Part 1: The Edge of the Belt
Cass Bradshaw leaned against the polished wooden bar in the Churchill’s mess hall, the faint hum of the starship’s engines vibrating through the deck beneath her boots. The Churchill was deep in the asteroid belt now, a treacherous stretch of space between Mars and Jupiter, having passed the red planet three days prior. Their destination: the orbit of Neptune, where a group of colonists awaited their arrival to begin mining the planet’s rich gas reserves. The journey had been uneventful so far, but Cass knew better than to let her guard down. The Belt had a way of turning calm into chaos without warning.
The mess hall was a throwback to the early days of Earth’s colonization of the solar system, a time when humanity was still figuring out how to live among the stars. The wooden bar, carved from real oak, had been salvaged from one of the first colony ships to reach Mars—a relic of a bygone era when resources were scarce, and every piece of Earth was treated like a treasure. Behind the bar, shelves were stocked with bottles of real liquor, their amber and golden hues catching the warm light of the hanging lamps. A few cans of Martian-brewed beer sat on a shelf, their labels faded but still legible, and a pot of real coffee—grown in the hydroponic farms of Ceres—simmered on a burner, filling the air with a rich, earthy aroma. Synthetic substitutes were the norm on most ships, but the Churchill’s captain had a fondness for the real thing, a luxury that reminded the crew of home.
Cass ran a hand over the sleeve of her leather jacket, her fingers brushing against the embroidered patch on her left shoulder. The jacket was a keepsake from her time as a pilot in the Martian Navy, a period of her life she both cherished and tried to forget. The patch belonged to the Death Stalkers, one of the Martian Pathfinder Regiments—elite recon units that scouted the uncharted regions of the solar system. The emblem was striking: a screaming skull with hollow eyes, a large serrated knife piercing the top of the skull at an angle, and two suppressed rifles crossing behind it in a pattern reminiscent of an old Union Jack. The Death Stalkers had a reputation for being the first into the unknown and the last to leave, a motto Cass had lived by during her five years with the regiment. She’d left the Navy after a mission gone wrong, one that still haunted her dreams, but the jacket—and the patch—remained a reminder of who she’d been.
Her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her face. She wore a blue tank top beneath the jacket, the fabric clinging to her frame as she sipped her coffee, savoring the bitter taste. The mess hall was quiet at this hour, with only a handful of crew members scattered at tables, nursing their own drinks or playing cards. A few of them glanced her way, their eyes lingering on the Death Stalkers patch. Cass ignored them. She wasn’t here to make friends—she was here to do a job. After leaving the Navy, she’d taken a post as a navigation officer on the Churchill, hoping the monotony of a mining expedition would give her a chance to clear her head. So far, it had been anything but monotonous.
A soft chime echoed through the mess hall, cutting through the low murmur of conversation. The voice that followed was crisp and authoritative, with a faint British accent that always made Cass think of old war documentaries. “All senior officers, report to the ready room immediately. This is a priority alert.”
Cass set her coffee down, her stomach tightening. Priority alerts were never good news—not in the Belt, not anywhere. She pushed off the bar and made her way toward the exit, her boots clanging against the metal deck. The other officers in the room were already moving, their faces a mix of curiosity and concern. Whatever was happening, it was serious.
The Churchill was a sturdy vessel, a mid-sized cruiser retrofitted as a deep-system hauler. Its corridors were narrow and utilitarian, lined with conduits and panels that hummed with energy. Cass navigated them with the ease of someone who’d spent years in tight shipboard environments, her time in the Martian Navy giving her an instinct for the layout of ships like this. She passed a few crew members who gave her questioning looks, but she had no answers to offer. Not yet.
The ready room was just off the bridge, a compact space with a long table and a holographic projector at its center. When Cass arrived, most of the senior officers were already there, their faces illuminated by the soft blue glow of the projector. Captain Kevin Sinclair stood at the head of the table, his broad shoulders squared and his expression grim. Sinclair was a seasoned spacer, his graying hair and weathered face a testament to decades spent in the void. He’d been a captain in the Earth Naval Forces before taking command of the Churchill, and his reputation for cool-headedness under pressure was well-earned. But now, there was a flicker of unease in his eyes that Cass hadn’t seen before.
“Bradshaw,” Sinclair said, nodding as Cass took her seat. “Good. We’re all here.”
Before anyone could speak, the holographic projector flickered to life, and a figure materialized above the table. It was Winston Churchill—or rather, a holographic representation of him. The ship’s AI had chosen the form of the historical figure as its avatar, complete with a bowler hat, a cigar, and a stern expression that seemed perpetually on the verge of delivering a rousing speech. Cass had always found the choice odd, but there was no denying the AI’s competence. Churchill—the AI, not the man—was the backbone of the ship, managing everything from navigation to life support with ruthless efficiency.
