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PROLOGUE

2598 – SOMEWHERE IN THE OUTER COLONIES

The truck rocked on its suspension as it navigated a dirt track, even its oversized honeycomb tires unable to make the ride any smoother in a backwater like this one. The cargo container strapped to its bed jostled along with it, making for a bumpy ride, the ten men inside glancing around in the windowless darkness. They were clad in body armor so black that it blended into the shadows, their segmented, ceramic plates buried beneath chest carriers laden with equipment and spare magazines. They were armed to the teeth, strapped into crude chairs that had been hastily welded to the inside of the container, each one of them cradling a caseless rifle.

No two were outfitted in the same way, each operative bringing something unique to the mission. One had a large, armored collar that rose to protect his neck, while another had a smaller PDW weapon with a large suppressor adorning its barrel. The man sitting beside him had a bandoleer filled with stun grenades strapped across his chest. They were afforded a lot of autonomy. The common threads were their UNN Marine helmets, their features obscured behind full-faced visors made from opaque glass, small cameras and sensors reflecting in the dim light.

Another was their lack of limbs. Their organization recruited only amputees – usually soldiers maimed in battle. In place of flesh was tough polymer and stainless steel, some encased in armor plates or sleek carbon fiber, colored to match their dark camouflage. The prosthetics were state-of-the-art, interfacing directly with the wearer’s nerves to translate signals and sensations, allowing for dexterous and natural movements. They were incredibly strong, too – limited only by the supportive strength of the bones they were anchored to. Some of the men were wearing long pants and boots that obscured their mechanical legs, while others had simple skids for feet at the ends of their pole-like shins, their limbs engineered for maximum strength and minimal mass.

Amputation for the purpose of augmentation was illegal within the UN’s sphere of influence, but it was unlikely that everyone present had lost their extremities without the help of an unscrupulous surgeon or two. Anything to be stronger, faster, and more resilient. Anything to get an edge on the competition.

“Stop broadcasting that shit over ad-hoc, Barbosa,” one of the men complained.

“What, you don’t like synth thrash?” he scoffed as he reached up to his helmet. He brushed a rubber fingertip against a touch panel beside his visor, tuning out the pulsing electronic music, shining rods of metal shifting beneath his skeletal hand like tendons.

“Sounds like someone chewing broken glass in my ear,” another of the men added, eliciting muted laughter from the rest.

“Enough pissing about,” the commander added, the rest sitting up a little straighter. “The driver says we’ll be arriving in a few minutes. You’ve trained for this – you all know the plan. Lord knows I drilled it into your heads enough. Remember – we do this quick and quiet. Success is predicated on these separatist dickheads being dead before they can warn their buddies. Take out the guards inside the compound, move down to the basement, and secure the weapons cache. Let’s get this done.”

“Someone has to remind these Nations that the United part isn’t optional,” one of the operatives joked.

“Blowing up maglev stations isn’t a very constructive way of expressing criticism,” another added.

“The Ninnies have been trailing these guys for months, so don’t fuck this up,” the commander continued. “We won’t get a second shot at a target this juicy. All of these fuckers are in one place for one night and one night only.”

Barbosa felt the truck turn, his mind flashing back to the grainy satellite map of the compound that he’d memorized during their briefings. The forest track turned onto a short road that led to a security gate, where the cargo would be inspected. This was the first step of the plan that could go South. An overly curious guard might demand to see the contents of the container, and if that happened, the team would be faced with a sprint across open ground – likely into machinegun fire from the inner walls. These separatists had been receiving shipments of weapons from sympathetic factions and Corps in the outer Sphere, and they’d fortified their compound to the nines, hardening it against attacks from the local security forces.

The container went quiet as everyone checked their gear, loading weapons and affixing suppressors, tuning sensors, and running diagnostics on their equipment. Barbosa watched as one of his comrades unholstered a handgun and racked the slide, another tightening a strap that secured a combat knife to his thigh.

Barbosa raised a hand in front of his visor, listening to his own breathing – trying to keep it slow and steady. He flexed his fingers, watching the little pistons and gears move beneath their housings with an electric whir of motors, the individual plates of angled polymer that made up his palm shifting. There was that phantom itch again, and he rubbed the textured pads on his thumb and forefinger together, scratching it. The techs couldn’t iron it out – it didn’t seem to be software or hardware-related. It was something about his brain, like an organic glitch.

He touched a digit to his helmet as he felt the truck lurch to a stop at the gate, his HUD flaring to life and painting itself across his visor. The system interfaced wirelessly with his weapon to show his ammo count and fire mode, his vitals displayed in the top left corner, a compass turning along with his head. Each of his companions was outlined in friendly blue, their names hovering above their heads.

Everyone waited with bated breath as the muffled sound of voices emanated from the cab, Barbosa’s mechanical hand tightening around his weapon, his heart rate spiking. The commander slowly lifted a prosthetic finger to his visor, gesturing for them to be silent.

A moment later, the truck set off again, jostling its passengers.

“We’re through,” Stevens said, his relief palpable.

“Wait until the truck comes to a stop before you get out of your seats,” the commander added. “Once those doors are open, we go weapons-free. No prisoners.”

The sound of the truck’s engine changed, its quality more like an echo, suggesting that they were inside the warehouse. More voices from outside – the truck lurching to a stop. They rose from their seats in silence, only the gentle shuffling of rigs and the subtle whirring of machinery betraying them, those nearest the doors training their weapons on the sliver of light that bled between them.

Then came the sound of wrenching metal, and the sliver began to widen, the twin doors at the back of the container swinging open. Barbosa caught a brief glimpse of two men wearing civilian clothing. They were chatting as they opened the doors, their eyes turning inward and widening too late, their brains scarcely having time to process what was happening before two muffled shots put them on the floor.

The team piled out, Barbosa hearing more muted gunshots as they fanned out into the room beyond. He was one of the last out, emerging into a warehouse filled with identical containers, a few of them partially unloaded to leave pallets of boxes strewn about. Three more separatists lay dead on the cold carbcrete floor, dark blood pooling around their limp bodies as the operatives marched past them.

He shouldered his rifle, his eyes scanning the scenery just as his sensors did, searching for threats.

“Clear,” someone whispered over the ad-hoc network.

“Move in,” the commander added, waving his hand at a service door that led deeper into the building. They stacked up – five to either side of the door – just as they had trained. UNNI had built a mockup of the compound from plywood, and Barbosa knew its layout like the back of his own hand. He could probably have navigated its maze of rooms blindfolded.

“Gas, gas,” someone warned, tearing a grenade from his bandoleer and tossing it through the gap as his counterpart cracked the door open. Noxious fumes filled the corridor beyond with a billowing, white haze, the rebreathers and FLIR on their helmets negating its effects as they moved in.

Barbosa spied a figure through his sensors, the stranger bent over and retching, then someone dropped him with a short burst. Moving with practiced speed, the team spread out into the adjoining rooms, more and more of his teammates vanishing from view. They remained illuminated through the walls, the shared network tracking their positions. There were more gunshots – the sound of suppressed subsonic ammo joined by the loud report of weapons that was deadened by his helmet’s hearing protection.

Barbosa moved beside Stevens, the two pairing off as they breached another room, a flashbang grenade rolling along the floor ahead of them. It went off with a muted pop, and as they advanced, Barbosa saw the briefing room. This was where the separatists planned their attacks, the walls covered with printed maps of the colony and its infrastructure, a few of them fluttering to the floor after the blast. The solitary naked bulb that lit the room was swinging from the ceiling, flickering on and off, dust from the grenade and CS gas from the corridor filling the air.

There was movement in the shadows – a figure lunging towards them from the corner of the room, a pistol clutched in his hands. His eyes were streaming with tears, and it seemed that he could barely see what he was doing, letting off a few rounds at random. Barbosa heard one whizz past his head, but he was already moving.

He closed the distance between him and his attacker in a single stride, reaching for the pistol and crushing it in his prosthetic hand like a discarded soda can – along with his screaming assailant’s fingers. Letting his rifle fall to hang from its sling, he brought his other hand to the man’s throat, a long blade unsheathing from a housing beneath his wrist. Its edge glinting in the flickering light, he pushed it into the separatist’s throat, the man’s cry petering out into a wet gurgle as he sank to the floor.

“Clear,” Stevens declared, moving along without breaking stride. Wiping his blade on his pants before stowing it, Barbosa followed, raising his rifle again. They proceeded into the next room, the sound of gunfire and shouting melting away into the periphery, the operative focusing on his own breathing instead.

As they rounded a corner, another hail of bullets greeted them, Barbosa yanking Stevens into cover by his rig as one of the rounds sparked off his helmet. The rest of the salvo hit the wall to their right, throwing out little puffs of dust. He stepped in as Stevens righted himself, toggling an attachment on his barrel, a blinding strobe light bathing the hallway beyond. His visor darkening to protect his eyes, he fired two bursts, cutting through a wooden table that had been upended to serve as a barrier at the end of the passage. The two men taking cover behind it dropped, splinters and fragments of drywall filling the air as the rounds tore through them.

With Stevens’ hand on his shoulder, Barbosa advanced. He stepped over the perforated table and dumped two more rounds into a squirming survivor, painting the sterile floor with fragments of brain matter, his boots kicking aside spent shell casings that were still smoking. He stacked up at the door behind them with Stevens, another stun grenade prepping the room beyond.

They breached, both men firing on a trio of separatists who were stumbling around cradling their heads, the grenade leaving them deafened and disorientated. The bodies slumped over desks, sending tablet computers and cups of still-steaming coffee sliding to the floor, the dark liquid joining the splatters of crimson.

“Top floor is clear,” the commander’s voice announced. “Teams Alpha, Beta, and Gamma – head outside and take care of the guards in the compound. Delta and Epsilon – head to the basement. Watch for crossfire.”

Barbosa and Stevens shared a nod, then moved to another door. This one led down a set of steps, taking them below ground to where the weapons and explosives were stored. It was also where the big shots were supposed to take cover in situations like these. They burst through and headed down the steps, their footsteps echoing. Barbosa’s cameras switched to night vision mode, illuminating the dark basement in shades of eerie green. They must have shut off the lights – as if that would slow down a SWAR kill team.

The room slowly faded into view, revealing another densely packed storage area, the walls stacked high with pallets of crates and racks of munitions. There was enough gear to outfit a small army here, and that was just what was on display. There were stone pillars holding up the floor above them, joined by long tables strewn with loading and cleaning stations.

The darkness was illuminated by a muzzle flash, Barbosa feeling something hit his chest plate like a fist. He reeled under the blow, but not so much that he couldn’t return fire, wheeling around to take out a separatist who was leaning out from behind one of the pillars. Stevens joined him, their hail of bullets chewing chunks out of the rock, tossing the shooter onto one of the tables and collapsing it beneath him. As they moved closer, keeping their rifles trained on him, Barbosa saw that he was wearing NODs.

There was more gunfire – more flashes briefly illuminating the basement as the second team engaged from the right side of the room. The pair pushed deeper, cutting down two more separatists, the blue outlines of their comrades announcing their presence. The two groups met up, sweeping a pile of crates before lowering their weapons.

“Clear,” one of them announced.

The commander knelt beside one of the bodies, examining a portly man with a bushy beard who was still clutching a small machine pistol in his lifeless hand, his fancy suit now soaked with blood from a tight grouping of wounds in his chest.

“This is one of our guys,” he mused, gripping the dead man’s face with a skeletal hand and turning it to the side. “Looks like we bagged Ozola – he was responsible for building their bombs.” He switched to the squad channel with a tap of his helmet, speaking to the rest of the team. “Secure the perimeter and await further instructions. We need to start sifting through this shit and figure out who we killed and what they’re hiding down here.”

Only a few minutes had passed since they had left the container, Barbosa finally allowing himself a moment to relax. He watched his vitals spike on his HUD, controlling his breathing and willing them to stabilize, rubbing his thumb and finger together to satiate that itch.

“Barbosa, Stevens,” the commander began as he rose to his feet. “You’re on corpse duty. We’re still missing two of the higher-ups who were supposed to be here tonight. They’re probably upstairs somewhere getting acquainted with the floor. The rest of us will secure the-”

He paused abruptly, lifting a hand to his helmet again.

“Who the hell is…what are you doing!? You’re breaking radio silence, you idiot! If there are any separatists listening for chatter…what do you mean? On whose bloody authority?”

Stevens and Barbosa exchanged glances from behind their visors, wondering what was being said. After a few moments more, the commander seemed to acknowledge, switching back to the local channel again.

“We’re pulling out,” he announced. “Get your shit and head back to the truck.”

“What do you mean pulling out, Sir?” Stevens demanded. “Hell, we just got here!”

“Yeah, we’re not close to being finished,” Barbosa protested. “What could be more important than this operation?”

“Those are our orders, and they came directly from the top,” the commander insisted. “It’s a Skyfall scenario – they’re calling everyone home.”

“The fuck is a Skyfall scenario?” Stevens scoffed.

“What, the Navy doesn’t pay you enough to learn your fucking codes?” the commander chided. “Think, dipshit, or I’ll have you spending the next few jumps reciting the code book for the class.”

“Skyfall…that’s…first contact,” Barbosa replied, his tone becoming subdued.

“First contact gone tits-up,” the commander corrected. “We’re officially at war, people. With who – or what – they haven’t deigned to tell me. All I know is that every SWAR team is being recalled simultaneously. That’s never happened before.”

“Aliens?” Stevens laughed, glancing between the two in disbelief. “You’re fucking with me, right? There are no aliens. We’ve colonized two dozen planets, and we’ve never seen anything more complex than a polecat. If there were any aliens, we would have seen them by now, right?”

“Oh, is this like a retirement joke or something?” the other operative chuckled. “You’re cashing in after this deployment, aren’t ya, Boss? They’re fucking with you.”

“In the middle of an op?” Barbosa asked skeptically.

“This is no joke,” the commander replied sternly. “Our orders are to return to the Courser immediately and make for the nearest Naval base. They’re handing cleanup over to the local PDF.”

“Fuck,” Stevens hissed. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

2621 – KRUGER III

“Here comes another fucking wave,” Brenner growled, bracing the barrel of his XMR on the lip of the trench. He looked out over the blasted no man’s land, the lenses and cameras that filled his hollowed-out eye sockets telescoping as they focused. “For such an adaptable species, you’d think they’d learn this lesson eventually.”

“How many is that?” Barbosa asked. He was sitting in the trench beside Brenner in the wet mud, the fat raindrops that fell from the gray sky spattering his visor.

“Four pushes in the last six hours,” Stevens replied, checking the magazine on his weapon. “They send another wave roughly every ninety minutes. Maybe that means something to them – I dunno.”

“I think they’re just keeping the pressure up,” Barbosa replied. “They want to make sure we can’t rest. Maybe they think we’ll get sloppy and make mistakes.”

“That’s what the caffeine pills are for,” Stevens chuckled as he hauled himself to his feet, the mags that filled his chest carrier clattering. “Someone tell me why the hell we’re trying to hold this shithole mudball in the first place? I say let the roaches have it.”

“Because that’s what the Admiralty told us to do,” Brenner replied gruffly.

Barbosa rose to stand shoulder to shoulder with his companions, peering out over the fields of mud ahead of him, the pervasive mist limiting his visibility to only a few hundred feet. Kruger was a blasted hellscape, the planet’s surface covered in mud that was constantly being churned by the perpetual rain, the only plant life taking the form of scraggly trees that barely clung to life. This was not a product of orbital bombardment or artillery fire – it was merely the world’s natural state. It had a breathable atmosphere and gravity close enough to Earth-norm, making it a suitable candidate for a colony, but he didn’t envy whoever would end up settling here.

A SWAR team of two dozen men was spread out through a small trench and bunker system that wound its way through the muck, a solitary Kodiak tank looming over them, its thick barrel shroud and round muzzle device jutting above their heads. The mud was so deep that their armored vehicles were rendered practically immobile, the ten-meter, seventy-ton MBT now serving as little more than a stationary gun emplacement. Barbosa was still glad to have it. That main gun could fire canister shells that cut swathes through the enemy lines, coupled with a mortar and machinegun blister mounted atop the turret.

He could see his comrades to his left and right. There was Brenner and his team, consisting of Calloway, Petrova, Song, Hoff, and Williams. Barbosa had risen to the position of commander of his own team in the years since the beginning of the war. He headed a group of five operatives, including Stevens, many of whom had stuck together since the old days before the Bugs had arrived on the Galactic scene. There was Murphy and Dixon – two feisty Australians, an American named Barnes, and a giant of a man from the African Union named Ayanda. These days, a lot of the operatives were adopting callsigns, usually related to the decals that they painted on their visors. SWAR had only become more insular as time passed, its own little culture slowly growing as the fraternity expanded.

Barbosa had adopted a stylized jaguar skull as his symbol – a reminder of his Brazilian heritage, its long fangs running down his dark visor. Murphy’s skull design was that of a ghostly human, more intended to intimidate, though it was unknown whether their foes could even experience fear. Ever the comedian, Barnes had chosen a can of bug spray to adorn his visor. It was strange to think that some of the newer members recruited after the beginning of the war had never fired on a fellow human before. The petty territorial and political disagreements of the expansion period had quickly become afterthoughts following first contact and the deadly attack. Their primary purpose now was killing aliens, and they had become remarkably adept at it.

Barbosa aimed his weapon into the mist, the rows of magnetic coils that lined its barrel glinting beneath the vents in its heat shroud. The XMR was a relatively new addition to the UNN’s arsenal, leveraging dense batteries and miniaturized electronics to condense an electromagnetic railgun down into a man-portable weapon system. It could fire a four-hundred-grain slug fast enough to punch through two inches of rolled steel at its highest power setting. The high recoil and heavy ammo were easily mitigated by his advanced prosthetics, and a SWAR operative could tune the weapon to hit like a hammer. It was completely modular – able to be tailored to each user’s needs.

His own weapon had served him well. Its shortened barrel was equipped with an angled grip, a laser and flashlight combo hanging beneath it, its muzzle tipped with a round device designed to stop the slugs from ionizing the air and creating arc flashes. He had a quad magnification scope that was linked wirelessly to his helmet, along with an angled holo sight for closer engagements. A lot of people favored the bullpup configuration due to the extra barrel length it provided, but Barbosa had twenty years of muscle memory, and he preferred his mags in front of the trigger assembly.

The XMR was certainly an upgrade over their old caseless weapons, but some still favored those over the newer EM railguns, Stevens being among them. He was still using a caseless marksman rifle with a suppressor, reaching up with a prosthetic hand to tune its scope. It did the job, and it was a hell of a lot quieter when stealth was required.

Further along the trench line, more SWAR teams were preparing for the next onslaught, the barrels of their weapons pointing across the barren mud flats. A few of them had those decals on their helmets – some sporting stylized skulls or symbols that related to team in-jokes. It was rare to see so many teams in one place. Even after ballooning their ranks to nearly two thousand members over the years, the sheer scale of colonized space and the number of missions meant that they were spread thin, no more than a handful ever taking the same assignment. In a planetary-scale campaign like this one, there might be a few hundred operatives running around, engaging in force recon and the elimination of high-level targets.

“Contact!” someone announced over the local network.

“Hold your fire,” Barbosa ordered. “Wait for more of them to line up. They always do…”

Someone’s sensors picked up the contact, outlining it in red and feeding that data to the rest of the team, the alien appearing on Barbosa’s HUD. He zoomed in on it, watching it through the feed that was linked to his scope, its features coming into clearer focus as it emerged from the billowing mist.

Even now, after killing thousands of the things, he still felt a twinge of disgust whenever he saw one. Betelgeusians were insects – or maybe crustaceans – their bipedal gait and six limbs giving them the appearance of a bug standing upright on two digitigrade legs. Their five-foot frames were thin and gaunt, their limbs long and spindly, the jerking and unnatural way that they moved inspiring a kind of instinctual revulsion. They were encased within a segmented carapace that came in a variety of bright, iridescent colors that might have been beautiful under different circumstances, shifting hue as they caught the light. Their compound eyes were reminiscent of giant flies, but anyone who had killed enough of them knew that those were helmets, and that the aliens had a pair of more mammalian eyes concealed beneath. Where their mouths should have been were sets of wicked mandibles, and beetle-like horns sprouted from their foreheads – no two exactly alike.

This Drone was wielding a long rifle made from some kind of uneven, orange resin, the twin rails that made up its barrel forged from conductive metal. The sickly green glow of its ammunition reflected off the thing’s molded chest piece, the container of superheated gas that was housed in the receiver churning, ready to be released as a bolt of searing plasma. It had a scope, the organic compound eye housed within glittering. Betelgeusian tech was biomechanical in nature, made from an amalgam of machinery and living flesh.

Twenty years ago, they had destroyed a long-range colony ship in the Betelgeuse system, killing forty thousand people in a senseless act of violence. The Skyfall order was still seared into Barbosa’s memory – how every active team had been recalled for a briefing about this new existential threat. All of human civilization had united, new fleets had been constructed, and the War Powers Act had given the Admiralty carte blanche to strike back with whatever means they deemed necessary. What ensued was two decades of defensive war, with alien fleets invading colonies seemingly at random, killing and displacing with a genocidal indifference. There had never been a word of communication – no demands, and nothing was known about the species’ motives, save that they harbored a pathological loathing for anything that wasn’t them.

Humanity wasn’t the only species threatened. The Brokers, the Krell, and now the Borealans had joined forces in a Coalition in search of mutual protection. From Barbosa’s perspective on the ground, it was the UNN that was doing the bulk of the protecting…

The Drone began to stalk between the spindly trees with its weapon raised, its three-toed feet splashing in the wet mud. Barbosa noted that it had two forward grips beneath the barrel suited to its four arms. More of the aliens emerged behind it, their silhouettes coming into view through the mist, their colorful shells picking them out. There were greens, reds, blues, yellows – a rainbow of hateful arthropods advancing towards the trenches. Those at the front of the formation ignited shields, dumping plasma into shaped magnetic fields, interlocking them to form a phalanx as they moved in perfect lockstep.

“Weapons free!” Barbosa declared as the creatures accelerated, the defensive line opening up on them.

The crack of railguns would have been deafening without his helmet, but they were reduced to a dull thud by its software, Barbosa joining them. He pulled the trigger, feeling the weapon’s padded stock rock back into his shoulder, the tight grip of his prosthetic hands keeping it from jumping out of his grasp. The slugs carried away some of the excess heat as they left the barrel, partially melting the tungsten alloy and leaving trails of molten metal lingering in the air, the glow from the coils bleeding through the heat shrouds.

The hail of gunfire poured into the phalanx, the shields of hot plasma doing a remarkable job of softening the slugs before they made contact, their wielders seeming indifferent to the flecks of liquid metal that spattered their carapaces. Plenty of them made it through, some of the shields collapsing under the strain, the hypervelocity projectiles tearing through the insect ranks. Their shells shattered like glass, the kinetic energy that was imparted dismembering the aliens, tearing off limbs and bisecting their bodies before tossing them to the ground.

The Bugs remained undeterred, stepping over their dead without a thought, the ideas of medevac or triage completely foreign to them. Even those that were missing limbs continued on, lurching forward with bleeding stumps where arms used to be, or dragging their legless bodies through the mud. They behaved more like machines than animals, impervious to pain and driven by some higher purpose that compelled them to fight. They were like ants or bees – their existence as individuals insignificant compared to that of the hive.

The stationary Kodiak opened up behind them, the twenty-mill autocannon mounted on its blister sweeping across the advancing formation. Those rounds could take out the engine block of a truck, and they had the expected effect on the Bugs, turning swathes of them to bloody mist. It was joined by a salvo of mortar rounds, the high-ex shells tossing their broken bodies high into the air along with showers of wet earth, but it was difficult to suppress an enemy that felt no fear.

More kept coming, each one that was felled replaced with three more, the colorful horde gaining ground even as they climbed over the bodies of their fallen comrades.

“They’re really going all-out this time!” Murphy laughed, his jovial voice filling Barbosa’s helmet. “I used to leave a mark on my arm for every roach that I killed, but I ran out of space years ago!”

He was forced to duck into the trench as a group of Drones fired from the cover of a phalanx, green bolts of plasma soaring over his skull-emblazoned helmet, sizzling as they turned the raindrops to steam with their passing.

“Cunts really have it out for me today!” he cackled, pausing to slam a fresh mag into his XMR. “Maybe it’s the caffeine pills talking, but I am wired, mate!”

An explosion tossed up clods of damp soil as something impacted behind their line, Barbosa ducking reflexively as he was showered with debris.

“Mortars incoming!” Stevens warned.

The autocannon on the tank swiveled, lifting its glowing barrel into the air and spewing a stream of rounds into the haze. Barbosa watched the tracers cut through the sky, intercepting something that was out of view, creating puffs of flame that punched holes in the billowing clouds.

“Nice to have some point defense,” Ayanda grumbled, giving the horde another burst from his machinegun. Cursing, he stopped firing, reaching for the glowing coils. He grabbed the quick-release handle and tossed the partially slagged barrel to the mud, where it spewed a torrent of steam upon contact with the water, the agent replacing it with a fresh one from the trench beside him.

There was a louder thud that shook the ground and sent ripples through the puddles, Barbosa feeling the blast reverberate through his bones, the main gun of the Kodiak firing a scant few feet above their heads. It launched a canister shell that detonated on a timed fuse just above the ground, forming a ring of smoke, a shower of tungsten balls like deadly birdshot punching through the enemy lines. Several dozen Drones were torn apart and tossed backward, a few of the operatives raising their fists in triumph and cheering over the ad-hoc.

The insects couldn’t prevail against such withering opposition, their advance faltering, more XMR fire and tank shells taking chunks out of their formation. Only now did they begin to retreat – more of an order from an unseen commander than a result of fear or self-preservation, the aliens backing away into the fog.

“Yeah, and don’t come back this time!” Dixon yelled through his tinny helmet speakers.

“How many casualties can these fuckers take?” Stevens demanded as he dropped into the trench to check the suppressor on his rifle. Just like the coils on the XMRs, there were glowing patches shining through where the heat of sustained fire had begun to burn it.

“They will have a Queen hidden in their tunnels somewhere,” Ayanda replied with his thick African accent, slotting a fresh belt of slugs into his receiver. “They will have landed here with millions of troops, and she can pop out a hundred eggs per day. That is why we are always outnumbered – a jump carrier can only deploy ten thousand Marines. Assault carriers? Three thousand. Even the largest UNN fleet will be lucky to field half a million men.”

“One of us is worth ten thousand of them,” Dixon snarled, clenching a mechanical fist.

“What the hell is that?” Stevens demanded, pointing out into the mist.

Barbosa followed his gaze, seeing another shadow moving in the fog. It looked like another squad of Bugs at first – maybe reinforcements – but it slowly grew larger. Something came lumbering into view, its body dwarfing that of the Drones, its twelve-foot height and massive frame making even a Krell seem small in comparison.

Its body plan was similar to that of the Drones, with a bipedal posture and six limbs, but its upper arms were as thick as a man’s torso. Each one was equipped with a truly massive, lobster-like claw that seemed heavy and sharp enough to cleave through the hull of a tank. The space between one of those claws had been filled with cables and machinery, the telltale glow of plasma emanating from rows of canisters mounted along its forearm, a giant gun barrel leaving little question as to what they were powering.

The spiny carapace that encased its body was heavily armored, colored with that familiar iridescence, augmented in places by supplemental plating that almost seemed welded onto it. There were mechanical components nestled between the layered segments of its carapace, trailing cables and shining metal woven into its living flesh, its limbs strengthened by what looked like pistons. In place of eyes, it had slatted visors more akin to the headlights of a truck, that same green glow bleeding between them, the vicious mandibles below flexing and scything. It began to trudge in their direction, picking up speed alarmingly quickly, its clawed feet tearing up the wet earth.

“Gunner – target whatever the fuck that is!” Barbosa yelled as he turned his weapon on it. The tank’s turret began to slowly turn, the men in the trench opening up on the thing, streams of molten tungsten streaking towards it.

The hulking golem didn’t even flinch as the hail of slugs perforated its body, most penetrating deep with splashes of green ichor, but seemingly failing to hit anything vital. Either the thing was far denser than it looked, or it must be packed with redundant systems and organs to spare. Was it some new combat form or some kind of Betelgeusian vehicle? Barbosa couldn’t begin to guess.

“It’s not dropping!” Stevens shouted, a tinge of fear creeping into his voice. Ayanda was burning through another ammo belt, but despite its carapace looking like Swiss cheese, the beast continued its inexorable advance.

Only seconds had passed, but after what felt like an age, the Kodiak’s gun zeroed in. There was another thud that shook Barbosa’s guts, a high-pen shell impacting the hulk dead-center. The shaped charge spewed a torrent of molten metal into the alien’s torso like a burning lance, peeling it open, charred flesh and fragments of carapace erupting from it in a shower of grisly confetti. Now sporting a hole that a man could have crawled through, it stumbled, falling face-first into the mud with a wet splash.

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall!” Williams declared as he rose from the cover of the trench to pump his fist in the air. The words had scarcely left his mouth before there was a flash of green light, and he slumped back down, his raised arm and his head burned away as though someone had taken a bite out of him.

“Incoming!” Brenner yelled.

Barbosa turned his eyes back to the mist as half a dozen of the towering beasts came marching into view, one of them leveling a claw weapon, the barrel housed within still smoking as it prepared a follow-up shot. The next bolt of plasma passed just over his head, its heat such that he could feel it through his suit, the projectile splashing against the Kodiak’s sloping hull. The ceramic armor did its best to dissipate the energy, all of the water within a ten-foot radius turning to steam as the plating glowed red-hot, the superheated gas splashing against it like a liquid. The tank fired again, the shell tearing another of the aliens apart, but there were too many. Worse – from around their stubby legs, another swarm of Drones began to advance alongside them, using them as cover.

“Petrova – get on the horn to Fleetcom!” Brenner yelled. “Tell them that we’ve been engaged by enemy armor and we need CAS down here ASAP!”

Petrova ducked into the trench, putting a finger to her helmet as she contacted the fleet. The Kodiak unleashed a salvo of mortar shells, but while they cut down some of the Drones, the larger creatures appeared impervious to the shrapnel. The twenty-mill fared a little better, but it took concentrated fire to bring one down, fist-sized holes leaking mucus-colored fluid as it slowed and began to falter.

“We can’t do anything about the big ones!” Barbosa shouted. “Aim for the Drones!”

It went against his every instinct, but he turned his weapon from the lumbering chimeras of metal and flesh to the smaller creatures that scurried about between them, cutting down a Bug with a burst from his rifle. The rest of the operatives followed suit, the chatter of gunfire filling the air, molten slugs hammering the advancing line.

There was another thud as a Bug mortar impacted nearby, the resin canister embedding itself in the wet mud, but this one didn’t explode. Instead, it began to expel a plume of caustic gas, its mustard-yellow color setting off alarm bells in Barbosa’s head. The Kodiak’s blister was forced to turn from the advancing enemies, its barrel rising to the sky, the autocannon spewing a stream of tracers as it intercepted more shells.

“They’re gassing us!” he warned, watching the substance seep into the trench like dry ice as it clung low to the ground. “Check your seals!”

Their suits were rated for chemical, biological, and radiological threats, but a single small cut in the Kevlar lining could expose them to the deadly nerve agent. The Bugs had no rules of engagement – they used whatever means necessary to exterminate their enemies.

He watched as Brenner sucked in a breath and slammed on his helmet, sealing it at the collar.

“Fuck, fuck!” someone exclaimed. Barbosa turned to see Dixon tapping at the touch panel that was built into the sleeve of his pressure suit. “I got a leak somewhere!”

Barbosa was on him in a flash, pulling a reel of tape from his belt even as glowing bolts of plasma flashed inches above their heads. He shouldered past Stevens, tearing off a strip and slapping it against a tear on Dixon’s shoulder.

“I got you,” Barbosa sighed, giving his friend an encouraging pat.

“Thanks, Boss,” Dixon replied with palpable relief. “Fucking shrapnel must have torn through my suit. Thought that chemical shit was gonna turn my organs to soup.”

“CAS is on its way!” Petrova announced, her Russian accent identifying her over the radio. “ETA five minutes!”

“Five minutes!?” Brenner exclaimed, rising to fire another burst over the trench. “We’re not gonna last five seconds at this rate!”

There was another thundercrack as the Kodiak felled one of the giant creatures, but more were ready to take its place, the Drones starting to sprint now that they were close enough. The defensive line sprayed them with return fire as the smaller Bugs pulled ahead of their larger counterparts, but it was obvious that some were going to make it through. There was another barrage of mortars from the Kodiak, the shells ripping a dozen of them to shreds, but they remained undeterred.

“Brace for CQB!” Brenner shouted.

A group of Bugs reached the lip of their trench, Barbosa looking up to see a pair of glittering compound eyes staring down at him, those cruel mandibles twitching in what might be anticipation. He raised his rifle and took a chunk out of its head, but another alien brushed the body aside before it even had a chance to fall, drawing a pair of knives from holsters that seemed molded into its very exoskeleton. It leapt down into the trench, but Barbosa caught it by the throat with a prosthetic hand, slamming it against the earthen wall. The creature hissed and slashed at him with its blades, their wicked edges cutting into the tough polymer of his limb – too short to reach anything vital. There was no suit to breach, as Barbosa wore his uniform with the sleeves sealed at his shoulders.

Letting his rifle fall to hang from its sling, Barbosa drove a mechanical fist through the alien’s helmet, crushing its head like a tangerine. Gooey brain matter and green ichor clung to his knuckles as he withdrew his hand, letting the limp body drop to the floor, turning his attention to the next target as more of them piled in.

What had once been an orderly firing line was now a chaotic brawl, combat knives and sidearms flashing, the Bugs throwing themselves at the defenders with abandon. Barbosa saw Stevens draw his caseless ten-millimeter handgun and unload it into an assailant’s chest – so close that the muzzle was practically touching the alien’s shell. Behind him, Ayanda clubbed one to death with his MG, its weight crushing the carapace of his victim like a beetle beneath a boot.

“Pull back to the second line!” Barbosa ordered. “We can’t hold this trench!”

“We’re gonna lose the Kodiak!” Brenner replied, driving a Bowie knife into a Drone’s sternum.

“We’ll lose a lot more than a stranded tank if we don’t put some distance between us and those crab things!”

Brenner finally conceded, waving his team back, the operatives covering one another with short bursts of gunfire as they made for one of the passageways that led to the second trench. It was a fighting retreat, but the narrow trenches favored the defenders, Barbosa emptying his XMR and cutting down three insects that had made it inside. The hypervelocity slugs tore right through them, turning shards of carapace into deadly shrapnel that struck the aliens directly behind his targets.

He watched as an operative from another team was dragged down into the mud, beset by four or five Drones, their daggers flashing with each stab. His cries petered out as they butchered him, their deceptively colorful carapaces splattered with mud and blood both. Barbosa tossed a frag in their direction as he ducked behind a corner, blowing them apart along with their victim.

Striding through the yellow gas that swirled about his knees, he joined the rest of his team at the second line, ducking beneath their covering fire as they cut down the Drones that were tailing him. He lifted his head just in time to see one of the bunkers take a hit from a plasma weapon, erupting into a flash of green flame and sending broken chunks of carbcrete raining down around it.

“Couple more minutes on that CAS!” Petrova growled as she lowered her empty PDW, drawing her sidearm and dumping two rounds into the helmet of an advancing Drone.

“Hold the line!” Brenner bellowed.

The Kodiak was a little ways ahead of them, having gotten hopelessly stuck in the deep muck between the two trench lines. It fired its main gun one more time, landing a hit on one of the giant crustaceans that had made it to the first trench, knocking the beast back as though it had been hit by a giant hammer. Its blister fired on the Drones as they poured towards it, the aliens swarming its hull, XMR slugs sparking off its slanted armor as the defenders fired on them.

“Get the goddamned crew out of that tank!” Barbosa ordered.

The Drones were crawling all over it like ants, prying at its plates with their claw-like fingers, struggling to find a way inside the foreign machine. One of them leveled a two-pronged plasma pistol at the swiveling camera dome mounted atop the Kodiak’s turret, slagging it with a few shots.

The crew hatch at the rear of the tank finally dropped open, and two crewmen piled out, stumbling in the mud. They were wearing sealed Marine pressure suits, but without the ceramic plating, sporting only helmets and flak jackets.

“Covering fire!” Barbosa yelled, his team rallying to shoot the Bugs that were climbing over the hull to reach them. The third man – the tank commander – left his vehicle last, retreating backwards as he fired a compact PDW.

From over the turret, one of the giant creatures rose into view, the suspension sagging beneath its weight as it put a taloned foot on the forward hull of the tank. It drew back its claw weapon, driving it into the armor plating, the sound of wrenching metal carrying above the gunfire. Like a can opener, it tore through the hull, jamming the weapon into the jagged hole and unleashing another flare of green plasma. It filled the interior of the tank, erupting from the open crew hatch and knocking the commander off his feet. One of the operatives dashed out to drag him away as the hulk continued its advance, shrugging off stray slugs, standing atop the burning vehicle as it leveled the smoking barrel of its cannon at them.

There was a flash of light, but not from the cannon, a fireball engulfing the creature and incinerating the nearby Drones. There was a secondary explosion – probably from the tank’s ruptured fuel cells – the blast tossing the ruined body clear along with fragments of twisted metal.

A Beewolf screamed overhead, the onyx-black spaceplane doing a low pass over the battlefield, disappearing into the clouds once more as the blue glow from its engine faded into the haze. Air support had finally arrived, and it sure was close.

“Focus on the Drones!” Barbosa ordered, loading another mag from his rig. “Let the bird deal with the hard targets!”

They cut down more of the enemy soldiers, keeping them clear of the second trench, the plane soon returning for another attack run. It strafed the advancing aliens with its twenty-five-millimeter cannon, the explosive shells painting a trail of destruction across the mud flats, tearing the larger aliens to pieces as the roar of the gun deadened Barbosa’s hearing. It soared back up into the sky, banking into the clouds, giving the people below a brief glimpse of its swept wings and canards.

“Finish them off!” Barbosa shouted. “Push them back!”

In disarray now, the Bugs lost their momentum, starting to retreat back across the blasted terrain. The SWAR teams moved back to the first trench, retaking it and finishing off a few stragglers, the burning hull of the Kodiak sending a plume of dark smoke rising into the sky.

Barbosa took a few last potshots at the aliens as they vanished into the fog, leaving behind piles of bodies and the bleeding wrecks of their new war machines. They were always evolving – always changing and adapting.

“Check for survivors and recover any ammo you can find,” he ordered as his men returned to their positions. “They’ll probably be back again in ninety minutes…”

2625 – PROXIMA CENTAURI NAVAL BASE

Barbosa gazed out of the station’s wall-length window, lifting a glass of scotch to his lips with a prosthetic hand and taking a sip. His office was relatively lavish as far as Navy accommodations went. His chair was made from carved wood with plush leather padding, and the desk that occupied most of the room followed suit. A holographic display reflected off its polished surface, hovering a couple of inches above it. The walls were lined with wood paneling, giving it the feel of some antique study, but he knew that there were bulkheads lurking just behind them.

At fifty-nine, he was no spring chicken anymore, and his liver wasn’t the only thing that had been replaced over the years. His illustrious career had earned him a collection of scars along with his promotions, his body a patchwork of plasma burns and healed shrapnel wounds beneath his coveralls, but plenty were surgical in nature.

His heart had been replaced with an artificial organ that was stronger and more resilient than the original. His teammates often joked that the scar the operation had left behind made him look like he’d been autopsied and brought back to life. Then there were the lungs – scarred beyond repair by Bug chemical weapons during an op on Chara II. He liked the new ones better – they were more efficient at extracting oxygen and could even filter certain contaminants. The implant extended through his trachea and larynx, giving his voice a synthetic quality. The kidneys had gone a long time ago, with only the digestive system retaining its original organs. He would have replaced those too if he could, though a nutrient port that fed directly to his new heart was a fitting alternative.

The prosthetic limbs had remained largely the same, save for a few upgrades as technology had advanced. They still retained their skeletal appearance, but there were more layered plates of ceramic armor covering them now, tastefully designed to fill out their profile. He had a few tattoos etched into the material on his arms – only really visible when the light caught them just right. For all their improvements and innovations, that damned itch was still there, Barbosa rubbing his thumb and finger together as he took another drink.

Beyond the frost-encrusted glass, he could see the curvature of the planet stretching out below, its oceans and continents shrouded in dense layers of cloud. Its glow was bright enough to blot out all of the stars save for two – Centauri A and B, the system’s two companions shining in the night sky.

Space elevators rose up from the colony’s cities, gleaming in Proxima’s red-tinted light like long threads of silver, the tether stations above them forming vertical structures surrounded by torus-shaped habitats. Proxima hosted one of the UNN’s largest Naval bases, so high orbit swarmed with ships, drifting around the stations like clouds of flies. He could see the rounded, bullet-shaped profiles of jump carriers drifting along like whales, along with the more angular hulls of smaller escort frigates.

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection staring back at him. Even after so long, it was sometimes jarring to see himself, his mental image no longer matching the one in the mirror. Taking a page out of Brenner’s book, he had replaced his eyes some years prior, arrays of shining lenses now peering out from their shadowy sockets. His ears, too, had been hollowed out and filled with electronics. Not only was his hearing more sensitive, but like the software built into combat helmets, they could deaden sounds above the set decibel limit. He no longer needed to wear an earpiece, either. Barbosa could see in pitch blackness, hear a pin drop from a mile away, and he was immune to stun grenades as a nice bonus.

All of the systems were managed by an electronic mesh that was laid across his very brain, its electrodes interfacing with his neurons, its processors translating data into sensation and vice versa. He might be the most augmented man alive – he’d never checked. Some of it was completely legal and medically necessary, while some of it had required a little bending of the rules. SWAR had grown into a very influential organization within the UNN, and they had their own stable of engineers and surgeons who shared their polite disagreement with the UN’s bans on unnecessary cybernetics. Anything to get an edge…

There was a buzz at the door, and he swiveled his chair to face his desk, swiping his mechanical fingers through the display to activate an intercom.

“Come,” he said in that synthetic timbre.

The door slid open to reveal the spartan corridor outside, a man wearing black body armor stepping into the office on a pair of prosthetic legs, their feet little more than springy skids. The skull design on his visor gave him away – he never seemed to take the damned thing off.

“Murphy,” Barbosa began, gesturing for his friend to sit. Barbosa might have risen to the very top of the organization, now commanding dozens of teams, but he and Murphy had been through the shit together. That counted for more than the insignia on his chest.

“You called, Boss?” Murphy replied through his tinny helmet speakers as he lowered himself into the chair.

“Can I offer you a scotch?” Barbosa asked, gesturing to the bottle that was sitting on the table beside him.

“Thanks, but nah,” Murphy replied. “I’m on duty.”

“You know that I like to keep an ear to the ground,” Barbosa began, leaning back in his seat with a creak of leather. “These past few years have been very eventful – the political situation has been changing rapidly and unpredictably. Tell me – what do you know about a planet named Jarilo?”

“The Navy fought a hive fleet there a few months back – kicked their teeth in pretty good from what I heard. Sounds like it’s prime real estate for a colony.”

“What if I told you that they didn’t kill all of the Bugs?” Barbosa said, watching his friend’s inscrutable visor as he gave the agent a few moments to think.

“Why?” Murphy finally asked. “They gonna use ‘em for trainin’ exercises or somethin’?”

“What I’m about to show you is highly classified,” Barbosa began, turning the floating display to face Murphy with a gesture. “Repeat this to no one. This is a report from Stavros – the captain of the Thermopylae – to the Admiralty. Give it a read.”

Barbosa couldn’t see his friend’s expression through the dark visor, but he could see his prosthetics tensing up as he read, the involuntary reaction betraying his growing anger. Only when Murphy had finished did he speak up again.

“So, let me get this straight,” he snarled. “Some jarhead had his brains scrambled by the roaches, and somehow that convinces the Admiralty that they’ve surrendered? Since when do Bugs surrender? I’ve seen the cunts march through minefields and throw themselves under the tracks of tanks. They’re biological machines – they don’t have any concept of surrender. They haven’t tried to communicate with us a single time in thirty bloody years!”

“From what the report says, this Walker person was taken hostage by the hive on Jarilo and surgically altered,” Barbosa replied. “They implanted an organ in his brain that let him understand Bug pheromones – speak their language, if you will. Through him, the Queen negotiated a surrender, and the UNN accepted.”

“And everyone is just fine with this?” Murphy demanded, spreading his arms in disbelief. “They don’t see anythin’ suspicious about lettin’ roaches poke around in a guy’s brain and then takin’ everythin’ he says at face fuckin’ value?”

“Supposedly, he was cross-examined extensively and passed all of the psych tests they wanted him to pass,” Barbosa replied. He wasn’t nearly as angry as Murphy, but only because he’d already had time to process the information and think it over. Murphy’s anger would benefit him, however. He could use it as a tool. “Now, the Jarilo hive is sending an ambassador to Fort Hamilton. They want to negotiate a seat on the Security Council,” he added with a sneer.

“Bugs in the Coalition,” Murphy said with a shake of his helmeted head. “I wouldn’t have believed it if you hadn’t shown me the proof. We’ve all bled to kill these fuckers. We’ve lost body parts, friends, colonies – we’ve been holdin’ the roaches back for thirty goddamned years. This is how they repay us – by openin’ the bloody door and invitin’ them to take a seat at the table?”

“It’s not a done deal just yet,” Barbosa replied, steepling his mechanical fingers. “The Security Council could vote not to admit them. Personally, I feel as though the potential of the Bugs gaining a backdoor to the colonies is too great of a threat to leave to the whims of the democratic process.”

“Bunch of fuckin’ aliens on the Council anyway,” Murphy scoffed, waving a prosthetic hand dismissively. “We can’t rely on those cunts. Never could.”

“You and I have been through a lot together,” Barbosa continued as he poured himself another drink. “We’ve served on the same team for many years, we’ve lost mutual friends, we’ve shared the same trench. I’ve always valued your loyalty and your commitment to defending humanity. There are some within SWAR who have begun to question the direction the Admiralty is leading us. There are some Admirals who are more…amenable than others,” he said as he took a sip from his glass. “Some who I believe could be persuaded to see the light.”

“What you’re talkin’ about sounds a little too close to treason, Boss,” Murphy replied. There was no wariness in his tone – he sounded intrigued by the prospect.

“Rest assured that this is a private conversation – entirely off the record,” Barbosa said. “As it turns out, Admiral Vos doesn’t have much confidence in the station’s current security chief. In fact, it sounded to me like he was waiting for the first opportunity to remove him. Apparently, this guy is overly friendly with aliens and runs Fort Hamilton like a fucking petting zoo.”

“Figures,” Murphy scoffed. “He’s probably balls-deep in a madcat like half of the dickheads over there. You know they call it the Pinwheel now?”

“Vos and I go way back,” Barbosa continued, swirling the ice around in his glass. “I’ve always had a lot of respect for the man. I believe he’s someone who will do whatever is necessary to protect the colonies from enemies, foreign and domestic, as the oath goes. Lord knows he’s helped cover our asses more than a few times. It’s only thanks to him that some of our…less legal activities have flown under the radar, not to mention the sway he has over the Covert Appropriations Committee. I suggested that he might benefit from a little extra security during this sensitive time,” Barbosa added with a grin.

“Let me guess – a SWAR team,” Murphy said.

“This is our ticket onto the station,” Barbosa continued, all business now as he leaned over the table. “If we can insert a team during the window of time when the ambassador will be aboard, we may be able to throw a wrench in the works and prevent this whole charade from happening. Vos isn’t in the know, but he wants this – he just doesn’t know it yet.”

“It would have to be done quietly,” Murphy mused, scratching his chin beneath his helmet. “Deniable – no trace of our guys.”

“That’s what you’re best at,” Barbosa insisted, Murphy straightening a little in his chair. “There’s nobody who does wetwork quite like you, Murphy. Ayanda, Barnes, and Dixon are already onboard. I trust them all with my life. Most of them have saved it more than once. I’m promoting you to Lieutenant Commander and giving you command of my old team. Only if you want it,” he added, withdrawing a little and giving the agent a moment to consider what he was asking. “I won’t order you to do this, and you know full well what the consequences of failure could be.”

“I’ve never refused the call of duty before, Boss,” Murphy replied adamantly. “If it needs doin’, I’ll see that it gets done. You can count on me.”

“I know,” Barbosa replied, rising from his seat and extending a hand across the table. Murphy took it, the whir of motors and the sound of metal on metal filling the office as they shook.

***

Barbosa slammed a fist on his table, scuffing the polished wood, the lenses in his empty eye sockets scanning the report on his display.

Murphy, Dixon, Barnes – all KIA. Ayanda had been captured by UNNI, and he’d probably spend the rest of his days locked away in some Ninnie black site. He wouldn’t break under interrogation – Barbosa had no doubt of that – but Murphy’s team had included some of his best agents. These were people who he had fought beside for years, and they were all gone now. His inner circle had been broken.

It had been a good plan, and Murphy had almost succeeded in executing it, setting up the perfect patsy and manipulating him into taking a shot at the ambassador. It was a web of suggestion and clever manipulation that had been Murphy’s hallmark. Everything should have ended there, with the ambassador’s brains splattered all over the conference room, but the shooter had missed by a hair. From there, Murphy had taken matters into his own hands, somehow letting success slip through his fingers once again. He’d been killed in a shootout with the station’s security chief.

Vos had fucked everything up. Instead of relying solely on SWAR for security, as Barbosa had suggested, he had brought in two UNNI agents to investigate the assassination attempt. Along with the chief, they had uncovered the plot and thwarted Murphy’s plan at the last moment. That damned Admiral had his fingers in every pie – SWAR, Naval Intelligence, mercenary outfits, Covert Appropriations. Perhaps if Barbosa had brought him into the fold earlier…

No, Vos was still too unpredictable. The bastard had even voted in favor of letting the roaches join the Coalition. If Barbosa had tried to recruit him too soon, the whole thing could have been blown wide open. Maybe the Admiral wasn’t as amenable as he had imagined.

There was nothing linking Murphy back to Barbosa, but Vos was clearly growing suspicious, and UNNI were now involved in an investigation into SWAR’s culture and operations. He would have to lie low for a while and postpone his plans. With a little luck, they would conclude that it all ended at Murphy.

Worse than the failed hit – Barbosa was starting to lose control of SWAR. His most reliable operatives were now dead or captured, and Brenner had been butting heads with him, a cultural rift forming between the teams they oversaw. After the fiasco with Murphy, Vos would likely be coming to Brenner for future ops instead of Barbosa, and that would limit his reach. Brenner was loyal to the Admiralty and to the UN – a boy scout who did everything by the book. He would have no part in what Barbosa had in mind. The same might not be true of everyone under his command, however.

His only option now was to rebuild his inner circle – identify operatives within the organization who might be sympathetic to his cause and recruit them. SWAR had ballooned to nearly three thousand members, but all Barbosa needed were a few good men. He still had plenty of friends and contacts, he had psych profiles and detailed histories of everyone in the organization, and he was still a Commander with plenty of authority and very little oversight. He just had to target the right people with the right profiles and the right grievances.

2626 – PROXIMA CITY

Barbosa made his way along the street, passing by planters filled with colorful flowers, the trees that sprouted from them creating shade beneath Proxima’s red-tinted glow. The sun was an M-5 on the stellar classification chart – a red dwarf with a red-orange tint that subtly colored everything beneath its glow. Red dwarfs put out less visible light than G-class stars like Sol, making even a bright, sunny day with a clear sky feel rather dreary and overcast. The leaves of the native plants favored darker pigmentations to trap more light, usually a deep violet that bordered on black, somewhat like purple basil. It wasn’t all bad. The darker leaves made the flowers really pop, and the sky was always tinted in sunset shades of orange and pink. The planet had a rich biosphere, and with a gravity of 1.17 Earth-standard, it was perfectly suited to human habitation.

As one of humanity’s first extrasolar colonies, Proxima was very developed compared to some of the outer worlds that Barbosa had been deployed to, and it had been inhabited for hundreds of years. The cities here were almost as grand and sprawling as those of Earth, the glittering edifices of towering skyscrapers rising up to either side of the pedestrian walkways, their innumerable windows bathed in the orange hue of the planet’s star. Maglev rail lines and sky bridges formed a kind of urban canopy that linked them all together, like vines bridging the trunks of trees. Towering above it all was the nearest tether, little more than a shimmering strand that vanished into the hazy atmosphere from this distance.

He was surrounded by civilians going about their business, but he could spot a few Marines on shore leave, identifiable by their blue coveralls. Proxima Centauri was a large Naval hub, so it wasn’t surprising. There were a few aliens, too. They were even encroaching within five light-years of Sol these days…

Staring at them from behind the wrap-around shades that concealed his artificial eyes, he watched a pack of towering Borealans pass him by, the feline creatures standing head and shoulders above the crowds that surrounded them. They were basically humanoid in their shape, but the feline faces and round ears betrayed them, long tails covered in fur trailing behind them. They walked on digitigrade legs that ended in paw-like feet, their gait long and loping, their blue uniforms suggesting that they must be auxiliaries serving aboard one of the carriers.

Barbosa was trying not to attract too much attention today, his prosthetic limbs covered beneath long pants and sleeves, gloves and boots giving him the appearance of an unaugmented human at a glance. As he passed by a bubbling fountain, he spotted his destination – a bar that was advertised with an animated hologram of a crossed sword and anchor. It was an establishment commonly frequented by SWAR personnel.

He turned off the street, stepping through a sliding door, the dim glow of the planet’s star giving way to brighter overhead lights with a yellow tint that approximated Earth-norm. It wasn’t a very large bar, only able to seat maybe a hundred clients, but there were rarely so many SWAR on shore leave at any given time. It was filled with tables and chairs, a few isolated booths that provided more privacy lining the far wall, a large bar made from native wood running the length of the room. The shelves behind it were stocked with spirits from all over the colonies, colorful liquid filling every size and shape of bottle. Above his head, a few ceiling fans spun lazily, serving little purpose other than to move around the haze of smoke that hung in the air. The decorations that adorned the walls were all UNN-themed, with tattered flags and paintings of ships hanging from the wood paneling.

A few of the nearby tables were occupied by operatives, the sight of their prosthetic limbs leaving little doubt, some of them pausing conversations and lifting their eyes to the intruder. As soon as Barbosa removed his shades, their attitude shifted to one of respect, the men acknowledging him with nods or curt salutes.

“Commander Barbosa,” the bartender began as the agent approached. “The usual?”

“Scotch on the rocks,” he replied, waiting for the man to pour him his drink. With his glass in hand, he navigated between the tables, heading for one of the booths. He was greeted by three other operatives who were hunched over a table nursing their own drinks, one of them sliding aside to make room for him on the plush seating. They were Petrova, Song, and Hoff – members of a team that Brenner had assembled for a recent operation.

“Good to see you, Commander,” Hoff began. He was a large man with green eyes and straw-colored hair, raised on Franklin beef. Hoff’s larynx had been damaged when his throat was slit by a Betelgeusian knife, giving his voice a similar artificial quality to Barbosa’s. Below his square jaw was an ugly scar that he’d never had lasered off – probably a reminder never to let a Drone get the drop on him again. Barbosa felt the same way. Every scar told a story, each one a lesson learned, and he wouldn’t be winning any beauty pageants regardless of how clear his skin was.

“It’s rare to see you groundside, Commander,” Petrova added with a smile, taking a sip from a colorful martini. “I didn’t know they let you leave your office these days. Sit down – take a load off.”

Petrova’s thick accent gave away her Russian heritage, even if one somehow missed the name. Unlike her counterparts, her skin was free of scars, cosmetic procedures leaving her looking practically untouched – at least where her face was concerned. Her prosthetics were a little leaner than those of her male companions, the housings carefully designed to fill out her figure, keeping her natural profile intact.

She was a prime example of augmented individuals who went the extra mile to keep themselves looking as normal as possible. Rather than being skeletal and purely functional, her limbs matched the proportions of their organic equivalents, the black polymer plates leaving few gaps where exposed metal or electronics could be seen. She had gray eyes and short-cropped, black hair, her small stature deceptive. She was every bit as dangerous as the other agents, her augmentations closing any gaps in strength or endurance between her and the giant farmboy seated beside her.

Song was the last man present, nodding his head to Barbosa. Song was of Korean heritage, and as well as being every bit the soldier his colleagues were, his skills with electronic and cyber warfare were unparalleled. If a system or a network had a vulnerability, he could crack it, and he was one of the people who had helped to write much of the software used in advanced prosthetics over the years.

“I saw Brenner’s mission report,” Barbosa began as he settled in beside Song. “Sounds like you guys had a good time. Finally got to bag yourselves some cats. The assault on the Crawler made for particularly gripping reading.”

“Could have gone better,” Hoff grumbled. “We had a breaching charge set up right beneath the Matriarch’s throne room. One word, and we could have come up from beneath them and decapitated the entire Rask leadership in one assault.”

“Not to mention that we crawled through a mile of filthy sewer tunnels to get there,” Petrova complained, taking a sip from her drink with a scowl. “I ended up tossing my old legs – couldn’t get the smell of cat shit out of the joints.”

“The Admiralty had other plans, it seems,” Barbosa replied. “They backed Korbaz to usurp the Matriarch, even after she’d spent the whole war leading the Rask fleet and killing Marines. Seems like she had a change of heart once most of her Crawlers were destroyed, and she realized that she was on the losing team.”

“It prevented a larger conflict,” Song conceded with a shrug. “The Rask considered it a legitimate transfer of power, so the UNN avoided a lengthy insurgency and occupation of the city. Now, they have a friendly leader on the throne, and they control the territory in all but name.”

“Should have bombed the fuckers from orbit after what they pulled,” Hoff growled.

“How do you feel about the Rask being allowed back into the Coalition and getting off scot-free?” Barbosa asked as he gave each of them a pointed glance. “If you ask me, they’re in a more favorable position now than when they started. Hell of a reward for betraying their allies and murdering a bunch of humans – a seat at the negotiating table and pallets of UN credits for the reconstruction effort.”

The agents exchanged looks, not quite sure how to respond. Perhaps they thought they were being tested.

“Why exactly did you arrange this meeting, Commander?” Song asked suspiciously. “Why not order us to the station through official channels?”

“There are some of us who disagree with how the UNN is being led,” Barbosa replied, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard. “After this most recent insult, I figured it might be a good idea to talk to the people who were on the ground and get their perspective on the matter.”

“That’s why you didn’t invite Stevens or Calloway,” Petrova mused, toying with the olive in her glass.

“They’ve gotten a little too close to Brenner for my liking,” Barbosa explained. “He’s a great man and a skilled tactician – don’t misunderstand. I’ve fought shoulder-to-shoulder with him many times over the years. We shared a trench on Kruger, and we painted the snow green with ichor on Chara, but his loyalty to the Admirals is misplaced. I think you’ve all started to realize that in your own ways.”

“Some people might call this kind of talk high treason,” Hoff muttered.

“What is it that you want from us?” Petrova demanded, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he replied, leaning back into the padded booth. “All I want is for you to know that you’re not alone, and that your misgivings aren’t groundless. A lot of people within the organization have expressed similar sentiments behind closed doors.”

“Let me guess,” Petrova scoffed, finally popping the olive into her mouth and crushing it between her teeth. “You’re just keeping tabs on them as a courtesy. Gonna start a support group, maybe?”

“First, they let the Bugs join the Coalition,” Barbosa said as his scarred features morphed into a sneer. “That should have been grounds enough to purge the Admiralty. Then, it was the gene editing shit. Not only are they allowing a roach hive to exist alongside human colonies, but they’re letting them meddle with people’s genes now. They started off curing illnesses and cloning organs for a PR boost, but now they’re making designer babies – blending human and alien DNA to create freaks and hybrids. Tell me that isn’t a time bomb. Tell me they’re not biding their time and introducing flaws into the gene pool – playing a long game to wipe us out. A hundred years from now, they trigger some virus or switch on a recessive gene, and suddenly half of the population drops dead or becomes infertile. It’s a classic Trojan horse.”

“Is there any hard evidence of this happening?” Song asked, clearly concerned now.

“No, but nobody really understands Bug biotechnology,” Barbosa replied. “They’re hundreds, maybe thousands of years more advanced than we are in that respect. We can either take the word of some random guy who got lobotomized that they’re on the level, or we can trust our own experiences. The Bugs would do anything to win – we’ve all seen it firsthand.”

“He’s got a point,” Hoff conceded, giving Petrova a nudge with his giant arm.

“Now this shit with the Rask,” Barbosa continued. “They stab us in the back, and what do we do? We reward their betrayal with a more favorable deal. We give them a slap on the paw, just like always happens with the fucking madcats. One rule for them, one rule for everybody else. They get held to a lower standard than we do just because they only recently discovered gunpowder.”

“My question is what you plan to do about it,” Petrova replied, crossing her slender arms. “Talk is cheap.”

“Right now?” Barbosa asked, pausing for effect. “Nothing. All I want to do is build a network of like-minded individuals. I want to know who feels the same way we do – who I can rely on if push comes to shove. With the way things are going, it might not be long before we have to take matters into our own hands. The very survival of our species could be at stake. The UN is getting way too cozy with aliens, and it’s starting to bite us in the ass.”

“I think you’re safe to put us down on whatever list you’re making,” Petrova replied, glancing to her two companions for confirmation.

“Maybe we know a few people,” Hoff added.

“Be discreet,” Barbosa warned. “Next round is on me.”

CHAPTER 1

2628 – MU ARAE BLACK SITE 2 – BARBOSA

Barbosa walked down the winding corridor of the station, his prosthetic feet clunking through his boots against the blue carpet that covered the deck. The walls were a sterile white, with circuit boxes and exposed pipes visible here and there, though it was a little more lavish than what one might expect to see on the average spacecraft. The station was built into an asteroid that orbited on the outskirts of the Mu Arae system, practically invisible to those who weren’t already looking for it.

There were two such sites, along with a small Naval base that orbited a gas giant a little further sunward. Black Site One and Two served as black budget research facilities, funded in large part by the credits that Admiral Vos obtained from the Covert Appropriations Committee. They examined captured tech and samples obtained surreptitiously from Coalition allies and performed research and development on technologies that weren’t necessarily sanctioned by the UN. The Admiral shared Barbosa’s opinion that preening politicians shouldn’t let petty morality get in the way of breakthroughs that could empower the Navy. At least, he had.

“I wasn’t expecting the project to be canceled so soon,” Barbosa said, his synthetic timbre echoing down the hallways. “It feels like only yesterday that we got those C-3 shunts implanted. Are you sure there’s no chance that I can still change your mind?”

“I realize that Bullshark was your pet project,” Vos replied as he strode along beside the towering agent. Vos was a few years older than Barbosa, his features weathered by time and stress alike, his pristine Admiral’s uniform shining white beneath the harsh overhead lights. He wore a cap with a golden UNN wreath emblazoned just above the dark brim, his chest adorned with a long career’s worth of colorful ribbons. “You’ve been to bat for Dire Contingency numerous times – I know how much you believed in the initiative. Doctor Nilsson tells me that you and your team have been invaluable during the R&D process, and I certainly want to acknowledge that contribution.”

“Sounds like the kind of speech you’d give when you fire someone,” Barbosa replied with a humorless chuckle.

They stopped beside a window that overlooked one of the labs. Within, Barbosa could see a clean room filled with people wearing sealed suits, flexible hoses connecting them to oxygen lines on the ceiling. Spread about on their workstations were Broker drones in varying stages of deconstruction, their colorful housings split open to expose machinery and electronics that made no visual sense to him. They were larger than one might expect – about the size of an engine block, their plasma weapons and arrays of sensors carefully separated from the chassis like organs during a dissection.

“Rest assured that nobody is being fired,” Vos replied as he watched the scientists dig around inside one of the alien robots. “Dire Contingency, and the various projects under its umbrella, have simply ceased to make financial sense. We’re funneling an absurd amount of cash into these stations, and it can’t pass under the radar forever. Eventually, people with more authority than me are going to start asking questions about where all that money is flowing, and someone will be compelled to give them answers. Besides, I’ve become less confident in the necessity of the initiative as time has passed.”

“Don’t tell me that this is all because of Kerguela?” Barbosa asked, giving his old friend a sideways glance.

“Kerguela was merely the cherry on top of the cake,” Vos replied. “Believe me – I had plenty of misgivings when the Jarilans were admitted into the Coalition. I had to be convinced to vote in their favor. For years, we kept a fleet in orbit around Jarilo that was prepared to level the entire continent if they so much as looked at us funny. The investment has paid off, however. The Jarilans have proven their worth and their loyalty. We couldn’t have taken Kerguela without them, and the medical and technological breakthroughs they’ve provided have surpassed decades of research into Betelgeusian tech. They’re building shipyards and infrastructure projects for us, they’re helping to fast-track the development of new colonies, and they’re fighting on the front lines. Even your friend Brenner changed his tune after serving with them during the campaign.”

“Brenner has always been a little less…critical than I am,” Barbosa muttered as the pair continued on. “Ever the optimist.”

“Perhaps I’m also feeling a little more optimistic these days,” Vos chimed as they turned a corner. They passed a scientist in a lab coat who was clutching a tablet computer in his hands, the man doing a double-take when he saw Barbosa and the arrays of lenses that filled his eye sockets, hurrying on his way.

“How so?” Barbosa asked, watching the staff member scurry past.

“You’re an old war dog – same as me,” Vos continued. “You remember when this all started.”

“Hard to believe it’s been almost thirty years.”

“We woke up one day, and the universe was changed,” the Admiral mused. He paused to scan his fingerprint on a touch panel beside a door, and it slid open to let them pass. “Enemies that had seemed so threatening only hours prior suddenly became inconsequential. Separatists, rogue Corps, rival nations – it was all washed away. Suddenly, we were faced with an existential threat – one set on wiping out the human race. The Betelgeusians were more technologically advanced, more numerous, and driven by a kind of genocidal hatred that transcended our petty territorial squabbles.”

“It was quite the shock to the system,” Barbosa added. “I remember – I was deployed on an op when it happened. We’d just busted some separatists who had been bombing train stations, and we got the Skyfall order. They called everyone home and reassigned us.”

“Aliens exist, and some of them are Hell-bent on killing you,” Vos chuckled. “Hell of a headline. A lot of our assumptions about them proved to be unfounded, however. We assumed that they were an organized force sharing intelligence and conducting invasions based on some grand strategy. They aren’t. Each hive is independent, and they’re just as likely to fight each other as they are to target us. We’ve been dealing with Nuptial Fleets for a long time, and we’ve now proven that we can take out older, more established hives. The Betelgeusians are becoming less of an existential threat and more like…inclement weather – something inevitable that you combat through careful preparation. Regular fleet patrols for rapid response, a properly trained and outfitted PDF, civilian bunker systems – we’re a lot less vulnerable than we once were.”

“It’s easy to minimize the damage they’ve caused in hindsight,” Barbosa muttered as they passed another window. Beyond the glass was another lab, this one occupied by rows of tanks filled with suspension fluid, samples and whole carcasses of Betelgeusians of all shapes and sizes floating within them. “They didn’t become less dangerous, just less organized.”

“My intention isn’t to minimize anything,” Vos chided. “I’m merely stating that we’ve grown in both our knowledge and our capabilities. The situation is no longer as dire as it once seemed, and our allies are stepping up their game. The Valbarans are developing their own capable fleet, the Jarilans are expanding their forces, and the Brokers have pledged to take a more active role in defense. Dire Contingency was put in place to prepare for a possible future where we could no longer rely on our allies, and that has grown less likely with each passing year.”

“I never thought I’d see you throwing your support behind the aliens with such fervor,” Barbosa said as he watched one of the lab technicians slice open an alien organ that bled green ichor. “You were always skeptical – always realistic. You were always someone who imagined the worst-case scenario and planned for that outcome, regardless of what everyone else was doing.”

“We’re supposed to change, Barbosa,” Vos replied as he reached out to place a friendly hand on the agent’s prosthetic arm. “We reevaluate – we evolve. The incident on the Pinwheel showed me that some of my trust in my own people was misplaced.”

“Fort Hamilton,” Barbosa grumbled.

“Fort Hamilton,” Vos conceded, withdrawing his hand. “Kerguela proved to me that our allies aren’t just fair-weather friends relying on our industrial base for protection – they’re in it for the long haul. Everyone pulled their weight.”

“The timing of all this is what confuses me,” Barbosa began, zooming in on the dissection to watch the scientist work. “It was only two years ago that we had to put down the Rask Rebellion. It was only last year that the truth about what the Brokers did came out. Those fuckers let the Betelgeuse Incident happen, Vos. They knew that colony ship was doomed, and they let them enter the system anyway, all to rile us up and drag us into a war that they were losing.”

“The Brokers have been shockingly transparent,” Vos replied. “Their Regulators have cooperated fully with UNNI investigations into the Board and its actions.”

“I’m sure the battleships we sent to their doorstep helped them make the right decision…”

“It seems that a small number of high-level Brokers were involved in the plot, and they’d done their best to keep a lid on it,” Vos explained. “Their society seems almost as outraged by the revelation as ours. The Board of Directors – their top government – has been shaken up pretty severely. Lots of votes of no confidence, lots of hearings, lots of people being stripped of their property and holdings. Big deal in their society, I hear.”

“Doesn’t change what they did.”

“No, but they’re very eager to make amends. Reparations, trade contracts, technology sharing programs – it all benefits us more than starting some ill-conceived revanchist war. Of course, I would have liked to keep that information under wraps,” he added with a scowl. “Fucking Lena Webber and David O’Shea. I hate them so much. I could have blackmailed the Brokers into doing anything I wanted with that information, but those two assholes decided to blow it all up in my face.”

“You want me to pay them a visit?” Barbosa asked with a grin.

“You have no idea how sorely tempted I am to say yes,” Vos sighed. “I understand where you’re coming from, Commander – I really do – but we’ve never been in a stronger position. For the first time in a very, very long while, I feel like the sword of Damocles isn’t hanging over our heads.”

“That doesn’t mean things can’t go South,” Barbosa warned, his tone dour.

“No, but it means that I can’t really justify funneling billions of credits into an initiative that’s less likely to see the light of day than ever,” Vos scoffed. “Come on – let’s go see Nilsson. I’ll give you one last look at the Bullsharks for old times’ sake.”

“You’re not destroying them, are you?” Barbosa asked as he raised an eyebrow.

“No – just mothballing them,” Vos replied as he continued on down the corridor. “R&D is ending, but it still produced some valuable technology. Honestly, even if we managed to reach mass production, the economics just don’t make sense anymore. One Bullshark would cost as much to build as an Assault Carrier. Why pay for a Bullshark when you can just have the Jarilans pump out Warriors practically for free?”

“Because we would be self-sufficient,” Barbosa insisted. “We wouldn’t be beholden to a bunch of Bugs who could pull the plug any time they wanted.”

“I wish you’d see things the way I do, old friend,” Vos said with a hint of sadness in his voice. “We can’t keep fighting forever. Eventually, you and I both are going to have to open our fists and loosen our grip. We have to build a future that will be safe once we’re too old and too tired to micromanage the Galaxy.”

They descended a flight of steps, passing a few more employees who all gave Barbosa the same wary look. He was used to it by now – it had stopped bothering him years ago. In many ways, civilians reacted to him the same way that they reacted to aliens due to his strange appearance.

They arrived at a more expansive laboratory, this one having more in common with a garage than a clean room. There was heavy machinery everywhere he looked, mobile crane arms attached to rails that ran along the ceiling letting the workers lift large payloads. There were lengths of thick chain hanging from some of them, stringing up partially-assembled robotic limbs and armored plates too heavy for a man to lift. Bullshark chassis in various stages of construction were suspended off the ground to allow the scientists to work on them more easily, their vaguely humanoid shape making the place look like some kind of robotic abattoir.

There was medical equipment, too. He could see artificial limbs and organs floating in vats of suspension fluid, along with advanced surgical bots attached to gurneys, their chrome tool arms curled in on themselves like dead spiders. Those were the same machines that had installed the C-3 shunt that was now grafted to his cervical spine.

Most of the work on the project seemed to have already wound down. There were few technicians and engineers still milling about, leaving the large shop floor feeling eerily empty. Vos led him over to a bank of holographic monitors at the far end of the room, weaving between partially constructed robots and work surfaces strewn with parts and tools, their footsteps echoing.

Nilsson looked up from his work as they approached, pushing his office chair out from a long desk and turning to greet them. The doctor was a middle-aged man with messy, straw-blonde hair, his civilian clothing covered by a white lab coat. He already seemed agitated, but there was a glint of hope in his eyes when he saw Barbosa.

“Commander!” Nilsson exclaimed, hurrying over to clasp Barbosa’s prosthetic hand. He gave it an enthusiastic shake, the agent’s massive limb dwarfing his own. “I’m so glad to see you here! Tell me that you’ve been able to convince our Admiral of the project’s value!”

“I’m afraid not,” Barbosa replied, giving Vos a glance. “The Admiral’s mind seems to be made up on this matter.”

Nilsson visibly deflated like someone was letting all of the air out of a human-shaped balloon, his expression darkening.

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Rest assured that I’ve done my best to make him see reason. It was my sincere hope that the memo I sent over would help him recognize the progress that we’ve made and the necessity of the project. We’re so close to ending the prototyping phase.”

“How’s the decommissioning process coming along?” Vos asked pointedly.

“Most of the staff have already been moved off the project,” the doctor sighed. “Construction on more prototype units has ceased, and the completed suits are being prepped for transport and storage,” he added with a gesture to the leftmost wall. “We’ll be using any leftover parts and materials as spares. They’ll go into storage alongside them.”

Barbosa walked over to the row of cradles, admiring the Bullsharks that hung from them.

The Bullshark was more a humanoid vehicle than a suit of armor. Its thick ceramic plates were layered on top of a heavy-duty, industrial exoskeleton powered by giant pistons and motors, the shining metal contrasting with the charcoal and Navy blue of the chassis. It was at once inelegant and bulky, yet sleek and powerful, everything about it scaled up and oversized. At a little over seven feet tall and with shoulders half that in width, it was a veritable juggernaut of steel and ceramics, its sharp lines and onyx coloration mirroring the design language of UNN vehicles and spacecraft. Each limb was as thick as a man’s torso, both because of all of the machinery and armor that was packed into them, and because a pilot was expected to fit inside of it.

His eyes wandered from its head to its feet, taking it all in. Between the heavy, angular pauldrons was an empty cavity where the pilot’s head would sit, the armored canopy that closed over it like a clam shell currently resting in its stowed position. It would lift away and rest upright behind the pilot’s head, the little camera dome mounted beneath its sloping chin peeking out, the shining lenses still able to track threats and trigger the active protection systems. The cavity was lined with soft padding in a shade of dark blue, the armored collars that locked to the canopy to create a seal rising up to protect the wearer’s head like those of a bomb disposal suit or Trog armor.

Below it was the torso, a streak of UNN blue with stenciled letters that spelled SWAR emblazoned across the chest piece. Just like Marine armor, the body was protected by segmented plates, three of them running down the torso with a fourth plate covering the crotch, joined together by silver hinges to allow some range of motion.

Unlike the lightweight ceramic plates that formed body armor, these were several inches thick – heavy enough that an unaugmented person would struggle to even lift one unaided. Along with tough ceramics that helped dissipate heat and an ablative coating, there was a layer of artificial diamond sandwiched in there that added the necessary hardness to help stop XMR slugs. Until now, the idea of a wearable system that could even come close to stopping a railgun had been a pipe dream. The suit’s plates were also modular – able to be replaced easily after being subjected to damage.

His eyes moved down its arms, almost gorilla-like in their exaggerated proportions, pistons as thick as soda cans attached to hinges that pulled and pushed to move the heavy limbs. At the end of each arm was a giant mechanical hand, human in shape, but scaled up to be able to hold heavy weapons and large XMR frames intended for alien auxiliaries. The suit could wield an anti-materiel railgun – and handle its recoil – with the same ease that a human might fire a marksman rifle.

It wasn’t visible from this angle, but behind the suit was a bulky backpack that housed the lion’s share of the electronics and computer systems, along with a micro-reactor that provided fusion power for long-duration deployments. Unlike a system that relied solely on batteries, it didn’t need to be constantly recharged, and it could operate almost indefinitely.

Lower still were more shining pistons joining the legs to the torso, thick plates enclosing the limbs, the external framework that allowed it to move around under its own power even more pronounced here. There were backward-facing heat vents on the calves, making them appear a little bulkier than the thighs, along with some heavy-duty knee pads.

The feet were surprisingly complex, the legs ending in massive boots equipped with a system of claws that could clamp themselves into the ground to provide more traction. There were two jutting out of the front of the boot, along with a larger band-shaped claw at the heel, able to close almost like the grasping talon of a bird. It also had a system of outriggers that could be driven into a surface to provide a more stable firing platform – two on each foot – as well as electromagnets for adhering to hulls and decks.

Due to the proportions of the suit, the pilot’s hands and feet didn’t actually reach their mechanical equivalents, stopping short. Rather than being controlled by a physical interface, there was a rather intimidating plug sitting just behind the pilot’s head that would socket to an implant in the C-3 cervical vertebra, inspired by those used in Jarilan Warriors. The suit read electrical impulses from the pilot’s nervous system and translated them into movement and sensation in much the same way that prosthetic limbs did, bypassing the body from the neck down. It had been designed solely for use by SWAR operatives who received said implant, and Barbosa had been one of the test pilots.

Perhaps its most important feature was its APS system. Contained within that backpack was a shield generator that could form a powerful magnetic field around the suit, dumping plasma from the reactor into it to create a kind of energy barrier. It was directional and reactive, able to disrupt and redirect a plasma bolt, heat and soften a slug or a bullet, and prematurely detonate the payload of a missile. It was intended to provide an extra layer of defense that reduced the effectiveness of threats before they contacted the armor. It was still a work in progress, but larger versions of the same system had been successfully field-tested on Yagda superheavy tanks.

The purpose of Project Bullshark had been to create a powered combat exosuit – or PCE – that would be able to fill gaps left by auxiliaries and wield equipment left behind in the event of a Dire Contingency scenario.

In an event where the UNN left the Coalition, much of the weaponry and equipment intended for auxiliaries like Borealans and Krell would be rendered unusable, as those species were physically larger and stronger than humans. Large-frame XMRs or Krell ballistic shields were simply too big and too heavy to make use of, and would be left collecting dust in stockpiles and armories. There was also the matter of their strength and survivability, which significantly outstripped that of humans. Borealans were eight feet tall and weighed six hundred pounds, while Krell could get even larger and heavier. At just shy of eighteen hundred pounds in its base configuration, the suit had been specifically designed to be carried by vehicles that were rated to transport Krell, avoiding any need for modifications or retrofits.

In Barbosa’s opinion, the Bullshark PCE was the future of warfare and the logical endpoint of all their research into prosthetics. It functionally replaced an operative’s body with an incredibly durable and powerful exoskeleton, making it nigh impervious to small arms fire, able to wield weapons that weighed more than its pilot. It was sealed against radiological, chemical, and biological threats, it could operate in a vacuum, it could go toe to toe with a Betelgeusian Warrior, and it could allow its pilot to march for days without rest.

To Vos, it was an unjustifiable expense – a relic of an outdated way of thinking. In the Admiral’s mind, humans and aliens would walk off into the sunset hand-in-hand, but that was a naive fantasy. Three decades of constant war, the Jarilans, the Rask, the Brokers – it didn’t just go away.

“You’re staring at those things the same way my wife stares at a new dress,” Vos chuckled as he sidled up beside Barbosa.

“Does a new dress make your wife the most dangerous thing in the Galaxy?”

“She doesn’t need a dress for that,” Vos muttered.

Barbosa heard a chatter in his earpiece, and he replied silently, his implants reading subtle movements of the muscles in his jaw. There was no turning back now – his teams were in position.

“I’ve always had a great deal of respect for you,” Barbosa began, the Admiral raising an eyebrow at him. “In this matter, however, I believe that you’re making a deadly error in judgment. I can’t allow you to cancel Dire Contingency.”

“What you can allow is irrelevant,” Vos replied, his brow furrowing. “The decision has been made, and you have no choice but to abide by it, Commander. I’ve heard you out, but the decision is mine and mine alone.”

“The UNN has lost its way,” Barbosa continued, his artificial eyes still fixed on the nearest Bullshark. “It was my hope that you’d be the one to take the reins and lead it back on course.”

“Take the reins?” Vos demanded. “My rank gives me certain privileges, but I’m still beholden to the Admiralty, the General Assembly, and the Security Council. The UNN is controlled by civilians – I don’t have the ability to make unilateral decisions, no matter how much dirt I have on the other Admirals. I can stack the deck, but only so high, and the house always comes to collect.”

“With the technology that you’re developing here, and the connections you’ve cultivated, you could lead a force made up of the most dangerous and intelligent men and women in the colonies. You have friends in the Admiralty, and you’re the de facto leader of SWAR and UNNI at this point. You could remake the UNN into whatever you wanted it to be.”

“I’m going to give you one last chance to forget that we had this conversation,” Vos snarled. “Consider it a favor from an old friend.”

“We all took an oath,” Barbosa continued, ignoring his warning. “To defend humanity from threats foreign and domestic – enemies from without and from within. We’re beset from without by genocidal aliens and allies that undermine us at every turn, and we’re beset from within by weak leaders who won’t do what’s necessary to secure our future.”

Vos lifted a finger to activate an earpiece, then paused, giving Barbosa another wary glance.

“We have an EWAR Courser jamming the site’s comms,” Barbosa explained. “We know all of the encryption keys, and we can access all of your channels, so there’s no chance of you getting a warning out. We’ve shut down all communication within the base – nobody is coming to help.”

“Think very carefully about what you’re about to do,” Vos warned, glaring out from beneath the rim of his cap. “If you choose to go through with whatever this is, there will be no coming back. I won’t cover for you this time.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d join me,” Barbosa replied. “There’s a place for you if you want it. We need leaders with your skills.”

“And here I was thinking I could just shut this place down and not draw attention to myself,” Vos grumbled. “How did you have time to set this up?”

“I have a few sympathetic contacts on-site,” Barbosa explained. “One of them intercepted a memo about the program being canned and forwarded it to my people. You have a disgruntled employee being careless with classified information, I expect.”

“Nilsson,” Vos snarled, turning to glare at the doctor.

“I-I just thought that Barbosa might be able to convince you of the project’s value!” Nilsson protested, raising his hands as though someone was pointing a gun at him. “I’m not involved in this!”

“That gave me a little time to plan,” Barbosa continued. “Truth be told, I’ve been sitting on a dire contingency of my own for quite some time. You shuttering the program merely accelerated my timetable.”

The unmistakable sound of automatic railgun fire echoed from somewhere else in the base, Vos snapping his head around, a few of the lab techs who were watching the exchange with wide eyes flinching.

“What the hell have you done, Barbosa?” Vos demanded.

“I’ve taken the first step towards an independent future,” he replied, drawing his sidearm from its holster with inhuman speed. He pointed it at the Admiral’s chest, forcing him to take a few steps back. “If you’re not going to join me, then stay out of my way.”

He waved the gun, its copper coils shining beneath the harsh light strips, gesturing for Vos to join Nilsson and the handful of assistants who were huddled next to the desk.

More gunfire echoed through the building – closer now – then the door at the far end of the room slid open. A group of heavily armed agents filed through, their XMRs still shouldered, the whir of their prosthetics joining the sound of their heavy footsteps. They were clad in black combat armor and their signature helmets, their chest rigs loaded with gear. They fanned out into the lab, clearing every corner and blind spot with mechanical efficiency, making their way over to Vos. One of the agents – his opaque visor adorned with a stylized playing card – leveled his weapon at the hostages.

“The hangar decks have been secured,” Petrova said as she stepped forward, her voice filtering through the tinny speakers embedded in her helmet. “Nobody is getting in or out. The other teams are still neutralizing the site’s security forces, such as they are. The mothballed equipment that’s been packed up for shipment is under our control.”

“Excellent,” Barbosa replied with a curt nod. “You’ve done well.”

“Hell of a smash and grab,” Hoff chuckled, identifiable by his stature alone. “So, these are the Bullsharks? How are we getting them out of here?”

“We’re wearing them,” Barbosa replied, aiming his handgun at Nilsson. “There are five people present who were part of the test program, including me, and we have six operational suits. Hoff – you need a shunt.”

“I can’t perform that kind of surgery under these conditions!” Nilsson stammered, glancing between the agents. “Implanting a shunt into the cervical vertebra is a delicate procedure – he needs to be immobilized! I don’t even have an anesthesiologist on hand! One wrong move, and-”

“It’s entirely automated, and it can be done in minutes,” Barbosa insisted. “I underwent the procedure myself, in case you forgot. Prepare one of the surgical bots. The rest of you – get us into these suits.”

“I…I won’t,” Nilsson replied, standing up a little straighter with a look of defiance etched onto his face. “I’m not letting you hijack my project.”

“I’m sorry, Nilsson,” Barbosa began. “But time isn’t on my side today.”

Barbosa turned the gun on one of his assistants, putting two rounds into their chest. The slugs punched through their body like it was made of paper, the young man collapsing to the floor, dragging an office chair along with him. He lay there unmoving, two large patches of red spreading across his white lab coat. There were gasps of alarm, one of the other assistants shrieking, everyone backing away as Barbosa aimed his weapon at the next cowering lab technician.

“Alright, alright!” Nilsson exclaimed. “God damn – do what he says!”

“Is this how you protect humanity, Barbosa?” Vos asked dryly.

The techs scurried away, one of them manning the computers while a couple more moved over to the suits. They worked under the watchful eyes of a couple of agents while Nilsson began to prep a surgical bot that was attached to one of the gurneys. His fingers tapped at its touch interface, its many mechanical limbs uncurling, each one tipped with a grasping claw or gleaming medical tool.

“I will administer nerve blockers, but the pain relief will be temporary,” Nilsson warned. “The patient must strive to remain still.”

“This is gonna hurt like a bitch later, Hoff,” Barbosa warned. “No time to put you under, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve had worse,” Hoff replied gruffly, unsealing his helmet and tugging it off. “No pain, no gain,” he added as he ran his polymer fingers through his blonde hair.

“Just…lie down here,” Nilsson said as he directed the agent to the gurney with a trembling hand. “I need to prep the implant.”

“Keep an eye on him,” Barbosa said with a nod to Joker, who shadowed the scientists with his weapon drawn.

Barbosa turned to the suits, watching as the technicians opened one up, its torso plates splitting apart to expose the padded interior. This wasn’t his first rodeo – he’d been very involved in the testing phase – and he could already get inside one unaided.

He put his back to the seven-foot suit and stowed his sidearm, reaching up to grab the metal bars that came down over its shoulders to anchor it to the bay, raising himself with his prosthetic limbs like he was doing leg lifts. He slotted his legs into the recesses in the suit’s thighs, then pushed both arms into the sleeves one by one, feeling the soft material enclose them. It wasn’t the most comfortable ride, but he wouldn’t be feeling much below his neck for very long.

There were no controls – no buttons or switches or pedals – the plug situated behind his neck slowly extending from the suit’s lining. He winced as he felt it socket to its counterpart, mating with the implant that had been surgically grafted to his spine, pain like a thousand pinched nerves radiating through him for a lingering moment. His extremities were filled with tingling static, then it cleared, new sensations directly from the suit flooding his senses.

There was no feeling from his organics or his limbs now, the shunt redirecting his motor functions to the PCE and relaying its sensory data as though it were his own. It wasn’t so different from a prosthetic limb, just on a larger scale. He raised a mechanical hand that was large enough to enclose a man’s head, touching his thumb and forefinger together, his brain taking a few moments to calibrate to having arms a foot longer than they should be. The feeling of power and scale was immense, his new weight tangible, his digits alone now nearly as thick as his wrist had been.

He willed the suit to close, watching the panels seal him within its protective armor, only his head left exposed. A technician opened the cradle, the metal bars lifting away to release him, and he stepped down onto the deck with a loud thud that sent the techs retreating to safety. The impact shook the nearby workstations, sending a few errant tools clattering to the floor. Servos whirred, the shining pistons that made up the exoskeleton pushing and pulling, hundreds of pounds of armor plating vibrating with each step.

“That’s better,” he sighed, cracking his neck as he stared down at the other agents. How small they seemed from this new perspective. All of the aches and pains of his organic body were canceled out by the PCE’s feedback, leaving him feeling thirty years younger. “Let’s pick up the pace, people. Time’s wasting.”

More of the agents were setting down their weapons and loading into the PCEs with the help of the assistants, Petrova and Song among them.

Hoff was lying face-down on the gurney now, his face slotted into a circular pillow as though he was getting ready for a massage, his suit pulled down to expose his neck and shoulders. Above him, the mechanical arms of the robot splayed out under Nilsson’s direction, a scalpel gleaming as it caught the light.

“I’m telling you,” Nilsson pleaded, hesitating with his finger hovering over the controls. “If the subject so much as flinches, I could sever a nerve or damage the spinal cord.”

“Hold him still, Joker,” Barbosa said.

The agent stowed his PDW and moved over to Hoff’s side, putting his prosthetic hands on his counterpart’s broad shoulders and pressing him into the gurney. The grinning face on his playing card helmet decal made it look like he was very amused by the situation.

“Hold still, big guy,” he said.

“Do it,” Barbosa ordered.

Nilsson finally gave in, pressing the panel, Joker leaning away as a dozen mechanical arms descended. One of them swabbed the back of Hoff’s neck, leaving a smear of orange disinfectant on his skin before injecting the local anesthetic, a gleaming scalpel descending as a green laser grid mapped the site. Hoff grunted as the blade cut into him, a pair of dexterous robotic claws peeling open his flesh, the unmistakable whir of a bone saw following. The robot moved with incredible speed and precision, and although the pain would be blocked for now, it was a hell of a thing to experience while conscious.

More of the PCEs were stepping down from their cradles now, rolling their shoulders and flexing their fingers, their heavy footfalls shaking the deck. Song and Petrova were suited up, along with two of Barbosa’s right-hand men. There was Roach – identifiable by the insect design emblazoned on his visor, and Crow – with his stylized bird decal. They were both veterans of numerous campaigns and sympathetic to the cause.

When Barbosa looked back at Hoff, the surgical robot was lowering the implant. A hole had been bored into his vertebra, exposing the spinal cord, the device designed to slot inside it neatly. There was a rounded cap that remained outside the body like a plug, the silver sockets that covered it contrasting with its dark polymer, the dozens of tiny wires that dangled from the implant making it resemble a jellyfish.

Using its fine manipulators, the robot began to join those wires to individual nerves, Hoff’s groans becoming more pained and urgent. Joker leaned a little more weight on him, watching in fascination.

While the nerve blocker would numb the pain for now, it must be an uncomfortable experience indeed. Each of their prosthetics and implants had been connected in the same way, bridging nerves that had been severed during amputation. Barbosa remembered the sensation well. It was a little like having a thousand toothaches at once, all concentrated in one area of the body.

“We’re loaded, Boss,” Song said as he shifted his suit’s immense weight from leg to leg. His canopy snapped shut, rising from behind his head and slamming into place like a closing jaw, locking to the raised collars around his neck to create a pressure seal. It was covered in shining camera lenses that were spread out around its angular armor plates, a camera dome situated beneath the sloping chin beginning to swivel and focus as it scanned the environment for threats. The Bullshark got its name from the way that the canopy formed a kind of slanted, triangular nose reminiscent of a shark, helping to deflect projectiles. True to its namesake, the canopy was decorated with a set of painted shark teeth.

“Proceed to the armory and gear up,” Barbosa ordered. “Take everything you can carry.”

They began to lumber away across the lab, simply pushing aside workstations and equipment with their mass, more canopies slamming into place.

Barbosa remained, watching the surgical robot cauterize bleeds with a flickering laser, sealing the wound beneath the polymer cap. Finally, its arms withdrew, and Joker stepped away to let Hoff rise. The agent was clearly shaken, his face pale and drenched in sweat, a trembling hand reaching behind his head to feel for the new implant.

“Report,” Barbosa ordered.

“Arms and legs still work, Boss,” he replied as he stood shakily.

“The surgery was successful,” Nilsson added with palpable relief. “I would usually recommend that the subject take a few days to rest and heal, but I doubt you’re going to listen…”

“Your suit, Hoff,” Barbosa said with a gesture to the remaining PCE. “It’s more intuitive than it looks. It takes a little getting used to, but all I need you to do right now is walk. Think you can handle that?”

Hoff nodded, his pale face determined. He marched over to the cradle, the nervous techs opening up the PCE, and he climbed inside. He growled through gritted teeth as it connected to his new shunt, his eyes widening, the new sensations assailing him. Once the suit had sealed up, he staggered out of the cradle, taking a few unsteady steps. He reached out a hand to steady himself against a nearby table, the metal sagging under his weight like it was made of foil.

“You got this?” Barbosa pressed.

“I feel…bigger,” he muttered as he raised a mechanical hand to his face. “Bigger than usual. I can’t feel any of my organics anymore. I never realized how…aware of them I was before.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Nothing hurts anymore,” he mumbled.

“Good – then get your ass to the armory,” Barbosa replied with a wave of his massive hand. “Joker – stay here and keep an eye on our friends. The rest of you – hold the fort.”

The agent in question turned his PDW on the scientists again, waving for them to group up with Vos, while the other handful of SWAR operatives fanned out into the lab.

“There’s nowhere you can go, Barbosa,” Vos called after him. “Nowhere I can’t find you. You should know that by now.”

“I’m not planning on hiding,” Barbosa called back.

He marched through the lab, pushing aside the partially assembled Bullshark hulls that were hanging from chains as though they weighed no more than a shower curtain, Hoff following behind. He was still stumbling a little, but he’d pick it up quickly. There were no controls to learn, after all. It was mostly about one’s mind adjusting to their new body’s dimensions.

There was an armory designed for weapon testing adjoining the lab. It featured a long firing range that had been hollowed out of the asteroid’s rock, extending maybe fifty meters to rows of paper targets, racks of weapons and workbenches strewn with spare parts filling the room.

Barbosa stepped through the large doorway to find the other PCEs gearing up. They were hefting large-frame XMRs designed for use by Borealans and Krell, their up-sized mechanical hands the perfect scale to wield them.

The standard configuration had a barrel that would be considered long for a human-scale weapon, but was more of a medium on this frame, tipped with a muzzle device that prevented arc flashes. There was a forward grip below an underslung plasma launcher to help with handling, but no stock, as the suit could absorb all of the recoil. A drum magazine gave them one hundred slugs, the considerable weight easily mitigated by the PCE. It was topped with a high magnification scope and a shorter range holo sight, but targeting would be slaved to the suits.

In place of sidearms, the suits were equipped with a pair of XMHs that were integrated into the armor on the wrist above the left hand, the twin barrels fed by a magazine that was loaded below the forearm. The XMH was the handgun equivalent of the XMR, far smaller in scale but still very potent. Even the smallest variant could spit out handgun-caliber slugs at a prodigious rate of fire. He watched Petrova slam a small drum mag into her arm, the glint of copper coils visible beneath the molded shroud that covered the barrels.

There were also a couple of Krell ballistic shields – massive slabs of metal that could soak up a huge amount of punishment through their sheer mass alone. These had been adapted for use by PCEs, a bulky, overengineered locking mechanism closing around the hand and forearm to secure them in place. He watched Roach lift one, a shield in his right hand and his twin XMHs adorning the left.

Barbosa strode over to a nearby workbench, picking up the XMR that he’d used during testing and loading it, switching on its battery. Only now did he slam his canopy shut, plunging him into momentary darkness before the displays that lined the inside of the armor flared to life, switching on one by one to show a real-time camera feed from outside. It was as though the canopy had become transparent. Were he wearing his helmet, it would have interfaced with that, too. Instead, the data from his rifle appeared on a HUD, tracking battery charge and other information, one of the displays showing a feed from its scope.

A lot of the equipment had already been loaded into crates ready for shipping, piled high on a wheeled cart. The attack couldn’t have come at a better time.

“Hoff – take the cart,” Barbosa said with a gesture to it. “Just focus on motor skills right now.”

“Got it,” he replied, closing a massive hand around the bar-shaped handle. “Shit,” he muttered as the metal bent in his grip like a paper straw.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Crow laughed.

“Alright, let’s get the hell out of here,” Barbosa said as he turned his heavy suit on the spot and headed back out into the lab. The rest of the team followed behind him, marching along in a procession, Hoff taking up the rear as he tugged the cart along. “One of you grab a gurney,” he added, gesturing to the nearest surgical robot. “We’ll need it. Song – go beam everything on their servers to the Walk Softly. We want all the data and schematics they have on file. They should have a pretty potent laser transmitter designed for communicating with the other bases in the system.”

Song marched over to the computer terminal and extended a massive hand. From recesses on its palm emerged a set of skeletal, human-sized prosthetic fingers designed to interface with smaller devices, starting to dance across the keyboard.

“You…you can’t just steal all of my work!” Nilsson protested, backing up a little as Joker aimed his weapon at him.

“Don’t worry, Nilsson,” Barbosa replied. “Your work will continue. You’re coming with us.”

“I most certainly am not!” he protested.

“Guess again, dickhead,” Joker added as he waved his gun.

Another of the agents took one of the gurneys, wheeling it along, the men preparing to leave.

“Shame we can’t totally clean the place out,” Hoff said as he appraised the disassembled suits and spare parts.

“We have what we need,” Barbosa replied.

“The other teams are reporting that the assets have been secured, and they’re pulling out,” Petrova announced. “We have a straight shot to hangar two.”

“What do you even hope to accomplish with this farce?” Vos demanded. “You can’t possibly think that you can take on the whole UNN with six Bullsharks and a couple of Coursers.”

“This is only our first stop,” Barbosa replied. “Our next destination is the Mu Arae naval base, where I believe the carrier that you rode into the system on is currently docked. It’s on its way to Hades for patrol duty – so I’m told. Most of the crew will be on the station stretching their legs while the ship resupplies. Security will be minimal, and they won’t be expecting an attack from their own.”

“You’re going after a Jump Carrier?” Vos scoffed. “You really have lost the plot, Barbosa. Do you even have enough warm bodies to operate a ship of that size?”

“You let me worry about that,” Barbosa replied. “Get moving. The rest of the scientists, too. You’re all coming with us.”

“I won’t be your hostage,” Vos replied, locking eyes with the Bullshark’s camera dome.

“You don’t have a choice,” Barbosa said, gesturing to one of the SWAR agents. The man gave Vos a shove, putting a hand on his shoulder and forcing him to move. Nilsson and his staff didn’t need the same encouragement, hurrying along as their odd procession made its way out of the lab and into the corridor outside.

They marched through the winding hallways, passing more labs and side doors, Hoff pulling his cart while one of the agents pushed the gurney. The Bullsharks had to move in single file, tall enough that their canopies very nearly scraped the ceiling, and wide enough that a normal human would have trouble squeezing past them. Barbosa led the way with most of the group following behind, but he kept Vos in front of him, keeping a watchful eye on the Admiral as one of the agents pushed him along.

The evidence of the attack was painted all over the station, burn marks and slug holes pocking the walls, a few dead security personnel slumped on the floor here and there. SWAR had taken them by surprise, and they hadn’t been equipped for this kind of fight. The Bugs had no interest in boarding asteroid stations.

Vos and his captor rounded a bend ahead of the pack, then there was the sound of a scuffle, the deck shaking beneath Barbosa’s feet as he accelerated. As he rounded the corner, he saw Vos through his cameras. The Admiral had lifted a hand over his shoulder and was grabbing the SWAR agent’s wrist, his pristine white glove removed to reveal the lining of the suit he was wearing beneath his uniform. Barbosa recognized the grey-blue material with its vein-like cables and traces – it was a UNNI survival suit. It was discharging its batteries into the agent, wisps of smoke rising from his prosthetic arm, his body shaking violently as he was electrocuted.

Before the agent’s lifeless body could fall, Vos spun around, grabbing the man by his chest rig. He pulled the body close, using it as a shield, his hand darting to the sidearm on the agent’s hip. Vos aimed the barrel at Barbosa and let fly a few rounds, backing away quickly, heading for a nearby side door. There was a flash of light, the PCE’s active protection flickering to life, a barrier of glowing plasma intercepting the slugs. They flash-heated, turning to slag that splashed harmlessly against the underlying armor.

It was enough of a distraction for Vos to hit the panel on the door, and he dove inside, letting the body topple to the deck. A couple of agents rushed to Barbosa’s side, giving chase, but he extended a massive arm to stop them.

“Leave him to me,” he grumbled. “Proceed to the hangar.”

He marched forwards, finding a door that was too small for his PCE. Placing his hands to either side of the frame, he simply tore it open as though it was no stronger than fabric, the metal wrenching and creaking as he shouldered his way through the breach. Barbosa found himself standing in another lab, this one filled with tanks of suspension fluid that contained alien specimens. The lights had been shut off, plunging the room into darkness, only the eerie green glow from the tanks illuminating the room.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Vos,” Barbosa began as his voice echoed from his suit’s speakers. “I had hoped that we might see eye to eye – that in time, you would understand why I’m doing this. I wanted you by my side.”

He took a few lumbering steps forward, sweeping a dissection table aside and sending it crashing to the floor, scalpels and tools scattering. There seemed to be no other doors leading out of the lab – the Admiral was cornered.

“I wish I had come to you sooner – perhaps before Kerguela. That was when the aliens really got their teeth into you.”

Barbosa switched camera modes, cycling through night vision, then thermal. It allowed him to see the power cables that were routed behind the walls, along with the lower-than-ambient temperature of the suspension fluid, his camera dome scanning the lab.

“You can’t hide from me,” Barbosa growled, marching forward and pushing aside more chairs and desks. Too late, he noticed that one of the nearby tanks was warmer than the rest, a gunshot ringing out. The glass shattered, the fluid within exploding outward and showering his PCE, a partially decomposed Betelgeusian Drone slumping to the floor. The fluid doused his cameras, making his vision momentarily blurry on the right side of his suit, but he caught the unmistakable heat signature of a humanoid figure rounding the tank. Vos was gripping a scalpel in his hand, trying to get behind the PCE – perhaps hoping to sever some of its hydraulics.

Barbosa swept an arm into him, lifting Vos off his feet and tossing him across the lab like a doll. The Admiral smashed through another tank, passing straight through the glass and landing on a metal table hard enough to dent it. He slumped to the ground, lying motionless, his arm twisted unnaturally.

“Boss, we’re waiting for you in the hangar,” Petrova said over the radio. “Are you coming?”

“I’m on my way,” he replied, turning to the door. “The Admiral has been taken care of. Sorry, old friend,” he added as he switched back to his speakers. “But you left me no choice.”

He made his way through the corridors, soon arriving at the hangar. It had been hollowed out of the asteroid just like the firing range, creating a large cavity in the rock, the floor overlaid with metal paneling. It was shielded from space by the blue glow of a molecular force field, keeping the atmosphere inside while allowing solid objects to pass through. Four dropships with stubby wings and H-shaped tail fins were idling on the deck, the agents loading their haul of crates and equipment into their troop bays, the PCEs climbing inside. The US-82 Leadbeater was rated to carry Krell passengers, so the Bullsharks shouldn’t pose any problems.

“Where’s the Admiral?” Petrova asked, her tone conveying her confusion despite the canopy that covered her face.

“He was uncooperative,” Barbosa replied evasively. “We’re moving out.”

“We’re almost done loading,” Petrova replied, hesitating conspicuously for a few moments. “The Coursers are warming up their drives for the jump.”

“Good,” he replied, heading for his dropship.

He climbed inside the shadowy bay, taking up position behind another PCE, the two rows of crash couches that were bolted to the bulkheads to either side of him seating two teams of six agents. These craft were usually configured to carry a squad of Marines or auxiliaries into combat, with space for two Krell that would stand in the aisle. There was a loud clunk as Barbosa engaged the electromagnets on his boots, locking him to the deck.

The little squadron of dropships dusted off, flying out through the force field and into open space, their twin engines flaring. Their destination was close by – a trio of SpecOps Coursers holding position just beyond the base. They were small, light craft with extremely potent superlight drives, usually configured for maximum speed and minimal mass. In a Galaxy where travel time between planets could take months, they were the best way to get VIPs and time-sensitive cargo from A to B. They were needle-like in their shape, with a bulky engine and reactor module at the rear connected to a pointed forward section via a skeletal gib that resembled the arm of a crane. At the bow was the bridge, the cargo bay, and a barebones crew module.

The examples used by SWAR were modified to fit ship-to-ship missiles, electronic warfare equipment, and gantries that held drop pods for rapid orbital insertions. They sacrificed a little in terms of mass, but they made for quick, quiet ships from which to operate.

The dropships joined up with their counterparts that were emerging from other hangars, falling into formation beside the Coursers. They weren’t docking, however. The Naval base where the carrier was berthed was a short jump deeper into the system, and the larger Coursers could pull the dropships along with them.

“Jump drives are spooled,” the pilot announced, reaching up to tap at some switches above his head. “We are green to jump.”

“Do it,” Barbosa ordered.

CHAPTER 2

2628 – MU ARAE NAVAL STATION – BARBOSA

The trio of Coursers emerged in high orbit around a gas giant, bands of colorful clouds swirling around its equator, pooling in places like watercolor paint to form giant storms. Some of the agents sitting in the seats to either side of Barbosa cradled their heads and cursed, the effects of the jump leaving them dizzy and nauseated. Barbosa had done so many jumps that he barely felt the effects anymore.

They had landed outside of visual range of the Naval station, the planet hiding their presence, the formation of ships beginning a burn that would bring them closer. Slowly, as they rounded the gas giant, their telescopes picked up the outpost rising above the planet’s horizon. It was a torus-shaped structure that glinted against the dark backdrop of space with its matte-white hull, a series of spokes bridging a central control area, making it look like a bicycle wheel. It wasn’t too different in appearance from Fort Hamilton, albeit being much, much smaller at barely half a kilometer across. This one was more of a waystation, intended mostly for sentry duty and resupplying passing ships.

There was the carrier – docked to the station via several umbilicals that extended from the torus. It was as long as the station was wide, its ocean-grey hull patterned with Navy blue livery, bristling with railguns and CIWS turrets. Unlike the angular stealth look of many UNN vessels, carriers were too large to hide, and they had a more rounded appearance. The carrier was shaped vaguely like a railgun slug, with its hangars and elevated bridge section situated toward the stern, while a slimmer section covered in guns and torpedo tubes extended to the bow. To the port and starboard were the hangar decks, the blue glow of the force fields that covered them easily visible. With a full complement, the vessel could field up to ninety aircraft. He could see the yellow glint of the light that shone through the windows on the raised bridge atop them, and further back were the giant engine cones, currently idle.

Jump carriers were the beating heart of a fleet, using their massive jump drives to drag other ships across the stars. They could carry up to ten thousand personnel, field squadrons of fighters and dropships, and keep their strike group supplied with fuel and oxygen practically indefinitely. Barbosa didn’t have nearly enough people to max out its capacity, nor did he have an abundance of fighter pilots, but even the most stripped-down jump carrier would give him the ability to control a planet. It was a mobile fortress – able to sustain his rebellion potentially for years.

This one was as vulnerable as carriers got. It was on routine patrol without an escort fleet – most of its crew would be taking leave on the station, and they wouldn’t be expecting an attack like this. He had to leverage the element of surprise, and he had to do it quickly.

They drew closer to the station, Barbosa able to spot the small windows that lined its torus, along with a small hangar deck for shuttles and its complement of defensive fighters.

“Jamming their comms,” Song announced.

“We need to be on the hull and outside the firing arcs of their guns before they realize what’s happening,” Barbosa added. “Put the EWAR Courser on the opposite side of the station where they can’t target it, and jump the others away once the salvo has been fired.”

The three Coursers could fit sixty passengers each – albeit uncomfortably – and it was just enough room to transport his army of two hundred agents. They were all loyal to him, sympathetic to the cause, and willing to die for their oaths. Over a decade, Barbosa had cultivated his inner circle, growing it through slow and cautious recruitment. He had identified the malcontents, poring over field reports and personnel files, creating an organization within the organization. Each Courser had towed its own little squadron of five dropships, and with twelve passengers each, they could transport his entire force.

The craft banked away now, forming up as they headed for the docked carrier, Barbosa watching it grow through the pilot’s canopy. That grey hull formed a new horizon, covered in armored plates broken up by the occasional defensive gun or missile hatch, the dropships firing their thrusters as they decelerated to hover a couple of feet above it. They spread out all around the carrier, slowly drifting along, the harsh light from the system’s star sending dark shadows sweeping along beneath them.

Every team knew where they would be inserting – they had gone over the mission plan dozens of times, and they all knew the standardized layout of a jump carrier. There were thirty teams, each with its own task, be it securing areas of the ship or capturing specific systems. The Bullsharks would be split up into two teams tasked with capturing the most crucial and heavily defended sections of the ship – the bridge and the reactor room.

“Check suit seals,” Barbosa ordered over the radio. The SWAR agents sitting in the seats to either side of him began to run through their pressure tests, ensuring that their suits were pressurized and safe for vacuum. Once all thirty team leaders had reported green seals, he broadcast another message over their radio, addressing everyone in his small fleet.

“Weapons free,” he said, his synthetic voice carrying across the network. “Show no mercy. Those of you who are younger – who might not have served during the Expansion – may have misgivings about killing your fellow humans. This is something that our species has done since our earliest ancestor first lifted a rock off the ground, and it’s a part of us – part of you. What we do here today may very well determine the fate of our species, and the blood we spill is the price we pay. And load squash-head slugs – I don’t want any holes in my new flagship. Good hunting.”

“Depressurizing,” the pilot announced, reaching up to hit some switches. Barbosa didn’t feel it from inside his suit, but he could see his atmospheric sensors tracking the pressure drop, the air filtering away. A red light above the troop bay door turned green, then the ramp began to lower, exposing the passengers to open space.

Barbosa walked backwards, releasing the electromagnets that secured his boots to the deck, his heavy suit floating weightlessly as it left the bay. He gently pushed off from the underside of the dropship’s tail, drifting lower, activating the magnets again once he felt cold metal beneath his feet. It was a strange sensation, akin to the simulated neural feedback from prosthetic limbs. Standing on the curving hull now, he looked up as Song’s PCE followed, landing beside him as light as a feather. Next came the SWAR teams, the agents splitting into two teams of six. More dropships were disgorging their passengers nearby, the teams walking across the hull as they sought out their insertion points.

Petrova marched over to join them, one of the massive ballistic shields locked to her suit’s arm.

“Teams are getting into position,” she announced.

“Won’t be long before they figure out something’s up,” Song added, his oversized XMR gripped in his mechanical hands.

“Once all the teams are ready, tell them to fire the missiles,” Barbosa added.

The trio of Bullsharks walked along the hull, their footsteps reverberating through the metal, one of the SWAR teams moving along beside them. Just like the suits, the agents had electromagnets either in their boots or their prosthetics, walking with a slow gait that always kept one foot on the ground. Without an atmosphere, Barbosa could see along the whole length of the ship in perfect clarity, the way that the horizon curved away playing tricks on his brain.

They soon reached an access door close to the bridge, the structure rising up above them almost like a building in its own right. He zoomed in on the large main viewport with his cameras, seeing shapes moving beyond it.

“Fire,” Petrova ordered.

Barbosa glanced up into the inky black, starry sky, seeing one of the Coursers unleash a salvo of missiles from the cylindrical launchers that had been grafted to its spindly midsection. They dropped away, orienting themselves with small flashes of blue flame from their maneuvering thrusters, then they blazed across the dark backdrop on bright engine plumes. He tracked them, watching silent explosions billow as they impacted the umbilicals that secured the carrier to the station. One by one, the flimsy gantries tore apart, crystallized atmosphere spilling from them like glittering blood from a severed artery. The gentle push was enough to send the two massive structures slowly drifting apart. There would be no reinforcements from the station now.

The last missile streaked into the station’s hangar bay, bright flame filling the space, the blue force field flickering for a moment before it failed and let the explosion spill out. Barbosa expected two Beewolf fighters to be docked there, and they wouldn’t pose a threat to the Coursers any longer.

“Go, go, go!” Barbosa ordered.

The carriers used standard access codes for their emergency airlocks, one of the agents opening the outer door with a simple button press. The airlock was only large enough for a few people at a time, so the team went first, the outer door closing again as it pressurized. Once they were through the inner door, the Bullsharks followed one by one, Barbosa leading the way. The chamber within was just large enough for a Krell, so the PCE fit, the inner door opening into a corridor with a hiss.

Barbosa had served on many carriers in his time, and the environs were immediately familiar. The walls were mostly exposed bulkheads and naked metal, water and electrical pipes snaking along the ceiling above his head, the deck mostly made up of removable grates that concealed more utilities. The maze-like, cramped hallways were marked with color-coded lines that ran along the walls, leading people to different sections. He could see the blue line marked with stenciled letters that spelled bridge. The SWAR agents had already secured the corridor, their weapons aimed to cover the corners.

A minute later, and the other Bullsharks were inside, the suits so large that two of them couldn’t quite stand side by side. A klaxon began to blare, red warning lights bathing the hallway, a voice echoing over the intercom.

“This is your Captain speaking. We are being boarded by unknown hostiles. Repeat – we are being boarded. Battle stations. Battle stations.”

“Looks like our cover has been blown,” Song mused.

“Time to go loud,” Barbosa replied, aiming his XMR down the hallway. “Fall in.”

The three Bullsharks began to lumber down the hallway with Petrova leading the way, her shield raised, their heavy footfalls and the grinding of servos and pistons echoing. The team of six agents flanked them in the same formation they might have used while escorting a vehicle, their rifles shouldered.

Based on what Barbosa knew about UNN security protocols, what Marines remained on the ship would be moving to defend the bridge and the reactor, and they’d be scrambling with little notice and spotty intel. They probably still had no idea what was really happening or who was attacking them.

From a junction a few meters ahead, a trio of figures jogged into view. It was three Marines – identifiable by the black body armor they wore over their Navy blue pressure suits, PDW variants of the XMR clutched in their hands. One of them hadn’t even had time to put his helmet on yet.

The helmetless man in question noticed them, spinning around, his eyes wide.

“What the fuck is that?”

He raised his PDW, aiming it at what to him must resemble a giant mass of metal blocking the hallway, his two companions following suit.

“Identify yourselves!” the Marine beside him barked through his helmet speakers.

“What the…is that SWAR?” another asked, glancing between his friends. “Aren’t they on our side?”

One of the SWAR agents took a knee, dropping the helmetless man with a short burst that caught him in the chest, firing around Petrova’s shield. Even using squash heads at relatively low voltage, the ceramic armor didn’t stand a chance, the slugs perforating it and sparking against the wall behind the target. That prompted the two remaining Marines to return fire, spraying wildly as they tried to retreat into cover. Their slugs slammed against the ballistic shield, pancaking against its tough armor, Petrova moving the slab to cover the operatives.

Barbosa needed no such protection, leaning around her to fire his large-frame XMR down the corridor. His APS wasn’t active with friendly troops so close, as the plasma shield could fry them just as easily as it would a projectile, and he felt his suit shake as one of the rounds deflected off his slanted canopy and buried itself in the mess of pipes above him. The concept of wearable armor that could defeat a handheld railgun was still a novelty.

He fired his weapon from the hip, the data link between his suit and the scope projecting a path on his displays showing exactly where the shots would travel. It was like playing a damned VR game. Barely feeling recoil that would knock a human on their ass, he sent a trio of slugs at the nearest Marine, catching him in the shoulder just as he tried to duck behind a corner. The kinetic energy conveyed by the projectiles tore off his arm and took a chunk out of his torso, spinning him and tossing him against the bulkhead behind him, his blood painting the wall.

The next target was in cover, but Barbosa could track him on the thermal cameras, his glowing silhouette visible on the displays. The Commander turned up the XMR’s voltage setting, then took aim, the next round punching straight through the wall. It left a crater in the metal like someone poking a finger into soft butter, molten slag and shrapnel exploding out from the other side like a grenade, the Marine who was standing behind it thrown to the ground in bloody tatters.

“Push up,” Barbosa ordered, Petrova starting to move again. The operatives rushed ahead to check the corners, clearing the junction, one of them tapping a dead Marine with the skid of his prosthetic leg.

“Got it,” Song announced. “Commander, I’ve tapped into their local IFF system. They shouldn’t surprise us again.”

“Keep your eyes open,” Barbosa added. “They could come from any direction.”

The team advanced, taking the shortest route to the bridge. It was one of the most defensible positions on the ship, and it could be totally isolated from the rest of the decks, but Bug boarding parties didn’t usually have Navy access codes. Barbosa checked the progress of the other teams, pulling up feeds on his displays. He overlaid a rough blueprint of the ship, his troops displayed with small blue dots, slowly spreading through the carrier. The other Bullshark team was still moving aft, not far from engineering now. If they didn’t get the job done, the crew could scram the reactors, or worse – initiate an emergency core dump that would jettison them into space and leave the carrier crippled.

Barbosa opened a helmet cam feed from one of the Bullsharks, watching from Roach’s perspective as he trudged along a corridor, his shield raised. From a side door ahead of him, a Marine leaned out, tossing a grenade into the hallway. It exploded, filling the corridor with smoke and debris, but the PCE was unharmed. Cutting through the haze with his thermal cameras, Roach aimed around his shield, the twin XMHs mounted on his forearm chattering. They punched through the swirling dust, leaving trails of molten tungsten, cutting the unfortunate Marine to ribbons. Two of the operatives rushed past the suit, stacking up at the door and moving inside, more gunshots ringing out.

“Progress?” Barbosa demanded.

“We’re facing heavy resistance,” Roach replied, blocking another hail of gunfire with his ballistic shield. “They’re starting to get more organized. Nothing we can’t handle, though.”

“Keep pushing – we need to secure those reactors,” Barbosa added before closing the feed.

As they advanced through the metal bowels of the ship, they spotted something to their right. Several signals appeared on Barbosa’s HUD, showing blue names and ranks, moving to intercept. They were IFF tags, the Marine helmets broadcasting them to friendly units automatically, announcing their presence.

“Right side,” one of the agents said, gesturing for his squad to move up with a wave of his prosthetic hand. Three of them knelt ahead of the PCEs, while the remaining three aimed over their heads – a standard formation that maximized firepower in the confines of ships and trenches. A few moments later, five Marines jogged into view, faltering when they spotted the firing line and the giant suits.

The hallway filled with the report of gunfire, a hail of slugs tossing the three Marines at the front of the pack off their feet, blood splattering the wall behind them as they crumpled to the deck. The two at the rear pulled back, laying down panicked covering fire, but the agents pushed up to give chase. One of them aimed his rifle around the corner as though intending to blind-fire, but using the in-picture feed from his scope, he could line up some accurate shots. As the procession of PCEs continued on, Barbosa glanced around the corner to see the agent finishing off a wounded Marine with his sidearm.

Another announcement came over the intercom, echoing through the hallways.

“This is your Captain speaking. We are being boarded by unknown forces dressed as friendlies. Repeat – they are dressed as friendlies. If you come across anyone wearing a non-standard uniform, shoot on sight. You cannot rely on the IFF system. Repeat – the IFF system has been compromised.”

“Sounds like they finally figured out what’s going on,” Song mused.

“There will still be much confusion,” Petrova replied.

“And we must leverage that,” Barbosa added.

They rounded a corner, coming across a sealed bulkhead that blocked their path.

“They’ve started isolating sections of the ship,” Petrova grumbled. “Agent – get that door open,” she added, one of the operatives starting to move ahead.

“Belay that,” Barbosa said, the agent stopping in his tracks. Barbosa moved closer to the sealed bulkhead, easing Petrova forward – staying behind her. There was a narrow window made from reinforced material, and beyond it, he could make out a group of figures taking up position on the other side. “It’s an ambush. Looks like they’ve already turned off their IFF tags.”

“This is the only way to the bridge from this deck,” Song added. “We’ll have to double back and find a more circuitous route.”

“No – we go through,” Barbosa insisted. “Turn your shields on. Agents – keep your distance. APS is going hot.”

The operatives began to retreat back down the corridor, ducking into cover behind the nearest corner. Petrova moved within arm’s reach of the door, then secured her boots to the deck with a loud thud that reverberated through the metal, activating the electromagnets to root her in place. She drew back her left arm with a whir of motors and pistons, then drove it forward, slamming her fist into the door. It buckled in its frame, ringing like a gong, another blow denting it inward. The third hit tore it from its frame and sent the heavy door crashing to the floor, Petrova raising her ballistic shield just in time for a dozen Marines to unload into it.

It was commendable, considering the situation. They had set up at the far end of the corridor at a T-junction some twenty meters away, aiming their weapons around the corners, several lying prone on the deck. There were a few side doors along the corridor where more Marines were firing from, exposing themselves as little as possible. They unleashed a torrent of slugs, the sound of them hitting Petrova’s shield reminiscent of rain on sheet metal, ricochets and errant rounds blasting holes in the walls and ceiling. One of them struck a pipe, spraying the PCEs with a jet of steam. One of the Marines lying on the deck was setting up a far larger weapon, dense coils lining a barrel that was almost as long as he was, an insulated cable running from its receiver to a large battery that was sat beside him.

“AMR!” Barbosa warned.

Amidst the suppressive XMR fire, a far louder shot rang out, the concussive force of the blast deafening his suit’s microphones. The anti-material railgun was a weapon designed for killing Warriors and low-flying spacecraft, the coils accelerating a 20mm slug at multiple times the speed of sound, the projectile striking Petrova’s shield like a hammer. It punched through, creating a massive crater, the layers of ceramics and metal splashing as though turned to liquid. The remains of the slug and the fragments from her shield sprayed out from the other side like a shaped charge, showering her torso and canopy. Her suit’s APS flickered on, a barrier of plasma forming to intercept the debris, flash-heating it to slag. It impacted harmlessly against her armor – rendered too soft to penetrate – but the round still had too much mass and velocity, the chunk of partially melted tungsten hitting her chest piece. It carried enough force to bury itself in the plating, the ceramics deforming like dough, the force of the impact enough to knock back the eighteen-hundred-pound suit. She crashed into Barbosa, and he prevented her from falling, keeping her upright.

“Keep that shield raised!” he ordered, his plasma APS flickering and flashing as it intercepted more XMR slugs. He could feel them hammering his suit like hail, pocking his armor panels, the flecks of molten metal welding themselves to the PCE’s charcoal black coating.

Petrova was shaken, but she repositioned her shield to cover the team, raising her gun arm. She unleashed a burst of return fire from her twin XMHs, sweeping them across the corridor. The handgun rounds were enough to force a few of the shooters back into cover, blowing holes in the walls, one of them hitting an electrical box and creating a shower of sparks.

The AMR was prepping another shot – Barbosa knew how long it took those capacitors to charge. He barged past Petrova, shouldering her suit aside, his HUD painting a trajectory to the Marine’s head as he aimed his weapon. He loosed a burst of gunfire, and his target vanished in a pink mist, the shrapnel from the slugs impacting the deck killing the Marine beside him as well.

Barbosa continued to advance, accelerating his suit to a lumbering run, his APS flashing where incoming rounds found their mark. The Marines were beginning their retreat now, laying down covering fire, but they couldn’t scratch a Bullshark. A Marine who was taking refuge in a side room stepped out and unloaded his mag into the suit at point-blank range, but Barbosa swung a massive arm, denting the wall like it was made of tin and turning the unfortunate Marine into a smear of gore.

As Barbosa reached the junction, he swept his XMR to the left, cutting down some of the retreating Marines with a controlled burst. Song appeared beside him, taking the right corridor, aided by a couple of agents who pushed up behind him and leaned around the corner. With a few more shots, the scattered Marines were neutralized, the scars of their short engagement leaving the corridor looking like a ruined trench. Bodies were slumped on the floor, some leaning against walls pocked with slug holes and burn marks, several rendered unrecognizable. One of them looked like they’d been run over by a tank, and Barbosa realized that he’d stepped on the body, crushing it into the deck.

“Petrova,” Barbosa barked once the coast was clear. “Report.”

“I’m…okay,” she stammered, her voice wavering. “I mean – minimal damage. PCE is still operational, but this chest plate is totaled.”

“I’m surprised it was able to stop that AMR round,” Song said, his exoskeleton whirring as he turned his PCE to look back at her. She was walking up to join them with the rest of the SWAR team, a hole the size of a man’s head punched into her shield, the slug visible where it had embedded itself inches beneath the blue stripe on her chest armor. “It went clean through the shield – probably would have penetrated without the APS. If they’re bringing out heavy weaponry, it means they’re not worried about damaging the ship. I hope Crow’s team can get to those reactors before they’re sabotaged, or this will all have been for nothing.”

“PCEs aren’t invincible,” Barbosa chided. His own suit was pocked with shallow holes, making it look like the surface of an asteroid, the livery marred by flecks of cooled liquid metal. “You feel like you can take on the Galaxy when you’re plugged into one of these things, but don’t let that make you complacent. Keep moving – we’re almost at the bridge.”

They continued on, engaging in a few more small firefights, eventually reaching another set of sealed pressure doors. The corridor here was wide, and the doors were larger – these ones reinforced against explosives and plasma weapons. Beyond them was the bridge, and likely the Captain. The team paused, aiming their weapons, the agents taking cover behind the Bullsharks as they would an APC.

The Captain’s voice came through over the intercom with a crackle of static, filling the corridor as he addressed them directly.

“This is Captain Ortega of the UNN Tirad. I don’t know who you are or what you expect to achieve here, but I will scuttle this vessel before I turn it over to you. I’ve already ordered an emergency core dump – you will get nothing. In a few short minutes, this carrier will be as cold and as dead as the vacuum surrounding it.”

“Surrender, Captain Ortega,” Barbosa demanded over the open channel. “You’ve fought valiantly, and I commend you for that, but you’ve lost. Order your Marines to stand down, and no more of your crew will be harmed. You have my word on that.”

“I wouldn’t wipe my ass with the word of a traitor,” he shot back. “Tangina mo! Come and fucking get me!”

“I believe he just called your mother’s chastity into question,” Song muttered.

“So be it,” Barbosa sighed. “Get the door open, Song.”

Song marched his PCE over to a control panel on the door’s frame, extending a hand, those five small fingers extending from the suit’s palm to tap at the screen.

“I doubt they’ve had time to rewrite all of the emergency codes,” he said, his second set of mechanical fingers a blur. “One of these should work.”

Petrova planted her shield, the agents taking up firing positions around her as Barbosa leveled his XMR.

“I’d prefer not to destroy the bridge, and I want Ortega alive,” he said over the local channel. “I want short, controlled bursts.”

“Got it,” Song announced after a few more moments, stepping away from the console as the two large doors began to slide apart. Barbosa could hear the creaking and grinding of machinery, like they had just cracked a bank vault.

As Barbosa watched the gap widen, he saw that something was standing behind it. A blur of green scales and ivory teeth barreled through the opening bulkheads, fast enough that nobody even had time to fire at the thing, its heavy footfalls shaking the deck. It made a beeline for Song, who was closest to the door, slamming into him with enough force to knock his suit back against the wall. The PCE dented the paneling, creating sparks where its shining pistons ground against the metal.

“They have a Krell!” one of the agents warned.

Like an alligator standing in a bipedal, hunched posture, the beast was covered in tough scales and bony scutes the color of spinach. Its elongated, dinosaur-like snout was filled with jagged teeth, its long tail dragging on the deck behind it. This was a big one – easily sixteen feet long and half as tall, its mass rivaling that of the Bullsharks. It wore no clothing save for a black tactical poncho that was draped over its shoulders, a high collar and woven armor plates helping to protect it.

Song activated the claws on his boots, driving them into the deck to root himself in place, grappling with the giant alien. He struggled to aim his XMR at it, but the creature gripped the barrel of the weapon in a hand that had far too many fingers, its bicep bulging as it forced the gun upwards and away. Song squeezed the trigger, releasing a stream of slugs that buried themselves in the ceiling, showering the pair with debris. His powerful exoskeleton creaking with the effort, he tried to push the Krell back, placing a hand on its broad chest.

“Can’t get a shot!” one of the agents yelled, trying to put the alien in his sights. It was keeping Song between it and the team – using him as a shield.

“Shoot anyway!” Barbosa ordered. “You won’t pen the suit!”

More gunfire poured through the widening doors, forcing the team to redirect their attention, the bridge crew firing sidearms and a few Marines unloading with their rifles. They were taking cover behind banks of consoles and using the tiered levels of the bridge like foxholes, framed by the massive viewport behind them. The agents ducked behind Petrova, a few of them leaning out to take potshots, Barbosa feeling slugs impact his armor as his APS flashed.

One of the agents managed to get an angle on the Krell, dumping a trio of shots into its torso, the slugs punching through the armored poncho. The Kevlar and ceramic plating did little to slow the rounds, and blue blood began to seep from the wounds, but the creature simply shuddered and kept going. It would take a hit to a vital organ to stop the thing – it was a titan of bone and muscle.

The Krell clamped its jaws down on Song’s weapon arm, its ivory teeth carving furrows in the armor, exerting enough force to strain the metal.

“It’s gonna roll!” Petrova warned.

The Krell let its legs fall out from under it, dropping to the deck with a thud, landing on its pale underbelly and dragging Song into an awkward crouch. He tried to pull away, but it was no use. Keeping its jaws locked to the PCE’s arm, the Krell began to spin, rolling on the spot like a turbine. It moved so quickly, and with so much bestial strength, the first few rotations twisting the mechanical limb. The pneumatic pistons bent and buckled, the joints tearing, hydraulic fluid spraying like yellow arterial blood. A few more turns, and the PCE’s right arm was ripped away at the elbow along with its XMR, the severed end trailing tattered cables and strips of torn synthetic muscle. Barbosa could even see the soft padding that lined the pilot’s compartment, Song’s prosthetic hand sticking out of it.

Shaking the severed limb like a dog with a chew toy, the Krell spat it out, the heavy chunk of machinery crashing to the deck. It was in a frenzy, moving faster than anything that large should have been able to, Barbosa feeling an unfamiliar pang of fear as the thing rushed Song again. It hit him like a truck, knocking him clear off his feet, the impact making the soft fat deposits on its belly and oar-like tail quiver. The PCE landed on its back, lying there like a stranded tortoise as Song floundered.

The Krell turned its sights on Petrova now, crossing the distance at an alarming sprint, shouldering into her shield like someone trying to break down a door. She rocked with the force of the blow, but stayed upright, the agents behind her having to scatter to get clear as she was forced to take a couple of faltering steps backwards. She aimed her wrist guns at the thing, but it batted her hand aside with a swipe from its arm.

Swinging its heavy tail like a hammer, the Krell caught one of the retreating agents, sending him sailing a good ten feet through the air before he was dashed against the far wall – dead before he’d hit the floor. Another of the SWAR operatives took an XMR round from the bridge as he was driven from cover, toppling to the deck and clutching at a new hole that had appeared in his belly. Some of the others lay down covering fire, one of them grabbing the injured man by his chest rig and dragging him back down the corridor. Petrova was their only cover, and she was locked in a wrestling match. Barbosa did his best to put himself in the way of the gunfire, the slugs hammering against his back as he aimed his weapon at the alien.

“Push him back, Petrova!”

She swung the Krell around to give Barbosa a clear shot, the alien gripping her shield and trying to wrench it from her arm, and the Commander fired. The slugs struck the alien in its side, the higher velocity rounds creating larger wounds and passing clean through, more of that azure blood dripping down its green scales as it staggered. It blinked its yellow eyes, then fell, shaking the ground as it splayed out on the deck.

“Cover the team!” Barbosa ordered, Petrova moving back to protect the retreating agents with her shield.

Barbosa lumbered over to Song, feeling more molten slugs impact his armor, reaching out a hand. Song took it, and he hauled the PCE to its feet, turning back in the direction of the bridge.

Leaning down to pick up his fallen weapon as he went, Song joined Barbosa, and the pair marched through the doors. Firing one-handed, Song killed one of the Marines, Barbosa cutting down another who was taking cover behind the door frame. Barbosa felt a round ping off his canopy, and he swung his weapon towards one of the bridge crew, a woman in a blue Navy uniform dropping her sidearm and raising her hands in alarm. Knowing that they were beaten, the rest of the crew followed suit, one of the Marines tossing aside his rifle. Ortega finally stepped out to meet Barbosa, straightening his cap, an XMH still clutched in his hand defiantly.

“Commander,” Crow’s voice crackled over the radio. “Engineering is secure. Bastards managed to scram two of the reactors before we got here, and they were prepping a core dump, but our people are in control.”

“My forces have captured the engineering deck, Captain,” Barbosa announced. “These deaths could have been avoided if you had simply laid down your weapons when I gave you the chance.”

“The UNN doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” Ortega sneered. “You killed Leatherhead,” he added, gesturing to the fallen Krell in the hallway beyond. “You’re going to die for that.”

“Order the rest of your crew to surrender,” Barbosa demanded. “I’m not above hunting down and killing every last person on this ship if you leave me no other option.”

“And what are you going to do with them then?” Ortega shot back. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t just kill them later?”

Petrova came marching onto the bridge along with the four remaining SWAR operatives, the agents fanning out and aiming their weapons at the crew, more of the sailors raising their hands in surrender. One of them stepped forward to disarm the Captain, snatching the handgun from him.

“They will remain in my custody,” Barbosa replied. “As for your guarantee, the UNN will think twice about destroying a carrier that still has so many personnel on it. Their lives are my insurance that the Navy won’t just jump in a battleship at the edge of our radar range and cut the ship in half with its spinal gun. Time is ticking, Captain. The longer you take to make the decision, the more of your people will die.”

“Alright, alright,” the Captain sighed. He lifted a finger to his earpiece, his voice coming through the intercom. “This is your Captain speaking. The bridge and the reactors are now under control of the boarders. Lay down your weapons and cooperate to the extent that you are required.”

“Very good,” Barbosa replied. “I’m telling my men to cease fire,” he added, switching to the private channel. “The Captain has surrendered. All teams – confiscate any weapons and herd all of the survivors to the starboard hangar. We’ll confine them there for now. If anyone doesn’t cooperate – shoot them.”

“I expect my people to be given all of the rights and privileges afforded to a PoW under UN law,” Ortega added.

Song lumbered forward, forcing a few of the crew to step aside, stowing his XMR on a magnetic holster on his thigh before using his remaining hand to interface with the nearest bank of monitors.

“Taking control of ship’s systems,” he announced, his skeletal secondary fingers darting across a keyboard.

“Petrova,” Barbosa added. “Take our guests down to the hangar. I’ll be there shortly. The Captain and I need to have a conversation about access codes. Petrova,” he added, turning to face her when he realized that she wasn’t responding. “I gave you an order.”

“Yes,” she stammered, his words seeming to rouse her. “Just…a little shaken.”

“I need your head in the game, agent. Escort the prisoners down to the starboard hangar and await further instructions.”

“Yes, Commander,” she replied. With an order to the SWAR team, they began to round up the remaining Marines and crew, marching them out of the bridge at gunpoint.

“Song – how soon can we get underway?” Barbosa pressed.

“We still have four reactors online, and Hades is only a short jump from Mu Arae,” he replied as he swiped through the holographic menus. “At minimum, I’d like to run a diagnostic to make sure nothing was sabotaged, but it’s safe to have the Coursers form up on us. I have control of all the guns now.”

“I’ll tell the dropships to start landing in our hangars,” Barbosa added. “As for you, Captain, I need you to transfer all command codes over to me. Once that’s done, you will be confined to your quarters. I’m sure you’ll be quite comfortable there for the time being.”

***

Barbosa strode into the hangar, his heavy footfalls reverberating through the deck, Roach and Crow following behind him in their PCEs. It was the largest space on the carrier, separated into two by a dividing wall that ran down the ship’s spine, a few doors and larger openings allowing personnel and aircraft to move between the two sides. It more resembled an artificial cave than a room, the ceiling standing forty feet above his head, the right side taken up by the shimmering force field and the open space beyond. Each of the two decks was a little smaller than an average-sized football field, but not by much, being roughly forty thousand square feet.

It could comfortably house a dozen fighter craft or dropships at a time, with most of its complement being stowed below deck and raised up on elevators. The Beewolf fighters had all been wheeled to the back of the hangar, and much of the deck was occupied by SWAR dropships unloading equipment now.

There was still enough room for more than two thousand crew to stand, hemmed in by armed SWAR agents who were observing them from behind opaque helmets, their weapons held at the ready. The prisoners were stacked shoulder to shoulder, more than a few of them sporting bandaged arms or other minor injuries sustained during the fight. The ship only had a skeleton crew – around half of its usual complement and a third of what the carrier could support, along with only a small detachment of Marines intended for peacekeeping duty at their destination. Several hundred more were either in the morgue or in the medbay having their wounds treated.

Song, Hoff, and Petrova were absent, having their suits repaired, and it was probably best that the crew didn’t see the damage they had managed to inflict. It might embolden them. Barbosa’s suit was pocked with small craters and furrows from XMR fire, but it was otherwise intact, the battle damage having a more intimidating effect on the prisoners.

Their heads turned to track him as he lumbered over to the front of the group, his suit putting him head and shoulders above even the tallest among them, his two counterparts flanking him. His canopy flipped open with a mechanical clunk so that he could address them face to face, his eyeless, scarred visage causing a few of those closest to the front to grimace reflexively. He hooked his suit radio into the intercom, his voice blasting from the speakers to ensure that everyone could hear.

“My name is Commander Barbosa – Special Weapons and Advanced Recon,” he began. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I attacked your ship. I assure you that this action was not undertaken out of malice, but out of necessity, and that all efforts to minimize loss of human life were taken. I harbor no hatred or ill-will towards any of you – your carrier was simply a target of opportunity. I’m on a mission,” he continued, glancing out at the scowling faces through his prosthetic eyes. “It’s not a mission sanctioned by the Admiralty or the Security Council, but one that I have chosen to undertake of my own volition, supported by some of the most experienced and loyal warriors in the service. My mission is to ensure a future for humanity.”

The crowd began to murmur, the crew glancing at one another skeptically, the SWAR operatives keeping their silent vigil from the sidelines.

“Many of you have spent your careers fighting the enemies without,” he continued, peering out across the sea of blue uniforms. “Today, I invite you to fight the enemies within. I invite you to challenge the corrupt and shortsighted institutions that govern you – that are leading our species down a path of destruction and disenfranchisement. I offer you a future where humanity forges its own path and controls its own destiny, free of the machinations of false allies like the Brokers and Jarilans who seek to undermine us and destroy us from within.”

“Nice speech!” one of the men near the back yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard. “Did you rehearse that in front of a mirror?”

“Didn’t catch that!” another shouted. “Why don’t you take off that suit and get a little closer so I can hear you better?”

That elicited a round of laughter from the crowd, the guards prickling. Barbosa raised a mechanical hand and waved for them to be calm, a smile on his face.

“I admire your candor,” he replied. “I’ve seen the same fire in many of my proteges. What I extend to you now is an invitation – not a demand. Authority imposed by force is fleeting and fragile, but authority earned through respect is ironclad. Ask any of my men, and they’ll tell you the same thing,” he said with a gesture to the agents. “They didn’t follow me because I threatened them, but because they trust me, and they believe in my cause. They’ve seen the same signs that I’ve seen. The Admiralty and the UN are leading our species down a road that ends either in us becoming vassals of the Coalition, or in our eventual extinction. The Jarilans being admitted to the Coalition, the Rask Rebellion, the betrayal of the Brokers – those in power refuse to take the necessary steps to protect our interests. If they refuse to act, we must.”

“I fought on Kerguela!” one of the Marines shouted – identifiable by the armor he was still wearing. “I’ve seen the Bugs at their worst!”

Barbosa singled the man out, waving for him to approach, and the crowd parted to let him get closer. He stopped in front of the PCE, glaring up at the Commander. Barbosa noted that there was a prominent burn scar on his cheek – likely from Betelgeusian plasma.

“I’ve fought in practically every theater since the start of the war,” Barbosa said. “Kruger, Chara, and many others. Kerguela was not one of them, though. What’s your name, Marine?”

“Staff Sergeant Rivera,” he replied.

“Say your piece, Staff Sergeant,” Barbosa said. “You have the floor.”

“See this?” the Marine asked, gesturing to the scar on his face. He turned to show the crowd, ensuring that they could see it too. “There’s a lot more beneath the uniform. I got hit by a Kerry plasma grenade in the first wave, when our convoys were ambushed in the Red Zone. My whole company almost got wiped out. Do you know why I survived? It’s because a Jarilan named fucking Primrose dragged my unconscious ass through half a mile of burning forest to reach an evac shuttle. That ain’t the last time I saw a Jarilan take a bolt or a blade for someone else, either. Anyone who served with Jarries will tell you the same thing.”

There were some murmurs of agreement from the crowd, Barbosa’s brow furrowing as he glanced out at them.

“I’ve served with Rask, too,” the Marine continued. “They’re not the best conversationalists, and they can’t handle their liquor for shit, but I’d trust one to watch my back any day. It was a Borealan who drove a spear straight through the Kerry Queen’s heart!”

There were a few cheers from the crowd, some of them pumping their fists.

“Maybe the Brokers are assholes,” the Marine continued with a shrug. “I don’t know – never met one. No Broker ever shot one of my friends, though. Your guys sure as hell did.”

“How do you think you’re gonna fight the whole UNN with one carrier, anyway?” another of the crew asked.

“They can’t run the ship without us!” another added. “That’s the only reason we’re here!”

“Where’s the Captain!?” one of them demanded. “What did you do to him!?”

“The Captain has been confined to his quarters,” Barbosa replied, his patience starting to run thin. “He has not been harmed.”

“More than you can say for some of us!”

“You fuckers killed my friends!”

“They shot Leatherhead!”

Barbosa’s gaze darted across the mass of angry faces, the crew jeering and shouting, their complaints becoming a cacophony of noise. He wanted to argue his case – to convince them – but it was clear that he was losing the crowd. The agents were getting agitated, a few of them pushing the nearest prisoners with the butts of their guns to keep them corralled. He raised a hand, his voice booming over the intercom, echoing through the hangar.

“The choice is yours! Pledge yourselves to my cause and join our ranks, or be confined to the brig. We are especially in need of qualified pilots and engineers. You will be fed, and I promised your Captain that your rights as PoWs would be respected, but I cannot say when we might have the opportunity or the resources to disembark you. We are en route to Hades, and we do not expect to be leaving for some time.”

“There aren’t enough cells on this carrier, dickhead!” someone jeered.

“My men are preparing temporary accommodations,” Barbosa insisted.

“Down here,” Rivera said, pointing two fingers at his eyes. “Mark my words – I’m gonna dig those stupid prosthetics out of your skull and feed them to you before this is over.”

Crow gave the Marine a shove with his PCE’s massive hand, forcing him back into the crowd and training his oversized weapon on the man.

“Get them under control,” Barbosa muttered, turning his back on the mob. “I need to go check on Nilsson.”

***

Barbosa marched to the back of the hangar, stepping onto an elevator intended for aircraft and cargo that slowly began to descend beneath the deck. He emerged into an expansive garage filled with more tightly packed Beewolf fighters and dropships, along with racks of ordnance sitting on heavy-duty carts waiting to be loaded. The space was about as large as the hangars above, but the ceiling was a little lower, covered in a maze of pipes and support beams between which harsh overhead lights shone. There were adjoining machine rooms, as well as the main weapon magazines and munitions assembly areas.

In the middle of it all, a space had been cleared for Nilsson’s temporary lab. Several tables and workstations had been dragged from other areas of the garage, and they were now loaded with equipment and parts salvaged from the black site. One of the portable cranes used for lifting ordnance on and off carts was now helping him move heavier items.

The doctor and some of his staff were hard at work replacing the damaged components of Petrova’s suit. Most of the damaged armor plates had already been removed, leaving conspicuous holes in the PCE’s chassis that exposed the bare metal of the underlying structure. There was a crate filled with replacements, several fresh ones waiting for installation on a nearby table – the packing foam still stuck to them. Song was watching curiously, his open suit waiting nearby, while Petrova was sitting on a crate a short distance away with her head hanging. She seemed lost in thought.

Nilsson glanced up as he heard the Commander approach, pausing his work.

“I trust that we haven’t done too much damage to your prototypes, Doctor,” Barbosa began.

“The Bullshark PCE is designed to soak up damage and keep its operator intact,” he replied haughtily. “They performed their function to the letter – I assure you. All of these modular plates can be quickly and easily replaced. There’s no salvaging that ballistic shield, however. Unit Four’s severed arm will take some time to replace, too. It’s a good thing that you appropriated as many spares as you did – it appears that you’ll be needing them.”

“I hope there aren’t too many hard feelings,” Barbosa said. “You must understand that this is the only way that your project could continue. We couldn’t have taken this carrier without your Bullsharks. I’d say that it was a very successful trial by fire.”

“You have a funny way of showing your appreciation for my work,” he grumbled, sparing the Commander a disdainful glance. “Most people don’t take too kindly to being kidnapped, let alone having their assistants shot. I hope you realize how many hours of training you wasted.”

“I’ve had to shoot a lot of people today,” Barbosa muttered.

He lifted his eyes past the scowling scientist, seeing a large shape at the other end of the hangar. It was a CS-47 Wombat, elephantine in comparison to the dropships surrounding it, its boxy chassis so large that its stabilizer fins were almost touching the ceiling. At twenty-five feet high and sixty feet long, it was designed to transport heavy payloads, its four powerful tilt engines giving it VTOL capabilities even while carrying a seventy-ton Kodiak tank.

“I see that they’ve brought the Ursa aboard,” Barbosa added. “Good.”

“I wouldn’t turn that thing on if I were you,” Nilsson said, sparing the Wombat a wary look. “It’s not one of mine, you know. Damned thing was never stable during the tests. Something about the way that Broker technology interacts with ours doesn’t play well.”

“Here’s hoping we won’t need to,” Barbosa replied.

“Tough crowd, Boss?” Song asked as he sidled up beside Barbosa’s PCE. “To be frank, Commander, I don’t think the soft touch is gonna work on this one. After what we did, you could offer every one of these guys a homestead on Franklin, and they’d still spit in your eye. Figuratively speaking,” he muttered as Barbosa peered down at him. “We’re not going to need to keep all of the carrier’s systems running at maximum capacity for what we have planned, and with automation, we could temporarily crew the ship with only a couple of hundred people. That’s way easier to manage. Look,” he added with a sigh. “Right now, we’re looking at sabotage as a certainty and full-blown mutiny as a worst-case scenario. We can’t trust any of the crew.”

“Some of them are hardened veterans,” Barbosa conceded. “I was expecting more muddy Marines on their first low-intensity deployment. They won’t sit idle for long.”

“You want my advice, Boss?” Song asked. Barbosa gave him a nod of permission. “The best way to mitigate potential risks would be to identify the most qualified people, press them into service, and dispose of the rest. We would reduce them to more manageable numbers, and our deterrent is still there whether we have two thousand or two hundred hostages.”

“We’re not here to slaughter prisoners, Song,” Barbosa replied sternly.

“It’s not hard to vent a compartment,” the agent added with a shrug. “It’s quick – painless.”

“No,” Barbosa said. “I expect that some of them will change their minds once the reality of their situation sinks in and they’re not part of a mob. If we can’t convert enough people, we’ll do it your way. No executions, though. Once we get to Hades and establish a foothold there, we’ll start moving prisoners down to the surface in the Wombat. It can carry almost a hundred people per trip, and they can do a lot less damage on the ground.”

“As you wish,” Song conceded.

Barbosa moved his suit over to join the others, the pocked armor plating opening up for what felt like the first time in weeks, even though it had barely been a day. He felt the plug disconnect from his neck, gritting his teeth against a wave of unbearable feedback, electrical static coursing through his every nerve. It was as though he had slept on a limb wrong and it had gone numb, but rather than an arm or a leg, it was everything below his neck. In a way, that was correct. The suit sent signals to his body similar to those that induced REM sleep, ensuring that he didn’t try to act out any of the movements that were being shunted to the PCE.

He tried to keep still as the feeling gradually subsided, the sensation of pins and needles fading into his extremities before disappearing completely. Only then did he lift himself out of the padded interior, his boots landing on the deck with a thud. Barbosa groaned, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, all of the aches and stiffness of being alive returning with a vengeance.

Petrova was still sitting on her crate, so he made his way over to her, still a little unsteady as his brain adjusted to his new proportions. She looked up as he approached, beginning to rise, but he raised a hand to stay her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, sitting down beside her. She shuffled further over to give him room, hanging her head again.

“I’m fine, Commander,” she replied. “Just…a little shaken up.”

“That AMR hit you pretty hard,” Barbosa added. “You might want to pass by the medbay and get checked out – just as a precaution. It must have rattled you around inside your PCE like a pebble in a can.”

“I’m a little sore, but it’s nothing to be concerned about,” she replied evasively.

“I get it,” Barbosa continued, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as he tried to scratch that phantom itch. “Getting out of the PCE feels like waking from a pleasant dream, doesn’t it? You feel so powerful and so focused, all of the nagging discomforts of your organics go away, and then it all comes rushing back with a vengeance. That sense of calm vanishes, and every faded scar and old bone starts aching again.”

“Are you alright?” Petrova pressed, glancing up at him.

“I’m old,” he chuckled. “Does that answer your question?”

“You look pretty good for someone pushing seventy,” she joked, cracking a smile.

“Retirement was never in the cards for me,” he continued, gazing down at his prosthetic hands. “I can’t see myself passing away peacefully on a porch somewhere at the ripe old age of one-twenty. These augs have allowed me to keep pace with men half my age, but it comes at a cost, doesn’t it? You know, although my very existence is a violation of the Yellow Sea Treaty, I agree with it in principle. When you turn yourself into a weapon, there’s no going back – no living a normal life. Some of us need to be weapons, though, don’t we? Some of us need to sharpen ourselves into knives so that there’s a place in the Galaxy for those who are duller and blunter. You’re one of my sharper proteges, Petrova.”

“You’re the most augmented person I know,” she replied.

“It’s my spine that’s doing me in these days,” he chuckled, reaching behind himself to rub the small of his back. “I’ve replaced practically every organ in my body, but our science is still a long way off being able to build something as complex as a spinal cord.”

“Do you…ever wonder if we’re forgetting the human experience?” Petrova asked hesitantly. “That we’re becoming too far removed from the people we protect?”

“There’s nothing wrong with wondering,” Barbosa replied, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Wondering is what led me down this path. There’s an old saying from someone named Thucydides. He was born three thousand years ago in Athens, and he’s considered by many to be the father of political realism. He said – any society that separates its scholars from its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting done by fools. Those words remain as true now as they were at the time of the Peloponnesian War. We can’t afford to be fools when so much is at stake. We have to look at the situation with an impartial, coldly logical eye, and determine the best course of action regardless of what cowards might tell us.”

“I’m not having doubts about the mission,” Petrova insisted, straightening her posture a little. “It just hasn’t been easy seeing so many humans die. Logically, I know that it’s a necessary step in achieving our goals, but seeing all those dead Marines…”

“If any of us felt good about that, we’d be monsters – psychopaths,” he explained. “None of them deserved to die, but we have a sacred duty here. There’s no backup coming, and there’s nobody to take our place if we fail. We’re the only people who can do the job, and if the cost of failure is extinction, then all of those deaths are a price worth paying.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Petrova sighed. “I have to keep the mission at the forefront of my mind.”

“I don’t demand blind faith,” Barbosa added. “You’re allowed to think and feel, but keep your focus on the job. I need you at my side, Petrova. You show a lot of promise, and when time inevitably catches up with me, I’m going to need reliable people who can carry on the work.”

“Alright,” she replied, Barbosa patting her on the back as he rose to his feet.

“I’ve set us up in the officers’ quarters. It should be a lot more comfortable than the Coursers were. Go get a hot shower, relax for a few hours, sleep on a real bed – enjoy what downtime we have before the jump to Hades. It might be all the rest we get for a while.”

“Yes, Commander,” she replied.

“Where’s Hoff, by the way?”

“He’s doing drills with his suit in the armory,” Petrova replied, gesturing to one of the doors that led out of the garage.

“Good – I wanted to make sure he was taking to his PCE. I’ll go have a chat with him.”

2628 – MU ARAE NAVAL STATION – VOS

Vos awoke to searing pain. His chest was on fire, growing worse with each breath, and he almost passed out again when he tried to move his arm. He opened his eyes groggily, blinking back stinging tears. He was somewhere dark and quiet, lying in a heap on the cold deck amidst shards of broken glass and spilled fluid, a dented table tipped over behind him.

Slowly, his memories began to resurface. Barbosa – that traitorous asshole. He coughed, and the pain made him black out again.

***

When Vos next awoke, it was to the sound of someone calling his name. It sounded like his wife beckoning to him, but as he came to, it slowly morphed into the panicked voice of a Marine.

“Admiral! Admiral, can you hear me!?”

“Fuck!” Vos groaned, sputtering again. He opened his eyes to see a man wearing a combat helmet leaning over him, an XMR clutched in one hand. “What the hell happened?”

“You’re injured, Admiral. Badly, I think. We have medics on the way, so try not to move.”

“Where did you come from?” Vos wheezed. “How did you find me?”

“We were on Black Site One when the station got hit,” the man explained. “Your survival suit is putting out a distress beacon, and we followed it to this lab.”

“Did they take the jump carrier?” Vos groaned.

“It’s gone, and we don’t know where,” the Marine replied. “No, no – don’t try to sit up.”

“Hades,” Vos coughed, pain darkening the corners of his vision. “Barbosa is going to Hades.”

“Who is Barbosa?” the Marine pressed.

He was interrupted as a pair of men wearing red and white medic patches rushed into the room. They knelt beside him, one of them producing a medkit and beginning to sift through its contents.

“What the hell happened to you?” one of them asked as he ran a medical scanner over the Admiral’s body. “Multiple broken ribs, blunt thoracic trauma, compression injuries, contusions. If it wasn’t impossible, I’d say you’d been in a shuttle crash.”

“Right arm is a mess,” his colleague added with a shake of his helmeted head. “We can’t salvage this without some serious surgery, and we don’t have the facilities…”

“Without the survival suit, he’d probably be dead already,” the other continued as he extended a cable from the scanner. He plugged it into a socket on the tight-fitting garment beneath the Admiral’s blood-stained uniform. “Looks like it already restarted his heart once, and it’s been pumping him full of coagulants. Patient seems responsive. Admiral – can you hear me?”

“Shut the fuck up and listen,” Vos snarled. “Barbosa – he’s SWAR – gone rogue – took the carrier to Hades. I need Brenner. I need Boyd. Have to get a message out.”

“That might be a problem, Admiral,” the Marine added. “Whoever those guys were, they destroyed our FTL comms. The only jump-capable ship we have left is a Courser that was docked at Site One when the attack went down. Looks like they ransacked Site Two,” he added with a glance around the lab. “Guess we didn’t have anything they wanted.”

“How far is the nearest colony with a relay?” Vos demanded.

“Closest one would be Hades, which is a no-go if there’s a hostile carrier parked there,” one of the medics replied as he injected something into Vos’ neck. “We’re clear on the wrong side of the Sphere – most of the colonies and Coalition worlds are fifty light-years away at minimum. That’s a month as the Courser flies, and who knows how much longer to muster a fleet and send it back.”

“There’s 62 Scorpii,” the other medic suggested. “That’s thirty light years out – about two weeks. You’d still be looking at a month round-trip and a lot longer for a fleet to get here.”

Vos wracked his muddled brain, trying to remember where his people had last been deployed. Brenner was training SWAR teams on Kerguela, and Xi Pegasi was at least a month away – five for a fleet. Boyd had been sniffing around Trappist on his last assignment, not that a spy would be able to do much against Barbosa and his Bullsharks. With the comms down, Vos was cut off from the network of contacts and mercenaries that he had cultivated over the years, and he couldn’t call in favors or make any threats.

“I need to be on that Courser when it leaves,” he insisted.

“The only place you’re going right now is the operating theater,” one of the medics replied.

“Give him a sedative,” the other added. “He’s going to pass out when we try to move him anyway.”

“Don’t you dare,” Vos growled, but his eyelids grew heavy as the man jabbed him in the neck with an injector.

CHAPTER 3

DAY 0 – HADES – RUZA

The child wailed as she sat in her mother’s lap, the woman gently bouncing her offspring on her knee, glancing up at the doctor with a worried expression on her face. She reached up to brush her dark hair out of her eyes, some of the sand and dust from outside clinging to it, giving him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, Doctor Ruza!” she began with a grimace. “It’s not you – she’s scared of needles.”

“She is only four,” the doctor replied, his voice deep and gravelly. “It is only natural that she should fear injury. It is a healthy sentiment – not something to apologize for.”

Ruza’s office was a modest one, built inside a small cluster of prefabs that had been joined together – capsule-shaped buildings about the size of shipping containers that were raised off the ground on outriggers. He had a front desk with a waiting room, a store room, and an examination room where he could see patients. The windows were narrow and raised high on the walls, the windblown sand that coated them giving the light that bled through a sepia quality, but it was mitigated by the pale light strips on the ceiling.

The furniture was similarly spartan – mostly printed desks and shelves that were loaded with tools and supplies, the chairs similarly printed from polymer. There was a scale for weighing patients, a more elaborate examination table, and a few other necessities that had been imported from off-world. The locals had begun to refer to him as a family doctor, though he was unsure why, as he had sired no kittens in his time. His chair creaked beneath his six-hundred-pound frame as he leaned over his desk, the welded metal pipes struggling to support him.

“Child,” he began, his husky voice getting the girl’s attention. She gazed back at him with wide eyes, her breath hitching. He extended a massive hand and splayed his fingers across the table, each one the size of her mother’s wrist, tipped with hooked claws that shone black under the halogen glow. It was covered in a layer of silky, sand-colored fur, the child reaching out tentatively to touch him after glancing to her mother for reassurance. Her tiny fingers delved into his coat, and she began to smile, the tears ceasing.

“Kitty,” she giggled, petting him as she would a domestic animal.

Slowly so as not to alarm her, Ruza snuck a second long arm around to her left, a hypodermic injector clasped daintily between two of his padded digits. Her mother raised the girl’s sleeve, and he pressed the injector against her bicep, the squeeze of a button causing the sharp needle to shoot into her arm. It was over in a moment, and the child hadn’t even noticed, Ruza withdrawing the device and returning it to the table.

“Thanks, Doc,” her mother sighed with a relieved smile. “You’re pretty good at dealing with kids.”

“They have two states of mind when they first see me,” he rumbled in reply, watching the child pat the back of his hand. “Abject terror or fascination. Both can be leveraged.”

“If you say so,” the woman chuckled. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Ruza replied, stopping her as she reached for her phone. “I am a volunteer, and the majority of my supplies come from the UN. The child needs her vaccinations – it is not an elective procedure.”

“You’re sure?” she asked. “Things have been getting better, but this is still Hades, and you still need to eat.”

“Certain,” he replied, raising a hand that could have easily enclosed her head. “Take this also,” he added as he rose to his paws, striding over to one of the cupboards on his digitigrade legs. At eight feet, his round ears almost brushed the ceiling, but it made reaching the higher shelves convenient. He produced a small plastic container and set it down on the desk, popping it open with his claws to reveal an inhaler and several capsules of medicine contained within foam cutouts. “Sandstorm season is beginning, and it may negatively impact her breathing. I know that children can seldom be convinced to wear their respirators. There is enough here for several months.”

“You’re an angel, Doc,” the woman replied as she took the case. “My husband should be getting in a new shipment of goods soon – should be a lot of freeze-dried meat, some Franklin beef. Come take your pick before he ships it out to the stores.”

“It would be rude of me to refuse,” Ruza replied with a curt nod.

“C’mon, now,” she added in a more soothing tone. “Say goodbye to the Doctor.”

“Bye,” the kid chimed, giving him a little wave. He watched them leave through the door that led to the waiting room, the pair walking past the empty chairs, the woman wrapping her waddling child in a shawl before heading outside.

Setting up a practice on Hades had been difficult at first. The planet had never been wealthy, ruled first by corrupt mining corporations, then by a crime syndicate that had been driven away six years prior. The remote colony had hardly flourished during that time, but frequent UNN patrols had brought security, and an influx of aid and development had given the dusty world’s denizens some much-needed stability. Things were gradually getting better. Ruza was a combat medic, but he had grown weary of war, and he had sought out a place where he could make a real difference.

He walked through into the waiting room, remembering to keep his tail close so that it didn’t get caught in the automatic door, his leather clothing creaking. Humans seemed confused by his choice of attire, but the climate of Hades was not so different from his home territory, and the traditional jacket with its decorative buttons and embossed designs suited it well.

“Heading out, Doc?” his secretary asked. It was another human woman sitting behind the front desk, looking up from a tablet computer. Hades was not a popular destination for aliens, and he rarely saw any passing through, let alone other Borealans. It made him a very recognizable figure in the local community.

“We have no more appointments for today,” he replied. “You may leave early if you wish, Amy.”

Ruza donned a pair of goggles to protect his eyes and wrapped his lower face in a thin scarf, stepping outside and descending a short flight of steps, the harsh wind already starting to whip at his messy blonde hair. He felt sand beneath his toes as he stepped out onto the street. There was nothing to be gained by paving the roads on Hades, as they would soon be drowned in more windblown sand.

He walked past rows of identical prefabs that lined the rudimentary street, forming the basis of the sprawling settlement. They had started out matte white, but their finish had been sandblasted and eroded away to expose silver metal in places, leaving most looking weathered. They had a decidedly industrial design, the humans favoring function over form, raised off the sand on their extensible stilts. Round communications dishes and chugging air conditioning units protruded from them, showing the scars of decades of makeshift repairs, a network of insulated cables that were draped between them delivering power and data. Even here, there were a handful of plants taking refuge in the windbreaks formed by the dwellings, a few scrubby bushes clinging to life.

The biggest landmark was the colony’s orbital tether. It rose high above the rooftops, taller than any skyscraper, tapering away into a thin thread that vanished into the blue haze. It resembled a large strand of black cable several meters in diameter, a skeletal, ring-shaped structure that loomed over the surrounding prefabs and industrial plants anchoring it to the planet. At the top was a space station that served as a counterbalance – too far away to be visible – keeping the thread taut and serving as a kind of main port for the planet.

The humans built such impressive structures on all of their major colonies. They were designed to carry large quantities of cargo and passengers to and from space without incurring the fuel costs of having to fly transports, and this one had been built by ExoCorp before they had been run off the planet. As he watched, a massive cargo crawler began to rise up the length of the cable, slowly picking up speed as it went.

As he made his way along, he passed through a market, the sounds of criers rising above the wind. They were selling all manner of things, from locally made goods to UN ration packs, awnings made from colorful tarps protecting the stalls from the harsh glare of the system’s hypergiant star. Ruza raised a furry hand in greeting as several of the owners waved to him, the towering alien easy to recognize in a crowd.

The locals were dressed in long shawls and thick jackets, the flowing fabrics shielding them from the ever-present dust in much the same manner that the people of his homeland protected themselves from the sand. Most wore bulky rebreathers and masks, and Hadeans were seldom seen outside without tinted goggles or visors to stave off the dust and the sun’s harsh glare. Hades was a harsh mistress, and the humans had made a go of it here, carving out a small city despite being obviously unsuited to the environment. Though he had learned much in his time and had abandoned many of his people’s harsher values, Ruza admired them for their tenacity.

Eventually, he arrived at his home, mounting another set of slim metal steps that were ill-suited to his large feet. As he entered the prefab, he flipped on the air conditioner and the AG plate, feeling the familiar tug of his homeworld’s gravity return. As a Borealan, he was accustomed to gravity thirty percent higher than that favored by humans, and a regimen of medication and some time in the artificial field helped keep him healthy. Left unchecked, his bones would grow fragile, and his immune system would be diminished.

Ruza had spent many years of his life traveling on human military ships, so even these cramped quarters were lavish in comparison to what he was accustomed to. Roughly one-third of the prefab’s floor space had been taken up by blankets and pillows that served as his bed, there was a shower cubicle that had been modified for his use, a small kitchen, and a cramped living room with a padded couch that he used as a chair. Work kept him busy, and he didn’t spend a lot of time at home anyway.

He shed his jacket and rolled his shoulders, hanging it up on a tall coat rack that was covered by a sheet beside the entrance. As he walked over to the faucet and poured himself a glass of water – he used mason jars instead of cups due to their size – he heard a buzz at his door. When he returned to open it, he saw a man standing there, his face concealed behind a rebreather and visor combo. The stranger removed it, shaking some sand out of his dark hair and giving Ruza a broad smile.

“Hey, Doc! What’s going on?”

“Bill,” Ruza replied, giving him a nod in greeting. “I have just returned from work. Are you here because of your arm?”

“The arm?” Bill asked, pulling up his long sleeve to expose a mesh cast. “Nah, the arm’s doing fine, thanks. Me and the boys are going down to the bar. I was passing through and thought you might want to join us.”

“I am rather tired,” Ruza replied apologetically.

“C’mon, Doc!” Bill insisted. “You need to get out more! I know you don’t like hooch, but come have a few shots of…uh…beer.”

Ruza considered for a few moments, one of his furry ears flicking.

“Very well,” he replied, donning his jacket again and descending the steps.

“That’s the spirit,” Bill chuckled, giving him a friendly pat on the arm.

***

“The bruising is much diminished,” Ruza said as he examined the bare skin beneath the cast. “I believe that the break is healing well.”

“You gotta learn to clock out, Doc,” Bill laughed as he took a drink from a can with his free hand. “Can I have my arm back?”

Ruza released him, then lifted a glass that was barely larger than a thimble in his padded fingers, taking a shot of beer. Some of the regulars made jokes about how little alcohol he could tolerate, as Borealans didn’t metabolize it as efficiently as humans did, but he had quickly learned that it was good-natured. It meant that they were comfortable around him – that they no longer feared him.

Bill had brought several of his friends from work, the men drinking and laughing as they sat at the modest bar, sharing jokes and stories. They were all workers from one of the nearby mines, their lifestyle making them tough and hardy. Injuries were fairly frequent, and Ruza had quickly found favor with them, patching up broken bones and other work-related injuries.

After ExoCorp had been ousted and the Syndicate defeated, the mines had been nationalized by the local government, and the workers had formed a powerful union to safeguard their interests. Some might consider the union bosses to be little better than mobsters themselves, but they took care of their own, and they were fiercely protective of their interests. Along with the PDF, they served as a stabilizing force on Hades, carrying favor with the locals. Power on this world was a fragile balance between the civilian government, the paramilitary PDF who acted as its police force, and the unions. They tended to keep one another in check, with the UNN mediating any serious disputes.

The bar was bustling tonight – packed with miners who had just finished their shift and were eager to spend their credits on some drink and revelry. These were simple people, and their concerns were generally limited to their next paycheck. Ruza found that simplicity refreshing.

“Why did you come to Hades, Ricky?” Bill asked as he gave his human neighbor a nudge.

“I came here for the beaches,” the man joked, his friends laughing. “Nah, I was down on my luck, and I bought the lie ExoCorp sold me about starting fresh on a virgin colony. Seemed like anywhere was better than Enceladus at the time. Problem is, once they shipped you out here, they’d start paying you in scrip to ensure you couldn’t hop on the next freighter and bail. I’ve been here ten years – lived through every trial and tribulation. I’ve seen both the Corp and the Syndicate come and go in my time.”

“Now we work for ourselves,” Bill added, raising his can in a toast. The rest of the miners followed his lead, taking a drink, as did Ruza.

“What about you, Bill?” Ricky asked.

“Debt,” he replied with a grin. “I gambled with money that I didn’t have and ended up in deep with some very unsavory people. I heard that these outer colonies would take practically anyone, no questions asked, and give them a fresh start. I suppose I got what I wanted.”

“Hades isn’t so bad once you get used to it,” another of the men added. “These days, at least, you get fair pay for a fair day’s work.”

“What about you, Doc?” Ricky asked. “How did you end up as the only alien in our humble town?”

“Yeah, weren’t you like a combat medic for the Navy or something?” Bill pressed.

“I served in the UNN as an auxiliary for a time,” he replied gruffly, taking another sip of his drink. “There, I honed my skills as a warrior and a medic.”

“You must have been all over the Galaxy,” Bill marveled. “What was that like?”

“I saw many planets,” he replied. “Most were battlefields.”

“You didn’t stay in the Navy?” Ricky continued.

“I was in my homeland when our leader began the great rebellion,” he explained, his round ears flattening against his scruffy hair as his flat brow furrowed. “The Matriarch of the time believed that she could return our people to their former glory and oust the aliens from our planet. It was a bold plan, but ultimately a foolish one. We were soundly defeated, and the Matriarch was deposed. I am told that her successor is a far more just ruler and that the territory flourishes under her leadership.”

“So…you fought for the UNN, then you fought against them?” Bill asked as he cocked an eyebrow. “That’s gotta cause some whiplash.”

“I went where my Alphas ordered me to go,” he replied. “Squad leaders, Crewmasters, Admirals, Matriarchs – we all did as they bade without thought. There was only loyalty and honor, and all else was secondary. One cannot bludgeon a foe with honor, however. One cannot fill an aching belly with loyalty.”

“I heard about the rebellion on the news,” Ricky said, his tone a little more serious now. “They didn’t make it sound like that big of a deal. I guess the fighting on the ground was a different story.”

“It was a brief but brutal conflict,” Ruza replied. “My Crawler – think of it as a land-ship – was destroyed by the UNN, and I was severely injured.”

“That where all your scars are from?” Bill suggested, noting the healed claw marks that patterned Ruza’s tanned skin.

“It was a far deeper wound,” Ruza explained. “The attack happened while we were away on patrol, and I was part of a rescue team tasked with searching for survivors upon our return. We were exposed to a damaged fission reactor and poisoned.”

“Holy shit,” Ricky said with a grimace. “You got radiation sickness?”

“I lived with it for some time, taking medication to treat its symptoms,” he replied. “The experience left me…disillusioned with my leaders. I set off alone and began to peddle my services as a mercenary. I found myself once again fighting on the side of the UNN, selling my loyalty to the highest bidder.”

“Are you still sick?” Bill pressed. “You don’t look it.”

“No,” Ruza replied with a shake of his shaggy head. “The Jarilans saw to that. Their knowledge of genetics allows them to cure even damaged DNA. I am lucky to have encountered them when my work took me to Kerguela.”

“Now that one is a big deal,” Ricky interjected, his beer sloshing around in its can as he gestured with it. “Biggest fleet ever assembled. They fucking smashed a Bug hive on that moon – it was all over the intranet for months. A guy at work told me that those Bugs had been dug in for thirty years. Can you imagine?”

“I did not take part in any pivotal battles,” Ruza replied. “I was part of a special team deployed to the surface to investigate rumors of survivors. We were able to help evacuate a great number of people. I was proud to call that team my pack, and I met the only man I have ever found worthy of following.”

“You left to come here, though?” Bill asked. “You didn’t stay with them?”

“When the war was over, I felt that everyone had a place but me,” Ruza replied as Ricky poured him another shot from his can. “Do not misunderstand – I was not excluded, and we remained close friends. My teammates were not Borealans, however. They simply had different needs. Two of them were mated, and the remaining two left to pursue their careers. I was, as the humans say, a fifth wheel. I remained there for some time receiving treatments for my condition and helping to oversee the reconstruction effort, but when I was no longer needed, I sought out a new purpose.”

“And that’s when you came here?” Ricky added.

Ruza nodded, taking another shot.

“Kind of fucked up to think a planet that was occupied by Bugs for three decades is in a better state than we are,” Bill chuckled as he gave Ruza a nudge.

“This is a place where I feel needed,” Ruza replied.

“We’d be up shit creek without you, Doc,” Bill added as he waved his cast. “A toast to our local bonesaw!”

The men raised their glasses and cans, taking a drink, Ruza following suit.

“Shit, that’s a hard act to follow,” one of the miners added. “I came here to get away from my ex-wife.”

There was more laughter, Ruza allowing himself a faint smile.

Their joking was soon interrupted by a faint sound that filled Ruza with dread, Bill watching as his round ears swiveled to track it.

“What is it, Doc?”

Ruza pushed out his giant stool and walked over to the door, weaving between tables occupied by more workers, hitting the touch panel. When it opened, he leaned out into the rapidly cooling night air, the sounds becoming clearer. It was the echoing report of XMR fire – a sound that had been branded into his brain by years of combat.

“Gunfire,” Ruza hissed as several of the miners grouped up beside him.

“Could be the PDF fucking around,” Bill suggested with a shrug.

“I hear XMR fire, and lots of it,” Ruza grumbled. “They would not be so frivolous – the ammunition is expensive.”

Another sound joined the chorus of sporadic gunfire, Ruza lifting his head to see a formation of dropships soar overhead, their engines announcing their approach. They flew across the sky, their tails burning with blue flame, dropping altitude somewhere over the outskirts of the city. As he watched, a few tracer rounds or maybe molten slugs shot up into the sky like shooting stars falling in reverse.

“Is it the UNN?” another asked skeptically. “A guy at work said that a new carrier was supposed to be on its way.”

“Could it be a training exercise?” Bill added.

“Nah,” Ricky said with a shake of his head. “This…this feels like the last time. I was there when the UNN fought off the Syndicate. The sky was full of dropships, and there was gunfire just like this. Hell, they jumped a whole ass carrier right over the city that day.”

“You should all return to your homes and families,” Ruza said solemnly. “Stay there until you hear news.”

“But the night’s just getting started!” one of the miners complained.

“We should do as he says,” Ricky replied sternly.

“Doctor’s orders,” Bill added.

DAY 0 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

Barbosa stood on the observation deck beneath the belly of his new carrier, holographic maps and displays floating around him as he watched the planet through the large, downward-facing viewports. Before him, the long hull of the ship stretched into the distance, its forest of ventral railguns aimed at the world below. Hades was as inhospitable as it was remote – little more than a ball of dust and sand with breathable air, its biosphere barely clinging to life. It was perfect for his purposes. The solitary colony was sitting on a wealth of raw minerals, and there was already an established industrial base. They had mines, factories, a workforce, and it was months from UNN reinforcements. Its small population should be easy enough to control.

On the floating displays, he watched helmet cams and telescope views of the fighting in the city far below. His teams were hitting every PDF garrison simultaneously, leveraging the element of surprise to cripple the planet’s security forces in a single lightning attack. Planetary Defense Forces were never very well trained or equipped, most being weekend warriors and glorified militias, but Hades had learned from the mistakes of the past. They were doomed, of course, but they were putting up some stubborn resistance. Before long, their garrisons would be under his control, and the survivors would be given a choice. Join him, or be interned along with the carrier’s crew.

Hades would be under new management by daybreak.

“Crow,” he said, turning to one of the displays. “Report.”

“We’ve taken the tether station, Boss,” Crow replied with a crackle of distortion. Barbosa could see a view from his PCE, where a SWAR team was holding a few station employees at gunpoint in what looked like a baggage claim area. “Poor bastards never knew what hit them. We’re in full control of the space elevator.”

“Good work,” Barbosa replied. “That tether is the colony’s lifeline – all food and goods pass through it. We should have a much easier time moving equipment down to the ground and establishing a foothold now, and we can seize any freighters that try to dock.”

“Roach shouldn’t be long taking the anchor,” Crow added. “Once we have it fortified, there’s gonna be nowhere for these bumpkins to run.”

“Song has orders to open fire on any UNN ships entering Hades orbit,” Barbosa continued as he clasped his prosthetic hands behind his back. “Nothing comes or goes without our say.”

He watched the helmet cams for a few minutes longer before he was disturbed by the sound of footsteps.

“How are you liking your new command, Captain?” Petrova asked as she entered the observation deck from the hallway behind him.

“Are you giving me a field promotion?” he chuckled.

“I believe that someone who commands a carrier is called a Captain,” she replied as she stopped behind him to examine the feeds.

“My command of this carrier is a little tenuous at the moment,” he muttered. “How are our guests settling in?”

“They’re understandably unhappy about their situation,” Petrova replied. “We have most of them contained in the mess hall, but I’d advise moving them as soon as we establish a ground presence. There are a lot of them, they’re very angry, and we’re only giving them time to stew like Solyanka.”

“Any converts?”

“Four,” Petrova replied.

“Only four?” Barbosa repeated, his brow furrowing above his synthetic eyes. “I had hoped that more might join us. No matter. I’ve told Song to start identifying the people he needs and separating them from the rest. The city isn’t large, but it will be much easier to find accommodations for our prisoners on the ground.”

“I’m sure those garrisons have cells and drunk tanks,” she mused.

“Once we’ve captured all of our objectives, I expect that we’ll get a call from the colonial governor before long,” Barbosa added. “I’ll wait for him to come to me.”

DAY 1 – HADES – RUZA

It was difficult to get to sleep with the sound of battle echoing across the city, but by morning, Ruza was on his way to work. The walk to his practice was a quiet one. The usually bustling markets were empty this morning, an eerie silence hanging over the deserted streets, the occasional UNN dropship flying overhead. It was hard to discern what might have happened the night before, as there were no signs of war and no occupying troops marching in formation.

When he arrived at his office, he found it filled not with patients, but with miners from the bar. Bill and Ricky were there, along with a handful of others, Amy giving him a shrug from behind her desk when Ruza shot her a questioning look.

“I trust that you do not all have broken arms?” Ruza grumbled.

“Word has been spreading about what happened last night,” Bill began, the rest of the group looking on with worried expressions. “They’re saying that some Navy guys dropped in and took out all of the PDF garrisons in a few hours.”

“They shut down the anchor, too,” Ricky added. “Buddy of mine was supposed to pick up a shipment there this morning, and there were guys with guns stopping him from getting in. He said they were wearing Navy gear.”

“Things have been going pretty well since the Syndicate was run off,” one of the miners added. “Do you think it’s another police action? Maybe the PDF were taking bribes from someone?”

“It’s odd how quiet things are,” Amy added as she leaned over her desk. “There have been no announcements that I’m aware of. The UNN usually communicates what they’re doing so they don’t cause a panic. I’m looking at the intranet, and nobody seems to have any idea what’s going on. It’s just a lot of people asking after friends and relatives who have gone missing.”

“All PDF guys?” Bill asked.

“It’s looking that way,” Amy replied, turning back to her phone.

“Why are you all here?” Ruza asked, glancing down at the miners.

“Well,” Bill began, rubbing his arm sheepishly. “You’re always telling war stories. You’re a big guy, and you know how to handle yourself. We figured…maybe you’d know what to do.”

His friends looked up at Ruza expectantly, waiting for his reply like packmates awaiting their Alpha’s decree. Ruza was no leader – nor did he desire such responsibilities. Still, his friends were looking to him for guidance, and he had to admit that the situation had perturbed him.

“Very well,” he sighed. “If it will assuage your fears, we shall take a walk by the nearest garrison. I would like to get to the bottom of this also.”

“Alright,” Bill replied with a nod, the miners exchanging some relieved muttering.

“Amy,” Ruza added, turning to his secretary. “Please hold any appointments. I should not be long.”

***

The group of half a dozen miners followed behind Ruza as he strode down the dusty street, their faces covered with masks and visors, the wind tugging at their jackets. The nearest garrison wasn’t far, so it would not take them long to get there.

“What do you reckon?” Bill asked, accelerating a little to match the Rask’s loping gait. His voice was a little muffled by his rebreather. “You ever seen anything like this before?”

“Judging by what I saw last night, I would guess that squads of Marines deployed from their carrier via dropship,” Ruza replied. “I have seen similar combat drops before – they use speed and maneuverability to attack an enemy behind their lines where they are vulnerable.”

“Missing PDF troopers doesn’t bode well,” Bill sighed. “You think they got wasted?”

“With such a volume of fire, there will have been casualties,” Ruza replied. “The question is – for what purpose?”

“We’re coming up on the garrison,” Ricky added nervously. “What do we do – just keep walking and look nonchalant?”

“We should not linger,” Ruza advised. “We do not want to draw undue attention to ourselves.”

As they rounded a bend, they came across one of the PDF compounds. It was formed from barracks made from the same prefabs as the rest of the city, but there were more permanent carbcrete structures serving as armories, ammo depots, and protective bunkers. A large perimeter wall had been erected around the courtyard, protected by a security gate. There were dozens of these garrisons throughout the city, acting primarily as police stations and shelters.

Ruza couldn’t see much over the tall wall, but it was immediately obvious that something was different. The gate had been securely closed, and there was an armored troop carrier parked outside, angled to block the entrance. It was much older than any models Ruza had seen during his service, likely Navy surplus, the letters stenciled on the hull showing that it was operated by the PDF. There were no PDF in sight, however. Standing beside the truck were two men in far more elaborate combat gear. Their black body armor and chest carriers were distinctly different from the more standardized equipment used by Marines, and the helmets that they wore were patterned with strange decals. They were carrying XMRs – and they were far more expensive models than any wielded by the PDF. More concerning still was the sight of prosthetic limbs – the man on the right sporting thin, mechanical legs with skids in lieu of feet.

“Keep walking,” Ruza muttered as the miners paused to gawk at them. “Do not stare.”

“What’s wrong?” Bill demanded once they were out of sight of the strangers. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Ruza.”

They stopped beside a prefab, Ruza glancing around to ensure that they were alone before addressing the group of concerned miners.

“I have seen these men before,” he began, the humans exchanging more concerned glances. “These are not Marines. They are SWAR – Navy special forces soldiers. The UNN commonly deploys them for advanced recon, assassination, and sabotage operations.”

“They sound like bad news,” one of the miners muttered.

“You know these guys?” Ricky pressed.

“I am quite familiar with them,” Ruza replied. “They were deployed against the Matriarch’s forces during the rebellion, and someone I served with was a former member of their organization. He spoke much of their culture and how they operate.”

“They’re good guys, right?” Bill asked with a scowl of confusion. “They’re Navy. The PDF were probably doing some shit they shouldn’t have been doing – wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I am not so sure,” Ruza muttered, watching as a dropship took off from the nearby base and accelerated into the sky above their heads. “I do not understand why such elite troops would be deployed against the PDF. It does not make sense – it is…overkill, as you would say.”

“I didn’t see any guys like that last time the UNN occupied the colony,” Ricky confirmed. “It was just Marines and a few auxiliaries like you, Ruza.”

“I do not like this,” Ruza added, baring his sharp teeth.

“What exactly did your friend tell you about them?” Bill asked.

“By his estimations, they showed cruelty and enjoyed combat for its own sake. He did not trust them, and neither do I.”

“We should just wait and see what happens,” one of the miners suggested. “They’re probably here for a good reason, and if these guys are special forces, they sure as hell wouldn’t tell us about it.”

“Either way, we need to get to work,” Bill added. “Our shift starts soon.”

“Keep your heads down,” Ruza warned. “We should meet back at the bar this evening. I will relay any new information that I learn.”

They parted ways, and when he arrived back at his practice, Ruza found a very anxious Amy waiting for him.

“Doc!” she began before the door had even closed behind him. “Thank goodness you’re back. I’ve been totally swamped with calls while you were away.”

“What manner of calls?” he asked suspiciously. “Has there been an accident at one of the plants? A cave-in?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, glancing down at her phone again in exasperation. “The messages are coming from the general hospital up by the anchor – they’re asking for all qualified doctors, but also medical supplies. Sounds like some kind of…mass casualty event.”

“I will head there immediately,” Ruza replied, turning back to the door. “Amy – stay here and keep the door locked. I will return to check on you before you close up.”

“Alright, Doc,” she replied hesitantly as she watched him leave.

***

When Ruza reached the hospital, he arrived to a scene of panic. The general hospital was one of the permanent fixtures of the colony – a large, square building made from gray carbcrete with adjoining wings. The sprawling compound was brutalist and ugly in its appearance, covered in glass windows, but it was the only place on Hades where real surgeries could be performed and more expensive machinery was housed. It was a stone’s throw from the anchor, the massive, rib-like structure rising up behind it as it transitioned into the black tether.

The parking lot and all of the nearby streets were filled with vehicles. Some were all-terrain ambulances with their white color scheme and chunky tires, but many were civilian trucks. As he wound his way through them, he saw two medics in scrubs lifting a man from the back of a flatbed and lowering him onto a stretcher.

The patient was PDF, identifiable by the Navy surplus chest plate that he wore, the white letters stenciled across it. The uniform beneath was patterned with desert camouflage to match the environment, and his helmet was missing. He seemed responsive, groaning as the two medics carted him away towards the hospital.

Ruza followed, finding more injured PDF being carried into the lobby, some of them on gurneys and some of them staggering with the support of nurses. The hospital personnel were rushing back and forth in a frenzy, desperately trying to triage the patients on the floor of the reception area as doctors and security guards yelled instructions. There were already two dozen people being tended to, the scent of blood rising to Ruza’s sensitive nose and making it wrinkle, his ears flattening against the noise.

One didn’t have to be a surgeon to guess what had happened here. The patients had been in a firefight, and judging by the severity of some of their wounds, XMRs had been involved. The weapon fired a hypervelocity tungsten slug that could punch a fist-sized hole in a person’s body even at lower voltage settings. Most were suffering from abdominal gunshot wounds, but a couple had lost limbs – likely blown clean off by stray rounds.

Ruza was easy to pick out in a crowd, and one of the doctors hurried over to him, pushing past his colleagues. It was Doctor Hendriks – Ruza often referred more serious patients to him, and the two frequently traded supplies when there were shortages. He was a short man – even for a human, his thinning hair barely clinging on, his white coat already stained with blood.

“Doctor Ruza!” he exclaimed, reaching up to adjust his eyeglasses. “Thank goodness you’re here – we need all hands on deck. The place is a fucking madhouse right now.”

“What happened?” Ruza asked. The answer was obvious enough, but he hoped that Hendriks might know more than he did.

“The Navy rolled in last night and attacked the PDF garrisons,” he explained hurriedly, dodging out of the path of a passing nurse. “Lots of casualties – dozens dead, hundreds injured. We’re stretched to our absolute limits here. Please tell me you have painkillers and coagulants – our stores are bare.”

“Give me a list of what you need, and I will ensure that you get it,” Ruza replied. “Doctor, does anyone know why the attack happened? Has anyone told you anything?”

“Nobody is telling me shit,” Hendriks scoffed, pulling out a tablet computer and starting to swipe at it. “All we know is that soon after the carrier arrived in orbit, a whole fleet of dropships swarmed the city and started attacking the garrisons. The fighting must have gone on until early this morning because we started getting a trickle of casualties last night, and it’s only gotten worse since then. I’ve never seen anything like this – things weren’t anywhere near this bad when the UNN took out the Syndicate.”

“May I speak to your patients? Are any of them coherent enough to answer?”

“Be my guest,” Hendriks replied with a shrug. “Try the overflow room – that’s where the least injured people have been moved,” he added as he gestured to a side door with his tablet.

“I will not be long,” Ruza said with a nod. He hurried to the secondary waiting room, the smaller humans making way for him, where he found a dozen more injured PDF soldiers sitting slumped on chairs. Most had bandages on their faces or arms in slings, the patients glancing up at the strange sight as Ruza ducked under the low doorway.

“Tell me what happened at the garrisons,” he demanded, a few of the troopers sitting up a little straighter at the booming sound of his voice.

They hesitated for a moment, then one of them raised his hand like a student requesting permission to speak. The trooper couldn’t have been older than twenty. One side of his face was covered in blood-stained bandages, and he had a hastily applied mesh cast covering his forearm, his uniform cut away to expose the badly bruised skin beneath.

“I was sleeping in the barracks when it happened,” he began. “I was woken up by gunshots and one of my buddies shaking me – telling me to go to the armory and gear up. I figured it must be a hive fleet, but when we got outside, we saw dropships landing inside the compound. We assumed they’d sent Marines from the carrier to help, but when the troop ramps opened, they started shooting at us.”

“Why?” Ruza pressed. “Did you fire upon them first?”

“Fuck no!” the trooper replied indignantly. “We were halfway across the courtyard – we hadn’t even reached the armory yet. The most dangerous thing we had was a toothbrush. They started aiming rifles and yelling at us, but there was so much confusion, and we couldn’t hear a damned thing they were saying over the sound of the engines. I guess we didn’t comply fast enough because they opened fire – killed two of my buddies before the rest of us got wise and dropped to the ground.”

“How were you injured?”

“I took some tungsten fragments to the face during the shooting – doc says it’s a ricochet – and one of them grabbed my arm hard enough that he fractured it,” he explained as he raised his injured arm.

“Yeah, those fuckers had augs,” another of the troopers added. “I didn’t see a single one that wasn’t rocking some serious hardware. Looked like black market shit from a movie or something.”

“We got lucky,” the first man continued. “Some of the garrisons had a little more warning than others, and they were dug in when the Navy arrived. There were firefights happening all night – that’s what happened to those guys in the lobby.”

“Hope they gave as good as they got,” one of the men muttered.

“Bastards zip-tied us and kept us in the jail cells overnight,” the bandaged trooper continued. “They only let us leave a couple of hours ago – and only the people who got hurt. A bunch of guys were still locked up when I left. I dunno why they attacked us,” he said with a shake of his head. “We weren’t doing anything wrong. There was no warning – it’s like they just wanted us out of the garrisons.”

“That does not sound like the Navy,” Ruza mused.

“Beats me,” the trooper replied. “They were wearing blue – that’s all I know.”

Ruza left them alone, mulling over what he had learned as he returned to the noise and chaos of the lobby. Everything about their appearance and behavior suggested that these newcomers were not operating under UN authority, yet they flew the proverbial UN flag, and they had arrived aboard a carrier. Right now, he had more pressing matters to worry about, but nothing about the situation felt right.

DAY 1 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“Welcome, Governor Serio,” Barbosa said as he turned to face the door. “I trust that the shuttle ride wasn’t too bumpy?”

The Governor stepped onto the observation deck, looking around in momentary awe at the holographic displays and the view of Hades that filled the horizon beneath him. He walked along the path that led to the circular observation platform, surrounded by windows on all sides, the man flanked by a pair of SWAR operatives. He was a portly fellow with a bushy mustache and a fitted suit that seemed a little too nice for his station, a few gold rings glittering on his fingers beneath the pale overhead lights.

“You’re no pirate,” the Governor said as he stopped in front of Barbosa, analyzing him through narrowed eyes as one might some strange alien creature. “What’s your game here?”

“Commander Barbosa,” he said, extending a prosthetic hand in greeting. The Governor seemed hesitant, but he took it, the servos whirring as they shook. “You’re right – I’m not a pirate, and I’m not here to plunder your colony. At least, not in the way that you’re probably imagining.”

“Your uniform and your equipment say UNN,” the Governor replied suspiciously, glancing up at the ceiling. “Nobody else has carriers like this one. You’re not with the Navy, though, are you?”

“You might call me former Navy,” he replied, clasping his mechanical hands behind his back neatly. “It should be rather evident by now that your colony is presently under my control. My forces have captured the tether station and the anchor, and they currently hold all of your garrisons, along with any uninjured PDF troops. No goods or people can come or go from Hades without my permission.”

“You’re some kind of mutineer, then?” the Governor demanded. “What the hell do you want?”

“I want to make something very clear,” Barbosa continued, turning to his holographic map. He leaned over the circular table, examining the grainy topographical representation of the sprawling city. “My intentions are not to harm your colony, Governor, but to elevate it. I want to make Hades the capital of a new, independent nation – one that isn’t beholden to the UN or the Coalition. Your colony has everything that I need. It’s remote enough to make it a pain in the ass for the UNN to send reinforcements, it has a wealth of mineral resources, and it has an established industrial base. Here, I will raise an army powerful enough and wield such technology that the Navy won’t even risk trying to retake it.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t keel over in astonishment,” the Governor replied, crossing his arms. “This planet has changed hands many times, Commander. First there was ExoCorp, then the Syndicate, then the UN. You’re not even the first seditionist that we’ve had here.”

“The difference between me and your former occupiers is that I have the means and the will to enact my plan,” he replied, standing up straight. “Petrova – please enter.”

The door at the back of the room slid open, and Petrova stepped through, her massive PCE making the deck shake beneath its feet. She marched over to the Governor, making him recoil in fear, stopping and turning to peer down at him with her camera dome. The canopy flipped open, exposing her face.

“This is a Bullshark,” Barbosa explained, patting the suit’s thigh as a salesman might pat the hood of a car. “I captured this carrier using only six of these powered exoskeletons, and I have the means to build more. I have military-grade prosthetics and specialized surgical bots, blueprints for weapons and vehicles, and more besides. In my entourage are two hundred of the most dangerous men and women in the colonies, and with their training, I can turn your PDF into a force to be reckoned with. With ten thousand augmented troops and enough Bullsharks for a company, there’s no single outpost or planet in the Sphere that could stand against this carrier, and no alien force that could threaten Hades.”

“Why?” the Governor asked, still eyeing the PCE warily. “What’s the point of all this? Things have been peaceful on Hades since the UN took over.”

“It’s my belief that the UN is leading our species down a path that ends in our eventual extinction,” Barbosa replied. “Our leaders are weak-willed and too short-sighted to see the inevitable outcome of their policies and alliances. On Hades, I can create a bastion for humanity – a place where humans can outlast any of the UN’s bad decisions.”

“Ruled by you, of course,” the Governor grumbled.

“I have no intention of deposing you, Governor,” Barbosa replied with a smile. “To be perfectly frank, I have enough on my plate as it is. What I’m seeking is a trusted partner who can manage the colony and properly direct its manpower to achieve the goals I’ve outlined. I need minerals, and I need miners to extract them. I need printers and factories, I need workers manufacturing ammunition and equipment, and I need soldiers for my army. I don’t want to rule over you as a despot – I want to extend a hand in invitation. With my help, Hades will cease to be a forgotten backwater and will achieve the same power and status as Earth, Proxima, or Franklin.”

“And if I refuse?” the Governor asked. “I don’t suppose you’ll pack up your carrier and leave in your boundless benevolence?”

“Let’s not be rude,” Barbosa replied, his smile faltering. He turned, gesturing to the hull of the carrier that extended into the distance beyond the curving windows. “This carrier is equipped with twenty railguns and enough ordnance to level the average continent. These ventral batteries are designed to destroy ground targets with pinpoint accuracy, and that’s to say nothing of our torpedoes. If I wished it, I could target individual people on the ground and hit them so hard that they would cease to be biology and would become physics.”

“And there’s the threat of mass destruction I was anticipating,” the Governor muttered.

“I’m offering you the carrot before the rod,” Barbosa added, his tone becoming more dour. “I suggest that you take the carrot. I can assure you that there are no UNN fleets within six months of this planet – I made sure of it. You and I are going to be alone together for quite a while, so why don’t we make an effort to get along?”

“I suppose I don’t really have a choice,” the Governor conceded.

“You can choose to interpret it in the least favorable way possible, or you can see it as an opportunity,” Barbosa continued with a flourish of his polymer hand. “In time, I think you’ll come to understand what I’m trying to do here.”

“I take it they didn’t teach you economics in the special forces?” the Governor added, raising a bushy eyebrow at him. “You’re blockading the tether, and this colony doesn’t produce enough food to feed its population. We’re totally reliant on imports for many of our necessities. We can probably pivot towards manufacturing whatever the hell you want, but if we’re not selling those goods, we can’t buy food. Before long, those freighters are going to stop coming. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Hades doesn’t exactly have an abundance of arable land.”

“Let me worry about that,” Barbosa replied dismissively.

“Uh, no,” the Governor reiterated as he took a step forward. “Starvation is probably something that I should be worrying about. If you’re going to be disrupting the economy of my colony and potentially facing blockades by our trading partners, you need a plan to deal with that now, or you’ll get no cooperation from me. The people here aren’t soldiers who will tolerate rationing – they’re blue-collar workers with families and kids to feed. You let them miss a meal, and it won’t matter what assurances you, I, or anyone else gives them. They’ll eat whatever meat is left on you.”

“If you must know, my plan is to eventually transition to greenhouses for the colony’s agricultural needs,” Barbosa explained. “Perhaps a desert greening project for the long-term. If it worked for the traitorous Rask, it can work here. The environmental conditions are similar.”

“The Rask had the resources of the whole Coalition at their disposal,” the Governor added. “You have one jump carrier. If that’s your plan, you’d better get on it quick.”

“Send me a comprehensive breakdown of your colony’s food supplies and how many more shipments you expect to receive before the cash flow dries up,” Barbosa replied. “That can be your first assignment.”

“You want my advice?” the Governor asked, pausing as he turned to leave. “Get out while you still can. Take your carrier and go somewhere else. Hades has eaten up and spat out far more powerful men than you.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Barbosa grumbled, turning to the operatives. “Please escort our guest back to the shuttle.”

DAY 1 – HADES – RUZA

“They’re keeping the PDF locked up?” Bill asked, leaning over the bar as he whispered conspiratorially. “Why?”

“I do not know,” Ruza replied. “That is simply what the injured troopers relayed to me. There seems to have been a great deal of heavy fighting, and many were killed or wounded. The hospital is at capacity, and they are running short on supplies. I spent much of my day providing what assistance I could.”

“Everyone at work is worried,” Bill continued, pausing to take a sip of his beer. “The older guys are saying this feels like when the Syndicate took over.”

“Even that was more of a soft coup,” Ricky added. “It started out small until, bit by bit, everyone ended up on their payroll. These guys rolled through and took control literally overnight. They’re fast, they’re aggressive, and they’re on a mission. Mark my words – they’re here for something more than peacekeeping.”

“Rumor is the Governor went up to the carrier to talk to them,” another of the miners said. “Maybe he’ll come back with some news.”

“You think he’s gonna give some kind of address?” Bill wondered aloud.

“Hey, what are you guys talking about?”

Ruza glanced up as Amy made her way over to them, standing out like a sore thumb in the dingy bar filled with burly miners, a few of them turning their heads to glance at her. She pulled up a stool and took a seat beside Ruza, sandwiching herself between him and Bill.

“Amy?” Ruza began. “What are you doing here?”

“Something is clearly going on, and you’re crazy if you think I’m going to miss out on some juicy gossip,” she replied as she lifted a hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Gimme a beer.”

“You drink, Amy?” Bill asked.

“What else is there to do around here?” she scoffed. “Besides, comms are being weird. I keep getting these intranet outages, like my phone is losing connection. Only time that usually happens is during a bad sandstorm.”

“Quiet,” Ricky added, giving Ruza a nudge and gesturing to the dusty old display that was mounted above the bar. “Something’s coming on. Hey,” he added, getting the attention of the bartender. “Could you turn that up?”

The sound from the speakers gradually grew louder, the murmur of conversation in the little bar fading away as the patrons turned their attention to the screen, where an image of the Governor was being displayed.

Ruza was already familiar with him, as he gave the occasional address over the colony’s intranet and sometimes made public appearances to open new factories. He was the closest thing the humans had to a Patriarch. He was shorter and also wider than most, always wearing fine suits, but his usually smiling face was dour now. The Governor was sitting at the same wooden desk he usually did, but this time, there were two men flanking him. Ruza recognized them immediately as more SWAR operatives, their faces hidden behind their dark visors, each one adorned with a strange design or logo. It was hard to guess whether they were guarding him or holding him captive.

“Hey, look!” Bill whispered. “It’s more of those special forces guys we saw at the garrison!”

“You guys went to the garrison?” Amy hissed.

“Yeah, the Navy had taken it over,” Ricky whispered. “They had it on lockdown.”

“People of Hades,” the Governor began, even the bartender pausing to look up at the monitor as he dried a mug with a rag. “I address you today on all channels to inform you of some recent developments. I hope to assuage your concerns and quell some rumors that have been circulating around the colony. Yesterday, during the late hours of the night, a contingent of Navy special forces deployed from a carrier in orbit. They have temporarily taken control of the garrisons and the tether as a protective measure against criminal elements within the PDF. I can confirm that there was fighting when some of our troopers resisted in the confusion, and several were injured, but I do have reassurances that those currently being held will be released once the transition is complete.”

“Transition?” Bill wondered aloud. “What transition?”

“Our benefactors in the UN have sent these peacekeeping forces to protect Hades from roving hive fleets that have been sighted in neighboring systems,” the Governor continued, his brow still furrowed. “There will be…changes in the following weeks. In order to better defend Hades, many of our factories will be tasked with producing weapons and ammunition for the war effort. All current or former PDF, and anyone with military experience, will be asked to report to their local garrison for evaluation. The UN seeks to further Hades’ development and establish a more permanent presence here, along with offering our fellow Hadeans new opportunities.”

“Maybe that’s not so bad,” Bill said with a shrug. “Hades could use some more UN investment.”

“If all that shit is true, then why does the Governor look like he’s worried one of those goons is gonna blow his head off?” Ricky whispered. “If these guys are really UN like he claims, why would they attack the PDF in the middle of the night? What’s this line about criminals?”

“It does not make sense,” Ruza grumbled. “The UNN would send Marines, and any transition would happen peacefully. There would be no surprise attacks in the night.”

“This feels like when the Syndicate took over,” Ricky added. “They wanted everything to keep running smoothly – didn’t want to cause a panic, and it was only later that the talk about how the UN had abandoned us and we needed to go it alone started.”

“I’ve never seen Governor Serio look this pissed off,” Amy added. “Not even that time the chemical plant blew.”

“I ask for your patience and your cooperation during this time,” the Governor continued as he crossed his arms atop the desk. “It’s my hope that we will face only temporary disruptions and that the day-to-day operations of the colony will be minimally impacted. For those of you who work at factories or are otherwise involved in manufacturing, your managers will be briefing you on the changes shortly. For those of you who have family members in the PDF, please be patient. Your loved ones will be released to you at the earliest opportunity once the criminal investigation has concluded. My administration has posted a list of all personnel either injured or detained on our netsite, so please refer to that resource if someone you know remains unaccounted for. I will do my best to keep you all apprised of any important developments.”

The address ended, and the channel returned to its usual broadcast, the bartender turning the volume back down again as the sound of conversation rose above it.

“We’ve had problems with criminals and pirates before,” Bill said. He seemed to want to seek out any explanation that fit, as though the problem could simply be brushed aside and ignored. “It doesn’t seem all that unreasonable that some guys in the PDF could be corrupt. My friend Mateo said he got stopped on his way home from the bar one time, and a couple of troopers shook him down for twenty creds – said they’d put him in the drunk tank if he didn’t pay up.”

“Why would that require special forces and a gunfight to clear up?” Ricky pressed.

“I dunno,” Bill muttered, withdrawing a little and nursing his drink. “Just trying to make sense of it is all.”

“What do you think, Ruza?” Ricky asked. The miners all went quiet, glancing up at him as they waited for his assessment.

“What should we do?” another of them asked.

“We wait as the Governor asks,” Ruza replied after a moment of consideration. “I do not like this. Experience tells me that these men should not be here, and their actions do not align with what I know of UNN rules of engagement. The address raises more questions than it answers. Nothing is to be gained by acting in haste, however. Patient observation would be the wisest course of action.”

“So…wait and see?” Bill reiterated. “What are you gonna do if it turns out these guys are bad news?”

“Why do you assume that I would do anything?” Ruza asked, giving him a questioning look.

“Well, you’re the only one of us who’s ever been in a situation like this before,” Bill replied. “Like, rebellions and combat and stuff.”

“If you seek my advice, it would be wise to stockpile food,” Ruza added. “I do not like the idea of these men occupying the tether.”

“That’s a good idea,” Amy added with a nod.

“I must go,” Ruza declared as he rose from his stool. “There are still many injured to tend to at the hospital, and I must wake early.”

“We’ll let you know if we hear anything new,” Ricky called after him.

CHAPTER 4

DAY 2 – HADES – PETROVA

The dropship shook as turbulence buffeted it, Petrova watching the operatives who accompanied her as they sat in the rows of seats to her left and right. Even through her bulky PCE, she could feel the craft decelerate, circling to shed speed before coming to a hover. It bounced on its heavy landing gear, then the troop ramp dropped, bright light spilling into the bay and washing everything in desert sepia tones.

The dropship sagged under her weight as she walked down the ramp and out into a garrison. It resembled a small military compound like some of the FoBs she had visited over the years, albeit far more rudimentary, with most of the structures made up of prefabs. There were only a few carbcrete bunkers, and they seemed primarily made for storage. The sky was a deep blue, and the sun was large and bright enough to trigger her canopy’s displays to dim, windswept dust blowing across the compound. She could see nothing of note beyond the garrison walls save for the tether that rose up into the sky, fading into the haze.

Ahead of her, lined up in an open area in front of the prefabs, were rows of PDF. The troopers were easily identified with their camouflaged uniforms, some of them wearing surplus body armor with stenciled letters across the chest plates. They were standing to attention like they were on parade, their nervous eyes glancing back at her, equal parts awed and intimidated by her Bullshark. They were being guarded by a squad of armed SWAR agents, their XMRs at the ready. There would be many more troopers still locked up in the jail cells – these were merely the most cooperative individuals.

The rest of the operatives in her shuttle thundered down the ramp behind her, taking up position to either side of her suit. A second dropship had already landed nearby, and she could see the Wombat hovering overhead, its four thrusters angled down in VTOL mode. The massive aircraft landed on all-terrain skids rather than wheels, gradually settling, its profile more like a house than a vehicle. She could see dark shapes moving behind the raised cockpit windows above its slanted nose. Like a landing craft of old, that nose dropped to the ground to form a ramp, a procession of Marines and carrier crew marching out of its shadowy cargo compartment under the watchful eyes of more agents.

The PDF seemed very surprised to see them, muttering to one another as they watched near a hundred prisoners wearing UNN uniforms be herded into one of the carbcrete structures at gunpoint. The bunkers could shelter civilians from the nearby district in the event of a Bug attack, so there was space enough to house them for the time being. The Wombat took off again once its passengers had been disgorged, rising into the sky as its four engines burned blue, leveling out before soaring away over the city.

The PDF troopers turned their attention to Petrova as she lumbered over to them, her canopy sliding open once she was standing close enough, making the nearest man lurch in alarm.

“My name is Lieutenant Commander Petrova,” she announced over the sound of the idling engines, glancing down the line of troopers. “I’m UNN special forces, if that wasn’t obvious by my choice of attire. You’re all here because you took the initiative. When asked if you wanted to do more for your colony, you answered the call. Our hope is that your friends and colleagues who are still being held will make that same decision in time. Security is of the utmost importance during this transitional period, and we cannot release anyone before clearing them.”

That was a lie, of course. The PDF would either submit to Commander Barbosa, or they would remain incarcerated along with the carrier’s crew. Petrova wasn’t sure how she felt about this course of action. Barbosa had always been up-front and direct before. He had never coerced her or any of his followers to join him – he had simply presented the facts as he saw them and let each person decide for themselves. Still, there was logic in his approach when it came to dealing with civilians. A convenient lie would buy time and keep the peace while he enacted his plan. The PDF could be exposed to his ideology gradually, and in time, their loyalty evaluated.

“For those of you who might have missed the Governor’s address yesterday, we are part of a Navy detachment sent to Hades to root out criminals and reinforce your colony against alien attack,” she continued. “We’ve been authorized to provide special equipment and training to those who choose to accept it – equipment and training usually reserved solely for the special forces. Those of you who sign on will be instructed by the UNN’s most elite operators and – if you prove yourselves – given access to military-grade augmentations. Impress us, and you might be entrusted with a PCE like mine one day.”

That seemed to get a reaction from them, some of the men admiring the suit and muttering to one another. They turned their attention to an operative who was walking over from one of the dropships, a crate that looked large and heavy enough for two men held in his hands. He dropped it beside Petrova and cracked it open, lifting something from within and brushing off a few fragments of packing foam.

“This is the latest Mark Three XMR,” he declared, hefting the rifle aloft so that the recruits could see it. “It’s state-of-the-art, Navy-issue – a hell of a lot more advanced than the old surplus you guys have been drilling with until now. You’re going to become familiar enough with this weapon that you can disassemble and reassemble it blindfolded while someone hucks rocks at you. You lose one of these or somehow discover a way to break it, I’m gonna take an arm, and I’m not giving you a new one.”

“The gun or the arm?” the nearest man asked.

“Both,” he replied. “Like the LC said – if you guys prove yourselves, you’ll get special access to augmentations like mine.” He raised a polymer arm, a few of the nearby troopers jumping in surprise as a long blade shot out of his wrist, extending a few inches past his hand. He stowed it again with the sound of metal on metal, closing his fist. “These replacement limbs and organs are stronger and sturdier than your organics. They’ll let you run faster, react quicker, and hit harder than even the most seasoned Marine. They require commitment, however. This isn’t an outfit where you do a few tours and go back to tending your dirt patch. If you’re in, you’re in for life, and you don’t get the organics back when you clock out. Not that you’ll miss them,” he added with a chuckle.

“Sir?” one of the troopers asked, raising his hand. “I thought augs were illegal unless you got hurt?”

“We have special permission from the Admiralty,” the operative replied, not elaborating any further. “You muddy dirt farmers aren’t getting your grubby mitts on any of this nice, expensive tech until you show your instructors that you have what it takes to join the best warfighters in the colonies. Now, hop to it!” he barked. “I want to see how far you maggots can run in this heat before you lose your breakfast!”

Petrova watched as the group of recruits set off, starting a lap around the compound with the instructor yelling orders at them. It reminded her of boot camp, and she cracked a smile before quickly sealing her canopy again to get some reprieve from the heat. Similar conversations would be happening right now in all of the garrisons, and the Wombat would be making trips to each of them to deposit the uncooperative carrier crew, isolating the prisoners into more manageable groups. There would eventually be questions, but by then, their position should be a lot more secure.

She had doubts that even SWAR could turn these bottom-of-the-barrel PDF troopers into elite operators in a few short months, but this was what they had to work with. What their force lacked was manpower, and these colonists had warm bodies, if nothing else.

“How are things on the ground, Petrova?” Barbosa asked as an image of his eyeless face appeared in her rightmost display.

“Going to plan, Commander,” she replied as she straightened a little. “The prisoners are being transferred to the civilian shelters, and the PDF volunteers are starting their training. I have to say, they don’t look like much. We’re hardly selecting the cream of the crop.”

“These men are wet clay waiting for a firm hand to mold them,” Barbosa replied. “Our people will make something of them yet – you’ll see.”

“The PDF conversion rate seems much higher than the carrier crew, at least,” Petrova added as she watched the group of recruits pass behind some prefabs. “Roughly half of them have signed on – some to get out of jail, but others seem genuinely interested. They seem to have bought our line about defending the colony, even after we attacked them.”

“Is it so far from the truth?” Barbosa asked. “They might not truly know what they’re training for, but we’re still giving them access to equipment and resources reserved only for the Navy’s highest echelons. They don’t know who they’ll be defending their colony from, but that war is coming all the same, and they’ll need to be prepared. In time, we’ll be able to reveal more, but not until our control over Hades has been cemented.”

“Understood, Commander,” she replied. “The census from the Governor shows around a hundred thousand people living on this colony, and about ten percent of the population has PDF training – both active and reserve. That gives us about ten thousand people, with around two thousand active in police and peacekeeping roles at the time of our arrival. We’ve already put out calls for reservists to report to the garrisons, but I’d advise proceeding slowly and cautiously. If we train and arm too many people too quickly, it could backfire on us. Even SWAR won’t prevail against fifty-to-one odds.”

“Not without turning the colony to glass, at least,” Barbosa grumbled. “What’s the status of their orbital defenses?”

“Under our control, Commander,” Petrova replied. “They have stockpiles of surface-to-orbit missiles and also several MAST launchers.”

“Those MASTs are nasty,” Barbosa added with a frown. “That’s the only weapon they have that could threaten our carrier. They’re also going to be our linchpin when the Navy comes knocking. Keep a close eye on them and have men posted at the launch sites at all times.”

“Understood.”

“Very well, proceed as you see fit,” Barbosa said with a nod. “You’re my eyes and ears on the ground, Petrova – my right hand. Secure the colony and build me my army.”

“Yes, Commander.”

DAY 2 – HADES – RUZA

“Unpaid overtime!” Bill complained, slamming his beer can down on the table. “This is bullshit!”

The group of miners were hunched over a table in the bar, many still sporting their dirty high-vis jackets, having a well-earned drink after what had clearly been a trying day. Ruza was sitting among them, as was Amy, who had begun to insert herself into all of their meetings as of late.

“Surely the unions won’t stand for this,” Ricky added. “We had to fight tooth and nail to get proper worker’s rights out here, and overtime pay was one of them. I dunno what these Navy guys are building that they need all that ore.”

“According to my buddy who works at one of the factories, they’ve switched from making tungsten carbide drill bits and milling tools to railgun slugs,” Bill continued as he glanced around the table. “The whole place became an ammunition plant overnight.”

“My friend who works at a print shop is being asked to make polymer parts for rifles,” another of the miners added. “I also know a guy who works at a garage, and they have him making heavy machinery – he doesn’t even know what it’s for. His shift manager just walked in, gave him the blueprints, and told him that’s what they’re doing now.”

“Seems like the whole economy is shifting to manufacturing weapons for the Navy,” Ricky grumbled as he took a drink from his mug.

“The Governor isn’t a King,” Amy protested. “He can order the factories to produce whatever he wants, but it’s the unions that give him power. What’s he gonna do if they refuse to cooperate and go on strike?”

“There are already rumblings about strikes and protests,” Ricky confirmed with a nod. “Give the unions a little time to get organized, and I’m sure they’ll sort things out.”

“What about the Navy?” one of the miners asked. “These orders are clearly coming from them. Do you think they’ll stand by and let the unions shut down their factories and mines?”

“It’s the UNN – they’re not gonna shoot people,” Bill scoffed.

“I am not so sure,” Ruza muttered. “I am not convinced that these men are truly representing the UNN, and the Navy would have no need of Hades’ manpower or its factories. If they wished to defend the colony from hive fleets, they would have sent a carrier group rather than one ship, and they would have manpower and resources enough to spare.”

“At least they’ve started releasing the PDF like they said they would,” Bill said. “We were on our way home from work, and we saw a whole group of them running down the street. Looked like they were doing training, and there were a couple of those special forces guys with them.”

“Terry, you’re in the PDF, right?” Ricky asked as he turned to one of the men. “Are they having you go in for evaluation too?”

“I’m a reservist, not active duty,” the miner explained. “They’re calling everyone up, though – same way they would if there was an invasion. I usually only train on weekends.”

“I’m not going in,” another of them scoffed, taking a swig from his can. “Fuckers shot my cousin. He’s gonna be alright, but a lot of his friends aren’t. They come ‘round my place asking after me, and they’re gonna get a pickaxe to the dome.”

“That’s a lot of people if they’re bringing in the reserves,” Bill mused. “Maybe that’s why they have us doing overtime – they expect that a lot of workers are going to be called up.”

“Maybe there really is going to be a big attack?” someone suggested.

“Betelgeusians do not patrol systems as we do,” Ruza explained. “There is very little warning of an invasion – the hive fleet simply jumps into high orbit and begins its attack. The idea that the Navy is aware of fleets in neighboring systems is highly suspect.”

“They’ve been bringing something down to the surface all day, too,” Amy added as she leaned in to whisper. “I’ve seen a huge lander coming and going over the city. Each time, it lands in a different garrison, like it’s rotating between them.”

“Why not just bring cargo down on the tether?” Bill asked.

Amy gave him a shrug, taking a pointed sip from her drink as if to say isn’t that strange?

“We will meet later,” Ruza added, rising from his seat. “I must head home.”

He said goodbye to his friends and headed out of the bar, wrapping his face and putting on his goggles to shield himself from the sand. Just like in his home territory, the desert cooled rapidly at night, making him glad of his leather jacket.

As Ruza strode down the familiar street, passing by the rows of prefabs, he saw someone approaching in the distance. They drew closer, and he realized that it was several men walking along beside a vehicle – one of the troop carriers he had seen blocking the garrison gate. He suddenly felt vulnerable. He was out in the open, alone, and very conspicuous. Briefly, he considered ducking behind the nearest prefab for cover, but that might arouse suspicion.

Instead, he stepped aside as the procession passed by him, giving them room. The large APC was moving slowly on its fat tires, kicking up a little cloud of dust, matching pace with the soldiers who walked alongside it. There were three on each flank – enough for a squad, and all were heavily augmented. As they walked past, those on the near side turned their inscrutable helmets to examine him, the way that their hands rested on their rifles making him bristle. Why were they patrolling the city? One of the men raised two mechanical fingers to his visor, which was patterned with a strange symbol, then pointed them back at Ruza. It was a human gesture – I am watching.

Ruza’s Borealan blood began to boil, demanding a response to the open challenge, but he quelled his instincts. A younger, more brash Rask might have started a confrontation, but Ruza’s anger had been tempered by age and experience. Though it made him feel clawless, he watched the humans pass, then continued on his way.

When he arrived home, Ruza locked his door, briefly looking out through the narrow windows at the dark street beyond. It didn’t appear that he was being followed. After a few moments, he willed his racing heart to calm, the familiar tug of his AG plate helping to relax him. It had been a long time since he had felt fear from a human – not since the days of the rebellion. If only Fletcher were here…

He moved across the small prefab, reaching for his coat rack and pulling away the sheet that covered it. Beneath was a long weapon tipped with a round muzzle device, the coils that shone beneath its heat shroud catching the light through the gaps in the polymer, a large optics package attached to its rail. Ruza wrapped a furry hand around the barrel, lifting it from its place beside the door, checking the battery charge level on the six-foot rifle. He didn’t keep it loaded, but he had a few magazines stashed in the prefab. His Navy credentials had allowed him to keep the weapon, but he’d hoped that he would never have to use it again. Satisfied that it was functioning, he returned it to its place beside the door, covering it with the sheet.

DAY 3 – HADES – RUZA

“Where are you all off to?” Amy asked.

Bill, Ricky, and a group of their fellow miners had stopped by the practice. They were wearing their yellow hardhats and high-vis vests, though they wore their casual clothes beneath them rather than their work coveralls. As casual as protective clothing got on Hades, at least.

“No work today,” Bill announced cheerfully, lowering his rebreather. “We’re going down to city hall to join the protest.”

“What protest?” Ruza asked, leaning out of his office curiously.

“The unions are all pretty pissed off,” Ricky explained. “They’ve voted on a general strike until the Governor agrees to their demands. All of the mines and factories are closing down.”

“That was quick,” Amy chuckled. “What are they asking for?”

“Overtime pay, for one,” Ricky replied. “Some of the factory workers had their shifts doubled, and people have a lot of questions about the Navy. Nobody is happy, and the Governor has a lot of explaining to do. They asked everyone to go down and join the protest as a show of solidarity.”

“Having a few thousand angry workers at your back tends to improve your position during negotiations,” Bill added with a grin. “We didn’t have time to make a sign, but we put a high-vis on a broom handle,” he added as he gestured over his shoulder. One of the miners had a fluorescent jacket taped to the top of a wooden pole, the wind making it wave like a banner.

“I will accompany you,” Ruza said as he stepped out into the waiting room. “Amy – please watch the practice while I am gone.”

“Are you striking, Ruza?” Bill asked. “I thought you were self-employed?”

“Unrest can be dangerous,” he replied as he threw on his leather jacket. “I would like to be there in case something happens.”

“Hey, nobody’s gonna mess with us if Ruza is there!” another of the miners added.

They stepped out into the street, heading off in the direction of the looming tether.

***

When they arrived at the protest, Ruza found himself amidst a crowd of two or three thousand people, his height letting him stand head and shoulders above the sea of humans. The streets of Hades were not especially wide, and the throngs practically clogged them, many of the protesters holding signs or waving banners made from their work vests. It seemed that it hadn’t been Bill’s idea – perhaps they had coordinated over the intranet. This was only a small fraction of the workers who lived on the colony, but it was already hard to navigate with so many of them present. Ruza could barely hear anything over the noise of a thousand garbled conversations.

The colony’s most important structures were all clustered at its center – close to the anchor. That included the hospital and several administrative and government buildings, such as the courthouse, corporate headquarters, and city hall. The latter was little more than a square box of gray carbcrete with some large windows that looked out over the city – more function over form. It might have appeared more impressive had the industrial mountain that was the anchor not been towering over it. Ruza remembered the lavish marble pillars and artificial oasis in the courtyard of the Matriarch’s palace, but the Hadeans appeared to have no eye for such fineries, or perhaps they simply lacked the means.

In front of the hall was a large open space that the humans called a square, though it was more of a circle with a tall stone obelisk at its center. It was some manner of monument, though he had never asked the humans what it commemorated.

Ruza’s group was a couple of hundred meters from the square, but he could see that someone had parked a truck there, and several humans were standing atop its roof to raise them above the surrounding crowd. Five men were perched there holding megaphones in their hands – likely the union bosses. Though Ruza doubted very much that they ever joined their workers on the line, they wore the same yellow jackets and hardhats. They were addressing the crowd, the distortion and noise meaning that he only caught snippets here and there.

“…since the strikes during the days of ExoCorp, we’ve promised to guarantee…”

“…general strike until our demands are heard and explanations are given…”

“…bring this colony to a standstill if we have to…”

A set of steps led up to the hall’s entrance, and Ruza noted that there was a row of soldiers standing on them, preventing the protesters from approaching. He was concerned to see that they were SWAR, not PDF. The PDF would be trained for police actions and unrest, but SWAR were special forces – they would have neither the training nor the temperament for such work. They were armed with XMRs, their faceless visors watching the crowd below. As his feline eyes scanned the streets that fed into the square, Ruza saw more security forces. Some of the streets had been blocked off using formations of PDF troopers with riot shields, supported by APCs, but they were never alone. Everywhere his gaze wandered, he saw more armed SWAR operatives.

“Man, there’s a lot of people here,” Bill mused as he stood on his toes to get a better view. “Yo, gimme the broom. I want a go.”

“Want Ruza to give you a boost?” Ricky chuckled.

“More people are supposed to be coming, too,” another of the miners added as he pulled up his phone. “A lot of the major roads are clogged already.”

“You getting a signal?” Bill asked. “Mine’s being weird – it keeps disconnecting.”

On one of the upper floors of the city hall was a balcony that looked out over the square, and the crowd became louder as the Governor appeared there, walking out into the harsh sunlight to address the jeering colonists.

“My fellow Hadeans,” he began, his voice ringing out clearly as it was augmented by powerful speakers. “You are heard! When you elected me, I promised that the days of corporate tyranny and organized crime would end under my administration. In partnership with the UN, we’ve ushered in a new era of unprecedented peace and prosperity for Hades. That does not mean that we will never face challenges or hardships, however. Our great colony is under threat from within and from without. Our UN benefactors have foiled a criminal plot by rogue elements of the PDF before it had a chance to begin, and they’re presently arming our colony against a possible hive fleet invasion. The situation is well in hand, and there is no cause for alarm, but I implore you to show patience during this brief transitional period.”

The crowd began to jeer again, and the noise was soon overpowered by the sound of a megaphone.

“I am the elected representative of the Factory and Metalworkers Union,” one of the bosses began. “Your administration previously agreed to legal limits on the number of shifts and overtime hours that our members can work. We haven’t consented to any changes to those agreements!”

“Same goes for the Mining League!” another of them added. “Our miners are being asked to do unpaid overtime, which violates Hadean labor laws that you signed off on!”

“The Trade Association is being denied free access to the tether!” another yelled. “We can’t move our goods to the station for shipping, and the whole supply chain will be impacted unless something is done immediately!”

“The Municipal Employees Guild stands in solidarity with our fellow workers! We’re on general strike until their demands are met!”

“Why are we being ordered to manufacture weapons for the Navy? Under whose authority? What’s going to happen to our exports and our contracts while we’re stuck making slugs?”

The crowd shouted in a chorus of agreement, waving their banners and signs, Ruza’s ears flattening against his dusty hair to block out the noise. Humans showed an instinctual aversion to authority that often left him wondering how they had ever created a functioning civilization.

His gaze wandered to the nearest group of troopers and SWAR, watching them begin to move into position, blocking off the street. There were more operatives on one of the roofs of a far-off prefab, lying prone as they watched over the crowd with a marksman rifle, the sun glinting off its scope.

“Rest assured that my secretaries are already making appointments for private meetings with all of you to address your concerns in detail,” the Governor replied. “For the time being, my contacts at the UN insist that the day-to-day operations of the colony continue to run smoothly. The weapons and ammunition that you’re manufacturing may soon be needed to defend your homes and families. Please keep that in mind. We Hadeans are no strangers to tough conditions, but these measures are only temporary.”

“Who are they to insist?” one of the bosses demanded. “When we joined the UN, it wasn’t so that they could run our colony like a sweatshop!”

“Nobody elected these guys!”

“We still don’t have a satisfactory explanation for the attack on the garrisons! Why are the missing PDF not being released?”

“I implore you to remain calm and orderly,” the Governor continued as the crowd grew more riled up. “There’s only so much that I can do at this juncture, but I assure you that my administration is doing everything in our power to-”

“Fuck the UN!” some in the crowd shouted. “Fuck the UN! Fuck the UN!”

It became a chant that spread through the square, some of the protesters starting to move up the steps towards the hall’s entrance, clashing with the SWAR operatives. Ruza watched, his concern growing as one of the agents violently pushed a worker back down the steps, his companions catching him as he fell. They leveled their weapons, the angry mob backing away, gesturing and jeering at them.

More of the security forces were moving now, boxing in the square and cutting off any avenue of escape for the distracted protesters. Perhaps they couldn’t see what was happening through the crowd, but Ruza had a higher vantage point, and he could tell that a trap was being sprung. A few of the workers closest to the cordons were clashing with the PDF as they were forced deeper into the square, raining blows on their riot shields. As he glanced behind him, he saw that the same was happening back the way they had come, with more troopers approaching down the dusty street to tighten the noose.

“Please remain calm!” the Governor pleaded. “I’m doing my best to maintain order here, but any violence against our peacekeepers will not be tolerated! I respect your right to protest, but you’ll be asked to disperse if you don’t cooperate!”

“The only violence is coming from your UN goons!” one of the bosses shouted. “Why do you have armed troops protecting you?”

“These are UNN Marines who are currently assisting the PDF with their duties,” the Governor replied. “The incident at the garrisons has left us with manpower shortages!”

“We need to leave,” Ruza growled, getting the attention of his friends. “Now.”

“But we just got here!” Bill protested, waving his broom. “C’mon, Ruza, things are just starting to get exciting!”

“We should do as he says,” Ricky added sternly. “I don’t like this one bit.”

Ruza waded through the small group of people who had assembled behind them, the workers making way for him, and he led his friends away from the increasingly unruly crowd. He soon came to the row of PDF troopers, the men blocking the street with a phalanx of riot shields, reminding Ruza of the way that Drones often approached defended positions. They were armed with stun batons of the kind he’d seen military police use on Naval stations. There was an APC behind them, another trooper peering down at them over its bulky hull as he watched from an open hatch.

As Ruza neared, two SWAR troops pushed through the line to head him off. Like the rest, they were augmented with black polymer prosthetics that matched their armor, each one wearing a full-faced helmet with a different decal adorning its visor.

“What’s the hurry, big guy?” one of them asked through his helmet speakers. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

“Excuse us,” Ruza replied in his gravelly tone. “We are going home.”

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” the other operative replied, hefting an XMR that seemed more suited to war than crowd control. “Looks like we have a riot on our hands. Anyone caught breaking the law is gonna have to be detained.”

“We’re not rioters!” Bill protested, lowering his homemade banner.

“Yeah, we didn’t do anything wrong,” another miner added.

“We seek only to leave peacefully,” Ruza insisted.

“What’s a Rask doing all the way out here, anyway?” an agent with a red X marking his visor asked as he peered up at Ruza. “Aren’t you on the wrong side of the Sphere, Madcat? You’re about a hundred light-years from home, give or take.”

“He’s a doctor,” Bill replied, Ruza shooting him a look as if to say shut up.

“You know, we killed your kind on Borealis,” the other agent added as he tilted his helmeted head. His visor was adorned with a picture of a bird that Ruza couldn’t identify. “Mowed down hundreds at the East Gate. How’s that make you feel, big guy? A little angry, maybe? Does it rile up that Rask temper of yours?”

“Maybe he wants to do something about it,” the second man chuckled.

Ruza felt his anger flare, but he repressed it, willing himself to be calm. He would not allow honor and rage and revenge to rule him as they once had. Those were the impulses that had led his people down the road to ruin.

“Please allow us to leave, and we shall not trouble you,” he replied.

“Shame, this one’s domesticated,” X said as he gave his partner a nudge. “He’s just a little pussycat.”

Ruza moved closer, intending to walk past them, but one of the agents aimed his rifle and stepped into the Rask’s path.

“Go on – gimme a reason, pussycat.”

They couldn’t turn back – the sounds from the square were growing louder and more chaotic. With each passing minute, Ruza was more certain that this had been planned from the start. All of the colony’s most ardent unionists were in one place, and any unrest would be an excuse for the security forces to sweep in and detain whoever they pleased, just as they had the PDF.

“Are you guys gonna sit there and let them do this?” Ricky demanded, addressing the row of troopers. They looked almost as confused as the miners, glancing at one another behind their helmets.

“Who the hell are you people, anyway?” Bill asked. “What’s your service number?”

“My name’s Officer Shut The Fuck Up and my service number is turn around and put your hands behind your back,” Bird said as he moved towards Bill. He tore the broom handle from the miner’s hands and gave him a rough shove, making him stumble back, the rest of the group raising their hands and backing off as he swept them with the barrel of his XMR.

“Everyone on your knees!” X added, switching his aim from Ruza to Ricky.

Ruza moved.

Putting all of his strength into a backhanded swipe, he caught X in the side of the helmet while he was distracted, hitting the human so hard that his skid-like feet left the dusty ground. He turned almost head over heels in the air, his helmet slamming into the road, where he lay crumpled in a heap.

Bird was turning his weapon on his assailant, but too late, Ruza lunging towards him and gripping the barrel of the rifle in a massive hand. He wrenched it up and away as it loosed a burst into the air, a loud hypersonic crack ringing out, pulling the agent off balance and kicking him in the chest with a paw the size of a dinner plate. The operative was thrown back against the nearest prefab, hitting the wall hard enough to leave a dent in the metal before slumping limply to the ground. Ruza hit the magazine release and tossed the XMR aside – a severed prosthetic finger still hooked through the trigger guard.

“Ruza!” Bill exclaimed, still covering his ears after the gunshots. “What did you do!?”

“Follow me!” Ruza growled, moving towards the line of PDF. “Out of my path, unless you wish to suffer the same fate!”

The troopers recoiled as he bellowed at them, baring his sharp teeth and flexing his claws, the diminutive aliens scurrying to form an opening. Armed only with batons, there was little that they could do to stop an angry Borealan, the men watching as Ruza marched past the cordon with his friends in tow. A few nearby protesters who had been watching the exchange followed, taking the opportunity to disperse into the city.

“What the hell was that?” Ricky demanded, hurrying to match pace with Ruza’s loping strides.

“I’ve never seen you angry before, Ruza,” Bill added as he jogged along behind them. “It’s kinda scary…”

“These men are not UN,” Ruza muttered, turning his head as he kept an eye out for more SWAR. “This is some ploy to wrest control of the colony. Hurry – off the street. The gunfire will have drawn their attention.”

They moved down a side alley formed by the prefabs, ducking out of view, Ruza taking a moment to collect himself.

“Damn, Ruza,” Bill gasped as he caught his breath through his rebreather. “You think those guys are alright?”

“I fucking hope not,” another of the miners added. “Assholes.”

“The situation is more dire than I first realized,” Ruza said, glancing up as a dropship drifted over their heads. “I have served with the UN, and they do not behave this way. Nothing about this makes sense. Someone falsely bearing the standard of the Navy is trying to take control of this colony and turn it towards some unknown purpose.”

“The Governor wouldn’t let that happen!” Bill protested.

“Didn’t you see those two soldiers standing behind him during the address the other night?” Ricky pressed. “Those…robot guys are everywhere. They were in the Governor’s office, they were at the garrison when we went to check, and now they’re leading the PDF.”

“I have seen this before,” Ruza grumbled, lost in thought. “When the Matriarch wished to cement her power in my home territory, she installed her Royal Guard in positions of power throughout the city. They ceased to be her protectors and became her enforcers.”

“Who are they if they’re not Navy, then?” one of the miners asked.

“I do not know,” Ruza sighed, shaking his shaggy head. “They came here on a carrier, and they use Navy equipment, yet they cannot be Navy. Taking control of a UNN Jump Carrier…I cannot imagine how such a thing could be done.”

“What should we do now?” Bill asked, glancing up at him. The rest of the miners followed suit, Ruza once again finding himself their unofficial leader.

“They will not know your faces,” Ruza replied. “You are all wearing masks and visors. Return to your homes and stay there – do not leave today.”

“They’ll know you,” Ricky added. “You’re the only Borealan on Hades.”

“Then that will be my burden,” Ruza replied. “Go – be safe. Stick to the side roads.”

“Thanks, Ruza,” Bill added as the humans turned to leave. “If you hadn’t been there, we’d all probably be on our way to a garrison right now.”

DAY 3 – HADES – THE GOVERNOR

“Alright!” the Governor growled as he barged into his office, unfastening his tie and loosening his collar. “Whose bright idea was it to put military hit squads in charge of crowd control?”

His office was lavish by Hadean standards, with a real wood desk and shelves filled with old books that were mostly just decorative, lit by the golden glow of an ornate lamp that hung from the ceiling above. The floor was carpeted, and there was a small fridge in one corner of the room that served cold drinks, the air conditioner blowing his sweat-soaked hair.

A trio of SWAR operatives were waiting for him, two of them flanking a third who was sitting in a padded chair, his prosthetic legs crossed. He was a very large man, even without the augmentations, with short-cut blonde hair and some prominent scars adorning his chiseled features. The Governor was in no mood to be intimidated, however. He was red-faced – furious.

“I was in charge,” Hoff replied, rising to his feet to tower over the far shorter and rounder man.

“Well, you fucked it all up, didn’t you?” the Governor chided. “Oh, sit down, you giant idiot. Your boss wants me alive – what are you gonna do, shoot me? That goes for you as well, dipshit,” he added with a gesture to one of the guards. “Put your fucking cock away.”

The agent lowered his weapon, giving his neighbor a baffled shrug.

“The operation went off without a hitch,” Hoff explained, pausing to lift a drink from the table.

“Put a goddamned coaster under there,” the Governor grumbled. “What do you mean without a hitch? My people at the general hospital are reporting that dozens of protesters have come in with injuries, and hundreds of workers were arrested! You started a riot out there – you’re lucky that nobody was killed!”

“You knew the plan,” Hoff replied. “We caused a little chaos, and that let us arrest the ringleaders of the protest. We can’t bring in the union bosses without the whole colony revolting, of course, but we managed to nab some of the more prominent troublemakers. That should help keep things quiet for a while and make it harder for them to organize.”

“You have no idea what you’ve just done, do you?” the Governor asked as he narrowed his eyes at the man. “This colony isn’t a fucking boot camp where you can force people to do what you want with threats and punishments. Managing these people is a careful balancing act of give and take – of concessions and assurances. I could have resolved the situation diplomatically and bought you more time. Now, you’ve undone all the work I’ve been doing to keep the population in check, and you’ve lost all the trust you had. You’ve lit a fucking powder keg.”

“My orders were to arrest the targets, and they’ve been arrested,” Hoff replied.

“I don’t want to talk to you, you fucking gorilla,” the Governor sneered with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Call your boss.”

Hoff raised an eyebrow, but did as he was asked, leaning over the desk and bringing up a holographic display that floated just above it. A few more swipes, and a wavering view of the carrier’s observation deck appeared, the Governor swallowing the lump in his throat when Barbosa stepped into frame.

“Governor Serio,” the Commander began, his distinctly synthetic voice coming through a little distorted. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Your protein-guzzling oaf of an operative over here just turned a protest into a riot,” the Governor snapped as he gestured to Hoff. “Maybe keep me in the loop next time you people decide to piss in your own beds.”

“Based on the reports from my people, it was the PDF who were at fault for losing control of the situation,” Barbosa replied. “My agents accomplished their mission and detained their targets.”

“Your men are thugs,” the Governor snapped. “They have no clue how to deal with civilians or manage crowds, and they shouldn’t be anywhere near a protest. You should have let my security forces handle the situation.”

“I understand that this might cause some unrest, but it was necessary,” Barbosa replied. “I’ve already ordered my men to start patrolling the city – your security is assured.”

“Give me strength,” the Governor sighed, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Cooperation goes both ways, Barbosa. If you don’t keep me informed, I can’t help you keep this colony under control. What you’re heading towards is martial law, and if you think the people of Hades are going to go along with that, you’re woefully mistaken. You need to address the complaints from the union bosses. Maybe we can still appease them and keep a lid on this.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Barbosa replied evasively. “Tell me – what do you know about a Rask living on Hades?”

“A Rask?” the Governor asked, narrowing his eyes. “Like a Borealan? I’m not personally responsible for immigration, and I don’t know everyone who lives on Hades by name, Commander.”

“Backwater like this, you probably could,” Hoff muttered under his breath.

“Two of my men were injured during the protest,” Barbosa continued. “One came away with a concussion, and the other has some thoracic trauma. According to them, they were assaulted by a Rask who was resisting arrest.”

“I know nothing of any Rask,” the Governor replied.

“He shouldn’t be hard to find,” Barbosa mused, scratching his chin with a prosthetic finger. “I’d like him brought in, and I’d like to find out what he’s doing all the way out here. I don’t like the idea of someone who can overpower my men walking free.”

“I think we have more important things to worry about than one Rask,” the Governor scoffed. “We need to talk about the demands from the unions.”

“I’ll see that he’s found, Commander,” Hoff added with a salute.

“Good,” Barbosa replied with a nod. “Very well, Governor. Let’s hear it.”

DAY 4 – MU ARAE BLACK SITE 1 – VOS

“How does it feel?” the doctor asked, stepping away from the Admiral’s bedside.

Vos lifted his prosthetic arm, feeling something akin to a pinched nerve as he flexed its mechanical fingers. The device was connected at the shoulder where the original had been amputated, the knitting scars that covered the stump still visible beneath the soft gel layer that acted as an interface, thousands of tiny wires now fused to his severed nerves. It was a strange sensation, as though his brain was trying to map out this new appendage, finding it not quite right. It didn’t react or move the same way, and it wasn’t quite the right size, all of those small inconsistencies adding up to create something that felt alien.

“It’ll do for now,” he grumbled. “I’ll have the Jarilans clone me a real one when I get back to civilization. Why does my breath taste like plastic?”

“The damage was extensive,” the doctor began, seeming almost apologetic in his mannerisms. “The arm was completely shattered beyond repair – the bones were dust. I’ve only seen damage like that after high-speed collisions. The ribs on the right side of your body were also badly damaged, as was your clavicle, and bone splinters had pierced several vital organs. Your right lung has been replaced, as has your right kidney, and the bones in your shoulder had to be pinned. Your liver was damaged, but it should regenerate with proper care. You’re very lucky to be alive, Admiral.”

“Not luck,” Vos grumbled, wincing as he sat up. “Preparation.”

“You’re not well enough to get out of bed, Admiral,” the doctor added as he leaned in to support him. Vos waved the man away with a whir of his prosthetic arm. “Admiral, please…”

“Call whoever’s in charge,” Vos insisted. “I don’t have time to sit around feeling sorry for myself.”

The doctor vanished through the door, leaving the Admiral alone to examine his environment. He was in a small post-operative room with a single bed surrounded by machines, their monitors displaying his vital signs, the walls and ceiling made up of bare metal. Site Two had been all but destroyed, so he must be either on the station, or on Site One.

A short while later, a man wearing a Navy uniform walked through the sliding door.

“Admiral,” he began. “I’m Agent Farkas – UNNI. I’m the highest-ranking service member remaining after the attack.”

“Give me details,” Vos grunted, rolling his damaged shoulder and grimacing.

“I’m not sure how much you remember – the doctor warned that you were recovering from a concussion,” the agent began. “You’ve been in a medically induced coma for four days while you healed. Based on what information we have available, Commander Barbosa led a group of at least a couple of hundred rogue SWAR operatives and ransacked Site Two, making off with a wealth of classified technology. He then used that technology to take control of the UNN Tirad while it was at port, and most of its crew were station-side. The station was damaged in the attack, and the ship jumped away – we believe to Hades based on its trajectory. The FTL comms on the station were destroyed, so we’ve not been able to contact anyone outside the system. We have about three thousand sailors unaccounted for, not including casualties of the Site Two attack. You’re currently in the medbay at Site One. We deal mostly with intelligence here, so it seems we didn’t have anything they deemed worth stealing.”

“Someone mentioned a Courser,” Vos replied.

“We have a single jump-capable Courser, yes,” Farkas confirmed with a nod. “By a stroke of luck, it was docked at Site One when the attack happened. We also have several shuttles, but they’re mostly busy providing relief to the damaged station.”

“Without FTL comms, that Courser is our only way to get a message out,” Vos said.

“I believe you ordered us not to let it leave without your say,” the agent continued.

“You’ve wasted valuable time keeping me under, but it’s imperative that I get a message to the right people,” Vos said. “I remember now…62 Scorpii was the nearest relay – two weeks by Courser. We can use their comms to bounce a signal to Fleetcom. Barbosa played his cards well, that rat bastard. The nearest carrier is the one that the Tirad relieved, and it’ll be well on its way home with no way for us to reach it. It’ll take six months or longer to get a fleet all the way out here. I have another idea, though. Brenner is at Xi Pegasi. If he has access to a few Coursers, he could lead a strike force to Hades and get there in under two months.”

“Two weeks for our Courser to get to Scorpii and a month for theirs to reach Hades from Pegasi,” the agent replied with a nod. “A sound plan, Admiral.”

“Bring me a tablet,” Vos demanded. “I need something to type on. As soon as our Courser has sent the message, I want them to turn around and go straight to Hades. As long as they keep their distance, it should be very difficult for Barbosa to detect them, and they can collect critical information ready for Brenner’s arrival.”

“I’ll tell the crew to start preparations, Admiral.”

“Good,” Vos muttered, flexing his new hand again. “I’m going to take my pound of flesh…”

DAY 4 – HADES ORBIT – PETROVA

“I do have my qualms about Hoff being in charge of peacekeeping on the colony,” Petrova said as she walked down one of the carrier’s winding hallways beside Barbosa.

“He gets results,” the Commander replied. “He’s effective.”

“I have to side with the Governor, Commander,” she added as they rounded a corner. “A light touch will benefit us on Hades, and Hoff…well, Hoff’s touch is about as light as a lead pipe to the jaw.”

“I think you’ll be glad of him if the situation on the ground goes south and we need to restore order quickly. I’ll take your advice into consideration, however. I trust your judgment.”

They arrived in a room that was furnished like an upscale apartment, the walls painted white and decorated with faux wood paneling, the deck carpeted in Navy blue. There were cushiony, padded seats and couches in matching colors, along with a few low coffee tables and a small kitchen area where food and drinks could be prepared. Petrova wandered around for a moment, admiring the paintings on the walls, most of which depicted the carrier or various aircraft in flight.

“The officer’s quarters,” Barbosa explained as he took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs. “Must be nice to be deployed on a cushy carrier instead of a Courser, right? The captain’s quarters are even nicer. I hope that Ortega is enjoying his mandatory vacation. Maybe he can catch up on some reading.”

Petrova sat down opposite him as he lifted a crystal bottle of amber liquid in his prosthetic hand, pouring a pair of drinks and sliding one across the coffee table in her direction. She accepted it and took a sip, the flavor surprising her.

“Scotch,” she mused, examining the glass. “Good stuff, too.”

“They don’t want to fund the Bullshark program, but they’re happy to have their officers drinking this shit,” Barbosa scoffed. “So, tell me how things are going on the ground. Reports are one thing, but I like to have conversations with my officers to get the full picture.”

“Hoff’s escapades at the protest have soured relations with the locals somewhat,” she sighed. “That said, he did achieve his goals. We can’t touch the union bosses yet, but a lot of their movers and shakers are now in our custody. We’ve put them with the remaining PDF and the carrier crew. We’re keeping all of the groups separated as much as possible, and the shelters we’re using as holding cells are very secure, naturally. Still, I’d advise keeping an eye on them. I’m sure those Marines are pulling out every loose nail they can find.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Barbosa replied with an approving tilt of his glass.

“Training is going well. Every day, we have a few more PDF recruits trickle in – either people wising up in jail or reservists reporting as requested. I’m making sure to attach the freshest faces to our most disciplined units to ensure that some of that loyalty rubs off on them. Peer pressure is a hell of a tool.”

“Good thinking,” Barbosa added. “What about SWAR candidates?”

“We have a few,” Petrova began hesitantly. “Given the circumstances, expecting them to meet our usual recruitment standards is completely unrealistic, and we can’t afford to be too picky with time working against us. Even if we grabbed them off the street, it would take successful candidates time to recover from surgery and become proficient with their augmentations. These are highly traumatic procedures.”

“There’s a certain amount of rehab required,” Barbosa agreed with a nod. “Some will take to it better than others. Do what you can, but remember that we need numbers if we’re going to hold Hades long-term.”

“Understood, Commander.”

“I have Song in charge of materiel – he’s micromanaging the factories,” Barbosa continued. “They’re making ammo, weapons, and suits for us. I’ve given him unlimited access to Nilsson, so those two should be able to keep things running if they put their heads together. There’s probably enough brain power between them to charge a jump drive. There are some more specialized components that we’re having to print on the carrier, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“It’s the workers that will be the problem,” Petrova added. “If they keep striking and disrupting production, force isn’t going to be an option. If we have Hoff break up a sit-in, we’ll be facing a full-blown rebellion, and nothing short of leveling the colony will stop that once it gets going.”

“The Governor has been very insistent,” Barbosa grumbled. “I really hate that man. I think he has a point, though. Perhaps we moved too quickly. Through him, I’m negotiating with the unions and finding some better terms. We’ll lose a bit of production capacity, but it should give them a win and get their workers back on the line. We’ll slowly ramp things up – boil the frog, as they say. We’ll find some way to get leverage over the unions in time. They’re not exactly known for their integrity.”

He leaned over to steady himself on the table suddenly, seeming woozy for a moment. Petrova rose to help, but he raised a hand to stop her, reaching for a pouch on his belt. She watched as he produced a hypodermic injector pen, loading a capsule into it and pressing it against his neck. After injecting himself with something, he took a moment to relax, then returned the device to its pouch.

“Commander?” Petrova asked, her brow furrowed with concern.

“Just my old organics giving me trouble,” he replied with a forced smile. “Nothing to worry about. I miss that PCE every moment I’m disconnected from it, but it’s not exactly convenient for everyday use,” he chuckled. “I had something else I wanted to ask you,” he added, changing the subject. “You fought the Rask during their rebellion, didn’t you?”

“Indeed, Commander,” she replied as she sank back into her chair. “Song, Hoff, and I deployed alongside Commander Brenner during that campaign. We attacked and captured one of their Crawlers.”

“What can you tell me about them?”

“Rask?” Petrova asked. “Well, they’re dangerous, resourceful, and ill-tempered. They’re suited to desert environments, and they’re strong enough to go toe-to-toe with a SWAR operative. A trained agent can take one in a fight, but it’s not an enviable position to be in. A Rask is the kind of enemy I’d prefer to take at range. They have keen senses, but that also makes them vulnerable to stun grenades and chemical irritants. Why do you ask?”

“Apparently, there’s one loose on Hades,” Barbosa replied. “He injured two of Hoff’s men during the protest.”

“All the way out here? Blyat…”

“Odd, isn’t it? I’ve tasked Hoff with bringing the alien in, but keep an ear to the ground while you’re dirtside. I want to find out what he’s doing here.”

“A single Rask, too?” Petrova asked. “No pack? That makes it even more unusual. Borealans form social groups of usually six individuals with a leader they call their Alpha. They’re very tightly-knit, almost like a family unit. Seeing them alone is very uncommon.”

“The plot thickens,” Barbosa replied, taking another drink from his glass. “I’m sure we’ll have him in custody before long. Hoff is nothing if not efficient.”

CHAPTER 5

DAY 4 – HADES – RUZA

“A minor fracture,” Ruza said as he ran a medical scanner over the human’s forearm. There was an ugly, purple bruise on his pale skin – the result of a strike from a PDF baton. There had been many such protesters visiting his office today, all victims of violence from the riot that had ensued in the square.

“Thanks, Doc,” the man said as Ruza gently slid a mesh sleeve over the problem area. He touched an electrical contact to the material, and it tightened, forming a rigid cast to protect the mending bone. “Glad you’re around, and I don’t have to go down to the hospital. They’re still at capacity treating the guys who got hurt during the attacks on the garrisons.”

“Yes, I have been doing what I can to help,” Ruza replied as he stowed his tools on a nearby shelf. “The sudden influx of critical patients overwhelmed them, and they have been running short on qualified doctors and medical supplies. I have treated many injured protesters today.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Ruza replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Much of my equipment is provided by UN relief organizations, but with the tether being blockaded, I fear that the shipments may soon dry up.”

“Let us know if you need anything,” the man added as he rose from his seat at Ruza’s desk. “You’ve done a lot of good for this community, and chances are we can track down some odds and ends for you. Off the books,” he added with a wink – a gesture that humans used to signify solidarity or secrecy.

“Applying a heating pad will increase circulation and help heal that bruise,” Ruza advised, responding to his gesture with a grateful nod.

“You got it, Doc,” the patient replied as he headed for the door.

Once he was gone, Ruza stepped out into the newly emptied waiting room, his eyes wandering across the row of vacant seats. He always felt a sense of satisfaction once his practice was silent at the end of the day.

“That was the last appointment for today, Doc,” Amy announced from behind the front desk. “You go ahead and go home – I’ll close up.”

“Thank you, Amy,” he replied as he reached for his jacket. “I will see you tomorrow.”

He stepped out onto the street and began to walk home, wrapping his face with his shawl and covering his eyes with his tinted goggles. The city was still eerily quiet after the riot, with most of its denizens staying home and avoiding public places. Amy had relayed intranet rumors that the PDF had been sighted patrolling areas of the city alongside SWAR teams, likely as a means of keeping order and dissuading further unrest. In a way, it reminded him of what had happened after the rebellion, with Coalition forces patrolling the territory’s cobbled streets and setting up checkpoints.

After passing through the all-but-deserted market, he felt his phone vibrate, and he reached into the pocket of his jacket. The device was far too small for him, and he always fumbled trying to use his thick pads on its touch panel. It was an audio message from Amy. He hit play, holding it up to his round ear so that he could hear her voice over the wind.

“Ruza?” she began. She sounded perturbed – as though something had happened in his absence. “I just wanted to warn you that some men came looking for you at the practice while I was closing up. They only missed you by ten minutes. They looked like those special forces guys you’ve been warning us about. Just be careful out there, alright?”

Ruza felt his heart quicken. He had anticipated that his actions at the protest would have consequences, but not so soon. He was visible to the occupiers now – they were aware of him, and seemingly searching for his whereabouts. If they had visited the practice, they must know his name and his profession, and they would likely know where he lived. Perhaps they only wished to question him, but if he allowed himself to be captured, he might never see the light of day again.

His pace quickening, he began to jog, and he was out of breath by the time he reached his prefab. Ruza hurried inside, tearing the sheet from his rifle and switching it on. Holding it in one hand, he began to rummage through his kitchen drawers, finding his stock of magazines and filling his pockets. The large-frame XMR used the same ammunition as the smaller variants, and the magazines were rather compact and light for someone of his stature. He wasted no time slamming one into the receiver, feeling a tactile thunk as the magnetic loading system pulled a slug into the chamber. He strapped a self-filling canteen to his belt – though it might have trouble siphoning humidity from this kind of environment, then began to fill a nearby rucksack with MREs.

Ruza hesitated, then opened his cutlery drawer, sifting through the metal implements until he felt the familiar touch of wrapped leather against his pads. He drew a wicked combat knife with a fifteen-inch blade, its serrated edge glinting in the light, its sharp tip adorned with a gut hook. Beneath the muzzle device of his rifle was a slot for a bayonet, and he slammed it into place, turning the six-foot weapon into a cruel spear – a fighting style favored by his people.

He had sought to leave war behind him when he had left Kerguela. The fighting on the moon had been intense, and they had left it in a state of relative peace, its people rebuilding their cities and their lives. Many of his closest friends had ended their military careers living simple, peaceful lives on that world, dedicating themselves to the humble pursuits of family and happiness. Ruza had sought to find that same peace here, contenting himself with small acts of charity, hoping in some way to make amends for his checkered past. Now, it seemed that war had found him again. Like a loyal Razorback lost in the sands, it kept returning, whether he wanted it or not.

He retrieved a medkit and stowed it in his pack, then turned to the door, but his escape was interrupted by the sound of a fist rapping against it. Ruza pressed up against the wall beside the frame, lifting his head just high enough to peek out through one of the narrow windows, the sand that caked it obscuring his view. He could just about see two men standing at the foot of his steps. They were SWAR, both operatives holding XMRs, and in the road behind them was an old APC that was presumably intended to transport him to the garrison. As he watched, a third man hopped out of the troop bay, landing on prosthetic skids. Three of them – half a fireteam. Three more men piled out of the APC, their equipment far less impressive, their camouflage identifying them as PDF.

One of the agents mounted the steps and knocked on the door again with a polymer fist, his voice audible through his helmet speakers.

“Doctor Ruza? You in there? Why don’t you come out and talk to us?”

They knew him by name – perhaps they had consulted the colony’s records. He watched as the man retreated back down the steps to a safer position, his weapon not aimed at the door, but held at the ready. After what Ruza had seen at the protest, he had no doubt that these men would kill him if he resisted. That might be their goal regardless of whether he cooperated or not.

He felt that familiar Rask anger flare, his heart racing – demanding that he burst through the door and confront them. His every instinct told him that intimidation and domination were the solutions, but he willed those impulses to recede, calming his boiling blood. He remembered his training and the skills that he had honed through his decades of fighting, finding a place of quiet – of cold calculation.

Six targets. Two of the operatives were at the foot of the steps, and the third was standing in front of the APC a few feet behind them. The three troopers had taken up position behind the vehicle, peeking around its armored hull. Ruza was in an enclosed space – a prefab no larger than a shipping container, and he had only a single exit. His opponents were augmented, making them stronger and more resilient than normal humans, though their strength was limited by the connections between their prosthetics and their bones. He had seen such injuries firsthand – Fletcher had saved Ruza from falling into a sinkhole on Kerguela, all but tearing his arms away at the shoulders in the process. Ruza had weight and size on his side, and he was faster than they were in the low gravity.

His evaluation had concluded in the time it took for the man to call out again.

“Come on out, Ruza! You’re wanted for questioning! Don’t make us come in there and get you!”

They were preparing to breach, but the narrow steps made it hard for them to stack up beside a door as they would have been trained to do. Ruza watched through the window as one of them drew a grenade from his belt – likely a stun intended to incapacitate.

Ruza turned up the voltage on his XMR, using his thumb to hit the touch panel beside the safety, then exhaled a calming breath. As he heard the operative begin to enter an override code on the outer door panel, he took a step back and leveled his XMR.

Before the operative could complete his task, Ruza unloaded his magazine into the door, the tungsten slugs cutting through the thin metal like a hot knife. The padded stock rocked into his shoulder with each shot, and through fist-sized holes ringed with glowing metal, he watched the two agents topple back down the steps. He kept firing as he advanced, the rounds passing through the lead operative and hitting the man behind him, the molten trails lingering in the air for brief moments. They didn’t have time to hit the dirt before he barged through the door, his six-hundred-pound mass tearing it from its frame and sending it flying after them.

Leaping from the top step, Ruza left his home’s AG field, sailing through the air in the lower Hadean gravity. The operative standing in front of the APC didn’t even have time to raise his weapon before Ruza landed on top of him, driving the bayonet that tipped his long rifle through the man’s chest like a javelin. There was enough weight behind the blow to shatter his chest piece and drive the fifteen-inch blade through his sternum, a spray of dark blood painting the vehicle’s desert camouflage as it burst from his back. It dug into the armor plating behind him, pinning the human there like meat on a skewer. He let out a pained gurgle through his helmet, more blood seeping from beneath it, one mechanical hand reaching up to grip the rifle’s barrel in disbelief.

Ruza was out of view of the PDF in this position, but they were already moving, shouting to one another as they rushed to the front and back of the APC. These troopers were weaker and less disciplined – easier targets.

Ducking low, Ruza rushed to the rear of the vehicle, his burst of speed surprising one of the troopers. Ruza greeted him with a swift right hook that lifted the human off his feet, slamming his head into the troop bay door hard enough to dent it, the visor of his helmet cracking. As his listless body slumped to the ground, Ruza darted around to the far side of the APC, finding the barrel of an XMR pointed at him. His reactions were far faster than those of an unaugmented human, and he batted the weapon aside with a swift swipe, a follow-up cutting across the trooper’s belly beneath his chest armor. Those inch-long, curved claws sliced through his uniform, biting deep into flesh and creating another spray of blood that splashed against the vehicle.

Clutching his torn belly and wailing in a blend of shock and pain, the trooper took a faltering step back, but Ruza was already barging past him. He lifted the trooper like a doll, crushing him between his shoulder and the APC on his way past, feeling bone crunch beneath his weight as the truck rocked on its suspension.

His final target was near the cab, Ruza skidding around the corner, the claws on his paws digging into the ground for purchase. The trooper was panicked – confused, aiming his weapon in the wrong direction. At the sound of his companion’s wailing, he had begun to turn, but too late. Ruza charged into him, throwing all of his weight into the blow, hitting the human like a furry truck. With muscles adapted for far higher gravity, he tossed the flailing man, sending him sailing ten feet through the air before crumpling against the wall of Ruza’s prefab.

Still conscious, he began to pick himself up, but Ruza was already closing the distance. The disoriented trooper let out a muffled scream through his helmet as the Borealan kicked his fallen XMR aside, then set upon him, harrying him with strikes. The human raised his hands in a futile bid to protect himself, Ruza’s claws cutting through flesh and shattering bone, his cries soon turning to wet gurgles as he stopped struggling.

The sandy fur on his hands now matted with congealing blood, Ruza rose off his victim, his feline eyes scanning his surroundings frantically. His assailants were all dead or dying, the previously empty street now littered with their bodies. More would come – drawn by the gunfire and shouting. He hurried over to the APC and placed a foot against its hull, tugging his bayonet loose with some difficulty, the dead operative sliding off its barrel. After retrieving the rucksack from his prefab, he tore the chest rigs from the bodies and tossed them inside it. He’d sort through any ammunition and equipment later. Right now, he had to get as far away as possible.

Already evaluating places he might hide, he set off, ducking between the prefabs and vanishing into the windblown sand.

DAY 5 – HADES – HOFF

A PDF trooper raised a hand to stop Hoff as he approached the police tape that sectioned off the street, taking a few steps back, intimidated by the hulking battlesuit. The agent lumbered to a halt and flipped open his canopy, glancing out at the carnage before him.

“Sir, I can’t allow you to take the suit into the crime scene,” the trooper began hesitantly. “It might damage evidence.”

“What, are you hoping to find a murder weapon?” Hoff scoffed as he walked past the man and through the tape. “I’ll save you the trouble – it was a Rask.”

Several more PDF troopers were examining the scene, kneeling beside bodies and taking photos with their phones. To his right was a prefab, its door tossed into the street, two bodies lying in a pool of dried blood beside it. Across from them was an APC, another dead operative slumped against its hull, its desert camouflage splattered with gore. There was another mangled body lying beside the outriggers of the prefab, and it had been torn to shreds, its arms and torso covered in deep lacerations like something from an animal attack. There was a SWAR agent supervising the scene, standing with his prosthetic arms crossed as he watched the men work, turning as Hoff’s mechanical footsteps announced his arrival.

“LC,” he began with a nod, craning his neck to meet his superior’s gaze.

“What’s the sitrep?” Hoff asked.

“Three casualties, Boss,” the agent replied as he gestured to the nearby APC. “Three PDF, too. There’s no evidence of multiple assailants, so our conclusion is that the Rask got all of ‘em.”

“One Rask killed three of our operatives?” Hoff repeated incredulously. “I’ve fought Rask before – they’re tough, but they’re not tougher than a slug to center mass. They go down just like anything else.”

“As far as we can tell, the Rask fired on our guys through the door while they were preparing to breach,” the operative said as he led Hoff over to the prefab. There were very obvious slug holes in the door, and it looked like it had been torn from its frame – dented outward. “He must have been waiting for them. Operatives Ryans and Shao were killed by gunfire basically immediately, then Dragovic was impaled against the hull of the APC,” he added as he turned to gesture to the bloody vehicle. “The indent left behind suggests that it was a bayonet of the kind commonly fielded by Borealan auxiliaries. Fifteen inches, with a serrated edge.”

“Why the fuck does a family doctor have a Borealan XMR?” Hoff demanded. “Who the hell is this guy?”

“Has to be ex-military,” the operative mused. “Could be a Navy auxiliary, could be a Matriarchy soldier – we have no real background information on him. There’s no paper trail, which is very weird. It’s like someone with authority purposefully obfuscated his past.”

“Bastard did a number on the PDF,” Hoff added as he lumbered around to the other side of the troop carrier, glancing down at a crushed corpse that looked like it had been hit by a car. “Fuckin’ animal,” he added with a sneer. “We should have turned their whole territory into a parking lot when we had the chance.”

“Should we keep the press away, boss?” the operative asked. “Do we want the dirt farmers knowing that some of our guys are KIA?”

“Nah, let ‘em in,” Hoff replied. “Make sure they get a good look at the bodies. These photos will be all over the intranet in no time, and nobody is gonna harbor this Rask if they see what he’s capable of. Put out an order to have our boys pick this city apart until they find him. He’s armed and clearly dangerous, so shoot on sight. Do people still make wanted posters?”

“Not as such, Boss…”

“Damn it,” Hoff grumbled. “What’s the point of being the sheriff if you can’t make wanted posters? They didn’t even give me a cool badge or nothin’. Fuck it – we need to find this guy before he does any more damage. He’s eight feet tall, and he weighs as much as a draft horse. How hard can it be?”

“We’re already making a list of known associates,” the operative replied with a nod. “We’ll find him.”

DAY 5 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – RUZA

Ruza walked between the rows of tightly packed metal shelves, the dust and sand that caked the skylights and windows giving the light that bled through a gloomy, washed-out tone. He could hear his footsteps and his labored breathing echoing through the empty space, the howling wind whistling through every gap that it could find.

He had managed to make his way out of the city proper and into the surrounding industrial zones that bordered the expanse of empty desert, finding a warehouse that appeared deserted. Ever since the occupiers had arrived, construction had all but ceased, so these vast repositories of industrial equipment and raw building materials should go relatively untouched. It didn’t look like anyone had been here to disturb the piles of cement bags and racks of steel girders in a long time.

It provided shelter from the elements, and that was all that he could really hope for right now. At the far end of the warehouse was a flight of steps that led up to a foreman’s office that overlooked the building, and he climbed them, shouldering his way through a locked door at the top. Inside was an old desk, some seats, and a very dusty server rack. He was pleased to find a dusty old couch – he could use the cushions to make a makeshift bed.

Ruza slung off his pack and downed a mouthful of the water his canteen had been able to siphon from Hades’ dry atmosphere, then he began to take inventory. He opened his bag and started to place the items on the old desk – first the medkit, then all of the chest carriers that he’d torn from the dead humans. The pockets and pouches were filled with a wealth of equipment, including several grenades and a dozen spare magazines, all of which were compatible with his XMR. It was lucky that the aliens had such a fascination with standardization. There were a couple of XMHs still in their holsters, but the sidearms were configured for humans, and his fingers were too large to fit through the trigger guards.

Next came the MREs. Several were designed for humans, having only two or three thousand calories apiece when he needed ten thousand per day to feed himself, but there were a few formulated for his kind that he had brought to Hades for emergencies. They should sustain him for at least a week – maybe two if he rationed them.

As he worked, he realized that his hands were still caked with dry blood. The fluid stained his sandy fur crimson, and the metallic smell stung his nose. He felt a knot tie in his belly as he gazed down at his red claws, remembering the screams of the troopers and the scent of their panic. His killing had been necessary – calculated, but some of his old Rask instincts had surfaced during those final moments. He moved over to a broken window and stuck his hands through the empty frame, using more water from his canteen to wash off as much as he could, hearing it splash on the concrete floor far below.

The occupiers were his enemies, and those who sought conflict often met their end by violence, but it was not so for the PDF. Some were traitors to their people, surely, but others would have been misled or coerced. Ruza knew all too well what it meant to be pressed into service to fight a war that he had no stake in.

He had not come here to kill, but to heal. Had he undone all of that good? What might his new friends think of him if they had seen him in that terrible moment, his teeth bared and his eyes dilated into menacing circles, his claws scything through a wailing victim? What was done could not be undone, and for now, he must focus on moving forward. He needed a plan of action.

The enemy knew his name and his face, and the desert sands had tasted their first drop of blood. Ruza no longer had the option of biding his time and waiting for the situation to develop – his hand had been forced. For the first time since he had left Kerguela, he suddenly felt a pang of loneliness. He had no allies who could help him here, he had no pack, and he had nobody who could make decisions in his stead. He must be his own Alpha now – a pack of one.

First, evaluate the situation.

Ruza was alone, but he was armed, and he had supplies enough to survive for a time. Relying on outside help was unrealistic. Depending on if and when the UNN had been alerted, it could be months before a fleet arrived, if one was coming at all. What he needed were allies, but where to find them?

Many of the PDF were still being held in the garrisons, and they might still be loyal to the people of Hades, but he had no way to reach them. If the occupiers had captured a carrier, there might still be loyal crew aboard, as one could not operate such a ship with only a few hundred soldiers. There would need to be engineers, pilots, and other specialists. Perhaps the unions were his best option. If he could somehow find a way to arrange a meeting, he might be able to explain the situation and win them to his cause. It was dangerous, as they might simply turn him over to curry favor with the occupiers, but it was his best option.

After one ill-fated rebellion, was he really about to instigate a second? What was it that Fletcher always used to say?

He who dares, wins.

DAY 5 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“What do you mean he escaped?” Barbosa asked angrily. He was stood on the observation deck, his brow furrowed above his synthetic eyes as he looked out over the dusty planet’s curving horizon. “You had him cornered, and you let him slip away?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Commander,” Hoff replied awkwardly through the wavering holographic feed. “The Rask killed three of our men along with three troopers – ripped ‘em apart. As far as we can tell, someone tipped him off that they were coming, and he staged an ambush. This guy isn’t just some friendly family doctor – he had an XMR, likely a large-frame with a bayonet of the kind used by auxiliaries. Whoever he is, his records have been scrubbed.”

“Scrubbed?” Barbosa repeated, considering for a moment. “With that kind of black ink, he has to be special forces. Can’t be Royal Guard – they were all killed at the East Gate. Maybe he did contract work for someone with connections. Very strange…”

“I’ve told my people to turn the colony upside down,” Hoff continued. “I gave them orders to shoot on sight – he’s too dangerous to leave alive.”

“Still, I’d like to sate my curiosity,” Barbosa replied. “Take him alive if the opportunity arises, but don’t take any chances. Petrova tells me that Rask are very resourceful, and they’re well-suited to desert life.”

“You got it, boss.”

Barbosa was disturbed as Petrova appeared from the corridor behind him. She wasn’t wearing her PCE either, standing to attention as she announced herself.

“Commander,” she began. “The saboteurs have been identified. I’ve had the crew report to the hangar deck as instructed. They’re waiting for you.”

“Very good,” Barbosa replied, swiping through the holographic display to close it down. “Let’s walk and talk.”

They made their way out of the observation deck, heading aft through the winding bowels of the ship.

“It appears that three of the engineers we conscripted to work on the reactors conspired to cause a meltdown,” Petrova explained. “Song detected an error with the control rods on reactor four, and upon closer inspection, the mechanism had been tampered with. In the event of an emergency shutdown, they wouldn’t have functioned properly, resulting in a runaway reaction that might have crippled the ship. They were likely preparing to sabotage the core dump sequence, too.”

“Well, Song warned that this would happen,” Barbosa sighed as they mounted a narrow flight of metal steps. “I didn’t expect we’d be facing a situation like this so soon. Perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise,” he added. “If we make an example of these saboteurs early, it might dissuade any other aspiring mutineers in their ranks.”

“Example, Commander?” Petrova asked. “I assumed you’d want to ship them down to Hades with the rest?”

“Tell me, do you know where the term decimation comes from?” Barbosa asked.

“It’s an English word, as far as I know,” Petrova replied skeptically. “It means to completely destroy or to ruin.”

“In its original Latin – decimatio – it meant to remove the tenth. The commanders of ancient Roman legions would use it as a method of collective punishment, specifically against large, unmanageable groups where more…targeted punishments were impractical. It was often employed as a means of dissuading wartime crimes like mutiny, cowardice, or desertion. The offending unit would be divided into groups of ten men, and each man made to draw lots. One of the ten would draw the short straw, and the remaining nine would be made to kill him on the spot, regardless of his personal involvement in the alleged crimes. Alexander the Great, one of history’s most celebrated generals, once performed the decimatio on a legion of six thousand soldiers. What’s your immediate gut reaction to that idea?”

“It is…barbarism, Commander,” Petrova replied with a scowl. “Collective punishment has been a crime for centuries. Through this decimation, a soldier whose conduct was exemplary could be executed through no fault of his own. It reminds me of the blocking units of my people’s history – troops who were positioned behind the lines to murder retreating soldiers, or the Drumhead trials of the nineteenth century.”

“Do you understand it, though?” Barbosa pressed as they mounted another narrow flight of metal stairs. “In battlefield conditions, where trials and court-martials are impractical or where disorder is widespread, it was an efficient means to mete out punishments. Sometimes, our moral standards don’t survive contact with the enemy, and we simply lack the time and resources to do things the proper way.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting decimating the crew, Commander?” Petrova demanded as she stopped on the stairs.

“Of course not,” he chuckled, turning to look back at her. “You know me better than that, Petrova. I’m simply trying to teach you a lesson about the burdens of command. There will be times when you have to mete out punishments that aren’t truly deserved, because to do otherwise would put the mission in jeopardy, and the mission comes above all else.”

DAY 5 – HADES ORBIT – PETROVA

They continued their journey, eventually emerging into the vast hangar bay. It was like stepping outside into open air when compared to the narrow, cramped corridors of the carrier. To Petrova’s right was a row of parked aircraft near the back wall, and standing in front of them were around two hundred crew members, representing almost all of the people who had been conscripted to work on the ship. Before them was the open hangar door, the thin, shimmering force field shielding them from the vacuum of space beyond. It was an irrational fear and one that she would never admit out loud, but the prospect of tripping and falling through that insubstantial barrier always raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

The crew looked sullen, and they were being guarded by several SWAR operatives armed with XMRs, Roach and Crow looming over them in their Bullsharks for effect. Barbosa walked over to the group, and she followed, still a little perturbed by their conversation on the staircase. She took up position beside him, clasping her prosthetic hands behind her back as Barbosa began to speak.

“Earlier today, my chief engineer made me aware of a plot to destroy this carrier and endanger the lives of everyone aboard,” he said as his emotionless lenses scanned the small crowd. “I do not expect all of you to understand the importance of our mission here, nor do I expect your cooperation to be enthusiastic, but I will hold you to the same standards that your Captain would. You are UNN personnel serving aboard a Naval vessel during a time of war, and conspiring to endanger the lives of your crewmates is not something any commander would tolerate.”

He gave a signal, and three agents marched over a trio of crewmen wearing yellow engineer coveralls, their hands bound behind their backs with zip-ties.

“These men sabotaged one of the carrier’s reactors in an attempt to start a meltdown,” Barbosa continued as he gestured to them with a polymer hand. “They were plotting to interrupt the emergency core dump sequence, ensuring that the engineering section would be destroyed and deadly radiation would flood the ship. If my people hadn’t been carefully monitoring those systems, many of you would likely have been killed when they enacted their plan. These petty acts of mutiny and rebellion endanger the lives of everyone, including the men standing beside you. Such actions cannot be allowed to go unpunished.”

He turned to the three operatives, giving them another gesture, and they marched their yellow-clad charges across the deck. When they reached the edge of the translucent force field, they forced the captives to their knees, taking up position behind them.

“Commander,” Petrova said hurriedly, whispering so as not to be overheard. “You promised the Captain that you’d respect their rights as PoWs…”

“These are not PoWs, Petrova,” he replied. “All of the prisoners have been transported to facilities on the colony. These men are Navy personnel serving on a carrier during a combat deployment, and I intend to make an example of them.”

“Commander, there are no rules on the books for summary execution.”

“We’ve made plenty of tough choices and sacrifices to get here,” Barbosa insisted. “We have to be firm, or we’ll lose what control we have, and I expect the same of you when you’re on the surface.”

Petrova felt a knot tie in her belly as she watched the three operatives shoulder their weapons, aiming at the bound prisoners. She wanted to protest – to reason with Barbosa, but what could she say now that would make him reconsider? He was so certain that his course was the correct one, and nothing could shake his faith. He was an immovable force, and what she had once admired as unwavering confidence now seemed to make him unreachable to her.

She turned to look at the solemn faces of the crew, then back to Barbosa, his expression hard to discern with those prosthetic eyes. In his mind, perhaps the saboteurs had been dead the moment the order was given, and what remained were merely echoes – ghosts going through the motions.

“Let this be a lesson to those who would put the lives of their crewmates in jeopardy,” Barbosa barked, waving his hand with a whir of electric motors. “Fire!”

A trio of shots echoed through the hangar, and two of the engineers fell forward, slipping through the insubstantial field. They floated through the vacuum, unmoving, their hands still bound as they began to slowly tumble away over the planet’s horizon. The third had collapsed on the deck, so his executioner gave him a shove with his boot, pushing him out of the carrier’s AG field to join his companions.

Barbosa turned back to his captive audience, his neutral expression becoming a scowl. A few of the men had raised a hand in salute, and like a wave, it spread through the crowd until the entire crew was standing to attention. Petrova saw anger flare in the way that his face subtly twitched, but he could say nothing that wouldn’t harm his position and make him look weak, so he held his tongue.

“Keep them here until the bodies are out of sight,” he ordered in his synthetic timbre, nodding to Crow. The massive suit shifted its weight, its heavy exoskeleton grinding, that massive XMR held at the ready. “I expect you all to resume your duties as ordered,” Barbosa continued as he turned his attention back to the crew. “Any further acts of sabotage or mutiny will be dealt with in the same manner.”

He marched away, leaving the saluting personnel behind him, trying not to look too much like he was storming off. Petrova followed, hesitant to address him until they were back in the bowels of the ship and well out of earshot.

“Commander,” she began. “Permission to speak freely?”

“I’ve told you that I value your input, Lieutenant Commander. I get the feeling you’re about to say something that I won’t like, so go ahead and spit it out.”

“I just think that…maybe you’re being too rash,” she began as she matched his angry power walk. “Such drastic measures may serve only to galvanize the crew against us, and what we might view as an example, they may see as martyrdom. You said it yourself – rule established through fear is a tenuous one. You gave us a choice, and you never coerced us into joining your cause. You’ve always believed that loyalty can’t be won through coercion.”

“I gave them the same choice that I gave you,” Barbosa replied. “They made their decision. You know as well as I do that we can’t operate this carrier without their help. This vessel is the only thing giving us control over Hades, and without it, we cannot accomplish our mission here. You know what the consequences of failure could be.”

“Humanity becomes a vassal of the Coalition or eventually goes extinct,” she conceded with a sigh.

“You know the stakes, and you know that I need this crew to perform their duties adequately. This is not decimation, but it serves a similar purpose. Take the lesson to heart, Petrova. You may yet be faced with the same impossible decision.”

“Commander,” she replied with a resigned nod.

“Go see Nilsson and get your PCE ready,” he continued. “I’m sending you back to Hades.”

DAY 6 – HADES – AMY

“Dangerous alien on the loose,” Bill muttered as he scrolled through his phone. “Wanted for multiple homicide, murder of security forces, resisting arrest, desecration of a corpse,” he added as he raised a skeptical eyebrow. “There’s no way this shit is true. I’ve known Ruza for over a year, and he wouldn’t swat a mosquito.”

“Did you see the bodies?” Ricky asked.

“Don’t show me!” Amy protested, raising a hand to block him out as she turned away. “I don’t want to see that, you psycho.”

“You spoke to him shortly before the incident, right?” Bill asked as he leaned across the bar table. “Do you have any idea what might have happened?”

“He seemed normal when he left,” she replied, taking a sip from her can. “It was business as usual. He’d just got done with his last appointment, and I said I’d close up, so he went home. Only a few minutes later, a PDF truck pulled up outside the practice, and a couple of special forces guys came in asking after him.”

“So, they were already looking for him before any of this happened,” Ricky mused.

“Must have been because of the altercation at the protest,” Bill suggested. “Only reason they didn’t throw us in jail is because he stood up for us…”

“How the hell did that turn into multiple homicide?” Ricky pressed. “You think he flew off the handle? Maybe they tried to take him in, and he resisted?”

“The guy is a monk,” Amy scoffed. “I’ve never seen him get angry, and I’m around him all day while he’s trying to convince unruly kids to take their medicine. No, whatever happened, those special forces guys were the instigators. They’re not like the PDF. You should have seen ‘em – walking around like they owned the place. I’d have half a mind to tell them to fuck off and come back with a warrant if they hadn’t already invited themselves in. As soon as they’d left, I sent him a message warning him that they were coming.”

“They must have gone straight to his place after stopping by the practice,” Ricky said with a nod. “You know, if you hadn’t tipped him off, we might be reading about him being carted off to the morgue instead.”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” Amy replied with a shudder. “I hate this. A couple of weeks ago, my biggest problem was getting my landlord to repair a busted water filter.”

“The question is – where the hell has he gone?” Bill continued as he settled back into his seat. “I’ll give the old Doc credit. He’s the size of a fridge, but he’s somehow managed to disappear off the face of the planet.”

“Wherever he is, I hope he’s alright,” Amy sighed.

“What are you going to do while he’s gone?” Bill asked. “He can’t exactly sign your paychecks if he’s hiding in the wasteland.”

“I suppose I’ll wait a while and see what happens,” she replied, taking another drink. “If he’s gone for good, I guess I’ll see if the hospital is hiring.”

“I have a feeling this isn’t the last we’ll hear of him,” Ricky added, giving his friends a suspicious glance. “All those stories he told us when he got going – about fighting on half a dozen planets, the rebellion, being a merc. If you ask me, Ruza came here to live the quiet life, and those bastards just brought him out of retirement…”

DAY 8 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – RUZA

Ruza lay down in the sand amidst a few rocks and scrubby plants, his dusty shawl and brown leather jacket helping to camouflage him against the desert. He was at the peak of a dune on the distant outskirts of the city, far from any populated areas, overlooking a PDF base that was nestled beside an abandoned mine. Along with the garrisons inside the city, the PDF operated a series of outposts that seemed geared towards orbital defense. Planetary Defense Forces often operated surface-to-orbit missiles that would be used in the event of an invasion, and they were housed away from the city for safety reasons.

He pulled his long rifle tighter against his shoulder, peering through its scope. With a few twists of the magnification dial, he zoomed in, his eyes tracking movement. There was a large wall surrounding the site, just like those of the garrisons, and inside was a small compound with a few prefab buildings scattered about. At the rear was a tunnel that had been excavated into a rocky outcrop – the old mine. Perhaps they were using it for storage purposes now, keeping the missiles below ground where they would be shielded from orbital fire.

There were a few Cupcake CIWS turrets – so named for their bulbous radomes that were said to resemble a popular human dessert. They were portable defensive systems that could be air-dropped, often used to defend UNN FoBs and other sensitive areas, their launch tubes pointed at the sky. Those were anti-air systems designed to defeat aircraft. There must be larger ASAT systems somewhere nearby.

As he scanned his rifle across the base, he saw that it was populated not by PDF, but by SWAR. The operatives were patrolling the area and standing guard, their signature black armor and prosthetics easily visible. They had taken over these outposts too, but they didn’t seem to be working alongside the PDF as they had in the city.

Finally, he found what he had been searching for. Parked between two prefabs was a very large trailer. It must have been seventy feet long with more than a dozen wheels, and it might have been mistaken for a cargo hauler if not for the hydraulic erectors near the rear. That was a road-mobile missile vehicle of the kind used to carry MASTs and nuclear weapons, the length giving it room for a booster section that would carry the warhead to orbit. He had seen these before. The Matriarch had used MASTs obtained on the black market to create a no-fly zone over her territory and the surrounding desert during her rebellion, negating the Navy’s orbital advantage and forcing them to engage her forces on the ground.

Multi-stage Anti-capital Spread Torpedoes were among the most dangerous weapons that the UNN produced, and they were often given to PDF forces on remote colonies like this one, where the response time from a relief fleet could be weeks or months. Once it achieved orbit and reached eight kilometers per second, the torpedo would launch a swarm of tungsten penetrators, like loosing a thousand arrows. The kinetic weapons had no guidance systems and couldn’t be destroyed by missile, cannon, or laser point defense systems. At those speeds, they could punch straight through battleship armor, creating a cloud of unstoppable bolts that would circle a planet and tear anything in its orbit to shreds. They were weapons of last resort designed to eviscerate a hive fleet before it could make landfall – Kessler Syndrome on demand, as the Marines liked to say.

The occupiers clearly feared these weapons and had taken steps to secure them, as they could threaten the carrier. They may also wish to use them against their enemies in the future. Either way, it could be a means of applying pressure.

Ruza had nothing to do while he waited for the union to contact him, so he had spent the last couple of days gathering intelligence on the occupiers. He had scouted their bases, observed their movements, and made notes on their activities. The Mining Union had been his first choice, as they had suffered under both the Syndicate and ExoCorp, and they might be more amenable to his ideas. He still had his phone, though he only used it when he was in close proximity to the city, and he removed its battery before returning to his hideout. The occupiers might use it to track him otherwise.

He left his perch, heading back through the desert sands, skirting the edge of the colony as he went. The humans had a lot of trouble moving through this kind of terrain, but his wide paws were evolved to stop him from sinking, spreading out his weight. Pausing to slot the battery into his device, he checked his messages, his heart skipping a beat when he saw that he had a reply from the union boss. There was a date, a time, and a meeting place.

This remained a dangerous course of action. Depending on how loyal the union boss was to his colony, he could simply stage an ambush and turn Ruza over to the occupiers. It was his only option, however. He could risk a meeting with the union, or he could starve alone in the warehouse.

***

Ruza scouted the site through his scope, its thermal mode illuminating the heat sources of the humans who were patrolling the area. These were not PDF or SWAR, but workers. The union boss had organized a meeting in an old mine situated some distance from the city. It was remote, and the occupiers had no presence there. By the looks of things, the activity here had preceded their arrival, so it might have been used for similarly illicit purposes during the Syndicate’s reign. The site took the form of a fairly large industrial park that had been flattened and cleared, dotted with old machinery and abandoned buildings that had once served some purpose before the resources had dried up, and the corp had abandoned it to the desert.

Between the rusting cranes and derelict buildings, he could see plenty of humans, some of them wielding old caseless weapons that might be decades-old hand-me-downs from the PDF. Nothing ever really went to waste on Hades – everything was recycled, finding some new home or purpose.

This was his last chance to back out.

Ruza stowed his rifle and his pack in a cluster of nearby rocks, wrapping them in a tarp and making a mental note of their location. Against his better instincts, he would go in unarmed, and he didn’t trust the humans to return such a rare and valuable weapon.

A Rask never went into a negotiation in such a manner, as there was an expectation that everyone in attendance would have concealed weapons. How else could a peaceful interaction be assured without the threat of mutual death? Humans, on the other hand, became gravely offended if one brought a weapon into a meeting. He would do well to abide by their culture, as much as it irked him.

He began to make his way through the dunes, descending towards the old mine beneath the evening sun, his shawl whipping in the wind. As he neared, a few of the guards sighted him and began to assemble, aiming weapons at him from their perches atop old cranes and conveyors. He raised his hands – a human gesture to signal that he was unarmed, waiting for them to approach.

The miners sent out a group of men armed with caseless PDWs. They were dressed in work clothes, their faces covered by rebreathers, a couple of them aiming at him as another frisked him. He bared his teeth in annoyance, as being touched in such a manner without consent was a challenge in his culture, but he willed himself to remain calm.

“C’mon,” one of them said, gesturing with his weapon. “The Boss is waiting for you.”

“You sure it’s him?” another asked.

“How many eight-foot-tall aliens you seen wanderin’ around here?” the first chided.

The miners led him inside their compound, more guards watching from the sidelines, the sound of rusty chains waving in the wind joining their footsteps as they passed beneath one of the large crane arms. They headed for a building that had probably once been home to a foreman’s office. It was elevated on stilts, Ruza mounting rickety old stairs that seemed unsuited to his weight, passing inside the derelict structure. Past a small corridor that Ruza had to duck through, there was an old office, the motes of dust that floated through the air telling him that it wasn’t used regularly.

Inside was an old metal desk, a few chairs, and some server racks that had succumbed to the elements. The whole place looked about ready to collapse in on itself. Sitting behind the desk was a man who Ruza recognized from the protest – he had been standing on top of the truck, yelling demands through a megaphone. This was the leader of the Mining Union. He was better dressed than his men, and a little rounder, but his weathered features told a story of someone who had toiled beneath the baking sun. Perhaps he had started out as just another miner before climbing the union’s ranks.

“So, you’re Ruza,” he began as he sized up the Rask. “You’ve become the talk of the town these last few days, Doctor. Some are saying that you’re a crazed murderer or a feral alien thirsting for blood, but some people close to me have been extolling your virtues. You’ll forgive the delay, but I wanted to ask around. They tell me that you’ve treated their kids without asking for payment, healed their injuries when insurance wouldn’t cover it, and responded to calls when the general hospital couldn’t. I was surprised to hear from you, wanted man that you are.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” Ruza replied with a curt bow of his head. He was careful not to make any sudden movements, as the miners still had their guns at the ready. “How should I address you?”

“My boys usually refer to me as Boss, but you can call me Bergmann,” the man replied. “Why don’t you begin by telling me what the hell happened to those PDF boys and the Navy goons you knocked off? Those photos are all over the intranet – you really did a number on them. Doesn’t really line up with what people have been telling me about you.”

“I regret that they forced my hand,” Ruza replied, meeting Bergmann’s steely gaze. “I attracted their attention by defying them during the protest, injuring two SWAR operatives. The following day, they sent men to detain me – first to my place of business, then to my home. I had reason to believe that they would kill me, so I staged an ambush and reacted accordingly. I was simply defending myself.”

“I heard about those two Marines who got their teeth kicked in at the protest,” he replied with a nod. “I was there, you know. I saw how things escalated – saw how they treated the workers.”

“All by design,” Ruza grumbled. “I believe that they instigated a riot purposefully.”

“And I believe you’re right,” Bergmann added. “Do you know what happened during that protest? Coincidentally, a lot of my top people ended up being arrested for very uncharacteristically violent behavior, all at the same time. Funny, that. Why do you call them SWAR? What is that?”

“Special Weapons and Advanced Recon,” Ruza explained, side-eyeing one of the guards warily. “They are not Marines – they are Navy special forces, and the manner of their deployment leads me to believe that they are not acting with the UNN’s authority here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have served alongside them, and I have some knowledge of how the Navy operates.”

“Why would a family doctor serve with the special forces?” Bergmann pressed.

“I was a combat medic,” Ruza explained. “I served as an auxiliary in the UNN, then I fought the UNN as a Matriarchy soldier, and then I worked as a mercenary.”

“That explains how you turned six armed soldiers into premium-grade Franklin beef,” Bergmann mused. “Sounds like you get around a lot. How did such a decorated veteran end up kissing booboos on our shitty mining colony?”

“Booboos?” Ruza asked, his flat brow furrowing in confusion.

“You’re clearly overqualified to be running a practice on Hades,” the boss reiterated.

“I…grew weary of war,” Ruza replied hesitantly. “I sought a place where I could leverage my medical training to do good.”

“A real bleeding heart,” the boss scoffed. “Looks like your heart isn’t the only one bleeding now. Well, Doctor, I’m more inclined to believe the testimony of the people I trust than what’s being spread around the intranet. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you won’t tear my face off the moment my guards look away.”

“I have no reason to harm you,” Ruza insisted. “I came to you seeking help. Many of my friends are miners, and they speak highly of you.”

“A friend of the workers is a friend of mine,” Bergmann said, gesturing for the guards to lower their weapons. “So, why don’t you tell me what you want? I’d offer you a seat, but I’m afraid we don’t have any in your size. If you’re looking for somewhere to hide out until the heat dies down, I think we can accommodate you.”

“I am not seeking a place to hide,” Ruza replied, his sharp teeth flashing. “I recognize this pattern – I have seen it before. I was there when my home territory fell under the sway of a tyrant who rose to power through the promise of glory and riches. She delivered us only death and ruin. I do not intend to stand by and watch it happen a second time.”

“You’re not looking to lie low,” Bergmann mused, a cruel smile curling his lips. “You’re looking for allies. For someone who just got done saying they were weary of war, you sure seem eager to start a new one.”

“The war has already found me, and it will soon find you,” Ruza replied. “Men like these – the cruel, the violent, and the ambitious – will never leave you be. No amount of cooperation will sate their hunger. They will simply keep asking for more until there is nothing left to give. They will push, and they will push, until you have no choice but to push back. Only good, honorable men who are more skilled in violence can oppose them. You have troops and weapons,” he added, glancing at the nearest guard. “You know the lay of the land, and this meeting place leads me to believe that you are no strangers to operating outside the law.”

