Ranger had prepared him for vast open spaces, but the ship’s cramped quarters felt suffocating. His cybernetic hand didn’t help matters; it seemed to snag on every loose cable or protruding panel.
One particularly frustrating incident occurred during their second week aboard. Wade had been stowing gear in their shared quarters when his prosthetic caught on Kristen’s medkit, sending its contents spilling across the floor.
“Blast it!” he muttered under his breath as he knelt to pick up scattered syringes and diagnostic tools.
Kristen crouched beside him, her expression calm but tinged with exasperation. “You know,” she said dryly, “it wouldn’t kill you to slow down once in a while.”
Wade sighed and handed her a roll of synth-skin patches. “Sorry. Still getting used to this… thing.” He flexed his mechanical fingers as if to emphasize his point.
Kristen placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “It’s not just about the hand, Wade. You’re not out there anymore—you’re here, with us. Try to remember that.”
Her counseling skills and emotional intelligence made all the difference in smoothing over these tensions—not just for Wade, but for Jay and Mayumi too, as they navigated their own clumsy moments of married life. Still, even Kristen wore down occasionally, her patience fraying into a bad day every now and then, though she’d never let it show for long.
Drills and Discipline
The crew quickly settled into a routine designed to keep them sharp and prepared for any eventuality. Four-hour shifts at their respective stations were interspersed with maintenance drills and simulated combat scenarios. Early on, they had agreed that Wade would be in command, though with the caveat that there was room to discuss options and even disagree—but ultimately, his orders were to be obeyed.
In one such drill, Wade led Jay and Mayumi Ringler through a mock boarding scenario in the cargo bay. The space was dimly lit, its walls lined with crates and equipment that served as makeshift cover.
“Mayumi! Secure comms and relay our position to command!” Wade barked as he crouched behind a crate.
“Aye, sir!” Mayumi replied, her fingers flying over her portable console.
“Jay! Cover our flank!” Wade continued.
Jay rolled his eyes but complied, taking up position behind another crate with his training rifle at the ready.
“You know this is just practice, right? No one’s actually trying to kill us.”
“That’s what they always say—until someone is,” Wade shot back without missing a beat.
The exchange drew a quiet huff from Mayumi, who glanced at Jay as if to say, He’s not wrong, but still…
She didn’t voice it, though—she knew the deal: Wade’s word was final, even if they could debate it later. A clear leader kept them focused in a crisis, yet the space for discussion ensured their skills and morale stayed sharp—a balance that could mean survival out here.
Kristen watched from the sidelines, arms crossed and lips quirked in a faint smile. She admired her husband’s dedication but couldn’t help wondering if he sometimes took things too seriously. Still, she appreciated the balance he allowed—space for discussion, even if obedience was non-negotiable.
Faith Under Pressure
Amid their grueling schedule, the crew—all committed disciples of Jesus—had established a regular rhythm of gathering for reflection, a time they’d come to look forward to, taking turns facilitating discussions through Galatians. In the dimly lit common room, they’d sit around the table with ration packs, sharing the role of reading scripture and opening up about the highs and lows they were experiencing. They knew unresolved conflict could fracture the team, risking mission failure—not to mention falling short of the Great Commands to love God and each other.
One evening, it was Mayumi’s turn, the newest believer among them, still finding her footing in the faith. She read steadily from Galatians: “And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap if we do not give up.” Her voice held a quiet resolve, and she paused before adding, “I’m still wrapping my head around this ‘due season’ part. Sometimes it feels like we’re sowing into a void out here.”
Wade looked up from his hands—one flesh, one metal—and nodded, his tone raw. “I get that. Following Him’s never been the hard part for me—it’s trusting the timing when all I see is metal walls and no harvest. Some days, I wonder if I’m still the Ranger fighting my own battles instead of letting Him lead.”
Jay leaned back, fidgeting with a piece of freeze-dried fruit, his usual bravado softened. “Honestly? I’ve been wrestling with self-doubt again. I’ll grumble about no one back home caring, but deep down, I want them to notice us—to notice me. I’m wondering if I can hack it. I don’t want to let the team down. I’ve got to trust God to shore up my weaknesses.”
