LOG 000: PROLOGUE

The air in Nova Haven is thick with the scent of rain on hot dust, a smell Old Earth long forgotten. From the open window of the spacious, weathered room, the sounds of Esiri’s night chorus bled in -the rhythmic chittering of unseen insects, the distant cries of avian predators, and the rustle of wind through the overgrown grasses. This is a world humming with chaotic, untamed life. A perfect painting.

Admiral Atrius Abressal was not looking at the setting. He paces, his polished Unity Accord boots striking the worn wooden floorboards with the rhythm of a caged predator. King of a borrowed castle. The humid air itself seems to tighten around his impatience as he stretches his chin toward the ceiling.

“Speak, oracle,” Abressal commands, his voice a low growl. “You’ve been quiet for a stroke. The silence is irritating. What is the latest from your ‘currents’?”

His prisoner does not move. The form sitting on a simple stool at the center of the room is draped in robes that seem to drink the light -a deep, shifting blue that darkens to near black in the shadows and brightens to an unsettling electric azure where the lamplight touches. These robes covered everything: head, hands, feet. No flesh is visible and there is no hint of what lay beneath the fabric. Yet somehow, unmistakably, the presence beneath is male in fundamental existence that transcends physical form.

Where a face should be, there is only the suggestion of features beneath the soft veil covering what would be a face. A smooth, featureless surface that somehow still conveys the sense of closed eyes as it listens to frequencies that mortal ears cannot detect. In perfect stillness, unbound, as if the very concept of restraint is meaningless to something that perceives reality from dimensions that have no names.

When the Prisoner finally speaks, his voice is like time itself, ancient and unhurried. “The Anchor shifts her fleet.”

Abressal stops his wearing of the wooden floors thinner with intense pacing and faces the form. His eyes narrow. “Waldermara. The Orion. She’s on patrol.” His eyes reflect a hint of the azure ripples from the cloak. A step closer. “Where?”

The Prisoner’s lips curve into a faint, pitying smile giving humanoid features to the formless face. He senses a wound. “She is not one mind,” he whispers, “but a gallery of scars. A canvas for a God who paints with pain and calls it love.”

The words linger in the air. Heavy. Cryptic. Strange. Abressal sneers and huffs, interpreting the poetry remains a crude lens for strategy. “You’re suggesting a psychological weakness. Beautifully useful if we can exploit it. The Legion’s influence, no doubt. She’s too stable to allow Messer’s temper to break or unbalance her. I require more. Specifics, oracle. Does her crew’s morale falter?”

The Prisoner’s cowled head tilts slightly, adjusting to vibrational energy beneath sound and heat. Beneath the shifting ethereal fabric, dry lips taste the psychic residue across the light-years. The Stain on Rigel’s soul -a masterpiece of suffering, layered and complex- has a bitterness beyond the human palate causing the oracle suck air in almost animalistic mannerisms. A chronicle of a thousand tiny surrenders. Beautiful in its tragedy. And it tastes of her children.

“He will not come himself,” the Prisoner croaks, his voice taking on a distant, prophetic cadence. “The God grows tired of the old games. He will send a splinter of his own shattered legacy. A child who flies with a dragon’s name.”

Abressal freezes. Eyes gleam. A slow, delicious, predatory smile builds. The Draco. “Ryuzen’s boy. So sullen. So broken. That would be a gift.” He turns on his heel, his mind already spinning with plans of ambushes. The oracle has delivered prosperity. But more than a short victory, there is potential gain of his enemy’s weakness.

He leaves the room is expeditious stride as if his heels ignited.  The door remains open in his haste, announcing a slew of orders into his comms with giddy abandon, eager to claim his gains. Eager to take an upper hand. 

The Prisoner does not watch him go. Where eyes should be, there is only the smooth suggestion of a face hidden by a veil. Yet the formless face shifts toward the window displaying the view of Esiri. The matte black shifts and shimmers with flecks of azure in the lamplight, and for a moment -just a heartbeat- the color pulses with its own inner luminescence. A reflex as if responding to thoughts that exist in those other dimensions beyond the physical.

The thing beneath the robes listens to the rain without visible ears -to the symphony of the living world he had traveled so far to observe. The warlord’s maneuverings were less than footnotes to his pilgrimage. Frantic scribbles in the margins of a breathtaking work of art.

He smiles. The colors of this existence are so very interesting.

—

The Crimson Veil Nebula loomed in the vastness of space, a celestial enigma that defied comprehension. Its swirling reds, blues, and purples writhed like living plasma, each tendril a silent note in a cosmic symphony. For eons, it had existed in majestic solitude, unaware and uncaring of the specks of life that would one day gaze upon it.

Beholding the Crimson Veil was like standing in the presence of an ancient and enigmatic deity – a sight both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Its beauty was a paradox, effortlessly combining graceful elegance with turbulent energy. This nebula had been a witness to the birth and demise of stars and had observed the exquisite dance of galaxies, all in a timeless and profound silence.

