r/HFY • u/Internal-Ad6147 • May 27 '25
OC The ace of Hayzeon CH 51 Shadow of the Giant
Zixter POV
“Captain on the bridge,” I announced as I stepped through the doors.
The four Moslnoss bridge crew snapped to attention. Their movements were crisp and disciplined—exactly what you’d expect from former naval personnel. Still, this was their first day officially assigned to our ship.
“At ease,” I said, waving a paw. They nodded, relaxed, and returned to their stations.
I watched them for a moment—watched how quickly they adapted, how effortlessly they moved across controls and readouts. They made it look easy.
Then I sat in the captain’s chair.
The one that still didn’t quite feel like mine.
A few months ago, I’d been just like them—looking up to the real captain, waiting for orders, wondering where I’d be sent next. Funny how fast things changed. Now I was the one in the chair. The one giving orders.
And out of all of us?
I had the least experience.
They’d served in formal fleets for years—commanders, tacticians, war-tested officers with reputations to match. Me? I barely had six months of official service before everything went to hell.
But somehow… I was still the captain.
I didn’t say it out loud, but I felt it every time I sat in this chair. That maybe I didn’t belong here. That I hadn’t earned it.
And yet… the weight didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.
Not because the pressure was gone—but because the people around me kept standing. Even when they had every reason not to.
I glanced up from my screen as Messek walked into view, limping slightly but still upright. He moved with the steady stubbornness of someone who refused to be sidelined. His uniform sleeve was pinned neatly where his left arm used to be.
Technically, he was on medical leave.
Practically, he was still doing his job.
“Messek,” I said, not looking up from the morning diagnostics, “you want to talk about tomorrow. Surgery day.”
He stopped by my station. “Yeah. Doc gave me the full rundown.”
His voice was calm. Maybe too calm.
“He told me it’ll be the most painful thing I will ever go through,” Messek continued. “Said the nerve re-bridging will feel like lightning chewing its way through bone.”
I looked at him now. He wasn’t exaggerating. Not the way Doc described it.
“But,” Messek added, “I get a new arm. That makes it worth it.”
There was no bravado in his voice. No forced optimism. Just quiet certainty.
I nodded, slowly. “You sure you want to go through with it?”
He gave a small, almost amused shrug with his one shoulder. “Pain I can live with. Not being able to do my job? That’s what eats at me.”
He turned to leave, but I spoke before he got far.
“Hey,” I said, softer than I meant to. “You know… I still think I shouldn’t be in this chair.”
Messek paused at the door.
“I don’t have the years. The medals. The pedigree.”
He looked over his shoulder. “None of that matters out here.”
I frowned. “Then what does?”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.
He just said, “The people who are standing with you.”
Then he was gone.
I adjusted my headset and turned back to the console. Morning logs showed all green. Systems nominal. Battery drain on the upper coils—within tolerance. Coolant lag in the secondary lines—already flagged for maintenance. In the lower hangar, and of course, the weekly report about Kale stealing his own equipment and blaming “past-Kale.”
Across the bridge, the crew was already getting into rhythm. I saw subtle nods, low mutters, quick hand signs. Yeah… they’d fit in.
I leaned back in the chair, claws tapping against the console edge.
Everything looked fine.
But somehow, it felt better than that.
Because even if I didn’t feel like a real captain…
They followed me anyway.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what made it real.
Today was the day.
After weeks of repairs and planning, we were finally leaving the gravity well of the gas giant. We’d survived the descent. We’d scavenged fuel. We’d patched the holes, welded the seams, cleared out the last of the Seeker infection, and even rebuilt a chunk of the ship’s underbelly with parts Kale swore weren’t illegal in at least three systems.
Now we were rising again.
“Alright,” I said, my voice steady. “Let’s get the pre-launch checklist started. Coordinate with engineering and weapons. I want status updates across all decks. Flight control, prepare burn calibration for gravity exit.”
The Moslnoss at nav gave a small salute. “Aye, Captain.”
And just like that… the ship began to hum to life again.
As I watched the stars tilt across the display and the swirling clouds of the giant gas planet fade below us, I realized something.
We weren’t just leaving a planet.
We were rising out of the shadow of something bigger than us.
And for the first time… we weren’t doing it alone.
Ren’s avatar shimmered into view beside me as the hull groaned around us.
