The Hunt for Truth: A Serialized Sci-Fi Story
Book One: The Hunt Begins
They weren’t escaping; they were being delivered. Mirek dies with a name on her lips, the yard becomes a killing floor, and an old promise wakes—the Whisper turns night to glass.
A Name Before the End
The outpost burned around them.
Hawke led the push through flame-choked corridors, rifle up, breath ragged. Each step jarred his injured shoulder, every heartbeat hammered under flickering flame. He didn’t look back—he couldn’t afford to. Not yet.
Gunfire flared ahead, then sputtered into silence. Only the ragged thunder of boots on scorched metal remained, and the groan of a structure slowly collapsing under its own trauma. Smoke curled in thick, oily spirals, coating his throat in soot and memory. Overhead, a broken klaxon repeated a strangled whine—like a machine trying to scream.
Mirek stumbled behind him, one arm clamped to her side, blood seeping through her fingers in a sluggish, rhythmic pulse. Her breaths were shallow, wet. She didn’t cry out—didn’t flinch. Just kept moving.
Jorhan brought up the rear, clean, calculated shots punching through the haze. Each pulse of her rifle lit up the corridor, precise and practiced. Ahead, Hawke cleared the path, dropping the last of the black-armored specters with a vicious burst to the chest. The body collapsed, armor steaming.
“We’re almost clear,” Hawke said, voice tight. He glanced over his shoulder.
Mirek didn’t respond. She leaned into the bulkhead, her free hand smearing crimson across dented steel.
“You’re not going to make it if we stop,” Jorhan hissed, glancing behind. “We need to move.“
But Mirek’s gaze wasn’t on the corridor. It was locked on Hawke like he was the only thing anchoring her to this moment. Her expression trembled at the edges.
“You don’t understand,” she rasped, her voice frayed. “It’s not just the Ordo. They’re a mask. There’s something deeper. Older. They serve it.“
Hawke turned back toward her, crouching down. “What are you talking about?”
She seized his arm with more strength than she should’ve had. Her fingers shook. Blood smeared across his sleeve.
“They let you think you escaped,” she whispered. “But we were always inside something else’s game.“
Jorhan spun, weapon raised. “Contact! Rear approach!” She dropped into a low stance, rifle swinging to cover the corridor behind them.
Time fractured.
Hawke hesitated, caught between instinct and Mirek’s burning eyes. A heartbeat stretched into forever.
The klaxon faded. The smoke stilled. Even the fire seemed to pause.
He saw everything—the exact tilt of her head, the blood drying at the corner of her mouth, the way her lips shaped a final word she hadn’t yet spoken.
And then, the shot.
It didn’t sound like thunder this time. It sounded like the world was tearing itself apart.
The round punched through her chest, and in that frozen instant, Hawke saw the ripple of impact surge through her torso—saw her eyes widen, not in pain, but in sudden clarity. Her body rocked as if gravity had forgotten her, suspended for a single breathless beat.
Then time slammed back.
The fire roared. The klaxon shrieked. Mirek hit the wall with a wet thud, breath catching in a soundless scream. Steam hissed from the cauterized wound. The blood didn’t spray—it boiled.
Her grip on Hawke’s arm faltered.
“No!” Jorhan shifted her aim, pouring suppressing fire down the corridor as shadows darted in the flickering dark. Muzzle flashes lit up the corridor like strobes.
Mirek collapsed against the bulkhead, blood smearing down the wall as she slid to the floor. Her eyes locked on Hawke’s—wide, wet, and pleading. And then… fading.
Then still.
Hawke crouched beside her, jaw clenched. “Damn it, Mirek… what were you trying to tell me?”
Footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond—more operatives, moving fast.
Jorhan’s voice was a low growl. “We need to go. Now.”
Hawke rose, his face carved from stone. “Yeah. But first, we make them bleed.”
The lights flickered. Firelight danced in jagged shapes along the corridor walls—tongues of flame, greedy and patient.
