"We don't want other worlds, we want mirrors."

– Stanisław Lem

Athan's hands gripped the railing as the Triumph of Darron's attitude jets flared white-hot against the star field, pushing his son's ship away from the docking port. The Triumph of Darron was stuttering with uneven thrusts. The kid was flying scared; that much was obvious. Too much power and not enough finesse, but at least he was flying. Twenty years of watching Luca grow up, and Athan had never seen him move with such desperation.

The ship jolted again as a misfired thruster kicked the tail out of alignment. Athan's knuckles went white against the metal rail. He got out. That's all that matters. They got out.

At the airlock, the soldiers in United Earth Republic uniforms were putting on a show. Two of them were yelling into the comm panel, one had started pounding on the sealed airlock, and another paced like a caged animal.

"Sir, should we..." one of his security guards started.

Athan didn't turn. "No." He kept his tone neutral, measured. "We don't interfere. Not unless they breach protocol."

"But if they're not legit, shouldn't we..."

"I said no." He finally looked at the young officer. "We can't afford to pick a fight with the Republic. Not today."

The lead trooper spun away from the airlock and stormed toward Athan.

"Commander Rossi," the man barked, his voice distorted by his helmet's speaker. "Your son just stole Republic property. I demand you order that ship to return, immediately."

Athan turned slowly, letting his gray eyes take in every detail of the soldier's gear.

"Demand?" Athan's voice carried the same tone he'd used on Luca when the boy had tried to sneak out at fifteen. "You boys seem to have forgotten whose station you're standing on."

The marine's helmet tilted slightly, and Athan caught a glimpse of pale eyes through the visor. Young eyes, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of aggressive uncertainty that came from being in over your head. "Sir, we have direct orders from-"

"From who, exactly?" Athan interrupted, stepping closer. "Because last I checked, the United Earth Republic doesn't send teams without prior notification. Where's your warrant?"

The pause stretched too long. Real marines would have had their documentation ready before they'd even docked. These amateurs were improvising, and badly.

"That's classified, sir. We're operating under emergency protocols."

"Gentlemen, I think it's time you returned to your ships," Athan said, his tone suggesting it wasn't really a suggestion. "The Genesis Platform doesn't appreciate visitors who can't produce proper identification."

The soldier hesitated for a moment, then jerked his head toward his companions, and they began backing out of the jetway toward the hangar bay where their shuttles waited.

Athan watched until they'd disappeared around the corner, then immediately activated his comm unit. "Communications office, this is Rossi. Reestablish the encrypted channel to Director Stevens. Full security protocols."

The reply crackled back almost immediately. "Copy, sir. Link in progress. One minute to encryption ready."

While he waited, Athan's mind raced through the implications. If these weren't real Republic soldiers, then who the hell were they? Corporate mercenaries? A faction within the UER?

His comm chimed. "Channel established, sir. You're connected to Director Stevens."

Karen's voice came through. "Athan, we just confirmed what we suspected, they're not UER. They have no knowledge of any seizure operation targeting the Triumph of Darron. I double checked."

Athan's jaw tightened. "So it's a rogue operation. Any idea who?"

"Not yet. But we're working on it. I've sent messages to the UER and Marisol, but no response."

"The Triumph Initiative has full Republic authorization under the Alpha Centauri Survey Expedition Charter. Any action against that ship or the kids would directly violate federal law. You have every right to respond, Athan. Do not let them board."

Before he could respond, the channel crackled as static burst through the line.

"Karen?" he snapped. "Say again."

His personal radio crackled to life, the communications officer's voice tight with panic. "Sir, we're under attack! Multiple armed intruders are forcing their way toward the command center and communications array!"

Athan was already moving before the communications officer finished speaking. "Security teams, converge at the armory. Combat protocols, full authorization." He called over the radio with the kind of calm authority that came from too many years dealing with bullshit in the vacuum of space.

As they neared the command module, Athan could hear the distant hiss of energy weapons discharging. Someone was putting up a fight, which meant his people were still alive and organized. That was something, at least.

"Sir," Sergeant Rodriguez whispered, his voice tight with controlled tension. "How many hostiles are we looking at?"

"Unknown," Athan replied, his hand resting on his sidearm as they approached a junction. "But they had enough resources to fake Republic credentials and plan a coordinated assault. That suggests a professional operation."

He buckled the clasps on his old [Minuteman Medium Armor], the ceramic plates locking into place. He hadn't worn it in years, but it still fit like a glove. Reinforced joints, magnetic sealants, and enough stopping power to eat a rifle shot.

