Five long months had passed since Youri first set foot in the Orbiton Pilot Academy — five months of relentless pressure and sleepless nights, bruised bodies and fractured egos. What had begun as dozens of hopeful recruits had been whittled down, slowly and mercilessly, to just ten. Most had dropped out. Others had been expelled. A few had simply broken. And the ten who remained carried that weight quietly.
The buffet hall was unusually subdued as Youri sat at one of the long tables with a metal tray in front of him, while across from him Kess leaned back, relaxed in his posture but with his eyes sharp with anticipation. Lunch was usually loud, full of nervous jokes and half-serious bravado. But today was different. Today mattered.
"So," Kess said at last, stabbing at his food. "Today's the day."
Youri nodded. "A real cockpit."
Kess let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Five months of simulators. I guess they finally trust us not to kill ourselves."
"Or their machines," Youri said dryly.
They traded a faint smile. They both knew the truth: simulations were forgiving. They reset, and they warned you before your mistakes became fatal. A real Orbiton would do neither.
Someone sat down beside Youri without asking. It was Adin, with his arms folded and a sideways glance, his face calm and composed, though the sharpness in his eyes gave his purpose away. "Don't get ahead of yourself," he said. "Simulations are nothing compared to the real thing."
Youri didn't answer at once. He finished chewing and wiped his mouth. Only then did he look at Adin. "We'll see," he said evenly.
Adin's lips curled into a faint smirk. "We will. Only a few of us are walking out of here with a Minerva seat." He stood and pushed back his chair. "Might as well accept that now." And he walked off, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind him.
Kess let out a breath. "He's really convinced it's his."
Youri shrugged. "Being convinced doesn't make you right."
A moment later, the announcement echoed through the hall. "All remaining recruits report immediately to Hangar Six." And every sound in the room stopped.
Hangar Six stood at the far edge of the academy grounds with its massive armored doors sealed tight. The ten recruits formed up in front of it in perfect order, their boots aligned on the concrete and their eyes forward under the pale Terrian sky. Commander Varos stood at the entrance with his hands clasped behind his back, and his presence alone was enough to straighten every spine. The recruits snapped to attention and saluted. He let the silence linger before he spoke.
"Recruits. You have endured training designed to break most candidates before the third month. You have faced exhaustion, pressure and failure without excuse. For that, you have earned my respect." He paced slowly in front of them, his boots striking the ground in measured rhythm, and then stopped and faced them. "This year, the academy accepted fewer candidates than usual. That was intentional. The graduates of this class will be considered for a special unit — one made up of only six Orbitons." He paused. "Three of those seats are already occupied by veteran pilots. That leaves three."
Behind him, the hangar doors began to move. With a deep mechanical groan the seals let go and the doors parted. Light spilled out of them as the hangar lights flickered on one by one, and the recruits froze. Ten Orbitons stood inside.
Each one towered more than twenty meters tall, their silhouettes broad, immovable, uncompromising; these were not machines built to comfort anyone. They were built to dominate battlefields and to reshape wars.
Nearest the door stood five LEX units, armored in muted slate-blue with pale, bone-colored plating reinforcing the places that would take the hardest blows — shoulders, forearms, thighs — and fine seams running across their massive frames that glowed faintly amber, as though immense energy were pulsing beneath the surface. Their heads were compact and angular, sunk down into their torsos for protection, with narrow visors cutting dark and unreadable across their faces between sensor arrays and antennae that had been built seamlessly into the design. Their limbs were thick and brutally reinforced, one arm carrying an enormous angular shield and the other an industrial-scale rifle to match the machine's overwhelming mass. Their legs were layered with interlocking armor over hydraulic muscle and ended in heavy clawed feet meant to anchor them against recoil, shockwaves and shifting ground. They were the backbone of the Terrian Empire.
On the far side of the hangar stood the other five — different in their presence, more refined in their design, and unmistakably superior. The Minerva units. They were just as tall, but sleeker and more poised, their slate-blue armor traced with thin gold lines along every seam and joint like calligraphy etched into metal. Their torsos were compact and layered with overlapping plates like a knight's cuirass reborn for a mechanical age. Their heads were smaller in proportion, angular and helmet-like, with narrow visors that suggested focus rather than brute force. Broad, winged shoulders swept out and back from them, hinting at built-in thrusters and advanced weaponry. Here and there exposed pistons and reinforced joints showed through the armor along their arms and legs — power held back by meticulous engineering. In their hands, their long rifles looked less like tools than like extensions of their bodies.
Varos walked into the hangar, and the recruits followed him in stunned silence.
"These," he said, gesturing at the LEX units, "are the machines that forged the Terrian Empire. Reliable. Devastating. Unyielding." He turned to the Minervas. "And these are issued only to pilots worthy of command." He paused. "Above them, there are two more classifications. The Royal Knight units — built for absolute dominance, and charged with the direct defense of Terria itself."
Several of the recruits swallowed.
"And beyond even those…" Varos's gaze hardened. "The God Units."
A chill ran down the line. Youri thought of the scriptures nobody had ever been able to explain, and of the stories Flavio used to tell in the dark about relics older than any empire. He felt something deep inside him stir and go quiet again, the way it always did when he came close to something he did not yet understand.
"They are legends to most of the universe," Varos said, and he faced them squarely. "To you, they are a possibility. Prove yourselves."