Stargrave's Guide to Galactic Blunders

Chapter 8: The Prison of Echoes

"I really hate your plans, Orion!" Cassian’s voice crackled through the comms, competing with the bone-shaking rattle of the Star-Skipper’s reentry shields. "Every time you say 'we're going to jail,' we actually end up in jail!"

"It’s not just jail, Cass! It’s a rescue mission!" Orion shouted back, his hands white-knuckled on the flight controls. "There’s a difference! Mostly in the intent!"

"The intent won't stop a rail-gun from turning us into space-dust!" Vela yelled from the engine room. "Cap, the heat sinks are screaming! If you don't level us out, we’re going to be the first toasted marshmallows in the Tartarus system!"

"Hold it together, everyone!" Lyra commanded, her voice remarkably steady despite the fact that her seat was vibrating at a frequency that suggested imminent disassembly. "We’re through the first layer of the atmosphere. Scanners are… wait. That can't be right."

Orion squinted through the frost-rimmed viewport. "What? Did they lock onto us? Are the missiles coming?"

"No," Lyra whispered, her brow furrowed as she stared at the holographic display. "There are no missiles. There are no defense satellites. There isn't even a landing pad. Orion, look at the surface."

The Star-Skipper punched through the final layer of thick, amber clouds. Orion braced for the sight of jagged black rocks, guard towers, and the cold, oppressive steel of a planetary prison. Instead, his jaw dropped.

Below them stretched an endless, rolling meadow of vibrant, emerald-green grass. Crystal-clear streams wound through the landscape like silver ribbons, and clusters of trees with shimmering, golden leaves swayed in a gentle breeze. It looked like a postcard from a planet that had never known a day of war.

"Uh, Cassian?" Orion asked, his voice dropping an octave. "Did we take a wrong turn at the nebula? Because this doesn't look like the 'Hell-Hole of the Hegemony.'"

"Checking the coordinates now," Cassian muttered, his fingers blurring over the console. "Nope. This is it. Sector 7-G, Tartarus Gate. But unless the Hegemony decided to turn their highest-security prison into a botanical garden, we’re in the wrong place."

"Maybe it’s a retirement home for very polite warlords?" Theron suggested, peering over Orion’s shoulder. "Look at those flowers! I think those are Solar-Lilies. They haven't been seen in the wild for ages!"

"It’s a trap," Lyra said flatly. "It has to be."

"Only one way to find out," Orion said, a reckless grin returning to his face. "Set her down, Cass. Right in the middle of that big, suspicious field of lilies."

The Star-Skipper landed with a soft thump that felt strangely cushioned. When the ramp hissed open, the air that drifted in wasn't the recycled, metallic tang of a spaceship. It was sweet. It smelled like honey, fresh rain, and something Orion couldn't quite place—something that smelled like home.

"Stay sharp, everyone," Orion said, stepping onto the grass. He reached for his hip, but realized he’d forgotten his holster in the rush. "Lyra, you got the—"

He stopped. The meadow was changing. Or rather, the world around him was blurring at the edges.

"Orion? Do you see that?" Lyra asked, her voice sounding distant, like she was speaking through a long tube.

"See what? The parade?" Orion asked, his eyes widening.

In front of him, the meadow was gone. He was standing on a grand balcony overlooking a gleaming, golden city. Thousands of people were cheering below, waving banners with his face on them. He was wearing a cape—a very long, very majestic red cape.

"Captain Stargrave!" a voice boomed. A tall man in a pristine uniform approached, holding a velvet cushion. On it sat a medal the size of a dinner plate, encrusted with diamonds. "For your service to the galaxy. For being the greatest pilot, the bravest leader, and the man with the most impeccable hair in history."

"Well," Orion said, puffing out his chest and ignoring the fact that his boots were suddenly made of polished gold. "It was a team effort, really. But mostly me. I did do the heavy lifting."

"Orion! Stop it!"

Orion blinked. Lyra was standing in front of him, but she looked… wrong. She wasn't wearing her emerald gown or her combat boots. She looked like a blurry smudge in a world of perfection.

