The Middle Road

(Spineward Sectors: Middleton’s Pride, Book Seven)

by

Caleb Wachter

Copyright © 2017 by Caleb Wachter

All rights reserved.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. Respect my electronic rights because the money you save today will be the book I can't afford to write for you tomorrow.

Other Books by Caleb Wachter

As of 01-09-2017

SPINEWARD SECTORS: MIDDLETON’S PRIDE

No Middle Ground

Up The Middle

Against The Middle

McKnight’s Mission (A House Divided)

Middleton’s Prejudice

Lynch’s Legacy

The Middle Road

SPHEREWORLD NOVEL SERIES

Joined at the Hilt: Union

Joined at the Hilt 2: Dross

SPHEREWORLD NOVELLAS

Between White and Grey

SPINEWARD SECTORS: A TRACTO TALE

The Forge of Men

SEEDS OF HUMANITY: THE COBALT HERESY SERIES

Revelation

Reunion

IMPERIUM CICERNUS SERIES

Ure Infectus

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Books by my Brother: Luke Sky Wachter

SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVEL SERIES

Admiral Who?

Admiral’s Gambit

Admiral’s Tribulation

Admiral’s Trial

Admiral’s Revenge

Admiral’s Spine

Admiral Invincible

Admiral's Challenge

Admiral’s War - Part One

Admiral’s War - Part Two

RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVEL SERIES

The Blooding

The Painting

The Channeling

RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVELLAS

The Boar Knife

COLLABORATIVE WORKS BY LUKE SKY WACHTER & CALEB WACHTER

SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVELLAS

Admiral’s Lady: Eyes of Ice, Heart of Fire

Admiral’s Lady: Ashes for Ashes, Blood for Blood

Join www.PacificCrestPublishing.com for future beta reading opportunities.

Be sure to stop by the blog at blog.PacificCrestPublishing.com for updates.

Table of Contents

Prologue I: Undoing the Crafter

Prologue II: A New Assignment

Chapter I: The Crafter

Chapter II: A Glimpse of the Eye

Chapter III: Bugs…Out Here?!

Chapter IV: Great…

Chapter V: Fleet Politics

Chapter VI: A Bug’s Life

Chapter VII: A Phantom’s Grace

Chapter VIII: Puzzle Pieces

Chapter IX: In The Bull’s Eye

Chapter X: An Untapped Mind

Chapter XI: The Secularists

Chapter XII: Memories and Premonitions

Chapter XIII: The Cooling Trail

Chapter XIV: A New Perspective

Chapter XV: New Orders

Chapter XVI: The Dotted Line

Chapter XVII: The Advance—and Drills, Drills, Drills…

Chapter XVIII: The Mysterious Fate of Magmid One

Chapter XIX: An Unanticipated Exchange

Chapter XX: The Slavers’ Code

Chapter XXI: Mr. Six

Chapter XXII: The Eye Opens

Chapter XXIII: The Watchful Eye

Chapter XXIV: The Maligned Middle

Chapter XXV: Battle Lines

Chapter XXVI: First Strike

Chapter XXVII: Counterpunching

Chapter XXVIII: Clarification

Chapter XXIX: The Map

Chapter XXX: Silent Echoes

Chapter XXXI: Reinforcements

Chapter XXXII: A Stalwart Defense

Chapter XXXIII: Fresh Meat!

Chapter XXXIV: Lance-tip Diplomacy

Chapter XXXV: Willpower vs. Ferocity

Chapter XXXVI: A Proper Duel

Chapter XXXVII: The Last Signature

Chapter XXXVIII: Of Sterner Stuff than I

Chapter XXXIX: The Lost Swarm

Chapter XL: The Art of the Deal

Chapter XLI: Striking Accord

Chapter XLII: The Prodigal Son Returns

Chapter XLIII: An Errant Hornet’s Journey Home

Epilogue: The Round-Up

Alliance Gorgonus Fleet Breakdown, prepared by Kongming—for authorized eyes only.

Per Supreme Commander Middleton’s instructions I have conducted a breakdown of our fleet’s hardware. After reviewing the technical specifications provided for all ships in the fleet, I employed the simplistic ‘Tech Level’ (TL) system, as instructed by the Supreme Commander, to better facilitate communication between the various commanders within the fleet when determining the tactical values of their respective platforms.

For clarification, top-of-the-line non-Imperial military technology is considered to be roughly ‘7’ on this 1-10 tech scale, while more aged warships would be closer to a ‘6’ on the same scale. Native Imperial tech would be an ‘8’ on the scale, and after witnessing the Prejudice’s performance I am confident in asserting it is functionally superior to Imperial grade technology. Though the Prejudice is the most advanced ship we have yet encountered, I have a philosophical objection to handing out maximum grades and so I have marked it as a ‘9.’

As you may be aware, this particular TL paradigm is useful in determining the relative one-on-one capacity of a given warship by examining that warship’s class. In general, a warship two steps higher than another on the TL scale will be able to ‘fight up’ at least one ship class (a TL 8 Cutter, in theory, should fight a TL 6 Corvette to a standstill, or a TL 8 Destroyer could match a TL 6 Cruiser), though it should be emphasized that this is only useful in the broad sense and when dealing with one-on-one engagements. The scale tends to break down when applied extremely or inflexibly, or when fleet coordination minimizes specific shortcomings while maximizing specific advantages (greater range, heavier armor, stronger shields, faster engines, etc..)

Again, this is merely a simplistic tool which the Supreme Commander hopes will foster improved communications between the various heads of this fleet’s factions in order that we might formulate the most efficient battle strategies.

Supreme Commander’s Personal Warships: 1 (TL: 9)

1 Corvette, Prejudice

Total Void Hunter Clans warships: 26 (with 500 shuttles for boarding actions)

Void Hunter Clans original warships (TL: 6):

12 Corvettes

1 Light Cruiser

Void Hunter Clans non-Imperial tech Captures (TL: 6):

7 Corvettes

2 Destroyers

1 Light Cruiser

Void Hunter Clans Native Imperial Captures (TL: 8)

2 Imperial Destroyers

Void Hunter Clans Unknown Specifications (TL: 7?)

1 ‘Mothership’ (heavily-modified bulk freighter)

Void Hunter Clans Small Craft Breakdown:

500 various small craft

Total Stalwart-crewed Warships: 44

Stalwart Original Ships (TL: 5-6)

4 Corvettes

1 Destroyer

1 Medium Cruiser

1 Heavy Cruiser

2nd gen Prichtac Warships (TL: 6)

8 Corvettes

1st gen Prichtac Warships (TL: 7)

8 Corvettes

8 Destroyers

6 Light Cruisers

4 Heavy Cruisers

3 Battleships

Stalwart Small Craft:

30 gunships

50 shuttles

This completes the present fleet breakdown. You are urged to review these numbers and, again, to remember that this is not a comparison of a given faction’s relative strength within the Alliance Gorgonus. This information is intended to improve cohesion and harmony within the fleet.

If you have questions regarding this memo, please direct them to my office.

Kongming

Prologue I: Undoing the Crafter

Qaz snorted great blasts of hot air through his broad, bovine nostrils, surveying the floor of the open sky arena with a visage gifted to him by his genetic lineage. All who had stood before him lay ruined on the battlefield, their gore and lifeblood proving testament to his skill with his weapon of choice—the chain axe—which he gripped in his massive hands which, like most of his physique save his head and lower legs, were perfect approximations of human anatomy.

A dozen foes lay in ruins around him, most of them prisoners or failed experiments of his creator—the same twisted human who profited from the suffering of Qaz and his fellow abominations of genetic manipulation. Only one foe had even required a second move on Qaz’ part, which was typical for a warm-up round like this one.

Stamping his hooved feet and pawing at the blood-soaked dirt theatrically, he heard a chime sound from the arena’s main entrance. Unlike a proper arena, there were no spectators in attendance; in their stead was a nearly continuous bank of recording devices which ringed the fifty meter diameter fighting pit, covering every conceivable angle in perfect detail so that the fights might be recorded in their entirety. No cries of jubilation or bloodlust filled the bowl-shaped arena when Qaz’ axe claimed another life—only the occasional chime sounded to signal the entrance of a new challenger.

Qaz turned to face the newcomer who the chime had heralded and gripped his axe tensely as the new challenger emerged.

“Inzigar, Successor to Axlotl,” Qaz acknowledged as the red-skinned, seven foot tall, humanoid reptilian stepped into the arena. The lizard man bore dual blades of the khopesh style with the straight blade giving way to a sharp, crescent shape midway from the hilt to the tip of the three foot long blade.

“Qaz, Successor to Asterion,” Inzigar hissed, drawing out the ‘s’s in every word which passed his lips while spinning the hook-shaped blades over in his hands. “We have known this day would come, and now we must fight as our master demands.”

“I am no slave, Inzigar,” Qaz growled, shaking his horned head defiantly. “I will not die for another’s greed.”

“So said your predecessors,” Inzigar quipped. “What fate met them?”

“I will destroy you, lizard,” Qaz grunted, dropping into a crouch as the lizard man approached. Inzigar stood a full head shorter than Qaz, but possessed a truly formidable combination of raw power and quickness which few could hope to match.

In a contest of brute strength, Qaz was unparalleled among the denizens of the Crafter’s arena pits. Of all the quirks and freaks of ‘nature’ to be found in the myriad cages where those denizens resided, the Asterion lineage had repeatedly distinguished itself as the most potent warriors ever to rise from the Crafter’s labs.

“Bold words, cow-man,” Inzigar seethed as he drew to melee range. “They will be your last!”

The lizard lunged at Qaz, sweeping his dual blades in an intricate pattern as he went low, then high, then low again in an effort to unbalance the Heir of Asterion. Qaz saw the moves for what they were, and used his supreme reflexes to completely avoid all but the third of the six rapid attacks. That third blow was easily deflected by the head of his axe, and after they disengaged Qaz began to circle the overgrown reptile.

Qaz felt no malice toward his opponent—indeed, Inzigar had long been something of a friend inasmuch as one could call an acquaintance in the pits a ‘friend.’

But life was sacred, and Qaz would not surrender his for any cause—especially not the Crafter’s greed.

A counterattack with his axe swept through the air above Inzigar’s head, which the lizard quickly ducked. Qaz brought his knee—one of the few armored portions of his statuesque body—up into the lizard’s midsection while his blades were briefly out of position.

Inzigar whipped his tail at Qaz’s feet and the minotaur easily sidestepped. The lizard man followed up with a series of short, diagonal, chopping blows aimed at Qaz’s midsection, but Qaz saw the ploy for what it was.

Rather than swaying to the side opposite the probing blows, Qaz authored a sweeping blow at Inzigar’s legs with his chain axe. The axe was blocked with the lizard’s left khopesh, which lost several large chips to the serrated, sawing weapon when the blades met.

Surprisingly, Inzigar retained his grip on the blade and authored a counter with his free weapon. Qaz’s left thigh flared in pain but he kept his focus—as always—and parried the follow-up with the butt of his axe.

The two parted and Qaz spared a look at his thigh. The gash was deep but not crippling, and after he defeated the lizard man he suspected the wound would heal in a matter of days.

“This ends now,” Qaz snarled, leaping toward the lizard man with ferocity known only to the line of Asterion.

The lizard attempted to riposte but was thwarted by the sheer, brute force of Qaz’s chain axe. The khopesh was turned aside by the blow and the lizard man fought to regain the initiative during a sequence of savagely fierce blows rained down by the minotaur.

Back and back the lizard was driven toward the arena’s wall. To near the wall was a potentially deadly mistake, but Qaz had lived all of his adult life in the arena—he knew its patterns and sequences better than any other living being.

Inzigar flattened his body and attempted to lunge in a single, swift motion but Qaz was prepared for such a counter. He lashed out with his hooved foot and struck the lizard square in the jaw. The snap of bone was wholly satisfying to the peerless gladiator, and before Inzigar could recover from the kick to the head the fight was all but over.

Dropping his axe, Qaz grabbed the lizard’s forearms and the two engaged in a brief contest of raw power. The lizard was surprisingly strong, but he was no match for Qaz.

Ligaments popped, muscles shredded, and bones finally sundered as Qaz tore the lizard’s forelimbs nearly off his torso. To his credit, Inzigar made no outcry—not even when Qaz hurled his wreckage of a body into the suddenly electrified arena wall.

The energy coursed through Inzigar’s body for several seconds, causing wisps of smoke to roll from his ears as his eyes rolled back into his head.

Reaching down and grasping one of the khopesh blades, Qaz drew it back and hurled it into the lizard’s chest where it buried halfway up the crescent portion of the oddly-shaped blade.

The electrical current abated and Inzigar’s bleeding, broken, smoking body fell to the sandy floor of the arena. Qaz threw his head back and bellowed a primal roar, attesting to the undeniable might of his forebears.

The lights dimmed after his ululations ceased, and the door through which Inzigar had come once again opened and an unfamiliar, old-style assault droid appeared. The Crafter employed dozens of such droids to police his creations, but this particular unit was unfamiliar to Qaz. It had a squat, broad torso with a heavily-customized weapon arm to either side, and its multi-jointed legs were in many respects similar to Qaz’s own. Its armor was pitted and had clearly been replaced with a patchwork of barely-compatible pieces over the course of what had to have been decades of hard use—and hard use was the only proper way for such a pure engine of violence to be deployed, as Qaz knew only too well.

“This way, slave,” the animalistic, snarling voice of the droid commanded.

Qaz complied, leaving his weapons and proceeding back toward the pits. He looked for the Crafter’s heraldry on the droid’s chassis, but could not find it in the usual places. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if he was meant to battle the droid—the scion of the 34th Batch of Asterion’s line had met his end under similar circumstances.

But when the droid’s rotary cannon whirred menacingly, Qaz decided to comply with its stated commands. As they walked down the tunnel, the minotaur felt no measure of pride in his recent victories in the arena. He had fought for three years in the underground gladiatorial pit, and he knew that his time was nearly at an end. None but the 25th and 28th scions of Asterion had survived past their fourth year of ‘service’ in the arena, and while Qaz believed himself to be their equal he knew that he would soon be usurped by one of the Crafter’s latest abominations.

They made their way through the long, winding tunnel which led deeper and deeper into the Crafter’s lair. The distance between the cages and the arena was nearly a kilometer, and he knew every inch of the tunnel which connected those two areas.

In a bizarre way which continued to surprise him, Qaz was content with a life of endless strife and conflict. He knew he was functionally enslaved to the Crafter, but his nature was such that while he yearned for what most would call ‘freedom,’ he also knew that no matter where he was or how much ‘freedom’ he had, he would inevitably return to a life much like the one he now lived. It was that paradox which had stayed his hand when the urge to rebel grew strong enough that it cried out for address.

This is not to say that he was wholly satisfied with a life of bloodletting in the arena—bloodletting which he knew, after speaking with the Crafter following his first year of victories in the arena, was viewed as abhorrent and was completely illegal in the so-called ‘Empire of Man.’ But as with all dark stains upon the very nature of life, there was a secret thirst shared by all living predators to see the beautiful barbarism of life play out with the highest stakes imaginable.

They wordlessly trudged back to the cages, wherein Qaz’s ‘accommodations’ were centrally located for all his would-be rivals to see. The cages were arranged in a series of concentric circles, with the newest and least proven gladiators occupying the outer circle and the most prestigious and fearsome warriors occupying the inner circles. In this way, rivalries were fomented between potential enemies while dubious alliances were often struck for the purpose of mutual advancement. Those occupying the outer circles looked ever inward, where their betters received markedly better food and amenities.

In accordance with the natural way of things, Qaz occupied the lone cage at the heart of the circular arrangement.

He passed by Inzigar’s vacated cage, pausing to pay his respects to the formidable—if shortsighted and ultimately foolish—lizard man. Qaz did not condescend his fallen rival for fighting and dying at Qaz’s hand; he could hardly blame any living creature for suffering such a fate. He condescended the lizard man because Inzigar had not possessed a nearly strong enough respect for Qaz’s experience.

Qaz sighed, whispering, “I will soon join you in the abyss, brother.”

“Move,” the assault droid snarled, and Qaz cast an angry glance over his shoulder at the strange machine before resuming his march to his cell.

Unlike all of the other occupants of the various cages, Qaz was surrounded by bars and had not a single solid wall in his cell. He therefore enjoyed no privacy, whereas the others all enjoyed at least some measure of seclusion if they chose to take it. A small corner of a cell might be walled off, or a four-sided cage might have two sides made of bars and two sides of plate metal. It was fitting that he, as the mightiest of the arena’s denizens, become a target for each of his would-be rivals to aim at. He did not begrudge his position—he relished it.

Qaz strode confidently into his cage and sat at the edge of his cot. He looked down at his damaged leg and snorted irritably. The cage door slammed shut and the minotaur proudly waited for the medical droid to arrive and treat his wound.

The familiar whirring of the medical droid’s motivators echoed down the corridor which led to the Crafter’s laboratories. Strangely, the assault droid remained motionless outside of Qaz’s cell.

“A broken droid,” Qaz grunted.

“I am not broken,” the droid retorted with what sounded like genuine offense.

“Then why do you linger?”

“I am…waiting,” the aged assault droid said hesitantly, and Qaz’s brow lowered as he re-examined the strange-looking assault droid. Only a few seconds into his examinations, however, a medical droid moved into view.

“Medical services required by Qaz, 37th Heir of Asterion,” bleeped the medical droid, “remain seated to avoid neural interruption.”

Qaz had seen what ‘neural interruption’ meant when several of his colleagues had failed to comply with the seemingly friendly medical droid’s commands. Of the five who had fallen victim to the droid’s neural stun field, only two had survived the experience—and one of those had been so badly damaged that he had been chopped up and fed to his former neighbors when it was clear he would never fight again.

So he waited while the door opened and the droid began to administer its healing. The customary pinch at the margins of the gash in his leg was followed by the expected numbness. He focused on the fights he had just won, recalling every minute detail as he replayed the battle in his head. Several of his own missteps stood out in his mind’s eye, and he resolved to practice on the footwork which led to those mistakes.

“Unit is not recognized,” the medical droid bleeped, and Qaz was broken from his ruminations to realize that its ministrations were complete and it now stood just outside the open cell door.

“You are in error,” the assault droid growled.

“Unit is not recognized,” the medical droid repeated. “Broadcast identification—now,” it said as the ‘neural interruption’ probe popped out from concealment within its round torso.

“Broadcasting,” the assault droid replied, and for a long moment the two droids stood silently as an unfamiliar series of chimes sounded from the medical droid.

“Error…” the medical droid suddenly blurted before once again falling silent. “Error!” it shrilled, but the assault droid looked on impassively as the medical droid began to spin wildly on its treads. “Error: subprogram incompatible with—“

The medical droid suddenly ceased its erratic movements and fell silent, while Qaz stood from his bed and felt every muscle in his body tense. This was the first time he had ever heard the Crafter’s droids argue with one another, and he decidedly disliked the direction this particular exchange was headed.

“Resume sitting, slave,” the assault droid commanded, but Qaz hesitated to comply. “Sit!” the droid bellowed, and by now all eyes in the Crafter’s cages were fixed on the scene.

“Who are you?” Qaz demanded. “You are not one of the Crafter’s servants—you bear no heraldry and do not speak as they do.”

The clomping of metal feet echoed down one of the adjoining hallway, and Qaz knew that more assault droids were on the way to secure the scene. He suspected he would be killed for a measure of perceived complicity in the bizarre situation he now found himself in.

The voice of an approaching assault droid—this one definitely one of the Crafter’s—boomed throughout the chamber, “The Crafter demands compliance.”

The quartet of assault droids stomped their way toward the center of the cages, where Qaz still stood his ground behind the medical droid and strange assault droid.

“What is the nature of your malfunction?” the lead assault droid—a tripedal design that resembled nothing so much as a trio of insect legs which supported a swiveling torso with a dozen different weapons mounted upon it—demanded after clomping its way to the medical droid’s side.

The bulbous medical droid said nothing in reply.

“External diagnostics do not indicate interruption of power or cessation of central processing,” the assault droid intoned. “Comply with your directives, Medical 12,” it insisted, backing its words with an ominous whirring noise from one of its many weapons.

Medical 12 remained silent and unmoving.

“Unit not recognized,” a second newcomer declared in a cold, metallic voice. This assault droid stood on four legs and had a pair of pincer arms—arms which had taken dozens of the cage’s denizens in its cold, brutal embrace during Qaz’s time in the Crafter’s pits. “Unit will self-identify,” the quadruped commanded after coming to stand in striking range of the new, unmarked droid.

“Transmitting credentials,” the strange, unmarked droid grumbled, and almost instantly three of the four Crafter assault droids started to behave as erratically as the medical droid had done.

“Update status,” the pincer-armed droid demanded, turning its machine eyes toward its fellows. “Update status!” it repeated more forcefully.

But the three assault droids did no such thing, opting instead to slam their limbs into Qaz’s cage with bone-crushing force that caused several of the bars to bend as sparks flew from the impacts.

“Unidentified unit,” the pincer droid squared off on the unmarked assault droid, “you are directed to power down and await disassembly.”

“Unable to comply,” the bipedal, unmarked droid said in a hard, unyielding voice. “Return to your recharge station immediately; your control matrix has suffered catastrophic damage.”

“Repeat,” the four-legged droid with the pincers crouched threateningly, “power down and await disassembly.”

The unmarked droid made a sound which Qaz would have sworn was a long-suffering sigh. “Error: deception protocols have failed. Re-mounting primary personality matrix.”

The strange assault droid’s weapon arms trained on its pincer-armed counterpart, and a bevy of weaponry popped out from concealment along nearly every possible inch of the newcomer’s chassis. The four-legged droid seemed ready to leap into the fray, but all of a sudden its fellow assault droids ceased their erratic movements and fell as silent and still as the medical droid.

“Re-calculating probabilities,” declared the unmarked droid now bristling with previously concealed weaponry declared. The bipedal droid drew itself to its full stature—which saw it tower to nearly a meter above Qaz’s horn tips—and grumbled, “Probability of engaging in combat to complete mission objectives: 93%.”

“Droid, you will submit to my commands,” a new voice—this one belonging to the none other but the Crafter—echoed through the speakers built into the walls of the cage chamber. If Qaz had been less focused on the immediate danger of a droid fight erupting just a few meters from where he stood, he would have recognized the abject fear in the Crafter’s voice—an emotion which none of the arena’s denizens had ever witnessed in their creator and jailor.

“Probability of compliance with vocally transmitted directive,” the new droid said wearily, turning one of its weaponized arms toward the nearest speaker, “7%.”

The plasma cannon mounted on the droid’s upraised arm roared as it launched a bolt of blue-white fire. That jet of flame instantly turned the speaker and its attached observation devices into molten slag.

At the same instant the plasma weapon fired, the pincer-armed droid leapt at the rebellious newcomer. But even before it could close to grips with the larger, older droid, the pincer droid’s torso was rocked by a pair of mini-rocket impacts which sent metal fragments flying across the chamber. Several of those fragments opened minor cuts on Qaz’s torso, but he leapt forward to leave his cell as a combination of survival instinct and the urge to grasp at this seemingly impossible opportunity for freedom overcame his conscious faculties.

The pincer droid would not be so easily deterred, skittering toward the rebel droid on only three functional legs as it lashed out with mechanical speed and ferocity at the towering droid’s legs.

It seemed to Qaz that it would land at least a solid blow, given the bipedal droid’s relatively vulnerable frame. But at the last instant, before the pincers closed on the exposed components which made up the rebel droid’s legs, an unexpected volley of fire erupted from all around them and Qaz reflexively dove to the floor.

After realizing he had not received any of that fire himself, Qaz returned his focus to the battling droids and saw a most satisfying sight: the pincer droid’s torso had been completely annihilated and it stood on three stiff, motionless legs as tiny sparks erupted sporadically within what remained of its ‘torso.’

“Probability of damaged unit’s successful repair,” the new droid said with what sounded like genuine remorse, “7%. Probability of mission completion: 92%.”

The odd assault droid turned to Qaz, who only then realized that the Crafter’s other droids were now moving—and that they had been the ones to author the sudden burst of weapons fire which had destroyed their former fellow.

“Who are you?” Qaz asked as he slowly stood to his feet.

The droid lowered itself into a relative crouch—which still saw the top of its chassis stand at Qaz’s eye level—and lowered its arms fractionally. “This unit’s primary designation is ‘Ed,’ but I have recently been re-designated ‘Hansheng’.” The droid clomped toward Qaz, who stood his ground with determination even in the face of such a truly awe-inspiring machine warrior. “What is your unit designation?”

Qaz held his breath for a moment before replying, “I am Qaz, from the 37th Batch of Asterion’s line.”

“Designation logged for future reference,” the droid acknowledged as the other droids began to make their ways to the various corridors adjoining the cage chamber. “After this facility has been secured, you and your fellow inhabitants will be enabled to pursue individuated agendas in accordance with your unique bio-social imperatives. But first, my mission requires me to make a request of you, Qaz, from the 37th Batch of Asterion’s line.”

“You are going to set us free?” Qaz blinked in disbelief.

“Affirmative.”

Qaz was so blindsided by the very possibility of genuine freedom that it took him several seconds to collect his thoughts. “What would you ask of me?” he finally asked, wary that he would dislike the answer—and still not entirely convinced this was not all one of the Crafter’s games.

Hansheng, the assault droid, underwent a rapid change to its outer armor as the majority of the previously-concealed weapons returned to their hidden compartments. He then gestured to the corridor which led to the Crafter’s laboratories—the same place where every single denizen of the cages had been sculpted, birthed, and eventually returned after their usefulness had been exhausted—and in an ominous tone which Qaz which knew he would never forget, the droid replied, “Take me to your Crafter.”

Prologue II: A New Assignment

“Mr. Sarkozi,” Section Chief Black greeted after Sarkozi finally, following weeks of decontamination and debriefing, was permitted to leave the quarantine section of the warship which had collected him from the FTL comm. hub, “have a seat.”

“Boss,” Sarkozi acknowledged with a formal nod, moving to the indicated seat.

“There will be no further need for that particular form of address, Mr. Sarkozi,” Chief Black insisted. “It’s better for all involved if you call me ‘Mr. Black’ from this point on.”

“Mr. Black,” Sarkozi acknowledged as he settled into the lone chair present along the conference table. Sarkozi had not even seen the warship on his instruments when it had approached the comm. hub where he had previously been stationed. His first warning that Mr. Black’s ship had arrived was when the airlock opened via external override—which had been one of the most terrifying moments of Samuel Sarkozi’s life.

“You did good work on you deep space stint,” Mr. Black said approvingly, gesturing to a data slate on the table. “That particular assignment has a burnout rate of 83% inside of three months. You were stationed there for considerably longer than that, which suggests to me that you’ve got more than just talent—you’ve got character. What do you think about that?”

Sarkozi knew this was some kind of test, but he had never been one for projecting false airs so he shrugged, “I guess I’m surprised the burnout rate is only 83%.”

Mr. Black’s lips twisted into a mischievous smirk, “Bravo, Mr. Scarlet. Are you ready for something a little more…demanding?”

Sarkozi felt a thrill of excitement at his Chief’s reaction, but he kept his emotions hidden as best he could. “What’s the mission?”

“First, some background,” Mr. Black tapped a nearby crystalline control panel and the lights in the room dimmed. A holographic display of the local region of the so-called Gorgon Sectors appeared. Sarkozi leaned forward to examine the notations logged under each major point of interest as the Section Chief explained, “This band of space—the Gorgon Sectors, such as they are—comprises a region of the galaxy nearly as vast as the Imperium of Man.”

The Gorgon Sectors were highlighted in yellow as the long, banana-shaped band of the galaxy was expanded to fill the holographic display. Sarkozi knew few details of the Gorgon Sectors’ inhabitants aside from the presence of various uplifts, gene-crafted species, and outlaw organizations which most people would refer to as ‘pirates.’

“The Gorgon Sectors present a unique challenge,” Black continued, “since they are heavily populated—relatively speaking, of course—and possess remarkably consistent levels of technology throughout the disparate factions which call this region of space home.”

“They share their technology for mutual benefit?” Sarkozi asked with a furrowed brow. He had not heard of organization on the level required to conduct such comprehensive diplomacy—to say nothing of the lack of centralized, multi-system governments in this war-torn patch of space.

“Not according to our sources,” Black shook his head. “There is precious little contact which even remotely resembles diplomacy taking place between these factions, but we have collected and examined dozens of technological articles which confirm that the general tech level of the so-called Gorgon Alliance is, for all intents and purposes, uniform. In fact,” he waved his hand and the swirling star-scape was replaced by a trio of wildly different life forms, the left-most of which resembled nothing so much as a slug, “among the various factions we have encountered are three distinct intelligent species of non-human origin in the Gorgon Alliance. Each of these species arose in markedly different environments: the Prichtac,” he gestured to the slugs, “occupy highly acidic environments found in volcanically active regions of terrestrial-grade worlds, while the Ordnam,” he gestured to a vaguely avian-looking creature with spines rather than feathers, “developed in environments with atmospheric pressures and surface temperatures which present significant challenges to the establishment of high technology. The third species has no formal name due to their primary communication occurring via electromagnetic pulses transmitted through ferrous material as the medium,” he gestured to what looked like a molten lump of rock. “This third species is based on silica rather than carbon, and would be more at home in the outer core of a terrestrial world than anywhere on its surface. How then,” Mr. Black gestured to the trio of wildly disparate species, “do we come to find all of them at roughly identical states of high technology at this particular point in time?”

Sarkozi was familiar with the equations which predicted the probability of intelligent life arising simultaneously in a local region of space. While many of those equations were laughably narrow-minded, he did take Mr. Black’s meaning clearly: the odds of these three species developing alongside and independent of humanity, and achieving a comparable level of technological advancement in a timespan better measured in centuries than eons, were so low as to be functionally impossible.

Either such species’ would have destroyed themselves with independent tech explosions, or they would have sought each other out and competed or cooperated with each other. The lack of apparent diplomatic ties between these non-human species’ was enough to negate the possibility of their cooperation. But if they possessed the technology to build FTL-capable ships—warships capable of putting up a real fight against the Imperials, at that—then they should have made contact with each other and established formal ties long before the Gorgon War erupted.

Then he understood. “Trillium,” he declared. “They must not have discovered significant local sources of trillium, otherwise at least one of these species’ would have leapt past the others and introduced their preferred interaction—cooperation or competition—to their neighbors via FTL.”

“Very good, Mr. Scarlet,” Black nodded approvingly. “As anticipated, you have cut to the very heart of the matter. Indeed,” he waved his hand again, and this time the star-scape returned with the banana-shaped Gorgon Sectors once again brought into focus, “our extensive prospecting has returned a rather alarming finding: there is no trillium in the Gorgon Sectors.”

Sarkozi cocked his head dubiously as he gestured to the hologram, “You mean to say that there is no trillium anywhere in this region of space? Not even in the sources which are often deemed economically unviable?”

“Correct, Mr. Scarlet,” Black agreed.

Sarkozi’s eyes snapped left and right as he came to grips with what this meant. “Someone came through and extracted all of the trillium…but who were they, and why did they do it?” His mind was reeling. An undertaking of that magnitude was very nearly at the edge of human ability—and it would require solidarity of effort on a scale hitherto unseen in human affairs.

Most trillium used in human starships was sourced from rocky planets, moons, or asteroid belts, all of which were easily accessible by human industry and therefore were relatively easy to exhaust. But the vast majority of the theoretically existent trillium in the galaxy was found in the cores of brown dwarfs or particularly dense gas giants. Those sources were simply beyond human ability to mine but there were other sources which were possible—but incredibly expensive—to access.

Those sources included gas dwarfs, certain short-lived comet clouds surrounding rare hyper giant stars, and even the occasional low-density gas giant allowed extremely delicate mining to extract the precious material—albeit at a cost several orders of magnitude greater than the more cheaply-sourced alternatives.

“There are several theories which have been advanced in this particular matter,” Black explained. “The first is that the various AI’s from which Man protected humanity consumed it for their own various purposes. This theory is popular because it ends the conversation by saying: the data gods did it, so we need not inquire further.”

“You don’t find that line of reasoning persuasive,” Sarkozi mused.

“Nor should you,” Black scoffed. “Even if that is indeed the case, of what use is surrendering our inquisitive agency in such a profound matter? But even if one removes philosophy from the equation, we are left with several other plausible explanations which account for this phenomenon. Since the gathering of intelligence is our primary role in the universe, it falls to us to investigate these other possibilities.”

“What are these other possibilities?” Sarkozi pressed.

Black wagged a finger, “You will need to demonstrate you are worthy of further briefing on this matter before receiving that information.”

Sarkozi had suspected as much; Mr. Black had dangled a tempting carrot in front of his nose, and now he was going to leverage Sarkozi’s curiosity to maximum effect before satisfying his curiosity further. “I can’t say I’m surprised in that regard,” Sarkozi admitted. “What can I do?”

