Larsa, The Saturnian Sphere

Georgios and Euphrosyne Alba

The news arrived in the morning, just before what would have been a long day of work at the farm where the two Alba siblings made their living. Lord Dagon Riaz himself informed them that they would be leaving Larsa by week’s end. Now, they had to settle their affairs and prepare to depart.

To Georgios and Euphrosyne, Larsa had become home. The artificial planet, sparsely populated, served as one of several major agricultural centers of the Old Kingdom. Spared from much of the infighting that fractured their civilization, it had recovered quickly after the Saturnian Civil War. Now under the care of the Glass Kingdom—despite its noble houses’ reputation for fanaticism and superstition—Larsa was well-governed, a laudable prize world, and a beautiful place to live.

“Do you mind if we see Fira first?” Georgios asked as they walked down the road. “I know she’ll be there around this time of day.”

“That works for me,” Euphrosyne shrugged.

Having been left largely untouched by the recent wars, encounters with the scarred, the jaded, and the deranged were rare here. The Albas didn’t know anyone in the community who wasn’t productive, well-to-do, or at least a friend in the making. The fact that they were serfs—the lowest rung of humanoid in the Saturnian Sphere—yet still well received made Larsa feel like a paradise compared to so many other places.

“I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t take my advice and go after her,” Euphrosyne mused. “Might’ve been a short-lived romance.”

Georgios winced, unsure how to feel about how things were unfolding. Fira was a good friend and beautiful, but he was a serf. Even a commoner like her wouldn’t be doing herself any favors getting involved with someone like him. More than that, there was his particular origin. It was enough to keep their relationship where it was.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, at least you won’t have to deal with my suitors anymore.”

If that was supposed to cheer him up, Georgios didn’t see how. Euphrosyne had her fair share of admirers, and many tried to challenge him in some way. Reminding them that he was her brother, not their competition, usually eased tensions.

When it didn’t, well—Georgios had yet to meet a man his own size he couldn’t trounce in a fistfight.

“What if the next place we go is crowded again? Things were worse before we came to Larsa, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Euphrosyne laughed.

She didn’t need to say more—Georgios considered her consolation retracted.

They arrived at a bookstore in Iana, a small town about two hours on foot from their farmhouse. Georgios was a regular, treating the store as a personal study. For his sister, this would be her fourth and likely final visit. Inside, they found only one person: the store’s curator, Fira. She sat with her head down between two texts, one a hardcover and the other displayed on a sleek wooden-finished pad. She was so engrossed in her reading that she didn’t notice them.

“Fira,” Georgios waved to get her attention. “Are you busy?”

“That can definitely wait,” Euphrosyne forced a smile.

“Oh,” Fira looked up. Seeing her rather tall regular and his sister, she beamed. “George and Euphie! Wonderful timing.” She immediately left the counter, heading to the backroom.

The Albas exchanged glances. “Fira? What do you mean?” Euphrosyne called after her.

“She probably found one of the books I asked for,” Georgios guessed.

“I don’t know why you hunt for that stuff. We know more now than anyone living back then.”

“We know some things they didn’t,” Georgios countered gently. Perhaps they had a broader understanding of reality, but the small, day-to-day details of the past—the pivotal events and how they truly unfolded—were largely lost to them.

Fira returned carrying two items. The top one was a book with a thin gray cover, in surprisingly good condition. Below it was a worn blue pad, similar to the one behind the counter but without a custom finish.

“George, this is just a stylish reprint, but it’s the oldest version I could find in Terran,” Fira explained, presenting them with a satisfied grin.

Georgios couldn’t believe his eyes. No amount of scrutiny could erase the gilded text on the cover. A Geneva Bible.

“You actually found one?”

“That’s the Torah and Gospel, isn’t it?” Euphrosyne chimed in. “Are you sure it’s alright for him to take this?”

“Lord Riaz already paid for it,” Fira smirked. “Unless you want me to hold onto it for you—”

Georgios quickly—and gently—took the Bible and the pad with an appreciative nod. The moment it was in his hands, he felt as if a long search had finally come to an end. Reprint or not, in Terran or any other language, this was another portal into the ancient past. And for him, it was personal.

