1
Orion is hardly fifteen when his parents are killed in the cross-fire blasts of the Xianian Raids. He will never know what caused the blast, exactly. Reports will tell him that the rebels seeking refuge on Xiania had considered Orion's city collateral damage in their plans to take down the Alliance stronghold in the city center; people, other Xianians who survived, will tell him the exact opposite. They will tell him the Alliance views all planets as war zones and has done nothing to evacuate the general populace before unleashing their forces on the city.
What Orion will remember is this: his mother's cut-off scream, his father crushed in a gory instant, the building crumbling around him in a plume of fire-laden smoke, and the luck he felt when he scrambled out of the rubble, saved only by a support beam that would collapse behind him after another blast rocks the foundations of his home. He will remember standing, bloodied and too young, at the crest of a crater made by a red mercury bomb as the city around him burned and died, and he will remember thinking the awful red gash scoured onto the ground by the bomb looked like a six-sided star.
He will not remember hearing any warning sirens wailing through the city before the Raid began. He will not remember this because there were no sirens and there was no warning - except, of course, the sleek near-silent Alliance jets casting shadows over the peaceful city only minutes before the first bomb drops. It will take him ages to confirm what his gut already knows, and what he already knows is this: Rebels do not have access to the red mercury produced by the Alliance, and there had not been any rebels on-planet on the day of the Raids.
The rebels had left Xiania to save the planet from destruction when they learned they had been discovered on-planet, but the Alliance had destroyed the planet and its people anyway. Punishment, some say, for daring to be a neutral planet in the ongoing war. Comeuppance, others say, for being bold enough to house filthy rebels and refugees. Heartless, Orion will say, privately and only ever to the few he trusts, internalizing his anger and pain and wearing these feelings like any other armor he dons when he wakes every morning.
But that is later - when he is older, with terrible knowledge in his head and more terrible deeds staining his hands.
On the day when his parents die, he knows none of this. And because he knows none of this, he does nothing to stop Alliance officials from rounding him up with the other survivors, and he does nothing to stop them from recruiting him into their military ranks. Orphaned and alone, only one of hundreds of Xianians left alive after the Raids, Orion does nothing except allow himself to be folded into the very organization that had used his planet - and the genocide of his people - to send a message to the rest of the universe. And shamefully, even with doubt and hate growing in his heart, Orion thrives there.
The transition from Xiania to a Starbase in a far-flung quadrant where the Alliance can monitor recruits and train them to become obedient soldiers is as easy as breathing. It's jarring, of course, to be one of only a few Xianians on the base, let alone the youngest, but something about the rigid structure of the day cycles is comforting.
Orion never has to wonder what will be coming next; it's all written down and scheduled, so all he has to do is show up at the right time and follow the orders that are given to him. The ease at which he can comply, he will later realize, is because grief had shaken him so thoroughly and had left him with nothing except a blind, ever-obedient will that cloaked his eyes for two, maybe three years.
Xianians were never psi-skilled people - not in any substantial way, that is. There are some races in the universe that operate as a hive mind, particularly the telepaths and the matriarchal races, but while Xianians could share energy and even manipulate their own, sometimes even the energy around them, there was no backlash Orion had to endure. Not in the way other cadets in similar situations had to. He can remember very clearly a Lekkitu collapsing in the early days of his training and being carted off to the infirmary; he overhears fellow cadets talking about the grief of the lost Kkitu planet finally overcoming the cadet and pulling the cadet into the wool spun grief of a barren hive mind.
He hears other things, too. Things that make him shiver at the perspective of his fellow cadets. Things that make him wonder if his own perspective - a budding hesitance, a blooming question never voiced aloud - is wrong. He hears things that make him wonder at the permissiveness of cruelty.
"Can you imagine losing your entire planet?"
"No, not at all. It must be difficult."
"My planet is too advanced to be eliminated."
"Why do you say it like that? Advanced planets have been lost before."
"Well, they wouldn't be lost if they didn't host rebels, would they? The Alliance is keeping the rest of us safe."
"The rebels are violent. They're disrupting the peace."
"I suppose…"
"If the rebels weren't like that, then why would the Alliance take such swift action?"
"That's a good point."
Orion, listening in from an unobtrusive corner of the barracks, looks down at the way his spindly hands curl over his knees, his pale skin leeching starlight over his knuckles. He relaxes his hands and breathes.
Maybe they're right. Maybe things aren't…
He doesn't know what to think or what to believe. He tries to do neither.
Orion never sees that Lekkitu cadet again. And nobody so much as breathes a word about the Kkitu planet again - perhaps an instinctive fear about what might happen if their Alliance supervisors and trainers were to catch wind of the cadets speculating.
Because speculating is bad. It becomes very clear to Orion early on that asking certain questions is prohibited and grossly discouraged. It's fine to wonder if there is a way to get a better charge out of a blaster by augmenting the crystals fueling the gun. It is not fine to wonder why the Alliance is landing on yet another undeveloped planet, one that has people who have no means to defend themselves against the long arm of the intergalactic government. Those who ask certain questions don't come back to class, either.
Orion keeps his head down. He shows up to his scheduled training, he performs well, he advances. He does not ask questions. He tries not to think either, especially about Xiania or his parents or the bone-shuddering feeling of the red mercury bomb leveling an entire city in a single second. In the same way Orion learns to suppress his bioluminescence - the markings of his sept, his family, his heritage - he learns to suppress his feelings and his thoughts.