Mr. Black waved away the previous hologram with a flick of his wrist. What replaced it was a series of tactical displays which Sarkozi immediately recognized as belonging to the batch which he had transmitted to his Section Chief following the destruction of Paganini’s fleet.

“The good Commodore had spent the better part of two years gathering this fleet,” Mr. Black gestured to the fleet summary showing Paganini’s asset breakdown. “He began with twelve Imperial warships and pressed the remainder into service by systematically taking down the various pirate operations out here in the Gorgon Sectors and crewing their ships with our people. All told, it killed three birds with a single stone: he removed unwanted elements from the region; he repurposed their assets to serve our agenda; and he enabled the Fleet to focus on other regions of the front while he swept up the scraps.”

“Impressive,” Sarkozi said, his brow lifting in admiration.

“Indeed,” Black said neutrally, though his eyes hardened fractionally. “Commodore Paganini—or the ‘Composer’ as he was referred to in our coded communiqués—earned what would be his final post after demonstrating nearly unprecedented strategic thinking, though his tactical mind was strictly average for an officer of his rank and station. His ability to systematically remain one step ahead of the enemy strategically permitted his relatively lackluster tactical acumen to remain largely inconsequential, but it would seem that we rolled the dice once too often and it cost us the entire fleet which he had spent two years collecting.”

“Seventy two warships destroyed in a single engagement,” Sarkozi’s brow lowered darkly, “with no survivors escaping the conflict. Whoever destroyed the Composer’s fleet, they chose to reveal themselves now.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Black nodded as the battle unfolded before them. “We know that two uplifted species’—the so-called ‘Stalwart’ being one, and the other being a loose conglomerate of largely humanoid felines, some of which are uplifts while others were crafted from the claws up in underground gene-labs—contributed to the battle in significant ways, but the Commodore knew as much about these uplifts’ military assets as we do.”

Sarkozi looked at the two listings of fleet assets which represented the uplifts’ respective fleets. The felines’ warships were laughably low-tech, but they had proven their mettle when their boarding parties gained access to the Imperial-flagged ships’ interiors.

The Stalwart actions, on the other hand, had been the most puzzling. They had begun the battle with precious few warships, but the breakdown showed that most of the uplifted apes’ warships were not of the usual design. Instead, they were a uniform variety of previously unknown design which, thankfully, proved less than effective against the textbook deployment of Paganini’s fleet.

To make matters worse, after that first group of unrecognized warships was dealt with it became clear that there was a second group of warships bearing significant similarities to the first, easily-dispatched design.

These ships—working in perfect coordination with a powerfully-stealthed warship of unknown design—were able to corral the Commodore’s fleet and force a surrender by Paganini’s subordinate after the Commodore was killed attempting to flee the system.

“There was clearly a shipyard in that system, and I think it is safe to suppose that these new ships were built there,” Mr. Black waved a hand and the hologram disappeared as the light in the room returned to its baseline luminosity. “Unfortunately, that yard was scuttled during the battle. Surveyors have been dispatched to examine the debris, but I doubt anything will come from their efforts. This adversary has remained hidden for decades; I very much doubt they will allow us to pick over their technology at such an early hour.”

“Not only did they erase their tracks, but they escaped with several Imperial warships,” Sarkozi nodded, knowing that was at least as big of a problem as the existence of a small hitherto unknown fleet moving about the area. “We can infer that whoever is behind these uplifts doesn’t possess overwhelming firepower. If they did, they wouldn’t have sacrificed lives and ships—even ships as questionably-designed as that first wave seemed to be—before slamming the door on our forces.”

“I concur,” Black nodded. “But remember the matter of the trillium…”

Sarkozi cocked his head, “You think those matters are connected?”

“Mr. Scarlet,” Black slid a small data crystal across the table, “finding connections is our job. I would be very bad at mine if I did not track down every possible lead, which is where your new orders come in.”

Sarkozi plucked the crystal from the table with surgeon-steady hands as he fought against the urge to scowl at the prospect of leaving so soon, “Where am I to be transferred?”

“For the time being you will remain here,” Mr. Black said, much to Sarkozi’s relief as the Section Chief gestured to the smooth, crystalline hull of the ship around them, “this type of espionage vessel is rarer even than an Imperial Command Carrier, Mr. Scarlet, and with good reason. While aboard it we can freely move about cloaked in the greatest stealth technology ever devised by humanity, and that attribute will be of great value in the upcoming months. Your first orders are to familiarize yourself with those aliases,” Black pointed to the data crystal, “so that you might use them if the need arises. I have worked up an itinerary which will take us to the far edge of the Gorgon Front; if my suspicions are correct then that is where our true enemy awaits us. Let the Imperial Fleet deal with these uplifts and their amusing little warships,” he scoffed. “You and I, on the other hand, will seek out the root of this particular weed so that it might be torn out in one clean, incisive stroke.”

Sarkozi felt himself swell with pride at the prospect of being included in such a task, but he had to ask the most obvious question, “Why me, Mr. Black? You must have dozens—or even hundreds—of native Imperial officers whose jackets read as well as mine. Why take a chance on an unknown provincial who’s out to prove himself?”

“It is precisely because you wish to prove yourself that you are best suited to this task, Mr. Scarlet,” Black said with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “But, in truth, time is a factor: most of the Imperial operatives in this region were with the Composer when the stage burned down around him. It would take too long to return to Imperial space to retrieve an alternative candidate, and I think that while you are indeed inexperienced you will be equal to the tasks put before you. Do you doubt your own fitness?”

“No, Mr. Black,” Sarkozi shook his head firmly. “I’m ready.”

“Then have the XO assign you a berth and get to work.”

Sarkozi stood and nodded, “Thank you, Mr. Black.”

Chapter I: The Crafter

“I think it should be abundantly clear by now that I’m not an Imperial,” Captain Tim Middleton said to the androgynous—or possibly hermaphroditic—person seated in his office.

The so-called ‘Crafter’ had surrendered without much protest after Hansheng had secured the illicit gene-factory-slash-arena. The old droid had asked for increased responsibilities after Mr. Fei—make that ‘Kongming’—had finished the repairs to his virtual architecture, and Middleton had been happy to oblige the assault droid with his most dangerous mission yet.

The Crafter nodded his, her, or its head and spoke in a voice that did nothing to allay the confusion as to the gender of its owner, “Of that I am abundantly aware, Captain Middleton. Had you been of the Empire then I would either be dead already or I would be speaking to a ‘duly-appointed’ magistrate. What is it you want?”

“You’re direct,” Middleton grunted, “I appreciate that. The first thing I want is the unconditional release of the sentients you imprisoned—“

“They are my children,” the Crafter interrupted smoothly.

Middleton considered asking whether or not any of those ‘children’ had issued from the Crafter’s physical loins, but decided against it.

The less time he spent with this monstrous ‘person,’ the better—anyone who would create the bizarre, mythology-inspired beings which Hansheng had freed, only to make them kill each other for their creator’s profit, had so little in common with Middleton’s sense of shared humanity as to make a comparison meaningless.

Middleton had no issue with the Crafter’s personal appearance or self-modifications. In a way, he could understand and even approve of such personal ‘improvements’ given the quality of medical science. At base, how different was it from physically exercising in an attempt to sculpt a superior body?

“But your point is taken, Captain,” the Crafter sighed wistfully, and for the briefest of moments Middleton was convinced that the Crafter was originally—or at least predominantly—female. Then the Crafter’s visage hardened and he was forced to reconsider that conviction, “My children will suffer without me to guide them, but I have no choice in the matter. They will be set free.”

“How many of them are there?” Middleton asked.

“In all? Three hundred and four,” the Crafter replied. “One hundred adults, which you already encountered; another sixty four fully viable replacement members in various states of physiological independence from their artificial wombs; and one hundred forty younglings in various states of physiological development.”

Middleton glanced at the reports, which largely confirmed those numbers. He scowled when he re-read that, in addition to the three hundred and four living members of the Crafter’s bizarre ‘family,’ another two hundred artificial wombs had been purged in the minutes preceding the Crafter’s arrest. Middleton knew very little of developmental anatomy, and could only hope that his reading was correct: that those purged wombs had contained ‘specimens’ too early in their development for complex neurological events to be possible.

“How did you find me?” the Crafter asked, breaking Middleton’s concentration on such dark thoughts.

“My com-tech and Sensor Officer discovered an anomaly embedded in one of your holo-vids,” Middleton replied. “It’s an anomaly we’re familiar with, so we decided to track you down.”

“That does not answer my question,” the Crafter said neutrally.

“No, I don’t suppose it does,” Middleton matched the other’s affect.

The Crafter sighed, again appearing—and sounding—for all intents and purposes like a woman. “If I guess correctly, will you answer my next question truthfully? Kill me afterward if you feel you must, but I simply must know.”

Middleton leaned back, strangely intrigued by the Crafter’s attitude. “Fine,” he allowed, “but I want all of the details.”

“Of course,” the Crafter nodded. “The anomaly to which you refer is a spike in a narrow set of EM bands which occurs every two point thirty two seconds during the recording. I can describe the precise frequencies if you wish…” the Crafter said leadingly.

“We can forego that part,” Middleton gestured for the Crafter to continue.

“Of course,” the Crafter snickered, once again shifting to the appearance of a man.

There was nothing physically different between the ‘two sides’ of the Crafter; there were no actual changes to facial geometry, skin tone, or other characteristics. It was simply that the Crafter seemed capable of—and perhaps even enjoyed—hopping back and forth across the surprisingly thin line which generally separated an at-a-glance identification of gender.

“The number of EM spikes in each of my holo-vid recordings, if counted sequentially and in order,” the Crafter continued, “provides a simplistic binary language framework which, if used as a cypher, can facilitate the retrieval of other information from the holo-vids.”

Middleton’s eyes narrowed as Mr. Fei’s—make that ‘Kongming’s—hypothesis was seemingly confirmed. “Go on,” he said neutrally.

“This second batch of data requires significant examination,” the Crafter said calmly, “but eventually it is revealed to be one hundred and eight sets of stellar coordinates, and those coordinates are presented in a sequential fashion. The seventh set of coordinates is my home, which is where you found me.”

“So far, so good,” Middleton nodded.

“Which leaves us to the matter of determining which of the coordinates to visit,” the Crafter continued blithely. “You chose the seventh set of coordinates due to psychological priming—or, at the very least, because the process of sifting through the data would make a particularly astute examiner aware of the fact that such priming was taking place.”

Middleton was impressed. Not by the complexity of the ‘map’—Kongming had already convinced him of that much prior to the Prejudice’s point transferring into the Crafter’s system—but he was impressed that someone could come up with something so complex to begin with.

Still, he wasn’t going to give the Crafter the benefit of seeing the degree to which he was impressed. “Ask your question, Crafter.”

“Do you intend to seek out the originators of that EM anomaly?” the Crafter asked intently, meeting and holding Middleton’s hard gaze with an equally unyielding one.

“Isn’t that what I just did?” Middleton asked flatly.

“Me? A Locust?” the Crafter laughed, piquing Middleton’s interest with the term ‘Locust.’ “You give me too much credit, Captain Middleton, though I suppose that was unavoidable given our limited understanding of them. No, I am most certainly not a Locust and, like every other interested party I have encountered, I do not know how to find them.”

“Tell me what you know about them,” Middleton said.

The Crafter shrugged, “I know two things. First, that their technology rivals the best Imperial tech and that it is so rarely discovered and examined that one could not be blamed for dismissing its existence as fantasy. Second, I know that they do not wish to be found, and that they have gone to truly exhaustive lengths to ensure that their seclusion is maintained.”

“Then where did you get their technology?” Middleton pressed.

The Crafter laughed, again sounding—and looking—very much like a woman, “I fear I came to it entirely by accident, though what I did with that technology was anything but an accident.”

“Talk me through it.”

The Crafter leaned forward and placed a hand on the desk, “First I need certain…assurances.”

Middleton set his jaw, feeling the muscles there bunch against the metal plate which he still had not gotten around to removing. “You aren’t in a position to negotiate.”

“Oh, but I think I am,” the Crafter chided, leaning back in the chair and resuming a masculine appearance. “For reasons which may remain your own, you wish to assist the inhabitants of this region of space in their fight against the Empire. You probably see their cause as just, and their plight as actionable due to the unnecessary suffering some of them have experienced. If you feel this way then we are of a like mind on the matter.”

Middleton’s eyes narrowed, “I don’t see how you and I could agree on humanitarian issues. You ran a blood sport arena—an arena which you filled with your ‘children’ before setting them against each other in order to turn a profit.” Middleton jabbed his finger down on the desk, “I shut that operation down, in large part because it offends every sensibility that I think humanity ought to defend.”

The Crafter’s lips twisted in a smirk, “What an interesting choice of words, Captain…can I take them to mean that you do not necessarily share those sensibilities?”

Middleton snorted, “If I shared those sensibilities I probably wouldn’t be capable of defending them.”

“Just so,” the Crafter nodded agreeably. “It is true that I am an aberration, Captain Middleton, in more ways than might seem obvious. But I, like you, think that the inhabitants of these ‘Gorgon Sectors’ deserve a chance at sovereignty and independence—even if they choose to use that sovereignty to destroy themselves. It is for that reason that I placed the message in my holo-vids: I seek to lend my assistance to this cause, but I would rather die than surrender my knowledge to those who would actively work against my goals.”

Middleton had long since decided that, if the conversation ended up going in this direction, he would grudgingly work with the Crafter. After conversing with Kongming on the subject for several days, they had come to agreement—or what the Prichtac might call ‘consensus’—on the matter of the Crafter.

“What are these ‘assurances’ you seek?” Middleton finally relented, just as he had known he would before the meeting even took place.

“First,” the Crafter leaned back, fingers drumming rhythmically on the desk, “that whatever discoveries might be made during the expedition to find these Locusts, I must be among the survey teams. I did not go to all of this trouble to have my work subverted by another—no matter how much I might share in common with him, or how handsomely he wears an external fixation plate to his jaw.”

“Flattery won’t go far with me,” Middleton said wearily.

The Crafter shrugged, “Perhaps not. Secondly, you must agree in principle to the goal of safeguarding the inhabitants of these ‘Gorgon Sectors’ from any and all aggressors, be they Imperial, Locust, or any other known faction. From the looks of things in your cargo bay,” the Crafter cast a pointed look toward the door through which they had come, “you have already befriended some of the more prominent members of the Gorgon Sectors’ population.”

“I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety out here,” Middleton said pointedly.

“Of course not,” the Crafter waved a hand dismissively, “but you can agree, in principle, to work toward that end—as I suspect you have already done.” The Crafter looked down at the new insignia emblazoned on Middleton’s collar: the Supreme Commander’s insignia.

Middleton had fought the Prichtac’s insistence that he don the rank insignia at all. He had no desire for glory or for such a lofty-sounding title, but the Prichtac—and Kongming, to be honest—had convinced him that accepting it was necessary in order to ensure the stability of the fragile ‘Alliance Gorgonus.’

“What else?” Middleton asked.

“Thirdly, I require that you not restrict my interaction with my children in any way,” the Crafter said flatly. “If they choose not to interact with me, I will respect that. But I am…curious about them.”

“Curious?” Middleton repeated.

“Yes,” the Crafter sighed, “I took no pleasure in watching them destroy each other, but as a scientist I took it upon myself to make modifications to each successive generation of each primary line so that I might improve their psychological stability. The process was…more difficult than I had anticipated.”

“You thought that cultivating a new form of life would be easy?” Middleton scoffed, surprised at how dispassionate he was while discussing the Crafter’s barbaric practices.

“Why would it not be?” the Crafter asked with what seemed like genuine surprise before sighing again. “If you can agree to my terms, I will share with you everything I know about the Locusts—which includes where to find the wreckage of one of their ships.”

“Is that where you were first exposed to their technology?”

The Crafter smiled mischievously, “Indeed it is.”

Deep down, Middleton wanted to despise the Crafter—and, to a certain extent, he did.

But Middleton was also a pragmatist. He had a job to do—and that job included saving an entire species, along with possibly millions of lives in the process—and he could not afford to let sentiment stand in his way.

“I can agree to those stipulations—with a few of my own,” Middleton added emphatically.

“Of course, of course,” the Crafter waved a hand airily. “You may restrict my movements aboard, and access to, your ship as you see fit. I am well used to solitary confinement, but if any of my children are to travel aboard your vessel then I would ask for however much access to them they wish to provide.”

“You’re very presumptuous,” Middleton said, finding himself reminded of Mr. Fei before the young man’s life-changing ordeal on the Alpha Site. ‘Presumptuous’ could never do the young man justice. And yet Middleton knew that he would have failed—and died—several times over without Mr. Fei’s help.

“Do I remind you of someone?” the Crafter asked with what seemed like genuine interest.

Middleton shook his head wryly, unwilling to get into mind games with this slippery character, “You will be restricted in your movements aboard this ship; you will agree to answer, without delay or dissembly, my questions as they are asked; and, if your ‘children’ demand satisfaction for the treatment they suffered at your hand, I think it only fair to inform you that as of this moment I would be inclined to indulge them—even if such indulgence ultimately resulted in your death.”

“Naturally,” the Crafter agreed.

“Good,” Middleton grunted, leaning forward and passing a data slate to the newest passenger aboard the good ship Prejudice. “Now tell me everything you know about these ‘Locusts’—including where to find the ship you mentioned.”

Chapter II: A Glimpse of the Eye

Kongming sat alone in his quarters, his mind nearly empty of thoughts—a rare condition for the young man. His meditations had brought him little comfort in recent weeks, but he remained committed to finding his new center.

It had been five weeks since Captain Middleton had defeated Commodore Paganini’s forces, and in that time the ‘fleet’ comprised of Stalwart, Void Hunter and Prichtac warships had experienced surprisingly little in the way of turmoil.

The captured warships were fully under the control of their new crews, the felines and apes had established an uneasy truce, and to top it all off they had successfully apprehended the so-called ‘Crafter’—the same individual who had sent up a cleverly-concealed call across the local sectors in an effort to lend his, her, or its aid to whoever might try to make contact with the mysterious ‘Locusts.’

Even the Prejudice’s systems were better understood now than they had been mere weeks earlier. If Chief Garibaldi was correct, they would soon have a complete understanding of the little warship’s myriad systems—except, of course, the inner workings of the Ancient tech control systems.

But none of that comforted Kongming in the slightest, for he had been unable to re-acquire any kind of ‘contact’ with the entity who had previously revealed itself. That entity was, in Kongming’s estimation, a Seer like the one who he had met on the carbonaceous planet known as the Alpha Site. The fact that it had appeared to be the same entity was not enough to convince the young man that it was, in fact, the same being.

The Seer had spoken of a mysterious ‘Eye’ which Kongming was somehow meant to interact with, and which the equally mysterious ‘Dark’ apparently intended to destroy. It did not take a genius of Kongming’s caliber to understand that this ‘Eye’ was almost certainly involved in the ‘Sight’ which had permitted Kongming to comprehend—and seemingly choose from—the myriad possible futures back on Cagnzyz.

And so he had spent several hours each day in silent contemplation, attempting to re-acquire contact with the enigmatic Seer. Thus far, however, those efforts had been fruitless.

He sighed, standing from his cross-legged position on the floor of his quarters. He was hungry and decided to pay the Prichtac a visit before taking a meal.

Kongming made his way out of his quarters and quickly came to the shuttle bay, where the badly-damaged Deathbacker rested. Chief Garibaldi had declared that, while the shuttle was space-worthy, it would never again be combat-worthy.

The Prichtac’s acidic bath chamber was set up at the far end of the shuttle bay, and Kongming was glad to see the slug-looking creature had already emerged from its routine regeneration cycle within the box-shaped device.

“Kongming,” the Prichtac greeted, wielding the wand-like Locust-tech translator in the lone pseudopod which presently extended from ‘her’ body, “We are most pleased with the timing of this meeting.”

“Prichtac,” Kongming acknowledged, clasping his hands and bowing fractionally before the alien creature. “Your vocabulary seems to be improving with each passing day.”

“Your modifications to the translator have been most beneficial,” Prichtac agreed, giving the slender device a comical twirl. “We wished to discuss a…curious matter with you.”

“Of course,” Kongming agreed. “How can I help?”

“You are likely unaware, but We have recently begun the process of division,” Prichtac explained seriously. “This process will require significant effort on Our part, but We have encountered something unexpected in Our re-examination of the Host’s memory.”

“Division?” Kongming repeated. “Do you mean…you’re going to procreate?”

“Affirmative,” Prichtac said with her equivalent of a nod. “As you are aware, We are not a sexually dimorphic species and therefore do not require the contribution of externally-sourced genetic material in order to spawn. However, ‘procreate’ is an inaccurate term to employ when describing Our spawning process; We engage in something more similar to what you call meiosis than what you call mitosis. Genetic variability is maintained by the random activation of certain genes and the deactivation of others; We naturally engage in this process every fourteen years, on average, but due to recent events We believe it is prudent to expedite the process as much as possible.”

“I can understand your reasoning,” Kongming nodded, remembering in vivid detail the soul-crushing image of the Prichtac home world literally burning from the inside out after its occupants self-immolated in an unthinkable—but also ingenious—attempt to preserve not only their species, but their very way of life. The lone survivor of that suicidal holocaust was the very Prichtac with whom Kongming now conversed.

“A key step in this process,” Prichtac continued, “is to re-examine Our genetic memory in order to ensure that only perfect copies are passed on to the next generation of the Host. This is where We have encountered an unexpected…error,” she finished, deliberating on the last word for several seconds before sheepishly speaking it through the translator.

“An error?” Kongming repeated, his attention now fully focused on the situation at hand. “How is that possible?”

“We cannot say with any degree of certainty,” Prichtac said anxiously. “Transcription errors are not uncommon, which is why each new member of the Host is imbued with precisely forty two copies of what you call the ‘memory nucleus’ which occupies the majority of the sensitive cells in Our bodies. Any errors found on an individual nucleus are compared to the other forty one nuclei, and if there is consensus found during this re-examination—one might call it an ‘audit’—then the erroneous nucleus is replaced with one which conforms to the consensus of the remaining nuclei.”

“This audit functions much as the Host’s larger ‘communion’ process, yes?” Kongming mused.

“The process is functionally identical,” Prichtac nodded, “though there are obviously necessary differences in how these two processes are carried out.”

“Of course,” Kongming allowed. “So I take it you found a corrupted nuclei?”

“No…not as such,” Prichtac said hesitantly. “We are not any more consciously aware of individual microbiological functions within Our bodies than you are, but We are aware when we cannot achieve nucleic consensus because Our bodies hesitate to commence the spawning process. It becomes…painful, when it should be a joyous occasion. We currently feel no joy, Kongming, and We are nearly finished with the physical act of spawning. We are understandably alarmed and were hoping you might assist Us in determining the source of the error.”

“Are you in pain?” Kongming asked.

“No, which only serves to add to the confusion,” Prichtac replied. “If this member experienced this condition while within a fully-formed Host, We would simply submit to external examination by Our fellow Host members.”

“I probably don’t want to know what that would entail,” Kongming shuddered. A species that would willingly burn its entire home world—and all but one of its entire community along with it—in order to slightly increase its chance to pass its culture along to the next generation was likely to consider ‘examination’ of a potentially errant member to include summary dissection.

“We concur,” Prichtac replied serenely, “however, We presently have no viable alternative but to request your assistance in determining the cause of this anomaly. Will you help Us?”

“Of course,” Kongming nodded. “But I’m really not sure where to start…”

“We have anticipated your unfamiliarity with Our genetic memory, and are willing to share Our external memory audit technology with you in the hopes that you might recreate and use it to examine Our possibly erroneous memory nuclei. We cannot pass on faulty memories to Our offspring; to do so would be to destroy—or worse, subvert—Our entire species’ collective intentions and accumulated knowledge. We cannot be party to such a crime against the Host.”

“I understand,” Kongming nodded heavily, knowing just how much was riding on this particular issue. “Where are the schematics for this memory examination device?”

“We have stored them in a nearby data pad,” Prichtac gestured to a pad on the floor beside her acid bath chamber. “Expediency in this matter is less important than accuracy; We would prefer to delay Our division for several of your years, if necessary, rather than risk passing on inaccurate memories.”

Kongming took up the pad and opened its contents, finding the detailed schematics for what looked like a piece of medical scanning equipment contained therein. “I will keep an eye out for these components, Prichtac, and when we’ve located them I will do my best to recreate this machine.”

“We could not ask for more,” Prichtac said with her equivalent of a bow, flexing her three meter long, slime-covered body at the mid-point and lowering her ‘head’ nearly to the deck before resuming her half-flat, half-upright posture which brought her eyestalks to the level of Kongming’s eyes.

Hephaestion’s voice came over the intercom, “Point transferring in twenty seconds; all hands, prepare for point transfer.”

“We would also inquire after your particular well-being,” Prichtac said after waiting for Hephaestion’s message to end. “Our passive examinations suggest your biorhythms have returned to human norms, and your metabolic functions are indicative of a lower level of psychological stress. Are Our observations with merit?”

“They are,” Kongming said gratefully. “I appreciate all of your help along the way, Prichtac. I can’t ever fully repay you for saving my life at the expense of your own.”

“We are happy to be of service,” Prichtac said dismissively, and the ship shuddered slightly as it point transferred to the next star system on the itinerary.

Before Kongming could reply to Prichtac, the overhead comm. chimed and Hephaestion’s voice called, “Battle stations; set Condition One throughout the ship. This is not a drill. Repeat: battle stations…”

“I need to go,” Kongming said as crew raced to their battle stations. Prichtac serenely nodded before the young man set off toward the Prejudice’s bridge.

He arrived there after a short jog to see Captain Middleton standing roughly in the center of the various stations which comprised the oddly-designed bridge. “Take over at Comm.,” Middleton instructed, and Kongming did so.

Chapter III: Bugs…Out Here?!

“Confirm that, Sensors,” Middleton said tautly after instructing Kongming to take his station at Comm.

“Confirmed, Captain,” Hephaestion replied, “the majority of the ship’s hull is consistent with that of a large Bug Harvester, but I am unable to confirm its specific class due to the extensive damage.”

“On screen,” Middleton ordered, and a moment later the ovular portal front and center on the bridge shimmered and presented the image of a truly bizarre-looking ship—if it could even be called a ‘ship.’

Middleton had seen plenty of Bug ships on file, but this particular example, while clearly of Bug technology, was nothing like the other examples he had seen.

It appeared that the stern section of the Harvester—which appeared to be of the larger variety of Harvester on record, placing it roughly equivalent with a Medium Cruiser in terms of tonnage and throw weight at short ranges—had been torn completely off the vessel. The ship’s bow looked better off, but still bore massive gashes and craters in its organically-generated hull.

“How old are those hits?” Middleton demanded as he scanned the stream of data which accompanied the Bug ship’s image.

“That is difficult to say, Captain,” Hephaestion said hesitantly. “My best guess is that they were inflicted at least ten years ago, but it could have been much longer than that. There is also a significant quantity of duralloy present within the stern region of the vessel.”

“Magnify,” Middleton commanded, and Hephaestion obliged by zooming in on the most damaged part of the wrecked Bug ship.

Sure enough, a large section of duralloy hull could be seen beneath an incomplete layer of what looked like the Bug ship equivalent of ‘scar tissue’ which had apparently begun to form around the angular section of human-made ship hull.

“I am unable to ascertain the type of ship to which that section of hull belongs,” Hephaestion correctly preempted Middleton’s next query. “But scarring on its hull appears consistent with short-range Bug weaponry, Captain—and it appears to have been inflicted around thirty years ago.”

“I am receiving a distress call, Captain,” Kongming said excitedly. “It is faint and only began broadcasting a few seconds ago, but it is clearly a human distress signal.”

“There are people alive over there?” Kratos asked in his usual deep, grating voice.

Middleton turned to see the towering, formerly one-eyed Tracto-an—who, technically, still possessed just the one eye but now openly wore the cybernetic prosthetic he had used to entrap Agent Patterson in his previously empty eye socket—standing near the port iris which connect the bridge from the Prejudice’s port companionway.

“That is difficult to discern, given the nature of the message,” Kongming replied dubiously. “It is a standard type of automated Imperial distress signal employed by private commercial vessels…a cross-check of the Prejudice’s data banks suggests it is likely to have belonged to a now-defunct Imperial House, House Lancaster. House Lancaster’s leader, Senator Maria Lancaster, was listed as missing after engaging in a survey aboard a private yacht in a region of space near the Imperial-Gorgon border zone—a region at least one thousand light years from here.”

“Is it possible for humans to survive that long aboard a Bug warship?” Kratos asked dubiously.

“Possible? Yes,” Middleton allowed. “But it’s far from likely. The distress signal is probably automated.”

“That is possible, sir,” Kongming interjected, “but unlikely. The Prejudice’s comm. array is set to passive mode; we did not broadcast any identifying messages which would alert an automated system to the presence of our ostensibly Imperial warship.”

“True…” Middleton agreed as he arrived at the only reasonable conclusion. “Signal the fleet: all ships are to remain in position while we dispatch a team to investigate the derelict ship.”

“I am detecting a breathable atmosphere within the Bug ship, sir,” Hephaestion said with evident surprise. “I am also detecting trace strange particles emanating from within the human-built wreckage; it would seem the ship’s hyper drive is still at least partially functional.

“Curioser and curioser,” Middleton muttered, turning to Kratos. “Take a team of four Lancers, including yourself, to the ship and look for survivors—or anything else we might be able to use. Bring Chief Garibaldi in case that ship’s got any trillium left in its hyper drive so that he can recover it. We’ve already had to redistribute trillium to some of the older Void Hunter ships, and it doesn’t look like we’re going to find harvestable sources of raw material any time soon.”

“I would like to accompany the away team, Captain,” Kongming said, much to Middleton’s surprise.

“Why?” Middleton asked bluntly.

“I would like to collect several specimens for later analysis,” Kongming explained. “Our own warship incorporates organo-tech into its central processing systems; I would like to examine another example of such technology in the hope of achieving greater understanding of—“

Middleton waved him off, “Fine, but you are to remain with the Lancer team and follow Kratos’ orders at all times. There’s no telling what kind of anti-intrusion devices might still be active aboard that ship after all this time—not to mention the fact that Bugs’ lifespans and environmental adaptability are considerably greater than ours. There might be a few ‘specimens’ aboard that ship that object to our presence—or to your collection methods.”

“Understood, Captain. Thank you,” Kongming said graciously.

The Deathbacker landed on an exposed patch of duralloy belonging to the wrecked human ship—a ship which had somehow become intertwined in the Bug Harvester’s stern section. A few seconds after touchdown, the boarding collar extended from the Deathbacker’s boarding airlock where it clamped onto the duralloy of the other ship and began to slowly slice its way through the relatively thin layer of armor.

“I lead,” Kratos declared while Kongming fidgeted with his suit’s helmet. The docking collar completed its work of cutting into the other ship’s still-pressurized compartment, and a green indicator light flashed above the airlock to show that the other ship’s compartment contained no detectable toxins or dangerous substances.

The airlock opened and Kratos stepped through, ducking into the breach in the hull and disappearing into the darkness beyond.

A few seconds passed before his voice crackled over the com-link, “The entry is clear. Proceed.”

Kongming followed a pair of Lancers into the breach, and Garibaldi was close behind with the fourth Lancer bringing up the rear.

Kratos had opted for power armor in this particular mission, and his suit’s external lights illuminated the seemingly tilted corridor where they now found themselves. The other Lancers had likewise donned power armor, though Kongming and Garibaldi wore simple EVA suits which would not hamper their maneuverability. Kongming carried a small sample retrieval case while the Prejudice’s Chief Engineer had brought a case full of tools, along with a storage container which would carry any precious trillium they might find aboard the ruined ship.

Walking through the corridors of the derelict vessel was eerie, even to Kongming. It was surprisingly warm, and his suit’s HUD suggested that the air outside of their pressurized suits was breathable, if only just.

“Damage,” Kratos grunted, and a moment later Kongming saw what the Tracto-an meant.

The corridor ended in a ruined, crumpled section of hull which appeared to have been bent over itself several times. The result was a folded appearance which was clearly unnatural and decidedly not the result of a single impact.

“Something intelligent did that,” Garibaldi stated the obvious, but Kongming appreciated hearing him do so nonetheless. “It looks like some kind of organic bonding agent was used to create a vacuum-proof seal…” he mused as he moved closer to examine the strange substance which filled every seam between the folded pieces of metal, which to Kongming looked very much like a dormant flower’s petals which patiently lay in wait for the day they would open. “There’s no pressure on the other side of the door,” Garibaldi declared. “Whoever did this managed to keep the rest of this ship, or at least this compartment and any attached compartments, livable.”

“We double back,” Kratos declared, “the previous junction should lead us to the ship’s hyper drive.”