Kristen’s faint smile carried a warmth tempered by weariness. “You’re not alone there, Jay. My high’s been clinging to that promise of reaping—it’s what keeps me steady. But my low? I catch myself doubting if I’m loving you all well enough when I’m worn thin. Even disciples stumble.”
Mayumi tilted her head, her eyes searching theirs. “That’s what keeps tripping me up—how do you keep going when you stumble? I’m new at this, and half the time I feel like I’m faking it, like I don’t belong with you all yet.”
Wade leaned forward, his voice firm but kind. “You belong because He says you do, Mayumi. Faking it’s just part of the fight—we all feel that sometimes. It’s why we’re here, calling it out.”
Jay grinned, a flicker of his old spark returning. “Yeah, and if I can admit I’m a doubting Thomas, you can admit you’re still learning. We’re in this together—disciples under construction.”
Kristen reached across, resting a hand near Mayumi’s. “It’s not about never stumbling—it’s about not giving up. That’s what Paul’s getting at, and it’s what Jesus is shaping in us, void or not.”
These regular sessions balanced tactical precision with introspection, a steady anchor they relied on as much as their drills kept them sharp. Unspoken conflicts aired out here couldn’t fester into dysfunction—or worse.
Beyond Resupply: A Deeper Need
The Stellar Scout emerged from hyperspace with a faint ripple, its hull shimmering briefly as it transitioned back into realspace. Rephidim-5 hung before them, a desolate red sphere marred by jagged canyons and iron-rich dust storms that swirled across its surface. Wade sat in the navigator’s seat, his eyes scanned the tactical display.
“Rephidim-5 Control,” Jay’s voice crackled over the comms, calm and professional. “This is Stellar Scout, Confederation Navy designation RS-1127. Requesting clearance for landing in Hangar Alpha.”
The reply was immediate but tinged with static. “Acknowledged, Stellar Scout. Hangar Alpha is prepared to receive you. Welcome to Rephidim-5.”
Wade glanced at Jay, who was skillfully guiding the ship into the hanger. “Bringing her in slow and steady,” he said, his tone confident and calm.
The Stellar Scout descended through the thin, toxic atmosphere, its hull glowing faintly from reentry friction. The hangar doors below slid open with a mechanical groan, revealing an environmentally controlled space lit by harsh industrial lights. The ship settled onto the deck with a soft thud, its landing struts giving slightly as they rested on the reinforced floor.
“Touchdown complete,” Jay reported briskly. “Atmospheric seals engaged in the hangar.”
“Good work,” Wade said as he rose from his seat. “Let’s get this resupply done. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”
The airlock hissed open, and the crew emerged, clad in full Marine armor.
The resupply operation was a well-rehearsed ballet of logistics. Water tanks were refilled, ration crates were uploaded, and fuel cells were replaced. The settlers of Rephidim-5, a hardy but weary group of pioneers and misfits, assisted in the process, their faces gaunt and weathered. But beneath the surface of cooperation, Kristen sensed a simmering resentment. They moved with a sluggishness that spoke of suppressed frustration, their gazes lingering on the Scout with a mixture of envy and accusation.
Kristen noticed an older woman, her face etched with lines of hardship, watching them with a mixture of hope and apprehension. The woman approached her hesitantly, her voice raspy and cracking.
“Are you with the Navy?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Kristen replied. “We’re here to resupply.”
The woman nodded slowly, her eyes scanning the crates being loaded. “We’ve been waiting a long time for our own resupply. Supplies are low, morale is even lower.” She paused, her gaze searching Kristen’s. “Tell me, Ensign…do you think anyone back in the Confederation even remembers we’re out here?”
Kristen met her gaze steadily, her voice filled with conviction. “Yes, ma’am. We remember. And we won’t forget.”
The woman managed a wan smile, but it quickly faded. “Remembering isn’t enough, Ensign. We’re feeding your war effort while our children go hungry.” Her voice hardened, the earlier hope replaced by a weary anger. “Why should we sacrifice for a Confederation that barely acknowledges our existence?”