Then came the day when humans first laid eyes upon its splendor. Explorers and scientists, their vessels tiny against the backdrop of cosmic wonder, approached with a mix of trepidation and excitement. The Unity Accord, a coalition of corporations dedicated to peaceful exploration, established the StarShade Station at the nebula’s fringes. It was to be a beacon of scientific discovery, a place where the mysteries of the universe could be unraveled.

As years passed, the station grew. What began as a humble outpost blossomed into a hub of activity. The allure of the Crimson Veil drew not just scientists but traders, tourists, and dreamers from a hundred worlds. The StarShade’s corridors hummed with voices speaking a multitude of languages, all united in their awe of the spectacle beyond.

The nebula’s ethereal glow bathed the observation deck in an otherworldly light, casting long, shifting shadows that danced with the station’s gentle hum. It was as if the Crimson Veil itself was a sentient being, cognizant of the specks of life that dared to observe it.

As commerce flourished, the essence of the StarShade began to change. The pursuit of scientific knowledge, once the station’s sole purpose, gradually took a back seat to more profitable endeavors. Credits flowed, and with them came a diverse influx of people – merchants, entertainers, fortune-seekers, and more. The ratio of scientists to other professions shifted, a sacrifice made in the name of economic prosperity.

And so, on the edge of known space, in the shadow of a cosmic wonder, the stage was set for a profound transformation. The Crimson Veil watched, silent and eternal, as the first moves in this grand game of cultural evolution began to unfold. In its presence, the boundaries between science and spirituality dissolved, equations and prayers becoming one – both attempts to grasp at the ineffable, to understand the role of humanity in this vast, uncharted realm of space.

Some saw the nebula as a beacon of hope, a symbol of the infinite possibilities beyond the stars. Others viewed it with a sense of dread, a reminder of their insignificance in the grand tapestry of existence. Religious sects sprang up, venerating the Crimson Veil as more than a mere celestial phenomenon. They spoke of divine messages hidden in its swirling patterns, of cosmic destinies written in the dance of its gases.

As the Unity Accord expanded its influence, it set up outposts on isolated planets captured by the Crimson Veil’s gravity. This led to a growing conflict between two approaches: scientific rationalism, which aimed to comprehend the nebula’s mysteries through observation and analysis, and spiritual interpretation, which viewed the nebula as a divine being with hidden messages and cosmic destinies. The StarShade transformed into the center of an expanding empire, with its influence reaching the farthest edges of the nebula. Its culture became a blend of scientific exploration and mystical reverence.

For a time, the threats to this newfound prosperity seemed manageable. Pirate raids and resource disputes were handled with relative ease by the Unity Accord’s patrol fleets. The Crimson Veil, vast and mysterious, served as both a shield and a source of wonder for those who called its vicinity home.

Yet the nebula’s swirling depths concealed more than anyone had imagined. In its shadow, a darkness grew. Scattered pirate bands began to coalesce, their raids becoming more organized and more deadly. Whispers spoke of a brilliant strategist known only as Abressal, a phantom who could outmaneuver the Unity Accord’s best tacticians.

As this threat grew, so did the tensions within the Unity Accord itself. The once-peaceful coalition found itself divided on how to address the growing danger. Some called for increased militarization, while others clung to the ideals of scientific exploration and spiritual enlightenment that had first brought them to the Crimson Veil.

In the midst of chaos, the Conquest Pact emerged as a fearless alliance of pirates, led by the formidable Nox and Admiral Abressal. Their conquest led to the capture of Esiri, a once-serene planet. Now, its lush landscapes and peaceful vistas conceal the lawlessness that has taken hold. Meanwhile, the Unity Accord struggled on the fringes, endeavoring to maintain its influence and uphold its ideals in the face of this escalating threat.

The seeds of conflict, long dormant, began to take root. The Unity Accord’s fleets clashed with pirate armadas in battles that lit up the nebula with unnatural fire. Weapons of war, crafted by sentient hands to burn hotter than stars, erupted in short-lived but intense conflagrations. In their wake, they left a grim trophy – the skeletons of shattered ships and fragments of manufactured death, floating as dissipating debris in the Crimson Veil’s embrace.

Now, the alarms echo through StarShade’s halls as its inhabitants brace for an uncertain future. The Crimson Veil pulses with an otherworldly light, standing still as a silent witness. In its swirling depths, one could almost glimpse reflections of futures yet unwritten—of triumphs and tragedies, of heroes rising and empires falling.

Yet, in the quiet moments, when the hum of the station’s systems faded into background radiation, one could almost hear the nebula whispering. Its secrets, carried on stellar winds, spoke of beginnings, endings, and cycles beyond human reckoning. To some, it promised glory and power. To others, it whispered warnings of impending doom.

Was the nebula a harbinger of good fortune or an omen of impending danger? The answer, like so many other mysteries, lay concealed within its tumultuous depths. It’s an enigma, a puzzle that may never be fully solved, yet continues to inspire awe and contemplation in those who dare to look upon it.