I'm drowning in a sea of copper.

  The swarm of Buggers moved in a perfect Fibonacci spiral as they descended towards me—predictable, boring, but at least pretty.

  I watched the dance from the inside of a sweltering cockpit. Waiting. The pod was a sea of neon-green pathing indicators and firing lanes for "optimised engagement strategies" that only served to block my view.

  [DANGER. DANGER. DANGER.]

  I blinked sweat from my eyes and kept waiting for the perfect moment. The crosshairs jittered as they aligned with the Buggers' projected flight paths, pre-calculating the perfect lead angle for my auto-cannon. All I had to do was hold the trigger and watch Buggers fall.

  [TARGETING LOCK CONFIRMED]

  [ENGAGE FOR 99.8% EFFICIENCY]

  I bared my teeth at the display. "You're blocking my sight lines, you damned toaster!"

  My eyes fell to the console, to my favourite switch: an old-fashioned flip toggle beneath the central controls. I flipped it.

  [WARNING: MANUAL OVERRIDE ACTIVE]

  [SYSTEM COHESION DEGRADING]

  [AEGIS-ASSIST OFFLINE]

  The green lines vanished, replaced by swaths of raw data and output that threatened to overwhelm my senses. I felt every hum and vibration from the mech's core, the heat of the engines, the stabilisers straining to keep up. The mech no longer felt like an extension of myself. It felt like what it was: a hundred stubborn tons of alloy and firepower.

  I grinned.

  With a sharp kick of my left foot, I slammed the thruster just as the Buggers began their opening salvo. Fire blasted from the Seraph's left flank, and the mech flipped onto its side. I jammed the controls forward, and the entire machine glided laterally, skimming centimetres above the ground as bright bio-plasma screamed through the air where I'd been a heartbeat earlier.

  Seeing another volley incoming, I hauled the controls backwards and punched the auxiliary thrusters. The Seraph pitched upwards, tearing from its lateral slide into a climb. The frame shuddered and whined in protest at the sudden change in direction.

  [EFFICIENCY HAS DROPPED BELOW 60%]

  [RE-ENGAGING SAFETY LIMITERS TO PREVENT FRAME LOSS]

  "Like hell you are," I snapped, slapping the console to bypass the lock.

  The stabilisers wavered as the frame began to overheat. I gritted my teeth and fought through the neural overload, clipping the mech's shoulder on a pylon as I reached the apex of my ascent. Sparks burst inside the cockpit, and the console flashed red.

  [STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY DEGRADED]

  [HYDRAULIC LEAK DETECTED — RIGHT ACTUATOR]

  Shit.

  I used the impact's momentum to pivot the mech. The force whipped the torso around, almost sending me into an uncontrolled spin, but I caught it just in time. With little time to spare, I hauled the auto-cannon toward the centre of their spiral formation and squeezed the trigger.

  The cannon roared, flames licking from the barrel as rounds pounded through the formation's centre. Each shot tore through the weaker bio-mechs screening their artillery line.

  I kept firing, tearing apart the plasma-cannons before they could land a clean strike. Their formation broke into chaos. It took less than a minute to gut their damage dealers and another to finish the stragglers as they tried to scatter.

  The simulation went dark, and silence flooded the cockpit.

  Fresh text blinked across the HUD.

  [SIMULATION COMPLETE]

  [TIME: 02:48 — NEW RECORD]

  I leaned back in the seat, my mouth burning with that familiar copper taste. I touched my lips, but when I pulled my finger away, there was no blood—just the taste.

  The simulation pod hissed open, venting fresh air into the sweltering pod, quickly cooling my overheated body. Steam curled off my skin, my muscles still twitching from the neural feedback.

  Across the training chamber, my family was waiting.

  Grandfather stood at the front in his dark officer's coat, hands clasped behind his back. Father stood to his right, practically vibrating with pride. My uncles lingered near the tactical displays, half-hidden behind moving screens of data.

  "Zero cohesion, Marcus," Uncle David announced, his voice thin and sharp.

  He tapped his datapad, and a wall of performance metrics bloomed between us.

  "You cleared the spiral in record time, yes. But your Yield was awful. No designated rotations, no synchronised kill chain and no secondary skill experience. In a live operation, you would have wasted the encounter."

  "Wasted?" I wiped sweat from my jaw and forced myself to keep smiling. "I broke the record and only have a scratch to show for it."

  "Speed is a vanity metric, boy," Uncle Michael added, swirling amber liquor in a glass he definitely wasn't supposed to have inside the training wing.

  "Yeah, but if I'd followed the assist, I'd have a bonus and a simulated hole through my chest. I'd take being alive over a few extra levels." I retorted, wiping a streak of sweat from my forehead.

  "You disobeyed the System," David snapped, his nasal voice setting my teeth on edge.

  "Then maybe the System should stop recommending bad turns on the left pivot." I retorted.