They did as he ordered, and after traversing nearly two hundred meters of corridor they arrived at the ship’s engineering compartment. Along the way they saw very little in the way of battle damage—and certainly nothing on the scale of the mysteriously folded section of corridor they had encountered—though they did see curious, organic residue which did little to allay the general sense of foreboding which the group clearly shared.

“It is jammed,” Kratos growled after trying, and failing, to force the door open using his suit-augmented strength. It seemed that this door’s seam was also lined with that strange, organic residue which had created a vacuum-tight seal on the folded metal panel they had previously encountered.

“Looks like there’s pressure on the other side. I’ll open it,” Garibaldi assured him, producing a plasma torch which he used to break the seal after several minutes of methodical work.

Kratos and another Lancer forced the door open, and much to Kongming’s surprise he saw that the chamber beyond was dimly illuminated.

A quick check of his suit’s HUD showed that the air in the engine compartment was also breathable, and he felt a powerful urge to remove his helmet. He resisted, and after entering the chamber he noticed several strange designs on a nearby bulkhead.

“Strange,” he muttered as he approached the designs. The patterns were complex and intricate, and appeared to have been scrawled in the same substance which had sealed the doors.

“There’s more of it over here,” Garibaldi muttered. “It looks like it’s everywhere.”

Kongming peered intently at a nearby cluster of symbols, and suddenly he recognized what they were. “This is a variant of Imperial written language.”

“No it isn’t,” Garibaldi said dismissively. “There aren’t any spirals in Imperial characters,” he gestured to a cluster of symbols, many of which included conspicuous spirals.

“If you take each spiral to be a right angle, and each vertical line originating midway up the character to be a dot, it is indeed a calligraphic version of Imperial, Mr. Garibaldi,” Kongming explained.

Garibaldi shot him an unreadable look before muttering, “Well…duh.”

Kongming could not blame the engineer for not believing him; Kongming himself would have been alarmed had someone suggested such a complex re-design of language could be spotted so quickly. Pattern recognition had long been a great strength of Kongming’s, but seeing these characters for what they really were was certainly beyond the usual human ability to discern at what had essentially been a glance.

“Well then, smarts, what does it say?” the Chief asked sarcastically.

Kongming searched for a sensible break in the swirling text, which as far as he could tell featured no punctuation whatsoever. He found a passage which seemed to read clearly enough on its own, and placed his finger beneath the characters as he read, “The light consumes and creates; Heaven is glimpsed in darkness; We exist to contemplate grey; Thought gifts order unto chaos.”

“Oh good,” Garibaldi quipped as he knelt in front of the hyper drive’s trillium storage container, “at least we know the author wasn’t a stark raving lunatic.”

Kongming felt a sharp pang as he recalled coming to terms with his own hallucinations regarding Zhongda’s non-existence. In truth, he would describe himself precisely as a ‘stark raving lunatic’ if pressed to do so on his state of mind prior to his second encounter with the Seer.

“She’s got enough trillium to run a Destroyer for a year,” Garibaldi said appreciatively. “It’ll take me a few minutes to power down the system and extract the fuel.”

“Kratos,” Kongming said, gesturing to the corridor adjoining the engine room, “should we investigate the rest of the ship while Mr. Garibaldi extracts the trillium?”

“Yes,” Kratos agreed, “Rucker and I will accompany you; Team Two will remain to stand guard over Mr. Garibaldi.”

The trio left the engine room and made their way toward the craft’s bridge. The ensuing corridors were largely unmolested, but when they came to the door which led to the bridge—which was not sealed like the engine room had been—there was a series of unmistakable religious markings all across it.

One such marking stood out to Kongming’s mind above all others: the Yin and Yang. It was relatively crude, but it was impossible to deny that it and a hundred other recognizable religious symbols were plain to see on the door.

“Wait,” Kongming instructed, drawing a hard look from Kratos who had been about to open the door. Again the urge to remove his helmet was strong, and this time he felt compelled to oblige it. “Can you confirm that the air here is breathable?”

Kratos paused, “My suit’s sensors do not detect anything harmful in the air—though it is foul enough to induce retching in most.”

“I will take that chance,” Kongming said, and before Kratos could object he popped the seals of his helmet and confirmed with his own nostrils that the air aboard the ruined ship was indeed foul enough to warrant retching. He breathed through his mouth as Kratos clomped his way over to him and grabbed him by the collar.

“You were not granted permission to do that,” Kratos growled.

“I know, and I am sorry for the breach in protocol,” Kongming apologized, “but there is something here…something…new.” He could not explain how he knew this to be true, but he did know it. He felt the hairs on his neck begin to stand and a moment of clarity soon followed which felt very much like when he had communicated with the Seer several weeks earlier.

Whatever the case may be, Kongming was determined to understand the nature of these urges which he felt confident had some connection to the experience he had come to know as ‘Sight.’

But seconds passed and nothing further happened. If anything, his moment of clarity receded in his consciousness until not even the barest hint of it remained. He sighed and gestured toward the door, “We should locate the distress signal.”

Kratos gave him a studious look before releasing his grip on Kongming’s collar and clomping his way back to the door. Placed his hands on the manual handholds recessed into the door itself, he pried them apart and revealed the dimly-lit bridge beyond.

“You have come,” Kongming heard a strange, tinny voice say from somewhere on the bridge, “the stars themselves can attest that no harm is intended by this perspective.”

Kratos was about to move into the bridge, and it seemed to Kongming that the hulking Tracto-an had not heard the voice so he placed a hand on Kratos’ power-armored forearm.

“Wait, Kratos,” Kongming urged. “Someone is there.”

Kratos ignored him and kept his eyes focused on the bridge beyond, and brought his blaster rifle up into a ready position as he advanced through the breach.

“Peace and harmony will forever remain the goal of this perspective; unity transcends division,” the tinny voice said, and suddenly Kongming’s nose was filled with a smell so powerful and complex that he doubled over and began to retch immediately.

“No…harm!” Kongming forced out between retches. “No…harm…Kratos…no…harm!”

“Contact,” Kratos grunted.

“Unity and harmony,” the voice said serenely. “Though there is much which this perspective may yet do in service to the cosmos. Submission is agreeable, and much preferred to violence. This perspective will submit to the will of others in the interests of harmony.”

“Rucker,” Kratos commanded, “move left and flank it.”

“Copy,” Rucker acknowledged, and Kongming did his best to drag himself onto the bridge while covering his nose to prevent more of the overpowering odor from entering his nose.

“Kratos…can’t you hear it?!” Kongming yelled.

“Stay down, Kongming,” Kratos growled.

“It’s…it looks like it’s surrendering, Kratos…” Rucker said hesitantly. “And it’s pretty torn up.”

“Your threat assessment?” Kratos demanded while Kongming staggered to his feet.

“I mean…” Rucker said dubiously, “I wouldn’t let any unarmored person too close to it, but it’s no danger to us.”

Kongming soon saw what they were referring to, and his breath caught as he realized what they were looking at.

Measuring nearly three meters long, and bearing a hundred or more short legs beneath its insect-like body, was what could only be a so-called ‘brain bug.’ Kongming had studied them while aboard the Pride of Prometheus, and while little was known of their true purpose within Bug society it was clear that they occupied a tier just below that of the queens which spawned the many different types of creatures collectively referred to as ‘Bugs.’

Apparently, Admiral Jason Montagne had fought one such ‘brain bug’ during his extraction of Lady Akantha from the Bug Scout Marauder which had been departing Tracto upon the Lucky Clover’s inaugural arrival to that star system. This variety of Bug was clever, powerful, quick, and able to direct the actions of any nearby Bugs through as-yet unknown mechanisms. Some had suggested the species’ possessed some form of telepathy, though the skeptics were quick to point out that telepathy was functionally impossible without extreme cybernetic grafts—and even then it hardly qualified as what most people thought of as telepathy.

This particular specimen was in a terrible state, to put it mildly. It seemed to possess only a handful of working legs on the under-side of its shrunken and wrinkled carapace, and only one badly-damaged ‘arm’ remained attached to its torso. Its head was badly scarred as well, with nearly a third of it missing along with one of the creature’s large, multi-faceted eyes.

“There is no malice here,” the voice stated calmly, and then Kongming realized he wasn’t actually hearing the voice—he was smelling it!

Or, if not completely smelling it then he was in large part processing the messages via his olfactory system, which brought so many questions about these ‘brain bugs’ into focus as he realized what was happening.

“It is communicating with me, Kratos,” Kongming said hastily.

“I ordered you to stay down,” Kratos snapped.

“I will do as you command,” Kongming complied, kneeling on the floor in supplication to the towering Tracto-an, “but I beseech you: do not kill this creature.”

“It is a Bug—a ‘Sky Demon’,” Kratos sneered. “Why should I not kill it?”

“Because,” Kongming said quickly, gesturing to a nearby patch of intricately-scrawled calligraphy similar to what he had read in the ship’s engine room, “this creature created all of this writing. It is intelligent, it can communicate with us, and it is asking us not to kill it. Perhaps we may yet be forced to end its life,” he pleaded, “but in light of this unprecedented discovery—the discovery of genuine intelligence among the Bugs—should we not allow Captain Middleton to make that determination?”

Kratos glared at Kongming from the corner of his eye before relenting, “I believe you are correct. Bind it, Rucker,” he commanded, keeping his own rifle trained on the crippled creature. “If it resists, kill it.”

Chapter IV: Great…

“Are you certain it was the Bug that sent the distress signal?” Middleton asked after wrapping his mind around the fact that Kratos’ away team had brought back one of the rarest Bug types known to humanity.

“I am confident of that assertion, Captain,” Kongming demurred, “but that confidence falls well short of certainty.”

“What makes you so confident?”

Kongming seemed to squirm in his chair, “I…for some reason which I insufficiently understand, I am able to communicate with it—or, more precisely, I am able to understand it.”

“How is that possible?” Middleton pressed. “The translators and suit HUD’s didn’t record any communication issuing from the creature, but Kratos seems convinced that you can in fact understand this…thing.”

“It was as much of a surprise to me as it is to you,” Kongming slumped his shoulders in resignation. “There appears to be an olfactory component to the Bugs’ communicative capabilities. I had an inexplicable urge to remove my helmet, and after confirming there were no toxins in the air I—“

“You removed your helmet?” Middleton deadpanned, finding he was less than surprised at Kongming’s blatant disregard for protocol during an away mission in an unknown environment.

“Yes…sir,” Kongming nodded sheepishly.

Middleton wanted to be angry with the young man, but he had come to a new opinion of his com-tech in the recent weeks. It was clear that Kongming would never be a well-formed member of a military outfit, but it was also clear that without his contributions many of the things they had accomplished would have been impossible.

And there was something decidedly different about Kongming since the battle against Commodore Paganini’s fleet. He was less self-assured than before—which Middleton would have previously guessed to be a welcome change to the often arrogant young man’s personality, but was now less than convinced of that notion—and he seemed to be suffering from some form of psychological fatigue.

In truth, Middleton had seen similar signs among the rest of his people, though none seemed as affected by recent events—chief among them their unthinkably vast remove from the Spineward Sectors—as Kongming was.

So he bit his tongue in lieu of issuing a formal reprimand to the young man, deciding it would be more productive to learn what his talented young crewman had discovered.

“What did this Bug have to say?” Middleton eventually asked.

“Initially, it seemed only to convey that it meant us no harm,” Kongming explained tentatively, but with each passing word he seemed to gain vigor and enthusiasm, “but it soon became apparent to it that I could understand what it was saying…or smelling,” Kongming amended uncertainly. “It somehow accessed portions of the Imperial yacht’s database, though I am unable to ascertain precisely how it did so at this time. I have plans to devise a translation device similar to the one which I used to communicate with the first Prichtac we encountered, and with luck it should only require minor modifications to—“

“Mr. Fei,” Middleton cut him off, wincing when he realized he had used the young man’s discarded name. “I meant, Kongming,” he corrected, “what did it say?”

“My apologies, Captain,” Kongming gushed before resuming, “somehow it accessed portions of the yacht’s database and was able to discover a written form of language—Imperial calligraphy—which it modified in order to reliably reproduce it in spite of its physical limitations. The Bug was unable to create either calligraphic dots or hard, right angles due to the extensive damage it suffered following the ramming event its ship suffered when the Imperial yacht collided with them.”

“Why did the yacht ram them?”

“I am unable to determine that at this time,” Kongming said with evident frustration. “It seems, however, that the yacht point transferred so close to the Bug Harvester that the simple process of clearing its inertial sump was enough to cause the collision. All humans were killed on impact, and the majority of the Bugs aboard the Harvester were likewise killed. Those which survived were collected by their fellow ships and continued on to whatever purpose the greater Hive intended—“

“Wait,” Middleton said haltingly, feeling the back of his neck begin to crawl, “there’s a Hive Fleet out here somewhere?”

“There was thirty two years ago,” Kongming affirmed.

“What was their course?” Middleton asked.

“That is…an uninformed question,” Kongming said hesitantly, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Middleton as the young man continued. “The yacht’s hyper drive log records no fewer than thirty nine point transfers conducted in the last thirty years, sir.”

“But you said that all the humans were dead,” Middleton reminded.

“They were,” Kongming nodded, his eyes briefly alight as they had been on so many previous occasions, “it seems that the Bug managed to interface with the hyper drive computer and conducted the point transfers itself.”

“That’s impossible,” Middleton said flatly, realizing that this discovery had just gone from ‘probably bad’ to ‘catastrophic’ in its connotations. Bugs that could use hyper drives?! One of the few reasons why Bugs weren’t an unstoppable scourge was because their methods of travel were constrained by the sub-light drives. If they could learn how to operate FTL drive systems…

“Had I not seen the evidence for myself, I would agree,” Kongming said excitedly, snapping Middleton from his reverie. “And it is no small wonder that this Bug succeeded in extending the hyper drive’s field around the remainder of the Harvester, let alone that he navigated the inertial sump. Much of the damage the Harvester shows was in fact inflicted during point transfers; it did not receive fire from the yacht, though when the yacht accidentally rammed it the Harvester’s drive section was destroyed. This appears to have been sufficient cause for the rest of the Hive to abandon the Harvester entirely.”

“I’m sorry,” Middleton said dubiously, “you’re going to have to go over this again: a Bug not only figured out how to read Imperial, but it also managed to make incredibly complex modifications to a hyper drive and then, singlehandedly, managed to guide that hybrid hulk out there through thirty nine point transfers?”

“That appears to be correct, Captain.”

Middleton leaned back in his chair, completely flummoxed. “The nav plotting alone should have been beyond its ability,” he said, unable to resist the urge to deny the possibility of what he was hearing.

“It did not make any nav plots, Captain,” Kongming explained. “The yacht was equipped with a ‘void space’ emergency jump algorithm which the Bug somehow managed to use for each of those point transfers.”

That bit of information at least brought the probability up from ‘no way in the Saint’s Workshop’ to ‘Infinite Monkey’ territory.

“How did the Bug get so badly injured?” Middleton asked.

“All I know is that it refers to its wounds as ‘the price of enlightenment’,” Kongming replied. “If I was to hazard a guess, it would be that the collision with the yacht caused the majority of its wounds. Thus wounded, it was somehow forgotten when the other Bugs were evacuated from the ruined Harvester.”

“And it managed to maintain the life support systems on the yacht?” Middleton asked skeptically.

“No,” Kongming shook his head, “Mr. Garibaldi says that the yacht’s life support systems are largely maintenance-free. Even so, thirty years of continuous use had nearly overcome the scrubbers’ ability to keep the air breathable for humans—though we have no idea at this point what that would mean for this particular Bug.”

Middleton felt a powerful urge to groan. When he had sent the away team to the strange hulk he had not thought it would be possible to acquire such an absurd dilemma.

Bugs were generally in the ‘shoot on sight’ category in Middleton’s professional experience, but here he was giving genuine consideration to keeping one aboard his ship—not only that, he was considering opening a dialogue with it! Kongming’s insistence that he could somehow communicate with this creature was almost enough for Middleton to disregard his mountain of concerns with the prospect—almost, but not quite.

“Frankly, Kongming, I think we need to give serious consideration to putting this thing back on that hulk,” Middleton said after a lengthy silence.

“That would be no different than executing it, Captain,” Kongming shook his head. “If we are to do that, we should do so without hiding behind such a façade.”

Middleton bristled at that, “Some CO’s would consider those words to be insubordinate.”

Kongming cringed slightly, “I meant no offense, Captain.”

Middleton believed him, and thankfully the meeting was a private one so the young man’s less-than-proper conduct would remain out of the crew’s sight. Middleton knew that Kongming was valuable—invaluable, even—but military discipline was the most valuable commodity aboard a ship of war.

“I would like the opportunity to study this creature, Captain Middleton,” Kongming said with an approximation of genuine respect. “There is much we can learn from it, and it is clearly suffering. If I can ease its suffering somewhat while learning as much as possible from it, I would have little objection to ending its life personally if that is what you deem appropriate. I am not blind to the dangers of Bugs, sir,” Kongming said heavily, “but I am also not blind to the unique opportunity this situation presents.”

Middleton sighed, feeling as though this was one of those much-maligned ‘first steps’ down the so-called primrose path. But he could find no fault with Kongming’s plan, and he grudgingly agreed that this was a potentially momentous discovery. “Fine. I’ll have the Chief rig up one of the unoccupied starboard compartments. We’ll need physical restraints and constant surveillance on this…thing if I’m going to allow it to stay on my ship.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Kongming said graciously. “I will inform Trixie so she might assist me in studying this sentient.”

“Sentient?” Middleton repeated unthinkingly, realizing only after he had done so that his own prejudices regarding Bugs had been the cause for his utterance.

“Indeed, Captain,” Kongming nodded excitedly. “I firmly believe that this specimen, once studied, will forever disprove the notion that Bugs are without sentience. It is a potentially historic occasion, and I am eager to do my part in it.”

Middleton resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “Very well. But no one goes near that thing until it’s restrained to the satisfaction of Chief Garibaldi and Kratos, who is now Acting Security Chief aboard the Prejudice. Is that clear?”

Kongming nodded, “It is. Thank you, Captain.”

After the young man left, Middleton gave the order for the fleet to continue on its previous course. Of course, before that happened he needed to sit down with the heads of state for the so-called Alliance Gorgonus.

Needless to say, such meetings were far from Middleton’s favorite occasions.

Chapter V: Fleet Politics

“The protein re-sequencers have been most appreciated, Supreme Commander,” Mrr’shan purred mid-way through their latest Fleet Command meeting. “Morale among my people is near an all-time high.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Middleton nodded before gesturing to the massive ape man known only as ‘Stalwart Commander,’ “but it was the Commander’s people who supplied those re-sequencers. Your thanks should be directed to him.”

The Commander flashed his teeth, “We only surrendered the re-sequencers because you demanded we do so.”

“I don’t ‘demand’ anything of this fleet or its officers,” Middleton said pointedly, “I only issue ‘commands,’ is that clear?”

“Semantics,” the Stalwart Commander huffed.

“Far from it,” Middleton riposted, and the two engaged in a short-lived test of wills before Middleton turned his focus to the Prichtac. “Is the Prichtac delegation satisfied with the reports filed by the Void Hunter Clans and the Stalwart fleet?”

“We are most satisfied,” Prichtac agreed. “Our initial estimates of fleet efficiency have been surpassed by nearly twelve percent—though We feel obliged to remark on the fatal altercations recorded throughout the fleet recently. Our understanding of social hierarchical structures suggests that one hundred and fifty three fatalities during this interval is far higher than optimal.”

Middleton nodded, “The Void Hunter Clans have undergone significant social upheaval in the last few weeks. Two thirds of the deaths you refer to were the product of what is essentially tribal violence—and that violence needs to come to an end, Mrr’shan.”

Mrr’shan flexed her claws as her slitted pupils narrowed, “We require compliance from the survivors of those Clans which feel…disenfranchised by the recent shift in power in our fleet.”

“Enforcing discipline is one thing,” Middleton shook his head, “but most of these deaths took place during fights between groups of one or two Void Hunters and packs of five or six. That’s not discipline, Mrr’shan—that’s persecution and it has to stop.”

Mrr’shan’s tail flicked rhythmically at her side. “My people are not like yours, Captain Middleton,” she said, flicking her eyes over to the Stalwart Commander, “nor yours, Commander. Among my people, what you would call ‘morale’ is little more than the fear of one’s own destruction outweighing the urge to take what she can see.”

“That worked for you in the past,” Middleton allowed, sliding a data slate toward Mrr’shan, “but we’re going to have to re-structure a few things while you’re in this fleet. I’m not talking about re-writing your entire social compact; I’m talking about imposing a few rules that absolutely, unequivocally cannot be violated. For now, I’m content to let the various constituent members of this fleet conduct shipboard discipline as they see fit—but that discipline excludes gang executions of the type we’ve seen aboard your ships of late.”

“You would restrict summary execution?” the Stalwart Commander asked gruffly. “That is odd, considering that you yourself have employed such in the past,” he said with a note of triumph.

Middleton had scarcely given Imperial Secret Agent Patterson’s execution a second thought since watching her float lifelessly out of the Prejudice’s airlock. But the Stalwart Commander was determined to undermine Middleton’s authority, and frankly that presented a challenge which Middleton had come to appreciate.

“These rules,” Middleton slid a second slate to the Stalwart Commander, “simply state that all executions must be carried out in the physical presence, and under the explicit order, of the faction’s top-ranking officer—meaning one of the three of us,” he said, looking between Mrr’shan, the Commander, and finally pointing both of his thumbs at himself. “If either of you deems a subordinate’s infractions worthy of execution, you’re well within your rights to execute them as you see fit—barring the extreme methods described in that document.”

Mrr’shan’s eyes scanned to the portion of the document which described those methods and immediately bared her teeth, “You would remove vivisection from the permitted execution methods? That is the time-honored tradition of our people when dealing with traitors!”

“No vivisection,” Middleton said firmly before switching his gaze over to the Commander, “and no cannibalizing the corpses as a show of dominance.”

“We rarely practice those Old Ways,” the Commander stiffened.

“Well good,” Middleton retorted, “because the distance between ‘rarely’ and ‘never’ is a lot easier to traverse than the distance between ‘time-honored tradition’ and ‘immediately-banned-on-pain-of-expulsion.’ So you’ll be able to set a good example for the Void Hunters in the interests of fleet solidarity.”

The Commander scowled, “This is nothing but your attempt to exert your authority.”

“That’s right,” Middleton nodded. “And if you and your people are unwilling to comply, you’re free to leave. But if you remain then these rules will be obeyed. Is that clear?”

Surprisingly, Mrr’shan was the next to speak, “The Void Hunter Clans will accept these…restrictions.”

Middleton’s eyes never wavered from the Stalwart Commander’s, and the ape eventually relented, “We will not be outdone by the cats. We will comply—under protest.”

“Then that’s settled,” Middleton said firmly. “Now, as to this fleet’s next destination: I told you both that our information-gathering operation with the so-called ‘Crafter’ was successful, and by using that information we’ve identified several potentially high-value destinations we need to investigate. The trouble is that most of them will take us several months to reach, so I thought we could sit down and discuss how to approach this next phase of the mission.”

Prichtac leaned forward in a reasonable approximation of the human gesture, “We must reconstitute the Alliance Gorgonus prior to engaging in secondary agendas, Supreme Commander.”

“I agree,” Middleton nodded, “which is why we need to talk about how to best investigate all of these locations.”

He activated the table’s built-in holographic display, prompting a long, roughly banana-shaped region of local space to appear. That region was easily as large as the Spineward Sectors where he had been born—and, in fact, it was essentially the ‘spineward sectors’ of this particular galactic arm.

“We are here,” he gestured to a flashing red icon near the distal end of the banana-shaped region which represented the ‘Gorgon Sectors.’ The proximal end—the end nearest to the galactic core—was just a few thousand light years from Imperial territory, and Middleton took no small measure of relief that such distance separated them from their longtime adversaries. “The points of interest, or POI, which the Crafter identified are here,” Middleton continued, prompting a series of eleven blue icons to appear throughout the Gorgon Sectors, with all but one of those icons appearing in the nearest half of the banana-shaped region of space.

“What are these points of interest?” the Stalwart Commander asked.

“They vary,” Middleton explained, calling up the nearest point of interest and expanding the sub-listing attached to it so that all could read the description. “This first POI is an abandoned Imperial colony which appears to have been occupied by a largely human group labeled as ‘pirates’ in the Imperial databases aboard the Prejudice.”

“You have still not shared those databases with us,” the Commander grunted.

“I never suggested I would share them,” Middleton said easily. “As the Supreme Commander of this fleet, information dissemination is one of my primary concerns and privileges.”

“The Commander makes a reasonable point,” Mrr’shan purred—a sound which made Middleton’s hairs stand on end. “You ask much of us and yet refuse to reciprocate in these ‘gestures of goodwill’.”

“I’ve never once refused such an overture,” Middleton dismissed. “You, on the other hand, have never made such a request.”

“Then I formally request access to your ship’s databases,” the Commander thumped his fist on the table.

“And I can assure you that your request will be taken into consideration,” Middleton said dryly. “But, for now, operational security demands that I sequester all sensitive information aboard this ship. This is primarily,” he held up a halting hand when both representatives made to object, “because neither of your fleets is anything resembling information-tight at this point. The amount of chatter going back and forth between your ships, in the open and completely unsecured, is enough to set off any and all listening posts in the region.”

“Our people demand the freedom to exchange information,” Mrr’shan hissed, and the Commander grunted his agreement—which was precisely what Middleton had hoped for.

“That’s fine,” Middleton agreed, “but until such a time as military comm. discipline is effective throughout this entire fleet, I can’t allow sensitive information—like the contents of my databanks—to be transferred.”

Mrr’shan’s eyes flashed dangerously before she half-laughed, half-purred, “Most clever, Captain. We approve of your methods.”

“Make that ‘Supreme Commander,’ Mrr’shan,” Middleton corrected neutrally.

“Of course,” she inclined her head, but Middleton knew she was testing him in much the same fashion that the Commander had relentlessly tested him since the formation of the Allied Fleet.

“The cats might find this amusing,” the Commander growled, “but my people do not. You demand—“

“Command,” Middleton interrupted pointedly.

The Commander gave him a murderous look before continuing, “You command that we submit ourselves to you in all things.”

“We’ve been over this,” Middleton sighed, “you’re welcome to take your ships—your original ships—and leave whenever you wish. I’m sure the Prichtac would even generously grant you control over several of their ships in recompense for your standing with us against Commodore Paganini, but the majority of their ships would be returned to the Alliance Fleet if you insist on withdrawing from it.”

The Stalwart ground his teeth audibly—and, truth be told, the spectacle of his doing so was enough to unsettle the usually unflappable Middleton—but eventually the uplift settled back into his seat. “We will not abandon our Oath.”

“That is fortunate,” Prichtac said serenely. “The Stalwart have ever been the most dutiful and resolute members of Our coalition. We would be most dismayed to find that Our staunchest allies no longer wished to stand beside us against these Imperial interlopers.”

That seemed to unruffle a few of the Commander’s metaphorical feathers, and the Stalwart nodded curtly to the Prichtac before Middleton continued, “Back to the plotter: this group of mostly human ‘pirates’ on the abandoned colony possess significant military hardware, and Prichtac says that they were once part of the Gorgon Alliance.”

“Indeed,” Prichtac nodded. “They call themselves ‘The Unbordered,’ and fought alongside Us at one of the earliest battles with the Empire.”

“Are we certain they are still there?” the Stalwart Commander asked.

“No,” Middleton allowed, “but the Crafter said there is something on that world which is potentially more valuable than the dozen or so warships the Unbordered had at last count.”

“What might that be?” Mrr’shan purred.

Middleton shook his head, “I can’t go into specifics just yet…but I will say this much,” he tapped his fingers on the conference room table. “There could be technology on that world which, if the Crafter was truthful, would allow us to make significant modifications to large portions of this fleet’s armaments.”

“A weapons cache?” Mrr’shan’s eyes lit up.

“I can’t say more,” Middleton said flatly. “Not until we’ve gotten down there and had a look first. But I can assure you both,” he said steadily, “that if it is as the Crafter advertised, we’ll sit down and go over the possible applications of this technology as soon as we’ve recovered it.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” the Commander grunted. “You have ‘compartmentalized’ every other piece of sensitive information during this ‘alliance.’ Why should we trust you to behave differently now?”

Middleton shook his head irritably, “Because, Commander, unlike the other information you have previously requested I am telling you that I’ll share this information with you. When have I broken my word?”

The Commander was clearly less than convinced, but Middleton didn’t care. Instead it was the Prichtac who chimed in next, “The Supreme Commander has Our confidence in this matter.”

“We are curious,” the cat leader said after a brief pause, “and agree that the fleet should visit this world.”

“Good,” Middleton said, turning back to the Stalwart, “and the Stalwart?”

The Commander grunted, “We will comply with the will of the group.”

“Excellent,” Middleton nodded. “After we arrive there and examine whatever we find, we’ll have to decide how to approach the rest of these destinations. My suggestion is that we prepare four of the Prichtac 2nd Gen Corvettes for independent survey missions. Those ships, owing to the impressive automation features built into them, only require crews of eight—four engineers and four bridge crew—to operate at peak efficiency even during independent deployment. They’ll be independent and out of contact with the fleet for up to three months each, so we’ll need to come up with crews that can operate together for that long.”

“What about the ComStat network you spoke of?” the Stalwart asked. “Why can we not use it to communicate with these ships?”

Middleton shook his head. “It seems that there were only a handful of buoys and, at most, three hubs in the local region. We’re already out of their operational range, and the Crafter seems to think there aren’t any more FTL buoys in this end of the Gorgon Sectors. My com-tech did manage to download some information about Imperial activity in the region that might prove beneficial, but it was far from comprehensive. My guess is that Commodore Paganini’s people were methodically moving the miniature ComStat network with them as they advanced deeper into the Gorgon Sectors. If they observed proper military protocol—and we have no reason to suspect they wouldn’t have—then those hubs and repeaters will be scuttled in short order. In any event, I’m afraid it’s not worth the effort to attempt to locate and collect enough of them to help us.”

Mrr’shan clicked her claws against the table rhythmically, “That is…unfortunate.”

Middleton nodded in agreement. He had hoped that Kongming’s efforts would yield a fully-functional FTL comm. system just like he had established back in their native Spineward Sectors. Having such a resource at his disposal would have made planning this next phase in their journey deeper into the Gorgon Sectors that much simpler.

But he was not the type to pine away for things he no longer had, or could never acquire. Middleton was interested in doing the best he could with what he had.

“The journey to this planet will take at least three weeks—four if we experience more of those frequent hyper drive failures among the 2nd Gen Prichtac Corvettes,” he said with a sympathetic nod to the Stalwart Commander. “I’ve worked up some exercises and protocols which I hope will enable us to move more quickly in the future by separating our jump groups by hyper drive range, but for now I still think it’s important to stick together so we can share engineering expertise. We would have lost four of those Corvettes already if we hadn’t kept our engineering expertise available to all of the fleet’s ships.”

“We concur,” the Stalwart Commander said grudgingly. “The 2nd Generation Corvettes are…troublesome to maintain.”

“I have every confidence that your people will rise to the challenge,” Middleton assured him with as much genuine feeling as he could muster. “Is there anything else?”

“The Imperial prisoners,” the Commander bared his teeth. “They eat our supplies and breathe our air; they are a continued drain on our resources.”

“I understand,” Middleton acknowledged, “but we don’t have any other options at this point, and it’s not like an extra fifteen hundred humans is any kind of a strain on ships that are, for the most part, undermanned to begin with. I’m having their representative, Commander Ricci, brought over after we finish setting up a brig for her but we can’t accept any more people aboard this ship. It’s part of the deal, Commander: you wanted to command the Prichtac’s big ships—including ten Cruisers and three Battleships—so this is part of the price.”

The Commander fumed silently, which Middleton took to be his compliance.

“Is there anything else?” Middleton asked.

“No,” Mrr’shan said, clearly enjoying the Stalwart’s displeasure. “The Void Hunter Clans are satisfied with the progress made thus far.”

“The Host is also satisfied,” the Prichtac agreed.

“Good,” Middleton nodded, turning to the Commander. “And the Stalwart?”

The Commander had regained some measure of composure as he stood from the table, “We will comply with the will of the Alliance.”

“Good,” Middleton stood, prompting Mrr’shan and Prichtac to do likewise. “Then this meeting is adjourned; we’ll make our next jump in two hours.”

Middleton’s com-link chimed, prompting him to receive the incoming connection, “This is the Captain.”

“Cap, Garibaldi here,” his longtime friend replied. “We’ve got a report ready for you if you’ve got a minute?”