Kristen recognized the desperation in the woman’s words. “Ma’am, I understand your frustration. We’re not blind to the sacrifices you’re making. We’re here to help, and we want to ensure you get what you need.” Kristen paused, choosing her words carefully. “Perhaps we can discuss how to better allocate the resources we have. I’m confident we can find a solution that addresses your immediate needs while still fulfilling our mission.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding her features. “What do you know about our needs? You come and go in your fancy ship, while we’re stuck here scratching out a living on this dustball.”
Kristen took a step closer, her voice low and sincere. “I may not know everything, but I’m willing to listen. I think the way to solve our problems is by tackling them head on and really caring about people. And more than that, I have a deep faith that there is a God that cares about each and every person on this planet.”
The woman’s expression softened slightly, intrigued by Kristen’s words. “A God that cares? What makes you say that, Ensign?”
Kristen smiled gently. “Because He has shown me, personally, that He cares. He sent His Son, Jesus, to die for us, to offer us forgiveness and new life. He’s given me hope and strength in the face of challenges, and I believe He can do the same for you.”
Wade, having overheard the conversation, approached with Jay and Mayumi, sensing an opportunity to share their faith.
“It’s true,” Wade said, his voice resonating with conviction. “Before I came to faith, I was driven by duty and vengeance. But God has given me peace and purpose beyond anything I could have imagined. The same can be true for you.”
Mayumi stepped forward, her eyes shining with sincerity. “I used to feel lost and alone, searching for meaning in all the wrong places. But when I found Jesus, I found a love and acceptance that changed everything.”
Jay nodded in agreement. “I always thought I had to earn God’s love. But the truth is, He loved us even when we didn’t love Him. His love is a gift we can’t earn, only receive.”
The woman listened intently, her initial hostility giving way to a flicker of curiosity. “So, this God…what does He want from us?”
Kristen smiled. “He wants a relationship with us. He wants us to turn from our selfish ways and trust Him, to love Him, and to share His love with others. He wants to be our comfort and our strength, especially in times of hardship.”
The woman was silent for a moment, absorbing their words. “I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “It sounds too good to be true.”
“I understand your hesitation,” Kristen replied. “But I encourage you to consider it. Read the Scriptures. Pray and ask God to reveal Himself to you. He’s waiting with open arms.”
The woman’s gaze flickered between the crew members, a glimmer of hope beginning to ignite in her eyes. “Maybe…maybe there’s something to this,” she whispered. “Maybe there is a God who cares.”
As the crew prepared to wrap up the resupply and return to their mission schedule, a diagnostic alert interrupted their plans. Mayumi, running a final systems check on the F-290 Scout, discovered microfractures in the gravitic coil—a critical cylindrical module laced with rare-earth superconductors that stabilized hyperspace transitions. The damage, likely caused by navigating through the corrosive dust in the atmosphere, made safe hyperspace travel impossible. With no replacement coil available on the remote planet, the team requisitioned one from the nearest supply depot, a week’s journey away. The delay, though frustrating, felt providential to the crew, offering a chance to deepen their connection with the settlers.
The team’s excitement surged at the opportunity to disciple the new believers during this unexpected stay. Kristen, Wade, Jay, and Mayumi saw the week as a divine opening to guide the settlers, whose raw faith and hunger for truth inspired them. They eagerly planned nightly Scripture studies and prayer meetings, sharing their own journeys to help the pioneers navigate their newfound faith in this harsh environment. Their enthusiasm peaked as they witnessed the settlers’ bold commitment, especially their willingness to be baptized with precious reclaimed water—a profound act of devotion. The crew felt a renewed sense of purpose, knowing they were planting a spiritual foundation that could sustain Rephidim-5 long after their departure, while also strengthening their own faith. As they prepared to depart, a small church had been planted, the first church of Rephidim-5.
Helping Both Ways
The next day as the crew performed routine maintenance on the Scout, a figure approached. He was a burly man, his face lined with years of hard labor, his eyes carrying a mixture of weariness and authority. He wore a stained mining jumpsuit and a battered helmet hung loosely from his hand. This was Elkiah , the mining boss of Rephidim-5.
“Lieutenant Kovacs?” Elkiah’s voice was gravelly, like the iron ore he oversaw being extracted.
Wade stepped forward, extending a gloved hand. “That’s right. You must be Elkiah .”
