1.3 - Caius

  Saturn grew larger by the minute as the Parvus closed in.

  From the ship’s position — facing the planet’s north pole — it looked as if they were heading straight into the eye of a god shaken by fear: the rings forming the iris, Saturn itself a vast, dilated pupil.

  “Proximity distance Alpha reached. Speed within expected parameters. Calculating parameters for distance Beta. Activating front thrusters for speed adjustment.”

  Caius listened to Scipio’s reports while studying the view. Beside that enormous sphere of hydrogen — soon to be detonated — two other figures shared the horizon: the Mater Patriae to his right, and the Tabula Picta to his left.

  He had little affection for the latter.

  Its scale impressed most observers — the largest civilian vessel ever built — and many even called it beautiful.

  But Caius’s concept of beauty was simple: adherence to purpose. For a ship meant to safely carry two and a half million civilians to a new home across the stars, it looked far too fragile.

  Ugly, he judged.

  From above, the Tabula Picta resembled a Latin cross — though the design owed nothing to ancient faiths. Its three shorter arms supported broad towers, the central one tallest, housing the bridge, auxiliary controls, and three fusion engines with rear thrusters.

  The longer, vertical arm stretched five times farther than the rest. It contained the residential sector — a structure comparable in size to a large MSS.

  Its hull, a smooth expanse of high-density carbon-polymer glass, scattered incoming light into prismatic colors. That effect gave the ship its name: Tabula Picta — “the Painted Board”.

  From a distance, the residential section shimmered uselessly, like a mosaic of abstract stained glass.

  Slap cheap materials together and call it design. UN.SY. propaganda at its finest.

  To Caius, the flaw was obvious: the entire lower segment was exposed — vulnerable to debris, and worse, to the stress of wormhole travel.

  The Parvus and the Mater Patriae had been chosen precisely for their resilience. Would the Tabula Picta survive on design alone?

  Perhaps.

  Its shielding systems were adapted from Mater Patriae technology, refined by the Science Bureau to endure the jump — in theory, at least.

  Then he turned right. To his old enemy.

  The Tessarakonteres.

  Rechristened Mater Patriae after the Earth Alliance seized it.

  It was meant to symbolize the merging of victors and vanquished — the Earth Alliance embracing the FPR to give birth to the United System.

  Later, the first Union Leader ordered its conversion into the UN.SY. government flagship.

  The vessel was still a masterpiece of engineering; no other warship class had ever matched it. Larger than an interplanetary cargo carrier — a titan in mass — and with a unique architecture.

  Its silhouette formed a pyramid with a triangular stern. Yet instead of solid sloping faces, the three panels were suspended around a narrow central core, joined by colossal support pillars.

  The core itself extended from stern to midship and contained the engines, Minerva’s mainframe, and the command bridge.

  The suspended panels now held one commercial and two residential sectors, though they had once carried ten thousand fighter and bomber craft.

  The Tessarakonteres had been designed as the ideal hybrid between heavy destroyer and carrier. Now it had lost its name, most of its weapons, its purpose entirely.

  It carried nobility instead of troops. Steel replaced by marble; barracks turned to boutiques.

  “What a shame they turned you into this.”

  Some H.O.Pe. humans had shared the same fate — reduced to servants or ceremonial guards.

  A faint surge of pride touched his lips. Even among his peers, Caius was a rare breed.

  As the Parvus reached Checkpoint Beta, only one step remained before the fleet entered final position for the wormhole’s activation.

  “Mr. Taira, as agreed, once we reach Position Gamma and the official address concludes, you may begin your performance,” Caius said, turning to the boy finalizing his preparations.

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  “I’ll give you the signal,” Caius added. “I apologize if this isn’t what you’d hoped for, but I can’t allow distractions once the critical stage of the operation begins.”

  The musician turned with a graceful bow.

  “Don’t concern yourself, Admiral Cornelius — I’m already grateful you allowed me to perform on your ship at all.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Caius said, gesturing for him to rise. “Your violin might be exactly what the Parvus crew needs before the jump.”

  The final checkpoint came soon after.

  In perfect synchronization, the three ships began their last maneuvers, aligning into a single column. The Mater Patriae led, the Parvus held the center, and the Tabula Picta closed the fleet.

  I suppose it’s time to take my seat, Caius thought, swiping across his omni-com.

  As he walked to the center of the bridge, a circular section of the floor flipped open — and a massive chair rose from below.

  Though stripped of ornamentation, it was throne-like in size and presence.

  The captain’s seat was forged from matte steel and anchored directly to the platform. Broad armrests, a high padded back wrapped in white fabric matching his uniform — functional, austere.

  Caius sat on it.

  A small holo-screen unfolded from the left armrest. A notification blinked.

  The fleet admiral — followed by the Union Leader — would begin their broadcast shortly.

  He tapped the right-side panel, and the chair rotated to face the command row.

  “Gentlemen, our leaders will soon deliver their words. If you’re not too busy cowering for your lives, try to pay attention.”

