Chapter 2: Power and Purpose

The steady hum of The Ironsight's engines filled the cockpit—a sound that had become like a second heartbeat to Rhys. He leaned back in his worn seat, one boot casually propped up on the control panel. Through the viewport, space stretched infinitely, stars scattered like diamond dust on black velvet. Peaceful? It should've been. But out here, peace was a luxury.

He scratched the stubble on his chin, eyes drifting to the nav screen. Simple job this time: ferry a prototype across the sector. No frills, no complications. Just credits. And credits meant one thing—he was a step closer to that cruiser-class ship he'd been dreaming about. Owning a cruiser wasn't just about the ship; it was a ticket to freedom. A way out of this endless mercenary grind.

A smirk tugged at his lips but faded just as quick. Experience had taught him better. With the Federation involved, nothing was ever straightforward.

The galaxy was a tangled web—a mess of factions and interests all grinding against each other like rusty gears. The Federation tried to play peacekeeper, or at least they acted the part. Officially, they were holding back the Necrolythians—those mysterious invaders that haunted the edges of everyone's nightmares.

Necrolythians.

Rhys let the name linger in his mind. Every mercenary had heard the whispers, but solid facts were as rare as a quiet night in a spacer bar. Were they machines? Ancient aliens twisted by forgotten wars? Nobody knew. But the devastation attributed to them was undeniable—colonies erased overnight, planets left as lifeless husks. Shadows moving in the dark, striking fear into hearts across the galaxy.

He'd never seen them himself, nor had anyone he trusted. Sometimes it felt like they were more myth than menace—a convenient ghost story for the Federation to justify its endless war efforts. Fear's a powerful tool. Keep folks scared, keep them in line. Oldest trick in the book.

Not that the Federation were saints. But at least they weren't as shameless as the corporations.

They owned just about everything that wasn't nailed down. Profit and power—that's what they cared about. Astromines, with their LazORE beam, had turned asteroid mining into their personal gold mine. Rhys had done a gig for them once. Simple enough: scout some mineral-rich rocks, send in the data. Easy money. But the way they treated people—as disposable assets—left a sour taste.

Then there was OreTech. Slick, dangerous, always two steps ahead. Their CEO was a legend—charming smile, sharp mind, and a penchant for playing the long game. Rhys had taken a few side jobs from them, enough to pad his account but not enough to get tangled in their web. OreTech had a way of turning allies into pawns, and pawns didn't fare well in the endgame.

Redstart was different. Giants in shipbuilding, they kept their heads down and focused on making quality vessels. He could respect that. After all, a good ship was worth its weight in credits.

But Zappack? They were the silent giants. Masters of logistics, their transmit technology moved goods faster than anyone else could dream of. Not flashy, but essential—the unseen gears keeping the galaxy turning. The other corporations might overlook them, but Rhys paid attention. Zappack had their fingers in every pie, quietly steering the flow of resources.

Sometimes, he couldn't shake the feeling that the Necrolythians were just another piece on the board—a distraction while the real players made their moves behind the scenes.

Then again, he'd seen the aftermath of a supposed Necrolythian attack once. An entire colony, gone without a trace. Scorched earth, empty buildings, silence where life once thrived. That kind of devastation wasn't imaginary. It was enough to keep the fear alive.

He drummed his fingers on the console, glancing back at the secured crate in the cargo hold. Always about the credits, about the next job. The Federation claimed this prototype was vital—though they were tight-lipped on the details.

A nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind. Whatever was in that crate might be more trouble than it was worth. But why should he care? He was just the courier. Do the job, get paid, keep flying.

A soft beep from the nav console pulled him from his thoughts. They were approaching the drop-off point—a remote research station orbiting a gas giant. Far from prying eyes, but close enough to be useful. Rhys straightened up, stretching as he prepared for landing.

One job at a time, he reminded himself. One step closer to that cruiser. Whatever games the Federation and the corporations were playing, he wasn't part of them—at least, not yet.

Let the galaxy keep its secrets. He had his own path to follow, and that was enough.

Yet, as he punched in the landing coordinates, an uneasy feeling settled in his gut. Like stepping into a game without knowing the rules. Something big was brewing out here, and whether he liked it or not, he might just get caught in the middle.