Nathan woke to the familiar hum of the Promise of Iron's oxygen recyclers, a sound that had become as natural as breathing the oxygen they produced after three years aboard the station. His quarters were regulation size, twelve by eight feet of personal space that somehow managed to look smaller thanks to the clothes scattered across the floor, the unmade bed, and the stack of tactical manuals threatening to topple from his desk.
He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and immediately his mind drifted back to the Phantom simulation. Three days had passed since that brutal encounter, and he still couldn't shake the memory of those liquid-metal scales reforming around the black Frame. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that impossible speed, that surgical precision.
*I need to get better,* he thought, stepping over a discarded uniform jacket. *If I ever face the real thing...*
The shower in his quarters was a luxury most smaller ships couldn't afford, actual hot water instead of sonic cleaning or chemical wipes. The Promise of Iron was massive enough that the resource cost didn't matter as much, and Nathan had learned to appreciate the simple pleasure of standing under actual heated water. He let it run longer than he probably should have, steam fogging the mirror as he tried to wash away the lingering unease from his dreams.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in off-duty civilian clothes, Nathan stepped out of his quarters and into the controlled chaos that was daily life aboard one of the UNSC's premier military installations.
The Promise of Iron was a city in space, a massive orbital platform that housed over two hundred thousand souls in a complex web of rotating sections and artificial gravity wells. Nathan's quarters were in Section C-7, part of the junior officer residential district, which meant his morning commute to anywhere interesting involved navigating through at least three different transit systems.
He joined the queue for the mag-lev transport, standing behind a maintenance technician whose coveralls still smelled like coolant and a civilian contractor who was arguing with someone on her comm about supply requisitions. The transport tube stretched ahead of them like a gleaming throat, ready to swallow passengers and shoot them through the station's arteries at speeds that would have been terrifying if you thought about it too much.
The ride from C-7 to the commercial district took eight minutes, and Nathan spent most of it watching the station's interior scroll past through the transparent aluminum windows. Engineering bays the size of cathedral spaces, their ceilings lost in shadows while teams of technicians swarmed over Titan Frames in various states of repair and modification. Hydroponics farms that stretched for kilometers, feeding the station's population with vertical gardens that climbed toward artificial suns. Residential blocks that looked like metal cities stacked on top of each other, connected by bridges and walkways that buzzed with foot traffic at all hours.
But it was the docking bays that really showed the Promise of Iron's scale. Nathan caught glimpses of them as the transport curved around the station's outer ring, caverns large enough to swallow whole starships, filled with the constant ballet of arriving and departing vessels. Cargo haulers the size of city blocks, sleek military frigates, and the occasional civilian transport bringing new personnel or taking others home. The Promise of Iron was a hub, a crossroads where the UNSC's military might intersected with the civilian infrastructure that kept human space connected.
He transferred to a local transport in the commercial district, squeezing into a car already packed with off-duty personnel heading for various entertainment venues. A couple of Navy techs were discussing the latest modifications to plasma rifle cooling systems, while a group of Marine sergeants argued about which bars had the best synth-alcohol. The conversation washed over Nathan like background noise as he watched the commercial sectors slide past.
This part of the station was designed to make people forget they were living in a metal can floating in vacuum. Holographic windows showed rolling green hills and blue skies from worlds most of the station's inhabitants would never see. The ceilings were painted to look like sky, complete with slowly moving cloud patterns that followed a programmed day-night cycle. Shops and restaurants lined the wide promenades, everything from military surplus stores to high-end boutiques that catered to officers with more money than sense.
The Hangar Door sat at the intersection of two major transit arteries, which explained why it had become such a popular gathering spot for off-duty pilots. The bar's exterior was designed to look like the entrance to an old-style starship hangar, complete with warning lights and hazard stripes that blinked in lazy patterns. Through the transparent doors, Nathan could see the familiar chaos of pilots, technicians, and various other station personnel unwinding after their shifts.
He arrived fifteen minutes early, which was exactly what he'd planned. Kessler and Ilson were both chronically punctual, but Nathan had learned that arriving first gave him a chance to secure a good table and, more importantly, to listen in on the conversations around him. Pilots talked, and pilot talk was often the most reliable source of information about what was really happening in the broader galaxy.