It doesn't last.
Orion is the top of his class by eighteen, the sharpest marksman, the best stealth fighter, the most advanced pilot. He is the standard by which other cadets are measured, and none come close to beating his scores in any area. It isn't that his skills come easily though, however differently the other cadets may think. Orion has the laser burns on his fingers, the bruises on his body, the ache behind his eyes to attest to how hard he works. When the others sleep, Orion trains or studies. It's no surprise that he is one of the best cadets produced by the Alliance for several years - maybe even since the Alliance first consolidated and put to bed the bioweapons they like to gloss over funding and creating. Orion doesn't believe it's arrogant to think so, not when he has been told the same to his face by every Staff Sergeant to cross his path. Orion will perhaps never be as good as the biological weapons in the earliest days, but he is close.
This is why he is hand-selected after his Academy graduation to join the Special Forces. The Specialists are the best of the best, an elite group of soldiers that are tasked with difficult and crucial operations. That's what he heard as a cadet, anyway, and Orion doesn't see what other options he has. There is no Xiania to go back to anymore, the planet more rubble and scorched earth than hospitable, and he knows well enough by then that the Alliance owns him in all the ways that matter.
Orion accepts another Alliance recruitment and falls into the same pattern. There are new classes and harder training to complete each day. All of the effort Orion needed to stay at the top of the cadet class is useless in the Specialist track. There he bleeds and breaks and is forged into something better - harder - than before. As a cadet, Orion never thought that the supervisors were treating cadets kindly, but compared to the Staff Sergeants in Special Forces, Orion understands that being a cadet was a vacation.
Orion withstands a year, maybe more, before he reaches his limit. He can't summon the energy anymore. He isn't falling behind yet, but he can feel his control and his mastery starting to slip. It has been over five years since the destruction of his planet and the desecration of his people, and Orion is finally becoming brittle around the edges. He reminds himself that Xianians are not a race that is dependent on the psi-touch of their fellows, but he feels the loneliness all the same. It's bitter, this feeling of learning that he has nothing to live for - not even himself. Orion sits on the lip of a control tower in Specialist base, an unknown location lightyears away from any trace of civilization, and contemplates for the first time what he thinks he's doing with his life.
For the first time in several cycles, Orion allows his bioluminescence to spark along his skin, dozens of circular patches and flecks winking into the same silvery-blue-green iridescence of his eyes. He feels a corresponding warmth ignite in his torso, the acids and energy in his body spitting weakly at each other. He's deprived his own biology for too long, crushed down the instinctual urges all Xianians feel so he can be a better soldier - a better survivor, someone who camouflages even as he succeeds. If he becomes who they expect to see, if he becomes another in a long line with nothing but his own skills to set him apart, then maybe he can -
He doesn't know. Maybe he doesn't really have motivation. Maybe he's spineless. Maybe finds it easier to compress and contort himself than confront the sticky pain of his past that still festers in him, night after night. Maybe it's easier to mimic the stone faces of his Commanders than it is to confront the fact that he is one of the last of his race. Maybe it's better to pretend he is not Xianian and that he does not possess those traits - maybe that's why he has made it this far.
Maybe. But maybe not. Orion has realized that he is quite a coward.
Then again - what does he have to be brave for? There is no one and nothing else left.
That's when Vo'ongi finds him.
"So, you're the one the brass is always fawning over," a gruff voice mutters, right before a heavy body drops down beside him. There is a dull echo, like metal meeting metal, as stocky legs are arranged to hang over the parapet of the control tower.
Orion doesn't startle, exactly, but his head does snap up. At first, he can't much read the expression that greets him. The voice belongs to a Me'atal male with a buzz of white shair, shaved closely at the sides to show off the shining metal twisting from his cheekbones to the back of his skull. Like every other Me'atal he has ever seen, this one has an exceptionally sharp, square-shaped face; unlike other Me'atals, his markings and joint-bends a gold so polished it almost looks yellow, his eyes a matching striking shade. He must be from the Southern end of his planet, then, Orion concludes a bit dully.
He doesn't know why this Me'atal is talking to him or sitting beside him. Orion peers at the insignia stamped across the Me'atal's chest. Specialist Corporal. His senior, then. Someone who has already graduated from the Specialist course and is already part of the Special Forces.
His confusion must be evident because the Me'atal inclines his head. "I'm Vo'ongi. Been hearing a lot about you, kid," he says, voice low and gravely.
"Orion," he returns.
Vo'ongi nods. "Why are you up here? Should privates like you be asleep in the barracks?"
Orion doesn't want to answer. He wants to be left alone to contemplate the thoughts tumbling through his head. He wants Vo'ongi to leave and be curious somewhere else, preferably somewhere where Orion isn't.
Orion finds himself answering anyway, and probably too honestly, considering he's talking to someone who outranks him and could very easily report him. Because there's no getting around it. Orion is speculating. And it's not the good kind of speculating. It's the kind of speculating that gets people disappeared.
"I'm thinking about the Alliance. About my role in it. About what they do," he says, turning his head away. The top of the control tower has the best view of the observation windows for the starbase. Even with the quadrant so empty, the black void of space is still speckled with the rusty plumes of gas spreading between stars. "About what they'll want me to do," he finishes, pressing his lips together.