Elkiah gripped Wade’s hand firmly. “Aye. I appreciate you comin’ out here. It’s been too long.” He gestured toward a datapad he carried. “I’ve got a list of critical supplies we’re running low on. Things the requisition forms never seem to cover.”
Wade took the datapad and scanned the list. It contained items ranging from replacement drill bits and specialized lubricants to medical supplies not covered in the standard Confederation allotment. “I’ll see what I can do, sir. No promises, but I’ll make sure command knows what you need.”
As Wade spoke with Elkiah, Mayumi discreetly slipped away to a secluded corner of the hangar. She activated her comm device and, using a prearranged code, sent a message to General Redside. The message detailed the dire situation on Rephidim-5 and the specific needs of the mining colony. She ended with a coded request for additional aid, adding a request for Bibles.
One week later, a small transport ship arrived at Rephidim-5, its arrival unannounced. It carried a consignment of the requested supplies, marked as “priority cargo.” Among the crates of drill bits and lubricants was a special delivery: a crate filled with Bibles and Christian literature, courtesy of General Redside’s personal initiative. He included a memorandum that this was the first of several shipments.
The arrival of the supplies and Bibles was met with a joyous celebration among the settlers. The practical aid lifted their spirits, while the spiritual nourishment filled a deep void in their lives. The church that had begun in the woman’s home grew rapidly, drawing in new members each day, eager to learn more about the God who had remembered them.
During the commotion of unloading, Elkiah approached Wade, a grim expression on his face. “Lieutenant, there’s something you need to know.” He led Wade away from the bustling crowd, toward a quieter section of the hangar. “We’ve been shipping iron ore off-world for years, as per our contract with the Confederation. But lately, something’s been off.”
“Off how?” Wade asked, his senses on high alert.
“Some of the shipments aren’t headed back to Confederation space,” Elkiah explained. “They’re going deeper into the void. I’ve been tracking the manifests. There’s a CoreSys freighter, called The Transapora, that’s been diverting its cargo to unknown coordinates. I don’t know what they’re up to, but it can’t be good.”
Wade’s cybernetic hand tightened into a fist. “Do you have The Transapora’s last known trajectory?”
Elkiah nodded, handing Wade another datapad. “Here. I’ve compiled everything I could find. Course, speed, transponder codes… everything.”
Wade studied the data, his mind racing. A rogue freighter diverting strategic resources into the unknown reaches of space… the implications were chilling. “Thank you, Elkiah. This is invaluable.”
As the Stellar Scout prepared for launch, the crew gathered with the settlers for a final farewell. The atmosphere was markedly different from their arrival. The resentment had vanished, replaced by gratitude and a sense of shared purpose. The settlers, their material and spiritual needs being met, beamed with renewed hope. Jay prayed for the crowd who had come to see them off.
“Thank you for everything,” the woman who had first approached Kristen said, her eyes shining with tears. “You brought us more than just supplies. You brought us hope.”
“The pleasure was ours,” Kristen replied, smiling. “God bless you and we’ll keep you in our prayers.”
As preparations for departure began, Wade addressed Elkiah one last time regarding The Transapora.
“We’ll look into this freighter situation,” he assured him. “You’ve done your part; now we’ll do ours.”
Elkiah nodded solemnly before offering his hand again. “Good luck out there… and thanks for everything.”
With a final wave, the crew of the Stellar Scout boarded their ship amidst heartfelt farewells from settlers who now radiated hope instead of despair.
As they launched into orbit and set course toward The Transapora’s last known trajectory, Wade couldn’t help but reflect on how much had changed during their brief time on Rephidim-5—not just for its people but also for himself and his crew.
“Jay,” he said as he settled into the navigator’s chair, “let’s see where this rogue freighter leads us.”
“Aye, sir,” Jay replied confidently as his fingers danced across his console.
And with that, the Stellar Scout surged forward into hyperspace—a lone beacon chasing shadows in humanity’s vast frontier while carrying both truth and faith into uncharted territory.
They will fight against you, but they will not overcome you, for I am with you to deliver you,” declares the LORD.