His energy musket felt familiar in his hands, gained when he chose the Minuteman regional combat class in New Hampshire at level 10. The charge indicator on the musket glowed green, enough for fifty shots before he'd need to swap power cells. The musket's scope automatically synced with his visor's targeting system, painting range markers across his field of vision. It was older technology than what his security team carried, but Athan knew its capabilities better than his own heartbeat.

The energy tomahawk was last, its blade catching the light as he secured it to his belt. The weapon, like the Minuteman medium armor set, and his combat class were all regional to New England.

"Rodriguez, take point position. Chen, you're on over watch. Williams, stay tight on my six." His team moved together, each man checking his gear and ammunition with the kind of thoroughness that separated professionals from amateurs.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Through the armory's viewport, Athan caught the shape of a mining hauler sliding against the star field. That was Carl's ship, the Asteroid Queen.

Athan activated his comm system, cycling through frequencies until he found Carl's personal channel. The mining captain's weathered face soon appeared on his display.

"Carl, this is Athan," he said without preamble. "We've got hostiles on the platform. I need your crew armed and moving to the hangar levels. Ten minutes, max."

Carl's eyes narrowed, his expression going from curious to cold in a heartbeat. "How bad?"

"Unknown, but they're organized and well-equipped. It's a professional operation." Athan checked his musket's power cell one more time, a nervous habit from the early days of the System. "They came in pretending to be Republic soldiers, then hit us from multiple places when that fell apart."

"Copy that. My boys have been itching for some excitement anyway. We'll hold the hangar bays."

"Sir," Rodriguez called. "Teams are in position. Carl's people are moving to the hangar levels. We're ready to move out."

Athan drew in a slow breath, feeling the familiar weight of command settling across his shoulders. Outside, his platform was under assault by people who thought they could take what belonged to his family. Inside, his people were looking to him for leadership and protection.

Athan led his security team through the service corridors with the pace of a man who'd learned the difference between speed and haste in a dozen different firefights.

The corridor ahead opened into the main thoroughfare leading to the communications center, and Athan raised his fist in the universal signal for halt.

"Contact front," he whispered into his comm. "Three hostiles. Rodriguez, take the left flank. Chen, you're with me down the center. Williams, hold overwatch position."

The first energy bolt screamed past Athan's head close enough to scar his helmet. He dropped low, raising his energy musket to bear, the weapon's targeting system painting red acquisition markers across his visor display. His first shot took the lead hostile center mass, the energy bolt punching through the man's chest armor in a burst of superheated ceramic and metal.

The corridor erupted into chaos as both sides opened fire, energy bolts slashing through the air, scorching metal and filling it with the crackling stench of ozone.

Athan dropped to a knee, calculating. He reached inward, mentally focused on the trigger that lit up his combat interface like a battlefield HUD. The moment he accepted the strain, everything slowed.

His skill, [Marksmanship Familiarity], surged to the forefront, his grip realigned without thought, barrel tilt correcting by half a degree. The enemy trooper who'd thought he was safe behind a storage tank didn't realize his elbow was exposed. Athan fired. A red bolt sheared through the elbow in a flash of vaporized bone, then tore into the man's chest, blowing him open from the inside.

From behind a support column, two more moved to flank them. His eyes snapped to the angles, [Adaptive Cover Familiarity] mapped his nearest protection like a subconscious overlay, warning him milliseconds before their crossfire would line up. He rolled left, using a fallen bulkhead as a wedge of cover, just as the bolts sliced through the space he'd been kneeling in.

One more ping hit the back of his mind, [Risk Assessment]. The software of his instincts flagged the third target, that subtle shift in stance, the steadier grip, the better gear. Squad leader. Highest threat.

His breath came harder, his brain buzzing from the strain of sustaining all three skills at once, but the clarity it gave him was like nothing he had felt since his delving days. His temples throbbed with the familiar pressure of cognitive strain. He could feel the edge of a migraine blooming, but the clarity was worth it.

Mills was advancing on the left flank when the hostiles' concentrated fire found him. The energy bolt caught him square in the chest, overwhelming his armor's defensive capabilities in a flash of brilliant light. Athan watched in horror as Mills' body armor simply disintegrated, the ceramic plates melting under the intense energy discharge. The man's scream cut off abruptly as he collapsed, smoke rising from the crater where his torso had been.

"Mills is down!" Rodriguez's voice cracked over the comm, the professional calm finally breaking under the reality of losing a teammate.

Athan felt the familiar cold rage settling over him. Mills had been a good man, a veteran who'd chosen to spend his retirement years protecting the shipyard instead of chasing glory. He deserved better than dying in a corridor fighting raiders who couldn't be bothered to declare their intentions.