Beside him, Vo'ongi grunts. "That's good," he praises. "It's good that you're thinking about it this early. Means you've got a brain in that glittering head of yours."
Orion shoots him a questioning look.
When Vo'ongi smiles, it's all teeth. "The last thing anyone needs in this universe is another Alliance lackey. Especially Specialists."
Orion frowns, crinkling his brows. "What are you saying?"
Vo'ongi claps a dense hand down on Orion's shoulder, his expression dropping. "The Alliance is corrupt," he says bluntly, as frank as any Me'atal. "The shit they have us Specialists do? It's worse than you could imagine. But you're here already and you clearly have your doubts."
Something like panic seizes Orion, squeezing at his chest with a vice grip. He shakes Vo'ongi's hand off his shoulder. "I don't know what you're talking about, or what you want, but leave me out of it," he spits, making to stand up.
Vo'ongi is quicker and stronger. He scruffs Orion around the nape of his neck, his expression stern and unforgiving. "I know what they did to your planet, to your people. Your family," he says, utterly merciless. "They make us do the same shit every day. They say it's for peace, but it isn't. It never is."
"I don't-"
"The Alliance is corrupt," Vo'ongi repeats, unflinching. "You already know it's true. You aren't wrong. But there's something you can do about it. Things are already being done, right under their noses. You can be part of it. You should be part of it."
Orion inhales sharply, eyes widening as he processes what Vo'ongi is saying - what Vo'ongi is inviting him into.
"Why?" he breathes, almost scared to fully vocalize it. "Why are you talking to me about this?"
Vo'ongi lifts his chin, hand squeezing the back of Orion's neck, this time more lightly. "We've been watching you," he says. "You're an asset to the Alliance, but you'd be a better asset to the rest of the universe. And you've got a better reason than most, don't you?"
Orion stares.
Vo'ongi lifts the metallic gold of his brow. "Haven't you ever thought about revenge?"
And Orion exhales shakily - because he has. Sometimes, late at night when the ache of the grief is the worst, he will feel the thrumming anger of vengeance crackling along his meridians before he forcefully fizzles it out, suffocating the energy before it can escape. Sometimes he thinks about taking back everything the Alliance took from him. Sometimes he's so full of wrath he could choke on it.
But he's never spoken about it. He's been so careful to keep those dark thoughts hidden deep, deep inside. How is it that Vo'ongi - that the people apparently watching him - was able to see it? Does that mean the Alliance can see it too?
Even if they can all see it, what does it matter? Orion thinks, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes the bitter of his blood. Even if they see it, wouldn't it be better to do something about it before they can do something about me?
Vo'ongi releases the back of his neck and bumps his knuckles against the side of Orion's face. "First thing's first, Private. We've got to do something about this face of yours. You're too readable."
Orion jerks back, scowling. "I haven't agreed."
"No," Vo'ongi acknowledges. "But you will, because you know you should."
Orion stands, his movements jerky, and makes it halfway to the back staircase that leads down to the center of the control tower before Vo'ongi speaks again.
"You know, there are people who say nothing should be done out of spite. But I disagree," he says darkly, not even looking back at Orion's exit, almost as if philosophizing to himself. "Spite can get a lot of shit done. It might even be the greatest weapon of all."
Orion leaves and he tries not to think about it -
But now that the seed has been planted, he can't get it out of his head. Revenge. Getting back at the Alliance. Spite and vengeance and a way to make things better, if not right. A way to fight back. A different way to survive. All these thoughts haunt him for days and weeks, but it's a different kind of haunting than the kind he's used to. It takes him a concerning amount of time to realize that he's feeling excitement at the prospect of revenge, at righting some of the wrongs in the universe, at putting his miraculous survival to good use. Excitement at being something other than a tool for destruction.
Orion hasn't felt excitement for years. It's enough to have him eyeballing the insignias he sees every day, searching for the Specialist Corporal that has gotten into his head. And when he does find Vo'ongi again, all he does is catch that discerning yellow gaze and nod, just once.
And that's how it starts.
That's how it all starts.
5648
Starbase 81
Uang Quadrant
"Sergeant Major Chregg would kindly remind Specialist O-714 that the meeting in the War Room began nine point three minutes ago," the droid reminds him, pacing on its single wheel at the front of the room. The droid's voice is as devoid of feeling as ever, but Orion can easily imagine the frantic blinking of pale blue lights on its flat, squarish face. The droid has been giving Orion the same message for the last five minutes, after all, and he's certain that Sergeant Chregg is less than pleased that Orion continues to ignore his summons.
But Orion was never going to go to the meeting in the War Room. He was always going to use this opportunity to pilfer through the Intergalactic Database so he could try to pinpoint when, exactly, everything had started to go to shit. Because Orion is 28 now and he's been enlisted in a goddamn war that he doesn't even understand for the last 13 years - and he doesn't want to fight anymore. He doesn't want blood on his hands anymore. He doesn't want the aching, empty throb in the center of his chest anymore. He doesn't want to be sent out - sent around the galaxy and through time - to complete missions and make assassinations anymore. He wants the war headed by the Alliance to stop because he's certain that if it keeps going that there won't be any planet left standing.
He's not the only one who thinks so. He's not even the only Specialist who thinks so.
