Omnium's Fables

Omnium 21295:Hereditas

In the upper level of the Vienne's operational sector, a cabin dedicated to route control stood like a beacon of vigilance, a sanctuary of precision immersed in an aura of constant tension. The environment was shrouded in cold lighting, a bluish glow emanating from neon strips recessed in the walls, pulsing intermittently like the beat of a mechanical heart. The monitors, active and vibrant, projected lines of green and orange light that danced like specters, reflecting on the polished metal surfaces and on the thin transparent partition that separated the two control stations. Occasionally, a low, rhythmic hum rose from the consoles, a background noise that mixed with the occasional crackle of interference, while the metallic sound of a snapping relay echoed in the air, an echo that seemed to mark the passage of time in infinite space.

Here, immersed in a dance of precise gestures and complicit glances, worked Lem and Dorothy, husband and wife, united by life as much as by the mission. In front of them, the onboard scanners dominated the scene: two large curved screens, embedded in control consoles, pulsed with data, drawing three-dimensional maps that seemed to float in the air. Dorothy, with her eyes fixed on the gravitational scanner, monitored mass fluctuations that could signal invisible dangers, her fingers sweeping rapidly over the tactile controls, tracing trajectory lines. Lem, beside her, controlled the Vienne's laser scanner, a system that detected physical obstacles with surgical precision, his movements methodical, almost ritualistic, as he calibrated the sensors to extend the scanning range.

"Sector 427 clear," Lem announced, his voice calm but tinged with a concentration that betrayed his focus. "Just cosmic dust, nothing else," he added, his eyes never leaving the screen, as if he feared missing even the smallest detail.

"Confirmed," Dorothy replied, nodding with a tone that carried a shadow of confirmation, a silent understanding with her husband. "But there's a strange reading at two o'clock. It might be a field of micro-asteroids." Her voice was steady, but a shadow of concern creased her tone, a reflection of the instinct that war had honed.

Lem tilted his head slightly towards the monitor, his eyebrows furrowed in a studying expression. "Extending the range, let's see what it is," he said, touching the screen with his hand. The monitor populated with bright dots, an explosion of data that looked like shooting stars across a digital sky. "There they are!" he exclaimed, his tone rising slightly, a mix of relief and caution. "Yes, indeed, it looks exactly like a micro-asteroid field."

"I'll inform the Captain," Dorothy replied, her fingers already dancing across the controls with a speed that betrayed years of experience. "Meanwhile, I'll tell the onboard Phase to slightly change our route to avoid them. It won't be serious, but better to avoid problems." She paused, her face darkening for an instant, as if a shadow crossed her thoughts. "We'll have enough of those on Osiris already," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper heavy with foreboding.

Lem stared at the screen in silence, a shadow of unease crossing his gaze. Something troubled him, a detail that escaped logic. "It sure is strange..." he murmured, almost to himself, his voice becoming lower, pensive. "I don't detect any larger masses from which these asteroids could have originated." He paused, the silence lingering like an echo of the void beyond the ship. "It's as if they appeared out of nowhere," he concluded, his tone tinged with a shade of mystery, a thought that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Dorothy looked back at the screen, her face darkening as she observed the data. "That's true," she said, "but the causes could be countless." The two resumed work, scrutinizing space with careful eyes, the route now varied to avoid the danger. Minutes of silence followed, a silence heavy with concentration, broken only by the hum of the consoles and the pulsing of the neon lights.

"Listen, Dorothy..." Lem said, breaking the silence with a calm, almost hesitant tone, turning towards his partner, taking a break from the scanners. "What if we left for Pan after the mission?"

Dorothy smiled, a smile that carried a mix of affection and skepticism. "Yes, yes, of course," she replied, her tone light but edged with irony. "You always say that, every time."

"I'm serious this time," Lem insisted, his face softening as he looked at her. "Now that they've released the Hereditas for us, our term of service will be two years, no longer five. We'll be done with this war soon, and then... I can't wait to see those brats again."

The Hereditas was a special discharge, a privilege granted by the Maverick Government to its employees, which for soldiers meant a reduction in the mandatory period of service in the Osiris war. Two conditions were necessary to obtain it. The first, a formality passed down from Meynesian military culture, stipulated that a minor descendant show certifiable symptoms of the V infection—a rule now obsolete, given that the disease was widespread everywhere. The second, the true core of the Hereditas, required that the descendant demonstrate, before reaching the age of majority, the ability to manipulate the Imprint. On Axis, becoming a soldier was not mandatory: everyone was free to choose their own path, respecting the Maverick Republic. But for the prodigies capable of using the Imprint, there was an obligation: to serve the Republic for at least twenty years, not necessarily as military personnel. Those who chose the path of the soldier, however, were treated as heroes, VIPs, with fame and power equal to that of politicians and stars—like the Division Commanders—provided they survived. Only the strongest succeeded.

Lem and Dorothy's children had demonstrated the ability to manipulate the Imprint, a gift that had secured their parents that precious discharge. The two looked at each other, their thoughts intertwining in a silence heavy with nostalgia. They both missed their children, a void that hollowed their hearts. They would have wanted to escape from that mission, run to them, and leave everything behind, but they knew they would make it. It was so close.

"So only two years, huh..." Dorothy said, sighing, her voice a whisper that carried a mix of hope and melancholy, her eyes lost in a distant point, as if she saw her children's faces beyond the screen.

"Only two years," Lem replied, his tone low, charged with a silent promise, as his eyes sought Dorothy's, a gaze that spoke of shared dreams, of a future that seemed so near, yet still so far.