Season 1, Episode 1: "The Cape and the Cage"

The induction deck of the High Sentry of Sovereign Skies didn't smell like heroism. It smelled like burnt toast and ozone.

John stood in a line of sixty recruits, all of them wearing the standard-issue "Universal Gray" jumpsuits that were designed to be both flame-retardant and biodegradable—mostly so the cleanup crews had less work to do after a messy deployment. John shifted his weight, trying to ignore the way the oversized boots pinched his toes. He was twenty years old, and like every other citizen of the United Systems, he had grown up on a steady diet of "Star-Vanguard" recruitment holovids. He wanted to be the guy on the poster: standing atop a mountain of scrap metal, a ceremonial tactical cape fluttering majestically in a vacuum-sealed breeze.

"Eyes front, meat!"

The voice belonged to Drill Instructor Vane. Vane didn't walk; he stomped, his prosthetic iron leg ringing against the deck plating like a funeral bell. He stopped inches from John’s nose. Vane’s face was a roadmap of scars, most of which looked like they had been earned by standing too close to things that were meant to stay closed.

"You are here because the frontiers are hungry!" Vane roared. "The Swarm is pushing from the East. The Iron-Legion is marching from the West. And the United Systems has decided that the most cost-effective way to stop them is to throw a bunch of idiots in tin cans at them! That is where the Star-Vanguards come in!"

A murmur of excitement rippled through the line. Vane silenced it with a glare that could have cracked reinforced glass.

"But before you get your Wings, you have to master the Link-Pad. Your left forearm is no longer a limb—it is a remote control for the most expensive fireworks display in history."

John looked down at the device strapped to his wrist. It was a chunky, rectangular interface with four glowing directional arrows: Up, Down, Left, Right.

"The Link-Pad connects you to the ship orbiting above," Vane explained, pacing the line. "You punch in the sequence, the ship recognizes the signature, and it drops whatever you asked for. It is simple. It is foolproof. It is the only reason you will live longer than twelve seconds on the surface."

Vane stopped at the front of the room and pointed to a holographic display. "We will start with the 'Support Beacon.' The sequence is: Up, Down, Right, Up. If you do it right, a training crate drops on that target. If you do it wrong, you’re paying for the floor tiles. Begin!"

The room filled with the rapid click-clack of sixty recruits frantically tapping at their wrists.

John’s heart hammered. Up. Down. Right. Up. It was easy. He could do this. He tapped the first three buttons perfectly, but as he went for the final Up, a bead of nervous sweat dripped from his forehead and landed right on the sensor.

The pad didn't register an Up. It registered a long, panicked press of the Right arrow.

The screen on his wrist didn't turn green. It turned a pulsing, angry purple. A high-pitched whine began to emanate from the ceiling.

"Uh, Instructor?" John asked, his voice cracking.

Vane turned, his one good eye narrowing. "Why is your Link-Pad singing, Recruit?"

"I think I hit a shortcut?" John stammered.

The computer voice, smooth and terrifyingly polite, announced: "EXPERIMENTAL GRAVITY WELL DEPLOYED. PLEASE REMOVE ALL METALLIC OBJECTS FROM YOUR PERSON."

"John, you idiot!" the recruit next to him yelled, diving for the floor.

A localized gravitational rift opened six feet above John’s head. It wasn't powerful enough to swallow the ship, but it was powerful enough to be a massive problem. Suddenly, every loose piece of metal in the bay—wrenches, clipboards, and the various medals pinned to Vane’s chest—began to fly toward the purple sphere.

"Shut it down!" Vane screamed, his prosthetic leg beginning to lift off the floor. He grabbed a handrail, his metal limb swinging wildly in the air like a silver fish out of water.

"I’m trying!" John yelled. He mashed the buttons. Down, Down, Left, Right! "AUTOMATED DEFENSIVE TURRET INITIATED," the computer replied.

A hidden panel in the floor flipped open, and a twin-barreled sentry gun rose up. It began scanning the room with a red laser. Because the Gravity Well was causing so much chaos, the turret’s sensors were confused. It saw Vane’s flailing prosthetic leg as a "high-velocity projectile" and began to lead its target.

"Don't shoot the Sergeant! Don't shoot the Sergeant!" John chanted, his fingers blurring over the Link-Pad. He was hitting every arrow key at once, a desperate "Up-Down-Left-Right-Left-Up" mash.

CLUNK.

A second crate dropped from the ceiling. It didn't land on the target. It landed directly on top of the Gravity Well generator, crushing it instantly. The purple rift vanished with a wet pop. Vane’s leg slammed back to the floor with a heavy metallic thud, followed shortly by a rain of wrenches and clipboards.

The room went silent. The turret retracted into the floor, seemingly satisfied that the "threat" was over.

Vane stood up slowly. He adjusted his uniform, his face turning a shade of purple that almost matched the gravity rift. He walked over to John, who was staring at his wrist-pad in horror.

"Recruit," Vane said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

"Sir! I can explain, sir! The sweat—the sensor—I was just—"

"You just bypassed three security firewalls and accidentally called in a Class-4 Experimental Asset," Vane interrupted. He looked at the crushed generator. "And then you used a Resupply Pod as a kinetic hammer to neutralize a gravitational anomaly."

John blinked. "Is that... bad?"

Vane leaned in close. "It was the most expensive, reckless, and statistically impossible sequence of events I have ever witnessed. You destroyed the equipment, endangered the staff, and somehow completed the objective."

Vane pointed toward the next hallway—the entrance to the live-fire obstacle course.

"Most of these recruits will spend the next hour learning how to crawl under barbed wire. You? You’re going to go find a new pair of boots, because you melted yours when you stood under that rift. Then, you’re going to the front of the line. If you’re going to break my deck, you might as well go break the enemy’s."

John watched the Sergeant stomp away. He had survived. Not because he was good, but because he was so bad at following instructions that the universe had folded in his favor. He took a deep breath, his heart still racing. He didn't have a cape yet, but he had a Link-Pad, and apparently, a very dangerous lack of coordination.

The Star-Vanguards were waiting.