Chapter 3: The Mole's Gambit

The threat hangs in the air, real and dangerous. Hayes glares, but for a moment, he bites his tongue. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Other officials try to cool things off, but Hayes won’t stop. “Governor, you’re playing favorites. You coddle this blockhead and let the crooks run wild. How will history judge you? Where’s your backbone?”

The words echo off the walls, raw and sharp. Some of the councilmen shift uncomfortably, others nod in silent agreement. The Governor’s face reddens, jaw clenched tight.

The Governor slams his hand on the table, face red, voice booming: “Get him out! Out! Execute him now!” A mug topples, coffee splattering across the papers, shock rippling through the room.

Everyone drops to their knees, a frenzy of objections—begging for Hayes’s life. A space force general pleads, “Governor, please—think of his service and loyalty. Spare him.”

The general’s voice trembles, the plea genuine. The council room is chaos, voices overlapping, the old bonds of brotherhood stretched to the breaking point.

A councilman adds, “Yes, sir, Hayes is the only one who understands quantum tunneling tech. We can’t waste that. It’s wartime—killing him would wreck morale.”

He gestures helplessly, eyes darting from the Governor to Hayes, desperate for a compromise. The room is thick with fear and regret.

Still fuming, the Governor yells, “If you all defend him, you want to join him?” The threat is real, and the officials fall silent. No one wants to test the Governor’s resolve. The Star Sage sits detached, as if none of this matters, sipping his coffee.

The Star Sage’s face is unreadable, gaze fixed on a point beyond the room. The drama plays out around him, but he remains untouched, a silent observer to the storm.

The Governor relents, “Fine. Spare him, but throw him in the pit.” A half-beat of regret flickers across his face.

Guards move in, using mechanical arms to restrain Hayes, but their gestures are hesitant, reluctant. Hayes shrugs them off, eyes blazing, and shouts, “No need to drag me—I’ll jump myself!”

He squares his shoulders, pride refusing to let him be led away like a criminal. The guards hesitate, unsure whether to salute or restrain him.

Hayes stands at the edge of a dark abyss. It’s not a pit, but a circular platform—a gateway, the wormhole entrance he designed himself. On the granite floor, the wormhole looks like a maw of stone and light, swallowing all, like the gates of hell.

The air hums with energy, the faint shimmer of the wormhole distorting the light. Hayes stands tall, staring into the void, his face set in grim determination. Even the HUD timestamps feel slow. The onlookers hold their breath.

The wormhole’s tearing force could shred steel. Hayes made it to punish criminals—never thought he’d be the one to face it. He laughs bitterly, the irony not lost on him. He glances back once, meeting the Governor’s eyes, then steps forward, swallowed by the darkness. Gone. The room erupts in sobs and shouts, the sense of loss overwhelming.

Everyone weeps. The Governor’s heart feels like it’s being ripped out, but he doesn’t wipe his face. Watching a brother die for the cause is worse than dying himself.

The Governor stands rigid, jaw clenched, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. The Star Sage closes his eyes, whispering, “Forgive me.” The outpost mourns, the weight of sacrifice settling over them all.

---

Fifteen light-years away, the Stratton Empire’s armada gathers in the outer cluster, stretching for thousands of kilometers. Inside the warships, cold armor bristles with weapons, and the soldiers are wolves—machines rumbling, engines howling.

The fleet is a metal storm, ships lined up in endless formation, their hulls gleaming in the artificial sun. Inside, the air smells of oil and ozone, the tension so thick you could slice it with a knife. Soldiers move with purpose, eyes hard, voices clipped. The hum of the engines is a constant reminder that war is always just a breath away.

The new commander sits on his throne of thorns, cracking his neck, listening to updates from across the stars. He sprawls in the command chair, boots propped on the armrest, fingers drumming a restless tattoo. He’s young, hungry, dangerous—itchy for a fight.

An astronomer gives the eastern sector’s weather, spouting jargon. The commander waves him off. A physicist claims to have cracked antimatter control, but again, “Send it to the science chief—I want the bottom line.”

A soldier enters, salutes: “We recovered a floating object from subspace drift—a stasis capsule. Inside was Colonel Hayes of Ironridge.”

The room goes still, the news hanging in the air like the first rumble of thunder before a storm. The commander leans forward, curiosity piqued.

He says nothing, just shifts. The chief of staff asks, “Dead or alive?”

“Alive—he says he wants to defect and fight for you.”

The commander signals with his eyes. The chief of staff scoffs, “What a clumsy trick. Obvious plant. If he’s faking, he could try harder.”

He continues, “Claims his Governor believed lies and tossed him in the wormhole. Lucky for him, he built the thing and knew how to dodge death.”

“Anything else?”

“Reports say Ironridge is in chaos. The new Supreme Sage has the Governor’s ear, got rid of his best general, and now the place is falling apart. It checks out.”

The commander is annoyed. The chief of staff, once his father’s right hand, nags like the old man. “Just keep him. He might be useful.”

“Commander, he could be trouble if he gets out; if locked up, he could spy. They call him the Mole—he can tunnel anywhere. I smell a trick—don’t get careless.”

The commander shrugs. “Killing defectors hurts morale and our image—not good for recruitment. Just keep him. He might be useful.”

“Commander, we don’t lack talent. If we keep him, watch him close.”

“You worry too much. Are we scared of a single tunneling mole?”

---

Hayes is thrown in prison, shackled, heavily guarded. He’s given animal chow and murky water, barely edible.

Hayes flings the food behind the guard, cursing, “What do you take me for? I’m a Colonel, not some stray. Bring your commander—I have words. If you look down on me, just shoot me. I’d rather starve than eat this. Let the galaxy judge me.”

The guards grit their teeth, but don’t act—the commander said jail, not torture. The chief of staff enters, boots clanking, riding a hover disc, standard officer tech in this fleet.

He grins slyly, “Colonel, calm down. I’m the commander’s staff. You want to surrender, but we’re full up on talent. You came, but you won’t leave.” He smirks, pausing to let the threat hang.

Hayes shouts, “You’re just a flunky—I won’t talk to you. Bring the commander—I have real news.”

“The commander isn’t at your beck and call!” The chief scoffs, crossing his arms.

Hayes laughs, “What’s wrong, is your boss scared to see me? Hiding in his shell?”

The chief of staff tries to rattle him. “The commander thinks you’re talented, so he’s kept you alive. But all you do is yell. Even if he wants you, he needs to know your value.”

Hayes holds back, lowers his voice, “Of course I have intel and skills. But if your boss won’t listen, he’ll regret it forever.”

“So you won’t tell me?”

Hayes plays it cool, “Secrets like this aren’t for flunkies.”

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