Two years had passed since Illian sent flowers to Titan’s family. With his passing, he left behind two grieving widows—one current, one on good terms—and a handful of kids who were then nonethewiser to his passing.

Illian was starting to receive reports by the day, sighting more of those droids popping up in more centralized districts. Just two months ago, he found out that women and children are on the kill list firsthand when he attended a rallying event in Dallas. Seeing this only drove Illian to dive further into his search for a Champion. Somebody with the power of Gaia, Herself; with the strength to send these Powers packing in one deadly swoop! Needless to say, that prospect has acquired a bitter aftertaste.

Case and point: the clown in the passenger seat of his fighter.

“So—you like Aerosmith?” he asked Illian.

“Whatever you like,” Illian said like swatting at a fly. He took a tired breath, “January 14th …” He stammered on the console. “What year is it?”

This long-haired candidate shrugged and took over tune duty.

Illian spun around; he then fumbled hands through a junk pile next to his piloting chair. He produced his slate, now caked in grime and swipe skin flaking. “3187!” without even bothering a second take. “Now starting test—who cares of subject: Aero.

“Though he’s proven to be adept in the spiritual-”

He glowered at Aero, now mouthing along to the music, “And I don’t wanna miss a thi-ing!”

Illian continued, “His affinity for ancient Earth history has me somewhat worried he will not be ready to use Her powers at a whim.” Illian faced up when they broke Neptune’s atmosphere. The misty blue storms conflagrated in violent reds. “So, once Aero has proven that he is Her vessel, then we can all go home happy.” Illian lost all animation, unamused.

So many wasted escape pods. So many expensive evacs. Shaintro had been so kind as to lend soldiers to run routine sweeps of their pricier assets in the Sol galaxy. Illian would tag along and demonstrate his Champion’s ability. Nothing yet. But, there’s a miracle waiting here … somewhere. The possibility alone elicited a cautious smile. Then Aero began to air guitar, and Illian let it go.

“Here’s to candidate nineteen.” He dismounted his chair.

The slick Volt fighter clipped, dipping into the ravenous plume. Beyond, Illian scouted a relay sticking from a geodesic shell. Solid confirmation. He prepped the ship for docking, dropping the hammer on altitude arrangement to engage landing procedure.

He mounted a clear, octagonal-faced dome on his head, latched a tubule to a oxidizing apparatus harnessed to his back. From the neck seal, a transparent confirming wave webbed his body and prepared him for nearly any climate in the Sol system.

Aero did the same. “Ready,” he said.

When Illian tried to answer, his body seized with mortal worry. Gaia’s shuddering presence crept through his suit as a sour chord might invade an ear.

She warned—through fingers, through his toes—great danger haunts these skies.

Quickly, Illian manned his controls again. Then he saw—it: a strange gunmetal frigate thunder and rumble above the tarmac. He finally uttered the answer he owed Aero, “You better be.”

No welcoming party was stupid enough to stick around the docking overhang; the archaic steel frigate now shadowed the atmosphere above the station on a monumental scale.

Illian investigated how strangely its bulkhead canopies had been slagged off, how the decks lacked any glow—even the bridge protruding from the nose. Further inspection only spurred more questions; a stringed mucous ensnared their openings and swung in the wind. And as though fated, Illian heard gunfire. That was when he knew something had gone terribly wrong.

Illian and Aero rushed along a curving catwalk, heads down. While Aero was aimless, Illian did his best to not oust that he was just as lost. Finally, they met a Maiorian guard who immediately signaled at once to cross over: “Move it, candidates!”

They outran stray shots; lucky for the boy and his carry-on, these Maiorians were under orders to die for them. One dismounted their helmet, threw it as to breathe one last breath if he was to die. Not a problem on Neptune; Maiorians thrived on its methane cocktail of an atmosphere. Illian’s escort fell on the soldier’s display. He joined them, spared from a muggy dome full of perspirations. Their escort hugged his pylon fixture against all odds.

Illian ducked out, flabbergasted at these crimson red soldiers. “Any ID?!” Illian shouted.

“No one has been able to properly identify our enemy!” The soldier loaded his angular rifle, clacking a suspended joint to then smack its ammo into complacency. He sighed, exhausted, “They’ve clustered aft-board port and have most certainly taken hostages.”