“Thank you so much, Fira,” Georgios said. “It’s so difficult to find these in our sphere.”

Fira crossed her arms, satisfied with his reaction. “I enjoy a good challenge. And besides, these are perfectly legal on Larsa now, so you don’t have to worry, Euphie.”

She then took a step back, eyes narrowing slightly. “By the way, George usually comes alone. Is something going on?”

The Alba siblings frowned at each other before Euphrosyne turned back to Fira. “We have to leave soon. We haven’t been told where we’re going yet.”

Thomas

Georgios and Euphrosyne returned to the farm and found Thomas, alone and gazing off into the distance. Thomas was a man of war, a veteran of both the Saturnian Civil War and the Solar Wars before it. He had been assigned by Dagon himself to protect the royal serfs of House Riaz. His true body had merged with a gray and red machine that towered over the farmhouse in the shape of a man. The siblings caught sight of him from more than a mile away, and his superhuman senses combined with his immense stature gave him a clear view of them along with everything else in the area.

Thomas turned away from the crops and settlements to greet them only once they were within earshot. “Did you finish saying your farewells?” Thomas’ voice resonated from deep within the machine’s chest, as if carried by unseen currents through its metallic frame. Though neither the head nor chest bore any visible speakers, his voice was unmistakably human—crisp, clear, and oddly natural despite its artificial conduit.

“Almost,” Euphrosyne said, thinking back to a few people that had been out for the day when they came to deliver the news.

Georgios shook his head. “Some of them were busy.”

“We’ll finish tomorrow if there’s still time.”

“You were given one week,” Thomas reminded them, “but it’s good to see you taking action now. Anmark and Kimiya are almost finished with dinner. You should go inside.”

“That sounds nice,” Euphrosyne smiled, ready to relax and have a homemade meal after a day spent almost entirely on the move.

“Before that,” Georgios made a gesture at Thomas, “have you heard anything else from Lord Riaz? About where we’re going next?”

“And,” Euphrosyne quickly chimed in, “do you know if the whole group is leaving, or just us?”

“I believe the entire group is leaving Larsa,” Thomas said. “What I can tell you is that a ship is being prepared for all of you. I don’t know its destination, but the voyage will be a long one.”

It sounded like they were finally going to be able to get acquainted with the other serfs in their group, at least if the crew allowed it. When they first arrived on Larsa, they had been sent on separate ships to keep them inconspicuous, limiting their contact with one another. If they were all on one ship this time, there would be no more artificial separation—whether that was a blessing or a curse remained to be seen.

The isolation had been frustrating, but perhaps it was necessary. Georgios had the most recognizable face among them, the likeness of Lord Commander Marduk of the Old Kingdom. The infamous general fell in battle against the Sol System Alliance at the tail end of the Solar Wars. His greatest legacy was the Aeon Reclamation Campaign, which recovered many of the Old Kingdom’s sacred relics but cost over a million serf lives. Instead of uniting the kingdom, it widened the gulf between nobles and serfs, forcing a reckoning with centuries of prejudice. Despite his victories, Marduk’s reputation crumbled under scrutiny in the years after his death.

Euphrosyne sighed as the situation became clearer to her. “So we’re going to be working on another ship. I’m going to make sure to go back to Iana everyday until we leave, then.”

She clearly wasn’t looking forward to the dull colors, the sterile air, or the painstakingly engineered confines of a ship, and neither Georgios nor Thomas could blame her.

“Good,” Thomas nodded. “Georgios, a moment. I’d like to discuss something with you.”

“Just me?” Georgios cocked his head slightly. What did Thomas have for him and only him?

“It’s fine,” Euphrosyne said, “I’ll see you inside.”

Thomas knelt down in front of Georgios, careful not to shake the earth beneath them. Even then he towered almost eleven meters over the royal serf. He waited until Euphrosyne had gone inside the house. “Georgios, there is one more thing about our voyage that concerns you alone.”

Georgios had a hunch of where Thomas was going with this. “My face? Lord Commander Marduk?”

Thomas nodded gravely, “Larsa is a special place. Even before coming here, you and the rest of the serfs were being sheltered for your protection. Wherever Lord Riaz takes us from here, there are going to be eyes on us, and some will recognize your face. They’ll see your predecessor, Marduk. They will not see or acknowledge you. You need to prepare your spirit for that.”

