Chapter 2: The Sacrifice of Hayes

“So, can we beat them? …”

His voice is barely above a whisper, the question hanging between them like a dare.

“I do have a plan for victory without a single loss, but…”

The Sage lets the words trail off, letting the suspense build. He watches the Governor closely, weighing his resolve.

“Please, don’t hold back.”

The Governor’s plea is raw, pride stripped away. The silence that follows is almost painful, the weight of unspoken sacrifice looming.

“But it’ll cost you a trusted general.”

A beat of silence sharpens the knife. The Governor is a decent man, and the thought of sacrificing a loyal general makes his heart ache. He doesn’t have many—these are brothers who’ve bled together. He hesitates, jaw ticking, stare emptying as he grapples with the impossible choice.

He looks away, jaw clenched, the ceiling seeming to dip, the air thinning. Memories of battles fought side by side flicker through his mind. The room feels heavier as he wrestles with the decision.

The Star Sage nods. Staff taps softly on the floor, marking finality. “If you’re unwilling, there’s nothing more I can do. I’ll take my leave.”

He stands, the gesture final. The Governor’s heart pounds, torn between duty and loyalty. The Sage’s silhouette in the doorway is a silent challenge.

He turns, but the Governor stops him, standing slowly, jaw tight. “No matter—if you truly have a way, I’ll be the bad guy. Let history roast me if it saves us.”

The words come out rough, but resolute. The Governor squares his shoulders, accepting the weight of history’s judgment. The tent is thick with the scent of coffee and sacrifice—a motif that lingers.

The Star Sage inclines his head. “First, you must do one more thing.”

He bows deeply, a gesture of respect and gravity, the kind that signals the start of something momentous.

“What now?”

The Governor’s voice is wary, bracing for another blow.

“Appoint me Supreme Sage of your outpost—an old ceremonial role with executive authority.”

The Governor is surprised. This sage has always been a recluse, never holding office, living free—why ask for a title now? He studies the man. “Of course, it’d be my honor, but—why?”

He hesitates, eyes narrowing, trying to read the Sage’s motives. The request feels out of character, unsettling. The silence stretches, heavy with questions. “Why?”

“Is your trusted general—Colonel Hayes?”

“Yes!”

“Is Colonel Hayes prone to jealousy and rivalry?”

The Governor’s breath catches, realization dawning. A faint wind keens at the tent seams. He nods slowly, the pieces falling into place. The tent feels colder, as if the universe itself is holding its breath.

---

The Outer Corridor is a wasteland, with only Ironridge Outpost—like a forgotten marble in a jar of stars, dull and overlooked, middle of nowhere. If not for its spot at the crossroads of the Milky Way and Vega, no one would care.

The wind whips across the barren plains, dust swirling in lazy eddies. The outpost’s buildings huddle together, battered by years of neglect. Neon signs flicker, half-burned out. Neon sputters. Sickly light spills over the cracked pavement. The only thing that keeps the place alive is its location—a lonely crossroads that everyone needs but nobody loves.

The Star Sage arrives, seeing the people stuck in the grind of heavy industry, and says nothing.

He walks the streets, coat pulled tight against the wind, the air tinged with ozone and machine oil, watching workers trudge home from the mines. Their faces are gray with exhaustion, eyes dull, shoulders slumped. He takes it all in, silent, absorbing the weight of a place that’s forgotten how to hope.

Since joining the Governor, the Star Sage only sighs at the dying towns, weak economy, and messy leadership, but offers no reforms. He just… watches. The people are listless, the troops slack, no sign of resistance.

He spends his days in the Governor’s office, watching council meetings with a distant gaze. When he does speak, it’s in riddles—sometimes: “When the wind is still, the dust settles, but the wind always comes again.” Offers no solutions, just more questions. The townsfolk grumble in the bars at night, wondering if the new Supreme Sage is just another empty suit.

The Governor tells the Star Sage that while they lack elite troops and firepower, the planet’s crust is laced with antimatter mines, making the Stratton Empire cautious. Like a turtle—soft belly, hard shell—it’s not easily taken.

The Governor leans over a battered map, tracing defense lines with a chewed-up pen, a coffee ring stain spreading across one corner. He’s proud of the planet’s stubbornness, but even he knows it’s not enough. The antimatter mines are a last line of defense—a desperate gamble in a game where the stakes are survival.

The Star Sage offers no opinion, stone-faced at council meetings, carved out of the room’s stale air.

He sits at the end of the table, hands folded, eyes half-closed. The other officials steal glances, whispering behind their hands. The room is thick with suspicion, the air stale with unspoken doubts.

The other officers praise him as a hidden genius in public, but in private, complain that he’s a seat-warmer—the Governor’s put a scarecrow in charge. Sometimes they toast him with instant coffee, darkly amused.

In the mess hall, jokes fly over cold coffee and reheated rations. “Supreme Sage, huh? More like Supreme Couch Potato,” someone mutters. But no one says it to his face. There’s something about him—an unsettling calm that keeps people at arm’s length.

At a council session, Colonel Hayes—fiery by nature—can’t take it. He stands and snaps, “Governor, you treat this deadbeat like a treasure? I say toss him in a hole—he’s not even worth the dirt!”

Hayes’s voice cuts through the room like a whip. He’s a big man, all bluster and bravado, the kind who’s never backed down from a fight. His fists clench at his sides, face flushed with anger. The room goes silent, everyone waiting for the Governor’s response.

“Calm down, Charlie. The Supreme Sage has his reasons, not something you’d get.”

The Governor’s voice is tired, but there’s a warning in it. He’s had this fight before, too many times to count. He shoots Hayes a look that says, “Not now.”

Hayes turns away, muttering, “Silent as a rock, never says a word. You expect him to save us? Give me a break.” He scoffs, pacing the edge of the room. The other officers watch, some nodding in agreement, others just grateful the heat’s off them for once.

The Governor warns, “Charlie, keep it up and I’ll have you court-martialed.”