Jeremiah 1:19
Preparation for Graduation
The mirror in Wade’s quarters reflected a stranger – a Ranger in gleaming powered armor, its titanium-ceramic plates catching the light. The Marine Corps’ iconic anchor and globe insignia was emblazoned on the chest plate, the gold relief standing proud against the iridescent armor coating. His fingers traced the emblem’s raised edge, remembering how that same symbol had once felt impossibly out of reach. Now it sat naturally on his armor, earned through blood, sweat, and more than a few nightmares.
“Your power coupling is misaligned,” Jay announced from the doorway, already suited in his own armor, the servos humming quietly with each movement. He crossed the room and adjusted Wade’s shoulder pauldron with practiced precision. “The field harmonics need to be perfect for the neural interface. Old tradition – supposedly helps sync your movements with the armor’s response systems.”
Wade stood still, letting his friend make the adjustment. “You actually believe that?”
“After everything we’ve seen?” Jay’s helmet lights blinked in amusement. “I believe in being thorough. Speaking of which…” He produced his ragged copy of the Ranger handbook. “Metro’s got a betting pool going on which squad will mess up the Ranger Creed.” They both laughed.
The familiar routine of preparation settled over them, but this time it felt different. This wasn’t like gearing up for a combat drop or a live-fire exercise. Every motion carried the weight of ceremony, of history.
Down the corridor, other Rangers-to-be were going through their own preparations. The usual banter was muted, replaced by a focused intensity. Someone was practicing the creed in a low voice: “Recognizing I volunteered as a Ranger. Fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession…”
Wade caught fragments of conversations as he walked the halls, his armor’s boots clicking against the deck plating, checking on his platoon one last time as their platoon sergeant:
“Did you hear? General Redside himself is conducting the ceremony—”
“My great-grandfather’s Marine Corps medallion. Been through three planetary campaigns—”
“Make sure your armor’s neural interface is calibrated exactly to—”
On the parade ground, maintenance crews were transforming the open space into something appropriately ceremonial. The battle-scarred dropships had been arranged in a perfect crescent. Each ship’s running lights pulsed in sync, creating a rippling wave of red energy that seemed to echo the heartbeats of the graduating class.
Metro was there, meticulously adjusting the holographic displays that would show their achievements to the assembled dignitaries. “They’re going to play the combat footage,” he said without looking up. “…from the Zoo on Carthis 7. The brass thinks it’ll inspire the next generation.”
Wade watched the silent replay of their most harrowing moment, now sanitized and edited for ceremony. The footage showed their squad moving through the twisted architecture of the Skravak nest, plasma rifles blasting, armor covered in the black fluid of their alien prey. The recording couldn’t capture the acidic stench of the nest, the way the ground seemed to pulse beneath their feet, or how time seemed to stretch and compress. But maybe that was the point of graduation – to transform raw experience into something that was a little more patriotic and inspire future recruits.
The chronometer above the barracks doors counted down the minutes until the ceremony. With each passing minute, the air seemed to grow thicker with anticipation. This wasn’t just about getting a Ranger Tab. This was about becoming part of something larger than themselves – a lineage of Rangers who had pushed back the boundaries of known space, who had faced the impossible and found ways to survive it.
Wade made one final check of his armor’s systems in the reflection of a viewport. Beyond the reinforced glass, Rinart 3’s earthlike landscape. A fresh rainfall created a rainbow arch over the graduation grounds. With God rays piercing the clouds. It seemed fitting – The Creator’s artwork giving approval to their endeavor to bring peace in His creation.
Now they stood ready to cross that final threshold, not as individuals but as Rangers. The tab they would ware wasn’t just protection – it was a promise to face the unknown, to push beyond the comfortable boundaries of human experience, to explore not just space but the very limits of human potential.
“Time check,” Jay announced, his voice carrying the same precision he used in the cockpit.
“Thirty minutes to formation,” Metro confirmed, his armor’s status lights glowing steady green.
Wade nodded, feeling the familiar weight of leadership settle onto his shoulders. This time, though, it wasn’t about leading them through danger or uncertainty. It was about leading them into their future, walking worthy of the tab they had earned to wear and uphold their Spartan tradition.
“Well then,” he said, cradling his helmet in the crook of his arm, “Let’s not keep the universe waiting.”