“I lived through ExoCorp and the Syndicate,” Bergmann replied, lighting up a cigarette. “I’ve seen workers struggle to feed their kids on corporate scrip, and I’ve seen criminals infiltrate every facet of Hadean society, siphoning away our wealth and dumping anyone who stood up to them down empty mine shafts. You’ll understand if I didn’t hand over my rather generous stockpile of misappropriated equipment the moment the UN gave us an IOU and a pat on the head.”

“Nor should you,” Ruza replied with a nod. “We might name you Warlord were you a Rask.”

“Warlord?” he chuckled, Ruza’s nose wrinkling as the man exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke. “Has a nice ring to it. My question now is – what do you think you can do to stop a carrier full of elite special forces soldiers? You did a number on those guys who came knocking at your door, granted, but there are hundreds more. That isn’t accounting for the PDF who took their side, either.”

“I have fought both alongside and against the UNN,” Ruza explained. “I know their tactics, and I have intimate knowledge of SWAR. My career has taken me to many battlefields, from the deserts of my homeland where we staged ambushes against Navy tank battalions, to the abandoned cities of Kerguela where we watered the streets with Bug ichor. I have learned much of waging war against a superior force in both deserts and cities. With the right equipment and enough support, we shall see the bones of the occupiers bleached in the Hadean sun.”

“Tall talk,” the boss said as he leaned back in his chair with a creak, taking another puff. “It occurs to me that I could just turn you over to the occupiers and make them very happy – maybe trade you for some of the things that I want. You’re right, though,” he conceded as Ruza bristled. “The Syndicate were the same way. There was no way to appease them that wouldn’t result in them coming back later to ask for a little more. There’s a tension in the city now, as though everyone is just waiting for that axe to fall. I can feel it – thick like molasses. The riot was just the beginning.”

“Will you help me?” Ruza asked simply.

“I think it’s high time that we all started helping ourselves,” Bergmann replied. “There are four unions that functionally control this colony,” he added, waving one of the miners over. The man placed a small holographic projector on the old desk, and a three-dimensional image of Hades’ sprawling city flickered to life. “Our Mining League is one of the largest, then there’s the Factory and Metalworkers Union, the Trade Association, and the Municipal Employees Guild. Together, we balance the Governor’s power and ensure that he can’t do anything without the consent of the people.”

“Do you believe that they will take our side?” Ruza asked, invigorated by Bergmann’s response. Perhaps the human had already been planning for just such a contingency.

“FMU almost certainly will – we’re thick as thieves,” Bergmann replied. “The merchants and the MEG might take some convincing. The good news is that most of the actual power on Hades resides in the League and the FMU. We have the men, we have the equipment, and we control most of the colony’s industry. When we go on strike, this planet stops turning.”

“If they are tolerating strikes and protests, it is only temporary,” Ruza warned as he leaned over the map to get a closer look. “Soon, they will simply threaten violence if your men do not return to their mines and factories.”

“I think they were ready to do that regardless until the Governor talked some sense into them,” Bergmann replied. “We got some very abrupt and favorable concessions recently. They probably realized that they played their hand too soon.”

“If the Governor is keeping them in check, that will surely not last long,” Ruza mused. “How many men do you have?”

“There are a hundred thousand people living on this colony, and most of them are miners and factory workers,” the boss continued. “Loyal men – men who we can rely on? A few hundred, probably more than there are special forces, but fewer than the PDF. They already arrested a lot of the more prominent League members, and it was very targeted, which means they’re aware of the threat we represent. They’ll probably try to decapitate the unions eventually.”

“There may be some in the PDF who will support our cause,” Ruza suggested. “I am told that many are still being held in the garrisons, presumably because they are refusing to cooperate.”

“I’ve heard the same thing,” he replied. “More than that – word on the grapevine is that the large transports people have been seeing flying in and out of the garrisons have been ferrying prisoners from the carrier. I’ve had a few independent reports from some of the PDF they released about seeing people with Navy uniforms being marched into the bunkers.”

“Then, we may have more allies yet,” Ruza marveled. “Intriguing – they must have captured the carrier by force and imprisoned its crew.”

“Can’t do much about those garrisons, unfortunately,” Bergmann replied with a shrug. He swiped through the holographic map, his cigarette smoke leaving a lingering trail, all of the PDF bases within the city glowing red. “They’re heavily fortified with high security walls and carbcrete bunkers. They were designed not only for civil unrest, but to hold off hive fleets. The idea was that all of the civilians from the surrounding district would take shelter there.”

“SWAR are an insular fraternity of warriors,” Ruza began as his eyes scanned the map. “They may wish to use the PDF, but they do not trust them. I have been observing their movements these last few days, and I have located several of their ASAT bases. Where there are important strategic targets, there are no PDF, only SWAR.”

“ASATs?” Bergmann asked. “You’ll have to elaborate – I’m not a military man.”

“Anti-satellite weapons,” Ruza explained. “I have seen launchers for weapon systems that could threaten their carrier.”

“You want to shoot down the carrier?” Bergmann asked with a grimace.

“No,” Ruza replied, sweeping a claw from one of the bases to the limits of the map. “If we apply pressure to one or more of those sites, the occupiers will believe that we are trying to capture the ASATs. They will divert their forces to protect them, and in doing so, leave the garrisons vulnerable.”

“Then we try to spring some of the prisoners,” Bergmann said with a nod of approval. “Maybe you can back up some of that tall talk after all, Doc.”

“The problem will be finding a way to move within the city,” Ruza continued, scratching his chin with the same claw. “We are outnumbered, and they will certainly have increased their patrols. Concealment will be problematic.”

“Let me worry about that,” the boss said, swiping through the map again. The view changed, the city vanishing to be replaced with a network of subterranean warrens. “This whole region is like a sponge – it’s full of old mine shafts dug by ExoCorp and smuggling tunnels from the days of the Syndicate. I happen to know about a lot of them.”

Ruza had been right, then. It seemed that Bergmann and his people might have been more involved with the Syndicate than they cared to admit.

“Does the Governor know about these passages? Ruza asked.

“Some of the older PDF might, but there’s no way anyone else has a map like this,” he replied with an unfriendly grin. “They were only known to the higher-ups in the Syndicate.”

“Weapons?” Ruza pressed.

“A lot of old surplus kit,” Bergmann began. “Mostly caseless carbines with ammo that’s forty years past its expiration date. That said, our new overlords have decided to shift all of our manufacturing over to weaponry. It’s good stuff, too – modern XMR systems and tungsten carbide ammunition. I don’t care how elite you are – a slug through the visor still means they’re gonna be searching around for loose teeth to identify you with.”

“You can divert some of those supplies?” Ruza asked.

“Oh yeah,” Bergmann replied with a laugh, pausing to take another drag from his cigarette. “They’ll figure it out at some point, but not before we have a whole armory of the things stashed away.”

“This is a mining colony,” Ruza continued. “You must have access to explosive charges for excavation. We made very effective use of improvised explosives to slow the Bug advance on Kerguela. We used drums of fertilizer to collapse roads and structures in their path.”

“Now you’re thinking big. Yeah, we have a lot of blasting charges. They’re mostly packaged emulsions designed for breaking rock. It wouldn’t be hard to lose track of some of them. Maybe they can crack those suits.”

“Suits?” Ruza asked, cocking his head.

“You haven’t heard?” Bergmann asked. “People have been reporting seeing these giant armored suits lumbering around the garrisons. They’ve started using them during patrols, too – probably to show them off and intimidate the locals. I don’t really know how to describe them, they’re like…wearable tanks. You’ve never seen anything like that in your travels?”

“They must be recent,” Ruza grumbled. “Perhaps the humans sought to imitate Betelgeusian Warriors, but through metal rather than flesh. It may explain how they were able to overcome the crew of the carrier…”

“That’s concerning,” Bergmann sighed. “I was hoping you might be more familiar with them. Maybe you’d know where the fucking off switch was or something.”

“Regrettably, no. There is still much to learn about these people and where they came from.”

“You understand, of course, that this will all take some time to set in motion,” the human continued. “I can’t just arm a hundred miners and have them ready to fight tomorrow. We need to be careful and cautious about how we go about this, because one leak could unravel everything like an ugly Christmas sweater. If you need a safe place to stay, you’re welcome to hide out here for a while.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I feel safer when I am alone,” Ruza replied with a curt bow.

“Let me get one of my guys to give you an old radio, then,” Bergmann insisted. “They’ll have a harder time tracking it than they would a phone. We’ve been having issues with our comms, and nobody seems to be able to reach the FTL satellite either, so I think it’s safe to assume that the colony’s intranet is on borrowed time. You’ll be able to contact us on that.”

“Thank you,” Ruza replied.

CHAPTER 6

DAY 10 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – RUZA

It took a couple more days before Ruza was contacted on the old two-way radio. He returned to the meeting site, the guards posted atop the old cranes letting him pass this time. There seemed to be more activity now, the miners moving unmarked crates and containers into the mine, unloading them from industrial trucks.

He expected to find Bergmann waiting in the office again, but he was outside supervising, looking over a group of burly workers who were passing boxes down from the bed of a trailer.

“Morning, Doc,” Bergmann said as he turned to greet the towering Rask. “We’ve been busy since you and I last spoke, and I think we’re just about ready to make a move. I want to introduce you to someone,” he added, putting his fingers in his mouth and creating a high-pitched whistle. It got the attention of one of the miners, and Bergmann waved him over.

“Ruza, I’d like to introduce you to Mister Reed,” the boss said as the stranger arrived at his side. Reed was an inch taller than his boss, with broad shoulders and a stocky build – a brick of a human. His exposed forearms were so hairy that Ruza found himself questioning whether the man had any Borealan ancestry.

“So, you’re the Madcat,” Reed began as he extended a hand to Ruza. The Rask took it, giving it a shake and finding it rough and calloused. This man had clearly performed a great deal of labor in his time. “Glad to have you onboard.”

“Mister Reed is what you might call my lieutenant,” Bergmann explained. “I’ve made him responsible for overseeing a lot of our more…aggressive business operations.”

“You used the term Madcat,” Ruza replied. “You served with the Navy?”

“For a time,” Reed replied. “There were words thrown around like discharge and dishonorable, but you don’t need to concern yourself with that. I don’t like bullies, and bullies don’t like it when you break their jaw – especially when they’re your commanding officer. I like Hades a lot more than the Navy. A man can be wholly responsible for himself out here.”

“He has a great deal of expertise when it comes to firearms and small unit tactics, and he’s going to be turning some of our miners into fighters,” Bergmann continued. “He’s also going to be responsible for planning and overseeing a lot of our operations, so I thought you two should get acquainted.”

“We gonna have any issues?” Reed asked as he sized up Ruza. “I gotta warn you – I didn’t really see eye to eye with a lot of the cats I served with. They were pushy. I’d rather get the whole dominance thing out of the way before we begin.”

“I have left the pack life behind me,” Ruza replied. “I have no more use for such things.”

“Good to hear,” Reed replied with a nod of approval. “I’m told you’re some kind of veteran – served in lots of different theaters, switched sides more than once. Heard about how you fucked up those guys who came knocking at your door, too. If you want to bring some of that energy to getting rid of the assholes who have set up shop on our colony, I think we’ll get along just fine.”

“That is my goal,” Ruza replied.

“Not much of a talker,” Reed said, giving Bergmann a glance. “I like him.”

“I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted,” the boss replied. “Why don’t you bring the good doctor up to speed on our plans, Reed.”

“First thing’s first,” Reed began as Bergmann left to supervise his workers. “You can’t have a successful resistance movement without a secure means of communication. Phones and radios are out, because those can be triangulated, and the bad guys can switch off the intranet whenever they like. Fortunately, we have no shortage of construction workers and supplies, so we’re going to be setting up our own bespoke network.”

“How do you plan to do this?” Ruza asked curiously.

“The Boss showed you the tunnels, right? Those old mines and smuggling routes run beneath the city and the surrounding wasteland for miles. We’ve tasked some of our boys with running fiber optic cable through them between key locations. They’ll be totally undetectable from the surface. Hard lines don’t give off any emissions, and they can’t be tapped if nobody knows where they are.”

“A creative solution,” Ruza replied. “We should strive to limit our above-ground activities. When the enemy grows suspicious, the powerful imaging tools on their carrier will be able to take high-definition photos of the whole colony. It would be wise to leave as little evidence of our passing as possible, even in these old abandoned sites. A single misplaced crate or parked transport could give away our presence. Their orbital guns are precise and bring death swiftly.”

“Timing is everything,” Reed replied. “Speaking of which, I like the plan you pitched to Bergmann – attacking the ASAT sites to draw out their forces. That’s a smart play. I think you’re missing something, though.”

“What is that?” Ruza asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I think we have to earn a little notoriety first,” he explained with a grin. “If we want these guys to respond in force, then they have to see us as a threat, right? We gotta toss some rocks at the hornet’s nest – rile ‘em up a bit, get ‘em good and angry. When we move on those ASAT sites, it needs to look like the culmination of some grand plan rather than just a distraction.”

“Your reasoning is sound,” Ruza conceded, silently wondering what a hornet was.

“We’re gonna cause a little chaos,” Reed chuckled. “We’ll stage some attacks – make them look like reprisals for the riot, maybe.”

“One thing concerns me,” Ruza added. “We should avoid targeting the PDF wherever possible. We shall win no favors with the Hadeans by killing their sons and brothers.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that after the crime scene photos I saw,” Reed replied skeptically.

“A regrettable necessity,” Ruza growled. “I take no pride in it.”

“It’s good to learn that you’re not crazy, I suppose,” Reed added. “On the subject of the PDF, I have someone else I’d like you to meet. Follow me.”

Reed led Ruza through the compound, passing by rusting heavy machinery that had been all but abandoned to the sands, the more recent additions standing out starkly with their comparably clean hulls. Nothing was ever truly pristine on Hades – the airborne dust got everywhere.

They entered an old mine shaft, the walls and ceiling of the wide tunnel supported with aging metal frames – some of them appearing dangerously rusted. There were tracks laid on the ground, presumably for some kind of transport, and the growing darkness was driven off by the faint glow of dusty lamps mounted on the walls. They were powered by snaking cables that had been strung up in crude bunches.

Far from being abandoned, these tunnels were a hive of activity, the humans carrying all manner of cargo back and forth. They were stacking crates near the entrance, readying them to be transported deeper below ground. It was hard to discern what they contained at a glance, but food, munitions, and other supplies were likely.

As they traveled deeper below ground, and the air began to cool, they emerged into a larger chamber. This one was furnished with rows of metal shelves similar to those he had seen in the warehouse, along with tables and seating. It was unlikely that the miners had been given enough time to move all of this equipment in only a few days, so it might be a holdover from the time of the Syndicate.

“We didn’t really have any use for these tunnels after the mobsters left,” Reed explained, noticing that Ruza was looking around. “A lot of their shit is still here. The authorities didn’t know about it, and we certainly didn’t tell the UN. You never know when you might need some secret passages.”

“Were you involved in their activities?” Ruza asked, glancing down at him.

“Back in those days, everyone was,” he replied with a shrug. “If you wanted to take the moral high ground, you’d end up buried in the desert. I ran guns for the Syndicate, so I’m more familiar with these tunnels than most.”

“I suppose that your knowledge serves us now,” Ruza said.

“Don’t climb too high up that ivory tower of yours,” Reed replied, crossing his arms. “From what I was told, you fought in the Rask Rebellion against the UN. Your paws aren’t clean.”

“I meant no disrespect,” Ruza added. “Hades is a place where many come to escape their past, and I am no exception. What we are about to undertake will not be bloodless by any means.”

“There he is,” Reed continued, leading Ruza over to a table where a man was working on a tablet computer. He looked up as they approached, seeming momentarily alarmed by the sight of the towering Rask. The stranger was a human with a dark complexion, the camouflaged clothes that he wore identifying him as PDF. “Omar,” Reed began. “This is the guy.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured,” Omar replied as he stepped away from his desk to glance up at Ruza.

“Omar here was recently released from one of the garrisons,” Reed explained. “He’s our best source of information about what’s been going on behind those walls. Tell him what you’ve been telling us, Omar.”

“A lot of what the Governor has been saying in his addresses is bullshit,” Omar began, still seeming a little wary of the Rask. He might never have encountered an alien face-to-face before. “It’s probably coming straight from the Borgs. There’s been no corruption in the PDF – at least, nothing that would warrant that kind of response. The UN was really good about reforming the organization after the occupation. The night they hit us, they came in hard, and they caught most of us while we were asleep in the barracks. There was very little warning, and they killed anyone who fought back.”

“Do you know anything about those being held?” Ruza pressed.

“Oh, sure,” Omar replied with a nod as he leaned a hand on the table. “The first thing they did was round everyone up and secure the garrisons. They housed a lot of people in the jails, but most were sent down into the emergency bunkers, where the Borgs were setting up makeshift cells. They gave us all a choice – join them or stay locked up indefinitely. A lot of guys just told them what they wanted to hear to get out, same as I did, but quite a lot of troopers are buying the spiel. The Borgs are well researched, and they seem to know a lot about Hadean history and pain points.”

“Spiel?” Ruza asked with a tilt of his head.

“The Borgs are feeding them some crock about making them into elite soldiers and turning Hades into the next Proxima. They’re offering them expensive gear and augs, too.”

“Sounds to us like they’re trying to inflate their numbers,” Reed clarified. “They’re trying to build an army and fortify Hades ready for when the UNN arrives, but nobody has any clue why. What the hell does a rogue special forces group want with our shithole of a colony?”

“Why do you call them Borgs?” Ruza asked.

“Shorthand for Cyborgs,” Omar explained. “These guys are augmented to the gills – I don’t think I’ve seen a single organic limb since they arrived. One thing I can tell you is that they don’t trust us. They’ve been keeping the PDF away from sensitive sites, and more than once, I’ve overheard them refer to us as dirt farmers or weekend warriors. It’s pretty safe to say that anyone you see marching with them has done something to curry favor.”

“That lines up with what Ruza said he saw at the ASAT sites,” Reed added. “Sounds like legitimate targets to me – fucking traitors.”

“Plenty of our guys are holding out in the bunkers and refusing to cooperate,” Omar continued. “There are a lot of good people still stuck down there, and I can’t imagine that conditions are going to be improving over time.”

“Certainly not with the tether blockaded,” Reed scoffed. “Dirt is the only thing we farm down here – they’re right about that.”

“This is very important,” Ruza interjected, leaning a little closer. “During your time at the garrison, did you see any UNN personnel being unloaded from transports?”

“Sure did,” Omar replied with a nod. “I saw maybe a hundred guys wearing Navy uniforms being marched through the bunker while I was still being held. They took them to a different area of the shelter, though – away from the PDF.”

“Probably because the Navy guys know something the PDF don’t,” Reed mused. “The Borgs don’t want them mingling and sharing intel.”

“We intend to free your comrades,” Ruza said, placing a large hand on Omar’s shoulder. “The crew of the carrier, too. We shall find out what they know about the enemy – these Borgs.”

“First, we need a suitable target so we can get their attention,” Reed added. “A hard target, with a low chance of PDF or civilian casualties. Some of my guys had some ideas about that, actually.”

They proceeded deeper into the mine, coming across another large chamber, this one filled with racks of humming servers and desks strewn with tablet computers. Behind a holographic display that was being cast from a small projector was a woman who was hard at work, stopping to glance at them as Reed announced himself.

“This is Astrid,” he began. “She’s good at managing the union’s books, but she’s even better at managing intel. She’s become somewhat of a spymaster for us.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Reed,” she replied as she swiveled in her office chair. “You must be Doctor Ruza.”

“Don’t worry – he’s quite tame,” Reed joked.

“Oh, I’m not worried,” she replied as she craned her neck to meet the Rask’s gaze. “I don’t care what the rumor mills are churning out – you treated my sister’s kids when they had pneumo and there was a shortage of inhalers. Whatever you did to those guys, they must have deserved it.”

“Ella and Oscar,” Ruza replied with a subtle bow of his head. “I trust that they are well?”

“Thanks to you,” the woman replied.

“We hoped you might have some intel on that convoy,” Reed added.

“It just so happens that I do,” she replied, turning to her displays again. Reed and Ruza drew closer to get a better look as she pulled up a map of the city, a red line drawing from the anchor to one of the nearer garrisons. “We’ve had people watching the route. As you probably know, the Borgs are occupying the anchor, which is where all goods and traffic come in and out of the colony. It’s probably the most strategically important location on the planet. Once a day, like clockwork, they cycle out their troops and bring in a fresh batch.”

“I guess even robots have to sleep sometime,” Reed mused.

“Based on the number of men they’re bringing in and out, it’s likely that there are far more of them inside the anchor and up at the station, so the tether is never left undefended. They seem to have duty shifts, though. Every day, three armored trucks leave the anchor and head to this garrison here,” she said as she pointed at the location on the map. “From what we can observe, there are no PDF at the anchor and no PDF in these convoys.”

“Just like the ASAT sites,” Ruza said with a nod.

“That lines up with what Ruza and Omar said,” Reed added. “The Borgs don’t trust the PDF, and they’re not gonna let them near such an important location. This could be an ideal target for us.”

“We’ll keep watch,” Astrid said. “I’ll talk to Bergmann and get his okay.”

“Until then, I will continue to observe from a distance,” Ruza replied. “It is difficult for me to pass unseen in the city.”

“Yeah, there aren’t many eight-foot dudes walking around,” Reed said. “Once we’re properly established in the tunnels, you can move through those instead. We’ll be able to pop up wherever we please like angry gophers. C’mon – I’ll show you some more of our operation. The armory is this way.”

DAY 12 – HADES – REED

Reed moved between the prefabs, his figure shrouded in a long shawl, his face obscured by a rebreather and tinted goggles. It wasn’t hard to travel unseen on Hades. With everyone wearing protective gear, there was nothing noteworthy or suspicious about hiding one’s appearance. Briefly checking his phone to make sure he was still on time, he hastened a little, weaving through the dusty back streets. Pausing beneath a humming air conditioner that jutted from the side of a sandblasted prefab, he glanced out into the road that led away from the tether, the massive anchor rising up above him to dominate the sky. It was visible from anywhere in the colony, forming a mountain of weather-worn steel up close, the black thread vanishing into the blue haze.

Nearer the anchor, the homes and small businesses gave way to storage lots and warehouses where cargo waited to be loaded onto the tether or hauled away on trucks. He continued on, the white, capsule-like buildings on their stilts transitioning into more permanent and industrial structures. There were warehouses filled with cargo, parking lots and loading bays for trucks, and paved areas that were home to great stacks of colorful containers piled as high as buildings. It looked like a lot of the usual traffic was backed up now – the cargo waiting to be delivered to freighters that had never arrived.

He was soon in view of the ambush site, ducking behind some cargo containers. Before he had even seen the APCs, he heard their engines rising above the wind. They were right on time – the Borgs were nothing if not punctual. He knelt to sift through the sand, brushing it away with his glove, taking a few increasingly frantic moments to find the end of the det-cord.

Buried along their route on both sides of the road were IEDs made from mining charges packed with scrap metal, angled to catch the trio of transports on their way through. With most of the colony’s construction and maintenance workers in the unions, it hadn’t been difficult to come up with a reason to do a little routine roadwork. The streets frequently needed to be repaired and cleared of sand. There were few civilians on the streets after the riot, and even fewer workers with the strikes still largely in effect. It wasn’t as if the truckers and dockworkers had anything to do while the occupiers were blockading the tether, anyway. The only thing inside the projected blast radius were the Borgs.

The APCs were in sight now, trundling down the road, their six wheels kicking up clouds of dust. Reed drew back a little, sinking into the shadows when he saw the operative who was sitting with his torso sticking out of a hatch on the roof of the lead vehicle, an XMR in his hands. Those buckets of bolts were Navy surplus, and probably outdated when they were new – not affording anywhere near the level of protection something like a modern Puma IFV would. His heart starting to race, he drew the detonator from beneath his shawl, holding his breath as he waited for them to reach the mark. Slowly, he began to wind the end of the cord around the contacts on his device.

The lead vehicle passed the first hidden charge, and the moment the third truck was in position, Reed pressed the button. Two dozen mining charges exploded, timed to detonate one after another with an almost imperceptible delay, a series of deafening thuds like a burst of automatic gunfire making Reed’s ears ring. He was maybe two hundred meters down the street, but he still felt the explosion in his soft tissues, the shockwave that swept down the road visible in the way it disturbed the sand. The windows on the nearby warehouses shattered as the blast reached them, sending broken glass raining to the ground.

The lead APC was tossed into the air like a toy, reaching a good ten feet, its armor shredded and pocked by the shower of deadly scrap. Its ruined hull was deposited back on the road a moment later, landing on its side with a thud, its chassis crumpling like it had been made of paper. A loose wheel bounced away as fragments of its warped chassis rained down around it, each one creating a splash in the sand. There was no sign of the man who had been riding atop the hatch – he was just gone.

Like a giant was throwing great handfuls of dust, a dark plume rose above the street, looming ever higher. It lingered in the air, casting a shadow on everything beneath it as it slowly drifted with the wind, carpeting the nearby structures in a layer of dirt. There were secondary explosions – bright flashes of light flaring as what must be their hydrogen fuel cells ignited, forming jets of blue flame that burned through the smoke like welding torches.

Reed didn’t stick around to confirm that the other two vehicles had been disabled – this was enough to send a message. Just as quietly as he had appeared, he cut the cord and slunk away, disappearing into the city.

DAY 12 – HADES – HOFF

“Eleven men dead and nine critically injured,” Hoff growled as he looked out over the ruined street, his PCE giving him an elevated view of the carnage. “How the fuck did this happen?”

The IEDs had excavated great craters in the dirt, revealing exactly where they must have been buried, forming two neat rows to either side of the road. Between them were the three armored personnel carriers, now torn and blackened by the explosions. Their armor had been ripped apart like sheet metal, the holes and tears easily visible as the exposed alloys reflected the sunlight, drive trains that had been twisted like pretzels and unidentifiable fragments of engine littering the ground. It looked like a goddamned orbital strike had hit them. He could see a few burnt bodies even now, too tangled with their vehicles to recover, melted polymer and charred bone encased in the ruined hulls.

The site was crawling with SWAR, the operatives investigating the nearby buildings and sifting through the wrecks. Just like the last crime scene, the street had been cordoned off, but they weren’t letting any press through this time. The last thing they needed was for the perpetrators to have high-def photos proving the efficacy of their operation.

“I warned you that this would happen,” the Governor said, withdrawing a little as Hoff turned to stare down at him angrily. “When you overplayed your hand at the protest, I told you that you’d lit a powder keg, and here are the results.”

“An I told you so isn’t very helpful right now,” Hoff growled.

“You’re probably facing a full-blown insurgency at this point, so I hope you’re happy,” the Governor grumbled. “Fuck, I haven’t seen anything like this since the final days of the Syndicate.”

They were interrupted as a SWAR agent walked over to them, holding up something to Hoff.

“Looks like a piece of lead wire, LC,” he began. “Probably from a blasting charge.”

“So it’s the goddamned miners,” Hoff growled, closing a metal fist with the sound of grinding metal. “I’ll rip their fucking arms out of their sockets!”

“This colony’s entire economy is based around mining,” the Governor scoffed. “If you want to arrest everyone who might have had access to blasting charges, you’re going to need a lot more cells. Listen to me,” he added, wagging a finger at the scowling operative. “They didn’t do this because they wanted to kill your people – they did it because they wanted to send a message. This is an escalation. They want to make you angry, and they want you to tighten your grip, because that’ll drive more people to their cause. What we need to do now is remain calm and think before we act.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking alright,” Hoff grumbled as he looked out over the smoldering wrecks.

“Is that painful for you?” the Governor muttered, Hoff giving him another scowl.

“What these jokers don’t realize is that Barbosa cut his teeth fighting insurgents before half of them were even a twinkle in their daddy’s eye,” Hoff continued. “Before people even knew that aliens existed, he was rooting out separatists and terrorists in the outer colonies, making them disappear for the UN. Counter-insurgency was his specialty. They have no idea of the hurt he’s about to bring down on their heads.”

“Well, your Commander has told me that I have to give another address tonight,” the Governor sighed. “I am to denounce the terrorist attack and reaffirm our commitment to the UN.”

“I sure as hell hope you’re going to denounce this,” Hoff growled, turning to loom over the portly Governor angrily.

“You think I want these people running around blowing up my colony? Unlike you, I was elected. The citizens of Hades chose me to represent them because they trusted me to lead them into a free and prosperous future. The last thing I want to see is burning wreckage and dead bodies in our streets.”

“Save it for the address,” Hoff said. “Mark my words – there will come a time when Barbosa doesn’t need you anymore, and when that time comes, I’m going to fly you to the far side of the planet and leave you there.”

“Yeah, we’ll see…”

DAY 12 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“That certainly got their attention,” Omar said as he walked down the tunnel beside Ruza. “We’re seeing reports of over twenty casualties, and all of the garrisons are on high alert. The Borgs have ordered more patrols, which means more of them on the streets interacting with the locals.”

“They have demonstrated that they lack the temperament for such things,” Ruza added as they turned a corner, passing a couple of workers who were carrying a crate between them.

“The PDF will be taking on the bulk of the work,” Omar explained. “These are their hand-picked troopers – people they’ve deemed loyal enough to carry out their orders.”

“Enforcers,” Ruza grumbled. “The Matriarch used her Royal Guard in the same manner.”

“What that means is more targets for us,” Omar continued. “Reed says we need to make the Borgs feel like they’re under constant attack, and when they start lashing out, that’s when we move on the ASATs.”

“We must take measures to protect civilians,” Ruza added. “We cannot allow the people to suffer unduly because of our actions.”

“At a certain point, I don’t think we’ll have a choice,” Omar continued as he glanced up at the Rask. “Martial law is a certainty, and they’ll use force to keep people working the mines and factories regardless of what we do. The faster we act, the more we minimize any potential losses.”

“Still, we must not forsake the people of Hades,” Ruza insisted. “We cannot let anger and vengeance guide our actions. We are not a sword, but a shield.”

“I’m with you there,” Omar replied with a nod. “Maybe you should spend a little more time with Reed. You might rub off on him.”

Through the passageway, the familiar sound of gunfire echoed, the pair following the noise until they arrived at another large chamber. This one had been retrofitted into a shooting range – some two dozen men lined up behind a row of desks, their surfaces strewn with parts and spare magazines. They were firing XMRs, shouldering the weapons and loosing slugs downrange, where a series of paper targets had been erected against the dirt wall some fifty meters away.

“Welcome to my humble range,” Reed said, spreading his arms dramatically as the pair entered. “It’s small, I’ll give you that, but it’s a bigger setup than we used to have on the carriers.”

“You have already received your first shipment of weapons?” Ruza asked, walking over to one of the tables. He lifted an XMR, finding the medium frame paradoxically small and light in his hands, inspecting its configuration. “Bullpup, standard CQB with a short barrel,” he mused. “Holographic reflex sights for rapid target acquisition. Your experience with the platform is evident, Reed.”

“Told you I wore blues for a while,” he replied, crossing his arms as he proudly watched his students loose another volley. “And the whole gun-running thing, of course. That Borg armor stands a decent chance of stopping five-seven caseless, but even at subsonic, these slugs are gonna shred them. The UNN doesn’t even attempt to produce armor that can stop slugs because there’s no fucking point.”

“At least until now,” Omar added. “We have no idea what those giant suits of armor can do.”

“Yeah, we’re not engaging those unless we have to,” Reed replied. “At least they don’t seem to have very many of them.”

“Perhaps we could find a way to secure blueprints,” Ruza wondered aloud. “They must have weaknesses that can be exploited.”

“Worst comes to worst, they can’t be much more durable than those APCs,” Reed added with a smirk. “It’s nothing a few blasting charges won’t solve.”

“Omar tells me that you and Bergmann have plans for more attacks,” Ruza prompted.

“That’s right,” he began with a nod. “The bombing was a loud opener – it got their attention, but we need to keep up the pressure. We don’t want the Borgs feeling safe anywhere in the city. My suggestion is that we use the tunnel network to fade and strike. We pop up, ambush a patrol, and vanish again before they can respond. A lot of these old smuggling routes come out inside buildings, so we don’t stand much risk of being stopped and searched. We can deploy fully armed fireteams with the same mobility as a squad of Marines in a dropship.”

“Omar tells me that many of these patrols will be comprised of PDF,” Ruza warned. “We should prioritize SWAR targets where possible. Remember that every trooper we kill has parents, friends, children – regardless of where their loyalties lie. We risk losing popular support if we target them.”

“It may become unavoidable,” Omar replied. “If I was a Borg, I’d be putting locals front and center for just that reason.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Reed said. “You should join us, Ruza. There’s a reason the UNN loves their Borealan auxiliaries. I know we’d all feel a lot better having you with us when we go up against the Borgs.”

“I suppose that I cannot hide in the desert forever,” he conceded.

“This is all starting to feel real,” Omar muttered as he watched the men reload their weapons.

“Not the kind of drilling miners usually sign up for, is it?” Reed chuckled.

“If we’re going to become an army, we need a symbol,” Omar insisted as he turned back to Ruza and Reed. “All resistance movements have that, right? A flag, a symbol, maybe a slogan?”

“It would give the people something to rally around,” Ruza mused.

“Sounds like you had something in mind,” Reed said.

“Well, what do we all have in common?” Omar asked. “Miners, factory workers, construction, sanitation, dockworkers – we all wear high-vis. When the protest happened, everyone wore their work clothes, and some people used high-vis vests instead of signs. It would be a symbol of the workers rising up against the occupiers.”

“I like it,” Reed said with a grin. “They’d also look really fucking stupid trying to ban those.”

“It is perhaps not ideal camouflage,” Ruza muttered.

“Well, we’d wear it only when we intend to be seen,” Omar suggested. “It’s just an idea, anyway. I’m not really a graphic design guy.”

“No, I like it,” Reed insisted as he gave Omar an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “We’ll pitch it to Bergmann and see what he says.”

DAY 12 – HADES – AMY

“These cowardly acts of violence against our UN allies will not be tolerated,” the Governor said, his voice coming through the monitor’s speakers as the bargoers looked on. “Today’s attack was terrorism – plain and simple – a form of barbarism not seen since the Syndicate was ousted with the help of our benefactors six years ago. To murder those same people in such a manner is unthinkable. Due to these recent developments, PDF patrols will be increasing to ensure that these terrorists don’t have the opportunity to strike again and harm innocent people. I ask for your cooperation with our security forces during this time. Make no mistake – this is not martial law, and there will be no curfews. I simply wish to ensure the safety of all Hadeans until the perpetrators can be apprehended and brought to justice.”

“You buying this?” Ricky asked, gesturing to the display with his beer can.

“It has to be revenge for what happened at the protest,” Amy suggested. “The question is, who’s doing it?”

“A friend of mine saw the smoke cloud from the explosion,” Bill added. “He recorded it on his phone and showed me the video. It must have been really big if he could see it that far away from the anchor. That whole street is blocked off now – they won’t let anyone in.”

“They’re not telling anyone how many people were killed, and there have been no press leaks on the intranet,” Ricky continued as he took a sip of his drink. “It’s all very hush-hush. That could mean it’s bullshit, or it could mean that a lot of their guys got hurt. I don’t like it – it’s all happening again. Bombings, troops on the streets – it’s only a matter of time before they declare martial law.”

“You really think the Governor would do that?” Bill asked. “He just said he wouldn’t.”

“It’s not his choice,” Ricky muttered. “You remember what Ruza said? He’s probably not even in control of the colony anymore.”

“You think Ruza might have had something to do with it?” Bill added, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Can’t be a coincidence, right? Ruza disappears, then a few days later, this happens?”

“Why are you whispering?” Amy chuckled. “It’s not like we can get him in more trouble – he’s already wanted for multiple homicide.”

“We might want to keep quiet about knowing Ruza,” Ricky warned, glancing across the table at her. “I’m surprised they haven’t come knocking for information already.”

“Well, we don’t know where he is,” Bill added with a shrug.

“And they’ll just leave politely when we don’t give them what they want?” Ricky scoffed. “Trust me, Bill. Anyone asks if you know Ruza, you tell ‘em you’ve never met the guy.”

“I have enough to worry about with these new shifts,” Bill sighed, leaning his elbows on the table. “At least they’re paying us for the overtime now, so the union isn’t being completely useless.”

“The best thing we can do right now is keep our damned heads down,” Ricky added.

DAY 13 – HADES – PETROVA

“What are you going to do?” Petrova asked.

“Find them and kill them,” Hoff replied.

The pair were standing in Garrison One, its proximity to the anchor and the colony’s important strategic buildings turning it into somewhat of a main base for their operation. The dusty courtyard was a hive of activity, with large groups of PDF jogging around its circumference, the loud cracks of hypersonic slugs ringing out as they drilled with their factory-fresh XMRs.

“The Governor is right about one thing,” Petrova continued, her PCE’s pistons grinding as she shifted her weight in the heavy suit. “They did this to make us angry. Don’t play into their hands. If you go on a rampage and start terrorizing the locals, it’s only going to result in more attacks.”

“Barbosa knows what he’s doing,” Hoff shot back, his suit putting the large man at eye level with her. “He’s an expert in counter-insurgency.”

“The Commander is good at finding and killing insurgents,” Petrova sighed. “This isn’t the Expansion Period anymore, Hoff. There’s no UN force waiting to swoop in and stabilize the situation when Barbosa’s work is done. He’s never had to handle the cleanup before.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust him?” Hoff pressed, raising a blonde eyebrow. “He got us this far, didn’t he? He took a carrier and a whole planet with two hundred men. They’ll be writing songs about him one day.”

“Don’t shit-test me, mudak,” Petrova snarled. “He’s not Caesar – he values our input, and he listens when we criticize. I wouldn’t have followed him if he didn’t. I know you better than he does – you’ll overreact. You know who knows a lot about police work?” she added, gesturing to the nearest group of troopers with a mechanical arm as they jogged past. “The PDF.”

“You want me to let the dirt farmers run the show?” Hoff said with an incredulous laugh. “Do you have heatstroke?”

“They’re trained for it,” she insisted. “We’re not. I’m not saying put them in charge, but simply listen to their input as Barbosa listens to ours. Follow his example.”

“I have a different theory,” Hoff replied, watching the troopers reload their weapons at the nearby range. “We root out the cowardly punks who killed our guys, and we make an example of them – we show the colony what happens when you spill SWAR blood. We let them know who’s in charge and what it means to cross us.”

“You’re just going to make this worse,” Petrova grumbled.

“Listen, Petrova,” he replied in a softer tone. “You and I go way back. How many times have we fought together with our backs against the wall? You know I respect you, but Barbosa put me in charge of security. This is my operation until he says otherwise.”

“Is that what this is about?” Petrova added, pointing a massive finger at his chest piece. It was decorated with a Navy blue stripe, the letters SWAR stenciled over it, but someone had painted a yellow star just above the logo.

“You like it?” he chuckled, trying and failing to glance down over his armored collar. “It’s a Sheriff’s badge. What?” he added as she gave him a questioning look. “It’s just a joke, Petrova. Chill out.”

“You should probably be taking this more seriously.”

“Nobody around here has any sense of humor,” he muttered to himself. “Fine – back to business. How’s the training going? You found any suitable candidates yet?”

“The UN actually did a decent job of training them,” she began. “They’re further along than most PDF units I’ve had the displeasure of working with. They’re fairly disciplined, they know how to operate an XMR for the most part, and they’re quite adept at police work. It makes sense – there hasn’t been any major conflict in about six years, so most of what they’ve been doing is just basic peacekeeping work. I’m keeping my eye on a few candidates who are starting to stand out.”

“You might want to speed things up,” Hoff suggested sarcastically. “At the rate we’re going, we’ll be replacing troops rather than growing our ranks…”

“It takes time to forge an operative – you know that,” she chided. “Not to mention the time it’ll take for them to recover from the surgery when they eventually get it. Honestly, I’m a little skeptical of the whole idea. SWAR are usually recruited from a pool of veteran Marines, and none of these people have anywhere close to that level of experience. At best, we’re making augmented PDF.”

“As long as they can go toe to toe with the boats of UNN Marines who are gonna be showing up in a few months, that’s all the Commander needs.”

“What about you, Sheriff?” Petrova continued. “Did you find Barbosa’s most wanted yet?”

“The Madcat?” he replied. “Nah, that fucker has vanished. I’d really like someone to explain to me how a giant alien the size of a car just up and disappears like that.”

“Do you think someone is harboring him?” Petrova asked. “On the other hand, he could just be surviving out in the desert. There are thousands of square miles of nothing out there beyond the colony, and the carrier can’t sweep the whole planet at once. Rask are built for desert living.”

“We’ve managed to track down his known associates, so we’ll go pay them a visit,” Hoff replied. “If they know anything, we’ll soon know it too.”

“Just don’t break any bones,” Petrova advised. “If you start treating the colonists like enemies, that’s what they’ll become.”

“LC!” an operative said, interrupting their conversation as he came jogging over. “We have a possible sighting of the Rask.”

“Really?” Hoff marveled, turning to give Petrova a glance as if to say I told you so. “Speak of the Devil, and he fucking appears. Where is he?”

“Some warehouse workers sighted him hiding out in an industrial park on the outskirts of the colony,” the man replied through his tinny helmet speakers. “We have the carrier’s telescopes pointed at the building, and we’ve dispatched a dropship from the nearest garrison – two SWAR fireteams will be up his ass in fifteen minutes.”

“Fucking excellent work,” Hoff growled, visibly resisting the urge to pat the man on the shoulder and drive him into the dirt like a tent peg. “Tell them to take him alive if they can, but ventilate that bastard if he so much as twitches. Finally, some good news. Have the pilot spool up my dropship – I’m heading out there myself. Petrova, are you coming?”

“It’s not my job to be your deputy, Sheriff,” she replied. “I need to babysit the PDF. Happy hunting.”

DAY 13 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – RUZA

Ruza darted between the densely packed shelves, his cloak whipping behind him, his paws disturbing the dust that caked the concrete floor. He leaned a hand on a rusty shipping container as he turned a tight corner, his claws chipping the paint to expose the silver metal beneath. His sensitive ears could hear the footfalls that were hot on his heels, along with the electric whir of motors, the magazines in their chest rigs clattering. He weaved between the stacks of old tools and packaged building materials, doing his best to put the sacks of concrete and pallets of bricks between him and his pursuers. Even an XMR would have a hard time making it through all of this.

His path took him to the far end of the long building, and he burst onto open ground, heading for the safety of the office that looked out over the warehouse floor. His rifle was there, and if he could just reach it…

Before he could make it to the steps, he heard someone bark an order, and he skidded to a halt beneath the office’s dirt-caked windows.

“Hands up, shithead!”

His furry hands shot up into the air, and he slowly turned on the spot, panting as he caught his breath. Behind him were six agents clad in black combat armor, their prosthetic hands clutching XMRs, their opaque visors scrutinizing him. One wrong move, and they might open fire.

“Do not shoot – I am unarmed,” Ruza pleaded. “I will come peacefully.”

“On your fucking belly!” another yelled through distorted speakers, and Ruza slowly sank down to the ground. He put his hands on the back of his head, given no choice but to comply. “LC, we’ve apprehended the fugitive,” the man continued, speaking into his helmet radio. “The warehouse is secure, and the second fireteam is guarding the perimeter. Yeah, he’s still breathing. Roger – we’ll wait for you.”

“You’re in for a world of hurt now, you mangy fuck,” one of the agents spat. “You’re gonna pay for what you did to our guys. If the Commander didn’t want you alive for questioning, I’d do you right here,” he continued as he moved a hand from his weapon to pat a knife that was sheathed on his hip. “Real fucking slow.”

“He’s about to be introduced to the LC,” his neighbor chuckled. “I don’t think that’s gonna go much better for him.”

“Cuff him,” one of them ordered, producing a pair of handcuffs that looked as though they’d been welded from industrial chains and tossing them to a subordinate. “We don’t want him getting any funny ideas.”

As the agent approached, a crack rang out, echoing through the warehouse. More followed, the dirty windows of the office above shattering, fragments of glass raining down on Ruza. He covered his head with his hands protectively as dozens of shots poured into the operatives, a whole firing squad of rebels unloading their XMRs from their perch, taking the enemy by surprise. The operatives didn’t even have time to react before the hail of slugs tore through them, shattering their visors and punching through their ceramic armor, leaving molten trails in the air. They overpenetrated, digging into the concrete floor and throwing up puffs of dust, sparks showering where the rounds bit into their steel bones.

Ruza lifted his eyes, watching the men crumple to the floor. One of them caught a round in his prosthetic bicep, the kinetic force shattering the polymer, slagging metal and rending the tiny wires in a shower of scrap. It tore the limb from his shoulder, knocking him back, a follow-up shot penetrating his visor and tearing through the back of his helmet with a splash that was far wetter and more organic. Already dead, he fell back limply, a few more shots making his lifeless body twitch and jump.

“Ruza!” someone yelled as he rose to his feet. He glanced up, seeing Reed toss his long rifle from the window. Ruza lifted a hand and caught it, flipping off the safety and shouldering the weapon. There was more gunfire coming from outside, his sensitive ears swiveling to track it.

“More will come!” Ruza warned as he set off for the front entrance at a run. “Strip the bodies and withdraw!”

As he barreled through the gaping doors and out into the desert heat, he emerged into the loading area in front of the warehouse. Ahead of him, he could see a Leadbeater dropship, its sleek hull standing out against the rusted machinery and sand that surrounded it. The industrial park had been paved over, but Hades’ dust got everywhere, forming small dunes wherever it wasn’t periodically cleared away. The dropship had blown clear a circular area with the backwash from its thrusters, the vessel now idling next to a stack of old shipping containers and an abandoned forklift. It had landed as close as possible, just as he had hoped, its open troop ramp facing the building.

His comrades were finishing off the second fireteam, their black armor picking them out as they lay in the sand, their bodies perforated by railgun rounds. Just like inside the warehouse, a dozen people had waited in ambush amidst the veritable scrapyard of old equipment and empty containers, opening fire as soon as the signal had been given. With enough metal in the way, thermal imaging from the dropship’s sensors or the helmet cams wouldn’t reveal them until it was too late. He watched as one of the miners let off one last shot from behind a crate, catching a still-struggling operative in the chest.

He turned his eyes to the tail of the dropship, seeing its rotary cannon hanging below its twin engines and H-shaped tail fins, its copper coils and optics package glinting in the sunlight. Newer versions of the craft were equipped with a weapons package designed to provide covering fire for dismounting troops, and those triple-barreled canons fired high-caliber slugs that would have turned the miners to a red vapor regardless of cover. As he rounded the craft, he saw that the cockpit canopy was perforated with slug holes, Ruza allowing himself a moment of relief. They had targeted the pilot first, just as he had instructed, and UNN weapons could not operate autonomously.

“Strip them – take their weapons and ammunition!” Ruza ordered, raising his voice over the sound of the engines. He watched as one of the miners pulled a handgun from a dead operative, stowing it beneath his shawl, another cutting through the straps of a chest rig with his knife.

“Scouts have sighted another dropship heading this way!” one of the men warned, reaching up to touch an earpiece. “ETA ten minutes!”

“We need to move!” Ruza added. “Plant the charge!”

Two of the miners hurried up the troop ramp, their boots hammering on the metal. Ruza couldn’t see what they were doing inside, but they soon emerged, one of them trailing a spool of det cord. Ruza allowed them a minute more, then they withdrew into the warehouse with their haul, that long cord still unspooling. When they were far enough away, the miner cut the cord, producing a detonator from his pocket and winding the severed wire around the conductive contacts.

“We clear?” he demanded as he knelt on the floor, the group of men watching the craft through the open warehouse doors.

“Hit it!” another of them added.

He pressed the button, and there was a thud that Ruza felt in his bones, the following explosion gutting the dropship from the inside. That armor was strong enough to withstand reentry and plasma fire from enemy infantry, but the blasting charge blew it open like an overcooked gourd, its mechanical guts showering across the dusty loading area. Its hydrogen fuel went up too, creating a flash of blue light that had the miners shielding their eyes, the secondary explosion splitting it in half and separating the tail from the hull. They took a moment to admire their handiwork, watching the plume of dark smoke rise into the sky above the smoldering wreck.

“We must move,” Ruza insisted, waving them away. They joined up with Reed’s team below the office, the group of two dozen armed miners heading back out through the rear exit, lugging their haul of weapons with them. Reed led them to a neighboring warehouse and down a flight of steps, descending into a basement beneath the old building. It was caked in dust, the little motes floating through the beams of their flashlights, which were the only way to navigate with the power shut off. Ruza caught glimpses of sturdy support pillars and abandoned machinery – likely generators and industrial air conditioning units, the men making their way through the darkness.

Nestled in an unassuming corner of the basement was a false wall that had already been moved aside to expose one of the many smuggling tunnels. The Syndicate would once have used this route to move goods in and out of the warehouse above without being detected. The miners piled through, with Ruza entering last, sealing the opening behind them.

DAY 13 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – HOFF

“What the fuck is that?” Hoff demanded, watching a growing plume of smoke rise over the horizon through the pilot’s canopy. He was standing in the troop bay of his dropship, his PCE secured to the deck with its magnetic boots, the sea of prefabs coasting past far below.

“Looks like smoke, LC,” one of the agents sitting in the seats beside him added.

“I know that, moron,” Hoff growled. “Spiker – come in. Spiker? Jackson, you asshole, respond! Does anyone read me? God damn it, what the hell is happening over there?”

He slammed his canopy closed and began to cycle through the team’s helmet cams, seeing only blank screens or views of the sky.

“What’s going on down there, Hoff?”

Hoff swallowed the lump in his throat, opening a video feed to see Barbosa staring back at him through his prosthetic eyes.

“Commander,” Hoff began.

“My telescopes just saw a dropship explode. I was told you had the fugitive cornered?”

“I’m en route, Commander. I’ll take care of it. Bring me lower!” he added with a bellow.

The pilot banked towards the smoke, bringing the vessel to a hover, wind rushing into the bay as the troop ramp began to open. Hoff turned on the spot, hefting his oversized XMR and deactivating his magnets, lumbering down the ramp. His PCE dropped a good twenty feet, landing near the burning wreck of the Leadbeater with a thud that shook the ground, the gel-like padding of his suit absorbing the impact. Servos and pistons whined as he rose from a crouch, the camera dome beneath his sloping canopy’s chin darting back and forth as it scanned the area for threats.

The dropship had been gutted – it looked like a fuel explosion, and there were operatives lying amongst the scattered debris. Hoff didn’t need to check them for vitals – their suits were broadcasting a flatline signal. Growling into his canopy, he drove his PCE onward, the massive suit breaking into a run that quickly carried him through the open doors of the warehouse.

Sweeping his rifle across the rows of tightly packed shelves, he came upon another scene of carnage, finding the second fireteam lying in a heap. Crunching broken glass beneath his boots, he drew closer, finding no signs of life from their suits. The bodies had been stripped – their weapons and gear missing. The bastards had even taken some of their helmets.

Seeing red, he scanned the area in every wavelength that his suit would allow, finding splatters of blood glowing in ultraviolet. No heat signatures save for those from the still-warm bodies.

“Commander!” he began, trying to curtail his anger. “What did you see?”

Barbosa fed him a grainy recording of the satellite-like view from the carrier’s array of cameras. It showed a top-down perspective of the warehouse, the dark shape of the dropship visible outside, a team of six SWAR agents tagged in blue as the indistinct figures began to fan out and secure the landing site. A moment later, they fell in quick succession, their unknown assailants emerging from concealment all around them. It had been an ambush. Not long after, two of the men went inside the dropship, reemerging to retreat inside the building. An explosion followed, tearing the craft open, followed by a second blast as the fuel cells ignited. This couldn’t have happened more than ten minutes prior.

Hoff skipped back through the footage, zooming in on a figure that was larger than the rest. His blood boiled as he scrutinized the grainy image, the unmistakable profile of a Borealan wielding a long rifle coming into clearer focus.

“He was fucking here,” Hoff snarled.

“Sitrep, Lieutenant Commander,” Barbosa insisted in a sterner tone.

“It looks like an ambush, Commander,” Hoff replied as he struggled to swallow his rage. “The tip was bait to lure us in. We have…two fireteams KIA. It was that fucking Rask – he was here!”

“How did this happen, Hoff?” Barbosa demanded.

“This is bigger than we thought, Commander,” Hoff replied as he turned to glance at the bodies. “Our guys were hit with XMRs – multiple shooters, tight groupings. They were ready for us – knew our tactics and how to hide from our sensors. They must have been set up and waiting long before the call came in. This isn’t just one guy planting mining charges, and there’s no question that the Rask is involved. This was a coordinated attack.”

The rest of his team came pouring into the warehouse, taking up position to watch the corners and cover all of the angles.

“Keep that dropship in the air!” Hoff ordered. “If you see any movement or anything on FLIR, you fucking hose it with the tail gun! I want the PDF to blockade every road out of this industrial park, and I want every warehouse and shipping container turned upside down!”

At the end of the footage, a large group of maybe twenty men filed out of the warehouse and into a neighboring building. Ordering his team to follow, Hoff charged outside into the wind, crossing the dusty street and entering the adjacent structure.

“Where the hell are they!?” Hoff snarled, his cameras scanning the empty warehouse floor. “They didn’t just disappear!” he bellowed through his canopy’s speakers, swinging a metal fist into a support pillar and sending shattered chunks of concrete rolling across the floor. “Find them!”

DAY 13 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – PETROVA

Petrova marched her suit into the abandoned warehouse, finding it crawling with agents, the skies overhead filled with the sound of circling dropships. The PDF had set up armed cordons to section off an area half a mile wide, and Hoff had them scouring every nook and cranny. She found him dressing down a squad of troopers in the middle of the warehouse, the men taking the opportunity to make a speedy exit when they saw her approaching.

“Hoff!” she began, getting his attention. “What the hell happened?”

“We’re another dozen agents down – that’s what happened,” he growled. “Based on the footage recorded from the carrier’s cameras, there were at least twenty men, and they were led by the Rask.”

“The anonymous tip was fake, then,” Petrova guessed. “They lured your men into an ambush.”

“These guys had Navy training and equipment,” Hoff added. “I’m certain of it. These are no disgruntled miners. They moved in teams, they had XMRs, and they knew how to use them. They even knew to target the dropship pilot so he couldn’t engage the tail gun.”

“Where could they have gotten their hands on XMRs?” Petrova wondered. “I suppose the PDF could have let a few go missing, but that would have to be long before we arrived. The whole colony was a giant black market bazaar until the UN cleaned house, which means they could have all kinds of shit stashed away in these old abandoned industrial parks and mines. I’ll have Song check to see if any of his weapons shipments are unaccounted for.”

“According to the surveillance footage, this building is the last place they were seen,” Hoff continued as he paced back and forth in his towering PCE. “I’ve had my men scour every inch of the damned building, but there’s no trace of them. A lot of these warehouses are connected by underground passageways, and there are service tunnels linking this one to three others. They could have escaped through any one of them. Fucking rats…”

“What did you find?” Petrova pressed, trying to keep him focused.

“It looks like the Rask has been holed up in the warehouse where the initial attack took place,” Hoff replied. “We found an office where he’d been slumming it – there was an old couch that he’d used to make a bed and a heap of old MRE wrappers. He must have been living there for a few days – likely since the failed arrest. Looks like some of the shooters fired from up there, too.”

“Could you get IDs on any of the terrorists?”

“Not at that resolution,” he replied. “We pulled recordings from the intact helmet cams, too, but everyone on this shitbucket of a planet wears masks. Other than the Rask, they could be anybody.”

“What did Barbosa say?”

“He’s acting like this is my fault,” Hoff grumbled. “I’m not psychic – I thought we were apprehending a lone Rask. How was I supposed to know a whole strike team would come down on my head?”

“See what you can find,” Petrova replied, turning around. “I’m going to take a look at his hideout.”

She walked back into the adjacent warehouse, passing by broken glass and fresh blood stains, the crimson fluid seeping into the porous concrete. Up above her was the office where the terrorists must have fired down from. The fireteam had been caught totally by surprise. The bodies had been moved now, but she could still see the slug holes in the floor.

The only way to access the office was via a set of narrow steps, and her PCE wouldn’t fit. With a grumble, she reluctantly opened the suit up, its heavy armor plating splitting apart. A stab of pain and unpleasant tingling washed over her as her body reconnected to her brain, the bypass separating from the shunt in her neck. After waiting a minute until the feeling returned to her extremities, she climbed out of its padded lining, mounting the steps on her bare prosthetic feet. It was such a strange sensation to feel her toes as individual digits again, rather than the far more diffuse PCE boot. There was more broken glass inside the office, though it couldn’t hurt her, Petrova crushing it underfoot as she began to explore the room.

There was the musty old couch, now stripped of its cushions, which were piled against one side of the office to form a makeshift bed. Like an animal in a zoo, all of the refuse was separated in one corner – mostly plastic wrappers from Navy MREs and discarded food containers. It looked like a lot, but she reminded herself that a Rask would eat far more than a human.

Something caught her eye, and she knelt beside the pile, reaching her slender fingers between two wrappers. She withdrew a small capsule-shaped vial that looked like it had once contained fluid, recognizing it as a charge for a hypodermic injector. There were a couple more of them on the floor.

“What ails you, pussycat?” she mumbled to herself. She found a vial that still had a little clear fluid left in it, holding it up to the light between her finger and thumb.

DAY 13 – HADES ORBIT – PETROVA

“This is a medication commonly administered to people living in low-gravity environments,” Song explained as he handed Petrova his tablet. She glanced over its display, but the readout made no sense to her eyes. “It was originally developed to treat Martian wasting syndrome. Back in the early days of the colony – before they had widespread access to AG fields – the low gravity would reduce their bone density and damage their immune systems, among other things. This appears to be a more potent dose with some tweaks designed for Borealan physiology. Hades has about thirty percent lower gravity than Borealis, so our Rask friend must have been taking regular doses.”

“How rare is this stuff?” Petrova asked. “Can he get more of it?”

“It’s not incredibly hard to produce,” Song explained. “Any hospital should be able to synthesize it with the correct compounds. The patents on this stuff expired two hundred years ago.”

“There was an AG plate installed in his prefab,” Petrova continued, placing the tablet on a nearby table that was strewn with medical tools. She hopped up onto its edge, perching there with her long legs dangling idly, Song raising an eyebrow in what might be annoyance. “He doesn’t have his AG plate, he can’t risk going home, and we’re staking out his little medical practice. If I were him, I’d bring all of the vials that I could carry, but he’s going to run out sooner rather than later.”

“What are you thinking?” Song asked, returning to his work on a prosthetic limb that was lying on an adjacent workstation.

“At some point, he’s going to send someone to fetch more medication for him,” she explained. “If they go to his practice, we’ll catch them. Maybe he has friends at the hospital, too. They could synthesize this stuff, right? If we keep a close eye on their records and someone comes in looking for grav meds, we’ll be able to follow them straight back to the alien.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Song replied, using a screwdriver to tweak the robotic arm and making its fingers flex. “We should probably step up surveillance generally speaking if we want to nip this problem in the bud before it blooms into a full-fledged war.”

“I’m gonna go see the boss,” she added, hopping down off the table. “Speaking of meds – remember to take some vitamin D supplements. You’ve been holed up in this carrier for days.”

Song muttered something indecipherable in Korean and waved her away.

Petrova made her way through the carrier, its eerily empty state always giving her pause. Every time she had served or traveled on a carrier before this operation, it had been packed with people, every corridor bustling with activity as its crew went about their duties. Now, it was as quiet as a grave, all of the little creaks and mechanical sounds rising to prominence in the absence of life.

It took a good fifteen minutes for her to reach the observation deck, where she found Barbosa standing in his usual position, surrounded by holographic displays. If she didn’t know better, she might have assumed that he hadn’t moved an inch since she was last here.

“You doing alright, Commander?” she asked as she made her way over to him.

“Petrova,” he replied, turning to give her a welcoming smile. “I assume you’re here to give a report?”

“And to check on you,” she continued, pausing to glance down at the dusty planet below. “Managing a whole colony must be hard work. You and Song are going to exhaust yourselves if you don’t take time to decompress. Maybe we could go visit the bar? It’s staffed by a robot to stop the crew from overindulging, so it should still be operating.”

“There is much to do, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Though your concern is appreciated. Now, tell me what happened down there.”

“The timeline of events is fairly straightforward,” she sighed. “There was an anonymous tip about the Rask, a team was dispatched, and that team was ambushed. Twelve men KIA and one Leadbeater lost. The enemy is more numerous, better coordinated, and better armed than we anticipated. We were outmaneuvered.”

“Hoff hasn’t yet learned caution,” Barbosa muttered. “Maybe this event will teach him that lesson. He’s only ever fought aliens – he doesn’t know how cunning a human enemy can be.”

“What should he have done, Commander?” Petrova asked. “I’m eager to learn.”

“Isolate the area and cut off all means of exfil,” Barbosa explained as he swiped at a holographic display. “Send in surveillance drones and aircraft to scan the area for targets and signals. Only when you know the lay of the land and the likely position of your enemies do you send a team in. Intel is everything – we cannot afford to be reactive. Unfortunately, the dropship was already landing at the warehouse by the time I was given word of what was happening.”

“He wants to impress you,” Petrova chuckled dryly. “I think Hoff feels like he’s failing after the bombing, so he’s making more mistakes in his eagerness to atone.”

“Hoff has his uses,” Barbosa replied. “There are situations where we will need a firm hand rather than a subtle approach. I chose all of you for your unique attributes. I will put Crow and Roach in charge of protecting the ASAT sites. If this insurgency wants to hurt us up here, those launchers will be their only option.”

“Do you really think they’d attack the ASAT sites, Commander? Even with how heavily defended they are?”

“A couple of days ago, we wouldn’t have thought that they could take out a squad and cripple a dropship,” he replied. “I can’t be too hard on Hoff – he couldn’t have anticipated this. A bombing is one thing, but we’re dealing with a far more deadly enemy now. There were at least twenty-four men, all armed with XMRs, who had more than a working knowledge of our tactics. What does that tell you?”

“Twenty-four men,” Petrova mused. “Two standard Marine squads – four six-man fireteams. They had a good idea of where the dropship would land and how many troops it could carry. They knew to kill the pilot, and they knew that one fireteam would stay outside to secure the site. Someone with a lot of military experience is training and advising them. The insurgents could be ex-Navy themselves, but my bet is on the Rask. We still have no idea who he is or where he came from, but it’s clear that he’s ex-military.”

“I don’t think he’s done this alone,” Barbosa continued. “This isn’t just a reaction to our activities on Hades – they couldn’t have accomplished this in a mere week. They must have had supplies and manpower ready to go long before we arrived.”

“Remnants of the Syndicate?” Petrova suggested.

“That was my thinking. We must start tracking down people who were associated with the organization – smugglers, gun runners, accountants who cooked their books. The PDF should have criminal records for all citizens on file. There only needs to be a single weak link in the chain for the whole thing to collapse.”

“I have a plan that might help us catch the Rask fugitive,” Petrova began, relaying what she had told Song about the grav meds.

“That could work,” he replied, giving her an appreciative glance. It was hard to gauge his expression sometimes with those prosthetic eyes. “Good thinking. Hoff also has a plan – he wants to bring in the Rask’s known associates for questioning. There’s a good chance he’ll learn something, or he may just force the alien out of hiding. They are loyal creatures.”

“Yes, he told me that he’d tracked them down,” Petrova replied. “Whatever you think is best, Commander.”

CHAPTER 7

DAY 13 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“That was a hell of a rush,” Reed chuckled as he set his XMR down on a nearby table. “Maybe SWAR aren’t so special after all.”

The team had just returned to the main base after a long trek through the winding subterranean tunnels, the miners unloading their newly captured equipment and laying it out on tables in the armory, taking inventory of their haul. They had chest carriers, a lot of ammunition, and even a few sidearms and helmets recovered from the dead operatives. Spirits were high, and there was a lot of jovial chatter and back slapping.

“That’ll teach ‘em to fuck with Hadeans!” one of them declared, his friends erupting into cheers that echoed down the passageways of the old mine.

Not wanting to dampen the mood, Ruza took Reed aside and walked him a short distance from the group, planting the butt of his long rifle in the dirt and leaning some of his weight on it as he brought himself lower.

“This operation was successful, but only because we had the element of surprise,” Ruza warned. “The occupiers will show more caution from now on, and each attack may become more difficult and costly. I have fought the UNN before, and they adapted to our ambush tactics quickly. You may find yourselves fighting a very different kind of enemy next you meet.”

“I know that,” Reed replied. “I also know that they’ll be pissed off after the ambush, and they’ll step up their security. The more they try to lock down the colony, the more regular people are going to turn against them. All we have to do is keep up the pressure.”

“Remember that the primary goal remains freeing the prisoners,” Ruza added.

“Don’t worry, big guy,” Reed added as he gave Ruza an unwelcome pat on the arm. “Everything is going according to plan. C’mon,” he added. “Let’s go see Astrid and find out if we’ve made any waves.”

They left the armory and made their way up through the old mine tunnels, eventually arriving at the base’s nerve center where Astrid was sitting at her desk, surrounded by holographic feeds.

“You certainly seem to have gotten their attention,” she began. “I can’t monitor the SWAR comms because they’re heavily encrypted, but the PDF network is going crazy. They’ve deployed hundreds of troops to the industrial park, and dropships have been sighted flying overhead. They called out Omar, too, so he’ll be able to give us a report once he gets back. He shouldn’t be long.”

“He works for them still?” Ruza asked.

“Omar is our man on the inside,” Reed explained. “Being fairly high rank, he can come and go a little more easily than some of his subordinates, but he still has to keep up appearances so they don’t get suspicious.”

“They are not accustomed to such losses,” Ruza explained. “I doubt this many agents were killed during the entire Kerguela campaign. They will change their tactics, so be prepared. Has Bergmann mentioned my request that he establish a medbay inside the mine? I have contacts at the general hospital who may be able to provide equipment and supplies. There are more left at my practice, but it is certainly being watched, and I would not wish to involve my secretary in our plotting.”

“Yes, we’ve found a suitable tunnel for your new practice,” Astrid replied. “It sounds to me like you think we’re going to need it.”

“I hope that I am wrong,” he muttered.

A few minutes later, Omar returned, his camouflaged PDF uniform setting Ruza on edge for a moment.

“You guys really pissed them off,” he declared, setting his helmet down on Astrid’s desk. “They’re scouring a square mile of old warehouses and storage buildings trying to find any trace of you. It doesn’t look like they’ve discovered any of the old smuggling tunnels – they’re well hidden. As far as they know, you guys vanished in a puff of smoke.”

“What new information do you have for us?” Ruza pressed.

“We’ve all gotten new orders to increase patrols,” Omar continued. “That means more PDF out on the streets interacting with the locals. We’ve been told to look out for any suspicious activity, and the criteria for detaining people has been dropped to the point that we can basically arrest anyone we want at any time for anything. We’re not looking at a declaration of martial law yet, but we’re functionally there already.”

Astrid passed him a cable, and he connected it to a port on his helmet, a new window opening on her floating displays. Footage began to play back, and Ruza quickly identified it as a recording from Omar’s helmet cam. He scanned through the video, showing glimpses of the warehouses and squads of PDF patrolling the site, stopping at a view of a towering vehicle. Ruza realized that it wasn’t a vehicle – it was some kind of suit of armor, looming over the surrounding humans. It was almost as tall as a Borealan, and much wider, layered with thick armor plating. It almost looked like a Betelgeusian Warrior fashioned from metal rather than flesh.

“There he is,” Omar declared. “That’s Lieutenant Commander Hoff. Near as we can tell, this is the guy who’s been put in charge of policing the colony. Any raids or patrols that happen, he signs off on, and orders for the PDF come down through him. He was also responsible for security at the protest. He’s a real piece of work.”

“God damn, look at that suit,” Reed muttered. “How much do you think the fucking thing weighs?”

“We don’t know much about the hardware, but the pilots rarely leave their suits in the field,” Omar explained. “Needless to say, they look like tough nuts to crack. They can be hard to tell apart with their canopies sealed, but you can pick out Hoff because of the star painted on his chest.”

“What, does he think he’s a Sheriff?” Reed chuckled.

“He’s been yelling at people all day, so he’s not the most stable individual,” Omar continued. “It’s safe to say that the ambush has riled him up.”

“Lieutenant Commanders are given control of multiple SWAR teams, but there is likely a Commander above them,” Ruza mused as he examined the display. “Whoever this Commander is, they are likely delegating different tasks to their trusted Lieutenants. They are probably operating from the carrier, or perhaps the tether station, where they would be safe from reprisals.”

“And if we targeted these middle managers, it could really throw a spanner in the works,” Reed added. “It would send a hell of a message if we could take down one of those suits.”

“We know very little about their capabilities,” Ruza warned. “SWAR would know better than to display their rank so openly unless they believed themselves untouchable.”

“I can think of some ways we might crack that armor,” Reed began.

“We must not proceed too quickly,” Ruza chided. “First, we wait and see how the enemy reacts. The same tricks will not work twice, and we must continuously adapt our strategy. For the time being, we should focus on expanding our capabilities and preparing for the war to come.”

“Where are you going?” Reed asked as Ruza turned away.

“To rest,” he replied. “The day has been trying.”

He left the room and headed down one of the tunnels, passing a few more workers who were moving supplies, finding his way to what had become the barracks. A far cry from its military inspirations, it was little more than a wide tunnel, the earthen walls lined with crude metal cots. Most of the staff came and went frequently, maintaining the appearance of normal lives and jobs, but there were some who had retreated underground permanently. Ruza passed by the beds, heading a little further down a side passage.

It terminated in a dead end – an old prospecting tunnel that hadn’t borne fruit, the winding tunnel giving it some semblance of privacy in the absence of doors. Ruza had converted it into a crude bedroom, laying out a few human mattresses on the cold ground, a pack that contained most of his personal belongings sitting against the wall. There was little light save for what bled in from the main tunnel, but his eyes were adapted to such conditions, and it didn’t bother him.

He leaned his rifle against the wall, keeping it with him rather than leaving it in the armory. He kept it loaded, and he always had spare magazines in the pockets of his jacket. Any semblance of safety or security in this place was a mere mirage.

Reaching for his pack, he rummaged inside and produced a small hard case. Contained within was a hypodermic injector and a few loose capsules of medication. He frowned as he counted them. The attack had forced him to leave home in a hurry, and he had been due to restock his supply before very long. It was poor timing. AG plates were not readily available, either, so he would have to be careful to maintain a proper exercise regimen if he wanted to avoid losing muscle mass. Obtaining more would be difficult, but perhaps he could find a way to contact Doctor Hendriks at the hospital. They had always been on friendly terms.

He loaded the injector, then punched it into his arm, the device ejecting the spent capsule like a shell. Ruza exhaled, kneeling on his makeshift bed and taking a moment to center himself. He focused on his breathing as he played back the day’s events in his mind, evaluating every choice – every action. It was still difficult to be fighting again, even if his cause was undoubtedly just. Rask blood coursed through his veins, hot and angry, demanding honor and retribution. His years of training and experience called him back to old patterns of behavior that he had strived to leave behind, like an alloy returning to its original shape when exposed to heat. Perhaps this was a test of his resolve. It was one thing to maintain his values in the absence of conflict, but now, he must find a way for them to coexist.

His peace was disturbed as he heard footsteps approaching down the tunnel, and he opened one reluctant eye to see Reed leaning against the wall at the entrance with his arms crossed.

“What do you want?” Ruza grumbled.

“We’re having a drink to celebrate our victory,” Reed replied. “I thought I’d come see if you wanted to join us, but now I’m more curious about what you’re doing in here all alone. Are you praying to some Borealan deity?”

“Meditating,” Ruza muttered. “You are disturbing my peace.”

“I thought you Rask were all about this kind of thing?” the human continued, refusing to take the hint. “War, glory, domination. You don’t even seem all that happy that we won.”

“We have won nothing,” Ruza chided. “We have dealt a blow, and we await the enemy’s riposte. There is a long and arduous road ahead of us. You would do well to prepare yourselves rather than indulging in revelry.”

“You don’t act like the other Borealans I met in the Navy,” Reed continued. “They were always brash, always wanting to assert themselves, always seeking conflict. You’re quiet, you’re understated, and you keep to yourself. What’s your story? How did you end up on Hades without a pack?”

“Are you accustomed to having probing personal questions answered so readily?” Ruza grumbled.

“I suppose not,” he conceded.

“I shall tell you only this,” Ruza began, peering at the human with his yellow eyes. “I fought in the rebellion. I remember the day that the Matriarch struck the first blow against our enemies, and how we celebrated. We feasted long into the night, we drank our fill of wine, and we spoke much of our glorious ascendant future around the burning hearths. In our minds, our enemy had been punished and humiliated. What followed was our punishment – our humiliation. Like a petulant adolescent striking an adult, their retribution came swiftly and harshly, and their lessons left lasting scars. Do not fall into the same trap, Mister Reed. A war is only won once the final shots have been fired and our weapons are laid to rest.”

Reed seemed surprised, perhaps not expecting such a response, but it was short-lived before he returned to his usual demeanor.

“I’ll put you down for a no on that beer, then. It’s good for morale, you know. It keeps the men happy and hopeful. We killed a lot of Borgs today, and they finally got to put all of that training and drilling to practical use. This just became real for a lot of them.”

“Killing is not something to be celebrated,” Ruza replied, his flat brow furrowing. “It is a necessary evil that we do with reluctance. A desire for vengeance and retribution may carry you beyond what is necessary to end a threat. Today, I am thankful that I did not need to fire my weapon. I have shed enough blood in my time.”

“Just do me a favor and don’t give the boys any pep talks,” Reed muttered.

“Do not seek out conflict too eagerly, Reed,” Ruza warned. “It may find you sooner than you anticipate.”

“Well, I’ll be at the bar if you need me,” he replied as he turned away. “You can stay here and write war poetry or whatever it is you’re doing.”

Ruza bared his teeth at the human as he walked away, then returned to his meditations, willing his anger to fade like tracks in windblown sand.

DAY 14 – HADES – RICKY

“This cowardly attack against our security forces will not go unanswered,” the Governor declared. “I implore anyone with information about the perpetrators to leave a report on the official government netsite, which can be done anonymously. Rewards are being offered for any tips that lead to an arrest. My administration will work in tandem with our UN benefactors to ensure that anarchy and disorder never again return to Hades. That was my campaign promise, and I intend to keep it.”

“Do you believe any of this shit?” Ricky muttered as he took a drink from his beer can.

“They’re being pretty quiet about how many guys were killed in the attack,” Bill replied. “That’s weird, right?”

“It’s just like the bombing,” Ricky continued, giving the display above the bar a scowl as the Governor wrapped up his latest address. “They don’t want the public to think they’re weak. If people stop being afraid of them, they’ll lose what control they have.”

“Who do you think is doing it?” Bill asked.

“Who knows,” Ricky replied with a shrug. “They’re saying Ruza was involved, but he’s not alone, clearly. Someone is helping him. They’re all gonna get themselves killed…”

“I don’t want those special forces guys running the show any more than the next guy,” Bill began. “I’m not a fan of all this overtime work either, but this seems like an overreaction. What if Ruza is wrong, and the attacks on the garrisons really were some big misunderstanding? They’ve been releasing more PDF like they said they would, and they gave the unions the overtime pay they asked for.”

“Where the hell is Amy?” Ricky wondered, changing the subject. “She’s usually here by now. It’s not like she has much work to do at the practice now that the Doc is AWOL.”

There was a sudden disruption as a miner burst into the bar, peeling off his mask to reveal a red face soaked in sweat, the muddled conversations dying out as he announced himself.

“Guys! Something is happening down at the Doc’s old place! You’d better come quick!”

The workers exchanged a few confused glances, then rose to their feet, Ricky and Bill joining them. A crowd of a dozen men left the dingy bar, securing their masks and visors as they went, slinging protective jackets and shawls over their shoulders. They hurried down the prefab’s rickety steps and down the street, heading for Ruza’s practice.

“What’s goin’ on, Nick?” one of them demanded as he caught up with the red-faced miner.

“It’s Amy!” he declared, his voice muffled by his bulky rebreather. “She’s being arrested!”

“What the hell? For what?”

“I dunno!” Nick protested.

The practice was only a short walk from the bar, and the group hurried through the deserted market, soon coming upon a worrying scene. In front of the joined prefabs that made up the Doc’s business was parked a large armored truck – the kind used by the PDF. A group of them were clustered around it, standing guard with rifles at the ready. They looked up with their faceless helmets as the men approached, moving to intercept them. Ricky grabbed Bill by the arm and dragged him off the street, pulling him into an alley between two nearby buildings.

“What gives!?” Bill protested, but Ricky put a finger to his mask to shush him. Quietly, the pair leaned out of cover just far enough to see what was happening.

“PDF business,” one of the troopers announced, extending a hand to stop the miners. “Nothing to see here – go home.”

“What’s going on?” Nick demanded, a few of the men echoing his question.

“PDF business,” the trooper reiterated, more sternly this time.

Behind him, the door to the practice slid open, and more troopers emerged. They were pushing Amy along, her hands bound behind her back with zip ties and her head lowered, glimpses of her tear-streaked face visible as her blonde hair fell over it.

“Amy!” Nick shouted, the frightened secretary glancing up at him. “Hey, why the hell are you guys arresting her? What did she do!?”

“PDF business,” the trooper repeated, stepping forward to give Nick a shove this time that sent him stumbling back. The burly miner bristled, his friends closing ranks, but more of the troopers approached with their hands resting on their weapons. “Get the hell out of here, unless you want to join her in a cell.”

“What’s she being charged with?” another miner demanded as the PDF loaded Amy into the back of the APC, slamming its hatch behind her. “Which garrison are you guys taking her to?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation, and I don’t have to tell you squat,” the trooper replied. “Now, get the fuck out of here! I won’t warn you again!”

Defeated, the surly miners turned around, Nick looking back over his shoulder as the troopers loaded into their truck and drove away.

“Why did you hide us, Rick?” Bill demanded once the coast was clear. “Maybe we could have helped!”

“Idiot,” Ricky chided, keeping his voice down. “They’re arresting Amy because she knows Ruza – she was his damned secretary. If they know about her, don’t you think they know about us, too?”

“But we haven’t done anything,” Bill insisted. “What would they arrest us for – guilt by association? Besides, it’s not like they’d recognize us through the rebreathers…”

“You think guilt matters? They’re gonna be on the warpath after yesterday’s attack. If they’d seen us, we might be riding to the garrison in cuffs along with her right now. We have to lie low for a while.”

“Dude, they’ll fire our asses if we don’t show up at the mine tomorrow,” Bill scoffed. “What are you gonna tell the foreman – you can’t come into work because there’s a conspiracy to take over the colony? They’ll dock your pay for even suggesting it.”

“They knew where Amy worked, and they’ll know where we work too.”

“You want to go live in the desert with Ruza?” Bill pressed. “What choice do we have, man?”

Ricky scowled, but he had no answer. The colony was finite, and while they might be able to hide for a time, they still needed to eat.

“Fine,” Ricky conceded, spreading his arms in defeat. “I don’t know what to do, okay? You happy now?”

“Maybe it’ll be alright,” Bill replied, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Maybe they’ll release Amy once they figure out that she doesn’t know anything, and she’ll be right back at the bar tomorrow, same as always.”

“I wish I shared your optimism, Bill.”

DAY 14 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“Good,” Ruza said as he reached down to help steady his student’s rifle. The man had been a factory worker for one of the large companies that operated on Hades, but he had gone from making drill bits to drilling with an XMR. “Bring it tight against your shoulder. Do not pull the trigger, but squeeze it. Applying too much pressure may shift your aim.”

The worker fired, his small body rocking as the weapon kicked into his shoulder. The next shot was closer to the center of the paper target, and the third was only an inch away.

“Hey, I did it!” he marveled. “Thanks, Doc!”

“You are improving,” Ruza replied with a nod. “Continue to practice. Time is not our ally in this, so strive to get as much range time as you are able. Practice can mean the difference between life and death in a true firefight.”

He returned Ruza’s nod with a look of determination on his face, letting off a few more shots as the Rask moved over to check on a budding soldier who was trying to field strip a rifle. He was distracted as Omar entered the room, the human covering his ears to block out the sound of gunfire. Seeing that he had Ruza’s attention, he waved him over to the tunnel beyond the range.

“Got some bad news for you, Doc,” Omar began once it was quiet enough for them to speak. “Last night, the PDF brought in your secretary for questioning.”

“What?” Ruza asked, his expression darkening. “You are speaking of Amy? What happened to her?”

“Looks like some troopers picked her up at your practice and took her to one of the garrisons. I’m trying to find out which one. It wasn’t mine, or I would probably have seen the arrest warrant come across my desk – assuming they even bothered to get one.”

“Damn it!” Ruza growled. “What was she still doing there? Curse her loyalty!”

“It makes sense that they’d come after the people close to you looking for information,” Omar continued. “The problem is, they don’t know anything, do they? If the Borgs don’t believe them…”

“I should have brought them here,” Ruza snarled, flexing his curved claws. “I did not want to involve them in this – I did not want to disrupt their lives by making them fugitives. I should have known better! I should never have allowed them to get so close…”

“We’ll find her,” Omar replied, trying to reassure him. “Maybe there’s some way I can get her out.”

“We must accelerate the plan,” Ruza insisted. “We must find her location and make that garrison our target. I cannot leave her in their custody. Who can say what they may be capable of? If anything should happen to her, I would be responsible.”

“Calm down, Ruza,” Omar insisted. “You can’t do anything about it right now, and there’s no point beating yourself up. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I cannot fault your logic,” Ruza said with a sigh, trying to center himself. “We must focus on what we can do. I have more acquaintances who may yet be targeted, but we cannot bring everyone I have ever spoken to into these tunnels.”

“They’d come after anyone who you were seen with frequently in public,” Omar mused. “People who might be viewed as friends or colleagues.”

“I have contacts at the hospital, but none who I visited often,” Ruza began as he wracked his brain. “There are few who I would describe as being close to me. Bill and Ricky,” he added, his eyes widening. “I sometimes visited a bar with them and their friends. They are miners working for the union. I was foolish – selfish to indulge them…”

“Give me their surnames, and I’m sure Bergmann can find them,” Omar replied. “I know you don’t want to get them involved, but that choice has been made for us. The safest place for them to be is here, where we can protect them.”

“I will go to them,” Ruza began. He took a step down the tunnel, but Omar headed him off.

“No, let us handle it,” Omar said with a shake of his head. “You’re the most recognizable person on this planet, and you’ll just draw attention to yourself if you go stalking around in the mines. Bergmann will keep them safe – they’re his people.”

“Very well,” Ruza grumbled. “Please make haste. If they have taken Amy, then it is only a matter of time before they come for the others.”

DAY 15 – HADES – RICKY

Dust filled the wide tunnel as the drill bored into the rock, the hydraulic cables that ran along the length of its mechanical arm vibrating. The device was attached to a tracked vehicle about the size of a forklift, its hull painted a vibrant yellow, flashing warning lights joining the hazard stripes that ran down its flanks. There was no seat for a driver, as the vehicle was operated remotely, Ricky walking alongside it with a controller clutched in his gloved hands. It was facing the wall of the tunnel where they were hoping to expand the passage, punching deep boreholes for blasting charges. A dozen more miners were grouped around the drill carrying tools and equipment, the lights on their hardhats joining the diffuse glow from the lamps that hung from the ceiling between the overhead ventilation pipes.

Bill passed Nick a long, cylindrical charge that was sized to fit the boreholes snugly, and the miner waited for the drill arm to pull back before sliding it into the opening. Another worker quickly took his place, inserting a long rod into the opening to force the charge deeper with a few practiced pumps.

“It’s almost time to break for lunch,” Bill added over the noise of the drill. The ear protection that they wore had a local radio network for communication. “These overtime hours are messing me up, man. You’d think doing more work would make me sleep better, not worse.”

“They can’t keep it up forever,” Nick replied as he slotted another charge into a hole, a hose attached to the drill bathing its spiraling bit in coolant. “People are gonna burn out, and that’ll result in less overall work getting done because everyone will be laid up.”

“One more left,” Ricky added. “Get it wired up, and let’s move to the next site. I wish the health and safety people would let us ride the damned drill – my feet are killing me.”

“Who’s that?” one of the miners asked, turning to point down the tunnel.

Ricky turned around to see a group of six men marching towards them, his blood running cold when he realized that they were PDF. The miners’ helmet lights illuminated their camouflaged fatigues, reflecting off the copper coils on the barrels of their rifles.

“We’re looking for Mendoza and Harrison,” the lead trooper said, stepping forward. “Turn that shit off,” he added through his helmet speakers, gesturing to the drill. Ricky shut the machine down, the sound petering out, and a couple of the miners lifted their headphones off. “Where are Mendoza and Harrison?” the trooper repeated. “Your shift manager told us they’re supposed to be here.”

“Who’s asking?” Nick said, stepping around the drill to put himself between the PDF and his colleagues.

“Planetary Defense, that’s who,” the stranger replied as he held his rifle at the ready. “We have a warrant for their arrest on suspicion of aiding and abetting a terrorist. Take off the rebreathers.”

The miners bristled, grouping up, a couple of them clutching pickaxes and sledgehammers.

“Guys, don’t get yourselves shot on our account,” Ricky hissed. Bill just looked confused, glancing back and forth between the two groups.

“Why don’t you fuck off back where you came from?” Nick added. “There’s nobody by that name here – you got the wrong tunnel.”

“We’re authorized to use whatever force we deem necessary to arrest the fugitives,” the trooper continued. “Do you really want to put that to the test?” He raised a hand to signal to his companions, the troopers aiming their weapons in tandem, a few of the miners backing away.

“Wait, wait,” Bill protested as he pushed between two of his friends. “I’m Bill Harrison. Don’t hurt anybody – they have nothing to do with this.”

Ricky glanced around the drill to see a second group moving down the tunnel behind the troopers. It was another fifteen or twenty miners carrying tools – probably headed deeper into the tunnel network to start their shift. At the sight of the wavering beams of light from their helmets, the PDF trooper gave another signal, and his men returned to a more relaxed posture. They probably didn’t want to anger more miners – they were already outnumbered.

The group of workers passed by the troopers on their right, a few of them glancing at the strange sight from beneath the rims of their helmets. Ricky’s eye was drawn to something beneath the lead miner’s high-vis jacket, the distinct color of copper glinting.

As if some unheard signal had been given, the newcomers sprang into action, the man at the head of the pack drawing a handgun so quickly that Ricky could barely follow it. He fired the weapon before he had even finished aiming it, the point-blank range leaving little chance of missing, loud gunshots echoing through the tunnel as he unloaded into the PDF.

The mouthy trooper who had been levying threats lurched, crumpling as though he’d been hit by an invisible truck, the slugs punching through his right arm and perforating his torso. His legs fell out from under him, and he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, dead before he’d even hit the dirt.

More followed, three or four of the miners drawing concealed weapons and dumping rounds into the panicked PDF. It all happened so quickly that there was no time for them to react, let alone turn their rifles to face their assailants, and the dirt floor was soon littered with their bodies. One of the miners stepped in, the chatter of an automatic weapon echoing down the tunnel as he fired a handgun with a long magazine that jutted from its grip. The weapon bounced in his hand as it spewed slugs, the coils on its barrel glowing red with residual heat. The projectiles tore into a still-twitching trooper, making his body jump and shudder, punching through his armor and shattering his visor.

Another was crawling on the ground, having lost the use of his legs, a trembling hand reaching for a fallen rifle. A miner stepped in, raising a pickaxe above his head and bringing the blade down on the unfortunate trooper’s unarmored back with a dull thud. The trooper let out a sickening gurgle, then fell silent.

“What the fuck!?” Nick exclaimed, pulling away as the miner put his boot on the trooper’s back and yanked out his bloodied pickaxe. “You killed those guys!”

“And they would have killed your friends if we hadn’t arrived when we did,” the man with the automatic handgun replied as he loaded a fresh magazine. Behind him, the rest of his group were already hard at work stripping ammunition and weapons from the dead troopers. The man with the pickaxe took off his high-vis and used it to clean the blood from the blade, tossing the sullied vest on top of his victim. “We’re here for Bill and Ricky. Ruza sends his regards.”

“You know Ruza?” Bill demanded, stepping forward. “Where is he? Is he alright?”

“You two need to come with us if you want to see another sunrise,” the stranger added. “If you get taken into one of those garrisons, you’re not coming back out again. The rest of you should join us too,” he added, addressing the other workers. “They’ll come for all of you once they find out what happened here.”

“I have a wife and kids to support!” one of the baffled miners replied. “I can’t just disappear!”

“You have two choices now – wait for the PDF to come and arrest you, or join our resistance. This fight is coming whether you want it or not.”

“Shit, this is the Doc we’re talking about!” Bill added as he turned to address his friends. “He’s always looked out for us before. Remember how he stood up for us at the protest? We would probably have been arrested already if it wasn’t for him!”

There were a few nods and mutters of agreement.

“We don’t have a lot of time, so make your minds up quickly,” the stranger added.

There was some brief debate among the miners, but it was clear that they had no real choice, and they soon came to an agreement. Ricky’s heart was still thudding in his ears, and he found himself unable to even look at the dead PDF, as though he could just block it all out and it would cease to be real. It was like a dream that he couldn’t wake from.

“This way,” the stranger began, leading them deeper into the mine.

“The exit is back the way you came,” Ricky protested, gesturing down the passageway.

“We have other ways of getting around,” the man replied. “Keep up – we need to move quickly.”

DAY 15 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

With no way to help, all Ruza could think to do was sit and meditate. Every fiber of his being vibrated with a desire to move, to act – to do anything that would release the tension building within him. He had to be still and patient, which in some ways, he found harder than charging into battle.

He had never come to this place with the intention of making friends. In Rask culture, there was only the pack and its place within the wider social hierarchy. What the humans called friendships were lesser and outside of that structure – acquaintances and colleagues who were distinctly other. Ruza had abandoned the idea of living in a pack after the rebellion. He had seen too many trusting Rask ordered into battle by Alphas and Crewmasters who shirked their duties, driving those they were supposed to protect and care for into enemy fire, sacrificing lives to delay the inevitable. No longer would he be blindly obedient and follow those who had not earned his loyalty.

After being in self-imposed isolation for many years, it was only during his assignment on Kerguela that he had met people worthy of being called his packmates. They were selfless, loyal, and courageous. They risked injury and death to protect their charges. Fletcher had almost torn off his prosthetic arms to save Ruza’s life, Bluejay had leapt from a dropship to save someone he had never met, and Gustave had ripped a Warrior apart with tooth and claw in their defense. Xipa had been willing to sacrifice everything to save the people of that moon. She was not a leader who hid in a palace, throwing away the lives of her people to buy another day of freedom. She had been right there on the line beside him with a gun in her hands.

Ruza had loved them in his own way, but they could not love him back in the way that he needed. Their alien concepts of partners and flocks and marriages were incompatible with his social needs. Rather than begrudge them for it, he had left to find his own way, setting out alone into the void once more. On Hades, he had sought only peace, leaving war behind and contenting himself with charity. He had never intended to build such connections here, but the humans were insidious. One only needed to humor them or indulge their curiosity once or twice, and they would find themselves surrounded by the chattering creatures, building bonds with none of the friction that Rask did.

He had let his guard down – he had left his door ajar, and his friends had been hurt as a result. While he might not love them as he loved a packmate, he realized that he cared for them in a different way, but perhaps that realization had come too late. The idea of Amy languishing in a cell, or worse – being interrogated for information that she could not know, left him feeling as though his belly had been cored out by a bayonet.

“Thought I might find you here,” Reed said, stepping out from behind the bend in the passage.

“I told you not to disturb me during my meditation,” Ruza growled.

“Don’t look so glum,” Reed chuckled. “Our mutual friends came across some stray miners out in the tunnels. I thought you’d like to see them.”

He waved in a few more humans, Ruza’s ears pricking up when he saw Bill and Ricky round the corner. He sprang to his feet and crossed the small room in a single stride, surprising his friends as he gathered them up in his arms, lifting them off the ground and giving them a squeeze. Embarrassed by his impromptu show of affection, he set them down again, stepping back gingerly.

“I am grateful to see you alive and well,” he began, peering down at the flustered pair as a few more miners he recognized from the bar laughed in the tunnel behind them. “I was informed of what happened to Amy. I am so sorry for involving you in this – it was never my intention for any of you to be implicated. If only I had acted sooner, she might be here with us.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Bill replied as he straightened his jacket. “They told us about what’s been happening on the way down here. You were all over the news after what you did to those soldiers, and nobody really knew what to think. The Governor was calling you a murderer and a terrorist. We knew that you’d never just attack someone like that without a good reason, right?” he added as he gave Ricky a nudge.

“I can’t believe this is all happening again,” Ricky sighed, shaking his head. “I lived through ExoCorp, I survived the Syndicate, and now this. I’m getting too old for this bullshit.”

“We are building a resistance movement to oppose the occupiers,” Ruza explained. “War has come to Hades, and we have no choice but to defend our homes. We have seen some small victories, but there is a long and arduous path ahead of us. You can stay here as long as you wish. You will have food and a place to sleep – I will see to it, but I fear that you cannot return home until the situation stabilizes. It is too dangerous now that they know your names.”

“And how long will that take?” Ricky scoffed.

“I cannot say,” Ruza admitted. “I would never compel you to fight, but since you are here now, there may be ways that you can help. We have amassed a force of several hundred men, and we have the backing of one, perhaps soon two of the unions. Manpower is sorely needed, even if it only takes the form of moving supplies or preparing food.”

“I bet we can find ways to be useful,” Bill replied cheerfully.

“You and your damned optimism,” Ricky grumbled with a frown. “We’re going to be living in a mine for the foreseeable future, Bill, and that’s if the murderous cyborgs don’t kill us first. What’s the silver lining here?”

“No more overtime,” he said with a grin.

“What about Amy?” one of the miners added, stepping forward. “Do you have a plan to help her?”

“This is Nick,” Bill added. “Nick – Ruza.”

“I believe I have seen you at the bar,” Ruza replied with a nod of acknowledgment. “Any friend of theirs is a friend of mine. We have a plan in place to free Amy and others being detained in the garrisons, but we have yet to learn where she is being held. I am hoping that our contacts within the PDF can change that.”

“Glad you’re doing something, at least,” Nick said.

“Why don’t you help them get situated, Ruza?” Reed suggested. “I have to go see someone about a bombing.”

DAY 16 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“Two more attacks, Commander,” Hoff admitted. “A PDF squad sent to arrest more of the Rask’s associates was ambushed and killed in the mines, and we couldn’t find any trace of the perps. It looks like they used captured XMHs, then escaped into the tunnels. There was also another bombing – this one targeting a shipment of weapons destined for the PDF that was intercepted and destroyed a short distance from the factory.”

“These insurgents clearly have more support than we initially realized,” Barbosa muttered as he watched the Lieutenant Commander’s holographic feed waver. “There must be agents inside the garrisons and the factories feeding them information and helping them coordinate these attacks.”

“They’ve started leaving calling cards,” Hoff added. “High-vis vests of the kind commonly worn by colonial workers were found at both sites. They seem to have been placed there deliberately so that we’d find them.”

“They have a symbol to rally around,” Barbosa muttered. “That doesn’t bode well.”

“What do we do, Commander?” Hoff stammered.

“You’re clearly ill-suited to counter-insurgency work, Hoff,” Barbosa continued. “Focus on keeping the colonists in line, and I’ll see what I can do about these self-styled freedom fighters.”

“Understood, Commander,” Hoff replied with a scowl.

“Have you learned anything from the Rask’s secretary?”

“Not much,” Hoff began with a shake of his head. “We haven’t interrogated her for very long, but she denies knowing anything about his whereabouts. We did learn something interesting, though. According to her, the Rask has talked about fighting on Kerguela, where he was apparently some kind of mercenary for hire.”

“Kerguela?” Barbosa mused, scratching his chin with a prosthetic finger. “That must have been recent – he can’t have been living on Hades for much longer than a year. A lot of auxiliaries were involved in the fighting there, but if he was a mercenary, that might explain where he picked up his skills. I doubt that a simple auxiliary could best three of our agents the way he did. What kind of mercenary would find their way to Kerguela, I wonder? Why would such an individual end up working as a two-bit doctor on a colony like Hades?”

“I’ll see if I can extract any more information from her,” Hoff replied.

“Very good. Dismissed.”

Barbosa closed the feed just in time to hear Song enter the observation deck.

“You wished to see me, Commander?” Song asked as he stood to attention.

“At ease,” Barbosa replied, gesturing for him to approach. “I’ve been thinking about our enemy’s movements,” he continued, starting to pace around the circular table as he watched a three-dimensional map of the colony flicker. “The insurgents seem to have the ability to magically appear and disappear at will. They attack in one location, and by the time we’re able to mount a response, they vanish again. When the ambush at the warehouse happened, Hoff was on the ground within ten minutes, and they were still able to elude us. Our patrols have so far encountered no suspicious activity. They’re like ghosts.”

“The colony is a rather large area for the carrier to surveil effectively,” Song replied. “I’m working on getting some spotter drones up and running, but it’ll take a little longer to produce enough for the kind of coverage we need. Even then, everyone on Hades wears masks and visors as routine due to the climate. Getting a facial ID on people is always going to be challenging.”

“It reminds me of when we first fought the Bugs,” Barbosa continued. “They would tunnel behind our lines and appear in places they had no right being. Tell me – this city started its life as a mining outpost for ExoCorp, did it not?”

“I believe so, Commander,” Song replied.

“Then, it follows that the area is probably riddled with old abandoned mine shafts.”

“I see what you’re suggesting, Commander,” Song continued. “We have fairly reliable maps of the old mines recovered from the Governor’s archives, and while they do form a network that extends beneath the city, none of them correlate with the locations of these attacks. That was something we already ruled out. For example, there are no mines anywhere near the industrial park where the ambush took place. It’s likely that the attackers simply eluded us with their superior knowledge of the terrain.”

“I wonder,” Barbosa mused. “Does this carrier have ground-penetrating radar?”

“It does,” Song replied. “Though, the resolution leaves a lot to be desired compared to that of a dedicated survey ship.”

“Would it be able to spot tunnels that aren’t featured on the Governor’s map or not?” Barbosa reiterated with a tinge of annoyance in his tone.

“It would be able to detect large voids, but nothing below a certain resolution,” Song explained. “Small mine shafts would be pushing it. The Bullsharks have GPR modules, though – a miniaturized version of the kind mounted on Timberwolfs. They were intended to help with navigation in Bug hives. We’ve had no reason to use them since all of our ops have taken place above ground. They’re not remotely comparable in terms of range, but their resolution should be far higher. If one was in close proximity to a tunnel, it would be able to see it.”

“Have the carrier do a radar sweep of the colony, then overlay the new data on top of the map that the Governor gave us,” Barbosa ordered. “Cross-reference for discrepancies, and if you find any, dispatch a PCE to investigate.”

“I’ll see that it’s done,” Song replied.

“I thought I was fighting humans, but maybe I’ve been fighting Bugs all along,” he muttered to himself as Song turned to leave.

DAY 16 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – RUZA

“You must move like a sandspider,” Ruza said, lying down on his belly. Slowly, he crawled to the lip of the dune, poking his rifle over it. “Sand provides more cover than you might realize. The UNN fills sacks with it and stacks them to create walls and fortifications, and those will stop an XMR slug in its tracks with enough depth. If you expose only your head, you will become a difficult target.”

He reached down to grip his cloak, throwing it over himself, the tan color of the leather a close match for the natural hues of the desert. It draped over his head like a hood, casting a shadow that concealed his face and prevented the sunlight from reflecting off his scope.

His human students crawled up beside him, following suit, concealing themselves beneath their smaller cloaks. Ruza was tutoring a dozen of them today, training them in the ways of marksmanship and desert fighting, preparing them for the coming operation. Many had been simple miners and factory workers, but there were a few PDF defectors selected for their skill with a rifle. This coming fight would require them to fire at range and then retreat unseen.

“The winds on this planet are high,” he added as the breeze tugged at his hood. “Pay attention to its direction and use it to conceal your tracks.”

“What’s a sandspider?” one of the men asked.

“Kind of self-explanatory,” another scoffed.

“It is a creature from my home territory,” Ruza explained. “It conceals itself beneath the sand, then rises to strike when prey passes by. It is furtive, yet bold, as I wish for you to be.”

The group lined up at the top of the dune, looking out over the wasteland. This far outside the colony, the planet was an almost uniform ocean of sand, its appearance not too different from that of his homeland. It was broken up only by clusters of sparse bushes that barely clung to life, and the rocky outcrops that rose from it like islands, bearing their wealth of minerals.

“Check that your voltage is set to subsonic,” Ruza warned. “Even so far from the colony, the hypersonic crack of a railgun will carry for miles and arouse suspicion. Learn to manage the trajectory at range, because you will be using the same settings during the assault. Every minute that it takes them to locate your position is a minute more that you can kill or withdraw.”

The men began to pop off shots, the subsonic slugs far quieter than at higher voltages, the sound of the weapon’s action and the discharging capacitors the only thing that could be heard. The range was much reduced, and there was a noticeable arc to the projectile that had to be compensated for, but the slugs would still be lethal out to five hundred meters before they shed too much energy.

They were firing at paper targets that had been erected on a squat mesa at the limits of their effective range, Ruza watching through his scope as the little splashes of dust marked their impact points. The men with PDF training were more adept, but the miners were picking up the skill quickly. Their lethality was secondary to their ability to move unseen, however. Their task would be to act as a diversion and convince the occupiers that their ASAT sites were under attack from a much larger force.

They trained for a few hours more, but as the blazing sun began to set and their ammo ran low, Ruza led them back through the dunes to the nearest tunnel entrance. They made their way through a long-abandoned mine shaft and into a smuggling tunnel that joined it to the colony-spanning network, eventually arriving back on familiar ground. The passages were impossible to navigate without a map, and Ruza feared that he might be lost in the dark maze forever if not for the guidance of his tablet.

When he returned, he found Omar waiting for him in the armory.

“Ruza,” he began, walking over to greet the Rask. “We’ve found her.”

***

“They’re holding Amy at Garrison Seventeen,” Omar said, pointing a finger into the hologram that floated above the table. The most senior members of their movement were standing around it, including Reed, Bergmann, Omar, and Astrid. “It’s not as heavily defended as Garrison One, which the Borgs have been using as their base of operations, and we’ve confirmed that both UNN and PDF captives are also being interned there. It’s as good a target as any.”

“The plan is to come up here,” Reed added as he gestured to a tunnel mouth that emerged beneath a building one street over. “This was an old storehouse that the Syndicate used for hiding contraband. We’ll move under the cover of darkness and plant charges here,” he added, pointing to the map. “The gate will be too heavily defended, so we’ll breach through the West wall of the compound. By this point, the distraction will hopefully have drawn any SWAR inside the garrison away, and we’ll only have to deal with the PDF they leave behind.”

“The response time for their dropships should be fifteen minutes,” Ruza said. “We must wait for them to land at the ASAT sites before we begin our attack. Accounting for confusion and delays in reporting, we may have twenty, perhaps twenty-five minutes to extract the prisoners. Any craft dispatched from the carrier should have a similar response time. Omar – you have seen inside the shelters. What can you tell us?”

“They have a standardized layout,” he replied, waving his hand through the hologram and bringing up a three-dimensional floor plan of the building. The bunker-like structure above ground was only the entrance, with the rest extending several stories deeper. “These things are made from heavy-duty carbcrete, and they’re hardened against orbital bombardment, but I can get the main door open with my PDF clearance level. There will be guards inside, but not so many that it’ll be an issue. I can’t say exactly where they’re holding everyone, so we’ll have to think on our feet once we’re inside. The shelters weren’t designed to act as prisons, which means we won’t have to defeat any special security measures or systems – we just have to get the doors open.”

“We get our people out, then we exfil through the tunnels,” Reed said. “Astrid is going to be monitoring the airwaves and coordinating between the teams to keep us updated on enemy movements.”

“I can’t tap into the SWAR communication system, but we have all of the decryption keys for the PDF network thanks to Omar,” she replied. “We’ll have scouts in the field and people inside the city observing their movements and reporting in. If they see a dropship or a patrol somewhere we don’t expect it to be, you’ll be the first to know.”

“The carrier presents a threat, but they will not fire on the colony,” Ruza said. “Their guns are very precise, but even at low power settings, their destructive force is equivalent to forty gigajoules.”

“About ten tons of TNT, give or take,” Reed explained. “That would erase the garrison along with everything inside a half-mile radius of it. They won’t resort to that – at least not yet.”

“The greater danger is that of our movements being observed,” Ruza added. “Haste will be our ally, but I cannot guarantee that we will have escaped by the time their telescopes turn on us. It would be wise to exfiltrate via many different tunnels if possible. Omar,” he added, turning to the human. “I regret that we will be forced to kill your fellow PDF, and I am sure that there are some who would lay down their arms if given the opportunity, but we may be faced with no other option.”

“They made their choice,” Omar replied solemnly. “I’m the exception to the rule, unfortunately. Most of those still loyal to the colony are inside those prisons.”

“What do you think, Boss?” Reed asked as he glanced across the table at Bergmann. The man had remained quiet during the briefing, absorbing the information, and he had the final say on whether they went through with the plan or not.

“How many men do you need?” Bergmann finally asked.

“We should travel light,” Reed replied. “We’ll have sniper teams attacking three of the ASAT sites, so maybe twenty men out in the desert. We’ll need men to secure the garrison, but the tunnels and the inside of the shelter are cramped, so I think a total of fifty for the assault should be plenty.”

“We are in agreement,” Ruza added. “No more than two fireteams should enter the shelter to free the prisoners. We do not know how many they have imprisoned, and it may become chaotic down there.”

“I suppose we can’t hold off any longer,” Bergmann said as he leaned over the table, his weathered features lit from below by the hologram’s orange glow. “You have the green light. Try not to fuck this up, alright?”

***

“I am leaving to rescue Amy,” Ruza announced, stopping by a tunnel that had been converted into a storeroom with his rifle in hand. Bill and Ricky were taking inventory inside, along with a few other miners who were stacking canned food on the shelves, the pair pausing their work.

“I wish I could do more to help,” Bill replied. “Be careful out there, and stick it to those assholes for us, alright?”

“I am glad that you will be safe here while I am away,” Ruza said, placing a massive hand on his shoulder. “War is not something to aspire to. Be careful with your arm – it is still healing.”

“It’s fine,” Bill chuckled, pulling up his sleeve to expose the mesh cast. “See? The bruises have all faded.”

“Watch your ass out there,” Ricky added. “You can’t bring Amy back if you’re dead.”

“I will be cautious,” Ruza replied.

“Thanks, by the way,” Ricky continued after a moment of hesitation. “Sorry I was being such an ass when they bought us in. I was angry, confused – I kind of blamed this whole thing on you. It’s not your fault – I see that now. This war started when those guys first landed in the colony, and you’ve been watching out for us ever since. You protected us at the protest, you sent those guys to save us from the PDF, and now you’re going out to rescue Amy. Just come back alive.”

CHAPTER 8

DAY 16 – HADES – RUZA

The group of men moved through the narrow tunnel, the sound of their boots and heavy breathing punctuating the silence, their rigs and clothing rustling. These passages had been excavated with humans in mind, and Ruza found that he had to duck low in some places to avoid hitting his head. It was cramped – claustrophobic, but his time serving on carriers had somewhat acclimated him to being confined. At least the mines were large enough for heavy machinery and cargo to pass unhindered. He was walking at the head of the pack, as his long rifle with its sharp bayonet had to be held at a dangerous angle to fit through the tight bends.

When they reached their destination, he moved aside to let Reed pass, the human climbing a short ladder that led to a hatch on the tunnel ceiling. He pushed it open, poking his head out for a moment, then gave the all-clear. Ruza scaled the gap in a single leap, emerging into an old storeroom. It was a little like the warehouse, but far smaller, the structure filled with dusty old shelves that were mostly empty. There wasn’t room enough for all of the men, so they began to file outside, finding themselves in a narrow street between the prefabs. The hypergiant sun had set, plunging the colony into darkness, the glow from Hades’ icy moon overpowering the twinkling stars.

A few of the miners were using PDF helmets or those captured from fallen operatives, able to make use of their night vision modes, but Ruza had no need of such things. He saw almost as well at night as he did in the day with his feline eyes, his pupils dilating into dark circles to capture more light.

The danger of friendly fire was significant under such conditions, so the men were all wearing armbands made from strips of high-vis vest – another of Reed’s ideas. They caught the moonlight, making them shine, but it was probably the safer option.

“This way,” Reed said, leading the procession of fifty men between the raised prefabs. They weren’t more than a hundred meters from the garrison, its tall wall rising above the surrounding buildings, its top lined with razor wire.

Ruza’s ears twitched, picking up the distant report of gunfire carrying from somewhere outside the colony. Gradually, it grew more intense, until it became the unmistakable sound of a gunfight. The snipers were in position, and they were firing on the ASAT sites. It didn’t take long before he heard the growl of an engine, lifting his head to see a pair of dropships pass over his head. Another rose up from behind the wall of the garrison, its engines painting its surroundings blue as they flared, sending it swooping away over the city.

“I think it’s working!” Omar hissed as he crouched beside Ruza. He was wearing PDF body armor and a helmet, identifiable as a friendly by his bright armband. “The dropships are all moving away!”

“I hear activity inside the garrison,” Ruza replied, his sensitive ears swiveling. “Movement – raised voices.”

The minutes ticked by, Ruza’s heart beating ever faster. They couldn’t move until they were signaled by the snipers at the ASAT sites. If they didn’t wait until the dropships had landed, the craft could turn straight around and come back in a far shorter amount of time.

“It’s been fifteen minutes!” Reed grumbled. “Shouldn’t the signal have come in by now?”

“Give it time,” Omar replied. “If we don’t get the signal in another ten, we withdraw.”

It took another couple of minutes, but Omar finally heard from Astrid over the radio, and he relayed her message to the team.

“Okay, we have the green light,” he began. “Astrid says that multiple dropships have landed to reinforce the ASAT bases. The snipers have eyes on dozens of Borgs and three of those giant suits.”

“That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” Reed said. He gestured for some of the men to move ahead, and two of them knelt at the base of the wall, pulling long blasting charges from their packs. They began to place them against the barrier, one of the miners wiring them to a spool of cable, retreating back to the group when the job was done.

The miners took up position with their rifles to cover the street as they had been trained, Reed pulling a detonator from his chest rig. The man with the spool handed it over, and Reed sliced through the wire with his knife, winding it around the electrical contacts.

“We’re wired,” he whispered. “Everyone at a safe distance? If you’re not wearing a helmet, cover your ears…”

He hit the switch, and there was a blast that shook the ground and echoed across the city, the carbcrete wall crumbling inward. Great chunks of material were sent crashing to the ground, a flood of dust rushing between the outriggers of the prefabs and washing over the team like a wave.

“Move, move!” Reed ordered as he rose to his feet and shouldered his rifle. “Ruza – keep Omar safe. We can’t get inside without him. Clock is ticking, people.”

The group crossed the distance between the breach in the wall and the prefabs, the dust still billowing, marching through the rubble that littered the ground. Some of the men stacked up beside the jagged hole, shooting from cover – laying down the suppressive fire that would allow the rest to make it through.

They began to fan out as they made it through the obscuring dust, the miners separating into fireteams of six. They had been trained with UNN tactics, and some had PDF experience, but these were not the hardened Marines that Ruza had served alongside in the Navy. Many were green, as the humans used to say, and this was their first encounter with the enemy. Some had little more than a week or two of training. Still, Reed had selected his best, and they were all they had.

As he cleared the swirling smoke, Ruza emerged into the courtyard. Just like the city outside, many of the structures were made up of prefabs, but there were several carbcrete buildings where munitions were stored. Everything was lit by bright spotlights, casting the garrison in a pale glow, the shadows deep and dark. He remembered the layout from the map that Omar had shown during the briefing, and he quickly picked out the shelter rising above the dusty ground.

The activity must have roused many of the PDF from their sleep, and they had been outside their barracks when the explosives had detonated. Some of those who had been nearer the wall were lying on the ground amidst the wreckage. Others might have been felled by gunfire – it was impossible to say at a glance.

Those who remained were scrambling for cover as molten slugs streaked across the compound, darting behind buildings and throwing themselves under the raised prefabs in a state of panic. Some were already armed – probably on alert after the alarm had been raised by the sniper attacks – sending some sporadic return fire towards the breach. The attackers had to take full advantage of the confusion and surprise before the enemy rallied and leveraged their superior numbers.

In the moments that it had taken Ruza to assess the situation, he felt his heart slow, his boiling blood cooling, and his hands steadying as he raised his rifle. This fight was not about revenge or honor – it was cold and clinical, no different from treating a wound. If he must kill, he would do it with efficiency and detachment. Letting himself fall back into that all too familiar state of mind, he sighted a PDF trooper who was firing on the breach from the cover of a prefab.

Ruza pulled the trigger, feeling his rifle lurch into his shoulder, the round punching through the corner of the building. The metal provided little resistance, the slug passing through and forming a molten hole, the target behind it crumpling.

He strode forward, finding his next target, a trooper who was rushing across the compound knocked off his feet by a shot to center mass. Another was lifted off the ground as a slug hit his chest, the hypervelocity projectile shattering his ceramic chest armor and blowing a fist-sized hole in his torso, blood and bone fragments spraying.

More resistance fighters were moving up, taking refuge wherever they could, covering one another with overlapping fields of fire as they dashed to safety. The noise was constant and overwhelming, each crack echoing within the walls, the sound of shouted orders mingling with yells of alarm and cries of pain.

The otherwise open courtyard was broken up by barriers made from large, square sandbags that formed walls intended to lessen the effects of explosives that landed inside the compound. They were tall enough that not even Ruza could see over them, and he made for the closest wall, putting his shoulder to it. Omar and a handful of other fighters followed, more pouring in through the breach behind them. Ruza could see Reed taking up position opposite him, leaning out from behind the sandbags to loose off a few shots, his barrel glowing red beneath its shroud.

“We have to reach the shelter!” Omar said, his helmet speakers carrying above the gunfire. “Every minute we let them pin us down is another minute the Borgs have to make it back here!”

“We shall flank around these barriers,” Ruza replied. “Keep close, and watch your fire! These rounds will punch straight through the prefabs as though they were not there!”

They skirted around the wall of sandbags, Ruza leaning out of the nearest opening, spotting two PDF troopers who were taking cover on the other side. He brought them down with a few shots, moving past their limp bodies, his eyes scanning the barriers and prefabs for more targets. His heart skipped a beat as he saw what looked like a trooper emerge from behind a building ahead of him, but his eye caught the glimmer from their armband. Perhaps Reed had been right after all.

He watched as a fighter moved around one of the prefabs that served as a barracks, mounting the metal steps and hitting the door panel. The man tossed a grenade inside once the gap was wide enough, then leapt back down the short flight of stairs, an explosion sending more dust and debris billowing out of the opening. A stumbling PDF trooper emerged, his body badly burned and his tattered clothes hanging off him, his arms outstretched as he fumbled blindly. One of the fighters put him down with two shots to the chest, sending him slumping over the guard rail before tumbling down the steps.

Some of the PDF had rallied behind the landing pad, which was elevated a foot off the ground, providing some cover for the shooters. They concentrated their fire, Ruza watching as the slugs caught a fireteam that was out in the open. Three of their number were knocked to the ground by the force of the impacts, stray rounds splashing in the dirt all around them. One of the fighters turned and tried to drag an injured comrade to safety, gripping a strap on his chest rig, but Ruza could only watch as his head was turned to a red smear by a well-placed shot.

“Focus fire on the landing pad!” Ruza bellowed, moving along the wall of a prefab and turning his sights on the troopers. Omar and the five miners who were following him did as he ordered, leaning out around the corner of the building or dropping to their bellies to fire beneath it.

Ruza decapitated one of the shooters with his first shot, the helmet doing little to stave off the slug, two more dropping out of view as his squad peppered them with rounds. Those who were uninjured were forced into cover all the same, allowing a closer fireteam to move on them, circling around the landing pad and dumping their magazines into the cowering troopers.

The landing pad was close to the center of the compound, and it appeared that the fighters had taken roughly half of it, pushing the defenders to the opposite side of the courtyard. There was so much chaos, the continuous gunfire coming from every direction, echoing off the walls such that Ruza could scarcely pinpoint the direction of the shooters. All he could do was keep moving and keep his wards safe. The shelter was in sight – surrounded by a few more carbcrete buildings that were likely armories. They were clustered behind the landing pad relative to him, and he saw that some of the troopers had taken up position there, the reinforced structures providing far surer cover than the flimsy prefabs.

As Ruza led his team past another wall of sandbags, he came face to face with a trio of troopers who were taking refuge behind it. They were without their helmets, likely having only recently been roused from their sleep, XMRs clutched in their hands.

He had no time to think – he could only react, the first human’s wide eyes peering up at the towering Rask as Ruza lunged at him. Using his strength and weight as a weapon, Ruza barreled into the nearest man, driving his bayonet through the human’s stomach beneath his chest piece. The blade cut through his uniform and punched into his gut, the XMR falling from the trooper’s hands as he reached down to grip the heat shroud reflexively. Ruza pulled the trigger, putting half a dozen rounds through the skewered human, the slugs passing through his body and hitting the men standing behind him.

One of them took a tumbling round to the shoulder, the energy that it conveyed severing his arm, fragments of bone from his impaled comrade peppering him like shrapnel from a grenade. He was thrown to the ground, the man behind him suffering a similar fate as the projectiles tore through him, flesh and muscle providing no more resistance than the thin metal of the buildings did.

Ruza drove his first victim to the ground, then yanked the bayonet free, the blade and the first inch of the shroud soaked with dark blood. Some of it had seeped through the ventilation holes, dripping onto the burning magnetic coils beneath and boiling, the scent of it making the Rask’s feline nose wrinkle.

The armless man was not yet dead, so Ruza put one more round into his chest, slamming in a fresh magazine as the human went limp.

“God damn,” one of his companions muttered, staring at the ruined bodies as he stepped around them.

They continued on, nearing the far wall of the compound where the remaining PDF were staging their final stand. It seemed that their numbers had been greatly diminished in the first minutes of the attack, but they were rallying now – putting up more resistance.

His rifle loaded, Ruza followed his team between two prefabs, and they found themselves in the narrow alley between them. As the lead fighter reached its end, a dark figure darted into view, Ruza’s stomach twisting into a knot.

Before Ruza could call out a warning, the figure gripped the barrel of the lead miner’s XMR, yanking it from his hands. The swift tug must have broken some fingers, the miner letting out a yell of pain and surprise, but he was quickly silenced by the crack of a sidearm. As his body slumped to the ground, Ruza saw the unmistakable profile of a SWAR operative, the dark polymer of their skeletal limbs matching their black body armor. On their helmet was a design that Ruza didn’t recognize – some beast of human mythology, like a snarling reptile with a forked tongue and sharp teeth.

Ruza could see over his comrades’ heads, but he couldn’t raise his rifle without stabbing the man in front of him, and the humans could not easily pass one another in such a narrow alley. Quicker than any human should be able to move, the operative brought up his XMH and fired from the hip at the next man in line, sending him toppling to the ground. The slugs penetrated through him, catching the fighter who was standing behind him, one of the tumbling rounds striking him in the belly and sending him wailing to the ground. Had it been an XMR at full power, they might all have died in that very moment.

The agent hadn’t the time to reload, so he let the handgun drop, darting in and crossing an alarming distance before the gun even had time to fall. It was as though everyone else was moving underwater, their reflexes sluggish in comparison. Ruza’s eyes tracked the operative’s prosthetic hand as it reached for its next victim, grasping his throat, the miner’s XMR jumping as it fired into the air. Blood sprayed, and Ruza wasn’t sure what had happened until he saw the shining point jutting from the back of the man’s neck. The body slid off a ten-inch metal spike, the concealed weapon shooting back into a housing in the agent’s wrist.

Omar was still safely behind Ruza, and all the Rask could do for the man in front of him was grab him by the straps of his chest rig, tugging him out of reach of the operative. Ruza turned to his side and threw the man back, sending him careering into Omar, the two men tumbling to the ground together. By the time he turned his attention back to the charging Borg, the augmented human was already closing at a sprint, feet made from springy skids of polymer propelling him forward.

The assailant was already inside the reach of his six-foot XMR, swiping the weapon aside and bashing it against the metal wall of the prefab. The human’s hand darted to a holster on his chest, and he produced a combat knife, its serrated edge flashing as he swung it. With only one arm in play, Ruza raised it to defend himself, feeling the dagger cut deep into his furry forearm. The operative was inside Ruza’s reach now, another violent slash sending dark blood spraying against the pale walls that enclosed them.

Ruza released his XMR and swung a giant hand with enough force to cleave the human’s head from his shoulders, his curved claws whistling through the air, but his opponent reacted quickly enough to duck beneath it. Like a boxer preparing a jab, he danced in, Ruza feeling the bite of the blade as it glanced his thigh. The operative was trying to open up his arteries.

The Rask snarled, swinging a long arm again, but the agent caught it this time. The human almost buckled under the strength of the blow, his prosthetics whirring and creaking as they strained, but his mechanical fingers gripped Ruza’s thick wrist with a painful pressure. There was a sudden flare of agony, that sharp spike erupting from the human’s hand to punch clean through Ruza’s limb, passing between his bones and jutting from the other side like a piston-driven nail. Using the terrible wound as leverage, the operative dragged Ruza toward him, holding the combat knife in his other hand and bringing it up as though aiming for the alien’s underarm – another prominent artery. The operative’s strength was incredible, and Ruza recalled the feeling of Fletcher supporting his six-hundred-pound frame back on Kerguela, when he had almost fallen to his death.

With only a moment to react before that blade found its mark, Ruza pushed forward, throwing his weight into the human and knocking the smaller creature off-balance. As unnaturally strong as he might be, Ruza was more than triple his mass. The agent’s fall was stopped by his arm – still joined to Ruza’s wrist by the spike. Before the operative could recover, Ruza gripped the prosthetic limb in his free hand, putting a foot on the agent’s chest. He kicked with all his might, feeling metal and polymer tear away from bone and flesh, ripping the arm from the man’s shoulder. There was a muffled exclamation from beneath his helmet as the tiny wires that were fused to his nerves were ripped out, artificial muscle and tendon hanging limp.

Ruza drove him to the ground, the human slicing at his furry calf, but the agent could not free himself from beneath the Rask’s heavy paw. He pressed down until he felt ribs crack, and the struggling ceased, Ruza’s breathing coming in labored bursts as blood dripped from his fresh wounds. If that combat knife had found its mark even once, there was no first aid that could have saved him.

He spun around, seeing that Omar and the remaining miner were intact and already rising to their feet. They rushed over to one of the fighters who was still alive, groaning and writhing on the ground as he clutched at his stomach. Ruza hurried to his side, crouching next to him and pulling his hand away, seeing that his pale palm was stained red with blood. There was a small, almost unassuming hole in his clothing, and Ruza tore the garment open with his claws. Beneath it was an entry wound where the tumbling slug had passed through after penetrating the man in front of him, embedding itself in his belly. Each beat of his heart sent more dark fluid welling from the wound.

“Ruza, are you alright?” Omar demanded as he rushed over to the Rask’s side. “You’re hurt!”

“Nothing life-threatening,” he replied, all of his attention focused on his new patient. “This man has taken a slug to the belly. He is fortunate that it shed most of its energy before it hit him. Brace yourself,” he added, drawing a medical device from a pouch on his belt. It resembled a hypodermic injector, albeit larger in size, Ruza holding the man down as he plunged the nozzle into the open wound. The miner’s eyes widened as his mouth opened in a cry of pain, Ruza hitting a button, medical foam filling the wound.

“What is that?” the other miner asked with a grimace. “Looks like industrial sealant…”

“Antiseptic foam,” Ruza explained, cleaning the blood from the nozzle on his sleeve before setting it aside. “It will help stop the bleeding and disinfect the wound, but it is a temporary measure. This man will need surgery to remove the round and repair the damage. You,” he added, pointing a clawed finger at the man. “Carry him back to the tunnels.”

“A-alright,” he replied.

The injured miner groaned as Ruza helped lift him to his feet, and he draped an arm around his companion, the two hobbling back in the direction they had come. Omar watched as Ruza briefly pressed a sensitive paw pad against the necks of each fallen fighter, shaking his head.

“All dead,” Ruza grumbled.

“That guy almost killed you, too,” Omar marveled as he peered down at the fallen SWAR operative. “How is that possible? You’re the size of a grizzly bear.”

“SWAR are not to be trifled with,” Ruza replied, examining the hole in his wrist. His straw-colored fur was soaked red with blood, but the weapon had missed any major veins. Still, his heart was developed for higher gravity than this, and the flow of highly pressurized blood needed to be stemmed. He drew a tourniquet from his medical pouch and wrapped it around his forearm, securing it taut with his teeth. The cuts from the combat knife were deep, but not severe enough to warrant immediate attention. His kind were accustomed to sustaining such injuries during bouts.

“Their augmentations make them almost as strong and as fast as I am,” Ruza continued, retrieving his injector and loading a fresh capsule. With a low growl of discomfort, he pushed it into the wound, feeling an unpleasant filling sensation as it expanded to seal the hole. “At range, they are no less susceptible to an XMR than you or I, but they can better leverage their advantages in CQB. Their prosthetics are overclocked for superior reflexes, and their strength is limited only by the points where their robotics anchor to bone. Do not attempt to fight them in close quarters. Flee if you are able.”

“You tore his arm off,” Omar added with a nod. “The weakest point was the shoulder joint.”

“Come,” Ruza added, another burst of gunfire echoing as he returned his injector to his belt and stooped to retrieve his XMR. “We are expected.”

***

Ruza and Omar emerged from the cover of the prefabs to find that the battle for the garrison had been won. The compound was littered with the dead and dying, though the PDF were far more numerous, the miners already hard at work recovering their wounded and carrying them back towards the breach. The surviving defenders had been captured and were lying on their bellies beside the landing pad, their hands on their heads, watched over by armed fighters.

“Get their weapons,” Reed ordered, marching over in the company of another fireteam. “Take what you can carry from the armory, too. What the hell happened to you?” he added as he peered up at Ruza. “You look like you lost a fight with a blender.”

“There were complications,” Ruza grumbled.

“This way – we need Omar to get us into the shelter. We’ve got another seventeen minutes before the Borgs are due back, so let’s pick up the pace.”

Reed collected a few more men, and the trio jogged over to the shelter. The building jutted up from the ground like an angular mound of gray carbcrete, but it was only the entrance to the underground structure. Omar walked up to the reinforced door and typed a code into the control panel, and the slabs of metal began to swing open, the tooth-like locking mechanisms receding. Within was a staircase that spiraled down into the earth, enclosed in a carbcrete tube and illuminated by bright light strips that formed rings.

“These shelters are designed to be very defensible,” Reed warned. “These stairs are the only way in and out. You feeling up to taking point, big guy?”

“I will manage,” Ruza replied. “Stay behind me.”

Ruza, Omar, Reed, and their handful of fighters descended down into the depths as the remaining men held the garrison on the surface. The metal steps were designed for human feet, and the stairs were narrow, but Ruza managed to make it to the bottom. Down at the lowest level was a second, smaller security door that Omar said led to the main living quarters where the prisoners were being held. He opened the door, and they stepped through, finding themselves in a brightly lit hallway.

It was a little more spacious than what Ruza might expect to find on a spacecraft, with wider, taller passages that were painted a light beige color. The surfaces were all polished smooth, and the ceiling was reinforced with metal beams that followed the curve of the arched ceiling, more light strips glowing at its apex. Ruza had a fuzzy memory of the map’s layout, but he remembered the different areas, all of which were denoted by colored lines that ran along the walls much the same as one might find on a carrer.

“This way,” Omar began, waving them down the corridor. “When I was being held, they had most of the prisoners housed in the dorms.”

“Be wary,” Ruza added, sweeping his rifle across the hallway. “The guards are not yet accounted for, and they have surely been informed of the attack.”

As they advanced down the passage, they checked the side doors meticulously, clearing each room before heading for the next one. There were storage rooms filled with supplies, maintenance rooms with water tanks and power generators, and more.

“We’re losing too much time,” Reed complained. “Let’s just make a beeline for the prisoners. If the Borgs trap us down here, we’re gonna be screwed.”

“He has a point,” Omar conceded.

“Very well, but be vigilant,” Ruza grumbled.

As they rounded a corner, they found themselves in the mess hall, the expansive room filled with rows of simple metal benches. Ruza caught movement and aimed his rifle, sighting a man in PDF uniform who was taking cover in the cooking area.

“W-wait! Don’t shoot!” the human wailed.

“Come out with your hands up!” Reed shouted.

The stranger slowly rose from behind a row of appliances, his arms lifted above his head, his frightened eyes darting back and forth.

“I-I’m just the cook! I’m not armed!”

“On your belly!” Reed ordered, waving some of his men forward. “Zip tie him, and let’s keep moving.”

They wound their way between the tables as they crossed the room, and down another hallway were the living quarters. This was where the civilians would be sleeping and spending much of their time during a Bug attack, but even at the best of times, the limited space and resources would make it little better than a prison. Much like a barracks, the rooms were occupied by rows of simple cots for sleeping and lockers for personal belongings, two or three dozen people living in close proximity and sharing a washroom. They could potentially hold out for months while waiting for a relief fleet, provided that they had the supplies, but conditions would be far from favorable.

Each dorm was sectioned off by a security door, and sealing them with a coded lock had been a simple enough way to transform them into cells. Ruza paused at the first of such doors, peering through a reinforced window and seeing close to thirty humans on the other side. Most were still wearing PDF uniforms and civilian clothing, lounging on the beds, or leaning against the walls. When they noticed that someone new was looking inside, they began to shout and gesture to him.

“Out of the way,” Omar said, hurrying over and entering a code. He entered it a second time, perhaps wondering if he had made a mistake. “Damn it! They’ve changed!”

“What do you mean, they’ve changed?” Reed demanded. “We don’t have time for this, Omar. You said you could get them open!”

“They’re not using our code system!” he protested. “These locks are new!”

“What the hell do we do now?” one of the fighters asked as he covered the hallway at their rear. “We can’t go back without them!”

“Let me think!” Omar snapped. “Right – whoever has been serving as the warden should have the new codes. They should still be down here. The control room, maybe!”

“Take us there,” Ruza replied.

Omar jogged down the hallway, following a red line that ran along the wall. They passed more dorms, eventually reaching another sealed door. This one, he was able to open, and the fighters stacked up behind Ruza as Omar entered the security code. They poured inside, Ruza aiming his weapon at five men who were cowering behind a bank of consoles and holographic displays. This must be the control center of the facility, where all of the shelter’s systems were monitored.

Ruza caught a glimpse of copper and fired his rifle, a slug punching through the man in question and hitting the console behind him. Sparks showered, the four remaining wardens yelling and scattering, crawling on the floor like insects as their companion slumped over.

“Whoa, whoa!” one of them yelled as he covered his head with his hands protectively. “We surrender! We surrender! Holy shit, man, he was gonna surrender!”

“Toss the gun over to us!” Reed barked. “Do it slow, or we’ll ventilate you!”

The man nearest the handgun slowly gripped it by the barrel, tossing it across the floor, Reed catching it beneath his boot.

“Which one of you can open the doors?” Ruza demanded, moving his aim between the four troopers.

“I-I have the codes for the dorms,” one of them replied. “Just don’t shoot!”

“Bring all of them,” Reed said, gesturing for the prisoners to rise with the barrel of his XMR. Staying behind them, the group marched the four troopers out of the control room and back down the corridor, Ruza pressing his bayonet into the back of one of the men as he entered a code into a keypad.

The heavy door finally slid open, disappearing into a recess in the wall, the prisoners inside looking on warily.

“If you want to get out of here, follow us!” Reed declared as he leaned into the dorm. “We don’t have a lot of time, so pick up the pace!”

They didn’t need telling twice, the prisoners quickly hurrying out of the dorm and into the hallway, the four guards looking on with dour expressions on their faces.

“Head up the stairs to the surface!” Omar added. “There will be people waiting for you!”

“Who the hell are you guys?” one of the prisoners asked on their way past, glancing up at Ruza with wide eyes.

“There will be time for explanations later,” Omar replied, giving him a push to send him on his way. “Get the rest of these doors open!” he added, turning his rifle on the prison guards. “All of you – move!”

They did as he asked, having little choice, each of them entering codes into the security doors. The first couple of groups were made up of PDF who had refused to cooperate, but the next one was filled with men and women wearing Navy blue UNN uniforms, a few yellow engineering coveralls mixed in with them. They seemed just as confused by their rescuers as the PDF were, a man with a shaved head and insignia that identified him as a Marine stopping to speak to Ruza.

“You’re an auxiliary? Has the UNN arrived?”

“Not yet,” Ruza replied. “We have little time. All will be explained once we reach safety. Please make your way back to the surface.”

The man nodded, waving for his cellmates to follow him.

“Guys!” Omar announced, receiving a call through his helmet. “Looks like the jig is up. The snipers are withdrawing. We got lucky – the Borgs took longer to respond than we thought, but Astrid says that a formation of dropships just took off from one of the ASAT sites. They’re headed our way – ETA fifteen minutes.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Reed muttered. “They care about those satellite weapons a lot more than they care about this garrison.”

“We have not yet found Amy,” Ruza growled. “Omar – did they say where they were keeping her?”

“I have no idea,” he replied with a shrug that jostled his chest rig. “It was hard enough to find out which garrison she’d been taken to.”

Ruza turned to the nearest guard, gripping the human’s collar with his uninjured hand and lifting him a good two feet off the floor, his head brushing the ceiling.

“Where are you keeping her!?” Ruza growled, his yellow eyes fixed on the trembling guard.

“W-who?” he stammered.

“A female – blonde, pale skin, green eyes. She was brought here a few days ago. Her name is Amy Lewis.”

“Uh, isolation, maybe?” he replied as beads of sweat welled on his forehead.

“Show me,” Ruza snarled, placing him back on the ground. As the rest of the team continued to open the doors, Ruza followed the guard through the building, soon arriving at another locked door that had no window. The guard opened it at gunpoint, and the panel slid aside to reveal a far smaller room. It was sized for a single occupant with a solitary cot and a metal toilet, a figure sitting hunched on the bed. Unkempt blonde hair caught the light as the person looked up, Ruza feeling a wave of relief wash over him as he saw that it was Amy. She was alive.

“Amy,” he began in as soothing a tone as he could muster. “It is alright – we have come to rescue you.”

“Ruza?” she asked, her voice far weaker than he had ever heard it. “It’s really you?”

She rose from her cot and walked over to him, throwing herself into his embrace once she was close enough, burying her face in his chest as he curled a solitary arm around her.

“Are you injured?” he asked, easing her away so that he could get a better look at her. His brow furrowed when he saw that she had bruising on her face. Her lower lip was split, and one of her eyes was swollen shut as though she had been beaten.

“I’m alright,” she replied, shaking her head. “I didn’t think anyone was coming. They arrested me at the practice and brought me here – they only let me out of that room to interrogate me. How did you even find me?”

“I had some help,” he replied. “I am so sorry, Amy. This would not have happened to you if it was not for me. I never intended to involve any of you in this.”

“I knew that something was wrong when they came looking for you at work,” she replied. “None of this is your fault.”

He lifted her off the ground – she was no heavier than a kitten to him – and held her close as he turned back down the hallway.

“You found her?” Reed asked when he saw the Rask round the corner, his bayonet jabbing into the back of the guard. “We’re on the last door – we must have released at least two hundred people by now.”

As they opened the final door, another thirty people came pouring out, giving their rescuers the confused looks that Ruza was becoming accustomed to. This was not the Marine strike force that they had been expecting.

“Who’s in charge here?” one of the strangers asked. He was stocky for a human, with tanned skin and dark hair, his uniform bearing the insignia of a Staff Sergeant. There was a prominent scar on his face, likely from a plasma burn.

“Uh, I guess him and me?” Reed said with a shrug as he gestured to Ruza. “We don’t really have the whole chain of command thing down yet.”

“Has there been any contact with our carrier?” the man demanded. “My name is Staff Sergeant Rivera – UNN Marine Corps. I served aboard the Tirad.”

“Listen, we’re short on time,” Reed explained. “We need to get the hell out of here before SWAR comes back. We can take care of introductions later.”

“You’re not UNN?” the man asked with a frown. “How did you get down here?”

“Gumption,” Reed said sarcastically. “If this isn’t the rescue you were hoping for, your cell just got a whole lot less crowded. If you want to stop asking questions and get out of here, follow us.”

Rivera’s eyes narrowed as they turned to one of the guards. The trooper seemed to know him, sweating profusely as he raised his hands and began to back away, lurching when his back touched the opposite wall.

“Give me your sidearm,” Rivera growled, holding out his hand to Reed.

Reed looked to Ruza and Omar, raising an eyebrow, but they gave no comment.

“I’m not sure we’re supposed to be shooting prisoners, but I’m not in the Navy anymore,” Reed muttered as he unholstered the XMH and handed it to the burly Marine. “What the heck – have at it.”

“Do not shoot him,” Ruza warned, taking a step forward to put himself between the Marine and the terrified trooper. “He has surrendered.”

“You don’t know what these bastards have been doing down here,” Rivera replied. “This is the warden – he’s been calling the shots and carrying out orders from SWAR. He’s the one who decides who gets to eat, who gets put in solitary, and who gets beaten. I’m only gonna teach him a lesson.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Omar pleaded. “Those dropships will be here in ten minutes!”

Remembering Amy’s bruises, Ruza stepped aside.

“Now, Rivera,” the warden began as the Marine stepped closer. “Let’s…let’s not b-be too hasty. I was under duress, just the same as everyone else! I…I had to carry out their orders, or I’d be right there in that cell beside you! I didn’t have any choice! Please, don’t!”

The Marine aimed the handgun, but not at the warden, the shots echoing down the hallway as he dumped the magazine into the wall around him. The trooper flinched and trembled with each shot, little puffs of dust settling on his uniform, until he was surrounded by a dozen smoking holes. He opened his eyes, seeming shocked that he was unharmed, looking back at Rivera with an unspoken question in his expression.

Rivera unscrewed the protective shroud from the sidearm, exposing the magnetic coils that wound around its barrel, the metal glowing orange from the residual heat. He gripped the warden by his collar, then pressed the coils against the man’s forehead, his pained scream filling the hallway as the hot barrel seared into his skin. The Marine held it there until Ruza could smell burnt flesh, then pulled the gun away, leaving a brand on the warden’s face. Rivera let the shaking trooper slide to the floor, his hands hovering near his fresh scar – too painful to touch. One didn’t need Ruza’s medical background to tell that it was a severe burn.

“Consider yourself lucky that we’re in a hurry,” Rivera said, screwing the shroud back on and returning the weapon to Reed. “When the time comes, I’ll tell them to find the man with a burn on his forehead, and there won’t be anywhere you can hide.”

“Alright, making a mental note not to mouth off to that guy anymore,” Reed muttered as he stowed the gun on his hip. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

DAY 16 – HADES – HOFF

“What’s happening down there, Hoff? Report!”

“They were never trying to capture the ASATs, Commander,” Hoff replied as Barbosa’s fuzzy image appeared on his HUD. “They just wanted to draw us away from the city. Garrison Seventeen is under attack by rebel forces. We’ve lost contact with the ground.”

“Get back there!”

“Already on it,” he replied, turbulence buffeting the dropship. “I have a strike team locked and loaded. ETA five mikes.”

“Satellite imagery shows them leaving the compound, Commander,” Song added as he joined the channel. “Enemy forces are withdrawing – filtering off in a dozen directions.”

“Song, what’s the progress on our project?” Barbosa asked.

“I’m still cross-referencing the GPR data, Commander, but you were right. Overlaying the Governor’s map over the new scans shows voids and tunnels where we didn’t expect any to be. We’re going to need dirtside scans to detect smaller passages, but it’s a safe bet that they’re present. If I had to guess, I’d say that they’re illegal mines that were never recorded on the company books, or perhaps smuggling tunnels excavated by the Syndicate.”

“Song – find the closest void to Seventeen and send the coordinates to Hoff’s pilot.”

“I won’t be able to pinpoint an entrance,” Song warned. “The data isn’t that accurate.”

“We’ll make one,” Barbosa replied. “Load a bunker-buster and deactivate its warhead. Precision targeting – dial in the same coordinates.”

“You got it, Boss,” Song replied without needing him to elaborate further.

The dropship banked, dropping lower, Hoff watching the urban sprawl coast past beneath him through the cockpit canopy. Garrison Seventeen was easy to pick out, a cloud of dust left over from an explosion rising into the air above it like a map marker.

“Tube eight firing,” Song announced. “Stand by for impact.”

The dropship circled the garrison, Hoff tapping into its cameras to watch the rebels scurrying around on the ground like ants. Only a handful were left, escaping through a large breach in the perimeter wall and dispersing into the prefabs, heading in every direction to make themselves harder to track.

“Give me fire control!” Hoff barked. He switched to thermal imaging, tapping into the dropship’s tail gun camera, its targeting reticule following his eyes as they scanned the displays inside his suit canopy.

The dropship shuddered as he fired a burst from the rotary cannon, sending a hail of high-caliber slugs streaming towards the ground, turning three targets into ribbons of tattered flesh. The rounds excavated a line of small craters in the ground, dust filling the air, one of them splitting open the wall of a prefab like it was a soda can. His eyes moved to the next group as they entered a small concrete structure, the following burst turning it into scattered chunks of rubble.

“Fuck,” Hoff snarled as the last of the targets trickled away. “Where’s that goddamned missile?”

“A few more minutes out, LC,” the pilot replied.

After a frustrating wait, the missile finally came in. It was moving too fast to track with the cameras, but Hoff knew that it had used its aerobrakes to shed much of its velocity on its way through the atmosphere, decelerating to the appropriate speed to achieve its goal. It would usually be carrying a payload designed to penetrate deep hives and reinforced bunkers, but all they needed right now was a little love tap.

It hit the ground and punched straight through, and a moment later, the thin shell of rock that covered the mine below collapsed in on itself to form a massive sinkhole. It almost took a nearby prefab with it, the building listing and hanging off the edge of the open pit.

“Pilot, bring me in low – twenty feet!” Hoff ordered.

The dropship swooped over the sinkhole, the ramp at the back opening, Hoff turning in place and hefting his heavy XMR. He thundered past the operatives who were strapped into the seats that lined the troop bay, leaping from the ramp and falling down into the pit. He landed in the rubble with a thud, his suit absorbing the impact, scanning his surroundings as he rose to full height. What had once been a mine shaft was now an open-air pit, its floor covered in a mound of dirt and shattered rock, the missile buried somewhere beneath it. His cameras spied an opening – a tunnel mouth leading away into darkness.

“You have an onboard radar designed for mapping Bug tunnels, Hoff,” Barbosa said over the radio. “It should let you navigate the mines more easily. You are weapons-free. Repeat – weapons-free.”

“Form up on me!” Hoff ordered as his team of twelve agents dropped down into the pit behind him. “Go subsonic and switch to low-light mode. It’s time to hunt some rats.”

***

The team moved through the tunnels with Hoff at their head, the wavering IR lasers from their rifles sweeping across the dank walls and ceiling – invisible to the naked eye. These had been mine shafts at one point, and they were tall and wide enough to let heavy machinery pass, meaning that Hoff’s PCE had some room to maneuver. The ceiling was reinforced by metal support beams that seemed to have rusted through in places, the old power cables that looped along the walls and the ventilation system no longer functioning. The same could be said for the lights. It was pitch black, but to the PCE’s suite of sensors, it was as clear as day.

The path ahead was lit in shades of green, the suit’s radar sending out pulses every few seconds, bouncing off the walls and building a ghostly three-dimensional map of the warrens. Hoff could see every twist, turn, and collapsed tunnel from fifty meters away. He fed the data to his team of twelve agents, all of them sharing the same ad-hoc network, communicating via laser while in line of sight to reduce their emissions.

“Picking up some heat signatures ahead,” Hoff announced, the view from the FLIR camera overlaying on top of the radar map to show figures moving further down the passage. “Move ahead and take them quietly. The dirt farmers can’t see what we do down here, so the gloves are off – no survivors.”

One of the operatives waved the team forward with a gesture from his prosthetic hand, the group moving ahead of the PCE. Even as they rounded a bend and moved out of sight, he could still watch their helmet cam feeds, his systems tracking their locations in the tunnel.

An agent pulled ahead of the rest, moving almost silently on his skid-like feet, drawing a knife from his belt as he turned a corner. Ahead of him was a group of former prisoners and rebel fighters, maybe twenty of them moving down the tunnel, oblivious to what awaited them.

The agent crept up behind a straggler, the gentle whir of his motors drowned out by the echoing sound of footsteps and the rustling of equipment, covering his mouth with a prosthetic hand and driving the combat knife into his back. His victim was barely able to utter a squeak before his lifeless body was gently lowered to the floor, the agent raising his XMR just as the rest of the team rounded the bend.

They waited until they were lined up behind the group before they fired, the rebels at the back dropping before they even knew that they were dead. At subsonic velocities, there were no gunshots, only the sound of the action cycling and the caps discharging alerting the enemy that something was wrong. A dozen bodies already littered the tunnel floor by the time the survivors turned around, their flashlights sweeping across the dark passage, only the rebel fighters near the front of the group packing weapons.

Yells of alarm filled the tunnel, joined by the loud report of automatic fire, the molten glow of airborne slugs illuminating the dirt walls like red glowsticks as they whizzed past. Some of the agents were forced back into cover around the corner, leaning out to exchange fire, the enemy making a hasty retreat further into the mine.

An agent activated the strobe function on his flashlight attachment, a blinding beam flickering from his barrel, the rapid pulses disorienting the two men who remained in the tunnel. They raised their hands to cover their eyes reflexively, and that was all the time necessary to bring them down with a few well-placed shots.

Hoff was moving at a lumbering run now, bursting into the tunnel, one of his men leaning out of his way as he rushed past. His mechanical boots pounded in the dirt as he rounded the next bend, the four remaining rebels turning their heads as they heard his heavy footsteps. One of them spun around, firing his weapon from the hip wildly, the glow from its barrel illuminating his terrified expression. There were more flashes of light as Hoff’s plasma shield intercepted the rounds, illuminating brief snapshots of the scene, leaving the projectiles to impact harmlessly against his thick armor. The shooter’s chin tilted up as the PCE closed, looming ever larger.

With a swing of its heavy arm, Hoff dashed the man against the tunnel wall, crushing him like an insect. The fleeing rebels heard his scream before it was abruptly silenced, turning to fire on the lumbering ogre that filled the tunnel behind them, the lenses that peppered his canopy reflecting their flashlight beams. He lifted his heavy XMR, a burst of fire from its long barrel tearing one of the men apart, the kinetic energy rending flesh and bone. Without missing a beat, he turned his weapon on the next man, the arm that the rebel was holding up reflexively disintegrating as a single slug passed through it and burst his head like a ripe fruit.

It was as though the heavy weapon weighed nothing – he scarcely had to aim it with the targeting suite helping to guide his hands, the shunt leaving him as calm and alert as he had ever been. Exhausted muscles, heaving lungs, the sting of sweat in his eyes that followed exertion, all of the little aches and pains of bone and meat – it was all absent. All he felt was the intoxicating exhilaration of combat and a wonderful clarity of purpose.

The final rebel stumbled and fell, his flashlight beam wavering as he dropped his weapon, scrambling away on all fours as Hoff’s earthshaking footsteps neared. He turned around, rolling onto his back and raising his hands. Whatever he said, Hoff didn’t hear it, leveling his left arm and unloading the twin XMHs on his wrist. The chattering handguns cut the man to ribbons.

“I love this fucking thing!” Hoff laughed into his canopy. “Keep moving!” he added as his team caught up with him, a couple of them loading fresh magazines. “It’s open season on these fuckers!”

DAY 16 – HADES – RUZA

“So, none of you guys have had any contact with the UNN?” Rivera asked as he jogged along beside them. After leaving the compound, they had split up into multiple groups, escaping through different tunnels to throw off any pursuers. They had several resistance fighters with them, along with perhaps forty rescued PDF and carrier crew. The narrow smuggling tunnels had eventually widened into the network of more spacious mines, and Ruza was finally able to stand at full height again. He was still carrying Amy in his arms, his injured hand gripping his XMR.

“Nothing so far,” Reed replied. “SWAR has control of the tether station and the comms sat, so we can’t get a message out.”

“The nearest UNN outpost was Mu Arae, and they hit it hard,” Rivera continued. “Where are you getting your weapons and supplies, then?”

“Some of it we stole from the factories the Borgs have set up,” Reed replied as they took a fork in the tunnel. “A lot of it was left over from, uh…a period of unsanctioned entrepreneurship on the colony.”

“The Syndicate?” Rivera sighed. “So we have a bunch of ex-criminals led by someone who was dishonorably discharged and a Rask mercenary?”

“Incorrect,” Reed replied. “We’re actually led by an ex-criminal union leader.”

“Oh, that’s so much better,” Rivera added sarcastically.

“How many seasoned Marines are in your company?” Ruza asked, ignoring their back and forth.

“When they shipped us down from the carrier, they split everyone up and sent them to different garrisons,” Rivera explained. “Most of the guys who were housed with me were Marines, with a few engineers and crew thrown into the mix. The rest, I think, were PDF from the colony. They didn’t ever let the different groups interact – we even got fed at different times – so I can’t be sure who else they were keeping down there.”

“Then, we are fortunate,” Ruza added. “We are in dire need of experienced fighters.”

“I’m not exactly brimming with confidence, but you can count us in if you’re killing SWAR,” Rivera snarled. “What was it you called them, Borgs?”

“That’s right,” Reed replied. “What do you know about them?”

“Once we get back to your base, I can give you a lot of information about the situation aboard the carrier,” the Marine added. “We spent some time there before the traitors decided to intern us, and I learned a good deal about their command structure and how they operate. I know names – faces.”

“Damn it!” Omar grumbled, pausing to raise a hand to the touch panel on the side of his helmet. “I told them to go radio silent in the tunnels! They’ll be able to track the emissions!”

“What is it, Omar?” Reed asked as he came to a stop. “Hey, everyone, take five!”

Ruza was glad of it, taking a moment to catch his breath. Humans might be small and weak, but they could continue running long after the average Borealan had collapsed.

“Just run!” Omar added, panic creeping into his voice. “Don’t try to fight them! Do you read me? Benson? Benson!”

“What’s going on?” Reed asked, the other miners looking on with concern. More of the trailing prisoners were catching up with them, forming a crowd in the shadowy tunnel.

“SWAR has discovered the tunnels,” Omar replied, the tone of his voice betraying the dour expression behind his opaque visor. “They’re moving through the mines behind us. Benson’s group just made contact, and he’s not responding.”

“We need to move, now!” Rivera insisted.

“You might be needing this,” Reed added, tossing the handgun to him.

“Hold onto me tightly, Amy,” Ruza whispered as she draped her arms around his neck.

They hurried down the tunnel, rushing through the darkness, their bouncing flashlight beams lighting the way. Omar was leading them, referencing the map of the tunnels on his helmet’s HUD, but Ruza had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Omar had replied to the radio transmission from the other team, which might have given away their location if the enemy had been listening. They were in the old mines now, and the tunnels were far straighter than the warren-like smuggling routes.

After a few more minutes, the group came upon a tunnel nexus where several mines intersected. The tunnel was taller and wider here, large enough to let heavy industrial equipment through, the walls and ceiling supported by rib-like beams. When accompanied by the old ventilation pipe that hung from its apex, it made Ruza feel like he was running through the skeleton of some giant beast.

Some of that heavy machinery was still present, an old truck with tank-like treads and a couple of massive boring vehicles sitting abandoned beside the tracks. Time had not been kind to them, and whatever paint that had once adorned their hulls had been overtaken by uniform layers of orange rust.

“Which way, Omar?” Reed panted as he leaned on one of the drills to catch his breath. The rest of the group followed, some thirty men pouring into the chamber after them.

“Hang on,” Omar grumbled, manipulating the touch panel on his helmet. “Give me a minute here…”

Ruza set Amy down, taking a moment to rest, the woman looking him up and down – one eye still swollen shut.

“Are you alright, Doc?” she asked. “You’re limping…”

Ruza glanced down at his leg, seeing that the blonde fur covering his calf was soaked with blood from the cuts sustained during his brawl.

“I will recover,” he grumbled. In truth, his hand was growing numb from the tourniquet, and it was starting to worry him. He had no Jarilan friends close at hand to clone him a new one if he should lose it.

“Okay, it’s this left tunnel here,” Omar finally said as he gestured towards one of the openings. “This damned place is a maze.”

“Quiet,” Ruza hissed, snapping his head around. He peered back down the tunnel, his sensitive ears standing up straight. There it was again – a low pounding, as though something heavy was approaching.

“IR laser!” Omar yelled, leaping behind a nearby digger. “Get to cover!”

The beam was invisible to the naked eye, but Omar must have glimpsed it through his helmet. Ruza moved, bundling up Amy in his arms and diving behind the nearest excavator. As he threw himself to the dusty ground, he caught a nearby miner with his tail, dragging the man along with him just as a hail of slugs poured down the tunnel. They lit the curving walls with their molten glow, bright sparks showering where they impacted the machinery, creating blinding flashes. The humans scattered in a panic, some making for the tunnels while others dove behind the abandoned vehicles, their wavering flashlight beams only adding to the chaos.

A few of the stragglers fell, two of the former prisoners dropping to the ground as the slugs found their mark, Ruza covering Amy’s head with a massive hand as a round hit the drill and showered them with flecks of molten metal. There were no loud cracks, so the slugs must be tuned for subsonic, and the old machinery seemed to be dense enough to shield them for now.

Ruza chanced a glance around the hunk of rusted metal, seeing the glowing barrels of several XMRs at the far end of the tunnel, the dim red light that they emitted just enough to illuminate their wielders. Their matte visors weren’t very reflective, but he could just about make out the decals that adorned them, snarling alien beasts and the empty sockets of unidentifiable skulls peering back at him. Worse, something far larger stepped forward, towering above the surrounding operatives. Across its angular face were a dozen glass eyes peering out in all directions, a jagged smile filled with razor teeth emblazoned beneath its snout. For a moment, he flashed back to his encounters with Warriors on Kerguela, but this was no Bug construct.

It raised a hot barrel, its glow staining those sharp teeth red, and fired. The piece of human machinery to Ruza’s right ignited, a burst of high-velocity gunfire digging inch-deep craters in the solid steel, the heat burning away the layer of rust like peeling skin. One of them found its way through, penetrating a comparatively thinner piece of chassis and blasting out of the other side, hitting the two men who were huddled behind it like shrapnel from a mortar. The tumbling, partially molten slug tore one of them open from his shoulder to his waist, the second succumbing to the hail of twisted metal fragments as their bodies were tossed a good few feet away. Several of the miners were returning fire, glowing trails shooting back and forth, but the enemy had them scattered and pinned down.

“We can’t fight that suit!” Rivera yelled over the gunfire.

Ruza watched as some of the stray slugs hit the hulking suit of armor, flashes of light that reminded him of Bug plasma shields painting the tunnel, seeming to intercept them. Had the humans incorporated alien technology into the design? It fired another burst as it marched inexorably forward, wading through withering gunfire in ways that even a Warrior could not, those rounds impacting the far side of the drill hard enough to make the entire machine shake against his back. Amy was trembling, her face buried in his chest as she covered her ears with her hands to block out the deafening noise.

“I have a really, really bad idea!” Reed shouted. He began to rummage through the rucksack of the man who was hunkered down behind the excavator beside him, pulling out one of the long blasting charges and the spool of det cord.

“Are you fucking crazy!?” Omar demanded.

“You got a better suggestion!?” Reed shot back as he hooked up the cord to the charge. He wound the other end around the electrical contacts on his detonator, then directed his neighbor to begin unspooling the long cable, the loops piling on the ground beside him. “Everyone get your heads down!” he bellowed, lifting the cylindrical charge over his shoulder and tossing it down the tunnel like a javelin. Ruza watched it sail over the vehicles to land some twenty meters away, the black cord draping itself over the drills and trucks, landing about the same distance from the enemy. He hit the button, Ruza pulling Amy tighter, his ears flattening against his head as a shockwave filled the tunnel with dust and debris.

DAY 16 – HADES – HOFF

“Fuck!” Hoff bellowed into his canopy, emptying the rest of his drum magazine into the mound of shattered rock and soil that now plugged the tunnel ahead of him. His suit had survived the initial blast, the reactive shields melting the airborne stones and dirt that it had deemed a threat, gluing them to his armor like flecks of molten glass. The rest of his team were picking themselves up amidst the swirling dust, their helmets having shielded them from the worst of the concussive force, but they’d been thrown clear off their feet.

“Song, find me a way around!” he demanded as he paced furiously in front of the blockage. “The bastards caved in the mine ahead of us!”

“I don’t…an accurate map…double back…way you came. Transmission…at this depth.”

“Damn it!” Hoff snarled. “I can’t get a good line to the carrier – we’re too deep. We need to turn around and find another tunnel! This way!”

DAY 16 – HADES – RUZA

Ruza was roused by the sound of coughing, opening his eyes to see that the tunnel was filled with swirling dust. It had settled on his jacket – along with everything else – coating it in a sandy layer. He shook his head, dislodging more of it from his hair, lifting a hand away to check on Amy. He saw a single green eye peer back at him, and he let out a sigh of relief. She was alive.

He lifted the mask from around his neck, securing it over his face, the filters allowing him a breath of fresh air. More of his companions were struggling to their feet all around him, some cradling their heads, their ears and noses bleeding. When Ruza turned his head to glance past the drill, he saw that the tunnel had caved in on itself, the blast from the charge destroying the supports and collapsing the ceiling.

“I’ve had worse ideas,” he heard Reed announce, the man raising his voice as though he couldn’t hear himself. “Everyone alright? Any injured?”

“I should have stayed in that fucking cell,” Rivera groaned, rolling on the ground.

Ruza released Amy and checked on a few nearby miners. The concussive force of the explosion had ruptured some eardrums and caused some disorientation, but they were otherwise fine. One of the more unlucky of their number had been hit in the arm with an airborne rock, and it seemed to be broken, but he could still walk out. The men who had taken rounds during the fight were dead, and there was nothing that he could do for them. He paused to retrieve one of their rebreathers, bringing it to Amy and encouraging her to wear it.

“W-we need to keep moving,” Omar said, steadying himself against a nearby truck. “There’s no guarantee that there aren’t more of them on their way.”

“Come on – left tunnel!” Reed added as he helped one of the prisoners up.

***

They eventually reached the safety of their base back at the union-occupied mine, their comrades greeting them at the entrance. The injured fighters and freed prisoners were guided deeper into the base, where they would be checked over and found temporary accommodations, while the wounded were escorted to the makeshift medbay that had been set up. Ruza made to follow them, but he felt Amy grab his furry arm.

“I must tend to the injured,” he began, glancing down at her. “I am one of few qualified doctors in the base.”

“You’re injured,” she insisted. “Sit down and take care of yourself first. You can’t heal anyone if you pass out from blood loss.”

He conceded, sitting down on a nearby storage crate, Amy hovering nearby as he removed the tourniquet from his forearm. To his relief, the foam had stopped the worst of the bleeding, and he felt a rush of warmth and sensation return to his hand.

“What happened to you in the prison?” Ruza asked, looking down at her bruised face with concern. “Tell me.”

“They hit me a bunch,” she replied with a shrug, turning her one good eye down to the floor. She was trying to be strong, but he could see how much the experience had shaken her. “Nothing any worse than that. They wanted to know about you – where you might be hiding and where you came from. I’m sorry, Ruza. I told them what I knew. When I couldn’t give them any more information, they started getting physical.”

“Do not apologize,” he replied, pausing to apply some antiseptic gel to the cuts on his forearms. It stung, and he grimaced, exposing his sharp teeth. “I am at fault. None of this would have happened were it not for my foolishness.”

“How could you have known that it would play out the way it did?” Amy asked, giving him a weary smile. “The only way it could have been avoided is if you’d never come to Hades, or if you hadn’t hired me and become my friend. I wouldn’t want that.” She placed a hand on his thigh and leaned closer, reaching up to plant a kiss on his dusty cheek. “Thanks for coming to get me, Doc. You’re the best boss I ever had.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond, but judging by her smile, his reaction pleased her.

They were interrupted as Bill, Nick, and Ricky came rushing into the room, their eyes widening when they saw Amy. They hurried over to her, Bill trapping her in a hug that seemed to surprise her, but she quickly returned it.

“Thank goodness you’re alright,” Nick began. “We were there when they arrested you, but we couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

“What are you guys all doing here?” she asked, the reunion leaving her a little tearful. “Did you all join Ruza’s resistance?”

“Not voluntarily,” Bill chuckled.

“They tried to arrest us too,” Ricky explained. “Thankfully, Ruza sent some people to bring us in before that could happen. What did they do to you, Amy? Are you alright?”

“Did the PDF do this?” Nick asked, struggling to contain his anger as he examined her bruised face.

“It’s all superficial,” she replied, brushing off their concern. “I’ll be fine once I’ve had some time to heal up.”

“We’ll make them pay,” Nick muttered, balling his fists. “Thank you for bringing her back, Ruza. Sincerely. You look like you went through hell.”

“I’d say he looks like he went through a mile of razor wire and concrete dust,” Ricky mused. “I’m hearing that you saved a lot of people today. Well done.”

“I do not yet know how many made it back,” Ruza replied. “We were ambushed in the tunnels, and there was much confusion. There may still be more teams on their way.”

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Bill said. “We need to get you cleaned up – you look about ready to keel over. We’ll look after Amy.”

“Yeah, let’s get you to the medbay,” Nick added.

“Come on!” Bill added, taking Amy by the hand. “A bunch of the guys from the bar are here – they’ll be so relieved to see you!”

CHAPTER 9

DAY 17 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“We never heard back from Benson’s team,” Omar said, his face lit from below by the glow of the hologram that was projected above the conference table. “We lost contact with Shakir’s group in the tunnels, too. They never checked in, and we’ve had no communication from them since they left the garrison. It’s safe to conclude that they were either killed or captured.”

“That’s…what, about two dozen people missing?” Reed asked with a grimace.

“How did they know about the tunnels?” Bergmann asked. “Do we have a leak?”

“We knew that there would be a risk of them following us,” Reed replied. “My bet is that they were observing the situation from the carrier. If you see dozens of people vanish into a storehouse like it’s a clown car, there are only a few conclusions you can reach. We believe that the Borgs were only active in the mines – they weren’t encountered in the smuggling tunnels as far as we can tell. It also looks like they had to collapse one of the old mine shafts to gain access, so they’re not aware of the entrances.”

“According to my people on the ground, they saw a missile or maybe a railgun impact the site,” Astrid confirmed. “It created a giant sinkhole, and that’s where they entered the mines.”

“The carrier has some limited radar scanning capabilities, but I doubt they’d have the resolution to make a perfect map of the smaller tunnels,” Rivera explained. “They’d usually do that from the ground using scout vehicles, but there were none aboard the carrier. We didn’t deploy alongside an armored battalion.”

“The smuggling routes are likely still safe, then,” Omar added.

“For a time, at least,” Bergmann replied. “You can bet that they’ll be using whatever means they have to map the old mines, and they’re sure to come across some smuggling routes eventually. The sheer scale of the network is on our side, however. Even if they tasked every trooper they have to go down there and explore the tunnels, they extend for miles, and we’re in possession of the only accurate maps.”

“Can they pull any of those maps from our helmets or tablets?” Omar asked with a worried expression.

“Even if they used the carrier’s central computer to brute force the encryption, it would take them years,” Rivera replied with a shake of his head. “If they took anyone alive, I’d be a lot more worried about them getting access that way. We know that they’re not above torture.”

“They opened fire on sight,” Ruza said. “There was no attempt to capture us – their intent was only to kill. Perhaps they felt emboldened in the mines, where evidence of their crimes would not be seen by the public. I have never seen anything like that suit. It seemed impervious to damage…”

“What do you know about them, Staff Sergeant?” Bergmann asked as he turned to Rivera.

“They call them PCEs,” Rivera began, glancing around the table. “As far as we know, there are only around six of them, but they’re heavily armored and extremely mobile. With six PCEs and we estimate less than two hundred men, they were able to commandeer the Tirad.”

“That’s impossible,” Reed scoffed. “There would be thousands of crew aboard a Jump Carrier.”

“I was there – I watched it happen,” Rivera shot back. “These special forces guys are nothing to trifle with on a bad day, never mind when they have access to walking tanks.”

“They must have weaknesses,” Ruza pressed. “Vulnerabilities that we can exploit.”

“They’re not invincible,” Rivera continued. “Before they removed us from the carrier, there were a lot of rumors circulating about people seeing damaged units. One of them took a pretty bad hit from an AMR, and another had its arm torn off by a Krell. Old Leatherhead went out swinging, poor bastard…”

“We have reason to believe that they may be trying to build more,” Bergmann said, swiping through the hologram. He pulled up images that looked like they had been taken from people’s phones, showing unidentifiable machinery in varying stages of construction. There were armor plates, servos, and winding electronics strewn across cluttered workstations. “Reports from some of the mechanics and metalworkers associated with the FMU say they’re being tasked with working on these components, and nobody will tell them what they’re for. They get an order for a random part, they build it to spec, and it gets shipped out to be assembled elsewhere.”

“The factories on Hades might be able to produce some of the less advanced parts,” Rivera said as he scanned the images. “Those suits are cutting edge, though. They’re either brand new or so secret that nobody outside of SWAR has ever seen one and lived to tell of it. I can guarantee that they’ll be bottlenecked by components that they can only manufacture in the carrier’s foundry. Advanced electronics, lithography, optics, power sources – there’s no way some colonial car mechanic could build those in his shop.”

“That may be why they’ve been diverting shipments of rare earth metals,” Bergmann added. “Our contacts at the Trade Association have reported as much. Those were supposed to be earmarked for export, and it remains to be seen how that will impact the local economy.”

“We must sabotage these efforts,” Ruza insisted. “The only advantage that we have is our numbers. We cannot allow the occupiers to recruit more members or construct more suits.”

“I’ve been talking with the leaders of the FMU,” Bergmann replied. “After what happened at the garrison, they’ve formally agreed to align themselves with the Mining League. Together, we control the bulk of Hades’ workforce. If there comes a time when we need to shut down all production, we can do it. It sounds like the Trade Association is rapidly losing patience with the Governor, too. It may not be long before we can approach them and freeze the enemy’s shipments.”

“You guys are a rag-tag outfit, but you pick your targets well,” Rivera said as he lifted his hands from the table and crossed his arms. “Most of the crew you rescued from the garrison are seasoned Marines, and they’re looking to even the score. You have eighty experienced, loyal men, and they’ll obey my orders as the ranking officer. If you need heads cracked, we can crack ‘em.”

Ruza didn’t want to burst his bubble by revealing that their choice of target had mostly come down to luck, as their primary goal had been rescuing Amy.

“We extracted just as many PDF who are still loyal to the people,” Omar added. “While we suffered some terrible losses, we’ve come away with a lot of skilled fighters.”

“We’ll make sure they have all the resources that we can provide,” Bergmann continued. “Staff Sergeant Rivera – I appreciate your support. With you on our side, our military experience is bolstered, and our movement gains a lot of legitimacy that it lacked before. It’ll be a lot harder to call us terrorists with Marines on our side.”

“I’m not surprised that these bastards tried to masquerade as the UNN,” Rivera replied with a scowl. “I can tell you right now that they have no affiliation with the Navy.”

“That was our conclusion, but hearing it from you may sway more people,” Bergmann said.

“So, who the hell are they?” Reed asked. “What can you tell us about them?”

“Their leader’s name is Barbosa,” Rivera began, leaning over the table again. “He’s an older guy with the rank of commander, and his people are completely loyal to him, so I figure he was pretty high up in the organization before he turned traitor. This guy is dangerous, and not just because he’s violent. He wears a mask of approachability and reason, he’s charismatic, and he’ll try to convince you that what he’s doing is right. Maybe he really believes it. He tried to turn the captured crew to his cause, and I’m proud to say that nobody took the bait while I was there.”

“What cause?” Bergmann asked, narrowing his eyes. “One thing that we haven’t been able to figure out is just what the hell they want on Hades. We know what they’re doing but not why.”

“Barbosa believes that the Coalition has betrayed humanity,” the Marine replied, glancing over at Ruza pointedly. “The Borealans, the Brokers, the Jarilans – he thinks the aliens are planning to stab us in the back. It’s all conspiracy theories and nonsense, but his men are all-in on the idea. He captured my carrier and invaded Hades because he wants to turn it into his base of operations, either to wage a war against the rest of the UN, or to hole up and create some kind of haven where humans can wait out the war he thinks is coming. I didn’t ask for too many details.”

“Then he’s some kind of ideologue,” Bergmann muttered. “The Syndicate was bad enough, but at least money is a motivation that we can understand.”

“He’s at least convinced his men of it,” Rivera said. “I’m sure some of you are wondering if there’s any truth to his claims – if his security clearance and connections let him know things that we don’t. I can tell you that he provided no evidence of this during his speeches – it was all conjecture. If he had incontrovertible proof, I believe he would have shown it to us.”

“Where is he?” Reed asked.

“He never left the carrier while I was onboard,” Rivera replied. “It’s the safest place for him to be, and I’m sorry to say that it’s untouchable. Along with Barbosa, there are five Lieutenants. These are the guys with the suits. They’re his right-hand men, and they carry out his orders.”

“We know about Hoff already,” Reed sneered. “He’s the meathead responsible for security on the colony, and he’s styled himself as the sheriff. He’s managed to make himself very conspicuous.”

“There’s also Petrova,” Omar added. “She’s responsible for scouting and training new SWAR recruits in the garrisons. A lot of my contacts have been interacting with her.”

“Song should be your priority target after Barbosa,” Rivera continued. “He seems to be the brains of the operation, but like his boss, he’s probably staying on the carrier where nobody can touch him. I only know the other two by their code names – Roach and Crow. I never saw their faces, and nobody knows anything about them save that Barbosa trusts them.”

“We need to show everyone that these people aren’t untouchable,” Bergmann said. “Reed, Ruza – I want you to draft a plan to take down Hoff. He’s the most visible figurehead for the occupation and the easiest target. Omar, Astrid – focus on information gathering. I want to know what the enemy is planning and when they’re moving. Patrols, shipments, VIPs – anything you can find. Staff Sergeant – your military experience will be useful in all manner of ways, but what we need right now are drill instructors. I’m putting you in charge of organizing and training our fighters. We have civilians with no experience and PDF with some, and they can all learn a lot from your Marines.”

“Happy to help,” Rivera replied. “My men will whip these miners into fighting shape.”

“I’m worried about the supply situation,” Astrid added, reaching up to brush her long hair out of her eyes. “With the Borgs intercepting all of the offworld shipments and redirecting our trade goods, we’re already seeing shortages of some key items, and it’s barely been two weeks. If the Borgs are allowed to control the food supply, they control the colony. We’re going to need stockpiles both for our people and for the civilian population, and those stockpiles need to be managed very carefully.”

“Who do we have who could be put in charge of that?” Bergmann asked. “We have shift managers and armorers, but nobody I’m aware of who has experience managing large amounts of inventory like that. Maybe a warehouse worker?”

“My secretary Amy is very reliable,” Ruza suggested. “I will suggest it to her.”

“If you think that’s best,” Bergmann said with a nod. “Right, meeting adjourned,” he added with a clap of his hands. “I have to go grease some wheels with the FMU.”

As they filed out of the cavern that had been converted into the base’s nerve center, Reed paused to speak to Ruza in the tunnel.

“I have some ideas for how we might take the fight to Hoff,” he began, crossing his arms and leaning against the dirt wall. “Rivera mentioned that one of the suits had been damaged by an AMR. I’m thinking Omar might be able to find out whether there are any of those stashed away in the garrisons.”

“A sound suggestion,” Ruza replied. “For now, I am stopping by the armory, then I am heading out into the desert. One of my snipers was separated from his team and has not reported in. I intend to find him.”

“Alright, I’ll catch you later,” Reed replied. “Try not to get captured, alright? I’ve had my fill of daring rescues for the day.”

***

“I thought Bergmann gave you different orders?” Rivera said as he stepped into the armory. It was mostly deserted following the operation, and the workbenches were strewn with XMRs in varying states of assembly. “You’re supposed to be planning the attack against Hoff.”

“I do not take orders from Bergmann,” Ruza replied as he pulled a couple of fresh magazines from a storage container and filled the pockets of his jacket.

“I don’t want people raiding the armory until a proper inventory has been taken,” Rivera added with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “We might need every slug in the weeks ahead.”

“Nor do I take orders from you,” Ruza added as he turned his yellow eyes on the scarred human.

“Judging by your gear and your tactics, you were an auxiliary, right?” Rivera pressed as he approached. “Surely you understand the chain of command and why it’s important? Have you considered that you might be captured if you go out there while there’s still so much heat? You could put the whole operation in jeopardy.”

“One of my men is missing,” Ruza muttered as he loaded his rifle.

“Plenty of my men are missing, too,” Rivera continued. “That doesn’t mean I should go running around in the tunnels looking for them on my own.”

“You are new here, so I will overlook your presumptuousness,” Ruza replied as he turned to give the human his full attention. “Understand that I am not beholden to the UNN or anyone else. I follow Bergmann, and I heed Reed, Omar, and Astrid because I have decided to do so. You are no longer on your carrier, so do not presume to give me orders. When our goals align and I deem your decisions wise, I will follow you, but know that I have no Alphas or commanders here. The only power that anyone on Hades has over me is that which I choose to give them.”

“You know, I’ve served with Rask before,” the human continued. “It can be hard to win their trust, but once you have it, they’re some of the most loyal people I’ve ever met. That girl you carried all the way back here – who was she?”

“Amy is my secretary,” Ruza replied.

“Oh, that was her? Look,” he added with a sigh. “You saved our asses today, and I owe you for that. I get the impression that you care a great deal about a lot of the people here. That said, if we’re going to win this fight, we have to work together. We all need to be on the same page.”

“I wish you luck in that,” Ruza replied, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and leaving the human scowling beside the range.

***

Ruza marched into the infirmary, a figure clothed in tan camouflage draped over his shoulder. He lowered the missing sniper onto the nearest gurney as several nurses hurried over to assist, the men and women crowding around and producing medical scanners, one of them opening an eye and shining a light into it.

“He is dehydrated and suffering from exposure,” Ruza announced. “Administer intravenous fluids.”

He paused to examine the fledgling infirmary. Like the other rooms in the base – if they could be described as such – it had been established in one of the old tunnels. The walls were lined with flimsy cots where some of the less seriously injured patients were recovering, a few scattered portable medical devices like wheeled EKG machines standing between them. Several of the beds had privacy curtains made from tarps, but that was about the best they could do. Power had been restored to much of the base, and ventilation was working in this area, the old systems doing their best to filter the air. It was far from an ideal environment, but it was all they had. Further down the tunnel were a pair of medical tents that Bergmann had managed to get his hands on. They looked like inflated balloons large enough to fit a gurney, half a dozen humans, and some equipment. The positive pressure created by a bulky pump kept them standing and created relatively sterile conditions inside. Those would be their operating theaters when the need inevitably arose.

“Ruza!”

He glanced over to see Amy approaching from the other end of the room. Her swollen eye was bandaged, and it appeared that someone had tended to her bruises.

“Amy,” he replied, leaning down to return her hug as best he could manage. “I am pleased to see that you are well.”

“The guys took good care of me,” she replied. “Lots of people from the bar are here. It’s been kind of humbling to learn how many of them missed me when I was gone. I didn’t think I was that popular.”

“How are you feeling?”

“A lot better,” she replied. “Apparently, they fractured my orbit, so I have to wear this thing while it heals,” she continued with a gesture to the bandage. “Shouldn’t be any lasting damage, though. On the bright side, if I have to go topside again, the cops might not recognize me anymore.”

“I am happy to see you in high spirits.”

“Well, I’ve learned that I can take a punch, and that my drinking buddies were willing to go to war for me. I’ve had worse days.”

“I am glad that our paths crossed,” Ruza began. “I have a request to make of you, if you are feeling well enough.”

“First, come this way,” she added as she beckoned to him with a finger. “You’ve barely rested since the rescue, and I’ve restrained enough wriggling kids to know an uncooperative patient when I see one. Let’s get you checked out by someone who cares about your wellbeing more than you do.”

She led him over to one of the unoccupied beds, and he sat down, feeling the springs strain beneath his weight. Amy flagged down a passing nurse, who began to inspect the Rask, honing in on his injured wrist.

“You should have come in sooner,” the woman chided as she pulled up his leather sleeve. “We’ll need to remove this medical foam and stitch you up. What about these injuries on your forearm?”

“I am Borealan,” he replied gruffly. “Superficial cuts heal quickly.”

“So, what did you want to ask me?” Amy began as the nurse headed off to fetch a medkit.

“You have served loyally as my secretary,” Ruza replied. “I have come to rely on your expertise when it comes to managing inventory and keeping track of patients.”

“I never thought I’d hear a desk job described that way, but if you say so,” she giggled.

“The people here are in need of someone who can manage their supplies,” Ruza explained. “I suggested you as a candidate. I will not make any demands of you, but if you wish for a position of responsibility, it shall be yours.”

“Really?” Amy asked, her one eye widening. “These guys think I’m the best candidate for running an operation like that?”

“Astrid is very skilled, but her intelligence work leaves her little time to manage the day-to-day operations of the base,” Ruza continued. “We have armorers and some people who worked in warehouses or ports, but they require leadership.”

“I have a hard time accepting that I’m the best girl for the job,” she said as she glanced out at the men who occupied the gurneys, pausing to think for a moment. “A lot of these guys got hurt during the rescue. I’d still be sitting in that cell if it wasn’t for them. Some…didn’t make it back, did they?”

“It was a risk that they accepted,” Ruza replied.

“They stuck their necks out for me, so it’s only fair that I do all I can to help in return. You can tell whoever’s in charge that I’ll handle the books.”

“I never doubted that we could count on you,” Ruza replied with a rare smile.

“Alright, hold still,” the nurse said as she returned with a suture kit. “We don’t have a lot of painkillers on hand, but you look like a big, strong boy, so try to keep still.”

Ruza grumbled to himself, holding out his arm.

DAY 18 – HADES – THE GOVERNOR

“Your Commander assured me that martial law wasn’t on the table,” the Governor complained, hurrying to match pace with Hoff’s strides. Each step with that suit propelled him forward a few feet, the portly man having to rush to catch up. He was doing it on purpose.

They were walking through the courtyard of the garrison, having only secured it the night before, evidence of the fighting still visible everywhere he looked.

“This attack is a clear escalation,” Hoff replied as he gestured to the destroyed wall of the compound. The PDF were working to clear away the chunks of rubble that littered the dusty ground, some kind of explosive having rent the reinforced carbcrete like it had been hit with a giant sledgehammer. “Bombings and ambushes have escalated to organized assaults on our strongholds. They freed two hundred prisoners, including PDF and Marines from the carrier, and they killed dozens of troopers in the process. This insurgency is much larger and better equipped than we thought. They were able to coordinate an attack on our ASAT sites to draw the bulk of our forces away. Clearly, harsher measures will be required.”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying,” the Governor continued breathlessly. “During my last address, I promised the people of Hades that we wouldn’t return to the martial law and curfews that we saw when the Syndicate was ousted. That was part of my damned platform during the election. If you make me go back on that promise, you’ll be playing right into the hands of the insurgents.”

“What do you suggest?” Hoff replied, finally stopping to peer down at the red-faced politician. “There has to be a response, and that response has to be proportional. They hit us hard, and we need to come down on them even harder if we’re going to nip this in the bud. The Commander has done counterinsurgency work before – he knows how to handle situations like this. You should listen to him, not that you have a choice…”

“You are eroding what trust my administration has left with the people,” the Governor replied, scowling back at the painted teeth and swiveling camera dome. Hoff had his canopy closed – a sign of just how much the attack had shaken him, perhaps. “You might think that pointing guns at people is enough to keep them under control, but without me smoothing things along, you’d be facing a full-blown insurrection. There’s still a chance that I can spin this pile of straw you’ve handed me into gold, but I can’t work my magic if you bring this war into the living rooms of every colonist on Hades.”

“Say your piece,” Hoff sighed.

“What we need to do is shift the population’s focus from you to the insurgents. We use them as scapegoats so that any hardships or inconveniences the colonists experience are blamed on the terrorists. Food rationing or a lack of supplies? It’s because the insurgents are attacking our shipments. Increased police presence? It’s a response to insurgent activity. When someone’s air conditioner breaks, we need them blaming the insurgency as a matter of reflex. We can start by spreading news of the PDF who were killed during this latest attack.”

“The Commander doesn’t want word of our losses getting out,” Hoff replied, cutting him off. “He says it will weaken our position and embolden the enemy.”

“There’s no covering this up,” the Governor scoffed. “I could hear the explosions and shooting from my damned office. Every one of the men who died here last night had a family,” he pressed. “Parents, siblings, spouses, children, friends. If we plaster their faces all over the city, it will drive home the human cost of what’s happening here. I do a few addresses, release some interviews with grieving widows on the intranet, and I may be able to redirect the focus away from your bumbling attempts to contain the situation.”

“You’re a devious little fucker, you know that?”

“My job is keeping this colony safe,” the Governor replied. “Running street battles and orbital bombardments aren’t conducive to a safe city. I want to see a swift end to this conflict before it spirals out of control, which it will, and the only option I have right now is to try to steer you imbeciles in a less destructive direction.”

“You have a line to the Commander,” Hoff replied, shrugging mechanical shoulders that were as wide as a forklift. “Pitch it to him if you think you can convince him. My job now is driving these rats out of their tunnels. I’m going to find them wherever they’re hiding and make them pay in blood for every one of our guys they took out, and I intend to use whatever means the Commander deems necessary.”

“You might have an easier time finding their base if you’d taken some of them alive,” the Governor muttered. “You can’t interrogate a corpse.”

“Let me worry about military strategy,” Hoff replied, walking away towards the shelter. “I’m sure you have some permits to stamp or forms to fill out or something.”

The Governor ignored his comment, turning to watch the troopers work for a minute as he mulled over the situation. Working with Barbosa and his goons might be his only choice right now, but perhaps if the burgeoning insurgency continued to grow, better options might present themselves…

DAY 18 – HADES – PETROVA

“Are you going to stand by and let these cowards murder your brothers?” Petrova barked, her voice carrying from her open canopy as her PCE lumbered along a row of troopers who were lined up in the courtyard. They were at Garrison One, the tether at the colony’s center towering over them.

They were the best that Hades had to offer – the cream of a very sparse crop – a hundred of them now standing to attention beneath the burning hypergiant. She could see the sweat sparkling on their brows, some of the recruits already wavering in the heat. Petrova had been purposefully late to the assembly – a tactic to test their endurance and their discipline.

“No, Ma’am!” they bellowed in chorus.

“Are you going to let them bring crime and disorder back to your home?”

“No, Ma’am!”

“Do we negotiate with terrorists?”

“No, Ma’am!”

She stopped at the far end of the row, then turned in the cumbersome suit, making her way back as a hundred pairs of eyes followed her.

“Based on your performance, Commander Barbosa has accelerated the recruitment program,” she continued as she paused roughly halfway along the line. “You’re all here because I hand-picked you from your garrisons. You show the most promise, and you’re all suitable candidates.”

A murmur of approval and excitement began to pass through the crowd, but Petrova cut it off with a wave of her mechanical arm.

“You might be the strongest, the most skilled, and the most disciplined PDF,” she began. “But I wonder if any of you really know what it means to become a SWAR operative? You leave your life behind – you leave your humanity behind, to become more than you once were. You transform yourself into a living weapon whose sole purpose is the protection of those who cannot protect themselves. You become a fist of steel and polymer, ready to strike down any enemy who might threaten humanity.”

There was more nodding and murmuring from the crowd, her speech rousing them.

“Who among you thinks he’s a tough guy?” she demanded, staring out at the men. “Who’s the biggest, meanest trooper here? Nobody?” she chuckled when none of them stepped forward. “Here – let me level the playing field a little.”

She opened her suit, the armor splaying apart like a segmented shell to expose the padded lining within, Petrova grimacing as it disconnected from her shunt. Leaving a PCE was like trying to get out of bed on a frigid winter morning – her every instinct was fighting against it. Once the feeling had returned to her extremities, she pulled them free, climbing out of the suit to stand in front of it defiantly.

Many of the men had never seen her without the PCE, and they seemed surprised, judging by their expressions. Petrova was not especially tall or especially strong, nor did she have the terrible scars worn so proudly by many of her compatriots. Hoff probably weighed almost three times what she did. If she wore long-sleeved shirts and pants, a casual observer might never guess that she was augmented. Even her prosthetics were slender and understated, designed to approximate their original counterparts as closely as possible. She wore a tight-fitting uniform, the straps of her belts and rig hugging her athletic figure. Her chest was covered by an armor plate, and her dark hair was tied back in a tight bun to keep it out of her way. She wore no boots – her artificial feet impervious to pain and wear.

“So, any takers?” she asked as she spread her arms with an electronic whir. “Don’t be shy now – I want to see what you can do.”

One of the men finally stepped forward, pushing through the crowd. He was easily a head taller than Petrova, putting him at over six feet, his shoulders broad enough that two of her could almost have fit between them. His jaw was as chiseled as the prow of a frigate, and he had the same blue eyes and blonde hair as Hoff – maybe Franklin stock.

“Ma’am,” he began as he reached the front of the group.

“I want you to hit me,” she replied, gesturing to a fist that was near the size of her head. “Don’t be scared, now – put all of your strength into it.”

He looked to his friends with uncertainty in his eyes, but a moment later, he squared up. Petrova moved a little further from their audience, giving him more room, and the pair started to circle one another. He threw a punch, but she could tell that his heart wasn’t in it, and she simply stepped out of his reach.

“You can do better than that,” she chimed.

The next punch came faster and harder, that brick-sized fist whistling over her head as she ducked beneath it. She danced, weaving and dodging, watching the trooper become more and more frustrated as his hits failed to connect with anything. Only when he was angry enough to put all of his strength into a punch did she let it land, intercepting it with a single hand. The man’s bulging bicep rippled like it was made of jello as it was stopped dead, droplets of sweat flying from his skin.

Petrova squeezed – not hard enough to break bone, but enough that he could really feel it. The trooper grimaced, faltering as he tried to pull away but found that he was trapped. With a speed that his eyes could barely track, she stepped closer, sweeping a prosthetic foot through the dust and into his ankle. She followed through to send him toppling to the ground, and in a flash, she was straddling his broad chest with the sharp edge of her combat knife kissing his throat.

“Don’t worry,” she cooed, gazing down at his frightened expression. “These hands don’t waver – they’re far too expensive for that.”

She hopped off him, as light on her feet as a mountain goat, extending a prosthetic hand. He took it, and she hauled the giant man to his feet, giving him a pat on the back and sending him stumbling back into the amazed crowd.

“If you qualify for the surgery, and you survive it, you’ll get access to augmentations like these,” Petrova declared. “Familiarize yourself with them, and you’ll find that you can beat the attitude out of a six-hundred-pound Borealan and fire weapons you could barely hold before without even feeling the recoil. This isn’t merely strength – it’s transhuman. This also isn’t something you can take back,” she added, looking out over the captivated recruits. “When we saw off your arm, we don’t keep it in a jar for a few days just in case you have a change of heart. This is invasive, traumatic surgery, and it comes with very real risks. You might die from complications, you might get an infection, or the prosthetics might not take. It should go without saying that we’re the best at what we do, but there are no guarantees. If you do this, you have to be certain. There’s no room for doubt.”

More nodding from the crowd, the men sharing excited glances.

“Now, you’re dismissed!” she barked. “The next lander going up to the carrier in two days will be taking you with it. Think long and hard about your decision, and be sure you make the right one.”

The recruits began to disperse into the garrison, some heading for the mess hall while others made for their barracks. There was still a lot of activity inside the compound, groups of troopers jogging across the courtyard as a steady stream of dropships came and went, the giant tether looming over everything like some kind of mythical world tree. Garrison One was the closest to the crucial anchor, and it had become somewhat of a ground base for SWAR.

She turned to appraise her suit, looking up to see it looming over her, seeming even larger from the outside. There was a strong impulse to return to its comfortable embrace – to let those padded armor panels enclose her, all of the little aches and discomforts of being alive vanishing as the cervical shunt drowned them out. Something told her that she should wait – a little nagging voice in the back of her mind warning her to show restraint.

Hoff rarely left his PCE, and it seemed to be influencing his behavior, as though its strength and power were making him forget his own mortality. It was easy to feel invincible in the suit, but Petrova knew better. She had felt that AMR bury itself in her chest piece, coming within inches of turning her body to slurry, and she had seen Song’s arm ripped off. This was just a weapon like any other.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she, LC?”

Petrova turned her head to see a SWAR operative standing beside her, admiring the PCE along with her. She didn’t know all of the men by name, and this one was wearing a helmet, its visor adorned with a stylized spider.

“Certainly is,” she replied.

“Is it true what they’ve been saying?” he added, Petrova feeling his eyes on her even through the opaque glass. “That they’re building more of these things, and some of us might be getting one?”

“I can’t reveal too much about Commander Barbosa’s plans, but yes,” she confirmed with a nod. “The goal is to build a whole company of PCEs and equip our best agents with them. We took a carrier and a planet with six, so imagine what we could do with a hundred – two hundred. The UNN could deploy a whole carrier’s worth of troops to the surface, and they still wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Is that why they’re training the dirt farmers?” he added, nodding to the troopers who were still walking away.

“Yes, the Commander wishes to expand our numbers,” she replied with a hint of annoyance in her voice. She didn’t like the term, and it had been spreading among the men. The people of Hades might be backward bumpkins in many respects, but they were still humans, and that made them worthy of some respect. “We’ve suffered some losses due to the insurgency, and we’ll need a lot more than two hundred agents if we’re going to hold this colony.”

“It’s a necessary evil,” he replied with a shrug that made his laser-etched prosthetics whir. “Kind of a travesty, though, isn’t it? I mean, up until now, SWAR has only recruited the hardest and most experienced operators in the Galaxy. Marines, Trogs, special forces – you name it. We all had to prove ourselves in combat, and many of us suffered battlefield injuries that would end our careers otherwise, but we’re letting these dirt farmers get tuned up after only a couple of weeks of basic? I don’t question the Commander’s logic – it just doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Why not?” Petrova asked, her brow furrowing. “The Commander set the recruitment standards, and they met them. Shouldn’t they get the same opportunities that we did?”

“You can polish a turd as much as you want, but it’s still a turd,” he scoffed through his helmet speakers. “They’re just PDF – they didn’t go through the trial by fire that we did. Most of them are weekend warriors who have never even seen combat. You can replace every limb and organ, but at the end of the day, they’ll still be dirt farmers. At least they’ll be a little more effective than these dickheads,” he added with a gesture to some nearby troopers who were unloading supplies from a truck. “We can scarcely trust them to hold an XMR straight. Makes me jumpy, being on patrol with them.”

“It’s our job to train these people – to elevate them,” Petrova replied. The agent picked up on her stern tone, standing up a little straighter. “We’re here to protect them, in case you’ve forgotten that. If you see a trooper who can’t hold his weapon straight, I suggest you demonstrate how to do it properly, because he might be watching your back one day soon when this city is crawling with Marines.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he stammered. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

“Return to your duties,” she grumbled, the agent hurrying away.

While the men who had followed Barbosa had heeded the call to safeguard humanity, Petrova couldn’t shake the feeling that many of them were starting to resent the Hadeans. Maybe the novelty was wearing off, and SWAR teams just weren’t suited to this kind of long-term deployment, but it was becoming concerning. For every operative she admonished, there was Hoff and Roach and Crow reinforcing the behavior of ten others. Perhaps she would bring it up with Barbosa during her next visit to the carrier.

DAY 18 – MU ARAE BLACK SITE 1 – VOS

Vos clenched his fist, watching the small servos and cables that made up its fingers flex, the black polymer reflecting the harsh overhead lights of his new quarters. He’d always imagined that a prosthetic would feel much like the original limb had once one grew accustomed to it, but two weeks had passed, and it still felt wrong. It was like his brain rejected it, recognizing it as artificial and out of place on some instinctual level, the sensations that it relayed to his nerves fuzzy and indistinct. It was some measure of irony to spend so much time funneling funds to SWAR and giving them access to the best technology available, only to be fitted with this slap job of an arm. He had no choice but to tolerate it for the time being, turning his eyes to the view from the window beyond the asteroid station, watching the stars twinkle.

It was the waiting that got to him. Vos could handle any situation, no matter how dire, and he was as accustomed to stress as a fish was accustomed to water. Inaction – powerlessness, those were things that he couldn’t tolerate, yet he had no other option. Since he had awoken in the medbay, he had spent much of his time coordinating the relief effort for the station and Site Two, leveraging their small number of shuttles to transfer crew between the bases. The damage to the station could have been far worse, and it was still livable despite the damage to its docking umbilicals and hangar bay. Site Two had suffered less structural damage, but the loss of life during the attack had been far greater. It was gradually being repopulated, and its remaining assets secured.

“Admiral,” a voice began over the intercom. “Please report to the control room. The Courser has returned, and there’s a priority communique waiting for you.”

He turned from the window, still limping a little as he made his way out of the sliding door and into the corridor outside. His body was far from done healing, his collection of broken bones still knitting. It hurt like a bitch, but he refused to take any of the more powerful painkillers. They left him woozy, and he needed to be sharp.

Through the winding hallways of rock and metal that burrowed through the asteroid like a termite nest, he eventually arrived at the main control room, the staff who were on duty rising from their consoles to salute him as he entered. The room wasn’t too different from the CIC of a carrier, filled with consoles and holographic displays, large monitors showing views from cameras mounted outside the station.

The station commander greeted the Admiral as he mounted a short set of steps, arriving on an elevated platform that overlooked the pit-like floor.

“Admiral,” he began, giving Vos a curt salute. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll survive,” Vos grumbled, clenching his prosthetic fist reflexively and feeling an unpleasant hiss of nerve static wash over the limb. “What’s the report from the Courser?”

“They just made it back to the system,” the commander replied, turning to his console. “We detected their gravitational wave signature, and a short time later, we received a narrow-band laser transmission. The message is awaiting your security code.”

“I’ll take it here,” Vos said, reaching out to tap at the touch panel. “It’s not like anyone can compromise our operation when nobody can leave…”

The image of the ship’s captain appeared to hover above the panel, framed against the industrial backdrop of the cramped bridge.

“Admiral Vos,” he began. “This is the captain of the Courser Marathon, reporting as ordered. Your message was relayed to Fleetcom through the FTL comms satellite at 62 Scorpii and was successfully received. We waited on-site for several hours until the reply came through, then made for Mu Arae at maximum speed. We are currently standing by awaiting further orders while our drive charges.”

“Excellent – they made it there safely,” the station commander added.

“The message is as follows,” the captain continued. “UNNI is launching an investigation to root out any remaining operatives who may have aided or abetted Barbosa. Many ongoing SWAR operations are being suspended, and their operatives are being brought in for questioning. Barbosa and his loyalists have been declared AWOL, and all of their assets have been frozen. The Admiralty is bringing charges of treason, and they’ve issued warrants for their arrest – to be carried out by any means necessary.”

“Good, it’s legal to kill the fucker,” Vos grumbled. “Saves me some paperwork.”

“Commander Brenner has been dispatched to Hades with a contingent of three SWAR teams. Their estimated time of arrival is three weeks. The nearest carrier group is currently on patrol in the Eta Corvi system, roughly thirty light years from Hades, and is scheduled to report in sometime in the coming weeks. Once contact is made, and new orders are issued, it will take the CSG a little under three months to divert. Fleetcom says not to expect them for four.”

“That’s some good news, at least,” the station commander said. “That carrier group is much closer than we expected.”

“For all the good it does us,” Vos scoffed. “They’re four months out instead of six, and Barbosa will have Hades on a platter in half that time if nothing is done to stop him. Brenner is on his way, though. That’s reassuring. Three squads is only thirty-six men, which is hardly a match for Barbosa’s contingent, but I’ll take anything I can get.”

“He’s traveling light,” the commander confirmed with a nod. “Waiting for more reinforcements or traveling with larger ships would cost valuable time.”

“The Admiralty has also relayed new orders for you, Admiral Vos,” the message continued. “Once the carrier group arrives and the situation on Hades has been stabilized, you are to surrender yourself into the custody of its captain and return to Proxima pending a formal investigation into your involvement.”

“Anything I need to be worried about, Admiral?” the commander asked as he gave Vos a questioning side-eye.

“Not unless you’re concerned about my career,” Vos replied with a scowl.

“A message was relayed to your wife informing her of your whereabouts, as per your instructions,” the captain continued. “Message ends.”

“The Captain’s new orders are to jump to Hades as soon as the Marathon’s drive is charged,” Vos declared. “The enemy will certainly detect their gravitational wave signature, but if they land far enough from the system’s core, they can move away before Barbosa has time to respond. With their IFF system switched off and their engines running cold, they’ll be functionally undetectable, even to the carrier’s sensor suite. It’ll be like trying to find an invisible needle in a haystack the size of a continent. They are to observe and collect all of the data they can prior to their return. I want them back here with a full report ready for Brenner’s arrival.”

“I’ll pass it on, Admiral.”

“Three weeks,” Vos muttered to himself as he returned to his quarters. “Let’s hope it’s not too late.”

DAY 19 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“An information campaign?” Rivera asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s the gist of it,” Astrid replied. “I’ve been monitoring the intranet, and there’s a lot of debate about our attack. The fighting was heard around the city, and it’s too big for the Borgs to cover up. Everyone who lives within view of the garrison has seen the damage that was caused.”

“The general population still believes that the occupiers represent the UN,” Bergmann continued. “The sentiment towards the Navy is generally positive, and it gives the Borgs a lot of legitimacy they wouldn’t otherwise have. What Astrid has pitched to me is an intranet broadcast with interviews and testimony from Marines and PDF who were freed during the operation. The PDF are locals, and they can tell people what’s actually happening inside the garrisons and what they experienced during their internment. Seeing uniformed Navy personnel denouncing the occupation and denying that it was ever sanctioned by the UN might turn more people to our side. We need to show the people of Hades the truth about what’s happening.”

“I can make that happen,” Rivera replied, giving Astrid a nod. “I’ll select a few of my people and send them over. Astrid can work on some kind of speech or script for them.”

“How about the plan to take out Hoff?” Bergmann asked. “Have you made any progress?”

“I checked the armory records, and I’ve managed to locate two AMRs,” Omar began. “The problem is, they’re both stored in garrisons that I don’t have any reasonable excuse to access. I don’t see a way to get them out without arousing a lot of suspicion, and the Borgs have already launched an investigation into who had access to those codes I used to get us into the shelter. A fairly large number of people have the necessary clearance, but it’s a finite number, and I need to lie low for a little while.”

“You did good, Omar,” Reed said as he reached over to place a hand on the trooper’s shoulder. “If it wasn’t for you, we’d never have been able to pull it off. Nobody is going to ask you to put yourself in any more danger than you have to.”

Ruza nodded in agreement. Omar was perhaps the bravest of their company. He might not be a very skilled soldier, but he was their eyes on the inside, relaying information about the inner workings of the PDF at extreme personal risk. Ruza faced the enemy every time he went out on a mission, but Omar faced them every day.

“Alternatives?” Bergmann pressed.

“We’ve come up with something,” Reed replied, shooting Ruza a grin. “We’ll need a lot of explosives, though. Like, a lot of explosives.”

“Just tell me what you need, and I’ll see that you get it,” Bergmann replied.

DAY 19 – HADES OUTSKIRTS

The truck’s headlights illuminated the warehouse as it pulled to a stop, the bright beams casting a sand-covered forklift into shadow. The driver switched off the engine and opened the door, the passenger following suit, the vehicle’s shocks bouncing as their weight left it. They moved around to the back, where three large polymer crates were secured to its flatbed using ratchet straps. These trucks were a common sight on Hades – rugged utility vehicles designed for transporting light cargo.

Under the pale glow of the planet’s icy moon, the two men began to unfasten them, working together to haul the crates to the dusty ground with some effort. They wore thick leathers and shawls to protect them from the paradoxically cold nights, their faces obscured by rebreathers and goggles.

They bristled as they noticed another group of men leaving the warehouse, a procession of half a dozen walking out through its hangar-like doors, the glint of weapons catching the moonlight. They were resistance fighters – identifiable by their reflective armbands. A few of them spread out to stand guard over the derelict machinery and empty cargo containers while one of them approached the newcomers, his voice taking on a synthetic quality as it filtered through a full-faced mask of the kind worn by miners.

“You got the goods?”

“Right here,” one of the smugglers replied, leaning over the nearest crate. He popped open the clasps and slid the lid aside, revealing an interior packed with protective foam. The masked man leaned in and lifted a long rod made from coils of copper-colored metal. “Brand new XMR parts – fresh off the production line. You got the money?”

“What money?” the masked man replied, a hand sliding down to his waist. “Aren’t you guys with the FMU?”

“Listen, we’re risking our necks coming out here,” the smuggler complained. “The Borgs are watching the factories like hawks after what happened at Seventeen. We figured we deserve a little on the side for our efforts.”

“Fucking parasites,” the masked man grumbled. “Don’t you care about freeing Hades?”

“You can concern yourselves with high-minded ideals like freedom and justice,” the smuggler scoffed. “Me? I’m concerned with eating.”

“Fine,” the masked man conceded. “You’ll get your cut, but I don’t have it on me. Take it up with your contact at the factory.”

The two smugglers exchanged a glance, then a nod, securing the crate again before hefting it between them. With a signal from the masked stranger, the rest of the resistance fighters swept in to lift the other two crates, a couple of them flanking with their rifles at the ready as the group moved back into the warehouse.

The structure looked like it hadn’t been used in years, old building materials and deprecated parts sitting on dust-caked shelves that ran from the floor to the ceiling, the moonlight filtering in through skylights that were all but obscured by sand. They passed through the main storage area, descending a set of creaking stairs down into a basement level, some of the men igniting flashlights that cut through the darkness. They moved between the concrete support pillars, their footsteps echoing, dust that had been left undisturbed for years rising to float in their wavering beams.

“How far do we have to carry these?” one of the smugglers grumbled.

“Set them down in here and go,” the masked man replied. “We’ll take them the rest of the way.”

The smugglers were eager to leave, lowering the crate and hurrying back in the direction of the staircase, guided by the pale light filtering down from the opening above. As they reached the foot of the steps, a strange noise distracted them, and they turned to look back into the shadowy basement.

More noises – the faint whir of electronics, the sound of a scuffle. One of the flashlight beams vanished, while another fell to the floor, rolling in their direction. As it came to a stop, it faced away from them, illuminating a trio of dark figures. They were standing over the bodies of the fighters, one of them crouching like a gargoyle, slowly drawing a serrated knife from the throat of the masked man. The crimson blood shone bright in the flashlight beam, the stranger’s dark armor and skeletal limbs fading into the inky blackness, the image of a glowering ogre that was painted on his helmet seeming to float there in the air as it glared back at them.

There was another sound – an echoing click followed by a whizzing noise, one of the smugglers dropping to the floor as though his legs had been kicked out from under him. The barrel of an XMR glinted in the beam, turning on the survivor.

With a vocalization that was part yell and part sob, he raced up the steps, stumbling as he reached the ground floor. His heart pounding and his breathing coming in terrified gulps, he fled out through the main doors as though the Devil was on his heels, practically running into the parked truck in his haste. He rounded its cab and leapt into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. The engine revved as he pushed his thumb into the ignition button, his panic mounting as it failed to start.

“Come on, come on!” he pleaded.

Finally, the engine started, the smuggler turning to look back over his seat as he reversed out into the road. He almost hit the support that held up the metal gate, his wheels spinning in the loose sand as he accelerated, leaving the warehouse in his rearview camera. He only made it maybe a hundred feet before something large stepped into view of his headlights, the beams illuminating a towering shape.

He hit the brakes, but too late, the figure raising an arm and bringing it down on the hood. The bodywork crumpled like sheet metal, the truck stopping dead as momentum carried it into the seven-foot figure, the driver’s face slamming into the steering wheel. With ringing ears and fresh blood burring his vision, he looked up through the shattered windshield, seeing the massive shape walk around to the passenger side of the ruined truck. A massive mechanical hand tore the door from its hinges, then reached inside, the smuggler screaming as he was ripped from the vehicle. Like a discarded toy, he was thrown to the road, more bones breaking as he hit the sandy ground. As he peered up through bleary eyes, he saw a foot the size of an engine block coming down towards his head.

DAY 19 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – HOFF

“Damn, LC,” one of the agents chuckled as he jogged over to the smashed truck and got a look at the driver. “Did the crash do that, or was it you?”

“You think we should exchange insurance details?” Hoff asked, eliciting another laugh from his subordinate. “What’s the report, Ogre?”

“We were right on the money, LC,” Ogre began. “The terrorists have been smuggling weapons directly from our factories. That explains why the failure rates were so much higher than anticipated,” he added, making air quotes with his prosthetic fingers. “The smugglers took them out of the factory and brought them here, where they passed them off to the insurgents. They’re definitely our weapons – no doubt about it. The tracker that we hid inside one of the batteries is still there.”

“Song is a very clever man,” Hoff replied.

The sting operation had been Song’s idea. He’d run the numbers, and the amount of defects on the weapon shipments from the colony’s factories didn’t match his projections, so he had ordered tracking devices to be hidden in several of the components. Just as predicted, some of them had been marked as defective and moved off-site. Song had waited for a couple of shipments to be delivered before he pinned down the handoff location. Once that was done, it had been trivial to set up an ambush.

“We bagged six of ‘em down in the basement, as well as one of the smugglers,” the agent replied. He tossed something to Hoff, who caught it deftly in his giant hand, opening his mechanical fingers to see a small loop of reflective fabric resting in his palm. “It’s the terrorists alright.”

“I’ll stamp them out,” Hoff growled, squeezing the armband in his fist.

“An apt choice of words, LC,” Ogre replied as his helmet tilted down towards the smuggler. “If you’ll follow me, we’ve found one of the entrances to their tunnels.”

Hoff lumbered past the crashed truck and the ruined body of its driver, following Ogre back into the warehouse and down a flight of stairs that his PCE could barely navigate. There was a body slumped at the bottom that he had to step over. He ignited a bright headlight that illuminated the room, the pillars casting long shadows that moved with him. The two remaining agents were waiting near the weapon crates, several more bodies littering the basement floor around them.

“Show him,” Ogre said.

One of the agents walked over to the far wall and pulled aside a false panel, revealing a hole that had been bored through the building’s foundation. Hoff drew closer, shining his light into the tunnel, seeing it winding away into darkness.

“We figure it’s an old smuggling route from the days of the Syndicate,” Ogre said. “This explains how they’re getting around while avoiding detection. We found a few tunnel entrances that led to old mines when we swept the buildings near Seventeen, but if they’ve dug tunnels this deep and this extensive, they could come out practically anywhere. We had hoped that the tracking devices might give away the location of their base, but they’re not powerful enough to transmit through that much rock and dirt.”

Hoff activated his GPR module, watching a pulse travel down the tunnel, bouncing off its uneven walls.

“It’s too small for my PCE,” he declared, stepping back. “Better bring in the dirt farmers and have them start mapping out these passages. They can use graphing paper for all I care.”

“These tunnels could run for miles, LC,” Ogre replied hesitantly. “They’re certainly unsafe. Some of the mines might not have been maintained in decades.”

“Not our problem,” he said, wheeling the massive suit around. “Dispose of the bodies and get these weapons back to the garrison.”

CHAPTER 10

DAY 20 – HADES ORBIT – PETROVA

Petrova waited on the hangar deck, her prosthetic hands clasped neatly behind her back as she looked out at the planet’s curvature beyond the shimmering force field. It was hard to pick out the dark lander against the inky backdrop when it arrived, but as it drew closer, she could make out the blue glow reflecting off its cockpit windows. It loomed ever larger, growing to the size of a house, its angular nose passing through the barrier as its thrusters flared with bursts of hydrogen flame. Once it had entered the carrier’s AG field, those four engines swiveled to face down, lowering it to the deck on burning jets.

Only when the engines had spooled down did the front ramp begin to open, gaping like a wedge-shaped maw beneath the overhanging cockpit, revealing the shadowy bay within. As the UNN’s mule, the Wombat could transport a wide variety of vehicles and cargo, from tanks to shipping containers. In its present configuration, the bay was filled with rows of crash couches, each one of them occupied by a frazzled recruit. There were a hundred of them crammed into the vessel like sardines in a can.

They began to unbuckle their harnesses, walking down the ramp, some of them wobbling unsteadily. For many, this would have been their first experience of space flight. To someone like Petrova, who had spent her adult life hopping from planet to planet, it seemed inconceivable that a person could die on the same colony where they were born.

The recruits began to line up, standing to attention, Petrova’s voice echoing through the mostly empty hangar as she addressed them.

“Welcome to the UNN Tirad,” she began, watching as the men glanced around in awe of their new surroundings. “I’m sure this is your first time aboard a Jump Carrier. You are currently in the port-side hangar, where the ship’s air traffic comes and goes. Behind you, you can see some FS-26 Beewolves – space superiority fighters, and to your rear is a force field that leads to hard vacuum. I suggest you watch your step. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the temporary quarters where you’ll be staying during your visit.”

She led them through the winding guts of the ship, their heads on a swivel everywhere they turned, taking in the strange environment. Hoff might refer to them as bumpkins, and they were as muddy as they came, but Petrova found some small measure of second-hand joy in their reactions.

After a bit of a walk, they arrived at one of the old crew quarters, bunk beds with Navy blue sheets stacked along the walls. It was cramped and spartan, but they seemed thrilled by the sight, perhaps not accustomed to even these small luxuries.

“You’ll find fresh uniforms and boots in the lockers,” she explained as they filtered into the narrow corridors between the beds. “I’m sure there’s something in everyone’s size. Get comfortable, take a shower, and change your clothes. Dinner will be in the mess hall at nineteen-hundred sharp, followed by orientation. You can find your way by following the color-coded maps – that can be your first test. Don’t be late, and eat your damned greens! You’ll need your strength in the days to come.”

As the troopers walked past her, she saw a tall, blonde figure rising above the crowd. As he neared, she realized that it was her sparring partner – the man who she had knocked on his ass during her demonstration two days prior.

“Man, do we really get to stay here?” he asked as he stepped aside and peered into the room. “This place is a hell of a lot nicer than the barracks back in the garrison, uh…Ma’am,” he added hurriedly.

“What’s your name, trooper?” Petrova asked as she smirked up at him.

“Lindgren, Ma’am,” he replied as he stood up a little straighter. “Private.”

“Lindgren is hard to remember. What do your friends call you?”

“Thomas, Ma’am,” he replied, keeping his eyes level with the wall above her head as though afraid to make eye contact. “Well…my friends call me Tiny Tom.”

“On account of you being anything but,” Petrova said with a smile. She reached out and gave his arm a powerful pat, making the giant of a man flinch. “How are you feeling after our little encounter yesterday, Tiny? Not too beat up, I hope?”

“Recovering, Ma’am,” he replied as he finally deigned to meet her gaze. “I just wanted to say – thank you for the opportunity. Please pass my thanks on to the Commander…if that’s appropriate. I wish my dad was still alive to see this. He always wanted me to amount to something more than a miner, and he wouldn’t have believed this.”

“I’ll let the Commander know,” Petrova replied with a smile. “Now, go wash up, Tiny. We have a dinner date.”

“Ma’am?” he asked, seeming momentarily flustered.

“The orientation,” she chuckled, giving him a look over her shoulder as she turned to leave.

As she headed away from the recruits and the sound of their excited chatter faded, she heard a call come through in her earpiece. It was Barbosa.

“Petrova – we have a problem. Please report to the aft medbay.”

She hurried through the corridors, descending deeper into the carrier’s innards, following the light green lines until they led her to her destination. She stepped through a door marked with a six-pointed medical cross, emerging into a fully furnished field hospital. The carrier’s medbay was designed to handle casualties during wartime, and it was only one of several similar facilities spaced throughout the ship. This one had two dozen ICUs, three times that number of beds, and was furnished with everything from bulky medical scanning machines to automated surgical robots. There were several wide windows that looked out over operating theaters, and everywhere she looked, there were supplies packed into storage racks and shelves. If she didn’t know better, it could have been mistaken for a dirtside hospital on any major colony.

There was somewhat of a lobby by the main door, complete with a check-in desk, where several people were clustered. Barbosa was among them – easily identifiable by his ravaged features, and Song was standing beside him. Doctor Nilsson was there, as were several strangers who looked like crew members. They were dressed in scrubs and white coats, the medic logo emblazoned on their chests. Judging by their expressions, they had been arguing.

“Petrova,” Barbosa began, seeming relieved to see her as she entered. “Have the recruits been brought aboard?”

“I took them to their quarters a short time ago, Commander,” she replied as she eyed the strangers curiously. “They’re getting settled in.”

“Good, good,” he continued impatiently. “Maybe you can talk some sense into these people. They’re refusing to perform the surgeries, despite my assurances that all of the subjects understand the risks and have consented.”

“What’s the problem?” Petrova asked, turning to the medics.

“We’re not performing amputations on healthy patients,” one of them replied, crossing her arms stubbornly. “It’s completely unethical, for one. It’s a violation of the Hippocratic oath that we all took when we were certified, and it’s also illegal under the Yellow Sea Treaty.”

“The YST is very clear,” one of her male colleagues added. “It prohibits the augmentation or the alteration of the human body for the purpose of warfare by way of cybernetics, genetic engineering, or indoctrination. The amputation of a healthy limb or the removal of a functioning organ to be replaced with a prosthetic equivalent is prohibited by UN law, and such surgeries can only be performed for valid medical reasons. There’s no valid medical reason for what you’re doing here, and you sure as hell haven’t established an ethics board.”

“We agreed to stay on the carrier because we have a duty to treat its crew,” another woman continued. “Even if we object to what you’re doing here, we can’t turn away those in need for the same reasons the law requires us to treat enemy combatants, but we’re not mutilating healthy patients.”

“Don’t look at me,” Nilsson complained, raising his hands defensively. “I have no control over these people!”

“I’ll cut off their limbs,” Song suggested with a shrug. “That would make it medically necessary.”

“Song, please,” Barbosa grumbled as the medics exchanged shocked glances. “Your input is not helpful in this situation. Lieutenant Commander Petrova can assure you that all of her recruits have been briefed on the risks involved in the surgeries, and all of those present on the carrier have given their consent. None of them were coerced. We can have them sign waivers if that’s what you want.”

“Consent doesn’t change a damned thing,” the first woman insisted. “You can’t consent to an illegal surgery. Maybe you’ve been desensitized to the concept, but being a soldier is supposed to be temporary. It’s a career that you’re intended to retire from.”

“Retire,” Barbosa repeated with a bitter laugh that rang hollow in his artificial throat. “I’ve been at war longer than most of you have been alive. Humanity only survived because people like me had to bear the burden and make the hard choices. Do you have any idea how many battles would have been lost if the people who mattered had taken that damned treaty seriously? We’re talking about the survival of the species here, people,” he added with a growl that made a few of them pull back reflexively. “You have to break a few eggs to make an omelet, and if I tell you to break those eggs, you’d better damned well do it. This carrier is under my command, and you’re subject to wartime law.”

“Or what?” the woman replied, stepping forward to face him down. “You gonna shoot us and shove us out of the hangar like you did to those poor engineers? Fine, go ahead. I’d like to see you perform surgery on a hundred people with a staff of meatheads who don’t know their renal system from their rectum! You can’t force us to cooperate.”

“He probably can,” Nilsson warned, looking increasingly nervous as the Commander stared the woman down with his artificial eyes. “Take it from me – giving him what he wants is the least lethal option.”

The tension in the air could have been cut with a knife, but Barbosa finally relented, his posture relaxing.

“Very well,” he began. “She’s right – we can’t compel them to do anything, and summary execution for dereliction of duty will accomplish nothing. Plan B it is. Song, please contact Hoff and have him arrange for staff from the colony’s general hospital to be reassigned to the carrier. They can assist Nilsson and his team in performing the operations, and we can have the surgical bots handle most of the microsurgery. I believe that our medical staff will be compelled to render assistance during the patients’ recovery and rehabilitation,” he added with a glance at the defiant doctors. “The same oaths that prohibit them from performing the amputations compel them, as I understand it.”

“You can’t do that!” one of the medics protested. “You’d be depriving the people on that planet of qualified medical personnel!”

“If you won’t perform the surgeries yourselves, then you leave me no choice,” Barbosa replied. “What’ll it be? These operations will be happening with or without your participation.”

“It’s not a question of logic!” she shot back. “That’s what you don’t understand! There are ethical and moral lines that we cannot cross, regardless of whether you think it makes sense or not. Something wrong doesn’t suddenly become right because you make some deterministic argument that suits the situation!”

“Then the outcome for the colonists will be on your heads,” Barbosa replied, turning to leave the room. Petrova quickly followed, tailing him out into the corridor. He looked understandably frustrated, but also tired, as though the exchange had been somehow taxing.

“Commander?” she began as he marched away from the medbay. “Are you certain this is the best solution? Nilsson and his people are qualified for this kind of surgery, and the carrier’s crew has some experience treating battlefield injuries, but that won’t be the case for many of the civilians.”

“I didn’t expect to be at a deficit of troops before the UNN even arrived,” he replied. “We have to accelerate our timetable – we can’t afford to wait any longer. Nilsson and his people can handle a lot of the surgeries. They have the experience, and they can program the surgical bots to carry out some of the more intricate work, but that’s only part of the process. They’ll need all kinds of support staff, from surgical assistants to nurses to physical therapists. I expected to have a mostly operational and minimally staffed medbay by this point, but the crew is being less than cooperative. We have no choice but to improvise.”

“What if the civilians also refuse?”

“They have a lot more to lose with this carrier’s guns pointed at their city.”

“I worry that we’re putting the recruits at risk, Commander. We have fewer qualified people than we really need, and not all of the surgeries would have been successful even under ideal conditions.”

“They know what they signed up for,” Barbosa replied. He paused suddenly, leaning against the wall as though feeling unsteady. Petrova moved to assist, but he waved her away with a prosthetic arm, reaching into a pouch on his belt. There was that hypodermic injector again – Barbosa loading it with a capsule and stabbing it into his neck. He waited a few moments, then seemed to recover, standing up straighter.

“Commander?” Petrova asked warily. “Is something wrong? This is the second time I’ve seen you take that medication. If it’s something that could jeopardize the mission, shouldn’t I know about it?”

“Follow me to the officer’s quarters,” he replied. “You’re right – it’s time I filled you in.”

***

“Something to drink?” Barbosa asked as he poured himself a glass of whiskey.

“No, thank you,” Petrova replied, settling into the comfortable couch opposite the Commander. He set the ornate bottle down on the coffee table, then lifted the cup, taking a long draw before he began to speak.

“You know a fair bit about augmentation and prosthetics, I’d assume? You have an understanding of how they interface with your body and interpret its signals?”

“It varies depending on the type and severity of the injury, but I know that our more…elective methods are more consistent,” she replied. “The basic premise is that severed nerves at the wound site are fused to wires, thus allowing them to transmit electrical signals. Electronics in the prosthetic then interpret those signals into commands. There’s usually a soft layer of antiseptic gel that protects the wound, but I don’t think you’re asking me for an explanation.”

“What about organs?” he continued. “My eyes, for example, or a kidney or lung.”

“Organs are much the same,” she said, wondering where he was going with his line of questioning. “They attach to existing structures and interpret signals from the brain, performing the functions of the missing biology. A kidney will filter blood, and a lung will exchange gases.”

“Our prosthetics and our medical technology have become so advanced that we can hook up an artificial eye to severed optic nerves like we’re changing a light bulb,” Barbosa declared proudly. “As incredible as that is, there’s still a lot that we don’t understand about the human body, and there’s a lot that we can’t do.”

“What are you getting at, Commander?”

“The human body is an interdependent system,” he began, the ice cubes in his glass clinking as he took another sip. “While replacing limbs and organs might seem relatively simple on a macro scale, it’s the micro scale that’s of concern. Thinking of our bodies as one cohesive organism is simply an outdated concept. We are colonial organisms – creatures formed from a collective of interconnected parts, none of which can survive on their own. Even your brain and your thoughts aren’t entirely under your own control. It performs many functions that operate wholly outside of your conscious awareness, an example being the sympathetic nervous system. We are merely the passengers of these colonial organisms, like an autopilot system evolved to help direct it and protect its interests.”

“That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” Petrova mused. “Maybe I will have that drink.”

“Don’t worry, I promise that this all has a point,” he chuckled. “An artificial heart can pump blood, and a prosthetic limb can raise a glass,” he continued as he lifted his drink to demonstrate. “The problem is, they can’t replicate what’s happening on a cellular and molecular scale. Cell division, communication with the nervous system, DNA replication and sequencing – these are things that a synthetic replacement cannot mimic. Not without nano-scale robotics that are currently beyond our technology, at least.”

“You’re saying that it’s not as simple as replacing a damaged kidney with an artificial one?” Petrova asked. “Why not? Doesn’t it perform the exact same functions as the original, if not with more efficiency?”

“Yes, but only on a superficial level,” Barbosa explained. “The kidney’s job is not merely to filter waste from the blood, but to regulate hormones, and to communicate with the central nervous system and immune system. They reabsorb nutrients from the blood, they maintain pH, they manage the electrolyte balance, they secrete active compounds that help the body regulate itself. It’s incredibly complex, and while we can simulate some of these functions, we can’t simulate all of them. Now, replacing a single kidney isn’t much of an issue, is it?”

“I wouldn’t assume so,” Petrova replied with a shrug. “The other organs could pick up the slack. The human body is very adaptable.”

“But what about both?” Barbosa pressed, leaning closer across the table. “What about multiple organs that all had intricate, complex interactions that are no longer happening? The human body has around two hundred and six bones. When combined, there are about thirty bones in each limb. Quads like you and I have lost more than half of our skeletons – we have, on average, eighty to ninety left. Bones aren’t just structural anchor points for muscles – they perform all kinds of crucial functions, from producing red and white blood cells to storing fats and minerals. My heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, even vast swathes of my skin are gone. You’re probably aware that many of our more augmented personnel already take immuno-stimulants and nutrient cocktails regularly.”

“I’ve had to take some myself while on deployments,” she confirmed with a nod.

“I am one of the most augmented humans alive,” Barbosa continued, staring into his glass. With his artificial eyes, it was hard to gauge what he might be feeling. Was it pride? Regret? “I’m old, Petrova. I replaced so many of my body parts, thinking that it was no different from taking a car into the shop for a tune-up. It made me strong and effective, and it extended my active service far beyond what would have been possible otherwise, but the debts are due and the Devil has come to collect.”

“What do you mean, Commander?” Petrova asked as she felt her heart sink. “Are you saying that…you’re dying?”

“I have Cascade Failure,” he replied with a weary smile. “You won’t have heard of it. Few people are old enough and have enough augs to contract it, and I’m probably one of the first documented cases. One for the history books, if you will. When you replace enough organic parts, your body reaches a tipping point where it can no longer function properly. The nervous system begins to atrophy without proper stimuli, things like hormonal processes and immune responses start to malfunction, and the flow of waste and nutrients is disturbed. There is, as the name suggests, a cascading failure in which the body’s systems shut down in a form of simulated death. In short, your body forgets that it’s alive.”

“So, those injections that I’ve seen you taking…”

“Those drugs are the only thing keeping my immune system and my hormones in check,” he replied. “They give me minerals and vitamins that I can no longer metabolize or create myself, and they slow my body’s degradation, but it’s a stopgap measure. There’s no recovering from this. Even if I was able to clone every limb and organ that I’ve lost, the chances of me surviving such a traumatic surgery in my present condition would be minimal at best.”

“How long do you have left?” Petrova asked.

“Five years at the most – probably less,” he replied. “Don’t look so glum, Petrova,” he added with an eyeless smile. “I’ve lived a long and full life – a fuller one than I could have without the augs. I have no regrets about my past, but I do worry for our collective future. With the direction of the UN changing so drastically, I knew that I had to act while there was still time. There would be no rest for me if I left the Galaxy in this state.”

“That’s one of the reasons you made your move when you did,” Petrova mumbled. “You saw an opportunity, and you knew that it could be your last.”

“It certainly gave me the kick in the pants that I needed,” he said with a synthetic laugh. “No more waiting and hoping, no more biding my time and trying to influence politics from the shadows. I had to take matters into my own hands and secure humanity’s legacy.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Petrova continued. “Why keep it from the others?”

“I want you to be my successor, Petrova,” he insisted. “You are my most trusted Lieutenant, but more than that, you ask questions where others merely obey. You see things that others don’t, you’re intelligent – you think outside the box, and you have real love for the people you protect. Hoff is loyal and fearless, but he lacks your empathy. Song is the smartest man I know, but he has the emotional intelligence of a vacuum cleaner. Roach and Crow are brilliant leaders and tacticians, but they can’t win the love and admiration of their men the way you can. You must be the glue that holds them together and keeps them focused. You must learn all that you can from me, and if there comes a time when I cannot complete the work, you must do it in my stead.”

“You hinted at something similar in the hangar that day – after we took the carrier,” she began, still reeling from the sudden deluge of information. “I didn’t realize you were being so literal. Commander, I can’t even envision what this independent Hades of yours will look like when the work is complete or how it will function.”

“Do your best,” he replied simply. “It will be good enough – always has been. I still have plenty of time to teach you, and if I have my way, I’ll be handing you a functioning colony to preside over.”

They were suddenly interrupted, both lifting a finger to their earpieces as Song’s voice transmitted through them.

“Commander, Lieutenant?”

“What is it, Song?” Barbosa sighed.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have an emergency situation,” he continued. “The carrier’s sensors just detected an anomalous gravitational wave signature out at the edge of the system. Based on the size of the blip, and the lack of any scheduled freighter traffic, it’s safe to assume that it’s a small vessel.”

“A Courser,” Barbosa growled, glancing across the table at Petrova. “What’s the light-speed delay on that signal, Song?”

“About five hours, Commander,” Song replied. “By now, that ship will be long gone. Even if we tasked all three of our Coursers to the search, our chances of finding it would be statistically insignificant.”

“Now I’m doubly glad that we’re accelerating our timetable,” Barbosa continued as he rose from his seat, downing the last of his drink in one gulp. “A UNN Courser has no reason to be here other than to collect information, which means they’re onto us. Where in the hell did it come from, and how could it have gotten here so quickly?”

“If there had been a Courser snooping about in the Mu Arae system, it would have been extremely hard to spot,” Petrova suggested. “They are stealth craft, after all.”

“Well, it’s inside the system now,” Barbosa grumbled. “Unless it suddenly starts emitting signals, we won’t be able to find it. We’ll have to make sure that we maintain control over the colony’s comms. The last thing we want is the insurgency feeding them information about our operations. Song – have the EWAR ship monitor any outgoing communications that aren’t authorized by our people and shut them down. I’m heading to the bridge.”

“I’ll see that it’s done, Commander,” Song replied before disconnecting.

“It seems that we never get a moment of peace, do we?” Barbosa sighed as he looked to Petrova in a way that seemed apologetic. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’m sure the Governor will be talking my ear off before the day is through, the way my luck is going. If you want to talk, it will have to be later. I must deal with this most recent crisis.”

He left her sitting in the comfortable chair, the door closing behind him. After a moment of hesitation, she reached across the table and snatched the bottle by its narrow neck, taking a long drink that burned all the way down.

Her head was still spinning, and it wasn’t because of the alcohol. Barbosa must have known for months – maybe years, that his time was running out. It wasn’t only the presence of the carrier at Mu Arae and the cancellation of the Bullshark project that had forced his hand. If he had waited any longer, he might have died before another opportunity presented itself. Had he kept it a secret because he assumed the men’s faith in him might be shaken – that they might not follow him if they knew how short his rule over Hades might be? Was she really his chosen successor?

She looked down at her own hands, flexing her polymer fingers. Her prosthetics had always been a source of reassurance and confidence. They made her feel stronger and more resilient, their steel and plastic impervious to injury and decay, but her faith in them had been shaken for the first time. She wasn’t nearly as augmented as Barbosa and some of the other agents were – she still had all of her original organs, but half of her skeleton was gone. Half of her marrow, half of her capacity to make platelets and blood cells, half of her T-cells. She might not be facing Cascade Failure, but how much had her body been compromised? How many other agents might face the condition in the future?

As much as she needed time to reflect, she had none to spare, her earpiece buzzing as she received new orders.

DAY 21 – HADES – REED

Reed walked along the dusty street, his features obscured by a full-face rebreather of the kind commonly worn by miners, a long cloak wrapped around his head and shoulders. He heard the whine of a motor rise above the wind that whistled between the prefabs, lifting his gaze to see a surveillance drone pass overhead, its six rotors struggling against the Hadean atmosphere. The sand and heat were going to do a number on those things, if they didn’t get blown away outright.

As he continued on, he saw a vehicle approaching in the distance. It was an APC, a small procession of troopers walking alongside it as it trundled along, matching their pace. There was another trooper poking out of a hatch above the cab, holding an XMR as he watched Reed give them a wide berth.

Patrols had increased dramatically after the attack on the garrison, and the Borgs were closing their fist just as the resistance had hoped. While the PDF presence had become far more visible in the streets, the SWAR presence had lessened, the Borgs receding now that they knew they were being targeted. Several days had passed with no opportunities for ambushes or bombings, but instilling a little fear in them was a victory in itself. Still, despite a few successful attacks, they were no closer to ousting the occupiers from Hades. That would take a lot more work.

He saw his destination ahead, the flickering, sand-encrusted neon sign of a bar casting its faint glow into the street. It wasn’t the one that Ruza and his friends had frequented – it would be too dangerous to go back there – but there were many such watering holes scattered throughout the city where weary workers liked to congregate after a shift. He glanced around the street to make sure that there were no more patrols, then stepped inside, the automatic door closing behind him to shut out the wind and airborne dust. More loose sand fell from his clothes as he brushed himself off in the foyer, the sound of muffled conversations greeting him as he proceeded deeper.

The bar was small by most metrics, only able to accommodate a few dozen people. Most of its patrons were clustered around tables, hunched over drinks and snacks, the fumes from cigarettes lingering in the air like a noxious cloud. Reed would have relished the excuse to keep his rebreather on, but it would be impolite not to remove it, the acrid scent stinging his nose as he let the mask hang around his neck on its strap. A couple of the burly men leaned out of his way to let him pass as he weaved between them, heading for a bar at the far end of the room, where the establishment’s owner was pouring a drink for another customer.

Reed took a seat and ordered a beer, glancing around his environment as he took a sip from the sweating can. The monitor above the bar was on, but it was muted, the Governor’s face addressing the room in silence.

“Can you turn that up?” he asked, gesturing to the screen. The bartender did as he asked, quickly returning to his work, the Governor’s voice carrying over the noise of the bar.

“…conducting interviews with the grieving families of the victims. Many more members of our beloved PDF remain missing, and any information concerning their whereabouts should be reported to your local garrison. These unprecedented attacks against the people of Hades have forced my hand, and I’ve had no choice but to institute a state of martial law in response to these cowardly acts. Your neighborhood PDF and special detachments of UN peacekeeping forces will be patrolling the streets for your protection. Anyone caught outside after nine PM local time will be treated as a suspicious person and may be subject to detainment and searches. Please bear with my administration while these terrorists are rooted out and brought to justice. In response to the recent complaints from the Trade Association about a shortage of basic goods, we…”

It seemed that the Governor was playing his cards well. He had been making frequent broadcasts, spreading propaganda and trying to turn the population against the resistance. The occupiers had probably wanted to implement martial law and curfews since day one, and now, they had a perfect excuse. Even the drying up of goods and supplies due to the blockaded tether had been twisted to implicate the resistance, the Governor claiming that saboteurs were blowing up shipments of food and medicine. That wasn’t true, of course. The only shipments the resistance had been destroying were weapons and ammunition being sent from the factories.

The general population didn’t really know much about the resistance yet. They had only heard the Governor refer to them as terrorists and insurgents, and they had felt the effects of the ongoing crackdowns. Tonight, that was going to change.

Reed waited until the bartender was distracted, then pulled up his phone, using the tool that Astrid had installed to tap into the local wireless network. He found what he thought was the display, overriding its signal with his own, the feed of the Governor’s speech changing to a different scene. This one showed a view of Rivera and a few of his fellow Marines, the men sitting in a nondescript room against a blank wall. They were facing the camera, dressed in their blue Navy uniforms with their little golden rank insignias.

“My name is Staff Sergeant Rivera, UNN Marine Corps,” he began. “I was stationed aboard the carrier Tirad, which is currently in orbit over your colony. I come before you today to deliver a warning. The people who invaded your colony in the name of the UN are not Naval personnel,” he said with a shake of his head. “Though they might wear UNN uniforms and use UNN equipment, they are in no way affiliated with the UNN, and they do not act with the authority of the Admiralty.”

“Whoa, check this out!” Reed declared loudly as he gestured to the monitor. A few of the nearby patrons were turning to look, the miners who were hunched over their little tables sparing him curious glances as he disturbed their peace.

“What the hell is this?” one of the nearby workers muttered.

“They are known as SWAR,” Rivera continued, his expression dour. “Special Weapons and Advanced Recon – a special forces branch of the Navy. A small faction within this group has gone rogue and is orchestrating a complete takeover of Hades. They attacked our carrier at port, killing many of its crew, and used it as a platform to launch their invasion of your home. The PDF killed during the invasion were not criminals – they were murdered in cold blood, and many more are still being held inside the garrisons. Those you see patrolling the streets have either capitulated or been misled, and they are working for the enemy.”

“Do you believe this shit?” another of the miners added, nudging his neighbor to make sure that he was paying attention. A crowd was forming now, some of the patrons leaving their seats to approach the bar for a better view, others craning their necks and leaning out of their booths.

“Who are these guys?”

“Is this for real?”

“Shut up – I’m trying to listen!”

“There are prisoners being held in every garrison throughout the city,” Rivera continued. “Most are PDF who are still loyal to you – the people, and many more are crew who were transferred from the carrier. If you have missing loved ones, they are likely still alive. These traitors are led by a man named Barbosa, who is commanding the occupation from the carrier. They’re forcing your workers to build weapons for them, they’re blockading your supplies, and they’re stealing the raw materials from your mines for their own purposes. Governor Serio and his administration are already under their control.”

Reed glanced around the bar, hearing more muttering and hushed conversations, the patrons already starting to discuss this new information. Some would be skeptical, and some might reject the concept outright, but the important thing was that they would be spreading the gossip.

“I don’t know if we should be watching this shit,” the bartender complained, but a few of the patrons grumbled and waved him away when he moved to switch it off.

“Leave it on, Pete! We’re watching!”

“Yeah, let it play.”

“The people of Hades are not taking this lying down,” Rivera said. “We have established an armed resistance movement that includes citizens, loyal PDF, and freed Navy personnel. We are acting with the authority of the UN and within the bounds of the law to restore order to Hades and remove the illegitimate occupiers by any means necessary. Help will come in time, but until then, we must be responsible for our own protection. Now, I would like to introduce you to some PDF who will corroborate this story and share their experiences.”

What followed were brief interviews with PDF who confirmed what Rivera was saying, along with a few testimonies from civilians about their treatment, Ruza’s friend Amy being among them. The PDF were locals who had families that might recognize them, and Amy’s bruises were sure to inflame some tempers. Everyone featured was already known to the enemy, and thus were put in no undue danger.

When the broadcast was over, Reed finished his beer and headed out, leaving the patrons to their heated discussion about what they had just seen. More resistance members had made trips to dozens of similar bars and public places to spread the word, and Astrid had uploaded the footage all over the intranet, so every shop floor and break room should be abuzz with gossip by tomorrow morning. He donned his mask and picked up the pace, hoping to get back to the nearest tunnel before curfew.

DAY 22 – HADES – THE GOVERNOR

“It’s all over the damned intranet,” the Governor snarled, tossing a tablet computer onto his desk. Hoff lifted the device from its polished surface, watching a recording of a UNN Marine talking into a camera. “He says his name is Rivera. I’m assuming he was one of yours?”

“This guy was interned at Garrison Seventeen,” Hoff replied in his synthetic timbre, shifting his weight in the padded armchair. “He was freed during the attack, along with about two hundred other prisoners.”

“The Marines are one thing, but these PDF are the real problem,” the Governor added. “We could have played off the Marines as being a hoax, but people know these troopers – they have friends and family on Hades. Their testimonies about the living conditions and abuse in the shelter are ruffling a lot of feathers. And what’s this thing about the girl who looks like someone used her head as a speedball? Do you know anything about that?”

“I didn’t do it,” Hoff scoffed. “We can’t staff every garrison with SWAR – the locals are doing most of the grunt work.”

“You know who she is, though?”

“One of the Rask’s friends,” Hoff replied, tossing the tablet back onto the desk. “We got some useful information out of her, namely about where the hell the alien came from. I didn’t lay a hand on her myself, or she’d be in a lot worse shape. You can be sure of that.”

“I don’t care who did the punching,” the Governor sighed, rubbing his temple. “This makes us look bad, do you understand that? Can you get the concept through that thick skull of yours? We were gaining control of the narrative with our media campaign about the victims of the garrison attack, but now there’s a competing one, and it’s spreading like wildfire. It doesn’t matter whether people believe it, reject it, or remain undecided. The simple fact is that it’s out there, and people are talking about it everywhere. Barbosa is suggesting we take down the intranet as a means of stopping the spread of information, but that will probably backfire and just make us look guilty. Was your information guy able to track down the source?”

“Song couldn’t find anything,” Hoff replied. “There’s no metadata in the file that’s been distributed, no visible landmarks to give away their location, and the streams had spoofed addresses. He says that the files must have been transferred from physical devices on-site, and he thinks the insurgents are probably using some kind of network that’s off the grid.”

“What, they have their own infrastructure?” the Governor asked.

“That’s what he said.”

“They’re underground – that’s obvious enough,” the Governor continued. “Did you find anything in the tunnels yet?”

“We’ve started sending PDF teams down to map them out,” Hoff replied. “The going is slow, and the tunnels seem to run for miles. A lot of the smaller passages connect to abandoned mines, and not all of those are on the maps you gave us, so they were probably off the books too. You sure you’re not holding out on us?” he added, leaning a little closer across the desk. “Say, if you happened to have advance knowledge of these smuggling routes and illegal mining ops and elected not to tell us?”

“Unfortunately for you, my administration was hard on crime and corruption,” he shot back. “If there were any Syndicate stooges lurking around after their bosses were all compressed into a singularity or whatever the hell happened to them, they weren’t talking to me.”

“Convenient for you.”

“Let’s move on, shall we?” the Governor sighed. “Our main order of business today is the strike at the steel plant. That’s why Barbosa sent you over, isn’t it?”

“What’s the sitrep?” Hoff asked, settling back into his seat.

“The situation is that the plant workers have called a general strike due to worsening working conditions and a lack of pay,” the Governor explained. “They’re working too many shifts without enough breaks, and the overtime that we promised them isn’t materializing. We can’t create money out of thin air, and without being able to sell enough of their steel, the cash flow is running dry. The FMU is adamant, and they’ve stopped negotiating.”

“FMU?” Hoff asked, scratching his nose with a prosthetic finger.

“The Factory and Metalworkers Union!” the Governor prompted with an irritated shake of his head. “Barbosa put you in charge of security – how do you not know the major players? I’d tell you to do your homework, but that would involve teaching you how to read, which might be an insurmountable task.”

“Funny guy,” Hoff added with a sarcastic smile. “I thought you said you could handle the unions? That’s what we keep you around for, isn’t it?”

“I can handle the unions only to an extent,” the Governor protested, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “But when your Commander doesn’t listen to me and tries to run the factories like military installations, that undermines my efforts to keep everyone happy. Look – the metric is simple. The factories make steel smelted from ore and scrap. The factories sell the steel. When Barbosa takes the steel, they can’t sell it, and they have less money to pay their workers. Understand? Want me to write that down for you on a napkin?”

“The Boss says he wants the factory up and running again,” Hoff replied as he lounged in the chair. “He said I had to talk to you first and see if you could get the workers back under control. If the union has stopped negotiating, then I have no choice but to go in and stop the strike myself.”

“This won’t be like the protest, Hoff,” the Governor warned as his tone turned dour. “These steelworkers will be entrenched, and many of them may be armed. We also can’t discount the possibility that the insurgency is involved and may be supporting them in some way. I offered the FMU a lot of generous concessions, and they didn’t accept any of them, almost like they weren’t looking for a solution at all. If you go in there guns blazing, it’s going to be a bloodbath, and dead steel workers can’t make steel any faster than striking ones can.”

“You can question my methods all you want, but I get results,” Hoff replied as he rose from the leather cushions. “I’ve killed enough insurgents with my own hands to pretty much even the score by this point. Haven’t heard a peep out of them in days. We’ve tried it your way – now it’s my turn.”

“Then whatever happens will be on your head.”

“Remember – time’s running out,” Hoff said as he paused by the office door and tapped his wrist. “You’re getting less useful by the day, and once Barbosa is done with you, we’ll see how funny you really are.”

“What does that even mean?” the Governor grumbled as the agent stepped out.

CHAPTER 11

DAY 23 – STEEL PLANT – RUZA

“Just got confirmation,” Reed said as he stowed his phone in his pocket. “Our guys have spotted dropships taking off from one of the garrisons, and a convoy of PDF vehicles is on its way. The Borgs are taking the bait.”

“Can we guarantee that Hoff will be here?” Rivera asked.

“I don’t think he’d miss a chance to crack some skulls,” Reed replied. “He’s not the type to sit back and leave all of the fun brutality to his men. Omar seemed pretty confident that he’d show up in force as a way of sending a message.”

“And all of your snares are in place?” Ruza asked, his arms crossed as he leaned against the far wall.

The men were standing in an old office, a few of the steel plant’s towering chimneys visible beyond the dusty windows, belching dark smoke that was quickly carried away by the wind. It wasn’t unlike the room where Ruza had originally met with Bergmann, though it had seen more frequent use, the sparse furniture not quite as caked with dirt. This place stank – the inescapable fumes from the smelting stinging his nose wherever he went. The plant was massive and sprawling, almost like a small city in its own right. It formed a maze of pipes and unidentifiable machinery, sitting in the desert just beyond the city like a steel jungle amidst the ocean of dunes. Ruza hadn’t spent much time around human industry, and he was already starting to dislike it.

“Everything is ready,” Reed confirmed with a nod. “Plans A through C are good to go. We’ve all seen these Bullsharks in action now,” he added, glancing around the office. “We all have some idea of what they’re capable of. Remember – guns won’t do shit against these things. If push comes to shove and this op goes south, you run. Don’t try to be a hero, don’t stand your ground, you tuck your tail between your legs and get the fuck out. No offense,” he added with a nod to Ruza.

“Another colorful human expression, I assume,” the Rask grumbled.

“The men are in place,” Rivera added. “We have Marines and loyal PDF hiding among the workers. When the shooting starts, they’ll be in solid, defensible positions. We tried to convince the plant workers to evacuate, but a lot of them stuck around. They’re certainly tenacious – I’ll give them that. I just hope they don’t get in the way.”

“I don’t know how I feel about using you to draw Hoff out,” Reed said, looking to Ruza again. “Are you sure about this?”

“You have asked me several times already.”

“Yeah, well I’m asking you again,” Reed insisted as he folded his arms.

“Hoff harbors a hatred for the insurgents, but I am his most coveted prize,” Ruza replied. “If I challenge him openly, I believe he will pursue me, and he will likely attempt to capture me alive. It is a risk, but one that I choose to take.”

“Well, let’s hope that one of the plans works,” Reed muttered. “I’m pretty confident in B.”

“If you were asked to board a shuttle and the pilot told you that he was pretty confident it would fly, would you get on?” Rivera asked.

“If it was a Navy shuttle, probably not,” Reed scoffed.

“Cease your bickering,” Ruza growled, leaning over to glance out of the nearest window. “We must get into position. It will not be long before the enemy is upon us.”

He lifted his rifle from where it was leaning against the wall, donning his mask and goggles before draping his shawl over his head. Many of the fighters could travel freely and go unseen thanks to the conditions on Hades, but the same could not be said for a Rask. He was two feet taller than even the largest humans, and he stuck out like a sore thumb, as Reed would say. The man could scarcely get a sentence out without including some nonsensical human expression or adage.

Reed and Rivera donned hardhats and high-vis vests, disguising themselves as workers, hefting rifles and heading out onto a raised catwalk outside the office. Ruza followed, ducking through the low door and stepping out into the hot midday sun.

The steel plant stretched out before him – a vast sprawl of structures that occupied an industrial park, great pipes and overhead skywalks crossing the vaguely defined roads and walkways that snaked through the maze. There were more distinct buildings buried beneath it all that housed some of the larger and more dangerous machines, some of them easily the size of the warehouses he had seen. Great towers rose up towards the sky, belching plumes of dark smoke – the way that the endless pipes and scaffolds enclosed them reminded him of great trees laden with parasitic vines. To his eye, it looked like the mechanical guts of a jump carrier had been turned inside out and somehow deposited on the surface, as though some great metal beast had spilled its innards, but each and every part had some purpose or meaning to its builders.

It was a far cry from the rows of furnaces and bellows that he was used to seeing back in his home territory. The humans did everything at such large scales that it often lost all meaning to him, like someone repeating a single word or phrase until it ceased to make sense. They proceeded down the narrow metal steps until they reached ground level, his two human companions heading off to join a picket line that had assembled near the plant’s parking lot. They were making a lot of noise, clustered together in a large group that had formed a loose line blocking the entrance to the plant proper, homemade signs and vests tied to poles waving in the air.

A couple of hundred workers were present, a substantial number of which were resistance fighters in disguise, and more were concealed throughout the plant. The forest of interwoven machinery, side passages, and overhead gantries made for very defensible positions. The snipers that Ruza had personally trained were among them, hidden in elevated perches high in the towers, their rifles trained on the ground below.

“Stick to the plan,” Rivera said as the three men parted ways. “And remember – no heroics.”

“Why are you looking at Ruza?” Reed complained in mock outrage. “I can be heroic too, you know.”

“Just get to your mark,” the Marine sighed.

Ruza turned his back on the picket line, heading deeper into the facility, following a dusty road that was bridged by more walkways and gantries above. They connected the structures to either side of him, their metal walls rising up several stories, a few dirty windows looking out from their weather-beaten facades. This must be where the trucks would bring scrap and ore from the mines into the factory for processing.

Strapping his rifle across his back, he leapt from the ground, easily able to clear his own height in a single jump in this low gravity. Like an Araxie climbing through the jungle canopy, he made his way up, hooking his claws around the skeletal structural supports and pipes, heaving himself up onto an elevated walkway. He would be hard to spot from this position, and he would have a good view of the parking lot through his scope. His sensitive ears twitched as they heard the telltale whir of a rotor, and he lifted his head to see a pair of surveillance drones hovering over the site. There was enough cover above him that he should be difficult to spot, but it wouldn’t matter for much longer. There would come a time when he wanted the enemy to see him.

Ruza leveled his rifle and rested its barrel on a low guard rail, taking a knee and dialing in his scope so that he could get a closer look at the protesters. They looked convincing – there were no visible weapons, and nobody had forgotten to remove their armband.

He spotted a dust cloud in the distance, increasing his magnification to see a procession of armored personnel carriers heading in from the city along the solitary road. It was impossible to lose one’s sense of direction with the towering space tether visible for hundreds of miles. There was a dark shape standing out against the deep blue of the sky, too, and Ruza shifted his aim higher. A pair of dropships were flying above the convoy in tight formation, their glass canopies reflecting the sunlight.

“I have sighted the enemy,” Ruza said, lifting a pad to his earpiece. There had been no earpieces custom-made for Borealans of the kind he had used while working for the UNN, so Astrid had built him one, a headband securing the device near his ear. “Two dropships and five APCs – estimate two SWAR teams and twice as many PDF.”

“Let’s hope one of those shuttles is carrying Big-H,” Reed replied.

“We’re not calling him that,” Rivera complained.

“I just did, over.”

“Keep the comms clear,” Ruza muttered.

The dropships arrived first, but instead of landing, they began to circle overhead as they waited for the PDF to clear the site. The five trucks pulled up in the parking lot, keeping some distance from the picket line, PDF troopers pouring out of their rear doors. The men were equipped for riot control, wielding the same transparent shields that Ruza had seen them use at the protest. There were more guns this time, however – each group equipped with several XMRs. They spread out to form their own opposing line, some of the shooters taking up position to cover them, climbing atop parked cars to give themselves a little more elevation. Each of the APCs had a gunner poking out of a hatch in the roof, leveling a rifle at the protesters.

Only now did one of the dropships break off, swooping low over the parking lot and transitioning to vertical flight mode, its thrusters blasting the tarmac below clean of sand. It bounced on its wheeled landing gear, the large gun turret mounted beneath its overhanging tail dropping down, guarding the ramp as it began to open. The second dropship remained above, and Ruza noted that its gun was also deployed.

“They have aerial fire support,” Ruza warned.

“Those cannons will chew us up if we get caught out in the open,” Rivera warned. “I’ll alert the men. We may need to move quickly when this kicks off.”

Ruza watched as something large enough to make the dropship sag on its landing gear marched out of the troop bay, its gray and blue armor coming into view when it stepped out of the shadows. It was Hoff – easily identifiable by the yellow star that was painted on his suit’s chest piece. A dozen SWAR operatives poured out behind him, splitting into two fireteams and flanking to his left and right. Ruza’s last encounter with the Bullshark had been the sight of its painted teeth burning in the red glow of its hot coils, and it was no less intimidating in daylight, even from a distance. As always, the suit was wielding an overbuilt XMR large enough that even a Borealan would find it unwieldy. Every step that it took made its thick, layered armor panels shudder, the silver pistons and machinery that formed a skeletal frame around its limbs shifting.

“That’s our guy, alright,” Reed said over the radio. “Get ready.”

“There could be more reinforcements inside the second dropship,” Rivera added. “It’s impossible to say.”

“This is fewer operatives than responded to our diversion at the ASAT sites,” Reed continued as Ruza watched the airborne craft coast past overhead. “Maybe they’re anticipating another bait and switch?”

“There are still more than enough to be a problem,” Rivera grumbled. “Remember that Hoff is priority one. If we have to lead the rest of the SWAR team on a wild goose chase through the entire plant, that’s what we’ll do.”

Ruza didn’t feel too confident, but he refrained from voicing his concerns. He had seen firsthand what SWAR were capable of when the fight was fair and the insurgents lost the element of surprise, especially in enclosed spaces. Instead, he trusted the humans to do their part, watching through his scope as the towering suit lumbered towards the picket line.

“Fun’s over!” Hoff began, his voice carrying through the suit’s speakers. It was loud enough that Ruza’s sensitive ears could pick it up even at such a distance. “The Governor has declared this an illegal strike. Disperse and get back to work, or force will be used against you.”

The protesters responded with more chanting and waving of signs, Ruza observing the movements of the enemy from his high vantage point. The PDF were forming a shield phalanx down the center of the parking lot, while the two SWAR teams were moving to the left and right, forming a pincer. The tail gun of the landed dropship and the troopers watching over the crowd from atop their APCs were well-positioned if violence should break out. Timing would be paramount.

“I’m not gonna tell you twice!” Hoff shouted, lifting his massive XMR with a single hand and aiming it up into the air. “Get back on the line!”

He loosed a burst of gunfire, the deafening cracks of hypersonic slugs echoing across the plant and making Ruza flatten his ears, the weapon barely shifting in the suit’s grasp. The fighters knew the plan as well as Ruza did, and he watched as they began to slowly retreat. Their goal was to disperse into the factories and split up the enemy’s forces – give them no choice but to pursue in smaller groups, leveraging their greater numbers. There was no decisive victory that could be won here, and enemy reinforcements would arrive within fifteen or twenty minutes of being called, but taking out Hoff would be a strategic blow to the occupation.

The PDF began to move in, raising their shields, some of the troopers at their rear firing off grenade launchers. They were non-lethal weapons, the shells landing amongst the workers and spewing clouds of white gas – likely a chemical irritant. With all of the protesters wearing masks and goggles, it was minimally effective, the wind blowing it across the crowd like smoke.

Some of the workers near the back of the group began to toss rocks and stones at the PDF as the troopers inched forward, the projectiles bouncing off their shields and helmets harmlessly. Ruza had no fear of the peacekeepers – they were trained for scenarios like this, but he kept a close eye on the SWAR agents. They were still moving, and it looked as though they might be intending to cut off the workers’ retreat.

“Weapons at the ready,” Ruza warned. “Hold for my signal.”

His snipers were some of the best shots in the resistance, and he had tasked them with targeting the SWAR operatives. They would only get one opening salvo before they lost the element of surprise, and they had to make it count.

Omar had undergone the same training regimens as these PDF, and according to him, their next move would be to break formation and dash in. They would attempt to beat back the crowd and drag away individuals for arrest, but that couldn’t be allowed to happen, as any detainees might be tortured for information or simply executed.

“Keep moving back and reinforce the flanks!” Reed ordered. “Don’t let those fireteams get behind you!”

Hoff was marching behind the shield wall, raising his rifle and firing another burst into the sky, a few of the nearer protesters flinching away.

“You can spend the rest of the day at your posts, or you can spend it in a cell!” he bellowed, punctuating his threats with another crack of gunfire. “Your choice, dirt farmers!”

“We need to do something soon,” Reed warned. “If we let those fireteams get into position, the picket line will be boxed in, and our guys will be in the line of fire.”

“A little more,” Ruza insisted. “They have almost retreated through the main gate…”

The crowd continued to move back, the line of shields drawing nearer, the operatives creeping at the edges like razorbacks stalking a dying animal. Hoff drove them on with his jeers and threats, his grinning teeth looming over the troopers.

Ruza waited until the last moment – until the operatives were ready to spring the trap and the troopers were preparing to break ranks, exhaling as he let his crosshair come to rest on the painted helmet of one of the SWAR operatives.

“Fire on my mark,” he said, feeling the trigger beneath his pad. There would be more bloodshed this day, but he recalled what he had told Bergmann during their first meeting. The only way to oppose evil was for good men to be more skilled in violence.

He fired, the crack of his rifle echoing across the plant, the SWAR agent dropping out of view of his scope. Barely a breath later, six more shots rang out, the snipers who were perched in the towers firing almost in tandem. Five more agents dropped, their armor useless against the high-powered rifles, most dead before they had time to fall.

That was the signal for the protesters to break ranks, and they took advantage of the chaos to retreat back through the main gate, the wide aperture designed for large trucks doing little to slow them down. Once they were on the other side, the wall that encircled the plant was between them and the enemy, providing cover enough that they could disperse into the plant.

More shots joined the chorus, fighters laying down fire to cover the retreat from concealed positions atop elevated catwalks and through factory windows. The PDF riot shields provided no protection, the slugs tearing straight through the transparent polymer, sending several of them dropping to the dusty ground. It created a panic, the PDF not nearly as disciplined as the SWAR agents, the troopers scattering to the safety of nearby cars.

One of the agents who had taken a hit was still alive, thrashing on the ground as one of his companions began to drag him away, the rest of them firing bursts into the mess of pipes and walkways above in the hopes of suppressing the shooters. They rushed to the cover of the wall along with the more attentive PDF, getting out of sight.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” Hoff bellowed, tossing a flailing trooper out of his path with a swipe of his arm as they scurried before him like desert mice. “What are you waiting for, you idiots!? Return fire!”

The troopers mounted atop the APCs began to shoot back, molten trails sailing over the heads of their comrades, but they had no clear targets. Ruza watched as the fighters who had been part of the picket line sprinted across open ground, making it from the wall to the nearest cover, diving behind the sprawling industrial machinery or disappearing into buildings. Many were producing concealed sidearms from beneath their shawls, others pausing to pick up rifles that had been hidden just out of sight in preparation.

Hoff knocked another fleeing trooper aside, very nearly trampling the man, his suit flashing as some of the fighters targeted him. That must be his plasma shielding – Ruza had faced down similar countermeasures before. Instead of being a handheld shield that remained ignited, the system seemed to be reactive, only activating to create intermittent barriers to intercept the slugs.

The hulking suit spread its arms, inviting the gunfire, the segmented armor that made up its chest heaving as though its pilot was laughing. The fireteam that had taken fewer casualties darted out of cover and took refuge behind him, moving with him just as Marines were trained to advance behind their armored vehicles.

“You think you can kill me!?” Hoff demanded through his suit’s speakers. “I’m fucking invincible!”

He leveled his heavy XMR, returning fire, the camera dome mounted beneath the suit’s angular chin halting its incessant spinning and twitching as though locking onto something. Hoff’s fire was far more accurate, Ruza watching as the hyper-velocity slugs tore through two feet of industrial pipes to hit a fighter who was taking cover behind them. The tumbling rounds and subsequent shower of molten metal threw him clear of his perch, the man hitting another pipe on his way down, landing on the road some thirty feet below with a dull thud.

The cannon on the landed dropship spun up, its long barrels glowing red as it spewed a stream of high-caliber slugs, cutting through one of the towers like a burning torch. Ruza snarled, glancing to his left, lifting his eyes to see the molten holes that had been burned through multiple feet of metal.

The remaining SWAR were becoming more accurate, too, forcing some of the shooters into cover. Perhaps Hoff was sharing his targeting data with them, his suite of sensitive cameras and sensors able to pick out heat signatures and movement amidst all of the sun-baked metal and cover.

The airborne dropship was upon them now, swooping in low, the gun behind its tail joining its grounded counterpart as it harried the plant below. Ruza watched it catch a few stragglers, turning three fighters into a gory mist and churning up the tarmac, leaving a trail of smoldering craters.

“Retreat deeper into the plant!” he heard Rivera yell over the radio, the sound of muffled gunfire echoing in the background. “Get into hard cover!”

It was a full-on war now, both sides exchanging constant fire, chunks of concrete flying from the perimeter wall where stray slugs punched through. They had succeeded in separating the two forces, dead and dying PDF lying strewn across the parking lot, the bulk of them now cowering behind parked cars. A few had made it back to their APCs, leaning around the armored vehicles to fire off potshots. The report of XMRs was punctuated by louder salvos from the dropships, anti-materiel slugs laying down withering fire.

Hoff was rallying in front of the gate, his fireteam advancing behind him, his suit seemingly impervious to damage. That shield would burn bright, flash-heating the incoming slugs, leaving flecks of molten slag cooling on his ocean-gray armor panels.

“It’s open season, boys!” he declared with a mirthless laugh. “Kill ‘em all!”

He breached the compound, his glowing barrel snapping this way and that with a mechanical fluidity, pausing only to loose short bursts of fire. It was cover enough for the SWAR agents to break, sprinting out from behind him faster than any human should have been able to move, darting into the nearest building. Hoff maintained his position, holding the gate as another two agents raced through the opening behind him. Some of the braver PDF followed, but they weren’t quite as quick, a few of them falling under the hail of slugs.

“Rivera – you have at least five SWAR and far more PDF inside the plant,” Ruza warned as he brought down one of the troopers with a body shot as the man approached a door.

“Big-H is in the pipe, Ruza!” he heard Reed yell into his ear. “It’s now or never!”

With a snarl, Ruza lifted his weapon, eyeing the ground some twenty feet below. He stepped off the walkway, dropping down and landing with a crouch to absorb the impact. He was in the main road in front of the gate now, buildings and snaking pipes rising up to either side of him, the gantries and machinery above him forming a dense ceiling to shield him from the circling dropship. He was only a hundred meters from Hoff now, his heart skipping a beat as he watched that swiveling camera dome focus him with its electronic eyes.

“You!” Hoff bellowed, lifting his rifle and pointing an accusing finger. “You’re cornered now, Madcat! I’m gonna skin you and use your hide as a rug!”

Ruza bared his sharp teeth, giving the human the best roar of defiance that he could muster. By the time Hoff was leveling his weapon again, Ruza had darted into cover, putting the pipes and machinery between him and his pursuer. Hoff set off at a run, gaining speed, that suit carrying him down the road at an alarming pace.

“Now, Reed!” Ruza shouted as he dove behind a large power transformer.

The mining charges that had been buried to either side of the road erupted, catching Hoff between them, the asphalt seeming to lift as though some great creature was rising from beneath the ground. The blasts tore apart the nearby infrastructure, sending twisted catwalks and segments of pipe collapsing into the billowing cloud of dust and flames below, severed power lines sparking and jets of steam pouring from broken lines. Ruza could feel the pressure wave in his very bones, even from fifty meters away, his ears ringing as he rose from his prone position to peer out from behind the transformer. All he could see was an opaque wall of dust, a few fragments of rock and scrap raining down around it, pinging when they hit metal.

“We fucking did it!” Reed cackled over the radio. “We fucking killed him! That’s what you get when you come to my house, asshole!”

“Don’t celebrate too soon,” Rivera warned, sounding short of breath. “We still have the rest of them to deal with! Get a team in there and confirm the kill.”

“Of course he’s dead,” Reed scoffed. “I used even more explosives than when I wrecked that armored convoy.”

Ruza’s sensitive ears twitched, the ringing subsiding to be replaced with synthetic laughter.

Hoff strode through the swirling dust, tossing aside a fallen structural beam and rolling his suit’s shoulders, sending a shower of dirt and sand falling about his feet. His armored plates had been charred by the explosives in places, covered in speckled flecks of dirty glass, his shields having melted the airborne debris.

“That the best you got?” he asked, brushing a stubborn fragment of molten rock from his forearm with the same ease that someone might wipe dirt from their sleeve. “You’re gonna have to hit me a lot harder than that, pussycat!”

“It did not work!” Ruza warned, feeling a surge of adrenaline make his heart race. “Repeat – the target is standing!”

“Plan B, plan B!” Reed replied in a panic. “Get the hell out of there, Ruza! Run for it!”

Ruza bolted, ducking just in time for a salvo of slugs to cut through the transformer where he had been standing a moment before.

“Keep running!” Hoff laughed as he set off at a lumbering sprint. “I’m gonna hunt you down for sport! I killed Rask bigger than you on Borealis with my bare hands!”

Ruza came to a fork in the road that wound its way through the plant, taking the left path, already starting to run out of breath. His body wasn’t designed for endurance, and Hoff’s pursuit was tireless. He pushed himself onward, hearing the thudding of the suit’s massive boots growing louder beneath the report of XMRs. He reached a T-junction that led into one of the warehouses, making another hard turn, his claws scrabbling for purchase on the asphalt. He got off the main road just in time to hear a salvo of slugs whizz past behind him as Hoff rounded the first bend, taking an opportunistic shot.

“Here, kitty kitty! You can’t hide – I have you on FLIR.”

Ruza made it to the closed warehouse doors, ducking through a smaller, human-sized opening. Once inside its dark confines, he put his back to the cold metal wall next to the entrance, taking a moment to catch his breath. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the gloom, but he could already see shelves of supplies stretching off into the blackness, along with the vague outline of a large cargo truck some distance away. The ceiling was easily thirty meters above his head, suspended by rib-like metal supports.

“In…position,” Ruza panted into his radio. “Target…approaching.”

His sensitive ears could hear the Bullshark through the open door, the whirring of its machinery and the stomping of its heavy feet drawing nearer.

“Nowhere left to run,” Hoff chimed, his synthetic voice echoing from the suit’s speakers. “I’d be lying if I said this will be over quickly. You killed my men – good men. You owe me a pound of flesh, fleabag, and I’ve come to collect.”

The truck’s engine rumbled to life, filling the warehouse with its growl, Ruza blinking against its bright headlights. The cab was offset to one side, providing room for a massive radiator grill that occupied the space, and it illuminated to reveal that nobody was sitting behind the glass. It was easily as wide as the road outside, equipped with massive tires as tall as Ruza, its articulated trailer fitted with a dump box large enough to carry several tons of ore or scrap. The vehicle itself must have easily weighed thirty tons unloaded, its yellow hull weathered by Hades’ unforgiving environment.

It began to roll forward on its off-road tires, accelerating rapidly and picking up speed, the massive warehouse giving it plenty of space. Ruza hit the door control button with his fist, and they began to slide open, sunlight bleeding through the growing gap between them. The dump truck had started a hundred meters away, parked at the far end of the warehouse, and it must have been going forty or fifty klicks by the time it reached the doors – close to top speed.

If Hoff thought anything about the warehouse door opening was suspicious, he remained undeterred, only reacting when he saw the house-sized vehicle bearing down on him. His armor was too heavy and unwieldy to leap out of its path, and he scarcely had time to fire off a quick burst into its radiator, a bellow of surprise and rage leaving him as it made contact.

The truck created a gust of wind that blew Ruza’s clothes as it rushed past him, the doors open just wide enough to let it pass. It hurtled out onto the short path outside, the sound of rending metal ringing out as it barreled into Hoff, carrying his heavy suit along with the ease of someone swatting an insect. Barely losing any of its speed, it drove up the path and across the junction, smashing into the adjacent building with the force of a hammer. It shattered a concrete wall, the rubble collapsing atop its cab, the pipes and gantries above it crashing down as it snapped their supports like twigs.

Ruza leaned out of cover, watching as dust rose from the crashed vehicle like smoke, coolant from its radiator leaking out onto the ground to form a shimmering pool. Its cab had been twisted and crushed by the impact, the rolled steel no stronger than tin when such powerful forces were applied to it, the ruined engine still letting out a high-pitched whine as it tried to spin a broken drive shaft.

Reed came jogging out of the darkness from deeper inside the warehouse, his face lit by the tablet computer that he was holding in his hands. They had rigged the truck to be controlled remotely, operating its drive systems from the device.

“Is that it?” he asked breathlessly. “Did we get him?”

“I do not wish to be the one to check,” Ruza grumbled, hefting his rifle as though it might protect him.

A minute passed in silence, punctuated only by the sound of nearby firefights, Ruza realizing that he was holding his breath.

The truck shuddered. More pieces of rubble fell away from the ruined wall, the vehicle’s wheels slowly turning as something forced it back, some of the debris that was resting atop the crushed cab falling to the road. Ruza watched, his eyes widening as the Bullshark shouldered the truck out of the way, tossing aside a bent piece of rebar like it was a fallen branch.

“Fuck, fuck!” Reed exclaimed as he began to back away. “I told Bergmann that we should have filled the goddamned truck with explosives! Nobody ever listens to me!”

“Go! Now!” Ruza ordered. “Get into position – he will follow me.”

“Plan C!” Reed replied as he jogged off into the darkness. “I’ll be ready!”

Hoff walked into view, stepping out from behind the truck, his armored shoulders coated in a dusting of concrete fragments. Most of the paint that adorned the suit’s torso had been scratched off, the armored plates scuffed and scratched, exposing shining metal in places. That swiveling camera dome turned to his rifle, its barrel bent and twisted out of shape. Hoff threw the weapon to the ground in a way that came off distinctly frustrated, so much of his body language conveyed through the armor. Could it be connected directly to his brain, as was the case for Warriors?

As Hoff turned to face the open warehouse door, Ruza noted that there was more visible damage. One of the lenses that adorned the PCE’s angular canopy had been cracked, and one of the heavy-duty pistons on his right arm was bent, limiting the limb’s range of motion and making its movements jerky. He must have turned his right shoulder into the oncoming truck. Hoff reached up with his left hand and tore off his misshapen right shoulder piece, exposing the skeletal frame beneath it. It seemed modular, as though the damaged plates were intended to be swapped out as needed.

“You busted my fucking suit!” he growled, struggling to stretch out his right arm. He couldn’t extend it fully, the motors whining. “Do you have any idea how expensive this thing is!?”

Ruza had assumed that Hoff would be unarmed without his rifle, but he lifted his left arm, aiming a fist where the Rask was peeking around the door. Ruza caught a glimpse of shining copper, ducking into cover just in time, a hail of slugs punching holes in the door through which harsh sunlight spilled. It was some manner of integrated weapon – it sounded like a pair of XMHs to his ear.

“You’re gonna pay, fleabag – and I don’t mean with credits!”

Ruza chanced another look, seeing the suit set off at a run, stumbling for a moment before stabilizing. It was still operational enough to give chase, quickly leaving the smoking dump truck behind.

Ruza turned tail, hurrying away into the warehouse, putting his back to a rack of shelves as the Bullshark lumbered into the dark interior. It slowed, that camera dome scanning the area, searching for targets with mechanical efficiency. Hoff swung his arm, loosing another burst of gunfire, Ruza darting out of the way with only a moment to spare as the slugs punched into the sacks of concrete on the shelves behind him.

“You can’t hide from me!” Hoff cackled, his synthetic voice echoing through the warehouse. “I can see as well in darkness as you can, fleabag! Better keep running!”

Ruza made for a door on the far wall, throwing himself through as another salvo chased him, biting into its frame. The wind was knocked from his lungs as he landed on his belly, but he was soon up and running again, his claws finding purchase on the rough concrete floor. He rushed out into an alley, glancing up to check that the pipes and walkways were concealing him from the circling dropship, then hurried on as he heard Hoff smash through the doorway behind him.

DAY 23 – STEEL PLANT – RIVERA

Rivera put his back to the wall, leaning around the door frame and shouldering his rifle.

“Get down!” he yelled, firing off a long burst.

His men ducked under the stream of molten slugs, running at a crouch, reaching the end of the corridor and throwing themselves into the room beyond. Rivera fired off another few rounds, suppressing their pursuers, ducking back in to reload as a salvo of return fire flew through the doorway.

He hit the release and dropped his empty mag to the floor, slamming home a fresh one, feeling a familiar click as the magnets in the receiver lifted a slug into the chamber. The heat was incredible – and it wasn’t just Hades’ atmosphere. The Staff Sergeant popped open his visor to wipe the stinging sweat from his eyes, then took a moment to glance around, getting his bearings.

The enemy had pushed them deeper into the plant, and they were in some kind of foundry. He was standing at one of the entrances to a giant, warehouse-like structure, the ceiling rising some sixty meters or more above his head. The factory floor extended into the distance, its scale hard to judge at a glance, but it reminded him of some of the larger drydocks he had seen on UNN stations. This place had the same skeletal support beams and elevated gantries, forming multiple levels of walkways and platforms that crisscrossed above the rows of machines, the walls covered in pipes and trailing cables.

All of the machinery was oversized and overbuilt, the steel and iron stained black by oil and dirt, leaving everything looking charred. The sweltering heat was coming from molten rods that were being transported along the production line on rollers and conveyors. The way that they were recessed into the floor in places made them look like streams of flowing lava, the deafening noise of grinding machinery joined by the hiss of coolant being sprayed onto the burning metal from nozzles. The long, square rods glowed a fiery yellow, the air above them shimmering like a mirage – clearly the source of the oppressive heat. This must be where they were making steel billets – precursors to more specialized industrial products like bars, rods, and wire.

Great, claw-like crane arms that hung from rails on the ceiling high above reached down to pick up the cooled billets in batches, lifting them from the line and transporting them to another area of the floor for processing. Sunlight filtered through the windows above, tinted in sepia tones by the dust and sand that caked them, but most of the illumination came from the fiery glow that emanated from the machines. It was like being inside some kind of industrial volcano.

Observing his surroundings with a more tactical eye, it would make for a good place to hole up and mount a defense. It was wide open, and there was a hell of a lot of hard cover. He watched as his men rallied, taking up position to watch the doorway. Many of the fighters had been separated during the battle, but Rivera had kept a small group together. Including him, there were six seasoned Marines from the Tirad, along with three PDF who had tagged along. The Marines had stripped away their shawls and cloaks, clad in their Navy uniforms now, along with ceramic chest plates and helmets sourced from the resistance. It was surplus stuff – outdated before they were born, but it was what they had. The PDF were clad in similar gear, their armbands identifying them as friendlies. At least the XMRs were modern and factory-fresh, though the choice of optics had been limited.

“That SWAR team is still on our ass, Staff Sergeant,” one of the Marines said as he kept his weapon aimed at the door.

“What’s the plan?” another added, his helmeted head turning as he glanced at his comrades. “Even if we hold this door, they’ll find another way in. This place is full of ingress points.”

“We need to get the hell out of here!” one of the PDF stammered, the panic in his voice evident. “These guys are special forces – what do you expect us to do?”

“I don’t care if Hell has opened up and Satan himself comes knocking at that door!” Rivera yelled back, turning to face his men. “Special forces my ass – they haven’t made a plate that can stop four hundred grains of six-five yet. These bastards go down just the same as everybody else. Now, tell me, who the hell are you!?”

“We’re Marines,” one of them replied.

“I didn’t catch that, Marine! Who the fuck are you!?”

“Marines!” they shouted in chorus.

“What colors are you wearing!?”

“Blue!”

“And do you think expensive toys make those Borg assholes better than you?”

“No, Staff Sergeant!”

“You think they got bigger balls ‘cos theirs are made of brass?”

“No, Staff Sergeant!”

“You gonna let these yellow turncoats go home and sleep soundly tonight without regretting climbing into the ring with the Corps?” he demanded, slamming his visor closed.

“No, Staff Sergeant!”

Rivera bellowed a battle cry, pounding his chest plate with one fist.

“Remember what they did to us on the Tirad. You wanted a chance for payback – here it comes! You three,” he added, gesturing to the troopers. “Get into cover and watch this door. Cruz, Perez,” he continued with a nod to his Marines. “Get up on those gantries. Delgado, Lewis – far side. These fuckers are sneaky, so watch each other’s backs. Gray, you’re with me. If these Borgs like metal so much, we’ll give ‘em some more!”

The Marines dispersed into the plant, their boots thundering as they ran along raised gantries and climbed ladders, the elevated positions giving them a good view of the factory floor below. Rivera knew where they all were – his men tagged on his HUD – and he still had a hard time picking them out against the visual noise of all the pipes and machinery. It was hot enough near the molten billets that the enemy’s thermal optics might not be of much help, either. They were blowing out the thermal cam on his shitty surplus helmet, making him long for the equipment he had left behind on the carrier.

As he got into position, he saw something roll through the doorway, coming to a stop where they had been assembled not a minute prior. A blast rocked the factory, his helmet muffling the noise to protect his ears, the smoke and dust clearing to leave a blast mark on the floor. The Borgs had tossed a grenade down the hallway, but everyone had been in cover, and the PDF below seemed unhurt. The troopers fired off a few panicked shots from their XMRs, and as inaccurate as they might be, it should be enough of a deterrence.

“Laser comms only,” Rivera ordered. “Don’t broadcast over radio – they can track your emissions.”

He kept low, his rifle at the ready, scanning the maze of machinery from his elevated position on a catwalk. There could be any number of ways for the SWAR team to infiltrate the factory. They could come in through an unseen door or window – they could come one at a time or in force. He had no idea of the room’s layout. The enemy didn’t know either, so at least they were on even footing. There were a thousand ways for them to approach, and the noise made it so that he couldn’t hear a damned thing, his helmet muffling everything as its software struggled to parse the industrial cacophony.

Something rose above the background noise – a series of loud bangs ringing across the factory. They were coming from the far end of the room some hundred meters away, where a furnace the size of a building in its own right rose up towards the ceiling, lit from below by the glow of the hot billets that emerged from its lower sections in a continuous stream. Pale smoke began to rise, but it wasn’t from any industrial process. Those were stun grenades and smoke screens.

“They’re breaching on the other end of the factory,” Rivera warned. “From both sides, it looks like. Stay in cover – don’t fire unless you have a clear shot…”

Rivera and Gray were close to the right wall, standing on a gantry ten meters off the ground, overlooking a mass of machinery below. It gave them a relatively clear view of the factory, but there was a lot of cover, the glow from the rows of molten billets that made their way along the length of the room casting inky shadows.

He knelt behind the covered guard rail, but it was more for concealment than cover. This was likely just thin steel – not enough to stop a slug traveling above a certain velocity. Those large machines at ground level certainly would, but going down into that maze would be like fighting in a trench, and the enemy would certainly try to close to maximize their advantage. SWAR excelled in close quarters, where they could leverage their enhanced strength and reflexes to deadly effect. The Marines had to try to keep the enemy at a distance where they were more evenly matched.

He glanced to his left, seeing Cruz and Perez taking up a defensive position on a gantry that bridged the two sides of the room, while Delgado and Lewis were on the left side. The three PDF troopers were towards the rear, hunkered down in the machinery.

Rivera used the zoom function on his helmet to get a closer view of the far end of the factory, the mess of pipes, ribbed supports, and unidentifiable machinery providing ample places for the enemy to hide. It was like a damned Escher painting. The molten billets swept upward, rising towards the furnace at a curving incline, where they were being fed by a row of half a dozen extruders. If his position had been swapped with the enemy’s, he’d want to get elevation, and that giant tower was where he’d do it. He swept the walkways and stairs that spiraled up the structure, but he couldn’t see anything.

Suddenly, movement caught his eye. A figure climbed into view, rising just above the machinery. At the top of the smelter were what could only be described as giant buckets of molten metal, and the figure was creeping along above them, his black armor lit from below by their fiery glow. He wasn’t even moving like a human – keeping low and crawling on all-fours, a rifle slung across his back. Perhaps he hadn’t used the walkways at all, and he had monkeyed his way up using the ample handholds. It wasn’t like he could tire or lose his grip.

Rivera trained his scope on the figure, but he didn’t have a clean shot yet. The agent found a suitable perch, reaching for his rifle so slowly that it looked unnatural to the eye, bringing its barrel to rest on a convenient pipe. Rivera was used to having his HUD tag enemies with markers and outlines, tracking targets and sharing the data with his networked team, but the surplus helmet’s old FoF system wasn’t designed for this. The same probably wasn’t true for their enemy, and that sniper might have already tagged their positions and shared them with his squadmates.

“Eleven o’clock high,” Rivera whispered into his helmet. “On my mark, Gray.” Gray lifted his rifle, bracing it against his shoulder. “Two, one…”

The two Marines fired in tandem, sending a controlled burst flying up towards the smelter. Sparks showered where the rounds bit into the metal, and the agent withdrew with surprising speed, disappearing into cover. It was impossible to say if they’d hit him.

“Push up!” Rivera ordered. “Stay mobile – don’t let them control the flow of battle! You stay in one place for too long, you die! PDF – move in and hold the rear!”

The six Marines began to move along the gantries, heading towards the smelter, while the three PDF weaved between the machines below. The troopers weren’t in a favorable position, but the Marines should contact the enemy first, and they needed every gun they had.

More smoke grenades erupted ahead, filling the spaces to the left and right of the furnace with a billowing haze. Rivera spotted dark figures moving through it, but they were too quick to get a bead on. Just as he had expected, they were staying at ground level, taking advantage of the trench-like rows of casting machines to stay in concealment.

“Sniper – one o’clock high!” Delgado yelled.

Rivera lifted his eyes to the smelter again, searching for the target. Too late, he managed to spot the man standing on a lower walkway, his dark armor making him melt into the shadows. With his prosthetic limbs and featureless visor, he blended into the industrial backdrop almost perfectly.

Delgado and Lewis continued to move along their gantry as they fired, the molten trails from their stream of slugs helping pick out the target, but even those were somewhat overpowered by the glow from the billets.

The sniper had a better position, firing off a single round as the incoming slugs impacted all around him. The projectile crossed the room in an instant, slamming into Lewis before the supersonic crack even had time to reach Rivera’s ears, the energy that it imparted knocking the Marine to the gantry like he’d been hit by a falling tree branch. He went down hard, a shot to center mass blowing a fist-sized hole through his torso, Delgado ducking away as he anticipated follow-up shots.

The shooter tried to duck into cover, but too late – the return fire from the remaining Marines finding their mark. The rounds chewed through the walkway that he was standing on, spraying him with airborne shrapnel, one of them impacting his left shoulder. The blow spun him around, blood and fragments of bone painting the pipes beside him, and he was sent tumbling over the guard rail. He fell a good twenty meters, impacting a pipe on his way down, the impact folding his limp body over it like someone snapping a twig over their knee.

“Lewis is down!” Delgado yelled, breaking into a sprint to get off the walkway. He leapt down the steps, descending to ground level and putting one of the large machines between him and the enemy. They didn’t need to stop and check for vitals – Lewis’ helmet was broadcasting a KIA signal over their network.

They had slain one of the operatives, but Rivera had no idea how many were inside the factory. How many had survived the initial attack? Nine? Was he facing one fireteam, or were they all here?

“Cruz, Perez – move up and cover the left flank with Delgado!” Rivera ordered. “Don’t let them get behind us!”

More gunshots erupted from both sides of the smelter, the enemy laying down suppressive fire – probably to cover a push. Rivera and his Marines were forced to hunker down, but they responded as best they could, Rivera lifting his rifle over the covered guard rail and blind-firing wildly in the opposite direction. The air was filled with burning trails, the slugs leaving glowing holes where they punched through thinner surfaces, bright sparks showering as they carved craters into the denser obstacles. A slug punched through the guard rail in front of him, passing only an inch above his shoulder, the flecks of molten metal burning through his uniform. He growled into his helmet as they seared his skin, emptying the rest of his magazine.

As he paused to reload – Gray rising over the rail for another burst – Rivera heard the sound of metal on metal filter into his helmet. His eyes locked onto a small, round object that was rolling along the gantry at his feet.

“Grenade!” he yelled, gripping Gray by his rig and tugging him back. Rivera threw himself over the guard rail, pulling his companion along with him, the pair tumbling down towards the machines below. The timer on the explosive had been set well, and it went off before they had even hit the floor, a fireball erupting to split the gantry open like a soda can. Rivera landed on his shoulder hard, bouncing off some unidentifiable machinery and crashing to the floor below. He came down a hair’s breadth from one of the molten billets, his helmet preventing its shimmering heat from searing off his eyebrows.

He struggled to his feet and readied his rifle, wheezing as he tried to fill his newly emptied lungs. Gray was okay, groaning as Rivera extended a hand to help him up.

“Let’s take the stairs next time,” Gray grumbled, glancing up at the twisted walkway.

They were down in the proverbial trenches now, the narrow, shadowy passages between the machines extending in all directions. The floor was covered in a mess of snaking pipes and cables, and the platform that they were standing on was actually another gantry raised a couple of feet above them. This seemed to be halfway down the line, where the billets were passed through rollers that refined their shape, steam filling the air intermittently as they were sprayed with coolant. The heat and noise were incredible, the ceaseless grinding of machinery making the platform beneath his boots vibrate. All around him, machines rose up above head height, creating maze-like pathways. They would provide ample cover, but visibility was reduced. This was exactly what Rivera had wanted to avoid.

There was still gunfire being exchanged across the factory to their left, and it sounded like Cruz and Perez had caught up with Delgado. Without line of sight, their laser comms were unreliable.

“We gotta push up,” Rivera said, reloading his weapon. “They’ll be pushing right to flank us.”

He heard a noise behind him, and the two Marines spun around, lowering their weapons when they saw the three PDF troopers approaching.

“Holy fuck!” Gray exclaimed, letting out a sigh of relief. “Use your comms, guys! I almost mowed you down.”

“Have you guys been trained to clear trenches?” Rivera asked. “What about breaching buildings?” he asked when they shook their heads. “Stack up behind us and try not to shoot us in the back. Gray – you’re on point.”

Gray nodded, shouldering his rifle and moving ahead, keeping a low stance. Rivera moved up behind him, aiming over his right shoulder, the helmet protecting his comrade from any noise or heat from the barrel.

“Heavy fire on the left flank, Staff Sergeant!” he heard Delgado yell over the comms. “We got ‘em pinned for now!”

“We’re moving up the middle – hanging right!” Rivera replied.

They began to stalk along the walkways, the constant movement and noise from the machines catching his attention and making it hard to focus. They marched past a machine that was cutting the lengths of hot steel to size, using blazing torches to slice through the metal, the glow forcing Rivera’s visor to dim like a welder’s mask. He could hear his own labored breathing inside his helmet, his uniform glued to his skin by sweat, the ache in his shoulder starting to grow more immediate where he had landed on it. The three PDF moved along behind them, sweeping the area with their rifles.

As they moved along the industrial corridor, Rivera caught a glimpse of copper scarcely fifty feet ahead, the barrel of an XMR reflecting the glow of the hot billets through its shroud. Gray caught it too, and before Rivera could even shout a warning, Gray was shouldering him behind the nearest bulky machine. The agent fired from concealment, leaning his rifle around one of the machines without exposing himself, linking its sights to his helmet’s HUD.

The rounds blew past the two Marines, but the PDF were slower to respond, one of them thrown to the floor as a slug tore through him.

“Get into cover!” Rivera yelled as the two remaining troopers leapt behind the nearest machine.

Gray and Rivera leaned out to return a torrent of suppressing fire, that barrel vanishing behind a corner as the slugs sparked off the metal all around it, the slugs carving molten furrows. Their fire was inaccurate, as not all of these old surplus helmets had in-picture scope functions – not like they had the smart scopes to go with them anyway. The two PDF followed suit, filling the passage with tungsten, sparks showering down to the gantry.

There was a puff of smoke that filled the corridor ahead with a swirling cloud, the enemy letting off another grenade.

“Where the fuck is he?” Gray demanded of nobody in particular, pulling a fresh mag from his rig.

“He knows thermals are compromised in here,” Rivera replied, turning to cover their right in case the enemy was trying to flank around them. “Doesn’t mean we can’t use the FLIR, though. His barrel might be hotter than ambient.”

“Gotcha,” Gray replied, reaching up to tap the touch panel on his helmet.

There was another puff of smoke, but it came from behind them this time – Rivera turning to see the obscuring haze fill the air. It engulfed the machines to their rear, swallowing up the two PDF troopers who were taking cover there, the men vanishing from sight.

“Watch the rear!” Rivera warned as he aimed into the cloud. He saw movement – dark shapes shifting in the haze, but his thermal camera couldn’t parse any body heat with the oppressive ambient temperatures of the plant. There were gunshots, followed by a scream that rose above the industrial grinding, one of the PDF falling out of the mist to crash face-first to the ground.

Another dark shadow grew more distinct as it emerged, a figure shrouded in smoke stepping into clearer view. The surviving trooper was struggling against a polymer arm that was wrapped tightly around his neck, another robotic limb aiming an XMH around him. Over the trooper’s shoulder, Rivera could see a dark visor adorned with the grimacing face of a red ogre, its tusks painted an ivory white. The agent fired around his human shield, forcing the two Marines into deeper cover.

“Time’s up, Rivera!” the agent laughed through his helmet speakers. “Should have stayed in your fucking tunnels like the roach you are!”

This agent knew him. Perhaps his image had been circulated around the garrisons, or maybe this man had been present during Barbosa’s first address to the captured crew.

“Gimme a clean shot, and maybe I won’t bleed this dirt farmer like a pig!” Ogre yelled.

“Fuck you!” the captive trooper growled, the agent choking off his voice with a violent squeeze.

Rivera glanced out around the corner just in time to see the trooper draw a combat knife from a sheath on his thigh, holding it blade-down. He thrust it behind him, sliding it beneath the armor panels that protected the agent’s belly, driving the weapon into his captor’s side and sinking it to the hilt. Ogre let out a surprised grunt, then snapped the trooper’s neck with a single twist, his augmented strength turning his victim’s head almost a hundred and eighty degrees.

As the body fell, Rivera leaned out further to fire his XMR, but the operative was already moving. Ogre danced out of sight, the molten slugs punching holes in the fading smoke where he had been standing only a moment before.

“How the fuck did he get behind us?” Gray demanded.

“Must have been when the shooter had us suppressed,” Rivera replied, cursing under his breath. “I think there are only two of them on this side, and one of them’s injured.”

The agent ahead of them poked his rifle around the corner again, letting loose a barrage of rounds, Rivera ducking away from the shower of sparks.

“We gotta push up and take the fucker at our twelve o’clock,” Rivera snarled. “We can’t let him keep us pinned here, or his friend is gonna take us apart!”

“No different from trench clearing,” Gray replied, readying his rifle. “I’ll go right – you go left!”

Rivera nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself before stepping out of cover. He aimed his rifle where he knew the enemy to be, dumping rounds into the machine that served as cover, the slugs burrowing into its housing as though the steel was no tougher than wet cement. He kept up the pressure, watching Gray flank right, navigating around the far side of the machines as Rivera’s HUD tracked him. Only when Gray began to lay down suppressive fire did Rivera move again, the two Marines leapfrogging their way along the corridor.

The maneuver let them close the short distance, keeping the enemy pinned, Rivera checking Gray’s position before he poked his rifle around the corner – intending to blind fire. Something gripped the red-hot barrel, and he was yanked behind the machine, the strength of his opponent leaving him stumbling. All he saw when he rounded the cratered housing was a prosthetic elbow rushing towards his face. It hit his visor like a sledgehammer, dazing him and knocking him on his ass. As he lay there trying to get his bearings, he looked up through the cracked glass to see a SWAR agent bringing his rifle to bear, the round muzzle device aimed at his head.

There was a gunshot, but it was the agent who fell, his painted visor exploding outward in a blooming flower of gore and skull fragments. The functionally headless body dropped like a sack of bricks, Rivera grunting as its weight fell on him. He struggled to push the dead operative off him, reaching up to take Gray’s hand, the Marine hauling him to his feet.

“You good?” Gray asked, noting Rivera’s cracked visor.

“Thanks to you,” he replied. “I think I have a concussion, but we can worry about that later.”

They barely had a moment to recover before a dark shape dropped down from on top of the nearest machine, knocking Gray to the floor. Rivera saw the flash of a blade – the agent moving faster than he could blink – driving the weapon towards Gray’s chest. Gray intercepted it with his XMR, the long blade punching straight through the metal and polymer of the receiver, the burly Marine visibly crumpling beneath the strength of the blow. Unable to hold the agent back, the rifle slammed into his torso, the tip of the blade that skewered it stabbing into his chest piece.