The interior of The Hangar Door committed fully to its aesthetic. The bar itself was built to look like the command console of a heavy transport, complete with blinking lights and displays that showed fictional flight data. The walls were covered with patches from various squadrons, units, and ships, creating a tapestry of military history that stretched back decades. The air smelled like recycled atmosphere, alcohol, and the faint ozone scent that always lingered around heavy machinery.
Nathan claimed a table near the bar and ordered a beer, actual beer, not the synthetic stuff, though it was expensive enough that he'd be eating ration bars for the rest of the week. The first sip reminded him why it was worth it.
Two tables over, a conversation was already in progress that caught his attention. A cargo pilot in civilian clothes was nursing what looked like his third drink, talking to a woman in a security analyst's uniform.
"I'm telling you, the routes to Acer are completely fucked," the pilot was saying, his voice carrying the flat accent of someone who'd spent most of his life in space. "Used to be a simple run, three days each way, good money. Now? If you can even get clearance to fly there, the insurance costs eat up half your profit margin."
The security analyst nodded, swirling her drink thoughtfully. "The Liberation Front's been hitting supply convoys hard. Last month alone we documented seventeen separate attacks on civilian shipping. The underwriters are running scared."
"Seventeen that you know about," the pilot corrected. "I hear things in the freight circles, and the number's closer to thirty. Problem is, half the time nobody can prove it was the Liberation Front. Could be Artificers, could be corporate sabotage, could be fucking solar flares for all anyone knows. But the ships still disappear, and the cargo still doesn't make it to the colonies."
Nathan knew the basic situation on Acer, everyone in the military did. The planet was rich in rare earth minerals that were essential for everything from Titan Frame neural interfaces to starship navigation computers. But the colonial government was struggling to maintain control over mining operations, and the Liberation Front had been growing bolder in their opposition to what they called "resource exploitation."
From a military perspective, it was straightforward. The colonies needed protection, the UNSC provided it, and everyone went home happy. But listening to the pilot and analyst, Nathan was getting a sense of the human cost that didn't make it into official briefings.
"What gets me," the security analyst continued, "is how organized they've become. These aren't random attacks by desperate colonists. Someone's coordinating this, someone with access to shipping schedules and route information."
"Inside job, you think?"
"Has to be. The Liberation Front's got sympathizers in places they shouldn't. Corporate offices, shipping companies, maybe even government positions."
Nathan was processing this when the bar's main entrance opened and Kessler walked in. She paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room with the methodical thoroughness that had made her such a good student in tactical assessment classes. When her gaze found Nathan, her face lit up with a smile that made something warm unfurl in his chest.
Damali Kessler was beautiful in a way that seemed effortless, though Nathan suspected she put more thought into her appearance than she let on. Her short brown hair was perfectly styled despite the station's recycled air, and her hazel eyes held an intelligence that had intimidated half their graduating class. She wore civilian clothes, dark jeans and a fitted jacket that somehow managed to look both casual and put-together.
"Hey there, soldier," she said as she approached his table, her voice carrying that distinctive blend of midwestern twang and the cosmopolitan accent that developed among people who'd grown up on multicultural space stations. "You're early."
"Wanted to make sure we got a good table," Nathan replied, standing to pull out her chair. It was an old-fashioned gesture that would have seemed ridiculous in a military context, but somehow felt natural here.
"Such a gentleman," she said with a slight smile, settling into the chair and immediately scanning the room like she was cataloguing potential threats. It was a habit from their tactical training, but on Kessler it looked like maternal concern. "Any sign of Jake?"
"Not yet, but you know how he is about—"
"Hey, beautiful people!" Jake Ilson's voice cut through the bar's ambient noise as he appeared at their table seemingly out of nowhere. It was a talent of his, the man could move through a crowd like smoke when he wanted to. "Sorry I'm late. Had to help Murphy with some equipment calibrations that absolutely could not wait until tomorrow."
Ilson was tall and lean, with the kind of easy grace that made him equally effective at reconnaissance work and charming his way out of trouble. His hair was regulation length but somehow managed to look casual, and his civilian clothes, worn jeans and a shirt that had seen better days, suggested someone who was more concerned with comfort than appearance.