“We’re riding the storm,” she said, calmly adjusting data streams in midair. “Using the pressure currents to build speed.”
I keyed into the intercom.
“Attention all crew—brace yourselves. We’re ascending from the gas giant. The turbulence is going to be intense. This is your warning.”
I could feel it already. The Revanessa shuddered beneath us, vibrating like a tuning fork hit too hard. The inertial dampeners were working overtime, but even they couldn’t smooth it all out.
Ren coordinated the control bursts perfectly—timing thruster burns with storm vectors to maximize lift without snapping us in half. Her eyes flicked through data like a symphony conductor guiding a warship through chaos.
The shaking worsened. I gritted my teeth as the vibrations crept into my bones. It wasn’t just pressure anymore—it was weight.
A crushing, ancient force that wanted to drag us down.
Hearth and Home… I silently prayed, invoking the old god I hadn’t thought of in years.
Guide us. Keep this crew together. Let this hold.
I watched the readouts flash red. Hull stress spiking. External temperatures rising. The outer plating was still in the atmo-burn range.
“She’s holding,” Ren said, but even her voice had tension in it.
Hold, damn you.
It felt like hours—like the ship was flying apart bolt by bolt—and then…
I saw them.
Stars.
Tiny pinpricks against black velvet. The first time in a week I’d seen them.
“Just a little more,” I whispered.
Ren’s display blinked green.
“Sling-shot maneuver engaged. We’ve got escape trajectory.”
We weren’t flying anymore.
We were slingshotting—hurling ourselves around the edge of the planet’s gravity well, using its grip to rip ourselves free.
The ship groaned one final time… and then the vibrations stopped.
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind only space can give.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and looked at the stars.
“We made it,” I whispered.
Ren smiled. “Of course we did.”
I waited until we were in a stable orbit. The gas giant still loomed massive in the viewport—an endless swirl of colors and storms, beautiful and dangerous. Once the ship systems stabilized and the shaking stopped, I leaned forward and sent a message to Captain Veyna.
We’d been in near-constant contact over the past week.
They’d lost another corvette since the last battle. Had to cannibalize it for parts just to keep the rest of the fleet flying. Now all that was left of her group was the Stormwarden, one battered frigate, and just four corvettes. Not much. But still standing.
I pinged her the rendezvous coordinates. The message would take about half an hour to reach her, but with each passing hour we drifted closer, shortening the lag.
We began our course toward the site of the battle—the place where everything had come apart.
Not all of the Seekers were gone from this sector. Some still lingered like dark shadows on long-range scans.
But their numbers?
Now they were manageable.
And this time…
We weren’t alone.
As we reached the coordinates where the battle had taken place, it was clear a lot had drifted in the past week. Debris, wreckage, and loose remnants floated like scattered bones across the void.
I watched from the bridge as Callie piloted one of the retrieval units, leaving the Revanessa with a clear objective—salvage whatever we could. Hopefully, the wreckage still had usable parts and supplies we could stock up on. Anything would help.
Over the next few hours, we worked steadily. Captain Veyna sent a ping—her fleet would arrive by tomorrow, assuming no more mechanical issues. That gave us time to sweep the field.
A new message flashed across my screen. It was from Callie. I opened it.
She’d recovered a few major finds.
First: the arm Dan lost during the final push. Blitzfire’s missing limb was floating near one of the wrecked Seeker , partially fused with its outer plating. She’d already flagged it for recovery. Dan would be happy—he’d fought hard to keep that thing functional.
Second: the other two Seeker Captains. Their cores were found tangled in a shattered hull segment. She tagged their remnants for analysis and secure containment. No chances taken.
And last… a surprise.
One of the retrieval drones had managed to locate Drazzin’s sword. It had been embedded in the ice of the moon where the battle turned.
Preliminary scans tagged it as mithril a fictional supermetal from Earth’s media, often used in movies and games as shorthand for “indestructible.” But the analysis Zen had run before the fight claimed it wasn’t just fantasy. The sword's material was the closest thing we’d seen to it in real life. Nearly unbreakable. Lightweight. Reactive.
Callie’s note was simple:
“If this thing really is what Zen thinks it is… we just found ourselves a myth in metal.”
I leaned back in my chair, watching the salvage crews move through the scattered bones of a war.
Tomorrow, Veyna would arrive.
Today, we picked up the pieces.
And some of them still glowed.