Orion is, in fact, in good company within the Special Forces. Their collective is small and decidedly ungoverned, but they all share the same vision, he and the others. It doesn't matter which planet they hail from or how long they've served the Alliance. Theirs is a group that has witnessed the true ugliness of the war in a way other soldiers in the Alliance have not - after all, it's the Special Forces that are sent to guard the timeline, to get rid of anyone who can interfere with the way history unfolds, to keep every moment on the Alliance's idea of the straight-and-narrow. The other soldiers do their own share of the dirty work, taking down so-called rebels and imprisoning entire planets, but it's the Special Forces who are sent as mercenaries. It's Specialists like Orion who are given orders to kill children who would grow up to be rebels. It's the Special Forces who bear the brunt of the worst war crimes, because what can be more criminal than destroying those who only may become an enemy in the future? Lives that are still innocent, but that must be snuffed out to protect the power of the Alliance - the Alliance that, right now, doesn't seem to stand for much except total and complete authoritarianism.
Orion is sick of it. His fellows are sick of it. But there's only so much they can do to avoid suspicion. The Alliance tracks the Special Forces too closely and that makes spiriting innocents away to different locations - to different times - exceptionally difficult. Near-impossible, actually. They have failed one too many times and it's become abundantly clear that they need to do something else, something more proactive.
And that's why Orion is here, risking the wrath of Sergeant Chregg, to collect as much data as he can so he can pass it to Matthis to analyze. Once Matthis can figure out where the fuck everything went wrong, then their group can use all of their training to go back and fix it - go back and stop the Alliance from becoming the tyrannical organization it has become.
"The meeting in the War Room began nine point five minutes ago," the droid chimes in again, whirring anxiously across the entrance of the data room.
Orion shoots the droid an exasperated look. "You're my bot," he reminds it, and the droid chirps, distinctly dejected. Orion rolls his eyes. "Continue running interference on the cameras and trackers. Don't let them find me here."
The droid chirrs, unenthusiastic but as obedient as Matthis had programmed it to be. Orion, for his part, turns impatiently to the holoscreen, pulling up files and hurtling them blindly into the external drive duplicating the information. It's taking longer than expected, but he doesn't think any of them anticipated just how much information they were planning to go through. The Intergalactic Database is massive, of course, and there are portions that are protected by firewalls not even Matthis can break through. Unfortunately, for the sake of keeping his position uncompromised, the fake ID Orion used to get this far into the Alliance's database isn't able to access the dark metadata hidden within - but, at the very least, they will have access to data that isn't so easily found by the general public. It will have to do.
Not for the first time, Orion is frustrated by the feeling of inadequacy that rushes through him every time he works on his vendetta against the Alliance. He wants to be more overt, wants to be bolder and more radical. But he can't. He's currently in the best position to take the Alliance down from the inside, and he can't compromise that just because he wants to stop sneaking in the shadows.
Orion scowls openly at the crystalline blue of the hollow screen, still watching files download, one right after the other. The droid chirps again, reiterating the same anxious information, and Orion reminds himself of Vo'ongi's advice. Revenge takes patience, Vo'ongi says, over and over. Be careful and thoughtful, and then cut them down at the knees and watch them burn.
Easier said than done, in Orion's opinion. He flicks more data streams at the external device. Most of what he's downloading is from high points in the history of the Alliance, things where there would be clear divergences. The history of the Alliance is long, nearly three thousand years, and it's impossible for anyone to learn it all - but taking the highlights and dissecting the issues that never became public will give his group a better idea of what they're up against.
"...eleven point two minutes," the droid reminds him.
Orion sighs through his nose, sick to death of the damn thing. He's almost certain Matthis programmed the bot to be as annoying as possible because that's the exact type of shit Matthis finds hilarious. Fortunately, Orion is only waiting on one last download before he removes the external storage device and tucks it into his pocket. He swiftly logs out of the system, removing the ID card and, even as he walks past the droid, he destroys the metal card in a shimmer of silvery-green energy, the iridescent markings on his skin flashing just once as he does.
Orion eases back into the hallway, the doid rolling around his ankles silently. Orion expands his hearing as he rounds the corner, ducking into a maintenance hallway when noise echoes down the dull dark grey walls. He scoops up the droid and presses himself into the nook of the hallway, stock still as a small group of soldiers swagger down the hallway. Once they pass, Orion loosens the tension in his body and carries on, easily locating the air vent he used to sneak onto this level and dropping himself down without so much as a thud. He pauses long enough to close the vent behind him and tuck the droid into the hood of his coat before he drags his body through the expanse of the air filtration system, counting the vents as he goes until he reaches his own quarters, some two levels down.
Orion drops down from the ceiling with a huff, briskly patting his clothes to remove any lingering dust. There isn't any. The Alliance may be an autocratic stain across the universe, but at least it's a clean one.
"The War Room meeting is over," the droid chimes in, then. It whirrs with excitement. "Sergeant Major Chregg appears to be coming to your quarters. His route will take him less than three point four minutes to arrive."
Orion's lips thin, but he pats the droid in thanks anyway and directs it to shut down for the time being. The droid obeys, rolling into its charging station and powering off, immediately dunking his quarters into near-complete darkness. The only source of light is the errant stars shining from the blackness of space and Orion's own markings, which he ruthlessly snuffs out as he climbs onto his bed. He situates himself on his stomach and forces his muscles to relax, breathing deeply.