Behind them, Mirek’s body lay still, lips parted in silence, her last breath stolen by a truth unfinished.
Storm Threshold
Smoke crawled through the outpost’s main artery like a living thing—thick, choking, and laced with the acrid tang of ozone and scorched metal. The emergency klaxons wailed in broken intervals, their cries distorted by failing power relays. Somewhere distant, muffled detonations thudded against the walls, and the tremors that followed sent dust and flakes of insulation drifting from the ceiling like dead snow.
Hawke sprinted low, rifle tucked tight against his shoulder. The words still echoed.
They let you think you escaped. But we were always inside someone else’s game.
What did Mirek mean? What didn’t she get to say?
He didn’t trust her. Not after what she’d done. But those words clung to him like ash—hard to brush off and harder to forget. He glanced back at Jorhan covering their six, her stride staggered but relentless, every burst of gunfire fired with grim determination, and thought: She bleeds for me out here. No orders, no debts—just trust. And I’ll be damned if I let that be for nothing.
Ahead, the corridor curved left, vanishing into flickering shadows. Another body crumpled in the gloom—black-clad, face hidden behind a mirrored visor.
“Six more behind us,” she called, ducking behind a support beam as return fire cracked overhead. She yanked a grenade from her belt, thumbed the primer, and hurled it down the hallway. It bounced once—twice—before vanishing into the haze. A second later, a concussive blast shook the corridor. “And they’re closing.“
Hawke didn’t answer. His focus was forward—through the smoke, past the barricades, toward what had to be the only exit that wasn’t already locked down.
They moved like ghosts. Not mercs. Not typical for Ordo hit teams. These were specialists. Silent. Coordinated. Every move designed to herd them like prey. Almost synchronized. Too perfect. Like a machine that didn’t bleed.
A sharp metal groan shuddered through the walls. Sparks sprayed from a conduit overhead, filling the air with burnt copper and the stench of superheated insulation. Heat radiated off the steel plating like breath from a furnace.
Hawke dropped to a knee and fired—one shot, two. Both hit center mass. Another shape folded into the darkness. He stood again, reloaded without slowing, and kept moving.
A heavy thud rattled the floor panels behind them. Jorhan swore, then dove beside him, gasping as her back slammed against the wall. Her breathing was labored now, uneven. When she ejected the magazine, her fingers trembled.
“They’re funneling us,” she panted, coughing. Sweat streaked her grime-smeared cheek, eyes raw. “Standard flush pattern. Close quarters. No clean exits.“
Hawke checked the corners, then leaned around the next bend. The hallway narrowed here—blast doors half-collapsed, forcing them into a tight bottleneck. A perfect kill zone.
He snarled. “Classic trap. But they underestimated the chaos we can weaponize.”
He popped smoke. The grenade rolled into the chokepoint, hissing. In the swirl of gray, he moved—quick and violent. Shots rang out, flashing in the haze. Screams cut short. Metal groaned as something heavy slammed into the floor.
Jorhan followed, a blur of motion, flanking wide. Her rifle chattered, barrel glowing. A red flare lit the corridor in stuttering pulses. The smoke danced with silhouettes—some falling, others clawing forward.
A detonation rocked the corridor behind them. The blast wave flung Hawke forward into the next bulkhead. He hit hard, teeth rattling. Pain sparked behind his eyes. Jorhan crashed beside him, coughing blood, fingers scrabbling at the rubble.
Chunks of ceiling rained down—sparking wires, fractured steel, chemical mist. The corridor shuddered again, structural integrity screaming its last warning. Heat pressed against their backs like a living weight.
They rolled out.
Pressed forward.
Pulse rounds sliced the air around them, cutting arcs through the chaos. Jorhan scrambled behind a fallen beam, slamming a new mag home with bloodied hands. “We can’t hold this pace,” she growled. “They’ll box us in.“
Hawke rose, face bloodied, vision swimming. His mind narrowed to instinct. Action. Motion. Don’t stop.
“Then we stop giving them time to think.”
He charged.