Rivera raised his XMR, intending to fire as Gray and Ogre grappled, but the barrel had been warped and bent by his prior assailant’s grip. Ogre was fast, hauling Gray to his feet by the rig just as Rivera drew his sidearm. The agent put himself between the two men, safe in the knowledge that Rivera wouldn’t fire in the narrow passage if there was a risk of hitting his friend.

Ogre went for Rivera first, darting in, what looked like a long Tanto knife clutched in his prosthetic hand. He knocked the handgun aside with a quick backhand swipe, sending the weapon sliding away across the floor, breaking one of the Marine’s fingers in the process. Rivera barely had time to lean out of the way as the tip of the blade flashed past his neck, the swing fast enough that it whistled through the air.

Gray had gotten his bearings now, swinging at the agent from behind, but Ogre spun around to block his punch. Gray winced as his knuckles met a metal forearm, and before Rivera had even recovered from his first dodge, Ogre had completed his turn. The operative grabbed Gray’s thick wrist, the Marine letting out a pained yell as the tight grip bore down on him, and Ogre yanked the two-hundred-pound man towards him as though he weighed nothing. That Tanto blade flew up, piercing through Gray’s bicep from below, skewering the limb. Rivera felt a knot tie in his stomach as he watched the shining tip emerge from the other side, dark arterial blood already spraying from the wound. With a powerful kick from his prosthetic leg, Ogre sent the injured Marine rolling across the floor, where he lay still.

That grimacing decal turned to face Rivera again, the Tanto blade now shining crimson. Rivera let out a war cry as he rushed in, drawing a serrated combat knife and slashing at the agent in a single fluid motion. Ogre darted back a few steps, raising his dripping blade, the two squaring off.

“Come on, baby blue!” Ogre cackled as he passed his knife between both hands. “I’m worth ten Marines!”

Rivera popped open his visor, the cracked glass obscuring his vision, reaching up with his knife hand to wipe the blood from his split lip.

The two men exchanged blows, trading punches and stabs. Rivera felt like he was fighting air – none of his blows connecting, his blade always missing by a hair. Ogre was just too fast, and he seemed to be toying with his opponent – enjoying having him on the ropes. The agent let a hit land only so that he could parry it, knocking Rivera’s fist aside and jabbing him in the face with a right hook that came as fast as an XMR round. It connected with the jaw protection afforded by the open helmet, but it still crumpled Rivera’s nose and snapped his head back, leaving him disoriented and blinded for a moment. He darted back, retreating just far enough to avoid a follow-up stab that would have disemboweled him.

As his vision cleared, he realized that the agent was tiring, blood dripping down his prosthetic leg. There was a dark patch spreading from where the PDF trooper had skewered him, soaking into his clothes.

Rivera waited for the agent to come to him, faking him out with a left hook, then going low when his opponent dodged out of its path. His fist jabbed into Ogre’s side, Rivera feeling warm, wet fabric beneath his fist. The agent grunted in pain, doubling over reflexively, his opponent taking full advantage to catch him beneath the chin with a left uppercut that sent him staggering back a few steps. Rivera went in for a stab, but the agent retreated out of his range. Ogre steadied himself, reaching up to adjust his helmet.

“Alright, enough playing around,” he muttered as he drew his sidearm with inhuman speed.

Rivera ducked, but not to avoid Ogre, a trio of shots ringing out. The rounds punched through the agent’s torso from behind, blasting holes in his dark chest piece, blood and little chunks of ceramic armor showering Rivera. As the Marine stood up again, Ogre slumped over, hitting his helmet against the housing of one of the machines on his way down. Behind him, Gray was lying on the floor, an XMH clutched in his good hand. If he hadn’t fired from such a low angle, the slugs might have gone straight through their intended target and hit Rivera too.

“I’d say you’re worth about two of us,” Gray groaned.

“Gray!” Rivera exclaimed, hurrying to the Marine’s side. He’d lost a great deal of blood, and his face was unnaturally pale, the hand that was holding his XMH shaking. Rivera knelt beside him and drew a tourniquet from a pouch on his belt, wrapping it around Gray’s arm just below the shoulder, the Marine wincing as he tightened it.

“Get the hell out of here,” Gray muttered, waving him away. “This fight isn’t over yet. I’ll only slow you down.”

“Bullshit,” Rivera replied, giving the tourniquet a harder tug.

He realized that he hadn’t heard any gunfire in a minute, lifting a hand to his helmet. With his visor shattered, he couldn’t see the status of his team on his HUD.

“Cruz, Perez, Delgado – what’s going on over there?”

“Perez is down, Staff Sergeant!” Cruz replied. “Me and Delgado are alright. There were still two or three Borgs on the left flank, but they’ve withdrawn!”

“Fuckers turned tail,” Delgado added.

“No, they’re regrouping,” Rivera replied solemnly. “They’ll pull back and wait for reinforcements before trying another push. We need to take the opportunity to retreat while we can – we’re under strength. Get to my position.”

Cruz and Delgado hurried over, balking at the carnage when they arrived. There were two dead SWAR agents lying on the ground in the narrow passage, and the walkway was soaked with blood – most of it Gray’s.

“What the hell happened to you?” Cruz asked as he helped Rivera get the injured Marine to his feet.

“Won a fight,” he grumbled weakly, draping his good arm around Rivera’s shoulders.

“Are you sure you won?” Delgado scoffed.

Delgado and Cruz covered Rivera as he helped Gray along, the group retreating back to the entrance.

“We need to bail before their reinforcements arrive,” Rivera grunted as he supported his friend’s weight. “I think Astrid said their response time would be fifteen or twenty mikes.”

“I just hope we bought Reed and the Madcat enough time,” Cruz added.

DAY 23 – STEEL PLANT – RUZA

“Here, kitty kitty!”

Hoff’s lumbering suit pushed through a curtain of hanging chains, their metal links clattering against his scuffed armor, his painted grin reflecting the red glow from the nearby row of building-sized furnaces. Shimmering air rose up from them like a desert mirage, filling the factory with oppressive heat, Ruza’s skin shining with sweat. Even for one adapted to arid conditions, it was almost intolerable, but it was the only thing keeping him hidden from Hoff’s sensors.

“You can hide all you want, but reinforcements are on their way,” the agent added with a humorless laugh. “Fifteen minutes, and this whole factory will be crawling with SWAR.”

Ruza clutched his rifle, slowly turning to glance down from the elevated catwalk where he was hiding, watching the suit stride past below him. His surroundings were as alien as any planet he’d visited, the pipes and machines that enclosed him impossible to parse, but this place made some sense to his untrained eye.

This was where recycled scrap metal and fresh ore from the mines were brought to be melted down. Hanging from the ceiling on a system of rails were giant iron buckets, like the water pails used by Rask villagers, but so large that an average-sized car would have fit inside one comfortably. Judging by the sheer scale and the amount of metal used in their construction, they must have weighed several tons in their own right. Suspended on massive, heavy-duty arms, they traveled along their track until they came to rest above one of the furnaces.

The furnaces were large enough to remind him of the Crawlers – giant industrial vehicles designed for super-heavy cargo that his people had once repurposed as land battleships during the rebellion. They rose up towards the ceiling, easily reaching fifty or sixty feet, each one as large as a building. They were enclosed in a network of gantries, pipes, and drooping cables – a chaotic jumble of alien machinery that made little sense to him. In the center of it all was a bowl roughly equivalent to the clay and brick furnaces that his people used to smelt metal, albeit large enough to accommodate hundreds of tons of ore or scrap. Even if its scale was almost incomprehensible, its purpose was familiar in an abstract way. Like comparing an XMR to a powder rifle, while their construction was very different, their purpose remained the same.

Once in position over the furnace, the bottom of the buckets would split open like a pair of jaws, letting their contents tumble down into the bowl-like furnaces below. He watched as one of them disgorged what looked like several tons of scrap, the material falling into the fiery furnace, the bowl still burning brightly with molten slag from its previous batch. As the bucket continued on its journey, a lid the size of a crane swiveled into place, slowly lowering to seal off the furnace and choke out its flames.

Three rods the size of tree trunks slid down into grooves on the lid, each one connected to a network of insulated cables that looked as thick as his thigh, trailing back along the arm that supported them. Once locked into place, they discharged an electric current, bright flashes of lightning joining the roaring flames and showers of sparks. The noise alone was enough to leave him shaken, energy enough to melt the scrap down to a liquid and separate its chemical components filling the bowl, the smoke that rose up from the three holes flashing white as it reflected the arcing electricity. It was a marriage of fire and lightning that would have seemed like the wrath of an angry deity to his people not so long ago. He sorely missed having a helmet designed for his use, his ears flattening against his head in a futile bid to block out the deafening noise.

It was only one of the furnaces – there were half a dozen along the line, the procession of hanging buckets unending. Further along, the melted steel flowed down channels that brought it deeper into the factory, where it would be molded into a usable form.

Ruza crept onward, heading for the daylight that spilled in at the far end of the massive building. As he slunk along the gantry, he saw a more open space come into view, the light pouring in through the windows on a large warehouse door. Inside was a great heap of scrap, the metal refuse piled so high that it nearly reached the ceiling, like some kind of artificial mountain. That such a wealth of resources was merely the offcuts of the colony’s industry was another hard concept to grasp. As the giant buckets circled past on their rail, they paused above the heap, a powerful magnet suspended from a crane arm depositing its payload into them.

As he moved along, Ruza disturbed a hanging chain, sending it winging into the guard rail. The sound of the links hitting the metal was loud enough for Hoff’s suit to pick up, and he let out a manic laugh, swinging his left arm in the Rask’s direction.

“There you are!”

Ruza darted forward as a hail of XMH slugs impacted nearby, sparking against his industrial surroundings. The twin barrels on Hoff’s wrist chattered, glowing with heat beneath their shrouds, their shared magazine finally emptying. He cursed, glancing down at the weapon in confusion, giving Ruza time to get some distance.

“You think you can keep running!?” Hoff yelled, struggling to replace the magazine with his damaged right arm. “You’re stuck here, fleabag! Where are you gonna go!? Gonna crawl back to your tunnels like a roach!?”

He began to run, stumbling a little as his damaged suit’s leg began to give out, soon finding an awkward gait. Ruza could smell fresh air now, the wind that blew in through the gaps in the warehouse door helping to drive back the sweltering heat, even Hades’ climate feeling cool in comparison.

There was no choice but to descend from the elevated walkway, Ruza leaping down to ground level, his digitigrade legs absorbing the impact. There were still obstacles that he could put between himself and Hoff, the sound of slugs pinging off metal chasing him as he entered the loading area at a flat sprint. The door was within reach, but he slowed, turning around to see that Hoff had a clear shot at him. He’d never get it open in time.

Ruza stopped, tossing his weapon clear, knowing that it would do him no good now. Hoff lumbered towards him, keeping those twin barrels aimed at him, slowly lowering them as he came within a few body lengths.

“Finally giving up now that you’re cornered?” the agent scoffed. “What – expecting me to drop my canopy so I can gloat and some hidden sniper can hit me in the face? Not happening. Barbosa wants you alive, but I think you’re too dangerous to be allowed to live. I’m gonna take you apart right here and now. You busted my suit, so I’m gonna do the same to you.”

Ruza began to back away, but there was no means of escape now. He’d never make it to the door before Hoff could fire his integrated handguns. He moved slowly so as not to spur the agent to fire, feeling fragments of scrap and metal dust beneath his paw pads. Hoff matched his pace with those slow, heavy footfalls, the camera dome beneath his canopy locked on to his prey.

“Got nothing to say for yourself?” he chuckled, clearly reveling in his hard-won victory. “Maybe when I’m done with you, I’ll go pay that friend of yours a visit. What was her name again? Was it Amy?” He laughed again as Ruza bared his teeth in a snarl. “Hit a nerve? Don’t worry – I’ll take real good care of her when you’re gone.”

Ruza began to take off his rig, tossing it to the floor, Hoff marching past it.

“Doesn’t matter how unarmed you are, pussycat,” he continued. “I’m not taking prisoners.”

Hoff paused, his camera dome watching as a few stray nuts and bolts that were lying on the concrete floor began to rise, slowly drifting up into the air. The rig followed, floating off the ground as though pulled by an invisible wire, some small pieces of nearby scrap following suit.

“What…what the…”

Hoff’s voice began to fizzle and crackle as though his suit’s speakers were failing, and he must have glanced up through the many cameras that adorned his canopy, letting out a growl of rage and frustration when he noticed the giant magnet hanging above him. Ruza dove for cover as Hoff raised his left hand, but the shots strayed wide as the PCE was lifted off the ground, the hum of the electromagnet audible even above the gunfire.

The suit fell upward, a cloud of scrap fragments rising along with it, slamming into the round surface of the magnet with the force of something falling from a comparable height. The sound of metal on metal rang out, joined by Hoff’s furious, distorted cursing. He tried to fire his weapon again, but the magnet held his limbs in place, the twin guns unloading into the adjacent wall harmlessly. Ruza could see the suit’s machinery straining against the magnetic field, and Hoff managed to pull one hand away for a moment, but it was soon snapped back into place.

“You mangy fuck!” Hoff bellowed, larger pieces of scrap rising up to partially bury him. “When I get down from here, I’m gonna make you wish you’d died in the goddamned desert!”

The crane lifted him higher, maneuvering him over one of the giant buckets. He seemed to realize what was happening, his canopy sliding open to expose his panicked expression. More of his armor panels opened up, sliding apart to release him from the suit, exposing the padded lining within. He didn’t fall, however. Ruza could see him straining to remove his limbs from the hollow sleeves of the suit, his pale face reddening with the effort, but the magnet had just as strong a hold on his prosthetics as it did the PCE.

“No! No!” he bellowed, practically frothing at the mouth. “Put me down! Put me-”

The magnet released him into the bucket, and he fell out of view, his cry muffled by the tall walls of the giant container. A payload of scrap tumbled down along with him, burying the PCE, a torrent of dust rising from its rim.

“Got the bastard!” Ruza heard Reed exclaim into his earpiece. Ruza turned to look past the giant pile of refuse, just able to make out his figure sitting behind the glass cab of the crane. “I sure hope he can’t climb out of there, or we’re gonna be in fucking trouble!”

Ruza jogged beneath the bucket as it traveled along its rail, following it back towards the furnaces, feeling their scalding heat on his face even from a distance. He could make out banging noises coming from inside – the sound like a giant hammer pounding against an anvil. It sounded as though Hoff was trying to smash his way out, but even the PCE couldn’t break through a foot of solid steel.

It slowly passed above one of the furnaces, the bowl beneath it still partially filled with the bubbling molten residue from its last load, the heat making the air above it ripple. The bucket swung for a moment as it ground to a halt, then the bottom split apart, opening to disgorge its contents. A deluge of scrap metal of all shapes and sizes tumbled down, along with Hoff’s suit, Ruza only glimpsing it for a brief moment before it fell out of view. The massive lid moved into position, and for a moment, he feared that it might give Hoff time to climb out. Instead, it locked into place, those three giant electrodes descending. Lighting poured into the furnace, a torrent of sparks erupting through the thin gap between the lid and the rim of the bowl, billowing smoke rising up towards the ceiling.

Ruza watched until the discharge ceased, and while it might have been his strained ears playing tricks on him, he could have sworn that he heard a faint scream beneath the thunder of electricity and the roar of the flames.

He heard footsteps as Reed came running over to him, pausing to catch his breath.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed as he watched the smoke rise from the three electrodes. “I can’t believe that worked! You think we got him? He’s not gonna crawl out of there and start chasing you again?”

“I cannot imagine that anything could have survived that,” Ruza replied.

“Big-H is down!” Reed declared into his radio. “Repeat – Big-H is down! Borg reinforcements are certainly on their way, so let’s make ourselves scarce. Everyone, get to your evac points! C’mon, Ruza,” he added as he glanced up at the Rask. “We don’t want to be here when the cavalry arrives.”

Ruza tore his gaze away from the grisly sight, turning to follow Reed out of the factory.

CHAPTER 12

DAY 23 – STEEL PLANT – THE GOVERNOR

“There’s nothing left of the Lieutenant Commander, nor his suit,” the SWAR agent announced. “All we could find were some fragments of ceramic plating in the slag and some chemical contamination in the steel further down the production line. The arc furnace basically obliterated everything.”

“How did they manage this?” the Governor asked, pausing to daub the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

He was standing in the sweltering furnace section of the steel plant, and even with production shut down and the massive furnaces turned off, it was still like being inside an oven. The factory floor was crawling with PDF troopers and SWAR operatives, the soldiers milling about like ants. Several of them were standing up on the gantry atop the arc furnace where Hoff had been killed, peering down into the drained bowl, its sides coated with still-glowing molten slag.

“They appear to have lured him into the loading area and picked him up with a giant magnet,” the agent replied. “We’re not completely sure what happened, as the Lieutenant Commander’s feed was shut off after the hit from the dump truck. We can’t be certain if he turned off the recording himself or if his transmitter was damaged, and we’ll never know now.”

“This operation was an absolute shitshow,” the Governor sighed. “I warned him – I told him that the FMU rep was acting strangely and that the strike was probably a setup.”

He would be lying if he said that he regretted Hoff’s death, especially after all his threats, and he wasn’t sorry that the man had met an end worthy of a cartoon character. Still, the future was growing less certain now – for both him and the colony. The insurgents – or the resistance – had struck a serious blow against Barbosa’s occupation. The Bullsharks were not quite so invincible after all…

Another of the SWAR operatives made his way over, setting down a small device on the floor in front of the Governor before stepping back. It was a projector – the fuzzy holographic image of Barbosa appearing to stand before him.

“Governor,” he began, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual manner. “I’m hearing reports from my teams on the ground that Lieutenant Commander Hoff has been lost along with his Bullshark.”

“I’ve just confirmed it myself, Commander,” he replied. “I’d like it to go on record that I warned him against tackling this problem head-on, and he ignored my advice.”

“What happened?” Barbosa demanded. “This was clearly a coordinated attempt to draw out and assassinate one of our officers, and the insurgency couldn’t have pulled it off without the close cooperation of the Factory and Metalworkers Union. They run this plant, and they have the final say over what goes on here. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Indeed,” the Governor replied, trying to remain non-committal. “I attempted to negotiate with the FMU prior to Hoff deploying his security forces, and they rejected my concessions. I believe that they never intended to accept any deals, no matter how generous, and that it was all just a ploy to lure Hoff into the open.”

“Clearly, Hoff was not thorough enough in his purge of union leadership following the riot,” Barbosa continued with a sneer. “If the unions are working with the insurgents, then they’ve become the enemy. This attack changes things, Governor. Your policy of appeasement has not achieved the desired results.”

“My policy?” the Governor scoffed, indignation emboldening him in spite of the Commander’s intimidating countenance. “If anyone had been following my policies, we would never have found ourselves in this situation to begin with! Your people have ignored my advice and my protests at every turn!”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Barbosa replied, his icy tone quickly cooling the Governor’s temper. “My hand has been forced, and I see no option at this point but to bring Hades under control by any means necessary.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the Governor asked warily.

“No more pretenses,” Barbosa replied. “I’ve tried to show respect to the people of this colony, I’ve tried to cooperate with the civilian government, and I’ve done my utmost to minimize the impact that our operations have had on the population. No longer. The insurgency – and all those who have abetted them – will be rooted out and systematically destroyed. Now that they have experienced Marines on their side, we can’t take any more chances. I am running out of time, and I have lost too many good men already. If they will not accept the carrot, then they shall have the stick.”

The Governor looked past the flickering hologram, seeing two large shapes come lumbering towards him through the factory. As they passed by the glow of one of the furnaces, he saw that it was not one Bullshark, but two of the giant suits marching side by side. They stopped just behind the holographic representation of their Commander, seeming to flank him like honor guards. Though their suits were identical, they were easy to differentiate owing to the decals that had been painted on their angular canopies. One was a black bird, and the other was a brown insect.

“Allow me to introduce you to Roach and Crow,” Barbosa continued. “They will be taking over Hoff’s security duties and assuming command of the PDF garrisons. You answer to them now. I must warn you that you may find them less…approachable than Hoff was. I still have use of you, but I suggest that you make yourself indispensable if you wish to stay in our good graces. Do not disappoint me again.”

The hologram fizzled out, and as quickly as he had come, one of the agents ducked in to pluck the projector from the floor.

“Governor,” one of the two giants began, his voice echoing through the suit’s speakers. It was Crow, judging by his decal. Even in such a secure setting, surrounded by troops, they weren’t removing their canopies to speak face-to-face anymore. “We’ll need you to provide us with a list of all FMU members and known associates.”

“What are you going to do?” the Governor asked warily.

“Not important right now,” Roach replied evasively. “Our surveillance drones and dropships didn’t spot any insurgents leaving the plant, and we’ve identified a large smuggling tunnel under one of the warehouses that seems to have been deliberately caved in using explosives – likely mining charges. We believe that’s how they got in and out while avoiding detection. Assemble a work team and have them begin excavation.”

“I can ask one of the mining corporations if they can spare some workers, but-”

“We’re not asking anymore,” Crow said, cutting him off. “See that it’s done.”

“You have your orders,” Roach added, the pair walking past him. He was cast into shadow as they trudged by to his left and right, the footfalls of their massive boots making the ground shake, the two PCEs heading deeper into the factory.

DAY 23 – HADES ORBIT – PETROVA

“Hoff is dead,” Barbosa announced.

“Dead?” Petrova repeated, spreading her arms in disbelief. “How? How is that possible?”

“Near as we can tell, the enemy lured him into a well-prepared ambush by staging a worker’s strike. He rolled in to break it up, and they were ready for him. They hit him with IEDs – even drove a truck into him, but it appears that his PCE was ultimately destroyed in an arc furnace.”

“With him still inside it?” Petrova grimaced.

“There was no body or wreckage to recover,” Barbosa confirmed, his solemn face lit by the glow of the observation deck’s holographic table.

“Commander, I may have had my issues with Hoff’s conduct recently,” Petrova continued as she struggled to process what she was hearing. “But I served with him for years – on multiple deployments. I can’t believe he’d walk into an ambush like that.”

“I don’t imagine that he expected to be cooked in a furnace,” Barbosa muttered.

“Commander, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” Petrova began. “It concerns the Bullsharks. Hoff’s behavior during the time we spent together on the surface was becoming increasingly…erratic. I broached the topic a few times – that I thought he was acting too rashly and overextending himself. I think the PCE was impairing his judgment.”

“How so?” Barbosa prompted, raising an eyebrow above a prosthetic lens.

“The suits make us stronger, faster, more resilient,” Petrova explained as she began to pace back and forth on the walkway. “More than that, they make us feel powerful – invincible, even. You’ve said it yourself – when we’re connected through our shunts, all of the little reminders of our mortality are washed away. We’re not even really connected with our bodies anymore – we become the PCE. I think it had an effect on his mind.”

“Are you suggesting that the PCE somehow interfered with his brain?” Barbosa asked with a frown. “No such problems cropped up during trials. I suppose it could have had something to do with the nature of his shunt surgery…”

“Not a physical effect, no,” Petrova clarified with a shake of her head. “But like any pleasurable experience, I believe that there’s an element of dependency. He never left that damned suit if he could avoid it, and the longer he spent hooked up to it, the more he drifted out of touch with his sense of self. He was always bullheaded and brash, sure, but he was becoming someone I no longer recognized.”

“Even if that were true, I don’t think it’s unfair to say that Hoff wasn’t the most disciplined of our inner circle,” Barbosa said as he turned to peer out at the stars. “Perhaps I was wrong to entrust him with a PCE. He was loyal to the cause, and he could be brutally effective under the right conditions, but he may have been too unstable to handle such a powerful weapon and the responsibilities that came with it.”

“Commander,” Petrova began, but her voice petered out. She wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t be speaking ill of Hoff so soon after his death – that her concerns about the effect the PCEs were having on their behavior was very real, but he wasn’t really listening. Maybe he couldn’t listen. To admit that Hoff could have been influenced would mean that Barbosa might be at risk of the same.

“I’ve put Roach and Crow in charge of security now,” the Commander continued. “They will prosecute a swift and final campaign to rid us of these terrorists. I have new orders for you, Petrova.”

“Commander,” she replied, standing up a little straighter.

“The Rask was there at the steel plant. He’s the one who killed Hoff – I can feel it in my bones,” Barbosa said with a snarl that sounded raspy in his synthetic throat. “I tasked Hoff with bringing the alien in, but with his death, that duty falls to you. You are unique among my Lieutenants in that you can pass unseen among the civilian population, and you’ve always excelled at assassination and infiltration. That’s one of the reasons I chose you,” he added with an appreciative glance. “Roach and Crow will be putting the screws to the insurgency in a very overt and visible way, but for this mission, we require stealth. Leave the Bullshark – it’s too conspicuous. No more arrests and interrogations. Travel light, walk softly, and bring me the Rask’s head.”

DAY 23 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“Pass me the cauterizer,” Ruza said, extending a hand. The nurse standing beside him placed the tool in his palm, and he brought it down to the Marine’s arm, sliding the slim tip of the long device into an open wound in the man’s bicep. As a Rask, he knew blades, and this injury had been caused by a fighting knife designed to pierce. Its edge had nicked the brachial artery, missing the median nerve by a hair, causing severe bleeding that would have been fatal without the rapid use of a tourniquet.

Ruza was working in one of the inflatable medical tents that served as their makeshift operating theaters in the mine, positive pressure from the air filter keeping it aloft and ensuring that no dust found its way inside. His patient was lying on a wheeled operating table barely large enough to accommodate him, his mostly nude body hooked up to monitoring devices via trailing wires, his face covered by a mask that was pumping anesthetic into his lungs. They were lucky to have an anesthesiologist from the hospital who was watching over him.

The half dozen nurses and specialists who were assisting him were dressed in blue scrubs, their faces covered with surgical masks. Ruza was wearing the same mask and hair net, his gloves extending to his elbows to cover up his furry forearms, the claw tips covered with small silicone balls that gave him more dexterity and prevented him from piercing the material. He still had several hundred of the disposable gloves in his pack. Before germ theory, Borealan doctors had often used their bare claws to perform surgeries, with predictable results.

Humans were small, making them more difficult to work on, but Ruza seldom had his hands inside a patient. The aliens were as industrious as ever, and their medical implements put those of his homeworld to shame, their tools and machines able to repair damage on a microscopic scale.

Ruza lifted his eyes to a display that was suspended from a flexible arm, mounted on a wheeled machine on the far side of the operating table. It showed a magnified view of the wound, taken from a tiny laparoscopic camera that had been inserted into the site, the silver metal of his tools visible amidst the blood and glistening flesh. With his left hand, he gently maneuvered a suction tool, drawing away some of the blood that was obscuring the vein. With his right, he brought the cauterizer closer, the electrode at its tip emitting flashes of blue light as it burned the wall of the vein closed. Ruza went slow, keeping his hands steady, each pump of the patient’s heart creating another obscuring rush of fluid that had to be siphoned away.

After a minute more, he was done, gently placing his bloody tools on a tray offered by one of his assistants.

“Please close the wound,” he said, stepping back as one of them took his place. “His life is secure, but he needs blood. We must find more donors.”

He left through the small airlock, taking off his mask only when he was standing in the tunnel, the plastic bags that had been crudely taped around his paws rustling beneath his feet. They had no scrubs in his size, and he had brought none with him, so the nurses had taped him up as though they intended to ship him back to Borealis in a parcel. It had been a great effort, but they had few qualified doctors at hand.

He glanced around the tunnel, examining the rows of hospital beds. The battle at the steel plant had been costly, and the scents of blood and antiseptic were heavy on the air. Most of the cots and gurneys were occupied by men injured during the fighting. Many of his fellow medical personnel had been shocked by the severity of railgun wounds, but Ruza had seen such injuries many times before. This was not his first time fighting against UNN troops. The slugs passed through flesh with ease, the heavy rounds carving massive wound channels, shattering even Borealan bone like glass. A good shot, even with a relatively low-voltage rifle, could very easily sever a limb.

“How’s Gray?” Rivera asked, Ruza turning his head to see the human approaching. His broken nose had been covered with a protective pad, both of his eyes encircled by dark rings, and he was wearing a shoulder brace.

“He will recover,” Ruza replied, peeling off his long gloves. “You did well to stop the bleeding when you did. Even a minute longer, and his prognosis might not have been so favorable…”

“Thanks,” Rivera added, giving Ruza an appreciative nod. “You know, it’s kind of bizarre that the expert on human anatomy around here is an alien.”

“I was trained by the UNN to be a combat medic,” Ruza explained. “I was instructed in the anatomy of many Coalition species. In truth, I am not experienced as a surgeon, but we have few other options in our present predicament.”

“You’re taking care of my people,” Rivera replied. “That’s good enough for me – I don’t need to check your medical license.”

“I am told that you refused to leave Gray behind, and that you carried him back to the tunnels,” Ruza said as he eyed the human curiously.

“Do you find that surprising?”

“Perhaps it is time that I stopped being surprised,” Ruza muttered.

“Nice work with Hoff, by the way,” Rivera continued. “I’m glad that bastard is finally dead. I just wish I could have pulled the trigger myself.”

“It was a costly operation,” Ruza sighed with a pointed glance at the rows of injured men.

“It was worth the price,” Rivera added. “We’ve struck a real blow to Barbosa’s occupation. We’ve proven that their suits aren’t invincible, and we’ve demonstrated to the population of Hades that this is a fight we can win. Morale is pretty high, despite our losses.”

“We must be careful not to barter in lives,” Ruza warned. “All too often, I have seen soldiers expended like ammunition simply to buy time or to slow an enemy’s advance. What do we fight for, if not the preservation of life? What higher purpose can there be? When we begin to quantify the value of a person, and we weigh that value against our goals, we have already forgotten our purpose.”

“Idealistic, but not very realistic,” Rivera replied. “We’re Marines, and we fight to protect people who can’t protect themselves – it’s our job. We sign up knowing that there’s a chance we might lose that fight. We sometimes have to spend our lives so that others might live. It’s like the trolley problem.”

“Trolley?” Ruza asked, tilting his head.

“A train is heading down a track,” Rivera explained. “There’s a switch that will direct the train left or right. On the right track is one person, and on the left are three. It’s a thought experiment that asks whether killing one person to save more is morally acceptable. So, what would you do? Would you send the train left or right?”

“I would destroy the train,” Ruza replied.

“That isn’t an option,” the Marine scoffed.

“Then I would find a way to make it one.”

“I think you’re missing the point,” Rivera grumbled. “Your idealism is admirable, Ruza, but we’re not operating from a position of strength here. There will be more tough choices to make in the future, and it might not be possible to save everyone.”

“What is important is that we try.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to your work,” Rivera said, perhaps realizing that there was little point in continuing the conversation. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Blood,” Ruza replied.

“What?”

“We need blood,” he reiterated. “What type is yours?”

“I’m B negative,” Rivera said with a quiet chuckle. “Alright, I guess I’ll go see the nurses. Seems like there’s more bleeding to do today.”

He headed off deeper into the makeshift hospital, and Ruza began to peel off the rest of his homemade scrubs, tossing them into a medical waste bin on his way out. Once he was free of it, he retrieved his jacket. There were many more casualties requiring treatment, but he had been on his feet for many hours without food or rest, and the most injured patients had already been stabilized. Making mistakes due to hunger or fatigue would be of no help to anyone.

Ruza made his way through the now familiar tunnel network, passing by fighters and personnel, many of whom acknowledged him. As the only alien in the base, he was easy to recognize. Many of them were carrying in more supplies, either on carts or by hand, and Amy had been doing an admirable job of keeping their inventory in check. Their stores were growing, and before very long, they might even have a surplus of food and medical supplies with which to help the civilian population. With the blockade of the tether ongoing, shortages were becoming increasingly likely.

Even if he hadn’t memorized the mine’s entire layout, the scent of food wafted down one of the passages, luring him in. The tunnel was at a slight incline that led him deeper beneath the surface, and he zipped up his leather jacket, glad of its warm padding. It could get surprisingly cold so deep underground, and they had even found themselves having to heat the barracks at night.

He emerged into the mess hall, the rows of benches, chairs, and tables set up in a large chamber that had been excavated from the earth at some prior point. They had been sourced from all over the colony, making them a haphazard collection of mismatched furniture, but they served their purpose. Many were already occupied by groups of resistance members who were clustered around the tables, eating and drinking as they chatted.

Off to the far right side of the room was a kitchen area where the meals were being prepared by a small team of cooks. They were working over human appliances – ovens and other tools Ruza didn’t recognize – sourcing their ingredients from open crates and containers. Their dishes sat beneath heated coverings that kept them warm until they were claimed. Power was one thing that they had in abundance in the mines thanks to the portable fusion plants commonly seen on colony worlds, and the rather slapdash network of cables that trailed along the tunnel walls carried it wherever it was needed. Ruza could hear the gentle hum of the ventilation system, too, the boxy vents that ran along the ceiling pumping fresh air into the chamber.

As he entered, someone called out to him, and he turned his head to see his friends sitting at one of the tables. Bill and Ricky were there, as were Amy and Nick, the humans waving him over enthusiastically.

“You look like death,” Bill chuckled as he pulled out a chair for Ruza. It was far too small, so instead of sitting on it, the Rask pushed it aside and sat on the ground. He was tall enough that he was about level with his friends around the low table.

“I proceeded directly from the battlefield to the hospital,” Ruza explained, the scents of their meals making his feline nose twitch. “There were patients who could not wait, and not enough surgeons to perform the work.”

“You haven’t even stopped to eat?” Amy protested.

Ruza reached across the table, taking her face gently in his massive hand, turning it this way and that as she smirked at him.

“You are healing well,” he rumbled. “The bruising is much diminished.”

“Ruza, switch out of doctor mode,” she giggled as she eased his furry hand away. “You need to eat. E-A-T,” she chided, wagging a finger at him. “If you pass out down here, you’ll be too heavy to move, and you’ll have to spend the night on the floor. It would be very undignified.”

“We’re having beef today,” Bill added cheerfully, gesturing to the minced meat on his tray. “At least…I think it’s beef.”

“Close your eyes and hold your nose, and you can’t tell the difference,” Ricky grumbled as he prodded the meat with his fork.

Ruza left to get some food from the counter, returning with a metal tray that was piled high with processed meat, a handful of legumes fighting for space in one of the cutouts.

“You got enough food there, big guy?” Nick chuckled.

“Depending on its nutritional content, perhaps,” he replied as he used a fork the size of a toy to scoop up a small mouthful.

“How much do you eat in a day?” Ricky asked, leaning over curiously. “Like, in terms of calories?”

“Ten thousand,” Ruza replied after pausing to swallow.

“Jeez, that’s enough for five people!” Bill marveled. “How do you even afford to feed yourself on Hades? We can’t grow hardly anything here, and so much of it is imported.”

“Mercenary work pays well,” Ruza replied. “I have a substantial balance remaining from my last assignment.”

“That’s how he could afford to provide so much free treatment and medicine,” Amy added proudly. “Our humble family doctor over here has been sitting on a bit of a fortune.”

“Hey, Ruza,” Nick added. “We’ve been talking about what happened at the steel plant. Maybe you can clue us in?”

“Sounds like we took down one of their higher-ups,” Bill said.

“They’re bringing in a lot of casualties, though,” Nick added. “Lotta medical supplies being moved out of storage.”

“Who is we, Bill?” Ricky scoffed as he gestured to his friend with a fork. “We’ve been stacking boxes and taking inventory. The only thing we took down recently were crates from shelves.”

“Our fighters cannot operate without food and supplies,” Ruza chided. “Do not dismiss your work as unimportant.” He paused to take another bite, considering for a moment. “It is true that we slew one of their Lieutenants – the operation was a success, and we inflicted great losses upon the enemy.”

“Nice,” Bill hissed, reaching across the table to give Ricky a friendly punch on the arm.

“It is also true that we suffered casualties. Many were injured or killed in the fighting.”

“Less nice,” Bill muttered apologetically.

“So…overall progress?” Nick asked as he looked between his friends. “I don’t know if it’s something you can quantify, but how close are we to kicking these assholes off Hades and things going back to normal?”

“They’re not gonna be happy about their leaders being assassinated,” Ricky added. “Do you think they’re going to step things up in response?”

“Whatever happens, I will protect you,” Ruza insisted as he glanced around the table. “All of you. We have struck the occupiers a serious blow. Lieutenant Commander Hoff was their head of colonial security, and with his death, they lose both face and an irreplaceable asset. Astrid will surely spread news of our victory across the colony. Still, it is not a fatal blow. By our estimates, there are still five of their suits in operation, and they are attempting to build more. Eighty to ninety percent of their SWAR operatives remain, and their loyal PDF forces still number in the thousands. Regrettably, there remains much fighting ahead of us.”

“I want to do more,” Nick announced, slamming a fist on the table. “The Marines have been asking for volunteers, and I’m thinking of signing up.”

“You don’t have any military training,” Ricky scoffed.

“So? Other miners have become fighters. That guy Reed was training people up before the Marines even arrived, and they’re professionals, Rick. They know what they’re doing.”

“We need all the able fighters we can get,” Ruza replied, scrutinizing Nick from across the table with his yellow eyes. “But going into combat is no small thing. I have seen brave men fail, and I have seen many a young soldier seeking to prove themselves on the battlefield find their death there instead. If it is what you truly wish, then I can put in a good word with Staff Sergeant Rivera, but I would have you take a walk through the medbay before you make your decision. See the potential consequences with your own eyes.”

“Alright,” Nick said with a determined nod. “I’ll do that.”

“Give some blood while you are there,” Ruza added, jabbing his fork into his pile of meat. “We have great need of it.”

“I’m perfectly happy working in logistics,” Ricky added, raising a hand. “No desire to get turned into paste by a railgun over here.”

“You still have plenty of blood,” Bill added, giving him a nudge.

“Fine, fine,” he sighed with a roll of his eyes. “You think they’ll give me a day off if I become anemic?”

DAY 24 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“Their code names are Roach and Crow,” Omar said, pulling up a video feed on the holographic display. A short loop of two PCEs hovered above the table, their canopies adorned with decals that presumably matched their names. Ruza was not well-versed in Earth fauna. “Now that Hoff is out of the picture, they’ve been put in command of the ground forces on Hades.”

“What do we know about them?” Bergmann asked.

“Not much,” Omar replied. “Unlike Hoff and Petrova, they’ve barely interacted with the local PDF. The only time we’ve fought them in the field was during the diversion – when our sniper teams attacked the ASAT sites. Barbosa had deployed them to protect his most valuable assets.”

“It’s safe to conclude that he probably trusts them more than he did Hoff,” Rivera added, leaning his hands on the table as he examined the feed. “Interesting that they deploy as a pair…”

“What if Hoff was Barbosa’s least capable guy, and he assigned him a job he thought should be a cinch?” Reed added with a concerned glance at his neighbors. “That bastard killed dozens of people, but he was operating more like a cop than a soldier.”

“One way or another, there’s going to be a response to what happened at the plant,” Omar said. “Barbosa can’t let this go unanswered. We should expect them to step up their counter-insurgency operations and crack down harder on the civilian population. My garrison is already getting new orders to start enforcing curfews more aggressively.”

“I suppose it all depends on how these new commanders operate,” Bergmann sighed. “I hate being reactive, but right now, the only thing we can do is wait and see. We’ll take the opportunity to shore up our defenses and stockpile more supplies. We suffered losses during the plant op, but with the FMU fully committed, they’ll be sending over some fresh recruits. Do we have anything on the drawing board for our next operation?”

“Reed, Rivera, and I have spoken of it,” Ruza replied. “We believe that an operation to liberate more Marines and PDF prisoners should be our next priority.”

“The same diversion won’t work a second time,” Bergmann said skeptically.

“With our Marine fireteams supported by local militias, we believe that we can achieve our goals with a much smaller force,” Rivera explained. He pulled up a map of the city, pointing to a few of the PDF compounds. “This time, we split our forces up into smaller, more mobile strike teams. The plan is to hit multiple garrisons at the same time all across the colony, but only a small handful of those attacks will be genuine. We create as much chaos as we can, split up their forces, and only make serious pushes where we know they’re weakest. The diversionary troops will strike and fade. There are enough PDF to man all of the garrisons twenty-four-seven, and they have enough SWAR to put a fireteam or two in each one, but they can only respond in force in a limited capacity.”

“There’s a problem,” Omar added. “After the attack on Seventeen, the Borgs have begun changing the shelter access codes. They do it on a regular basis, and each garrison has its own codes that aren’t accessible from any central database. I don’t think there’s any reliable way for me to get hold of them.”

“Can we blast our way in?” Reed asked with a shrug.

“Those shelters are hardened against prolonged orbital bombardment,” Omar scoffed. “Sorry, Reed, but your mining charges won’t cut it this time.”

“See if you can find a way, Omar,” Bergmann said. “Don’t put yourself at risk, though.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Omar replied.

“There’s another issue I wanted to bring up,” Astrid interjected. “I’ve had reports of senior doctors and surgeons being conscripted from the general hospital. It seems that the Borgs came directly to their offices to reassign them with very little notice, and they were flown up to the carrier in short order.”

“We’ve been hitting them pretty hard,” Reed suggested. “Maybe they don’t have the personnel to treat their injured. Makes sense they’d want to take their casualties up to the carrier – it’ll have the most modern facilities.”

“Perhaps,” Astrid replied. “I think it might have something to do with their plan to create more SWAR. Omar says that they flew a group of recruits up to the carrier a few days ago, and none of them have been seen since. They could be undergoing surgery.”

“They have taken some pretty serious losses,” Rivera confirmed with a nod. “Barbosa wanted to create more augmented troops, and he’s currently working with fewer than he had when he arrived.”

“You’re goddamned right,” Reed said with a chuckle.

“We haven’t spotted Petrova for a little while, either,” Omar mused as he scratched his chin. “You might be right, Astrid. She was responsible for recruitment, so she may be up on the carrier overseeing their surgeries.”

“How sweet of her,” Reed sneered. “You think she brings them ice cream after their mutilations?”

“At least she’s off the board for the time being,” Rivera continued. “That’s one less Bullshark for us to deal with.”

“I worry for the people,” Ruza added, his gravelly voice drawing their attention. “Hades had a limited number of doctors to begin with. Removing even a few could have a dire impact on the health of the population. Illnesses will certainly go undiagnosed, and surgeries will be postponed or canceled altogether. Sandstorm season approaches, and respiratory infections will spike, especially in the young and vulnerable.”

“Do you have something to propose?” Bergmann prompted, extending a hand in a gesture for him to continue.

“Astrid,” Ruza began. “Have your spies keep watch for any such cases and reach out to them. We cannot bring patients here, but there are meeting places where we would be safe.”

“I don’t know if I’d call them spies,” she said with a dry laugh. “I can cast some nets and see what turns up. According to Amy, our stores of medical supplies are very healthy, so it wouldn’t put any undue stress on our operations to share them.”

“It would be a big PR win,” Bergmann said with an approving nod. “The resistance heals the people, while the occupiers turn them away. Only if you can do it safely, though,” he added. “You’re not exactly the most inconspicuous person, Ruza, and they’ve upped their surveillance. There are drones watching every inch of the colony these days.”

“I will exercise caution,” he replied.

“How are our patients doing?” Astrid asked. “We took some significant losses during the plant operation.”

“We were able to stabilize the most severely injured patients,” Ruza replied. “They will need time and care if they are to make full recoveries. We have many more suffering from minor injuries who should be fit to return to duty in the coming days. There are many cases where I would advise a longer period of rest, but we do not have such luxuries.”

“We still have a few people unaccounted for,” Bergmann added. “Our fighters had to make a quick getaway, and recovering bodies wasn’t a priority with enemy reinforcements bearing down on us. If they don’t turn up in an obituary soon, we’ll have to assume that they’ve been captured. Omar – keep an eye out for any rumblings in PDF channels. If we can figure out where they’re being held, we can make them a priority, assuming any survived.”

“Will do,” Omar replied. “I have one more order of business. We know that the Borgs have caught on to our use of the old smuggling routes, and recently, they’ve started sending PDF teams down into the tunnels to map them out by eye. It seems that they don’t have an accurate map. We vary which tunnels we use to ensure that we’re not creating patterns, and most of this activity is happening along routes that we’ve already abandoned, namely ones used during prior operations. It’s not an immediate problem, as the network runs for miles and many of the passages have been rendered impassable through disrepair, but it’s something we should keep a close eye on. Our main base is out on the fringes of the network, far from the city, but I think we need to be careful about where we lay our power and comms lines. They could follow one of those straight back here.”

“I’ll pass the word on,” Astrid said. “It shouldn’t be an issue to have the comms guys remove old fiber from the abandoned routes.”

“Maybe we could set up some patrols, too,” Reed suggested. “Hell, we could even boobytrap some of the tunnels, assuming that we’re very careful about recording it on our maps. With a few pitfalls and grenades, we could make their forays a nightmare.”

“Ask Amy if we have the materials to spare,” Bergmann replied. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have to go smooth things over with the FMU. I’m still convincing them that they’ve made the right decision.”

DAY 24 – HADES OUTSKIRTS

The dropship flew low over the desert, miles of sand dunes passing beneath it, broken up only by the occasional patch of scrubby bushes and rocky outcrops. The agents sitting in the bay were armed, keeping careful watch over a handful of prisoners dressed in civilian clothes, their heads covered by hoods and their hands bound. They were strapped tightly into the seats, and standing in the aisle between them was a towering PCE, its magnetic boots securing it to the deck. They flew in silence for a few minutes more, then began to decelerate, shedding speed before coming to a hover. The craft set down, its chunky tires sitting on the loose sand, the ramp opening to let pale moonlight spill inside.

The PCE lumbered down the ramp, joining up with a second suit that had emerged from a second dropship, the two onyx-black aircraft the only man-made structures visible in any direction. Even the tether was out of view this far out into the wastes. Sandstorm season was starting, and the wind was picking up, whistling over the dunes and carrying grains of sand with it. Far on the horizon was a storm front – a giant cloud rising up into the sky like a vast wall, extending from horizon to horizon. It billowed like smoke, flashes of lightning visible within its roiling depths. It was the kind of storm that would strip skin from muscle and flesh from bone, its winds as harsh as a sandblaster.

Roach and Crow turned, watching through their arrays of cameras as their SWAR entourage marched the prisoners out into the desert. There were ten of them – five emerging from each dropship, one of the agents giving a straggler a rough shove that made him stumble. They forced the men to their knees, forming a row in front of the two PCEs. One of the operatives walked along the line, snatching off their hoods one by one, the prisoners glancing around and blinking their eyes in confusion. Several of them balked at the sight of the two suits that towered over them.

Some of them were middlemen in the FMU – union members who had enough influence in the organization that their knowledge of the ambush at the steel plant was practically a certainty. Others were plant workers who had been implicated by tips or simply by association, and three of them were insurgents captured during the battle.

Crow hefted a heavy XMR, moving over to the prisoner at the far left of the line, his heavy boots sinking into the sand as the wind whistled through his exoskeleton.

“Where is the insurgent base?” he asked simply, his voice coming through the PCE’s speakers.

“W-what?” the man stammered, glancing up at the suit in bewilderment. “Who are you? Where the hell am I?”

“Where is the insurgent base?” Crow repeated, his tone conveying no more emotion than his camera dome.

“I’m just a factory worker – I don’t know anything about any insurgents!”

Crow aimed his XMR, the worker erupting into a splash of gore as the massive rifle rocked in the suit’s mechanical hands, painting the sand behind him with a smear of blood. The noise and the suddenness of the act sent some of the prisoners into a panic, the SWAR agents aiming their own weapons to keep them kneeling in place.

Crow stepped in front of the next man in line, cold sweat welling on the prisoner’s brow, his eyes darting around nervously as though seeking some means of escape.

“Where is the insurgent base?”

“I don’t know anything!” the man blurted, recoiling as Crow aimed the still-warm barrel of the gun at him. “Please! I just-”

Another shot rang out, the slug bisecting the prisoner, the force of the round throwing his ruined body back several feet. Crow moved on to the next in line, aiming the glowing barrel.

“Where is the insurgent base?”

“Fuck you,” the prisoner replied with a defiant laugh, curling one of his bound hands into an obscene gesture.

An XMR slug tore him apart, and Crow moved on.

“Where is the insurgent base?”

“Wait wait wait wait wait!” the next man pleaded as his gaze tracked the muzzle, recoiling from the weapon. “Listen, I don’t know where the base is, but I have information!”

Crow paused, giving him a moment to elaborate.

“Shut the fuck up!” his neighbor growled. He was silenced as one of the operatives hit him in the face with the butt of his rifle.

“The resistance has been using old smuggling tunnels to get around,” the first man continued, trembling as he eyed his neighbor’s bloody nose. “They’re not on any official maps! That’s all I know – I swear!”

“Old information,” Crow replied, firing his weapon with a crack that echoed across the dunes. He moved along to the prisoner with the bloody nose, leveling his rifle once more. “Where is the insurgent base?”

“You guys are fucked,” the captive replied, spitting a mouthful of blood at Crow’s feet. “We boiled Hoff like a rat in a fryer, and we’ll kill you, too. There’s nowhere you can hide from us – we’re everywhere. Go ahead and shoot me, you goddamned coward.”

Crow fired, the man’s head vanishing from his shoulders.

“Now, you listen to me!” the next man in line began, attempting to mask his fear with bluster. “I am a very influential member of the FMU. I am a personal friend of the Governor, and if you kill me, he’ll-”

“Don’t care,” Crow replied, leveling his XMR. “Where is the insurgent base?”

“I’ve never been there!” the prisoner continued, growing increasingly desperate. “The people above me made the decision to work with the insurgents – all I did was help organize the strike! I was just doing what they told me!”

Crow fired, then moved on. He executed two more defiant insurgents who refused to answer, along with another clueless worker, eventually arriving at the final man.

“Where is the insurgent base?”

“Alright, alright!” the prisoner conceded. “The resistance keeps a tight lid on their operations – they don’t let just anyone wander into their base. All I know is that they would send people to the plant to pick up shipments, and one time, I overheard the drivers talking about an abandoned mine…or maybe it was a quarry. They said they were heading to some old corporate outpost in the wastes.”

“Where?” Crow demanded.

“I…I don’t know exactly!” the man replied, flinching away as the PCE aimed at him. “There are dozens of abandoned corporate mines! Far from the city – on the outskirts! That’s all I know, I swear!”

Crow considered for a moment, then lifted the barrel of his rifle away from the cowering man.

“Actionable,” he declared, gesturing for one of the agents to approach. The operative drew a knife, and the prisoner began to pull away, but the blade sliced through the zip tie that was binding his wrists. “You’re free to go.”

“Wait, you’re letting me go?” he asked in disbelief as he watched the severed plastic fall to the sand. “Oh my God, thank you, thank you!”

He stood there amongst the bodies as the agents turned and walked back to their dropships, loading into the bays. It was only when the two suits joined them and the ramps began to close that he realized what was happening.

“Wait! Wait!” he pleaded as the backwash from their engines kicked up a torrent of dust. “You can’t just leave me out here! We’re miles from the city – I’ll die! Wait! Come back!”

The two craft lifted off, the waving figure shrinking into the distance as they accelerated away, leaving the encroaching wall of dust to claim him.

DAY 25 – HADES ORBIT – PETROVA

“I missed you at lunch the other day.”

Petrova glanced up, seeing Tom making his way over to her with a tray in his hands. He sat down beside her on the empty bench, his meal clattering on the table. The carrier’s mess hall was all but deserted with such a small crew, and there wasn’t much to eat other than ration packs without any cooks manning the kitchens.

“Tiny?” she asked, his words dredging her up from a mire of dark thoughts. “Sorry,” she sighed, shuffling over to make a little more room for him. “These last few days have been…trying.”

“I got that impression,” he replied as he picked up a fork and sized up his dinner. “You…alright, LC?” he added, giving her a sideways glance as though worried that he was pushing his luck. “You looked kind of down sitting here all alone. Ma’am,” he added hurriedly.

“At ease,” she grumbled with a wave of her prosthetic hand. “You start Ma’am-ing me over lunch, and I’m gonna lose what little appetite I have left.”

“Always figured there would be more people on a carrier like this,” Tom mused as he glanced around the mostly empty room. It seemed cavernous, every little sound ringing hollow off the metal walls, every scrape of a fork or creak of a bench amplified.

“We moved a lot of the crew to the ground,” Petrova replied evasively. She got the impression that Tom wanted to ask more questions – that he didn’t fully believe the spiel he’d been sold about what had happened on the ship, but whatever decision he’d come to about where his allegiances lay kept him quiet.

“Everything okay down there?” he added, changing the subject. “We don’t hear much news, but there’s been a lot of activity – a lot of people talking. Lots of injured operatives are being brought aboard and sent to the infirmary. They’re saying that the insurgency is heating up, and that we’ve been taking losses.”

“A…comrade of mine was killed,” she replied. She had begun to say the word friend, but it had fizzled out on her tongue. “We fought together for a long time. He didn’t go easy.”

“Man, I’m sorry,” Tom sighed. “If you want to be alone…”

“No,” she added, a little more quickly than she had intended. “I could use some…uncomplicated company.”

“I’m uncomplicated?” he chuckled.

“That’s an affectionate way of saying that you’re too dense to cause any problems,” she replied, getting another laugh out of him. “What about you? Have they scheduled your surgeries yet?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a nod, taking another bite of his meal. “There was a bit of a delay, and they seem to have involved a lot more civilian doctors from the colony, so I’m wondering if they’re short-staffed thanks to the fighting on the surface. Doctor Nilsson and his people will be overseeing all of the operations, so I think they’re mostly just there for support.”

“You’re going full quad?” she asked.

“We all are,” he replied, lifting a large hand and flexing it. “I gotta admit – it feels weird. In a couple of days, I won’t have the hands I was born with anymore. From a logical standpoint, I understand what I’m doing and what it entails. From a more sentimental one, I won’t really know how I feel about it until it’s done. It feels kind of like I’m throwing away some old stuffed toy my mom gave me, you know? What’s it like?” he added, giving her a glance. “I never really had an opportunity to ask before.”

She extended a prosthetic arm, laying her hand on the table with its palm up.

“You can touch,” she said, smirking at his hesitation. “I won’t knock you on your ass again – I promise.”

Tom brought his hand down to hers, running his fingers across her palm, testing the texture of her smooth polymer. He moved to her digits, feeling the tire-like silicone tread that tipped each one, designed to improve her grip.

“Can you feel any of this?” he wondered.

“Perfectly,” she replied. “Mine are probably a little more expensive than the ones you’re going to get, but hands are usually designed to replicate their original functions as closely as possible. I can type, I can fire a weapon, and I can feel just as much as I used to. The functions of all the important nerves are replicated. You have rough hands,” she added. “Mining?”

“Most PDF aren’t on duty full-time,” he confirmed. “I work part-time as a miner when I’m not at the garrison.”

“That explains why you’re built like a Franklin steer,” she mused, cocking an eyebrow at him. “I’m surprised they can afford to feed you.”

He moved a little further up her wrist, watching with surprise as she shivered at his touch, her eyes following him.

“You really can feel it,” he marveled. “What about pain?”

“Pain is optional,” she replied. “You can tune it down or turn it off entirely if you want to. Don’t stab me with a fork.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he laughed. “Thanks, I feel…better. The surgery is kind of scary – I’m not gonna lie. At the end of the day, I’m having all of my limbs cut off. It’s going to take time to learn how to use the new ones, but if it worked out so well for you, maybe it’ll go well for me.”

“You’re actually in the best possible situation,” Petrova began. “Not all, but a lot of us lost our limbs in combat or in accidents. The surgeons and engineers have to make do with whatever is left. You’ll become what you could call a production model SWAR. They know exactly what they’re cutting off, they know how they want to attach the augs, and they’ll tailor the surgery to give you the best possible outcome.”

“That’s good…I think.”

“It’ll be rough at first,” she warned. “It will take time for your brain to adapt to the prosthetics, and there will be some tuning required to make sure they’re properly calibrated. It’s a little like recovering from a really bad accident. You’ll need time to heal, and you’ll have to learn to walk again, but the effort will be worth it.”

“How did you lose yours?” he asked hesitantly, perhaps fearing that he was overstepping. “Was it a battlefield injury?”

“No, I had mine removed,” she replied simply. “There aren’t that many women in direct combat roles. Not humans, anyway. I wouldn’t call it sexism – it’s just that they want the most capable recruits, and the physical requirements are pretty stringent. I worked as a cop in Saint Petersburg for a long time, and I eventually got promoted into a special response unit. We mostly dealt with drugs, smuggling, terrorism – things of that nature.”

“Where is that?” Tom asked, his innocence making her smile.

“Of course, you’ve never left Hades,” she replied apologetically. “It’s on Earth, in Russia. It’s very cold and snowy.”

“I’ve never seen snow,” he marveled.

“I wanted to go the distance and become a Marine – do my part to defend humanity,” she continued. “But I kept getting passed over in favor of bigger, tougher guys. The UNN didn’t seem to value my unique skillset – they just wanted ground pounders who could carry their weight in tungsten. SWAR was different. They saw my potential, and they understood the value of my unique background. They offered me a position, and the prosthetics came not long after. With these augs, I can go toe to toe with anyone, human or alien.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” he chuckled. “I’m still a little sore from the last demonstration.”

“Just…don’t get too many organs done,” Petrova added. “The limbs are enough.”

“I’ve seen some guys around the carrier who went the full nine yards,” Tom said. “Feet that were just skids, arms that made them look like skeletons, eyes cored out and replaced with optics. You don’t seem to have gone that route, though. Why is that?”

“I’m more than effective enough with my current augs,” she explained. “My specialty is more infiltration, so it pays to match my Mark-Ones as closely as possible. I can put on boots and gloves, and the average person won’t know the difference. I’ve even used silicone sleeves that mimic skin. It’s actually pretty easy to clean up facial scarring, but a lot of the more macho agents see it as a badge of honor, so they keep them. Some guys like the intimidation factor of looking as inhuman as possible. Perhaps I care a little more about being presentable than they do.”

“I’ve noticed that,” he replied with a smile. “No offense, but you don’t look like someone who could fold me like a pretzel. I mean that in the best way possible. You have this…grace about you that sets you apart from the others.”

“Oh, so I’m graceful?” she teased. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you were hitting on me, Recruit.”

“Not at all, Ma’am,” he stammered as he straightened a little in his seat. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I told you not to Ma’am me,” she added with a smirk. “Relax, Tiny. I’m just pulling your chain. You’re cute when you’re scared.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond, Petrova watching the gears in his head turn.

“I don’t have much of an appetite for food today,” she grumbled, pushing the unappetizing meal away. “I could use a distraction, and I have a little time to kill before my shuttle leaves. How about you put those hands to good use for one last time before they’re gone?”

Tom almost choked on a mouthful of his lunch, sputtering as she smirked at him.

“You alright, Tiny?” she giggled as she gave him a hard pat on the back.

“You mean…you and me?” he added, pointing to himself as he peered down at her with wide eyes.

“If you think you can handle me, yeah,” she replied as she lay her head in her hand. She watched him, enjoying his reaction. “I promise that all of my parts are user-serviceable.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had me on my back,” he replied, finding his confidence again.

“I think you’ll like the officer’s quarters,” she added, rising from her seat. “They’re very upscale.”

“We going now?”

“You got somewhere you’d rather be?” she chuckled.

He pushed his tray aside and hopped to his feet, not even done chewing yet.

Just as they made to leave, Petrova heard a buzz in her earpiece, her racing heart sinking into the pit of her stomach. Tom noticed the change in her demeanor immediately, pausing as she lifted a finger to the device.

“Fun police on the emergency channel?” he asked as she turned to face him.

“My flight just got bumped up,” she sighed. “There’s a lot going on right now, and they’re stepping up my timetable. I wish you’d come to bother me a couple of hours earlier, Tiny.”

“Timing was never my strong suit,” he replied with a smile that failed to mask his disappointment. “I was always late for my shifts, too.”

“I had planned to stay on the carrier to oversee the surgeries,” Petrova continued. “I wanted to be there when you guys came around. I feel…responsible for you. I have new orders straight from the Commander, and this new assignment is time-sensitive. It can’t wait.”

“You’ll be back, right?” Tom asked.

“I might be gone for a while,” she replied, not willing to divulge any details about her mission.

“Well, I won’t be going anywhere,” Tom continued with a shrug. “On account of me getting my legs sawed off and all. Maybe when you get back, you can show me how to use my new prosthetics – put them through their paces?”

Petrova paused for a moment, then reached up to take him by the collar of his blue coveralls, tugging the tall trooper down to her height. Their lips met, and they shared a lingering kiss, Petrova dragging it out as long as she could afford to with the clock ticking down. When she released him, Tom stood up, straightening his collar and clearing his throat. His complexion seemed a little redder now.

“So, uh…I take it that’s a yes?”

“Rain check, Tiny,” she replied with a smile. She wheeled around and marched to the exit, feeling his gaze follow her all the way to the door.

CHAPTER 13

DAY 25 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“I have your first house call right here, Doc,” Amy declared as she entered his room.

Ruza was kneeling on his bed in his little tunnel alcove, his partially disassembled rifle lying on a tarp in front of him. He hadn’t gotten a chance to sit and clean it after the battle, and he was using a small brush and cleaning kit to remove some of the sand and dust that had melted onto its barrel during the last operation. Even with the shroud, the dirt managed to find its way to the coils.

“House call?” he repeated, setting down his weapon as she approached. She handed him a tablet computer, and he began to look over it, seeing that it was displaying a ticket of the kind used to track patients.

“Astrid said that you wanted to start seeing patients again, so I took it upon myself to follow up with some old faces. I still have a lot of contacts at the hospital. I did it all safely,” she added, preempting him before he could complain. “Astrid took care of the actual communication – I just gave her the names.”

“You are already doing more than your share,” Ruza began as he peered up at her. Amy’s face was all but healed now, her bruises little more than shadows. “You need not concern yourself with this as well as your other duties.”

“Hey, you never fired me,” she chided with a wag of her finger. “That means I’m still your secretary, mister.”

He responded with a bow of his head, knowing that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. There was a time when he would have found such insubordination infuriating – when such a response might have spurred him to correct her, but he had slowly come to appreciate human tenacity. They were like little desert mice, snapping and squeaking at predators ten times their size, commanding respect. Humans could be rude, confrontational, and disrespectful, but in ways that were intended to be supportive and affectionate. It took some getting used to. Such talk might have earned him a scar for his trouble back in his Matriarchy days.

“I know this name,” he began as he eyed the ticket again. “She brought her children to the clinic when she could not afford medicine.”

“It’s just like you said,” Amy continued with a disapproving shake of her head. “With the Borgs taking so many doctors up to the carrier, the hospital is starting to turn away some of the less serious cases. There are a few other small clinics throughout the city, but they’re backed up too.”

“When I came to Hades, I told myself that the killing was done,” Ruza said as he lifted his bayonet and began to clean it with a rag. “I came here to help people, but now, I help by killing. I do not like this. It will bring me some small measure of peace to help in a way that is uncomplicated and unambiguous again.”

“You have what my mother would have called a kind soul, Doc,” Amy replied.

“Perhaps you might not be so generous if you had seen me in battle,” he said, keeping his eyes on his weapon. “I fear that no matter what I do, and no matter where I travel, I will never be able to escape the specter of war. It follows me like a shadow, always on my heels. Sometimes, I wonder if it is divine punishment for my transgressions. I have taken lives unjustly before, and I have served tyrants, so perhaps I am cursed to fight forever and never know rest. It would be a fitting sentence.”

“Continuing to punish someone who knows that they made mistakes and is trying to do better seems counterproductive to me,” Amy replied. She walked over to him, stepping around the tarp that was strewn with XMR parts and lowering herself to the mattress beside him. She seemed so small, her head barely reaching his shoulder. “Have you considered that maybe you’re supposed to be here?”

“How do you mean?” he grumbled.

“You think fate is punishing you, but maybe fate is putting you exactly where you can do the most good,” she explained as she peered up at him. “Maybe you coming to Hades when you did was an unfortunate coincidence, or maybe you needed to be here because we’d be lost without you. You’re right – I didn’t know you before,” she conceded as she shifted her weight on the sheets, the sagging mattress tugging her towards him. “Maybe you did some really bad things that you’re ashamed of. I know you now, though,” she insisted. “I know the guy who treats sick kids for free, and the guy who carried me out of that garrison in his arms. I know the guy who makes everyone else’s safety his personal problem. If anyone ever tells you that you should be ashamed of who you’ve become, I’ll…punch them right in the face!” she snarled as she jabbed at the air with a tiny fist.

“You have been spending too much time with Reed,” Ruza chuckled, the sound leaving his throat as a gravelly purr. “You have always shown me great kindness, and perhaps I would be wise to heed your counsel. I do not know what I would have done if we had not been able to find you again, Amy. I am not glad that you were involved in all this trouble, but I am glad to have you here.”

“You did find me,” she replied, leaning her head against his massive arm. “It was a very heroic rescue. Now, stop navel gazing and go treat some patients. You have a schedule to keep, you know.”

“Very well,” he conceded.

***

The tunnels were small and claustrophobic, forcing Ruza to duck in places, some of the squeezes so tight that he had to turn to his side and shimmy through the openings. Two resistance fighters accompanied him for security, the flashlights on their rifles lighting the way, one of them pulling up a tablet intermittently to check their location. There was no global positioning, and orientation had to be done by eye and experience. Ruza was carrying a bag of medical supplies, but he had elected to leave his rifle behind. He reminded himself to ask Rivera if he had any means of building a large-frame XMH that would be easier to conceal in situations like these.

“Almost there, Doc,” one of the men declared as he glanced around the next corner. It was hard to tell if they were Union miners, ex-PDF, or Marines. The lines were becoming blurred these days as their training and equipment improved.

Around the bend was a narrow ladder welded from metal pipes that led up to a hatch in the tunnel roof. One of the fighters climbed it and slowly popped open the hatch, glancing around the room above.

“Looks clear,” he said, opening it the rest of the way and climbing out. The second man followed, and Ruza leapt up behind him, bypassing the small ladder entirely. He found himself standing in yet another storage room, this one filled with crates and lined with shelves. Unlike the warehouses he had visited, this one was much smaller, and it didn’t have the persistent coating of dust that he had come to associate with them. It must have seen more recent use. None of the tunnels came out inside prefabs, as they were elevated off the ground on outriggers, so the structure was made of simple concrete.

This was their meeting place – an old storage building in the city once used for smuggling. It was daylight outside – they couldn’t travel under cover of night due to the curfew – but there were only a few dusty windows elevated high on the walls where the bleached sunlight spilled in. His patients should be able to slip inside without drawing the attention of any surveillance drones or patrols.

The two fighters cleared the room, then took up position to watch the door. As the minutes ticked by, Ruza found himself growing increasingly nervous. It would not be difficult for SWAR to lay a trap, and in a confined space like this one, a single volley of XMR fire or a well-placed grenade would end him. He had to trust that Astrid and Amy had taken all necessary precautions.

After maybe ten minutes had passed, there was a knock at the door – knuckles ringing against old metal. The two fighters bristled, the one nearest the door edging closer and opening the heavy bolt, peering through the gap. Ruza could see his demeanor change, and he lowered his weapon, opening the door a little further with a creak of rusted hinges.

A figure wearing the customary tan shawl and hood of a Hadean citizen was guided inside along with a flood of warm wind and dust, her face obscured by a rebreather. She clutched the hands of two small children who trailed after her, their short legs making it hard for them to keep pace. Just like their mother, their features were hidden by protective gear. One of the reasons that young Hadean children often suffered from respiratory infections wasn’t only due to the vulnerability of youth, but because small children sometimes pried off their uncomfortable masks.

The fighter closed the door behind them, and Ruza noted that both men were quick to conceal their rifles beneath their long dusters, not wanting to scare the woman. She looked around, her eyes obscured by her tinted visor, but she soon spotted Ruza lurking in the gloom at the back of the room. As he stepped into view and threw back his hood, she released her children, reaching up to take off her mask. She revealed a light complexion dotted with freckles, shaking out her long, dark hair.

“Miss Bauer,” Ruza said, tilting his head in greeting. “It is good to see you and the children again.”

“Doctor Ruza,” she sighed, seeming to deflate with relief. “Thank goodness. I don’t even know where to begin. Some people are spreading rumors that you were killed, someone said you’d been arrested, and the Governor has been saying you’re working with terrorists! I didn’t know what to think.”

“It is a long story, and one that I am not at liberty to divulge in its entirety,” he replied. The children recognized him, the smaller of the two toddling over to him, the older girl sticking close to her mother.

“Kitty!” the young boy exclaimed, his voice muffled by a rebreather that was a little too large for his tiny head. Ruza gently scooped him off the floor and removed the mask, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as though it was no larger than a thimble. He was greeted by a happy, red little face, the child too young to have any fear of his odd surroundings or the unusual nature of their meeting.

“Hello, Peter,” Ruza said with a rumbling laugh. “What ails you this time? Is it his chest again?” he added as he turned his attention to the boy’s mother.

“They’re both suffering from the usual,” Miss Bauer replied as she guided her reluctant daughter nearer. “We ran out of the medicine that you prescribed last time, and after everything that’s happened, we couldn’t come to you for more. I tried a couple of clinics across town, but they didn’t have any to spare, and the hospital turned us away. They’re turning a lot of people away – something about being short-staffed.”

“I fear that such things will become more common,” Ruza replied solemnly, setting the wriggling boy down on a convenient crate. He placed his bag beside the child, opening it up and rummaging through its contents.

“Who…are you?” Miss Bauer asked, eyeing the fighters warily. Her question wasn’t phrased in a rude way, but she was understandably confused.

“Just a couple of concerned citizens, Ma’am,” one of them replied. “We’re here to protect you.”

“Then…is there any truth to what the Governor has been saying?” she pressed. “All we have are rumors and whatever gets broadcast in his addresses. There have been a lot of them lately. Is that why we’re meeting in this storehouse instead of your clinic, and why I was told to be discreet?”

“You should not heed the Governor or his soldiers,” Ruza replied as he opened the boy’s shawl and pressed an ear against his chest. He let the child play with his hair, listening to the sound of his laughter and babbling for any signs of fluid buildup. “He does not speak the truth. I cannot tell you as much as I would like, but you must trust that my comrades and I are doing all that we can to help.”

“Not terrorists, then,” Bauer said with a sigh and a nod. “The talk of these Navy people being imposters wasn’t just gossip after all, was it?”

“The dust is irritating his lungs,” Ruza announced, letting the boy grab one of his thick fingers as he drew back. “I will provide you with medicated charges for his inhaler. Two deep breaths per day should clear it up in short order as long as you make sure he wears his mask while outside. I know that it can be challenging with young ones, but you must try.”

“You’re just giving it to me?” she asked, her voice beginning to waver. “You don’t want me to pay? Even now, with all the shortages?”

“As long as I have medicine to give, it will be free,” Ruza replied.

She began to cry, reaching up to wipe away the tears that were welling in her eyes, struggling to get her hands out of her long sleeves. Her daughter pressed a little closer, perhaps assuming that her mother was upset.

“After I couldn’t get any refills, I didn’t know what to do,” she sobbed. “I thought my kids might…” She trailed off, not wanting to frighten her daughter. “I thought things might get worse for them. You were missing, the hospital turned me away, and I couldn’t afford to buy from the black market. If your secretary hadn’t reached out…”

“We have contacts at the hospital,” Ruza explained, setting the little boy down and giving him an encouraging push to send him waddling back to his mother. “If you know of anyone else who is suffering and cannot get help, tell them to go to the hospital. If they can be seen, all will be well. If they are turned away, we will be informed, and we will get in contact with them to arrange a meeting. They cannot reach out to us – not at this stage. It is too dangerous.”

“What’s going to happen to Hades?” Bauer asked, hefting her son off the floor and holding him close. “Is there somewhere we should go – anything we should do?”

“Avoid the garrisons, and stockpile what nonperishable foods and supplies you can. This planet has an infection,” Ruza added as he turned to his bag again. “Things will likely get worse before the healing can begin. There will be…painful debridement. Keep your family close.”

She guided her daughter over to him, the child gripping her mother’s hand stubbornly.

“Now, Jessica,” Ruza began in the softest voice that he could muster. He crouched down lower, offering her a furry hand. “You have visited my office before. This office is not as nice, but there is nothing to be afraid of. Be a good girl for your mother, and I will have a gift for you and your brother.”

That got her attention, and she became more cooperative, placing a hand in his palm. It was so small in comparison that it vanished up to the wrist in his sandy fur. She allowed him to lift her up, and he placed her on the same crate, letting her stroke the fur of his hand as he began his examination. Jessica was a shy girl, and he had noted that certain textures gave her comfort. He performed the same examination, pressing an ear to her chest. Humans often used stethoscopes or other tools to enhance their hearing, but his ears were more than sensitive enough. There were even certain scents that could help one diagnose illnesses – a field of medicine practically unknown to humans.

“Take a deep breath,” he said, feeling the child’s chest swell. There was some rattling in her breathing, and when he placed a pad against her forehead, she felt warm. He fished a thermometer out of his bag and placed the sensor in her mouth, waiting for the display to flash a number.

“What is it?” her mother asked hesitantly, realizing that the examination was taking longer than Peter’s.

“There is some rattling in her exhalations that signals fluid buildup,” he warned. “Her temperature is also higher than I would like. This suggests a bacterial infection that could be a precursor to pneumonia. There is nothing to be afraid of,” he added, giving the child an encouraging pat on the head. “I will prescribe her a round of antibiotics and a cough suppressant, and she can take those along with her inhaler. I will also require a blood sample for analysis. If the antibiotics are not effective, and the infection remains at the time of her next visit, I have the tools to create a bacteriophage culture.”

“What’s that?” the girl asked with a pout. She was old enough to be inquisitive, and mature enough to know when she was being lied to.

“Phages are tiny creatures – as small as a virus,” Ruza explained as he cleaned the thermometer and returned it to the pack. “They are our friends, because they like to eat the bacteria that make us sick. If your medicine does not make you feel better, I will grow some, and we will ask them to help. Now, I must take some blood,” he added as he drew a hypodermic pen from his bag. “It will hurt, but only for a moment.”

Jessica pulled away, scowling at him. With another quick rummage in his pack, he pulled out another item, her eyes brightening when she saw it. Held between his thumb and forefinger was an MRE chocolate bar.

“I propose a trade,” he said, waving the candy bar. “A drop of blood for this treat. Can you be brave?”

The child considered for a moment, the little gears in her head turning.

“Alright,” she conceded, allowing him to roll up her sleeve.

“Can you count to five?” he asked.

“Of course I can!” she replied indignantly. “I’m four. Peter can’t count – that’s because he’s only two.”

“Let us count together,” he said as he pressed the pen against her arm. “One, two, three…”

Ruza hit the button, and the device extended a thin needle, siphoning away a small amount of blood. It lasted only a moment, the little sample vial inside filling up with crimson fluid.

“Hey, that wasn’t five!” Jessica protested. She soon forgot her displeasure as Ruza offered her the chocolate bar, but he withdrew it beyond her reach at the last moment. “I will give you this only if you promise to brush your teeth afterward,” he began. “Share it with your brother.”

“Alright,” she conceded, letting Ruza place her back on the floor. He handed her the candy, and she hurried back over to her mother as she clutched her prize protectively.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Miss Bauer said, watching as he filled a small container with her medications.

“There is no need for thanks,” he replied as he handed it over. She stashed it away beneath her shawl, keeping it well hidden. “We must all rely on one another in times of need. Remember what I told you about referrals, and pay close attention to the dosages.”

“I will,” she replied, her eyes still glistening.

“One more matter before we part ways,” Ruza added, zipping up his bag. “You mentioned a black market? Could you elaborate?”

“With all the shortages and the hospital being so understaffed, some people are turning to smugglers,” she explained. “I don’t know where they’re getting it, but there are shady types selling medicine at huge markups – taking advantage of people’s desperation.”

“How did you get in contact with them?” Ruza asked. “Where was the meeting place?”

“I can write down the address if you have a tablet,” she replied.

DAY 25 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – THE SMUGGLER

“These prices are crazy! How could anyone afford this!?”

One of the burly guards stepped forward, giving the disgruntled customer a shove that sent the man stumbling back a couple of steps.

“You can take it or leave it,” the smuggler sitting behind the counter replied, giving him a smile that was devoid of any warmth or humor. “This is a seller’s market, and if you don’t have the creds or something to trade that I actually want, you can take your business elsewhere. There are plenty of other people lining up.”

The little store had been set up in the back of a garage, and the shelves lining the walls that had once held tools and spare parts were now stacked with misappropriated goods. Most of it was medical supplies, but there were a few choice food items and tools that were starting to become scarce thanks to the blockade. The Syndicate might be gone, but some of their contacts and methods still remained. An old office desk now served as the counter, the man behind it flanked by a pair of thugs armed with old caseless SMGs.

In the garage proper beyond the store room, a dozen prospective customers were lined up waiting for their turn at the desk, glancing over each other’s shoulders and fidgeting nervously. They were overseen by a couple more armed men, watching over both the visitors and a few more wayward crates of supplies that were sitting amidst the old service bays. The location was near the edge of the city, but not so far that foot traffic would draw unwanted attention.

The angry customer left the office, grumbling and cursing to himself, the wind that blew in through the open garage door whipping at his long coat. As he reached the exit, he balked, giving way to half a dozen men who piled into the building. They moved quickly and with purpose, fanning out into the garage with rifles drawn. The guards didn’t even have time to react before they had what looked like XMRs pointed at their faces. The newcomers didn’t dress like PDF or UNN – they had no uniforms, yet they were armed to the teeth, and they clearly had military training.

As the guards set down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender, a towering figure entered the building – so tall that he had to duck under the open garage door. He couldn’t have been more than a couple of inches under eight feet, his shoulders as broad as the smuggler had ever seen, his features obscured by a mask and a hood. The customers scurried out of the stranger’s path as he strode past them, his gait long and somehow strange, like he was walking on his toes. He only seemed to grow as he neared the store room, ducking through the door, his head brushing the ceiling. Two more armed men flanked him, their weapons trained on the pair of remaining guards.

“What do I pay you guys for?” the smuggler hissed as his guards slowly set down their weapons.

“You are the one who has been selling medicine?” the tall figure demanded. His voice was low and gravelly, and his rolling accent was alien to the smuggler’s ear.

“Who the hell are you?” he shot back, his sitting position making him feel even smaller. “You looking to buy, or are you muscling in on my turf? Maybe you should know who you’re fucking with before you roll up here with your guns drawn.”

The figure reached for him – faster than he could even lean away, an inhumanly large hand gripping him by the neck. The legs of his chair scraped against the concrete floor as he was lifted out of his seat, the smuggler reaching up to grip his assailant’s thick forearm as he flailed his legs impotently.

The stranger reached for his mask with his free hand, lowering it to reveal a pair of shining, golden eyes. They weren’t human – a pair of cat-like slits slowly dilating into black circles. A decidedly feline nose furrowed with angry wrinkles, lips pulling back to reveal carnivore fangs as a low growl left his throat. It was an animal sound that turned the blood in the smuggler’s veins to ice, his struggling ceasing abruptly.

“No more,” the alien snarled, that terrifying stare unwavering. “You will shut down your store and stop selling to these people.”

“A-alright!” the smuggler replied, his voice choked off by the alien’s iron grip. “I’ll stop – I swear!”

The creature lowered him back down, sitting him on the desk like one would a child, the smuggler’s heart pounding as he peered up at the alien with bulging eyes. The guards looked on with just as much alarm, their hands raised above their heads.

“You have a means of obtaining medical supplies,” the giant creature continued, glancing at the shelves that surrounded them. “Explain.”

“I know some guys who work at the anchor,” he replied, too afraid to even move lest he anger the monster further. “They cook the books – fudge the numbers here and there. The supply chain the Blues have set up is full of holes. They’re none the wiser if we skim a little off the top.”

“Most of these goods were destined for the garrisons, then?” the alien mused.

“Yeah, I reckon.”

“We will allow you to continue your operations,” the alien added. “On the condition that you sell only to us. You will tell no one that this conversation transpired, and you will not attempt to contact us. Every few days, you will receive a message informing you of where to leave your shipment, which will be different each time. There, you will be compensated for your labor in whatever way we deem to be fair. If I hear word that you have been selling to the common folk again, or that you have spoken of our arrangement, I will return. Do as I ask, and you will never see me again.”

“Alright, goddamn,” the smuggler muttered. “Works for me, I suppose. Not like I have much of a choice in the matter…”

“Then you have something in common with your customers,” the alien sneered. “Give these people whatever they ask before you close. For free.”

He left the room, his two men keeping their weapons trained on the guards as they backed out. The rest of the gunmen covered their exit, and then backed out of the building along with them, leaving the guards scratching their heads in confusion.

“I fucking hate living here,” the smuggler grumbled as he slid down off the desk.

DAY 25 – HADES ORBIT – PETROVA

Petrova flicked her wrist, a six-inch blade extending from a hidden compartment in her prosthetic arm, its sharp edge catching the pale light from the dropship’s bay. She sat alone, the ride smooth as the craft coasted away from the carrier, the vibrations from its engines barely perceptible beneath her feet. With another gesture, the blade slid out of sight, the agent turning her attention to her left arm. She brushed a treaded fingertip against a touch-sensitive panel, and it slid back, revealing the skeletal metal framework and exposed electronics beneath. Nestled within her forearm was a small tube of copper coils. She reached into a rucksack that was resting on the seat beside her, fishing out a small tungsten slug and holding it deftly between her fingers. Like she was loading a magazine, she slotted it into a small breech, clenching her fist to close the panel again.

She reached into the bag once more, pulling out a pair of flesh-colored sleeves. They were made from a stretchy latex-like material, and they pulled over her hands easily, conforming to their contours like gloves. Petrova pulled one up to her shoulder, where it hooked around a purpose-made latch that was built into her prosthetic, keeping it taut. After repeating the process with the other arm, she gazed down at her new hands – close to perfect replicas of flesh and blood. They wouldn’t hold up to much scrutiny, but they would allow her to avoid suspicion, and they somewhat muffled the almost imperceptible whine of her servos.

She pulled on a pair of boots, feeling strange without being able to sense the cold metal deck beneath her toes. When was the last time she had worn shoes? Coupled with long pants, she should be able to go unnoticed. For good measure, she slotted an XMH into a concealed holster beneath the long, Hades-style shawl that was draped over her shoulders. On most planets, heavy clothing and full-faced masks would draw attention, but they were completely normal on Hades. That should make her job a little easier.

Her phone flickered to life, and she scrolled through the mission files, finding an image of her target. It wasn’t the best data – most of it had been pulled from various helmet cams – but Song had created a pretty accurate representation of the alien’s face. Petrova had fought Rask before during their short-lived and ill-fated rebellion, so there was nothing too unfamiliar about his features. He had tanned skin and blonde hair that had been bleached by his world’s suns, his eyes a piercing amber, ringed by dark circles that made him look sleep-deprived. Like the rest of his kind, he had a flat brow that tapered into a feline nose somewhat reminiscent of a big cat, a pair of round ears rising from his messy hair.

“How did someone like you manage to kill someone like Hoff?” she muttered to herself.

All they had been able to find out about the alien so far was that he was a mercenary previously deployed to Kerguela. Judging by his age and occupation, she would bet good credits that he’d fought for the Matriarchy, too. Perhaps he’d started offering his services to the highest bidder after his government had collapsed.

She could take him – in hand-to-hand if necessary, but the problem would be finding him. It might be a good idea to start at the hospital, where she knew he had connections.

The dropship transitioned to atmosphere, and she strapped herself into her crash couch, feeling the craft shake as the turbulence buffeted it. The orange glow from the flames that licked at its nose bled in through the pilot’s canopy, and they were soon level again, descending through the planet’s blue sky. The craft touched down, the hot, arid air that blew in through the opening ramp making her long for the air-conditioned confines of her PCE. It would probably do her good to get some time away from it.

She walked down the ramp, emerging into the blazing sun, putting on her mask to block out the harsh light with its tinted visor. The dropship had put down in one of the lesser garrisons, fourteen or fifteen – it didn’t matter. If the insurgents were watching any of the garrisons, it would probably be number one.

None of the PDF who were on duty stopped her as she walked across the courtyard to the main gate. She might be dressed as a civilian, but they understood what the dropship signified. Petrova passed through and out into the street, walking between a pair of armored cars that were guarding the entrance, the helmeted troopers sitting atop their hulls watching her curiously.

The street beyond could barely be described as such. Beneath her boots was only the barest hint of a road, the tarmac covered over by a layer of obscuring sand, only a few dark patches showing through here and there. They certainly had street-sweeping vehicles, but it must be a futile battle with all the dust that blew in from the wastes. There were no mountains to act as a natural barrier. She hadn’t spent much time in the city proper, as she had been tasked with training the PDF until now, and she was surprised to see how empty it seemed compared to somewhere like Proxima. How much of that was due to the climate, and how much was because of SWAR’s presence?

She pulled up her phone, checking her location. She had a direct line to the carrier, along with access to the network of surveillance drones that floated above the city, a simple map tracking her position. As part of her cover, she’d been given access to a prefab house to act as her base of operations, and her first order of business was finding it.

She walked through the deserted streets, encountering few pedestrians and no vehicles along her route. What people she did pass were wearing impersonal masks and rebreathers. More frequent were the PDF patrols, armed squads of troopers walking along in formation, sometimes escorting APCs or accompanied by hovering drones. Their presence was oppressive, and she could feel their eyes on her through their helmets. Petrova carried no markings that would identify her as SWAR. To them, she was just another civilian.

Before long, she arrived at the prefab, finding a faded white building roughly the size of a shipping container that was hard to distinguish from its neighbors. Just like the rest, it was raised a foot or two off the ground on outriggers, a bulky air conditioner and a satellite unit jutting from its wall. She mounted a short flight of metal stairs that led to its entrance, then flashed her phone on a reader, the door panel sliding open to let her in.

It was dark and dingy inside, but the lights flickered on with a little delay – just in time to blind her when she took off her tinted visor. She realized that there were indeed windows – they were just so caked in sand that almost no sunlight made it through. Her surroundings were spartan at best. There was a kitchenette, a small living area, a bed, and a shower cubicle. She might have been more pleased with the accommodations if she hadn’t spent so much time in the officer’s quarters lately. Maybe she was getting soft.

She tossed her pack onto the bed, getting straight to business. After setting her phone on a cramped desk, it projected a holographic keyboard and display, Petrova using it to go over her mission files again. Having spent a lot of time at Garrison One, located near the anchor, she already knew the location of the hospital. Thanks to Song, she now had unfettered access to its servers, and she could view all of the patient records. Everyone who had stubbed their toe in the last decade should show up here. There were also the pharmacy records, and it didn’t take more than a keyword search to find what she was looking for.

Gravity meds – listed under some generic brand name that she couldn’t pronounce. There was only one individual on the entire planet who would have any need of them. Lo and behold, he was punctual, coming in for a refill every six weeks on the dot. His last visit had been more than five weeks ago – before the invasion. Fortune favored her. If he hadn’t run out already, he would soon. It wasn’t as though he would die without them. In fact, he could live normally for months without any side effects manifesting, but he had no reason to suspect that sending out for more would be signing his death warrant. The alien wouldn’t go himself – that would be foolish. Most likely, he’d send a lackey in his place, and Petrova could track them straight back to him.

Song had written a script that would alert her when another purchase was made, so she stowed her phone in her pocket again. All she could do now was wait, so it was time to get the lay of the land.

DAY 25 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“What’s happening now?” Barbosa grumbled as he marched onto the carrier’s bridge. It still felt odd to be in a carrier’s control center with almost no crew, only Song and a couple of agents manning the many consoles, the captain’s seat left empty. Before him, the bridge windows gave him an impressive view of the forward hull as it sloped away, the railgun batteries and torpedo hatches easily visible.

“Commander,” Song began, looking up from his console. “We have a situation that requires your attention.”

“Very well,” he replied, stopping beside his Lieutenant. “Show me.”

Song manipulated the controls, and the view from the main bridge window faded, frosting over to become a large display instead. It showed a feed from the carrier’s telescopes, the tether station coming into view.

Attached to the highest point of the black tether cable was a metallic saucer, hanging in high orbit above the arid planet. Its shape was that of a flattened dome, the panels that made up its hull dotted with antennae and comms equipment, the glow of windows visible. Though it paled in comparison to the larger stations in orbit around Proxima or any of the core worlds, it was still an impressive sight. Its main hull was reminiscent of a hubcap, and it was ringed by ribcage-like berths designed to accommodate freighters, a couple of them already occupied by the massive cargo ships. It was hard to estimate its size at a glance, but using one of the docked vessels for reference, it was easily a kilometer across. Tether stations such as this one acted as the space port and counterbalance to the anchor on the ground below, the two structures linked by the elevator. Barbosa knew from his research that this one had been constructed by ExoCorp before they had lost control of the colony, and it still bore their yellow livery.

Floating not far from the station was a freighter that had yet to dock. The long, skeletal frame that made up its spine resembled the jib of a crane, and it was adorned with hundreds of colorful cargo containers that filled out its profile. Its comparatively small cockpit and living quarters were situated at the prow, while the massive engine cones and reactor module were mounted at the stern like a counterweight, giving the vessel the appearance of a four-hundred-meter dumbbell. The ship seemed to be slowly turning in their direction, clusters of thrusters along its flank flickering.

“That freighter is the Cadillac, out of Franklin,” Song began. “It was supposed to be shipping meat and grain to Hades – the last stop along its route. According to the cargo manifest, they were expecting to pick up a load of ores and raw materials for their return journey. Standard practice thus far has been to allow unloaded freighters to leave if their crews are cooperative, and to arrest the crews and impound their ships if they resist. The crew of the Cadillac were rather heavily armed, and they thwarted attempts by station security to enter their vessel and apprehend them. They became belligerent after learning that they weren’t getting their cargo, and they attempted to break away before unloading was complete. We had no choice but to unlock the docking clamps to avoid damage to the station.”

“Has there been any contact with them since?” Barbosa asked with a frown.

“They’re refusing commands from traffic control, and they appear to be turning about,” Song replied.

“Hail them,” Barbosa ordered.

“No response, Commander,” Song replied after a moment.

“Commander – thermal signatures from their engines,” one of the operatives warned from another console. “They’re heading towards us at full burn.”

“What are they doing?” Barbosa muttered, stepping out from behind the console to get a better look at the display. “Surely they’re not intending to ram us over some ore? Keep hailing them, and bring our CIWS guns online.”

“Commander, I must caution that any debris we create in this orbital window could pose a significant threat,” Song warned. “If we shoot that vessel out of the sky, it could form a debris field that will orbit the planet and impact the station.”

“Damn it,” Barbosa hissed. “All engines full – move us into a higher orbit!”

He felt a tug as the carrier’s engines came online, its nose lifting away from Hades’ horizon, but they were starting from a cold stop while the freighter was already on its way. The carrier had been loitering fairly close to the station, both to protect the vital asset and to keep an eye on the city below.

“Enemy vessel is on a collision course, Commander,” one of the crew warned. “They’re adjusting their trajectory to match ours. Distance, eight hundred klicks. Estimated time to impact – sixty seconds.”

“Give me options, Song!” Barbosa demanded.

“Recommend engaging portside railgun batteries and attempting to disable critical systems,” Song replied as his mechanical hands danced across the keys. “Maybe we can hit their reactors without creating too much wreckage.”

“Wait!” Barbosa added, extending a hand in a gesture for him to stop. “What are they doing now?”

As he watched, the long vessel slowly began to rotate on its axis, its engines going cold. It flipped upside-down, its engines igniting again, their cones now facing the carrier.

“That’s a flip-and-burn maneuver,” Song replied. “They’re decelerating, Commander.”

As the freighter began to shed velocity as quickly as it had gained it, all of the clamps that secured the cargo containers along its midsection decoupled, a swarm of brightly-colored projectiles continuing on their journey. They rapidly left the freighter behind, speeding along towards the carrier like a salvo of missiles, hundreds of them filling the scope.

“Guns, guns!” Barbosa yelled.

Song activated the carrier’s defense systems, the small CIWS turrets that were dotted around the vessel’s hull rising from their hatches. They were rotary railguns with a very high rate of fire, each one equipped with a marshmallow-shaped backup radome, the turrets swiveling to track their targets. They began to fire, trails of molten slugs painting glowing lines in the darkness, reaching out to intercept the containers. Where the rounds found their mark, the containers erupted into confetti, forming spreading clouds of loose grain and other foodstuffs that continued on their path. The turrets switched from target to target at a rapid pace, but there were too many, and the station was in their firing arc.

“Brace for impact!” Song warned, red warning lights bathing the bridge.

Barbosa gripped a nearby console, feeling the vessel shudder as the containers reached it. Through the windows ahead, he watched a swarm of them dash themselves against the forward hull, the colorful boxes smashing open like pinatas to disgorge their contents. They lost a CIWS gun – torn from its gimbal like a damned wing mirror, more impacts following until the red collision warning lights abated.

“Damage report!” Barbosa barked.

“We lost a turret, but the damage seems largely superficial,” Song replied as his eyes darted between his displays. “I’ll need to run a more thorough diagnostic and get some eyes out on the hull. I’m not seeing any pressure loss alarms or foam releases.”

“Did they really just shower us in beef and corn?” Barbosa sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What are they doing now?”

“They’re burning away, Commander,” one of the crew replied. “Based on their current course, I’d say they’re heading out to a safe jump distance.”

“Shall I engage them?” Song suggested.

“No, let them go,” Barbosa conceded. “They made their point, and they used up all of their ammunition. Get a bead on that debris field and make sure it isn’t a hazard. Helmsman – stop our burn and bring us back into a stable orbit.”

“I’m getting reports that we’ve lost a Beewolf, Commander,” Song added.

“What?” Barbosa scoffed.

“Seems a container passed through the portside hangar bay door and crushed a fighter.”

“I didn’t expect to lose a dogfight to a grain shipment today,” Barbosa sighed. “Have someone get down there and clean it up. If you need me, I’ll be in the officer’s quarters reevaluating my life choices with a bottle of scotch.”

DAY 25 – HADES – PETROVA

The sounds and smells of the bar assailed Petrova as she removed her mask, the acrid smoke that hung in the air stinging her nose, the murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses reaching her ears. In a way, it was relieving to be somewhere more familiar. She hadn’t been to a real bar since last leaving Proxima, and while it wasn’t exactly upscale, she was more at ease here than in the maze of prefabs outside.

There were little watering holes like this on practically every street corner, and it seemed to be a popular way for the locals to spend their meager paychecks. As she passed by the tables and booths, she noted that they were occupied mostly by burly factory workers and miners, many still wearing their high-vis vests. The sight of the bright yellow inspired a tinge of unease in her. It was unlikely that any of these men were insurgents, but they were wearing the same colors, which was by design. The enemy wanted SWAR to feel unwelcome on Hades, and it was certainly working.

Many of the patrons glanced up to examine her as she walked by, partly because she was a stranger, and partly because she was a woman. Even beneath all of the heavy clothes, her gait gave her away. There was a handful of other women, but they were built almost as ruggedly as the men, the backbreaking labor leaving them with the same broad shoulders and calloused hands.

This building wasn’t a prefab, as even joined together, the modules were a little narrow for bars and restaurants. It was built from the usual ugly concrete, little more than a gray cube from the outside, built up in layers by an industrial printer. They had attempted to make the interior a little more welcoming, paneling the walls with polymer patterned to look like wood. There was no natural wood to spare on Hades – everything was made from welded metal or extruded polymer. The only genuine wood came from luxury imports. It gave the city a temporary, artificial feel, as though this generational colony was still some haphazard company town set up only weeks ago.

Despite being more spacious than a prefab, the bar could only accommodate maybe forty people, and not all of the seats were occupied. It should be a good place to gather some intel. Petrova headed to the bar at the far end of the room – another polymer construction with a faux-wood counter – and occupied one of the vacant stools. There were a couple of other people sitting along the bar, both nursing their drinks as they gazed up at an old display mounted close to the ceiling. It showed a feed from what must be a news site, the host relaying information about a recent attack. It seemed that a PDF patrol had been ambushed by gunmen.

“Things are getting crazy again,” one of them muttered, resting his elbows on the bar. “It’s like we’re back in the Syndicate days again. I wish I could earn enough scratch to get the hell off his rock.”

“Where would you go?” the other scoffed, taking a swig from his beer can. “Nothing you do on Hades is gonna make you the kind of money you’d need to set up on Franklin or one of the inner colonies.”

“Jarilo, maybe,” he muttered with a shrug. “I hear it’s a cheap place to live, and they’re doing a lot of shipbuilding there. I could do that.”

“There’s a big difference between welding in a shop and doing vacuum work, Sam,” his neighbor scoffed. “Give it time. It’ll die down – always does.”

“It’s the back-and-forth that fucks me up,” Sam replied. “We kick the Corp out, and the mob takes over. We kick out the mob, and the Blues take over. When the Blues leave, what’s coming next? A hundred years of peace and prosperity? That’s about as likely as me setting up a homestead on Franklin.”

“It’ll probably be a hive fleet next,” the other man chuckled, gesturing with his can. “At least we’d know where they stand, unlike our new benefactors, as the Governor keeps calling ‘em…”

“You been reading intranet forums?” Sam asked, narrowing his eyes.

“You’re telling me you haven’t?”

“I didn’t say that, Carl – I just know that your brain is a sponge, and you’ll believe anything someone posts on the net.”

“You have to admit that they’ve been acting weird,” Carl continued, lowering his voice as though he feared someone might overhear. “We’ve had, what – a dozen UN fleets show up since the Syndicate was defeated? Even before the rumors started spreading, didn’t you think these new guys were behaving strangely? They roll in one night and take over all the garrisons like it’s an invasion, then their excuse is some corruption scandal nobody else seems to know anything about. They start running the place like they own it, diverting cargo and forcing the factories to make weapons, making everyone do overtime. Since when does the Navy have any say over how many hours we work or what products we make?”

“We live in the ass end of nowhere, Carl,” Sam sighed. “Do you keep up with Sol politics? Do you watch the UN General Assembly broadcasts when the freighters bring in recordings eight months out of date? Do you know what the Admiralty is doing at any given time? Of course not – people like us don’t have the time for that shit. Yeah, it could be a giant conspiracy to take over a shithole that nobody cares about, or it could be new laws and policies finally making their way out here.”

“You’ve seen the resistance broadcasts – everybody has,” Carl added.

“Keep your voice down,” Sam hissed, glancing around warily. “Yeah, we’ve all seen them, but that doesn’t make them true.”

“Don’t tell me you buy the line about how the insurgency was the reason the Blues invaded,” Carl continued. “It’s the other way around, man. The resistance is a response to the Blues. They have no proof that it was active before they arrived.”

“If you got caught doing that shit, maybe you’d go on camera and claim it’s a conspiracy too,” Sam muttered. “They’ve turned the city into a battlefield – it’s not like they can give themselves up at this point.”

“Hey, watch your mouth,” Carl shot back as his mood began to sour. “One of the PDF guys in that video was my friend’s nephew. He was a good kid – people know him in the area. No way he’d get involved with any kind of criminal outfit. He was raised better than that.”

“Alright, alright,” Sam conceded as he backed off a little. “Listen, man, I just came here to get a drink after work. I don’t want to get into arguments about politics.”

“Nah, it’s my bad,” Carl said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I get a little heated when I’m tipsy.”

“If they’re not UN, then who are they?” Petrova interjected.

Sam shook his head and turned his attention back to the TV, while Carl leaned closer to her, gearing up in anticipation of sharing his theories with a fresh pair of ears.

“Haven’t you seen the broadcasts?” he began. “You must have been living under a rock.”

“I don’t get a lot of time off work,” she replied.

“According to the resistance, they’re not Navy at all,” he continued. “At least, they’re not Navy anymore. They say that they were a special forces group that went rogue and captured a Jump Carrier.”

“That’s how you know it’s bull,” Sam grumbled. “You ever seen a carrier? They’re like…half a kilometer long, and they have crews of thousands.”

“Quiet, Sam!” Carl complained. “I’m telling her the story! So, they’re supposed to be rogue spec-ops,” he continued as he turned back to Petrova. “That’s why there are so few of them, and why they’re so reliant on the PDF. They don’t actually have the numbers to police the colony on their own. When the Navy were on patrol, the place was crawling with Marines, and they had a few auxiliaries too. I saw a Krell once,” he added proudly.

“You did not,” Sam said.

“Yes I did!” Carl replied indignantly. “It looked like a giant alligator standing on its hind legs. Thing was carrying a gun bigger than I am.”

“I know you’ve never seen an alligator, that’s for sure,” Sam chuckled.

“Why would they be interested in Hades?” Petrova asked, feigning confusion.

“That’s what I asked him,” Sam mumbled.

“You said it yourself, Sam,” Carl continued. “We’re in the ass end of nowhere, and we have plenty of industrial capacity, and plenty of raw materials. It takes fleets a good six months to get here. If you wanted to take over a colony, and do it quickly, Hades would be the place.”

“But why?” Sam pressed. “They’re not here for our beautiful beaches.”

“Supposedly, they’re planning to break away from the UN – succeed where the Syndicate failed.”

“When you start a statement with supposedly, it becomes a lot less credible,” Sam chuckled.

“What have you heard about the resistance?” Petrova continued.

“Not much,” Carl replied, considering for a moment. “All I know for sure is that this recent crackdown is because of them. We haven’t had curfews and martial law since the mob got run out. Whoever they are, they’re enough of a threat to warrant locking down the whole colony. I did hear some rumors about how they’re treating people for free.”

“Treating people?” Petrova asked. “What, like doctors?”

“I don’t know how people are getting in contact with them, but I’ve heard some stories about the resistance arranging meetings to give out free meds,” Carl said. “On account of the shortages and the staffing problems at the hospital. It’s getting bad – lotta people getting turned away.”

“Yeah, they’re probably causing the shortages,” Sam added. “Funny how the hospital runs out, and suddenly the insurgents have crates of medicine to give out for free.”

“I’m supposed to be the conspiracy theorist here,” Carl said with a shake of his head. “Anyway, you should probably be careful where you talk about it. People are testy these days, and there are PDF everywhere. You seen all the drones they have flying around? Place is becoming a police state.”

“The drones are weird,” Sam mused, finally willing to concede on that point. “I have a friend whose dad served in the Navy, and he says they’re spotter drones of the kind used for scouting and artillery strikes.”

“I haven’t seen you around before, by the way,” Sam added as he took a sip from his glass. “You new here?”

“I work for the city,” she replied. She had prepared her cover story before she had even arrived on the ground. “We’re doing some maintenance on the underground power cables in the area, so I’m staying in a prefab not too far from here. Figured I’d find a good place to drink during my stay.”

“An electrician, then?” Carl asked. “You with the Guild?”

“Yeah,” she replied with a nod.

“You have an interesting accent,” Sam added, giving her a curious look over his friend’s shoulder. “What is that – Russian?”

“My parents emigrated from Russia,” she replied. “I inherited it from them. We spoke a lot of Russian at home.”

“Keeping the traditions alive,” Sam said with an approving nod.

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” Carl added.

“Sure,” Petrova replied, seeing an opportunity to get him drinking and maybe talking a little more. It didn’t seem like either Sam or Carl had any real idea what was happening or knew anything concrete, but the lead about the free medical care could be valuable. The Rask had been running a clinic before his disappearance.

***

“You’re alright, Valentina,” Carl announced. It was a little louder than he might have intended thanks to his inebriated state, and he hadn’t noticed how little his new friend had been drinking in comparison.

“I think you’ve had enough, buddy,” Sam sighed as he hopped off his stool. He helped Carl out of his seat and slung one of his arms around his shoulder, supporting his weight. “Let’s get you home before curfew. You don’t want to spend the night in the drunk tank.”

Petrova considered helping but reminded herself that she might blow her cover if she appeared unnaturally strong or if one of her sleeves was torn off. It didn’t seem like Sam expected it anyway – she wasn’t half the size of some of the women they usually drank with. It was a good thing that she’d chosen electrician as her cover story, because nobody would have believed she was a miner or a factory worker with her lean build.

“I have him,” Sam grunted, hefting his snickering friend. “It was nice meeting you, Valentina.”

“You can call me Val,” she replied.

“We’ll see you around,” he replied, guiding Carl away to the door.

Petrova hung around the bar for a little longer, eavesdropping on a few more conversations, but nothing of interest came up. She finished her drink and swiped her phone to pay, then headed outside, checking the time. With martial law in full effect, curfew was nearing, and she wouldn’t want to be caught on the streets while undercover as a civilian.

She made her way down the street, passing by the rows of prefabs and the occasional concrete structure, the planet’s hypergiant staining the sky orange as it dipped towards the horizon. Golden light spilled out of the narrow prefab windows, the way that they were angled meaning that little of it reached the street, though it was enough to see by. The tether loomed above everything, blinking warning lights rising up its length in waves until they faded into the twinkling stars. The sight was quite beautiful – something she would never have imagined herself saying about Hades. It was already starting to grow cold, the day’s intense heat siphoning away, and she pulled her shawl a little tighter.

It was nice not to have to worry about frostbite anymore, but she’d have to remember to fake having cold extremities when the situation called for it. What was it that people did when they had cold hands? It was no longer second nature to her. Rubbing and blowing into them – that was it.

As she rounded a bend, she paused, hearing the sound of an engine approaching. Carefully, she slipped inside a shadowy alley between two buildings, leaning out to get a look. Some distance down the road ahead of her, a pair of PDF trucks came into view, traveling quickly enough to kick up clouds of dust behind them. They were older Navy surplus models – ancestors of the more modern Puma IFV, their headlights bathing the path ahead. They skidded to a halt in front of one of the structures – this one made from several prefab modules that had been joined together by covered walkways.

The rear doors of the vehicles flung open, and a small army of PDF troopers piled out, a dozen of them taking up position behind their trucks to watch the building from cover. Another squad thundered up the narrow flight of steps, using an override card to open the door, proceeding inside with their weapons raised. Another figure caught her attention, and she noticed a man getting out of the passenger seat of the lead cab. He hopped down onto the ground, landing on a pair of springy skids, his helmeted head scanning the area. It was a fellow operative – Petrova leaning a little further out of view.

There was commotion from inside – shouting and crashing, but no gunfire. A couple of minutes later, the squad reemerged, his time with prisoners. They had captured maybe ten people, cuffing their hands behind their backs with zip-ties and placing obscuring hoods over their heads. They marched them down the steps, keeping a hand on each man’s shoulder to bend him almost double, holding them at gunpoint.

The SWAR operative oversaw the troopers as they loaded the men into the trucks, then as quickly as they had come, they piled back inside. The agent was the last to leave, checking the dark street one last time before climbing back inside his cab. The trucks turned, then headed back the way they had come.

Once they were a good distance away, Petrova stepped out of cover, glancing up to see a drone passing by overhead. No matter. She could simply inform Song that she had been present, and he would pass it along if anyone wanted to investigate.

Interesting. Roach and Crow were in charge of security now, and they were far more tactically minded than Hoff had been. Hoff had treated his position like that of a sheriff, even painting that damned star on his PCE, but these two would approach the problem like it was a war to be won. For all of Hoff’s failings, he had policed the colony rather than subduing it. It looked like they were sending out teams to arrest suspected insurgents for interrogation. While a heavy-handed tactic, it would probably get results, but it might cause further rifts with the locals. Based on her conversation at the bar, people were already getting testy. If they heard that their neighbors were being abducted from their homes in the dead of night and taken away to garrisons, it could empower the insurgency.

She continued on her way, passing by the now-empty building.

CHAPTER 14

DAY 27 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“Allow me to introduce Yohanes and Henrik,” Bergmann said, gesturing to the two newcomers at the conference table. Their little operations room was still buried in the depths of an old mine, with naked bulbs hanging from a rock ceiling that was secured by steel braces. There had been a few upgrades, however. The chairs were more comfortable, and there were now a few desks and computer terminals scattered about near the walls. All of the usual people were in attendance, including Amy, who gave Ruza an excited smile from the other side of the table.

“Yohanes is to be our permanent liaison with the FMU, and Henrik comes to us from the Trade Association,” Bergmann continued. “We thought it was time to reach out, considering the supply situation.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Reed began, the other people present echoing the sentiment. “It’s about time the TA finally got involved. We have all of the major unions on Hades with us now, except for the Municipal Guild.”

“The supply issue should be our first order of business,” Ruza said. “Perhaps Henrik can tell us more.”

“We did try to negotiate with Governor Serio,” the man called Henrik began. He was a little younger than Bergmann, and he lacked the stocky build of someone who was accustomed to hard labor. Judging by his suit, Ruza guessed that he might be fairly high up in the company, perhaps dealing more with logistics than the actual hauling. “We’ve been bombarding his staff with requests for meetings since the blockade started, and we can only conclude that he’s giving us the cold shoulder. He’s made some rather generous offers to the other unions, so we believe it’s likely that his hands are tied. The occupiers won’t budge on the matter.”

“What exactly have they been doing?” Bergmann asked. “We’ve heard rumors about trade goods being rerouted or intercepted, but not much more.”

“We’ve felt the shortages, too,” Astrid added.

“As soon as they arrived, they took control of the tether station and the anchor from the PDF,” Henrik replied with a scowl. “There’s been an embargo ever since – they have total control over trade. My union’s domain is the transportation of cargo to and from Hades. We pick up the raw materials and export goods on the ground, and we handle imports coming into the colony. It’s up to us to predict the population’s needs before they arise and make sure we have a steady flow of supplies coming down the tether. Things can get complicated when you’re dealing with such large distances and delayed shipping schedules. You can’t let emergencies happen, because they’ll take half a year to solve.”

“Goods have to be ordered months or even years in advance, and Hades pays for imports mainly through exporting ore and industrial equipment,” Astrid explained. “Not to get too deep into how the economy works, but if there’s nothing going out, there’s no money coming in.”

“We had shipments that were scheduled months ago and never arrived,” Henrik continued. “The likelihood of freighters being lost en route or stiffing us is extremely low, so we can only conclude that SWAR are intercepting those shipments. When freighters leave, they’re supposed to load up with export goods, which they haven’t been doing. We’ve not been in contact with any of the shipping companies – our access to the FTL sat is blocked. They claim it’s having technical issues.”

“Sounds like jamming to me,” Rivera mused. “We know that they have an EWAR ship on station.”

“Do you have any people working in the anchor or the station?” Bergmann asked.

“The guys at the anchor are under very strict instructions to only load what the occupiers tell them to load,” Henrik replied. “We’ve been out of contact with our guys on the station. It’s pretty clear that trade has completely broken down. Hades is not self-sufficient by any means, especially when it comes to food, and we can’t afford to play games with the Governor anymore. The higher-ups at the Association want the blockages removed – by any means necessary.”

“That’s the plan,” Rivera added. “What do you have access to?”

“There’s a slow trickle of food and goods coming in,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Not enough by any means. What we’re really concerned about is the shipment from Franklin that was supposed to come in a couple of days ago. There’s been no sign of it. We’re talking hundreds of tons of meat and grain – staple foods that the colony depends on to survive. They were supposed to pick up a load of ore before they headed back, and we haven’t seen head nor tail of them.”

“When was the next shipment supposed to follow?” Amy asked.

“Not for another couple of months,” he replied.

“We’re already seeing shortages at the markets,” Amy continued, glancing to Bergmann with a worried expression. “We’ve stockpiled enough food to last a while – at least for the population living on-base, but it might be a good idea to warn everyone to start rationing.”

“We wouldn’t want to cause a panic,” Bergmann said.

“There will be more than panic if people begin to starve,” Ruza rumbled, his low voice commanding their attention. “I have seen such hardships before, during my territory’s decline. Our land was too meager to grow adequate food, and we most often took what we required from others. We were little better than raiders and pirates. There is nothing like a growling belly to make a man forget his morals.”

“Amy, I want you to start preparing contingencies,” Astrid said. “If we find ourselves in a situation where the people are in need, we want to be able to do all we can.”

“Just make sure that we have enough food for ourselves first,” Rivera warned. “An army can’t fight on an empty stomach, and if our operations suffer because of it, we’d be doing the opposite of helping.”

Amy gave him a look that Ruza recognized as disapproval, but although Rivera’s words were harsh, he wasn’t wrong. The resistance was the only thing keeping the enemy from overtaking Hades entirely, and being too charitable could leave them weakened.

“There is another matter,” Rivera continued. “Recently, the enemy has been stepping up its operations. As well as the heightened patrols and surveillance, there have been abductions and arrests by teams of PDF who are often overseen by SWAR agents.”

“I can’t stress how unusual this behavior is,” Omar added, glancing across the table with a dour expression. “Under UN law, the PDF can act both as a peacekeeping and paramilitary force, but they have to follow the same rules that a police officer would when interacting with civilians. There have to be warrants signed by a judge, probable cause, a statement of rights – that kind of thing. Hoff was stretching the rules, and I’m sure he could have the Governor sign whatever paperwork he wanted, but these new commanders are flaunting them entirely.”

“They’re grabbing whoever they want right off the street, and those people are disappearing,” Rivera continued. “These raids usually take place at night with the element of surprise. They pull up in APCs and take the prisoners to the nearest garrison, where they drop off the face of the planet.”

“We’re missing FMU members,” Yohanes confirmed. “They were relatively high up in the union, and their families haven’t seen them for more than seventy-two hours. There’s no doubt that it’s punitive – revenge for the attack at the steel plant.”

“They could be interrogating people – even executing them,” Reed said with a shrug. “We just don’t know, and nothing is off the table at this point.”

“These kinds of arrests would usually go through the garrison chain of command, meaning that people like me would see the orders before they went out,” Omar added. “That’s not happening anymore. They may suspect that there are sympathetic elements within the PDF, or they may just not care enough to maintain the pretense anymore. Either way, we need to step up our efforts if we’re going to protect the population.”

“We cannot let this go unanswered,” Ruza said. “If they seek to strike fear into the people, then we shall strike fear into them in turn. We must make these arrests fraught with uncertainty and danger. If the PDF fear to enter homes, and SWAR cannot stay out of the line of fire, they may be less eager to carry out these abductions.”

“You want to do some ambushing?” Reed asked with a grin. “I think we can arrange something like that.”

“The problem is predicting when and where the raids will happen,” Omar said. “Remember – I’m out of the loop now.”

“Perhaps we could have field agents watch enemy movements and report in when they see unusual activity,” Astrid suggested. “The garrisons are all very close to civilian homes.”

“Maybe, but they’d risk exposing themselves with all the surveillance drones, and we can’t guarantee that we’d have people in the immediate area who could respond in time,” Rivera mused. “That’s our biggest operational weakness right now. Yes, the smuggling tunnels and old mines allow us to move safely and strike with impunity, but their sheer size hampers our mobility and our response times. We’re limited by the need to plan our attacks well in advance, and we can’t do much if the target is too far from a convenient tunnel entrance. All of our successful operations have gone down by carefully preparing an area and luring the enemy into an ambush while maintaining the initiative.”

“I might have suggested moving troops above ground before the crackdown,” Reed added. “These days, with all the patrols and the curfew, there’s no way we’d get away with it for long.”

“It may be wise to begin dispersing our forces,” Ruza added, his long claws clicking on the table as he leaned on it. “We cannot be successful in preventing every arrest, and the enemy will eventually extract the information that they seek, by one means or another. If they locate this base and launch a large-scale assault, we will be powerless to resist. A single PCE could cut a swathe through our ranks.”

“You’re talking about forming cells,” Reed said with an approving nod. “Breaking up our forces into smaller, more mobile units. If we spread these cells throughout the tunnel network, it could help with our mobility issues, too. We’d be able to respond more quickly to enemy movements and be more reactive.”

“At the expense of the structure we have here,” Rivera argued. “Having our stockpiles of weapons and supplies in one centralized location allows for a high degree of readiness. The men have adequate quarters, access to medical care, an armory, a firing range, trainers, power and water. Any cells would be living rough in the tunnels, and they’d stand even less of a chance if the enemy’s patrols caught them with their pants down. Remember that the Borgs are sending in PDF to map the network.”

“What we have here is an effective military force, granted,” Reed replied. “But we’re not going to win this war through conventional means. You’re a Marine, and you want to run this operation like the Corps – I get that. Your training and your experience are invaluable, but Ruza has experience fighting exactly this kind of war, against exactly this kind of enemy. If he says we should disperse, I think we should listen to him.”

“What about a compromise?” Astrid suggested, preempting Rivera before he could reply. “We could maintain a large main force here at the base, but we could also establish cells and hide caches in the tunnel network. In the event that the main base was attacked, we’d have fallback positions, and we’d gain some mobility. We also wouldn’t be sacrificing the setup we have here.”

“We have enough resources and weapons to spare,” Amy confirmed with a glance around the table. “I can make sure that it doesn’t have a negative impact on the base. We could even have people take turns so that they’re not spending all of their time without beds and showers.”

“Troop rotations,” Rivera said.

“I’m a secretary, not a soldier,” Amy chuckled.

“No, it’s a good suggestion,” the Marine replied.

“We could establish satellite outposts throughout the network – move some amenities and resources to those locations,” Reed added. “It might even be worth establishing our own patrol routes that move between permanent outposts and temporary camps.”

“I like it,” Bergmann said, waving his hand to pull up a holographic map of the tunnels that floated above the conference table. Ruza was familiar with many of its shapes and passages now, having navigated them himself. “There are some larger chambers that would make good outposts, and it would extend our reach significantly.”

“The FMU has committed to providing whatever material help we can,” Yohanes added. “I think we can get you more weapons and raw materials, along with manpower, if you need it. We have steel workers raring for a chance to strike back after what the Borgs did at the plant.”

“And the Guild will divert what trade resources we can,” Henrik said. “If the Borgs are just going to hoard the shipments anyway, they might as well be put to better use. We can screw them around and fabricate some delays, at least for a while. Let’s see how the Governor likes being stonewalled and ignored.”

“The Trade Association is pretty notorious in some circles for having…very competent bodyguards,” Bergmann added, clearly choosing his words carefully. “You use them to protect your assets from theft and your union members from extortion, as I understand it.”

“Yes, dealing with valuable cargo and large sums of money tends to invite that kind of negative attention,” Henrik replied skeptically. “I’m not sure they’d be well-suited to this kind of operation, though. They’re not soldiers.”

“Perhaps not, but they could leverage their talents to protect the union heads,” Bergman continued. “The Borgs are clearly gunning for us, and they’re getting comfortable targeting people near the top. They’ll come for the leadership eventually. They know that the unions are their greatest obstacle, and we need to do a better job of protecting them. I’m not talking about myself – I spend much of my time here, and I’m surrounded by Marines, but the FMU and TA could use the support.”

“I’ll bring the idea to my boss and see what he says,” Henrik replied.

“Wouldn’t be hard to outfit them with some more specialized gear,” Rivera added. “We have plenty of XMRs, and those go straight through UNN body armor. Ask me how I know…”

***

When the meeting was over, everyone dispersed, Ruza heading back into the base’s many intersecting tunnels. Without even needing to turn around, he heard footsteps, recognizing Rivera’s hastening gait as the Marine tried to catch up.

“Do you have something to say that could not be said at the meeting, Rivera?” Ruza asked with a single ear facing behind him. “My intention was not to countermand you, and I believe we all came to an amicable compromise.”

“Don’t give me the ear thing,” the Marine complained, arriving beside him. “No, I wanted to talk to you about the outposts.”

They were interrupted by a commotion coming from further down the tunnel, the pair sharing a concerned glance. They hurried down the passage, encountering a group of men engaged in a scuffle. Some half a dozen of them were brawling, shoving and punching one another – balling their fists and using them as hammers as humans tended to do with their lack of claws. Rivera’s inner drill sergeant came out, his loud, authoritative bark even giving Ruza pause for a moment.

“Alright, break it up!”

Two of them seemed to respond, trying to withdraw from the fight, but the remaining men weren’t relenting. Ruza strode forward, putting himself between the two groups, baring his teeth and letting out a growl that sent the offending parties scurrying a few paces back down the tunnel. The two other men were Rivera’s Marines, judging by their blue coveralls. Both were bruised, and one of them had a nosebleed – the man reaching up to wipe away the blood with his fist. Ruza noted that it was a prosthetic as it emerged from his sleeve, seeing black polymer instead of skin.

“What the hell is going on here?” Rivera demanded, the two Marines standing up straighter at the sound of his commanding voice. “Explain, Marines!”

“They started it, Staff Sergeant,” the man with the broken nose grumbled. He gestured down the passage at the other group. They seemed to be either civilians or ex-PDF – it was hard to be sure, but they were wearing civilian clothes. “That bastard called me a Borg,” he added, emphasizing the word so that the other men could hear it.

“You called us weekend warriors!” one of the men in civilian clothes shot back. They must be PDF, then.

“Big tough Marines, huh?” another of the troopers added with an elaborate gesture that Ruza could only imagine was intended to offend. “Not so tough now, are ya?”

“Call me a Borg again, and you’ll be in the infirmary getting this thing extracted from your asshole!” the Marine replied with a shake of his prosthetic fist.

“He lost his arm protecting people like you, and I’m not gonna let you mouth off like that!” the second Marine added.

The pair soon bowed their heads and went silent with another bark from their superior.

“I don’t care what was said or who threw the first punch!” Rivera chided, dressing down his men. “You’re not on shore leave – we’re fighting for our lives down here, and you’re supposed to be representing the Corps. Get to the infirmary and clean yourselves up. I’ll deal with you later.”

They hurried away down the tunnel, one of the PDF calling after them as his friends jeered.

“Yeah, you’d better run!”

“These men are fighting to free your people,” Ruza began, his ominous countenance quickly dampening their mood. He took a few steps closer, looming over them, his head blocking the light from the nearest bulb and casting them into shadow. “They have shed blood for Hades – lost comrades to the enemy. I will not have you equate the two because of a common battlefield injury. Show them the respect they are due, or answer to me.”

The four men withdrew, muttering to themselves as they wandered away in the opposite direction, one of them giving Ruza a disdainful glance over his shoulder.

“My apologies,” Ruza began as Rivera walked over to join him. “Tensions are high, and some will seek out any avenue of relief. Perhaps human and Rask behavior is not so different after all.”

“You’re not responsible for them,” River replied. “My Marines know better than to get into fights with the locals. That Borg comment must have gotten to Galvez – he lost that arm to a Warrior on Chara II. Fucking thing snipped it right off at the elbow like the tip of a cigar.”

“A dear friend of mine also fought in that campaign,” Ruza began, Rivera looking up at him curiously. “His dropship was brought down over its surface, and he lay injured in the snow for many hours. By the time he was recovered, all four of his limbs had succumbed to frostbite and had to be amputated.”

“God damn,” Rivera muttered. “Yeah, Chara is what happens when hell freezes over. I don’t know why we even bother fighting for some of these planets. Who the hell wants to start a life on Chara II or Kruger III? Did your friend recover?”

“He made a full recovery,” Ruza said with a nod.

“I wouldn’t have imagined you referring to anyone as a dear friend,” Rivera added, raising an eyebrow in what might be amusement. “What made him so special?”

“He was the only person I ever met worthy of being called my Alpha,” Ruza replied. He knew that Rivera wouldn’t understand the significance of the statement, but he left him to ponder rather than elaborate. “Come – we will resume our conversation. You wished to speak of the outposts?”

DAY 27 – HADES ORBIT – THE GOVERNOR

“The greenhouses aren’t going to be enough,” the Governor warned. “It’s too little, and it’s too late. People are seeing shortages now, and you’re not going to have a colony to rule over if everyone starves to death. You need to do something about this before things get out of hand.”

“What would you have me do?” Barbosa snapped, peeling his prosthetic eyes away from the graphs and charts that hovered around him in holographic form. The portly little man was standing behind him on the observation deck, his fine suit out of place amidst their high-tech surroundings. “My plan would have worked. If you want to blame someone, blame the damned cowboys who fired an entire fiscal quarter’s worth of food at my carrier.”

“Your men functionally tried to rob them, then attempted to board their ship and impound it,” the Governor scoffed. “How did you expect them to react in that situation? You know how Franklinites are with guns – you should have anticipated that they’d be armed. Maybe you just didn’t care, and you thought station security could handle it. Either way, you’re responsible.”

“Based on the projections your staff gave me, I see no choice but to begin rationing,” Barbosa sighed as he gazed down at the planet. “My security forces will have to manage the food supply carefully and maintain order. We’ll need to set up checkpoints where food can be safely distributed. We might be facing theft, unrest – even riots if we don’t handle this well. I want you to give another address.”

“Another?” the Governor sighed. “They lose their impact if you have me do one every other day, you know. People start tuning them out.”

“You will explain that the resistance is sabotaging the food supplies and destroying our shipments,” Barbosa continued, ignoring his comment. “The Navy will be ensuring that nobody goes hungry, even if we have to ship food down from the carrier. I’ll give you instructions to relay to the citizens about how and when they will receive aid.”

“And…are you actually going to do that?” the Governor asked skeptically. “You barely have a skeleton crew on this carrier, as I understand it. A ship of this class could feed ten thousand people for several months without resupply.”

“We may yet need those supplies,” Barbosa replied evasively. “For a population of this size, what we have in our stores wouldn’t buy them more than a few days at most.”

“I see,” the Governor mused. “A contingency plan, maybe? If you foul things up so badly on Hades that you have to leave, you can take your carrier and disappear for a few months – try to set up shop somewhere less trying.”

“I do not plan for failure,” Barbosa grumbled.

“Maybe you should start,” the Governor replied, quickly moving along when the Commander gave him an angry look. “Listen – you’re a military man. Why don’t you stop trying to micromanage the economic aspects of the colony and give me more authority to handle them in your stead? I’ve been running Hades for almost two terms, and I know as much about that process as you do about leading campaigns and commanding soldiers – it’s my specialty. That way, you can focus your attention on your specialty, which is rooting out these insurgents.”

“Hades must transform if it is to meet my needs,” Barbosa explained, straightening a little as though imagining some noble future. “Its factories and foundries must produce the weapons and equipment that I will use to wage my campaign, and its people must be similarly transformed into a force that can persevere through the conflicts to come. I need your insights and your experience, but make no mistake – the Hades that you governed will cease to exist as you knew it.”

“I hope that your magnificent plan involves my constituents being able to feed themselves,” the Governor replied.

“You have your instructions,” Barbosa muttered, turning back to his displays.

“One more thing before I leave,” the Governor added. “I’m being asked about the recruits that were taken to the carrier. Their families haven’t heard anything in days, and they’re becoming concerned.”

“They’re recovering from surgery,” Barbosa replied without deigning to elaborate any further. “You’ll know more when I do.”

“I’d like to know when I can have my doctors back, too,” he insisted. “The hospital is understaffed, and they no longer have the resources to do their jobs properly. My sources have informed me that the insurgents are picking up the slack and giving out free meds, which doesn’t bode well for us – it’s free PR. If you have some to spare, it would help mitigate that. I imagine that this carrier is capable of producing medical supplies somehow.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Barbosa replied, beginning to sound annoyed. “Your shuttle is waiting for you, Governor. Don’t leave it waiting.”

“Very well,” the Governor conceded, heading off back in the direction of the hangar.

DAY 28 – HADES – PETROVA

“Form an orderly line – one at a time, please! A ration code has automatically been assigned to you! Scan your phone or ID at the reader, and you will receive the supplies that have been allocated to you!”

The PDF trooper was standing atop one of their camouflaged APCs, a megaphone in his hand as he addressed the growing crowd that was filling the street below. There were two dozen more troopers scattered about the area, a few of them equipped for riot control, holding batons and shields as they watched the restless citizens jostle for a spot. There were maybe a hundred people milling about.

Petrova found her place in the growing queue, sandwiched between a middle-aged woman and a burly man, both of them wearing the usual masks and shawls. The Hadean sun beat down on them, high enough in the sky that the prefabs to either side of the dusty street provided no shade. Worse, a dark shadow loomed on the horizon – a wall of dust as large as any cloud reaching up towards the blue sky.

“Sandstorm is rolling in,” the woman muttered, her voice muffled somewhat by her mask. “As if things couldn’t get any worse, we had to have a food shortage at this time of the year.”

“I’m just gonna pull my kids out of school,” the man replied, glancing up at the encroaching storm as dim flashes of lightning danced through its billowing depths. “Word is the hospital is turning away people with respiratory infections because they’re out of medicine. It’s not worth leaving the house at this point.”

“Damned rebels,” the woman muttered. “Did you see the address last night? They destroyed a whole freighter’s worth of food. Even the Navy is having to dip into their own stockpiles.”

“You believe that shit?” the man scoffed, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “My cousin works for the Trade Association, and he says the Navy has been blocking shipments up and down the tether since the day they arrived.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those,” she replied, glancing at the PDF who were standing at the far end of the line warily. “You should watch what you say – there have been arrests. Rebel sympathizers and insurgents, so they say.”

“It’s a free colony,” he replied with a shrug. “If they want to arrest me for having an opinion, they can come and get me.”

“At least the Navy is feeding us,” Petrova added.

If she was going to maintain her cover, then she had to be seen lining up for rations just like everyone else. A stockpile of MREs had been left for her at the prefab, and it would last her some weeks if she stretched it, but it would be better to avoid that as long as possible. There was no telling how the mission might shake out or when she might be able to resupply.

“We’ll see about that,” the man grumbled. “My brother called me earlier from across town – said they barely gave his family enough to get by. Either they’re being very stingy, or the situation is a lot worse than they’re letting on.”

The line began to move under the watchful eye of the PDF, the citizens approaching the checkpoint one by one as they shuffled along. It was little more than a temporary structure that had been set up using concrete road blocks, rows of fluorescent traffic cones guiding the people in. There was a stack of military-style crates made from gray polymer, each one large enough that it looked like it would take a couple of troopers to carry it. They were filled with rations, which were being handed out on a case-by-case basis, the visitors holding out phones or ID cards for a trooper with a handheld scanner. Some were given only a single unmarked box about the size of an MRE, while others were given bags filled with several – likely intended to feed families.

Petrova followed along, watching the PDF curiously. To a trained eye, they seemed nervous, perhaps expecting unrest or maybe an insurgent attack. The checkpoint didn’t seem terribly well defended, and the enemy would soon start running out of supplies too.

The man ahead of her received a couple of boxes in a plastic bag. He looked inside, checking its contents, then glanced up at the trooper again.

“What the fuck is this?” he demanded angrily. “I have two kids to feed. This is barely enough to keep them going for a day!”

“You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” the trooper replied, his voice given a synthetic timbre by his helmet. “There’s no need to get angry with me, sir. I just give out the rations – I don’t have any say in how many you get. That’s all handled by the computer.”

“I ought to give you a piece of my mind,” the man growled, jabbing an accusatory finger at him. Another pair of troopers swept in, one of them resting a gloved hand on an XMR that was hanging from a strap around his shoulder.

“Move along, sir.”

Muttering curses under his breath, the civilian hurried away, passing Petrova at a furious power walk as he headed back down the line. It was her turn next, and she felt a tinge of apprehension as the faceless trooper extended a hand for her ID. Silently hoping that Song had done his job, she fished the little card out of her pocket and handed it over, the trooper passing his scanner over the embedded chip. If there was a problem, she might be spending a couple of days in a cell before the higher-ups managed to straighten things out.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the trooper said as he waved her on. “Please proceed.”

Under the watchful eye of the guards, she was handed a box from the crate, then was sent on her way. As she walked back down the line, she examined the ration, curious about what the civilians were being fed.

Inside the simple cardboard box was a shrink-wrapped packet of what looked like some kind of spam, along with a packet of salted crackers, a cheese spread, a fruit and nut bar, and a small packet of cookies. It wasn’t too different from an MRE, albeit being assembled from items that must have been available on the ground. She noted that these items all seemed perishable, so perhaps they were keeping the canned and preserved food in reserve. That didn’t bode well…

She hurried a little, catching up with the angry father who had confronted the troopers. He was a little further down the street, his tattered cloak whipping in the growing wind, having slowed down a little after his anger had subsided.

“Hey!” she shouted, getting his attention. He paused, turning to look back at her, his expression impossible to discern behind his mask. She brandished the cardboard box, thrusting it towards him as she neared. “Take this. I don’t need it.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, glancing down at it hesitantly.

“Go ahead,” she insisted, pushing it into his hand. “Sounds like you have hungry mouths to feed.”

“I hate that I have to accept this, but thank you,” he replied as he placed it inside the bag he was carrying. “Sincerely. I have young kids, and they don’t…understand when I tell them that there’s nothing to eat.”

“No problem,” she added. “We Hadeans have to look out for one another, right?”

“Yeah – nobody else will,” he replied with a bitter laugh. “Do I get to know your name? I’m Louis. I work…well, I worked at the steel plant before that strike went sideways. I’m still waiting for them to let everyone back on the line.”

“You can call me Val,” she replied.

“I have to get back, Val. Thanks again.”

She gave him a wave, watching as he marched off in the direction of the looming storm. Her eyes rose to glance at the ominous cloud, the dust streaked by more flashes of lightning. She’d better get back herself if she didn’t want to get caught in that maelstrom. It looked like it could strip the finish right off her prosthetics.

DAY 28 – HADES – CROW

The wind howled through the warehouses, sending the claws that hung from the towering cranes swinging, the sound of creaking machinery and sand hammering against metal echoing across the courtyard. The dust storm had rolled over the city, and the air was so thick with it that the anchor was barely even visible in spite of its proximity, its red collision lights sweeping up the tether to join the intermittent flashes of lightning. The cargo loading area in the great anchor’s footprint was all but deserted, the piles of shipping containers and forklifts left abandoned, small dunes accumulating beside them. None of the workers would be returning until the storm had passed over.

Crow marched forward, his heavy PCE impervious to the wind, his boots leaving footprints in the freshly deposited sand before being quickly swept away. Ahead of him was a squad of SWAR agents. They were standing guard in front of one of the warehouses, the building so large that it faded into the dust, watching as a group of PDF moved crates through the open doors on wheeled pallets. They were transferring them over to another warehouse further along the row of buildings, leaning against the wind.

“Report,” Crow ordered as he approached the operatives.

“Almost done, LC,” one of the agents replied. They were using the ad-hoc channel, his voice coming through clear over the radio. “They’re just moving the last of the crates now.”

“You’re sure they’re reliable?” Crow continued. “The success of this operation depends on their discretion.”

“They’re loyal,” the agent replied. “They won’t talk.”

“Hope we can get into cover soon,” another of the men muttered. “This damned dust is clogging up my joints. It’s gonna take me all night to get the sand grains out of my servos.”

“Yeah, my right elbow is getting crunchy,” his neighbor chuckled.

“That’s the last of the food,” an agent said, holding a treaded finger to his helmet. “All that’s left inside are building supplies and other junk.”

“Have the locals pull back,” Crow replied, taking a few plodding steps closer to the open doors of the warehouse. One of the agents signaled them over the radio, waving for them to come over, and a procession of two dozen troopers came jogging out of the dust. A few of them balked at the sight of the PCE as they passed by, taking up position at the rear.

Crow raised a grenade launcher and loaded its rotating drum with a single crimson shell, locking the mechanism into place with a click. He leveled the weapon, then fired, sending the projectile sailing through the open doors. It erupted with a bright flash, its incendiary payload igniting the surrounding stockpiles, rapidly growing into a roaring blaze as the storm fed it oxygen. In only a scant couple of minutes, it had grown to engulf the warehouse, the flames rising from the roof and licking at the air as the wind tugged at them.

“Job’s done,” Crow announced, wheeling his suit around. “Let’s make ourselves scarce.”

DAY 29 – HADES – REED

Reed pushed past the crowd of people that had assembled in the warehouse district, moving between the throngs on his way towards the cloud of dark smoke rising above the city. Even before he’d heard the Governor’s address, he’d been able to see it on the horizon, the black plume looming higher than even the anchor beside it. After the storm, the streets were filled with fresh sand so deep that he practically had to wade through it like snow.

He shuffled past groups of dock workers wearing high-vis vests and hardhats, along with civilians from the nearby residential zones who had come to gawk, eventually reaching a place where he could get a clear view. Astrid followed behind him, both of their features obscured behind their masks and hoods.

The area had been locked down by the PDF, and the troopers were standing guard outside the closed gates to the industrial park, but the surrounding wall that sectioned it off from the street was low enough that Reed could get a look over it.

This was where the cargo that was sent up and down the tether was processed and stored before being shipped out – the area filled with rows of giant warehouses that were surrounded by loose containers and loading equipment. One of them was still smoldering, little more than a mound of blackened, twisted metal after having burned to the ground. It was surrounded by municipal workers and PDF who were hard at work dousing it with hoses that spewed fire-retardant foam, the beige-colored substance hardening on impact to form a crust over the rubble. The hoses were attached to tanker trucks that were parked nearby, their red warning lights flashing.

“It must have happened sometime during the night,” Astrid said from behind her rebreather. “They used the storm as cover.”

“Who the hell did this?” Reed asked, keeping his voice low as he glanced around warily. There were groups of onlookers scattered about, but they were engrossed in their own conversations. “The Governor is blaming the resistance, but we didn’t order this!”

“Could have been a third party unhappy with the rationing,” Astrid suggested with a shake of her head. “Burning down a whole warehouse full of food is a hell of a way to air your grievances…”

“This stinks,” Reed grumbled, scowling behind his visor. “It’s too fucking convenient, Astrid. They were already preemptively blaming us for the food shortages, and suddenly, a warehouse goes up in smoke? This is a new front in the propaganda war.”

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter who’s responsible,” Astrid conceded. “The Governor can blame it on us, so that’s what he’s doing. It’s too late to get ahead of this – they had an address ready to go.”

“What do we do now?” Reed wondered.

“Leave the information campaign to me,” Astrid said, her determined tone carrying through her rebreather. “I’ll see what I can do through the intranet. Amy has already been making plans to distribute food to the people – we’ll just have to accelerate our timetable. Everyone we feed or treat is someone who’s less susceptible to their influence.”

“I don’t like how unpredictable they’re becoming,” Reed added, glancing at the PDF who were standing guard by the gate. “If they’re capable of this, what else might they be capable of? False flag bombings? Murders? We need to find ways to keep a closer eye on their movements.”

“Maybe Omar can figure something out,” Astrid replied. “If we’re going to win this thing, we’re going to have to expand beyond the unions eventually. We’ll need a network of sympathizers and informants who can tip us off before things like this happen.”

“We’d better keep them at arm’s length,” Reed muttered as he watched the firefighters work. “We have enough potential for leaks as it is. Ruza was right. Eventually, the Borgs are going to grab someone who can lead them to our base, and we won’t survive the ensuing raid.”

“We’ll need to tread carefully,” Astrid confirmed. “Let’s not linger here too long,” she added, tilting her head to a drone that was slowly coasting past above them.

DAY 29 – HADES – LOUIS

“Is this really all they gave you, again?” Louis’ wife demanded as she tipped the ration packs out of their plastic bag. She lay the three cardboard boxes out on the cramped kitchen counter in their prefab, their two young children watching from the bedroom only a few feet away, sensing the tension in their mother’s voice. “I thought maybe yesterday was a mistake – some kind of computer error.”

“The PDF keep telling me that they have no control over who gets what,” he scoffed, hanging up his shawl on a rack by the door. “They can go pound sand if you ask me. I bet their families aren’t going hungry. They probably have all kinds of stuff stashed away in the shelters.”

“Louis, I’m getting worried,” she added in a more subdued tone. She glanced at the children, waiting for them to go back to playing with their toys before continuing. Taking his hand, she guided him into the living room, lowering her voice to a hushed whisper. “We can’t last like this, and with you out of a job…”

“They still haven’t reopened the plant,” he replied. “God, Helen. Even if I was working a cushy admin job on the station, the markets have been bare for days. I couldn’t buy more food, no matter how many credits I had.”

“I called my sister across town, and it’s the same situation over there,” she continued as she began to wring her hands. “We have some non-perishables stored, but those won’t last long if this is all we’re being given.”

“Listen,” Louis continued, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I saw some of the guys today, and we got to talking. One of them said he knew people who might be able to help.”

“Don’t tell me you accepted?” Helen sighed. “Louis, it’s probably the damned black market! You’ll end up in the desert with both your legs broken if you can’t pay them back! Don’t you remember how things used to be when the Syndicate was still in power?”

“No, it’s not that,” he insisted.

“The insurgents?” she suggested, her eyes widening. “Louis, the last thing me and the kids need is you being hauled off to a garrison to rot in a cell! You’ve heard about the arrests – about people disappearing!”

There was a buzz at the door, and Helen practically jumped out of her skin.

“Who could that be?” she wondered. “It’s almost curfew…”

Louis walked over to the door, tensing up as he hit the panel. It slid open to reveal a cloaked figure standing on the metal steps.

“Louis Arnau?”

“That’s me,” he replied warily. “Who’s asking?”

“You have friends,” the stranger replied, producing a bag and handing it to him. “We won’t stand by and let the people of Hades go hungry.”

Without stopping to elaborate, he hurried away into the fading daylight, crossing the street and vanishing into an alley.

“Who was that?” Helen asked, her eyes wandering to the bag Louis was holding. “What did he give you?”

“I don’t believe this!” he exclaimed, rummaging inside it with a rustle. “Canned food, a whole bag of dried rice, trail mix – there’s even some chili! What are these? Military protein bars?”

Helen reached inside and pulled out a small laminated card, angling it so that the light from the prefab’s strips didn’t shine on it so brightly.

“It says this is a gift from the resistance,” she marveled, turning the card over. “Look at this, Lou – they’re printing pamphlets. Just who in the hell have you been talking to?”

“The right people, it seems,” he replied with a relieved laugh. “Hey, kids – who wants chili?”

DAY 29 – HADES OUTSKIRTS

A cloaked figure made his way between the rusted industrial machinery, his tough leather clothing whipping in the wind. Another sandstorm had rolled in, shrouding the old industrial park in an obscuring blanket of dust, the abandoned warehouses and swaying cranes fading out of view a mere fifty feet away. The drones couldn’t operate in this, nor could the carrier’s sensors see anything on the ground. That must have been the reason for this odd meeting place.

When he reached the location that had been marked on his map, he paused, glancing up to see a warehouse fade into view. There were many industrial parks like this on the outskirts of the city, left long abandoned by ExoCorp after their hasty retreat, and few had ever been repurposed. This must be the place. He proceeded to the door, feeling the rusty hinges grind as he pushed it open, stepping inside its shadowy interior. It was day, but one would be hard-pressed to guess with the sky so choked, only dim sepia light bleeding in through the dust-caked skylights. Even so, it was nice to get some reprieve from the storm.

He wasn’t sure what to do now, his footsteps echoing through the cavernous, empty space as he walked past bare shelves and empty crates. More sand fell about his feet as he brushed it off his clothes, wiping down his sleeves and shaking it from his jacket.

“Stop right there.”

A voice emanated from the darkness, and he stopped in his tracks, pulling back his hood and removing his mask as he glanced around warily.

“We have you surrounded, so don’t make any sudden moves,” the strange voice added.

“You invited me here,” he protested, raising his hands reflexively. “I’m not armed.”

“We’ll need to search you,” the stranger added, still out of sight. “An abundance of caution – you understand.”

Something shimmered in the darkness, and as a figure walked into view, he saw that they were wearing a reflective armband. A masked man with a handheld scanner approached him, waving the device across his body.

“He’s clean,” the masked man declared. “No weapons, no EM emissions.”

“I’m not a rat…”

“My apologies, Mister Ford,” another man added as he stepped into the light. This one was dressed much like any colonist, his features shrouded by a rebreather. “We can’t be too careful these days. Our enemy is as resourceful as they are cunning.”

More figures drew closer, emerging from cover, and he realized that he’d been surrounded from the moment he’d entered the warehouse. There were a dozen men, each of them armed with an XMR and sporting the same reflective armband.

“You’re the resistance,” Ford said. It was more of a statement than a question.

“How did you come across our intranet address?” the stranger asked.

“It was on the pamphlets,” Ford replied, still wary. “A few concerned citizens have turned them in. We’ve been finding them all over the city.”

“Why did you contact us?”

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Ford said with a shake of his head. “They told us that we’d be protecting Hades – that they’d make us into more than just PDF. They gave us this whole spiel about a glorious future and the colony becoming a new Proxima. Martial law, the rationing, the mass arrests – I can’t be a part of it anymore. The guys they’re still holding in the shelters were right. We should have never capitulated.”

“Your conscience brought you here,” the stranger mused. “That’s good. The intranet address is completely anonymous and encrypted – anyone can provide information without fear of discovery. We asked you to come in person because it sounded as though you could offer us some very valuable info. How do you know when arrests are going to occur?”

“The Navy keeps the raids off the books,” Ford began. “Even the garrison commanders aren’t informed when one is going to happen, and the troopers aren’t told who they’re picking up. The only person who really knows what’s happening is the Navy attache leading the team. They’ve completely circumvented the usual chain of command. I work in dispatch, so I know when a team is going out to make an arrest, and where they’re headed. I’m the guy they tell in case reinforcements or medivac has to be dispatched from the garrison.”

“And you believe that you can warn us before future raids happen?”

“I believe I can try,” he replied, glancing around at the armed fighters. “I’m only responsible for one garrison, but it’s better than nothing. I can’t sleep right anymore – I have to do something. A lot of the guys are getting in too deep. They’ve bought the line about being made into supersoldiers, and they’re not thinking about their responsibilities to the people anymore. It’s like the Blues are reinforcing all of their worst impulses.”

“They’re not Navy,” the stranger replied.

“Right,” Ford added with a hurried nod. “Rogue spec-ops or something. It was on the pamphlet.”

“You understand that we have to keep our distance,” the stranger continued. “The danger of leaks and moles is too great. Provide us with actionable intel, and we’ll look out for you. We will be watching.”

The stranger melted back into the darkness, taking his fighters with him, and Ford soon found himself standing alone on the concrete floor. He could only hope that the resistance would be true to their word.

CHAPTER 15

DAY 31 – HADES – NICK

“Can’t see a goddamned thing with this storm,” Nick muttered, glancing up at the overcast sky through his visor. “Visibility is, what – thirty meters?”

“That’s the only thing keeping the drones from spotting us and calling down a fucking orbital strike on our heads,” one of the Marines who was crouched beside him said. “You’re Nick, right? This your first mission?”

“Yeah,” Nick replied with a nod, fidgeting with his rifle. “I guess we were the closest team when the call came in.”

“Just stick close and do what the Sarge says,” the Marine replied, trying to be reassuring. “If Rivera cleared you for action, it means he thinks you’re ready. Remember your training.”

“Thirty meters will be all we need,” the team leader added. He touched a finger to his helmet, activating his radio. “Fireteam two – are you in position?”

“We have overwatch on the building, Sarge,” someone replied. “Waiting for your signal.”

They were hunkered down in an alley between two prefabs, the wind that swept down the street picking up dust and sending it swirling through the air. The sound of airborne sand impacting the facades of the buildings was like rain hammering on a tin roof. One of Rivera’s sergeants was leading two fireteams of six fighters – a standard Marine formation. Four of them were taking cover beside him, along with Nick, while another six were hidden in a prefab with a view of the building across the street. Not all of them were Marines from the carrier – there were a few ex-PDF and a couple of trained civilians like Nick joining their ranks.

Their source inside the local garrison had warned them of an impending arrest, and the new outposts beneath the city had allowed them to get a squad into position in time. They were cutting it close – the enemy should be arriving any moment now.

Nick had visited the infirmary as Ruza had suggested, and seeing all those injured men lying on gurneys had only galvanized him. He’d volunteered to become a fighter, and the next week had been occupied by a crash course, the Marine instructors teaching him everything they could. He’d learned about small unit tactics, first aid, and how to shoot a rifle – amongst other things. It didn’t feel like enough, and he wondered if he was ready for a real firefight, but his instructors seemed to think so. They didn’t have the luxury of taking their time with so much ground to cover. They needed people, and they needed them fast. They couldn’t call a time-out for a few months while they drilled.

He glanced down at his XMR – a weapon that he’d known nothing about only a few days prior – checking the voltage to ensure that it was set to subsonic. Overpenetration was a problem in an urban environment like this one, and they were using hollow-tipped rounds, the slugs designed to pancake against hard surfaces.

“Our scout is reporting an armored column heading down the street,” the Sergeant announced. “This is it. Keep your cool, and don’t fire until I give the order.”

Nick hefted his weapon, taking a deep breath. There shouldn’t be any danger of friendly fire, as the two fireteams had formed an L-shape, and their targets would be inside of it. He was more worried about collateral damage, as there was a non-negligible chance of slugs penetrating the walls of the nearby prefabs and potentially hitting the civilians inside. The people firing back certainly wouldn’t be taking the same precautions. Fortunately, they had already extracted the people wanted by the Borgs to safety, and they would be taken back to the base when the team withdrew. There was nowhere else for them to go now.

“Here they come,” one of the Marines whispered. “Two APCs – probably two PDF teams, just like the informant said.”

“Standard procedure is for them to pull up outside the building and establish a secure perimeter,” another of the fighters warned over the radio. “That’s how we were trained when I was in the PDF. One team stands guard while the other carries out the arrest.”

“We’ll hit them before they enter the building,” the Sergeant said. “Remember the plan, and watch out for the SWAR agent. Even one of those fuckers can be deadly.”

A strip of headlights cut through the dust that filled the air, and Nick watched the shadow of a vehicle grow more distinct as it approached, a second one coming into view right behind it. They were easily recognizable as PDF armored trucks, the troopers who were supposed to be watching from the hatches on their roofs only emerging once the vehicles began to roll to a stop, perhaps wanting to avoid the sandstorm. Once they’d come to a halt, the rear doors flung open, and two squads of a dozen men piled out onto the dusty street.

Nick felt his heartbeat quicken even more as he watched a figure in jet-black armor hop down from the cab of the lead vehicle, slamming the door behind him and scanning the area with his faceless helmet. There was a decal on his visor – it looked like a billiard ball with a stenciled number eight. One of the teams took up position behind their trucks, aiming their weapons at the target prefab, some of them covering both ends of the street. The second team moved up, the lead man quickly mounting the short flight of metal steps.

“Hit it!” the Sergeant hissed. One of the fighters lifted a detonator and pressed the button, the facade of the prefab exploding outwards. It tore the trooper who was standing on the steps to pieces, the largest chunk that remained impacting the near side of the lead APC along with a shower of shrapnel, making it rock on its suspension. The other nearby PDF were tossed off their feet by the blast, a whole squad sent crashing to the dusty street where they either writhed or lay still, splayed in unnatural positions. The blast was close and loud enough that Nick felt it reverberate through his soft tissues, but his PDF helmet protected his ears.

The troopers who had been covering the first team from the other side of their vehicles were shaken but unharmed, hunkering down in a panic as dust from the debris joined the airborne sand to blanket them in an obscuring cloud.

“Weapons free!”

The team in the adjacent building opened fire, the targeting data that was being shared over their network allowing them to shoot clean through the thin metal wall without line of sight. The slugs blew molten holes in the faded white facade of the prefab on their way out, sparking off the hull armor of the APCs and sending several of the cowering troopers toppling to the road. A couple of survivors threw themselves to the ground, crawling on their bellies as the rounds impacted all around them, trying to shuffle beneath the wheels of their vehicles.

Nick and the rest of his fireteam were already moving out into the street, forming a firing line as they joined the fight, their slugs cracking the armored windshields and shattering headlights. It was hard to see much with all the smoke and dust, the poor visibility causing their helmet cameras to lose tracking, but Nick pulled his rifle tight against his shoulder and fired as he had been trained. Even at low voltage, the recoil was difficult to manage, the molten trails left by his rounds punching holes in the billowing dust. He caught the shadowy silhouette of a trooper leaping from the driver’s seat of an APC, the man dropping like the legs had been kicked out from under him as a stray round found its mark.

“Where’s the Borg?” one of the Marines demanded, leaving Nick wondering how he could sound so calm in these circumstances. “Anyone got eyes on the Borg?”

As the wind began to carry away the smoke, Nick saw movement coming from the left side of the lead APC. Having survived the initial blast, the Borg had taken cover behind the open passenger door of the cab to shield himself from the gunfire, partially closing it over himself. Nick heard the sound of rending metal as the agent tore it from its hinges, holding the heavy armored panel in front of him like a shield.

The Marines were firing before Nick could even shout a warning, their slugs hammering against the already cratered surface of the door, the Borg shuddering under the blows. He absorbed them, aiming a weapon around his makeshift shield – an XMR with a cut-down barrel and a long magazine. A hail of slugs came their way, forcing the team to scatter for cover, one of the fighters dropping as a round caught him in the leg.

Nick was closest, and he grabbed the man by the shoulder strap of his chest carrier, dragging him to the left side of the street and into an alley as the Marines attempted to cover him with bursts of return fire. They retreated to their original position in the alley to the right side of the road, and the Borg didn’t pursue, keeping his back to the APCs. Instead, he swung his weapon towards the prefab where the second fireteam was hiding.

“Turn your transmitters off!” one of the Marines yelled over the radio. “He can see your EM!”

The Borg opened fire, controlling recoil with a single prosthetic arm that Nick would have struggled to manage with two, peering through the reinforced glass of the door. The wall of the prefab looked like Swiss cheese now, pocked with cooling holes about the size of a finger, another salvo of shots impacting all around the Borg as the shooters fired back.

The fireteam had been connected to an ad-hoc network, sharing targeting data to set up their ambush, and that network gave off EM emissions that the enemy could track. With meticulous precision, the SWAR operative fired off controlled bursts, continuing to move behind the APCs as he went. His slugs cut through the wall of the building, and while Nick couldn’t see what was happening behind it, he could hear the panicked shouts and cries of pain over the radio.

Nick lifted a hand to his helmet’s touchpad, trying to turn off his ad-hoc and finding that his fingers were slick with blood that wasn’t his own. He turned his attention back to the wounded fighter, swallowing the bile that was threatening to rise in his throat as he fumbled for a tourniquet. He remembered the man’s name – it was Jarek. They’d only met a few hours earlier, during the mission briefing. He pulled the kit from the man’s belt and tried to hold him still, wrapping it around his upper thigh. The slug had hit a few inches below, and there was so much blood that Nick couldn’t get a good look at the damage, which was probably a blessing.

He pulled a device from his own rig, hesitating as he raised the syringe over the wound. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he jabbed it into the bloody mess, pushing it as deep as it would go – much to Jarek’s loud protests. Nick hit a button, and the syringe injected the wound with expanding medical foam, which should help slow the bleeding.

“Where the hell is he!?”

“Anyone got eyes!?”

Nick heard snippets of panicked conversation as he tightened the tourniquet, glancing back at the men who were taking cover in the alley across the street. Too late – he saw a dark figure moving across the top of the prefab.

“The roof!” he warned.

The Borg fired down at the men below, dropping one of them with a burst of gunfire. As they raised their weapons, he leapt from the roof, their rounds sparking off his makeshift shield even as he fell. He landed in their midst, slamming the nearest man with the heavy car door and knocking him back into a prefab wall, the fighter’s helmet ringing against the metal.

With his first target stunned, the Borg swung around, tossing the shield at a Marine with the ease that someone might throw a garbage can lid. The heavy door hit the man with enough force to send him toppling to the ground, its weight pinning him down.

The operative brought up his weapon with inhuman speed, one prosthetic hand wrapping around its glowing barrel, aiming it at a third fighter. The Borg put two slugs into his target’s chest, then switched to the man beneath the door, who had only just had time to shove the armored panel off him. Two more shots rang out, blood splattering the pale metal prefab.

Only two of the fighters were still standing, one of them already aiming his XMR in the cramped alley. In the time it took him to squeeze the trigger, the Borg darted in, dropping low. There was a chatter of gunfire, but the rounds flew above the agent’s head. The fighter’s augmented assailant hit him hard enough in the stomach to bend him double, grabbing the XMR with his other hand in a single smooth motion, crushing its barrel like it was no more resilient than a soda can. Before the fighter had a chance to recover, the other hand darted beneath his helmet, Nick hearing a gurgling sound over the radio that made his blood run cold.

The fighter dropped, clutching at his throat, leaving the Borg standing with a fistful of torn flesh clutched in his black polymer fingers. Behind him, the stunned Marine was recovering, reaching for something on his belt. The operative spun around and drew his sidearm like a gunslinger, firing it from the hip, a trio of shots making the Marine shudder as they blew holes in his chest piece. He slumped to the ground, leaving a smear of crimson on the prefab wall as he slid down it. Something rolled out of his hand – the Borg realizing too late that it was a grenade.

The alley erupted into a cloud of flame and shrapnel, everything within its confines shredded, Nick seeing the listless body of the SWAR agent land a few feet away. Dazed, he watched the smoke and dust billow for a moment, then the logical part of his brain kicked into gear again.

Nick knelt beside the injured fighter and lifted him in the way he’d been trained, grunting as he heaved Jarek up and over his shoulders. Even through his camouflaged uniform, he could feel the warmth of the blood that had soaked the man’s trouser leg, his passenger wailing as the movement exacerbated his wound.

“C’mon!” Nick groaned, setting off at a labored jog. “We have to get off the street before more of them arrive!”

He didn’t really know where he was going – all he knew was that his heart was racing and his blood was pounding in his ears, his shell-shocked mind too occupied with survival to remember which direction his team had come from. Sirens were ringing out over the city now, and he could hear shouting, the gunfire and explosions drawing the attention of the whole neighborhood. All he could do was try to put some distance between himself and the scene, his own labored breathing filling his helmet as he ran for what felt like minutes.

As he carried Jarek down a back alley, a door ahead of him flung open, and a woman leaned out to peer at him. Nick stopped in his tracks, freezing up in anticipation of her calling out to the PDF, but she silently waved for him to approach. Having little choice, he hurried over to her, hauling Jarek’s dead weight up the steps. He found himself standing in a small home, its layout exactly the same as the one he had lived in before the invasion, with its familiar cramped furniture and narrow layout. There was something eerie about the normalcy of his new surroundings.

“Quickly!” the woman hissed, gesturing to her couch. “Lie him down!”

Nick carried Jarek closer and lowered him to the cushions, his companion letting out another muffled cry of pain. The stranger began to stack pillows beneath his injured leg, elevating it higher, while Nick stood there watching – dumbfounded.

“Do you have someone you can call?” she demanded, glancing up at him. “Hey!”

“Uh, no,” he mumbled as she snapped him out of his stupor. “We’re…not supposed to make calls.”

“You’re going into shock,” she added, speaking slowly and clearly. “If you have some way to contact your people, do it now. Your friend doesn’t have a lot of time.”

“I was supposed to…send an intranet message,” he said, struggling to focus.

“You can use my phone,” she suggested, gesturing to the holographic display that the device was projecting above her kitchen table. She had been watching some kind of broadcast before he had interrupted her.

“Why are you helping us?” Nick asked as he hurried over and began to type on the projected keys. “If they find us here with you…”

“You’re the resistance, aren’t you?” she asked as her eyes wandered to his armband. “They took my husband. I haven’t seen him since the first attack.”

All of the fighters had memorized an intranet address that would forward encrypted messages to the resistance – similar to the one they had given out on pamphlets asking for informants to come forward. Nick shot off a message to Astrid, then stepped away from the display, turning to look at Jarek. Somehow, the sight of all that blood pooling on the floor beside the couch turned his stomach, and he rushed over to the kitchen sink to vomit.

“Here,” the woman said, hurrying over to him once he was done. She lifted a leather jacket from a rack by the door and draped it over his shoulders, guiding him over to a kitchen chair. Nick found that he was shivering despite not feeling at all cold. He was soaked in blood, but he couldn’t do much about that right now.

“Your husband’s?” he asked, trying to keep his mind occupied as he pulled the jacket tighter.

“For days, I didn’t know if he was dead or alive,” the woman replied. “Then, the Navy released the names of all the people they were holding on corruption charges. I knew they were lying – my David would never get involved in anything like that. Do you need anything? Water?”

He nodded, and she poured him a glass from the faucet. As he took a gulp, he glanced over at Jarek, seeing that the man was lying still. Could he be sleeping, resting, dead? Nick had no idea.

“How did you know to do that with his leg?” Nick asked.

“I’m a vet,” the woman explained with a dry chuckle. “The dog kind, not the military kind.”

“Don’t see many animals on Hades,” he continued, trying to make conversation. “I’ve seen a few cats, maybe a dog or two.”

“It’s not the best environment for them,” the woman replied, returning to Jarek’s side. “Most people keep them inside their prefabs. There are enough that my services are in demand, though.”

“How is he?” Nick asked, nodding to his silent comrade. “Do you know?”

“He’s in shock, and he’s lost a lot of blood,” she said. “He’s alive, but resting. How far did you carry him? You’re covered in his…”

“I dunno,” Nick mumbled, pulling the jacket tighter. “I lost track of time. There was a fight, things went wrong, and then I just remember running.”

“You two are alone?”

“We’re all that’s left,” he replied, averting his eyes and staring at the wall intently. “This was my first time. I don’t think I did a very good job…”

“Your friend here would probably disagree,” she said. “I’ve been reading the pamphlets and listening to the chatter on the intranet. Is it true what people are saying? These people who invaded our home aren’t from the Navy?”

“They’re traitors,” he replied, a hand snaking out from beneath the jacket to get another drink of water. “They were never with the Navy – they stole that carrier and killed or imprisoned its crew. We freed a few of them, and they told us everything.”

“Is help coming?”

“We don’t know,” he replied with a curt shake of his head. “Even if they are, it’ll take them half a year to reach us. For right now, we’re all there is.”

“I think you’re very brave,” she said. “It isn’t spoken of openly, but you may have more support than you realize. The pamphlets, the broadcasts, the netsites – people are listening and talking.

“Your husband – David,” Nick continued. “He’s the brave one. If he’s still locked up, it’s because he’s refusing to cooperate, and he won’t pledge his loyalty to the occupiers. If he’s not out on patrol, it means he’s still holding out.”

“Will you free him like you did the others?” she asked, a hint of hope creeping into her voice.

“I can’t give you any specifics, but that’s our goal, yes.”

“Are you hurt?” she added, rising to her feet again and walking over to him. “Have you checked? You might not have noticed with all the adrenaline in your system.”

“No, no,” he muttered. “I think I’m alright.”

There was the sound of an engine, Nick glancing at the wall as he tracked it, the noise moving past the prefab and slowly growing quieter.

“PDF,” he mumbled, tensing up again. “They’re looking for us.”

“I’m surprised they can even see where they’re going in this,” the woman mused.

“At least we don’t have to worry about drones or dropships,” Nick continued, trying to reassure himself. “Even a Leadbeater can’t fly in these storms.”

“You’ll be safe here,” she said in that soothing voice. He wanted so badly to believe her.

DAY 31 – HADES – RUZA

“This way,” Ruza growled, sweeping the alley with his rifle. He was followed by a fireteam of six Marines, the wind tearing at their cloaks and shawls, the sand that the storm had deposited deep enough to reach their ankles. It should have been evening, but the sky was dark, what sunlight that made it through the obscuring dust clouds tinted an ugly sepia. Ruza had endured sandstorms in his home territory, but those of Hades were fierce.

He would have preferred to bring more men, but they had to move quickly and stay light on their feet. There were no drones to worry about, but the area was already swarming with PDF. His sensitive ears could pick up the sirens and the sound of trucks – not a hundred meters away now. If the enemy was also searching for the survivors, they might meet at any moment.

Today’s operation had apparently gone poorly, and Astrid had received an SOS from one of the survivors. Nick had been part of that team. Ruza had tried to discourage him, but the little human was brave, and he wanted to protect his home. Nick could not be faulted for that – Ruza cursed himself for failing to convey the reality of what the human might be facing in the field. The report had been brief, but with so many dead, what were the odds that his friend was among the living?

“It’s gotta be close,” one of the Marines said over the radio. “This is the area. What are we supposed to do – knock on doors until we find them?”

“Hold,” Ruza said, raising a fist and peeling away the fabric that covered his nose and mouth. “There is a scent on the air – faint, but undeniably that of blood.”

“You can smell that?” one of the men wondered.

“It forms a trail,” Ruza continued, setting off again. He crouched low to bring his nose closer to the sand. The scent had been all but buried by the storm, but it was fresh enough that he could still pick out its copper hint, the Rask following his nose all the way to the steps of a prefab. Here, he could see crimson stains on the metal, dust clinging to the dried blood.

“Secure the perimeter,” Ruza ordered, his men fanning out to cover the alley as he scaled the stairs in a single stride. He rapped his massive fist against the door panel, then waited, whatever sounds that emanated from within buried beneath the howling wind.

The door slid open, and he was faced with a jacketed figure aiming a sidearm at him.

“Ruza?”

“Nick!”

Ruza ducked through the doorway, catching the human in a one-armed hug, his rifle held in his other hand.

“Are you injured?” Ruza demanded, taking a step back and looking the man up and down. “The stench of blood is on you.”

“No, I’m fine,” he replied with a sigh of relief. “Boy, am I glad that you’re the one who came to get me. It’s Jarek – he’s hurt real bad. He took a slug to the leg, and he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“I will treat him here,” Ruza declared, thrusting the massive rifle into Nick’s hands and reaching for his medkit. As he swung around, he saw a bemused human woman standing beside a couch where the injured fighter was lying, her eyes wide. “A friend?” he muttered, keeping his eyes on her warily.

“She’s cool,” Nick replied hurriedly. “She helped us.”

“Apologies for our intrusion,” Ruza said, bowing his head. “May we enter your home?”

“O-of course!” she stammered, stepping out of his path in the cramped prefab. She watched as he knelt beside the wounded man, Ruza already unpacking bandages and medical implements. “You’re him, aren’t you? The alien the Governor kept talking about in his addresses.”

“That’s him,” Nick confirmed. “His name is Ruza, but we mostly call him Doc.”

A couple more Marines mounted the steps and entered the structure, one of them taking up position to watch the door as the other glanced around the room.

“Evenin’, Ma’am,” he said through his helmet speakers. “Nice night for it. How’s he doin’, Doc? The sooner we can move him, the sooner we can get the hell outta here.”

“He has lost a great deal of blood,” Ruza replied, leaning closer to investigate the wound. “You did well, Nick,” he added. “Had you not applied the tourniquet and used the medical foam when you did, he would have died within minutes.”

“Where’s everyone else?” the Marine pressed. “What the hell happened?”

“It all went wrong,” Nick replied, retreating to a kitchen chair and sitting down. “The Borg was just…the way he moved and the things he could do – I don’t see what we could have done to stop him. When it was all over, there was just me and Jarek left, so I tried to put as much distance between us and the scene as I could.”

“What about the people who were going to be arrested?” the Marine added. “Did you get them out before the attack?”

“We moved them to a safe prefab, but I dunno where they are now,” Nick replied. “I couldn’t exactly go back for them.”

“We will find them,” Ruza said as he lifted a blood pack from his kit and began to unwind a transparent tube from its spool. “They will likely be hiding just as you are. Private – hand me that coat rack.”

The Marine lifted the rack and carried it over, passing it to Ruza, who placed it beside the couch. He suspended the blood pack from one of its higher branches, then trailed a drip down to Jarek’s arm, pulling up his sleeve and inserting a needle into his vein.

“Not to rush you or anythin’, Doc,” the Marine began as he watched Ruza work. “But this doesn’t look like the kinda thing you do when you’re preppin’ to leave.”

“We cannot move him in his present condition,” Ruza explained as he switched his focus to the man’s wounded leg. “He is anemic, and he would not survive the journey. I must perform the transfusion without delay. Please inform our contacts that we will be spending the night here – with your permission,” he added with a glance at their host.

“Alright,” she replied with a shrug. “I suppose you don’t have much of a choice, do you?”

“What if the Borgs go door to door?” the Marine continued.

“Unlikely,” Ruza said. “They are more likely to assume that any survivors escaped through the tunnels, and the storm will erase any tracks. They lack the manpower to search every home in the vicinity. We should wash the blood from the steps, however. It may give us away.”

“Better hope the storm doesn’t clear up by tomorrow, then,” the Marine sighed as he touched a finger to his helmet. “Get in here, boys – Doc says we’re hunkerin’ down for the night.”

The rest of the team climbed the steps, the last one closing the door behind him, shutting out the sound of the roaring wind. It was far too many people to cram into such a small space, their unwitting host glancing between their faceless helmets in quiet surprise.

“Sorry about the dust, Ma’am,” one of them muttered as he tracked sand onto her carpet.

“I must warn you – I wasn’t expecting dinner guests,” she said. “I hope you all like chili.”

***

Ruza did what he could for Jarek as the night went on, administering medication and working on his injury. The tourniquet had to be removed if he wanted to save the limb, and the foam had to be cleaned out, as its effects would only be temporary. The medical scanner showed that the slug had hit the femur, shattering it and embedding sharp fragments of bone throughout the surrounding tissue – problems that would require extensive surgery to repair. He stitched and cauterized what he could, but there remained doubt about whether the human might lose his leg.

Their host was gracious, and he had learned that her name was Sarah – wife to a PDF trooper who was still imprisoned beneath one of the garrisons. It was only through her intervention that Nick had found refuge.

The six Marines had taken off their helmets and leaned their guns against a nearby wall. They were occupying most of the kitchen and living room, sitting on couches and chairs as they ate bowls of chili. Ruza lifted a small spoonful of the strange, red substance to his nose, giving it a tentative sniff as he watched Nick wolf it down. Sarah watched him in turn, perhaps eager to see what he made of her cooking, so he took a bite. It burned on his tongue, stinging his throat as he swallowed – filled with the capsaicin that humans had such an odd affinity for. It was a kind of spice derived from stinging plants, intended to deter herbivores, but the humans seemed to enjoy the pain it caused. He tried not to grimace, not wanting to offend his host, giving her a forced smile that seemed to please her.

“Thanks, Ma’am,” one of the Marines said as he ate another mouthful.

“I should be thanking you,” she replied, smiling with satisfaction as she watched her guests eat. “The resistance gave me all of this food. The markets are bare, and the rations the PDF is giving out are meager at best and insulting at worst. If it wasn’t for you, a lot of people would be going hungry right now.”

“My question is how we have so much goddamned chili to give away,” another of the Marines added over a mouthful. “Was there a freighter that was only carrying chili?”

“How’s he doing?” Nick asked, shuffling closer to Ruza as the Rask sat on the floor beside the couch. Jarek was sleeping – kept unconscious by some of Ruza’s tranquilizers while he healed.

“He will be ready to move by morning,” Ruza replied, moving aside a little to give his friend more space. They had already cleaned away the blood on the floor, along with the stairs outside. “As ever, I would prefer to give him more time, but our circumstances rarely allow for adequate recovery.”

“What about long-term?” Nick pressed, scooping another spoonful from his bowl. “Will he lose the leg?”

“I cannot say for sure,” Ruza admitted with a shake of his head. “I will know more after I perform surgery.”

“How do you do it?” Nick continued, lowering his voice so as not to draw the attention of the Marines. They were having their own conversation with Sarah, laughing and joking over their meal. “How do they do it?”

“What do you speak of?” Ruza asked, tilting his head. “Skill in battle?”

“Not skill,” Nick replied with a shake of his head. “I’ve seen you fight, Ruza, and you’re as cold as ice. You get into that state of mind, and you’re like a robot. You’re never afraid, you never hesitate, and you always know what to do. I thought I was ready, but I’ve never been more afraid than I was during that fight. The idea of being hurt or killed terrified me beyond reason, and after getting Jarek out of there, I threw up. I still don’t feel completely myself again – like someone picked me up and shook me, and none of the parts have properly settled back into place yet.”

Ruza considered for a moment before replying, choosing his words carefully.

“Did you know that the insects feel no fear?” he began. Nick shook his head, prompting him to elaborate. “A Drone is designed for battle. It is a purpose-built organism, manufactured more than born, and instilled with all of the skills and instincts it requires to fight effectively. It will never retreat, never feel doubt, and never disobey an order. It will die for its Queen without question, and the idea of self-preservation will never enter its mind. Is that something we should aspire to?”

“Trick question?” Nick asked, his brow furrowed. “No, I don’t think we should aspire to be like the Bugs.”

“An insect is not brave,” Ruza explained. “It lacks an intrinsic quality that all other sapient beings share. To feel no fear is insanity, but to control one’s fear is bravery. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Nick replied with a nod.

“I am afraid all of the time,” Ruza sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I fear death in battle – I fear for the lives of my friends and our collective futures. Fear is natural – fear is useful, but how we manage fear is what makes one brave or cowardly. To let it rule you is cowardice – to obey animal impulses that put your life and those of your comrades at risk. Though you felt great fear, you did not abandon your duty, and you did not flee. Your loyalty was stronger than your fear, and you did what had to be done to save your life and that of Jarek. You showed bravery in the direst of circumstances.”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” the human scoffed.

“You give yourself too little. This was your blooding,” Ruza said, gesturing to the dried blood that still caked his uniform. “In more ways than one. In my home territory, a young warrior’s first battle is an event, and their first kill is something to be celebrated. We feast and lie together – we drink wine and make merry. Perhaps, if we simply left the young warrior to quiet contemplation in his sobriety, he might feel shame and regret. We insist – we go to great lengths to maintain the illusion, because on some level, we know that we are wrong.”

“Were you blooded?” Nick asked hesitantly. “What was your first battle like?”

“I was an auxiliary serving with the UNN,” he replied. “My first kill was a Drone on some far-flung world – I can scarcely remember which campaign. To kill insects is…different. I learned that difference during the rebellion. One can be so certain that they are right in one moment, but in the next, the doubt can creep in. It takes but one pull of a trigger to do something that cannot be undone.”

“I’m sorry that this had to happen,” Nick muttered. “I know that you came here to get away from it all. I don’t give a fuck about the Borgs,” he added angrily. “They can rot for all I care. As for the PDF,” he said, glancing at Sarah pointedly. “They all have people who care about them. People like her who are waiting for them to come home.”

“Perhaps you have already learned the difference of which I spoke,” the Rask mused. “Though our cause is just, and we have no choice but to fight, we must never cause more death and suffering than is necessary to end the threat. Some of these augmented humans seem to enjoy battle – they relish violence. I fear that many have known no life other than war, and they have forgotten how to live peacefully, but even they are not beyond redemption.”

“I dunno if I agree with that,” Nick grumbled.

“A dear friend of mine once counted himself among their ranks,” Ruza explained.

“You knew a Borg?” Nick asked, raising an eyebrow. “Before all this went down?”

“He saw the direction SWAR was heading, and he chose to sever all ties with his former comrades,” Ruza explained. “It was a long and arduous road for him, but he became my mentor, and he found his peace in the end.”

“It’s hard to imagine a Borg settling down.”

“If I appear fearless, it is only because experience has made me numb,” Ruza continued. “The fear still exists, but I am used to it now, just as one can grow accustomed to the ache of an injury that never properly healed. Perhaps one day, that fear will leave me entirely, and I will have made myself no better than a Drone.”

“Now you’re just being melodramatic,” Nick chided, giving him a nudge.

“You may be right,” Ruza conceded. “Amy said much the same. She threatened to assault anyone who told me that I should be ashamed of who I have become.”

“I don’t think she would have said it in those words exactly,” Nick chuckled. “Still, I get the gist of it. I’m sorry,” he added, his tone becoming serious again. “You tried to warn me about this. You didn’t want me to volunteer, and you tried to dissuade me. Maybe I should have listened to you.”

“If you had heeded my warnings, Jarek would not be alive,” Ruza replied. “Amy believes that I have been put here because it is where I can do the most good, and perhaps the same is true of you.”

“That’s a nice way to think about it. It’s bullshit,” he added with a grin. “But it’s nice.”

DAY 32 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

Barbosa stepped into the infirmary, the bare metals and Navy blues of the corridor outside replaced with medical whites, the scent of disinfectant stinging his nose. Nilsson was waiting for him in the lobby, wringing his hands, the doctor joined by a handful of surgeons who had been reassigned from the colony. They were all wearing their scrubs, and they looked exhausted, each man and woman sporting dark rings beneath their eyes.

“Show me,” Barbosa ordered.

Nilsson stepped away from the surgeons, leading the Commander deeper into the facility. The civilians gave Barbosa angry looks as he strode past them – the only real protest they dared to show him. It was the same look the doctors and nurses from the carrier’s crew had given him – one of silent contempt. Their opinions meant nothing to him. All that mattered was that they did their jobs, and he had given them little choice in the matter. As he had expected, the crew’s oaths had compelled them to help with the recovery process, and the threat of their families being interned had swayed most of the civilians. Nilsson and his assistants were generally cooperative.

“What was the success rate?” Barbosa asked as they walked past one of the windows that looked out over an operating theater. The room was filled with state-of-the-art equipment, a robotic surgeon’s metallic arms poised over a large operating table, a few nurses in sterile masks and gloves cleaning up the bloody aftermath of a surgery.

“Ninety-four percent,” Nilsson replied. “It’s about what we anticipated. You don’t have to be a mathematical genius to determine the number of failures with a hundred subjects.”

“Six dead?” Barbosa asked.

“The surgeries are traumatic,” Nilsson replied. “Very rarely are they performed on intact subjects, but the recruits are young and healthy, and the selection process weeded out the unfit. I’d call it a resounding success.”

“And the rest seem to be taking to the prosthetics?”

“I must say – it’s much easier to work with newly severed nerves,” Nilsson replied as they passed another window and turned a corner. “Coupled with the surgical amputations and the sterile conditions, we’ve been able to provide the best possible circumstances for the new limbs to take. Usually, each amputation is a kind of puzzle, requiring bespoke hardware and specialized care. No two wounds are identical – some subjects retain partial limbs, and some suffer infections or damaged nerves that limit our options. Here, each amputation is ideal, and we can standardize the production of prosthetics just like any other piece of equipment.”

“How long until they’re ready?” Barbosa pressed.

“I must warn you that the longer you give the recruits to heal and recover, the better their outcomes will be,” the doctor continued with a wary glance at the Commander. “If we rush this phase of the operation, we may lose all of our progress. I would normally recommend several months of intense physical therapy, but I assume you have other plans…”

“We’ve taken unexpected losses,” Barbosa replied as they waited for an automatic door to slide open. “I arrived on Hades with close to two hundred men, so increasing that initial number by close to fifty percent is a very attractive prospect. We can replace our losses and more. When will you be able to receive more patients?”

“We could perform the surgeries right now,” Nilsson replied as they continued on. “The main issue is the recovery process. We have the facilities to take on more patients, but not the staff. We’re already stretched rather thin with the personnel we have on hand.”

“Do what you can,” Barbosa replied. “All of our resources will be at your disposal. I must admit,” he continued as they arrived at another door. “Recent events were starting to shake my faith. I was considering withdrawing some of my troops to the carrier and keeping them in reserve, ready for the UNN response. The loss of Hoff and his PCE was catastrophic. We’ve also lost Ogre, Eightball, Vulture, and several other experienced agents.”

“We can do more than reverse the trend, Commander,” Nilsson reassured. “If we maintain this pace, we can triple or even quadruple the number of augmented troops within mere weeks. The production model PCEs are almost ready for deployment. Most of the parts have arrived – we’re just testing the components before proceeding to the assembly phase. The tolerances are not exactly what I would like, but based on our preliminary findings, they’ll work.”

“Excellent,” Barbosa said as the pair stopped by another window. This one overlooked a hospital room where the recovering candidates were lying in beds, tended by monitoring equipment and nurses. Many were awake and talking, a few of them flexing prosthetic fingers as they examined their new hardware. “We’ll need to start selecting PCE candidates from our pool of experienced agents.”

“I took the liberty of installing shunts in all of our new recruits,” Nilsson added. “They’re PCE-ready whenever you decide to proceed. Once this first batch of Bullsharks passes cert, we can really ramp up production. By the time the UNN is scheduled to arrive, we could have a whole company of battle-ready suits.”

“My dream is slowly becoming a reality,” Barbosa sighed, allowing himself a brief moment of satisfaction. “If I can just keep the colonists in line and productive, our prospects are only going to keep improving. They’ll understand in time. They’ll see what I’m offering them. I’d like to meet the recruits,” he added.

“Right this way, Commander.”

Nilsson led him through another door and into the room, Barbosa raising a hand as a few of the recruits sat up straighter or struggled to salute him.

“At ease,” he announced, slowly walking along the foot of the first row of beds. A few of the men were still unconscious, but most were awake and alert, their eyes following him. Barbosa had been in infirmaries like this one before, and these beds were usually filled with Marines recovering from battlefield injuries. A few of the nurses gave him dirty looks, and he recognized some of them from the carrier’s original crew. The same oaths that compelled their refusal to perform the surgeries also compelled them to help the patients post-op. They knew better than to share their grievances with the recruits.

“Not all of us have met yet,” Barbosa began, glancing at the recruits. “Some of you might recognize me as Commander Barbosa – captain of this ship and leader of the Naval forces on Hades. I commend you for your bravery. Remaking oneself is a difficult and painful process – I know that just as well as you do,” he added with a gesture to the lenses and sensors that filled his hollow eye sockets. “There is an old quote that I find quite apt in situations like these,” he continued, clasping his hands behind his back as he stopped his pacing. “Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor. Just like building muscle, your bodies had to be broken down before they could be rebuilt, and the soreness will subside in time. Torn muscle fibers strengthen, broken bones grow back stronger, and you will emerge from this infirmary as more than the person who entered.”

That seemed to rouse the men, and the more alert among them shared some excited glances.

“You are the first generation of Hadean-born augmented troopers,” Barbosa continued as Nilsson watched quietly from the back of the room. “You represent the future of your colony, the future of warfare, and the future of humanity. If we mean to survive in this hostile Galaxy, against enemies without and within, then we will have to change what it means to be human. You have taken that first step. You answered the call of duty, and you made the security of Hades your personal responsibility.”

That elicited a few quiet nods of agreement, the infirmary filled with determined expressions.

“My orders to you now are to rest and heal,” he added with a smile. “I remember the feeling of fresh scar tissue chafing against the gel layer, and I remember that pinched nerve sensation when your augs aren’t tuned right. Remember that it is only temporary. The medical staff have informed me that your surgeries went exceptionally well, and they expect a swift recovery. You will find yourselves stronger, faster, and more resilient than you ever were before. Your next hurdle will be learning to use these new prosthetics, and once you’ve proven yourselves as SWAR agents, you may qualify for a Bullshark PCE of your own. I am extremely proud of each and every one of you, and I look forward to leading you on the battlefield. I will personally let your families know of your success.”

He left the room with Nilsson, returning to the hallway, pausing once more to watch the recruits through the windows. That old phantom itch was back again, and he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together as he considered.

“I’ll order the next batch of Petrova’s candidates to be prepared for transport as soon as the storms are over,” he began. “I want these beds freed up as soon as possible. I’m also going to assign some more security to the medbay. We’ve had issues with sabotage before, and I don’t like the idea of all these angry nurses running around with access to scalpels and caustic chemicals. I don’t think their oath to do no harm applies to us.”

“Very well, Commander.”

DAY 33 – HADES – PETROVA

“Does anyone know anything about the attack?” Petrova asked, keeping her voice low. She was sitting in a booth in the local bar, sequestered away from the rest of the patrons with a handful of the new friends she had made. While waiting for the Rask to pop up on her scopes, she had been ingratiating herself with the locals, building social connections and probing them for information. From what she could tell, none of them were in contact with the resistance themselves, but they all liked to gossip about the recent goings on. Alcohol was always a good way to loosen tight lips, and putting on a little charm didn’t do any harm, either.

“Word on the net is that someone was scheduled to be arrested last night,” Sam replied as he nursed his drink. He raised his eyebrows as though it was some great revelation, taking a pointed sip from the frothing mug. “The resistance got to them first. It was an ambush – I could hear the gunfire and the explosions from my place.”

“I heard them too,” Carl confirmed with a nod. “I took a look this morning, and the PDF had a cordon up to block off the street, but I could see the prefab. Someone blew it up – popped it open like a tin can.”

“Nobody can agree on how many casualties there were, or who won,” Sam added. “Official sources are claiming the insurgents were killed, and the resistance is claiming the PDF were killed.”

“There were a bunch of bodies covered with tarps, so I have no clue who was who,” Carl said with a shrug. “They had the place locked down. I don’t think anyone could get close enough to check. It’s always the same pattern,” he added, leaning in conspiratorially. “Whenever they beat the resistance, they invite the press and any curious onlookers to swarm the place. You can tell when they lose because that’s when they stop letting the press in, and all the reporting becomes vague. I think they got their asses kicked last night.”

“It’s about time someone pushed back,” Sam muttered.

“What’s gotten into you, Sam?” one of their friends chuckled. It was another factory worker by the name of Fran. She wore the same coveralls as her male coworkers, though they clung a little more tightly to her generous figure, her dark hair tied back in a tight bun to keep it out of the way of the machinery. She was loud both in her volume and her personality, able to handle just as much beer as her friends, if not more. “You’re usually the one who’s skeptical about the resistance.”

“Well, maybe I’m coming around,” he muttered.

“It’s the food, isn’t it?” Carl asked with a grin. “The resistance is giving out twice as many rations as the PDF, so suddenly, he’s changing his tune.”

“What are you, a cat?” Fran giggled as she took another swig from the long neck of her bottle.

“Alright, yeah,” Sam conceded with a shrug. “We pay taxes to the Governor, and he can’t get us half the food and meds the supposed bad guys are giving away for free?”

“You don’t buy the story about the insurgents blowing up that warehouse full of food?” Petrova pressed. “The shortages are probably their fault to begin with.”

“Who cares if they stole it or if they’re responsible for the shortages?” Sam replied. “They have supplies to give away, and the Governor doesn’t. The Navy has the entire anchor locked down, yet they seem to have no control over the colony’s supply chain. Nobody I’ve talked to knows where any of it is going. Half the shit that’s supposed to be coming down the tether doesn’t, and most of the stuff that goes up just disappears.”

“Pack it up, people!” the bartender announced, his loud voice rising over the sound of conversations. “Pay your tabs and head off home – curfew’s in fifteen.”

“Shit, I don’t want to be caught out after hours,” Fran sighed. She paused, downing the remainder of her bottle with impressive speed. “Especially after what happened yesterday, the PDF are gonna be extra jumpy tonight.”

“Yeah, the neighborhood has been crawling with them all day,” Sam replied as he rose from his seat.

“The storms mean that they can’t use their drones, so their only option is to put boots on the ground,” Petrova explained.

“That’s probably part of it,” Carl said.

They headed to the bar and paid for their drinks, then followed the slow trickle of patrons out of the building. As she stepped outside, Petrova slipped on her mask and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, already feeling the windswept sand hammering the tough leather. It was no wonder that the insurgent activity was ramping up. Barbosa probably couldn’t even land a dropship in this kind of weather.

As they made their way down the windswept street, her keen eyes spotted a group of figures approaching through the dust ahead. They were walking in a loose formation, and as they neared, she saw that they were wearing helmets. It was a PDF patrol. Her friends hadn’t noticed yet – being too busy with their conversation and a little tipsy to boot. She considered leading them into an alley, but it was too late – the PDF had seen them. The men began to walk a little faster, which didn’t bode well. Slowly, she reached into her pockets and retrieved her gloves, the leather creaking as she slid them over her hands. If these weekend warriors were looking to make trouble, she might have to fight back or pull rank, and that could blow her cover.

“Where are you off to?” the leader of the PDF squad asked as he stopped their little group. The other five men flanked him, blocking their path. Petrova noted that they were equipped with batons and rifles – the latter stowed on slings.

“Just heading home from the bar, Officer,” Fran replied.

“Did you know that it’s past curfew?” he asked, his voice filtering through his helmet speakers.

“We had about fifteen minutes when we left,” Sam replied, sounding confused. “It was last call.”

“Funny – my phone doesn’t say that,” the trooper continued. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No,” Sam replied, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“You been drinking tonight, Sir?” another of them asked as he patted the palm of his hand with a baton.

“Yeah, we’ve had a few beers,” Carl replied. “That’s not illegal.”

“Sorry, Officers,” Petrova interjected as she stepped forward. “We must have been mistaken. If it’s all the same to you, we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Violating curfew, drunk and disorderly,” their leader mused as his opaque visor scanned them. “I could haul all four of you off to the garrison if I wanted to.”

“Could stick ‘em in the drunk tank for the night,” one of his squadmates added.

“I dunno, maybe they’re out past curfew because they’re insurgents,” another said. “We might need to interrogate them.”

“Now, wait just a minute,” Fran protested as she began to get more heated.

“There’s been a lot of insurgent activity in the area,” the leader continued, reaching for his own baton. “We’ve been given authority to take in any suspicious persons.”

“Unless you can prove that you’re loyal Hadeans, of course,” one of the troopers added.

“A contribution to the PDF retirement fund might be helpful in these trying times.”

“Everybody needs to eat,” another trooper chimed. “It’s the patriotic thing to do.”

“Oh, so you’re shaking us down?” Fran asked with a sigh. “Really, guys? Things are hard enough right now without you resurrecting the Syndicate…”

“What are you even gonna spend the money on?” Carl scoffed. “There’s nothing to buy anymore. We’ve been getting our food from you.”

“The terrorists are getting pretty generous, as I hear it,” the lead trooper replied. “Let’s just say that it’s a gift to the people who keep you safe. Now, you can either pay up now, or pay bail tomorrow. Trust me when I say that paying now is the easier option.”

“Alright,” Fran sighed, pulling out her phone.

“Make it a hundred creds each,” he added.

“Each?” she repeated.

“I’m not sure that your superiors would be too happy to hear about this,” Petrova added, putting herself between the two groups. “Why don’t we forget that this whole thing happened and go our separate ways?”

“Or what?” the trooper chuckled, gripping his baton more tightly. “You think they’re gonna believe us, or a bunch of insurgents out after curfew?”

“I have a brother in the PDF,” Petrova replied, the lies coming easily to her. “I know the kind of mess you can get into with your commander for this kind of business.”

“Is that a threat?” the trooper demanded.

“Let’s just give him what he wants, Val,” Carl whispered. “It’s not worth the trouble.”

As much as Petrova wanted to object, and as indignant as the encounter was making her, the mission came first. It wasn’t like she’d be paying her own money, and she could have these jokers strung up from the garrison walls with a quick call to Song. Still, the idea of letting these men abuse their authority to fleece innocent citizens didn’t sit well with her.

“Fine,” she sighed, raising one hand in surrender and reaching for her phone with the other.

“Now it’s two,” the lead trooper added. “That’s the fine for mouthing off and wasting my fucking time.”

“Two hundred credits?” Fran gasped, glancing between the troopers in disbelief. It wasn’t hard to imagine her shocked expression beneath her rebreather. “That’s outrageous!”

“I don’t even have two hundred in my account,” Sam muttered.

“I’m calling your supervisor right now,” Petrova added angrily. She knew which garrison was responsible for this part of the city, typing in the emergency number and lifting her phone to her ear.

The lead trooper swung his baton, knocking the phone from her hand and striking her across the face, cracking the visor that protected her eyes. Everyone seemed to freeze up, Petrova slowly turning her head to face her assailant.

“I’ll teach you to threaten me, you fucking bitch!” the trooper snarled as he swung again. Petrova caught the baton, stopping his swing dead, much to his surprise. Before he could react, she followed up with a swift kick, her prosthetic leg connecting with his shin. It snapped the bone like a dry twig, sending the trooper wailing to the ground, clutching at a bend that hadn’t been there a moment prior. The rest of the troopers reacted with just as much surprise, unsure of how to respond.

“Fran – take the boys home,” Petrova said, her voice perfectly level.

“But, Val!” Fran protested. She was already rolling up her sleeves, intending to join the fray, while Sam and Carl looked on in shocked silence.

“Take them back the way we came,” Petrova insisted. “Stick to the alleys.”

“But-”

“Do as I ask,” Petrova ordered, slipping off her cracked visor as she eyed the five remaining men. Fran nodded, taking Sam by the arm and guiding him away, Carl backing up after them. Petrova waited a minute longer until her companions were safely out of sight, the trio disappearing into the thick dust, her assailants looking on hesitantly.

“That was a mistake,” Petrova began as she eyed the wary troopers. “Think very carefully about what you do next. You are interfering with an ongoing-”

“Don’t just stand there, you idiots!” the lead trooper wailed as he rolled around in the dust. “She’s a terrorist! Get her!”

One of the troopers summoned the courage to lunge at her, rushing in from her left and swinging his baton in a downward arc, the implement whistling through the air. Petrova side-stepped the swing, letting the man’s momentum carry him forward a few stumbling paces more when his hit didn’t connect. Like a striking cobra, she jabbed at his throat with her left hand, keeping her fingers straight and slipping them beneath his helmet. Choking and gasping, he clutched at his neck, losing his footing and tumbling over to join his leader on the road.

Three of the four remaining troopers rushed her, drawing batons and boxing her in. She blocked a strike from the right with her forearm, then ducked under a second that swung for her head from the left, catching the man who was approaching from the front with a boot to the chest that knocked him over like he’d been kicked by a horse.

As he struggled to right himself, she drove her elbow into the leftmost assailant’s ribs, aiming for where they weren’t protected by his chest piece. She felt bones fracture beneath the blow, following up by sweeping his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. The kick had taken her lower, avoiding another strike from the man on her right, and she continued her turn until she came to face him. She swept his next baton strike aside – a move that would probably have broken a normal woman’s wrist – and delivered a quick jab to his visor.

The helmet protected his face from the blow, but not his neck – his head snapping back. The next punch came harder, sending him toppling to the ground, where he lay unconscious. The man she had kicked in the chest wisely elected to stay down, raising a hand in surrender as she turned her angry eyes on him.

The last trooper was standing a little further away, and having watched his team be dispatched, he hastily reached for the rifle that was hanging from his shoulder on its sling. He was slower and clumsier than a Marine or an operative would have been, lifting the barrel sluggishly in comparison, fumbling to get a gloved finger through the trigger guard.

His ineptitude gave Petrova the opening that she needed, and she dropped low like a sprinter preparing for a dash, splaying her gloved fingers on the dusty ground. She could have fired the concealed handgun that was built into her arm, but there was no reason to kill the boy if she could avoid it. Besides, she’d have to return to the ship and get a new silicone sleeve fitted, and that wasn’t worth the hassle.

Petrova kicked off, breaking into a flat sprint, her powerful prosthetics propelling her onward. She had never been a very large woman, and rather than using her augmentations to bulk up, she had chosen to remain lean and athletic. She was as light as a feather on her feet, and her augs still packed enough strength to break bone and bend steel, the lightweight polymers and alloys doing nothing to slow her down. Hoff had once joked that she was built like a supercar – all flash and speed.

The man was no more than fifty yards away, and she closed the distance in maybe four seconds, kicking up puffs of dust with each step. Her target finally brought his weapon to bear, but Petrova had already leapt, the prosthetics springing her lithe build into the air. She flew the last couple of feet, putting all of her momentum into a swing of her long leg, the kick connecting with the man’s helmet. He reacted like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer, his head snapping to one side, the force of the blow throwing him to the ground.

Petrova landed with the grace of a gymnast finishing a set, glancing down at her assailant. Seeing that he was lying still, she turned to appraise the field of bodies that she had left in her wake, all of the troopers either unconscious or nursing injuries. The last trooper who could still fight had already tossed his rifle aside and was raising both hands.

She walked over to the trooper with the broken shin, the man flinching away as she crouched beside him.

“Strike a superior officer again, and a busted leg will be the least of your worries,” she said.

“S-superior?” he stammered. “What?”

“I’m a Lieutenant Commander – Special Weapons and Advanced Recon,” she replied. “That’s what I was trying to tell you before you and your goons assaulted me. You almost blew my cover.”

“I…I didn’t-”

“Stay here,” she ordered. “I’ll send someone to come pick you up. I’d ask you not to tell anyone about what just happened, but where you’re going, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

She strode off into the sandstorm, leaving them in the road. As she turned a corner, she slipped off one of her gloves, checking that the silicone sleeves beneath hadn’t been damaged or torn. Of all the stupid ways she might have been discovered, being shaken down by the PDF hadn’t been high on her list.

Petrova hurried, quickly catching up with her friends. Despite the storm erasing their footprints, she had traveled this route with them several times already, and she knew the area well. They had made it back to Fran’s prefab and were milling around outside, glancing up at her as she approached.

“Thank goodness!” Fran exclaimed. “We didn’t know what to do – if we should call the garrison or come back to find you.”

“What happened?” Carl asked. “We thought you’d be spending the night in jail, at least.”

“How did you end up walking away from that?” Sam added, leaning against the wall to steady himself. He was easily the drunkest of the three.

“Are you hurt?” Fran added, walking a little closer to take Petrova’s face in her hand. Petrova had to stop herself from reacting reflexively – still on edge after the encounter. The large woman turned her head left and right, examining her for injuries. “You’re bleeding,” she added. “Come on inside.”

***

“It’s really not that bad,” Petrova protested as Fran foisted an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel into her hand.

“Nonsense,” Fran insisted. “Hold this up to your face for a little while. It’ll stop the swelling.”

“She barely flinched when that guy whacked her with his baton,” Carl added from his seat on the couch in the cramped living area. “What’s the deal, Val? That hit would have knocked me on my ass, and I have to weigh twice what you do.”

“I’ve taken a hit or two in my time,” she replied, formulating another convenient lie. “I come from a long line of heavy drinkers with poor impulse control.”

“That explains why you indulge less than we do, at least,” Sam chuckled. He was sitting on an armchair across from Carl, lounging on the floral pillows. “How did you get them to let you leave, though?”

“I hope you didn’t pay for all of us,” Carl added. “It was a hell of a tab, Val. That guy was asking for a cool eight hundred.”

“Like I said – my brother works for the PDF,” she explained. “I just dropped some names and made sure they understood whose sister they were shaking down. They won’t bother you again.”

Petrova took a moment to glance around Fran’s prefab. It was the first time that she’d set foot in a Hadean home since arriving on the planet, and it wasn’t what she had expected. The prefab that she’d been assigned as part of her cover was practically bare, sharing many of the same basic amenities but none of the personal touches that came from long-term habitation. It was sterile, artificial, and somehow empty in spite of its small size. It reminded her very much of the carrier.

The kitchen that she was sitting in was much the same as the one back home – if her accommodations could be described as such – with the same narrow counter, integrated appliances, and small dining table. Fran had installed a series of hooks that hung above the counter, drilling them into the bottom of the overhanging cupboards. Spatulas, whisks, and other cooking implements hung from them in easy reach, along with a couple of oven mitts decorated with gaudy floral patterning. She had a few extra appliances, too, like a coffee machine and a toaster. The plates that were sitting on top of the recessed dishwasher had similar flowery patterns.

The questionable décor extended to her living area, where the bare floor had been carpeted over to make it a little warmer and more inviting, and the seats had been protected with flower-print covers. There was a little lamp with a lacy shade sitting on a narrow stand, the light that it gave off far softer than the harsh glare of the strips on the ceiling. She was amused to see that the almost nonexistent windows situated high on the walls were covered with tiny curtains.

The sleeping area was much the same, Fran’s sheets patterned with flowers. The bed was scattered with decorative throw pillows that probably had to be put away each night and rearranged every morning. Just like with the hooks, Fran had maximized her use of the space. A long pole ran from wall to wall above the bed, laden with clothes hangers that supported a whole wardrobe’s worth of garments. Many of the open spaces on the walls were filled with pictures, either prints in frames or small displays showing loved ones and nature scenes. The prevalence of flowers was curious, as Hades had no flowering plants, and Fran couldn’t have seen many as a native.

The whole place was permeated with the smell of cooking, but not in a bad way, and she could pick up the scent of potpourri. It almost certainly wasn’t real dried plant matter, as that would cost far more to import than someone of Fran’s means could justify, so perhaps it was an air freshener of some sort. It reminded Petrova of her babushka’s apartment back on Earth – memories that hadn’t been dredged up in a very, very long time. This wasn’t just a cold, sterile box that contained humans – this was a home where someone lived, and Fran had left her mark on it.

“Sam, have some water!” Fran insisted as she filled a glass from the faucet. She marched across the room and thrust it into his hand. “I know you won’t drink any when you get home.”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled as he took a sip. “There’s no work to wake up for, you know. Plant’s still fucking closed.”

“Having to go to work isn’t the only reason not to want a hangover,” Carl chuckled.

“You didn’t seem all that surprised when those troopers asked you for money,” Petrova began, still holding the cold compress against her forehead. “Does that happen often around here?”

“What, you didn’t have corrupt troopers across town?” Sam replied.

“Not since the Syndicate,” Petrova replied. “And that was a long time ago.”

“Maybe you’re a little too young to remember,” Fran began, the legs of her chair scraping against the kitchen floor as she took a seat beside Petrova. “This must have been seven, going on eight years ago now. Boy, does saying that make me feel old,” she added with a laugh. “Anyway – it’s a long enough time ago that it’s not fresh in the minds of the new generation of Hadeans. Back in those days, ExoCorp had lost its grip on the colony, and everyone was on the Syndicate payroll. All of the criminal elements operating on Hades had banded together to form something resembling a functional government. They’d extract taxes in the form of protection money and bribes, and every interaction became transactional. If you wanted to get anything done, you had to pay, and the same went for any encounter with troopers. What happened tonight was par for the course, unfortunately.”

“Everyone abused their authority,” Carl added. “It got to a point where you’d have to carry loose scrip on you just in case you encountered a patrol. It really did become a kind of tax that everyone just factored into their expenses. If you owned a market stall or ran a garage, you’d be paying a share to the mob.”

“That all ended when the Navy arrived,” Fran continued. “They broke up the Syndicate, reformed the PDF, and supervised the election of a new government.”

“That was when the current Governor got elected,” Carl added.

“The Navy really turned things around,” Fran said. “It was the first time, pretty much since the founding of the colony, that we had some freedom. No more scrip, we nationalized all the mines and factories after ExoCorp was forced out, and the Syndicate wasn’t controlling people’s lives anymore. We had almost a decade of people learning to trust each other again. A lot of Hadeans who did most of their growing up after the fact don’t remember how bad things used to be.”

“They’re getting bad again now,” Sam grumbled, taking another sip of water.

“If the Navy did such a good job of reforming the PDF, why do you think they’re reverting to their old behavior?” Petrova asked.

“They’re not reverting,” Fran replied. “Those guys we met today can’t have been older than twenty-five. They’d have been kids when the Syndicate was in power. No, the problem is that power corrupts. Whether you’re running a mine, patrolling a neighborhood, or ruling a colony, anyone who has power over someone else is going to push the boundaries until someone pushes back. That’s just human nature. People are opportunists, and when a situation like ours gives them an opening, they’ll take it. Doesn’t matter if it’s the Corp, the Syndicate, or these new guys.”

“How do you prevent that if it’s just human nature?” Carl wondered. “Are you saying we’re just destined to repeat the cycle forever?”

“Accountability,” Fran replied with a wag of her finger. “For the longest time, nobody who ruled Hades was accountable to its people. ExoCorp operated far beyond the eyes of the UN and treated us no better than slaves, confident in the knowledge that nobody had the time or the resources to care about what goes on out here. They only felt accountable to their shareholders. The Syndicate was only accountable to its bosses, and they didn’t give a damn about anything other than extracting money from us. Now, the Navy – they’re accountable to the people. It’s the UN Security Council that decides where they go and what they do, and we’re part of the UN. When they reformed the PDF, they made them accountable to the people just the same. They’d send a fleet every few months to keep them accountable, and that worked out until recently.”

“I don’t know if the Admiralty is as accountable to the Security Council as you think,” Petrova added. “After the Betelgeuse Incident, the War Powers Act functionally gave the Admirals the ability to do whatever they deemed necessary to defend humanity. That’s a good thing, though. Sometimes, red tape and bureaucracy get in the way of doing what needs to be done. Some civilian sitting in a cushy office fifty light-years away can’t understand what’s happening on a battlefield.”

“I didn’t know you were into politics, Val,” Sam added.

“If these Navy guys really are imposters as the resistance is claiming, maybe that’s exactly the issue,” Fran argued. “Some shady special forces group that operates in secret isn’t accountable to us, or to the civilian government, or to anyone but their commanders. If they locked up all the good PDF who are still trying to do their jobs, maybe it would only be the bad ones out on patrol.”

“Assuming any of that is true,” Petrova scoffed.

“Whatever the case, I think we can all agree that the Governor is no longer in control of Hades,” Fran replied as she glanced at her friends. “If they’re not accountable to him or us, who are they taking orders from? Nobody we voted for – that’s for sure.”

“Well, we’d better get going,” Carl said. “I’ll haul Sam back home. Thanks for the save, Val. We’d all be a lot worse off if you hadn’t been here.”

“We’ve already been stopped once for being out after curfew,” Fran chided. “Sam can take the couch, and you can have the pull-out. It’s not like you have to be at work tomorrow. What about you, Val? You really shouldn’t be out there on your own. I can find a place for you to sleep if you’d like to stay overnight.”

“Sounds like she can take care of herself to me,” Sam chuckled drunkenly.

“Thank you, but I live close by,” Petrova replied. “I should be fine getting home on my own.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Fran sighed. “Take the ice pack with you.”

“Thank you, Fran,” Petrova replied with a smile as she rose from her seat at the kitchen table.

CHAPTER 16

DAY 34 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – RUZA

Ruza crawled up to the top of the dune, two of his snipers flanking him. They kept low, using their leather cloaks to conceal themselves against the desert sand, their rifles clutched in their hands. As Ruza crested, he aimed his weapon, reaching up to tune the magnification on the scope.

There was a momentary lull in the sandstorms, leaving the sky clear and blue. The storms came in waves, and he could still see one building on the horizon – forming a dark wall of dust that would soon sweep across the planet’s surface.

More than a kilometer ahead of him was a cluster of old industrial buildings, his elevation giving him a good view of the site. It looked very similar to the place where he had first made contact with Bergmann – a long-abandoned strip mine once operated by ExoCorp, situated some distance from the outskirts of the city. There was a cluster of rusty old warehouses and structures, along with a few tall cranes rising into the air, the wind blowing the long chains and cables that hung from their gibs. Below were derelict earthmovers and forklifts, left to rot after living out their usefulness, probably too damaged now to be worth more than their salvage. At the center of it all was an open-air pit of considerable size, spiraling down into the planet, its tiered walls still occupied by machinery in places.

Ruza scoped in, scanning his sights across the industrial sprawl. The sand had piled up in many places with nobody to clear it away, forming dunes and partially burying some of the buildings and vehicles. It wasn’t completely abandoned, however. Hovering high above the site was a solitary spotter drone, the little vehicle slowly circling as its cameras mapped the ground below, and there was a conspicuous PDF armored truck parked near the entrance – the property marked by a dilapidated fence.

“Fifty-eight degrees low,” Ruza muttered.

His two companions shifted their rifles, tracking a squad of PDF. The troopers were sifting through the remains of the site with their rifles at the ready, Ruza watching as two of them ducked into an abandoned storehouse.

“Two groups of six,” one of the snipers whispered. “They look like they’re searching for something.”

“Concerning,” Ruza grumbled. “We have been operating from an old mine not dissimilar from this one. The enemy has never ranged out this far before – what has changed?”

“Is this random, or are they acting on new information?” one of the snipers wondered. “This is the third time in the last two days that we’ve caught patrols checking out old corporate mines.”

“They’ve been picking up a lot of people,” the other scout mused as he adjusted his aim. “We can’t stop all of the arrests. All it would take is for them to grab someone who has some vague idea that we’re operating from a mine.”

“If they are checking all of the abandoned mines, they will eventually check ours,” Ruza added. “We must take what we have learned back to our comrades.”

They began to retreat, crawling back down the dune on their bellies until they were low enough to stand without the risk of being spotted.

***

“Someone must have told them something,” Bergmann said as he leaned over the conference table. “The more people we involve, and the larger the resistance grows, the more potential there is for leaks.”

“Opsec is becoming an issue,” Rivera said with a nod of agreement. “The civilian manpower we gained through the FMU has been indispensable, but what we need are more Marines. We should focus our efforts on freeing personnel from the garrisons.”

“We civilians have been doing just fine so far,” Reed chided, giving the Marine a dirty look across the table. “Unless you’re forgetting who bailed you out, jailbird?”

“It’s a matter of discipline,” Rivera shot back. “We have a small core of trained personnel, but the bulk of our forces are still volunteers. They have families and friends who can be used to apply pressure, and they’re not trained to resist interrogation techniques.”

“We should continue to disperse our forces,” Ruza suggested. “The enemy encroaches ever closer, and it is only a matter of time before they discover our main base. If they hit us here, we will not prevail. I suggest that we establish longer-range outposts in the desert.”

“We’re not Rask, Ruza,” Reed sighed. “We can’t just put up a tent in the wasteland. Besides, how would we move all our equipment and stay in contact? You know better than anyone how much of a pain in the ass it’s been to build a hospital and stockpile all those supplies.”

“We can do without many of the amenities that we enjoy here,” Ruza explained. “The injured and non-combatants must be moved to a more secure location. I have found an isolated geothermal plant here, built into an exposed outcrop of rock,” he added as he brought up the holographic map with a gesture. It showed a location several kilometers from the city, the building in question nestled in the side of a rocky canyon. “The facility was under construction during ExoCorp’s tenure, but it was abandoned before being completed. The structure is sound, but moving our supplies there unseen would pose problems. There are no tunnels that lead there. It would best be done at night – perhaps during a storm.”

“Is this what you’ve been doing during your unscheduled outings?” Rivera demanded. “We need you here, Ruza, but all you seem to do is wander the desert with your scouts and do house calls. You’re one of our best fighters – and one of our few qualified surgeons. What happens if you’re killed or captured?”

“I do not take orders from you,” Ruza growled. “Had I not been scouting, we would not even know of this new threat.”

“If you ask me, I think we need to accelerate our timetable,” Astrid said from her end of the table. “I’ve been hearing reports on the net about the SWAR recruits that were taken up to the carrier. Their families have been informed that the surgeries were a success, and the recruits are now recovering. Ruza – how long do you think it would take before they can be deployed?”

“A good doctor would want to give such a patient several months of healing and physical therapy before they could return to duty,” Ruza replied, his feline brow furrowing as he considered. “Someone who cares little for his patients’ welfare could press them into service within weeks.”

“So, we could be just weeks away from SWAR inflating their numbers above pre-invasion levels?” Reed demanded as he glanced between Astrid and Ruza.

“And that’s just the first batch of recruits,” Omar said, shaking his head. “There are hundreds more candidates waiting for their turn. If Barbosa has his way, there could be thousands of augmented troopers running around Hades by the time the UNN shows up to restore order.”

“Based on the information you gave us about their combat exoskeletons, we estimate that the first batch is close to being finished,” Yohanes said. Ruza remembered the suited man from the prior meeting – he was representing the Factory and Metalworkers Union. “We’ve been able to identify a lot more of the parts that our members have been tasked with manufacturing. We’ve been doing what we can to slow down the process and introduce problems like impurities in the metal and substandard casting, but sabotage is a dangerous game with the kind of scrutiny we’re under. After the incident at the steelworks and the missing weapon shipments, there are often PDF on-site watching the line and checking inventory.”

“So, you’re saying that they’re close to having even more Bullsharks?” Reed asked. “Y’know – the things that are impervious to anything but a fucking industrial furnace?”

“The electronics and more advanced systems are likely being manufactured on the carrier,” Yohanes explained. “We don’t have the kinds of photolithography and specialized tooling we’d need on the surface. That supply chain is out of our reach.”

“We’ve noticed them sending lithium and silicates up the tether,” Henrik added – the representative from the Trade Association. “They’re doing something up there.”

“Can we get some of these suits?” Reed asked, spreading his arms.

“They can’t be piloted by unaugmented people,” Astrid explained. “We believe there’s some kind of neural connection required – an implant in the brain or spine.”

“And, they’d only have the means to install those on the carrier – right,” Reed grumbled.

“If they get an army of those things up and running, we’ll stand no chance,” Bergmann added with a frustrated sigh. “Maybe Astrid is right, and we need to make a big move while we still have the strength to do so. Chipping away at the enemy only worked as long as they had no access to reinforcements.”

“The mass attack against the garrisons is still our best bet to free as many Marines and loyal PDF as possible,” Rivera insisted. “I say we go with that plan. Storm season came at just the right time – we can use the next big one for cover. We put all of our chips on the table and just go for it.”

“I have another idea,” Astrid began, the men turning their attention to her. “Our propaganda and outreach programs have been working. Discontent is spreading throughout the population, and just as we’d hoped, the curfews and rationing have only worsened public sentiment. The enemy has been making inroads in countering our messaging, especially after the warehouse burning that was falsely attributed to us, but rumblings on the net paint a positive picture for the resistance. It’s not just the Unions – there are grassroots movements forming in opposition to the occupation. They’re peaceful, but a large protest could be just the cover we need to make our move.”

“Most of the PDF would be called away from the garrisons to handle riot control,” Omar said with a nod. “They’d be as vulnerable as it’s possible for them to be.”

“How much control would we have over when this protest happens?” Bergmann pressed. “We could coordinate with the other Union leaders and time a general strike to coincide with it – really stretch their resources thin.”

“I have my tendrils in a lot of intranet communities,” Astrid replied with a sly smile. “I think I could spread the word – get some control over the timing.”

“I worry about exposing the people to danger,” Ruza added. “We have seen the occupiers abuse their authority before, and they grow ever more brazen. I fear that we are not far from such disorder being quelled with a violent crackdown.”

“The only way we’re going to win this fight is if the people of Hades stand up for themselves and drive these bastards back into orbit,” Reed replied, slamming a fist on the table to punctuate his words. “We’re all in this together – they just haven’t realized it yet.”

“Things aren’t going to get better,” Amy added from her seat at the table. “The more time passes, the more abusive the Borgs will get. I’ve been on the receiving end of their hospitality before.”

Ruza lowered his head in a gesture of deference, the memory of her badly bruised features still burned into his mind.

“Besides, if the PDF are doing police work, they won’t be defending the garrisons,” Omar interjected. “We’d be minimizing their casualties too. It’s a good plan – the best we’ve got. Astrid has my vote.”

“I like it,” Rivera said with a nod.

“Let’s get it done,” Bergmann confirmed. “Henrik, Yohanes – let me know what your people have to say about it. We may even be able to involve the Municipal Employees Guild if they think it’s just a strike.”

Ruza turned his head suddenly, hearing rapid footsteps approaching down the nearest tunnel, one ear swiveling to track them. Amy recognized the gesture, glancing down the passage. A Marine soon came jogging into the conference room, pausing for a moment to catch his breath.

“Staff Sergeant, we have a situation,” he panted.

***

Ruza joined Reed, Rivera, and Bergmann as they followed the Marine down one of the tunnels, eventually arriving at a side passage where two more Marines were holding a man at gunpoint. He was on his knees in the dirt, his hands tied behind his back, his camouflaged fatigues identifying him as PDF. He glanced up at them as they stepped into view, a swollen eye widening at the sight of Ruza.

“We caught him near one of the checkpoints,” the Marine began. “His squad seems to have been mapping the tunnels by eye, and they stumbled upon one of our outposts. There was a brief firefight – no casualties on our side. They were as surprised as we were.”

“How close did they get?” Bargmann asked.

“Close,” the Marine replied solemnly. “There was a second squad coming down an adjacent tunnel, but they got taken out by a tripwire grenade.”

“Booby-trapping the tunnels was a good idea, then,” Reed mused. “They might have gotten through a passage that we couldn’t cover. It’s a good thing we set up those cells, or they might have walked straight into the base.”

“Here,” the Marine added, passing a tablet computer to Bergmann. “We pulled this off their squad leader, and our friend here was kind enough to decrypt it for us.”

“This is their map,” Bergmann marveled as he examined the display. “My my, they have been busy…”

Ruza glanced over his shoulder, seeing a somewhat familiar yet distinctly different layout. It seemed that the occupiers had access to records of the legal mines that had been dug beneath the colony, but the illegal ones – as well as the smuggling tunnels – had been slowly added in as they were explored. Ruza even recognized a few of the tunnels from prior operations. There was the warehouse where the resistance had staged the first ambush against SWAR, the exfil tunnels near Garrison Seventeen, and even the tunnels they had used to escape after the battle at the steel plant.

“We knew that they were exploring the network,” Rivera said as Bergmann passed the tablet to him. “It was only a matter of time until they started running into our patrols and checkpoints. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

“They have an excess of manpower, and it looks like they’ve been making good use of it,” Bergmann said. “I can see several tunnels where our fighters have encountered patrols in the last few days – they’re keeping a record of every one that doesn’t report back.”

“All the more reason to accelerate the timetable,” Reed said, Rivera leaning away in annoyance as he drew closer to get a look. “Shit – see this? If they’re running up against checkpoints and losing teams here, here, and here, that could help them triangulate the base. It would at least give them a better idea of where we are.”

“They are already scouting the outlying mines,” Ruza added. “They would need only to identify the nearest one to the tunnels where their patrols have gone missing.”

“The Borgs are using the poor fuckers as canaries,” Reed muttered as he glanced at the kneeling trooper. “Send ‘em in, and make a note of who doesn’t come back out.”

“Why do you look at me in such a manner?” Ruza asked, the captive turning his eyes to the ground rather than meet Ruza’s gaze.

“I know who you are,” he muttered, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You’re the Rask terrorist. They say you’re some kind of mad doctor – that you eat people.”

“And you’ll be next on the menu if you don’t tell him everything he wants to know,” Reed said, crouching down in front of the trooper with an unkind smile on his lips. “We call him the cannibal.”

“That wouldn’t technically be cannibalism, would it?” Rivera mused.

“I…I already told you everything!” the trooper stammered, starting to tremble now. “I don’t know anything else!”

“Do not torment him,” Ruza grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Whatever your superiors have told you, it is not true. You will not be harmed here.”

“What are we supposed to do with him?” Reed asked as he stood back up. “We can’t let him go – he knows where the base is, and he’s seen Bergmann.”

“As much as I’d like to dump him down a mine shaft, he’s a PoW,” Rivera replied. “Ruza is right – we have a responsibility to care for him. Find him a cell. I think someone was supposed to have set some up.”

“Y-you’re not gonna kill me?” the trooper asked, the disbelief evident in his expression as his two captors hauled him to his feet by his bound arms.

“Nah, we already fed Ruza today,” Reed joked as the man was guided past him.

“This is a disturbing revelation, but it doesn’t change anything,” Bergmann began once the trooper had rounded a corner and was out of earshot. “The plan still stands.”

“It’s certainly another fire under our ass,” Rivera grumbled. “There’s no way of knowing how much information the Borgs have or what they might be planning. If our roles were reversed, I’d want to hit us as hard and as fast as possible. We can’t even rely on Omar to give us a heads-up anymore, because these new Roach and Crow characters have been steadily cutting the PDF brass out of the decision-making process. If they decide to launch a lightning assault, he might not know about it until it’s too late. They might not involve the PDF at all.”

“We would be wise to operate as though such an attack is imminent,” Ruza added. “It will take Astrid time to organize the protests and strikes. Perhaps we should use it to begin moving our personnel and supplies.”

“If you want to go set up shop in that old geothermal plant, be my guest,” Rivera replied. “You’ve made it quite clear that you don’t take orders from me – or anyone else, for that matter. Vacating this base entirely is going to be impossible, even if we managed to move under the cover of the storm. We have patients we can’t move, too many supplies, and too many people. Not to mention the water and power situation. We’d also be in a far worse strategic position without easy access to the city or the tunnels. Yeah, we might survive an attack, but whatever was left wouldn’t be able to put up a fight against the Borgs.”

“Maybe you should listen to Ruza,” Reed added, glancing between the two as they stared one another down. “We all agreed to establish those cells and caches, right? He’s done this kind of thing before.”

“I won’t allow our forces to be split up so close to such a pivotal operation,” Rivera insisted, standing his ground as he folded his arms stubbornly. “We need to be at maximum strength, and we’ll need all of our people on deck. This coming fight could shift the course of the war in our favor.”

“Rivera does have the most military experience,” Bergmann added. “I’m inclined to let him manage the operation.”

“Very well,” Ruza conceded, knowing that arguing further was pointless.

DAY 34 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“We think a lot of it is coming from a single source,” Song said as he swiped a hand through the holograms that floated above the observation deck’s glass floor. “Some of the activity is organic, but a lot of it is clearly a result of a dedicated information campaign. We can’t trace it back to its origin point, of course. It’s all encrypted and bounced between a dozen different servers. If I had to guess, they probably have some kind of hardlined private network in play, too. They’re only using public access points.”

“They’re not being coy about what they’re planning,” Barbosa mused, walking through one of the hovering displays to examine the one behind it. He moved it through the air with a gesture, repositioning it. “Tens of thousands of people are going to be attending the protest, and all four major unions are striking at the same time. They want us to know that this is happening…”

“Could be some kind of diversion,” Song suggested. “We know that they like to bait and switch – like the attack on the ASATs.”

“In their position, I might try to attack one of the garrisons to free more prisoners,” Barbosa said as he pulled up a map of the city. “It won’t be the anchor – they don’t have the numbers, and the ASATs are too heavily defended. A large protest like this one will force us to commit the bulk of our PDF forces to riot control, which leaves the garrisons vulnerable…”

Barbosa pulled up another display, pressing a mechanical finger to his aural implant. A moment later, a three-dimensional image of a man’s head appeared to float there. He was riddled with facial scars, his jaw and parts of his lower face replaced with dark polymer, giving him the appearance of having a black beak at a glance. It had been a mortar, if Barbosa recalled. The shrapnel had destroyed the mandible, the maxilla, and torn off his nose. By some miracle, his vital anatomy and even his eyes had been left untouched.

“Crow,” Barbosa began. “How’s the search going? Have you managed to locate their base of operations?”

“We’re honing in on them, Commander,” he replied with a voice that was distorted by his prosthetics. “We’ve scouted several of the larger abandoned mining sites, and we’ve narrowed it down to a handful. Three squads of PDF were tasked with mapping tunnels near one of the remaining candidates today, and only one reported back. It’s safe to assume that the rest encountered resistance and are KIA.”

“Do you have the locations of the tunnels in question?” Song asked, sidling up beside Barbosa to join the conversation. “With enough data points, we could triangulate a likely location of their base. Any heavily defended tunnels will be protected for a reason.”

“That’s if they didn’t just fall down a mine shaft or get lost,” Crow muttered. “Sending the data to you now, Song.”

It only took Song a moment to apply the new data points to his growing map, showing distinct tunnels where their progress had been halted. Even without further analysis, Barbosa could see the pattern that was starting to emerge.

“They have to be somewhere inside this zone,” he said as he made a circle with his digit.

“Running a check,” Song muttered as his fingers danced across a virtual keyboard. “Here – one of the ExoCorp mines that was recorded on the Governor’s map has some significant tunnels and chambers that lead into that area. They’re all legal and on the books. It hasn’t been scouted yet.”

“That has to be it,” Barbosa hissed. “Crow – I want you to send a team to check out the site for any signs of recent activity – and quietly. We have to be sure before we commit. Find ingress points, scan for defenses, and stay dark.”

“I’ll get my people on it,” Crow replied. “Once we have confirmation, do you want us to go in and smoke them out?”

“We’ll wait,” Barbosa said, clasping his hands behind his back. “They’re going to try something during this protest – there’s no doubt about that. Put some reliable agents in charge of security and loosen their leashes a little. If the insurgents want to foment an uprising, we need to be ready to crush it before it begins. I want you and Roach to assemble a strike team. Pick men who are quick, quiet, and who have experience fighting in hives.”

“We’ll make it happen, Commander,” Crow replied with a nod. “I already have a few candidates in mind.”

“The insurgency seems to believe that we’ll have our hands full with this protest,” Barbosa mused as he looked over the map of the mines. “Whatever their plan is, it will draw their fighters away from their base, leaving it vulnerable. That’s when we’ll hit them.”

“They won’t be expecting us,” Crow added, his smile reflected only in his eyes due to his skeletal mouth. “If they try to retreat, they’ll be walking straight into another firefight.”

“There’s nothing like a quiet knife in the back to solve a problem,” Barbosa replied.

DAY 35 – HADES – PETROVA

“I don’t think you should go,” Petrova said.

“Why not?” Fran asked as she zip-tied a high-vis jacket to a broom handle. She was sitting in her prefab along with Sam and Carl – the trio hunched over the kitchen table as they assembled their crude signs and flags.

“It could be dangerous,” Petrova insisted as she watched them from her seat on the couch. “You’ve seen firsthand how out of control the PDF is getting, and the last protest started a full-blown riot.”

“We have a right to protest,” Fran replied as she passed a roll of duct tape to Carl. “If it’s not safe to go out into the streets and make ourselves heard, then we really are living under an occupation like the resistance says.”

“Besides, it’s not like we’re going to miss work,” Sam added. “We don’t have much else to do.”

“They really need to set up an arcade or a casino around here,” Petrova muttered. “You factory workers are a menace when you’re left to your own devices for too long.”

“Unlike the cultured electricians from across town who play croquet and sip champagne in their free time,” Carl chuckled.

“At least don’t wear those vests when you go out,” Petrova pressed. “You know the insurgents are using those colors to identify each other, right? You might get mistaken for terrorists.”

“Everyone is going to be wearing them,” Fran explained as she held up one of the reflective work vests. “They’re a symbol of the workers. Practically everyone has one in their home, whether they work in sanitation, a mine, or they drive a truck.”

“Even the PDF wear a reflective sash when they’re on traffic duty,” Sam added.

“Anyway, it predates the resistance,” Fran continued as she set the vest back down. “If anything, they adopted it from us.”

“If I was a resistance fighter, I might want everyone to dress the same way I did to make it harder for the security forces to find me,” Petrova muttered. “I just have a bad feeling about this protest. Bad actors could turn it into another riot, there could be a crackdown, or the insurgents could use it as cover for an attack. I don’t want you guys getting caught up in that.”

“Relax, Val,” Sam replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’ll be fine. Tons of people will be there.”

“Seems like half the damned colony is attending,” Fran confirmed with a nod. “If the Governor sees how many people are unhappy with the state of affairs, and how ready the unions are to shut production down, maybe everything will go back to normal. What are they gonna do – arrest thousands of people?”

“I don’t think these Navy guys will take kindly to unrest,” Petrova warned. “That’s what concerns me.”

“Are you buying into the resistance line about them being imposters now?” Carl asked.

“No, but…these people aren’t police – they’re military. If they get pushed too far, they might fall back on their training, which involves eliminating threats with prejudice. Don’t make the mistake of expecting them to react the same way the PDF would.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” Carl suggested, looking up from the sign he was working on. “You handled that situation with the troopers the other day.”

“Yeah, you can name-drop your brother again if they mess with us,” Sam added.

“She doesn’t have to come if she doesn’t want to,” Fran chided. “We won’t declare you an enemy of the class struggle if you don’t want to be out in the sun all day, Val.”

“At least it’ll be a clear day,” Carl said. “There’s no storm scheduled – I don’t think they’d be able to get anyone out of their prefabs if there was.”

“No, Sam’s right – I think I should come along,” Petrova conceded. “Not that I don’t trust Fran to take care of you two, but you might need someone to drop a name if things get heated.”

Not to mention that if there was any insurgent activity, there was a good chance that her target might be there. The Rask seemed drawn to violence and chaos like a moth to a lamp.

“The protest isn’t for a couple more days anyway,” Sam said with a shrug. “You have time to think about it.”

“Well, I’d better get going,” Petrova said as she rose to her feet. “I’m not cutting it too close to curfew, but I don’t want a repeat of what happened last time. I’ll see you guys later.”

“See you!” Sam replied with a wave.

Petrova said her goodbyes, then headed out into the street, bundling herself up in her leathers to protect herself from the storm. She knew the streets well now, able to navigate them even in low visibility. The seasonal storms here were strange, seeming to come in waves with brief lulls between them, and tonight was another harsh one. As she walked, she considered her next course of action.

The Commander certainly knew of the protests and had likely already devised some kind of plan. The insurgents weren’t being quiet about it, and their fingerprints were all over it. The chances of them using the cover of the protest to launch some kind of operation were very high.

When she returned to her prefab, she climbed the steps and headed inside, hanging up her dusty coat by the door. Her spartan abode was a stark difference from the warmth and the lived-in qualities of Fran’s prefab, leaving it feeling cold and sterile in comparison.

As she shed more clothing, stripping down to her tank top and shorts in appreciation of the air conditioning, she considered her conversation with Barbosa. He had dismissed her worries that SWAR were growing too far removed from the people they were charged with protecting – almost becoming a different species in their own right. Talking with Fran and her friends, hanging out in that tiny house – it made her feel more human than she had in a very long time. Maybe since leaving her parents.

She poured herself a glass of water, then glanced around the room as she sipped, wondering how she might adorn the bare metal walls if she were to settle down here. Not that SWAR personnel tended to retire, or that Hades would be anywhere but at the bottom of her list…

Every inch of Fran’s home was hers. The photos on the walls were of family members and the people she loved, every part of it had been customized in some way, and her flowery touch was evident on every piece of furniture. Her roots ran deep, and she had so much stuff. There were so many belongings, trinkets, and clothes filling up the space.

Ever since being recruited by SWAR, Petrova had traveled light. If she ever spent any significant time in one place, it was because she was fighting there, and transit usually saw her living on spacecraft with quarters even smaller than this. Her personal belongings were limited to whatever she could fit in a duffel. Even during her brief layovers at Proxima, the only place that really felt familiar was the SWAR bar, and that wasn’t hers. Her bonds with her fellow agents were strong – in many ways stronger than those of mere friends – but they were…different.

She remembered Hoff, and how close they had once been. They had fought back-to-back on more battlefields than she cared to count, but while she would have trusted him to take a bullet for her, she would never have confided in him about these feelings. Fran seemed so warm and approachable in comparison, even if they had only known one another for mere days.

There was an element of guilt there, too. Barbosa expected her to carry on his legacy, and she had to be unwavering in her commitment to his cause. Fraternizing with the civilians would only distract her from her purpose. Once she returned to the carrier and she was surrounded by her people again, she would feel better.

Petrova walked over to the table and set down her phone, putting through a call to the carrier. It wasn’t long before Barbosa’s voice was echoing through her prefab.

“Petrova,” he began, sounding pleased to hear from her. “I trust that your operation is proceeding well? Did you have something to report?”

“I’ve not made much progress yet, Commander,” she replied. “I’ve embedded myself with the locals, and I’ve been investigating insurgent movements in the area. I’m growing concerned that the public sentiment is shifting in their favor.”

“We’re aware of their activities,” he replied simply.

“Song must have been monitoring the chatter surrounding this protest that’s coming up in a couple of days,” Petrova continued. “It seems like the perfect cover for the terrorists to make some kind of move.”

“That was indeed my thinking,” he confirmed.

“You’re not going to stop it?”

“On the contrary,” he said with a synthetic laugh. “I intend to let the protest and the strikes proceed as planned. In fact, I hope that the insurgents come out in force.”

“You’ve found their base,” Petrova marveled.

“Roach and Crow did most of the groundwork, but I believe so,” Barbosa replied. “We have a pretty solid idea of where they’ve been operating from. The minute they leave the roost, we’ll sneak in through the back door and clear out the stragglers. Any returning fighters will be walking right into an ambush.”

“Where do you need me?” Petrova asked. “Do I have new orders?”

“Your orders remain the same,” Barbosa replied. “I still want you focused on the Rask. He’s unpredictable, and he’s already slipped through our net on more than one occasion. Even if we turn that base upside down and quell the little rebellion they’re trying to start, there’s no guarantee that he won’t evade us again and set up shop somewhere else. Don’t worry about the protest or the insurgents – Roach and Crow have it handled. Just put that alien in the ground.”

“Understood, Commander. I’ll be attending the protest, so I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

“I didn’t know you were so sympathetic to the cause, Petrova,” Barbosa joked. “Keep your head on a swivel. We don’t know what the insurgents have planned, and regardless of what happens, we mean to put a final end to this unrest. The last thing I want is you getting caught in the crossfire. Song informed me about what happened with that PDF patrol, and rest assured, they’re going to be cleaning their garrison with toothbrushes until Hades freezes over.”

“I appreciate that, Commander,” Petrova replied, affording herself a smile.

“The end is in sight,” Barbosa continued. “A few weeks from now, we’ll be talking about this whole affair like it was just a road bump. Watch out for yourself, and don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“Yes, Commander,” she said. “Before I leave, is Song available? I wanted to ask him how my recruits are faring. I intended to be there to oversee their recovery, but this assignment took precedence.”

“Of course,” Barbosa replied. “No need to bother Song – I’m sure he’s engrossed in some data analysis or something at the moment. I can send you over the patient files. According to Nilsson, the surgeries went extremely well – beyond his projections, even.”

“That’s reassuring to hear, Commander.”

“Check in again after the protest if you’re able, and good luck, Petrova.”

She closed the connection, then picked up her phone from the table, starting to scroll through the data that had been downloaded as she made her way over to the bed. She flopped down and gently peeled off her silicone sleeves, glad to be off her feet for a little while. There were no pain receptors in her prosthetic feet if she elected to turn them off, but even after so many years, her legs chafed a little where they connected to her thighs.

Song was as methodical as ever with his data entry. He’d recorded detailed dossiers on each patient, probably as a means of optimizing the procedures for future recruits. It was interesting to see that the prosthetics had all been standardized – even the surgeries themselves performed to exact specifications. While the amputation of healthy limbs was illegal under UN law, the benefits were clear, eliminating the lengthy process required to replace a limb damaged through trauma. There was no prototyping, fitting, or much tuning required – the limbs could be manufactured just like any other piece of equipment. The cuts could be exact, and the surgeon could keep as much connective tissue and bone as they required for the optimal outcome.

“Barbosa is really doing it,” she muttered as she scrolled through the data. “He’s manufacturing soldiers.”

The speed of the surgeries was another surprise. They had operated on all of her initial candidates in mere hours, and the recovery process was already underway. It seemed that Barbosa had found a way to coerce the doctors after all. The casualty rate had been low at only six percent, too. That was an achievement, considering how traumatic the procedure would have been, especially with the preemptive installation of their shunts.

She felt a flutter of regret in her belly as she considered that six of the bright-eyed recruits she had brought aboard had died on the operating table. They had known what they were signing up for – she had made sure of that. It was hard to think of them as mere statistics after personally training and selecting them, but it would do her no good to dwell on it. There were many more troopers who had died in firefights with the enemy.

As she read through the names of the deceased at the end of the file, her heart skipped a beat, a sudden sensation of cold falling over her as the blood drained from her face. She felt as though she had been plunged into an ice bath.

“Tom?” she whispered.

She reloaded the file frantically, her prosthetic fingers starting to tremble, hoping against hope that it had been a mistake. She must have misread the name, or maybe it was a corrupt data entry.

No. There was the name again.

Her eyes brimming with tears, she read the cause of death. Cardiac arrest during amputation – patient non-responsive to resuscitation. The autopsy had revealed a heart condition that the doctors on that damned backwater of a planet had never diagnosed, and the stress had been too much for him. On any of the interior worlds, it would have been dealt with during childhood. Why Tom? Out of a hundred recruits with a ninety-four percent success rate, why him? What kind of ass-backward odds were those? He had seemed so strong – so full of youth and vitality. She remembered their last meeting in the carrier’s mess hall – how she’d promised him a rain check, and the taste of the all-too-brief kiss they had shared…

The device’s display cracked in her grip, the sound of the glass breaking jolting Petrova back to reality. Blinking away the stinging tears that were now sliding down her cheeks, she tossed the phone aside and tucked her prosthetic legs up against her chest. She wrapped her arms around them, hugging them tightly, but there was no warmth or comfort to be found in their lifeless polymer. Petrova had lost so many friends in combat, but even Hoff’s recent death hadn’t hit her like this. She didn’t know what she was feeling.

Petrova’s breath began to hitch, and her face started to ache as muscles that had become unaccustomed to such displays of emotion contorted. She tried to wipe her tears away, but the polymer housing of her prosthetic hands was waterproof, only frustrating her further. She had to lift the hem of her top instead, leaving dark patches on the fabric. Her hands were still shaking – her distress interfering with the signals. How long had it been since she’d gotten the shakes like this?

Through bleary eyes, she glanced around her prefab, some part of her mind searching for solace anywhere it could. All that surrounded her was the cold, sterile metal of the empty room. A sudden, overwhelming sense of loneliness rushed over her like a chilling wind, desperation boiling up in its wake. Choking back sobs now, she picked up the cracked phone again, her trembling thumb poising over the contact list. Who could she reach out to? She couldn’t show such weakness in front of the Commander, Song was barely human to begin with, and Hoff was gone.

Her treaded thumb pad hovered above Fran’s name, the prospect of having someone – anyone to share in her grief very nearly pushing her to make the call. Being alone in this empty metal box with only her loss for company filled her with dread, but what could she say to Fran? What elaborate framework of lies could she concoct that wouldn’t blow her cover? Fran was Val’s friend, not Petrova’s – a fictional person she had invented. The reason for her call would have to be invented too, and she couldn’t bring herself to do that. She couldn’t do that in her present state of mind.

Instead, she turned her grief inward. Casualties had always been possible – practically a guarantee – but the idea of losing Tiny had never entered her mind. They’d never even had time to…if he’d only come to her a little sooner that final day. Maybe if she’d been there for him – maybe if she hadn’t been sent down to this accursed planet, things might have been different. Maybe she could have done something. Was it her fault? She had trained him, she had chosen him, and she had sent him to the carrier like a rancher sending a steer into an abattoir. This wasn’t the first time that she had ordered men to their deaths in battle, but it felt so different.

She slid off the bed, stumbling to her feet as her grief-wracked mind twisted into a new knot. It was the Rask – this was all his fault. He had started this insurgency, he had created the need for the accelerated recruitment program, and he was the reason she’d been reassigned.

The sorrow that had overtaken her began to ebb, replaced with something darker, yet more familiar. As much as it ached, she welcomed it – anything was better than the hurt. A hollow rage cored out her belly, her flowing tears now born of anger, her brow furrowed with hatred. She let out a roar, feeling it burn in her throat as if every ounce of despair was being expelled like bile, and swung her fist. It whistled through the air as she slammed it into the wall, the prefab’s thin metal denting outward, ringing the structure like a gong. Petrova hung her head as salty tears and strands of snot dripped to the bare floor at her feet, sucking in a wavering breath, uttering a curse in her native Russian.

“I’m going to kill you.”

DAY 36 – RESISTANCE BASE – RUZA

“I couldn’t secure the access codes to the shelters,” Omar admitted as he handed a tablet computer to Bergmann. “After what happened at Seventeen, they’ve improved their security too much. Those codes get cycled regularly, and they’re not shared between garrisons anymore.”

“How are we going to get in, then?” Reed demanded as he walked down the tunnel beside them. Ruza and Rivera were there too, the Rask watching over their shoulders from his high vantage point.

“Do we have to call off the operation?” Rivera asked.

“I couldn’t get you the codes, but I got you the next best thing,” Omar replied as he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. “They didn’t think to encrypt the personnel files. I know every PDF trooper who has clearance high enough to have those codes, and I know where every one of them is stationed. Hell, I have their home addresses if you want to do some house calls before the big event.”

“How do you propose we get the information from them?” Bergmann asked.

“Putting a gun to their heads and dragging them to the door should do the trick,” Rivera muttered. “No more games – this op is all or nothing.”

“I’ve chosen the targets based on a couple of different factors,” Omar continued. “As per the plan, we’re going to be attacking every garrison in tandem to spread the occupation forces as thinly as possible. Only a handful of those attacks are going to be genuine and undertaken in force. With the freed Marines, the loyal PDF, and the FMU providing men, we have the numbers to pull this off.”

“Why did you choose these four?” Bergmann asked as he examined the map on the device.

“I’ve confirmed that Marines from the carrier are being held in these garrisons, and two of them have armories where AMRs are being stored.”

“It’s about time!” Reed exclaimed, unable to resist pumping his fist. “You really came through, Omar. If we can get our hands on those heavy weapons, we might actually be able to kill those fucking PCEs without having to devise a Rube Goldberg machine to do it for us.”

“Have you exposed yourself to danger by gathering this information, Omar?” Ruza asked.

“If they check the logs, they’ll probably be able to see that I used my credentials to access the personnel files,” Omar replied. “That said, they won’t have a reason to check until after we put our plan into motion. It’s like Rivera said – it’s all or nothing. We need every edge we can get if we’re going to pull this off.”

“How are we doing on the civil protection front?” Bergmann asked.

“We will have squads embedded within the crowds at the expected points of contact,” Ruza replied. “My scouts will also be taking up overwatch positions in the industrial zones nearest the anchor and the city square. If the enemy wishes to instigate another riot, we will not allow them to harm the protesters.”

“This could get very ugly,” Reed muttered with a shake of his head. “Running street battles, close-quarters urban warfare with civilians in the mix. We won’t have the cover of the storms, either.”

“Nobody would have gone out to protest otherwise,” Omar said with a shrug.

“We’ve created the best possible conditions,” Reed insisted. “There’s no version of this where we avoid every risk.”

“The men are ready,” Rivera added. “I suppose there’s nothing more to do.”

“I’ll have Astrid forward the targets to our fighters,” Bergmann said as he and Omar broke off to follow a separate tunnel.

“Come on – I have something for you,” Reed said as he gave Ruza a nudge. Along with Rivera, they continued on to the armory, its faint sounds growing louder as they neared. They found it filled with fighters – groups of Marines, troopers, and volunteers alike servicing weapons and gearing up for the battle to come. There must have been dozens filing in and out of the room, equipping chest carriers and pulling weapons from the racks that lined the far wall. Ruza spotted a couple of Marines clad in their blue coveralls helping a PDF trooper zero his sights on the range, and the work benches were occupied by people packed shoulder-to-shoulder servicing their weapons. It was as busy as he had ever seen it, and for good reason. Practically every able-bodied fighter would be participating in the coming battle. A lot of them wouldn’t even know exactly what the plan was until shortly before they left – a means to reduce the possibility of leaks.

Reed guided Ruza through the throngs of people, a few of them pausing to acknowledge the Rask or to salute Rivera, the trio eventually arriving at one of the workbenches. Sitting atop it was an XMR of a design that Ruza wasn’t familiar with.

“Me and some of the guys figured that giant rifle of yours might not be too useful in street battles,” Reed began as he lifted the weapon off the table. “We haven’t been able to manufacture any new large-frame parts – that would be tantamount to giving the Borgs our address and inviting them over for a tea party. We worked something out, though.”

He passed the XMR to Ruza, who turned it over in his furry hands as he examined it. It was a medium frame, which was the standard size for humans, but the grip had been enlarged. It seemed to have been custom-machined, likely by hand, bulked up a little with layers of electrical tape. There was a folding stock, a short barrel equipped with a round muzzle device, and a curving double-stacked magazine that seemed too large for the small weapon. He could probably use it in lieu of a forward grip. In his hands, it was barely larger than a machine pistol, but it made for an admirable alternative to an XMH.

“You built these new parts for me?” Ruza asked.

“We call her the typewriter,” Reed chuckled. “She’s using rifle rounds, so she has a hell of a kick, but someone of your…considerable mass should be able to handle her. We thought it would make a suitable sidearm for you.”

“I think he likes it,” Rivera said, the two humans sharing a pleased glance as Ruza flipped open the stock experimentally. “Why don’t you give it a whirl?”

They moved over to the range, and Ruza switched off the weapon’s safety, bracing the small stock in the crook of his arm. He fired the gun, holding it tightly as it attempted to bounce off-target, its loud report filling the cavern. In only a couple of seconds, it had emptied its magazine, the coils beneath its shroud glowing red-hot. Some of the slugs had strayed wide, but the target downrange had been torn to shreds, a few burning strips of paper floating to the dirt floor.

“If a Borg surprises you in an alley, you can whip that thing out and turn him to pulled pork in about point-five seconds,” Reed declared as he gave the Rask a hard pat on the back.

“Hell of a thing, seeing you shoot that one-handed,” Rivera marveled.

“What does such a weapon have to do with typing?” Ruza added, giving Reed a confused look.

“Old Earth tradition – don’t worry about it,” Reed replied.

“Thank you for the gift,” Ruza continued. “In my culture, such weapons are forged by artisans, and they are passed down through the generations. To receive one is no small thing.”

“I dunno if I’d call this one artisanal,” Reed replied. “The welds and electrical tape sort of preclude that, but I’m glad you like it.”

“I shall wield it proudly in battle,” Ruza added.

“Right, we’d better go get our boys organized,” Reed said as he gave Rivera a pat on the shoulder. The Marine seemed far less amenable to the gesture than Ruza was, gritting his teeth in annoyance.

“We might not cross paths again until after the operation,” Rivera began. “We’ll each be handling a different garrison, so we’ll be spread pretty thin. Take care of yourself, alright? Don’t be a hero. If things turn sour, you turn tail and come home.”

“And to you,” Ruza replied with a curt nod. “My people would traditionally feast and celebrate before such a great battle,” he continued as he turned his yellow eyes to the crowds of fighters who were gearing up in the armory. “I still remember the scents of roasting meat and the taste of the wine that we enjoyed in our Crawler prior to the battle of the Dune Sea. The drink was made all the more enjoyable having been claimed as spoils from our enemy’s caravans. There was such revelry,” he continued with a wistful sigh. “Even knowing what came after, I almost miss it. It was intended to fill the hearts of our troops with fervor and perhaps to ease their minds before sending them to their deaths.”

“Reassuring,” Reed muttered.

“The Rask have no prayers or rituals that would be fitting for this operation,” Ruza mused. “We fight not for treasure or honor this day, but for freedom, and that is why I believe fate will look kindly upon us. Perhaps soon, I may feel the desire to feast once more in celebration of our victory.”

“The Corps isn’t really into prayers and rituals, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Rivera replied. “Fortune favors the brave, as they say.”

“Hey, I’ll never turn down a free meal,” Reed added. “Look out for yourself, Doc.”

The two men left him, heading off into the crowd, but they were soon replaced by Nick. Ruza saw the human pushing his way over to the range, already laden with a carrier that was heavy with magazines, an XMR hanging over his shoulder on a strap.

“Ruza,” he began, greeting the Rask with a smile. “I hoped I’d run into you before you headed out.”

“Nick,” Ruza replied, returning his greeting in kind. “I trust that you are well?”

“Doing better,” he said with a nod. “Jarek is recovering in the infirmary. He wanted me to give you his regards after what you did for him.”

“I am glad to hear that he is doing well,” Ruza said. “It is fortunate, after suffering such loss of blood.”

“Tell me about it,” Nick chuckled dryly. “Most of it ended up on me.”

“You will be participating in the operation?”

“Nah, not really,” he began with a gesture to his rig. “I decided to stay home on this one – I know my limits a little better after that last mission. Rivera assigned me to the home guard. We’ll be staying behind to protect the base while you guys are out saving the colony.”

“A crucial task,” Ruza said with a respectful bow of his head. “You must protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

“It’s probably going to be pretty quiet with everyone out fighting in the city, but we’ll hold down the fort until you get back. Anyway, I just wanted to head you off and wish you luck.”

“Take care of Amy, Bill, and Ricky in my stead,” Ruza added as he reached down to place a large hand on the human’s shoulder. “I trust that you will protect them – as you did Jarek.”

“You got it, Doc,” he replied with a mock salute. “I have my gear, so I’d better get to my post before Rivera has to send someone to come find me.”

“I will see you when I return,” Ruza said as he watched his friend hurry away towards one of the tunnel openings.

He collected his own equipment, strapping his modified, oversized rig to his chest and filling it with magazines. His new sidearm used the same ammunition as his rifle, so while it might be a little unwieldy, they were interchangeable in a pinch. The new weapon was small enough that he could strap it to his thigh within easy reach. He still had no helmet, and he missed the comforting weight of his armor plating, but it wasn’t as if it would do him any good against human opponents. In a way, it was liberating to feel so light on his feet.

He greeted a few more faces that he recognized, then headed out of the armory, striding down one of the tunnels. As he passed a storage area, he heard someone call his name, turning to see a trio of people hurrying along after him. It was Amy, Bill, and Ricky.

“Ruza!” Amy called, jogging to a stop beside him. She threw her arms around his midriff, not seeing to care that his collection of polymer magazines were bumping against her face, giving him a tight hug. He returned it by placing a single massive hand on her back, the span of his clawed fingers enough to bridge her shoulders. “We wanted to see you off!”

“I have to admit – I’m happy to be staying inside while this all goes down,” Ricky grumbled as he watched the exchange. Even the usually surly human couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from lifting in a faint smile. “It’s going to be a war zone up there.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Bill added, as optimistic as ever. “Ruza hasn’t lost a fight yet.”

“Please take care of yourself,” Amy added, finally releasing her hold on him. “Don’t take any risks, and don’t get yourself captured! If I have to mount a daring rescue, you’re going to be too heavy for me to carry up all those stairs. I want you back here in one piece when this is all over.”

“We will be careful,” Ruza replied, giving her a reassuring pat on the head. “You need not fret.”

“Rumor is you’re attacking the garrisons,” Ricky said. “All of them, at the same time. Do we even have enough guys for something like that?”

“There is a plan, though Bergmann would not wish me to divulge too much outside of proper channels,” Ruza explained. “We mean to free more allies to help us in our struggle. Perhaps, if the occupiers show their true face to the people tonight, we might tip the tide of the war. If you are still in contact with any friends or family, tell them to remain home. The streets will be dangerous.”

“If the Borgs show their true colors, the Hadeans will send them packing,” Bill declared as he planted a fist in his palm – a human gesture of resolve. “They can’t fight the whole colony.”

“Maybe we can finally get out of these miserable mines,” Ricky sighed, glancing around at the rusted supports that braced the tunnel walls. “I’d give anything for a change of scenery.”

“You will be safe here,” Ruza said. “Stay close to Nick – he will protect you if anything should happen.”

“I’m glad he’s staying behind,” Amy admitted, glancing over her shoulder as though making sure he wasn’t in earshot. “His first mission was…rough. It took a toll on him, and I don’t think he’s really feeling like himself just yet. He told me that what you said to him really helped.”

“He suffered a terrible misfortune, but he is braver than he knows,” Ruza replied.

“That’s our Doc,” Amy said with a smile. “I don’t know what any of us would have done without you. Get back here in one piece – you got that?”

CHAPTER 17

DAY 37 – HADES – PETROVA

“Are you feeling alright, Val?” Fran asked as she walked along beside Petrova. “You seem…subdued today.”

“She’s probably just worried about the protest,” Sam replied, his homemade high-vis flag whipping in the wind as he waved it above his head. “Don’t worry, Val – it’ll be alright.”

They had to raise their voices over the sound of the crowd that surrounded them, the throngs of civilians clad in their leather shawls and jackets slowly making their way along the street, boxed in by the rows of pale prefabs. It was hard to tell anyone apart with the protective masks and rebreathers they wore, their eyes concealed beneath dark visors and goggles, their footsteps kicking up a haze of obscuring sand. Every one of them had some manner of high-vis clothing. Some sported their work vests, others sashes, and some wore the armbands favored by the insurgents. It was increasingly obvious that a non-negligible number of protesters were attending in open support of the enemy. Like her companions, many had made flags, while some had brought signs and banners decrying the recent rationing and martial law.

Petrova was surprised by how many Hadeans were attending. There must have been several thousand people who had formed a column together, filtering in from side streets until they merged into a solid mass, like some ancient army marching to war in formation. They had started on the outskirts of the city, accumulating more protesters as they went, filling one of the main roads that led towards the city center.

This was just one of many such columns. Tens of thousands of workers were slowly making their way inward, intending to coalesce at the main square in front of the city hall. It would be a truly enormous crowd, and even with the entire colony’s PDF deployed to control it, Petrova had her concerns. It had to be ten percent of the colony’s population, if not more.

As they walked along the dusty street, she lifted her head, watching surveillance drones hover above the column through her tinted visor like vultures floating on the wind. The protest had been scheduled for a day when there was a lull in the storms and the sky was temporarily clear. Hopefully, that might discourage the insurgents from making some kind of play. Either way, Barbosa hadn’t been coy about his plans to put an end to the colony’s disorder.

“I’m fine,” Petrova finally replied, evading Fran’s question. “I just didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Maybe you should have stayed home,” Carl added, adjusting his grip on the broom handle that supported his sign. “Don’t worry – I doubt that we’ll be spending all day out here. It’s too damned hot, for one.”

Petrova turned her gaze forward, seeing the sea of flags and signs stretching ahead of her, the tether rising up into the sky in the distance like a thin strand of black cable. As they made their way along, her trained eye began to pick out more PDF. They had set up blockades to section off some of the larger side roads, ensuring that everyone was being funneled in the same direction, redirecting the crowd. They had erected concrete barriers and had parked their APCs longways across the roads to cut them off, watching silently through their opaque visors, the rows of riot control troopers standing idle with their shields lowered.

After her prior experience with the PDF, she was wary of them now. It remained to be seen if Roach and Crow could maintain order in the ranks – or if they even cared to. With Hoff gone, they would be overseeing security at this event, and it was a terrible thing to be missing Hoff’s more delicate touch.

“You reckon they’ll have any snack trucks at the square?” Sam asked.

“Not with the rationing the way it is,” Fran scoffed. “Besides, we probably won’t even get to see the square today. There are so many people attending that the crowd is expected to spill out into the surrounding blocks.”

A group of people who knew her companions from the factory worked their way through the crowd to greet them, Petrova letting their conversation fade into the background noise. Petrova’s answer hadn’t been a complete lie – she was still wrestling with the news of Tom’s death, and she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. After burning herself out emotionally, she was left feeling hollow and exhausted, like she had run some kind of marathon. It was a kind of tired that transcended the physical. At least the worst of it was over, and she could take her mind off it now.

It was a long, hot march to the city center, the hypergiant star beating down on them between the scant areas of shade. Petrova always knew where she was, both the position and apparent size of the anchor giving her a very good idea of her location relative to it. More permanent structures joined it as they neared, rising up above the ocean of prefabs. There was the courthouse, the hospital, and the old corporate headquarters. The city hall was situated in front of the square – little more than a block of carbcrete with windows.

Below, the square was already packed with a seething mass of protesters, the obelisk at its center rising high above their heads. Petrova was so far away that she could barely read their signs, and the great monument was small enough that she could have covered it with her finger. There was a cordon set up in front of the building’s steps made up of the same concrete barriers and parked trucks she had seen on the way, a row of riot police three men deep keeping the civilians at a safe distance. There were plenty of sandbags too – a plentiful resource on Hades. Everything seemed peaceful for the moment, though she could spot a few sniper teams perched on the nearby rooftops – likely just a precaution.

The crowd she was a part of was already stopping, the protest overflowing deep into the surrounding streets as Fran had anticipated. She could make out a PDF cordon ahead of them preventing the group from joining with those inside the square, and managing the flow of the crowd. They were in position to form a kettle, too, which would stop the protesters from leaving if arrests were to be made. There was the roar of an engine, and she looked up again to see a dropship coasting overhead, flying low over the city. She noted that its tail gun was deployed. That rotary railgun was only intended to protect a Leadbeater’s crew during disembarkation, but it could be used for rudimentary CAS in a pinch.

She glanced at the tightly-packed people who surrounded her, scarcely able to see a handful of exposed faces. Common crowd control tactics would involve plainclothes officers hiding among the protesters, ready to record crimes or leap out and arrest perpetrators if necessary. For all she knew, there could be an agent to her left and an insurgent to her right – she had no way to tell.

“Aw, are we stopping here?” Sam complained as he stood on his toes to get a look over the throngs. “I was hoping we’d at least get to march through the square.”

“Looks like they ran out of space,” Fran mused. “It’s a good turnout – that’s for sure.”

“How’s the Governor gonna know that we’re mad if he can’t see us?” Sam asked.

“I think he’ll get the gist of it,” Carl chuckled.

“So, what do we do now?” Sam mused. “I’ve never been to a protest before.”

“This is the part where we stand around holding signs for a few hours,” Fran replied. “Maybe do a little chanting.”

“I wonder how the Navy is going to respond,” Carl added. “They seem to think there’s some military need to produce weapons, so if those workers go on strike, can they force them back on the line against their will? Is there a law about that?”

“Ideally, we won’t have to test that theory,” Fran replied. “I think that once they see how many people are out demonstrating, and how willing the unions are to strike, they’ll rethink their tactics.”

“Even if they’re being controlled by secret black ops groups?” Petrova asked dryly.

“Well, they can’t arrest the whole colony,” Fran replied with a shrug.

Petrova grumbled to herself, leaning around the man in front of her to get a look at what was happening. She couldn’t search for the damned Rask if she was confined to this spot for the whole duration of the protest. Perhaps she could find an excuse to slip away, but that would leave her friends vulnerable. No, not her friends. Val’s friends – friends of an imagined person. Still, the thought of something happening to them the way it had to Tom…

She couldn’t think about that right now, turning her attention instead to the crowd and the movements of the PDF.

***

A couple of hours had passed, and the sun had changed position, low enough now to create some shade from the prefabs. All in all, the protest seemed to have gone off rather well. Petrova and her companions hadn’t moved very far from their original position, with most of the civilians in attendance milling about in the street, forming little groups and occasionally waving flags and signs around. A few more people had been permitted through the cordon and into the square as the morning had gone on, but it seemed like things were winding down, with the less dedicated of the crowd slowly filtering away. There had been a lot of shouting through megaphones from the direction of the square – it seemed that some of the union higher-ups were giving speeches – but she had been too far away to hear much of it.

A kind woman had emerged from one of the prefabs to offer them water, and they were sitting in the shadow of her prefab now, drinking from the reusable bottles. Petrova took a sip, then replaced her rebreather, quickly fastening the cap before the dust found its way inside.

“Well, I feel like I’ve protested enough for one day,” Carl said as he stretched his arms above his head. “My civic duty has been fulfilled.”

“All you did was wave a vest around for two hours,” Fran chuckled from her seat on the metal steps beside him.

“Like I said – civic duty fulfilled.”

“Maybe we should stick around a little longer,” Petrova added hurriedly.

“I thought you didn’t even want to come?” Sam asked, his eyebrow cocked above his goggles.

“I forgot that a friend from work was supposed to be here somewhere,” she replied, rising to her feet and brushing off some of the dust that had settled on her. “If you guys want to head home, I might see if I can find them before it’s all over.”

Before they could ask more questions, they were interrupted by the far-off sound of a gunshot. Petrova was up and alert before her companions even had time to react, all of the high-spirited conversations from the nearby protesters falling eerily silent as the sound echoed across the colony. It was quickly joined by bursts of automatic fire – there was a gunfight happening somewhere. A distant blast rocked the city, the civilians who were packed into the street all ducking in tandem as it washed over them, more following almost like firecrackers going off in sequence. The noise was coming from all around now, bleeding in from every direction, as though the entire planet had suddenly erupted into war. Was this an insurgent attack, or was it part of the Commander’s plan?

“What the hell’s going on?” Carl demanded, covering his ears and flinching as another loud blast rocked them. Petrova could feel the pressure wave from this one – it was closer, her aural implants dulling the sound to protect her hearing. On the horizon, she could already see plumes of smoke starting to rise like dark pillars, the blasts kicking up columns of dust into the blue sky.

The shocked silence turned to panic, and the crowd started to move, their confusion and fear immediately infectious. Fearing a stampede, Petrova gripped Sam and Carl by the wrists, pulling them into an alley between the nearest prefabs as Fran followed behind her. Petrova put her back to the hard metal, looking out into the street, watching groups of frightened people rush past. Where were they even going? Chaos was erupting all around them.

Petrova pulled out her phone, intending to contact the carrier, but the display showed a no connection symbol. Realizing what she was doing, Fran pulled out her phone too, her brow furrowing when she looked at the display.

“Do any of you have a signal?” Fran asked, prompting Sam and Carl to do the same.

“Satellite and intranet are both down,” Carl replied with a look of confusion that was apparent even beneath his mask. “I can’t get a connection to anything.”

There was nothing confusing about it to Petrova – civilian comms were likely being jammed to prevent the insurgents from coordinating. They had probably shut down the wireless broadcast towers and were using the EWAR Courser to saturate the satellites. Only military-grade comms would be up and running, which she didn’t have access to. There was nothing special about the phone she was using.

“Is this the resistance or the Navy?” Sam demanded, glancing at his friends with wide eyes as he rubbed his wrist.

“Doesn’t matter,” Fran replied sternly. “We have to get off the streets – we have to find somewhere safe. Val? Val, are you alright?”

Petrova was frozen with indecision, torn between her two duties. Her mission was to find and kill the Rask, and he would certainly be participating if this was indeed the opening salvo of an insurgent operation. On the other hand, the city was erupting into full-blown war, and her friends were stuck in the middle of it. Val’s friends – whatever. They were civilians, and her duty was to protect them. Maybe she could get them to safety before departing in search of her target.

“Val, just breathe,” Fran said as she placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She was mistaking Petrova’s indecision for shock. “We’ll head back the way we came – it’ll be alright.”

“No,” Petrova replied, coming to a decision. “We’ll take the back roads. I remember where the PDF checkpoints were, and we need to avoid them.”

“Huh?” Sam asked, giving her a bewildered look.

“Stay close to me and do exactly as I say,” she added. “We need to get as far away from the square as we can.”

Another explosion shook the prefabs on their outriggers, all three of Petrova’s wards ducking reflexively once more. Petrova lifted her eyes to the sky as a dropship did an alarmingly low pass above the rooftops, its thrusters flaring to hold it aloft as it banked around, coming to a hover. The gun beneath its tail spun up, spraying a stream of slugs at something on the ground that was out of view from her perspective.

“Do as she says!” Fran added, looking at Petrova with something that might be concern or distrust.

There was more shouting coming from the direction of the square now – joined by screams, the sound of nearby gunshots reverberating through her bones. It was impossible to tell who was shooting at who, but Fran was right – it didn’t matter now. They were caught in the crossfire.

“This way!” Petrova ordered, leading her friends down the alley. She headed East, using the tether to track her position, weaving between the prefabs. Unlike many urban zones that Petrova had fought in before, this one was like a vast, interconnected maze. There were few dead ends thanks to the disconnected structures, and every corner was a blind one.

The exchange of gunfire and the shudder of explosions were constant now, the horizon filled with plumes of smoke from fires, squadrons of drones and dropships whizzing past overhead. As they neared a corner, Petrova extended an arm to halt her friends, dropping to a knee. She peered beneath the raised outriggers of the structure, the gap large enough that she could see boots kicking up dust on the other side of the building. Putting her back to the wall, she waited for them to hurry past, lowering her raised fists when she saw that it was simply another group of panicked protesters on the run.

“Val, what’s with you?” Fran demanded.

“Just stay close and do as I do,” Petrova hissed. She waited until the group had passed, then sprinted out into the wider street beyond, her head on a swivel. She waved her friends across, and they hurried for the safety of an adjacent alley.

Petrova paused before following them, glancing down the dusty road to see the group of two dozen fleeing protesters skid to a halt, some of them still clutching their homemade flags. A line of PDF riot control had cut off the street, and they were advancing, their transparent shields raised. There was a flash, followed by a billowing cloud of white tear gas, the wind blowing it across the road to form an obscuring haze. The troopers advanced through it, swiping at the civilians with their batons, continuing to rain down blows even as they fell to the ground.

“Damn it!” Petrova hissed as one of the troopers lifted a dark visor, gesturing to her with his weapon. She rushed into the alley after her friends, waving them on.

“Why are they just beating people?” Sam demanded, breathing hard as he jogged ahead of her. “Those guys weren’t even doing anything!”

“Wait!” Petrova warned, her friends stopping as she gestured.

There were more boots heading their way, about to round the corner. She couldn’t turn back without running into the pursuing PDF. As another group of people rounded the prefab, she braced for a fight, but eased up when she saw that they were clad in the usual Hadean leathers and masks. Something was wrong, however. These people weren’t moving like civilians. They kept low, ten or eleven of them moving with purpose, each of them sporting a yellow armband on their bicep.

Petrova moved out of their path and pressed herself flush against the wall, one of the men briefly glancing at her as he passed within an arm’s breadth.

“Contacts ahead,” one of them muttered, his voice muffled by a rebreather. “Go loud.”

They ignored her, reaching beneath their long coats, Petrova bristling as she saw the glint of copper. They were packing bullpup PDWs of the same kind the factories had been tasked with producing, unfolding the stocks and slamming magazines into place from hidden pockets, moving in single-file along the side of the adjacent prefab. They proceeded past her and her friends – too concerned with the enemy to pay random civilians much mind.

“Move!” Petrova whispered, ushering her friends along as she kept her eyes on the insurgents. They were stacking up by the corner now – obviously trained for urban warfare. Were they Marines from the carrier or simply miners who had been given a crash course in CQB?

The second insurgent patted the lead man’s shoulder, and they raised their weapons, moving out into the street. There was the sound of hypersonic cracks as some of them lay down covering fire, yells of alarm echoing from further away, mingling with shouted orders from the gunmen. Were they engaging the PDF? Her enemy was in sight, but she couldn’t take all of them, and her friends would be in the line of fire. All that mattered right now was getting them to safety.

She followed her three companions around the bend, taking cover for a moment and giving them time to catch their breath.

“What the hell was that?” Sam asked. “Who were those guys?”

“Resistance,” Fran replied, leaning on the prefab wall as she collected herself. “They were probably hiding among the protesters this entire time.”

“Are they protecting us or just fighting the Navy?” Carl asked.

“We have to keep moving,” Petrova grunted, placing a hand on his back and giving him a gentle shove of encouragement.

They wound their way through more back alleys, avoiding the streets where they could, the sounds of combat inundating them the whole while. The fighting was much closer now, and the distant gunfights had only intensified. It was as if the entire colony was being attacked at the same time. The previously azure sky was now streaked with black, the wind blowing the smoke across the colony, starting to tint the sun an ominous orange.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” Carl asked as they weaved through more dusty alleys.

“If we get separated, keep the tether to your back,” Petrova replied. “We’re heading East.”

“What’s going on, Val?” Fran demanded as she hurried a little to get into whispering distance. “You don’t seem all that surprised by any of this.”

Petrova raised a fist to stop them as they neared another road that had to be crossed, ignoring Fran’s question, the sound of gunfire and shouting alerting her. As she leaned around the prefab, she saw a group of PDF moving down the street, heading towards their hiding spot. She counted seven men – six of them wielding XMRs, while the seventh was carrying a grenade launcher and a bandoleer of shells. They were hurrying along the road at a brisk jog, their helmeted heads on a swivel as they hunted for more targets.

As they came upon an alley on the far side of the street a short distance ahead, the nearest trooper paused and began to gesture, shouldering his weapon. Petrova caught more frightened yelling, but it was drowned out by the report of gunfire, her friends flinching and covering their ears. Two more of the troopers appeared to join in, advancing closer and firing their rifles into the gap between the prefabs. Petrova couldn’t see the targets from this angle – they could be armed insurgents or just random civilians who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The troopers continued on, heading her way. Her choice now was to double back and find a way around, potentially running into the insurgents they had just escaped, or risk declaring herself. There was nothing for it – the situation was out of control. Her safest option was to announce her presence to the troopers. If she could keep her friends out of earshot, she might be able to reveal her identity and pull rank. The PDF could escort her friends home safely, and they should have some means of contacting their superiors so she could figure out what the hell was going on.

“Stay here,” she said, her three friends looking on with wide eyes as she edged closer to the corner.

“Wait, Val!” Fran protested in a low and frightened voice. “You don’t know what they might do!”

Petrova shuffled a few more feet, then stripped off her cloak, extending an arm and waving the leather garment like a flag.

“I have unarmed civilians with me!” Petrova yelled, pulling off her mask so that they could hear her more clearly. “Stand down!”

As she leaned out to get a look, she caught a brief glimpse of the men gesturing and aiming their weapons before a loud crack rang out. She lurched back into cover, withdrawing her cloak to see that there was a charred hole in it. No choice – she had to blow her cover.

“I am a Lieutenant Commander!” she yelled, tossing the garment to the ground as her heart began to race faster. “Stand down, or-”

Another trio of shots rang out, forcing her to duck away as they tore through the side of the prefab, showering her with molten sparks. Could they even hear her over the sound of battle and the howling wind? Fine – she would do things the hard way.

“Lieutenant Commander?” Fran demanded. “What are you-”

“Get under the prefab and stay low,” Petrova ordered, cutting Fran off. She rolled up the sleeves of her jacket and began to strip off her silicone covers, gently peeling them away to expose the black polymer beneath. If she was going to salvage this situation, it wouldn’t do to damage them.

Her friends looked on in horror as she passed the floppy, skin-like sleeves to Fran, who held them gingerly as though they were made of real flesh.

“What the hell, Val?” Carl whispered as he watched her flex her prosthetic fingers. “You’re one of them?”

“Better do as she says,” Sam muttered, lowering himself to the ground and sliding into the gap beneath the prefab. It was large enough to fit a person who was lying prone – the outriggers rising about a foot off the ground. The structure’s metal walls wouldn’t provide any protection from an XMR.

Carl followed, Fran pausing for a moment, maintaining eye contact with Petrova. Her expression was hard to judge. There was confusion, suspicion, and maybe a little hurt, but she elected to follow suit. They didn’t have much choice but to trust her now.

With her friends under cover, Petrova turned her attention back to the approaching troopers, taking off her tinted visor. She didn’t need to peek around the corner this time – her cochlear implants could pick up the sand crunching beneath their boots and the rattle of their equipment as they approached, filtering out the other sounds.

Three men – closing fast, probably ready to fire around the corner as soon as she was in sight. A better-trained team would be shooting through cover and laying down suppressive fire, so these weren’t exactly commandos. Petrova hadn’t come here to kill PDF, but they were out of control, and she had a duty both to protect the civilians and to ensure the success of her mission. Perhaps if they saw her prosthetics…

She exhaled, willing her racing heart to slow, clenching her polymer fists as the footsteps drew nearer. The barrel of the pointman’s rifle rounded the corner, and before he had even stepped into full view, she was moving. Petrova slipped her left hand beneath his trigger arm, gripping his shoulder hard enough that she felt her fingertips sink into flesh through his uniform. She lifted her arm, their entangled position giving her enough leverage to raise the barrel of the weapon away from her, the motion inverting his elbow. There was a sickening crunch of breaking bones and tearing sinew, a muffled scream of pain and alarm filtering through the trooper’s helmet, his now useless hand dropping the rifle.

In only a heartbeat, she followed through, stepping in and spinning the injured man around. One prosthetic arm wrapped around his neck and pulled him close, choking out his wailing, her right hand moving to the holster on his belt.

As his two companions came into view, Petrova drew his sidearm, firing twice before she had even finished raising it. One of the men fell back, spiderweb-like cracks spreading across his ceramic chest piece, while the second slumped to the ground with a hole in his visor. Petrova dropped the XMH and took her captive’s helmet in both hands, twisting it almost a hundred degrees, feeling the tactile sensation of the vertebrae separating.

Three down – eight left.

She let the body fall and dropped with it, spreading her legs like a gymnast to bring herself low to the ground. She snatched the nearest rifle by its strap, then rolled away, sparks and little flecks of molten metal showering her as the remaining troopers fired on the position. Petrova caught a brief glimpse of her prone friends looking on in terror as she darted back to her feet, heading into the alley behind the prefab at a flat sprint as the slugs chased her.

Behind the building now, she leapt, kicking off the wall of the adjacent prefab with a hollow thud. Her prosthetic legs carried her up and onto the roof of the building, Petrova already leveling her captured rifle at the street below. Her remaining targets hadn’t even had time to figure out that she’d changed position so drastically – they were still focused on the alley where their fallen comrades lay.

She pulled the stock tight against her shoulder and squeezed off two shots, the weapon able to fire as rapidly as her robotic finger could pull the trigger, one of her assailants dropping as the slugs punched through his body. With a finesse earned through thousands of hours of combat drills, she swung the rifle to her next target, putting two rounds through his helmet before he even had time to look in her direction.

Aware of her perch now, the remaining six troopers coordinated their fire, a hail of slugs chewing through the metal walls and turning the round satellite dish near her position to Swiss cheese. Petrova was already rolling away, letting herself fall back into the alley, her cat-like reflexes allowing her to land gracefully on her feet. There would be no sprains or rolled ankles – her joints were made from sturdier stuff.

She ducked low again as the gunfire continued, the troopers firing on her last known position, their slugs cutting through the metal walls of the prefab like a hot needle piercing butter. When it ceased, she knew that they were moving again, the lull letting her hear their muffled shouts and commands. Getting a little lower gave her a view beneath the building. Her friends were still safe off to her right, their hands covering their heads, while three pairs of boots were moving to her left. They were intending to catch her in the alley. What she wouldn’t have done to have her damned PCE right now…

As she moved along the building to intercept them, there was the unmistakable thud of a grenade launcher, her keen eyes tracking a shell as it bounced off the adjacent wall. She braced for an explosion, but it settled onto the dusty ground, starting to spew a mist of white smoke. It was teargas, Petrova sucking in a breath and replacing her mask as it began to fill the alley. It might go some way towards protecting her lungs, but not her eyes, and her visor wasn’t airtight. She had to get this done quickly.

Eyes already starting to sting and water, she saw shadows moving through the smoke, their sealed helmets protecting them from its debilitating effects. She aimed and squeezed, hearing only the dreaded click of death, her blood running cold. The magazine was empty. Her bleary eyes darted around for anything that she could use, spotting a bulky air conditioning unit that jutted from the prefab to her right.

The troopers cleared the obscuring smoke to see her digging her fingers into the metal housing, Petrova letting out a bestial roar as she strained her prosthetics, tearing the torso-sized unit from its mount. With loose screws and spilled refrigerant falling about her feet, she raised it over her shoulder and tossed it like a shot putter, sending the bulky appliance sailing through the air. It hit the lead man, and he crumpled beneath its weight, sending him crashing into his two friends and toppling the trio like bowling pins.

She was already on them, dropping low into a sprint, her wide eyes streaming with stinging tears. As one of the men struggled to his feet and aimed his XMR at her, she put all of her momentum into a high kick, bending the barrel and knocking the weapon clear. There was the sound of metal sliding against metal, the six-inch blade that was hidden in her right arm springing free of her wrist, its sharp point sinking into her opponent’s neck. It severed the carotid artery, and she felt its edge grind against bone, the next beat of his heart bringing with it a gush of crimson.

The trooper who had been standing beside him was still lying on the ground, but he’d had time enough to aim his XMR at Petrova. She danced into the mist as he fired, his weapon jumping in his hands, the spray of slugs punching holes in the smoke where she had been standing only a moment prior. The shots went wide, and as he swung the weapon towards her silhouette, she extended her left hand as though gesturing for him to stop. There was a sound no louder than a snapping pencil, the concealed railgun in her arm firing off its single slug, the handgun-sized round shooting from her palm and piercing his visor with a crack of shattered glass. He slumped back to the ground, lying still, his arms slowly going limp.

“Whoa, whoa!” the remaining trooper exclaimed as he managed to push the damaged air conditioner off him. He raised his arms as best he could as he lay in the dust, shaking his helmeted head rapidly. “I give up! I give up! What the…are you SWAR!?”

“Tell your team to stand down!” she barked, trying and failing to blink away her tears as the gas did its work. The pain was incredible, and she could barely see him. “I am Lieutenant Commander Petrova – Special Weapons and Advanced Recon. You are interfering with an undercover operation!”

“How the hell were we supposed to know that!?” he demanded.

“Why the hell were you clowns shooting at civilians!?” she shot back.

“Stand down, guys!” he pleaded over the radio. “Fuck, she’s SWAR!”

Still wary and flooded with adrenaline, Petrova snatched up another rifle, readying it as she leaned around the corner. Even with the smoke thinning, she could scarcely see a thing, grimacing behind her mask as her eyes burned. If they chose to push her now…

“We’re standing down!” she heard, the frightened voice carrying through helmet speakers from across the street. “Don’t shoot!”

“Throw down your weapons and lie in the road!” Petrova commanded. “Hey – tell them,” she added as she gave the nearby trooper a swift kick. They might not even be able to hear her over the din of battle.

“Chill, chill!” he grunted – winded by the blow. “They’re doing it!”

“Give me your helmet,” she added.

“Huh?”

“Helmet!” she snapped, extending her hand.

The trooper hastily unfastened it and handed it to her, Petrova leaning down to grip it by its strap. Almost immediately, he began to cough and sputter – the remnants of the teargas still lingering in the alley. Petrova retreated back the way she had come, keeping a hand on the wall to guide her, returning to where her friends had taken cover.

“Come on – we need to leave now,” Petrova hissed. Fran, Carl, and Sam crawled out from beneath the prefab, brushing themselves off. They looked terrified. Sam was shaking, Carl was staring at her like he’d seen a ghost, and Fran flinched away when Petrova handed her the helmet.

She began to speak, but Petrova cut her off.

“You have to take point,” she said, blinking her eyes. “I can barely see.”

“Come on,” Fran said, exhaling a strained sigh. Hesitating for a moment as though afraid to touch the prosthetic, she took Petrova by the wrist, tucking the helmet beneath her free arm as she stepped out into the street. Petrova kept her rifle trained on where she assumed the PDF troopers to be, seeing the three remaining men lying on their bellies in the sand as she passed close by, their helmeted heads turning to track her.

“We’re so fucked,” she heard one of them whisper.

They hurried away, Petrova letting Fran guide her along the street, Sam and Carl following behind them.

“Val, what was that?” Fran asked breathlessly once they were clear of the troopers and safely nestled in another alley. Even if they were out of the line of fire for now, the sound of war was constant, never affording them a moment of quiet.

“Your arms,” Carl added with a scowl. “You were with the Navy this whole time?”

“She’s an undercover agent,” Sam added, crossing his arms as he shivered. “So, what happens now? Do you have to kill us or something?”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Carl muttered, pausing for a moment. “Would you?”

“I’m not going to kill you,” she muttered, taking the silicone sleeves that Fran was offering her and stowing them in one of her pockets.

That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. They were aware of her true identity now, and the protocol for an undercover agent whose cover had been compromised was clearly outlined. Withdraw and reestablish if her identity was widely known, or secure and contain if only a handful of people were clued in. This constituted a handful of people, and for now, the information was contained to them. Protocol didn’t require her to kill them – she wasn’t a character in a spy movie. What protocol did require was for her to report her three friends to Song and have them secured before they could spread the information. They would be picked up by the PDF and sealed away in the depths of a garrison somewhere, kept under lock and key until it was safe to release them – if such a time ever came. They already knew too much, so what was the harm in telling them a little more if it would get them to cooperate?

“I’m a member of SWAR – a special operations branch of the Navy,” she explained. “My assignment is to track down and assassinate a prominent leader of the insurgency. He’s a very dangerous man, and he’s killed a lot of good people.”

“You’re not an electrician, then?” Sam asked, not really processing what she was saying in his stressed state.

“There is no Valentina,” Fran grumbled. “She was a fictional person – invented to fool us. Meeting us in the bar, pretending to be our friend…it was all part of the act.”

“I wasn’t pretending to be your friend,” Petrova replied, feeling an unfamiliar pang of hurt.

“Do you know what’s happening?” Carl pressed, sounding just as angry as Fran. “Did your Navy buddies do this?”

“No, I don’t know why the whole colony is going to hell,” Petrova replied as she tried to rub her stinging eyes. “I was told that the insurgents might use the protests as cover to launch an operation – that’s why I tried to convince you all to stay home.”

“You came because you expected something to happen,” Carl mused. “That was why you changed your tune so quickly.”

“I was just forced to neutralize a whole squad of PDF, so that should be a good metric for how confused I am right now,” she muttered.

“Neutralize is a funny way of putting it,” Fran said with a sneer.

Petrova withdrew her hand to see that it was still soaked with arterial blood from the trooper she had skewered. There were splatters of dried blood speckling her face, too. Just like her tears the night before, she couldn’t wipe it off with her smooth polymer coating.

“She did save our lives,” Sam conceded, flinching at a burst of distant gunfire. “If she hadn’t been with us when those PDF goons showed up…”

“The Navy is the reason we were in danger in the first place!” Fran exclaimed. Now it was Petrova’s turn to flinch away – she had never heard Fran raise her voice like that before. “Why are the PDF attacking protesters, Val? Why are they beating and shooting Hadeans?”

“I don’t know – I’m not in charge of the security forces,” Petrova explained. “We encountered insurgents on the way here. They might have mistaken us for resistance fighters.”

“Bullshit,” Fran spat, crossing her arms in a gesture of defiance. “We saw them beating people who were unarmed and just trying to get to safety.”

“This is a war zone now,” Petrova added, glaring up at the scowling woman. “We’re caught in the middle of it, and we can’t rely on restraint from either side. I have to get you all home, where you can hunker down and wait for all of this to end.”

“Why should we trust you?” Carl asked as he gestured to her with a dismissive wave. “You’ve been lying to us this whole time. Tell us what’s really going on. Did your people take control of the government? Are the resistance right about you?”

“She wouldn’t tell us if she knew,” Fran said.

“All that matters is that I’m trying to protect you right now,” Petrova shot back, growing frustrated. “God damn it,” she hissed, trying to rub her eyes again. “How fucking long does it take for this tear gas to wear off?” It was enough to make her envious of Barbosa with his synthetic eyes and artificial lungs. “Hand me the helmet,” she added, holding out a hand.

“What are you going to do with it?” Fran asked suspiciously.

“I’m going to figure out what the hell is going on and try to get us some help.”

“If by help, you mean the PDF, we don’t want that kind of help.”

“Just give me the damned helmet,” Petrova grumbled.

She felt Fran place it in her hand, and she brought it into her lap, starting to fiddle with the touch-sensitive panel that was situated on the temple. It was an old surplus model of helmet once used by the Marine Corps, but as outdated as it was, it should still have access to encrypted military channels. Barbosa wouldn’t be jamming his own frequencies. She slotted it over her head, trying to ignore the stink of its previous owner’s sweat as she activated the microphone.

“Put me through to the carrier,” she ordered.

“Who the hell is this?” a distorted voice on the other end asked. “FoF tag says Private Kalinsky – Garrison Nine. What are you doing on this channel, Private?”

“My name is Lieutenant Commander Petrova, Special Weapons and Advanced Recon. Put me through to the carrier, or you won’t have to wonder how I came into possession of Kalinsky’s helmet.”

The man on the other end hesitated, and after a few moments, she heard Commander Barbosa’s voice.

“Petrova?” he asked. “What’s going on? Why are you using PDF channels?”

“Commander,” she began with a sigh of relief. “I had to use a PDF helmet – I had no other means to reach you with all the jamming. What’s the sitrep? The whole colony is in chaos. I was caught in the protests, and I’ve had to fight my way out. The PDF have gone rogue – they’re attacking noncombatants, and there are insurgents operating openly in the streets. Everything is FUBAR down here.”

“Are you alright?” Barbosa demanded. “You don’t sound too good.”

“Tear gas,” she explained. “I’m still mobile – no injuries.”

“I did warn you that the insurgents would probably try something, but I’d hoped you wouldn’t get caught in the middle of it,” he sighed. “The enemy has launched a massive attack on all fronts. The PDF have orders to shoot insurgents on sight and restore control of critical locations. I have reports of enemy forces attempting to breach the defenses of every garrison.”

“Simultaneously?” Petrova asked. “Commander, they shouldn’t have the numbers for an operation of that scale.”

“Clearly, someone miscalculated,” he grumbled. “Where are you? Are you able to withdraw safely?”

“I’m somewhere East of the anchor,” she replied. “Commander, I have a group of civilians with me, and they require immediate extraction from the combat zone. I require an APC or a dropship to be diverted to my coordinates for pickup – expect a hot LZ. Repeat – the LZ is not secure.”

“Negative, Petrova,” Barbosa replied.

“Negative?” she repeated in disbelief. “Commander?”

“The PDF are attempting to restore order and put down this insurrection, and our dropships have been tasked to the counter-offensive. We’re stretched thin, and we can’t spare any birds. You’re going to have to find your own means of exfil.”

“Commander, I have civilians with me,” she reiterated. “Surely there’s a nearby team that can be diverted to get them out?”

“The civilians are not mission-critical,” he replied. “Your mission is to track down the Rask, not to extract noncombatants.”

“But, Commander-”

“I know that you care deeply about the people,” Barbosa continued, his tone becoming softer for a moment. “That’s one of the reasons I chose you to be my successor. But we are in a combat situation, and there is more at stake here than the safety of a handful of Hadeans. If you’re still combat-effective, I’m not diverting critical resources to extract random civilians. You’ve been in much worse situations, Petrova. Leave them behind and find a way out – that’s an order. Keep heading East and steer well clear of the garrisons. That’s where the bulk of the fighting is happening.”

He cut the feed, and Petrova stared at the helmet’s HUD for a few moments in silent incredulity. When she slid it off, she found her companions peering down at her.

“I only heard one side of that conversation, but it sounds to me like your boss isn’t sending any help,” Fran scoffed. “Nice operation you have going here.”

“I don’t understand,” she muttered, shaking her head. “He’s never…”

“What are we supposed to do now?” Sam demanded.

“The effects of the tear gas are starting to wear off,” Petrova began as she climbed to her feet, using the wall of the prefab behind her to steady herself. Her companions kept staring at her arms, and she felt an impulse to cover them, rolling the sleeves of her jacket back down again. She slotted on the helmet, then paired it to her captured rifle, seeing the ammo count appear on its HUD. Only half a mag left. “I’ll be good to go again soon. I’ll get you out.”

She was violating a direct order from Barbosa – she knew that all too well, but he would have no way of knowing how and when she extracted from the area. It went against all of her training, but she couldn’t just leave Fran, Carl, and Sam to be the victims of the next power-mad PDF patrol they came across. She was still wrestling with the realization that Barbosa would…

“We’re not going anywhere with you, Petrova,” Fran replied. “That’s your real name, isn’t it?”

“Fran, what choice do we have?” Carl demanded as he spread his arms in exasperation. “Would you rather stay here and wait for someone worse to find us?”

“We should do what Val says,” Sam added, glancing between his two friends warily. “Petrova – whatever. I just want to get home, Fran.”

“Please, Fran,” Petrova added as she readied her rifle. “Let me get you home, and after that, you can do whatever you want. If you never want to see me again, fair enough.”

“Fine,” Fran conceded. “But I don’t want you in my home.”

Petrova hid her sorrowful expression behind her opaque visor, leading her charges further down the alley.

DAY 37 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“Pipe it to my PCE,” Barbosa ordered, the deck reverberating beneath its heavy footfalls as he marched the suit onto the observation deck. “Full-spectrum, all data feeds, helmet cams, carrier optics – give me everything you have. I’m taking direct command of this operation.”

“Hooking you in now,” Song replied over the radio.

The displays inside the PCE’s sealed canopy shifted from the view of the room beyond, showing live feeds of the battle that was taking place on the ground. In an instant, he had a full map of the colony, complete with the placement of every individual SWAR and PDF asset that was networked. The ebb and flow of battle was immediately apparent to him, the troops concentrating in clusters where the resistance was fiercest, its raging tides crashing over the city. The PCE responded almost before the thought had even entered his head, switching to aerial views from the surveillance drones, revealing winding streets between the prefabs where firefights were taking place.

“Crow – report,” Barbosa ordered.

“Roach and I are en route, Commander,” the Lieutenant Commander’s voice replied. “ETA ten minutes. We’re coming in low and fast, and we’ll have strike teams on the ground shortly.”

“Focus your full attention on the counter-attack,” Barbosa replied. “Leave the defense of the colony to me. Stay with Roach and watch each other’s backs in there.”

“Roger that, Commander. These rats will have nowhere left to run.”

“It’s just like a game of Carrier Command,” Barbosa muttered to himself, his eyes darting between the many windows that filled his field of view.

The city had been split up into grid squares, overlaid with a glowing wireframe in the shape of a complex pizza that radiated out from the tether. It was more efficient than the haphazard blocks on the official maps. He could see the troop concentrations in each zone, along with the estimated strength of opposing forces in that area, the surveillance drones and helmet cams feeding information back to the carrier in real-time.

The city center – where the tether, government buildings, and other critical objectives were located – had been completely secured. The PDF, under the direction of a handful of SWAR teams, had arrested many of the protesters inside the square and forced the rest deeper into the city. The surrounding streets had been secured with APCs and walls of sandbags. Most of the fighting seemed to be concentrated around the garrisons that were scattered throughout the colony, but Garrison One was untouched, serving as the HQ for his forces on the ground. Mobile groups of protesters and insurgents were fighting the security forces in the streets, localized in no particular area, stretching resources thin.

Barbosa had to admit – it was an impressive play by the insurgency. He had expected them to use the protest as cover for an operation, but not of this scale, and embedding fighters within the protests made threat evaluation a nightmare. A group that was throwing rocks or refusing to disperse could transform into a squad of armed Marines in an instant. No matter – he had never intended to make much of a distinction. This disorder was exactly the excuse he had been hoping for to bring down his hammer.

He searched for his strike teams – air mobile SWAR teams deployed by dropship who had been tasked with rapid response during the operation. It didn’t take long for the carrier’s systems to pull them up, and he saw little graphics appear on his map, showing the craft as they circled above the city.

“This is Commander Barbosa, calling all strike team leaders,” he began. “Report your readiness.”

“Golf, ready.”

“Whiskey, reporting in.”

“Sierra is locked and loaded, Commander.”

“Oscar, ready.”

“India, ready to go.”

“This is Kilo reporting.”

“Uniform, awaiting orders.”

“Romeo, itching for a fight, Boss.”

“Sending you grid coordinates now,” Barbosa began with a smile. “These are zones of high insurgent activity, so expect a hot drop. Order your pilots to stick close and provide CAS, then coordinate with local PDF on-site. You are weapons-free. Use whatever force you deem necessary to contain the threat. We have reports of active Marine units in the mix, so keep your wits about you.”