  Father guffawed. I couldn't help but smirk.

  Grandfather quickly wiped it off my face as he descended the metal stairs toward me. His boots rang against the steel in slow, measured strides. The chamber quieted. Even Michael had the sense to shut up.

  Eventually, he stopped at just an arm's length away.

  "The System drew the optimal path," he said. "You ignored it. And shaved twelve seconds off a century-old record."

  His gaze sharpened.

  "Interesting."

  My brow twitched involuntarily.

  "Go clean yourself up," he said. "Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow, the Moirai will see something worth noting."

  He turned on his heel and walked away, his heavy boots fading down the corridor. I watched as he went, my twitching eyebrows forming into a furrow.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Interesting... I'm starting to hate that word.

  By the time dinner started, the house already felt like it was holding its breath.

  The Tiernan dining room had been imported piece by piece from Earth, the pride of the collection a long mahogany table, perfectly set. Drones moved silently between crystal glasses and silverware. Mother directed them with her usual composed smile.

  Grandfather sat at the head of the table. Father was on his right, one drink in and working on a second. Uncle Michael lounged to the left with a predatory grin. Uncle David sat beside him, posture immaculate, expression already halfway to disapproval.

  Only six of us. For us Tiernans, it was almost unheard of.

  "So, the record-breaker finally arrives," Michael drawled. "Though I imagine the logistics monkeys are still mourning the simulated repair bill."

  "Leave it," Father said, not looking at him. "Marcus proved his skill. Tomorrow the machine will evaluate his soul, and we won't be left wanting."

  David lifted his glass. "B-Grade is more than respectable. Stable growth. Predictable advancement. A useful officer can build an excellent life."

  Father deadpanned. "My son is not testing B-Grade."

  "No," Michael said lightly. "Of course not. He's a Tiernan. Which means anything short of perfection becomes a family tragedy."

  "Marcus," Grandfather bellowed. The bickering from Michael and Father stopped in an instant as he commanded their attention. "Take a seat."

  I nodded, striding forward to the chair, and my hand gripped the backrest. The legs scraped the floor, loud and sharp. I sat.

  "Marcus. Tell us, what Grade do you expect tomorrow?"

  There was only one acceptable answer.

  "S-Grade, sir."

  "S-Grade..." He tasted the words. "Good. Hoping to follow in Lydia's footsteps, are you, Marcus?"

  A hologram bloomed above the centre of the table, unannounced.

  He's not going to start already, is he?

  A woman stood in white armour before a mech unlike any standard Federation frame. Bone-smooth plating. Gold tracer lines pulsing over the chassis like veins of light.

  "Your great-aunt Lydia," Grandfather said. "S-Grade. Luminary. She held Proxima against three hundred thousand Buggers and died still fighting."

  And there it is...

  The evening wore on, and Grandfather settled into his Lydia speech properly then, turning one old war story into three and each of those into a lecture. Always echoing the same message, about our 'Oh, so esteemed past.' His words blurred at the edges as my thoughts drifted away...

  ...

  ...

  ...

  My focus suddenly snapped back into place as Grandfather set his glass down on the table, loud enough for me to hear.

  "A toast," Grandfather's gaze planted itself on me.

  He clapped his hands once, and a drone entered, "Get Marcus a glass and pour him some wine."

  Mother looked ready to protest, but Father stopped her with a glance. A glass was quickly placed in front of me, filled with blood red wine.

  "A toast!" Grandfather declared. "To Marcus Tiernan."

  Everyone quickly raised their glass. I followed suit.

  "To the continuation of Tiernan glory!"

  We drank.

  "To the Federation and her colonies!"

  We drank.

  "To tomorrow's revelations!"

  We drank.

  As the wine passed my lips, I stifled a cough as copper flooded my mouth, thick and dense.

  Grandfather hadn't so much as taken a sip. Instead, he sat watching me. I struggled to hold his gaze as a shudder rocked my spine.

  "Marcus, I'd like a private conversation. " He softly declared.

  "Right now?" I responded, anxiety flaring.

  "He needs rest. For tomorrow," Father quickly interjected.

  "No, he needs perspective," Grandfather shot him down.

  Mother's hand tightened briefly around mine under the table. If it was meant to soothe me, it did the opposite.

  "The garden. You have ten minutes. I'll be waiting." Grandfather stood from the table and left, leaving a plate of half-finished food.

  No one moved for three seconds after he was gone.

  Then Father reached for another drink.

  Mother touched his arm. "James—"

  "Don't."

  Uncle Michael leaned back in his chair, his smugness returning. "Ten minutes with the old man before testing," he said. "Brings back memories."

  "Shut up, Michael," Father warned.

  "He told us B-Grade would be enough," Michael went on smoothly. "That he'd be proud regardless. Funny, the things people say before the machine answers."