Unexpected Attendees
The parade ground buzzed with a flurry of unexpected faces, each one representing a chapter in their grueling journey. General Redside, who had been more than just a commanding officer – a constant guardian and mentor throughout their transformation – stood tall and proud, his decorated uniform gleaming in the morning sun. He took his place next to the Ranger School Commandant and Sergeant Major, his weathered face betraying a hint of paternal pride as he prepared to give his honorary remarks.
As the formation executed their precise movements in front of the gathered guests, Wade’s eyes swept across the crowd, his heart thundering against his ribcage when he spotted them – Admiral Kitzler, his presence commanding as ever, and Mrs. Kitzler, soft and looking as proud as a natural mother would be of her son. And beside her… Kristen! She stood there in a blue dress that caught the morning light, her radiant smile and unwavering gaze speaking volumes of the sleepless nights, the endless worry, and most importantly, her unshakeable love and faith in him. The sight of her nearly brought him to his knees, even in formation. “But how in the world…” His thoughts were interrupted by reminding himself he was in a parade.
Next to Kristen, arm in arm with a quiet dignity that seemed to radiate from within, stood Lieutenant Mayumi Kato. Her usual intelligent smile played across her features, but today it was softened with an almost maternal pride as she nodded respectfully towards Wade. Her presence represented the bridge between his past and future, a reminder of the path that had led him here. He knew Jay would be thrilled she made the trek to Rinart 3.
The shock of seeing his people, these pillars of his life gathered in one place, sent waves of emotion crashing through his chest, almost overwhelming his carefully maintained military bearing.
Metro’s wife stood nearby, her hands clasped tightly in front of her dress, her presence a living testament to the countless sacrifices made by all military families. The quiet strength in her bearing, the subtle way she held herself, spoke of lonely nights, delayed dinners, and unwavering support through countless deployments. Metro’s posture subtly shifted when their eyes met across the parade ground – he stood a little taller, his shoulders squaring just a fraction more, drawing strength from their silent exchange.
As the ceremony began in earnest, Wade felt a surge of emotion that threatened to break through his professional façade. These people – his mentors who had pushed him beyond his limits, his loved ones who had believed in him even when he doubted himself, his brothers and sisters in arms who had bled and suffered alongside him – had all played crucial roles in sculpting him into the Ranger he had become. Their presence here, at this moment of triumph, transformed what was already a significant achievement into something profound and deeply personal.
Metro gave the command for the platoon to halt and face the grandstand. With a crisp salute he report 56 Rangers of the 200 who had started were present and accounted for. The Commandant returned his salute and a familiar face stepped to the podium, Chaplain Bronson! He gave a short but powerful invocation and thanked Jesus Christ for the strength He had given these warriors. Wade was so taken back, he forgot to bow his head and Bronson said Amen, he gave a proud nod to Wade and took his seat next to the Sergeant Major. Redside adjusted the microphone and grasped the podium like he was confidently wrestling a lion. His remarks were mercifully short.
Redside stepped forward in front of the formation, holding the compact laser embosser with reverence. The metallic device hummed with technological sophistication, its weight representing the gravity of the moment. With careful movements that spoke of years of tradition, he positioned the device against the left shoulder of Wade’s armor, then Jay’s. The high-intensity beam triggered with a soft whine, cutting through the morning air with its sharp burst of yellow light. The crisp, permanent mark it left behind wasn’t just a symbol – it was a physical manifestation of their transformation, their suffering, their triumph. The Ranger tab now etched into their armor would forever remind them of this moment, of these people, and of the warriors they had become.
As the ceremony drew to a close, the formal atmosphere dissolved into a sea of congratulations, firm handshakes, and heartfelt embraces. Proud families surged forward, photos taken, and the air filled with laughter and well-wishes for the future. But for Wade, the crowd seemed to fade away, his focus narrowing to a single point – Kristen.
He moved through the throng with purpose, his newly-embossed Ranger tab catching the sunlight on his shoulder. When he reached her, his movements became deliberately gentle, conscious of the hard edges of his combat armor as he drew her into an embrace. Kristen melted into his arms despite the rigid plates between them, her fingers finding purchase on the familiar contours of his gear.