He watched as the icons representing the dropships began to disperse, heading for their targets. Switching channels, he put a call through to the garrison command network – the officers responsible for PDF deployments.

“This is Commander Barbosa. I am taking direct command of planetary defense forces,” he began. “Eighteen – redeploy your riot control team to the following grid coordinates. Six – that street has been cleared. Proceed to the next grid. Nine – move your counter-sniper teams to the anchor and assist SWAR agents in the loading area. Thirteen and Fourteen – move your APCs to the following grid square and push the protesters away from the substation. I want that site secure. Three, you have a large force of insurgents heading West into your present grid square. Dispatch counter-terror and special weapons teams to intercept. I’m tasking a dropship for air support. Stand by.”

“The EWAR Courser is jamming all civilian frequencies, and I’ve disabled the colony’s intranet servers,” Song said over the radio. “Despite that, I’m still seeing a large level of coordination within the enemy forces, Commander.”

“We cycled the PDF channels,” Barbosa mused. “They shouldn’t be able to communicate with any surplus helmets or comms equipment. Any guesses?”

“I’d have to say some kind of hard-line,” Song replied. “If they’re running physical cables, we won’t be able to jam them.”

“No matter,” Barbosa said, his eyes tracking one of the drone camera views. “No amount of coordination is going to help them now.”

He watched a dropship land, its tail gun firing over the heads of the operatives as they piled out, already bracing and firing their weapons. They were engaging a group of armed insurgents who had hunkered down in a vacated PDF checkpoint, the enemy taking cover behind walls of sandbags and concrete barriers, a gutted APC belching dark smoke as its fuel cells burned behind them.

Barbosa switched his view to the carrier’s telescopes, zooming in on one of the garrisons. The perimeter wall had been breached by explosives – probably mining charges – and its defenders were fighting against teams of insurgents who had made it inside the courtyard. Just like during their attack on Seventeen, their objective was likely to free more prisoners and further bolster their numbers. His estimates of the insurgency’s size hadn’t accounted for this much manpower…

“Song,” Barbosa began. “I need a real-time analysis of enemy troop concentrations at the garrisons. I know that you can’t guarantee perfect accuracy, but work with what data you have and give me an idea of where they’re focusing their efforts.”

“Running now, Commander,” he replied. “The largest concentrations appear to be around four of the garrisons.”

Barbosa examined the overlay of red dots that represented the last reported locations of enemy combatants, the imbalance becoming more obvious to him the longer he looked. The bulk of the insurgents were attacking those four specific locations, while the assaults on the other garrisons seemed halfhearted in comparison – almost doomed to failure. Some were already starting to withdraw. Either there were far more combatants than were being reported, or his estimations of the enemy’s numbers hadn’t been all that far off after all.

“They were never attacking all of the garrisons,” he muttered to himself, his brow furrowing above his prosthetic eyes. “They just wanted us to think they were so that we’d try to defend them all. This is a feint. Clever little roaches. Song,” he added. “Is there anything special about those four garrisons – anything that sets them apart from the rest?”

“One moment,” Song replied, getting back to him shortly with an answer. “Nothing unusual, save that they have large concentrations of inmates transferred from the carrier.”

“They’re going after the Marines,” Barbosa mused, another smile spreading across his lips. “I should have anticipated that they’d try to free the most experienced fighters first. Someone on the inside must have been feeding them information about the prisoners. I wonder how they’re expecting to free them after we implemented those new security measures?”

“I can run a scan for any signs of intrusion,” Song replied. “If someone has been accessing files they shouldn’t, they will have left traces in the system.”

“For now, let’s focus on the task at hand,” Barbosa continued as the clusters of lenses in his synthetic eyes scanned the feeds. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together absent-mindedly as he pondered, that old phantom itch returning, the motions reflected in the massive mechanical digits of his suit. “Relay my orders to all PDF and SWAR teams in the vicinity of the affected grid squares. They are to launch a coordinated attack to recapture these four garrisons. I’m tasking strike teams and air support to assist.”

“On it, Commander.”

“Roach and Crow have almost reached their objective,” Barbosa mused as he watched the small cluster of dropships that was skirting the limits of the city, flying low to the deck to avoid detection. “The enemy commanders are likely to be overseeing the assaults on these garrisons. That’s where I’d want to be if I was down there. I wonder if our Rask friend is at one of them.”

“We could deploy the Ursa,” Song suggested.

“I know you’re itching to see how it performs in combat, but I want there to be a colony to preside over when we’re done,” Barbosa scoffed. “No, the Ursa would be overkill. Let’s send in our new Bullshark jockey. It would be a shame to leave Petrova’s PCE sitting idle when we can make such good use of it.”

“I’ll tell Dozer to prep for drop,” Song replied.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” Barbosa whispered to himself as he glanced between the four garrisons. “Catch a tiger by his toe. If he hollers, let him go. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…”

CHAPTER 18

DAY 37 – HADES – RUZA

Ruza flattened his ears against the constant din of combat, the incessant gunfire bleeding in from every direction. Without ear protection, he’d probably be facing months of tinnitus before he could get his damned hearing fixed. The walls of the garrison rose up all around him, boxing him within its dusty courtyard, the surrounding buildings now playing host to resistance forces. They were clearing out the compound, marching captured PDF out onto the sand and forcing them to their knees, binding their hands while others kept them under guard. Behind him, the hole they had blasted in the perimeter wall still smoldered, sending a plume of black smoke rising into the air.

The operation was going as planned. Under the cover of the protest, and with the occupiers stretched thin trying to maintain their tenuous grasp over the city, the resistance had found the garrison more poorly defended than Seventeen had been. For Ruza and his complement of fighters, breaching the walls and securing the area had been relatively trivial. Now, the base swarmed with some four dozen Marines and fighters. He watched as a few fallen PDF were dragged away, their surviving comrades looking on with frightened expressions.

“Got him, Doc,” Reed declared. Ruza turned to see him give a PDF trooper a shove, holding the man at gunpoint as he marched him over from one of the outlying prefabs. The trooper was dressed differently from his counterparts, the insignia on his uniform identifying him as the garrison commander, not unlike Omar. Reed was flanked by two more fighters, their XMRs kept at the ready.

“You will open the shelter door,” Ruza snarled, glaring down at the hunched human. “We know that you are in possession of the new codes.”

“Fuck you,” the commander replied, spitting at Ruza’s feet.

Reed kicked him in the back of the leg, gripping the commander’s collar as he forced him to his knees. He let his XMR hang from its sling and drew a long combat knife from his belt, brandishing it so that his captive could see it.

“You only need one finger to work a keypad,” Reed said gleefully. “How many do you think I can feed to my friend here before you have a change of heart?”

Ruza gave him an exasperated look, and Reed mouthed play along silently from behind the commander.

“Open the door,” Ruza growled. “We will not ask a third time.”

Reed suddenly grabbed the man’s wrist, bringing the edge of the knife to his index finger.

“Shall we start with this one?”

“Alright, alright!” the commander conceded. Reed hauled him back to his feet and gave him a shove, marching him over to the sealed shelter. They stopped in front of the reinforced carbcrete mound, the garrison commander reluctantly entering a code into the touchpad as Reed jabbed the barrel of his rifle into his back.

“Go, go!” Reed ordered, waving the fighters through as it slid open. Two teams headed through the opening and began to thunder down the metal steps within. “Take him,” he added, passing the commander off to a couple of the men. “Make sure he gets all those cells open.”

“I do not like you playing into their rumors about me,” Ruza complained as he reloaded his rifle. “I am not a cannibal – you know this.”

“Counterpoint,” Reed began, raising a finger. “It’s really funny.”

“We have a very different understanding of humor.”

“You can say that again, Doc. Don’t worry – we can control your symptoms with medication.”

Ruza lifted a round ear, Reed watching as he turned his head to the sky.

“You got another drone?” Reed asked as Ruza leveled his rifle. A loud crack rang out, and a hovering surveillance drone fell towards the street below, dark smoke pouring from its broken chassis. “Just like skeet shooting. Good eye, Doc.”

“We must be swift,” Ruza said as he lowered his glowing barrel. “The longer we linger here, the greater chance there is of the enemy mounting a coordinated response. Our ruse will not fool them forever.”

He was interrupted as a fighter came hurrying over to him, the man lugging a bulky backpack that was filled with electronics. A spool of cable was crudely mounted to it, trailing across the dusty ground behind him, passing all the way through the breach in the wall. The cable was connected to their underground network of fiber optics, hardening their comms against enemy jamming.

“Rivera is on the line,” he said, extending a receiver to Ruza that was joined to the pack via another coil of cable. Ruza took it and lifted it to his ear, hearing the Marine’s voice on the other end.

“Ruza!” he yelled, the sound of gunfire in the background making him hard to understand. “Our garrison has come under heavy counter-attack by both PDF and SWAR forces! We got into the armory, and we’ve bolstered our numbers with freed prisoners, but we’re pinned down here!”

“We are not far from your position, Rivera,” Ruza began. “We will be able to reinforce you shortly. Hold fast – we are coming.”

“Negative!” Rivera replied, a sudden pause suggesting that he was firing his weapon. “We’re gonna try to make a fighting retreat! They’re onto us – there’s no way this is by chance, which means they’re about to hit you as well! Retreat while you can and shore up the base! We’re going to need a fortified position to fall back to, or this is all over!”

“Rivera – I cannot leave you to your fate!” Ruza argued as Reed looked on with concern. “We are but a short distance away – we can retreat together!”

“For once, do what I fucking tell you!” Rivera growled as he fired his weapon again. “Get back to the base – that’s an order!”

He shut off the connection, leaving Ruza standing there holding the receiver. He passed it back to the human with the backpack, then glanced down at Reed.

“I know that look,” Reed began warily. “Bergmann put Rivera in charge, Ruza. We’re supposed to follow his orders. If he says there’s an attack coming, we’d better do as he says and get the hell out of here while we still can.”

“I cannot abandon Rivera and his men to die,” Ruza replied. “I must try.”

“That’s a noble sentiment, but there’s more at stake here than just Rivera’s group.”

“You may do as you please,” Ruza continued. “If you wish to follow orders and return to the base, I will not stop you. I am leaving with Rivera, or not at all.”

“Damn it,” Reed hissed. “Take some of the best fighters with you, and I’ll make sure the prisoners get back home safely. They’re why we’re here, after all.”

They waited another few minutes for the fighters to return from the shelter, a procession of freed Marines following behind them. The men were dressed in their Navy uniforms, and they looked a little worse for wear after their captivity, but their eyes were bright and alert. This kind of jailbreak must have been exactly what they had been dreaming of for weeks. They glanced at Ruza as they poured into the courtyard, his alien presence standing out, and he counted at least a hundred of them. The garrison commander reemerged under the guard of two fighters, Reed gesturing to them frantically.

“Crack the armory open, and let’s get these guys some guns!” he ordered. “Pick up the pace, people – we gotta get out of here pronto! The Borgs are on their way!”

The two fighters dragged the commander over to another carbcrete structure, this one housing the garrison’s store of arms. There should be enough guns and ammo to give the prisoners a fighting chance.

“Welcome to Hades!” Reed declared, standing on a stack of sandbags to put himself above the crowd as he addressed the newcomers. “My name is Reed, but my friends call me Reed. I’ll be your designated revolutionary this evening. The city is currently going to hell, to use the technical term, so we’re going to make a fighting retreat back to a safe position in the tunnels below the city. We’re under orders from Staff Sergeant Rivera – your commanding officer. Please line up by the armory to receive your complimentary XMR, and don’t shoot anyone wearing high-vis – those are our guys. One at a time, now!”

The Marines seemed disoriented by the ongoing battle and their recent change of scenery, but they did as he asked, moving over to the armory as the door slid open. Ruza waded through them, shoving the garrison commander out of his path as he ducked through the doorway, finding himself in a cramped storage area. The armory was little more than a gray cube filled with racks of weapons and equipment lockers. Rows of stowed rifles lined the walls, and crates of ammunition stacked in haphazard piles occupied much of the floor space.

Ruza spotted what he was looking for, its copper glint catching his eye. Leaning up against one of the walls was an AMR – an anti-materiel railgun. It was as long as a human was tall, and far more heavily built than even a large-frame XMR, its extended barrel packed with dense magnetic coils that formed an unbroken tube of copper. On the muzzle was a bulky device designed to contain arc flashes. Unlike the smaller weapon systems, this one had a power source the size of a car battery that connected externally via an insulated cable, plugging into a socket on its receiver. The slugs that it fired were comparable to those used in twenty-millimeter cannons. The weapon was designed to take down heavily armored targets like Betelgeusian Warriors and low-flying aircraft, intended to be operated by a team of two humans using a bipod system. Before retrieving it, he filled his chest carrier with a couple of extra magazines.

It might be the only weapon on the entire planet capable of taking down a PCE.

“Can you even fire that thing?” Reed asked as he watched Ruza emerge with the long rifle in one hand and the battery in the other. Both had carry handles intended to make them more portable, but even in his hands, they were tangibly heavy.

“It will have to be modified for me to fire it comfortably,” he replied, stepping aside as more fighters made their way past him. “But yes, such weapons can be fired by a Rask unaided. They were used by the Royal Guard during the battle of the East Gate.”

He set his pack down on the ground and lifted the battery inside it, closing the zipper only far enough that the trailing cable poked out. Hefting the AMR again – Reed leaning away to avoid its long barrel – Ruza flicked on the power switch. There was an audible hum as the weapon began to charge, its capacitors sucking up power from the battery. It would cause a small delay between shots as they charged up again.

“Sounds like it’s about to fucking explode,” Reed muttered as he eyed the shining barrel. “Didn’t they start putting heat shrouds on those things after people lost all the skin on their hands?”

“It is old stock,” Ruza replied as he inspected the scope that was mounted on its rails. “I am glad that the battery still holds its charge.”

Behind them, the fighters were handing out weapons to the Marines, passing off whatever rigs and helmets were still being stored there. With so many loyal PDF being held captive, there was a fair amount of equipment sitting idle. Reed began to organize everyone, rallying the fighters to hold the compound while the prisoners prepared to leave. For all his talk of dishonorable discharge and butting heads with his superiors, Ruza found Reed to be a capable soldier and a fine leader, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Ruza called over some of the most experienced fighters, assembling a squad of a dozen trusted men made up primarily of Rivera’s Marines. They would certainly not object to rescuing their leader.

“What should we do with him?” one of the fighters asked with a gesture to the garrison commander. His hands were bound behind his back now, his eyes darting about warily.

“He’s being detained,” Reed replied, walking over to the commander and shoving him into the armory. He hit the panel to close the door, sealing the man inside and cutting off the beginning of his protests. There was the sound of cracking glass and fizzling electronics as he smashed the touch panel with the stock of his rifle, sealing the commander inside. “What?” he added with a shrug, the laughter of the nearby prisoners joining Ruza’s disapproving scowl. “They’ll get him out of there…eventually.”

“We must part ways,” Ruza said, placing a hand on the human’s shoulder. “Get these men to safety and do what you can to reinforce the base until we return. I will meet you there.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Reed replied, giving him an encouraging pat on the forearm. “Well, I guess it’s too late for that. Just don’t get yourself killed, alright?”

Ruza nodded, and Reed turned away, leading the procession of resistance fighters and prisoners back through the breach in the wall. They left the PDF survivors where they lay, having neither the means nor the inclination to take them captive, the troopers sitting in the dust with their hands bound behind their backs.

There was a sudden crack of automatic fire, and the group of Marines began to scatter, leaping for cover behind whatever structure was nearest. Some were already out in the street, sprinting for the cover of the nearest prefabs as something cut a swathe through their ranks. A trail of explosions erupted along the road, turning three or four men to bloody ribbons, tossing up torrents of dirt as they cratered the ground. Ruza lifted his head to see a dropship doing a low pass over the rooftops, the bright blue glow of its engines and the burning orange of its tail gun picking it out against the black smoke that filled the sky.

“Aircraft!” Reed bellowed, taking cover in the rubble of the ruined perimeter wall. “Get down! Get down!”

The craft circled past overhead, shedding speed and banking around to keep its gun aimed at the garrison. It could not fire forward, and so the dropship had to keep its side to the target, the rotary gun barrels peeking out from beneath its overhanging tail. A few of the newly-freed Marines and resistance fighters began to return fire, shooting their rifles into the sky, but what few rounds found their mark simply bounced harmlessly off its armor. The Leadbeater was designed to absorb small-arms fire during a combat drop, and its armor was too heavy for even an XMR to penetrate.

“Take cover!” Ruza roared, throwing himself behind the nearby shelter entrance. Another stream of fire harried the courtyard, showering Ruza with fragments of shattered carbcrete as the shelter absorbed the slugs. Some of the nearby fighters weren’t so lucky. Ruza caught a glimpse of one of them practically evaporating as he took a direct hit, the heat and kinetic energy reducing his body to a vapor. One of the bound PDF was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the trail of rounds heading his way as they punched craters in the dusty ground, bisecting him at the waist.

“Ruza – the AMR!” Reed yelled over the din. “We can’t scratch that thing!”

Ruza hooked his claw behind the trigger – his finger was too large to make it through the guard. He didn’t even know if the scope was properly zeroed or if he could handle its recoil, but the weapon was loaded and charged. Hopefully, it had been properly maintained, or it might simply detonate in his hands like a grenade.

“It’s coming around again!” a nearby fighter shouted, leaning out from behind the armory and gesturing. “West, Doc! West!”

Ruza heard yells and screams as the circling dropship fired another burst, but he braced the massive rifle against his shoulder, gripping it just behind the exposed coils of its long barrel. Following the drone of the craft’s engines with his sensitive ears, he swung the weapon out of cover, spotting the dark shape as it drifted across the sky. It was far enough away to be the size of a toy.

He braced himself and exhaled a breath, putting the crosshair over the craft’s center mass, slowly tracking it as it moved across the horizon. It would have been a difficult shot even under ideal conditions, but he calmed his racing heart and steadied his hands, using his claw to squeeze the trigger with the delicacy of a surgeon suturing a wound.

The recoil hit him like a kick to the shoulder, even the telescoping stock and thick padding failing to mitigate it, the force making him stumble back. The shockwave created by the heavy round leaving the barrel kicked up a perfectly circular cloud of dust around him, blowing his hair and clothing like a strong gust of wind, the heat that the slug carried with it forming a wispy trail of molten tungsten in its wake.

The zero had indeed been off, but not enough for him to miss, and there was no reason to lead the target when the projectile was traveling so quickly. The round crossed the distance in the blink of an eye, punching clean through the hull left of center mass, impacting the base of the craft’s tail. The dropship shuddered under the impact, a shower of molten metal erupting like sparks as the slug exited the other side, the slagged metal and twisted armor plating raining down towards the rooftops below. The blue glow from its main engines flickered out, then there was a secondary explosion as the hydrogen fuel lines went up, the blast tearing the tail from the hull.

Its stabilization removed, the craft began to list, its burning tail section falling out of sight. The dropship hadn’t been traveling fast enough for its stubby wings to provide much lift, relying instead on the thrusters that lined its belly, the jets of blue flame flaring now as they struggled to keep it aloft. It was in a flat spin, spiraling down towards the ground, Ruza’s eyes widening as he realized that it was heading his way. Leaving a swirling trail of dark smoke in its wake, it half fell and half floated down towards the garrison, smashing through the perimeter wall and sending great chunks of carbcrete scattering across the courtyard.

Ruza dove around the far side of the shelter, small fragments of debris hammering his cover, another wave of disturbed sand washing over him. When he peered out again, he could just make out the burning wreck through the dust and smoke, the hull remaining remarkably intact. Leadbeaters were made of stern stuff.

There was movement – a dark figure stumbling into view through the rubble. At first, Ruza’s mind conjured the image of a man so badly burned that he was little more than a blackened skeleton, but the shape soon resolved into a SWAR operative with prosthetic limbs. He was indeed burned, but not so badly that he couldn’t raise a rifle. Before Ruza could bring his AMR to bear again, the unfortunate operative was unceremoniously cut apart by a hail of return fire from the nearby Marines and fighters.

“Looks like the fucking gun works!” he heard Reed yell from across the compound.

The freed prisoners continued to filter out of the garrison, while Ruza and his handpicked team headed out through the main gate, keeping the tether to their right as they began their journey South. He had studied the map and knew well where Rivera and his men were making their stand – only one garrison over. His squad separated into two fireteams of six, sticking to the prefabs on either side of the street. Ruza carried his AMR by its handle, drawing the sidearm that Rivera and Reed had fashioned for him, able to hold it in a single hand. His XMR was slung across his back out of the way.

All around him was evidence of the battle currently taking place. The entire city had been engulfed in conflict, the blue sky choked with dark smoke from dozens of raging fires that rose up from every direction, the sound of gunfire from dozens of engagements echoing across the colony. The last time he had taken part in a war of this scale, he had been evacuating civilians from a ruined Kerguelan city under the fire of a great Betelgeusian war host. Had they done the right thing on Hades? Was this chaos a worthy price to pay for freedom, or was the cost becoming too steep?

As they navigated the narrow streets, his team was alerted to a nearby column of smoke that was in their path, Ruza sticking close to the men as they advanced towards it cautiously. One team covered the other as they rounded a bend in the road, coming upon a grisly sight.

There had been a firefight here, leaving the street littered with bodies, the smoke rising from a burning APC that must have been damaged by explosives. It had crashed into a prefab, breaking the outriggers and causing it to slump to the ground, its wall split open like a tin can. Fortunately, it seemed that nobody had been inside the structure at the time. The rear doors of the vehicle hung open, the silver craters left in the camouflaged paintwork suggesting that the occupants had been fired on during their escape. Several bodies lay still on the ground nearby, more of them slumped behind sandbags on the left side of the road. To the right were an equal number of resistance fighters, easily identifiable by their armbands.

As his team fanned out to secure the area, he checked the downed fighters, finding none alive. They had taken fire from XMRs, and the weapons were devastating, leaving little chance of survival on a hit to the torso or the head.

He lurched suddenly, the scent of burning metal and blood dredging up a vivid memory.

***

Ruza was back in the ruins of the Crawler, the desert dunes crashing against its massive hull like waves, piling against monstrous treads the size of buildings. It was so long that it vanished into the sandstorm’s haze, and it rose some fifteen meters from the ground, casting a black shadow beneath its belly. It was a mobile fortress – its flat deck covered with prefab structures that served as barracks and garages, its flanks lined with suspended gantries. One of the defensive CIWS guns with its pale radome was visible from his vantage point below, its optics package glinting.

The great vehicle had been felled by artillery fire, split open and dashed against the ground like a wounded creature, listing as its mechanical guts spilled out onto the sand below. Even from a distance, he could tell that it would never move again. What had once seemed impervious to damage now lay broken and ruined – humbled.

His pack was advancing alongside him, making their way through a wound in its side, sifting through the scattered wreckage. They headed deeper, climbing through collapsed hallways and over piles of twisted scrap, cooled slag running along the deck like silver blood. Every precarious footstep created a creak or a groan, the flashlights mounted on their weapons sweeping across the warped environment, the low visibility only making it feel more like a nightmare. They occasionally came across bodies, but they had been rendered almost unrecognizable. There were burnt pieces of the crew scattered here and there – a charred arm disconcertingly softer than the metal grates beneath his feet.

He was in the engineering section now, its corridors broken and crooked, as if melted by some incredible heat. Complex machinery whose purpose he could not guess at had been rent apart just like the crew, spools of loose cable hanging from the bowed ceiling, some kind of coolant spewing from a broken pipe.

The reactor core stood before him. Its shielding was cracked open, its maw agape, the blue glow that emanated from within reflecting off its surroundings like the shimmering water of a serene oasis. He tasted iron on his tongue.

***

A cry snapped Ruza back to the present, and he spun his head to follow the sound, his breath coming in ragged bursts. One of the men had found a survivor and was aiming his rifle behind the sandbags, Ruza hearing another shrill wail of fear. Willing his panicked heart to calm, he tore himself from the waking dream, hurrying over to the scene.

Placing a hand on the fighter’s shoulder to ease him aside, Ruza found a PDF trooper taking refuge behind the haphazard fortifications. He was lying amidst the dead, pushing one of the bodies aside as he crawled away frantically, his camouflaged uniform stained with blood that likely was not his own. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, and he was missing his helmet, his eyes wide with a terror that bordered on madness. He didn’t seem to be armed, and before he could crawl beneath the nearest prefab like a desert mouse fleeing to its burrow, Ruza extended a hand to stay him.

“We are not here to hurt you,” he said in the most soothing voice that a Rask could muster. “Your battle is over.”

It didn’t seem to have the intended effect, but the trooper froze up – more out of fear than compliance. As Ruza’s keen eyes examined the subject more closely, he saw that the human had taken a hit to the lower leg – likely a ricochet from a slug. It had done damage, and he certainly couldn’t walk to safety, but it was not a mortal wound.

“Let me treat it,” Ruza insisted. He reached down with a long arm, hesitating when the trooper let out another panicked yell. “I will not hurt you.”

With the fighter still training his weapon on the boy, he had no choice, his wild eyes following the Rask. Ruza set down his weapons and drew a tourniquet from a pouch on his belt, leaning over the sandbags and gently lifting the trooper’s injured leg. His patient flinched, but didn’t pull away, allowing him to secure the device around the limb below the knee. Ruza gave the mechanism a few turns, then withdrew, backing away cautiously as he might when faced with a cornered razorback. The human seemed just as confused as he was terrified now, staring up at Ruza, his expression begging a question that did not need to be spoken aloud.

“Time to go, Doc,” the fighter prompted. “The Staff Sergeant can’t hold out forever.”

“Remain here,” Ruza told the trooper as he stooped to retrieve his AMR. “Someone will come for you.”

He moved along with his team, leaving the confused trooper behind.

“You alright, Doc?” the Marine asked as they rounded another corner. It was Delgado – one of Rivera’s best men. “You kind of spaced out back there for a moment.”

“The clamor of battle is bringing back memories I thought forgotten,” Ruza grumbled. “An unwelcome experience, to be sure.”

It wasn’t long before that clamor grew louder, the sound of gunfire emanating from the nearby garrison where Rivera and his men were fighting. Ruza’s squad stuck to the back alleys, knowing that they were likely approaching a large enemy host, keeping a low profile as they slunk through the shadows.

“We’ve got no comms with the Staff Sergeant,” one of the Marines said as they stalked between the prefabs. “There’s no way to warn him that we’re coming or for us to get any intel about his situation.”

“From the sound of things, they must be dug in,” another added.

They crept forward, stopping at a vantage point where they could see the garrison, taking cover behind an abandoned checkpoint made of sandbags and barriers. The base’s four walls rose above the surrounding prefabs, smoke billowing from within, the source of the fire likely related to the explosives used to breach the perimeter. Surrounding the garrison were wide streets that separated it from the populated homes, creating a kind of dry moat that would prevent anyone from approaching unseen. The road was littered with bodies – all of them PDF. It seemed that one or more large attacks had already been repelled.

The prefabs beyond played host to the enemy, Ruza able to pick out dozens of PDF troopers when he chanced a look over the concrete barrier that he was crouched behind. They were sticking to cover, hunkered down below crescents of sandbags and hiding behind the prefabs, most of them concentrated in front of the breach.

The wall that Rivera’s group had blown open was facing East, while Ruza and his squad were positioned to the garrison’s North, the angle only just allowing him to make out the breach. The jagged hole was surrounded by rubble and twisted rebar, much of it still smoking, and there were plenty more bodies amidst the debris – more than in the street. Some of them were resistance fighters who had died holding the position, while more were PDF who had been cut down during what must have been desperate assaults across open ground. The garrison was doing its job – acting as an impenetrable bastion, its choke points holding fast.

As Ruza watched, there was another exchange of gunfire. Several of the attackers opened fire from the cover of the prefabs, the molten trails from their XMRs bridging the street, biting out more chunks of carbrete and sparking off the exposed structural supports. From within came harrying return fire, the fighters emerging from cover to shoot before quickly ducking back to safety.

“The Borgs can’t get in, but Rivera’s crew can’t get out,” one of the Marines muttered.

“Until Barbosa decides to send in a dropship or a PCE,” Delgado added. “Without anti-air, a Leadbeater could put down right inside the compound.”

“Then it is fortunate that we are here,” Ruza replied, feeling the comforting weight of the AMR in his hand.

“We have to break the siege and secure an exfil corridor,” another fighter began as he gestured to their left. “Looks like the PDF are focusing most of their attention on the breach. If we can clear out the Borgs watching the West wall, where the gate is, they could open it from their side and get out.”

“We’d have to be quick about it,” Delgado added. “It won’t take the Borgs long to reposition once they realize what’s happening, and we have no comms, so how do we get a message inside?”

“I can scale that wall,” Ruza suggested.

“What?” the Marine scoffed. “I know you’re a Borealan, Doc, but that wall has to be twenty feet tall. Even you can’t clear that.”

“I can make it,” he insisted, nodding to an abandoned APC that was parked just outside the closed gate.

“Alright,” Delgado conceded. “Looks like we have a plan. Let’s clear out the West side and cover Ruza. Turn down your voltages – let’s try to buy as much time as we can.”

The group began to move again, creeping around the perimeter and heading towards the Western wall of the compound. There was a second, smaller concentration of troopers keeping watch over the main gate, though they had no way to breach it from the outside. Just as the shelter was hardened against orbital bombardment, the gate was hardened against Bug breaching weapons, making anything less than shaped explosives designed to shatter rock a tough proposition.

Many of the troopers were scattered throughout the cover of the prefabs and sandbags, hidden out of view, but Ruza saw no sign of SWAR operatives. These were likely simple riot police who had been reassigned from elsewhere in the city. Most were wearing riot gear and holding shields, and some were armed with rifles, but they still outnumbered Ruza’s squad by a factor of three or four.

“Let’s do this quickly and quietly,” one of the Marines whispered. As they neared the left flank of the loose enemy formation, a couple of the fighters let their rifles hang from their slings, brandishing long fighting knives. Their boots barely making a sound on the loose sand, they slunk around a corner, coming up behind one of the sandbag bastions that blocked an alley. Any sentry worth their salt would have guards watching the rear, but these were not well-trained soldiers – they were little more than glorified police.

With meticulous precision, the two Marines felled a sentry each, gripping them from behind and plunging those long blades into gaps in the ceramic armor. They aimed for the neck, knowing exactly where to strike, the knives sinking to the hilt – the enemy scarcely able to utter a gurgle in warning as they fell. Two more dropped, and only when the clattering of equipment from the fallen PDF alerted a fifth sentry was there any rapid movement, one of the Marines pulling him over backwards and driving an already blood-soaked blade into his throat.

That was enough to alert the rest, and the battle began in earnest, the Marines bringing up their rifles as they picked out easy targets with controlled bursts of fire. The alleys were a maze of tight corridors and blind corners – more like clearing the inside of a building or a ship than the street fighting Ruza had seen on Kerguela. The squad swept through, pausing to lean around corners, leveraging the in-picture optics on their rifles to great effect. There came yells of alarm and cries of pain, sparks flying as wild return fire cut through the prefabs, the thin metal posing no obstacle to the hypersonic rounds.

Ruza crouched uncomfortably low – wary of being caught in the crossfire, hauling the AMR in one hand as he wielded the machine pistol in the other. The Marine ahead of him paused, plucking a grenade from his belt and casually rolling it beneath a nearby prefab. There was a blast, followed by screams and panicked shouting, a wave of displaced dust washing back between the outriggers.

There was a time when Ruza would have thought of humans as inferior, being smaller, weaker, and less endowed with natural weapons. There had been a sentiment among the Matriarch’s forces that no human could prevail against a Rask in combat, but their correction had been swift, and he had gained a healthy fear of the diminutive aliens. Though they moved as a pack would, they showed agency, trusting one another to make moment-to-moment decisions without an Alpha to sign off on their every action. They fought as one, fixated on the same singular goal, yet the whole was so much greater than the sum of its parts. The Matriarchy’s hierarchical structure had made it inflexible, and it had broken when it should have bent.

Outclassed and outmaneuvered, the engagement with the PDF was over in mere minutes, Ruza hearing a muffled crack as a Marine finished off the last of the sentries. It had been quick and ruthlessly efficient to the point that Ruza hadn’t even needed to fire his weapon. The Marines took up position behind the sandbags that overlooked the gate, pushing aside the still-warm bodies. Whether they granted mercy or not was dictated by their situation, and they could not risk it here.

The enemy was certainly readying a response, and Rivera needed every spare second that Ruza could give him. He set down his AMR and shrugged off his heavy pack, dropping low as he prepared to run.

“Go, go – we’ll cover you!” the nearest Marine hissed.

Ruza broke into a sprint, crossing the street quickly with his bounding stride, making a beeline for the parked APC. He leapt up onto its roof, feeling his claws scrape against the metal, using the momentum to propel himself higher. He kicked off its armored hull in the low gravity, clearing the remaining distance, his fingers hooking around the lip of the wall. His claws found purchase in the rough carbcrete, and he hauled himself up, getting a view inside the compound.

Rivera’s fighters were scattered about the courtyard, taking cover wherever they had the opportunity, hunkered down behind buildings and walls of sandbags. The shelter door was open, and the uniformed fighters were joined by a host of prisoners, many of whom were also armed. The plan had been executed up to the point of extraction, which was when they must have found themselves pinned down. Ruza could see a group of fighters positioned around the breach, defending it from attack, one of them gesturing as he gave orders.

As he pulled himself the rest of the way up and perched atop the wall, he was spotted by a handful of fighters who were defending the gate below. Startled, they gestured and raised their weapons, but he was an easy person to recognize. Ruza dropped down, landing in front of the gate – the long fall easy for him to endure. He landed at a crouch, the fighters hurrying closer to greet him as he rose to full height.

“Hey, Doc!” one of them began. “Boy, are we glad to see you. Did you bring backup?”

“Of a kind,” he replied, looking past the man as he searched for the Staff Sergeant. “Where is Rivera?”

“Over there,” he said, gesturing to the breach.

“Be ready to open this gate when you receive the order,” he added, hurrying into the compound. After passing a few groups of Marines, he reached Rivera, finding him taking refuge behind a prefab with a view of the breach. He was surrounded by a squad of fighters, interrupting his conversation when he saw the Rask jog into view.

“Ruza!?” he exclaimed, his surprise soon turning to anger. “What the hell are you doing here? I ordered you to retreat back to the base and defend it!”

“Reed has led the freed prisoners back to the base,” Ruza explained breathlessly. “I have brought a small contingent of men to render assistance. We have secured the Western wall, but not for long. You and your people must leave through the gate – we do not have much time before the enemy moves to cut us off.”

Rivera looked like he wanted to argue, but there was no more to be said. Ruza was already there.

“Alright, people!” he yelled through his open visor. “Start falling back towards the main gate! I want overlapping fields of fire covering the breach!”

He slammed the visor down again, readying his rifle and aiming it at the hole in the wall as his men began to withdraw. Once again, Rivera did not take advantage of his rank to be the first one to reach safety – he remained behind to protect his men. That was why Ruza would not leave without him.

Ruza took up position beside him, lying down on his belly with his machine pistol aimed beneath the prefab, watching the jagged opening until only the last of the defenders remained.

“Pop what smokes you have left and get out of there!” Rivera ordered.

The men tossed a couple of smoke grenades, creating an obscuring haze in the vicinity of the breach to mask their escape, crouching low and running back across the courtyard. The enemy were not foolish, opening fire when they realized that something was happening, but their shots were inaccurate with such low visibility.

As the men joined with Rivera and his squad, they began to head back to the gate together, Ruza moving alongside them. He could see that the twin doors were open now, several fighters standing guard to either side of them as they waved the remainder of the freed prisoners through, the column of men filing out into the street beyond.

Ruza and Rivera were the last out, and when he turned to look back into the compound, Ruza saw that the PDF were already stalking over the rubble and through the fading smoke. He shouted a warning, taking a knee and aiming his sidearm. It chattered as it spewed a swarm of slugs in their direction, fighting to jump from his hands, but he kept it on target. It was by no means an accurate weapon, but he still managed to catch a trooper in the leg, sending the man toppling to the ground. Rivera and his men followed suit, downing a couple more and sending the rest scattering for cover. It was impossible to stop them now, but it might deter them for a few precious minutes more.

They had planned this escape meticulously, and each team leader had been tasked with memorizing their exfil route, knowing exactly where their tunnel opening was and how to get there from the garrison. The enemy could follow, but at their peril. Their greater numbers would count for nothing in those narrow passages. They began to split up the prisoners into smaller groups, escorting them through the alleys, the men dispersing into the city. Another couple of squads of fighters remained behind to cover them, firing from behind the sandbags and prefabs as the PDF tried to push around the garrison’s tall walls.

“Sorry, Staff Sergeant,” Delgado began as the Marines greeted Rivera. “The Doc was gonna come whether we helped him or not. Thought we might as well keep him from losing his tail.”

“Incoming!” another of them shouted, aiming his rifle above the garrison. Ruza followed his gaze, seeing a pair of dark shapes approaching, sailing low over the rooftops.

“Dropships,” Rivera snarled. “Probably a SWAR strike team. We have to get into hard cover, or those tail guns are gonna chew us up!”

“I have another suggestion,” Ruza replied as he ducked down behind one of the barriers.

“You got the AMR?” Rivera noted as he watched Ruza sling his pack back on, hefting the heavy weapon.

“It has proven most effective,” he replied, a hum filling the air as the capacitors charged. He lay its barrel atop the concrete barrier, sitting down in the sand to give himself a higher angle, the long barrel lifting towards the sky. With one hand on the grip and the other resting atop the receiver for stability, he brought his eye to the scope, sighting the lead dropship as it neared.

Rivera noticed that the other Marines were backing away, and he did the same, kneeling just behind Ruza as he waited for him to fire. Ruza had a better idea of how the sights were zeroed now, and he aimed a hair to the right of where he intended the slug to hit.

A loud crack rang out, echoing off the walls of the prefabs that formed the alleyway, the shockwave throwing up a cloud of dust as the round exited the barrel. The recoil almost knocked him onto his back, and he let out a snarl of discomfort, watching as a few grains of sand settled on the barrel and melted to its hot coils.

The round popped the bubble-shaped canopy of the lead dropship, turning the pilot who had been sitting behind it into a red mist, sparks and molten metal flashing as it slagged the control panels and embedded itself in the back wall of the cockpit. Immediately, the craft listed, raising its rounded nose towards the clouds. The thrusters along its belly flickered as the automatic flight control systems struggled to keep it airborne, but it quickly stalled, dropping down towards the ground. It was practically upside down by the time it fell out of view behind the garrison wall, a billowing explosion and a rising cloud of smoke betraying its fate.

“Holy shit!” one of the Marines yelled, pumping his fist in the air. “That’s what I’m fucking talking about! Good shot!”

“Second target veering West!” Rivera added.

The second dropship was turning away and popping flares, perhaps not knowing what kind of projectile had brought down its companion. The brightly glowing decoys showered down over the streets below, the trails of smoke forming a shape resembling wings, its engines burning brighter as it accelerated away.

Ruza kept an eye on the charge meter as it slowly built up again, his sights trained on the craft. Eighty percent, ninety percent…

“Clear!” he growled, a few of the Marines ducking away as he loosed another round. Without ear protection, the blast left them ringing – powerful enough to dizzy him. The telescoping stock slammed into his bruised shoulder again, a molten trail painting a burning line between him and his quarry. The slug caught it beneath the wing, blasting clean through the hull, sending a stream of sparks and armor fragments erupting from the far side. He must have caught another fuel line – blue flames beginning to spew from the hole, the dropship trailing black smoke as it started to lose altitude. It turned in their direction, gliding towards the ground, still shedding pieces as its airframe lost integrity.

It slammed into the prefabs on the right side of the garrison, pushing the heavy structures aside as though they weighed no more than empty cans as it slid along the ground, smoke and dust billowing in its wake. After a hundred meters or more, it finally came to a stop, rolling almost onto its side – its wingtip digging into the sand.

“Splash two!” one of the Marines laughed. “That should keep ‘em occupied while we bug out.”

“Let’s move!” Rivera replied, rising from his crouched position. “Follow me to our designated exfil point. Ruza – pack it up.”

Ruza climbed to his feet, careful not to touch the hot barrel of the gun, pausing to glance at the burning wreck of the dropship as he retrieved his XMR from the ground. The fire was spreading as the fuel burned, engulfing the craft and blackening the surrounding prefabs that it had shunted out of its path. As he watched, he thought he saw movement through the shimmering haze created by the heat.

“Come on, Ruza!” Rivera shouted as he paused at the end of the alley. “Those PDF are gonna be on us any minute now!”

The wreck visibly shifted, what looked like the panel from the troop ramp exploding outward, bouncing across the ground and settling into the furrow that the dropship had carved out behind it. A large, hulking figure stepped through the licking hydrogen flames, lumbering through a spray of burning fuel that showered from beneath the tail as though it wasn’t even there. As it turned in his direction, Ruza recognized its profile, his blood running cold.

“Bullshark!” he warned.

The suit scarcely seemed damaged by the catastrophic crash, raising a massive slab of a shield even as the flecks of burning fuel clung to its angular canopy, so large that it would have put those fielded by Krell auxiliaries to shame. It planted it in the ground, its swiveling optics visible through a thick pane of glass.

“Fall back!” Rivera ordered. “Get to the tunnels!”

“I have the shot!” Ruza insisted, leveling his AMR again. “We may not get a second opportunity!”

He heard a growl of disapproval from Rivera, but the Marine waited, covering Ruza as best he could with his XMR.

Ruza put his crosshair over the pane of glass, exhaling a breath before squeezing the trigger with his claw. Another deafening blast filled the alley, whipping Ruza’s sun-bleached hair and kicking up a cloud of dust, the impact shaking his very bones. So quickly that it was indistinguishable from the hypersonic crack of the rifle, there came a sound like a sledgehammer hitting metal, accompanied by a bright flash of light.

Ruza waited a moment, holding his breath, the dust clearing to reveal that the PCE was still standing. In its shield was a molten crater that ran all the way through, exposing the many layers of metal and armor, its tattered edges glowing with residual heat.

The PCE lifted its shield aside, leveling a large-frame XMR that it gripped in one massive, mechanical hand. The round had made it through, but it hadn’t maintained enough energy to destroy the suit, instead embedding itself deep in the PCE’s shoulder plate. It couldn’t take many more hits like that. If he could aim for the canopy – maybe hit it when the shield was lowered, it might penetrate…

Too late. He threw himself to the ground as the PCE returned fire, the platform afforded by its mechanical limbs and its advanced sensors making it remarkably accurate at such a distance. He lay flat on his belly as the rounds chewed through the concrete barrier where he had been standing only a moment prior, cutting through the material like it wasn’t even there and showering him with fragments of rubble. The rounds carried on, punching molten holes in the prefabs, Rivera leaping to safety as one of them narrowly missed him and blew a fist-sized hole in the wall at his back.

The pair crawled on their bellies as the hail of gunfire whizzed over their heads, a couple of the nearer Marines following suit. The PCE was advancing at a steady march, maintaining its suppressive fire, its stability allowing it to stay on target like a gyroscope. Only when the fire abated did they dare to rise again, stumbling into a run.

The PCE followed suit, slowly gaining speed as it lumbered along, until it was racing towards them at a prodigious rate. Just before he rounded the corner at the end of the alley, Ruza watched it plow through the sandbags and barriers that had served as his firing position, crushing the dead PDF troopers underfoot like fallen leaves. It only had a foot of clearance in the alley, its broad shoulders sparking against the walls of the prefabs where they bumped against them, stripping the paint and leaving silver trails. It held up that shield again, aiming the massive rifle around it, a stream of slugs sawing through the buildings as Ruza frantically ducked beneath them.

He broke into a sprint, his claws digging into the dusty ground for purchase as he navigated the tight bends, his ears pointing backwards to track the thudding footsteps on his heels. Behind him, the massive PCE rounded the same bend, barreling into the adjacent building with enough force to rock it on its outriggers. It leveled its rifle, sending another spray his way, but Ruza was already moving. Using a jutting air conditioner as a foothold, he scaled the wall of a prefab, leaping from roof to roof. It allowed him to get some distance on his pursuer, and he was able to spot Rivera and his men, turning in their direction. They were emerging onto a wider street.

The Marines started as he dropped down beside them, relaxing when they saw that it was him.

“The Bullshark is not far behind me,” Ruza panted. “We must stage an ambush if we are to bring it down.”

“We could try to draw its attention – get you a clear shot around that shield,” Delgado suggested.

“That AMR might be our only chance of winning this war,” Rivera chided. “If we lose it here, we’re fucked. We need to make a distraction so Ruza can get that thing back to the base. We don’t know the status of the other teams – it might be the only one we have.”

“The enemy is alone and outnumbered,” Ruza insisted. “We may not get another opportunity like this.”

“Gotta say – taking this fucker off the board is a tempting proposition,” one of the Marines conceded as he looked to Rivera. “It’s one less PCE to lose sleep over.”

“We cannot wait,” Ruza pressed. “The enemy will be upon us in moments.”

“Alright – I’ll get you your shot,” Rivera sighed as he turned to Ruza and jabbed a gloved finger at him. “Promise me that if this goes south, you’ll get that rifle out of here. It’s priority one. Promise me.”

“I will,” Ruza said with a curt bow of his head.

“Split up into pairs and take up position on the far side of the street,” River said, gesturing to the prefabs across the sandy road. “Prep smokes and lay down covering fire. Ruza – double back and go high.”

The squad split up, heading for the cover of the alleys, Ruza jogging away down the street. The Marines formed a rough line, their weapons trained on the spot where they expected the target to emerge. Ruza scarcely had time to get out of sight before the PCE came bursting through the alley they had just vacated, lumbering to a stop in the road, its shield and rifle raised. There was a yell from the Marines, and they began to toss grenades, plumes of white smoke pouring from the projectiles as they rolled along the road. A couple more exploded, the fragmentation grenades peppering the suit with hot shrapnel. Even through the obscuring smoke, Ruza could see its plasma shielding system flashing, intercepting the fragments of metal and turning them to harmless slag.

The Marines opened up, a dozen XMRs unloading on the enemy, the molten trails forming swirling holes in the smoke. There were flashes as the rounds were caught by the reactive plasma, but the bulky shield absorbed the majority of the fire, the slugs creating showers of sparks where they impacted it. Ruza had seen the stratified layers that made up that shield, and even at high voltage, a conventional XMR would not make it through. He had faced Hoff in combat and witnessed just how impervious those suits were to damage, but to see it shrug off such a withering hail of fire only furthered that point.

The smoke seemed to have little effect on the PCE, its array of sensors tracking targets through the haze. As Ruza leapt up on top of a prefab to get a better angle, he watched it sweep its rifle across the street, firing off a couple of precise bursts. From his high vantage point, he watched two of the Marines drop, eviscerated by the high-velocity rounds, their cover affording them no protection.

He had to strike now. Ruza leveled his AMR and took a knee, putting the crosshair over the suit’s exposed back. Behind it was a bulky structure that resembled a kind of backpack – likely where its power source and other important machinery were housed. As he pulled the trigger, the suit whipped around, swinging that heavy shield in his direction as though it weighed nothing. The shot rang out, slamming into the metal, the impact blowing away the nearby smoke and blasting the road beneath clean of dust.

The slug had punched through the shield, creating another crater. When the PCE raised its rifle to fire on his position, he saw that there was a still-molten round embedded in one of the segmented plates that ran down its torso. Ruza threw himself back, tumbling into the alley behind the prefab as a stream of bullets chewed through the building’s roof section. He landed hard, bruising his shoulder, but the gravity here was too low for him to break anything.

He climbed to his feet, hearing the hum as his rifle charged its capacitors. With the arrays of cameras spread around the suit’s canopy, perhaps there was no angle from which he could strike unseen. Maybe if he could fire the weapon more rapidly, he might be able to break through, but there was a delay between charges.

Ruza felt the thud of the suit’s footsteps as much as he heard them, and he ducked below the prefab, watching the heavy boots with their retractable claws march along the length of the building. The Marines were still firing on it, but it was impervious – able to ignore the railgun slugs that were harrying it just as one might ignore raindrops. It was searching for the highest threat, which at this moment was Ruza.

An idea struck him, and he dropped to the ground, lying flat on his belly and deploying the bipod just below the barrel of the AMR. He aimed beneath the prefab, the one-foot gap between the ground and the bottom of the structure affording him just enough room, tracking the giant boots. There was only a brief window, but the rifle was still charging, his heart rate climbing along with the numbers on its display. Eighty…ninety…one hundred.

The rifle rocked into his shoulder as he fired, pushing his whole body back a few inches, the recoil traveling all the way through him like a shiver. The PCE was only a few meters away, and it was impossible to miss at such a distance, the round clearing out all of the sand from beneath the building as it ripped through the suit’s ankle. Not even the Bullshark’s layers of composite armor could stop the round, the hypervelocity projectile shattering the ceramic plates and turning the metal to slag, blasting the pieces away in a deadly arc of molten debris. The heavy pistons that connected the boots to the calf were bent like twigs, fragments of machinery and advanced materials that Ruza couldn’t even name scattering across the road.

When it put weight on the damaged limb, what little remained crumpled, a boot the size of Ruza’s torso remaining upright in the sand as the severed leg caused the suit to stumble. It fell forward, the massive sarcophagus of angular plates and silver machinery crashing canopy-first into the dust with a thud that shook Ruza almost as much as the recoil had.

It wasn’t dead yet, Ruza feeling his blood run cold as the swiveling camera dome mounted on the sloping chin of its canopy turned in his direction, its arrays of lenses scrutinizing him with a cold fury. It rolled onto his side, its shield trapped beneath its bulk, aiming a fist at him. It had dropped its rifle, but there were a pair of sidearm-grade weapons mounted in its wrist, the coils on their barrels just visible beneath their molded housings. He was already scrambling to his feet, leaping up onto the roof again, what sounded like XMH slugs chewing through the walls below.

As his weapon charged, he saw the Marines moving in, counting only nine survivors – Rivera included. In only a minute, the PCE had slain three of their most experienced men. They stuck to cover, a hail of gunfire impacting the fallen suit as they advanced, Ruza watching the plasma shield that enveloped it flare. It only appeared where the slugs found their mark, like reactive armor, a brief flash of bright light that reminded him of a Betelgeusian’s shield slagging the rounds to soften them before they impacted. The system was still active, but their attacks got the pilot’s attention, and the suit rolled onto its back. There was a clunk as the shield disengaged with a bulky locking mechanism, then the PCE sat upright, raising that twin-barreled gun and spraying wildly.

The Marines bought Ruza the time he needed, and he stepped over to the edge of the prefab, ready to fire before he came into view of his enemy. The recoil rocked the stock into his shoulder, the rifle driving another hypersonic projectile straight through the top of the canopy. There was a flash of light as the active protection tried to stop it, but it was futile, the slug drilling through the armor and into the cockpit. The suit lurched, then seemed to slowly sag, as though all of the tension in its joints had been lost. It sat there, its arms resting in its lap, a wisp of smoke rising from the molten crater in its head.

Ruza hopped down into the street beside it, keeping his rifle trained on the statue-like PCE. Rivera and his men left cover and made their way closer, their weapons aimed at it – as though it would do them any good if the suit sprang back to life.

Rivera walked up to it, giving its armored leg an experimental tap with his boot.

“Looks dead to me,” he declared, crouching down to get a closer look at it. “How the hell do you open one of these things up?”

“Are you sure you want to?” Delgado asked. “After what that AMR round will have done to the pilot, he’s probably been reduced to Marinara sauce…”

“We need to leave,” Rivera added, glancing past the suit warily. “We’ve lingered too long – the PDF will be on their way. Not bad shooting,” he added with a nod to Ruza.

“Who did we lose?” Ruza asked.

“Stuckey, Perez, and Becker,” Rivera replied. “There’s not much left for you to check.”

“Damn it,” Ruza hissed.

As they turned to leave, there was a sudden movement from the suit, the camera dome beneath its chin swiveling to look at them. Ruza practically jumped out of his skin, the Marines scattering for cover as he swung the AMR around again.

“You must be Ruza. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

A synthetic voice emanated from the suit, filtering through its external speakers. Ruza paused, noting that its limbs were still limp, lowering his weapon.

“What is this?” he demanded, narrowing his yellow eyes.

“It’s a speaker, you savage,” the suit scoffed. “It’s a miracle your kind were able to rub two sticks together before we showed up. Rivera,” it added, the camera swiveling towards the Marine. “It’s nice to see you again after your spirited address on the carrier. I trust that your little rebellion has been going well?”

“Barbosa?” Rivera marveled, taking a few steps closer. “Is that you?”

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” the suit chuckled. “I’m safe on the carrier – I’m accessing the suit’s remote functions via data link. It seems that you’ve cost me another PCE, along with its pilot. Well done, by the way. I was watching the whole thing. Dozer was a good operative.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Rivera sneered.

“You were so full of fire and fury the last time we spoke,” the suit continued in a mocking tone. “How are you feeling now, I wonder, with the city burning around you? Is this how you protect civilians – by using them as cover for your terrorism? How many Hadeans have died today because of your actions?”

“Ignore him,” Rivera grumbled, waving his men on. “He’s just stalling for time until reinforcements arrive.”

“You can ignore me, Rivera,” the suit called after him as he began to walk away. “But just like reality, you can only ignore me for so long before the consequences catch up with you. The only thing preventing me from dropping a ten-kiloton sabot and erasing you both along with this entire block is that I actually care about these people. I intend to deliver what I promised them. What can your resistance offer them other than pointless suffering and a futile death?”

“You are their leader,” Ruza muttered, lagging behind as the Marines marched away along the street. “I have heard tell of you. They say that you are beyond all reason – that you are a madman.”

“That would be convenient, wouldn’t it?” the suit chuckled. “Dismiss me as insane, and dismiss all of those little doubts nagging at the back of your mind along with me. You don’t have to wonder if I’m right if you simply declare me mad. I don’t even know who you are or why you’re here, Rask, but you’ve caused me no end of trouble.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he replied.

“Rivera is one thing – he thinks it’s his job to destroy Hades. You, however…” The audio feed paused for a moment, the telescoping lens of one of the cameras zooming in on Ruza’s face. “I don’t know if you’re some wildcard planted here by Vos, or if you were just in the right place at the wrong time. Oh, your furry little ears perked up. Do you know the good Admiral?”

Ruza turned away, suppressing his curiosity. Rivera was right – Barbosa sought only to delay them until the PDF could arrive.

“If you’re heading back to your base in the mine, you might want to hurry,” the suit chuckled. “I think you’re about to receive some uninvited guests.”

Ruza felt his stomach drop, and he turned to glance back at the suit, cruel laughter emanating from it as it sat eerily still in the road.

CHAPTER 19

DAY 37 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

Barbosa watched the little group of insurgents walk away, still chuckling to himself as he cut the feed. Dozer was a loss, as was the suit, but the latter could soon be replaced by the production model PCEs. There were PDF teams on their way to recover the downed Bullshark, and they wouldn’t catch up with Rivera and his pet, but no matter. They were doomed now, regardless.

He turned his attention back to the other displays, watching the battle to retake the city play out from within the safety of his canopy. It was a relief to be in the suit again, and it had been some years since he had felt so sharp – so clear of mind. The PDF had been diverted to clear up problem areas and kettle civilians who were still rioting, while SWAR strike teams had successfully engaged pockets of insurgent resistance and driven the enemy from the garrisons. Casualties were a little higher than he would like thanks to the damned Rask and his AMR – three dropships down with no survivors – but the rest of the losses had been confined largely to the PDF. The anchor and the square were secure, and thousands of arrests had been made. The retreating insurgents had largely withdrawn below ground, but there would be no safe haven for them in their warrens.

By the end of the day, all of his enemies would either be imprisoned or dead, and the colony would finally be under control once again. It was too early to break out the champagne just yet, but there was still a show to enjoy.

“Crow – report,” he said, patching into the operative’s suit cameras. It was almost like being inside his PCE, Barbosa seeing the shadowy interior of a tunnel, a couple of SWAR fireteams flanking him. It was a nostalgic sight, reminding him of the good old days when everything was so much simpler, and his only responsibility was killing bad guys.

“We’ve infiltrated their base, Commander,” Crow replied as he swept the dark tunnel with his oversized rifle. “We encountered light resistance at the entrance, but our guys took out the sentries quietly. Our group went in through the main entrance, and we have several other teams infiltrating through side tunnels to prevent anyone from getting in or out. They still don’t know we’re coming.”

“Good,” Barbosa replied, turning his head to see Roach stalking behind him through Crow’s rear cameras. “Stick together and watch each other’s backs. They just took out Dozer with an AMR, and we don’t know how many are in play. Watch for traps, too. These bastards have had a lot of time to prepare the terrain. Pitfalls, IEDs, ambushes – use your radars and cycle your view modes.”

“Sapper teams are moving ahead,” Crow confirmed.

Barbosa could see them advancing a little further along the tunnel, outlined in blue.

“Looks like all the power is coming through this one line,” one of them mused, raising a hand to the wall. “It’s probably hooked up to the generator they were running on the surface.”

“Let’s follow it,” Roach replied. “We’ll cut it just before we engage. Don’t want to alert them too early.”

“The connection is getting spotty,” Barbosa said, watching the feed start to pixellate and crackle. “You’ll be too far below ground for me to keep tabs on you soon. Remember – nobody is ever going to find out what happened in those tunnels. Do whatever is necessary to solve our problem.”

“Roger that, Commander,” Crow replied.

DAY 37 – RESISTANCE BASE – CROW

“Go dark,” Crow ordered.

The two dozen SWAR operatives that flanked the PCEs in the wide tunnel switched off their flashlights and indicators – even the holographic sights and battery readouts on their XMRs turning off to avoid giving away their positions. The information would be fed to their HUDs instead. They switched from ad-hoc to laser comms, eliminating any radio emissions that could be picked up by the enemy. The jamming from the EWAR ship wouldn’t work down here – the meters of rock and dirt above their heads acted as a natural shield. They wouldn’t be able to communicate with the other teams until they came into line of sight, but they wouldn’t need to. Everyone knew the plan.

One of the sappers at the front of the pack paused by the thick, insulated power and data cables that ran along the dirt wall of the old mine, pulling a pair of clippers from his belt. The cables were sturdy, but his grip was as strong as any power tool, the dusty old lights that were mounted on the support beams along the ceiling fizzling out.

“You see a threat – you take it down,” Crow added. “There are no non-combatants down here. The Commander wants the place cleared out.”

“Doesn’t this remind you of the tunnel fighting back on Kerguela?” he heard Roach ask over a private channel. “Operation Ant Hill was a hell of a battle. I wish there’d been a Trog team stationed on the carrier – I’ve always wanted to see what those microwave guns would do to a person.”

“They think they’re safe underground,” Crow chuckled in reply. “Fuck the Trogs – this is what we trained for. We were doing tunnel work and busting hives before that program even existed.”

“Hit your radar,” Roach added. “These tunnels aren’t on any of the maps, and we don’t want any nasty surprises.”

Crow activated his onboard GPR, the device sending a pulse down the tunnel, mapping out the passageway in fine enough detail that he could pick out the individual support braces. If the enemy had dug any hidden side passages or pitfalls, they would know about it in advance. He didn’t fancy the idea of his eighteen-hundred-pound suit plummeting into some long-abandoned borehole.

One of the sappers raised a fist as a signal for them to stop, kneeling down beside the wall.

“Motion sensors,” he whispered. “They’re probably using them as an early warning system. They’re on a battery – give me a moment.”

His precise hands made short work of the devices, and they continued on, the agents sweeping the side tunnels with their weapons. Crow could see the targeting lasers that projected from the barrels of their rifles – the beams tuned to only be visible in specific wavelengths. These men were accustomed to clearing tunnels, and they had brought short-barreled PDWs and bullpup rifles for close-quarters fighting.

“Got a void ahead, just like the Commander warned,” Crow announced. His GPR had picked up a deep hole that had been excavated in one of the branching tunnels, probably to conceal some kind of spike pit.

“A lot of these tunnels are probably decoys,” Roach mused. “They’d expect intruders to take the wrong passages. There must be detailed maps on their servers. I’ll bet Song would like to see them.”

As they explored the mines, they encountered more traps and further evidence of human activity. It appeared that grenades hooked up to tripwires were the preferred deterrent, the sappers stopping every now and then to diffuse them. There were more pitfalls, and even a mining charge that had been rigged to collapse the ceiling if anyone tripped it. The operatives were accustomed to moving cautiously. The Bugs employed many similar tactics, including flooding areas of the hive, and sometimes entombing living Drones behind walls ready to ambush an unsuspecting intruder. Crow wondered whether these insurgents were capable of the same.

Finally, the sappers stopped, giving hand signals to indicate that they’d heard something up ahead. They waved one of the other teams forward, and six of the men advanced past the PCEs with their weapons at the ready, stacking up as they reached a corner. Crow tapped into the squad leader’s channel as the man slid the scope from its rail, holding it in his hand and slowly inching it around the bend in the tunnel. Ahead was a larger chamber – probably used to store equipment at one point, judging by a few empty crates that still remained. It had been made into a rudimentary checkpoint, a few sandbags arranged to form a little fort in the middle of the room. The lights were all off, but there was an orange glow that emanated from within the circle of sandbags – likely some kind of camping stove. There were several chairs arranged around it, and five of them were occupied by armed insurgents. A sixth was pacing around the fire, seeming agitated. Crow turned up the gain on his microphones, the system’s algorithms picking out their voices.

“Why the hell are the lights off?”

“I don’t know – I can’t get through to anyone.”

“You think it’s just the shitty wiring?”

“We should probably send someone up to check.”

“I say give it another ten minutes. The techs are probably already on it.”

Their bodies were outlined in red as the team leader marked them as targets, then he slid his scope back onto his weapon, locking it into place.

“Choose your targets and set minimum voltage,” he whispered as he began to creep forward. “They’re not wearing helmets. On my mark.”

Beyond the fire’s glow, the SWAR team lined up in the tunnel mouth, holding their weapons steady. They waited for their leader to fire, then a series of muffled cracks followed – the action of the weapons discharging the only sound that emanated from them. The insurgents dropped almost in tandem, a couple of them slumping in their chairs as the rest fell to the floor.

“Push up and clear the room,” Crow ordered.

The team slunk deeper, sweeping the edges of the chamber and leaning into the adjoining passageways.

“Clear.”

“Keep moving,” Roach said as he marched his PCE past the bodies. “We have a whole nest to clear out.”

DAY 37 – RESISTANCE BASE – NICK

“What the hell happened to the lights?” Nick asked as he jogged into the armory. He was using the night vision mode on his PDF surplus helmet, the camera casting the racks of weapons and rows of workbenches in ghostly shades of green.

There were a couple of people still working there, one of them aiming a flashlight in his direction. Its bright beam blew out the sensor – Nick cursing into the helmet as he tried in vain to cover his eyes. He fumbled with the touch panel on its temple – the controls still unfamiliar to him – and managed to raise his visor.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on watch?” one of the men asked. Most of the Marines and experienced PDF were out fighting, so it was probably a volunteer.

“I was, but the lights cut out. Anyone know what’s going on?”

“Network seems to be down too,” the other man added, his frowning face illuminated by the glow of a tablet computer. “Could just be a power outage. The wiring in this place is a mishmash of new stuff and thirty-year-old junk.”

“You guys mind watching the armory for a bit while I go check in with my CO?” Nick asked, gesturing to one of the exits behind him.

“I promise we won’t steal three hundred partially disassembled weapons while you’re gone,” he replied with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

“I’ll be back,” Nick said, giving him a nod. He turned and began to jog down the tunnel, flipping his visor closed and relying on the flashlight mounted on his weapon this time. He checked that the safety was on, wanting to make sure that he wasn’t aiming a loaded gun at people.

He made his way through the tunnels, passing a few people who were moving crates and pausing to tell them that he didn’t know what was going on any more than they did. As he rounded a bend, expecting to find his commanding officer and a few other sentries waiting for him, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The sentries were lying on the ground, and standing over them was a shadowy figure, Nick’s flashlight beam illuminating a wolf’s snarling face. The SWAR operative withdrew a serrated blade from his victim’s back, the droplets of crimson blood catching the light, turning his helmet towards the newcomer.

Terror paralyzed Nick for a moment, his limbic system spinning its wheels, the scant second allowing several more of the operatives to round the bend ahead with their weapons drawn. Flight won out over fight, and he spun around, sprinting back down the tunnel faster than he’d ever sprinted in his life. He’d only left his post for five minutes – how could it have happened so quickly? His heart hammering in his chest and cold sweat dampening his brow, he skidded around the corner and raced back into the tunnel that led to the armory, seeing the two men still carrying their crate ahead.

“Run!” he yelled, waving his rifle at them. “Run – they’re coming!”

The two workers seemed more confused than spurred to action by his strange behavior, pausing what they were doing to watch him pass by. Only a moment later, Nick heard the echoing sounds of gunfire and screaming as the operatives happened upon them. As he ran, he fumbled with his helmet, trying to patch into the local comms. The base’s wireless network seemed to be down, and the thick walls of rock and dirt prevented ad-hoc signals from reaching very far, but he had to raise the alarm somehow.

“Anyone on this channel!” he panted as he rounded another bend. “The Borgs are inside! Repeat – the Borgs are inside the base! Is anyone receiving me!?”

There was no answer, which could mean that nobody with a helmet was close enough, or that they were already dead…

When he made it back to the armory, he doubled over, breathing hard as he tried to suppress the nausea that was rising in his belly. It was like being transported back to his first ill-fated mission. The two men were still in the armory, glancing over at his strange appearance in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” one of them asked. “Did you find out why the lights are off?”

“Borgs!” he blurted between gulps of air. “The Borgs are here! Get guns!”

The two fighters shared a glance, then rushed over to the back of the room, pulling XMRs from the racks on the wall.

“What did you see?” one of them demanded as he slammed a magazine into his rifle.

“Four…maybe more,” Nick replied as he stood up straight. “Borgs…killing people in the tunnels.”

“We have to get the hell out of here!” one of the men insisted, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. “All of the Marines and PDF are out fighting in the city – we can’t hold off a fucking Borg attack! I used to work as a fucking foreman!”

“We should talk to whoever’s in charge,” the other added.

“I can’t get through to anyone on the radio,” Nick explained. “We’re on our own right now. We gotta move – they were right behind me.”

The two fighters followed him out of the armory through an adjacent tunnel, continuing their conversation as they ran.

“We should go to the conference room – that’s where all the decision-makers will be,” one of them suggested.

“If we can even get there without running into the Borgs, don’t you think that’s the first place they’d attack?” Nick protested. “Our job is to protect people, right? Ruza told me to look out for everyone, so that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“And how the hell are you gonna do that? You want the three of us to fight off who knows how many Borgs?”

“We have to get the civilians out,” Nick insisted. “We’ll hit up the mess hall, the storage area, and the infirmary – they’re all East of us. If we can get there before the Borgs do, maybe we can evacuate everyone to the surface.”

“We need to link up with more people first,” one of the fighters added. “There’s no way we can do this alone.”

“If the Borgs are already inside the base, we’re fucked,” the other added hastily. “We should get the hell out of here before they catch up with us!”

“Being scared is natural,” Nick shot back. “Letting fear rule you is cowardice. We have to keep it together. People are depending on us.”

They jogged through the winding network of tunnels, using their flashlights to navigate. Nick had no idea how many Borgs had made it past their defenses or which tunnels they might be using, and balancing caution with haste was a nerve-wracking experience. If they wasted time checking every corner, the enemy might catch up, but being too brazen could result in them running blindly into another kill team.

As they rounded a corner, they came upon a wandering civilian, the man covering his eyes as they aimed their flashlights at him in a panic.

“Who are you!?” Nick demanded. “Why are you walking around in the dark?”

“I’m Whitfield,” the stranger replied, blinking his eyes at them as they lowered their rifle. “Who the hell are you guys?”

“Nick,” he replied. “I’m a sentry.”

“I’m Cowan, and he’s Farrar,” one of his companions added with a gesture to his friend. “We were assigned to the armory.”

“Do any of you know why the lights are out?” Whitfield asked. “I just dropped off a shipment of canned food at the kitchen, then everything went dark. I don’t have my phone on me.”

“Have you just come from the mess?” Nick pressed. “Were there people in there?”

“Yeah, a few.”

“Follow us,” Nick added. “The base is under attack.”

“Oh, shit,” Whitfield muttered as he joined them.

They continued on to the mess hall, emerging into the large chamber to find a dozen people milling about. Many were sitting around the metal tables, chatting idly as they used their phones to illuminate the area, a few of them finishing off meals they must have only recently ordered. A couple of kitchen workers were standing behind the counter, likely having nothing to do with all of their appliances powered off.

“Good, they haven’t reached here yet,” Nick said. “Everyone!” he yelled, getting their attention. “The base is under attack, and we need to evacuate! Please follow us!”

“Under attack?” one of them asked.

“Is that why the power is out?” another added.

“Let’s get a move on!” Cowan shouted.

Everyone began to rise from their tables, but as they left their seats, a dull crack echoed down the tunnel behind Nick. Whitfield dropped as though his legs had been cut out from under him, dead before he could even change his expression, revealing a perfectly round hole in the back of his head as he toppled forward.

“Behind us!” Nick warned, leaping into cover. Cowan and Farrar did the same, the civilians in the mess hall scattering, their exclamations of fear and alarm filling the air. It was infectious, Nick putting his back to the dirt wall as he tried to fight back the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. He swallowed it down, then leaned his weapon around the corner, fumbling with the safety switch. The weapon bounced in his hands as he blind-fired into the tunnel, hoping that it would be enough to keep the enemy at bay for a time.

His companions realized what he was doing and followed suit, dumping slugs into the darkness. One of the men in the mess hall was a fighter, and he joined them, drawing a handgun and rushing to Nick’s side.

“Head through the storage areas!” Nick yelled over the gunfire. “Go go! Get the hell out of here!”

Everyone began to run in the direction of a tunnel that led out of the chamber, one of them knocking over a chair in his haste. Nick and his companions started to draw back, keeping their weapons trained on the entrance and letting off a few rounds every few steps as a deterrent. As they neared the exit, Cowan and Farrar flipped over one of the tables, taking a knee behind it. Nick had no idea if it would even stop an XMR slug.

There was a sudden blinding flash chased by a loud pop, Nick’s helmet darkening his visor and muffling his audio to protect him. Some kind of grenade had exploded at the mouth of the tunnel. His companions didn’t have helmets, and they ducked behind the table, closing their eyes and clutching their ears. If they’d still been firing from the other side of the room, a blast like that might have left them blinded and deafened.

A second grenade rolled into the chamber, gushing pale smoke that quickly filled the confined space, and through it came marching a trio of agents. Their arms were made from skeletal, black polymer that matched their dark armor, their helmets adorned with intimidating decals.

Farrar began to fire, the sound jolting Nick, and he followed suit. A hail of slugs dropped one of the Borgs, chewing through his chest piece and knocking him back onto the ground. The response was swift and accurate. Cowan lost most of his head to a well-placed shot, and the fighter with the handgun took a slug to the chest, the projectile tearing a hole in his back. Too shocked to process what was happening, Nick and Farrar fled down the tunnel, stumbling in their haste as whizzing rounds chased after them. It wasn’t until they were a hundred feet away that Nick even realized there was blood and brain matter splattered on his visor.

“This way,” Nick panted, taking a right at a junction. He’d learned the layout of the base quite well during his time stacking crates, and he knew his way around this area. As they came to another two-way junction, he skidded to a stop.

“What is it?” Farrar asked.

“Radio,” Nick replied, waving for him to be quiet. He was getting a signal over ad-hoc, so there must be more fighters nearby, but it was distorted and hard to make out. It sounded like someone was giving panicked orders in a raised voice.

As he continued on, the overlapping sounds became more distinct, and he could eventually hear the voices clearly.

“…repeat – the base is compromised. Evacuate, evacuate…”

“…flanking us from the right side! The right tunnel! They’re everywhere! We have to…”

“…holding them back! Don’t let them reach the infirmary! All units, all units – defend the…”

Nick led Farrar on, and they soon caught up with the group of civilians from the mess. They were huddled near one of the storage rooms, seemingly waiting for someone to come find them.

“Keep moving,” Nick said, waving them on. “We need to head to the infirmary – I think there are still people defending it.”

He had an ulterior motive for going through the storage area. This was where Amy, Bill, and Ricky should be working. The Doc would never forgive him if he didn’t get them out alive. Their small group rushed along the tunnel, Nick briefly ducking into the side rooms, scanning the rows of shelves and piles of crates for survivors. His flashlight beam swept across two women who were crouched behind a stack of boxes, lifting their heads cautiously when they realized they’d been spotted.

“Come on!” Nick said, gesturing for them to follow. “We’re evacuating!”

Three more workers joined them as they made their way along, and they eventually reached the junction that led to the infirmary, clearly marked by a sign that was mounted on one of the old support beams.

“The infirmary is this way,” Farrar said as Nick paused, glancing down the opposite passage.

“See that they get there,” Nick replied. “There’s someone I have to find.”

Farrar nodded, hefting his rifle as he guided the group down the tunnel and into the darkness. Nick gripped his XMR, trying to slow his racing heart. There was another place where his friends could be holed up, but he’d have to head in the direction of the fight to get there.

“Be brave,” he muttered under his breath as he set off at a run.

Further along the maze of passages, the sound of gunfire began to grow louder, echoing through the mine in a way that made its direction hard to pin down. The fighting was getting heavier.

He came to a corner, pausing and putting his back to the wall, hearing muffled shouting and gunfire. Slowly, he inched his head around the bend, peering into the passage beyond. He had already turned off his flashlight for fear of it giving away his position, his helmet showing him a grainy view of the tunnel, the support struts that held up the ceiling extending into the distance. Maybe a hundred feet away was a T-junction, the tunnel splitting into left and right forks.

From the left emerged a small group of four or five armed fighters, their lack of helmets suggesting that they weren’t Marines or PDF. They were retreating down the tunnel, backing away as they fired their XMRs at something out of view, Nick’s helmet deadening the loud cracks. One of them fell as a molten trail passed straight through him, a second dropping soon after, slumping against the wall as he clutched his belly. The third man made it down the right corridor and out of view, while the fourth fired from the hip, dumping the rest of his magazine at their pursuers. Nick saw a series of colorful flashes from the left tunnel, then something lumbered into view.

It was huge – easily seven feet tall, and wide enough to almost fill a tunnel that could fit two or three people standing shoulder to shoulder. It was a goddamned PCE. The fighter stood his ground and bellowed a challenge, some kind of shield flashing as the slugs hit the suit, splashing harmlessly against the thick panels of interlocking armor beneath. The giant figure reached out with a long arm, its thick, mechanical fingers closing around the fighter’s head. The man dropped his gun and reached up reflexively, clawing at the bulky forearm and letting out a scream, his boots kicking impotently as they left the tunnel floor.

The PCE allowed him to hang there for a moment, then it squeezed, crushing his skull with the same ease that a person might squash an orange. Blood and brain matter spilled between the robotic digits like pulp, and when it opened its fist, the lifeless body dropped to the ground limply. In an oddly human gesture, the giant suit tried to shake the residue from its hand, then returned it to an oversized rifle that looked like it weighed as much as a man.

It began to stalk away down the right tunnel, but its heavy footfalls were joined by more – a second PCE striding into view. One would be impossible for Nick to deal with, let alone two. It paused to glance down at the injured fighter who was clutching the wound in his stomach, the man glancing up at the barrel of its heavy XMR before it painted him all over the tunnel wall with a single trigger pull. It began to walk away, following its counterpart, but it seemed to hesitate for a moment.

It turned in Nick’s direction, giving him a brief flash of the painted shark teeth that adorned its angular canopy, the ball-shaped camera dome beneath its chin swiveling to look down the passage.

Nick snapped back into cover, closing his eyes and praying that it hadn’t seen him, beads of cold sweat dripping down his brow inside his helmet. His heart skipped a beat with each thudding footstep, its massive boots shaking the ground. Only when he heard the sound diminishing did he dare to exhale a breath, slowly leaning out again to check that the coast was clear. A couple of Borgs were stalking behind the thing – probably the last stragglers of its entourage – but they were heading away from him.

He slowly crept down the corridor, trying not to focus on the bodies, checking that the coast was clear before taking the left fork. As he hurried along, he came across another grisly sight. The tunnel led into a chamber, and both its mouth and the room beyond were littered with more victims. A dozen fighters must have tried to hold this junction against the assault, and it wasn’t hard to guess who had come out on top. Sandbags and crates had been hastily stacked to plug one of the entrances, and judging by the way they had been strewn across the floor, a PCE must have bulldozed its way through.

What had ensued must have been quick and brutal. Many of the bodies had taken multiple slugs, leaving massive wounds and severing limbs in a couple of cases. One of them had been crushed against the tunnel wall, while another had been badly burned – the leather jacket that he was wearing melted away to reveal a circular patch of scorched flesh that occupied most of his torso. What the hell had done that – some kind of plasma or incendiary weapon?

The Borgs weren’t taking prisoners – they were sweeping through the base and killing anyone they came across. Fighting back the urge to vomit, he pushed on, hoping against hope that he was now behind the bulk of the enemy forces. His destination wasn’t far away now, and the curves of the tunnels were growing more familiar, even painted in shades of night-vision green.

He had already steeled himself by the time he arrived at the barracks. The wide, hollowed-out tunnel was lined with rows and rows of metal cots, a few lockers and containers strewn around for storing personal belongings. The Borgs had been there first. There were more bodies lying on the floor, a few of them still in their beds, having likely been killed before they’d even had time to wake up.

Nick walked through the tunnel, feeling the chill air bite at him, the temperature dropping quickly with the ventilation and air conditioning systems offline. It was like walking through an open grave, the deathly silence amplifying the sound of his footsteps and his heavy breathing, his eyes wandering from one contorted figure to another. How many people had already died? Dozens? Hundreds?

He made it into another tunnel, taking a branching path that led down an unassuming passage with a bend that made it impossible to see inside. With his weapon drawn, he walked deeper, trying to make as little sound as possible. As he rounded the corner, something hit his helmet with a loud clunk, and he lurched backwards.

“Wait, wait – he’s one of ours!”

Nick flipped up his visor, seeing three familiar faces staring back at him. Amy, Bill, and Ricky were holed up exactly where he had hoped they would be, taking refuge in Ruza’s quarters. At the back of the truncated tunnel was the pile of old mattresses and sheets that the alien used as a bed, along with what few possessions he had brought with him, most of them stuffed in a duffel bag.

“Nick!?” Amy hissed, keeping her voice low. She rushed over to him and threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. “Oh, Nick! You’re safe!”

“Sorry,” Bill said sheepishly, lowering the length of pipe that he’d been brandishing. “I thought you were a Borg.”

“It’s lucky he was wearing that helmet,” Ricky added with a dry laugh. “Nick, please tell us what the hell is happening out there. The lights went off, the network went down, then we heard all this shouting and shooting. We didn’t know where to go, so we came here.”

“We were hoping Ruza might come back for us,” Amy added as she released him. “This seemed like the safest place to hide.”

“The Borgs have launched a full-scale assault on the base,” Nick explained. “They’ve found their way inside, and they’re killing everyone. We have to get to the infirmary – it’s our best shot at making it out alive.”

“Yeah, I figured that’s what all the gunfire was about,” Ricky added sarcastically. “I knew this would happen. We were always on borrowed time.”

“Congratulations, you’ve been proven right,” Amy chided as she put her hands on her hips and shot him a dirty look. “Are you happy now?”

“No,” he grumbled, folding his arms defensively.

“Is it safe to leave?” Bill pressed, still clutching his pipe as though it would do him any good. “Did you see any bad guys on the way here?”

“I don’t know,” Nick sighed, shaking his head. “They seem to be coming from every direction. I just passed a group of them a few minutes ago – only just managed to sneak past them. We don’t have the time to wait around and find out.”

“You haven’t seen Ruza at all?” Amy asked, sounding more worried now. “Has there been any word about what’s happening above ground?”

“Nothing,” Nick replied solemnly. “Whatever’s happening up there, we can’t rely on Ruza and the Marines anymore. We’re on our own, and there’s nobody coming to save us, so we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

“Right,” Bill said with a nod of agreement, tapping his pipe against his palm.

“Lead the way, Nick,” Amy said. “Oh, wait a moment,” she added as she hurried over to Ruza’s bed. She picked up what looked like a medkit and stuffed it into his duffel, slinging the bag over her shoulder. “He might want his stuff if we can’t come back.”

The four of them crept out into the main tunnel, Nick leading the way with his weapon ready. He checked that the coast was clear, then waved his friends forward, heading back in the direction of the deserted barracks. It was the last place he wanted to be, but there was no other way to reach the infirmary from his present position without passing through it.

“Amy, take Bill’s hand and close your eyes,” he warned as they neared the entrance.

“What? Why?”

“Just do it,” he insisted. “Don’t look.”

Realizing that he was being serious, she took Bill’s hand, covering her eyes as he led her along. They walked past the bodies, Bill and Ricky glancing around in disbelief, their silence telling Amy all that she needed to know. Only when they had passed the tunnel where Nick had seen the two PCEs did he let her open her eyes again, but he had no idea what they’d encounter further on. The Borgs could be anywhere in this maze of tunnels, and there was no way of knowing if they’d reach the infirmary first.

“This place is a death trap!” Ricky whispered as they made their way along, his face drained of color. “How are we supposed to get out of here?”

“There are smuggling tunnels and illegal mines all over the place,” Nick replied, checking a corner before waving them on. “There’s no way the Borgs know about all of them. If we can get to the infirmary and link up with the survivors, maybe we can find a way out. We have to evacuate the patients – we can’t just leave them to be slaughtered.”

“You really think they’d do that?” Amy asked.

“At this point, I think they’re capable of anything.”

Nick kept to the smaller, more out-of-the-way tunnels, hoping that the PCEs would be too large to fit down some of them. That was really the only advantage he had if worst came to worst and he had to face one – his size. He could squeeze down passages that they couldn’t, though the Borgs could follow him anywhere.

There was a sudden rumble that reverberated through the tunnels, a rush of air sweeping past them, blowing Amy’s blonde hair and making everyone flinch.

“What the hell was that?” Ricky demanded.

“Sounded like an explosion,” Bill added.

“I don’t know,” Nick replied. “But I think we should hurry.”

As they reached another three-way junction, Nick raised a fist in a silent gesture for them to stop, seeing the beam of a flashlight waving further down the left tunnel. Bill moved in front of his two friends with his pipe while Nick crept forward, chancing a quick look around the corner. He was relieved to see that it was a trio of resistance fighters, the men armed with rifles. Keeping his body in cover, he extended a hand to wave to them, popping open his visor.

“Hey!” he said as loudly as he dared. “Over here!”

They started at the sound of his voice, but soon lowered their weapons and hurried over to meet him.

“Boy, are we glad to see someone who isn’t trying to murder us,” one of them began, pausing to greet Nick’s companions with a nod.

“Do you guys have any fresh info?” Nick asked. “Any new orders?”

“Nobody from my team has been in contact with leadership,” the fighter replied solemnly. “The comms are all down. No word from the surface, either. We just came from one of the checkpoints – lost half my fucking squad to those robot bastards.”

“Which direction?” Nick asked.

“North,” he replied, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb. “We took a shortcut through the server rooms, and everyone was either dead or gone.”

“Fuck,” Nick muttered. “We just came from the West. They’ve already swept through the barracks and the mess hall. They’re coming from every direction.”

“We’re heading for the infirmary,” the fighter added. “You should come with us.”

“Same,” Nick replied with a nod. “I heard there were still people holding out there.”

There was another blast, followed by a strong gust of wind, a pressure wave washing over them.

“Any idea what that is?” Ricky asked as he covered his ears.

“They’re blowing the tunnels to slow the Borgs down,” the fighter replied. “It’s a last resort kind of thing. If they’re detonating those explosives, it means that we’re evacuating for good. The base is being abandoned.”

“Here’s hoping a few of those assholes get buried,” one of his squadmates added.

They grouped up, the three fighters forming up around Nick’s friends to protect them as they continued on their way, the claustrophobic passages winding through the darkness. Nick was the only one with a helmet, so he took point, using its low-light functions to navigate. The sound of far-off battles still echoed through the tunnels, but they were growing more distant, the shouting and gunfire becoming faint.

When they eventually neared the infirmary, Nick spotted a light ahead, turning off his night vision. After spending a few moments worrying that it might be another flashlight, he realized that it was something else, and he soon emerged from the dark tunnel into a well-lit chamber. Much like the barracks, the infirmary had been set up in an old hollowed-out mine tunnel, taller and wider than the smaller passages that linked the chambers together.

The walls were lined with cots and gurneys intended for recovering patients, a few scattered medical devices with readouts and trailing cables standing between them. A few of the beds were encircled by privacy curtains made from tarps hung from copper pipes, and deeper into the room were a few inflatable surgical tents that looked like puffy marshmallows to his untrained eye. The lights that ran along the ceiling were turned on, as were the monitoring machines, and he could feel a steady flow of fresh air tugging at his uniform. They must be using emergency generators.

The room was a hive of activity – filled with people hurrying back and forth. There were doctors and nurses in their scrubs and white coats, along with civilians in Hadean dress who were taking refuge, and several squads of fighters who were standing guard with their guns trained on the entrances. It was lucky that they weren’t trigger-happy, the men lowering their weapons when they saw Nick emerge with his rifle raised above his head. They waved him forward, and his little group hurried past the line of sandbags and storage crates. The three fighters he’d met along the way took up position beside their comrades, while Nick and his friends proceeded deeper.

Everyone seemed to be preparing to leave. Some of the medical personnel were salvaging whatever supplies they could carry, while others were helping injured patients along, aided by the civilians. The beds were all empty now, and anyone who could walk on their own had retreated to the back of the room, all of them sporting various bandages and mesh casts. A handful were nursing very recent injuries while nurses tended to them. There were a few more seriously wounded patients who were lying on stretchers waiting to be carried off. Nick didn’t have a good idea of how many people had been inside the base, especially with the bulk of the resistance members fighting on the surface, but he didn’t count more than a couple of hundred people at the most.

“Is this all that’s left?” Amy asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Why is everyone just hanging around?” Ricky asked. “We need to leave!”

“They’re probably waiting for stragglers,” Bill suggested as he watched a doctor rush past. “We might be some of the last people out.”

Nick spotted Farrar pushing through a group of civilians ahead of him, raising a hand in greeting.

“Good to see you made it here,” he began.

“Same to you,” Nick replied. “Did you get everyone here safely?”

“Yeah,” he replied, pausing to glance at Nick’s trio of friends. “Looks like you found what you were looking for.”

“What’s the situation?” Nick pressed, popping open his visor to get a breath of filtered air. “Do we have a game plan?”

“You got here just in time,” Farrar replied, resting a hand on his rifle as it hung from his shoulder on its sling. “We’re about to move out. They set off the last of the explosives to collapse the tunnels behind us, but I don’t know how effective that’s going to be. The Borgs advanced pretty quickly, and nobody has been able to slow them down. Come on – we need every pair of hands. A lot of these people can’t walk.”

A crack rang out, the entire chamber going deathly quiet, the murmur of conversations fading. A heartbeat later, a full-blown gunfight began, the fighters who were defending the entrances unloading down one of the tunnels. With the way they were firing, they must be suppressing Borgs that were trying to get through the passage, but that would only last until they ran out of ammo or the PCEs arrived.

“Go, go!” one of them yelled, turning to wave at the onlookers. “Get everyone out!”

The crowd began to move with purpose rather than panic, filtering towards the back of the room, the loud gunfire making it almost impossible to hear anyone who wasn’t standing close by. The injured went first, the more able-bodied of the group helping them along, throwing arms around shoulders and lifting stretchers. Nick had no idea where they would be taken once they got to the surface, but that was a problem for the future.

“Go on – get to the exit,” Nick insisted as his friends hesitated. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Ricky and Bill lifted a stretcher between them at the direction of a nearby doctor. It was occupied by a man who had sustained an injury to both legs, his limbs bandaged and braced. Amy carried some supplies, flinching with each fresh burst of gunfire, while Farrar helped a man with a broken ankle hobble towards a tunnel at the back end of the chamber.

“The old smuggling route will take you up to the surface!” one of the doctors said, trying to raise his voice over the gunfire. “Follow the data cables on the wall, and don’t veer off the path!”

Nick heard someone call his name, and he turned to see Jarek hobbling over to him on crutches. It was the first time the two had met since the morning following their ill-fated mission, but Jarek greeted him like an old friend, passing both crutches to one hand before embracing him in a one-armed hug.

“Nick!” he exclaimed, releasing his hold. “You’re alive! I was worried the Borgs might have gotten you.”

“No, I’m still kicking,” Nick replied.

“I’m not,” Jarek joked with a gesture to his leg. His thigh was still bandaged up, and there was a protective brace covering the limb, probably to keep it from moving around while the shattered bone healed. “Can’t put any weight on the damned thing, or else it feels like someone’s stabbing me with broken glass. The Borgs just can’t leave me be, can they?”

“Come on, I’ll help you,” Nick said. He let his rifle hang from its sling, then lifted Jarek’s arm over his shoulder, supporting his weight.

“You keep saving my ass, and I’m gonna start thinking you like me,” Jarek grumbled as he struggled to take a step.

The injured began to move down the tunnel, the narrow passage meaning that only a couple of people could fit through at a time, the stretchers making the tighter turns difficult. Nick made sure that his friends were through, hanging back and watching the line of fighters fire off bursts into the darkness. Return fire was coming their way now, bright trails of molten tungsten briefly illuminating the uneven tunnel walls and rows of corroded supports, forcing the defenders to duck into cover. One round blasted out into the chamber, creating a shower of sparks as it impacted some kind of heart monitor machine, sending pieces of its chassis scattering across the floor.

“We’d better get moving,” Jarek grumbled, wincing as he took another step. “They’ll be through any minute now, and I’ve had my fill of being shot for one lifetime.”

As much as Nick wanted to stay and bolster the line, Jarek and the others needed him. It wasn’t as though his shoddy marksmanship was going to turn the tide of the battle if those PCEs showed up anyway. At least they couldn’t fit through the cramped smuggling tunnel.

It was a longer walk than Nick had been expecting, the old, practically abandoned pathways leading the group of refugees back towards the city. It was slow going, both because of the injured, and because of the state of the tunnels. Some areas were so tight that they had to walk in single file, and the stretchers could barely get around some of the corners. The sound of battle had long since faded, and Nick couldn’t guess if the fighters holding the line behind them had made it out. They could have abandoned the defensive line and followed behind the civilians, or they could have been killed – he had no idea. Jarek began to stumble after a while, unable to keep pace, so Nick hefted him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

They eventually reached the exit and began to climb up through an opening in the tunnel roof, filtering through a couple of people at a time. When it was Nick’s turn, he passed Jarek to a pair of civilians who helped haul him up, Nick remaining behind to assist until the last few stragglers were through. When he climbed out, he found himself standing in what looked like the basement of a warehouse. The roof was supported by rows of concrete pillars, and the walls were lined with old ventilation systems and air conditioners, motes of dust floating through the flashlight beams that illuminated the room. The smuggling tunnel must have brought them out in one of the old abandoned industrial parks on the outskirts of the colony.

Nick glanced around at the group of evacuees. Most of the civilians in their leather coats and shawls were huddling together, looking around nervously, some of them already donning their masks now that they were on the surface again. They looked exhausted – drained, their eyes either peering about erratically or staring emptily into the distance. The injured were being triaged – the medical staff lining up the stretchers and helping the walking wounded sit down, tending to a few of the more recent and pressing injuries with what supplies they had. There were only a few fighters standing guard warily, as most of them had remained behind to cover the retreat. They watched the tunnel opening and the flight of stairs that led out of the basement, still on edge.

“Nick,” Amy gasped, hurrying through the crowd to give him a hug. “I wasn’t sure if you’d made it out. The tunnels were so narrow that I couldn’t see very far behind me.”

Bill and Ricky made their way over too, the four friends reuniting. They looked just as tired and scared as everyone else, but they were alive.

“What do we do now?” Ricky asked of nobody in particular. “Where do we go?”

“I think we’re beneath one of the industrial parks,” Nick replied as he glanced around the dingy basement. “Once things die down, we could filter back into the city.”

“And what if they find us?” Bill asked. “They know our faces – they tried to arrest us once already, remember?”

“There’s somewhere else we could go,” Amy added, pausing to consider for a moment. “During one of our recent meetings, Ruza spoke of an abandoned geothermal plant far outside the colony. He wanted to set up a base of operations there and start moving people out.”

“He must have figured something like this could happen,” Nick sighed. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yeah – it’s on our maps,” she replied. “That’s not the hard part, though. It’s quite a trek across the desert – not an easy journey by any means. They’d never make it,” she added quietly, looking pointedly to the injured fighters.

“Maybe we could find a vehicle,” Bill suggested. “Drive them out.”

“We’d never make it out of the city with all the drones around,” Ricky replied. “We don’t know what happened during the operation, either. Who knows if Ruza and the others are even coming back?”

“Don’t say that,” Amy replied angrily. “Ruza will come back for us – he has to.”

“We might not have a choice but to head back home and try to keep a low profile,” Nick suggested. “The Borgs don’t know most of the resistance members by name. We don’t have the capability to care for the more seriously injured anymore, and I don’t see that we have an option but to take them to the hospital. Maybe the more sympathetic staff members can fudge their records – try to keep them safe.”

“It’s all fucked,” Ricky muttered, shaking his head.

“Where are you going?” Amy asked, reaching out to grab Nick’s arm as he turned away.

“I’m going back,” he replied sternly. “Those guys stayed behind to make sure we all got out. If there are any of them left, they could be injured.”

“You can’t!” Amy replied, tears starting to well in her eyes as she clutched at his sleeve. “The whole base was overrun – the Borgs were right behind us! You’ll die if you go back!”

“I’m not leaving anyone behind,” he insisted, easing her hand away. “It’s what the Doc would expect of us. He came for you when the Borgs had you jailed, and he came for me when I was stuck in the city with Jarek. If there’s a chance someone is still alive down there, I’m getting them out.”

“Fuck this,” Ricky hissed. “We should get the hell out of here while we still can! We escaped by the skin of our teeth, and you want to go back?”

“Good luck, Nick,” Bill said as he placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll take care of Amy and the others.”

“If you’re gone by the time I get back, I’ll try to reach that geothermal plant,” Nick said as he checked his rifle. “We can meet up there. If Ruza was talking about it, it’s probably where he’ll end up too. If I know him, he’s probably already stashed some supplies there.”

Amy seemed to have accepted that she couldn’t dissuade him, and she gave him another tearful hug, Bill and Ricky looking on solemnly.

“I’m going back for the others!” Nick declared, his voice echoing through the basement. “Any takers?”

“Once more into the breach,” Farrar said, loading a fresh magazine as he walked over. “Why the hell not?”

A handful more joined them, forming a small squad of five, but it was better than nothing.

“If I don’t come back, tell Ruza that our talk helped,” Nick said as his friends watched him lower himself into the tunnel. “He’ll know what it means.”

DAY 37 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – RUZA

Ruza ducked into an alley, aiming the heavy AMR over the heads of the trailing Marines to cover them as they rushed behind him. Rivera paused, lifting his XMR and letting off a burst of gunfire, the rounds hitting a surveillance drone that had been hovering above them.

“We’re not far from a tunnel entrance,” Rivera said, turning back to Ruza. “Just a little further.”

The city was giving way to more industrial structures now, the prefabs replaced with warehouses and depots, letting Ruza know that they were nearing the city’s outskirts. While there were many smuggling tunnels inside the city limits, it would be much safer to enter unseen, where the drones and the carrier could not observe. They had timed their protest well, and there was already another dark wall of dust looming on the horizon, a fresh sandstorm threatening to blanket the colony once more.

The sounds of battle still rang out, but the conflict was much diminished, and it seemed that the bulk of the resistance forces had been driven to ground. As their small team approached an old cargo depot, they heard a noise, Ruza swinging his weapon around to aim at a pair of men who were emerging from behind an empty container.

They were armed, but their clothing suggested they were resistance fighters, their leathers adorned with reflective armbands. The newcomers seemed just as surprised to see the Marines, the two sides quickly lowering their weapons.

“Where the hell did you two come from?” Rivera demanded.

“If you’re heading to the base, forget it,” one of them replied from behind his rebreather. “It’s been overrun.”

“What?” Ruza demanded. “Explain.”

“The Borgs,” the second fighter added. “They sent teams into the mines – fuckers came from multiple directions in a coordinated attack. They hit our checkpoint hard and pushed deeper into the base, killing everyone in their path. We barely made it out alive.”

“We must hurry,” Ruza added, gearing up to leave.

“Don’t bother,” the fighter replied. “It’s fuckin’ over, man. Anyone who tries to retreat into the base is just gonna run into the Borgs.”

“Damn it!” Rivera snarled. “This was what Barbosa meant when he said we’d have uninvited guests. He must have discovered the location of the base before our operation even began, and he was ready to deploy SWAR teams to take it out while the bulk of our fighters were attacking the garrisons. We’ve been playing into his hands this entire time!”

“Are there survivors?” Ruza pressed, stepping closer to the fighters and making them back away reflexively at his intimidating countenance. “What of the civilians?”

“No clue,” one of the men replied. “We didn’t stick around to find out. We started out the day with twelve guys, and we’re the only two who made it out. They had PCEs – we couldn’t hold them off.”

“How long ago did this happen?” one of the Marines asked.

“An hour, maybe two,” the man replied. “It happened fast.”

“Then we have to assume that the base is compromised,” Rivera said, reverting to a more analytical tone.

“We cannot simply abandon them to their fates,” Ruza insisted, turning to glare at Rivera.

“Oh, are you gonna launch another one-man rescue mission and take on the enemy all by yourself?” Rivera demanded, flipping open his visor to return the Rask’s angry stare. “If you had followed my orders and done what I told you to do, maybe you could have been there to help. It’s too fucking late now.”

“I will not apologize for saving you and your men,” Ruza snarled.

“This is a war, Ruza!” Rivera snapped. He held his weapon in one hand, jabbing an accusing finger at the alien with the other. “If you had taken the AMR back to the goddamned base with Reed’s group like we planned – like I ordered you to do, you could have made a difference. We all agreed on the plan, and we have a chain of command for a reason. If you want to play lone wolf and get yourself killed, be my guest, but you don’t get to make judgment calls that jeopardize the whole operation.”

The onlookers watched nervously as the two squared off, one of Rivera’s Marines moving to intercede, but they were interrupted by a deafening blast. Everyone ducked low as a pressure wave washed over them, Ruza’s ears flattening against his head, and he turned to see a dark cloud rising on the horizon. This was no mere burning APC or mining charge detonation – a torrent of black smoke and dust was billowing towards the sky, forming a shape like a mushroom as it slowly grew.

“What the fuck was that?” one of the Marines asked. “Is that a nuke?”

A streak of bright light punched a visible hole in the wispy clouds high in the stratosphere, painting a burning trail towards the ground. It impacted near the mushroom, disrupting its shape as it displaced the air, a flash of light as bright as a sunrise forcing Ruza’s eyes closed for a moment. When he was able to open them again, he saw another torrent of rising dust, a second shockwave reaching him moments later. It created a front of white vapor, hitting him with enough force to make him stumble, the ground beneath his paws shaking.

“That’s no nuke,” Rivera growled, slamming his visor closed. “That’s kinetic – one kiloton barrage.”

“The carrier,” Delgado gasped. “Barbosa is firing the ventral battery!”

More streaks appeared in the sky, falling like meteors, trailing flames as they raced towards the surface at speeds Ruza could not fathom. They struck one after another, dozens of sabots impacting the planet mere seconds apart, each one making the ground tremble and creating a sound like a thunderclap as it threw up another cloud of smoke. It was like someone was firing a giant XMR at Hades.

“The base is in that direction,” Ruza said, his voice subdued as he watched the projectiles streak down like falling stars. “They are impacting beyond the city.”

“They’re shelling it,” Rivera explained. “There isn’t going to be a base anymore.”

“Where do we go now, Staff Sergeant?” one of the Marines asked. “What’s the backup plan?”

“The base was our backup plan,” Rivera muttered, watching as another salvo pummeled the surface. “Barbosa has cut off our retreat – we have no safe positions to fall back to.”

“He won’t give up until we’re all dead and the city is fully under his control,” the Marine replied, turning to appraise the nearby warehouse. “We should take cover in the industrial park and wait for the heat to die down. Maybe we can figure something out.”

“The city has fallen,” Ruza declared, another shockwave tugging at his sandy hair. “Our communications are down, our forces are scattered, and we have nowhere to regroup. We can no longer challenge the occupiers.”

“That sounds suspiciously like giving up to me,” Rivera chided.

“We do not have the luxury of surrender,” Ruza growled. “I have known leaders like Barbosa, and he will show us no mercy. There is one place that we may yet take refuge – the geothermal plant.”

“The one that you mentioned during the meeting?”

“The same. I scouted it with a sniper team, and we stored a small cache of supplies there.”

“Just in case you had to bug out,” Rivera muttered. “You really don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“I prefer to plan for the worst and be pleasantly surprised when things go well,” Ruza replied.

“Can we reach it?”

“It will be arduous, but yes. We must wait for the next sandstorm to arrive,” he added as he glanced at the ominous clouds that loomed on the horizon. “If we do not move under its cover, Barbosa will simply shell us from orbit.”

“It’s a plan,” Rivera conceded. “Not a very good one, but it’s what we have. You two,” he continued, addressing the pair of fighters. “Fall in. Let’s keep moving – more drones will be on their way, and the Borgs won’t be far behind.”

“Nah, fuck that,” one of them replied with a shake of his masked head. “I’m done, man. It’s fucking over. They won, we lost, end of story. I’m not gonna stick around so some crazed cyborg can pull my arms off. I’m going home.”

“This fight isn’t over,” Rivera shot back. “You can still make a difference.”

“I got kids,” the second fighter added with a shrug. “I just saw a guy lose all the flesh on his face to a plasma rifle, and now this,” he scoffed with a gesture to the drifting mushroom clouds. “What do you want us to do – fist fight a carrier? I’m going to go back to work, keep my head down, and wait for this to blow over.”

“Get back here!” Rivera snapped as the two men began to walk away across the dusty concrete. “I’m ordering you!”

“We’re not in the Navy!” one of them called back, removing his armband and tossing it to the ground.

“Remind me never to work with civilians again,” Rivera grumbled.

CHAPTER 20

DAY 37 – HADES – PETROVA

“Get off the street,” Petrova warned, waving her friends into an alley. She kept her captured XMR raised, clutching it in her prosthetic hands, covering them as they hurried past her.

They had finally made it back to Fran’s prefab, and the battle seemed to be dying down. The exchanges of gunfire that rang out across the city were less frequent, and the streets had become all but deserted, the protesters and insurgents alike retreating to cover. Whatever Barbosa had done, it seemed to have worked, but at what cost?

Fran hurried up the metal steps to her front door, scanning her phone on the reader to unlock it.

“Hurry, hurry!” she hissed as she guided Sam and Carl to safety. Petrova moved to join them, but Fran blocked her path, standing at the top of the steps. It wasn’t difficult to guess what she was thinking.

“Fran,” Petrova began, lowering the weapon. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t know what would go down at the protest, or I would never have allowed you to go.”

“Coming here to occupy Hades is one thing,” Fran replied sternly. She sounded like a mother scolding her child, Petrova feeling herself shrink away reflexively. “All of the people who have died, the rationing, the repression – that’s another. I thought you were my friend, but it was just an act the whole time. You lied to me in my own house, you lied to my friends, and you made a mockery of our trust. You almost got the people I care about killed. I’m not going to let you make us pawns in some spy ring.”

“I…” Petrova hesitated, struggling to find the right words. It was so easy to lie – so easy to detach herself and play the part, but Fran wasn’t addressing Val. She was addressing Petrova. “I didn’t pretend to be your friend,” she continued, looking over Fran’s shoulder to see Sam and Carl peering out at her. “I didn’t mean to…that wasn’t part of my assignment. Yes, I made contact at the bar because I was looking for information, and I needed to embed myself within the local population.”

“You describe it with all the grace of a tick,” Fran grumbled.

“I just…those are the terms we use,” Petrova stammered as she quickly moved on. “My point is – nobody made me be friends with you. I liked you guys. I enjoyed spending time with you. I protected you from the PDF, didn’t I?”

“We would be pretty dead without her,” Sam conceded.

Fran’s stern features began to soften a little, but they were interrupted by a blast, an overpressure wave sweeping across the city and blowing a wall of displaced dust with it. Fran had to grip the guard rail of her steps, and Petrova ducked, her cochlear implants dampening the following thundercrack to protect her ears. Her training kicking in, she spun her weapon in the direction of the sound, lowering the barrel when she saw a shower of streaking stars falling towards the planet. They impacted one by one, throwing up great torrents of ash and dust, forming dark pillars of black smoke that rose into the stratosphere.

“What the hell’s happening now!?” Carl demanded, leaning out of the door to peer at the horizon. Sam did the same, his jaw hanging agape.

“The carrier,” Petrova began, still wrestling with what she was seeing. “Blyat, those have to be one-kilo sabots. What are they doing?”

The four of them watched – transfixed, until the barrage finally ceased and the ground stopped shaking. The mushroom clouds were drifting now, creeping across the sky, blown by the winds of the encroaching storm.

“I think you’ve done enough damage for one day,” Fran finally said, tearing her eyes from the morbid sight. “I’d like you to leave.”

Petrova looked past Fran’s stony face, her gaze drawn to the warm glow of the prefab behind her. Val wasn’t a real person, and this wasn’t part of her mission, but she found herself pining for the way things had been before. Fran’s silly obsession with flowers, their visits to the bar, Carl and Sam arguing about politics while Fran mediated – it all felt so distant now. All she had to go back to was her lonely, sterile prefab – devoid of any of that warmth.

She looked to Sam and Carl, searching for any signs of sympathy, but they wouldn’t countermand Fran.

“Alright,” Petrova replied, lowering her head and turning away. She raised her rifle, shifting her mind to the task at hand as she left Fran behind, heading deeper into the maze of prefabs. If Val was no longer wanted, she would just have to be Petrova instead. There was much to do. She had to get in contact with Barbosa and find out whether his plan to crush the insurgency had succeeded, and she needed to pick up the Rask’s trail again. He was a survivor, and her instincts told her that he was still out there somewhere. If she hadn’t wasted so much time evacuating the civilians, perhaps she would have been able to track him down during the chaos. The Rask was all that mattered now – he was all she had.

She knew what protocol demanded. When she got back to her prefab, she would inform Song that her identity had been revealed, and he would send a team of operatives to black bag her friends. They would be disappeared – sent into the bowels of some prison somewhere, or perhaps even quietly disposed of. She knew what she had to do, so why couldn’t she bring herself to do it? Why was Val’s rejection – a fictional person – making her cry?

Petrova paused to lean against the wall of a prefab, hearing her own hitching breath echo through the empty alley.

DAY 37 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“I’m having a wonderful time!” Barbosa declared, spreading the arms of his PCE in triumph. “I’ve always wanted to fire the main battery of a jump carrier!”

He watched through his myriad of feeds as the mushroom cloud from the orbital bombardment drifted across the city, casting its dark shadow on the streets below. The battle for Hades was all but won. The rioters had been corralled and broken by the PDF, the remnants of the scattered insurgency were being mopped up by SWAR teams, and their base was now a smoldering ruin.

“Good effect on target,” Song replied dispassionately. “Damage to the populated areas of the city is negligible.”

“We usually use those yields for close support and collapsing shallow Bug tunnels,” Barbosa mused as he watched the readout. The mouth of the old mine that had housed the insurgent base had once been surrounded by a small industrial park, the abandoned property scattered with derelict buildings and rusted pieces of machinery. From the air, it would have been impossible to guess that it was occupied, and it was only one of many derelicts left out in the wasteland to rot by ExoCorp. Now, it was a field of craters, rendered as pocked and sterile as the surface of an asteroid. If anyone had managed to hide from the kill teams that had swept through its tunnels, they wouldn’t have survived what came after…

“Crow,” he began, opening a line to the operative. “How are things going on your end? I trust that your foray into the base was a success?”

“Mission accomplished, Commander,” Crow replied, sounding just as chipper. “We’re on our way back to Garrison One. The hunting was very good today.”

“Glad to hear it,” Barbosa said with a hearty chuckle. “I hope you put those PCEs through their paces. I’m sure Song will want to examine your combat data when you get back. Speaking of which, what were you able to recover?”

“We came away with a few choice prisoners, along with the entire contents of their server cluster,” Crow replied. “That should give Song something to pore over while he’s forwarding phone calls up there. Everything they had is now ours. We didn’t leave anyone alive, and if someone was hiding in a side tunnel somewhere, that barrage of yours will finish the job. Some may still be hiding in the larger tunnel network – it probably runs beneath the whole colony – but we’ll track them down in time. Without support or supplies, they won’t last long.”

“I wish I could be down there with you like in the old days,” Barbosa sighed. “Sounds like you pulled off one hell of an operation.”

“How are things going topside, Commander?” Crow asked.

“The enemy is routed, and the city is back under control,” Barbosa replied, puffing out his chest proudly within his suit. “As I had hoped, the riots exposed the most committed dissidents, and the PDF have taken most of them into custody. I’ve arrested all of the union leadership, too. There won’t be any more strikes or protests. We can finally put this whole affair behind us and get back on track. We still have around five months until the UNN is scheduled to arrive, so there’s time to enact the plan.”

“I have to commend them,” Crow added. “They gave us the runaround for a while there. I wasn’t expecting to see so much action so soon, but they kept things interesting.”

“This short-lived rebellion of theirs only benefits us in the long term,” Barbosa confirmed. “We now know a lot more about this colony, its people, and its infrastructure. Our teams and the PDF have both gained valuable experience, and while we’ve suffered some painful losses, I think we’re all the stronger for it. Sharpening a blade requires removing material, after all.”

“Right you are, Commander.”

“Head back to base and get that data uploaded to the carrier,” Barbosa replied. “I’ll let Song know. I’m sure it’ll make his day. You’ll have to excuse me for now – I’m getting another call.”

He closed the feed with Crow and opened up a second, seeing an image of the Governor standing beside his office window. Beyond the glass, he could make out a grainy view of the square, its ornamental monolith still surrounded by groups of PDF riot police. In the distance, the mushroom cloud loomed over the skyline.

“Governor,” Barbosa began. “I trust that our security forces were able to keep your building secure during the riots? I’m pleased to inform you that order has finally been restored. The dissidents have been arrested, and our raid on the insurgent base has been carried out with resounding success. They won’t be troubling us anymore.”

“What have you done, Barbosa?” the Governor asked as he turned to glare at the camera. For someone with such a generous figure, he looked strangely gaunt – his eyes ringed by dark circles and his cheeks sallow. “Why are you shelling my colony?”

“Relax, Governor,” Barbosa continued. “It was just a short one-kilo barrage from our ventral battery. They’re low-yield sabots designed for just this kind of work. We were very careful to avoid damage to any populated areas. The insurgent base was located in an old abandoned mine outside the city limits, and it’s presently a smoldering crater. Their forces were repelled, and any survivors have now lost their only place of refuge. Their options now are the wasteland or surrender. Once we’ve had some time to analyze the information we dumped from their servers, I’d like you to release an address promising amnesty for anyone who turns themselves in to the authorities. Many are able-bodied workers, and there’s no reason we should let that manpower go to waste now that the threat has passed. I’m sure many of them will see reason, especially with such unenviable alternatives.”

“My city is on fire,” the Governor pressed, clearly unswayed. “This is worse than the fight to oust the Syndicate. We haven’t even counted how many citizens have been injured or killed at this stage, but it’s probably in the hundreds, and that’s a conservative estimate.”

“You can thank the insurgents for using the protest as a cover for their terrorism,” Barbosa grumbled. “We restored order to the city and conducted a surgical strike to eliminate the insurgent base. It was as clean and as painless as I could make it. You should be thanking me – I lost several SWAR teams during the fighting, along with another PCE and three dropships. Those men gave their lives to restore order to your colony.”

“I’m getting reports from my contacts that all of the union leadership has been arrested,” the Governor continued. “The same goes for many protesters involved in the strikes. You do realize that my relationship with the unions was the only thing holding this colony together and giving you any leverage over its population? I don’t think you understand how negative the reactions to this could be. It might inspire a whole new wave of resistance.”

“And we’ll deal with that in the same way.”

“When you remove all legal means of resistance, you leave people no avenue but the illegal,” the Governor pressed. “You could push law-abiding people to violence.”

“I think that our showing today should act as a suitable deterrent for those considering breaking the law.”

“What about the insurgent leaders?” the Governor added. “Did you eliminate them?”

“Not as such,” Barbosa replied, his mood souring somewhat. “I know that Rivera and his pet Rask weren’t present at the base during the shelling. I’d put credits on those greasy little bastards worming their way out of danger once again, but there’s nowhere for them to run now. They have no support, no supplies, and no way off the planet. The same goes for any surviving Marines. I control the anchor. I control the food supply. They can starve in the tunnels, languish in the industrial parks, or die of exposure in the wasteland – their choice. Besides, I still have trusted people on the job. They’ll find them.”

“Can we please resume talks about the food situation now?” the Governor asked with a tired exhalation.

“All in due time,” Barbosa replied, closing the call. “Song, stand by for a large data dump. Roach and Crow are bringing you back a present.”

DAY 37 – HADES WASTELAND – RUZA

Ruza trudged through the dunes, his wide paws helping to keep him from sinking, his protective leather clothing whipping in the wind. The storm was upon them, the airborne sand hammering his protective goggles, the wall of encroaching dust darkening the sky. It would be dangerous to remain exposed for too long – even their thick garments and protective gear wouldn’t stave off the worst of it – but they had no choice other than to move under its cover. The drones could not fly in these conditions, and neither could the carrier’s sensors see through them.

Rivera and the nine surviving Marines moved along behind him in a loose column. The humans were less suited to such conditions, though their stamina was as impressive as ever, and their training kept them strong. Were he not so accustomed to desert conditions, they might have outpaced him by now.

The geothermal plant was an arduous trek from the city, situated out in the wasteland. ExoCorp had been given no choice but to build the plant wherever the conditions were most suitable. Through the growing haze of sepia, he spotted its shadow ahead – the only artificial structure for miles around. As they neared, he could better make out the surrounding rock formations that cradled it. He knew little about such plants, save that they drew heat from the planet itself, and they had to be located above a suitable reservoir of magma. These low mountains and columns of jutting basalt might be evidence of some tectonic fault line.

Just like the interior of the steel plant, what Ruza was looking at made little sense to his untrained eye. The plant was built into the side of an outcrop that elevated it above the churning ocean of sand dunes below, forming a kind of island, its mess of silver pipes and supports melding with the rock. It was nestled within some taller hills that formed a kind of wind barrier around it, the erosion from millennia of storms leaving their faces stripped bare, a few patches of odd hexagonal columns still visible in places. The structure itself was made up of rows of massive tanks and tall chimneys, all of them joined by networks of smaller pipes and supporting gantries.

Such a remote location required a place where the crew could live and work. Buried beneath it all, like a stone under the spreading roots of a tree, was a more familiar structure with windows that looked out over the desert. He had scouted the building with his snipers, and he knew it to be large and secure enough to house them safely.

He felt a pang of regret at that. The snipers who he had personally trained had been deployed to the cargo loading area to harass the security forces protecting the anchor. If any of them had survived, there would be no way to regain contact. Perhaps they would make their way here too. It was still impossible to estimate how many resistance members had survived, or what had happened inside the base. Amy, Nick, Bill, Ricky, Astrid, Omar, Reed, Bergmann – so many. There was no telling who was still alive.

The surrounding hills provided some much-needed reprieve from the wind, and Ruza led his small party to the base of the outcrop, mounting a set of metal steps that led up its jagged face to an entrance door. When he reached it, he gestured for his companions to stop, kneeling to examine the panel.

“What is it?” Rivera asked as he took a step closer, his voice filtering through his helmet speakers.

“This door has been left ajar,” Ruza explained. “We sealed it during our last visit.”

Rivera gave another signal to his men, and the Marines readied their weapons, stacking up as they prepared to breach. Ruza lifted his AMR, not willing to rule out the possibility that a PCE was waiting for them on the other side. How could the enemy have found this place? He had been so careful…

Rivera pulled open the door panel, the sand that had already started to gunk up the mechanism grinding, and they piled in through the breach. Inside the lobby of the building, the power was out, but the light that made it through the dirty windows was enough to see by. There was a welcome desk, along with some seats that would have once been some kind of waiting area, the ExoCorp sign mounted on the wall above now faded and peeling.

“Footprints,” Ruza whispered, nodding to the floor. The layer of dust had been recently disturbed, leaving the clear outlines of boots.

They crept forward, the Marines clearing side rooms as they proceeded down the main corridor. They passed derelict offices and storage rooms, some of which had never been furnished prior to the building being abandoned.

Ruza knew the way to the staff quarters, and they passed by a fully furnished kitchen area, their surroundings growing less corporate as they went. Suddenly, his sensitive ears picked up a sound, one of them swiveling to track it. It could just be the wind rushing through the structure and causing it to creak, but he knew better. He turned to Rivera, pointing towards a door that led to one of the bedrooms. The Marines took up position behind him, training their weapons on the door as he put an ear to the panel, listening carefully. There was someone on the other side…

He held up three fingers, counting down to zero, then tore open the door. There was a rush of movement, and when he reached inside, he plucked a person from the dingy room. Holding them by the collar, he lifted them off the ground, dragging them into the light. There was a sudden crack, and he recoiled, feeling something heavy whack him on the head.

“What the – Ruza!?”

Ruza blinked down at his captive, seeing Bill staring back at him with wide eyes. He was wielding a metal pipe in his hand that now had a sizable dent in it.

“Bill!?” Ruza stammered. “You are alive!?”

He dropped his AMR, drawing his friend into a tight hug, hearing him exhale as the air was squeezed out of him. Rivera and his Marines stood down, watching the reunion with amusement.

“Ruza!”

Another figure came rushing out of the darkness, Amy throwing all of her weight into him and almost sending him toppling over, her arms wrapping as far around his waist as they could reach. Ruza knelt to bring himself closer to them, setting Bill down beside a tearful Amy, returning their embrace.

“It’s about time you showed up,” Ricky said, emerging from the shadows. Even he couldn’t suppress a smile at the sight.

“Oh, Ruza!” Amy began, her voice starting to crack. “They hit the base – we didn’t know where to go or what to do. We didn’t even know if you were still alive!”

“You are safe, and that is all that matters,” he replied.

When he managed to pry Amy away, he looked past her to see half a dozen more people standing in the room with Ricky. He didn’t recognize them, but they must have been refugees from the base.

“Is this all of you?” he asked hesitantly, rising to his feet again. “Did no others survive the attack?”

“We got a couple of hundred people out,” Ricky replied. “Not everyone, though. The Borgs attacked the base, killing everyone as they went. It was a slaughterhouse. We hid, but Nick came to find us and got us to the infirmary. We were able to hold out and get most of the civilians and the injured to the surface through one of the smuggling tunnels, but a lot of people stayed behind to cover us.”

“That was a little while before they bombed the base,” Bill explained. “After that, we had a choice to either give up and go back to the city, or try to meet up with you here. A lot of people either couldn’t make the journey or didn’t want to try. This is everyone who still wants to fight.”

“And…where is Nick?” Ruza asked, already dreading the answer that he knew in his heart was coming. His friends suddenly looked forlorn, Amy starting to tear up again as she shook her head.

“He got out with us, but he went back to help the people who stayed behind,” Ricky explained. “That idiot. I told him not to go…”

“The others?” Ruza pressed. “Omar, Astrid, Bergmann? Have you seen Reed since the attack? Did he and his men make it back?”

“This is everyone,” Amy replied solemnly. “There was no time – the attack happened so fast. The storm was already beginning by the time we got to the edge of the city, and we couldn’t wait any longer, or we wouldn’t have made it here.”

“I am sorry,” Ruza began, hanging his head in shame. “I bear responsibility for this outcome. I was ordered to return to the base and help secure it, but I disobeyed. I did not wish to leave anyone behind, and had I heeded Rivera’s words, I might have been there to protect you all. I was not there for you when you needed me the most…”

“Ruza,” Amy began, reaching out to take his furry hand in hers. It was so large in comparison that she could do little more than grip his finger like a kitten. “Nobody knew that this would happen. Even if you had made it back to the base before the attack, you couldn’t have fought off an army on your own.”

“I might have made a difference. I might have been able to protect Nick.”

Bill and Ricky didn’t say anything. Perhaps they were considering whether he was right. After a few moments of awkward silence, Rivera stepped in to take charge.

“What happened, happened,” he began as he stowed his rifle on its sling. “We can’t change that now, so we have to keep moving forward. Our numbers, our resources, and our mobility have been drastically diminished, but we’re still here.” He turned to address his Marines. “We lost the battle, but this war isn’t over. We’re Marines, and Marines never surrender!” His squad replied with a battle cry, pounding their chests. “We need to take inventory, get a head count, and figure out a game plan. The first order of business should be reestablishing contact with survivors in the city. We went into battle with hundreds of fighters, and we freed hundreds more. There’s no way Barbosa has killed or captured all of them. The majority will have scattered and gone to ground.”

“What game plan?” Ricky scoffed, Rivera turning to look at him. “Look around you. We lost. Everyone is either dead or missing, the base has been demolished, and we have no supplies. There’s like twenty people here – what do you want us to do, march up to the anchor and demand a duel with Barbosa?”

“Rick, why are you even here if you’re gonna be like that?” Bill demanded.

“Because I have nowhere else to go!” he snapped, raising his voice. “They know my face – they came to arrest me at work. I don’t have the luxury of giving up and going home because you guys got me involved in this shit!”

“That’s not fair, Ricky,” Amy added with a scowl. “None of this is our fault. Anyone who thinks they can just sit this out and wait for it to pass is deluding themselves. The war would have come to your doorstep one way or another eventually.”

“I’m not some revolutionary,” Ricky sighed, seeming more tired than angry now. “I just want to go home. I want to go back to the bar and argue about pointless shit that doesn’t matter. I want to complain about long shifts and overtime pay. I want things to be the way they were before.”

“If you want that life back, you have to take it,” Rivera replied. “They won’t give it to you willingly.”

“Rivera is our leader now that Bergmann is missing,” Ruza said, turning to him. “We will look to him for guidance. Come, Amy. Let us take inventory of our supplies. I shall show you where we hid the caches.”

He set down his weapons, and they left the group of survivors, heading deeper into the building. They passed by empty rooms and spartan corridors, the colored lines painted on the walls that had once served to guide the inhabitants now peeling and faded.

“For a while there, I thought you might not come back,” Amy began once they were out of earshot. “I don’t know what we’d do if you died. You’re the glue that holds us all together.”

“I lost you once already,” he replied. “I promised that I would never let that happen again – that I would protect you all, and I broke that vow. Nick’s fate is my responsibility.”

“Don’t blame yourself for that,” she chided. “For goodness’ sake, Ruza. You have enough angst already without adding that complex to the heap. It’s like Ricky said – Nick made it out. He came to find us, he got us to safety, and he went back into the tunnels to help other people. Nobody made him do that – it was his choice. He gave me a message to pass along before he left.”

“What was it?” Ruza asked.

“He said that your talk helped. He said that you’d know what it meant.”

“Then, he was brave at the end,” Ruza muttered. “Had I the skills, I would weave him such a tapestry…”

“We’d be dead without him,” Amy said. “I just wish he hadn’t gone back in. He’d be here with us now. You know, I’m really getting tired of not knowing which of my friends are alive or dead.”

She stopped in the hallway, balling her fists, the curtain of blonde hair that fell over her face failing to conceal the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Ruza turned around, taking her in his arms and sitting against the wall, holding her close for a minute or two as she sobbed into his leather jacket.

“Sorry,” she finally mumbled, sniffing and wiping her eyes. “I’m alright. Guess I just needed to get it all out. It’s been a long day.”

“I will tell you what I told Nick,” Ruza replied, loosening his grip so that she could sit beside him. “There is no shame in being frightened or upset. These are normal, healthy responses to your situation. What matters is whether you allow your emotions to rule you. I cannot imagine what you went through during your escape, but you put others before yourself, and you helped get everyone to safety. I would wager that it was your idea to come here.”

“Maybe,” she replied with a shaky chuckle.

“The Marines found the journey arduous, yet here you are. You could have gone back to the city, but you chose to keep fighting, which is more than I can say for some of the people we came across during our escape. You told me that I am the glue holding us together, but I believe it is you who we rally around.”

“I hope you’re not just saying that to cheer me up,” she joked, giving him a jab with her elbow. “So…what happens now?” she asked, her tone becoming more serious. “I really want to believe Rivera, but as much as I hate to admit it, Ricky makes a good point. I think we’ve lost about as hard as we can lose without all of us being dead. How do we come back from this?”

“This is not the first time that I have taken part in a desperate evacuation,” he replied. “When I deployed to Kerguela, my team and I were tasked with moving hundreds of survivors off-world. Among them were children, the elderly, and the sick. There was an insect war host poised to destroy them – one so large that we had no hope of prevailing in open combat. It was a desperate situation, but we succeeded with the help of our allies and some creative tactics. When I peered into that Crawler’s exposed reactor and my very cells were turned against me, my death was assured, but the Coalition restored me with technology that seemed like magic. Many a time, I have been in situations that seemed unwinnable, yet here I stand. It is our unity that Barbosa fears.”

“What do you mean?” Amy asked, looking up at him.

“Every action he has taken was intended to separate us – to turn us against one another. His first act was to split the PDF and turn loyalist against collaborator. He then turned his PDF against the population, making them enemies, and he turned the people against one another by spreading lies about the resistance. Even his SWAR see the PDF and the citizens as adversaries to be feared rather than allies to be protected. They believe they are isolated, and it gives him control over them. Who knows what falsehoods he whispered to them about the Coalition? He cut Hades off from the rest of the UN because he knows that he can only prevail if we are alone and divided.”

“If you’re expecting the Navy to come swooping and save us, that could take months,” Amy replied. “Barbosa’s plan worked – he got everything he wanted. If he has a plan to hold Hades when they eventually arrive, I see no reason to believe it won’t be successful. We made a terrible mistake by underestimating him.”

“I cannot say,” Ruza conceded. “I only know that we must work together if we are to have any hope. We must hold fast…like glue,” he added, threading his furry fingers together to demonstrate. “Rivera is a skilled tactician. He will think of something, and we must trust him. Barbosa has not defeated the resistance – it is an idea, not a thing that can be slain. I still believe that the colony will come together to deny him his prize.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“If there is one thing that I have learned through my dealings with humans, it is that they do not abide injustice or unfairness. The great failing of my people was our tolerance of mistreatment coming from those of higher status, but a human will tear the fingers from the hand that feeds him if it is found wanting. Barbosa believes he has won, but his subjects grow ever hungrier. They will devour him in the end.”

DAY 38 – MU ARAE BLACK SITE 1 – VOS

Vos marched down the hallway, every swing of his prosthetic arm pinching a nerve and making him wince. It had been almost six weeks since the injury, and the techs still hadn’t worked out all the kinks. He would replace it with a cloned limb as soon as he got back to civilization, but until then, he’d have to deal with it. At least it kept him motivated.

Past the bundles of electrical cable, exposed pipes, and metal grates was a door to the asteroid base’s hangar. It had been hollowed out of the rock to create a space equivalent to that of a carrier’s bay, forming a kind of artificial cave, the pressurized atmosphere kept in by a molecular force field that cast the deck in a faint blue glow. As he stepped through the door, he saw that the dropship was already in the process of landing, the field drawing a line across its black hull as it slowly floated through the barrier. Its ventral thrusters flared to keep it aloft as it transitioned to artificial gravity, its wheeled gear extending. It turned to put its nose to the starry backdrop, its gear bouncing as they absorbed the craft’s weight. Vos walked towards it, crossing the empty deck as the troop ramp beneath its overhanging tail began to lower, a few figures making their way out to meet him.

“Brenner,” Vos began, appraising the operative. “It’s about time you got here.”

“What happened to you, Admiral?” Brenner replied as he eyed Vos’ prosthetic arm. “You looking to change career paths?”

Brenner was Vos’ most trusted contact in SWAR, at least now that Barbosa had gone rogue. He was the Commander’s counterpart when it came to experience and tactical acumen, and they had both served in a similar capacity, commanding several teams within the organization. Brenner tended to prefer field work, while Barbosa had retreated to a more managerial role, likely in preparation for his eventual mutiny. Most recently, Brenner was deployed to the forest moon of Kerguela, where he’d led a contingent of special operations teams during the campaign to retake it from the Bugs.

The operative had lost his eyes many years prior, boiled away by Bug plasma along with much of the skin on his face, his empty sockets now filled with an array of lenses and sensors. While many of the scars were still visible, and all of the hair on his head had been scorched away, the most damaged areas had been covered with synthetic skin that gave him a patchwork appearance. He was dressed in the usual black armor, his chest rig only lightly loaded, the sleeves and pants of his pressure suit ending where his prosthetic limbs began. Just like all SWAR members – and unlike Vos’ new replacement – his limbs were expensive custom jobs, perfectly tuned to his needs.

While his arms were designed to closely mirror their organic counterparts in both form and function, preserving his dexterity, his legs tapered into skeletal frames. His thighs were more filled out, the polymer housings protecting the batteries and motors within, but his shins were made up of a lightweight structure of metal rods. Instead of feet, they ended in a pair of springy skids, though all of the parts could be switched out depending on the occasion. The larger plates of matte polymer were decorated in many places with tattoo-like engravings that were only visible when the light caught them at just the right angle.

He was joined by a few more passengers. There were two more SWAR operatives dressed in a similar manner, along with a UNNI agent in a long coat, but Vos was surprised to see aliens in Brenner’s complement.

“This is Harlequin,” Brenner began, gesturing to a short figure standing beside him.

It wasn’t Vos’ first time meeting a Jarilan Drone. The alien’s most recognizable features were the branching, beetle-like horn that emerged from its forehead, and the set of feathery antennae that bobbed gently as it moved. Its body was covered in segments of armored carapace that shone with a waxy sheen beneath the overhead lights, still patterned with the reds and browns of the autumn tiger camo that was emblematic of Kerguela. It had large, expressive eyes that were oddly mammalian, and the chitin plates that made up its insect-like mandibles were arranged into a facsimile of a mouth. It was a little uncanny, like a mantis mimicking a flower. Around its neck was a large ruff of soft, white fur that sparkled with a subtle iridescence. The same fluff was present around its four wrists and two ankles – the alien sporting six limbs ending in four-fingered hands and three-toed feet. Vos had become familiar enough with the species during the campaign to know that this one was a male, the plates on its back concealing a set of gossamer wings.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Admiral,” the Jarilan said in flawless English.

“Harlequin has proven himself to be a very useful asset on the battlefield,” Brenner continued. “I figured we could use all the help we can get, considering how limited our crew size is. He’s as mobile as a spotter drone, and he can sniff out a target from a mile away.”

“I’ve employed Drones for field work before,” Vos said, giving the alien a nod. “I’ve found them to be very reliable.”

A second, much larger figure was walking down the ramp behind them, its silhouette leaving no ambiguity. It was a Broker – or more accurately, a Broker environment suit. The immediate impression that it gave was that of a fridge perched atop a pair of mechanical chicken legs. It was roughly eight feet tall, the rounded corners and soft lines of its bulky chassis giving a more organic appearance to the matte white material. The main body was featureless, save for a collection of cameras and sensors mounted in grooves along its front face, their lenses shifting and focusing incessantly. The legs that supported it were deceptively simple and functional. They were fashioned from silver rods and pistons, exposed machinery visible in the spaces between their protective coverings, and they ended in cup-like feet. From the sides of its chassis snaked four hose-like tentacles made from segmented, shining metal. Each one was tipped with a grasping claw or alien tool, the appendages seeming to hang in the air when at rest, appearing frozen in place.

Vos knew better than to judge the vehicle by its outward appearance. His prior dealings with the Brokers had uncovered many of their best-kept secrets, including what lay beneath that armor. The Brokers were a primarily aquatic species, taking the form of squid-like beings that could only venture onto land for short periods of time before drying out and being forced to retreat. They employed environment suits when forced to operate above water for extended durations, and as a way to conceal their identities during their dealings with aliens. Crammed within that imposing suit was a small, soft, vulnerable creature suspended in salt water. Without a suitable place to exit the armor and stretch its tentacles, it must have been an uncomfortable ride for the creature.

“This is Reggie,” Brenner added, stepping out of the way as the suit approached Vos. “We call him that because he claims we can’t pronounce his name. He’s a Regulator sent by the Commission.”

“A Regulator?” Vos muttered, eyeing the suit suspiciously. Regulators were the secret police of the Broker world – something akin to a UNNI agent, with the sweeping authority to investigate and punish those suspected of wrongdoing. In a society of ruthless capitalists, where even the government was incorporated and open bribery was legal, those who committed themselves to upholding the law over profit were feared and respected.

“You may call me Reggie if you wish,” the alien began, a synthetic male voice coming through unseen speakers. Brokers could not reproduce human speech, so it was likely a translator, but it did a remarkable job of conveying an irritated tone. “It seems that my protests to the contrary go unheeded. I have been sent by the Regulatory Commission – Alien Appropriations Branch, to investigate misappropriated Broker technology. We have reason to believe that the laboratory designated as Mu Arae Black Site Two was the last known location of several pieces of patented technology obtained illegally through various illicit means. This constitutes a breach of the treaty between our two governments, and I have been assured your full cooperation in resolving this matter.”

“Oh, that’ll be all the drone parts we stole,” Vos muttered.

“Quite,” Reggie grumbled, one of his mechanical claws twitching. “I am here to ensure the safe return of the missing property. If you have an inventory of the parts in question, please provide it for review.”

“Unfortunately for both of us, I happen to know exactly where they are,” Vos continued. “Barbosa has them – most likely aboard his carrier.”

“The Board views this matter as an internal human affair,” Reggie continued. “We are not seeking to involve ourselves in your dispute. My singular concern is the return of the stolen goods.”

“They were already sniffing around Kerguela, and we couldn’t exactly refuse, given the circumstances,” Brenner added apologetically. “Reggie is alright, though. Keeps to himself, doesn’t talk much, never interacts with anybody unless he’s forced to. If you want a quiet night in, he’s your guy.”

Lastly was the UNNI agent. Vos was already very familiar with the organization, as it was one of the many pies he had his fingers in. The woman was wearing a long leather duster, and beneath it was a survival suit of the same kind that had saved Vos’ life during his encounter with Barbosa, its blue and white fabric clinging to her figure snugly. There was otherwise nothing remarkable about her appearance – a pair of green eyes scrutinizing him from beneath a fringe of dark hair. Her appearance was, of course, deceptive.

“Agent Hemmer,” she declared – though it was certainly not her real name. “I’ve been sent by the Admiralty to ensure everything goes smoothly.”

“And to keep an eye on you, Admiral,” Brenner added with a knowing nod.

“Now that we’ve finished with the introductions, let’s get to business,” Vos said in an attempt to speed things along. He gestured for them to follow, and the group began to walk with him, returning to the door across the empty hangar bay. “I’ve had a Courser snooping around the system gathering intel ready for your arrival,” Vos continued as the panel slid open at his approach. “It jumped back here on schedule a few hours ago and dumped its findings to the base’s servers. I’ll have it beamed to your ship if you’d like to analyze it yourself, but in summary, it paints a rather dour picture.”

“Give me the rundown,” Brenner prompted.

“Barbosa jumped into Hades orbit and quickly took over the colony. The carrier, the tether, and the ASAT launch sites are all under his control. He’s converted the bulk of the planet’s PDF to his side, and he’s been using the colony’s industrial base to manufacture weapons in preparation for the UNN’s arrival. We’re not sure if the reports are accurate, but he may be augmenting select units of PDF troopers, and he’s attempting to build more PCEs.”

“Can he do that?” Brenner asked skeptically. “Weren’t those things so expensive that you tried to shut the program down? That’s what the briefing said.”

“Production costs can be dramatically reduced if you don’t pay for materials or labor,” Vos explained sarcastically. “The carrier’s foundry has the capacity to make any complex components that the colonists can’t, but not at any real scale, so we may still have time before they’re combat-ready. Last word was six operational suits, but we know that at least one has been destroyed.”

“Do you have anyone on the ground?” Hemmer asked.

“No, this is all pieced together from the colony’s radio emissions – we haven’t been able to get that close. It’s mostly wide-band broadcasts from the two factions. It appears that some manner of resistance movement formed from loyalist PDF and interned Marines, and they caused enough of a ruckus to tie up Barbosa’s forces for a few weeks. All emissions ceased a couple of days ago – probably due to EWAR – so we have no idea if you’ll have any allies when you reach the ground. Something big happened, and we don’t know who came out on top.”

They made their way through the winding tunnels of the asteroid base, passing beneath segments of metal ceiling and exposed rock, heading up to the control room. As Vos marched past the recessed trenches filled with computer monitors, the personnel working within them saluted him, their expressions turning to surprise when they saw the procession of agents and aliens following him.

The station commander was waiting for him on a raised platform that housed more banks of monitors, along with the circular holographic conference table.

“Admiral,” he began, standing to attention.

“This is the station commander,” Vos explained, taking a moment to introduce everyone. He brought up a hologram, the wavering display hovering above the table as everyone crowded around it to get a look. “The Marathon was tasked with gathering data in preparation for your arrival. Everything they brought back is available here.”

“We did some brainstorming during the flight, but our information may be a little outdated,” Brenner replied. “We should take a little time to get up to speed.”

***

“The way I see it, this is going to have to be a three-pronged attack,” Brenner said as he gestured to the floating information readouts. With a few flicks of his prosthetic fingers, he brought up a three-dimensional model of Hades. With another gesture, he zoomed in, showing the thin thread of the tether and the disk-shaped station at its apex. Not far from it was the last known location of the carrier, the ship hovering above the city in a synchronous orbit. “We have three targets,” he continued. “We must secure the tether station to stop the flow of supplies to and from the colony, and we must board and disable the carrier, as it’s their largest and most dangerous asset. As long as that carrier is operational, no ships can approach the planet, and it can destroy anything on the ground.” He zoomed in on the planet, showing a map of the colony, a few red markers pulsing in a ring around it. “We also need to make it to the surface and secure those ASAT sites. As long as Barbosa holds them, he has full orbital denial, even without the carrier. The MASTs are our number one priority. If we don’t secure them, and quickly, he could order a launch and turn Hades’ orbit into a tungsten blender for months.”

“We’re going to have to do this quickly,” Agent Hemmer added from the opposite side of the table. “If we capture the carrier, but fail to secure the MASTs, Barbosa could simply shoot it down. If we take the station, but fail to disable the carrier, our people would be trapped there without any means of exfil. Take the ASATs, but not the carrier, and Barbosa can level those launch sites with the carrier’s guns. We can’t risk destroying the carrier or the station due to the danger the debris would pose to the colony.”

“It’s a complex operation, and it all needs to happen in tandem,” Vos added as he examined the displays. “This has to go off like clockwork, and if any one component fails or moves too slowly, the whole operation will be a wash.”

“They’ll know that there’s at least one Courser snooping around in the system,” Brenner continued as he paused to think. “They’ve certainly detected the Marathon. That means we can move one ship around without arousing too much suspicion. I think our first priority should be gathering more information on the ground before we commit to a plan. We drummed up some ideas for boarding the station and the carrier, but without knowing more about the situation on the ground, we can’t make a solid plan for taking those launch sites.”

“If there are any surviving members of this resistance movement, having them on our side could tip the scales,” Hemmer said. “There are several sites, and we don’t have enough personnel to attack all of them at once.”

“It was a pretty large conflict that lasted for over a month,” Vos explained. “You’ve seen some of the broadcasts from the resistance that we picked up, along with the planetary Governor’s addresses. It was a widespread enough problem that they’ve had to stall their plans to fortify the colony, and that’s bought us valuable time. Even if all signs point to a large crackdown from Barbosa, I don’t think it’s likely that his forces managed to kill or arrest every dissident. We may still have friends down there.”

“We’ll only know for sure if we do some on-site recon,” Hemmer said. “Not knowing exactly where the surviving PCEs and Barbosa’s SWAR teams are located represents an unacceptable risk. I propose that we dispatch a small team to the surface with a laser comms emitter. That should cut through the jamming and allow them to communicate with a Courser in orbit. It’s line-of-sight, so there would be some risk that the ship might be spotted, but I don’t see any other options.”

“There’s one more variable,” Vos added, a wave of his hand pulling up a picture of a Borealan. “This Rask’s name is Ruza – I’ve worked with him before. He’s a mercenary who was most recently deployed to Kerguela as part of Ensi Xipa’s personal entourage. I picked him out myself. He’s resourceful, reliable, and fiercely loyal. How he got to Hades, I have no idea, but he seems to be giving Barbosa the runaround. Many of the Governor’s addresses have mentioned him by name, accusing him of being both a terrorist and a cannibal,” he added with a dry chuckle. “I trust this man, and if he’s still alive, you need to make contact with him. He will be an invaluable asset.”

“A Rask?” Brenner mused, glancing at Vos with his expressionless eyes. “What is he – an auxiliary? Ex-Matriarchy? Why would he be on Hades of all places?”

“Just find him if you can,” Vos replied.

“You keep some strange company, Admiral,” Brenner muttered.

“We had some ideas for how to board the station, but we’ll require a freighter,” Hemmer added, guiding them back to the matter at hand. “We couldn’t bring one with us – it wouldn’t have been able to keep pace with the Coursers – but you should have access to some shipping schedules.”

“Indeed,” Vos confirmed, pulling up the relevant data. “It’s all public knowledge, and these routes are planned out months in advance. Any ships still scheduled to arrive in the system will have been out of contact since they left port and won’t know what they’re walking into.”

“We could intercept one as it enters the system and commandeer it,” Brenner suggested. “Freighters always jump in at designated points to combat piracy. It would have to be timed properly, however. If we jump four Coursers into the system, it’ll tip Barbosa off. The sensors on that carrier can distinguish ship class based on signature size – even moreso if they’re linked up with the system’s defense buoys. Those are designed to alert the colony of any unscheduled jumps.”

“Can we find a freighter with a schedule that brings it out of superlight beyond the system?” Hemmer asked. “There has to be one that requires an extra jump to make it, surely? We could intercept it outside grav-wave detection range and ride its wake into the system like a carrier.”

“Maybe, maybe,” Brenner mused with a nod of his head. “We’ll have to run through the manifest and-”

“The freighter Godolphin is scheduled to arrive within an acceptable time window, and will be charging its superlight drive for a final jump a suitable distance outside the system,” Reggie interjected. “If the Coursers leave within nineteen hours, they will arrive with sufficient time to intercept and commandeer the vessel. I advise taking this opportunity, as the next will not present itself for some days.”

“Alright,” Brenner added, raising his eyebrows. “I guess Reggie has a fancier calculator than we do.”

“All registered human vessels – be they privately or commercially owned – are required by United Nations law to update their systems regularly with Naval identification codes,” the Broker explained in his synthetic timbre. “These codes allow those with the appropriate clearance to identify themselves and commandeer the vessel, even in the absence of any long-range communication methods that could be used to verify their identity. If the freighter is up to code, the law requires that they turn over their vessel.”

“Better to do everything by the books, I suppose,” Brenner added.

“SWAR not doing things by the books is why we’re all here in the first place,” Hemmer chided, prompting Brenner and Vos to share a guilty look.

“That’s one-third of the plan sorted out,” Brenner continued, clearing his throat. “I have an idea for how we might conceal the Courser. Hades has an ice moon. We could hide the ship in its shadow and only emerge when a scheduled transmission goes out.”

“Good idea,” Vos said with a nod. “That should keep it hidden from the carrier. The ground team can beam back whatever information they’ve collected, and the Courser can relay it to the other ships when they arrive in the system. Barbosa won’t be able to pick up any laser signals that aren’t directed at his carrier.”

“There is the matter of the other enemy Coursers in the system,” Vos said. “Three of them were involved in the attack on Site Two, but he may have more that he chose not to deploy. We don’t know.”

“There’s no way to account for them or detect them at any range unless they choose to show themselves,” Brenner said with a shrug. “If we can commandeer the carrier, maybe we can sniff them out. They’ll be in contact with Barbosa.”

“Just don’t underestimate them,” Vos insisted. “One of them is modified for EWAR, and at least one was fitted with torpedoes. The EWAR ship would have to remain close to the colony to keep their comms jammed, so we have a general idea of where it might be.”

“We have a little EWAR of our own,” Brenner said with a smile. “Right, let’s summarize. My Courser, the Cher Ami, can jump back into the system and deliver a team to the ground. We can use its drop pods and come in at a low angle – Barbosa won’t pick it up. The Cher Ami then hides behind the moon and waits for the recon team to gather information. My two remaining Coursers, the All Alone and the Royal Blue, along with your Courser, the Marathon, will move to intercept the freighter at its scheduled exit point. From there, we commandeer it and move those three Coursers into the system undetected. It’ll take about another week, but by the time we arrive in the system, the Cher Ami should have collected enough data for us to proceed with the operation. We coast into Hades orbit on random approach vectors and stay hidden.”

“Assuming that the conditions on the ground allow for it, the three Coursers can then move to their respective targets,” Hemmer continued. “There should be nothing unusual about the freighter, and if it can dock with the station, we’ll have a way to get a SWAR team aboard. One Courser can approach the carrier, and another can deliver reinforcements to the ground.”

“How exactly do you plan to get past the carrier’s defenses?” Vos asked. “You’ll never get close enough, even with a Courser. Those CIWS guns will tear you apart, and that’s if it doesn’t spot you and fire a torpedo further out.”

“Harlequin and I have devised a little something,” Brenner said with a glance to the Jarilan.

“Will you be deploying to the ground, Agent Hemmer?” Vos asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” she replied with a wry smile. “UNNI sent me to keep an eye on you, Admiral. There was some anxiety that you might disappear into the outer systems or seek asylum on one of the Coalition worlds before the authorities could get their hands on you.”

“That would imply that I feel any desire to flee,” Vos replied, maintaining her gaze through the wavering hologram that separated them. “If the Admiralty requires me to defend my actions, then so be it. For now, I have a job to do here.”

***

Once the briefing was over, Vos and Brenner headed down to the lower decks, getting a drink in the base’s spartan cafeteria as they glanced out of a window at the stars beyond. The four Coursers were all visible, their needle-like profiles reflecting the harsh, unfiltered light from the system’s star.

“Do you really think you can defeat Barbosa with less than forty men?” Vos asked, taking a sip from his cup. It was a far cry from the luxury that he had become accustomed to, with recyclable foam instead of glass and some cheap spirit that burned all the way down.

“It’s what we’ve got,” Brenner replied with a shrug. “We have to make it work. That’s our job.”

“If we don’t win, you know what it means,” Vos continued as he laid his prosthetic arm on the table. He was right-handed, but he was using his left to drink, not trusting the prosthetic. “The only option will be for the fleet that’s en route to crush the planet. Barbosa won’t win, but he’ll take Hades down with him. Casualties will be sky-high. We have one chance to prevent this situation from spiraling even further out of control.”

“So, no pressure,” Brenner joked as he took a sip. “Fuck me, what is this? Reactor coolant?”

“Reactor coolant would taste better,” Vos muttered, giving him a lazy toast before taking another drink. “I’ve been stuck here drinking this swill for weeks with nothing to do and no way to help. I’m used to having the whole Navy at my fingertips, and now, I don’t even have fingertips…”

“I see that you’re not taking to the prosthetic,” Brenner mused.

“I’m tearing it out and replacing it with a cloned limb as soon as I can get to Jarilo,” he sneered, flexing the robotic fingers. “No offense.”

“Seems like our time in the sun is coming to an end,” Brenner began, glancing out at the floating Coursers. “I kind of get where Barbosa is coming from. Don’t worry,” he added, noting Vos’ suspicious expression. “You don’t have to call for Hemmer. I don’t agree with what he’s doing – I just know why he’s doing it. When this war started, it felt like we were fighting against the rest of the Galaxy alone with our backs against the wall. Now, we’re surrounded by friends and allies. We were the elite of the elite, and every mission that we undertook was make or break – we did things that decided the fate of planets. Now, humanity is safer than it’s ever been, and the old guard becomes less necessary by the day. We gave our pound of flesh,” he added, gesturing to Vos’ arm. “These days, flesh is cheap, and what would once have been unfeasible is now routine. Take a week off to visit Jarilo, and you can come home with a fresh arm, good as new. What does that mean for us and the sacrifices we’ve made?”

“It gives you a way out,” Vos replied. “It throws a lot of our beliefs into question. What does the Yellow Sea Treaty say about removing healthy limbs and organs if they can later be replaced like changing out a tire? We’ve been able to clone tissue for a long time, but it’s expensive, and the surgeries are among the most complex. The Jarilans can have it done in an afternoon – it’s like field stripping an XMR to them.”

“Not all of us have a way out,” Brenner said solemnly. “Some are too far gone. The older guys with the most augs are starting to get sick. They’re calling it Cascade Failure – your body’s systems start to shut down when you remove too many parts, like it no longer recognizes that it’s alive.”

“You?” Vos asked.

“Not yet,” he answered with a shrug. “Probably one day. I doubt that the Jarries can undo this,” he added with a gesture to his scarred face and prosthetic eyes. “Barbosa, though? Who is older than him? Who has more augs than he does?”

“You think he has some hidden motives?”

“An old man wants to leave his mark on the world,” Brenner explained, taking a sip from his cup with a grimace. “He sees the writing on the wall – that we’re becoming obsolete, and he wants to make sure his legacy lives on before his body gives out. I don’t agree with it, but I understand it.”

“You and him have a history,” Vos prompted.

“You could say that,” Brenner replied. “I looked up to him once, then that turned into a kind of professional rivalry. Eventually, we stopped seeing eye to eye about how SWAR should be run, and we kept our own company. I feel like I should have seen this coming – I keep wracking my brain trying to remember some pivotal moment when I could have said or done something to turn him away from this path, but I think it was inevitable.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve seen elements of SWAR getting worse – growing more insular and more hostile to outsiders. They took what was once a brotherhood and turned it into a cult. Barbosa’s followers see themselves as something apart from the rest of humanity now. Barbosa became a desk jockey and stayed at Proxima while I was out on deployment. I thought he might be getting ready to hang up the augs and retire – maybe he was starting to feel his age – but it was all part of his plot. I was away too often, and I let him have too much sway over the men.”

“I know how that feels,” Vos replied with a wistful glance out of the window. “You spend so much time away from the people you care about that they grow in new, unexpected directions, and you can never take that time back. What’s been happening to the men while I’ve been stuck here?”

“A lot of teams got recalled,” Brenner began. “Proxima is crawling with UNNI, and we don’t get along at the best of times, so it’s a bit of a shitshow over there. They screened all of the teams deployed to Kerguela, and they double-checked everyone who has a personal history with you.”

“I get the impression that they’re not very happy with me,” Vos chuckled dryly. “Did they say what they planned to do with me?”

“They’re bringing you home when the fleet is done on Hades. After that, I dunno. Hemmer was talking about a UN inquiry – civilian, not a Navy tribunal. There have been rumblings about repealing the War Powers Act, too. They’re saying that it isn’t needed anymore and that it’s allowing the Admirals to behave like warlords.”

“Well, that’s something to look forward to. I’ve made a lot of enemies over the years, Brenner. I don’t think threats or favors are going to bail me out this time.”

“If I might speak freely, Admiral?”

“Of course,” Vos replied with a wave of his cup. “If you offend me, I probably won’t be in a position to punish you for much longer anyway.”

“I’ve been there throughout all of this,” Brenner began. “I was there practically from the start. I saw SWAR grow its ranks throughout the early days of the war, and I watched it transform from a clandestine anti-terror group into a chisel that could turn the tide of any battle. What we did was important, and most people won’t ever know the whole story. You were instrumental in that.”

“I did what I thought had to be done,” Vos replied. “I saw the potential of SWAR, and I knew that it would be an invaluable tool in the fight ahead. I couldn’t let petty politicians quash it.”

“You shielded us from scrutiny, you helped us skirt around the YST, and you made sure we had the funding we needed. I know that you didn’t do it all through the proper channels – moreso now, with all the black budget labs and stolen tech.”

“It was the only way to get what I needed.”

“You fought to make the Kerguela op happen. You were the one who twisted the arms of the other Admirals to gather enough ships for the invasion fleet. You made noise so the Jarilans could be there, and you greased the wheels with the Valbarans. You saw what the Coalition could do when we all worked together, and you pushed for it. You proved that we can beat back the Bugs – that we can go on the offensive. We’re no longer fighting a desperate defensive war against nuptial fleets, but that’s part of why we’re here.”

“Damn, I was enjoying the praise,” Vos muttered. “Here comes the but.”

“You and Barbosa have more in common than you realize,” Brenner said, setting down his cup and leaning his polymer elbows on the metal table. “Soldiers follow orders – even Admirals are beholden to someone. The War Powers Act was passed to give the Navy the ability to react to threats without having to wait 6 months for a message to reach Earth, but we’ve abused it to bypass the mechanisms that are supposed to moderate us. We cut through the red tape, we upended the checks and balances, and we did whatever we damned well pleased because we knew better than everyone else. It had to be done, it was the only way, we had no other choice.”

“Sometimes, we didn’t.”

“And sometimes we did,” Brenner added, leaning back in his chair. “Sometimes we broke the rules because it was easier – because we could. The problem with gambling is that your winning streak always ends if you let it go on long enough. A lot of your gambles have paid off, sure, but plenty haven’t. This time, you called when you should have folded.”

“Can’t argue with that, I suppose.”

“Barbosa is now so far gone that he’s accountable to nobody,” Brenner continued. “Not even you. He’s not a soldier anymore – he’s a despot. He doesn’t serve the people – he rules over them. You created the environment where that was possible, and we all benefited from it. None of our hands are clean in this.”

“Somehow, I don’t think my promises to be a good boy and follow the rules from now on are going to sway anybody.”

“It’s not just you and I who are becoming obsolete – it’s the way we do things. We’re not fighting a war for survival anymore. We’re not alone anymore. If I learned one thing on Kerguela, it’s how well this Coalition can work as a team, and how loyal some of our allies are.”

“I remember the look on your face when I told you to work alongside the Jarilans,” Vos laughed. “You don’t even have eyes, but I don’t think I’ve seen anyone look more pissed off before or since.”

“I learned a lot during that deployment,” Brenner replied. “There was a time when I might even have agreed with Barbosa, and you might have too. I remember the old days, when every alien was considered a threat until proven otherwise. We’ve had some bumps in the road – first contact with the Borealans, the affair with Walker and the Jarilans, the Rask Rebellion, the reveal that the Brokers were exactly as shady as we all suspected they were. You and me – we rubbed shoulders with them,” he continued. “You explored every possible avenue to strengthen us, and it brought you to them, regardless of your personal feelings. I’ve now fought back to back with practically every species in this alliance, and I’ve come to understand them.”

“That’s why Harlequin is here?” Vos asked with an amused smile.

“Fuck, I’d have dragged a whole squadron of Jarilan Warrior aces here if they could keep up with the Cher Ami,” he scoffed. “I’d have put on makeup and danced in a lounge for Indigo if it would get them to send a detachment.”

“Now there’s a mental image I didn’t need.”

“The Valbarans see us as their saviors. The Jarilans see us as their parents. The Brokers are now indebted to us, which, trust me, is the worst fate imaginable for them. The Krell will wade through a mile of broken glass to protect their Circle, and the Borealans are learning more every day. Some of them have become so well-adjusted that they don’t even try to claw your face off for looking at them funny anymore. Point is – this Coalition thing is working out big time. Barbosa doesn’t see it because he cloistered himself away and refused to ever entertain the idea.”

“You think that’s why we’re standing on opposite sides of the battlefield now?” Vos asked.

“One of the reasons, yeah,” Brenner confirmed with a nod. “I don’t know what SWAR is going to look like after they’re done with us. I don’t know if they’re going to gut the organization, or if we can even operate while following all the rules like we’re supposed to. What I do know is that this thing where we decide what’s best for everyone and damn the consequences has to stop. We can’t allow ourselves to become a liability to the people we swore to protect.”

“There’s one thing I share in common with Barbosa,” Vos began, taking another drink from his cup. “I’m afraid to lose control. I’m afraid to loosen my grip and let other people make the decisions because I’ve become accustomed to making them myself. I can’t guarantee that they’ll always make the right ones. I think I’ve left the UNN stronger than I found it, but regardless of what they decide to do with me when the dust has settled, I think it’s time for me to hang up the cap.”

“You’re retiring?” Brenner asked, his eyebrows raising above his shining lenses. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Where Barbosa and I differ is on the subject of legacy,” Vos continued, staring into his half-empty cup. “Nobody can rule forever – except maybe a Queen, if you don’t mind giving birth to millions of Drones in a cave for the rest of eternity. Or a Krell, since nobody has ever seen one die of old age. Anyway,” he grumbled, waving the cup. “My point being – we can’t win a fight with entropy. We’ll all die one day, and everything that we’ve built will turn to dust in time.”

“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings,” Brenner added with an exaggerated flourish. “Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!”

“The only way to preserve your legacy is to leave behind people who you trust to keep making the right decisions,” Vos said. “No monument can survive the ravages of time, and no outlook or ideology can endure forever without changing. I’ve helped put the right people in the right positions. Ensi Xipa will keep the Valbarans loyal. The new Broker board members are building stronger ties with the rest of the Coalition. The Jarilans are a greater asset than anyone realizes, and even the Rask are falling into line now thanks to Matriarch Korbaz and her reforms. Captain Fielding is on track for a promotion to Admiral, UNNI is in good hands, and any future that SWAR has will involve you.”

“Me?” Brenner asked.

“You and Barbosa are the highest-ranked members of the organization,” he explained. “If you prove your loyalty by taking him out, don’t you think you’ll be a shoo-in for a leadership role? If anyone can reform the organization and carry it into the future, it’s you.”

“Assuming they give us that chance.”

“There’s something to be said for making yourself too valuable to discard, despite all the trouble you cause,” Vos muttered. “Why do you think I’m still married?”

That got a laugh out of Brenner.

CHAPTER 21

DAY 38 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“We have enough supplies for a couple of weeks, at least,” Amy said as she ran through the numbers on her tablet. “If we ration them, maybe a month. There’s no power, as the plant was never switched on, but most of the living space is below ground where it’s cool. The conditions are livable. Luckily for us, they tapped an aquifer before they left, which means that we have water. You can take as many cold showers as you like.”

“Could be a lot worse, then,” Bill said with a shrug.

The group of survivors was sitting in the geothermal plant’s cafeteria, which had become their meeting place. Despite being more modern and better furnished than the one they had left behind, none of the appliances could be used without power, and the state of disrepair made it feel somehow more derelict than the mines.

“I have first aid supplies, but little else,” Ruza added. He had taken to sitting on one of the tables instead of the chairs, as they were too small for him. “It is sufficient for treating minor wounds, but even if we could transport future battle casualties here, I have not the means to heal them.”

“We’ll be secure here for a while,” Rivera mused. “I think our first order of business should be trying to reestablish contact with other survivors. There are sure to be some holding out in the city.”

“We can only move under the cover of the storms, and only during specific windows when the winds aren’t too severe,” Delgado added. “One drone spots us traveling from the city to the plant, and it’s all over. Barbosa would have no qualms about dropping a nuke on us.”

“And storm season is nearing its end,” one of the civilians added. “In a few weeks, they’ll be too small to provide much cover.”

“I have the means to travel unseen in the desert,” Ruza said. “For the rest of you, I cannot say. It took time to teach my scouts.”

“Then we have a hard time limit,” Rivera grumbled, his chair creaking as he leaned on the polymer table in front of him. “We screw around too much, and we’ll be left exposed, without any allies to back us up. Ruza and I will organize a patrol. The rest of you – see what you can do to make this place a little more livable while we’re gone.”

“Bring back what supplies you can carry,” Amy added. “Food, batteries, meds – we need whatever we can get. I’ll make you a shopping list.”

They dispersed, and Rivera headed off to plan with his Marines, while Ruza joined Amy on her way back to their quarters.

“You should let me know if you need anything,” she said as they turned a corner in the dingy corridor. It got darker and darker the further away they were from the nearest window, but Ruza didn’t find it quite as troublesome as the humans with his better low-light vision. “Who knows how many of these trips we’ll be able to make.”

“I would prefer that we lay low for a time, but we cannot afford such a luxury,” Ruza sighed. “At least you will all be safe here for a time.”

“We’re not the only ones who knew about this place,” she replied, her brow creasing with worry. “We don’t know where Omar and Astrid are, or Bergmann, for that matter. If they’ve been arrested, do you think they might talk? The Borgs can be persuasive – I know that all too well.”

“As Rivera said, we are on a timer,” Ruza replied. “If we cannot rebuild our forces, I cannot honestly predict what may happen. We might have to simply hide until the UNN sends reinforcements.”

“That could take months,” she said with an exasperated shake of her head. “I don’t like hiding here while people suffer. I know that I’m not going to be holding a rifle, so maybe I’m being selfish, expecting everyone to resume fighting after everything that’s happened…”

“You have been as close to the enemy as any one of us,” Ruza replied, glancing down at her. “Do not think of yourself as somehow separate from the fighters simply because your responsibility is to keep us fed.”

They arrived at Ruza’s quarters. At least in this derelict place, privacy and space were ample. He ducked through the door, then made his way over to the mattresses that he had laid out to serve as his bed, kneeling to rummage through his sparse belongings. Amy had brought his bag, ever the thoughtful friend, and he wanted to check that he had enough supplies.

“Damn,” he mumbled.

“What is it?” Amy asked, peering over his shoulder as she hovered nearby. “I didn’t forget something, did I?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “I am still amazed that you thought to recover my things in such desperate circumstances. I am simply out of my medicine.”

“Your grav meds,” she muttered with a nod of understanding. “We never refilled your prescription.”

“There were more pressing matters,” he said as he stood up. “It had slipped my mind entirely.”

“Will you be alright? You aren’t getting sick, are you?”

“It would take some weeks for me to be weakened by the condition, and even then, many months for me to become impaired. I can endure.”

“We still have contacts at the hospital,” Amy suggested. “I’ll put them down on the shopping list, but only if it’s safe.”

“I neglected to mention that there are some mild withdrawal effects,” he said, giving Amy an apologetic smile as she planted her hands on her hips and shot him a suspicious look. “I would appreciate it.”

“You’re allowed to have medicine, Ruza,” she chided. “I’m the quartermaster – I give you permission.”

“Very well,” he conceded. “But only if it does not pose a danger to the team. The hospital is close to the enemy stronghold, and they may already be on alert for resistance members. Some of the injured patients from the base will certainly have been transported there. They would have no other choice.”

“They can handle it,” Amy insisted. “I don’t think either of us will be making any trips to the city for a while, so we might as well get comfortable here. If they bring us back some batteries, maybe we can get the lights and some of the kitchen appliances running – maybe some hot water. That’d be nice. I know that you boys are used to eating those MREs, but someone needs to investigate where all of our taxes are going if that’s what they’re feeding you.”

DAY 39 – HADES – PETROVA

Petrova sat on the edge of her bed, holding out one hand as she used a small tool to tweak the electronics in her wrist with the other. One of her fingers had been sticky since her fight against the PDF, and it was bugging her, so she was tuning the servos.

She was interrupted by a beep, lifting her gaze towards the phone that was sitting atop the otherwise empty tabletop in the cramped kitchenette. Feeling the cold metal of the prefab beneath her prosthetic feet, she marched over to it, lifting the device from the table.

“It’s Song,” he announced as she accepted the call. “Your hunch has paid off. Someone just picked up some grav meds at the hospital, and their system logged the prescription.”

“Damn, Barbosa was right on the money,” she hissed. “The Rask really did manage to slip the net. Resourceful little fleabag. Who picked up the prescription? How long ago was this?”

“Only a few minutes,” Song replied. “Looks like someone picked them up on the alien’s behalf, and the prescription was simply listed as filled. I’m trying to track them by drone, but everyone dresses the same way on this planet, and the masks make identifying anyone next to impossible. There’s a lot of foot traffic in the area thanks to the recent riot. I had considered planting a tracker in a fake pill, but the orders are all filled by hand, and we’d either have to get extremely lucky or make thousands of them.”

“There’s probably no way to track down the courier, then,” Petrova sighed. “They’re bold, coming back to the hospital only a couple of days after they got their asses kicked – I’ll give them that. At least we have confirmation. Have any of the prisoners talked about where the survivors might be hiding?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Song replied. “These kinds of interrogations tend not to yield results quickly.”

“If they expect to pose any threat to us in the future, they’ll need to rebuild their forces,” Petrova said as she began to pace restlessly around the empty room. “I know the Rask, and I know Rivera – they won’t give up so easily. They’ll want to reconnect with their comrades. Especially the Rask. He’s loyal, and he’s gone to great lengths to rescue his friends before. He stormed a garrison that was seemingly chosen as a target simply because his secretary was being held there.”

“Do you see a way to exploit that?” Song asked.

“If we can’t go to him, maybe we can have him come to us.”

“You want to lay a snare?” Song mused. “You’ll need some bait.”

“What do you have for me?”

“We picked up a few insurgents during the attack,” Song began, sending her a series of mugshots. “We’re pretty sure that a union boss named Bergmann was one of the highest-ranked members of the organization, and we took him into custody during the protest. We picked up a few fighters – mostly escaped Marines and turncoat PDF. They’re back in their cells.”

“Who’s this guy?” Petrova asked, pulling up the image of a man with a tanned complexion and a PDF officer’s uniform.

“Omar Jabril,” Song replied. “He’s an officer in the PDF. We released him shortly after the invasion, along with the first batch of troopers who pledged their support. My forensic investigation of the PDF computer systems showed that he accessed relevant personnel files prior to the most recent attack, which is likely how they knew to target specific garrisons. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s the mole who’s been feeding information to the insurgents. With his rank, he would know access codes, troop movements, and even where specific prisoners were being held.”

“He’s probably responsible for the attack on Seventeen, blyat.”

“No doubt.”

“This seems like someone they would value,” Petrova said, pausing her restless pacing as an idea began to form. “Someone they would be close to.”

“I pulled records of all their comms systems and encryption codes from the servers that Roach and Crow dumped,” Song suggested. “I could spoof a distress call – do some voice modulation.”

“No, they’re too wily for that,” Petrova muttered. “They’ll know something is up if he just calls them out of the blue. Where is this guy being held?”

“Garrison One, along with all the other high-risk prisoners,” Song replied. “After what happened at Seventeen, we’re not taking any chances. One is absolutely impenetrable.”

“Then we need to move him,” she began, scratching her chin with a rubberized finger pad. “This can’t just be a staged prison break – it has to be a real escape. If I’m going to get close to the target, Jabril has to believe it. He needs to contact the Rask through his own channels – set up a meeting in a place only they would know about.”

“How are you going to do that?” Song asked. “Tracking him might be difficult with the storms.”

“I’ll be right there with him,” Petrova replied, more confident now. “Here’s what we do – we come up with a reason to transfer Jabril to another garrison, then we load him into an armored transport. I’ll be traveling with him undercover as another resistance fighter. There’s no way he knows everyone by name and face – there were hundreds of them. Along the route, something happens to the armored car, and we both escape. Once I gain his trust, he’ll want to bring me with him, and he’ll lead me right to the target.”

“We’ll have to work out the finer details,” Song replied. “It’ll need to go off perfectly. I’m not sure how Barbosa will feel about letting one of our most valuable prisoners escape, even temporarily.”

“The Commander will sign off on the plan if it comes from me,” she insisted.

“If you say so. What happens when you find the target? We could send in strike teams to take them out. If you organize the meeting in an uninhabited area – like an industrial park – we could drop a sabot on them. No way they’re crawling out of that.”

“No – we do this my way,” Petrova replied. “Infiltration is my specialty. I just need to get close enough to do my job. If I can get the Rask and Rivera in the same room with me, none of them are leaving alive. And, Song? It needs to look real. Don’t send any SWAR – PDF only. I may have to demonstrate my loyalty.”

DAY 39 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“Got your meds,” Rivera said as he tossed a little bottle of pills to Ruza. The Rask caught them with a rattle, checking the label before unscrewing the cap and upending a couple of them into his mouth.

“What’s the situation like in the city?” Amy asked as she watched the Marines shake some of the sand off their leather clothing. They had just returned from their outing, and they were laden with packs and equipment, the dust from the encroaching storm still coating them in a fine powder.

“It’s pretty dour,” Rivera replied as he slung off his pack and set his XMR down on the lobby’s welcome desk. “The Borgs have shut off all the comms – the intranet is down, and so is the phone service. They don’t want people talking or coordinating. The only presence we really saw out on the streets was the PDF patrols. Looks like the locals are all keeping their heads down. Barbosa has the place on total lockdown – I don’t see how another protest like the one we organized would even be possible at this point.”

“They must feel like he’s won,” Amy sighed.

“The only place we really saw any people was at the hospital,” one of the Marines added, taking off his mask. Ruza was starting to learn their names now – this was Owens. “I went there alone – we were worried someone might recognize the Staff Sergeant. I asked for Doctor Hendriks, like Ruza said, and he got the picture when I mentioned the grav meds. We had a little time to chat while he filled the prescription. He said that they received some of the injured resistance members from the base, and that he and his staff were doing their best to keep it under wraps. They’ve had a huge influx of patients following the battle. A lot of people got killed, and a lot more got hurt. It sounds like their resources are stretched even thinner than usual. He didn’t have a clear picture of exactly what was going on, but he told me that the unions have been completely broken up, and all of their leaders have been arrested.”

“We figure Bergmann is among them,” Rivera added. “It’s likely that he was detained at the protest and never made it back to the base.”

“That outcome is preferable,” Ruza grumbled. “He may still be alive.”

“No word on Nick, Omar, Astrid, Reed, or anybody else,” Rivera added with a solemn shake of his head. “I sent Gray and Cruz to check their prefabs, and it didn’t look like anybody was home. We couldn’t do much more than pass by them on the street, as the Borgs might be watching.”

“I gotta say, we’d be screwed without the masks,” Owens added. “Of all the bad cards we’ve been dealt on this planet, the Hadeans wearing disguises as casual dress is a stroke of luck. As long as we don’t draw the attention of a patrol, we can go pretty much anywhere we please.”

“We also scoped out one of the checkpoints,” Gray added. “The base is a crater now, but it doesn’t look like the Borgs cleared out every tunnel before they leveled the place. There may be a few caches left and a few places our guys could be holding out on the outskirts of the old smuggling network.”

“We should check as many of those places as we can,” Ruza suggested.

“I’ll make a list of some of the most frequented ones,” Amy added. “Maybe we can prioritize those?”

“We don’t have a lot of manpower, but I’ll see what we can do,” Rivera replied with a nod. “We managed to get some of the stuff you asked for, Amy. Got enough batteries to last a few days, some ammo from a cache, a few medical supplies. Basic goods like food seem scarce – the markets weren’t even open, nor were any stores.”

“Without the resistance, the people will depend wholly on the occupiers for their basic needs,” Ruza said. “Meager rations may be all they receive.”

“Just thinking about how many supplies they must have bombed during their attack on the base makes me furious,” Amy grumbled. “All that food and medicine…”

“I wanted to stay longer, but it’s a pretty tough trek back here,” Rivera added. “With the storm ramping up, it was either find a place to hole up in the city or make it home before the time window closed.”

“You must be careful when traveling in the storm,” Ruza confirmed with a nod. “Do not leave it to chance. If you find yourself lost in the desert during the worst of it, it can strip the very flesh from your bones.”

“Go get a shower and something to eat,” Amy insisted, ushering the Marines down the entrance hall. “I’ll have the boys come and sort through your haul.” She waited until the squad was out of earshot, then turned to Ruza again. “Doesn’t bode well,” she muttered, leaning against the welcome desk. “I wonder where everyone went?”

“Some may have given up and returned to their lives,” Ruza replied. “Some may be hiding in tunnels, others in warehouse basements. Many will have been taken prisoner. I am concerned for Reed. Last I saw him, he was alive and traveling with a large contingent of men, but it seems that he never arrived at the base. What could have happened to delay them?”

“I kind of miss him,” Amy admitted, rubbing her arm. “Never thought I’d say that, considering how annoying he can be. I don’t know how we’re going to find everyone when we don’t even have enough people to search properly…”

“You cannot worry for everyone all the time,” Ruza replied, taking a step closer to place a large hand on her shoulder. “You will exhaust yourself. Occupy your mind with what good you can do here and what you can change now. It will help.”

“Always with the sage advice,” she replied, suppressing a smile. “Fine, fine. I’ll go get these supplies stowed and see what I can do about those batteries. It’ll give me something to do. If I’m successful, maybe we can actually cook something tonight that wasn’t heated over a camping stove.”

DAY 40 – HADES – PETROVA

Petrova sat in darkness, the rumbling of the truck’s engine making the cold metal bench that she was sitting on vibrate beneath her. Her wrists were bound in her lap with a zip tie, and her head was covered by a hood, obscuring her view of the troop bay. She heard the creak of metal hinges rise above the noise, followed by the heavy footsteps of several people. Someone was being dragged into the transport – very unceremoniously, judging by all the scuffling. Only when the footsteps faded and she heard the doors close did she speak up.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice somewhat muffled by the hood.

“Who is that?” the stranger replied. “I can’t see anything through this bag.”

The truck lurched into motion, Petrova having to spread her feet to keep herself from toppling over, the vehicle’s suspension bouncing on the uneven road. She felt the motion of turning, suggesting that they were heading out into the street.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” the prisoner asked.

“I think they’re transporting us to another garrison,” Petrova replied. “I heard the guards talking about it. The Borgs want to keep us moving around so the resistance can’t plan any more jailbreaks.”

“You’re resistance?” he hissed.

“Wait, Omar?” Petrova stammered. “Omar Jabril? Is that you?”

“You know me?”

“I don’t think we ever spoke one-on-one, but I recognize your voice,” she replied. “Damn, it’s nice to see a familiar face. Well, you know what I mean.”

“Sorry,” he replied. “I don’t recognize yours.”

“The name’s Anna – rank of Private. I was a Marine serving on the Tirad.”

“Damn, how did you end up here?”

“They bagged me during the street fighting – I was with Rivera’s group before we got split up in the chaos. Where did they pick you up?”

“They grabbed me while I was on duty,” he replied, keeping his voice low. “Guess they found my paper trail…”

“What about the others?” Petrova pressed. “Did you see Ruza or Rivera? Who was with you?”

“Nobody,” he replied. “They’ve kept me in solitary for the last few days. At least, it feels like days – there were no windows in my cell. I have no idea where any of the others are.”

They turned another corner, Petrova feeling a tug of acceleration.

“Any idea what happened after the battle?” she pressed.

“I dunno – seems like we lost.”

“There’s no way the Borgs bagged everyone,” Petrova insisted. “If Ruza is still alive, he’ll come for us. He doesn’t leave people behind.”

“I hope you’re right.”

They drove for a good fifteen minutes, heading out towards the industrial areas of the city’s fringe, the truck occasionally bouncing as they traversed a rough patch of road. Suddenly, they began to slow, Petrova hearing muffled voices from the cab beyond the wall that divided it from the bay. Omar wouldn’t be able to hear anything, but the high gain on her cochlear implants picked it up over the engine noise.

“Why? They’re secured – they ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“He just said to check them.”

“We can just say we did. How is command gonna know the difference?”

“If you want to fuck with those special forces guys, you can do it without me.”

“Alright, fine. Pull over, and we’ll take a look. I dunno why they didn’t check her back at the garrison.”

“Why are we stopping?” Omar wondered aloud. “Are we there already?”

“Quiet,” Petrova hissed.

The truck rolled to a stop, Petrova hearing the creak of the hinges again as the doors swung open, letting sepia sunlight spill through. Though she couldn’t see much more than light and shadow through the fabric of the hood, she could hear the trooper climbing into the bay, his boots thudding against the metal deck. The vibrations drew closer, his presence displacing the air as he leaned down close. He pushed her back against the wall and pulled open her leather jacket, starting to pat her down, searching for the contraband that Song had just informed him was there.

As quick as a striking cobra, she snapped her zip ties with the ease that an unaugmented person might break a shoelace, driving a mechanical fist into the trooper’s belly. He let out a grunt and bent double as all of the air was forced from his lungs, then Petrova followed up with a strike to his face, catching him across the cheek and sending him slumping unconscious to the floor. She tore off her hood, whipping her head around to locate the second target.

“What the-”

The second trooper had been waiting outside, and he reached for his sidearm, fumbling with the holster on his belt. Petrova was faster, moving out of her seat and kicking off the deck faster than her opponent could even draw his weapon. She leapt from the back of the truck, its height putting her in just the right position to swing her leg in a roundhouse kick, a shin made of an alloy that was harder than bone slamming into his head. The force of it drove him to the ground, where he lay still, Petrova stooping to retrieve his weapon.

“What’s going on!?” Omar demanded, snapping his head around beneath his hood.

Petrova jumped back into the troop bay and hurried over to him, tearing the bag from his head. He blinked his eyes as they adjusted to the harsh light, peering up at her.

“Anna? What happened?” he added, glancing at the two unconscious men.

“I cut through my tie with a shiv,” she explained, producing a crude knife from beneath her sleeve and using it to saw through his bonds. “Quick – we have to get the hell out of here before the guards come around and raise the alarm.”

“You Marines really are something,” he muttered as she took his wrist and guided him out of the truck, stepping over one of the troopers. He wouldn’t be able to feel her prosthetic hands through the thick leather gloves.

“Where the fuck are we?” she demanded as they hopped out onto the dusty street. They were in a residential area of the city, surrounded by sandblasted prefabs.

“The sun is there,” Omar replied, shielding his eyes as he gestured to the sky. “The tether is that way, so we were heading East before they pulled over.”

“They teach you that in PDF school?” Petrova joked, sliding the magazine from her captured weapon to check the ammo count.

“It’s hard to get lost when there’s only one landmark on the entire planet,” he replied with a smirk.

“What do we do now?” she asked, glancing around. “Fuck, I didn’t appreciate the goggles and masks until now – I can taste the sand in the air.”

“We need to get off the street before the drones come looking,” Omar replied, turning on the spot as he took in his new surroundings. “I think we’re close to the industrial district. This way!”

They jogged past the idling truck and headed away from the tether, the prefabs soon giving way to warehouses and derelict lots. Omar seemed to have a good idea of where he was going, pausing occasionally to check the faded numbers that were stenciled across the walls of the warehouses. Song had been sure to send the truck towards an area with a lot of recorded insurgent activity.

“I know this place,” he announced. “There were tunnels and checkpoints nearby. We can make it back to the base.”

“Base?” Petrova replied, stopping him beside a stack of rusty cargo containers. “You didn’t know?”

“Know what?” he asked, leaning against the metal to catch his breath.

“Omar, the base was destroyed.”

“What?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes.

“After the battle, the carrier hit it with a barrage. One-kilo sabots – standard orbital salvo. I saw the mushroom clouds myself.”

“W-what?” he repeated. He put his back to the container, sliding down to the ground, his expression frozen in a grimace of disbelief. “How did they even find it? Did anyone survive? We have to go there and look for survivors!”

“No,” Petrova replied with a shake of her head, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Trust me when I say that the base isn’t there anymore. We use those salvos to collapse Bug tunnels – there’s nothing left. They kept a lot of us in one of the shelters, and I heard rumors. The Borgs didn’t catch everyone, and some people made it out of the base before the attack. The resistance isn’t dead – they’re still out there.”

“Then, some of them may still be alive,” Omar said with a shaky sigh. “Alright. If the base is gone…where would they go?”

“If there were any fallback plans, they didn’t tell me.”

“During our last conference, Ruza said something about wanting to move to a new location,” Omar began, his brow furrowing with the effort of remembering. “It was outside the city…”

“Where?” Petrova pressed. “Can you remember where it was?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” he grumbled.

“Do you remember anything?” Petrova added, keeping a hand on his shoulder. “Anything at all? Think hard, Omar. Any detail might help – our lives could depend on getting there before the Borgs find us.”

“I’m sorry, I’m drawing a blank,” he said as he shook his head. “I just know that it was some old industrial plant outside the city, but there are dozens of those. Could be anywhere. Even if we knew where it was, I doubt we’d be able to get there on our own. The wastes are no joke, especially during storm season.”

“Damn,” Petrova hissed, standing up straight. If he’d been able to give her coordinates, she could have sent them straight to Song. “What do we do, then?”

“Even if the base has been demolished, there are still tunnels that the occupiers won’t know about,” he replied. Petrova extended a hand, and he took it, the agent helping him to his feet. She was careful not to use too much of her strength. “I know a few entrances nearby. We should pick up the pace – it’s a miracle that we aren’t already being swarmed by drones.”

She followed him into the nearest warehouse, and they passed by the rows of empty shelves and abandoned crates, heading down a flight of concrete steps into the darkness below.

“Wish I had a flashlight,” he grumbled. “At this rate, we’re gonna be feeling our way along…”

A light suddenly cut through the darkness, the disturbed dust particles floating through its beam. Omar looked back at Petrova to see that she was brandishing the sidearm, a little flashlight mounted beneath its barrel illuminating her smiling face.

“Alright, that works,” he said. “I think it was over here somewhere. Look for a large crate pushed up against the wall.” It didn’t take them long to find it, and Petrova helped Omar push the crate aside, once again limiting her strength so as not to give herself away. “There are hundreds of these passages hidden under the warehouses,” he grunted, putting his shoulder to the container. “The Syndicate used to use them to smuggle contraband back in the day.”

“Yeah, we’ve used them before,” Petrova replied as she shone her flashlight down the tunnel. “If we find a checkpoint, what next?”

“We see if the communications gear works,” Omar said, setting off into the uneven passage. “Our first priority is to get in contact with any other survivors.”

They walked down the winding tunnel, the bare dirt walls lit by Petrova’s flashlight beam. As they traveled deeper, she heard her cochlear implants signal that they had disconnected from the network, the meters of rock and dirt above her head blocking the transmissions. She was on her own now.

It felt like they had been walking for twenty minutes by the time they came upon a larger chamber. They emerged through a hole in the wall of a wider tunnel, and Petrova swept her flashlight around a small nexus in the passageways. This must be what Omar had referred to as a checkpoint. Where several tunnels met, the insurgents had set up a little basecamp, complete with crude walls of sandbags and stacks of supply crates.

Omar seemed to know what he was doing, hurrying over to the supplies and starting to sift through them. Petrova followed, lowering her weapon as he produced a flashlight of his own, tossing a second to her. He found a battery-powered camping lantern and set it down on the ground, its bright glow illuminating the immediate area in a pool of light. The defensive walls cast long shadows down the branching tunnels, fading into inky darkness.

“Finally, some food,” he muttered as Petrova heard the sound of tearing plastic. “The Borgs are low on supplies, and they’re not exactly being generous with the prisoners.”

“Tell me about it,” Petrova muttered.

Omar sat down on a folding chair and tore open a wrapper, eating the ration cold. He must have been starving. He offered it to her, and she nodded, snatching a toaster strudel out of the air as he tossed it to her. She wasn’t hungry – her body needed fewer calories with so much mass removed – but she ate for appearance’s sake. Her eyes lit up as she tasted the strawberry filling and the sweet pastry, starting to eat a little more enthusiastically. It was junk, but rarely did she eat for pleasure.

After wolfing down some food, which seemed to be his most pressing concern, Omar turned to the supply crates again. There were a few weapons stowed within one of them, along with a couple of phones, Omar arming himself and switching one of the devices on. The insurgents had certainly learned a lot from their Syndicate forebears.

“Nothing,” he grumbled as he tapped at the display. “Not getting any signals from the network. If the base really was destroyed, the servers will either be gone, or they won’t be receiving power. Damn it. How are we going to get in contact with anyone? We can’t search every damned mine and basement on Hades.”

“We could go to the surface and send a radio transmission,” Petrova suggested, shining her flashlight on a pair of portable radios that were sitting in one of the boxes. “They’re encrypted, right?”

“Two problems with that,” Omar replied. “One – we don’t know if the Borgs recovered any of our encryption codes. They might be able to intercept the message. Two – a transmission like that would be a beacon for anyone listening. The Borgs are guaranteed to pick it up and come snooping. I’m not going to set up a meeting only to draw my friends into a trap – not even to save my life.”

Petrova felt a tug of frustration, but she suppressed it. Omar wasn’t an idiot, it seemed.

“Listen,” she began. “I know you want to protect the others – I do too – but we’re powerless if we remain scattered like this. If we don’t come together and rebuild our forces, we may as well be dead, because we’ll be having the same impact on the war either way. We can minimize the risk, but if we’re going to stand any chance of stopping the occupation, we need to get in contact with the resistance.”

“What do you propose?” he asked.

“We can take the radio somewhere far from our meeting point, then use code words that only the resistance would understand,” she began. “That way, it won’t matter if they’ve cracked the encryption or not – it won’t make sense to them anyway. By the time they triangulate the source of the transmission, we’ll be long gone.”

Omar paused, lost in thought for a moment as he chewed on a cereal bar.

“I suppose that makes sense,” he conceded. “We won’t accomplish anything by hiding in these tunnels, and we don’t know how strong the resistance is. Maybe they’re already reestablished in Ruza’s backup base.”

“We won’t know unless we try.”

“Alright,” he sighed. “Let’s wait until tonight – then, we can head out and make the call. There are maps on these phones, so we can avoid any booby-trapped tunnels. I sure hope they’re up to date…”

“Make sure you choose a suitable place for the meeting,” Petrova added. “Somewhere isolated where we won’t be disturbed, away from any civilian areas. We want as few people present as possible. If they come in force to pick us up, it’s only going to alert the Borgs. Hell, I wouldn’t even want to send a fireteam out right now. Maybe Ruza should come alone.”

“You think stealth is the play right now?” Omar asked.

“I do.”

“What if he gets caught? He’ll have no backup.”

“There are no good options,” Petrova replied with a shrug. “He comes alone or with a small team, and he won’t have backup if shit hits the fan. If he brings a large team and makes too much noise, he won’t fare any better. I’m sure he can decide for himself.”

“I trust Ruza, Rivera, and the others to know what to do. They’re all survivors.”

“How about we actually heat up some of this food while we wait for nightfall?” Petrova suggested.

***

“What was it like serving on the Tirad?” Omar asked. He was sitting on the dirt floor, slowly stirring a small pot of noodles that was perched atop an MRE stove, the gel packet beneath it flickering as it burned. “I’ve been around Marines so much these last few weeks, but I haven’t really had time to talk to anyone besides Rivera.”

“It’s not a life for people who value family, I’ll say that much,” Petrova replied from her seat on the flimsy chair across from him. “A short deployment on a carrier is usually six months, and a long one could be two years or more. Life on a carrier isn’t so bad, though – you get used to it after a time. The food is alright, you have hot showers and warm beds, there’s stuff to do to pass the time.”

“Do you have bars?” Omar asked.

“And arcades,” she replied with a grin. “Civvies think that life in the Navy is all about action – that we’re flying from battle to battle. In reality, most of what we do is waiting. We wait months to reach our destination, and when we get there, we wait for the action to start. A lot of the time, there is no action, so we go back to waiting again.”

“That sounds much more boring than I imagined,” Omar replied, upending a little packet of flavor powder into the pot.

“Sometimes, boring is good,” Petrova sighed. “This was supposed to be a boring deployment. We come to Hades, patrol the streets, make sure everything is running smoothly, then we go home. It was supposed to be glorified police work, not a fight to the death.”

The most convincing lies held a little truth, after all.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” Omar continued, staring wistfully into the steaming pot. “Sometimes, I feel like Hades is just one big problem for the rest of the Sphere – like maybe it’s somehow our fault. Maybe we’re cursed, maybe we’re bad people. We just want to live our lives, but this place seems to attract conflict like a giant magnet. Maybe it would be better if Hades was never colonized at all…”

“Don’t say that,” Petrova replied. “This is a tough planet, granted, but you don’t deserve what’s happening. Hades could be so much more than this.”

“You said that serving on a carrier isn’t a job for people who value family,” Omar continued, changing the subject. “Do you have a family back home?”

“I haven’t seen my biological family in a very long time,” Petrova replied. “The Corps is like a brotherhood – a fraternity. A fraternity that includes girls,” she added. “We really need a better name for that. Anyway, you come to rely on the people you serve with, and they become your surrogate family. Like siblings, you might bicker and fight sometimes, but you know they have your back when the chips are down.”

“I’m sorry that you’ve lost so many of them,” Omar said solemnly. “The attack on your carrier, what’s been happening on the ground – it’s all so…needless. The Navy exists to protect people – you shouldn’t have to kill your own. You should be out there stopping giant insects from eating people or something.”

“Yeah, we’ve lost a lot of good Marines,” she mumbled.

“You alright?” he added, pausing his stirring as he noted her change in demeanor.

“Y-yeah,” she muttered, pulling her leather jacket a little tighter. “Just thinking about old friends.”

Even if her relationship with Hoff had soured towards the end, he had been her steadfast comrade for many years. He didn’t deserve to die so badly as a reward for all his decades of service. Then there was Tiny…she couldn’t even think about him right now. How many other SWAR agents had died for this venture? How many Marines and PDF had been killed? The only people she really had left who felt like family were Fran and her friends, but they had rejected her after discovering who and what she truly was. The only person who still believed in her – who had a place for her, was Barbosa.

“You can talk about it if you want,” Omar suggested. “It’s just us here.”

“I guess I’m just feeling lonely,” she replied.

“Understandable, considering the circumstances,” Omar said as he poured some of the noodles into a bowl. He leaned over to hand it to her, and she held it in her gloved hands, watching the steam rise from the broth. Omar simply ate from the pot, settling back down onto the dirt floor and blowing on his first spoonful.

Petrova took a tentative sip, feeling it warm her belly. Maybe Anna could confide in Omar, even if Petrova couldn’t. Maybe it would build some trust with her mark and make her feel a little better to boot.

“I feel like…a lot of the people I cared about are gone. I understood my place in the world, I had friends supporting me, and I had clarity of purpose. I knew what I was doing and why I was fighting. We…the Corps, were a shield that protected humanity. When some slavering alien is bearing down on a terrified kid, we’re the ones who stand between them. We’re the ones who go in and fight the monsters so that everyone else can sleep soundly.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Omar muttered, slurping up a spoonful of noodles.

“Now, we’re killing our fellow humans. They’re bad guys,” she added hurriedly. “They want to sow chaos and hurt innocent people, but I don’t know if we’re making things better or worse. How many innocent civilians died in that riot because we made the city a battlefield?”

“They’re not giving us that choice,” Omar replied. “They chose for us when they brought the war to Hades, and they dictated the rules of engagement. All we can do now is react and try to minimize the collateral damage we cause. They chose to have firefights in the streets – don’t blame yourself when you have to respond.”

“I hate them,” she hissed, watching her broth ripple as her hands began to shake subtly. “I never hated the Bugs like this. They’re little more than animals – they don’t feel emotions like we do, they only kill to eat and propagate. These guys…the Borgs, they’ve caused the deaths of my friends, both directly and indirectly. They made conscious decisions, and they’re responsible for the outcomes. Now, I feel like that hate is all I have left. It’s the only thing keeping me oriented and giving me purpose.”

“Not to suggest that you shouldn’t be raring to kill Borgs,” Omar began hesitantly. “But I don’t know if hatred is the healthiest motivation. You said so yourself – your job is to protect people. Maybe that should be what gives you purpose. It’s like Ruza always says – it’s not our place to punish wrongdoers. We’re not judges or executioners. Our goal should be to use only what violence is necessary to end the threat. I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t hate the Borgs too, but I only want them to leave. They can end this war any time they want by simply going home, but we have nowhere else to go. You think anyone who has the means to leave Hades chooses to be here?”

“They can’t win,” she muttered. “All they’re doing by prolonging the fight is ensuring more people get hurt.”

“I admire your confidence,” Omar chuckled. “Victory feels a long way off from inside this tunnel.”

They ate their food, and after a little more waiting, Omar pulled up his phone to check the time.

“We should be good,” he announced, rising to his feet and picking up his weapon. He fished in one of the supply boxes and tossed Petrova a mask. “Let’s go send that message before the storms start up again.”

DAY 41 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“One of the helmets picked it up,” Rivera said, placing the device in question on the table with a thud. What remained of the resistance was sat in the cafeteria, which now served as their conference room. “It was a wide-band transmission, and it was using our encryption codes.”

“It is a trap,” Ruza replied simply from his seat on a nearby table, crossing his furry arms. “They retrieved the codes either from the servers or from interrogation and are seeking to draw out survivors.”

“That was my first thought too,” Rivera continued. “Until I heard the message.”

He tapped at the touch panel mounted on the helmet’s temple, and it began to play a recording through its speakers.

“Radiation man, shore leave, comedian, this is two-face. Come to the place where the small ones were healed.”

“That’s Omar’s voice!” Amy gasped. “He’s alive!”

“It could be Omar’s voice,” Rivera replied, pacing back and forth beside the table. “Or it could be a modulator. They’d only need a short recording to make an exact copy of him, especially with how grainy this transmission is.”

“What is he saying?” Ruza grumbled, his flat brow furrowing pensively. “My English is not perfect, but it seems to lack all meaning to me.”

“It’s some kind of code,” Rivera replied.

“Radiation man,” Bill declared, pointing to Ruza. “That’s you, Doc.”

“What?” Rivera asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Ruza got irradiated one time,” Bill explained. “I remember him telling us about it.”

“Right!” Amy said, slapping a hand on the table. “He must be talking about Ruza! And the shore leave part is probably referring to the Marines – maybe Rivera.”

“I suppose this qualifies as a kind of shore leave,” Rivera sighed. “I guess two-face is pretty obvious. Omar was our man on the inside – a double agent. What about comedian?”

“That’ll be Reed,” Amy replied. “Omar doesn’t know that we’re not in contact with him.”

“Do you humans find Reed to be…humorous?” Ruza asked.

“No,” Amy muttered with a roll of her eyes. “The important thing is that Reed thinks he’s humorous.”

“I’m more worried about how Bill figured this out before the rest of us,” Ricky added as he sat slouched in his chair.

“So, Omar is calling for help,” Amy continued. “What is the place where the small ones were healed? Could he be talking about kids? Does he want you to meet him at the old clinic?”

“No, that would be too obvious,” Ruza replied. “The enemy would know to look for us there.”

“Wait,” Amy added. “He could be referring to your work after you joined the resistance. Remember when you were seeing patients in secret?”

“You believe he may be referring to one of the meeting places?” Ruza asked, his round ears pricking up.

“Yes, I don’t know what else would make sense.”

“The Borgs wouldn’t know about that,” Rivera said with a nod. “Even if they were torturing Omar for information, he’d have no reason to volunteer it, and they’d have no reason to ask. The question is – would Omar know where these meetings happened?”

“Yes, he was present for all of our briefings,” Amy confirmed. “He would have signed off on all of the excursions into the city. He knew where the PDF patrol routes were.”

“Maybe this is legit after all,” Rivera conceded.

“I fear that I remember my patients, but not where such meetings took place,” Ruza sighed.

“Your last appointment was with Miss Bauer,” Amy replied, her smile radiating confidence. “She brought her children, Jessica and Peter, in with respiratory distress. You treated Jessica with antibiotics for a chest infection, and Peter with medicated charges for his inhaler. The meeting took place in an old Syndicate storage building, the address of which I happen to have recorded on my tablet.”

“You remember all that?” Bill marveled as everyone turned their heads to glance at her.

“That’s what Ruza pays me for,” she replied smugly.

“Right, then we have a meeting place,” Rivera said with an appreciative nod. “He didn’t say anything about timetables, but we can’t assume that Omar will hang around there forever. We should strive to get a team out to the city to extract him ASAP. I just hope he had the sense not to make this call from the same place he wants to meet us.”

“We can enter the tunnel system on the outskirts of the city during the next storm,” Ruza suggested. “From there, we should be able to reach the meeting place by traveling below ground. We cannot guarantee that we will not encounter resistance, however. The enemy will surely be at work mapping the mines in our absence.”

“It’s a risk that we have to take,” Rivera replied. “We don’t leave people behind.”

“Numbers will be of no benefit to us in those narrow passages,” Ruza continued. “We should travel lightly. Perhaps I should go alone.”

“You’re not going anywhere alone,” Rivera chided, giving him a familiar glare. “We do this together or not at all.”

Ruza felt the impulse to argue, but instead bowed his head subtly – a gesture of compliance. Even Rivera seemed surprised, but he quickly pressed on.

“I’ll put together a fireteam. That’s the smallest unit I’m comfortable sending into the field. Four Marines, plus me and Ruza. We scout the area, we find Omar, and we bring him back here. This operation will have to be carried out quickly. If we spend too long in the city, we might miss the next storm window and get stuck there overnight. I’d rather not chance it.”

“You’re sure that Ruza should be going into the city?” Amy asked, giving the Rask a concerned look.

“We’ll be below ground, so we should be fine,” Rivera insisted. “Besides, I’d like to have him watching our backs. If we have to go toe-to-toe with SWAR, I want someone who can hold their own.”

“I’ll go find the address,” Amy added, rising from her seat.

CHAPTER 22

DAY 42 – HADES – PETROVA

“I hope they figured out the message,” Omar sighed. “Do you think it was too cryptic?”

He was sitting on one of the old storage crates that filled the little concrete structure, the dust that filled the air so pervasive that Petrova had elected to keep her breathing mask on. Omar had told her that it was some old storehouse the Syndicate had used for moving stolen goods many years prior. They’d come up from beneath the floor using one of the winding tunnels that crisscrossed beneath the city like a termite nest, and they had been waiting for the better part of a day already.

“We won’t know until they arrive,” Petrova replied, leaning against the wall by the door.

She was already scouting out the room – finding the best vantage points, formulating plans, and playing them out in her mind. This was exactly what she had wanted – a small, enclosed space where she could surprise her targets and leverage her augs to tear them apart.

An XMR would kill a SWAR operative just as easily as it would an unaugmented human, but it was in CQB where her kind really shined. The fighting techniques that SWAR had developed leveraged their strength to break bone and tear flesh. Petrova could rip the throat from a person with the same ease that someone might pull apart a fresh bagel, and bone was no stronger than chalk in her hands. She and Omar had set down their XMRs some distance away, but she also had her arm-gun loaded with a single deadly round, and her wrist blade was ready to spring forth. In mere seconds, she could paint this storehouse with their blood.

She reached up to scratch her ear absent-mindedly, applying just enough pressure to start broadcasting her position from her cochlear implant. Song had orders not to intervene unless she called for help, but if something went wrong, he could drop a kill team or a bunker buster right on top of the building.

There was a sudden noise, and she turned around, glancing back at the open hole in the concrete floor where a sheet metal panel had been pushed aside. She bristled as a distinctly feline head slowly rose up from the darkness below, some kind of makeshift machine pistol clutched in its furry hands. It was the Rask – the alien scrutinizing her with its reflective, yellow eyes, those slitted pupils expanded into dark circles to take in more light. His flat brow culminated in a pink, feline nose that twitched as it sampled the air, his round ears emerging from a mop of sand-colored hair that contrasted with his tanned complexion.

It was only her training as an infiltrator that allowed her to repress her reaction. She was supposed to know this creature – the resistance viewed it as a friend. Only a couple of years prior, she had stared the same aliens down in combat, tossing grenades and firing bursts as her team swept from room to room in one of their giant desert crawlers.

The alien only grew taller and more imposing as he hauled himself out of the hole, his shoulders so wide that it was a tight squeeze. His torso seemed about as broad as two people of Petrova’s stature standing side by side. He seemed suspicious of Petrova, but when his eyes turned to Omar, they lit up.

“Omar!” the alien began in a deep, coarse voice that resonated within the confined space. “I am relieved to find you well.”

“Likewise, Doc,” Omar added with a smile as he hopped off his crate. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. I wondered if my riddle might have given you too much trouble.”

“Don’t worry – even Bill managed to figure it out,” someone grunted as he climbed up behind the Rask. He was wearing a PDF helmet, but the visor was open, and Petrova recognized him as Rivera. Good – both of the VIPs were right where she wanted them…

More Marines followed – three men keeping their weapons raised as they began to sweep the small building, checking corners and peering behind crates. It seemed that there were a couple more who had remained in the tunnel below. Probably two or three – they had brought a fireteam. Predictable…

“You are not hurt?” Ruza added, looking Omar up and down. “How did you escape capture after the battle?”

“Oh, I got captured,” he explained. “That’s where my friend here comes in,” he added with a gesture to Petrova. “The Borgs were moving us between garrisons by truck – we think to prevent you guys from keeping track of us – and Anna here managed to bust us out with her Marine karate or something.”

“Anna?” Rivera asked, sounding skeptical. The Rask picked up on his tone of voice, turning to face her.

“Private Anna Valencia, Sir,” she replied with a prim salute. “Four-hundred-and-eighth out of Quezon City.”

“The four-oh-eight were serving on the Tirad, but I don’t remember your name,” he replied. There was a moment of tension, Petrova preparing to spring her hidden blade free, but he appeared to relax. The Rask followed suit, letting down his guard and turning back to Omar. “Thanks for keeping Omar safe,” Rivera continued. “Sorry to cut the tearful reunion short, but we need to get out of here on the double. I don’t want to test the Borgs, and if we delay too long, we’ll miss our storm window. Private – fall in with the fireteam. You can watch our six.”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” she confirmed.

Her heart should have been pounding and her blood should have been boiling in her veins, but she restrained herself as she watched her targets interact, waiting for an opportunity like a tiger preparing to pounce. They were so close that she could feel their breath, but she had to stay cool, as even the subtlest of signals could give her away. Body language, lingering looks – even the way she breathed could betray her intentions to a perceptive target. Anna was safe among friends, and it wasn’t enough for Petrova’s enemies to believe it – her very body had to be convinced of it too.

As Ruza and Rivera turned their backs to address Omar, she felt her heart skip a solitary beat, a little tension starting to rise as she geared up. The Rask was the biggest threat in this enclosed environment – the only serious threat. The aliens might be big and tough, but even their high-G bones were like paper to an XMR. One round from her hidden arm-gun to the back of his skull, and it would be lights-out. Rivera’s spine would be severed by her blade before the alien’s body had hit the floor, and from there, the rest of the Marines would follow in short order.

She wasn’t even hearing their conversation anymore – it had all faded into the background, blurred and indistinct like someone speaking underwater. Petrova stepped a little closer, needing to get nearer to Rivera, splaying her fingers as she prepared to bring up her gun-arm. There was a sudden interruption as Omar reached out to her, handing her an XMR. That momentary distraction was all it took.

The last thing she saw before everything went black was the back of a furry hand whipping towards her face.

***

Petrova awoke suddenly, feeling something foul stinging her nose. Through blurry eyes, she saw a small vial that was being waved in front of her face. It was followed by a bright light that shone in her eyes, making her blink and squint, her vision gradually clearing as she followed it back and forth.

The indistinct space around her resolved into a metal room with a single harsh light strip mounted on the ceiling. It was devoid of any furniture, save for the chair that she was sitting in. It didn’t strike her as a cell, but it was clearly being used as one, the remnants of dust on the deck suggesting that it had only recently been cleaned. Her head was pounding, and she tasted blood in her mouth. There was a numbness in her extremities, and she couldn’t move her limbs when she tried, but she couldn’t yet discern whether she was bound or not. Her clothes and mask had been removed, stripping her down to her tank top and shorts.

She lifted her eyes groggily, gritting her teeth when she saw the Rask standing in front of her. Being seated made him look even larger, the imposing alien filling her field of view, looking down at her with those piercing yellow eyes. He was holding a little vial between his padded fingers, along with a small flashlight the size of a pen to him. As she watched warily, feeling her body’s stress response start to kick in with a vengeance, he stooped to stow the items in a duffel bag that was resting on the floor at his feet.

“I wanted to make sure that you were not suffering from a concussion,” he began, his voice low and gravelly. He enunciated his words carefully and with purpose, English clearly not being his native language, rolling his Rs almost like a purring cat. “Contrary to popular belief, a loss of consciousness induced through blunt trauma to the head is not a safe and reliable way to subdue a person.”

Petrova checked for loose teeth with her tongue, then spat a glob of bloody saliva onto the floor in front of him.

“Just once during my lifetime, I would like to meet a human who does not require weeks of socialization to behave normally,” he grumbled as he glanced down at her answer with distaste.

“I know who you are,” Petrova began, glaring back at him. “You’re Ruza – they call you the Doctor.”

“Such is my profession,” he confirmed.

“You going to torture me?” Petrova demanded, glancing down at his bag. It must be full of drugs, scalpels, and who knew what other painful medical implements. “You should know that it’s pointless. SWAR don’t break – we’re trained to resist any interrogation techniques you could come up with.”

“You judge me by your own standards of conduct,” he replied with a sneer. “I regret having to strike you, but you gave me little choice.”

“I’ve fought Rask before,” she spat. “Yeah, I killed plenty of you furry fuckers on Borealis during the rebellion. You’re not so tough – you go down just the same as anyone else when I put enough tungsten in you. I know that you’re barbaric, that you’re a race of pirates and mercenaries, and that your idea of a date would get you court-martialed in civilized space.”

“Then you know very little,” he replied. He was so calm and detached – it was starting to get on her nerves.

“How did you figure it out?” she asked, cocking her head. “I had you exactly where I wanted you. One more second, and I would have painted your brains all over the room.”

“Do you think that my ears cannot discern the whine of electric motors, even beneath all your clothing?” he replied. “Can I not hear the mechanisms of your hidden weapons engaging? Do you think that I do not recognize the scent of polymer, metal, and hot electronics? I can hear your heartbeat,” he added, his massive head seeming to float down towards her as he leaned closer. She recoiled, but with the backrest of the chair behind her, there was nowhere to go. “I can smell the stress hormones seeping from your pores even now.”

“Like I said – court-martial,” she grumbled, fighting the impulse to headbutt him in his stupid cat nose. Unfortunately, his skull was a lot harder than hers, and she’d had quite enough head injuries for one day.

“You might know these things had you interacted with aliens more frequently,” he continued as he rose up to his full eight-foot height again. “There is a reason that so many Polars are being recruited by UNNI.”

“What do you know about UNNI?” Petrova demanded. “Just who the fuck are you, anyway? Why are you here alone? You work for Vos, don’t you? He sent you here, didn’t he?”

“I seem to know a great deal more than you do,” the alien replied evasively.

“What did you do to my augs?” she added, glancing down at her limbs. They were still attached – her pale skin giving way to black polymer at her thighs and shoulders, but there was only tingling static beyond. There was a belt around her midriff that secured her to the chair, but her limbs were not bound. They simply hung limp like dead weight, unable to respond to the signals from her brain. “Did you break them, you oaf?”

“I deactivated them,” he explained. “It was a simple matter of disconnecting the neural interfaces from their replaceable batteries. One needs only to pull out a few wires – it has not damaged them. I will reconnect your limbs to their power sources when I see fit.”

“How would you know how to do that?” Petrova asked, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re a Rask – your species hasn’t even developed the semiconductor yet. Have you been pulling them off dead agents?”

“I have a great deal of experience with repairing and servicing SWAR prosthetics,” he replied. “Both on and off the battlefield.”

“What the hell do you want from me anyway? You killed all of the other agents you came across in cold blood, so why am I tied to this chair? Why have you kept me alive? You have to know that I won’t give you any information, and the Commander doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. You can’t trade me for one of your pals.”

“Perhaps I am a terrorist,” the alien mused. “I am using the application of violence to enact political change, after all. I have fought against the UNN before, I have killed with smuggled weapons, and I have employed improvised explosives to demolish skyscrapers. Most of my own kind would consider me insane for the choices I have made.”

“You’re a fucking butcher,” she snapped, leaning towards him as she bared her teeth in a snarl. “You’ve murdered my friends – you’re the cause of all this.”

“I have never raised my hand against someone who was not threatening my life or those of my friends,” he replied, unfazed. “Not on this planet, at least.”

“They were good, loyal soldiers.”

“They were tyrants,” he growled, exposing teeth that were a lot larger and sharper than hers as he leaned in. “This has been a difficult lesson for you – a correction. Your people came here to impose your will on others through violence, but I am more skilled in violence, I assure you. Those who think as you do will run roughshod over your innocent victims until you hit a wall and bloody your noses. We are that wall.”

“You don’t scare me,” she said with a derisive laugh. “I’ve faced down Warriors with claws that could shear a man in half and melt flesh off the bone. I went toe-to-toe with a Krell. You’re low on the list.”

“I have known people like you,” he continued. “Fanatics with misplaced loyalty, valued only for their usefulness to the cause. Nothing that you can do will ever meet their standards. You will never be enough, and when you are no longer useful, you will be discarded like a spent magazine.”

“You like to talk a lot of shit, Koshak,” Petrova scoffed. “By all means, keep running your mouth. The longer I keep you talking, the more time it gives the strike teams that are on their way right now to get here. Let’s see if you’re more skilled in violence than a team of PCEs rocking heavy XMRs when they knock down your door.”

“I have slain two already,” he replied with a dismissive shrug. “No big problem. Nobody is coming for you, so adjust your expectations accordingly.”

“My implants would say otherwise,” she chuckled. “They’ve been broadcasting my position this entire time. By bringing me here, you’ve given away your location to the carrier. I hope Barbosa shoves a fucking bunker buster right down your throat.”

“Look where you are,” the alien replied, spreading his arms in a gesture to the metal cell that surrounded them. “You are below ground, encased within meters of rock, metal, and concrete. There is no signal.”

“You’re lucky that I can’t use my limbs right now, or I’d pop your eyes like grapes,” Petrova snarled. “Why don’t you turn them back on, and we’ll see who comes out on top?”

The Rask reached into his pouch again, withdrawing an unknown item and a roll of electrical tape. Petrova tried to pull back as he stepped closer, turning her face away when he reached down with a clawed hand that could have encompassed her head. He gripped her by the cheeks using his fleshy pads, Petrova feeling his sharp claws prick her skin, and he tried to force something into her mouth. She bit him – hard – and he withdrew his hand with an angry hiss. She expected a strike in response, but none came, the alien trying once more to force something cool and squishy past her lips. He succeeded this time, quickly tearing off a strip of tape and using it to cover her mouth.

“It is a protective bit of the same kind used during superlight jumps,” he explained, pausing to examine the blood that was starting to soak the blonde fur on his index finger. “I do not want you biting off your tongue during my absence.”

Muzzled now, Petrova could only convey her hatred through her furious stare, her angry eyes following him all the way to the door.

“Perhaps you will be feeling more cooperative after being given some time to contemplate your situation. I will return in a few hours.”

DAY 42 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“That seems to have gone well,” Rivera joked as Ruza closed the door to their makeshift cell behind him. The Marine was waiting outside, along with Amy and Omar, leaning against the wall in the empty corridor.

“She is not very cooperative,” Ruza grumbled, reaching into his medical pouch and producing a sterilizing spray. He spritzed it onto his finger until the fur was wet, then withdrew a roll of bandages and started to wrap the digit.

“What happened?” Amy asked, sounding as amused as she was concerned.

“She bit me,” he complained, extending his hand as he allowed Amy to finish his work. “Humans have an especially nasty bite. It is sure to become infected.”

“Yeah, we’re regular Komodo Dragons,” Rivera scoffed. “Did you get any useful information out of her?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “It will take time before she is willing to stop fighting us.”

“I don’t really see the point of bringing her back here,” Rivera admitted. “She’s SWAR – we could probably hook up her nervous system to the electrical grid, and she still wouldn’t give us anything. Not that we’d do that,” he added when Ruza gave him a dirty look. “I’m just saying – they’re tough, and they’re trained for scenarios like this.”

“She believes that her people will not trade for her, but I am not convinced,” Ruza explained as he flexed his bandaged digit. “This woman clearly has a very different skillset from her comrades, and she is the only female we have encountered so far.”

“Other than the instructor who was training recruits,” Amy added.

“I suspect that they may be one and the same,” Ruza replied. “This is someone of high rank, and someone who Barbosa trusts with delicate tasks. She may be valuable to him.”

“I’m sorry about all this,” Omar added with a shake of his head. “I never meant to put you guys in danger. I should have gone with my gut, but she made sending that message sound like the most sensible plan, and I guess I’ve gotten used to listening to the Marines. She seemed to know her stuff. I should have known that the escape was too good to be true…”

“It all worked out,” Amy replied. “We have you back, and we have…her.”

“You could not have known,” Ruza replied, trying to reassure him. “My intuition tells me that this woman is a trained assassin. She was equipped with an arsenal of concealed weapons uncommon even among SWAR agents, and she wore custom silicone sleeves intended to hide her prosthetics from view. She appears to know much about me, which leads me to believe that Barbosa may have instructed her to target me, along with other prominent members of our group. Infiltration and deceit could be her profession. We should trust nothing that she says.”

“Better wear some gloves next time you go in there,” Rivera said with a glance at his bandaged hand.

“I shall return in a few hours and see if she is hungry for more than my blood,” Ruza added.

“Me and Omar will go have a chat,” Rivera said, standing up straight. “He thinks he may still be able to get in touch with some contacts inside the city. We might be able to figure out who is being held, and where.”

“Very good,” Ruza replied with a nod.

Everyone dispersed, leaving Ruza and Amy alone in the dusty corridor.

“What are you going to do with her if she doesn’t talk?” Amy asked.

“I suppose that we may have to hold her until reinforcements arrive.”

“That could be months from now,” Amy continued. “What will you do until then? She’ll have to go to the bathroom eventually, you know. I can’t exactly wheel her in there on my own.”

“I could not take her?”

“No!” Amy chuckled. “You’re a guy.”

“Ah, this is another human gender concern?”

“Yes, you’re not allowed to accompany women to the bathroom, Doc. Right now, it’s my bathroom,” she added with a grumble. “Without Astrid around, there’s enough bratwurst in this place to make it feel like Oktoberfest every damned day…”

“I fear to ask,” Ruza muttered. “In any case, I will return the use of her limbs once she has calmed down, albeit at a much lower power setting. She will be able to walk unaided and feed herself, but she will be too weak to escape or hurt anyone.”

“It’s not like she knows where she is, anyway,” Amy added. “You can’t even see the tether from this far out. Her only option would be to wander into the desert in a random direction.”

“We shall keep her confined to this floor,” Ruza said. “We have ample room to spare – this plant was intended to house hundreds of workers.”

“Maybe I should have a go at talking to her?” Amy suggested hesitantly. “When she’s calmed down, I mean. We’re both women, and I’m a lot less intimidating than you are – no offense. More importantly, I know what it feels like to be captured by the bad guys. There must be all kinds of thoughts rushing through her head right now,” Amy added, glancing at the door wistfully. “Dark thoughts. I want to reassure her that she won’t be mistreated, and maybe it’ll mean more coming from me.”

“You may try if you wish,” Ruza conceded. “However…”

“Stay out of biting range,” Amy said with a nod to his bandaged finger.

DAY 42 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

Petrova glared around the room, her mind racing as she tried to figure out an escape plan. It was a metal box with only a ventilation grill that was too small for her to squeeze through, meaning that the only way out was the door, which was certainly locked from the outside. Maybe if she had the use of her limbs, she might be able to tear through the paneling or break down the door.

If what the Rask had said was true, then there was no way to reactivate her prosthetics without his help, as all of the methods required the batteries to be connected. The limbs could generate a small amount of power kinetically simply by moving, but there was nowhere for that energy to be stored.

The alien was smart – she’d give him that. No, it was more than simple smarts. He was always one step ahead of her, always one step ahead of the Commander, like he could predict everything they were going to do before they did it. He’d been ready for the raid on his home, and he’d turned it into a deadly ambush. He had acted as the bait to lure out Hoff, and he had surely struck the final blow. Kidnap his friends, and he simply came in force to take them back. He had managed to escape the attack on the insurgent base, and he had even bested Petrova when he was supposed to be at his most vulnerable. He was clever, but also experienced, and he clearly had a mind for strategy. All they really knew about him was that he had some connection to Vos, but that could mean anything. He could be a soldier who the Admiral had scooped up from some alien battlefield, a deep-cover spy for UNNI, or anything in between. The good Admiral cast a very wide net.

The sound of grinding gears disturbed her, and the door panel that faced her chair began to slide open. The mechanism was old – maybe breakable. She wasn’t surprised to see the alien stride through – it had been a few hours since he had left her to stew.

She stared him down as he walked over to her, feeling a small flutter of pride at the sight of his bandaged finger. He reached down and tore off the electrical tape that covered her mouth, and she quickly spat the silicone bit onto the floor, flexing her jaw and moving her tongue around.

“Come to try again?” she asked. “I’m not going to tell you a damned thing, you mangy stray.”

He began to walk away, ignoring her comment. She watched as he paused by the open door and began to address someone who was out of view.

“I will be waiting outside,” he said, lowering his gaze to someone who was much smaller than he was. “Simply call if you need me, and do not trust her.”

The alien stepped out of the cell, and in his place emerged a short woman with blonde hair. Her presence was almost jarring. This was no Marine, and clearly no resistance fighter, her civilian clothing making her seem out of place in this derelict building.

“Who the hell are you?” Petrova demanded, narrowing her eyes.

“My name’s Amy,” the woman began, taking a few hesitant steps closer. The door closed behind her, sealing them inside.

“I take it you’re the good cop?” Petrova sneered. “He’s gonna play hardball, and you’re supposed to be my friend because we’re both chicks, is that it? Are we gonna bond over a riveting conversation about boys and then braid each other’s hair? Might as well just bring in the pliers and stop wasting my fucking time, blyat.”

“No, I asked to talk to you,” Amy continued, stopping a safe distance away. “I think we have a lot more in common than…uh…what you said.”

“You have my full attention, considering I can’t leave,” Petrova hissed.

“So,” the woman began, clapping her hands together like she was about to give a presentation. “I’m actually the big guy’s secretary,” she said with a gesture to the door behind her. “I used to work at his clinic. Due to guilt by association, you guys came after me, and Ruza had to rescue me. Now, I’ve become kind of the logistics officer for the resistance. I keep track of all the supplies and make sure everything runs smoothly. At least, I used to, before you bombed the base.”

“I know you,” Petrova mused, looking the stranger up and down. “You’re the reason he attacked Seventeen.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t mess with people close to the Doc,” she replied. “That was your first mistake.”

“And you’re a secretary?” Petrova scoffed. “You hardly seem worth attacking a heavily defended garrison to recover.”

“Maybe that attitude is why I’m standing here, and you’re tied to a chair,” Amy replied smugly. “Anyway, if you know who I am, then you know that I’ve been in your position before. I’ve been locked in a room and tied to a chair while big, scary strangers tell me to spill the beans. I just wanted you to know that we’re better than you.”

“Is that so?” Petrova chuckled. “And what makes you better than us?”

“We don’t mistreat people,” she replied, her tone completely serious now. “We don’t beat people, we don’t torture them, we don’t execute them. Nothing bad will happen to you while you’re here, whether you talk or not. Simply put – we don’t need anything from you. Having you here is a happy accident.”

“Torture and interrogation are different things,” Petrova replied. “Not that I’d expect a civilian to know that. What, did some PDF trooper yell at you and make you cry?”

“No, they just beat me,” she replied without a moment of hesitation. “By the time Ruza was carrying me out of there, my face had puffed up like someone with a bad shellfish allergy. One of my eyes was so bruised it had swollen shut, they split my lip, and they fractured one of my orbits. I did cry, you’re right about that part.”

“You’re lying,” Petrova muttered. It sounded less confident coming out than it had in her head.

“Don’t you even know what happens in your own prisons?” Amy chided. “Didn’t you know that the PDF beats and starves people on your orders? That Commander of yours – Barbosa, I’ll bet he knows all about it. I bet he’s the one who gives the orders.”

“Don’t you insult him in my presence,” Petrova snarled.

“Or what?” Amy laughed. “You gonna nugget your way over to me and bite my ankles? I’ve been subject to your hospitality, and I’ve seen your idea of moral conduct firsthand, or should I say hands-first. You know,” she added, her lower lip starting to tremble as she became emotional. “We had to treat sick kids who couldn’t get a hospital bed because of what you’ve been doing – little kids with chest infections who can’t get inhaler refills because you guys messed up the hospital. There are families going hungry because you idiots are interrupting the food supply. If you didn’t know that, then you’re being lied to just the same as everybody else.”

She reached up to wipe away the tears that were welling in her eyes with her sleeve, sniffing to clear her nose before she continued.

“Anyway, I just wanted you to know that nobody is going to hurt you while you’re here,” she added as she composed herself. “Not Ruza, not the Marines, and not the Hadeans. I personally think you deserve a good smack around the head for being such a bitch, but I can exert some restraint.”

“Why should I listen to you?” Petrova muttered.

“I guess I didn’t want you to feel the way I felt,” Amy replied. “Scared, uncertain, your imagination taking you to the worst places. You can believe me or not, I don’t care. There’s a part of me that feels like everyone is fundamentally good if left to their own devices. People don’t choose to do bad things on their own – something happens to them that changes them and warps their sense of right and wrong, or some outside force acts on them to push them down the wrong path. I also believe that you can dig a hole so deep you can’t climb back out of it, but not one so deep that someone can’t toss you a rope. Maybe you’ll think about that while you’re in here.”

“I don’t need you to patronize me like I’m some child in time-out,” Petrova snarled. “If you want me to apologize for fighting against terrorists who use roadside bombs and human shields to spread their message, then you’re barking up the wrong fucking tree. You have no idea what’s going on out there in the wider Galaxy – you can’t even get VR shows out here until a year after they air. You’re fighting a war to ensure your own extinction, and you’re lecturing me like I should feel good about it.”

“Yeah, they told me that you don’t like aliens,” Amy replied. “You think Ruza is some kind of monster, but you’re wrong. He’s the sweetest, kindest, gentlest man I ever met. If you can be that wrong about him, then you’re probably wrong about a lot of other things, too. He came here to get away from all the fighting and killing – he just wanted to help people, and you forced him to pick up a gun again. I’ll never forgive you for that.”

“That’s why he’s here?” Petrova asked, furrowing her brow. “What are you talking about? I know he has some connection to Vos – it’s no coincidence that he’s involved in this. One of Vos’ lackeys just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time and happened to bog us down for weeks with a spontaneous insurgency? Bullshit. He was put here to do a job.”

“You didn’t know?” Amy asked with a smirk. “You’re the ones who brought him out of retirement. All he wanted was to disappear and be left alone. Everything that he’s done to you is your own damned fault.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do,” Petrova shot back. “Maybe he’s been lying to you this entire time – playing you to get what he wants.”

“He doesn’t lie, and if you ask me, you’re the one who’s forgotten how to tell the truth. He’ll be back in here in a minute to feed you, and he told me that he’d switch your arms and legs back on if you cooperated. I suggest you listen to him. Your stay here will be as difficult or as easy as you choose to make it.”

Amy left the room, Petrova watching her go with a scowl.

This had to be some kind of ploy to gain her trust. Amy had to be lying. Yes, captured resistance members would be interrogated for information – that was standard procedure, especially in such extreme circumstances as these. The idea that some random secretary would be beaten so badly, seemingly without a legitimate reason, seemed unlikely at best. It was more probable that the story had been fabricated for sympathy.

Still, doubts lingered. She had seen Barbosa execute saboteurs on the carrier, but although she hadn’t agreed with his course of action, it had been an understandable response. They were at war, and trying to create a meltdown in the carrier’s reactor room would have killed everyone aboard and made accomplishing the mission impossible.

Then there were her encounters with the PDF – their extortion attempt, and the street fight during the protest. They were certainly corrupt and trigger-happy, but would they stoop so low as to beat a defenseless captive? It was easy to separate SWAR from the local PDF and view them as lesser – as pawns that were a necessary evil if they wanted to have the manpower to hold Hades, but it was ultimately SWAR who were in control. They gave the orders, and they alone had the power to dictate the PDF’s conduct.

That was Hoff’s way of thinking, though – dismissing the local PDF as lesser, as dirt farmers. Petrova had trained her recruits with the goal of fully integrating them into Barbosa’s forces – of making them the next generation of SWAR operatives. Never once had she written them off as a necessary evil or somehow less deserving of respect. Tiny hadn’t been a dirt farmer…

Either the PDF were an intrinsic component of Barbosa’s plan for Hades, and SWAR was thus responsible for their conduct, or they weren’t. Both things could not be true at the same time. As much as she wanted to distance herself from them, the memory of Tom made it difficult.

The rationing and the problems with the hospital on the colony were at least partly true, but the resistance was just as much at fault as SWAR. They had been attacking food shipments, interrupting trade, and contributing to economic problems. If Barbosa had simply been allowed to manage the situation and enact his plan without their interference, everything might have been fine, and the people of Hades would be going to bed with full bellies.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the Rask returned, her brow furrowing at the sight of him. He was carrying some kind of parcel in his furry hands – it looked like an MRE.

“I have brought you something to eat,” he began. “Our supplies here are meager, as most of them were lost during the attack on our base, but we will share what we have.”

“I’m gonna need my arms if you want me to eat that,” Petrova protested. He probably wouldn’t bite, but it was worth a shot.

“Until you earn my trust, you must be fed.”

“Oh, no,” she snapped. “There’s no way I’m gonna sit here and let you feed me like a baby.”

“You must, or you shall not eat,” he replied as he tore open the packet. Only when the sound reached her ears did she realize how hungry she was, her stomach starting to rumble. How long had it been since she’d eaten anything? She didn’t even know exactly how long she had been unconscious or how long she had been held captive. There was no sense of time without even a window to look through.

The alien produced a cereal bar and unwrapped it, waving it in front of her. He held it just an inch away from her nose, ensuring that she had to lean forward to accept it, and perhaps giving himself room to pull away if she tried to bite him again. While the impulse to sink her teeth into his fingers was strong, hunger won out, and she drew closer to take a bite. It was humiliating, being fed like an invalid, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that she would soon be breaking out of her cell and tearing these fools to pieces.

She just had to figure out a plan…

“Amy is a flatterer,” the Rask muttered as he held the bar for her. “She speaks with kindness, but she does not know the person I used to be. I do not think that a civilian could truly understand.”

“Oh, I understand,” Petrova replied between bites. “The words murderer and terrorist come to mind. I knew you were keeping secrets from her the moment she started speaking so highly of you.”

“Not secrets,” he replied with a shake of his head. “There are truths that someone who has lived a peaceful life simply cannot comprehend. Amy is…normal. She is not like us. She has never had to contend with mistakes that cannot be undone, and I would like to keep things that way.”

“What do you see in her?” Petrova asked, taking the last inch of the bar from his hand and using her lips to pull it into her mouth. “If she’s not a fighter, why go to all that trouble to rescue her? Is she just that good at managing your operations?”

“You approach the question expecting a determination of value,” the alien began, reaching into the MRE for another item. He opened up a packet of chocolate chip cookies, offering one to her. She took a bite, finding it dry, the crumbs falling into her lap. “We did not rescue Amy because she is useful, but because she is our friend. That is all she requires to be valued.”

“This place is a goddamned commune,” Petrova muttered before taking another bite.

“Is that how your worth is measured by your peers?” the alien continued, passing her the second cookie as she finished the first. “The perceived value that you provide – your usefulness to their cause?”

“What the hell do you know about it?” she sneered.

“More than you realize,” he replied, not elaborating further.

“SWAR is a fraternity – we’re closer than family, and bonds forged in fire are unbreakable. We would follow the Commander into Hell if he ordered it, and any one of us would crawl through a mile of razor wire to save a comrade in arms. You’re about to learn that the hard way when they come looking for me.”

“And if you no longer provide value?” the alien asked. “If you are no longer deemed useful, what then?”

“Stupid question,” she grumbled. “We’re SWAR – we don’t stop being useful.”

“The fighting must one day end, even for you,” the Rask pressed as he watched her wolf down the last of the cookie. “Even the sharpest blades must eventually dull – that is entropy. I have difficulty imagining SWAR caring for their elders or their injured and enduring such burdens willingly.”

“Barbosa is well on his way to being seventy,” she replied with a derisive chuckle. “I’d wager he could still dislocate your arm with a twitch. The augs extend our lifespans and let us outpace people half our age. We’re SWAR – we don’t retire. We fight until something meaner than we are kills us. No fading away.”

It wasn’t the whole truth. Barbosa was sick, and Cascade Failure was gradually shutting his body down. She wasn’t about to admit that to her captor, however.

“I had a friend who once believed the same,” Ruza continued as he fished in the packet for another item. “He found another path – one of peace and tranquility. He learned to content himself with simple pleasures, as have I.”

“You’re a fool if you think this war is going to end,” Petrova continued. “I’m not talking about Hades. We’re surrounded by enemies on all sides. The Bugs will never stop coming, and we have no idea how many hives are out there. It could be billions. We don’t even have a strategy for ending the threat. The Admirals are talking about treating them as…inclement weather – some fact of life like a storm or a flood that we just have to live with. We might be fighting them until all of the stars in our Galaxy burn out. We don’t have the luxury of calling it quits and hanging up our augs. We’re in it for the survival of the species.”

“And will you live until the stars burn out?” Ruza asked. “You must one day pass your responsibilities on to others who will take your place.”

“Then there’s you,” she added, glaring up at him. “The Brokers, the Jarilans, the Rask. Who needs enemies when we have friends like you?”

“I fought during the rebellion,” he replied. “We had our own grievances. Did you ever take the time to hear them?”

“We civilized you,” she shot back. “You were using muskets and wind power when we made first contact. Now, you’re a spacefaring species with railguns and fusion plants. You decided to reward us by launching a surprise attack. What grievances could you possibly have?”

“Imagine yourself in our place,” he began, peeling open a shrink-wrapped sandwich. “How might the nation states of your Earth react if one day, an advanced alien species arrived on your planet, and they armed those who agreed to become their allies with advanced weapons hitherto unknown to your kind? They gave your enemies guns and technologies that turned the tide of battles and upset the balance of power. Would you see that as fair or just? The aliens do not interfere in your affairs if you do not wish it, but by arming your rivals, they leave you little choice but to accept their terms or be destroyed.”

“And the answer to that predicament is a knife in the back?” Petrova demanded.

“I did not say that we acted justly,” Ruza replied as he raised the sandwich to her lips. “Simply that humans have not been perfect allies either. We should not demand perfection of our friends – we should expect mistakes and offer forgiveness.”

“Very convenient for you,” Petrova grumbled. “See, I don’t need anyone’s forgiveness. You seem to think that you do.”

“Your rebellion reminds me very much of ours,” the alien continued as he fed her a bite of a tuna sandwich. “You are lashing out, trying to preserve a way of life that has been left behind, and you serve leaders who do not truly care about you. Would your Commander lay down his life for yours? Would he carry you to safety on his back? I think not. Like the Matriarch who I once obeyed, perhaps this war is more about Barbosa’s vanity than your future.”

“If every meal is going to come with a lecture, I think I’d prefer to starve,” Petrova grumbled. “What, am I supposed to suddenly see the light and switch sides? Is that how you got the Hadeans to sign up – a lot of lofty speeches?”

“I speak from experience,” he replied, offering her another bite.

“Enough,” she muttered once she had finished the sandwich. “That’s all I need.”

“I know,” Ruza replied, sealing the MRE. “You have lower calorie requirements than a normal human. I will return soon. There is a Marine guarding your door – simply call for him if you require anything.”

“The secretary said you didn’t need anything from me,” she called after him as he turned to leave. “What are you going to do with me?”

“It should be obvious that we cannot release you,” he replied. “You are far too dangerous to be returned to combat. If Barbosa wishes to trade some of our people for you, we shall release you. If he does not, you shall remain here until the UNN fleet arrives. Behave well, and I shall return the use of your limbs.”

With that, he exited through the door, leaving her to stew in her anger.

What did he know about Barbosa – about her life in SWAR? Nothing. He was clearly well-spoken for a Rask, and he might be charismatic enough to fool his followers with empty platitudes, but he wasn’t going to get under her skin. As much as it irked her, she would have to cooperate for now. She had played more humiliating roles, and it was the only way he’d reconnect her batteries. There was no way that she could enact any kind of escape plan without her limbs.

She settled into her chair, closing her eyes and turning her mind to planning.

DAY 43 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“How the fuck did you lose her?” Barbosa demanded, waving the arm of his PCE angrily.

“The last time she reported in was shortly before the scheduled meeting with the insurgents,” Song explained, glancing up at the giant suit warily from his position at the bridge console. The arid planet occupied much of the view beyond the windows that spanned the room, the stations that would usually be manned by the crew mostly empty, save for a few crucial systems monitored by SWAR personnel. “She gave us very specific instructions not to intervene unless she triggered her distress beacon. It was never triggered. By the time we began to suspect that something was wrong, and we sent a team in to investigate, she was gone.”

“And there was no evidence of what might have happened to her?” Barbosa pressed. “No traces, no footprints, nothing? What about her FoF tag? It should still be broadcasting.”

“Nothing, Commander,” Song replied. “The carrier’s sensors haven’t picked up any anomalous emissions. If they moved her underground, a signal from her cochlear implant might not penetrate far enough to reach us. If they moved her above ground, there could be any number of ways to block it, including simply putting a helmet on her. A pass-through would be required to bypass the radiation shielding.”

“Get. Her. Back,” Barbosa snarled. “Divert whatever units and resources you need. Scour the entire fucking city if you have to, just find her. I can’t enact my plan without her. I don’t know why I let her do this in the first place – I should have nuked the site the moment I knew where the targets would be. I should have known that even her skills aren’t a guarantee…”

“Are we certain that she’s still alive, Commander?” Song asked.

“If they had killed her, they would have wanted to send a message,” he replied. “No, they’re probably going to try to trade her. Damn it. We’ve lost Jabril along with her, that fucking two-faced traitor. I should have hanged him in the square as an example while I had the chance.”

“Commander,” one of the operatives said, lifting his eyes from his console. “We just intercepted an odd jump signature.”

“Patch it to me,” Song replied, examining his displays intently.

“What is it?” Barbosa asked. “Is our local Courser back to snoop around again?”

“No, Commander,” Song replied as he swiped at the touch panel. “Something large entered the system some hours ago – its grav-sig just hit our sensors.”

“How large?” Barbosa asked, his concern growing. “Large enough to be a carrier strike group?”

“Negative,” Song said with a shake of his head. “The signature is too small for a carrier – even a lone one. I’m cross-referencing the shipping manifests from the station, and a freighter named the Godolphin was scheduled to arrive in-system around this time.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

“Its signature is larger than anticipated, meaning that it’s carrying more mass than was recorded on the manifests.”

“Could there be another ship shadowing it?”

“It’s a possibility,” Song admitted. “Still, it would have to be a small vessel – below frigate class. It doesn’t have the mass to be anything that could pose a serious threat to the carrier, like a torpedo boat. It seems unlikely that one enemy Courser would come and go with no qualms about being detected, while another would sneak in by shadowing a freighter. The more likely scenario is that they’re simply carrying undeclared cargo.”

“I have enough to worry about without our sensors being tripped by smugglers,” Barbosa grumbled. “Dispatch the Walk Softly to intercept the Godolphin and check their cargo. If there really were any ships shadowing them, they’ll be long gone by now, but at least we can get a read on their actual mass. Eyeballs are going to be more reliable than the four-hundred-and-fifty meters of resolution the carrier’s wave detector has.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“Right now, I need to focus on finding Petrova. Keep me apprised of any developments.”

DAY 45 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

“Be still,” Ruza grumbled as he fiddled with the open panel on Petrova’s bicep. “This was easier to do when you were unconscious…”

Petrova had spent a couple of days sucking up to the alien, and he didn’t seem to have the emotional intelligence to realize that it was an act. After a few more feedings and some model behavior, he had finally agreed to reconnect her augs.

“Careful – I don’t want you breaking them with those big oafish hands of yours,” she complained, turning her head in an attempt to get a better view. “And don’t scratch the finish with your claws. How do you even know how to service a set of prosthetics like these, anyway? They’re a custom job – made to my exact specifications by SWAR engineers. There’s no way that some random medic should be able to find his way around these just from servicing a few Marine prosthetics.”

“I have worked with such augments before,” he replied, deftly reconnecting a slim wire to the battery’s housing. “These are not so different.”

“I suppose you really weren’t lying about your friend,” she muttered, feeling a tingle of static wash through her arm as it powered on. “Who was he?”

“His name is Fletcher,” Ruza replied as he snapped the panel closed. “Like you, he was once a SWAR operative.”

“No fucking way,” Petrova replied in disbelief. “Fletcher…I knew that guy. I had no idea he was still working, or that he was still alive, for that matter. He was a grade-A asshole – thought he was better than the rest of us. He got into a big argument with Murphy and left the organization. Shame he didn’t have the stones for it – he wasn’t bad in a pinch.”

“It takes courage to stand up to your enemies, but more to stand up to your friends,” Ruza replied as he gave her a glance. “He told me only that he left SWAR over disagreements about the direction it was heading. Recent events have given me a better appreciation for his sentiments.”

“Ha ha,” Petrova replied sarcastically. “Fletcher was an idealist. He thought he could do the work without getting his hands dirty.”

“We fought together on Kerguela,” Ruza continued, moving around to her other arm. He had to bring himself low to reach Petrova in her sitting position, kneeling at her side. “He was an…abrasive man. In fact, he reminds me of Reed…”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” Ruza muttered, using the tip of his claw to press a recessed switch and open the access panel. “As much as he often tries my patience, he is an honorable man, and he showed me what it truly means to be a leader. He saved my life and seriously injured himself in the process – something no Rask Alpha had ever done for me. Fighting side by side with him to evacuate civilians from the embattled spaceport was one of my proudest moments.”

“Where is he now?”

“Fletcher made a life for himself on Kerguela,” Ruza replied. “He was mated to a woman of equal merit, and they live there still, enjoying each other’s company. They are both weary of war and spend much of their time overseeing the reconstruction efforts.”

“No shit?” Petrova scoffed. “I’m amazed he found someone who could tolerate him for more than an evening while sober. Who is she?”

“Xipa’tla’nemi,” he replied. “An accomplished Ensi, and the only female who can match his stubbornness.”

“Wait – he got hitched to a Valbaran?” Petrova asked, starting to laugh. Ruza paused, his expression becoming annoyed as the movement made the arm he was working on shake. “No wonder he used to get so mad at Murphy and the others – the guy was probably a xenophile the whole time.”

“I speak truth when I say that they did not start out on pleasant terms,” Ruza grumbled as he fished inside the limb. “I doubt very much that he was motivated by lust or novelty. Besides, why should they not be mated?”

“Doesn’t seem natural to me,” she replied with a grimace. “If you’d asked me a few years back, I would have said there was no real harm in it. If you get your jollies from imported VR porn, or you’re only attracted to giant lizards, that’s your malfunction. Different species can’t reproduce, after all. But the Jarilans have changed that. Soon, we’re going to have a bunch of Jarilan-designed alien hybrids running around, sabotaging the gene pool. Seems like a Trojan Horse to me – the Jarries could just trigger some killer DNA sequence a few generations down the line and melt us all, or introduce genes that weaken us over time.”

“You are paranoid,” Ruza chided. “Or perhaps it is Barbosa who has filled your head with these lies. I have fought alongside Jarilans, and they are as loyal as they come. They would do no such thing, even under duress. I have seen one leap from an airborne dropship to save a stranded infant.”

“Are you just going to say that about every species in the Coalition?”

He paused for a moment, seeming to consider, one of his ears twitching.

“Yes, except for the Brokers. I have never fought alongside them, and they strike me as an untrustworthy sort. I do not abide falsehoods.”

“If you liked Fletcher so much, why are you here, and he isn’t?” she asked as another flicker of static tickled her fingers. She could feel them powering back up, flexing her digits experimentally.

“Humans and Valbarans do not live in packs as we Rask do,” he replied, closing up the panel. “I would have served him as my Alpha if he had wished it – he was the only person deserving of my service – but that was not his wish. I was, as the humans say, a fifth wheel.”

“Two’s company, three’s a crowd,” Petrova muttered with a nod. “That’s when you came here?”

“Yes,” he said, moving down to one of her legs.

“Why the hell did you choose this shithole as your destination? You could have gone anywhere you wanted.”

“It seemed a place where people had need of me,” he replied, sliding a furry hand up her leg. There was no sensation in the polymer and metal, but as soon as she felt his sharp claws brush the skin of her thigh, she flinched away. It wasn’t much of a flinch without the use of her legs, but it was enough to get his attention.

“Hey – watch the merchandise, Koshak,” she chided. “Keep your mitts on the Mark Twos and lay off the organics.”

“I am merely searching for the access port,” he complained.

“Outer thigh,” she replied with a scowl.

He located the panel and popped it open, lifting the limb and dropping lower to get a look inside. His hand was so large that it could encompass her entire leg from the knee to the ankle, and his head was about a match for her torso. It was still a little intimidating – being so close to him. A few days prior, he would have happily impaled her with a bayonet or eviscerated her with those claws as he had so many others. She wasn’t buying his wise sage shtick – she had seen the messes he’d left behind. In a way, the act that he was putting on was more frightening than someone who intended to intimidate – like a predator wanting to put its prey at ease before a kill. As an alien, he might not experience emotions the same way she did at all.

There was a click as the battery was wired back up, and she felt a rush of sensation wash down her leg, culminating in tingling static in her toes. Suddenly, she could feel the pressure of his grip and the sensation of his fur, her polymer casing no less sensitive than skin when it was tuned properly.

“Can you move the limb?” Ruza asked, glancing down at her foot. She wiggled her prosthetic toes, and that seemed to satisfy him, the alien releasing her leg and returning her foot to the cold metal floor.

“It feels weak,” she complained. “Kind of like…when you wake up after sleeping on your arm wrong.”

“That is by design,” Ruza replied as he moved over to the opposite leg, popping open the panel. “While you were unconscious, I undervolted your servos and underclocked the processors responsible for interpreting data input from your nervous system.”

“What?” she muttered. “But…that would require-”

“A diagnostic tool with the necessary software, yes,” he continued as he fiddled with the wiring. “We recovered more than just weapons and supplies from our raids. I flashed a custom firmware to your system memory, so there will be no way for you to reverse the changes without that tool, even if you gain access to the necessary compartments. If you were planning to simply edit my changes yourself, that will not be possible.”

“Very clever,” she sighed. “You really thought of everything, didn’t you?”

“You will be able to walk but not run,” he explained as he snapped the polymer panel closed again. “You will be able to hold utensils, but not much else. Your strength and reaction time will be insufficient for violence.”

Finished with his work, he began to rise, but Petrova reached out a newly reactivated hand and slid her fingers around his wide neck. She gritted her teeth, summoning all of her strength, her rubber-tipped digits gently pressing into his skin. Once, she would have been able to tear out his throat, but her fingers barely left imprints behind when she withdrew them. Ruza didn’t react, save for raising a single skeptical eyebrow.

“Just making sure,” she replied sweetly.

He offered her his hand, and she pushed it aside, struggling to rise from her seat. She gripped the backrest in an attempt to steady herself, her legs shaking and tingling with the effort of supporting her weight, Petrova struggling to balance.

“Oh, this sucks,” she complained as she took a faltering step away from the chair. She stumbled and fell forward, but Ruza was there to catch her, extending a single powerful arm to break her fall. “I don’t need your help,” she grumbled as he straightened her.

“Yes, you do,” he replied. “I have made it so. When Fletcher’s limbs were damaged, and he could no longer fight as he once did, it was a very upsetting experience for him. I apologize if you are experiencing similar emotions, but you understand that this is the only way to ensure the safety of my friends without simply leaving you bound and immobile.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” she replied, reaching out a hand and struggling to make a fist. It really did feel as though she had just woken up and the hormones that disabled her muscles during REM sleep had not yet fully exited her system.

“Come – we shall tour your quarters.”

“I’m getting quarters other than this room?” she asked, her interest piqued.

“You shall have free access to everything on this level,” he replied as he moved to the door. Petrova followed, still shaky on her feet. “There is a bathroom, quarters with a bed, and a room with a table where you may eat. You are far below ground, and there is only one exit, which is guarded by Marines. Escape will be impossible. Cooperate, and you will retain these privileges for the duration of your stay here. Try to test these boundaries, and I can just as easily return you to the chair.”

“Fine, fine,” she grumbled, leaning against the doorframe for support on her way out. This was going to take some getting used to. There was a tangible delay from her limbs, like she was moving underwater or perhaps trying to run in a dream.

Ruza showed her around, and Petrova took the time to learn to use her new limbs as she went, moving from room to room. Her prosthetics might be slow, but her mind was not. Her head was on a swivel, her eyes scanning for every loose bolt and exposed wire that might somehow serve her, trying to figure out where she might have ended up.

Whatever this facility was, it was old, and they must have only recently moved in. They had cleaned her holding cell, but in the corridors outside, everything was coated in a fine layer of dust. Some of the light strips on the ceiling weren’t functioning or were flickering intermittently, and the same could be said for the ventilation system. He showed her to a spartan bathroom with toilets and showers that seemed intended for more than a single occupant, and the bedroom was much the same, with rows of metal cots and old mattresses. At least there wasn’t an abundance of moisture or mold on Hades with its arid climate, so the worst of the decay was confined mostly to corrosion and disrepair.

Their last stop was the dining area, which certainly wasn’t the primary mess hall of the facility. Like the other rooms, it seemed furnished for maybe a dozen people, and there were no appliances for cooking. The food must be brought in from elsewhere. She took advantage of the alien’s distraction to lift a finger to her ear, disguising her attempt to send a distress signal as an itch, but she couldn’t reach any networks.

Wherever she was, it certainly wasn’t a mine, and it wasn’t part of their warren of crude smuggling tunnels. Could it be a building in one of the industrial parks just outside the city? That seemed unlikely with the lack of windows and the ventilation system that was clearly designed for a below-ground facility. Truth be told, she had no idea where she might be – it could be anywhere, and her tour had yielded no obvious means of escape.

There were already MREs waiting for her on the table, and she realized that she hadn’t eaten since the day prior. To her annoyance, the alien began to sit at the table – or rather beside it, as he was too large to fit on the chairs.

“Eat,” he declared, waving a hand at the packaged food. “You must keep up your strength.”

“Is that a joke?” she scoffed, pulling up a seat and sitting down opposite him. Even the chair felt heavy in her hands now – like there was a leaden weight sitting in it. “Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me? Shouldn’t you be making pipe bombs or planning a terrorist attack?”

“It has become much harder for me to move unseen in the city,” he replied. “My time may be better spent keeping an eye on you.”

“Better spent trying to convert me, I think you mean,” she grumbled as she began to open her MRE. It was a struggle – her undervolted fingers could barely rip through the plastic packaging. “I don’t know why you’ve been telling me your whole damned life story like I need to be educated. I know what I’m about, and I know why I’m here. If you ask me, you’re the one who’s lost – you’re the one seeking validation and forgiveness. You don’t know anything about me or where I’ve been.”

“We are more alike than you realize,” he replied, peering across the table at her.

CHAPTER 23

DAY 43 – HADES ORBIT – BRENNER

“The Tirad is exactly where she’s supposed to be,” the pilot announced, reaching up to flip a few switches on the bank of controls above his seat. “She’s hanging out right beside the tether station – staying in low orbit above the colony, ventral guns at the ready. Never thought I’d have to sneak around a jump carrier like a fucking field mouse. Now I know how the Bugs feel when we start slinging our giant, half-kilometer cocks around.”

The bridge was small by most standards – more of a cockpit, really – but there was space for a few people to stand. The pilot was seated in a chair in front of the controls, his co-pilot seat currently empty, his hands dancing across the banks of switches and touch panel readouts with an ease that came from thousands of hours of practice. The arid surface of Hades loomed large outside the viewport that wrapped around the nose of the craft, its sandy deserts clearly visible beyond the frost that encrusted the windows, what looked like giant sandstorms racing around its equator.

“Any sign of the enemy Coursers?” Brenner asked, leaning over the back of his chair to examine one of the displays.

“I see the EWAR Courser,” he replied. “She’s being loud – screaming across every frequency. The others are no-shows. They could be anywhere, but if we can’t see them, it’s unlikely that they can see us.”

“Maintain present trajectory,” Brenner ordered. “I want you to release our reentry vehicles on the far side of the planet and then retreat behind the moon. You shouldn’t have to enter the carrier’s LoS. We’ll skip off the atmosphere like stones and come in at a low angle closer to the colony, and then we can aerobrake to reach the LZ. We’ll be too small and traveling too slowly to trip any anti-satellite alarms.”

“Roger, Cap’n,” the pilot replied. “I’ll be waiting at the coordinates for your laser transmission.”

Brenner turned and made his way out of the bridge, passing through a narrow door that opened automatically at his approach and stepping into the passenger compartment. This section of the ship was cramped and claustrophobic, the dim light strips that ran across the ceiling casting inky shadows. Visible pipes and bunches of electrical cables trailed along the walls, passing over exposed bulkheads and structural beams, the deck beneath his feet little more than textured sheet metal. Calling the design spartan or industrial seemed like an understatement. Coursers were not luxury craft – they were honed for one narrow purpose, which was to get where they were going as rapidly as physics would allow. Every bolt and floor panel that wasn’t absolutely necessary had been stripped away to reduce its mass and thus increase its jump range.

The bridge, the passenger compartment, and the small cargo section were situated towards the front end of the ship. To the aft of them, separated by a long, skeletal gantry, were the reactor and engine compartments. The Cher Ami was a little different from the average Courser, retrofitted for black ops missions. It was covered in layers of angular onyx-black armor plating that both provided some supplemental protection and reduced its radar cross-section. The gantry along its midsection was fitted with external torpedo tubes, along with a docking system for their reentry vehicles, used for covert orbital insertions where dropships would be too conspicuous. It all added mass, but the tradeoff was worth it.

The walls of the passenger compartment were lined with crash couches where the occupants would secure themselves during jumps, the spaces between them filled with equipment racks stocked with weapons and military gear. His team was preparing for their mission, checking their XMRs and tuning their prosthetics, a few helmeted heads turning to glance at him.

“We’re green,” Brenner announced. “Get to your pods.”

Barbosa had crammed as many agents as he could onto his Coursers, but Brenner had traveled further, and he had been limited by both space and supplies. He’d brought thirty-six men – three SWAR teams – along with a few tagalongs. His team of eleven had been hand-picked for this mission, and they had a skillset suited both for infiltration and urban combat if it came to that. Every one of them had fought by his side before, and they were as loyal as they came. Each of them had custom prosthetics tailored to their unique needs and tactics, ranging from massive limbs filled with bulky servos and artificial muscle designed for pure strength to slim, skeletal implements with all of their excess mass cut away. No two were exactly alike, many sporting engraved tattoos, a few of them showing off intricate Borealan damascene work or Jarilan tiger camo. The decorations told a story of where they had served, and alongside whom. One of the agents even had Valbaran color panels implanted in his forearms, the LED strips able to convey signals non-verbally, suggesting that he might have been embedded with a Commando unit.

Their weapons were no less varied. Brenner could spot everything from short-barreled PDWs with telescoping stocks to long rifles equipped with smart scopes and tripods. The XMR platform was extremely modular, and SWAR could make even better use of it, their strength allowing them to handle heavier platforms designed for larger species.

The armor that they wore was similarly tailored to their needs, but much of it was already being covered over with thick leather coats and shawls, both for protection from the Hadean climate and to help them blend in. They weren’t expecting to land anywhere near a populated area, but they might need to travel undercover during their reconnaissance. Most were already wearing their helmets, each one decorated with a decal that made them easy to identify within the group, but that preserved their anonymity around outsiders.

One of them was standing, reaching into a padded collar and fiddling with something beneath her clothing. She wore a black pressure suit that was commonly used by SWAR – a variant of the blue uniform favored by Marines. It was rated for vacuum, and it was tough enough to stop a blade, the fabric overlaid with ceramic armor panels and various carriers.

“Do we have to wear these things, Commander?” she complained. “We’re deploying to a desert planet – we’re gonna boil under all these layers.”

“That there is a UNNI survival suit,” Brenner replied, gesturing to the sliver of white that was visible beneath the black. “It’s expensive – don’t fuck with it. All those little tubes and wires are going to help keep you cool and prevent you from sweating out all of your body’s moisture while you’re down there. We’re going to be moving under the cover of a storm, so you’ll be glad of all that leather. It’s going to stop the sand from stripping your paint along with your skin.”

Grumbling to herself, she began to slide on a heavy leather duster, placing her helmet over her head. It was decorated with a stylized decal of a wasp brandishing its stinger.

“You got the merchandise, Silver?” Brenner asked as he turned his lenses to another agent. Silverback was a mountain of a man with augs fleshed out to match his build, his artificial muscles bulging from beneath his leather coat. On his visor was stenciled a snarling gorilla with a cigar clutched between its long fangs. He slung a large crate made from molded plastic over his shoulder, giving it an affectionate pat with a gloved hand.

“Safe and sound, Commander. I’ll make sure she gets to the ground in one piece.”

“That thing is worth more than you are, so make sure it’s strapped into the capsule securely,” Brenner replied. “We don’t want it banging around. Who has the transceiver?”

“I got it, Boss,” another of them replied as he waved a large satchel.

“Let’s saddle up!” Brenner barked, his men rising from their seats and collecting their gear. “Get to the capsules. We’re not turning around, so make sure you have all your shit.”

They began to file out into the storage area beyond the passenger compartment, picking up bags and filling their rigs with magazines as they went. Through the crowd stepped a smaller, more slender figure, his four arms swaying at his sides as he walked past them.

“You ready, Harley?” Brenner asked as he began to strap on his own gear. “You’ve never done a drop before, have you?”

“You kidding?” Harlequin chuckled, his feathery antennae bobbing with the motion. “We’re made to drop – have you seen those pods the Warriors use? I’ll bet I can take more Gs than you can.”

“Just make sure your harness is strapped down tightly,” Brenner warned, throwing on his duster. Wasp wasn’t wrong – the survival suit clung to him with an almost uncomfortable tightness, and the weighty jacket felt like overkill draped over his chest rig and plates, but his augmented limbs wouldn’t be hindered by the extra mass. He slotted on his helmet, then connected its seal to his pressure suit at the neck, flipping the visor closed to reveal a decal of a skull with two eye patches.

Harlequin had his own helmet. It was split into two sections – the back half sliding over the back of his head, and the front half slotting over his face, the two pieces snapping together to create a seal. He folded his antennae inside it, his eyes peering out through a pair of transparent lenses. The odd design provided room for the branching, beetle-like horn that jutted from his forehead. As Brenner understood it, the Jarilans had no need for pressure suits, as their very bodies were rated for vacuum. They descended, after all, from a species that was perfectly adapted to space travel. Their sensory organs were delicate and required pressurized protection, however. They didn’t even breathe through their mouths – their bodies were covered in small openings called spiracles that could seal shut when exposed to unfavorable conditions, and they could hold their breath for upwards of forty minutes by storing hemolymph in their tissues.

Harlequin had his own cloak that he wrapped around himself, concealing his orange camouflage and his four arms, the shadowy hood draping over his head. While it wouldn’t stand up to any real scrutiny, it did make him look like an adolescent Hadean from a sufficient distance.

The pair followed the rest of the team through a well-stocked cargo area and onto the gantry beyond. The gantry joined the two halves of the ship, and nestled inside the skeletal framework was a pressurized umbilical – little more than a floor made of sheet metal enclosed in a material that bore a worrying resemblance to a tarp. Brenner knew that there was more hull beyond it, but it always made him feel exposed, as though the slightest tear might blow him out into space.

Mounted on the underside of the gantry was another aftermarket addition to the Courser – the capsule launch bay. The bulky module was attached beneath the belly of the ship like a limpet, its purpose to house the four reentry capsules that would be their one-way trip to the ground. The vehicles were designed to carry three passengers and their equipment to the surface of a planet as rapidly as possible, dropping from beneath the Courser almost like dumb bombs and falling into the atmosphere.

The capsules had a truncated, conical shape, with a rounded base coated in heat tiles that tapered into a domed point at the top. At a little over four meters wide at the base and three and a half meters tall, they were not designed to be spacious or comfortable. They relied primarily on aerobraking to slow their descent where a dense enough atmosphere was present, helping to stabilize their fall with a drogue chute. Once they reached the appropriate altitude, thrusters embedded within the belly of the craft would fire, shedding velocity to allow for a relatively soft landing. SWAR primarily used them for combat drops behind enemy lines, or covert missions where larger craft would be too conspicuous.

There were two more narrow doors to either side of the walkway, and the team was splitting into groups of three, heading to their respective capsules. Brenner was riding with Wasp and Harlequin, the pair following him as he ducked through the nearest door.

Beyond the sliding panel was another umbilical – little more than a couple of meters of metal walkway covered with the same white tarp. Trailing along the metal supports were colorful bundles of cable – the electronics connecting the capsules to the Courser’s control systems. Brenner led the way, the deck creaking beneath his feet. He usually favored skids, but they weren’t suited to desert dunes, so he had swapped them out for some more conventional boots.

The open hatch of the capsule was waiting for him, and he squeezed through the rounded aperture, securing his weapon in a convenient rack beside one of the seats. The interior was cramped, to say the least – its white hull material exposed where the walls weren’t covered in electronics or stowage. The crash couches faced the ceiling, meaning that he had to lie on his back with his legs raised – a position that helped mitigate hard landings by preventing his spine from being compressed like a spring.

His hand found the joystick on his armrest, and he brought up a touch panel, a bank of displays mounted above his head flickering to life as he began pre-flight checks. While the capsule had very limited maneuverability, it was still possible to steer it towards a desired landing site to a degree.

His companions climbed into the seats to either side of him, stowing their weapons and strapping their harnesses across their chests. As the comms system spooled up, it began to feed data to his helmet’s HUD, views from inside the other three capsules opening in windows.

“Begin drop prep,” he ordered, watching as the men in the other pods hit switches. “Pilot – what’s our ETA?”

“Ten minutes to the drop point, Boss,” he replied. “Brace yourselves – I’m coming in low, and there’s gonna be some chop.”

“You know, Jarilan drop pods are full of squishy flesh cushioning and non-Newtonian goo that helps absorb the impact during a landing,” Harlequin began as he glanced around the compartment. “At least tell me this tin can has countermeasures?”

“The countermeasures are being very fast and very difficult to hit,” Wasp replied.

“I dunno how your species survived this long,” Harlequin muttered as he checked his harness with both pairs of arms.

They waited as the Courser moved towards the planet, the horizon growing alarmingly quickly, Brenner watching it balloon through the external cameras. Coursers were not rated for atmospheric flight, but the ship needed to come in at a low angle to drop the capsules into the right orbit. If it even ended up in the same hemisphere as the carrier, it would be spotted, and their mission would be over before it began – probably at the wrong end of a torpedo.

An orange glow began to appear on the nose of the craft as it skirted the upper limits of the atmosphere, the capsule starting to rattle and shake as the turbulence grew more severe, making Brenner glad of the straps that held him securely in his seat.

“Fifteen seconds!” the pilot warned. “The Cher Ami is gonna break apart if I maintain this for any longer!”

“Brace yourselves!” Brenner warned, his prosthetic fist tightening around the joystick.

The four capsules detached in tandem, the mechanical clamps that held them beneath the Courser’s belly releasing their hold, atmospheric drag immediately ripping them away from the larger vessel. Brenner gritted his teeth as the G-forces tore at him, the cramped capsule shaking violently, automatic blasts from its thrusters helping keep its heat-shielded underside oriented. Through the external cameras, Brenner watched as the Courser sped away, shrinking to little more than a spec in moments. It lifted its nose, flipping almost on its back, a plume of blue fire shooting from its bulky engine module as it initiated a hard burn to escape orbit. It began to grow again as it shed velocity, the tight formation of capsules shooting past beneath it like bullets, leaving a trail of fire behind them.

Like a handful of smooth stones tossed across the surface of a lake, they skimmed the upper atmosphere, flames licking at their heat tiles as the friction helped burn off their excess speed. Brenner raised an arm and began to tap at his display, still fighting against the G-forces, bringing up an orbital trajectory on the screen. He gave his joystick a yank, the thrusters flaring to line the clumsy craft up a little more closely.

“Follow me in!” he ordered, the plasma that engulfed them distorting the laser comms.

“I hate drops!” Wasp yelled over the groaning and rattling of the pod, getting Harlequin’s attention. “They sure are a lot of fun, though!”

The Jarilan gave her a skeptical look from behind his goggle-like visors, gripping the armrests of his seat a little more tightly.

Brenner deftly maneuvered the craft with small flicks of the joystick, the other three pods keeping formation, leaving a blazing trail behind them as they fell towards the planet. In daylight, they wouldn’t be very visible from the ground, and their mass was too low to trip any satellite defense systems. At worst, they would appear as small meteors or harmless debris expected to burn up before hitting the ground.

“Are we going into that?” Harlequin asked, watching a swirling sandstorm grow in the viewfinder. The licking flames were bathing the compartment now, casting flickering shadows as their orange glow bled through the small portholes.

“If we want to be able to reach the city without being bombed from orbit, yeah,” Brenner replied. “It’s gonna get choppy – brace yourselves!”

“It’s already choppy!” the Jarilan complained.

Weather began to buffet them now, the stars giving way to a blue haze, and finally to a fog of sepia. The storm rose high into the stratosphere, creating great plumes of dust and sand almost reminiscent of a gas giant, the particulates hammering against the hull like hail. There was another wrenching deceleration as the drogue chutes deployed, slowing their descent and helping to guide them in, Brenner silently praying that the storm wouldn’t simply tear them to shreds. He could feel the powerful gusts of wind trying to drag his capsule off-course, and if they didn’t keep their tight formation, they could end up scattered and separated across hundreds of miles of wasteland.

“This storm is a bitch, Commander!” he heard Silverback grunt across the crackling comm link. “Having trouble keeping her steady!”

“We may have to drop the chutes early and rely on a harder burn,” Brenner warned, hitting a few more switches on the bulkhead above his seat. “At this rate, the chutes are just gonna drag us off-course.”

“That’s gonna be a lot of Gs, Boss,” Silverback replied.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

As he watched the altimeter tick down, Brenner poised a finger over the emergency release, waiting for the right moment. He couldn’t even see the ground in these conditions – he had to rely on the laser rangefinder. Too early, and he wouldn’t have enough fuel to land. Too late, and the wind would carry him away.

“Now!” he ordered, the craft shuddering again as he hit the release. The thick cables connecting the chute to the capsule broke away, sending the fabric fluttering off to be consumed by the swirling storm clouds. He briefly outpaced the other capsules, but they followed suit soon after, dropping their drogues and matching velocity. Brenner’s hand was constantly moving the stick now – trying to keep the cumbersome craft within the wireframe trajectory that was displayed on his HUD.

As the altimeter ticked down, he waited for his next mark, then hit the thruster control. The occupants were pressed down deep into their padded seats, the G-forces tearing at their bodies as they were compressed, what felt like a hundred-pound weight settling on Brenner’s chest. With prosthetic limbs, there were fewer places for blood to pool, and their reclining position helped mitigate some of the effects. Warnings blared – the G-forces were in the red, but they could take it long enough to reach the ground.

Their velocity slowed, the weight gradually leaving him, Brenner keeping a close eye on the fuel level gauge as it fell rapidly. Three percent, two percent, one percent – they weren’t going to make it.

His stomach dropped as the tanks ran dry, and they began to fall. The uncontrolled descent lasted only a meter or two before it came to a sudden halt, the capsule slamming down into the ground, cushioned by the sand. There was another sensation of motion as they began to slide down the side of a dune, but they soon came to a stop, the sound of the airborne sand hammering the hull growing more prominent in the absence of any other noises.

“Everyone still in one piece?” Brenner asked, glancing around the claustrophobic compartment. Harlequin raised a thumb with one hand, unfastening his straps with the others, while Wasp took a moment to relax back into her crash couch.

“Fuck, I feel like I just had my spine realigned,” she groaned.

“Got readings on two of the capsules, but one of them drifted out of range,” Brenner muttered as he tapped at his display. “Could be the storm interfering with the instruments, too. Fuck.”

“Better wrap up tight,” Wasp said as she struggled out of her seat. “Sounds like the storm could strip the finish right off our augs.”

“We haven’t been bombed yet, so I think we snuck under their radar,” Harlequin added.

“Collect your gear and form up,” Brenner said as he rose from his chair. They pulled their weapons from the racks and retrieved their packs from the stowage areas, shuffling around in the tight space. Brenner punched the door release, and a series of explosive bolts sent the hatch sailing away to dig a furrow into a nearby dune. As soon as he stepped out of cover, he was assailed by windblown sand, the storm tearing at his leather clothing and hammering his visor so hard he feared it might be scratched opaque.

“Who the hell would choose to live here?” Harlequin demanded, his voice coming through clear due to his proximity. They were using laser comms to prevent any radio emissions from leaking, but that required line of sight, and their range would be massively reduced due to all of the particulates in the beam’s path.

Brenner climbed the nearest dune, following the path that the capsule had carved out of it. It made him glad of his boots – his skids would have sunken straight into sand this loose. Its height gave him a bird’s eye view of the surrounding terrain – at least as far as he could see in the storm. A white shape resolved some hundred meters away, and he saw a few blips pop up on his HUD, his team relaying their positions. A second capsule soon joined them, the operatives forming a shared network.

“Where’s Silverback?” Brenner asked, checking their FoF tags as they began to traipse through the sand towards him. “Did anyone see where he came down?”

“Negative, Commander,” one of the agents replied.

“Fuck, he had the torch, too,” Brenner sighed. “Alright – spread out and search, but don’t leave comms range. You get separated in this shit, and we’ll never find you again.”

They fanned out into the desert, searching for any sign of Silverback’s capsule, but the conditions made it impossible to see more than a hundred meters in any direction. Brenner relied on the extra vision modes afforded by his augmented eyes and his helmet’s sensors, thermal imaging and low-light modes stripping away the particulates that filled the air. Finally, he picked something up, trudging over the dunes to find the capsule listing in the sand. The storm must have dragged it some four hundred meters off-course. He was relieved to see the three agents standing just outside the open hatch, hauling their gear out and tossing it onto the sand.

“Thought we might have lost you there for a minute,” Brenner said, sliding down the incline.

“Cutting the chutes was a good call,” Silverback replied as he turned to greet the commander. “A minute longer, and we might be miles off-target.”

“Everyone made it to the ground,” Brenner said, raising an arm and peeling back the sleeve of his leather duster to get a look at the display embedded on the forearm of his pressure suit. “Our next stop is the city. Fortunately, the storm isn’t fucking with the geomagnetics too much. It’s a day’s walk due East.”

“Fuck, we really did come down at a safe distance, didn’t we?” Silverback sighed as he hefted a long carrying case over one shoulder. “I suppose that’s why we needed the Ninnie leotards.”

“What, are you scared of a little ruck through the desert?” Brenner scoffed. “It’s not like your feet will get sore. Fall in, people!”

DAY 43 – HADES – REED

“Here they come,” Reed whispered. “Right on time…”

Through his scope, he watched the procession approach down the dusty street, the wind that swept between the prefabs blowing gusts of sand into the air. He shifted his position a little on the roof, moving further behind the jutting air conditioning unit that was serving as his cover.

The Borgs had redoubled their patrols following the battle, both making it harder for the remnants of the resistance to operate and giving them more targets. On storm days like this one, there were no drones in the sky, leaving the PDF vulnerable. They didn’t transport important shipments of food or ammo without air support anymore, but the fighters could make do.

“Is everyone in position?” he asked, speaking into a handheld radio.

“We’re ready,” a crackling voice replied on the other end.

Reed lifted his rifle again, the rim of the scope bumping against his mask. He counted two dozen troopers accompanying a pair of armored trucks, marching along beside them as they trundled down the street. These were suppression forces – patrolling the city to intimidate the locals and keep them from assembling for another protest or strike. They were armed and ready to counter any residual resistance activity. After the battle, the Borgs thought they’d won, and they’d been clamping down hard on the population with nobody left to oppose them. People left their homes to collect rations or to work, and not much else, while anyone suspected of having ties to the resistance or the unions was quickly rounded up in surprise raids.

Soon, there would be nobody left with the will to resist – or so they thought. The resistance had been scattered and diminished, but it hadn’t been destroyed. There were still pockets of resistance spread throughout the city, hiding away in tunnels and warehouses, or harbored by sympathizers. The base had been leveled, but Reed and his group had never made it back, being pinned down by intense street fighting before the sabots had begun to fall. He now commanded a group of surviving fighters and liberated Marines – little more than a cell – but it was enough to be a thorn in Barbosa’s side.

He checked his magazine, glancing through the transparent polymer to get a visual count. The slag rounds they were using didn’t always play nicely with the digital ammo counter. They were essentially made from scrap metal, much of which had a lower melting point and worse magnetic properties than the tungsten carbide used in precision-machined slugs. They were less reliable, less accurate, and they played merry hell with the barrels by coating the coils in slag – hence the name. Still, if you found yourself in a situation where you had more replacement barrels than good ammunition, they could be useful in a pinch. Some of the Marines had even shown him a technique where they loaded a sock filled with nails and bolts into the barrel, creating a kind of makeshift scrap shotgun. It would only fire a couple of times before the barrel was rendered unusable, but it’d still kill a man good and dead.

As the formation neared the mark, he lifted his detonator, poising his finger over the button.

“Just a little further…”

When the troopers were in position, he hit the switch, lowering his head. There was a blast that shook the prefab beneath him on its outriggers, a billow of orange flame chased by a cloud of dust so dense that it quickly choked out the fires. The mining charges that had been buried by the roadside erupted beneath the patrol, lifting the heavy trucks into the air along with a torrent of earth, the PDF nearest the blasts simply vanishing into the dust and flame. The heavy vehicles were dashed against the road, chunks of asphalt and twisted metal raining down around them, a few of the luckier PDF scrambling for the cover of the nearby alleys.

The resistance was ready for them, two dozen fighters and Marines clad in Hadean leathers emerging from the cover of side streets and rooftops to unload on them, the molten trails of XMR fire joining the licking flames that poured from the blackening husks of the vehicles. In places where the fires were exposed to the storm, they were rapidly choked out by dust, while those that were sheltered formed blazing plumes as they were fed oxygen by the wind like bellows. Reed joined them, rising to a knee, his rifle kicking as he fired a burst of slag rounds at the nearest trooper. Even a shitty, mostly melted slug was still deadly, punching through the man’s chest armor and leaving a cauterized hole the size of a softball in its wake.

It was easy to tell which of the fighters were Marines – it was something about the way they moved. Six of them rushed in with an efficiency gleaned from years of drilling, keeping a tight formation, watching every angle as they swept through the smoldering debris. There were more cracks of railgun fire as they hunted down the disoriented troopers, pausing every few feet to execute the wounded where they lay. With the base gone and resources scarce, they no longer had the luxury – or the inclination – for mercy.

“Get their gear!” Reed ordered, hopping down off the roof and marching into the street. He spotted a trooper who was missing his legs dragging himself through the dust, putting two rounds through his back. “Take everything you can carry – the Borgs will be here soon!”

The fighters began to turn over the bodies, stripping away weapons and ammunition, pocketing grenades and holstering sidearms. Reed spotted a fresh XMR and picked it up, dusting off the soot that caked it and slinging the strap around his neck.

He watched as one of the fighters tried to pry a sidearm from a body, only to realize that the corpse was still alive, the injured trooper yelling inside his helmet as he began to wrestle for the weapon. The fighter pried his hands away after a few moments of struggling and drew a long knife, plunging it into the trooper’s neck, his cries petering out into a wet gurgle.

“Check the trucks!” one of the Marines barked. “This isn’t a prison convoy – they might have been transporting something we can use!”

As they sifted through the wreckage, Reed kept a lookout, always wary. The troopers were no problem, but the Borgs were never far away. If a pin dropped, there’d be a dropship carrying a kill team ready to investigate within fifteen minutes. The storm should buy them time, but storm season didn’t last forever. Once it ended, they’d be on the back foot.

He wasn’t sure what had happened to his comrades. He’d last seen Ruza leaving to rescue Rivera and his team at the garrison, but after that, nothing. There was no telling how many resistance members had been at the base when it was destroyed, or whether they’d had enough warning to get out in time. There had been a surprise radio transmission using resistance encryption codes a few days prior, but whoever had sent it, the site had been swarming with SWAR by the time Reed’s people had tracked it down. For now, he was on his own. It was hard to believe that Ruza was gone – maybe he didn’t believe it.

“We got what we need,” one of the fighters said, sidling up beside him. “Let’s bounce.”

A procession of fighters marched past him, laden with whatever loot they could carry. He checked the rubble-filled street one last time before following behind them, the men retreating below-ground through one of the many smuggling routes.

It was a long trek through miles of winding tunnels to reach their temporary base, and it wasn’t even safe underground anymore. The PDF were always combing the warrens, mapping them out piece by piece in their search for any stragglers or holdouts, tightening the noose. Reed and his small band had set up shop on the outskirts of the city in one of the industrial parks, making a home in the basement of an abandoned water cracking plant. They never stayed in one place for very long – they had learned that lesson the hard way.

They emerged in a basement filled with derelict machinery, dropping their haul amongst piles of crates and bags that were nestled in the shadows of old water pipes. A few fighters greeted them, a camping stove already lit, the smell of whatever their dinner was going to be today reaching Reed’s nose as he removed his mask. These days, they either had to steal their supplies from the enemy, or rely on the charity of sympathizers who were willing to share their meager rations. How the tables had turned…

“Hey, Boss,” one of them said as he walked over to greet Reed. “Something’s up.”

“What is it now?” Reed sighed. “I’ve barely had time to take my mask off.”

“The spotters up top have seen someone entering the city.”

“Entering?” Reed asked, cocking an eyebrow. “What, like, from outside?”

“A team of twelve people moved in from the wasteland from a Westward direction about an hour ago,” he explained. “They were moving quickly, and they were carrying a lot of equipment.”

“Twelve?” Reed repeated with a scowl. “That’s two fireteams. Military, then. But who?”

“They were dressed in Hadean garb, so we couldn’t get a good look at them. We haven’t made contact yet – we wanted to wait for you guys to return from your mission before we made a move.”

“Nah, you made the right decision,” Reed replied as he pondered the situation. “I suppose it could be more surviving resistance fighters making their way back to the city. Maybe they’ve been waiting out the Borgs in the wastes?”

“It could also be a team of Borgs coming back from a search and destroy op,” one of the Marines muttered as he walked over to join the conversation. It was Sergeant Fuller – the de facto leader of the contingent that Reed’s men had freed during the battle. “If I were in Barbosa’s place, I’d be sending them out to search under every rock.”

“We can’t just let them wander through,” Reed mused. “We need to make contact, and we need to be careful about it. If this is a Borg kill team, one wrong move, and we’re done for.”

“We’ll draw them into an ambush,” Fuller suggested. “We know the terrain – we just need someone to act as bait.”

DAY 43 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – BRENNER

“The place looks deserted,” Silverback muttered, keeping his rifle at the ready beneath his cloak. The agents were making their way between rows of old buildings and abandoned machinery, their new surroundings providing some shelter from the storm. The team had removed their helmets and were wearing face masks to blend in now, Brenner covering his prosthetic eyes with a pair of thick goggles.

“The briefing said that the outskirts of the city are mostly abandoned warehouses and industrial parks,” Wasp replied as she glanced around warily. “You should pay more attention, meathead.”

“Hard to smell anything but dust,” Harlequin muttered, the tips of his white antennae blowing in the wind as they peeked out from beneath his hood. “It’s so damned dry here – I feel like my antennae are gonna desiccate and fall off.”

“How are we supposed to make contact with the locals?” another of the operatives asked.

“We’ll need to find a place to hole up so we can start scouting,” Brenner replied. “The resistance hasn’t exactly been quiet – they shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

Wasp raised a fist, signaling the group to stop, slowly lifting her rifle from beneath her leather shawl. Brenner followed her gaze to find a figure standing in the middle of the dusty road ahead of them. They were dressed in Hadean clothing, watching silently without making any moves.

“The fuck is this?” Silverback whispered, slowly drawing a sidearm as he held the carrying case over his shoulder.

As they watched, the figure slowly retreated, moving into one of the warehouses and out of view.

“Oh, this smells like a trap,” Harlequin muttered.

“Did your antennae tell you that?” Wasp hissed.

“Fireteam Alpha, with me,” Brenner ordered. “Beta, cover us.”

Half of the team formed up with him as he began to pursue the stranger, the rest splitting up and heading into the nearby buildings. His rifle leveled now, Brenner swept into the industrial area in front of the warehouse, his augmented eyes scanning for movement. The team covered every angle, heading into the building through its open doors, finding themselves in a mostly empty space lined with dusty shelves and abandoned cargo containers. It protected them from the storm, the wind whistling through every crack and crevice, depositing sand on the skylight windows high above them.

“Looks like a good place for an ambush,” Wasp whispered.

“I’m picking up some weird thermals,” Brenner replied. “Hold your fire.”

There was a clatter ahead of them that echoed through the cavernous space, like someone dropping a tin can. Slowly, the figure they had been tracking emerged from behind a crate ahead of them, raising their hands. They were masked and thus impossible to identify.

“Who are you?” Brenner demanded, aiming his XMR. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” someone replied. Brenner lifted his gaze to see a second figure emerge from a door on the balcony directly above the first – some kind of elevated office for an overseer, maybe. More followed, some twenty armed men appearing from all sides, boxing them in. They slunk out from between shelves, leaned out of the broken office windows, and materialized to block the exits. They didn’t look like SWAR. Could this be the resistance?

“Show me your hands!” the man on the balcony demanded – clearly their leader.

“Do as he says,” Brenner muttered. “I don’t think these guys are with Barbosa.”

Slowly, he set his XMR on the concrete floor, then lifted his hands in surrender. His team followed suit, Silverback sighing in annoyance as he lowered his carrying case and raised his massive arms.

“Alright, we’re unarmed!” Brenner called back.

“No – show me your hands!” the stranger demanded. “Gloves off!”

It was obvious now that these were resistance fighters, and they wanted to check if they’d captured a SWAR team. Brenner had hoped to contact them on more favorable terms…

“Alright!” Brenner began, slowly reaching for one of his leather gloves. “I’m guessing that you’re members of the resistance? I must warn you – we are with SWAR, but we’re not with Barbosa. We’re here to help!”

The fighters bristled, and Brenner was acutely aware of where their rifles were aimed as he peeled off a glove to reveal the polymer beneath. His team sensed it too, the agents taking up a defensive posture – ready to draw sidearms or leap for their rifles. As he glanced back at them, Brenner realized that Harlequin was gone. When had he slipped away?

“Looks like we got ourselves some Borgs!” the stranger declared. “Give me one good reason not to rapidly increase the ratio of metal to flesh in your bodies.”

There was the sudden sound of a scuffle, Brenner turning his head to the fighters blocking the nearest exits. The second fireteam had repositioned and snuck up behind them, quickly disarming them with their augmented strength. He watched as three of the agents sprang on the gunmen from behind, tearing the rifles from their hands and subduing them with headlocks and joint manipulations. One of them was dispatched with a swift punch as his neighbor was taken hostage, a prosthetic arm curling around his throat, the agent aiming a sidearm past his head. The same was happening at the other exits. The fighters inside the warehouse shifted their aim, unsure of what to do.

From above the elevated office, Brenner spotted a blur of movement, something dropping down from the support beams to knock the man on the balcony to the floor. There was a thud that shook the old metal grating, along with a buzz of gossamer wings, the dust clearing to reveal Harlequin. The cloaked Jarilan was kneeling on the prone man, holding his wrists behind his back with a pair of lower hands, one upper hand bringing a combat knife to his throat. The second was pointing a sidearm at the nearest fighter, whose eyes were so wide above his rebreather that they looked ready to pop out of his head.

“Hold still, Endo,” Harlequin advised as the edge of the blade grazed the man’s skin. “I don’t want to be the first Jarilan to kill a human – it sets a bad precedent.”

Brenner and his fireteam took the opportunity to draw their sidearms with practiced speed, aiming XMHs at the increasingly confused and nervous resistance fighters, locking the warehouse in a kind of jumbled Mexican standoff.

“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” the resistance leader grunted as Harlequin gave his arm a tweak. “Why don’t we start fresh? My name’s Reed, welcome to Hades. If you’d like to check in, I’ll have our concierge take your bags to your rooms.”

“Great, another comedian,” Wasp grumbled. “We should let Harley kill him.”

“My name is Brenner,” the commander said, lowering his sidearm. “I’m commanding a special forces team that was dispatched to Hades to track down the traitor Barbosa. We came here looking for resistance contacts, and I’m guessing we’ve found some?”

“How do I know this isn’t some Borg ploy?” Reed demanded. “What’s to stop you murdering us the moment we let our guard down?”

“Well, we can either all agree to put our weapons down, or we can all murder each other right now,” Brenner replied with a shrug. “Those are your options. I’d wager we’re better at murdering than you are.”

“After careful consideration, I’ve decided to agree to a mutual ceasefire,” Reed groaned as Harlequin pressed his knee into the small of his back. “Everyone, put your guns down!”

The fighters seemed skeptical, but they slowly lowered their weapons, Brenner’s team doing the same. With a silent signal from their commander, the second fireteam began to release their hostages, relinquishing their holds on twisted arms and throats. One of the agents stooped to pick up a rifle and return it to its owner, the fighter snatching it from his hand angrily as he nursed a bruised neck.

“Now that we’ve moved past this unfortunate misunderstanding, can you please get whatever the fuck this thing is off me!?” Reed demanded, a hint of panic entering his voice. Brenner nodded to Harlequin, and the Jarilan released Reed, hopping off his back. The man scrambled away across the creaking gantry, using the rusty railing to haul himself upright, turning to grimace at the alien.

“Don’t worry – I’m on your side,” Harlequin said as he arranged his segmented face plates into a facsimile of a smile.

“Oh fuck, that ain’t natural,” Reed whispered as he recoiled from the sight.

“Now that we’re done pointing guns at each other, maybe we can have a conversation,” Brenner suggested.

“Please, come into my office,” Reed said with an exaggerated gesture to the broken windows.

Brenner waved for Wasp to follow, and she rolled her eyes, the pair heading for a rickety metal staircase that led up to the gantry. The rest of the team milled about below, the two sides still watching one another warily.

They followed Reed into the little office area, which had seen better days, Harlequin joining them. There were a few dust-caked chairs and a desk, along with a decaying couch and a heap of abandoned office supplies piled haphazardly in one corner. The man dusted off one of the chairs and took a seat, gesturing for the newcomers to sit opposite him as though it was some kind of formal meeting. Brenner sat down, while Wasp and Harlequin chose to stand.

“So, what can we do for you?” Reed began as he steepled his fingers. “You might consider me the de facto leader of the resistance on Hades, now that everyone else is either dead or missing.”

“You don’t look like a resistance leader,” Harlequin mused.

“And you look like an alien tried to sculpt a human from memory and then another alien hit it with a hammer,” Reed shot back. “What’s a resistance leader supposed to look like?”

“You’ve been thinking about that one for a couple of minutes, haven’t you?” Harlequin asked as he crossed both pairs of arms.

“I’d come up with something a little wittier, but I’m not good at thinking while being held at knifepoint.”

“Will you shut up and focus?” Wasp snapped.

“Direct and to the point, I appreciate that,” Reed continued nervously as she glared across the table at him. “Shame you guys didn’t show up a week ago – we had a much more impressive operation running. The Borgs hit us hard. The base is gone, our numbers are diminished, and we don’t know where most of our allies have gone. They could be captured, dead, or in exile – we’ve had no contact with them.”

“That’s why the comms on Hades went dark,” Wasp mused. “It was a huge crackdown, like we figured.”

“You’ve been watching us?” Reed asked. “Why the hell didn’t you do anything sooner? We’ve been waiting for the Navy to show up for nearly two months!”

“We had a scout ship in the system analyzing radio traffic,” Brenner explained. “My team and I only arrived a few days ago. We’re just the vanguard.”

“Then, where the hell is the fleet?” Reed demanded as he spread his arms in exasperation. “Y’know – battleships, shock troops, maybe some Linebreakers?”

“They’re still several months out,” Brenner replied.

“Oh, great!” Reed blurted as he threw his hands in the air. “I could order takeout from Ganymede, and the noodles would get here before the fucking Navy! What, did they have to get out of the carrier and push?”

“We are here to stabilize the situation,” Wasp replied, drumming her polymer fingers on the table in irritation. “We need updated intelligence, information on enemy troop movements, and a list of assets that you can make available to us.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I only see twelve of you,” Reed replied as he pointed to the agents. “Barbosa has an army. Now, I know that you Navy types can’t seem to count above a dozen, but the bad man has more guys than you do. That is a problem.”

“We can handle it,” Brenner replied cryptically. “But we do require your cooperation if we’re going to pull this off.”

“Well, I hope you’re not expecting to just roll in here and take over our operation,” Reed continued as he leaned back in his seat. “This is a homegrown rebellion, you know – farm to table. A lot of these guys have been fighting the Borgs for weeks, and they’re not gonna be all that eager to start taking orders from one.”

“What is a Borg?” Harlequin asked.

“These guys,” Reed replied, nodding to the agents. “Get it, like cyborg?”

“Now I have something to call Silverback when he calls me a roach,” Harlequin snickered.

“Sorry, can we pause for a second so I can have someone explain to me what the hell this thing is?” Reed pressed with a gesture to Harlequin. “The last time I saw something that looked like that, it was trying to chew its way through concertina wire.”

“He’s a Jarilan – he’s a friend,” Brenner explained. “You’ve fought Bugs before? Are you Navy?”

“I was, but I got better,” Reed replied. “There’s hope for everyone.”

“We need manpower,” Wasp reiterated. “We were hoping that you’d have the numbers to support some large-scale operations.”

“We did, a week ago,” Reed replied with a shrug. “Now, I have maybe a hundred and eighty tired, hungry men who have been using slag rounds and living in basements.”

“The resistance was far larger than that, though?” Brenner pressed. “Based on the information we gathered, it posed a significant threat to Barbosa’s operations.”

“Oh yeah, we had ten times that number before the shitshow at the protest,” he replied. “A lot of people got killed or captured during the battle, a lot of others gave up and took off their colors – went back to work on the line. Those of us still willing to fight have been scattered. I have no idea where they are.”

“Is Ruza with you?” Brenner asked. “I was told to ask for him.”

“Ruza?” Reed replied, raising an eyebrow. “You know the Doc? If he’s alive, I ain’t seen him since the protest. That being said, I have a hard time believing anyone could beat him in a fight, and they wouldn’t take him alive – he’s too dangerous. That guy is a survivor.”

“Then, you believe he may be alive somewhere?” Wasp asked.

“Maybe,” Reed replied. “I can’t be sure where he’s holed up, though. During the last meeting before the op, he talked about wanting to relocate to some abandoned site outside the city. Rivera didn’t bite, but if he was going anywhere, it’d be there. It was like he knew what was coming – we should have listened to him.”

“Where is this site?” Harlequin asked.

“No fucking clue,” Reed said with a shrug. “Like I said, it wasn’t something we discussed in any detail, and I had no reason to write it down. The whole hemisphere is covered in old prospecting sites and weird, half-finished industrial buildings from when ExoCorp pulled the plug.”

“Do you at least know what kind of place it was?” Brenner asked. “Was it a mine? Some kind of outpost?”

“I think he said it was some kind of power plant,” Reed replied. “Right now, I don’t have access to any information about where it might be, or how many there even are. All of our data was stored on servers that are now buried under thousands of tons of pulverized rock, assuming Ruza ever made a record of it. He’s not really the data entry type – it’s the claws,” he added with a wiggle of his fingers.

“If there’s a chance that more survivors are out there, finding them needs to be our first priority,” Wasp added. “If we’re going to succeed, we need as many allies as we can get. You know what’ll happen if we fail to secure our objectives in time for the operation.”

“What operation?” Reed demanded. “Are you gonna clue the rest of us in?”

“Soon,” Brenner replied. “First, I need you to tell me everything that’s happened since Barbosa arrived, play-by-play.”

CHAPTER 24

DAY 43 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

“I wish you’d leave me alone,” Petrova grumbled. She tried to tear open a protein bar, sighing as her undervolted prosthetics struggled to get a grip.

“Allow me,” Ruza said, extending a hand.

She rolled her eyes, then passed it to him, crossing her arms defensively as he peeled it open.

“I might be grateful if this wasn’t your fault in the first place,” she sneered as he passed it back to her. She began to eat, scowling up at the alien as he watched with those yellow eyes. They were sitting in the cafeteria, which now served as her common room. It was the only place with tables and some musty old couches to sit on, situated beside a long-empty vending machine. The damned alien hadn’t left her alone since she had arrived, departing only for brief periods of time or to sleep. There was a curiosity in him that she found deeply annoying.

“Rivera wishes to see you today,” the Rask continued. He was seated on a couch adjacent to hers, so large that he filled a space meant for two, his hips wedged between the armrests.

“I’m not answering any questions,” she replied, taking a bite of her bar.

“Still, he will try. Cooperation only benefits you.”

“You can all fuck off, cyka.”

“You still have not offered me your name,” he continued, ever calm in the face of her insults. She kept testing him – prying at the gaps in his armor, trying to provoke a reaction worthy of a Rask, but he always resisted her. It was like he was high on sedatives or something.

“Why should I?”

“I have offered you mine,” he replied. “You have many names – is that not so? Omar knew you as Anna. I believe that you are Lieutenant Commander Petrova, the very same who trained the PDF and selected them for surgery. Perhaps even that is not your true name.”

