The Erythians' confusion deepened as Cassian's fleet moved like ghosts, striking and vanishing, leaving only wreckage in their wake.
Finally, the reinforcements arrived—a group of eighteen sleek and agile ships, their hulls gleaming under the dim light of distant stars. Smaller and faster than the Erythian cruisers, they were armed to the teeth with state-of-the-art weaponry. The newcomers swooped into the fray like hawks descending on unsuspecting prey, targeting the League's vulnerable supply ships and undermanned rear lines with ruthless precision.
Explosions blossomed in the void as the Erythian support vessels crumbled under the onslaught. The attackers struck swiftly, deploying precision strikes that left trails of fiery wreckage in their wake. The Erythians faltered, their once-imposing formation splintering under the pressure.
Ships scrambled to reform, their captains struggling to adapt to the chaotic assault. Some attempted to regroup and mount a counterattack, but their efforts were stymied by the reinforcements' relentless pace, darting in and out of the fray with unmatched agility. The battlefield transformed into a storm of fire and debris, with the Erythian line disintegrating as panic set in among their ranks.
Cassian seized the opportunity. "All ships, form up on my position. Tighten your formations and prepare for a coordinated assault. We're breaching their line—execute combat protocol Bravo-One."
His squadron, bolstered by the reinforcements, charged at the weakened section of the Erythian fleet. Kinetic blasts and energy beams lit up the void as the combined force tore through the opposition. One by one, the Erythian ships retreated, their captains unwilling to risk total destruction.
As the last of the enemy ships disappeared into the distance, Cassian allowed himself a brief moment of relief. He turned to Rylan, who was slumped in his seat, exhausted but alive.
"Request immediate status update," Cassian commanded. "Relay to reinforcements: rendezvous at fallback coordinates, maintain combat readiness."
Rylan nodded. "Understood, sir."
The officers filed out of the room, the ambient hum of the ship's engines filling the silence left behind. Cassian lingered, his gaze fixed on the now-empty table, thoughts swirling about the challenges ahead. His hands rested on the edge of the table, fingers tightening as he replayed the events of the battle in his mind, dissecting every move, every loss, and every narrow victory.
For a fleeting moment, Cassian allowed himself to wonder if the obelisk—this enigmatic relic they had fought so hard to secure—was worth the cost. But doubt was a luxury he couldn't afford. His role demanded certainty, or at least the facade of it, projecting certainty even in the face of his doubts.
Straightening, Cassian tapped his communicator. "Maintain current course and ensure all systems remain on high alert. I'll be in my quarters. No interruptions unless absolutely necessary. "
Cassian turned and strode toward the exit, his mind already shifting to the next steps. The silence left in his wake was heavy, but the resolve in his steps spoke volumes. The challenges ahead were daunting, but Cassian had faced worse—and survived. He intended to do so again.
Back on the Reyes estate on planet Selene, Orion's small form lay nestled in the soft folds of his crib, his wide, curious eyes following the blurry motion of Ren's hand as it hovered near him. At just 12 weeks old, the world was a confusing swirl of light, sound, and sensation, but something about Ren's presence calmed him. Her toddler-sized fingers wavered, unsure whether to pat him or simply observe.
Ren, barely two and a half, tilted her head as she stared down at her baby brother. "Little one?" she asked, her voice high-pitched and curious. She didn't fully understand what he was yet—he wasn't a doll, but he also wasn't like the big people around her. He was small, soft, and made funny noises that didn't seem like words. She remembered hearing her father call him "little star," but that name felt too long for her. She poked at his blanket cautiously, her tiny fingers hesitant but filled with fascination. Then, she giggled, as though discovering something marvelous in his presence.
Her bright eyes studied him, trying to make sense of this new addition to her world. She leaned closer, her pigtails bobbing, and whispered, "Ren loves baby!" as if testing the word against the weight of his presence. Ren didn't have the words to articulate it, but there was something about the little being in front of her that felt important.
She reached out again, this time with more confidence, and patted his tiny arm. The soft weight of her hand brought a smile to her face, a pure expression of delight and connection. "Baby brother," she said tentatively, her words a little clearer this time, as if testing out the new phrase and savoring how it sounded.
Orion blinked up at her, his eyes trying to focus on the figure above him. As he lay there, the warmth of Ren's small hand on his arm triggered a cascade of memories, pulling him into a haze of emotions that felt too much for his tiny body. Orion, though only a newborn in body, felt what could be best described as an odd sense of duality.
His past life where warmth had existed, but in fragments—his grandmother's hugs, his mother's fleeting moments of affection before they were swallowed by her darker moods. Her words often twisted between love and blame, leaving scars that time had not healed. And then they were both gone. His grandmother's death had been a blow; to both him and his mother who despaired until she followed two years later, leaving him stranded in a world where survival was the only priority.
He had rebuilt himself after that, clawing his way through a life of suffering. Every step was uphill, every success born of relentless determination and a refusal to let the bad hand he was dealt define him. By the age of 23, he had achieved the unimaginable, winning the Turing Award—a recognition reserved for the most brilliant minds in computer science.
Yet, the celebrations felt hollow. Behind the applause and accolades was the memory of nights spent hunched over his work, alone in his apartment, wrestling with despair and the weight of his past. Even as he basked in the glory of his achievements, a shadow loomed over him: Huntington's disease. The diagnosis came as a cruel twist of fate, a stark reminder that life's indifference spared no one.
At first, he tried to fight it, throwing himself into his work with renewed vigor as if sheer willpower could stave off the inevitable. But the disease was relentless, gnawing away at his physical and mental faculties. The brilliance that had once been his greatest strength now felt like a burden, amplifying his awareness of every symptom, every slip, every cruel reminder of what lay ahead.
By the age of 27, he was exhausted—physically, emotionally, spiritually. The disease's relentless grip had stolen so much from him: his independence, his health, and the promise of a future he had once dreamed of. In the end, he chose to end his suffering on his own terms, leaving behind a world that had alternated between indifference and cruelty.
Ren's small hand on his shoulder brought Orion back to the present, grounding him in warmth and softness.
Ren's giggle broke through the haze. Her hand was still on his shoulder, her face now close to his as she grinned. "Orion," she said, her toddler voice stumbling over the name. After a pause, she chirped, "Baby brother Orion!" Her words were filled with pride and delight, pulling him further into the present.
Orion felt a flicker of something unfamiliar—security? He couldn't quite place it.