By the time the doors to his quarters open with only a single warning beep, Orion is successfully feigning deep, exhausted sleep. It's only partly an act - he really is exhausted.
"Specialist O-714," Sergeant Major Chregg barks as he enters, voice as crackling and unforgiving as any Quindite he has ever met. "Get your ass out of that bed! What kind of Specialist Sergeant First Class sleeps through a War Room?"
Orion jolts, as if surprised, and makes a show of sitting up hastily, rubbing his eyes and his mussed hair. He even cracks a yawn, knowing he looks just as tired as he's pretending to be. He stands up and sketches a salute, blinking rapidly at the slowly-deflating anger on Sergeant Major Chregg's bumpy moss-colored skin.
"Apologies, Sergeant Major. I overslept after my last mission," Orion lies. In truth, however, he hasn't slept for the entire last cycle, let alone how long he didn't sleep when he was on-mission. He's dead on his feet and only not swaying weakly because of his rigorous training. And because Xianians need perhaps less sleep than other races.
But it isn't as if Sergeant Major Chregg would know this about Xianians. There aren't enough Xianians alive for him to be able to call the lie, and Orion uses this to his full advantage.
Sergeant Major Chregg grumbles and squints at him. "Pathetic," he mutters. "Did you even debrief before you crashed out?"
Orion nods.
"At least you did something right," the Sergeant Major tells him, albeit reluctantly. "You'll have to download the War Room briefing, then. We'll be launching a new campaign in the M'lacal Quadrant in seven cycles. Get rested up before then, Specialist. You'll need it."
Orion dips his head, deferential. "Will do, Sergeant Major."
Sergeant Major Chregg lets himself out just as ungracefully as he had entered, and as soon as the doors of his quarters hiss shut, Orion collapses back on his bed. This time, he lets the exhaustion swell and does nothing to stop the drooping of his eyelids. Both of his missions have been completed - the one for the Alliance and the one to take the Alliance down. After he sleeps, he'll find an opportunity to pass Matthis the data he took from the data room, and then he'll await his next orders.
Until then, Orion closes his eyes and takes a well-deserved nap.
"So, what do you have?" Koit asks impatiently, his knee already jiggling under the table. He scrapes the flat of his favorite blade across the metal toe of his boot, immediately drawing the annoyed glares of everyone in the glorified meeting room they have secured for the day.
Orion, leaning against the wall, tries not to wrinkle his nose at the fumes of the cleaning chemicals, but it's hard. He always hates when Vo'ongi decides janitorial closets are ideal meeting places, even if it does make sense; after all, it's only ever droids who come to these lower levels, and since there are fewer cameras, there is less risk of being caught. Plus, smaller rooms are easier to sound secure, which is ostensibly Orion's job. It's admittedly a bit of a trick to dampen sound vibrations to prevent them from escaping the closet, but he's managing just fine so far. For his efforts, the entire room is bathed in the silvery shimmer of his core energy, something like a bubble hugging each of the walls.
"I don't know why you're all looking at me," Koit mutters. "I'm not the only impatient one."
The knife flips in his hand again. According to Koit, it had been passed down through the generations. It's a distinctly old Terran-looking thing, with a wooden hilt and a dull steel sheen to the curve of the blade. Koit, to Orion's knowledge, can barely be considered Terran at all, any Terran in him completely diluted over the last several generations of his family tree. Privately, Orion thinks Koit's story is utter bullshit and that he probably found that stupid knife on a mission somewhen. He wouldn't put it past the Zoid to fib just for kicks.
"No, you're not the only impatient one," Matthis agrees with a frown, the bright light of his holo screen obscuring the dark brown of his eyes. "But you aren't helping, either."
Koit straightens. "Oh, and how am I supposed to help, huh? You won't let anyone else look at the data."
"I let Vo'ongi look," Matthis corrects, shooting their de facto leader a look. "The reason I don't let you look is because the last time you got close to any sort of data, you deleted it by accident and I had to spend three days recovering it."
"Will anyone ever let that go?" Koit whines.
"No," answers the rest of them, Orion included.
Koit pouts.
Standing behind Matthis, Daaren shifts on his feet, his hulking Zanite frame shifting with its own sort of urgency. "Kid has a point though," he says, ignoring Koit's protest that he isn't a kid, really. "Have you found anything?"
Matthis breathes out a slow, patient sigh. Sometimes, Orion thinks Matthis has to be the most patient of them all. The only full-blooded Terran on the team, he is decidedly disadvantaged in terms of physical prowess, but he's also the smartest of them all and uniquely gifted with technology. He'd been recruited to the Special Forces directly from some fancy intergalactic university near Solaris when Orion was still a cadet and handles a big chunk of intelligence from Alliance central command, which puts him in perfect placement to gather intel for their underground network. Knowing that Matthis must understand the depravity of the Alliance perhaps more intimately than most and that Matthis still manages to put on a loyal face to the brass is, to Orion, perhaps the most patient thing a person could ever do.
Orion knows he certainly doesn't envy Matthis's position. He hates his own active involvement in the Alliance and the blood he gets on his hands, but at least Orion has an outlet. Matthis, stuck behind a desk, only has his plant collection.
"You try going through three thousand years of intelligence in a week and then try to tell me that I'm not processing quickly enough," Matthis says pointedly after a beat.