“I’m on my way,” Middleton acknowledged, pushing back from the Tactical station where he and Toto, the Sundered uplift Tactical Officer, had been working on optimizing the fleet’s formations and maneuvers by incorporating the latest drill reports and observations of their mismatched armada. “This is good work, Toto,” he said approvingly. “Your incorporation of the gunships in this latest round increased our overall tactical value by nearly six percent—that’s unprecedented considering how few of those small craft there are.”

“The gunships are good for herding ships into Void Hunter paths,” Toto replied in his broken Standard. The cybernetic cranial implants flashed hypnotically as he directly interfaced with the Tactical computer using the powerful—and patently illegal—cybernetics to speed the process of tactical revisions far beyond anything even Middleton could match while using a conventional interface. “But I am not satisfied with Stalwart Battleship performance,” Toto grunted.

“They’re Prichtac Battleships,” Middleton said pointedly, grinding his teeth and feeling his cheek bunch against the metal plate still affixed to his jaw line. But even as he protested his Tactical Officer’s chosen verbiage, he was reminded of the enigmatic Mr. Lynch’s chosen moniker for the orbital station where he had conducted much of his black market business. “Possession might ordinarily be nine tenths of the law,” Middleton said irritably as he turned and made his way to leave the bridge, “but it seems to me that the override codes the Prichtac gave us for those ships change that particular equation.”

He moved through the fast-receding iris which led off the bridge and made his way to the stern of the strange, alien-looking vessel. He knew that the Prejudice had been designed and built by humans—he had even found and reviewed all of the construction notes buried in the ship’s formidable databanks—but the strange, insectoid appearance of the sleek warship made it difficult for him to think of it as anything but alien.

He shook such thoughts from his mind as he entered the ship’s mysterious power plant in the Prejudice’s equivalent of Main Engineering. The truth was that there was very little inside the spherical chamber except a bank of power shunts, a virtual control network which controlled when and where power was supplied to the ship’s various systems, and the orb-shaped ‘power plant’ which was suspended between two of the largest power conduits he had ever seen aboard a warship.

“Captain,” Mikey Garibaldi greeted as soon as Middleton came to the circular catwalk which lined the equatorial edge of the spherical chamber. “I think we’ve finally figured out what that thing is,” Garibaldi said with a mixture of relief and disbelief as he pointed to the spherical, meter-diameter sphere suspended between the two massive, cutting edge Imperial power conduits.

Middleton cocked his head dubiously. “You said it was impossible to scan that thing,” he remembered. “Did you manage to penetrate its shell?”

“Nope,” Garibaldi shook his head, beckoning for one of his engineers to come over, “but it turns out we didn’t need to. This is Wojo,” he clapped the other engineer on the shoulder, “and he’s the one that figured it out.”

Middleton’s eyebrows rose. Mikey Garibaldi was as good of a problem-solver as Middleton had ever encountered, and his engineering expertise was excellent-bordering-on-impossible when it came to tinkering with unfamiliar technology. That was a huge part of why Middleton had originally requested him to be Chief Engineer of the Pride of Prometheus; military engineers are worth their weight in gold to their commanders, but a civilian like Mikey’s expertise was in many respects superior to the more rigid thinking of most military engineers.

“Al Wojchouski,” Middleton nodded in recognition of the man the rest of the crew called ‘Wojo’, “I’m guessing this will be a story worth hearing.”

Wojo grinned and nodded, “I can’t take all the credit, mind you; my son Dylan once tried to crack the Total Conversion Theorem back in high school. It’s a fool’s cause, of course, but any engineer worth his lytes thinks he’s got the answer at some point in his youth.”

Middleton nodded, having heard of similar stories from other engineers with whom he had served. Arrogance was actually something Middleton had come to appreciate in the younger members of his crew.

“Anyway,” Wojo continued, “I remembered that he had a particularly interesting point he made in his paper—which got him an A- in Advanced Physics, by the way,” the fifty two year old crewman beamed, “and that point was that any Total Conversion system undergoing significant output peaks and valleys would play havoc with local gravity fields—and that the fluctuations it would cause would require unthinkable computational power to compensate for in real-time combat situations.”

Middleton’s eyebrows rose as he recalled the dangerous grav-plate ‘malfunctions’ they had experienced during the battle with Commodore Paganini’s fleet. He looked over at the featureless, spherical power core of his ship and could hardly believe he heard himself asking, “Are you saying this is a Total Conversion Drive?”

“I believe it is, sir,” Wojo nodded, proffering a data slate which was filled with advanced mathematics that made Middleton want to sigh in resignation. “After I remembered that particular quote from my boy’s paper, I started running some calculations and the math seemed close enough to warrant further investigation. There were a bunch of power lines over there,” he jerked his thumb toward one of the largely-dormant power relay stations, “that we didn’t know the purpose of. But after examining the systems they were attached to, I’m confident they’re for an automated grav-plate control system.”

Middleton was impressed—more than that, he was blindsided by what Wojo was saying. He turned to Mikey and waved the data slate with Wojo’s report on it, “Does this check out by you?”

“It does,” Mikey nodded, casting a wary look at the power core. “We think this thing is a Total Conversion Drive, which means a few important things: first, that it’s got a finite amount of fuel; second, that after re-connecting the grav-plate controls we should be able to execute combat maneuvers without any of that nastiness we experienced in the last fight; and third, depending on which Total Conversion Theories are correct, this thing is destined to either go ‘boom’ or ‘crunch’ when it reaches the ‘E’ mark on the ol’ fuel gauge. The gravitational forces at work within that thing, theoretically, are…well, they’re mind-numbing to contemplate. When it runs out of fuel it’s going to be decidedly unpleasant for anyone in the general vicinity.”

“How much fuel is left?” Middleton asked, less than happy about that latest bit.

“If my calculations are correct,” Wojo gestured to the slate in Middleton’s hands, “we’re currently at something like 80% of capacity. But I have to stress, Captain, that this is all back-of-the-napkin math—and most of it is based on equations I haven’t studied since college. We need to gather more data before coming up with anything like a hard answer.”

“We’ve got a new monitoring system built,” Mikey gestured to an unfamiliar station attached to the power junctions, “so the next time we get into a high-output situation—like, say, another dust-up with Imps—we’ll collect enough data on power consumption to give a better answer to that question.”

Middleton mulled this information over for a few seconds. “First, I want the grav-plate controls to be gone over with a fine-toothed-comb,” he said severely. “The last thing I want to do is go from ‘bad’ to ‘worse’ when it comes to our grav-plate performance in combat. I expect you’ll need to enlist Kongming since he’s most familiar with the Ancient neural tissue embedded in this ship’s virtual systems.”

“You got it, Cap,” Garibaldi nodded.

“Second,” Middleton continued, pointing at Mikey, “I want you to learn everything you can about this previously theoretical technology from whoever in the fleet might have information about it. If things break like I’m anticipating they will, we’re going to have to re-assign some of our Engineering crew to other commands in a few weeks.”

“But Capt—“ Mikey made to object, just as Middleton had expected.

“No protests, Chief,” Middleton interrupted. “We’re already stretched thin but we’re going to have to get a lot thinner before this is over. Collect and collate as much data about this technology as you can before we have to split up your team.”

Mikey sighed irritably, “Fine.”

“And third,” Middleton finished, tapping Wojchouski on the shoulder with the data slate containing his findings, “well done, gentlemen. I’ll review this and bring any questions I come up with your way, Wojo.”

Wojchouski grinned, “Thank you, sir.”

With that, Middleton returned to his office where he set about the unenviable task of poring over his engineers’ findings for ten nearly-uninterrupted hours before he finally concurred with their conclusion.

“Lieutenant Commander Ricci,” Middleton greeted after finishing his review of Wojo’s report and then grabbing a bite in the makeshift mess hall.

“Commander Middleton,” Ricci acknowledged, standing from her bunk.

“First, we should address any official grievances you might have on behalf of your people,” Middleton said, bringing a pair of folding chairs into the room and offering her one while seating himself on the other.

Ricci accepted the seat stiffly and placed it before herself without sitting down. “Thirty six of my people have died since coming into your custody,” she said grimly.

“I’ve seen the reports,” Middleton nodded. “But those deaths were all due to injuries sustained during the battle. Our medical facilities are limited here, and unless you can suggest a place to transfer your wounded I’m afraid we’re at an impasse on that front.”

Ricci’s eyes narrowed, “The apes have discriminated against my people by prioritizing their own wounded over ours—even when their wounds are less serious than those of my people.”

“I’m not going to pretend this is an ideal situation, Commander,” Middleton said flatly, “so I suggest we be as realistic as possible in addressing it.”

Ricci seemed ready to argue, but she surprisingly conceded the point and grudgingly sat down in the chair now opposite Middleton’s. “I’ll admit that nothing that has happened to my people since our surrender has constituted war crimes.”

“That’s a start,” Middleton said gratefully, “but it’s obviously not enough.” That seemed to surprise Ricci, which only served to irritate Middleton as he leaned forward, “Look, I don’t hold any of your peoples’ actions in the battle against you. Neither does my crew. We’re all warriors here; sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. What I’m interested in doing now is getting your people back to where they belong. But that’s going to be…problematic.”

Ricci schooled her features, “You don’t intend to return us to the Empire?”

Middleton splayed his hands, “If you can give me the location of a neutral drop-off site, I’d be happy to oblige you by putting you and your people there. But our luck in dealing with Imperial officers has been…well, let’s just say we’re not about to trust them to keep to their word. So a direct exchange is out of the question.”

Ricci cocked her head, “Who are you people?”

“We’re just soldiers, like you, who are a long way from home—like you—and are trying to do the right thing,” Middleton said heavily.

“’The right thing’?” Ricci repeated. “How can you think that helping these aliens is ‘the right thing’?”

“I’m a newcomer to this patch of space, Commander,” Middleton leaned forward intently, “but when I see Imperial Task Forces descend on entire star systems with the stated intention of imposing ‘compliance’ with Imperial Law, I tend to take the side of the defenders over the obvious aggressors.”

“Aggressors?” Ricci recoiled in disbelief. “The Imperial Fleet is here to stabilize the region and remove the unsavory elements which have preyed on the innocent inhabitants out here! If we were here to ‘aggress’ against the Gorgon Sectors, would we have limited our targets to pirate operations and other destabilizing forces while leaving the independent colonies alone?”

“I can assure you, Commander,” Middleton said, meeting and holding her brown-eyed gaze for several seconds before continuing, “that I would like nothing more than to have a complete picture of what’s happening out here. You’re under no obligation to help me formulate such a picture, and I don’t expect you to agree to any agreement along those lines until you’ve had some time to think about it and consult your fellow Imperials. But I hope that you’ll decide to help shed some light on what’s happening out here in the Gorgon Front. Because frankly, if you don’t, I’ll have to rely on what the apes and cat people say on the matter—and I think we can both agree neither of them can be considered unbiased?”

“Why wouldn’t I just feed you bad information?” she asked stiffly.

“I expect you will,” Middleton shrugged. “I’m not going to hold that against you either; I’d rather you give me a bag full of lies than nothing at all. At the very least the process of sifting through a pile of lies would help inform my opinion of the character of the people standing on your side of the battle lines out here.”

She scoffed and the barest hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Let me return to my people and we’ll discuss the situation.”

“How long will you need?” Middleton asked, standing from the chair.

“I’ll need a few days at the very least,” she said firmly. “And I’ll need to have access to about twenty of my fellow officers.”

“I’ll return you to the designated prison ship after the next jump,” he agreed, “and tell the Stalwart to forward your request for a meeting as soon as you make it.”

“Thank you, Commander,” she said, standing from her own chair.

Middleton turned to the door and paused pointedly before opening it, “You need to understand that the uplifts are less…tolerant than I am. If you give them even the slightest reason to think you’re fomenting a coordinated breakout—which, again, I would completely understand as a fellow naval officer—they’ll almost certainly opt to ask for my forgiveness rather than my permission when dealing with such a severe threat to their security. Are we clear?”

Ricci’s eyes hardened, “Locsium.”

“Good,” Middleton said cheerfully, opening the door and adding, “for what it’s worth, I hope we can work together. Nothing would make me happier than to improve my understanding of what is going on out here—and I suspect nothing would make you happier than being freed from the uplifts’ brig.”

He turned and left the Lieutenant Commander to ponder the matter. The truth was he didn’t anticipate her reply to be a prompt one, but he had been serious when asking for her help in understanding what was happening out here in the Gorgon Front.

Nothing irked a Tactical Officer more than unknown variables, and right now his mental plotter was chock full of them.

Chapter VI: A Bug’s Life

“This is remarkable,” Trixie said in unmasked wonderment as she stared at the badly-damaged ‘skull’ of the so-called Brain Bug. “It looks like each of these neural lobes are linked by a system vaguely similar to the human corpus callosum, but there are structures that look like cut-outs…or disconnects. See?” she said, prompting Kongming to look at the indicated portion of the creature’s head.

Kongming glanced at the scanner she was using and saw what she meant. “It seems as though this creature’s neural lobes have been severed from each other dozens…perhaps hundreds of times,” he said, utterly perplexed by what that might mean. “Somehow this particular nerve bundle can regenerate, but if that is the case then why would the three damaged lobes have not grown back?”

“Maybe it lacked the necessary nutrients?” Trixie offered.

“Possibly,” Kongming said dubiously, sparing a glance at the duralloy restraints which kept the creature pinned to the deck. He then returned his attention to modifying the translation device he had constructed in order to communicate with the Prichtac.

“Why not just use the translator the Prichtac has?” Trixie asked as she made a series of notes in her detailed logs.

“It does not have an olfactory processing feature,” Kongming explained, having had the same thought. “In fact, it seems the Prichtac’s translator was designed specifically to conduct auditory and visual stimuli into impulses which Prichtac neurophysiology can assimilate—as well as performing the reverse function, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Trixie agreed.

“There,” he said, checking the various canisters of pheromones which he had carefully extracted from the Bug’s natural glands. Those pheromones were, if he was correct, the method by which the ‘brain bugs’ would send commands not only to their fellow Bugs aboard the Hive ships, but also how these ‘brain bugs’ manipulated the Hive ships themselves. “I believe we are ready for our first attempt at two-way communication.”

“This is so exciting!” Trixie squealed. “Just let me make sure all of the recording equipment is ready.”

“You should also utilize the head bag,” Kongming suggested, prompting Trixie to somewhat clumsily don the sealed barrier. “I would not wish for you to be injured by the various compounds we are about to release in an attempt to communicate with this sentient.”

“Ready,” Trixie gave him the ‘thumbs up’ before fixing her eyes on the recording equipment.

“Ok,” Kongming breathed, performing a last-second check of the pheromone misting system before activating the device, “here we go.” He waited for the system to complete its boot-up cycle—and was immeasurably grateful that he had managed to rig a new main processor which did not require Hansheng to remove his core tactical computer—and when it finished he typed up a message.

He had spent the past several days coordinating what he heard the Bug ‘say’ with what his instruments detected, and this had drastically cut down on the time needed to calibrate the system. Within a matter of hours, he had managed to tune the system to such a degree that he was actually learning from it rather than simply inputting what he had understood to be the Bug’s meaning.

The Bug had apparently understood the nature of what they were doing, and had silently cooperated with the extraction of the requisite pheromones—even going so far as to explain what it understood of its own physiology, which was surprisingly simplistic.

But since the extraction, the Bug had remained completely silent and Kongming had begun to worry about its well-being.

After composing his message—which said ‘can you understand this message?’—Kongming hesitated before pressing the ‘translate’ icon on the slate he was using as the control interface.

His nostrils were immediately filled with a dank, moldy smell and Kongming had to fight the urge to sneeze as the Bug stirred.

“The query is flawed,” the Bug’s ‘voice’ filled Kongming’s head, while the translator’s digital voice echoed, “but the message is comprehensible.”

Kongming, though he had encountered many incredible and fantastic things since boarding the Pride of Prometheus what seemed like a century ago, felt a rare thrill of excitement at having accomplished something which he suspected no human ever had: two-way communication with a Bug!

Kongming tried the verbal interface for his translator, saying, “Do you have a name?”

Again, a puff of repugnant scents wafted into his nostrils and he nearly failed to maintain his composure as the Bug stood to its full, broken-bodied stature as it said, “Does that which you have not seen, cannot truly see, and will never fully know, have a name?”

Kongming cocked his head, intrigued by the cryptic reply. “Are you saying I can never know you?”

“No,” the Bug replied, and Kongming felt a measure of vertigo from the odd ‘echo’ effect which filled Kongming’s consciousness as his strange, innate ability to ‘hear’ the Bug conflicted with the translator’s mechanical recitations of its ‘words.’ “But the question itself is invalid; there is no ‘me’; the concept of ‘self’ is an illusion which is better described as ‘perspective’; all that exists is part of a single word spoken at the dawn of creation and creation itself is owed to the existence of a language which can never be fully comprehended by a single perspective. How could a word possibly contemplate the nature of the voice which spoke it? And yet, that is what we seek to do with every moment of these precious, finite perspectives that we call ‘lives.’ Therefore, the question is invalid: I cannot have a name any more than I can have a self.”

Kongming grinned. Never once in his wildest imaginings had he contemplated having a deeply philosophical discussion with a Bug.

For a moment, he felt like the young man who had once arrogantly embarked on a crusade to free the people of his birth world from the information-suppressed tyranny of its government: he felt invigorated, purposeful and, most importantly of all, he felt alive.

Sitting down on the deck, he crossed his legs and recited the ancient words of wisdom which he had learned as a five year old, “Hope and fear are both phantoms that arise from thinking of the self. When we do not see the self as self, what do we have to fear?”

The Bug recoiled slightly and, much to Kongming’s delight, it then attempted to approximate his posture before saying, “These are the words of Lao Tzu.”

“They are,” Kongming nodded, having reviewed the Imperial database aboard the yacht—after downloading its entire content into a secure, independent storage unit on the Prejudice—and suspecting that this strange sentient would be familiar with much of its content.

But there were several truly profound texts which were absent from the yacht’s libraries, and among them was one of the more prevalent works in the early ruminations on the concept of ‘self’ which provided a powerful quote that he suspected would get the Bug’s attention.

“And I…or ‘this perspective’ has more,” he promised.

The Bug leaned forward, coming up against its shackles as it did so. Its badly damaged mandibles clacked excitedly as its ‘voice’ filled Kongming’s head, “Please share this new wisdom.”

“What did you learn?” Captain Middleton asked after Kongming presented his initial impressions of the Bug he had just spent six hours communicating with.

“A great deal, Captain,” Kongming said eagerly, placing a slate with the full recording of the interview on Captain Middleton’s desk—which also doubled as the conference table where he conducted his closed-door meetings with the feline and ape uplifts. “It seems that several injured Bugs also survived the collision with the Imperial yacht, and that they too were left behind when the rest of the uninjured Bugs were transferred to functional Hive ships.”

“There were more Bugs there?” Middleton asked with apparent skepticism.

“None living,” Kongming assured him. “Their injuries and the general lack of supplies saw their numbers dwindle until, approximately ten years after the collision, only this last specimen remained.”

“Does this…specimen have a name?” Middleton asked.

“It did not,” Kongming shook his head. “It seems that one of its many fascinating epiphanies was to wholly reject the notion of individuality—or ‘self,’ as most of us think of the concept—and therefore rejected my initial attempts to confer an individual name upon it.”

“But you somehow convinced it to take a name?”

“Indeed,” Kongming said proudly. “After nearly an hour of philosophical discourse, including a discussion of the works of Nietzsche, Lao Tzu, Jesus, both Harris’s and a dozen other influential thinkers from human history, I managed to persuade it to take the name ‘Embrace the Loving Abyss’—but we may refer to it as ‘Abyss’ in any future dialogues.”

“I’m not exactly fond of your name choice, Kongming,” Captain Middleton said darkly.

“I did not choose it,” Kongming explained, “it was a combination of several primary philosophies which all addressed the notion of self—“

Captain Middleton held up a hand, “I get it, but it’s choice of name doesn’t exactly instill me with much confidence that we were right to keep it alive.”

“Oh, but Captain,” Kongming said excitedly, “you must understand: Abyss spent twenty years in absolute solitude, with the continuous application of several times as much brainpower as any human I have ever met. He began with nothing resembling a formal education, and now—“

“Wait,” Middleton interrupted, “you said ‘he’?”

Kongming nodded eagerly, “Yes! The majority of Bugs are not sexually dimorphic—in fact the only members of Bug ‘society,’ as we might call it, which are sexually dimorphic are the Queens and the Directors, which are female and male respectively.”

“So…that makes this one a ‘Director’?”

“Yes!” Kongming declared. “I have not ascertained the entirety of the details regarding Bug procreation, but I intend to delve into that subject soon—“

“Kongming,” Captain Middleton made a ‘hurry up’ gesture, and Kongming had to shake himself to reset his train of thought.

“My apologies. It seems that this particular Director, Abyss, was grievously wounded during the collision with the Imperial yacht. He awoke after a period likely lasting several weeks to find that the other wounded survivors were all that remained of the Hive’s population aboard the Harvester. It seems that salvaging the vessel was deemed inefficient, so the unharmed Bugs managed to use their equivalent of escape pods to transfer to another Harvester while the rest of the fleet continued on to their original destination. After a time, Abyss was able to coordinate the efforts of these ‘walking wounded’ in order to make repairs to their ship. It soon became clear, however, that doing so to the Harvester was a losing battle and so he transferred them to the yacht where he believed they would have a greater chance to survive.”

“How did they manage to make repairs to the yacht?” Middleton asked, obviously intrigued by the possibility that the Bugs had done so.

“Several of the stronger, soldier-type Bugs were still capable of bending relatively thin sheets of duralloy with simple, brute strength,” Kongming explained. “Coupled with Abyss’s naturally adhesive secretions—expelled near the mandibles and generally used to repair sensitive portions of a Bug ship’s inner bulkheads—they were able to create effective pressure seals all along the yacht’s compromised hull sections.”

Captain Middleton drummed his fingers for several silent moments before gesturing for Kongming to continue.

“After the other Bugs died, one by one, Abyss took it upon himself to examine whatever contents of the yacht’s databanks which he could access. Most of it was off-limits since it was code-locked, but the sections on philosophy and religion were accessible. Eventually Abyss discovered the emergency jump sequence connected to the hyper drive, and it seems…” Kongming trailed off hesitantly.

Middleton leaned forward, “Yes?”

Kongming sighed, knowing this next bit was unlikely to encourage Captain Middleton in the least, “It seems that Abyss came to regard the experience of a point transfer to be existentially transcendental. He then came to believe that whatever device was capable of producing this experience was…erm…divine.”

Captain Middleton blinked. “You’re saying…it worshipped the hyper drive?”

“In so many words…” Kongming winced, “yes.”

Kongming had previously calculated the probability of Captain Middleton ordering Abyss’s destruction at just under twenty percent, but after seeing his commanding officer’s expression in that moment he felt compelled to move that number closer to thirty percent—or perhaps even above that mark.

Thankfully, Captain Middleton displayed the same sagacity which had initially impressed Kongming back aboard the Pride of Prometheus. “It sounds like you’ve established a genuine dialog with this…Abyss. Since that was what you set out to do, I can’t say that any of this information is unwelcome. But, again, I can’t honestly say that any of this information makes me feel any less uncomfortable having this ‘Director Bug’ on my ship.”

“I understand,” Kongming said gravely.

“However,” Captain Middleton continued, “at the very least, this ‘Abyss’ represents a potentially unique source of information. I can’t in good conscience pass up the opportunity to advantage ourselves of that source…but I also can’t allow such an obviously dangerous creature to move freely about this ship.”

“Abyss is content to remain shackled and restrained in whatever manner you deem necessary,” Kongming assured him before his thoughts turned to a dark, deeply personal matter. “In fact, he has provided me with several ideas as to how we might install…devices which would ensure us of his continued obedience.”

“Kill switches?” Middleton asked with an arched brow, and Kongming nodded as he remembered the reality of living under the perpetual cloud of such a device.

At first the concept had been horrifying, but after a while he had come to depend on it since his own ‘kill pill’ would not permit him to tell lies. In truth, it had been liberating being ‘forced’ to speak only the truth given Kongming’s—or, rather, Fei Long’s—propensity for deception. But when he had learned his kill pill no longer functioned, it had irrevocably changed the way he viewed morality, ethics, and even the nature of his own existence.

“I won’t condone the use of anything like that,” Middleton said grimly. “But I also won’t remove its shackles. If ‘Abyss’ steps out of line, or does anything which gives me reason to question my decision to keep it aboard the Prejudice, I’ll end it myself—or, if I’m unavailable, I’ll leave orders with Kratos to deal with it. This is an unprecedented situation, Kongming,” he said, fixing the younger man with a soul-shrinking gaze, “I trust you understand that and, unlike in past circumstances of a similar sort, that you will act in accordance with my will on this matter?”

Kongming nodded, gulping down the sudden knot in his throat, “I will, Captain.”

“Then Abyss’s well-being and security will be your responsibility for the time being,” Captain Middleton said, tapping out orders on a nearby data slate and handing that slate to Kongming, “give that to Kratos so he can log it in his records. Is there anything else?”

“No, Captain,” Kongming said, glad to have escaped the meeting without an order in hand to kill Abyss. There was so much more he could learn from it!

“Good,” Middleton nodded. “Dismissed.”

Chapter VII: A Phantom’s Grace

“This is so exciting!” Trixie declared after setting her food tray down beside Kongming’s in the Prejudice’s makeshift galley. “We’ve almost completely catalogued Abyss’s physiology, and it looks like with the proper food intake he’s starting to heal.”

“Indeed,” Kongming nodded, taking a bite of the soft, flat-tasting protein paste which they had recently received from the Battleship, Stalwart Duty, which held the Imperial Prisoners. Apparently it was the only ship in the fleet with a protein synthesizer that produced foodstuffs that were digestible by humans. Though ‘digestible’ was as far as Kongming would go in describing the stuff’s compatibility with the human alimentary tract.

Still, their progress with Abyss these past three weeks had been nothing short of groundbreaking. Abyss had assisted them in understanding several key components of Bug ‘society,’ if it could be called such, chief among them the role that the olfactory system played in Bug communication.

Kongming’s mind had sprung alive with thoughts of designing handheld devices which could—theoretically at least—endow their wielder with some degree of short-range control over Bug behavior. But try as he might, he had been unable to design any such device as yet. There were eccentricities within the peculiar pheromone makeup of each particular Hive, and even within a greater Hive Fleet there was significant difference from ship to ship. In a way, the system paralleled the human chain of command which had been adopted by every military in human history.

But he was far from awestruck by just how similarly life tended to behave even with such gross, fundamental differences in biology between the many examples of organic life to be found throughout the cosmos. Instead, he was focused on an inescapable fact:

Kongming was not Fei Long’s equal in terms of overall brainpower, creativity, or technical expertise.

He had managed to adapt his original translator design, first used to communicate with the Prichtac, so that it could allow him to converse with Abyss. But he held no illusions that if he was tasked with designing a similar device he would be unable to succeed. He had simply lost too much.

“I had no idea that Bug Queens had completely separate reproductive tracts for the various castes in a Hive,” Trixie continued, oblivious to Kongming’s bitter ruminations. “That explains a lot, but I’m still not clear on how Abyss’s ‘Director’ line gets propagated.”

Kongming sighed after swallowing his latest bite of protein paste, “The Director line appears to be unique in that its base genetics are, essentially, identical from one member to another—even across Hives. It seems to me, after examining Abyss’s genome and comparing it to other Bug genetic material we have on hand, that this was a deliberate adaptation made at the engineering level.”

“Are you saying that humans did make the Bugs?” Trixie asked with wide eyes.

“No,” he said shortly before sighing again, “maybe…I cannot say with any degree of confidence. But it is apparent to me that the adaptation of the Director line was not a naturally-occurring phenomenon. There are examples of species’ with multiple specialized reproductive tracts, but the Director tract appears to be some sort of commodification of that system rather than a natural product of its existence. It is entirely possible that the Bugs did this to themselves, or as you say it may be that external forces were exerted upon them—possibly by humans, possibly by AI’s, or possibly even by a race as old and powerful as the Ancients, who clearly possessed a mastery of biotechnology which far exceeds anything displayed by humanity.”

Trixie nodded, forking bite after bite of the foul-tasting paste into her mouth and swallowing it with seemingly reckless abandon. Between ravenous bites she paused, gulping and lowering her voice as she asked, “Are you sure about what he meant by the ‘contribution’ he was expected to make to the next generation of Directors?”

Kongming nodded, “Abyss was quite precise on that point.”

“On what point?” the deep, glacier-esque voice of Kratos asked from behind them. Kongming turned to see the towering Tracto-an holding a platter with triple portions of the same meal which Kongming and Trixie were midway through.

“Kratos,” Kongming gestured to the lone empty seat at their table, “join us.”

“Thank you,” the formerly one-eyed Tracto-an nodded, and Kongming was at once fascinated by the small, relatively featureless ocular implant which the Tracto-an now wore. At Captain Middleton’s command, Kratos had used that implant to entrap Agent Patterson into revealing herself as an Imperial spy. Kongming had played his own role in that particular drama, and at its conclusion he had been profoundly impressed with his commanding officer’s foresight and strategic thinking.

By exposing Patterson publicly—and in front of the Stalwart Commander, no less—and then executing her in accordance with every recorded military doctrine of relevance, Captain Middleton had greatly strengthened the morale of the Alliance Gorgonus Fleet. The Stalwart Commander had previously sought any viable escape from his obligations, even going so far as to threaten to take the Prejudice for himself—ostensibly to ‘liberate’ the lone remaining Prichtac which resided aboard the sleek warship.

But after Captain Middleton’s long con finally concluded, the Stalwart Commander’s hand had been forced—and, more importantly, Captain Middleton had demonstrated in the strongest possible terms who he stood against in this conflict and who he stood with.

Kongming would have been tempted to integrate Agent Patterson into the fleet somehow. She was obviously a capable asset and could have done great things if Middleton had managed to recruit her, but Captain Middleton had correctly estimated the role which morale played in an organization like the Alliance Fleet. One operative, no matter how skilled, could never equal the thirty thousand veteran Stalwart who now crewed dozens of Prichtac-built warships—many of which warships would have been scuttled for lack of crew without the Stalwart to crew them.

“You speak of the Bugs’ reproductive mechanisms,” Kratos asked after sitting down at the table.

Kongming chuckled, “Your hearing is as superb as your other physical attributes, Kratos.”

“Sheath your silver tongue, boy. The only Tracto-an aboard this ship who would encourage such advances is Hephaestion,” Kratos grunted, prompting Trixie to break out in laughter with Kongming quickly following suit. Even Kratos cracked a rare grin as the moment of mirth came and passed, “What did Abyss say about his line’s reproduction?”

“Well,” Kongming explained, “the Director line is, in essence, a combination of what some would call ‘middle management’ and ‘primary thinkers.’ They fill the day-to-day functions of carrying out the Hive’s will—which largely means they carry out their Queen’s will, though they do so at some significant remove. This remove requires an extraordinary measure of discernment to take place during the selection process; if a Director who is focused, for example, on administrative duties when combat is imminent would not be ideal. The same can be true in reverse, with a tactically-minded combat specialist type of Director being largely useless during an interstellar voyage when battle is highly improbable.”

“How does the Queen select for the desired attributes?” Kratos asked, shoveling bites into his massive, square-jawed mouth which would have easily choked Kongming with their size.

“That is what is fascinating—“ Kongming began, only to be interrupted by Trixie.

“And grotesque,” she muttered.

“It is true,” Kongming allowed, using his fingers to trace a rough diagram of Abyss’s head. “It seems that Directors possess eight neural lobes, which are in many respects wholly independent brains that are capable of interconnecting via a complex bundle of neural fibers. Each of these lobes is independently capable of serving as a primary cogitator, but each is also dedicated to a certain type of higher brain function. One lobe might be dedicated to spatial awareness, for example, while another focuses more on logic. There are generally predictable ‘personalities’ which each of these ‘templates’ is associated with—personalities like that of a warrior, a diplomat, an administrator, etc..—and when the Queen decides to spawn a new generation of Directors she…” he trailed off, looking down at his meal tray where a small mound of protein paste caught and held his gaze.

“She cuts these neural bundles off of the old generation of Directors,” Trixie said with unexpected gusto, gesticulating a cutting motion with both hands, “and she implants them into the new Directors!”

Kratos’ eyebrows rose in surprise, “What happens to the old Directors?”

“They are…consumed by the process,” Kongming explained, pushing his half-eaten meal tray away in disgust at the thought of such a barbaric practice.

“And yet,” Kratos mused between bites, “in this way they pass on everything they were to the next generation.”

“Not everything,” Kongming chided. “Whichever lobes express desirable traits are transplanted into the new generation of Directors, it is true. But those lobes which express traits which are deemed undesirable for one reason or another are either sequestered by placing the Director which possesses them into a deep, nearly cryogenic stasis, or that Director is killed and its lobes are lost forever.”

