Chapter 1: Shadows at the Relay
The stars hung silent in the void above Relay 314, distant pinpricks of light dancing across the matte canvas of uncharted space. Even the mass relay itself—an ancient, majestic structure of impossible scale and elegance—sat dormant in the deep, a monument to power and mystery older than the Turian Hierarchy itself. For Captain Nalaros, this region of space was quiet, isolated, and above all, irrelevant. And yet, the Praetorian Guard, a mid-sized cruiser of the 7th Turian Vanguard, had been stationed here for seventeen cycles, circling like a hawk around a corpse no scavenger dared touch. A precaution, the brass had said. A strategic fallback point. A line in the sand, however metaphorical, should the Terminus pirates or rogue Batarian warlords get any foolish ideas.
Captain Nalaros did not care for metaphors. He was a soldier, bred by the state and tempered by war. His carapace bore the dull scarring of small arms fire and shrapnel, his mandibles no longer twitched when confronted with moral ambiguity, and his voice had grown low and gravelly over decades of barking orders. His crew respected him, feared him perhaps, but he neither encouraged nor demanded affection. Discipline, vigilance, routine—these were his gods. And today, just like the last few dozens of days, the Relay remained quiet, and his ship executed its patrols with unerring precision.
That changed when the relay activated.
It began with a ripple of light, a barely perceptible shimmer on the edge of long-range scanners. Then came the gravitational pulse, the kind that seasoned officers like Nalaros could feel in their bones even before the instruments caught it. Within seconds, klaxons blared throughout the command deck, and the crew moved like a well-oiled machine.
"Unscheduled activation," called out officer Kendras from the sensor console, his voice taut with professionalism. "No prior Citadel authorization. Repeat, this is not a drill."
Nalaros stepped forward, his black-and-crimson armor reflecting the low light of the command bridge. His claws wrapped around the handrail as he stared at the viewscreen. "Relay 314 has been dormant ever since its discovery. No scheduled transits, no known fleets. Who in the spirits is coming through?"
Kendras's talons tapped furiously across the interface. "Initial readings are...inconclusive. Object emerging now."
"Visuals."
The screen bloomed into light as the relay flared, a storm of energy dancing around the central ring. Then, like a specter drawn from some ancient fable, a ship emerged. It slid from the maw of the relay slowly, deliberately, shedding mass effect static like a god brushing off stardust. The vessel was unlike anything in the Citadel archives. It lacked the sleek curves of Asari designs or the modular rigidity of Salarian craft. It wasn't angular and militaristic like Turian ships, nor was it the blunt, practical steel of Krogan vessels. It was...a fusion. Smooth and industrial, elegant yet functional. Its hull shimmered with matte-white plating, dotted with modular red markings and a stylized emblem: a star inside of a cog. Beneath it, foreign script glowed faintly in red letters.
Nalaros narrowed his eyes. "That's no Pirate vessel. Unknown IFF signature?"
"Completely unknown," Kendras confirmed. "I've run it through the database three times. Not Batarian, not Salarian, not from any known Terminus pirate bands or lost pre-Prothean wrecks. Design language is recognizable, but there are deviations. Major deviations. They've got tech signatures we don't recognize—fusion heat blooms that don't match Citadel drives. Power core is unusually stable. No distress signals. They're not damaged."
"Is it armed?"
"Moderately," Kendras said, voice tight. "Some visible turrets. But it's not broadcasting a combat stance. No active targeting scans. Shields are up, but that's protocol. It looks...calm."
Nalaros flexed his claws slightly, mandibles twitching. He had seen plenty of first contacts in his long career—minor pirate clans, feral Krogan warbands—but this felt different. This ship wasn't broadcasting fear or aggression. It was...watching. Waiting. As if it expected a response.
He turned to his comms officer. "Bring us to standard intercept range. Forty-five degree vector, minimal EM profile. Don't give them any reason to panic."
The bridge crew moved quickly. The Praetorian Guard pivoted in the void, gliding like a blade of obsidian toward the relay and the ship now stationed in front of it. As the cruiser approached, its lights played across the foreign hull. Nalaros took the moment to study its shape—sloped plating, retractable external pylons, venting ports near the prow that looked modular and efficient. Whoever built this didn't do it to impress. This was a workhorse. A long-range scout? A diplomatic frigate? A vanguard?