Three more Ordo agents met him near the threshold of the corridor’s final bend. His rifle coughed once—twice—then dry. He dropped it.
The first went down under a shoulder-check that broke bones. The second slammed him in the jaw. Stars flared. He spun, grabbed the man’s rifle, and used it like a hammer—crushing visor, skull, and helmet against the wall. Blood sprayed. It slicked his gloves, warm and real.
The third lunged with a blade. Hawke caught the arm, twisted, felt the snap, and drove the broken limb back into its owner before finishing it with the same knife.
Jorhan was there a heartbeat later, rifle screaming at full auto, muzzle flash flickering like strobe lightning.
They burst through the last doorway together—shoulders brushing, weapons raised—
—and time slowed.
The corridor ended.
Ahead of them, the wall had been sheared open by artillery fire. The exit hatch hung ajar, blasted from its hinges. Wind roared through the breach, bringing with it dust, smoke, and the metallic stink of blood.
Hawke stepped forward, boots crunching through broken glass, torn metal, and still-warm shell casings. He stopped breathing. The size of it—the scope—was something no intel had prepared him for. The storm howled.
Beyond the breach, the yard stretched into a smoking hellscape.
Troop carriers hovered like dark leviathans above shattered earth. Searchlights flared and swept. Squads moved in coordinated ripples, their black armor glinting in the storm. Turrets rotated on tracked vehicles, scanning like insects scenting blood. The air shimmered with heat, haze, and ruin.
A scream carried on the wind. Not human. Not mechanical. Something in between.
Jorhan staggered beside him, blinking through grit. Her voice came low, cracked. “Well, that explains why they were guiding us.”
Hawke didn’t answer.
He stared at the storm ahead—at the war machines birthing fire, the shadows moving in unison, the sky itself shuddering under the weight of it all. The taste of ozone and carbon thickened in his throat.
This wasn’t a path to freedom.
They hadn’t been herded toward escape.
They’d been delivered to slaughter.
He glanced at Jorhan, her shoulders heaving. Still alive. Still with him.
He tightened his grip on his weapon.
Whatever game they were playing—he was about to flip the board.
He stepped forward, into the wind, into the war.
And stepped into hell.
Shattered Ground
The courtyard was a wound—raw, open, pulsing with firelight and violence. Craters marred the ground where artillery had chewed through stone and steel. Scorch marks scarred the earth, and scraps of shattered equipment smoldered in shallow pits. Black smoke curled into the ashen sky, blotting out the stars. The only light came from burning husks, muzzle flashes, and the distant howl of repulsors circling like vultures overhead.
They ran headlong into the furnace. Wind screamed through the breach, carrying ash, fire, and the sharp tang of ozone. The war didn’t wait—it swallowed them whole.
Hawke and Jorhan sprinted from the breach, boots crunching glass and twisted metal. Pulse fire stitched the air behind them, searing blue bolts slamming into broken cover.
They moved as one—until the ground betrayed them.
A sudden blast tore through the far end of the yard. The world flipped sideways. His ears rang. Grit filled his mouth. Heat seared his side like a second skin. The concussion wave lifted Hawke off his feet, flinging him into the remains of a collapsed awning. Jorhan vanished behind a wall of fire and debris.
“Jorhan!” he roared, coughing on smoke, clawing his way out of the rubble.
No answer.
He pushed to his feet, shoulder burning from the impact. The fire roared between them, licking at twisted girders that had once been the outpost’s main tower. He couldn’t see her—only shadows dancing in the inferno.
Across the courtyard, a group of mercenaries advanced, rifles sweeping the chaos. Jorhan’s silhouette emerged from the smoke, pressed against a broken slab of ferrocrete, her rifle raised. She fired in controlled bursts, cutting down the first wave with surgical precision. But her left arm sagged between volleys, her jaw clenched—pain radiating through every breath.
Her voice crackled over comms, static-laced. “Hawke, I can’t reach you. They’re all over the field.”
“I’m moving,” he growled. “Keep them off me.”