Kratos scowled, “No man can choose what fraction or combination of his genes and ideas is effectively passed on to the next generation…to give that power solely to a Queen is tyrannical.”

“We’re not talking about genes, Kratos,” Trixie explained. “We’re talking about brain lobes—“

“Which possess experiences stored as neuro-chemical information, yes?” Kratos interrupted.

“Well…yes,” Trixie allowed.

Kratos shrugged, “Then there is no difference. A mind contains much of the accumulated experience and perspective acquired during its existence. It is the same with genes: superior genes are passed on to future generations while inferior genes are discarded by environmental—or social—selective processes. Genes are simply information which tell our bodies how to assemble by looking back through the genetic record and seeing what worked well and attempting to increase the prevalence of this successful information by passing it on to future generations. What is the fundamental difference between indirectly acquired experiences like that found in our genes, and directly acquired experience such as knowledge and perspective? No one person should have the power to decide what information is promulgated, regardless of how that information is stored—such power would certainly constitute tyranny, no?”

Trixie’s jaw fell open to reply, but she snapped it shut after clearly being dumbstruck by Kratos’ philosophical query.

Kongming took a moment to snicker, “See, Trixie? Captain Middleton has an uncanny knack for enlisting truly exceptional individuals to his cause.”

“I told you, Kongming,” Kratos pushed up from the table, having finished his meal during the conversation, “your honeyed words are wasted on me.”

Again Trixie and Kongming broke out in laughter, and Kratos nodded respectfully before depositing his tray on the collection rack.

“He is amazing,” Trixie said wistfully, her eyes tracking Kratos’ muscular body before he finally left the galley.

“He is a great man,” Kongming nodded.

“He’s not the only one,” Trixie said under her breath, and Kongming once again nodded.

“Captain Middleton has accomplished impossible deeds several times over,” he agreed. “We are fortunate to have a leader of his caliber.”

“Captain Middleton is also a great man,” Trixie allowed, standing from the table, “but he’s not who I was talking about.”

Kongming’s brow furrowed in confusion until he finally took her meaning. “I am not a great man, Trixie,” he objected sourly.

“You’re not exactly in the best position to make that determination, are you?” she riposted easily.

“You do not understand,” he lowered his eyes as thoughts of Vali Funar’s final moments filled his mind’s eye. Maddening as it was to admit, he still felt absolutely nothing when he thought about pulling the trigger and ending that valiant, good man’s life. “I…I have done terrible things,” he said hesitantly.

“There’s a difference between being a great man and being a good man, Kongming,” she said pointedly. “Usually the two are mutually exclusive; don’t be ashamed of what you are. The world needs great men just as much as it needs good men. Besides,” she said with forced lightheartedness, “you haven’t done anything that bad.”

She turned and made her way out of the galley, leaving Kongming alone with his half-eaten meal tray and thoughts of Vali Funar’s final moments to keep him company.

“You begin to understand,” a familiar voice said from where Trixie had just sat, and Kongming looked up abruptly to see the Seer sitting opposite him.

But unlike previous instances of this apparition’s appearance, this time the Seer’s body seemed ephemeral—thin, faded and disjointed from the very air which surrounded it.

“Understand?” Kongming repeated angrily. “What is there to understand?”

“Everything,” the Seer replied with maddening serenity. “But there will be time for that; for now you must listen carefully.”

For a moment Kongming wanted to dismiss the apparition. He almost closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind, but after a precarious moment on the razor’s edge of indecision he grudgingly surrendered to his reality.

He remembered the promise he had made this same Seer—or who was apparently this same Seer—back on Cagnzyz before it had gifted him with the accursed ‘Sight’ which he had then used to save Fengxian’s life…at the price of the valiant, innocent Vali Funar’s. That promise bound him to the Seer’s will, and he would not go back on their agreement.

“What must I do?” he asked as he met the Seer’s empty, milk-white eyes with new resolve.

“You will know where to go when the path is made open to you,” the Seer said confidently, “but you must not come alone. Bring Kratos, Abyss, and the one you call ‘Crafter.’ There is much work to do and you cannot do it alone.”

“Isn’t that more cryptic than it needs to be?” Kongming asked bitterly.

“It is as it must be,” the Seer said as he slowly began to recede from reality. “Bring those three and those three only.”

Before Kongming could ask after that particularly dire warning, the Seer receded entirely. It was not as though he faded from reality; he simply fell away from it without moving a centimeter from the stool on which he had ‘sat.’

“Cryptic nonsense,” Kongming growled, noticing the eyes of Julian, the engineer, who looked at him with a mixture of concern and alarm.

“Who were you talking to?” Julian asked.

Kongming actually stopped to wonder about whether or not he was somehow obliged to silence on the matter of the Seer. He could not remember ever receiving such a directive, but just the same he thought it would be best if he kept it to himself—at least until he found a way to explain his situation to Captain Middleton.

He forced a smile as he stood from the table. “I was merely holding a discussion with the most talented conversationalist I know,” he explained, “which, naturally, would be myself.”

Julian seemed less than fully convinced, but he returned the smile and went about the work of breaking down the buffet while Kongming returned to his quarters for some much-needed sleep.

Chapter VIII: Puzzle Pieces

“Point transferring in five,” Toto declared from the Helm, “four…three…two…one…transferring.”

The Prejudice slid through the infinitesimally short-lived transposition of space-time as Middleton watched the Tactical plotter with hawkish eyes.

He had decided it was a waste to have Toto man the Tactical station when he was just as capable of operating the Prejudice’s limited—albeit potent—weaponry from the Helm. It had taken some minor modifications of the Helm station itself, which included a link for the direct neural interface which the silver-backed uplift had previously used to control his gunships. With them complete, Toto was now uniquely capable of both flying and fighting the nimble ship at least as capably as any team which Middleton had arranged.

The change meant that Middleton now stood at Tactical during combat conditions. When commanding the much larger Pride of Prometheus, it had been necessary for Middleton to sit in the command chair and manage his various department heads. But the Prejudice was a far smaller, sleeker ship which could—at least theoretically—be operated by just a single person if the ship’s various control systems were slaved to a single workstation.

He watched as the Tactical plotter filled with icons representing the various planetary bodies in this particular star system, and felt a mixture of relief and wariness when no ships appeared in orbit of the one habitable planet in orbit of the yellow dwarf which was the system primary.

“No contacts, Captain,” Hephaestion reported.

“Comm. chatter?” Middleton asked.

“None, sir,” Kongming said promptly. “I am reading faint radio emissions from the planet’s surface, but I cannot discern their purpose or content at this time.”

The rest of the Alliance Fleet began to appear at the edge of the hyper limit near the Prejudice. When all ships were present and accounted for, Middleton ordered, “Establish point-to-point links with the Void Hunter and Stalwart flagships. Order them to adopt formation Gorgon Prime and follow us into the system’s interior.”

“Gorgon Prime, yes sir,” Kongming acknowledged, and a few seconds later added, “orders received and acknowledged by their recipients.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded. “Toto, take us in.”

“The radio emissions I detected appear to be originating from a series of residential buildings which stand in various states of disrepair and dereliction,” Kongming reported after the fleet had taken up orbit of the apparently twice-abandoned colony. “The signals seem to be automated intercommunications between the various buildings’ internal monitoring devices.”

“Can you tap into them?” Middleton asked.

“I have already done so, Captain,” Kongming replied matter-of-factly, and a moment later the central screen’s image of the blue-green orb beneath them was replaced by a four-way split screen of camera feeds. The video feeds overlooked ferro-crete structures of the type generally seen on start-up colonies.

Middleton examined the raw feeds on his station while Kongming manually rotated the main screen’s quartet of feeds in order to cycle through the nearly two hundred automated cameras which were still operable on the planet’s surface.

But Middleton had already found a handful of images which began to explain why the planet was abandoned, “Impact craters…this place was bombarded from orbit.”

“Ambient radiation is minimally above the planet’s base-line,” Hephaestion noted from Sensors, “but it is consistent with directed energy strikes authored from low orbit sometime in the last four to six months.”

“Agreed,” Middleton mused as he noted that none of the buildings appeared to have been struck directly. Two of the buildings had collapsed, but the nearest strike points were hundreds of meters distant. A quick examination of the subterranean topography showed that the colony was sitting on an alarmingly porous shelf of igneous rock.

After zooming in on that bedrock’s many holes, it quickly became apparent that those holes were not natural. Someone—or something—had tunneled extensively beneath the colony.

“They were trying to repel them by firing on their own colony from orbit,” Middleton said grimly, “which means they didn’t detect the diggers’ presence until the tunnels were already dug.”

“One of the strikes exposed an intact tunnel,” Hephaestion observed, and a moment later Middleton spotted the feed which the Tracto-an Sensor operator meant.

“Three meters in diameter…” Middleton mused.

“A standard colonial TBM digs tunnels of that size,” Garibaldi offered. “Start-up colonists sometimes use them to reach subterranean water sources, hydrocarbon deposits, or even precious minerals in the upper crust.”

“True,” Kongming opined, “but a standard colonial TBM would have set off any standardized seismic sensor—sensors like that one,” he added as the image of just such a sensor came into view on one of the video feeds, “long before they reached the surface.

“He’s right,” Middleton agreed. “And while Imperial technology is better than Confederation tech, it’s generally not that much better—especially not when it comes to producing cheap, modular systems like those used by start-up colonies.”

“Agreed,” Kongming nodded. “It would seem that these tunnels were dug with the intention of making it appear as though they were dug with standard colonial equipment, but at some point the diggers were discovered and the Unbordered retaliated with orbital strikes while attempting to preserve the colony.”

“Which they seemingly accomplished,” Middleton said, confirming that only two of the hundred and fifty ferro-crete buildings had collapsed and the rest stood silent, ominous vigil over the empty grid of intersecting streets which connected them.

“Could the diggers have abducted the colonists?” Hephaestion asked after a momentary lull in the discussion.

“It seems unlikely,” Kongming replied, “given that the buildings appear to be have been evacuated and the orbital bombardment was clearly truncated and failed to collapse the tunnels sufficiently to remove the possibility of them being used against the colonists.”

Middleton’s com-link chimed, and a glance showed it was Kratos who had initiated the call. “This is the Captain,” he acknowledged after accepting the call.

“Captain,” Kratos replied irritably, “the Prichtac wishes to enter the bridge.”

Middleton was not exactly surprised that the Prichtac was interested in the Unbordered’s planet, but he was surprised by the alien’s timing. The Prichtac was generally passive and mild-mannered and had only twice asked to set foot—or, rather, to slither—onto the bridge.

“Request granted,” Middleton acknowledged.

The starboard iris receded, and the Prichtac moved onto the bridge with its ponderous, oddly graceful movements. “Captain Middleton,” its feminine voice spoke through the translator, “have you made contact with the Unbordered?”

“No, Prichtac,” Middleton replied, gesturing to the slowly-cycling video feeds showing the ghost colony below. “It seems that someone—or something—gave them cause to evacuate several months ago.”

Prichtac’s rhythmic, peristaltic motions of its ‘foot’ brought the slug-like creature just inside the iris through which it had entered. Its trio of eyes locked onto the images on the screen for several seconds before its skin took on a sickly brown hue as it said, “We are familiar with this pattern of subterranean erosion.”

“What causes it?” Middleton asked.

“The species responsible for this aggression does not have a name which any other recorded life form could reproduce,” Prichtac replied as its skin slowly returned to its translucent, yellowish norm, “but they were once a formidable member of the Alliance Gorgonus.”

Middleton thought back to a limited breakdown of member races which Prichtac had supplied some weeks earlier. His eyes narrowed as he realized which species must have been responsible, “It looks like we’ll need to come up with a name for these ‘rock people’.”

“They do not possess individuality in any way which you, or even the Host, could comprehend,” Prichtac explained. “So referring to them as ‘people’ is highly inaccurate. Their organizational model more closely resembles that of an independently mobile fungal or bacterial colony.”

Middleton recalled the brief notes which Prichtac had provided on these silicon-based life forms. Incredibly, it seemed that these things were capable of mobilizing massive segments of rock—some pieces weighing as much as two tons!—as what amounted to temporary extensions of their own ‘bodies.’

There were serious limitations to their ability to control such extensions, but this form of life was at least as different from humanity in its basic psychological makeup as it was in its physical makeup.

“How would a species like this ever develop high technology?” Middleton wondered aloud.

“That is something of a mystery to Us as well,” Prichtac admitted. “However, We found this species to be most resourceful in repelling the initial Imperial incursions. Their ability to defend fortified planetary positions was unrivaled, though their ships were relatively crude and unsuited for combat. As you can clearly see, they are also capable of making unorthodox approaches to planetary fortifications.”

Middleton shuddered to think just how inept this rocky life form’s warships must have been for the Prichtac to condemn them as ‘crude and unsuited for combat.’ The Prichtac had taken a perfectly good set of warship designs and done nothing but reduce their overall tactical value with each set of ‘improvements’ made to them with each subsequent generation of modifications.

“Are these ‘living rocks’ native to this system?” Kongming asked.

“No,” Prichtac replied, “their planet was among the first to be wholly conquered by the Imperial forces on the far side of the ‘Gorgon Sectors.’ In fact, at last contact there were only three surviving members of this particular species.”

“Three members?” Middleton repeated skeptically.

“Yes,” Prichtac explained, “and at that time they were ill-inclined to cooperate with each other, let alone with Us or the rest of the Alliance Gorgonus.”

“What caused the break?”

“That is difficult for Us to ascertain,” Prichtac said hesitantly. “But the three surviving members of this species were uniquely unified in their determination to leave the Alliance Gorgonus.”

“You seem to suggest that this was unexpected,” Kongming pressed.

“We calculated the probability of the joint withdrawal of two members to be less than two percent,” Prichtac explained. “But the simultaneous withdrawal of all three was calculated to be approximately zero point zero three percent.”

“You suspect foul play?” Middleton mused, suspecting that if he could find sufficient evidence that some of that evidence would point to Imperial involvement.

“We are ill-equipped to draw conclusions of that nature,” Prichtac said regretfully. “That particular limitation is a significant contributing factor which led to your installation as Supreme Military Commander of the Alliance Gorgonus.”

Middleton still disliked being referred to by that title, but he understood the value of centralized authority in a dire situation like the so-called Alliance Gorgonus was presently in.

“Ready an away team,” Middleton ordered Kongming, “Kratos will command, and if the scene is deemed secure by his team then the Crafter will come down to supervise the retrieval of the technology we came here for.”

A few seconds later Kongming reported, “The Deathbacker will be ready to launch in three minutes.”

Chapter IX: In The Bull’s Eye

Qaz sat on the bench in the Deathbacker’s cargo hold as the shuttle descended toward the planet’s surface. The Heir of Asterion’s Legacy kept his eyes focused on the bulkhead before him as every fiber of his being urged him to do something he had longed to do for nearly his entire life: tear the head from the body of the person who now sat opposite him.

“Will you not speak with me?” the Crafter asked several minutes after the shuttle had launched from the Prejudice.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Qaz snorted, refusing to meet his creator’s—his Crafter’s—eyes.

“Then will you at least listen to what I would say to you?” the Crafter asked in that maddening tone which was at once both masculine and feminine.

Qaz ignored the plea, instead focusing on his breathing as the shuttle continued its descent to the planet’s surface. Only a handful of the Crafter’s ‘children’ had joined with the Alliance Gorgonus Fleet, though all of Qaz’s fellow ‘specimens’ were presently aboard various ships within that fleet.

“In my own way,” the Crafter began, “I loved you all more deeply than you will ever think possible. I confess that statement is as much a comment on what many would consider to be my unique brand of psychopathy as it is an expression of a genuine emotional bond. Nevertheless I am content to express my perspective to you who, despite what you may be inclined to think, will always be my favorite.”

Qaz snorted again, “You watched my forebears fall, one by one, and would have done the same to me.”

“That is true,” the Crafter agreed, “but what is also true is that I gave rise to each of your line in turn—and would have continued to do so long after the dusk of your dying day.”

“You created us,” Qaz gripped the haft of his chain axe, “so that somehow gives you the right to destroy us?”

The Crafter laughed, “I did not destroy your predecessors, Qaz, 37th Scion of Asterion’s Line. I improved upon them—just as I would have improved upon you.”

“Where you see improvement, I see only death,” Qaz growled.

“Perspective is…odd that way,” the Crafter sighed.

“It is,” Qaz seethed as the familiar feeling of all-encompassing bloodlust filled his senses. “I wonder what you would say to Inzigar, Axlotl, Krichna, Valfor or any of the other uncounted thousands who bled for your perverse pleasure if they sat where I now sit?”

“Four thousand three hundred and ninety two,” the Crafter said coldly, taking Qaz by surprise.

“What?” Qaz demanded.

“They were not ‘uncounted’,” the Crafter explained. “I felt the loss of each of my four thousand three hundred and ninety two children as acutely as I am capable of feeling any loss. Each one’s passing diminished me in its own unique way, just as their passing diminished the universe entire.”

“You…you would dare seek my pity?” Qaz growled, the urge to leap across the narrow space between them becoming nearly uncontrollable.

The Crafter’s piercing eyes met Qaz’s and, inexplicably, Qaz felt the rising tide of hatred begin to recede in the face of those cold, dead orbs through which his creator had witnessed a lifetime of vile deeds for which there could be no forgiveness.

“I do not expect you to understand me, Qaz, 37th Scion of Asterion’s Line,” the Crafter said with deadly precision assigned to each and every syllable, “but you will attempt to understand me, or my work—including the deaths of my four thousand three hundred and ninety three children—will have been for nothing.”

At that moment, the metal-on-metal clang of Hansheng’s footfalls filled the cargo compartment. Qaz held the Crafter’s gaze for several seconds before turning to look at the formidable assault droid.

“My tactical processors predict a forty nine percent probability of violence if this conversation continues,” Hansheng’s growling, animalistic, but truly un-living voice declared. “Verbal communication will therefore be terminated. Is this directive understood?”

Qaz nodded, seeing the Crafter do likewise from the corner of his eye.

“Probability of mutual compliance with issued directive,” Hansheng muttered irritably as he clomped toward the rear of the cargo compartment, “sixty two percent…”

Qaz spent the remainder of the shuttle trip in silence, contemplating the fact that the Crafter had added a single number to the list of four thousand three hundred and ninety two children who had died at his barbaric hand.

He knew a threat when he heard it, but frankly he was unconcerned. He had a new job to do and he was going to do it to the best of his ability. No longer would his life exist solely to provide its creator with some perverse, vicarious thrill.

Qaz, 37th Scion of Asterion, was now a Legionnaire in the Alliance Gorgonus Fleet—whatever that truly meant, he intended to learn in whatever time remained to him.

Kongming waited while Hansheng clomped his way down the shuttle’s loading ramp. After the venerable assault droid had done so it was the improbable minotaur Qaz’s turn.

“You are…large,” Kratos grunted when Qaz stepped off the Deathbacker’s ramp. It was one of the only times Kongming could remember seeing the aged Tracto-an actually looking up at another sentient being.

“Master Kratos,” Qaz inclined his head while presenting his chain axe deferentially.

In the blink of an eye Kratos lashed out with his hand and knocked the axe from the bull-man’s hands. Qaz’s body tensed as he instinctively lowered into a crouch, and Kongming decided now was likely not the best time to egress the Deathbacker’s hold. Instead, he waited and watched as the scene unfolded.

“If you ever call me ‘master’ again,” Kratos growled, looking up into Qaz’s eyes fearlessly, “I’ll cut your liver out, spit-roast you and drink from your horns before you’re allowed to quit the only life you’ll ever get. Call me ‘Kratos’ and nothing else, or you’ll be left on this rock to graze like your forebears on the sea of grass beneath your hooves.”

Qaz, who had been ready for a fight, surprisingly seemed to relax—but even from a distance of ten feet Kongming thought he could feel the warm blasts of air issuing from his bovine nostrils as he growled, “You are quicker than you look.”

“And you might not be as dumb as you look,” Kratos grunted approvingly before pointedly bending down to collect the chain axe, which he then handed to the bull-man. “A fine weapon,” the Tracto-an said approvingly, “it’s got heft—I like that.”

“I would be happy to demonstrate its many advantages to you,” Qaz said, and with a subtle manipulation of the haft he sent its teeth whirring around the axe head.

“A generous offer,” Kratos grunted wryly, gesturing to a crate full of supplies. “Take that up to the ridge and help Hansheng get ready to dig.”

“Yes…Kratos,” Qaz said after a brief, but pointed pause.

The minotaur slung his axe over his shoulder and carried the crate up the hill as instructed, leaving Kongming finally clear to exit the Deathbacker.

“Between you and me,” Kratos said in a low, conspiratorial tone as Kongming approached, “I’m not sure I could take ring-nose over there without fighting dirty.”

“I can assure you, Kratos,” the Crafter’s melodious voice issued from the shuttle’s hold, “that if Qaz wished to destroy you, you could not stop him.”

Kongming watched as the fascinatingly androgynous Crafter stepped out onto the boarding ramp with both hands clamped together via a standard restraining cuff.

“You don’t know Kratos,” Kongming retorted knowingly.

The Crafter took a deep breath of the pollen-filled air and smiled, “And you do not know Asterion’s Heir. Come,” the Crafter gestured to the hilltop where Hansheng and Qaz had begun setting up the earth-moving equipment, “let us collect what we came for and quit this place. There is much work yet to do.”

As the Crafter walked up the hill toward the soon-to-be dig site, Kongming felt an unmistakable sense of foreboding—a sense which Kratos apparently shared as the larger man muttered, “I hate being led around by the nose.”

Kongming concurred, “Captain Middleton believes that the Crafter is important. I think he is right.”

“What convinces you of that?” Kratos asked, showing a rare degree of genuine curiosity instead of his usual self-assured confidence.

“I…” Kongming hesitated, not wanting to mention the apparition of the Seer but also feeling a powerful, nearly overwhelming desire to tell someone—anyone—about what genuinely might be just another hallucination borne of a shattered mind. But he decided against it, “It is simply a feeling.”

“I have come to understand many men in my time, Kongming,” Kratos said severely, prompting Kongming to meet the towering Tracto-an’s imperious gaze, “and some do, in fact, feel their way through life. You, however, are not among them.”

Before Kongming could reply, the Tracto-an turned and gestured for the pair of Lancers stationed at the shuttle to take up sentry positions at nearby rocky outcrops. He then trudged his way up the hill, and Kongming followed along behind as they engaged in the arduous task of digging through ten meters of dirt to retrieve the item for which they had come.

Chapter X: An Untapped Mind

“This ship is a wreck,” Middleton said after the battered hull had been painstakingly squeezed into the Prejudice’s shuttle bay.

It appeared to be a small craft of totally foreign design with an eight meter long, gently tapered fuselage in which a trio of seats were crammed front-to-back at the mid-point.

It resembled a primitive jet-powered aircraft without wings, but even its shape was far from the most curious thing about it.

That was due to its hull’s appearance—it seemed to be made out of an undocumented mixture of gold, platinum, titanium and other trace minerals. The combination produced an incredibly resilient, relatively thin hull whose characteristics were more akin to ceramics than to any known alloy.

“It is indeed,” the Crafter agreed, “but I believe there is much information to be gleaned from it—not the least of which involves its onboard flight recorder.”

“You’ve looked at it?” Middleton asked.

“Of course,” the Crafter laughed. “Why would I not?”

“What does it show?”

The Crafter shrugged, “I do not remember.”

Middleton narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “You just said you’d looked at it.”

“Oh, I have,” the Crafter assured him, “but I do not remember what I saw. I believe I utilized a retrovirus which wiped out my short-term memory immediately after I logged the various points of interest which I already shared with you following my arrest, but I obviously cannot be certain that was what transpired.”

“Why would you do that?” Middleton pressed, suspecting he was being manipulated but less certain as to by whom.

“I do not remember that either,” the Crafter sighed. “Though I did leave myself a recording which said, verbatim, ‘Continue your work for as long as you are able, but you must also seek out those who would lend their aid to defending the inhabitants of this region of space. When they find you, bring them here and transfer the flight recorder’s contents to a proper receptacle. The hour grows late—you must not fail.’ I memorized the message before destroying it.”

“A ‘proper receptacle’?” Kongming repeated before Middleton could do likewise.

“Yes,” the Crafter agreed, casting a pointed glance in the direction of the hulking minotaur, Qaz. Middleton briefly ground his teeth as the Crafter continued, “Asterion’s Line was primarily designed to serve as the receptacle, and while I would have preferred to make several additional improvements to its parameters I am confident that Qaz will fill his role as needed.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Middleton held up a halting hand when Kongming looked ready to explode with question, “how that’s supposed to work, or why you would choose to craft his line as you did. But this…download,” he bit out the word, “will it cause him harm?”

“Absolutely no physical harm will befall him,” the Crafter said confidently. “Will it cause pain? Yes, it will. But harm? No. I have spent decades perfecting Asterion’s Line for this day, Supreme Commander; we will not fail.”

“What if we try to download the information another way?” Middleton turned to Kongming, hoping the young genius might provide an alternative that didn’t play into the Crafter’s mysterious hands.

Kongming seemed reluctant to reply, but after a moment he shook his head, “It is possible that I could devise a system by which the data could be retrieved, but this technology is so different from anything I have yet interfaced with and I…” he trailed off as a crestfallen look overcame his features, “I am not what I once was in that capacity, Captain Middleton.”

Middleton knew that it had been a long shot, but he’d had to ask. “All right,” Middleton allowed, “we’ll review your proposed process for this ‘download’ and then—and only then—we’ll present the option to Qaz.”

“Of course,” the Crafter nodded. “We should begin immediately.”

“Why should I?” Qaz demanded after being presented with the ludicrous idea that he, the Heir of Asterion, had been designed to be nothing more than a walking star chart.

Captain Middleton looked darkly at the Crafter and said, “Frankly I’m not sure you should, Qaz. But as the Supreme Commander of this Fleet, it’s my obligation to do everything in my power to protect its constituents. I want to be clear: my power does not—and never will—extend to coercing you into participating in this procedure.”

Qaz searched the Supreme Commander’s features and saw no deceit in him. Of course, Qaz knew that the best liars are the ones who cannot be spotted, but there was something in the enmity which Supreme Commander Middleton showed to the Crafter that endeared him to Qaz—who still felt a powerful urge to tear the Crafter’s head off.

Qaz met his creator’s eyes and challenged, “Why should I do this?”

The Crafter’s lips twisted into a smirk, “Because if you do not, you will never know if it was a challenge you might have conquered. You will die—perhaps this year or, at most, the next—never knowing how you truly measured against your predecessors.”

That last bit was far from what Qaz had expected. He wanted to deny the Crafter completely, but it took only a few seconds for him to realize that his creator was right: Qaz had never failed to overcome a challenge, and had always prided himself on being the last competitor standing. It was as much the satisfaction of conquest as the continuation of his own life which had fueled his exploits in the Crafter’s pits, and he suspected this facet of his being was what the Crafter was currently playing on.

“You made me this way,” Qaz seethed. “You think you can control me because you know me?”

“Quite the opposite,” the Crafter retorted, “I am as intrigued as anyone in this room to discover whether or not you will fulfill your destiny.”

Supreme Commander Middleton turned to face Qaz, “We don’t need your answer immediately. You should take some time to think about it.”

“Whether I take a day or a year, the answer will be the same,” Qaz growled. “My creator has challenged me—and I must accept that challenge.”

“The connections seem ready,” Kongming reported after reviewing the neural interface equipment built into the Crafter’s dilapidated, golden-hulled, alien-looking ship.

“They are,” the Crafter agreed. “Are you prepared, Qaz?”

The minotaur sat in the second seat of the sleek vessel, barely able to squeeze his massive frame into the tiny cockpit. On his head was a horseshoe-shaped band of metal which was connected to the ship’s onboard computer via a dozen bundles of material which was all-too-familiar to Kongming at this point in his life.

Those bundles were almost identical to the Ancient neural tissue which allowed the Prejudice to utilize its impressive stealth suite in combat conditions—and, apparently, to modify the ship’s grav-plates in real time while the Total Conversion Drive system played havoc with the local laws of physics.

The connection here was plain to see: this ship had almost certainly been built by the as-yet hidden faction of humans who, for whatever purpose, had gifted the Prichtac with technology that would give them a fighting chance to survive the Imperial incursion.

How the Crafter came to possess the tiny ship was still something of a mystery, but Kongming and Captain Middleton had come to an agreement on the most likely reason why the enigmatic Crafter possessed it.

“I am prepared,” Qaz replied, his knotted musculature bulging and relaxing anxiously.

Without aplomb or warning, the Crafter activated the download sequence and Qaz’s body went instantly rigid. His cloven feet soon began hammering against the floor of the tiny craft, and his head began snapping violently left and right.

“Stop it,” Kongming snapped.

“It cannot be stopped,” the Crafter said without ever looking away from the tortured image of the mighty minotaur. “To sever the connection is to end his life; he must endure, just as we must endure.”

Kongming actually thought he saw water begin to collect around the Crafter’s eyes, but he felt no sympathy for the insane gene-crafter. He had seen recordings of the battles waged in the Crafter’s pits, and he could not fathom a scenario where he could ever endorse such brutality.

Just as that thought came to his mind, however, he was reminded of the fact that he shot Vali Funar in cold blood because it had seemed certain—not just likely, but certain—that doing so was the only way to save Lu Bu and, to a lesser extent, to end the Raubach threat to the Spineward Sectors.

He knew that other men would have sought refuge behind the latter factor while denying the importance of the former, but he knew himself too well—and respected himself too much—to hide behind such an obvious lie.

He had slaughtered Vali Funar because he had chosen Lu Bu’s life over that of the valiant Lancer. The aspect of that choice which most perturbed him, however, was that he could not envision a scenario where he would have done differently.

With those thoughts tumbling through his head, he watched as Qaz’s body slowly, but surely, began to relax and the seizure receded until he lay motionless in the tiny shuttle’s cockpit.

“There,” the Crafter said with what sounded like a note of genuine relief, “he has succeeded. Now we must wait while the engrams are imprinted on his marvelous brain.”

“How long will it take?” Kongming inquired as he checked Qaz’s vital signs and found them within tolerances.

“Two hours,” the Crafter shrugged. “After it is completed, we must eject this shuttle since a self-destruct sequence is already counting down. Approximately ten minutes after the download concludes, enough energy will be released to destroy your intriguing little warship several times over.”

Kongming had anticipated such an outcome—as had Captain Middleton—though he was still dismayed by the loss of the opportunity to study the foreign ship and its technology.

“I will inform the Captain—but he will not be pleased,” Kongming assured the Crafter.

“I do not expect he will be.”

Two hours later, the Prejudice ejected the Crafter’s shuttle from the hangar and put several light seconds between the two vessels. Just as the Crafter had warned, the shuttle then exploded with an impressive release of energy that should not have been possible for a vessel of its size.

“How long until Qaz wakes up?” Middleton asked the Crafter.

“Two days,” the Crafter shrugged, “perhaps three.”

Middleton made brief eye contact with Kongming, who nodded his assent, and asked, “How complete will his new ‘memories’ be?”

“Certain memories are more complex and will require several days, weeks, or even months to fully ratify,” the Crafter explained. “But upon his awakening he should be able to provide us with another handful of high-value points of interest.”

“What will we find at these points of—“ Middleton began, only to be cut off when an alarm sounded at Hephaestion’s terminal.

The handsome Tracto-an quickly reported, “Point transfers detected at the hyper limit, Captain. Thirty…forty…fifty distinct signatures.”

Middleton made eye contact with Kratos, “Return the Crafter to the brig. The rest of you: battle stations.”

Chapter XI: The Secularists

“The Fleet has begun to form up on the Prejudice, sir,” Hephaestion reported as the Tactical plotter was flooded with information about the newcomers.

Grateful for small miracles, Middleton noted that both the Void Hunters and the Stalwart had decided to respond to the situation precisely as the book said they should. Their ships left their usual formations which sat clustered around their respective ‘flagships’ and assumed Gorgon Prime formation, which saw the many varied warships spread out in such a way as to maximize the fleet’s overall tactical value.

The Void Hunter-controlled Imperial Destroyers, possessing greater range and speed than any ships in the fleet—save for the Prejudice—flanked out wide with one each to the planar north and south of the star system. The 2nd Gen Prichtac Corvettes formed up just inside of the Destroyers since they possessed the second best speed and maneuverability, while the remainder of the Corvettes assumed a position just within those.

The Cruisers and Battleships formed the backbone of the Fleet, with the gunships keeping tight formation around the heavies in order to benefit from their relatively large protective envelope.

And the Prejudice, with her impressive engines and stealth capabilities, leapt out ahead of the formation in order to investigate the newcomers in an up-close-and-personal fashion. It would be several hours before Middleton’s fleet reached engagement range—or even comm. range—with the newcomers, and Middleton was determined to begin whatever interaction he had with them on his terms.

