Page 5 of Galactic Sentinels, Vol. 1 (Chronicles of Pherebos #1)
I scan the surroundings carefully, the low hum of the SIL’s engines a steady reminder that we’re still moving forward. We’re threading our way through a dense asteroid field—fragments of all sizes drifting in slow, silent chaos. Some are no bigger than a fist. Others could crush us in an instant.
I’ve already forwarded Rick’s intel to my contact at the Confederation, along with the full disk I recovered from Farid’s ship.
The copy I left behind is corrupted—intentionally.
When Farid loads it, his system will crash the disk, flagging it as unreadable.
He’ll stare at the screen, confused, watching helplessly as the data dissolves.
He won’t understand what went wrong. He’ll be frustrated, scrambling for answers, but he won’t find any.
All he’ll know is that the list—the one detailing Coalition infiltration sites—is gone.
And he’ll have to go back to the source to get it again.
Akifumi, my superior at the Confederation, has already been briefed about the slave market. He’s dispatching another agent, one closer to the coordinates .
So why am I here, ignoring SILMAR’s repeated warnings and diving into this debris field, the only shortcut that’ll get me to the meeting on time?
According to SILMAR, a small planet was struck by a massive asteroid nearly two years ago. The impact shattered it, leaving behind this unstable mess. Navigation through this sector is strongly discouraged.
But I go anyway.
The debris looms ahead, jagged rock and twisted metal drifting in unpredictable patterns. The silence of space is broken only by the occasional thud of a fragment glancing off the hull. Every second in here is a risk. One wrong move, and we’re done.
So why do it?
Because of the slave traders. Because of Silmarwen. Because of Taranis.
Because of the pain.
Taranis’s final moments still haunt me. It was one of those cursed markets that led to their capture over four years ago. Silmarwen managed to escape. Taranis didn’t. He was my best friend. And he died in chains.
I already find it revolting when people strip planets of their natural resources. But when it comes to living beings, it’s beyond unforgivable
The AI’s voice suddenly echoes through the cabin, slicing through my bitter thoughts.
“Pherebos, the debris density is increasing rapidly. According to my analysis, a large asteroid must have collided with another very recently, and all the debris is currently in motion. In short, the activity in this sector is extremely high-risk.”
My heart skips a beat.
“What do you advise?”
“I already advised you not to enter the sector,” the AI replies, its tone bordering on reproach.
“Now that we’re here, I suggest we continue.
I detect a small, stable celestial body a few parsecs ahead.
If we reach it without incident, I believe the debris field will thin out beyond that point.
The body is large enough to absorb most of the surrounding fragments. ”
I tighten my grip on the controls, my mind racing.
“And if we don’t make it?”
There’s a pause. A rare hesitation from a voice that’s usually so sure of itself.
“Then we may face severe damage. Or worse. Proceed with extreme caution.”
I take a breath, steady my hands, and nod.
“Alright. Let’s do it your way.”
I watch anxiously as a large chunk of debris skims past the front panel, missing us by what feels like inches.
I don’t know why I feel the need to see the chaos I’ve thrown myself into.
De-opaquing the front panel doesn’t change anything.
SILMAR is the one doing all the work, constantly adjusting our trajectory, weaving us through this deadly field of rock and metal.
I could just as easily crawl into my sleeping drawer or bury myself in a book.
But I don’t .
I stay right here, eyes wide open, not missing a second. I know it’s going to be close. Too close.
Every moment counts. One miscalculation, and we’re done. I glance at the control panel. The number of minor impacts is climbing. If I don’t start repairs soon, I’ll be piloting a floating wreck.
“SILMAR, can you land on the far side of that star you pointed out earlier? I’ll prep the repair kits and patch what I can.”
“That’s an excellent idea. There are several lacerations on the side panels that require immediate attention.”
After a few tense moments, we manage to land safely, shielded for now from the relentless stream of debris.
“You have five hours to complete the repairs,” SILMAR announces. “This star is rotating on its axis, and once it turns us back into the debris trajectory, we must not be here. That will happen in just under six hours.”
“Five hours to fix all this? I love it when you put the pressure on me,” I mutter sarcastically, fully aware that SILMAR, being an AI, doesn’t grasp sarcasm.