“Right,” Georgios nodded back. Knowing someone as long traveled as Thomas was warning him about this was conjuring up feelings of anxiety. It was an inescapable part of Georgios’ life going forward.

“Apologies. I can only protect your life, not your heart. We need you to be strong.”

“Heh.” It was a funny thought, being strong. The strongest man Georgios knew from the last century was the very tyrant whose face he was born with. The other serfs in their group were similar, genetic copies of important figures from the Old Kingdom, some stretching back hundreds of years, some still living. That’s why they were called the ‘royal’ serfs. To those who still saw serfs as sub-human servants, it was more of an insult than a contradiction.

“You can do it,” Thomas assured him. “You are not Marduk, but you have his strength of will. That will matter more than any name.”

“Even from way up there?” Georgios tried teasing his colossal bodyguard.

“Even from way up here.” With that, Thomas carefully rose onto his feet. “Something else I can see clearly is your new book,” Thomas said.

Georgios could almost feel a smile of sorts forming deep within that featureless face of his. “Fira found an old translation of the Christian scriptures for me. It’s not an original, but I’ll take what I can get,” he explained, holding out the gray book for Thomas.

“Hmm, the holy scriptures of those who bathe in Shah’s light, but never submit to him. Their prayers and offerings drift beyond the stars, seeking something unseen and unknowable. You really don’t take the easy path, do you, Georgios?”

The royal serf couldn’t help but agree.

Ninos Riaz

Ninos’ disappointment burned hotter than he cared to admit, coiling in his chest like a slow, smoldering ember. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to maintain a composed exterior. He was to be given his own ship, the Shepard King. His disappointment came from the news that the crew would be made up entirely of serfs. None of House Riaz’s esteemed noble figures would be setting foot on the ship.

As Ninos locked eyes with the mass of programmable particulates mimicking his father’s bust, along with every move and gesture the patriarch made, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was being punished. Or perhaps he was being sent to Jupiter with these serfs to be out of the family’s way. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became—this was another one of his father’s games.

Ninos exhaled sharply, hesitating for just a moment before straightening his posture. “Why serfs?” he asked, forcing the desperation from his voice. He could do without leaving for the Jovian Sphere as well, but at least that might serve some greater purpose. These serfs were a mistake the various factions of the Old Kingdom were content to keep around. “Why can my new ship not have a real crew?”

“You will have Te’oma and four marines with you,” Lord Riaz offered, his face betraying just a hint of amusement.

Well, Te’oma was a welcome addition, and Varan marines were the best warriors anyone could ask for. Even with just four of them, Ninos could potentially wreak a lot of havoc. Still, that left him with a ‘crew’ made up entirely of the Old Empire’s mistakes.

“And my attendants?”

“No,” Ninos’ father shook his head, “They will return to me before you depart.”

Ninos’ eyes flashed with anger as he was flatly denied. This wasn’t just unusual, it was insulting. For someone of his standing to have to leave behind his own attendants, and for no clear reason, was a slap in the face. “Why?! What’s the meaning of this?!”

“Calm yourself,” Dagon’s hands appeared out of the synthetic particles as he quieted Ninos, “Sooner or later you’re going to have to trust me. I have other work for your attendants while you and your crew are away.”

“I would still like an explanation,” Ninos muttered bitterly.

“Very well.” Dagon took a moment to let Ninos compose himself before continuing. “The serfs I’m placing on your ship are the royals, the ones made in the image of the Old Kingdom’s most prominent souls. They are on Larsa with you right now, in fact. I’m sending you to the Jovian Sphere for eight seasons. There you will be able to work and build yourselves up in ways that are simply not possible in any of the kingdoms. This is not for my benefit, but for yours.”

“So,” Ninos grimaced, “this really is one of your games. I don’t see what’s so important about those serfs you made.”

“As long as you accept their importance to me then I’m satisfied. Come to know them, Ninos,” the Head of House Riaz smiled, “Do that and your affection will far surpass mine in the end.”

Affection?! Ninos was so put off by the notion that he took a half step back from his father and tried to replace the mental image with something, anything else. “Very well. Then tell me—what limits am I working under? Can I expand my crew once we reach the Jovian Sphere?”