"Lyra? Why aren't you cheering?" Orion asked, confused. "They’re about to name the new star system after me. 'Orion’s Glory.' It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"There is no parade, Orion!" Lyra shouted, grabbing his shoulders. "Look at the sky! It’s turning grey!"

"Nonsense. The sky is a beautiful shade of heroic blue," Orion insisted. He turned back to the crowd. "Thank you! Thank you! Yes, the goats were a minor setback, but my vision carried us through!"

"He’s completely gone," Lyra muttered, looking around.

Beside them, Theron was kneeling in the grass, talking to a flower that was growing rapidly, its petals turning into tiny, singing mouths. Cassian was sitting on a nearby rock, holding a bucket of credits that never seemed to empty, laughing like a madman.

"Vela? Cassian? Can anyone hear me?" Lyra yelled into her comms.

"I’m busy, Lyra!" Cassian’s voice came through, sounding muffled. "I just bought a moon! A whole moon! And it’s made of high-grade fuel and sarcasm!"

Lyra bit her lip, her eyes darting around the meadow. She could feel a heavy, sweet pressure in her lungs. The air. It wasn't just sweet—it was thick. She pulled her collar over her nose, her training kicking in.

"Neuro-toxin," she hissed. "It’s a hallucinogenic defense system. It’s feeding them exactly what they want."

She looked at Orion. He was currently bowing to an invisible audience, blowing kisses to the wind.

"Orion, listen to me!" Lyra grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. "None of this is real! You’re on a prison planet! There is no cape! There are no medals!"

"You're just jealous, Lyra," Orion said with a dreamy smile. "You can be my First Officer of the Galaxy. I’ll give you a small moon to manage. One with a very organized filing system."

"Orion Stargrave, look at me!" Lyra screamed. "You are a mediocre captain with a ship held together by toaster parts and prayer! You couldn't fly a shuttle through a barn door without hitting both sides! Your 'vision' is just a series of lucky accidents!"

Orion froze. The golden city flickered. The cheering crowd wavered like a bad holoprojection.

"Wait," Orion said, his brow furrowing. "What did you say about my piloting?"

"I said you’re terrible!" Lyra doubled down, seeing the cracks in the illusion. "That landing on the Aurelia? You didn't 'aim' for the docking port. You missed the entire ship and only hit it because the gravity well caught us! You’re a hack, Orion! A flamboyant, disorganized hack!"

"Hey!" Orion’s voice regained its sharp, indignant edge. "I landed that ship with zero thrusters and a goat chewing on my left boot! That was a masterpiece of kinetic navigation!"

"It was a fluke!"

"A fluke? I’ll show you a fluke! I’ve got more talent in my pinky than most Academy pilots have in their whole—"

Orion stopped. The golden city vanished. The cape disappeared. He was standing in a grey, rocky wasteland. The emerald grass was actually a carpet of sickly, pulsating moss that let out a faint, purple mist.

"Oh," Orion said, blinking as the reality of the desolate, freezing landscape hit him. "That… that wasn't a parade, was it?"

"No," Lyra said, coughing as she pulled an emergency oxygen mask from her belt and shoved it onto his face. "Put this on. Now. Before you start seeing the medals again."

Orion inhaled the sharp, sterile tang of pure oxygen. His head cleared instantly. He looked around, seeing Theron still trying to hug a jagged rock and Cassian throwing handfuls of dirt into the air as if it were gold.

"We have to get them back to the ship," Orion said, his voice muffled by the mask.

"No time," a new voice crackled through the air.

Orion spun around. A few feet away, a flickering, blue holographic projection appeared. It was an older man, his hair a messy shock of white, his face covered in a beard that looked like it hadn't seen a razor in a decade. He was wearing a tattered flight suit and a scowl that could curdle milk.

"Dad?" Orion whispered, his heart skipping a beat.

"Don't 'Dad' me, you idiot," the projection said, crossing its arms. "What did I tell you about landing in unmapped sectors? You’re lucky the neuro-mist didn't turn your brain into mush in the first five minutes."