“What’s your point?” she sighed, crossing her long legs. “I’m a spy – spies have many identities. It comes with the territory.”

“A name is important,” Ruza replied. “A name is like blood. It is given by your parents, and it ties you to your people and to your home. Your name is your pride, your reputation, and sometimes your shame. You seem to cast it off easily. Perhaps you cast off your pride and your shame along with it.”

“You know, this is what pisses me off about Borealans,” she said as she jabbed her protein bar at him like an accusing finger. “You think you’re this noble warrior culture, but history has demonstrated that you actually suck at warfare, and anyone who doesn’t stoop down to your level and roll around in the dirt with you is considered dishonorable. Besides, it’s not like the Rask are strangers to low, deceptive tactics.”

“Perhaps not,” he conceded. “I will not defend the deposed Matriarch or her actions, nor will I attempt to justify my own during that time. I am simply trying to understand your viewpoint.”

“Why?” Petrova demanded, the wrapper crackling as she threw up her arms. “Why can’t you just leave me alone to rot in peace?”

“I wish to learn how you think, and why you believe the things that you do. It is important.”

“Know thy enemy?” she scoffed. “You want to know what I think?” she continued, pausing to take another bite. “I think that we could have turned your entire territory to volcanic glass in minutes, and all your posturing is only happening because we chose not to. This would be a very different Galaxy if the Admiralty would just take off the kid gloves and stop doing everything in half measures.”

“But you did not,” Ruza replied with his usual infuriating calmness. “To wield great power with restraint and humility is the mark of an honorable person. To have the option to kill and destroy with impunity, but to choose the harder path. That is the source of human strength, not the yield of your warheads.”

“I’ll take a ten-kilo sabot when it comes to killing my enemies, thanks,” she scoffed as she leaned back into the dirty couch.

“The Brokers founded this Coalition many hundreds of years ago,” Ruza continued. “For a time, they fought alone beside the Krell. It was only thirty Sol years ago that your species became a member. In a tenth of that time, membership ballooned from two to six – eight, if we include each Borealan territory separately. Why is it that the Brokers could not achieve this with all their weapons and technologies?”

“They’re protectionist,” she replied. “They’re selfish squids who keep to themselves and hoard their technology. A Broker only acts if he sees a direct benefit to himself, and he’s just as happy to put a knife in your back as a Rask.”

“Yet, when the humans encountered the Valbarans, valuable technology was given freely with no expectation of recompense.”

“They needed it to win,” Petrova replied simply. “It was pragmatism, not charity.”

“My people, too, were given technology freely. Before the rebellion, you armed us, and you are helping us rebuild even now. Where you could profit or exploit, you instead invest in strengthening your allies, just as a farmer tends his crops. Then, there is the matter of the Jarilans. You could have slaughtered them – perhaps many would have chosen that path. When they were at their weakest, and they pleaded mercy, you granted it to them. In exchange, you have received perhaps the most loyal and adaptable fighting force to ever exist in this Galaxy, the potential of which I do not think you fully understand yet. When the Polars asked for asylum, you granted it to them. When the Araxie called for aid, you answered.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that I have seen every act of loyalty and mercy be rewarded with tremendous power. You have positioned yourselves at the center of the Coalition, not through a projection of force or technology, but through the ties that you build. Even the Brokers have now forfeited their comfortable position and are being drawn into your web.”

“And where did that get us?” she demanded. “We’re spending lives and resources protecting planets that have nothing to do with us. We don’t even have the fleets to police all of human space consistently, yet we spare entire CSGs for patrols to Borealis and Valbara. We have PDF on backwaters using caseless weapons and surplus garbage, but aliens are getting top-of-the-line XMRs. Half of the allies you mentioned have fucked us or are slowly positioning themselves to fuck us in the future. The Brokers lied to draw us into a war, the Rask stabbed us in the back, and the Jarilans are slowly modifying our very genomes. What kinds of allies are those?”

“And your Commander has told you these things,” Ruza muttered. “The lies of the Brokers have put them in your debt, and it is the reason that they now emerge from hiding. Our new Matriarch is friendly to your people, and the Jarilans would never betray you. You would know that if you knew them as I do. Mercy and forgiveness have strengthened your position, not weakened it.”

“Whatever,” she sighed, waving a hand at him dismissively. “You’ll never accept that you’re the bad guys in this situation, so what’s the point of talking to you?”

“I am a reformed bad guy,” Ruza replied. There was rarely any hint of humor in his tone, but now, he seemed even more serious. It was enough to pique her interest. “Perhaps I am still bad. I fought for a selfish, greedy Matriarch who promised glory and riches, and I learned hatred for those who had shown me nothing but friendship. Like your Barbosa, she refused to adapt to a changing Galaxy, and instead sought to return to a way of life that was no longer possible. I was betrayed and cast aside. I suffered for my choices, and justly so, some might say.”

“What, did you get a fine and a slap on the paw before the MPs turned you loose?”

“An exposed fission reactor was my judge and my executioner,” he replied with a rasping chuckle – the first time she had ever heard him laugh. “My sentence was to be a slow and painful death. I left my homeworld and ventured out into the Coalition, offering my services to those who would employ me, purchasing what medication I could to keep my condition from worsening. I found my way to Kerguela, where I learned these truths. I forged new bonds of friendship, and through them, I was healed. Perhaps the Universe deemed me worthy of existence once more. There were no Rask on Kerguela, and there are none here. Fighting against Barbosa and protecting the people of Hades does not benefit my kind. I fight because I can, and so I must.”

“I think you came here seeking forgiveness for what you did during the rebellion,” Petrova replied. “You’re still ashamed of being on the wrong side. You think that giving away free vaccinations and kissing a few booboos is going to atone for whatever fucked up shit you’ve done in the name of the Matriarch or in the pursuit of money? The Universe isn’t some mystical consciousness that watches what you do and judges you,” she snapped. “Only people can forgive you.”

Her thoughts turned to Tom and Fran, and she closed herself off, blocking him out with her crossed arms.

“Perhaps you are right,” he replied. “One could argue that trying to do good in search of atonement is a form of selfishness. Maybe I am motivated by a desire for forgiveness rather than pure altruism. Even so, you cannot deny the effect such acts have on others. We have healed the sick and fed the hungry. We have protected those who could not fight for themselves. If Hades has any shred of hope remaining, it is because of our actions and our sacrifices. Compare the actions of your SWAR, and think on it.”

“This is all your fault,” Petrova snapped, jabbing a finger at him. “Barbosa wants to make this colony into a bastion for humanity – he wants to elevate the Hadeans and make them the equals of Proxima or Mars, and your insurgency has fucked it up every step of the way. You bombed peacekeepers, burned down warehouses full of food, and you hid behind innocent civilians. Don’t you fucking lecture me. How many people have you personally killed?”

“Many,” he replied, a kind of shadow falling over his face. He bared his teeth, his eyes reflecting the light. “SWAR and PDF alike, with blade, slug, and claw. I have lost count of their number. I resent it, but I do not regret it. Tyrants will continue their abuse until a greater force stops them, and anyone who threatens me or those under my protection will be shown no quarter. I will stack corpses to reach your carrier if I must, and I will bring the fight to Barbosa. There is no suit of armor that can protect him – Hoff learned that lesson.”

Petrova lunged from her seat and swung a clenched fist at him, a sluggish punch connecting with his jaw. He didn’t even try to avoid it, and the blow left no mark, her undervolted servos about as powerful as those of a child’s toy.

“Hoff was my friend,” she hissed, her face reddening in anger.

“If you remain blind to his actions, then perhaps you are beyond help,” Ruza replied as he gently eased her hand away. “We never burned down that warehouse,” he added. “If your Commander has lied to you about that, consider what else he might have lied about.”

They were interrupted as there came a knock at the door, Ruza shifting his attention, his head turning to follow his swiveling ears. The panel opened, and a man wearing Marine garb stepped through. His uniform had seen better days, and what must have recently been a clean-shaven face now sported unkempt stubble, his dark hair creeping past regulation length. She recognized him as Rivera, remembering the plasma scars.

“Everything alright in here?” he asked, glancing between the two skeptically.

“Yes,” Ruza replied, rising from his seat on the couch with a creak. “I will leave you two alone.”

He strode out of the room, Rivera turning his head to watch the alien leave. When Ruza was gone, he focused his attention on Petrova, walking over to stand a short distance from where she was seated. She folded her arms and leaned back into the cushions, peering back at him defiantly.

“Lieutenant Commander Petrova,” he began. “Ruza has his own way of approaching situations, but as the highest-ranked member of the UNN on-planet, I’m representing the Navy and its interests here. You are a prisoner of war being held for crimes against humanity and high treason – I hope your generous accommodations haven’t led you to forget that fact. I’m not here as your therapist or your friend – I’m here to gather actionable intel.”

“Better break out the nipple clamps, then,” she scoffed. “The good cop routine hasn’t worked, and neither will the bad one. Trust me when I say that there’s absolutely no technique you can employ that I haven’t been trained to resist.”

“Nobody is going to torture you,” he replied with a roll of his eyes. “Though, if some of the guys outside that door had their way, you’d probably be buried in a shallow grave in the desert by now. Alas, my hands are bound by this little thing we call the law. You don’t seem to be very familiar with it.”

“Maybe you can tie all of that red tape into a pretty little bow for your hair,” Petrova sneered.

“I don’t think you realize how much trouble you’re in,” the Marine continued. “It may feel like civilization is a lifetime away right now, but the full might of the Navy is going to crash down on this colony like a super railgun round, and there’s no clever plan that’s going to save you from that. You’re looking at a court-martial for sedition as a best-case scenario. Now, the UN isn’t too fond of the death penalty these days, but the accommodations on asteroid penal colonies are a lot worse than these.”

“But you can put in a good word for me if I give you what you want,” Petrova said with a smirk. “Sorry, but you don’t even have the power to do your own laundry anymore. What makes you think you’re in a position to bargain? Your little rebellion didn’t last two months before it was decisively crushed. Your forces are dead or scattered, your base is in ruins, and nobody is coming to help you for the better part of a year. I wasn’t sent to win the war – it’s already won. My job was to mop up the loose ends.”

“I’m not like Ruza,” the Marine continued, his expression dour. “I’m not here to lecture you about the intrinsic goodness of humanity and the healing power of redemption. I don’t care if you leave this building with a fresh outlook on life, or a tungsten slug embedded in your skull. All I care about is that you have something I want. The only chance for you to ever see the light of day again is to cooperate, and to cooperate hard. Give me actionable intel – something that makes a real difference. That’s the only thing that might buy you some leniency.”

“Or I can just wait for my people to find me,” she replied, making a show of inspecting her non-existent nails. “The same guys who tore up your base are going to tear through this place, and you won’t live to see the Navy arrive.”

“They won’t find you,” he replied confidently. “We know that you were close to Barbosa, and that you were heavily involved in his operations on Hades. You were part of his inner circle – one of his hand-picked Lieutenants. There must be operational weaknesses, vulnerabilities in his plan, logistical bottlenecks where we can apply pressure to have a disproportionate impact on his occupation. You were heavily involved with the PDF, too. Where are they holding prisoners? Which garrisons? Are there other black sites where you’re keeping our people? Tell us about the PCEs. What are their weaknesses? Do the prototypes have shortcomings that could be exploited? What is the operational status of the production models? Where are they being assembled and stored?”

Petrova opened her mouth in an exaggerated yawn, the Marine scowling at her.

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that I do not give a fuck.”

“Think it over,” he replied. “You’ll have plenty of uninterrupted time to reconsider. There are some very captivating walls to stare at down here.”

With that, he walked out the way he had come, leaving her sitting alone in the cafeteria.

He wasn’t wrong – there wasn’t much to do other than stare into the distance and ponder her situation. Rivera seemed almost as annoyed with the Rask as she was, so perhaps they really weren’t playing roles in some elaborate act. Rivera wanted information, but Ruza seemed to want to prove something – whether to her or himself, she wasn’t sure. What was his deal?

She reflected on their argument before Rivera had interrupted them. The alien’s words about Hoff especially had stung, and she had made a show of being outraged rather than reacting in a way that reflected her true feelings. Hades had brought out something ugly in Hoff – that had been obvious towards the end. Maybe it was Hoff’s way of dealing with the chaotic nature of their situation, maybe it was a lack of oversight and boundaries imposed by command, or maybe it had always been lurking just beneath the surface. She found herself questioning whether he had ever really been her friend, or if they had simply been bonded by a kind of dogged loyalty and tribalism. Being with him hadn’t felt like being with Fran and the others…

The warehouse fire and the attacks on the colony’s food supply had always struck her as strange. It was in the interests of the insurgents to make Barbosa’s occupation look as incompetent and unjust as possible, because that created the conditions for further unrest. The more angry, hungry Hadeans there were, the more potential recruits could fill their ranks. On the other hand, SWAR was no stranger to false flags and psychological warfare. It wouldn’t be the first time they had faked an attack to sway public opinion and fabricate a justification to respond with force. But if what Ruza was saying was true, that would mean Barbosa had lied to her, and he wouldn’t do that. She was his second in command – his chosen successor. Nobody was closer to him than she was.

She clenched her fists as tightly as she could manage, feeling powerless in more ways than one.

DAY 43 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“I don’t think we’re gonna get anything useful out of her,” Rivera said, taking a sip from a steaming mug of coffee. “You guys could have at least pretended that there was some threat to her safety. We don’t have any leverage now – she’s happy to wait us out.”

“I wasn’t going to have her sitting alone in there worrying about being tortured or assaulted,” Amy replied, lifting her nose at him from the other side of the table. “We’re better than that.”

It was dinner time in the plant, and many of the surviving resistance members were clustered around a couple of the tables, sharing MREs and discussing the recent events.

“Rivera is kind of right,” Omar said with a shrug, pausing to stir a bowl of rice that was being reheated over a camping stove. “I don’t see the point of trying to interrogate her any further. She’s not going to help us if she has nothing to gain. Maybe I’m a little biased due to the whole attempted assassination thing, but I don’t think we should have brought her back here in the first place.”

“I believe that she will change her attitude, given enough time,” Ruza added. “Isolation and boredom will wear her down.”

“I suppose we’re gonna be sitting around here for months if we don’t think of something,” Rivera sighed. “Fuck, this MRE coffee tastes like dirt, and it has about the same texture. I never thought I’d miss the mess hall on the carrier.”

“Can we really just sit around here waiting out Barbosa?” Amy pressed, glancing around the table. “All the while, they have the run of the colony, and they’re starving and abusing people? That’s not who we are, is it?”

“We still have one advantage,” Ruza replied.

“What’s that?” Omar asked.

“He’s talking about the AMR,” Rivera replied, taking another reluctant sip from his mug.

“If strategic victory over Barbosa’s forces is unachievable, we can at least weaken them prior to the Navy’s arrival and try to give them a fighting chance,” Ruza continued. “The AMR is a long-range, precision weapon capable of dispatching PCEs.”

“You still need to be in visual range of the target,” Rivera replied. “You can’t fire it from outside the colony. It requires us to get too close for comfort, and getting to the city unseen is now more difficult than ever. Barbosa has effectively negated our greatest asset, which was the ability to attack from cover with impunity anywhere in the city. It takes us half a day’s ruck across open ground to get into position now. Once storm season ends, I honestly don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“What we need is information,” Omar interjected. “We’ve lost our network of spies and informants, and without them, we have no idea what’s happening on the ground. Even if we managed to find Bergmann, Astrid, and the union leaders, and we somehow managed to spring them, they won’t be in a position to help anymore. The same goes for me – they know my face, and they’ve canceled all of my security clearances. I’m useless.”

“You’re anything but useless,” Amy chided. “If it wasn’t for you, we’d never have gotten this far, and I’d still be rotting in a cell.”

“What about the Borg?” Rivera asked, looking to Ruza. “Do you really think you can extract any information from her?”

“She is filled with anger and doubt,” he replied.

“Yeah, probably because we kidnapped her,” Omar scoffed.

“To dismiss our enemies as simply evil is a mistake,” Ruza continued. “To do evil intentionally is to be insane – senseless, and our enemies are not insane. An insane person cannot out-think and out-maneuver a sane person. They are cold, calculating, and careless. Some of them delight in violence, certainly, but their leadership is not mad. Barbosa has plans for Hades that we do not fully understand, and this woman may be our only chance to learn more. It is my belief that Barbosa is manipulating his own forces in the same way he manipulates the Hadeans.”

“Why do you say that?” Omar asked. “He’s leading the PDF around by the nose, sure – I’ve seen that firsthand. I don’t see why he’d need to concoct false narratives for his inner circle, though. Outside of this bull about the Coalition being evil, I mean. They’re already committed.”

“The prisoner seems to believe that we are responsible for the arson attack that destroyed the warehouse, along with other disruptions to the food supply. It was an accusation made in anger, and I see no reason that she would lie about that now. It may be that Barbosa is giving his agents conflicting assignments and playing them against one another, or perhaps running operations in tandem without informing their counterparts.”

“Why would he need to do that?” Amy asked. “Surely they’ve proven their loyalty by now?”

“I think Ruza is right,” Rivera said with an appreciative glance at the Rask. “It’s not about loyalty. They could be the most loyal, reliable people in the Sphere, and it wouldn’t matter. Barbosa maintains control through division, and he’s likely positioning himself as the only person who really knows the full scope of what’s going on. He makes himself indispensable and, in doing so, ensures that the occupation can’t function without him.”

“People like Barbosa do not trust – they control,” Ruza continued. “They are loath to defer power or responsibility, even when it is the wisest course of action, and so they must always maintain some advantage over their subordinates. What tyrants fear most is the threat from within their own ranks – that their own generals and ministers will rise up and supplant them. I have seen it firsthand, when the Matriarch’s shipmasters turned against her during the rebellion.”

“I’m sure we all remember the fall of the USSR, the Korean unification, and the collapse of the CCP from history class,” Rivera said with a nod. “It’s all the same shit – leaders playing the powerful against one another to ensure they can’t unite or break that dependence. One guy tries to hoard all the cards and keep everyone else from seeing the full deck.”

“Until they do,” Omar added.

“Right,” Rivera replied with a determined nod. “It means that Barbosa is the glue holding the occupation together. He’s the only guy who knows exactly what’s going on, and if we remove him, the whole house of cards will come tumbling down.”

“Really into card metaphors today, aren’t we?” Amy joked.

“What Barbosa covets most is control, so we must take that from him,” Ruza said. “If I can convince our captive that her loyalty is misplaced, and that Barbosa is not the man she thought he was, she may be a great asset to us. We must create a wedge between them.”

“Speaking from experience again?” Amy asked.

“I know well the anger that comes from betrayal,” he replied. “I see in her the same doubts that once plagued me, and the same defensiveness – the same rage. She lashes out rather than consider my words because she fears that she may be wrong. Anger and fear are two sides of the same coin. One rarely exists without the other.”

“Keep putting the screws to her, I suppose,” Rivera replied. “Figuratively speaking,” he added when Ruza gave him a concerned look. “Omar and I will try to figure out how to gather intelligence in the city. Maybe there’s some evidence we can uncover that might convince her. Either way, we have to do something, and quickly. The storms are the only thing keeping us alive, and we probably only have a few weeks left before the skies are clear and our route to the city becomes a shooting gallery for that carrier.”

“Once again, we find ourselves unable to choose between caution and haste,” Ruza sighed.

DAY 44 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“She can’t have just vanished,” Barbosa growled. “What do you mean there’s no trace of her? With all the resources and technology you have access to, you can’t find one fucking person?”

He paused his tangent to take a sip from a crystal glass, the amber liquid inside sloshing around a pair of ice cubes. There was a time when such spirits would have burned on their way down, but no longer – his synthetic throat was unable to replicate the sensation. What was the point of savoring the real thing anymore – of truly tasting it, when he could probably just tweak the software that controlled his sense of flavor to make water taste like whiskey if he wanted to? He reached behind his head and idly rubbed the socket on the back of his neck, already missing his PCE. Every time he left its warm embrace, he felt as though he discovered some new pain or ache that he hadn’t noticed before.

“All we’ve been able to determine is that the Rask was present at their meeting,” Song replied, a holographic representation of his upper body hovering above the polished coffee table. “We found hairs matching his species at the site.”

“Great,” Barbosa scoffed, gesturing with his glass. “I could have told you that.”

“I do have some positive news,” Song continued, swiftly moving the conversation along. “Some of the new recruits are now strong enough to begin training, and the first batch of production model PCEs are ready for field trials.”

“The PCEs are ready?” Barbosa asked, raising an eyebrow above an array of sunken lenses.

“We did have some difficulties during the production process,” Song clarified hesitantly. “Nilsson identified impurities in some of the alloys used to make parts, along with a handful of obvious attempts to sabotage the machinery. There were also some instances of simple subpar manufacturing. We believe that the defective parts have all been removed.”

“How many units were affected?”

“Of our first batch of twenty, twelve are combat operational.”

“What?” Barbosa hissed, slamming his drink down on the table. “You mean to tell me that those dirt-farming yokels have already neutralized almost half of the first batch without firing a shot? Through fucking weaponized incompetence?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Song replied. “Another is that we’ve just tripled the number of PCEs we arrived with. With our new recruits, we have not only replaced the losses we’ve endured since the beginning of the operation, but exceeded our initial strength with more on the way. With the insurgency routed, our position has never been stronger.”

“You’re a real glass-half-full kind of guy,” Barbosa muttered as he refilled his drink from a decanter. “Are we sure that the operational units have been thoroughly checked?”

“The electronics and more advanced systems were manufactured on the carrier and installed by Nilsson and his team,” Song replied. “There is no phase of the supply chain where bad actors could have tampered with them. The completed units are in operational condition. They do lack some advanced features of the prototypes, which is to be expected, as Nilsson no longer has access to the same resources he once did.”

“Which features?” Barbosa asked suspiciously. “I wasn’t informed of this.”

“Their micro-fusion reactors are probably the most complex and poorly understood component,” Song began. “They were developed from captured Broker technology. It will take Nilsson more time to replicate the design and develop economically viable substitutes for the exotic materials. In the meantime, these new units have been equipped with high-density batteries.”

“What does that mean in practical terms?”

“It reduces the duration of autonomous operation and somewhat diminishes their effective shield capacity,” Song explained.

“You don’t sound concerned.”

“I foresee no immediate need for such extended operations, and their shields will retain effectiveness against small arms fire and shrapnel, which remains the largest threat. They won’t stop an AMR, but neither would a shield powered by a micro-reactor. I’m confident that they are fit for purpose.”

“I suppose their true effectiveness will depend on the recruits,” Barbosa mused. “I had hoped to have Petrova here to train them.”

“Might I suggest reassigning either Roach or Crow as their instructor?” Song said. “With the insurgency gone, there’s no need to have them both assigned to security.”

“The insurgency isn’t quite gone,” Barbosa grumbled. “There are still cells carrying out smaller-scale terrorist attacks against our security forces. We lost two dozen PDF and two APCs to an ambush just yesterday.”

“Yes, we suspect that an insurgent who goes by the name Jameson Reed is responsible,” Song replied. “He’s an ex-Marine who was dishonorably discharged for insubordination and assaulting a superior officer. The data that we recovered from their servers shows that he was very involved in their sabotage operations, and he seems to have an affinity for explosives. Still, he doesn’t pose a large threat to our forces – he’s more of a nuisance.”

“I’d still like him removed so that we can focus on more pressing matters,” Barbosa replied. “We can finally start preparing for the UNN’s arrival, which is what we should have been doing from the start. These damned insurgents have cost us almost two months. What news of the suspicious freighter?”

“One of our Coursers intercepted it and a team boarded the ship,” Song replied. “They didn’t find anything noteworthy during their inspection, save that they were able to confirm the mass discrepancy that we picked up during their jump. Some of the cargo containers declared on their manifest were missing, so I think it’s safe to assume that they panicked when they picked up the Courser on their sensors and jettisoned their contraband.”

“We might find the missing containers if we check their trajectory, but I don’t think it’s worth the trouble,” Barbosa said. “They’re carrying food, and we need it, so let’s just clear them to dock. I’m not interested in fining them for smuggling right now. Once we’ve established a functioning state, we can start worrying about things like customs and immigration.”

“Very well, Commander. I’ll clear them to dock. They should arrive in a few days.”

“Have the new recruits assemble in the hangar bay before they leave,” Barbosa added. “I’d like to address them.”

***

The heavy footfalls of Barbosa’s PCE echoed through the hangar as he marched across the deck, walking along the line of waiting recruits. There were just shy of a hundred, the men standing to attention in rows. They were all on their feet now, their new pressure suits tied off at the thighs and shoulders as was customary for SWAR, their prosthetics on display. They had Marine helmets sourced from the carrier’s armory, but no decals yet. They had not earned them.

Much like the twelve PCEs that stood behind them, casting them into shadow, these were production model SWAR. Their augs were mass-produced rather than bespoke, and they had not been sourced from the most dangerous warriors in the Sphere, but rather the cream of a very limited crop. He was almost loath to call them SWAR – they were something in between, not quite reaching the same heights. Still, this was what he needed. This was the future of his personal army.

Their recovery was not yet complete, and the doctors would have kept them in physical therapy for weeks longer if he’d let them, but it was important to have them on the streets. It was important that they be seen. With the worst of the insurgency dealt with, they wouldn’t be doing any real fighting for a while, but having them patrol the colony would serve as a morale booster. It would galvanize the PDF and prove that Barbosa meant what he said when he talked of elevating the Hadeans, and it would remind dissidents of who was in control.

“You stand here today because you’re the best that Hades has to offer,” he began, flipping open the angular canopy of his suit to reveal his scarred face. “You were the best of the PDF, you survived the surgeries, and you’ve become something more than human. We affectionately refer to our augmentations as Mark Twos,” he added with a smile. “I’d say that you’re Homo Sapiens Mark Two.”

A few of the men shared glances behind their visors, puffing out their chests a little more. He wanted this to feel like a graduation ceremony.

“Those of you who scored the highest on our aptitude tests were awarded PCEs just like mine,” he continued, slapping a giant hand against his chest armor. “In this organization, we don’t play favorites, and we don’t reward nepotism. You work hard, you prove yourself, and you’ll be first in line for a unit. Our aim is to equip the entire corps once production ramps up.”

That got a few excited murmurs from them, the PCEs at their back shifting their weight, the little camera domes beneath their chins swiveling.

“Your mission now is simple,” Barbosa said, pausing in front of them as he examined the rows of faceless visors. “Protect Hades. Safeguard your families. Root out corruption. That is all I require of you. More of your Hadean brothers will follow in your footsteps – the next batch of recruits is already undergoing surgery – but you are my first company. Take pride in that.”

He lifted a hand to his open canopy in a salute, and the men returned it – the PCEs too.

“Lieutenant Commander Petrova cannot be here today, as she is deployed on a very important mission, but I know that she would be very proud of you all. Dropships will be arriving soon to transport you to the surface. I expect great things from you.”

With that, he left, the troops standing to attention until he had exited the hangar. As he marched down the narrow hallway beyond, he wondered how things would play out. They would be stronger, faster, and more resilient than the average PDF trooper, but what they lacked was experience. His original plan had assumed that a sizable portion of the carrier’s crew and its Marine complement would have switched sides, but he had underestimated their stubbornness, and hundreds of battle-hardened soldiers had been denied to him as a result. His SWAR agents would be hard-pressed to train so many, and in such a short window of time, but he had to work with what was available.

When the Navy eventually arrived, the PCEs would help his new army survive enough engagements to gain that experience. A trial by fire.

DAY 44 – HADES – THE GOVERNOR

The Governor stood by his office window, the view from the balcony beyond giving him a good look at the square, its obelisk rising high from the dust-caked ground. It had been so empty since the riots. The citizens who usually milled about or were on their way to and from the civic buildings were now huddled in their homes, too afraid to show themselves. Now, the only activity came from the PDF who had been assigned to protect his building from his own constituents.

They were not his constituents anymore, though. Not really. Barbosa held them in his sway, and the Governor merely danced on the end of his strings – a cardboard cutout to be wheeled out to distract the locals while the occupiers worked behind the scenes. Even that role was slowly being taken from him.

Barbosa had everything he wanted now. The insurgency had been soundly defeated and no longer posed a serious threat to his rule, the union leadership with whom the Governor had once collaborated to manage Hades was imprisoned, and the colony’s entire economy had been redirected to support the occupation. Communication had been all but cut off, and any dissent was brutally suppressed by a police force that was accountable to no one but the Commander. There was no way for the common man to strike or even assemble publicly anymore.

He had tried so hard to insert himself into the process, knowing that Barbosa’s takeover of the colony was an inevitability. He’d tried to moderate the Commander’s behavior – attempted to steer him towards solutions that would minimize the impact on the population, but the role of governor was growing less and less important by the day. Without unions striking and a population willing to protest, Barbosa had little need of him, and a recent lack of communication had conveyed that as well as any memo or vidcall. The Commander would probably keep him around solely as a means to cement his legitimacy and to manage the minutia of the colony’s day-to-day operations, but he would have very little control going forward.

“Governor,” his secretary said, snapping him back to the present. “I have the report that you requested,” she added, passing him a tablet computer.

“Thank you,” he replied, taking it from her hand. “Feel free to head home early. You’ll want to beat the patrols.”

She nodded, wishing him good evening and heading out of his office while he scanned the chart on the little display. It was just as he had suspected. The food supplies they had were not sufficient to support the population long-term, and Barbosa’s plans to rectify the situation amounted to little more than building desert greenhouses that weren’t expected to yield a crop for months – if they did at all. There was no telling what would happen when word reached their trading partners and the freighters full of food and supplies stopped coming. The Commander expected to negotiate new trade deals as though the rest of the Sphere would just accept this new state of affairs.

More worrying still, it seemed that a significant amount of their supplies were being diverted to the PDF’s stores. Not only would that exacerbate the situation for the populace, but it was a clear sign of where Barbosa’s priorities lay. He wanted his security forces strong, fed, and able to weather any further unrest. There were food stores on the carrier, too, and he was keeping those to himself and his closest allies.

Actions spoke louder than words. For all of Barbosa’s assurances that the situation would be brought under control, he was maneuvering as though he expected the worst. Food had always been a strangely conspicuous hole in Barbosa’s plan, but perhaps this had always been his intention. He didn’t have the strength to attack and hold some important self-sufficient farming planet deeper into UN space – it was Hades’ remoteness and unimportance that had made his occupation possible. That also made it dependent on imports – not an easy or fast thing to rectify. Perhaps Barbosa had a viable plan for the colony, but how many Hadeans were a part of that plan?

He gazed out of the window again, watching the camouflaged riot police mill about below. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong side. It was hard to determine if the resistance had ever been capable of deposing Barbosa, and their recent showing hadn’t inspired much confidence, but working from the inside was no longer yielding results. Would things have been different if he had reached out to them? Perhaps it was too late now, but he had to do something. He wouldn’t just be a prop for Barbosa to parade around while the people who had put their trust in him suffered.

Perhaps there were still some old Syndicate contacts he could get in touch with.

DAY 44 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – REED

“So…what’s in the box?” Reed asked as he sidled up to one of the SWAR agents. This one called himself Gorilla or something, and he was built like one, with synthetic biceps the size of Reed’s head. He looked like he could rip the door off a car.

They were hanging out in the temporary base that Reed’s men had established in the basement of the water processing plant, the space dimly lit by camping stoves and flashlights. Most of the SWAR had taken their helmets off and were getting a little R&R after their trek through the desert, eating and discussing the situation with the Marines.

“It’s classified,” the man replied, laying a hand on the foldout table that the long carrying case was resting on. His face was remarkably normal, without any obvious implants, save for a small line of black polymer that ran from his chin to his ears like some kind of chin strap beard. Reed figured it was some kind of communications device.

Come on,” Reed protested. “What am I gonna do, tell Barbosa? Is it a missile? I bet it’s a missile.”

“This is far more dangerous than any missile,” a female voice said, Reed turning his head to see Wasp approaching from the darkness. “More expensive, too, so keep your grubby hands off it unless you want to lose them.”

As her name suggested, she had a slim and athletic build, with prosthetics modeled closely after those of a normal – albeit muscular – woman. In the right light, it almost looked like she was wearing latex gloves and thigh-high socks under all her armor and equipment. Beneath her helmet, she had pale, chiseled features that were marred only by a single scar. It started at her eyebrow, splitting the hairs and running down her cheek, where it passed through the very corner of her lips. Her blonde hair was buzzed almost down to the skull, and she had a pair of cold, gray eyes that peered back at him.

“Your friend here isn’t very talkative,” Reed said with a gesture to the other agent.

“He’s the strong, silent type,” she replied. “As opposed to the small, annoying type,” she added with a pointed glance at Reed.

“Funny,” he grumbled. “I put you guys up in my home, I give you the food from my plate, and you keep secrets from me? I see how it is.”

“What plates?” she scoffed, crossing her prosthetic arms.

“What are you guys talking about over here?”

Reed let out a surprised yelp, spinning around to see the Jarilan standing behind him, those long antennae waving in the air.

“Fuck, don’t sneak up on people like that!” he protested, his cheeks warming as Wasp laughed at his reaction. “I used to be a Marine, you know – I’m trained to kill. That muscle memory kicks in, and you could get hurt.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen your lightning reflexes firsthand,” the alien replied skeptically, his mouth not quite moving in perfect sync with his voice. It was otherwise uncanny how normal he sounded – Reed wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference over the phone.

“If he shows you, do you promise to shut up?” Wasp asked.

“As much as such a thing can be promised,” Reed replied.

She nodded to Silverback, and the agent leaned over the table, popping the clasps on the carrying case. He swung open the lid, Reed walking around to his side of the table to see that it was lined with protective foam. Nestled inside a cutout was a piece of technology that he couldn’t make immediate sense of. It resembled something like a bulky, shoulder-fired missile launcher, with a tubular housing about a meter long covered in insulated cables. There was a jutting rangefinder, a handle with a trigger, and a battery pack the size of a lunchbox hanging off the back. Instead of a hole at the business end, it was equipped with what looked like a dome-shaped piece of glass.

“The hell is it?” he asked.

“You ever wonder why we’re called Special Weapons and Advanced Recon?” Wasp asked, gesturing to the device. “Here’s a special weapon.”

“It’s called a SCPEL,” Silverback explained. “It stands for Soliton Crystal Pumped Electron Laser. They probably expected people to call them scalpels, but torch is the name that stuck.”

“What does it do?” Reed asked.

“It’s a laser weapon that creates a focused beam of electrons,” Wasp explained. “Basically a giant cutting torch. The rapid pulses form solitons – think of them as cavitation waves, but for light – and they keep the beam focused over greater distances and through denser mediums. The Navy has been using laser weapons for a while, mostly for point defense, but this is the breakthrough that’s made them viable for atmospheric use. We’ve been field-testing these on Kerguela.”

“You think this’ll cut through a PCE?” Reed asked.

“I’ve seen one burn a hole straight through a Warrior,” Silverback replied, snapping the case closed again. “I don’t care how much armor or shielding those fancy suits have – this is gonna go through them like paper.”

“You only brought one?” Reed asked.

“It’s expensive,” Wasp replied. “I catch you messing with this thing, and you’re gonna be in for a world of hurt.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“You wouldn’t survive a good time with me,” she said, finally letting out a stifled chuckle as he wore her down. “I suppose you’d have to be both crazy and overly optimistic to end up on Barbosa’s shit list.”

“Why don’t you tell me more about soliton crystals over a packet of reheated MRE mac and cheese?” he continued, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

“Remember a minute ago when you agreed to shut up?”

He mimed zipping his mouth closed, giving her a thumbs-up.

They were interrupted as Brenner walked over in the company of Sergeant Fuller.

“The Sergeant has been telling me more about your situation,” Brenner began, stopping to address Reed. “Is it accurate to say that all of your resistance contacts are gone?”

“We’re pretty much all that’s left, as far as I know,” Reed replied with a nod.

“There has to be someone,” Brenner grumbled, his expression hard to discern with those emotionless prosthetic eyes. “Based on what you’ve told me, there were thousands of people involved, either directly or indirectly. Even if ninety percent of them were killed or captured, some must have gone to ground.”

“We need information,” Fuller added. “We’re not going to get it sitting around in basements, occasionally blowing up a few trucks.”

“There may be someone,” Reed began, pausing to scratch his stubbly chin as he considered. “He’s not resistance – not really. We kind of conscripted him against his will.”

“Who’s this?” Fuller asked with a frown. “I don’t remember anyone like that.”

“This all happened before we sprang you,” Reed explained. “I should warn you – this guy isn’t exactly the trustworthy sort. He’s a smuggler – used to run contraband for the Syndicate back in the day. We caught him operating a black market for medical supplies that he’d been stealing from the Borgs, and Ruza politely persuaded him to become our exclusive business partner.”

“That’s how you were getting all those meds for your field hospital,” Brenner surmised.

“And the Doc’s house calls, yeah,” Reed continued. “I trust the guy about as far as I can throw a Krell, but I also know that he’s no friend of Barbosa. The Borgs’d probably string him up in the square if they caught him pilfering their stashes.”

“So he might not help us, but he probably won’t rat us out,” Fuller clarified. “What makes you think he’s still alive?”

“He was never officially part of the resistance,” Reed explained. “He never visited the base or knew where it was, he never took part in our operations, and he didn’t know who was involved other than Ruza. I’d put money on him going right back to flogging stolen meds the moment he thought the Doc was out of the picture.”

“Do you think you can find him with all the comms down?” Brenner asked.

“Shouldn’t be too difficult. He wants to be found – just by the right people.”

“Let’s make finding him our priority, then,” Brenner said. “Where should we start?”

***

“How far do these tunnels go?” Wasp asked, sweeping the beam of her flashlight across the bare dirt walls. The group was making their way down one of the old smuggling routes, moving deeper into the city. They were traveling light and keeping a low profile, with only Reed, Fuller, Brenner, Wasp, and Silverback, accompanied by a couple of Reed’s best men. They were dressed in their usual Hadean garb, all tough leather and conveniently anonymous masks.

“They run for miles beneath the city,” Reed explained as he squeezed through a narrow bend in the tunnel. “There are old mines from when the colony was just an outpost, tunnels from illegal prospecting, and some passageways that were excavated by smugglers. The PDF has been trying to map them out for weeks, and they’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“Are we likely to meet anyone down here?” Brenner asked warily.

“Likely? No,” Reed replied as he paused to check a side tunnel with his rifle. “Can’t rule it out, though. Watch out for traps, too. We rigged grenades and explosives all over the place, and I don’t have access to those maps anymore, so keep an eye out for tripwires.”

“Wonderful,” Wasp muttered. “I didn’t come halfway across the Sphere to get blown up by some idiot’s makeshift pipe bomb.”

“I’ll have you know that my IEDs are finely crafted and very reliable,” Reed replied haughtily. “Trip one of those, and you’re guaranteed to lose your legs. Not a problem for you, I suppose.”

“No, it’s a problem for you,” she complained. “These legs are worth more than you make in a year.”

“They are very nice legs, I’ll give you that. Ever considered racing stripes?”

“I swear to God,” she began, but Reed interrupted her.

“Quiet – I think we’re here.”

He climbed a rickety ladder welded from copper pipes, lifting a hatch on the tunnel ceiling and poking his head through to glance around. When he was sure the coast was clear, he pulled himself the rest of the way up, throwing open the camouflaged hatch and waving for his companions to follow.

“Where are we?” Brenner asked as he helped Silverback up, the rest of the team fanning out into a cramped storehouse that looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in years.

“We should have come out in an industrial zone on the far side of the colony,” Reed replied. “My memory is a little fuzzy, but this feels right. We’re looking for an old garage – he’s probably still running his store out of there.”

“Can we expect him to be armed?” Wasp asked.

“Him? Probably not,” Reed replied. “He often has some muscle with him, but they’ll back down pretty quick. Might be time to roll up your sleeves, if you get my meaning.”

“Do you think they’ll respond better or worse to Borgs?” Fuller asked.

“I think they’re smart enough to know they can’t win a fight with a SWAR team, and the relief of realizing they’re not about to be disappeared into a gulag might make our guy more amenable.”

“Right, let’s treat this as a standard sting operation,” Brenner said. “Reed and his people go in through the front door and initiate contact. Wasp, Silver – we’ll flank them and make sure nobody gets jumpy.”

“Got it,” Wasp replied.

They funneled out of the door and into another industrial park – this one dominated by smaller structures that were mostly garages and machine shops. After passing by a few businesses, they spotted a seemingly abandoned structure, the rolling door that led inside partially raised. It was identifiable due to the two men who stood guard outside, trying – and failing – to look like they were on a smoke break.

Before Reed could even ask whether they were ready, the SWAR agents had faded away into the surrounding sprawl, leaving him and his team to initiate the interaction.

“Here we go,” he whispered to Fuller and the two fighters. “Follow my lead, and don’t flash your piece unless you have to.”

They walked out of cover and across the street, the two guards noticing the moment they came into view. It wasn’t as though there was anywhere else the visitors could be going, the two goons moving to intercept them in front of the open garage door, one of them raising a hand.

“What’s your business here?” he asked through his mask.

“I’m told this is the place to be if you need something that’s hard to find,” Reed replied evasively. He kept his hands in his pockets, one of which was resting on the grip of a handgun. “We have creds.”

The two men exchanged a glance, then stepped aside, allowing them through. Reed ducked beneath the partially open door and emerged into a dusty old garage. It was dimly lit by filthy windows that let in rays of sepia sunlight, a few of the bays that had once been used to service vehicles still playing host to stripped-down drive trains and scrap trucks that were raised off the concrete floor. Most of the shelves and racks had been picked clean of tools and supplies, but there was still some junk strewn around – a few piles of tires and old batteries heaped against the walls. There were more guards inside, and these ones were conspicuously armed with caseless relics, watching the four men as they walked deeper.

At the far end of the building was an office, and unlike the garage, it was clean and properly lit. Sitting at a desk inside, the shelves at his back stocked with medical supplies and canned goods, was their man. Reed had never learned his name and knew him only as the Smuggler, which was how Ruza had referred to him. He had slicked-back hair and a cheap suit, like some kind of parody of a gangster, looking up as Reed approached.

“What can I do for you fine gentlemen?” he began as two more guards stopped them outside his door. “Meds, food, electronics – we have it all, assuming you have the means to pay for it.”

“How about information?” Reed replied.

“Depends what you’re looking for,” the smuggler continued with a slimy smile. “How did you find out about our humble establishment?”

“Word of mouth,” Reed continued, glancing around shiftily. “You did some work for a friend of mine – tall guy, pretty hairy, doesn’t talk much.”

The smuggler’s face fell, his welcoming expression shifting to one of wide-eyed fear. He rose from his seat at the desk, his chair scraping along the floor as he pushed it back, pointing an accusing finger. The guards aimed their weapons in response, reacting to his change in demeanor.

“Not that fucking cat!” he exclaimed. “He hasn’t arranged a pickup in weeks – he’s fucking dead! The Navy bombed that base of yours from orbit!”

“We stick around like a bad rash,” Reed replied, grinning behind his mask. “So, are you gonna help us, or do I have to bring the cat back in here?”

“You think you can threaten me?” the smuggler added with a chuckle that seemed more nervous than triumphant. “Get them the hell out of here!”

The half dozen guards in the garage brandished their weapons and moved in, surrounding the four men, Reed’s eyes darting between them as he gripped his sidearm. Fuller and his men did the same, ready to draw, tension filling the air as each side waited for the other to make a wrong move.

“Now would be a good time for our new friends to get off their asses,” Reed muttered.

There was a sudden sound of shattering glass, everyone in the room whipping around to see a dark shape dropping from a skylight on the ceiling above them. Wasp landed amidst a shower of broken glass and dust, knocking one of the goons to the floor with her weight, disarming him and aiming the captured weapon at his neighbor faster than anyone could process what was happening.

In the same breath, Silverback barreled through the garage door, the two guards who had stopped them outside bundled in his arms like a pair of duffel bags. He tossed them to the concrete floor with the same ease that someone might throw a couple of pillows, leaving them dazed as he whipped out an XMR from beneath his leather duster.

Brenner came in through a side door, kicking it off its hinges and emerging behind a pair of bewildered guards. He sent one of them crashing to the ground, sweeping his legs out from under him with a kick, wrapping an arm around the second goon’s neck and aiming an XMH over his shoulder to hold a third man at gunpoint.

The distraction gave Reed and his companions enough time to draw their own weapons, aiming them at the remaining guards, Reed pointing his short-barreled rifle squarely at the smuggler’s head through the open office door.

“Are those guys Navy?” the smuggler demanded, eyeing both the weapons and the prosthetics that had intentionally been put on display. “Whose side are you fucking on, anyway?”

“Let’s just say that I have a lot of powerful friends,” Reed replied. “You’d like to be my friend too, wouldn’t you?”

“I fucking hate it here,” the smuggler grumbled, sinking back down into his chair. “Alright, alright – what the hell do you want this time? Everyone put away your guns, for fuck’s sake…”

The confused guards shared worried glances, lowering their weapons and picking themselves up off the ground, dusting themselves off. Brenner released the man he’d been choking, leaving him rubbing his bruised neck.

“I want you on retainer,” Reed replied, walking into the office and leaning on the desk. “Our network of informants has suffered somewhat of a disruption as of late. You must still have a lot of connections if you’re able to intercept shipments and smuggle goods on this scale. You’d have to know people inside the PDF and the colonial government.”

“Maybe I do,” he replied, seeming a little less nervous now that they were getting down to business. “What’s it to you?”

“I need tunnel maps, troop movements, the names of your contacts,” Reed continued. “If there’s anyone with enough authority to know how the occupation is moving, or if you’re in touch with any resistance members, I need to know about it.”

“Aren’t you the resistance?” the smuggler asked with a scowl.

“Just give me what I want, and I won’t have to come back here,” Reed replied.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. How am I supposed to contact you? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the comms are all down – no phones, no net.”

“Here,” Reed said, placing a phone on the table and sliding it over to the man. “You’ll find a drop box at this address. We’ll make it obvious. This isn’t our base, so don’t think you can sell us out. Remember that if we go down, so do you. We know all about your black market operation, and it’s the first thing we’ll tell the Navy if we get picked up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the smuggler grumbled, pulling out a tablet computer and noting down the information.

“I think we have an understanding,” Reed declared, stowing the device in his pocket. “I’ll expect the first drop off in a couple of days.”

With that, he left, the fighters and SWAR agents keeping their weapons trained on the guards as they slowly backed out of the building.

DAY 44 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – THE GOVERNOR

Night had fallen, and the remnants of that day’s sandstorm still lingered, dust clouds blotting out the moon and stars. The Governor flipped up his hood, scanning the sky warily through the visor of his bulky rebreather. The conditions were probably still too harsh for surveillance drones to be airborne, but he had to be careful. If Barbosa’s people found out what he was doing, that would be the end of him. His usefulness to the regime was wearing thin as-is.

There was only one building in the derelict industrial park that was lit, the pale glow of cheap light strips bleeding out through its windows, illuminating the dust particles that still swirled through the air. It had been so long since he’d walked the streets in this manner – not since his days with the Syndicate. Fortunately, he still had a few old contacts he could call on in times of need, and they’d directed him here – to this secluded black market.

The place was set up in an abandoned garage. Like so many of the old industrial districts on the outskirts of the city, ExoCorp had taken much of the business with them when they had pulled out, leaving these once bustling regions to decay.

As he approached the garage door that seemed to serve as the entrance, a couple of jumpy guards aimed rifles at him, prompting him to raise his hands to show that he wasn’t armed.

“I’m here to see your boss,” he explained.

One of the guards held him at gunpoint while the other patted him down, reaching beneath his leathers to ensure he had no concealed weapons. Only when they were satisfied did they wave him through, resuming their vigil.

Inside, he found a derelict garage filled with rusted-out vehicle chassis and piles of dusty spare parts, the light that filtered out from a furnished office guiding him deeper. More cautious guards watched him all the while, brandishing their weapons. Had the environment really become so dangerous for them that they were this wary of a lone visitor? He was let into the office, finding that it served as a kind of front desk for the operation, the shelves that lined the walls filled with all manner of stolen goods. A man with a suit and slicked-back hair greeted him, offering him a seat at the table.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, fidgeting with his tie. “If there’s an item you need, we can probably get it for you – discretion guaranteed. Assuming you have the means to pay or something to barter, of course. We’re especially interested in batteries at the moment.”

The Governor pulled back his hood and slowly removed his mask, the smuggler’s eyes widening as his face was revealed.

“What the – you’re the Governor!” the man stammered. “I’ve seen you on the netcasts!”

“I’m told that you’re the man to see about information,” he began.

“For fuck’s sake,” the smuggler sighed, leaning back in his chair with a creak. “You know, a week ago, all people wanted was canned spam and inhaler charges. Now, everyone suddenly seems to think I’m an information broker.”

“Some mutual friends told me that you could help,” the Governor continued. “Were they wrong?”

“No, no,” the smuggler grumbled as he leaned forward again and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Just tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll see what I can do. Why do you need black market information, anyway? Don’t you work for the Navy now? I can’t imagine I know anything that those spooks with the robot arms don’t.”

“I’m not here on behalf of the Navy,” the Governor explained. “You are to tell no one of my visit.”

“I know, I know,” the smuggler muttered. “I rat you out to the Navy, and you tell them all about my operation – I’ve heard it before. Just get to the point.”

“I’m seeking information about the resistance,” he continued. “I need to get in contact with them, and discreetly. I know that they’re still operating, and I know that you’ve had dealings with them in the past.”

“That’s a pretty big ask,” the smuggler mused, steepling his fingers. “Maybe I know some people who know some people. The question is, what are you offering in exchange? And don’t try to blackmail me – I’m getting sick of it. It’s like people have forgotten how this dynamic is supposed to work.”

“I have money – that goes without saying,” the Governor replied. “For you, I think I may have something more valuable to offer than credits.”

“And, that would be?” the smuggler prompted with a skeptical tilt of his head.

“A full pardon,” the Governor replied. “Help me get what I need, and I’ll make sure that you face no consequences for the side hustle you’ve been running here. Theft, racketeering, tax evasion, intimidation, operating a business without a license – it all goes away.”

“Alright,” the smuggler replied after considering for a few moments. “Deal. It’s not like the creds are gonna be much use to me anyway if things keep going the way they are. Can’t sell food and meds to dead customers.”

“Good,” the Governor confirmed with a nod.

“You want to get in contact with the resistance?” the smuggler continued, pulling out his tablet. “I can arrange an in-person meeting. I don’t know how happy they’re going to be about an unexpected house call from the public face of the Navy, so follow their instructions carefully. How can I reach you with their reply?”

“Simply visit the town hall, and my secretary will buzz you through,” the Governor replied. “Nothing unusual about it.”

“Well, alright!” the smuggler declared. “Maybe this day won’t turn out to be so shitty after all.”

DAY 46 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – REED

“You have to be joking,” Fuller scoffed, reading the crumpled note that Reed had passed him. “The Governor wants to meet with us? It’s a trap!”

“Of course it is,” Wasp added, crossing her arms with an electronic whir as she frowned at the pair. “Two days after we take a chance on this smuggler, he arranges a face-to-face with Barbosa’s biggest crony? There’s no way there aren’t five kill teams poised to swoop in the moment we show.”

“I think it’s worth a shot!” Reed protested, glancing to the other agents for support. “We asked the guy for contacts, and the Governor is one hell of a contact. If he has information we can use, this could be huge. He must know things about the inner workings of Barbosa’s operations that nobody else does.”

“Why the one-eighty at this point?” Fuller asked. “He’s been the face of the occupation from day one, repeating every line Barbosa feeds him. Why the sudden change in allegiance?”

“Maybe he knows something we don’t,” Reed said with a shrug.

“It’s the only lead we have,” Brenner added. He was seated at a folding table nearby, leaning a prosthetic elbow on its surface. “Either we wait who knows how much longer and waste more time in the hopes this guy delivers another lead, or we take a chance on this. We don’t have the luxury of moving slowly – we have a timetable to keep. We miss our window, and the op is off.”

“We can minimize the risks,” Reed insisted. “We decide when and where this happens.”

“This is an area where you have more experience than we do,” Brenner said. “How would you recommend we approach this?”

“Carefully,” Reed began. “We’ll schedule the meeting in a remote area during a storm to minimize the risk of surveillance, and we’ll move him to a secure area.”

“We can scan him for listening devices or comms gear,” Wasp added. “If he’s wired, we’ll know.”

“Good,” Reed said with a nod. “He won’t be able to tell some random warehouse basement from the hundreds of others.”

“Alright,” Fuller sighed. “I suppose we have to take this chance. Let’s do it.”

DAY 48 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – THE GOVERNOR

The wind whipped at the Governor’s leathers, creating little dust devils as it coursed between the old warehouses, the sound of creaking metal and groaning structures carrying above its howl. This was the right place, according to the reply from the resistance. It seemed like the middle of nowhere to him, but that was probably the point.

As promised, his smuggler contact had visited his office with a message from the insurgents. He was to meet them alone at a location of their choosing – another old industrial zone. If he ever managed to get rid of Barbosa, cleaning these districts up had to become a priority…

He suddenly had the sensation of being watched, turning his masked head back and forth, searching the empty cargo containers and abandoned loading vehicles that surrounded him. His instincts were proven right as a group of men slowly emerged from cover with weapons drawn, their identities impossible to discern beneath their garb. He felt the impulse to run, his heartbeat quickening, but he swallowed it down.

They didn’t speak, one of them approaching him from behind and placing a hood over his head. Someone took him by the arm and began to lead him away. They probably wanted this meeting to happen in a secret location that he couldn’t relay to Barbosa. As they walked, he considered what his fate might be. If the resistance wanted to use this opportunity to make an example out of a collaborator, so be it. It wasn’t as though Barbosa’s men hadn’t threatened him with the same on multiple occasions – Hoff had said as much, and Crow was itching for a chance to put a slug in him.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when they finally stopped, but he was aware of the ground transitioning from sandy asphalt to concrete, and of descending a set of steps. Wherever he was, it was cooler – likely underground. When he was sat down on a chair, the hood was pulled from his head, and he found himself sitting in what looked like a dark basement. He was surrounded by masked figures, squinting past their flashlight beams as his eyes took a moment to adjust to the light, watching one of them step forward. The stranger removed the Governor’s mask, perhaps wanting to confirm his identity.

“Governor Serio,” he began, his voice muffled by his rebreather. “I have to say, I was surprised to receive a message from you, of all people. Please excuse the nature of our meeting. It’s necessary for our protection.”

“I…I understand,” he replied.

One of the masked men approached and pulled out some kind of device, running it across his body like a medical scanner. Apparently satisfied, he drew back and returned to his place in the circle.

“He’s clean.”

“I’m not wearing a wire, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the Governor replied. “I came here of my own volition. I’m not working for Barbosa, and if he discovered what I was doing, I’d be in as much trouble as you are.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?” the first man continued, sounding skeptical. “You’ve been collaborating with the occupiers since the day they arrived. Do you expect us to believe that you’ve been working them from the inside this entire time, or is this just a case of a rat trying to flee a sinking ship?”

“If I’m a rat, then I’ve chosen a rather poor ship to jump to,” the Governor replied with a dry chuckle. “You guys are already treading water.”

“You came here to say something, so say it,” a woman’s voice added. “Make us believe you.”

“When that carrier arrived, I had two options,” the Governor began. “I could either make a show of resisting and be locked away in a cell for the duration of the occupation, or I could use my position to try and minimize the damage Barbosa was doing – redirect him down less destructive paths.”

“So, you were secretly on our side the whole time?” the man scoffed.

“No, I didn’t say that,” the Governor shot back. “Maybe you need a background in politics to know this, but civil wars are bad for business. Having a heavily armed, aggressive military force with no oversight fighting an insurgency that’s hiding among the civilian population is not a recipe for safety or stability. My duty is first to the people, and having them caught in crossfires and bombings isn’t good for their health and prosperity. Yes, I wanted you gone, and I worked with Barbosa to make that happen. That doesn’t mean I agree with what he’s doing – it seemed like the lesser of two evils at the time. I thought I could wait him out until the Navy arrived.”

“But something has changed your mind,” the stranger prompted. “It wasn’t the mass arrests, the disappearances, or the extrajudicial killings? It wasn’t the food rationing or the forced labor?”

“Grill me all you want, but I did what I thought was best. I used my unique position to try to moderate Barbosa’s worst impulses, and I sometimes succeeded. Now, it has become clear that my influence is waning. He has practically everything he wants, and without any need to appease the population or deal with the unions, my usefulness is nearing its end. Soon, he won’t need me anymore.”

“So, it’s just about self-preservation?” another voice asked. “You’re scared about what he’ll do with you once your services are no longer required?”

“Call it what you will,” the Governor sneered. “I’m here because I think I can help. Take it or leave it.”

“How can you help?” the first man asked.

“I’m closer to Barbosa than anyone but his Lieutenants,” the Governor explained. “I know more about his operations on Hades than most of his own organization. More than that – he never saw me as a threat, and he rarely holds his tongue around me when it comes to his intentions for the colony. He thinks he has me in his pocket. I can provide detailed information about SWAR operations, and I still have high-level access to the PDF command structure. I know that you’ve lost a lot of your old contacts, so I can tell you about enemy movements, and I may be able to find out where they’re holding some of your people.”

“Why didn’t you come forward when it would have made the most difference?” one of them asked.

“The food situation has been a turning point,” the Governor replied solemnly. “Once the resistance had been defeated, I expected Barbosa to focus his full energy on shoring up the food supply. That hasn’t happened, despite all his promises and assurances. His economic plans have never really made sense to me, and now, I’m starting to grow suspicious that he views my constituents as expendable. I’ve gradually learned that what Barbosa says and what he does paint very different pictures. My staff has been monitoring the situation and reporting how he’s distributing supplies, and even with publicly available data, it’s clear that he’s preparing for further unrest. Surplus resources aren’t being distributed through the ration program – they’re being stockpiled in the garrisons.”

“He expects food riots, and he wants to make sure his loyal PDF are well-fed,” the stranger mused. “This is certainly a disturbing development.”

“Incompetence is one thing, but planning for starvation is evil,” the Governor added. “I won’t be a part of that.”

The resistance members huddled up and began to discuss in hushed voices, debating what to do next, the stranger soon returning with a verdict.

“Alright, consider this a probationary relationship. Give us some information here and now, and it’ll help your case. I’m going to give you names, and I want you to tell me what you know. Dead, captured, or missing. We’ll see how much access you really have.”

“Alright,” the Governor replied warily. He had to be cautious – this was clearly some kind of shit test, and they might be asking him questions they already knew the answers to.

“Bergmann,” the stranger began.

“The union leader?” the Governor replied. “Arrested during the riots. Captured.”

“Omar Jabril.”

“A PDF officer who was passing on information to the resistance. Captured, but recently escaped. Whereabouts unknown.”

“Astrid Akerman.”

“I’m…not familiar with that name,” he admitted.

“Rivera.”

“The Marine – missing. Barbosa doesn’t have a clear picture of which insurgents were present at the base when it was attacked. He’s presumed dead.”

“Ruza.”

“The Rask,” the Governor replied, glancing around at the cloaked figures. The alien didn’t seem to be present – his size would have given him away. “Missing, but likely alive. Barbosa still has it out for him.”

“Jameson Reed.”

“He’s one of the resistance higher-ups,” the Governor replied. “He’s still alive and active. Several recent attacks have been linked back to him.”

The stranger rolled up one of his sleeves and pressed two gloved fingers against his wrist, making a show of checking his pulse.

“Phew, glad to hear it. I was getting worried there for a minute.”

“Wait, you’re Reed?” the Governor asked with a frown.

“That’s my name,” he replied, pulling off his rebreather to reveal his face. It was him – same as the pictures that were circulating within the PDF. “Glad to hear that a lot of our guys are still AWOL – we honestly didn’t know how many of them were confirmed dead after the battle.”

“You haven’t been in contact with them?” the Governor asked.

“It’s a little early for that,” Reed replied, shutting down the question. “We lost a lot of data during the base attack. Your office should have access to detailed maps and schematics of the colony, right?”

“What do you need?” the Governor said.

“The most up-to-date tunnel maps you have available,” Reed replied. “Legal, illegal, smuggling – give us everything. We need data on public infrastructure, and we need the locations of all structures outside the city limits, operational or not. If ExoCorp set up a porta-john out there or started digging a landfill, I want to know about it.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“It’s a start,” Reed continued. “It goes without saying that we want all the info you have on enemy troop movements. We want to know their strength, where they’re going, and what they’re planning. Anything Barbosa or his people tell you gets passed on to us.”

“Alright.”

“We’re going to lead you back to the pickup location,” he added. “From there, you’re free to go. We won’t be dealing face-to-face again until you prove your usefulness. You can send the data through our mutual contact.”

“If you really care about the people of Hades, this is your chance to make a difference,” another of them said as he slid the hood back over the Governor’s head. “I don’t think I need to explain the consequences of double-crossing us.”

Everything went black again, and he was hauled from his seat, the resistance marching him back up the concrete stairs.

CHAPTER 25

DAY 49 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

Petrova bit her lip as she concentrated, her eyes fixed on the small recessed button on her forearm. It was tiny, intended only to be opened using a specialized tool, but one could insert a toothpick or a paper clip into the opening if they were careful. She had saved up some of the tin foil from the packaged meals she’d been given, rolling it up into a tight tube and creating a point that she hoped would be firm enough to press the switch.

Cursing under her breath, she withdrew the makeshift tool, rolling the tip between her thumb and forefinger before trying again. This time, she succeeded, a sly smile curling her lips as the panel that concealed her hidden blade snapped open. The smile was quickly wiped from her face when she saw that the compartment was empty. Even the spring mechanism that would extend the knife had been removed. That damned Rask really did know his way around SWAR prosthetics.

Cursing again, she flopped back onto her bed, the rusty springs beneath the mattress creaking. The alien overlooking her concealed weapon had been her final hope. Over the last couple of days, she had scoured the building whenever she’d been left alone for more than a few minutes, trying to find some means of escape. She was underground, so there were no windows. Even if she had been able to remove the grates from some of the vents, they were far too small to squeeze through, even for someone with her svelte build. Even if she could find a way to disconnect her arms, there was no way she’d ever fit. She had tried to call for help in every inch of the place, even climbing the shower cubicle to bring her head closer to the ceiling, hoping that her cochlear implant might get a weak signal.

This place clearly hadn’t been built as a prison, but there was only one way in and out. A single door led to the rest of the facility, and it was locked and guarded by Marines. Supposing that she could find a way to short the panel or cut off the power to the lock, there were always a couple of jarheads ready to greet her on the other side. If she ever managed to get out, she had no clue how the rest of the building was laid out, or where she even was. If they were outside the city proper, she might pick the wrong direction and walk out into the desert to certain death.

There had to be a way out…

Perhaps she was thinking about her predicament in the wrong way. She was thinking like Hoff or Crow – trying to break out through force. Maybe there was a way that she could manipulate the enemy into releasing her or giving her the run of the facility, at least. The Marine – Rivera – was all business. He didn’t give a damn about anything other than getting information out of her. He was smart. The Rask was the one who seemed to have some bizarre affection for her. It was like he wanted to rehabilitate her, and he had some strange need to convince her that she was on the wrong side. Maybe it was because he saw her as a potentially valuable ally, or perhaps he was just hung up about his own checkered past and needed some kind of closure. There was the secretary, too, but the alien was probably the best place to apply leverage.

She had underestimated him more than once. He was sharper than he looked, and he was a survivor above all else, somehow always able to worm his way out of the traps Barbosa set for him. Recent events had made her realize that she didn’t have a good understanding of alien psychology, either. She could wrap humans around her finger – she had a sense for every lie and manipulation technique that would yield the result she wanted in the same way that a carpenter knew which grade of sandpaper to use, but the Rask was different. What she had initially dismissed as simple stupidity was actually some deeper difference in behavior – be it cultural or biological. He seemed slow on the surface, but he was as keen as a knife, always watching and evaluating like a predator. It was intimidating, knowing the violence that he was capable of, but seeing him put on a kind facade.

Still, there was always a way. If he could smell hormones and hear her heartbeat quicken when she told a lie, she would just have to believe it herself. The most convincing lies always included elements of the truth, after all.

The Rask appeared to have a lot of leverage, and if she could get on his good side, he might convince his fellow terrorists to loosen her collar a little. All she had to do was give him exactly what he wanted.

There was a knock at her door, and she sat up, briefly making sure that she was dressed. She quickly snapped the panel on her arm shut, then stowed the makeshift foil tool beneath her pillow before speaking up.

“Come in!”

The panel slid open, and the Rask appeared to fill the doorway, ducking through. He was holding a metal tray in his hand that looked scarcely larger than a tablet due to his size.

“Good morning,” he began in that gruff, resonating voice. “I have brought you breakfast.”

“What’s on the menu today?” she asked, suddenly feeling vulnerable as he strode over to her bedside. She was clothed, but only in her shorts and tank top.

“Eggs,” he replied curtly. The alien sometimes spoke as though he was paying a tax on every word.

“Real eggs or MRE eggs?” she asked warily as he passed her the tray. It was separated into little shaped recesses, each one filled with a different food item. The yellow scrambled eggs were one of them, and there was also bread, along with what looked like the kind of biscuits one might eat with gravy. They were served alongside, seeming very out of place, which led her to believe that the alien might have prepared this himself.

“I do not know the difference,” he admitted as he passed her a plastic spoon.

She raised a mouthful of the steaming substance to her lips, then took a bite, grimacing as she chewed.

“It’s like chewing used rubbers, so I’m gonna guess MRE,” she grumbled. “Whatever, I’ve had worse.”

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he watched her wolf it down. The less she chewed, the better it tasted.

“Gonna take my temperature?” she scoffed over a mouthful of dry biscuit.

“I am a medic,” he explained. “I have a responsibility to care for you during your stay.”

“If you want to help me, why don’t you tune my servos a little higher? I can barely hold this spoon, blyat.”

“You know that I will not,” he replied.

“Fine,” she muttered, tearing off another piece of biscuit as she glared at him.

He waited until she was done eating before speaking again, polite as ever.

“You have been confined here for several days now. Have you reconsidered your position? There is much we can learn from you that might help undo some of the damage your commander has caused.”

“Yeah, your friend Rivera has been very insistent,” she chuckled. “He comes in here twice a day to ask the exact same questions and nothing else. Problem is, you don’t have any leverage. You’ve promised not to torture me, so you can’t scare me into compliance, and you don’t have anything to entice me with. I’m starting to suspect that you have no idea what to do with me.”

“Even if you offer us no information, saving a life is worthwhile,” the alien replied.

“Hundreds – probably thousands of people have died during this conflict,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “What’s one more for the pyre?”

“Every life has value,” the alien chided. He sat down on one of the cots adjacent to her, the metal frame straining under his weight, the mattress serving as a suitable seat for him. “We grow accustomed to death and killing, and it becomes easy to forget. Taking one life can change a person forever. Taking ten can destroy you. For one who takes a hundred, killing is no more difficult than tilling a field or stacking stones. It becomes mundane work.”

“Talking from experience?” Petrova asked.

“I have not taken a hundred lives,” he replied with a shake of his shaggy head. “Unless you include Betelgeusians, but they are…different. They are sapient, but hopes, dreams, loved ones – they do not have these things. They leave no mark on the world when they pass on, and they have no potential to become more than what they are.”

“How many humans have you killed?” she pressed. “Have you been counting?”

“Too many,” he replied evasively.

“Yeah, not so easy to preach when you’re down in the mud with the rest of us, is it? I saw the crime scene – what you did to those SWAR agents and those PDF at your prefab, back when this all started. You tore one of those kids apart like a wild animal. Looked like a fucking grizzly bear had been at him. Did his life have value?”

“I do not pretend to be free of blame,” Ruza grumbled, the sound coming out almost like a growl from the depths of his chest. “I was taken by surprise – given very little time to prepare. I reacted to end the threat. I have never killed unless there was imminent danger to me or my people.”

“Didn’t look like self-defense to me,” Petrova muttered. “You don’t stab a mugger fifty times. That wasn’t the first time you killed a human, though, was it? You fought in the rebellion. Ever kill any Marines?”

The Rask looked uncomfortable, averting his yellow eyes as he considered – perhaps deciding what to reveal to her.

“I operated as part of a raiding party during the conflict,” he began, staring into space as though seeing something that she could not. “We deployed from one of the Crawlers, and our task was to harass the UNN armored battalion as it made its way across the Dune Sea. We were to buy time for our Matriarch to shore up her defenses back home. Mostly, we took part in hit-and-run attacks intended to stall the enemy and damage their vehicles. I fired on tanks and troop transports from range – I do not know if I injured or killed anyone. It is possible. I never saw the battle at the East Gate, as I was injured some time prior.”

“You don’t even know, then?”

“In some ways, that is worse,” he replied. “What of you? You bragged of killing Rask during our prior conversation. You interrogate me as though human lives are sacred, and the taking of one is an unforgivable sin, yet you do not afford my people the same respect. Why is it so offensive for me to kill a human in battle, but for you to kill a Rask is a source of pride?”

“But, that was…”

Petrova’s reply petered out, and she fell silent, momentarily stumped.

During the rebellion, the Rask had seemed no different from the thousands of mindless insects she had killed on the battlefield. She had never thought of them as people, only as hostile aliens to be eliminated. They were the enemy – she had been given orders to kill them, and she had never dedicated any more thought to it than that. Prior to being captured, it hadn’t occurred to her that a Rask could behave the way Ruza did. He wasn’t driven by ferocious instincts, beating her into submission and trying to assert his dominance through intimidation – he was simply having a conversation as any human would. Whether it was an act to manipulate her or not, there was more to him than simple animal violence, and he was clearly more introspective than a Drone.

Petrova felt a flare of anger – not because the Rask was right, but because she was wrong, and she had no way to justify it. The last thing she wanted to do was admit that and let him win.

“They were the enemy,” she replied with a scowl. “They betrayed the Coalition, and they were killing humans. Were we supposed to just let them do it?”

“I do not disagree,” Ruza replied. “You are correct. The Rask were your enemy, you had no choice but to kill them, and they instigated the conflict. Your actions were just. With that said, do you not see how my hand was forced in much the same manner? Your side instigated a conflict, giving my friends and I no choice but to kill to defend ourselves. The Rask you killed were no less cognizant than I am, and they have no less value than the humans I have slain. Neither of us has dry claws in this.”

“Dry claws?”

“Clean hands, as your people say. We have both taken lives, and there is nothing special or different about what I have done. Do you imagine that the Rask you fought did not have packs, littermates, and kittens waiting for them to return home? The only difference between us is that I have learned to recognize when I am serving those unworthy of my loyalty, and I put a stop to it.”

“Barbosa is a visionary,” she snapped. “Stop comparing him to your fucking warlord Matriarch.”

“Do you know who killed more Rask than any human? The Matriarch,” he continued. “You pretend to protect humanity, but Barbosa has killed more humans than we slew during the entire rebellion! Not enemy soldiers – simple people trying to live peaceful lives and allies you once fought beside. Tell me how the dead will benefit from his new Hades. When you set out on this venture, you must have known that it would bring you into conflict with your own kind. How many humans have you killed?”

“Sacrifices have to be made!” she shot back, starting to lose her temper. “We have to tolerate short-term losses to ensure the long-term survival of our species!”

“Are those your words, or does Barbosa speak through you? Even before you came here, I find it hard to believe that you had never taken a human life. Your skillset has no use against Betelgeusians, and one does not earn the respect of someone like Barbosa without shedding blood.”

“The first time I took a life, I was working as a cop in Saint Petersburg,” she replied as she glared up at him. “I was part of a special response unit – we dealt with the worst of the worst. We busted a drug smuggler in a sting, but it went sideways, and he holed up in a nearby mall after killing two officers with a printed gun. He took hostages – threatened to shoot the place up. I put a seven-six-two caseless through his eye from a tower block across the street. I didn’t lose a wink of sleep over it. After I was recruited by SWAR, I did the same shit all across the colonies. We went where nobody else could go, and did things nobody else could do. We took out pirate lords, black market smugglers, and violent separatists. I never killed anyone who didn’t have a rap sheet longer than the UN charter. I did my time in the trenches, too. We held the line against waves of Bugs, we went into hives, and we faced off against biotech horrors that you can’t even imagine. You have no idea how close we came to storming that palace of yours and eliminating everyone inside. If Fleetcom had given the word, your former Matriarch’s head would have been impaled on its highest spire as a warning to the rest of you.”

“You have been protecting people all your life, it seems,” Ruza said. “Do you believe that what Barbosa and his men are doing on Hades is the same? Do not believe his words – believe only what your eyes and ears tell you. Were the Hadeans you killed criminals or separatists? How many innocents have you slain since you arrived here?”

Her mind began to race, taking her back to the start of all this.

***

Petrova was standing in the asteroid base, the winding tunnels of exposed rock and metal extending before her, warping and twisting like something from a dream. She felt like she was walking underwater, her limbs responding sluggishly as she swung her rifle to check an open door, the green laser mounted on its barrel reflecting off the polished surfaces of desks and computer monitors.

She was with her team, the agents moving down the corridor, their faces obscured by helmets with elaborate decals. One by one, they cleared the side rooms, following their training with a robotic precision worthy of their prosthetics. This was the job – the mission. Her head snapped around when she heard the crack of gunfire, her helmet muffling the sound as it echoed down the passage.

A security guard slumped against the wall, still holding a sidearm in one hand, the ceramic plate that protected his torso blown open by a slug. There was another bang, and she watched as a second round struck him above the heart, crimson blood splattering the metal paneling behind him as it tunneled through. The man began to slide to the floor, leaving a red smear like a paintbrush being dragged across a canvas, his weapon falling from his hand with a clatter. There was no helmet obscuring his expression, and he stared back at his faceless killer with wide eyes, silently begging a question that would never be answered.

The agents walked past his lifeless body, more gunshots ringing out as they ducked into rooms and put down any opposition, the echoing reports accompanied by the yells and screams of station staff. Petrova felt her mouth go dry, and she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. Suddenly, all she could think about was the sound of her blood rushing in her ears, her own pulse filling her helmet and drowning out the chattering of orders over her radio.

This was how things had always been. She had killed humans before – terrorists and enemies of the UN, and this was no different. They had suppressed rebellions and brought dangerous criminals to justice, and that had sometimes required the shedding of human blood. Still, she found herself hanging back, following behind the team as they forged a path forward.

***

Petrova lifted her PCE’s shield, protecting the agents behind her as the Marines peppered it with XMR fire. They had set up at a junction in the corridor ahead – a last-ditch effort to stop the boarders from reaching the bridge. For as much confidence as the suit of armor had instilled in her, being in the line of fire was still nerve-wracking, each hammer blow that hit the panel making her lurch. A week prior, she would have said that no wearable armor could stand up to a railgun, but now, the slugs were coming at her like so much hail in a storm. She could feel them through the suit’s sensors, its arms responding as though they were her own, translating every strike into nerve signals.

The agents were returning fire, but she focused on defense, putting herself in the way to cover them. Through the thick glass in her shield, she glimpsed something familiar, her heart missing a beat. One of the Marines was lying prone, aiming the long barrel of an AMR at her. She was vaguely aware of Barbosa calling out a warning, but the 20mm slug traveled faster than his voice, hitting her shield like a blow from a sledgehammer. By the time her visual cortex had processed the flash of her APS and the flecks of molten metal that were bursting through her shield like a shaped charge, the round was already embedding itself in her chest, the sheer force of the impact sending the eighteen-hundred-pound suit keeling backwards.

There was no pain – the suit was not designed to transmit it – but the impact reverberated all the way through the PCE. She could feel it rattle her teeth in her skull. Suddenly, the illusion of that impervious armor and shielding was shattered, leaving her vulnerable and naked.

Barbosa caught her, preventing her fall with his PCE, giving her a shove as though it was a wordless order to resume the fight. Another hit like that, and she’d be dead. The realization galvanized her, and she raised her fist, aiming it around her shield. As the adrenaline coursed through her, she watched her suit’s targeting computer pick out the heads of her assailants, almost as though the system itself was chomping at the bit – eager to kill. She engaged the twin XMHs that were built into the suit’s arm, but she ignored the targets, sweeping the weapon across the corridor to force the enemy into cover.

These people weren’t her enemies – they were doing their duty by protecting their carrier. They didn’t even know why Barbosa was here or what he wanted, and there wouldn’t even be a chance to explain until the battle was won.

Barbosa and Song had no such misgivings, forging ahead of her, their heavy rifles turning the gunman to a cloud of gore. The Marines were in retreat now, trying to cover each other with suppressing fire, the suits’ APS flashing as the plasma shielding rendered the slugs useless.

***

Petrova stood in the alley, soaked in sweat and blood, her chest heaving with each breath. Slain PDF surrounded her, their bodies littering the sandy ground, one of them still desperately clutching at his throat as each beat of his heart sent out another gush of crimson.

These were not criminals or gangsters – not targets marked for elimination by Fleetcom. The whole city was descending into chaos, and the troopers were totally out of control. They couldn’t tell the difference between civilians and insurgents, and they didn’t waste any time stopping to check. They had opened fire on her unprovoked, ignoring her attempts to identify herself. It was a fucking free-for-all. She’d been given no choice but to end the threat before they killed her and her friends.

She watched as the life slowly drained from her victim, her concealed blade still wet with his blood, knowing that he was already dead – he just hadn’t realized it yet. Another lay beside him, the hole in his shattered visor still smoking, his arms tensed at his sides in a posture indicative of brain trauma. One of them was still alive, shoving aside the air conditioning unit that she had used as a makeshift weapon, raising a hand and begging for her to stop. His voice sounded distant, blending with the far-off sounds of battle.

It was like a switch had been flipped in her brain, and she shifted from the violent, uncompromising mindset that she had entered all too easily. It was almost comfortable, to kill without thought or restraint – to react instead of evaluate. There was nobody giving her orders this time. Nobody was sanctioning her actions. This was all her, and she was responsible for every decision.

***

“Do you know?” Ruza repeated, snapping her back to the present. “Have you counted?”

“I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it,” she replied, less sure of herself now.

“Can you say the same of your friends? Did Hoff only ever kill those who were an immediate threat to him? When Barbosa bombed our base from orbit, was he certain that there were no civilians present – no injured, no prisoners? I do not think so.”

“What the hell do you want from me!?” she snapped, tossing her tray to the floor with a crash and sending what remained of the scrambled eggs splashing across the metal panels. “It’s just over and over and over again – you never give it a rest! Do you want me to tell you that I’m terrible and I deserve to die? How does that help anything?”

“I want only for you to see as I did,” he replied, those yellow eyes piercing through her. “This is not about punishment, revenge, or feeling sorry for yourself. It is about seeing through unclouded eyes, and working to help make things right before time runs out. By the time I realized the magnitude of my mistake, my war was over, and there was no way to correct it. I spent years wandering, searching for a purpose that would assuage my guilt. You still have time to make a difference in this conflict.”

This was her chance. She could feign an epiphany, and the Rask would believe it. She could feed him small pieces of useless information to gain his trust – play the part of the repentant turncoat, and these people would eventually let down their guard in a way that she could exploit.

Petrova knew what she must do, so why could she not bring herself to follow through? She wanted more than just to escape now – she wanted to be right. Her cause was just, and she had only ever acted to protect humanity. Making him see that now seemed almost as important as winning her freedom. It was illogical, but she couldn’t shake the feeling – couldn’t suppress the indignation. She couldn’t let him be right, because what would that mean for her?

“What was his plan?” the alien asked, seeming to sense the conflict in her. “Many times, I have heard how Barbosa was to make Hades the crown jewel of his empire, but never details. What exactly were you promised that would see you follow him on this venture?”

“I’m not gonna be duped into giving you intelligence about his plans,” she snapped.

“That is not my intent,” he replied, those fuzzy ears tracking her just as intently as his eyes. “I wish only to understand what it is that you fight for so doggedly.”

“In summary, it’s a breakaway civilization,” she began. The exchange was emotionally exhausting her, but this was a chance to argue her case. “We’re establishing our own colony outside the authority of the UN, freeing ourselves from its bad decisions and corrupt leadership. Humanity is facing an extinction-level threat, not just from the Bugs, but from the Coalition itself. We’re building an independent military force powered by advanced weapons tech and human augmentation. We took the carrier because it makes the planet practically unassailable except by a large commitment of resources from the UNN, and our augmentation program is transforming the PDF you’ve been fighting into SWAR agents just as deadly as we are. Soon, there will be hundreds of PCEs and thousands of transhuman soldiers ready to face anyone who makes it to the surface.”

“Do you think that you can defeat the Coalition with a few thousand men?”

“We won’t need to,” she replied with a smirk. “The Commander chose Hades because it’s the most remote colony in the Sphere, it’s strategically insignificant, and the UN doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what happens to the people here. It’s changed hands between corporations, mobsters, and peacekeeping forces multiple times. We’re going to transform Hades from an irrelevant dustbowl into a shining beacon of civilization, and while the UN suffers the consequences of its mistakes, we’ll wait them out and emerge all the stronger on the other side. No more backstabbing allies, no aliens, no red tape and bureaucracy – just a bastion for my species.”

“It sounds as though you truly believe it,” Ruza replied, mulling over her words. “If you wish to transform Hades, would Valbaran ecologists and Jarilan Workers not be of great help? Would Broker investors not secure funding?”

“We didn’t get where we are by relying on others – especially not aliens who betray us at every turn.”

“Now, we are just retreading old ground,” Ruza grumbled. “I seem unable to convince you that there is no grand conspiracy to destroy your species from within. All I can ask you is whether you see Barbosa’s plan coming to fruition. Is all this death, destruction, and repression part of his grand vision?”

“There’s never been a bloodless revolution,” she sneered. “Besides, the majority of that is your fault. Without you blowing people up, raiding garrisons, and starting riots, we might be much further along by now. All this death and suffering is because of you.”

“Perhaps you should speak to the Hadeans themselves and see how they view your occupation,” the alien continued. “My friends and I did not start this rebellion. I went to the resistance for help after your people attacked me.”

Petrova went silent for a moment, remembering her conversations with Fran and the others. She recalled debating politics long into the night in the warm confines of Fran’s floral prefab, and the enthusiasm her friends had shown during the ill-fated protest. She also remembered the sting of being discovered – the way that her friends had looked at her, and the pain of being turned away.

“Either your Commander is not the master strategist you believe him to be, or he has not told you every aspect of his plan. Perhaps he has not shared more than you require to fulfill your purpose.”

“You have no idea,” she replied with a dry laugh. “He’s told me things that nobody else knows – I’m his right hand. I’m more important to him than you could ever understand, and that’s why he’s going to come for me. He’ll pull out all the stops – nothing will slow him down, and one day soon, I’m going to wake up to a team of SWAR pipe hitters breaking down that door.”

“You remind me of Korbaz,” Ruza replied. “She was made Admiral of the Rask fleet, and she served as the Matriarch’s second in command during the rebellion. That was, until the Matriarch betrayed her and ordered her to certain death. She swayed several Crewmasters to her cause, and when she returned to the East Gate, it was in the company of a UNN armored battalion and a Yagda superheavy repulsor. They burned through the Matriarch’s defenses, and Korbaz challenged her to a bout in the throne room, where she brutalized her rival and usurped her.”

“I’m aware,” Petrova replied. “My team was prepping to breach the throne room at the time. If she’d lost that fight, we would have wiped the palace clean of life.”

“You may believe that Barbosa sees you as some favored lieutenant,” the Rask continued, rising from his seat on the bed to loom over her. “But you will soon learn that nothing you do will ever be enough, and when you have outlived your usefulness, you will be discarded just like the rest.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” she replied, watching him leave.

DAY 50 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – REED

“That’s gotta be it,” Reed said, placing a finger on the map that was displayed on his tablet computer. Fuller, Brenner, and the other big players were clustered around the table in their hideout, poring over the data that the Governor had smuggled to them.

“Are you certain?” Brenner demanded, peering over at Reed with the arrays of lenses that were sunken into his empty sockets. “ExoCorp just dropped whatever they happened to be doing when shit hit the fan, and there are dozens of half-finished facilities all over the hemisphere. It’s going to take us half a day’s march across the desert – in a storm – to get there. If you’re wrong…”

“It was a geothermal power plant – I remember,” Reed insisted. “That’s what Ruza said, and there’s only one site that matches that description on the Governor’s map. I can’t promise he’ll be there, but if there’s a place he would have gone, this is it.”

“We don’t really have any other options,” Sergeant Fuller grumbled. “It’s the best lead we have.”

Wasp reached across the table and slid the tablet computer over to her side, turning it around to face her.

“This is insane,” she declared, shaking her head as she scrolled through the data. “According to the Governor, Barbosa just reinforced his ranks with almost a hundred fresh SWAR recruits. Not only has he made up for the losses he suffered during the insurgency, but he’s now in a stronger position than he was when he came here.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Silverback replied as he crossed his massive arms. “Just because they have augs, that doesn’t make them SWAR. When we recruit, we hand-pick the most experienced candidates from across the Sphere. These guys are just PDF – they’re glorified cops, not soldiers. They might be able to run faster and hit harder, but that doesn’t make up for the years of combat experience they’re lacking. With how quickly they’ve been fielded, their scars probably aren’t even fully healed yet.”

“We’ve bent the rules before, but butchering a hundred healthy kids to turn them into cyborgs,” Brenner added with a shake of his head. “Barbosa has lost his mind.”

“That’s not the worst of it,” Wasp continued, turning the tablet to face the commander. “Barbosa finally finished his first batch of new PCEs. The fucker has twelve new ones. Barbosa came here with six prototypes. We know that at least one was destroyed, so there may be as many as seventeen of the fucking things now. That’s way more than we expected to have to deal with.”

“Assuming they’re manufactured to anywhere near the same spec,” Brenner mused. “Seems unlikely.”

“Even if they’re not, that’s presumably still another twelve walking tanks that we can’t bring down with small-arms fire. We only have the one torch, Boss.”

“We know that Song and Barbosa are on the carrier, so it’s more like fifteen,” Brenner replied. “Still, I don’t like those odds. Our target is going to be those ASAT launch sites, and if Barbosa has enough PCEs and SWAR to properly defend them, it’s going to make our mission almost impossible. We were counting on him being under-strength…”

“How many do you think Lily can take on her own?” Wasp asked.

“I was hoping she’d be supporting our team, not having to go up against PCEs alone,” Brenner sighed. “I’d ask her, but it’s not like her to back down from a challenge. If Barbosa splits up his forces evenly, and these are rookie pilots, maybe she’d have a shot. We just don’t have that much combat data on the Bullsharks.”

“She is an Ace,” Harlequin added, leaning on the table with all four of his chitinous hands. “She kitted out Tiger specifically for this mission based on the data Vos sent. If anyone can pull it off, it’s her.”

“Who’s Lily?” Reed asked, tilting his head as he listened.

“We’re keeping a few friends in reserve,” Brenner replied evasively. “Regardless, our first priority is to establish contact with the surviving resistance members. We have the Ninnie survival suits, so we shouldn’t fare too badly crossing the desert. We’ll go check out this geothermal plant when the next storm rolls in.”

“I’m coming too,” Reed insisted.

“Unless you have a very expensive suit that cools your body and recycles your sweat, and you have limbs that don’t get tired or sore, I think you’ll have trouble keeping up,” Wasp scoffed.

“And if you think Ruza is going to open the door for a bunch of SWAR agents who arrive unannounced, you need to upgrade your brain,” Reed replied as he tapped his temple. “Besides, I’m a Hadean born and raised. You’re the one who’s going to have trouble keeping up with me.”

“As much as I’m loath to admit it, he has a point,” Wasp said with a sigh. “We’ve had one tense introduction already – I’m not looking forward to a second.”

“Alright, Reed can come too,” Brenner conceded. “Start gearing up – we don’t want to miss our window.”

“Will you wipe that grin off your face?” Wasp muttered as she walked past Reed.

DAY 50 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“Ruza, we have a problem,” Rivera announced.

Ruza looked up from his meal, seeing the Marine hurry into the mess hall in the company of his squad – all of them armed and seemingly ready for a fight.

“What is it?” he asked as Amy and Bill looked on in apprehension from their seats at the table across from him.

“Ricky is on watch duty, and he just came running down here to tell us that he sighted a group of armed men entering the canyon.”

“None of our people are scheduled for patrol,” Ruza replied, already rising from his seat on the floor. “Is he certain of what he saw? The storm is already upon us.”

“He seemed pretty panicky. We’re about to go check – figured you’d want to come along.”

“Stay here,” Ruza said, turning to Amy and Bill.

He followed the Marines up some narrow flights of steps that were ill-suited to his large paws, climbing the tiers of the old plant until the living quarters transitioned into more industrial platforms and gantries. Up this high, he could feel the wind blowing through the gaps in the structure, tugging at his fur and clothes. The little canyon that was nestled around the plant did a good job of shielding the structure from the storm, the tall rocky walls acting as a kind of natural windbreak, but he could still see the dust clouds roiling in the sky above. Whoever was traveling through this must be certain of their heading – they could not arrive here by chance.

Ricky was waiting for them in a dusty room – probably some kind of overseer’s office – the empty window panes giving him a good view of the ground below. From here, Ruza could see the narrow pass that led into the canyon – the only way in and out without taking a far longer and more arduous path to circle the formation.

“That way,” Ricky said, his voice muffled by the protective gear he was wearing. He pointed out of the window, and Ruza followed his gaze to see a cluster of small figures in the distance. The air was a little clearer inside the canyon, and he could see unhindered for maybe three hundred meters.

Ruza gestured for Rivera to hand him a weapon, catching an XMR as the Marine tossed it to him and moving over to the window. He knelt, holding up the small rifle and using its scope to get a closer look. When he increased the magnification, he saw a group of seven people, all of them clad in Hadean leathers. They were laden with packs, and based on the way they were moving, they likely had weapons concealed beneath their clothing.

“You think it’s the Borgs?” Rivera asked as he stood beside Ruza.

“Unlikely,” Ruza muttered. “Were the occupiers to find us, they would come in force, or perhaps simply bomb the site from orbit. We are not near any populated areas, and a nuclear warhead would make short work of us.”

“Might be surviving resistance members?” Delgado suggested.

“Rivera, I suggest that you and your men remain here,” Ruza began as he returned the weapon. “I will go down to meet them, and you will provide cover. What do you think?”

“Alright,” Rivera said with a nod, seeming surprised that Ruza was asking for his permission.

Ruza turned back to the stairs, while the Marines took up position by the windows.

“Be careful, Ruza!” Ricky called after him.

A few minutes later, Ruza was emerging from the front door of the plant, walking out onto the warm sand. The strangers were closer now, maybe a hundred meters away, and they showed no strong reaction at the sight of him. As the two sides neared, he raised his hands from beneath his heavy leather clothing, showing that he was unarmed. One member of their group forged ahead of the others, raising a hand and waving in greeting – signaling that it might be someone Ruza knew. Only when he was in spitting distance did the man pull back his hood and remove his mask, revealing a familiar face.

“Hey, Doc!” he yelled above the howl of the wind. “Sorry to show up like this – I couldn’t call ahead to make an appointment!”

He extended a hand as he neared, Ruza taking it in his furry fist, the human bumping a shoulder into him in a form of greeting. Ruza enclosed him in a one-armed hug, then stepped back, his old friend grinning up at him.

“Reed,” Ruza began, scarcely believing what he was seeing. “After we parted ways at the garrison, and the base was destroyed, I feared you dead! Where have you been all this time?”

“We never made it back to the base,” he explained. “I guess we were fortunate. I took the guys we rescued from the garrison and went to ground in the industrial district. We’ve been living rough, keeping the fight going.”

“You are as mad as ever,” Ruza said with a gruff laugh, placing a hand on the human’s shoulder.

“Are you alone here?” Reed asked, a touch of concern entering your voice. “Did anyone else make it out?”

“We lost many during the fighting and the subsequent bombardment,” Ruza replied solemnly. “But many of our friends are here with me. I will take you to them.”

“Gotta introduce you to someone first,” Reed said, turning to gesture to his cloaked companions. “Promise me you won’t freak out, alright? These guys are on our side. I wouldn’t risk bringing them to you otherwise.”

Ruza glanced past him suspiciously, watching as one of the strangers neared. As the man drew closer, he reached up to pull back his hood, revealing a faceless helmet adorned with a human skull. Ruza bristled, but he trusted Reed, keeping his arms at his sides.

The stranger touched a finger against his helmet, and the opaque visor became translucent, the face beneath it rendered almost unrecognizable as human due to all of its scarring and augmentations. He had no eyes – his organs replaced with cameras and sensors that filled the empty sockets.

“Commander Brenner,” he said, introducing himself as he extended a gloved hand. Ruza didn’t take it, and the man lowered it a few moments later.

“You are SWAR,” Ruza said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Very perceptive,” Brenner replied. “I understand your misgivings, but know that I arrived on Hades only a few days ago. I’m part of a task force deployed by the Admiralty to track down Barbosa and put an end to his activities. Several SWAR teams were redeployed from Kerguela and arrived in-system via Courser. You’re Ruza – Vos told me to find you.”

“You know Admiral Vos?” Ruza asked, cocking his head.

“I spoke to him recently. He’s alive, in case you were wondering.”

“Relax, Ruza,” Reed added as he gave the Rask a friendly pat on the arm. “These guys are on our side. A lot has happened since we got separated, and I’d love to tell you about it, but let’s take it somewhere less windy.”

“Very well,” Ruza replied, still watching Brenner cautiously. “Follow me.”

He led them back to the plant, and they descended into the living quarters, soon arriving at the mess hall. Amy and Bill were still waiting there, and at the sight of Reed, they abandoned their meals and rushed over to meet him. Amy threw herself at him hard enough to wind him, Reed wheezing and laughing as he returned her enthusiastic hug.

“Reed!” she exclaimed, blinking away tears. “I thought you might be dead! Where on Hades have you been all this time!?”

“Mostly hiding in basements,” he chuckled, sharing a vigorous handshake with Bill. “I’m so glad to see you guys alive. Weren’t you inside the base? What happened?”

“I think we all have a lot to catch up on,” Bill replied. “We should probably wait until everyone gets back.”

“Everyone?” Reed asked.

“Ricky, Omar, and Rivera are here, along with a few others,” Amy replied.

Amy tensed up when she saw the SWAR agents enter the room behind Ruza, Bill quickly reaching for a knife that was resting beside a tray on the table. Reed raised a hand to stay him as one of the agents lifted the barrel of a rifle from beneath his cloak.

“Whoa, hold on,” Reed said as he put himself between the two groups. “We’re all friends here. These guys are with me – you can trust them.”

“Please advise your men not to brandish their weapons inside the plant,” Ruza said politely, addressing Brenner. “Or I will kill them.”

Brenner signaled the agent in question with a flick of his wrist, and he relaxed, though he seemed disconcerted by the statement.

“Yeah, I’m already getting a feel for why Vos likes you so much,” Brenner muttered.

“You must be hungry after your trek,” Ruza added with a gesture to the table. “Let us offer you food and drink, and we can discuss the situation.”

Brenner nodded, perhaps recognizing it as a peace offering, signaling for his men to take seats at the tables.

“I’d better go fetch Rivera and tell him what’s happening,” Bill said. “Wouldn’t want another misunderstanding.”

“I’ll get Omar,” Amy added. “He’ll be so happy to see you.”

As they left the room, Ruza lifted his head, his nose twitching.

“I recognize that scent,” he said, zeroing in on one of the newcomers. The figure was notably smaller than the rest, their face obscured beneath a shadowy hood. When Ruza called them out, the stranger lifted the leather to reveal a Jarilan helmet, the branching horn that emerged from its forehead unmistakable.

“A Jarilan?” Ruza marveled, watching as the alien popped open the two-piece helmet to let a set of long, feathery antennae unfurl like fern fronds. The sleeves of his jacket were revealed to be housing two arms apiece, the alien seeming glad to be free of the heavy garment as he slid it off. Ruza knew it was a male – the wing covers were unmistakable.

“At your service,” the Jarilan said with a mock bow that made his antennae bounce.

“I am surprised to see SWAR in the company of a Jarilan,” Ruza mused. “Perhaps you speak the truth after all.”

***

The remnants of several MREs were spread across the table, the discarded packaging strewn about the metal trays. The mess hall had never been so full, with the whole host of civilians, Marines, and SWAR agents present. The highest-ranked newcomers and former resistance leaders were sitting around a central table with Ruza, where they had just finished sharing all the details of the events that had transpired since the battle. Amy, Reed, Rivera, Brenner, and Omar were all present.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” Reed declared as he took a sip from a canteen. “The gang is all together again, just like old times. Well, almost. There are still a few faces missing.”

“You said that Bergmann was arrested?” Rivera pressed. “What about Astrid?”

“The Governor didn’t even seem to know who Astrid was, so she was either lost in the base or picked up by the PDF after the fact,” Reed replied. “They might never have figured out who she was.”

“I’m very glad to hear that Fuller is still alive,” Rivera continued. “We’re going to need every good Marine we can get if we’re going to survive this.”

“I would be wary of the Governor,” Ruza grumbled. “This is a very sudden turn for someone who has proven so loyal to the occupiers.”

“He’s given us good information so far,” Brenner said. “He’s also put himself in a lot of risk. I believe he’s on the level.”

The agents had removed all of their heavy gear now, stripping off their leathers and helmets. The Marines were giving them a wide berth and mostly sticking to their own table, but the civilians seemed fascinated by them. Bill was especially enthralled by Harlequin, watching the Jarilan drink from a flask using his fleshy proboscis, the segmented plates that made up the alien’s face opening up like a toothless beak.

“You also bring some rather worrying news,” Omar added as he leaned forward in his seat. “If what you say is accurate, then Barbosa has replenished all of his losses and then some. We had to risk hundreds of lives and functionally destroy a steel plant to take down one PCE, and now you’re telling us he just got another twelve?”

“You killed two, right?” Brenner asked. “You said you brought one down with an AMR, and you still have it?”

“Indeed,” Ruza replied. “The AMR is an effective means of destroying them. It can take several shots, but their shielding is not sufficient to fully neutralize projectiles of such mass and velocity.”

“That’s good,” Brenner sighed. “I wasn’t looking forward to testing the theory under combat conditions. We have two weapons that can bring down a PCE, then.”

“What’s the second?” Rivera asked.

“These guys brought a giant fuck-off laser cannon with them,” Reed explained.

“It’s called a SCPEL,” Brenner clarified. “It should go through PCEs like butter, but we don’t exactly have experimental weapons coming out of our ears. Nor did we think we’d be facing sixteen PCEs.”

“You said you have more reinforcements?” Rivera asked.

“Several more teams are waiting for our signal to commence a coordinated attack,” Brenner confirmed. “They’ll hit the station and the carrier simultaneously – timing will be crucial. If we don’t send a signal letting them know that the ASAT sites will be under our control when their op begins, they’ll pull out, and the whole thing will be a wash. We can’t risk it without making sure those MASTs are neutralized.”

“So, you’re saying that we won’t be getting any more reinforcements on the ground?” Omar pressed. “It’s just you and your team? I have to admit – when I saw you guys, I was really hoping there was a Coalition fleet not far behind you.”

“It’s still going to take months for the fleet to get here,” Brenner replied. “We can travel light and move quickly, so we got here first. Our mission is a decapitation strike aimed at killing Barbosa. Without him, the whole occupation falls apart, and the fleet can mop up whatever’s left when it finally gets here. Until then, we’re all the backup there is.”

“Twelve guys?” Omar scoffed.

“Twelve very dangerous guys,” Brenner replied sternly. “We also have an ace up our sleeve, but we’ll have to be very selective about when we play that card. Our mission here was to make contact with the resistance and leverage their numbers to help achieve our objective, but…it seems like we arrived a little too late.”

“We have Ruza’s people, along with almost two hundred fighters and Marines who are waiting for us back in the city with Fuller,” Reed said. “We don’t have the resources and numbers that we once did, but we could do a hell of a lot worse.”

“It’ll have to be enough,” Brenner conceded. “I’m told that you’ve already scouted out the ASAT launch sites?” he added, turning to address Ruza. “What can you tell me about them?”

“There are six such sites ringing the city,” Ruza explained. “All of them have surface-level compounds that lead into underground bunkers where ammunition is stored, usually built into rock formations and natural caves. This makes them very difficult to attack from orbit. The weapons housed there are primarily close-in systems equipped with anti-air missiles and rotary railguns designed to shoot down projectiles and enemy aircraft. They create a very reliable air defense network blanketing the colony.”

“What we’re interested in is the MASTs,” Brenner clarified. “Have you seen them?”

“The MASTs are mounted on wheeled platforms that are road-mobile,” Ruza explained. “We have cause to believe that there are two such platforms, and Barbosa has been moving them between sites to prevent us from pinpointing their locations. His hold over Hades depends on them. When we launched our mock attack early in the war, he deployed his PCEs to protect them.”

“Two MASTs,” Brenner mused, scratching his scarred chin with a polymer finger. “If we split our forces fifty-fifty, we could deploy a hundred men to each location – assuming we could find them first. Even with SWAR backup and Tiger Lily on the field, the odds aren’t in our favor. If we fail to neutralize both threats, it wouldn’t matter if we take the carrier and the station – the enemy could just shoot them down and make orbit unnavigable for months.”

“They can match our numbers with SWAR alone, never mind the thousands of PDF they could call upon,” Rivera warned. “Barbosa could send six or seven PCEs to defend each MAST.”

“We have two choices,” Brenner said, raising a pair of prosthetic fingers. “We either find a way to make it work, or we hunker down and wait out Barbosa for another few months. Even if we do that, there’s no guarantee he won’t engage the fleet with his carrier or fire the MASTs anyway.”

“These weapons are no joke,” Ruza added, crossing his long arms. “During the rebellion, the UNN preferred to land on the other side of the planet and drive thousands of kilometers across open desert rather than risk their use.”

“It’s Kessler syndrome on demand,” Brenner confirmed with a nod. “It’s like firing a shotgun into orbit, but the pellets never slow down and keep circling the planet for months. They’re supposed to be a last-resort weapon for stopping hive fleets where reinforcements are too far away to get there in time.”

“We have much information to gather,” Ruza said. “Perhaps the Governor can be of assistance, assuming he is truly reliable.”

“I’d like to pay a visit to your guest, too,” Brenner added with a frown. “I’m still amazed that you managed to take Petrova alive. I’ve worked with her before – chosen her for special assignments. She’s a fucking demon when she’s in her element.”

“You make it sound like he outmaneuvered her somehow,” Omar chuckled. “I was there – he just hit her in the face really damned hard.”

“She went down like a sack of shit,” Rivera added with a laugh.

“I will take you to her,” Ruza said, climbing to his feet from his sitting position. “I must warn you – she has not been cooperative. I have been trying to understand why she has made the choices that brought her here, but Barbosa still holds much sway over her thoughts.”

“I’d also like to hear it from the horse’s mouth,” Brenner said as he pushed out his chair.

“Human expression,” Amy whispered as Ruza gave him a confused look.

DAY 50 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

Petrova was woken by the sound of her door opening. She struggled to lift her own weight in her bed, sitting up and raising her sheets to cover herself, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The panel slid open, the widening gap letting the light from the corridor outside spill through, revealing a silhouetted figure.

Her heart quickened as she saw the light bleeding through the openings in their skeletonized limbs, their black armor and faceless helmet resolving. It was a SWAR operative. The figure stepped through the door and entered the room, the familiar sounds of their servos whirring as comforting to her as the voice of an old friend. Two more agents stepped in behind them. One of them was a man with a stocky build, and the other was a woman with a figure comparable to Petrova’s, her limbs long and slender. The two newcomers flanked the first, any features or markings cast into shadow, making them hard to make out.

“It’s about time you guys showed up!” Petrova declared, hopping out of bed as best she could in her weakened state. She steadied herself, placing a hand on the frame and giving them a broad smile. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you. What’s the status of the insurgents? If you made it here, you probably had to go through them. Did you bag the Rask?”

They didn’t reply, standing there with their hands resting on their rifles, and she felt a pang of doubt. She hadn’t heard any gunfire, but then again, she had no idea how deep underground she might be.

“How did you find me?” she pressed. “Is there an evac shuttle waiting? I need to get in contact with Barbosa and tell him what I’ve learned.”

One of them reached for a light switch on the wall beside the door frame, brushing the touch panel with a polymer finger. As the dusty light strips on the ceiling flickered on, illuminating the newcomers, Petrova recoiled.

The agent standing in the middle had a familiar decal on his visor – a stylized skull wearing an eye patch over both sockets.

“B-Brenner?” she demanded, almost falling as she clutched at the metal bed frame. “What…what the fuck? How are you here?”

“Pinch her, she thinks she’s still dreaming,” the man with the gorilla decal chuckled as he crossed arms that were almost as wide as Petrova’s torso.

“Barbosa’s little tantrum has gone on for long enough,” Brenner replied, his visor flipping open to reveal his familiar eyeless face. “The Admiralty has sent a task force to put an end to it.”

“No way,” Petrova said, shaking her head in disbelief. “There’s no way a fleet could have made it here already. You’re lying!”

“I was surprised to see your name on the list of defectors,” Brenner continued, ignoring her comment. “Disappointed,” he added. “We’ve worked together closely in the past. You were one of the best operatives in the organization, and I’m sad to see you turning your unique skillset against the people you swore an oath to serve.”

“Don’t you talk to me about oaths!” she spat, glaring at him from across the room. “You’re the ones sitting around toeing the Coalition line while everything collapses around us! Barbosa had the courage to act when nobody else would!”

“Ruza warned me that you were buying Barbosa’s line pretty hard,” Brenner continued. “I didn’t believe it at first, but I can’t deny it now.”

“You’ve been listening to that fucking cat?” Petrova hissed. “He’s a Rask! You and I fought against them side by side during the rebellion! How can you take his side over your own kind!?”

“A lot has changed since then, Petrova,” Brenner continued. “That’s the crux of all this, isn’t it? I’ve known Barbosa a lot longer than you have. I knew him before the war – before first contact and the Betelgeuse Incident. Things are changing too fast for him to keep up, and this whole fiasco is his attempt to stay relevant in a world that’s moved on without him. Don’t be a pawn in his scheme. Don’t let him destroy your career in an attempt to save his own.”

“This isn’t about careers!” Petrova scoffed, glancing between the agents in disbelief. “How could you even think such a thing? We’re here to save the human race!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brenner sighed with a dismissive shake of his head. “I’ve heard it all before. This conspiracy that Barbosa is willing to kill over only exists in his head, assuming the whole thing isn’t a lie to sway people to his cause. He’s never liked aliens, so he’s never allowed himself to be exposed to them for any length of time. He’s run out of enemies to fight, but the fight is all he knows, so he’s inventing his own now.”

“You’re lying!” she repeated.

“Listen to me,” Brenner continued sternly. “This whole situation has spiraled completely out of control. This isn’t some internal dispute over policy – the Admiralty is involved, as are the civilian branches of the UN. The Ninnies and the Broker Regulators are sniffing around, and they’re out for blood. There’s going to be hell to pay, and even if we manage to clean up Barbosa’s mess, I don’t know what’s going to happen or if they’ll even allow SWAR to exist anymore. All of Vos’ dirty laundry has been aired – he’s functionally already under arrest. He can’t protect us now. Your only chance is to help us fix this. If you don’t straighten up and sort your shit out, you’re going to end up being court-martialed for sedition.”

“We need every agent we can get if we’re going to pull this off,” the female operative added. “It’s not too late for you to switch sides. It might make the lawyers more lenient.”

“You’ll never defeat Barbosa,” Petrova insisted. “He has the numbers, PCEs, the carrier – there’s just no way you can stand up to that.”

“Some intelligence from you would certainly help even the playing field,” the man with the gorilla decal replied. “Word is, you’ve been by his side from the start. You know more about the inner workings of his occupation than anyone.”

“I can’t,” Petrova replied with a shake of her head.

“You’ve known me just as long as you’ve known Barbosa,” Brenner said, taking a few steps closer. “You’ve fought shoulder to shoulder with me more than you have him. We’ve spent more time together – been on more ops together. I’ve personally selected you for missions on multiple occasions. Have I ever given you a reason to think that I’m untrustworthy or easily misled? Do you think I’d betray my species?”

“I suppose not,” she grumbled, watching as he sat down on the bed opposite her just as Ruza had. “But it’s not a question of intent. Barbosa is working to stop threats before they happen – threats that only he seems willing to acknowledge. The politicians who run the UN don’t care about what happens after their terms end. They’re not worried about what happens in fifty or a hundred years. They’re so hypnotized by what species like the Brokers and the Jarilans can offer in the short term that they’ve been blinded to the inherent dangers.”

“I was pretty pissed off when I heard what the Brokers did,” Brenner replied. “If the Admiralty had ordered me to put together a squad to go break some of their fancy shit, I would have been happy to do it. They want us to believe that they’re a lot stronger than they really are. But look at what we’ve gained by showing restraint and allowing them to seek reconciliation. SWAR made Barbosa into a hammer, so every problem looks like a nail to him. Force isn’t always the answer.”

“What about the Jarilans?” she asked. “You can’t seriously tell me that you’re fine with them being admitted to the Coalition. You’ve stacked more Bug bodies than anyone I know.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied with a shrug. “At the time, I would have recommended bombing Jarilo until it looked like the surface of Luna. Now, I’m glad that we gave them a chance. You weren’t on Kerguela – you didn’t see what they’re capable of. I’ve been in the trenches with them – literally – and I’ve seen firsthand how they fight. They’re an asset, and they’re as loyal as they come. Hell, they think they’re human – betrayal never crosses their minds.”

“You can’t know that.”

“And you can’t either,” Brenner replied. “At some point, you just have to trust that your leaders know what they’re doing. We’re soldiers, Petrova. We don’t make the big decisions – nobody elected us to decide their fates. We don’t have any right to take the situation into our own hands the way Barbosa has. If he wants to be a politician, he can run for fucking office like everybody else.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t bent the rules,” Petrova shot back. “Every one of us knows that SWAR routinely violates the Yellow Sea Treaty. We only exist to do the UNN’s dirty work. If we were clean and we played it by the book, we wouldn’t exist. You, me, Barbosa – we’re all walking treaty violations. I’m not an amputee – they sawed off my limbs and installed augs so illegal I’d get ten to fifteen if the law was applied to us the same way it’s applied to everyone else. You’re a part of that, so don’t preach to me like you’re some moral paragon.”

“This will be a reckoning for all of us, whether we win or lose,” Brenner sighed. “It’s too late to save our skin, but we still have to do our jobs. We’re going to work to do as much good as we can, while we can, with whatever tools we have. That’s how it’s always been – this is no different. We’ve never been motivated by fame or rewards. The average citizen will never even know that we existed.”

“Whatever your plan is, it won’t work,” Petrova insisted. “I know you didn’t come here with a fleet. My guess is a handful of Coursers at best – that’s the only ship that could reach here in such a small window of time. How do you plan to take down a Jump Carrier?”

“You know me well enough to know that I’ll make it happen,” he replied. He produced a tablet computer from a pocket and tossed it onto the bed beside her. “Here – take some time to read through this. It’s data leaked by high-level members of the colonial government that points towards Barbosa preparing for famines and food riots. If he’s here to save humanity, why is he moving food supplies to the garrisons and letting the people go hungry? Did he tell you about that? If he didn’t, that means he doesn’t fully trust you. If he did, then I don’t want anything more to do with you. If you can’t be swayed by facts and try to dismiss this as fake, then you’re already too far gone, and you’re of no value to me.”

She scowled at him as he rose to his feet, his heavy gear rustling.

“I’ve convinced Ruza to let you go topside if you change your tune. There are aliens and civilians up there who you can talk to. I think it’ll do you good to interact with them rather than sequestering yourself away from any opinions or viewpoints that aren’t approved by Barbosa. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He returned to the door where his two companions were waiting, then paused there for a moment.

“You’ve always been sharp, Petrova. It’s not too late to make the right decision.”

With that, she was left alone, the door closing behind them. When she couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore, she tucked her knees into her chest and wrapped her arms around her prosthetic legs, feeling the cold and unyielding polymer against her skin.

If Brenner was here, on Hades, then it meant that the UNN wasn’t taking Barbosa’s insurrection lying down. He might be the vanguard of a full-scale counter-invasion of the planet. Barbosa’s plan hinged on the UNN not caring enough about an irrelevant backwater like Hades to commit the resources required to take it back, especially when faced with such stiff resistance. Sending their best remaining SWAR agents to personally kill Barbosa didn’t sound like a half-measure. The more time passed, the more holes seemed to form in his strategy.

After sulking for a while, she finally picked up the tablet and switched it on. Brenner was right – it would be easy to dismiss any evidence as a fabrication, but that would be no way to win her over. If it was true, the information would line up with things that only she would know about Barbosa’s activities. Regardless of what the supposed evidence showed, she should give her captors what they wanted. Being able to access the upper levels of the facility would surely open up some new avenues of escape.

As she read through the data, she grew steadily more concerned. Brenner’s documents were cargo manifests and shipping records showing where supplies were being routed. She had seen the rationing firsthand during her brief stay in the city, and it appeared that Barbosa was stockpiling supplies in the PDF garrisons rather than distributing them to the people. It was more than their immediate needs – enough to wait out a damned siege for weeks.

His food policy had always seemed a little shaky, but she had trusted him when he’d told her that he had a plan. Other than the greenhouse project, he had never given her many details, and she had assumed that a lot of the responsibility had been relegated to the Governor and other local officials. Based on these reports, his plan seemed to consist of having his troops hole up in defensible positions with enough food to outlast the riots that he guessed were coming. If the documents were genuine, it was hard to conclude anything else. Barbosa had accepted starvation and mass unrest, and he was creating a contingency plan. No wonder he hadn’t been moving their excess supplies down from the carrier – maybe he had never intended to feed all of Hades, and the meager rationing had simply been a way to buy time and delay the reaction.

This could be a fabrication to turn her against him, but it aligned with what she already knew. Ruza’s words echoed in her head – how he’d told her that Barbosa was withholding things from her, only telling her snippets of the full picture. If this information was indeed true, then of course Barbosa wouldn’t tell her about it. He’d keep it secret and pretend that it was all an accident or all the fault of the insurgents. Ruza had been adamant that his people weren’t responsible for the arson attack on the warehouse. If the Rask was telling the truth, then it could have been ordered by Barbosa – perhaps carried out by one of the other agents. The Commander could be playing his Lieutenants against one another to achieve what he saw as the most favorable outcome. He wouldn’t ask her to blow up a warehouse full of food – he’d know she wouldn’t do it – but Roach or Crow wouldn’t have any qualms about a little false flagging.

The seeds of doubt were starting to germinate, and curiosity was beginning to overpower her desire to escape. Her ultimate goal was still to return to Barbosa, but maybe she could gather a little information first – learn more about what was going on. Brenner’s promise to let her access the rest of the facility would be a good start.

CHAPTER 26

DAY 50 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“My guys will do it,” Reed said, leaning over to the table to tap at the tablet display. “Man, I miss when we had that conference room with the projector. It made everything feel all official. But yeah, they’ve been itching for a fight, and they’re getting bored of hitting PDF supply convoys. They’ll be up for this ASAT attack if I pitch it to them.”

“The biggest issue will be locating the MASTs,” Harlequin said, resting two arms on the table as he pointed to the map of the city with a third. He was holding a can of beer with the fourth, taking a sip from it with his long proboscis, which didn’t interfere with his speech. “I think we’re going to have to rely on the Governor for that information, if he even has high enough clearance to know when and where they’re being moved.”

“I once had a team of scouts that could have tracked their movements,” Ruza sighed. “I lost contact with them during the battle, and I doubt that they survived. Last I heard from them, they were pinned by SWAR teams near the anchor. I may be able to track the MASTs myself, but it would take time to decipher any kind of routine, especially if the enemy seeks to obfuscate it. Time that we do not have.”

“We’ll just have to hope that the Governor has the contacts he needs, and that he doesn’t decide to screw us,” Brenner said as he walked into the room in the company of two agents. Ruza looked up, greeting him with a nod.

“How did your reunion with Petrova go?” Ruza asked. “I had hoped that she might be more receptive to one of her own kind.”

“Barbosa really did a number on her,” he sighed as he took a seat at the table. “It’s like she’s been brainwashed. Everything I tell her, she just rejects automatically.”

“That girl is wacko,” Wasp added as she stood behind her Commander, twirling a prosthetic finger near her head. “If you ask me, she’s a lost cause.”

“She is defensive, like a cornered desert mouse,” Ruza explained. “Accepting our truth means the destruction of her worldview, and acknowledgment that she has made grave errors in judgment. That is not easy – I know this. It is a destructive process of death and rebirth. After I was injured, I spent many weeks languishing in a hospital bed as my former enemies nursed me back to health. I had much time to think, and it took days before I stopped trying to justify my Matriarch’s actions. Longer still before I could accept my situation.”

“You were injured?” Brenner asked, raising a brow above his empty eye socket.

“Acute radiation sickness,” Ruza explained. “I was sent into a damaged Crawler and was exposed to a fission reactor with cracked shielding.”

“Ouch,” Brenner replied with a wince. “I was on Borealis – hope it wasn’t the Crawler that my team hit.”

“No,” Ruza said with a shake of his shaggy head. “My vessel was destroyed by artillery fire.”

“You seem to have made a full recovery,” Brenner mused.

“Thanks to my Jarilan friends,” Ruza said with a gesture to Harlequin. “Through contacts I made during my deployment to Kerguela, I was able to get help, and they repaired my damaged DNA with gene therapies.”

“I thought you looked a little young and spry for someone of your age,” Brenner said. “Kerguela was where I met Harlequin, too. He’s part of a new airborne infantry program they’ve been cooking up.”

“Grasshoppers?” Ruza asked, giving the Jarilan a glance. “Bluejay’s program?”

“You know Bluejay?” Harlequin asked, his antennae pricking up in interest.

“I fought by his side throughout the early months of the campaign,” Ruza confirmed. “I found him to be loyal and courageous. I never once saw him hesitate to risk his life for another, and his skill with a rifle on the wing was something to behold.”

“Holy shit,” Harlequin chuckled. “That guy is a legend to us. Every Jarilan male aspires to be accepted into his training program.”

“What, is he like a celebrity to you?” Reed chuckled.

“Yeah, and we don’t have many of those yet,” Harlequin replied. “Sure, he’s only a year or two older than most of us, but that’s seniority as far as Jarilans are concerned. He invented what it means to be airborne infantry.”

“How old are you?” Reed asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“I’m four,” Harlequin replied.

Reed slowly reached across the table and tried to take away the beer that the insect had been drinking, Harlequin wresting it back.

“Relax, Endo. We pupate at six months. If I’m not wriggling around limbless and non-verbal on the floor, it means I’m fully mature, and I can handle my beer.”

“If there will be more like Bluejay, then we shall be well served,” Ruza continued. “I will be glad to have you fighting by my side, Harlequin.”

“You know, it’s nice to meet someone new and feel appreciated for once,” the Jarilan added as he took another sip of his drink. “The rest of you could learn something about etiquette from Ruza here.”

“During our first meeting, you dropped down onto my head like a spider and held a knife to my throat,” Reed complained.

“Just be glad that I didn’t lay any eggs in you,” Harlequin replied.

Reed began to laugh, then his expression soured.

“He can’t actually do that, can he?” he asked as he looked to Wasp. The operative just shrugged.

“No hard feelings, I hope,” Brenner added as he resumed his exchange with Ruza. “As far as I’m concerned, now that the old Matriarch has been removed, we’re square.”

“I harbor no hatred for my old enemies,” Ruza explained. “We paid for our mistakes in blood, and the account is settled. Without the UNN treating my condition, I would have died long before a cure became available.”

“That’s good to hear,” Brenner replied. “Lord knows I need to watch my back around here enough as it is. Well, I’d better go find Rivera and start planning for this op,” he added as he rose from his seat. “We only have five days left before we’re supposed to send our signal. We need to send a group back to the city to contact the Governor and relay our plans to the resistance so they’re up to speed.”

“It sure sucks not having reliable comms,” Wasp grumbled. “Gotta deliver every message by hand like it’s the fucking seventeen-hundreds.”

“Reed, Rivera, and I should remain here so that we can work on the plan,” Ruza said.

“I’ll send back a couple of my agents in the morning,” Brenner confirmed with a nod. “They know the way, and they should be able to make the round trip pretty quickly. SWAR don’t tire easily. We’ll need to come up with some kind of pitch they can take back before then.”

“What of Petrova?” Ruza asked. “Do you still think it wise to let her roam in other areas of the plant?”

“She can visit, and only while supervised,” Brenner warned. “Don’t leave her alone, even for a moment, no matter what excuse she gives. If she has to go to the bathroom, you take her back down to her cell. We’re still pretty deep underground here, so her implants won’t be able to get a message out, but just be aware that it’s her priority. If she can dash to a window or an exit, she’ll try it. Don’t believe anything she tells you.”

“You sure we shouldn’t just leave her downstairs if she’s that dangerous?” Reed scoffed. “Sounds like the kind of problem we don’t need right now.”

“She has information about Barbosa’s operations that we can use,” Brenner explained. “I think being around people who aren’t fucking crazy for a while might mellow her out. Talk to her – show her that you’re just normal people.”

“What if we put a foil hat on her?” Reed suggested. “Would that block the signals?”

“Just try to be constructive,” Brenner sighed.

DAY 51 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

“It’s time,” Brenner said.

Petrova glanced up from the tablet, seeing his silhouette blocking the door.

“For what, my execution?”

“No, to tell me whether you’re ready to come topside,” he replied as he stepped into the light. “You’ve had a day to examine the evidence and think it over. Are you going to reject it as a conspiracy, or are you ready to come out and talk?”

Petrova set down the tablet, mulling over the question for a moment. She wasn’t actually still reading – she had been trying to crack the encryption on the device to see if she could activate its wireless functionality.

Regardless of her true feelings, she had to say yes, as it was her only chance to find a way to escape. Still, it wouldn’t be a complete lie. There was doubt in her mind, and interacting with the insurgents might shed some light on what was really going on, whether for good or ill.

“Alright,” she conceded. “I’ll admit it – if this data is genuine, it’s pretty damning. I’m willing to talk to the others.”

“One slip up, and you’ll be back down here staring at a wall for the rest of the war,” Brenner added sternly. “You get one chance, so don’t mess it up.”

She rose to her feet, unsteady as ever on her undervolted legs, walking over to him. Together, they headed towards the one exit, her heart fluttering as she finally saw it open. Standing beyond it were a pair of armed Marines, the men watching her warily as she followed Brenner through into the corridor outside. It was the first time she had left her quarters. The facility looked no different outside, but it still felt like she was crossing a threshold.

“Do you need help walking?” Brenner asked, eyeing her shaky gait.

“No, I can handle it,” she muttered as she extended a hand to brace herself against the wall. She felt like an old woman, hobbled like this.

They climbed a couple of flights of metal stairs, then her sensitive cochlear implants began to pick up the sound of voices. People were having conversations further down the hallway. They grew louder as she neared another door, and she realized how close she must have been to the rest of the facility’s inhabitants. She hadn’t been locked away deep in a mine – she’d only been a couple of floors beneath them.

The door opened to some kind of galley, and she was suddenly faced with two dozen people. There were men wearing Marine uniforms, SWAR agents identifiable by their augs, and even several civilians or maybe insurgents who were sitting around metal tables. It appeared to be a common area of sorts – maybe the place where people congregated to eat and socialize. The Rask was there too, rising head and shoulders above his neighbors even while sitting. The chairs must be too small to support his massive frame, so he was sitting on the floor, his height still putting him level with the table.

Petrova suddenly felt oddly shy, all eyes in the room turning on her as the conversations abruptly died down – few of them welcoming. She was an enemy to many of these people. Worse – a tyrant or a traitor. Whether she agreed with their assessment or not, that was how she should expect to be treated. Unsure of what to do next, she waited for Brenner to introduce her, her eyes wandering between the stony faces that peered back at her.

“Well, look who finally came out of their room!” one of them said. Perhaps it was an attempt to break the ice, but she found him immediately irritating.

The only one she’d really interacted with at length was the Rask, so she hobbled her way over to him, the alien pulling out a seat for her. She sat down beside him, glad to be off her unsteady feet, the alien’s exaggerated presence somehow comforting as she peered around the table.

“Petrova here is going to be staying with us for a while,” Brenner announced. “Try to be nice to her, but don’t leave her unattended, even for a moment.”

“Don’t worry,” the first man began, grinning as he leaned across the table in her direction. “Looks like kitty’s been de-clawed. Ruza’s set her to physical therapy mode.”

“I know you,” Petrova replied, scowling back at him. “I’ve seen your face before in security briefings. You’re Reed – wanted for acts of terrorism.”

“My reputation precedes me,” he confirmed with an exaggerated flourish. “That’s me, the one and only.”

“You build IEDs that kill unsuspecting people.”

“Calling them improvised really downplays how much time and work goes into them,” he continued, adjusting his weight in his seat and miming building something with his hands. “You see, it’s all about the ratio of plastic explosive to shrapnel. Too much oomf, and it’ll just vaporize all the lug nuts and ball bearings. Too little, and it won’t have a wide enough area of effect. You want some directionality, too – gotta make sure all the red-hot airborne scrap metal goes where you want it to. Ideally, right into an unsuspecting Borg’s face.”

“You’re a coward,” Petrova sneered.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he replied with a sigh. “It’s not like getting blown up is even that big of a deal for you people. What are you gonna do – lose a leg? Look at that guy,” he continued with a gesture to Brenner. “You think he’d care if a grenade went off in his face? It might even be an improvement. No offense intended,” he added.

“Oh, I’m sure it was,” Brenner grumbled. “Let’s try to be constructive, please.”

“See, I don’t work for him, so I can say that,” Reed whispered. “He can’t hit me because it would be like someone dropping a piano on a puppy or something. Punching down.”

“I’ll hit you,” the woman with the Wasp decal chimed.

“Have you eaten today, Petrova?” Ruza asked in an obvious attempt to steer the conversation somewhere more productive. “Can I fetch you something?”

“I’m not hungry,” she mumbled, glancing around the room. Many of the people sitting at the further tables had resumed their conversations and meals. She recognized a handful of them. There was one of the Marines she had seen accompanying Rivera, though the man himself seemed to be absent, and she could see the secretary who had come to visit her some days prior. Amy – that had been her name. She was sitting across from her at the table, munching on a tray of MRE rice and pork, watching her curiously. This woman was a civilian, and she hadn’t shown any ill will towards Petrova, nor did she look like she participated in combat. If she was to be believed, she was here by happenstance. With so few friendly faces, she was as good a place to start as any.

“I should probably thank you,” Petrova began. “You came to comfort me the other day. I’m not sure why you did it, or that I needed it, but it was a kind gesture.”

“You’re welcome,” Amy replied, pausing her meal. “I just didn’t want you to feel the way I did when I got captured. It’s scary.”

“I figured it was some kind of angle to win my trust or get me to talk. I realize that probably wasn’t the case.”

“Trust must be a difficult thing to give in your position.”

“What do you mean?” Petrova asked.

“You’re a spy, right? They told me that lying is like…your job or something. You’re trained not to tell the truth, and you never expect the truth from anyone else. That has to be a lonely way to live.”

“I suppose,” Petrova grumbled, crossing her arms defensively. “And you trust these people, do you? They’re bomb-makers, terrorists, special forces soldiers. What do you have in common with them?”

“More than you might think,” Amy replied, taking a bite of pork. “We all want the same things. We all believe in the same ideals. The Doc, Reed, these new cyborg guys – they’re all on the same page. We don’t believe that your boss should be able to come here and take control of our lives without our consent. It’s a pretty simple concept.”

“If you knew what was happening in the Galaxy, maybe you’d feel differently,” Petrova continued. “You might see why it’s necessary.”

“All your side has done since you arrived is lie,” Amy replied, waving a plastic fork at her. “You lied about being with the Navy, you lied about what happened to the PDF, you lied about the resistance, you told people the Doc was a cannibal. Now, we’ve learned that you’re lying about the rations, too. You have plenty of supplies – you’re just letting people go hungry while you shore up your defenses.”

“I didn’t know about that,” Petrova protested. “If it’s even true…”

“Then your boss is lying to you as well,” Amy continued. “If he needs a whole framework of lies upon lies to get his way, maybe he’s just wrong. Would you follow someone who uses you like a tool?”

“You don’t know him,” Petrova chided.

“I don’t need to. I can judge him by his actions, and by the company he keeps. My mother always said that you should look at the people someone associates with to get a true idea of their personality. You develop keen instincts for that kind of thing when you live through the Syndicate.”

Petrova turned her attention back to the room, watching the insurgents interact. They all seemed to be mingling, with only Brenner’s people sitting apart. Perhaps it was because they were new arrivals, or maybe the others still didn’t trust Borgs yet. Brenner wouldn’t have come here without a solid plan, but she couldn’t imagine what it might be. Any offensive would require a simultaneous attack on pretty much all of Barbosa’s assets, including the carrier and the station. How could he pull that off without the overwhelming numbers and firepower of a fleet? Maybe she could find out and bring that information back to Barbosa.

She heard a door open, turning her head to see a handful of people enter the galley. There were a couple of men in Marine uniforms, along with Rivera, and something else. Her blood ran cold as she saw a familiar shape, its spindly limbs and colorful chitin triggering something deep in her amygdala. She felt a warm, furry hand on her wrist, peeling her eyes away from the creature to see that Ruza was gripping her forearm. There was a plastic knife clutched in her hand – she hadn’t even realized that she was holding it. The Rask seemed to sense her change in demeanor, watching her closely.

“That is Harlequin,” he said in a low voice. Calling it soothing or comforting was an exaggeration with its gravelly, almost growling timbre, but he was making an attempt. “He is a friend.”

“Brenner must have really gone off the rails if he brought a Bug here,” she hissed, watching the thing warily as it approached. “How can he stand being in the same room as that thing without killing it?”

“You might have said the same of me at one point,” Ruza replied.

“You’re not off the hook yet,” she muttered. “I’m still thinking about it.”

He replied with a low chuckle that sounded almost like a chuff.

Like a cat singling out the only person in a room that wasn’t interested in it, the Bug seemed to hone in on her, its antennae waving in the air. It walked over on its digitigrade legs, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside Amy, putting itself opposite Petrova. It had strangely fluid movements – nothing like the jerking, erratic motions of its kin. It was uncanny – like watching a praying mantis that had somehow evolved to mimic a human form instead of a lotus flower.

“You must be Petrova,” it said, speaking with a human voice and human inflections. Its English was even better than Ruza’s – somehow more natural, as though it was a first language rather than something it had adopted. Its face was made up of segmented plates, like a clay mask that had been smashed and pieced back together, its lips not quite moving in sync with its words. “Brenner has told me all about you.”

“Is that so?” she muttered.

“You don’t have to be so afraid,” it replied, seeming to feign concern.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she hissed. “I’ve killed more of you than I can count.”

“Maybe not fear, then,” the Bug replied as its moth-like antennae wiggled in the air. “But stress hormones are bleeding out of your pores. I get the impression that you’d lunge across this table and twist my head off if the good Doctor here hadn’t tuned you down.”

“Don’t do that,” she replied with a grimace. “I didn’t give you permission to smell me.”

“Sorry, but I can’t turn it off,” it said with an eerily human shrug. “Pheromones are part of how we communicate. We’re part human, so it’s second nature to us. It’s kind of like being an empath – it gives us some insight into how our primate pals are feeling.”

“What about Borealans?” Ruza asked, his interest piqued.

“I haven’t spent a lot of time around madcats, but we can learn,” the Bug replied. “It doesn’t come quite as naturally to us, on account of us sharing no DNA, but we can read the scents from pretty much any species given enough practice and context.”

“What do you mean by human DNA?” Amy asked.

“My dad was human and my mother was Betelgeusian,” it explained, the very concept making Petrova’s skin crawl. “Sometimes, when a man and a woman love each other very much, they combine their genetic material in a kind of churning biological vat of gene-sequencing organs.”

“Romantic,” Amy chimed, eating another spoonful of rice.

“The Queen took samples of human DNA and used it to splice together the Jarilans. We’re an artificial species designed from the chromosome up to integrate into the wider Galactic community and socialize with other races rather than, y’know, eating them all. Genetically speaking, you and I are cousins.”

“That explains why you act so…normal,” Amy added. “Sorry, I couldn’t think of a more diplomatic way to phrase it.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” the hybrid replied with a dismissive wave of an upper hand. “We’re still fundamentally arthropods. I like to think that we’re human software running on insect hardware.”

“I’d never even seen an alien until Ruza moved here,” Amy chuckled, glancing across the table at him. “Now I’ve seen two.”

“All Jarilans are members of the unofficial outreach program,” Harlequin continued, placing a four-fingered hand on his molded chest piece. “Don’t be scared to ask if you have any weird questions. I won’t get offended.”

“Alright,” she began. “What’s that tube you were using to drink?”

“A proboscis,” it replied, opening its beak-like mouth to extend the fleshy organ. “It’s kind of like an organic straw. There are taste buds lining the inside – just like on your tongue.”

“Does that mean you can’t eat solid food?” Amy asked. “Or do you spit on it to dissolve it like a fly?”

“Now that would be weird,” the insect laughed. “Nah, we’re designed to eat honey. It’s a protein and sugar-rich substance made by Repletes in the hive. They break down solid foods into a kind of gel that contains all of the vitamins and nutrients that we need, just condensed down into a small package. We can operate on a couple of toothpaste tube-sized ampules per day. It’s very efficient, and it makes us very easy to feed. We have no need to carry around large MREs like you endos, and our supply lines are a lot simpler.”

“What’s endo mean?” Amy asked.

“You have an endoskeleton,” the Jarilan replied. “That means your bones are on the inside. We have exoskeletons, meaning ours are on the outside. Wanna touch?” it added, extending a hand.

Amy reached out tentatively, touching the painted carapace.

“Oh, wow!” she giggled. “It kind of feels like flexible plastic – not at all what I expected. Can you feel this?”

“Yeah, we have nerve endings in our shells,” the alien explained. “This isn’t my real coloration – Grasshoppers are painted with Kerguelan camo. It’s kind of become our calling card.”

“I guess it doesn’t come off easily,” she mused. “Can I touch your antenna?”

“Gently,” it replied, lowering its head to bring the sensitive organs closer. Amy reached out and ran the delicate hairs through her fingers, smiling as she appeared to enjoy the texture.

“It’s really soft!” she declared.

“It’s basically my nose,” it explained. “The hairs are lined with chemoreceptors that can pick up airborne compounds. It’s how I can smell so well, and how I read pheromone signals.”

“Kind of like a bloodhound?” Amy asked. “I noticed that you can talk and drink at the same time – how do you do that? Do you have lungs?”

“Not as such,” it explained. “I have spiracles. They’re little holes all across my body that exchange gases the same way your respiratory system does. We can store oxygen in our tissues and hold our breaths for a really long time – it’s how we survive in space without a suit.”

“What’s the horn for?”

“Mostly decorative,” it replied with a shrug. “Each one is unique – like a human fingerprint – and our ancestors would use them to help identify one another beyond pheromone distance.”

“Your ancestors?” Petrova interjected, Amy and Harlequin pausing their conversation to glance over at her. “You talk about them like you diverged thousands of years ago. Try something more like five. Your Queen never stopped being a Betelgeusian – she just gave her latest batch of Drones a fresh coat of paint.”

“You’re SWAR,” the Jarilan replied, leaning back in its chair. “You’ve probably spent more time actively fighting ferals in the field than I’ve been alive. Does nothing strike you as being different between us? For example, I’m having a conversation with you right now instead of desperately crawling through mines and barbed wire trying to stab you.”

“I know where you come from,” she continued with a scowl. “The Queens never stop plotting and planning. They’re giant biological computers whose only purpose is furthering their own goals and their own bloodline. What a coincidence that yours is the only one ever known to surrender, and that her Workers and Drones are now proliferating across human space unchecked. If she can make hybrids and gene therapies, she can make gene weapons.”

“Shut your mouth,” the man with the gorilla decal warned, drawing closer to the Jarilan and crossing his massive arms. “He earned his seat on the Courser. I’m not gonna stand here and let you, of all people, call his loyalty into question. You don’t even know the meaning of the word anymore.”

“No, no,” the alien said with a wave of its hand. “It’s alright, Silver. Let her say her piece. If we don’t know where she’s coming from, we can’t help her get where she’s going. Besides, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve gotten this reaction…”

“What more is there to say?” Petrova grumbled. “We can’t trust the Jarilans. As much as they want everyone to think otherwise, they’re still Bugs.”

“When the Queen surrendered, she became subservient to humans,” the insect explained. “She’s not capable of betrayal – she’s a part of you. She made us to become closer to you. Sure, she might not experience emotions the same way that you and I do, and she might be motivated more by logic than sentimentality, but she only wants to make herself useful. Survival for her and her brood hinges on staying in your good graces and making herself too valuable to throw away.”

“And what about you?” Petrova asked. “Is your worldview just pragmatism too?”

“I’m part human,” the alien explained. “Jarilans are designed to socialize with humans. We feel all the same emotions, and if there’s one constant between all the different castes, it’s the desire to prove ourselves and be accepted. It kind of sucks having only good intentions but always being judged for things we can’t control.”

“What if the Queen only gave you those emotions as a form of camouflage, like an insect evolving to mimic a stick? Would you even be aware of it?”

“I don’t think she truly understands the scope of what she gave us,” the Jarilan replied, more pensive now. “There’s no emergent behavior in Betelgeusians. They’re like biological machines – engineered to fulfill a specific purpose and nothing else. They have sapience, but no free will, and no ability to grow or change beyond their design. We still have some back home that survived the invasion, and seeing them makes me sad. They’re incapable of learning to do anything outside the scope of their design. More than that, it upsets and confuses them.”

“They surrendered after the war?” Amy asked.

“Yeah,” Harlequin replied. “The Queen made them non-hostile, and they were needed to maintain the hive until the first batch of Jarilans were hatched, so there was no reason to get rid of them. We let the Workers dig tunnels, we send the Drones out to patrol empty roads, and it keeps them content enough. It’s so odd being around them – like looking into a dark mirror of what you could have been. There’s a person there looking back at you, but the scope of their intelligence and their experience of the world is so narrow, and so driven by chemical programming. They’re only happy when they’re fulfilling their purpose, and they lack the capacity to do anything outside of that.”

“That’s what makes you different, then,” Amy said with a nod.

“I don’t think the Queen is capable of understanding emotions and free will any more than those obsolete castes are,” Harlequin continued. “Nor does she really understand humans or what motivates them. What she does understand is genetics. She was able to look at what makes humans behave the way they do, and give those parts to us, regardless of whether she truly understood their purpose or importance. She doesn’t know what love is, but she recognizes that it’s part of the human social experience, and she knows which genes trigger the release of the right chemicals. That’s a big deal – going from biological robots that exist only to do your bidding, to creating a race of people who have capabilities you don’t even really comprehend.”

“It’s kind of like…building a machine from a set of parts,” Reed began. “You know what each component does on its own, but not how they’ll interact when the machine is finished. If that’s the way things are, the Queen must be relinquishing a lot of control.”

“She was no longer in control from the moment she surrendered,” Harlequin confirmed. “That’s what a lot of people don’t understand. The Ambassadors run the diplomatic side of things, and their motivations are a lot more human, but any concept of the Jarilan hive as an independent entity ends at them. The Queen has always considered herself part of the human hive, which is how she sees the UN. In nature, she’d be defeated and folded into the conquering hive, spending the rest of her life adding to their brood. If they deem her genetic material worthy, that is.”

“We only have your word to go on,” Petrova protested. “None of this is verifiable.”

“I don’t expect you to listen to me,” Harlequin replied. “You don’t know me – I’m nobody to you. But I do expect you to listen to your fellow agents. I know that you once respected them, and maybe their words still hold some weight.”

“Believe me – I wasn’t happy about being ordered to work alongside them,” Brenner said. He was leaning against the wall behind the alien, having been quietly observing the debate. “I felt the same way you do. It was Vos of all people who recognized their utility, and in the end, so did I. They earned my respect the same way anyone does – by putting slugs in Bugs. They’re tenacious little fuckers.”

“Much the same as my experience,” Ruza added with a nod.

“Maybe when this is all over, we can get some Workers out here to spruce things up a bit,” Harlequin continued. “The Coalition has been doing wonders re-greening the Rask deserts. No reason they can’t do the same here.”

“I’d like to live in a real house instead of a prefab,” Amy chuckled. “Maybe we could actually grow some real flowers here.”

Her words reminded Petrova of Fran and the floral decorations that adorned her tiny living space, and she felt a pang of regret, rising from her seat abruptly.

“I’m gonna go get some air,” she muttered.

“Not alone, you’re not,” Reed chided.

“I’ll go with her,” Amy offered. “I think even I can hold my own against her right now.”

Petrova wanted to argue, but it was either Amy or one of the surly Marines, so she consented with a silent nod. She should be offended, but the secretary was right. In her current state, Amy could quite easily subdue or outpace her if anything happened.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Amy asked as she followed Petrova out of the mess hall.

“Not really,” Petrova grumbled, turning a corner into an identical corridor. “I just need to get out of there for a while.”

She paused and leaned against the wall, cursing the weakness in her limbs.

“Is there somewhere I can get some air?” she asked. “A window or a balcony?”

“You’re not allowed,” Amy replied. “They told me that you have a radio implant that can call the carrier, so I’m not supposed to take you to the higher levels.”

“Great,” Petrova grumbled. “I guess you’re all on the same page.”

“I know that you lie a lot,” Amy added. “It’s kind of your job. I’m not mad,” she added when Petrova gave her an annoyed glance. “We all do what we have to do to survive.”

“Well, I’m not exactly thrilled about being held captive against my will and interrogated.”

“Are you alright?” Amy asked in a softer tone.

“Not really,” Petrova admitted, rubbing her upper arm. “I don’t like having a bunch of people yelling at me like that.”

“They weren’t really yelling at you,” Amy replied. “You have some…extreme views, and they’re just trying to explain their perspectives. They only want to help you.”

“Yeah, well it feels like dogpiling,” Petrova muttered as she turned her head away. “I’m hardly even allowed to get a word in. If they think they can change my mind by shouting me down or trying to pressure me, that’s not going to work.”

“You can talk to me,” Amy suggested with a shrug. “I won’t shout at you. Come on – I’ll help you,” she added as she offered Petrova an arm. Despite her misgivings, Petrova took it, the woman helping her hobble down the corridor.

“Why do you hate Harlequin so much, anyway?” Amy began as they passed by empty rooms. “He seems nice and friendly to me.”

“I’ve spent most of my life fighting those things,” Petrova explained, taking another faltering step. “I’ve killed thousands of them, and I’ve seen them tear people limb from limb with their bare hands. There’s no guarantee that the Jarilans are any different. It’s such a stupid, pointless risk to take. We should have turned their hive into a crater while we still had the chance.”

“Everyone else seems to think they’re valuable. Does Barbosa have some evidence he’s shown you to suggest they can’t be trusted, or is it just based on prior experience?”

“You don’t know what it’s like going up against those things,” Petrova sneered. “Seeing them rip Marines apart, melt people’s flesh off the bone with plasma, and flood trenches with toxic gas. They’re indiscriminate killers.”

“Maybe I do know what it’s like,” Amy replied hesitantly. “But I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I don’t think you’re like the other Borgs.”

“You seem really out of place here,” Petrova said as they turned a corner. “Even moreso than the aliens.”

“Well, I was never voluntarily a resistance fighter,” Amy explained.

“You told me that you were picked up because you knew the Rask?”

“They say it’s all about who you know,” Amy said with a dry chuckle. “It was the same for Bill and Ricky. They didn’t want any part in it – especially Ricky – but the PDF gave them no choice. It was guilt by association. Then there’s Nick,” she added wistfully. “We don’t even know what happened to him. Most likely, he died when the base was hit. He’d gone back inside to help the people who got left behind. I wish he’d just come with us…”

“You got out at the last minute, then?” Petrova asked.

“Yeah,” Amy replied solemnly. “We barely made it out before the shelling. They were just…murdering everyone.”

“Those sabots don’t discriminate, unfortunately.”

“No, before that,” Amy explained. “They sent soldiers into the base, and they went from tunnel to tunnel and room to room, just killing anyone they came across. Fighters, civilians, nurses – it didn’t matter. We hid in Ruza’s room, hoping that he might come back and find us, but it was Nick who came. He was so brave – I don’t know how he managed to sneak past them all. He had me cover my eyes when he led us out of there, so it must have been bad. Bill and Ricky don’t want to talk about what they saw. We made our way to the infirmary, and everyone did their best to hold them off while we evacuated the wounded. There were a lot of people who were too injured to walk on their own. We made it to the surface, but Nick wanted to go back and help the fighters who stayed behind to cover us. That was when the carrier fired on the base.”

“Did someone tell you to say this?” Petrova asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“No,” Amy replied. “That’s what happened. Why would I lie about it?”

“SWAR wouldn’t kill civilians and attack an infirmary,” she scoffed. “Barbosa would never order that.”

“You can’t be that naive,” Amy chided, the pair pausing in a hallway as Petrova pulled her arm away. “Do you think everyone associated with the resistance was a fighter? We had a whole community of people who had been forced to leave their homes for one reason or another. There were doctors, nurses, people handling logistics, everyday workers wanted for participating in strikes and protests. We even had PDF prisoners we intended to exchange, and they’re probably all buried under tons of rubble now, along with everyone else. The Borgs killed hundreds of people down there, and then they destroyed all the evidence of what they’d done. It was a massacre – it’s as simple as that.”

“I can’t believe that,” Petrova said with a shake of her head.

“If you didn’t know about it, maybe you should think more on what Ruza said,” Amy continued. “Barbosa isn’t telling you the whole story. Maybe he’s afraid that if you knew the full scope of what he was doing, you wouldn’t follow him.”

“You all talk about Barbosa like you know him, but you don’t,” Petrova snapped. “I’m sorry about what happened to you – I really am, but if the resistance had just cooperated from the start, none of this death and destruction would have happened.”

“If someone came to your home and tried to impose their will on you, would you accept it?” Amy asked. “I don’t think you would. I think you’d fight tooth and nail to stop it the same way we did. People like Ruza don’t seek out conflict, and they’re slow to anger, but you can bet they’ll put an end to it.”

“You really idolize him, don’t you?” Petrova asked as he braced herself against the nearest wall. “Do you truly know what he is and what he’s done to get here? He was a Rask Shock Trooper – his kind started a war with the UN and killed hundreds of Marines. I was there – I saw what they did. After that, he was a mercenary working for anyone who would pay him. Who knows what kind of dirty shit he did back then. Now, he’s leading a terrorist group. He’s not some cuddly teddy bear.”

“He told me all of those things, and more,” Amy replied. “He’s not like your Commander – he doesn’t keep secrets from the people close to him. Yes, he has a checkered past, but he’s trying really hard to make up for it. That’s what he was doing on Hades before you people came here and attacked him.”

“That’s something I can’t believe,” Petrova said with a shake of her head. “He has connections to Admiral Vos and Naval Intelligence. He wasn’t here by coincidence – he was put here to do a job.”

“Maybe you should talk to him about that.”

“Perhaps later,” Petrova sighed. “Damn these limbs,” she added, balling her fists in frustration. “Can’t even go for a walk to clear my head with these stupid things. It’s all that fleabag’s fault.”

“Maybe if you show him you can be trusted, he’ll fix them,” Amy suggested as she offered her arm again.

“I doubt that,” Petrova grumbled.

***

They wandered through the featureless corridors for a while, Petrova listening to Amy ramble about her life before the war, using the opportunity to take in her new surroundings. There was no doubt about it now – they were in some kind of abandoned industrial plant, perhaps an old water-cracking facility or some kind of power station. It was easy to see which areas had been frequented by the insurgents and which had been ignored due to the general dust and disrepair. These were likely the old crew quarters for the workers who had once been stationed here. It was impossible to tell how far it was from the city – could be in the industrial districts on the outskirts, or a hundred miles away in the wasteland.

Amy eventually led her to a room, knocking at the door.

“Come,” a familiar, gruff voice replied.

The panel opened into another sleeping area not unlike the one in Petrova’s makeshift cell, filled with old cots adorned with musty mattresses. The Rask had stripped some of them away and laid them out on the floor to form a kind of dirty mat, and he was sitting on them in an almost meditative pose, what looked like a large-frame XMR lying partially assembled on the floor at his feet. He appeared to be cleaning the parts.

“Amy,” he began as he opened one lazy eye to greet them. “I trust that our guest has been behaving herself?”

“Oh, she’s been fine,” Amy chimed as she guided Petrova into the room. “We were just going for a walk to stretch our legs. I thought I’d leave her with you for a while.”

“This is the first I’m hearing about it,” Petrova complained as Amy helped her take a seat on a nearby cot.

“I have some duties to attend to, but Ruza can take you back to your room when you’re ready,” Amy said as she headed for the door. “See you later!” she added, making a point of closing it to seal the pair inside.

Petrova watched the alien in silence for a minute or two before speaking up.

“So…are you meditating, or what?”

“I find that the quiet helps to center me,” he replied.

“You have the whole warrior-monk thing going, don’t you? You realize that’s not some mystical artifact, right?” she added with a gesture to his weapon. “Those things are mass-produced on Mars. I don’t know if you’re trying to bless it or something.”

“You are quick to pass judgment, yet slow to learn,” the Rask grumbled. “This is no ritual – it is simply good practice to maintain one’s equipment. Besides, there are few large-frame models available here. I brought this one with me from my previous deployment, and it holds some sentimental value. It served as a coat rack until the invasion.”

“Is that the bayonet you used to kill those men outside your prefab?” she asked, eyeing the serrated blade.

“Yes,” he replied.

“I guess it’s just a matter of course for you, huh? I can’t figure out why Amy likes you so much. Her opinion doesn’t reflect what I know about you.”

“You have been speaking with Amy?”

“Sometimes,” Petrova replied. “She spent a lot of time speaking at me.”

“You should heed her words,” Ruza replied, reaching down to pick up a component of his rifle and beginning to clean it with a rag. “She is wiser than her years, and she often sees the simple solution to complex problems.”

“She speaks very highly of you,” Petrova continued.

“She is loyal.”

“Loyalty is something you value?” she asked. “Then you understand why I can’t betray Barbosa. Doesn’t matter what’s true and what isn’t – I pledged myself to his cause, and I have to see it through.”

“I can speak much of misplaced loyalty,” Ruza began, keeping his feline eyes fixed on his task. The cleaning seemed to keep him focused, as though he was glad of the distraction. Petrova knew the feeling all too well. Many a time, she had occupied herself with maintenance tasks on her weapons or prosthetics during moments of hardship. Keeping her hands and mind occupied helped stave off dark thoughts.

“Is this going to be another sermon about the Matriarch?” she sighed, crossing her arms and accepting the inevitable as she settled in for a story.

“In some ways,” he muttered, shooting her an irritated sideways glance as though to say be quiet. “For my kind, loyalty is expected of us. We obey our Alphas, our Alphas obey our Crewmaster, and the Crewmaster obeys the Matriarch.”

“Yeah, I know about your weird pack structure.”

“Loyalty is a thing that should be earned,” he continued, ignoring her comment as he polished the coils on his barrel. He paused, using the tip of his claw to pick off a grain of sand that had fused to the copper. “Given too freely, it is easily abused and cast aside. I learned this the hard way, as you humans say. We would call it walking the arduous path. Few humans seem to be aware of it, but an Alpha is supposed to care for their pack – protect and provide for them. We put all of our love and our trust in them. Our Alphas did not protect us. When the orders came down from the Crewmasters to launch suicidal attacks intended only to delay the enemy, they were loyal, and they obeyed.”

“Nothing like a bad commander to ruin your day,” Petrova muttered, finally finding something they had in common. “Shit rolls downhill.”

“Shit?” Ruza asked, confused.

“It’s a human saying,” she explained with a roll of her eyes. “It means that bad jobs and undesirable duties tend to get passed down through the command structure until they arrive at someone who can’t defer it to somebody else.”

“It was just so,” he said with a nod. “Our leaders did not deserve our loyalty, and because it had not been earned, it was not valued. They used it as a whip to drive us to our deaths. The Matriarch sacrificed thousands of lives solely to buy herself time and to protect her position. Had the war not ended on the terms that it did, with Admiral Korbaz seizing the throne by right of strength, she would have mobilized every Rask in the territory to die for her. We prevailed because we defied her. There are times when breaking an oath and betraying your loyalties is the only moral thing to do.”

“I suppose you expect me to draw comparisons to Barbosa,” Petrova replied. “Our leaders don’t earn their positions by beating everyone else into submission – they get promoted due to merit. Over years and decades, they hone their skills and prove themselves worthy of being followed. That’s why Barbosa is deserving of my loyalty. He’s been fighting and winning longer than I’ve been alive.”

“How does he repay it?” Ruza wondered aloud, pushing what looked like a pipe cleaner into the mag well of his weapon. “Is your loyalty a tool that he uses to get what he wants, or is it reciprocal? When you are in need, and when you ask something of him that cannot be easily given, what does he do?”

Petrova remembered her plea during the battle in the city, when she had used the captured PDF helmet to request extraction for her and the civilians, and how Barbosa had responded. She had rationalized his actions, convincing herself that there was some larger plan at work, and that he simply couldn’t spare the resources. Had he not been right to place his trust in her? Had she not successfully extracted herself and her friends, just as he said? But that wasn’t the only instance. She had advised him not to execute the saboteurs, and he had ignored her. She had asked for just a little more time on the carrier to oversee the recruits’ surgeries, and she had been denied. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that her relationship with Barbosa had been very one-sided. It might be natural, considering their ranks, but was it natural for someone who professed to value her so much? She didn’t know…

“I wonder what Vos did to earn your loyalty?” she asked, turning her mind from it.

“I am not loyal to Vos,” Ruza grumbled. “He was a client, and our relationship was merely transactional.”

“You have Amy convinced that you’re here to give away medicine to sick kids, but I won’t believe that your relation to Vos is just a coincidence,” Petrova pressed. “Of all the people and all the worlds, how is it that you ended up right here, right now, just in time to throw a wrench in our plans? Now, Brenner is here too, with Vos’ name on his lips. Those two are as thick as thieves.”

“This Galaxy is much smaller than it appears,” Ruza began as he screwed his barrel to the receiver. “Armies win wars, but it is so often the choices of individuals that shape the fates of millions. Vos is a hinge upon which many important events have pivoted. Heroism, subterfuge, betrayal – he cares not as long as the work is finished. Some might see him as honorless, but I have come to learn that he is simply pragmatic to a fault. There is no consideration in his mind for whether an action is moral or just, only that it achieves the outcome he desires. Thus, all is permissible. I have been party to his schemes before, and I was not surprised to learn that he had a hand in this crisis.”

“You maintain that you’re not working for him, then?”

“Not since I finished my contract on Kerguela. That was the last time I spoke with him. I must admit that your suspicion amuses me. You and Barbosa both seem convinced that there is some plot to thwart your plans, and that Vos has somehow set these events in motion. The reality is that this is all your own doing. I would have been content to simply run my clinic had I not been provoked.”

“Must be convenient to be able to write off all this killing as self-defense,” Petrova chided. “To pass on all the blame and responsibility to someone else.”

“I take no joy in it,” he replied, giving the barrel another wipe down with a rag. “I came here to save lives, not to take them. But war is a profession in which I have long excelled, and if there is work to be done, I will see it through to its end. If I took joy in killing, you would not be alive.”

“You got the drop on me,” she muttered, crossing her arms angrily. “One-on-one, you wouldn’t fare nearly as well.”

“SWAR can be dangerous, certainly,” Ruza admitted. “I have always found the concept of human martial arts to be fascinating. You are born lacking teeth and claws, and are possessed of no natural weapons, save for reinforced knuckles evolved to inflict blunt trauma. Being naturally endowed has made my people complacent, while yours have been forced to find creative solutions. I have faced your kind in close quarters, where the techniques you have developed are most dangerous. There is much grappling, tearing, and breaking that leverages your prosthetics to their fullest.”

“Barbosa probably developed a lot of those moves,” she replied.

“I fought one agent who was most skilled with a blade,” he added, setting down his rifle. He picked up his bayonet, using the shining weapon to act out the fight as he went. “It was my experience during the rebellion that humans always sought to avoid close combat, yet this agent closed the distance rapidly. He slew several of our fighters in the narrow confines of an alley, then bore down on me without fear, using his powerful grip to grapple with me. His strength rivaled my own, and he knew just where to strike, attempting to sever my arteries to bring the fight to a swift conclusion.”

“Sounds like SWAR CQB techniques,” Petrova confirmed. “We can kill an unaugmented human bare-handed. We’re trained to break bones and joints. Flesh and muscle doesn’t stand up to polymer and alloy.”

She remembered her fight against the PDF in the alley, and how she had put so many of those techniques to use for the first time.

“He very nearly drove his blade beneath my arm, but my weight was something that he could ill contend with,” Ruza continued. He pointed the tip of the blade at his bicep, and she marveled at its size. It was as large as her head, and probably more massive. “I used it to my advantage and knocked him to the ground, pressing my paw to his chest and tearing off his limb at the joint. Even in such a position, he managed to sink his knife deep into my calf, but I ended the fight by crushing his ribcage. I came very close to death that day.”

“At least you show us some respect, unlike that asshole Reed,” Petrova said with an angry glance at the door. “Who was the guy? What was his helmet decal?”

“I do not know,” Ruza mumbled, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember. “Some Earth animal, perhaps. It appeared to me as a green reptile with a forked tongue.”

“Probably Wyvern,” Petrova said with a nod.

“You knew him?”

“Everyone in Barbosa’s crew knew each other in passing,” she replied. “I wouldn’t call us friends or anything like that. Not the way I was with Hoff, anyway…”

“That is good,” he said, returning his bayonet to its lug. “You have enough reasons to kill me in my sleep as it is.”

“Too right,” she said with a grin. “What do you think Wyvern did wrong? What mistakes did he make that allowed you to beat him?”

“He was well-positioned,” Ruza began. “He had the element of surprise, he struck quickly and decisively, but he was outnumbered. While the fighters posed little threat, they slowed him long enough for me to react.”

“So, get you alone,” Petrova mused. “Strike quickly and maintain the element of surprise.”

He paused his cleaning, raising a single bushy eyebrow in what might be amusement or skepticism – it was hard to say.

“Are you plotting my death?”

“Always,” she replied cheerfully.

“I suppose that is to be expected,” he conceded as he resumed his cleaning.

“You don’t regret what you did to Wyvern?” she continued. “How do you justify it?”

“I fight because I must, and he simply found himself on the wrong side,” Ruza replied. “There is but one means of opposing evildoers skilled in violence,” he growled as he polished the serrated edge of his bayonet. “Kill them first.”

“That’s something we can agree on, at least.”

She watched him a little while longer in silence, mulling over what he had said, then he spoke up again.

“When I am finished, it will be time to eat. Will you be joining us at the dining table?”

“Me?” she scoffed. “Why would any of you want me there? I thought you all hated me.”

“You are our guest,” Ruza replied as though it should be obvious. “We must show you hospitality. It will do you good to socialize and learn how we live. Your opinion of Amy has already softened, I expect. The same can be true of the others if you give it time.”

“I think you’re just trying to get me to develop Stockholm syndrome,” she complained.

“What is that?” he asked, tilting his head as a curious dog might. “If it is a medical condition, I am not familiar with it.”

“It’s when someone starts to empathize with their captors a little too much.”

“In that case, yes,” he confirmed. “I wish for you to develop this syndrome.”

“Not really the answer I was looking for, but at least you’re straight with me – I’ll give you that,” she replied.

Petrova found herself chuckling despite herself. The Rask was an enigma – sometimes as sharp as a knife, and sometimes as oblivious as a child. It was almost endearing, but she wouldn’t fall into the same trap that Amy so obviously had. This alien might present himself as reasonable and articulate, but he was capable of crushing a SWAR agent to death and eviscerating a PDF trooper like a savage animal. She must not let her guard down.

“I suppose I could eat,” she conceded with a sigh, the rusty old bed springs creaking as she shifted her weight on the mattress. “It’s not like there’s much else to do around here. I’ll leave if people dogpile me like they did earlier, though. And I’m not sharing a table with the Bug.”

“An acceptable compromise.”

***

A few minutes later, they were making their way back through the industrial hallways, Petrova hobbling along using the walls for support. Ruza offered to help her, but she refused, preferring to go it alone rather than accept anything from him.

The scent of cooking food reached her nose before she even knew that she was close to the mess hall, and her stomach started to growl. She wasn’t exactly getting a home-cooked meal, but even the contents of some old MREs were appealing right now. She’d had worse in the field – sometimes subsisting only on nutrient supplements designed for her augmented physiology.

The sound of voices chased the scents. They were less appealing, and Petrova felt a lead weight settle in her empty belly. She didn’t want to spend the rest of the night being glared at and argued with. As they reached the door and it slid open, she saw that most of the little metal tables were occupied by people. There were some faces she recognized, but more that she didn’t, some two dozen insurgents chatting cheerfully and sharing dishes between them. Civilians and Marines mingled, and Brenner’s team was among them now, sharing drinks with a couple of locals. Like a doting mother, Amy was walking between the tables handing out trays of food, seeming as cheerful as ever.

Despite their dire circumstances, everyone looked so content, like this was some kind of family cookout. It was immediately clear that their trials had brought these people closer together, and that they had come to depend on one another. Even the newcomers weren’t being excluded. It reminded her of the brief time she had spent with Fran and her friends – the intimate meals and conversations they had shared in the cozy confines of her prefab. A wave of unpleasant nostalgia washed over her, and she began to back away almost reflexively, as though retreating from an intense heat.

“I don’t know about this,” she mumbled. “I want to go back to my cell.”

She was stopped as Ruza placed a large hand on her shoulder. She should have shrugged it off or pulled away in disgust, but there was nothing intimidating about his touch. It felt somehow friendly and reassuring, as did the tone of his gruff voice.

“There is no cause for fear,” he said. “These people mean you no harm.”

She steeled herself, then hobbled forward, a few of the strangers looking up at her as she passed them by. It was best to avoid the tables occupied by Marines – some of them might remember her from the carrier, and Brenner’s people were seated with the Bug. Instead, she made for Amy’s table, where several more civilians were seated. Amy greeted her warmly, offering her a seat, and she glanced around the table as the Rask sat on the floor beside her.

There were a few more civilians she didn’t recognize, but one that she did. It was Omar Jabril – the same man she had used to bait out the insurgents. Unsure of what to say, she said nothing, avoiding his gaze.

“Did you have a good talk with Ruza?” Amy asked, passing her a metal tray.

“I suppose,” Petrova replied, reaching out to take it from her. With her strength so diminished, she almost couldn’t support it, her arm trembling with the effort. It was loaded with packaged food that must have been sourced from an MRE, the main courses already steaming inside their self-heating packets – ready-to-eat indeed.

She reached for one, not caring that it was still hot, as her rubberized fingertips weren’t calibrated to feel pain. The heat instead was translated into a warm tingling as she upended the package into one of the recesses, seeing a helping of macaroni and cheese spill out. It was covered in little green flecks that might be spices or herbs of some kind, and while there was no way the cheese had been made from real milk, it was still a welcome sight. She picked some up with a plastic spoon and blew on it, taking a bite.

“How is it?” Amy chimed as she watched the agent chew. “I didn’t have a lot to work with – our stores are pretty meager – but I found some dried oregano and thyme to toss in the packet. It should add a little more flavor to it. Honestly, I don’t know how you Navy types survive on this stuff. I think I’d go crazy in about a week.”

“It’s good,” Petrova replied, pausing before her next bite.

Amy seemed pleased with herself, settling back into her seat and resuming her own meal. She picked up a conversation that she’d been having with two other civilians – something about batteries. As Petrova glanced around the room, she considered how normal everything looked. She wasn’t sure what she’d been imagining – perhaps scarred bomb makers and terrorists with eye patches plotting in dark rooms, but the atmosphere was a casual and friendly one.

“So, you’re the Borg?” one of the civilians asked. He was a man in his mid-twenties or early thirties – probably a miner or a factory worker by the look of his calloused hands.

“Bill, don’t be rude!” Amy chided.

“What am I supposed to call her?” he asked, more confused than anything.

“You may call her Petrova,” Ruza answered in his resonating voice.

“Alright, Petrova,” Bill continued. “So…I’ve heard a lot of talk, some from the Marines, some from the fighters, and some from those new special forces guys. I thought I’d ask you myself. Why did you come here? To Hades, I mean.”

“She’s not gonna tell us anything,” his neighbor scoffed. “You think you can get any information out of her when Ruza and Rivera couldn’t?”

“Let her talk, Ricky,” Amy insisted.

The people at the table mostly stopped eating, watching as they waited for her reply. Being put on the spot was putting it lightly. Did they really expect her to explain the entire invasion and Barbosa’s plan for the colony right here and now? She paused, considering.

“It wasn’t supposed to play out this way,” she began, keeping her eyes fixed on her macaroni. “We didn’t come here to hurt you. We chose Hades because it’s out of the way – not strategically important enough for the UNN to commit serious resources to retaking it.”

“Clearly, that didn’t pan out,” Ricky said with a gesture over his shoulder to the SWAR agents who were eating at the table behind him.

“The Commander hasn’t lied,” she insisted before hesitating for a moment. “At least, not about his ultimate goals. He wants Hades to be strong and prosperous. He wants to make it into another Proxima or Mars so it can become an independent human stronghold, isolated from any bad decisions the rest of the Sphere might make. It was to be a backup plan. Even if humanity died out elsewhere in the Galaxy, Hades would always be here, an unassailable fortress.”

“But why did he attack us?” Bill pressed. “We didn’t do anything to him.”

“Didn’t we?” Ricky scoffed, clearly the more cynical of the two. “We told him no. Guys like that don’t take kindly to being denied something they want.”

Petrova considered her next words carefully. Her instinct was to tell them that the insurgency had forced Barbosa’s hand, and that all of this death and conflict had been their doing, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything other than starting another argument. They believed that they were defending their homes from invaders, and it wasn’t hard to see the situation from their perspective. Besides, after everything that she had seen, did she still believe it herself?

If the kill teams sent into the insurgent base really had murdered people indiscriminately, and if Barbosa really was planning a famine, could she defend him?

“I don’t think…Barbosa has told me everything,” she began. “I’m starting to believe that he only revealed the parts of his plan that he knew I would agree with. Maybe he told the other Lieutenants something different – whatever they wanted to hear. Stealing the PCEs, attacking the carrier, invading Hades – it’s all a lot easier to justify if the fate of the species is on the line. I thought we’d be training recruits and helping you build greenhouses, not fighting you in the streets. My comrades could be lying to me,” she admitted, jabbing at her macaroni despondently. “You could be lying to me. Your evidence could be faked, mine could be faked, maybe nothing is real anymore. Maybe all this misinformation and suspicion is spread intentionally so that we stop thinking and judging and just…act.”

“I know how that feels,” Bill said, a little more sympathetic now. “I remember at the start of all this – seems so long ago now – when nobody knew what was going on. The Governor was saying one thing, the resistance was saying another, and nobody really knew if the Borgs were part of the Navy or not. So many people had gone missing, and there was so much confusion over whether this PDF conspiracy was legit or just an excuse to take over. You remember, Ricky?” he added as he gave his surly neighbor a nudge. “We were always arguing about what was really going on.”

“Yeah, every damned night after work,” Ricky grumbled. “Couldn’t get a beer in peace for days.”

“I can’t believe how oblivious we used to be,” Amy chuckled. “We really thought that we could just keep our heads down, and things would work out in the end.”

“Who were you?” Petrova asked. “Just workers? Why did you join the resistance?”

“Miners,” Ricky explained. “And we didn’t. The PDF came after us because we were friends with Ruza, and we’d been seen with him. That’s literally it. I never broke a law in my life, I never wanted to fight, I just wanted to be left alone.”

“Like Amy, then?” Petrova asked with a glance at the secretary.

“They came for us at work, in the mine,” Bill explained. “If Ruza hadn’t already made contact with the resistance and sent people to help, we might have ended up like…”

“Like me,” Amy added, finishing his sentence for him. “It’s alright, Bill. I’m pretty much over it. If Ruza hadn’t protected us, we’d all be locked away in some cell, being interrogated and beaten for information we never knew.”

“How did you know Ruza?” Petrova continued. “An ex-Rask mercenary hanging out with miners? Doesn’t seem like you’d cross paths very often in your lines of work.”

“Whenever there was an accident in the mine and someone couldn’t pay for treatment, they’d go to Ruza,” Bill explained. “The Doc would patch them up for free. Sure, we had the unions, but workers’ comp and sick pay still weren’t exactly up to UN standards.”

“That’s an understatement,” Ricky muttered, taking a bite of an MRE fajita.

“Seems everyone has similar things to say about you,” Petrova mused, turning to Ruza. He’d been sitting silently, letting the civilians say their piece. “One might be led to believe that you were some kind of saint, or that this is all one big cult of personality.”

“I have strived to do good here,” he rumbled in reply. “I have not always succeeded.”

“He’s very modest,” Amy whispered with a smile.

“Do any of you know what he did before he came to Hades?” Petrova asked. She wasn’t being cruel – she genuinely wanted to know how much Ruza had told his friends about his checkered past.

“I know that he did things he isn’t proud of,” Amy replied. “I know that he made mistakes, and that he’s trying to atone for them. I don’t care about the person he used to be – I care about the person he’s trying to be now. That’s what’s important. We’ve all done things that we’re embarrassed or ashamed about. Nobody has lived a perfect life, and dwelling on past mistakes doesn’t change anything. All that matters is what you plan to do about it in the present.”

“I can see why he likes you,” Petrova sighed. “If someone commits a crime, they have to pay, correct? Even if it’s been ten or twenty or fifty years. You don’t get off scot-free just because you’ve seen the error of your ways and you feel bad about it now.”

“I suppose that depends on whether you believe in punishment or rehabilitation,” Amy replied, raising an eyebrow. “In your position, I wouldn’t be too quick to pass judgment.”

“What, are you going to forgive me my sins?” Petrova joked.

“Nobody here can do that for you,” Amy replied, her tone completely serious. “Only you can.”

“The power was inside me the whole time!” Petrova muttered under her breath, taking a sarcastic bite of her macaroni. “What about you?” she added, turning to Omar. “I’m assuming that your sign-up was a lot more voluntary.”

“There haven’t been a lot of real choices for me,” he replied, watching her warily as though still fearing that she might attack him. “The PDF were never trained or equipped to fight off Navy special forces teams. The first attack crippled us, and we quickly found ourselves interned in our own garrisons. That was when we were presented with the first of a series of non-choices. Swear allegiance or stay in a cell. There were some stubborn troopers, but I knew that nothing good would come of staying.”

“We did figure that a percentage of troopers would say whatever it took to get out,” Petrova said with a nod.

“Once I was free – relatively speaking – it didn’t take long to realize that things were getting out of control. I was pretty high up in the PDF command structure, and I could see the bigger picture. Even then, it was obvious that a coup was happening.”

“And your next non-choice was helping the insurgency,” Petrova said.

“I’d dealt with Bergmann before, and I knew that he was trustworthy. Well, I knew that he was untrustworthy. He had connections to the Syndicate back in the day, and I was pretty sure that he’d be the first one to mount some kind of resistance. Turned out I was right. I fed him insider information for as long as I could. I think you know the rest.”

“It wasn’t personal,” Petrova added. “I’m sorry for using you as bait, but that was the job. Believe it or not, I had places I’d rather be.”

“I dunno, it feels kind of personal,” Omar grumbled as he took a bite of an MRE cookie. “You pretended to be my friend, we shared a meal, we had that whole conversation in the mine. It was all a setup to get to Ruza. Did you just make it all up on the spot?”

“Not all of it,” Petrova replied, more subdued now.

Not everything they had talked about in that tunnel had been part of her fake persona. In a way, it had almost felt liberating to have a conversation about sensitive subjects without any of the baggage or consequences associated with her real identity. She couldn’t talk about those things with her fellow agents, and certainly not with Barbosa. It was only in rare moments like the ones she had spent with Omar or with Fran that she felt like she could really be herself, as paradoxical as that seemed…

“Sprinkling in a little truth to make a lie more convincing doesn’t exactly make it any better,” Ricky chided. “I suppose it must come easy to you. That’s your job, right? Lying?”

“If you want to reframe infiltration and espionage work as lying and simplify it to the point that a toddler could understand it, I suppose you’re correct,” Petrova replied sarcastically. “You know, I didn’t materialize out of thin air when this operation started. SWAR has been protecting the UN for decades. We’ve pulled off missions that you’ll never know about and kept the Sphere safe in ways you could never understand. My lying has broken up drug cartels, thwarted terrorist plots, and saved countless lives.”

“You want me to thank you for your service?” Ricky scoffed.

“No, I just want you to have a little perspective,” she grumbled as she turned back to her meal. “Things haven’t always been the way they are now.”

Sensing that the conversation was souring, Amy chimed in to direct it in a more constructive direction, Petrova listening silently as the civilians talked about supplies and renovating parts of the plant. Maybe she’d been wrong about them. At least, some of them. If they were telling the truth, then they weren’t bloodthirsty terrorists, but regular people who had been forced into the arms of the insurgents through circumstance and keeping the wrong company. Those were hardly damning crimes, and it seemed unlikely that everyone in the plant was part of an elaborate conspiracy to trick her.

She ate her macaroni, pondering as she eavesdropped.

CHAPTER 27

DAY 52 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

Ruza opened one eye, his meditation disturbed by a knock at his door. When he bade the visitor to enter, he saw that it was Rivera.

“Brenner’s guys are back from the city,” the Marine declared, waiting for Ruza to rise and follow him.

They headed out of the room and up a flight of steps, finding three cloaked figures waiting in a hallway. It was the agents Brenner had sent to visit the city and relay their plans to the resistance. The men were still covered in sand from their trek across the desert, and they had removed their helmets, one of them shaking some of the lingering dust from his short-cropped hair. Ruza only knew a few of Brenner’s men by name, but they were all similarly dressed and equipped with their signature prosthetics. He noted with interest that one of them sported Elysian damascene on his forearm. Brenner soon arrived, and Reed joined them shortly after.

“What news?” Brenner asked.

“This better be good,” Reed complained, stifling a yawn. “It’s too damned early for this shit.”

“We made contact with Fuller and the resistance,” one of the agents began. “They’re on board with the plan you proposed, and they’re waiting for further instructions. They’ll be ready to move on your orders.”

“Glad to hear they’re all still okay,” Reed said as he leaned against the wall in the cramped corridor. “I don’t like leaving them back in the city like this.”

“What of the Governor?” Ruza pressed. “Were you able to pass on our request to him?”

“Yeah, and we got a reply,” the damascened agent continued. “Barbosa doesn’t share all aspects of his security operations with local officials, but the Governor thinks he can use his PDF contacts to track the MAST launchers the next time they’re moved. It’s a large operation, and it requires a lot of personnel – not something Barbosa can easily hide.”

“That’s good,” Brenner said with a nod. “Maybe we can get a reasonable idea of where they’ll be when the time comes.”

“The sooner we attack them, the better,” Rivera added. “It’ll give them less time to properly establish their defenses, and we’ll need every advantage we can get.”

“I’ve fought alongside Barbosa for thirty years,” Brenner began, his expression hard to discern due to his lack of eyes. “I have a pretty good idea of what he’ll do, and I know what I would do if our roles were reversed. The ASATs are the most important strategic objectives on the ground, so he’ll split his best forces between them. There will be PCEs, SWAR kill teams, and who knows how many PDF.”

“We won’t know what we’re up against until we scout out the sites,” Reed said as he glanced between his friends.

“And there won’t be much time for scouting if we want to hit them quickly,” Rivera added. “We can’t afford to be too cautious here. The longer we take to gather info and prepare, the more time they’ll have to harden their defenses.”

“We need to finalize our game plan and transmit a message to the Courser,” Brenner said as he scratched his stubbly chin with a polymer finger. “We only have three days left before she bounces.”

“There’s more,” the agent said, getting their attention. “The Governor has been made aware of another covert operation. Barbosa’s people have been moving select prisoners out of the garrisons, but unlike a normal prisoner transfer, no destination is marked down.”

“What, so they’re being transferred to nowhere?” Reed asked with a frown.

“More like transferred to graves,” Rivera grumbled, reaching out a hand as the agent passed him a tablet computer. “They might be trying to disappear some of their more problematic political prisoners. Let’s see here…”

He began to scroll through a list of names with mugshots, Reed drawing closer to lean over his shoulder. Ruza glanced down, his height giving him a clear view of the screen.

“Wait, wait!” Reed exclaimed as he placed a hand on Rivera’s shoulder. “Go back! Fuck me – that’s Bergmann! There’s that guy, too. What was his name?” he muttered as he snapped his fingers. “Fucking Henrik. He’s the guy from the Trade Association who attended a few of the meetings.”

“And that’s Yohanes from the FMU,” Rivera grumbled, the reality dawning on him. “Most of these people are Union higher-ups.”

“They’re going to execute them,” Reed stated simply, his tone devoid of any of his usual humor.

“Barbosa is removing pieces from the board,” Brenner confirmed with a solemn sigh. “Anyone who has the political power or the popular support to oppose him is an obstacle in his eyes.”

“I guess he really didn’t appreciate the strikes,” Reed added. “We knew that a lot of them had been arrested after the battle, but this is…”

“We must intervene,” Ruza insisted with a low growl. “There is no ambiguity about what Barbosa intends. This cannot be allowed to happen.”

“Do we have any idea where they’re being taken?” Rivera demanded as he turned back to the agents. “When is this transfer happening?”

“Tomorrow night,” the agent replied. “The Governor isn’t sure where they’re being taken, but it’s going to involve PDF armored transports, and those transports broadcast their location over an encrypted police network. He gave us the access codes.”

“So we’ll be able to find them,” Reed said, planting a fist in his palm. “Here’s hoping we can reach them in time, wherever they end up. Back in the days of the Syndicate, they’d drive people they wanted to disappear out into the wasteland where the storms would bury them, or they’d dump the bodies down old mine shafts. There are a lot of convenient places to hide a problem on Hades.”

“I realize that this could all be a trick on the Governor’s part to lure us into an ambush, but we’re going to have to just trust him at some point,” Rivera added as he scanned through the tablet.

“The Governor worked closely with Bergmann,” Ruza added. “He mediated between the Unions and Barbosa’s occupation forces. I do not believe that he would consent to their executions.”

“We’ll have a meeting about it and decide on a plan of action,” Brenner announced. “The mess should be cleared out in a couple of hours. Until then, go clean up and get some food.”

The agents acknowledged his order with a few nods, then made their way deeper into the plant, everyone else heading to the dining area to get some breakfast. Rivera and Ruza were the last to leave, but the Rask extended a hand to stop the Marine once they were alone.

“May we speak?” he asked.

“Alright,” Rivera replied. “What is it?”

“I want to ask your permission to bring Petrova on the coming rescue mission.”

“What?” Rivera scoffed, giving him a confused look. “Are you being serious? What makes you think that would be a good idea?”

“She has been making progress,” Ruza explained. “She resists us still, yet I feel that her faith in Barbosa has been weakening by the day. She lies to herself just as she lies to us. It is my belief that seeing this execution with her own eyes might be the final push that she needs. It would be undeniable, unfalsifiable evidence of what Barbosa has been doing in secret.”

“Taking her out into the field is extremely dangerous – downright stupid,” Rivera protested. “She could call the carrier the moment she gets outside, or she could give us away to the enemy while we’re getting into position. No. We can’t afford to take that risk.”

“There may be ways to mitigate those risks,” Ruza replied. “I am sure that Brenner will know of some way. If we are successful in this, we would win another SWAR agent to our cause, along with all of the information that she knows about Barbosa and his operations. It would be an invaluable asset.”

Rivera paused for a few moments, considering.

“Alright,” he conceded. “You’re not wrong – we’re going to need all the help we can get if we’re going to pull off Brenner’s plan, and she may know something useful. I’m not saying yes, but if you can find some way to make it safer, I’ll give it some genuine consideration. At the end of the day, it’s really Brenner’s decision anyway. Come to think of it, why didn’t you just go over my head?”

“We have not always seen eye to eye,” Ruza began. “That does not mean I do not respect you.”

“You seem more cooperative than usual,” Rivera mused, peering up at the alien suspiciously as though expecting him to elaborate. “What’s going on?”

“I have acted in error,” Ruza began. He wasn’t quite hanging his head, but he was subdued, his eyes peering at something further away than the rusty walls that surrounded them. “When I left Borealis, I thought that I had learned my lesson – that I was done. I would follow the orders of the unworthy no longer, and I would forge my own path. It is an easy thing for a human, but not so for a Rask. My people would see the rejection of the pack as a form of insanity – of anti-social behavior. They call people such as me rogues.”

“I’m assuming the word has negative connotations and isn’t a reference to your dashing good looks,” Rivera said as he folded his arms and waited for the Rask to continue.

“I fear that I learned the wrong lessons,” Ruza said, exhaling a rattling sigh. “I became guarded to all those who would command me, and I acted rashly without heeding the counsel of others. You have earned my respect, and I should have trusted you. Had I not disobeyed your orders, I might have been able to do more to help our comrades at the base. Perhaps Nick, Astrid, and the others might be here with us now.”

“Perhaps not,” Rivera said with a shrug. “Perhaps you’d have been killed during the bombing. Perhaps my team and I would have died at the garrison, or been killed by that PCE Barbosa sent after us. The what-ifs aren’t important, Ruza. What happened, happened, and we have no choice but to move forward. I do…appreciate it, though,” he added hesitantly. “Listen, I’m not all sentimental like Amy and the others, but I have an idea of what you went through during the rebellion and how it affected you. Hell, if that happened to me, maybe I’d never trust my commanding officers again either. I know it’s worse for you, with how the pack is also the family and the squad and…whatever.”

“You would?” Ruza asked, his ears rising a little.

“When I ask you to follow orders, I’m not lording over you like an Alpha,” Rivera continued. “When you enlist, you consent to being part of a command structure, and everyone within that structure has a role. They all have someone they answer to, going all the way to the top. We’re trained to follow orders because when we don’t, it gets people killed. Blindly obeying authority is never the answer – I think our friend Petrova can attest to that – but we have to trust that the people leading us know what they’re doing. I can’t give you orders without your consent – you’re not even military anymore. It’s up to you, but if you choose to be a part of this outfit or resistance movement or whatever you’d call it, other people are going to depend on you to follow the plan. You have to be on the same page.”

“I understand,” Ruza replied.

“I know that Reed and some of the other guys didn’t much appreciate me showing up and trying to run things,” Rivera continued. “I get it – they were doing fine before I came along. Now, Brenner is here, and the rules say that I have to do what he says.”

“Shit rolls downhill,” Ruza muttered.

“You hear that in the Navy?” Rivera chuckled.

“Something like that.”

“You did save my life,” the Marine continued, his expression softening. “With all the bullshit going on around here, I never stopped to thank you for that. If we did it all over again, I’d still give you the same damned orders I gave you back then, but it means something all the same. There’s responsibility that comes with command. You have to make the judgment calls – decide who lives and who dies. It can mean sending good men to their deaths so that others have a chance to live.”

“It is the trolley problem that you once spoke of.”

“Sometimes, we’re the ones who have to be on the wrong side of the tracks. When that time comes, we don’t bitch and complain. We suck it up and we do the damned job, because nobody else can do it for us. We’re Marines, and when our ticket gets punched, we go out with a fucking smile and we exact a hefty price on whoever’s foolish enough to cash that check.”

“You do not make such choices lightly,” Ruza said. “I have seen how they weigh on you. You made yourself a part of that valuation in ways that the Matriarch and Barbosa never would, and for those reasons, I will follow you. When next we go into battle, I hope that you will trust me again.”

“Well, alright,” Rivera said with an approving nod. “For the record, I’ve always trusted you to have my back, but you’ve been a bit of a loose cannon. I’m glad that we’re seeing eye to eye again. Not literally, of course.”

“As am I,” Ruza replied.

Rivera extended a hand, and Ruza hesitated for a moment before returning the gesture. If he remembered correctly, this was a human sign of reconciliation and friendship.

“Glad to have you back on the team, Doc.”

***

“It is a simple, non-invasive keyhole surgery,” Ruza insisted. “I can perform the procedure very easily with the tools and supplies at my disposal.”

“I’m not letting you scramble my brains with those giant oven mitts of yours, you Persian rug,” Petrova replied as she turned her nose up at him. The bed springs creaked as she folded her arms, glaring back at him.

“Brenner shared all of the specifications pertaining to your cochlear device. It is not implanted in your brain.”

“I’m being hyperbolic,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’m expressing a generalized skepticism about your medical expertise, considering that your fingers are the size of my wrists, and you have knives on the ends of them.”

“I am qualified to perform such a procedure,” he continued. “I will make a simple incision below your ear, insert a thin cutting cool, and sever the wire that connects the device to its internal battery. It will damage neither you, nor your device, but it will stop you from sending signals to the carrier or your comrades. If you wish to accompany us on the mission, then those are my conditions.”

“You’ll have to tune my augs, too,” Petrova insisted.

“I will restore your legs to their former state so that you can keep pace, but not your arms,” he replied sternly. “You will be able to walk, but not fight.”

“That’s bullshit!” she scoffed. “What if I have to defend myself?”

“You are a prisoner, and you have forfeited that right.”

“So much for being a guest,” she muttered.

“I was using that term as a way to be more diplomatic about your situation,” he explained.

“Your bedside manner must be fucking terrible,” she hissed.

“This is your final chance,” Ruza continued. “Come with us and witness the things Barbosa keeps from you, or remain here and be turned over to the Navy as a criminal when they arrive.”

“Fine, fine,” she replied as she flopped back onto the bed. “I’ll do it. Anything to get out of this stupid plant for a few hours.”

“Very well,” Ruza said as he set down a medkit on the bed adjacent to hers. He popped the clasps, using his claws as a human might use their nails, opening the lid and starting to sift through its contents.

“Wait, you’re doing it here and now?” Petrova asked as she sat up again. “This isn’t exactly a sterile environment.”

“That is what antiseptic is for,” he said as he picked up a shining scalpel between his padded fingers.

DAY 53 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

Petrova watched the team gear up from the sidelines, their clothing rustling and their equipment clattering as they donned body armor and fastened chest rigs. She had been a part of so many similar operations, but never quite in this way, sitting apart from the other agents. The resistance had set up a kind of makeshift armory in one of the rooms. None of the weapons or supplies were stowed on racks or properly stored – they were simply laid out on old tables, but it served its purpose well enough.

Brenner’s entire team was present, consisting of eleven agents, with his pet Bug making up the twelfth member. Curiously, they were wearing environment suits beneath their signature black armor and Kevlar, its pale white and gray colors standing out. The clothing was commonly used by UNNI agents to survive in hostile environments, with snaking tubing and electronics covering the skin-tight garments like veins, packing hidden weapons and tools. The two agencies had historically been combative at best, so it was surprising to see them sharing equipment.

There was a wide variety of agents, all of them likely hand-picked for the team by Brenner. She had come to recognize Silverback, with his Gorilla decal and his massive augmented arms. He looked like he could probably punch clear through a carbcrete wall. Then there was Wasp, with her svelte, lean build and her matching decal. While Petrova favored stealth and infiltration, Wasp was clearly a front-line combatant, built for speed and agility.

The rest were the usual assortment – nothing too out of the ordinary for SWAR agents. They tended to blend together with their faceless visors and dark colors, but anonymity was the point. She’d picked up their names while eavesdropping and had matched them with decals.

There was Kingfisher, Sandman, Rancher, Eyeball, Komodo, Strzyga, Halberd, and Viper. SWAR operatives either chose or earned their codenames during their careers, with some preferring to eschew the tradition entirely, despite the culture that had slowly developed over the decades.

They were loading XMRs and checking magazines, the configuration of their weapons no less exotic and personalized than their augments. She noted that many of them had embellishments of unknown origin, along with the usual laser-etched tattoos and decals. One of them sported spiraling damascene work like something from an antique bowl or an ancient weapon, one had tiger camo that matched the Bug’s autumn coloration, and another had strange LED panels embedded in his forearms that appeared to be switched off. While she didn’t know the meaning of many of the decorations, she understood that these agents had fraternized with aliens. They were like the polar opposites of Barbosa’s entourage – as though Brenner had chosen them purposefully.

She gave the Bug a disdainful look as she watched it throw open the Hadean leather cloak that it was wearing over its carapace, starting to slot handguns into a series of holsters on its chest carrier. They were small-frame XMH sidearms, the custom carrier making the alien look like some kind of age of sail pirate loaded with flintlock pistols. She found herself wondering if the Bug really could fire all four of them at the same time. It had enough arms…

Ruza was there too, the Rask tending to his beloved rifle, while Reed and Rivera prepared more conventional weapons beside him. They had insisted on coming, even though Brenner’s team could easily outpace and outfight them. In Brenner’s position, Petrova would not have humored their desire to stay involved.

She felt naked, surrounded by so much armor and weaponry, but being allowed none. At least her legs were working properly again. Her ear still ached a little from the Rask’s surgery, but though she hated to admit it, the procedure had been quick and effective. She could no longer call for help using her cochlear implant, but there was no chance of escape from within these walls regardless.

Her every instinct told her to play the part – to pretend until an opportunity presented itself to slip away and escape, but that little voice was in the back of her mind again. It was a nagging doubt – a self-destructive curiosity that demanded to be satiated. If what she knew about Barbosa and the operation was true, and her loyalties were well-placed, then she had nothing to fear from whatever the insurgents wished to show her.

“Are you ready?” Ruza asked, his gravelly voice getting her attention as he strode over to where she was sitting. He held his long rifle like a spear, its bayonet shining beneath the light strips. Having seen how he used it, the comparison was an apt one.

“I don’t exactly have a lot of things to pack,” she replied as she rose to her feet. “You know, I’d kind of gotten used to my legs being all weird. Now that they’re back to normal, my arms feel even stranger than usual.”

“Earn our trust, and you shall earn your limbs back,” Ruza replied.

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighed as he reached out to help adjust her cloak. He placed a PDF helmet over her head, Petrova wrinkling her nose at the lingering scent of its previous owner. Her own helmet fit her like a glove, but everything about this one felt slightly off. It wasn’t enough to make it uncomfortable – just enough to keep her constantly aware of it in the most annoying way possible. “What are you going to show me, anyway?” she asked as she adjusted it.

“We have agreed not to tell you before we arrive,” Ruza replied evasively. “We do not want you to formulate an opinion before you see for yourself.”

“If this is some elaborate trick…”

“No trick,” he insisted. “Stay close to me. I will protect you.”

“And keep an eye on me,” she added.

The group was soon ready to move out, and they headed up through the winding corridors and narrow staircases – higher than Petrova had ever been allowed to venture before. They eventually entered what looked like the lobby of a commercial building, shafts of sunlight bleeding through the filthy windows. As she stepped outside, she felt the warmth of the system’s hypergiant star bathe her, her visor darkening automatically to protect her eyes from the intense UV rays. She was standing on a raised gantry overlooking what appeared to be a canyon of some kind. Great walls of rock rose up to either side of the building, the structure itself built into the stone, the ground below them covered in dunes of shifting sand. The formations acted like a natural windbreak, protecting the plant from the storms and ensuring that it could only be approached from certain directions.

“Nice place to hole up,” she muttered as Ruza guided her down the metal stairs. “This place is like a natural fortress. I can see why you chose to use it as a base. I’m guessing that we’re out beyond the city in the wasteland somewhere?”

“Indeed,” he replied as he hopped down onto the sand. It must be as hot as a bed of coals beneath his bare paws, but it didn’t seem to bother him, the Rask striding along with remarkable ease for his size. One would expect his weight to make him sink, but that wasn’t the case. Petrova followed, allowing herself a brief smile as she felt the sand beneath her boots and the wind tugging at her clothes. It was good to be beneath an open sky again.

“This way,” Brenner ordered, taking point and waving them on. “I hope you can all keep pace with a SWAR team. We can’t afford to be late.”

“You kidding?” Reed scoffed as he trudged through the sand. “You guys are tourists here. I’m a Hadean through and through. I know these deserts like the back of my own hands, and sand runs through my veins.”

“Is that so?” Wasp replied with a derisive chuckle.

“There are tricks for moving through terrain like this,” Reed continued, starting to get a little out of breath as he crested a dune. “It’s all about the way you distribute your weight.”

“Uh-huh,” Wasp replied sarcastically.

***

“Hold up for a sec!” Reed gasped, stopping at the base of a dune. He bent double to catch his breath, his labored panting coming through inside Petrova’s helmet.

“What’s the matter?” Wasp chuckled, turning to face him as she continued to walk backwards. “I thought you said you could keep up with us? You were in the Marine Corps, right? Why are you so out of shape?”

“Oh, it’s fine for you!” Reed protested, waving a hand at her dismissively. “Your feet can’t get blisters, and you burn half the calories I do!”

“Would you like me to carry you?” she asked in a mocking voice, crossing her arms.

“No!” he protested. “Just gimme a goddamned minute here.”

“I think the sand in your veins needs a top-up.”

Most of the group was a little further ahead, Petrova jogging to catch up to them. The agents were all used to marching through rough terrain, and Rivera was actively serving, so he didn’t complain. Reed and Ruza were dragging their feet, the giant Rask seeming almost as exhausted as the human.

“You too, big guy?” Petrova asked as she walked past him. “I thought Rask were supposed to be stronger than humans?”

“Strength, I have in abundance,” he grumbled as he reached up to wipe his mouth with his leather sleeve. “Stamina is not my people’s domain. We are not endurance hunters like you – we are built for short bursts of speed.”

“Well, your women must be very disappointed,” she added as she skipped ahead of him.

“Enough fucking around,” Brenner ordered as he climbed up the next dune, his rifle in hand. “The signal is getting stronger – we’re almost there.”

They had been marching all day without stopping, skirting around the edge of the city where there would be no drones and the carrier wouldn’t have a reason to look, taking advantage of a break in the storms as the season neared its end. The sun had set, plunging the wasteland into a surprising chill, the icy moon casting its pale light bright enough to see unaided. Petrova found it beautiful in a kind of cold, lonely way.

“Form up,” Brenner said, kneeling at the crest of the dune and resting his rifle on the cool sand. “Harley – get us a bird’s eye view.”

“Boss,” the Jarilan replied with a nod. He flipped open his hood, then cast his leather shawl to the ground, Petrova hearing a sound almost like creaking wood as the wing covers on his back began to open. Like a beetle taking flight, they rose to reveal a set of four gossamer wings, the appendages creating an ominous hum and displacing the nearby sand as they began to beat. As much disdain as she had for the creature, it was still quite the sight to watch him rise above the dunes – a mythical fairy armed to the teeth with high-powered railguns and a rig full of mags. His antennae waving in the breeze, he continued up, soon becoming a small speck in the starry sky.

“Will he give away our position?” Petrova asked as she neared Silverback.

“Barbosa thinks he controls the sky,” the agent replied as he watched the alien zip away. “His people have no reason to look up. We’re gonna teach them the error of their ways.”

“Patching in,” Brenner said, reaching up to touch the panel on the side of his helmet. They couldn’t use radio, but laser comms would work fine as long as everyone was in direct line of sight. Petrova followed suit, tapping into the data feed that was shared between the squad, seeing a view from Harlequin’s perspective appear in-picture on her helmet’s HUD.

Like a living surveillance drone, he was soaring above the clouds, the cameras on his helmet scanning the desert for miles around. It didn’t take him long to find their target in the almost featureless expanse, the view telescoping in to track a small convoy of four vehicles, their desert camouflage doing little to conceal them as they kicked up torrents of dust in their wake.

“They’re about three klicks out, heading North at a decent clip,” he announced.

“Keep eyes on them,” Brenner replied. “The rest of you – fall in and pick up the pace.”

“Fucking hell,” Reed muttered under his breath as he began to jog again.

They traversed the dunes, the Jarilan keeping them apprised of the enemy’s movements. Petrova wasn’t sure what the PDF were doing out here – her captors still hadn’t told her – but it couldn’t be anything good if it was happening so far from the city. As far as she knew, there was nothing out this way. It was beyond even the ASAT launch sites.

As they traversed the dunes, the Jarilan gave them an update. The trucks had stopped in a seemingly random patch of desert, and they were unloading, PDF troopers piling out of the backs of the vehicles. She watched through the alien’s eyes as more figures followed, their hands bound and their heads hooded. The PDF treated them roughly, pushing and shoving, one of them jabbing his captive in the back with the barrel of his rifle. There were soon a dozen prisoners and twice as many troopers standing in the sand, the trucks illuminating them with their floodlights, the bound figures made to kneel in a row.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening here.

As she watched, three more figures disembarked from the lead truck, their gait giving them away before their black armor had even resolved on the cameras. They were SWAR agents. There was no audio from so far away, but one of the operatives gestured as he gave the PDF orders, and some of the troopers began to fan out to create a perimeter. The rest kept the captives at gunpoint as the agent walked down the line, tearing off their hoods one by one.

The prisoners seemed confused, glancing around and blinking against the harsh floodlights as the agent began to pace. He seemed to be giving them some kind of lecture, walking up and down the line, pausing occasionally to look down at them through his visor. She didn’t recognize the decal – it was an Asian character – maybe Chinese.

He waved to one of the troopers, and the man left to retrieve something from the nearest truck, emerging with something bundled in his arms. It looked like a tarp. Only when he tossed it to the ground in front of the kneeling prisoners did Petrova see that it was filled with shovels. The agent pointed to them, and a heated argument ensued, ending with one of the PDF bashing the dissenter in the back of the head with his rifle butt.

As the two remaining SWAR flanked them, the prisoners were made to rise at gunpoint, each one stooping to pick up a shovel. They began to dig.

“What is happening?” Ruza asked. He didn’t have a helmet that fit him, and he couldn’t see what was being broadcast on the feed.

“Looks like the Borgs are making the Union leaders dig their own graves,” Reed replied. “Real class act, these guys.”

“At least that should buy us some time to reach them,” Rivera grumbled. “Cruelty is inefficient.”

“Take a look, Petrova,” Reed added with a sneer. “This is what Barbosa has been doing. Is this what you stand for? Is this your idea of turning Hades into a utopia?”

“That…that can’t be the whole story,” she replied, her mind racing as it churned through the possibilities. “They must have-”

“What?” Reed pressed, sounding angrier now. “They must have done something to deserve it? Is that what you were going to say? We know who’s on the list, Petrova. They’re not criminals – they’re not even resistance fighters. These are the Union leaders who opposed Barbosa’s occupation. He picked them up during the riots for the crime of protesting and organizing strikes. These are political prisoners.”

“He would never order this!” she snapped, feeling her stomach twist as she watched one of the SWAR agents knock a prisoner to the ground with a punch when he threw down his shovel. “This has to be something else! It doesn’t even make sense – what would he gain from killing the people in charge of the factories and mines?”

“It is far simpler and more brutal than you imagine,” Ruza replied. “Perhaps so simple that the obvious truth of it eludes you. Barbosa removes those with the power and the will to oppose him. The more power he gains, the more brazen he can become.”

“Unlike our new pal Brenner, you still have a pair of eyes in your skull,” Reed added. “Stop trying to rationalize and use them.”

Without a retort, Petrova didn’t have much choice other than to stay silent and watch events unfold. The prisoners were still digging at gunpoint, excavating a deep trench in the sand. Miners were good at digging – who knew. She was most perturbed by the presence of the operatives. She’d had run-ins with corrupt PDF before, and she knew from personal experience that they were poorly disciplined and jumpy. The SWAR agents were another matter entirely. If they were here, it meant that they were the conductors of this grisly orchestra, and they had all of the discipline and training that she did. There was no easy way to explain away their actions.

She had to find out more.

As they drew closer, Harlequin gave them another warning over the comms.

“Things are getting dicey down there. You guys may want to hurry. I don’t think our new friends are the patient sort.”

“Trident formation,” Brenner ordered as he began to jog faster. “Five left, five right, everyone else, down the center with me. I want overlapping fields of fire – you know the drill.”

The SWAR agents split off to flank left and right, while the rest of the team followed Brenner. They were close now, the Commander raising a fist to order them to stop as he reached the top of a large dune.

“This’ll do,” he began. “Ruza – Vos told me that you’re a crack shot. Get up here.”

Ruza ran past Petrova and mounted the slope, his wide paws giving him a lot of purchase in the loose sand. He lay down beside Brenner, aiming his rifle over the lip – a position that he had clearly fired from many times before.

“Get a bead on that guy with the symbol on his visor,” Brenner ordered. “Can you hit him from here?”

“I have the shot,” Ruza replied, shifting his weight and bringing the scope closer to his eye. “I await your order.”

Rivera joined him, while Reed stuck close to Petrova at the foot of the dune, watching her closely.

“Don’t you try anything,” he muttered, gripping his rifle beneath his cloak.

“I won’t!” she hissed, turning her attention to the feeds.

She watched from Harlequin’s high perspective as the agents moved into position, two teams of five flanking to the left and right, keeping to the cover of the dunes. They were highlighted on the feed, their closed comms network broadcasting their IFF signatures. The teams set up overlapping fields of fire, staying low to the sand, the forty-five degree angle ensuring that there would be no danger of a crossfire. A high-powered railgun slug could pass through a surprising amount of matter without shedding much of its energy.

The Jarilan advanced, coming to a hover directly above the convoy, using the sensor suite in his helmet to pick out targets in red. He highlighted some two dozen PDF and the three agents, then honed in on the civilian prisoners, marking them as friendlies. The system was linked to attachments on their guns and would calculate ballistic trajectories, preventing the weapon from firing if one of the friendlies was in the slug’s path. The data was synced between all of the team members, bouncing between them on the laser signals.

The prisoners seemed to be done, and the PDF troopers began to shove them towards the newly dug trench, lining them up in front of it and dropping them to their knees with swift kicks to the backs of their legs. The lead SWAR agent approached them from behind, appearing to speak.

“Out of time, Boss,” Harlequin warned.

“Drop a screamer on ‘em,” Brenner ordered.

“Screamers?” Ruza asked, keeping his eye to his scope.

“Jamming grenades,” Brenner explained. “They saturate local radio frequencies until their batteries run down.”

Petrova watched as the Jarilan let his rifle hang from its sling, bringing all four of his segmented arms to bear and plucking four grenades from his vest. Two of them were flashbangs, one was a smoke, and one of them was a canister-shaped device about the size of a soda can with a prominent red button on the top. While UNN helmets were hardened against concussive and optical weapons, and their thermal cameras could see through the smoke, it might panic and disorient the less experienced PDF.

“Whoops!” Harlequin chuckled, pulling pins and pressing buttons as he tossed the grenades from the sky.

It took them a few seconds to reach the ground, then a series of cracks rang out, the flashbangs creating bright pulses of light and deafening blasts that echoed across the dunes. The smoke was billowing before the grenade had landed, bouncing and rolling across the sand, an obscuring wall of white engulfing the confused troopers. Last came the screamer, the PDF clutching at their helmets and doubling over in pain and alarm as it flooded their comms channels with blaring static.

Brenner fired the first shot, a hypersonic crack ringing out as the weapon rocked into his shoulder, the displaced air kicking up a puff of sand near its barrel. That was the signal, and everyone else followed suit, the sound of precision semi-auto fire filling the air. Through the feeds, Petrova watched half of the PDF drop in the first salvo, the troopers falling lifeless within mere seconds of one another. Slugs shattered visors and punched through chest plates, crimson blood soaking into the sand, the impacts knocking the targets to the ground as though they’d been sucker punched by invisible assailants.

The SWAR agents were the most dangerous units on the field, and they were priority targets, Petrova watching as one of them was brought down by a single shot from Ruza’s long rifle. He lived up to his reputation, landing a shot on the lead agent’s visor without all of the machine-assisted trajectory calculations and recoil compensation afforded by a networked helmet.

The agent was dead before he’d even realized what had happened, fragments of brain matter and pieces of his helmet spraying out behind him. Another of the operatives followed suit, a slug blowing a hole in his chest plate and throwing him back against the side of a truck. The third one had reacted more quickly to the grenades, throwing himself into cover between two of the vehicles just in time to avoid the hail of gunfire that came his way, the slugs sparking off the armored panels.

There was no evidence of where the rounds had come from, save for the subtle trails of molten metal they left in the air and the swirling holes they punched in the spreading smoke.

The surviving PDF were organizing now, throwing themselves to the ground and using the dunes for cover, taking refuge behind their armored trucks. Without knowing the locations of the shooters, a few of them crawled beneath the APCs, a couple of them hopping down into the grave to use it as a foxhole. The dazed civilians knew enough to keep out of the way, lying prone on the cold sand and covering their heads protectively.

“Push in!” Brenner ordered. “Silver – suppress them!”

Silverback rose from cover behind a dune, lifting a modified XMR. It was a medium frame equipped with a heavy barrel and a drum magazine, configured for use as a squad support weapon. With his massive arms, he wielded it as a normal person might wield an assault rifle, holding a forward grip situated beneath its folded bipod as he swung it around. He unloaded, his augmented limbs helping to control the recoil, the hot coils of the barrel already glowing beneath its shroud as he fired in full-auto. The hail of gunfire forced the more brazen PDF to ground, preventing them from mounting any kind of response as the smoke began to clear.

The rest of the agents took advantage to move in, half-sliding and half-running down the sloping dune they’d been firing from, bringing a torrent of loose sand with them. They began to sprint to close the hundred meters or so that separated them from the trucks, keeping low as Silverback’s hail of slugs whizzed a scant foot above their heads. By the time he’d emptied the first one-hundred-round mag, they had reached their target.

Wasp had accelerated ahead of her companions, her prosthetics built for speed, each step kicking up a cloud of dust behind her. Instead of a rifle, she had a machine pistol clutched in one hand. She barreled through the drifting smoke, which did nothing to obscure her vision, honing in on the nearest PDF trooper like a heat-seeking missile. Practically flying across the sand, she launched herself over a low dune, her prosthetic legs propelling her light frame with an ease that made her look like she was in low-G.

If her target saw her coming at all, he didn’t react in time, all of that momentum culminating in an elbow to his visor. The glass didn’t break, but his neck did, the blow snapping his head back at an unnatural angle and sending him crashing to the ground. The impact barely slowed her down, and she brought her handgun to bear on another trooper, a chatter of gunfire turning his chest plate to Swiss cheese.

The rest of the team were close behind, marching through the smoke, their rifles raised. They were as quick as they were efficient, having already located their targets thanks to Harlequin, firing off controlled bursts. Petrova hadn’t really seen this kind of assault from afar before – she was usually charging in there with them, the simple speed with which they dispatched the scattered troopers giving her pause. Was this what she had looked like to Fran and the others during her alleyway fight?

The second team had approached from the other side, mopping up a few remaining enemies, Komodo double-tapping one of them in the back as the man scrambled out from beneath a truck. Some of the agents stood over the civilians to protect them, but discouraged them from rising, swinging their weapons around as they scanned for targets.

“Is that everyone?” Brenner demanded, rising and starting to move over to join them. Petrova followed, Reed and Ruza flanking her while Rivera forged ahead with the Commander. “Harley?”

“Still one agent unaccounted for,” the Jarilan replied as he scanned the site from the air. “Nothing on thermals. Check the trucks.”

The agents turned their attention to the vehicles, aiming their weapons at the rear doors. There were four of the transports parked in a rough line, two operatives approaching each one as Wasp and the newly arrived Silverback kept watch over the prisoners.

One by one, they threw open the doors to the troop bays, swinging their rifles inside and checking the interiors. Eventually, there was only one left, the team forming a firing line as Komodo and Kingfisher prepared to breach. As Komodo reached for the handle, the door snapped open, hitting him hard enough to knock him off his feet. The concealed SWAR agent leapt out into the moonlight, putting Kingfisher between him and the guns, forcing the others to hold their fire lest they kill their comrade along with him.

Kingfisher’s assailant swung a left hook, the agent dodging beneath the blow, the prosthetic fist impacting the other door to leave a dent in the metal. Petrova caught a glimpse of his decal – a stylized cobra with a flared hood.

“Hold your fire!” Brenner yelled as he began to sprint towards them – still some fifty meters away.

Kingfisher tried to angle his rifle towards his enemy, but the opposing agent gripped its barrel in his hand, ripping it away and snapping its sling like twine. In the same motion, Cobra drew his sidearm from his hip with his off-hand. Kingfisher grabbed it before it could be brought to bear, a trio of rounds punching into the sand between his boots.

Kingfisher kicked the weapon out of Cobra’s hand, and the pair exchanged a series of swift punches, their prosthetics moving so fast that they were almost impossible to track. They juked and dodged, the sound of metal on metal and creaking polymer ringing out where their blows found their marks. Kingfisher blocked a swift right hook with his forearm, the blow powerful enough to break bone but posing little threat to his augs. He responded with a swift jab to the helmet, hitting Cobra in the visor and knocking him back a few paces, but the helmet protected its wearer.

Petrova had seen SWAR agents spar before – she had wiled away many an uneventful evening training with her comrades in a carrier’s gymnasium – but she had never seen two operatives genuinely try to kill one another. The speed and ferocity were something to behold.

They were very evenly matched, Cobra delivering an oblique kick in an attempt to destroy Kingfisher’s knee that was blocked as he raised his shin. Cobra got in a kidney punch that made Kingfisher stagger back a few paces, briefly clutching at his side before composing himself and raising his fists again. Unlike his limbs, his torso was still organic, and a punch to the right area could rupture organs or shatter bone.

Cobra was careful to stay close to his opponent, knowing that a single opportunistic round from an XMR would take him down. Komodo was back on his feet again, but was struggling to get an angle on him, shifting his aim as the two exchanged blows. Petrova wondered what the point of this even was. Cobra had to know that he couldn’t win, and there was no escape even if he did, but perhaps machismo was winning out over logic.

Sticking close to the truck, Cobra swung his left leg in a sweeping roundhouse kick, Kingfisher dodging out of its reach by a hair. The agent’s shin connected with the APC’s tail light, shattering the glass and denting its frame, the limb undamaged save for a scuff on its black polymer finish. Kingfisher took advantage, stepping in to deliver a trio of swift punches, two of them connecting with Cobra’s segmented torso armor. The third hit him in the visor, the glass cracking this time, forcing Cobra to grip the bustle rack on the back of the APC to keep himself upright.

Cobra unsheathed a long combat knife and slashed at Kingfisher in the same fluid motion, cutting a furrow across his ceramic chest piece and severing one of the straps that held up his chest rig. On the back foot now, Kingfisher danced away as Cobra’s knife whistled through the air, narrowly missing with each strike. Lunging forward, the enemy agent plunged his knife towards his opponent’s belly, giving Kingfisher no choice but to block it. The sharp point of the blade bit into his forearm, stabbing through the polymer and embedding itself in the machinery beneath. It was stuck, Cobra unable to withdraw it, the moment giving Kingfisher the opening he needed.

He gripped Cobra’s wrist in his hand, the housing crumpling in his fist, the pressure enough to crush the aug like it was made of sheet metal. His boot came to rest on Cobra’s chest, and he kicked, keeping his hold on the agent’s arm. It tore away at the shoulder, Petrova wincing as she watched the tiny hair-like wires that welded the machinery to his nerves pull loose, exposing them to the air. She could see the scar tissue beneath the protective gel cover, the socket that joined the prosthetic to his skeleton still attached to a few hanging chunks of electronics. It must have felt like a thousand toothaches hitting him all at once, but Cobra recovered quickly as Kingfisher tossed the severed aug to the sand.

Cobra came at him again, leaping off the ground and raising his leg, bringing his heel down towards Kingfisher’s head like a falling hammer. Kingfisher lifted both hands and caught it, weathering the strike and pushing forward, throwing his assailant off balance. Cobra fell to the sand, and Kingfisher fell upon him, drawing back a balled fist. He brought it down hard enough to smash the agent’s visor inward, blood splattering his armor as the fragments cut into Cobra’s face. Cobra tried to fight him off, but he was already weakened, the next blow embedding Kingfisher’s fist deeper inside the helmet than an intact skull would have permitted.

Kingfisher rose to his feet, withdrawing a hand that was painted red with gore, his shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath. A couple of his fellow agents moved in with their weapons aimed at the body, but there was no point checking for a pulse.

“Fucking hell!” Reed exclaimed as he came jogging over to the grisly scene. “Now I understand why those augs are illegal!”

The rest of the team weren’t far behind, Brenner hurrying over to Kingfisher and sitting him down on the lip of the truck’s troop bay, starting to examine his damaged arm. Ruza headed straight for the civilians, already slinging his rifle across his back and reaching for the medkit on his belt. Petrova waited with Reed beside Cobra’s body, trying not to stare too intently at what little remained of his face. Bodies littered the area, their blood soaking into the sand beneath the pale moonlight, the team fanning out to secure the perimeter in case of reinforcements.

“Bergmann!” Rivera yelled, starting to jog over to the prisoners. Reed followed, the two men greeting one of the civilians warmly, exchanging vigorous handshakes and one-armed embraces. Petrova recognized the Union leader – an older man with a beard that hadn’t been tended during his captivity.

“Cutting it a little close there, aren’t you?” Bergmann said with a relieved laugh. “I’m glad to see you all alive. The Borgs picked me up during the protests, and they told me the base had been attacked. I had no idea what was true, or if any of you had made it out. What’s happened?”

“There will be plenty of time to catch up during the walk home,” Reed replied, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

“These guys are with you?” Bergmann asked, glancing at the SWAR agents warily.

“Long story,” Rivera said. “Let’s focus on getting everyone out of here first.”

“The screamers will have blocked any signals they tried to send to the carrier,” Silverback explained as he lumbered closer, his squad support weapon still in hand. “I doubt they’ll send someone to check on these guys for a while.”

Reed, Rivera, and a couple of the agents helped the prisoners to their feet. Some were a little worse for wear, sporting bruises and cuts, but everyone was mobile enough to walk unaided. Ruza still fussed over them, crouching to inspect them as a human doctor might while tending to a child, shining a flashlight in their eyes to check for concussions and applying adhesive bandages to the more severe injuries. It was just like Amy said. These people had been mistreated – probably as a way of obtaining information.

“Yohanes!” Reed chuckled, hauling one of the men to his feet. “Regretting your life choices yet?”

“You could say that,” Yohanes grumbled, brushing some of the sand off his shirt. The prisoners had been transported in the trucks, and they were wearing only their civilian attire without the protective leather gear and masks commonly used on Hades. They had shoes, at least.

Brenner called over one of the agents to examine Kingfisher’s arm. It was Halberd, the operative producing a small toolbox from his belt, opening it up to reveal a suite of tools and spare parts. It was an amusing contrast with Ruza – SWAR needed both medics and technicians to repair battle damage.

As Ruza placed a bandage over a civilian’s swollen eye, Reed noticed that a couple of the agents were stripping their fallen counterparts of equipment and ammo, rubbing his hands together as he approached them.

“You’re clearly new to grave robbing, so why don’t you take some pointers from an expert?”

He knelt beside one of the fallen SWAR agents and turned the body over with some effort, starting to rummage through his chest rig, tossing magazines and a handgun to the ground beside him.

“Got an intact helmet here that Petrova can use,” he announced, pulling it off the fallen agent’s head and reaching inside it. “Seems good. We should take the limbs, too. You guys know how to like…detach them, yeah? Looks like your buddy over there could use a replacement,” he added with a gesture to Kingfisher.

“That’s not how they work,” Rancher explained as he watched Reed turn out the dead agent’s pockets. “They’re customized for each wearer’s needs – tailored to their physiology.”

“Spare parts then, I don’t fucking care,” Reed continued as he lifted one of the limp prosthetic arms and waved it around experimentally. “These things look fucking expensive. Maybe I can sell ‘em.”

“Why don’t you show some respect?” Rancher added, taking a step closer.

Reed began to laugh, then stopped when Rancher didn’t react.

“Wait, you’re serious?” he scoffed. “We’ve been fighting an insurgency down here, pal. We’ve had to scrounge and steal whatever we can get. My guys have been going up against PDF patrols using slag rounds made from melted-down scrap metal and eating refried beans straight from the can. If this guy deserved any respect, which he doesn’t, I’d still strip him for parts.”

Reed sat down and began to compare the dead man’s boots to his own, Rancher taking another step closer. Wasp appeared at his side and put a hand on his chest, shaking her helmeted head.

“Leave it, Rancher.”

“Yeah, better listen to her,” Reed added. “Ranch Dressing, or whatever your name is.”

“If anyone is going to kill him, it’s going to be me,” Wasp hissed.

Brenner walked over to them, clearing his throat to get their attention.

“We’re moving out!” he announced. “Pack away whatever ammo and useful equipment you can carry. We don’t want to stick around here for longer than we have to. Ruza – are the civilians good to move?”

“Their injuries are superficial,” the Rask replied with a nod.

“Good to hear,” Brenner continued. “Give them your cloaks and jackets. They’re a lot more susceptible to the elements than we are with our survival suits. If any of you feel that you can carry some extra weight with you, it would be appreciated,” he added as he addressed the prisoners. “We’re taking you back to a secure location that the enemy doesn’t know about. It’s a bit of a trek, but you’ll be safe there.”

Some of the civilians still seemed wary of their liberators, but they were glad of their stay of execution, accepting the garments as the agents handed them over.

“Thank you so much,” one of the prisoners said as Petrova passed him her cloak. “You saved our lives – I don’t know if we can ever repay you.”

She was taken aback for a moment, the civilian mistaking her for one of Brenner’s people. Not knowing what to say, she watched as the man slung the leather garb over his shoulders and wrapped it tight to protect him from the cold.

There was a sudden thud as Harlequin dropped from the sky, landing on top of the nearest APC and perching there like a gargoyle.

“Coast is clear, Boss,” he announced.

“Fuck!” Reed exclaimed, dropping his new boot as the sound made him lurch. “Will you stop fucking doing that!?”

“Move out,” Brenner ordered with a wave of his hand.

They collected the last of the spoils and began their journey back, leaving the grisly scene behind them, the convoy of parked trucks fading into the night. The agents formed a protective perimeter around the civilians as they walked, slowing down to match their pace, Brenner leading the way while Harlequin flitted about overhead.

The resistance leaders trailed behind the group, taking the opportunity to catch up now that they were finally reunited for what must be the first time since the battle. Rivera, Reed, and Ruza seemed chummy with Bergmann. To Petrova, Bergmann was the leader of a terrorist organization, and she had never imagined him smiling and chatting like this. Despite his bruised face, he appeared to be in high spirits, listening intently as his friends brought him up to speed on everything that had happened during his incarceration.

“Amy and Omar are safe?” he asked. “Thank goodness. I thought the Borgs were just trying to scare me into talking when they told me the base had been destroyed, but I’m sorry to hear it’s all true. No sign of Astrid?”

“We lost a lot of people, and a lot more were scattered after the attack,” Reed explained. “We’re not done yet, though. Agent Brenner has a plan, and we have enough people to get it done.”

“That was quite the rescue you guys pulled off,” Bergmann continued. “How did you know where we were?”

“The Governor tipped us off, of all people,” Rivera replied. “Seems he’s had a change of heart.”

Ruza slowed, matching pace with Petrova. She was walking apart from the others, keeping some distance from them as she mulled over the day’s events.

“Are your limbs functioning?” he asked.

“What?” Petrova replied, glancing up at him in confusion. “Uh…yeah. I’m just…thinking.”

“Are you cold?” he added, noting that she had crossed her arms.

“I suppose,” she replied.

He shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It was surprisingly heavy and large enough to serve as a cloak to her. There was a soft lining on the inside, and it was still tangibly warm.

“This isn’t a Hadean jacket,” she said, examining the decorative gold buttons and the embossed designs that had been pressed into the leather. They looked like crude hunting or battle scenes.

“It is my own,” he explained. “Hades has a climate very similar to my home territory, and we suffer the same shifts in temperature. Protective leather garments such as these are common.”

“Is this lining supposed to be a stab vest?” she asked skeptically.

“We live lives of conflict.”

“I have been to the Rask territory, you know,” she added. “I just didn’t stay particularly long.”

“I suppose that our culture and customs were of little interest to you.”

“I wasn’t there as a tourist.”

“Understandable,” he conceded. “I wondered if we might speak of what you saw earlier.”

“Come to gloat already?”

“Gloat?” he repeated, tilting his head as he lumbered along beside her. “I simply wished to ask what you believe happened earlier. I want to hear your perspective.”

“My perspective is that I don’t know what the hell is going on anymore,” she sighed. “You want to know what I saw, objectively speaking? I saw PDF units and SWAR operatives allied with Barbosa carrying out a mass execution. Based on the location and their treatment of the prisoners, it was pretty clearly extra-judicial, and it’s not a stretch to suggest that it was politically motivated based on the identities of the prisoners.”

“Good,” Ruza said, seeming relieved. “Then you are not in denial about what you witnessed.”

“What I don’t know is why,” she continued, struggling to spread her arms beneath the heavy jacket. “Who ordered the execution, and why? Was there a trial? If so, who carried it out? What were the charges? I can’t imagine that Barbosa would do this, but could it have been one of his Lieutenants instead? Roach and Crow would do it – so would Song.”

“Song?” Ruza asked, one ear pricking up.

“Never mind,” she grumbled, not wanting to give too much away.

“You wish to shift the blame,” Ruza began. “These Lieutenants are certainly cruel, yes, but they carry out Barbosa’s orders. Whether he condones their cruelty or not, he remains responsible for their actions. After learning of the coming famine, and how Barbosa’s plans were kept from you, is it so difficult to imagine that your Commander may have withheld other details of his operations? Does it not benefit him to remove his enemies and opponents in secret if he has the power to do so?”

“No man, no problem,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?” Ruza asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. “An old saying from my homeland. Listen, Ruza,” she continued. “I’ve known Barbosa for a long time. I’m closer to him than anyone in his circle, and he’s told me things he hasn’t told anyone else. He trusts me, he confides in me, and he values my opinion. I just can’t believe that he would order something like this. There has to be some extenuating circumstance, or maybe his subordinates aren’t carrying out his orders properly. He can’t personally vet everything that happens on Hades, especially with all this unrest and chaos.”

“You are making excuses on his behalf,” Ruza chided. “In the UNN, officers are held responsible for the actions of those serving under them, is that not correct?”

“I suppose,” she conceded.

“In your position, I would look at my past interactions with Barbosa,” Ruza continued. “You say that he trusts you and values your counsel, but how does he show it? Telling someone that you value their advice and following it are two very different things. Trust must be demonstrated through action. When someone without scruples wants something from you, they will say whatever it takes to get it, but rarely will they act on their promises.”

“I’ve heard all this before,” she replied with a frown. “Your lectures are getting stale, Koshak. I just wish that I could talk to him,” she continued, her tone softening somewhat. “If I could get him alone in a room with a couple of drinks like old times and just hash it out, I’m sure I’d get an answer. You guys think he’s evil, and that makes sense based on what you know about him, but he hasn’t forced us to do anything. We followed him because we wanted to.”

“And he would have no need to coerce you if he was able to manipulate you into carrying out his will instead,” Ruza replied. “Our Matriarch sent us into war not with bayonets at our backs, but with the promise of restoring our people on her lips.”

“I’ll give you one thing,” Petrova said. “I don’t believe you’re trying to deceive me anymore. You didn’t set this up – you couldn’t have. You brought me here because you wanted me to see the truth as you see it. I still don’t know if you’re right, but you’re being straight with me, and I should be straight with you. You’ve earned that much.”

She reached into her mouth, feeling for a molar with her treaded fingertips, an unpleasant crunching sound filling her head as she tried to wiggle it loose. It came free, and she withdrew her hand, holding the tooth up to the moonlight. The molar was a replica of her real tooth, connected to the two adjacent teeth via an almost imperceptibly small bridge of wire.

“What…is that?” Ruza asked, giving her a concerned look.

“This is a concealed transmitter,” she explained, turning it over as she examined it. “I had it implanted so that even if I was captured and stripped of all my gear, I could still call for help. When crushed, it triggers a radio signal that broadcasts a distress call until its battery runs out. It wouldn’t have worked below ground, so I had to bide my time until you guys brought me topside. I’d only have one chance to use it.”

Ruza watched her cautiously, his round ears tracking her, his posture changing subtly as though he intended to rush her. Before he could act, she tossed the fake tooth over her shoulder, leaving it to be claimed by the sands. He looked back at her with an unspoken question in his reflective eyes, not understanding.

“Yeah, I could have called the carrier the moment you guys brought me out of the plant,” she explained. “If this had all been some big farce to fuck with me, there would already be dropships over your heads. I needed to see for myself.”

“And you are satisfied that we are speaking the truth?”

“I’m satisfied that you’re not lying to me,” she replied. “Those are not the same thing.”

“It is a start,” Ruza conceded.

“There’s clearly a lot going on here that I don’t understand,” Petrova continued as she scaled a dune beside him. “I can’t just go back and resume my duties like nothing happened. Not before I figure things out.”

“And that is all I can ask of you,” Ruza replied.

CHAPTER 28

DAY 53 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“It’s good to know that we finally have some backing from the Navy,” Bergmann said as he leaned his hands on the makeshift conference table in the mess. He was joined by the resistance’s leaders, along with a few of Brenner’s SWAR agents who stood nearby, overseeing the meeting. “It’s not the fleet I was hoping for, but it’s better than nothing.”

“They’re on their way, but we have to work with what we have right now,” Brenner replied, lifting a glass of water to his lips with his prosthetic arm.

“Do you really think this plan will work?” Omar asked. “It sounds like a long shot to me.”

“Which of our plans haven’t been long shots?” Reed scoffed. “This is how it’s always been. We play the odds, sometimes we win, and sometimes we roll snake eyes. There’s no way to be certain of anything.”

“I’m afraid that you put all of that effort into rescuing me, and I can’t offer you much in return,” Bergmann continued. “I can’t leverage any of my contacts out here, and I don’t have any legitimate power or influence to wield anymore. Barbosa has ruthlessly dismantled the Unions, and the base is gone, along with all of our stockpiles.”

“That wasn’t the only reason we rescued you guys,” Reed said, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table. He was wearing his newly acquired combat boots, making sure that the SWAR agents could see them. “We kinda like you, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I just feel so powerless now,” Bergmann sighed. “I’m still acting like the leader of the resistance, but I can’t really contribute anything anymore. It’s in Agent Brenner’s hands now.”

“They’re very capable hands,” Wasp added.

“They’d better be, considering how much of my tax money probably went towards them,” Reed muttered.

“Do you even pay taxes?” Wasp asked, turning to stare at him with her expressionless visor.

“That’s beside the point,” Reed replied.

“He’s still mad that we wouldn’t let him take those prosthetics,” she explained when Omar gave her a questioning look.

“I’m just saying,” Reed continued, spreading his arms as he balanced his chair on its back legs. “If it’s paid for with UN tax credits, it’s technically public property, and I own it already.”

“Would you steal a squad car using that logic?” Wasp asked.

“If there was an emergency, sure,” Reed replied. “Or if I wanted to for some reason. You can’t put me in a box.”

Wasp reached past Brenner and picked up a canteen from the table, tossing it at Reed’s head. He reached up to catch it reflexively, losing his balance in the process and toppling backwards with a clatter, his new boots rising into the air.

“Ah, you fucker!” he grunted from beneath the table.

Wasp folded her arms, her satisfied chuckling muffled by her helmet.

“Let’s try to show a little professionalism,” Brenner sighed.

“Sorry, Commander,” she replied as she straightened up.

“I’m gonna draw a cock on your helmet while you sleep so your friends can call you Dickhead,” Reed grumbled as he hauled himself up, rubbing the back of his head.

“The plan is sound,” Ruza added, steering them back on track. “We can spare a hundred men for each ASAT site, and with Brenner’s forces split, there will be six SWAR agents leading each group.”

“We’ll have Ruza with his AMR, and we’ll have Silverback with our SCPEL,” Brenner confirmed. “That’s two anti-materiel weapons for neutralizing the PCEs we expect to be guarding the sites. We’ll head to site Alpha. Tiger Lily can support Beta. With our resources stretched so thin, I don’t see that we have a choice.”

“Can she do it?” Silverback asked, directing his question at Harlequin.

“If anyone can, it’s her,” the Jarilan replied. “It’s like Reed said – none of our odds are great, so we just have to roll the dice and hope for the best. If we split our heavy weapons between both sites, and one of them gets taken out, the rest of the team will be sitting ducks. Those PCEs will roll over them like juggernauts.”

“Then it’s decided,” Rivera said. “All we’re missing now is information about which sites those MAST launchers are being moved to.”

“We only have two days left before we’re scheduled to contact the Courser,” Brenner replied. “I’m sending a team back to the city in the morning to link up with Reed’s people and find out whether the Governor has come through for us. We’ll be cutting it close, but that’s just the nature of operations like this.”

“And if he doesn’t come through for us?” Omar asked.

“Then we call off the op and wait for the fleet to arrive,” Brenner replied.

“Damn,” Omar hissed. “That would be months.”

“The value proposition of trying to take on the carrier and the station while those MASTs are still online just doesn’t make sense,” Brenner explained. “Can’t risk the ships and personnel.”

“Your guys should take some of the captured gear back with you,” Reed suggested as he picked up his chair. “As much ammo as we can spare. We raided the garrison armory before we bailed, so we have plenty of guns, but we ran so low on slugs that we were making them ourselves.”

“Silverback,” Brenner began, turning to his agent. “At first light, load up with as much gear as you can and take five men to the city. Get back here within forty-eight hours.”

“You got it, Boss,” he replied as he turned and marched out of the room.

“That’s it, then,” Omar said. “I guess all we can do now is wait.”

DAY 53 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

“You’re restoring my limbs?” Petrova asked, blinking back at the Rask in surprise.

“I thought it appropriate after your show of trust earlier,” Ruza replied, kneeling in front of the bed that she was sitting on and setting a toolkit down on the floor beside him. “I will restore them only to a level comparable to a normal human female of your age and build, but yes. It should make you more comfortable.”

“Sure you don’t want to check the rest of my teeth?” she joked as he produced a handheld device from his kit that resembled a scanner.

“I believe you,” he replied. “If you intended to betray us, you would have done so already.”

Unlike the last time he had worked on her prosthetics while she had been tied to a chair, the batteries were connected now, and she could feel his touch against her polymer skin as he ran a hand up her leg. She knew that he was simply feeling for the access panel on her outer thigh, and that this procedure was no different from servicing a rifle to him, but the sensation sent a shiver through her all the same. His hands were covered in sandy fur that was much softer than she had imagined, his fleshy pads protruding through it to give him some grip, the light touch of his claws like someone gently dragging their nails across her skin.

“Apologies,” he murmured, his senses always so keenly attuned to her.

“It’s fine,” she grumbled, the bed springs creaking as she shifted her weight on the mattress uncomfortably.

He found what he was looking for, using the tip of a sharp claw to pop the panel open and bringing the tool closer. It was a diagnostic device used to tune prosthetics, the Rask connecting a fine ribbon cable to a plug nestled in the exposed machinery, its little screen displaying a spinning loading icon.

“Do you find it strange that you’re tuning me up like I’m an engine or something?” she asked, trying to break the awkward silence as he tapped at the display with a stylus. His fingers were too large to use the touchscreen. “It must be different from treating organics.”

“Not particularly,” he replied, unplugging the device. “Your firmware should now be flashed. Tell me if you can feel this.”

He lifted her leg, positioning one massive hand beneath her thigh and another at her heel, supporting the limb as he flexed it gently. She felt like a doll in comparison to him.

“Yeah, the nerves are working,” she said.

“Can you move your toes?” he asked, watching as she wiggled the prosthetic digits. “Good. How does it feel?”

“A little stronger than before,” she replied.

“I did not tune them for speed during our outing,” he explained. “I did not want you fleeing.”

He worked on the other leg, performing the same test, Petrova trying not to react as she felt his fur tickle the sole of her foot. Next, he moved higher, popping the panel on her bicep. Once the limb’s functionality had been restored, he held her hand in his wide palm, pricking the ends of her fingers with his claw in the way a human doctor might use a pin to test her reflexes.

“Good,” he huffed, seeming satisfied.

“You did this with Fletcher?” she asked as he moved to the adjacent arm.

“I did,” Ruza replied. “I maintained his prosthetics for a time. After they were damaged, I helped to install his replacements, and I later tended to him after his transplant procedure.”

“How did that go?” she asked as Ruza plugged in the tool again.

“The surgery was remarkably successful,” Ruza explained, tapping at the display. “The limbs were cloned from his own tissues, so there was virtually no risk of rejection, and Jarilan Doctors are capable of incredibly precise and delicate work. They put even the UN’s best robotic tools to shame, let alone my humble skills.”

“It’s kind of strange to think about,” Petrova began. “When we become SWAR agents and we sign up for…y’know – the procedures, we accept that it’s a one-way street. There’s no expectation that we’ll get our mark-ones back when we clock out. There’s no retirement in our future. The technology to clone organs and tissues has existed for a long time, but it’s still extremely expensive, especially if you’re growing multiple adult limbs. The surgeries are difficult. The number of doctors and facilities that can perform them are limited. It seems hard to believe that the Jarilans just came in and solved that problem with a snap of their fingers.”

“Their ancestors were greatly skilled in genetic manipulation and biotechnology,” Ruza explained as he ran a claw down her wrist to check her response. She shivered, balling her fist.

“You say their ancestors like they weren’t still Betelgeusians five years ago.”

“These secret projects of yours,” Ruza began, touching a claw to her index finger. “Based on what little I was told of them, their purpose was to take captured Coalition technology and reverse engineer it for human benefit, is that so?”

“Yeah,” Petrova replied. “It was a chop shop, basically.”

“How is leveraging Jarilan biotechnology any different?” he pressed, his yellow eyes meeting her gaze. “Other than being given freely. I suspect that a simple mistrust of Jarilans has prevented the spread of this information throughout your ranks. SWAR are better positioned to benefit from it than most. In usual cases of traumatic amputation, the remaining nerves that are connected to the severed limb atrophy through disuse. With prosthetics, they are connected to the artificial limb and thus retain their functionality. This makes transplant a much easier proposition with better outcomes.”

“The augs are part of who we are,” she replied, pulling her newly tuned hand away from him. “We can’t just…trivialize all of the sacrifices we made. If we can just slap on a new arm like nothing happened, what was it all for?”

“Then, your attachment is more cultural or tribal in nature,” Ruza mused.

“Don’t talk like that,” she grumbled, crossing her arms defensively. “I’m not some curiosity to be examined.”

“I meant no offense,” he said with an apologetic tilt of his head. “I merely wished to point out that your opposition seems based more on sentiment than logic. Having lost a war, I know well how it feels to have one’s efforts invalidated.”

“Everything has to be a lesson or a lecture with you,” Petrova complained. “It’s tiresome. I feel like you never speak to me like you’re a real person.”

“That is not my intention,” he replied, stowing his diagnostic tool. “I am older than I appear, owing to the genetic treatments that cured my sickness. I have lived long and traveled far, and I do not wish to see you repeat my mistakes. That is to say nothing of my trouble relating to humans…”

“You’re surrounded by humans,” Petrova scoffed. “What are you talking about?”

“These people are my friends,” Ruza explained. “I would die for any one of them. But they are not my pack, and they are not Rask. They cannot truly understand me or what I have left behind. To them, I will always be an alien, and that is no fault of theirs.”

“Why don’t you go back to Borealis to be around your own kind, then?”

“Other Rask would think me mad,” he replied with a chuff that might have been a laugh. “To reject the pack is to reject society itself. There are no allowances made or institutions in place for people like me.”

“So, what?” Petrova pressed. “You’d be like a vagrant or something?”

“I would have no status and no place in the social hierarchy,” he explained. “Rask society does not make room for those who are different or unusual. Were I to take a pack for appearances, I would surely become what I hate, and there would always be some greater Alpha presiding over me. I would never truly be free to live without their influence.”

“I’m surprised you can function in the resistance, then,” Petrova continued as she flexed her arm experimentally. “I’ve seen you take orders from Rivera and Brenner, and I assumed Bergmann was making most of the decisions before his arrest.”

“It took some adjustment on my part,” he replied with another huffing chuckle. “Fletcher told me something once during our talks. He said that no man is an island. I did not truly understand his meaning back then, but I see now that no individual can truly isolate himself from society – not without becoming a hermit. It is foolish – selfish, even – to live such a way. If we wish to share our lives with others, there must always be concessions.”

“That’s not really the meaning of that saying – not that it’s a bad lesson to take away from it,” Petrova said. “It’s from an old poem – one that Fletcher wouldn’t have known because he was an ingrate. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls – it tolls for thee.”

“What does it mean?” Ruza asked, his feline brow wrinkling in confusion.

“To summarize, every individual is part of a whole, and that whole is diminished when one of us leaves it. When someone dies, it wounds us all collectively. If Fletcher understood that poem, which I very much doubt, he might have been trying to tell you that you’re more valuable to the people around you than you realize. That they’re diminished without you.”

“You are educated in scholarly matters?” he asked, seeming impressed.

“Russians like poetry,” she replied with a shrug. “The bleaker and more morbid, the better. We’ve produced a lot of writers and philosophers between all the purges and executions.”

“We Rask are not great poets,” Ruza replied as he sat down on the bed opposite hers with a creak. “We sometimes record war speeches given on the eve of battle, and we have some skill in the weaving of tapestries and the carving of masonry.”

“Do you know any of these speeches by heart?”

“None that I would care to repeat,” he grumbled. “Wars fought over wealth and territory seem so purposeless now. So much blood has soaked my planet’s sand when infinite land and resources hung above our heads. If only we had turned our covetous eyes upward.”

“You were likely centuries away from a space program when we made contact,” Petrova replied. “Even then, with the high gravity of Borealis, I don’t know that you’d ever manage to break orbit. You’d need something far bigger and more powerful than a Saturn Five, which was the largest chemical rocket of its era.”

“You may be right.”

“See, we’re having a normal conversation now,” Petrova said with a smirk. “Was that so difficult?”

“I wish that we had more time, and that the situation was not so dire,” Ruza sighed. “We have only two days before Brenner’s operation must commence, and I have no choice but to press you. If you have come to a decision about where your allegiances lie, and if you have any information to share that might help us, I must ask. Anything that you can tell us about Barbosa could help save lives.”

“Even if he’s been lying to me, that doesn’t mean I’d help you,” Petrova replied as her smile morphed into a scowl.

“Why not?” Ruza pressed.

“Barbosa’s plan is still important!” she declared, spreading her arms in exasperation. “I don’t know everything that’s going on behind the scenes, and maybe there are things he’s kept from me, but I can’t believe that this was all for nothing!”

“You feel that there is no way back for you now – that you have done too much in his service, but that is not true,” Ruza insisted. “Is the man you have served so loyally the same man who would drive political prisoners out into the desert to murder them in secret? Is he the same man who would sabotage the food supply and plan the starvation of a colony to cement his rule?”

“He must have had his reasons!” she shot back, starting to lose her cool. “Sacrifices have to be made so that humanity has a place to wait out what’s coming!”

“And so any atrocity is forgivable as long as it serves this nebulous purpose?”

“No, but…you don’t know him like I do!”

“Nor do you,” Ruza replied. “What you know of him is based on the lies he has told you and the parts of himself he has chosen to reveal. Like turning over a stone, you now see the rot beneath, and you see that which he has tried to withhold from you. How can you rationalize what you saw in the desert today?”

“If I could just speak to him-”

“So he can tell you more lies?” Ruza asked, interrupting her. “So he can manipulate you into serving him once more? There is no truth in people like Barbosa – he will tell you whatever he believes will win your favor.”

“We chose to follow him! He didn’t manipulate us!”

“And that choice was predicated on a lie,” Ruza snarled, piling on the pressure. “The lie that the UN is under threat, that you are surrounded by secret enemies, and that Barbosa is the only one with the vision to see it.”

She could feel her face flushing hot with anger, her heart racing, her mind grasping at whatever straws were within reach. She couldn’t let him be right – she couldn’t face those consequences.

“How do you know that!?” she demanded.

“Because I have seen it!” he replied.

“I don’t have to listen to this,” she muttered, turning to the door. Ruza stopped her, extending a long arm to block her path. “Get out of my way!”

“You cannot run from this,” he insisted. “Look at what Barbosa has done to Hades and its people. Tell Amy and Bill and Ricky that they deserved what happened to them – that it was necessary. Tell Bergmann that his execution was a lesser evil. Tell the sick and the hungry that they must suffer in order for Barbosa’s dream to be realized.”

“I won’t help you!” Petrova snapped, trying and failing to push past him. Having her limbs so reduced only frustrated her further, and she let out a stifled yell of anger.

“Why?” Ruza demanded. “What compels you to resist the obvious truth?”

“Because it’s all still your fault!” she snapped, balling her newly tuned fists. “If it wasn’t for the resistance, a lot of people would still be alive!”

“How can you still believe that after everything we have shown you?” Ruza asked. It was the first time that she had seen his mask of serenity and detachment start to slip, his lips rising to show off his sharp fangs like a snarling wolf, his ears pressing flat against his sandy hair. “We have revealed Barbosa’s plans to starve the colony, and you have seen how he treats prisoners with your own eyes. You have spoken with the people here, and you must know that they are not crazed extremists or traitors. What more can you require before your eyes are opened? If you still mourn Hoff-”

“Not Hoff,” she interjected, shaking her head. “It’s your fault, not the resistance.”

“Me?” Ruza asked, not understanding. “If I have killed a friend of yours…”

“You don’t even know,” she said, choking back a bitter laugh. “I wasn’t dealing with security when I was deployed to Hades. Barbosa had me training recruits. I selected the best that the PDF had to offer and molded them into a new generation of SWAR operatives. I prepared them for the surgeries.”

“We were aware that you were responsible for recruitment,” Ruza said, wary now that he was treading uncertain ground. “We were told that Barbosa intended to butcher those recruits and turn them into cyborgs for his army.”

“Butcher?” Petrova scoffed, giving him an angry look. “The same thing happened to me. I chose it, just like they did. Am I butchered? After all the trouble you caused by killing Hoff and sabotaging our operations, Barbosa reassigned me and gave me a new mission – to assassinate you. It meant that I had to leave at the worst time. I couldn’t be there when my recruits needed me. I couldn’t be there for Tom…”

“Tom?” Ruza asked, narrowing his yellow eyes. “Who is Tom?”

“He was just a kid,” she muttered, staring at the floor now as hot tears began to sting her eyes. “Just a stupid kid. I wanted to be there for him – I told him that I’d come back for him, but he…”

“He did not survive the procedure,” Ruza deduced with a solemn shake of his head.

“A hundred recruits!” Petrova snapped, swiveling to face him. “A one-percent chance, and it had to be him! Why!? Why couldn’t it be someone else!? Why did he have to die? It’s all your fault!” she added, crossing the couple of feet that separated them and jabbing an accusing finger in his face. “If you had never come to Hades, I wouldn’t have been sent away when he needed me! Maybe there wouldn’t have been any need for surgeries at all!”

“I had no hand in this,” Ruza protested. “It was Barbosa who ordered those surgeries. It was Barbosa who sent you away. Whether I was here or not, he always intended to make soldiers of the Hadeans. He must have known that there would be casualties with such invasive procedures – his surgeons would have told him as much, and he chose to proceed anyway.”

“It’s your fault!” she snapped, her voice wavering as she began to lose her composure. She raised a fist and brought it down on his broad chest, hitting him as hard as she could, but her limbs were so weak that he didn’t even feel a need to defend himself. He simply watched her in silence as she pounded his chest, the tears streaking down her cheeks.

Slowly, she burned herself out, sinking towards him and pushing her face into his jacket. She felt his massive arms cradle her as his leather muffled her sobs, all of the anger and hurt that she had been bottling up finally spilling out in a flood of confused emotions. She wanted to kill him, to be held by him – she didn’t even know anymore. He kept her close as she cried it out, waiting silently, perhaps sensing how much she needed the release.

They stayed that way for a few minutes more, the steady rise and fall of his chest calming her as her tears soaked into his jacket. Petrova couldn’t remember the last time that she had expressed her true feelings as herself – without the comforting safety net of a false persona or the ear of a patsy she never expected to see again. It hurt, but it was relieving, like snapping a dislocated bone back into place. She wasn’t even sure why the Rask cared enough to comfort her or why she welcomed his proximity so readily. He wasn’t really her friend, and she didn’t fully trust his motives, but perhaps any shoulder was better than none.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, clearing her nose with a sniff. “What happened to Tom isn’t your fault. I just…I needed to blame someone. If I could blame someone, I could kill them to make it right, and I wouldn’t feel so…powerless. I’m used to solving my own problems, but there was nothing I could do to protect him.”

“I told you of how I blamed the humans for what happened to me,” Ruza replied, his resonating voice oddly soothing now. It was deep and coarse, even when he was speaking softly, creating a vibration that she could feel throughout her whole body. “It took time for me to let go of that anger and realize who was truly responsible. It was not they who ordered me into the reactor room that day.”

“H-he wouldn’t even give me a few hours,” she finally said, her voice hitching. “I asked to stay to oversee the surgeries, and he wouldn’t let me.”

“Barbosa?” Ruza asked. “He did not grant you your request?”

“I think…you were right,” she conceded, lifting her puffy eyes to see him peering down at her. “He doesn’t back up his words with actions. He says he values my opinion, but he doesn’t listen to me when it’s important, and he doesn’t trust me when it matters. I do everything he orders me to do, but when I ask him for something important, he doesn’t budge. He told me that he wants me to take over the colony when he dies – that I’m his second in command – but how can he say that when he hides so much from me?”

“He named you as his successor?” Ruza asked, glancing down at her.

“Fuck, I might as well tell you,” she grumbled as she stepped back. She crossed her arms, pausing to dry her eyes on her shirt before continuing, her cheeks warming as she started to feel a little embarrassed about her outburst. “Barbosa is dying. He has Cascade Failure – it’s a disease that afflicts people with too many augs. His body is starting to shut down, and there’s no cure. Once his work on Hades is done, he expects me to take over and run things in his absence.”

“Cascade Failure?” Ruza asked. “Can you explain?”

“The way that he explained it to me, when you replace too many organs and too much bone, the body loses its ability to self-regulate. He said that organs don’t just perform simple functions like pumping blood or processing food – they’re part of a living system that artificial substitutes can’t wholly replicate. Hormone regulation, the immune system, the production of cells – it all goes out of whack. Without enough input and stimulation, your body thinks it’s dying.”

“This is a new concept to me,” Ruza mused.

“It’s a very new condition. He might be the first recorded case.”

“Barbosa must be one of the oldest and most heavily augmented people alive,” Ruza continued with a nod. “It stands to reason that he would be one of the first to succumb to such a disease. Human technology always seemed as magic to me – I did not consider that artificial organs might be imperfect in their function. I have never treated a patient who had more than a single organ or a few limbs replaced.”

“When you’re as augmented as Barbosa, there’s almost nothing of the original body left,” Petrova continued. “He knows that he doesn’t have long. I think that fact has been influencing his behavior.”

“He fears for his legacy, perhaps,” Ruza surmised. “He must act more hastily and rashly than he might otherwise due to his degrading condition. It explains some of the more questionable aspects of his plan. His goals must be achieved before his health fails him – corners must be cut.”

“The carrier docking at Mu Arae must have seemed like his last, best chance,” Petrova replied as she rubbed her arm. “He made a move with whatever resources and support he had at the time. A vulnerable carrier docking in the same system as a covert weapons lab without a CSG, just a jump away from a remote colony world? That kind of opportunity wouldn’t have come up again in his lifetime.”

“You must tell us everything you can about his operations,” Ruza pressed. “The locations of key personnel, troop movements, any vulnerabilities that we might exploit.”

“I…I need time to think,” she replied, raising a hand defensively and taking a step away from him. “I just can’t believe that it’s come to this. Fuck, how is this happening? What am I doing?”

“I understand,” Ruza replied, his tone softening somewhat. “It was not my intention to push you too quickly, even if we are short on time. Rest and think on it a while. I will be here when you are ready to talk.”

“About what happened just now,” Petrova began, finding herself unable to look him in the eye. “That was…a lapse. I don’t usually do that – it’s not who I am.”

“Expressing emotion does not make you weak,” Ruza replied. “Weakness is allowing your emotions to rule you, and I have not seen that to be the case. There is no need to apologize.”

“I’m not apologizing,” she replied with a scowl. “I’m just saying that it’s not how I usually act. Don’t expect it to happen again.”

“Seeking comfort is not-”

“I’m not!” she exclaimed, raising both hands this time as though trying to block out his words. “I am not seeking comfort. I’ve been through a lot of shit recently – that’s all. I had a lapse, and I’m good now.”

“I…see that you wish to be alone with your thoughts for a time,” Ruza said as he began to shuffle towards the door awkwardly. “I will give you some space to ruminate.”

“Alright!” she stammered, watching him leave.

As soon as the door had closed behind his tail, she began to pace around the room, weaving between the beds. Her limbs had been returned almost to their normal functionality, and she felt the urge to use them, the motion helping to jog her thoughts.

“What am I doing? What am I doing?” she hissed under her breath. “Get a fucking hold of yourself, Lieutenant!”

The truth about Barbosa and his plans, her grief over Tom, and Ruza’s involvement – all of the things she had been trying to swallow down had come surging up from within her like acid reflux. It had been too much – too great of a load to bear, and she had buckled under the weight of it.

She wasn’t ready to accept that the resistance were paragons of justice, but it was clear to her now that Barbosa was not the same man she had followed to Hades. If he had ever acted for the greater good, and if his subordinates had ever shared his vision, that was no longer the case. The level of suffering that he intended to inflict upon the colony and his treatment of the civilians could no longer be justified with utopian promises. Petrova couldn’t preside over a colony built on mass graves and famines. She wouldn’t.

But where did that leave her? She had given her life and her limbs to become a SWAR agent, and she had done it again to join Barbosa’s insurrection, each time leaving everything she knew behind. How could she turn her back on that when she had nothing else – no one else? There was no life and no identity for her outside of that.

It also meant that she was partially responsible for everything that had happened. She’d played a part in this, unwitting or otherwise, and she couldn’t just explain that away. While she might not have pulled the trigger that killed any Marines or innocent civilians, she had still enabled those who did, and she had been by Barbosa’s side throughout. She would have taken Ruza’s head, given the opportunity.

She stopped her restless pacing and sat down on one of the beds, covering her face with her prosthetic hands. There was that sensation of cold again – of hard plastic and metal, devoid of any human warmth. Perhaps that was the reason she had reacted to Ruza in the way that she had. How long had it been since she had felt the touch of another person? Hoff or Song would not have held her while she cried like that. They wouldn’t have given her any comfort.

“God, Tom,” she sighed as her eyes began to sting again. “I’m so sorry…”

DAY 53 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“We suspected as much,” Brenner said, leaning against the rust-streaked wall as he took a sip from his canteen. He and Ruza were standing in what had become the observation room of the plant – an old overseer’s office with empty window frames that looked out over the canyon beyond.

“You did not inform the rest of us?” Ruza asked, struggling to judge what the human was feeling with those empty sockets.

“Well, we didn’t have confirmation until Petrova spilled the beans,” the agent replied. “It doesn’t do much for us tactically, but it helps clarify some things.”

“He is unstable,” Ruza mused, glancing out of the empty windows at the tall rock faces beyond. “Dangerous.”

“I knew Barbosa before the war,” Brenner continued, fastening the cap on his canteen and stowing it on his belt. “He was my mentor, actually. You’re old enough to remember life before first contact, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Ruza replied. “I was much younger when the humans came, but I still remember it well, and the time before. To call it a shock would be an understatement. My people had barely begun to comprehend the concept of space travel, or that there might be life around other stars. Our knowledge of mathematics and physics was not advanced. We had barely developed simple telescopes, and our understanding of the stars was limited to navigation.”

“It was a little different for us,” Brenner continued. “We’d been spacefaring for centuries, and we were already hard at work colonizing the stars and fighting over them. SWAR was originally created to fight other humans. We’d take out terrorists, separatists, enemies of the UN – anyone who threatened the peace. That’s the world that Barbosa was raised in. Things weren’t as cut and dry as they are now. It was a time of suspicion and moral grays. The United Nations weren’t all that united back then.”

“That was when you encountered the insects?” Ruza asked.

“They hit us hard and they hit us fast,” Brenner replied, his clothes rustling as the dry wind blew in through the windows. “All of the things that we had been fighting so bitterly over suddenly became trivial practically overnight. Politics, territory, resources – the Bugs didn’t care about the petty differences that divided us. In a lot of ways, it was a real shot in the arm for humanity. Colonies that had been fighting against the UN were suddenly begging to join. Anyone under about thirty has never known a Galaxy without aliens, and you’d have to be at least forty to have any real memory of that time. That’s the environment that made Barbosa who he is.”

“Suspicion, internal conflict, and alien threats,” Ruza mused. “What makes humans like you and Admiral Vos different? You were raised during the same era, were you not?”

“You can’t teach someone who doesn’t want to be taught,” Brenner replied with a shrug. “Barbosa made up his mind about aliens on day one and never budged an inch. He made sure that he didn’t interact with them, and when we started to change our outlook, he isolated himself from us. There was a time not that long ago when I would have shot Harlequin on sight. This time a few years back, I was on Borealis killing Rask. The situation is always changing, and a good soldier has to change with it or be left behind. Being stuck in the past doesn’t win you wars in the present.”

“He reminds me of my former Matriarch,” Ruza replied. “She wanted to hold on to an obsolete way of life so badly that it destroyed her.”

“Glad that we see eye to eye on that matter,” Brenner muttered.

“Is there more that you wish to tell me?” Ruza pressed. “More that you have withheld about the coming operation? I do not believe that you have revealed every aspect of your plan to the resistance.”

“Listen, Ruza,” Brenner began with a sigh. “You have Vos’ vote of confidence, so I consider you one of us, but you have to understand my position. I’m leading a special operations team in deep cover behind enemy lines, and I have to work with whatever resources are available on-site. Half of the people here aren’t even Navy. One slip-up, and the whole thing could be blown wide open. If Barbosa somehow gets wind of what we’re planning, or where my ships are located, it’s all over. Success depends on the element of surprise. I have to protect operational security and my people along with it.”

“I do not imagine there is anything I can say that will change your mind.”

“No,” Brenner replied with a shake of his head. “But I’ll be able to share more soon. You did damn fine work with Petrova. If she’s finally ready to talk, there’s a lot that I’ll need to ask her about what Barbosa has been doing out here. He took something from Site Two – something far worse than a PCE. The Brokers have come all this way to get it back, and they never leave Trappist if they can help it. I think Petrova might know where it is.”

DAY 54 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

“Come,” Ruza said, opening the door. “It will not do to sulk down here in the darkness.”

Petrova rolled over in her bed and covered her face with a pillow to block out the light that bled in from the hallway, letting out a muffled groan into the fabric.

“Leave me alone, Koshak.”

“Breakfast is being served,” he continued. “Come and eat with us.”

“You sure you want me going topside without hobbling me so I can’t run away?”

“I do not believe that you pose any threat,” he replied. “You have no means of contacting your former allies, nor any desire, I expect. I see no reason to keep you confined here any longer.”

She sat up on the musty mattress, sliding the strap of her tank top back into place where it had crept down past her shoulder. She tucked her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them protectively.

“Do you really think they want anything to do with me?” she grumbled, staring at the wall. “Brenner and his team think I’m a traitor. The Marines want me dead. The civvies think I’m a tyrant.”

“These things are not true,” Ruza replied with a frustrated sigh. “This self-loathing serves no purpose and shall earn you no pity. Nobody cares that you feel badly.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” she sneered.

“Come and eat,” he insisted.

“Fine, fine,” she conceded as she tossed the pillow to the floor. “Let me get dressed.”

She threw on some clothes and followed the alien up past the guards at the door, climbing the stairs until the scent of food announced that she was nearing the mess. The door opened to tables surrounded by people, all of them sharing dishes and chatting, a few of them glancing up at her arrival. It didn’t take long for Petrova to spot Amy, who waved her over with a welcoming smile. Feeling the eyes of some of the less enthusiastic Marines following her, she made her way over, taking a seat at the woman’s table.

Amy was joined by some of her usual friends – the civilians Bill and Ricky were there, as was Reed. She was surprised to see Silverback there too – the giant operative holding a juice box that was dwarfed in his massive hand. She was struck by how normal he looked without his helmet on. Unlike Barbosa and Brenner, he didn’t have any significant scarring or conspicuously missing organs.

“Do this one,” Reed insisted, sliding an empty beer can across the table as Petrova sat down.

Silverback picked it up in his free hand, clenching his fist, the sound of creaking metal emanating from it. He dropped the crushed can on the table – now resembling little more than a wad of tissue. There were two more such wads, suggesting that Reed was making a game of it. Reed sifted through the remnants of the MRE packets that were strewn across the table, selecting a small portable cooking pot and sliding it over to the agent.

“Reed!” Amy complained. “We can’t afford to be wasting things like that.”

“Come on, we have a hundred of these things,” he protested. “Every other MRE comes with one. Nobody is using them.”

Amy rolled her eyes as Silverback picked it up, crushing the metal pot in the same way he had the can, Reed clapping like a child as the agent dropped it back on the table and took a loud sip from his juice box.

“At least they’re all getting along,” Amy said, giving Ruza a shrug as the alien sat down on the floor beside their table.

“Oh my God!” Reed exclaimed, his eyes widening as an idea occurred to him. “You two should arm wrestle! We can take bets!”

“I am not doing that,” Ruza grumbled, reaching for one of the MRE packets and stripping it open with his claws.

“Nobody knows how to have any fun around here,” Reed muttered, pouting as he settled back into his seat.

“You sleep okay?” Amy asked, passing Petrova some packaged food. “I think this a breakfast menu, but I’m not really sure. The Navy just calls them menu one, menu two, and things like that. Not the most creative people.”

“Thanks,” Petrova replied, taking it from her.

“I only ask because you look…”

“Like you were woken up with a shovel to the face after sleeping on broken glass,” Reed added, finishing her sentence.

“You do look poorly rested,” Amy continued apologetically. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I had a lot on my mind,” Petrova grumbled, taking a bite of a cold toaster strudel.

“Here, have some coffee,” Bill said as he reached over to pass her a collapsible cup filled with a dark fluid that certainly didn’t smell like anything resembling coffee.

It seemed that Ruza hadn’t shared the events of the prior evening with his friends. She had expected the news to travel quickly, but it appeared that he had respected her privacy. Was it because he was a doctor, and it was second nature to keep such matters confidential, or was it simple kindness? She glanced over at him, watching the alien consume a beef burrito in a single bite. It was impossible to know what was going through his head.

He had been right in his usual irritating way. All she really wanted to do right now was sulk in the dark on her own. After the turmoil of the night before, she had spent hours reflecting and thinking, her brain spinning like a hamster in a wheel. She felt unmoored now – her trust in Barbosa and the necessity of his plan gone, but with nothing to replace it. For as long as she could remember, she had been driven by clarity of purpose, knowing in her heart that she was fighting for the right side. Now, there was just an emptiness in its place. Without that purpose, she didn’t even know who she was anymore. She had no identity outside of SWAR.

Ruza’s prior words echoed in her mind.

This is not about punishment, revenge, or feeling sorry for yourself. It is about seeing through unclouded eyes, and working to help make things right before time runs out.

She could sulk and feel sorry for herself all day long, and it wouldn’t actually change anything. Nobody would show her any pity, and they weren’t out for punishment or revenge. Not most of them, anyway. A few of the Marines might still want to put a slug in the back of her head for what Barbosa had done on the carrier. Perhaps she could still make right with these people. There was still time to help them. Was that what she wanted, though?

Just because her trust in Barbosa had been broken didn’t mean that she was ready to throw in her lot with these insurgents, but what other options did she have now, knowing what he was planning for Hades? Did it even matter? Whatever Brenner was planning, he couldn’t stand up to Barbosa with the PCEs and the carrier at his disposal. The resistance had already been functionally defeated. The two most likely outcomes now were either that Barbosa would finish them off, or the Navy would depose him when they arrived. A lost cause was no better than a false one.

Still, as she watched these people chat and laugh together, she knew that they didn’t deserve their fates. Amy didn’t deserve to be beaten or starved or executed. Even the Union leaders like Bergmann, as instrumental as they had been in fostering the insurgency and stoking resistance, didn’t deserve to be dragged from their cells and killed in the manner she had witnessed. Fran and her friends wouldn’t have deserved to be shot by the PDF for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She ate her meal, simply enjoying being in the presence of others for a time. Ruza had been right, as usual. A little light and company had elevated the sour mood that she had gone to bed with, and she was feeling a little less dour.

“Petrova,” Ruza began, keeping his voice low. “My apologies – I said that I would not press you to share information – but Commander Brenner has been asking for your counsel. There is an urgent matter that he wishes to discuss that cannot wait.”

“I’m sure he has,” she sighed. “Alright. Take me to him.”

***

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” Brenner said as Petrova stepped into the room behind Ruza. He was alone, and they had chosen a very out-of-the-way storage area to have their discussion, which suggested he didn’t want the others to overhear. “I’m glad that you’ve come around.”

“I’m willing to share some information,” Petrova replied, folding her arms as she tended to do when she was feeling defensive. “That doesn’t mean I’m defecting. I still don’t really know what the hell is going on.”

“It’s something,” Brenner conceded. “It’s not too late to return to the fold, you know. There’s still a lot of good you can do.”

“Ruza said you had something urgent to ask me,” she continued, moving the conversation along.

“Indeed,” Brenner sighed, glancing between her and Ruza. “Before I begin, I want to preface that this is a very politically sensitive subject. I’d appreciate it if any information shared in this room doesn’t leave it without my prior clearance.”

“Alright,” Petrova said. Ruza replied with a nod.

“When Barbosa attacked Black Site Two, he wasn’t just looking for the PCEs,” Brenner began. “There was something else – something more dangerous on that station, and it’s not there now. I wanted to ask you if you’d seen it or if you might have some idea of where he might have taken it. It would be large. He’d need a Wombat landing craft to move it, at least.”

“Yes,” Petrova replied after a moment, her brow furrowing as she searched her memories. “There was something large that he took from the station. Whatever it was, it was boxed up and sealed inside a shipping crate. He used a lander to transfer it to the carrier. I just figured it was some more stolen equipment.”

“That would be it,” Brenner replied, his eyeless gaze somehow growing more intense. “Do you know if it’s still on the carrier? He didn’t bring it to the ground?”

“As far as I know, it didn’t leave the carrier,” she replied with a shake of her head. “The last time I saw it, the crate was sitting in the loading area beneath one of the hangar decks – near one of the armories. He only has the one lander, and he’s been using that to help ferry troops and supplies between the colony and the ship. It’s been some time since I was in orbit, so I can’t guarantee that he hasn’t transferred it after I was deployed.”

“Why is this crate so important?” Ruza asked suspiciously. “Is it some new weapon your people have devised?”

“In a sense,” Brenner replied, hesitating as he considered what more to share. “The project was codenamed Ursa Major. To oversimplify a very complex retrieval operation, an intact Broker combat drone was recovered from one of their former colonies and sent to Site Two. I probably don’t have to tell you that the Brokers are very stingy with their technology at the best of times, and weapons especially are banned from export. UN treaties with the Brokers even stipulate that we have an obligation to return any such technology that we find. Obviously, we didn’t do that in this case.”

“You wished to reverse-engineer it?” Ruza asked.

“The UN has a pretty strict ban on autonomous weapons,” Petrova explained. “There always has to be a human – or alien – making decisions about when to authorize lethal force. Broker drones can enter an AO under their own power, seek out targets, and eliminate them without any input from an operator.”

“Dire Contingency obviously broke a lot of those rules,” Brenner grumbled. “Based on the briefing Vos gave me, the purpose of the program was to replace alien auxiliaries in the event of a rift within the Coalition. That’s why the PCEs were designed – to replace aliens and make use of their surplus equipment. The Bullshark is as tough as a Warrior or a Krell, and it can fire heavy weapons that would be gathering dust in the event that humanity left the Coalition. There would be all of these large-frame XMRs and other gear that nobody could use lying around.”

“I can see how Admiral Vos would be attracted to such an idea,” Ruza added. “He wishes to cover all of his bases, as you say. With him, it is always plans upon plans.”

“If it’s any consolation, he became disillusioned with Dire Contingency and tried to shut the program down,” Brenner continued. “He saw it as an unnecessary waste of resources. It was also hilariously illegal.”

“What did they do with this drone?” Petrova asked, raising an eyebrow. “Drones aren’t really a threat on their own. We’ve wargamed scenarios where we’ve had to fight the Brokers, and we usually came out on top.”

“Brokers are very good at training neural networks,” Brenner explained. “We’ve obviously never heavily invested in using neural nets for warfare due to legal restrictions, and their computers are a hell of a lot faster than ours, so they’re decades – probably centuries ahead of us in that area. That’s a capability the architects of Dire Contingency wanted. Autonomous weapon systems would be a hell of a way to make up the numbers if all of our alien allies up and vanished.”

“Were they able to crack them?” Petrova asked.

“Not exactly,” Brenner explained. “The researchers couldn’t break the Broker encryption algorithms, but what they did manage to do was create an interface that would let the drone’s systems talk to ours. The Ursa Major is a fully autonomous weapon platform built on the Kodiak MBT hull, piloted by a slaved Broker drone.”

“What the fuck?” Petrova demanded. “They put a drone in control of a Kodiak?”

“It’s based on the Kodiak, but it has a lot of other bells and whistles that make it a lot more dangerous than a standard tank,” Brenner added. “This is all next-gen, experimental shit.”

“Then we face the possibility of Barbosa deploying this vehicle against us,” Ruza said, the corner of his lip rising to reveal some sharp teeth. “The PCEs are threat enough, but my AMR is useless against a Kodiak. Of this, I have firsthand experience.”

“Our SCPEL should be able to penetrate its defenses, but I’d much prefer that this thing is never switched on in the first place,” Brenner replied. “Other than hitting it with a fucking orbital strike, I don’t know what else we’d do to stop it. It’s an early prototype, and based on what Vos told me, it isn’t exactly battlefield-ready. Its IFF is all over the place – it’ll basically go apeshit and try to kill everything in the immediate area whenever it powers on. They can tell it to shoot, but not what to shoot.”

“Wonderful news,” Petrova sighed with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. “So you’re telling us that there’s an insane robot tank out there in the wild somewhere, and Barbosa could turn it on at any moment?”

“Not if it’s still boxed up on the carrier,” Brenner said, wagging a prosthetic finger. “If you’re right, and it hasn’t been deployed yet, we may be able to secure it before it can make it to the surface.”

“What makes you think you can even set foot on that carrier?” Petrova scoffed.

“We have a plan,” he replied evasively. “Tell us what we might encounter up there, and we’d have an even better one.”

“Unless you’re hiding a CSG behind the moon, you’re not boarding the carrier,” she insisted. “Any kind of direct frontal assault is doomed to fail.”

“I’d be inclined to agree,” he replied. “Listen, Petrova,” he continued. “I know that you’re having a hard time right now. You’re not sure where your loyalties lie, which side you’re on, or what the truth is right now. You’re worried about your future and what’s going to happen to you when this is all over. I get that, but you know me. We’ve fought shoulder to shoulder. You know that I’m here with the full authority of the UNN behind me. You can still return to the fold.”

“Barbosa is a madman,” Ruza added. “Imagine the consequences should he unleash this Ursa weapon on Hades.”

“I followed Barbosa because I thought he was right about the direction the UN is heading and the threats we face,” she insisted. “Yes, I’ve been shown things that I can’t reconcile. Barbosa has done things I can’t support, and he’s lied to me about them. But even if I helped you, there’s no guarantee that you’d be able to stop him. Maybe if I could talk to him, I could convince him to reconsider all this.”

“He has not heeded your counsel before,” Ruza chided.

“Let me put it this way,” Brenner continued, his tone growing more stern. “I have a team returning from the city tonight. They’re bringing back data on the locations of key targets, and if that data checks out, I’ll be sending a signal to my ship ordering them to begin the operation. You have until then to figure things out. Do all the soul-searching you want, but give me actionable intel before I send that transmission. This is your last chance to make a difference.”

“Alright,” Petrova replied.

***

“Ruza said I might find you up here,” Amy began as she entered the old office, still a little out of breath after climbing all those stairs. The wind that blew in through the empty window panes rustled her blonde hair as she walked over to join Petrova, who was peering out over the canyon.

“I wanted to be alone for a while,” Petrova replied. “It seemed like a good place to think.”

“It’s a really nice view from up here,” Amy continued, resting a hand on the sill as she followed Petrova’s gaze. The sun had passed its apex and was starting to descend, painting the sky in beautiful shades of pink and orange, staining the scant few clouds that drifted above the rock formations. “It makes me wonder what’s going to happen once this is all over. Will we ever restart all these half-finished projects? Maybe this plant will actually produce power one day.”

“What do you see in your future?” Petrova asked.

“Barbosa gone, hopefully,” she replied. “But, you already knew that,” she continued as she leaned against the flaking wall. “I just want Hades to be left alone. We had the ExoCorp era, when the colony was run by ruthless corporations who only cared about extracting profit from us. You’d do a twelve-hour shift in the mines and get paid in scrip that you could only spend at the company store. It was just legal slavery. Then, we had the Syndicate, and the whole planet was controlled by mobsters and pirates. You’d be paying them protection money on top of working your shifts, and if you crossed them, they’d break your legs and drop you down a mine shaft. When the UNN drove them off, it felt like things were finally getting better – like maybe we’d finally become a normal colony.”

“Then we arrived,” Petrova volunteered.

“And we’re back to slaving away in mines and factories under the watch of armed guards,” Amy confirmed. “It doesn’t really matter who it is. Corporate executives, mob bosses, military generals – everyone wants to wring Hades like a sponge to get something out of us. Heck, I wish we were as irrelevant as people keep claiming we are…”

“What if Barbosa wanted to change that?” Petrova asked, watching the wind create a dust devil on the sand far below. “What if he came here because he wanted you to be powerful and independent?”

“Even if I believed that, he has a strange way of going about it,” Amy replied. “Intentions are one thing, but we have to judge people based on their actions, not how they wish their actions would be perceived. Ruza said something about it that stuck with me.”

“Oh, here we go again,” Petrova grumbled with a roll of her eyes. “More boundless wisdom from everyone’s favorite feline philosopher.”

“I asked him why he sacrificed so much to come and rescue me when the PDF were holding me in the garrison. I’m not useful, I’m not a leader or a fighter, I can’t strip an XMR or make a bomb. If he had left me to rot in that cell, nothing would have changed for the resistance. It wasn’t some value proposition to Ruza. He didn’t bring up a spreadsheet and work out whether I’d be a net positive or a drain on resources. I needed his help, and he didn’t hesitate, because he thought it was the right thing to do. What’s more, everybody else went along with it – even people who didn’t know me. That’s how I know I’m fighting for the right side. Doing good isn’t conditional to them.”

“Sounds like a good way to get killed to me,” Petrova chided.

“To leaders like Barbosa, everything is a value judgment,” Amy continued. “Morality is just math, and people’s lives are just numbers on a ledger. He’ll calculate how many families he can safely starve, or who he can execute to get the optimal results. He’s so concerned with the bigger picture and the long-term plan that he ignores the here and now, but it’s important. Bugs think that way. We’re not drones in a hive who only exist to provide value – we’re people with lives and hopes and dreams. Small, unimportant people like me matter. The lives that we get to live matter.”

“During the battle, I was working undercover in the city,” Petrova began. “I got caught up in the fighting and tried to extract a group of civilians. I know that you think we’re all monsters, but I wasn’t about to let innocent people die for no good reason.”

“I don’t think that,” Amy replied.

“I asked Barbosa to send a dropship to pick us up, and he wouldn’t. The civilians weren’t useful to him, so they had no value in his eyes. He wouldn’t even do it as a favor to me.”

“Not to brag, but I think my boss likes me more,” Amy said with a smile. “It sounds like you know that he made the wrong decision,” she continued, more serious now. “It felt wrong when it happened, didn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“And there have been other times when he did something or told others to do something that felt wrong.”

“You don’t have to patronize me like I’m some kind of child.”

“I’m not,” Amy sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “I’m sure you were trained to suppress these feelings – to follow orders no matter how you felt about them, but being emotional and idealistic is what makes us human. Without that, they might as well just replace your brain with a computer, right? You should listen when that voice warns you that things aren’t right. Your conscience exists for a reason, you know. It means you have a soul.”

“I still have to be realistic,” Petrova protested. “Am I supposed to die in a futile fight against Barbosa as penance for my sins? How does that make sense from where I’m standing? It’s much more logical to just wait for either Barbosa or the Navy to come get me. Those are my best odds.”

“Ruza has a lot of regrets,” Amy continued. “Sometimes, the way he talks, it almost seems like he hates himself. And maybe he’s right,” she said with a shrug. “I didn’t know the person he used to be, and maybe that person was awful. Maybe I would have hated the old Ruza too. But I love who he is now. The person he became is kind and sweet and thoughtful. I try to help him see that it’s alright to hate the person you used to be as long as you like the person you’ve become. People make mistakes, they change, and they move on. You have to forgive and allow people room to learn, or they’ll never grow into anything new. Their mistakes will always define them.”

“I doubt everyone feels the same way you do,” Petrova said as she stared out into the canyon. “It’s a nice sentiment, but a lot of the people here would probably toss me out of this window if they could get away with it. Ask a mob of angry Hadeans if they think the Borg should get a second chance.”

“You can’t control what other people think. All you can control is you. When Ruza talks to me about his regrets, it’s all about how he didn’t do more sooner to make things right. He says that feeling sorry and kicking yourself is pointless. Action is what matters – you have to try to change things and make good with the people you hurt.”

“I don’t hate myself like Ruza does.”

“I’m not saying that you should,” Amy replied, stepping away from the window. “I’m just saying that you have a chance to make a difference here. Don’t listen to me, or Ruza, or anybody else. Listen to your gut, and trust what it tells you.”

“You’ve been suspiciously nice to me ever since I arrived,” Petrova added as she watched the woman walk back to the door with a frown. “Why? Did Ruza put you up to it?”

“Not everyone is only nice to you because they want something,” Amy replied as she paused by the exit. “I suppose it’s just my hopeless idealism flaring up,” she added with a smirk, swinging around the frame and vanishing into the hallway.

DAY 54 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“The Governor came through for us,” Komodo announced, slapping a tablet computer down on the makeshift conference table. “We know when the MASTs are being moved and where they’re going to be when the operation goes down. Fuller and his resistance fighters are ready and waiting. They appreciated the extra supplies.”

“Technically, they’re my resistance fighters,” Reed interjected, raising a hand like he was asking a question in class.

“I’m giving this the green light,” Brenner said, the readout from the display reflected in his lenses. “Any objections?” he asked, glancing around the table.

Bergmann, Reed, Omar, Rivera, and Ruza all gave him a silent nod in reply.

“Good,” Brenner said, setting the tablet down. “I can now reveal more of the plan. I have a Courser in orbit that’s going to attack the carrier and board it. At the same time, a freighter carrying a concealed SWAR team is scheduled to dock with the tether station. These two attacks need to happen within a very short interval of one another if they’re going to succeed. We can’t have the station warning the carrier that they’re under attack too quickly or vice versa. As this is happening, our ground teams need to secure the MASTs. Capture them intact if you can, but destroy them if you have to. We fail to do our part, and the first thing the enemy will do is fire those missiles to take out the carrier and the station. As soon as I send that transmission, we set our watches. No going back.”

“Wait, you want to attack a Jump Carrier with a Courser?” Rivera asked skeptically. “They’re stealth craft, granted, but you can’t expect to get through the Tirad’s firing solution once you’re in visual range. Those CIWS guns will tear a Courser apart like nothing.”

“You’ll just have to trust my people,” Brenner replied.

“Barbosa and Song will be on the carrier,” Petrova declared. Everyone glanced up as she entered the room, the sliding door to the mess closing behind her. She looked unsure of herself, rubbing her arm nervously, but she continued once she had their attention. “They keep their PCEs with them at all times. There will be at least two SWAR teams stationed on the carrier – enough to handle critical systems and keep the skeleton crew in line. The crew is being held hostage and will help you if you free them. Nilsson and his staff are there, along with a team of nurses and surgeons taken from the colony. There may be fresh recruits recovering in the medbay, but all operational personnel have been transferred to the surface. The Tirad’s captain is being held in his quarters. Barbosa won’t expect to be attacked there – he’ll have trouble defending the whole ship.”

“Go on,” Brenner said, turning in his seat to face her.

“The station is occupied by a single SWAR team – no PCEs. There may be some local security staff, but nothing you can’t handle. Without the station, Barbosa’s main supply line will be cut off. He’ll lose the ability to transport heavy cargo to and from the surface.”

“Do you have any idea where the enemy Coursers might be?” Rivera pressed.

“There are three Coursers,” she replied. “One of them is in a stationary orbit above the colony. It’s using its EWAR suite to shut down all non-sanctioned comms. I’m not sure where the others are.”

“Tell us everything you know about his ground forces,” Bergmann said.

***

“I am glad that you made this decision,” Ruza said as he walked beside Petrova. She had spent the better part of two hours telling the resistance everything she knew, and was now returning to her quarters. “I know that it was not easy for you.”

“I’m sure you’re feeling very pleased with yourself,” she replied sarcastically. “If you want to thank someone, thank your friend Amy.”

“Amy convinced you?” Ruza asked, his ears pricking up in the way they tended to do when something caught his interest.

“I’ve been trying to puzzle it all out,” she continued as they began to descend a flight of creaking metal steps. “I’ve been trying to figure out what’s objectively true and what isn’t – trying to make a value judgment about what’s best for me. Do I stay loyal to Barbosa and wait for him to come find me? Do I side with you and risk him finding out? Do I keep quiet and wait for the Navy to arrive, accepting whatever punishment they mete out? What has Barbosa lied about, what have you lied about, who can I trust? Amy made it all very simple.”

“How so?” he asked as they rounded a bend in the hallway.

“She reminded me of all the times Barbosa made decisions that felt wrong,” Petrova replied. “All the things he did that I would never do. He’s so caught up in his grand vision of the future that he’s not thinking about people like Amy, and who are we fighting for if not them? They’re the people we swore oaths to protect, not some imaginary future generation. I can’t be a part of a legacy built on mass graves. I don’t need a dossier of classified information to know that – I feel it in my gut.”

“Does this mean that you are with us now?” Ruza asked, his tone hopeful. “Brenner will be sending his signal within the hour, and having another capable fighter on our side would be invaluable.”

“I’ve shared what I know,” she replied, the pair pausing as they reached her door. “It should give Brenner an edge. Beyond that, I dunno.”

“You are taking action to fix the problem,” Ruza replied. “That is enough.”

“Gonna do some more sulking in the dark,” she replied, stepping through the doorway. “See you later, Koshak.”

DAY 56 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“Still nothing on Petrova?” Barbosa asked. He was standing in his usual position on the observation deck, his prosthetic eyes scanning the floating displays that surrounded him. Hades’ arid surface extended below him beyond the carrier’s windows, a few lingering sandstorms visible even from space. The season would be ending soon, and he’d be glad of it. His PCE was standing nearby, ready to receive him should his condition flare up. It was a wonderful thing to blot out everything beneath his shunt – make every ache and pain disappear in a way that even a morphine drip couldn’t.

“Nothing, Commander,” Song replied over the radio. “The teams assigned to track her down have found no leads. It’s like she just vanished off the face of the planet.”

“It’s been more than two weeks since we lost contact,” he sighed. “The insurgents have made no attempt to arrange a prisoner exchange, and if they killed her and dumped her out in the desert somewhere, we’ll never find her. I had great things in mind for her future,” he added wistfully, staring at the many holograms in his periphery. “Now, I’m going to have to completely rethink my plans for Hades going forward. If they prefer the gentle touch of Roach and Crow, then let it be on their heads.”

“Should I call off the searches, Commander?” Song asked.

“No, keep looking a little longer,” Barbosa replied. “They may still turn something up. We will, however, have to move things along without her. We can’t wait around forever. What about the attack on Cobra’s team? Any new information?”

“It’s strange,” Song mused, audibly pausing to check some data. “During the last few days, we saw a notable decrease in insurgent activity. The attacks practically stopped, as though Reed and his co-conspirators had gone to ground for some reason. Now, this.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Three SWAR agents dead, along with two dozen PDF. No enemy casualties and no sign of the prisoners. We can conclude that the execution was likely interrupted before it began.”

“How did they know?” Barbosa wondered. “Whoever did this must have been informed well in advance and given exact coordinates to the site. We chose a remote area and minimized the number of personnel involved.”

“It’s possible that one of the PDF troopers assigned to the mission leaked information to the insurgency,” Song replied. “It could also have been one of the garrison personnel responsible for signing off on the prisoner transfers. This is the problem with working alongside the locals – we can never truly trust them.”

“Next time, we’ll have our agents handle everything personally, and we’ll leave no paper trail,” Barbosa grumbled. “We don’t need to humor the bureaucrats anymore. The Governor is in our pocket, and everyone who might protest is either dead or in jail. Losing these Union leaders is a disturbing development. They’ll cause all kinds of trouble if they pop up again. I want all of our resources dedicated to finding them. Kill on sight, no more prisoners.”

“Forensic examination of the area has turned up some strange results,” Song continued. “No distress signals were ever sent, and none of their helmet cams recorded anything but static and interference. It appears that a powerful jamming device was used. We discovered a screamer partially buried in the sand.”

“A screamer?” Barbosa asked, his brow furrowing above his lenses. “That’s rather sophisticated for the insurgents. Where would they obtain such a thing? Did we bring any with us?”

“We’re not sure,” Song replied. “I have my people on it. There’s more. Most of the casualties were killed with standard tungsten carbide slugs fired from XMRs. Nothing unusual there. However, one of the bodies displayed significant damage that appears to have been the result of hand-to-hand combat. The cause of death was massive head trauma. Our original theory was an execution – perhaps with a heavy object like a sledgehammer – but upon closer inspection, we found fragments of polymer that had scraped off on the skull. They match the polymers commonly used by SWAR agents.”

“An operative punched his head in?” Barbosa asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

“It appears that way, Commander.”

“What the hell?” Barbosa muttered, lost in thought for a moment. “We’re not missing any agents, are we?”

“Everyone but Petrova is accounted for,” Song replied.

“She was always overly sympathetic, but she was loyal,” Barbosa continued as he scratched his chin. “I can’t imagine that she’d defect. Something very odd is happening here, Song, and I’d like to get to the bottom of it. Otherwise, how are our preparations proceeding?”

“Everything is proceeding on schedule, Commander. The first batch of recruits has been deployed to reinforce our teams on the ground, and our new PCEs have been assigned to reinforce our sensitive sites. The second batch has undergone surgery with a ninety-seven percent success rate and is recovering in the infirmary.”

“Better metrics than last time,” Barbosa said with a nod. “Good work, Song. Forward my approval to Nilsson.”

“Thank you, Commander. Let’s see…standard MAST rotation is happening tomorrow as scheduled, and we’ve made solid progress bulking up our supplies in the garrisons. They’ll be prepared for any future unrest.”

“Very good,” Barbosa replied. “Nice to see things going smoothly for change. I’m going to retire to the officer’s lounge for the remainder of the evening. You know how to reach me if something happens.”

“Understood, Commander.”

Barbosa closed the connection with a flick of his wrist, the floating display vanishing. Losing Petrova was a terrible blow, but he would make do, as he always did. He would have to select a new successor – perhaps Crow. The man lacked Petrova’s softer tendencies, but he was tactically minded, and he was a little more level-headed than Roach.

As he considered, the observation room was suddenly plunged into shades of red, an alarm sounding that rattled his nerves and snapped him rudely back to the present.

“What the fuck is that, Song?” he demanded as he opened the channel again with a much angrier gesture.

“Proximity alarms, Commander,” Song explained frantically. “The carrier’s sensors have detected an object on an intercept course.”

“Damn it!” Barbosa snapped, hurrying over to his suit. “I just had to jinx it…”

Its armored panels opened up to receive him, and he climbed inside, feeling a rush of endorphins flood through him as it connected to his shunt. As the canopy snapped shut to enclose him, the panels that lined its interior flared to life, displaying feeds.

“Patch me in!” he ordered, views from the carrier’s cameras and sensor readouts soon appearing. “What is it? Space debris?”

“Negative, Commander,” Song replied. “It’s moving too quickly. We don’t have a visual yet, but the radar ping is small. Scratch that – we have multiple pings! Signatures match Beewolves – a whole squadron of them!”

“What?” Barbosa snapped. “That’s impossible! No carrier could have gotten here already!”

“Reading two dozen fighters on intercept!”

“How did they manage to get so close?” Barbosa growled. “Activate CIWS guns and open all missile bays – auto-targeting mode! If they think they can rush us, they’re about to have a very rude awakening!”

With his suit hooked into the carrier’s systems, he could see from a dozen different cameras as the gun turrets that covered the ship’s hull began to rise from their bays, swiveling to face the incoming threats, their lenses shining as they reflected the harsh sunlight. They were equipped with rotary railguns that could fire five thousand slugs per minute, each one sporting a redundant radome for rapid target acquisition. Along with them, the missile hatches spaced out along the ship swung open, preparing to launch their interceptors – missiles designed to destroy enemy fighters and torpedoes.

“More enemy fighters just appeared on the scopes!” Song warned. “A second wing! Torpedo launch alarm! Spread incoming – thirty seconds!”

Barbosa watched as a salvo of interceptors left the missile bays, sliding from their tubes and drifting for a moment before igniting their motors, streaking away on a plume of propellant. They shot across the blackness of space, billows of flame announcing them when they hit their targets, secondary blasts following as the torpedoes were destroyed or knocked off course. A few got through the net, the CIWS guns sending streams of slugs in their direction, trails of molten tungsten glowing like tracers as they weaved back and forth. More blasts followed, the carrier’s defenses holding fast.

“No damage!” Song announced.

“Get me eyes on those Beewolves!” Barbosa barked. “Full power to port – put the nose on them!”

He felt the carrier’s superstructure strain as the engines flared to life, trying to turn it to present a smaller profile to the enemy. The Beewolves would try to get inside their firing arcs and destroy critical systems. One missile up the ass, and the Tirad could end up dead in the water.

“Commander, you must get to the CIC!” Song warned.

“On my way,” he replied, his suit breaking into a lumbering run. The CIC was situated deep in the bowels of the ship, where a stray missile couldn’t come straight through a window.

“Hold,” Song said. “Getting a new signal – large heat signature.”

“What is it?” Barbosa demanded, his PCE denting the wall with its shoulder as he barreled into the hallway beyond the observation deck. “Is it their carrier? A frigate?”

“Too small to be a carrier. It’s a hydrogen plume – something is decelerating.”

“Are they in visual range yet?”

“Almost! Beewolves are coming into firing range – CIWS engaging.”

The turrets began to spew more tungsten, lighting up the sky, swiveling to track the enemy craft as they dodged and weaved like a swarm of bees. More missiles joined them, the interceptors streaking away, bright flashes erupting as they spewed hot shrapnel at the fighters.

A few moments later, Barbosa saw a view from the carrier’s telescopes pop up on his feed. He glanced at it, doing a double-take and skidding to a halt in the corridor. He couldn’t see a single Beewolf – just a swarm of torpedoes coasting along in formation. Behind them, only just visible at this resolution, was a blue flare from the engines of a small craft.

“Sneaky bastards!” Barbosa hissed. “We’ve been had, Song! That’s no carrier – it’s a Courser!”

“Confirming, Commander,” Song replied. “Those aren’t Beewolves – they’re DARTs.”

DARTs – Decoy Anti-Radiation Torpedoes. They were used to trick radar systems by spoofing their signatures, revealing the locations of enemy ships and emplacements. There were no Beewolves, and there was no carrier. There was just a single Courser trying to saturate their defenses so it could get into range.

Barbosa watched as the cameras focused in on the ship, another decoy torpedo sliding from racks that were mounted along its skeletal midsection and jetting away.

“Get guns on that Courser, Song,” he ordered. “Shoot it out of the sky!”

On the forward hull of the carrier, one of the large railgun turrets rose into view, starting to turn to track its target. The Courser was doing a flip-and-burn maneuver – trying to shed velocity prior to a rendezvous, so it wouldn’t be able to change course quickly. The long barrel rocked back, the coils glowing red-hot as it fired off a sabot. The round streaked across the darkness, bridging the gap between the two ships in what seemed like the blink of an eye. The Courser appeared to fall apart, the kinetic energy turning it into a shimmering cloud of metallic debris, the blue flare of its engines petering out. The aft section came away from the rest of the ship, the jib that joined it to the prow buckling, what little remained of the two halves tumbling end over end.

The carrier was already burning, its massive engines powering it out of the path of the debris, the CIWS guns still firing on the swarm of DARTs. Barbosa watched through the rear cameras as the cloud of metal and tumbling chunks of hull flashed past, passing close enough to cut through the ship’s engine plumes.

“Clear of debris!” Song announced.

“Any more ships?” Barbosa demanded, scanning the feeds.

“Negative, scopes are clear, but we still have smoke in the air!” Song added as he pulled up another view. “A spread of torpedoes passed us and is on an intercept course with our EWAR boat.”

“God damn it!” Barbosa snarled. “Get a warning to them!”