Dagon had a good long chuckle, seeing how desperate his son was to mold the situation to his liking. “If you can keep all of the serfs aboard the Shepard King, gain their loyalty, ensure their safety, then eventually, I’ll allow that. I doubt you’ll wish to do so after you’ve had a taste of the Jovian’s society.”

Ninos exhaled slowly, relief flickering beneath his lingering frustration. “Then it’s time for me to go inspect my ship.”

“You’ll find the Shepard King fit for purpose.”

When Ninos stepped out of his bed chambers and into the hall of the estate, he was dumbstruck to find nearly twenty people, all his personal attendants, waiting for him. They formed a benevolent, inescapable semicircle just outside his chambers, their synchronized movements eerily precise as they bowed in unison. The hush that followed was unnerving, the weight of their unspoken devotion pressing against him as he stepped forward.

“W-what is this?” Ninos stammered at the sight of them all.

“Lord Ninos,” a man at the center of the group began, “though we are forbidden from speaking of our new work, know that we continue to serve you as we always have.”

“Please, Lord Ninos,” a woman in the group took a small step forward, “keep us in your heart and prayers as you complete your trials. We will be awaiting your triumphant return.”

For a moment, Ninos hesitated. He considered dismissing their words, brushing off the sentiment as unnecessary. But no—they were doing their best for him, and he owed them the same. Despite the bitterness he felt for his father, he couldn’t help but smile. Most of House Riaz’s nobles had very straightforward relationships with their attendants, but Ninos’ people truly believed in him and served him wholeheartedly. They were the only ones who could. Losing them now, just to serve his father’s scheme, left him feeling truly alone.

Ninos squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, forcing composure into his stance for the sake of his attendants. They were doing their best right now and so should he. Ninos raised his head up and let fire and authority into his voice. “I hear you, now swear to me that in my absence, you will all conduct yourselves as befitting servants of House Riaz.”

“We swear to you, Lord Ninos,” the attendants all spoke in practiced unison.

Maria Magne

“This way, Milady,” a servant woman of House Riaz guided Maria to a special communications room. The servant wore a plain dress and kept her hair contained with two braids and a single hair clip, something normal for people of her standing. Maria, though a serf, was clad in white and gold, her pale blonde locks cascading down her back and legs in flowing waves.

When they reached the entrance, the servant stopped at the door, which parted in two and slid aside for the royal serf. The servant let Maria go in alone to speak with the Queen, bowing her head as she passed.

Maria stepped into a large, circular room, complete with the usual scarab troughs separating the synthetic marble walls and floors. A series of three round, floating platforms formed a beautiful, almost otherworldly terrace at the center of the room. A cool ray of light cast the whole thing in a faint blue hue. Maria stopped just shy of the first platform and waited. The uppermost and the lowest of the three platforms began to send up a dust-like cloud that coalesced into human form. The synthetic particles making up the cloud began to take on solid shapes and colors, and eventually, Queen Smirami VI of the Glass Kingdom was standing at the center of the room.

Maria took a knee before the Queen turned to face her. When she did, Smirami was pleased to see a younger version of herself. The two women had not only the same face, but also the same slender figure and style of dress. Where Maria was clad in white, Smirami’s dress and hair were black as the void. The Queen wore even more gilded jewels and regalia than the royal serf.

Smirami’s smile was quite telling; many of the monarchs currently in power saw the creation of Dagon Riaz’s royal serfs as brazen, tactless, and utterly abominable. Those still living tended to be all the more furious with their pale-skinned doppelgangers, seeing them as political mockery of the highest order, but Smirami had a very different view on them, and Maria in particular.

“Rise now, child,” Smirami insisted. “I don’t like seeing you too humble.”

Maria did as instructed, and Smirami began to descend the platforms to meet her. Maria likewise hoped to meet the Queen somewhere halfway and stepped up to the first platform. The two women embraced on the second platform near the edge.

“I’m afraid I’m still caught somewhere in the middle, Smirami,” Maria said, hanging her head. She was still getting accustomed to addressing Smirami informally like this, but that was what the Queen herself demanded time and again.

