CHAPTER 2
“WHAT THE HUMAN MIND CAN CONCEIVE AND BELIEVE, IT CAN ACHIEVE,”
(NAPOLEON HILL)
Erik awoke slowly, as if emerging from the depths of a dark, endless ocean. The cryocapsule induced a unique anabiotic sleep, akin to a coma: metabolism slowed to near zero, sustained only by a small nutrient dispenser. Urological catheters managed liquid waste.
To prevent muscle atrophy during prolonged stasis, Erik’s body was encased in a flexible mesh of neuromyo-stimulators. This network enveloped his limbs and torso, periodically sending weak impulses to mimic muscle contractions and maintain basic tone. Without it, within twelve days, his body would have become a limp, useless husk.
The boy had been in this state for twelve days—ever since Special Agent Vihan had pulled him from the hell of Settsu.
The Quadrostad military laboratory was not a place anyone would wish to return to. Children from all corners of the Tetrarchy Empire were brought there, along with those purchased from pirates in the Seyshedan asteroid cluster. Mortality rates during the first phase of experiments exceeded 80%, and in the second phase, a staggering 95%. But for Quadrostad, this was never a deterrent. Losses meant nothing when they didn’t involve their own bloodlines.
“Results at any cost”—the unofficial motto of the Empire of the Four’s military.
And children were merely expendable genetic material to them.
Erik shuddered as he recalled his friend Faida, with whom he had been dragged to that horrific place. She wasn’t lucky. One day, people in yellow masks and robes took her away—and she never returned. The boy harbored no illusions about her fate. Life in the slums of Serpaka, the sole megacity and capital of the planet Shinga, had long stripped him of any rose-colored glasses. In his world, if someone disappeared, they were either dead or in a state so wretched they’d beg for death.
Shinga was a planet settled by accident. Over three centuries ago, a colonization ship carrying five thousand settlers made a forced emergency landing. Like many dreamers of that era, these people sought a paradise planet—with a mild climate, free of external threats, and the potential to found a new, blissful civilization.
Instead, damaged engines and destroyed intergalactic communication forced them to remain on Shinga—a planet with gravity 2.5 times stronger than Earth’s. Such gravitational force far exceeded the acceptable norms for comfortable settlement. The consequences were swift: within the first five years, half the colonists perished from heart conditions and injuries.
Ten years later, over fifteen hundred more succumbed to an epidemic of an unknown infection and attacks by local wildlife—creatures extraordinarily strong, aggressive, and toxic. Through a cruel twist of fate, these seekers of paradise found themselves in a true hell. Daily survival in conditions where one’s own body could weigh over two hundred kilograms was far from their ideals.
In such brutal conditions, only a thousand of the hardiest original colonists survived, along with roughly the same number of newborns. They survived—and drew conclusions: to avoid extinction, they needed to reproduce rapidly, as children adapted better to the gravity from birth.
Having five or six children per family became the norm. With each generation, adaptation strengthened: bodies adjusted to the strain, hearts, bones, and muscles grew more robust. After 150 years—about ten generations—the small colony transformed Shinga into an agrarian-hunting society with a population of around one million.
They lived mostly peacefully, quietly tilling the fertile land and raising local “livestock” on scattered plantations and farms across the planet. Others hunted for fur, meat, and valuable bones from diverse beasts in vast hunting grounds amidst endless jungles.
Conflicts occurred, but never escalated into large-scale wars. The planet’s territory was so vast and rich in metals, minerals, and edible organics that it wasn’t even settled to a ten-thousandth of its potential.
Technological advancement remained low. In the early years of colonization, nearly all scientists perished—their physical conditioning was far inferior to the other settlers. Along with them, the knowledge base of the onboard computer was lost. As a result, Shinga’s technological development stalled at roughly the level of late 19th-century Earth.
A few dozen coal-powered railway lines with steam locomotives connected five small cities, each with populations of about a hundred thousand, and fifteen smaller towns of around twenty thousand each. The rest of the inhabitants lived in rural areas: on thousands of farms, ranches, and hunting camps scattered across wide swathes of jungle terrain. It was a sort of “Wild West” in Shingan interpretation.
Problems abounded. The levels of medicine, education, and science didn’t come close to the galactic average for colonies with similar settlement durations. Yet despite this, the people adapted and enjoyed a simple, healthy life. They created their own paradise, rough and wild though it was.
However, about a hundred and fifty years ago, disaster struck. A reconnaissance ship from the then still-emerging but already aggressive and expansionist Quadrostad stumbled upon Shinga. The outsiders wasted no time. Warships and heavily armed soldiers in green uniforms seized the planet, drowning it in blood and slaughtering half the population.
The Shingans didn’t surrender without a fight. They mounted fierce resistance against the invaders. Hunters, who knew the jungles intimately, were especially tenacious, waging active guerrilla warfare—striking the enemy suddenly at night and vanishing just as swiftly into the forest depths. Physically stronger and more resilient than the newcomers, they remained a dangerous foe for a long time.
But the days when physical might could decide a war’s outcome were long gone. Against warships, aircraft, robots, missiles, and beam weapons, old hunting rifles and blowguns with poisoned darts stood no chance. The lack of centralized command only hastened their inevitable defeat. All cities and homesteads were captured, and most hunters were annihilated.