"What's the comm traffic like?" Nalaros asked.
"Nothing yet. They're passive. No hails, no beacons. Either they're listening or unsure how to proceed."
Nalaros leaned forward. "Then let's break the silence."
He cleared his throat. His voice, when it came, was sharp and commanding, honed by years of military ritual and interstellar diplomacy. "Activate the universal greeting protocol. Transmit in all known frequencies. Cycle through primary Citadel tongues—Turian, Asari, Salarian, and all the others. Attach IFF tags and standard first contact declarations."
"Yes, Captain," Kendras replied, hands dancing across the console. "Transmission sent. Awaiting response."
For a moment, silence returned. It was the heavy, loaded kind of silence that existed before a storm. Nalaros could feel the weight of it pressing against his plating. Something shifted in his chest—not fear, not yet, but something adjacent. A sense of tectonic motion beneath the stars. The feeling one got when the galaxy's narrative took an unexpected turn.
He broke the tension with a low growl. "Kendras."
"Yes, sir?"
"Keep us on alert. This could be the start of something big."
The comms crackled. A pulse of data burst through, then a voice—not distorted, not broken by translation software or interference, but smooth, clear, and hauntingly composed. A man's voice, laced with calm authority, spoke in refined Turian. Not perfect, but practiced.
"This is the Red Dawn, diplomatic vessel of the Union of Socialist Planetary Republics. We come in peace, bearing greetings from humanity. We request dialogue."
Kendras sat still. His mandibles shifted slightly. "Did he say...Union?"
Nalaros didn't answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the viewscreen, on the strange ship that had appeared from the void like a ghost from a future yet unwritten. A thousand thoughts bloomed in his mind: where were they from? How long had they been out there? Why had the Citadel Council never seen them before? Was this real, or some elaborate game played by rogue elements?
But above all, he felt it again—that sensation of standing on the precipice. The unshakable awareness that nothing, absolutely nothing, would be the same again.
"Prepare a secure diplomatic channel," Nalaros ordered. His voice was quieter now, but no less steady. "Route it through Command. Mark this encounter as Alpha-tier priority."
Kendras nodded, talons moving. "Understood."
As the Praetorian Guard hovered in silent vigil beside Relay 314, its engines humming like the breath of some ancient beast, Captain Nalaros allowed himself a rare pause. He studied the stars beyond, the relay's pulse slowly dying down, and the alien vessel waiting just ahead. He had seen war, rebellion, insurrection, and uneasy peace. He had buried soldiers and watched empires shift. But never had he felt what he felt now—not anticipation, not fear, but a sense of living history.
And in the quiet between transmissions, Kendras turned to him once more. His voice was low, edged with something uncharacteristically human.
"They answered, sir. They're real."
Nalaros nodded once. Then, with a slow exhale, he gave the order that would echo through the rest of the galaxy for decades to come.
"Open the channel."
And with that, the Turian captain stepped into the unknown.
The hum of the Red Dawn's engines was a low, steady thrum beneath Diplomat Thomas Pike's boots as he stood near the forward observation window, his hands clasped behind his back. The ship glided silently through the void, nearing the glittering, ancient mass relay designated 314—a point of no return in more ways than one. This wasn't just an expedition; it was the culmination of decades of preparation, of steady, careful exploration carried out with a precision that the Union of Socialist Planetary Republics had refined since it had first ventured beyond Earth. This was the moment where humanity, under the red banner of unity and equity, would step beyond the Orion Arm of the galaxy and confront the broader cosmos. And Thomas Pike, son of steel workers from Detroit, was the chosen face of that leap.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing on the towering ring of the mass relay, a silver halo wreathed in pulsating blue light. Even having reviewed the data countless times, even knowing its activation sequence to the millisecond, the real thing awed him. Relay 314 had been dormant for eons, untouched by the few species that had ventured this far galactically speaking. It had taken years of probing, debate, and the construction of an experimental frigate-class diplomatic vessel to even consider activating it. Some within the USPR's Congress had wanted to wait longer, to fortify more core worlds, to ensure total defensibility before risking contact with unknown civilizations. Others, like Premier Morozov and the Science Commission, had argued the opposite. The time for dialogue and expansion was now. The USPR was strong, cohesive, and ideologically grounded. Any contact must happen from a position of confidence and solidarity, not retreat or hesitation.