"Evander?" Lyra asked, stepping forward. "Is that really you?"

"I’m a pre-recorded security ghost, girl. Use your head," the projection snapped. "The real me is about two miles underground in the central hub, trying to figure out why the Hegemony’s 'Gatekeeper' AI is currently reciting poetry instead of running the life support. Now, stop standing there catching flies with your mouths and follow the signal."

"You're alive," Orion said, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. "You're actually alive! And you're just as grumpy as I remember!"

"I’ve been stuck in a hole with a depressed robot for three years, Orion. My 'sunny disposition' died somewhere around year two," Evander’s projection said. "Now, move! The guards are automated, and they don't see illusions. They just see targets. If you aren't in the bunker in ten minutes, you’re going to be very well-ventilated."

"You heard the man!" Orion shouted, grabbing Theron by the collar and hauling him upright. "Cassian! Wake up! The credits are dirt! Literally dirt!"

"But I was a billionaire," Cassian moaned as Orion slapped a mask onto his face.

"Welcome back to the real world, Cass. We're broke, we're on a toxic rock, and my dad is yelling at us," Orion said, a grin spreading across his face despite the danger. "In other words, everything is exactly where it should be."

"I hate this planet," Vela’s voice came over the comms as she stumbled out of the ship, already wearing her mask. "The moss tried to eat my boots."

"Just keep moving!" Lyra yelled, pointing toward a jagged cliff face where a hidden door was beginning to slide open. "Follow the signal!"

They ran across the wasteland, the purple mist swirling around their ankles like ghostly fingers. Behind them, the automated turrets of the prison began to rise from the ground, their red sensor eyes locking onto the fleeing crew.

"Orion!" Lyra shouted over the sound of incoming fire. "Your dad said we had ten minutes!"

"Then we’ll do it in five!" Orion yelled, his boots pounding against the hard, grey earth. "Visionary speed, Lyra! Don't look back!"

They dived through the bunker door just as a volley of plasma bolts scorched the air where they had been standing. The heavy steel door slammed shut with a finality that made the whole mountain shake.

The interior of the bunker was dimly lit, filled with the hum of ancient servers and the smell of ozone. Standing at a console in the center of the room was the man from the projection—older, grumpier, and very much real.

Evander Starborn turned around, eyeing Orion’s moth-eaten jacket and disheveled hair.

"You’re late," Evander said, checking a holographic watch.

"Nice to see you too, Dad," Orion panted, leaning against the wall. "By the way, you owe me a new hat. The goats ate the last one."

Evander stared at him for a long beat, then a small, reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Goats, huh? I suppose it could have been worse. You could have lost the ship."

"The Skipper is fine!" Orion insisted. "Mostly. She has 'character' now."

"She’s a floating fire hazard, Evander," Lyra corrected, stepping forward and extending a hand. "I’m Lyra Celestine. Your son’s long-suffering First Officer."

Evander looked at her, then back at Orion. "A Celestine? You’re running with a corporate elite now, Orion? I taught you better than that."

"She’s the one who broke the illusion, Dad. She insulted my piloting until I woke up."

Evander nodded slowly. "Smart girl. I like her already. Now, stop the reunions. We’ve got half the Hegemony fleet heading this way because someone decided to use a 'biometric key' that’s basically a giant 'Kick Me' sign in subspace."

Orion straightened up, his eyes narrowing. "Then let’s get out of here. We’ve got the ship, we’ve got the crew, and now we’ve got the guy who knows where the Aether-Core is."

"I don't just know where it is, son," Evander said, tapping a final command into the console. "I am the core. Or at least, the only one who can turn it on without blowing up a star system."

He looked at Orion, his expression turning serious. "You ready for what comes next? Because it isn't going to be a parade."

Orion looked at Lyra, then at his battered, loyal crew. He adjusted his jacket and flashed that familiar, reckless grin.

"Dad," Orion said. "I’ve been ready since the goats."