Epilogue: The Silent Frontier
19 Dec 2024Jordan Walke
Jordan Walke’s Log – December 18, 3309Location: High orbit above Earth, Python Mk2 "Darth Malak"
The stars seem quieter tonight. Or maybe it's just me. Cocijo, the last Thargoid Titan, fell yesterday. The war that consumed our skies, our worlds, and so many of our lives is over. For the first time in years, there’s no sense of looming dread in the black, no shadow on my radar that makes my pulse race. And yet, here I am, sitting in the cockpit of my Python, unable to move, unable to leave.
I’ve replayed it all in my head so many times: the final strike, the explosions tearing through Cocijo’s twisted form, the roar of victory comms flooding every channel. Commander Jota Alpha was on my wing, his steady voice a lifeline as we dodged swarms of Thargoids defending their dying behemoth. He was there with me to the end, through the chaos and the fire. We both watched as the Titan collapsed in a blaze of green and orange, its fragments spiraling into the atmosphere like shooting stars.
Earth was below us, serene and oblivious to the carnage above. It struck me then, as it does now, how small our battles are in the grand scheme of things. Cocijo was massive, a living monument to an alien empire, but even it was dwarfed by the endless void. Its death, while monumental to us, barely registers in the silence of space.
Now, with the war won, the galaxy feels empty. The comm channels are quiet. No more distress calls, no more warnings of Maelstroms or Titan strikes. Just static and the occasional chatter of traders returning to routes long abandoned. The fight is over, but the scars remain.
I glance at the console—there are no alerts, no pings, just the faint hum of the Python’s systems. Darth Malak has carried me through countless battles, its hull battered but unbroken. It feels almost alive to me now, a companion in this solitude. Outside, Earth spins slowly, its blue surface unscarred by the destruction we prevented. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. It doesn’t feel real.
I think about the friends I’ve lost, the ones who didn’t make it through the war. Their faces flash in my mind, one by one—some I flew with, others I only heard on comms during desperate last stands. They gave everything so that today, humanity could look up at the stars without fear. I wonder if they’d feel the same strange emptiness I do now.
I punch the throttle forward slightly, nudging the Python toward Earth’s shadow. The cockpit dims as the sunlight fades, the planet’s silhouette rising like a quiet sentinel. It feels fitting to watch from here, above it all, removed but connected.
I don’t know what comes next. Peace is a foreign concept to me, to all of us who’ve lived through these years of war. What do we do when there’s nothing left to fight? Maybe I’ll take a job hauling cargo, something mundane to remind me what normalcy feels like. Or maybe I’ll explore the deep black, searching for something—answers, closure, or just a reason to keep flying.
A faint beep interrupts my thoughts. It’s a message from Jota Alpha. Short and simple, as always: “Drink’s on me. See you at Jameson’s.” I can’t help but smile. He’s right—there’s still life to live, people to share it with.
For now, though, I’ll stay here a little longer, alone in the dark. The stars may be quiet, but they’re still watching, still waiting. The galaxy survived another war, and so did I.
And for the first time in a long while, I think we might have a future worth fighting for.