Only a small band of daring survivors fled to the mountain jungles, leading a nomadic life and occasionally ambushing Quadrostad soldiers. In response, the occupiers conducted brutal cleansing raids. Yet these skirmishes couldn’t significantly shift the balance of power. It seemed the invaders deliberately left the partisans alive—to keep their troops in fighting shape.
Since then, life for the Shingans changed drastically. On one hand, new agricultural technologies were introduced, but on the other, farms were burdened with extortionate taxes that reduced them to a state of near-poverty. Over the 150 years of occupation, the capital city of Serpaka emerged, complete with a Quadrostad garrison (mostly composed of assimilated locals), a spaceport, and the slums mandatory for all imperial cities, where crowds of impoverished locals flocked.
It was in these slums that Erik was born to a prostitute mother and an unknown father.
From a young age, he begged and stole. His mother’s work turned her into a drug addict, so money in the family barely covered food and shelter. Hunger, cold, beatings, and bloodshed were his constant companions, and he grew accustomed to them. Just as he grew used to the parade of his mother’s clients and her subsequent drugged-out hazes.
If not for neighbors who often took the boy in, Erik would have died in early childhood due to the near-total absence of maternal care. But thanks to natural strength, resilience, and—most importantly—fortunate circumstances, he survived and lived in the slums of Serpaka for twelve full years.
For his age, Erik was tall—about five foot three—with a lean, wiry frame. Gray eyes, sandy hair, a high forehead, sharp features, and a nose broken in some past brawl didn’t set him apart from his peers.
When he was five, his mother died of an overdose, and the boy joined a local gang of thieves and thugs. Its leader was Heyba, known in the crew as One-Legged Joe. He was a cruel, bitter, and broken former hunter who had left the real jungles due to his disability, only to settle in the urban jungle of the slums.
Erik was quick-witted, intelligent, and agile, so he adapted swiftly to his new circumstances. The gang’s primary weapon was the Ashva knife—a five-inch blade forged from scraps of old spacecraft hulls, sharpened on both edges with a razor-sharp tip and no guard. The handle was wrapped in insulating material for a better grip.
One-Legged Joe was considered a master of the Ashva. Even missing his left leg, he had maintained leadership of the gang for ten years. The five-year-old boy caught his eye—if one could call a soul the cesspool of cruelty, disdain, and bad habits that resided in his broken body.
Despite all his flaws, it was One-Legged Joe who transformed Erik from a frightened kid into one of the best Ashva wielders in Serpaka’s twelfth district. Over four years—through beatings, harsh curses, and flawless technique—he taught the boy everything he knew.
Erik proved to be a grateful and highly capable student. The marks of his blade were left on both the living—gang members foolish enough to cross him—and the dead, mostly rivals from competing crews.
Four years in the gang weren’t wasted. He became equally adept at pickpocketing a trade fleet officer’s wallet, slipping an expensive bracelet off a wealthy man’s wrist, escaping police by scrambling over rusted metal rooftops (if those shoddy structures could even be called homes), or sweet-talking a few credits out of gullible rich ladies.
But even this “paradise” of a life came to an end.
Erik’s memory forever held fragments of the day a special police raid cornered him and two dozen other street kids in a dead-end alley. The police had prepared thoroughly: they used everything from hover-scooters to search drones and gas masks, executing a meticulously planned operation.
The poor kids didn’t stand a chance.
They released sleeping gas, and the next thing the boy remembered was the rumble of launch engines and the stench of the hammock he lay face-down on. Clearly, more than one unwashed body part had occupied that spot before him. That day etched itself into his memory as the day he lost the only thing he’d ever had—his freedom.
The barracks of the military laboratory on Settsu stood a hundred meters from the main facilities. The rooms offered neither comfort nor cleanliness. Each cramped space housed ten children of both genders, aged eight to fifteen. One bathroom, a shower stall, and triple-bunk beds—that was the entirety of their “living quarters.”
It was into one such room that Erik was thrown. Guards in yellow uniforms opened the door without ceremony and shoved the boy inside. Just before entering, he stumbled and fell onto the dirty, spit-covered metal floor. The guards rushed toward him, and in that moment, Erik managed to swipe a metal magnetic card from one of their pockets—his instinct to steal anything within reach overpowered caution.
He didn’t yet know what he’d use the card for, but he’d already noticed which doors it unlocked. Without hesitation, he discreetly tucked it into his pocket. The enraged guards hoisted him off the floor by his arms and, without any formality, hurled him through the open door into the brightly lit room.
Still mid-air, Erik instinctively curled up and cushioned his fall with his hands, landing on all fours. But before his eyes could adjust to the harsh light, a powerful kick from a bare foot struck his ribs, sending his body reeling to the side.
“Get up, you filthy rat!” a loud, bass voice boomed above him in broken intergalactic Esperanto, suddenly cracking into a falsetto. “Where do they even find these street urchins?”
Out of the corner of his eye, the boy glimpsed a tall, burly redheaded teenager, about fourteen or fifteen years old, standing over him with a sneer, poised to deliver another blow.
The rules of hand-to-hand combat in the slums of Serpaka were simple: there are no rules in a fight.
