Rag’r’s vessel hovered at the edge of the DSO-4 patrol corridor, moving in a strict and rigid patrol pattern. Official designation: Afshagari-class destroyer. Post-designation: HNPHCMD asset. Actual nature: something else entirely. Something formed in fire and grief, given purpose by pain.
The HNPHCMD was not a fleet so much as a concession, an abstract apology wrapped in bureaucratic acronyms: Hiigaran Naval Post-Human Civil Militia and Defense.
Too many syllables. Too much hope.
On paper, it was a half-measure — an initiative by the Hiigaran Admiralty to reintegrate those who had survived the First Beast War and come out the other side irrevocably altered. Not lost, but not quite Hiigaran anymore.
Beast-infected vessels, their crews consumed, then liberated, souls returned to them in the wake of the Naggarok’s death and acquitted of their sins when the end of the Second Beast War came. The Admiralty called it salvageable honor. Others called it redemption with restrictions. Rag’r didn’t call it anything.
It was just the job.
It floated alone now, holding a line on the outer rim of the Hiigaran system. DSO-4, a blunt metal outpost blinking dimly in orbit over nothing. Orange light from the Hiigaran sun soaked the hull of its ship like syrup poured over rust. The stars here had a sickly hue, and time crawled like frost across a windowpane.
The comms crackled in from the station - Rag'r's handler, a young officer from Kiith Naabal, still chewing on the protocols like gum. Grew up post-Homeworld War, most likely.
“Patrol 4-A, you’re clear to patrol Sector J-6. Report back every ten minutes.”
“Understood,” Rag’r replied, its voice a careful modulation of many, sounding neither machine nor man.
It had learned, in the months it served here, that clarity was dangerous. Too much of it made people uneasy. Too little made them paranoid. The other HNPHCMD vessels on patrol, all like Rag’r, said nothing. They never did. A silence that spoke volumes: we are what you made us, and now you don't know what to do with us.
Rag’r resumed patrol. It was 36 minutes into the loop when the contact appeared.
A lone vessel, untagged, drifting.
The ship was a Taiidan Republic frigate, or had once been. The old white-and-cyan sigils and paint were still visible on the hull, scorched but not erased. It wandered like something in a dream. It did not respond to automatic pings. Its reactor was active, its shielding degraded.
Rag’r sent the signal up to DSO-4, waiting for confirmation.
“Proceed with caution. Attempt comms. Log everything,” Rag'r's handler said, voice tinny, distant.
Rag’r approached. The closer it got to the vessel, the more it could feel. Not through sensors, but through the echo that all Beast entities hear from others like it - the low, distorted hum of minds wired into wrong patterns, tangled like weeds around a rusted hull. It was plainly obvious that this vessel got Beast-infected ages ago, red biomoss visble on it.
It hailed the vessel.
“Unidentified vessel, this is HNPHCMD patrol 4-A. You are entering the outer boundaries of the Hiigaran system. Identify yourself and state your purpose.”
Nothing for ten seconds. Then - crackle. Hiss. A voice. Male. Warped through failing vocal mod filters, like someone shouting through a tunnel of broken glass:
“Who are you?”
Rag’r paused.
“I repeat: You are within restricted space. Identify your-”
Rag'r was immediately cut off, the voice from the frigate taking upon a accusatory tone.
“How did you get here? You... you’re dogs of the Empire. Imperialists. You’ve changed forms. Why? WHY?” the voice snapped, the cadence escalating into panic.
Rag’r reeled internally. The presence aboard was dissonant. Fractured. Like several minds braided together badly.
“You are mistaken,” Rag’r said, trying to keep its many voices even and calm. “I am not Taiidani, I am Hiigaran."
“Lies. LIES! You’re testing our defense perimeter. Probing for weakness.” The voice sounded hoarse now, like someone screaming into a fan. “You’re just wearing that skin. You think I can’t see?! You think I can’t see?!”
What followed was not speech but a wall of slurs, military cant, obscenities. Taiidani profanity woven into a stream-of-consciousness breakdown. The frigate’s systems flared to life.
Weapons hot. Power redistribution. Target lock.
Rag’r had no choice. Instinct, honed by war and trauma, did what diplomacy could not.
It fired first.
A mix of rail slugs and ionized beams cut into the frigate's hull - tactically precise, enough to disable if it worked. The ship spasmed, listing hard to one side. Plasma bled from its belly like a gut wound.
Inside, Rag’r could feel them. The remaining minds onboard, barely cogent, spiraling into confusion, pain, then nothing. It sensed their end. A burst of white. Then the reactor went critical. The flash was sterile, like a surgical lamp being turned on. The frigate vanished in a bloom of light.
Silence returned. Then the voice of the handler returned, clipped, urgent:
“Rag’r. We just registered weapons discharge. Report status.”
Rag’r hesitated. Its thoughts moved slowly, like mud pushing through synaptic wires.
“A Beast-infected Taiidan Republic frigate entered patrol range. I attempted verbal engagement. The... minds aboard responded erratically. Accused me of... infiltration. Of deceit. It fired first. I responded accordingly.”
A pause.
“Understood,” the handler said. No sympathy. Just procedure. “Resume patrol.”
Rag’r paused, then replied softly in Kharakid:
“Naeam, rafiq farmandeh.”
The old words slipped out before it could help it. They were easier than Standard, sometimes.
It resumed its pattern. Cruising through the stars. Carrying with it the stink of fire and the echo of a voice that should not have spoken, the ghost of a dead war still leaking out into a galaxy trying to pretend it had healed.
The patrol continued, but Rag’r wasn’t there anymore.