“Already done, Commander. They’re at full burn, but…”

Barbosa watched as the torpedoes streaked towards the friendly Courser. The ship was burning hard, moving from the stationary orbit where it had been positioned for so many weeks, using its electronic warfare suite to shut down communications in the colony below. It was too late. From racks along its midsection, a few interceptor missiles jetted forth, but the craft was nowhere near as heavily defended as the carrier. It took out a couple of the torpedoes, but one of them hit its engine section, the ensuing blast from the warhead and its reactors ripping it apart like tissue paper.

Powerless to do anything about it, Barbosa watched in silence as the debris field spread out in a lazy arc, seeming to shimmer and sparkle when the fragments caught the sunlight.

“We’ve lost her, Commander,” Song announced.

“Damn it!” he growled, punching a crater in the wall with his PCE. “How the fuck did they sneak up on us like that?”

“They’re stealth ships, Commander,” Song explained hesitantly. “They’re designed to minimize radar cross-section, and they’re covered in a radar-absorbent coating. We usually rely on friendly IFF to detect them, and theirs was understandably switched off.”

“Fucking hell,” Barbosa sighed, taking a few moments to collect his thoughts. “Now we know what became of the Courser that’s been snooping around the system for the last few weeks. They must have been collecting intelligence and biding their time. Why attack now?”

“Without that EWAR ship, radio communications on the colony will be restored,” Song warned.

“Doesn’t matter,” Barbosa sneered. “We still have control of local wireless networks and the colony’s intranet, which means the Hadeans can’t organize. The insurgency is dead – their remnants pose no serious threat to us. That was a ballsy maneuver,” he added, turning his eyes back to the two debris fields that were receding from the telescopes. The last of the DARTs were being destroyed, a few more streams of CIWS fire reaching out from the carrier. “They must have been trying to get close enough to launch boarding pods, and it almost worked. If we’d only relied on sensor data instead of using our optics, they might have succeeded.”

“Orders, Commander?” Song asked. “Should I dispatch search and rescue?”

“Don’t bother,” he muttered. “Even if the crew survived the blast, a dropship can’t catch up to that debris. Calculate the trajectories of the larger fragments. We need to know if they pose a danger to the carrier or the station.”

“Negative, Commander,” Song replied after a few moments. “Simulations show that the orbital path of the wreckage will not intersect with that of the station. The debris cloud from the enemy ship will pass close to the carrier, but it won’t pose any significant danger, and it should burn up on subsequent orbits. I’ll reposition us to avoid the larger pieces, and I’ll put out a general warning to traffic in the area.”

“Good,” Barbosa replied, allowing himself to relax. “The loss of the EWAR boat is a pain in the ass, but it’s a Pyrrhic victory. If they were hoping to free up communications with the surface ready for the fleet to arrive, they’ll be disappointed when they realize that there’s nobody left to pick up the phone. I need a drink,” he added with a sigh.

CHAPTER 29

DAY 55 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – REED

“Comms are back up,” Reed said as he examined his phone. A few of the SWAR agents were sitting at a table with Brenner, sharing some of the scarce alcohol supply.

“Good,” Brenner replied. “That means the first stage of the operation was a success. Their EWAR ship has been taken out.”

“Don’t make any calls,” Wasp warned. “Just because the jamming has stopped, that doesn’t mean Barbosa can’t zero in on anomalous transmissions and drop a sabot on them.”

“I’m not stupid,” Reed chided, turning the phone off and stowing it in his pocket.

“You sure?” she asked with a sarcastic tilt of her helmet.

“I’ve been leading the resistance since before you even arrived,” he shot back. “I know all about OPSEC.”

“You were the leader?” she scoffed. “I thought that was Bergmann and Rivera.”

“I mean, I was basically the most important one,” he replied. “I sprang Rivera, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” she added with a derisive snort from beneath her helmet.

“I’ll go inform the others,” Brenner said, his chair legs scraping against the floor as he rose to his feet. “I suggest you all get a good night’s sleep. The first shot has been fired, and this operation begins in earnest tomorrow. I want you fresh and well-rested.”

Reed hung back as he watched the handful of SWAR agents down the last of their drinks and head off, filing away towards their makeshift barracks. Only Wasp stayed behind, leaning against the wall with her prosthetic arms crossed, watching him through her opaque visor. At least, he thought she was watching him. It was hard to tell where she was looking sometimes when she had her helmet on, but it always gave him a strange feeling, like a sixth sense.

“Why do you wear all that shit?” he asked, gesturing to her clothing. She was wearing her plates and her rig, the segmented armor panels concealing much of her torso and protecting her thighs, the charcoal color of the ceramics matching her black uniform and her similarly dark augs. Many of her belts and pouches were laden with equipment, a sidearm stowed on her hip, but her chest carrier was empty.

“We’re technically in a combat zone,” she replied. “Barbosa could come smashing through that door at any moment, and I’d like a gun in my hand if that happens.”

“Isn’t all that body armor heavy?”

“Not to me,” she replied, lifting a hand and flexing her robotic fingers. “My legs don’t exactly get tired.”

“What about the heat?” Reed pressed. “I couldn’t even wear a jacket in here.”

She reached for the collar of her uniform, opening the zipper down to the beginning of her chest plate, revealing pale fabric instead of skin. There were little wires and cables crisscrossing it, making it look like it was covered in a network of veins. He could have sworn that a few of them were gently pulsing.

“UNNI survival suit,” she explained, zipping herself up again. “It’s like wearing a cool breeze. These things circulate coolant around the body and recycle sweat.”

“Still seems excessive to me.”

“Since when are you so concerned about what I’m wearing?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he scoffed.

“Big day tomorrow,” she continued, her servos making a quiet whining noise as she shifted her weight. “You’re going into combat with us, right? Are you sure you can keep up?”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been fighting Borgs for months,” he replied. “They’re not all that tough. Sure, they’re a little stronger and faster than the average person, but they go down when you fill ‘em full of tungsten just the same as anybody else. So, yeah, I think I can keep up with you.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said, the tone of her voice suggesting that she was hiding a smile. “You know, I never asked. Why did you get kicked out of the Navy? I know that you were hit with a dishonorable discharge, but what happened? How long were you in the Marine Corps?”

“I broke my commanding officer’s jaw,” he replied.

“Really?” Wasp laughed. “Why?”

“They’d sent us to Chara Two,” he began, sitting down on the edge of the table. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but compared to Hades, it’s the ninth fucking circle. That place is so cold and the atmosphere is so oxygen-poor that you’ll die in hours without an environment suit and a rebreather. I don’t know why we were even fighting over it, to be frank. I sure as hell wouldn’t sign up to live there.”

“I’ve known people who were deployed there,” she replied, seeming more interested now. “They didn’t have very pleasant things to say about it.”

“I’m not sure how the Bugs even survived there, but they can adapt to anything,” Reed continued. “The ones we were fighting had this covering of shimmering, white fur, kind of like the stuff your friend Harlequin has around his neck. Made them look like evil Yeti Crabs or something. Anyway, I’d cut my teeth by then, and they’d put me in charge of a squad.”

“Really?” she snickered, sounding as amused as she was impressed. “You made Sergeant?”

“Is it so unbelievable after having witnessed my charisma and tactical acumen firsthand?” he asked.

“A true leader of men,” she snorted. “Go on, Sergeant.”

“We were deployed to the rear line,” he continued. “The Navy had set up a series of drop-and-go FoBs, and our job was to protect and maintain them. That involved setting up defensive fortifications like digging trenches, planting mines, and putting up concertina wire. It was grunt work. Well, they’d given us these trenchers – basically a big armored tractor built on a Kodiak hull. They have this giant chainsaw-looking thing that digs into the ground. Sounds like a pretty rugged vehicle, right?”

“I suppose,” Wasp replied.

“They’ll work in the vacuum of an airless moon, and they can ford rivers deeper than they are tall, but ice absolutely fucks them up. We had to keep their engines running pretty much continuously day and night to ensure they didn’t freeze and seize up all the workings. Well, the base commander didn’t appreciate that – said we were using too many fuel cells.”

“I think I can guess where this is going,” Wasp mused.

“This dickhead had his sycophants shut off all the engines overnight, so when we woke up the next morning and started our shift, they were popsicles. Half of them wouldn’t even start, and the ones that did were so caked in ice that the tracks and saws were frozen solid. This guy basically bricked the whole fleet.”

“Couldn’t you thaw them out?” she asked.

“Oh, we tried,” Reed insisted. “You throw boiling water on the things, and it turns to mist before it even touches the metal. We tried going at them with blowtorches, but it would have taken all damned day. So, the commander gets impatient and tells us that we still need to get the work done regardless of whether the trenchers are working or not. He gives me and my squad shovels and sends us out onto the ice.”

“What an asshole,” Wasp chuckled.

“When it’s that cold, the ground gets as hard as rock,” Reed continued as he rapped his fist on the metal table to demonstrate. “Even if it was loose soil, it would have been shitty work, but it was basically impossible in those conditions. You have to be really careful working in environments like that, too,” he added. “It’s dangerous to overexert yourself in low temperatures. Your suit keeps you warm and shields you from the elements as long as it has a battery charge, but you’ll cook yourself and become dehydrated really quickly. King dipshit didn’t take that into account.”

“I take it he wasn’t giving you regular breaks.”

“He knew that the trenchers seizing up was his fault, and he was taking it out on us,” Reed sneered as he reminisced. “He worked us like a penal battalion until one of my Privates started getting woozy and had to stop. We’d dug probably…six feet of trench by that point.”

“I’m surprised you managed to get even that much done.”

“Yeah, well, having some douchebag yelling at you is very motivating. I ordered everyone to stop, and when the commander saw us taking a break, he threw on a coat and a rebreather and came marching out to yell at us some more. I gave him a piece of my mind and told him that I wasn’t going to let him work my squad to death just because he fucked up and broke the trenchers. He started getting in my face, shouting, threatening me with this and that. You’ll be cleaning the FoB with a toothbrush, I’ll transfer you to the front, I’ll have you written up for insubordination – that kind of bull.”

“Sounds like a real piece of work.”

“I’m probably not doing him justice,” Reed continued. “We were nose to nose by that point – he’d have been spitting on me without the mask. He made it physical and took me by the collar, so at that point, I’d had enough. I swung at that fucker as hard as I could,” he said, miming a swift uppercut. “I punched him so hard that I shattered half of his teeth and fractured his jaw in two places – hit the snooze button on that cunt. I probably would have hit him again while he was down if my guys hadn’t dragged me off him. The funny thing is that if he’d been following regs and wearing his helmet, he would have been fine.”

“He deserved it if you ask me,” Wasp said. “There’s no reason to act like a drill instructor once your subordinates are out of basic.”

“The result?” Reed asked, spreading his arms. “He got to spend most of his tour with his jaw wired shut watching movies on the carrier, and I got kicked out of the Corps. That’s how it goes. You throw your weight around and bully people, and the system rewards you for it. The Sphere is full of petty tyrants,” he added, his brow furrowing into a scowl. “From troopers stopping you on the street to some shift manager bossing around new hires. People get a little taste of authority, and it goes straight to their heads. Give ‘em a little sip of power, and they start acting like prison guards.”

“So, you left Chara and came to the hottest place you could find,” Wasp said.

“What can I say?” he replied with a shrug. “I’m hot-blooded. I need an environment that suits my personality. It’s easy to find work on Hades, and it’s the kind of place where you can live your own life without too much bureaucracy bogging you down.”

“Did you get involved with the Syndicate?”

“Maybe a little bit,” he admitted. “I did some smuggling – ran some guns for them. Staying on the good side of the law never got me anywhere, did it?”

“I think I have a better idea of why you joined the resistance,” she continued, appearing to appraise him through her helmet as it tilted subtly.

“A little credit, please,” Reed chided as he placed a hand on his chest. “I started the resistance with Bergmann. There would be nothing to join without me laying the groundwork.”

“You have problems with authority, you don’t like being told what to do, and you have an oddly consistent moral compass for an ex-criminal who was fired from the Navy for sucker punching an old man.”

“I prefer the term preemptive strike.”

“A bunch of Navy guys coming to Hades and trying to control your life must have driven you crazy,” she continued with a laugh that made him feel an odd flutter in his belly.

“It was a good opportunity to work through some of my issues,” he replied. “Very therapeutic.”

“Do we need to worry about you?” she asked, sauntering over to him with a rustle of her gear. She stood beside him, planting her prosthetic hands on her wide hips and cocking them, the whir of her electronics reminding him of an XMR being loaded. “Are you going to obey Brenner’s orders?”

“I don’t know about obey,” Reed began. “I’m not really an obeying kind of guy. I don’t work for him, or for you, and I’ll do whatever the hell I want. But, as long as Brenner is killing the same people I am, I don’t see why we can’t have some kind of mutual truce based on shared respect.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly the way he sees it,” she replied sarcastically. She drew a little closer, sitting down on the table beside him and crossing her long legs. “So…are you doing anything tonight?”

“What do you mean?” Reed asked suspiciously.

“Well, there’s going to be a huge operation tomorrow,” she began as she bobbed a foot in the air idly. “We could all die. I’m interested to know what Jameson Reed does during his last night alive.”

“Don’t call me that,” he sighed, rolling his eyes.

“What, Jameson?” she giggled. “Why not? That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“It’s a dumb name,” he replied, his face starting to warm. “I prefer Reed.”

“How about Little Jimmy?”

“Don’t push your luck,” he grumbled. “If you must know, I was going to get a good night’s rest like the good commander suggested. We’ll need to be fresh tomorrow.”

“Man, you really are as stupid as you look,” Wasp sighed as she reached out to press a treaded fingertip against his forehead. “I’m asking if you want to fuck, idiot.”

“W-what!?” he stammered, leaning away from her.

“I haven’t fully decided if I want to kill you or lay you, so I’m making a call. I can reconsider if you prefer. C’mon – I’ve seen you checking me out. You’re about ten percent as sneaky as you think you are, eyeballs.”

“How do you know I’m not just a huge fan of the automotive industry?”

He felt her polymer fist grip his collar, then there was a sudden flurry of movement, Wasp swinging a leg over him and slamming him down onto the table. She was sitting beside him one moment, then straddling him the next, her lithe frame surprisingly heavy thanks to all of that armor and equipment. He blinked back at her opaque visor in surprise, seeing his own distorted reflection peering back at him, his head spinning with the rapid motion.

“Tell me to get off,” she purred, her sultry voice taking on a synthetic timbre through her helmet’s speakers. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll leave.”

“The last interaction we had was you throwing a steel canteen at my head,” Reed grunted as she kept a firm grip on his collar.

“Can’t a girl show a little affection around here?”

“You spec ops types are fucking crazy,” he muttered.

“I know – isn’t it fun?”

“If I refuse, it’ll make the mission tomorrow very awkward,” Reed continued. “For the sake of unit cohesion, I think I should take one for the team.”

“Oh, you’re gonna take more than one. You bragged about being able to keep up with me, remember? Don’t leave me disappointed.”

She slid off him, her combat boots hitting the floor, then yanked him upright by his collar. With his nose only an inch from her visor, he realized that she was a couple of inches shorter than he was.

“I know somewhere we can be alone for a while,” Reed said, straightening his shirt. “It has some musty old mattresses on rusty cots – everything a good love nest needs.”

“You’ve already wooed me with that romantic MRE macaroni dinner,” the agent replied sarcastically. “Don’t spoil me, now.”

They scurried off together, heading down one of the hallways, Reed glancing around warily in fear of running into someone. He didn’t know what he was doing – he didn’t want to have to explain it to Rivera or the SWAR guys. His heart was starting to beat faster now, anticipation filling him with a kind of tingling energy that set the hairs on his arms on end.

When they reached one of the empty rooms filled with old beds, Wasp took him firmly by the hand and dragged him inside, her grip tight enough to make him wince. Releasing him, she made a beeline for the nearest cot, pulling the mattress from the frame and tossing it to the floor. The displaced air created a wave of dust that swept all the way across the room, making Reed’s nose itch.

“What’re you doing?” Reed asked, watching as she set a few more mattresses beside it.

“You ever try to fuck in a bed made for one occupant?”

“No,” he replied with a shrug.

“What – you weren’t popular with the girls on your carrier?” she scoffed as she kicked one of the mattresses into position.

“Not as popular as you were, clearly.”

“Poor baby,” she said sarcastically. “Don’t worry – I’ll do all the hard work.”

“I’ve gotten laid before, dumbass.”

“Not like this, you haven’t,” she snickered. Seeming pleased with her makeshift bed, she stepped back to appraise her work, placing her hands on her hips again.

Reed felt no need to curb his voyeurism now, admiring her. They were on one of the higher levels, and there were a few dirty windows that let in just enough moonlight to bathe the room in a pale glow, one of the rays spilling through the gap between her thighs. Even beneath all of her obscuring armor, that slim, athletic figure was on display. Her uniform clung to her tightly, the sleeves and legs cut off where her prosthetic limbs started, fitting snugly to create a seal. It made her look like she was wearing black latex thigh-highs and sleeves, the polymer molded to mimic the toned musculature of a woman who matched her build. She wore some kind of harness that rode right up her ass, accentuating her cheeks to a degree that it had to be intentional.

“I’ve got eyes in the back of my head, Jimmy,” Wasp chided as she turned her helmet to peer back at him. “You gonna come over here, or are you just gonna gawk at me? This ain’t a museum.”

“Could have fooled me,” he muttered, each footstep kicking up another puff of dust.

Once he was in range, her robotic hands shot out again, taking fistfuls of his shirt and dragging him closer. There was a clatter of armor and a rustle of belts and pouches as she pressed up tight against him, encouraging him to wrap his arms around her. Through all the layers of clothing and between all the straps, he trailed his fingers down to the small of her back, letting a hand wander across her cheek. It was firm and springy, yielding beneath the tough Kevlar when he squeezed.

“What’s that look?” she giggled as his breath misted her visor.

“Are you gonna keep that thing on?” he complained, nodding to her helmet. “I was hoping…”

“What, that I’d kiss you?’ she asked with a sultry laugh. “Is that what you’ve been imagining when your mind wanders, Jimbo? You been fantasizing about making out with the mean old Borg?”

“Pick a name and stick with it,” he grumbled.

“Tell you what,” Wasp whispered. “You were in the Corps, right? You should know how a lot of this equipment works. Anything you can take off me stays off. Put that tiny brain of yours to work.”

“I’m gonna make you eat those words, if I can just…”

He bit his tongue as he concentrated, fumbling with one of the clips that kept her chest rig attached.

“God, if you can’t handle that, you’ll never get my fucking bra off.”

“Will you shut the hell up?” he complained, disconnecting the second clip. “There,” he said triumphantly as the empty chest rig sloughed off her and fell to the floor about her boots. He slid a hand down the hourglass curve of her waist, unfastening the strap on her hip that held up her sidearm and gently lowering it to the ground. “You’ll weigh maybe ninety pounds once I get all this shit off you.”

He lurched as she cupped the growing bulge in his pants, another synthetic laugh leaving her speakers.

“Careful with those things,” Reed warned. “I saw Silverback crushing cans earlier. I’m not in the habit of putting my junk near industrial machinery.”

“I know the difference between flesh and metal,” Wasp replied, giving him a gentle squeeze that sent a throb pulsing through him.

He stripped off a few more extraneous belts, then started on her combat armor, struggling to locate the clasps by touch.

“Having trouble back there?”

“This isn’t exactly standard issue,” he replied.

“If you think I won’t plow you wearing full ceramics, you’re sorely mistaken. Clock’s ticking – better figure it out, Romeo.”

Reed managed to get the chest piece off, along with the segmented plates that protected her lower torso, having to strain a little as he underestimated its weight. He felt the thud reverberate through his boots when he lowered it to the floor, leaving her upper body mostly free of gear. He could make out the outline of her chest now, her breasts creating a subtle mound beneath all the fabric.

He lifted a hand to her helmet, pressing a finger to the touch panel on her temple, leaning in and parting his lips as he triggered the visor to snap open. He balked, her giddy laughter filling his ears as he saw that she was wearing something beneath it. Instead of exposed skin, he was met with some kind of pale, flexible hood. It must be part of her environment suit – he could see the little tubes filled with liquid pulsing as they circulated coolant. There was a pair of goggles built into it, along with a rebreather that covered her mouth, her smiling eyes peering back at him.

“How long have you been planning this?” he marveled as he unfastened her chin strap and pulled the helmet free.

“I’m always one step ahead of you, Jimbob,” she replied as she snatched it from his hands and set it down on a nearby cot. “That’s why I’m a SWAR agent and you’re not. I don’t suppose you know how to get into a classified Naval Intelligence survival suit without triggering the protection system?”

“I’ll figure it out,” he said, gripping the zipper of her Navy uniform. He pulled it down to her chest, exposing more of the off-white and Navy gray material. It felt oddly plasticky beneath his fingers, the little electrical cables and tubes that covered it giving it a veiny texture. It was even tighter than her uniform – perhaps the intention was for it to be in contact with her skin. He felt like he was peeling the layers off an onion.

There was a seal at her neck, and he managed to figure out the mechanism, the hood separating from the collar with a hermetic hiss of escaping air. He began to pull it up her face, sliding his fingers beneath it and cupping her cheek as he went, stroking her smooth skin with his thumb. He stopped before it was all the way off, drawing her in for the kiss he’d been waiting for, their lips joining. Their first embrace was tentative, but the second was greedier – more aggressive, Wasp pressing into him and slipping her tongue deeper. Even her lips were cooler than the surrounding air thanks to the environment suit, like the cold side of a pillow on a hot night.

Her tongue coiled and stroked, almost seeming to wrestle for space in his mouth, the agent biting his lower lip and pulling it when she drew away. Reed pulled off the rest of her hood, letting it fall to hang down her back, finally revealing her face again.

Wasp had chiseled features, as though her straight nose and defined cheekbones had been carved from stone, marred only by a single scar that ran from her eyebrow to her lip. It cut across her left cheek, standing out pink against her porcelain skin, as though the sculptor’s chisel had slipped. It made her no less beautiful, her lips full and pink, a pair of gray eyes peering back at him hungrily. Her blonde hair had been buzzed short for practicality. Hair like Amy’s would probably be a nightmare to get into a helmet.

“Push me down onto the bed,” she demanded.

“Why?”

“So I can call whatever happens next self-defense.”

He began to lower Wasp to the mattresses behind her, but she wrapped her arms around his neck, jumping off the floor and crossing her long legs around his waist. She let herself fall back, pulling him with her, the two of them crashing to the mattresses with a creak of rusty springs. Before the dust had settled, she locked him in another ravenous kiss, pouring her desire into each stroke of her eager tongue. It was her turn to start undressing him now, Reed feeling her polymer fingers prying at his shirt, popping open the buttons one by one as she moved down his chest. After seeing Silverback crush cooking pots like they were made of foil, he’d been apprehensive, but Wasp could be so dexterous and gentle when she wanted to be. Her prosthetics were capable of the same precision as flesh and blood hands.

She tore open his shirt, running her hands across his chest, following the contours of his muscles. Reed hadn’t kept up with his Marine regimen after leaving the Corps, but there were few jobs on Hades that weren’t in some way physically demanding. It was such a strange sensation, his every instinct telling him that he should be feeling soft, warm skin instead of tough polymer. Its texture was smooth, save for her rubberized fingertips, so her touch wasn’t unpleasant.

“What can you feel with those?” Reed asked, peering down at her hand as it came to rest above his heart.

“Everything you can,” she replied with a smile. “Your skin, your sweat, your heartbeat…”

Reed drew away from her, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it aside hastily. He was kneeling atop his partner on the spongy mattresses now, Wasp still keeping her legs locked around his waist, holding him close. Her grip was like a vice – he wouldn’t have been able to break it if he tried. It felt as though a cartoon character had bent an iron girder into a pretzel around his hips.

“I’m still conspicuously dressed,” she complained with a sordid smile, splaying out on the mattress before him. Reed leaned over, dragging the zipper on her black uniform all the way down to her waist, the agent cooperating as he pulled her arms out of their sleeves. As the garment slipped away, more of her survival suit was revealed, its pale coloration contrasting with the dark Kevlar. He could see more little bulges that presumably housed electronics and pumps, joined by the network of snaking cables. Like her uniform, the suit ended at her shoulders, where there were more seals for connecting sleeves.

She wriggled beneath him as he undressed her, making a point of grinding against him, his bulge pressing into the crotch of her uniform. When he reached her waist, she finally uncrossed her legs so that he could go lower, dancing in place to help him get the snug garment past her hips. Her boots were in the way, and she lifted them one by one, allowing him to tug them off her with some difficulty. There was no danger of cutting off circulation or creating blisters, so they were on damned tight, and she had no need for socks. Like her hands, her feet were perfect replicas of their human counterparts, complete with little polymer toes that wiggled as he tossed the last boot over his shoulder.

Lifting both legs with all the ease of a gymnast, she pointed her toes at the ceiling, letting him pull her uniform the rest of the way off. Before she could lower them again, Reed took full advantage to run a hand from her ankle to her thigh, where the seal on her survival suit connected to the prosthetic. He traced its contours with his fingertips, letting them dip into the molded details of her muscles, at once more perfect than reality and somehow more alien. Her toned calves, the dimples in her polymer housing – it was all reproduced with incredible attention to detail. They were nothing like the more functional prosthetics he had seen his fellow Marines wear. The material was smoother than skin, devoid of any little hairs or imperfections, but there was no give to it at all.

“You’re tickling me,” she snickered as he stroked her inner thigh.

“You feel that?”

“How many times?” she scoffed. “Yes, I can feel everything. These things are hooked up to my nervous system same as my Mark Ones were. The only difference is I can turn off the pain receptors.”

“So, if I scratched your leg, you wouldn’t feel it?”

“Scratch up my finish, and you’ll be the one feeling it,” she replied sternly.

He leaned over her again, running his hands up her waist and sliding them across her flat belly, feeling her shift and tense beneath them. Between the cables and bundles of tubes, where the suit was thinnest, he could feel a little of her tantalizing warmth bleeding through the insulation. Her survival suit clung to her like a body glove, adhering to every inch of her lean frame, showing off wide hips that tapered into a suitably wasp-like waist.

Desperate to see more, he struggled to locate her zipper, her chest rising and falling beneath his fingers as she laughed at his clumsy attempts.

“C’mon, Jim,” she giggled. “I swear, it’s like watching a rat solve a maze.”

“I got it, I got it,” he insisted as he located a seam that ran down her torso. There was a flap that closed over the zipper to protect it, and he peeled it open, unzipping the suit. He started at her collar, slowly revealing more skin as he went, Wasp biting her lip when he passed her chest. Just like her face, her lily-white skin was patterned with a few sparse scars here and there, but there was nothing akin to Brenner’s grisly collection.

She wore a bra beneath the suit, and as he roamed lower, he exposed her toned midriff. Her abs were no less defined than her prosthetics, sculpted from muscle rather than polymer, forming a flawless six-pack that carved subtle channels into her otherwise flat stomach. They bulged and flexed as she squirmed, the sight of it captivating him for a moment.

“You like ‘em?” she purred, noting his pause. “When you don’t have to train your arms and legs, it leaves a lot of extra time for core exercises.”

Reed placed a splayed hand on her belly, feeling her warmth radiate through him, those abs firming up wonderfully at his touch. Her skin was smooth in a different sense than its artificial equivalent – soft and slick in a way that reminded him of satin. She almost seemed delicate – sensitive in a way that he hadn’t associated with her harsh exterior and superhuman strength. Beneath all of the armor and clothing, she was still a woman.

Growing impatient now, Wasp helped him pop the seals on her sleeves, then she moved down to her thighs. After a few moments of wriggling and struggling, the survival suit was finally peeled off, leaving a pale and vaguely person-shaped garment reminiscent of a shed snake skin. Reed set it aside much more gingerly – it was probably worth more than his life – then turned his eyes back to his newly unwrapped prize.

Wasp lay on the mattresses before him, her arms lifted lazily above her head, arching her back as she basked in his obvious admiration. Seeing her wearing only a bra and shorts, the transition between her skin and prosthetics was even more apparent and far more seamless than he would have imagined. It really did look like she was simply wearing gloves and socks – at least until one noticed the unnatural gaps in the joints and the flashes of silver metal in places. The arms were attached at her shoulders, and the legs began about halfway down her thighs, only a thin sliver of skin visible between the prosthetics and the hems of her shorts.

Reed drew close again, expressing his desire with a lingering kiss on her throat that made her gasp, his lips crawling down to her shoulder. She began to snicker as he reached his hands behind her back, struggling to locate the clasp for a few seconds before her bra came loose, the garment sliding away to expose her chest. The sight of her bare breasts made his mouth water, the moonlight that bled in through the windows giving her skin a ghostly glow, the scant few droplets of sweat that were already welling due to the heat glistening. They were shapely and firm, matching her athletic build, just large enough to comfortably fill a cupped hand. Her flesh quivered gently with each excited breath, the supple mounds bouncing softly as she shifted her weight, her rosy nipples already firm.

Too enticing to resist, he covered a breast with his hand, feeling it bulge against his palm as he gave it a tentative squeeze. It was as soft as the gel layer on a damned crash couch, molding around his fingers like putty, a hard nipple digging into his skin. Wasp gritted her teeth and let out an amorous growl, pushing out to encourage his probing.

In the same moment, he lurched as he felt cool, hard fingers start to tug at his belt. A second prosthetic hand came into play, and the buckle soon surrendered, the eager agent tearing the belt from its loops like she was starting a chainsaw.

“Hold on a sec,” Reed gasped, reaching into his pants pocket with a trembling hand. He withdrew a leather wallet, opening it up and starting to rifle through it as Wasp watched with a raised eyebrow. His face burning, he produced a condom, still sealed in its foil wrapper.

Wasp reached out and snatched it from him, watching his reaction with those icy eyes as she tore open the packaging with her teeth. She tossed the wrapper aside, then inserted a polymer finger through the rubbery ring, stretching out the lubricated latex. Before he could protest, she pushed her digit all the way through the thin film, tearing it apart and leaving it useless.

“W-wait,” Reed stammered as she discarded it. “Shouldn’t we take precautions? We might survive, you know.”

“What, not ready to be a daddy?” she cooed as she trapped him between her legs again. “Relax,” she added, gesturing to her waist. “Contraceptive implant. It’s good for ten years, dumbass. You should have seen the look on your face.”

“Oh, right,” he added with a nervous chuckle. “That makes sense.”

“That means no pulling out,” she added, returning a hand to his loins and punctuating her statement with another wracking squeeze through his shorts. “Let’s see what kind of weapon you’ve been smuggling.”

She tugged down the elastic waistband of his shorts, freeing his erection, Reed shivering as her plastic fingers curled around his shaft. They felt even colder when contrasted with the heat that his member radiated, his beating heart making it pulse against her smooth palm. The way that she lingered reinforced her statement that she really could feel everything a normal woman could, her thumb tracing a throbbing vein as she stroked him slowly.

“This’ll work,” she cooed, her abs tensing as she lifted herself up to give him another passionate kiss.

There was a brief scuffle as Reed frantically tugged his shorts off before returning to his kneeling position on the mattresses, Wasp propping herself up on her elbows to watch him with a smile. She was wearing only her shorts now, and those were Reed’s next target. He hooked his fingers around her waistband and began to pull them down, Wasp lifting her legs once more to help him along, pointing her toes at the ceiling.

The dark fabric slid past her rear to expose her heart-shaped cheeks, gliding along her prosthetic thighs, a single strand of excitement that glinted in the moonlight linking the dampened fabric to her lips. They were flushed as pink as a blushing cheek, already glistening wet, the rosy folds of her vulva just visible between them. There was a gentle whir of electric servos as she began to lower her legs, but Reed caught an ankle in his hand, keeping one of the limbs extended.

He planted a kiss on her calf, watching her reaction as she felt his lips meet her glossy polymer skin. Moving lower, he planted more kisses as he went, passing her knee and leaning closer when he reached her thigh. He followed the sculpted contour of a muscle with his tongue, fascinated by the contrast between the cool, hard material and the way that his touch made her arch her back off the mattress. Resisting the urge to sink his teeth into the plastic in the way he might bite a thigh, he neared the transition between polymer and flesh. It was seamless, any scarring perhaps concealed beneath the housing, the onyx-black prosthetic giving way to flesh and muscle. He let his fingertips sink into her cushiony fat, the sinew beneath tensing, so full of warmth and vitality.

Now, he bit, gently grazing her skin with his teeth to make her flinch. Rather than stopping at her hip, he slid his hand down to her rear, filling it with her cheek. As befitted her lean figure, the toned muscle that gave her ass its enticing peach shape was as springy as rubber, resisting him as his fingertips sank into her pillowy flesh. A second hand crept up her belly, the sweat that was already starting to mist her skin making it glide, Reed trailing his fingers across her taut abs. There came an irresistible impulse to taste them, and he raised her butt off the mattress, bringing her closer and planting a lingering kiss on her stomach. She liked that – letting out a sultry sigh as he dragged his tongue across her salty skin.

“That’s the right idea,” she purred, placing a firm hand on his head. “You just want to go a little lower.”

Happy to oblige, he wandered towards her navel, dipping his tongue inside it and making her buck. She had seemed so strong – so powerful with all that gear on, but she felt remarkably light in his hands. The machinery that made up her prosthetics must be much less dense than its organic equivalents. It made her easy to maneuver, Reed bringing down another hand to cradle her butt as he raised her higher. Only her upper back was in contact with the mattress now, and knowing what he intended, she draped her long legs over his shoulders.

Reed felt the tough polymer against his cheeks now, but it was soon replaced with warm skin as he drew closer, her swollen loins greeting him. He kissed her, the sparse tuft of hair on her mound tickling his nose, her thighs tensing as he dragged the flat of his tongue between her soft lips.

“And here I thought you were gonna be selfish,” she giggled, her rubberized fingers digging into the mattress as he began to lick.

“You should have seen us giving away food and medicine,” Reed replied, pausing to pepper her inner thighs with a few teasing kisses. “I’ve always been a generous guy.”

“That’s not the only thing you’re giving out,” she said with a smirk, crossing her ankles behind his head and giving him a squeeze. He might have worried that her mechanical thighs would crush his skull like a giant nutcracker, but there was only plush flesh against his cheeks, her prosthetics reaching halfway up her thighs.

He briefly wondered why they didn’t go all the way up. Perhaps replacing her hips was a far more intensive procedure, being closer to a lot of important anatomy, or maybe her injuries were simply limited to those areas.

Reed continued his work, tracing the satin pleats of her burning vulva, circling her twitching opening. He pursed his lips around her clitoris, letting the firm, needy bud of flesh pulse against his tongue. She was so wonderfully receptive, his every doting lap making her squirm and wriggle, her toes making a subtle whirring sound behind him as they curled. He kneaded her ass, finally able to indulge his desires after so many days of seeing her walking around with that ridiculous tactical harness putting it on display, the contrast of her butter-soft fat and sculpted muscle filling his hands making his heart race.

After a few more strokes of his tongue, he lowered her back down to the bedding, crawling a little higher. He brought his lips to her neck, kissing and nibbling, his finger pressing tentatively against her entrance. It slid inside her without much resistance, her slick inner muscles gripping it tightly, little tremors and flutters stroking his digit. After inserting a second finger, he began to move his hand slowly, keeping up his kissing. He roamed down to her chest, catching an engorged nipple between his teeth and swirling his tongue around it.

“Ah, shit!” Wasp hissed as she bucked off the mattress with a squeal of old springs. “You have no idea how much better this feels than trying to get myself off with these damned plastic fingers. And no, before you crack wise, there’s no fucking vibration function.”

“And you were worried about me being able to keep up,” he chuckled. “Looks like I have you on the defensive now.”

Wasp narrowed her eyes at him, then Reed felt her hand snap to his wrist, her grip as strong as iron. Her thighs closed like a bear trap, gripping him by the waist, his stomach turning as she rolled him over. She had a mechanical strength far in excess of any normal human – more industrial than biological – a twinge of alarm rocking him as she manipulated his arm and slammed his face into the mattress. She was behind him now, clinging to his back like a baby monkey, tangling her legs with his own to immobilize them in some kind of martial arts joint lock. One hand twisted his arm behind his back, the other limb wrapping around his neck in a choke hold, leaving him gasping and clawing at her forearm.

She very quickly loosened her grip, giving him only a brief taste of what her cybernetics were capable of, rolling over so that they were both lying on their side. Reed couldn’t move a muscle, only having control of his one free arm as he gripped her polymer limb.

“Now who’s on the defensive?” she laughed, the tone of her voice suggesting that she was enjoying herself. “Go on – say it!”

“I am, clearly,” he grumbled, feeling her steely limbs grip him more firmly as he struggled to free himself.

“A big, strapping ex-Marine like yourself is probably used to taking the lead,” she continued with a sultry chuckle. Her lips were only an inch from his ear, her warm breathing blowing against his neck as she drew closer, planting a kiss that made him tense up in a wholly different fashion. “Don’t make me pull rank, now, Sergeant.”

He felt her teeth on his earlobe, his head filling with the sordid sounds of her gentle chewing and licking, and he suddenly became painfully aware of her lithe body pressing up against his bare back. He could feel her perky breasts squashing against his shoulder blades, her toned stomach sliding on a layer of their shared sweat. The hand that had been holding his wrist released him, her silicone fingertips slowly walking their way down his belly, his back arching as they brushed his cock.

“It can be fun to let someone else take control for a while,” she cooed in his ear, her fingers wrapping around his shaft. “I’d ask you to keep still, but it’s not like you could move if you wanted to…”

She started to stroke, her prosthetic hand gliding from his base to his tip, the lazy motion not quite enough to sate the growing desire in him. He tried to buck into her fist, but every time he moved, she tensed up again. Wasp was like a human finger trap – the more he resisted, the tighter she held on.

Her hand wasn’t as warm or as soft as its meat counterpart, but her dexterity was something to behold. Her grip could bend steel, yet she was applying the perfect amount of pressure – just enough to keep the hard polymer from becoming uncomfortable. It moved like a real hand should, confusing his senses. Her wrist pumped sluggishly, her thumb and forefinger squeezing tighter near the glans, the silicone treads that tipped them softer than he had anticipated. She drew back his foreskin, wetting a digit with his pre and circling his tip, making little stars flicker in and out of his vision.

“What’s the matter, Jim?” she breathed in his ear. His heart leapt as she bit his neck, her warm tongue grazing his skin. “No more quips and jokes? You’ve gone all quiet and cooperative on me.”

She started to pump a little quicker, her grip tightening ever so slightly, relying more on his skin than on her own hand. Reed wanted so desperately to move with her, but she wouldn’t let him, keeping him bound and subdued on the mattress as she teased him.

“Hope that thing’s waterproof,” he grunted. “I’m not paying for a new hand if I short yours out.”

“There he is,” Wasp snickered in his ear. “God, you’re such an annoying little goblin. I have no idea what vestigial region of my fucking cave woman brain you’re tickling with your constant bullshit, but it makes me want to fuck you until your hips look like a heat map of the Arctic circle.”

“You’re such a romantic,” he replied, tapering off into a grunt as she bit his shoulder a little harder.

“You’re pretty cute when you’re flustered,” she whispered, her tone becoming softer. “I like a guy who can give it to me both ways – I’m kinda bipolar like that. Some nights, I want some musclebound jarhead to throw me around like a toy and show me a good time, but there are nights when I want my man in a more…compromising position. Don’t be afraid to make a little noise – I like it…”

She wrung a groan out of him with a deft stroke of her hand, loosening the grip of her legs ever so slightly to give him some more range of motion, his hips starting to move in time with her fist. She alternated the pressure and speed, keeping him on his toes, Reed still wrestling with the unusual sensation of smooth plastic wrapping around his length.

It wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it was hard to focus on it too much with Wasp’s sordid whispering filling his head like a sweet smoke. She alternated between sarcastic praise and teasing insults, pausing to lick and bite, pinching his ear in her teeth and leaving throbbing hickeys on his neck.

“Come on, keep up,” she purred as she slowed her pumping to a torturous pace. “You said you could, right? Don’t give in so soon, Jimbo.”

“It’s not like your arm is gonna get tired,” he hissed through gritted teeth, bucking involuntarily as she gave him a gentle squeeze.

“That’s right – I could keep this up all night,” she said with a breathy chuckle, starting to stroke faster again. Her fingers slid up and down his length, moving with more purpose now, his pleasure mounting. “I could keep you pinned here, pushing you right up to the edge, and then…” She backed off once more, resuming her slow tempo, denying him the release that he was starting to crave. “Oh, are you disappointed?” she added with a mocking pout. “C’mon – gimme a good moan, and I’ll set you loose.”

“Not on your life,” he laughed.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she insisted, bringing her lips to his neck again. “Won’t you do it for me, Jim?”

She crawled them down to his shoulder, letting her teeth graze his skin, the way that she licked the red indents almost apologetic. There was an affection in her kisses, imbued into the motions of her hand – in the way that her nude body pressed up tightly against his back. She was eager, enamored with him, all of her teasing and joking masking something deeper.

“I dunno,” he replied, gasping as she bit his shoulder. “I need a little more convincing.”

All too happy to play along, she began to pump again, resting her chin on his shoulder and watching through half-lidded eyes as his cock flexed in her grasp. She wet her lips, her breathing growing heavier in his ear, the agent following a vein from base to tip with her treaded thumb. Her speed soon had him nearing his limits again, that urgent, swelling pressure rising within him. His heart began to race, his next breath coming in a stifled gulp, his jaw clenching. Again, she backed off, letting him cool down like an engine coming too close to redline.

“Shit,” he groaned, leaning back into her tight embrace. He could feel each stroke sapping a little more of his strength, a pleasant weakness permeating his muscles, his eyes losing their focus. Every time she brought him to the brink, it felt a little better, his senses becoming more susceptible.

“That wasn’t quite a moan,” she mused. “More of a grumble, really.”

He realized that she had released his arm some time ago – he hadn’t even tried to move it – her other hand rising to his cheek. She cupped it, the cool polymer pleasant against his burning skin, turning his head to one side. Shuffling a little closer so that she could reach, she drew him into another bawdy kiss, the soft little sighs and moans that she let slip sending tingling static shooting down his spine. She swirled her tongue around his own, painting the roof of his mouth and drawing shapes in his inner cheeks, every lap dizzying him in his affected state.

“You were so full of pep and fire earlier, but you’re like putty in my hands now,” she snickered as she broke off for a moment. “Looks like all you needed was a firm touch to put you in your place.”

“To be fair, your hands are pretty firm,” he replied. “There are lotions that can help with that, you know. I have a friend who’s a doctor – maybe he can prescribe something.”

Her hand snapped to his throat, applying just enough pressure to choke off his voice, her grip on his member tightening along with it.

“There’s only one thing I want to hear coming out of your mouth, and you know what it is,” she said as she accelerated again.

Reed could hear the servos whirring in her wrist and fingers, the sound growing more pronounced when she went faster, Wasp pulling him closer as she watched his reaction intently. She was drinking from him – his every twitch and thrust seeming to satisfy her thirst, as though seeing him so beset was all the pleasure she needed.

“I can feel you getting closer,” she purred. “You’re swelling in my hand. You’ve never fucked a weapon before, have you? Is it exciting?”

All he could muster was a grunt with her still holding his throat, the noise eliciting a lurid chuckle from her. She loosened her grip a little – just enough to let him get out a few strained words.

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Oh, I revel in it,” she replied with a smirk.

She relented a little more, giving him some room to move. He was able to thrust into her hand now, and she let him set the pace, little swarms of butterflies filling his belly as a wave of anticipation washed over him. Was she finally going to let him finish?

Turning his head forcefully, she trapped him in another drawn-out embrace, his head spinning as she subjected him to the finesse of her tongue. Wasp treated every encounter like a fight to be won, and she showed no less skill in bed than she did in battle. All of that impeccably tuned hardware, her cunning and initiative, her perfectly toned and trained physique – it was all directed towards his utter defeat now. What a wonderful way to lose…

A few more deft strokes of her fingers had him on the ropes, and finally, he found himself unable to stifle his voice. It was all too much, the room seeming to sway around him, his muscles burning with the effort as that welcome pressure rose to the forefront of his mind again. He let out a pained moan as the last of his willpower was sapped away, feeling Wasp redouble her efforts in reply.

“Fuck, that’s what I wanted to hear,” she breathed into his ear. “Go on – let it out. I want to make sure you can last good and long when we get to the main event. Come for me.”

Watching over his shoulder eagerly, she gave him one more squeeze, holding him tightly as a surge of sensation made him convulse in her arms. He could barely move a muscle again, and something about that frustration only made it more intense. He clenched his teeth and bucked into her waiting fist as a thick rope of his seed draped itself over her hand, its pearly color contrasting starkly with the black polymer, the grinning agent giving him another encouraging stroke. Another strand painted her digits, joining them in a glistening web, his own emissions making her touch slippery. It let him thrust more easily, and he fucked her fist in earnest, all inhibitions fading along with his conscious mind as it was subsumed by an animal need.

“It’s so warm,” he heard her purr in his ear as another spurt splashed across her palm. “Fuck, I could watch you shiver and whimper all night,” she growled, the way that her teeth pinched his ear burning through his haze of euphoria like a brand. “Maybe I fucking will.”

“That wasn’t a whimper,” he panted, still swimming with afterglow. “It was a much more masculine and dignified sound than that.”

“If you say so,” she giggled, easing out one last throb like she was squeezing a toothpaste tube. “You made my hand all sticky,” she complained. She raised it so that he could see the gelatinous wads that clung to the polymer, pressing her thumb and forefinger together to create a sagging rope and stretching it until it broke.

“Don’t worry,” Reed replied. “A pressure washer and some auto wax should have it looking as good as new.”

She began to wipe her hand on the mattress beside them, Reed grimacing.

“That’s gross.”

“What?” she scoffed. “You want me to apologize to the concierge when we return our room keys at the front desk? Idiot. Don’t worry,” she added, her tone turning sly as she licked the sweat from his neck. “The next ones aren’t going in my hand…”

“Plural?” Reed chuckled nervously.

“I didn’t get you alone for a quick pump and dump,” she growled, Reed feeling her perky breasts squash against his back. “We’re going until I’m completely satisfied, and we’re not stopping a second before then. I’m gonna work you the fuck over, kid. You’re gonna be limping out of this bedroom in the morning.”

“Seems a little counterproductive with the whole war thing going on,” he began, but she cut him off as she clutched his throat again.

“There’s a non-zero chance I’ll catch a slug tomorrow, and I want to enter the gates of Valhalla with a smile on my lips and all of my itches scratched.”

“R-reasonable,” he choked. She released his throat, and he gave it a brief rub. “I’m gonna need fifteen, though.”

“You get ten,” she replied sternly.

“What do we do until then?”

“We cuddle.”

“Cuddle?” he scoffed, turning his head to look back at her.

“You think I’m joking?” she replied, narrowing her eyes at him. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll hold me and make me feel safe.”

“Alright, alright,” he muttered as she released him from her leg lock. He rolled over and took her in his arms, Wasp nestling her comparatively small frame against his, pressing close. They were both soaked in sweat already thanks to the heat, his partner pushing her face into the nape of his neck and nuzzling contentedly, her prosthetic hands resting against his chest. Reed cradled her, letting a hand wander down the indent that her muscles carved into her spine, but stopping shy of her rear. She probably wouldn’t appreciate him copping a feel right now. “You’re a psycho, you know that?”

“Mhmm,” she murmured.

“Is it alright like this?”

“Mhmm.”

“Your hair smells like strawberries,” he muttered.

“It’s called shampoo, dumbass. Maybe you’ve heard of it before.”

He dared to bury his nose in her short-cropped hair, letting her scent fill his lungs, his partner shifting her weight and leaning in as though enjoying the sensation.

“Stroke my hair,” she ordered.

He did as she asked, running his fingers through her inch-long hair, feeling all of the tension in her body melt away. Even her limbs – made from metal and servos – seemed to relax in much the same way. Her breathing grew deeper and more regular, and she leaned her head against his chest.

“I think of myself as a pretty good judge of character,” Reed began. “The Doc looks like a murder machine on legs, and I knew pretty much right away that he wouldn’t hurt a fly. But with you, I have no idea what you’re about. I feel like I’m still peeling layers off you.”

“I wouldn’t want to be boring,” she replied.

“I guess I figured SWAR agents were pretty one-note.”

“Nah,” she said, running her treaded fingers across his chest affectionately. “I’d say there are at least two – very loud – notes.”

“I don’t even know your real name,” Reed added, still stroking her. “Not unless Mister and Missus Wasp conceived a baby girl and named her Agent.”

“Do you need to know my name?” she chuckled.

“I suppose not. Is it like a secret identity or something? I know Brenner’s name.”

“Show me a good time, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

She went quiet for a good ten minutes, content to lie in his arms, so relaxed that Reed feared she might have fallen asleep. Like moving a cat from one’s lap, the idea of waking her seemed somehow sacrilegious. Maybe she needed this more than she let on. Maybe he did too. How long had it been since he’d truly been able to relax in this way? Not since before the war, and even then, it had been a while since he’d shared a bed with someone. Just feeling her skin against his own had a pacifying effect, the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the regular sound of her breathing calming him, her warmth driving away all of the technological horrors that awaited them beyond that door. With his afterglow still lingering like a pleasant haze, it was hard to imagine anywhere he’d rather be.

Slowly, she seemed to come to, his heart skipping a beat as she peered up at him with those ice-blue eyes.

“You ready for round two, lightweight?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he replied.

“Aw, you’re such a sweetie,” she cooed as she reached up to kiss his cheek. “Now, on your back. I’m gonna ride you until the wheels fall off.”

“I don’t have any wheels.”

“You might by the time I’m done with you.”

What had been soft and gentle became firm and forceful, Wasp rolling him onto his back and swinging a polymer leg over him like she was mounting a motorcycle. She wasn’t heavy enough to pin him to the mattress, but her augs could exert so much strength, the agent squeezing him between her thighs and holding his wrists above his head. She pressed his cock against his stomach, her delicate folds grinding against his shaft as she leaned down to give him another intoxicating kiss. She rolled her hips slowly, teasing him, grinding him up to full mast again.

“There we go,” she purred, sitting up a little straighter now. She crossed his wrists, holding them in a single hand, her steely fingers like a manacle. The other slid down his chest, gliding on his damp skin, her feather-light touch soon finding his member. With a little maneuvering, she brought his glans to her lips, a solitary bead of her anticipation dripping down his shaft as she pressed his tip against her opening.

He watched with wide eyes and bated breath as she wriggled to get into a more comfortable position and pressed down on him, Reed feeling slick, silken muscle encompass him. Every inch felt tighter than the last, the exquisite texture of those clenching, squeezing walls bearing down on him enough to make him ball his fists. It was like her svelte body was trying to fight him the whole way, her chiseled abs flexing with the effort, her dark lashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. Her eyes glazing over and her mouth hanging subtly agape, she dropped down on him, the pair wincing together as she hilted him. Her fever-hot, pillowy flesh stretched to accommodate him, adhering to his shaft like living latex. He could feel the beating of her heart, her innermost depths rippling as a spasm tore through her, her legs squeezing tighter.

“That’s the second toughest insertion I’ve done lately,” she sighed, resting a hand on her mound as she grew accustomed to having him inside her.

“I’m not that big – I think you’re just tiny,” Reed replied as he struggled to maintain his focus. “Maybe get a few more inches on those legs of yours next time you’re in the shop.”

“Would you like that?” she chuckled, resting her hands on his chest now as she poised to start moving. “I didn’t peg you as a leg guy, Jimmy. It was my ass that you kept ogling.”

“I’m kind of an everything guy,” he replied with a shrug. “I don’t believe in showing favoritism.”

She gave him a sudden thrust, keeping him buried to the base as she rocked her lower body forward, causing him to abruptly lose his ability to form a coherent sentence. Her dexterity should come as no surprise to him by now, but the control that she exerted over her body was something to behold, every muscle group as precise as a hand. He watched her six-pack roll as she started to move, shifting and bulging beneath her skin, rivulets of glistening sweat trailing down her belly in the moonlight. She danced in its pale glow, twisting and thrusting, throwing back her head as the surges of pleasure set her senses alight. Reed could see it in every subtle bounce of her pert breasts and arch of her spine. He could feel it in the way that her thighs tightened around his hips – in every contraction of her passage, soaking wet muscle flowing around his shaft almost like a liquid. He could hear it in the way that her breath hitched, catching in her throat before leaving her in a long, amorous sigh.

“You’ve gone all quiet on me, Jimbo,” she said as she turned her blue eyes down on him. “Have I finally found the secret to shutting you up?”

He raised a hand to her belly, sliding his palm across her abs, feeling them tense as his touch tickled her. They were almost as smooth and firm as the molded polymer of her prosthetics, save for the almost imperceptible hairs, a single scar crossing a few inches above her navel. In the unventilated heat of their little hideaway, her skin appeared misted with dew drops, exertion leaving her gleaming and lustrous. She shivered as he reached her chest, closing his hand over her breast, the denser tissue beneath her soft fat greeting his fingertips as they delved deep.

Wasp closed her eyes and bit her lower lip, chewing on it gently as he kneaded, Reed delighting in the way that her silky flesh sprang back to shape when he relented. Some of his fellow Marines had obsessed over their Coalition allies for their assets, Ruza’s female counterparts often sporting racks that could smother a grown man to death, but that had never been Reed’s fixation. Wasp was a precision instrument – lean, taut, and as flexible as a gymnast. Everything superfluous and unnecessary had been stripped away to leave her svelte and low-drag.

“You’re a real picture,” he sighed, Wasp leaning closer so that he could lift his hand to her scarred cheek. “The kind of girl that makes a guy want to paint you on a gunship.”

“I think that’s the most flattering thing you’ve said to me so far,” she snickered, sliding his thumb into her mouth and biting it softly.

“I don’t have a gunship, but I could doodle you on the side of a van, maybe.”

She bit him a little harder, and he withdrew his thumb, the agent smirking down at him.

“Time to shut you up again,” she cooed, giving him a cruel swing of her hips that left him seeing stars. He found himself reaching for her waist, holding on instinctively as she began to rise and fall, riding him into the mattress like a horse. The squeaking of the old springs joined their labored breathing as her pace increased, sweat dripping down her face with the effort. Though he’d never admit it, she was right. If she hadn’t wrung one out of him earlier, he wouldn’t have lasted long while subjected to such treatment.

“Put your back into it,” she growled. “Just because you’re on the bottom doesn’t mean you get a free ride, dumbass.”

He began to lift his butt off the mattress to meet her thrusts, plunging ever deeper, feeling the muscles in her narrow depths clench as his shaft forced them apart. She was so painfully tight that it felt like he was wearing her, either because of her stature, or because her pelvic floor muscles had been trained to choke her enemies to death. With each impact, a captivating ripple spread through every soft part of her figure, her breasts bouncing like mounds of jello, her upper thighs and her springy ass quivering. She lay both hands on his broad chest now, resting her insubstantial weight on him, gazing down with a palpable desire in her eyes. There was no wooing Wasp – no careful courtship. She had made him her target long before he’d been aware of her inclinations, and it was clear that when she set her sights on something, she didn’t stop until she got it.

“That’s more like it,” she groaned, her spine forming a beautiful curve as she hilted him. “I’m not some delicate flower – I can take anything you can dish out. Don’t hold out on me, Jamie. I want to feel it in my guts.”

“And I thought I was the romantic one,” Reed grunted.

“I’ll let you buy me some flowers after we’re done destroying what’s left of these mattresses – how about that?” she replied with a sarcastic laugh.

She was really setting the pace now, going faster and faster, coming down on him so hard that he began to fear her comment about bruises wasn’t just a joke. She never did anything in half-measures, the way that she watched him intently with those icy eyes filling him with a strange, almost giddy admiration for her.

“You’re so fucking cool,” he sighed, the room spinning as she delivered another hammer blow to his pelvis. “You know that?”

“Oh no, I think I broke him,” she said in mock concern as she leaned down to bring herself closer. He slid a hand up her back, feeling her move, the sinewy muscles beneath her skin like steel cables. “I never learned to be careful with my toys.”

He reached up and pushed his face into her nape in response, biting her throat softly, hearing her gasp and sigh as her pace grew more erratic. She was getting close – he could feel it in the way that she gripped him ever tighter, the maddening folds and wrinkles of her satin flesh caressing him with each pump. Her movements were imbued with something more carnal now – something desperate. She lifted herself to a sitting position again, hanging her head, making a maddening figure out of eight that swirled him around inside her.

“I need more,” she growled, baring her teeth like an angry wolf. “I’m putting you on top, Jimbo. Finish before I do, and my estranged colleagues will be the least of your worries.”

Before he could muster a reply, she was rolling him over again with another judo throw, her long legs locking into place to keep him from leaving her for even a moment. He soon found himself kneeling on top of her, casting her slender frame into shadow, his hands resting on the mattress to either side of her head.

“Ew,” he muttered, lifting a hand from the cold patch they had created earlier.

“Reed,” she whispered, her voice at once comely and menacing as she gazed up at him. “Pick up the pace, honey.”

He started to move, his partner wrapping her steely arms and legs around him tightly, holding him close. It was a strange feeling – to have her diminutive frame pinned beneath him but to know that at any moment, she could take back control with a flick of her wrist. This position gave him more depth – more leverage, and he could see how much Wasp appreciated it. His every thrust was met with an enamored gasp or a strained sigh, her back arching off the mattress, her loins gripping him so fiercely that it was a struggle to pull out.

“Are you alright?” he grunted, giving her another push that sent her eyes rolling. “I’m not hurting you?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she replied with a smirk. “Shut up and put your back into it, bigshot. I told you not to treat me like a delicate flower.”

He shrugged, putting all of his weight into his next pump, sultry laughter escaping his lover’s lips.

“That’s more like it,” she giggled. “Heavier…”

He maintained that pace, driving her deep into the mattress, relying on its failing springs to cushion the blows. It was nice to be able to let loose like this – to obey his every primal instinct without reservation, rutting atop his eager partner. He bottomed out inside her, feeling her cushiony flesh tent around his cock, a wracking muscle spasm rippling along his length. It made him falter, and he had to slow for a moment, easing off as that maddening pressure threatened to overwhelm him again.

Wasp reached up a hand, caressing his cheek with a tenderness that took him off guard.

“You hanging in there, Jim?”

“I got this,” he grunted, resuming his pace.

“You’re really cute when you’re struggling,” she added with a snicker. “Look at you, trying so hard for me.”

Her loving caress morphed into a grab, the agent gripping his face in her hand and dragging it closer, drawing him into an embrace. This one was even greedier than the last, devoid of any of the restraint she might have shown before, as though there was some terrible thirst in her that could only be quenched by a kiss deep and bawdy enough. Their lips locked, they continued to move together, their bodies gleaming with sweat wherever the moonlight reached them.

Reed was losing himself now, the taste of his lover’s skin and the warmth of her body all that he could focus on, everything that didn’t pertain to pleasing Wasp melting away into a pleasant haze of euphoria. They had only known each other for a few days – he didn’t even know her real name, so why did this feel so different from a one-night stand? Why was he so captivated by her?

He drew closer to pepper her neck with kisses, tasting her sudor on his lips, his tongue raking her throat as she squirmed and cooed.

“Bite me harder you fucking pussy,” she hissed, taking a rough handful of his hair. He did as she asked, sinking his teeth into her shoulder and leaving pink indents in her pale skin, Wasp closing around him like a fist and letting out a carnal moan. She rewarded him with another frenzied kiss, pinching his lower lip in her teeth and giving it a tug. “There’s hope for you yet, Jimmie. Now, really give it to me.”

Reed pulled out of her with some effort, her tight walls holding onto him like a vacuum seal, Wasp giving him a scowl.

“Hey! What’re you-”

“Roll over,” he growled.

Her frown turned into a smile, and she did as he asked, releasing him from her hold and hastily flipping over to lie on her belly. He gripped her hips, guiding her butt into the air, Wasp swaying it back and forth in invitation like a bullfighter waving a flag. Reed leaned over her, placing a firm hand between her shoulders and pushing her down into the mattress, resting all of his weight on her. She let out a muffled giggle of anticipation, her face pressed into the fabric.

With the other hand, he held onto her waist, pulling her towards him and sliding his glistening erection between her cheeks on a sheen of her juices. Even without the harness accentuating it, her sculpted butt was firm and bouncy, taut muscle like rubber lurking just beneath the pillow-soft flesh. Like her toned core, she must have dedicated near half of her damned training regimen to it, little dimples visible when she tensed around his shaft. Angling his cock lower, he returned to the tangible heat of her lips, her excitement letting him glide back inside in spite of her powerful grip.

It only took a couple of rough thrusts before she relaxed into her new position, her face down and her ass raised, the sinewy muscles in her back and shoulders putting on a mesmerizing display for him beneath her gleaming skin. Every thrust met the springy cushion of her cheeks, sending a ripple through them, his ravenous partner pushing back to take him deeper.

“Fuck, Jimbob,” she groaned as another push drove her into the squeaking mattress. “I might have to keep you if we survive this. Maybe Brenner will let me register you as a service animal.”

He grunted, giving her another punishing thrust, her laughter petering out into a stifled moan.

“Now who’s the one making noise?” he asked, digging his fingers into her cheek.

Her cackling turned into more muffled groans and sighs, her eyes closing as she basked in the pleasure of their coupling, sweat dripping from her heaving body. His muscles burning now, Reed redoubled his efforts, giving her everything he had. Her polymer toes curled, her fingers clawing at the mattress, strong enough to tear through the fabric and expose the stuffing beneath. Lifting herself to all fours, she began to rock back into him, the clap of her ass impacting his hips filling the room.

Beset by a sudden surge of desire for her, Reed wrapped an arm around her neck and pulled her upright, tugging her tight against him. He slid a hand across her flexing belly, rising to maul her breast, the panting agent squirming in a mock attempt to escape him. Her damp skin slid against his own, her reaches seeming to swallow around him, every spasm followed by a beautiful shiver that rolled through her beleaguered body.

“N-nearly there,” she stammered, her voice a low growl now. “Fuck – don’t you dare slow down!”

A few more punishing thrusts were all it took, Wasp’s lashes fluttering and her mouth hanging agape in a silent cry as the first stab of her orgasm rocked her. Reed felt her whole body tense in his arms, every muscle seeming to flex, her spine curving away from him as though compelled by some uncontrollable force. She sucked in a sharp gasp, then another, tilting her head up as all of that growing tension was released. She finally exhaled in a drawn-out groan, those firm muscles relaxing – shuddering, her prosthetic arms hanging limply at her sides as Reed supported her weight.

He didn’t stop moving, plunging into her twitching, clenching passage. Those luxuriant walls of wet muscle wrung him with each fresh wave of pleasure that washed over her, stroking him from beyond her pillowy flesh like a clenched fist gloved in silk. It was only a few moments before he joined her, pushing his face into the nape of her neck and letting out an animal grunt, hearing her drunken laughter as the dam finally burst.

Her breath caught in her throat as his warm emission welled up within her, flooding her most intimate reaches, each frenzied pump of his hips accompanied by another searing rope of his seed. Still locked in the throes of her own ecstasy, the sensations compounded, another tangible shudder making her exhausted frame dance in his arms. It was a sharper pleasure this time, accompanied by a deeply satisfying ache that burned in his core, demanding more. Like the beating of a heart, it came in rushing throbs, each more dizzying than the last.

Like senseless beasts, they rode out their bliss together, their sweat-soaked bodies moving as one struggling organism. What was felt by one affected the other, the pair feeding into one another’s pleasure, trapped in a seemingly endless spiral. Questing hands of flesh and polymer roamed across wet skin, every squeeze and stroke eliciting another hungry growl or pained whine, the seconds bleeding together until all sense of time was drowned out.

Only when Wasp was released to fall face-first onto the mattress did Reed’s sense of time and place return, the raging flames of his passion now reduced to smoldering embers. He was burnt out, tired, and more satiated than he could ever remember being. His partner groaned and stirred, a broad smile on her lips, her lustrous body shifting in the pale moonlight. Reed grimaced as she slid him out of her, her muscles reluctant to relinquish their death grip, and she rolled onto her side to look back at him. He couldn’t tell if she was posing that way on purpose, but she lay there like the vision of some classical painter, lounging on the bedding before him with one arm raised lazily above her head.

“I’d say that you passed the performance evaluation,” she said with a grin, still a little unsteady. Her eyes wandered down his torso, lingering on his still-dripping manhood. “Maybe I underestimated you, Jimmy.”

“You said you’d tell me your name,” he panted.

“I suppose I did, didn’t I?” she mused. She extended a hand, and he took it, the agent pulling him down onto the mattress beside her. “Cuddle,” she ordered, taking his arm and forcefully draping it over her slender waist. “A good lay needs to be followed by a little love and tenderness. It’s like a chaser – you get some sweetness after the booze knocks your goddamned socks off.”

He pulled her tight, and they spooned together, wallowing in their fading afterglow. It should have been uncomfortable. The room was hot and humid, they were soaked in sweat and other, more salacious fluids, the mattresses were scratchy, and Reed felt like he had just run a marathon. Yet, he had never felt more content, his heart swelling as his lover nestled closer. He cupped her scarred cheek in his hand and drew her in for a slower, more placating kiss, trying to express what he couldn’t articulate in words. She seemed to understand, responding in kind, the two of them sharing a lazy embrace that dragged on for minutes.

“It’s Sadie,” she said when they finally broke off.

“Sadie?” he chuckled. “Really? You don’t strike me as a Sadie. A sadist, maybe.”

“Very funny, Jameson,” she replied.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he added as he stroked her cheek.

“You already blew your load in me – you don’t have to flatter me,” she replied as her face began to flush pink. “We’re past the flirting phase, Romeo.”

“Maybe I just like flirting,” he replied.

She lay her head on his shoulder, letting out a happy sigh as he began to stroke her back, her breathing growing more regular. They remained that way for a few more minutes until he began to fear that she had fallen asleep again. Perhaps it was for the best – he wasn’t sure he had a second round in him, but he was proven wrong as she began to stir.

“You almost ready to go again?” she asked, glancing up at him with those blue eyes. “I hope you have another round in the chamber, kid.”

“You’re serious?” he said with a nervous chuckle.

“I told you – we go until I’m satisfied,” she said more sternly, the tone of her voice rousing something within him.

“Alright,” he conceded. “Gimme fifteen, at least.”

“You get ten,” she growled, reaching up to bite his lip.

CHAPTER 30

DAY 56 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“Both target sites have an almost identical layout,” Brenner said as he leaned over a table in the mess hall, a crowd of resistance members and SWAR agents surrounding it. “Each one consists of three ten-foot defensive walls made from carbcrete surrounding a compound, with a rocky outcrop at their back that leads into a mine where the munitions are stored. Within this compound are several barracks and storage structures, a landing pad for dropships, and rows of sandbags and gabions designed to mitigate the effectiveness of aerial bombardment and slow advancing enemies. There are also four CIWS platforms, either situated at the corners of the walls or mounted atop the outcrop.”

He reached down to place a salt shaker on the sand. Without a holographic display, they had brought in bags of sand from outside and piled them on the table, using various pieces of cutlery and small items like bolts and screws as markers. Ruza examined the crude model of the enemy base – a roughly square compound backed by sloping rock faces represented by piled stones, the buildings made from empty MRE boxes.

“The MAST launchers should be parked near the entrances to the mines,” Brenner continued, gesturing to the shaker. “They need to remain outside to be combat-ready, so it’s unlikely that they’ll be moved into the tunnels once the shooting starts. There’s a guard tower by the entrance gate down here,” he continued, gesturing to an empty water bottle. “The Governor doesn’t have exact numbers for us, but he believes that there will be at least a hundred PDF guarding each site and a significant number of SWAR teams – whether new recruits or hardened agents, we don’t know. There are also likely to be PCEs – no more than six or seven per site, based on how many operational suits we think Barbosa has. The enemy is likely to have machinegun nests here, here, and here to cover the approaches.”

“Tough nut to crack,” Rivera said, crossing his arms as he took it all in. “How worried do we have to be about those CIWS guns?”

“They’re designed to shoot down incoming aerial threats,” Reed explained. “They shouldn’t pose a significant danger to our guys.”

“Unless they’re smart enough to pull the same stunt we did on Borealis and take direct control,” Brenner grumbled. “Those twenty-mill rotary guns can put out five-k rounds per minute. They’d tear us apart, but there’s not much we can do about them until we get inside. It’s a risk we just have to take.”

“I’m pretty happy to put money on the PDF being morons, but I dunno about the Borgs,” Reed replied.

“Either way, we’ll have to pull this off fast,” Brenner continued. “Response time, as always, is about fifteen minutes. Comms are clear, and it won’t take the carrier long to realize what we’re doing, but they can’t fire on the bases without losing their best deterrent. We have roughly two hundred resistance fighters and Marines,” he said as he pointed to some bottle caps that surrounded the base on three sides. “Each of these markers represents a squad of twelve – nine squads for each operation. We also have our HQ, which will consist of six of my agents and some VIPs.”

“Am I a VIP?” Reed asked, raising his hand.

“Yes, you’re a VIP,” Brenner sighed.

“Do I get a badge?”

“There are no badges,” Brenner replied more sternly. “Our teams will need to move across open ground to reach the walls and get inside the compound. The dunes provide some cover, but not much. The surrounding area is intended to be a kill zone hardened against infantry waves – a tactic commonly employed by the Bugs.”

“When we raided the garrison’s armory during the battle, we came away with several field mortars,” Reed added. “We couldn’t use them in the city, but this is a perfect opportunity to break them out. We don’t have a whole lot of shells, but it should be enough to lay down some covering fire while our teams advance.”

“We handed out some underbarrel grenade launchers while we were visiting, too,” Komodo added. “Combined grenade and mortar volleys should encourage the PDF to keep their heads down and give us some breathing room.”

“We can leapfrog our way in,” Rivera suggested. “Each twelve-man squad splits into two fireteams. One lays down covering fire while the other advances to a new position – maybe the lip of a dune. Repeat until they reach the wall.”

“Our marksmen can engage the machinegunners,” Ruza suggested. “They are the most immediate threat during our approach.”

“Harley – you’ll be our eyes in the sky,” Brenner added as he glanced over at the Jarilan. “Stay hidden and designate targets for mortar fire. We’ll also need you to track the positions of the PCEs. The last thing we want is an eighteen-hundred-pound surprise sneaking up on us.”

“You got it, Boss,” Harlequin replied with a lazy salute.

“You’ll be with me at the Alpha site. Komodo will lead the attack on the Beta site. Reed – I want you commanding the infantry at Beta. Rivera will command the Alpha infantry. You know your men and their capabilities better than we do.”

“Not to mention that they might not be too happy taking direct orders from a Borg,” Reed muttered.

“Ruza, I want you and the SCPEL team to scale this rock face and get into an elevated firing position overlooking the compound,” Brenner said with a gesture to the piled stones. “Your primary targets are the PCEs, but keep an eye on those CIWS guns. If it looks like they’re targeting the ground, take them out.”

“Understood,” Ruza replied.

“Comms have been restored, but sticking to laser where possible is good practice,” Brenner continued. “Make sure all of your men have their IFF systems switched off. Rivera, Reed – I want you to personally check each helmet. If even one of them is broadcasting, it’ll light their squad up like a switchboard.”

“Hang on, why doesn’t Beta get any heavy weapons?” Reed demanded. “I don’t want to be on the worst team!”

“My orbital asset will insert directly into the compound to engage the PCEs at Beta,” Brenner explained, lifting a stray slug and placing it upright in the sand. “Trust me – she’s bringing enough heavy weapons to make up the difference.”

“If you say so,” Reed conceded. “Right. Three-pronged attack, suppressive fire from mortars and GLs, heavy weapon teams take out the PCEs. Got it.”

“Remember – our only objective is to neutralize those MASTs by any means necessary,” Rivera said as he glanced around the table at their stony faces and opaque visors. “Capture them or destroy them if you must. You can disable the launch vehicle, but if that fails, go for the missiles. Those booster stages are full of highly reactive fuel that’ll go up like a candle if exposed to too much heat. A slug won’t do it, but an explosion might.”

“Any further questions?” Brenner asked. “Everyone clear on what they’re supposed to be doing? Good. Gear up and prepare to move out.”

They began to disperse, filing out of the room and heading to the makeshift armory to collect their weapons and equipment. The resistance hadn’t brought very much to the plant with them save for the rifles and ammunition they had been carrying during their escape, but the SWAR agents had arrived laden with large packs. They were handing out full XMR magazines to Owens and the other Marines who had escaped with Ruza and Rivera, along with bandoleers of shells and underslung launchers intended to be attached beneath the barrels of their rifles. There weren’t enough for everyone, but it would greatly enhance the threat level of the squad. Silverback began to pass out grenades from a satchel, the Marines filling their rigs and loading their weapons.

Ruza watched as Wasp walked over to Reed, producing something from her rucksack.

“What’s this?” Reed asked as she thrust it into his hands. It looked like a small satchel or parcel to Ruza.

“It’s a demo block – plastic explosive,” she explained. “It works the same way as your mining charges, but wireless. You just take this detonator and push it into the brick,” she continued, handing him a small electronic device shaped like a nail. “It’s very stable until then – totally shock resistant. You could probably light it on fire, and it wouldn’t explode without this. Just pair it with your helmet, hit a button, and boom.”

“This is the greatest gift anyone has ever given me,” he marveled, his eyes wide as he examined the satchel. “I love it!”

“Be careful out there,” she added, placing a hand on her hip as she watched him strap it to his rig eagerly. “I won’t be around to keep your dumb ass safe.”

“Are you two fuckin’?” Silverbacked asked, leaning in to give them both a suspicious look.

“You’d better mind your own fuckin’ business,” she hissed, her face flushing pink as she stared down the agent until he shrugged and withdrew.

“Ruza,” Rivera said, getting the Rask’s attention and inviting him over with a wave. The Marine was standing beside one of the tables they’d been using as a workbench, a few XMR parts and tools still scattered about its surface. Sitting upon it was a tarp covering something distinctly weapon-shaped.

“What is this?” Ruza asked, a little curiosity entering his usually subdued tone.

“Me and the boys put something together for you,” Rivera replied, reaching over to pull away the tarp with a rustle of plastic. “I figured that if you’re going to be watching my back, I want to make sure you can do your job.”

It was the AMR, but not the same as he had left it. The weapon had been modified, now sporting a much larger grip and a wider trigger guard better suited to his hands, along with a forward grip that had been attached beneath the barrel for better handling. There was a new scope that looked far more advanced than the one it had come with, and the formerly loose battery was now secured in a backpack with a hole cut into the fabric for the insulated power cable to snake through.

“You did this?” Ruza marveled, lifting the weapon from the table. It was already far easier to carry, the forward grip giving him better purchase, and he lifted a padded finger to the scope to examine the tiny buttons on its housing.

“I had a little help from Brenner’s guys as well,” Rivera replied, seeming pleased with his reaction. “We had some spare parts lying around, and they brought a few extra toys with them. Expensive toys. This is the latest marksman scope,” he continued, gesturing to the device. “You can’t use all of its smart features on account of not having a helmet, but it’s still the best scope UN tax credits can buy. Up on top, you have a holo sight for closer encounters and fast target acquisition, and that device mounted on the end of the barrel is a rangefinder that will automatically zero your sights. It’s optical, which means that it doesn’t emit lasers or any visible light that could give you away. Should make your targets a lot easier to hit.”

“You have my gratitude,” Ruza replied, shouldering the weapon experimentally. “I will be sure to put it to effective use.”

“Hey, do you still have the typewriter?” Reed asked. He was eavesdropping on their conversation from the other side of the room, raising his voice to be heard.

“I do,” Ruza replied, opening his jacket to display the large machine pistol that was strapped to his belt.

“Good,” Reed added with a satisfied nod. “Rivera’s gift is more expensive, I’ll give him that, but ours has heart. It’s like a macaroni picture.”

“Alright,” Ruza replied with a nod, not understanding why Wasp was laughing.

DAY 56 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – PETROVA

Petrova climbed the creaking steps, emerging into the office that had served as their lookout tower atop the plant. She could taste the arid air as it swept in through the empty windows, blowing her clothes and disturbing the dust that caked the weathered furniture.

Everyone had gone to a briefing about the upcoming operation, and with Ruza giving her the run of the plant, it had been her first real opportunity to slip away. Everyone was distracted, and the civilians were a lot less careful with their gear than the Navy personnel.

As she approached the windows, she drew a stolen phone from her pocket, typing in the key code that she had observed Amy enter to unlock it. Her prosthetic finger poised above the display, her heart starting to beat faster. She felt as though a lead weight had settled in her belly. It had taken a lot of time and a lot of convincing to win the trust of these people, and she was cashing it all in now. If she was discovered here, it would all be over.

What was she doing? Was this really what she wanted? The seconds crawled by as she fiddled with the settings, and finally, she pressed the call button.

It only took a moment before there was an answer on the other end, Song’s voice coming through the tinny speaker a little distorted. She was far from the nearest relay, and the signal wasn’t very strong.

“Who is this?” Song demanded. “This is an encrypted Navy channel – how do you have the access codes? Identify yourself.”

“Song,” she began, sucking down a shaky breath. “It’s Petrova.”

“Petrova!?” he replied, his surprise palpable. “We thought you were dead! Where are you? I’m not able to get a lock on your position.”

“I’m using a civilian phone,” she explained. “I’m routing the call through a few different relays.”

“Why would you do that? I won’t be able to locate you.”

“It would take too long to explain,” she replied. “Put me through to Barbosa. It’s important.”

It only took a moment before she heard the Commander’s familiar voice.

“Petrova! Thank God – we’ve been turning this dustbowl upside down searching for you! Where have you been? What happened? Are you alright?”

“Commander,” she began. “It’s a very long story, and one that I fear I don’t have time to tell right now. I could only slip away for a little while.”

“Song says he can’t get a fix on your signal,” Barbosa continued. “Tell us where you are, and I’ll deploy a PCE kill team to extract you. They can be anywhere on Hades within twenty minutes.”

“I’m somewhere safe,” she replied cryptically. “I need to speak with you, Commander.”

“Do you have information for me?” he asked. “Did you find the Rask?”

Petrova hesitated, conflict freezing her up. She knew what she was supposed to do – what was expected of her. Loyalty and duty tugged her in one direction, while suspicion and doubt pulled her in the other, the two opposing forces threatening to tear her apart at the seams. She had to know. Whether Barbosa would tell her the truth or not, she had to ask.

“I need information from you, Commander,” she replied. She took his lack of response as permission to continue. “I’ve been embedded within the resistance, and I’ve learned things – things I can’t reconcile. I need to hear it from you.”

“I hope you haven’t been letting them fill your head with propaganda.”

“Please, Commander. I have to know the truth.”

“Very well,” he conceded, sounding wary now. There was no way for him to know how much she already knew, or what the resistance had been telling her. Lying here would be perilous.

“They told me they didn’t burn that warehouse full of food – that it was done on your orders, and that you kept it from me. Have you been running covert operations and keeping me in the dark?”

“Petrova,” he began with a sigh. “Of course the insurgents would take half-truths and present them in the most damning way possible. You’re smarter than that. We’ve been fighting a war on multiple fronts,” he continued. “The ground war is only one theater, and the one fought in the information sphere is just as important. We can’t let insurgent propaganda go unopposed any more than we can let their soldiers walk into our garrisons without a fight. You can’t win an asymmetrical war by adhering to strict rules of engagement while your enemy does as they please, and the same logic applies to propaganda. Yes, I’ve ordered some false flag operations, and I’ve kept them secret for reasons of operational security.”

“You didn’t tell me?” Petrova demanded. “You said that you trusted me – that I was your right hand. Have they ever attacked our food shipments, or was it always just a lie?”

“You know that we’re on a strict timetable, Lieutenant,” he replied sternly. “We couldn’t simply wait for the insurgents to make mistakes that we could capitalize on.”

“So you decided to do it yourself,” she scoffed. “They weren’t committing atrocities fast enough, so you helped them along.”

“We needed the civilian population on our side,” Barbosa insisted. “I ordered Roach and Crow to burn the warehouse – after moving the supplies. It won us favor with the population, and it helped Song’s information campaign turn the tide. It’s one of the reasons we succeeded.”

“And what else have Roach and Crow been doing?” Petrova asked. “I’ve met survivors of the raid on the resistance base. They talk of wholesale slaughter – of civilians and injured fighters being massacred. They said there was a hospital siege. You didn’t destroy the base to finish them off – you did it to hide the evidence of what you’d done in those mines.”

“Oh, spare me your moralizing,” Barbosa sneered. “You knew when you signed up that we’d be casting off the bureaucracy and red tape that has tied our hands and kept us from being effective. They were insurgents, Petrova. Anyone inside that base wasn’t a civilian by definition, and we’re not going to show mercy to terrorists who have been killing our troops with roadside bombs, whether they’re feeling under the weather or not. If you think that killing your enemies is a bad thing, you should have stayed with the Navy. It’s their core philosophy these days.”

“So anything is permissible if it furthers your cause?” she asked in disbelief.

“We’re operating with limited manpower, resources, and time in an asymmetrical war where civilians aid and abet the enemy,” Barbosa snapped. “We don’t have the luxury of playing softball. Look at history and find me a single conflict where that approach worked. Our cause is the long-term survival of humanity. Yes, that’s worth any price. I thought you understood that.”

“And what about the rations?” Petrova continued, pressing on now that the floodgates were open. “They showed me allegedly leaked records proving that you’re moving supplies into the garrisons and preparing for food riots instead of using them to feed the population. Are you engineering a famine?”

“I didn’t toss a whole freighter’s worth of food into space,” he protested. “I wasn’t the one giving our supplies to the insurgents so they could run a competing ration program, but I’m sure as hell going to secure my position and deal with the fallout. If using hunger as a means of control is what it takes, then that’s what I’ll do. They’ve left me no other choice.”

“We came here to elevate these people,” Petrova continued. “We promised that we would improve their lives and bring them stability, not starve them and force them to work as slaves in all but name!”

“Maybe you should ask your new insurgent friends why they’re trying to sabotage me at every turn, then. If the Hadeans had just cooperated from the start, none of this would have happened.”

“I don’t believe you anymore,” Petrova replied, shaking her head. “Your plan for feeding Hades never made sense, but I trusted you blindly. Maybe this was always your plan, regardless of whether the locals resisted or not.”

“You can believe whatever you want to. It doesn’t change the reality of the situation.”

“I saw the execution,” she added. “In the desert. I was there, Commander – I watched SWAR agents march political prisoners out of PDF trucks and make them dig their own graves. How can you justify that? How many times have you done something similar while keeping me in the dark?”

“That was you,” he said, more of a statement than a question. “Were you the one who killed Cobra? Have you flipped on me, Lieutenant Commander?”

“I contacted you because I wanted reassurance,” Petrova continued, starting to choke up a little as the phone trembled in her hand. “I wanted you to have excuses – to tell me that everything’s fine and that we’re still the good guys, blyat. I wanted you to tell me that it was all lies, and I could come home, and everything would be the way it was. You’re not even denying it?”

“You’d like to believe that you were misled, wouldn’t you?” Barbosa continued. His voice was low and menacing now. She’d never heard him speak to her this way before. “That all of the fault lies with me, and you can wash your hands of it. There’s no way out for you. Even before this, you were a killer. Do you think every murder you committed in the name of the UN was ordered for a noble reason? Your value has always been in your ability to lie and kill without conscience. Your hands have never been clean.”

“That’s not true!” she snapped, tears starting to well in her eyes.

“You’re a part of this,” he continued. “You participated in the attack on Site Two, you were there when we took the carrier, and you’ve been carrying out my orders since we arrived here. You’re a traitor to the UN and an enemy to the Hadeans. Do you think that when this is all over, these primitive dirt farmers are going to forgive you? Do you think you can just go back to the Navy, and all will be forgiven? I’m all you have.”

She put her back to the flaking wall, sinking down to the floor, holding the phone in one hand as she struggled to wipe away her tears with the other. It was impossible with the hydrophobic polymer.

“You have one option left,” Barbosa continued, his voice crackling through the speaker. “Tell me where you are, and return to my side. You know everything now – there’s no reason to keep you in the dark any longer. Deliver me the insurgents, and we can put this whole fiasco behind us. I know that you’re intelligent enough to see the necessity of my actions once you calm down and think about it rationally.”

“I’m not going to calm down!” she snapped. “You used me! You told me what I wanted to hear, and you hid the things you knew I wouldn’t agree with! You wanted me to be your successor. You wanted me to run the colony when you’re gone and remember you as a great man, all without ever knowing the death and suffering it was all built on!”

“We stand upon the shoulders of untold billions of dead!” Barbosa snapped. “Do you think someone living on a prosperous Hades in two hundred years will give a damn how it happened? You’re Russian – do you spend your days lamenting all of the revolutions and purges and civil wars of your past, or is it all ancient history?”

“It matters!” she exclaimed. “You’re so blinded by your grand vision of the future that you can’t see what you’re doing to the small people – the normal, everyday people who suffer and die because of it! What you’re doing is no different from what the Brokers did! They let forty thousand innocent colonists die just to draw us into a war, because they saw that as the greater good and the logical choice. Human beings aren’t credits to be spent! We’re not Drones in a hive!”

“It’s clear to me now that the insurgents have compromised you,” Barbosa replied, his icy calmness contrasting with her fiery emotions. “You were always sentimental, and maybe I valued that quality too much.”

“So many times, you did things that I knew were wrong,” she lamented with a shake of her head. “I should have listened to my instincts. I was a fool to think that executing those engineers was the lowest you’d sink. I wanted it to be – I convinced myself that it was. No more. I won’t have any further part in this.”

“Let’s talk about this, Petrova,” Barbosa continued.

“I’m not letting you buy Song more time to trace me,” she replied, closing the connection with a swipe.

She set the phone down at her side and tucked her knees to her chest, crying into her crossed arms for a few minutes more. Only when she heard the sound of footsteps did she look up, seeing Ruza standing in the doorway.

“Petrova,” he began, one hand slowly reaching below his jacket when he saw the phone. “I searched for you in your quarters, and when I could not find you, I came here. What have you done?”

“I contacted Barbosa,” she replied, looking up at him through red eyes. “I had to talk to him in person. I needed to hear it from him.”

“Who do you weep for?” Ruza asked warily, his clawed fingers hovering a hair from his sidearm. “Are we undone?”

“Everything you told me about Barbosa was true,” she replied, resting her head in her hand – emotionally spent now. “He didn’t even try to deny it – all he did was justify it. He’s planning a famine, and he’s been running covert ops – trying to turn the population against the resistance by staging attacks. No amount of suffering and death will convince him that he’s wrong. I know that now.”

“Then, you finally see with eyes unclouded,” Ruza mused, his hand moving away from his weapon.

“He’s right about one thing,” she added with a bitter laugh. “He’s all I have. I can’t go back to the UN because I helped him do this. I attacked the station, I boarded the carrier, and I’ve carried out his orders on the colony. I can’t expect the Hadeans to forgive me – not after I recruited their kids into that Frankenstein program. They died because of me. I killed Tom. It’s all my fault…”

She buried her face in her crossed arms again, her shoulders shaking with the effort, her tears all but spent. Ruza’s heavy footsteps announced his approach, and she glanced up to see him towering over her with a stern expression on his feline face.

“Have you not heeded my counsel?” he demanded.

“What?” she sputtered.

“Is there anything to be gained by sitting here weeping and wallowing in your guilt? Do the dead and the wronged care that you feel badly?”

“No,” she choked with a shake of her head.

“If there is any possibility of the Navy or the Hadeans granting you clemency, what must you do?”

“I…I have to try to fix things,” she replied, her brow furrowing.

“Barbosa is wrong,” Ruza insisted, extending a hand. “You have us.”

She hesitated, then reached out to take it, the alien hauling her to her feet. He reached out with a furry knuckle and dried her wet cheeks, Petrova feeling her blood run hotter.

“I want to fight with you,” she insisted, filled with determination now. “I should…probably give Amy her phone back, too.”

“Then we must arm you.”

DAY 56 – GEOTHERMAL PLANT – RUZA

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Reed asked, watching as Ruza finished flashing Petrova’s prosthetics with their original bios. The Rask closed the panel on her arm, and she flexed her hand, testing its responsiveness. She was already wearing a chest rig, but she had no plate armor – not that it would do her much good anyway if a slug found its mark.

“She has earned my trust,” Ruza insisted, slinging his XMR over his shoulder. He moved over to the table where the modified AMR was resting, throwing the rucksack that contained its battery over his back and hefting the massive rifle. “Twice now, she could have betrayed us and chose not to.”

“We need all of the help we can get,” Brenner said, thrusting a rifle into her hands as his team members looked on. It was hard to tell what they were thinking beneath their visors, but they seemed skeptical to Ruza. “Even a single SWAR agent is a force multiplier.”

“Please,” Petrova said, glancing between the agents. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. All I’m asking for is a chance to help make things right.”

Silverback stepped forward, shouldering past Komodo, one of his large hands reaching for his belt. Petrova drew back, bristling as he produced a sidearm, but he flipped it over in his hand and offered it to her. She took it, stowing it in a holster on her hip.

“Fine,” Reed sighed, rolling his eyes. “But if she betrays us, I get to shoot her.” He picked up a helmet from one of the tables – part of their haul of captured gear from the recent attack. “I was going to wear this one, but it’s a little fancy for my tastes,” he continued as he tossed it to her. “The PDF surplus stuff has served me well so far.”

Petrova caught it, turning it over to see that the decal that had once adorned its visor had been crudely scratched away.

“Let’s get moving,” Brenner added. “It’s quite a walk to the rendezvous point, and we can’t afford to be late.”

They began to file out of the armory, clattering gear and rustling armor following the procession down the corridor. As they headed up towards the exit of the plant and entered the old lobby, Ruza was stopped by a few of his friends. Amy, Bill, Ricky, Bergmann, and Omar had come to see them off.

Amy pulled Ruza aside and hugged him around all of his weaponry and equipment as best she could, Petrova pausing a few paces away to look back.

“I feel like we’re always saying goodbye these days,” Amy sighed. “Be careful out there, and don’t let these soldier types make you do anything stupid. Look out for number one.”

“I will be careful,” he replied, giving her a reassuring pat on the back.

“With any luck, all of this nonsense will be over soon,” Ricky added as he leaned a hand on the front desk. “I’d really like to go back to my prefab.”

“As if your prefab was much better than this place,” Bill chuckled.

“Good luck,” Bergmann said. “If this had all happened fifteen years earlier, I might be going with you.”

“Watch your backs out there,” Omar added.

They made their way down the steps and out onto the sand, finding Rivera and his squad of Marines already waiting for them. There was Cruz, Delgado, Gray, Owens, and many other faces that he had come to recognize.

“You ready to move out?” Rivera asked.

“Try to keep pace,” Brenner replied, leading them out into the canyon.

CHAPTER 31

DAY 56 – HADES ORBIT – FLATLINE

“Reggie!” Caveman yelled, rapping his prosthetic fist on the bulkhead door. “What, are you taking a dump in there? We’re ten minutes out from the target!”

“Will you sit down and shut up?” Flatline complained, pausing his weapon check.

“Sorry, LT,” Caveman replied as he returned to his crash couch and flopped down.

The cramped troop bay of the Courser bustled with activity, the seats that lined its walls occupied by SWAR agents who were loading weapons and checking their equipment. There were half a dozen of them – one fireteam – their XMRs configured with short barrels and folding stocks for close-quarters fighting.

Alongside them was the Trog team – unaugmented humans equipped with specialized breaching gear. Their segmented armor was far bulkier and heavier than that worn by Marines or SWAR, with reinforced plating and a protective collar that rose up to shield the neck area, its design inspired by bomb disposal suits. Their shoulders were protected by massive pauldrons, and a plate came down to hang between their legs like an armored loincloth. It was difficult to move in – cumbersome and unwieldy, but it provided a level of enhanced protection that was necessary in their line of work.

Their helmets, too, were specialized. In lieu of a full-faced visor, a narrow slit ran across the eyes. A bulky rebreather that resembled a gas mask jutted out from the mouth and nose area, giving it the appearance of a dull snout, a pair of flexible tubes coming off the cheeks and trailing deeper into the collar. They wore thick carriers over their chest plates that were laden with spare magazines, grenades, and explosives. These men had transferred straight from Kerguela with Brenner’s forces and still sported the autumn tiger camo favored on the forest moon.

Trogs – shorthand for Troglodytes – were a special forces unit specializing in tunnel fighting. A volunteer-only force, and technically classed as combat engineers, they would venture into Betelgeusian hives and use their skills to fight the enemy on their home turf. It was dangerous, difficult work, but they thrived in the high-pressure and claustrophobic conditions below ground. They also made excellent boarding parties, leveraging the same skills to overwhelm opponents in the narrow hallways of spacecraft.

They were helping one another check the seals on their suits now, doing pressure tests to ensure that they were spaceworthy.

There was some rivalry between the two groups, and Flatline still wasn’t sure if he’d rather Brenner had given him a full SWAR team of twelve men, but there was limited space on the ship. He knew his own team well, and although Lieutenant Deacon and his Trogs were newcomers, their reputation preceded them. He trusted them to do their jobs.

Finally, Reggie emerged from the cargo compartment, his heavy cup-like feet stomping on the metal floor grates. Flatline had been traveling with the alien for weeks, and he still wasn’t used to the damned thing. It stood as tall as a Borealan, its fridge-shaped body balanced atop a pair of chicken legs, its four hose-like arms suspended in the air. Its housing was made of some manner of off-white material, while all of the exposed metal and machinery shone like polished chrome, the arrays of little cameras on its front face glowing a dull red.

He’d been told that there was an alien living inside it – some kind of squid, but it had never shown itself. It must eat, sleep, and shit inside that suit.

Reggie – as the other agents had named him – was carrying something into the troop bay. It looked like another fridge – a silver square with rounded corners and no visible markings or openings. The Broker set it down with a thud that reverberated through the deck, a few of the nearest personnel leaning closer to get a look.

“What’s that, Reg?” Caveman asked, tilting a helmet that was decorated with a stone club decal. “Are you building a wife?”

One of the snaking, tubular arms lowered to the box like a tentacle, the mechanical claw on the end of it brushing against its surface. Everyone watched in quiet fascination as a seam appeared in what had looked like solid metal, as though someone was plunging an invisible knife into it. The gap grew and shifted until it became a door, the box opening up like a cabinet. It was hard for Flatline to make out what was inside. His eyes had trouble making sense of it, but there appeared to be more paradoxically flexible metal surrounding an empty cavity, its reflective nature making it difficult to discern whether it was moving like liquid mercury or simply shining.

Reggie thrust a claw into the cavity, and there came a litany of clicking and grinding sounds, as though some great clockwork mechanism had sprung into motion. Still struggling to parse what he was seeing, Flatline watched something begin to build around the claw. No, it was being replaced. Almost like tiny printer nozzles or the needles of sewing machines, a thousand delicate mechanical arms were constructing something around the limb, weaving and zigzagging fast enough to blur together. They were depositing material – more of that strange metal. Like a baker pulling a fresh loaf from the oven, Reggie withdrew his limb after only thirty seconds had passed, now sporting what was unmistakably a weapon. It had a blocky, white housing and a chrome barrel with a large bore, so integrated into his arm that it looked like it had come out of the factory that way.

“I thought you weren’t fighting?” Caveman asked.

“The Board considers this to be an internal human affair,” Reggie replied, his synthetic voice coming through hidden speakers. “I am not permitted to engage, but it is still legal for me to defend myself against criminal aggression during repossession.”

“What is that – some kind of printer?” another of the agents asked, Ditch rising from her seat to lean closer. “No wonder you didn’t bring a lot of luggage. I guess you just make whatever you need?”

“Yo, can you make me one of those?” Caveman asked.

“Even if the sale of such restricted technology to aliens was permitted, I very much doubt that you could afford a printing license,” Reggie scoffed.

“What if you just gave it to me for free on account of you liking me so much?”

The alien gave no reply, but Flatline liked to imagine that he was sighing inside his suit.

“Five minutes,” the pilot warned, his voice crackling over the intercom.

The men began to don their maneuvering units, pulling them down from racks above the seats. They resembled harnesses that were strapped across the chest, securing around the waist and shoulders. On the belt was a small canister of propellant gas, a few snaking tubes running along the straps to join it to conical nozzles spaced around the unit. They were short-range and had limited thrust, but they would allow the wearer to maneuver in a vacuum.

It wasn’t long before the call came from the pilot that they were approaching the target site. Flatline ordered the men to the airlock, where they began to stack up, giving their weapons and gear one final check. The Trogs had brought two microwave rifles. The weapons were about the same size as a medium XMR with a bulky battery pack on the stock, and in place of a barrel, there were three large prongs encased in the same black polymer as the rest of the weapon. It was a directed energy weapon that projected a tight beam of intense microwave energy, exciting water molecules and shorting out electronics in its path. The weapons were usually used to saturate tunnels with deadly radiation, cooking Bugs in their shells, equally effective against flesh and technology. In theory, they’d be just as potent for killing SWAR.

Flatline wasn’t sure what the regs said about using such a weapon against human targets, but these were unusual circumstances.

“We’ve matched velocity with the debris field,” the pilot announced. “It’s shed some speed and started to disperse due to its interactions with the thermosphere.”

“First group, get ready!” Flatline barked.

The inner airlock door opened, and three men stepped through, which was all the cramped compartment could accommodate. The airlock was usually used for umbilicals that joined two ships for docking. The outer door opened, ice crystals quickly forming on the inner window as the compartment depressurized, rustling the clothes of the men inside. They stepped out into the void, the darkness beyond soon swallowing them.

“Next group!” Flatline ordered once the door had sealed, and the next three men stepped through.

It took a few more minutes until it was Flatline’s turn, and he marched through the inner door with two of his agents flanking him. There was a rush of air as the outer door opened, a brief moment of cold assailing him before his suit’s heating elements kicked in automatically. The standard UNN pressure suit worn by everyone from vehicle crews to special forces agents was rated for vacuum, and it could both warm and cool its wearer, as well as provide oxygen for a limited time. It would be enough to get them where they were going.

He stepped out of the bay, feeling his stomach turn as he left the AG field of the ship, weightlessness gripping him. Hades filled his field of view like a curving horizon, the desert planet glowing as it reflected the sunlight, wisps of white cloud and dark sandstorms trailing through its blue atmosphere. The pilot had threaded the Courser into the debris field like a needle, pieces of the destroyed ship surrounding them in a sparse cloud, ranging from loose screws to massive chunks of hull.

The first attack on the carrier had been a feint. The Marathon had succeeded in taking out the enemy EWAR ship, then it had created this debris field, giving them cover during their real approach and hopefully giving Barbosa a false sense of security in the process. There had been no crew aboard – it had been set to autopilot and put on a pre-programmed course.

His team was floating among the wreckage in a loose cluster, communicating via laser comms to avoid emitting any signals that might give them away. Flatline turned his head to look behind him, seeing the Royal Blue stretching out to his left and right. Coursers were always described as being small, but it didn’t feel that way while floating next to one. He watched as Reggie left the ship, only just able to fit through the door, the alien tucking his limbs close to his cube-like chassis.

“All clear,” Flatline declared. A blue glow appeared behind the ship’s engine module, and it began to slowly coast away, little jets from its thrusters maneuvering it around the larger pieces of debris. Neither the station nor the carrier were in sight yet, as they had inserted on the opposite side of the planet to avoid detection.

He brought up the display on his forearm, triggering his maneuvering unit and giving it a few puffs. It sent him slowly coasting towards his team, another touch of the display neutralizing his velocity with a few more bursts.

“Are you sure we have enough oxygen to make it to the carrier, LT?” Caveman asked.

“Just about,” he replied, stopping beside a chunk of blasted hull plating as it tumbled lazily through space. “It should take us about thirty minutes to complete this orbit. Equalizing velocity between the debris and the carrier is going to take a lot of gas, so be conservative until then. If you run out, you’ll shoot right past it.”

“What if Reggie triggers the carrier’s defenses?” Ditch asked. “He’s pretty dense. No offense.”

“The upside of boarding one of our own carriers is that we know every minute detail of its weaponry and targeting software,” Flatline replied. “Those CIWS guns will only trigger automatically if the sensors detect debris that’s sufficiently massive or traveling fast enough to pose a threat. A carrier’s armor plating is designed to stand up to minor impacts and micrometeorite collisions, so as long as we go slow, they won’t pick us up. We’re not emitting any signals or too much heat, so we should just look like small, inoffensive pieces of wreckage.”

“As long as someone isn’t looking out of a window at the wrong moment,” Caveman muttered.

They floated in formation, nestled among the glittering debris, Flatline watching the planet scroll past far below him as the sunlight reflected off the shattered stealth panels and fragments of metal. This was far from his first space walk, but it was hard to rewire his brain and convince it to stop warning him that he was plummeting down to the ground like a stone.

It didn’t take long for the tether station to come into view, crisp and clear despite its distance due to the lack of any atmospheric haze or scattering. It hadn’t occurred to him how fast they were truly traveling until there was something to use as a reference, the station ballooning in size as it rushed towards them. There were a few large cargo freighters already docked in the berths, stripped of their containers to leave them naked and skeletal, along with a loaded ship that appeared to be on approach.

“There’s Vermin’s freighter,” Ditch declared.

“Right on schedule,” Flatline added.

They blew past a few kilometers away from the station, Flatline watching it begin to shrink behind him, the large disk receding to the size of a hubcap in only a couple of minutes. It didn’t take long for the carrier to appear, the giant vessel resembling a railgun slug from a distance.

“Here she comes!” he warned. “Pull up the approach corridor on your HUDs, and remember not to overcorrect! You get jumpy and use up too much gas, you’re going to miss the target or come in too hot, and nobody can come get you if that happens. Follow my lead.”

He waited until they were closer to the carrier, then pulled up the flight path on his visor, the onboard computer displaying it as a glowing wireframe tunnel curving towards the growing ship. With a burst of gas from his MU, he began to move away from the debris, his team following suit.

The carrier had repositioned to avoid the worst of the wreckage from the downed Courser, but they were still maintaining position above the colony, so they couldn’t stray too far – at least in orbital terms. The ship was still several kilometers away from them.

The approach was a harrowing balancing act between conserving fuel and slowing down enough that they wouldn’t trip the carrier’s proximity sensors, Flatline keeping one eye on his gauge as he drifted in. Every few seconds, he released another puff of gas from his forward-facing thrusters to shed velocity, but the carrier was still coming towards him alarmingly quickly. They were in the empty space between the debris field and the ship now, with absolutely no cover or protection. Any one of the bristling CIWS turrets that covered the hull would be able to chew them to pieces in a moment with their twenty-mill railguns.

“Don’t mind me,” he heard Caveman mutter over the comms. “I’m just a happy little chunk of plastic, no threat to anybody at all.”

“Will you keep quiet?” Parker muttered – one of the Trogs. “I’m trying to concentrate here…”

“How are you doing there, Reggie?” Flatline asked.

“On target,” the alien replied. Who knew how much fuel the alien had inside that suit. For all Flatline knew, he might have his own jump drive too.

His adrenaline spiked as he watched one of the CIWS turrets swivel in their direction, its radome scanning them.

“Fuck, fuck!” one of the agents hissed. “Are we coming in too fast?”

“Trust the math, Mojo,” Flatline replied. “She’s just checking us out.”

The half-kilometer-long carrier had grown from the size of a truck trailer to a building now, like a skyscraper resting on its side, the glow of windows peppered across its ocean-gray hull. Flatline checked his fuel gauge, seeing that it had passed fifty percent. He began to decelerate harder, feeling the G-forces tug at him, the wireframe tunnel guiding him towards the aft section of the ship. They were going to land near the engineering section and come in below and behind the bridge.

The horizon of the planet was soon replaced with that of the carrier, its gray hull and blue livery extending into the distance, tricking his brain into seeing it as the ground. He watched the turrets warily, but none of them were pointing in his direction. Only a few hundred meters away now, he heard someone curse over the comms, turning his head to see one of the Trogs drifting off-course.

“Talk to me, Mitchell!” Lieutenant Deacon prompted. “What’s going on?”

Flatline watched the man reach for his belt, his thick gloves fumbling with one of the nozzles as it jetted a stream of propellant, sending him tumbling.

“Fucking piece of shit nozzle is stuck!” Mitchell growled. “I can’t stop it!”

The Trog was turning end over end now, his trajectory sending him drifting away from the plotted course, Mitchell flailing as he began to panic.

“His MU is malfunctioning!” Ditch warned. “Can anyone get to him!?”

“Stay on course!” Flatline barked. “One of you goes after him, and we’ll lose two people!”

He looked up, watching the struggling figure drift further away, on track to miss the carrier entirely now. There was a sudden burst of movement, and he tracked a pale shape flying away from the group. It was Reggie, the alien’s limbs tucked in tightly against his square chassis, somehow able to orient himself without any visible jets of propellant. As he neared Mitchell, he extended a single hose-like arm, the long limb grasping at the man. One of those manipulators hooked around a strap on his rig and closed like a claw, the two figures slowing as Reggie compensated for the rotation. The pair were soon back on track, the Broker guiding his catch back into formation.

“Shit, Reggie,” Caveman chuckled. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“We need every member of the mission team fully operational if we are to achieve our goals,” Reggie replied in his usual dispassionate tone.

“I owe you a drink,” Mitchell sighed, still sounding shaken. “Or fish flakes. Whatever it is you eat.”

“Give him some money – he’ll like that,” Caveman added.

Flatline braced himself as the carrier’s hull rushed up towards him, the last of his fuel draining away. He was still traveling quickly, and he’d have to be careful to avoid just bouncing off the ship’s armor like a ping-pong ball and sailing away into space. His prosthetic legs absorbed the impact as he landed, his knees bending, the magnets in his boots activating to secure him in place. It was such an odd sensation – his body trying to rebound while his feet remained rooted to the hull.

The rest of the team followed suit, the SWAR agents landing more gracefully than their Trog counterparts. Flatline watched one of the men touch down nearby, his knees almost buckling under the strain of absorbing his heavy suit’s momentum.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “They couldn’t give us one extra minute of fuel? As if my joints aren’t already shot lugging all this goddamned gear around.”

Reggie, meanwhile, touched down with all the grace of a docking spacecraft. He slowed his descent effortlessly, his chicken legs unfolding to let his cup feet make gentle contact with the hull. He was still pulling Mitchell along, placing the Trog down carefully.

They began to make their way to the target access hatch, walking with an awkward gait that required one foot to make full contact with the hull at all times, almost like traipsing through deep snow. Lieutenant Deacon – the leader of the Trog team – took point as they came upon the recessed pressure door. From their position, it looked like a hatch in the ground, ringed by warning stripes. He crouched to inspect the control panel beside it.

“What do we do if they changed the access codes?” Mitchell asked.

“They wouldn’t have any reason to change them,” Deacon replied as he tapped at the touch panel with a gloved hand. “They’re not expecting to be boarded.”

“Yeah, but what if?” Caveman pressed.

“That’s what we brought the breaching tools for,” Deacon said. With another tap, the door slid open, the Lieutenant gesturing to the opening.

“This is why you update your home security systems.”

“Trogs first,” Flatline said. “This is your specialty.”

“Why don’t we send Reggie in first?” Caveman joked. “He looks pretty bulletproof to me.”

“I am here only to secure company property,” Reggie replied.

The Trogs formed a line and began to walk inside the hatch, using a pair of handles bolted to the outer hull for purchase. They were moving from weightless vacuum to the ship’s AG field, requiring them to transition at a ninety-degree angle. Once the ship’s gravity field had captured them, they could turn off their magnetic boots, readying their weapons now as the outer door sealed behind them. Just like leaving the Courser, once they were past the inner door, the next group could pass through.

Flatline led his SWAR team inside when his turn came, passing through the inner door with his rifle at the ready, finding himself in a narrow corridor. He’d spent plenty of time on carriers, and he knew that the yellow line on the wall indicated they were close to the engineering section. Deacon and his team had already secured the hallway, stacking up at the corners to cover the approaches. It was interesting to see the tactics they employed. SWAR valued mobility and overwhelming force, while the Trogs preferred to lock down and control key areas – something they had no doubt learned during their meticulous tunnel fighting. He heard heavy footsteps, moving aside to let Reggie leave the airlock, the alien’s array of lenses and sensors scanning.

“If they have any sense, someone will notice the system warning about an airlock being opened,” Flatline said. “We need to move quickly and cautiously. Our orders are to shoot on sight, but remember that there are reportedly friendlies aboard, so watch your fire. If we can neutralize Barbosa here and now, his rebellion will be over.”

“Once the bridge is secure, we must make our way to the hangar section,” Reggie added. “That was the last reported location of the stolen property.”

“Alright, move out,” Flatline ordered with a wave of his hand.

They began to march down the hallway, staying in formation, the Trogs leading the way. They moved in pairs, one of them always keeping a hand on his partner’s shoulder, aiming around him so that two rifles were always facing ahead. The corridors on a carrier were barely large enough for three men to stand side by side, and in their bulky suits, two Trogs could only just pass one another. The SWAR team followed behind, with Reggie bringing up the rear.

Flatline pulled up the carrier’s map on his HUD. One of the benefits of attacking a Navy vessel was that they knew the terrain. With a swipe of his hand, he sent the map to his team, drawing lines through the snaking corridors for them to follow. They split up into two groups, each with three Trogs and three SWAR, Reggie sticking with Flatline’s team. They couldn’t really leverage their numbers in such close quarters, and they could cover more angles this way.

They took parallel corridors, branching off from each other, their positions tracked on the map through their shared network. They could no longer use laser comms while line of sight was broken, but the enemy likely already knew they were here. The stealth part of their mission was over – it was time to go loud.

They weaved down the corridors, following the yellow line painted on the wall, pausing to check side rooms as they passed. They were mostly small storage areas and maintenance access rooms, the Trogs methodically sweeping every one before continuing. It was strange to see a carrier so empty – eerie.

It was only a few minutes before they encountered resistance. Deacon had taken point, and he stopped at a corner, peeking around it using the in-picture feed from his rifle. He raised a fist to signal them to halt, flashed three fingers, then gestured ahead. Flatline hooked in, watching the same view in a small window on his HUD, seeing a trio of SWAR agents stalking their way down the hallway. They were barely twenty meters away, their XMRs raised as they moved in a column, pausing to sweep a side door just as Flatline’s team was doing. They must have come to investigate the breached door. Their point man stopped suddenly, perhaps picking up their wireless signals.

Deacon wasted no time, moving out into the corridor, his partner keeping a hand on his heavy pauldron as he followed close behind. They opened up almost immediately, giving the enemy no time to react, Flatline’s helmet dampening the deafening report of gunfire as it reverberated off the walls. Two of the enemy agents were felled in the first volley, the squash head slugs tearing through their armor, shredding flesh and polymer alike. They jerked and danced as the impacts hit them, their ceramic armor fragmenting, the point man losing an arm in a shower of shattered plastic and molten metal. He took a slug to the visor, the projectile turning everything inside his helmet to paste, sending him slumping backwards.

The man behind him quickly followed, fragments of armor and misted blood filling the corridor, the controlled bursts from the two XMRs tearing through him. He slumped against the wall and slid to the deck, his blood seeping through the grates on the floor beneath him. The third SWAR agent had just enough time to duck into a side door, the squash head rounds limiting overpenetration.

Only now did the third Trog move, replacing Deacon’s partner, taking up position behind him as the other man fell back to reload his glowing rifle. Without a word, Deacon advanced, the two men moving in tandem as they approached the smoking bodies.

A prosthetic hand emerged from the side door clutching a grenade. He tossed it, the explosive bouncing along the deck for a few meters before rolling to a stop. Flatline braced himself, feeling his bones shake as it detonated, filling the hallway with shrapnel and smoke. The blast wave swept around the corner, making him cover his visor reflexively.

He turned his eyes back to his feed, expecting to see Deacon and his teammate lying in a heap. They remained standing, seemingly undeterred as the smoke billowed around them, sparks showering from a busted cable on the ceiling. The walls were covered in pockmarks and holes, still glowing red from the deadly shrapnel. Trog armor was made of stern stuff, the multiple layers providing protection against everything short of a railgun slug. They had practically been standing on top of the grenade when it had gone off. The two men advanced through the haze, reaching the door to find it closed, the rest of the team moving up to join them.

“He’s sealed the bulkhead,” Deacon declared. “Squash heads won’t go through that.”

“This is a storage room – nowhere for him to run,” Mitchell added.

Flatline began to reach for a magazine of standard slugs, but paused when he saw the Trogs moving.

Deacon gestured for Mitchell to approach, and the man stowed his XMR on its sling, reaching for one of the pouches on his rig and tossing something to the Lieutenant. Mitchell and Parker – the third Trog – moved to either side of the door as Deacon slapped a package onto the bulkhead. When he drew back, Flatline saw that it was a breaching charge – shaped to direct its blast inward.

Deacon moved away from the door just in time – a stream of slugs blowing molten holes in the metal panel, whizzing across the corridor and drilling deep into the adjacent wall. One of them hit a pipe, a jet of steam erupting into the hallway, Flatline jerking back behind the corner as his visor began to mist with boiling droplets.

“This is why we use squash heads!” Deacon grunted, raising his forearm and tapping at the display that was embedded into his gauntlet. There was a loud thud, a pressure wave blasting away the cloud of steam as the charge detonated, practically vaporizing the door in a bright flash that forced Flatline’s visor to dim. All of that burning shrapnel was directed into the small room, dust billowing and the light strips above them flickering, intermittently casting their glow on the Trogs as two of them leaned inside. If the agent had somehow survived the blast, the follow-up certainly finished him off, both men dumping a couple of short bursts through the doorway.

“Clear!” Parker announced, the three Trogs falling back into formation and marching past the bodies.

Flatline followed, stepping over one of the dead agents who was slumped against the wall. He might have known this man – perhaps even served with him, but it was impossible to make out his decal with the hole in his visor. How had it come to this?

He briefly checked on the other group’s progress, seeing that they hadn’t encountered any enemy forces yet and had advanced a little further ahead.

“If they didn’t know we were here before, they will now,” Caveman said.

“Intelligence estimated a minimum of two squads of hostiles,” Flatline added. “That’s another twenty-one angry pipe hitters, so keep your wits about you.”

“I suppose you find this strange, Reggie?” Ditch asked as she glanced back at him.

“How so?” Reggie replied.

“Humans killing humans. Navy fighting Navy. I figure you guys have probably advanced beyond that, right?”

“You are mistaken,” Reggie muttered. “Corporate disputes are often resolved with violence. Sometimes, Hazard Teams are deployed, and their Broker pilots are slain in combat.”

“Why would you do that when you have drone armies?” she asked.

“The hazard pay is very attractive,” the Broker replied. “There are tasks that a drone simply cannot perform.”

They pressed on, sweeping the cramped hallways and dipping into side rooms, knowing now that the enemy was surely aware of their presence. The two teams weaved through the carrier, heading up flights of narrow stairs to reach the engineering section above them, where any doorway could become a deadly choke point. The team had entered one of the barracks sections now, where the engineering teams bunked, the storage areas giving way to larger rooms lined with stacked cots and lockers.

The Trogs led the way, stopping to check every bend, always putting a camera around the corners before exposing themselves. It paid off as they came to a long corridor, Deacon poking his rifle around it to be met by a hail of gunfire from the far end. The storm of slugs filled the air with trails of molten tungsten, the rounds impacting the back wall and punching holes in the metal, the suppressive fire forcing Deacon back.

“Two hostiles covering the door!” he announced. Flatline briefly caught a glimpse of two SWAR agents crouched in the doorway behind a barricade made from an upturned cot. “The microwave gun won’t reach them!”

“At least they’re using squash heads!” Mitchell replied.

“I guess Barbosa doesn’t want them tearing his carrier to shit,” Parker added.

Close-quarters fighting on ships like this could be deadly, especially while so close to critical systems like the engines and reactors. A full-power slug might allow one to shoot through walls and bulkheads, but there was no telling where and when it might stop. It could breach a reactor core, hit a fuel line, or dome some unlucky crew member.

“They have it locked down!” Deacon warned. “Maybe the other team can find a way around.”

Flatline pulled up his map, scanning the nearby compartments and passages. There were several barracks rooms linked together that would let them go around the blockage. Just as he was about to give the order, he heard more shouting over his radio, tuning in to the second team’s feeds to see them engaging a similar barricade.

“They know we’re heading to engineering,” Mitchell snarled. “They’ve set up ambushes. That was fucking fast.”

“Stay here, Deacon,” Flatline began. “Keep them busy while we go around.”

“Roger that,” the Trog replied, grunting with the effort of moving his armor as he leaned around the corner just enough to hurl a grenade. It exploded with a loud bang, then the enemy fire resumed, another salvo turning the wall to Swiss cheese.

“With me!” Flatline ordered, waving Ditch and Caveman to a side door. They stacked up beside it, then Flatline hit the panel, the door sliding open to reveal an empty barracks. It was filled with more bunk beds and rows of lockers, a few old posters and stickers still adorning them.

As they moved inside, sweeping their weapons across the blind spots, Flatline noticed the door on the opposite side of the room crack open. It was an ambush. Before he could lift his rifle or yell a warning, a grenade rolled across the floor towards them, bouncing along the metal grates. Flatline made a split-second decision, throwing himself into Ditch and tackling her to the ground.

Caveman barely had time to utter a curse.

“Oh, motherfu-”

The frag exploded with a concussive blast, filling the room with smoke and shrapnel, the red-hot projectiles slicing through the mattresses and sending shredded foam drifting through the air. It lifted Caveman and tossed him, sending him careening into a bunk bed whose metal frame collapsed on top of him.

It took a moment for Flatline to get his bearings, his helmet protecting him from the concussive effects, finding himself lying atop Ditch. He lifted himself off her and hauled her to her feet, the two of them aiming their rifles into the obscuring cloud of dust and foam particles. The grenade had knocked out the lights, the broken strip on the ceiling plunging them into darkness.

“Caveman!” Ditch yelled over the radio. “Respond!”

“His suit is broadcasting a heartbeat, but he’s down,” Flatline snarled.

“What are you guys doing all the way out here?” he heard a mocking voice ask from somewhere out of view. It was coming from a tinny helmet speaker. “Did the Admirals send some of their dogs to be put down?”

There was a burst of gunfire that forced them both to crouch, the rounds punching through the smoke and impacting the wall at their back. Flatline quickly switched to thermal optics, his helmet’s sensors struggling to sift through the debris, picking up a human-shaped signature that was dashing towards them.

“Incoming!” he warned, tracking the shape with his rifle. Whoever it was, they were moving fast – weaving between the bunk beds at a dead sprint to avoid his burst of fire. They shot back wildly with a machine pistol, forcing Flatline and Ditch to separate and sending them leaping for opposite sides of the room. Flatline shouldered into one of the lockers, denting the metal, swiveling around to see the enemy agent vaulting over a bunk to reach Ditch.

She raised her XMR, but too late, the dark shape barreling into her and slamming her back against the bed frame behind her. She weathered the first blow, the two agents exchanging a series of swift punches, ducking and juking. Flatline set his sights on the target, then snarled into his helmet in frustration as Ditch moved into his viewfinder. They were too close together – he couldn’t get a clean shot. Instead, he drew his combat knife from his rig and began to cross the room, hoping to even the odds.

Ditch was agile and quick, dodging blows that missed her by a hair, one of her opponent’s strikes cleaving through the steel frame of the nearest bunk as though he was punching through corkboard. She got in a few rapid kidney jabs, each one accompanied by a yell that was muffled by her helmet, forcing her assailant back. He was bigger than she was – his reach longer, and he finally caught her in the visor with a punch that could shatter bone. It snapped her head back, and she was sent toppling backwards, the springs of a shredded mattress squealing as it cushioned her.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Flatline was mere feet away, approaching at a run, but he might as well have been light years away for all the good he could do.

Ditch tried to get up, but her opponent pressed her down onto the bed, gripping her right shoulder in his hand and grappling with the other as she tried to fight him off. She let out a stifled yell of pain as his prosthetic fingers dug into her suit and the flesh beneath, then came the distinct sound of metal sliding against metal. Flatline’s heart skipped a beat as he watched an integrated weapon shoot from the agent’s arm. It was a pile bunker, a sharp rod the size of a railroad spike firing from his wrist like a harpoon, impaling Ditch through the shoulder and splattering the mattress with her blood.

She fell to the bed, clutching her wound just as Flatline neared, her assailant turning to intercept him. Flatline swung his knife, but the agent caught it in his hand, the two of them wrestling for a moment.

“Flatline!” the stranger cackled, the bloody spike sliding back into his arm. Flatline recognized him now, seeing the Grim Reaper decal on his visor. “Barbosa really did recruit the best of us if I was able to wipe the floor with your whole fireteam.”

Reaper pushed him back, the two agents squaring off as Ditch lay bleeding on the bed. Still clutching her shoulder, she drew a sidearm with practiced speed, but Reaper kicked it from her hand just as quickly.

“Stay there and marinate while your LT and I catch up,” Reaper sneered, turning back to Flatline. “Is Brenner here with you? I’ve always wanted to pluck those cameras from his sockets and see how deep the wires go.”

“Was being crazy a requirement when you signed up to murder your own?” Flatline demanded.

“Murder,” Reaper scoffed. “This is what pisses me off about people like you. It’s not an act. You really do believe that some bureaucrats sitting in an office are the arbiters of right and wrong, and that them signing their names on a piece of paper makes killing moral. Everyone who thinks otherwise came here, and that’s why you’ll lose!”

He lunged into a strike, Flatline dodging under his punch and driving his blade towards his opponent’s belly – aiming for one of the gaps in his segmented armor. Reaper caught his arm in a lock, stopping it dead and using the leverage to bend his elbow the wrong way, the knife falling from his hand as the sound of cracking polymer emanated from the limb. Reaper meant to tear it off, but Flatline brought up a knee, swinging it into the agent’s side. Reaper let go and stumbled back, taking up a defensive posture as Flatline flexed his limb. The housing was damaged, but the servos were still good, the agent matching his opponent’s posture.

Flatline glanced at Ditch, seeing that she wasn’t moving anymore. She was losing a lot of blood.

“Don’t worry about her – worry about me,” Reaper laughed as he danced in for another punch. “I’m gonna make sure you earn that callsign, Flatline!”

Flatline had sparred with his fellow agents plenty of times, but he’d never had one try to kill him before. Reaper was holding nothing back, leveraging all of his augmented strength and speed, completely uninhibited. He could hear Reaper’s punches whizzing past his helmet, failing to connect by scant inches, the servos in his limbs whirring. Flatline blocked a punch with his forearm, feeling the housing crumple, taking advantage to grab the agent’s forearm.

SWAR had developed their own martial arts style – one that favored tearing and twisting. Once he managed to get a good grip on Reaper’s limb, his training kicked in, and he closed his hand with all of his mechanical strength. His fingers tore through the black polymer and dug into the electronics and machinery beneath, Reaper trying to jerk away. Flatline pulled him closer, tugging him off-balance, then brought down the edge of his hand on the joint like a falling guillotine. It severed the arm, sending little fragments of plastic flying through the air, leaving a twisted metal skeleton and torn wires dangling from the stump.

Reaper was free, and he leapt back, loosing a guttural bellow of rage. With his remaining arm, he extended his pile bunker, taking up a new stance.

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he spat. “I could kill you with one arm tied behind my back.”

He lunged, that sharp implement whistling through the air, its point tearing through a mattress level with Flatline’s head. It ripped through the foam beneath, providing no resistance, Reaper following up with another swing that carved a furrow across Flatline’s chest plate and severed a strap on his rig.

He was driven back between two beds and pushed against a row of lockers, ducking just as Reaper stabbed at his helmet, the weapon punching through the sheet metal like it wasn’t even there. There was almost no room to maneuver between the two bunks, Flatline letting out a frustrated yell as he struck the agent in the belly with repeated knee strikes.

Another swing got the pile bunker caught on the bed frame, and Flatline took advantage to punch the agent as hard as he could in the throat. It was a blow that could have collapsed the average man’s windpipe, popping his veins and likely breaking his neck, but Reaper weathered it as he stumbled back into the center of the room.

“You’re not the first guy to go for the throat,” he chuckled, his voice taking on a more distorted quality. It must be synthetic. “If you think that-”

Flatline saw movement out of the corner of his eye, turning his head just in time to see Deacon charging between the cots. The Trog raised a sledgehammer over his head, bringing the heavy breaching tool down on Reaper’s shoulder, the agent yelling in pain and surprise as his clavicle and scapula collapsed beneath it. He dropped to a knee, wheeling around to see Deacon drawing back for another blow, raising an arm to catch the hammer. It was the arm that ended at the elbow, and he realized it too late, the weapon swinging into his visor like a nine iron. It shattered the helmet and dented his skull inward, slamming his limp body to the floor where he lay gurgling.

“Time to shut up,” Deacon grunted, bringing the hammer down one more time.

“Secure the room before you render aid!” Flatline ordered, retrieving his rifle where it had been discarded on the floor. “Thanks for the assist,” he added as he took up position beside Deacon. “I guess every problem looks like a nail when you have a hammer, huh?”

“No problem,” the Trog replied, stowing his sledgehammer on his back and producing his microwave gun. Even from a SWAR agent’s perspective, he was carrying a hell of a lot of equipment. Flatline could still hear the gunfight happening in the corridor outside, the two sides exchanging fire. Mitchell and Parker had eyes on their targets, their red outlines appearing on Flatline’s HUD. They were just beyond the door ahead. They must have known that the boarders would be forced to go around and had set up a trap accordingly, funneling them into a killbox. Reaper might even have succeeded if Deacon hadn’t been there.

“They’re retreating!” Mitchell warned. Flatline checked out his feed to see the two SWAR agents start to back away down the corridor, laying down more suppressive fire. They staggered their shots, ensuring that when one had to pause to reload, the other was covering him. It was a frightening thing to be on the receiving end of such tactics.

As they neared the far end of the hallway, there was a grinding that reverberated through the deck, a thick barrier sliding out of a recess in the floor to partially plug the corridor. It rose to chest height, spanning from wall to wall, its lip painted with hazard stripes. These barriers were made from layers of thick ablative armor, intended to provide cover to Marines during a boarding action. The two agents leapt behind it, crouching down and taking up position. Even at full power, an XMR wouldn’t make it through that. It was the same material used for Krell shields and Puma IFV armor.

“Don’t let them reposition!” Deacon snarled. “With me, Flatline!”

The pair thundered towards the door where the late Reaper had laid his snare, taking a right and halting at another short junction to the corridor.

“I’m gonna need a few seconds!” Deacon said as he switched on his three-pronged weapon with an ominous hum.

Flatline reached for his rig, pulling out a frag grenade and priming it. Referencing Mitchell’s camera feed, he was able to see exactly where the enemy were, tossing the grenade underhand. He threw it into the hallway, bouncing it off the adjacent wall, where it rolled to a stop at the foot of the barricade. There was another loud blast as it exploded, forcing the two agents into cover.

Deacon stepped out into the swirling smoke, his microwave weapon shouldered. There was no visible beam and no audible sound from the gun – the Trog simply held it on his targets. The two agents rose into view and dropped their weapons, one of them covering his visor as though trying to block out a wave of heat, the other twitching and jerking as he clutched at his helmet with both hands. Flatline could see the black polymer on their forearms starting to bubble and warp, melting away to expose the metal skeleton in places, the electronics sparking and shorting beneath their housings. The arrays of cameras on their helmets burst like little fireworks, some of the more flammable materials catching fire. It wasn’t hard to imagine what was happening to their organics based on the distorted screams that emanated from their speakers.

Flatline moved out into the hallway beside Deacon, raising his XMR and putting a round through the helmet of each man, silencing them and sending them toppling to the deck. Mitchell and Parker moved up behind him, passing him and securing the corridor ahead.

Once they were in position, he quickly doubled back, hurrying into the barracks where his two teammates were still down. Reggie was standing between the bunks, seeming unsure of whether he should intercede – or even how he might help. Brokers might have no knowledge of human anatomy.

Flatline skidded to a knee beside the bed where Ditch was lying, pulling a syringe of medical foam from his belt. He couldn’t tie a tourniquet around her entire shoulder, and it was the only way to stem the bleeding. She was still conscious, the mattress beneath her soaked with blood, one hand applying pressure to the wound. It must have missed her heart, or she’d already be dead. He reached out and opened her visor, exposing her pale face.

“Ditch!” he panted. “Stay with me.”

He moved her hand aside and stabbed the tip of the syringe into the wound, the pain seeming to rouse her. She bellowed as he activated the device and injected the payload of anti-septic foam, the pale substance quickly expanding to fill the available space, plugging the severed veins.

“She good?” Deacon asked as he dipped back into the room.

“She’s stable for now,” Flatline replied as he stowed the syringe and rummaged in his rig for another device. “She’s lost a lot of blood, and she’ll need surgery to close this up. There is no evac waiting for us. We either take the carrier, or we die trying. The only way we’re going to patch her up is by capturing the medbay.”

He produced an adrenaline hypo and stabbed it into the part of her thigh that was still meat, her eyes widening and her pupils dilating as she sucked in a sharp breath.

“Holy shit!” she gasped, rising to a sitting position. “I feel like I just took an ice bath!”

Flatline retrieved her sidearm from the deck and thrust it into her hand, closing her fingers around it.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “We’ll come back for you.”

“Down in the first round,” she grunted, shifting her weight on the cot. “Just my luck. Where the fuck is Caveman?”

Deacon was already shifting the bed frame and mattress that had collapsed atop the agent, Flatline moving over to help, the two of them dragging his limp body onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Flatline hissed, seeing that Caveman’s chest piece was pocked with shrapnel scars.

“Did any of it get through?” Deacon asked.

“No idea,” Flatline said as he tapped the temple of Caveman’s helmet, exposing his stubbly face. “Hey, Caveman!” he said, giving his helmet a gentle slap. “Caveman!”

A few harder slaps roused the agent, and he opened his eyes groggily.

“Pupils look good,” Flatline said, flipping on his helmet’s flashlight attachment and shining it in Caveman’s eyes. “You hurt, big guy?”

“I…I don’t think so,” Caveman muttered in reply. “I got one hell of a headache, though.”

“Probably a mild concussion from the blast,” Deacon said. “He was pretty close to the grenade when it went off.”

“You’re good to go,” Flatline said as he took his hand and hauled him to his feet.

“It’s not like a concussion can make him any dumber,” Ditch added.

“Mojo here,” a voice said into Flatline’s helmet radio. “We just took out two hostiles. Moving up to the reactor room now.”

“We took some casualties, but we’ll be mobile in a mike,” Flatline replied. “Mojo’s team bagged two more,” he announced. “That’s five.”

“I feel like there should be six,” Ditch replied, her voice strained.

There was a sudden flash of light and a burst of gunfire, Flatline wheeling around to see Reggie facing back towards the door they had first entered from. The sixth SWAR agent had been sneaking up behind them – he must have doubled back and gone around – his XMR now leveled at the Broker. He fired again, the slugs igniting some kind of flickering shield that enveloped the suit, the projectiles melting to slag before harmlessly impacting the white surface beneath. It was putting out so much heat that Flatline could feel it through his pressure suit, even standing a few feet away.

The Broker leveled one of his tentacle-like arms, the printed gun on the end of it loosing a shot, sending a bright beam of blue-green plasma lancing towards the doorway. The SWAR agent’s weapon arm vanished along with his rifle, vaporized by a heat so intense that it warped the door frame, a second shot deleting his head and a chunk of his torso. His smoldering body fell back, revealing the dark blast marks on the wall behind him.

“That’s number six,” Ditch chimed.

“The human attacked me first – you all witnessed it,” Reggie announced, Caveman lurching away as the alien flagged him with the plasma weapon. “I expect each of you to corroborate that when I file my after-action report.”

“Reggie, I will sign whatever forms you put in front of me if you keep blasting bad guys like that,” Flatline replied. “Come on – we need to move. Everyone else is heading to engineering.”

“I’ll just…sit here for a while,” Ditch called after them as they headed out of the barracks. “Man, I am gonna feel this one when that adrenaline shot wears off…”

“You think Ditch is gonna be okay?” Caveman asked as he jogged past the two dead agents, pausing to glance down at their still-smoldering bodies.

“Not if we can’t secure the medbay, and soon,” Flatline admitted. “The foam won’t stem the bleeding forever – she needs a surgical bot.”

“You know I’m still watching your feeds, right?” Ditch scoffed over the radio.

They mounted more stairs and soon caught up with the second team, the two groups preparing to breach two different entrances on opposite ends of the engineering section. Flatline pulled up his map, examining the compartment beyond. This was the reactor room – the beating heart of the carrier. Six massive fission reactors spanned from floor to ceiling, surrounded by a veritable jungle of water pipes and electrical cables that carried coolant and power to the cores. Packed into the center of the room, surrounding the reactors, was the bulk of the machinery and the banks of control consoles that managed them. The three-story-high walls were covered in gantries and walkways, providing a lot of good sight lines to anyone who might be inside.

“We’re coming out on the lower level, so look high and watch for shooters,” Flatline warned. “That’s where I’d want to set up.”

“They’ll need crew to run the reactors,” Deacon added. “There may be friendlies inside, so check your fire. Let’s not ventilate the people we’re supposed to be rescuing.”

“Squash heads shouldn’t penetrate the shields on those cores,” Mitchell added. “Let’s hope the turncoats aren’t stupid enough to load high-pen.”

“I dunno, some paid leave on Jarilo for gene therapy is sounding pretty good right now,” Caveman muttered.

“On my mark,” Flatline said, putting his shoulder to the wall beside the door and checking that the other team was in position. “Three, two, one, go!”

The two teams breached the room in tandem, their rifles already aimed at the gantries above, scanning for targets as they moved to the nearest cover. As soon as one camera spotted a target, it was relayed to the rest of the team, Flatline seeing twelve signatures appear on his HUD.

“Enemy SWAR team, twelve o’clock high!” he barked as he dove into cover behind a cluster of water pipes. The turncoats were perched high on the gantries on the far side of the reactor room, giving them a bird’s eye view of the space, but it also left them vulnerable. All they had for cover were a few covered guard rails made from sheet metal. A few of them had taken up position behind open doors, leaning around their frames, the walls providing somewhat more protection.

They were already starting to fire, molten tungsten filling the air, the rounds sparking off machinery and consoles as they rained down. Flatline caught movement out of the corner of his eye, resisting the reflex to shoot when he saw yellow.

“We got friendlies on the field!” he warned, watching a startled engineer duck down behind some consoles.

“Looks like we’re expected!” Deacon said as he shouldered into a pipe beside Flatline. In that heavy armor, he could throw his weight around without much fear of being hurt. He lifted his rifle, resting its barrel atop the pipe, unloading the magazine at the agents above. Flatline joined him, the rest of the team following their lead, the two groups exchanging sporadic fire.

“Barbosa deployed a whole team to protect the reactors!” Mitchell said as he ducked behind the machinery to reload.

“He knows that if he loses this section, he loses the ship,” Flatline explained as he took a pot shot that forced one of the agents back into cover. “We can shut down power generation and leave the carrier dead in space.”

The enemy had split into two groups – six men per flank, heading left and right. They moved only under covering fire, leapfrogging their way along the gantries above to get closer. The sight lines were terrible, even with elevation – the maze of pipes and recessed walkways almost like trenches and foxholes. Three of them remained on the highest gantry to lay down fire, their three teammates leaping over the guard rail, dropping down a whole story. Holding their rifles in one hand, they gripped the next rail to stop their descent, the metal bending under the strain. They would have torn muscles and maybe dislocated joints were they unaugmented, but their prosthetics absorbed the weight, Flatline watching as they dropped another level.

He rose to aim at them when they landed hard on the ground floor, but was forced back behind cover as slugs sparked off the pipes around him, the three agents dispersing. The men on the gantry above would keep their targets painted and pinned, while those below would close, ready to deliver the killing blow. It was a sound strategy – one that he might have come up with himself if their roles had been reversed.

A yellow-clad figure suddenly leapt down into the trench beside him, covering his head as he narrowly avoided a burst of gunfire. Two more men followed, hunkering down behind the pipes next to the team.

“Who the hell are you?” Deacon demanded, briefly aiming his XMR at the newcomers before lowering it.

“Name’s Abel – I’m the Chief Engineer!” the first man replied, raising his voice over the din. “You fuckers took your sweet time, didn’t you? You gonna gimme a gun or just stare at me?”

Parker reached for his sidearm and handed it to the man, who checked the safety and briefly aimed down the holo sight. Mitchell and Caveman did the same, tossing their XMHs to the engineers.

“Where the hell is the rest of the fleet?” Abel demanded.

“It’s just us,” Flatline replied.

“Typical Navy,” Abel sneered, grinding his teeth. “Everything comes in late, and they cut as many corners as they can get away with. Do you want us to scram the cores?”

“No, we’re here to capture the Tirad, not kill her,” Deacon replied. “How many men do you have, Chief?”

“I got twenty good grease monkeys itching for some payback,” Abel replied. “They need guns.”

“That should help even the odds,” Flatline said, switching to his comms. “Mojo – we got some new recruits who want to pitch in. Time to share the love.”

“You got it, LT,” Mojo grunted as he fired off a burst at one of the gantries.

Abel yelled and waved, another ten engineers in bright yellow coveralls emerging from behind consoles and pipes. They took up position nearby, the team handing off more sidearms. That made another six armed Marines, along with a few more who were clutching wrenches and other improvised weapons.

An engineer tried to cross from behind one of the reactors to their right. Flatline cursed as he watched the man fall halfway across one of the walkways, perforated by slugs.

“Aim high!” he yelled, lifting his XMR above the pipes and using the in-picture scope to aim at the snipers. As soon as the shooters were forced into cover again, the rest of his team joined in, the Trogs, agents, and engineers unloading their weapons into the gantry. The guard rail the turncoats were hiding behind disintegrated, the slugs punching holes in the metal, sending one of the shooters toppling over it. He fell all the way to the deck, smashing into the ground with a thud. The remaining two retreated to the cover of a doorway behind them, the engineers keeping them pinned with XMH fire. The sidearms fired a smaller slug, and they were far less powerful, but they were no less accurate at these ranges.

“Need a mag!” Abel barked as he ducked down, catching a spare that Flatline tossed him and slamming it home.

“Watch out for those three who dropped down!” Caveman warned. “Anyone got eyes on them?”

A grenade bounced off the gantry above their heads and sailed down between the pipes, landing at Flatline’s feet. As quick as his augs would move, he snatched it and tossed it back, the explosive detonating only a fraction of a second later. It filled the air with shrapnel, forcing everyone to duck, the concussive force knocking a few of the engineers to the deck. They didn’t have helmets, which meant no hearing or pressure protection. The explosion had damaged one of the pipes they were crouched behind, a jet of boiling steam shooting away from them, filling the air with an obscuring mist. One of the nearest engineers cursed and dodged away, covering his head as the hot liquid rained down.

Flatline knew that an assault would follow, and he was proven right as a turncoat SWAR agent vaulted over the pipes on his skid-like legs, braving the hot steam and using it as cover. He landed on top of an engineer, dispatching him with a switch punch that did an alarming amount of damage, swinging his rifle to aim it down the aisle before anyone had time to react.

Caveman was faster, lunging for the man with a bellow and wrapping an arm around his neck, using his weight to drag the agent to the deck. He managed to get behind the traitor, keeping that bulky limb locked around his throat. He brought his other arm into play as his captive reached back to claw at him, grabbing his elbow to apply more leverage. With a bellow, something gave, Caveman lifting and twisting the agent’s head at an unnatural angle to leave him limp.

Another of the assailants flanked to their right, ready to fire before he had even rounded the pipes, loosing a burst into the trench. Flatline could feel the slugs displace the air as they narrowly missed his shoulder, but Parker wasn’t so lucky, a round punching through his heavy pauldron and knocking the Trog on his ass. Another found its mark, hitting an engineer in the leg and all but severing the limb, sending the man toppling over.

Flatline returned fire, as did Mitchell and Abel, their opponent jerking and seeming to leap back as a hail of slugs hit him. As though being chipped away, each projectile took little pieces of him with it, chunks of his prosthetics and splatters of blood from exit wounds showering behind him as he fell back.

Abel ran over at a crouch, skidding on his belly to snatch the dead agent’s XMR by its strap, dragging it back into cover just as another salvo of fire from the gantry above impacted nearby. He passed his handgun to another of his men, shouldering the rifle and returning to Flatline’s side.

There was still one more agent unaccounted for, and he soon revealed himself, flanking from the left side. He leapt over a console and dropped down into the pipes, his prosthetic legs propelling him like springs, landing amidst the engineers. He threw one of them aside as though the man weighed nothing, then kicked another hard enough to shatter bone, wheeling around to turn a machine pistol on Deacon.

There was a yell as one of the nearby engineers tackled him, the burly crewman throwing all of his weight into the blow and knocking the agent back against the pipes. Flatline tried to get a clean shot, but it was a melee now – he couldn’t risk firing.

The agent kneed the crewman in the belly, knocking the wind out of him, following up with a vicious elbow strike that sent him collapsing to the ground. The rest of the yellow-clad men piled in, harrying the agent with kicks and punches, one of them swinging a monkey wrench into his visor. It was like a scene from a drunken bar brawl, the men driving him to the floor and bringing their boots down on him. They subdued him just long enough for one of them to get a clean shot with his sidearm, putting half a dozen rounds into his chest.

“Maybe I should be more afraid of people wearing yellow,” Caveman muttered.

“How’s Benji?” Abel demanded, glancing over at his injured crewmate.

“His leg’s bad, Chief!” one of the engineers replied as he knelt beside him.

Flatline pulled a tourniquet from a pouch on his rig and tossed it to the man, and the engineer set about tightening it around his friend’s thigh. The unfortunate engineer who had been punched was beyond their help – his skull had been all but caved in, and a couple of others were down with less severe injuries.

Mitchell was pulling Parker upright, but the Trog pushed his comrade away and raised his rifle, shrugging it off.

“Went through the plate,” he grunted, tapping a fist against the jagged hole in his pauldron. “I’m not as wide as the armor makes me look.”

“I thought you guys were all just built like Reggie,” Caveman joked.

“Push up!” Flatline ordered. “We still have shooters on the gantries! Keep up the fire – don’t give them a chance to shoot back!”

“Give them some cover!” Abel yelled, aiming his newly appropriated rifle at the doorway above. The other engineers rallied, firing their handguns and stolen XMRs, giving Flatline and his men the opening they needed.

Flatline led his team across the room, breaking cover and weaving through the industrial maze, heading for the far side. He passed by the cylindrical reactors on his right, glimpsing the second team between them. They were still engaging in a gunfight on the opposite side of the room, exchanging sporadic fire with a couple of turncoats who were holed up behind some consoles on the ground level.

“We’ll flank your targets on the left, Mojo!” Flatline declared as he waved his men onward. “Keep them pinned!”

He rounded the last of the six reactors, coming out perpendicular to the two enemy agents, finding them hunkered down under the withering return fire. He raised his rifle alongside Caveman and Deacon, the three men cutting down their targets in a single burst.

“Move up!” Flatline ordered. He could see Mojo’s feed on his HUD, his team working their way up the room with their own little contingent of yellow-clad engineers in tow.

He reached the far end of the long room, leaping onto a ladder that led up the gantries, climbing it one-handed. Caveman followed, no less agile, the two operatives rapidly reaching the top level.

“We’ll go low and cut them off!” Deacon announced, leading Mitchell and Parker through a door on the bottom level. With their bulky armor, climbing the narrow ladder would be a difficult prospect. Mojo’s team did the same, the agents leaping up the gantries while the Trogs went low, a couple of engineers stooping to retrieve the weapons from the dead turncoats.

Flatline arrived on the top gantry, putting his back to the wall and creeping closer to the doorway the two enemy agents had been firing from. The walls were pocked with holes from the gunfight, some of them still smoldering. From here, he could see Abel and his men down below, now starting to move up.

“Grenade!” Flatline announced, pulling one from his rig and priming it. He tossed it through the doorway, then waited for the blast, only breaching once he saw the smoke come billowing out onto the gantry. Caveman followed, the two moving together, sweeping the hallway beyond with their rifles.

There was a body slumped against the wall, the shrapnel holes in his pressure suit still smoking. If Flatline had to guess, the agent had probably been injured in the exchange, and the grenade had finished him off.

“Still one mobile!” he warned, using his thermal sensors to see through the lingering haze.

There was a burst of gunfire below, Flatline’s heart skipping.

“Fucker’s down here!” Deacon replied. “We’ve driven her back up the stairs – coming your way!”

Flatline rounded the corner to find the stairwell that linked the three decks together, glancing down expecting to see the agent climbing the steps. Instead, he leaned over the guard rail just in time to see the operative ascending straight up the middle like a ferret climbing a drain pipe, pushing off the walls with her prosthetics. She barreled straight into Flatline, knocking his rifle from his hands, the pair grappling as they fell to the floor. The enemy had him on his back, raising an elbow and bringing it down towards his visor, Flatline moving his head just in time for the blow to carve a dent into the floor panel.

Caveman came to his rescue, grabbing the woman by the straps of her rig and lifting her off him, tossing her against the back wall with a thud. She recovered quickly, springing into a crouched position, one hand resting on the deck as the other reached for her sidearm. Flatline recognized the red spider on her visor now – it was Widow.

Not wanting to give her time to draw, Caveman barreled towards her, crossing the few feet that separated them at a charge. He swung a blow at her head, and she deftly rolled out of his path, his massive fist slamming into the wall with enough force to leave a cartoonish imprint.

Widow jumped six feet clear off the deck, lifting her legs like a gymnast and wrapping them around Caveman’s neck, closing them like scissors. The burly agent lifted his hands to her thighs in alarm, but she leaned back, using her weight to pull him with her. She rolled onto the floor, sending Caveman sailing over her, the flailing agent crashing down the flight of stairs behind her. Parker was already making his way up, letting out a yell of alarm as Caveman came careening into him, blocking his path.

Widow drew her sidearm with the speed of a gunslinger, aiming to finish Caveman off, but Flatline was already closing. He forced her to split her attention, and she swung the XMH towards him instead. The burst hit the ceiling as Flatline pushed her weapon up, crushing the barrel in his hand. Releasing the now useless gun, she extended a small push knife from a compartment in her wrist, the diamond-edged blade scoring a deep cut across his visor as she slashed at him.

He blocked the next blow with his forearm, delivering a swift punch to her chest armor and knocking her back a few paces. He pressed the attack, throwing two more swift punches, his fists singing through the air. Widow was quick, dodging the first blow and dancing beneath the other, forcing him to leap away as her blade whistled just shy of his belly.

The extra space gave her the room she needed to jump again, kicking off the wall to her left and using the momentum to send a vicious roundhouse kick towards his head. He managed to raise an arm to block it, but the force of the blow still knocked him into the wall, his helmet slamming against the metal. She pressed the advantage, another swift kick hitting his side, Flatline gritting his teeth as he felt a rib crack.

Ignoring the flare of pain, he caught the next kick, gripping her ankle in his left hand. He dragged her towards him, pulling her off-balance, swinging a right hook into her belly with all of his augmented strength. She was knocked back like she’d been hit by a truck, skidding across the deck. She rose unsteadily, clutching her stomach, her visor turning to the rifle that was still lying on the floor at the top of the stairs. She grabbed it, Flatline reaching for his sidearm.

Too late, he remembered that the holster was empty – he’d given it to Abel.

As Widow lifted the XMR from the deck, Caveman came barreling back up the steps, hitting her like a bulldozer. He slammed her into the adjacent wall with all his weight, and she crumpled, the rifle falling from her hands as Caveman lifted the dazed agent over his head with both arms. He turned, hoisting her over the guard rail and sending her careening back down the stairwell. Flatline couldn’t see what happened to her, but he heard the reverberating sound of her hitting the floor three decks below.

“You alright?” Caveman panted, extending a hand and hauling Flatline to his feet.

“I’m down a couple of ribs, but I’ll survive,” he grunted as he walked over to retrieve his rifle.

“Watch where you’re throwing people!” Parker complained as he mounted the steps ahead of Mitchell and Deacon. “She almost hit us on the way down.”

“I’m getting pretty tired of winning by the skin of my teeth,” Flatline said. “Mojo – what’s your status?”

“All clear on this side, LT,” he replied over the radio.

Abel appeared at the door behind them, two of his men following, lowering his captured rifle when he saw that the fight was over.

“Chief, I want you to stay here and secure the reactor room,” Flatline ordered. “We’re heading for the bridge to take control of the ship, but if we fail, I’ll need you to scram those reactors. Win or lose, the Tirad can’t fall back under Barbosa’s control.”

“We’ll see it done,” Abel replied with a nod. “If anyone is going to put the old girl down, it should be me. One more thing – that bastard Barbosa executed some of my men. You see him, you put a slug between his eyes. Don’t waste the opportunity.”

“We’re not here to capture him,” Flatline replied, checking his rifle.

“Good,” Abel grunted. “You’ll find more loyal crew along the way. Set them free, and they’ll watch your back.”

“Any idea where Barbosa and Song might be?” Deacon asked. “We’re also looking for Doctor Nilsson.”

“Song will be on the bridge,” Abel replied. “Nilsson was hanging around the medbay last I heard. Barbosa could be on the observation deck, in the CIC, or on the bridge. I can’t be certain. Make sure you free the Captain – he’s been held in his quarters since the attack.”

“We can go through the CIC on our way,” Flatline replied, checking his map. “Let’s keep up the pace, people. Reggie – let’s get moving!”

DAY 56 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

“The boarders have taken the reactor room,” Song announced.

“What!?” Barbosa replied, his PCE’s boots shaking the deck as he jogged along the corridor. “I sent a whole SWAR team to intercept them – how did they break through? Where are they now?”

“They just left the CIC,” Song replied. “If I had to guess, they’re probably heading for the bridge. The crew are helping them.”

“They want to take my carrier from me,” Barbosa snarled. “I should have sent you to secure the reactors in person. It’s too late now – if they’re in control of engineering, it means they can shut down or dump the cores at their leisure.”

“I’m also receiving requests for reinforcements from the tether station,” Song added. “Security staff are reporting that an enemy SWAR team has boarded and has taken control of the space elevator.”

“How the hell did they get past our defenses?” Barbosa snapped, hurtling around a bend. “Their attack yesterday failed, and we haven’t picked up any other anomalous jump signatures. They didn’t just appear out of thin air!”

“Unless…the debris cloud from the Courser we destroyed yesterday orbited within a few klicks of us shortly before the airlock alarm went off,” Song mused. “Perhaps…”

“You think they rode in with the wreckage?” Barbosa asked. “This fucking op has Brenner’s greasy fingerprints all over it. He’s here – that pompous prick. There’s no CSG hiding nearby – he must have brought a fleet of Coursers. I’m going to tear out his augs when I get my hands on him.”

“What are your orders, Commander?”

“Even if we kill the boarders, we’ll never reach the reactor room before they shut off our power. The Tirad is as good as dead. Instruct the last remaining agents to escort Nilsson and his staff from the medbay and bring them down to the port hangar deck. Meet me there, and we’ll take a dropship down to the surface.”

“We’re abandoning the carrier, Commander?” Song asked hesitantly. “Is that wise? Can we achieve our goals without it?”

“Plan B,” Barbosa replied. “As long as we have the MAST launchers, the UNN can’t touch us. Get Nilsson out. Without him, we have no more PCEs and no more recruits.”

“What about the latest batch of recruits who are recovering in the medbay?” Song asked. “They can’t be moved yet.”

“Leave them behind,” Barbosa replied. “And, Song? Prep the Ursa Major for transport. We can’t leave it here.”

CHAPTER 32

DAY 56 – HADES ORBIT – FLATLINE

“The bridge is right down his hallway,” Flatline said, pausing at a corner. The rest of the team stacked up behind him, and he poked his gun around the bend, checking that the coast was clear. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Contacts?” Deacon asked.

“Nah, the fucking blast doors are closed,” Flatline replied. “They’ve locked us out.”

The group rounded the corner, jogging along the wide hallway until they reached a pair of similarly large blast doors that had sealed to block their path.

“How the hell are we gonna get through this?” Caveman asked as he walked up to place a hand on the reinforced plating. “It’s supposed to protect the bridge from boarders – which is what we are.”

“I’m wondering how Barbosa got through these doors the first time,” Flatline mused. “They don’t look damaged.”

“Maybe he used the emergency access codes,” Parker replied as he walked over to the control panel. “They should still be active as long as the new proprietors didn’t scramble them.” He tried to enter a few numbers with his bulky glove, then let out a sigh of frustration. “No joy, they’ve changed them.”

“We came prepared for this,” Deacon said, moving closer to the door. He waved Mitchell over, and the pair began to place satchel charges at strategic points, Caveman starting to move back down the hallway.

“Yeah, back up,” Mitchell warned. “No, further. Further. Keep going.”

“Holy shit, how big is this explosion going to be?” Caveman asked. “We’re not gonna decompress, are we?”

When they were done, the three Trogs retreated back down the corridor to join Flatline and Caveman, Deacon raising his forearm and preparing to detonate the charges with his display.

“Ready!” Deacon announced.

“Have your microwave gun handy,” Flatline added, lying prone on the deck and shouldering his rifle. “For all we know, there could be a PCE behind that door.”

“Will a microwave gun damage a PCE?” Parker asked.

“No way to know until we try,” Deacon replied, pressing the button.

A blast wave rushed down the hallway, powerful enough to knock them over if they hadn’t been braced for it, the heavy doors vanishing behind a cloud of smoke and flame. Sparks and flecks of molten metal showered onto the deck, glowing so brightly that they were easily visible through the haze, the sound of something heavy falling reverberating through the floor. There was a delay as the smoke cleared, Flatline seeing that the two doors had buckled and bent, the molten holes where the shaped charges had been placed still burning red-hot. The Trogs must have known exactly where the weak points and inner workings were positioned. There was a gap large enough for a couple of men to fit through, and gunfire soon poured out, the slugs whizzing above their heads.

“Contacts!” Flatline shouted, returning fire through the breach.

“They’re firing blind!” Deacon realized. “Cover me!”

He rolled along the ground – not an easy feat with all the heavy gear he was carrying – stopping at the base of the left wall. The Trog rose with his microwave gun in hand, running towards the door and keeping clear of the enemy fire. They couldn’t hit him – what remained of the left door was shielding him.

Flatline unloaded another salvo when he realized what Deacon was planning, trying to force whoever was on the bridge away from the gap, the rest of the team following his lead. The Trog hefted his three-pronged rifle and leaned around the breach, the return fire abruptly ceasing. The lights on the bridge flickered, Flatline spotting a few displays wavering and shutting off as the microwave radiation fried their circuits.

Flatline rose to a sprint, covering the distance quickly, Deacon ceasing fire as the agent barreled through the gap between the doors. He skidded to a halt, seeing a handful of dead and dying SWAR agents crumpled between the flickering consoles. He put one down with a shot to center mass, proceeding deeper, checking every corner. The others followed, and they soon secured the bridge.

“Clear!” Flatline declared, lowering his weapon. “There are no PCEs – no sign of Barbosa.”

“I gotta get me one of those microwave things,” Caveman said as he toed a dead agent.

“Good luck,” Deacon scoffed. “They’ll be slapping regs on these things longer than the UN charter after this.”

“Parker – jack us into the carrier,” Flatline ordered. “Try to find a console that isn’t fried to shit. We need to find out where our targets have gone.”

Parker found a working console and began to type at the holographic keys, Caveman leaning over his shoulder to watch.

“They’ve locked me out of the main systems,” he announced. “I don’t have propulsion or fire control. Hang on…I have security feeds.”

“Where are they?” Caveman pressed.

“Got ‘em,” Parker replied, pointing to one of the feeds. “That’s them – two PCEs and a group of hostiles heading portside. Looks like they’re going for the hangar bay.”

“They’re evacuating the carrier,” Flatline snarled. “They sealed the bridge to throw us off the scent and buy themselves more time. We’ll never reach them before they get there, but Mojo is closer. We sent him to the medbay.” He pulled up his comms, patching through to the second team. “Mojo, report!”

He patched into the agent’s feed, seeing him surrounded by signature white walls and banks of medical equipment. There were some two dozen people dressed in scrubs and white coats standing in the room, but it was hard to tell if they were crew, civilians, or Nilsson’s staff. They were raising their hands in surrender, looking back at the team with wide eyes.

“We got a bunch of non-combatants here, LT,” Mojo replied. “Some are carrier crew, others are claiming to be civilian doctors and nurses kidnapped from the colony. No sign of Nilsson – he’s scarpered.”

“He has to be with Barbosa and Song,” Deacon added.

“Mojo, I need you to head to the port hangar bay,” Flatline continued. “The targets are trying to escape. You’re closer than we are. Head them off and don’t let them leave.”

“You got it, LT,” he replied. “What do you want me to do with these guys?”

“I don’t think they’re a threat, and we have bigger problems,” Flatline replied.

“There’s one more thing, LT,” Mojo added. He turned his helmet to show a view beyond a window that looked out over some kind of hospital room. It was filled with rows and rows of beds, all of which were occupied by people who were hooked up to monitoring equipment, a few more nurses patrolling the aisles between them with tablet computers in hand.

“What the hell is this?” Flatline asked. It was then that he noticed the augs. “Are these the recruits that were mentioned in the report?”

“They just left ‘em here,” Mojo confirmed. “I don’t think they even know what’s happening. What do we do with them?”

“It doesn’t look like they’re in any condition to join the fight,” Flatline replied. “Leave them for now – we’ll deal with this later. Go get Barbosa.”

“On it,” Mojo replied, waving for his team to follow. “Hope you Trogs can keep pace.”

“Caveman – take Mitchell and get back down to the barracks,” Flatline ordered. “Bring Ditch to the medbay and get her patched up. You can keep an eye on the medical staff while you’re there. We need to figure out where the rest of the crew is. Deacon, Parker – stay here and secure the bridge. Someone find a way to contact Abel and let him know that help is on the way for his wounded.”

“Hey, where the hell did Reggie go?” Caveman asked.

“Reggie?” Flatline asked, glancing around in confusion. “What the fuck – he was right behind us. Wasn’t he?”

“How did we lose an eight-foot walking refrigerator?” Mitchell scoffed.

“Whatever – he’s probably gone off on his own searching for stolen tech,” Flatline continued. “He can take care of himself. I’ll go free Captain Ortega – maybe he can help rally the crew and take back control of the carrier.”

It was only a short jaunt to the captain’s quarters from the bridge, and Flatline kept his wits about him, checking the corners with his rifle as he went. He soon found himself in the opulent officer’s lounge, a bottle of expensive-looking scotch and two crystal glasses still resting on the coffee table. It appeared that Barbosa had been enjoying his new station.

The captain’s quarters were down a short hallway, and he approached the door, lowering his weapon to tap at the control panel. It wasn’t locked, but it had been set to only open from the outside. It slid aside with a whoosh, and he slowly inched his way over the threshold, glancing around the dark compartment. It looked like a fancy hotel room to him, complete with faux wooden décor and a large king-sized bed. There was a desk with a holographic computer terminal, its wavering light providing the only illumination, its surface strewn with what looked like several days’ worth of empty MRE wrappers. There was a shower and toilet cubicle behind some frosted glass at the far end of the room – was Ortega in there?

As he moved forward, something heavy suddenly whacked him in the back of the head, his helmet absorbing the blow. He spun around and raised his rifle to see the captain standing behind him hefting an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. To Flatline’s surprise, he was cleanly shaven, and he looked well-fed – a far cry from the disheveled prisoner he had been expecting to find. The only indication of his captivity was the wrinkled state of his uniform – a few smudges staining the white fabric. It clearly hadn’t been laundered recently.

“Captain!?” Flatline stammered. “Whoa, whoa!” he added, raising a hand as Ortega moved to hit him again. “I’m on your side!”

Slowly, Ortega lowered the bottle, looking back at the newcomer suspiciously.

“You’re not one of Barbosa’s goons?” he asked.

“The Admiralty sent me,” Flatline replied. “My team and I have just retaken control of the bridge. Barbosa is currently hauling ass to the aft hangar bay.”

“It’s about damned time,” Ortega snarled, dropping the bottle to the carpet with a thud and reaching up to straighten his cap. “What took you so long? That lunatic has kept me prisoner in my quarters for weeks and fed me nothing but emergency rations. What’s the status of my crew?”

“I’d be happy to give you a full debriefing when the crisis is over, but right now, I need someone to captain this ship. Are you up to that?”

“I assure you that any issues I’m currently experiencing are digestive in nature rather than psychological,” Ortega replied. “Take me back to my bridge, Agent.”

Ortega followed Flatline back through the officer’s quarters, striding onto the bridge with such confidence that one might have been mistaken for thinking he had never left. He eyed the dead SWAR agents as one might eye a dead housefly on their carpet, stepping over one of the smoldering bodies to reach his elevated captain’s chair. Deacon and Parker glanced up at him, greeting him with a salute. He sat down, running his gloved hands across the leather armrests, seeming to relish their texture.

When the moment had passed, he pulled up a series of holographic readouts with a gesture, deftly scrolling through the feeds.

“Let’s see what they’ve done to my ship,” he muttered. “The first priority is getting propulsion and fire control back online – they’ve changed all the codes and locked me out. This is your captain speaking,” he added, his voice echoing through the ship as he patched into the intercom. “All crew – report in.”

“Getting pings from all over the ship,” Parker marveled as he examined his display. “There must be a couple of hundred people still aboard!”

“Engineering – what’s the status of my reactors?” Ortega asked.

“Captain, I can’t tell you how great it is to hear your voice again,” Chief Abel replied over the comms. “Reactors one through six are all online, and we’re in control of engineering.”

“Glad to hear it. Send some of your techs up to the bridge to unscramble the computers.”

“We could use some help down here, Captain,” Abel added. “We have injured.”

“Dispatching medics to you,” Ortega said, switching channels. “Medbay, we need a response team sent down to the reactor room ASAP.”

“You got it, Captain,” came the reply. “Glad to have you back in the chair.”

“Barbosa!” Captain Ortega added, his voice echoing through the ship with a cold anger. “I know you can hear me, you worm! I’d suggest that you and your men surrender, but we both know that you’re beyond all reason. I warned you that you’d die for what you did, and I intend to make good on that promise. There’s nowhere you can run or hide that I won’t find you.”

“We have a team heading to intercept him, Captain,” Flatline added.

“Pull up a feed. I want to see this.”

DAY 56 – HADES ORBIT – BARBOSA

Barbosa jogged into the hangar bay, slowing his massive suit to a stop as he swept the deck with his heavy XMR. A row of Beewolves and a few dropships were lined up against the back wall, surrounded by snaking fuel lines and racks of missiles prepped for loading. The fighter that had been crushed by the cargo container was still lying in a crumpled heap, as moving it had never become a priority. Facing them was the shimmering blue force field that contained the atmosphere, the stars beyond twinkling, Hades’ horizon rising up from below to curve away into the distance.

Nilsson and a small procession of his staff weren’t far behind, emerging into the bay flanked by a pair of SWAR agents, looking around fearfully. Song brought up the rear, his PCE’s heavy footfalls reverberating through the deck.

“Song – get the lander up here,” Barbosa ordered. “The rest of you, protect the VIPs.”

Song marched over to a panel on the back wall, a set of human-sized fingers extending from his PCE’s massive hand to interact with the display. With a few button presses, a large hatch on the hangar deck folded open, the two rear stabilizers of the Wombat rising into view as the elevator began to lift it.

In the same moment, the blast doors that protected the hangar during firefights and hull breaches began to lower, slowly folding down to block out the view beyond the force field. It resembled a giant garage door – the plates of segmented armor rolling in from the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” Barbosa snapped. “Song!”

“It’s not me, Commander!” Song replied as he tapped at the panel frantically. “They’re taking back control of the ship’s systems one by one!”

“They’re trying to stop us from leaving,” Barbosa snarled. “I thought you said you scrambled all the access codes?”

“I did!” Song protested. “That doesn’t mean it’ll last forever! From what I can see, they’re running recovery processes on the different servers and rolling them back. It’ll take them a while – we still have access to environmental systems, AG, and fire control. Propulsion is being reset now. It’ll be a good fifteen minutes before it’s finished rebooting.”

“Hit the manual releases!” Barbosa added, gesturing to the physical controls that were situated to either side of the fifty-foot opening. Song began to jog over to them, the shutter halting as he grabbed the wheel and began to crank it.

“Are we really abandoning the carrier, Commander?” Nilsson asked as he crept closer to the seven-foot suit. He recoiled when Barbosa swung around to face him, the camera dome beneath the PCE’s chin fixing on him.

“The ship is compromised,” he replied. “We can’t recapture the reactor room without the risk of a core dump. We take our PCEs anywhere near it, and they’ll just kill the power for good and leave us dead in space.”

“But…how will I continue my work?” the nervous scientist pressed. “All of my equipment is here. I need the medbay to perform the surgeries – I need the carrier’s fabs to produce electronics for the PCEs! I can’t guarantee that there are any suitable facilities on the ground!”

“We’ll make it work,” Barbosa replied curtly.

“But, Commander,” Nilsson protested. “That’s just not realistic! I need specialized tools to manufacture things like C-3 shunts and advanced optics packages. Without the carrier-”

“If you cannot do your job, then you are of no further use to me,” Barbosa growled as he loomed over the man. “Now, are you going to make it work, or should I find someone else who can?”

Nilsson lowered his gaze, stepping back to rejoin his staff.

“That’s what I thought,” Barbosa muttered to himself. “Come on, come on!” he added with a hiss of frustration as he watched the lander gradually rise inch by inch. It was like watching a house slowly emerge from the ground, its four swiveling engine housings coming into view.

Beyond the slowly rising craft, his sensors picked up movement. They outlined a humanoid shape that was entering through a door on the opposite side of the hangar some three hundred feet away. It was a SWAR agent, but not one of his – their IFF was all wrong. Behind them came two more, along with three men wearing heavy tunnel fighting armor. Those were Trogs.

“They’ve found us!” Barbosa warned, Song and his two loyal agents turning as they received the data from his suit. “Contacts at the far end of the hangar!”

He began to lumber forwards, not fearing their XMRs, Song jogging over to support him. The two agents protected the VIPs as they had been trained, keeping the scientists’ heads down and guiding them to the cover of a Beewolf, blocking them with their bodies as they aimed their rifles at the enemy.

The boarders kept out of direct view, sticking to the back wall and using the Beewolves for cover in much the same way. The craft were hardened against small arms fire and enemy countermeasures – even a heavy XMR wouldn’t punch through their plating. Barbosa had no more fear of their weaponry than a Beewolf did, starting to move in their direction, his suit’s sensors linking with his rifle to scan for targets.

As he passed behind the rising lander, a grenade came his way, sailing over one of the planes to roll to a stop at his feet. It detonated with a thud that he barely felt, his plasma shield flashing as it turned the shrapnel to harmless slag. Another followed, this one succeeding only in nicking the furniture of his gun.

Song was advancing around the nose of the lander to his right, while the two loyal agents were moving up behind the Beewolves to his left, everyone sharing targeting data. The enemy didn’t seem to have any heavy weapons that could threaten a Bullshark, so he wondered what their plan was. Brenner wasn’t stupid – he’d have some trick up his sleeve.

Another grenade – this one erupting into a spreading cloud of glittering particles. It was chaff – the tiny aluminum-coated fibers swirling like snowflakes in a blizzard, the reflective particles confusing his suit’s sensors. They reflected radar and thermal radiation, the spreading smoke muddling his optical cameras and making him lose his lock. He snarled as a salvo of railgun slugs impacted his suit, his reactive shielding flashing to intercept them, Barbosa feeling the softened rounds pancake against his armor plating.

“Get in there and flush them out!” he ordered, advancing through the chaff. His agents moved ahead, their weapons shouldered, exchanging sporadic fire with the enemy to apply pressure. As they came within a hundred feet of their position, he heard screaming, watching the two camera feeds from his agents start to sway erratically. Something was happening to them. They fell to the deck and writhed, showing him shaky views of the ceiling and the undersides of the planes before their cameras shut off.

“Microwave gun!” Song warned as he fired from the cover of the bulky lander.

“The bastards are treating us like roaches!” Barbosa replied, rushing through the smoke. He was barely two hundred feet away now, clearing the shimmering cloud to see the enemy hunkered down beside one of the planes.

They were targeting Song now, a salvo of slugs peppering his shields, making them flash and flicker. As he strode forwards, firing off a burst of return fire, yet another grenade rolled between his feet. It exploded in a flash of blue-green light, scarring the deck beneath him black, his shield burning just as brightly. Two more came after it, erupting into tiny novas that blew out Barbosa’s cameras. Song’s shield collapsed, the next salvo of slugs impacting his armor and carving craters into it, pocking it like the surface of the moon. They slammed into his chest plate, one of them ricocheting off his angled canopy to slam into the ceiling forty feet above. It wasn’t enough – they’d need something heavier to penetrate his suit before he flanked them and got a clean shot.

Weathering their salvos, he fired a shot from his rifle, the heavy round passing beneath one of the planes and hitting a Trog in the leg. It severed the limb, practically vaporizing it below the knee, the unfortunate victim dropping to the deck and exposing himself. A follow-up shot hit him in the chest, painting him across the bay.

The boarders were moving now, pulling further back, the suit’s high vantage point making finding a line of sight more difficult. They couldn’t exactly go prone to see beneath the Beewolves. Barbosa moved to cover Song, his weapon rocking into his suit as he loosed bursts of gunfire, keeping up the pressure. The heavy slugs chewed into the planes, digging furrows in their dark plating and punching through their canopies.

Song recoiled suddenly, raising his arms reflexively as though trying to protect himself from something. His shield was still down, and one of the Trogs must have turned their microwave weapon on him, the PCE staggering back as the radiation hit the suit. The electronics in his rifle began to spark and fizzle, the polymer melting and the lens on the digital scope popping like a firecracker. The PCE didn’t fare much better, Barbosa watching as a couple of the cameras that were spaced out around its canopy burst like busted capacitors.

The shield finally came back online, its magnetic field flooding with fresh plasma from the micro-reactor, seeming to provide some protection from the beam. He retreated to the cover of the lander, dropping his smoldering XMR with a thud.

“We don’t have time for this!” Barbosa snapped. “Song – get the VIPs onto the lander and get the hell out of here! If Ortega gets fire control back online, he’ll just shoot us out of the sky!”

“What about you, Commander?” Song asked.

“I’ll take one of the dropships,” he replied. “Just get our assets to the ground!”

Song moved around to the back of the lander, lowering the rear ramp to expose the cavernous interior, waving for the terrified scientists to board with a mechanical hand. Nilsson and his team ducked low, running for the safety of the ship, rushing up the ramp and past the shadow of the Ursa that occupied much of the space.

Barbosa tossed his XMR aside, turning his attention back to the boarders. He set off at a lumbering run, aiming to close the distance as quickly as possible. They sent another plasma grenade sailing his way, but his shields endured the blast, their gunfire impacting his suit harmlessly. The Trog with the microwave gun stepped out of cover to aim the three prongs at him, but it wasn’t enough – his shield protecting him long enough to reach them.

He shouldered one of the Beewolves aside like it was nothing, rocking it on its landing gear and sending it slamming into the bird beside it. The force of the impact also knocked over a rack of missiles waiting to be loaded, half a dozen of the ten-foot, two-hundred-pound cylinders spilling across the deck like rolling logs. It sent the boarders scattering in turn, SWAR agents and Trogs leaping clear as the unstoppable juggernaut plowed through. Barbosa dumped all of his momentum into a punch, catching the microwave-wielding Trog in center mass and lifting him off his feet, dashing his already lifeless body against the fuselage behind him.

Barbosa waded in, his PCE towering over the men beneath him like a giant, sending them scattering. He pushed between the two collided planes, shoving them out of his way, sending one of them crashing to the deck as its forward landing gear collapsed under the strain. His shield flashed as one of the agents fired an XMR at him, but the slugs turned to slag, the melted rounds impacting his armor harmlessly. He lifted his left fist and fired the XMHs built into the suit’s forearm, his suite of cameras and sensors keeping him on target even as the agent leapt back onto the Beewolf, scrambling up its fuselage like a cat. The hail of slugs caught him in mid-air, tearing him to pieces, and his body fell back down to slump over the wing.

There was only one Trog left, and he hadn’t the agility to escape as the SWAR agents did, his bulky armor slowing him down. He’d been going for the fallen microwave gun, but turned when he saw the PCE bearing down on him. He began to back away, firing off a few futile shots with his XMR, Barbosa following him between the two damaged planes as he retreated towards the back wall. Barbosa stepped over one of the fallen missiles, raising a hand to smash the Trog into the deck like a tent peg. He stopped, his mechanical fist poised in the air, watching the man tap at the display on his wrist. With his suit’s cameras, Barbosa scanned his surroundings, the sensors picking up anomalous objects.

There were satchel charges stuck beneath the fuel tanks of the planes.

“See you in Hell!” the Trog snarled through his helmet speaker, hitting a button.

The charges erupted into balls of flame, the bright flash temporarily blowing out Barbosa’s cameras, the concussive blasts rocking into his suit like hammer strikes. His armor and the gel-like padding did their best to protect him as he was shaken around, a sound like hailstones peppering his suit, his shield melting the deadly shrapnel and debris. A secondary explosion threw him to the ground as a fuel tank ignited, all of that dense hydrogen dumping its energy, ripping apart the plane like it was made of paper. Blue flames licked across the floor, the fires spreading, his suit blaring thermal warnings as they leapt to his PCE.

A neighboring Beewolf exploded, sending burning debris raining across the hangar, Barbosa rocking in his suit again as a heavy chunk of fuselage landed on him. The carrier’s automatic fire suppression systems were kicking in now, dousing the burning wreckage in foam that spewed from nozzles on the ceiling, the fire-retardant substance quickly encasing the damaged aircraft. He stumbled to his feet, staggering away from the dark smoke, patting the blue flames that were still burning on his shoulder plate. When he turned to look back, most of the blackened debris was already buried under a mountain of hardening foam, a few stray puddles of burning fuel still licking at its edges.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, starting to laugh nervously as he scanned the diagnostic readout. His PCE seemed to have suffered no severe damage, but a single one of those breaching charges would probably have burned through his armor like a cutting torch if it had been in contact with his suit.

His cameras scanned for movement as he brushed some of the melted shrapnel from his chest plate, searching for any sign of survivors. He was distracted by a loud rumbling, checking his rear cameras to see that the lander was rising off the deck. Its four massive engines swiveled to face down, lifting it on plumes of blue flame, more thrusters spaced out along its flat underside flaring to help keep it stable. The twenty-meter-long, eight-meter-tall craft coasted out of the hangar, the shimmering force field painting a line from its nose to its twin tail fins as it passed through. Once it was in open space and free of the carrier’s AG field, those engines swiveled to face the rear, burning brighter as it accelerated away and began to descend towards the planet. Barbosa held his breath, but the carrier’s guns didn’t fire on it. Good – there was still time.

He began to retreat towards one of the dropships that was fueled and ready for launch, stooping to pick up his XMR on the way. They had been expecting to evacuate a lot more people. As he neared the craft, he paused, his sensors picking up motion. A salvo of gunfire came his way, hammering the hull of the ship. Barbosa moved his PCE into its path to protect the craft, his shield absorbing the rounds, his cameras zooming in on a single remaining target. It was one of the SWAR agents.

Barbosa raised his XMR, but a chaff grenade obscured his view, causing him to lose track of his target and sending his shots straying wide. Another plasma grenade came his way, and he batted it aside as though it was a baseball, the device erupting into a sphere of blue-green energy a few moments later.

“You should have run!” Barbosa bellowed, his voice coming through the suit’s speakers. “You’re not going to stall me – I can kill you with a flick of my wrist!”

A burst of XMR fire came through the swirling chaff, the molten glow reflecting off the shimmering fibers, his shield intercepting them harmlessly. He fired back through the smoke, aiming at where the rounds had come from. Those silver particles encompassed him as he marched forward, clearing the chaff to see his target crossing the deck at a crouched run, slipping beneath a nearby Beewolf just in time to shield himself from the next salvo of heavy slugs.

“There isn’t a force on this ship that can kill me!” Barbosa bellowed as he gave chase. His suit strained as he lifted the plane beneath its conical nose, throwing it aside to expose the agent. The operative fired back, unloading into the suit at point-blank range, but it wasn’t enough. Barbosa reached out a hand and gripped him around the waist, lifting him off the deck, his touch gentle enough not to simply crush the man. Barbosa plucked the XMR from his hands, crushing it in his fist like a soda can and dropping it to the floor.

“Mojo,” Barbosa said with mock affection, recognizing the clown decal on his visor. “Another of Brenner’s favorites. Where is he? Is the good Commander somewhere on the carrier, perhaps?”

“Fuck you,” Mojo spat, struggling to expand his lungs in the PCE’s grasp.

“You know, you could have been a part of this,” Barbosa continued. “You could have ruled over Hades alongside me and turned this hellhole of a colony into a shining beacon of humanity. I believe that a great many of you think the same way I do,” he added as he lifted the struggling operative a little higher. “You’re just too cowardly to act on it – too afraid of the consequences of failure. He who dares, wins.”

“The only people who think the way you do are locked in padded cells,” Mojo wheezed.

“It’s so much easier to dismiss me as insane or evil,” Barbosa sighed. “I get that a lot. Oh well. Time to die.”

“Big man, wearing that suit,” Mojo grunted as Barbosa began to tighten his grip. “I always heard you were one of the most dangerous agents to ever serve, but I guess you need billions of creds of stolen tech to stay competitive these days.”

“Is this what we’re doing?” Barbosa asked with a resigned sigh. “This is your delaying tactic? Alright – I’ll give you your five minutes.”

He loosened his grip and plucked the agent’s sidearm from his belt, crushing it between his mechanical thumb and forefinger. That done, he tossed the now disarmed agent across the hangar. Mojo landed hard some twenty feet away, rolling for a few paces before coming to a stop. As he struggled to rise to his feet, framed by the mountain of foam and trashed Beewolves behind him, he turned to see Barbosa’s suit opening up.

The armored panels split apart to free its occupant, the massive PCE standing idle as the Commander stepped out of its padded lining, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

“I don’t need this suit to kill you,” he declared, cracking his mechanical knuckles. He raised a hand, splaying his fingers. “Five minutes. I hope Brenner is watching.”

Mojo hesitated, glancing at his surroundings.

“You want to run, don’t you?” Barbosa asked as he began to approach with his fists raised. “You could get away – live to fight another day. But I’m right here,” he added, patting his chest. “All you have to do is beat me, and you could end it all here and now. You’d be a hero. You know what you should do – what Brenner would tell you to do, but you didn’t sign up to be the guy who ran away. I know that because we’re the same. You, me, Brenner, the rest of them – we’re all cut from the same cloth. We’re all willing to do whatever it takes to be the best.”

Mojo steadied himself, tearing off his chest rig and tossing the now-useless magazines to the deck.

“Come on then, old man!” Mojo barked as he drew a fighting knife from his belt.

“That’s more like it!” Barbosa hissed, pulling an adrenaline hypo from his rig and stabbing it into his side. He injected the substance and tossed the empty injector away, feeling his heart start to quicken.

The two agents met, Barbosa letting Mojo open with a jab that whistled past his helmet. Mojo followed up with a swipe from his knife, holding it blade-down, the handle wrapping around his fist like brass knuckles. Its edge whistled through the air an inch from Barbosa’s visor, the Commander leaning just out of its reach. Mojo advanced, delivering another punch that Barbosa was forced to block, the bone-shattering blow stopping dead when it made contact with his prosthetic forearm.

Pushing Mojo’s fist aside with his left arm, Barbosa brought in the right, delivering a hard punch to Mojo’s chest plate that sent him staggering back. The two squared off again, circling around one another, their faceless visors watching for any tells. Barbosa danced in, but it was a feint, the Commander pulling his punch and juking as Mojo tried to intercept him. He ducked under the younger operative’s swipe and delivered three rapid hooks to his stomach, the segmented body armor doing little to soften the blows. As Mojo was pushed back, Barbosa lifted his leg, swinging his boot towards his opponent’s helmet in a vicious roundhouse kick. Mojo blocked it with his left arm, but the strength of the blow still knocked him off-balance, a grunt emanating from beneath his helmet as he stumbled away.

“Come on!” Barbosa laughed, skipping back a few paces. “I’m old – I’m past my prime! You can’t beat an old man!?”

Mojo lunged back in to deliver a salvo of quick jabs, Barbosa weaving and ducking like a boxer in the ring, that knife flashing. The agent caught Barbosa off guard, swinging a shin into the side of his knee and making him falter, taking advantage of the opening to drive the blade towards his throat.

Barbosa grabbed his wrist and stopped the blade dead, his prosthetic fingers starting to crush the polymer housing as he squeezed, pulling the limb aside. From below, he swept a fist up into the agent’s elbow joint, bending it in the wrong direction, the sound of whirring motors and creaking metal emanating from it. Mojo delivered a kick to Barbosa’s chest that broke his grip and sent him stumbling back, pulling his arm away. He tested its range of motion, and it seemed to be undamaged, the hand trembling a little as he took up another defensive posture.

“Remember the techniques they taught you in training,” Barbosa began, circling around his opponent. “Rip, tear, twist, break. Those are the techniques I developed. You think you can beat me in the style I invented? Four minutes,” he announced, raising four fingers. “You gotta dictate the pace of the fight, kid. You can’t just stay on the defensive and wait for me to come to you.”

Mojo came at him again with a roar, putting Barbosa on the defensive with a flurry of strikes more rapid than those of any normal human. Each blow was strong enough to shatter bone and rend metal, and any one that made contact with unaugmented or unarmored flesh could spell Barbosa’s downfall. A punch to the chest could crack ribs, shatter the sternum, and collapse lungs. A strike to the face could break the jaw or concuss the brain just as easily as a car crash.

Barbosa blocked the next right hook with his left arm, their black polymer splintering where the two prosthetics met, driving his right fist into the agent’s visor in a brutal haymaker. The glass cracked, Mojo’s head snapping back, the helmet absorbing the worst of the blow and preventing it from caving in his skull. As Mojo staggered away, Barbosa swept his feet out from under him with a kick, sending his opponent crashing to the floor. Dazed and winded, he lay on the deck, watching as Barbosa lifted an elbow. With a distorted yell, the Commander brought it down towards his head, Mojo rolling out of its path just in time. The strike dented the floor panel, Barbosa rising from a knee and readying himself again as Mojo hopped back to his feet.

“Three minutes.”

Mojo flipped the knife in his hand so that his blade was facing up, stepping in and driving it towards Barbosa’s belly, aiming for the gaps in his armor. Barbosa batted the strike aside, Mojo transitioning into another stance, jabbing and slicing. It might have been more successful versus a flesh-and-blood opponent, but the Commander had little to fear, letting the sharp edge slice through the polymer of his hands and forearms to leave deep scores as he parried.

The agent drove the knife towards Barbosa’s kidney, and the Commander twisted his body, moving out of its path to let it pass him by a hair. Quick as a flash, he wrapped his left arm around Mojo’s right, catching him in a lock. With the added leverage, he delivered a series of powerful knee strikes to the agent’s torso, each one making him buckle.

Certainly nursing bruises and perhaps broken ribs or ruptured organs, Mojo stumbled back once released, gripping his side reflexively. He had to know that Barbosa was toying with him now.

“Come on!” Barbosa yelled, spreading his arms. “You can do better than that!”

Swallowing down his pain, Mojo ran at him, leaping a good five feet off the deck on his prosthetic legs. The height let him connect one, two, three kicks that Barbosa was forced to block. Mojo landed, and seeing that the Commander’s arms were raised, he delivered a punch to the armor plating on his belly that doubled his assailant over. Barbosa gagged, the air driven from his lungs, Mojo raising that knife and aiming its point down. He brought it towards the Commander’s collar, putting a hand behind the handle to drive it with more force, aiming for his clavicle.

Barbosa lifted an arm to intercept the weapon, letting it pierce his limb, its serrated blade passing clear through to emerge from his wrist on the other side. The whine of grinding servos filled the air for a moment as the two men strained against one another, then Barbosa swept his arm aside. Mojo was given no choice but to release the stuck knife, opening him up to another kick to the ribs, the blow sending him crashing back to the deck.

He scrambled to his feet as Barbosa advanced, tugging the knife from his arm with considerable difficulty. He unfastened the seal that joined his collar to his helmet, pulling it down to expose the black polymer of his artificial windpipe and scoring it with the blade.

“Gonna cut my throat?” he demanded. “You wouldn’t be the first!”

Armed with only his fists now, Mojo waited for Barbosa to press the attack, the Commander rushing in to deliver a series of swift blows. A couple of them made contact, hitting him in the chest and the visor, rocking him back and making him lose his balance.

“Time’s up!” Barbosa announced, passing the knife from his left hand to his right. His injuries slowing him down, Mojo deflected a strike from the left fist, but the right found its mark. Barbosa buried the knife to the hilt between the segments of his torso armor. Mojo staggered back, a dark stain already spreading across his pressure suit, glancing down at the jutting handle in disbelief.

His moment of hesitation gave Barbosa another opening, and the Commander took the agent’s wrist in his hand, his mechanical fingers sinking into the housing and cracking it like the shell of a lobster. He twisted the limb, the steel bones within bending and creaking, bundles of tiny electrical wires fraying like fiber optic cables. Yanking the arm straight, he brought the edge of his hand down on the joint like an axe head, severing it at the elbow.

Mojo tried to block the next hit with his missing limb, Barbosa punching past it and shattering his visor in earnest. Peppered with sharp fragments of broken glass, Mojo looked back at the Commander, eyes wide as another punch connected. Barbosa drove him to the deck, catching his remaining wrist as he fell. Placing a boot on his chest, he pulled, ripping off the arm at the shoulder where it connected to the bone. Mojo let out one last gasp of pain and surprise as the Commander crouched over him, gripping his throat and closing his fist, the flesh coming away like butter. He tossed the handful of bloody meat aside, rising to watch his opponent choke out his last few breaths.

“I may be on my last legs, but I’m still the jaguar,” he declared as he tapped a finger against the decal on his helmet. “I always go for the throat.”

He walked back over to his suit and climbed inside, the armor panels closing around him protectively as the shunt washed away all of the little aches and pains accumulated from the fight. In a moment, he was serene and clear-minded again, stooping to retrieve his XMR. He turned, lumbering back over to the dropship, his suit’s systems already interfacing with its flight controls. The two engines on the tail began to spin up, the ramp lowering.

As he neared, he was once again alerted to movement, his rear cameras showing something strange entering the hangar from the opposite end. Barbosa couldn’t identify it at first, with its blocky body and odd, chicken-like gait.

“Is that a fucking Broker?” he realized, spinning to aim his weapon at it.

The alien suit was marching towards him on its cup feet, its arrays of lenses and sensors scrutinizing him, its four tentacle-like arms outstretched. It stopped beside Mojo’s body, one of its red cameras seeming to analyze him, a little metal antenna waving in the air.

“You are in possession of stolen Board property,” the Broker announced, a synthetic voice filtering through unseen speakers. “Surrender immediately.”

“You want the Ursa?” Barbosa asked, gesturing towards the force field. “You just missed it.”

“The treaty between the Board and the UN gives me the authority to detain you on behalf of your government pending charges of murder and sedition,” the Broker added, aiming some kind of tubular device at him. Barbosa didn’t need to know much about their technology to guess that it was some kind of weapon.

“I suppose Brenner will work with anyone these days,” he sneered. “Even the squids who sold us out to the Bugs.”

“I believe that you will attempt to resist detainment,” the alien added. “I must warn you that I will defend myself with deadly force.”

“Sorry, but I’ve had my fun,” he replied as his finger poised over the trigger. “As much as I’d love to rip you out of that suit and find out what you look like for myself, I’m already late.”

He fired, molten trails bridging him and his target, the hail of slugs melting as they impacted some kind of plasma shield analogous to his own. So, this was where Nilsson had gotten the idea. Just like firing at a PCE, they turned to harmless slag that glued itself to the pale chassis as it cooled, eventually sliding off to fall about the deck at the alien’s feet. He fired his underbarrel weapon, sending a bolt of blue-green plasma crashing into the shields, making them flicker for a moment.

The Broker responded in kind, leveling that silver tube and firing a blast of energy – maybe some kind of plasma or particle weapon. The searing bolt hit him hard, rocking him in his suit, his systems blaring a warning as his shield integrity tanked and the magnetic field became unstable. His fusion micro-reactor could only spare so much of its plasma to feed the shields before the reaction stopped and it powered down, and it took time for it to recharge.

Suddenly on the defensive, he kept up the fire, moving around to take cover behind the waiting dropship. Another bolt came his way – the alien was remarkably accurate – passing underneath the craft’s tail and collapsing his shields, searing the blue paintwork off his chest plate. Thermal alarms sounded, warning him that his suit temp was approaching dangerous levels. Another hit like that might cook him in the PCE regardless of whether it penetrated the armor or not. He leapt behind the dropship, feeling it shudder as a bolt hit its plating. He had no idea whether the armored hull could stand up to the weapon for long. He needed cover so he could get inside the troop bay.

An idea occurred to him, and he tapped into the craft’s systems again, pulling up a display on his HUD. The Broker was moving around to his left, trying to get a bead on him, approaching cautiously. From beneath the overhanging tail, the twenty-millimeter cannon dropped into view, its rotary barrels swiveling to face the Broker as they began to spin up. It sent a stream of anti-materiel slugs crashing into the alien, their mass and velocity letting them punch through the shields, imparting much of their energy into its armor. Shuddering under the blows, the Broker suddenly lifted its legs and tucked them beneath its body, floating off the deck like a drone. Quick as a flash, it raced towards the back wall, almost seeming to fall in the direction that it wished to travel.

The cannon tracked it, sweeping its spinning barrel across the row of Beewolves, tearing a couple more of the aircraft to pieces as the alien sought refuge behind them. It gave Barbosa the opening he needed, and he quickly ran beneath the chattering tail gun, lumbering up the ramp and into the bay. Controlling the flight systems remotely, he directed it to fire its engines, and the craft rolled out of the bay with its gear still deployed. It coasted into space, drifting for a moment before its thrusters engaged to right it, the tail gun firing off a few more bursts through the force field as it accelerated away.

DAY 56 – HADES ORBIT – FLATLINE

“He’s gone!” Ortega snarled, turning to glance at the nearest engineer. “Weapon control?”

“Not online yet, Captain!” the woman replied as her fingers danced across her console. “Propulsion just came back up!”

“Damn it!” Ortega growled, slamming a fist on his armrest. “We can’t just let that worm fly away!”

“Reggie – you good?” Flatline demanded.

“I have sustained only superficial damage,” the Broker replied. “The suspects have escaped with my government’s property. We must make haste to the surface if we are to recover it.”

“Not right now,” Flatline said. “We have more important things to worry about.”

“Your Admiralty assured me that I would have your full cooperation,” Reggie chided.

“Once we get this ship secure and the systems are all back under our control, we’ll pursue,” Flatline insisted. “Our part of the operation might be over, but we have teams on the ground fighting to take control of the MAST launch sites. If they fail, it won’t matter what we do up here.”

“There are still active MASTs down there?” Ortega asked, raising an eyebrow beneath his cap. “And Barbosa is in control of them?”

“Hopefully not for long,” Flatline explained. “My team was ordered to take back the Tirad, another has taken control of the station, and two more are engaging the enemy on the ground. All we can do now is sit tight and hope they play their part.”

“If we have propulsion, we should jump the Tirad to a safe distance,” Ortega suggested.

“Negative, Captain – we need the carrier,” Flatline replied. “She still has functioning dropships, and once we get fire control back online, we may be able to provide close air support.”

“I have a responsibility to keep my crew and my ship intact, Lieutenant.”

“And most of your crew is down there fighting,” Flatline shot back.

“Very well,” Ortega conceded after a tense moment. “Your plan has worked so far, so I’ll go along with it. In the meantime, we need to get medical teams down to the starboard hangar. There’s a chance we may still be able to save some of them.”

“Barbosa is a monster,” Flatline said with a shake of his head. “He wiped out a whole team on his own and took Mojo apart just for the fun of it.”

“He isn’t invincible,” Deacon added. The Trog had taken off his helmet and placed it on one of the damaged consoles, getting some fresh air, his face shining with sweat. “The plan almost worked – the microwave gun damaged Song’s sensors, and Reggie’s weapon had Barbosa running. We almost had them.”

“Almost isn’t good enough,” Flatline sighed. “Caveman – how’s Ditch?”

“She’s in surgery,” he replied over the comms. “We got to her in time, LT. The medical staff are taking care of her and the Chief’s guys.”

“Got it!” Parker announced, getting their attention.

“You found them?” Flatline asked.

“Looks like Barbosa was communicating with his two remaining Coursers on the encrypted bands,” Parker confirmed as he pulled up a holographic display. “I know where and when they’re supposed to check in next.”

“We’ll dispatch our own Coursers to intercept them,” Flatline said with a satisfied nod. “They won’t know that anything is wrong yet. They’ll show up at the contact points, and bam, torpedo up the tailpipe.”

“I suppose all we can do now is wait,” Ortega said.

“We have a radar contact!” one of the engineers warned. “Picking up an unknown vessel in high orbit!”

“It’s one of ours,” Flatline said, waving for him to be calm.

The captain pulled up a view from the telescopes on the feed, and they watched as the Courser came into view – barely a speck against Hades’ atmosphere. The cameras zoomed in as it blew across the sky, burning hard, jets of blue flame streaming behind it. There was a large, cylindrical object nestled beneath its slim midsection. It released its payload, letting it drop down towards the planet, followed by a spread of torpedoes that jetted from its launchers to take up formation around the object. Only then did it peel away, breaking orbit and heading back out into space.

“What is that?” Ortega asked.

“That would be Tiger Lily,” Flatline replied.

CHAPTER 33

DAY 56 – BETA SITE – REED

“Well, this is horseshit,” Reed grumbled as he glanced through his scope. He was lying prone atop a tall dune, the wind blowing the leather cowl that was wrapped around his helmet, airborne sand particles whipping at his visor. Komodo was lying to his right, and Fuller was to his left, the three men looking out at the compound beyond.

From his current vantage point, he could make out the ten-foot carbcrete walls that rose up from the desert, along with a couple of the point-defense guns that jutted above them, their cupcake-shaped radomes glinting in the harsh sunlight. There was also a guard tower with a square roof situated beside the main gate, which seemed to be the only way in and out. To the rear was a great outcrop of sandstone that towered like a cliff to loom over the base, a couple more turrets perched atop it.

“Looks like the Governor’s intel was pretty spot-on,” Komodo said, his helmet’s superior optics letting him zoom in closer. “The PDF must have drilled this kind of operation hundreds of times. Their units are about where he said they would be.”

“What do you see?” Reed asked.

“The base of the wall is lined with sandbags,” the agent replied. “That suggests to me that they’re going to leave the base to occupy those positions when they come under attack. I can’t really see inside the compound, but everything looks as expected.”

“Can’t you throw up a little drone or something?” Reed pressed.

“Those CIWS guns would pick up a drone immediately,” he explained.

“When is our heavy support supposed to arrive?” Sergeant Fuller asked.

“Yeah, Brenner promised us backup!” Reed hissed. “If we engage these guys without access to heavy weapons, those PCEs are gonna be playing hacky sack with our heads before sunset.”

“She’ll be here,” Komodo insisted. “Trust Brenner’s plan.”

“I’ve got nine squads ready to go,” Fuller added. “That’s a hundred Marines and pissed-off locals ready for a scrap. Mortar and MG teams are prepped to fire.”

“Time’s almost up,” Komodo said, checking the clock on his HUD. “Get to your squads.”

The three men trudged back down the sandy incline. Fuller headed off to the West, where he would be commanding the three squads on the left flank. Reed stuck with Komodo, reaching the base of the dune where three squads of fighters and the rest of the agent’s team were waiting.

One of the squads had been equipped as a mortar and MG team, with four mortars and loaders, and four gunners. The gunners had XMRs configured for high volume of fire, with long, reinforced barrels and drum magazines. The weapons were a hodgepodge of whatever had been scrounged from the garrison armories and whatever Brenner had brought with him, some of them sporting ancient receivers with cutting-edge optics and rangefinders.

The remaining two squads were equipped as rifle teams, with a blend of intermediate and short-range XMRs, if such a thing existed. They were all wrapped in shawls and leather cloaks, their surplus PDF helmets peeking out from beneath their hoods. A few of them had underbarrel grenade launchers provided by the agents, their bandoleers filled with shells.

Komodo’s fireteam was equipped with the usual eclectic mix of equipment, each weapon tailored to its wielder’s specific needs. Every man was probably wearing enough gear to buy a yacht. Komodo was commanding, with Rancher, Eyeball, Strzyga, Viper, and Halberd following. They were the tip of the spear. Without them, the fighters would stand little chance against the enemy SWAR teams when the distances closed.

“Sergeant Fuller, are your people ready?” Komodo asked as he lifted a prosthetic hand to his helmet.

“Good to go, Lieutenant,” he replied over the comms.

“Right, time to go loud,” Komodo announced. “All mortar teams – open fire! Flush those fuckers out! Assault teams – get into position!”

Reed checked his rifle one more time, watching as one of the mortar loaders dropped a shell into the tube, leaning away while the operator dialed in the coordinates on its fold-out display. There was a loud thud as it fired, shaking the sand around it and sending the shell sailing away into the sky. It was followed by three more shells from the nearest team, and Reed knew that more would be firing from the other two positions. Almost as soon as the first shells had left the tubes, they were loading more, sending a stream of explosives raining towards the compound.

Reed waved for his squad of twelve Marines and Hadean fighters to follow, marching back up to the lip of the dune, Komodo’s men and the machinegunners moving alongside him. They reached the top and peeked over just in time to see the first salvo land, bright, fiery explosions billowing from within the walls.

Only seconds later, a procession of PDF began to pour through the main gate like ants, taking up position behind the rows of sandbags along the base of the wall. There looked to be a hundred of them – maybe more. Most were armed with rifles, but he could see a few of them carrying heavy MGs on tripods to nests at the corners of the compound. The mortar teams adjusted their aim, Reed seeing a shell land just outside the sandbags, tossing up a torrent of dirt and sending an unfortunate trooper’s ragged remains sailing through the air.

“Open fire!” Komodo barked.

The squads had moved up the dune, peeking their rifles over its lip and taking up firing positions, opening up on his order. The report of dozens of XMRs echoed across the desert, near a hundred shooters firing from three directions, the air filling with glowing trails of molten slag. The machinegunners opened up, their heavy barrels glowing red-hot as they sent a stream of slugs downrange, their heat shrouds shimmering like a mirage. Reed joined in, aiming down his scope and sighting one of the terrified defenders. The PDF had been taken completely by surprise, suddenly beset on all sides by massive volumes of fire and shelling. They were cowering behind their sandbags, the barriers doing a decent job of stopping the slugs, popping out to return fire wherever they could.

Reed watched his target flinch into cover as the man beside him was all but decapitated by a well-placed shot, shattering his helmet and painting the carbcrete wall at his back with brain matter. Reed exhaled, then squeezed the trigger, catching the trooper in the shoulder and sending him lurching out of view. Even at a range of three hundred meters, a slug at sufficient voltage would hit its target almost instantly.

The enemy was rallying now, their machinegun emplacements starting to spew tungsten into the dunes, the heavy rounds creating splashes where they hit the sand. The resistance had presented as small a target as possible, but they weren’t invincible. Reed cursed as he saw a Marine further down the line take a round to the helmet, rolling back down the dune.

“Get some fire on those MG nests!” Reed ordered. “Marksmen!”

More shells hammered the enemy defenses, tossing the troopers from cover, bodies missing limbs raining back to the sand. They kept up the withering fire, some of the fighters pausing to reload, the coils on their barrels burning like beacons. A mortar shell landed a direct impact on one of the MG teams, and they vanished in a plume of dust and flame, another gunner taking a precision round to the chest and slumping over his smoking gun. Reed glanced to his right, seeing Rancher fire another shot that took out a trooper who was moving to take over the gun.

A few of the PDF teams were retreating back inside the compound now, trying to lay down covering fire, while the defenses outside the wall had been visibly thinned. The sound of mortars faded, replaced by the buzzing of CIWS guns, the emplacements atop the wall finally coming online. The turrets turned their rotary barrels to the sky, streams of tracer fire reaching out to intercept the shells with surprising precision, making them explode in the air like fireworks.

“That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” Komodo snarled, rising to his feet. “Assault teams – with me!”

With his SWAR team hot on his heels, he scrambled over the top of the dune and began to race down the other side, skidding in the loose sand as stray rounds impacted only feet away. Running into gunfire was the last thing Reed wanted to do, his every instinct fighting him, but he swallowed his fear and rose to his feet.

“Eh, fuck it,” he hissed under his breath, raising his rifle above his head. “For Hades!” he bellowed, letting out an old Marine battle cry.

“For Captain Ortega!” one of the Marines yelled, more war cries following in chorus as they thundered down the dune in pursuit of the agents. Reed slipped and slid in the sand, more falling than running, his own heavy breathing filling his helmet. The marksmen and machinegunners on the dune behind him kept up their fire, supporting the advance – the fighters left with very little cover as they sprinted across open ground. Some of them paused to take shots at the defenders, suppressing the enemy, others stopping to fire off grenades from their underbarrel launchers. Unlike the mortars, the arcs were too low for the CIWS guns to intercept them, and they exploded amidst the sandbags.

Through the haze of dust and smoke, Reed spied the SWAR agents nearing the wall. They moved with purpose, keeping their weapons raised, firing on the defenders with surgical precision without missing a beat. It was like their very arms were stabilized. As they reached the sandbags, Rancher took down a pair of PDF with a single shot each, switching targets faster than Reed could track them. Viper leapt over the obstacle, landing on top of a trooper and dispatching him with a swift stab from a concealed blade in his arm. In the blink of an eye, he had brought up his rifle again, firing a burst into the scrambling defenders further down the line. The operatives spread out along the base of the wall, moving from target to target, flowing through the enemy like a corrosive liquid.

Reed’s team was far less graceful, the man ahead of him vaulting over the sandbags and kicking the trooper behind them in the chest. The two men fell out of view, then there was a gunshot, the Marine rising to fire on more targets as his tattered cloak whipped in the wind. Reed and his men piled into the defenses, and he found himself standing in something akin to a trench. The carbcrete wall of the compound rose up to his left, and the sandbags were to his right – the space between them excavated a couple of feet below ground level. It was already filled with dead and dying PDF, some killed by XMR fire, others maimed by grenades and mortars.

“Keep going!” Reed yelled. “Get to the gate!”

He followed the procession of fighters as they made their way along the wall, the occasional burst of gunfire ringing out. To his right, he watched as a Marine dragged an injured fighter by his rig, pulling him to the sandbags and kneeling to render first aid. A few more dead were scattered on the sand, but they had made it through remarkably unscathed. Much of the covering fire from the dunes had ceased now, and what remained was redirected towards the gate.

There was a yell, and he lifted his visor to see a trooper fall from the guard tower, the Marines beneath having to leap out of his way as he landed in the trench with a thud. The CWIS guns were still blaring, the mortar teams keeping them occupied.

Reed was growing worried now. They were about to breach the compound, yet there was still no sign of Brenner’s trump card. They would soon be facing down PCEs with no heavy weapons. He’d been in that situation before, and he didn’t much fancy going through it again. He moved along the trench, nearing the gate, one of the men ahead of him pausing to fire a grenade into the compound at a high arc. He could see Komodo’s team again. They were on the other side of the wide gate, tossing smoke grenades and shimmering dust that must be some kind of chaff, leaning around the pillars to fire at those inside. The Marines nearest the breach hopped over to the other side of the sandbags, using them as cover to get a better angle, firing through the smoke.

“Keep pushing!” he heard Fuller order over the radio. “Don’t let them rally and take advantage of that bottleneck!”

Komodo waved a hand, leading his team into the haze, flashes of molten red illuminating the swirling cloud from within as return fire punched through it. It was soon Reed’s turn, and he couldn’t even see what was on the other side, the fighters ahead of him ducking low and vanishing into the smoke. Resisting the impulse to hold his breath, he passed through, feeling a slug displace the air just above his helmet.

When he emerged, he was inside the base, the wall rising up at his back. Before him was the compound, more walls of sandbags and much larger gabions breaking up the lines of sight. Gabions were two-meter cubes made from a heavy-duty fabric liner encased in a wire mesh. When filled with sand or dirt and stacked to form walls, they did a great job minimizing the danger posed by explosives, and they could even stop an AMR round pretty reliably. Most of them were placed to protect buildings and to cover commonly used walkways.

He could make out rows of more permanent structures that took the form of carbcrete buildings with rounded roofs, likely serving as shelters or ammunition depots, and there were more of the pervasive prefabs set up around them. Unlike the naked white facades of those in the city, these were covered with camouflaged netting. The structures mostly hugged the walls, with a large expanse of dusty courtyard left clear, the tire tracks that still lingered in the sand leaving little doubt that it was the main thoroughfare for launch platforms and cargo.

He could see a few camouflaged PDF trucks parked haphazardly, some of them with troopers peeking out of the roof hatches with rifles, and further along were temporary storage areas for cargo containers. Further still was the rock face, rising up two or three times the height of the walls, a couple more CIWS guns perched atop its crags. There was a large cave mouth that led into darkness – the beginnings of the underground depot, and parked in front of it was the MAST launcher.

It resembled a long truck painted in PDF desert camo, with a boxy cab and eight or nine pairs of tough off-road wheels. Unlike the cargo trucks that he was used to seeing, it wasn’t articulated. Along its bed was a giant tube that had to be close to a hundred feet long. It was clearly a rocket, with a conical nose and large engine cones at the rear. There were erector pistons attached to the rail it was sitting on, suggesting that it would be raised up and aimed skyward during a launch, and he could see outriggers that were ready to deploy.

That was their target, but it was clear on the other side of the base. Standing between them was a whole legion of augmented troopers. There were at least forty of them that he could see, distinguishable from their comrades where the sleeves and pants of their camouflaged uniforms were rolled up to expose the dark polymer of their prosthetics. Their equipment was better quality than the surplus gear of the troopers, probably looted from the carrier, with newer body armor and helmets. Their XMRs actually had optics and attachments. Unlike true SWAR agents, they had no decals on their visors, and there was no variation in their loadouts.

Behind them, Reed could already see six PCEs striding forward, marching deeper into the compound to engage the attackers, squads of SWAR recruits moving with them in the same way one might advance behind the cover of an armored vehicle. These, too, were different from the PCEs he had faced before. There was no blue and white UNN livery, no Navy markings, and no shark tooth decals on the canopies. These looked like they had just walked off the production line.

His observation had taken only a few moments, but Reed was soon forced into cover behind a nearby row of gabions as a stream of fire came his way, a brutal exchange resuming around the gate. More fighters were pouring in, laying down withering fire to cover their advance, while the enemy were fighting back just as hard to stop them. Slugs were impacting all around Reed, punching into the sandbags and gabions, showering him with flecks of dust. Fortunately, packed sand was one of the few materials that would stop a railgun dead in its tracks – up to a point.

His men were dispersing into the base, clearing corners and pushing up towards the buildings. There was a loud blast that shook his teeth, followed by a torrent of dust and debris that erupted into the compound, washing across the courtyard. That was Fuller’s team breaching the wall from the West side. Another blast came from the East, and the encroaching enemy split their attention, moving to plug the new ingress points.

“That’s a hell of a lot of Borgs coming our way!” one of the Marines warned, putting his back to the gabion beside Reed as he swapped out his empty mag.

“They’re not SWAR – they’re the same PDF we’ve been fighting this whole time, just with some fancy kit!” Reed replied. “So what if they can punch us harder than we can punch them? This ain’t a fuckin’ boxing match! Shoot the fuckers!”

They marched deeper into the maze of gabions, following a path that led them along the wall and towards the nearest carbcrete buildings. The Marines took corners in the same way they would while clearing a room or boarding a ship, Reed’s helmet muffling the endless chorus of gunfire and the thud of explosions. If he hadn’t been wearing it, he would probably already be deaf.

One of the Marines poked his rifle around a bend and gunned down half a damned squad of PDF before they’d even seen him, sending them toppling to the ground without exposing himself. He only moved out of cover when his mag was spent, dropping it as he marched over the pile of dead troopers and slamming home a fresh one. Reed moved with the team, keeping his rifle shouldered, his HUD filled with both friendly and enemy IFF tags. There was no point being quiet now – everyone knew where everyone else was.

They reached one of the carbcrete buildings, their rifles chattering as they took down another clueless pair of PDF. They might be adept at police actions, but the locals had no experience with this kind of high-intensity fighting. They didn’t know how to move, how to cover their angles, or how to coordinate. They didn’t have the experience required to keep their shit together when the slugs were flying. Every Marine unit, on the other hand, was trained to fight Bugs in trenches and tunnels that weren’t dissimilar from these narrow passageways. It was a slaughter.

At least, it was until the Borgs arrived.

As they rounded the back of the gray structure, where it formed a dim alley with the West wall to their left, something appeared at the far end. The closest Marine went down to a bark of XMR fire, slumping to the dusty ground, the two men behind him firing back at the unseen shooter. The space between the wall and the building was barely wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder, and Reed knew from experience that it was the preferred Borg hunting ground, creating a funnel where they could best leverage their augs.

“Back up! Back up!” Reed warned. “Don’t fight them in the alley!”

They began to retreat, but Reed was still in the middle of the pack, prevented from escaping by the men behind him.

Having fired around the corner from cover, the camouflaged trooper emerged at a sprint, moving faster than any human should be able to on his robotic legs. He came in low, avoiding a burst of fire aimed at where his center mass would have been, plowing into the shooter like a linebacker. Tackling the Marine to the ground, he caved in his visor with a couple of rapid left jabs, his polymer fist punching right through the glass and crushing the skull beneath like an eggshell. The Borg fired his XMR with his right hand before the next man could even aim his weapon, able to control its recoil like he was firing a sidearm, the slugs blowing apple-sized exit wounds in his target.

The closest fighter let out a bellow and charged in, throwing all of his weight into the trooper and knocking him to the dirt. His leather glove sizzled as he grabbed the barrel of the rifle, aiming it away from him, a stray shot blasting a chunk out of the wall. They struggled for a moment, and while the Borg was stronger, the Marine was more experienced. He drove a combat knife into the trooper’s collar, skirting the armor and sinking it to the hilt, letting out a stifled yell of pain as the Borg’s hand closed around his wrist with enough force to fracture bone.

Another augmented trooper in camouflage rounded the corner intending to fire, but Reed was ready for him, shooting over the crouching Marine and taking him down with two rounds to the chest. These recruits were eager to prove themselves, and their augs probably made them feel invincible, but they were overextending.

Another clamor of gunfire came from above, two more Marines falling, Reed lurching away as the slugs drilled furrows into the ground nearby. He lifted his visor to see two more camouflaged Borgs leaning over the roof of the structure to his right, having used their augs to scale the walls. Another Marine went down before the return fire cut the two shooters apart, sending them falling back out of view. One of them slumped down the curving roof, rolling like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the ground with a thud.

“Keep pushing!” Reed ordered, pausing to check the pulse of a fallen comrade. “We can’t let them pin us down!”

They pushed out of the alley and into a more open area that was between two of the buildings. They encountered another walkway protected by more rows of gabions, engaging another trio of PDF regulars, painting the tan-colored fabric behind them crimson. Reed crouched down beside one of the bodies, ducking as a stray round whizzed over his head, using the cover to raise a finger to his temple and put through a call.

“Komodo, Fuller!” he began. “What’s the sitrep? Have you pushed through to the launcher yet?”

“Were fucking pinned by these PCEs!” Sergeant Fuller growled, Reed hearing distorted gunfire filter through his feed. “We need that heavy support! We can’t scratch the paintwork on these things!”

“Hold fast!” Komodo replied. “Flush out their infantry! My team and I are engaging their SWAR operatives!”

It sounded like Komodo was busy hunting down his former colleagues.

“PCE!” one of the Marines yelled.

Reed turned his head just in time to see one of the lumbering suits making its way between the rows of gabions that separated the two buildings, almost filling the space as it strode towards them, its shoulder panels catching on the chicken wire that reinforced the structures. It was like some kind of ogre from a children’s book, dwarfing the Marines, the ground shaking beneath its massive boots. It fired its heavy XMR from the hip, one of the fighters disintegrating into a gory mist, spraying the man beside him. Dripping with his neighbor’s blood, the Marine let out a yell that might have been terror or rage – it was impossible to tell. He lifted his rifle as the PCE turned the smoldering barrel of its heavy XMR on him, pulling the trigger of the underslung grenade launcher.

The Marine and the PCE vanished into a cloud of dust, the blast knocking everyone nearby to the ground – funneled by the gabions. Reed felt a few fragments of hot shrapnel bounce off his armor, picking himself up to see a blue-green light flickering through the swirling dust. The PCE was unharmed, protected by its shields, stepping over the tattered body of the Marine as its camera dome searched for new targets.

“Get to cover!” Reed yelled, another round from the heavy XMR blowing his leather shawl like a gust of wind as it blasted past him and evaporated a Marine to his right. The remaining fighters were in full retreat, turning back the way they had come. They rounded the corner, more slugs hammering the gabions and sending little waterfalls of sand pouring from the holes in the fabric. Reed turned his head to see the man behind him yanked off his feet, a giant mechanical arm reaching around the corner to grab him, enclosing him in its fist. The PCE stepped around the bend, and like someone tossing aside a crumpled piece of paper, it crushed the man and threw him over its shoulder.

It turned its cameras on Reed, lunging at him, but there was a loud scraping sound as its broad shoulders got caught between the perimeter wall and the rear of the building – the PCE too large to fit down the alley. It struggled to free itself, sending a shower of carbcrete dust falling to the ground as its shoulder plate carved a deep furrow, giving Reed and his team just enough time to make it back down the alley and out of its line of fire before another salvo came their way.

“Half of my goddamned squad is down!” Reed yelled into his helmet, putting his back to the building’s rough facade. “Where the hell is our support!?”

He was facing the CIWS turret at the corner of the West wall, and its movement distracted him, its radome glinting in the sunlight as it lifted its gun barrels towards the sky. It spun up, sending a stream of molten tracers spewing into the air, more glowing lines of railgun fire joining it as the other guns followed suit. The mortars had stopped firing some time ago, so what were they shooting at?

Reed raised his visor, its coating polarizing to protect his eyes from the sun, and he spotted a glowing point against the azure backdrop. It resembled a little cluster of shooting stars, or maybe space debris that was breaking up on reentry, a large central object surrounded by a swarm of smaller points streaking above the wispy clouds. Some of the smaller points of light began to break off, trailing fire behind them, arcing away in different directions as though intelligently controlled. The CIWS guns followed them, jerking and swiveling to match their unpredictable movements as they began to dodge and weave, the sky suddenly filled with activity. One of the turrets was equipped with a missile launcher, and it fired off a swarm of projectiles, sending them streaking from their bays on plumes of smoke.

One of the missiles exploded in proximity to its target, tearing it apart, two more falling to the streams of cannon fire. They weren’t craft – they were torpedoes, their tubular chassis equipped with small deployable gliding wings. They were close enough that he could get a better look at them now.

The larger object blazed through the gunfire, the decoys keeping the air defense systems busy. As the flames that licked at its rounded nose abated, Reed saw the rough brown-orange carapace that encased it, layers of what resembled singed crab shell covering it like overlapping heat tiles. From behind it, a leathery parachute deployed to help slow it down, catching the wind and flapping like skin stretched over the wings of a bat. As it plummeted closer, growing in size, it released a payload of glowing flares and glittering chaff, leaving a ring-shaped cloud behind it.

Forward-facing thrusters emerged from beneath protective plates, jetting green flames to help slow its descent, the leathery sail ripping away to drift over the desert. Reed could see that the craft was shaped almost like a sunflower seed now, tapering to a dull point on its nose. It decelerated hard – enough that he wondered how any occupants could survive, hitting the ground just as violently. It landed in the middle of the courtyard and dug a deep crater, embedding itself into the earth like a tent peg, the impact throwing up a torrent of sand that drifted across the outpost in a dusty cloud.

There was a lull in the fighting as everyone seemed to pause to examine the strange object. Reed had seen something similar before – it was a Betelgeusian drop pod, the same that conveyed Drones and Warriors to the surfaces of planets. The obviously technological components suggested a different allegiance, however.

Four of the PCEs approached the pod, including the one that had been pursuing Reed and his team. He crept around the building to watch as the suits surrounded it, leveling their weapons, waiting for something to happen. A few squads of PDF and augmented troopers took up position behind sandbags and aimed at the thing, dozens of guns turning on it.

More chitinous panels snapped open to reveal recessed smoke launchers, and they fired, shrouding the pod in an obscuring haze. One of the PCEs had to dodge out of the way as a large chunk of shell was violently ejected from the pod, the heavy plate sailing some ten feet away, carving a furrow in the sand before sliding to a stop. Its inner lining was wet and glistening, covered in green flesh, trailing a few cables that almost looked like veins.

The PCE in question stepped back into position, aiming its XMR at the swirling cloud. A loud crack rang out, a projectile punching a hole in the smoke, impacting the suit like a hammer strike. Reed watched with wide eyes as something blew straight through its flickering energy shield, the round carrying enough mass and velocity that the plasma couldn’t melt it, shearing off the suit’s right arm in a single blow. The PCE spun, staggering back a few paces under the force of the impact, that severed limb crashing to the sand at its feet with a thud. Before the pilot could even respond, two more shots echoed across the base, aimed at center mass. Leaving molten craters in their wake, they slammed into the PCE’s torso, sending out a spray of shattered armor plating and shrapnel behind it. Reed watched one of the warped shells skip off the sand like a stone on its way out, hurtling above the line of watching PDF and embedding itself in the wall of the building behind them. They ducked as they were showered with debris, some of them leaping clear. Cored out, the suit fell, smoke rising from the breaches in its hull.

From the obscuring smoke emerged a large figure, the haze clearing to reveal a vaguely humanoid shape.

Reed had faced Betelgeusian Warriors on the battlefield before, but where they were great hulking creatures with crab-like claws that could peel open a tank’s hull, this one was sleeker and more agile. It stood tall and straight at ten feet – head and shoulders above the seven-foot PCEs, striding forward on a pair of digitigrade legs that ended in three-clawed feet.

Its body was encased in layers of thick organic armor, the overlapping plates pocked with pits and dull spikes, reminiscent of deep-sea crustaceans. Instead of the slatted visors and vicious mandibles that Reed would have expected, the Warrior’s jaws split open to form a kind of Roman helmet, exposing the sensory equipment beneath. He could make out arrays of gleaming cameras as they caught the sun, clearly technological in nature, nestled within the living flesh. Mounted above one of its thick shoulder pads was a thirty-millimeter railgun of the same kind sometimes fielded on UNN combat vehicles. It was attached via a flexible gimbal, sporting its own independent cameras, the thick coils on its three rotary barrels glinting. A belt of slugs the size of beer bottles trailed down from its blocky housing, feeding from an ammo drum mounted on the suit’s back.

That wasn’t its only armament. Just like a larger version of Harlequin, it had multiple insect-like arms. Its upper left arm terminated in a shield just as large and heavy as those used by the PCEs, seemingly melded to its limb. It was more rounded and organic in appearance, segmented in places, curving to follow the shape of the suit’s barrel torso. There were metal studs embedded in its surface, clearly visible against the Autumn tiger camouflage that patterned its shell, each one the size of a softball.

Its upper right arm was just as large, the carapace bulging with muscle and perhaps machinery, the line between the two blurred. Clasped in its three-fingered hand was something that resembled a sword, visibly less integrated than the other weapons. It seemed deceptively simple, its blade – short compared to the scale of its wielder – made from what looked like dirty steel with a single vein of copper running down its length.

Below that was a much smaller arm with dexterous fingers, perhaps designed for manipulating objects. There was no comparable arm on the left side, so perhaps the mounted gun occupied that hardpoint. Stenciled over the camouflage on its shoulder pad, clearly legible in human text, was a series of numbers followed by the word Lily.

Having barely cleared the cloud of smoke, the Warrior raised its shield to protect itself, arcs of blue-green energy leaping between the metal studs that covered its surface. They projected a field of wavering plasma just above it, intercepting the return fire that came its way. Just like the reactive shields used by the PCEs, the plasma slagged the rounds shortly before they impacted, the softened slugs pancaking against the thick armor beneath.

Like a hoplite’s spear, the gun on the Warrior’s shoulder aimed over the shield, its sensors continuing to track even as its wielder’s face was covered. The coil-lined barrels rotated, firing off a rapid burst of three shells, the rounds tearing into another of the PCEs. The suit’s defenses weren’t up to the task, the plasma flickering impotently, the armor-piercing projectiles burrowing through the plating with the ease of someone pushing a finger into warm butter. A second suit fell, collapsing onto the sand with a thud, its mechanical fingers slowly curling like the legs of a dead spider.

Realizing that they were no longer invulnerable, the remaining two PCEs began to retreat to the cover of nearby buildings and gabions, maintaining their fire to keep the Warrior pinned behind its shield. That thirty-mill tracked one of them, firing off another couple of rounds, but not before its target dipped behind a sand-filled barrier. Unlike the reactive shields of the PCEs, the Warrior’s defenses were directional, and it had to swivel to face a suit that was flanking it to the right.

As it turned to face in Reed’s direction, he saw that there was a picture painted onto its chest. Like the nose art that might adorn a fighter plane, there was a decal of a scantily clad and oddly muscular human sailor in old-timey dress, tilting his little cap with a smile. Beside it, there were tallies that must depict kills – of what, he couldn’t be sure. It made for a bizarre contrast with the obviously alien design.

It lunged at its target, breaking into a run, closing the distance alarmingly quickly on its long legs. The way that it moved was nothing like the plodding PCEs. It was fluid – organic, more like an animal than a machine. The PCE fired its XMR from the hip, the hail of slugs hammering the shield, pocking the carapace with molten metal and sparking off the studs. The Warrior stepped in, slamming into its opponent with its shield, knocking the PCE off-balance. The two collided like a pair of freight trains, kicking up a cloud of dust, the impact shaking the ground. The Warrior drew back its blade and swung from below, driving its pointed tip towards the suit in an upward stabbing motion. Reed waited for the PCE’s shield to slag it, expecting a bright flash of plasma, but none came. The sword slipped beneath the suit’s armpit, driving deep into the exposed machinery between the armor panels, severing pistons and cables. The reactive shield was trying to stop it, but something was wrong. The field of wavering plasma parted around the blade, forming a shifting hole, like a magnet pushing against its polar opposite.

The tiger-striped Warrior heaved upward, lifting the sword and severing the arm along with it, sending the heavy chunk of machinery and armor crashing to the ground at its feet. Reed could see the sheared metal and tattered electronics within, the XMR still clutched in its massive hand. Hooking the suit with its shield, the Warrior spun it around, tossing the eighteen-hundred-pound PCE towards the nearest prefab. The suit crashed into the building, its weight bending the flimsy metal, the outriggers on the near side giving out.

The alien battlesuit spun, raising that shield again to intercept a volley of fire from a squad of augmented PDF who were taking cover behind one of the armored trucks. There was a trooper on its roof, poking out of the hatch as he fired a rifle. Unlike the PCEs, it seemed that the Warrior wasn’t completely impervious to small-arms fire. Holding the shield out in front of it, the suit broke into a run, a few of the less courageous PDF scattering at its approach. It carried all of its momentum into a kick, lifting its clawed foot and slamming the flank of the truck in the same way someone might try to break down a door. It dented the vehicle’s armor plating, carrying enough force to send it skidding sideways for a few feet, toppling the troopers behind it like bowling pins. The truck fell over, landing on its side with a puff of displaced dust, crushing an unfortunate trooper who was still in its path.

Launchers embedded in the Warrior’s shoulder plates fired off another cloud of obscuring smoke that settled about it almost like angel wings, the agile construct darting away to reposition itself as more accurate machinegun fire came its way.

“Yeah, fuck you!” Reed yelled as he leaned out of cover to pump his fist. “Now who has the fancy suits!?”

Komodo’s voice came over the comms, giving new orders.

“Tiger Lily will take care of the PCEs and clear you a path! Move up behind her and get to that launcher!”

“You heard the man!” Reed bellowed, waving to the nearby fighters. “Follow the big girl!”

With covering fire from nearby squads, he led a charge into the courtyard, ducking low as he heard the sound of slugs whizzing over his head. He moved up along the carbcrete buildings, the sandbags that were set up in front of them providing some cover. With the Warrior on the field, much of the fire was directed at her, the giant alien suit always in motion as it dodged and shot back with its shoulder-mounted cannon.

Reed and his men exchanged fire with the PDF as they went, their advance cautious and methodical, every piece of cover potentially concealing more troopers.

“Door, left!” one of the Marines yelled as he fired off a burst into the shadowy interior of one of the carbcrete depots. Two more fighters stacked up against the wall behind him, the first Marine ducking back out of view as one of his squadmates primed a grenade and tossed it through the doorway. There was a thud, followed by a billow of dust that swept out through the opening, then the men filed through with their rifles raised. More gunshots and yelling followed.

Reed’s eye was on the Warrior – Tiger Lily, the alien suit firing its shoulder cannon into the flank of a truck some two hundred meters ahead of him. Further beyond was the MAST launcher, sitting outside the cave mouth. More friendly troops were moving up on the East side of the compound opposite him, sporadic firefights breaking out as they encountered enemy resistance within the buildings and corridors of sandbags.

Reed and his team reached the prefabs now, finding the downed PCE still lying in the collapsed structure where it had been left, tangled in the camouflaged netting. If its pilot was still alive, he was taking a well-earned time out. Its position made it look like it was lounging in an armchair made of crushed metal.

He leaned his rifle around the corner of the collapsed building, checking for PDF, but a prosthetic hand gripped the barrel before he could even pull the trigger. The weapon was yanked around the corner, and Reed along with it, a boot slamming into his chest plate. The kick was strong enough to lift him off his feet, tearing the XMR from his hands and sending him crashing into the gabion behind him. The compacted sand was as hard as rock, and all of the air was driven from his lungs, Reed gasping for air as he slumped to the ground.

He lifted his visor to see an augmented trooper raising a handgun at him, his camo coveralls rolled up to expose the black polymer housings of his forearms.

A shot rang out, but it was the trooper who fell to the ground, revealing a Marine standing behind him. It was Sergeant Fuller, identifiable by his IFF tag, a couple more Marines from his team emerging from behind him to sweep the alley with their rifles. He extended a hand, hauling Reed to his feet as the rest of his team caught up.

“You know, if I have to keep saving your ass, I’m gonna have to start charging you a fee,” Fuller joked as he brushed some sand from Reed’s shoulder. “Nothing broken?”

“I’m good,” Reed wheezed, catching his breath. “Nice to see you in one piece.”

“We came in through the West wall and cleared out most of the goons on this side of the compound,” he explained. “These Borged-up PDF are dangerous if you let them get close, but they don’t have the experience of the more hardened agents. They go down pretty easy as long as you can keep them at arm’s length.”

“Help us push up to the launcher,” Reed continued as one of the fighters returned his rifle to him. “I’m carrying enough explosives to blow the whole thing sky high.”

“We’re with you,” Fuller replied with a nod.

Now three dozen strong, they pushed up through the compound, the teams pausing to cover each other and clear blind spots as they went. They cut a swathe through the failing ranks of the PDF, the enemy forces faltering now, their defensive lines fracturing under the relentless assault.

As Reed and Fuller led their troops past the second row of carbcrete depots, following a tall wall of gabions to their right, the structure suddenly caved in. Maybe ten feet ahead of them, the blocks of fabric and wire mesh collapsed inward, some of them tearing open to spill their contents of sand onto the ground. A PCE followed, the seven-foot suit crashing through the wall, its flickering shields turning the sand that they touched to dirty glass as it grappled with its assailant.

Tiger Lily sent a few more blocks tumbling from the wall as she fell upon it, driving her sword between the armor panels on its torso, slipping the thin blade through a gap. The PCE jerked, the sword likely reaching its pilot, then she brought her shoulder cannon to bear. The weapon aimed down at the suit’s canopy, the barrels rotating slowly as she put two rounds through it, the PCE going limp upon the pile of scattered blocks.

She turned the Warrior’s helmet towards the humans, Reed recoiling reflexively as its array of embedded lenses and cameras scrutinized him. A feminine voice emanated from it, its jovial tone clashing with the intimidating battlesuit.

“Get behind me, Endos! Let’s get you to that launch vehicle!”

“You heard the lady!” Fuller barked, waving his hand. “Fall in!”

The fighters clambered over the fallen gabions, their boots slipping in the loose sand, the towering Warrior turning to cover them with its shield. They treated Lily as they would have a troop carrier or any other armored vehicle, forming a column behind her, staying in her shadow as she led them forward. She positioned herself between them and the enemy fire as she loped along, moving her shield to intercept any slugs that came their way, the thirty-mill on her shoulder firing off bursts to force would-be shooters back into cover. A grenade exploded against her shield, Reed feeling the shrapnel that made it past hammering the sand only inches from his feet.

The Warrior lurched, taking a hit to an exposed shoulder, the slug punching through her carapace and exiting with a splash of green blood. The next round was intercepted as she swung her shield towards it, Reed seeing the last PCE advancing to cut off their route to the launcher. The armored suit was joined by a squad of augmented troopers, the two groups exchanging fire.

“Take out that MAST!” Lily yelled, popping more smokes to cover the humans as she began to sprint forwards. Reed ran through the haze, already reaching for one of the satchel charges on his vest, emerging from the cloud to see Lily and the PCE locked in a grapple. Fuller and his men lagged behind, laying down covering fire, helping him make it the last twenty feet.

The launch vehicle seemed even larger up close, its heavy-duty tires tall enough to reach his head. The hundred-foot rocket was like a grain silo lying on its side. He threw himself beneath the blocky cab, hearing slugs impact the armor panels just above him, crawling his way under the axle and emerging on the far side. He moved along the truck, glancing at the tunnel mouth warily as he produced a block of plastic explosive, pushing a detonator into it.

“It’s all legal this time,” he muttered under his breath, slapping the putty-like explosive against the hull of the truck between two of its wheels. “You can’t get in trouble for blowing up government property if the government gave you the explosives,” he added as he prepped another charge and hucked it at the curving underside of the rocket. “If anything goes wrong, it’s really Brenner’s fault.”

He placed two more charges, then tossed another into one of the engine cones for good measure, pausing to check the progress of the battle.

The air was still filled with the sound of gunfire as small exchanges continued throughout the base, and it was easy to make out Lily, her ten-foot Warrior suit towering over even the prefabs as she sent the PDF scattering with bursts from her cannon. The last PCE was lying in a heap in the middle of the courtyard, and it didn’t appear as though the defenders had much that could threaten her now. Fuller and the rest of his team had retreated to the safety of some nearby sandbags.

There was a sudden grinding sound, and he felt the floor begin to shake. He glanced up to see that the massive rocket cone was leaving its recess above the cab. Outriggers like those of an industrial earth mover extended from the launcher’s hull, slamming into the sand to steady it, while silver pistons the size of a man’s thigh began to raise the rocket higher.

“Uh, Komodo?” Reed muttered into his helmet. “The launcher is…uh…launching. I’m pretty sure there’s nobody in the cab!”

“They’re activating it remotely!” the agent replied. “You have to stop that thing from launching at any cost! Destroy it, Reed!”

“I already prepped the thing to blow!” Reed replied, getting up and hurrying back along the length of the truck. “Tell everyone to get clear! I don’t know how big this is going to be!”

“Everyone – get clear of that launcher!” Komodo ordered. “Retreat as far as you can!”

“Fuck me, fuck me,” Reed hissed under his breath as he raced out from behind the truck’s cab. His boots pounded on the sand as he crossed open ground, ducking low when a stray slug narrowly missed him, heading for a cluster of prefabs where Fuller and his team were waving to him. Some of the Marines laid down covering fire as he neared, and he leapt over the low wall, landing amidst his comrades.

“Are we far enough away?” Fuller demanded as he helped Reed right himself.

“No fucking idea!” Reed replied, producing the detonator from his pocket. “I’ve never blown up a ballistic missile before! Better keep your heads down!”

He waited another few moments more as he watched the rocket slowly rise, giving everyone nearby time to get clear, his thumb poised over the switch. Even the PDF seemed to have understood what was happening, abandoning their posts and running for cover.

“Reed!” Komodo yelled over the comms. “What are you waiting for!?”

“Just a second!” Reed replied, checking for friendlies near the truck. “Damn it – hitting it now!”

He thumbed the switch just as the rocket reached its apex, a series of blasts rippling along the length of the launch vehicle. Unlike his IEDs or the mining charges, the plastic explosive burned bright and hot like thermite, showering the ground with streams of molten metal. The armored hull of the launcher ripped apart like paper, the blasts tearing open the blocky cab and lifting some of the wheels off the sand, breaking the vehicle’s back. A breath later, the hydrogen fuel cells went up like a candle, jets of blue flame erupting from beneath the twisted hull. Only then did the rocket follow, the charge in its engine cone blasting the motors apart, whatever energy-dense fuel it must be carrying going off like a grenade. The hundred-foot-long tube was there one moment, then gone the next, engulfed in a ball of fire that created a visible wave of vapor and sand that swept across the courtyard.

The shockwave knocked Reed and the nearby fighters to the ground, blowing their clothing clean of dust, their helmets shutting out all external sound to prevent their eardrums from popping like grapes. Feeling like he’d been hit by a car, Reed slowly picked himself up, lifting his visor to see a dark smoke cloud the size of a skyscraper gradually rising above the outcrop. There was almost nothing left of the launch vehicle, only a blackened husk of twisted metal that had settled into its vague footprint.

“Did we get it!?” Fuller asked, raising his voice as their hearing protection slowly let more sound filter in.

“It looks pretty fucking got to me,” Reed groaned, straightening his helmet.

He rose to his feet and helped a couple of the Marines get up, surveying the courtyard. The fighting seemed to be subsiding now, either because the more stubborn resistance had been dealt with, or because the objective they’d been defending was now a smoking wreck. He could already see some squads of PDF raising their hands in surrender, throwing down their weapons before the Marines.

“Did we win?” Reed wondered aloud. “I think we won.”

***

There were a few more bursts of gunfire in the distant corners of the base, but the battle soon came to an end, the victorious Marines leading their captives out into the courtyard at gunpoint. They began to line them up in rows of two dozen, stripping them of their weapons, rigs, and helmets. They piled up the captured gear in a heap nearby, armed fighters gesturing for the prisoners to kneel and barking orders at them.

They were mostly confused PDF – young, inexperienced troopers glancing up at their captors with wide eyes. Reed could see a few augmented soldiers here and there, the black polymer of their limbs making them stand out. The injured from both sides were being triaged and tended to by anyone who had medical expertise – they seemed to be setting up a makeshift field hospital in one of the depots. Reed watched a rather run-down looking trooper emerge with a bandaged arm and a pad of gauze over his eye, moving out of the path of two Marines carrying a third on a stretcher.

It seemed that the dead were being left where they lay for the time being. The living needed the attention more than they did. It had been a costly fight for both sides, but the defenders had visibly suffered the worst of it.

Komodo eventually emerged from the far side of the compound, dragging a limp body behind him, holding it by the rig like a duffel bag. He tossed it in front of the growing crowd of prisoners as though to make an example, and Reed saw that it was a SWAR agent. Just like Komodo, the body was laden with expensive gear, the helmet and prosthetics customized to their wearer’s needs. Whoever it was, he was dead now.

“Your commanding officer is dead!” Komodo declared through his helmet speakers. “So is the rest of his team! You are now prisoners of war under the authority of the United Nations Navy, Special Weapons and Advanced Recon division. Cooperate, and you will receive all of the rights afforded to you under UN law!”

From the same direction Komodo had come, more members of his team emerged hauling their own dead agents, some dragging two at a time. They tossed them in a heap beside the first, soon adding up to a full twelve-man squad. Reed noticed that one of the friendly agents – Halberd, was absent. Perhaps they’d had a casualty of their own. Viper had taken a hit, too, and was leaning back against some nearby sandbags as a Marine with a medkit dressed a shrapnel wound on his shoulder.

The captured PDF looked on in a blend of alarm and resignation, the sight of the dead agents all the proof they needed that the battle was lost. If that wasn’t enough, the hulks of the downed PCEs still littered the compound, too large and heavy to be moved. If these were the suits produced on the colony by Nilsson and Song, it might have been their first combat deployment.

Many of the troopers recoiled in fear as Tiger Lily came lumbering into view, driving a few more scurrying prisoners ahead of her. Even though Reed knew that she was on his side, the sight of that ten-foot alien monstrosity still filled him with instinctual dread. She stopped near Komodo, standing guard over the cowering captives as though daring them to try something, watching them through the arrays of lenses in her suit’s helmet. The injury on her shoulder plate was still bleeding green sludge, and she’d been hit a few more times, but the suit seemed to be in working order. Perhaps good health would be more apt.

“Come on,” Fuller said, giving Reed a nudge as he passed him with an armful of medkits. “There’s more to do.”

“The carrier hasn’t blown us to pieces so far,” Reed mused, glancing up at the sky. “Do you think Brenner’s guys pulled it off?”

“I suppose we won’t know for a while yet,” Fuller replied as he vaulted over some sandbags. “Here’s hoping Alpha team took out their launcher as well.”

Reed ordered his team to follow Fuller, then walked out to meet Komodo, skirting around the towering Warrior to reach him.

“How’d we do?” he asked.

“Mission accomplished,” Komodo replied, turning the lizard decal on his visor to face him. “The enemy SWAR team is neutralized, all of their PCEs are down, and the launcher was destroyed. We took some casualties, but it could have gone a lot worse. We’re lucky that so many of these guys are muddy PDF who’ve never seen the wrong end of an XMR. If the whole base had been staffed with rogue SWAR, man…I dunno.”

“Halberd?” Reed asked.

“KIA,” Komodo replied dispassionately.

“I suppose Barbosa’s guys were never going to surrender,” Reed said as he glanced over at the pile of dead agents. “Something about this still feels personal.”

“They’re traitors,” Komodo replied, following his gaze. “Traitors to the UN, traitors to the people they swore oaths to protect, and traitors to their brothers.”

“And that would be you,” Reed suggested.

“Yeah, that makes it pretty personal,” the agent continued. “They’ve left a stain that I don’t think can ever be removed. They understood what the consequences would be when they made their choice. I doubt any of them will surrender with a lifetime on some black site prison colony to look forward to.”

“What do we do with all these guys?” Reed wondered as he played his eyes over the kneeling captives. There must have been at least fifty by now.

“Hold for new orders,” Komodo said. “They’ll have plenty of empty garrisons soon enough.”

“You guys are lucky we’re so much nicer than your boss!” Reed continued, raising his voice so that the nearest prisoners could hear him. “You’d all be digging your own graves right now otherwise! You’re going to jail,” he added, pointing to the first man in the row. “And you’re going to jail,” he added, gesturing to the next. “You’re going to jail. Jail. Jail. Guess what? Jail. And you – the pretty boy with the curls. Guess where you’re going? That’s right – jail!”

“Have your men secure the perimeter,” Komodo said with a sigh as muffled chuckling emanated from the Warrior behind them. “We can’t rule out a counterattack. My team and I will head into the cave and make sure there are no stragglers hiding in there.”

“You got it,” Reed replied with a lazy salute. “I guess I should be thanking you,” he added, turning to peer up at the Warrior. He had to crane his neck to even stand a chance of looking it in the face. “If you hadn’t come down here like a bolt from the blue, we’d have been easy pickings for those PCEs. Tiger Lily, was it?”

“Tiger is my Warrior’s name,” she replied, that feminine voice emanating from the biomechanical construct. It didn’t sound distorted, and there were no visible speakers. It seemed as though the Warrior itself was speaking, but he knew that couldn’t be the case. The suits were alive in a sense, but they weren’t sentient, and they needed pilots to function. The same must be true for these Jarilan versions. Besides, it had no visible mouth. “You can call me Lily. Happy to help, little Endo,” she added, the tone of her voice suggesting a smile.

“Harley keeps calling me Endo, but it sounds weird when you say it,” Reed muttered. “What’s with the sailor, by the way?” he asked with a gesture to the suggestive decal on her suit’s torso.

“He’s cute, and he brings me luck,” she replied with another chuckle.

“If I’d known that winning would have meant having the two of you in the same place, I might not have fought so hard,” Komodo grumbled. “Let’s move out!” he barked, waving for his team to follow. “Not you, Viper. No, I don’t want to hear it. Stay there and shut the hell up.”

“So, you come around here often?” Lily asked once the Lieutenant and his men had marched off towards the outcrop.

“What – this missile base?” Reed scoffed with a tilt of his helmet. “Yeah, I live right over there in that cave full of rockets.”

“You’re a funny little Endo, aren’t you?” she mused as her expressionless helmet glared down at him. “Are you doing anything after the war?”

“I, uh…Komodo told me to go secure the perimeter,” Reed began as he backed away from the Warrior. “I gotta…go…over there.”

“Ciao,” Lily chimed, waving goodbye with her suit’s lower arm as he hurried off to find Fuller.

CHAPTER 34

DAY 56 – ALPHA SITE – RUZA

Like an insect scaling a wall, Harlequin scurried up the rock face ahead of Ruza, his chitinous fingers and toes easily finding purchase in the uneven stone. His gossamer wings buzzed occasionally, lifting him a few feet to the next handhold.

The going was not so easy for Ruza. He climbed the outcrop laden with heavy equipment, digging his claws into the little cracks and gaps in the rock, his muscles already burning with the effort. He was wearing his leathers, the backpack that housed the AMR battery, the large rifle itself, and his own XMR – not to mention all of the ammunition. Tungsten carbide was not a light material, even in this low gravity, especially when hauling AMR magazines.

Behind him, two of Brenner’s SWAR agents followed, their lighter weight and prosthetic limbs making them a little more agile than he was. Most of the team would be down on the ground below coordinating the assault, but Sandman and Kingfisher had been assigned to operate their SCPEL weapon. Kingfisher was currently carrying the bulky case on his back. Brenner must have been doubly glad of Petrova’s change of allegiance if it meant that one of those vacancies was filled. Losing two SWAR agents was costly, but it seemed that the weapon required some special training or acumen – Ruza was unsure. SCPELs had not existed during his time as an auxiliary.

“This way – and keep your heads down!” Harlequin hissed as he reached the top, crawling up on all-sixes. Ruza wasn’t far behind him, staying prone as he arrived on the relatively flat top of the outcrop, the featureless desert stretching out in all directions. Far in the distance, he could just about make out the tether, the thin strand fading into the blue haze.

He shuffled around on his belly and extended a long arm to Kingfisher, helping him up the rest of the way, then did the same for Sandman. The two agents kept low, crawling across the tangibly hot rock as they moved into an overwatch position.

Harlequin was already at work, perched atop the vertical cliff face that led down to the base some fifty feet below. He was using his helmet’s optics to scan the compound, marking targets and relaying them to the rest of the team. His high vantage point should give him a laser line to Brenner and the others, but he couldn’t risk flying – not with those CIWS guns operational. They might pick him up on radar and mistake him for a drone or a missile.

Ruza drew his XMR, leaving the heavier AMR on his back, and crept up beside the Jarilan. Pulling the scope to his eye, he zoomed in on the base, sweeping his rifle from left to right.

Brenner’s crude representation using stones and cutlery in the mess hall had been rather accurate. The compound hugged the base of the jagged rock face, its trio of ten-foot walls of reinforced carbcrete enclosing rows of buildings, both permanent and prefab. Walls made from low sandbags and tall gabions stacked one on top of the other like bricks were scattered about the area, helping to provide cover and diminish the effects of bombardment. They broke up the sight lines, forming a kind of maze that would funnel the attackers into close-quarters fights.

Running through the center of the base was a large, open courtyard of sand. The tire tracks from recent vehicle movement still remained, the walls shielding them from the wind, and he followed them to a row of parked PDF trucks. The MAST launcher was directly beneath him, its hundred-foot rocket sitting atop a bulky vehicle with far too many wheels. The Matriarch had fielded something very similar during the rebellion. It would be a simple matter to fire on it from above or to drop an explosive charge, but destroying it was a last resort. What a cruel fate it would be to win Hades back from Barbosa, only to have a wandering hive fleet make it their meal before reinforcements could arrive.

He counted at least two hundred enemy troops, ranging from the PDF he had fought on so many occasions to fresh SWAR recruits – their camouflaged sleeves rolled up to expose their augmentations. Based on what he knew about such prosthetics, having the recruits already deployed so soon after such traumatic surgeries was profoundly irresponsible. It would increase the likelihood of infections and rejections by orders of magnitude. The enemy soldiers were scattered throughout the base, many relaxing or standing watch, not expecting an attack.

There were the PCEs – Harlequin had already tagged four of them, but there were surely more. The hulking suits were milling about near the launcher, surrounded by a couple of squads of augmented troopers. Ruza hadn’t spotted any hardened SWAR units yet, and that bothered him. Like a sandspider creeping into a residence for shelter from the heat, knowing that it was present but being unable to see it made one most uneasy.

“Hard targets are painted,” Harlequin said, shouldering his rifle.

“Receiving your feed,” Brenner replied over the comms. “Remember – your priority targets are those PCEs. That’s the one threat we can’t deal with. If you see targets of opportunity – especially SWAR, take them out, but prioritize the Bullsharks.”

“Understood,” Ruza replied.

“We’d better strike hard and strike fast,” Kingfisher said, kneeling beside Ruza and popping open the clasps on the SCPEL’s long case.

“Mortar teams and marksmen are ready,” Rivera added. “Just give the word, Commander.”

Ruza could see the locations of friendly units through his HUD, marked in clusters of blue. Over a hundred fighters had surrounded the base on three sides, backed up by mortar teams who would soon begin their bombardment of the base to cover the advance. Crossing the open ground between the dunes and the walls would be the most dangerous part of the operation, and they needed all of the covering fire they could get. As much as Ruza would have liked to be down there with them, he was the most qualified to use the AMR.

He set down his XMR on the rocks beside him and drew the heavy rifle from his back, resting the forward grip that Rivera had added to the barrel on the edge of the outcrop, bracing the weapon against his shoulder. Getting into a comfortable position, he brought the scope to his eye, resting his free hand on top of the padded stock. This new optical rangefinder was indeed helpful, accurately zeroing his sights without emitting any kind of detectable lasers or signals.

Beside him, Kingfisher hefted the heavy SCPEL onto his shoulder, aiming its dome-shaped lens down at the base below. He had to present a taller profile, but it didn’t seem that the weapon could be fired prone. Sandman waited behind the agent, keeping the carrying case close.

“You’ve fought these things before,” Kingfisher began, reaching up to adjust the viewfinder that jutted from the side of the tubular device. “Any tips?”

“Aim for the canopy,” Ruza replied, flicking off his safety. “The armor seems thinnest there. The power plants on their backs may also present a weak spot.”

“We should hold fire until our people reach the wall,” Harlequin suggested. “Once we start shooting, it won’t take them long to zero in on our position. Taking advantage of the chaos and confusion could net us a few crucial extra shots.”

“Agreed,” Ruza replied.

After a few more minutes of tense waiting, Brenner gave the order, and the battle commenced. Ruza watched from his vantage point above the base as the mortar shells began to rain down, impacting inside the walls of the compound, the telltale thud of explosions echoing across the desert. The troopers on the ground began to scurry in alarm and confusion, heading for the cover of buildings and gabions as the explosives went off all around them, throwing up clouds of sand. The layout of the base was doing its job, helping to contain the blasts, but he watched a few less fortunate PDF fall victim to the shrapnel.

They were soon rallied by their superiors, Ruza seeing a small group of half a dozen SWAR agents in their black armor gesturing to the troopers and barking orders as they strode into view from the rear of the base. They reminded him of the Matriarch’s Royal Guard, driving their subordinates with threats as though they were disobedient Razorbacks.

“Got eyes on some of our VIPs,” Harlequin said, tracking their movements. “There’s at least one SWAR fireteam directing the PDF.”

“That’s not all of them,” Sandman muttered. “There’s at least another fireteam down there, maybe two or three squads. Barbosa wanted these sites locked down.”

The report of automatic fire soon joined the sound of the bombardment, molten slugs painting trails from the tall dunes that surrounded the walls. The PDF were already filtering out through the main gate, manning the dugouts and machinegun nests just as they had been trained. They fired back, the two sides engaging at distances of two or three hundred meters. Ruza knew the plan – suppress the defenders with marksman fire, grenades, and mortars, then move in and secure the perimeter.

“Watch the CIWS,” Harlequin muttered as the turrets began to rotate into position. The defenders were bringing them online. There were two of them positioned at the corners of the walls far below, and two more were raised higher, mounted much closer on the same rocky outcrop where Ruza and his team were perched. He felt an instinctual shudder of apprehension roll through him as he watched the nearest one swivel around – barely fifty meters away – its coil-lined barrel and large radome glinting in the sun. He reminded himself that the machine wasn’t interested in him, watching as it lifted its rotating barrels towards the sky, letting out a stream of glowing slugs with a loud buzzing that made Ruza flatten his ears against his head. They were intercepting the mortar shells before they landed, causing them to explode in the air.

“Seeing cupcakes used to make me feel so safe,” Sandman muttered.

“Watch for any sign of them depressing to target the ground,” Harlequin added. “We can take them out if someone starts getting clever.”

The fighters began to charge across open ground under the covering fire of their comrades, marksmen and machinegunners keeping the PDF pinned from elevated positions atop the dunes. Some teams paused to fire their rifles or shoot off grenades, more explosions hammering the defenses.

It was difficult to see what was happening on the other side of the wall from his vantage point, but Ruza could see the reactions from the teams inside the base. The SWAR agents were becoming increasingly agitated, directing more PDF to reinforce the gate, one of them waving the PCEs forward. The giant suits began to lumber away from the launcher, heading deeper into the base.

“This is our chance,” Ruza said, pulling his rifle tighter against his shoulder. “Take aim.”

He moved his sights over the back of his chosen suit – between where the shoulder blades would have been if PCEs had any, aiming where two of the large mechanical braces that made up the exo frame joined to the chassis. In there was nestled the power plant. The prototypes would have much more shielding to contain the fusion reaction, but these production models had banks of dense batteries based on the intelligence from Petrova. Piercing them should result in a violent explosion.

“I will take the second from the left,” Ruza said.

“I got the guy on the right,” Kingfisher replied. “On your mark.”

Ruza exhaled, tracking the lumbering suit, then squeezed the trigger. The recoil slammed the rifle into his shoulder, a tremor passing through his body, the slug displacing the air as it left the barrel with enough force to blast away the sand that had settled on the rock beneath the muzzle. There was no perceptible travel time – the round simply punched into the suit’s hull, the reactive shield flickering briefly as it failed to slag the heavy projectile. In an instant, it bored a molten hole through the armor plating and the machinery beneath, the batteries violently jetting a plume of flame that had no means of escape save for the entry hole. The suit continued to move, suggesting that the round had stopped somewhere inside, the PCE trying and failing to reach behind its back with its limited range of motion. It turned on the spot, dropping its XMR, its neural interface conveying some small part of the pilot’s panic.

The nearby suits and troopers scattered, getting some distance from the blazing jet of flames, not understanding what had happened. Perhaps they assumed it to be a malfunction of some kind. The flames petered out, leaving wisps of electrical smoke, the suit ceasing its struggling. Either it had lost power, or its pilot had finally succumbed – the massive PCE falling flat on its face with a thud that kicked up a little cloud of dust.

Kingfisher fired his SCPEL, a loud, ominous hum emanating from the tubular device. From the domed lens on the barrel, it emitted a strobe of light too bright to look at directly, flickering like a broken lamp. A series of impossibly rapid pulses formed a ghostly beam between Kingfisher and his target, lingering for only a moment, but it was enough. Like a spear of ephemeral light, it passed through the plasma shield of the PCE as though it wasn’t even there, the layered composite armor and dense machinery beneath succumbing just as quickly. It didn’t burn like a laser – rather, whatever was unlucky enough to be in its path simply vanished as though it had never existed at all. It left a perfectly round and clean hole the size of a human’s head that ran straight through the suit’s center of mass, along with a few feet of the ground in front of it, carving a perfectly cylindrical trench.

The pilot barely seemed to realize that he was dead, the suit taking a few faltering steps before collapsing not far from its fallen comrade, its rifle severed in two. This time, the cause of the damage was far less ambiguous, the beam drawing a fading line straight to their perch atop the outcrop. Ruza saw a few of the SWAR agents and nearby troopers turn to gesture, raising their weapons as they rushed for whatever cover was nearby. With any illusions of invulnerability dispelled, the PCEs acted in kind, rushing for nearby gabions and buildings that could conceal them.

“We’ve been spotted!” Harlequin warned.

“Reload!” Kingfisher barked, what looked like a bulky battery module dropping from the back of the SCPEL to clatter to the rock below. It must consume batteries like a rifle consumed ammunition. Sandman was quick to respond, pulling a fresh battery from the weapon’s carrying case and slamming it into place, securing a locking mechanism with a slap. He gave Kingfisher a tap on the helmet, and the weapon began to hum once more, its wielder swinging it towards a gabion where a PCE was taking refuge.

Another brief strobe of light lanced through the densely packed block of sand, a barrier that would have stopped Ruza’s AMR presenting no obstacle for the SCPEL. The perfectly round hole existed for only a moment before the sand above began to pour down to fill it, Ruza glimpsing the PCE stagger back into view behind it. Judging by the placement of the hole, most of the pilot’s torso must have been erased, the suit quickly toppling over backwards.

“Reload!” Kingfisher repeated, and Sandman hurried to replace the ejected battery.

Ruza’s AMR had charged its capacitors again, and he searched for the next target, sweeping the rifle across the battlefield.

“Harlequin,” he began. “Where did the PCE go?”

“One-forty degrees low!” the Jarilan replied, tagging the position on his HUD. “Behind that building!”

Ruza swung his barrel in that direction, using the forward grip as a pivot point, pulling the stock tight against his shoulder. There – his target was taking cover behind a carbcrete depot with a rounded roof.

“I have no angle on him,” Ruza warned.

He recoiled as something hit the lip of the outcrop barely a foot away, chipping the stone and peppering him with airborne fragments, one of them slicing across his cheek. It was followed by a hail of gunfire, forcing Harlequin and Kingfisher to throw themselves to the ground, more dust and shattered rock spraying them as stray rounds whistled over their heads.

In the courtyard below, the SWAR agents had rallied the PDF and were organizing them into teams, laying down suppressing fire on their perch.

“Get back, Ruza!” Harlequin yelled as he covered his helmet with his hands.

“A moment longer!” he snarled in reply, ignoring the warmth of the blood that was seeping down his face. As he kept his sights trained on the PCE, he saw it step out of cover, aiming its heavy XMR right at him. He exhaled, then fired, another crack making his ears ring. The slug punched through the suit’s canopy, the shield flashing impotently, carving through the armor like butter and showering the pilot inside with molten debris. The suit was thrown back as surely as if it had been struck by a fist, its shoulder knocking out a chunk of carbcrete as it hit the wall beside it and collapsed.

“Strike four! Strike four!” Sandman announced over the comms.

Only now did Ruza roll away from the edge, narrowly avoiding another stream of slugs. Only when he had withdrawn almost to the rear edge of the outcrop was it even safe to kneel again.

“They’ve discovered our location – we need to reposition!” Harlequin said as he crouched low to the hot stone. “We-”

He paused, and Ruza heard it too, spinning his head to see figures clambering up the outcrop not twenty meters behind them. It was a pincer attack – most of the enemy SWAR team had directed the troops on the ground below to suppress their position, while the remainder had circled around behind them to scale the rock face at their back.

It was almost too late to react, one of the agents tossing a throwing knife overhand, the silent weapon slamming into Harlequin’s back and sending him crashing to the ground. There were four of them, more climbing into view, hauling themselves up with their prosthetics.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Ruza watched them draw their weapons, aiming rifles and handguns, already right on top of him. His XMR was still on the ground, his AMR had not yet recharged its capacitors, and he could not out-draw them now. Kingfisher and Sandman were turning, but too slowly – they’d never bring their weapons to bear before they were cut down.

One of the enemy agents was already in position to fire, the short barrel of his CQB rifle seeming to vibrate in the tight grip of his prosthetic hand as he let off a burst, the glow of its coils reflected in his visor where they bled through the heat shroud. A slug struck Sandman in the shoulder, knocking him down.

Barely a moment had passed, but Ruza was already sprinting, vaguely aware of his claws scraping against the stone for purchase. He bridged the gap between them in a couple of long strides, moving faster than they anticipated, reaching them just as the man ahead turned a machine pistol in his direction. The Rask threw all of his weight and momentum into a shoulder charge, connecting with the operative and sending him sailing off the outcrop. The man fell, his prosthetic limbs flailing as though searching for something to hold onto.

Ruza had no time to watch him hit the ground some fifty feet below, whipping around to send the three remaining agents scattering with a roar. He swept one of them aside with a swing of his arm, sending the agent rolling across the outcrop. A sudden dull pain distracted him, and he looked down to see that one of the agents had buried a long combat knife in his bicep, pushing it up from below. Another shove sent the agent dancing away, blood already soaking Ruza’s jacket.

The agent in question darted back, an XMH already clutched in his off hand, the weapon coming up before Ruza could stop him. Ruza heard a heartbeat that might be his last rush in his ears, but no shot came. Instead, the gun vanished along with the man’s hand and forearm in a dizzying strobe of light. The beam swept right, erasing the agent’s helmet and shoulders, leaving a headless body that stood on its own for a moment longer before slumping over.

Ruza turned in time to see Kingfisher leaping to the ground as one of the remaining agents fired at him, narrowly avoiding a volley that tore into the rock barely a hair behind him. Ruza was on his assailant in another heartbeat, closing the distance and engaging with a swift swipe, employing his AMR like a club. The agent was fast, ducking under his blow and stepping in to deliver a swift jab to the Rask’s stomach. Ruza doubled over, the force of the blow emptying his lungs, and the agent drew back a fist to deliver an uppercut.

To Ruza’s left, Harlequin was stirring, rolling over and sitting up. His wound had not been fatal. All four of his chitinous hands plunged beneath his leather shawl, emerging with an XMH clutched in each one, four shots ringing out almost in tandem. The Jarilan was confident – precise, the rounds catching the agent in the head and torso. Ruza watched the helmet explode outwards in the opposite direction of the shot, shattering like the shell of an egg, blood and brain matter spraying.

The remaining agent had climbed to his feet, switching targets from Ruza to Harlequin – perhaps hesitating to shoot with his teammate so close to the Rask. That moment of indecision was all it took for Ruza to lift his newly charged AMR, firing the weapon from the hip, the anti-materiel slug impacting the agent in the sternum. The force of the blow ripped open his torso like a bursting balloon, briefly creating a ring of torn flesh before the resulting gore scattered across the rock, what remained of his head and shoulders falling nearby.

Ruza dropped to a knee, wheezing as he struggled to fill his empty lungs, clutching at his stomach. Only then did he realize that the combat knife was still embedded in his bicep, his highly pressurized blood soaking his sleeve.

“Harlequin,” he groaned, turning his head to see the Jarilan sitting nearby. “Are you injured?”

“The knife got lodged in my wing casing,” he replied with a wince, stowing a couple of his handguns. “I’m not gonna be flying for a while – pretty sure it tore a wing.”

“Kingfisher?” Ruza added, finding the agent kneeling beside Sandman.

“He’s bad!” Kingfisher replied as he cradled his friend’s helmet. “Get over here and do your medic thing!”

Ruza knew that he had to take care of himself before he tended to the others, pulling a tourniquet from his belt. He tore open the sleeve of his jacket with a claw, widening the cut made by the blade and exposing his arm. Every motion sent a stab of pain shooting down the limb, and he saw the tip of the black blade jutting from his skin. Wrapping the tourniquet above his bicep, he used his teeth to pull it taut, grunting as another throb of pain rocked him. Only then did he remove the blade, reaching for the hilt that was buried beneath his arm and pulling it out.

“You good?” Harlequin asked as he crawled over, too wary to lift his head.

“I have it,” Ruza grumbled, pulling a syringe of medical foam from his belt. He hesitated for a moment, summoning his courage, then pushed the nozzle deep into the open wound. With a growl, he hit the button, the antiseptic foam expanding to fill the hole and stop the bleeding. Surgery would be required, but it would hold for now. The knife might have hit an artery had he not been in motion.

Still keeping low, he moved over to Sandman. The agent had taken a slug to the shoulder and one to the chest, the latter punching straight through his ceramic chest piece. He seemed to be conscious, but he was visibly in distress. Kingfisher popped open Sandman’s visor to reveal his pale face, and Ruza pulled a pair of scissors from the medkit on his belt, taking off the damaged chest plate and cutting away the blood-soaked uniform to expose the wounds. He swabbed away some of the blood with gauze, then tossed it away, making Sandman groan as he rolled him onto his side to check for exit wounds.

“They passed straight through,” Ruza announced, laying the agent back down and returning to his medkit. “This is lucky.”

“Doesn’t feel very lucky,” Sandman gurgled, taking in a rattling breath.

“The round that passed through your shoulder did no mortal damage,” Ruza said, drawing another syringe from his pouch. “The one that hit your chest has collapsed your right lung. It is filling with fluid and must be drained.”

“You got blood all over your face,” Sandman grunted.

Ruza reached up to wipe his cheek, seeing that the fur on the back of his hand was soaked crimson.

“It is merely a scratch,” he explained, returning to his work. “My species has a cardiovascular system evolved for greater gravity than this, and our blood pressure is comparatively high. I must close your wounds. There will be pain.”

Sandman gritted his teeth as Ruza stabbed the tip of a syringe into the wound channel in his shoulder, the expanding foam taking on a pink hue as it mixed with his blood. Next came the one in his chest.

“I will need to drain the fluid and allow the lung to expand,” Ruza explained, setting a pouch down on the stone beside the man and unzipping it. “You may have to replace the lung.”

“Put it on my tab,” he replied with a rattling chuckle.

Ruza rummaged inside his pouch and pulled out a small disk-shaped object. It was colored white with green accents, and there was a little LCD panel on one face, along with some buttons. He entered a few values using the tip of his claw, then removed a protective cap from the underside of the puck, releasing a transparent film that sprang forth. It was an adhesive patch, the device sitting squarely in the center of it.

“This is an emergency stint,” he explained, using a finger pad to probe gently at Sandman’s chest. “It will help drain the blood and allow your lung to expand.”

“I know what it is, Doc,” Sandman grumbled. “I’ve taken a fucking first-aid course.”

Finding the appropriate area, Ruza pressed the adhesive against Sandman’s chest. The device did the rest, a small needle extending from it to pierce the flesh, made rigid through the application of electrical current. Once it had reached its target depth, the current ceased, leaving the needle flexible enough that it could move with the body to avoid further injury. The little valve allowed the fluid to drain, bubbling blood starting to leak from it, and Sandman’s breathing quickly improved.

“No,” Sandman muttered, raising a hand as Ruza moved in with another hypo. “No painkillers. I don’t want to be fuzzy.”

“The stint will stabilize you for a time,” Ruza said, stowing the injector. “It is only a stopgap measure. You will require surgery.”

“Need some help down here!” Brenner said over the radio, muffled gunfire filtering in from his microphone. “Where’s our heavy weapons team!? Ruza!? Kingfisher!?”

“We are on our way, Commander,” Ruza replied into his earpiece. “We cannot remain here,” he added, turning to his teammates. “We must reposition.”

“How the hell are we gonna get him back down to the ground?” Kingfisher asked, gesturing to his injured comrade.

“Leave me,” Sandman insisted, unholstering his handgun. “Brenner needs you.”

“What if they send another squad up here to finish us off?” Kingfisher pressed.

“Then we’re all fucked anyway,” Sandman grunted in reply. “Go!”

“Harlequin shall remain here,” Ruza said as he ejected the spent magazine from his AMR and began to load a fresh one. “You are our eyes, and you are most valuable where you can track the enemy’s movements. Reposition and keep watch.”

“Alright,” the Jarilan conceded.

“Let me see your injury,” Ruza added, waving him closer. “I know a little of Jarilan anatomy. I have worked with your kind before.”

“Don’t waste any time on me,” Harlequin replied, retrieving his rifle and slinging it across his back. “I’ll find a good hiding spot and keep tabs on the bad guys.”

He scurried away across the rock, keeping low and using all six limbs like a sandspider navigating the hot dunes.

“We’ll be back,” Kingfisher said, giving Sandman a pat on the shoulder that made him wince.

“What of your SCPEL?” Ruza asked.

“I used the last battery on that guy,” he replied, gesturing to one of the dismembered bodies. “It was running at maximum output to burn through all that PCE armor. Kind of overkill.”

“No kill like overkill,” Sandman grunted.

“There are at minimum two PCEs remaining, and I have more than enough ammunition for both,” Ruza growled as he hefted his AMR. “I will meet you below.”

“Hang on, where are you going?” Kingfisher demanded as Ruza began to walk towards the edge of the outcrop that faced the base. He kept low, knowing that there could still be guns trained on the cliff.

“Down,” he replied, stepping off.

He held the AMR in one hand, extending the other, digging his claws into the sandstone to slow his descent. They found purchase in the uneven stone, the jagged cliff face providing footholds for him to leap from where the rock jutted out to form ledges and horns. The drop was not sheer – the natural wall sloped subtly, letting him jump and slide his way down. The gravity of Hades was thirty percent that which his body was adapted for, and he let himself drop ten feet or more at a time, watching the buildings below quickly rise up towards him. A few PDF hiding in some sandbags noticed him, raising their rifles and firing, but he was falling too quickly. Their slugs hammered the cliff face around him, fragments of shattered rock joining the small landslide of dust and stones that was trailing after him.

He landed hard behind a depot in the compound, crouching to absorb the impact, the sand helping to soften the blow. Shaking the dust off his jacket, he raised his AMR and advanced towards the sound of gunfire.

CHAPTER 35

DAY 56 – ALPHA SITE – PETROVA

Petrova ran, feeling the slugs passing back and forth above her head as much as she heard them, the sand crunching beneath her boots. The compound wall was in sight, the defenders cowering behind barriers of sandbags as shells and grenades impacted all around them. There was a wonderful clarity in war – something that she had sorely missed during her captivity. All of the politics and subterfuge ceased to matter, supplanted by the simple, primal truth of killing or dying. Perhaps feeling at home on the battlefield was only further proof of her deteriorating mental state, but there was no need to ponder morality now that she had clear orders to carry out, and there was no room for guilt or self-pity.

She had feared that the other agents would not accept her as Ruza had, but they charged in beside her all the same, Brenner leading the pack. At least for a while, they didn’t care what she had or had not done. They wanted her, even if it was only for the value she provided, and it was like having a family again.

His prosthetics allowing him to control the recoil and keep his weapon stable, Silverback slowed from a run to a jog, shouldering his XMR and unloading at the nearest PDF. His rifle was configured as a squad support weapon, with a long, heavy barrel and a drum magazine that could hold a hundred rounds. His coils glowing red-hot beneath the barrel’s shroud, he covered the rest of the team as they dashed in, leaping over the low defenses and into a shallow trench.

A few troopers were already lying dead nearby, having fallen victim to shells or slugs, more of them turning their weapons on the newcomers. Whether they were motivated by courage or fear, the outcome would be the same. A hail of slugs cut them down, Petrova and Brenner firing first, sending three more of the troopers toppling over.

Wasp wasn’t far behind, vaulting over the sandbags and landing directly on top of an oblivious trooper, knocking him to the ground and dispatching him with a swift punch. More of the Marines were piling in, engaging the enemies further along the wall, fighting to secure the gate. Silverback caught up, firing off a few more violent bursts before leaping into the trench, slinging his XMR over his shoulder.

“Ladies first,” he declared, leaning down and extending his crossed hands. Wasp stepped daintily into his palm, and he lifted her, his bulging prosthetic muscles allowing him to toss the woman almost high enough to send her sailing over the ten-foot wall. She caught the top, hauling herself the rest of the way with a single hand, already brandishing her machine pistol in the other.

Petrova followed, stepping into Silverback’s hands and letting him throw her, sailing up towards the top of the wall. Her new height gave her a brief glimpse of the battle unfolding all around her. To her left, more Marines were crossing no-man’s-land under volleys of covering fire, piling into the trench to dispatch the last of the defenders. They were moving to capture the gate now, advancing behind the sandbags. Over the wall to her right, more troopers were rallying to reinforce the defenders, squads of PDF running from the direction of the outcrop under the orders of SWAR agents. She could see several PCEs already lumbering closer.

She caught the lip of the wall, then pulled herself up the rest of the way, dropping down onto the other side. Wasp was waiting for her, having already secured their ingress point, a pair of PDF lying dead at her feet. There was a large wall of gabions rising up to shield them from view – one of many that broke up the base.

Petrova landed beside her, dropping to a crouch and shouldering her rifle to cover the opposite angle. Brenner dropped down behind her with a thud, readying his weapon. Silverback was too heavy to climb the wall – he’d have to go through the gate and find them on the other side.

The CIWS guns had begun to fire, their telltale buzzing filling the air, streams of glowing slugs drawing wavering trails above their heads as they intercepted the mortars.

“Our targets are the enemy SWAR agents,” Brenner declared. “Take out anyone who gets in your way.”

“Harlequin is tagging targets,” Wasp added, raising a hand to her helmet. “We have four PCEs inbound to the gate and six enemy VIPs.”

Petrova turned her head, peering through the obstacles that stood between her and the PCEs, watching ghostly red representations of the four suits approach at a lumbering run.

“Doesn’t feel good to be on the wrong end of those things, does it?” Wasp chimed.

“They’re not our concern,” Brenner replied. “Move out.”

They began to stalk deeper into the base, walking along the narrow alley between the wall and the gabions, heading East with the gate at their back. Wasp led the way, extending her arm and peeking her machine pistol around one of the sand-filled gabions, using the small holo sight to check the corner. She raised her other hand in a gesture for her teammates to stop, then plucked a grenade from her belt, tossing it out of view. It exploded into a billowing cloud of smoke, and quick as a flash, she stepped out with her weapon braced in both hands. A series of short bursts followed, the smoke no obstacle to her helmet’s optics. When Petrova followed her through the cloud, she found herself stepping over three dead troopers.

As they cleared the haze, a carbcrete depot with a sloping roof rose up in front of them – probably a reinforced structure where ammunition was stored. As Wasp dropped the magazine from her weapon to reload, another trooper in PDF camouflage emerged from his hiding place, leaning out from behind the building ahead. He brought up his XMR, aiming it at them.

Without so much as a word of communication, Wasp dropped into a low crouch, and Brenner fired over her head. His slug hit the trooper in the chest, knocking him to the ground.

They pushed up, approaching that corner cautiously, but found that the shooter had been alone. Some of the less hardened PDF must have found themselves scattered about the compound when the battle had begun. The defenders were disorganized, which worked in their favor, but it also meant that hostiles could pop up practically anywhere.

“PCEs!” Wasp hissed, putting her back to the building.

Petrova could see them tagged on her HUD, the suits nearing their position as they walked across the open compound. A shot rang out, Petrova recognizing the telltale report of an AMR, and one of the PCEs stumbled. A jet of bright flames erupted from its power plant, the pilot dropping his weapon reflexively and trying to reach over his shoulders, reacting in the same way anyone would to being set on fire. His nervous system was connected via the shunt, and there was no barrier between them, the suit mimicking his reflexive movements. His struggling ceased – either because he was dead or his suit was unpowered – and the PCE collapsed to the ground like a falling giant.

A second suit fell, this time to a SCPEL, its beam lancing through the layers of armor like butter. Petrova had been briefed on the experimental weapons, but she had never seen one fired before. It looked like someone was shining a narrow, flickering flashlight beam, erasing anything in its path. The AMR shot had been difficult to place, but the beam drew a straight line right back to the shooter, guiding her eyes to the top of the outcrop that rose up above the compound. That was where Ruza and his team must be perched.

The other two PCEs and the nearby troopers scattered for cover, more gunshots ringing out as they tried to engage the snipers above.

“This is our chance,” Brenner said, waving them forward. “The VIPs will be distracted. Let’s flank around behind, and maybe we can get the drop on them.”

They moved on, marching up the East wall of the compound, heading towards the rocky cliff face. Another bright beam lanced down from the outcrop, a third PCE vanishing from Petrova’s HUD. The fourth thundered over to their side of the courtyard, the three agents leaping into cover behind the back wall of a depot as the suit ducked into the alley barely a stone’s throw away. Another AMR round took it out when it tried to return fire, punching through its canopy and sending it crashing to the ground, close enough that Petrova could feel the impact shake her augs.

“Damn, that Rask can shoot!” Wasp cackled. “No wonder Barbosa has been demanding his head on a plate.”

“Eyes up – left side!” Brenner barked as he raised his rifle.

A small group of three PDF were running in from the courtyard, passing by the downed PCE at the end of the alley between the depots, glancing down at the smoking hole in its canopy in disbelief. They were taking cover from the gunfight that was happening out in the open, one of them watching the corner behind them as the other two swept towards Petrova and her team.

“Wait!” Petrova whispered, raising a hand to stop Brenner and Wasp when she saw the prosthetics beneath their rolled-up sleeves. These were her recruits. Wasp clearly wanted to engage, but Brenner shook his head, giving Petrova a moment.

She switched to her helmet speakers, announcing herself by barking an order.

“Stand down, recruits!”

Like a dog hearing a command from its owner, the men stopped in their tracks almost by reflex, keeping their rifles at the ready as Petrova stepped out of view at the opposite end of the alley.

“Lieutenant Commander Petrova!?” the nearest recruit marveled. “What are you doing at the base? We didn’t know you were here!”

“Damn, we almost shot you, Ma’am!” his neighbor added with palpable relief.

“We haven’t seen you since the carrier, Ma’am,” the first man added. “There are rebel snipers up on the cliff,” he continued hurriedly. “We gotta…”

He paused when he saw Brenner and Wasp step out from cover, their rifles shouldered, but not pointing at the recruits just yet. The troopers seemed to sense that something was wrong, sharing a glance behind their visors.

“Sir, Ma’am,” the first recruit said as he greeted them with a nod. They had no way of knowing every one of Barbosa’s SWAR agents, especially with their helmets on – they simply recognized them as their superiors. Brenner and Wasp remained quiet, watching and waiting silently, poised to strike.

“You need to go take cover, recruit,” Petrova ordered. “Get somewhere safe and keep your heads down until the fighting stops.”

“All due respect, that’s not what our CO said, Ma’am,” the first recruit replied. There was more tension in his voice now, and she could see him fidgeting with his rifle, his grip growing tighter. “We’re supposed to stop the insurgents – that’s what you trained us for.”

“Do we have new orders?” the third man asked, walking over to join his two friends as he picked up on the tense exchange. “Who’s in charge? Maybe I should call my-”

As he lifted his prosthetic hand to his helmet, Brenner raised his rifle and snapped off a shot, Petrova feeling the slug pass by her close enough to rustle the fabric of her sleeve. It struck the recruit in the visor, shattering it and killing him instantly, a second shot echoing down the alley before any of them could react. A burst followed from Wasp’s sidearm, and the two remaining troopers dropped, dead before they had any time to process what was happening.

“Move up,” Brenner ordered, Wasp following him as he left the scene behind.

Petrova waited there for a few moments longer, staring at the bodies as the constant exchange of gunfire faded into the background, the world outside her helmet becoming distant and muffled. She could only focus on the sound of her own breathing – her own heartbeat as it pulsed in her ears. It lasted only a few seconds, but those seconds seemed to drag on forever, until she finally snapped out of it.

“I tried, guys,” she murmured to herself as she wheeled around to join her team.

As they passed another depot and came upon some prefabs covered in camouflaged netting, they abruptly found themselves staring down another squad of a dozen PDF who were taking cover behind the elevated structures. The fog of war once again caused the troopers to hesitate, unsure of whose side the agents were on, and it was all the time Brenner needed to open fire. Half were cut down in the opening salvo, the slugs overpenetrating and passing through multiple targets, fragments of shattered ceramic and bone turned into shrapnel as deadly as any grenade. Petrova joined him, stray rounds sparking as they tore through the metal facades of the prefabs, leaving holes ringed by glowing slag in their wake.

Even as she fired her sidearm with one hand, Wasp prepared a grenade with the other, rolling it beneath the prefab where several of the survivors were rushing for cover. It went off with a thud, cries of pain and surprise ringing out as a puff of dust blew back out from between the building’s outriggers. The agile agent leapt, kicking off the structure’s wall and scaling it in a single stride, landing on the roof. It gave her a vantage point above the PDF still in the alley, the rapid bark of her machine pistol ringing out as she dumped another magazine.

Leaving herself exposed for only a moment, she bent over backwards, curving her spine into a perfect arch. Her free hand gripped the edge of the roof even as her boots remained planted, then she lifted one slender leg like a gymnast, the second following behind it. She backflipped down from the prefab, landing on the near side with all the poise of a ballerina, dropping her spent mag to the sand.

“Showoff,” Petrova muttered.

The team passed more prefabs, moving along the row of buildings as the chorus of battle enveloped them from every direction. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on in the chaos, but the attackers seemed to be gaining ground, more friendly IFF signatures breaching the gate and flooding through the base. Four PCEs were down, but the enemy SWAR team had vanished from their scopes. As she glanced up at the outcrop, she saw that it was under fire, more troopers peppering the rock face with slugs from the courtyard.

As they passed another prefab, they suddenly came face to face with a squad of PDF who were coming towards them down one of the alleys, the agents leaping back into cover as the enemy took a few potshots and yelled out warnings.

Brenner was already ducking into the alley, closing the distance before the enemy could fire off any more shots, leaving them little choice but to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Petrova had fought beside Brenner many times in the past, and she knew that close and personal was the way he liked it.

She barely even saw him prime the grenade that he was already dropping, rolling it ahead of him, the alley filling with swirling smoke just as he reached his first target. Even if his opponents had the wherewithal to switch to thermals, it would delay them for a moment, and that was all Brenner needed.

He stepped into a vicious elbow strike, catching the man to his right and slamming his helmet into the wall of the prefab, the blow carrying enough force to dent both. The agent hooked his right boot behind the trooper’s leg and pulled it out from under him, sending his dazed victim falling to the floor.

From his left came the next assailant, the camouflaged trooper drawing a sidearm from his vest and pointing it at Brenner. The operative caught the wrist, crushing it like a bundle of dry sticks, the weapon falling from the man’s hand as he let out a muffled wail from behind his visor. Brenner yanked the injured wrist up above his head and delivered a swift jab to the elbow, inverting it with a sickening crunch. With all the speed of a gunslinger from an old Western, he drew his own oversized XMH, firing it from the hip and putting two rounds through the man’s chest plate. They overpenetrated, splattering the pale prefab behind him with blood as they left sizzling holes in the metal.

Even as the second body fell, a third assailant moved in to replace his squadmate, the barrel of his rifle emerging from the smoke. He fired at point-blank range, but it was clear that he couldn’t see a foot in front of him, smoke obscuring his view and panic guiding his aim. The rounds strayed wide, punching more burning holes in the prefab. Brenner had already moved out of the way, ducking under the glowing barrel and lunging closer. One polymer hand gripped the heat shroud of the XMR and yanked it aside, while the other rose up from below, delivering an uppercut that snapped the man’s head back and lifted his boots off the sand. He made no attempt to save himself as he fell, either dead or unconscious before he’d hit the ground.

The smoke was starting to clear a little now, and the next two troopers came at Brenner together, perhaps certain that they could take him two-on-one. Brenner snapped the leftmost man’s knee with a kick that bent the limb in the wrong direction, the agent pulling a long fighting knife from his belt and jabbing it into his collar with a swift overhand strike, withdrawing the bloodied blade just as rapidly.

As one man fell, clutching at his neck to stem the flow of blood that was soaking his uniform, the other stepped in. The rightmost man slashed at Brenner with a combat knife, and the agent raised an arm to block the strike, the serrated edge of the blade cutting into the tough polymer of his forearm. Brenner stepped away from a follow-up, the knife whistling an inch from his throat, then lunged in to bash the assailant’s visor with the grip of his handgun. The helmet protected the trooper from the blow, but that wasn’t the point. It stunned him and sent him staggering back, Brenner stepping in to deliver two lightning-fast stabs to the trooper’s stomach where it wasn’t protected by the segmented plates of his armor, sinking another into his neck when the man doubled over.

There was one trooper left, standing further down the alley with his rifle raised, waiting for a clean shot. Brenner was under no such constraints, firing a single shot from his XMH, the round blasting a hole in the lingering smoke and punching clean through the trooper’s helmet.

Brenner was nearly as old as Barbosa, but he was still at the top of his game.

Petrova and Wasp joined him as he led them towards the rear of the compound, pausing at the final prefab before the rock face rose up above them.

“We’ll cross behind the MAST launcher and come up behind the enemy SWAR team,” Brenner announced as he checked the corner. “They won’t be expecting-”

He paused, then lurched back into cover, Petrova seeing a new target appear on her HUD.

Two more PCEs were making a beeline towards them from the direction of the MAST, the camera domes beneath their chins swiveling as they scanned for targets. They were accompanied by a full squad of augmented recruits.

“Where the fuck did they come from?” Wasp hissed.

“They could have been assigned to protect the launch vehicle, or maybe they came from the cave,” Brenner replied. “We do not have the firepower to deal with that.” He lifted a hand to his temple, accessing his radio. “Need some help down here!” he announced. “Where’s our heavy weapons team!? Ruza!? Kingfisher!?”

“We are on our way, Commander,” Ruza’s gruff voice replied.

“That mangy old cat had better make it snappy,” Wasp complained as she leaned around the corner to get another look. “They’re coming right to us – suits are going down the middle while the recruits head left and right. They’re going to pin us and try to flank. Thanks for training them so well, Petrova,” she added sarcastically.

“If you’re gonna do a job, do it right,” Petrova shot back.

“Orders?” Wasp asked, turning to Brenner.

“Not much we can do other than thin their numbers and hope that the heavy weapons team comes through,” he growled. “They have to cross open ground to reach us. Make them regret it.”

He dropped to his belly, shouldering his rifle and aiming it between the outriggers of the raised prefab in front of him. Wasp and Petrova took up position nearby, Petrova leaning around the left side of the building while Wasp began to stalk along its right flank.

Brenner fired first, a round sailing underneath the prefab and striking an unfortunate trooper in the stomach, sending him crashing to the ground, where he received a second slug to the helmet. The rest of the augmented PDF grouped up, moving behind their PCEs and using them as cover to advance. The suits raised their heavy rifles, suppressing the position where they expected Brenner to be. Their slugs ripped through the prefab as though it wasn’t even there, rending its metal walls like a soda can, molten trails sailing barely a foot above the Commander. He remained prone, ignoring the hail of gunfire and taking down another trooper, firing between a PCE’s legs.

Petrova opened up too, finding an angle and firing past the leftmost suit, catching a recruit in the shoulder and dropping him. The PCE reacted immediately, swiveling its upper body in her direction and firing off a burst, the rounds ripping through the corner of the prefab and sending her leaping clear. Wasp had made it to the far end of the building, and she poked her machine pistol around the corner, the slugs causing the rightmost PCE’s shields to flash as they harried it. The suits had nothing to fear from small arms – they could simply march through the gunfire and close the last fifty feet at their leisure.

More gunfire – this time from the far left. Petrova picked herself up, seeing friendly IFFs approaching from the South. It was Silverback, his squad support weapon shouldered, unloading into the PDF as a squad of Marines moved up beside him. They took up positions behind sandbags and gabions, laying down more fire.

Four more of the PDF fell, and they were forced to switch their attention to this new flank, one of the PCEs moving to put itself in front of them. The only cover nearby was a couple of parked APCs, so they moved that way, hunkering down and beginning to return fire. The other PCE stayed the course, keeping up the suppressing fire as it marched towards Petrova and her comrades.

A few of the PDF turned their attention to the rock face above, firing on something, and Petrova glanced up to see a figure leaping down the side of the cliff. It was Ruza. The Rask was half climbing and half falling his way towards the ground, digging his hooked claws into the uneven rock to slow himself and jumping between jutting footholds like some kind of spider monkey. Followed by a small avalanche of dust and stones, he landed near Brenner and Wasp behind the furthest prefab, out of view from Petrova’s perspective.

Her attention turned back to the PCE – the giant suit had spotted her taking cover behind the next prefab along. It broke into a lumbering run, firing off a burst that forced her to abandon her position, Petrova throwing herself to the ground as the slugs tore through the building where she had been standing a moment prior. Reaching the other end of the prefab, it swung an arm into the structure, shouldering it aside. The container-sized prefab shifted and collapsed, its outriggers buckling under the stress.

Petrova was rising to her feet, but too late, the PCE bearing down on her as she backed up against the carbcrete perimeter wall. With a yell of frustration, she emptied her magazine into the approaching behemoth, the shield flashing and slagging the rounds. It examined her with its inscrutable camera pod, those arrays of lenses conveying no emotion, but the way that its lumbering pace slowed as it raised its heavy rifle conveyed some measure of satisfaction.

This was her fault. Everything that she had done and all of her choices had brought her to this moment. She had helped Barbosa obtain the PCEs, she had trained the recruits, and she had selected them for surgery. Now, she was about to suffer the same fate as so many Marines and Hadeans, and was that not some form of cosmic irony?

The suit’s shield flashed as XMR fire pounded it from the right, and she turned to see Brenner kneeling with his rifle braced against his shoulder. It was a futile gesture – he stood no more chance of harming it than she did. He distracted the pilot, however, that camera dome turning towards the Commander. A moment later, Ruza emerged from behind the prefab to Brenner’s back, stepping out with his modified AMR raised. He was covered in blood, his face and the tattered sleeve of his leather jacket soaked red, a tourniquet wrapped tightly around his exposed bicep.

The moment seemed to drag, the PCE swinging its rifle towards this new, more threatening target as its cameras locked onto him. Ruza fired first, the AMR rocking into his bloodied shoulder, the towering alien somehow able to control the immense recoil enough to stay upright. The heavy slug displaced the air as it left the barrel, blasting the rear wall of the prefab and the ground below him clean of sand, the travel time between it and its target imperceptible.

The Bullshark’s shields flickered, trying to stop the round, but it weighed too much and was traveling too quickly. It penetrated the lower section of the canopy, just above the camera dome, digging a crater in the suit’s slanted nose. It didn’t emerge on the other side, dumping all of its energy into the suit and its pilot, the hammer blow knocking it off-balance. It toppled over backwards, shaking the ground, flecks of molten metal turning the sand to glass as they dripped from the entry wound like fiery blood.

She turned her wide eyes to the Rask as he strode forward, his torn leather jacket stained with blood, sweat making the sand and dust cling to his exposed skin. Holding the AMR in one hand, he reached the other beneath his clothing, drawing some kind of makeshift PDW made from a butchered XMR. He extended his long arm and fired at the PDF troopers, keeping them suppressed as he crossed the open alley to reach her, ducking into the cover of the collapsed prefab.

“Move!” he snarled, leaning out to fire off a few more shots.

His words jolted her out of her stupor, and she dropped low, crawling over to him as she used the downed PCE for protection. Slugs deflected off its armor as the PDF took potshots at her, but she was soon beside the Rask, reloading her weapon.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, keeping his eyes on the enemy.

“Me?” she scoffed.”What about you, Koshak!?”

“My injuries are survivable.”

“Oh, great!”

The remaining PCE was retreating now, perhaps knowing better than to tangle with the AMR that had felled its partner, moving back to the cover of the launch vehicle. The augmented PDF who had taken refuge behind the armored trucks were pinned under fire from Silverback and the fighters, the withering hail of slugs keeping their heads down.

“Nice to have you with us, Ruza!” Brenner announced over the comms. “How many rounds do you have left in that thing?”

“Enough!” Ruza growled in reply.

“Harley – get me eyes on that enemy SWAR team!” Brenner barked.

“On it, Boss!” the Jarilan replied. He must still be up on the outcrop somewhere, out of view of the enemy.

Petrova saw the targets pop up on her HUD, the fireteam of six agents taking cover in some sandbags on the opposite side of the courtyard. They appeared to be rallying what troopers they could to mount a defense, but with all of their PCEs destroyed save for one, they were no longer in a strong position. The attackers had taken the gate and the Southern section of the base and were now advancing North, pushing up towards the cliff.

“We have to take them now!” Brenner warned. “Don’t let them escape into the cave!”

The enemy had a bead on Brenner’s team, so the plan to flank and get behind them wasn’t going to work.

Petrova watched as Ruza knelt on the sand, shouldering his AMR again, seeming to aim through the collapsed prefab. Even moreso than a conventional XMR, the slug could probably pass through multiple obstacles without being significantly diverted or shedding any velocity. She watched the outlines of the enemy agents as they hunkered down, all of the data shared over their network in real time. Ruza had no helmet, but his scope was certainly hooked into the stream. He waited for one of the agents to raise their head above the sandbag wall, then fired.

Another blast of displaced air blew away a little cloud of dust, Petrova feeling the shot thud in her soft tissues even as her helmet deafened her to protect her ears. The recoil seemed to travel through the Rask’s entire body in a ripple, but he held fast, somehow staying upright.

The round punched through the wall of the prefab, leaving another fist-sized hole. It passed through a second wall with a flutter of camo netting, and then took off the target’s head. There wasn’t even any gore – no impressive explosion. One moment his head was there, and the next it was gone, functionally vaporized by the slug. The remaining five members of the team ducked back down, hoping that the sandbags would protect them. With Silverback and the Marines keeping them pinned, and more fighters moving up on their side of the courtyard, they had nowhere to retreat to.

“Get some grenades on that position!” Brenner ordered.