Erik feigned a wince of pain, and as the opponent’s foot neared his face, he swiftly grabbed it and yanked upward with force. Caught off guard by the unexpected strength of the younger boy (Shinga’s gravity worked in his favor here), the aggressor lost balance and crashed down with a satisfying “thud,” smacking the back of his head against the metal floor.
The code of honor… or rather, the complete lack thereof on Shinga, was straightforward: “a weakened opponent must be finished off.” Erik didn’t hesitate. While the dazed teen lay on the floor, he sprang up and delivered a full-force kick to the face. The attacker’s head met the metal surface a second time, even harder. Such a move guaranteed instant unconsciousness and a likely concussion.
“You played with him too long,” a thin, girlish voice sang out from his left, laced with sarcasm.
Erik turned toward the voice and recognized Faida. Dark-skinned, with wavy black hair, the body of a woman but the face of a child. A fellow unfortunate from One-Legged Joe’s gang, captured alongside him during the raid.
“Getting old, health’s not what it used to be,” the boy grinned back and nodded in greeting.
“He tried messing with me,” Faida said, her brow furrowing.
Erik didn’t reply but raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“He won’t be using his little toy for a while,” she added, her clouded face brightening for a moment as she clenched her right hand into a fist. “His name’s Schwank…” she hesitated slightly. “He’s a piece of trash.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” Erik’s face lit up with a smirk. “Just try me.”
Erik inwardly shuddered, briefly imagining himself in the place of anyone foolish enough to harass the girl. Back on Shinga, he’d known about her fiery temper and well-placed punches, which often landed on overzealous suitors.
Weeks passed. Days dragged on monotonously. The thrice-daily distribution of food capsules and a few bottles of water through a small window were the only external events during their confinement. Erik’s only solace during this time was Faida, with whom he could talk freely about anything, and who eagerly kept the conversation going.
A shaken Schwank, with a battered face and a lump on the back of his head, kept his distance from their duo, casting hateful glares their way. He vented his anger on the weaker occupants of the room. But Erik and Faida couldn’t care less; the ethics of Shinga’s criminal gangs toward outsiders were simple and uncompromising: everyone was divided into three categories—enemies (to be destroyed or at least neutralized), prey (legitimate targets for bandits), and “sheep” (the indifferent masses, treated with neutrality or contempt depending on the situation).
In Erik and Faida’s view, their current roommates fell into just two categories—the enemy, already neutralized and turned into a “sheep,” and the “sheep” themselves. Since their dominance in the room was unquestioned, they got first access to food capsules, the shower stall, and the bathroom, which suited them just fine.
Over time, this life became routine, something they started to get used to. But eventually, things changed: people in yellow robes or guards began coming to take children away. Sometimes the children returned, but far more often, they didn’t. And when someone didn’t return for good, a new child was brought in to replace them that same day, and the cycle of “life” continued.
A month later, Schwank disappeared and didn’t come back.
When it happened, Erik felt a pang of unease. He didn’t care about the fate of that juvenile delinquent, but he understood that sooner or later, the same fate would befall them all.
When it was Faida’s turn, the boy felt an overwhelming emptiness—as if a piece of his heart had been torn out.
Emptiness, pain, and sorrow gripped him from within and lingered for days. But eventually, he pulled himself together and, as usual, suppressed the emotions that stirred memories. Life on Shinga had taught him not to get too close to anyone, but it had taught him well how to survive and exact revenge on enemies.
He had already decided: when they came for him, he wouldn’t go like a lamb to the slaughter—he’d fight his last fight.
So when his identification number, glowing in neon light on the right side of his robe, crackled through the wall speaker, the boy overcame his nerves, calmly stood up, and headed toward the open door. The guard waiting beyond jabbed an electro-shocker toward his face and barked a short command:
“Move out!”
As if obediently following orders, Erik exited the room and walked down the brightly lit corridor. The guard followed a meter behind him. The soldier was complacent, clearly not expecting any threat from this unremarkable, skinny kid (the genetic material of Shinga children was being delivered for the first time).
Erik slowed his breathing and began counting his steps mentally.
“One, two, three, four… Now.”
A sudden drop to one knee. Behind him, hot breath and a heavy hand on his shoulder, trying to turn him to face the guard. But Erik had been waiting for this exact moment. As his eyes met the furious face of the escort, reflexes kicked in—reflexes that One-Legged Joe had drilled into him with fists and curses. The Shingan boy’s splayed fingers struck the guard’s eye sockets.
A feral scream, the shocker clattering to the floor, and a second later, the guard clutched at his slashed throat, choking on blood. The metal magnetic card Erik had stolen on his first day of captivity and sharpened against the cell walls at night worked as well as any razor. Of course, it wasn’t an Ashva, but the skills he’d honed with that blade hadn’t gone to waste. The incapacitated guard, with bloodied, bulging eyes, collapsed like a felled tree, convulsing and generously soaking the metal floor with his blood. If One-Legged Joe had witnessed this scene, he would have undoubtedly felt satisfaction at the result—such flair, emotional impact, and innovation…
The young killer felt not a shred of pity for his victim. He remembered well how this creep had jabbed little girls with that same shocker, laughing as he reduced them to tears and caused involuntary urination. But even if this twisted, depraved excuse for a life form had sung in a church choir and helped old ladies cross the street, it likely wouldn’t have stopped Erik from carrying out this final execution. The code of One-Legged Joe’s gang stubbornly classified the guard as someone not just to be neutralized, but unconditionally destroyed.
