2. The Nth Conversation

After a quick break in the bathroom, I splashed my face with some water. I needed something to refresh my mind.

Steeling my gaze, I furrowed my brow lightly, trying to copy my grandfather’s resting expression. I looked stupid, and a small laugh escaped my lips.

With a quick nod to myself, I turned and headed for the garden. Slipping out the side exit of the house to avoid walking past the dining room, I headed out.

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.

“Do you know why I brought you out here, Marcus?”

“No, sir.”

“Your father tested B-grade—a great honour for most families,” Grandfather began. “But for us, for Tiernans…” He hesitated. “When he received that grade, it did not just disappoint him— he built this identity around the certainty that he would be an A-grade. When fate denied him that, I saw the hope drain out of him.”

“He’s still a good soldier-” I tried.

“He is. All grades serve honourably. But… the Tiernans needed more than just another B-grade.”

I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t find the words.

“Your great aunt Lydia understood something that took me many years to understand.” He explained. “Decades, even. I punished your father for a ceiling that a machine drew from blood alone. Took me too long to realise ceilings can be lies.”

The words confused me; the grades were absolute. There was no breaking through the barriers they imposed.

“I regret treating your father the way I did after his testing. I fear I won’t be able to ever make amends in this lifetime.”

The expression on my face must have betrayed my emotions as he spoke.

“Do you know how the machine measures potential, Marcus?”

“It measures our genetic potential for Ether cultivation,” I recited, my answer automatic. “Grade determines how much experience you gain. The higher your grade, the higher the experience.”

“A textbook answer, but you’re missing something else.” A pause. “The machine is older than the Federation, Marcus.” The fish broke the surface, mouths gaping. “A gift from the Enlightened, the day we first stepped out of the void.”

I swallowed. “We… We were taught that too.”

“That’s the bedtime version. Lydia never believed that version.”

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

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.” His tone shifted as he took a step forward.

“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.

“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. Before I could ask a single one, he turned on his heel and walked towards the house. Before he reached the door, he paused.

“And Marcus?”

I looked up to meet his gaze.

“No matter what happens tomorrow, you’re still a Tiernan.”

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.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

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.”

I left without another word.

My room felt smaller than usual, the walls covered in old achievement certificates, holo-posters of famous mech pilots, and a photo from my Prep-academy graduation. Wei, Alexei, Diana, and I were at the centre of the photo, the Prep-academy in the background.

Wei stood tall even then, dark hair pulled back into a perfect bun, wearing that practised smile she wore for cameras. Alexei had his arm slung around my shoulders, shorter and stockier, with that mischievous grin that meant he’d just pulled a prank. Diana at the edge, small and pale, looking slightly away from the camera like she’d rather be anywhere else. And me in the centre, trying to look confident, Father’s sharp features and Mother’s dark eyes and hair staring back.

We looked so young. We looked so… Oblivious.

Tearing my eyes from the photo, I shoved the datapad under my pillow and plucked my commlink from my bedside table, turning it on. I could still hear Father and Uncle Michael arguing downstairs; somehow, Mother’s voice was the loudest.

After a moment, I flicked open my commlink, and several buzzes echoed throughout my room. I clicked the first notification, which took me to a group chat, and my screen lit up with a barrage of notifications.