Chapter 167: The Governor’s Summon

The dim glow of console lights reflected off the reinforced glass of the cockpit, casting faint halos around Ethan Walker's silhouette as he stared out into the cavernous repair bay. Sparks cascaded like artificial stars as engineers and maintenance drones meticulously welded new hull plates onto the ship's scarred frame, their plasma torches hissing like angry serpents. The rhythmic hum of plasma cutters reverberated through the hangar, blending with the low thrum of industrial machinery, a mechanical lullaby that had become oddly comforting in recent days.

Ethan leaned back in the pilot's chair, the worn leather creaking beneath him. His fingers unconsciously traced the ridges of an old scar across his knuckles, a habit he couldn't seem to break. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion after a grueling day of work, lingered on the flickering flame of a welding torch dancing across the ship's underbelly. He'd spent the day running small requests across the city, escorting fragile cargo through unstable districts, bartering for rare parts in dimly lit markets, even mediating a petty dispute between two mercenary crews over docking privileges. It was tiring, thankless work, but it kept him busy and moving about.

Ethan closed his eyes, letting the distant clanging of metal on metal wash over him. He told himself he'd rest, just for a minute.

The holographic interface in front of him pulsed to life without warning, casting a soft blue light that bathed the cockpit in an ethereal glow. The sudden change snapped Ethan back to reality, his instincts flaring for a split second before he recognized the familiar hue of an incoming transmission.

"Incoming secure message," chimed Iris, the ship's AI, her voice a soothing blend of synthetic calm and human cadence.

Ethan sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes with the heels of his palms before waving a hand to accept the transmission. The interface shifted, pixels swirling as the image solidified into the rugged face of Darrik Voss, the Guild Branch Master. Darrik's expression was grim. He looked like a man who'd just finished chewing through a particularly bitter piece of annoying news.

"Walker," Darrik began, voice rough and gravelly, like he'd been gargling sandpaper. "You've got a summons. Governor Tallis Krenn wants a private meeting. Tomorrow morning. Grand Aeloria Hotel."

Ethan frowned, sitting up straighter. His muscles protested the sudden movement, and he stretched his shoulders, trying to loosen the knots that had taken up permanent residence there.

"Krenn?" he echoed, the name feeling heavy in his mouth. "What does he want?"

Darrik's smirk was devoid of humor, more a twitch of the lips than anything resembling genuine amusement.

"If I knew the precise reason, I'd tell you," Darrik said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But when a Federation governor requests your presence, even if it's just to satisfy his curiosity, you don't bother asking why. You show up. I know its not something you would enjoy, but do me a solid and humor him for a bit. I also have a feeling you would gain something from this meeting."

Ethan ran a hand through his short, uneven hair, the rough texture scraping against his fingers. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he tried to process Darrik's words. He wasn't a politician. He wasn't a diplomat. Hell, a year ago, he'd been a salaryman in a cramped Tokyo office, more concerned with balancing expense reports and hitting sales quotas than planetary politics. Now, he was being personally summoned by one of the most powerful figures in the Ashen Sector, a man who could probably snap his fingers and make entire colonies disappear from the galactic registry.

"Grand Aeloria, huh?" Ethan muttered, rubbing his jaw as he mulled it over. He'd heard of the place in passing conversations. A relic of old, a palace disguised as a hotel. A structure of gleaming spires and crystalline domes, where the elite gathered to sip vintage synthehol and discuss galactic policy and trade over plates of delicacies. It couldn't have been more different from the dingy hotels he used to crash in during his Earth-bound business trips. Places with flickering fluorescent lights, stained carpets, and vending machines that smelled like melted plastic.

He exhaled, shaking his head. The contrast was almost comical.

"I'll be there," he finally said, voice low and steady.

Darrik nodded, the lines on his face deepening.

"Good luck," he said, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken warning. The transmission cut out, and the hologram dissolved into a cloud of blue particles, fading into the dim glow of the console lights.

Ethan sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Darrik's image had been. The hum of the ship and the distant clang of tools echoed through the hangar, filling the void left by the abrupt end of the conversation.

Governor Tallis Krenn.

The name lingered in Ethan's mind like a specter, heavy with unspoken implications. Whatever the governor wanted, it wouldn't be simple.