“Oh, I know,” Smirami smirked. “Tell me, how did you feel when Dagon told you that you were leaving Larsa? Did he tell you that Jupiter is your destination?”

Maria sighed, the weight of the news settling over her once more. The first time she’d heard it, a hollow dread had taken root in her chest, and now, hearing it again, the feeling only deepened. The situation was all too real. The news that their destination was the Jovian Sphere of all places made things even worse. Only the Iron Kingdom had a strong foothold there, which made it safer in some ways and far more dangerous in others. Not to mention the people there and their corporatized way of life. Maria had read all about them in her studies of other cultures, and she found the nations of the Mid and Inner Spheres to be decadent and simpleminded.

“Terrible,” Maria answered the Queen after some thought. “I felt terrible. I’m afraid we’ve squandered your generosity, if nothing else.”

“Well, I did tell the man you could stay here as long as you wanted. I’d nearly forgotten how whimsical he is.”

“Also,” Maria continued, “I still have much to learn from you. Regular communication will be more difficult between spheres.”

“It certainly will be,” Smirami nodded her agreement. “I’ll miss you too, child, but consider all that you can do for us abroad.” The Queen placed her hands on Maria’s shoulders, and by that gesture alone compelled the royal serf to lock eyes with her. “I have children of my own, heirs and grandchildren, but you are special to me, Maria. More than you know. I want to make certain you’re prepared for whatever that Dagon puts on you, so remember my lessons and remember them well.”

Maria held Smirami’s gaze, the Queen’s words stirring an old memory—one of their first meetings, when Smirami had made her expectations painfully clear. You are me, and I am you. I won’t allow those shortsighted fools to kill you, nor will I allow you to disgrace yourself over your serf blood. All that matters are your ties to me, not your class. So if you do err, err as a queen errs. I am Smirami, the Queen of Storms, and Sovereign of the Glass Kingdom. So what does that make you, Maria?

The royal serf nodded. Her answer to Smirami was, to this day, still forthcoming, but she was beginning to understand. “I will.”

Smirami’s gaze hardened slightly, her eyes questioning Maria’s resolve intently without so much as a word.

Maria noticed, swallowed her doubts, and put more fervor into it. “I will.”

Smirami let slip a mischievous grin at the improved response, but she wouldn’t let Maria off so easily. “Prove it. Show me what happens to anyone who would dare humiliate Maria Magne.” On cue, the platforms the two women stood on began to release more synthetic particles in several large plumes. They quickly took on the form of tall, armored warriors, heedless and merciless. “Do you remember the techniques I taught you? Can you use them at will?”

Maria took a cautious step down to the first platform, her pulse steady but her mind sharpening. The weight of Smirami’s expectations pressed against her, but she welcomed it. This was a test—one she had no intention of failing. “I do, and I can,” she ensured Smirami. Her confidence returned and enveloped her. If there was one thing she was comfortable doing, it was destroying things. That was something she knew for certain she had inherited from the Queen of Storms.

Nero Bellomi and Sheridan Ó Seanáin

“So you’re the Successor of Venus.”

Nero had made it a priority to introduce himself to any other serfs on Larsa he encountered during his daily routines. Oftentimes, he’d invite them to his favorite restaurants for a drink, and they would get to know each other. His reasons for seeking them all out were myriad, but chiefly, Nero wanted to know his own people—his fellow royals in particular. As one of the royal serfs of House Riaz, he was constantly being moved from one settlement or ship to another, with barely a season or two between departures. In all that time, he only ever came across one other royal: Sheridan.

Nero’s theory that the royal serfs were, as a whole, being kept in completely different areas had to be right.

As for this Successor of Venus, her name was Sheridan Ó Seanáin of all things. Like Nero, her name had a heavy nationalistic tilt to it that was almost impossible to ignore. 1st Generation serfs like the royals were typically named by their lords and allowed to pick their own surnames. It had been no different for Nero, who decided that a surname with the same national origin as his given name would suit him best. He was beginning to wonder if it was a common thing among humans or if that was something built into his people. Despite looking mostly human, their psychology was different in subtle ways.

“Have you met anyone else?” Nero asked, not confident but still hopeful.