Wasting no time, Erik snatched the electro-shocker from the floor and bolted toward the exit. He swiped the bloodied card over the control chip, hoping to unlock the door, but a metallic voice blared from the speaker above:
“Card invalid. Unauthorized access.”
“Gravity to my ribs!” Erik cursed fiercely, frustrated by his own shortsightedness. He should have grabbed the card from the dead guard—the one he’d stolen earlier had obviously been deactivated after his escape. Now that chance was lost.
The alarm wailed, and within minutes, guards armed with plasma rifles had the cornered boy in their sights. With feral rage, he brandished the shocker, keeping a dozen furious jailers at bay. They were already preparing to open fire on the killer of their colleague when a saccharine female voice echoed through the long corridors:
“Take him alive!!!!”
A muffled shot rang out, and a paralytic dart struck the boy’s body. Familiar darkness crept in unnoticed, enveloping him in a heavy, merciless blanket.
Dr. Leyza Cooperstad was a nymphomaniac with pronounced sadistic tendencies. Standing at two meters tall, with broad shoulders, an athletic build, breasts the size of volleyballs, and powerful thighs, she cut an imposing figure. Her yellowish, narrowed eyes with unnaturally long, genetically engineered lashes, fleshy lips (also clearly modified), and a thick mane of bright red dyed hair gave her the appearance of a wild Amazon, dressed in a lab coat and paraded out of the jungle for display.
In stark contrast to this image, her voice was remarkably soft—flowing around like melted butter on a hot skillet. Leyza headed the military genetic engineering laboratory, and everyone feared her: from guards to scientists. Nearly all of them—men (except for perhaps two elderly researchers) and women alike—had been in her BDSM room, sometimes in groups, subjected to the torments of her horrific devices for sexual games.
The worst fate befell those who, for any reason, failed to satisfy the insatiable boss. They risked losing not just their jobs, but also their genitals. Higher management turned a blind eye to her antics because the sadist delivered the necessary results in the lab. The fact that a guard or lab assistant might suddenly lose a body part that didn’t affect their duties didn’t particularly concern them.
“Where’s he from?” Leyza asked, relishing the moment as she replayed the video from the barracks cameras, clearly showing Erik taking the guard’s life.
A short lab assistant named Shemaila quickly scanned the boy’s dossier.
“Shinga! A street thief! The first batch from there arrived three weeks ago. Shall I send the file to your database?”
“No need,” Leyza purred. “I remember the Shingans. A few years ago, I had several subjects delivered for experiments. Though those were adults.”
Leyza licked her full lips, savoring the memory of that time. Back then, she had “played” with a few Shingan guerrilla hunters not only in the lab but also in her infamous room.
“Magnificent specimens. Incredibly resilient. Two of them even survived a full cycle in my little room… Though they didn’t make it through the subsequent lab experiments—too old…” Leyza paused for a few seconds before abruptly changing the subject. “Since he’s already passed three stages, let’s prepare him for the fourth.”
“The fourth?”
Shemaila’s eyes nearly climbed to her forehead.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t. Why not create a few more like him first?”
“We don’t have time to waste. Command demands results. The last three months, the material has been worthless—most didn’t even pass the first stage… Except for one girl. She made it through two, but fell just short on the third.”
The lab assistant lowered her eyes to the tablet and added:
“By the way, she’s from Shinga too.”
The doctor let out a delighted chuckle and purred:
“Why do they keep sending me genetic garbage from pampered greenhouse planets? If this boy survives, draft an order for the material supply department. ‘Shinga—Priority #1. Cancel all others…’” She smirked lasciviously. “If he succeeds, I’ll test him on my ‘equipment’…”
Goosebumps prickled Shemaila’s skin, and her face paled. Like most staff, she had been in Leyza Cooperstad’s torture room multiple times and knew exactly what those words meant.
Leyza noticed the lab assistant’s fear and, as a true sadist, fired off:
“By the way, he’s still just a boy, and he might not be enough for me… You’ll join us.”
And she laughed with the voice of an angel… a fallen angel.
But Erik survived… and not just survived—he completed the final fourth stage of the experiment.
Dressed in a black leather BDSM “mistress” costume, Leyza stood with her legs wide apart, whip in her right hand, watching Erik intently. The boy glared at her with undisguised hatred, but not a trace of fear. She found this immensely pleasing and, at the same time, arousing. The twelve-year-old boy evoked in the over-satiated nymphomaniac a strange, almost unfamiliar sense of astonishment.
Life hadn’t showered Leyza with gifts—everything she achieved was solely her own doing. Yes, it was perverse, cruel, and ruthless in many ways, but it was hers.
Perhaps, under different circumstances, she might have become an ordinary doctor in her childhood: waiting for a husband to come home from work, caring for a brood of snotty kids… But her father—a single parent raising his only daughter in a provincial town on an even more remote planet—burned that future out of her with unimaginable cruelty, sadism, and perverse sexual abuse.
