Chapter 7: Bulkhead Nine

  S12-CUT 202.3.27895.86

  Resolute 1902 17.03.2244

  Bulkhead Nine wasn’t luxury.

  It was never designed to be.

  The Resolute’s main recreation lounge had been converted from an old diagnostic bay, tucked behind the ship’s forward blast shielding on Deck 9. Once, it had been filled with star-mapping terminals—part of the vessel’s original purpose exploring uncharted wormhole corridors, expanding the Commonwealth’s network.

  Now, it had a new function: clean, streamlined, utilitarian.

  Like Zeth’s makeshift dojo, the brushed duranium walls still bore the faint outlines of retrofit seams—ghost-lines left by high-density server banks that once powered deep-field cartography arrays. Now, modular seating lined the walls, while long matte-surfaced tables filled the centre. Simple, but functional didn’t mean uncomfortable here.

  Fair-light filaments glowed along the ceiling, mimicking Earth’s dusk—gentle on the eyes and easy on the nervous system. Music played softly from emitters, tuned to the room’s occupants—tonight, something low and melodic.

  The air was crisp and filtered, with just a trace of the steriliser scent from my quarters—a quiet reminder I was still on a starship. Beneath that, a whisper of old coolant and ion-scrubbed air lingered in the vents. You wouldn’t notice it unless you’d spent real time on Earth. By now, I was getting used to it.

  Underfoot, the Fold Arrays pulsed through the plating—soft, almost imperceptible unless you stood still. The ship’s twin hearts now powering every system aboard—but always waiting for something more. Anticipating the bridge’s demand to fly onward.

  Some crew sat in pairs, eating fresh ration trays—real food, not synthesised. On Vanguard vessels, real food wasn’t a luxury—it was compensation. A principle. A reminder that service to the Helion Commonwealth came with substance, not just duty and sacrifice.

  Others lingered near side alcoves, drinks in hand. A recent Earth resupply had brought bottled beer—real hops. Not synthohol. The kind of small, fleeting indulgence that turned a windowless room into something close to familiar.

  The Resolute might have been a relic, but she was refined. A ship with history. And here in Bulkhead Nine, enough warmth lingered to remind you of the crew’s diversity.

  In the corner, a female crew member caught my attention.

  Her long dark hair tied back, still wearing the lower half of a space suit—thick, insulated leggings, grey with a stripe of light orange. She’d clearly just come in from exterior work. The retrofits were going well—I could feel that both Fold engines were now fully operational.

  Watching her, the thought of floating in open space didn’t seem frightening. It seemed… freeing. And that alone made her unexpectedly quite attractive.

  If I hadn’t been in so much pain, I might’ve made an excuse to talk to her. Perhaps to try and join her. But for me, as welcoming as Bulkhead Nine might’ve felt to others, it barely registered.

  And then she caught my eye.

  I turned my head closer, catching the gaze head on.

  But her expression. It was dark.

  I watched as all four others at her table glanced my way as she spoke quietly. I dropped my gaze, but I could still feel it pressing into me—their voices low, their tone hushed.

  They were respectful—but it was the kind of quiet, and reaction, only reserved for funerals. A distant sort of reverence, heavy with something sombre. They knew exactly who I was. And what I was doing here.

  Like they already knew how this story ended.

  The reality was, I was sitting alone.

  Elbows on the table. Forehead in my hands. Absolutely finished.

  Pain radiated from muscles I hadn’t known existed—each one flared up, courtesy of Zeth’s expert brutality that morning. Despite my brief talk with Rhai, my mind spiralled again, stuck in a corrupted loop of our sparring session.

  Failure. Again. And again. Training my brain to survive—at the cost of my sanity.

  My wrists were swollen from trying to break her grip. Scratches stung where claws had raked my arms. My fingers throbbed from being twisted back—slow, deliberate, just shy of breaking. Only her control kept me out of Medbay.

  That elbow strike, though—surgical, but with the weight of a sledgehammer—landed dead-centre in my chest. Even after Senar’s treatment, the purple bruise still throbbed with every breath.

  Every mistake came back like an echo—only heavier. My reflection in my drink looked like it had been pulled from deep water—distorted, hollow, and far too familiar.

  And still, the voice circled. Quiet. Relentless.

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  “Mind if I join you human?”

  That voice. Calm, but with a growled gruff.

  Firm, yet friendly.

  It was Eli.

  We’d met once before—briefly, in Sickbay. After Zeth threw me like a rag doll across the Tessereactor. It felt like a lifetime ago now. But the look in her eyes? That I still remember.

  Aside from Rhai, Eli had been the only one who didn’t look at me like I was a burden. His gaze held no pity—just quiet admiration. The kind that didn’t need words to be understood.

  He hadn’t said much then—just stood across the room, grinning down at me, towering like an Egyptian monument carved from stone.