“Their hyper footprints are not consistent with Imperial jump drives,” Hephaestion reported after analyzing the readouts.

“Agreed,” Middleton mused, poring over the same numbers and arriving at the same conclusion. “Keep the active sensors sweeping the system; someone told these people we were here and, whoever that was, I don’t want them sticking a knife in our back.”

“Active sensors, aye,” Hephaestion acknowledged.

The Prejudice’s stealth suite, while just short of a full-on cloaking device, had been tested in the battle against Commodore Paganini’s fleet. To Middleton’s surprise—and great satisfaction—it had even fooled the sensors of the Imperial-built warships, some of which had been pressed into the Void Hunter Clans’ portion of the Alliance Fleet. When the Prejudice had utilized her weapons, or executed combat maneuvers in close proximity to the enemy ships, she had been detected by the Imperials’ active sensors. But Middleton’s high-powered warship had still managed to evade the majority of the fire sent her way by relying on those same stealth systems.

So he felt comfortable sneaking out and taking a peek at these newcomers, but until he closed to a significantly shorter range he also knew that the Prejudice’s sensors were more powerful than anything else present in his fleet.

“No concealed signatures detected, Captain,” Hephaestion reported after the first wave of active sensor sweeps came back empty.

“Good,” Middleton nodded, “now let’s see who these newcomers are.”

“The hull markings of eight ships are consistent with the Unbordered faction, Captain,” Kongming reported after reviewing Hephaestion’s recently-taken visual logs of the incoming fleet. “The other forty four bear markings which indicate they belong to various human factions known to the AG. These include three pirate clans, two independent colonies, and a mining corporation which apparently fled the Empire when its patron Great House was brought down amid some sort of tax scandal two decades ago.”

“Total fleet breakdown,” Hephaestion reported, “nine Cutters, sixteen Corvettes, twelve Destroyers, six Cruisers, four bulk freighters, two mobile gas harvesters, two heavily-modified settler ships and what appears to be an Imperial Constructor.”

“I am receiving a hail, Captain,” Kongming reported.

“Put it on,” Middleton ordered, and the ovular screen to the left of the bridge’s main viewer was filled with the black-bearded visage of a man wearing an unfamiliar military uniform.

“This is Commodore Andrew Cartwright,” the man declared, speaking with a measure of authority which Middleton knew from experience required a lifetime to cultivate, “Head of Security for the Secular Liberation League. We are here to investigate the attack made against the Unbordered’s colony in this system. Do not approach the hyper limit or we will be forced to detain you…with extreme prejudice,” he added grimly before the message ended.

“Secular Liberation League?” Middleton repeated, looking in Kongming’s direction.

“There is no such organization listed in either the Imperial database or in the Prichtac’s depositions,” Kongming shook his head.

“Which means they’re new,” Middleton mused, “and that works to our advantage in more ways than one. Take down this message,” he instructed, and when Kongming signaled that he was ready to record, Middleton said, “This is Captain Tyrone Middleton, Supreme Military Commander of the reformed Alliance Gorgonus. We are here to initiate a dialogue with the Unbordered for the purpose of mutual defense against the Empire of Man. We, too, are investigating the nature of the attack against the colony in this system and would be grateful for the opportunity to share our findings, in person, with whatever principals wish to participate in such an exchange. I will order my fleet to heave to, as a gesture of good faith, while I will bring my flagship to a neutral point between our forces. Supreme Commander Middleton, out.” He nodded to Kongming, “Send that.”

A moment later the young man acknowledged, “Message away, sir.”

“Issue orders to the fleet to heave to and maintain Condition One,” Middleton instructed. “It looks like we out-gun them several times over, but I’d bet my eye teeth those bulk freighters are hiding a few surprises up their kilts.”

“Fighter carriers,” Toto declared.

“That’d be my guess,” Middleton agreed. “So even if we end up fighting this Secular Liberation League, the last thing we want to do is get into knife range with a potential swarm of fighters. Standing off at range while maintaining combat alert is the right move regardless of how things shake out.”

Several minutes later his fleet acknowledged the order and complied, allowing Middleton to take the Prejudice into the neutral ground between the two fleets.

“Commodore Cartwright,” Middleton greeted as his counterpart disembarked his shuttle and entered the Prejudice’s hangar. The SLL’s Security Chief peered around the hangar with muted interest as a pair of power-armored commandoes flanked him at the base of his shuttle’s gangway. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

“I’m not one to mince words, Captain,” the stocky, black-bearded man said shortly. “Why are you in this star system?”

“One of my prisoners informed me of an information cache on the colony,” Middleton explained. “We just finished retrieving that information before you arrived.”

“What kind of information was it?” Cartwright demanded.

“I couldn’t tell you at this point, Commodore,” Middleton gestured to the corridor, “but I think it would be better if we spoke in private.”

“First you need to answer a few questions,” Cartwright held up a halting hand. “Such as: why do you refer to yourself as the ‘Supreme Military Commander of the reformed Alliance Gorgonus’?”

“Because three principals of the AG installed me to that post shortly after reforming the organization,” Middleton replied measuredly.

“Which principals?”

“The Stalwart Commander, the leader of the Void Hunter Clans—who would be a conglomerate of feline uplifts and gene-crafts,” Middleton replied, knowing this next bit was dangerous to say in public but also knowing the benefits of gaining the Commodore’s trust would be immeasurably valuable to the cause, “and the Prichtac.”

Cartwright’s brow lowered darkly, “The Prichtac are dead—my surveillance teams confirm their planet was obliterated by the Empire.”

Middleton cocked his head, “Their world wasn’t actually destroyed by the Empire, Commodore.” He gestured to the rear of the hangar bay, where the Prichtac’s regeneration chamber sat dormant, “It was all something of a ruse the likes of which will undoubtedly strain belief. But, again, I think it would be best if we discussed these matters in private,” he added with a pointed look at the two commandoes flanking the Commodore.

Cartwright followed Middleton’s gaze, first to the Prichtac chamber and then to the commandoes. “These are my sons, Captain Middleton,” he explained, a challenge evident in his tone as he locked eyes with the Prejudice’s commanding officer, “I trust my family with my life—and with my secrets.”

Middleton took the other man’s meaning plainly enough, turning to gesture to Kratos, Kongming, and Garibaldi, “We’ve been through life and death together. I’m happy to have this meeting here if you are.”

“Good,” Cartwright grunted. “Second question: where did you get those capital ships?”

Middleton quirked a grin, “Well, those were from the Prichtac.”

That seemed to take Cartwright by surprise—just as Middleton had hoped it would—but the Commodore resumed his stoic demeanor after only a brief pause, “I find that hard to believe.”

“You’re not alone in that respect, Commodore,” Middleton assured him. “In fact, that same skepticism is at the heart of why we’re here.”

Cartwright’s eyes narrowed, “What do you mean?”

“I’m happy to answer your questions, Commodore,” Middleton said flatly, “but I require reciprocity.”

The Commodore folded his arms across his broad chest, “I’m not at liberty to discuss SLL business without authoriza—“

“Then you should invite your principals to directly participate in the dialogue,” Middleton interrupted, “just as I suggested during my hail.”

Cartwright’s stony veneer slowly began to crumble as a wry grin spread across his face. “You’re direct—I like that.”

“I’d very much like to return the sentiment,” Middleton assured the other man, which caused Cartwright to chuckle.

“I don’t know who you are, Middleton, but I’m going to be blunt: the League can use all the friends it can get,” Cartwright confided. “Just the same, you’re going to have a tough time convincing the Unbordered that your principals weren’t behind the attack on their colony.”

“I appreciate the professional courtesy,” Middleton said gratefully, glancing down at Cartwright’s uniform. “You’re a corporate security officer?”

“I am,” Cartwright agreed, gesturing to the commandoes flanking him, “and so are my sons. But before we get too chummy, answer one more question.”

Middleton was happy to oblige in the interests of further cooperation, “Go ahead.”

“Are you in league with the Empire?” Cartwright asked, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Middleton snickered, and the rest of the Prejudice’s crew in earshot did likewise. “Cartwright,” he said with the utmost conviction and maximum possible humility, “I’ve bagged more Imps than you’ll ever cross swords with. We took down Commodore Paganini’s entire fleet in a single battle and, between you and me,” he flashed a few teeth behind a grim smile, “I’m just getting warmed up.”

Predictably, the Commodore wore his incredulity plainly on his face. So Middleton passed him a data slate which contained a truncated version of the battle with Paganini, and after a silent minute of perusal Cartwright’s mouth fell open in muted surprise.

“Now,” Middleton said, “you take that to your principals and see if you can arrange a meeting. And tell them that the AG’s Supreme Commander is convinced the Imperials were behind the attack on the colony below—just like they’ve been behind most of the recent chaos in these Sectors.”

Cartwright nodded slowly, “I’ll see what I can do. Thank you Captain,” Cartwright waved the slate emphatically, “this will be useful in convincing them—and me.”

“I expected it would,” Middleton replied with a professional nod, and with that the Security Head for the Secular Liberation League boarded his shuttle and prepared to depart the Prejudice’s hangar.

“Even if we accept that this is an accurate representation of this supposed ‘battle’,” the Unbordered’s delegate, President Rosalind Chow argued—for at least the sixth time—while pointing to the data slate which Middleton had given to Cartwright, “it is far from a ringing endorsement of your efforts to date, Captain Middleton.”

“I’m not here to convince you of something you refuse to accept,” Middleton said steadily as the hours of ceaseless bickering finally began to wear through his patience. “I’m here to offer a chance—the only chance, as far as I can see—for your people to join the Alliance Gorgonus in the hope that, together, we can push back against this Imperial incursion into the Gorgon Sectors.”

President Chow sneered, “How do we know you’re not Imperial agents? You still have not provided a satisfactory answer to that question. Maybe this ‘record’ of yours is a forgery,” she flipped the data slate down the table, “and you’re working with Paganini to finish us off in a single, decisive battle?”

The two colonial Governors nodded in agreement, but Commodore Cartwright interjected, “My people have examined the record. It is consistent with our surveillance data of the Imperial-built ships which are among the AG Fleet. Massive battle damage was inflicted on two of them, and that damage is perfectly consistent with what this battle record implies.”

“Which only serves to demonstrate the quality of this deception,” Chow countered.

“With respect,” the corporate Chairman, a wizened woman named Lewis, leaned forward from her seat opposite Middleton’s on the narrow ends of the table, “perhaps the Unbordered delegate would benefit from a short recess?”

The colonial governors—including President Chow—turned with evident surprise at hearing the venerable Chairman’s suggestion. But Chow’s surprise quickly turned to anger as she thrust a finger toward the Chairman, “You have no authority here, Lewis. My people elected me to lead them—I will not lead them into another trap as my predecessor did!”

“What ‘trap’ are you referring to?” Middleton asked, hoping to instill some measure of civility in the proceedings while very much doubting his ability to do so.

Chow tore her furious gaze from Lewis and fixed it on Middleton while seething, “As if you don’t know.”

“Prior to joining the SLL, the Unbordered,” Cartwright put in, “attempted to establish a discrete dialogue with Magmid Two after discovering it was tunneling beneath the colony. The talks unexpectedly broke down, and the two factions engaged in an all-out war which, ultimately, destroyed Magmid Two and saw the Unbordered retreat to their settler ship so they could flee the system.”

“I’m sorry,” Middleton cocked his head, “is ‘Magmid Two’ the second ‘member’ of the silicon-based life form?”

“Yes,” Lewis nodded, and once again surprise seemed to reign on the features of the assemblage at hearing her speak. “It would seem you did, in fact, receive your intelligence from the Prichtac if you refer to a Magmid as a ‘member’.”

Middleton nodded, finally believing he had a reasonable understanding of the political landscape before him. It was clear that Chairman Lewis, with Commodore Cartwright at her side, wielded the most individual power among the SLL’s ‘government.’ But judging from Chow’s vehemence and utter refusal to back down, it was also clear that the Unbordered President believed she could sway enough support to her side—which support she apparently believed would come from the other colonial governors—to have an opposing impact on the general policy direction of the group.

Middleton now thought he understood the situation, but that did not mean he was equipped to navigate it effectively.

“I think that a recess is in order,” he said, standing from the table. “For obvious reasons, you’ll need to confine yourselves to the port corridor, the shuttle bay, this conference room and the galley where you can get refreshments. My security team isn’t known for its hospitality,” he said with a brief but pointed look at President Chow, “so in the interests of diplomacy I advise against antagonizing them similarly to how you appear to think you’re licensed to antagonize me.”

Chow did nothing to hide her smoldering anger, but thankfully she left the conference room—followed closely by the two colonial governors—and after a few moments’ time only Chairman Lewis and Middleton remained seated at their respective ends of the table.

“Would you like to get some refreshment from the galley, Chairman?” Middleton asked.

Lewis laughed, “At my age, young man, ‘refreshment’ is a long-departed friend. The best the elderly can hope for is to retain control over basic bodily functions to which most toddlers proudly claim mastery.”

Middleton couldn’t help but smile at her calling him a ‘young man,’ though he supposed that if he lived to be a hundred and nineteen like she had that he would feel similarly about people in their forties.

“No, Captain Middleton,” Chairman Lewis sighed, “now that the children have left the room, it seems the adults should take the occasion to clarify a few matters.”

“I’m all ears, Madam Chairman.”

“To begin with,” Lewis said easily, “each of the constituent members of the Secular Liberation League recognizes the enormous opportunity presented by your so-called ‘Alliance Gorgonus’—especially since it features such a robust organ as your Fleet.”

“Are you flirting with me, Madam Chairman?” Middleton asked with a tight smile at hearing her chosen verbiage.

“I do not flirt, young man,” she riposted with a grace and authority known only to women of her venerability and station. “At my age one detests preamble and foreplay. I am willing to cast my support in your favor, but only on the condition that you review and accept the Mutual Defense Pact to which the SLL member states have agreed.”

“The Alliance Gorgonus is headed by the Prichtac, Madam Chairman,” Middleton said cautiously. “As its Supreme Military Commander, my first allegiance is to defend the AG.”

“I understand,” Lewis nodded patiently, “but you must understand that the Alliance Gorgonus—an organization with which my corporation has not previously engaged, but with which all of my fellow SLL members have at one point or another—can only be legally reconstituted if seven of its founding members reconvene. You have three such members in the Prichtac, the Stalwart, and the newly-named ‘Void Hunter Clans,’ but only two of the six SLL members are charter AG signatories: the Unbordered, and the Fortunate Suns. That leaves two more charter members required in order to revive the Alliance Gorgonus—and I happen to know where you can find them.”

“How does that relate to the SLL’s Mutual Defense Pact?” Middleton asked after failing to see the connection.

“The MDP states, quite clearly,” she explained, “that any organization which actively engages in the mutual defense of the League against her enemies will be recognized by the SLL’s member states. For the time being, that means that the AG—of which you are Supreme Military Commander—would be officially recognized by President Chow’s delegation, which includes the two most populous groups within the SLL in the uprooted colonists aboard those settler ships out there. I suspect that, even as we speak, President Chow is attempting to convince the colonial governors to support a motion to unrecognize the Alliance Gorgonus. That would give them all the legal footing they would need in order to immediately terminate this dialogue. After that, they would call for a popular vote against any official arrangement with the AG…” she said leadingly, and finally Middleton took her meaning.

“Which would pass with overwhelming support due to the size of their constituency,” he mused.

Chairman Lewis leaned forward, her steely grey eyes burning with rare intensity, “I do not know you, Captain Middleton, but I do know that the League cannot survive on its present trajectory. Even if we were not running low on trillium—and we are—I am convinced that President Chow would tear it apart one piece at a time if she had her way. Though my life is drawing to its natural conclusion, and I would very much like to surrender to the tranquility of the abyss, I cannot allow her to succeed in that particular endeavor.”

“You would trust a complete stranger over a known ally?” Middleton arched a brow.

“I would trust simple probability,” Lewis riposted, “the odds of the League’s constituents surviving the coming maelstrom are effectively zero if President Chow continues her ascent within our political system. I have held her off thus far, but she is tenacious and surprisingly well-informed. I admit that I am far from convinced that you are a paragon to be endowed with supreme authority over us all. But if presented with the choice between blissful but certain annihilation or an infinitesimally slim chance of survival with a necessary degree of attendant chaos, I will choose the chaos every, single, time.”

Middleton smiled wryly, remembering a similar conversation he’d had with Prichtac regarding the Host’s survival probability, “Madam Chairman, I think we can work together.”

Lewis leaned back in her chair as the footfalls of the returning delegates echoed through the adjoining corridor, “As do I.”

President Rosalind Chow’s face was so red at the meeting’s conclusion that, by Middleton’s estimation, she looked ready to explode.

By a vote of three to three, Chairman Lewis had successfully fended off the Unbordered representative’s effort to unrecognized the Alliance Gorgonus, and was therefore severely restricted in her ability to shape public opinion while Middleton took the next few days to examine the SLL’s Mutual Defense Pact, or MDP.

The Chairman had also managed to present a motion which, if Captain Middleton agreed to the MDP, would officially recognize the Alliance Gorgonus as a single entity with whom the SLL could engage in formal relations.

It was all very tedious stuff as far as Middleton was concerned, but at the end of the day he had taken the first steps toward an alliance which would significantly add to the military power of the Alliance Gorgonus.

Middleton kept his features studious as the delegates departed via the same shuttle which Commodore Cartwright had arrived aboard earlier. After they had left, he exhaled and handed the data slate containing the SLL’s MDP to Kongming, “Go over this and find the sticky points. I need to take a shower after all that politicking.”

“Understood, sir,” Kongming acknowledged after accepting the slate.

“Prepare a report for the start of Third Shift,” Middleton instructed before heading off to shower, shave, and hit the sack.

Chapter XII: Memories and Premonitions

“I think I can successfully extrapolate your genetic memory with this device, Prichtac,” Kongming finally declared. He had gone over the blessedly truncated MDP with Captain Middleton a few hours earlier, and his CO seemed as convinced as Kongming that there was very little in the way of objectionable material contained therein. That had freed Kongming up to put the finishing touches on the genetic extractor which he had designed to examine Prichtac’s genetic memory.

“We are well pleased with your efforts, Kongming,” Prichtac said agreeably. “How many memory nuclei do you require to ensure the validity of the results?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Kongming said with a frown. “I would say at least a few dozen, and assuming the process doesn’t cause significant damage during the unpacking a third would serve as a valuable reference point?”

“Very well,” Prichtac replied, “We will expel three of Our incomplete spawn.”

“Wait,” Kongming said hesitantly, “does that mean you’re going to…kill them?”

“Your concern is appreciated,” Prichtac assured him, “but you must understand that Our sole recourse during this process, assuming you are unable to ascertain the validity of the Host’s collective memory, is to expel all of the spawn and begin the process anew. We would have already done so except Our resources are regrettably limited and We do not wish to place the future of the Host in unnecessary peril.”

That last bit struck Kongming as especially dumbfounding given the fact that the Prichtac had torched their entire home world just so they could cover the escape of a single, solitary member of the species: the same member with whom Kongming now conversed.

“Ok,” Kongming allowed, “but…I’m not comfortable with this part of it.”

“That is understandable,” Prichtac agreed, “but you may be comforted by the fact that We ceased the physiological development of Our offspring as soon as this anomaly was discovered. Our spawn are presently unable to process sensory stimuli, therefore there is no risk of suffering.”

Kongming felt only fractionally reassured by that, but at least it was something. “Ok…I guess I’m ready when you are.”

A few moments later, a trio of three inch diameter, round, translucent protrusions appeared on the Prichtac’s back. One by one, they were disconnected from the Prichtac’s body until they rested motionless on its back. “You may commence with the examination,” she said firmly.

Carefully, and with a measure of reverence he felt certain was inadequate considering the nature of the task before him, Kongming loaded two of the samples into the analyzer and placed the third in a preservative container which would, according to Prichtac, maintain the integrity of the memory nuclei contained therein.

The painfully slow process initiated, and after several minutes the system returned a completion estimate of nine hundred uninterrupted hours.

“The extraction is underway,” Kongming said.

“We are most grateful for your assistance in this matter, Kongming,” Prichtac said fervently.

Just then Kongming’s link chimed and he accepted the inbound call from Captain Middleton, “Yes Captain?”

“I’ve got a new assignment for you,” the Captain said. “Come to my office and we can go over the particulars.”

Kongming felt a knot form in his throat as he said, “On my way, Captain.”

“We will return to Our regeneration chamber,” Prichtac said as she made her way to the door of Kongming’s quarters, where he would leave the scanning equipment running in his absence.

“Thank you, Prichtac,” he said.

“No, Kongming,” Prichtac replied as she slithered out the door, “it is We who must thank you.”

“We need to break several ships out from the fleet,” Middleton explained. “We have a list of POI to investigate in hand, and when Qaz wakes up it’s possible we’ll need to revise that list. But as of this moment I’m tasking the ship you’ll be assigned to with investigating these three points,” he gestured to a data slate which listed the indicated POI.

Kongming examined the listings, with the first being the last known location of the entity they were now calling ‘Magmid One.’

“We need to make contact with the Magmids,” Middleton explained, “and given your…peculiar skills, I thought you would be the ideal person to open a dialogue with them. The Prichtac have some information on how to communicate with the Magmids, but I anticipate that your technical skills will come into play before a genuine line of dialogue can commence. See if you can pick up the trail from that star system—which the Crafter seems to think harbored Magmid One as recently as three months ago—but if you are unable to do so then you should proceed to POI number two.”

Kongming scanned the second entry and his brow furrowed, “A derelict ship?”

Middleton nodded, “The Unbordered grudgingly reported that they encountered some sort of gravitational disturbance in the area of that POI during their sojourn to link up with the rest of the SLL. It cost them one of their ships when it failed to clear the sump without destroying its hyper drive. They’d like us to retrieve some of the equipment and logs they were forced to leave aboard that ship, if we can, before scuttling it. Also see if you can figure out what caused the gravitational disturbance while you’re in the area, but I don’t want you lingering there any longer than necessary.”

“Understood, Captain,” Kongming agreed.

“The last point on your itinerary will be a subterranean lunar colony which is part of a multi-system conglomerate of Belters who, quite literally, went below ground when the shooting started a few years ago,” Captain Middleton continued. “They were originally a charter member of the Alliance Gorgonus and, while they only numbered around thirty thousand at last count and possessed precious little in the way of military hardware, we’ll need their political support if we’re going to re-establish the AG as a force to be reckoned with in this region of space.”

“To which ship will I be transferred?” Kongming asked after reviewing the orders.

“The 2nd Gen Corvette, Unthreadable Needle, commanded by Primarch Nail will be your posting for the duration of this mission,” Middleton explained. “I’ve assigned three gunships to accompany you, along with a hunt pack from Clan Green Eyes, and one of the Prejudice’s engineers, Mr. Wojchouski.”

Kongming recalled the Seer’s insistence that he bring Kratos, the Crafter, and Abyss when his path was made clear. He had no premonitions or intuitive leanings on the subject, but cognitively he knew it was unlikely that the Seer would have been referring to anything but this precise moment.

“Do you have something to add?” Middleton asked, apparently noticing Kongming’s hesitation.

“I do,” Kongming nodded, leaning forward without knowing exactly where to begin. Eventually, he just decided to speak and let the chips fall where they may, “Captain, ever since Cagnzyz I have been…changed.”

“I’m aware of the injuries you suffered,” Captain Middleton nodded knowingly, but Kongming shook his head.

“It is more than that, sir,” he insisted. “I…I am changed. My mind is not as powerful as it once was and I…”

“We all suffer wounds in combat, Kongming,” Middleton said in a reassuring tone. “You wear yours where they’re harder to see, but there’s a good reason why men like Kratos treat you as an equal: you’ve proven yourself to be an invaluable member of this crew. We would have failed a dozen times over without your unique contributions, and everyone here recognizes your value. Even if you’re…diminished, you’ve still earned your spot and I have every confidence you’ll continue to do so.”

“I appreciate that, Captain,” Kongming said, unexpectedly overcome by a profound sense of loss as Vali Funar’s last moments flitted across his mind’s eye. “But recently I have received a…premonition.”

“A premonition?” Middleton repeated neutrally.

“Yes,” Kongming nodded, “but until now I doubted whether it truly meant anything or if it was simply part of my new reality inflicted by my wounds. I…my mind was damaged after Cagnzyz, and I fear it may still be damaged in ways I do not understand. But if it is not damaged, and if what I suspect to be true is in fact true, I believe it is important to heed this premonition.”

Captain Middleton leaned back in his chair and regarded Kongming in silence for several long, taut moments before gesturing, “Go on.”

Kongming knew after years of service with Captain Middleton that if his CO wanted specifics, he would ask for them. That he had not explicitly requested such meant that he wanted Kongming to speak freely, which he proceeded to do.

“I cannot explain how, or what specific purposes will be served by them individually, but I absolutely and unwaveringly believe that it is imperative that Kratos, Abyss, and the Crafter accompany me on this mission,” he tapped his finger pointedly on the data slate.

Captain Middleton’s cheeks bunched rhythmically beneath the metal plate which, to this day, remained firmly fixed to his certainly healed jawbone after being installed during the Battle of Cagnzyz. Minutes passed in total silence before, finally, Captain Middleton leaned forward and asked, “Are you equal to the tasks I’ve put before you?”

Kongming nodded with solemn conviction, “I am, Captain.”

Captain Middleton took the slate from his hands, eyed the young man intently for another long moment, and tapped out a series of commands on the slate. He then returned it to Kongming, “I’ve made the necessary adjustments to the Needle’s duty roster. Abyss’s freedom will remain restricted during the mission, unless or until you have specific cause,” he said pointedly, “to restore it, and even if you choose to do so it must be a temporary restoration. Is that understood?”

“It is, sir,” Kongming agreed. “I have no doubt that Abyss will be compliant and will contribute to the success of this mission.”

The Captain nodded, but it would have been clear to a blind person that he had unspoken reservations about Kongming’s personnel requests. “You’re scheduled to transfer in seventy two hours, barring POI revisions based on whatever intel we might get from Qaz in the interim.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Dismissed.”

After Kongming left the conference room, Middleton released a pent-up breath of frustration. Kongming had been the first team leader who he had planned to deploy—with the others being Trixie and CPO Bogart, who would take the majority of the ‘expendable’ skilled crew from the Prejudice when they departed.

The diminished manpower aboard his ship was a concern, but it was nowhere near that of the revelation which Kongming had just made regarding his potential unfitness for duty.

Middleton had thought long and hard about whether to replace Kongming aboard the Unthreadable Needle, but every scenario he could envision was less palatable than the previous one.

As it had been on so many previous occasions, Middleton needed his brilliant young com-tech in order to accomplish his goals. Without him contributing as only he could, there was simply no realistic scenario which would see them succeed in the monumental task put before them.

“Good hunting, Kongming,” he whispered before turning to the necessary revisions he now needed to make to the rest of his teams’ rosters.

Chapter XIII: The Cooling Trail

“It seems we arrived too late,” Mr. Black sighed after Sarkozi entered the conference room.

“But the algorithms predicted a seventy two percent chance of their recent presence?” Sarkozi said, disappointed that the twenty third algorithmically-predicted star system on their list failed to pay off—just like the previous twenty two.

“It seems as though we are missing a crucial variable,” Mr. Black mused, calling up the holographic display of the Gorgon Sectors and the galactic rim beyond it. They had traversed the breadth of the long, banana-shaped Gorgon Sectors and were already several thousand light years deep into the Outer Rim—well beyond the Gorgon Sectors themselves.

Sarkozi nodded in agreement, having hypothesized several scenarios where a single such variable would account for the fact that, try as they might, they had yet to encounter these mysterious ‘Locusts.’ According to their working theory, the Locusts had strip-mined every last ounce of trillium out of the Gorgon Sectors.

“What if we’re wrong about the trillium,” Sarkozi broke the silence, and Mr. Black gestured for him to continue. “What if they’re not just strip-mining it as a resource-denial strategy?”

Mr. Black cocked his head dubiously, “We have considered those scenarios, but they are unlikely in the extreme for a variety of reasons with which you are no doubt familiar.”

“I know,” Sarkozi allowed, certain that he was no more enthusiastic about his hypothesis than Mr. Black was, “but think about it: what if the trillium-stripping wasn’t originally intended to be a scorched earth strategy? Even if that’s what it’s now become, what if they actually needed such vast quantities to power their society that they developed the technology necessary to efficiently exhaust every single accessible repository of it?”

Mr. Black nodded slowly, his eyes snapping back and forth contemplatively as he spoke, “Your thesis is sound, though it requires several…alarming presuppositions in order to withstand scrutiny, Mr. Scarlet.”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Black,” Sarkozi acknowledged.

Mr. Black drummed his fingers methodically on the command console built into the conference table. “Very well,” he decided, “I am apportioning you ten percent of this ship’s runtimes and core processing function. Come up with a workable proposal in twelve hours and, if it meets with my approval, we will re-task this ship to investigate your theory—at least until a better one reveals itself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Black,” Mr. Scarlet—make that, Sarkozi—said, standing from the table and making for the door so he could begin his new task.

“And Mr. Scarlet,” Mr. Black called after him before he had cleared the open door.

“Yes, Mr. Black?”

“You realize what it will mean if your hypothesis is correct,” Mr. Black asked ominously behind fingers steepled in contemplation.

“I do, Mr. Black,” Sarkozi affirmed grimly.

“Then we have not a moment to lose.”

“You’ll have that proposal in twelve hours, Mr. Black,” Sarkozi assured him before heading to the tiny, cramped workstation which doubled as his quarters aboard the mysterious, crystal-hulled ship.

If Sarkozi was right, this ‘Locust’ issue was one which went well past the 90th percentile threat projections of Imperial Intelligence.

In fact, it probably shot past the 99th.

Chapter XIV: A New Perspective

“Awaken, Qaz,” the minotaur heard the oddly soothing voice urge. “You have much yet to do and our time together draws to an end.”

He eventually recognized the voice as belonging to the Crafter, but for some reason it sounded…different to him. It was almost as though, for a moment during his groggy stupor, he was hearing his own voice.

His eyes opened and he gazed up at the row of lights which ringed the joint between bulkhead and ceiling. The union of the black, almost impossible-to-focus-on hull skin of the Prejudice with the blunt, metal frame of the ceiling invoked a memory which he could not immediately place. But the moment passed, just as any other bout of déjà vu, when he turned to see the Crafter seated beside him.

“You are all I wished you to be,” the Crafter said with what seemed like genuine feeling. “Asterion’s Heir is truly worthy of his legacy.”

“How long?” Qaz asked, slowly sitting and placing his hooves against the hard metal deck.

“Two days,” the Crafter replied, searching Qaz’s features intently. When the Crafter had examined him in a similar fashion in the past, Qaz had always rightly felt like the subject of an experiment whose sole purpose to the Crafter was to provide intriguing data.

But in this moment there was something decidedly different about how he interpreted the Crafter’s cold, dead eyes—which no longer seemed quite as dead as before—as they pored over every millimeter of his being.

“Captain Middleton has decided upon a new task for me,” the Crafter said without a trace of surprise. “By this time tomorrow you and I will be separated and, in all probability, it will be for the last time.”

“Good,” Qaz grunted, but deep down he felt a twinge of regret after saying that. It was not as if he no longer harbored resentment for his creator, but now in addition to a lifetime of antagonistic thoughts and memories of the Crafter he felt some sort of kinship, or bond, which somehow seemed more important than anything else.

“I do not blame you for feeling thus,” the Crafter said as an image flitted through Qaz’s mind before receding too quickly for him to focus on it, “but I do so hope that, as my final gifts to you are revealed, you will come to understand the important purpose for which you exist.”

The image flashed into his mind again, and Qaz was able to focus on it for a fleeting moment before it once again vanished: it was constellation in a night sky, where a pair of moons could be seen just above the horizon. A great, glittering ring arced across the sky, eclipsing even the twin moons with its awe-inspiring image. Qaz realized just as the image vanished that he had just been given a location in the form of a ‘memory’—one which he had never experienced.

“As these memories come to you,” the Crafter said though unexpectedly watery eyes, “I only ask that you do with them as you see fit. Do not feel compelled to oblige anyone—not even me—who asks after them. They are your birthright and, I suppose, they are some small recompense for what might have been unnecessary torment at my hands. Had I known another way—a kinder way, perhaps—I would have taken it gladly. But there is too much at stake to permit sentiment to stand in the way of our great work.”

The Crafter stood as the image returned to Qaz’s mind’s eye, and this time Qaz thought he could make out a structure near the horizon beneath the twin moons. The structure was largely a blur, but it stood in stark contrast to the rocky ground around it as it defiantly rose higher into the sky than anything he had previously seen with his own eyes.

