Page 3

AVA

I wake up before the alarm. Not because I’m some model soldier, but because I barely slept. My bunk’s too small, the hum of the engines buzzes through the walls like a second heartbeat, and my brain won’t shut off. First mission. First shot. I can’t fuck it up.

I suit up fast—black uniform, high collar, boots that don’t quite fit. I tie my hair back so tight it pulls at my scalp. Control. Poise. Even if my guts are doing somersaults.

The command bridge is all cold metal and colder faces.

Officers plugged into their stations like they’re part of the ship itself.

Screens glow pale blue with nav lines and proximity scans.

There’s no banter, no smiles. Just the hum of deep space and the unspoken tension curling around everyone’s spine.

I step onto the bridge and announce myself.

“Junior Lieutenant Ava Marlowe, reporting for duty.”

Serix Vale doesn’t even glance up from his station. “Late. Again.”

Right. Welcome aboard, sunshine.

He waves a hand and flicks a file onto the shared interface between us. “You’ll be overseeing Deck Four security rotations. Prisoner transport priority one. No deviation.”

I nod, scanning the assignment. Then I see it—designation code burned into the header like a warning brand: Species Class: Reaper. No name. Just a list of bio stats and a criminal designation that makes my pulse tick faster.

A Reaper. Alive. Onboard.

Reapers are not like the other aliens the IHC fights. They don’t just kill. They destroy. Body and mind. Ruthless, brutal, unrelenting. The war reports said they were almost extinct.

This one... this one’s a special brand of monster.

I school my face. “Is it secured?”

My voice doesn’t waver, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel steady in my chest either. The question hangs in the air for a beat too long. Vale finally shifts his eyes to mine—cold, iron-flat, like he’s trying to decide if I’m stupid or insubordinate.

“There are seven layers of reinforced barrier between that thing and your soft little organs,” he says, voice low and clipped. “The cuffs are rated to hold a cruiser’s engine block. And we’re under lockdown protocol.”

That should reassure me. It doesn’t.

He narrows his eyes. “You’re not being paid to worry. You’re here to watch and report. Nothing else.”

I nod, shoulders squared. “Understood.”

He doesn’t nod back. Just turns to his terminal like I’m a stain on his sleeve. Dismissed.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

I take my post at the secondary console. A side station—low traffic, no major authority. Good. I don’t want to be seen watching the cameras as closely as I am.

I cycle through feeds, rerun system checks, double-tap every lock and seal like my life depends on it—because it kind of does.

Nothing’s amiss on paper. Everything stable.

Except—

Every time the brig feed rolls past, I freeze.

It’s dark in that cell. Not just low-lit, but wrong-dark, like the shadows don’t follow normal rules.

I can’t see much—just the vague outline of a figure.

Large. Coiled like a predator at rest. It hasn’t moved in hours, but somehow, I feel it.

Watching. Waiting. Breathing slow and patient, like it knows it doesn’t have to rush.

A shiver creeps down my spine.

The Reaper’s just a silhouette, but it’s a silhouette that feels too real. Too solid. Like if I reached out, I’d touch something warm and awful that wants to rip my throat out and watch me bleed.

Trying to shake it off, I shift to the diagnostics tab.

Routine check. Just to center myself. Data’s easier than dread.

And that’s when I see it.

A spike. Tiny. Barely a flicker.

But it’s there—an energy burst from Deck Twelve. Containment Zone B.

I pause.

Check again.

One pulse. Short. Focused. Definitely not an engine flare. Not a power surge. Something else. It doesn’t match anything on the scheduled logs.

I trace the ID code. My blood runs cold.

Artifact storage.

We’re carrying a Precursor relic. That part I knew. What I didn’t know was that it’s... awake. Or twitching. Or something.

The signal's short, but it matches an archived pattern from incident logs. Residual activation. Like a sleeper taking a breath.

I ping a request to science ops for verification.

“Artifact logs are off-limits to junior officers,” a curt reply comes back almost immediately.

I grind my teeth. Type another message. “Detected a minor energy spike in the system. Recommending diagnostic sweep to ensure containment integrity.”

Thirty seconds pass.

Then a response: “No diagnostic required. Readings normal. Stay in your lane.”

My chest goes tight.

Stay in your lane.

Right.

I sit there a few more minutes, staring at the screen like it’s going to give me more answers.

It doesn’t.

The numbers stay flat. The vault looks as silent as ever. No second pulse. No sudden warning flare. Just static security feeds and calm, clean readouts that feel like lies.

My fingers hover over the keys, itching for something I can’t name. Maybe proof. Maybe permission to dig deeper. Maybe just a reason not to sit here doing nothing while my instincts scream wrong, wrong, wrong.

I open an encrypted archive, tapping into a side server not often used by junior officers. Buried beneath layers of red tape and security warnings is what I’m looking for—a legacy report filed five years ago under an unrelated shipping manifest.

Case File: PRC-FRT-973, Sector 9-A. Precursor Artifact Retrieval.

The file loads slow, like even the system wants to pretend it doesn’t exist.

When it finally opens, half the content is blacked out—entire paragraphs redacted with thick censor bars. Names. Dates. Coordinates. Gone. But the summary…

The summary is still there. Cold. Brief. Clinical.

“Artifact recovered from derelict freighter. Energy output fluctuated unpredictably. Crew experienced auditory and visual hallucinations within 48 hours of containment. Multiple fatalities due to self-harm and combat incidents. Final transmission: static. Upon recovery, artifact still active. Pulsing. No crew found alive.”

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

Crew hallucinations. Then silence.

Just like that.

A whole ship reduced to static and ghost data because they thought they could contain something older than time itself. Something that doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t belong in this part of space.

And we’ve got one of those sitting five decks beneath my feet.

I close the file, my jaw clenched so tight I feel it in my temples.

Nobody wants to admit what these relics really are. Not command. Not intel. Not even the science division that catalogues them like they’re just another oddity to be dissected and filed away.

I glance toward the cell feed again.

A Reaper.

A goddamn Precursor relic.

And me, smack in the middle of it.

I sit straighter. Watch the screens.

Focus. Survive. Don’t fuck up.

And that’s when the ship explodes.