Ko-don Chronicles | Decimation Protocol | Chapter 1
Exploring Book 2's opening of The Warmaster Series
RECORDED LOGS | BRIDGE OF THE DEMON
SYSTEM RESPONSE
“ACCESS GRANTED… Human anatomy files: downloaded. Weapon systems: unlocked.”
WARNING: Level 5 clearance override. Presence of unauthorized entity detected.
[SECURITY LOCKDOWN FAILED]
The Demon’s Fate, as mentioned in a previous post and numerous times before, was a one-off book, and I knew that if I came back to this story, I’d have to answer questions, so what better way than chapter 1?
But even as you answer questions, they must pose more, or what’s the point in answering the question? If there’s no, “And then?” then the story is over. So, it wasn’t about answering a question, but more of how it would be answered. Without getting too bogged down in the preamble, let’s get to it.
Just a note: this is the fifth and final draft before going to the editor—which is scheduled for May 2026. So, here’s a sneak peek for a process that’s still many months away.
Chapter 1: Decimation Protocol
Technician Rogelio Moore leaned back in his chair and yawned. He covered his mouth and fought the luring pull of sleep.
He hated this place, this job, sitting static, listening to the universe’s non-existent transmissions, breathing in the stale, metallic, recycled air that seemed as flat as left-open soda.
A flicker of motion outside the viewport made his head jerk in that direction for a brief instant before the alarm sounded.
The console flashed red and gave two long, loud chimes, resounding like klaxons in the night. And then, all went silent, the board returning to green.
He jerked in his seat, wincing from the sudden sound, and rubbed his ringing ears after it faded.
He frowned as he gazed out the viewport. The stars glittered against the backdrop of the endless abyss, and the ship hung suspended, like a derelict adrift.
There’s no expected returns.
Just to be sure, he scrolled through his screen. Any moment now, the crackle of the comm would broadcast the ship’s transponder code.
None came.
Fingers of unease settled in his gut—that burning sensation of worry—but overreacting would be the same as doing nothing. Still, the sudden arrival brought him fully awake, alertness chasing away the sleep.
His breath turned hot and heavy as he waited.
Come on, come on. Don’t do this to me.
He ran fingers through his dark, curly hair. Despite the protocols, at this hour, he wanted to avoid rousing his superiors.
Rules could be bent a touch.
Damn it.
He clicked the comm.
“Unidentified ship, transmit transponder code.”
His eyes darted back to the screen, waiting for the uplink, but it remained unchanged. His eyes went back out the viewport, and he spied a few lights along its hull. Too few.
“Unidentified ship, transmit transponder code now.”
Still nothing.
The fingers of unease curled tighter in his boiling stomach. This wasn’t good, but not all hope was lost. Several reasons could explain the lack of transmission.
He peered at the gunmetal gray workstation. The computer identified the craft as a friendly, and the alarm cut off, but all ships were supposed to transmit upon returning to the fleet. Why hadn’t it done so?
Their comms are broken. Yeah, that’s it. Stranger things have happened.
With deft fingers, he navigated to the correct command, and the console pinged the vessel. The diagnostic returned perfectly functional.
Are they asleep?
If so, someone would receive a pulsar-sized ass-chewing. He’d hate to be on the receiving end, but he’d love to listen in.
With deftness, he directed the sensors for a cursory sweep of the ship and life signs.
[Negative …]
“Oh, shit!”
He sat upright, panic flooding him. He ran the scan again, a deeper one.
[Negative. No life signs aboard. All systems functional.]
“Oh, God.”
Fear swept over him in a wave. There weren’t many opportunities to shine, and he’d just mucked up his. He’d be blamed.
But this scenario wasn’t unheard of, but most never expected it to become reality … again. They’d practiced for this situation, an event buried so deep in their duty books, it might as well be a blank page.
There hasn’t been a need in forever, not since—
He glanced over at the red binder. His hands flew to it, snatching it up, thumbing through. He slapped it down on the cold table when he found the page.
Decimation Protocol a.k.a. Ghost Ship.