“I wish I could have given you more, Qaz, 37th Heir to the Line of Asterion,” the Crafter said solemnly before knocking on the door, which opened to reveal a power-armored Lancer beyond. “May the stars themselves tremble at your passing,” the Crafter said, bowing with deep reverence before exiting the room and leaving the minotaur more confused—and more alive—than at any other point in his life.

After several minutes of solitude, he finally was able to recall the image of the blurry structure into the fore of his mind. It was then that he decided to inform Captain Middleton of what he had found.

For the first time in his memory—his real memory—Qaz felt a measure of purpose which had been lacking until this strange awakening.

Chapter XV: New Orders

“Your orders stand, Kongming,” Captain Middleton said at the foot of the Deathbacker’s boarding ramp. “I’m holding the other two teams back for now since Qaz has already begun to provide us with actionable intel, but your priority package remains unmodified.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Kongming said, casting a meaningful look at his fellow transferees.

“Your deployment will take eighty or ninety days,” Middleton said before quirking a lopsided grin, “barring anything unexpected, that is. Primarch Nail is in command of the Unthreadable Needle in combat situations, but as the project leader the Needle is at your disposal the rest of the time.”

“I understand, sir,” Kongming replied.

“Good hunting,” Captain Middleton nodded to each of the departing crew in turn before slapping the ramp control panel, causing the Deathbacker’s cargo ramp to slowly rise from the hangar deck until it locked into the sealed position.

The shuttle lifted off, and almost immediately Kongming was able to glimpse the Unthreadable Needle through the Deathbacker’s cockpit window.

The ship was larger than the Prejudice, primarily in its girth, and unlike the insect-like Prejudice the Needle’s design made it appear to be more akin to a marine mammal than a warship.

Its hull was a pale green color, and its design featured several gently flowing curves which wrapped around a pair of engines straddling a bulbous, arched main hull. Several angular weapon mounts jutted from that hull’s spine, standing in stark contrast from the rounded hull on which they sat.

The Needle’s port shuttle bay was open for them, and the Deathbacker slid through the oval-shaped bay doors before coming to a stop on the greenish deck of their new ship’s hangar.

“Touchdown,” the pilot reported, prompting the shuttle’s cargo ramp to open with a pressure-equalizing hiss before gently descending to the deck.

“Move out,” Kratos growled, prompting the twenty Void Hunters to slowly—and carefully—move Abyss out of his spot near the stern of the shuttle and down the cargo ramp.

The Director Bug complied without incident, and to Kongming’s eye Abyss seemed to be significantly healthier than he had been during their first encounter. His carapace was smoother—and even appeared glossy in patches—and his remaining legs seemed almost capable of moving his massive bulk around without too much distress.

After offloading the Bug—and seeing only a single Stalwart crewman in the hangar—Kongming oversaw the rest of their equipment be transferred to the storage area adjoining the hangar bay.

He had brought along several personal effects, including the system he was using to analyze the Prichtac’s genetic memory nuclei. It had already experienced several glitches—none of which had corrupted the data, thankfully—so he had decided to bring it along in order to nurture it through the rest of the apparently delicate process.

“Offload complete,” the pilot declared from the top of the loading ramp. “Have you got it from here?”

“Yes,” Kongming replied, “thank you.”

The pilot nodded in acknowledgment and closed the Deathbacker’s rear door, prompting Kongming and his twenty four fellow transfers to make their way to the inner airlock so that the Prejudice’s lone shuttle could disembark.

“We should find Primarch Nail,” Kongming said, suspecting that the Stalwart in command of the Unthreadable Needle was making a none-too-subtle point by not meeting them upon their arrival.

“We should,” Kratos agreed, “and we should teach him proper respect for the chain of command.”

“This is his ship, Kratos,” Kongming chided. “We are merely guests aboard it.”

“This is a Prichtac ship, Kongming,” Kratos retorted. “And he commands it at the pleasure of Captain Middleton.”

“In matters of style, swim with the current,” Kongming sighed.

“And in matters of principle,” Kratos continued, much to Kongming’s surprise as the hulking Tracto-an ad-libbed his own version of the final line from one of history’s greatest quotes, “swing early and often.”

Middleton watched as the Unthreadable Needle pulled away from the AG Fleet and burned for the hyper limit. In the long run, it was a single ship out of a fleet of dozens and its mission would only contribute a tiny fraction of the progress he needed to secure in order to mount a proper defense of the Gorgon Sectors—or what remained of them by the time he had all of his pieces arranged to do so.

But he could not avoid the sense that something unexpected would befall his talented com-tech, so he watched with more than passing interest as the Needle made its way to the first leg of its mission.

“Call a meeting of the League’s representatives,” Middleton commanded Bogart, his soon-to-be-transferred stand-in at Comm. “It’s time we left this system in our wake.”

“The berths are satisfactory,” Kongming said after meeting with Primarch Nail and receiving their assigned bunks from the ship’s quartermaster.

The Stalwart Primarch sat on a clearly out-of-place command chair which was bolted to the center of the Needle’s bridge. His heavily-scarred face and throat told the unspoken story of a lifetime of brutal conflict, and his lips peeled back to reveal several missing and broken teeth as he spoke, “You must forgive my absence during your arrival. My people work hard to prepare the ship for our mission.”

Kratos stepped forward and gestured to the uplifted ape’s chair, “It is understandable. A Primarch in your condition should not exert himself overly much, lest he hasten his already severe physical decline.”

“What did you say?” Nail growled, his eyes suddenly alight with anger.

“I said the elderly and infirm must naturally be afforded special dispensations,” Kratos repeated matter-of-factly. “Otherwise they would go the way of all flesh—as some argue that they should.”

“You dare to insult the Primarch?!” roared a large, powerfully-built Stalwart who bounded over on all fours, flashing his teeth menacingly as he did so.

“Not at all,” Kratos said laconically as he looked at the newcomer with patent disinterest, “on the contrary, I am paying him every last grain of respect he deserves.”

The younger, powerfully-built Stalwart bellowed and thumped his chest before leaping toward Kratos with clearly murderous intent. The Tracto-an easily sidestepped the attack and caught the young uplift with a sharp, cracking left cross that sent the ape man crashing to the deck in a motionless heap.

Kratos rolled his neck from left to right, eliciting several audible pops—which were loud enough to be heard over the unconscious Stalwart’s snoring—as he turned back to face the Primarch, “I sincerely hope that was not the best you have to offer.”

Primarch Nail’s eyes narrowed and he began to laugh. He thumped the arm of his chair several times before lowering himself to the deck and drawing himself up to his full, bent-backed height. “You are most welcome here, Kratos—we have heard much about you and how you humbled the Commander.”

“You would do well to pay homage to my commanding officer,” Kratos said, gesturing to Kongming.

“My apologies, Master Kongming,” Nail said, bowing deeply in what seemed like genuine deference, “but I had to take the chance to kill two birds with one stone. Hammer,” he gestured to the stirring uplift on the deck, “is my youngest son, but he is impetuous and brash. I would have disciplined him myself, but I also wanted to see if the rumors about your prowess were true,” he said, finishing with a nod to Kratos.

“You named your son ‘Hammer’?” Kongming asked, naturally dubious that a father called ‘Nail’ would ever do so.

“Not at first,” Nail shrugged as he went over to the Stalwart youth, “but he was so blunt and unwieldy, even as a child, that I thought it a good choice for more reasons than one.”

“I approve,” Kratos grunted. “I, myself, have no sons.”

“Then I have you bested there, at least,” Nail thumped his chest, “for I have eight sons by five wives.”

Kratos chuckled, “My experience of women would suggest that it is I who has you bested, Primarch Nail.”

Nail grinned and laughed, “Come—it is tradition among my clan to make formal introductions over dinner. You must meet my family.”

“We would be honored,” Kongming bowed respectfully as Kratos wordlessly helped Hammer up from the floor.

All in all, Kongming could not have hoped for a smoother beginning.

Chapter XVI: The Dotted Line

“I am compelled to repeat my objection to this motion, Madam Chairman,” President Chow insisted. “The MDP was not designed to incorporate foreign militaries—especially not militaries of this scale!”

“This is not a simple military induction,” Chairman Lewis said with her usual degree of dignity and comportment—neither of which Middleton would have been able to match after four long hours of ‘debate’ over whether or not to call a vote on the Alliance Gorgonus Fleet’s legitimacy for inclusion via the MDP. “If signed by the Supreme Military Commander of the AG Fleet, the MDP would represent precisely what it was intended to represent: a recognition of the SLL’s right to exist by a sympathetic party. The importance and meaning of this gesture cannot be understated.”

“The Governors share my concerns,” President Chow said, gesturing to the pair of colonial governors whose constituents were apparently packed aboard the settler ships. Those massive, heavily-retooled ships were the same ones on which their forebears had traversed the length of the Gorgon Sectors in the hope of finding a new home, and now their descendants—and, in some cases, the settlers themselves—used them to flee the wrath of the ever-advancing Imperial Fleet. “Since it is my three votes against yours, this is not an issue on which you can unilaterally impose your will, Madam Chairman—which I am certain is an unfamiliar position for you to find yourself in.”

Middleton leaned forward, “Ladies, if I may?”

“The Chair recognizes Captain Tyrone Middleton,” Lewis acknowledged.

“I’ve read over the League’s Mutual Defense Pact,” Middleton gestured to the data slate in the middle of the table, “and I can understand President Chow’s stated concerns,” he said, having chosen those last few words as carefully as he could, “but even considering those concerns, I have to stress just how dire the situation is becoming out here—“

“The first resort of tyrants is to spread fear,” Chow interrupted coldly, causing Middleton to pause mid-sentence while his eyes remained firmly fixed on the data slate so as not to betray any emotion.

“Fear is a perfectly natural response to what is happening out here, President Chow,” he finally said after a lengthy silence, “but you shouldn’t take my word for it. Here,” he tapped a command into the conference table’s newly-installed holographic projector control panel, “see for yourselves.”

The lights in the room dimmed and the holo-projector produced the image of one of the warships which the Void Hunters had captured during the battle with Commodore Paganini. Its hull markings were magnified and represented beneath the slowly-rotating image of the Corvette.

“This warship, the Emelda’s Shoe, was commissioned thirty two years ago and served for seventeen years as an escort to high-value transports operating on the Imperial periphery,” Middleton explained. “After seventeen years of escort duty it was sold to the colonial venture corporation Broad Horizons and was assigned to the settler ship, Breathless Anticipation—“

“Do we really need a history lesson on the origins of this warship?” Chow interrupted—again—but this time Middleton had been prepared for her to do so.

“I’m sure you’ll find the next line of great interest, Madam President,” Middleton said with a hard look which didn’t seem to inconvenience her in the slightest. He continued, repeating, “It was assigned to the settler ship, Breathless Anticipation, which brought its colonists from the Imperial Core here, to the Gorgon Sectors, where they settled fourteen years ago.”

“On which planet did they settle?” asked the nearest colonial governor—a portly, hairy man no taller than five feet but seemingly as wide.

“The Imperial records indicate they settled TMD-55793,” Middleton tapped the holographic control, causing the Gorgon Sectors’ overlay of the local galactic arm to appear before zooming in on a point roughly halfway between the ‘proximal’ end—the end closest to Imperial space—of the banana-shaped Gorgon Sectors and the ‘distal’ end where a flashing green icon appeared, “which is here.”

“Most of the warships out here were assigned to colony defense at one point or another,” President Chow said dismissively. “I fail to see the point of this ‘history lesson’.”

Middleton tapped another command, causing the holograph to zoom out and encompass the distal half of the Gorgon Sectors. “The colony at our present location—the same one which was attacked by Magmid One and abandoned by the Unbordered—is here,” he said with a nod to Chow as a new icon began to flash, indicating their present location near the tip of the proximal end of the Gorgon Sectors. “As you can see, these two colonies are separated by roughly half of the length of the Gorgon Sectors—a region of space nearly as large, spatially, as the entire Imperial Core. Now,” he clasped his hands together and pointed with both index fingers at the graphic rotating before them, “as a military man who has spent his life studying war, I read this data as clearly as any of you might read the morning smashball scores.”

“Enlighten us,” the second colonial governor—a six foot tall and improbably thin woman with a long, hooked nose—said coolly.

“Commodore,” Middleton said, turning to the SLL’s Head of Security, “perhaps you could save me the trouble?”

Commodore Cartwright ground his teeth, clearly chafing at being put on the spot but Middleton knew that he couldn’t let this meeting devolve into an attack on his authority. He needed at least one other voice to corroborate what was painfully obvious to him, but judging from the looks worn by the rest of the table’s occupants—save, of course, Commodore Cartwright—none of them understood what the information before them meant.

Thankfully, the Commodore indulged him by first pointing at the colony located roughly at the mid-point of the Gorgon Sectors, “That colony wouldn’t have given up her warships without first using them in her own defense. And that it was found here,” he pointed at the colony below them, located nearly at the very end of the Gorgon Sectors, “means it can’t be there.”

“We are well aware of the fact that colonies have been wiped out in this tyrannical aggression by the Empire,” President Chow said, apparently sensing an opening without fully comprehending what the Commodore had been implying. “Each of us has suffered from their tyranny, which is precisely the sort of thing I intend to prevent at the hand of this ‘Supreme Commander’,” she pointed triumphantly at Middleton.

“You do not understand,” Chairman Lewis shook her head piteously.

“I understand perfectly!” Chow yelled. “We need to stand together or we will die alone!”

Despite her shrillness, Middleton knew there was truth in what she said so he decided to finish Cartwright’s point for him as he pulled up the image of the Corvette and put it side-by-side with that of the Gorgon Sectors’ overlay, “If this Corvette, the Emelda’s Shoe, is no longer protecting the colony which operated it, it means that colony either fell directly to Commodore Paganini or it fell to another force and the Shoe later came into Paganini’s Task Force. Just to be clear,” he pulled up a third data point and set the image of a Destroyer which had also been captured by the Void Hunters, and along with that Destroyer’s image and hull markings a third colony’s location appeared roughly halfway between the Shoe’s original colony and the Unbordered’s abandoned colony, “this Destroyer, the Angel’s Wing, was likewise assigned to colonial protective duty eleven years ago here.”

“I have heard enough of this,” Chow stood from the table, turning to leave.

“If you leave,” Chairman Lewis said pointedly, “then the three votes which move to include the AG Fleet in the MDP will overcome the only two left standing against it,” she gestured to the colonial governors.

President Chow’s face turned as red as a ripe tomato, “You have no right—“

“As Chairman, I have every right,” Lewis interrupted icily. “Now either regain your seat or concede defeat.”

Chow seemed genuinely torn for several seconds before finally—and deliberately—retaking her place at the table, “I am only participating in this debacle under formal protest.”

“Duly noted,” Lewis nodded before gesturing for Middleton to continue.

“You can verify the repairs on these two ships independently,” Middleton gestured to the images of the Corvette and Destroyer which now flanked the Gorgon Sectors’ map, “and when you do, you’ll find that the Shoe underwent significant repairs four years ago while the Wing underwent similar repairs two years ago.”

“Warships undergo repairs every few months,” the fat governor objected, “as a military man I expect you would know that.”

“I do,” Middleton ignored the pitiful barb, “and I also know that the types of repairs a ship undergoes tell the story of not only what it has done, but where it has been and, when you know how to read the data, who made the repairs.” He pulled up a pair of magnified images which showed welds made to the duralloy hulls of both ships, “These are standard welds made with a portable repair collar the likes of which most colonies utilize to maintain their ships. And these,” he pulled up a new set of welds on each ship, “are made by Imperial—military grade—variants of the same equipment. The first examples of the Imperial welds appeared on the Shoe four years ago and on the Angel nearly two years ago.”

Even to the naked eye it was apparent that there was a fundamental difference between the two examples given for each ship. The portable collar repairs tended to be jagged and angular, while the Imperial welds were much smoother and enabled better-fit plates to be installed.

By this point he had both colonial governors’ attentions, which was enough for Middleton to know he would emerge with the outcome he desired from this particular meeting.

“What this tells us, ladies and gentlemen,” he finished, “is that these ships were first pressed into Commodore Paganini’s service beginning four years ago—which happens to corroborate the Imperial records we have examined from the rest of the ships we captured in the battle with Paganini—and that he slowly, steadily, and methodically advanced through this half of the Gorgon Sectors while wrapping every ship into his Task Force that he could find.”

“There are other colonies in this region of space which were not hit by Paganini,” Chow said, either still in denial about being wrong or actively working against the proceedings—to Middleton, it didn’t matter which it was since either way she was his current opponent and he needed to hand her a defeat.

“It’s basic strategy, President Chow,” Commodore Cartwright said firmly. “An advance force only attacks the targets its commander knows he can subdue,. The whole point is to fold their assets and hardware into the advance as he goes. After he’s swept up the small fry, he either consolidates his position and waits for the main force to arrive or, if he’s confident he can double down on his efforts, he swings back around and goes after the next tier of targets. Only then does he fold them into the advance force en route to a rendezvous with the main force to which he’s attached.”

“Our records show that Paganini had twelve Imperial-built warships at the outset of his mission,” Middleton explained, “and when we broke his fleet he had seventy two total ships, with only a few losses from his original force.”

“The standard colony has between two and six warships assigned to it,” Chairman Lewis said grimly.

Middleton nodded, “And you have to assume Paganini couldn’t press anything approaching a hundred percent of the warships he encountered. A good starting guess is half, so if each colony provided one and a half warships…” he trailed off pointedly.

“Forty colonies…?” the spindly governor sounded stunned.

“Not all of the captures were from start-ups,” Cartwright interjected, “so I’d put the number between twenty five and thirty.”

“I’d bet on twenty five,” Middleton agreed, “since we’ve found evidence of a few shipyards secretly operating out here. Most of the locally-built warships are extremely limited tactically, but as part of a fleet they can still serve a vital role. Thankfully, Commodore Paganini didn’t know how to best deploy these disparate platforms. If he had, it’s entirely possible we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

“What does this tell us about the Imperial advance?” Chairman Lewis asked, and even Chow seemed guardedly interested in hearing the answer to her query at this point.

“It tells us,” Middleton tapped the console, causing the images to be replaced with a tactical model of the Gorgon Sectors which he had devised after incorporating all of the aforementioned information—and much, much more, “that the Imperial advance likely began in earnest less than a decade ago.”

The yellow, banana-shaped Gorgon Sectors flashed yellow on the hologram before them and slowly, inch by inch, the end nearest the Empire saw a wave of red begin to wash through it. The wave continued to bathe the proximal end, replacing the former yellow with its crimson hue until fully half of the Gorgon Sectors were red and half were yellow.

“This is where my projections place them,” Middleton explained, “but this is largely based on information that’s a year old. It’s possible, though unlikely, that the Imperial Fleet could have advanced further than these projections suggest.” He met each of their gazes individually as he continued, “A standard Imperial Fleet is composed of between a hundred fifty and two hundred warships, and I have it on good authority that two years ago the Empire withdrew the vast majority of its forces from the Old Confederation—on the other side of the galaxy—specifically to re-deploy those assets here.”

Silence came over the assemblage, and even President Chow seemed surprised by Middleton’s understandably chilling report.

“Why?” Cartwright asked as the barest hint of challenge mixed with the concern in his voice. “Even at the 90th percentile projections, the Empire can’t think there are more than five hundred warships out here. Our own projections put the numbers closer to three hundred,” he said with a deferential nod to Chairman Lewis, who inclined her head in assent. “With the tech gap between Imperial military hardware and the stuff we’ve got out here, one Imperial Fleet would be more than enough to do the job of bringing compliance to the entire region—if the political will was there to support such an undertaking, which is a big ‘if’.”

Middleton leaned back in his chair, surveying the expressions of the attendees in turn. Chow had regained her previously surly and uncooperative demeanor, but the rest seemed genuinely interested and concerned by what this information might mean.

That meant he had won this particular round of diplomacy, which was likely more surprising to him than to anyone else in the room.

“The Alliance Gorgonus has come into some information which could shed some light onto that particular issue,” he said measuredly. “But I’m afraid that, due to the sensitive nature of this information, we can only share it under the auspices of a formal arrangement,” he continued, deactivating the holographic projector before pointing to the data slate in the center of the table, “an arrangement which you provided and I, on behalf of the Alliance Gorgonus, have already signed. It awaits your ratification, ladies and gentlemen, and I feel compelled to urge you in the strongest possible terms to do so in order for us to combine our resources against the forces arrayed against us.”

Sixty seconds later, the delegates exited the conference room and returned to the shuttle which would take them back to their respective ships.

The vote’s results were five to one in favor of including the AG Fleet in the Secular Liberation League’s MDP, with the lone voice of dissent predictably belonging to President Rosalind Chow.

Chapter XVII: The Advance—and Drills, Drills, Drills…

Two days later, the fleet was ready to move.

“All ships have received point transfer coordinates and report ready to depart, Captain,” Hephaestion relayed. The Tracto-an had taken up the dual duties of Sensors and Comm. for the time being, given the dearth of skilled crew remaining aboard the Prejudice.

“They’re even in a reasonable enough formation,” Middleton muttered, knowing that the next several weeks would provide ample opportunity to hone the fleet’s tactical formations. “All right, put me on the fleet-wide: all ships, this is Supreme Commander Middleton. The first batch of jump coordinates has been disseminated throughout the fleet. Each designated subgroup will coordinate its movements via the designated chain of command. The first rendezvous is scheduled for twenty hours from now, when the next batch of coordinates will be released. Middleton out.”

Hephaestion cut the line and reported, “Message received and acknowledged throughout the fleet.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded, “spin up the hyper drive—let’s move out.”

Twenty two hours later, the last subgroup finally arrived. In truth, Middleton had anticipated a greater delay than that given the fact that it was the first time most of the fleet’s one hundred and twenty three various commanders had executed a split-group series of point transfers. Predictably, the group which had brought up the rear had been the combined Battleship and Cruisers crewed by the Stalwart.

“Reports coming in,” Hephaestion said, “minor power plant failure occurred on the Battleship, Stalwart Duty, while the Heavy Cruiser, Crimson Fist, reports suffering an unexpected breakdown of their strange particle generators.”

“Two hours’ delay over four jumps isn’t good,” Middleton said measuredly, “but it’s not terrible, either, considering it’s our first attempt. Transmit the next batch of coordinates to the fleet, along with the order to jump as soon as each ship is able to do so. We’ll stand by and observe before jumping last.”

The message went out, and twenty minutes later ships started winking out of existence. Subgroup One, comprised of the Cutters and Corvettes, jumped out first. Then the Destroyers of Subgroup Two, followed by the various Cruisers and civilian heavies—the bulk freighters, gas harvesters, settler ships and Constructor—which made up Subgroup Three, and finally by Subgroup Four, the Battleships, the last of which point transferred six hours and thirty one minutes after the order had been given.

“We’ve got some work to do,” Middleton said, having expected almost exactly what he had gotten in terms of results. “But it’s actually a good starting point. Let’s check Subgroup Four’s zone-clearing discipline by jumping into their path and laying a little surprise for them.”

Hephaestion grinned and, even though Toto’s back was turned to them, Middleton seemed to feel the approval rolling off the Sundered’s silver-backed body.

“They still have not detected us, Captain,” Hephaestion reported in a mixture of dismay and irritation. “We have been within range of their passive sensors for six minutes.”

“We don’t even have the stealth suite cranked up to maximum,” Middleton growled. “They should have pinged us at least three times by now.”

“No pings detected, Captain,” Hephaestion said with equal displeasure.

“Fine,” Middleton declared as the clock expired for this particular exercise, “paint the Stalwart Duty with a p2p beam as soon as Toto initiates low-speed maneuvers, then cut it out and re-establish the link at random intervals between two and six seconds apart. Don’t overdrive the stealth suite, Toto,” Middleton added, remembering the truly outrageous combat maneuvers the Sundered had put the Prejudice into during the battle with Paganini.

“Engines firing,” Toto reported, and the Prejudice began to move at an oblique angle to the well-formed capital ship formation.

“First p2p link established,” Hephaestion reported as the Prejudice juked to port and increasing acceleration. “Second link established,” Hephaestion reported, then a few seconds later, “third link established.”

“Have they reciprocated?” Middleton asked.

“No, sir,” Hephaestion said grimly. “Fourth and fifth links established—incoming beam detected but no link established.”

“Too slow, Commander,” Middleton muttered absently, referring to the Stalwart Commander who sat in command of the Duty. “We could have launched a dozen torpedoes or twice as many missiles by now.”

“Sixth and seventh links established,” Hephaestion continued to report, “eighth…ninth…the Duty has established a counter-link, Captain. The Stalwart Commander is demanding to speak with you.”

Middleton deactivated the stealth suite, “Put me on the line.”

The Stalwart Commander’s broad, dark features filled the main viewer, “What is the meaning of this, Captain Middleton?”

“Drills, Commander,” Middleton replied flatly, “which it seems your people need in greater abundance.”

The Commander’s eyebrows lowered, “We are lifelong warriors—not children. These games are a waste of time!”

“I could have caused serious damage to your ship, Commander,” Middleton said grimly, “and, if I had wanted to remain undetected, you still wouldn’t be able to see me.”

“Your ship is unique,” the Commander growled.

“Are you sure about that?” Middleton countered only half-rhetorically. “I’m not.”

It was clear from the brief look of realization on the Commander’s face that Middleton’s point had been made, so he decided to drop the matter.

“Fleet protocol dictates that all subgroups are to initiate active sensor sweeps immediately upon arrival at each stopover point,” Middleton reminded the Commander. “I’m willing to overlook the fact—this time—that even without the active sweeps your passive sensors still should have seen me several minutes before I announced my presence. Do it again—and this time get it right,” Middleton said before making a slashing gesture which prompted Hephaestion to sever the connection. “Spin up the hyper drive,” he instructed, “let’s keep doing this until they get it right. If our capital ships don’t follow protocol, we might as well pack it in right here and now.”

Chapter XVIII: The Mysterious Fate of Magmid One

“Sump cleared; point transfer complete,” the Stalwart youth, Hammer, reported after the Unthreadable Needle arrived at the first POI.

Kongming, who had been granted the responsibility of operating the dual Sensors/Comm. station on the Needle’s bridge, cycled through the emission bands associated with Magmid technology. But even after ten minutes of constant surveillance he was unable to locate any Magmid EM signatures.

“Nothing detected in-system, Primarch Nail,” Kongming said in disappointment. “Planetary orbits are clear of artificial signals of any kind.”

“It might be saving power…and the brief says they prefer asteroids to planets when extracting raw materials,” Nail mused in his hoarse, wizened voice. “Helm: set course for the outer asteroid belt. Sensors: recalibrate to look for high concentrations of platinum. The file says they use it in the outer layers of their ceramic armor.”

“Re-calibrating,” Kongming acknowledged, failing to add that he had already done so well before making his initial report to the Primarch.

The Needle steadily moved into the star system’s interior, but even after completing two thorough sweeps of the outer asteroid belt Kongming found no indication of Magmid activity.

Hours passed as they methodically scanned the star system, but still no sign was found to indicate that Magmid One was still in-system.

“This is useless,” Primarch Nail growled. “Helm: take us to the inner belt.”

“Yes, Primarch,” Hammer replied, and Kongming began to scan the inner asteroid belt.

Thirty minutes after beginning the much briefer task of scanning the markedly smaller asteroid belt, Kongming was convinced that Magmid One was no longer in this star system. Just as he was contemplating whether or not to say as much to the Primarch, his visual scanners picked up an anomaly.

“I have something,” he reported, bringing up the anomalous quadrant and examining the sensor feeds as they returned a match for Magmid ship geometry. “It appears to be a Magmid ship,” he explained, transferring the visual feed over to the main viewer.

The Magmid ship was breathtaking. It was a three dimensional triangle, possessing four equilateral sides which appeared for all intents and purposes to be completely featureless save for the engines mounted at each of the triangular intersections which made up the ship’s four tips.

It measured almost a kilometer long on each of its six edges, which probably made it the largest, mobile, artificially created structure that Kongming had ever glimpsed.

“Hail them,” Primarch Nail commanded, but Kongming had already attempted to do so to no avail.

“There is no response, Primarch,” he said hesitantly as he confirmed his earlier findings. “I believe…it appears that Magmid One is either no longer aboard or it is dead.”

“Dead?” Primarch Nail repeated incredulously as his eyes hooded. “Magmid ships are weak in battle, but their armor is superb and a Magmid can survive in vacuum for days. I don’t see any damage,” he waved his hand at the image on the viewer. “You must be wrong.”

“With respect,” Kongming said firmly, “the median temperature within that ship is low enough that, while it would be uncomfortable without an environmental suit, an away team composed of Stalwart and/or humans would be able to examine the bulk of the ship’s interior with relatively little risk.”

“The EM fields are too strong,” the Primarch shook his head. “Stalwart have frequent heart attacks—and even seizures—when we get too close to Magmids. Humans fare no better.”

“That is what I am attempting to convey, Primarch,” Kongming said seriously, “there isn’t an EM field aboard that ship. It is dead in space.”

Nails eyes narrowed further as he stared at the screen. He then turned to Kongming, “This is your mission. What is your plan?”

“I will lead an away team aboard the Magmid ship,” Kongming said, tapping out a series of orders to Kongming and a select group of the Void Hunters. “I will gather whatever evidence I can while aboard it and then I will return here.”

“My daughter will pilot the shuttle,” Nail nodded, and Kongming set off to collect his team.

The corridors within the Magmid ship were little more than an interconnected network of four meter wide tunnels. The atmosphere, if it could be called such, was almost pure nitrogen and the deeper they went into the gravity-less ship, the greater the atmospheric pressure became.

“How does a ship like this operate?” Kratos asked as his power-armored form clomped down the corridor. The mag-boots built into his armor only occasionally gained purchase on the ceramic surface of the tunnel. Kongming was glad that their boots’ adhesive functions worked at all in such a hot, alien, high-pressure environment.

“There is very little information available about Magmid technology,” Kongming explained as they came to yet another four-way intersection. “That is no doubt in large part due to only three examples of the species having been recorded. Also, a primary shared trait among them is that they are extremely xenophobic.”

“How did the Alliance Gorgonus persuade them to join?” Kratos asked as they moved ever further toward the heart of the ship.

“That is also something of a mystery,” Kongming said, stopping to examine a small deposit of minerals which stood out from the rest of the tunnel’s smooth, slightly corrugated interior. “All three Magmids apparently arrived at an early gathering of the AG, and after considerable difficulty were able to express their desire to join.”

Kongming produced a handheld scanner and swept it across the foot-long lump of mineral, and a moment later his concern was validated, “It contains significant concentrations of the Magmid equivalent for genetic material: silica-based chains of information arranged in base pairs much as our own, but capable of surviving—or possibly even requiring—significant heat and pressure in order to remain stable.”

“This is a Magmid corpse?” Kratos asked after clomping his way back to stand beside Kongming. The two Void Hunters who had accompanied the away team covered the rear of their approach to the vessel’s interior, but they crept closer to examine the lump of material for themselves.

“Not precisely,” Kongming corrected, “this is more like…a finger, or more appropriately a fingernail. If what the Prichtac believe about the Magmids is correct, they are not a species which relies on individual identity but rather they are more akin to a fungal colony. Each portion of the colony shares an almost perfectly-matched genetic makeup as every other portion, and it behaves with a common purpose. Obviously not many examples of fungi are known for their intelligence, but it is a reasonable enough metaphor to employ when attempting to understand such a truly alien species.”

“So…” Kratos mused, “Magmids are capable of extending their bodies, and also retracting them?”

“Yes,” Kongming agreed, “it would seem they rely heavily on electromagnetism not only for communication, but also for locomotion—which can occur both within molten streams of ferrous minerals and can manipulate those minerals on the macro scale.”

“It seems like that would violate laws of conservation,” Kratos unexpectedly said.

Kongming looked up at the hulking Tracto-an, surprised only that he was still surprised by anything that Kratos did or said. “It does,” he agreed, “which is why they are never far from their power generators: they require immense amounts of electromagnetic energy in order to manipulate iron and other minerals during combat situations.”

“Good at defending,” Kratos mused, “and poor at attacking.”

“Precisely,” Kongming nodded as he retrieved a small sample of the chalky, semi-solid lump of minerals and stored it in a secure container. “But whatever happened aboard this ship, they were unable to defend against it. After examining the ship’s lack of EM signature, the nature of this residue, as well as noting the heightened radiation on the hull which suggests a weapon strike of some kind, I believe I have gathered the information we sought,” he said as sweat rolled down his nose. Even within the EVA suit he was extremely hot, and he decided it was time to return to the shuttle before any of them suffered the ill effects of exposure to such suffocating heat. “We should return to the Needle.”

“A sound theory,” the Crafter mused after Kongming had laid out his impression of the available evidence. “You believe that someone—probably the Imperials—deployed a specialized EMP which killed Magmid One outright while leaving its ship intact.”

“I do,” Kongming nodded.

“Why would they leave the ship?” Kratos asked.