“None of the royal serfs,” Sheridan offered an apologetic smile, a subtle yet striking expression that seemed almost effortless. “The only serfs I met since coming to Larsa were all locals.” She paused a moment to consider something. “Mm, no. My attendants should not count.”

“Attendants?” Nero cocked an eyebrow. “You have attendants?” Sheridan certainly looked the part to have attendants, even being a serf. She may have dressed like a young middle-class urbanite, but Sheridan wasn’t fooling anyone. Her features were delicate, her white hair long and silky, perfectly kept—too refined for anything but nobility.

“Only two,” Sheridan noted with a hint of confusion.

“Well, that’s two more than I have,” Nero laughed.

The look on Sheridan’s face went from mild confusion to playful indignation in an instant. “What? Bellomi, are you not a successor of King Sarkon?”

Nero gave a long, noncommittal shrug. “Maybe? If I survive long enough.”

Unfortunately for him, King Sarkon, unlike Sheridan’s ancestor, was still alive, and he wasn’t particularly happy to have a serf clone of himself running around. If the two men ever met face to face, one of them was almost certainly going to die right then and there.

“I don’t think he likes me.”

“I can see why,” Sheridan exclaimed, teasing Nero. “You work in a factory, have no servants, no wives, command no armies. Why settle for so little? You should be the very image of the Golden Kingdom.”

“I guess I have been taking it too easy,” Nero admitted, playing along. “Being shuffled from place to place is no excuse. So give me some time. I’ll have a harem, a fleet, and everything else. Then maybe he’ll let it go.” That was doubtful, but Nero didn’t really care what the ‘King of Babylon’ thought of him. He was just another man that everyone, for want of their gods, agreed was king and left it at that.

“Wonderful,” Sheridan’s smile grew. “That is just what I expect from the King.”

Sheridan certainly wasn’t what Nero was expecting. As he talked with her, he learned that she was not only a clone of Queen Ashe, the ‘Queen of Venus’ during the early 2200s, but had studied the long-deceased monarch very carefully in order to reproduce some of her incredible abilities. Of particular interest to Nero was her pacifying aura.

“So it’s not just you,” Nero theorized. “Anyone close to you is affected the same way.”

“Yes,” Sheridan nodded deeply. “It affects me the most, of course.” As a matter of proximity, that was inevitable. Sheridan had trained her biofield intensely over the years in order to achieve a passive harmonization. This ‘field effect’ caused others to experience a subtle calm only possible through a harmonizer device. Sheridan, being near the center of the field and thus under its strongest effects, was both blessed and cursed to be in a perpetual state of sanguinity all of her days.

Sheridan’s expression, while genuine, took on a whole new meaning for Nero. It wasn’t just a reflection of her mood—it was a constant, unwavering expression, shaped as much by her inheritance as by her own will. This was her inheritance from Queen Ashe. The thought unsettled Nero, but he kept his reaction buried beneath his usual nonchalance.

“And what about you, Bellomi?”

Nero leaned back slightly, giving her a lopsided grin. “Oh, nothing quite as charming as keeping people calm. I mostly make things worse.”

Sheridan tilted her head, intrigued. “Worse? How so?”

“Let’s just say I’d rather not use what I can do unless I absolutely have to.” He waved a hand dismissively, as if brushing away the thought. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing that wins people over at parties.”

Sheridan studied him for a moment, her usual warmth giving way to curiosity. Her gaze lowered slightly, fingers idly tracing the edge of the table as if weighing her next words. “That doesn’t seem like you, Bellomi. Someone so easygoing—yet capable of such destruction?”

Nero gave a short laugh, keeping his tone light. “Hey, I never said I was good at picking hobbies.”

She exhaled through her nose, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, her expression softened—gentle yet knowing, her head tilting slightly as if amused by some private joke. “Very well, Bellomi. I’ll try not to make you explode, then.”

Nero smirked, shaking his head. “Appreciate it. I like keeping my limbs where they are.”

Carmen Rahela Cassandra

The Shepard King rested quietly in a dockyard deep underground. Any work that was to be done on the ship that day had concluded hours ago. Carmen took advantage of the situation and quietly entered the dock in the relative darkness. She managed to sneak aboard the Shepard King with credentials she didn’t know she had; she expected the system to try and keep most of the serf crew members out until a few days before the launch. That was odd, but Carmen wasn’t complaining. She was going through the Shepard King‘s roster, as it presented her with a unique opportunity.

