Commodore Jazz strode into the dimly lit control room, her black and gold military uniform shimmering in the sterile light of the command center.
At only 19, she had climbed the ranks faster than anyone else in recent memory—a fact that fueled both her reputation and the resentment of her peers. Underlings stepped aside as she passed, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and awe.
“Commodore Jazz,” one of the junior officers addressed her, standing stiffly as she stopped beside the central console. His voice wavered ever so slightly.
She glanced at him, barely acknowledging his existence before turning her sharp gaze to the flickering monitors. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she masked the uncertainty beneath a veneer of icy authority. She didn’t have the luxury of doubt—not here, not now.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the glowing screens, waiting for someone to give her an explanation.
A young ensign, pale and visibly trembling, stepped forward.
“M-Movement detected beyond Nova 11, Commodore Jazz. It appears to be a Perfect Spawn.”
Jazz’s expression hardened. Nothing new. But nothing good.
She didn’t flinch.
“Show me the feed.”
The monitors hummed to life, the grainy image of the Perfect Spawn appearing on the central display. It was unmistakable—the grotesque, undulating mass of tentacles, each one writhing as though alive with its own malevolent will. At the center, the massive, singular eye stared back, as if daring them to strike.
“Run a scan,” Jazz ordered, her voice low and cold. She folded her arms across her chest, the weight of her medals shifting with the movement. The clinking echoed in the nearly silent control room. Typing and the low hum of computers filled the air.
“Commodore, here’s the scan report,” an officer said, breaking the silence and handing her a tablet.
She barely glanced at it.
“Summarize it.”
The officer hesitated.
“Perfect Spawn. Classification: Oculus Exo-Perfectio Absoluta.”
Jazz’s lip curled, her hand gripping the edge of the console.
“Perfect,” she echoed, the word dripping with disdain. There was nothing “perfect” about these things—nothing predictable about their behavior.
Jazz was far from a xenobiology expert, but like so many in the Empire, she had a grudge against these beings. She knew they evolved unpredictably. She knew no two were the same. There was no standardized system to categorize them, so the scientists had decided to give them broad classifications based on general observable behavior.
“Useful information,” Jazz snapped sarcastically. Her eyes flicked back to the feed, watching the spawn drift ever closer to Nova 7.
“Confirm its trajectory.”
Another officer stepped forward.
“Direct path toward Nova 7, Commodore Jazz. If we don’t act soon—”
“I know what’ll happen,” she interrupted. Her voice was sharp, but the undercurrent of urgency was unmistakable. She turned back to the console, her mind working through possible strategies.
“Where’s the fleet?” she asked, tone colder now, the edge of impatience creeping in.
“Deployed to the Nishimura Mining Colony,” one of the officers replied.
Jazz cursed under her breath. Of course the fleet was too far out. She’d warned them about spreading too thin, but no one had listened. Ever since her promotion, she’d been riding Admiral Thurston about his reckless spawn-hunting adventures. One day he was going to over commit. One day these things would conquer him—and now they had a spawn on their doorstep, and the core of the Navy had been committed to a publicity stunt.
Now it was up to her to accommodate their shortsightedness.
“Patch me through to Chancellor Gregor,” she ordered, her mind already calculating the odds. She needed an attack—now.
When Gregor’s face appeared on the screen, his voice was infuriatingly calm.
“Commodore Jiroshi, I trust you’re handling the situation?”
Jazz’s eyes narrowed. She hated when he called her that. Her parents’ name—her legacy—he would rub salt in that wound. Most of her subordinates looked around in confusion. Some didn’t even know that was her name. But she bit back the retort, keeping her voice level.
“We’ve got a Perfect Spawn en route. The fleet’s too far out to assist. I need permission to deploy our local forces – the elite pilots.”
Gregor leaned back in his chair, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“And you think a small group of elites is enough to handle this?”
“We’ve handled worse,” Jazz replied, her voice tight with barely contained anger. “I have the Dragon Engine and some battle suits ready to launch. We can handle it.”
Gregor’s smile widened.
“What about the Apocalypse Engine?”
Jazz’s blood ran cold, but her voice didn’t falter.
“No. The Apocalypse Engine would cause more damage than the spawn will. I’m not willing to sacrifice the planet to save it.”
The tension in the room thickened as Gregor weighed her words. Finally, he gave a slow nod.
“Fine. You have my approval. But Carmen,” he added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “this is on you. Don’t fail.”
Jazz ended the call, her jaw clenched so tight it hurt. She hated Gregor. Hated his arrogance, his manipulation. Talking to him was belittling. He had no business being Chancellor. But this time, he was right. A spawn this close to Nova 7 was not a situation that could be taken lightly.
If she failed, a lot of people would die.
“Prepare the elite pilots for launch,” she commanded, her voice hard as steel.