“Captain Sinclair, officers,” Churchill began, its voice a deep, gravelly approximation of the real Winston’s. “We have detected several anomalous signals emanating from hyperspace, approximately three hundred kilometers off our bow. I have designated these signals as ‘whispers’ due to their intermittent and low-frequency nature. However, as of two minutes ago, these whispers have resolved into something far more concerning.”
A holographic map of the surrounding space appeared, showing the Churchill’s position within the asteroid belt. A cluster of red dots materialized ahead of the ship, their trajectories arcing toward the Churchill’s projected course.
“Several unknown vessels have emerged from hyperspace,” Churchill continued. “They appear to be on an intercept course, although it is too early to be one hundred percent certain.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Cass leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she studied the map. The asteroid belt was a dangerous place, but it wasn’t exactly a hotspot for hyperspace activity. Most ships traveling through this region used standard sublight drives—hyperspace jumps were risky amidst the dense field of rocks. Whoever these newcomers were, they were either reckless or very confident in their navigation.
Churchill adjusted the hologram, zooming in on the unknown vessels. The images were unsettling: the ships were large and angular, their hulls as dark as the void itself, blending seamlessly with the blackness of space. But what was more disturbing was the quality of the image—or lack thereof. Despite the Churchill’s advanced sensors, which could render a nearby asteroid in crisp detail, the area around the unknown vessels was pixelated and blurry, as if the sensors were struggling to process the data.
“What the hell is that?” asked Lieutenant Commander Elena Vasquez, the Churchill’s tactical officer. She pointed at the distorted images. “Why can’t we get a clear visual?”
“I’m not certain, however I believe the unknown vessels are employing some form of electronic countermeasures,” Churchill replied. “The distortion is similar to the advanced stealth technology of Earth and Mars naval vessels, designed to interfere with optical and sensor imaging. Our systems are unable to compensate for the effect.”
“Great,” Cass muttered under her breath. “Invisible ships. Just what we needed.”
“Can we identify them some other way?” Sinclair asked, his voice steady but edged with tension. “Any known drive signatures? Are they from a colony, a planet, or one of the outer stations?”
Churchill’s holographic cigar glowed briefly as the AI processed the query. “Negative, Captain. The vessels are of unknown design and origin. Their drive signatures do not match any records in my database, nor do they correspond to known human or colonial technology. I am unable to determine their allegiance or intent based on available data.”
The room fell silent. Cass felt a chill creep down her spine. Unknown vessels in the asteroid belt, using hyperspace tech no one had ever seen before, and now they were cloaked in some kind of stealth field that even the Churchill’s sensors couldn’t penetrate. This wasn’t just a random encounter—it felt like a trap.
“They could be taking on a hostile posture,” Vasquez said, her voice tight. She pointed at the map, where the red dots were spreading out into a loose formation. “That looks like a classic intercept pattern. They could be trying to box us in.”
Sinclair’s jaw tightened. “Options?”
“We can’t outrun them,” Cass said, her mind already racing through the navigational charts she’d studied earlier that day. “The Churchill isn’t built for speed, and we’re too deep in the Belt to risk a hyperspace jump. We could smash into an asteroid before we even got the drives fully spooled up.”
“What about hiding?” asked Dr. Marcus Hale, the ship’s chief engineer. “The Belt’s full of debris. We could power down, tuck ourselves into a dense cluster, and wait them out.”
“It’s risky,” Vasquez countered. “If they have advanced sensors—and it looks like they do—they’ll spot us even if we go dark. And if they’re hostile, we’d be sitting ducks.”
Sinclair rubbed his chin, his eyes flicking between the map and his officers. “We need to at least try. Bradshaw, you’ve flown in the Belt before. Can you find us a hiding spot?”
Cass nodded, her fingers already itching to pull up the charts. “I can try, sir. There are a few dense clusters within a few thousand kilometers. If we move fast and keep our emissions low, we might be able to slip in before they get a lock on us.”
“Do it,” Sinclair said. “Vasquez, bring weapons online, but hold fire unless I give the order. Hale, prep the reactor for a quick shutdown if we need to go dark. Churchill, keep monitoring those ships. I want to know the second they make a move.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” came the chorus of responses.
Cass stood and hurried to the bridge, her heart pounding. The Churchill was about to play a deadly game of hide-and-seek in one of the most dangerous regions of the solar system—and she was the one responsible for finding a hiding place. Her time with the Death Stalkers had taught her how to survive in the unknown, but this felt different. The Belt was her old stomping ground, but those ships—those dark, angular shapes that seemed to swallow the light around them—were something new. Something dangerous.
As she left the ready room, she adjusted her jacket, the Death Stalkers patch catching the light for a moment. The screaming skull seemed to stare back at her, a reminder of the motto she’d lived by: First in, last out. She’d survived the Belt before. She’d survive it again.