The jump went wrong. What should have been a routine fold through the Cygnus relay didn't send me to the next waypoint — it threw me clear across the universe. When the instruments stabilized, the navcom placed me in the Andromeda galaxy, 2.5 million light-years from home.

I'm stranded in an uncharted solar system the computer has catalogued as PA-99-N2 𐘳𐘇·𐘰𐘇·𐘰𐘶, orbiting a volatile star the navcom has tagged Mirach-9 — six worlds circle it. Ember 𐘁𐘻𐘿𐘇 bakes in close orbit. Solace 𐘞𐘃𐘖𐘇 and Verge 𐘿𐘁𐘴𐘒 trace strange, retrograde paths. Avalon 𐘇𐘿𐘇𐘖𐘃 and Sable 𐘞𐘇𐘿𐘖𐘁 drift through the middle reaches. Obsidian 𐘃𐘿𐘠𐘵𐘇 hangs at the frozen edge. An asteroid belt splits the inner system from the outer.

The relay is gone. There is no way back.

And I am not alone. The system is infested with ships — alien, fast, hostile. The locals call themselves the Retin 𐘴𐘁𐘵𐘰. Small scouts swarmed within minutes of my arrival. Heavier warships followed, flanking from angles no human pilot would choose. And somewhere in the black between the planets, blade-thin stalkers slip in and out of sensor range.

What I know about the Retin is almost nothing. They are territorial. They do not communicate. They organize into three castes. The Thral 𐘳𐘴 — slow, armored, plentiful, the bulk of every fleet. The Skira 𐘠𐘑𐘴 — rare blade-thin killers that slip in and out of sensor range. And the Vyral 𐙀𐘴 — fleet commanders, always flanked by Thral escorts. Their ships are organic, chitinous, and they move as if the void itself bends around them.

My weapons are hot. My engines are good. And PA-99-N2 is the only system I've got. If the 𐘴𐘁𐘵𐘰 want it, they'll have to take it from me.

— CMDR. KAEL VOSS, LAST TRANSMISSION FROM THE ANDROMEDA GALAXY