She recalled the day that fundamentally changed her life.
“Scream. I want to hear you scream.”
His voice dripped with hatred for every woman in the galaxy, especially the one who had fled from him, leaving him alone with their only child. In her, he saw a traitor and exacted revenge with all the cruelty he possessed.
And while good doesn’t always beget good, evil undeniably begets more evil. Through his actions, however unwittingly, he set off a chain reaction that shaped Leyza’s future.
The rancid stench of shockbeer hit her nostrils, but she remained silent. Silent, as she had been since the day he first sexually assaulted her. How old was she then? Twelve? Thirteen?
Her silence infuriated the sadist, fueling his rage further. He vented his anger with beatings and red-hot objects, heated with a blowtorch and pressed against her body. Yet she clenched her teeth in pain and made not a sound. Silence became her only form of revenge. Her only one… except for that final act.
When he made a fatal mistake—leaving a red-hot kitchen knife near her and turning away to grab a whip—she didn’t hesitate. Hatred and innate resolve gave her strength. In the next moment, the searing blade sank into the broad back of her tormentor with a sizzle. A second later, she yanked it out and saw black blood gushing from the wound. Even as a child, Leyza had been fascinated by anatomy and knew: black blood meant a damaged liver. It was a fatal strike.
Though the creature who called himself her father was a giant over two meters tall, it didn’t save him. When he turned, stunned, and began choking her in a deathly agony, it was this blow that became her salvation. His massive hands loosened their grip as a bloody stream erupted from his mouth. And the girl didn’t waste her chance. With feral fury, she struck blow after blow into the lower part of his body until the heavy carcass collapsed onto the floor, drenched in blood and entrails. Amid this horrific scene, a severed piece of genitalia stood out—a final touch to the bloody tableau.
That day could have broken any strong personality. But Leyza began to see the world differently—as a harsh, grim reality where, to survive, one had to become even harsher and colder than reality itself.
And she became just that. Violence became her essence.
And those who could handle it, who didn’t flee but instead used the situation to their advantage, always piqued Leyza’s particular interest. Especially when it was a child who didn’t whimper or cry in a critical moment—a moment that would make even the bravest adults’ hair stand on end. Erik was so strong and fearless, his hatred so reminiscent of her own, that she almost felt a flicker of fondness for him. But that flicker quickly dissolved in the pragmatism of a sociopath and the mercenariness of the ruthless woman she truly was.
Dr. Cooperstad wasn’t in a hurry to report the stunning success of the third and fourth stages to her superiors. These stages, beyond cultivating a ferment gland, involved an implant capable of directly influencing the brain through pain impulses and induced visual imagery.
Leyza was entirely pragmatic and cold-blooded. She knew full well how Quadrostad reacted to the successes of its subordinates and harbored no illusions about it. For now, she was needed because she delivered progress in research, which was why command tolerated her eccentricities. But the moment absolute success was achieved, considering she didn’t belong to any of the four noble Houses, she would be eliminated.
At best, she’d be shipped off to some neglected lab on the periphery, but more likely, she’d simply be killed (she would do the same in their position) to prevent leaks about a potentially dangerous project. After that, the project would be shelved or put into a dormant state until “better times,” as mass-producing such specimens discreetly would be nearly impossible.
However, such a prospect didn’t suit Leyza at all. She had her own plans for this scenario.
She glanced at the exhausted body of the lab assistant Shemaila, lying naked and unconscious on one of the “training devices,” with whip marks across her back.
Shemaila was a spy from House Herbert—but she had revealed herself almost immediately.
Leyza had no illusions: she would undoubtedly be watched, with people sent to stay close to her. That’s why her “pleasure” room served not only as a space for indulging sadistic tendencies but also as an excellent tool for identifying spies. She had ensured the room was completely free of listening devices and regularly checked for any new attempts to install them.
Everyone who came into contact with her—whether in the lab or among the guards—had to undergo a tour of “dubious pleasure” in this room. And so far, no one had managed to maintain loyalty after such an ordeal.
Partially, Leyza herself deliberately spread information about her perversions. On one hand, it was a brilliant distraction on the edge of truth, shifting focus from more serious matters. On the other, her sinister reputation acted as a weapon of fear, breaking even the most stubborn.
She already knew that two guards, a technician, Shemaila, and two other lab assistants worked for the Houses, particularly House Herbert.
This didn’t surprise her—their House always specialized in such affairs.
Diplomacy, intelligence, counterintelligence, sabotage, assassinations, organizing unrest, and overthrowing governments on hostile planets—these were the domains of House Herbert, one of the four Houses of Quadrostad. Their agents operated practically across the entire galaxy. Additionally, they controlled the police and internal troops.
The other three Houses had different specialties. The Hijars controlled the military space fleet. The Feichshvangs oversaw ground forces, naval fleets, and aviation. The Aprodhans were responsible for the economy, production, science, education, and culture.
Each House was represented by its own monarch. The monarchs never met in person—they remained on their ancestral planets, surrounded by personal guards, and communicated only through joint virtual Councils of the Four. There, too, were the royal courts of hostages, where only the royal children and grandchildren of other Houses were held.