"Nobody said that," Vo'ongi says firmly. "We need you to be thorough. You should take your time. We can wait."
"It isn't as if we'll ever run out of time," Leta says from the corner of the closet. She is perched on a box of chemicals, legs crossed in an easy lotus position, the jet of her scaled skin blending almost seamlessly with the black of her tactical gear, which still smells of soot and sulfur from the mission she finished before this meeting. Her glossy golden reptilian eyes dart to her wrist and the Alliance time-jumper strapped over her deceptively delicate bones.
Orion snorts. When Leta catches his eye, they both share sardonic grins, hers a row of sharp, gleaming Falleen teeth.
Leta is right, of course. How can their team ever run out of time when they have the ability to jump into time anywhen they want? The truth is, no matter how urgent their self-assigned mission is, they have all the time in the galaxy to complete it. Provided, of course, that the aims of their mission is never discovered and that they will have access to the tools they need to complete the mission. But that's why they have Vo'ongi and his doomsday hoard of supplies, an assortment of goods and technology carefully smuggled under the Alliance's nose, hidden away on a desolate planet that wouldn't be discovered for several more thousand years.
Yet even knowing that, Orion is also all-too-aware that messing with time brings many unintended consequences. It makes his head pound just to think about it. Who's to say that, if something is changed, they will even be able to access Vo'ongi's doomsday bunker? It could be completely out of their reach if the mission goes sideways - or even if the mission goes smoothly. There's no way to tell. In some ways, even preparing at all seems like a waste of time, since there is no means of predicting how events will unfold.
Their entire mission is a gamble. It's still a gamble Orion is willing to take.
Their loose meeting breaks up after that. Daaren and Koit agree to pass on progress reports to their members who are currently out on assignment and Matthis reiterates how quickly he is combing through data. While Vo'ongi stays behind with Matthis for a few minutes, Orion and Leta depart at the same time.
Leta's demure Falleen stature is, he knows, completely belied by her sheer lethal ability in the field. She is easily the most deadly of them all and is frequently sent on missions that better fit a mercenary than a soldier - she completes the missions that give Orion nightmares with ease. He would attribute it to the cold blood running through her veins, but he knows better. Leta is just better at compartmentalizing than the rest of them. And unlike most of the team, she is part of this mission for the sake of her morals. There is no vengeance or retribution on her mind. She just wants to stop the evil spreading through the universe.
Orion thinks Leta is probably a better being than he will ever be. And she proves it by quietly pulling him aside before they separate, off to different sectors of the starbase. "I heard you were almost caught," she says, pitching her voice low.
"I was fine. Sergeant Major is dense. He didn't suspect a thing." Orion rolls his eyes. "Despite what Vo'ongi may think, I can take care of myself."
"Vo'ongi worries," she reminds him frankly. "He recruited you. He feels responsible."
"He recruited us all," Orion points out.
"Not like you," she says.
Orion presses his lips together, but he doesn't disagree. It's true, of course, that Vo'ongi had recruited Orion very young - much younger than anyone else in their group. But it's also true that it's been ten years. Vo'ongi doesn't need to worry about him as much as he does, though there probably isn't a way to stop him. Vo'ongi will probably always feel responsible for him, and for everyone else. That they've been lucky so far is a blessing. But as their mission becomes more involved, it will be less possible to escape Alliance notice. Eventually, something they do will change an event, and from there -
Well. Orion can only imagine it won't be pretty.
"I'm fine," Orion repeats, focusing on the doubtful expression crinkling the smooth scales of Leta's face. He sighs. "You're acting like I'm the only one taking risks. What Matthis is doing right now -"
"What Matthis is doing is only possible because of what you did," Leta cuts in sharply. She pins him in place with the intensity of her glare. "I know you. You get reckless. You get cocky. And I think you got lucky this time."
Orion bites back his retort because he knows that she's being honest - and truthful. She isn't wrong about him, but he doesn't like the reminder.
He lifts his brows. "Maybe," he concedes. "Can I go now?"
Leta scoffs at him, evidently at the end of her patience allotment for him today. She turns on her heel without another word, going back to the janitorial closet, likely intent on bothering Vo'ongi about something or other. Even as Orion casually navigates his way back to his quarters, he distantly hopes that one of them will do something about the sexual tension between them. It would be good news, the kind of news they can all use from time to time.
Not for the first time, Orion realizes that a thirst for vengeance isn't something that keeps anyone warm at night, him included.
But Orion, perhaps more than anyone else in his group, is okay with being cold. Revenge may not be enough for some, but it's enough for him. It has to be.
Matthis is good at what he does, but he's right that it takes more than a few days to parse through three thousand years of data. In the end, it takes several weeks before another covert meeting is called, this time in a long-forgotten corridor that is only ever accessed by engineering staff when it's time to recharge the starbase. The interim time had been filled with more soul-sucking missions and one fortunate incident where Orion and Koit had managed to smuggle assignment targets to one of their refuge bases, a bit of silver lining that served to boost morale.
Morale had been particularly low after what the Alliance had ordered them to do in the M'lacal quadrant. It had been nothing short of monstrous - and there had been nothing any of them could do to stop it or even waylay it. There had been no loopholes to exploit, no way to save anyone. There had been nothing but the mission given by the Alliance and they had completed it flawlessly, as expected. And now, the M'lacal quadrant sits dead and empty, a husk of a star circled by two doomed-to-die planets, the people of the quadrant all but decimated.