  And now, here he was again. Not looming to cast a shadow—But like a mountain I hadn’t climbed yet.

  I looked up slowly from my drink.

  Eli—the full-blooded Khevarin—stood in front of me, wearing that same stupid broad grin. His teeth flashed at the corners of his elongated jaw, angled toward me like a challenge and a welcome all at once. Warrior-born, a slight madness in his eyes. And now, properly face to face, I could see exactly why he paired so well with Rhai on Zeth’s team.

  His silhouette was unmistakable—as tall as Zeth, humanoid but jackal-like, with long, slender limbs and fingers that moved with a warrior’s intent. His features echoed the ancient statuary of the god Anubis: elongated skull, proud jawline, and an upright posture that suggested reverence as much as readiness.

  But unlike a jackal, his mouth was broader, slightly more rounded—capable of that wide, unsettling grin his was giving me with bared yellowed teeth.

  A short, ridged horn jutted from the bridge of his nose—subtle but sharp. A biological ornament, or perhaps something evolutionary. Something for combat.

  His skin was leathery, grey and slightly furred, with a faint sheen like oiled stone beneath the corridor lights. His eyes—narrow, set close to the ridge of his nose—burned amber, slitted just enough to betray a predatory lineage.

  His hair was dark and coarse, swept back from his high-forehead in thick cords bound with a worn leather tie—practical, but ceremonial in its own quiet way. His Vanguard uniform strained at the shoulders; muscle moved beneath like coiled rope.

  He didn’t just look like someone built for violence. He looked like someone who had made peace with it. And then the thought hit me:

  Eli Kess. Senior Chief. Five years on the Resolute. One of Zeth’s team—alongside Rhai. The only other soul who’d ever measured up to her expectations.

  And aside from Zeth herself…

  How could I possibly compete with a Khevarin in combat?

  I considered him for a moment, then made a bold decision.

  “Please. Sit,” I muttered, gesturing to the seat across from me.

  I didn’t mean it. Not really. In all honestly, at that moment I wanted to continue being left alone.

  Eli grunted and eased onto the bench in front of me, which creaked under the weight of his leggy frame.

  He gave me a long look—one that felt like it cut deeper than just my bruises. Measuring me. But I was done with being inspected for the day, I didn’t like the look.

  Then somewhat unexpectedly, he looked down, tapping the rim of my mug with a flick. Raising an eyebrow with a sideways grin—his beady amber eyes noticed the lack of its contents.

  “Looks like you need another round human. Best cure for pain is Khevarin ale!”

  I blinked.

  Without waiting, he shifted to the right as he flagged down the nearest steward with two of his three fingers—ordering the pints in that low, deliberate jackaled tone of his—gruff, but with a yap.

  There were a few other Khevarin on the Resolute, I saw a couple pattering about between decks. I considered that they must’ve brought their own supply from the Commonwealth before Folding out here. Beer was almost an essential ration for a Khevarin, more so in the females.

  Then he turned back to me—calm, steady. But his large amber eyes were kind, almost inviting, softening the sharp edges of his otherwise rough demeanour.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Slapping his clawed hand on the table: “Varr, you’ve got the look of someone who’s already dead but hasn’t told his body yet!”

  I broke a wide smile, and then laughed involuntarily. Perhaps the first time properly in two days.

  It hurt my ribs, but the small joke helped my mood immensely.

  I met his gaze and paused, studying him for a moment smiling.

  I was glad he came. I needed the company more than I realized.

  “Eli…” I started, hesitating over the rim of my nearly empty mug. Based on the question I was about to ask, it was a good thing he’d already ordered another round.

  “Has she always been like this? Zeth, I mean? On new recruits?”

  He studied me for a moment, then leaned back—ears twitching slightly, jaw tight—as the chair creaked beneath his long frame. His long jaw tightened, lips pressing together to hide his yellowed teeth—but just in view, the two lower canines jutted past his lip—unmistakably Khevarin.

  “Zeth’s always been intense. Brutal. And unquestionably honourable—Like Ashur’na she quells the sands. But lately…” He shook his head. “No. This is different.”

  That struck me harder than I expected—especially the way he said it. There was something in his tone. Almost… fearful. And for a member of the Khevarin warrior race? That was rare.

  I glanced at him again, new questions now burning in the back of my mind.

  “So… it’s not just me then? She’s changed in some way?

  Eli, has she been acting like this with all the recruits?”

  He rubbed along his jawline with the back of one clawed finger, then tilted his head slightly—an instinctive, animal-like motion.

  “No. It’s not just you, Varr. Not that it probably helps much.” His ears shifted backward, a sign of tension.

  “Truth is… she’s been getting worse since K’arreth left. About six months ago.”

  My eyes narrowed slightly. He saw my questioning look.

  “Her old fighting partner. From the Viren War. Very old friends, as close as kin.”