“I knew you would come back,” she whispered against his chest, her voice thick with emotion. “We had a promise. God made us a promise. I knew you would come back for me.” The words carried the weight of countless nights of prayer, of unwavering faith tested but never broken.
Wade gently eased her to arm’s length, his gloved hands resting lightly on her shoulders. He looked deep into her eyes, finding there all the strength and love that had sustained him through the darkest moments of his training. In that gaze was their shared past and their promised future, every prayer spoken, every moment of separation that had led to this reunion.
“Always,” he said simply, the word carrying the weight of an oath.
Then he pulled her close once more, feeling her warmth even through his armor, standing as an anchor in the swirling celebration around them. In that moment, the newly etched Ranger tab on his shoulder felt like more than just a symbol of military achievement – it was a promise kept, a path that had led him back to her, just as he’d sworn it would.
Secret Recon Mission
After the pomp and circumstance of graduation, Wade, Kristen, Jay, and Mayumi were ushered into a private briefing room. General Redside and Admiral Kitzler stood at the head of the table, their faces serious.
Redside spoke in measured tones. “Congratulations on your graduation,” he began. “But I’m afraid the real work is just beginning. And you won’t be going to the Ranger Regiment anytime soon. I’ve chosen you all for a top-secret reconnaissance mission of utmost importance to the Confederation.”
Wade and Jay stood stunned.
The room fell silent as the gravity of his words sank in. Redside continued, outlining a dangerous mission deep into uncharted space, where intelligence suggested a path to the origins of the Skravak “aliens” and the roots of the conspiracy.
“You’ll start with this mining operation and follow the breadcrumbs to their origins. Your unique skills and experiences make you the ideal team for this mission,” Redside explained. “We need your expertise in tactics, your advanced piloting skills, psychological and photographic memories and your technical expertise.”
Suddenly Wade realizes Redside is not just talking about him and Jay. He included Mayumi and Kristen. It was hard for him to contain the confusion and concern.
As the briefing progressed, Wade noticed Kristen’s quiet confidence. It was then that Redside dropped another bombshell.
“Dr. Kitzler,” he addressed Kristen, “your father and I have discussed your exceptional abilities, and we believe you’re ready for this. Do you accept this mission and the rank that comes with it?”
Kristen stood tall. “I do, sir.”
In a brief but meaningful ceremony, Kristen was sworn in as a Navy Ensign. Wade’s chest swelled with pride for her but was completely confused by what was happening.
The Revelation
As General Redside finished administering the oath and lowered his right hand, he turned to Wade and Jay. Something in the General’s demeanor – a barely concealed smile playing at the corners of his mouth – suggested this wasn’t standard operating procedure.
“Gentlemen,” he began, his voice pitched low enough that only they could hear, “I believe I owe you an explanation about our unexpected guest.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Kristen.
The two men remained silent, but their postures shifted subtly – Wade’s spine straightening, Jay’s head tilting slightly as if to better catch every word.
“It’s quite remarkable, really,” Redside continued, settling into the rhythm of his story. “After your ‘death,’ Kovacs, we thought we had every loose end tied up. Every base covered.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “We didn’t count on Dr. Kitzler’s… persistence.”
A knowing smile crossed Wade’s face before he could suppress it. Kristen had always been like a dog with a bone when something didn’t add up.
“First came the questions,” Redside said, his voice taking on an almost admiring tone. “Small ones at first – inconsistencies in the official report, discrepancies in the timeline. But they grew. Evolved. Soon she was constructing elaborate psychological profiles, probability matrices…” He paused, letting out a short laugh. “She even cornered me in my own office – twice.”
The General’s expression sobered. “But it was her presentation to Admiral Kitzler that truly changed everything. Her own father, mind you. She walked into his office with a three-inch binder full of evidence suggesting you were alive, Kovacs. Evidence that, quite frankly, was disturbingly accurate.”
Wade felt his chest tighten. He could picture Kristen, fierce and determined, fighting for what she believed in. It was one of the things he’d always loved about her.
“The Admiral was impressed, naturally. But bringing a civilian into a secure operation of this sensitivity?” Redside spread his hands. “Unprecedented doesn’t begin to cover it.”