Orion had come back to the starbase after the mission and stared at his blood-stained skin for hours. He let his loathing of the Alliance harden into ice, something to keep around his heart. He let the spite fill him and he thought, one day. One day it won't be like this. One day, the Alliance won't have this sort of power. One day, the universe would be at peace. One day, Orion wouldn't be a ghastly tool for widespread murder.
That day can't come soon enough.
So it's with no small amount of relief when his group is crowded shoulder-to-shoulder into a cramped space, hidden from sight and sound only by the virtue of Orion's Xianian energy, and Matthis gravely announces that he believes he has found a key point in history that they can work with.
"It's a pivotal point," Matthis explains, arms crossed over his chest as he jerks his chin to the holoscreen at his side. He reclines back further in his chair. "It's the kind of point where there is a clear divergence in a timeline. If this one thing didn't happen, then everything else would be different. I - we - hadn't been sure that such a point existed, which is why we needed the data Orion lifted. But the pivotal point does exist. And I think it's the best opportunity to use."
Koit makes a confused sound. "Wait, so we were literally looking for just one point in time? Seriously? We couldn't have chosen a time that we wanted? It had to be this specific one?"
"It had to be any pivotal time, preferably," Matthis corrects.
Vo'ongi scrubs a hand over the back of his head. "Frankly, any significant point in history might have worked. But Matthis is in charge of theory and he said that pivotal points were going to be the most effective. Think of it like a clean shot," he says, snapping his fingers. "Right through the head is better than the torso, yeah? Less messy."
Matthis grimaces at the comparison, but he doesn't disagree. "Pivotal points are hard to come by. This is the kind of stuff that paradoxes can't even touch, and that makes them hard to undo once they've been changed." He pauses, tapping his finger against his elbow. "This particular pivotal point is...interesting."
"Interesting?" Leta echos.
Orion eyes the disconcerted expression on Matthis's face and keeps his silence, waiting.
"Early," Matthis elaborates after a beat. "Very early in the history of the Alliance."
"How early is early, exactly?" Daaren asks. "A couple of hundred years after the founding?"
Matthis purses his lips. "Try less than a decade," he clarifies, shifting in his chair. "The most pivotal moment in the last three thousand years appears to be the assassination of the Alliance Chief Scientist in 2646."
There is a beat of tense silence as each of them absorbs Matthis's assertion.
Somehow, Orion isn't surprised that the Alliance has been corrupt from nearly day one. He is surprised, however, to learn that the divergence they've been searching for isn't an extreme event in history, but rather the assassination of a single person. Not even the assassination of multiple people - just one. Somehow, the fate of the entire universe was utterly changed by the death of a single person.
It's almost unbelievable. Almost. And maybe it would be entirely unbelievable if not for the fact that Orion has spent the last decade of his life understanding how the butterfly effect unfolds. Time is itself a house of cards waiting to collapse. Take out a single point in the foundation, and the entire timeline crumples. He would know, having been the cause of more than one crumbling foundation.
"So," Koit drawls slowly, breaking the silence. "Who are we trying to save, then? Assuming that's what we're doing."
"We are trying to save her. Preferably, we're trying to save her from assassination while also taking out the corrupt leaders in the early Alliance," Mattis says. "Both parts are important. From what I can see, the way power passed through Alliance generations all started with a few bad seeds at the beginning. A little too much greed, a little too much power, you know? I wouldn't call it a dynasty or anything, but there are a few family names that pop up repeatedly in this history of Alliance leaders, and they seem to be the ones most responsible for the corruption."
"Two-pronged approach, then," Vo'ongi deduces. "Save the scientists and rip the corruption from the root."
"I think it's our best bet," Matthis agrees.
"Who is she, though? This scientist?" Daaren asks with more urgency. "Someone on our side?"
Matthis turns for a moment, briefly tapping on the holoscreen. The screen shifts and scrolls, new files pulled to the foreground until finally, a simple identification headshot dominates the screen. The image is of a young woman, very obviously a Giidas from her curved ears and steely grey eyes; she has a fine-boned face and lips that curl up at the corners just slightly, even though her expression is clearly flat. Orion stares at the image of the Alliance's Chief Scientist from 2646 and can only think that she is very young. Too young to have been assassinated for what he assumes are political purposes.
He's not the only one to think so.
"How old was she?" Leta asks, her voice hushed in the way it only is when she's thinking about her younger sister.
Matthis clears his throat. "Eden was nineteen at the time of her death."
Leta sucks in a sharp breath. Vo'ongi shifts closer, drawing his arm around her back, and Leta leans into him. Orion can only imagine that Leta's thoughts are touching on the tragedy of her family and the untimely demise of her last blood relative. Eden is not as young as Leta's sister had been, but it's close enough.
Orion eyes the picture again, skimming his gaze over the information in Eden's file. Eden's family had been prominent in the former United Federation, not for wealth or power, but for the fact that their lineage was connected to the first record cross-species eugenics in the universe. Eden's parents were high-ranked officials who had still been active in the exploration and research divisions of the United Federation when the Alliance negotiation was brokered; at the time of Eden's death, her parents were traveling on the NOVA starship, which is still known as one of the greatest starships in Alliance history. Eden had also had an older sibling, who was married into the Piarix royal family, and was a decorated Alliance officer in his own right. Eden herself seems to have been promoted within the science division of the Alliance early in her teens, evidently a once-in-a-generation genius who the Alliance wanted to mine for technological advancement. From the way the file reads, it seems like the Alliance was happy with Eden's work.