Thomas had supported the decision. Now, standing aboard the Red Dawn as her senior diplomat, the weight of that support felt tangible in his chest. The stars beyond the relay shimmered like old promises waiting to be claimed. Around him, crewmembers moved with efficient calm, all dressed in the practical yet dignified navy blue uniforms of the USPR Foreign Service Corps. The bridge wasn't militarized—though the vessel had defensive capabilities, it was clearly and intentionally designed to look like a civilian embassy ship: smooth curves, minimalist architecture, and the Union's insignia—a stylized star inside a cog—etched into the walls in soft gold.
Captain Savitskaya, a composed woman with a pilot's instincts and a scientist's mind, stood at the helm, her gaze locked on the relay's core as the activation sequence continued. Thomas turned toward her when the harmonic vibration deepened, signaling imminent mass effect alignment.
"We're ready?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
Savitskaya nodded once. "Power stable. Navigation synchronized. Jump in twenty seconds. All systems green."
Thomas took a slow, steady breath. "Let's step forward, then."
The Red Dawn surged forward as the relay's internal core flared to life, swallowing the ship in a cocoon of impossible light. Space warped, bent, and twisted around them—and then there was nothing.
No sensation. No time.
And then, abruptly, they emerged in an uncharted star system. The suddenness of the transition never failed to unsettle even trained crews, but Pike merely leaned on the railing of the observation deck and stared.
Relay 314's destination was a clean, binary system—the stars burning with a crisp brilliance against the dark canvas of space. Scans had long suggested only one inhabitable planet in the system and minimal activity. It was why this location had been selected as the point of entry. But almost immediately, the sensors began chirping with new data.
"Contact!" called Lieutenant Yui from the comms console. Her voice was sharp, trained, yet laced with something beneath the surface—excitement or apprehension. "Unidentified vessel detected. Bearing ninety-two by three-seventeen, medium-range. They're moving to intercept."
Captain Savitskaya narrowed her eyes. "Raise shields, but no weapons. Diplomatic posture. Get me visuals."
The main screen lit up—and there it was.
A vessel, sleek and angular, bristling with forward-mounted plates and a spine-like structure that gave it a predatory silhouette. Its hull shimmered in the starlight, a blend of dark metals and integrated tech unlike anything Thomas had ever seen. Alien, yes—but beautiful in a stark, utilitarian sort of way. The Turian patrol ship, though they didn't know its name yet, was approaching at a cautious speed, neither threatening nor fleeing.
Thomas felt his heart begin to race. This was it. This was the defining moment of his generation, a milestone of their cosmic journey. He had trained for this, lived for this. Hours spent pouring over linguistic matrices, cultural pattern analysis from ancient human history, diplomatic strategy refined through the lens of socialist ethics. He had read Marx and Morozov, Sinclair and Lenin, memorized every major historical contact protocol and its ideological failings. The mistakes of Earth's first contact with its own peoples—from colonization to forced integration—would not be repeated here. The USPR was different. They came not to dominate or consume, but to offer solidarity, peace, and a new paradigm of galactic cooperation.
"Status?" he asked, his voice calm despite the quiet thunder in his chest.
Lieutenant Yui responded swiftly. "The ship is broadcasting some sort of active scan. It doesn't match any known protocols. Language structure is undeciphered, but analysis suggests it's a variant of phonetic-syntactic relay communication—possibly vocal-based."
Thomas nodded. That was expected. Language would be the first hurdle, but USPR linguistics AI had been trained on thousands of Earth languages and hypothetical xenolinguistic constructs.
"I want to prepare an opening transmission," he said. "Multispectral frequency, diplomatic format. Flag it with our universal greeting sequence. Civilian vessel, peaceful intentions, cultural exchange."
Savitskaya gave a brief nod. "Do it. And... good luck, Comrade Pike."