  His eyes flicked toward the vice-captain. “Williams, prepare the ship for the broadcast.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At his orders, the bridge came alive. Officers’ hands flew over terminals, data streams racing across displays.

  Minutes later, the upper halves of the viewports dimmed to black, transforming into screens for the transmission.

  Caius did not turn his seat toward them. Listening would suffice. Nothing sensible ever came from these speeches.

  Fleet Admiral Fuso Jeremiah spoke first. He commanded the Mater Patriae — a Martian, like every captain who had led it before.

  Caius felt no respect for the man.

  Unlike his ancestor Jaquin, whom Caius had once faced in battle, this Jeremiah was more politician than soldier.

  And he sounded exactly like one: appealing to unity, thanking the Navy sailors, mouthing words written by aides.

  Bored, Caius shifted his gaze to Taira Hiro, checking whether the boy was ready.

  The makeshift stage stood only a few steps from the command platform — a small dais facing the bridge’s seats. No decoration, just Hiro’s chair, his music stand, and the boy himself, seated with his violin, waiting in silence.

  The boy’s already famous. Soldiers make poor audiences. And yet… he looks eager, Caius thought with faint amusement.

  Although that wouldn’t change Caius’s plans for the Tairas, he had to admit he didn’t dislike the boy. There was focus in his posture — discipline.

  And discipline deserved respect.

  The piece the Taira had composed for the occasion: The Last Ride.

  A fitting name.

  When Caius had asked him why he wanted to perform it specifically on the Parvus he replied:

  Because this ship it’s not just sturdy — it’s stubborn. Despite her years she stayed true to herself. I think it’s the same quality that brought us here.

  A good answer.

  He briefly wondered what the melody would sound like.

  If it would inspire courage — or if it was a farewell elegy for the Solar System.

  A blurred image surfaced.

  A young man speeding above Metro-Britannia’s streets on a thruster-propelled two-seater — racing to meet someone whose name his enhanced mind had long since discarded.

  Something sorrowful lingered behind the memory.

  With a twist of his lips, Caius dismissed the thought in irritation.

  The music would soon echo through the ship’s internal speakers, just like the speech, while Scipio handled the final calculations.

  A brief silence marked the end of Jeremiah’s address.

  Moments later, the main display flickered to life, revealing the face of an elderly man — though not a frail one.

  His skin was tanned and weathered. White hair combed neatly to one side. Lines etched his face, but his dark brown eyes remained sharp beneath slightly drooping lids.

  He might have passed for any old man. Someone’s — everyone’s — grandfather. A weary yet familiar dignity that the United System’s loved to romanticize.

  The Union Leader’s appearance was only a mask.

  But Caius didn’t mind masks. He understood their necessity — he wore one himself.

  He even held a measure of respect for the office, particularly for the first Union Leader, founder of the United System.

  Union Leaders, like Caius, forsook their names when they took the title. And the first had been brave enough to make difficult, irreversible choices in the face of a fractured Solar System.

  The Union Leader spoke for several minutes. Caius listened — intermittently.

  “…We are about to leave our home behind. Now, more than ever, we must stand as one.

  One system. One nation. One race.

  We must embrace all. Allow no one to live outside of our unity. None must stand against it.

  If we fail to hold this foundation — we collapse.

  The whole human race ceases to exist.

  But if we succeed, we’ll enter a new era.

  A future of good fortune, where each of our sacrifices will be repaid…”

  His speech differed little from the fleet admiral’s, though it carried a wider reach and a heavier solemnity.

  The second half turned toward Agua — humanity’s soon-to-be home.

  He described its vast oceans, lush forests, and rivers cutting through fertile valleys.

  There might already be life there, he said. Primitive, unintelligent — but edible. A prehistoric world awaiting colonization.

  Caius recognized the phrasing immediately.

  Scientific precision, sterile assurance — the unmistakable fingerprints of the Science Bureau.

  Now their influence ran to such depths they could write the Union Leader speeches.

  His gut told him they were the enemies he sought. The ones who had placed those Alter-humans aboard.

  Caius had some proof of that.

  He had managed to obtain codes for the cryo-capsules.

  The enemy’s purpose remained unclear, but the intention reeked of conspiracy.

  A coup.

  One hundred and eight Alter-humans — the right kind — would be enough of an army for it. Especially on a new world, with the entire government confined to a single ship.

  Was the Union Leader’s real reason for placing him in command of the Parvus to use him as a last resort against this mutiny?

  H.O.Pe. humans were built for command, for battle. Not for blind obedience.

  Caius even more so.

  In addition, he had dealt with Alter-humans before.

  His final duty before peace had been the eradication of the Alter-humans — by order of the first Union Leader himself.

  He had already taken measures to frustrate the Science Bureau’s plans.

  Keeping De Chevelle close. Allowing the Tairas aboard.

  —Notable hostages to spark chaos, leverage to regain control.

  He clenched a fist, unable to suppress the thrill as he savored another incoming battle.

  His new purpose was only a wormhole away.