Orion doesn't understand. If Eden was important - if her family was important - and if Eden was living up to the expectations the Alliance placed on her, then why would they kill her? And why would that make such an impact on the history of the entire universe?
"Why did the Alliance assassinate her?" Orion inquires flatly, fixing Matthis with an expectant look.
Matthis frowns. "I'm not sure. It's not clear. The files are - incomplete. They've been tampered with," he says, shaking his head. "A classic clean-up job. But, if I had to guess, it's because she was radical."
"Radical?" Koit wonders. "Like, radical how?"
Matthis scratches his cheek. "Honestly, it looks like she had some pretty strong feelings about the ethics of scientific advancement. I found a few papers she had published about the ethics of terra-forming on undeveloped planets. She'd argued that it was unethical unless there was salient proof that undeveloped planets would never have the means to create their own life. She apparently didn't like the idea of terra-forming on a planet that already had microscopic life since evolutionary theory would suggest that, given enough time, those planets would be able to develop intelligent life that could one day join the Alliance," he explains, his tone caught between fascination and excitement - and no small amount of belated dread, considering.
Again, the room falls into silence. It doesn't escape their notice, of course, that the Alliance still regularly terra-forms on undeveloped planets to this day for the purpose of increasing habitable homes and expanding natural resources. Of course, the terra-forming the Alliance uses is slow and takes hundreds of years to be successful, but still. Is what the Alliance is doing with undeveloped planets yet another way they are using violence on the universe? Is the Alliance knowingly snuffing out the possibility of organic intelligent life just to expand the grips of its power? If it's true, Orion wouldn't be shocked.
She spoke out against what the Alliance wanted to do and is even doing today, Orion thinks with a twist in his stomach, eyes once again drawn to the image of a girl who was alive three thousand years ago - a girl whose convictions got her killed.
Orion wonders if she knew speaking out would put her in danger, or if she had been blind-sighted.
"How did the assassination happen? Wasn't her family suspicious?" Vo'ongi questions next, seemingly plucking the thoughts right from Orion's head.
Grim displeasure crosses Matthis's face. "I don't have any proof, but I suspect that it was an inside job. The Alliance covered it up with the oldest trick in the book and blamed a vocal anti-Alliance group for the attack. The group was, of course, convicted and never heard from again. As to her family…" Matthis shakes his head. "They must not have suspected anything. They remained officers in the Alliance for a few more generations before retiring back to the Giidas homeworld. There isn't much to be found about them, now. For them, it must have been nothing more than a tragedy."
Well. They're all familiar with that conclusion, aren't they? Nothing the Alliance does ever looks suspicious, does it? Except it always is.
Orion clears his throat. "The plan?"
Here Vo'ongi steps forward, detaching himself from Leta. He falls into the stance of a military leader, arms clasped behind his back, his spine straight as the metal in his bones. "The plan, as you say, is essentially this: Stop the assassination."
Orion lifts his brows. "That's it?"
"Seems like a shit plan," Koit agrees. "It's barely even a plan, actually. That's more like stage one."
Vo'ongi narrows his eyes. "It's the furthest we can plan. We don't know what's going to happen if we prevent the assassination. It could be preventing the assassination doesn't do anything and Matthis has to go find another point in time to correct. Or," he admits with a deep sigh. "It could be that preventing the assassination changes everything and any other plans we make are worthless. For now, we all know what the goal is."
"Take down the Alliance," Leta says.
"Or, if that isn't possible, purify it," Matthis adds.
Orion listens in as the others add their own thoughts. Truth be told, he isn't fully comfortable going in without any concrete plan, but he also knows well enough that messing around with timelines nullifies any plans pretty quickly. If there's anything Orion can sincerely thank the Alliance for, it's the ability to think quickly on his feet. Even if they go into this without a fully detailed plan, Vo'ongi is right.
No matter what they have to do, the goal is never going to change. The Alliance either needs to be cleansed - or it needs to never have as much power as it does today, even if that means it doesn't exist in the future. And at least they'll be able to know if they succeed - each of them has a paradox chip right at the base of the neck, implanted to protect them from the inevitable temporal anomalies that crop up when mercenaries are sent through time. They are, ironically, the most trusted soldiers in the Alliance and are given technology that benefits that status - and with that same trust, they plan to undo everything the Alliance stands for.
Starting with, apparently, a young Giidas named Eden.
"When do we start?"
A/N: When I first started writing Orion, I didn't think his backstory would be so dark. But that bad boy just has oodles of angst in him, so it is what it is. I like him better now, actually!
Which of the new alien cast is your favorite? I'm partial to Vo'ongi!
Red mercury is a purely fictional substance. Like, I literally found it on the "list of fictional chemicals" Wikipedia page. You can generally assume that any other chemicals or technology in this story will also be borrowed from other sci-fi works in the public domain, like Ender's Game or whatever. I don't have the mental capacity to science any of this legitimately!
Stay safe and healthy, peeps. As always, be honest. I can take it. The next update will be May 1, 2021.
~Rae