"Press forward," Athan ordered. "Mills knew the risks. Honor his sacrifice by completing the mission."

They advanced through the smoke and wreckage, stepping over the still-cooling remains of the hostiles Athan had eliminated. The corridor branched ahead, with the communications center visible through reinforced viewports. That's when the flanking maneuver caught them.

Corporal Chen was covering their right side when an enemy trooper opened fire from a maintenance access they'd missed. The energy bolts cut through at an angle that his armor didn't cover, catching him in the neck and shoulder where the ceramic plates couldn't provide full coverage. Chen spun and went down hard, his rifle clattering across the metal decking as blood pooled beneath him.

"Flanker right!" Williams shouted, swinging his weapon toward the new threat.

Athan focused as [Tomahawk Throwing Proficiency] slid into place, his stance shifting before he registered the motion. He spun and hurled the energy tomahawk down the corridor. It whirled silently, a blur of red light that cracked into the enemy's visor. The glass shattered and the helmet buckled. The blade sank deep, chewing through bone.

An explosion of scorched flesh and vaporized brain matter painted the bulkhead behind him.

"Communications center, thirty meters," Rodriguez reported, his voice steady despite having just watched two teammates die. "No visible hostiles, but the entrance looks compromised."

Athan reloaded his energy musket with another energy cell, the fresh power cell slotting into place with a satisfying click. His ammunition counter reset to fifty rounds, enough for the final push if they were careful with their shots. Around them, the platform's emergency lighting cast everything in harsh red shadows, making the blood and scorch marks look like abstract art painted in violence.

The communications center's blast door had been blown open with shaped charges, the reinforced metal peeled back like flower petals to reveal the devastation beyond. Athan stepped through the breach with his musket raised, scanning for threats, but found only death and destruction.

Three staff members lay sprawled across the floor in positions that suggested they'd died trying to defend their equipment. Sarah Nikitina, the night shift supervisor, still had her sidearm in her hand, her body positioned to protect the main console. The dedication was admirable and heartbreaking; these were civilians who'd signed up to manage communications traffic, not fight raiders.

The central communications array was a smoking ruin, its circuitry reduced to slag by targeted energy weapon fire. Banks of servers lay shattered and burned, their data cores physically destroyed to prevent any possibility of recovery. This wasn't random destruction, and someone had known exactly which systems to target for maximum operational impact.

But in the corner, partially hidden behind an overturned desk, one terminal still flickered with amber standby indicators. Athan dropped to his knees beside it as he tried to establish an outbound connection. The system responded sluggishly, most of its processing power diverted to compensate for the destroyed hardware.

"Come on," he muttered. "Just need one clean channel."

The connection finally stabilized, and Athan quickly input the Triumph of Darron's frequency. Static filled the channel for several agonizing seconds before his son's voice broke through, distant and distorted but unmistakably alive.

His message was brief and urgent, words chosen for maximum impact in minimum time. The fake marines were pursuing in shuttles, the platform was compromised, and Luca needed to run fast and far.

The transmission cut out before he could say everything he wanted to, there was no time to tell his son he was proud, no chance to explain about Maddie's dreams of exploration, no opportunity to give the fatherly advice that might keep the boy alive.

Athan stared at the dead terminal, his reflection ghostly in the darkened screen. Around him, the communications center smoldered with evidence of sabotage.

Footsteps. A small squad emerged from the smoke, armor blackened with scorch marks. Reinforcements. But Athan's gut clenched before he could even breathe a sigh of relief, this wasn't one of his security teams, just one of the adventuring squads that lived at the Genesis Platform.

One of them lifted his visor.

"Matteo?!" Athan's voice cracked like a whip, equal parts fury and disbelief. "What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be in bed!"

Matteo flinched at the tone but didn't back down. "I saw the alarms go off, Dad. I geared up. I thought... I had to help."

Athan strode forward, grabbing his younger son by the shoulder, checking him for injuries, and making sure he was real. He was clad in his level 32 medium armor, holding his Energy Carbine.

"Goddammit, Matteo," Athan whispered, his forehead pressed briefly to his son's helmet. He wanted to scream, wanted to drag him back to the apartment by his ear, but instead all he could do was hold him upright. "You shouldn't be here. But… I'm glad you are."

His grip tightened for a second before letting go. "Rodriguez, take Matteo under your wing. He stays with you at all times, or I swear I'll have your head when this is over."

Rodriguez nodded silently and pulled Matteo gently into formation.

Someone had provided the raiders with detailed intelligence about the platform's layout, security protocols, and operational procedures.

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