  I wasn’t sure who K’arreth was. But in that moment, there were more pressing questions I needed to ask Eli about Zeth. Whatever their relationship had been, it probably ran deep. If it was anything to do with the Viren War, it was a bond forged through great loss while under fire.

  Eli saw the half-formed question in my eyes—and probably worried I’d ask about K’arreth out loud.

  He shifted in his seat, ears twitching as his eyes flicked toward the bar—waiting for the drinks that still hadn’t arrived, a low tension building in his posture.

  There was a hunger there. Not for food.

  The kind of hunger that came with hard truths—like this was exactly the kind of conversation that needed something strong in your hand.

  I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or devastated. Somehow, the idea that I wasn’t the first to be on Zeth’s list only made the pressure worse.

  If others had cracked under this new regime…

  What made Zeth think I could carry it?

  But Eli continued, his thirsty eyes and attuned ears finally flicking back to me.

  “Rhai and I? We trained under her for two years. Thought we had it rough. But what she’s putting you through?” He shook his head again. “It’s more than we ever saw. At least… this early. Maybe ever, from what Rhai said this morning.”

  His ears twitched, eyes flicking warily toward the table across from us—then slowly, deliberately, back to me.

  “The Captain and First Officer don’t like it. But apparently, it’s not their decision. Which—on any other starship—would be very unusual.”

  He scratched his long chin, fingers raking through the coarse fur beneath as he considered his next words.

  “It’s not just training anymore,” he said finally. “I think… it’s something else.”

  I blinked, then let the question fall.

  “You think she’s trying to break me?”

  He laughed—sharp, almost a jackaled cackle. It made me smile.

  But then his expression sobered, and he studied me again with that Khevarin predatory stillness—that quiet, sombre patience, ancient and unreadable. The kind that always meant more than words.

  “I think… she’s testing the waters to see if you survive it. And not just with bruises.”

  He tapped his chest lightly. “With something inside.”

  I stared at him, blankly at first—trying to absorb what he meant. Something inside. Like what? Strength? Will? Or something darker? I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

  Eli paused, watching me. His narrow eyes held still, but his long ears twitched—one angling back, the other flicking forward—reading my face like scent on the wind.

  Then his face softened—a glint of humour curling his teeth into that jackal’s grin. Not mocking. The kind a kindred spirit gives you when they’ve thought the same thing.

  “That look again? Pitiful, Human!” he cackled, his ears flicking back with amusement.

  “She hasn’t explained anything. Not to me. Not to us. Not really. We’re just as confused by this change in her as you are. It’s been… strange. Even for us.

  And K’arreth? That’s not the reason—not the whole of it. She’s always been fiercely independent. She’s lost people before. But this... this feels different.”

  He leaned in slightly, ears twitching, eyes scanning the room like radar—making sure no one else was listening. Then he continued, voice lower.

  “And not just to us, either. No one. That’s what’s got us concerned.”

  His ears angled backward slightly, telling of concern.

  “Rhai and I—we’ve talked about it. We’ve seen it. The way her eyes shift. That… edge in her scent. It’s like she’s running out of time.” His hackles rose just slightly, a ripple through the fur along his shoulders.

  “Like she’s afraid. Though she’d sooner bite off her own tongue than say it aloud.”

  He let out a sharp Ha!—more bark than laugh, full of instinct and denial. I wasn’t sure he truly believed Zeth could feel fear. Maybe he didn’t want to.

  I nodded, grimly.

  “So she’s not just looking for another fighter? Not just any fighter?”

  “No,” Eli growled softly, voice lowering as his ears flattened close to his skull.

  “She’s preparing someone. For something. What, we don’t know. And the Vanguards? They’re standing back. Letting it happen. And I think it’s even above them—straight from Helion Interstellar Command.”

  His nostrils flared. “That... concerns me more than anything.”

  I leaned in closer, wincing slightly as my chest muscles twinged.

  “So, no one else has passed this test?”

  “They tried,” he said gruffly. One ear flicked sideways, like the memory still annoyed him.

  “You’ve heard about the others, right? The silence in the hall? The way those lot over there keep looking at you?”.

  My eyes widened slightly as his ears pricked and his gaze snapped toward them—like he caught a scent on the wind.

  “Most couldn’t cut it. Transferred off the ship. Some didn’t even get the chance—they were dropped instantly.”

  He paused, amber eyes narrowing as both ears flicked back, sharp and instinctive.

  “Even a few Khevarin tried.” He let that hang—like a scent carried on still air.

  “They didn’t last either.”

  Then he looked at me—not with pity, but something else.

  Something older. Harder to name.

  Maybe it was admiration. Or maybe it was recognition.

  “But you’re still here, Varr,” he said, baring a grin that was more fang than smile. His ears flicking upright with playful sharpness, eyes wide with spirited glee.

  “That means something.”