He left the bridge quickly, heading down the corridor toward the diplomatic chamber, a room built like a miniature auditorium—half control center, half ceremonial hall. The central transmission seat was flanked by two AI assistants and lined with real wood, polished by hand. Behind him, a red and gold tapestry with the Union's emblem hung proudly. Everything about this chamber had been engineered to evoke calm, dignity, and openness.
Sitting down, Thomas activated the transmission interface. His voice would be translated through three levels of encoding: direct audio, symbolic syntax overlays, and a visual primer introducing basic USPR symbols—flags, planetary depictions, and human physiological models rendered without unnecessary flair.
The AI assistant, a gentle-toned personality named Apollo, waited for confirmation.
Thomas reviewed his speech one final time before speaking.
"To any sentient beings receiving this message," he began, voice steady, precise, and free of affectation, "this is Diplomat Thomas Pike of the Union of Socialist Planetary Republics, representing the people of Earth and its neighboring systems. We come in peace, in mutual respect, and in the spirit of solidarity. Our vessel, the Red Dawn, is a diplomatic envoy sent to establish contact, learn from new civilizations, and offer friendship on the basis of equality and cooperation."
He paused, letting the AI parse and broadcast.
"We are a unified, post-capitalist civilization committed to social justice, the advancement of knowledge, and the dignity of all sentient life. We reject colonialism, hegemony, and coercive systems of power. Instead, we believe in shared destiny—where the liberation and development of one species contributes to the progress of all."
Thomas leaned slightly forward, the lighting catching the sharp lines of his face.
"We understand that contact may be unexpected. If this is your first encounter with humanity, we extend our goodwill and seek open dialogue. We do not seek dominance or territory. We seek understanding and partnership."
The message ended with a visual of the Union flag, followed by a brief loop of translated universal mathematical sequences and chemical elements—enough to ground the message in objective reference points.
Thomas exhaled as Apollo confirmed transmission.
"Message sent on all compatible channels. Awaiting response," she said.
He returned to the observation window as the Turian vessel adjusted course slightly, slowing its approach. The wait was brief—no more than a minute—but it stretched into infinity for Thomas. His palms were damp with sweat, though his face remained composed. History, after all, did not allow for nerves.
Then, without fanfare, the ship's communications terminal flickered to life.
"Receiving transmission," Yui's voice crackled through his earpiece. "Audio only. Unknown language—AI is parsing... Wait—linguistic breakthrough at forty-eight percent. Partial translation enabled."
The message began.
It was rough at first—segments distorted, syntax odd—but a clear voice emerged, commanding and alien yet unmistakably sentient. Male, perhaps. Military, judging by the cadence and structure. The translation AI worked quickly, filling gaps, smoothing phrases.
"This is Captain Nalaros of the Citadel patrol vessel Praetorian Guard. You are trespassing in a restricted sector under Citadel jurisdiction. Identify your origin and purpose immediately."
The voice was stern, laced with suspicion—but not hostile.
Thomas smiled faintly.
He returned to the transmission chair and opened a live channel.
"This is Diplomat Thomas Pike of the Red Dawn. We acknowledge your message, Captain Nalaros. We mean no harm, and we are unaware of any existing jurisdiction. We seek peaceful first contact, cultural dialogue, and clarification of territorial designations. Our civilization is new to your galactic region and unaware of local governance structures. We are ready to explain and exchange information."
He allowed the translator AI to modulate tone and syntax for cultural diplomacy. His voice remained level, measured, neither too formal nor overly casual. The dawn of contact was not a time for theatrics.
For a few seconds, there was silence.
Then, a reply. "Stand by. Further contact will follow."
And just like that, the first words between the USPR and the wider galaxy had been spoken.
Thomas sat back in the chair, the weight of centuries pressing down and lifting all at once. Whatever came next—whether partnership, suspicion, or something darker—humanity had stepped through the relay not with weapons drawn, but with words offered. With solidarity, not subjugation.
He looked again at the alien ship in the distance, its lights faint but steady. Somewhere aboard it, a Turian captain was processing the encounter. Somewhere, a system of ancient interstellar power was being nudged by the presence of something truly new.
And in this quiet space between stars, between civilizations, a seed had been planted.
Not of empire.
But of revolution.