"Murphy's still trying to get his targeting systems to sync properly?" Kessler asked, her protective instincts immediately engaged. She knew the specs of every Titan Frame in their training unit, and she took personal responsibility for making sure everyone was operating at peak efficiency.
"Yeah, and rather than just submit a maintenance request like a normal person, he decided to completely recalibrate his neural interface settings," Ilson said, settling into his chair with the fluid motion of someone who was comfortable in his own skin. "Took three hours to convince him that maybe, just maybe, the problem wasn't with the standard military configuration that's been tested on thousands of pilots."
"Did it work?" Nathan asked.
"Of course it didn't work. Now his targeting is even worse, and he's got a neural feedback headache that's going to last for days." Ilson signaled the bartender for a drink. "But hey, at least he feels like he tried something."
Kessler shook her head with the exasperated affection of someone who'd appointed herself the responsible one in their group. "I swear, sometimes I think half our class is going to get themselves killed before we even see real combat."
"Speaking of real combat," Nathan said, "have you guys been keeping up with the Acer situation?"
Ilson's expression grew more serious. "Some. Why, you hearing something specific?"
Nathan gestured toward the pilot and security analyst, who were still deep in conversation. "Just listening to people talk. Sounds like things are getting worse out there."
Kessler leaned back in her chair, her analytical mind already working. "The official briefings have been pretty vague. 'Civil unrest,' 'protection of civilian assets,' that sort of thing. But if you read between the lines..."
"It's not just civil unrest," Ilson finished. "Someone's running a coordinated campaign against colonial infrastructure."
They were interrupted by a soft chiming sound from their personal datapads, the distinctive tone that indicated an official military communication. All three of them reached for their devices simultaneously, a conditioned response from years of training.
The message was brief and to the point:
**PRIORITY COMMUNICATION**
**FROM: LtCdr Vega, T.**
**TO: Cadet Squadron 7-Alpha**
**RE: Mission Briefing**
**Report to Briefing Room C-12 at 1400 hours for operational assignment. Dress uniform required. Come prepared for deployment.**
**-Vega**
Nathan felt his pulse quicken. This was it, their first real assignment. After three years of training, simulations, and endless classes on tactics and protocol, they were finally going to see actual duty.
"Deployment," Kessler said, her voice carefully neutral. "That's... big."
"About damn time," Ilson said, though Nathan could see the mix of excitement and nervousness in his eyes. "I was starting to think they were going to keep us in training forever."
Nathan checked his chronometer. "We've got two hours. Want to grab some food before we have to suit up?"
They ordered lunch, decent food by station standards, though nothing that would have impressed anyone who'd grown up planetside and spent the time speculating about their assignment. It had to be Acer, given the timing and the conversations they'd been overhearing. But beyond that, everything was speculation.
At 1350 hours, they stood outside Briefing Room C-12 in their dress uniforms, trying to project the confidence of seasoned military professionals rather than nervous cadets about to receive their first real mission. The corridor was busy with foot traffic, other officers heading to their own meetings, technicians moving between duty stations, the constant flow of personnel that kept a station like Promise of Iron functioning.
The briefing room door opened precisely at 1400, and Lieutenant Commander Vega appeared in the doorway. He looked exactly like what he was, a career military officer who'd seen enough real combat to have strong opinions about sending cadets into harm's way.
"Squadron 7-Alpha, you're with me," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who expected to be obeyed without question. "Squadron 4-Charlie is already inside."
Nathan exchanged glances with Kessler and Ilson as they filed into the briefing room. Squadron 4-Charlie was one of the more experienced cadet units, pilots who'd been in training for six months longer and had a reputation for thinking they were hot shit. Their squad leader, Cadet David Mora, gave Nathan's team a barely perceptible nod that managed to convey both acknowledgment and condescension.
The briefing room was standard military issue, rows of chairs facing a large display screen, walls covered with star charts and tactical diagrams. Vega moved to the front of the room and activated the display, which showed a three-dimensional representation of the Acer system.
"Gentlemen, ladies," Vega began, his tone businesslike and direct, "As some of you may have guessed, you're being deployed to Acer in support of Operation Steady Hand, a peacekeeping mission designed to protect civilian infrastructure and maintain stability in the colonial mining regions."
The display zoomed in on Acer itself, showing the major population centers and mining installations. Nathan could see why the planet was so valuable, rare earth deposits seemed to be scattered across most of the inhabited continents.