Illian paused. “Hostages?!”

“Yes! Hostages!” When he had to reload again, the soldier pulled hard a lever-action function which appeared to twist and shave his active rounds into something more akin to spears. He brought the lever back down, braced. “Stay in cover!” The soldier then unleashed his wrath, slam after slam pinging, claiming many crimson bodies who couldn’t stand the weather. Illian gawked at the black spray escaping their wounds, their listless visors. “Is this part of the test?!”

The Maiorian soldier had to process the boy’s words. He finally shouted back, “No!-“

A stray boom crashed, expelled them from cover. The Maiorian continued, “Kairamafa!” (Eat ass!)

Illian coughed, tangled in soot. “What?!” He patted his chest for his translator, but it had been blasted off! Illian scrambled to stabilize the soldier. He hoisted as best he could, latching under their shoulders. As well as he could grip the glossy, angular pads, that is.

“tri-Bulakumanos.” (I need you to focus, male.) with a sonorous wave of the tongue. “Bula a’stato.” (We need to go there.) Aero perked his brow, mouthed “whoa” with the slightest whisper.

What a time to forget his translator. Whatever the hell Illian was on about, it appeared to work; the soldier got to his feet, motioned to keep on, even took point.

They followed his back. To avoid thinking of how a bullet tastes, Illian instead focused on the Maiorian’s armor. It was plated—in navy blue—with hexagonal bonding layers and a jet black trim line. There was a fluid shift in its fabric when he ran. Too ornate for Naides infantry. This guy, they’ve got to be special.

The storm’s roar then demanded Illian’s attention. Were a god so jealous, She’d rupture the continent!-

Oh, wait. Bad example.

They slipped through a hanger gate chugging to a slamming close—now under definite lockdown. The soldier slung his rifle left, then down a corridor bending right. He crept forward silently, scanning each shield door partition; his stance has seen too many careless rookies wasted which only made Illian more curious.

Illian turned to Aero and could almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Aero gave a shrug with that what-are-ya-gonna-do smarm. That was when the soldier paused to raise his gloved hand.

He said “All clear,” then appraised Illian’s glittering rainbow neckline. “Those chains. Going to get you killed faster.”

Illian glanced down. “I think you’re right.”

“Name?” The soldier scouted the base of a scaffold stairway leading to several catwalks above. The room cramped beyond into what appeared to be an easement full of winding coolant conduits.

“Sol.” A cool mist now danced in their air like sifting cobwebs. Methane residue. He swatted through, feeling the dangerous cool sweep over his arm.

“And the other?” while sweeping the overhead catwalks.

“Uhm …” Illian stuttered, wiping his visor of building moisture. “This is Aero.”

Aero waved.

The soldier waved back, satisfied for now. “Pleasure, Sol and Aero.” He lowered his gun and turned to face Aero directly. “You are—the one to stop The Powers?” He shot curious bulb eyes to the Champion hopeful, but regressed when no answer was given. Illian sprung up, slapped a spare translator’s sticky bottom onto Aero’s red jacket. “Is something wrong?”

Aero had an epiphany: “Could you repeat all that—sorry?”

“He asked if you were the Champion,” said Illian begrudgingly.

“Oh yeah! Totally me, dude.”

“Fusacilsca” (I’m sorry.)

The soldier inspected Aero, down to the slightest finger. “Shura? Vici?” ( You are? Why?)

Illian halted; he sighed without the right Maiorian diction and nabbed his translator back. “You do something so long and it never works out the way you hope. Maybe he’s it, who knows. I’m not holding my breath.”

Aero loaded his hands into his jean pockets. His face pouted like he could give a shit on command. The soldier was taken aback and inspected Aero again: “I have fought The Powers before. Barely survived.”

“On Maiora?—of all places?”

The soldier shook his head no. “The Protectorate is a hand in all wars. Cupias’ will fell upon Quan-Vek many cycles ago.”

Illian wanted to say Serves those gargoyles right, but refrained: “What happened to the Hayvrn?”

“Much like yourselves, they were deemed unfit to protect Her.” Illian’s expression glazed, losing the plot. “Their god, Feng,” he said lecturing. “Fact of the matter is this …” He leaned down to the boy’s level, “I know the Champion to wear many different skins. And you be sure not to forget that.”