A few of the fighters in Silverback’s contingent were equipped with grenade launchers, and they began to fire on the little dugout, explosions billowing nearby. It didn’t take them long to dial in their sights, the next salvo landing inside, Petrova watching as a torn body was catapulted up from behind the sandbags to land in a heap on the ground outside.

There was a friendly squad moving up past the depots towards the enemy, Petrova seeing Rivera’s name tagged on the IFF. He was leading a group of Marines to flank behind them.

“Cover Rivera!” Brenner ordered. “Keep that position locked down!”

More XMR fire poured in, Silverback’s squad support weapon chattering, the slugs hammering the sandbags and creating little splashes of glass where they penetrated the sacks. The prefabs behind them had taken so much fire that they looked more like cheese graters than walls, one of them collapsing inward as its structural integrity was finally whittled away.

Rivera weaved between the gabions with his rifle shouldered, a team of half a dozen men following behind him, at once quick and careful. It was easy to differentiate them from the less experienced fighters – the way that they moved together and covered every angle setting them apart. Rivera gestured for his men to split into two teams as they came up on the prefabs behind the dugout, flanking left and right, one of the Marines tossing a grenade ahead of them.

Petrova watched as they moved down either side of the structure, the suppressing fire ceasing to avoid hitting them. Like a golf ball rolling into a hole, the grenade landed right where it needed to be, another explosion creating a billow of dust and smoke. Rivera and his men pushed in, coordinating their fire, the enemy signatures on Petrova’s HUD vanishing one after the other.

There were only two SWAR agents left now, rising from the dugout to fire back. One of them had lost an arm and was wielding his XMR in the other, firing it wildly from the hip. The second had been hit badly by shrapnel, his body armor and Kevlar pressure suit pocked with still-smoking holes, a sidearm clutched in his hand. They turned to face their assailants, visible above the wall of sandbags, but they were quickly cut down by Rivera and his Marines. They moved in to secure the dugout, the Staff Sergeant firing off a couple more rounds to finish off any survivors.

“Confirmed – SWAR team has been eliminated!” Harlequin announced. “Enemy agents are down!”

“We’re clear over here!” Rivera announced, reloading his rifle.

“There is still one PCE on the field!” Ruza warned.

“I have eyes on him!” Harlequin replied. “He’s behind the launcher!”

At the sight of their commanders being slain, the surviving troopers who had been taking cover behind the trucks began to walk into view with their prosthetic hands raised, Petrova feeling a rush of relief wash over her. More surviving PDF were being rounded up and driven into the courtyard at gunpoint by the fighters, throwing down their weapons and taking off their helmets as the victors barked orders at them.

Ruza rushed out past the prefabs to aim his AMR at the last remaining PCE, the suit walking out from behind the launch vehicle with its mechanical arms raised, having tossed its heavy XMR aside. It was a surreal sight, and it seemed to further dishearten the survivors, more stragglers emerging from cover to surrender now that they knew the battle was lost.

“Keep pushing up!” Brenner ordered, leaving his position to rejoin Ruza and Petrova. “Let’s secure the compound and start treating the wounded! Watch out for anyone who’s still entertaining ideas of fighting back!”

“Get out of the fucking suit!” Wasp snapped as she rushed over to join Ruza, aiming her sidearm at the hulking PCE.

It came to a stop, and the armored panels on its torso began to split open, the canopy snapping back to reveal a very sweaty and frightened recruit who was nestled within its protective padding. With the suit’s arms still suspended in the air, he struggled his way out of it, half climbing and half falling onto the sand at its feet. Only then did Ruza lower his AMR, his exposed fangs enough encouragement to send the recruit stumbling off to join the growing rows of prisoners in the middle of the courtyard. Petrova heard a few more gunshots, but it seemed that it was all over now.

Brenner jogged out into the compound, shouting orders to secure the launcher and set up a triage area, waving his hands to direct the men who were running back and forth. Petrova found herself standing alone until Silverback came walking over to her, his machinegun resting on his broad shoulder, the stupid gorilla decal on his visor glaring back at her.

“You did alright,” he announced, watching another group of PDF as they were led out from behind the prefabs by Rivera’s team.

“I don’t feel like I did alright,” she mumbled, glancing over at the dead recruits who were lying beside the APCs.

“A lot more people could have died today,” Silverback reiterated. “We hit their leadership hard and fast, took out their armor, and we’re taking a lot of prisoners. That’s about as good of an outcome as we could hope for. You should get out there,” he added, nodding to the growing crowd of captives.

“What?” Petrova asked.

“These are your recruits, right? Go reassure them that they’re doing the right thing by surrendering.”

“What should I say to them?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” he replied with a shrug that made his machinegun wobble. “What do you want me to do – write you a speech? Go talk to them.”

She walked out into the courtyard, passing Ruza as she went. He had ditched his AMR and was tending to one of the injured recruits, the sand around him already strewn with bloodied gauze and empty containers, his own injuries going untreated. He lifted the man in the same way a human might cradle a child, rushing him away in the direction of a depot where friend and foe alike were being triaged. Petrova paused to watch him, her head swimming with contradictions.

After everything she had been told about the Rask, and all the things she had discovered to be untrue, she still found herself stunned by the sight of him rushing a wounded enemy to help. He lay the man down gingerly on a tarp that had been hastily removed from the depot to protect the patients from the sand, waving over a nearby Marine who appeared to have medical expertise. She couldn’t hear what he was saying from where she stood, but she watched the alien tear off the recruit’s body armor and kneel beside him, placing the heel of his large hand on the man’s sternum. He began to pump, performing chest compressions in his own way, pausing intermittently to breathe into the recruit’s mouth.

The Marine arrived to assist, skidding to a stop beside the patient and rummaging inside a medkit. He produced a long, clear tube and inserted it into the man’s throat, attaching a bulb to the other end that he began to squeeze rhythmically. Ruza scrambled for something on his rig, drawing a hypo and injecting it into the recruit’s neck. After running a medical scanner over the man, the Marine gave Ruza a thumbs-up, and the Rask immediately moved on to the next patient.

It was like flipping a switch for him – he could transition from killing to healing as easily as someone else might change the wallpaper on their phone. She hadn’t understood it until she had seen him in action, but there was no malice or pretense in him. Petrova had served with people like Roach and Crow, who killed because they wanted to, and people like Song, who killed because they didn’t care. Ruza was something else. The very second that killing was no longer necessary, it stopped, and the helping began. She’d had everything backwards, assuming that the persona of a doctor was merely a mask to cover something ugly.

She continued on towards the growing ranks of captured PDF. At least fifty or sixty people were already kneeling in rows on the sand with more being brought over, kept under guard at gunpoint, their hands clasped behind their bowed heads. Their equipment had been confiscated – XMRs and helmets piled up in heaps beside them. The battle had been swift, and it appeared that many had surrendered rather than fight on. She was relieved to see that more of her recruits were among their number. How many had survived the two base assaults?

They looked up at her as she approached, their darting eyes filled with fear and uncertainty, waiting for her to speak. She still didn’t know what to say. Should she apologize and grovel for having misled them? Should she speak of how she too had been manipulated and fed false promises? No. If Ruza was right about anything, it was that nobody cared how she felt. Her remorse and guilt meant nothing to these people – it was all meaningless self-indulgence.

Their confusion only grew when she shed her helmet, holding it under her arm as she peered back at them. A few recognized her and spoke up, their voices rising from the frightened murmuring.

“LC?”

“Lieutenant?”

“Is that Petrova?”

“What’s she doing here?”

“Is…that the LC?”

“Is she with them?”

“Listen up, recruits!” Petrova barked. Her familiar voice made a few of them straighten up reflexively, those who didn’t know her glancing at their neighbors in quiet bemusement. “You fought hard, and you fought well. You rose to the standards that I expected of you. You lost, but losing is part of war, and you can’t win every battle.”

“You’re a traitor!” one of them yelled.

“Why are you helping the insurgents!?” another added.

“When we came here, Commander Barbosa…we lied to you,” she began as she clasped her hands behind her back. “We told you that we represented the UNN. That wasn’t true. We told you that your fellow PDF were involved in a conspiracy against the people of Hades. That wasn’t true. Whether we truly intended to make good on our promises to uplift and protect this colony or not, it’s become clear that our presence here can only cause you harm. As we speak, special forces teams sent by the Admiralty and assisted by local militias are capturing the carrier, the tether station, and the MAST sites. If they have all been successful, it means that the regime that has been governing Hades for these past months has been deposed. It’s a major step in returning governance of Hades back over to its people, where it belongs.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Brenner said as he walked over to stand beside her, addressing the prisoners. “My name is Brenner – rank of Commander with the Special Weapons and Advanced Recon division. Barbosa and the people you’ve been taking orders from are a rogue element acting without authorization from the Navy. They stole a carrier and came to Hades with the intent to take over and make it their new base of operations. They are traitors to their government, and I have orders to kill or capture every agent involved in the mutiny.”

“Well, what happens to us now?” one of the recruits asked.

“We only did what they told us to do!” a trooper added.

“Yeah, how the hell were we supposed to know any of this!?”

“You are now prisoners of war and are entitled to all of the rights and protections afforded by that status,” Brenner announced. “Cooperate, and you will be treated with dignity and respect until such a time that we can hand you over to the proper authorities.”

“And who the fuck will that be?” one of them protested.

“I suppose whoever ends up in charge when the dust settles,” Brenner replied.

“You won’t be harmed,” Petrova added, trying to reassure them. “I’ll make sure of that. If any of you require medical attention, you only have to ask.”

A couple of them raised their hands hesitantly, and Petrova waved for them to approach, the two augmented troopers standing and moving to one side of the crowd.

“What is it?” Petrova asked as she guided them a little further away. “Did you get hit by shrapnel?”

“It’s my arm, LC,” one of them replied. He extended a prosthetic limb, the motion making him wince, and she noted that it was shaking.

“What happened?” she pressed, taking it in her hand. It was simpler than her own, mass-produced rather than custom-built. “Can you feel this?” she added, tapping on each of his treaded fingertips in turn.

“Not all of them,” he replied.

“Looks like the nerves are losing their connections,” she surmised as she moved up to his bicep. She passed the rolled-up sleeve, then encouraged him to unzip his coveralls. “Did you jolt it or try to lift something heavy?”

“No, Ma’am,” he mumbled. “My shoulder just started hurting. Been hurting for a couple of days now.”

She pulled down his uniform enough to expose his shoulder beneath the tank top that he was wearing, her eyes narrowing. The prosthetics were anchored to the skeleton for maximum strength, usually bolted to the scapula – assuming there was enough of it left. A partially transparent blue gel layer cushioned the scar tissue surrounding the connection point, serving as a medium through which the organic and artificial nerves could be fused together. That tissue should have been pink, still knitting together and healing, but she saw a far more concerning complexion.

“What the hell?” she muttered to herself, probing the discolored flesh around the gel sack as she supported his limb. The recruit recoiled, wincing in pain at her merest touch. “This is infected,” she said, glancing back at him. “Your body is rejecting the implant. How did this happen? Have you had no medical follow-ups? Did you not report this to your CO?”

“I didn’t want them to bench me,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “I’d be letting everyone down.”

“Wait here,” Petrova insisted, jogging away to the triage area to find Ruza. The depot had been converted into a kind of field hospital already, injured men lying on tarps and stretchers between the crates of ammunition. Whoever had medical expertise was doing their best to treat them with whatever they had on hand.

She found the Rask tending to his wounded bicep with the help of a medic, having removed a tourniquet and slid the arm out of its sleeve to expose the injury. It looked bad – like a blade had punctured clean through the muscle, but the quantity of blood probably made it appear worse than it really was. He was baring his feline teeth as the medic vacuumed the wound clean of blood and antiseptic foam with a small handheld pump, clearing the way for him to dip a cauterizing tool inside, the alien wincing as he burned the severed veins closed.

“You realize these sutures will pop the moment your arm is subjected to any kind of stress, right?” the medic asked. His tone suggested that he had already resigned himself to a total lack of post-operative care.

“It will suffice for now,” the Rask grunted, pinching the wound closed with adhesive strips. He looked up at Petrova as she neared, the medic wrapping gauze around his arm.

“Ruza!” she panted. “I have something you need to see.”

“The most urgent cases have been taken care of,” he replied, grimacing as the medic injected what looked like a clotting agent into his forearm. “I will be with you shortly.”

“Shame Amy isn’t here to tell me to take a number,” Petrova muttered.

A minute later, they were walking back to the two recruits, and Ruza began to inspect them.

“Concerning,” he muttered to himself as he ran a handheld medical scanner over one of the men. “Elevated body temperature and white cell count, though no scanner is needed to pick up the scent. The surgical site has become infected, perhaps due to improper post-operative care, poor hygiene, or a lack of adequate medical supplies.”

“I was worried this might happen,” Petrova sighed, crossing her arms. “I tried to argue with Barbosa, but he wouldn’t hear it. A surgery like this requires weeks, if not months, of rest and physical therapy to properly recover from. They need regular checkups, immuno-suppressants, and diligent wound care. These guys practically came straight off the operating table and into service. They’ve been marching around down here in a non-sterile environment with surgical wounds that haven’t even properly healed yet.”

“He cared only about regenerating his lost SWAR teams,” Ruza sneered. “We must check all of them. An undiagnosed infection could lead to sepsis very rapidly, especially after so much stress and exertion.”

“Kingfisher and Harlequin have checked in,” Brenner said as he walked over to join them. “They say that Sandman is stable, and we’re trying to figure out a way to get him back down from that cliff.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” Ruza replied. “Our top priority must be to restore air traffic to the carrier so that its medical facilities can be put to use.”

“I’m assuming the mission to recapture it was a success, considering that it’s not bombing the hell out of us right now,” Brenner mused as he looked to the sky.

“Do you think Barbosa has been captured?” Petrova asked warily.

“Personally, I’m hoping that someone gave him a fatal case of heavy metal poisoning,” Brenner grumbled. “We won’t know until comms are restored with the Tirad. If everything went to plan, I should be hearing from Captain Ortega before very long.”

“One thing concerns me,” Ruza said as he ran his scanner over the next recruit. “Roach and Crow remain unaccounted for. I expected them to be present at one of the launch sites, considering their strategic importance.”

“They always work together,” Petrova added. “I don’t think they’d split up to cover both objectives.”

“If we have not encountered them here, could they be defending the Beta site?” Ruza asked.

“If they are, Lily will deal with them,” Brenner replied.

“It’s possible that he kept them in reserve as a kind of fast response team,” Petrova added. “He’s done that before. The average time to target anywhere on the colony is about fifteen mikes by dropship.”

“It’s been more than fifteen minutes since we started fucking this place up,” Brenner mused. “They haven’t come rushing in. Hang on,” he added, raising a hand to his helmet to switch channels. Petrova waited as he held a private conversation, Ruza turning an ear to listen as he continued his examination. “That was Ortega,” Brenner began. “I need to assemble everyone.”

He put through the call, and his team soon congregated in the courtyard. Petrova stood with Silverback, Wasp, Ruza, Rivera, and a few of the other higher-ranked personnel as Brenner began his address.

“The team assigned to retake the carrier succeeded, though they took heavy casualties. The Tirad is back under our control. The tether station and the Beta site have both been secured. We’ve captured all four of our objectives.”

“Four for four,” Silverback muttered. “Not fuckin’ bad.”

“Then, the operation was a complete success?” Rivera asked as he glanced at his comrades. “All of the enemy’s assets have been seized?”

“Thank goodness,” Petrova said with a sigh of relief. “What about Barbosa?”

“There’s always a but,” Brenner grumbled. “Barbosa escaped the carrier along with Song and Nilsson. They’re heading to the ground, and they have the Ursa with them.”

“If they unleash that weapon inside the city, it could do untold damage,” Ruza growled. “We must intervene.”

“How do you expect us to get back to the city?” Wasp scoffed, spreading her arms with a whir. “It took us all day to walk here. How long would it take us to get back?”

“Too long to make a difference,” Rivera muttered. “I have a better idea,” he added, nodding across the compound. The others followed his gaze to the parked PDF trucks.

“Hey, we could drive there!” Silverback said. “Assuming they’re still in working order after we filled them full of holes…”

“Mostly you,” Wasp chided.

“Four trucks – that’s twelve passengers per,” Brenner mused as he did the math in his head. “A little over fifty including the front seats. If there are as many over at Beta, we could bring a hundred fighters back to the city. There should be plenty left behind to hold and secure the bases, especially if they can get the CIWS guns to cooperate.”

“Lily can head back on foot,” Silverback added. “She’s probably itching to stretch Tiger’s legs after being cooped up on the Courser for weeks.”

“Start assembling your men,” Brenner ordered, Rivera giving him a nod before hurrying off.

“Commander,” Petrova began, still staring in the direction of the APCs. She wasn’t looking at the trucks or the launcher beyond them, but at the empty PCE that was standing with its arms still locked into a raised position, frozen in place like a statue. “I want to make a difference, and there’s something only I can do.” She reached behind her head, pulling down the collar of her pressure suit to display the shunt on her neck, tapping a finger against the cold metal implant.

“Do it,” Brenner replied with a nod.

She jogged past the group of watching prisoners and approached the PCE, feeling a twinge of apprehension as she glanced into its open chest cavity. It had been weeks since she’d been connected to one of the machines, and it was only after some time away that she had truly come to understand its impact on her. The sense of power and invulnerability, the way that it washed away all of the aches and pains – it was almost addictive. Perhaps it was, to some.

She began to climb inside, feeling the soft padding envelop her, conforming to the shape of her body and holding her with a gentle firmness to keep her still. There was a tangible sensation of metal on metal as her shunt found its place, the suit connecting to the socket and flooding her extremities with tingling static. It was calibrating itself – tuning its systems to her body. Everything below her neck went numb, replaced with the sensory input from the suit, its pistons and servos becoming hers. The canopy snapped closed, its interior displays illuminating, its eyes and sensors feeding her data.

The suit raised its hand – her hand – and she flexed her fingers experimentally. Ruza was standing before her, barely a foot taller than the PCE, putting her closer to eye level with him than she had ever been.

“How is it?” he asked warily.

“It’s a production model, so not quite as advanced as the prototypes,” she explained. “It’s running on a battery bank instead of a reactor, meaning it’s less autonomous and has weaker shields. Still, it’ll do.”

She lumbered over to retrieve the discarded heavy XMR, checking its magazine. The drum still had fifty rounds left, and the underbarrel plasma launcher had a full can of gas.

“Can you keep pace with a vehicle?” Ruza asked, his voice coming through clear inside the suit.

“What can those old APCs do at a clip?” she wondered, turning her camera dome to look at them. Rivera was already at work loading his men, the fighters climbing up into the troop bays. “Forty or fifty klicks? These suits aren’t exactly spry. I think that old model of truck weighs about ten tons, so maybe I can hang off the back if I can find a solid handhold.”

“If you believe it will support your weight,” he replied with a nod.

They walked over to the APCs, Ruza examining her suit the whole way. It was probably the first time he had been this close to one that wasn’t trying to kill him. Brenner was loading his team into the lead vehicle, along with a few extra fighters who were occupying the empty seats.

She was distracted as she heard a familiar voice, seeing Harlequin and Kingfisher hurrying over through one of her cameras.

“I know you’re not running off to get yourselves killed without us!” Harlequin protested as he jogged to a stop nearby. The Jarilan was carrying a long rifle that was comically large in his hands, more like a flagpole than a weapon. He recoiled at the sight of the PCE, but quickly surmised who was piloting it.

“What’s Sandman’s status?” Brenner asked as he walked over to meet them.

“Stable,” Kingfisher replied. “There are medics with him, and there’s not much more we can do. We figured we could do more good down here.”

“The SCPEL?” Brenner added.

“Out of juice,” Kingfisher replied. “It served its purpose.”

“Damn,” Brenner sighed. “Well, grab some fresh mags and pile in. We’re going on a road trip.”

“Here,” Harlequin said, walking over to Ruza and offering him the long rifle. “You left this up on the outcrop. It seemed like it was important to you.”

“Thank you,” Ruza replied, bowing his head respectfully as he accepted the weapon.

When everyone had boarded the trucks, Petrova climbed onto the back of the trailing vehicle. There was a metal bar on the roof that she could hold onto, and the bumper would hopefully support the suit’s weight for the duration of the drive. She held the XMR in her free hand, her sensors scanning the little convoy that was assembling.

The vehicles turned and headed out through the gate, leaving roughly another hundred fighters to maintain control of the base and the prisoners. Her suit bounced along with the truck as it crested a dune, rocking on its suspension, gradually picking up speed. There were no roads out here – they would have to cross the open desert to reach the city. At least it was impossible to get lost with the faint sliver of the tether rising up into the sky like a beacon. She had been worried that her suit might make the truck unbalanced, but she only weighed around a tenth of what it did. The three other trucks had spread out a little, driving along slightly ahead of her, their wheels kicking up clouds of sand.

“You’d best all be locked and loaded by the time we get back to the city!” Brenner warned over the radio. “We have no idea what we’re walking into. I’ve asked Captain Ortega if he can use the carrier’s sensors to scope things out and give us some updated intel.”

“Why are we hanging West?” Rivera asked. “We’re not heading straight back?”

“We’re meeting up with the B team,” Brenner explained.

It didn’t take long for Petrova to spot a dust cloud on the horizon, another small convoy of PDF trucks converging on their position. There were three APCs, along with something considerably more alien. Racing alongside the trucks at full tilt was a Jarilan Warrior – certainly the one Brenner’s people kept referring to as Tiger Lily. It was even larger than Petrova’s PCE at maybe ten or eleven feet, equipped with a heavy shield and a shoulder-mounted cannon of the same kind commonly seen on UNN vehicles. Its digitigrade legs carried it along at alarming speed, each long stride kicking up the sand, easily keeping pace with the trucks. To Petrova’s bemusement, there was a pinup of a shirtless sailor painted on its chitinous chest plate.

Someone popped out of the hatch on top of the lead truck, and Petrova saw Reed waving his rifle at them, bouncing as the vehicle crested a dune.

“Howdy!” he yelled above the engine noise, his voice sounding distorted over the comms. “Guess who blew up a MAST! Doc, Rivera – you guys still in one piece?”

“It is good to see you well, Reed!” Ruza replied.

“What about Wasp?” he added. “Where’s my sweet, angry little Borg?”

“Reed!” Wasp hissed, her embarrassment palpable. “I’m going to break your fucking spine when I get my hands on you!”

“That’s the goal!” he replied as Silverback filled the line with laughter.

“Captain Ortega says that Barbosa will be landing in the city shortly,” Brenner added, keeping them on track. “He has a Wombat with the Ursa onboard, so expect to be facing enemy armor. There are four PCEs unaccounted for, and at least two of them are traveling with it.”

“Can’t he shoot them down or blow them up when they land?” Reed asked.

“Not while they’re near a populated area,” Brenner explained. “The carrier doesn’t have any weapons small or precise enough for that kind of work. Even something like a cruise missile would cause a lot of collateral damage. It’ll be up to us.”

“Business as usual, then,” Reed scoffed. “We’ve carried the whole revolution on our shoulders up to now, so we might as well get it across the finish line.”

Petrova noticed something pop up on her scopes, her suit’s sensors detecting signatures on the horizon. Peering over the roof of the truck, she magnified the view, the camera dome stabilizing to show three dropships heading their way in formation.

“Incoming!” she warned. “Three Leadbeaters on an intercept course!”

“Damn it,” Brenner growled. “There’s that fast response team you were talking about. They must have been warned during the assault. They’re trying to catch us out in the open with those tail guns.”

“We’ve seen them do it before,” Rivera confirmed. “They’ll use them for budget CAS runs.”

“A shitty PDF truck like this won’t stand up to that kind of firepower for long!” Reed warned as he ducked back down inside the vehicle and slammed the hatch shut.

“Ruza!” Rivera began. “You think you can pull off another stunt like you did back at the garrison?”

“Petrova, feed me your targeting data!” Ruza barked as he emerged from the hatch of the APC to the right of hers. The AMR came first, then his head appeared, the wind whipping at his ears and blowing his sandy hair. His broad shoulders got stuck, and he had to lift first one arm through the opening, then the other. He was soon shouldering the heavy weapon, pointing it at the horizon.

“Right!” she replied, taking a moment to connect her suit’s network to his weapon. “Distance – five klicks and closing fast!”

Her camera dome remained steady as the Rask lined up his shot, the long barrel wobbling up and down with the motion of the vehicle. The driver of his truck hit the brakes, and the vehicle slid to a stop in the sand, providing him with a more stable firing platform. He was already diminishing in her rear cameras, Petrova watching as he seemed to exhale. With a squeeze of the trigger, he fired, the sound echoing across the desert like a thunderclap. A scant second passed, then the lead dropship shuddered, her magnified view showing the cockpit canopy collapse inward like a windshield hit by a rock. It drifted, forcing one of its neighbors to dodge out of its path, quickly nosing down and losing altitude. It plunged into the sand some kilometers ahead of them, a cloud of black smoke rising from behind the dunes.

“Bullseye!” Reed cackled.

“Good shot, Ruza!” Rivera added as the sound of muffled cheering emanated from within his vehicle.

“Leave the next one to me!” a female voice added, Petrova watching the Warrior veer away from the racing trucks at a sprint.

“Be careful, Lily,” Brenner warned. “Those tail guns fire the same caliber slug as an AMR. I don’t know how many of those your shield can take before they punch through.”

“I’ll try to draw their fire away from you,” she said, her suit leaping from the crest of a dune like a long-jumper. It landed with a thud on its clawed feet, quickly picking up the pace, seeming never to tire. Despite her suit’s loping gait, the thirty-mill on her shoulder remained stable, rising up on a flexible gimbal to aim at the sky.

The tail-mounted guns on the dropships couldn’t fire directly ahead, so the nearest aircraft banked to expose its belly when it came into range, turning its rounded nose away from its target. It loosed a long burst of gunfire, the molten trails drawing a line between the spinning barrel and the Warrior, splashing in the sand a few meters away from her and walking closer.

Lily fired the smoke launchers that were embedded in her suit’s shoulder plates, creating an obscuring, wing-shaped cloud that concealed her for a few moments as she ran. It gave her enough time to change course, her suit able to turn on a dime far quicker than any conventional vehicle, emerging trailing wisps of smoke. The gunfire went off-target, cutting through the cloud where it had expected her to be.

If their gun was in range, then so was hers, the Warrior’s shoulder-mounted cannon rising to track its target. Like the turret of a tank, it was stabilized, its barrel barely wavering even as the biomechanical suit raced across the sand. Lily raised her shield, intercepting another salvo of rounds, the heavy slugs hammering against it and making its plasma shield flicker. Visibly shuddering under the force of the blows, she fired back, the three-barreled cannon on her shoulder spinning up. Its coils glowed as it spewed a stream of thirty-millimeter rounds up into the air, burning like tracers with residual heat as they barreled towards the dropship.

They trailed molten holes along the craft’s flank, punching straight through its armor and walking down to the heat tiles that covered its belly. They hit something vital, one of the engines on the tail sputtering before erupting into a ball of blue fire, pieces of wreckage raining as the tail section separated and what remained of the dropship’s hull began to sink. It was falling more than gliding, hitting the ground hard, another explosion rupturing the hull to leave it broken and burning on the sand.

One craft remained, banking in the opposite direction, aiming for the convoy. Lily skidded to a halt, her suit’s clawed feet throwing up a wall of sand, and she changed targets. Most of her slugs flew wide, a few of them catching the dropship in its stubby wing as it veered off, but they didn’t bring it down. It opened up on the vehicles below, causing them to swerve off-course, the trucks separating to make themselves harder targets.

Petrova lifted her XMR and braced it against the roof of her truck, firing at the craft as it drifted overhead and cut a swathe across her path with a rain of tungsten. Her own slugs found their mark, impacting along its tiled belly, but the dropship was hardened against small-arms fire. Even her heavy XMR couldn’t penetrate its defenses, the rounds pancaking or sparking off.

Another loud crack from Ruza’s AMR rang out, and the dropship listed, smoke beginning to pour from a molten hole just beneath one of its stubby wings. Its thrusters flickered off, and it began to nose up, the engines burning as though the pilot was trying to gain altitude. Already not the lightest or most aerodynamic of craft, it stalled out, dropping back down to the ground to erupt into a plume of dark smoke.

“Splash three!” Rivera announced.

“All enemy craft are down!” Petrova confirmed. “I’m not seeing anything else on my scope.”

“Good shooting, people,” Brenner added. “Tighten up for the formation and maintain course. Here’s hoping the rest of the drive will be less eventful.”

“Should take us a couple of hours to get back,” Reed said. “Think you can keep up that long, Lily?”

“Tiger will burn through a lot of honey, but I can make it,” she replied.

“Just got word from my team on the carrier that they’re pursuing Barbosa,” Brenner announced. “Control has been restored to the crew, and they’re sending whoever they can to help. They’ll try to coincide with our arrival and meet us on the surface.”

“What will we do if Barbosa rallies the whole PDF to protect him?” Rivera asked. “We’re only bringing a hundred men, and he could empty the garrisons if he wanted to. Not to mention the SWAR teams he still has in reserve. We don’t really have any assets left in the city – they all participated in the operation to capture the launch sites.”

“Don’t we?” Reed asked. “The comms have been restored, right? We could put out the call – tell everyone that the final battle for Hades is about to go down, and that it’s now or never. The people of Hades are our asset.”

“You think anyone’s going to participate after what happened during the last riot?” Petrova replied. “Barbosa has the colony on lockdown.”

“They might if we tell them that this is it,” Reed continued. “Barbosa has never been weaker, and the more of a distraction they cause, the more PDF will be drawn away from us to deal with them. Barbosa has already decided to deploy the Ursa inside the city. It’s going down there whether we like it or not.”

“I suppose we need any help we can get right now,” Brenner conceded. “Do it.”

“Where’s the radio in this piece of junk?” Petrova heard him mutter as he rummaged inside the cab. “Ah, here it is. People of Hades!” he began, her suit picking up his broadcast on the wide band. “It’s me, Reed – the leader of the glorious resistance. As we speak, the yellow rat fuck known as Barbosa is on his way to ground after being driven off his carrier. We control his ship, we control the tether station, and we captured all of his missile bases. He’s down a hundred SWAR agents, a dozen suits of armor, and we just shot down three of his dropships for target practice. He’s running scared, so get out there and cause some chaos! Rioting, arson, destruction of government property, assault on a peace officer – it’s all on the table! One night only! I have a representative from the UN with me right now, and he assures me it’s all good!”

“I did not say that,” Brenner grumbled.

“I don’t recall anyone electing him as the leader, either,” Rivera added.

“This is it – no do-overs!” Reed continued, undeterred. “These people have beaten you down, worked you to the bone, and starved your families. No more! Barbosa and his Lieutenants will be dead by sundown! Rise up! Fight back! Remind them what happens when you fuck with Hades!”

“A very rousing speech,” Brenner sighed. “I hope it does the job.”

“Now I’ll just put that on repeat, and…done,” Reed said smugly.

“Let us hope that enough people answer your summons to make a difference,” Ruza said. “I would not want to put civilians at risk unduly.”

“This is their war too,” Reed insisted. “It’s their home. They have to stand up and fight for it. Nobody else can do it for them this time.”

“Nothing like a little violent regime change to pay homage to the old days,” Silverback said.

CHAPTER 36

DAY 56 – HADES – BARBOSA

Barbosa marched across the compound as SWAR teams and camouflaged PDF rushed back and forth, the shadow of the tether casting a dark streak across the compound. It seemed to crawl across the city slowly, like some manner of giant sundial. The air was hot and dry, and the planet’s hypergiant star was blinding, but his PCE kept him mercifully insulated from the hostile environment. He had spent so many weeks in orbit above the arid planet, directing its day-to-day operations and waging his campaign, but this was the first time he had ever set foot on its surface. The way things were going, it was likely to be his last.

Garrison One was the largest and best defended of the bases on the surface, nestled amidst many of the important administrative and civic buildings, only a stone’s throw from the anchor. If there was a place to hold out while his plan was enacted, it was here.

He paused, watching the crowds run back and forth, PDF trucks already loading troops under the direction of the SWAR teams. Song was easy to spot, piloting the only other PCE in the dusty compound, a group of troopers hurrying out of his path as he lumbered over to Barbosa.

“The Ursa is secured and ready to deploy at your command,” he began. Barbosa glanced over at the house-sized lander that was sitting on one of the pads, dwarfing the pair of dropships that were idling beside it. “Nilsson and his staff have been loaded onto a transport and will be transferred to the anchor shortly.”

“Good,” Barbosa replied. “Have you had any updated reports from our other teams?”

“Both MAST launch sites have fallen under enemy control,” Song replied hesitantly. “We’ve had no further contact from any of our people, so it’s reasonable to assume that they’re all KIA. Before we lost contact, one of the teams reported the presence of a Jarilan Warrior, and it was just confirmed by the flight of dropships we sent to intercept the enemy.”

An image appeared on Barbosa’s HUD, seemingly captured from a video feed, showing a magnified view of a towering alien creature. He sneered at the familiar sight of Betelgeusian biotechnology, watching as two more pictures of the thing cycled past.

“There’s no low that Brenner won’t sink to,” Barbosa muttered. “That thing is a crime against nature…”

“A convoy of captured vehicles is returning to the city and will arrive within two hours,” Song continued. “I’ve already begun deploying our PDF to head them off.”

“They just keep coming out of the woodwork like termites,” the Commander complained as he viewed footage of the trucks crossing the desert, the Warrior loping alongside them. “No matter how many of them I kill, there are always more to replace them. Looks like they have a PCE,” he mused, noting the suit that was clinging to the back of one of the vehicles.

“One of the production models,” Song explained. “Possibly a defector. We can’t fully trust the locals, after all. They’ve proven to be less than reliable.”

“Or Petrova could have captured one,” Barbosa sighed. “The last conversation I had with her did not end on friendly terms. We can’t rule out the possibility that she’s aiding the insurgents now. I had such high hopes for her future, and look what they’ve done to her. They’ve filled her head with lies and manipulated her into blaming all of her problems on me.”

“Be that as it may, our foothold here is no longer tenable,” Song continued hurriedly. “Without the carrier and the MASTs, we cannot exercise control over Hades’ orbit, and I do not believe that we have any capacity to recapture them now. Some of our most valuable assets were guarding the MASTs.”

“I know,” Barbosa conceded. “You don’t need to convince me, Song. It should be obvious to any capable commander that our control over this colony has been lost. Nor am I intending to go out in a blaze of glory,” he added. “Our strategy now is to delay the enemy and buy Roach and Crow time to secure our exfil route. Put every warm body and obstacle that we have in their way, and prevent them from reaching us. Pull out all the stops. I have no further use for Hades or its people, and I no longer care what state we leave them in. This accursed dustbowl can burn for all I care.”

“Very well,” Song replied. “I will wait for the most opportune time to activate the Ursa Major.”

“That should tie them up for a while,” Barbosa said. “Are you sure that you can control it?”

“Control? No,” Song replied. “Once the Ursa is activated, it will seek its own targets at will, and there won’t be much that we can do to direct it. The suit upgrade that I designed simply allows me to broadcast a friendly IFF signal using a transmitter recovered from another Broker drone. It will see me as a fellow Broker, and I’ll be able to operate in its proximity with relative safety.”

“Good. I want these insurgents dead and buried. There’s no way they have anything that can scratch that tank.”

“Commander, you may want to check the wide radio band,” Song muttered. “There’s a repeating message being broadcast by the insurgents.”

Barbosa tuned in, hearing a distorted transmission filter into his suit.

“…leader of the glorious resistance. As we speak, the yellow rat fuck known as Barbosa is on his way to ground after being driven off his carrier. We control his ship, we control the tether station…”

“Jameson Reed,” Barbosa sneered. “I truly hate that man.”

“He appears to be rallying the locals,” Song continued. “He no doubt intends to divert our attention and strain our resources.”

“Deploy PDF riot teams to secure the streets leading to the anchor,” Barbosa said. “If there’s any kind of protest or march, they’ll be coming straight to the city center, and Reed knows it. I want airborne SWAR teams dispatched to head off that insurgent convoy.”

“I’ll see it done, Commander.”

“This is still my city,” Barbosa growled. “I’ll give it up when I’m damned well ready, and not a moment before.”

DAY 56 – HADES OUTSKIRTS – RUZA

Ruza hopped out of the back of the APC, feeling warm sand beneath his paws once more. The vehicles had pulled up in the industrial zone on the outskirts of the city, and the fighters were unloading from the transports, filtering out into the deserted street. Rivera was organizing them into teams, the men lining up on the dusty road, Petrova’s PCE and Lily’s Warrior towering over them.

“Could be worse,” Reed said as he sidled up beside the Rask. “We have a hundred good men, heavy infantry support, and your AMR. I don’t think Barbosa has much left that can stop us now.”

“It is just a matter of reaching him,” Ruza replied, gazing out at the tether in the distance. “The carrier’s Captain has confirmed that Barbosa set down inside Garrison One. It is in the heart of the city, and well-defended. Whatever special forces remain to him will be concentrated there.”

“You think he’s just planning to hole up and wait us out?” Reed asked.

“I do not know,” Ruza replied. “Do any other options remain to him?”

“Alright, people!” Brenner shouted as he climbed on top of the nearest APC. “Here’s the plan! Barbosa is holed up in the city center, so that’s where we’re going! This is going to be a thunder run! That means we’re traveling at speed in light armored vehicles with the goal of punching through the enemy lines and taking their HQ. The carrier is providing overwatch and will feed us data on enemy movements in real time, but we can’t risk fire support. We intend to avoid large concentrations of enemy forces and roadblocks, but if we encounter heavy resistance, the order will be given to dismount and neutralize. Lily, Petrova – your task will be to protect the transports. We’ll be moving through a dense urban environment, so expect attacks from all angles and watch out for civilians. Let’s keep the momentum going!”

“Get over here, Petrova,” Reed said as he waved to the PCE. It came lumbering over, and Reed pulled a roll of reflective yellow tape from his vest, gesturing for her to extend her hand. He began to wrap the tape around the suit’s bulky forearm.

“What’s this for?” Petrova asked, her voice taking on a synthetic quality through the PCE’s speakers.

“So we know which side you’re on and Ruza doesn’t blow your head off by accident,” he replied. “Borgs too,” he added, nodding to the SWAR agents. “It could get all kinds of mixed up out there, and we don’t want any blue on blue. Come on – line up.”

One by one, Brenner’s team lined up to receive their armbands, Silverback flexing as Reed wrapped the tape around his bulging bicep.

“Yes, yes,” Reed muttered. “Your arms were very expensive, I get it.”

Wasp was last in line, staring back at Reed through her expressionless visor as he taped up her arm. They whispered to one another, Ruza’s sensitive hearing easily picking it up.

“Glad you’re still in one piece,” Reed began. “I don’t believe in one-night stands.”

“I think you had more important things to worry about than that,” she chided. “I’m amazed you didn’t catch a slug. Barbosa could probably see your inflated head from space, Mister glorious leader of the resistance.”

“Be careful, alright?” he added as he wound another length of tape around her arm. “I know that you have a tendency to be impulsive.”

“I’d have to be impulsive to sleep with you,” she whispered. “You’re lucky I harbor some strange, likely concussion-induced affection for you, or I’d already have twisted your head off.”

“You always know just what to say. It’s poetic, really.”

“That’s too much tape!” she hissed. “Pay attention and stop thinking about last night, you little gremlin. It’s going to look weird!”

“It’s not like I’m gonna cut off the blood flow.”

“That’s not the blood flow I’m worried about.”

“You’re all done!” he announced a little louder. She turned, and he dared to give her a pat on the butt to send her on her way, her back straightening like a rod in surprise.

“I swear to God, Reed,” she began in a low and menacing tone.

“We’ll do lunch when this is all over,” he replied. “Use that fiery hatred you feel as motivation.”

“Young love,” Silverback added with a sarcastic sigh as he watched his teammate stalk past with balled fists.

Reed recoiled as the Warrior marched over to him, towering above even the APCs, each footfall shaking the ground.

“Uh, I don’t think anyone’s going to be confused about which side you’re on,” he stammered as she came to a stop in front of him.

“I know, but I want to be included,” she insisted.

“Alright,” he muttered, peeling off a length of tape. She brought down her shield so that he could reach, and he stood on his toes, crossing two long strips to create an X symbol. “There you go. By the power vested in me by…nobody, really, I now pronounce you a resistance fighter.”

“Cool,” she chuckled, lifting the shield and moving back a few paces.

“What about you, Harlequin?” Reed called. “You want to be a resistance fighter too?”

“I’m good!” he shouted back. “My whole thing is more not being seen, and the high-vis yellow kind of conflicts with that!”

“If we’re all done playing grabass, let’s start loading up!” Rivera barked. The fighters began to climb back inside the waiting trucks, their boots thundering up the ramps as he looked on.

“We have a friendly dropship incoming,” Brenner warned, holding a finger to his helmet. “Don’t shoot it down, please.”

Ruza heard the craft before he saw it, a UNN dropship coasting in low over the city, flying just above the flat rooftops of the prefabs to avoid enemy fire. It banked to shed some of its excess velocity, then began to descend in VTOL mode, putting down in the courtyard of a nearby warehouse complex. Ruza had to will his heart to stop beating so fast, his hands gripping his AMR more tightly. His experiences on Hades had trained him to fear the shadow of a Leadbeater.

From the ramp emerged a handful of figures. As they neared, he made out two more SWAR agents, along with three other humans. He didn’t recognize them at first, but he soon realized that they were Trogs, the men clad in heavy EOD armor. Behind them marched something far stranger, its pristine white and silver finish shining in the afternoon heat. It was a Broker – he had never seen one in person before.

“Whoa,” Reed muttered, moving up to stand beside the Rask. “Is that a Broker?”

“Have you ever laid eyes on one before now?” Ruza asked quietly.

“Nobody has,” Reed marveled as he watched it draw closer, its cupped feet leaving circular tracks in the sand. “All we need now are some Valbarans, and I can fill in my Bingo card.”

Ruza knew better than to ask.

Brenner walked over to greet the newcomers. It seemed that they were what remained of the team sent to oust Barbosa from the carrier. They had succeeded, but at a cost. Neither the Trog team nor the SWAR team were up to full strength.

“I figured we’d do more good down here than sitting out the fight on the carrier,” one of the SWAR agents began as he walked over to introduce himself. “Ortega has everything under control. I’m Flatline, and that’s Caveman. The Trogs are Deacon, Parker, and Mitchell. We call the walking fridge Reggie.”

“I am Ruza,” the Rask replied with a bow of his head.

“Yeah, we’ve been hearing a lot of chatter about you,” Flatline confirmed with a nod. “And you must be Reed.”

“I see that my reputation precedes me,” Reed replied smugly.

“That and the message you’re blasting across every radio frequency.”

“Leave the bird here,” Brenner advised. “It’ll only draw attention to us. There’s room for all of you in the trucks, but not Reggie. I have no idea how that suit of his works – can he keep up?”

“Oh, he’s got some tricks up his sleeves,” Flatline replied.

“I’ll say – he has four of them,” Reed added as he watched the alien machine walk past.

“He says that he can detect the Ursa,” Flatline continued. “His mission is to recover whatever Broker technology was used in its construction. We should get advanced warning if they decide to switch the thing on.”

“Alright, load up,” Brenner said as he directed them to the trucks. “We’re gonna be hauling ass, so prepare for a bumpy ride. The shocks on these pieces of shit are as old as I am.”

“Tape!” Reed declared, brandishing the roll again. Flatline gave Brenner a questioning look, and the Commander nodded. The newcomers lined up to receive their armbands, Reed sticking a strip to the massive pauldrons on the Trog EOD armor. He went for Reggie, but the Broker had other ideas, hurrying away with its awkward gait as though afraid of him.

“He’s a little shy,” the one named Caveman whispered.

As the last of the men climbed into the trucks, Petrova returned to her place on the back of one of the vehicles, making its rear suspension sag beneath her PCE’s weight. Lily’s Warrior jogged in place beside them, stretching its legs, while Reggie waited nearby. Only when Ruza had climbed inside the lead truck and had emerged from its hatch did he see the Broker move again. As the vehicles revved their engines, the suit’s spindly legs tucked up beneath its belly, the bulky chassis somehow hanging in the air as though an invisible force was holding it aloft. There were no thrusters or engines that Ruza could see, and the sand beneath it seemed undisturbed by any backwash.

Human technology had once seemed as magic to him. He could not have imagined how a shuttle’s engines worked, or how an XMR could fire a round without any propellant. Over time, he had learned, and he had come to understand forces like aerodynamics and electromagnetism. Whatever the Broker was doing, it defied his understanding. Perhaps it was some advanced form of AG field, bending gravity to its will.

The convoy began to roll out, the two aliens flanking them – the Warrior jogging as the Broker drifted silently. They rapidly picked up speed, Ruza bracing a hand against the hull as the truck bounced beneath him, his AMR clutched in the other. He could already see fires on the horizon, their black smoke rising in great plumes, distant dropships flying back and forth like flies orbiting a carcass.

“It appears that your call to arms has been heard, Reed!” Ruza said, raising his voice over the wind.

“Told you!” he replied, his voice filtering through Ruza’s earpiece. “Hadeans don’t turn down a good scrap!”

***

The convoy rolled through the narrow city streets, flanked by the Warrior, Ruza watching the scenery flash by from his place atop the lead vehicle. The city was alight with fires, the smoke starting to choke the sky, the red stain cast by the dimming sun only adding to the sense of oppression.

As they drove deeper, they saw more and more evidence of what was unfolding around them. True to their reputation, the people of Hades had taken to the streets, and they were wreaking havoc. Ruza wrinkled his nose at the scent of burning metal and plastic as the convoy drove around the flaming husk of a PDF truck that was partially blocking the street. All of its doors had been flung open, and there was no evidence of any occupants. It wasn’t the last, either – Ruza turning his head to examine another truck that had crashed into a prefab, the outriggers collapsing to bury its cab beneath the dented metal. His keen eyes caught a few empty magazines and bright yellow banners that had been discarded during the fighting.

Further along, he spotted a large group of people moving down the street ahead, the armbands and vests that they wore displaying their allegiance. They were carrying poles with more fluttering high-vis vests taped to them, and all were armed. Some carried weapons no doubt sourced from the resistance or perhaps stolen from fleeing PDF, while others wielded hammers and pickaxes likely taken from their workplaces.

They turned when they heard the sound of the engines, bristling, but cheers soon erupted when they saw Ruza and his yellow armband. The crowd of people stepped aside to give the trucks room to pass, waving and brandishing their weapons, Reed and more of the fighters emerging from the hatches atop their respective vehicles to wave back. The reaction abruptly turned to one of confusion and alarm when they noticed Tiger Lily running along beside the vehicles, a few of the onlookers retreating to the cover of the alleys. The Broker garnered a mostly bemused response as he coasted along behind the trailing vehicle, far too odd to be frightening.

“What a sight we must make,” Ruza muttered.

“Told you the tape was a good idea,” Reed replied.

“I have word from the carrier that we’re coming up on a PDF roadblock,” Brenner warned. “There’s no way around, and we don’t want to stop unless we have to. Can you clear us a path, Lily?”

“I’ll make sure you have a way through,” she replied, accelerating past the lead truck. Ruza watched her sprint by, at head height to him, the suit’s loping strides carrying her ahead. He ducked down a little further into the hatch, keeping his rifle above it, watching intently.

In the fading light, he soon picked out the roadblock. The PDF had set up concrete barricades and sandbags to block the street, and they had parked two trucks behind them longways, creating another obstacle. PDF with rifles looked out over the road from the hatches atop the vehicles, and the passengers had disembarked – two squads manning the defenses.

They must have been expecting rioters to come rushing down the dusty street, not a Warrior. The suit wasn’t hard to spot, quickly emerging from the shadows cast by the setting sun and dark smoke clouds, its autumn camouflage stained red in the dying light. Their panic was evident as they began to fire at the approaching goliath, Ruza ducking reflexively as a few stray slugs flashed past it, one pinging off the front armor of his transport and another hitting a prefab off to his left. Her shield illuminated the shooters in brief flashes of blue-green light, her plasma warding off the slugs, that shoulder-mounted cannon coming to bear from above it.

It aimed its rotating barrels down, their coils glowing as a stream of thirty-millimeter slugs hammered the defenses, chewing through the concrete barriers as though they were made from packing foam. The sandbags fared no better – the troopers who were huddled behind the roadblock eviscerated or tossed back by the force of the rounds, the kinetic energy enough to coat the walls of the trucks behind them with gore. One good sweep had the survivors scattering to the safety of the alleys, and Ruza watched as the Warrior plowed into what remained of the barricades, wading through them to create a breach down the center. As pieces of broken concrete rolled across the ground and a low wall of sandbags collapsed, she shouldered her way into the parked trucks.

One of the drivers leapt out of the cab and made a frantic break for it, while the gunners ducked back down into their hatches, the Warrior pushing the ten-ton vehicles aside as though it was opening a pair of swinging doors. One seemed to frustrate her, and she drew back her shield, slamming its flank with enough strength to dent the armor paneling. The blow lifted the wheels on its near side off the sand, and it slowly toppled over, crashing to the ground with a cloud of displaced dust. Lily gave it another shove with her clawed foot to clear the way, then wheeled around, firing one more burst down a nearby alley to dissuade some of the braver PDF.

She waited for the convoy to reach her, the trucks slowing to navigate the chicane of broken barricades and smashed APCs, jogging along with them as they picked up speed again.

Ruza turned his head to track what remained of a trooper on his way through – the man’s body reduced to a red smear, dark blood splattering the prefab where he had been standing. Fighting against Betelgeusians was different. They were more alien in appearance and behavior, and one could rationalize that they were almost emotionless, being practically impervious to fear and pain. It was easy to kill them with a clear conscience – to grow desensitized to the violence. Not so for Coalition species. This was not his first rodeo, as Fletcher would have put it, but it never became any easier to see such destructive weaponry turned against people.

They took a few side streets, Captain Ortega guiding them from the carrier above, his telescopes and sensors able to pick out individual units on the ground. They bypassed more of the blockades, Brenner’s strategy of speed allowing them to stay ahead of the enemy, the PDF unable to respond quickly to their presence with all of the fighting in the city. Gunshots echoed from every direction now, the fires choking the sky. Ruza found himself hoping that the Hadeans would not become too fervent and burn down the whole city.

The convoy slowed as it passed another group of civilians, Ruza leaning over the side of his truck to watch them throw flaming bottles at a PDF vehicle. They were filled with some manner of flammable substance – perhaps fuel or alcohol, spreading burning liquid as they shattered against its hull. What had transpired here was less ambiguous. There had been a small roadblock set up to control the flow of rioters, and several PDF were lying dead, with the rest having fled. One of them had a miner’s pickaxe jutting from his chest plate. The Hadeans were engaged in some kind of violent celebration, waving their yellow vests and throwing stones, trying to break the windows of the truck as it was engulfed in fire.

Ruza was doubly glad that the battle lines were so clear, watching the jubilant humans wave and shout as the convoy passed, moving out of their path. Just like the last group, they weren’t expecting to see the aliens, craning their necks or retreating in alarm at the sight of them.

“So, Reed,” Wasp began. “Did you have a plan to get these people back under control when this is all over, or did you not think that far ahead?”

“They’re working through months of anger and resentment,” he explained as they rounded another bend and returned to the main street. “This is good for them – trust me. It’s therapeutic.”

“I am glad that Amy and the others remained at the base,” Ruza muttered.

“Once we release the loyalist PDF, we’ll be able to restore order,” Reed continued. “Remember – half of them are still holding out in the garrisons. The ones you’re seeing on the streets are those under Barbosa’s command.”

“Looks like they bet on the wrong fuckin’ horse,” Silverback mused.

“Another big roadblock up ahead,” Brenner said. “Friendlies are engaging, and there’s no way around, so prepare to dismount on my mark. We’ll move up with the trucks and use them for cover. Watch for blue on blue – there are civvies going hog wild all over the damned place.”

As they neared their target, the trucks slowed to a crawl, staying in a tight column. Lily moved her Warrior to the front of the convoy, matching their pace, while Petrova’s PCE dropped off the back of its vehicle and lumbered up to join her. Ruza used the scope of his rifle to scout ahead of them, bracing it on the roof of the truck, quickly spotting a firefight.

Another fortified roadblock was in their path, and this one was already burning, assailed by a group of Hadeans. These were not civilians armed with improvised weapons, but an organized group of resistance fighters. They wore their leathers and armbands, a few of them sporting helmets, each of them armed with a rifle or handgun. Perhaps they had been lying low in the city ever since the battle, growing their numbers and preparing just as Reed’s group had.

They were using small unit tactics, a handful of squads laying down suppressive fire from the cover of alleys and a disabled civilian utility vehicle, exchanging shots with the PDF behind the barricades. One of them tossed an incendiary device, and it landed behind the sandbags, erupting and sending a burning trooper rushing away.

“Dismount!” Brenner ordered.

The trucks came to a brief stop to let the passengers pile out, and they were soon advancing again at a steady pace, each squad forming a column behind their respective vehicle for protection. Ruza squeezed back down into the troop compartment, then leapt out onto the street, keeping his AMR at the ready as he marched behind the rumbling transport. Lily and Petrova took point, the panicked PDF soon switching targets to the far more threatening newcomers, their shields flashing each time a slug found its mark. Petrova’s speakers blared a warning as they approached.

“Friendlies! Friendlies!”

A few of the fighters turned to look back, their surprise quickly morphing into relief as the two hulking suits came marching out of the smoke bearing their yellow tape. Petrova and Lily had little to fear from the enemy XMRs, and they waded into battle without hesitation, the Warrior’s cannon thundering as Petrova’s heavy rifle fired off accurate bursts. They quickly reached the damaged civilian truck and covered the fighters as they retreated to the safety of a nearby alley, Petrova moving her suit into the line of fire to cover them.

There was little that the defenders could do against heavy infantry, starting to retreat deeper into their fortifications, hiding behind layers of barriers and sandbags. Behind them was a trio of trucks, parked to block the road. This blockade was more complex than the last one. It seemed that the further the convoy progressed into the city, the more time the enemy had been given to prepare. They had even brought out dragon’s teeth – pyramid-shaped concrete structures laid out in rows that were intended to stop tanks and vehicles. The convoy must be close to one of the garrisons.

The suits were able to step between them, Petrova pushing a group of PDF out of a dugout, firing over the sandbags and into the foxhole where they were taking cover. The survivors leapt and scrambled their way free, retreating into the alleys, the PCE loosing another burst that caught one of the troopers and tore him apart. Tiger Lily strode between the fortifications, the Warrior’s long legs letting her walk over the obstacles, her cannon swiveling to fire off shots at the scurrying humans below. The goal was not to slaughter the enemy, but simply to break their line and send them fleeing.

A grenade exploded, Petrova’s shield flashing, but it was a futile attempt. She swung her weapon towards a trooper who was rising from a truck hatch with another grenade in hand, taking off his head and sending the decapitated body slumping back down into the vehicle.

“First wave – push in!” Brenner ordered.

The infantry squads near the front broke from the cover of their trucks, rushing towards the roadblock. They vaulted over the barricades and sandbags, working in teams to clear the area, a few gunshots ringing out as they came across stragglers.

Brenner was giving directions, standing in the fortifications as he ordered his men to move the dragon’s teeth, waving for Petrova and Lily to push the trucks out of their path. One of the helmeted fighters who had been attacking the point during their arrival approached, his Hadean leathers blowing in the wind as he reloaded his weapon, stepping over a dead trooper. He greeted Brenner, noting the tape on his arm, and gave Ruza a nod.

“Glad you guys showed up when you did!” he began. “Thanks for the save, whoever you are.”

“Commander Brenner,” he replied, extending a hand. The man took it, noting that it was a prosthetic. “We’re on our way to Garrison One to take out Barbosa.”

“Glad to hear it,” the fighter replied, looking over at the towering Warrior as the suit shoved one of the trucks out of the road. “Who the hell are you guys? Are you Navy?”

“It’s a long story,” Brenner explained. “We’ve been sent by the Admiralty to restore order on Hades.”

“My people have been lying low since the resistance base was hit,” the fighter began. “We had to go underground – sometimes literally – and form smaller cells to stay under the radar. We’ve been stockpiling weapons and ammunition as best we can and coordinating with other armed groups. It’s been a lot more difficult to operate inside the city limits without being discovered. There have been busts, arrests, executions…”

“Sorry we couldn’t get here sooner,” Reed said as he came walking over.

“Reed,” the fighter replied, giving him a much more enthusiastic handshake. “Damned good to see you. When we heard your broadcast, we almost couldn’t believe it was you. Some of us thought the Borgs were running a psyop.”

“Is that you, Fritz?” Reed asked with a relieved laugh. “I thought you’d bought it when they bombed the base.”

“Still kicking,” Fritz replied. Ruza recognized his voice now – it was one of the fighters who had crossed his path once or twice in the base.

“We managed to evac most of the resistance leadership to a safe location,” Reed explained. “Omar, Bergmann, Amy – they’re all safe. The Doc’s here, we have Rivera with us. Sorry we couldn’t make it back sooner.”

“Sounds like you’ve had your hands full,” Fritz replied. “Is it true that you captured the carrier and the station, and that you ousted Barbosa’s goons from the missile bases?”

“We’ve got him on the run,” Reed confirmed, giving him a pat on the arm. “That’s mostly thanks to our new Navy friends, but we put in the groundwork.”

“Our party is a hundred strong, and we intend to end this war tonight,” Ruza added.

“We could come with you,” Fritz suggested, nodding to some of the fighters who were waiting nearby. “I’m sure those PDF trucks still work.”

“I’m actually very glad we ran into you,” Brenner interjected. “What we really need is people to hold the line behind us as we advance. If we’re going to take back control of the city, we’ll need troops to occupy these roadblocks and prevent the PDF from retaking them. Can you do that?”

“Sure thing, Commander guy,” Fritz replied with a mock salute. “We can hold down the fort. Reed, lemme give you the frequencies we’re using. The comms have cleared up, and we’re able to communicate again.”

“That was those guys,” Reed replied, pointing to Brenner. “They torpedoed the EWAR ship that’s been jamming us.”

“Cool,” Fritz chuckled as the two exchanged data. “I’ll get in touch with whoever is on the line and tell them to take and hold the checkpoints. Hades belongs to us, not some fucking Borg rats. No offense,” he added with a nod to Brenner.

“Do any of your people require medical attention?” Ruza asked.

“Nah, we have it handled,” Fritz replied. “Go bag Barbosa – that’s the most important thing.”

“It’ll take us a few more minutes to clear these bollards,” Rivera announced as he walked over. “One more thing – put out the word that the Governor is not to be harmed.”

“Why’s that?” Fritz asked skeptically. “I was looking forward to a good hanging.”

“He’s been helping us from the inside and feeding us information,” Rivera explained. “None of this would have been possible without his help, so I don’t want him to turn up in a shallow grave somewhere.”

“I’ll put out the word, but no promises,” Fritz warned. “People are taking to the streets – I saw a trooper get set on fire earlier. Let’s say they’re expressing their frustration with recent administrative decisions.”

“I’d tell you to prioritize protecting civilians, but it sounds like the PDF might be the ones who need protection from them,” Brenner muttered.

Shots rang out, closer this time, the soft crack and telltale whistle of subsonics alerting Ruza. He dropped to the ground, dragging Reed and Rivera with him, pulling them behind a wall of sandbags. Brenner reacted just as quickly, dropping to a knee and taking cover, already firing back by the time Ruza was lifting his head again. Fritz threw himself into a foxhole, ignoring the dead PDF already lying in it, clutching his rifle.

“Left flank!” Brenner barked.

The gunfire was coming from the prefabs on the left side of the street, Ruza spotting the glow of a barrel on one of the roofs. Two of the fighters who had been moving bollards were down, a third taking a slug to the chest and dropping as he tried to get to cover. More fire was pouring in – too precise for PDF, another Marine taking a slug to the helmet and dropping to the sand.

Petrova and Lily moved to assist, putting themselves between the shooters and the fighters, their plasma shields flashing as they intercepted the stream of rounds.

“Enemy SWAR team on the field!” Lily warned, her gun cutting a swathe across one of the prefabs. The burning projectiles punched through the flimsy metal, leaving molten holes that Ruza could have fit his head through, one of them blasting apart an air conditioning unit that jutted from its roof. One of the agents had been firing from behind it, the tumbling slug and glowing shrapnel tearing him apart like a giant shotgun blast, his torn body thrown back down into the alley behind it.

The roar of engines rose above the gunfire, two dropships emerging from behind the prefabs scarcely two hundred meters away. They must have landed nearby some time ago, setting down wherever there was space in the urban sprawl. The backwash from their thrusters created blinding clouds of dust, the dark shapes drifting up into the sky, their tail guns already swiveling to face the roadblock.

“Enemy air!” Lily warned, raising her shield to cover the nearby infantry. Fortunately, the dropships targeted the largest and most threatening thing on the field, twin streams of slugs from their cannons hammering her suit. Like someone raising an umbrella to protect themselves from hail, she lifted the shield higher as they ascended, the plasma flashing and flickering. Those were heavy rounds, and she couldn’t keep it up forever, the thick carapace between the metal studs becoming scored with craters.

“Little help!” she grunted, bringing her cannon to bear. It fired over the shield, sending one of the craft veering away as the slugs hammered its flank.

Ruza leapt from his hiding place, swinging his massive AMR. He braced it against one of the sandbag walls, feeling them sag beneath its weight, exhaling as he lined up a shot. He fired, wincing as the recoil hurt his injured bicep, watching the round punch a hole beneath the craft’s wing. It erupted into a ball of flame as its fuel went up, the explosion rocking it, then it began to sink back towards the ground trailing black smoke. The second craft banked away, its engines flaring as it accelerated, quickly moving out of range.

“Close ranks and watch our flanks!” Brenner ordered. “There may be multiple SWAR teams!”

“The fuckers must have landed before we even got here,” Reed muttered, leaning back against the sandbags. “They used the PDF as bait to draw us in.”

“They’ll hit us from both sides,” Brenner warned. “I want men covering the right side too – get some guns on those alleys!”

“How do you know?” Fritz demanded.

“Because that’s what I trained them to do,” Brenner replied. “They’re going to try to close into CQB where they can best leverage their advantages. Rivera – have everyone who’s not pinned down retreat back down the street and take cover behind the trucks!”

“You heard the Commander!” Rivera yelled, rising from his dugout to wave at the fighters who had yet to reach the roadblock. “Pull back and establish a perimeter!”

A slug impacted the sandbags right by his head, and he ducked back down, covering his helmet reflexively as sand from the pierced fabric poured down on him. Just as Brenner had warned, they were receiving fire from both sides of the street now, pinning them in the road amidst the barricades. It was a deadly crossfire – the shared data streams allowing the agents to avoid accidentally shooting one another. Lily and Petrova turned to face left and right, practically back to back now, covering both angles as the fighters took refuge in the trench-like sandbags beneath them. The Warrior’s cannon could go through the prefabs like butter, and Lily carved through the nearest structure, sparks and flecks of molten metal flying as she swept the spinning barrels across its wall. It was cut apart, the roof collapsing inward as it lost its support.

“Ortega is on overwatch!” Brenner shouted. “Cloud cover and smoke are limiting the carrier’s capabilities, but watch for targets appearing on your HUD!”

Ruza had no helmet, but he watched Petrova suddenly swing her heavy rifle, no doubt receiving a data feed from orbit. She fired through one of the prefabs, aiming for a target hiding out of sight behind it.

“I almost forgot what fighting with orbital superiority feels like!” Reed yelled.

They came under assault from both directions, just as Brenner had warned, and Ruza was forced to duck again as the slugs whistled above his head. The assailants tossed smoke grenades, knowing that they were under surveillance, the obscuring clouds billowing between the prefabs. Visibility was already low with the dimming sun and ash-choked sky, rendered even worse now. There was so much happening all around him that Ruza was only able to glimpse pieces of the unfolding battle.

Brenner ordering his agents to move up.

Rivera rallying the Marines to lay down covering fire.

Petrova striding into gunfire, her shields flashing as she intercepted the slugs.

One of the Trogs in their heavy armor rising to aim a three-pronged weapon.

The bark of the Warrior’s cannon drowning out the yelling of the fighters.

All he could focus on was his part in the exchange, dropping his AMR and pulling his rifle from his shoulder, feeling its comfortable weight and familiar contours in his hands. In comparison to the massive anti-materiel rifle, the old XMR felt as light as a feather. It had no advanced optic that could send and receive data, but neither had the powder rifles that he had trained with for half of his life.

As he knelt behind the sandbags, he watched the slugs pass back and forth through the thick smoke, each one tunneling a brief hole that was soon closed back up, leaving a swirling vortex in its wake. Everyone was fighting with data – tracking blips on their HUDs and sharing streams to pick out targets. Ruza spotted the red glow of a gun barrel emanating from beyond the haze, its hot coils giving away its owner, and he lined up a shot. With a squeeze of the trigger, he downed its wielder, seeing the glow fall and fade from view.

Enemy agents were emerging from the smoke-filled alleys and leaping atop the roofs now, charging into battle between the prefabs, their dark armor standing out starkly against the pale smoke. Ruza caught glimpses of grimacing faces and alien animals painted onto their visors, their skeletal, mechanical limbs hefting rifles, handguns, and knives. A stray slug could fell them at range just as easily as any normal man, but when they closed, their augmented strength and reflexes could turn the tide.

They were not facing civilians and poorly equipped rebels now, however. Brenner’s team charged in, Ruza watching Silverback, Wasp, and Komodo intercept them. More enemy agents fell to gunfire before they reached the trenches of barriers and sandbags, Ruza downing one with a rifle shot to the chest as they leapt from the roof of a prefab, but half a dozen were able to close the distance. The sound of shooting faded – the two sides too close to risk it now, transitioning into a brutal melee instead.

Knives flashed and fists swung, Ruza watching Silverback engage a counterpart with a grimacing demon emblazoned upon his visor, the two agents exchanging hooks and jabs so rapidly that their prosthetic arms became a blur. It was a short, violent confrontation, Silverback landing a blow that caught his opponent in the face. The visor shattered, the helmet was dented inward, and the unfortunate agent was turned almost upside-down before his body hit the ground.

There was a flash of autumn camo as Harlequin scaled the facade of a nearby prefab, crawling on all-sixes like an insect, his injured wing preventing him from flying. Using four limbs for purchase, he drew two handguns with his upper arms, firing into the smoke from his perch on the wall.

Wasp’s sidearm chattered as she took advantage of a brief window to fire on an opponent, the enemy agent jerking as he was riddled with tungsten, each slug punching through his ceramic armor and creating a bloody exit wound as it passed through him. Before his body had even fallen, it was replaced with another, an agent ducking low and sprinting at her. As he vaulted over a concrete barrier, he extended an arm, a serrated blade of nine or ten inches sliding from his wrist.

Wasp was already holding a combat knife in her off hand, the two blades clashing, sparking and squealing as metal met metal. Her assailant aimed for her throat with another swing, and Wasp ducked beneath it, its edge skimming the top of her helmet. One miss was all the opportunity Wasp needed, and she plunged her knife to the hilt in her opponent’s ribs, bypassing the chest piece that protected his torso. One, twice, three times in the space of a second she buried her blade in her opponent, pushing him aside to confront her next challenger.

Komodo was locked in combat with two enemy agents, one of them tearing his rifle from his hands as he tried to bring it to bear, crushing and warping its barrel in his fist. The second assailant moved in, hitting him in the stomach with a devastating punch that doubled him over, the segmented armor on his belly absorbing some of the blow. Komodo tried to fight back, swinging a right hook towards his opponent’s helmet, but the agent caught his wrist. Just like the barrel of the XMR, the man bent and twisted it, cracking polymer and rending metal. Komodo’s prosthetic fingers twitched erratically as their electronics were crushed, then the agent yanked the limb back, ripping away the hand and part of the forearm to leave a jagged stump.

Komodo wasn’t done, succeeding in kicking his opponent’s knee, breaking the leg at the joint and causing the man to fall to the ground as his support was removed. The second drew a machete from a leather holster on his thigh and came at Komodo again, raising the heavy blade above his head and bringing it down towards his clavicle. Komodo moved aside just in time, the edge of the machete sinking deep into his ceramic shoulder pad, the strength of the strike making him buckle.

Ruza was moving now, rising from cover and leveling his bayonet, charging across the roadblock and closing the distance in moments. Distracted by Komodo, the agent didn’t even see the Rask coming, and Ruza drove his rifle into the man’s chest like a spear. It carried enough force to penetrate the armor, sinking deep into flesh, Ruza feeling the bayonet glance off a rib as it was plunged towards the heart. The operative was driven to the ground, trapped beneath Ruza’s weight, a pull of his trigger opening up a bloody cavity in the man’s torso that put an abrupt end to his struggling.

Another shot rang out, and Ruza glanced down to see the fallen agent with the broken leg slumping to the sand where he lay, a fresh hole in his visor still smoldering. Komodo was holding a sidearm in his remaining hand, its coils glowing.

“Thanks for the save,” Komodo panted.

Ruza didn’t even have time to reciprocate before more enemies were upon them, and the pair were forced back into cover, a burst of slugs hitting the sandbags in front of them. At Ruza’s back, Rivera and a team of fighters were moving up, working as a team to suppress and charge in. They piled in behind the sandbags beside him, leaning their weapons over the top to fire wildly, forcing a few SWAR agents back behind a prefab.

“Looks like you guys could use some help,” Rivera grunted, ducking down to reload. “Owens, Cruz – get some grenades in there!” he barked.

The Marine beside him rose up, firing a grenade launcher mounted beneath the barrel of his rifle, the shell impacting at the end of an alley with a thud and throwing up a cloud of dust. Another followed, more gunfire joining them, Ruza seeing an agent fall to the hail of slugs. There was a loud thudding, the sand beneath him vibrating, and he looked up to see Petrova’s PCE striding over their trench.

“Watch your heads!” she warned, her plasma shield flashing as it intercepted the enemy fire. She lumbered ahead, the dull thud of her heavy rifle shaking Ruza’s bones, one of her targets bursting into a shower of gore. She broke into a run, closing the distance and skidding to a stop between two prefabs, swinging her rifle around the corner. The lenses of the cameras that surrounded her canopy seemed to flash as they reflected the glow of her barrel, Petrova firing in full-auto. She stepped back as one of the enemy agents rushed in, a grenade in hand. He primed the explosive and tried to push it through her shield, the plasma field igniting to turn his forearm to slag, the polymer sloughing away like flesh to expose rapidly melting steel bones.

Petrova swung the suit’s left arm, swatting the man like an insect and crushing him against the wall of the prefab. It must have carried near as much force as being hit by a truck, his body crumpling, ceramic armor and bone alike collapsing inward as the flimsy metal dented behind him. The grenade went off, engulfing the PCE in a shroud of dust, but she soon reemerged unscathed with her rifle raised.

Ruza turned his head, seeing that much the same was happening on the left flank. Brenner was leading more of his agents, moving from cover to cover, while Reed and Fritz directed their fighters to support them. Tiger Lily strode above it all like some kind of ancient war goddess, kicking entire prefabs aside to get at her scurrying foes, the bark of her cannon ringing out. She hadn’t come out unscathed – a few fresh wounds leaking green blood, but Ruza knew that Warriors relied on their size and redundant organs for their remarkable resilience.

“They’re on the run!” Brenner announced. “Reserve teams – move in and flush them out! Secure the perimeter!”

Only now did the fighters who had retreated to the trucks charge in – the already outnumbered agents faced with few options other than to retreat as another fifty fresh combatants poured in. They wound through the side streets and alleys to the left and right of the roadblock, more shots resounding. More piled in to help secure the fortifications, dragging the wounded to safety and performing first aid, taking up position to cover the street ahead.

“Are you hurt?” Ruza asked, turning to Komodo.

“Not in any way you can help with, Doc,” he grunted. “Go see to the others.”

Ruza wasted no time, following the scent of blood to the nearest injured fighter, already producing a tourniquet.

“Alright, let’s get the rest of these obstacles moved!” Fritz yelled. “On the double – these guys have places they need to be! Grab what ammo and weapons you can!”

“We can help triage the injured,” Brenner added, hauling one of the Marines to his feet. “Just tell us what you need.”

“No, go get Barbosa,” Fritz replied with a shake of his head. “We can handle things here.”

Brenner nodded, turning to wave to his men.

“Alright – mount up! Let’s keep rolling!”

Petrova and Lily moved up again, using their suits to roll another of the parked PDF trucks out of the way, more fighters working together to remove the last of the dragon’s teeth to clear a path. Everyone was exchanging ammunition and medical supplies, stripping the dead of their gear, a few of the leather-clad fighters examining their newly captured XMRs and helmets. Ruza retrieved his AMR from where he had set it down behind the sandbags, reconnecting it to its quick-release cable, overhearing Komodo and Silverback arguing.

“It’s just one arm – I’ve got two!”

“You should stay,” Silverback insisted. “You’ll do more good here.”

“C’mon, man,” Komodo protested. “I’m still a better shot with my left hand than most of you idiots are with your right.”

“Talk to Brenner,” Silverback added, stooping to strip the magazines from the rig of a fallen agent.

Within ten minutes, the injured were being treated, and the convoy was ready to move again. The troops began to load into the trucks, the vehicles lining up in a column to make it through the path they had cleared. Ruza began to walk back over to the lead APC, but paused, his ear twitching.

“We have incoming!” Lily warned.

Ruza looked back to see a dark shape looming above the city – larger and more square than a dropship. It was a lander, the bulky craft coasting on its four massive engines as it navigated through the dark plumes of smoke, more like a flying building than an aircraft. For the first time, he heard the Broker speak, a synthetic voice emanating from its suit as it stepped out from behind one of the trucks.

“Commander Brenner, I am detecting two Broker signatures emanating from that craft.”

“The Ursa,” Brenner growled.

“What the hell do we do?” Rivera demanded. “You said that thing was basically a Kodiak? What do we have that can go through tank armor? Should we pull the infantry back?”

“Damn it,” Brenner hissed, glancing up at the approaching craft. “We’ll dig in – use the rest of the dragon’s teeth against it. Maybe we can box it into this street. Get the injured out of here – quickly. Use the trucks to get them clear.”

“You heard him – let’s go!” Rivera shouted, waving at the nearest Marines. “Get those people into the trucks on the double!”

“Fritz – I need your men to fan out and check the nearby prefabs,” Brenner continued as he turned to the fighter. “Look for any civilians who are holed up and get them clear. Barbosa isn’t going to care about collateral damage – he’ll level the whole city block.”

“We can help,” Fritz insisted.

“The people of Hades need your help more than I do right now,” the Commander replied.

Fritz paused as though he wanted to argue, but he nodded his helmeted head.

“You got it, Commander guy. Alright – everyone get moving! Split into teams and spread out! Let’s make sure nobody gets caught in the crossfire!”

“Lily, Ruza!” Brenner ordered, raising an arm and pointing towards the incoming lander. It had grown even larger now, ballooning as it approached. “I want that thing shot out of my sky!”

Lily’s Warrior lumbered into position, crouching for stability amidst the fortifications and leveling its shoulder-mounted canon. Ruza lifted his AMR and hurried over to her side, bracing the long barrel against one of the concrete barricades. He sat down on the sand, angling its muzzle upwards, pulling the padded stock tight against his shoulder as he tried to ignore the fighters running back and forth all around him.

The dropships had succumbed to his AMR, but would a lander? Wombats were far larger and heavier craft, designed to carry combat vehicles and a hundred infantry at a time to the ground under enemy fire. Above its high, wedge-shaped nose was a row of windows – the cockpit. Perhaps he could land a shot on its flight crew and bring it down that way.

Lily opened up first, waiting for the craft to come into range. Ruza watched the thirty-millimeter tungsten carbide slugs pass up the flexible chain, feeding from the drum on her Warrior’s back. The trio of barrels became a blur as they spun up, the coils burning red-hot, a stream of molten rounds painting trails in the air like tracers. They splashed against the frontal armor, smashing some of the heat tiles that lined the bottom of the sloping ramp at its prow, raining sparks and shattered fragments.

Ruza zeroed in on the row of cockpit windows, exhaling as he prepared to fire. He felt some of the sutures on his injured bicep pop as the recoil slammed the stock into his shoulder, and the centermost window sagged inward, the round punching straight through to leave a glowing hole. The glass-like material didn’t shatter – it was hardened against reentry – but it didn’t stop the round. The shot sprayed the cockpit beyond with molten metal, electronics flashing and sputtering, but the craft kept coming.

“Try the engines!” Brenner suggested.

Lily shifted her aim to one of the four pivoting engine modules. Each one was almost the size of a PDF truck in its own right, jets of blue flame spewing from them as they held the unwieldy craft aloft, defying gravity and aerodynamics. Her smoldering rounds sprayed the front left engine, but its armor prevailed, her shots leaving burning craters in the thick plating.

“Come on!” she snarled in frustration, focusing on one spot. She scored a lucky hit, catching some exposed machinery near the swiveling joint where it connected to the body of the craft, a gout of blue flames quickly replaced with dark smoke. It began to drift, losing altitude, its nose angling down.

“You hit it!” Reed exclaimed.

Its descent seemed more controlled than Ruza would have liked, the Wombat extending three sets of heavy-duty landing gear as it neared the ground only three or four hundred meters away, coming down hard in the street ahead of the roadblock. It dug into the sand, kicking up a wave of dust that formed a drifting cloud, obscuring it for a few moments.

“Did we get it?” Reed asked, ducking down behind the barricade next to Ruza to get a better view.

As the dust cleared, Ruza saw that the landing gear on the left flank of the craft had given out, leaving it listing on the sand as smoke poured from its damaged engine. The ramp beneath the cockpit windows began to descend, exposing the shining pistons that flanked it, the bay within filled with dark shadows. Ruza aimed his rifle at that widening maw, watching as something emerged from the darkness within, sliding out into the dim light.

He recognized the sloping hull of a Kodiak main battle tank, the seventy-ton, ten-meter vehicle encased in plates of charcoal black armor designed to deflect shells and dissipate plasma. Its treads churned up the sand as it rolled down the ramp, its gun barrel coming into view. Ruza had fought beside many a Kodiak in his time on numerous battlefields, and he had even faced them during the rebellion, finding himself on the wrong end of their weaponry. Immediately, he got the sense that something was very wrong with this one.

The large-bore gun came into sight, its round muzzle device designed in much the same way as the one on his AMR, albeit far larger. It was connected to a vaguely flattened, oval-shaped barrel – a shroud designed to protect the twin magnetic rails that ran down its length. It seemed shorter than he remembered, only reaching maybe two-thirds of the way down the forward hull instead of overhanging it. It was connected to a turret covered in the same angular, black plating, which also seemed somewhat smaller and stripped down. One of its cheek hardpoints was taken up by a boxy missile launcher, and the other was empty. It still had smoke launchers spaced around the turret, but the handholds, hatches, and bustle rack were missing. There seemed to be no space for crew at all.

As it finally drove out into full view, he realized why. Instead of a cupola, camera domes, and the blister that he would have expected to see atop the turret, there was a second turret. This one was smaller and sleeker, designed to fit comfortably within the footprint of the first, but it still added several feet to the vehicle’s height. On its sloping front face was a round camera dome that swiveled and rolled as it scanned for targets, a second, smaller camera module sitting on the roof just above it. Combined with the small cameras spaced around its hull, it had unimpeded situational awareness.

Mounted to either side of this slimmer secondary turret were a pair of thirty-millimeter cannons similar to the one Tiger Lily used, their trio of barrels jutting from angular housings that protected the machinery within. The blister that would usually be mounted on the first turret had been moved to the second, the weapon featuring a twenty-millimeter railgun and an integrated mortar, able to swivel and aim independently. Mounted where one might expect a commander’s cupola to be was a squat, angular housing, rising from the tank like some kind of mechanical tumor. On its front face was a small pane of glass – probably made from the same material as a cupola’s windows would have been – from beyond which three red orbs arranged in a triangle stared.

There was no crew – that could only be the stolen Broker drone. This abomination’s builders must have stripped all of the crew space from the tank, filling the cavities with extra machinery and electronics to support the second turret, slaving it all to an alien technology that they did not fully understand. It was like a mobile fortress now, the two turrets swiveling independently of one another, the barrel of its main gun swinging left while the twin cannons turned right. The blister, camera domes, and the drone itself all moved of their own accord. They watched and scanned, their myriad lenses taking in their surroundings – evaluating with the cold logic of a computer.

“What the fuck is that?” Reed wondered aloud. “Did they stack two turrets on top of each other? Does it have a head?”

“That’s the drone,” Brenner surmised. “I guess they couldn’t house it inside the hull. Maybe it needs to…see, or something. I have no idea how they even got it to communicate with UN tech in the first place.”

“Uh, my shield isn’t going to do much against a Kodiak’s main gun,” Lily warned as she began to back away towards the cover of the prefabs on her left. “Do we have a plan, Commander?”

“Reggie!” Brenner barked. “Can you shut it off or take control of it somehow?”

“I cannot access it,” Reggie replied over the comms. Ruza couldn’t see the alien, so he was likely still back with the trucks. “It is not responding to my commands or recognizing my cryptographic keys. I do not know in what ways the humans have meddled with its systems in their attempts to interface with it.”

Another shape emerged from the crashed lander, a PCE marching into view. The suit walked along beside the tank, a heavy XMR in hand, seeming unperturbed by its proximity to the metal beast.

“That’s Song!” Petrova warned. “That’s his PCE!”

“I thought our intel said this thing would go berserk and kill anyone near it?” Brenner demanded. “Reggie – explain!”

“The PCE is emitting Broker cryptographic signals,” Reggie began. “This might explain why I have been receiving two distinct signatures. It appears that your technicians recovered a Broker emitter, perhaps from a second, more severely damaged drone. It is equivalent to your IFF system and will cause the drone to view the PCE as a fellow member of its swarm.”

“So, the tank thinks the Borg is its buddy?” Reed pressed.

“So it would appear,” the Broker replied. “I am surprised that humans were able to identify such signals and discern their function.”

“Yes, we’re all very impressed,” Reed chided. “Now, what do we do about the fucking tank!?”

“Kodiaks have always needed infantry to screen them in dense urban environments like this one,” Brenner began as he glanced around, evaluating his options. “It’ll be confined to the street – it won’t fit down those alleys, and it can’t get past these dragon’s teeth. We surround it, hit it where it’s vulnerable. Tracks, exposed cameras, maybe destroy the drone.”

“I have a shot,” Ruza said, his sights hovering over the small window.

“Can you make that?” Brenner asked.

“I believe so.”

“Let him try,” Reed insisted. “If Ruza can’t hit it, nobody can.”

Brenner nodded, and Ruza exhaled, bracing his weapon. When the reticle was right in the middle of those three glowing eyes, he fired, the shot echoing through the street. There was a flash of bright light, a wavering field of blue-green plasma appearing to intercept the slug, partially melting it before it reached its target. It hit the sloping armor harmlessly, every camera dome and turret suddenly swiveling in his direction.

“Aw shit!” Reed grunted as he dove for some nearby sandbags.

Ruza was vaguely aware of Brenner yelling for everyone to get down, the Rask throwing himself into one of the dugouts behind him, covering his head.

The twin cannons mounted on the top turret spun up, sending a stream of slugs pouring down the street, filling the air between the tank and the roadblock with molten metal. The concrete barricade he’d been resting his rifle on mere moments before seemed to evaporate into dust, sandbags bursting as the thirty-mill rounds impacted them, tossing the torn fabric and flash-heating the sand into clumps of dirty glass. One of the fighters who had been too slow to reach cover was hit, his body vanishing above the waist, what remained falling to the ground mid-stride.

The tank swept its guns across the roadblock, shifting its aim first left, then right. Ruza could feel the rounds impacting the ground, throwing up clouds of dust and clods of earth as they dug deep furrows. The APCs that had been pushed to the edges of the street by Lily and Petrova could not withstand such a volume of fire, dozens – hundreds of rounds bursting through their armor plating and tearing them to pieces. Shards of slagged, twisted metal were tossed from their perforated hulls, their tires torn to shreds and their windows shattered. One of them took a round to the engine block, the transfer of kinetic energy blowing it apart like a bomb, the resulting shrapnel embedding itself into sandbags and scoring the walls of the nearby prefabs. Another was hit in a fuel cell, gutting the vehicle in an explosion that lifted its drive train off the ground, depositing pieces of the burning wreckage all around it. The prefabs were shredded, no more resilient than sheet metal when faced with such weaponry, the cannons painting long trails of burning holes in their facades.

The burst of gunfire only lasted for a few seconds, but it was enough to devastate the defenses, Ruza daring to lift his head to take in the carnage. Many of the concrete barricades and dragon’s teeth were pocked with smoking holes, some shattered outright, the ground scored by cooling rounds. The ruined trucks still smoldered, a few injured men groaning on the sand as more lay dead. It was hard to guess at a glance, but they might have just lost half a squad in the blink of an eye.

The Warrior emerged from behind a prefab, the carapace on its shield still smoldering, more craters and scoring visible. Petrova’s PCE was over on the right side of the street, unscathed as it hunkered down in an alley beside a few Marines.

An intelligent shooter could have wiped out most of their assets in a single blow, but the Ursa did not appear to have targeted anything that wasn’t in its direct line of sight. The Warrior was the most threatening unit on the field, yet it had been ignored in favor of a relatively harmless AMR.

He turned to look back down the street, seeing that the trucks carrying injured fighters had already fled the scene, one of the remaining vehicles sporting a smoking hole in its engine. Without a helmet and a data link, it was impossible to know who was alive or dead. His attention turned back to the Ursa, and the tank began to roll forwards, its many camera domes swiveling and tracking. The drone moved almost erratically beneath its protective housing, jerking back and forth. Beside it, the PCE marched, matching its slow pace.

“We can’t take any more hits like that!” Brenner grunted, rising from cover ahead of Ruza. “Everyone spread out! Surround the goddamned thing!”

The troops still taking cover inside the roadblock began to pour out of it, leaping and vaulting over the sandbags, weaving between the barricades and dragon’s teeth. They made for the prefabs, diving into cover inside the alleys and side streets. Ruza followed, taking his chance and rising from the dugout, his AMR in hand as he sprinted towards Petrova’s PCE.

Another burst of cannon fire echoed, ringing in his ears, and a seemingly random Marine was cut to ribbons. Ruza threw himself to the ground in the alley, finding himself surrounded by a group of his comrades. There were a couple of SWAR agents, Reed was there, as were a few fighters and Marines.

“You good, Doc?” Silverback asked as he extended a hand. Ruza took it, and the human helped him to his feet, the Rask dusting off his jacket.

“Are you hurt?” Ruza demanded, seeing Reed clutching his torso.

“Nah,” Reed wheezed. “I landed on a fucking mag and it jabbed me in the ribs. Remind me never to do one of those stupid action movie rolls again.”

“We need to stay mobile,” Wasp added. “Maybe we can hit that thing’s tracks – take out its cameras and blind it. We have to try something.”

“My AMR could not penetrate its shields,” Ruza replied. “It must have a more powerful reactor than that of the PCEs.”

“I’ve still got a couple of charges left,” Reed suggested, opening his leather coat to reveal satchels that were strapped to his vest. “Maybe that’ll do it?”

“What we need to do is take out Song,” Petrova snarled, her suit’s mechanical hands clutching her heavy XMR more tightly. “He has to be directing it.”

“I am not so sure,” Ruza continued. “When it fired on us, the Ursa did not prioritize targets by threat level, and it did not employ all of its weapons. A single shell from its main gun would have passed through any obstacles and killed Tiger Lily in one blow, but it did not fire. Why?”

“Our intel said the thing was wacky, right?” Reed mused. “Like it doesn’t work properly or something?”

“The drone is acting based on its own targeting algorithms,” Reggie said. Ruza turned his head to see the alien suit standing in the alley behind them, Reed lurching at the sight of it.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Reed demanded, putting his hand over his heart. “We gotta start putting bells on you fuckers…”

“What do you know of it?” Ruza pressed, those arrays of tiny cameras on its otherwise featureless chassis peering back at him. It had a few stunted antennae, the little metal appendages waving as they collected some unknown information.

“The drone piloting that construct is not receiving commands from anyone,” Reggie explained. “I believe that the relevant components have been tampered with, or I would be able to broadcast override codes. Our drones are designed to function either in tandem with our environment suits or as part of a networked swarm, sharing processing power and battlefield data between them. In doing so, their individual capabilities are enhanced.”

“More heads are better than one,” Reed said.

“It appears that the humans have attempted to expand the drone’s sensor suite through the linking of supplemental cameras,” Reggie continued. “If they have found a means to interface them with the drone effectively, I cannot say, but a single unit’s decision-making capabilities are limited.”

“You’re saying that we might be able to outsmart this thing?” Wasp asked.

“Combat drones use data-driven neural models that learn from experience,” the Broker explained. “Through thousands upon thousands of simulations, their algorithms are refined, and they are taught how to respond to different threats and scenarios. Without access to those development tools and low-level instruction sets, the drone’s capacity to learn new, complex routines will be very limited.”

“The point, please, Reggie!” Silverback chided as he waved his hand in a gesture for him to go faster.

“In summary, I believe that its sensory suite is limited and that it will manage the tank’s weaponry and systems poorly,” the Broker concluded.

“Brenner – you listening?” Reed asked.

“I heard him,” Brenner replied over the radio, Ruza hearing the Commander’s voice in his earpiece. “The plan stands – surround the thing and whittle it down. Use whatever heavy weapons you have.”

“Commander, you must know that Barbosa is using the Ursa to delay us,” Petrova warned. “The longer we stay tied up here, the more time he has to enact whatever plan he’s cooking up.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Brenner replied. “This thing is too dangerous. We can’t allow it to remain intact.”

“And your government assured me that recovering the misappropriated technology would be a mission priority,” Reggie added.

“Reggie, shut up,” Silverback sighed. “There’s more on the line here than some stolen hardware.”

“That thing has a lot of weapons, and I need them all to be busy if Lily is going to get her shot,” Brenner continued. “She thinks she might be able to get through that shield with her sword.”

“Based on my observations, said sword appears to have an electrically conductive core capable of carrying a charge that can disrupt the magnetic fields upon which plasma shields depend,” Reggie explained. “It is a sound strategy. I will endeavor to weaken the shield’s charge.”

“You’re going to help us now?” Reed asked.

“Of course,” the alien replied. “The internal affairs of your colonies are none of my concern, but the Board is responsible for any Broker technology that falls into the wrong hands.”

Ruza watched in amazement as the suit began to levitate again, rising only a scant inch from the ground so that its cupped feet were barely skimming the sand. It darted off into a side street, coasting along as though sliding on ice, showing remarkable agility for such an outwardly bulky machine.

A series of loud thuds echoed, and Ruza turned his head to see clouds of smoke rising from the opposite side of the street.

“We’re getting mortared!” Rivera exclaimed, Ruza hearing the sound of distorted yelling filter in from the background. “Gotta pull back!”

“We need to get in there,” Petrova insisted, starting to march down the alley. “Try to stay behind me! My suit won’t stop a thirty-mill, but it’s better than these sheet metal walls.”

They began to move up, a dozen of them marching behind her, six or seven faceless Marines and fighters following. Ruza could not easily tell them apart with their helmets on. They skirted around to the far right of the main street, heading towards the tank, sticking to the narrow paths created by the sprawl of prefabs. Ruza could only hope that Fritz had succeeded in evacuating any remaining civilians in the vicinity. A slug from any one of the Ursa’s guns could travel through multiple homes without slowing. That main gun could cut a swathe through half the city.

Petrova raised a mechanical fist to stop them, leaning around a corner, and Ruza dropped to his belly to get a view beneath the prefab. Her sensors had spotted a group of maybe ten PDF troopers – the same ones who had been driven from the roadblock earlier. They were hurrying out from a side street and flocking to the Ursa, perhaps assuming that it had been sent to support them.

“Oh, fuck,” Reed muttered quietly, watching through Petrova’s feed.

As soon as the troopers ran out into the open, one of them waving a rifle above his head in a form of greeting, the Ursa’s camera domes snapped to them. The canopy that contained the drone swiveled to face them, its three red eyes blazing, and the blister gun mounted atop the turret followed after it. If Song cared even one iota, he made no move to warn them away, watching with a quiet dispassion.

The twenty-mill opened up without warning, its coils glowing beneath its shroud as it unloaded into the approaching PDF. The slugs chewed through the lightly armored soldiers, shattering bone and ceramic plate alike, gore spraying as limbs were severed and exit wounds were blown open. The anti-infantry weapon was designed to protect Kodiaks from boarders and provide supporting fire from a high vantage point, and it did so with gruesome precision, cutting the whole squad down in an instant. It continued to fire at the ruined bodies until they stopped moving, then seemed satisfied, the air above its gun barrel shimmering with heat as it rotated back into position.

“How are we even supposed to get near that thing?” Reed whispered as though it might overhear him.

“We might have to hit it from orbit,” Silverback replied. “But even with a lot of civilians evacuated, a sabot or a cruise missile from the carrier could cause as much collateral damage as the Ursa.”

“We cannot have the carrier firing on the city as it did the base,” Ruza insisted. “This machine must be stopped here and now.”

One of its camera domes swiveled in their direction, locking onto Petrova as she leaned around the corner of the building, but the twenty didn’t fire. Instead, the mortar attached to it began to rise, firing off a shell with a thud.

“Incoming!” Petrova warned, backing away from the corner. More shells followed, a salvo of them whistling overhead in a high arc, dropping down towards them.

Everyone scattered, Ruza and Reed throwing themselves beneath the nearest prefab, a few of the Marines scrambling away into adjoining alleys. Ruza heard the blasts ring out as the shells impacted nearby, a few hitting the roofs, one of them throwing up a torrent of dust as it found its mark in the sand a few meters away. He waited for the sound of guns, expecting the Ursa to try to flush them out of cover, but none came. Had the machine lost interest already?

He crawled out from beneath the building, seeing Petrova’s PCE crouched over in the alley. The nearby wall was scored with shrapnel, and there was cooling metal on her back. Had she taken a direct hit? Before he could ask if her suit was damaged, she rose up, revealing that she had been shielding a fighter. The man was lying beneath her, checking himself as though unable to believe that he was still intact. She hefted her rifle again, and the man rose, giving her a grateful nod as he hurried further into the alley.

“Why does it not finish us?” Ruza demanded. “Any one of its guns could deal a killing blow. These homes are no more sturdy than paper.”

“It’s just…reacting to what it sees,” Petrova suggested. “It’s like a toddler – you leave the room, and it thinks you’ve stopped existing. It has no object permanence.”

“So, it’s just shooting at whatever it can see?” Reed asked as he brushed the sand off his jacket.

“We need to be strategic about when we reveal ourselves,” Petrova confirmed. “Split up and take up firing positions. Spread out!”

“Who put you in charge?” Reed muttered.

“Do as she says,” Ruza insisted.

The team fanned out, taking up positions where they could pop out of cover and shoot, hiding beneath prefabs and behind corners. Ruza could hear the sound of the tank nearing, its tracks shaking the ground, making the tiny grains of sand around his paws vibrate and dance. There was another crack of gunfire – louder and closer this time. It must have spotted a target.

“Give it all you’ve got!” Brenner ordered over the radio.

His command was soon followed by a chorus of gunfire, dozens of concealed fighters opening fire on the Ursa as it neared the roadblock. They shot at it from both sides of the street, a few shooting from ahead of it, pouring XMR fire into the vehicle. Its camera domes and canopy spun and twisted, the machine almost seeming confused – overwhelmed by the number of targets. Its powerful shields flickered and flashed, appearing in a protective bubble that hovered a few inches above the black armor, conforming to its angular profile. Ruza noted that it was directional, the field seeming to appear in patches, only activating long enough to intercept a single projectile. Grenades joined the railgun fire, showering it with shrapnel, puffs of sand erupting all around it.

Ruza leaned out and fired his AMR, the slug slagging on contact with that field of roiling plasma, the molten metal splashing harmlessly against its hull. It was accruing enough melted slugs to look fuzzy – like a magnet picking up iron shavings. Petrova’s XMR thundered to his right, her rounds faring no better. She spotted Song lurking behind the tank and shifted her aim, trying to hit him, but he was protected by the tank’s shield. It reached out to envelop him, enhancing his protection and allowing him to return fire at the nearby Marines with impunity.

Even without the added protection, the Ursa would have been impervious to small arms, but the goal was to distract it. Its pair of stacked turrets spun in different directions, the massive main gun swiveling to face one side of the street, and the twin thirty-mills facing the other. The blister aimed its barrel ahead, pointing at the roadblock and the trucks beyond, all hell breaking loose as the tank opened up.

A continuous stream of slugs poured from its cannons, sweeping across the prefabs, cutting through their walls like a hot knife at about the height of a PCE. It practically sawed the buildings in two, Ruza ducking as the molten rounds swept above him. A few flecks of molten metal landed on his jacket and burned through to the skin, scalding him. The prefab he was taking cover behind collapsed in on itself, its structural integrity compromised, the roof sinking inward and warping as the burning holes bled glowing slag.

Petrova must have been its target, and she had not escaped unscathed, one of the armored shoulder pads on her suit missing a chunk. The round had barely skirted her, but it had been enough to take a bite out of the thick layers of protection, narrowly avoiding damaging the machinery beneath. The blister gun rang out all the while, spraying the fortifications ahead of it, the slugs chipping away more pieces of the concrete barricades as mortar shells impacted between the sandbags.

The Ursa’s main gun fired, the displacement of the air around its muzzle enough to send a cloud of dust sweeping away from the tank, the sound hitting Ruza like a wall. It was hard to even gauge what had happened, the close-range, hypervelocity sabot reaching its target faster than Ruza’s neurons could fire. He saw a jagged hole the size of a truck tire in the street-facing wall of a prefab, its torn edges dripping molten metal. There was another hole in the wall behind it, and the one behind that, and the one behind that. The shot had passed through a dozen buildings unimpeded, and that was only what he could see from his vantage point.

“That was an armor-piercing discarding sabot,” Silverback explained as he hunkered down nearby. “I don’t think that thing even knows what shells it’s loading if it’s firing AP at infantry.”

Everyone ducked again as another blast rocked the city, a second shell impacting one of the damaged trucks, reducing it to a cloud of debris that was scattered across the street behind it.

“Now!” Brenner ordered over the radio.

More slugs poured in, the tank turning its turrets erratically, shooting back at whatever it could see. The covering fire allowed one of the Trogs to move in, Ruza watching as the man swung his bulky armor out from a shadowy alley, getting an angle on the tank’s far side. He aimed that three-pronged weapon, and though it emitted no visible beam or projectile, it had an effect on the target.

Whatever it was seemed to penetrate the shield, the smaller secondary camera dome atop one of the turrets starting to spark and pop, ceasing its scanning as its lenses burst in a shower of broken glass. The same seemed to be happening to many of the cameras along its flank, the tiny devices embedded in its hull bursting like little fireworks, their electronics fried to leave the tank all but blind on one side.

Amidst all the chaos, the Warrior emerged, Lily darting out from behind one of the ruined structures on the far side of the street. She moved with remarkable agility for her size, striding across the dusty road with her shield raised and her sword drawn back, taking advantage of this new blind spot.

From Ruza’s side of the street, Reggie sprang into action, sliding out from the cover of an alley and seeming to skate across the ground on a cushion of air. Song noticed him, his PCE turning its camera dome on the approaching Broker, the XMR soon following. He loosed a burst of slugs, a flash of blue-green light following as he fired the plasma weapon mounted beneath the railgun’s barrel, but the Broker’s shields held fast. Reggie returned a bright bolt of energy from the gun on the end of his flexible arm, causing both Song’s shield and that of the tank to flicker, forcing him to take refuge behind the vehicle.

Reggie leapt – or perhaps floated – upwards, sailing above the Ursa as though gravity no longer held any sway over him. With his mechanical legs tucked beneath his boxy chassis, he turned his cameras and sensors to the vehicle beneath him, aiming that strange cannon. Blinding flashes emanated from its barrel, blasts of energy hammering the tank’s shields from above as he sailed over it, the sight leaving stark afterimages that lingered in Ruza’s eyes. He had never seen such a weapon before, and he had no guess as to what it was firing.

The shield seemed to concentrate around those bolts, forming a shifting, wavering pool of boiling plasma that almost resembled a blue-green liquid. Ruza could see it faltering – struggling to absorb or deflect whatever energy was being dumped into it. As Reggie passed over it and began to descend, the blister gun rose to track him, firing off a burst of twenty-millimeter rounds. Two were intercepted by his own shielding, melting them before they could do any damage, but a third punched through the weakened barrier and clipped his flank. He began to tumble, landing hard out of view behind a prefab.

Whether its remaining cameras even saw Lily or recognized her as a threat, it made no move to intercept her as she drew closer, seizing her opportunity. It was like watching a hunter attempt to take down a great herd beast with nothing but a knife, the tank dwarfing even the ten-foot Warrior. She ran up beside it, driving her blade towards it as though attempting to pierce its flank. She aimed not at the armor, but where she knew the invisible shield to be, lifting the blade high. The energy field parted around its edge, forming a wavering hole large enough that she could fire through it, her shoulder-mounted cannon aiming at the breach. Its barrels spun up, and she painted a glowing trail across the Ursa’s hull, scoring the armor. The cannon crawled up the turrets, cutting apart another front-facing camera dome, the ball-shaped device bursting in a shower of sparks. She swept her fire across the drone’s canopy, leaving a molten slug embedded in the glass.

It wasn’t enough to penetrate, and she was forced back as the secondary turret whipped around to track her, the agile Warrior dancing beneath a hail of slugs. She lifted her shield to protect herself, and one of the rounds caught its upper edge, passing through to leave a bleeding hole. It clipped her shoulder, and she toppled to the sand, ducking to put herself below its maximum depression. Its hull began to turn on the spot, all of its malice focused on her now, its tracks churning up the sand.

“Cover her!” Reed yelled, leaning out to fire at the thing. More slugs poured in, and the tank was forced to split its attention. As it rotated, Ruza spotted Song moving with it, exposed now. His PCE was trying to stay behind it, using it as cover, but he had no way to direct the behemoth.

“I have a shot!” Ruza growled, quickly putting his rifle on target. He fired at the suit’s canopy, but once more, the Ursa’s shield reached out to protect its companion. The slug bounced off the PCE’s slanted forehead, rendered too soft to penetrate, Song’s cameras focusing in on the Rask.

Song had a shot before Ruza could move away, but a shadow fell over him as Petrova stepped into the line of fire and intercepted the spray of slugs.

“Is that you, Petrova?” a voice asked in Ruza’s earpiece.

“Song!” Petrova snarled. He must be broadcasting on an open channel so that she could hear him. “Stand down, for God’s sake! That thing will destroy the whole city! You can’t control it!”

“I thought you’d know better than to fight against the march of progress,” Song replied, sending another volley her way and forcing her back into cover. “You’ve seen the power of the Ursa and the PCEs for yourself – how can you stand against Barbosa now? How can you deny that his methods yield results?”

“This isn’t progress!” Petrova shouted back, ducking reflexively as the Ursa’s cannon fired again.

“Look how powerful we’ve become by throwing off the constraints that the UN imposed on us,” Song continued. “All the rules and regulations preventing us from improving our bodies, developing our technology, and fighting wars efficiently. If we don’t do this, someone else will, and they’ll use it against us. Someone already has. How do you expect us to defeat an enemy like the Brokers if we don’t pursue technologies they’re already fielding? Why should we not reverse-engineer their weapons if it can benefit us?”

“Because it’s a race to the bottom!” Petrova protested. “Nobody wins!”

“The UN was wrong to ban drone technology,” Song said, the sound of another salvo of gun pod fire drowning out his voice for a moment. “Imagine – whole battalions of these vehicles scouring the surfaces of planets, never putting a human in harm’s way.”

“You can’t even control this thing!” Petrova shot back. “You have no idea what you’re doing!”

“It’s only a matter of time before I crack the Broker encryption,” Song insisted as he marched along beside the trundling tank. “The Brokers had a head-start, but they’re not magicians. Their technology is merely printed circuits and lines of code, no different from ours. Tell me – why should the Brokers alone have reactionless drives? Why should the Jarilan Queen be biologically immortal while our greatest minds barely live past a hundred and ten? Look at what we can achieve in such a short span of time when we stop letting bureaucrats dictate the pace of our advancement.”

“Song, listen to me,” Petrova pleaded. “Barbosa allowed you to flaunt the UN’s bans and regulations, but you never considered why they were imposed in the first place. We had drone technology – we had gene editing and augmentation. You know what the outcome was. There’s a reason they drilled it into our heads in history class.”

“So because some defunct twenty-second-century power misused a primitive form of the technology, we can never explore it again?” Song demanded. “Even when those technologies have already been fully developed by our adversaries?”

“They’ll always be misused!” Petrova insisted. “You’re already doing it! Half of the recruits I sent into that damned medbay are falling apart at the seams!”

“Irrelevant,” Song replied. “Every medical trial has its risks – they knew what they signed up for. Each subsequent batch will be more successful than the last.”

“He’ll never stop,” Petrova muttered, switching back to the closed channel. “I don’t think he’s even capable of understanding what he’s doing wrong. As long as the math checks out, he’ll stay the course.”

The tank had reached the roadblock now, sending the last of the defenders who were still hunkered down between the barricades running for cover as it took halfhearted potshots at them with its blister gun. Song was more aggressive, moving forward to gun down a pair of fleeing fighters with his rifle, always careful to stay within the vehicle’s protective bubble.

Ruza wondered if the Ursa would be stopped by the dragon’s teeth, but it seemed to understand that they presented an obstacle, turning to go around them. It approached one of the PDF trucks that had already been damaged by cannon fire and knocked onto its side, the tank’s treads finding purchase and lifting the seventy-ton behemoth over it. The truck began to buckle, soon collapsing under the strain with the sound of screeching metal, the Ursa rolling over the flattened husk. It went for the nearest prefab next, squashing a few sandbags and nudging into the building, starting to push it out of the way. It wasn’t long before the outriggers snapped under the stress, sending the prefab collapsing to the ground with a crash, and the tank began to climb over it in kind. The structure was far weaker than the truck, and it was squashed flat like a soda can underfoot.

Song seemed surprised by the change of direction, hurrying to keep up with the thing, the wreckage and debris getting in his way. The tank was on Ruza’s side of the street now, barely twenty meters away, moving behind his team. Was it flanking them, or merely moving without purpose?

His comrades on the far side of the road had to change positions, trying to pursue and keep up their fire, Ruza spotting the telltale tiger camouflage of the Warrior walking along behind the buildings.

“We have to stop this goddamned thing before it cuts a swathe through the whole city!” Wasp insisted.

“Hang on – I think I have an idea,” Reed began. “Silverback – did you play college football?”

“How did you guess?” Silverback replied sarcastically.

Reed reached beneath his jacket, producing a satchel of plastic explosives. He pressed a detonator into the malleable substance, then tossed it to Silverback, the agent letting his rifle fall on its sling as he caught it.

“I don’t know a fucking thing about football, but throw this in front of the tank!”

“You think this’ll work?” Silverback asked, weighing the satchel in his hand. “Kodiaks are a tough nut to crack. I’ve seen them take direct hits from a Scuttler and keep going like it was nothing.”

“I dunno, there’s like six charges in there,” Reed replied. “If that doesn’t do it, what will?”

“I guess we’re about to find out,” Silverback said, crouching down low and walking closer to the tank. They were only separated from it by a couple of buildings now, Ruza feeling its engine shake the ground beneath his feet. Silverback drew the satchel back, judging the distance for a moment, then threw it over the rooftops. Ruza ducked low, trying to get a look beneath the prefabs, seeing that it had landed in an alley in the vehicle’s path.

The tank was still creating its own road, crushing another prefab along its way and burying the satchel, Reed brandishing a detonator as he held his breath and waited.

“You might want to get back,” he said, starting to back away into the alley. Everyone else followed suit, Petrova’s PCE whirring as she stepped away. “Further. No, further than that. This is gonna be big.”

They retreated a good distance from the tank, hurrying away as it loosed the occasional mortar or burst of gunfire, never knowing who or what it might target next. Only when Reed was sure they were safe did he stop, or perhaps the opportunity was about to slip by.

“Brenner – get ready for a bang!” Reed warned, hitting the button.

Ruza’s ears flattened as a shockwave washed over him, the blast carrying a wall of dust with it, sweeping through the alley like a sandstorm and forcing him to shield his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw a giant smoke cloud rising into the blood-red sky to join the smog from the fires that raged all around the city. Some of the nearest prefabs to the tank had been all but vaporized, only twisted pieces of charred metal remaining, heaped all around the vehicle like a scrapyard. As the dust cleared, Ruza saw the vehicle sitting in a fresh crater that had been carved out beneath it, large enough to sink it a good foot into the ground. If he had to guess, it looked like much of the blast had been contained beneath its hull.

His heart sank when he saw that it was still very much intact, its turrets still turning and its canopy still spinning angrily, its engine roaring. Something was wrong, however. The nearest track was damaged – thrown from the wheels and lying on the sand beside it, some of the links sheared away by the force of the explosion. It seemed stuck, unable to drive out of its shallow crater, the wheels spinning impotently as the intact track made its hull slowly rotate on the spot.

“Did you get it?” Brenner demanded over the radio.

“Uh…kinda?” Reed replied.

“It’s thrown a track!” Silverback explained. “Looks like it’s stuck, Commander!”

“That’s progress,” Brenner grumbled. “Gives us time to regroup.”

“You think you can destroy the Ursa that way?” Song scoffed, emerging from behind it to reveal that he was unharmed. “Even an unmodified Kodiak is hardened against mines and IEDs! You should know that!”

He had to duck away as the tank swung its main gun and almost hit his PCE, aiming at something on the far side of the street and firing off a shell. Song was right beneath the barrel, his suit’s shields flickering as the shockwave pelted him with sand. He was able to choose his targets more intelligently, firing a wide burst in the direction of Ruza’s team and forcing them to take cover.

“It’s not moving, but it’s still a threat!” Wasp declared as she ducked low to the ground. “We’ll never get close with Song in the way!”

“I may have a solution,” Reggie said – he must have been listening in. Ruza hadn’t seen him since he’d been clipped by the tank’s guns, but he appeared to be alive. “I have been scanning frequencies, and I believe I may have found the one that Song’s stolen transmitter is using.”

“Does that mean you can shut down the drone?” Brenner asked.

“No, but I may be able to saturate the channel and effectively jam his IFF signal,” the Broker replied. “It should cause the drone to stop recognizing him as part of its swarm.”

“We’re out of options, so do whatever you think will help,” Brenner replied.

“You’re Luddites sabotaging machines in the vain hope of preventing a revolution that has already begun,” Song declared, stepping forward and firing off another burst. “The future you see here is inevitable. It will happen whether you consent to it or not! The only way to stay in control is to accept it and to be at the forefront of-”

The Ursa suddenly turned its red eyes on him, swiveling the twin cannons on its top turret down to aim at his back. The two guns spun up, their barrels becoming a blur as they unloaded into the PCE at point-blank range, its shield flashing and fading – unable to intercept the thirty-millimeter rounds. They punched through the layers of armor, blasting away large chunks of machinery and plating, molten metal and shards of fractured ceramics raining to the sand. A massive arm was severed, falling to the ground with a tangible thud, taking the XMR with it. One of the legs was destroyed, and it buckled, sending the suit dropping into a kneeling position. Song didn’t even have time to finish his sentence, an exit hole blasting from the suit’s chest, a deeper red joining the molten slag that seeped from the jagged wound. A second appeared, then a third, another punching through the back of his canopy and exploding the panel outward. It was as though the suit itself was alive and bleeding, its occupant likely reduced to a slurry by the energies subjected to it. Blood and what might be brain matter dripped down onto the camera dome beneath its chin, staining the painted teeth below red.

Song’s PCE toppled forward and fell silent, smoke rising from the holes that peppered its back. One or more of the rounds must have breached its core, and a great jet of plasma erupted forth, all of the energy contained within the reaction chamber unleashed. It struck the Ursa like a lance, the shield failing, the armor plating that was in its path scorched black and partially melted. It lasted only a moment, so bright that Ruza had to turn his eyes away. When he looked back, there was a molten crater where the suit’s reactor had been, and the Ursa was scarred from its tracks to its top turret.

“Well, that worked!” Reed declared.

“Song is down!” Petrova added. “I think the Ursa took some damage too.”

“Its shields are gone!” Reed continued as he watched the tank turn its aim away from the smoldering PCE. There was a flicker of blue-green light, and the plasma shielding returned, forming a perfect bubble that clung to the tank’s contours for a moment before fading. “Scratch that – shield’s back up!”

“It must have an onboard reactor,” Petrova snarled. “If they could fit one on the PCEs, it makes sense that they’d install a larger one on the Ursa. Who knows how much damage it can soak up?”

“Certainly more than we can dish out,” Brenner replied.

It might have thrown a track, but it was still trying to move, rotating in place as it fired off another salvo of mortars in the direction of the roadblock.

“We should just leave it here!” Rancher insisted. “It won’t get far, and Barbosa might escape if we delay too long!”

“We cannot leave it intact,” Ruza insisted. “It will kill anyone who approaches it.”

“Ruza is right – we have no choice,” Brenner conceded. “Nor do we have the firepower to take it out. Hold fast, I’m calling the Captain.”

CHAPTER 37

DAY 56 – HADES ORBIT – ORTEGA

“We can’t risk it,” Ortega replied. He was speaking to a holograph portrayal of Brenner’s face captured from inside his helmet, the Commander appearing to duck down as something loud fired at him. The display floated alongside many others on the bridge, surrounding the captain’s chair, the main viewports showing a blend of the planet’s surface and telescope views of the action below. They had managed to free enough crew members to populate the bridge, and they were at work behind their consoles, frantically collecting and relaying battlefield data.

“This thing is going to keep rampaging until it runs out of ammo,” Brenner insisted. “We just hit it with a det charge and it barely scratched the paint. Our SCPEL is out of juice, and Lily’s thirty-mill isn’t cutting it. We need something heavier!”

“We only just got fire control back online,” Ortega said. “The only orbit-to-surface weapons I can offer you are a kiloton sabot or a cruise missile. The sabot would take out a city block, and the cruise missile isn’t exactly low-yield, even with someone laser designating its target.”

“What do you propose?” Brenner demanded, his face illuminating as something exploded nearby. “We can’t just leave this thing running!”

“I’ll take care of it personally,” Ortega replied, rising from his seat. He turned and began to walk off the bridge at a quick march, a few of the crew in their recessed workstations glancing up at him in confusion. “Mister Baccay, you have the bridge.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” the officer replied with a nod. He quickly climbed a short ladder that led up to the elevated platform, sliding into the captain’s chair.

“Captain?” Brenner asked, waiting for him to elaborate.

“What do you think I did before I was promoted to captain?” Ortega asked as he passed through a sliding door and out into the corridor beyond. “Who do we have left from the flight crew?” he continued. “I want a Beewolf fueled and ready for launch by the time I arrive at the hangar, and get me a boom suit.”

“What are you going to do?” Brenner prompted.

“I’m going to drop a kinetic bomb on that thing,” Ortega replied. “I’ll need you to guide me in. It has an inert tungsten payload, so there’s no danger of collateral damage. A direct hit should take the Ursa out.”

“Captain, are you sure you want to put yourself in the line of fire?” Brenner asked. “We don’t know if the enemy is operating any AA assets in the area, and that’s to say nothing of the Ursa itself.”

“We have no qualified pilots aboard,” he replied. “They were all interned on the ground. Unless you want to give Chief Abel a crash course on how to fly an FS-26, I’m your safest bet.”

“Understood, Captain. We’ll paint the target for you.”

Ortega made his way to the hangar, passing down flights of creaking steps and through eerily empty hallways. The unnatural quiet still unnerved him – it was like making his way through the body of some great dead thing.

When he arrived, he found the scene of chaos that he had last glimpsed during Barbosa’s retreat. To his left was a row of a dozen Beewolves, half of them damaged or destroyed during the PCE’s rampage. Another had been crushed by a cargo container, the grain within spilling out to partially bury the crumpled aircraft. The deck beneath his feet was scored with plasma burns and slug holes, and there was fire-retardant foam everywhere.

“What have they done to you, old girl?” he muttered to himself.

Ahead of him, one of the intact planes had been wheeled out and was undergoing launch prep, an engineer in yellow coveralls disconnecting a snaking fuel line from beneath its wing. Another man was loading the bombs from a wheeled caddy, the machine lifting them up and locking them into place on hardpoints within the internal weapons bay. Visually, the bombs were no different from any others fielded by the Navy, with the same stabilizing fins and optics package. Each one was a little under five meters long, with a built-in guidance system and a weight of about a ton. The difference was their payload. Instead of an explosive charge, these were fitted with dense tungsten warheads, relying on kinetic energy to penetrate bunkers and destroy precision targets. With no explosives, they were very safe to use in dense urban environments.

Another engineer hurried over to intercept him, holding a pile of dark fabric in her hands, a helmet perched atop it.

“Captain!” she began, sounding out of breath. “This was the best we could do. I think it’s your size.”

Ortega was already shedding his white uniform, tossing his dress coat and ornate cap to the deck. The shoes and pants followed, leaving him wearing only his shorts and socks, the engineer handing him the garment. He quickly began to don the flight suit, pulling it on by the boots and zipping it up, securing the gloves. The fire-retardant fabric was a deep blue that bordered on black, covered in vein-like traces of cables and tubes that were just visible beneath its lining. The flight helmet had a wide visor that covered most of the face, the mouth and nose area concealed behind a jutting rebreather that was connected to two thick cables that hooked into the craft’s oxygen supply.

Once everything was sealed, Ortega felt the suit constrict around his limbs, shifting and moving like a living thing as it adhered to his body tightly. The flight suit would tighten or loosen during combat, preventing blood from pooling in his extremities and keeping him conscious during high-G maneuvers.

“It’s a little tighter around the middle than I remember,” he muttered, running a gloved hand across his stomach. “Has the flight check been completed?”

“Just loading the last bomb, Captain,” one of the engineers replied. “All systems are green, and she has a full tank of gas.”

Ortega walked down the fifteen-meter length of the craft, examining the sweeping wings and conical nose, its onyx stealth coating seeming to absorb the glow from the hangar lights above. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to flying something smaller than a skyscraper again – just a little.

A small ladder was extended from the cockpit, and he climbed inside, settling into the plush padding of the pilot’s seat.

“Just like riding a bike,” he muttered as he reached out and began to switch on the various systems, the array of displays arranged before him coming online one by one. He waited until the flight crew had finished their work, and the nearest engineer gave him a thumbs-up, Ortega closing his canopy as they began to hurry clear. Behind the jet, a slab rose up from the deck to block the backwash from the engine, his HUD flaring to life inside his helmet. The hull seemed to melt away all around him, the plane’s array of external cameras feeding data to his visor.

“You’re cleared for takeoff, Captain,” the flight controller announced. “It’s not like there’s much else out there at the moment.”

“Roger that,” Ortega replied, increasing the throttle and feeling the engines roar beneath him.

“Good hunting, Captain.”

He sped out of the hangar bay, the acceleration squashing him into the gel-like padding of his seat as he flashed through the force field, stowing the landing gear when he felt the tug of artificial gravity leave him. Ortega checked that his harness was secure, then glanced back over his shoulder, seeing the Tirad already receding into the distance.

His gloved fingers danced over a nearby display, and he keyed in the coordinates, the Beewolf’s thrusters flaring as he angled its nose to follow the reentry path laid out on his HUD.

“Hold on, Brenner,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

DAY 56 – HADES – RUZA

“Ortega says fifteen mikes!” Brenner announced.

“And what the hell are we supposed to do until then!?” Reed demanded, flinching as a mortar landed amidst the prefabs behind him.

“We have to keep it focused on us,” Petrova replied. “The last thing we want is it locking onto some random civilian.”

“Easy for you to say – you’re the one with a shielded suit!”

“Did you see what that thing did to Song?” Petrova scoffed. “I’m about as vulnerable as you are.”

“It can’t get very far, so just keep up the fire,” Brenner ordered.

The Ursa was trying to reverse now, perhaps realizing that it was stuck. Like an injured animal, it still had enough strength to drag its lame leg behind it, the tattered track and broken sprockets digging a furrow into the sand as it inched along.

Its three red eyes turned the sky suddenly, Ruza ducking as it raised its main gun. It was pointing at something above the rooftops, Ruza lifting his gaze to see a dropship flying low across the city. The Ursa fired, the blast shaking the Rask’s bones, and the target was hit a moment later. It appeared to have loaded a canister shell – usually reserved for infantry targets – a shotgun blast of hypervelocity tungsten balls impacting the craft’s near side. They tore through its armor and shredded its engines, its airframe already disintegrating as it was knocked from the sky like an insect, burning wreckage raining down behind it.

“What if it does that to Ortega!?” Reed demanded.

“It’s our job to make sure it has more appealing targets,” Silverback replied.

“I signed up for a quick revolution followed by some well-earned praise and maybe a celebratory dinner with the Governor,” Reed complained as he clutched his rifle to his chest and pressed back against the metal wall of a building. “I didn’t sign up to play bullfighter with a demon tank!”

“Aren’t you ready to die for the cause, Glorious Leader?” Wasp chuckled.

“I’d rather survive and have some steak,” he complained. “Maybe get some head?”

“You are unbelievable,” Wasp snickered, unable to maintain her facade any longer.

The Ursa had made it most of the way back out into the street again, limping along with its thrown track, attempting to push through the dragon’s teeth backwards now. It forced everyone to retreat a little further with its intermittent gunfire. It was a tough balancing act, trying to stay in cover so as not to be targeted, but keeping the mechanical beast distracted. Brenner had ordered many of the Marines to retreat deeper into cover, while Petrova and Lily took turns firing on it, being the most able to withstand its weaponry. Ruza didn’t know what Reggie’s condition might be, only that he had remained on the far side of the street with Brenner. As the resident expert on xenobiology, Ruza wasn’t sure what he could do to treat the Broker if the alien had sustained injuries. They were a secretive people, and little was known about their anatomy. They were aquatic creatures, however, and Hades would not be a suitable environment if Reggie was forced to abandon his suit.

As he watched another salvo of mortars pass overhead, he noticed a change in the Ursa. Where before, it had been dragging its thrown track through the loose sand like a lame leg, it was now driving straighter and with more purpose. It seemed to be compensating for the damage – adjusting its proverbial gait.

A handful of Marines fired on it from the opposite side of the street, causing its shields to flicker with the same urgency that someone might swat a fly, and it abruptly stopped its directionless push through the broken dragon’s teeth. Instead of their erratic swiveling, the many disparate guns and cannons atop its turrets turned in tandem, those three burning eyes facing in the direction of the shooter.

“I think you pissed it off!” Reed warned.

A series of loud cracks echoed across the city as its twin chainguns spun up, spewing a hail of tungsten at the prefab the Marines were firing from. The building shuddered as its street-facing wall was pocked with molten holes, the shells tearing through the flimsy metal like paper, the tank’s high angle causing them to dig craters in the alley behind it and kick up clouds of dirt. Its outriggers buckled, and its roof began to cave in, the structure almost seeming to deflate like a balloon under the relentless assault. Ruza caught brief glimpses of the interior, seeing decorations and furniture that must have belonged to some long-evacuated family, before the prefab all but collapsed into its own footprint.

There was method to the Ursa’s madness now – purpose to its violence, and it fired off a salvo of mortars as the Marines struggled to drag away their injured comrades. Lily was there to intercept them, stepping into view and holding her shield up as the shells whistled down towards the humans. Her Warrior sagged under the force of the impacts, plasma flashing as her shield was pocked with burning shrapnel, the Marines retreating beneath her shadow.

The Jarilan had only a moment to duck back behind the nearest building as the Ursa targeted her with those twin cannons, tracking her for a few moments more as she moved out of view, Lily keeping low so as not to expose herself above the rooftops.

“That’s new,” Wasp said, her concern palpable as she watched the exchange from the shadows.

“Reggie said that it learns from experience,” Reed added, ducking reflexively as the tank fired off another burst.

“He also said that its capacity would be limited,” Wasp insisted.

“Yeah, limited in comparison to a swarm of a thousand of the things!” Reed shot back. “It’s already shooting straighter and firing at things it can’t see!”

“Commander, how long until our air support is in range?” Silverback demanded.

“Ten mikes!” Brenner replied, his voice strained. “Just keep the thing distracted a little longer!”

The Ursa was moving past the dragon’s teeth now, nudging a toppled PDF truck out of its path, its one good track churning up the sand. The going was still slow, but it was making progress, like a newborn animal taking its first faltering steps. Catching a glimpse of another resistance fighter stalking from the shadow of an alley to toss a grenade, it swept him with its blister gun, the twenty-mill turning him to vapor where he stood and detonating his grenade. The blast was contained between the two buildings, a wave of dust washing out into the road beyond, the hulking vehicle scanning for more targets.

“We need to pull back!” Rivera announced over the radio. “It’s getting more accurate – we can’t hold this position!”

It was turning its massive hull in the direction of the alley now, bathing the swirling dust with its headlights, its blister swinging around to cover its flank. Its two chainguns aimed ahead, its trio of red eyes staring from beyond its armored canopy, its turbine engine roaring like a beast as it staggered forwards. It wasn’t merely reacting now – it was hunting. Whatever alien circuitry made up its electronic brain was adapting to its new situation, grappling with its unfamiliar weapons, and learning about its environment. It must have puzzled that where there had been one target, there may be more.

Its intact track found purchase, and it began to crush another prefab, dragging the metal structure beneath its wheels and raising itself off the ground in the process. As the structure crumpled beneath it, the mortar atop its turret loosed more shells, these ones landing deeper inside the maze of alleys and side streets. The blasts sent some of the nearby fighters scattering, flushing them out of cover. With the speed and precision of a machine, the Ursa gunned down two of them, switching from one target of opportunity to the other in a moment.

“Blyat, we have to do something!” Petrova snarled.

“I’m open to suggestions!” Reed replied.

“We make ourselves the more attractive target!” she replied, her suit breaking into a lumbering run.

Ruza’s impulse was to reach out a hand and stop her, but he could not hold back a PCE. He had little choice but to let out a frustrated growl and give chase as she thundered down a back alley, keeping out of view.

There was a pang of fear as he heard the resonating thrum of that engine again, growing nearer now, its vibrations shaking the ground beneath his pads. The memory of Kodiak tanks silhouetted against the horizon had never left him, and even years later, it was just as fresh – lodged deep in his amygdala. He recalled gently lowering a sheet of camouflaged netting over the scope of his AMR, knowing that the slightest glint could give him away to their cameras – that a swift and certain death would reward his smallest mistake. There would be no body for his pack to return to the sands, only a cloud of superheated carbon molecules. Now, his enemy was almost close enough to touch, imbued with a clinical and uncaring intelligence far more threatening than any UNN tank commander.

Whether Petrova felt any such misgivings, she forged ahead all the same, soon closing the distance. The rampaging Ursa was on their side of the street, still pushing its way through the prefabs, trying to flush out more targets with its mortar. She had no weapons that could harm it, and her armor would not protect her from its weaponry, but her enemy was likely not cognizant enough to recognize that. Would it even associate size with threat level, or was its simulated mind too simple?

Her PCE emerged from cover and opened fire, dumping a dozen XMR rounds into the machine’s onyx-black flank. She followed up with a few blasts from the underslung plasma weapon, causing the colorful shields to flicker, and it seemed to be enough to distract the beast from its hunt. It turned its furious red eyes on her, swiveling its blister gun down to aim at this new curiosity.

It was too high – the tank’s tall stack of turrets prevented the defensive weapon from getting an angle on her while she was so close. The Ursa spun its secondary turret, bringing those two chainguns to bear, but the delay gave her the time she needed to retreat back into cover behind an intact prefab. It fired on her all the same, estimating her position, her shield flickering as it intercepted fragments of torn metal from the slugs that whizzed past her. They came Ruza’s way, forcing him to throw himself to the ground, but the high angle of attack sent most of them digging into the sand.

“Move, Rivera!” she bellowed as she hunkered down. “Get your men clear!”

The nearby fighters wasted no time, taking advantage of the momentary lull to retreat deeper into the alleys, the Ursa’s three eyes still focused on the last place it had seen Petrova. Its great hull turned in her direction, its engine thundering as it struggled to drag its thrown track, lurching towards the prefab. One of the molten rounds must have kindled a fire inside it, the flames starting to lick at its windows, choking smoke finding its way out through the dozens of round holes left by the slugs.

In his prone position, Ruza could see beneath the outriggers of the scant few buildings that separated him from the tank, his mind racing as he tried to come up with a plan. Not since the bombing of the resistance base had he felt so powerless, his Borealan strength and his prized AMR rendered impotent. His friends weren’t far behind him, but they were no more equipped for the situation than he was, Reed and a handful of SWAR agents taking cover nearby.

“Get back!” Petrova yelled, her PCE changing position as the Ursa began to drive over the burning structure she was hunkered behind. It dragged the flimsy metal beneath its tracks, the imprisoned drone scanning from behind its protective glass, searching like a hungry animal. “You can’t scratch this thing!”

“Heads up!” Brenner announced over the radio.

Ruza saw movement in the street beyond, a boxy, white shape sliding into view. It was Reggie, the Broker’s pristine environment suit marred by a dark scar that ran down one flank where the twenty-millimeter had ricocheted. He was still mobile, his cup-like feet barely skirting the sand, his chrome legs crouched into a low position. Those tentacle-like arms were held aloft, shifting subtly, almost as though trying to keep the exosuit balanced. Moving more like a vehicle than a biped, he skated out into the road, his method of propulsion ever ambiguous. Leveling the chrome gun on the end of one tubular arm, he fired off a series of rapid shots, the bright flashes leaving afterimages in Ruza’s vision.

They hammered the Ursa hard enough to make its directional shields waver and flicker, grabbing its attention, its aim shifting from Petrova’s hiding place. Struggling to turn atop the wrecked prefab, it swung its main gun in Reggie’s direction, its chassis rocking back as it fired. Ruza felt the shockwave in his soft tissues, the displaced air blasting away a sphere of dust and smoke near the barrel, the loud crack ringing his ears. The larger turret’s traversal was slower – not designed to track targets so fast and close, the shot lagging behind the racing Broker.

The shell cut a swathe through the city as far as Ruza could see, leaving perfectly round, molten holes the size of hubcaps in the buildings in its path. Like shining a laser beam through sheets of paper, there was almost no resistance, and there was no visible falloff. All he could do was hope that no personnel and no civilians had found themselves in the line of fire.

The daring Broker darted back out of view, a few more bursts from Lily’s shoulder-mounted cannon helping to cover his escape before she once again ducked down below the roofs of the buildings. The Ursa was moving back out into the road now, pursuing its latest target.

“Are you alright?” Commander Brenner demanded.

“We’re still in one piece,” Petrova replied. “Thanks for the cover, Commander.”

“Stay put and hunker down!” Brenner ordered. “Ortega will be starting his attack run any moment.”

Wasp pointed to the sky, her HUD able to pick out details that Ruza’s eyes could not. He spotted a bright flare of flame above the city that soon petered out, like a shooting star or a fading ember from a campfire. The shape was decelerating, plunging through the red-tinted clouds and the layer of dark smoke like an arrowhead. It was as black as night, only visible thanks to the backdrop of the setting sun. It came from the direction of the tether, itself a thin strand lit by the red glow, growing larger as its sweeping wingtips formed contrails.

“I’ll guide you in, Captain!” Brenner announced. “Do you have my laser?”

“I see it!” a distorted voice replied over the radio. “Target acquired!”

Ruza leaned out from behind the prefab to see the Ursa floundering in the street, dragging dragon’s teeth and sandbags with it as it crawled across the roadblock, still trying to reach Lily. As the Beewolf approached, it seemed to notice, its canopy and its pair of chainguns swiveling to aim into the air. A cloud of obscuring, white smoke engulfed it as it fired its countermeasures, shimmering fragments of aluminum making the haze sparkle.

“Lost tracking!” Ortega warned.

Two trails of fire erupted from the smoke cloud, punching holes in it as they reached up into the fighter’s path. The Beewolf veered away violently, narrowly avoiding the stream of slugs, the Ursa trying to correct its aim to compensate. A shower of glowing flares rained behind the fighter as it banked over the city, quickly moving beyond the tank’s range and escaping unscathed.

“I’m coming around again!” Ortega said, the strain in his voice evident. A turn like that must be subjecting him to some high G-forces. “Try to keep it painted for me!”

“It popped chaff!” Brenner replied. “It’s throwing off the laser designator!”

The plane made a wide circle, sweeping back around, Ruza spotting the cockpit canopy glinting in the sun. It passed behind the tether, then turned to face them again, lining up with the main street as the roar of its engines grew louder.

“Got it!” Brenner announced, the wind blowing away enough of the smoke that he could get a bead on the tank’s dark hull again. The Ursa still had its cannons aimed at the sky, firing off another burst, the slugs burning like tracers as they arched up into the air.

Ortega stayed the course, the weapons bay beneath the craft’s flat belly opening.

“Bombs away!” he announced, pulling up sharply as soon as his payload was free.

The Ursa fired off one more burst as the plane passed overhead, the cannons tracking it, this one catching the fighter in its right wing. It punched a trail of wide holes in the armor plating, and the wing crumpled, sheared clean from the body of the craft by the atmospheric forces. The Beewolf began to tumble, trailing smoke, nosing down towards the city.

The twenty-mill blister on the Ursa’s top turret started to fire, spraying slugs at the incoming bomb, acting as a close-in weapon. The high fire rate made its barrel glow red-hot, but even if its aim was true, there was no warhead to destroy and no way to stop what was coming.

Ruza felt the bomb impact, the falling projectile hitting the Ursa dead center and plunging through its top turret like a stone breaking through the ice on a frozen lake. There was no resistance, no explosion – it simply continued on, its stabilizing tail fins vanishing inside the tank’s hull. The ground trembled, and the Ursa buckled, its shields flickering as they tried and failed to melt the mass of speeding metal. Its guns went silent, and the rumble of its engine faded, its hull bowed like the broken back of some dead animal.

“Direct hit!” Wasp exclaimed.

Ruza dared to step out into the street, holding his breath as he waited for the machine to react in some way, but it was as still as the grave. Even the drone’s glowing cameras had faded behind their protective glass, the hole where the bomb had penetrated the top turret partially overlapping the canopy that had housed it.

“It is dead!” Ruza announced as more fighters emerged from cover to get a look at it.

“What about Ortega?” Brenner demanded as he watched the burning Beewolf descend. “Does anyone see a chute!?”

The plane was breaking apart, trailing a dark plume as though painting a black brush stroke across the red sky. It impacted somewhere in the city, its fuel igniting and sending a pillar of smoke rising above the rooftops.

“There!” Rivera said, pointing to the sky. From behind the trail of smoke emerged a parachute, slowly descending towards the ground as it drifted on the wind.

“Rivera – take a team and secure the Captain,” Brenner ordered. “We don’t want the PDF to find him first.”

“On it, Commander,” Rivera replied as he waved for the closest Marines to follow him. “Cruz, Gray, Delgado, Owens – on me!”

“Secure the area!” Brenner barked as he walked over to the Ursa. “We don’t want any more surprises!” He met Ruza and Petrova on his way, and they paused to examine the thing more closely, Brenner making a slow lap around it before returning. “Abomination,” he muttered as he gave the tracks a kick with the toe of his boot. “I don’t know what possessed Song to make him think he could control something like this.”

“I see now that your people’s fear and hatred of autonomous weapons is well-founded,” Ruza mused as he crouched to see beneath the vehicle. The bomb had punched straight through, embedding itself deep in the ground below.

“Even if Song had somehow managed to crack the encryption and reprogram the drone, it wouldn’t be any more discerning of its targets,” Wasp explained. “A machine can’t make a value judgment – it’s not capable of being moral, no matter how well it’s coded. It’s all just ones and zeroes.”

“Sorry end for a perfectly good Kodiak,” Brenner grumbled.

Reed had hurried over and was already climbing on the hull, stamping on it as though testing its strength. He made his way higher, clambering onto the top turret and leaning over to peer inside the jagged hole.

“Drag this thing to a scrapyard, and the recycled rare earth metals alone would probably fund a new clinic,” he marveled as he gave a damaged camera dome a prod with his rifle barrel. “How much is one of these things worth, do you reckon?”

“Will you get down from there, you vulture?” Wasp called to him. “The reactor might still be hot!”

“Too expensive to let you pick it apart,” Brenner replied.

“Well, I’m sure that when you fine people leave to file all your paperwork, it’ll stay exactly where you left it.”

“Please get down from there,” a synthetic voice said. Ruza turned to see Reggie walking over to the tank. “You are not authorized to handle Board property.”

One of the suit’s four hose-like arms was hovering above the jagged tear in its side, some kind of alien tool spraying a metallic substance on the breach, which rapidly hardened to form a seal. Ruza could smell saltwater…

“It’s all yours, Reggie,” Brenner said with a gesture to the hulk. “Do whatever you need to do.”

“I must extract the drone from the Kodiak hull, then retrieve the transmitter from the damaged PCE,” he explained as he stopped beside the tank. “All traces of Broker property will need to be destroyed.”

“How are you gonna do that?” Reed asked curiously. “Right,” he added as Reggie raised the energy weapon on one of his arms. “That’ll probably do it.”

“I will require a team to keep the area secure while I perform my duties,” Reggie added as one of his cameras turned to Brenner. “The agreement between our governments stipulates that any necessary assistance is to be provided.”

“I know, I know,” Brenner sighed. “You don’t have to quote the regs. I wanted Fritz’s people to hold down the roadblock anyway, so I’ll have him keep watch while you work.”

Reed hopped down onto the dusty street, watching as Reggie lifted his cup-shaped feet off the ground, rising until he was level with the tank’s turret. Floating weightlessly, he coasted above it, bringing two tentacle-like arms down into the hole and starting to rummage inside.

Reed stooped to pick up a pebble, tossing it and catching it a few times, considering whether it was worth it. He threw it beneath Reggie, perhaps expecting it to interact with whatever field his suit was emitting in some way, but it was neither slowed nor deviated from its path.

“Huh,” Reed muttered.

“Please do not do that,” Reggie added.

“What now, Boss?” Silverback asked as he walked over with his XMR cradled in his arms.

“We still need to reach Garrison One and stop Barbosa,” Brenner replied, turning to look up at the tether in the distance. “We’ve lost most of the trucks. We’re damned lucky that we didn’t suffer more casualties.”

“The way I see it, we have two choices,” Petrova said as she marched her suit over to them. “We can load up the trucks with as many troops as we can carry and attack the garrison with a smaller, more mobile force, or we can proceed on foot with a larger contingent.”

“We’ll go on foot,” Brenner replied. “We’re not too far now. We’ll need every rifle we have if we’re going to take the garrison back from Barbosa.”

DAY 56 – HADES TETHER – CROW

“Lock and load,” Crow said, checking the ammo counter on his HUD.

The elevator was starting to decelerate now – he could feel the motion of it tugging at his inner ear. SWAR agents could handle a lot more Gs than a regular person, as they had no extremities for blood to pool in, and the padding inside his PCE would help absorb much of the stress that was being exerted on his organics. Only the cargo elevator could get them to and from the ground fast enough, as it had never been designed with the limitations and comfort of human occupants in mind. There were no windows, and there was no way to see how close they were to the tether station, but he could see the light that bled in through the slatted walls flashing past.

“They’ll be waiting for us, you know,” Roach added. He was beside Crow, the pair standing on the mostly empty floor of the expansive elevator, a few scattered pallets and containers stacked up against the walls. It was designed to carry hundreds of tons of cargo to the ground at a time, but trade had mostly dried up as of late.

“And?” Crow scoffed. “Do you think they’d bring heavy weapons onto a space station? They’d be begging for a hull breach.”

“Plasma, maybe,” Roach replied. “They brought grenades when they attacked the carrier. Microwave guns, too.”

“Always wanted one of those.”

A grinding sound filled the elevator, the deck beneath their boots vibrating as its brakes ground it to a near stop. There was a loud thud accompanied by another tremendous shake, followed by silence.

“Ride’s over,” Roach surmised.

“They think they can strand us on the elevator,” Crow scoffed. “What do you say we take the stairs?”

Roach marched his PCE over to a pair of access doors on the forward hull, digging his mechanical fingers into the gap and starting to pull them apart, the sound of straining metal and servos filling the elevator. It was soon followed by rushing air as what little atmosphere was present was sucked out through the growing gap, carrying a few stray pieces of packaging foam with it.

He engaged the magnets on his boots and stepped outside, transitioning at a ninety-degree angle as though he was walking off a ledge. His suit found purchase on the exterior hull of the car, moving aside to make room as Crow followed, each footstep accompanied by a tangible thud. The dingy hold was soon replaced with twinkling stars, the horizon of Hades stretching out below. Even from orbit, the city was visible, creating a sprawling disk at the foot of the thread-like tether. The sun was dipping behind the planet, casting long shadows that picked out the plumes of smoke, rising high into the atmosphere from the fighting on the ground.

When he glanced up through his suit’s cameras, he saw the disk-shaped station hovering above him like a steel ceiling, a few of its skeletal berths still occupied by freighters that had been stripped bare of their containers. The elevator had been stopped only a couple of hundred meters from the top, the shadowy docking bay for the car looming at its end.

Crow led the way, walking up the sloping hull of the car, the aerodynamic incline leading him to the tether itself. The shimmering, black cable was much larger and more robust than it appeared from a distance, having a circumference of several meters. The cars worked by magnetic levitation, not unlike a mag-lev train, and his massive boots easily found purchase. Keeping one foot on the tether at all times, he began to march, Roach following as they left the car behind. Even while in open space, it was hard to feel vulnerable or exposed when surrounded by so much armor and shielding.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the docking bay, shadows enveloping them as they entered the large cutout in the station’s hull where the cargo elevator would slide into place. A docking platform was above them, a pair of wide pressure doors that would mate to their equivalents on the car soon dominating Crow’s field of view. As they entered the station’s AG field, they transitioned from the tether to a convenient maintenance gantry, the dark cable continuing up into the station’s superstructure. The two PCEs marched around the circumference of the ring-shaped gantry to reach the doors, finding them locked.

“Open sesame,” Crow muttered as he extended a hand, human-sized mechanical fingers emerging from the suit’s palm to interface with a touch panel. Song had long ago taken control of the station’s security system, and it was trivial to bypass the block.

They stepped through into a spacious airlock designed for cargo, the first set of doors closing behind them before the space began to pressurize. When he reached the inner doors, Crow glanced through a thick pane of glass, seeing the loading bay beyond. This was where the cargo was collected before being moved to the car, the rows of crates and shelves affording a lot of cover.

No matter.

Gunfire poured through the doors as they slid open, the blue-green glow from PCE shields illuminating their shadowy surroundings, the two suits striding forward as they shrugged off the slugs. Grenades rolled along the deck, billowing explosions of plasma threatening to overload their defenses, glittering chaff swirling in the air. Crow triggered an anti-personnel mine, and it sprayed his suit with a directional cloud of shrapnel, but it glued itself to his armor like so much melting snow.

Through the cloud, his suit began to pick out the outlines of enemy SWAR agents scattered throughout the area, leaning from gantries and emerging from behind cargo caddies. He leveled his rifle and began to fire. It would have been a sound ambush under different circumstances.

DAY 56 – HADES – BARBOSA

“We’re on our way back down the tether,” Roach said. “The station has been cleared of hostiles. Brenner’s guys put up some resistance, but they couldn’t hold out against two PCEs in an enclosed space. Based on our intel, they don’t have the manpower in orbit to take the station back. Most of their forces are already groundside.”

“No word from our Coursers yet?” Barbosa asked as he paced in the dusty courtyard of the garrison.

“Nothing,” Roach replied. “They’re not responding to hails. Either they’re too far away to receive our signals and reply in time due to lag, or they already got taken out. Ortega would have known their last coordinates and check-in schedule – he could have dispatched Brenner’s Coursers to intercept them. It’s what I would do.”

“We have to presume that they’re dead, then,” Barbosa sighed.

“We have a few freighters to choose from,” Roach continued. “They’re all supplied and fueled. We can jump away as soon as we’re aboard, and there’s no way for the carrier to trace us.”

“Good,” Barbosa said. “Brenner’s forces killed Song and disabled the Ursa. Petrova and the Rask are helping him, and they have a Jarilan Warrior with them. They’re heading straight for the garrison. The PDF obviously can’t stop them, but I can probably throw some more bodies at the problem to slow them down. You should be back on the surface before they arrive.”

“You want us to take care of it before we leave?” Crow asked.

“The last thing I want to see before I leave this miserable planet is their heads stacked in a pile on the sand,” Barbosa sneered. “I will lead our remaining forces in an ambush. Prepare to receive new orders when you get back.”

“Understood, Commander,” Roach replied. “Just tell us where you need us.”

CHAPTER 38

DAY 56 – HADES – RUZA

“Left side, left side!” Brenner yelled.

The SWAR team moved ahead of the Marines and fighters who had secured the street, passing the fallen bodies of another dozen PDF troopers, their visors reflecting the burning wreck of a troop transport. They swept through an alley, more gunfire ringing out as they cleared the area.

“Clear!” Kingfisher announced. “That’s the last of them!”

“Keep moving!” Brenner ordered.

The troops left their positions and began to march up the street again, Petrova and Lily striding ahead at the front of the formation. There were squads of Marines and resistance fighters covering the flanks, along with multiple SWAR teams acting as the spearhead. Ruza had learned to recognize many of them due to their helmet decals, and others from the decorative damascene and etchings on their limbs. One even sported LED strips on his forearms that seemed designed for signaling Valbaran flocks. Flatline and Caveman were newcomers who had arrived from the carrier with Reggie, and alongside them were the three Trogs, one of them carrying a bulky microwave gun.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Reed complained as he walked along beside Ruza. “It’s stop and go, stop and go, over and over again. How many PDF do they even have?”

“I sense that this is an attempt to delay us,” Ruza replied. “Barbosa certainly knows that we are coming, and he has never shown any affection for the PDF. Just like the Matriarch during her war, he is willing to spend lives like ammunition to buy time.”

“You think he’s going to try to hole up in the garrison?” Reed asked.

“It is the most defensible position,” Ruza replied with a shrug.

“Every time we underestimate this guy, he fucks us,” Reed insisted. “I’m not eager to test him.”

“Reed,” Brenner began as he walked back over to them with his team in tow. “What do you know about this garrison? We have satellite imagery, but you’re our expert on the ground.”

“Garrison One is the largest PDF base in the colony,” Reed replied. “It’s their HQ, and it’s where Barbosa’s people have been operating from. It’s near a lot of important infrastructure, like the anchor and the civic buildings. Needless to say, it’s heavily defended, but the fortifications aren’t too different from what they use for the smaller garrisons. Reinforced carbcrete walls, one entrance with a security gate, hardened underground structures – nothing we haven’t seen. As far as I know, at least,” he added with a shrug. “I haven’t exactly been visiting much these last two months. The main difference is just the size – it’s a larger compound with more troops stationed inside.”

“There is no way to know how many troops Barbosa may have left,” Ruza added. “He has not been conservative in their deployment.”

“He means we’ve probably whacked half of his goons by now,” Reed clarified as he looked back to Brenner.

“Orbital imaging is showing a troop buildup around the garrison, but it’s tough to make out much with all the smoke,” Brenner continued. “There seem to be fires burning in and around the cargo loading area by the anchor, but we haven’t hit it yet, and I seriously doubt the resistance forces or protesters could make it that deep into the city.”

“You think Barbosa is setting fires to create a smoke screen?” Wasp asked.

“He may be trying to obscure his movements,” Brenner agreed with a nod. “The wind would carry it in our direction.”

“There are all kinds of warehouses full of supplies that he could torch,” Reed confirmed. “Hell, he’s done it before.”

Ruza glanced up at the sky ahead of them, seeing the smoke spreading around the tether, the dark cloud billowing up from the direction of the docks. It hung over the city like a canopy, casting everything below it into shadow, only made worse by the setting sun. He could smell it on the air – stinging and acrid, like burning plastic or rubber.

“You’ve known Barbosa for decades, Commander,” Wasp began. “Any idea what he’s planning?”

“Something,” Brenner grumbled in reply. “He knows we’re coming, and he always has a plan. The worst thing we can do is underestimate him and charge straight in. He has at least three PCEs left, and he’ll use them, not to mention whatever remaining SWAR teams he has in reserve. I want to split our forces into two groups. An assault team consisting of Tiger Lily and the bulk of our infantry will move down the main street and assault the gate. This is mostly diversionary. I want their heavy weapons focused on her.”

“I can handle it, Commander,” Lily said over the radio. She was listening in, her towering suit standing further down the street. “Unless they’re hiding another Ursa, there’s not much they can field that can harm Tiger. Even an AMR will need a few good hits to take me down.”

“During this diversion, I will lead a strike team to flank around the garrison,” Brenner continued. He knelt and deftly drew a knife from his belt, using its tip to draw in the sand. He drew a square to represent the garrison, then drew a curve going around it, stabbing the blade into the ground over the target. “We’ll use Reed’s remaining explosives to blow a hole in the rear wall and make our way inside. We get a SWAR team, our Trogs, and some Marines through, and they can wreak some havoc and get the gate open. We’ll need to be quiet and move quickly, so we’ll travel light. Petrova, Ruza,” he added. “You’re with me. Your heavy weapons will be force multipliers.”

“You’re assuming that Barbosa will send out his PCEs to deal with Lily?” Petrova asked.

“Any objections?” Brenner prompted, giving her a chance to voice her opinion. She knew Barbosa well – perhaps even better than the Commander did now.

“No,” she replied after a moment, her emotions difficult to discern beneath her suit’s canopy. “Barbosa’s only option will be to tackle Tiger Lily head-on. It’s just that…Roach and Crow are shrewd fighters, they’re smart tacticians, and they always work as a pair. Lily, I know that you just got done wiping out half of their PCE force, but remember that these are the prototypes that you’ll be going up against. After piloting a production model, I can tell you that they’re faster, better shielded, and they have superior sensor suites. They’ll be piloted by seasoned operatives who have had real, practical combat experience with the hardware. Don’t underestimate them, and don’t treat them like muddy recruits.”

“Do you think Barbosa will deploy alongside them?” Lily asked.

“I’m not sure,” Petrova replied. “Throughout this conflict, he’s remained on the carrier, calling the shots from safely outside the line of fire. But don’t mistake him for a coward. He has more combat experience than anyone – even Brenner. He doesn’t have very long to live, nor does he have much left to lose.”

“That makes him unpredictable,” Brenner said with a nod of agreement. “We’re just going to have to see where the cards fall on this one. Let’s get it done.”

They separated into two groups, the bulk of their fighters and Marines following Lily as she marched down the street. Ruza, Reed, Harlequin, Brenner, the contingent of SWAR and Trogs, and a squad of Marines broke off and headed in a Westward direction relative to the garrison. With Rivera on a mission to rescue Captain Ortega, Brenner left Sergeant Fuller in command of the men who remained behind. They made their way through the side roads and alleys, using them for cover, vanishing into the shadow of the smoke cloud.

DAY 56 – HADES – FULLER

Fuller marched down the dusty road with his rifle in hand, his Hadean leathers fluttering in the breeze, following behind Tiger Lily. The imposing, ten-foot suit was striding a few meters ahead of him, each loping footstep sinking its clawed feet into the sand, that heavy thirty-mill seeming to float in place on its gimbal as the Warrior marched. He’d ordered the six squads of men under his command to stick to either side of the street, walking in columns to present the smallest possible target, ready to take cover in the alleys should the need arise.

The garrison would certainly be well-defended, but their mission was only to be a distraction. Lily would soak up most of the fire and present the most threatening target, and after what he had seen, she could take it. He’d fought Warriors before – unfriendly ones – and even an AMR would take a few rounds to put one down if they didn’t hit anything vital. Warriors were just walking sacks of redundant organs and systems encased within thick armor.

“It’s too quiet,” the Marine behind him began.

“You think so?” Fuller replied as he kept his eyes on the endless rows of prefabs. The monotony of the city was starting to drive him insane. The tether had grown from a thin strand to a thick pillar now, and above the rooftops, he could see more prominent carbcrete structures like the civic buildings and hospital rising up. The anchor towered over everything, like an industrial mountain made of ribs and girders, the dark smoke shrouding it.

“We hit a group of PDF or a blockade every fifteen minutes on the way here,” the Marine continued. “Now, suddenly nothing?”

“Hey, Lily!” Fuller said as he turned his attention to the Warrior. He picked up the pace a little, hurrying to catch up to her. “You picking up anything unusual on your scopes?”

“No, why?” she replied.

“I dunno,” he muttered. “It feels…quiet.”

As they walked, the glint of metal caught his eye, and he turned his head to the right. Nestled in an alley, only visible from this angle, was a hunched shape shrouded in shadow. Too late, he realized that it was a PCE. The massive suit was crouched low, a long rifle held in its mechanical hands. Its camera dome swiveled, the lenses catching the red glow of the sky, and it pulled the trigger.

Before he could call out a warning, Fuller’s helmet deafened him to protect his hearing, a wave of dust sweeping into the street as the rifle fired. He could feel the slug pass above his head, moving faster than his eyes could track. When he managed to turn, he saw the Warrior reeling, the thirty-mill gun on its shoulder erupting into a shower of scrap metal. The round had hit it dead on, blasting through the receiver and tearing the weapon apart, the twisted barrel falling to the ground like a felled branch.

Lily spun around to face her assailant, Fuller sprinting out of the way and waving for his men to take cover as she raised her shield, intending to intercept any follow-up shots. The PCE already seemed to be fading away, slinking back into the darkness. She popped her smoke launchers, shrouding herself in a protective haze that settled over the street like a pair of angel wings, their feathers slowly drifting downwards. It lingered, then began to clear, swept away by the wind to reveal the Warrior standing defiantly. Her sword was drawn, and her shield was raised. The giant creature took up a defensive stance like a Roman soldier preparing to ward off a charge, her armored head turning as she scanned for targets.

The cannon had been destroyed, its tattered remains hanging from her shoulder like a broken limb, the belt that carried slugs from the drum magazine on her back dangling limply. There came the sound of metal on metal, and the heavy drum fell from the suit, landing in the sand below with a thud. She appeared able to eject it like a spent magazine, leaving some mounting hardware in its place.

There was something ahead of her – Fuller seeing a dark shape occupying the road past the fading smoke. It was another PCE. There was a great slab of a ballistic shield held in one of its massive arms, and in the other, it clutched a long pole. It took Fuller a moment to realize what he was looking at. It was a long, thin augur of the kind used by excavators to drill out holes for posts and foundations, shaped like a drill bit with a pointed tip. It must have come from some manner of industrial vehicle, but the PCE wielded it like a spear.

“Come on then!” the PCE bellowed, a man’s voice emanating from its speakers and echoing down the street. It was Roach, Fuller realized – the insect decal was painted on the canopy. He raised the augur, then hammered it against his shield in a challenge, the sound of ringing steel filling the air.

“Keep back,” Lily warned, addressing Fuller. “Your men can’t do anything to stop a PCE.”

“Pull back!” Fuller ordered, shouldering his rifle and backing away. “Get off the street and take cover!”

She was right – Lily was the one who was supposed to handle the PCEs. Could she still do that without her cannon? There were at least two of them, and she was alone now.

“We’ll give you some cover and watch your back,” Fuller insisted as he retreated to a nearby alley. “Maybe with enough volume of fire, we can at least deter them. Watch your shots, people!”

Lily squared off against Roach, the pair standing at either end of the dusty street, lit by the setting sun like some kind of old Western. She began to stride forwards on her digitigrade legs, slowly at first, gradually accelerating to a loping run. Her clawed feet left deep footprints in the sand behind her, the fallen ammo drum marking her starting point. Fuller still marveled that something so large could move so quickly.

Roach planted his ballistic shield in the ground with a thud that made the sand around it shake, then leaned his right arm around the barrier, the augur clutched in his mechanical hand. He fired the XMH that was embedded in his forearm, the sidearm-caliber rounds streaking forth, forcing Lily to raise her shield. They were little more than bee stings to her, the plasma field crackling between the magnetic studs that peppered its carapace, turning them to slag before they could do any damage.

She was closing now, her suit impacting the PCE at a sprint, all of its weight thrown into a shield slam. The two shields collided, chitin meeting composite, a sound like a hammer striking an anvil echoing through the street. The PCE’s heavy boots began to slide in the sand, but it endured, the outrigger-like claws on its toe and heel digging into the ground for purchase. It was strong – stronger than Fuller would have imagined, despite being three feet shorter than the Warrior. It was equivalent to watching a human and a Borealan grapple, but on a larger scale, their struggling making the nearby prefabs shake on their stilts.

Lily raised her short sword, the vein of copper that ran down its dark blade glinting in the evening light, intending to drive it down over the top of her shield. Roach heaved her back, knocking her away with his bulwark, all of the machinery and electronics that powered the limb squealing with the effort. It was enough to send the more agile Warrior staggering back a couple of paces, knocked off-balance for a moment. Like a knight of old wielding a spear, Roach thrust the augur towards her, its sharp tip plunging towards her torso. Lily danced away, avoiding it by only a few inches, her grace belying the weight of her suit. Where the PCEs were steel and servos, the Warrior was muscle and sinew, and it moved like a living thing.

Pressing the attack, she stepped back in, jabbing the blade at Roach’s chest. The PCE was faster than it looked, the ballistic shield that must have weighed hundreds of pounds in its own right moving into the blade’s path, the tip sinking into its surface. The sword became stuck, and Roach realized it as the Warrior tried to pull away, driving the augur around the right side of his shield. Lily narrowly avoided it, leaning out of its path and using her lower arm to push the spear aside, those three chitinous fingers gripping the spiraling bit.

They were locked together now, Roach driving his suit forwards, rearing back and slamming his canopy into the Warrior’s chest. Lily was rocked by the impact, knocked back, the Warrior’s feet scrambling to find purchase in the loose sand. The blow was enough to encourage her to release the augur, and the sword came free along with it, Lily backing away to regroup.

“I’ve killed dozens of Warriors on as many worlds,” Roach gloated, starting to flank around her. She matched his movements, the two pacing as they circled one another in the road, Roach showing off his dexterity by twirling the spear in his hand. “You really think you’ll be the one to take me down after we’ve evened the playing field? You’re not the only ones with suits anymore.”

“You’re just another Feral to me,” Lily replied, tapping the haft of her sword against the decals painted on her chest. “We Jarilans recognize that our cousins are beyond help and must be culled. Your kin have made that same judgment about you. When you’re a smoking wreck, I’ll put you right here with the rest of the tally.”

“You should be more concerned about watching your own back,” Roach chuckled.

The long barrel of a rifle slid into view from an alley behind her, its dense coils glinting, Fuller watching as Crow revealed himself once more. That was an AMR, just like the one Ruza had used, probably sourced from the garrison armory. Instead of a bulky battery, the insulated power cable led to a port on the back of his suit, likely drawing power directly from its reactor. The grip would have been too small for a PCE, but a set of skeletal, human-sized prosthetic fingers had extended from the hand’s palm to manipulate the trigger.

“Behind you!” Fuller warned, opening fire on Crow. The nearby Marines followed his lead, the volley of rounds chewing through the corner of the prefab, the PCE’s shield flashing as it intercepted slugs and fragments of molten shrapnel.

Crow fired, his suit absorbing recoil that would have knocked a grown man on his ass, the blast of displaced air kicking up a cloud of dust as the heavy slug left the barrel. Lily had reacted just in time, her shield already raised to protect her, Fuller watching it rock as the slug impacted it. The plasma shield ignited, softening the projectile, but it had enough speed and mass to punch through and dig a crater into the armor beneath. It didn’t make it all the way through, but he could see the Warrior stagger under the impact.

“This is why the Coalition can’t win!” Roach snarled, the Warrior lurching as he took advantage of the opening to thrust the augur into Lily’s side. The industrial tool sank inches into the tough carapace, the spiraling blade that ran down its length carving into flesh before it was halted, blood the color of green mucus seeping out around it. “If you want to win against bad odds, you gotta fight dirty!”

Crow slunk back into the alley as Lily gripped the augur with her lower arm, pulling it out and retreating, leaving a bleeding wound in what would have been the rib area of a human. It was no mortal injury, but it was enough to get her attention, a trail of green fluid leading back across the sand to Roach.

Roach gave her no time to get her bearings, swinging the augur overhead like a club, its spiraling blade singing through the air. She blocked it with her shield as he harried her with blows and forced her to retreat, the blade starting to glow red-hot as the plasma heated the metal.

With a growl of frustration, Lily swiped the next strike aside with her shield, swinging her sword up from below in an arc. It scraped against Roach’s ballistic shield again, carving a deep furrow into its surface and scoring the glass on the slatted window. The PCE was shorter than the Warrior – denser, like a turtle able to retract into its shell.

Before Roach could respond, Lily raised the Warrior’s foot, bringing it down on his shield like she was kicking in a door. The PCE dug its outriggers into the sand, but the force of the kick was enough to uproot them, sending the mechanical suit staggering back. She kept the momentum going, stepping in and hooking her right leg around the PCE’s left boot, pulling it out from beneath the suit. She followed up with a swift elbow strike from her sword arm, encouraging Roach to tip over, the ground shaking as she put the eighteen-hundred-pound construct on its back. Fuller would never have imagined that a Warrior could pull off that kind of move. Standing over the fallen PCE, the Warrior spun the sword in its hand until the blade faced down, then plunged it towards Roach in an overhand thrust.

Roach raised his shield to protect himself, and the blade pierced through it with all the strength of a jackhammer, its sharp edge embedding itself almost to the hilt in the layers of composite plating. He tried to stab her with the augur, but he didn’t have the leverage he needed in this position, and Lily caught it in her lower hand. With a bellow, she raised her shield and brought the tapered point at its bottom down towards Roach’s canopy, slamming it like a hammer. It didn’t have much purchase, sliding off the slanted armor and scraping away some of the painted cockroach decal.

Further down the street, Fuller saw Crow emerge from an alley at a lumbering run, crossing over to the left side of the road and vanishing again. The Sergeant aimed his rifle, but the PCE passed behind Lily, denying him a clean shot.

“Watch out, Lily!” Fuller warned. “Second bogey is flanking you!”

She was too focused on Roach, trying to deliver a finishing blow. A burst from the PCE’s wrist-mounted XMH cut across her Warrior’s helmet, scarring the chitin and shattering one of the lenses that made up its eyes. Undeterred, she raised the sword again, bringing it down above the ballistic shield and managing to get around the obstacle. Roach’s plasma field ignited to try to stop it, but the glowing energy shifted around the blade, forming a hole that let it pass unhindered. The sword pierced the shoulder plating, plunging deep into the suit, cutting through machinery and severing power cables. Coolant and hydraulic fluid sprayed like blood, splattering the Warrior’s scarred face.

Crow came in from the left, running out of a nearby alley and approaching her from behind. The AMR was held in his right hand, and in the left, he was clutching a long combat knife. It looked like the bayonets used by larger auxiliaries, maybe ten inches long, its edge covered in serrated teeth. Fuller called out, but not before Crow plunged the blade into the Warrior’s back, sinking it to the hilt with all the strength of a backhoe. Lily was forced to pull away from Roach, turning to swipe at Crow with her sword, but he was already moving out of her reach. As she turned to face him, he brought the AMR to bear, aiming the six-foot rifle from the hip.

She triggered her smoke launchers just as Fuller heard a gunshot, the three giants vanishing into the fog as it billowed through the street. He touched a hand to his helmet, kneeling down in the sand.

“This is Sergeant Fuller – we need support! We’re being engaged by two – repeat, two PCEs, and Tiger Lily has taken damage! We need backup!”

“We have to do something!” the Marine beside him hissed. “If they take down Lily, it’ll be open season on the rest of us!”

The smoke began to clear, and Fuller saw Lily standing there with her shield raised, but something was wrong. Weakened by repeated shots, the chitin had finally succumbed, and there was a partially melted AMR slug embedded in her chest plate where it had punched through. Roach had risen to his feet again, his shield arm hanging limp where the Warrior had severed important machinery and electronics. The locking mechanism that held it to his suit’s bulky forearm popped open, and the heavy shield fell to the sand, freeing him to move again. Taking advantage of the Warrior’s distraction, he thrust his augur beneath her shield arm, driving it inches into the living suit. Green blood splattered the cockroach decal on his canopy as she staggered away, turning her shield to face him.

Crow fired again, aiming for the Warrior’s leg this time, the slug cutting through the suit’s knee. It carried enough energy to sever the limb, blasting it apart in a shower of chitin and green gore. The Warrior lost its balance as it tried to put weight on a leg that no longer existed, toppling over backwards and crashing into a prefab, crumpling the thin metal beneath its weight.

The two PCEs pressed the attack, Roach swinging his augur and knocking the sword from Lily’s hand as she raised it to defend herself, while Crow planted a heavy boot on the Warrior’s barrel chest. Roach drove the augur through the Warrior’s shoulder, putting all of his PCE’s strength into the blow, impaling the organic suit and sinking the industrial tool into the ground beneath her. One arm still dangling uselessly, he gripped the edge of her shield with the other, heaving it back to expose her to Crow.

Crow brought the barrel of the AMR to the Warrior’s head and pressed it against the scarred chitin, waiting a few moments more for the caps to charge, then pulled the trigger. The Warrior’s head exploded, painting the crumpled prefab behind it with green goo, pieces of shattered electronics joining the organic matter as it sloughed to the sand below like spilled offal. The Warrior went limp, its shield slumping to the sand beside it.

The coils of his barrel still glowing, Crow stepped away to admire his work, resting the rifle over his shoulder. Roach walked around to his left, and the two PCEs bumped mechanical fists, seeming to congratulate one another. That done, the camera domes beneath their painted teeth turned to scrutinize the watching Marines.

“Time to start running, rats!” Crow declared as he dropped the AMR into his waiting hand and swung it towards them.

“Damn it – open fire!” Fuller ordered, momentarily transfixed by the grisly scene.

XMR slugs poured in from both sides of the street, the fighters firing from concealment between the prefabs, filling the air with molten tungsten. It was a huge volume of automatic fire, lighting up the shields of the PCEs, but none of it was making it through the armor beneath. Gradually, the ocean gray and Navy blue paintwork was turning black, layers of melted metal building up to obscure it.

With enough sustainment, they might have broken through, but it was too late. Crow shouldered his AMR and fired, the round impacting the corner of a prefab, turning itself and the wall into a deadly spray of molten shrapnel that took out the three men taking cover behind it. As the AMR charged for another shot, the PCE passed the rifle to its left arm and raised the right, spewing a swarm of slugs from the XMH embedded in its wrist. Roach did the same, firing from his good arm, advancing past the downed Warrior as he swept it across the street.

“Grenades! Grenades!” Fuller yelled over the gunfire. He primed a smoke and tossed it into the road, several fighters doing the same, frags throwing up clouds of dust to join the white haze that quickly blocked their sight lines. “We have to pull back!” he added. “Disperse into the city! There are only two of them – they can’t follow us all!”

He fired blindly into the smoke cloud, retreating down an alley with his squad, his heart racing. They had nothing that could scratch a PCE without Lily, and the bastards had dismantled her piece by piece. All Fuller could do now was run and hope that someone had heard his call for help.

“Turn off your IFF!” Fuller reminded them. “They can track the signals!”

He heard more gunfire in the distance, along with the loud thud of the AMR, hurrying behind the nearest building for cover. The shipping container-sized prefabs were scattered throughout the city, forming a kind of labyrinth bridged by narrow alleyways and side streets, intersected by larger roads that led to the anchor. Navigation would have been downright impossible if not for the ever-present tether that rose up above the colony to mark its center. Fuller really was starting to feel like a rat in a maze.

He heard the thud of heavy, mechanical boots approaching, and he ducked low to put his helmet to the ground. The outriggers that elevated the prefabs a foot off the sand let him see beneath the buildings, and he could spot one of the PCEs approaching. A few fighters were taking refuge beneath the prefabs, and the suit spotted one of them, reaching down to grab him by the leg. The man screamed as he was dragged out, then he rose out of view, his broken body falling back down a moment later.

“Get out of here!” Fuller whispered to his team, waving for them to run. They hesitated, but eventually dispersed into the passages.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Crow chimed over his suit’s speakers. “You ever hear the term fish in a barrel?” There was another burst of gunfire from the handgun on his wrist as he stalked between the buildings. “I’m guessing Brenner and the Rask aren’t here? I was hoping for some futile heroics, like your Bug friend back there. You know, the Boss has been tearing his hair out because of all the damage your little revolution has done,” he said as he fired the AMR again. Fuller felt its thud reverberate through his bones, the round blowing a hole the size of a dinner plate in the side of a nearby prefab. “I, on the other hand, have been having the time of my life on this dustball. I don’t have to pretend that I don’t enjoy my job anymore because it makes people uncomfortable. Find a job you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life, right?”

Another grenade exploded, and there was a flash from the PCE’s shields as it intercepted the shrapnel. Fuller chanced a look around a corner to see Crow cut down a fighter with a burst of XMH fire.

“We need backup!” he hissed into his helmet. “For fuck’s sake, we’re getting slaughtered!”

“Is that a radio emission I’m picking up?” Crow said as he changed direction, the suit’s boots thudding in the sand at his approach. “You’re ringing the dinner bell!”

He barreled around the corner just as Fuller slunk away, darting into the next alley, the suit so close that he could smell the stink of ozone from its plasma shield through his helmet. Like a bloodhound sniffing the ground, the PCE lingered where Fuller had been standing, that camera dome swiveling to face the sand. Could it see his footprints?

His pursuer was distracted by another target, turning to give chase and thundering away around a bend, stopping to level the AMR. Another blast rang out that forced Fuller’s helmet to deafen him, then Crow pressed on, disappearing from view.

A wave of powerlessness washed over Fuller as he inched around the building and began to move back towards the main road. He wanted to do something – anything, but they had nothing that could scratch that suit. As he returned to the street, hearing more gunfire and panicked yelling, he came across the fallen Warrior. Green blood was still seeping from the wound in its shoulder where the augur had skewered it, sliding down the spiraling tool to pool on the sand below. Its head was gone, ending at the neck, more goo dripping from it in strands.

He turned and hurried over to the far side of the street, not knowing where either PCE was, only the shouts and gunshots giving him an idea of their direction. As he ran down an alley, he bumped into something, falling on his ass.

DAY 56 – HADES – RUZA

Ruza extended a hand and hauled Fuller to his feet, the human glancing up at him, his expression hard to guess beneath his visor.

“R-Ruza!” Fuller stammered, sounding relieved. He turned to greet Silverback, who was standing beside him, his squad support weapon clutched in his bulky prosthetic arms. Deacon soon followed, the Trog lagging behind in his heavy armor. Ruza was amazed that he could run in it at all. “What are you doing here!?”

“We heard your distress call,” Ruza explained, hefting his AMR. “The Commander ordered us to return and render aid. We did not want to reply and announce our arrival to the enemy.”

“What the hell happened?” Silverback demanded, flinching at a nearby burst of gunfire.

“We got hit by two PCEs,” Fuller explained breathlessly. “Ambush. They killed Lily.”

“The Warrior is down?” Deacon replied.

“What?” Silverback asked in disbelief. “How the fuck did that happen?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Fuller continued, stumbling over his words. “You have to stop them – they’re killing everyone.”

“Roach and Crow,” Ruza growled, one of his ears swiveling to track a nearby gunshot. “They will not escape me this time…”

“Crow has an AMR,” Fuller explained, gesturing to Ruza’s heavy rifle. “Roach took some damage and lost an arm, but he’s still dangerous.”

“How many casualties?” Deacon asked.

“No idea,” Fuller said with a shake of his head. “I ordered everyone to split up and retreat. They’re hunting my guys down for sport.”

“Then, the hunters are to become the hunted,” Ruza declared.

“Did you hear that from a movie or something?” Silverback muttered.

“No, why?” Ruza inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t say that again – it’s cliché.”

“Very well,” he grumbled, turning back to Fuller. “Which way?”

“No idea,” Fuller replied. “Crow was on the far side of the street – in the prefabs. He only came after me when I sent out the call.”

“Your guys turned off all your IFFs?” Silverback asked.

“Yeah, we went radio silent.”

“A good hunter needs good bait,” Silverback added, giving Ruza a nudge with his elbow. “What if we set up an ambush of our own? We could use Fuller to draw them out. They’d think he was calling for help again.”

“Yeah, if they’re not too distracted killing everyone,” Fuller protested.

“It’s as good a plan as any,” Deacon said, somehow managing to shrug his heavy pauldrons.

“Do you consent?” Ruza asked, peering down at the Sergeant.

“God damn it, fine,” Fuller grumbled. “Find somewhere to set up, and I’ll try to call them over. Just one tour on the Tirad, they said,” he muttered to himself as he began to walk away. “Just peacekeeping duties, no Bugs! It’ll be a cakewalk! I thought them serving adobo in the mess every night was gonna be the worst thing about this assignment…”

“I can’t do much with my XMR,” Silverback said. “I could maybe distract them – help pop their shields.”

“We’ve seen good effect on PCEs from our microwave guns,” Deacon added, giving the blocky housing of his three-pronged weapon a slap. “It won’t bring one down quickly, but it’ll make them regret their life choices.”

“Do what you can,” Ruza replied, glancing at the nearby structures.

He had a few options. He could climb atop a roof and conceal himself behind one of the many jutting air conditioning units, or he could crawl beneath a prefab as he had done during his last fight against a lone PCE. Their sensors were powerful, however. They could track small movements, see heat, and they might be aware of the tactics he had used before. Their cameras were always watching – always transmitting. As he looked out into the street, he saw the Warrior lying broken on the sand, slumped against a crushed prefab. Its head was missing, and there was some kind of spiraling spear impaled through its chest.It must have been a terrible battle, and he was sorry to see the proud Jarilan so brutalized, but its body might provide just the cover he needed.

Gesturing for Silverback and Deacon to stay put, he dropped low, hurrying across the street. Placing a hand on the Warrior’s tough chitin armor, he saw that it was still warm and still bleeding. Holding his AMR in one hand, he crawled beneath the titan on his belly, the way that it was partially propped up by the prefab that had broken its fall giving him space to maneuver. He rolled onto his back, then rose to a sitting position, resting the barrel of his rifle on the Warrior’s limb. The weapon’s barrel protruded between the upper shield arm and the lower manipulator arm, barely visible at a casual glance, and the lingering body heat should shield him from their sensors. A droplet of green fluid dribbled onto his cheek from the wound above, but he ignored it, adjusting his aim.

Silverback had been watching, and he appeared to understand, giving the Rask a thumbs-up before slinking away into the shadows with Deacon in tow. Moments later, Ruza heard the hiss of a radio transmission in his earpiece, Fuller’s voice coming through.

“This is Sergeant Fuller. We are under attack. Repeat – we are under attack! Any units in the area, please respond…”

It didn’t take long for the distress call to draw predators, like the baying of a wounded animal calling forth scavengers. Ruza felt the footsteps of the PCE before he saw it, the heavy machine lumbering out onto the street, passing within a few feet of his grisly hiding spot. The suit was carrying an AMR in its hands, just like Ruza’s, the cable trailing to a socket in the bulky power plant on its back. It must be using that in lieu of the battery that Ruza had been lugging in his pack.

The Rask took aim, moving his sights over the power plant, but he hesitated as something else caught his eye. The second PCE came marching into view from across the street, this one’s left arm dangling limply where it had been damaged during the fight. It was Roach, his insect decal stained with the same green blood that still seeped from the fallen Warrior.

They were both present, and Ruza had but a single shot before his weapon needed to recharge. It would only take perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, but ten seconds was more than enough time for the PCEs to kill him ten times over.

The two were already honing in on Fuller’s signal, and if Ruza did not act quickly, they might move out of view and find the Marine. Ruza could not coordinate with Silverback and Deacon, either. Any radio transmission would be detected by the PCEs, and his companions were not in line of sight to receive laser signals. There was no choice but to act.

As the two PCEs approached one another, perhaps speaking over a private network, Roach turned his canopy in Ruza’s direction. It was a clean shot, and even the prototype PCEs lacked sufficient shielding and armor to stave off an AMR round. He had no plan for how to deal with Crow, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it, as Fletcher used to say.

With only moments to act, he pulled the trigger, the recoil from the rifle slamming into his shoulder and sending a stab of pain through his injured bicep. At the last possible moment, as though ordained by fate, Roach turned away. The slug hit the angled armor plating and glanced off it like a stone skipping on water, but it still conveyed enough energy to carve a chunk out of the canopy, leaving a long scar of molten metal across the insect decal. At a glance, it was impossible to tell how much damage had been done, but Ruza watched the PCE collapse all the same. Crow lurched away as the heavy suit toppled over backwards, landing in the sand with a thud just across the road from the Warrior. Perhaps spalling had killed the pilot, or simply the force of the impact – all that mattered was that the target was down.

There was no ambiguity about where the shot had come from, Crow turning his rifle on the dead Warrior, the camera dome beneath the suit’s chin fixing on Ruza’s barrel.

“You motherfucker!” he bellowed, his voice crackling through the PCE’s speakers. “How dare you lay a hand on him! How fucking dare you!”

His rage was palpable, almost hysterical, Crow raising his rifle and aiming it at Ruza. The Rask reached for the only thing that was close – the Warrior’s shield. With his left arm, he dragged the heavy implement up off the sand and moved it to cover him, the Warrior’s dead limb providing no resistance. Even in the low gravity, the strain of it threatened to snap his tendons and tear his muscles, Ruza baring his teeth and growling with the effort. It fell into place just as Crow fired, the sound of the slug hitting the other side of the shield reverberating through the Rask’s body and rocking the dead Warrior. The power source must have been damaged or inactive, because the plasma field did not trigger, Ruza examining the massive bulge in the rear side of the shield with wide eyes. It had almost made it through, and it was aimed right at his head.

“I’m gonna twist your limbs into fucking pretzels and leave you out in the sun to bake!” Crow yelled, the thudding of his footsteps hastening to announce his approach.

Ruza had no option but to flee, clutching his AMR in his hand as he scrabbled to get out from under the Warrior’s bulk. The pack that housed his battery snagged on its spiky shell, stopping him in his tracks, but he managed to leap clear. A moment later, the PCE unloaded a stream of slugs from its wrist-mounted sidearm, some of them embedding in the tough carapace as others splashed in the sand behind him.

“You!” Crow snarled, swinging his heavy suit around to give chase. “You mangy fuck! Petrova should have skinned you alive and used you as a rug!”

Ruza darted behind a prefab as Crow swept the sidearm in his direction, the slugs chewing holes in the metal and showering him with flecks of slag. Another burst of gunfire joined it, and Ruza heard Silverback shouting over the din.

“Over here, asshole! Come get some!”

Crow turned, giving up the chase, his attention focused on the agent. There was another loud thud as Crow fired his AMR, but Ruza couldn’t see what had happened from behind the building. If Crow’s rifle had charged, then Ruza’s would not be far behind, and it was soon confirmed as the battery meter flashed green. He had but one chance now.

Ruza hurried around to the other side of the partially crushed prefab, swinging his rifle out of cover and searching for his target. Crow was waiting for him, the PCE’s bulk filling the scope, a mechanical hand reaching out. Metal fingers closed around the AMR’s barrel, crushing the coils and warping it, the PCE pulling back and yanking Ruza from cover. Ruza felt his paws leave the sand, then the rifle left his hands, the cable that connected it to his pack coming free as the quick-release was triggered. Ruza landed a few feet away, the battery digging into his back as he rolled across the street, a grunt of pain escaping his lips. He looked up to see the PCE toss the broken AMR aside, the intact one still held in its left hand.

“What now, pussycat?” Crow demanded as he spread his mechanical arms wide in a mocking gesture. “You’ve got no friends left, no gun, and nobody is coming to save you. You know, I didn’t deploy to Borealis during the rebellion. Always regretted that. It was the only legal way to kill one of you freaks. Now that I’m here, the rules don’t apply to me. No laws, no regs, nobody waiting to reprimand me for doing my job too well. Let’s see if your bones really are as strong as they say.”

The PCE took a step closer, and Ruza scanned his environment for anything that he could use. He had his sidearm, but that wouldn’t scratch the suit, and he had no grenades or explosives. His eyes focused on a dark shape resting in the sand nearby. It was Lily’s sword, the vein of copper that ran from its haft to the pointed tip shining, drawing his attention. He had no idea how it functioned, if it required power, or if he could even wield it, but he had seen its blade pierce the shield of the Ursa.

It was his only chance, but Crow was too close, raising a heavy boot and preparing to bring it down on him.

“Stay down, Ruza!” Deacon yelled.

Ruza did as he asked without pausing to look up, pressing himself flat against the ground and covering his head with his arms, a wave of heat washing over him. He tried to press himself into the sand reflexively, the very air above him seeming to boil, what must be an invisible microwave beam exciting the water molecules. There was no way to know how close he was to the lethal radiation.

Crow lurched, staggering away as he raised his mechanical hands to protect himself reflexively, one of the cameras on his canopy popping like a tiny firework. With a bellow of anger, he raised his gun arm and swept the twin barrels across the prefabs blindly, the heat vanishing as Deacon was forced back into cover.

It was enough to give Ruza an opening, and he leapt to his feet, diving for the weapon as Crow tried to get his bearings. He was faster than the PCE – more agile, and he darted past to the suit’s left as he heaved the blade off the ground. It was heavy, even for him, and what had appeared as a short sword in the Warrior’s hand was far larger in his. The PCE spun to track him as he stumbled past, Ruza catching the thick cable that connected the AMR to the suit’s power plant with the blade, the sharp edge severing it.

Crow turned to aim the AMR at him as Ruza fell, laughing through his speakers while the Rask picked himself up and brandished the sword.

“What are you gonna do with that?” Crow chuckled.

Ruza lunged in and swung the blade in an overhead strike, Crow raising his left arm to block the blow. Its magnetic core parted the flickering shield, its sharp edge cutting inches into the tough armored forearm of the PCE, but it soon stopped dead. Either the blade wasn’t sharp enough to cleave through the limb, or Ruza wasn’t strong enough to wield a sword designed for a Warrior.

Crow threw Ruza to the ground once more with a wave of his arm, deftly passing the AMR to his left hand before dislodging the sword with the right, tossing the blade aside.

“You brought a knife to a gunfight,” he said, aiming that long rifle again. “That might work on your backwater, but not here. You killed my friend,” he added, his tone becoming more serious. “Before this slug turns you inside out, I want you to know that I plan to return the favor. All your little resistance friends, Jameson Reed, Bergmann, that pretty secretary of yours – I’m gonna do ‘em slow.”

Ruza bared his teeth in a snarl, and Crow pulled the trigger. There was no recoil – no blast, only a hollow click, the PCE’s camera dome swiveling down to examine the rifle.

“What the-”

“Ruza!” Silverback shouted, emerging from an alley at a sprint. He ducked to grab the discarded sword where it lay beside a prefab, tossing it through the air, his augmented arms sending it sailing across the street.

Ruza sprang to his feet in a flash, lunging to catch the sword, gripping the handle in both hands. As Crow turned his attention away from his broken rifle, Ruza closed the distance between them in a stride, driving the point of the sword up from below with all his strength and burying it in the armpit of the suit. There were no armor plates there, only the exposed machinery that gave the limb its range of motion, the sharp edge sinking deep into the metal. The shield attempted to protect the PCE, but just as it had before, the blade created a wavering hole in the field. It was still hot enough that Ruza could feel it scalding him, the roiling plasma singing the fur on his hands through nothing more than its proximity as he pushed deeper, its ozone stench filling his nose.

Crow swept Ruza away from him with a swing of the suit’s arm, Ruza releasing his hold on the haft, the blow sending him rolling across the sand. Crow aimed his wrist gun at his assailant, then seemed to reconsider, dropping the AMR and trying to reach for the sword that was still buried beneath his arm. He staggered, getting a grip on the handle and pulling it loose with the sound of metal scraping against metal, holding it up to see that inches of its blade were soaked crimson with blood.

“Y-you fuck,” Crow stammered, taking an unsteady step towards Ruza. The PCE read the output directly from his spine, which meant that it was reproducing the signals just as his organic body would have. The suit was not so damaged that it was failing, but Crow was. With the shunt cutting off all feeling beneath his neck, he might not even realize how severely he was injured. Ruza backed away, crawling on the sand as the PCE approached, its gun arm wavering as its dying pilot tried to aim it. Instead, the suit dropped to its knees, reaching out a hand to save itself from falling.

“You will cause no more suffering here,” Ruza declared, cautiously rising to his feet and continuing to back away. “Your crimes at the resistance base are avenged.”

“Oh, spare me,” Crow choked as he held up a shaky mechanical hand and raised its finger in an insulting gesture. His final breath left him in a wet rattle, and the suit gave out, falling onto its canopy to lie motionless in the road.

Ruza exhaled a sigh, suddenly all too aware of the aches and pains that assailed him. His back still hurt where the battery had dug into it, and his bicep was bleeding again, the fresh blood soaking through his bandages. Slowly, the nearby fighters began to emerge from hiding, forming a crowd to examine the fallen titans that now littered the street. Silverback, Deacon, and Fuller were soon hurrying to Ruza’s side.

“Holy hell!” Silverback marveled as he stepped past the Warrior’s bloody blade and glanced down at the fallen PCE. “Of all the ways that could have gone, death by sword was not on my list. Are you alright, Doc?”

“I am fine,” Ruza grumbled in reply, kneeling and producing a medkit to tend to his arm. He’d torn his sutures, but most of the work done back at the missile base was holding. He applied some fresh adhesives, watching as Fuller gave the PCE a tentative kick with his boot, Deacon keeping his microwave gun trained on it.

“You sure he’s dead?” Fuller asked.

“Looks pretty dead to me,” Deacon added.

“I am sure,” Ruza replied, grimacing as he bandaged his bicep. “Your distraction worked, Sergeant. Were it not for Silverback and Deacon, I might be the one lying broken on the sand.”

“We weren’t gonna leave you high and dry,” Silverback continued as he stooped to pick up the sword. It was even larger and heavier to him, but his augmented arms allowed him to lift it, and he examined the bulb-shaped device that made up its pommel. Could that be some kind of power source? “I did what I could to distract him, but I can’t tank an AMR like Lily…man, Lily,” he added as he glanced over at the fallen Warrior.

A group of fighters had assembled around her Warrior’s body, and one of them raised a hand, waving to them.

“Hey! Hey, Doc! Get over here!”

Ruza and Silverback exchanged a glance, then hurried over, the crowd of men parting to let them get closer. The fighter who had beckoned them over had taken off his helmet and was pressing his ear against the carapace of its torso.

“I think I hear someone!” he announced.

“No way,” Silverback scoffed. “Some of the Warrior’s guts are probably still alive – it takes a lot to kill these things. They’re basically giant organ banks.”

Ruza eased one of the nearby men aside and approached, pressing a furry ear to the Warrior’s chest as though listening for a patient’s heartbeat. There was indeed movement, along with a muffled voice.

“Give me the blade!” Ruza demanded, extending a singed hand to Silverback.

The agent passed him the sword, and Ruza began to inspect the carapace, trying to find a break or an opening that he could use to pry it apart. He had no experience with Warriors and no knowledge of their anatomy – or perhaps their systems would be the more appropriate term. The plates of tough carapace that ran down the torso were overlapping, segmented like a crustacean, and he noted that there was a seam cutting directly down the middle of them. Carefully, as he remembered how sharp the blade was, he inserted it into the seam and began to pry it open.

“You look like you’re shelling a lobster,” Silverback muttered as he watched.

“Help me,” Ruza added. Silverback moved to his side and gripped the long haft of the blade, the two of them heaving together, and the carapace finally started to give. Another good push, and it popped open with a cracking sound, revealing a fleshy lining within.

Ruza hooked his claws around the near side and pulled, making the opening wider, the suit’s torso splitting down the middle like the ribcage of a carcass being gutted. The two halves were joined by drooping ropes of gelatinous slime, and the cavity within was filled with what looked like glistening entrails, some of them shifting and moving.

“I am never eating noodles again,” Silverback muttered.

It was not the tendrils that were moving, Ruza realized, but something beneath them. A slime-covered hand emerged, pushing the entrails aside and reaching out, its four fingers grasping blindly. Its carapace was a porcelain white in color, patterned with speckles of pink. Ruza didn’t hesitate, gripping the slender wrist and pulling, the tendrils parting to reveal a face. A pair of expressive Jarilan eyes peered back at him, an ornate horn and a pair of damp antennae following after it. The tentacles were coiled limply around her body, holding her in place, and it took some wriggling for her to free herself. As she rose from the body cavity, Ruza saw that there were fleshy umbilicals connected to her spine, popping off like plugs when she pulled on them. Ruza gently lowered her down onto the ground, and she used her four hands to wipe some of the goo off her carapace, the fighters looking on in bemusement.

Unlike Harlequin, who was around five feet tall, Lily was nearing seven. Her build was tall and willowy, with slender limbs and a narrow torso, the similar features making her resemble a Drone who had been stretched out. Her coloration was the same all over her body, the pale white that dominated her shell broken up by flushes of pink and rosy speckles in places. It was hard to envision how she even fit inside the Warrior.

“Thanks!” she chimed, turning to face her rescuers. “I thought I was gonna be stuck in there for good! I had no power, and that spike they skewered me with was stopping the carapace from opening. What?” she added, glancing at the onlookers in confusion.

“We’re just…surprised,” Silverback stammered.

“I get it,” she replied, throwing up her top hands. “You feel like this is our first meeting, even though you’ve been interacting with me through the suit this entire time. I get that a lot.”

“Is your Warrior repairable?” Ruza asked as she wrung out one of her antennae like a towel.

Lily turned, placing a hand on its shell, seeming almost wistful.

“No,” she sighed. “Tiger is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Silverback added, seeming unsure of how to respond. “Was Tiger like…a pet to you? I don’t know how alive these things really are.”

“They’re just biological machines,” she explained, glancing over the Warrior’s massive frame. “They’re materiel, like a truck or a rifle. Still, you can’t help but develop an attachment to them after working with the same suit for so long, even if it’s illogical. I knew that Tiger would die when we set out from Kerguela. There was no way to bring enough honey to keep him fed, and there would be no maintenance facilities on Hades. It was always going to be a one-way trip for him.”

“We cannot stay here,” Ruza interjected. “We must move on the garrison. Brenner and the others are counting on our diversion. Are you able to keep pace, Lily?”

“I can hold my own,” she replied, drawing an XMH from a shaped recess in her thigh armor.

“You should see if you can salvage Crow’s AMR before we leave,” Deacon suggested, hefting his bulky microwave gun. “We’re going to need the firepower. There’s still one PCE running around out there.”

Ruza walked over to the downed suit, lifting the rifle and inspecting it. Just like his own, it must have been taken from a PDF garrison. It was as standard as they came, with no advanced optics and no attachments. It likely hadn’t even been able to share a data link with the PCE’s systems. The power cable had been severed during the fight, but Ruza’s was still intact, hanging from his pack after being disconnected from his rifle. It had a magnetic clasp to prevent the cable from being damaged by pulling it. He soon located his own weapon, finding its barrel crushed and twisted. After only a few minutes, he had field-stripped the two rifles and was combining their parts into a functional weapon. He swapped over the barrel from the intact AMR and attached it to his own, carrying over the attachments and sights, and the weapon came online when he plugged it back in. There wasn’t a lot of ammunition left, but he salvaged what he could from Crow’s magazine.

“Uh, Doc?” Fuller asked. “I think this one might still be alive…”

Ruza turned to see Fuller, Silverback, and a couple of Marines standing around Roach’s downed PCE. One of its fingers twitched, and they all leapt back, gradually approaching again with more caution.

“How do you get these things open?” Fuller wondered as he prodded at the chest plate.

“Stand back, I saw Petrova do it,” Silverback replied. Fuller, Deacon, and the Marines drew their weapons and trained them on the suit as the agent moved closer. He hit some kind of release, and the segmented torso folded open, its canopy rising to expose its occupant.

“Oh, fuck!” Silverback exclaimed as he recoiled.

One of the Marines quickly turned away and doubled over, opening his visor and retching.

“How the hell is he still alive!?” Fuller demanded.

“Fuck me!” Silverback chuckled, bending over the suit to get a better look. The Marines were horrified, but he seemed to find some dark humor in whatever he was seeing. “Roach, buddy, you’ve seen better days.”

“Perhaps I can still help,” Ruza said as he began to walk closer.

“You don’t need to see this, Doc,” Silverback replied as he raised a hand to stop him. “I’m not a medic, but I think a molten tungsten skincare routine is incompatible with life.” He drew his sidearm and fired twice into the canopy. “There we go,” he muttered, reaching down to close the suit again. “Let’s all just pretend we never saw that.”

“Fuller,” Ruza began, snapping the Sergeant back to reality. “Have you many injured?”

“They didn’t leave any wounded,” he replied with a solemn shake of his head. “We lost a whole squad before you arrived.”

“Then, please organize your men and prepare to move out,” Ruza said. “We must reach the garrison before Brenner launches his attack.”

CHAPTER 39

DAY 56 – HADES – PETROVA

“The charges are ready to go whenever you are,” Reed whispered as he hunkered down beside a prefab. “Just give the word.”

“We’ll wait until we hear gunfire near the gate,” Brenner replied. “I just hope Ruza, Silverback, and Deacon were able to help. If the main force never arrives, we won’t have the distraction that we need.”

The team was taking shelter in the prefabs a short distance from the rear wall of the garrison, sticking to the darkness as they waited for the signal. The burning warehouses that belched dark smoke into the sky were not far away, the blanket of black smog compounding the growing darkness. The sun had all but set now, and night was falling, even the light of the moon and stars stifled by the fires. At least the darkness gave them cover. The anchor was the largest landmark now, towering above everything like an artificial mountain.

Petrova had long ago switched on her suit’s night vision and thermal imaging modes, and she was able to see the city almost as though it was daytime. It shielded her from the smell, but she could see the ash in the air, and it wasn’t hard to imagine the stench of burning plastic and rubber.

Her confidence in Ruza had grown, and if he and Lily were successful, it would mean that Roach and Crow were finally dead. Only Barbosa would remain. Even after everything that had happened, she wasn’t sure that she could pull the trigger if the opportunity arose, but nor did she want to leave the work to others. Barbosa had been her friend and confidante for what felt like a lifetime, but he was also her responsibility – her burden. She both dreaded their meeting and knew deep down that it was inevitable.

She glanced through her arrays of cameras at the small team surrounding her suit. There was Reed, Harlequin, Brenner, and the remaining members of his SWAR team. Alongside them was an agent named Flatline and a pair of Trogs who had traveled from the carrier with Reggie, and a squad of Marines were taking up the rear. It didn’t feel like much, but if they could get the drop on the enemy, they could do a lot of damage. Who knew how many hostile SWAR were still inside the garrison protecting Barbosa as his entourage. With her PCE, perhaps she could turn the tables on them. Without heavy weapons, she would be hard to take down, but the overconfidence that had made her former teammates feel invulnerable had been beaten out of her early. She still remembered the feeling of that AMR slug punching through her shield and burying itself in her armor during the boarding action on the carrier.

The sound of gunfire suddenly filled the air, and she snapped back to the present, her suit’s sensors already pinpointing its direction.

“That’s our cue,” Brenner said. “Move up. Reed – go make a hole.”

Reed hurried ahead of the group, weaving between the prefabs until he reached the perimeter of the garrison. Keeping low, he tossed a satchel across the road, then retreated into the shadows again. “Property damage in three, two,” he began as he primed his detonator. “One…”

An explosion rocked the city, the blast wave washing over Petrova’s suit and carrying a cloud of displaced dust with it, the sound of small fragments of carbcrete raining down on the metal roofs of the nearby prefabs following. When the smoke and dust began to clear, a massive breach in the wall was revealed, surrounded by pieces of shattered rubble.

“Petrova!” Brenner ordered, waving her forward.

She piloted her suit towards the breach, feeling smaller fragments of carbcrete shatter beneath her boots, smoke engulfing her as her comrades tossed grenades to cover her approach. The SWAR agents and Marines formed a tight column behind her, staying close as she began to climb the heap of rubble. Almost as soon as she had crossed the threshold, fire began to pour into the swirling smoke, her suit’s shield igniting as it intercepted the slugs. Petrova could feel them hammering the suit like hail, aware of the PCE’s armor as though it was her own skin, each round like a dull pinprick. She made sure to put herself in the way, protecting her team like a giant umbrella.

The smoke did nothing to impede her sensors, the cameras extending her sight, picking up the thermal silhouettes of the gunmen beyond. Some of them were only partially visible, hiding behind cover and structures, but it didn’t matter. The suit’s systems were linked to the heavy XMR held in her hands, guiding her aim and doing most of the work, her HUD showing her where and when to fire. To call the PCE a stable firing platform was an understatement – the lack of recoil made her weapon as accurate as a laser beam. The figures vanished from her HUD one by one as she moved between targets, some of them turning into splashes of color on the thermals. One of them ducked behind an obstacle that obscured their shape, but the suit’s software predicted their position, letting her fire straight through.

As she stepped clear of the smoke, she emerged into the compound, her visible light cameras kicking in again. This wasn’t her first visit to Garrison One, and it looked just the way she remembered it. The only real difference between it and the other garrisons was its size. Its courtyard was two or three times as large as its counterparts, ringed by the same ten-foot wall, each corner tipped with a guard tower that doubled as a machinegun nest. Within were rows of carbcrete structures and prefabs serving as barracks, armories, garages, hangars, and storehouses. There were multiple entrances to the underground shelters that rose up from the sand like molehills, and in the middle of it all was a tall control tower, its windows looking out over the large landing pads below. Other than the open parade ground, there was scarcely any part of the base that wasn’t shielded by walls of gabions.

There were PDF running everywhere, scurrying for cover, swarming between the buildings and sandbags. Some attempted to stop her, and she cut them down, the heavy XMR punching through their sparse armor like it wasn’t even there.

Her team was able to pass through the breach behind her, fanning out and securing a small perimeter, a row of sand-filled gabions serving as cover as they organized.

“Petrova – move with the Marines and get them to the gate!” Brenner ordered. “First priority is to get Fuller’s people inside the compound! Agents, Trogs – track down enemy teams and neutralize them. Barbosa is a priority target, so if you see him, broadcast his position!”

They split into two groups, the special forces going off in one direction with Brenner in the lead, and the Marines following her as she led them in another. Most of the enemy attention had been focused on the larger force laying siege to the gate, but they were reacting to the breach now, sending more troops in their direction to secure their rear. All of their leadership was dead, save for Barbosa, but she shouldn’t underestimate the tactical acumen of the agents who remained. Each of them was just as battle-tested as she was.

“Ladies first,” Reed said as they neared the end of the wall.

Petrova stepped out of cover and was immediately beset by shooters, two dozen PDF led by a team of SWAR engaging her. The Marines were forced to retreat further back as half a dozen grenades landed around her feet, Petrova barely registering the blasts as they went off all around her, using her body to protect her comrades. The shields neutralized the shrapnel, and she strode through the dust, taking down PDF with short bursts of computer-assisted fire. The heavy XMR was the definition of overkill, each shot tearing its target apart, blowing holes the size of her head in torsos and severing limbs with its immense kinetic energy. Half of their number died in seconds, and the rest broke, scattering for safety.

The SWAR agents were not so easily dissuaded, rushing towards her, vaulting over sandbags and obstacles on their prosthetic legs. Like tribesmen trying to bring down an elephant, they flanked left and right to surround her, keeping her shields active with bursts of gunfire. One of them got close on her left, Petrova trying to turn to track him, the operative priming a grenade and trying to force it through her shield. The polymer housing on his arm melted down to the wrist, but the grenade made it through, his closed fist protecting it.

Petrova swept him aside with a backhand strike, a hand the weight of a sledgehammer catching him in the helmet, lifting him off his feet and sending him sailing into a nearby gabion. If he wasn’t dead already, the grenade went off, lifting him into the air and depositing his torn body on the sand.

An assailant to her right tried the same maneuver, but she was wise to their strategy now, catching the man by his arm before he could make the attempt and raising him off the ground. She pressed her XMR against his torso and fired, the burst ripping him in half, a swing of her arm sending what remained of his torso slamming into one of the PDF.

An agent scaled the nearby gabion, scrambling ten feet up the stacks of sand-filled sacks and chicken wire, using it to leap onto Petrova’s back. The operative was going for her canopy, a shaped explosive not unlike Reed’s satchels clutched in her hand, the woman braving the burning shield in her bid to plant it. Like swatting a mosquito, the PCE lifted its left arm and slapped the agent, crushing her between the mechanical hand and the armored panels. The squashed body sloughed off her, fresh blood seeping down her sloping canopy in rivulets as she engaged the remaining agents, killing another four in so many seconds.

Her heart had not been in the fight during the boarding action on the carrier, and she had avoided killing the crew as much as possible, but she was unbridled now. The Bullshark’s sensors were her eyes, its armor was her skin, and she could feel the weight of the XMR in its metal hands. Her camera dome swiveled, pinpointing another SWAR agent carrying a grenade launcher, and she landed a two-shot burst on his torso that turned him into a pink mist. She could even see the estimated trajectories of enemy rifles swaying across her HUD like lasers, calculated in real-time by the PCE’s onboard computers.

A friendly Marine leaned around the corner of the gabion behind her to take a pot shot, one of those lasers moving over his torso, and Petrova reached out her left hand to catch the slug like a softball before it could find its mark. Without missing a beat, she fired the XMR held in her right hand, its recoil inconsequential as she took the head off the shooter.

It was no wonder that the PCEs had been able to rampage through the resistance forces with such impunity. Without heavy anti-materiel weapons, they were almost impossible to bring down, and normal squad tactics counted for little.

“Move in!” she ordered, Reed and the Marines pouring in past her. She tagged the remaining agents on her HUD, broadcasting their position to her team, keeping the enemy pinned behind the sandbags with intermittent bursts of fire. A grenade from one of her squadmates flushed them out, and the team moved in to finish them off.

“Not so fucking tough now, are they?” Reed declared as he fired a few more shots over the sandbags.

“Keep moving towards the gate,” Petrova said, striding past them. “I know the way – follow me. We’ll go behind the armories on the right side of the compound.”

As she lumbered along, the chaos of battle erupting all around her, she realized that the ammo count readout on her HUD was getting low. She asked a nearby Marine for a magazine, and he handed her one, Petrova once more marveling at the dexterity of the suit as she plucked it from his hand and reloaded the weapon. The XMR family shared common ammunition – the heavy frame could simply accommodate heavier barrels with denser coils, letting it reach higher velocities. Song might have been devoid of any humanity or empathy, and Nilsson might have been a mad scientist, but they were both geniuses in their own way. These production model suits were just as impressive as the prototypes in many respects, only falling short with the power plants and some of the sensors. It was amazing that they had been able to achieve so much with such limited resources.

She had to keep herself grounded and remember her limitations. Being connected to a PCE was intoxicating – it made her feel like a God, but this same feeling must have preceded the deaths of Hoff, Song, Roach, and Crow. They had all felt invincible, and they had been punished for that hubris.

The team headed behind the row of armories that hugged the right wall, the tough carbcrete structures hiding them from view and shielding them from gunfire. They encountered more PDF, rolling over them almost without resistance. Barbosa must have deployed most of his forces to try to maintain control over the city, along with many of his SWAR teams. How many were still here? How many rogue SWAR were even left alive at this point? Fifty? Fewer?

Petrova emerged from behind the armory and spotted the gate maybe halfway across the compound. The massive metal doors stood tall, rising to the same ten-foot height as the walls, wide enough to accommodate large cargo trucks and MBTs. Extending from the door and reaching maybe twenty meters into the compound were two walls of gabions. They were stacked high and tipped with sandbags, ladders allowing the defenders to climb atop them and fire down on whatever was entering through the gate, like a medieval gatehouse. At the end of each wall was a machinegun nest positioned to watch the entrance, supplementing the two watch towers that flanked the gate.

It would be a tough nut to crack for any attacker, intended to funnel Betelgeusian Drones into a deadly kill box. For a PCE, it was less so.

“Give me some cover!” she said, breaking into a lumbering run. She left the armories behind, crossing the open ground that was the landing pads, only one of them still playing host to a dropship. She passed close by it, using it to shield her from some of the incoming fire. It didn’t take long for the defenders to notice an eighteen-hundred-pound killing machine striding across the compound, and they coordinated their fire, but even several squads of PDF didn’t possess enough combined firepower to bring her down.

The machineguns were another story. The two watchtowers that flanked the gate and the two nests of sandbags at the end of the makeshift gatehouse were equipped with heavy XMRs mounted on tripods, equipped with long barrels and fed by belts. They were operated by two PDF troopers – a gunner and a loader. Said troopers were scrambling to lift the heavy weapons and turn them in her direction now, their superiors shouting orders and gesturing at her.

She leveled her rifle as she ran, the suit keeping it remarkably stable, aiming at the nearest of the sandbag nests. It took only a short burst to cut down both men, her targets slumping over their newly repositioned gun. The others had a bead on her now, and they opened up. Streams of high-velocity rounds harried her, Petrova’s heart beating faster as she watched her suit’s battery begin to drain faster, the shield burning brighter and working harder to protect her. Unlike the prototypes that had a self-replenishing fusion reactor, these production models had a finite battery charge, and she couldn’t keep this up forever. Where the rifle rounds had felt like pinpricks on her metal skin, these hit harder, hammering her like hail. She raised her left arm to help protect herself reflexively, firing around it.

Reed and the Marines opened fire on the guard towers, Petrova watching a stream of molten tungsten draw trails above her canopy, chipping chunks out of the carbcrete and impacting the sandbags with little puffs of dust. They were well-defended, and the guns continued to fire down on her, forcing her to retreat back behind the cover of the dropship. Reed’s men shifted their attention to the gatehouse, taking out the two remaining gunners, but the watchtowers kept her pinned as the slugs hammered the ship’s armored fuselage.

There was a sudden explosion, Petrova watching as one of the guard towers erupted into a spray of dust and flame, one of the shooters toppling from the nest to fall to the ground some fifteen feet below. The same happened to another, what looked like a salvo of grenades hammering the tower, one of them landing inside and blowing it open. The men outside the gate must be coordinating to help cover her.

Petrova ran out from the shadow of the dropship, crossing the courtyard as quickly as her suit could carry her, a few errant PDF who had been moving on her position fleeing as she barreled past them. There were more slugs hitting her suit from all sides, but they had neither the volume nor the velocity to worry her, and she was soon passing the ruined machinegun nests at the end of the gatehouse. She lumbered between the walls of gabions, the troopers atop them firing down on her and tossing grenades, but her PCE shrugged it off like so much rain.

Her goal was not the gate controls embedded in the wall beside them, as they could be overridden from any number of locations inside the garrison, but the mechanism itself. She dumped a slug into the panel, shattering the touchscreen and leaving it sparking and fizzing, then activated her suit’s thermal imaging. It allowed her to see the conduits that ran through the ground and up into the walls, carrying power to the doors, ending at the machinery that opened and closed them. She dumped more slugs, tunneling through the carbcrete, her rounds eventually reaching the mechanisms and destroying them.

As Reed’s men fired on the troopers atop the walls of the gatehouse, a couple of them dropping down behind her, she delivered a devastating punch to the doors where the two metal panels met. They were thick, reinforced against Bug plasma breaching weapons, but she only needed a little leverage. Two more punches rang the doors like a bell, then she stowed her rifle on the magnetic holster on the suit’s thigh, digging its fingers into the dent she had created.

The suit’s servos and pistons strained as she pulled the doors apart, every inch allowing her a little more leverage, and the damaged mechanisms began to slide freely. She extended her arms, opening them as wide as possible, revealing the street beyond. Fuller’s men had captured the surrounding area, taking refuge in the sandbags and behind the trucks that had once protected the garrison. When they saw her, the first wave broke from cover, charging towards the gate as those behind them laid down suppressive fire. Petrova turned to cover them with her PCE, taking up as much space in the gatehouse as she could, marching back into the courtyard. The Marines and fighters began to pour in around her, taking up the vacated positions once occupied by the PDF and pressing the attack, pushing the enemy deeper into the base.

To her right, a figure wearing a flight suit complete with a pilot’s helmet rushed past her, pausing to fire an XMR as he went. Could that be Captain Ortega? He was followed by Rivera and Fuller, the two men greeting Petrova.

“Nice work!” Rivera declared as he ducked behind the ruins of a machinegun nest. “Keep this up, and they might not throw you in a cell once this is all over.”

“I thought Brenner told you to secure Captain Ortega and get him to safety?” Petrova replied, watching as the captain led a squad of Marines behind a nearby garage.

“He outranks us both,” Rivera explained with a shrug. “I can’t really tell him no.”

Ruza, Deacon, and Silverback soon followed, more Marines tailing the burly agent as he fired his squad support weapon into the base. For some reason, he had a giant sword strapped across his back.

“Has anyone laid eyes on Barbosa?” the Rask demanded, taking a knee beside Petrova’s suit with an AMR in hand.

“Not yet,” Petrova replied. “Where’s the Warrior?”

“Slain,” he replied. “Along with Roach and Crow.”

“Damn it, that’s a lot of firepower taken off the board,” she hissed.

“Don’t worry, I’m still fine!” someone said. Petrova recoiled inside her suit as she watched a tall, lanky insectoid figure jog by her, its pale shell covered in pink splotches. There was a handgun clutched in one of its four arms. Was that the Warrior’s pilot?

Most of the troops were inside the base now, and she rejoined the fight, supporting them as they advanced deeper. The PDF were becoming disorganized, their morale breaking under the assault, just as they had at the missile base. She was once again reminded that these were not hardened soldiers with battlefield experience – most of them barely had any training beyond police work. The SWAR agents were another story, but Brenner and his team were hunting them down with prejudice.

She moved to support them, trusting the Marines to handle the PDF, locating Brenner’s IFF on the other side of the compound. She strode through the gunfire, shrugging off errant shots, arriving to find the friendly agents covering the entrance to one of the barracks buildings. It was a large permanent structure made from reinforced carbcrete, the roof curved to help deflect any mortars or orbital fire that might bombard the garrison. This was one of the places where her recruits would once have lived while on-base. There was a dead agent slumped on the metal steps outside, his chest piece riddled with holes.

“What’s the situation?” she asked as she came to a halt behind them. They had taken position behind sandbags arranged to protect the building’s doorway, their weapons trained on it, Harlequin’s antennae waving as he spared her a glance.

“We have five agents holed up inside,” Brenner explained, keeping his prosthetic eyes on the door. “Only one way in and out. It’ll be a dangerous breach, so we’d appreciate a little help.”

“On it,” she replied, walking forward. She approached the door and punched it open, sending the crumpled panel sliding across the floor. Within were rows of simple bunks stacked two high, broken up by lockers. There were small slatted windows high on the walls, but with so little light, the interior was cast into deep shadow. It was quickly illuminated by the blue-green glow of her shield, the flashes revealing gunmen hiding behind the bedframes. Anti-personnel mines went off, filling the air with shrapnel that would have shredded Brenner and his team, but the PCE was impervious. The red glow of her coils bathed the barracks, and the targets were quickly neutralized with nowhere to run.

She reemerged to find the battle all but over, sporadic gunfire ringing out around the compound. The Marines were rounding up the surrendering PDF, having broken their morale quickly, confiscating weapons and helmets as they lined them up in the courtyard. There were still teams raiding the above-ground structures, flushing stragglers out of prefabs and ammo depots. Ortega was holding what looked like the base commander at gunpoint, judging by his uniform, and Brenner’s operatives were already at work dragging the dead SWAR agents into a haphazard heap where the kneeling PDF could see them.

“It’s not over yet,” Rivera warned as he came jogging over with a few Marines in tow. “We’ve almost finished securing the buildings on the surface, but there’s a giant underground facility beneath our feet, and it’s hardened against exactly the kind of incursion we’re attempting here.”

“We’re not lucky enough to have Omar’s door codes this time,” Reed mused as he approached from another direction, reloading his rifle. “If they want those shelters to stay closed, I’m not sure there’s much that we can do to get them open. My satchel charges won’t do the job.”

“They could hold out down there for weeks,” Brenner sighed. “They’ve been hoarding food in expectation of a lengthy siege by starving civilians. If we haven’t seen Barbosa on the surface, he’s probably down there. It’s what I would do in his position. I’d retreat below ground and bring my best men with me. It’s cramped down there, lots of choke points, easy to defend.”

“I’m not so sure,” Petrova replied, a few of the captured PDF glancing up in alarm at her approach. “It’s not like Barbosa to be passive. I can’t imagine him holing up and accepting starvation while his enemies mass at the proverbial gates, even if he could hold out for months. He must have some kind of plan – some kind of counterattack or escape route in mind.”

“Where would he go?” Reed asked with a shrug. “We’ve blocked off all of the exits, he has no ships on the ground, and we control the carrier and the tether station.”

“We don’t control the anchor,” Petrova replied, pausing to consider. “Before I was out of the loop, he’d stationed a few teams there to keep it secure and control the flow of trade goods. It’s probably the easiest location to defend after Garrison One.”

“My teams captured the station,” Brenner added. “Even if he fortified the anchor, he’d have nowhere to go. He’d be just as stuck there as he would here, but without the stockpiles of food.”

“Are you sure about that?” Petrova asked, feeling a lead weight settle in her stomach. “Did you order that team to make regular check-ins with the carrier?”

“I did,” he replied. “Their last check-in wouldn’t have been that long ago. I’ll contact the carrier and have them verify.”

“What were Roach and Crow doing while we attacked the missile bases?” Petrova mused, growing more and more concerned. “Why weren’t his best Lieutenants protecting those assets? We have no idea where they were before they ambushed Fuller’s group.”

“The bridge crew says they’re not receiving any replies from the station,” Brenner added as he held a finger to his helmet. “Captain – do you have enough hands aboard to send a dropship to check on them?”

“We’re running less than a skeleton crew,” Ortega replied as he walked over to join them, the coils of his rifle still glowing. “Barbosa transferred anyone with combat or flight experience to the ground. The only agent still aboard is laid up in the medbay.”

“Fuck,” Brenner hissed. “We’ve been so focused on the garrison that I didn’t even consider he might be able to outmaneuver us.”

“I’ll order my crew to keep their guns trained on the station,” Ortega added. “They may be able to destroy or disable any ships leaving the docks. Barbosa’s people hijacked half a dozen freighters, and he could theoretically use any one of them to jump away and escape.”

“Firing in proximity to the station would be very risky,” Brenner continued. “Any damage to the platform itself could cause a catastrophic de-orbit that would threaten the colony, and something as large as a freighter could do just as much damage if it was destroyed or left adrift. We don’t have the equipment to tow it.”

“And Barbosa knows that,” Petrova said. “Ever since he arrived on Hades, he’s operated with a proverbial gun to the colony’s head. I wouldn’t put it past him to jump while he’s still in the docking bay and take half the station with him.”

“Alright,” Brenner began. “Captain, please get in touch with your crew. Tell them not to fire unless they hear the order directly from you. Rivera – I want a team watching every entrance to the underground facility. Nobody comes in or out. Let’s get some people covering the breach and the gate. We need to lock down the garrison. Reed – I want you to get inside that control tower.”

Petrova’s array of cameras captured movement, alerting her to a threat that nobody else had noticed yet. The troop ramp of the single dropship sitting on the landing pads across the compound began to lower, the twenty-mill dropping from below its tail, its rotary barrels turning in their direction.

Her instincts kicked in, and she snatched Brenner and Ortega off the ground as she yelled out a warning, turning her back to the dropship. Clutching the men to her suit’s chest, she ran for the nearest solid structure as quickly as her PCE could carry her, a shell hitting the carbcrete wall behind her just as she reached cover. The tail gun was sweeping across the compound, its rounds cutting down half a dozen Marines and twice as many of the prisoners who were kneeling on the ground, sending everyone fleeing. Petrova saw Ruza and Reed dive behind a gabion, Rivera and the SWAR agents scattering.

As she edged her canopy around the pockmarked wall of the barracks, she saw a PCE lumber down the ramp, a heavy XMR clutched in its mechanical hands. A dozen SWAR agents followed, fanning out and firing their weapons at whatever targets were visible.

“Barbosa!” she growled. He had been hiding inside the dropship the whole time, probably waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his escape. She had been mere inches away from him during her march to the gate, separated only by the craft’s hull.

Another gunfight erupted, with the Marines and friendly agents returning fire, but the oppressive tail gun turned its electronic eyes on anyone who emerged from cover. She watched a twenty-mill hit a Marine who rose from behind a sandbag to fire at the agents, everything above his waist evaporating into a red smear.

“God damn it, stop him!” Brenner bellowed as he collected himself and prepared his rifle. “Captain, are you alright?”

“Only thanks to her,” Ortega replied with a nod to Petrova. “If you hadn’t reacted so quickly, he might have wiped out our entire command structure in one fell swoop.”

“Stay in cover, Petrova!” Brenner ordered. “That twenty will tear straight through your shields. Ruza! Get a bead on that fucking PCE! Take it down! Somebody stop that fucking dropship!”

Petrova leaned her XMR around the corner, taking down one of the enemy agents as they descended from the elevated landing pad, their blood splattering the dark paneling of the craft behind them. Another burst from the tail gun came her way, her shields flashing as they intercepted the airborne fragments of carbcrete when the rounds hammered her position.

“He’s going for the gate!” she warned.

Barbosa was striding through the compound, point firing at whatever he could see as he went, his shields igniting as stray rounds found their mark. He was just as invulnerable as Petrova had been, if not moreso, with his more powerful reactor. His team moved alongside him, using him as cover, suppressing whoever dared take a shot. The tail gun fired continuously, its coils burning red-hot, jerking back and forth as it tracked targets. It was under intelligent control – likely slaved to Barbosa’s PCE.

“Stop him!” Brenner yelled as the suit neared the gatehouse.

Ruza was their only hope – he alone had a weapon with enough power to make it through the shields. Petrova heard a growl of frustration as he cursed over the radio in the raspy Rask language.

“We must stop that tail gun!” Ruza began. “Draw its attention! I need only one clean shot!”

Petrova could see him on her HUD, taking cover behind a wall of gabions far to her left alongside Reed, his AMR held at the ready.

“Can you hit it before it hits me?” Petrova demanded, knowing that she would make the biggest and most threatening target. “I can distract it, but you’d better not miss, you mangy cat!”

“I will not fail you!” he insisted.

“On three!” Petrova replied. “One, two, three!”

She lunged out of cover from behind the building, firing a burst at the dropship, her slugs sparking off its hull armor. Time seemed to crawl to a stop as the red camera lenses fixed on her, those glowing barrels swiveling in her direction, primed to fire. She could see the trio of lines that projected from its barrels on her HUD, hovering over her chest like laser designators.

A molten hole appeared on the tail above the gun, punching straight through a fuel line, the volatile hydrogen igniting. There was a billow of blue flame, the blast tearing apart the fuselage like it was made of paper, ripping the armor plating to shreds. The gun went silent as the tail separated from the rest of the craft, dropping to the landing pad where it lay burning. Petrova’s cameras captured Ruza standing there with the long rifle shouldered, fresh blood soaking the bandage on his bicep, his leather jacket whipping in the shockwave that followed.

“Good shot!” Reed exclaimed.

“I have learned to target the weak points of these dropships,” Ruza explained as he ducked back into cover.

Barbosa had achieved his goal, the distraction of the dropship enough to let him reach the gate and escape into the street, a few rounds making his shields flare as they fired after him. His team backed away, laying down more covering fire to dissuade any pursuers, moving out of the garrison behind him.

“He’s heading for the anchor!” Brenner said. “We have to pursue!”

“Someone get those prisoners back under control!” Ortega ordered as he jogged back out into the compound. The terrified PDF had scattered all over the base along with the fighters, and the latter were now trying to herd them back into the courtyard. A couple of survivors of the attack lay injured, already being tended to by whoever had medical expertise.

“Agents!” Brenner snapped as he moved towards the gatehouse at a distinctly angry march. “Saddle up! We’re not letting Barbosa reach the anchor. Ruza – the medics can take care of this. We’ll need your AMR.”

“I’m coming too,” Reed insisted as he came jogging over beside the Rask.

“Think you can keep up, lover boy?” Wasp chuckled.

“With you? I think I’ve demonstrated that,” he shot back. “I’m not asking for permission – I don’t work for you clowns.”

“Are you sure about that?” Brenner asked, turning to him. “My reports to the Admiralty will show that you’ve comported yourself with the courage exemplary of the Marine Corps. Wouldn’t be hard to strike out that dishonorable discharge of yours.”

“So give me a medal,” Reed scoffed. “That jumped-up asshole fucked with my colony, and I’m not gonna sit around babysitting the PDF while he’s still breathing.”

Petrova heard the sound of an engine, her cameras picking up a PDF truck driving towards her from one of the garages deeper inside the base. It pulled up beside them and honked its horn, the cab door opening to reveal that Harlequin was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Next stop, the anchor,” the Jarilan declared.

“Do you even know how to drive?” Reed asked skeptically.

“Probably better than you do, meatbag,” Harlequin replied. “Look, I can have my hands at the ten and two positions and keep one on the stick while I flip you off.”

“Alright, pile in,” Brenner ordered as he waved them to the back of the transport. “Barbosa won’t have gotten very far yet. If we can catch him before he reaches the anchor, we can end this whole thing here and now. Rivera, I’m leaving the garrison in your capable hands. Deacon and his Trogs will stay with you in case you need to breach any of those shelters.”

“Roger that, Commander,” Rivera replied as he gave Brenner a curt salute. “We’ll hold down the fort. Good hunting.”

They piled into the troop bay, Ruza maneuvering his long rifle through the cramped space as he climbed up to the hatch on the roof, squeezing his upper body out. Brenner rode in the cab beside Harlequin, and everyone else sat in the back. Once the doors had closed, Petrova climbed up onto the rear bumper, gripping a convenient handhold on the roof rack just as she had during the drive from the missile base.

“Gun it,” Brenner ordered, and the Jarilan put his foot down. The truck pulled away, driving through the gatehouse and out into the city, the shadow of the smoke that still clouded the sky looming over them.

CHAPTER 40

DAY 56 – HADES – RUZA

The transport barreled down the street, the rows of prefabs that usually dominated the city giving way to larger, more permanent structures as they drew closer to the anchor. Gone were most of the residential buildings, replaced with the large-scale industry of warehouses and loading areas designed to support the great tether. It wasn’t too different from the industrial band on the city’s outskirts, with large parks dedicated to storage buildings, cranes, and truck depots. Above it all towered the anchor – a mountain of ribs and girders that served as the foundation of the kilometers-long tether, the station serving as its orbital counterweight.

Ruza remembered seeing the old watchtower at the East Gate of the Rask territory for the first time and wondering how it was possible to stack sandstone so high. It was infinitesimal compared to the anchor, like a sprout compared to a great tree, and that wasn’t even including the elevator itself that rose up into the sky like a thin strand of black. It was harder to see now, with the dark smoke from the raging fires hanging over the colony like a ceiling.

The fighting still raged, the remnants of the PDF trying to restore order – a task that grew increasingly difficult as time passed. Not as many resistance fighters or protesters had ventured so deep into the heart of the colony, but evidence of unrest was everywhere. Every other warehouse was on fire, and the road was littered with abandoned industrial vehicles that their truck had to carefully drive around. They encountered the occasional squad of PDF, but they seemed disorganized and lost, presenting no opposition.

“He cannot have gone far,” Ruza said, ducking down a little lower into the hatch. “We should expect an ambush.”

“He might leave his team behind to cover his escape,” Petrova added. “Don’t let him sneak away.”

No sooner had he spoken than they saw a roadblock on the street ahead. Instead of the careful placement of sandbags and road barriers, this one was assembled from heaps of refuse, a pair of industrial tractors parked longways across the path and heaped with tires and cargo pallets. Ruza ducked all the way inside the vehicle as slugs began to hammer the truck, cratering into its armor and cracking its bulletproof windows, their assailants firing from gaps in the yellow machines.

Harlequin hit the handbrake, and the truck screeched to a stop on the right side of the road, skidding in the sand.

“Disembark!” Brenner ordered. “Petrova – go straight down the middle and flush them out! The rest of you, flank right with me!”

Ruza felt Petrova’s weight leave the truck, its suspension bouncing as she jumped off the back, moving around to its left side and laying down suppressive fire. Her shield sparked, but they could not penetrate, the shooters forced to duck into cover as she fired off accurate shots.

Brenner opened the passenger side door and hopped out, leaning his rifle around its armored panel and firing off bursts, helping to cover the rest of the team as they piled out of the troop bay. To their right was one of the industrial areas that serviced the anchor, the expanse of dusty concrete filled with stacks of cargo containers and loaded truck beds, the large warehouses rising above it all. Trade had crawled to a stop since Barbosa had taken control of the colony, and it had all piled up here, thousands of tons of goods and raw resources sitting idle with nowhere to go.

Brenner caught up with them, and they proceeded deeper, the stacks of crates and colorful containers providing cover. It was Brenner’s team and his allies versus Barbosa and his loyal SWAR agents now. Silverback followed behind Ruza with his machinegun and Lily’s sword strapped across his back, tailed by Wasp, her pistol clutched in her hand. Kingfisher, Rancher, Eyeball, Flatline, Caveman, and Strzyga marched with Brenner, all of them wielding XMRs of various configurations. With Ruza, Reed, Petrova, and Harlequin, they made thirteen – enough to even the odds. The opposition had at least twelve men and perhaps Barbosa’s PCE.

In some ways, Ruza preferred this more intimate arrangement. It was difficult for one soldier to turn the tide of a battle, but here, he had the power to change things. He stowed the bulky AMR on his back and retrieved his trusty rifle, pointing its bayonet ahead of him. Barbosa could appear at any moment, but his chances of encountering an operative were greater.

The agents moved with purpose, sharing data, Petrova feeding them information on their enemies that Ruza couldn’t see due to his lack of a helmet. The enemy had the same capability, but as long as Brenner’s agents were not broadcasting over radio – only receiving, they would remain invisible.

Ruza didn’t need to see the enemy to know their plan. They would have abandoned their roadblock and moved to the cover of the warehouses to escape Petrova and to intercept Brenner. Battle would soon be joined. He watched as Harlequin crawled up a stack of cargo containers to his right, the alien making up for his inability to fly by using his chitinous fingers and toes to find purchase. He vanished, moving out of sight to find a better vantage point. The team began to split up to cover more ground, the stacks of containers forming alleys much like the gabions had. Silverback stuck beside Ruza, keeping the heavy barrel of his rifle raised.

“I’m driving them to you!” Petrova warned over the comms. “Get ready!”

“Left side, coming up,” Silverback muttered, knowing that Ruza had no HUD.

Ruza’s eyes worked well in the low light, and he spotted a figure rounding a container ahead of him. The enemy was moving cautiously and quietly, but Silverback already knew where he would be before he showed himself, a burst from his squad support weapon cutting the agent down in a hail of slugs. More gunfire rang out all around them, their comrades engaging the enemy, the two opposing teams clashing.

Ruza’s sensitive ears heard a sound to his left, and he turned his head just in time to see a spry SWAR agent leap up onto the container. Their rifle was already raised, ready to fire, Ruza catching a brief glimpse of a snarling animal marked on their visor. A shot rang out, and the agent fell back out of view. Ruza snapped his head in the opposite direction to see a blur of camouflaged chitin as Harlequin changed positions.

“Lost visual!” Petrova warned, signaling that there would be no more technological trickery.

Ruza and Silverback moved together, stalking through the maze of containers, everything taking on a darker hue as the ash from the fires coated it. The stinging stench of it filled Ruza’s nose to the point that he could smell little else.

They approached a corner, rounding it to find another agent waiting for them in ambush, his prosthetic hand reaching out to grip the barrel of Ruza’s rifle. Noting the bandage on the Rask’s arm, he reacted quickly, uppercutting the injured bicep from below. Ruza growled in pain, loosening his grip on his weapon enough that the agent could tear it from his hands, ramming its stock into his belly and doubling him over. A flashing blade went for his neck, but Silverback was upon him, shouldering Ruza aside and delivering a punch to the agent’s visor that stunned him.

Ruza crashed into the container to his left, watching as Silverback delivered a vicious jab to the operative’s ribs strong enough to break bone, followed by a left hook to the helmet that sent the man reeling. Even moreso than a normal human, Silverback used his fists like hammers, his massive augmented arms driving them like pistons. The agent tried to strike back with his knife, but Silverback caught his wrist, crushing the limb in his hand. Using it as leverage, he dragged the man closer and drove his right fist into his visor, the helmet doing little to cushion the blow. The agent dropped, unconscious before he’d hit the ground.

As Silverback grabbed the heavy machinegun that was hanging from his strap, Ruza spotted a shape to the agent’s right – a shadow emerging from cover. Ruza drew the sidearm from beneath his jacket, aiming it at Silverback, and the agent knew to sidestep it a moment before he fired. The slugs passed close enough that Ruza could see their molten glow reflected in his comrade’s visor, and they struck another enemy agent, sending him slumping to the ground.

Silverback gave him an appreciative nod, and the two pressed on, the sound of more gunfire coming from their left and right as they moved through the containers. Ruza detected a sound beneath it – a rhythmic thudding. He turned his eyes to the ground, watching the grains of sand bounce softly, feeling the vibrations travel through his paws.

“You feel that?” Silverback whispered. “It’s coming from our right, and Petrova is to our left. I have her on the scope.”

“Barbosa,” Ruza confirmed, stowing his XMR and reaching for the AMR on his back. His bicep still hurt, fresh blood dripping from the already soaked bandages, but he endured it.

“We should pull back and wait for backup,” Silverback insisted, more gunshots echoing. “They have us spread out and split up. We need Petrova’s PCE.”

“All I require is one clean shot,” Ruza replied. “If we do not act quickly, he may slip away.”

The sound drew closer, the thudding increasing in speed – the PCE breaking into a run. Ruza and Silverback began to back away, the Rask keeping his AMR level.

“Petrova, Brenner – converge on my position!” Silverback barked over the radio. “We have contact with Barbosa! We need support!”

Ruza was aiming at the aisle between the shipping containers ahead, expecting the PCE to approach from between them, but Barbosa barreled into them instead. His suit was strong and heavy enough to send the three-container-high wall toppling over on top of the pair, Ruza and Silverback scrambling for safety as they fell. The heavy containers crashed down, one of them splitting open, spilling its contents of raw ore across the sand in an avalanche. Silverback was knocked to the ground, the edge of a container crushing his legs and trapping him, while Ruza barely leapt clear. He moved to help free his struggling companion, but Barbosa was already climbing over the debris, his heavy suit making the colorful metal sag beneath its weight.

“Run, Ruza!” Silverback bellowed. “Get out of here!”

The agent fired his machinegun, but Barbosa ignored it – the slugs intercepted harmlessly by the flickering shield. The PCE’s camera dome was fixed instead on Ruza. The Rask continued to retreat and aimed his AMR, but there came a bright flash of light from the suit’s canopy, the violent strobing blinding him. It was followed by the deafening crack of a stun grenade, his ears ringing as he fell to the sand, too disoriented to stand.

He was vaguely aware of being lifted, cold mechanical fingers closing around his head, his paws dangling just off the ground. Barbosa tore the AMR from his hands, and between metal fingers and blurry afterimages, Ruza saw the feline decal on the suit’s armored canopy snarling back at him. The PCE was holding him aloft with its fist closed over his face. Despite being a head shorter than he was at seven feet, its arm was extended high above its canopy, the AMR clutched in its free hand.

“After studying your combat footage, it didn’t escape my attention that you never wear a helmet,” Barbosa said through his speakers. “Didn’t bring one from home like you did your rifle, I assume. Those heightened senses of yours must make it a real bitch to get flashbanged. Thanks for the AMR,” he added, disconnecting the rifle’s cable with a sharp tug. “The PDF barely have any of these damned things in their armories, and I gave the last one to Crow. I’ll use it to kill that traitor Petrova when I’m done with you.”

“The fuck you will!” Silverback yelled from somewhere behind him.

“I’ll deal with you in a moment!” Barbosa snapped. “Wait your turn.”

Ruza bared his teeth and growled, thrashing around and kicking with the sharp claws on his paws, scratching at the suit’s armored forearm with his hands. It was futile. Even a Borealan’s strength paled in comparison to a PCE’s machinery. It could crush his skull like a fruit with nothing more than an errant twitch.

“Look at you,” Barbosa began with a cruel chuckle. “After all this mayhem, you’re finally reduced to what you truly are – a wild animal. Hard to believe that this is our first face-to-face meeting after all this time. You’ve caused me no end of trouble. Hoff couldn’t kill you, Petrova couldn’t kill you, Song couldn’t kill you, Roach and Crow couldn’t kill you. Me? Took me a couple of minutes,” he hissed, Ruza’s eyes widening as he felt the mechanical hand squeeze his head tighter. “I should never have played at governing this shithole. I should have come down here in force and imposed my will from the beginning. That’s my punishment for keeping the kid gloves on and trying to reason with these bumpkins. They don’t want to be elevated – all they want is to roll around in the filth with the likes of you. I offered them the stars, but they’d rather burn down their own city than lift their eyes from the dirt.”

Barbosa turned on the spot, ensuring that Ruza could see the anchor and the tether that rose up into the smog-choked sky.

“You see that? Know what that is? That’s not a monument or a wonder to us – it’s infrastructure. We can put one of those up in a few months, and what has your species accomplished? Stacking a few blocks of stone and calling it a tower? You don’t even understand the damage you’ve done because anything beyond banging rocks together is too taxing on your brain.”

“Killing me changes nothing,” Ruza said, his voice muffled by the PCE’s metal palm. “It will not bring your dead comrades back to life, return your carrier, or restore your control over this place. You are already undone, and I will go to my grave savoring my part in it.”

“Delighting in wanton destruction for its own sake is certainly in character for your kind,” Barbosa muttered. “You’re a millstone weighing down my species, do you understand that? The Brokers are devious traitors, and the Jarilans are playing the long game, but you do harm simply by being a dead weight that we have to drag along behind us. You want to be feared and respected, but your very existence is only possible through our charity and protection. It’s pathetic. We could wipe out your species with a button press.”

“Yet it is you who are marked for death by your Admirals, not us,” Ruza replied. “My territory prospers while everything you have tried to build here burns.”

“Yeah, I don’t really agree with their decision-making process,” Barbosa scoffed. “That’s kind of what this whole thing has been about.”

“Petrova told me of your sickness,” Ruza added. “Regardless of whether you escape or not, your fate is sealed.”

“As is yours,” Barbosa sighed. “The difference is, I get the satisfaction of tearing your head from your shoulders.”

“Barbosa!” Silverback yelled, rage making his voice crack.

Ruza growled as the suit’s hand began to close.

The container to their left tore open, packing peanuts and fragments of bent metal flying as Petrova’s PCE barreled through it, slamming into Barbosa. The blow sent them both crashing to the ground in a heap, and Ruza was sent flying from Barbosa’s hand, his stomach lurching as he turned head over heels. He slammed into the side of a container with enough force to empty his lungs, feeling a sharp pain in his head before slumping to the ground and blacking out.

DAY 56 – HADES – PETROVA

“Don’t you touch him!” Petrova yelled, raining blows on Barbosa’s canopy with her suit’s mechanical fist. His PCE’s shield ignited, its active protection systems mistaking the punches for projectiles, her knuckles starting to glow as they heated.

In her other hand, she held the heavy XMR, and she pressed it through the shield until the barrel was touching the neck joint of his armor. She pulled the trigger, sparks and slag spraying, but the rounds didn’t make it through. Momentarily stunned, Barbosa recovered, pushing her weight off him and clambering to his feet. He tried to aim his AMR at her, but she caught its barrel in her hand, crushing it flat. With a growl of anger that echoed from his speakers, Barbosa used the damaged weapon as a club to strike her across the canopy, the polymer stock crumpling as he forced her back a few paces. They were at an impasse now, neither one of them wielding a weapon that could harm the other.

Her camera dome swiveled to Ruza, seeing him lying motionless on the sand, red blood seeping down his face. Barbosa noticed, following her gaze.

“Don’t tell me that you’ve developed a soft spot for that fucking animal,” he scoffed. “What did they do to you, Petrova? Was it torture? Brainwashing? Stockholm syndrome? You were my sharpest instrument, and they return you to me as dull as they come.”

“It wasn’t them,” she snarled, keeping her XMR trained on him reflexively. “It was you. You lied to me, you kept me in the dark about what was really happening, you used me. I’m done being your instrument.”

More of her teammates were arriving now, taking up position and aiming their weapons at Barbosa, staying in cover. It was a show of force, but if he decided to resume his rampage, Petrova would be the only one who could stop him. If they were here, then the rest of Barbosa’s team was likely dead.

“Brenner,” Barbosa said in a curt greeting. “I must commend your tactical acumen. You always had a mind for strategy. The feint with the debris field, the simultaneous attack on all of my most valuable assets, and all with very limited resources and manpower. Very well done.”

“I’m sorry to see that you’ve been less successful,” Brenner called back to him.

“In fairness, you weren’t here for the best plays,” Barbosa grumbled. “I’ll still go down as the only man in history to own a carrier and a planet, as brief as it may have been.”

“So, what’s the play now?” Brenner continued from the cover of a container. “You’re done, Barbosa. All of your Lieutenants are KIA, we’ve seized all of your assets, and we just took your headquarters. There’s nowhere left to go, and nobody left to help you. You can still come quietly.”

“Yes, I’m sure that the Navy tribunal you’ve prepared for me will be the height of impartiality.”

“We go way back, Barbosa. That counts for something. I’ll make sure you’re treated fairly.”

“This was never a negotiation,” Barbosa sneered. “And you’re wrong about one thing, Brenner. You should have protected your back line.”

Barbosa began to walk backwards, drawing his heavy XMR from the magnetic holster on his thigh and firing it wildly, forcing Petrova to move between him and her comrades to protect them. She extended her arms, presenting as large a target as possible, her shields flashing as the slugs hit her armor. He backed away until he was almost out of view, then turned and ran.

Petrova resisted the urge to give chase, turning to glance down at Ruza. He was unconscious, his face painted red from a bleeding cut above his brow.

“Go after him!” Brenner barked as he hurried in from behind her with his team in tow. “We’ll take care of things here!”

“He’s going for the anchor!” Harlequin warned, appearing atop one of the stacks of crates and painting the lumbering PCE for Petrova.

Cursing, she began to run, trusting that the agents would see to Ruza’s injuries. As she rounded a bend in the stacks of containers, she came upon a heap of spilled ore, finding Silverback trapped beneath one of the heavy objects.

“Petrova!” he yelled, waving her over. “Ruza?”

“Hurt, but I think he’s alive,” she replied. She paused and hooked her fingers beneath the lip of the container, lifting it off him and dropping it beside him with a thud, seeing that his prosthetic legs had been crushed almost flat. Were he not augmented, such an injury would have certainly been fatal.

“No, don’t worry about me!” he protested as he reached behind his back and drew the blade that Lily’s Warrior had wielded. “Take this! It’ll go through Barbosa’s shield.”

It was a little larger than a shortsword in her hand, a copper vein running from its handle to its tip, Petrova examining it as she took it from him.

“Go!” Silverback insisted. She nodded inside her suit – though he couldn’t see it – and began to run in the direction of the anchor.

She passed by more containers and industrial vehicles, leaving the warehouses behind. Harlequin had lost sight of Barbosa, and he had disappeared from Petrova’s HUD, but there was only one direction he could be going. The anchor loomed ever larger, dominating the dark sky, only the twinkling collision lights that ran up the tether visible above the cloud of smoke that shrouded it like an active volcano.

All roads led here – it was the beating heart of the colony, and like an aorta, the lifeblood of the planet flowed through its tether. Despite being smaller and older than the impressive edifices on Earth, Mars, or Proxima, it still existed at a scale that was hard for a person to comprehend.

As she made her way out into the street and headed for one of the entrances, she encountered more patrolling PDF, but they fled rather than face her. In the chaos, they probably had no idea whose side she was on, regardless of their willingness to engage a PCE with rifles.

The left side of the anchor was commercial in nature, where the massive trucks that carried cargo to and from the tether could park in cavernous bays, loading and unloading their payloads. The civilian area of the port was situated on the right side of the anchor, the terminal split into a dozen gates that led to landing pads outside, where smaller passenger ships and trading vessels could set down. She spotted Barbosa ahead, his PCE vanishing through the closest doors on the civilian side.

Even as she approached the entrance, slugs came pouring out, shattering the glass windows and igniting her shields. It was another ambush, probably by a SWAR team that Barbosa had positioned to hold the anchor, but not one that she needed to fear. She had only a single goal in mind, smashing through the doors and tearing them from their frames, sending broken glass scattering across the carpeted floor of the crescent-shaped terminal. There were displays hanging from the ceiling showing flight schedules that were all blank now, unoccupied desks where people could talk to the facility’s staff, and empty benches and small cafes that would have once serviced weary travelers.

SWAR agents were scattered throughout the terminal, Petrova barely registering the explosions of grenades and the crack of rifles as her suit’s cameras scanned for Barbosa. She found him heading for the boarding platform and gave chase, following the signage, knocking aside a food court table in her path and trampling the agent who had been firing from behind it.

At the end of a corridor was a circular platform that ringed the tether itself, the thick, black cable vanishing into the ceiling high above. It looked so small from a distance, but up close, it resembled a strand of carbon fiber as thick as a redwood’s trunk. Attached to it was the passenger car – a climber the shape of a donut that hugged the cable snugly, almost like the steel fitting on a pipe. Hades’ tether carried both people and cargo, which meant that the loading bay for the cargo car was probably on a lower level beneath her feet. It was an older and cheaper design than the multi-purpose tethers seen on more developed worlds, configured so that two cars could be connected or disconnected from the tether depending on which one was in use. The passenger car had a conical shape, tapering at the top to diminish air resistance during the climb. Its hull was ringed by rows of porthole-like windows through which she could make out seats and carpeting for the occupants.

Barbosa was ahead of her, slowed by a security checkpoint, its metal detector sounding as he wrenched it from the floor and threw it aside.

“Is this how you want it to end!?” she called after him, gaining ground. “With you running away while your loyal men die to buy you time? You’re many things, but I didn’t take you for a coward!”

“The problem with heroic last stands is that they’re not survivable!” he shot back. He turned to fire a burst down the hallway, but it didn’t slow her, the rounds making her shields flash as she passed the ruined metal detector. He continued to fire, backing towards the car, perhaps hoping that he could drain her battery with enough sustained damage.

“Get back here and answer for what you’ve done!” she bellowed.

“They’ve lied to you, Petrova!” he continued as he backed through the car’s doors. “When we drank together in the officer’s lounge – when we talked about our plans for Hades and how I had chosen you to be my successor, did you feel as though I was only using you? Were we not friends and comrades?”

“Shut up!” she snapped, waving a mechanical hand in a violent gesture of dismissal. “You always do this! You always twist words and gaslight people into believing that your choices are their choices, and that what you want is what everyone else wants! You lie and manipulate and apply pressure, then you make others take accountability for your mistakes!”

“That’s what all of this is really about, isn’t it?” he continued as he sealed the sliding doors shut behind him. “You don’t want to be held accountable for what you did here. If you can project all of the bad choices you made and all of the people you killed onto me, then your conscience can be clean. You were right there beside me the whole time, Petrova. You had a part in every death from the moment we boarded that asteroid station, regardless of how many times you pulled the trigger. If you think these bloodthirsty insurgents or those vultures from the UN are going to grant you clemency because you changed sides at the eleventh hour, you’re kidding yourself. All you’ve done is ensure that you’re alone.”

The car began to rise, the giant clamps that held it securely inside the ring-shaped boarding platform releasing with a mechanical thud. Petrova bellowed inside her suit in a blend of rage and frustration, willing its limbs to move faster, mounting the platform as the car reached chest level. She leapt, driving the sword into the door. These cars were not fragile things – they were designed to handle impacts from micrometeorites and space debris without depressurizing, but the blade sliced through the reinforced glass. The car accelerated quickly, lifting her as she clung to the sword’s haft.

Using it as leverage, she drove her fingers into the metal panel like claws, closing them to get a grip. She pulled out the sword, stabbing the blade between the doors and prying them open using the PCE’s brute strength, their mechanisms grinding in protest. The seal broke, and the doors slid open, the car’s brakes squealing and its passenger compartment flooding with red warning lights as its systems detected a breach. Barbosa began to fire on her, his slugs chewing through the door and punching holes in the windows, showering her with flecks of molten metal and tumbling rounds. It wasn’t enough to stop her.

Petrova crawled her way inside, her suit rising to its feet, and she saw Barbosa retreating around the curving central pillar of the car. The floor was carpeted, its walls lined with round windows, the seating for passengers stacked up in tiers against the central hull like bleachers at a sports game to save space. He held his hand over a control panel mounted on the wall, firing off a deterring burst at her even as he worked, the set of human-sized prosthetic fingers emerging from the PCE’s massive palm to manipulate the buttons. The red lighting faded, and there was a lurch as the car began to move again, accelerating fast enough that she felt the G-forces press her into the soft padding of her suit. He must have overridden the safety system.

The car blasted out of the docking area and away from the anchor, the ribs and girders flashing past, the light of the moon illuminating its cabin as it cleared the choking smoke. The sound of the air rushing past the damaged doors was a deafening screech that her suit filtered out, the outside temperature already starting to plummet.

“What is the point of all this?” she demanded over an open radio channel, firing a burst at Barbosa as he ducked behind the central pillar. “What are you going to do – jump a ship into empty space and wait for your disease to kill you? You told me that you barely had five years left to live. Is it just fear that’s driving you?”

“You think I’m going to turn myself in and wait for some jumped-up tribunal of revolutionaries and UN stooges to sentence me to death?” he scoffed, his slugs chewing through some chairs and punching into the wall behind her.

“You should have taken Brenner’s offer!” Petrova replied as she moved out of view and began to flank around the circular cabin. “Maybe you’re terrified of being treated the same way you’ve treated the Hadeans. They could starve you, torture you, make you dig your own grave in the desert.”

“Are you still sore about that?” he asked. “You know that I couldn’t let the colony’s political agitators continue organizing strikes and protests with impunity. A public execution would just make them martyrs and embolden the insurgents, and it’s not hard for a dissident to operate from a cell. They would have quietly disappeared and taken their problems with them.”

“I don’t even know how many people you might have disappeared!” she snapped. She rounded the central pillar and fired off another burst, making his shields flash. “You lied to me and you kept me in the dark because you knew it was wrong!”

“Right and wrong is a false dichotomy invented by the ignorant!” he replied, shooting back at her. “Reality doesn’t give a damn about the morality that we project onto it. Every man and every nation acts solely in their own interests. We do whatever is necessary to further our goals, and failure to do so means surrendering to someone else who will. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react this way – that you’d whine and complain! I saw the way you reacted when I executed those saboteurs on the carrier, as if I should give them a slap on the wrist for trying to kill us all.”

“Me objecting to you murdering innocent prisoners is whining?” Petrova said, her bitter laughter tinged with a hint of hysteria. “What about my recruits? You wouldn’t even let me say goodbye. It was the only favor I ever asked of you. I followed every order you gave me without question, and you wouldn’t even give me that.”

“I’m your commanding officer!” he bellowed. “That’s how the relationship is supposed to work! I give orders, and you obey them!”

He stepped out of cover, trampling some of the chairs, unleashing another long burst of XMR fire. She moved out of its path, her shields flashing as they intercepted some of the slugs – the windows behind her turned to Swiss cheese. More air rushed in, the frost from the thin atmosphere outside creeping in and coating the glass. The colony was falling away now, growing smaller and smaller, the horizon becoming more curved with each passing minute.

“I participated in the assault on the missile bases,” she continued, putting her back to the curving wall. “I saw what you did to my recruits. They hadn’t been given any physical therapy or training – their surgical wounds hadn’t even had time to heal properly. They were rotting alive and falling apart like some cheap CRISPR soldiers from the Sino-American war. All that talk about how the YST was holding us back, and you did exactly what it was written to prevent. I chose them, Barbosa. I gave them my assurances, I told them that it would all be okay, and you made me a liar.”

“If your new friends hadn’t wiped out a whole company of agents, I wouldn’t have been forced to deploy them so prematurely!” he explained.

“That’s what you do, isn’t it?” she said as a wave of realization washed over her. “You drag everyone around you down to your level. If we’re all murderers and liars, then we can’t ever be better than you – we’ll never be accepted by anyone but you. You identified and enabled all of our worst instincts because it made us easy to control. Roach and Crow’s bloodlust, Hoff’s megalomania, Song’s experiments – you encouraged it all. I wondered at the time why Hoff’s personality was changing – why he stopped feeling like the man I knew, but it was you. You brought out the worst in him because you wanted to use him as a weapon to quash the rebellion. You gave him responsibility and control, then you encouraged him to abuse it.”

“Whatever the terrorists did to you, it’s made you insufferable,” Barbosa sneered, the distaste in his voice palpable. “You used to be a fucking soldier, Petrova. You were a cold-blooded killer. The Admirals would aim you at a target like a missile and fire you off. Now, all you want to talk about is feelings and acceptance and touchy-feely bullshit. This is SWAR, not a knitting circle! We chose to become weapons – nobody forced our hand. You can’t be a part of this organization if you don’t recognize the necessity of the work and the need to bend the rules.”

“You’re wrong!” she snapped. “Maybe that was the case thirty years ago, but not anymore. There’s a way out, but you don’t want to accept it, because it would mean that your entire worldview has been made obsolete!”

“You think I’m gonna let a fucking roach meddle with my genes and sew new limbs onto me? That’s not a way out – it’s a biological time bomb! Let me tell you something about obsolescence,” he continued bitterly. “I gave my life to the Navy – I sacrificed everything to keep my species safe. I gave up a chance at having a life and a family, I gave up literal pieces of myself, all to ensure that those ungrateful fucks could raise their families in peace.”

“Maybe it’s too late for you, but not the rest of us!” Petrova insisted. “People aren’t supposed to be weapons! We deserve to be able to go home and rest when we’re done – to enjoy the peace and live our lives. You deserved that!”

“A lifetime of loyal service, and suddenly, I’m not needed anymore,” he continued. “They’ve unilaterally decided that they’ve won the war, and they’re not even fighting the right enemy! We did our jobs too damned well, and they’ve forgotten the taste of fear – the thing that kept them wary and cautious. They’ve fallen for the lie that if they just let their guard down and invite the aliens in, everything will be fine, and they don’t even notice the knives sticking out of their backs!”

“I’ve seen Rask and Brokers and Jarilans risk their lives for humans,” Petrova insisted. “Brenner didn’t go insane on Kerguela – he saw it too. Even Vos came around. You barricaded yourself in your office on Proxima and ensured that you’d never have the breakthroughs he did. You did the same thing on Hades. You hid on the carrier and never interacted with the people you wanted to rule. You failed because you never understood them – what they wanted, how they viewed the world. You’re so convinced of being right that you can’t even entertain any other points of view as a possibility!”

“I am right!” he declared, moving around the curving wall and pushing her position as he fired. “I’m the only one who’s right – the only one in a position to do what’s necessary! You’re just like the Rask – you have no inkling of the damage you’ve done – what you’ve stolen from future generations! You and your new friends undermined my plans at every step, then blamed me for the consequences!”

“A plan that involved starvation and mass murder from the outset!” Petrova replied. “While you were stealing food and kidnapping doctors, that Rask you hate so much was feeding and treating people!”

“You’ve fallen for their propaganda,” he sneered, pausing to reload. “You think a Rask mercenary was healing sick kids out of the kindness of his heart? It was all theater to turn the population to their cause!”

The two suits advanced on one another, meeting on the carpet, their shields flashing as they poured slugs into one another. It was all futile – the weapons wouldn’t penetrate, Barbosa tossing his rifle to the deck and drawing a long knife. It resembled Ruza’s bayonet – ten inches long with a serrated edge, probably intended for auxiliaries just like the heavy XMR.

“You think you can beat me in that second-rate suit?” he demanded as Petrova threw her rifle at him, sending it bouncing harmlessly off his canopy. “Your battery must be all but drained by now!” he added, swinging a massive fist into her PCE. The impact rocked her, the soft padding of the suit protecting her body, her shield flashing again as she staggered back. “I’m gonna pry you out of that fucking shell and eat you like a clam!”

He delivered a gut punch, slamming his fist into her suit’s torso even as he held the knife, another impact sending her reeling. His suit might be better than hers – that was undeniable – but she was better armed.

She reached for her PCE’s thigh, disengaging the holster and magnetizing Lily’s sword to her hand, brandishing the onyx-black blade. The two faced off, the stars beyond the windows growing brighter, the horizon curving away. Her suit was warning her of low pressure and oxygen now – they were rising beyond Hades’ atmosphere.

“That’s more like it,” Barbosa chuckled. “You know, in the old days, they didn’t bother with this debate shit. It was trial by combat. They put two people in a pit and let the Gods decide who was right and wrong, guilty or innocent. Nobody is more experienced than me, nobody is more augmented, and I’m wearing the most advanced suit of armor ever built. You think you’re right? Prove it. Make it so.”

He passed the knife between his mechanical hands, showing off the dexterity of the suit, starting to circle around her as he waited for her to make the first move. Petrova obliged, swinging her sword at him in a probing strike, Barbosa batting it aside with the flat of his dagger.

“Do you have any idea of how many hours I’ve trained with a knife?” he scoffed. “Longer than you’ve trained with an alien sword, I’d wager.”

She swung again, and he darted out of her reach, the blade scything through the backrest of one of the padded seats and cutting through it like paper. It was hard to move with the acceleration of the car throwing her off. Barbosa must have disabled all of its safety limiters, because it was traveling far faster than any passenger could have endured, only her suit’s padding and her prosthetics keeping her conscious as the G-forces weighed down on her.

Another swing cut through the backrests of several chairs like dry reeds, Barbosa stepping back each time, the pointed tip of the sword barely missing him. She had the greater reach, and he bided his time, waiting for an opportunity to get close. When she next extended her arm in a thrust, he sidestepped it and darted in, pushing off the carpeted floor with his heavy boots. He swung a vicious right hook into the segmented plates on her torso, the impact reverberating through her suit, a quick left following it. He swung with all of his PCE’s mechanical strength, putting all of its weight behind each strike, the servos and pistons whirring. A tremor spread down the limb each time a fist connected, the metal grinding, the armored plates on his arm and shoulder shaking. Her shields flashed, interpreting the swift blows as projectiles, but the sheer mass of those fists was enough to protect them from its heat.

As he hit her with another swift right jab, he activated the mounted gun on his forearm, her shields flaring as he dumped a dozen rounds into it. They were only XMH caliber slugs, smaller and much slower than their rifle counterparts, the shield melting them to slag and sticking them to her armor. She staggered back as a left uppercut connected with the sloping chin of her suit, narrowly missing the camera dome, Barbosa extending his right arm and firing again.

He wasn’t using his knife at all, holding it in his fist with the tip pointed down. Was it because her shields might soften and damage its blade? It had no magnetic properties like Lily’s sword, so was he trying to diminish her shielding before committing? She glanced down at the battery charge indicator on her HUD, seeing that it was already flashing red. The PCE had been in combat for the entire day without being charged, subject to incredible stresses. Thousands of rounds had hit its shields and pocked its armor, many before she’d even gotten inside it, and it must have marched for kilometers. Her opponent knew it, and he wasn’t subject to any of her limitations. His suit had its own reactor that could replenish its plasma charge functionally infinitely, drawing directly from the fusion core.

The suits weren’t agile enough for much fancy footwork, but Barbosa raised a heavy boot, extending its claw-like outriggers for a little extra damage as he delivered a brutal kick to her center mass. Her PCE lost balance, and she toppled over backwards, crushing a row of seats. She recovered quickly, climbing back to her feet, her opponent firing on her the whole while.

She pressed the attack, covering the distance between them at a lumbering run and shouldering into his suit. Her left pauldron connected with his canopy, his boots skidding on the carpet, the outriggers slicing into the deck beneath for a better grip. She drew back her weapon and thrust it towards his belly, but he reached down a left hand to stop it, smart enough to grip her wrist rather than the sword’s sharp blade. With a bellow, he lifted his right hand, bringing it down like a hammer on her canopy. A knee to her stomach sent her staggering back a few paces, and he took advantage of the opening to draw back a clenched fist. He hit her with another uppercut, this one connecting with her camera dome and crushing it into its housing, smashing the electronics and lenses beneath the armor.

Petrova was sent reeling again, her HUD flickering, the blind spots created by the loss of the sensors quickly filled in by the other cameras spaced around her canopy. Like wiping a bloody nose, she dragged the back of her hand across the shattered dome to dislodge some fragments of broken armor, Barbosa’s knuckles still glowing from the heat of her shield as he watched. He rolled his shoulders, the machinery and exposed pistons shifting, raising his fists like a boxer.

“Come on, Petrova,” he taunted. “I trained you better than this.”

She was faced with a choice now as she stared at the battery warning on her HUD. She could try to finish the fight quickly and keep her shields active to protect herself from his knife, or she could switch them off to save power and ensure that her suit didn’t shut down prematurely, leaving her at Barbosa’s mercy. She elected to turn it off. The punches and gunfire were more dangerous than the knife if it meant leaving her suit without power.

She squared off, brandishing her sword, watching as Barbosa twirled his knife in his hand.

“What are you even intending to do?” she demanded. “You think you can fly a freighter out of here without the carrier blowing it apart?”

“Who said anything about flying?” he chuckled, spreading his arms wide. “I’m going to jump the freighter right out of the dock.”

“That would destroy the station!” Petrova protested. “You’d fill high orbit with wreckage and collapse the tether on top of the colony!”

“Yes, and?”

“You’d kill thousands! Perhaps more if relief ships couldn’t get through the debris field!”

“I’m still failing to see how that’s a problem for me,” he replied. “You forget – I tried reasoning and bargaining with those people already. If they enjoy destroying their own colony so much, I’m happy to help speed the process along.”

“You’re insane,” she hissed.

“Oh, it’s always so easy for you,” he sneered as he drew closer. “One little magic word, and everything I’ve ever said or done can be dismissed – crazy. We’re in this situation because you and your terrorist friends put us here. You did this. If you’d followed orders, everything would have gone to plan!”

They joined again, exchanging blows, Barbosa quickly realizing that her shield was no longer attempting to intercept his punches. He hit her with a left jab, then spun the blade in his hand, turning its point up. He drove it towards the armpit of her suit, where the gap in its armor left machinery exposed. She drew her arm against her torso to close up the gap, using her bulky forearm to block the knife, its blade glancing off the plating. It threw Barbosa off balance, and she raised her sword over her head, bringing it down on him from above.

Barbosa had no choice but to try to pull away, raising his left arm reflectively to protect himself. The edge of the blade came down on his forearm, the shield parting to form a hole that widened with its proximity, biting deep into the armor. Whatever it was made from, its edge was as sharp as a molecular razor, the layers of plating cleaved apart like a knife slicing through an apple. It stopped when it reached the dense machinery within, but it didn’t become stuck, sliding out just as easily as Barbosa withdrew. He flexed his mechanical fingers, the pinky frozen in place.

“Sharp,” he muttered. “That blade looks like tungsten – and what isn’t? Probably a high-entropy alloy – self-sharpening. We’ve used the tech in industrial cutting tools and AP rounds before. That line of copper is conductive, and I’d wager it’s wired to a power source in the pommel. That weapon was made to kill us. Do you think they wouldn’t have turned it against you if you hadn’t had your last-minute change of heart?”

“I would have deserved it,” she replied. “Just the same as you do.”

“Funny,” he scoffed, balling his fist as best he could and taking up a defensive posture. “You made such a fuss about what I did to your recruits, yet you seem to have no qualms wielding the weapon that took so many of their lives.”

“What happened to them is on both of us,” she said.

“So, you’re capable of taking responsibility for something, at least. Killing me won’t undo any of it, Petrova. It won’t assuage your guilt, and it won’t save you from the consequences of your choices.”

“It’s not about guilt or revenge,” she replied as she raised the sword and began to advance. She noticed that there were ice crystals forming on its blade now, creeping along her arms, what little atmosphere remained in the car freezing. “How I feel has never mattered. My guilt, my shame, my regret – nobody cares, nor should they. Nothing can undo or fix what I did. The only thing that matters is acting to make things better. If they want to court-martial me, so be it.”

“Come on, then!” he laughed. “Come and stop me!”

She closed the distance and lunged at him, the sword no longer whistling as she swung it in the absence of any air. The AG fields and the acceleration were still keeping her rooted to the floor, but she could feel the lack of resistance as she moved, and she had to compensate so as not to over-commit. The sword came close enough to carve a shallow scar in his chest piece as he darted back, intercepting the next swing with his knife, careful to only make contact with the flat of her blade. They exchanged a few swings and thrusts, their dance more like that of a crude machete fight than a fencing match. She had Barbosa on the defensive now, leveraging her longer reach, her opponent having learned more respect for her weapon.

He was far from done, however. Barbosa lured her into another lunge, then knocked the blade aside, stepping into the opening to deliver another series of punishing punches. Three hit her torso in quick succession, rocking her inside her suit, a fourth slamming into her canopy like a hammer to send her stumbling away. As she moved back, he stamped on her left boot, engaging his outriggers to grip it and lock her in place. Petrova jerked as her PCE was halted, starting to lose her balance, and he drew back his knife.

With something between a laugh and a shout, he thrust it into the shoulder joint of her left arm, sliding it past the armor panels and deep into the machinery beneath. It wasn’t anywhere near as sharp as the sword, but it sank as far as it could reach thanks to his PCE’s immense strength, sparking as it cleaved through bearings and electronics. Her suit blared warnings as she swung her sword at him wildly, forcing him back, her left arm hanging limp at her side. The blade was stuck there, its handle jutting from the joint.

“We should really have extended the pauldron to better cover that area,” he gloated as he strode out of her reach. “The perils of field testing prototypes, right?”

Petrova reeled, seeing the blade jutting from her shoulder. The arm was numbed, disconnected from her suit’s systems. Her opponent wasn’t done, darting in for another punishing flurry of punches, gripping the handle of his knife. Placing a boot on her torso, he pushed her away, yanking the weapon free like he was pulling a sword from a stone. Petrova fell, unable to catch herself with her damaged arm, toppling to the carpet. Barbosa let her rise, twirling his knife as he watched, his delight coming through in his PCE’s body language.

At this rate, she was going to lose, and untold deaths would result. She hadn’t been strong enough to defy Barbosa in the beginning, and she wasn’t strong enough to defeat him now.

No.

She was still fighting for the wrong reasons. She was motivated by her guilt, her anger, and a desire for revenge. It made her clumsy and desperate. As much as she had repeated Ruza’s mantra, she had never truly internalized it. Willing her racing heart and spiking adrenaline to calm, she closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath to steady her nerves. All that mattered were the actions that she took here.

She felt the cold of vacuum prick at her metal skin – felt the weight of the sword in her hand. It was no crude hatchet to be swung haphazardly – it was a precision instrument, balanced and refined in ways that she had never appreciated until she had taken a moment to listen. It was large in her hand – heavy, but the suit’s strength allowed her to wield it as intended, leveraging that mass to make it deadlier. It was like an extension of her arm, its edge so sharp that it could have sliced a falling sheet of paper.

Petrova took up a new guard stance, turning to put her right side to Barbosa, letting her left arm hang limp in the same way that a fencer might hold it behind their back. She held up the sword, weighing it, testing it as she twirled it in her hand. Just as the sword was an extension of her suit, so too was the suit an extension of her, at its most responsive and dexterous when she let the illusion take hold. Even imagining that it was in some way separate from her real body introduced friction that didn’t need to be there.

“I don’t think the argument is going in your favor,” Barbosa joked, readying his knife again. “Come on – convince me!”

He came at her, and she extended her arm, using the range afforded by the long sword to keep him at a distance. Unable to reach her suit, he stabbed and swung at her sword hand, trying to get in closer to attack the joints. She focused on parrying him, batting aside the knife and taking small steps back, confining her movements to her wrist and elbow. There was no sound in the absence of an atmosphere, but their weapons sparked when they met, creating little flashes. She let him push her back, drawing him in, then lunged into a sudden riposte.

Barbosa was forced to leap away, narrowly avoiding the point of her sword, and Petrova stepped in to press the advantage. Conscious of the weight in the blade of the weapon, she swung it from left to right in an upward arc, her suit’s strength letting her dump an enormous amount of energy into a relatively small motion. On the back foot now, Barbosa raised his scarred left arm to block the strike, the sword cleaving through its lightly armored elbow joint. With enough weight and speed, it cut through even the dense machinery, taking off a chunk of armor plating that was in its path.

Petrova watched Barbosa’s camera dome track the severed limb as the car’s acceleration pulled it to the carpet with a thud that reverberated through the deck, dark fluid leaking from the severed parts like blood, the damaged electronics in its stump sparking. She stepped away, a flourish of her sword bringing it back into a ready posture.

“Alright,” Barbosa muttered, changing his stance warily. “That makes us even, I suppose. Wouldn’t be a fair fight otherwise. This won’t change anything, you know. It won’t save your friends – it won’t give you a place in the world they want to create. You’ll still be alone.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she replied calmly. “You know that you can press my emotional buttons. You want me angry and desperate so that I’ll make stupid mistakes. That’s the weakness in me that you exploited. Just like you brought out the worst qualities in the other Lieutenants, you recognized that need for belonging in me, and you weaponized it to control me.”

“You’re like a lost puppy,” he said with a mocking laugh. “You always need a home and a master – someone to tell you what to do and give you purpose. All of your self-worth comes from outside validation. Didn’t I give you what you wanted? Didn’t I give you a family and make you feel like you were my favorite child? Didn’t I give you the clarity of purpose you were looking for? You haven’t had a breakthrough – you’re just getting it from them now instead of me.”

“I don’t need you anymore,” she replied simply. “Nobody does. That’s what this is all about. History left you behind, and rather than accept a dignified retirement like so many others, you decided that your legacy had to be grander. You had to prove that you were better than Brenner – that you were more powerful than Vos and the Admirals. All those years of loyal service, and you reduced it to ash, all because you couldn’t accept that your time in the sun was ending.”

“And when the next crisis hits, they’ll all wish that they’d listened,” he snarled. “Posterity will prove me right.”

“Your only legacy will be treachery and death.”

Barbosa let out a growl of anger, brandishing his knife and charging in, Petrova blocking one of his strikes with a swift flick of her blade. He managed to get in close, surprising her with an elbow strike from what remained of his severed arm. Bringing the knife to her belly, he aimed for a joint in her segmented armor, but she turned sideways to avoid the strike. Stumbling for a moment when his blow didn’t connect, he turned into her, swinging the knife in a wide arc.

Petrova was ready for him, her sword flashing as it rose to intercept the dagger, cleaving clean through it. The sharp edge of her heavy blade scythed through the knife in a diagonal motion, splitting the guard, the handle, and severing several of Barbosa’s fingers in the process. His shields flashed, but they could do nothing to prevent the damage. The severed pieces fell away, and with her blade raised high now, Petrova completed the motion by bringing it down on his arm. Even before his fingers had landed on the carpet at their feet, his forearm was following, sliced off just like the first.

“No!” he bellowed, throwing himself into her and slamming his canopy into hers. Using what remained of his arms, he grappled with her, his outriggers tearing up the carpet. Through her rear cameras, Petrova saw that he was pushing her towards the open doors of the car, the curving horizon of Hades’ sandy surface far below them now. They had reached orbit.

She tried to fight him off, succeeding in pushing him back with a pommel strike. Lowering his canopy like a bull preparing to charge, he let out another guttural roar of frustration. He ran at her, Petrova’s sideways fencing stance allowing her to step out of his path, moving to her left as he barreled past her like a freight train. His outriggers scarred the deck behind him as they clamped down, letting him brake just in front of the open doors. Before he could maneuver the lumbering suit around, Petrova spun the sword in her hand so that its blade was facing down, and thrust it behind her. Using her rear cameras to aim, she stabbed it into the power plant on his back, its copper vein parting his shield around it. It sank inches into his armor, his PCE freezing up almost as though he had felt it pierce something vital.

Petrova withdrew her sword and turned to face him, his suit framed by the black vacuum beyond the broken doors. He turned too, staggering with each step, raising his stumps and starting to paw helplessly at his canopy.

“Get me out!” he demanded, a hint of panic creeping into his voice. “The release! Hit the release!” he snapped as he reached for the emergency release lower on his torso. There was no way for him to press it, and if he was trying, it must mean that his software controls were no longer working. Petrova could see what was happening on her thermal cameras, his suit starting to glow red on her feed. Something was dumping heat into his PCE. Had she breached his core?

She stepped away, watching as the panic overcame him, Barbosa clawing at his canopy with hands that were no longer there. Even his camera dome was going wild, swiveling back and forth like wide eyes desperately searching for a solution. Could he feel what was happening to him? Had the suit’s failing systems interfered with his shunt?

He let out a wail of pain and anger, lunging at her, but Petrova was ready for him. She raised her boot and brought it down on his torso, the kick ripping his outriggers and boot magnets from the deck, sending him toppling backwards. He stumbled over the threshold, reaching out to catch himself on its frame, but there were no hands to take hold with. Barbosa flailed as he drifted beyond the car, powerless to return even inches from safety. He began to fall away from the elevator as it continued its steady acceleration, sinking towards the planet. There was nowhere for the buildup of heat from his leaking fusion core to escape in the vacuum of space, and it continued to build, his shunt conveying every thrash and twitch.

Petrova approached the door, stowing her sword on her thigh and gripping the frame so that she could lean out, watching the writhing PCE diminish towards the planet’s sepia surface. Barbosa’s harrowing screams filtered over the radio, but the signal grew distorted as the car climbed away, soon fading into static. She watched until the dark speck against Hades’ arid surface disappeared, and he was gone.

She staggered away from the door, taking in a shaky breath of recycled air, the warnings on her HUD flashing and beeping at her. The battery was almost drained, and she had a dozen damage warnings, but the suit’s integrity was holding.

The task was done, and Barbosa was gone. There was no wave of relief – no lifting of weight from her shoulders to leave her unburdened, but there was a kind of peace in the knowledge that she had done all she could to make a difference. Barbosa could do no further damage.

The car was still climbing, and she had no idea what she would encounter at the tether station when it reached its destination. Barbosa might have sent a team ahead to secure it ready for his arrival. It didn’t matter either way. Just like killing Barbosa had not rolled back the clock, killing her would not bring their Commander back from the dead. She walked over to the nearest rifle and retrieved it, checking the ammo counter, and settled in for the remainder of the trip.

***

The doors of the ruined car were already jammed open when Petrova arrived at the station, and she stepped out onto the boarding platform, finding herself in something that looked like a carpeted spaceport terminal. There were already three SWAR agents walking down the corridor opposite her that led out into the station proper, their weapons lowered and their posture relaxed. They might not have figured out who she was yet, and they would be expecting Barbosa.

“Commander,” one of them began, raising a prosthetic hand in greeting. He was talking through his helmet speakers, as there would be no need to use encryption on a station that they controlled. “The freighter has been loaded with supplies from the garrisons and is prepped for launch as ordered. All personnel are ready to board. We can cast off whenever-”

He paused, seeming to realize that something was wrong when he noticed the lack of painted teeth on her canopy and the hanging left arm. Even a SWAR agent’s reflexes were not sufficient to escape what came next, Petrova raising the XMR with her right arm and killing all three men in one burst. She was emotionally drained – exhausted, and her PCE moved almost by reflex as she marched past the bodies in search of more targets.

Beyond the hallway that led to the boarding area was a carpeted terminal not dissimilar from what she had seen in the civilian area of the anchor below. The station was shaped like a hubcap – a flattened torus separated into slices like a pizza, with each slice accommodating different cargo and passengers. This slice seemed reserved for tourists and civilians – filled with upscale duty-free stores, information kiosks, and concession stands. All were unmanned now – the staff probably banished to the ground months prior by Barbosa’s goons. If Reed had been present, he would certainly be pillaging the unguarded liquor that was on display in some of the little stores.

At the end of it all was the curving wall of the station’s bulkhead, lined with windows that looked out into space. No ships were docked in the civilian area, but she could see the long freighters jutting out into the void from the adjoining section.

As she passed storefronts filled with snacks and souvenirs, more agents revealed themselves, glass shattering as they tossed grenades and engaged her with their rifles. One by one, she put them down, the cramped quarters and superior optics that remained on her suit making short work of them as they tried to take cover behind flimsy counters and thin walls. It was a short firefight – it seemed that Barbosa had only sent half a team ahead of him, perhaps reserving the rest to defend Garrison One and the anchor.

She moved through a door that led into another slice of the station – where the freighters and other commercial ships could be boarded. The giant vessels were nestled in rib-like cradles, many of them stripped of most of their cargo containers, leaving them looking naked and skeletal. Long docking umbilicals extended from this level to join to their hulls, jutting from pressure doors on the outer wall of the station, each one separated by its own gate and small check-in area. On the deck below this one was the cargo elevator and the loading areas where the containers would pass through.

Her sensors alerted her to more heat signatures, and she aimed at a warm patch behind the low wall of a cafe area, watching a group of figures emerge from cover with their hands raised. They were wearing a blend of medical equipment and civilian clothing, and standing amongst them was Nilsson. Barbosa must have brought the doctor and his staff here after their escape from the carrier, ready to fly them to some new secluded research outpost, perhaps.

“D-don’t shoot!” he stammered as he stepped forward. “We’re unarmed!”

“Are there more agents on the station?” Petrova demanded, aiming her rifle at him. He swallowed conspicuously as he looked right down his barrel.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head nervously. “I don’t think so. We rode with six of them. Is…”

“Barbosa is dead,” she said, preempting his question.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighed. “Listen, you can put that rifle down. We’re not a threat to you.”

She kept it raised, his wide eyes darting between her canopy and its muzzle device as though unsure of where to look.

“You were there when Barbosa kidnapped me,” Nilsson pleaded. “You saw him execute one of my researchers and force me to board his shuttle. I never had any say in this – none of us did. Yes, I was upset about the Bullshark program being canceled,” he continued hurriedly, sweat beginning to drip from his brow. “I leaked that information – it’s because of me that he had time to concoct this insane plan of his, but none of that was my fault! I didn’t want him to kill anybody! I didn’t tell him to invade a colony!”

He looked back at his staff as though expecting them to back him up, but they remained silent.

“You’re in the same boat as me,” he added, sounding indignant now as he jabbed a finger at her. “You think the Navy is going to look the other way when they roll through and start arresting everyone? You played a larger role in this fiasco than I did. He didn’t have a gun to your head when you were boarding my research station.”

“It’s out of my hands now,” Petrova replied, dispassionate. “We don’t get to decide.”

“There’s still time,” Nilsson continued, dropping his tone to a conspiratorial whisper. “We could leave on the freighter that Barbosa prepared. It has supplies enough to get us far away from Hades, and the drive is charged. You’d know how to fly one, right?”

He pointed to one of the gates, and Petrova’s gaze followed, moving to the hulking freighter docked beyond the windows.

“We don’t have to stay here and let bureaucrats and bloodthirsty colonists decide our fates!” Nilsson hissed. “You know exactly how this is going to play out. They’ll want someone to blame, and we’re practically all that’s left now. It’ll be sham trials – a witch hunt!”

Nothing that Nilsson had said was untrue. She had played a pivotal role in Barbosa’s coup, and as the only surviving Lieutenant, she was the only person left who could answer for his crimes. If the Navy wanted a scapegoat, she fit the bill, regardless of whoever might vouch for her change of allegiance.

She could disappear – it wouldn’t be difficult with her job history. Petrova could become someone else and leave this identity behind, just as she had when she’d become Valentina, or any other of her discarded secret identities from old missions. All of the guilt that she felt could become someone else’s, and she could cast it off like a snake shedding its skin. Nilsson seemed to sense the hesitation in her delayed reply, a little hope creeping into his watchful eyes.

Yet, something was keeping her from boarding that ship. It wasn’t accountability, it wasn’t duty – it was something else. So much of her life had been spent assuming and discarding identities. It was only in the company of her fellow agents that she had ever felt free to be herself, but how real had that been when people like Barbosa had lied to her, and people like Hoff had grown so distant? If she was forced to keep up appearances, and she couldn’t really confide in anyone, was that just another kind of false identity?

For better or worse, Hades was the only place where she had ever truly existed as her own person, and its gaggle of ex-criminals and insurgents were the only people who really knew her. She didn’t fully understand why, but that was valuable, and she didn’t want to lose it. They knew who she was and what she’d done, and they had accepted her all the same.

“I’m staying,” she replied. “We’re all staying. Come in, Tirad. This is Petrova. The station is clear, and I’m going to need a shuttle. I have prisoners ready for transport.”

CHAPTER 41

DAY 58 – HADES ORBIT – RUZA

Ruza awoke to bright lights, blinking his bleary eyes as they slowly adjusted to the glare. His head ached, and when he reached up a shaky hand to touch it, he found that it was wrapped in gauze. His mouth was dry, and he smelled the familiar stink of sterilizing agents. As his vision began to clear, he saw that he was in a medical facility of some kind. It was filled with modern equipment, and his room was cramped, the harsh lights on the ceiling making him squint. The bed was sized for his species, which was unusual.

As he struggled to sit up and began to glance around, he saw that someone was waiting beside his bed. Even before he could make out their face, the blonde hair revealed their identity. It was Amy.

“Ruza!” she whispered – it was the quietest exclamation he’d ever heard. “You’re awake!”

She leapt from her chair and hurried over to hug him, making him wince as she tweaked his healing bicep.

“S-sorry,” she stammered, stepping back and giving him a beaming smile. “We didn’t know when you might wake up. The doctors said that if it wasn’t for that hard Borealan skull of yours, the damage might have been much worse.”

“Where am I?” he asked, noting the pressure door across the room.

“You’re on the carrier,” she explained. “Ortega brought you here shortly after you were hurt.”

“And…you are here?” he asked, not understanding.

“You’ve been out for a couple of days,” she continued, sounding almost apologetic. “I suppose I should catch you up on what’s been going on.”

“Barbosa!” he hissed, trying to sit up. Amy placed a tiny hand on his chest and eased him back into bed.

“Everything is fine,” she insisted, putting on a soothing voice. “Barbosa is dead – Petrova killed him. Reed is fine, Rivera is fine, Brenner and his agents are fine. Everyone is fine. Not long after all the riots were over, they sent a shuttle to pick us up at the hideout. We were so scared when we saw it that we all hid,” she added with a snicker. “Rivera came and fetched us back to the city. Bergmann and Omar are helping the resistance clean up the mess Barbosa left behind. Bill and Ricky send their regards – they wouldn’t let them come up to the carrier.”

“What about you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I can be very persuasive, and I have friends in high places,” she replied, planting her hands on her hips and turning up her nose. “Besides, someone needed to stay by your bedside, and everyone is so damned busy. Reed has taken it upon himself to be the face of the resistance, of course. He’s been coordinating with Bergmann and the Governor to get supplies flowing again. I think the poor Governor would have been eaten by the mob if Reed hadn’t intervened and vouched for him. We’ve been freeing the loyalist PDF from the garrisons, and Omar is organizing them so they can restore order to the colony. I think most of the carrier’s crew has already been returned. Petrova has been acting as an intermediary between the Navy and any holdouts to make sure they surrender peacefully, and Brenner has been rooting out any remaining Borgs. There are still people holed up in some of the underground shelters trying to wait us out.”

“What of you?” he asked. “You have skills that are indispensable.”

“Oh, I’ve been crunching numbers and working out how to distribute all the food we’ve captured,” she said as she waved a tablet computer at him. “I can do that from here. With everything the Borgs had stashed in the garrisons, we should be able to get food to everyone who needs it.”

“Can we avert a famine?”

“I believe so, if we’re careful,” she clarified. “It’ll still be a few months before the relief fleet arrives, so we’ll have to be cautious. Barbosa didn’t take all of our problems with him when he died.”

“If Petrova cast the fatal blow, I hope that any doubts surrounding her loyalty have been assuaged,” Ruza continued. “She has fought hard and endured much.”

“She’s been sticking with Brenner and the others,” Amy replied. “Wasp, Silverback, Komodo – those guys. I think she’s safe with them. It’s funny – the Borgs feel more alien to me than you do. It’s like they’re a different species sometimes with the way they act.”

“They are a different breed, one might say,” he replied. “What of the aliens?” he asked.

“Harlequin has been hanging around with Brenner’s people,” Amy continued. “Lily has been piloting shuttles to and from the carrier to help with food deliveries from its stores. We’re short on pilots, and it gives her something to do. I think she feels a little useless without her Warrior. The locals were a little leery of them at first – most of them have never met a Jarilan before, but they’re warming up to them. You can only be suspicious of someone who’s feeding you for so long, I suppose.”

“Have you seen Reggie?”

“He’s done destroying whatever property he keeps yammering about,” she said with a shrug. “Other than that, I’m not sure what he’s been doing. He’s not the best conversationalist. Do you think he can…watch movies inside that suit or something? Oh!” she added, a thought occurring to her. “I should let everyone know that you’re awake!”

She sent a message on her tablet, and it wasn’t long before one of the ship’s doctors was shining a small flashlight in Ruza’s eyes, checking his pupillary response and reading information off the monitoring equipment beside his bed.

“Follow the light, please,” the human said as he waved the tool back and forth. “Very good. Doctor Ruza, you’ve suffered from a rather severe concussion, but I’m not seeing any indications of permanent damage. As a fellow medical professional, I don’t think I need to impress upon you how important it is to limit your physical activities over the next few days and get some rest.”

“I have been asleep for two days,” Ruza complained. “There is much to do.”

“And you’ll need to take it easy for a few more,” the doctor insisted sternly. “Symptoms may last for a week or two.”

“It’s time to let someone else take care of things for a while,” Amy added as she leaned around the doctor. “You’ve earned a vacation. The colony will get along just fine without you while you heal up.”

“Let me take a look at your arm,” the doctor continued, Ruza watching as he unwound the bandages to reveal a knitting scar. It was held together by an adhesive pad that bridged the cut and kept the wound closed while it healed, the remnants of antiseptic gel discoloring his skin. “You left the medical foam in there for too damned long,” he complained as he probed the site with a gloved finger. “It’s a stopgap, not a cure-all.”

“I had more pressing matters to attend to at the time,” Ruza grumbled.

“We closed up the bleeds in surgery and cleaned out the wound,” the man added. “The blade nicked the bone and narrowly missed a major artery. I’m always surprised both by how much Borealans bleed and how quickly you heal. This appears to be coming along fine.”

“I smell no rot,” Ruza added, giving the wound a sniff.

“That sense of smell has to be a boon for a doctor,” the man mused. “Alright – I see no reason to keep you. Just follow my advice and take it easy, okay? I’d offer you some post-surgical wound care, but we’re shorthanded right now, and I think you should be able to handle it yourself.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Amy chimed.

Ruza heard the door open, and the doctor stepped aside to reveal a man wearing a pristine white uniform standing in the hallway, a cap perched atop his head. It was Captain Ortega. The last time that Ruza had seen him, he’d been wearing a flight suit after ejecting from his plane.

“I heard you were up and about, so I thought I’d come down and pay you a visit,” he announced as he stepped through the door, pausing to greet Amy and the doctor. “Don’t sit up on my account,” he added as Ruza attempted to rise from his bed. “Unfortunately, I spent most of this incident locked up in my quarters, but your friends have been singing your praises from the proverbial rooftops. From what they tell me, you’ve been instrumental in organizing the resistance and fighting back against Barbosa practically from the moment his forces made landfall.”

“I simply did what was necessary to protect the colony,” Ruza replied.

“The way I heard it, you personally killed enough of Barbosa’s rogue SWAR agents to populate a platoon, along with more than your share of his PCEs. Half a squadron of dropships, too, apparently,” he added as he appraised the Rask. “You’re quite the shot with an AMR.”

“I operated them during the rebellion,” Ruza explained.

“Is that so?” Ortega continued, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I’m glad to see you putting that experience to constructive use. I’d like to formally extend the appreciation of my government on this matter. Without you, Barbosa’s invasion might have been much further along by the time Commander Brenner’s team arrived, and their job would have been a lot harder without your assistance.”

“Hear that, Doc?” Amy giggled. “You’re a war hero again.”

“Let’s say a…regrettable internal security incident hero,” Ortega grumbled. “You’ve spared the Admiralty a lot of further embarrassment, and I don’t expect that they’ll forget it anytime soon. Feel free to remind them. Since you’re not part of the auxiliary program anymore, I’m afraid that I can’t offer you any promotions or service medals, but you have my personal assurances that any resources or supplies you require to run your clinic will be provided to you for the duration of my stay here. You will be at the top of the queue – just say the word.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Ruza replied. “I sense that we shall need them.”

“We haven’t even set foot inside the clinic for so long,” Amy sighed. “It feels like a totally different life – like they’re someone else’s memories.”

“Once our medical staff clears you for transport, you’re free to leave any time you wish,” Ortega continued. “I’ll have a shuttle fly you both wherever you’d like to go. Until then, I must ask that you excuse me – there’s much to do. Along with the colony, I have to get my carrier and its crew back in ship shape, and Barbosa has left quite the mess behind. We’re still transporting a steady stream of interned sailors and providing treatment where necessary.”

“May I ask their condition?” Ruza said.

“It seems that violent mistreatment was kept to a minimum, but they’d probably have been given meager rations even without the current food situation,” Ortega said with a grimace of disapproval. “Some have gone down a couple of belt sizes, but we’ll make sure they’re taken care of.”

“What of the SWAR recruits?” Ruza added. “There were many with severe infections.”

“Petrova was very insistent that they be transferred to the carrier for treatment,” Ortega replied. “They’re being cared for in our infirmary by personnel familiar with amputees. I must say, I’m not entirely sure what to do with them. Based on their condition alone, it’s obvious that they were misled, and they’re not Navy personnel. I essentially have custody of a large group of civilians with illegal augmentations that I have no feasible way to confiscate. They don’t seem hostile, but I’m not sure I can just turn them loose.”

“Petrova will know what to do,” Ruza said.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Ortega conceded. “I must go, but just let me know if you need anything.”

With that, he walked back out into the hallway, the door closing behind him.

“I want to run a few more tests, then I’ll clear you for travel,” the doctor said as he picked up where he’d left off. “And tell your pilot to take it easy. The last thing we need is you banging your head if they take a sharp turn.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Amy said, giving Ruza a wink.

***

It was a relief to see the carrier so full of life. Ruza passed many uniformed personnel on his way to the hangar bay, most of whom must have recently been interned in the garrisons. Those like Rivera that he and the resistance had freed were but a small number of those taken from the ship, and Ortega had said that more were on their way.

One of the hangars was sectioned off, presumably due to damage, so he and Amy boarded a shuttle in the other and rode it down to the ground. Ruza was still a little unsteady on his feet, but it was a relief to smell the warm Hadean air again and to feel its coarse sand beneath his paws. The shuttle had set down in Garrison One, the anchor casting its shadow over the compound, providing some shade from the harsh sunlight. The courtyard bustled with activity, loyal PDF and Marines alike hurrying back and forth between shelters and buildings as they went about their duties. Several more dropships idled on the landing pads, the backwash from their engines kicking up clouds of dust, and the rumble of trucks filled the air as they waited for loading in the parking area. It appeared that supplies were being brought up from the shelters and prepped for distribution.

“The last time I was here, I was fighting a battle,” Ruza muttered as he followed Amy away from the shuttles. There were still signs of what had transpired, and even days later, some of the warehouse fires still seemed to be smoldering. He could smell the acrid fumes on the air. The hole through which they had infiltrated the garrison was still visible across the way, and many of the buildings and gabions were pocked with craters from gunfire.

Amy led him to the control tower at the center of the compound, and they made their way inside, climbing a set of spiraling stairs that led to the top floor. Ruza found himself in a circular room filled with computer consoles and humming servers, the rows of windows that lined the walls looking out over the garrison beyond. There were PDF personnel manning the desks, a few of them looking up from their holographic displays to peer at him.

In the middle of it all, standing over a table that featured a map of the colony, was a familiar face.

“Omar!” Ruza declared loudly, causing a few of the PDF to lean out of his path as he strode past their workstations. He greeted his friend with a hug that he quickly realized was too tight, depositing the flustered human back on the ground.

“Good to see you, Doc,” Omar replied as he straightened his uniform. He was wearing PDF garb again, which told Ruza all he needed to know. “They told us that you were injured in the fighting. I’m happy that you’re walking around again. How’re you feeling?”

“I have been better,” Ruza conceded with a tired smile. “What of you, Omar? Am I to assume that your position has been reinstated?”

“It’s not exactly a promotion,” he replied with a chuckle that seemed more nervous than humorous. “I’m sort of the most senior PDF commander left after all the fighting. They put me in charge of the whole force, and I’ve been working to recapture all of the garrisons and restore order to the city.”

“I can think of none more qualified.”

“I think Omar wishes someone could,” Amy added with a grin.

“Take a look,” Omar said, waving Ruza over to the table. “We’re securing the city block by block,” he began, pointing to sections of the map. “We capture a garrison, and we use that as a staging point to take control of its precinct. We’re rooting out any PDF still loyal to Barbosa with the help of Rivera’s Marines, and when we encounter any heavier resistance, we call in Brenner’s team.”

“Has there been much fighting?” Ruza asked.

“Not really,” Omar replied, shaking his head. “After the riots ended, there wasn’t much doubt about who had won. There are only a few garrisons still occupied by enemy forces, and I think their reluctance to surrender is more about what they think we might do to them rather than any lingering loyalty to Barbosa. You spend your time mistreating the people in your custody, and you start expecting the same.”