"Your mission is straightforward," Vega continued. "You'll be providing security for civilian convoys and infrastructure, deterring hostile action by the Liberation Front, and ensuring that critical supply lines remain open."
Mora raised his hand. "Sir, what's the expected threat level? Are we looking at organized resistance or just opportunistic raiders?"
"Intelligence suggests a mix of both," Vega replied. "The Liberation Front has shown increasing organization and coordination, but they're not a standing army. Expect hit-and-run tactics, improvised explosives, and harassment of supply convoys."
Nathan found himself listening to what Vega wasn't saying as much as what he was. "Peacekeeping mission" was military speak for a situation that was complicated enough to require careful language. And the fact that they were sending two full cadet squadrons suggested the situation was more serious than the official description implied.
"What about local support?" Kessler asked. "Are we working with colonial security forces?"
"Limited," Vega said, and Nathan caught a flicker of something in his expression, frustration, maybe, or concern. "The colonial government has requested UNSC assistance, but local law enforcement is... strained."
Ilson leaned forward slightly. "Sir, if you don't mind me asking, why two squadrons for what sounds like a police action? Seems like a lot of firepower for some backwater rebels."
It was a good question, and Nathan was glad Ilson had asked it. Mora's team exchanged glances that suggested they thought questioning the mission parameters was inappropriate, but Nathan wanted to know what they were really walking into.
Vega was quiet for a moment, and Nathan had the sense that he was choosing his words carefully. "The Liberation Front has shown tactical sophistication that exceeds our initial assessments. Better to have more assets available than to find yourselves outgunned."
It was a reasonable answer, but it didn't quite address the underlying question. Nathan made a mental note to keep an eye on the situation once they were deployed.
"Deployment is scheduled for 0800 tomorrow," Vega continued. "You'll be traveling aboard the UNSC Meridian, with arrival at Acer in approximately seventy-two hours. Use the time in transit to review your operational protocols and get familiar with local conditions."
He distributed data tablets containing their mission files, each one loaded with maps, intelligence reports, and tactical assessments. Nathan thumbed through his quickly, noting the locations of mining installations, population centers, and known Liberation Front activity.
"Any questions?" Vega asked.
Mora raised his hand again. "Rules of engagement, sir?"
"Standard peacekeeping protocols. You are authorized to use force to protect civilian lives and infrastructure, but the goal is de-escalation and maintaining the peace. These are human beings we're dealing with, not enemy combatants."
Nathan appreciated the emphasis. It was easy to think of the Liberation Front as just another target, but Vega was reminding them that this was a complex situation involving people who probably had legitimate grievances, even if their methods were problematic.
"Anything else?" Vega looked around the room, his gaze lingering on Nathan's team for a moment. "Dismissed. Get some rest, and be ready to ship out in the morning."
As they filed out of the briefing room, Nathan could hear Mora's team already discussing tactics and equipment loadouts with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested they were looking forward to finally seeing some action. Kessler, Ilson, and Nathan walked in relative silence until they reached the main corridor.
"So," Ilson said finally, "peacekeeping mission to protect mining operations from organized rebels who've been hitting supply convoys with increasing sophistication."
"That's not exactly how Vega put it," Kessler pointed out.
"No, but that's what he meant." Ilson's expression was thoughtful. "Question is, what aren't they telling us?"
Nathan had been wondering the same thing. The mission briefing had been professional and thorough, but there were gaps in the intelligence that suggested the situation on Acer was more complicated than anyone wanted to admit.
"Guess we'll find out when we get there," he said.
They spent the rest of the day preparing for deployment, checking equipment, reviewing tactical protocols, and trying to process the reality that in less than twenty-four hours they'd be leaving the Promise of Iron for their first real mission. Nathan found himself thinking about Marcus, wondering if his brother had felt the same mix of excitement and apprehension before his first deployment.
By evening, the station's corridors had taken on the quieter rhythm of night shift. Nathan lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling and listening to the familiar hum of the Promise of Iron's engines. Tomorrow he'd be aboard a different ship, heading toward a different world, carrying weapons and authority he'd only dreamed of having.
It should have felt like victory, like the culmination of everything he'd worked for. Instead, it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into darkness and hoping the ground was closer than it appeared.