  He paused, considering me for a long moment—weighing something behind those narrow, amber eyes.

  “But you should know…” he said, voice lower now. “Some didn’t make it, Human.”

  That landed hard. Almost as hard as Zeth’s elbow to my chest.

  “Even Rhai didn’t go through it like this,” he muttered. “And she’s meaner than a sand-wolf in heat!”

  That got me, I laughed—ribs aching with every breath.

  Eli didn’t laugh, but his ears and eyes softened just a touch. Not pity. Not concern. Just that quiet Khevarin stillness—like he was watching something take shape.

  Like he was starting to believe I might actually survive this.

  I was thankful the drinks arrived when they did.

  The scent hit first—thick and earthy, with a sharp, almost metallic tang that clung to the air like old iron and rain-soaked bark.

  The ale looked like something I might soon regret tasting. I reached for the mug, claws of doubt tapping the edge of my thoughts. The liquid inside was a deep, almost bloody red—too dark to see through, and warm to the touch, as if it had been brewed in the belly of a living thing. Khevarin ale was strictly banned in the Cadet’s Mess for good reason.

  Eli lifted his mug high, ears pricked, tail twitching faintly behind him.

  “By Ashur’na’s hand—we hold the storms!” he barked.

  Our mugs clinked together with a solid, metallic thunk. I couldn’t help but grin at the sheer drama of it—Khevarin had a way of turning even a toast into a battle cry.

  The first sip was heavy. Full-bodied, dense, like biting into dark stonefruit soaked in firewood smoke. It hit the back of my throat and stayed there, warming me from the chest outward. Almost like a German Dunkel from Earth—but rougher, wilder, less civilized.

  I coughed once, blinked twice. Then took another sip.

  It was… good. Surprisingly good. And with every swallow, something heavy inside me started to lift.

  As I drank the brooding liquid, something else returned to me—Eli’s toast:

  By Ashur’na’s hand, we hold the storms.

  There was weight in those words. More than I’d remembered at first.

  Khevarin respect wasn’t casually given—it was a code, carved in history and unrelenting heat. Older than most stars. Bound in spirit. Forged in fire and blood.

  Their laws were etched into the Gjallar Epics—oral and written histories passed down with reverence, where firelight and memory burned equally hot across the dunes at night as it did in the day. These weren’t just stories; they were spiritual guidance. Songs of loyalty. Oaths to endure. I had learnt about them in history class when I was younger.

  Before the first spark of industry ever touched the Khevarin home world—Gjallarhull—its sands were often blood red with centuries of war. They rode beast-like mounts across wind-torn battle plains, wielding long, curved sabres—kyrr-blades—forged from rare, storm-born metals found only in the deep craters of Gjallarhull and her many moons.

  A harsh, sacred world where brutal conflicts were fought not for glory—but for water.

  For survival. The Irukathen Plains—a sea of shifting dunes—were battlefield and altar alike.

  To die with teeth bared and claws bloodied there was not a failure. It was falling into the open arms of the revered she-god Ashur’na, with ears held high against the final setting sun.

  A Khevarin’s body is well built for heat, their blood forged in sunfire. But even for the Khevarin, long-term desertification meant slow death—scarcity, collapse, the unravelling of clan and code. And in the heart of that slow ruin stood only one name and deity: Ashur’na.

  She was the flame behind their walls, the breath that held back the dunes. The one who quelled the sands. It was said she kept the desert at bay—not just the stormwinds and hunger, but the tide of nomadic enemies beyond the horizon—just as desperate, just as hardened, just as scared. The desert tested everything. And because she stood against it, Ashur’na became as holy as the relief of the setting sun at dusk itself.

  In their culture, females ruled the apex—taller, broader, more aggressive. The war-leaders, the lore-keepers, the queens of fire and dust. The protectors.

  Therefore, if a male Khevarin looked at Zeth and said:

  Like Ashur’na—she quells the sands.

  …that wasn’t flattery. That was reverence in its purest form.

  A phrase reserved only for the greatest female warriors of the ages—those rare few who turned the tide of a thirsting death to their will. Not with prayer. But with their enemies blood in their throats and torn flesh at their claws. Mouths open in screams, manes soaked red, jaws locked around the necks of their enemies in deaths throw. Saviors of Irukathen clan and creed.

  One step short of goddesshood. A breath away from divinity.

  To hear it spoken of Zeth chilled something deep in me.

  And yet… I was still standing.

  Still breathing, after the trials of someone spoken of in tones just shy of worship—a warrior deity born of fury and devastation. Not the kind you kneel to. The kind that rips heads off screaming soaked in blood beneath the final setting sun.

  Maybe it was the ale—dark, iron-rich, pulsing with the taste of these myths—but in that moment, I felt something stir.

  A shadow of satisfaction. Not for surviving her.

  But for having earned even a glimpse of the same story.