No House was allowed to keep its own children or grandchildren older than one year. They were required to send them to the courts of other Houses, distributed evenly among all. The Houses cared for the foreign children as their own, understanding that mistreatment of hostages could result in the same fate for their own descendants.
Upon reaching adulthood, children, except for crown princes, could return to their native House only by presenting a hostage of their own blood (necessarily from a noble family of their House).
The monarchs of all Houses, along with their spouses, always died on the same day. This was ensured by neural chips implanted in their skulls, equipped with explosive charges and hyperspace transmitters. If one monarch died or an attempt was made to tamper with or remove the implant, a signal would instantly transmit to the other chips, resulting in the simultaneous death of all four monarchs and their spouses. This system forced each of them to protect the lives of the others.
Crown princes were chosen not by age but by a combination of qualities—physical and mental health, intelligence, and managerial skills. After their parents’ deaths, they received new chips, returned to their ancestral planet, and became the new monarchs. Their spouses were invariably vetted princesses from other Houses, rotated cyclically with each generation.
Fierce competition for power raged between the Houses, yet each depended on the others. The Hijar fleet couldn’t wage war without the support of the Feichshvang armies and Herbert spies. All relied on resources, ships, and weapons produced solely by the Aprodhans, who in turn needed military protection in space and on planets. No single House could seize sole power. Success in space didn’t guarantee control over planets, and control over planets was meaningless without dominance in space.
The most critical restraining factor remained the deadly implants in the monarchs.
Despite all contradictions, this system had endured for over five hundred years. The cesspool of intertwined Houses, hating each other yet unable to exist separately, proved effective and functional for the Empire’s aggressive expansionist policy. During its existence, Quadrostad not only avoided decline but grew from four systems to fifty-two. The Houses controlled only four capital systems, while all other planets were under joint governance.
To maintain stability and avoid open conflicts between Houses, a series of supra-House institutions emerged over centuries in Quadrostad. The highest arbiter was the Grand Council of the Four, comprising trusted representatives from each House and neutral arbiters—artificial intelligences with shared access to all House databases. The Council resolved inter-House disputes, approved major military campaigns, economic programs, and planetary reforms. Executive functions were handled by the Imperial Administration—a vast bureaucratic system composed of officials from all Houses, managing peripheral systems and coordinating interplanetary governance. Their activities were constantly monitored by oversight agents from the Houses, creating an atmosphere of total control and mutual distrust, yet ensuring order.
The ideological backbone of the Empire was the Cult of Unity—a religio-political doctrine officially embraced by all Houses. From childhood, every citizen was taught that the Empire was the sole shield of civilization against external chaos. Propaganda channels, controlled by House Herbert, continuously broadcast tales of Quadrostad’s greatness, the inevitability of its rule, and the treachery of “external barbarians.” Clerics-codexers in Temples of Unity echoed this rhetoric, lending political slogans a religious tint.
The Empire’s economy operated as a single organism. A common currency and the Central Economic Committee, overseen by the Aprodhans, allocated resources, set taxes, and quotas among the Houses. From here, armies, fleets, and spy networks were funded, with access to resources serving as a key tool of political influence. The Empire’s population was strictly stratified: full citizens of capital systems enjoyed significant privileges; colonists performed military and economic roles; and billions of peripheral workers served as a source of labor, recruits, and experimental material.
This form of governance was established by Emperor Krokus, whose empire at the time consisted of four star systems, and whose family included four highly ambitious sons, each dreaming of slitting their brothers’ throats. Krokus was not just a warlord but a strategist of statecraft. He understood that a classic imperial structure would inevitably degrade within a few generations, as descendants turned into idlers and drunkards, and the empire crumbled under internal strife.
To prevent this, at the height of his power, he reformed the system of governance. He divided the most critical sectors—military, intelligence-political, economic, and colonial—among his sons, assigning each a capital planet to manage and setting a single goal: expand the empire. Power was to grow only through victories and new conquests, not internal conspiracies.
This structure—a blend of rigid balance of power, mutual dependence, and constant competition—proved remarkably effective. Over the next five centuries, the empire, later known as Quadrostad, steadily expanded, absorbing neighboring systems one by one, strictly adhering to Krokus’s testament.
However, in the last fifty years, expansion abruptly halted. The cause was the Stellar Confederation (SC)—a political alliance of over fifteen hundred star systems that fiercely defended its borders and acted as a guarantor of interstellar status quo. The Confederation didn’t seek conquest but tolerated no aggression, reacting especially sensitively to two things: slavery and genetic experiments on sentient beings—practices on which much of Quadrostad’s military might depended.
The tipping point came with an incident involving Quadrostad’s Third Strike Fleet. Unaware of whom they were up against, they attacked a border system of the SC, captured an orbital station, and destroyed several satellites. It seemed like another easy conquest—until Nemesis arrived: a colossal armada of several thousand advanced warships and platforms. Within mere hours, the Third Strike Fleet (350 combat and 120 assault units) was almost entirely annihilated.
Shocked by the scale of the force, the four monarchs immediately requested a truce. Diplomacy kicked into high gear: a few public trials of “guilty” admirals (sacrificial pawns who enjoyed brief but short-lived careers), official apologies, and demonstrative punishment of those responsible saved the empire from immediate destruction.