But before he could take a step, the Ordo arrived.
Six black-clad operatives emerged from the smoke like wraiths—silent, smooth, coordinated. They didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Every move felt rehearsed—as if they’d already fought this battle a hundred times. No shouted orders. No visible signals. Just movement.
Hawke opened fire. The first went down. The others adjusted instantly, splitting into flanking pairs, their advance a slow, relentless press.
He pivoted, ducked low, and rolled behind a scorched vehicle husk. Pulse rounds hammered the metal, driving deep divots into the hull. He fired blindly around the edge, then rolled the other way, trying to stay one step ahead.
Across the yard, Jorhan saw him fall back. She moved to rise—
—and the sniper found her.
A glint off the distant ridgeline.
Her eyes widened—
A burst of blood, a hiss of pain. She dropped back behind cover, clutching her shoulder. Her weapon clattered to the ground. Her aim had dipped once already—blood dripping off her elbow. She’d spat it from her mouth and kept firing. But not this time.
“Sniper!” she hissed, dragging herself behind thicker debris. “I can’t—Hawke, I can’t get to you. They’ve got me pinned—I’m trying—” Her voice cracked under the strain, laced with static and helpless fury. “I’m sorry. I can’t… I can’t reach you.”
Through the smoke, more Ordo operatives advanced on her position. Jorhan gritted her teeth, blood soaking through her jacket as she tried to raise her rifle with her uninjured arm. Her fingers barely wrapped around the grip when she caught movement to her left—too close, too fast. She turned just as the shadow fell over her. Raised her arm. Too slow.
A boot crashed against her forearm, sending the rifle skittering into the dirt. She cried out, pain blooming white behind her eyes. Before she could react, the operative stepped forward and drove the butt of his rifle down in a savage arc.
The impact landed squarely against her forehead.
Everything went white.
Her fingers twitched toward the rifle—or maybe toward him. Then nothing.
She collapsed into the rubble, unconscious.
Hawke froze, Jorhan’s voice still echoing in his ears—raw, breaking. She couldn’t reach him. She was trying. And she was alone.
He clenched his jaw, heart hammering against bruised ribs. No time to answer. No time to think.
He broke from cover, searching for a better angle—then the air turned electric. A blue arc streaked across his vision—too late.
The first stun blast caught him in the ribs, locking his muscles with a violent jolt. He staggered sideways, gasping, vision flickering with bursts of static. A second blast struck his thigh, spinning him to the ground in a heap.
Pain lanced through his nerves. He tried to rise. Failed.
His limbs wouldn’t obey. Every breath came jagged, shallow. He swung the rifle blindly, caught nothing but air.
The Ordo moved in. They flowed forward like a single organism—no hesitation, no wasted motion.
One reached for him—gloved hand outstretched, injector primed. Hawke swung with his rifle butt, catching the operative in the visor. The glass cracked—but didn’t break.
Another slammed him to the ground. His head bounced off stone. The world wavered.
His vision swam—gunfire snapping through the air, firelight twisting across the smoke. His ears rang with phantom comms. Every breath tasted like iron and smoke. No sign of Jorhan.
He tasted blood. Heat pulsed behind his eyes. The board had flipped. And he was no longer the player.
Through it all, Mirek’s words echoed—
“You were never free.”
He didn’t want to black out. Not here. Not alone.
Then everything went dark.
Ash and Silence
The battlefield was still.
Fires crackled among the wreckage, casting dim halos across the smoldering ruins. The wind blew ash through the courtyard, carrying the stink of scorched flesh and fused alloy. Here and there, the dying groaned. Most didn’t. The only movement came from the drifting smoke and the occasional flicker of firelight across broken helmets.
Not far from the breach, Jorhan lay collapsed amid fractured debris. Her body was curled partially beneath a collapsed support beam, blood trailing from a deep cut above her temple. A pair of Ordo operatives had paused near her fallen form moments earlier—surveying their work with cold detachment. One had nudged her sidearm from reach with the toe of his boot before turning away. Her chest rose once—barely. Then again. Shallow. Fragile. But alive.