Ethan remained in the cockpit for a while, eyes unfocused as he mulled over the invitation. The weight of Krenn's name settled heavily on his chest, a reminder that nothing in this universe came without strings. The governor's interest was obvious after all, Ethan had killed Drakor Krenna, the Black Sun Syndicate leader and Federation traitor who had plunged Kynara into chaos. He'd led the coalition assault that shattered the Syndicate's hold over vast swaths of the planet, bringing a brutal end to a reign of terror that had stretched on for years. But he hadn't done it for glory, or out of some misguided sense of heroism.

He'd done it to survive.

Survival had been the priority from day one, when he'd crash-landed into this unforgiving planet, ripped away from his mundane life on Earth. At first, he'd just wanted to earn his living as a merc and make it through each day without getting killed. But then he met people, real people with hopes, fears, and hearts bigger than their battered bodies should have allowed. He'd made friends, a few close enough to feel like family. And when the Black Sun started ripping those friends away, when he watched helplessly as innocents were kidnapped and entire settlements burned, survival had taken a back seat to something sharper, more visceral.

It hadn't been about justice. It had been about ending the suffering.

He'd killed Drakor Krenna not because it was the righteous thing to do, but because it was the fastest way to stop the bleeding.

With a weary groan, Ethan pushed himself to his feet and made his way through the ship's narrow corridors, boots clanging against the grated floor. The metallic walls were scuffed, some panels still warped from the crash landing on Kynara. The lights flickered sporadically, a reminder that even now, the ship was a patchwork of barely functioning systems.

It was a reflection of him. Broken, battered, but still moving forward.

In the cramped crew quarters, Ethan stripped off his clothes and stepped into the sonic shower. The vibrating waves hummed around him, peeling away layers of sweat and grime in seconds. The sensation was oddly clinical, like he was being scrubbed clean of more than just dirt..like the shower was trying to wash away the guilt clinging to his skin.

Afterward, he examined himself in the mirror, the dim light casting harsh shadows across his face. Short black hair, tired eyes ringed with dark circles, a week's worth of unshaven stubble. His fingers brushed the scar near his temple, a jagged line from a piece of shrapnel that had nearly killed him a few months ago when he had just started. He didn't look like a hero. He looked like a man who had crawled through hell and somehow managed to stumble out the other side.

Just another survivor.

He chose his outfit carefully: plain black boots, tactical pants without the usual knee guards, and a simple gray shirt beneath a reinforced jacket. The clothes felt like armor, even without the added protection. He considered strapping on his sidearm, but it was pointless. Krenn's security would strip him of anything more dangerous than a toothpick the moment he stepped into the Grand Aeloria. Even so, leaving the ship without a weapon felt wrong. Naked.

But this wasn't a battlefield. At least, not the kind he was used to.

Ethan sat on the edge of his sleeping pod, rubbing his face as he tried to steady his breathing. The thin mattress creaked beneath him, the metal frame biting into his thighs. He glanced up at the ceiling, where a few exposed wires snaked through the bulkhead like veins.

"Iris," he called out, voice rough. "You've got the ship. Keep the engineers in line."

The AI's voice crackled through the overhead speaker, her synthetic tone laced with something that almost resembled affection.

"Of course, Captain," Iris replied. "I'll ensure the repairs stay on schedule. And... good luck tomorrow."

Ethan chuckled bitterly, the sound hollow.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself, leaning back on the bunk and staring at the ceiling. "I'm gonna need it."

He tried to sleep, but his mind refused to cooperate. Memories bled together... Earth, Kynara, the Syndicate war, the faces of the people he'd failed to save. He thought about the hotels he used to stay in during his business trips, cramped rooms with faulty air conditioning and mattresses that felt like concrete slabs. He'd hated those hotels, hated the endless cycle of work trips and meaningless meetings.

But now? Now, the thought of walking through the gilded halls of the Grand Aeloria, a monument to wealth and luxury, felt wrong and weird.

His life had changed so drastically it barely felt like his own anymore. A salaryman from Tokyo turned space mercenary, a man with blood on his hands and a ship that barely held together, stepping into the heart of luxury to meet a man who could decide the fate of an entire planet with a word.

He closed his eyes, letting exhaustion drag him under, but his fingers still traced the scar on his knuckles as he drifted off.

Tomorrow, he'd face whatever came next.

Whether he liked it or not.