Given the significantly higher scientific potential, resources, economy, and military might of the Stellar Confederation compared to Quadrostad, the outcome of an open war between such adversaries was beyond doubt. Realizing this, the Tetrarchy Empire chose to adapt: instead of direct confrontation, it shifted to a strategy of trade, espionage, recruitment, political intrigue, and forbidden scientific research, through which it sought to eventually gain an edge over the SC.
Under these new conditions, two Houses emerged as the most effective players—Aprodhans and Herberts. Over the past fifty years, they dominated key decision-making, resource allocation, and amassed the greatest wealth and political influence among the Four.
Since science fell under the sphere of influence of House Aprodhan, the laboratory led by Dr. Cooperstad was considered their territory. However, its status was unique: a top-secret facility requiring maximum protection both on the planet’s surface and in space. For this reason, all four Houses participated in ensuring its security, and the project of controlled human genetic mutations drew the attention of even the monarchs themselves.
Leyza couldn’t simply extricate herself from the complex situation she found herself in. With full access to the laboratory, she had implanted each of the so-called “rats”—spies from other Houses—with lethal neurotoxin implants for instant action and ear-listening devices that transmitted information directly to her own implant. She controlled these “traps” using a special neck pendant—one touch, and the agent would turn into a corpse.
Thus, the agents of House Herbert were forced to play a double game. On one hand, they relayed certain information about the laboratory head—compromising enough to seem credible, but not so dangerous as to provoke serious consequences. Reports like “the subject has again engaged in unproductive sadistic behavior toward a staff member” or “a guard was deprived of a genital organ” were submitted regularly. This helped craft the image of an effective but “uncontrollable” leader who wouldn’t arouse suspicion through excessive loyalty or an impeccable reputation.
On the other hand, they weren’t entirely under her control. At any moment, the spies could be replaced or exposed during routine checks.
Therefore, Dr. Cooperstad couldn’t rely on their absolute loyalty, especially now that the experiment had successfully reached the fourth stage—and particularly not from the lab assistant Shemaila, who knew too much about the operation.
For Leyza, snapping the traitor’s slender neck with her own hands would pose no difficulty, but such a move would inevitably raise suspicions and possibly lead to her removal. She needed a plan—realistic and meticulously thought out to the smallest detail.
She shifted her gaze to Erik. A spark ignited in her mind, gradually growing into a clear strategy. Leyza leaned close to his ear and whispered:
“In five minutes, you will approach the girl and strangle her, or I’ll make it hurt.”
But this plan crumbled before it even began—instead of complying, Erik suddenly lunged, grabbing Dr. Cooperstad by the throat. His childlike but already altered hands, modified by the experiment, possessed a strength that could rival a professional adult athlete. The sadist’s breath caught in her throat.
However, Leyza, though caught off guard by the attack, managed to press a button hidden in the handle of her whip. Erik convulsed from a sharp jolt of pain, yet he continued to grip her throat, though his hold weakened. During the fourth stage of the experiment, a control chip for pain responses had been implanted in his brain, activated by that same button. Dr. Cooperstad couldn’t allow a successful specimen to slip from her control or fall into someone else’s hands.
“How stubborn,” Leyza thought. “And how much I like it.”
A wave of arousal washed over her.
“To hell with that girl… for now,” flashed through her mind. She pressed the button a second time, and when Erik finally released his grip, she struck him across the face with the whip with all her strength. The boy didn’t cry out—only blood trickled from his lips—but he grabbed her arm and squeezed. Feeling both pain and a strange pleasure, Leyza thought with near admiration:
“What a tasty little thing… I could play with him forever.”
But that was her second-to-last thought.
She didn’t notice the door behind her open silently. The next moment, a short whistle cut through the air—and a thin blade tip emerged from her mouth.
“How familiar,” she thought with irony, recalling the final moment of her father’s life.
A bloody smile froze on her distorted face, along with her heart, which stopped beating.
Leyza’s heavy body collapsed onto Erik, drenching his face in hot blood. With disgust, he shoved the corpse off himself, sprang to his feet, and almost instinctively pulled the knife from the back of his former tormentor’s head, assuming a combat stance.
Naked, covered in blood, with a cold weapon in hand—that’s how the newly arrived figure in strange, nearly invisible attire first saw him.
“Easy, kid, I’m a friend!” The figure gradually materialized, taking the clear form of a tall silhouette in a tight black suit. Its head was covered by a smooth, shiny gray helmet without visible slits, reflecting the cold light of the laboratory.
“My name is Vihan. I’m an agent of the Stellar Confederation. I’ll help you get out of here.”
With a quick motion, the helmet was removed, revealing the head of a man with dark curly hair, tanned skin, and broad, expressive facial features. But what struck Erik most were the vivid green eyes, starkly contrasting with his appearance, as if they didn’t belong to this face.
“How can you help me? There’s a bomb in my head, and they can kill me anywhere in the galaxy. She controlled me with pain…” Erik still hadn’t released the knife from his grip.
“I know. I read your file when I hacked into this monster’s tablet. She hid it even from her own people,” Vihan nodded toward Leyza’s corpse. “But I also know how to disable that bomb… at least temporarily.”