Near the collapsed wall, Hawke lay crumpled in the dirt. One arm outstretched, blood seeping into the fractured soil beneath him. His pulse was erratic. Breath shallow. Eyes unfocused. Whatever fight was left in him had slipped beneath the surface.
A silent stillness spread through the carnage. Not peace. A pause before the last breath.
Cinders danced in the air like ash ghosts. The wind held its breath. Even the fire seemed to dim in anticipation.
Then, from the distant cliffs beyond the outpost, something stirred.
A shape.
Sleek. Predatory. Hidden between outcroppings of stone and shadow, tucked into the rock like a specter. The Whisper.
Its hull had remained cold. Power signatures masked. Engines dormant. It had watched from the moment the storm began, systems tracking every surge of violence, every biometric fluctuation from the man now bleeding out on the battlefield.
Deep within its neural matrix, an encrypted protocol flickered to life.
<< Command Override: Safeguard Engaged >>
In its core, a flicker of memory: Hawke’s hand pressed to the helm, whispering promises into the stars. It remembered.
It didn’t arrive. It manifested—like wrath given form.
The Whisper powered up in perfect silence. Panels along its frame lit one by one—faint pulses of sapphire and white, ghost lights reflected off scorched stone. Its engines ignited with a low, subharmonic rumble that made the rocks tremble before the sound reached the battlefield.
A moment later, the sky split open.
The ship soared from its perch, trailing barely a whisper of sound, cutting through the air like a blade. It dropped into the battlefield with surgical intent, air distorting around its repulsors. Enemy operatives scattered—some too late. One agent dropped his weapon and ran. His scream never reached the air before the blast took him.
Targeting arrays blinked to life.
Plasma turrets swiveled.
The Whisper unleashed hell.
The air rippled with concussive pressure. Flame roared so loud it devoured thought. Even the ash screamed as it vaporized.
The first volley didn’t just kill—it erased. Vaporized Ordo strike teams mid-motion. Figures disappeared in blue-white flashes, their armor reduced to liquid metal and bone dust.
The second wave sought survivors—those crawling, hiding, fleeing. The Whisper marked each heat signature with brutal precision. Micro-missiles arced through fire and ruin, turning cover into tombs, detonating inside steel and flesh with equal indifference.
One remained above Hawke’s fallen form. Not for long. A pinpoint beam lanced through the operative’s skull, dropping him like a marionette with cut strings.
A third barrage reduced the heavy transports to slag. Hulls peeled open like fruit under the pressure, their fuel cells igniting into roaring infernos. The blasts flattened everything within twenty meters.
The final sweep melted what little stood. Walls folded. Towers fell. The earth itself groaned beneath the weight of the Whisper’s wrath.
By the time the Whisper circled for its final pass, the courtyard no longer bled. The fire had cauterized it into silence. There was nothing left moving. The courtyard was silent again—but not from fear. From completion.
No Ordo remained.
No mercy given.
No quarter spared.
Inside the ship, the directive looped through its core:
<< PRESERVE PRIMARY DIRECTIVE: CAPTAIN L. HAWKE >>
Then—nothing. No fire. No wind. Only the aching silence of something ended.
The Whisper descended.
Repulsors howled as the craft slowed, gliding just above the ruined earth. The cargo bay doors hissed open, descending like the jaw of a beast laid bare. White interior lights spilled onto the battlefield, illuminating the smoke and ruin.
It didn’t roar. It mourned. In silence, in fury, in absolute, final response.
It waited.
No movement.
No footsteps.
Only the soft hum of its engines and the faint crackle of dying flames.
The ramp stayed lowered. Ash swirled in the beams of the landing lights.
Still no one came.
On the far side of the yard, a bloodied hand curled slowly into a fist.
Finished Part 2? Subscribe to catch the fallout—and the name Mirek never got to say. Episode 23 arrives Friday, October 3. Subscribe to get it the instant it drops.