“Pressure is a physical force exerted on an object,” it replies in its usual flat tone.
I scroll through the environmental analysis of the celestial body we’ve landed on.
The atmosphere is thin but breathable, with a composition close enough to what I’m used to.
No viruses, no bacterial threats. That’s good enough for me.
I strap on my full-face breathing helmet, skipping the rest of the protective gear—it would only slow me down out there—and grab a generous supply of repair sprays.
“Don’t worry, SILMAR,” I say with a grin as I head for the hatch. “I’ll be back before you can say ‘system reboot.’”
“System reboot initiated,” it replies instantly.
I chuckle, shaking my head as I step outside.
Outside, a bleak landscape stretches before me.
The asteroid’s surface is mostly swamp, broken only by a few scraggly shrubs clinging to life, their dark berries growing directly from the trunks.
The air is thick with a musty scent, and each step I take sinks slightly into the damp, squelching ground.
Overhead, the sky hangs heavy and gray, casting a somber shadow over everything.
What strikes me most are the fresh impact craters scattered across the terrain.
Stellar debris has gouged deep wounds into the surface, some still smoldering, thin wisps of smoke curling into the air.
It’s a scene of devastation, a silent testament to the violent collision that tore through this place.
I don’t waste time. I get to work immediately, focusing on the deepest hull gashes.
I spray the repair compound, watching as it hisses on contact, melting the composite and smoothing it out as it dries.
I have to wait for each section to solidify before moving on to the next. That’s what eats up most of the time.
The urgency gnaws at me. The longer I stay out here, the more exposed I am to whatever this place might throw at me. I keep glancing around, alert for any sign of movement. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the distant rumble of shifting debris.
Then something strange happens.
A sensation grips me—sharp, sudden. I feel like I’m not alone. I freeze, scanning the landscape. But there’s nothing. Just mud, rock, and smoke.
I shake it off and return to work.
But then an image flashes through my mind. I see this very place, under a storm of falling debris. The vision is so vivid I drop the spray can. Around me, everything is still. No signs of life. No sound.
Moments later, another vision hits me. This time, I see animals—creatures I don’t recognize—caught in the chaos, crushed under the impacts.
The horror of it is overwhelming, but what hits me even harder is the sadness.
A deep, aching sorrow, as if I’m witnessing the final moments of a world that never had a chance.
I don’t understand what’s happening. But I know I haven’t finished. There’s still work to do. SIL’s deadline is ticking down, and I need to stay focused.
A few hours later, I’ve finished the repairs and I’m right on schedule. I pack up my gear and do a final walkaround to make sure I haven’t left anything behind.
Then, on a sudden impulse, I unzip and relieve myself. No denying it—peeing out here, in the open, beats those cramped sanitary pods on the ship any day.
But just as I’m enjoying the moment, a disturbing image flashes through my mind. I see myself from the outside, standing there in full helmet… with everything else exposed. My blood runs cold. I zip up fast and scan the area, suddenly convinced I’m being watched.
My heart pounds as I listen for anything beyond the squelch of my boots and the rustle of my pants. Then I see them—small golden eyes, half-hidden in the muck. They shimmer with fear, and a chill runs down my spine.
I slowly draw my pistoblaster, the familiar weight grounding me. Every step toward the eyes feels like it stretches time. I stay alert, ready for anything.
The creature blinks but doesn’t flee. I crouch about a meter away and speak softly.
“So, buddy… what are you doing out here all alone?”
To my astonishment, he answers—not with words, but with images. I see his world, torn apart by falling asteroids. A silent, telepathic cry for help.
So he’s a little telepath. I stay still, giving him space, letting him decide. After a few minutes, he finally steps out of hiding.
He cautiously emerges from the hole where he was hiding.
He doesn’t look very old. His body is round and compact, like that of a young one, covered in dark, mud-colored fur streaked with lighter lines that trace along his sides like dotted contours.
His head is small and youthful, framed by a soft down that surrounds his large golden eyes—eyes filled with both curiosity and caution—and a narrow, elongated snout.
At the shoulder, he barely reaches my knee, which only adds to his fragile, juvenile appearance .