Still hesitant, Erik finally lowered the knife and exhaled wearily:
“Do what you must.”
A few minutes later, another figure in an invisible suit appeared at the door. It deactivated its camouflage, revealing a slender brunette with strikingly beautiful, noble features on a pale face and the same green eyes as Vihan.
“Meet Kvilema! She’s with me.”
The brunette smiled warmly and nodded to Erik. The boy, who had managed to dress himself, nodded back briefly. In this situation, words were unnecessary.
Vihan, who had been busy with Dr. Cooperstad’s tablet all this time, finally tossed it onto the dead sadist’s body and said calmly:
“Kvilema, files are uploaded. Clean up and destroy everything here to hell. I’ll take the kid to the ship.”
Kvilema silently approached the still-unconscious Shemaila and, with a swift motion, slit her throat with a vibro-stiletto. Within ten seconds, she was attaching a small high-thermal bomb to the wall.
Meanwhile, Vihan and Erik left the laboratory, littered with the bodies of guards and staff. A short flight on a fast scooter—and within half an hour, they were inside an elegant starship hidden in a private metal hangar, dimly lit by faint lanterns.
The special agent didn’t waste time: placing Erik into a cryocapsule, he whispered reassuringly:
“This will block the signal in your head.”
“Thank you,” Erik managed to say, still conscious.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken that word. Probably because, in his entire life, there hadn’t been a single being truly deserving of it—not even the one who had given birth to him.
Vihan smirked faintly. Two years of hard work hadn’t been in vain—the boy was exactly what he’d hoped for.
Half an hour later, Kvilema boarded the ship. She sat beside Vihan in the co-pilot’s seat. The agent activated the launch engines: bright blue streams erupted from the heated nozzles, and the sleek cone of the yacht shot upward through the open hangar doors, shrinking with each second until it dissolved into the night sky.
Meanwhile, a powerful explosion rocked the underground Quadrostad laboratory. An unstoppable fiery whirlwind tore through the hidden chambers before bursting outward like a wild volcano, spewing bright flames. It incinerated everything that could have given the Empire of the Four a chance to complete the project successfully.
The next day, a small space yacht landed at the Settsu spaceport with a single living crew member—a seemingly unremarkable middle-aged man. A gaunt build, dark hair, gray-blue eyes hidden behind dark lenses of round informational glasses—perhaps that’s all one could say about him at first glance.
Yet a keen observer might notice something more in his posture and demeanor—a mark of authority, a habit of command. This was unsurprising: Colonel Otto Argel, head of counterintelligence for House Herbert, wielded immense, though concealed, power. Without fanfare or honorary escorts, his influence stretched far.
In the spaceport lobby, he was met not by a crowd of officials or military personnel, but by a single counterintelligence officer. The officer approached without ceremony, handed over a tablet, and reported briefly:
“The laboratory is completely destroyed. All scientists, technicians, and guards are dead. Research files have been erased. It looks like SC sabotage. Genetic material is scattered across the planet. We’re currently working on retrieval.”
“Is anything missing?” Colonel Argel continued toward the exit, downloading data from the tablet to his informational glasses on the move. The agent kept pace beside him, not falling a step behind.
“Most likely, files. But files are trivial. They destroyed the lab themselves, so the files alone won’t serve as evidence. Was any test subject taken?”
“There are fragments of footage from one camera. Our tracker picked up the signal just before the explosion. It appears two individuals—a man and a woman—infiltrated the facility. They left as three: the same two plus a child. The recordings are too blurry—faces aren’t visible. Half an hour later, a yacht belonging to a wealthy couple, Mr. and Mrs. Olfin from the planet Herdjaila, launched from the spaceport. We have the yacht’s registration number. Agents have already been dispatched to their estate.”
“Have they identified the child?”
“Data files are destroyed. Due to secrecy, there are no duplicates. DNA analysis of the bodies is impossible—the radiation levels after the reactor explosion are too high. Based on the material collection department’s registry, there’s a pool of twenty potential candidates. Precise identification will take time.”
“Time is exactly what we don’t have. Though, in the end, it doesn’t matter much. The child is a witness. They all need to be neutralized. This is clearly an SC operation, and most likely, they’re already looking for a way to transfer the kid in a neutral zone. We have a maximum of eleven to twelve days before they reach their goal.”
The colonel paused for a moment, glanced aside, then added dryly:
“Don’t send anyone to the estate—it’s likely booby-trapped and under surveillance. We can’t afford to spook them. Activate a top-level ‘mole’ in the Confederation border zone. Finding out about the transfer is priority number one. Submit a control request to the Hijar fleet for the nearest military ship to this SC sector. Preferably something fast—a corvette or frigate. If intercepted, the target must be destroyed at any cost.”
Eleven days later, the fast reconnaissance frigate *Cobra*, under the command of Captain Eshenhaya, arrived in the Kemal system on a covert mission and headed confidently toward the fifth planet. Upon reaching its orbit, the ship landed on a small moon, completely silencing all signals and activating anti-radar and anti-sensor countermeasures.
In this mode, it waited for thirteen hours until its scanners detected an energy flare from an incoming hyperspace jump. Lying in wait for its prey, the frigate lurked like a true serpent…