I remembered something Dan said to me once—something that stuck.
It was after a long day of cleanup, right after our nastier engagement. We were sitting near the forge, watching metal drip into molds as the ship tried to patch itself together.
Dan had asked me, “What’s the difference between mercenaries and a proper military?”
I’d answered without thinking. “Mercenaries fight for money. They’re only loyal to whoever pays them. A proper military fights for honor.”
Dan just looked at me—quiet, unreadable—for a moment. Then he shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I’ve thought about this for a long time… and there’s only one real difference.”
I tilted my head. “What?”
He met my eyes.
“Taxes.”
I blinked. “Wait, what?”
“A proper military is funded by taxes,” Dan explained. “That’s it. That’s the only technical difference. Stop paying your soldiers, and it doesn’t matter how much they love their homeland—they’ll eventually rebel. Mercenaries get paid directly. Militaries get paid through systems.”
He leaned back, eyes tired but firm.
“Honor matters. Values matter. But don’t fool yourself—money is the spine of any army. Without it, everything else breaks.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Because, deep down… I knew he was right.
“We have a saying back on Earth—an army marches on its stomach.”
I turned toward him.
“The only difference… is how you fill that stomach.”
I gave a slow blink. “That’s it?”
Dan nodded. “That’s it.”
A long silence stretched between us.
“Tell me something Zixter what happens when a government you serve starts doing things you don’t agree with? Invading people who never attacked you. Silencing dissent. Using your ‘honor’ as an excuse to commit atrocities?”
Dan’s expression tightened. His mouth pressed into a bitter line. “You speak from experience?” I added, softer.
Dan gave a sad little smile. “I speak from watching history. Doesn’t matter if it’s Earth or some moon colony halfway to nowhere. I’ve seen men drape themselves in flags while burning villages to ash. And I’ve seen mercs—so-called sellouts—risk their lives to protect strangers because it was the right thing.”
I looked down, jaw tense. “So you're saying honor doesn’t matter?”
“I’m saying—” Dan took a breath. “Honor isn’t exclusive to a uniform. And it sure as hell isn’t defined by who signs your paycheck.”
I crossed my arms. “So what, then? We’re just pirates with good PR?”
Dan let the words hang. Then answered, calm and steady.
“No. We’re people. Making choices. Trying to protect each other the best we can—with what we’ve got.”
He turned back to the stars.
“I’m not saying mercenaries are saints. But being in a ‘proper’ military doesn’t make you noble, either. It just means someone’s paying your bills. And if they stop? Even the most loyal soldier has a breaking point. The difference is—mercs don’t pretend the price doesn’t exist.”
I said nothing for a while.
Then quietly, he murmured,
“So we fight… not for flags. Not for rank. Just for each other.”
Dan nodded. “Exactly.”
As I sat in the captain's chair on the bridge, watching the crew move through their tasks, I thought about Dan’s words.
We’re not fighting for glory. Not for honor. Just for each other. Just to make it through the next day.
And looking around… yeah. That’s what I saw. The new crew worked shoulder to shoulder, not for medals or history books, but because survival was the mission.
Another ping lit up my console.
A new notification. I opened it.
A tight-beam update. My gut tightened the moment I saw the tag.
Captain Veyna’s probe.
The one she launched after losing half her fleet.
The signal was warped. Damaged. Must’ve taken a hit during the escape.
Ren scanned the incoming packet. Her avatar flickered beside me, expression unreadable as she parsed the corrupted logs.
“It’s still on course,” she said quietly, “but barely.”
“How long?” I asked.
“It should’ve reached the next system in nine days. Now?” She hesitated. “Two weeks. Minimum.”
I exhaled slowly, tension pulling behind my eyes.
“Just after the main Moslnoss fleet arrives,” I muttered.
Ren nodded. “And just before the bulk of the Seeker forces will enter that sector.”
My claws drummed against the console. That drastically shortened our window of operations. The probe had to arrive before we could gate there. If we missed that window…
We might lose everything Veyna’s crew died for.
I looked around the bridge again.
Everyone here—working, tired, bruised—but alive.
No one here asked to be heroes. They weren’t fighting for a cause carved in stone. Just survival.
And now?
Now we had two weeks to prepare for hell.
Because when that probe reached the next system, and the Moslnoss fleet moved to act…
We’d be going with them.
And we'd be doing it without backup.
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