“What will you do with those who surrender?” Ruza asked.

“Well, the occupation did us a favor,” Omar replied. “After freeing all of the prisoners, we’ve been left with a lot of empty cells that can be put to good use. We’ll hold them there until we can figure out some kind of judicial process. We don’t want to jump the gun on that – better to wait for tempers to cool before we start parading people out in front of juries. Maybe some impartial parties from the Navy can help with that when they arrive.”

“It’ll take time to learn who was coerced, who was misled, and who was totally on board with Barbosa’s plans,” Amy added. “I’m hoping that the Hadeans will be sympathetic. After all, Barbosa had all of us going for a while.”

“It seems like most of the hardliners were killed in the fighting,” Omar said. “Many of the people left behind are just scared. Their command structure has been broken, and they have no orders – no direction.”

“If we demonstrate that we are just, more may surrender,” Ruza suggested.

“We’re taking steps to ensure that there’s no abuse,” Omar continued. “Conditions in the prisons are being reviewed regularly by Ortega’s people, and we’re not withholding food or supplies.”

“That is good,” Ruza conceded. “Such behavior is why we deserved to win, and they to lose.”

“We’ll leave you to your work, Omar,” Amy said as she took Ruza by the arm. “I’m sure you have lots to do.”

“You got that right,” Omar sighed, leaning over his table. “We’ll catch up later when I’m off-duty. If I’m ever off-duty,” he added with a grumble.

Ruza followed Amy back down the stairs and out into the garrison, the pair donning their masks and goggles once more. They made their way across the dusty courtyard, heading through the walls of gabions that flanked the gate. The anchor was close, along with the warehouses and loading areas that handled trade on the colony. It hadn’t quite started up again yet, as there had been some damage to the elevators, but there were a few trucks laden with cargo driving along the sandy road on their giant tires. For the first time in what felt like months, there were pedestrians and workers out on the streets without fear, small groups of Hadeans going about their business under the watchful eye of the loyal PDF. Their reflective jackets were no longer a display of rebellion, merely necessary work garb.

They passed a group of men who were digging up a section of the road to repair infrastructure, and as they walked by a fence that separated one of the concreted storage sites from the street, Ruza spotted firefighters milling about inside. They were trying to manage one of the still-smoldering blazes from the days prior. He watched as they sprayed fire-retardant foam on the collapsed ruin of one of the buildings, which had almost burnt itself out, wisps of smoke rising from the rubble like the dying embers of a campfire.

“It is strange,” Ruza began, adopting a slow stride to keep pace with Amy’s much shorter legs.

“What is?” Amy asked, adjusting her dust mask.

“During the occupation, everyone treated me as though I was some manner of leader – as though I had some authority to command the resistance. It is not something I ever sought or asked for, merely something that was given to me.”

“That’s because we all trust you,” Amy replied.

“I understand,” he said with a grateful nod. “Now, there will be no resistance, as there is nothing left to resist. There was so much responsibility heaped upon me, and I still feel the impulse to insert myself into Hadean affairs, but they no longer have need of me. The colony is being managed well in my absence.”

“Are you feeling a little useless?” she chuckled, pressing closer and wrapping an arm around his. “You’ll never be useless, Doc. Once you’re feeling better, we’ll get the clinic up and running again, and you’ll see just how much the locals still need you.”

“That is a pleasant thought,” he sighed. “It is not altogether bad to be free of responsibility for a time. Barbosa’s great failing was his refusal to accept that he was no longer needed, and I should not make that same mistake.”

“People will always need family doctors,” Amy chided. “Resistance fighters? Let’s hope we don’t need those anymore. This is like the third time you’ve tried to retire from war, so let’s try and make this one stick, alright?”

“Very well,” he conceded. “I am older than I look, after all…”

It wasn’t long before the city’s brutalist civic buildings began to rise above the prefabs and industrial parks, looming over the surrounding structures. It was busier here, with more throngs of civilians milling about, the square with its tall obelisk filled with people. They were being watched over by PDF who were stationed to guard the steps of the town hall, but they were not protesting. Based on the snippets of conversations he overheard as he passed between the groups of leather-clad Hadeans, they were sharing news about the happenings of the last few days. Perhaps wireless coverage had not been fully restored yet.

A few of them recognized him, pausing to nudge their neighbors and point, some giving him a wave in greeting that he felt compelled to return in bemusement.

“You’re a celebrity these days,” Amy explained. “It’s hard for people to remember names, but you really stand out in a crowd.”

As they neared the steps that led to the hall, the PDF parted to let them pass, certainly recognizing him too. He noted that there were yellow banners that somewhat resembled the high-vis vests and armbands worn by the resistance hanging from the balcony – a symbol of allegiance. Inside was a nicely furnished lobby where a woman waited behind a front desk, sitting up straighter when they entered through the twin doors and removed their masks.

“Hello!” she began, the glow of her display coloring her face a shade of orange. “Do you have an appointment with the Governor?”

“Nah, but we’re friends,” Amy explained. “Just tell him Amy and Ruza are here.”

The woman seemed somewhat irritated, but she must be used to people coming and going unannounced by now, and she soon buzzed them through. A few more hallways and flights of steps later, they were entering the Governor’s office, finding another lavishly furnished space. It was luxurious compared to the usual accommodations on Hades, with a wooden desk and shelves filled with old tomes, everything cast in the warm light of an ornate chandelier on the ceiling. There was a carpeted floor beneath Ruza’s pads, and it was tangibly cooler inside, an air conditioner tugging at his hair. Behind the long desk was a window that led to the balcony overlooking the square.

There were three people at the desk. Reed was sitting in a padded chair behind it, Bergmann was sitting opposite him, and a third man with a rotund figure and an expensive suit was standing off to the left. His arms were crossed, and the scowl on his face lifted as he saw the newcomers enter.

“Ruza, my number one alien!” Reed declared as he spread his arms. He rose from his seat and vaulted over the table – much to the third man’s annoyance – hurrying over to greet the Rask. He appeared to want to hug him, but Ruza was far too large, so Reed took his furry hand and gave it a vigorous shake. “How’s the head, Doc?” he added as he gave Ruza’s good arm a friendly pat. “No brain damage, I hope? I guess if there’s anyone around here who can afford to lose a few IQ points, it’s you.”

“I am doing better, thank you,” Ruza replied as he clasped his friend’s hand tightly. “Amy has been explaining what has transpired during my absence. I am glad to see that you are all safe and unharmed.”

Ruza released Reed’s hand as Bergmann approached, and the two shook, the human’s weathered face smiling up at him.

“Ruza – glad to see you’re still in one piece. When I heard that you’d been injured and that they’d airlifted you to the carrier, I feared the worst. I suppose it takes more than a head injury to keep you down. I should have expected as much.”

“Bergmann,” Ruza replied warmly. “I am happy to see you.”

The third man cleared his throat, and Bergmann turned, gesturing to him.

“This is the Governor,” Bergmann announced as the portly man walked over to join them. He extended a hand, and Ruza took it. “I believe this is your first face-to-face meeting?”

“I have seen your face before – on the broadcasts,” Ruza said.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” the Governor replied. He seemed shrewd, perhaps a little wary of the Rask. “It seems that your name is on everyone’s lips these days. The way they’re telling it, Hades would have been finished without you.”

“An exaggeration,” Ruza replied, bowing his head modestly.

“I’d say it’s accurate,” Amy chimed.

“I, uh…hope that there are no hard feelings,” the Governor began. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a handkerchief, starting to dab at his brow nervously. “I’m sure that, from the outside looking in, it may appear that I changed sides in the latter days of the occupation to save my own skin. In truth, ever since Barbosa arrived, I’ve been trying to steer him in a less destructive direction. I regret that I was not always successful, but I’ve always worked to protect the people of Hades however I could.”

“Without the information that you smuggled to the resistance, our operation to capture the MAST sites could not have succeeded,” Ruza replied. “That is proof enough of your loyalty for me.”

“Don’t worry,” Reed added, giving the Governor a seemingly unwelcome pat on the shoulder. “We’ll vouch for you! Hell, if we hadn’t shown up when we did, I think that angry mob would have drawn and quartered you.”

“My options were to defy Barbosa and get myself executed, or to use what influence I still had to try and exert pressure,” the Governor continued. “When I realized that his famine was to be a manufactured one, I had no choice but to act. That was when I truly understood that there was no hope of swaying him. I apologize for calling you a terrorist and implying that you were a cannibal,” he said as he glanced up at Ruza. “I didn’t write those scripts – they made me read them.”

“Fortunately, I ate before leaving the carrier,” Ruza replied.

“Oh, he’s got jokes now!” Reed declared as he flopped back into the chair and put his boots up on the desk. “That head injury is more serious than we thought.”

“Please remove your shoes from my desk,” the Governor complained, the way that he rolled his eyes suggesting this was not the first time he’d had to ask.

“The situation seems more stable now,” Ruza prompted. “There are citizens out on the streets, and I have seen transports carrying supplies.”

“We’re doing what we can to repair the damage,” the Governor continued, seeming a little more at ease now that he was back in his element. “Our most pressing tasks are food and infrastructure. We have a lot of hungry people who need rations. Amy has been helping us in that regard,” he added, giving her an appreciative nod. “She’s been instrumental in stockpiling and distributing what we’ve been able to seize from the captured garrisons and warehouses.”

“We’re also moving excess MREs down from the carrier,” she added with a smile. “The Borgs had already set up ration distribution centers, so we just took those over.”

“Mister Bergmann has been handling the physical repairs,” the Governor continued.

“The Unions are all coordinating to get the colony back into working order,” Bergmann confirmed. “We’re mobilizing our workforce to repair damaged infrastructure, rebuild ruined buildings, and clear out debris. The damaged elevator cars are going to take a little doing, so it might be some weeks before the tether is operational again. The major roads have all been cleared, power and water to most areas has been restored, and we’ve temporarily relocated unhoused people to empty shelters while we work to put up more prefabs. The factories are coming back online, and we’re ramping up production. We should be able to make all of the tools and materials we need on-site. Ortega has been sending specialists and spare parts down from the carrier to help out when we need it.”

“I’m in charge of security, I suppose,” Reed said as he clasped his hands behind his head. “Ortega has assumed formal command of all the Marines, and that goes for Rivera and his guys too. We still have a lot of resistance fighters, and they’ve been helping handle security and food distribution on the local level. Bergmann is busy rebuilding, Omar is busy with the PDF, so the mantle of glorious leader of the resistance falls upon my humble head.”

“We’re doomed,” Amy whispered, nudging Ruza.

“What of the PDF?” Ruza asked. “Are they under Naval or Hadean command?”

“Uh…we haven’t really formalized that yet,” Reed replied hesitantly. “Technically, their chain of command is supposed to be subservient to the Navy, but Omar is one of us, and Ortega has been asking rather than commanding so far. As long as it stays that way, I think we’ll all get along. When the fleet arrives, well…”

“We will cross the bridge when we come to it,” Ruza said, Reed replying with a nod.

“While we certainly owe much to the Navy, you can understand why public confidence has taken a hit,” the Governor added. “The people may not be ready to entrust their security to the UNN just yet.”

“It might be time for something new,” Bergmann added, leaning a hand on the edge of the polished desk. “We can argue that what happened with Barbosa was an isolated incident – a perfect storm that could never happen twice, but it doesn’t feel that way to us. The Corp, the Syndicate, now Barbosa – we can’t keep leapfrogging from crisis to crisis. Even if the UNN are completely sincere in their desire to help, we’ve experienced what a six-month wait feels like firsthand. We’re functionally alone out here, and whatever happens next, we need to be able to deal with it ourselves.”

“What are you proposing?” Ruza asked, glancing between the men.

“Back in the old days – before the Bugs, the choice wasn’t just PDF or Navy,” Reed began. “Colonies had their own military forces – a lot of Earth nations and old colonies like Mars or Proxima still do. Imagine if when Barbosa showed up, or if a hive fleet decides it wants a crack at us, there’s a real army waiting for them. No relying on police with hand-me-down gear or waiting months for the real deal to show up – we hit ‘em right in the fucking nuts with an armored fist. We probably have more experienced soldiers on Hades now than the next three CSGs combined.”

“You would still remain members of the UN and the Coalition?” Ruza asked warily.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Reed replied. “It’s not about seceding – it’s just about making sure we have the tools and the means to protect ourselves if this happens again.”

“I can pass the necessary legislation,” the Governor added. “Assuming that I remain in office, of course. There are really no significant barriers to doing it from the UN side. There are no export bans on weapons or military equipment to Hades – it’s just a matter of raising the funds and making the deals. We’re not a rich colony or a particularly large one, but we do have a wealth of natural resources that we’re not easily able to exploit without ExoCorp. We could invite some off-planet prospecting, maybe see if the Brokers want a piece of the pie. It worked out for the Borealans, so why not us?”

“There has been a Coalition effort to rebuild my territory after the rebellion,” Ruza said. “I see no reason that Hades need rely solely on the UN for help, investment, or even arms.”

“He’s right, you know,” Reed chimed as he wagged his finger. “Maybe I want a laser gun from the Valbarans. There’s no law says I can’t. Maybe we get our ships from the Jarries. Who says we have to go through the Navy to get equipment? If we want a squadron of Kodiaks, we can send someone to Franklin and buy them ourselves. It’s a free Galaxy.”

“Assuming we have the cash,” Bergmann added.

“Listen, my area of expertise is very narrow,” Reed replied. “You guys worry about the finer points of the economy, and I’ll take care of the grand visions that I’m incapable of realizing on my own, alright?”

Ruza heard the door to the office open, and he turned to see a familiar face enter the room.

“Astrid!” he exclaimed, her eyes widening when she saw him towering above her. He extended his long arms and held her in an embrace for a few moments. When he released her, she seemed flustered, but pleased. They had never been terribly close, but she had always been there at the conference table to plan and provide intelligence.

“Hi, Doc!” she replied as she craned her neck to meet his gaze. “Amy,” she added. “I heard you’d been injured and that you’d been shipped up to the carrier. Looks like you’re feeling better,” she said with a gesture to his bandaged head.

“I am,” he said, curiosity pressing him on. “What happened to you after the attack on the resistance base? We all feared you lost.”

“I went to ground,” she replied, rubbing her arm as she remembered. “I barely got out of the base ahead of the Borgs, and they shelled it shortly after. I’m not a soldier or a survivalist – I’ve never held a rifle in my life, and I figured it was over. Wasn’t like there were any servers to manage anymore, so I lay low, and I stayed that way until the surprise attack on the city.”

“I wouldn’t have gotten out at all if it wasn’t for Nick,” Amy added. “There wasn’t a lot that anyone could do.”

“I am very glad that you are well,” Ruza said, giving her a rare smile that she returned.

“Astrid has been using her connections and data-gathering skills to help identify dead and missing people,” the Governor explained. “We have a lot of PDF unaccounted for on both sides, freed prisoners waiting to be reunited with their families, and citizens still missing after the riots.”

“It’s a rather grim task, but seeing the faces of a family being reunited with someone they thought was dead is a nice carrot on a stick,” Astrid added. “Here,” she continued, walking over to the Governor and handing him a tablet computer from her pocket. “The latest reports.”

“Thank you,” he replied, setting it on his desk. “I’ll see that it gets forwarded to Omar.”

“Right, we’d better get going!” Amy declared. “We have more stops to make. We’ll see you guys when you clock out!”

They chimed their goodbyes, Ruza giving his friends a glance before following Amy back out of the office and down into the square. They donned their masks and goggles, wrapping their clothing tighter to protect from the dust.

“Where are we headed next?” Ruza asked.

“You’ll see!” she replied cryptically.

“What do you make of this plan that Reed and Bergmann have concocted?” Ruza asked as they made their way past the crowds of people. “A militarily independent Hades…”

“I think it’s a good idea,” she replied, leading him past rows of prefabs. They paused, skirting to the side of the road to avoid a large truck as it rumbled past them, its bed laden with containers. “We don’t need to become some kind of free state, but it’s been made clear that we can’t rely on outsiders. It’s not that they don’t want to help,” she clarified quickly, the pair resuming their walk through the cloud of dust that lingered behind the vehicle. “Hades is just very remote. The Navy may not always have the resources to keep a fleet stationed here, and if some kind of larger crisis draws them away, we’ll be left defenseless again. Bergmann is right – next time, we might not have the option of waiting six months for a fleet to get here. I think it’s a good idea to become self-sufficient.”

After a little walking, Ruza began to recognize the subtle layout of the prefabs.

“Are we going to the clinic?” he asked, his ears pricking up.

“Not quite,” she replied. It wasn’t long before he realized where she was taking him, the old bar that they used to frequent appearing ahead, its neon sign still lit. It brought back a flood of memories – life before the occupation, drinking with the miners after work, sharing stories with his human friends.

Amy saw the change in his expression, smiling as they mounted the steps, the sliding door opening to familiar scents and sounds. He was surprised to see that there were already a few patrons occupying seats. The establishment was far from packed, but the bartender was serving drinks, greeting them as they entered.

“I am not sure that I should be drinking in my present condition,” Ruza protested.

“You can have a soda,” Amy joked.

She led him over to one of the padded booths situated close to the wall, Ruza finding that it was occupied by three people. His eyes widened when he saw who it was. Bill and Ricky were sitting around the table with drinks in their hands, as was Nick. He looked a little worse for wear, his cheeks sallow and his build more gaunt than Ruza remembered, but it was him.

“Doc!” Bill declared, the three turning to greet him. They began to rise from their seats, but Ruza was quicker, leaning over the low table and extending his long arms to gather them all in a hug.

“I am glad to see you all returned safely,” Ruza began, finally releasing his hold on them. Bill was beaming, Nick was smiling quietly, and Ricky was trying to maintain a more respectable demeanor despite his obvious relief. Astrid had been a surprise, but he almost couldn’t believe his eyes now. It was like seeing the dead rise.

“What happened to you, big guy?” Nick asked with a gesture to Ruza’s bandaged head. “You’re looking a little beat up. Might want to see a doctor about that.”

“I heard Barbosa punched him in the head,” Bill said.

“That’s not what happened,” Ricky sighed. “Good to see you, Doc,” he added.

“Nick, what became of you after the attack on the base?” Ruza demanded. “Last we heard of you, you were returning to find stragglers shortly before the shelling. We thought that you had been buried.”

“I never made it back to the base,” he explained, taking a sip from his drink. “The tunnels collapsed during the bombardment before we arrived – almost got buried alive. Not a fun experience, it turns out. We managed to retreat through some old mines, but the Borgs were watching the exits. We were outnumbered and outgunned, so we had no choice but to surrender. I’ve spent the last few weeks in a garrison enjoying the best of Borg hospitality,” he added with a dry chuckle.

“You are malnourished,” Ruza said, his voice filled with concern now.

“I lost a few pounds, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with enough cheeseburgers,” he replied jovially.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Amy added, smiling at Ruza’s reaction.

“I am certainly surprised,” Ruza replied.

“Get in here and tell us what the hell happened,” Ricky said as he patted the seat beside him in the booth. “Last time we saw you, you were heading out to attack the missile sites. None of us has any idea what happened in the city.”

***

Ruza sat down beside their table, and they drank as he relayed the story of their attack on the bases and their battle in the city. They were fascinated by the Warrior and the Ursa, and they toasted when he spoke of how Roach and Crow had died.

“You got justice for those people at the base,” Nick said, nodding in approval as he ate some pretzels that Bill had foisted upon him. “We can’t ask for anything more than that.”

“I can’t believe you were face-to-face with Barbosa,” Bill marveled. “The way people talked about him, it was like he was some mythical demon.”

“I did not prevail,” Ruza replied, pointing to his bandages.

“You didn’t die,” Ricky corrected, lifting a beer can in Ruza’s direction.

“I am told that it was Petrova who slew him in the elevator car,” Ruza continued. “Beyond that, I am unsure of the circumstances of his death.”

“She wasn’t very talkative,” Amy explained. “Plenty of people asked, but whatever happened in that car will probably stay between her and Barbosa.”

“He was her Alpha,” Ruza mused. “Her Commander – pardon me. She followed him here, and she believed in his cause, at least for a time. Even knowing the things that she knew, it would not have been an easy thing to kill someone she once respected.”

“I don’t know how I feel about this Petrova business,” Nick said. “You guys have all vouched for her, and that counts for a lot, but she still helped him – she’s still partially responsible for what happened to us.”

“I do not believe that she would ask for your forgiveness,” Ruza replied. “She would have to believe that she deserved it first.”

“She’s very aware of what she’s done,” Amy added. “Painfully aware. She also helped to end it, and I know those two things don’t cancel out, but it counts for something.”

“Forgiveness is a luxury that is rarely afforded and should never be expected,” Ruza continued, pausing to take a sip of water. “That said, she has done all that she can to end the threat. Petrova put herself at great risk and turned the tide of battle more than once. She saved my life, and the lives of many others. That is not to say that Hades owes her anything – it is simply my own reasoning for trusting her.”

“You should see her soon,” Amy added with a pointed glance at Ruza. “I think she’d like to catch up.”

“I only regret that I couldn’t be there to help,” Nick said. “I would’ve liked to do my part to bring down the regime.”

“Nick!” Amy chided. “You did more than your part. You going back into the base after we were all evacuated and safe is one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen. Doc is brave, of course,” she added with a nod to the Rask. “But look at him. He’s eight feet tall, and he has knives for fingers. You don’t have robot arms or super armor, but you went back in anyway because people needed help. That’s…amazing.”

Ruza noted that her cheeks were warming, and she quickly turned her attention back to her drink.

“I have Ruza to thank for that,” Nick said, flushing a little himself. “I felt like I totally flubbed my first mission. Everything went so wrong, and I was so damned scared. I thought that being scared meant I couldn’t be brave, but he taught me that bravery means dealing with your fear, not an absence of it.”

“I feared that I had gone too far,” Ruza added, his ears flattening a little. “Perhaps you might not have gone back without my encouragement.”

“I hope you didn’t blame yourself,” Nick replied. “It was always my decision.”

“It’s been strange just…going home after everything that happened,” Ricky began. “My place had been broken into. A lot of places have. Everything was exactly where I left it, except for the food – the fridge and cupboards had been raided. I suppose it was just hungry people trying to find a meal wherever they could.”

“It’s fine,” Bill added. “I’d rather some hungry family got to eat all my food before it expired. It wasn’t like I was using it anyway.”

“Hard to accept that it’s really over,” Ricky continued. “We just go home, go back to work, and hang out at the bar like old times? At the beginning, all I wanted was for everything to go back to normal. Now that everything is back to normal, I realize that I’ve changed. We’ve all changed,” he added with a glance around the table. “What happens if we can’t just comfortably slot back into our old lives?”

“The only constant is change,” Ruza replied. “You will adapt.”

***

It was late in the evening by the time they left the bar, Ruza bidding goodnight to his friends as they parted ways beneath the neon glow of the sign. He and Amy headed to the left, while the others went right, the pair wrapping their clothing a little tighter as the day’s warmth was sapped from the air.

“That was nice,” Amy began, glancing up at the blinking collision lights of the tether. “It’s a relief to have a little taste of normalcy after all this. Ricky was right, though – we’re not the same people who used to go drinking together after work.”

“How does that make you feel?” Ruza asked. “Do you wish that none of it had happened?”

“Well, yeah,” she muttered as she considered for a moment. “I would turn back time if I could – bring everyone who died back to life, obviously. There’s no question that what happened to Hades was bad. That said…is it selfish to say that I kind of like the person I’ve become? I wouldn’t want to go through it again, no way, but I don’t necessarily regret what happened to me. I did things – endured things that I never would have imagined I was capable of before. It kind of makes all the everyday stuff that used to worry me seem trivial now. Like…who cares about the AC breaking or missing a rent payment after all that, you know?”

“It is not selfish,” Ruza replied, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I have seen you grow so much in such a short period of time. You have proven to be stronger and more resilient than I could have guessed, and you have taken on great responsibilities in stride. I think you underestimate how valuable you have been to Hades. Are you certain that you wish to return to the clinic? I am sure that the Governor would give you a prestigious position, perhaps as the head of a ministry.”

“I still want to come back and work for you, Doc,” she said as she smiled up at him. “I can handle the food distribution stuff as well as the phone. It’s not exactly the most hectic job.”

“I suppose that it must seem like a minor responsibility compared to what you are now used to,” he conceded. “I was shocked to see Nick,” he added, changing the subject.

“Hope you didn’t mind the surprise,” she replied sheepishly.

“No, it was pleasant,” he continued. “Have you spoken with him much since he was returned to us?”

“Maybe,” she replied, seeming coy again. “Hey, Doc. You think pretty highly of Nick, right? Do you think…I should ask him out? When he’s feeling better,” she added hurriedly.

“Nick has proven himself to be brave and loyal,” Ruza replied. “It is my belief that he would make you an admirable mate. The offspring would be stout and healthy.”

“Oh my God,” Amy sputtered, starting to laugh nervously. “Do not repeat that around anyone else! Boyfriend, Doc! Boyfriend!”

“Apologies,” he said, tilting his head curiously as she giggled at him. “Human courtship is still alien to me.”

“Wait!” she added, pausing in the street. “I totally forgot! Didn’t your place get all shot up by the Borgs? Where are you going to sleep? If you need a place to crash, you can take my couch. Uh…actually, you might have to take my carpet,” she added as she looked him up and down. “I always fail to take into account how tall you are…”

“Thank you, but that will not be necessary,” he replied as they resumed walking. “My home in the Rask territory had few of the amenities that you enjoy on Hades. Some slug holes in the walls will not disturb me. If it is truly in disarray, then I may sleep at the clinic instead.”

“Alright then,” she said, pausing when they reached a junction in the street. “I guess I’ll come check up on you tomorrow. Remember what the doctor said, alright? Take it easy – don’t go back to work for a few days, at least. I know you want to help people, but you can’t help anyone if you’re back in a hospital bed.”

“Very well,” he conceded. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

She hesitated for a moment, then they shared a hug, Amy heading away down another alley. For the first time in months, he didn’t feel any apprehension having her leave his sight.

He continued on, soon returning to his prefab. The last time he’d glimpsed it, he had been fleeing an arrest attempt, leaving a squad of dead SWAR and PDF littering the street. It was clear now, without any evidence of what had happened save for the holes in his wall, each one ringed with cooled molten metal.

The door was gone – had he kicked it off its frame? He couldn’t even remember it had been so long ago. That would need to be repaired. Ruza mounted the steps, finding all of his cupboards open just as Ricky had described. Hungry Hadeans must have raided them. The freezer didn’t have power, so the food would have spoiled regardless, and the lights didn’t turn on when he touched the panel. The ever-present dust had crept in, coating all of the surfaces in a thin, sandy layer. Ruza hadn’t many belongings save for his jacket, but it was still disheartening to see everything so ruined. He knelt and began to rummage around in a drawer, searching for any small keepsakes. Perhaps he’d have to stay at the clinic while the prefab underwent repairs. Bergmann would surely help if asked. Even a Rask wouldn’t want to sleep on a bed full of sand.

As he was searching around, there came a knock, and he lifted his head to see a figure standing in the doorway at the top of the steps. Without a door, they were rapping their knuckles on the wall with a distinctly metallic clang.

“Can I come in?”

“Petrova!” Ruza exclaimed, rising to his feet and brushing some of the dust off his jacket. “Y-yes, please do.”

She was clad in her usual tactical gear, and she was wearing a helmet, taking it off as she entered. Immediately, she wrinkled her nose, glancing around the small space.

“I’d say that you have a nice place here, but, uh…”

“The sand always finds its way in,” he explained.

“Guess you gotta lock your door in this neighborhood,” she said. “Or, have a door…”

He noticed that she was holding some kind of long pole that was wrapped in fabric, and she offered it to him.

“Here, this is for you,” she explained as he took it from her prosthetic hands. “I heard you were up and about – wanted to check in. Reed said this was where you’d be. Glad I caught you.”

Ruza could already guess what was beneath the fabric by the object’s weight, unraveling it to reveal an XMR configured as a long rifle. It was his rifle. It looked better than it had in years, as though it had been disassembled and cleaned by a professional smith, the familiar little scratches and marks telling him that none of the components had been replaced. Its coils gleamed in the dim light, and it smelled of fresh gun oil.

“Took me a little while to track it down,” she explained, watching as he turned it over in his furry hands. “I think you lost it after Barbosa tossed you, and it got lumped in with all the other recovered gear after the battle. I made sure to give it a good clean – looked like it needed one.”

“We had been in battle for a long time, and we lacked a proper armory for some time before that,” Ruza explained as he lifted it to his shoulder and looked down the sights. “Thank you, Petrova. I have entrusted my life to this weapon many times, and I would have grieved it as a packmate had it been lost.”

“It seemed important to you, the way you carried it around everywhere,” she replied with a faint smile. “It’s my way of saying thanks, I guess.”

“For what?” Ruza asked, tilting his head.

“For everything,” she scoffed. “For believing in me when nobody else did. For never giving up on me, even when any reasonable person should have. For protecting me when I couldn’t protect myself.”

“On that count, we are even,” Ruza said. “Had you not come to my aid when you did, Barbosa would have crushed my skull like a gourd.”

“If I’m alive now, and among friends, it’s only because of you,” she continued. “I still don’t really understand what you saw in me back when I was…y’know.”

“Myself,” he said simply.

“You’re not very talkative, but you choose your words carefully, don’t you?” she chuckled. “Anyway, I just wanted to drop by and return the rifle.”

There was a lingering moment of silence before she turned to leave, but Ruza took a step forward, clutching the weapon in his hand.

“Will you stay?”

She paused at the door and turned around again, glancing up at him, her expression hard to read.

“I suppose I can,” she conceded with a shrug. “I don’t really have anywhere to be right now. Unless you’re going to offer me a cup of sand to drink, we should probably head somewhere a little less…destroyed.”

“I believe I shall be sleeping in my clinic tonight,” Ruza replied, glancing pointedly at his sand-covered bed. “We can go there.”

***

The clinic was a short walk from Ruza’s home, and unlike the prefab, its door was still intact. The locking mechanism had been broken, and it slid open easily. Medical supplies had been in short supply, just like the food, and it must have been raided by desperate people or black market sellers some time ago.

“Man, did everywhere get hit by looters?” Petrova asked as she stepped through the doorway behind him. She had a flashlight attached to her helmet, and it illuminated the lobby area, sweeping across Amy’s desk.

Ruza walked over to the wall panel and hit the lights, relieved to see that there was still power. Beneath the glow, he saw that the clinic was not in too poor of a state. The door to the storage room was open, and its shelves were all but bare, but it didn’t seem as though any other valuables had been taken.

“It is of no concern,” Ruza replied as he walked deeper into the lobby. “They needed food and medical supplies, and so they took them. Captain Ortega has already committed to providing whatever we require to open our doors again.”

“That’s what you’re going to do now?” Petrova asked, her tone surprised. “Just…go back to working in your clinic?”

“That has been my goal throughout the conflict,” Ruza replied as he ducked into his office to evaluate what was missing. “All I desired was to oust the occupiers and return to my practice.”

“I figured you’d be…part of the government or something,” she muttered. “Seems odd to me that Reed has effectively been put in charge of the militias, idiot that he is, and you’re just going right back to family medicine. They should value your skills more.”

“It is not they who made the decision,” he replied. “I have no interest in war or politics. I came to Hades to be rid of it, but it sought me out.”

“I guess hearing you say it and seeing it put into practice are two different things,” she mused as she glanced around the room. “I didn’t believe a lot of the talk at first. You seemed…too perfect, like you didn’t have any flaws. People who look too squeaky clean on the surface usually have something rotten under the skin, in my experience. I don’t trust people who have no vices.”

“I am not proud of my past,” he continued. “What you see is a Rask who has learned from many mistakes, some more recent than others. You know this. Now, I content myself with helping those in need. That is all I can do, and I am content in my work. Before the enemy arrived, I had found some small measure of peace here.”

“The Hadeans are lucky to have you,” she added, walking over to a padded couch in the waiting area. She sat down with a little puff of dust, adjusting her weight. “If you hadn’t been around, I don’t know if they would have prevailed against Barbosa. It drove him crazy, you know. He went to his grave still believing that you were some kind of secret plant sent here by Vos to sabotage him.”

“May I ask how he died?” Ruza said.

“I suppose you deserve to know,” Petrova replied, rubbing her mechanical arm in discomfort. “It’s not…easy to talk about. For some reason, I feel…more at ease talking with you than the others. Maybe it’s because you always talk like you’re in a damned therapy session, or maybe it’s just because you already know so much about me. It’s hard to surprise you – you’re not going to change your opinion of me if I say the wrong thing.”

“It is not a debriefing,” Ruza added. “If you are not comfortable, I will not force you to share.”

“No, no,” she muttered. “I feel like I need to tell you. Maybe it’s one of the reasons I came here tonight…”

Ruza leaned his rifle against the wall nearby, then took a seat beside her. He was wide enough to occupy two or three spaces meant for humans, and Petrova shifted over a little as his weight made the cushions sag, but she wasn’t trying to put any distance between them.

“After you got knocked out, I chased Barbosa to the anchor and followed him into the car,” she began. “On our way up to orbit, we fought and argued – aired a lot of dirty laundry. The things he said to me…it confirmed all of my worst fears and suspicions. Some part of me still held out hope that I could reach him – that he might surrender if I could just change his mind, but he was too far gone. He chose us – his Lieutenants – because we were all flawed in some way, and he could exploit those flaws to control us. He made everyone around him worse. Can you imagine that?” she asked with a bitter laugh. “Promising someone the world, and then enabling their worst instincts deliberately, making sure that they’d have nowhere to go and nobody to turn to except you.”

“Barbosa was a tactically minded man,” Ruza began. “He was brilliant in the domain of war, and he outmaneuvered the resistance on several occasions. His shrewd tactics almost destroyed us many times. It is my belief that after spending his entire life in such an environment, where all goals are achieved through subterfuge and domination, it became the lens through which he viewed the world. My people often suffer from similar ills. There were no friends or comrades to him – not anymore. All of his relationships became battles to be won, and every comrade an opponent to be dominated. Either he was in complete control of everyone and everything, or he was losing.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Petrova sighed. “I just…it’s so humiliating,” she growled, balling her fists with a creak of polymer. “Now that I look back on it, it all seems so obvious. Why didn’t I see it? Scratch that – I know why,” she continued with another humorless laugh. “Because I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that I was special, that I was a part of something important, and that I belonged somewhere. I was so desperate to be valued that he could smell it on me like a bad cologne, and that’s why I’m here. I’m desperate and needy, and he knew exactly which buttons to press and what to say to make me do whatever he wanted.”

There were tears wetting her cheeks now, and Ruza was unsure whether they were born of sorrow or anger. Perhaps it was both.

“I understand your feelings more than you know,” he began, speaking as gently as his rumbling timbre would allow. “The Matriarch promised my people a return to a glorious past that could no longer be. She gave us orders that we could not carry out, and sent us into battles that we could not win, sometimes solely to buy herself time. Those orders came down to Admirals, then to Crewmasters, then to Alphas. Our packs are both families and military units,” he continued. “How to explain…it is complicated. We rely on them for companionship and protection as you might rely on a spouse. They forsook their oaths in their failure to protect us. I respected my Alpha and my Crewmaster – loved them, but they used me as fodder. It is a painful thought to contend with, not being valued beyond your utility in the moment. It is as though you are merely ammunition to be expended…or a machine,” he added with a gesture to her prosthetics.

“We make a sorry pair, don’t we?” Petrova replied with a chuckle followed by a loud sniff. “Nobody wants us. Nobody wants me, at least. You’ve found a new family here on Hades. I’m glad for you – I really am. You deserve it. Damn it!” she added with a snarl of frustration, struggling to dry her eyes with her prosthetic hands. “Damn these things…”

Ruza reached over with a furry knuckle, and she seemed to freeze up, gazing back at him as he wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Sorry,” she stammered when he was done, her face burning red. “These prosthetics aren’t designed for this. Hardened SWAR operatives aren’t supposed to cry.”

“It is not a sign of weakness,” Ruza insisted.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I’m a very poor judge of character,” she said with a little more humor in her voice now. “I was ready to bring Barbosa your head, but you’ve shown me more compassion and understanding than anyone I called my friend. I really did have everything backwards…”

“To deny you would be to deny myself,” Ruza continued, wiping away another tear as it rolled down her burning cheek. “There were times when I wished that someone would reach out to me and show me compassion, and it took a long time before that happened. Even then, I resisted it out of pride and misplaced suspicion. Sometimes, all we require is for someone to see us – to acknowledge us.”

“I’m sorry,” she added as he eased his hand away. “You asked me how Barbosa died, and here I am waffling and crying on your proverbial shoulder.”

“As I said, this is not a debriefing,” Ruza insisted.

“After trying to talk him down, we fought,” she continued. “It was a strange scenario. XMRs wouldn’t go through the shields, so we ended up in hand-to-hand. He had a combat knife, and I had Lily’s sword. I was losing at first, until I realized that he was just trying to keep me angry, goading me into making mistakes. It was a psychological battle I didn’t even know I was fighting. Once I blocked him out and focused on the mission, I disabled his suit, and he fell from the tether.”

“He fell?” Ruza asked.

“Well, I may have kicked him out of the car,” she replied with a shrug. “He was trapped in his PCE at the end – the canopy was jammed. I think his reactor was leaking into his suit. It was a bad way to go, roasting alive like Hoff did. I don’t know if he deserved that…”

“There are many Hadeans who would disagree,” Ruza replied gruffly. “We are not judges or executioners – we are soldiers. Our job is not to punish evil – it is only to end the threat, and you ended the threat that he represented. The manner of his death was his own doing.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she sighed. “It wasn’t like I didn’t give him every possible way out.”

“He is gone now,” Ruza continued, placing a hand on her shoulder. She seemed to tense up at his touch, then relaxed. “He no longer has any control over you or your destiny. What do you intend to do now?”

“I’m…not sure,” she admitted. “I kind of feel like I’m in limbo. I’ve been keeping myself busy helping Brenner and his team clean things up – doing whatever I can to make up for what I did. Maybe I’ve been trying to keep myself too occupied to really think about the future. Brenner and the other SWAR agents seem cool with me, as do most of the Marines, but I get looks from the Hadeans. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me when the fleet arrives. I’m not sure if anyone with authority has decided what to do with me yet. I can’t expect anyone to defend me if the Admiralty demands that I be turned over for court-martial, and I’m not naive enough to think that killing Barbosa absolves me of all wrongdoing. I’ll have to face the consequences of my actions eventually.”

“You are not wrong about that,” Ruza conceded. “But you are forgetting something. We, your friends, will defend you. Brenner and Ortega work for the UNN, but I do not. Nor does Reed or the Governor or Bergmann. The Navy has no authority over us, and their Admiralty owes us a great debt. I believe that no harm will come to you if we do not wish it.”

“Ruza,” she began with a sigh. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment – I do, but Hades needs the UNN. I can’t allow myself to become a point of friction between the colony and the fleet. You don’t work for them, but I do. If they ask, I must go.”

“Perhaps it is time for you to resign,” Ruza grumbled. “The UN is broadly good – I have seen this firsthand. They are honorable, merciful, and they forgive their enemies. The same cannot be said of all of their Admirals. I have personally worked for Vos, and I know that he often uses subterfuge and trickery to manipulate events in his favor. As I understand it, you have spent your life serving them in the shadows – eliminating their enemies in secret. Ortega spoke of how the events on Hades would create great embarrassment for the Admiralty. Maybe that threat can be used as leverage.”

“You want me to blackmail them?” Petrova scoffed.

“Blackmail? Perhaps not,” Ruza replied. “But think of what details might be revealed were a public trial to take place. In exposing you, they would risk exposing themselves.”

“You’re approaching this from the perspective of me wanting to avoid responsibility,” Petrova continued. “I don’t. I’ve already accepted that I’ll have to answer for the choices I’ve made.”

“In my eyes, you were manipulated, and you have done all that you could to make things right,” Ruza insisted. “What good will further punishment do? Will it raise the dead? No. All of this guilt and penance is performative – it serves no purpose.”

“I suppose I’m glad you think that I’m worth fighting for,” she replied with a faint smile.

“You said that you desperately sought a sense of belonging,” Ruza pressed, staring down at her with his golden eyes. “That it was the tool Barbosa used to control you. You could belong here…with us, if you wish it. When I left my homeworld and rejected my people’s way of life, I was unmoored for a time, but I found a place to belong on this planet – with these people. Those ties have only grown stronger throughout the occupation. We see you as you are, we know you, and we accept you. You have earned our respect.”

She began to tear up again at that, her eyes widening before she turned them to the floor.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Maybe…maybe it’s just easier to leave my fate up to other people, you know? I just feel so tired. I want it all to be over so I can finally rest. At least a cell will be quiet, right?”

“If Fletcher retired, you can also,” Ruza insisted. “Give up your prosthetics and accept transplants. Return to a peaceful civilian life. You have done more than your share and given more of yourself to those people than they deserve.”

“Maybe I’ll think about it,” she said, watching her fingers extend as she flexed her hand pensively. “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” she added, standing up suddenly. “I only really came over to give you the rifle, and you need your rest,” she continued as she turned to point to his bandages. “I’ll…I’ll come back and check in later.”

“I will be here,” Ruza said with a nod. He wanted to ask her to stay – there was more to be said, but he sensed that she had reached her limit for tonight. Like a battery slowly being drained, there was only so much that she could take at a time before needing to retreat and recharge. “You may stop by any time.”

“I will,” she replied, seeming to hesitate. “I…thanks,” she stammered. “Thanks for talking to me about everything. I think you’re the only person on Hades who can really understand what I’m going through.”

Ruza nodded, and that was all she needed. She left through the main door, putting her helmet back on as she stepped out into the dark street, leaving him alone in the clinic.

CHAPTER 42

DAY 59 – HADES – RUZA

“What is going on?” Ruza asked as she stepped into the Governor’s office. “Why do you all look so dour?”

All of the most important people on Hades were in the room, lit by the rays of the rising sun that filtered in through the window behind them. The way that they were standing on opposite sides of the wooden desk made it look as though they were forming factions. It seemed that some kind of argument was taking place.

On the left side were Reed, Bergmann, and the Governor. On the right were Brenner and Rivera. The two turned to greet him as he entered – he hadn’t seen them since returning from the carrier. They exchanged handshakes, Brenner’s polymer coarse against his fur.

“Good to see you again, Doc,” Rivera said with a warm smile. “Sorry we haven’t been able to stop by and visit – things have been pretty hectic. Fuller and the guys send their regards.”

“Ruza,” Brenner added with a nod. “I’m glad you’re here. Maybe you can talk some sense into these people.”

“Why did you request my presence?” Ruza asked as he glanced between the two groups.

“It’s about Nilsson,” Rivera said, gesturing across the room. “Petrova captured him on the station, and he was remanded into Hadean custody along with his staff. Captain Ortega has formally requested that he be transferred to the carrier, but only his staff have been released.”

“We’re not ready to hand Nilsson over just yet,” Reed replied.

“Can you explain?” Ruza asked, his feline brow furrowing. “Bergmann, Governor – you support this?”

“Doctor Nilsson represents a valuable asset,” Bergmann began. “According to him, Barbosa kidnapped him and his staff at gunpoint and forced them to work on his projects. Nilsson was operating under duress, and while I’m under no illusions about the questionable legality of some of his experiments, they were sanctioned by the Admiralty. He’s requested asylum.”

“And you are considering this?” Ruza asked. “Why?”

“It’s not out of any moral compulsion,” Brenner grumbled, crossing his prosthetic arms.

“Nilsson created the Bullsharks,” Reed began. “Not only that, but he got the production models working with only what he could make on the carrier and what he could scavenge from the colony. You remember the talk we had yesterday about giving Hades a truly independent military force? This could be one of the ways we do that. Imagine the force multiplier of having our own homegrown PCE platoons.”

“You wish to use Nilsson to build more?” Ruza asked, glancing between the two sides. “Reed…after all that you have seen, how can you suggest this?”

“It would be legal,” the Governor added. “There are no laws prohibiting us from developing our own domestic weapons systems, and the request for asylum is a valid one. Furthermore, the suits that were manufactured on Hades contain no stolen alien technology – that’s what made them inferior to the prototypes. The Brokers should have no reason to object, and the Navy can hardly complain, considering how Nilsson ended up here.”

“You would be profiting from the suffering Barbosa caused,” Ruza argued.

“Barbosa didn’t create the PCEs,” Reed insisted. “He stole them. Yes, he wreaked havoc with them – you don’t need to remind me – but that doesn’t mean we can’t use them for good. That would be like saying it’s immoral to use XMRs because Barbosa used them. Hell, it’s about time something good came out of this whole mess.”

“They can only be piloted by SWAR agents,” Brenner added. “How do you propose getting around that? Are you just going to violate the YST like Barbosa did?”

“Hey, we’re the ones who sent most of Barbosa’s Borg pals to the scrapyard,” Reed protested angrily as he jabbed a finger at Brenner. “Don’t compare us to him. We currently have a whole medbay full of SWAR recruits with shunts, and we didn’t do that to them. Maybe there are ways we could pilot PCEs without the implants, or maybe some of the recruits will want to keep theirs. I don’t know, but I’d like the option to be open.”

“How do you think the Navy will react to this when they arrive?” Brenner demanded.

“We don’t work for you!” Reed shot back, enunciating each word carefully as though Brenner might not understand. “They can react however they want – they have no authority over the civilian government. Back me up here, Ruza!”

“I do not think that now is the time for internal conflict,” Ruza replied warily. “Not so soon after defeating Barbosa. Remember that we are all friends and allies here.”

That seemed to diffuse the situation somewhat, Reed backing off a little and Brenner relaxing his posture.

“You’re as Hadean as the rest of us, Ruza,” Reed began. “You know that a remote colony like ours needs more than PDF and UNN patrol fleets. The only way that we can guarantee our long-term safety is to develop our own homegrown military force capable of protecting the colony. We don’t have a large population, so we can’t win a numbers game, but you’ve seen what these PCEs can do. A small number of elite units could turn the tide of the next battle that comes our way. I respect you, Brenner,” he added with a glance at the commander. “But the only assurance you can give us is a pinky promise that this kind of situation won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure that Captain Ortega and I could argue for more than that,” Brenner replied. “Maybe a permanent UNN garrison on Hades. You’re jumping the gun and making an assumption that we’re going to act in bad faith.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Reed insisted. “I don’t doubt the UNN’s intentions, only their ability to follow through. I’m sure that you’re right – we could negotiate for more, but when push comes to shove, history shows that the only people we can depend on are ourselves. ExoCorp, the Syndicate, Barbosa – it keeps happening. We’re not a threat to anybody else – we don’t even have a fleet. All I’m asking for is the best chance to protect ourselves. If your argument is that we can’t have Bullsharks because of the way Barbosa employed them, that’s just not good enough.”

“It’s not just that,” Brenner sighed. “This whole situation is a massive embarrassment for the Navy. I don’t think any of you fully appreciate how catastrophic the fallout from this is going to be when it hits the civilian press. All of the shady shit the Admirals have been doing for the last thirty years is going to come to light. I don’t even know if SWAR will still exist by the end of it. The PCEs represent a highly sensitive and illegal R&D program that was never supposed to see the light of day. It was canceled, and it would have faded into obscurity without anyone outside of Site Two even knowing about its existence. They were developed illegally, with technology stolen from our allies, and we shut the project down. That should have been the end of it.”

“It’s not our job to cover up the Admiralty’s mistakes,” Bergmann added. “Even if we wanted to run damage control, what happened here is too big and impacted too many people to be swept under the rug. The toothpaste is out of the tube, and it’s not going back in.”

“If you’re keeping the data and schematics, at least give us Nilsson,” Brenner argued. “He was deeply involved in Barbosa’s operations, and he carries highly classified information. We can’t allow you to keep him – he represents too great a security risk.”

“So now it’s about what you’ll allow us to do?” Reed scoffed.

“I’m not intending it as a threat, simply a statement of fact,” Brenner insisted. “Do you really believe you can stop the UNN from taking Nilsson if that’s what they decide is necessary?”

“They can try,” Reed scoffed, crossing his arms defiantly. “Maybe we’ll greet the delegation from the fleet with a pyramid of SWAR helmets stacked eight feet high in the square and see if that changes their attitude. Inclusion of the skulls is optional.”

“The fleet would be advised to tread carefully in the present climate,” Ruza added, raising an eyebrow. “Hades needs the fleet, but the UNN is in no position to make demands of the Hadeans. I do not imagine that they would withhold food aid or threaten violence to obtain Nilsson.”

“Of course not,” Brenner grumbled. “We’re not the bad guys here. I was sent to Hades to stop Barbosa and protect our assets, and that’s all I’m trying to do.”

“You are not wrong to carry out your orders,” Ruza interjected. “Without UNN support, we might not have prevailed against Barbosa, and we must remember that. So too should the UNN remember who began the fight and who laid the foundations for a successful operation. The Hadeans are not indebted to the Navy, and when they arrive here, it will be as guests – not masters.”

“You’re siding with them?” Brenner asked.

“I have my qualms about their plans,” Ruza admitted. “Until I know more, I am hesitant to endorse this idea of Hadean PCEs. They are right, however. If they wish to grant Nilsson asylum and put him to work building weapons, they are within their rights to do so. It is simply out of your hands now, Commander.”

“Fine,” Brenner conceded. “I’ll tell Ortega what you’ve decided, but I don’t expect him to be happy about it. I doubt this is the last you’ll hear of it.” He turned to leave the office, passing Ruza on his way out. “It was nice seeing you again,” he said as he walked by. “We should catch up when there’s time.”

“I told you he’d side with us,” Reed said smugly once Brenner was out of earshot.

“Why did you wake me for this?” Ruza demanded. “I am not a politician – I have no say in what happens to Nilsson. Why should Brenner listen to me?”

“Everyone respects you,” Reed explained with a shrug. “Your word counts for a lot.”

“You’ve earned a reputation as a very level-headed and trustworthy figure,” Bergmann added. “We figured we needed someone to mediate before things got ugly.”

“And I have not sided with you,” Ruza chided, scowling at Reed. “I have many questions about these plans of yours. You have woken me early, and I expect you to feed me. Rivera – you will come too. We shall speak more of this matter.”

“Alright,” Rivera said with a shrug.

The two men accompanied Ruza out of the office and out onto the street, where they donned protective masks and helmets to ward off the dust, heading away from the square and down one of the streets.

“Where are we going?” Rivera asked, his voice filtering through his helmet.

“There is a restaurant that I enjoy not far from here,” Ruza replied.

“You really think it’ll be open during rationing?” Reed asked.

“There is but one way to find out,” the Rask replied.

“This is nice!” Reed added. “Just the three of us, like in the old days.”

“I can never tell when you’re being sarcastic,” Rivera complained.

Ruza led them to a prefab, its street-facing wall modified with large windows that looked out over the road, along with a fabric awning that cast it into shade. Within were a few tables and chairs, but it seemed that no customers were inside.

Ruza mounted the metal steps and hit the buzzer, and a moment later, the door slid open a crack to reveal an elderly man’s face.

“Doc?” he asked, squinting against the sunlight.

“Are you open, Harold?” Ruza inquired.

“Well, damn,” Harold muttered as he scratched his balding head. “It sure is good to see you, Doc. Heard all kinds of things with all the fighting going on. I’m sorry, but with the rationing, I ain’t got much to offer. We’ve been closed up for the last few weeks.”

“We will pay you triple,” Ruza insisted.

“Well…I suppose I could get the oven heated up and see what I can do,” Harold conceded as he opened the door the rest of the way. “Take a seat, and I’ll grab you gentlemen some menus.”

The old man quickly moved a large cushion from a couch and placed it on the floor by the window for Ruza, the two other men pulling up chairs as he hurried off into an adjoining prefab.

“Nice place,” Reed muttered as he glanced around the small room. Ruza had heard it described as rustic, though the decorations that adorned the walls meant little to him. “I dunno about triple price nice. I expected a lot more free meals as a hero of the resistance.”

“Oh, can it,” Rivera grumbled. “You can afford it.”

The owner soon brought them menus, disappearing once more when they selected their meals. Service would be slow, but it would give them plenty of time to talk without being disturbed.

“It is my belief that we all want the same thing,” Ruza began, glancing around the small table.

“I think we’re in couples therapy,” Reed whispered, making Rivera roll his eyes.

“A strong and independent Hades benefits everyone,” Ruza continued. “This, we all support, correct?” He waited for both men to nod in agreement before continuing. “There are elements of truth to both arguments. The PCEs would be a great asset to Hades, but I too have my qualms about their use, and about granting Nilsson’s request. He is not innocent in all this. Rivera – why not tell us your position first?”

They were interrupted as Harold returned with drinks, placing glasses and bottles on the table before retreating to the kitchen again, the scent of cooking food wafting through the open door.

“My position is that Nilsson is a criminal who deserves to be brought to justice,” Rivera began as he popped the cap on his beer. “Whether he’s a victim or not, that’s for an inquest to decide. The guy knows he’s up shit creek if UNNI get their hands on him, which is why he’s asking for asylum.”

“It’s not like I think he’s squeaky clean,” Reed replied. “I just think that he’ll do more good serving us than rotting in some Ninnie black site. Call it community service. Let him repay his debt to Hades by making it stronger and safer.”

“I am concerned about how you intend to implement your plan,” Ruza said. “How do you envision these PCEs to be piloted? Brenner is not wrong to question your adherence to the YST.”

“Sorry, but is that a one-percent beer?” Reed snickered as he watched Ruza drink from a can that was dwarfed by his large hands. “Always tickles me how little booze you can handle, big guy. To answer your question, I don’t really know yet. Maybe some of the recruits will want to keep their prosthetics when they’ve recovered. They went through a lot to get them, and it’s not like the UNN can confiscate them right off their bodies. Some will certainly accept transplants from the Jarilans and forget the whole thing ever happened, but some won’t. They thought they were helping Hades, just like Petrova did, and maybe there’s still a chance for them to do that. Maybe Nilsson can work out a way to pilot a PCE without a shunt. Maybe the Jarilans or the Brokers can help. I’m not a science guy – I just know that having those suits will make us safer.”

“Rivera, you must admit that the PCEs would be a uniquely powerful weapon to be wielded defensively by the Hadeans,” Ruza prompted. “Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that they are deployed in an ethical manner. What harm is there in having them?”

“A big assumption,” Rivera grumbled. “It’s easy to make it sound like Brenner and I are arguing against Hades having an independent military, but the Commander is right about a lot of things. Whether their use is ethical or not, they’re Navy property, and they were never intended to be deployed. Nilsson is a wanted criminal, and he carries sensitive secrets about that black site that he could spread or sell or who knows what?”

“He’s also probably the only man alive who can produce more PCEs,” Reed added. “No Nilsson, no PCEs. Here’s how I see it,” he continued, leaning his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together. “The Admiralty created the black site. They hired Nilsson. They created the PCEs, among other very illegal projects. It was their cronies who attacked the site, and it was their cronies who brought Nilsson here and invaded our colony. None of these things are our problem. Now that the crisis is over, they want Nilsson back, and they want the whole thing scrubbed clean. This entire situation is their fault, but they want us to give up something valuable because…why? To help them save face? Explain to me why the average Hadean should give a damn how the Admiralty looks after all this.”

“You’re always eager to tell us that you don’t work for the Navy anymore,” Rivera began. “But I do. I have superiors to answer to and orders to carry out. SatCom is back online, and the Admiralty has sent down the order to secure Nilsson.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Reed continued. “Do I need to worry about Brenner doing some black ops shit and abducting Nilsson?”

“No, of course not,” Rivera sighed. “Especially now, the Navy will need to tread very carefully. All eyes will be on Hades. There’s going to be a lot of upset and chaos with all the inquests and internal investigations.”

“May they excise any rot they uncover,” Ruza growled. “From my perspective, we are all allies here. More than allies – we are friends, and we should not be making demands or ultimatums of one another. Rivera – if the Hadeans do not wish to give up Nilsson, there is little that can be done.”

“I can toast to that,” Reed said, raising his bottle.

“But,” Ruza added, giving him a stern look to tell him to be quiet. “Their concerns about Nilsson and the ethical questions surrounding the PCEs are valid.”

“Thank you,” Rivera said.

“I propose that Hades shall keep custody of Nilsson, but that Naval Intelligence shall have access to him for questioning,” Ruza continued. “They may conduct their investigation, but only on Hades, under the supervision of Hadean authorities.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Reed conceded with a shrug. “As long as we get to keep him here.”

“I can probably get Brenner to pitch that to the Admiralty,” Rivera said with a nod. “I don’t know what they’ll say – it’s out of my hands, but I can pass it along. What about the PCEs?”

“If there is to be an independent Hadean military, then it must have proper oversight,” Ruza continued as he looked to Reed. “We have all seen firsthand the consequences of secrecy. It must be under the authority of the civilian government, with the Governor of the colony as its commander. Many hospitals have ethics boards. We shall establish one to oversee the PCE program. Independent third parties, civilians, and medical professionals will review its progress and sign off on any aspects that may infringe on the YST. The Navy will have a part in this, as will I.”

“You?” Reed asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“I am a medical professional, and I am familiar with human augmentation,” Ruza explained. “I am well-suited to such an endeavor. We shall tolerate no abuse.”

“I’d certainly feel a lot better about it in that case,” Rivera said. “Again, not my call – I’m just the messenger, but it’s a better proposal than kiss my ass.”

“Our bonds must remain strong if Hades is to prosper,” Ruza insisted. “As the Valbarans say, do we have consensus?”

“I’m a lot happier than I was at the meeting,” Rivera conceded.

“Yeah, I think we can work with that,” Reed replied.

They paused their conversation as their meals arrived, Harold balancing the plates deftly in his hands.

“I whipped up whatever I could with what I had,” the old man warned as he set the plates down before each of them. “Hope it’s alright.”

“Damn,” Reed muttered, rolling up some creamy pasta on his fork. “Maybe this place is worth the premium after all.”

“There are many details still to discuss,” Ruza pressed.

“Gives us time for dessert,” Rivera said.

***

“Reed told me you’ve been playing mediator,” Amy said smugly, watching him from behind her desk as he entered the clinic. “Said you might have set up a deal between the Navy and the Hadeans.”

“I simply forced them to stop arguing and listen to one another,” he grumbled as he hung his jacket on a rack beside the door.

“I thought you weren’t getting into politics?”

“I am not,” he insisted.

“Uh-huh,” she replied with a smirk. “Word has already spread about the clinic being back up and running. The phone has been lighting up all morning, and we have a packed schedule. The first shipment of medical supplies from Ortega came in when you were out to lunch, too. I almost had a heart attack seeing a PDF truck pull up outside again. I need to recalibrate my brain. The first patients should be arriving shortly. I’ll be running some numbers on the food situation if you need me.”

“Very good,” he replied. “It will be a welcome change to solve some small problems. You have already cleaned the clinic and unpacked the supplies?” he marveled, seeing that the shelves in his office were stocked once more.

“Didn’t take long,” she chimed, turning her eyes back to her display.

“I feel I owe you a raise,” he said.

He headed into his office and got set up, finding that Amy had already taken inventory of the supplies, leaving a tablet computer displaying a list on his desk. He remembered what Ricky had said the night before – how he was worried that he would not be able to return to his old life and resume his old routines. Things certainly felt different. Ruza was at once the same Rask who had left the clinic on that fateful evening, but he was also changed – tempered like steel. He might hold the same shape, but he was harder…sharper…

Before long, the first patients were arriving, the familiar sound of Amy’s voice greeting them at the door filling him with a kind of calm.

“Miss Bauer!” she chimed. “It’s so good to see you! How are Jessica and Peter doing?”

“Much better, thanks to you and Doctor Ruza,” she replied. “If it wasn’t for you making time to see us during the shortages, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“I see that you’re scheduled for a pediatric checkup,” Amy continued. “You’re the first ones here, so please go right through. What’s this you’ve brought?”

“Just a little something for you and the Doctor.”

“Welcome, Miss Bauer,” Ruza said as she entered his office. Her two children ran ahead of her, apparently eager to see him. Peter, the younger of the two, was already reaching across Ruza’s desk in an attempt to pet his furry hand.

“Doctor Ruza,” their mother sighed. She was holding some kind of woven basket in her hands, and inside were some paper packages and a large jar, its lid wrapped with a colorful bow. “I’m so glad to see you well. They told us that you were hurt during the fighting. I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

“Nothing that will keep me from my work,” he replied with a smile, lifting Peter in one hand like a doll and placing the wriggling child on one of the seats. “What is this?” he added with a look to the basket.

“Just a little token of our appreciation,” she explained, leaning past her daughter to set the basket on his desk. “I know that you don’t charge for your services, but you’ve done so much for us, and I’m not just talking about medicine. There’s been a lot of gossip and speculation following the occupation, and your name comes up often. Things are tight for everyone right now, but I hope you’ll accept this. There’s some fresh bread and some preserves that I’ve been holding onto.”

“It would be rude of me to refuse,” Ruza replied, bowing his head. “Thank you for the gift.”

“It’s strawberry flavor,” Jessica added as she peeked around her mother’s long shawl.

“Is that right?” Ruza chuckled. “Now, how have you both been feeling? Let us determine whether the last round of antibiotics had the desired effect on Jessica’s chest infection. You will be needing more medicated charges for Peter’s inhaler – I have a fresh box that came in this morning.”

The checkup didn’t take very long, and the family was soon heading out of his office with their little bag of medical supplies. Ruza was carrying Peter in one arm as the boy chewed on a piece of candy that Amy had placed in his office drawer, useful as a bribe for more excitable children, tugging at his fur with one tiny hand.

As Ruza saw them to the door, it slid open, and Petrova stepped inside. She was carrying a large box in her prosthetic hands, stepping aside to let Miss Bauer and her children pass. Bauer seemed a little surprised by the sight of a SWAR agent, ushering Jessica out onto the street before turning to take Peter from Ruza.

“Bye, kitty!” Peter declared as his mother wrestled his rebreather onto him.

“Thanks again, Doctor Ruza,” she said as she hurried out through the door.

“Be sure to call us if you have any concerns,” he called after them.

“Who was that?” Petrova asked, seeming amused by the interaction.

“The first of today’s patients,” Ruza replied, picking a stray piece of candy out of the fur on his arm. “It is a relief to be working in the clinic once more. What have you brought me?” he asked, glancing down at the box.

“Oh, they left behind some of the medical supplies earlier,” she replied as she adjusted the box’s weight in her mechanical hands. “I wasn’t busy, so I figured I’d come down and deliver them myself.”

“Quite a walk,” Amy muttered from the desk behind them, turning her eyes back to her display when Petrova glanced at her.

“Thank you,” Ruza said, taking the box from her. “These must be the adhesive patches that were missing from our inventory.”

She followed him to his office as he returned to place the box on a shelf, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe, her eyes wandering to the gift basket on his desk.

“Is that a jar of jam?” she chuckled. “These people don’t have much – even less after all the rationing. They must really appreciate you if they’re bringing gifts.”

“I do not charge for my services, but it would be rude to refuse a gift,” he replied as he slotted the box into place. He lifted Amy’s tablet from the desk and entered it into the inventory, carefully pressing the small touch controls with his pads.

“You’re kind of a war hero, you know,” she continued.

“Is that so?”

“I don’t mingle much with the civilians for obvious reasons, but the Marines and PDF are always talking about you when they’re off-duty. Maybe it’s because they’ve heard about your exploits, or maybe it’s just because you stand out so much, but one would think you were the leader of the resistance.”

“I am sure that such talk irks Reed,” Ruza said with a faint smirk.

“You’re good with kids,” she added, gesturing over her shoulder.

“Miss Bauer’s children suffer from frequent respiratory issues resulting from the harsh climate,” he explained. “An all too common affliction for young Hadeans, I fear. During the conflict, we made frequent forays into the city to deliver inhaler charges and antibiotics.”

“I know – it was one of the methods we used to track your activities,” she sighed.

“Children are sometimes afraid of me upon our first meeting,” he continued. “I am large, and they find me intimidating. Bribery is a good method of earning their trust, as is…petting.”

“Petting?” Petrova scoffed.

“I resemble an Earth animal,” he explained. “A cat. They are beloved domestic pets, and the stroking of their fur is considered therapeutic. Allowing the children to touch my fur or tug my ears while delivering inoculations or performing examinations keeps them distracted.”

“Now there’s a visual,” Petrova chuckled. “Everything I knew about Borealans painted them as explosively violent and quick to anger, so learning that the opposite is true has been an experience.”

“We tend to temper our emotions as we age,” he explained as he sat down on the reinforced chair behind his desk. “Young Borealans are brash, inexperienced, and eager to prove themselves. Their position in their pack is often precarious. Older examples tend to be more secure in their relationships, and they have confidence enough not to employ violence unless necessary. I am older than I appear, and my experiences have given me a…unique perspective.”

“I remember your story about the gene therapy,” she said. “Seems like the Jarries can work miracles.”

“I am hoping that when they arrive here, they will be able to reverse some of the damage Barbosa did,” he continued. “As for your limbs…”

“Still thinking about it,” she replied, moving the subject along. “Brenner seems a lot happier. He was pissed off this morning, but Rivera brought him some good news. Am I to assume that the Navy and the Hadeans have come to some kind of agreement? Nobody has had time to tell me much – not that I’m officially part of the chain of command or anything. Not really sure where I stand right now.”

“Hades may be keeping Nilsson and forming their own PCE force,” Ruza explained. “I volunteered to help establish an ethics committee to oversee the project if it goes forward.”

“Playing mediator, too?” she mused. “I can imagine that Reed’s initial offer wasn’t exactly diplomatic.”

“You are the last person alive who has any real experience piloting PCEs,” Ruza continued. “Your input on the matter would be valuable. What do you think of the proposal?”

“I can see why it would piss off the Admirals, but I can also see how it would be a boon to the Hadeans,” she replied as she scratched her chin with a rubberized fingertip. “Barbosa wouldn’t have been able to achieve half of what he did without those suits, and in the right hands, they could really bolster a comparatively small force. The question is – are the Hadeans the right hands? I’d want to make sure the pilots are trained properly and that they don’t succumb to the God complex that afflicted so many of us. I got it knocked out of me pretty quick. Goes without saying that requiring augmentation to pilot them would be a nonstarter.”

“Precisely why I believe an ethics committee will be necessary,” Ruza confirmed with a nod. “When we spoke last night,” he began, pausing for a moment. Petrova walked a little deeper into the office and closed the door behind her, not wanting Amy to overhear anything more private. “You spoke of not knowing what your future held,” he continued. “Barbosa put you in charge of training his troops for a reason. I can think of nobody better to oversee or consult on such a program. It would be a way to help Hades.”

“Ruza,” she sighed, turning her eyes to the floor. “You keep finding ways for me to stay, but I don’t even know if that’s what I want. I’m not trying to avoid accountability – I’m not looking for an out.”

“Your talents would be wasted in a cell,” he insisted. “You cared about your recruits. It was one of the reasons that you turned against Barbosa. Some may wish to accept transplants and return to their prior lives, while some may wish to pursue their goal of serving their colony, and you can help them achieve that. Like Nilsson, if you are valuable to Hades, the Governor has the power to grant you asylum. I am confident that no enemy could ever again threaten these people with an army trained by you.”

“It’s a nice thought,” she conceded with a smile that was not reflected in her distant eyes. “Hey, are you busy after work? The whole bringing the box here thing was a bit of an excuse to come see you. A couple of us are going out for a drink tonight. Figured it would give you a chance to catch up with some people.”

“I may be very busy over the next few days,” he replied. “There are many Hadeans in the area in need of medical care.”

“I can imagine,” she sighed, seeming disappointed. “Getting the clinic up and running again was all you wanted, after all.”

“However,” he added. “If you do not mind drinking late, I may be able to attend.”

“Alright,” she said, perking up a little. “I’ll tell them to expect you.”

Ruza saw her out, and she headed off down the street, placing her helmet back on to protect herself from the dust.

“Is that a spring in her step, or is there a literal spring in her step?” Amy asked from behind her desk. “She looked happier going out than coming in.”

“She invited me out to drink this evening,” Ruza explained as he closed the door behind her. “Later – there is much work to do.”

“Oh, you two are going out together tonight?” Amy asked with a sly look.

“Some of our colleagues will be there,” Ruza explained.

“Uh-huh,” Amy muttered, returning her gaze to her display pointedly.

***

The address was not hard to find, Ruza stepping through the door of a prefab that had been converted into a small bar. It was close to Garrison One and presumably had served PDF and visiting Marines prior to the invasion, judging by the service-related adornments on its walls. He paused to examine a pair of crossed caseless rifles beside the entrance, their receivers drilled through to render them inactive.

There were a few Marines occupying tables and booths, some looking up at him or raising a hand in greeting. The air was thick with a pungent smoke that stung his nose, wisps of it spiraling around the ceiling fans as they helped circulate cool air from the AC system, and there was the familiar scent of human alcohol. It reminded him of the smell of the fluids used to sterilize medical equipment.

It wasn’t hard to locate Petrova, especially considering who she was sharing her table with. Sitting with her were the two Jarilans, Lily towering a foot above her human neighbor with her pale carapace, and Harlequin leaning his four elbows on the table as he drank from a can. His mandibles had opened up, and his proboscis was snaking down into the opening.

Ruza walked over to join them, taking a seat on the floor to put himself level with the table. Lily wasn’t quite as tall as he was, and she was able to sit on a chair without contorting her slender frame too dramatically.

“Hey, Doc!” Harlequin began, able to speak with his proboscis extended. “How’s the head?”

“Better,” Ruza replied. “There has been no permanent damage. I am glad to see you both again, and you, Petrova. How have Brenner’s operations been proceeding?”

“There are still a couple of outlying garrisons holding out, along with some PDF who retreated into the desert rather than surrender,” Harlequin replied as his antennae waved in the gentle air current. “Petrova has been a great help in convincing some of them to turn themselves in. They know her, and I suppose they figure that if she hasn’t been executed, they won’t be either. We’re reasonably certain that the last of the enemy SWAR agents were killed during our assault on the anchor. You weren’t around for that due to the whole noggin thing,” he added with a gesture to his head.

“I am relieved to hear it,” Ruza replied. “Even a single fireteam left unaccounted for could wreak havoc on the colony. They are trained for sabotage operations deep behind enemy lines. What of you, Lily? How have you been faring?”

“It’s been a fun little vacation for me,” she replied, ever chipper. “The Navy is short on pilots, and with my Warrior destroyed, I’ve been occupying my time doing cargo runs to the carrier and back. It’s been a rather enjoyable experience to fly using physical buttons and sticks, but I do find myself pining for the welcoming embrace of warm, pulsating flesh against my chitin.”

“I think we can all relate to that,” Petrova joked.

“Plenty of things to do while I’m grounded,” she added, extending her pink proboscis from her jaws to take a drink from a slim glass of fizzing liquid as she surveyed the bar. “Endos far from home with too much time and too much beer on their hands make for good company.”

“Glad to see you’re staying so mission-focused,” Harlequin chided.

“Do you have enough honey?” Ruza asked. “When you mentioned that there would not have been enough to sustain Tiger, I worried that there might not be enough Jarilan MREs on the carrier for your needs.”

“Oh, no worries,” Harlequin replied with a wave of his hand. “We Jarilans are efficient creatures. We brought enough vials of honey with us on the Coursers to last a few months.”

“They’d probably fit in a briefcase,” Lily chuckled. “How about you, beefcake? How much does it take to feed you?”

“Ten thousand human calories per day,” he replied.

“And that’s why we’re not splitting tonight’s bill,” Lily said, giving Petrova a nudge.

“I must say that I am surprised by your choice of company,” Ruza said, addressing Petrova.

“Well, I figured if I was wrong about you, maybe I was wrong about some other things,” she said with a shrug.

“We’re not so bad once you get to know us,” Lily declared, placing a slender hand on her chest plate.

“It’s funny,” Petrova began, pausing to take a drink from her own glass. “Jarilans probably look the most alien out of all the Coalition species, but they’re by far the easiest to get along with. They’re the most…human.”

“That’s also true in a literal sense,” Harlequin added. “A significant component of our genome is derived from humans.”

“Our culture is only a few years old, and it’s been pretty heavily shaped by yours,” Lily said. “We consider ourselves more of an offshoot of humanity than something distinct and separate.”

“It must have been…challenging to carry out your orders,” Ruza continued. “To my knowledge, no Jarilan has ever killed a human before. I have faced humans on the battlefield, and this conflict was not the first time.”

“I came here knowing that it was a possibility,” Harlequin replied, the plates that made up his face doing a remarkable job of conveying his unease. “Brenner said as much – that we’d likely come into conflict with enemy SWAR agents, and that I didn’t have to come if I didn’t want to.”

“What convinced you?” Petrova asked.

“Brenner needed me,” he replied simply. “I knew that he wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t think I’d be an asset, even if he was giving me a choice. I told myself I’d mostly just be acting in a scout capacity, but being drawn into a fight was inevitable. I don’t regret it,” he insisted. “After seeing what Barbosa and his people did here, it’s clear that they needed to be put down. When we fight Ferals, we don’t do it because we hate them – we do it because they represent a threat. My squad and I were threatened, so I eliminated those threats, simple as that.”

“I knew that I wouldn’t be doing much scouting in a Warrior,” Lily added. “I accepted from the word go that I’d be killing humans. There’s nothing good or bad about that – it was just the mission. They needed a Warrior, and I was their best chance to get the job done.”

“Does it seem strange to you – seeing humans fighting one another?” Petrova asked.

“Jarilo is an almost utopian place,” Lily continued, extending her proboscis to take a drink as she considered. “Everyone gets along there, and it’s easy to imagine that internal conflict is a thing of the past or something that only happens in other places. Some Jarilans have a hard time imagining conflict within a hive, because it doesn’t make sense, but they’re thinking about it the wrong way.”

“How so?” Ruza asked with a curious tilt of his head.

“For starters, humanity isn’t a hive,” Lily explained, gesturing with one hand while she held her drink in another. “It’s more like a bunch of different hives all cooperating and working together,” she added as she meshed the fingers on her lower hands together. “They’re all related by blood, but over time, they grow apart in much the same way that a nuptial fleet grows apart from its mother hive. That appearance of homogeneity is an illusion that we assign to you because we don’t know any better. Compare the genomes of a Hadean and an Earther, and they’d be identical, but ask a Hadean whether he considers himself to be from Earth and he’d have a very different answer for you.”

“That’s true enough,” Petrova conceded.

“It is the same for the territories of Borealis,” Ruza confirmed.

“Like a Feral nuptial fleet, Barbosa and his entourage grew too far apart from the collective,” Lily continued. “They considered themselves separate and different, and they used that as a justification to invade and occupy. That made them an enemy, and they had to be eliminated, no different from the enemies we usually fight. Whether the guy murdering people to take over their planet has skin or chitin on the outside, it doesn’t really change anything. We signed up to protect the Coalition from any enemy.”

“I suppose it’s true that conflict is in our DNA,” Harlequin conceded. “We may live in a time of unprecedented peace, but humans have a long history of internal strife, and war is the means by which our Betelgeusian ancestors propagate. We have something they’ll never have, though. The ability to cooperate. There may be hundreds of thousands – millions of Feral hives, and they could conquer the Galaxy without opposition if they banded together. But they can’t. Their very nature demands that they kill one another on contact. Untold eons of evolution may have honed them into perfect living weapons, but simply being able to talk to one another has let us surpass them in a minute fraction of that time.”

“Trust a male to put such a positive spin on things,” Lily giggled. “You guys are always so damned plucky.”

“How is your wing, by the way?” Ruza asked.

“It’s getting better,” he replied, flexing a shining wing cover. “I don’t want to try flying again until the membrane has healed, or I risk tearing it further, so I’ll be ground-pounding for a while longer. Most of the intense fighting is over now, at least. Worst case scenario, I can just have the Medics slap on a new wing when they arrive.”

Ruza glanced pointedly at Petrova, wondering whether she had thought any more about her own transplants, but she didn’t comment.

***

They spoke with the Jarilans for an hour or more, catching up on the events of the battle from one another’s perspectives, Ruza learning more about what had happened on the colony during his absence. It reminded him of spending time with Bluejay – a friend he had left behind on Kerguela. Petrova was correct in her assertion that the Jarilans and humans were very much alike. They might be outwardly very different, but their mannerisms and the way they interacted were identical, one having learned from the other. It had taken Ruza so long to learn how to interact with humans – what their boundaries were, and what they expected of him in turn. For the Jarilans, it came as easily as breathing. They lived up to their name as social insects.

As the night went on, it came time for them to leave.

“We’d better be going,” Lily said as she rose from her seat at the table, her willowy frame towering over her neighbors. “Harley is going out hunting for stray PDF in the wastes tomorrow morning.”

“What about you?” Petrova asked.

“I have a date,” she replied proudly, placing a hand on her chest and planting two more on her hips. “Back home, there aren’t enough Endos to go around, but you can’t throw a stone without hitting one out here.”

“I believe the phrase knifetooth in a chicken coop is apt,” Harlequin muttered.

“I don’t see the chickens complaining,” she chuckled.

“Nice catching up, Ruza,” Harlequin said with a gesture akin to a curt salute. “We’ll see you guys later. I anticipate several weeks of having nothing to do but drink once we’ve rounded up the last of the holdouts.”

“It’ll be a perfect opportunity for you to put yourself out there and meet some new people who don’t open every conversation by asking your rank,” Lily chimed, taking him by the shoulder and steering him away from the table.

“We can’t all be as exuberant as Pilots,” he grumbled as they walked across the bar.

“I am glad to see that they are settling in,” Ruza said once they were out of earshot. “I was worried that they may have to remain on the carrier or inside the garrison, but the Hadeans seem very accepting of them.”

“They helped liberate the colony in a pretty visible way,” Petrova replied. “They earned it.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “Thanks for coming, by the way. I know that you were pretty busy at the clinic.”

“One can always make time,” he said as he took another sip from his tiny beer can.

“Don’t go overboard on that,” Petrova joked, gesturing to his drink. “You’re too heavy for me to carry you home.”

“Our sensitivity to alcohol appears to be legendary,” he muttered, getting another chuckle out of her.

“Everything you say is so deadpan,” she continued, leaning her head in her mechanical hands as she watched him from across the little table. “It’s taken me a while to learn that you’re actually capable of humor and sarcasm. One would be forgiven for thinking that you were some kind of emotionless robot.”

“I know how to joke.”

“Prove it,” she insisted, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Tell me a joke.”

“Very well,” he conceded. “There is one that Fletcher once told me. Let me see if I can remember it…”

“Did it make you laugh?”

“No.”

“Sounds like one of Fletcher’s jokes. Let’s hear it, then.”

“A man enters a bar,” Ruza began. “Presumably, he is a human. I did not inquire as to the details.”

“Off to a tremendous start,” Petrova said, taking a drink from her glass. “Comedy gold.”

“The man approaches the bar,” Ruza continued. “Behind it, he notices a display tracking credits. As he drinks, he mentions it to the bartender, and it is explained that the display represents a wager. One must make a bet, and if they complete a gauntlet of challenges, all of the credits wagered so far shall be theirs. Thus far, none have succeeded.”

“And what were these challenges?” Petrova pressed.

“The first was to drink a powerful alcoholic concoction,” Ruza continued. “The second, to extract a broken tooth from a furious Rask who was chained in a back room. The third, to satisfy a beautiful human woman waiting in a bedroom on a higher floor.”

“Sexually, I’m assuming?”

“Indeed,” he said with a nod. “The man accepts and makes his wager. The bartender brings him the concoction, and he drinks it down, quickly becoming inebriated.”

“You have such a way with words. It’s poetry, really.”

“Having succeeded in the first challenge, the inebriated man moves to the second,” Ruza continued. “The bartender gives him a key, and he makes his way to the back room to take on the Rask. There is much snarling and commotion for some time, and the bartender begins to grow worried, until the man finally emerges. His clothing is in tatters, and his body is covered in bloody scars and bite wounds. He limps to the bar and returns the key, then says – I have satisfied the Rask. Point me to the woman with the broken tooth.”

Petrova began to laugh, Ruza watching in satisfaction as she slapped a hand on the table and spilled a little of her drink in the process.

“That’s a bad joke,” she snickered. “And you told it badly. Still funny coming from you, though.”

“I suspect that Fletcher modified it to mock me,” Ruza added.

“Yeah, I’d bet on that,” she snickered.

“I am still surprised that you knew him,” Ruza continued. “I suppose that SWAR is not a large organization, but still.”

“We weren’t close or anything,” Petrova replied. “I served with him on a few different missions and had maybe a handful of conversations with him over the years, but his reputation preceded him. He was rising through the ranks quickly – would have been a shoo-in for Commander one day if it wasn’t for his attitude problem. Looking back on it, I suppose his instincts were on the money,” she sighed. “He saw what SWAR was becoming and got out early. There’s me being an amazing judge of character again,” she added with a dry laugh.

“In your defense, he could be very irritating,” Ruza added. “I believe that he did it on purpose as a way to keep people at arm’s length. You never saw him around those he loved. He was almost a different man. Almost,” he reiterated. “I am sure that he still finds many ways to annoy his wife.”

“I once told you that marrying a Valbaran seemed unnatural to me,” Petrova said. “It doesn’t seem so strange now. Fletcher was a weird guy, and it doesn’t surprise me that he had to go pretty far afield to find someone as weird as he is. After talking with you and the Jarilans, maybe we have more in common than not.”

“We all desire similar things,” Ruza confirmed, taking another conservative sip from his can. “Warmth, shelter, food, companionship. These needs are universal.”

“Even in bugs, lizards, and squids,” Petrova chuckled. “It’s strange – we’ve spent enough time together that I don’t even really see you as an alien anymore,” she continued as she circled the rim of her glass with a prosthetic finger. “It’s like a switch flipped in my brain, and you’re no longer…other. You’re just some big guy with hairy arms.”

“After being around humans for so long, I have almost forgotten what it feels like to live with my own kind,” he replied with a nod. “The constant pressure to maintain one’s position, the tension of interacting with other packs, the bouts when someone felt slighted. Humans are often strange, but they are…easier. I need not fear Reed’s claws, even if we argue.”

“You’re not anything like the monster they painted you as,” she continued. “You’re easier to talk to than any of the humans I know. I never imagined a Rask would risk his life for mine, or that you’d have little kids hanging off your arms,” she giggled. “I might describe you as a big fuzzy teddy bear if I hadn’t seen you fight.”

“Let us hope that there will be no more fighting.”

“I think you deserve to be able to retire for real this time,” she replied. “You’ve earned a rest. You can settle down and maybe do your consultancy with this ethics committee thing on the side.”

“That would be welcome,” he sighed. “The hour grows late,” he added. “I fear that I must return home if I am to open the clinic on time tomorrow.”

“Are you going back to your place?” Petrova asked. “I thought it was all shot up?”

“I cannot live in the clinic and also see patients there,” he explained. “It is unprofessional.”

“I don’t think anyone would care.”

“Once I have cleaned out the dust and patched the slug holes, it will not be too bad,” he continued with a shrug. “I will put in a request with Bergmann, and his workers will get to me when there is time.”

“Walk you home?” Petrova asked.

Ruza nodded his permission, and they paid their share of the tab before leaving, heading out into the street. The lights were being brought back online in many areas of the city, and their way was lit by the golden glow, joining the illumination that bled from the windows of the nearby prefabs.

“This is one thing I’ll never get used to,” Petrova said as she removed her helmet from her belt and slotted it onto her head. “Having to wear breathing protection outside.”

“Perhaps we might fix that one day,” Ruza said as he pulled his own protective rebreather on. “The Valbarans are knowledgeable in such matters, and the Jarilans can build anything.”

“Hey, there’s something I wanted to ask you,” she began as she walked alongside him. “I need your advice on something.”

“Proceed,” he prompted.

“When I was working undercover on the colony, I made some friends,” she continued hesitantly. “They were just normal everyday people, like Amy or your friends Bill and Ricky. I grew close to them – closer than I should have. It was just…the first time I’d felt like I had real friends in so long. I got sucked in. After everything went to shit during the riots and the resistance attack on the garrisons, I tried to extract them to a safe location, but they discovered my true identity in the process. Needless to say, they felt betrayed, and they cut me off. You’re good with this kind of thing,” she added, rubbing her arm nervously. “Do you think I should try to make contact again? I don’t know if I should try to make things right or if it’s better for them to never see me again.”

“If you believed that they were better off without you, you would not be asking me this question,” Ruza replied. “What do your instincts tell you? What do you want?”

“I…want to see them again,” she admitted. “I can’t leave things on such bad terms with so much unsaid, but I’m afraid that I’ll only make things worse. What if I go back, and they slam the door in my face?”

“At least you will know where you stand,” Ruza replied. “I suspect that you have already decided on a course of action. What you seek from me is permission – reassurance. You know that you will have my support, but I cannot make the decision for you.”

“No, you’re right,” she conceded. “I guess I’m just verbalizing a choice I already made. I need to stop doing that – seeking approval from everyone. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could buy some flowers, would you?”

“Flowers?” he asked, cocking his head in confusion.

“It’s a long story,” she added.

“There are no gardens on Hades, and specialty goods have not been flowing down the tether for months,” he explained. “I will ask around, however.”

“Thanks,” she said sheepishly.

After a little walking, they neared Ruza’s prefab, and he was surprised to find a hive of activity. Instead of the deserted street that he had expected, it swarmed with workmen, their reflective vests and hardhats gleaming beneath the sparse lamps. A truck pulling a trailer was parked outside his prefab, its bed laden with construction materials, the bright glow of welding torches flashing from within the open door of his home.

“What is happening?” he wondered aloud as he approached the nearest man.

The worker stopped and turned when he noticed the Rask, pausing with a carrying case for power tools slung under his arm.

“Hey, Doc!” he declared. “Don’t worry – we’re almost finished.”

“What are you all doing here?” Ruza asked curiously, watching another pair of workers emerge from his prefab carrying some kind of metal panel between them. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he was known to many of the colonists, even before the occupation.

“Amy told us that your place got all messed up, and Bergmann bumped you up the list,” the man replied as he adjusted his carrying case. “We should have it all sorted out in a jiffy. You’re back on the grid, so water and power should be good to go. We’re almost done patching up all the holes, and we’ll test your AC system before we leave. The whole place got a deep clean – it looked like it’d been exposed to the elements for a while there. Honestly, we considered just replacing the whole prefab, but we got there in the end.”

“You did all of this for me?” Ruza asked, watching as some of the workers loaded more equipment onto their trailer. A few of them paused to greet him, waving gloved hands.

“Of course!” the man replied. “We can’t leave our resident doctor without a decent place to sleep, can we? And don’t worry about the cost,” he added, straightening his hardhat. “The Union will pick up your tab.”

“Thank you,” Ruza replied with a subtle bow of his head. “You humble me.”

“Give us another ten, and we’ll be out of your hair,” the man replied. “Hey, Sanchez!” he yelled as he jogged back over to the prefab. “Don’t smoke around those oxygen tanks, dumbass!”

“Why are you acting so surprised?” Petrova chuckled, giving him a nudge. “You’re a pillar of the community, Doc. These people love you. I’m pretty sure they loved you before Barbosa ever arrived. If your house got wrecked by a runaway bulldozer, I bet they’d be here fixing it up just the same.”

“I suppose I am still unused to this,” he mumbled. “There was a time when I believed that humans were lonely creatures, but in many ways, your social groups are far larger than our packs. That so many who know me only by reputation would come together to do something like this is…”

“I think we’ve both let bad experiences lower our expectations,” Petrova continued. “Take it from me – sometimes you just have to be willing to let people help you.”

Once the workmen were finished, they loaded into their truck and drove off into the night, Ruza returning their waving as they turned past him. Petrova followed him into his prefab, and when he touched the light switch, they came on this time. The holes left by the slugs had been covered over with cleanly welded panels, and there wasn’t so much as a spec of dust, every surface in his kitchen sparkling clean. There was a gentle hum from the AC unit that was mounted high on the wall, the cool breeze blowing his hair. Even his nest of bedding had been replaced, new mattresses still covered in their plastic wrapping sitting on the floor in a stack.

“I guess this is what happens when you have the Unions on your side,” Petrova joked as she looked around. “Did you lose many of your belongings? It looks a little bare in here, kind of like the place they gave me when I was undercover.”

“I do not have much more than my rifle and my jacket,” he replied. “I spend much of my time at the clinic.”

“This place could use a woman’s touch,” she muttered. “Anyway, I’ll leave you alone,” she added with a chuckle that came off as nervous. “Thanks for making the time tonight – I had fun. I feel a lot more…normal when I’m hanging out with other people. Not that I don’t like Brenner and his team, I just feel like I need to recalibrate what normalcy means.”

“I understand,” Ruza replied. “It will do you good to interact with those who are not members of SWAR. For most of your life, they were your only measure of what was normal. If you wish to spend more time together, I will strive to make myself available as much as possible.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she replied with a smile. “See you later, Doc.”

The doors slid closed behind her, leaving Ruza alone to admire his newly repaired prefab and ponder what she had meant by a woman’s touch.

CHAPTER 43

DAY 60 – HADES – PETROVA

Petrova felt like she was going into battle.

With her hard-won bouquet of flowers in hand, she approached Fran’s prefab, her heart racing faster with each step closer to its door. Ruza had been true to his word, and after some asking around, he’d found an old woman who tended a tiny box garden in her prefab. It had taken quite the wealth of rations for Petrova to be allowed to pick a handful.

Their leaves and plastic wrapper rustling in her hands, she mounted the steps, hesitating with a fist poised in the air as she prepared to knock. She was wearing civilian clothes, but she hadn’t concealed her prosthetics. They were on display for all to see, and she hoped that might mean something.

No going back now.

She rapped her fist on the door, then waited, the seconds seeming to crawl by. Would Fran even open the door when she saw who it was? After a little more time, it slid ajar, Fran’s familiar face peering back at her with a stony expression. She was wearing flowery pajamas, probably having returned home from work not too long ago.

“It’s late,” she said, crossing her burly arms and waiting for Petrova to speak.

“I, uh…brought these for you,” Petrova said as she offered up the flowers. “May I come in?”

Fran considered, then took the flowers from Petrova’s hands, opening the door and moving out of her way. Petrova climbed the rest of the metal steps and entered the prefab, the familiar floral decorations that adorned every surface and piece of furniture greeting her. As she took off her mask, the smell of potpourri created a rush of nostalgia, reminding her of the evenings she had spent here talking with her friends.

“These have bought you at least ten minutes,” Fran said as she set the flowers down on her little coffee table. “Say what you came to say.”

“Where to start?” Petrova began with a humorless laugh. “So much has happened since we last spoke. I was captured by the resistance, then I joined them, then I killed my boss.”

“Is this a change of allegiance that’s going to stick this time?” Fran asked skeptically.

“Look,” Petrova sighed. “Last time we spoke, I tried to apologize for lying to you. I didn’t do a very good job of it. At the time, I’m not sure I really understood what I’d done wrong. I knew the words I had to say, but I didn’t know why I was saying them.”

“Go on,” Fran said, taking a seat on one of her plush chairs.

“When I joined SWAR, I gave up everything,” she said. “Family, friends, my identity – it was all replaced by this.” She flexed her prosthetic hand, Fran grimacing at the sight. “From then on, I was Agent Petrova, and any friends I made or any identity I adopted beyond that were only temporary. I would be inserted into an AO to get close to a target. Friends were contacts or patsies, and identity was a shield – a weapon. It became something fluid, something situational, and I could shed it like a skin and leave it behind. Everything was easier when I could rationalize that all those regrets belonged to someone else.”

“Is that what we were to you?” Fran asked, narrowing her eyes. “Patsies?”

“At first,” Petrova conceded. “The only time I was ever able to be myself was when I returned to the nest. The other agents were the only true friends I had – the only people who really knew me and accepted me for who and what I was. At least, that was how I saw it. In reality, their camaraderie extended only as far as my usefulness. I couldn’t truly confide in them, and I could never deviate from their expectations. So, in a way, Agent Petrova became just another false persona.”

“Then, why did you come here – to Hades?” Fran asked. “Why not just leave the organization if you were so unhappy? Why stick around?”

“What else did I have?” Petrova scoffed, spreading her arms with a whir. “I’d given up my past – pieces of myself, to become a SWAR agent. That was the only home I knew. When Barbosa came recruiting, he offered us exactly what we all wanted. He validated all of our fears and prejudices, he gave us a lofty purpose, and he promised to fix everything. It took a long time for me to figure out that he was targeting us for our weaknesses – exploiting us. Power, control, curiosity, bloodlust – he sniffed it out and leveraged it to keep us close. He made us all worse so that we’d have nowhere else to go and nobody to confide in.”

“What was yours?” Fran asked.

“Validation,” she admitted with a chuckle. “Sounds so petty, right? He controlled some of his Lieutenants by turning them loose with no RoE, or giving them control of the colony, and all he had to do to have me eating out of his hand was make me feel wanted. He said he valued my skills, told me that I’d be his successor. I did things for him that I knew were wrong because I didn’t want to lose that.”

“So, you were being manipulated, but you still take accountability for the choices you made?”

“I do,” Petrova replied. “Even before I went undercover, he’d done things that I couldn’t reconcile. Maybe I thought I could steer him along a better path – I dunno. I was lost, angry, and I just wanted to do something about it.

“What does any of this have to do with me?” Fran asked.

“Sorry, I’m rambling,” Petrova sighed. “I just want you to understand my state of mind at the time we met. My mission was to infiltrate the local community, establish contacts, and find a way to get to Doctor Ruza. He was Barbosa’s enemy number one – supposedly responsible for a lot of the resistance attacks. At first, I only intended to use you guys for information, but I found that I enjoyed your company. I liked being Valentina,” she said, rubbing her arm again – desperate for anything to occupy her hands. “I liked being around you. It was my first taste of normalcy in a very long time.”

“What would you have done if the protests had never happened?” Fran asked. “If we’d never discovered your real identity?”

“One day, I would have disappeared,” she replied solemnly. “I’d be gone – no goodbye, no explanation. Even if you decide you never want to see me again, at least I’ll have the chance to say goodbye this time. I don’t want to just leave Val behind like I did the others.”

“People have been talking,” Fran continued, still seeming unmoved by the story. “At the bar, and on the work site. They say that you helped the resistance take back the city, and you’re the one who killed Barbosa. What I want to know is – why? Did you switch sides because you realized you were on the wrong one, or did you only turn on your own because it was the surest way to survive?”

“The resistance showed me the things that Barbosa didn’t want me to see,” she replied. “Even for someone who was as willing as I was to keep my eyes closed, the evidence was undeniable. I don’t ask for forgiveness – I just want you to know that I did my best to set things right and repair some of the damage I helped cause.”

“Well,” Fran began, rising from her seat and walking past Petrova. She stopped at her sink and started to fill a tall glass with water from the faucet. “I can’t say that I would have forgiven you if you’d asked. The occupation did a lot of damage to the colony, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. The rationing, the crackdowns, the arrests – you helped enable that.”

“I did,” Petrova conceded. “I may still face a court-martial for it. I don’t know.”

Fran returned to her seat with the glass and set it down on the table.

“Val was never a real person. She was just another one of your false identities.”

“She was,” Petrova said.

“Val is dead to me,” Fran continued, Petrova turning her eyes to the floor in response. She heard a rustling, and looked up to see the woman sliding the flowers from their plastic wrapping, placing them gently inside the glass. “But, maybe I could get to know Petrova,” Fran added with a smirk. “Before you celebrate,” she added, raising a hand to stop her as a smile crossed Petrova’s lips. “I liked Val, but I don’t know if I’ll like Petrova yet. They’re different people – you’ve made that clear. I figure that killing the leader of the occupation in single combat is a pretty substantial gesture, however, and I’m willing to give you a chance to wow me. I also appreciated the flowers,” she added. “You know where and when we’ll be, so if you’d like to catch up, drop by the bar. I’m sure that Sam and Carl will be happy to see you again.”

“I will,” Petrova replied, sensing that it was her cue to leave. “Thanks for giving the real me a chance, Fran,” she said before she stepped out into the night.

***

“I’m not sure if it was the flowers that did it,” Petrova said, peering up at Ruza with a smile from across his desk. “But it worked! Fran has agreed to see me again. I’m going to meet up with her and her friends at their bar soon. She didn’t say when – I guess I’ll just show up when I’m ready.”

She was beaming, and the Rask looked up from the patient records on his display, giving her his full attention for a moment.

“I merely gave you permission to do something that you had already decided to do,” he replied.

“You gave me the courage to do it,” she insisted. “And you got me those flowers, too.”

“It was not an easy thing for you,” he mused. “I sensed how nervous you were simply speaking of the prospect of returning. Admitting fault is never easy – even less so when your mistakes caused harm. This, I know all too well.”

“Somehow, running headlong into gunfire took less courage than facing Fran,” she added with a chuckle.

“Running into gunfire is something that you have become accustomed to,” Ruza replied, wagging a clawed finger at her. “Maintaining friendships with normal people – this is a new skill that you will have to learn. I can recommend Amy as an admirable tutor. Were it not for her wiles, I would certainly have shut myself away in my clinic and never spoken to anyone who was not presenting with an injury or an infection.”

“I’d like to hang out with Amy,” Petrova said with a hurried nod. “You and her were the only people who showed me any real kindness after I was captured, at least at first. I didn’t understand why at the time, but Amy really did go through a lot of the same things I went through. It’s hard to believe how…normal she came out on the other side of it. She’s stronger than she understands – I’ve seen hardened Marines break under less pressure.”

“Size and physical prowess have little to do with strength of will,” Ruza confirmed.

“Do you think she’d agree to go out for something to eat if I asked her?”

“I do not see why not,” Ruza replied.

DAY 62 – HADES – PETROVA

“My life has become very odd,” Amy said, picking up a cereal bar and examining it pensively. “If you had told me a year ago that I’d be having a dinner of rations with an ex-spy, I would have recommended you see the Doc for a CAT scan.”

“Because he’s a cat?” Petrova asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Amy scoffed. “But also yes.”

Petrova had invited Amy out to eat at one of the colony’s bars. Food was still a little scarce, but drinks had never been rationed, so most of the drinking holes were still operating. Wanting to enjoy the restaurant experience, they had brought their own MREs – a faux pas under normal circumstances, but appropriate in this time of scarcity.

“I’ve had more MRE meals than hot dinners in my lifetime,” Petrova continued, cracking one of the meal packets to set the chemical heating element going. “I know a few tricks to make them taste better. Smear a little peanut butter on those crackers, and you’ll have yourself a feast.”

“I’m sure it’s very welcome if you’re spending the evening in a foxhole,” Amy chuckled. “The drinks, on the other hand,” she added as she took a sip from a colorful martini. “It’s a perilous time to be an alcoholic.”

“Ruza tells me that you’re the one in charge of distributing the colony’s food,” Petrova prompted. “That’s a big responsibility.”

“I handled all of the logistics for the resistance base, so it’s really not as big of a deal as you might imagine to scale that up to a city,” she explained. “I still have a hard time imagining that I’m the most qualified woman for the job, but I suppose they trust me. Who would have imagined that a secretary would have such a sought-after skill set during a rebellion?”

“What’s the broader situation looking like?” Petrova asked as she opened a small packet of dehydrated fruit. “Are we still on course to avoid any serious famine?”

“We’re having to be a little careful, but Barbosa had planned for a long siege,” Amy replied as she inspected a plastic pouch of potato salad. “With what we confiscated from the barracks and brought down from the carrier, we have enough to keep everyone fed, along with a little to spare for emergencies.”

“So long as no more warehouses get burned down,” Petrova joked.

“What about you?” Amy asked. “I’ve seen you around the clinic a lot more frequently the last couple of days. Is Brenner’s work winding down?”

“For the most part,” she replied, opening up her meal packet and watching a wisp of steam rise towards the ceiling. They were dining in a more upscale venue, if a bar could be referred to as such, so she poured the ravioli and gravy within out onto a waiting plate. “The garrisons are all under our control now, and other than some rumors about PDF retreating into the wastes, Barbosa’s forces have all surrendered.”

“What are you going to do with them all?” Amy wondered. “There must be thousands of them.”

“Captain Ortega figures we’ll just keep them in custody until the fleet arrives and let them figure out what to do,” Petrova replied as she skewered a piece of ravioli on her fork. “We don’t really want to be putting people on trial when tempers are still running so high.”

“Yeah, I imagine that’s not going to be the most impartial jury,” Amy conceded. “So…what’s with the sudden dinner date out of the blue?” she added, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Am I sensing an ulterior motive?”

“I may have one or two,” Petrova conceded with a smirk. “Firstly, I wanted to properly thank you for what you did for me while I was a prisoner with the resistance. I didn’t want to show it at the time, but the way you reached out to me and tried to reassure me really did help. You and Ruza were relentlessly kind to me, even when I was horrible to you in return, and that was one of the things that helped break down all the damned walls I put up. You were a friend to me when I needed one, even if I didn’t want to accept it at the time.”

“I’d just been in your position before,” Amy replied. “I knew what it felt like to be taken away by angry strangers and thrown into some interrogation room. I know the fear and the uncertainty – what it’s like to be hurt. I didn’t want you to be afraid the way I was. I didn’t want you to think you’d be mistreated or beaten or worse…”

“It helped,” Petrova replied with a smile. “Your persistence is admirable.”

“That’s how I tend to be when I set my eyes on a goal,” she replied, taking a bite of a piece of potato.

“I may have wanted to ask you about something else, too,” Petrova continued.

“Go on,” Amy chimed, leaning closer in a decidedly conspiratorial manner.

“You and Ruza…you’re not…an item?”

“Me and the Doc!?” she repeated, placing a hand on her chest as she laughed. “Goodness, no. Don’t get me wrong – we’re very close, and I love the guy, but there’s never been any romantic spark there. He may have carried me out of that garrison like he was rescuing a princess, granted, but he’d do that for anyone he considered a friend. That’s just the way Doc is – he has a big heart. Seriously big, like, imagine how much blood that thing has to pump.”

“Sorry for making an assumption,” Petrova continued. “You two just seem so close.”

“Why are you asking?” Amy added, leaning in again with a suspicious look on her face.

“I dunno,” Petrova began, her cheeks starting to warm. “I feel like a damned schoolgirl gossiping about it like this, but…I like him.”

“Well, now you have to give me all the details,” Amy insisted as she made a show of settling into her seat. “Start with the gossip already.”

“At first, he seemed so stoic,” Petrova began. “It was as though he didn’t even understand human emotions. Maybe I assumed aliens didn’t have any. Slowly, I started noticing these little cracks in his armor – these little moments with you or with his patients where something far warmer and more caring shone through. He has that confidence and aloofness that I’ve come to expect from SWAR operatives, but there’s also a tenderness to him.”

“He has the strong and silent thing going for him,” Amy said with a wave of her fork. “I’ll grant you that.”

“I was so dismissive of him,” Petrova continued. “I was never willing to accept that he was all the things people said he was – that he’d be taking down SWAR agents one minute and healing sick kids the next. It all sounded so ridiculous, like someone made it up as propaganda. Even after seeing him in action, it’s still hard to believe. Ruza must have some kind of flaw, surely?”

“Doc has a dark past,” Amy replied with a shrug. “He always warns me that I’m seeing the best version of him, and that I might not have liked who he was.”

“So he’s mysterious, too,” Petrova scoffed. “Way to warn me off him.”

“He feels like he always has to make up for the things he did during the rebellion, regardless of what anyone else tells him.”

“Yeah, he’s talked to me at length about it,” Petrova confirmed. “I want to be careful, because I know that I have this need for validation and acceptance that gets me in trouble, and I want to be sure these feelings are about more than just that. I don’t want to run into the arms of the first man who gives me any kind of positive attention. What if I’ve misread things, and he sees me the same way he sees you? Maybe he doesn’t like humans at all. I don’t want to mess things up if that’s the case.”

“You just got done telling me how kind he’s been to you,” Amy replied. “Do you really believe he’d react so negatively? If anything, he’d be his usual bemused self, discovering another human quirk to puzzle over.”

“The way he tilts his head like a puppy,” Petrova added, the pair laughing together.

“I’m pretty protective of the Doc,” Amy continued as she forked some more potato salad into her mouth, pausing to chew. “He may seem hypercompetent, and he’s as lethal as a railgun slug, but he’s surprisingly naive when it comes to social situations. Remember – he’s an alien. Everything he understands about human social cues are things he’s had to learn, and recently. You can’t be subtle and expect him to pick up on it. He won’t make the first move. If you want something, you just have to ask, or he won’t understand it.”

“You think I should give it a try, then?” Petrova asked. “I won’t mess up our friendship?”

“Frankly, I think you’re the only person on Hades who can handle a man like him,” Amy replied. “And I’m not talking about him weighing six hundred pounds and being able to tear a Borg in half with his bare hands. You two have a lot in common, and I think there are aspects of his past and his personality that someone like me couldn’t even begin to understand. He’ll always be a mystery box to me. He’s drawn to you because he senses that you’re the same, and I have to agree. If there’s anyone out there who can do something about all this hurt he carries around, maybe it’s you.”

“Now I’m a little intimidated,” Petrova said with a nervous laugh.

“Just don’t hurt him,” Amy added, waving a fork at her. “I know some people who will seal you away in an abandoned borehole if I ask nicely.”

Petrova laughed again, not entirely sure whether Amy was joking.

DAY 64 – HADES – PETROVA

“Uh, Doc?” Petrova asked as she peeked into his office. He was sitting behind his desk, and it was hard to even see him with all of the gift baskets and other assorted offerings that had been piled upon and around it. There were stacks of cards, bottles of alcohol that he certainly wouldn’t be able to stomach, and even stuffed animals adorned with colorful bows.

“Good evening, Petrova,” Ruza replied from behind his haul.

“What the hell is this?” she giggled as she edged her way through the door, passing by a stack of gift-wrapped boxes. “Are you running a gift shop out of your clinic?”

“My patients have been very generous,” he replied, pushing a wicker basket filled with a couple of wine bottles out of the way so he could see her. “Perhaps overly so.”

“I’ll say,” Petrova chuckled. “It looks like the whole neighborhood showed up to bring you a gift. It’s sweet – shows how much they appreciate you.”

“I hope they will not be offended if I share the alcohol,” Ruza added, eyeing a bottle of Hadean vodka warily. “I believe there are several million fatal doses in this room alone.”

“Speaking of drinking,” Petrova began. “Would you like to go out after work?”

“Will we be drinking?”

“No, it was a bad segue.”

“Very well,” he replied. “Allow me some time to finish – I should not be long.”

“I’ll wait,” Petrova chimed, returning to the lobby and sitting down on the bench. Amy was still working behind the front desk, eyeing Petrova from across the room and giving her a thumbs-up in encouragement. Petrova tried not to smirk too visibly while in view of Ruza.

After a little while, the Rask emerged from his office, stepping around the piles of gifts that were spilling out of its door.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked.

“I thought we might just go for a walk,” Petrova explained. “It’s a nice evening – the sun hasn’t completely set yet, so it’s not too hot or too cold out.”

“A walk?” he asked, tilting his head. “If that is your wish.”

“I’ll close up,” Amy added. “Goodnight, Doc. You two have fun – you hear?”

Petrova led Ruza out into the street, giving Amy a wink before the door closed behind her. She set off walking, Ruza matching her pace with slow, loping strides of his long legs. The sun was dipping towards the horizon, and the blue sky was turning pink, the temperature hovering in a pleasant middle ground between burning and freezing. They still had to wear their protective masks thanks to the airborne sand, but it was about as pleasant a walk as one could take on a planet literally named after the underworld.

“I suppose this is as nice an evening as we’re liable to get,” she began as they walked past the rows of identical prefabs.

“There is a beauty to Hades that few take the time to appreciate,” Ruza explained. “It requires one to stop and listen,” he added, extending a hand to stay her. A few moments of silence followed as she looked up at him expectantly. “What do you hear?”

“The wind whistling through the prefabs,” she began. “The sound sand makes when it’s moving – I don’t know the right word.”

“In the Rask tongue, we have many words for different kinds of sands and the sounds they make,” he explained. “When compressed underfoot, when carried on the air, even when sifted through one’s fingers.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Petrova chuckled. “I’ve been to the Rask territory, and if there’s one thing you have in abundance, it’s sand.”

“There is a kind of beauty to the desert,” he continued, glancing to the horizon wistfully. “It is stripped of all needless complexity. Where plants cannot grow and water cannot flow, there is only sand and sky, and whatever shapes the wind carves into the dunes. I find that it quietens my thoughts.”

“A zen garden,” Petrova suggested.

“What?”

“We have those,” she explained. “They’re sometimes called dry gardens or stone gardens. They’re gardens covered in sand or gravel instead of soil, and they’re raked to resemble dunes and water. They’re usually decorated with stones, pillars, or carefully tended plants. Some people use them for spiritual practices, meditation, tranquility. Strangely, I understand exactly what you’re talking about.”

“A beauty of absence,” he added with a nod.

“I would call it minimalism, but sure.”

They continued walking, Petrova content with their small moment of shared perspective.

“May I ask where we are going?” Ruza began after a few more minutes. “I remind you that my kind lacks your stamina.”

“We’re almost there,” Petrova replied.

They trekked a little further, then stepped off the street, Petrova leading Ruza to a small carbcrete storehouse at the end of an alley. The door was all but rusted shut now, and she gave it a shove with her prosthetic arm, sending it swinging open on its creaking hinges. It was dark and musty inside, a few pallets of abandoned crates filling an otherwise empty room, motes of disturbed dust rising into the air.

“This is what you wished to show me?” Ruza asked skeptically. “It appears to be a derelict storage area.”

“Don’t you recognize it?” Petrova asked, turning to grin at him. Her face was covered by a mask, but he could see her smiling eyes through its visor.

“Should I?”

“This is where we first met!” she chuckled, spreading her arms. “Remember? I came out of that floor panel over there with Omar,” she continued with a gesture to the trapdoor. “I tried to assassinate you, and you backhanded me hard enough to knock me out stone cold.”

“That was here?” Ruza asked, glancing around the room.

“We’ve come full circle now,” she continued, looking up at him. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” she added nervously. “I thought it might illustrate how far we’ve come. This was where everything changed for me – when I was set on a better path. It feels like such a strange thing to say, but I’ve never been more glad to have failed my mission. I don’t even want to imagine the kind of world I might have created had I succeeded – what would have happened to me…”

“I am also glad that you failed,” Ruza added. “I do not believe I would have enjoyed being assassinated.”

“Are you making a joke?” she snickered. “This dusty storeroom means something to me – I guess that’s why I brought you here. Sorry, I’m really bad at this,” she sighed as she slipped off her mask to let him see her face. “Lying is second nature to me, but telling the truth feels like climbing a mountain.”

“What is wrong?” Ruza asked.

“I want to date you!” she blurted, the Rask’s round ears twitching in surprise. “I don’t mean going out to dinner with friends – I mean romantically. You and me – a couple. I was told I had to be direct with you, so that’s what I’m doing. I think we should see each other.”

“Date?” Ruza asked, her racing heart fluttering as he cocked his head again like a curious dog.

“It’s alright if you don’t like humans,” Petrova stammered, feeling her face burn. “I’d totally get that. I didn’t think I liked aliens until very, very recently. If you don’t feel that way about me, I’d completely understand that too! I tried to kill you on several occasions, and I’ve had several messy emotional meltdowns in your presence, which I can’t imagine were a source of attraction for you.”

She shut her mouth, realizing that she was giving him a laundry list of reasons to say no.

“You seek courtship?” Ruza continued, taking off his own mask so that she could see his expression. He seemed as curious as ever – intrigued, even. His yellow eyes appeared to shine as they reflected the dim light in the gloomy storehouse. “With me?”

“That’s right,” she replied with a nod, rubbing her arm with an electrical whir. “You’ve seen humans go on dates? You understand how that works?”

“Human courtship has always been somewhat of a mystery to me,” he explained. “In Rask packs, there is very little preamble prior to an induction. Your relationships are very different from ours.”

“Come on, Doc,” Petrova pressed with a grimace. “This is a yes or no question.”

“I am puzzled as to why you would desire me as a mate,” he continued. His tone wasn’t condescending or dismissive – he seemed genuinely surprised. There was no pretense to him – no falseness.

“Are you kidding?” she scoffed. “Everyone loves you. Everyone is drawn to you like you’re a malfunctioning grav plate. You’re kind, and patient, and forgiving. You’re strong, you’re loyal, you’re protective. You’re saving my life one minute and kissing boo-boos the next. It is absurd how fucking maddeningly perfect you are!” she added, gesturing almost angrily. “Nobody has ever cared about me the way you have. Nobody has ever shown me that level of kindness,” she continued, her tone softening almost to a whisper. “I don’t think anyone will ever really understand me the way you do. So, that’s why I think we should date. If you don’t see me that way, that’s okay too. I just have to try, because if I don’t, I’ll always wonder…”

“Perhaps you wish for this storehouse to set you on yet another path,” Ruza mused.

“Maybe,” she admitted with a shrug. “Can’t hurt my chances, right?”

“Yes,” Ruza replied.

“Huh?” Petrova stammered, blinking back at him.

“Yes, we shall date.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?” she asked, starting to laugh with a blend of amusement and relief. All of the tension that had been building seemed to evaporate from her like a mist, all of that weight lifting off her shoulders in an instant to leave her as light as a leaf on the wind.

“You said that it was a yes or no question.”

“That I did,” she laughed. “That actually went a lot better than I expected it to.”

“Did you expect me to refuse your proposition?” he asked.

“I thought there was a pretty high chance, yeah.”

“I admit that I do not fully understand what a relationship entails,” the Rask continued. “They are like packs in some ways, but differ in others. What I can tell you with certainty is that if I had a pack, I would accept you as a member.”

“That means a lot coming from you, doesn’t it?” Petrova asked. “I know your history with packs.”

“There are few who I would trust to be so close to me,” Ruza confirmed. “That trust has been violated many times in the past. You have proven that you will put yourself at risk for others. You have saved my life, and the lives of those important to me. I have seen you wrestle with your misplaced allegiance, much as I once did, and I have seen the fire in you when faced with injustice. You have shown the will to take the more difficult path if it leads you to a better outcome.”

“I don’t really know what being part of a pack would entail either, but thank you,” she replied. “That’s a pretty glowing endorsement. Does that mean…that you’re attracted to me? Can you be attracted to humans? I assume so, since fraternization between Marines and Auxiliaries is so rampant in the Navy…”

“We are similar…compatible,” he replied hesitantly. “But…I do not yet know how to approach such subjects. There is usually an Alpha who gives instruction and makes decisions for the rest. Not so with humans. It will be an adjustment – something new to learn. I do not wish to be your Alpha, and I do not expect that you wish to put yourself above me.”

“I can help you,” she added, taking a step closer. “If I show you even a fraction of the understanding and patience that you’ve shown me, then there won’t be any problems. We can take it slow and figure things out as we go. It’s not like we’re short on time.”

She took a chance, reaching for one of his hands and holding it in hers. It was massive – more like the paw of a bear than the hand of a human. She never really got used to his size. It was like her brain reset each time he left her sight so that it was a surprise when they crossed paths again. His fingers were almost as thick as her wrist, each one tipped with a little pink pad that emerged from his sandy fur, and a hooked claw like the talon of an eagle.

She ran her fingers across his wide palm, combing the rubberized treads through his coat, feeling its sensation just as she would have with organics. The fur was soft and fine, and she could feel his warmth, watching him twitch at her touch.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “These things are top of the line when it comes to killing, but they’re not good for much else. They must feel so cold and hard to you…”

“They have their benefits,” he replied, turning her hand palm up and running the sharp tip of a claw across it. Her prosthetics reproduced the sensation, feeding it into her brain, a pleasant shiver coursing through her as he drew a trail up the housing of her wrist. “I need not worry so much about cutting your skin.”

“Wouldn’t be my first scar,” she warned.

“We find scars appealing,” he replied.

He raised his hand higher, bringing it to her face, Petrova tensing up as she felt his claws brush her glowing cheek. This was a hand that she knew could rend flesh from bone – even kill her with a twitch. He was careful – gentle, and she leaned her head into his massive palm, enjoying the texture of his fur against her skin. She remained that way for a few moments more, basking in this new closeness, her touch-starved body flooding her with enough endorphins to send her head spinning. Petrova couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been in a genuine relationship. Fumbles with other agents during long voyages, motivated only by a carnal need no more meaningful than hunger or thirst, were no substitute for even this brief contact.

“So, what happens now?” Petrova wondered as he drew his hand back. “Actually, scratch that. You’re the one who’s new to the whole concept of relationships. Is it alright with you if I take the lead for a little while? I’m not intending to lord over you as your Alpha – I just want to get the ball rolling.”

“Very well,” Ruza conceded.

“People usually go on a few dates together,” she explained. “Hence the term dating. It’s a process meant to see how compatible two people are. You test the waters, see if you have chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” he repeated with a tilt of his large head.

“If you click – if you get along well,” she added with a laugh. “Damn, I’m going to have to be really blunt here, aren’t I? None of these euphemisms are going to make any sense to you.”

“But, do we not already enjoy one another’s company?” he asked.

“Oh, no, of course!” she added hurriedly. “It’s different. It’s about transitioning from being friends to being something closer.”

“A relationship.”

“Right.”

“I believe I understand,” he mused. “I will defer to your judgment on the matter. Are we dating now?”

“Not officially,” Petrova replied. “Only because I wouldn’t want our first date as a couple to take place in a dusty old storehouse. I don’t know what I was thinking bringing you here,” she added with a laugh.

“It is meaningful to you,” he replied.

“Okay, here’s what I think we should do,” she stammered as she reached up to fiddle with her hair absent-mindedly. “Tomorrow night, once you close up the clinic, we’ll go on a proper date. How does that sound?”

“Is it necessary that we part ways tonight?” he asked, taking a step closer to her. She found herself backing up reflexively, bumping into one of the stacked crates, having to lift her head even more to maintain eye contact with him. He brought a hand to her cheek again, and it took every ounce of her resolve not to melt right there and then, her traitorous nervous system drowning her in happy chemicals once more.

“I mean, we can stay here a little longer,” she mumbled. She reached up to hold the back of his hand, keeping him close, stroking his fur with her thumb.

“It appears as though human courtship is more complex than I realized,” he continued, his rumbling voice resonating through her while he was so close. “I would not want to do anything culturally insensitive or break tradition.”

“Oh, I don’t think we need to worry about breaking tradition,” she sighed. “Whatever’s happening here is pretty far removed from anything anyone would consider normal. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re like this.”

“Like what?” he asked curiously.

“Rask don’t exactly have a reputation for being gentle and asking permission,” she explained. “You’re not like other Rask, though.”

“My kin fight and mate to establish hierarchy,” he explained, that second word making her heart skip. “Aggression is born of insecurity – of needing to find out where one stands socially. I need fear nothing from you.”

“You say it like it’s a relief.”

“It is,” he confirmed as he peered down at her with those reflective eyes. “Even so far removed from my home, and having lived among humans for this long, those instincts sometimes still cause me anxiety. I must consciously remind myself that you or Brenner or Rivera will not fight for seniority – that we can be without such rigid hierarchies. There is a part of me that remains forever uncertain – still searching for that missing structure, but I welcome that feeling over the harsh rigors of pack life.”

“You didn’t deserve to be hurt the way you have been,” Petrova insisted, stroking his hand.

“I welcome pain as a teacher,” he replied. “Without it, I might still be under the heel of an undeserving Alpha, or worse – bleaching my bones in the dunes.”

“This isn’t just about me,” Petrova continued. “Tell me what you need. Anytime you’re uncomfortable or something doesn’t feel right, just speak up. We’re going to have to find each other somewhere in the middle.”

“I will,” he replied.

“Listen,” she stammered, feeling butterflies swarm in her belly as she peered up at him. “I really wasn’t intending for a dusty storeroom at the end of an alley to be the venue of our first kiss, so we should probably head out of here before we make any memories that are too good for this place.”

For a moment, he almost seemed like he was going to press ahead regardless, something akin to desire having kindled behind his eyes. Instead, he drew away, his head seeming to rise into the sky from her perspective. More than two feet of height difference didn’t seem all that much until she was so close to him, his broad chest filling her field of view.

“I shall do my best to follow your customs,” he said.

“So, tomorrow,” she stammered as she stepped away from the crates. Her heart was racing, and her blood was pounding in her ears such that she almost couldn’t hear herself speak. “I’ll come pick you up at the clinic.”

“I will be ready,” he replied with a bow of his head.

“Walk me home?” she asked, adjusting her leather shawl. “Or, I’ll walk you home. Whichever home we happen upon first.”

He extended a hand, and she took it, the pair walking back out into the cool night air.

DAY 65 – HADES – RUZA

“Amy,” Ruza began as he hovered by her desk. “I have need of your counsel.”

“What can I do for you, Doc?” she asked as she leaned her elbows on its polished surface.

“I need you to instruct me in dating.”

She let out a shrill noise that made Ruza recoil and flatten his ears in alarm, but her expression was one of delight, her smile widening.

“No way!” she giggled. “Did Petrova actually do it? Did she ask you out?”

“You were aware of her intentions?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Doc,” Amy continued with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It wasn’t a conspiracy – just girl talk. She asked me for advice on how to approach you. I told her to be blunt because you have the intuition of a concrete road barrier. I’m guessing you said yes if you’re coming to me for advice?”

“I accepted,” he replied with a nod. “What precisely I have consented to, I am not yet sure, but it pleased Petrova greatly. I wondered if you might tell me more, assuming that doing so is not some cultural taboo for your kind.”

“I think the honored elders will forgive me for breaking taboo,” she replied, her smirk telling him that she was probably joking. “What did P tell you?”

“She told me that we will begin dating,” he explained. “It is a process intended to determine if we are compatible. I do not fully understand what it will entail.”

“She’ll take you out and spend time with you,” Amy explained. “You might go out to eat or to do other activities. The important thing is that she wants to spend quality time with you. She wants to figure out how you’ll behave in a relationship and how you’ll treat her – how interested in her you are. Think of it like a dry run or a test flight. She wants a little taster of what being with you would be like, so try to make a good impression, but don’t misrepresent who you are or what you want. If you lie to her, even if you’re only telling her what you think she wants to hear, it’ll only cause problems. You have to show her who you truly are.”

“I believe I understand,” he replied, mulling over her words. “It is sensible when presented in such a way – a test period before committing fully to a lifestyle change.”

“Don’t Rask date?” Amy asked. “How do you decide who joins your pack?”

“If the Alpha finds someone appealing, they are inducted,” he replied simply.

“Pretend for a moment that I have no idea what inducted means in this context.”

“A bout is initiated – a duel, sometimes followed by mating, where one Rask asserts dominance over another,” he explained. “The loser submits to the authority of the victor, joining their pack if the victor wills it.”

“Okay!” Amy said, her eyes widening as she clapped her hands together. “Let’s absolutely not do anything like that, please!”

“That is no longer how I choose to live,” he explained.

“Very glad to hear it,” she replied, moving the conversation along quickly. “It might sound strange, but my best advice is to just…be yourself. She wants to get to know the real you, so if you put up any walls or mislead her in any way, she might get the wrong impression. There’s nothing good about a relationship between two people who don’t really know each other and are only attracted to their idealized versions of one another.”

“Do not lie,” he muttered. “A simple instruction to remember. What must I do? Are any rituals expected of me? Any behaviors I must avoid?”

“Let her make the moves,” Amy continued. “She may be some kind of cyber warrior with knives in her arms, but you’re a big guy, and that can be intimidating. If she followed my advice, she’ll probably tell you what she wants, so all you have to do is listen. There are all kinds of little cues and subtle hints that let you know if someone is attracted to you, and most human guys have a hard time with that, so you don’t stand much of a chance.”

“She said that communication would be important,” he added.

“That’s right. Just take things one step at a time and make sure you listen to her. I have to ask,” she added, lowering her voice a little as though not wanting to be overheard. “Are you…attracted to her? I’ve never really asked about your love life – if Rask have anything comparable. A relationship won’t work if there isn’t an element of attraction.”

“For us, it is different,” he explained. “There is often a component of status to our attraction. We desire those of higher standing within the pack, as they represent security, and they will give strong kittens. A pack is…multiple individuals, all of them involved with one another.”

“Sounds complicated,” Amy muttered. “What happens when two guys or two girls…”

“We do not make such distinctions.”

“Fair enough, I don’t suppose it would work out otherwise,” she said. “A whole planet of people who bat for both teams,” she mused, her cheeks starting to flush pink as she stared into space for a moment. She shook her head, seeming to dispel the thoughts. “That doesn’t answer my question. Are you attracted to Petrova? Do you even like humans?”

“The thought has sometimes crossed my mind,” he began. “I have been away from my people for a long time, and I had eschewed the pack life for some time before that.”

“Long dry spell,” Amy muttered.

“I had accepted that my choices would result in celibacy,” he continued. “I was content to be alone and apart if it meant a peaceful life. Petrova offers a new path – something I had never considered. Humans and Borealans are not so different, despite our size, and I know that we are sexually compatible. I would accept her into my pack if I had one, and I would lie with her.”

“That’s a very long-winded yes, then,” Amy chuckled. “I think that’s all you need.”

“But, there is still much that I do not understand,” Ruza protested.

“And you’ll figure it out the same way everyone does,” Amy replied. “I can’t give you an instruction manual, Doc. You have everything you need, and remember – she’s already into you. All you have to do is be your big cuddly self.”

“Thank you for the counsel,” he replied, bowing his head. He wanted to know more, but it was clear that Amy had shared all she could. It would be up to him now.

“Anytime, Doc,” she added. “Oh, I took the liberty of clearing out all the gift baskets after you left last night,” she added. “Figured it would be easier to examine patients if the examination table isn’t covered in wine and wicker baskets.”

“My apologies,” he replied. “I should have cleaned up before leaving.”

“No problem!” she chimed. “This is what we call suffering from success. You’ll find your new wine cellar and a collection of gift cards sorted alphabetically in the storage room, as it’s mostly still empty. Joking about the alphabet part,” she added with a grin. “I just tossed them in a box.”

“As always, I do not know how I would get by without you.”

“All part of the job,” she sighed as he walked through to his office.

***

After another day of seeing patients, evening arrived, and Ruza heard the rumble of an engine outside the clinic. He felt a protective impulse that he had to suppress, the instinct to find a weapon and secure the building rising up for a moment before he swallowed it back down. Not every truck that pulled up outside was there to kill him.

This time, he was sure to have all of his work finished by the time Petrova arrived, hearing the signature whir of her prosthetics as she entered through the door. He emerged from his office to greet her, finding her wearing her black combat coveralls, all of the belts and ceramic plates that usually adorned them now absent. She wore her helmet, its visor rising with a touch to expose her smiling face.

“You ready to head out, Doc?”

“I am,” he replied. He paused to glance back at Amy, who had an even broader smile than Petrova.

“Don’t keep him out too late, you hear?” Amy said. “He needs to be in bed with a warm glass of milk by eleven.”

Petrova laughed, so Ruza surmised that she was joking.

“I’ll bring him back in one piece – promise,” Petrova said as she waved goodbye.

Ruza donned his jacket and mask, following her out onto the dark street to find an idling vehicle waiting on the road, its headlights illuminating the nearby buildings. It was a pickup truck with a flatbed for carrying small payloads – much smaller than the massive armored APCs and large cargo vehicles he was used to seeing, usually operated by civilians.

“Thought we’d go for a drive!” she declared as she opened the driver’s door and swung a leg inside. “I’m not sure you’ll fit in the passenger seat. You good riding in the back?”

“Not a problem,” he replied, the rear suspension sagging as he hauled himself up into the bed and sat down. There was a blue duffel back beside him, and he was careful not to sit on it. The engine thrummed, and he gripped a convenient structural bar as the truck pulled out, accelerating down the road.

It wasn’t possible to have a conversation with the wind whipping through the open-framed truck, and he wasn’t wearing an earpiece, so he contented himself with watching the prefabs flash by as he bounced in the back.

After a little driving, he realized that they were heading out of the populated areas of the city and into the industrial parks that ringed it. Prefabs gave way to warehouses and factories, and those soon gave way to desert. Petrova was taking him outside the colony, and he had to hold on tighter as the truck began to crest dunes, making for a bumpy ride. The tether continued to diminish, the desolate landscape lit only by the pale light of Hades’ ice moon, a few rock formations and outcrops rising on the horizon.

Just when he was considering raising his voice over the roar of the engine to ask her where they were going, Petrova pulled the vehicle to a stop atop a tall dune. The engine fizzled out, and Petrova hopped from the cab, slamming the door closed behind her.

“This seems as good a place as any,” she declared, appraising their empty surroundings.

“For what?” Ruza asked as he leapt down from the bed, landing in the cooling sand.

“Toss me that bag,” Petrova said, gesturing to the duffel. He handed it to her, and she set it down, zipping it open. She produced a large blanket, waving it open and carefully laying it out on the sand. Next came several MRE packets, which she laid out on top of it.

“What is this?” Ruza asked curiously.

“Picnic,” she declared, spreading her arms as though impressed by her work. “Don’t tell me Rask don’t have picnics?”

“We are eating here?”

“Yup,” she said, sitting down on the blanket and patting it in invitation.

He sat down beside her, feeling the loose sand shift beneath the blanket, the wind blowing his hair. The endless dunes extended in every direction, the pale sand reflecting the moonlight, the tiny fragments of quartz making them seem to shimmer like waves frozen in time. The stars were stark and bright against the inky sky, almost like being in orbit, and the moon shone like a beacon. Far in the distance, he could just make out the golden stain of light pollution from the city, along with the faint collision lights that ran up the tether.

“Zen garden,” Petrova explained. “Figured you might appreciate a little peace and quiet with how hectic things must have been at the clinic.”

“It is a welcome change of pace,” he replied. “I enjoy my work, but there is a considerable backlog of patients to get through after all the fighting. Many have not been able to see a physician in weeks, if not months. It will take time before things die back down to their normal level.”

“You’re always thinking about other people,” she continued as she looked out over the desert. “If you won’t think about yourself, it’s a good thing that you surround yourself with people who will.”

***

They ate their MREs, chatting about work and recent events on the colony as the moon rose ever higher in the sky. The cold began to creep in, and Ruza noticed that Petrova had started to shiver, her suit perhaps not insulating her as much as she had anticipated.

He began to take off his jacket, but she stopped him, shuffling nearer on the blanket. She lifted his arm around her shoulders and slid beneath the garment, pressing close to him, their shared body heat trapped within as he wrapped it around her. It was as much a show of affection as a means of keeping warm, and he allowed himself to hold her, the pair staying like that for a few minutes more.

“You know what our problem is?” she asked.

“What?” he replied, glancing down at her.

“So much of what we have in common – so much that we talk about is grounded in lives we no longer want for ourselves. I don’t want to always look to the past. I don’t want you to always be thinking about the Rebellion, and me about Barbosa. I don’t want our only touchstones to be war and betrayal.”

“What would you have us do?” Ruza asked.

“I want to make new memories,” she replied. “New, good memories just for us, that aren’t tainted by some kind of giant interstellar incident. I want to look to the future and see good things. I want to be excited about what the next day might bring.”

“Have you reconsidered my suggestion?” Ruza asked. “I can still petition the Governor to grant you asylum. It is within his power. We will not allow anyone to harm you or take you away from here.”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” she sighed. “Let’s just be here together for a while. It’s just you, me, and the desert. There’s nothing that can bother us while we’re out here.”

Ruza wanted to press the issue, but he remembered Amy’s words. He should listen and let Petrova lead the way.

“You’re warm,” she murmured as she pressed closer.

He could feel her resting a mechanical hand on his thigh. Without limbs, she had less mass, and less blood. She might have more trouble regulating her body temperature than an intact human would. Another side-effect of her augmentations.

“I should have asked Wasp if I could borrow her survival suit,” she continued with a chuckle. “Those things are amazing. It’s like wearing a portable climate control system. You could walk around on the surface of an airless moon wearing nothing but a skin-tight suit. It’d drain the batteries pretty fast, though.”

“We can return if you are cold.”

“No, I’m enjoying myself,” she replied with a smirk. “Gives me an excuse to huddle up with you.”

“You do not require an excuse.”

“True,” Petrova conceded. “Amy told me that if I want something, I should ask for it. My feminine wiles are lost on aliens, I suppose. Not that I had all that many wiles to begin with.”

“I believe her assessment was that I have the intuition of a concrete road barrier,” he repeated.

“Did she say that?” Petrova asked, covering her mouth with a prosthetic hand as though trying to stifle the laughter that was slipping out. “You’re not quite that bad, I don’t think. We’re just different species, and different species have different body language – different ways of communicating. Take your ears, for example. They flatten when you’re surprised or angry. You cock your head like a puppy when you’re confused,” she added, giggling again when he tilted his head. “Yeah, like that. And your tail whips back and forth when you’re annoyed.”

“You have been thorough in your observations.”

“It’s my job,” she replied with a shrug. “Watching people, picking up on subtle cues, learning about how they behave so I can…exploit them.”

“Most of what I know of humans, I learned on Hades,” Ruza replied. “I lived with Marines in the auxiliary program, but that environment is very different. Borealans often become confused when civilians do not behave as the Navy does. The Navy is very structured and regimented. Everyone has a rank, and every subordinate must show respect to their officers in much the same way a pack does their Alpha. The chain of command is very clear. We do well in such an environment. When we transition to a civilian setting, we find it disorientating and chaotic. There is no structure, and interactions are governed by no obvious hierarchy. Social status is determined through an unending, baffling dance of subtle interactions and cues, and it never finds a stable condition. It is always in flux, and it even varies between groups.”

“Yeah, I can see how that would be hard to understand,” she conceded. “Even humans aren’t always conscious of how our social system works. Fletcher certainly wouldn’t have taught you how to be a functioning member of society.”

“While I do not fully understand humans, I enjoy their company,” he added. “As complicated as they are in some ways, they are refreshingly uncomplicated in others. All of the tension and the need to maintain one’s standing, sometimes through violence, is absent. I need not avert my eyes from another pack’s Alpha as I walk through the street, and I need not fear that a mundane interaction could become violent if proper submission is not shown.”

“Sounds like a pretty stressful way of living,” Petrova mused. “It’s easy to see why you left.”

“It was not all bad,” he continued, gazing out at the dunes. “There are things that I still miss. I have left the Rask territory behind me, but it will never fully leave me. The sensation of giving oneself to another wholly and without reservation. Trusting someone to care for you and protect you. Sharing all aspects of your life with someone else. Not sleeping and eating alone. These are things that I have given up.”

“Well, you don’t necessarily need to give those things up,” Petrova began. He felt her shift her weight restlessly, and she lifted her head to peer up at him. “Those things all sound like components of a healthy relationship to me. Think of it like a pack of two people, with nobody really in charge. You could trust me,” she added, Ruza hearing the pulse of her heart start to quicken. “You wouldn’t have to wake up alone if you didn’t want to…”

“I would like to try,” he replied. He waited, sensing a tension in Petrova, as though there was something more she wished to say. Might she be anticipating a kiss?

“Traditionally, a kiss is appropriate on the first date,” she confirmed as her face flushed pink. “You guys kiss, right?”

“Y-yes,” he stammered. “Apologies. I did not wish to overstep.”

“I give you permission to be a little spontaneous,” she replied with a smile. “I won’t get mad.”

She seemed to size him up, quickly realizing that she couldn’t reach his head while they were both sitting. She squeezed out from beneath his jacket and stood beside him, putting her a little taller than he was, but still at a comfortable height.

Petrova reached out with her prosthetic hands, Ruza feeling the cool plastic against his cheeks as she cradled his head – massive in proportion to her own. In comparison, her skull was closer to the size of his clenched fist. While they were cold and lifeless, there was a palpable affection in the way her hands moved, Ruza feeling a treaded thumb stroke him gently. They might not be made of flesh, but her limbs were responding to signals sent directly from her brain just as a real one would.

She seemed all too aware of it, moving in quickly, the Rask having to tilt his head up a little more to meet her. Her lips were small, yet full and pink, shining as they caught the moonlight. Petrova pursed them, closing her eyes as they embraced.

Ruza had never kissed a human before, so he let her lead the way, only parting his lips when he felt her tongue begin to probe. It was so small – barely larger than the pad of his finger, yet its flesh was as smooth as silk. Now, it was his own heart that raced, that little muscle sliding into his mouth. It mapped him slowly, experimenting, pulling away when it encountered the sharp points of his teeth or the bristles on his tongue.

He could sense that she was surprised, but she pressed on, and he reciprocated. Folding his tongue so that only the smooth underside was exposed, he pushed it into her mouth, only a few inches sufficient to bulge her cheeks. It coiled around her organ like a tail gripping a tree limb, sliding against her palate, glancing the back of her throat. He felt her choke, and he withdrew, the pair breaking off their kiss. Petrova sputtered, catching her breath, seeming a little off-balance.

“Damn,” she stammered, as red as ever. “How much tongue do you have?”

He extended it as a demonstration, near a foot of wet muscle glistening in the cool air, Petrova swallowing a lump in her throat as she examined it with wide eyes. He withdrew it, his sensitive ears picking out the quick thumping of her heart once more.

“Let’s hope that’s the only thing that’s a foot long,” she muttered. “What on Earth do you even use that thing for?”

“Cleaning our fur,” he explained. “Hence the bristles.”

“Why didn’t I feel them when you…”

“We learn to fold our tongues,” he explained. “It takes some practice. You are…displeased?”

“No, no,” she continued with a nervous laugh. She reached up to adjust her hair, running her prosthetic fingers through it. “I just…that was one hell of a kiss.”

“Perhaps I could-”

“I want to try again,” she insisted. “I didn’t expect a kiss to be complicated, but I want to learn everything about you. I can’t stall at the first hurdle.”

Still cradling his face in her hands, she drew in once more, this kiss more confident than the first. Knowing what to expect now, she was more at ease, and Ruza extended only a little of his tongue so as not to overwhelm her. One of her hands slipped from his cheek and came to rest on his shoulder, Petrova supporting herself as she leaned in, her gentle sighs and the quiet sounds of their embrace all that he could focus on.

The kiss could not drag on for long – humans hadn’t much lung capacity – and she drew away after a few moments more.

“There,” she gasped, catching her breath. “Just gotta stick with it.”

“You are as persistent as ever,” he sighed.

“Is this…working for you?” she added, her smile more like a grimace. “I’m trying to go for romantic, but I don’t know how your culture differs from mine. Maybe this whole thing just seems strange and awkward to you.”

Ruza raised a hand to her face, stroking her warm cheek with his soft fur, the sharp breath that she exhaled misting in the cool night air. He drew her in for another kiss, this one a little more passionate, feeling all of her apprehension melt away at his touch. It was all the reply that she needed, and once they were parted again, she sank back down to sit beside him on the blanket.

There was no pretense in their closeness now, Petrova cuddling up to him as he draped an arm around her.

“I believe I enjoy picnics,” he declared, Petrova chuckling beneath his jacket.

They remained that way for a while longer, enjoying this new state of affairs, Ruza listening to the silence of the desert. He might have trouble expressing it, but Petrova had stirred something within him, and it wasn’t merely the kiss. She had listened attentively, and she had considered his words, bringing him here to share in his appreciation of the natural beauty that surrounded them. It was a kind gesture performed not in service of gaining favor or status, but simply to please him, and perhaps as a way to be alone together.

“I’m gonna have to put my helmet back on so my suit’s heating element can work properly,” she chuckled, her teeth chattering. “I knew it got cold out here at night, but I wasn’t expecting this. I’ll have to bring those damned leathers next time. Not exactly the most flattering getup.”

“Do not stay too long on my account,” Ruza replied. “You have already shown me great kindness tonight.”

“I have?” she asked, seeming surprised for a moment. “I hoped you’d like the desert. Figured it might remind you of home.”

He nodded, taking her hand and lifting her to her feet.

“Come,” he said. “We shall head back to the city.”

CHAPTER 44

DAY 66 – HADES – PETROVA

“You’re an alien,” Petrova began.

“Really?” Lily asked, feigning surprise as she glanced down at her lower pair of hands. “Whatever gave you that idea?” she added, the plates that made up her face somehow conveying a smile as they split apart to free her proboscis. It slipped down into the neck of a bottle she was drinking from, little bulges traveling up it like a cartoon straw.

They were sitting in the Navy bar again, the two women hidden away in a corner booth as they chatted, watching people come and go with drinks in hand.

“You’ve been with other species, right?” Petrova pressed. “Like, romantically?”

“I’m offended that you would call my chastity into question,” she joked, still able to speak with that tube-like mouth part extended. “Spill the beans – what do you really want to ask?”

“I guess I’m looking for advice,” Petrova conceded, pausing to sip at her bubbling drink.

“Boy troubles?”

“Rask troubles,” Petrova reiterated.

“Oh,” Lily muttered. “Oh!” she continued as the realization struck her. “You’re going after the Doc, aren’t you!?”

“You don’t have to tell the whole bar,” Petrova grumbled, glancing around. “We had our first real date last night.”

“How did it go?” Lily asked, resting four elbows on the table as she leaned in.

“It went well,” she replied. “We kissed.”

“Judging by your background, I’m guessing it was your first time kissing a Borealan?” Lily asked. “Did you know about the whole tongue thing beforehand, or…”

“I had some idea, but it was still surprising,” Petrova admitted. “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking about this,” she added, feeling her cheeks flush. “It was a private moment, but it made me realize how little I really know about Borealans. You were the only person I could think of who might have had similar experiences.”

“So, you want to know what it’s like to date another species,” Lily mused. “What to expect. I have to say, P, I’m both surprised and invigorated by your quick turnaround. Just a few weeks ago, you would have been on team no aliens.”

“Well, Ruza is kind of a special case,” Petrova replied with a flustered laugh.

“I’ll say,” Lily replied, her chuckling much more sultry. “He certainly has the tall, dark, and mysterious look going for him. You have a type.”

“We have a lot more in common than that,” Petrova added, but it wasn’t very convincing.

“Yes, two tortured souls brought together by their shared angst,” Lily said as she took another sip from her drink. “You’re not asking me for advice about what kind of poetry to read him, are you?”

“I suppose not,” Petrova conceded, crossing her prosthetic arms.

“I’m guessing the date went well and you want to be prepared if you manage to get the guy out of that scruffy jacket he’s always wearing.”

“Lily!” Petrova giggled.

“That’s what you’re asking, right? You want the alien perspective.”

“Go on then,” Petrova prompted, taking another drink as though to steady her nerves.

“It may be a little different for me,” Lily began, the way that she gestured with different arms always keeping Petrova guessing. “I’m a Jarilan, and we are – for lack of a better term – a manufactured species. We were made for a purpose, with features best suited for our intended roles, and one of those roles is interacting with aliens. Humans, most importantly.”

“It’s surprising to hear you say that so freely,” Petrova said. “You don’t feel that it delegitimizes you?”

“Not at all,” she replied with a shake of her head that made her feathery antennae wave in the air. “It’s actually kind of reassuring. I like knowing that I was made for a reason. The YST ensures that we can choose our own destiny if we wish, but I was made to be a pilot, and that’s what I like doing. A lot of our features were designed to be appealing to humans,” she added, batting her long lashes pointedly. She brought one of her hands to her chest piece and rapped her knuckles on it. “These puppies ain’t functional – I’ll tell you that much.”

“Really?” Petrova snickered. “They’re just…for show?”

“And for fun,” she replied with a wink. “The Queen knew that, in order for her colony to survive, she would have to build strong social bonds with her human allies. The more they like us, the less chance of the Navy getting antsy and blowing a hole in Jarilo.”

“Makes sense,” Petrova said with a nod. “Survival for her isn’t about adapting to the local environment or building the best weapons anymore – it’s about integrating with the human colonists. She’s applying the same logic.”

“I make it sound a little more conspiratorial than it really is,” Lily continued. “She just wants to be useful. In my case, I’m made for humans. We’re very compatible. I’m born with the same intuitive understanding of body language that any human would be, and I have the added benefit of being able to pick up pheromones that humans aren’t even conscious of.”

“That’ll be the antennae,” Petrova suggested with a gesture to the long appendages.

“Right,” Lily replied, combing her fingers through one of them. “Even being so well equipped, there are still some road bumps,” she continued with a shrug. “Mostly on the Endo side. Some guys are intimidated – they don’t know what to do with me. They see me, and they assume that I’m going to be much more alien than I really am. They usually mellow out once they realize that we’re really not all that different on the inside.”

“Is that a lesson about not judging people by their appearance or a euphemism?” Petrova asked skeptically.

“Yes,” Lily replied with a smile. “You’re both mammals – your physiology is a lot more similar to a Borealan than mine is to a human. They’re always going at it in the Navy – you hear about it all the time. This is a road well-traveled.”

“I’m just worried he’s going to be packing something as big as his tongue,” Petrova whispered. “That isn’t going to work for me.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Lily said, lowering her voice and leaning closer in their little booth. “Things don’t always scale proportionally. If human guys and Borealan girls are getting along so famously, I doubt that their males are packing anything that’s going to be a problem. I’ve even heard stories about girls who are in relationships with Krell. Takes a little patience, a little practice, and a little bravery, but they make it work. Just take things slow and make sure you communicate.”

“Thanks,” Petrova added. “I feel a little more confident about it now. I can talk to Amy about romance stuff, I can talk to Wasp about humans, but you’re the only person I can think of who really has any experience with this kind of relationship.”

“I get around,” she chuckled. “It’s kind of a feast or famine situation for Jarilans. The well of Endos is either bone dry or overflowing. I’m making the most of it before I get shipped back. Hopefully, they send me home on a Jarilan troop carrier instead of a goddamned Courser this time. I will never understand how other species can just live on a spaceship for months at a time. My job is to be cooped up in tiny meat cavities, and I think it would drive even me crazy with boredom.”

“What do you mean?” Petrova asked. “Your ships aren’t faster than ours, are they?”

“No, but we hibernate during the journey,” Lily explained. “We go to sleep in a little pod hooked up to a drip of honey, and when we wake up, we’ve arrived. The whole journey takes a few minutes from our perspective.”

“Weird,” Petrova marveled. “Doesn’t it bother you to sleep away months of your life? That’ll add up over time.”

“There’s not really a lot of space for recreation on our ships,” she added. “Ever seen a colonoscopy? It’s a little like that. Oh, one more thing,” she continued. “I’ve heard some rumors on the grapevine that might interest you. You know that Rask have barbs on their tongues and claws on their fingers, right?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting the barbs,” Petrova replied. “Ruza told me they were used to clean his fur.”

“Well,” Lily continued, curling her antenna around a finger in the way someone might toy with a lock of their hair. “Think of all the clever things you can do with those stubby fingers and that flat tongue that a Rask can’t. Use your imagination…”

“Oh!” Petrova exclaimed, her eyes wide as sordid possibilities flashed through her mind.

“Put those things on vibrate mode and give him a first-class ticket to orbit,” Lily added with a nod to Petrova’s prosthetics, making the agent choke on her drink.

DAY 66 – HADES – RUZA

“You want advice from me?” Reed asked, giving Ruza a skeptical look.

“You are courting Wasp, are you not?” Ruza replied.

The pair were standing in the square, the town hall rising up ahead of them, its drab carbcrete still decorated with the yellow banners of the resistance. The area had been temporarily cordoned off with hazard tape and cleared of people while modifications were made to the towering obelisk at its center. A scissor lift had been brought in, and a team of workers were affixing Lily’s magnetic sword high on the monument’s flat face – a symbol of the colony’s victory over Barbosa.

“I don’t know if my relationship with Wasp is something you want to emulate,” he replied. “I didn’t so much as court her as elect not to fight back when she decided she liked me.”

“You will not be mated?” Ruza asked.

“I don’t know what the hell that means,” Reed muttered. “If you’re asking whether I’m going to settle down and produce a litter of tiny Reedlings, Wasp is the only one who can answer that question. She’s the kind of crazy that I like, but not all human relationships are meant to last, Doc. Some people get married, have kids, and grow old together. Other people meet like two ships in the night, they have filthy, disrespectful sex, then they go their separate ways. If those are the lemons life gives you, you gotta enjoy that sweet lemonade for as long as it lasts.”

“I understand very little of what you just said.”

“Genius is often misunderstood in its time.”

“Amy tells me that I should plan the next date,” Ruza continued, ignoring his comment. “But I do not know what human women enjoy.”

“Doesn’t matter what the human females enjoy,” Reed replied, putting on a mocking imitation of Ruza’s flat tone. “You’re supposed to be thinking about what Petrova enjoys. I’m not sure how much help I can be there, as my interactions with her have been limited to witnessing impressive acts of violence and emotional breakdowns. If you ask me, everyone who works for SWAR has a screw loose, but a few loose screws is sometimes exactly what you need in a relationship. You two are like peas in a pod, and by that I mean you’re both as crazy as each other.”

“I will elect to interpret that as a statement of approval.”

“You know, people like Petrova and Wasp have spent their whole adult lives fighting,” Reed continued as he lifted his head to watch a workman adjust the sword. “They might not have had time to develop any interests or hobbies outside of assassinations and learning how to kill a man with one punch. Petrova might be trying to figure out who she wants to be now. Maybe you can share something new with her – some activity she hasn’t experienced before. Dating is all about making good memories that last.”

“Good memories,” Ruza mused.

“Unfortunately, you’re on Hades,” Reed continued. “I’m afraid that we have a deficit of amusement parks and guided boat tours. I might have suggested taking a ride up to the station, buying some duty-free booze, and having a fancy dinner with a view of the planet. The last time she rode the elevator, she fought her Commander to the death in single combat, so that might not go down too well.”

“Are there any popular recreational activities here?” Ruza asked.

“The kids like to race dune buggies and dirt bikes,” Reed replied with a shrug. “I’m not sure you’d fit in a dune buggy. Exploring old mines and abandoned ExoCorp facilities is another popular activity, but we’ve all spent the last few months doing that involuntarily, so it probably won’t kindle any positive emotions. There’s at least one VR parlor that I know of, but again, a VR headset isn’t going to fit on your medicine ball-sized head. Pretty much all of the restaurants have closed down due to the rationing. Maybe you can make a game of going out and looking for the crater Barbosa made when he landed.”

“Perhaps it is a question of scale,” Ruza said as he considered for a moment.

“What do you mean?” Reed asked.

“As you say, Petrova has never had the chance to experience normalcy,” Ruza continued. “The mundane day-to-day life of a civilian could be novel to her. Perhaps it is not excitement that she requires, but a calm, intimate scenario.”

“What are you thinking?” Reed asked. “A quiet night in?”

“That may be just what the doctor ordered.”

“You’re learning to repeat jokes like some kind of giant, evil Valbaran,” Reed muttered. “It’s very off-putting.”

“Thank you for your counsel, Reed,” Ruza replied as he turned to leave. “I believe I have all that I need.”

“That’s why they call me the love machine,” Reed called after him. “Don’t repeat that to Wasp, by the way. Seriously, she’ll break it off and beat me with it.”

DAY 67 – HADES – RUZA

Ruza heard a buzz at his door, and he set down the spoon he was using to stir his pot, leaving the cramped stove to hit the touch panel. The door opened to reveal Petrova standing on the steps outside, her helmet in hand.

“Hi!” she chimed, giving him a smile. “Hope I’m not too early.”

“Please come in,” he said, standing aside and gesturing for her to enter. He took her helmet and her leather shawl, hanging them by the door on his makeshift coat rack.

Petrova’s eyes widened as she looked around the prefab. Where once there had been bare walls and sparse furniture, there were now decorations. Some of the corners and surfaces had been adorned with potted plants, most of which were artificial, but a handful were real. Textured rugs had been laid down over the cold, bare floor, and a large mirror had been installed behind the seats in the living area to create the illusion of more space. A few ornate throw pillows now covered the chairs and the bedding, and there was a lamp on the low coffee table that lit the area in a soft, warm glow to counter the harsh overhead light strips.

“When did you do all this?” she marveled, clearly impressed. “I was here only a few days ago, and even after all the holes had been patched, it was about as bare as a bachelor pad can get.”

“I enlisted Amy’s help to make it more homely,” he replied as he returned to the tiny kitchen area. “She advised that purchasing these items would make the prefab feel more welcoming.”

“A woman’s touch,” Petrova chuckled. “I’m glad you followed my advice. The place has really shaped up. That smells great,” she added, lifting her chin a little as she sniffed the air. “What are you making?”

“I wish to surprise you,” he replied, keeping his attention focused on the meal. He was wide enough that she couldn’t easily see past him. “It will not take long to finish.”

“I notice that you’ve set the plates on the coffee table,” she said, turning to the living room. “I’m guessing those little fold-out kitchen tables the Hadeans use are too small for you?”

“Correct,” he replied. “I hope you do not mind.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “It takes me back, actually – eating lunch on the couch after getting home from work. That was a lifetime ago, before I joined SWAR.”

She took off her dusty boots and left them by the door before sitting on one of the plush armchairs, shifting a few throw pillows aside to make room. She was wearing civilian clothes today – hence the leather shawl, the sleeves of a long shirt and pants concealing much of her prosthetics. Ruza wondered if she was self-conscious about them – if she was trying to hide them, but it was hard to imagine her without them. They were a part of her.

It took only a few minutes more for the food to be ready, and he began to bring the dishes to the table, easily able to balance them in his large hands.

“You look like a giant waiter,” she snickered as he set a bowl down on the glass. “I think you could pull off a tuxedo.” She began to examine the dishes as he left to fetch more, leaning over the table. “What is this? Did you…”

“I asked Rivera if he knew of any Marines from your home territory,” Ruza explained as he placed two amber-colored drinks on the table. “They shared some recipes that I thought you might enjoy.”

“You had Rivera scour the barracks for Russians?” she chuckled, stirring around one of the dishes with a serving spoon. “This is beef stroganoff! How did you even get the ingredients for this during a famine?”

“I did not…exactly,” he admitted. “The beef was sourced from an MRE, the sour cream was rehydrated, and the onions and mushrooms were grown locally. I do not know how they might compare to the Earth variety.”

“And this is pelmeni!” she exclaimed, turning her attention to a dish stacked with steaming dumplings. “Did you make these from scratch?”

“I had to barter for some fresh eggs,” he explained. “I am fortunate that there are chickens being kept on Hades. Hardy birds, I assume. I used some of the same meat and onions that I used for the first dish, and Amy gave me some sugar. The cooking process was simple – one needs only to boil them in water. Washing the dough from my fur was the difficult part.”

“You didn’t have sugar?” Petrova asked with a smirk.

“Borealans are not very sensitive to sweet flavors,” he explained. “We do not commonly use it as a seasoning.”

“I’ve never heard sugar described as a seasoning, but I suppose that makes sense,” she laughed. “I know where this came from,” she added, gesturing to a jar. “That’s varenye – cherry jam.”

“It was a gift from a patient,” he explained. “As was the wine. I also made this,” he added, gesturing to the drinks. Petrova lifted one, bringing it to her lips and taking an experimental sip.

“This is kvass!” she said, taking a second, deeper drink. “Or something very similar. Where did you find this on Hades, of all places?”

“The humans here are very fond of fermenting their own alcoholic beverages,” he replied as he took a seat on a large couch opposite her. “I would wager that they have made every kind of drink here. I understand that this kvass has a low alcohol content, so it is something that we can share. I find that humans enjoy drinking in a social setting, and without any beverages from my homeworld, I can seldom join them.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you drinking beer when everyone else is drinking spirits,” she said. “Ruza, I don’t know what to say. This is so sweet of you. You must have gone to so much trouble to set all of this up.”

“I had much help.”

They began to eat, and Ruza found that he very much enjoyed the more savory dishes. Humans ate more grains and root vegetables than Rask, who preferred gourds, but salted meat transcended cultural barriers. The creamy sauce served with the beef was especially pleasant. He doubted very much that his cooking came anywhere close to what Petrova was used to, but he felt a familiar warmth grow within him as he watched her eat. He had prepared food with his pack before, as many everyday tasks had been shared between its members, and he felt the same satisfaction now that he did while watching them enjoy the fruits of his labor. It was a different feeling – one without such an urgent need to please, and not motivated by a fear of reprisal.

“I haven’t had anything like this in a long time,” Petrova began over a mouthful of dumpling. “Longer than you think. On carriers and coursers, it’s MREs or terrible mess hall food. In the field, it’s usually whatever you can get. The MREs you’d turn down aboard ship become as valuable as gold in the trenches. We rarely get shore leave, so the only time I ever eat a good meal is when I’m undercover.”

“I am glad you are enjoying it,” Ruza replied. “All who live share the love of a hearty meal.”

“Once the food situation improves, I’m really looking forward to you introducing me to some Rask cuisine,” she added with a glance across the table. “I’m assuming it consists of a great deal of meat.”

“It is true that we require large quantities of protein,” he conceded. “Fletcher would very often invite me to his barbecues. He imported special wood chips from Earth that he was convinced would subtly alter the flavors of the meat he prepared. He taught me to grill, and he took great pride in the whole affair. Once, he tried to puree a burger and feed it to Bluejay – a Jarilan who cannot eat solid food.”

“What?” Petrova snickered. “How did that go?”

“Bluejay humored him, but I am told that the experience was quite unpleasant.”

“I still have a hard time imagining Fletcher spending his retirement grilling burgers with his Valbaran wife on an alien moon,” she continued. “I suppose people really can change. How do Rask throw their barbecues?”

“As I mentioned, we do not have a strong taste for sweet flavors,” he explained as he speared a dumpling on his claw and brought it to his mouth. “Rask and Elysian culinary styles both favor savory meat dishes, and we employ more oils and fats in our cooking than humans do. It is common to baste or season meats with oils derived from other meats, fish, or vegetables. The texture of a dish is also of great importance. Much of the cooking happens over an open flame pit. The rendering of fats from the cooking process is an important consideration, as the lards are used in the preparation of soups and stews. Seafood such as fish and crustaceans is commonly eaten in Elysia, but our lake is far poorer, and so they have become more of a delicacy than a staple for the Rask.”

“Sounds like something I can get behind,” she said, gesturing with a fork. “It’s a little like…frying a cut of steak in bacon grease or something.”

“Humans often find our dishes overly salty and rich,” he continued. “However, I have been told that the use of sweet condiments helps to counteract that.”

“Yeah, barbecue sauce will make basically anything edible,” she chuckled.

“As it is with fish oil,” he replied with a rare smile.

“Fish oil?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Go on…”

“It is common for us to carry around vials of oil used for seasoning,” he explained. “Much like your condiments or spices, each person often has a favorite flavor. Mine was an oil derived from a breed of Elysian fish. It was uncommon, even in my home territory.”

“You’d use fish oil like it was ketchup?” she chuckled. “That’s adorable. Humans have fish oil too, you know. My mother used to feed me cod liver oil because she thought it was good for the brain. Tell you what – once trade picks up again, I’ll find you a substitute. I don’t know if we’ll be able to match your favorite exactly, but I bet there’s something very similar.”

“I would like that,” he replied with a bow of his head.

“After everything you’ve done for this colony, the least you deserve is some damned fish oil,” she added. “If there was any justice in the world, you’d get a lifetime’s supply of the best from the Patriarch’s own stores. Assuming that’s where he keeps his fish oil. I’m imagining something like a winery.”

“It is an amusing image, but I doubt it.”

“I’ll have to take you out to a burger joint one of these days,” she continued as she enjoyed another forkful of stroganoff. “They must have some on the colony. There are Americans here, and where there are Americans, there are burgers. Based on what you’ve told me, a giant, greasy diner-style burger might be just what you need.”

“I look forward to the experience,” he said, his resonating chuckle seeming to surprise her.

***

They ate slowly, enjoying their meal as they chatted throughout the evening, Petrova breaking open the wine when the hour grew later. There was no great urgency, no crisis that commanded their attention, and nowhere they had to be. One another’s company was the only entertainment they required, and Ruza felt himself growing more at ease the longer the date went on.

By the time it was over, Petrova was a little tipsy, Ruza walking her over to the door.

“I might have gotten just a little too comfortable,” she began, holding her prosthetic thumb and forefinger a few millimeters apart. It was amusing to see that the effects of the alcohol had as large an impact on her augmentations as they would on organic limbs. She was a little unsteady on her feet, but not stumbling.

“It is an appropriate time to celebrate,” Ruza replied, looming over her near the door.

“You are really tall,” she added, peering up at him. “I know it goes without saying, but every time I think I’ve gotten used to it, you surprise me again and my brain has to recalibrate. I like it,” she added. “This was a great date idea. I had a really nice evening. Thank you for the meal and the company – it was very thoughtful.”

“You are most welcome,” he replied. “After everything that has happened, it has been nice to slow down and appreciate some simple pleasures. I feared that you might not be entertained.”

“You are a very entertaining person,” she snickered. “Intentional or otherwise. Next date is on me. You gonna be free in the next few days?”

“The weekend is fast approaching,” he confirmed with a nod. “The clinic is closed on Sundays. Amy insists upon it. I believe it relates to some human custom.”

“I expect the Unions fought hard to secure their weekends,” she said with a smile.

“Would you like me to walk you home?” he added.

“I’m good,” she replied with a shake of her head. “There’s barely any traffic, and the streets are very safe these days. Not to mention that I could probably take out a whole squad of PDF even if I was twice as sauced as I am right now.”

“True enough,” Ruza conceded. “Would you like to take the rest of the wine with you? I cannot drink it myself.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” she replied. “You could send me home with a kiss,” she added, looking at him expectantly.

He leaned his forearm on the wall above the door behind her, dropping down as close as he could reach without crouching. She had to turn her head up and stand on her toes to meet him, but she seemed to enjoy that, Petrova pressing her back against the door panel as their lips joined. With the experience they had gleaned on their prior date, they were much more at ease now, knowing what to expect and how to respond to one another. Petrova’s mild inebriation made her a little more confident – a little more careless, one of her robotic hands rising to grip the collar of his shirt as they embraced.

His heart raced as he felt her tiny, smooth tongue meet his own, as soft as anything he could have imagined. It was quick – agile, darting and stroking as though attempting to map out its far larger counterpart. Ruza was still learning how much length he could give her in return, and he felt her body tense up as he slid three or four inches past her lips, her pace growing more aggressive. She tasted a little of the wine still, its aroma giving a fruity flavor to her kiss, his ears picking up the hastening of her pulse as her cheeks glowed ever redder.

She broke off suddenly, a shining strand joining them for a moment before it fell away.

“We’re getting better at this,” she gasped. “It’s getting dangerous.”

“Would you have us slow down?” Ruza asked.

“Hell no,” she replied. She reached for the helmet that was hanging from the coat rack beside her, slotting it on, almost as though putting a barrier between them was the only way she could tear herself away from the encounter. “We’ll pick it up on Sunday. See you then, Doc.”

She hit the touch panel by the door and walked off into the night.

DAY 68 – HADES – PETROVA

“Third date,” Fran said, wagging a finger at Petrova around the beer bottle she was holding before knocking it back. “You gotta put out.”

“Fran!” Petrova gasped, following up with a laugh.

“I’m serious!” Fran continued as she leaned back in her floral armchair. “You can’t lead him on forever, P. He’s an alien – maybe he’ll get the wrong idea and think you aren’t interested. I don’t know how long one of those cat people is expected to wait before it’s polite to put the moves on someone.”

“He hasn’t made any moves yet,” Petrova said with a shrug. “But I didn’t expect him to. Rask aren’t exactly renowned for being gentlemanly, so I think he feels like he has to take a very passive role. I get the sense he’s waiting for me to give him permission. That’s not a bad thing by any means.”

“Then do it!” Fran insisted, leaning across the coffee table. “Unless you want to wait for the next eight-foot-tall rich war hero doctor to come wandering through. We’re practically drowning in them on Hades,” she scoffed as she took another swig.

“He hasn’t been in a relationship for a very long time,” Petrova explained. “Or maybe at all. I’m not super clear on the details. I think it’s good to take things slow. I don’t want to scare him by rushing into things too quickly.”

“He has a cock, doesn’t he?” Fran pressed. “He’s not going to try to pollinate you with spores or something? When an opportunity like this presents itself, you need to jump on it – and I mean physically in this case. You jump on the rich doctor, and you lock him down. Option B is drinking until Carl starts to look appealing.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Petrova sighed. “I think I’m doing the thing again.”

“What thing?” Fran asked, offering her a beer.

Petrova reached across the bowl of potpourri in the middle of the coffee table and took the bottle, popping the cap with her prosthetic fingers.

“Some part of me already knows what I want to do, but I feel this weird need to ask for permission from other people. It’s like I can’t trust myself to make my own decisions.”

“You’re nobody’s lackey anymore,” Fran continued, gesturing with her bottle. “You made that damned clear when you tossed your former boss off the tether. Let me tell you – I’ve known a few shift managers who deserved an involuntary space walk in my time.”

“It was certainly a way to prove my loyalty beyond a doubt,” Petrova muttered.

“With that sword up on the obelisk, I don’t think anyone will be questioning it anymore,” Fran continued. “People talk, and they’re saying good things. Nobody really knew much about you before you joined the resistance. You weren’t like Hoff or Barbosa – nobody hated you.”

“I suppose that’s one of the benefits of being undercover.”

“Even before that, the PDF had good things to say about you. We all heard about how you tried to save the recruits who got all borged up.”

“They were my responsibility,” she replied wistfully.

“Have you thought any more about what you want to do?” Fran asked after a few moments of silence. “I hope you’re not still set on taking the fall for what Barbosa did.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Petrova sighed, leaning back in her seat. “Everyone keeps giving me all these ways out, like I haven’t considered them all. Everyone keeps offering me favors. Is it so hard to believe that I did something wrong and I need to pay for it?”

“You already paid for it,” Fran replied. “You paid for what you did, and you righted the wrongs that you were responsible for. You sweat and bled for it – I wouldn’t be talking to you now if I didn’t think you’d paid your dues. What you’re doing is paying for the things other people did – things that were outside of your control. You’re not responsible for what Barbosa or Hoff or Crow or the PDF did any more than I’m responsible for what happened at the protest. Taking on that burden won’t make you feel better or fix anything.”

“Someone has to,” Petrova insisted. “I’m the only Lieutenant left.”

“Then justice has been served,” Fran said with a shrug. “The sentence was carried out. I don’t think this is about some bleeding heart notion of justice,” she added, taking another swig from her bottle. “I think you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” Petrova replied with a scowl. “Whatever they decide to do with me, I’m ready to face it.”

“No, that’s not what you’re afraid of,” Fran continued. “What you’re afraid of is the inherent uncertainty that comes with being responsible for yourself for the first time.”

“How do you figure that?”

“There’s no Commander barking orders at you, telling you what to do and where to go. You’re not part of a squad or a team or a system, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. You think you’re beholden to the Navy, but they’re not really here – they’re dozens of light years away. You’re not with Barbosa anymore, you’re not with SWAR, you’re not Hadean. The only person responsible for you and the only person who can tell you what to do next is you. You said it yourself – you keep asking for permission to do the things you’ve already decided to do. You keep trying to foist your future on other people so you don’t have to make any difficult choices.”

“Are you suggesting that turning myself over to a Navy tribunal wouldn’t be a difficult choice?” Petrova scoffed.

“Not if it’s the path of least resistance, no,” Fran insisted. “Stop asking for permission. Stop waiting for other people to decide your fate. You wouldn’t be investing all of this time and effort into wooing Ruza if you meant to leave him when the fleet arrives. How do you think he’d feel if you were shipped off to a penal colony, never to be seen again? You haven’t really thought about it because you know that’s not the path you really want.”

“And I’ve been evasive every time he’s asked me about it,” Petrova sighed, sinking a little deeper into the plush cushions with her beer in hand. “He won’t press the issue because he’s too polite, but I know it bothers him. I shouldn’t take advantage of his kindness like that…”

“Maybe some part of you thinks you need a reason to stay,” Fran continued, her tone a little less confrontational now. “Something bigger and more bombastic than just your own happiness. Something that feels more important than answering for Barbosa’s crimes. Maybe you can justify it for him.”

“Maybe,” Petrova conceded quietly.

“There’s nobody looking over your shoulder anymore,” Fran continued. “There’s nobody who can tell you no. You want Ruza? Take him. You want to stay? Do it. For the first time in your life, you have total freedom to do whatever the hell you want, and there’s nobody who can tell you otherwise.”

“I suppose there’s a reason I come to you for advice,” Petrova began, taking another long drink from her bottle. “You’re annoyingly insightful, you know that?”

“If I was so insightful, I’d have seen through you from day one,” she replied with a hearty laugh. “I don’t think I’d have any insights at all if you weren’t broadcasting it to the whole world. I don’t know anything about insurgencies and interstellar politics, but I do know about relationships. Stop agonizing over whether you deserve the things you want and go get them.”

CHAPTER 45

DAY 69 – HADES – PETROVA

Ruza made his way to the landing pad, feeling the backwash from the shuttle’s engines pelt his mask and goggles with airborne sand. Garrison One was its usual hive of activity, a few passing Marines pausing to greet him on their way past, but this was not a military flight.

Petrova was waiting for him beside the open troop ramp, raising a prosthetic hand in greeting as he climbed the steps. He couldn’t hear her over the engines, so he followed her inside the bay, noting that there were some bags strapped to the wall above the rows of seats with cargo netting. She popped open the visor on her helmet, revealing her smiling face.

“Ready to go for a fly?”

“You are certain that you are rated to pilot a Leadbeater?” he asked, glancing past her to the cockpit warily.

“Sure am!” she chimed. “SWAR agents are trained to fly all kinds of craft. It’s not all that hard – the flight computer does most of the work for you. Go ahead and strap in!”

She made her way through the divider that separated the troop bay from the cockpit and climbed into one of the elevated seats, the sunlight fading as the ramp began to close. Ruza sat down in one of the chairs in the bay, adjusting it a little to suit his stature and strapping the harness across his chest.

Once he was secure, Petrova was cleared for takeoff, the engines making the deck beneath his paw pads rumble as the craft lifted off. He wondered where they were headed as they accelerated over the city, the engine noise now fading to a level where they could hold a conversation again.

“Where are we going?” Ruza asked. “I can think of no destination near the city that we cannot reach by foot or by truck.”

“I think you’re going to like it,” she replied cryptically. “It’s our third date, so I wanted to do something a little special.”

“Is there a cultural significance to the third date?” Ruza asked.

“Kind of,” she said – a non-answer.

“I am surprised that you were permitted to take a military craft on such a jaunt,” he continued.

“Well, they have more dropships than qualified pilots right now,” Petrova continued. “All of the cargo they needed has been moved down from the carrier, so other than a few taxi flights for VIPs, most of the dropships are just sitting idle. Besides, you know that Brenner wouldn’t say no to me.”

After only fifteen minutes, Ruza felt the craft begin to decelerate, but the lack of portholes meant that he couldn’t see where they were landing. Petrova brought the dropship to a hover, then he felt the gear make contact with the ground, the engines starting to wind down. Petrova hopped out of her seat and took off her helmet, holding it under her arm as she walked past him. With a press of a button, the troop ramp began to open, allowing warm air and bright light to flood inside.

“Watch your step up here,” Petrova warned as she headed out.

Ruza unstrapped and followed her into the sunlight, vertigo hitting him for a moment.

He was standing on the flat top of one of Hades’ large mesas, the rock formation jutting up from the ocean of sand like an island. It was huge – large enough that it would take him maybe ten minutes to walk from one side to the other, its sheer cliff walls making it impassable to anything but an aircraft. That explained the dropship ride. Above his head was the endless expanse of deep blue sky, the evening sun bearing down on him, and there was nothing but dunes on the horizon in almost every direction. He could see so far from such a height – maybe a hundred kilometers, atmospheric haze blurring the border where the land and sky met. The desert seemed to shimmer beneath the sun, creating the illusion that it was shifting and moving like water.

Ahead of him was the colony, its circular shape easily visible from such an angle. Like a giant, flat plate, its sprawl spread out from the base of the anchor. The white color of the prefabs made them shine like jewels, and the tether rose up to split the heavens in two, like some great deity had dragged a claw down the middle of a canvas to leave a thin trail of black.

“Thought you’d like it,” Petrova said, walking over to stand beside him. “I was wracking my brain trying to think of a way to one-up our picnic from the other day.”

“It is beautiful,” he marveled. “I have never seen such a sight before.”

“You can take off the rebreather,” she added with a gesture to his mask. “This high up, it’s much less dusty.”

“Perhaps we should have built our city atop this mesa,” Ruza mused as he slipped it off.

“We could put in an escalator,” she joked. “Just stay away from the edge, you hear? That drop has to be a couple of thousand feet. I brought everything we need to spend the night up here,” she added as she turned back to the ship.

“Spend the night?” Ruza repeated.

“Yeah!” she continued as she jogged up the ramp. “You’ll want to see the stars from up here, right? I brought food, sleeping bags, blankets – it’ll be great.”

“Alright,” he replied. There was a different energy to Petrova today. She seemed more assertive, somehow more sure of herself, as though she was enacting a plan whose outcome she already knew.

“Once it starts getting cold, we can just close up the troop bay and have ourselves a slumber party,” she called from within the bay. “Even you should have plenty of space in here.”

He meandered closer, watching her pull one of the duffel bags down from the cargo netting. She zipped it open and produced some padded fabric, unrolling a tightly-packed sleeping bag out onto the deck. Another rucksack contained food – both MREs and something in airtight containers that she must have prepared herself prior to the date.

“You hungry yet?” she asked as she peeked out from beneath the shadow of the bay.

“I could eat,” he replied.

“That doesn’t sound very Rask,” she chuckled as she fetched a few MREs and containers. “I can always tell when you’ve added a human phrase to your vocabulary wholesale.”

It was a little windy so high up, so they set up their picnic area in the shadow of the dropship, the craft shielding them. Petrova laid down her blanket and began to start their MRE meals cooking, activating chemical heaters and balancing the packets upright.

“Took a little doing, but I managed to find you one of these,” she said as she produced an MRE that was much larger than the rest. “Ortega had a handful of them in the carrier’s stores, likely left over from some prior deployment. They’re close to being out of date, but they should still be good.”

Ruza didn’t need to read the human markings on the plastic – he knew from its size alone that it was a ration formulated for Borealan auxiliaries. It had five times the calories of a human twenty-four-hour ration pack, and many times the protein.

“Thank you!” he marveled. “It had not even occurred to me to ask!”

“You’ve been pretty busy,” she replied, smiling as he used his claws to slice open the wrapper. “Besides, I’m not sure how safe it is for humans to eat this stuff. There’s a hell of a lot of sodium and saturated fat in there. I’d probably clog an artery.”

Inside were several meat dishes made from beef and pork, dried and salted jerky, and even a few dehydrated gourd slices from the homeworld. They were from Elysia – most Borealan products were – but their familiar taste had him smiling. He offered a slice to Petrova, and she took a tentative bite, rolling it around in her mouth experimentally.

“Huh,” she muttered once she had swallowed the morsel. “It kind of tastes like pumpkin – very fibrous. There’s no sweetness to it, but I suppose I should have expected that. If these are domesticated plants, they won’t have been bred for sweet flavors.”

“They grow in Elysian vineyards,” Ruza explained as he slotted another one into his mouth. “Parasitic vines that coil around some species of native tree produce these gourds, and they are harvested to be used in many kinds of cooking. They are much more flavorful fresh.”

“Still, it’s pretty cool to be able to taste one,” Petrova replied. “I didn’t expect to be eating Borealan food when I came out here. Oh, I found you something else,” she added as she reached for one of the plastic containers. She popped it open and passed it to him. Inside was a small square can, and Ruza lifted it up, inspecting it. “I couldn’t find any fish oil, but I did find you some oily fish. These are called sardines. They’re from Earth, and they’ll last practically forever as long as the seal isn’t broken. They’ve probably been sitting in someone’s pantry since the Syndicate days.”

Ruza hooked a curved claw around the pull tab and eased the can open, a delightful aroma emanating from within that set his mouth watering. Inside were perhaps a dozen tiny, silvery fish suspended in an oily sauce, a few flecks of green suggesting some kind of spice or herb. The heads and tails must have already been removed – he doubted whether Earth fish looked like this naturally. He tried one, spearing it on his claw and lifting it from the oil, his eyes widening as he chewed. Petrova laughed at his reaction as he went for another, having to pace himself so as not to finish the small morsels too quickly.

“I take it the sardines are a hit?” Petrova snickered as she watched him upend the empty can into his mouth. He would have cleaned it with his tongue, but the edges of the tin were rather sharp.

“A delicacy,” he replied, wiping his mouth on the back of his furry hand. “Thank you – they were delicious.”

“You’re pretty low maintenance if a can of sardines is all it takes to make you happy,” she added with a grin. “I’ll have to get you some mackerel, tuna, herring, anchovies. It all keeps practically forever, and it shouldn’t be hard to import once trade starts back up.”

“As I said, our lake was not very productive,” Ruza replied. “Fish was usually only eaten by those of high rank or on special occasions. Most often it was stolen from Elysian trade caravans…”

“Then you’ll be eating like a Patriarch.”

They continued their picnic, Petrova marveling at the quantity of food that Ruza was able to eat in a single sitting. Fresh meat had obviously been scarce throughout the occupation, and while the MRE meals were far from the height of culinary excellence, it had been some time since he had truly been able to end a meal with a full belly. No more small human portions – he could eat his fill.

Petrova had brought a bottle of the wine he’d gifted her, slowly making her way through it as the evening went on. Humans were known to have a tremendous resistance to the effects of alcohol, but Ruza had noted that Petrova seemed especially hardened against it.

She had brought him another gift – a savory dessert she called chips. They were made from the root vegetables the humans so favored, but they had been dusted with a salty, cheese-flavored powder. He was momentarily confused by the presence of what seemed to be a Borealan mascot on the packaging, but his cackling host insisted that it was some Earth animal. Even after he had devoured the bag, he spent several minutes cleaning said powder from his fur with his tongue, much to her amusement.

By the time the sun was setting and the stars were becoming visible, they were surrounded by empty packaging, the pair taking a minute to collect it all so as not to let the wind carry it away. The view of the colony from such a height was spectacular. From the ground, the city had what could generously be described as a utilitarian charm, but he would forgive anyone who referred to it as ugly. It was little more than a sprawl of prefabs, carbcrete structures, and industrial parks. At night, the light pollution created an ethereal glow that rose up into the sky, the golden light seeming to pool around the twinkling tether.

“It’s nice up here,” Petrova said, shuffling closer so that she could lean her head on his arm. “Just the two of us, nobody around to bother us for miles.”

“It was a very good idea for a date,” he replied.

They remained together for a while longer, watching the silver moon rise over the dunes until the temperature began to drop. So high up, it happened even faster, the sun’s absence sapping the air of all its warmth.

“You want to turn in?” Petrova asked.

She should have been sleepy, but Ruza sensed that her pulse was quickening. She might not realize it, but his senses were far more finely tuned than hers, and he could pick up the sound of her heartbeat even through her clothes. There was an energy to her – a nervousness warning him that sleep might not be the only thing on her mind. The third date had seemed to be of significance to her. Perhaps he would soon discover why.

They packed up all of their belongings and headed back inside the ship, Petrova keeping her back to him as she stowed the bags back behind the cargo netting. That done, she hit the switch that raised the ramp, the panel slowly sealing behind them. She turned her attention to the sleeping bags on the floor, piling a few more blankets and sheets on top of them to create a kind of messy nest, a scattering of pillows joining them. There was plenty of room – enough for two Krell to ride standing in the aisle, so there was more than enough space for the pair.

“There,” she muttered, stepping back to appraise her work. “You think that’s alright? I hope we have enough insulation from the deck. I’ll set the heating going,” she added, hurrying off to the cockpit before he could interject. “That should do it,” she declared as she returned to the troop bay. “It’ll be toasty and warm in here before too long. These things don’t lose much heat,” she added with a chuckle that came off somehow nervous. “Being that they’re designed for space and all.”

“It is…cozy,” Ruza replied as he appraised the bay.

“You know something?” Petrova began, keeping the conversation moving. “I’ve slept in a Kodiak, I’ve slept in a Puma, and I’ve even slept in the back seat of a truck, but I’ve never spent the night in a dropship before. This’ll be a first.”

Ruza strode over to her, placing the back of his furry hand against her forehead. She gazed up at him, her cheeks flushed pink and her heart hammering.

“Are you well?” he asked. “You seem…tense.”

“P-probably just the wine,” she stammered. “Now isn’t the time to be playing doctor…”

She moved over to one of the footlockers at the end of a row of seats – they were currently stowed to give them more space – and began to shed the warm flight jacket that she had been wearing over her suit. The dark fabric beneath it was form-fitting – tight in many places, adhering to her lithe frame like a glove. She kicked off her boots, exposing her prosthetic feet, the gentle whirring of servos becoming more audible.

Ruza was unsure of himself, not certain whether this was a display for his benefit or simply something mundane. Those in the Navy often lacked the propriety shown by civilians, where the co-ed environment of their ships and bases seldom left room for privacy. Once more, he mulled over the conversation he’d had with Amy about attraction.

Petrova was unlike Rask women in many ways, yet so like them in others. She was resilient and stubborn like a Rask, and there was much about her body that was comparable. Jarilans, Brokers, and Krell might be drastically different from the other species of the Coalition, but Humans and Borealans shared many outward similarities. Both had a mane of hair upon their heads, both had smooth skin in places, both had two arms, two legs, lips…

Her plantigrade legs and too-numerous fingers were strange, and human noses remained an oddity to him, but so much was similar. The subtle curve of her back, the way that her waist flared out into wide hips to create a familiar silhouette, the way that her chest and rump strained against her uniform – it was close enough to excite the same parts of his brain. He might have considered humans frail at one time. They seemed so small, so weak, less durable than even an adolescent Rask. None of those words could be used to describe Petrova. His preconceptions about humans had left him humbled more times than he cared to count, and the wound on his bicep from his last encounter with one had not yet fully healed.

She began to peel off the black suit, revealing more black fabric beneath it – a tank top and a pair of shorts. It contrasted with the light tone of her skin, drawing his eye, but his more analytical mind wandered to the pink scars where her prosthetics joined to her body. Like Fletcher, her arms were attached at the shoulder, likely anchored directly to the scapula for optimal support. It wasn’t hard to tell when such augmentations were the results of injury, and when they were artificial. The surgical scars were clean and symmetrical – inflicted with purpose.

Her legs were a little different, transitioning to black polymer about halfway down her thighs. The pelvic region was filled with important arteries, nerves, and other sensitive structures, so perhaps the SWAR surgeons deemed the area too risky to operate in. Petrova was an undercover agent, and her prosthetics had been designed to perfectly mimic the shape of their organic counterparts. In silhouette, it would be difficult to tell that she was augmented, and they would be practically invisible beneath clothing. This was not the first time that he had seen them, but this was a very different situation – a new context. To think that the person who was standing before him now was the same one he had once strapped to a chair out of an abundance of caution…

Petrova turned to meet his gaze, seeming momentarily flustered. She reached for her arm, starting to rub it absent-mindedly, the gesture also serving to block some of his view.

“You’re not going to sleep in that dusty jacket, are you?” she asked.

Realizing that she was asking him to disrobe, he shed the jacket, the pants following.

“How do you even find clothes that fit?” she marveled as she watched him strip down to a t-shirt and shorts. He went no further, matching Petrova’s state of dress.

“Some, I brought with me,” he replied. “Others, I had tailored.”

The tension in the rapidly warming troop bay could have been cut with a blade. Ruza was not so naive. He could guess the purpose of this secluded nest, and what he couldn’t guess, Petrova’s pumping heart and flushed cheeks could tell him. She even smelled subtly different, her body’s chemistry changing in ways she might not even be aware of, his sensitive nose easily able to detect it in the enclosed space.

What he didn’t know was how to proceed. An Alpha would command him, and a subordinate would expect instruction, but Petrova was neither of those things. Perhaps he had best err on the side of caution and wait for her to make the first move, as Amy had advised.

“Ruza,” she began, her prosthetic feet barely making a sound as she walked across the bedding to join him. “When we started dating, I asked you if you could be attracted to me. I meant as a human, as an amputee, and as…me. We’re alone now – there’s nobody to disturb us, no crisis that can reach us here. We can go slow, take as long as we like…if you want me.”

“You arranged all of this so that we could be alone,” he mused as he gazed down at her.

“Yes,” she admitted. “That makes it sound a lot less…romantic than I intended.”

“It tells me that you have given it great thought, and that you are certain,” Ruza replied. “I must warn you – I have not partaken in some time, and never with a human. I am…rusty, as they say.”

“I haven’t either,” Petrova replied, a hint of humor entering her tone now. “Somehow, just touching you makes me feel more than I ever did sharing a bunk with other agents on long voyages. We did it because we needed to, same way we needed to eat or sleep, not because it meant anything. The difference is like…an MRE and a home-cooked bowl of stroganoff. This means something. I’ve never felt so self-conscious before,” she added with a nervous laugh. “How I look has never really mattered before tonight.”

“Intimacy is expected of all of us,” Ruza replied as he reached down to enclose her tiny hands in his. “It is a service to our Alphas, a way of determining social standing within the pack, and a means of seeking favor. I gave it up when I left my home, but this is something different. There is nothing that you want from me – nothing that I can give you other than companionship. It is simple and without pretense. Now that I know it exists, I find that I covet it.”

He leaned down, almost having to double over to reach her, Petrova standing on her toes to meet his kiss. The two remained joined together in their shared embrace for only a few moments, but it was both an answer to a burning question, and all the permission they needed to continue.

“Being coveted is pretty good,” Petrova said with a chuckle as they broke off. “I’ll take it.”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Ruza muttered as he felt her prosthetic hands slip from his grasp, raising the hem of his shirt. Cool rubber and polymer brushed against his belly, lifting more fabric to expose him, the way that he tensed reflexively at her touch seeming to embolden her. She tested his muscles, tracing their contours, her digits following a few errant scars as she explored him.

“Feels like you’re hiding level four plates under here,” she mumbled. “It’s no wonder you can take such a beating. All these scars…”

“The majority are from bouts,” he explained. “My own kind. A few – Betelgeusians. Your fellow SWAR have added to the collection as of late.”

“I’ve had most of mine lasered off,” she replied. “Makes me look more normal. Except those where my prosthetics are anchored – not much point in removing those. If someone gets that far, my cover is already blown. Take it off,” she added.

Ruza did as she asked, lifting his shirt over his head to reveal his torso. It was much the same wherever her hands roamed, all tanned skin and faded scars. His right bicep was still bandaged, the deeper wound not yet fully healed.

“I know that you’re older than you look,” Petrova commented as she extended an arm to reach his chest. “The Jarries really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

“Their gene therapy had some positive side effects,” he explained. “In repairing the damaged DNA, they rejuvenated the healthy cells also. The effects of senescence were reversed.”

“You were de-aged, in simple terms,” she said. “Even if my brain wasn’t swimming in hormones right now, I don’t think I could puzzle out the implications of them being able to do that. One would think you’d waste away in low gravity.”

“We must take medication and exercise regularly to maintain our muscle mass,” he replied. “It is a routine that I have not been able to maintain under recent circumstances.”

“And he says that like I should be disappointed,” Petrova chuckled wryly. “Now I know where all that protein is going…”

He tensed again as she planted a lingering kiss on his stomach, her lips tangibly warm.

“I want to kiss you, but you’re so far away,” she said in a tone that betrayed her sordid intent. “Guess I’ll have to make do with whatever I can reach.”

Ruza felt those robotic fingers deftly unfasten a couple of buttons, then they hooked around the hem of his shorts, Petrova already eyeing the bulge beneath the fabric. She seemed more confident – more eager, much of her prior hesitation and nervousness evaporating now that she was certain of where they stood. She would not have gone to such lengths to plan this encounter if she hadn’t already decided where the night would lead them.

It was strange – contradictory to have her be so assertive, but to put his needs before her own. He wasn’t accustomed to such treatment, so he decided to let her take the lead.

Petrova dragged his shorts down, slowly sinking to her knees on the bedding, her stature putting her head level with his waist. She revealed more blonde fur as she went, seeming surprised by the sight. It was much the same as the sandy coat on his limbs and tail, concealing his loins.

“Okay!” she stammered, taking a moment to steady herself as she examined him. “First thing’s first when dealing with an unknown alien species – weapon check. I suppose I just…”

She delved her fingers into his fur, making him flinch as one hand brushed his sensitive sheath, the other feeling for his sack. She weighed his balls in her palm, cupping them gently, the surprise on her face bordering on alarm. It didn’t take much stimulation before his member began to slide free, some of her confusion receding as she watched its pink tip emerge. He knew enough about human anatomy to know that they lacked a sheath, and their male reproductive organs were always visible.

“Oh, there it is,” she mumbled as she watched it swell. “Please don’t be packing a twelve-inch barrel under there…”

She coaxed his shaft to full mast with a few gentle strokes of his sack, letting out an audible sigh of relief when it stopped growing, nine or ten inches of his glistening member pulsing in front of her face. It differed from that of a human in many ways, and he felt a pang of apprehension as he wondered what she might make of him. Instead of skin, it was covered in shining, pink flesh. Where a human shaft was smooth, his was peppered with small bumps – the remnants of what had once been keratinized spines, selected out many generations prior. Where a human glans was rounded and dull, his had more of a taper to it.

“Alright,” she began, giving him a nod of approval as she steeled herself. “This doesn’t look like it’s going to kill me. I can work with that.”

She took it in her hand, finding that she couldn’t quite close her fist around it, letting it throb between her fingers. That prosthetic could have torn it off, but she exerted only the gentlest of pressure.

“Sorry,” she stammered, her eyes flicking up to his face for a moment. “I guess hard plastic and metal doesn’t feel all that nice. These hands were made for killing, not loving.”

“Both require finesse,” he replied. “Your touch is gentle. Do not apologize.”

Encouraged, she began to stroke slowly, a tingle of pleasure ribboning through him. He could feel her testing him – gauging how tightly she should grip, and whether he enjoyed the texture of her polymer housing. In truth, being touched at all was flooding him with an unexpected kind of intoxication, leaving his head spinning. Had he really been celibate long enough to react so strongly? Every brush of her fingers was electric, every stroke chased by a surge of long-repressed hormones. For all his quiet meditation and his diligent self-control, she was making him feel like an untouched, clear-skinned novice again.

She moved a little closer, resting one hand against his thigh as she gripped the base of his shaft with the other, bringing its tip to her lips. He braced himself as she planted a kiss on his pink flesh, another stab of pleasure rocking him. Those soft, smooth lips crawled lower, and he realized that she was mapping him out – testing where he was most receptive.

The first stroke of her tongue almost made his knees buckle, the satin-smooth muscle sliding across his sensitive anatomy, gliding on a layer of her warm saliva. It was impossible for her not to notice his strong reaction, and her eyes flicked up to his face again, those lips curling into a knowing smile.

“I’ve seen you perform surgery on yourself without anesthetic, and you didn’t flinch like that,” she said with a smirk. “You’re kinda jumpy, Doc.”

When she returned to her task, she slid a couple of inches of his length into her mouth, its heat encompassing him. She was small, and her jaw was narrow, the fleshy lining of her cheeks cushioning him as his pulsing member lay atop her smooth tongue like a velvet pillow. Without barbs and sharp teeth, she was almost carefree in her handling of him, as though this was something wholly natural to her. He had to reach out a hand to steady himself against the bulkhead as her tongue made a lazy circle around his glans.

“You good?” she giggled, sliding him past her lips again. “Do you want to sit down, maybe?”

“Perhaps that would be wise,” he conceded. He took a moment to unfold one of the crash couches that was stowed on the wall, adjusting its height to suit him, then sat down. He parted his knees to let Petrova shuffle closer on the bedding, his position putting his lap at a convenient height for her. Taking his member in her hand again with an electric whir, she returned it to her mouth, his eyes following her pink lips as they stretched around his tapered head.

She began to lick and suck, the pressure sealing her soft cheeks around his shaft tightly, her agile tongue sliding across his anatomy with a palpable curiosity. He could feel its tip tracing veins and glancing his vestigial bumps, painting him with a sheen of warm drool, its doting movements commanding his attention such that he could focus on little else. Every slow lap and gentle flurry was like a jolt of electricity, setting his nerves alight and filling his head with tingling static.

He leaned back into the chair, his clawed toes digging into the bedding on the deck, unable to relax as each fresh lick kept him on edge. It took all of his willpower just to keep still enough that she could do her work.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” she marveled, letting his glistening cock slide from her mouth to rest against her cheek. “You’re usually so stoic and put-together. Is this because of the tongue thing?” As if to demonstrate, she extended the pink muscle and dragged it along his shaft, Ruza sucking in a sharp gasp through gritted teeth as another wave of pleasure dizzied him. “I’m enjoying it,” she added with a sordid chuckle. “It’s nice to know that you have some weaknesses…”

She brought his glans to her lips and swirled her tongue around it, making slow spirals, ensuring that he had a good view. His eyes followed the motions of the glistening organ with drooping lids, his heart skipping a beat each time it completed a lazy circle, the way that her blue eyes watched him intently somehow making the stimulation all the more difficult to endure. She kept him guessing, alternating between slow, maddening strokes and rapid licks that had him seeing stars. The warmth and wetness made him feel like he was melting into her, Petrova painting on his flesh as though her tongue was the tip of an artist’s brush, every tender stroke imbued with her desire for him. He’d never been treated like this before – never dared to imagine such a thing. Even the Matriarch’s most prized consorts might not have been so adept.

“You’re trying so hard,” she cooed, sliding his member into her mouth and letting it bulge her cheek outward. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Doc. Enjoy – you have nothing to be embarrassed about. There’s nobody here to see you all flustered.”

“I am…not accustomed to this,” he admitted shakily. “It takes a great deal of practice and skill for a Rask to match your finesse.”

“That’s a very polite way of saying that I’m giving you world-class head,” she snickered. “I guess the rumors were true, and this kind of thing is a lot harder for Borealans. With all those sharp teeth and barbs, it’s no wonder. I’d be wary even rubbing one out with those daggers on your fingers. One slip, and it’s all over.”

“We often rely on our pack for relief,” he explained, flinching as she planted another lingering kiss on his shaft.

“Well, now you’ll have to rely on me,” she added.

He bared his teeth as she took him into her mouth again – deeper this time, Ruza feeling his member press into her throat. Her lips crawled their way down his length, his partner able to take near half of it, the sensation of her swallowing around his glans almost making him buck out of his chair. She was struggling – he could feel the smooth muscles in her gullet fighting him for space, each gulp massaging him as she swallowed the saliva that was pooling in her mouth.

Gripping the edges of the seat to keep himself still, not wanting to choke her, he watched in silent captivation as she began to move. She bobbed her head in his lap slowly, the bubbling saliva that soaked his shaft letting him glide so effortlessly, the clinging, silken lining of her mouth and throat sliding against his tender flesh. He could feel her tongue lapping and coiling, teasing him perhaps inadvertently as it jostled for room, her brow furrowing with concentration.

The lurid, wet sounds filled the bay as she increased her pace, Ruza feeling her relax a little more as she grew accustomed to him. He found himself lifting a hand to his face, covering it intermittently as her lips inched down his shaft, the surges of pleasure coming quicker and more urgently.

Petrova paused to catch her breath, Ruza watching as a web of bubbling drool sloughed from her mouth, the sagging strands joining his cock to her chin. She caught it in her hand, slathering it on his shaft, keeping it damp and slick. Even that firm polymer felt like heaven when soaked in warm saliva, the twisting motion of her fist making him buck into it reflexively.

“Try not to thrust into my mouth like that,” she warned with a grin. “I’m pretty good at this, but not that good. You’re gonna choke me with this thing.”

“A-apologies,” he stammered.

“Relax, big guy,” she purred, pausing to tap his cock against the flat of her tongue. “Just sit back and let me do all the hard work. Remember – you gotta tell me what you like. The more you communicate, the more I can focus on the things you really enjoy…”

She began to bob her head again, swallowing his member with such ease, his reply fizzling out on his tongue before he could utter it. He found himself lost in a kind of fugue, so enraptured by her attentions that his consciousness seemed to ebb and flow along with her motions, the corners of his vision darkening when she forced him into the squeezing reaches of her throat. Every gulp made his clawed toes dig into the bedding, every lash of her tongue rousing him from his stupor, one of her prosthetic hands stroking the inches of his shaft that she hadn’t the room to take into her mouth. The other cradled his balls, her dull fingers dancing across them, seeming to enjoy the texture of his fur.

“I fear that I have no advice for you,” he growled between labored breaths. “One cannot improve perfection.”

She laughed with his cock buried in her throat, the vibrations tickling him. No more than a few minutes could have passed, but he already felt his need for release growing, the urge becoming impossible to endure. He placed a hand on her head gently, guiding her movements, and she seemed happy to oblige.

“I cannot…”

Ruza gritted his teeth, his flat brow wrinkling as he snarled, the sound only seeming to encourage Petrova. She could sense that he was close, and she redoubled her efforts, lashing his shaft with her tongue as she plunged him into her throat. Globs of saliva escaped her lips with each bob of her head now, but she didn’t care, letting them dangle from her chin and drip to the deck below. Every fiber of his being demanded that he take her head in his hand and rut until his need was sated, but he couldn’t. All he could do was sit there in the chair and surrender to whatever pleasures she was willing to give, waiting for her to finish him at her leisure. How small she had seemed to him – how frail, but his every sense now danced at the whim of a mere two inches of wet muscle.

Ruza’s hand plunged between his legs and took a tight grip of the metal bar that made up the seat, physically blocking himself from thrusting as his need grew, heeding her earlier warning. He was strong, heavy, and he didn’t want to hurt her.

She withdrew until only his glans was still trapped between her tightly pursed lips, licking every millimeter, a mechanical hand pumping the shaft with renewed vigor. Nursing at his cock, she lifted her blue eyes to watch him, anticipation burning behind them.

He let out a rumbling growl, bracing his paws against the deck, his eyes forced shut by a sudden wave of ecstasy. Even knowing that it was coming, it still surprised him with its intensity and immediacy, every muscle in his core tensing violently as the first stab of his climax tore through him. Petrova let the initial flood of his seed fill her mouth, keeping her lips locked around his glans dutifully, her blue eyes drinking in his every twitch and grimace. It was chased by another throb, somehow even more powerful than the last, Ruza slamming his head back against the padded headrest of the crash couch.

It became too much for Petrova, and she slid his throbbing member from her mouth, the next thick rope draping itself over her face and bridging her parted lips. She kept pumping her fist tirelessly, prolonging his rapture for as long as she could, easing out every last drop that he could give her.

Like a sandship cresting the dunes, the sensations rose and fell with the gentle stroking of her hand, his burning muscles slowly relaxing as the urgent pleasure was drowned out by a placating bliss. When he recovered his senses, he saw Petrova cleaning her face with a towel, giving him a satisfied smile.

“I suppose I should have been prepared for that,” she began. “Big guy, big load.”

“Your skill humbles me,” he muttered, still a little unsteady as he sat up straight.

“And here I was worried you wouldn’t like me,” she joked. “So…what’s the refractory period on this thing?” she added with a gesture to his lingering erection.

“Enough time for me to return the favor,” he replied, looming over the kneeling woman as he rose from his seat. He lowered himself to a crouch and took his partner in his hands, lifting her from below the arms in the same way he might handle a kitten, lowering her to the nest of soft bedding. Trembling with excitement and giggling under her breath, she lay before him as he began to strip off her clothes, careful not to damage the fabric with his claws.

The tank top came off easily, revealing more porcelain skin and a pair of pert breasts. They were modest by the standards of a Borealan, the average human weighing not even a third of what a Rask did, but there was an enticing shape to them that drew his eye greedily. They were about large enough to comfortably fill a human hand, and firm enough to maintain a teardrop shape when she lay on her back, wobbling gently with her every motion. Petrova was lithe and agile, and she had a build to match. Below them was her flat stomach, the subtle rows of muscle visible beneath her skin, already misted with droplets of sweat as the bay warmed.

She loosed a gasp and arched her spine off the bedding as he brought his face to her neck, pricking her skin with his teeth, his tongue glancing out to rake her shoulder.

“Watch the fangs, Romeo,” she snickered as she gently eased him away. “I’m not that kind of snack.”

“Apologies,” he grunted. “We bite our mates to show that they are spoken for. It allows us to conceive without interference from other members of the pack. The impulse is…difficult to suppress.”

“Hot,” Petrova conceded, tilting her head as though considering. “But not hot enough for stitches.”

Using the smooth underside of his tongue, he dragged it across her skin, leaving a smear of saliva on his way down to her chest. It was easy to engulf an entire breast in his mouth, and she lifted off the deck when he drew on it gently, her toes whirring as they curled. She flinched when his tongue glanced a firm, pink nipple, another suck making her gasp.

“That feels weird,” she muttered, delving a hand into his mop of sandy hair. “Good weird.”

Able to support her weight with a single hand, he slid it behind her back and lifted her, bringing her closer so that he could pepper her bosom with kisses. He shifted his attention to the other breast, letting his teeth prick her skin ever so slightly as he enclosed it in his lips. Another lash of his tongue had her wriggling again, his yellow eyes watching her intently for any hint of discomfort. His head alone was near the size of her torso, and he had to remain conscious of that fact in everything he did lest he hurt her inadvertently.

He moved down her torso, mouthing at her toned belly, finding her skin as soft as fine Elysian silks. Petrova had earned her own collection of scars, and she might look something like Brenner if she had cared nothing for her appearance, but every injury had been carefully lasered away to leave her body pristine in comparison to her peers. Her role within SWAR made it a necessity. It ignited a fire in him, setting his mouth watering. Rask women were a patchwork of scars earned through bouts and battles, each one a lesson learned, with the old Matriarch having famously lost an eye in exchange for her throne. To be without scars was to be without experience, like an empty canvas, something pristine and untouched. He knew that it was not true – that Petrova was just as blooded as any Rask warrior, but it was hard to shake the notion.

Petrova let out a stifled moan as he dipped the tip of his tongue into her navel, leaving a sucking kiss on her hip before reaching the hem of her shorts.

“Not to discourage you or anything,” she began as she looked down at him, her labored breathing making her supple breasts sway. “But you’ve been pretty open about how difficult it is for Rask to give head.”

“I was not Alpha of my pack,” he replied.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“My place in the social hierarchy was not high,” he explained, Petrova biting her lip as his warm breath washed across her belly. “I had ample opportunity to practice.”

“It’s hard to imagine you being on the bottom of anything,” she snickered. “Go on, then. I trust you.”

Letting his claws lightly brush her skin, enjoying the way that it made her abs flex when she flinched, he hooked them around the elastic waistband of her shorts. They slid off her easily, Petrova closing her thighs to help him along, and she was left exposed on the bedding before him.

Ruza knew plenty about human anatomy, so there was nothing to surprise him, but he still found his eyes lingering on her alien form. Her prosthetic legs began midway up her thighs, leaving a few inches of soft flesh dimpled by muscle, the lips between them flushed a welcoming pink. She was swollen, shining with anticipation, completely bare save for a small patch of neatly-trimmed hair on her mound. Her size struck him once again, and he wondered whether this was going to work – if they would be compatible. It would be much easier for a human male to lie with a female Rask, as any difference in stature would be rendered all but moot. Would he even be able to fit in that tiny sliver of rose-colored folds?

Unable to bring himself down low enough to reach, he raised her higher instead, Petrova yelping in surprise as he cupped her rear in his hand and lifted her hips from the bedding. He gave it an opportunistic squeeze, feeling the firm muscle beneath her sculpted cheeks tense up in response as his pads delved into the inviting fat. There was a softness to her that he found appealing, her muscles less pronounced and not as steely as the brawn that came from high gravity.

Only her shoulders were making contact with the deck now, leaving Petrova almost upside down, Ruza kneeling low to bring himself into reach. Far from being alarmed, she seemed to enjoy the ease with which he could move her around, relaxing her muscles to let him maneuver her as he pleased.

“I’ve been with guys who could punch a hole clean through a bulkhead, but there’s something different about you,” she sighed as he gently bit her inner thigh. “Strength was something they worked for – something they were so proud of. They always wanted to show it off like I should be impressed that a purpose-designed piece of electronics was good at its job. You’re holding so much back. You’re treating me like I’m made of glass and I might break at the slightest touch.”

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he replied, planting a kiss on her smooth mound.

“I know you won’t,” she replied with a warm smile.

There was an electronic whir of servos behind his head as she raised her legs with ease, draping them over his wide shoulders, parting them in invitation. Her eyes followed his tongue with an almost drunken countenance as he extended it to its full length, near a foot of wet muscle slithering across her stomach. He moved it lower, sliding it across her chiseled midriff, dragging the soft underside between her puffy lips. It was easily strong enough to part them, and it was wide enough to encompass her burning vulva entirely, a tremor coursing through her body as it slid against her folds. He could feel her swollen clitoris pulsing against it, the stimulation making her buck against it reflexively.

Inches of wet muscle slowly slid across her loins, until the tapered tip finally neared, licking at her needy bud with a few gentle lashes. She was primed – dripping with a blend of his saliva and her fluids, the heat that she radiated palpable.

“There’s no way that whole thing is gonna fit,” she panted, reaching up to run her polymer fingers through her hair as she peered back at him in a daze.

“I will be careful,” he said, giving her a moment to catch her breath before plunging in.

Like a living thing in its own right, his prehensile tongue nudged at her twitching opening, applying more force to push its way inside. The tight ring of muscle stretched around the organ as it wormed its way deeper, Ruza focusing on folding it in on itself to cover the barbs, ensuring that only the smooth flesh was in contact with her pillowy walls.

It took effort on his part – he could not be complacent. Even a momentary lapse or a flex in the wrong direction would be very uncomfortable for her. Fortunately, for as callous as his previous Alpha had been, she had taught him this skill well and given him a great deal of practice. He’d earned more than a couple of his scars from nicking her.

Ruza could feel every wrinkle and texture of Petrova’s depths, her muscles squeezing and massaging the invading organ as though trying to fight it off, but it was stronger. He licked her innermost walls, dragging his tongue across her pulsing flesh, drawing shapes and letting the fat coils fill her. He couldn’t see her feet dangling in the air behind his head, but he could hear the sound of the servos in her toes, her thighs gripping his face tightly as she writhed beneath him.

She covered her burning face with her hands as he piled in another inch, squirming within her, filling all available space. Her walls stretched around him like elastic, every tiny tremor that coursed through them palpable to him, another wave motion of his tongue making her spine curve beautifully.

“Fuck!” she hissed as the inches of tongue that were still outside her brushed against her firm clitoris, an electric shock passing through her. “I thought you were gonna be bad at this!”

She covered her mouth to stifle a moan as he slid his tongue back out of her in a single motion, pausing to speak.

“I am practiced, but it requires concentration.”

“Put it back!” she growled, glaring up at him.

He obliged, feeling her body tense up once more as he returned his tongue to her passage, the slippery coils piling atop one another as they pressed deeper. He could feel her reacting to him as he licked and flexed within her, caressing parts of her that would never have been touched in such a way before, her muscles clenching and her svelte frame bucking with each stroke. When he fed her a little more of its fleshy length, he could almost swear that he saw her flat belly bulge subtly, his probing making her gasp and flinch. Even when there was no more room left within her, he could focus his attention without, using the inches that remained to lap at her vulva and polish her pulsing bud. As he pressed his tongue against the roof of her tunnel, he heard her utter a surprised grunt, and he withdrew a little for fear of hurting her.

“There – again!” she gasped.

When he once more dug his tongue into the yielding flesh, he felt a tremor ripple through her body, her eyes lidding as a surge of pleasure washed over her. It seemed that he had discovered a sensitive spot, so he obliged, pushing into her slick walls in a rhythmic motion that had her covering her face with her hands again.

Ruza gripped her bucking hips in both hands and raised her a little higher to get more leverage, lapping at this tender zone as though locked in a deep and bawdy kiss, Petrova too taken with the sensations to protest being tugged around like a toy. The claws on his thumbs pricked her tensing belly ever so slightly, the pressure enough to leave little pink pinpricks on her pale skin, her heavy breathing transforming into groans that he could tell she was struggling to suppress.

She doubled over, lifting herself as though doing a pushup in her upside-down position, the motion making the six-pack in her abdomen rise to prominence beneath the even lighting of the troop bay. Her legs were shaking against his cheeks now, her mechanical hands gripping fistfuls of the bedding as though holding on for dear life, her eyes unfocused and distant.

“Don’t stop,” she stammered between pained whines and comely sighs, several identical pleas following before she inserted a polymer finger into her mouth and bit down on it to stifle the noise.

A few more licks sent her over the edge, and she covered her mouth with her hand as a guttural grunt slipped out, every muscle in her body seeming to tense beautifully. Her eyes lost their focus again, and she began to shiver, the whirring of servos joining her desperate gulps of air and pained moans. She tried to pull away, so he withdrew, having to fight against her squeezing muscles. The sensation of eight or nine inches of slimy tongue slithering out of her only worsened her condition, her thighs snapping closed like a trap the moment they were free of his face, Ruza gently lowering his trembling partner to the bedding.

She lay there twitching for a minute longer, Ruza kneeling at her feet as he admired her, the fresh sweat that misted her skin making her body gleam. She extended her arms to him in a wordless plea, and he lowered himself to the deck beside her, his shivering lover throwing herself into his arms. He wrapped them around her dutifully, and she buried her face in his chest, riding out the fading pangs of her climax. He could feel her breathing heavily, snickering to herself, one prosthetic hand sneaking between her thighs to rub out one last aftershock.

“Yeah, that works for me,” she finally said with an exhausted chuckle. “Seems like it works for you,” she added, Ruza exhaling as he felt her reach down to brush his renewed erection with her fingertips. “Just so you know, you’re going to be doing that a lot from now on.”

“Whatever pleases you,” he replied.

He slid his hand down the gentle curve of her spine, following the channel that her muscles carved into it with a pad, the sheen of sweat that clung to her letting it glide almost without friction. She shivered as she felt him trace his claws across her lower back, talons that could rend flesh like wet paper merely teasing her when only a light pressure was applied. She appeared to enjoy the sensation a great deal, so he moved higher, leaving pink trails between her shoulders and up the back of her neck.

“That’s nice,” she murmured, pushing her face into his chest. “Kinda tickles…”

He roamed lower, cupping her rear and giving it a squeeze, daring to be a little more aggressive now. Her wet skin felt divine against his pads, somehow softer and more delicate than what he remembered from his pack days, her flesh as supple as dough beneath his fingers. He kneaded, and she pushed out her rump to encourage him, her mechanical digits tracing one of the scars that crossed his stomach in turn.

“I feel like I want to kiss every inch of you, but it would take me all day,” she mumbled as he felt her place a gentle bite on his chest. “Time well spent, maybe?”

She turned herself in his arms, putting her back to him, her shoulders so narrow that they were scarcely half the span of his own. Their shared exertion made them slide against one another, Petrova making a point of pressing her butt into his shaft, letting it pulse against her soft cheek. She gave an exaggerated wriggle, provoking a grunt from him, lifting her head to peer up at him with a smirk.

“C’mon, big guy,” she chimed. “Get grabby – I’m all yours. Show me a little aftercare.”

With a bestial snort that blew her hair, he reached for her belly, trailing his claws from her mound to her chest. She sucked in her breath and held it, biting her lip as she felt him graze her skin, exhaling a moan when he closed his hand over her bosom. Her breasts were so small in comparison to his massive hand, but they were firm and springy, somehow even more inviting than the larger examples he was more accustomed to. The sensitive tissue beneath the velvet fat was firm and rubbery, bouncing back to its original shape like a kitten’s chew toy, tremors coursing through her as he let his silky fur stroke her swollen nipples.

“Fuck,” she grunted, grinding against his shaft. “Harder – I’m less fragile than you think.”

Heeding her request, he gave her a rougher squeeze, Petrova gritting her teeth. She raised an arm to reach for his face, stroking his cheek with a rubber thumb tread as he teased her. He let a hand slide down her belly, pressing ever so slightly harder, her eyes following the trio of pink lines that his claws left on her skin.

“I like how that stings,” she hissed, sliding her thumb into his mouth. “I already feel like I could go again, and I’m still hazy from the last one…”

Ruza bit the digit dutifully, chewing it softly with his sharp teeth and coiling his tongue around it, knowing that he couldn’t hurt her mechanical appendages. She would feel all of the sensations, but no pain would be conveyed. When she withdrew it, he doubled over to bring himself nearer, pricking her neck with his teeth. She leaned into him, more trusting this time, or perhaps simply more enamored. He let his fangs graze her jugular, kissing her shoulder, the underside of his tongue coiling to lick her flushed cheek.

There was enough length that they could kiss without locking lips in this position, Ruza slipping a couple of inches into her mouth. He licked her inner cheeks and painted shapes on her palate, probing the back of her throat more cautiously now that he better understood her limitations. She did her best to match his pace, but he wrestled her tongue into submission, coiling around it as though to subdue it. His partner was content to be subdued, shivering happily as he bulged her cheek with a slow lick, wrapping an arm around her waist possessively. She lifted a hand to find purchase around his bulging bicep, probing the muscle with her fingers, testing its firmness.

“You remember the first time you reactivated my augs?” stammered, taking a moment to catch her breath once his tongue had slid past her lips. “You had to put your hands all over me – running them up and down my legs while you searched for the access panel, leaning in real close…”

“It was not my intention to violate any personal boundaries,” he explained. “A doctor’s code of ethics would not permit such a thing.”

“You didn’t have a choice in the matter,” she replied with a smirk. “That was the first time I felt anything for you. I didn’t want to admit it to myself at the time – I didn’t want to entertain the idea that I might be attracted to you. Fuck, that encounter haunted me as an intrusive thought for weeks. You left me alone in an empty room with nothing to do but dwell on it. That’s cruel and unusual punishment, you know…”

“I sense that you are being facetious…”

“Oh? Maybe you’re not as dense as a concrete road barrier after all,” she snickered. She pushed out her ass again, sliding his shaft between her cheeks, provoking him. “If there are any personal boundaries left unbroken by the time the sun rises, I’m going to be very disappointed in you, Doctor.”

His cock throbbed against her satin skin, her teasing reigniting the fire in his belly, and Petrova seemed to sense it. She let out an exaggerated, enticing moan as he gently clasped her throat in his furry hand, letting his teeth graze her ear as he whispered to her.

“Have you recovered?”

“Enough for round two, you mean?” she asked as she pressed his shaft against his belly with a thrust. “I was starting to think I’d have to spell it out for you.”

Ruza rolled her over onto her back, the sleeping bags and blankets that made up their bedding crinkling beneath her. Her breasts wobbled as she came to a stop, the agent biting her lower lip again as she watched him crawl atop her, her eyes wide and eager. She lifted her hands and braced them against his chest, Ruza casting her into shadow, a few droplets of his sweat raining down on her.

“Oh fuck, I really hope I can take that thing,” she giggled as her gaze wandered lower. “Just don’t put too much weight on me all at once, alright? I didn’t spring for the hip augmentations, and I’d need a car jack attachment to handle your weight.”

“I will always be careful,” he replied, reaching down to brush her cheek with his furry fingers.

He took her hips in his hands, kneeling before her, Petrova having to part her legs wide as he pulled her into his lap. Even kneeling, he couldn’t quite get down low enough, meaning that his partner’s hips were higher than her shoulders again.

She watched, holding her breath as his shaft slid between her lips, its vestigial bumps grazing her vulva. Ruza sized her up, trying to determine the best way to proceed. Keeping hold of her with his right hand, he leaned over, planting the left on the bedding above her head to change his angle of approach. Maneuvering her like a toy, he slid his member lower, pressing its tapered glans against her opening. She was slick with excitement, and he wondered whether it would be enough to overcome their difference in size, feeling her tight muscles resist him as he pushed gently.

“A little more,” Petrova groaned, propping herself up on her elbows so she could get a better look. “I can handle it.”

She placed a hand on his belly, ready to ease him away as he pushed forward slowly, baring his sharp teeth when he felt her clinging flesh stretch around his shaft. Unlike his tongue, this organ wasn’t flexible, her inner walls gripping him with a furious strength as he forcibly parted them. The same textures that he had mapped with such intimacy now enclosed him, caressing his buried length with each flex, narrow rings of muscle fighting him for every inch. When he was halfway hilted, he ran out of room, feeling her stop him as her prosthetic hand pushed against his belly.

“Enough,” she gasped, breathing heavily. “I gotta get used to this – relax a little…”

“Is it too much?” he asked. “I can-”

“Don’t move around like that!” she complained, Ruza feeling her squeeze him. The urge to thrust into her was almost impossible to resist, his every instinct demanding it. “Feels like we shouldn’t even be able to fit together. Okay, you can move a little,” she added with a shaky sigh. “Just take it easy. It’s a marathon, not a race.”

Slowly, he moved his hips forwards, giving her a gentle thrust. Her spine arched as he bottomed out, her pillowy depths clenching around his girth, ripples of flexing muscle teasing him. She adhered to his every contour like a second skin, always in motion, every breath and beat of her heart translating into a twitch or a squeeze. When he tried to withdraw, she clung to him, her wrenching muscles refusing to relinquish their hold. He had to practically pull her off him, a few inches sliding out of her, shining with her fluids.

“Fuck,” she groaned, throwing her head back. “I can feel all of those little bumps…”

“You say that often,” Ruza grunted. “Fuck. Is it an exclamation or an invitation?”

“Let’s call it an instruction,” she snickered.

Ruza found a cautious pace, this position allowing him to avoid leaning any weight on her, pulling her onto his shaft with a single hand. He cupped her butt with his fingers, his thumb almost spanning her belly, her back resting on the bedding as she gazed up at him with an enamored smile. Her breasts swayed with the motion, her abdominal muscles tensing with each slow thrust, her splayed legs gripping him as though attempting to keep him close. Her prosthetics were surprisingly strong.

As their encounter continued, she seemed to loosen up, starting to relax her muscles a little more. She was becoming accustomed to this alien invasion, her confidence growing, every stroke letting him sink just a little deeper. It felt as though her body was changing itself, shifting and rearranging to better accommodate him.

“You doing alright up there, big guy?” she purred, peering up at him.

“You are…challenging,” he grumbled.

“You look like you’re concentrating so hard,” she continued with a sordid chuckle. “If you feel this big to me, I must be as tight as a goddamned pressure seal from your perspective,” she added with a comely smile. “Hang on – lemme try something.”

He released her, the two parting with a tangible pop that made them both shudder, and Petrova slid down from his lap. She rolled over onto her belly and lifted herself up, presenting her rear to him in invitation as he knelt there behind her.

“Maybe you can get a little deeper,” she cooed, looking back over her shoulder at him.

Not needing any further encouragement, he shuffled closer, taking her wide hips in his hands. Half-kneeling and half-sitting, he eased her into his lap, sliding his still-glistening cock between her pert cheeks. He placed a finger pad on his shaft to ease it lower, returning to the warm embrace of her passage, Petrova pushing back to slide him into her.

In this position, she had more control over their pace, and she began to rock back and forth gently. The length that she had taken before passed easily now, Ruza gritting his teeth as he felt those slick, silken folds slide to the halfway point. She gripped the sleeping bag beneath them in her fists, arching her spine as a tremor rocked her, giving Ruza an admirable view of the muscles in her back and shoulders. There was no need to hold onto her now, so he let his hand wander up her back, his claws leaving faint trails on her flawless skin.

She was damp with sweat and hot to the touch, every subtle movement making her sculpted cheeks ripple softly. While she was no Borealan, there was a different strength to her – something wiry and athletic, more understated than the bulging muscles and brutish power he was accustomed to. Her body seemed almost as flexible as rubber at times – she could bend and stretch in ways he hadn’t imagined possible.

Having this small, writhing, teasing thing in his lap made him feel things he hadn’t felt since leaving his pack. This was no bout – there was no hierarchy here where one would dominate the other. Whatever this was, it would go on forever and ever. It was an unending balancing act where his impulses would never be truly sated, like a conclusion that could never be reached, or a question with no answer. Some might find it maddening, but to him, it meant that there would never be an end to the excitement he now felt. Every time they lay together would be like the first.

“Oh yeah,” Petrova sighed, pushing back a little more violently and sinking him another inch deeper. “This position is a lot easier. No matter how much I take, I feel like there’s always more…”

Her pace was hastening now, and she dropped her torso to the deck, resting her head in her crossed arms as her hips remained raised. Their coupling grew easier as she became more relaxed, little beads of sparkling fluid sliding down her inner thighs, slick enough to find equilibrium with her wringing muscles.

“Put some weight on me,” she demanded, glancing back at him.

Ruza obliged, sliding his hand up her back until he was pressing down on her shoulders, pinning her to the deck. He gave her an experimental thrust, sinking his pulsing cock into her reaches, Petrova letting out a stifled gasp of encouragement. Every time he thought she was at her limit, her elastic flesh seemed to stretch just a little further.

“Harder,” she growled, Ruza giving her a more punishing thrust that compressed her lithe body like a spring. “I can feel you in my core,” she groaned, swinging her hips from left to right with him still lodged inside her. “Keep going.”

He began to move, finding a slow, punishing pace that drove the breath from her lungs with each blow. He was always careful to watch for any signs of discomfort, but the way that she was rocking back into him was all the information he needed, his lover spearing herself on his length with an eagerness that surprised him. Perhaps he should have anticipated her resourcefulness.

She began to wriggle out from under his hand, so he let her rise again, Petrova using the extra leverage to meet his thrusts. She braced herself, then rocked her hips into him, a stifled groan filling the bay as she hilted him. His entire length was engulfed by pillowy, twitching flesh, the tight ring of muscle at her entrance sealing around the base of his shaft. Her cheeks wobbled as they slammed into him, the blow softened by his fur, his partner tensing up as her head drooped.

“T-there,” she stammered, too overwhelmed to move. “I-I can take the whole thing…”

“Do not strain yourself,” he grunted.

“You’re not that big,” she chuckled, following up with a groan. “Fuck – don’t make me laugh!”

Ruza let her set the tempo, following along, finding that she was much more resilient than he had imagined. Every moment that passed, their coupling grew a little easier. She became more accustomed to him, and he learned more about her in turn, the two finding a kind of equilibrium together. He was able to last longer like this, as while her loins were impossibly tight, there was no insidious human tongue to rob him of his faculties.

“You can put a little more weight on me,” she sighed, prompting him to lean over her again. “That’s it. I am gonna be sore tomorrow, but right now, this is great. I can feel all of those little bumps every time you move inside me…”

Supporting himself with one hand, Ruza reached around her with the other, placing his palm across her belly. It was wonderful to feel her body move and respond to him, her muscles firming and relaxing beneath her smooth, damp skin.

“You’re so touchy-feely,” she giggled.

“Your body is a puzzle to me,” he growled in reply. “I wish to learn everything there is to know about you.”

“I like it,” she added with a sordid purr. “You’re not afraid to show affection. I want to feel wanted, and there’s no wondering with you. You can’t keep your hands off me.”

“Is that a requirement in human courtship?”

“Hell no,” she replied, dizzying him as she slid all the way down his shaft again.

He moved his hand a little higher, lifting her upright so that her back was pressed against his torso, their shared exertion making them slick in the growing heat of the bay as they moved together. Inspired by her words, he let his furry hands wander across her heaving body, the sweat soaking his coat and making it damp. She seemed to enjoy the texture, dancing in his arms as he trailed his claws down her stomach, kneaded her breasts, and doubled over to kiss her neck. Every nibble and stroke elicited a soft giggle or quiet sigh from Petrova, her body twitching and bucking in response, like a new language all its own that he felt compelled to learn. Erogenous zones hadn’t exactly been a focus of his medical studies, but he had some idea where the nerve endings were richest…

He felt her hands wandering across his arms in turn, grasping at whatever was in reach as her desire overtook her. She combed her rubber fingertips through his fur, gripping his forearm with surprising strength, her prosthetics no less sensitive than their organic counterparts.

“C-close!” she stammered, starting to move faster. “Harder!”

She took Ruza’s hand and moved it to her neck, and he got the picture, closing it around her throat. His grip was loose enough to not risk choking her, but firm enough to hold her upright, Petrova reaching up to grip his forearm for leverage as he upped his pace. He had a much better idea of what she could handle now, holding her hip with the other hand, practically lifting her off the bedding with each thrust. She was limp in his arms like a toy, her quiet sighs becoming louder and more urgent as he pushed her closer to her peak. The sound of his thrusts impacting her cheeks joined the heavy breathing and comely moans that were growing in pitch, filling the enclosed bay, the sweat dripping from them both as they rutted.

Able to sink his cock to the base now, Ruza was emboldened, plunging as deep as he could reach. Her grip on him never seemed to loosen, her innermost muscles wrestling him for every millimeter with each wracking pulse and squeeze, as though a fist gloved in wet velvet was milking him with intent. Everything about her was tight, firm, springy – it was maddening.

He wrapped both arms around her tightly, a few more ardent pumps sending her over the edge, his partner making a playful attempt to escape his grasp as she began to climax. Her light frame wriggled and bucked, desperately trying to ease him deeper, her constant movement making her wet skin slide against his. He held her in that position until her violent movements ceased, Ruza gritting his teeth as the ruthless wrenching of her loins gradually subsided, swallowing around his hilted shaft like a parched throat. Hot to the touch and panting, her body seemed to sag into his embrace, all of the tension that had built during their lovemaking leaving her in shuddering waves. He loosened his grip in turn, cradling her trembling body.

“Can we just…stay like this for a minute?” she mumbled as she nuzzled her cheek against his bicep. “Hold me for a little while…”

He did as she requested, listening to the sound of her breathing growing steadily calmer, euphoria overtaking her to the point that he feared she had fallen asleep. He was still hilted inside her, still feeling every twitch as her relentless grip on him persisted.

“You didn’t finish?” she mumbled as she seemed to rouse herself from her stupor.

“I wanted to hold back for you,” he replied.

“You’re such a sweetheart,” she chuckled. “Now, get on your back and let me return the favor.”

He felt his face begin to warm, wincing as they separated, Ruza releasing his grip to lower her back to the bedding. She stood on shaky legs, her prosthetics relaying the muddled signals from her brain, and turned to face him. His eyes drank in her figure, the flat, even lighting of the dropship’s bay illuminating her. Her skin was cast in its pale glow, so shiny that it was almost reflective, making every contour of her athletic frame gleam like blown glass.

With a point of her prosthetic finger, she ordered him to the deck, and he lowered himself onto his back. There was a strange, but not unwelcome, feeling in his belly. It made his heart flutter – the idea that this woman who had been mewling in his arms only moments ago was now commanding him like an Alpha. It was a novel thing to have their relationship change in such a way, and while it butted heads with his instincts, it was undeniably exciting. A smile crossed her lips as he lay there dutifully, his glistening, throbbing erection standing before her like a flagpole.

She planted her feet to either side of his hips, having to spread her legs wide, sizing him up as she glanced down at him.

“Feels like I’m trying to ride a fucking horse,” she muttered as she lowered herself down, splaying her thighs to straddle him. There was no danger of hurting him, so she rested all of her insubstantial weight on him, placing her polymer hands on his belly to steady herself. His cock slid between her lips, bumping against her belly, Petrova positioning herself behind it. She took it in her hand and gave his slippery flesh a pump, grinning as he bucked, easily able to lift her. “Whoa there,” she said, snickering to herself as though making a joke he didn’t understand. “I can’t believe I got this whole thing in there,” she marveled, pressing his shaft against her stomach and measuring it.

She raised herself higher, sliding his glans into her opening, a sigh leaving her pursed lips as she gently lowered herself down. Ruza watched through unfocused eyes as he slipped back inside her inch by inch, Petrova finally sitting down with a tangible thud.

“Fuck,” she groaned with a grimace, shifting her weight to move him around inside her. “I dunno if I’ll ever really get used to this. I kind of like the idea of that,” she added, opening one eye to peer down at him. “Maybe it’ll always feel this big. Maybe it’ll always hurt just enough to be fun.”

She began to move, rocking back and forth slowly, one prosthetic hand resting on his belly. She made lazy circles and cruel figures of eight with her hips, grinding against the stimulating bumps that covered his shaft, throwing her head back as she reveled in the sensations. All of the strength and poise with which she had honed her body, every moment of training and practice intended to make her more deadly and agile, was now directed solely towards inflicting pleasure.

He admired her body in motion, all of the subtle contours of the sinewy muscles in her belly and shoulders shifting, glistening beneath the harsh lights. It created a mesmerizing wave as her spine arched and her hips rolled, her perky breasts swaying softly in time with her rhythm. There were also her prosthetics – the augmentations moving with an almost organic fluidity, such an integral part of her body that neither partner really considered them as being separate. They might be made of tough polymer and alloys, but they shared her grace and precision, his ears able to pick up the subtle whirring of their motors.

“As much as I enjoyed being railed by someone who weighs five times what I do and has biceps larger than my head, I’m enjoying this just as much,” she chimed as she gave him another teasing stroke. “Beneath all of that strength and power, you’re just a guy. A cute guy,” she muttered, her brow furrowing as she delivered another ruthless thrust. “You can still get flustered, you can still pop too early, and I can still put you on your back. I like that…”

Petrova increased her pace, rising and falling now, lifting herself off him before letting herself drop back down. That tight grip never relented, her body seeming to resent the sensation of being empty, her rosy flesh clinging to him so ardently that he could feel it tugging on her way up. Her weight was nothing to him, her downward thrusts driving him as deep as he could reach, the impact making every soft part of her inviting figure quiver.

She leaned a second hand on his stomach, doubling over, pausing to brush a fringe of wet hair out of her face before redoubling her efforts. Ruza could imagine a human male being bruised by such treatment – pressed deep into the bedding and wrung dry, but he was made of sturdier stuff. Petrova knew it, holding nothing back.

“Tell me when you get close,” she panted, slowing to give him a few teasing shimmies. “Now’s not the time to be the strong, silent type, Doc.”

“I…I am not used to such treatment,” he replied, his eyes rolling back as she subjected him to another punishing hip drop.

“What, they don’t give as good as they get in Rask packs?” she asked as she leaned in closer. Her rutting slowed to a more placating tempo, and she drew in to plant a kiss on his chest. She bit him gently, her smooth tongue sneaking out to taste his skin, Ruza lurching as she located a nipple and gave it a lick. Still keeping him hilted, she began to trail her prosthetic fingers across his torso, drawing teasing shapes. Her hands were cool and hard, but they conveyed all of the warmth and affection of her intent, caressing him just as he had caressed her.

“I take it there wasn’t a lot of cuddling in Rask packs,” she mused as she drew a circle on his chest with her finger.

“Not in the military,” he replied, wincing as she delivered a slow thrust to keep him on edge. “Just like wealth and power, affection and sex flowed up from the lower ranks to the higher. Alphas had their pick of the pack, and Crewmasters had their pick of the crew. Banquets, orgies – nothing was off-limits. It was not an environment conducive to affection.”

“That’s so sad,” Petrova continued, her breasts squashing against his torso as she lounged on top of him.

“It is not how things are supposed to be,” he continued. “It was a perversion of the Matriarch and the culture she fostered. A pack should love and care for one another – rely on one another for comfort and safety.”

“I feel safe with you,” Petrova said, planting a kiss on his chest. “I suppose it wasn’t all that different for me. SWAR agents are never in one place for very long, and it’s a high-risk job. It’s not an environment suited to fostering long-term relationships. You relieve stress when there’s time between deployments, then you go your separate ways – everyone is on the same page. A lot of the sentimentality was ironed out of us in training. Besides, it’s hard to show affection with hands like these,” she added as she raised her prosthetics. “They’re cold and hard – impersonal. I can touch you, and I can feel the warmth of your body, but it’s not real. It’s just…metal and electrical signals – a facsimile. I don’t want to play pretend anymore, I want something real.”

“This is real,” Ruza replied, reaching down to cup her cheek in his furry hand. He stroked her, her lashes fluttering as she leaned into him. “As real as you wish it to be.”

Her answer was to start moving again, supporting herself with her hands as she rolled her hips, resuming her cruel pace. She was so used to him now that it felt like they were made for one another, their bodies designed to fit together like lock and key. Ruza ran his hands across her wet skin, tracing the contours of her figure, sliding a palm up the inviting curve of her narrow waist. She took his hand in hers and guided it to her chest, encouraging him to knead as she moved. Every throb and clench of her passage was so keenly felt, his senses picking up the beating of her heart and her staggered gasps of breath, all of the physical barriers between them seeming to melt away.

There was no need to hold back now, and so he let go of his inhibitions, enjoying their lovemaking to its fullest. Just as he had been studying her, Petrova had been studying him, already catching on to which positions and movements got the strongest reaction. She wet her lips with that smooth tongue as she rode him, reveling in the pleasure that she was inflicting, her own desire mounting along with his own.

Moving as one, they spiraled higher, hands both furry and mechanical roaming across wet skin and grasping blindly for purchase. Even during his most frenzied nights with his pack, Ruza had never felt this way. He had never felt so free to let go and enjoy every dimension of the experience, all without the nagging fear and doubt of status interfering, keeping him alert – cautious.

Petrova’s love was pure – untainted by ambition or motivated by a hollow desire to please. She was neither servile nor dominating – she simply was. Could this really work? A pack of two with no leader, always in flux, never fully settling into one state or another? It was as uncertain as it was exciting, and he had nothing to lose by trying.

Surrendering himself to the throes of their shared pleasure, he lay back on the soft bedding, allowing himself to enjoy every percussive drop and sinuous thrust that his partner delivered. She was breathtaking, her alien physique twisting and gyrating atop him, beads of sweat misting her furless skin as the toned muscles beneath flowed almost like water. She raised her arms above her head, stretching, a sigh escaping her as her servos whirred. Her legs gripped him possessively, and he could feel the transition between her warm, soft flesh and the firm polymer below it.

“You look good on your back,” she purred. “Let it all out, big guy.”

He bared his teeth in a snarl as she increased her pace, sensing that he was close to his limit, her prior grace abandoned. Humans never ceased to amaze him with their stamina, and it was as true in the bedroom as it was for marching in formation. For as small and as weak as they appeared, they never tired, their bodies adapted to run down and exhaust their prey. Ruza feared that he might suffer the same fate if Petrova was not soon sated.

As his release neared, his higher faculties began to slip beneath a euphoric fog, his most base desires rising to prominence. He found himself gripping her hips in both hands, rising from the bedding now to meet her thrusts, lifting her like a toy. He was conscious of his claws pricking her cheeks, careful not to pierce her velvet skin, her abs flexing beneath his thumb pads. All his lust-addled brain could think of was filling her, regardless of whether his seed could bear fruit. Something inside him demanded that he try.

Petrova threw her head back as he raised her into the air, the agent clinging to him with her prosthetic legs, her mouth open in a silent cry. His emission erupted within her, coating her tight, clenching walls and painting her innermost depths with thick ropes. His muscles wrenched with the effort, every fresh spurt sending a shiver through his partner, the kneading of her muscular insides wringing more from him greedily.

She fell back to his torso, Ruza holding her close, still pumping his hips as she joined him in his bliss. Every stroke made his head spin, Petrova giggling at his bestial growling, knowing him too well to be intimidated by the sounds. A blur of damp, clinging flesh and sweat-soaked bodies ensued, his hands taking purchase wherever they pleased as she writhed atop him. He was aware of her lips piercing the haze of his rapture, her hands exploring him in turn, the flames of their passion gradually subsiding until all that remained were the smoldering embers.

Petrova flopped off him, lying beside him on the bedding, her rubberized fingertips trailing across his skin as they basked in their afterglow together. She was still so attentive, heaping affection on him as she lay her head on his bicep, smirking at his every sigh and grumble. He rolled over to face her, gathering her small frame in his arms and pulling her close, reveling in the simple sensation of skin on skin contact. It had been so long since he had felt the intimate touch of another person that he had almost forgotten how much he missed it – how starved it had left him, as though his brain had been missing some vital nutrient. Perhaps she was feeling something similar, shivering contentedly in his embrace as he stroked her back with his furry hands.

The sound of her slowing heartbeat and regular breathing was a salve, calming him in turn, hypnotic. He buried his nose in her hair, taking in her scent, reveling in it. She had worn a fragrant soap for him – probably donated by Fran or Amy, but anything that she was trying to mask was easy for his sensitive nose to pick up. It was important for Borealans, like a fingerprint broadcast across distances, a person’s scent evoking memories as much as it identified them.

“You smell good,” she murmured, as though thinking the same thing. She pushed her face into the nape of his neck, dragging her soft tongue across his throat, the gesture enough to make his lingering erection pulse. “I feel like I could stay here forever – just me and you, fucking in this bay until the stars burn out.”

“I had almost forgotten what it feels like to share a bed with someone,” he sighed, trailing his claws down her back. “My kind sleep in great heaps, sharing a nest between five, six, seven people. For many months after I left my pack, I found it impossible to sleep alone. I missed all of the little sounds and sensations. The touch of skin, the warmth of another, the sounds of beating hearts.”

“You poor thing,” she cooed, planting a kiss on his chest. “You can listen to my heart if you want to.”

“I grew accustomed to it over time,” he continued, letting his hand rest on the curve of her hip. “We adapt to whatever situations we find ourselves in. What other choice are we given? I feel I will sleep soundly tonight for the first time since I left home.”

“Maybe you could sleep soundly for more than just tonight,” she replied, glancing up at him expectantly. “Maybe your home could be here, with me.”

“That depends,” he continued, his tone becoming more dour. “I cannot force you to do anything, and I respect you too much to use our relationship as leverage, but that can only come to pass if you choose to stay. If your wish is still to leave when the fleet arrives, I will not argue, and I will spend as much time with you as you will give me.”

“You’re too kind to me,” she replied, placing a hand on his chest as she averted her eyes. “I mean that. I don’t deserve to be spoken to that way after leading you on and holding our relationship hostage. You deserve better than that. You deserve better than me,” she added wistfully. “But, I’m what you’ve got, so I’m going to try my hardest to be the kind of person you deserve. I’m going to love you, and take care of you, and make sure you never have to sleep alone again.”

“Then…”

“I’m staying on Hades,” she said with a firm nod. “I’ll take up that offer of asylum. I thought I wanted to take the blame because it was the honorable thing to do – that someone had to pay, but that’s not true. I was just scared – scared of something new, scared of a life where I was truly responsible for myself. No purpose, nobody to give me orders, nobody to decide where I go and what I do. I have friends here now, and I have you. I don’t have to be scared of anything anymore.”

He held her close, a wave of emotion overwhelming him, burying his nose in her hair again.

“I feared that you would be taken from me,” he admitted. “That the Navy would haul you off in chains and that I would never see you again. I was prepared to fight for you, but I knew that you would not wish it. I saw no solution.”

“I should never have made you feel that way,” she replied, her voice somewhat muffled by his hug. “It wasn’t fair. Can you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he replied, bundling her up in his arms.

“Well,” she began after a few minutes of quiet cuddling. “Now that we’re going steady and all…how about another round?”

“You humans truly have bottomless stamina…”

CHAPTER 46

DAY 141 – MU ARAE BLACK SITE 1 – VOS

“You can’t play cards?” Vos demanded, leaning on the little table in the deserted galley. It was little more than a few tables and chairs strewn about a cavity that had been hollowed from the asteroid, lit by halogen strips that he could swear flickered at a frequency just noticeable enough to annoy him. To his right were windows that looked out over the empty vacuum beyond, the view little more than black nothingness pocked with a field of faint stars.

“UNNI agents involved in an ongoing investigation are prohibited from fraternizing with suspects,” his chaperone replied from across the table.

“You’ve been following me around for weeks,” Vos sighed, shuffling the pack. “You stand outside the bathroom door and listen to me piss, and you watch me sleep. You can’t play a round of Go Fish to pass the time, Hemmer?”

“Regulations prohibit it.”

“If I die of boredom, is that considered a dereliction of duty on your part?”

“No.”

“If you watch me play Solitaire, does that count as fraternizing?”

“No.”

“Then get ready for the most entertaining few hours of your life,” the Admiral muttered as he began to place the cards on the table. “I’m actually looking forward to getting arrested, if you can believe it. I hope you’re going to count my stay aboard this godforsaken station as time served.”

“I doubt that very much.”

He cursed as his prosthetic hand slipped, dropping some of the cards onto the floor, muttering more obscenities under his breath when he reached down to pick them up.

“The situation has been resolved regardless,” he continued, returning some of the cards to the table. “Brenner hunted down the defectors and retook control of the colony, just as I knew he would. The Tirad is back under Ortega’s command, and Barbosa is KIA. They even managed to secure all of the stolen Coalition technology. A job well done, if you ask me.”

“That doesn’t absolve you of responsibility,” the agent replied.

“Yes, yes, I know. You haven’t let me forget it…”

There was a flash of light outside the windows, Vos snapping his head around, staring through the thick glass as a familiar shape emerged from a spreading cloud of technicolor dust. It was the rounded profile of a Jump Carrier, the mammoth vessel flanked by a whole strike group’s worth of ships. There were nine angular frigates in tight formation, the colorful residue reflecting off their dark stealth coating, along with more ships that took him a moment to identify.

There was a Martian Battleship, its 350-meter hull split down the middle by a spinal accelerator that launched shells the size of tractor trailers. Its pair of super railguns were already deployed, the two massive turrets large enough to dwarf a building in their own right. He could already guess the ship’s purpose. Brenner had sent word back to the station via Courser, and he was in communication with the Admiralty via Hades’ comms satellite, but the relief fleet had set out almost half a year ago. They had no idea what kind of situation they would be jumping into, so they had brought the Battleship as a contingency plan, intending to put down the Tirad if it became necessary.

Alongside them were two Assault Carriers – ships designed to transport an armored battalion and three thousand Marines apiece. Wherever the fleet had eventually received their orders to redeploy, there must have been reinforcements waiting to join them. He was surprised to see a trio of Jarilan troop carriers floating in formation beside them. Like all Jarilan tech, they were partially biological, shaped like some kind of deep-sea shrimp with rows of spindly legs hanging beneath them. Their colorful segmented bodies were covered in onyx-black plating, the same kind used on UNN vessels, with clear lettering and markings to avoid friendly fire. There were also three freighters trailing the fleet, their hulls laden with cargo containers that were likely filled with food for the relief effort.

“The fleet has arrived,” Agent Hemmer mused, glancing out of the window. “It’s about time.”

“Looks like they’re stopping off at the station before proceeding to Hades,” Vos said. “They’ll want to know if we have any intel for them. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately if you’ve been living on a carrier for who knows how many months, they’re not going to be seeing any action. I suppose I should head to the control room.”

“You’re not a serving Admiral anymore,” Hemmer chided. “They’re not coming to receive orders from you.”

“Maybe not, but I still have plenty of information to offer,” he replied as he rose from his seat. “Unless you’d prefer to sit here and watch me play Solitaire?”

Hemmer rolled her eyes, then rose to join him, the two walking out of the cafeteria through the winding warren of the asteroid base. They passed beneath segments of metal ceiling and exposed rock, heading up to the control room, passing by recessed trenches filled with personnel working behind computers. The station commander was standing on a raised platform that housed more banks of monitors, greeting Vos with a curt nod.

“It appears that we have visitors,” Vos began as he climbed the steps to join him.

“The fleet we’ve been waiting for just jumped in,” the commander confirmed as he turned to his displays. “The UNN Ronceveaux has hailed us, and Captain Lambert is on his way over by shuttle for briefing.”

“Lambert,” Vos muttered.

“Do you know him?” Agent Hemmer asked.

“A rather disagreeable man,” Vos replied. “He cut his teeth during the Kruger campaign, where he commanded the French contingent to some acclaim. He serves under Admiral Renaud, which he seems to believe empowers him to get a second opinion whenever he receives orders from anyone else – especially me. The Admiralty couldn’t have asked for a better man to come and cart me away.”

It wasn’t long before the captain in question was entering the control room, his white dress uniform and cap announcing him beneath the glare of the lights. He was accompanied by a pair of Marines in combat armor who waited by the door like sentries.

“Captain Lambert,” Vos began, stepping forward to greet the captain with a handshake as he climbed the short flight of steps. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. I trust that your journey was an uneventful one?”

“Admiral Vos,” Lambert replied in his thick accent, giving him a shrewd smile. “I was sorry to hear about the pickle you’ve found yourself in. You’re not wearing your uniform – do I still refer to you as Admiral?”

“I haven’t been indicted just yet,” Vos grumbled, returning the insincere smile.

“I have to hand it to you,” the captain continued, glancing at Vos’ prosthetic arm pointedly. “You seem to be in remarkably good spirits for someone in such a…precarious position.”

“We all do what we must,” Vos replied. “This is Agent Hemmer – she’s responsible for making sure I don’t open an airlock and swim to freedom, and this is the station commander. We’ve been waiting a very long time for your arrival.”

“Almost five months,” Lambert continued with a nod. “I have to say, my men weren’t too happy about being reassigned immediately upon returning to port. We’d been on patrol near the Eta Corvi system for about six months, which means most of the crew hasn’t had shore leave in nearly a year. I half expected them to organize a strike.”

“I’m sure the extra pay will make up for it,” Vos replied.

“We all do what we must, no?” Lambert added.

“If you’ll please come this way, Captain,” the station commander began. “We’ve prepared a full briefing for you with the most up-to-date information we have available.”

“What are we dealing with?” Lambert asked, all business now as he strode over to the holographic conference table. “Was Brenner’s strike force able to achieve its objectives? I would very much prefer not to have a carrier’s railgun batteries or a MAST pointing at the Roncevaux when she enters orbit.”

“The situation has stabilized considerably since you set out,” Vos replied, clasping his hands behind his back as he took up position on the opposite side of the table. “Commander Brenner was able to achieve his goals, meaning that the tether station, the Tirad, and the MAST launchers are all back under Navy control. Barbosa and all of the rogue SWAR personnel present on site have been hunted to a man, and the local elements that allied themselves with him are in the custody of the colonial authorities. No prohibited technology escaped the colony as far as we know. The situation is contained.”

“That’s good to hear,” Lambert replied, leaning over the table as he examined the data readouts that hovered above it. “I was worried we’d be facing a well-prepared and entrenched enemy force in a worst-case scenario. Am I to understand that the deployment of peacekeeping forces to the surface won’t be necessary?”

“That will be up to the planetary governor, but I’m sure they’ll appreciate any help you can give them,” Vos replied. “It sounds like a little shore leave wouldn’t go amiss, though I regret to say that Hades isn’t exactly renowned for its spas.”

“How is the supply situation?”

“Stable for now, Captain,” the commander replied. “Rationing is still in effect on the colony, but the government is confident that they can stretch their supplies without any significant risk to the population. They’ll be relieved to see those freighters.”

“We’re towing about sixty thousand containers full of food and other assorted goods,” Lambert continued. “That should tide them over until trade is up and running again.”

“I dread to imagine the amount of compensation claims the Navy is going to be paying out after all these trade disruptions,” Vos muttered. “I have it on good authority that this conflict saw the first combat loss of a Beewolf to a cargo container.”

“Putain, I fear to ask,” Lambert grumbled with a shake of his head. “What a mess.”

“I suspect that the only help the Hadeans will be needing is humanitarian,” Vos continued. “And make sure to be respectful when you arrive. They’ve had a rough time of it, and I don’t think they’ll be wholly trusting of the Navy after what they’ve experienced. It may require a light touch.”

“My dear Admiral,” Lambert replied, giving him a smile across the table. “Have you ever known me to be anything other than respectful?”

“I believe that UN law permits me to refuse questions that may incriminate me,” Vos replied.

“Très bien,” Lambert said, standing up straight. “It appears that the situation is far more stable than the initial reports led me to believe. We’ll initiate a close jump to Hades as soon as our drive has charged sufficiently. It’s only a short trip.”

“I’d offer your men some time aboard station, but I’m afraid that our facilities leave a lot to be desired,” the commander said. “We’ve not been resupplied since the initial attack.”

“I will see what I can do about that,” Lambert replied.

“That would be appreciated, Captain,” the commander said.

After a full briefing, Lambert took Vos aside, Hemmer following as she always did. They made their way back down to the cafeteria – perhaps the only common area of the station, sitting around a table by the window to watch the fleet drift outside.

“I suppose you’re wondering what’s going to happen to you now,” Lambert began.

“Last I heard from Brenner, I was to be remanded into your custody,” Vos replied.

“I have orders to take you back to Proxima,” Lambert confirmed. “I’ll do you the courtesy of not keeping you in the brig during the journey, but make no mistake that you’re under arrest. We weren’t in port long enough to get more than a cursory rundown of the situation, but there are big shakeups in the higher echelons of power. Admiral Renaud sent me a personal communique warning that the UN Security Council is talking about abolishing the War Powers Act and reigning in the Admiralty. UNNI is all over them like flies on shit, and SWAR teams from across the Sphere are being called back to base for review. There’s talk of restructuring, more civilian oversight, investigations…it’s a real mess.”

“I heard as much,” Vos replied. “It seems that the era of the Admiral as a warlord is coming to an end. You’ll have to forward my apologies to Renaud for flying too close to the sun and pissing in his Cognac.”

“I’m almost glad to be out here instead of at home,” Lambert sighed as he watched his carrier through the glass. “It’ll take us another five or six months to get back to port, not including whatever time we spend on Hades. Hopefully, the worst of it will be over by then, and I won’t have to deal with any of the fallout.”

“Are you sending me home by Courser?” Vos asked.

“While I don’t doubt that Agent Hemmer is as capable as she appears, I was ordered to take you into my custody, so in my custody you shall remain. You’re too valuable to be let out of my sight, so I’m keeping you aboard the Roncevaux. I don’t want you pulling off one of your clever tricks and mysteriously disappearing.”

“Ah, a stay of execution,” Vos declared with a sarcastic flourish. “I do so enjoy dragging out the inevitable.”

“Agent Hemmer is of course free to remain with you, and we shall provide her with suitable accommodations in the officer’s quarters,” Lambert added with a nod to the woman. “We leave as soon as the carrier’s drive has charged enough for the jump. I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with me for a while, Admiral.”

“I suppose I can’t complain,” Vos sighed. “Far be it from me to refuse your gracious hospitality. On that subject – may I offer you a styrofoam cup of the station’s finest? The nameless moonshine brewed in the empty waste tanks is especially good this year.”

“Maybe I will send you home on a Courser,” Lambert sighed.

DAY 143 – HADES – RUZA

“I can’t believe they’re actually here,” Omar said as he adjusted his uniform nervously. “I was starting to feel like it would never happen.”

“These certainly aren’t the circumstances I was expecting to be greeting them in,” Reed added. “It’s just like the Navy to show up after all the hard work is done.”

“At least try to be respectful,” Brenner chided. “It’s not every day that you get visited by two captains.”

“Best behavior,” Wasp warned in a menacing hiss, Reed recoiling a little.

“Yes, let’s try to make a good first impression,” the Governor sighed as he reached up to slick back his thinning hair and adjust his tie. “If we want to be treated like the legitimate government of Hades instead of a mob, we have to act the part. I’m still not sure the beret was necessary,” he added with a disdainful glance at Reed.

“I got put in charge of the military, so I get to design the uniforms,” Reed protested as he reached up to straighten the fabric hat. It was a tan color, matching the camouflaged PDF coveralls that he was wearing, adorned with a golden badge depicting a sword. On his bicep was a high-vis armband of the same kind they had worn during the rebellion. Omar was dressed much the same way, minus the hat. The newly minted Hadean military had adopted many of the stylings of the PDF, albeit with some changes and additions to reflect their new status as the colony’s official security force. It was still very much a transitional process, with new units gradually being formed and trained.

“I hope the delegation arrives soon,” Bergmann added. “I’m going to catch my death not wearing a mask out here.”

Ruza watched them squabble, the wind blowing little clouds of dust across Garrison One’s courtyard. It was bustling with activity in anticipation of the Navy contingent’s arrival, PDF and Marines hurrying back and forth between the buildings. Brenner’s team was standing around near the landing pad, as were most of the higher-ups from the resistance – now the government.

“Looking dour up there, Doc,” Rivera said as he gave Ruza a nudge. “Aren’t you happy that the fleet is here?”

“I am,” Ruza replied. “I merely hope that the Navy will not object too much to what we have accomplished here.”

“That’s kind of what the show of force is about, isn’t it?” Rivera mused as he glanced out at the busy compound. “It’s a welcoming committee, but it’s also a thinly-veiled warning.”

“Captain Ortega has been amenable,” Ruza replied. “As for this Captain Lambert, I have not met him, and he has no shared history with us. I hope that he does not entertain any notions of bringing Hades under martial law.”

“I doubt it,” Rivera replied as he glanced up at the tether, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I’m sure that Ortega has given him the rundown by now.”

“I was told they brought sixty thousand containers of food,” Amy added as she stood beside the Rask. “If that’s true, it means the rationing will be over, and things can start getting back to normal.”

“Alright, people!” Reed barked as he turned to address some of the nearby troopers. “Look lively! Let’s show the nice captains that we can stand in formation like proper soldiers!”

Two dozen men hurried to form two neat rows in front of the raised landing pad, securing their camouflaged helmets and hefting shiny factory-fresh XMRs onto their shoulders.

“Stand up straight, Perkins!” Reed added. “Fuck’s sake. They’re gonna think Petrova’s guys are cooler than we are!”

Ruza heard the sound of heavy footfalls, turning his head to see another procession of troops approaching from the far side of the compound. Even with their desert camouflage and yellow livery, the sight of the PCEs still had him bristling. There were eight new production models marching in two neat columns, lumbering across the sand with their massive boots, heavy XMRs clasped in their mechanical hands. Rather than the painted teeth worn by the prototypes, these production models sported a sword decal on their sloped canopies – the same that Reed wore on his badge. It had a line down its center, representing the vein of copper in Lily’s magnetic blade. It was a fitting choice of emblem to represent the armed forces.

Between them were another thirty men walking in lockstep. They wore long Hadean leather cloaks over their camouflaged armor, their prosthetic limbs painted with the same desert colors. Each trooper held a modified XMR with a prominent bayonet that shone in the harsh sunlight. At their head was Petrova, still clad in her SWAR garb, leading them up to the landing pad. They fanned out into two rows, with the men at the front and the PCEs at the back.

Petrova glanced over at Ruza and gave him a smile, which he returned. The Governor had accepted her request for asylum, of course, and she had been using her wealth of skill and experience to train the recruits left behind by Barbosa. A dozen had been too injured to pursue the program, and a dozen more had quit once Barbosa’s betrayal had been revealed, given the promise of limb replacements in the future. The rest had remained, resuming their training after finishing treatment. They had signed up to protect Hades, and they had been promised tutelage, so Petrova had molded them into a crack unit.

They were the Hadean First Company now – augmented soldiers trained by SWAR veterans and backed up by heavy infantry in the form of the PCEs. Ruza had assisted where he could, teaching them much of what he had learned about desert survival and unconventional warfare tactics. Rivera and Reed had done much the same for the PDF, training them up to a standard worthy of the Navy. Ruza was confident that, should a second incident occur, Hades would now be far better equipped to handle it. This was only the beginning. Knowledge would disseminate throughout the growing force, more modern equipment and PCEs would be produced, and technology from Coalition allies would be incorporated to gain an edge on any potential adversaries.

Whether there would be more augmented recruits, and whether they would find a way to operate PCEs without dangerous surgeries remained to be seen, and Ruza would be able to oversee that process as a member of the ethics board.

The sound of engines distracted him, and he looked up to see a Leadbeater descending from the sky, jets of blue flame belching from its thrusters as it transitioned to VTOL mode. It extended its gear and set down on the nearby landing pad, kicking up a cloud of dust, its ramp starting to lower. Two men in white dress uniforms descended from the shadowy interior, shining like beacons in the Hadean sun, dark glasses protecting them from its glare. One was Ortega, and the other must be Lambert. They were dressed identically, but the color and configuration of the ribbons on their chests differed. They were accompanied by a fireteam of six Marines who waited at the top of the ramp as the pair descended the steps, the Governor walking out to greet them.

“Welcome to Hades,” he began, shaking each man’s hand in turn. “Captain Ortega, Captain Lambert, I trust that you had a pleasant trip?”

“Captain Lambert, this is Governor Serio,” Ortega began as he introduced them.

“I’ve been hearing a lot about what you’ve accomplished here,” Lambert replied. “I came expecting a fight, but it appears that you’ve done my job for me,” he added with a glance at the PCEs. “I should very much like to examine those if there’s time.”

“Certainly,” the Governor replied. “If you’ll come this way, I’ll introduce you to some of my valued colleagues and collaborators. You already know Commander Brenner and his team. They were instrumental in orchestrating the operation that retook control of Barbosa’s assets.”

“Very nice work, Commander,” Lambert said as he took Brenner’s prosthetic hand. “I’m sure that commendations are in order for all of you.” He shook the hands of a few of the nearby agents, including Harlequin’s four-fingered appendage, the Jarilan seeming surprised to be acknowledged alongside the SWAR operatives.

“This is Bergmann,” the Governor continued as they moved along the row. “He’s the leader of one of the colony’s largest workers’ unions, and he’s one of the founders of the resistance movement that fought against the occupation. None of this would have been possible without his foresight and resourcefulness.”

“It must have taken a tremendous amount of courage to be among the first to make a stand,” Lambert said, giving Bergmann’s hand a solid shake. “Your workers have clearly put their faith in the right person.”

“This is PDF Captain Jabril,” the Governor said, moving along to Omar. “He worked on the inside to pass information from the PDF to the resistance, putting himself at great personal risk. He was even briefly captured by the enemy. He’s now in charge of the Planetary Defense Forces and colonial security.”

“It takes a strong will to handle that kind of uncertainty and stress,” Lambert began. “Working within the belly of the beast to undermine it. Commendable.”

“Allow me to introduce you to Reed, the acting commander of our burgeoning Hadean Self Defense Forces – the HSDF. Along with Bergmann, he was there at the start of the occupation, and he coordinated the bulk of the resistance’s military operations.”

“Ex-Navy, as I understand it,” Lambert said as he took Reed’s hand. “You could have left the job to other people, but you took responsibility. You might have left the Marines, but you still embody their values and resilience.”

“Somebody else might have done it wrong, Captain,” Reed replied with a smile.

“This is Sergeant Major Rivera, newly promoted,” the Governor said as they proceeded down the line. “Stationed aboard the Tirad, he was among those interned in the garrisons by Barbosa’s forces. He was freed during a resistance raid and took command of the Marine forces operating on the ground. His tactical acumen and knowledge were a cornerstone of the resistance’s success.”

“You’re too kind, Governor,” Rivera said as he shook the captain’s hand. “I simply did my duty as the highest-ranked Marine available at the time, Captain.”

“Duty first, regardless of the circumstances or the odds,” Lambert replied with an approving nod. “Exemplary of the Corps. You have a fine crew, Ortega. It’s a well-deserved field promotion.”

“This is Amy Lewis,” the Governor said. “She started the war as a secretary, then used her skills to manage logistics for the resistance base. Ammunition, food, medical supplies – she oversaw it all. She’s now in charge of distributing food throughout the colony.”

“It’s always encouraging to see normal, everyday people stepping up to do the right thing,” the captain said as he took her hand. “You weren’t trained for it, it wasn’t your responsibility, you weren’t powerful or influential, but you still did what needed to be done. That’s a special kind of strength. I hope that the supplies we brought with us will go some way towards alleviating the food problem.”

“Oh, it will!” Amy replied as she beamed back at him.

“I’m sure you’ve already heard a lot about our resident family doctor,” the Governor added with a gesture to Ruza.

“Yes, he needs no introduction,” Lambert replied as he lifted his chin to meet Ruza’s gaze. “The right man in the wrong place. The way I hear it, the resistance might have failed a dozen times over if it wasn’t for your intervention. Loyalty and bravery hardly cut it – you made the fate of every person on Hades your responsibility. These aren’t your people, and this isn’t your home, but your sense of justice is stronger than any blood ties. The United Nations owes you a great debt. Anything you ask for that is in my power to give, you shall have.”

Ruza gave the captain a curt bow of his head, engulfing the human’s tiny hand in his own. He moved past the Rask, approaching Petrova where she stood at attention in front of her rows of troopers, her hands clasped behind her back. She watched the Captain approach, a hint of nervousness marring her stoic expression.

“Agent Petrova,” Lambert began. “I came here with orders straight from the top to arrest all UNN personnel who collaborated with Barbosa. It’s my understanding that you are his last surviving Lieutenant.”

“I believe you would find that extremely difficult, Captain,” Reed chimed.

The PCEs lined up at the back shifted their stance in unison, creating an intimidating chorus of whirring servos and grinding metal, their footfalls shaking the ground as they moved their weapons from parade to ready positions. They weren’t aiming at anyone, but the implication was obvious enough. The Marines waiting by the dropship on the landing pad shared nervous glances through their visors.

“Yes, I have to concur with that assessment,” Lambert conceded as he eyed the suits.

“My government has granted asylum requests for both Agent Petrova and Doctor Nillson,” the Governor explained, pausing to dab at his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m afraid that we won’t be able to turn them over to any UNN authorities. It wouldn’t be legal.”

“We did manage to negotiate some visitation rights,” Ortega added hurriedly. “UNNI will be permitted to interview Nilsson under HSDF supervision.”

“We can all vouch for Petrova, Captain,” Brenner added.

“Your friends are very protective of you,” Lambert continued, addressing Petrova. “That says a lot. It takes a different kind of courage to admit fault and work to make things right. I’m told that you’re the one who put an end to Barbosa. That’s proof enough for me of where your allegiance lies. I’ll have to let my superiors know that attempting to take you into custody would be…unproductive.”

He extended a hand, and she took it, Ruza’s hackles lowering.

“Now that we’ve finished the introductions, we can proceed with the tour,” the Governor said. He sounded relieved, hurrying the two Captains along with a wave of his hand. “If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you around Garrison One. This is the headquarters of both the PDF and the HSDF, and it was the location of one of the most pivotal battles of the war…”

“I thought that went pretty well,” Reed said with a shrug once they were out of earshot.

“Could have gone better,” Brenner grumbled.

“Could have gone worse,” Amy added cheerfully. “Can we go home now? It’s hot, my feet hurt, and I can taste dust in the back of my throat.”

“Yeah, I have places I’d rather be,” Reed replied, turning to wave at his men. “Alright, you can all fuck off home now. I mean, uh, dismissed!”

Everyone began to disperse, and Petrova walked over to join Ruza, the pair walking towards the main gate of the compound.

“Seems like I’m going to be allowed to stay,” she began.

“That was never in question,” Ruza replied. “The question was whether anyone would be foolish enough to object.”

“Either way, I’m glad that it didn’t result in any needless conflict,” she added. “I don’t want anyone shedding blood on my part.”

“Amy believes that the rationing will come to an end soon,” Ruza continued as they passed between the walls of gabions that flanked the entrance. “Trade will soon resume, and ships will begin arriving once more. The security situation has been resolved – there is nothing more to fear.”

“Feels strange, doesn’t it?” Petrova mused. “No crisis to resolve, no dark clouds on the horizon. Now, everyone just gets to live their lives, which I guess was the point of all this.”

“I closed the clinic today to be here,” Ruza added, glancing down at her. “I have nothing to occupy my time for the evening. Would you care for some stroganoff?”

“That sounds wonderful,” she replied, taking his hand as they walked out onto the street.

DAY 402 – HADES WASTELAND – RUZA

Ruza stood on the rocky outcrop, feeling the cooling evening wind in his hair as he peered out over the desert. The sun was just starting to set, casting the sky in shades of pink and orange, its long shadows creeping across the dunes. The sprawling city rose in the distance, its growing borders encroaching on the sands. Tall cranes now towered above the new neighborhoods of prefabs and more permanent structures that were being erected. They were sprouting up all over the place, many of the old warehouses and factories that had sat long abandoned being demolished – replaced with more residential areas. The ever-present tether dominated the skyline, the collision lights that ran up and down its length flashing in sequence, the sight of an elevator starting its climb catching his eye as it began to accelerate away. There was talk of creating more tethers, and it was said that the Jarilans could throw them up as easily as another species might erect a fence.

Beyond the city’s borders, small clusters of glass domes reflected the sunlight, scattered throughout the desert as far as the eye could see. They were filled with flourishing plant life, the greenhouses taking on the appearance of vibrant reefs on an otherwise barren ocean floor, each one serving to bolster the colony’s food supply. They were linked by elevated maglev rails that snaked back and forth between them, leading back to the city like arteries. They were only the start of a plan to regreen the desert and improve Hades’ ecology, spearheaded by the Valbarans.

Much of the development was being funded by the UN, along with interested Broker conglomerates seeking to exploit the colony’s mineral reserves.

He turned his head, glancing up at the nearby monument that was perched atop the rock a short walk away, overlooking the colony. It was hewn from a kind of marble found locally, covered with striations of red and orange ore. Its shape was that of a giant sword some thirty feet tall, dozens of human figures rising to heft it between them, their hands overlapping around its hilt as they appeared to melt from the pedestal below. Near the top of its blade, a long strip of high-vis fabric waved in the breeze, its bright yellow color making it glimmer. Around its base were strewn wreaths of flowers grown in the greenhouses, and other assorted offerings from the ceremony that had taken place earlier in the day, a plaque with a long list of names adorning it.

This was a monument to those lost during the attack on the resistance base, and to all those who had lost their lives during the conflict. Below it was the abandoned mining compound where Ruza had first met with Bergmann and Reed so long ago, all of the abandoned machinery and derelict buildings now replaced with a field of craters. The entrance to the old mines and tunnels was only twenty meters deep now, as most of what had been the base was lost under thousands of tons of collapsed rock, but it seemed an appropriate location for the memorial.

There had been a ceremony honoring the dead on the anniversary of the attack, and all but a few of the attendees had gone home now. It had been nice to see all of the people who had survived to live on, ranging from PDF and Marines to simple factory workers who had taken up arms to defend their home. Many unaffiliated civilians had made the trek from the city to leave offerings, like a kind of pilgrimage. It hadn’t been a dour affair. There had been speeches from the Governor and Bergmann, and Ortega had led something called a three-volley salute – a human custom involving firing rifles into the air to honor the dead. It differed from Rask funerary customs, where the fallen were remembered and their deeds celebrated in the form of woven tapestries, but he was no weaver.

Only a handful of friends and high-ranking members of the Navy remained now, forming small groups as they talked. He heard the sound of small stones crunching underfoot, turning to see Petrova approaching from the direction of the memorial.

“You alright over here on your own, big guy?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I am simply remembering.”

She offered him her hand, and he took it, rubbing his thumb pad against her smooth skin.

“How are you faring?” he asked. “It was a long walk to reach this place.”

“I’m fine,” she replied, giving his hand a squeeze. “Really. Stop fussing, I’ll get used to the mark-ones in time. I’m still a little shaky on my feet, but they’re brand new feet. I gotta break ‘em in like a new pair of boots.”

“I worry.”

“I know you do,” she chuckled. “The downside of dating a doctor – every ache and pain becomes a medical examination. There’s been no rejection, no tingling or numbness. I suppose there’s nothing to reject with cloning. I can’t scale a ten-foot wall anymore or punch through someone’s skull, but I can touch you,” she added with a smile. “Some part of me worried that I’d regret it, but so far, I just feel…normal. I’ve never really had an opportunity to be normal before. It’s nice. It’s not like I need the augs to be an instructor anyway.”

The Jarilan contingent had set up a clinic in the city, where they had performed the same procedures on those recruits who wished to be rid of their augmentations. Over the last few months, they had been helping to bolster the hospital’s staff and accelerate construction projects. They were industrious little creatures, and they had butted heads with the unions on occasion, requiring some smoothing over from Bergmann. A Jarilan Drone did not require things like lunch breaks, vacations, or limits on working hours. There was a careful balance to be found between hastening important infrastructure projects and ensuring the human workers weren’t losing out on contracts.

Their doctors and engineers were hard at work bringing novel biotech and manufacturing processes to Hades now, overseen by an Ambassador who represented their Queen. They were developing a less invasive alternative for piloting Hades’ production model PCEs based on Warrior technology, and with safer and more easily reversible surgeries, the potential for allowing more HSDF recruits to undergo augmentation was being considered by the ethics committee. It was important that augmentation never become a standard the average soldier would have to meet to join the force – it must remain elective. So, much like SWAR before it, the HSDF had formed its own special forces branch. Brenner and his squad had taken an interest in training along with Petrova, and the force – now named Cerberus – had become quite formidable in a relatively short span of time.

The core of the military was made up of PDF and resistance fighters with real combat experience, trained to a high standard by Reed and Rivera’s Marines. Along with Cerberus and the heavy infantry units, Hades would be a venerable opponent the next time a hive fleet or a rogue commander grew too ambitious. Without needing to go through the UNN, the Governor was using the new influx of revenue from the mining operations to purchase defense technology from across the Coalition. Vehicles, weapons, defense systems – they were accruing an eclectic arsenal that gave them some unique capabilities.

For the first time, the colony could defend itself, and Ruza felt confident that his rifle would serve out the rest of its days as a coat rack.

“C’mon,” Petrova said, tugging at his hand. “We need to go see everyone off. This might be the last time we’re all together in one place like this.”

He followed her back over to the loose cluster of people. Brenner and his team were there, including Wasp, Silverback, and Harlequin. There was Rivera, Reed, and Fuller. Many of the civilians were present, including Bergmann, Amy, Astrid, Nick, Bill, and Ricky. Amy and Nick were sticking close together, having begun courting some months prior. Ruza had wondered if Nick would join the HSDF once he had recovered from his ordeal, but he had elected to return to his old job. Perhaps he’d had his fill of heroism. Lily was standing head and shoulders above her friends, sipping on a vial of honey, her antennae blowing in the breeze.

Ruza made his way over to Brenner, the surrounding agents greeting him warmly.

“It’s a nice memorial,” Brenner began as he glanced up at the statue.

“I only wish that we’d gotten here sooner,” Silverback added. “Maybe things would have gone differently.”

“We did everything that we could,” Harlequin said. “There’s nothing to regret.”

“Petrova tells me that you will all be shipping out soon,” Ruza said. “Where are you going next? Have you received new orders?”

“Yeah, we’ve dragged our feet long enough,” Brenner sighed. “Our work here is done, the situation is stable, and I doubt even Ortega is going to accept any more excuses for us to stick around. Both carriers will be returning home with the fleet for reassignment. Besides, I’m going to have a lot of responsibility from now on.”

“He’s been put in charge of SWAR,” Wasp declared proudly.

“You’re going to be leading the whole organization?” Petrova marveled.

“Well, with Barbosa dead and Vos out of the picture, someone has to step up and take command,” Brenner continued. “The Admiralty seems to think that I’m a shoo-in for the role. There are going to be a lot of changes – it’ll be quite the shakeup. Once UNNI is satisfied that Barbosa didn’t leave any sleeper agents behind and everyone passes their shit test, my new job will be reforming SWAR. We’ll have civilian oversight now, which means no more rogue Admirals ordering black ops off the books. The UN voted to repeal the War Powers Act, which reins in their authority and makes them accountable again. Everything will go through the UN Office of Naval Affairs now.”

“That means they have to ask the government nicely before they take a carrier for a spin or order an assassination,” Wasp clarified.

“I want to say that SWAR’s cultural problems died with Barbosa and his men, but that would be foolishly optimistic,” Brenner continued. “Light is the best disinfectant, as they say. No more insular fraternities, no more secrecy, no more skirting the rules. The regulations for who can join will actually be enforced properly now, as was the condition for SWAR being founded at all, and the Jarilans have enabled us to offer full decommissioning for any agents who wish to leave.”

“No more human weapons,” Petrova said. “SWAR is something you do for a time, then you retire. It no longer has to consume your life.”

“We’ll be fully compliant with the Yellow Sea Treaty,” Brenner confirmed. “I learned a lot on Kerguela. SWAR has always been about recruiting unusual people and outliers with unique skillsets, and working with outside organizations bolsters camaraderie and keeps people grounded. We’ll now be working closely with Coalition special forces units like Indigo, the Grasshoppers, and Hazard Teams. I’m sure there’s a lot we can teach each other. Who knows, maybe we’ll allow aliens to join if they want to. I see no reason that we shouldn’t make full use of every tool available. Harlequin has proven the value of that approach.”

“Having served in mixed units, I know that it is a wise decision,” Ruza replied. “What of Admiral Vos? Have you heard any news?”

“Vos is aboard Captain Lambert’s carrier,” Brenner began. “He’s been asking after you, Doc. Being that he’s now technically in custody, he doesn’t have the authority to call you directly. Is there a message you’d like me to take back to him?”

“I suppose there is much that I owe him,” Ruza replied. “Our formal relationship might have ended after Kerguela, but I would not be where I am today if he had not recognized my talents and taken a chance on a rogue Rask medic.”

“That man thrives on being owed favors,” Petrova chided. “You don’t owe him anything. Like you said, your formal relationship ended after Kerguela. Don’t let him draw you back in if you don’t want him to.”

“You are wise, as always,” Ruza said with a nod to his partner. “Simply tell him…thank you for the opportunity.”

“Oh, he’s going to love that,” Brenner replied sarcastically.

“You will all be leaving with the fleet, then?” Ruza asked.

“The Commander hand-picked us for this job,” Silverback replied. “We’ll all be redeployed to wherever we’re needed. Maybe back to Kerguela for more exercises, maybe somewhere else – who knows. We tend not to stay in one place for very long.”

“I’m staying behind,” Wasp added. “I think there’s still a lot of work I can do with Cerberus, and Commander Brenner has signed off on it. I’ll be working as a consultant.”

“And it means you can be close to Reed,” Silverback whispered. She rewarded him with an elbow jab that winded him, the giant agent doubling over.

“Children, please,” Komodo grumbled.

“I’ll be heading back to Kerguela, unless the Commander needs me,” Harlequin said. “Maybe I’ll apply for that SWAR role if things pan out.”

“Looks like it’s goodbye, Doc,” Silverback said as he extended one of his large prosthetic hands. Ruza took it, the agent clasping it tightly more than shaking it. “I’ll hit you up if I’m ever in the neighborhood again.”

“I do not regret that the conflict has ended, but I will miss fighting side by side with you,” Ruza replied. “Any Rask pack would be glad to have you.”

“Got some good stories out of it,” Silverback chuckled. “Like the time we took down those two PCEs.”

“The people of Hades will not soon forget what your team did for them,” Ruza added. “If SWAR is to embody your values, Brenner, then it shall be stronger than ever.”

“That’s the plan,” Brenner replied with a nod. “We lost some good agents in the fight, but it’s what we signed up for. Seeing the outcome, I think they’d agree that it was worth it,” he added as he glanced out over the shining city. “A lot of SWAR agents die without anyone ever knowing who they were or what they were doing. They make anonymous sacrifices for people who will never know their names. Those names are on a plaque overlooking a city they died to protect now. That’s enough.”

They said their goodbyes, then Ruza and Petrova moved over to where Reed, Rivera, Bergmann, and Lily were talking.

“It was a nice ceremony,” Reed began, sounding a little more subdued than usual. “It hardly feels real now, does it? Like it all happened to somebody else, or it was a half-remembered dream. If I hadn’t been so lucky – if I didn’t have people like you guys watching my back, maybe my name would be on that plaque. What makes me different from any of the people who didn’t make it? Nothing, really. I wasn’t stronger or faster.”

“Or smarter,” Rivera added.

“What’s important is making sure that their sacrifices meant something,” Bergmann added. “We move forward, and we honor their memories by doing the best job we can.”

“It’s odd seeing the sword I brought here become such a symbol for the Hadeans,” Lily said as she looked up at the monument.

“It changed hands so many times before it found its way to me,” Petrova said. “Without it, I might not have been able to stop Barbosa.”

“Nor could Silverback, Deacon, and I have defeated Crow,” Ruza added.

“The Hadeans have the blueprints now,” Lily continued. “I heard they’re being made standard issue for HSDF heavy infantry – little Warriors after my own heart.”

“Are you leaving with the fleet, Lily?” Ruza asked.

“Yeah, I’m heading back to Kerguela,” she replied with a nod that made her long antennae wave in the wind. “My hunger for Endos has been sated…for now, and I’ve had a nice vacation – we don’t get many of those. Besides, I’m starting to miss the feeling of warm, wet flesh cradling my carapace. It gets very dry out here.”

“Don’t forget to tally those PCEs on your new Warrior,” Petrova added.

“Whatever happened to Reggie?” Reed added. “I haven’t seen him in a while. Did he already head back home to Trappist?”

“He pretty much hid on the carrier until a Broker ship came to pick him up,” Rivera explained. “Darnedest thing I ever saw, those ships. They’re shaped like a big silver cigar, and they have no visible propulsion methods – no exhausts or thrusters or engine cones. When they set down, they don’t even have landing gear – they just float a few feet off the deck.”

“Reggie did the same thing,” Reed added. “He was able to float off the ground and keep pace with a truck seemingly without any form of propulsion. Makes you wonder what kind of technology they have access to that they don’t feel like sharing.”

“Will you be leaving us too, Rivera?” Petrova asked.

“Duty calls,” he replied with a nod. “I’m still on active service, believe it or not, so I’m heading back with the Tirad for redeployment. I have a feeling Captain Ortega is going to keep me close.”

“You’re a Sergeant Major now,” Reed added, giving him a pat on the arm that made the Marine roll his eyes. “You have a lot of responsibilities.”

Ruza and Petrova moved on to the next group, finding their civilian friends chatting as they shared beers from a cooler. He overheard Astrid talking about one government project or another, pausing as everyone turned to greet the newcomers.

“Doesn’t feel real, does it?” Ricky began as he gazed up at the towering memorial. “If it wasn’t for Nick coming back for us, our names might be on that plaque too.”

“All we really did for the resistance was carry crates around,” Bill mused. “Yet, we’re still alive, and so many of the bravest and most skilled fighters aren’t. I guess I’m feeling a little survivor’s guilt about the whole thing.”

“Where did you learn a term like that?” Ricky asked skeptically.

“I looked it up on the intranet,” Bill replied.

“There’s no such thing as Karma,” Nick added, keeping one arm around Amy’s waist. “The only fairness and justice is what we make. Besides, you guys are underselling everything you did for the resistance. You were there practically from day one, supporting everyone else and making sure they could do their jobs properly.”

“You were by my side throughout,” Ruza confirmed. “You kept us focused on what was important and what we were truly fighting for. Do not discount the impact of that.”

“Kind of feels like a participation trophy, but I’ll take it,” Ricky replied.

“How have you been finding things now that the crisis is over?” Petrova asked.

“It’s been strange, trying to go back to living a normal life,” Ricky began. “Sometimes, I still feel weirdly vulnerable if I can’t reach out and feel a dirt wall beside me. The atmosphere has changed, though,” he added as he gazed out at the city pensively. “Before, nobody really had any optimism about where Hades was headed. The list of crises and incidents was so long that all anyone really aspired to was stability. If there wasn’t a mobster shaking you down for scrip, it was a good day. Now, people are looking to the future. It’s not just all the development and the investment – they’ve realized that they can take charge of their own futures. We’ve been browbeaten for so long that we forgot how to be self-reliant, like a kind of learned helplessness. The only times things were ever good and we felt safe was when outside forces made it so. For the first time, it feels like we can steer Hades in any direction we choose.”

“People seem a lot happier,” Bill added. “Even after everything that happened, and all the people we lost, there’s a lot of optimism in the air. It’s like everyone’s focus has shifted from the present to the future.”

“I’m enjoying the return to normalcy,” Nick said with a laugh. “I like being able to go to work without the worry that some angry supersoldier is going to tear my arms off. It makes me appreciate all the little things I took for granted before.”

“I think we’ve all had quite enough excitement for one lifetime,” Amy chuckled, giving Nick a squeeze. “There’s nothing wrong with settling down and living a quiet, peaceful life. Isn’t that right, Doc?”

“I aim to do nothing of note for the remainder of my days,” he grumbled, which seemed to amuse the humans.

“We should all get one last drink together before we part ways,” Amy added. “Reed can cover the tab with his new HSDF salary. Isn’t that right, Reed!?” she added as she raised her voice to get his attention. He gave her a dismissive wave, which she seemed to take as his consent.

“There’s a little hole in the wall that my friend Fran likes to frequent,” Petrova said. “C’mon – I’ll show you guys.”

“I’m going to abuse my authority and call us a shuttle,” Brenner added as he wandered over. “Walking here across the desert was symbolic, but walking all the way back is going to wear out my servos, and the place’ll be closed by the time we arrive.”

“That is fine by me,” Ruza muttered. “It is always challenging to keep pace with humans.”

“I think you manage just fine,” Petrova added, giving him a nudge.

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER – PROXIMA – VOS

“That could have gone worse,” Lambert said with a shrug, following Vos as he marched down the hallway with furious purpose. The carpet beneath their feet was colored a Navy blue, the white-painted walls decorated with UNN wreaths, portraits of Admirals, and commemorative plaques. Every few meters was another door that led to a cramped office, various administrative workers clad in blue uniforms moving out of their path, clutching tablet computers and data drives in their hands.

The station served as the unofficial headquarters for the Navy, SWAR, and UNNI outside of Sol. There was the United Nations building on Earth, Fort Hamilton out on the border, and Proxima Centauri Naval Base. As one of humanity’s earliest colonies, it was among the most developed. For so long, this had been the seat of Vos’ power – the location from which he had executed so many of his schemes. Now, this might be the last time he’d set foot in its halls – the last time he would wear the white uniform of an Admiral.

“They stripped me of my commission,” Vos replied testily. “Decades of loyal service apparently counts for naught. They ruled for an involuntary separation, which means I’ve lost my rank and all the privileges that entails. I won’t even get a pension from the Navy.”

“Keeping in mind, of course, that the alternative could easily have involved them sending you to a penal colony for treason,” Lambert added. “You got off lightly if you ask me. This is all theater anyway,” he added as they rounded a bend in the hallway. “They’re keeping you on as a consultant and paying you a generous fee. They know that you’re too valuable to just disappear. They had to do something to appease the UN, or you’d be brought up before a civilian tribunal, and they would have been much less kind.”

“That consultancy fee is a bribe,” Vos complained. “They’re throwing me a bone because the other Admirals know that if they try to fuck me, footage of their most recent affair and detailed information about their choice tax haven will be circulating the intranet before they can say the word blackmail. They act like I’m the only Admiral who ever abused the War Power Act – they’re trying to pin the whole scandal on me. Well, I know all of their dirty little secrets. Those sycophants are fully aware that they’re only coming out of this clean as long as they give me something I want.”

“It’s a forced retirement, yes,” Lambert continued. “A rather generous one at that. You and your wife can retire to a nice beach somewhere and sip margaritas for the rest of your lives if you so choose. Not many people who have been convicted of the things you have are afforded such lenience.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Vos continued with a wave of his recently-cloned hand. “I was always going to be hanging up this cap, regardless of how the court-martial turned out. The world is changing, Captain, as are the threats we face. I don’t want to end up like Barbosa, my body failing as I desperately try to carry the weight of the Sphere on my shoulders. I’ve put the right people in the right positions where I could, and I’ve left the UNN in a better state than I found it. It will be up to others now. SWAR will be stronger than ever before under Brenner’s leadership. With the War Powers Act repealed, the Navy is a more centralized force than it’s ever been, and civilian oversight will keep the Admirals in check. The Jarilans, the Valbarans, the Brokers, even the Rask – relations are only growing closer. The Supercarrier program is nearing completion, and the Harmony will be the shape of things to come. I’ve already appointed Fielding to command her first sortie.”

“I suppose that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Lambert mused as they paused by the door to Vos’ office. “Legacy. Barbosa couldn’t stand the thought of the Galaxy moving on without him, and your attempts to manipulate events to your liking have ended up costing you everything.”

“Yes, I’m sure you and Admiral Renaud are going to have a wonderful time laughing about it over some truly awful champagne,” Vos grumbled as he flashed his card over the lock. “I might be exiting my position in disgrace, but that’s where Barbosa and I differ. So much of what he did was solely to stoke his own ego, but I don’t give a damn what tomorrow’s press says about me. The UNN is on the right track, and that’s all that matters to me. I can sleep easy at night knowing that my hand doesn’t need to be pressing down on the scales.”

“If I were you, my takeaway would probably be not to divert funding to illegal black ops projects and entrust lunatics with superweapons,” Lambert said as he leaned against the wall beside the door. “Though, I suppose doing things like that off the books is going to become much harder now. Do you want any help clearing out your office, Admiral?”

“Oh, va te faire foutre,” Vos grumbled as he stepped inside.

EPILOGUE

HADES TETHER STATION

“What’s your business on Hades?” Fritz asked, lifting a tablet computer to check the alien’s visa information. The tether station was bustling with activity these days, with people coming and going from all over the Coalition – aliens included. He was starting to think that the station was too small to handle all the traffic. A few other HSDF troopers were standing around in their camouflaged uniforms, their service XMHs holstered on their belts, running background checks and looking for contraband.

“We are Consensus ecological engineers,” the little creature trilled, Fritz raising an eyebrow as he glanced down at her.

“We have a work visa,” one of her counterparts added.

There were seven of the Valbarans waiting around the security gate, each one barely reaching his shoulder in height, their long tails stretched out behind them. They were reptiles, covered in scales that varied in color from green to tan, their feathery headdresses flashing different colors in a way that was very distracting. They wore colorful tunics and dark, tight-fitting shorts, each one carrying a little satchel of belongings with them.

“You all have visas?” Fritz pressed, looking at the tablet again with a frown. “I’m only seeing one work visa in our system.”

“Yes, the visa is for our flock,” another of their number chirped. They spoke perfect English, but it seemed to be a form of mimicry, like a parrot repeating phrases it had heard before. They kept finishing each other’s sentences.

“One flock, one visa,” another added. “We are as one.”

“Uh, alright,” Fritz muttered. “If you’ll please wait here a moment, I think I have to call my supervisor…”

He reached a hand to his earpiece as the little aliens watched him, their violet eyes staring past their long snouts – unblinking.

As he tried to straighten it out, something caught his eye. There was a man walking down the corridor from the direction of the passenger elevator. He was wearing Hadean leathers, along with a rebreather and a woolen beanie that obscured his features, a suitcase clutched tightly in one hand. He was moving at a brisk pace, keeping his eyes fixed forwards.

Fritz watched as the stranger approached the gate, setting his suitcase down on the conveyor, where it slid through a scanner. He stepped forward and allowed the gate to run a scan on him, then one of the other guards waved him through. It seemed that he wasn’t carrying any weapons or contraband.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Fritz said, the Valbarans turning their heads in unison as he hurried over to the gate. “Hold up!” he added, gesturing for one of his counterparts to stop the man. “What’s the purpose of your visit to the station today, sir?”

“I am leaving on business,” he replied, his voice muffled by the mask. Fritz gestured for him to take it off, and he did so, revealing his face. He seemed a little nervous, but Fritz didn’t recognize him at a glance.

“Your visa seems to check out, Mister…Johnson,” Fritz muttered as he referenced his tablet computer. “Please step this way, sir.”

“May I ask why?” the man said, sparing the other troopers a wary glance. “I’m in a bit of a hurry – don’t want to miss my check-in.”

“It’s just a random search,” Fritz insisted, guiding him away. “Perfectly routine.”

He flipped open the man’s briefcase and set it down on one of the conveyors, running his fingers across its lining, looking for hidden pockets or compartments. When he didn’t find any, he had the man raise his arms and patted him down, checking the inside of his heavy Hadean coat. A handheld scanner didn’t turn up anything either.

“May I go now?” the man asked hesitantly. “Or are you going to insist on a cavity search?”

“Everything seems to be in order,” Fritz mused, looking him up and down. “I don’t see that I have any reason to detain you further. Have a nice flight, sir.”

“Thank you,” the stranger replied with a sigh of relief, lifting his briefcase. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Hold on a moment,” Fritz added, the stranger pausing as he walked away. “Could you remove your hat for me, Mister Johnson?”

“You’ve already given me a thorough search,” the man replied, turning to scowl at him. “I don’t see why that’s necessary. If you keep holding me up, I’ll go to your supervisor.”

“Take the hat off,” Fritz insisted.

The man turned and began to walk away briskly, and with a snap of Fritz’s fingers, two HSDF troopers sprinted over and grabbed him by the arms.

“This is an outrage!” the man protested, struggling against them. His suitcase fell to the deck and burst open, folded clothes spilling out onto the carpet. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

Fritz marched over and gripped the woolen beanie, tearing it off. In the center of the man’s forehead were several prominent burn scars, their regular shape reminiscent of the coils on the barrel of an XMH.

“Oh, we know who you are,” Fritz stated with a cruel grin. “Rivera told us to look out for someone matching your description.”

“W-what are you talking about!?” the man demanded, his fearful eyes darting around. “I was injured in a welding accident! You can’t just arrest me for nothing! I’m a UN citizen! I have rights! I demand to speak to a lawyer!”

“Mister Johnson is a UN citizen who has the right to due process,” Fritz replied, checking his tablet again. “But you’re not Mister Johnson, are you? I don’t know where you got the forged ID, but that was a bad decision. Now, I get to hold you for as long as I want until I can determine your real identity.”

“Alright, alright!” he conceded. “My name is Yates – I was a corrections warden with the PDF. I can give you my service number!”

“Well, I dunno,” Fritz continued with a mocking shrug. “Might take us a long time to determine whether that’s true. Last I heard, the computers weren’t working so good, and I’ll bet a lot of PDF data got lost during the transition.”

“He might fall between the cracks, Sarge,” one of the troopers chuckled.

“That he might,” Fritz confirmed. “Better stick him in the hold for a few days while I make some calls and figure out what to do with him.”

“A few days!?” Yates demanded as they began to drag him away. “You can’t do this!”

“You’d be surprised by what I can do,” Fritz replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a call. Reed is going to love this.”

~THE END~

Dedicated to Ozzy Osbourne, who died the day I finished this.