  "I said shut up!" Father slammed his glass onto the table, hard enough to crack it. The sound was sharp as a hairline fracture slithered through the base, and amber liquor began to seep out.

  "Boys." Mother's voice cut through. "Not. In. Front. Of. Marcus." Clear warning permeated her words.

  Everyone looked at me— not with pride or confidence, but with fear.

  That's new.

  "Six minutes," David said, checking his watch. "Better not keep him waiting. Uncle Arthur hates lateness almost as much as disappointment."

  "I know what Grandfather hates." I snapped, no longer able to control myself.

  David lifted both hands in surrender, smiling like he'd gotten what he wanted.

  I shoved my chair back and left before anyone could say another word.

  The garden was Grandfather's favourite monument to old Earth.

  Real 'Crimson Glory' roses, imported trees, and a pond full of fish native to our mother world.

  Grandfather stood by the water, his hands clasped behind his back. He watched the fish surface in slow circles beneath the reflected lights.

  "Two minutes and forty-eight seconds," he said without turning. "Zero cohesion. A ruined Seraph frame."

  "I broke the record," I said.

  "You threw a tantrum inside a multi-million credit simulation." Grandfather shot down the statement.

  "The assist lags on the left..." I folded my arms as the words trailed off.

  He turned to face me, not even dignifying my response.

  "Your uncles think you are a liability," he said. "Your father thinks you are a prodigy."

  He regarded me for a long moment.

  "I think you are a blunt instrument," he said. "One that does not yet understand what it is striking."

  I bit my tongue, feeling a bubbling irritation begin to resurface.

  From inside his coat, Grandfather removed a small black rectangle and held it out to me.

  "Take it."

  At first, it looked like a regular data drive, but it was heavier than it should have been.

  "It was Lydia's."

  The garden seemed to go quiet around us.

  "Why are you giving this to me?" I asked.

  "Because it is a locked door," Grandfather said, "and I do not tolerate locked doors in my house."

  He stepped closer.

  "The official record states that Lydia died a perfect soldier. What the official record omits is that her final transmission was not tactical data, a distress call or a combat log." His expression hardened. "It was mathematics. Pages of it. Pattern strings. Sequences. Complete nonsense."

  My brow furrowed, the previous irritation forming into confusion.

  "I've had sector's best specialists try to crack it. Slicers, engineers, inner-world analysts. One tried brute-forcing a handshake and burned out his neural link so badly they found him drooling into his console." Grandfather's tone never changed. "The encryption requires S-Grade neural density to even initiate contact, so we placed it in the hands of a verified S-Grade from the core. Nothing."

  My fingers tightened around the drive.

  "And you think I can open it?" I asked sceptically.

  "When you attain S-Grade tomorrow," he said, correcting me, "you will try."

  Copper.

  "I want to know what Lydia found at Proxima," he said. "And I want to know why it drove the greatest pilot in our bloodline completely mad."

  I searched for what to say. Too many questions bombarded me at once, and before I could squeeze even one out, he turned and walked to the house. Only to stop and pause.

  "And Marcus?"

  I looked up to meet his gaze; his eyes held no warmth at all.

  "Do not disappoint me tomorrow."

  He left me there with the pond, the roses, and the drive. But through the glass doors, I could see the rest of the family pretending not to watch.

  I almost laughed.

  Almost.

  When I went back inside, the dining room had mostly emptied.

  Only Mother and Father remained.

  Father looked worse now, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Unbuttoned uniform. Loose tie. He was even more drunk.

  "What did he tell you?" He asked with a slur.

  After a moment of trying to find the right words, I replied, "Just... stories about Aunt Lydia."

  Father's gaze softened for a moment. He let out a low, rough laugh, then turned serious again.

  "He didn't tell you," Father muttered under his breath.

  "James," Mother warned.

  "He should know."

  Mother's jaw tightened. "Not tonight."

  Father ignored her.

  "When the machine grades you tomorrow, that number decides where they send you. S-Grade, A-Grade, B-Grade—those have futures." He laughed once, laboured and empty. "But the lower Grades are just statistics."

  I tilted my head slightly, "Yeah, I know. Lower Grades have it rough."

  Father pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to find the right words. "No, I mean— what I mean to say, is that's all they are."

  I kept my face still. "What do you mean? What kind of statistics?"

  He looked at me, pity in his eyes. "Seventy per cent of D-Grades are dead within five years," he said. "Eighty-five before ten."

  Mother shut her eyes.

  Father kept going anyway.

  "I have commanded lower-grade units, Marcus. I remember every roster. Every coffin. Every letter sent back to families who were told their children served with honour."

  "But.. all grades serve with honour," I said on reflex.

  Father softly smiled, his eyes betraying something deeper. "Yes, Son," he said. "They do."

  Mother rose and came around the table.

  "That's enough."

  Her hand rested on my shoulder for one brief second.

  "Go to your room," she said. "Get some sleep."