He began to pace, three steps one way, three steps back. “That’s when she surprised us all. Offered to accept a direct commission into the Navy. Said her psychiatric expertise and her…” he glanced at Wade, “personal insights could prove invaluable to the mission.”
Jay let out a low whistle. Wade stood frozen, processing the implications.
“We had a choice to make,” Redside continued. “Continue the charade and risk pushing away someone who’d already pieced together most of the puzzle, or… bring this amazing woman on the team.”
Redside looked at Wade, “And once I told her about your cockamamie plan to go to ranger school so you could stay in the fight…and get back to her, she was all the more resolved.”
The General stopped pacing and faced them squarely. “I want you both to understand something. Dr. Kitzler didn’t just stumble into this position. She fought for it. Earned it. And given what we’re up against with this Skravak situation, her insights could be the edge we need.”
Wade felt the weight of the moment settle over him like a physical thing. Kristen hadn’t just waited for him – she’d fought her way through bureaucracy, protocol, and military hierarchy to stand beside him. The mission ahead suddenly seemed both more complex and more promising.
“Sir,” he finally managed, his voice rough with emotion, “what are our next steps?”
Redside gave Wade and Jay a rueful grin. “In the past I offered you both battlefield commissions to Lieutenant. And you both turned me down. You don’t have a choice this time. You are both here by promoted to 2nd lieutenant and I don’t want to hear any quibbling. Is that clear?”
Wade and Jay exchanged a glance before respectfully accepting.
Redside had them raise their right hands and administered the oath.
“Thank you, sir,” Wade said, “We won’t let you down.”
Redside nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes. “Very well. Your mission begins in 48 hours. You’ll be briefed in greater detail on the ISC Dominion and fully kitted out. It’s a short fuse so no time for a honeymoon.”
The four looked at each other with some amusement.
Vows Among the Stars
As the briefing concluded, Admiral Kitzler stepped forward and Sarah Kitzler was ushered into the briefing room. “Before you embark on this mission, there’s one more order of business.” The Admiral smiled, a rare sight that transformed his usually stern face. “I believe we have some vows to exchange.”
In a scene that seemed almost surreal, Admiral Kitzler performed a double wedding ceremony right there in the briefing room. Wade and Kristen stood hand in hand, their eyes locked in a gaze of pure love and commitment. Beside them, Jay and Mayumi mirrored their pose, their own journey of love having blossomed in the midst of war and uncertainty.
As Wade recited his vows, he felt a profound sense of peace wash over him. This moment, this union, was a testament to his journey of faith. From the lost and broken teenager he had once been to the man standing here now, he could see God’s hand guiding him every step of the way.
“I, Wade, take you, Kristen, to be my lawfully wedded wife. Before God and these witnesses, I vow to love you, protect you, and stand by your side through whatever challenges we may face. In war and in peace, in danger and in safety, my heart is yours, now and always.”
Kristen’s voice was steady as she repeated her own vows, her eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. As Admiral Kitzler pronounced them husband and wife, Wade felt as if his heart might burst with happiness.
The vows recited by Jay and Mayumi were equally moving, their love a beacon of hope in the uncertain future that lay ahead.
New Lives, New Mission
As the newlyweds prepared to board the Stellar-Scout, the gravity of their mission settled over them. They were embarking on a journey into the unknown, facing dangers that they could scarcely imagine. Yet, as Wade looked at Kristen, at Jay and Mayumi, at the friends and family gathered to see them off, he felt a surge of hope.
“Ready for our next adventure, Mrs. Kovacs?” he asked, squeezing Kristen’s hand.
She smiled up at him, her eyes full of love and determination. “Always, Mr. Kovacs.”
With a final wave to their loved ones, the two couples boarded the Stellar-Scout. As the ship’s engines hummed to life, Jay took his place at the controls, Wade beside him. They exchanged a look of understanding – whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.
The Stellar-Scout lifted off, carrying with it not just four elite warriors, but four hearts full of love, faith, and hope for the future. As Rinart 3 faded into the distance, Wade offered a silent prayer of thanks and protection. Their journey was far from over – in fact, it was just beginning.
ToBeLikeJesus 