“Maria Magne, clone of Smirami VI of Ninua. Nero Bellomi, clone of Sarkon of Babylonia. Georgios Alba, clone of Marduk of Ganymede, Jupiter. Euphrosyne Alba, clone of Isabelle of Babylonia. Sheridan Ó Seanáin, clone of Ashelia of Venus.”

Carmen’s eyes took in every detail of each profile as she went through them, her grip tightening subtly around the console. She had spent years knowing the others existed but never seeing their names in one place like this. It made them feel real—closer, yet still out of reach.

“And last,” she breathed, “Carmen Rahela Cassandra, clone of Rachel ‘Tiamat’ of the Void.”

She let the words settle in her mind for a moment. Her name at the bottom of the list. A name that might as well be a warning.

Carmen exhaled through her nose and pushed forward. She had access to more than just the crew manifest. That was fortunate—she had no intention of waiting to be told what kind of ship she had been placed on. She pulled up more files, scanning each entry until something caught her attention.

Neogigans.

Her fingers hovered over the screen as she read the limited details available. There were two of them, currently stored aboard the Shepard King, their names and specifications partially redacted. They had their own designated docks in the main hangar—seating arrangements for fifteen-meter war machines. Carmen had spent her entire life moving between secure locations, but she had never once been stationed on a ship that carried Neogigans. That was enough to get her moving.

She followed the schematics until she reached a service corridor leading into the main hangar. The dim lighting barely reached the far end of the vast chamber, leaving much of it in shadow. As she stepped onto the walkway at lower back height, her eyes locked onto the two massive figures seated across from each other in their docks.

The Neogigan directly across from her was the only one facing her. Even in the dark, its silhouette was unmistakable. The reinforced plating, the layered armored joints, the smooth yet imposing design—it was like something waiting to wake up. Its lifeless optics reflected what little light reached it, giving the eerie impression of something watching her in return.

Carmen moved carefully, turning toward the Neogigan closest to her. This one had its back to her, its structure partially obscured by the dock’s support beams. She entered the dock itself, stepping lightly as she reached the front, where the abdomen access hatch was located.

Her fingers brushed the exterior plating, tracing the seams between reinforced layers. The surface was cold, unnervingly smooth in some places, rough and scarred in others. The inconsistencies reminded her of the scattered reports she had read—how the original Gigans had been imperfect, unstable, their designs flawed in ways no one could fully control. For a moment, she wondered if these machines carried echoes of that same instability, if they, too, might one day slip beyond control. The hull was cold, but beneath the surface, she could sense something faint, a field different from a human’s, but still present. She withdrew her hand, watching the cockpit’s entrance in silence.

The thought crossed her mind—she could enter. Just to see. Just to confirm.

She glanced back across the hangar. The far Neogigan remained still, its unmoving gaze locked in her direction.

Carmen turned away from the cockpit, stepping back out of the dock. She had seen enough for now.

Before she left, she made sure to erase any trace of her access, closing out her credentials as if she had never been there. One last glance at the silent war machines, and then she was gone.

Carmen followed the corridors until she reached the section of the ship where the crew quarters were located. She accessed the system once more, pulling up the information on her assigned room. The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a space that was hers in name, if nothing else.

Stepping inside, she let her eyes roam over the standard furnishings: a bed, a desk, a storage unit, all neat and untouched. She crossed the room, brushing her fingers lightly over the surface of the desk, but she didn’t sit. She barely even acknowledged the bed, standing at its edge but refusing to lay claim to it just yet.

Her gaze drifted to the reflection in the darkened display screen across from her. The face looking back was her own—except it wasn’t. It belonged to someone else, someone long dead but never forgotten. Rachel ‘Tiamat’ of the Void. The face that had shaped fear itself in the Jovian Sphere.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers momentarily stilling against the desk before she withdrew them. This was just another place. Another station, another room. But something about it felt different. Permanent.

Carmen turned away from the reflection, stepping back toward the door. She wasn’t ready to sit. She wasn’t ready to sleep. Not yet.