Clarck listened in silence to the report the adjutant had prepared.
The strange creatures spotted by colonists bore a resemblance to insects. Fairly large, yes—but none seemed to surpass a meter in height.
The adjutant had even dug up a lost amateur video buried in the network. In it, a creature the size of a dog could be seen—its legs like hypertrophied grasshopper limbs, curved claws, and a reptilian-looking head.
Clarck grabbed his head, sweat dripping down his forehead, a chill running through him like an electric jolt.
"Those damn things... it's true... everything I saw in my dreams..."
Shaking, he collapsed to the floor, wrapping his arms around his legs in a near-fetal position. It was a pitiful sight for a grown man, but it was the only way he could feel, if only for a moment, remotely safe.
Being tormented by those dreams since childhood wasn't something you ever got used to. Sleep had become a terrifying experience. The deep bags under his eyes were proof enough—and far from pleasant to look at.
And as if that weren't enough, the visions had only gotten worse since he was appointed magistrate of this damned colony.
Now he couldn't even find peace while awake.
"Shit… shit… fucking stinking shit," he muttered through clenched teeth.
Clarck hated the Confederacy. He hated his uncle for sending him to this rotten planet, for ignoring his pleas not to be deployed.
He hated being a puppet of the guilds.
Did they think it was easy growing up on Tarsonis as a mere political hostage?
If he hadn't used his visions to design weapons—the same ones he saw in his nightmares—his uncle wouldn't have even remembered he had a nephew.
Clarck took a deep breath. This wasn't the time to wallow in self-pity.
He was no longer that child waiting night after night for his family to come back for him.
Now he was a man—and he had a colony under his command. Backwater, yes. Abandoned, also true.
But it was his.
If he wanted to survive what was coming—or at least what he had seen—he had to act swiftly, decisively, and ruthlessly.
He would use everything at his disposal: his influence within the Confederacy, the resources of the guilds, his uncle… even the colony's population.
______________________________________________________________________________
Ship Log 01 — Magistrate's Office
The information I managed to gather didn't make me feel any safer.
My visions show too many horrors: death, destruction...For a mere human, trying to stop the flow of what's coming feels like trying to dam a river with a sheet of paper.
But what choice do I have if I don't try?
I don't want to die.
Not this young.
Maybe it's just youthful naivety, but I want to try.
To survive—No.To live.
Something I haven't truly done since my parents died.Since I was taken from my homeworld at the age of nine and sent to Tarsonis like a prisoner.
"Cultural exchange," my ass.
I was a hostage.A sacrifice so my uncle could keep his mines and territories.
The Confederacy took interest in my psionic energy.If it hadn't proven so unstable—even after those damned experiments—they would've drafted me into the Ghost program.
I don't even want to imagine that.
I've heard enough to know the "training" and "conditioning" they go through is pure hell.
In the end, they sent me to the academy instead.
I spent nearly half my life there.
Every time I went out, I was followed by guards.Friends were a luxury I couldn't afford.And romantic relationships? Forget it.
When my uncle reached out—after I sent him some of the weapon schematics I designed based on my visions—I thought… maybe I could finally go home.
What a joke.
Instead, I ended up in the damned officer school.
But now… now I have an opportunity, even if it's on a lost colony in the middle of nowhere.
A planet still has resources, at least.
And if I can gain control of the unit and equipment my uncle promised to send, I'll be one step closer to freedom.
And maybe… just maybe…One step closer to truly living.
____________________________________________________________________
Clarck stopped writing. The screen flickered in front of his eyes.
Lately, he'd grown attached to writing. Maybe as a sort of diary.If he really ended up dying, at least he'd live on through these records... right?
He shook his head. Thinking like that wouldn't help.
He pulled out a bottle and swallowed a couple of stimulant pills.
He hadn't slept in three days.Not since his ship approached Mar Sara's orbit.Even less since he set foot on solid ground.
He didn't want to see any more.
At least before, the dreams would repeat themselves.Lately, that was no longer the case.
It might sound cowardly, but he didn't want to keep watching those damned creatures tear people apart.
And even if that meant missing out on new visions…He'd rather not sleep.
Once the meds kicked in, he grabbed his jacket and headed out.
It was time for the simulation drill.He had to see with his own eyes the true state of his forces—And find out whether, when the time came, they'd be of any use.