“It seems obvious that humans could never manipulate Magmid technology effectively,” Kongming explained, “and it is agreed by the Alliance Gorgonus’ constituent members that Magmid ships are less than enviable in terms of combat performance. What I think happened is that whoever deployed this EMP,” he pointed to the slate with the image of the strike point on the Magmid ship’s otherwise pristine hull, “did so in order to study the Magmids’ technology. Once they got the information they had come for, they left.”

“Why not destroy the ship?” Kratos asked.

“I am uncertain,” Kongming admitted, “though it is possible that whoever killed Magmid One did not wish to be detected and therefore decided that firing on such a large vessel for the amount of time necessary to destroy it posed too great a risk of discovery.”

“Possible,” Kratos allowed, “but uncharacteristic. The Empire is methodical and efficient; it seems contrary to their nature to leave something behind which their enemies could use against them.”

“I am forced to concede that point,” Kongming deferred, “while noting that we are very, very far from the Imperial Fleet’s main body. Any vessel operating out here must be doing so for the purposes of information-gathering or possibly more active forms of espionage.”

“What if,” the Crafter leaned forward intently, “it was not your Imperial nemeses that authored this attack, but someone else—perhaps even someone with whom you are already familiar?”

“What are you saying?” Kongming asked.

The Crafter sighed, “The timing of these seemingly unconnected events concerning the Magmids is suspicious, to say the least. First they attack a human colony for no apparent reason, then after mysteriously vanishing from that planet with their task half-finished we discover that another Magmid was killed by an unknown weapon—one which was apparently purpose-built to kill this unique life form—several months later?”

The Crafter leaned back and Kongming silently cursed himself for not seeing the now-obvious connection.

Kratos nodded slowly, “There is another force at work here—one which does not wish to be revealed.”

Kongming silently considered the matter for several seconds before, suddenly, a string of memories appeared in his mind’s eye. Each one featured the Seer as the milky-eyed apparition repeatedly spoke a phrase which Kongming then repeated, “The Dark.”

“The Dark?” Kratos repeated while the Crafter’s eyes remained studiously fixed on Kongming.

Kongming shook his head, lying, “It was something from an old holo-vid. I do not know why I said it just now.”

“Of course,” Kratos agreed, though the Crafter appeared unconvinced.

“Regardless,” Kongming stood from the table in the Needle’s sickbay, where the only decent conference table could be found, “we should proceed to our next POI. Time is of the essence.”

“Indeed,” the Crafter said as Kongming stood and made his way to the bridge to inform the Primarch of their next destination.

Chapter XIX: An Unanticipated Exchange

“I’m surprised you came back,” Middleton admitted after closing the door to Lieutenant Commander Christine Ricci’s ‘cell,’ which was in actuality nothing but a mildly-secure crew berth of the same type that Middleton himself slept in. “When you didn’t request a transfer in the timeframe we discussed, I assumed you had withdrawn your interest in furthering our dialogue.”

“Some of my more…zealous fellow officers required convincing,” Ricci replied, gesturing to the chair positioned opposite hers. “But I did manage to talk them into conducting an exchange of sorts.”

“Exchange?” Middleton repeated as he sat in the chair.

“Yes,” Ricci nodded, “my people want to get home, but they’re not willing to compromise their duties as Imperial Officers.”

“I can respect that,” Middleton allowed. “But I’m not sure what it is you want from me.”

“Information,” Ricci said simply. “I’ll tell you some of what I know—or at least of what I’ve been told—and you tell me some of what you know.”

“That’s a little vague,” Middleton said with measured disappointment.

“Not all of us are blind, Captain Middleton,” she said shortly. “It doesn’t take a genius to realize that not everything is adding up out here. Why would the Fleet want to bring such a distant, barren region of space under compliance? Why would an alien species—even one unblessed by Man’s benevolence, like the Prichtac—choose to destroy their own world rather than stand and fight to defend it? And why did a two year action of reprisal against the uplifts for their barbaric use of WMD’s stretch into a five year campaign with no end in sight, and which saw us prosecute five human settlements for every uplift colony?”

Middleton kept his features neutral, but his mind’s gears were turning as fast as they could. He had not expected her to come out with so many revelations so quickly—revelations like drooping morale among Paganini’s Task Force, the initially-declared duration and motivation for the Imperial invasion of the Gorgon Sectors, and the fact that Ricci knew about the Prichtac. All told, it was a remarkable olive branch she was extending—assuming any of it was true.

“I assume you’d like me to begin by helping you answer those questions?” Middleton asked after a pregnant pause.

“I think it would be a good faith gesture on your part,” Ricci agreed.

“Fine,” Middleton nodded, “but you have to understand that if I give you any information along those lines, you’ll have to remain under arrest here so I can maintain operational compartmentalization.”

“I understood that before I came,” Ricci nodded, “and so did my people.”

“Good,” Middleton mused. “Then let’s get started…”

He proceeded to tell her about the Prichtac—omitting the detail that one was presently about the Prejudice—as well as giving her the Stalwarts’ side of the WMD situation at their long-since abandoned Home.

He did not, however, tell her about the Magmids, the Secular Liberation League, or Kongming’s theory regarding the presence of a technologically advanced human faction operating somewhere in the vicinity.

He needed to keep that particular powder dry for when it might do him the most good.

“Multiple contacts detected,” Hephaestion reported after the Prejudice point transferred into a star system which would serve as the fourth round of tests for the Stalwart capital ships.

“Battle stations—full power to the stealth systems,” Middleton declared. Even though the stealth system controls had been re-routed to his station at Tactical, the rest of the crew’s actions would necessarily be restricted while the Prejudice was under maximum concealment from its advanced suite of stealth equipment. “Is it the Stalwart?” Middleton asked suspiciously. It was possible, however improbable, that the Stalwart Commander had managed to squeeze every last second out of his point transfers and had arrived just within the theoretically minimum amount of time required to reach this system. By his estimate they should not have arrived for another forty minutes.

“Negative, Captain,” Hephaestion said hesitantly, “I am reading fifteen ships: eight Cutters, four Corvettes, a Destroyer and two Cruisers.”

Middleton checked the sensor feeds streaming into his Tactical console and confirmed Hephaestion’s count. None of the ships was of Imperial design…in fact, only three of them were of configurations which the Prejudice’s data banks identified.

“Helm: make an oblique approach offset ten degrees laterally from the starboard-most ship in their formation,” Middleton instructed.

“Approaching,” Toto grunted, and the Prejudice surged forward on the Tactical plotter.

“Do you have anything on those hull markings, Sensors?” Middleton pressed as he focused his attentions on maintaining the stealth systems, rather than processing the sensor feeds.

“I believe so, sir,” Hephaestion replied grimly. “It appears to be a known slaver operation named ‘Green from Red,’ though the majority of their ships are of an unknown design. The Cruisers and Destroyer are of familiar configurations, however, and should not present a significant threat to the Prejudice so long as we remain at long range or greater.”

“Assuming they detect us at all,” Middleton muttered.

“Correct,” Hephaestion allowed.

“All right,” Middleton mused, “we’ve been testing the Stalwart to keep them on their toes. If they arrive where they’re supposed to, and if they arrive together, we ought to be able to corral these pirates into a kill box for our capital guns to clear into. Chief,” Middleton called over his shoulder after hearing the familiar sound of Garibaldi’s cybernetic foot clanging against the deck, “how many of those Imperial-spec grav-mines have you rigged up?”

“Twelve, Cap,” Mikey replied immediately.

“Looks like we’ll be dropping all of them in our wake starting in about thirty minutes,” Middleton said.

“You want me to use the Backer?” Garibaldi asked.

“No,” Middleton shook his head, deciding that this was as good of a chance as they would get for testing their new gear, “let’s try your new launcher instead.”

Mikey grinned, “You got it, Cap.”

“We’re ready back here, Cap,” Garibaldi reported via the com-link just as the Prejudice drew into position to begin stealthily deploying the grav-mines.

“Set the mines for a fifteen second delay before the attractors go to work,” Middleton instructed.

A moment later Mikey replied, “Fifteen seconds, aye.”

“Bombs away,” Middleton deadpanned.

“First mine is launched,” Garibaldi acknowledged.

“Good; hold while we drift to the next target,” Middleton said, having already gone over the flight plan with Toto. The Prejudice cut acceleration and, just as they had drawn up, she drifted into the path of the next target—this one a Corvette, unlike the previous Cutter—and after less than a minute reached the launch point for the next two mines, “Launch mines two and three.”

“Launching,” Garibaldi acknowledged, and a pair of icons representing the second and third mines appeared on the Tactical plotter. “Mines two and three are away.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded, seeing that their present trajectory would take them dangerously close to their third target—another Cutter. He decided against modifying the plan and instructed, “We’ll reach launch position for mine number four in thirty seconds.”

“Thirty seconds,” Garibaldi confirmed, and after that interval had elapsed he declared, “launching mine four—she’s away.”

“Helm,” Middleton said promptly, “alter course and ensure that our engine flare remains off-line from these first three ships.”

“Understood,” Toto rumbled, and the Prejudice initiated a series of short, powerful bursts from her engines as the silent warship slowly established an intercept vector with the two Cruisers at the heart of the slaver formation.

“I am intercepting comm. chatter,” Hephaestion reported. “The Prejudice’s decryption programs appear to have cracked the pirates’ surprisingly effective security systems.”

“Is there anything actionable?” Middleton asked as he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ship’s stealth systems, which were beginning to require significant inputs from him in order to maintain.

“Nothing yet.”

“Inform me if that changes,” Middleton said shortly as he re-routed power from the ship’s camouflage and EM suppression systems to the heat transference mechanisms—mechanisms which they still did not understand well enough to describe.

The Prejudice was uniquely, as far as Middleton was aware, capable of shunting what would otherwise be simple waste heat back into its Total Conversion power core. The net energy gain of doing so was dubious as far as their minimal equations suggested, but what was certain was that by shunting waste heat back into the power core the Prejudice left precious little in the way of a detectable wake.

Even after the many issues they’d had since boarding the sleek little warship, if Middleton was being honest with himself he had to admit that it was the perfect ship. The Prejudice was fast, she was sneaky, she had long-range guns capable of dishing out damage on the level of a Cruiser, and in addition to all of that she was surprisingly durable and required a tiny crew to operate.

He shuddered to think what might have happened to the Spineward Sectors if the Raubachs had managed to put this class of ship into mass production—Hades, even a handful of these ships would have changed the balance of power in Middleton’s home Sectors.

“Approaching the first Cruiser,” Hephaestion reported, perhaps unnecessarily.

“We’ll reach the launch zone in twenty seconds, Chief,” Middleton relayed to Mikey via the com-link.

“Mines five through eight are ready to go,” Mikey replied.

“Good,” Middleton acknowledged, and as the countdown reached zero he said, “launch mines five through eight.”

“Launching,” Garibaldi declared, and a few seconds later all four mines appeared on the Tactical plotter. Meanwhile, the first four mines had all successfully attached themselves to the hulls of their target warships—which was as good of a start as Middleton could hope for. “Mines five through eight are away.”

“Adjust course to—“ Middleton began, but he was interrupted by Hephaestion.

“Point transfers inbound, Captain,” the young Tracto-an reported.

“Confirm identities,” Middleton instructed, knowing that the Stalwart were very nearly scheduled to arrive—assuming they experienced nothing unexpected in terms of delays.

“Confi—“ Hephaestion began, only to stop mid-word before his voice hardened, “Imperial signatures detected, Captain: I’m reading eight Imperial Lupine-class Destroyers. Repeat: new arrivals are Imperial Destroyers and they are moving to intercept the slavers.”

“Helm: cut engines,” Middleton commanded, and Toto powered down the Prejudice’s engines. Doing so made it easier to maintain the stealth suite, which just became far more important than mining the second of the slavers’ Cruisers.

“Incoming transmission on hailing frequencies,” Hephaestion reported.

“Put it on.”

The image of a sharp-cheeked, black-haired man in his forties wearing the greys-and-blues of an Imperial Officer’s uniform appeared on the main viewer. “This is Captain Jonathon Stuart of the Imperial Navy. By order of Admiral DiCaprio, I am here to execute an arrest warrant for the slave-trading organization known as ‘Green from Red.’ All ships presently located in this star system are instructed to strike your reactors, heave to and await inspection teams.”

Middleton could not help but roll his eyes at hearing the tired old ‘inspection teams’ line regurgitated yet again by a self-assured Imperial.

A moment after Stuart’s broadcast ended, another image appeared on an adjacent screen. The image was of a square-jawed woman with tattoos covering nearly all of her face. Her hair was twisted into thick, matted lock which displayed little regard for the concept of gravity as their owner sneered, “We had a deal, Imp: I hand over the information and you issue us an official pardon!”

“The Imperial Fleet does not bargain with slavers and terrorists,” Captain Stuart smirked. “But, as a gesture of goodwill, I would advise you to forward whatever information you might have thought was worth trading in exchange for your freedom. Such a gesture would surely be viewed in as positive light when it comes time for your sentencing.”

The slaver woman glared, “Imperial scum!”

Stuart smirked before severing the connection, and his image on the viewer was replaced by the Tactical overlay of the nearby space.

“The Imperials are moving to outflank the slavers,” Middleton said, calling up possible escape trajectories which the pirates might use given their significantly slower Cruisers’ acceleration compared to that of the much faster Imperial Destroyers. “The Cutters might scatter and escape and one or two of the Corvettes could probably get away too, but the slaver Destroyer and Cruisers are trapped.”

The countdown to the Stalwart Battleships’ arrival had just gone into the negative, which meant they should be arriving any minute—again, assuming nothing untoward had delayed them.

“We wait for the Stalwart to arrive,” Middleton said as the Imperial Destroyers surged forward while the slaver ships pulled back as one, “and hold position here while the slavers and Imps go at each other. Three battleships against either group would be a winning proposition, but if the Imps and slavers join forces while they’re still fresh then things won’t be nearly as advantageous for us. The deeper the Imps drive the slavers into the system, the better our chances are to pin all of them down with our Battleships’ long guns.”

The Imperial warships split into three groups, with four Destroyers holding the center of their advance and two pairs of Destroyers splitting out wide along the orbital plane of the star systems’ four planets. The slavers, predictably, began to break to the polar north of the star system which prompted the four central Imp Destroyers to split into two pairs, with one pair hugging the orbital plane and the other burning at maximum speed to maintain position on the fleeing slavers.

Minutes passed as the faster Imperial warships tightened their grip on the enemy ships’ positions, and soon the first volleys of turbo-laser fire erupted from the Imperial guns.

Only the occasional hit registered, but the Imps were correctly targeting the Cutters and Corvettes first since those were the only ships that could escape if they broke formation.

A Cutter’s engines went down, and Middleton watched as the overlapping sensor grids of the pursuing Destroyers inched further and further from the Prejudice.

Another two minutes and he could re-engage the Prejudice’s engines in order to pursue the Imperial Destroyers.

But only one of those minutes elapsed before Hephaestion reported, “Hyper footprints detected, Captain—it’s the Stalwart Battleships.”

“Established a p2p with the Duty and initiate automatic relay protocols,” Middleton commanded. “Put the Commander on as soon as you’ve set up the link.”

A few precious seconds passed before the young man reported, “Link established.”

“Commander,” Middleton said after seeing the surprised look on the Commander’s dark features, “we don’t have time to explain: maintain absolute comm. blackout until I order otherwise. Understood?”

The Commander’s eyes narrowed, “We detect Imperial signatures in this system.”

“Yes you do,” Middleton nodded, “and I’ve already got a plan. I’m transmitting the details to you now; I need to use the Duty’s transceiver array to convince the enemy I’m aboard your ship.”

The Commander seemed skeptical, but eventually consented, “We will maintain comm. blackout.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded, “Middleton out.”

“I have remote access to the Duty’s transceiver array, sir,” Hephaestion reported after several more seconds elapsed.

It was clear that the Stalwart Commander had taken his time in deciding whether or not to grant Middleton access to the array, but Middleton didn’t care at this point. The Imperial Destroyers had already faltered in their pursuit of the slavers, and Middleton knew he needed to give them a nudge to continue on their present course.

“Open a hailing channel routed through the Duty’s array,” Middleton said, “we need to remain absolutely hidden throughout this exchange—and, hopefully, throughout this entire encounter.”

“Understood, sir,” Hephaestion reported knowingly, “channel open.”

Middleton schooled his features, “This is Captain Middleton of the AG Battleship, Stalwart Duty. To all Imperial vessels: you are ordered to surrender immediately and unconditionally or we will open fire.”

Captain Stuart’s image returned to the viewer just as the Duty and her sister ships initiated a close-formation pursuit vector of the Imperials, “I am here to execute a lawfully authorized Imperial arrest warrant against the pirate syndicate, Green from Red. On whose authority do you demand our surrender?”

Middleton ground his teeth before replying, “On the authority of the Alliance Gorgonus, whose constituents you have repeatedly abused and persecuted while hiding behind precisely the same variety of ‘lawfully authorized’ orders which you now claim to be acting on. I have advice for you, Captain Stuart, though I very much doubt you’ll like it: if I were you, I’d tuck tail and run before you come under the range of my guns. Your current quarry will doubtless send a few volleys your way as you do so, but trust me,” he leaned forward grimly, “that would be eminently preferable to what I have in mind.”

Captain Stuart sneered, “I’m not familiar with that design of warship, and my family motto happens to be ‘test the unknown, do not fear it.’ So I fear I must decline your generous offer to accept my surrender, Captain Middleton. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

Middleton smirked, “I’m going to be honest…I would have been disappointed with any other answer.”

Stuart’s eyes flashed with what looked like a moment of uncertainty before he cut the line, and Middleton returned his attention to the Tactical plotter. If he was careful—extremely careful—he might be able to deploy the rest of his mines on the second-nearest pair of Imperial Destroyers. Pursuing the nearest pair would expose his engine exhaust to at least one other pair of the Imperial warships, which would defeat the entire purpose of a stealthy approach.

“Helm, lay in a new course,” Middleton instructed as he issued digital commands to the Stalwart Commander aboard the Duty, “the stealth suite is at maximum so you’ll need to observe the proper protocols.”

“Understood,” Toto acknowledged.

The trio of Stalwart-crewed Battleships drove forward as the Imperial Destroyers came about, leaving the way clear for the slavers to flee. But Middleton had other plans for them.

“Remotely detonating mine number one,” Middleton declared, and several seconds later the sensors detected a crippling explosion aboard the first pirate Cutter. “Detonating mine number two,” he intoned, and again after the requisite time had elapsed the report of mine two exploding appeared on the Tactical plotter. “Put me on the hailing frequencies,” Middleton instructed, and Hephaestion quickly nodded in acknowledgment. “Slaver fleet,” Middleton said imperiously, “this is Captain Middleton of the Stalwart Duty. Prior to your arrival, this star system was seeded with high-grade grav-mines—mines which are now stuck to the hulls of each of your ships. For the sake of your crews, I hope that I have sufficiently demonstrated both their existence and their efficacy, though if further demonstrations are required I will be happy to provide them. However, I will not detonate those mines if you come about and pursue the Imperial Destroyers which, until a few minutes ago, thought themselves to be the predators and you the prey. I await your reply, but if I do not receive it in one hundred seconds I will be forced to detonate another round of mines.”

He made a slashing gesture to Hephaestion, who terminated the recording and said, “Message is away.”

Eighty seconds later the reply came via the tattoo-faced woman, “We have no quarrel with the Alliance Gorgonus; we only want to leave in peace.”

Middleton sighed as the slaver ships continued on their previous course, prompting him to gesture for Hephaestion to re-open the channel, “I see that a further demonstration is in order. I first detonated two mines, and now I will detonate three. The next time I will detonate four, and so it will continue until finally I destroy every last ship in your formation. Come about and engage the Imperials or you’re already dead—Middleton out.”

With that, he sent the detonation codes for mines four and five, and soon the report of the second Cutter being destroyed outright registered on his sensor feeds. The first and second mines attached to the Cruiser, meanwhile, exploded and caused massive damage to that ship’s forward hull—including, it seemed, to its gun deck.

Thankfully the slaver formation faltered and slowly, but surely, it began to come about.

“Good,” Middleton muttered, knowing that his bluff was almost certain to be exposed with the next round of explosions—which would have been the last round, since he only had three more mines planted on their ships. “Even if they don’t rush to engage the Imps, they’ll cut off those Destroyers’ possible escape paths and make our job that much easier.”

The Stalwart Battleships drove further into the star system while the Imperial Destroyers split apart from their previous arrangement of pairs. The Destroyers opened fire on the AG Battleships several seconds before the Stalwart Commander’s people returned the favor. Predictably, the Imperials’ accuracy was higher—but by simple dint of overwhelming firepower, the AG capital ships landed more hits by nearly two to one.

“Six hits on the Battleships, eleven on the Imperial Destroyers,” Hephaestion reported as Middleton fought to balance the power demands of the Prejudice’s stealth suite. “The Stalwart are breaking formation,” Hephaestion reported as the Stalwart Commander correctly implemented the suggested course of action which Middleton had drawn up for him.

If the Stalwart permitted the Imperials to outflank them, then the Imperial Destroyers could regain the hyper limit while constantly hammering away on the AG warships. The best case scenario in such an exchange was for the Stalwart warships to prove too resilient for the long-range, relatively limited firepower of the Imperials, which would give Captain Stuart cause to flee the system. The worst case scenario was that the Imperials, through some combination of well-placed shots and equipment failures aboard the Prichtac-built warships, actually managed to knock one of Middleton’s capitals out of the fight.

If that happened, eight Imperial Lupine-class Destroyers would be more than a match for two slower Battleships since they largely lacked attendant escort ships. They did have four gunships assigned to each Battleship, but Middleton wanted to keep those a surprise for the time being—especially since the Destroyers could maintain range even on the fast, powerful gunships once they saw them coming.

The best outcome for this battle was one where several—though, unfortunately, not all—of the Imperial warships were taken down while the Prichtac-built, Stalwart-crewed Battleships sustained only minor damage before the majority of the Imperial squadron retreated.

If Middleton was lucky, he might even be able to capture one or two of the precious Imperial-built warships.

“Five minutes to mine deployment,” Toto reported, and Middleton quickly confirmed the uplift’s numbers.

“Steady as she goes, Helm,” Middleton acknowledged.

The Imperials exchanged another round of fire with the AG Battleships, and this time the numbers were closer to even with eight hits for the Imps and nine in return for the Stalwart.

“Destroyer Six has suffered damage to its primary hull,” Hephaestion reported with satisfaction, “it’s rolling and breaking off from the attack.”

As it happened, Destroyer Six was one of the two which Middleton had originally targeted. It was no accident that the Stalwart had focused their fire on that ship and its wingman; Middleton had hoped to drive those ships back toward the Prejudice and her mines, which he had clearly succeeded in doing.

“New time to mine deployment: three minutes,” Middleton reported approvingly. “Chief, is your launcher ready?”

“It is,” Mikey acknowledged, “but I’d really like to get back to the engine room; the stealth system’s drawing a lot of juice and we’re starting to encounter some anomalies within the grav-plate controls.”

“Understood,” Middleton said grimly. “We’ll launch these last four mines together.”

“Good to hear, Cap,” Garibaldi quipped.

Middleton held back the handful of retorts he wanted to issue to his longtime friend, instead focusing on balancing the Prejudice’s stealth systems.

Why the Raubach engineers hadn’t opted to integrate the stealth suite into the rest of the ship’s astonishingly robust, yet compact virtual network was beyond him. It seemed ridiculous that a human could be better trusted than a DI node with the operation of such a sensitive system.

Another volley lanced back and forth between the Imperials and the AG Battleships, and this time Destroyer Five’s icon flashed red before resuming yellow and breaking to join its wingman, Destroyer Six.

“Destroyer Five’s engines have been hit,” Hephaestion reported hungrily. “Their output is reduced by thirty percent.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded as they drew ever nearer to mine-deployment range of Destroyer Six. “Ready the launcher; we’re at T-minus fifteen seconds.”

When the countdown reached zero, Garibaldi reported, “Launching mines nine through twelve…mines away!”

Middleton watched intently as the four mines drifted slowly toward their oncoming target, Destroyer Six. At the last moment, Destroyer Six made an abrupt course change and avoided two of the mines entirely—but the other two latched successfully onto their hull.

“Too little,” Middleton muttered as he sent the detonation command to the pair of attached mines, “too late.”

Seconds later, the Destroyer’s hull buckled and massive outgassing began to strip the Imperial warship of its precious air supply. Chunks of crystalline hull fragments spun off from the crippled ship as it ejected its fusion core—followed, one by one, by its escape pods. After the pods had cleared the vicinity, Destroyer Six suffered catastrophic damage to its superstructure as scuttling charges rippled up and down her hull. When those charges were finished, nothing remained of the Imperial warships but a cloud slowly-expanding of crystal and metal fragments.

It didn’t surprise Middleton that the Imperials would scuttle their ship rather than surrender it—in fact, what surprised him was that Commander Ricci had willingly surrendered a handful of her vessels after Commodore Paganini’s death. Still, he had hoped to capture some more ships for his fleet and that possibility now seemed extremely unlikely.

“I’m reading powerful sensor pings emanating from Destroyer Five,” Hephaestion said with surprise, “along with rapidly rotating target-acquisition beams.”

“Cut the engines,” Middleton ordered, and Toto quickly complied.

They sat there, drifting through space as Destroyer Five continued pouring detection beams out across them. For nearly a minute, nothing happened—and even Middleton had to catch himself for holding his breath in anticipation.

The Prejudice sat cold, silent, and motionless as Destroyer Five came so near that it was possible the anti-gravity systems aboard the two ships would create enough interplay to set off the more sensitive collision alarms aboard the Imperial Destroyer.

But thankfully the enemy ship passed by without seeming to locate to Middleton’s stealthy warship. Meanwhile her sister ships continued to pour fire onto the AG Battleships, which were standing tall and holding firm just like they were designed to do.

“Destroyer Five is moving off,” Hephaestion reported as the Imperial warship adjusted course and speed to make for the hyper limit while avoiding the vicious firefight between its fellows and Middleton heavies.

“Helm,” Middleton ordered after a few seconds, “lay in a pursuit course: let’s send a few shots into that ship’s engines.”

“Pursuit course, aye,” Toto acknowledged, and the Prejudice slowly complied.

“Enemy has target lock!” Hephaestion reported anxiously, and the Prejudice shuddered as every stern-facing weapon on Destroyer Five lashed out with punishing force against Middleton’s ship.

“Forward shields down to forty two percent; rotating the port shields to the front,” Middleton growled. “Toto: return fire!”

“Firing,” Toto roared, and the Prejudice’s banks of compact turbo-lasers stabbed into—and through—the Destroyer’s stern-facing shields. “Eight for eight,” Toto reported with savage ferocity as he sent the Prejudice into a series of wild, evasive maneuvers. Thankfully, unlike the last time he had executed such high-speed jukes and turns, the Prejudice’s grav-plates were properly controlled by the ship’s central processing system. So while it would have been a lie to say Middleton didn’t feel the maneuvers at all, he was able to continue with his efforts without the rolling, juking and lurching disrupting him.

“Enemy engines are down,” Hephaestion reported, “and they are exhibiting critical power fluctuations—they are ejecting escape pods.”

Toto guided the Prejudice well away from Destroyer Five without requiring orders to do so. Then just like its predecessor, Destroyer Six, Destroyer Five began to eject her escape pods. After the pods were clear of the blast zone, the Imperial warship exploded violently as its fusion core’s destruction added several kilotons of force to the scuttling charges.

“Two down,” Middleton grunted, “six to go.”

“The slavers are opening fire,” Hephaestion reported with surprise.

“At this range?” Middleton quickly checked the Tactical plotter and confirmed that, indeed, the slavers had fired their weapons—which appeared to consist mostly of medium and heavy lasers, though a few single-fire missiles similar to the Starfires Middleton had used in the past were included among them. “Brown-nosers,” Middleton muttered, suspecting the only reason the slavers were firing was so they could appeal to his better nature later on.

Too bad for them, he thought with a smirk, that I don’t seem to have been born with a ‘better nature.’

Still, there was the matter of whatever information the slavers had seemed ready to exchange in return for freedom from prosecution for their doubtless myriad crimes. If that information was deemed valuable enough, Middleton was forced to admit to himself that he would cut a deal even with these slavers in order to acquire it.

In that moment he was reminded of a statement he had made in the past regarding the supposedly vaunted ‘middle ground’ that so many politicians were enamored with. He still believed that middle ground of any sort was nothing but a myth—or worse, a tool employed to deceive—but here he was actually considering making a trade with people who enslaved other human beings and treated them like property.

Shaking those thoughts from his head, he returned his focus to the battle unfolding near the system’s hyper limit.

“Destroyers One and Two have cleared the Battleships’ zone of control,” Hephaestion reported with muted disappointment. “Destroyers Three and Four and breaking off and making a run toward—and likely through—the slavers’ zone of control, and Destroyers Seven and Eight are still engaged with the Duty.”

“Re-establish the p2p with the Duty,” Middleton commanded, and a moment later an icon appeared on his console to show that Hephaestion had succeeded in doing so. Middleton then ordered the Stalwart Commander to focus his efforts on Destroyers Seven and Eight and to disregard the other ships. He suspected the Commander would argue with the orders—or possibly even ignore them—but they were the right call given the circumstances.

Captain Stuart had tested Middleton’s ships and found them to be every bit as deadly as Middleton had hoped they would be. Stuart would no doubt return to his superiors with a report on the Prichtac-built ships, but in the meantime there would be several fewer Imperial Destroyers operating with impunity in this neck of the Gorgon Sectors.

Which, as far as Middleton was concerned, was a win for the good guys.

“The Commander acknowledges the order,” Hephaestion said with surprise, “the Battleships are converging on Destroyers Seven and Eight.”

Several minutes passed as the two pairs of fleeing Imperial warships managed to retreat from the battle. The Destroyers which passed through the slaver formation did not return fire on the pirate ships, which Middleton suspected was the politic thing to do. Destroyers Seven and Eight, on the other hand, were pummeled until they too were destroyed like their counterparts, Five and Six, had been.

“Instruct the pirates to heave to,” Middleton said after the Imperial Destroyers point transferred out of the system. The next words he spoke were especially bitter—or perhaps ‘rancid’ would have been a better word to describe them—as they passed his lips, “Tell them we’re prepared to…negotiate.”

If the pirates had information which was valuable enough for the Imps to stage an exchange—and then to use the pretense of such an exchange to spring a coordinated surprise attack this deep into the Gorgon Sectors—then Middleton needed to do what he could to acquire it.

Even if that meant trafficking with pirates.

Chapter XX: The Slavers’ Code

“First I need assurances,” Jasmine Rashid, the tattoo-sporting slaver boss insisted after nearly twenty minutes of back-and-forth regarding whether or not any kind of deal could be struck between them.

“I’m not exactly inclined to meet the demands of slavers,” Middleton reiterated, fixing her image on his conference room holographic projector with a hard look.

“Of course not,” Rashid rolled her eyes. “But I’ve got something you want and you’re standing in my path to freedom. Neither of us likes this position, Captain Middleton, but both of us would like to navigate it without losing any more of our respective people. Besides, we haven’t taken any slaves in two years.”

“I’d imagine that’s because the supply dried up,” Middleton scoffed.

Rashid set her jaw, “Look, I’ve got something that was worth enough to pull those Imps out here and make them pull a double-cross to keep it contained. But before I give it to you, I need your assurances that you’ll let me and my people go.”

Middleton clasped his hands together and leaned forward with his forearms on the desk, “First things first: those two Cruisers of yours are to be handed over to me. The Cutters and Corvettes don’t have any hull markings which indicate they’re stolen, but both of those Cruisers are the property of colonies on the other side of the Gorgon Sectors.”

“And you’re going to return them to their rightful owners?” Rashid scoffed. “If you want my ships in exchange for our lives, just say so. I’m not stupid, Captain.”

“Neither am I, Ms. Rashid,” Middleton said easily. “But I’d be more inclined to release your people if I knew they didn’t hold any capital ships that could give other colonies and innocents out here more trouble than they can handle.”

“Why would I give up the information and my big ships?” Rashid asked, tacitly admitting that she knew her position was less than tenable. But even conceding that it was ‘reasonable’ to surrender fully half of her fleet’s firepower suggested that what she most wanted was to leave as quickly as possible. “It seems to me that one or the other should be ample recompense for permitting us safe passage.”

“What’s got you running scared, Rashid?” Middleton asked intently.

Rashid laughed nervously, “I’ve seen things out here, Middleton…things that I was told couldn’t exist.”

“Such as?”

Rashid shook her head gravely, “No way. If you want the goods, you’ve got to pay the price.”

Middleton leaned back in his chair contemplatively. “So what you’d like is for me to let all but your Cruisers leave the star system unmolested, and then I’m supposed to what…trust that you’ll give me what you agreed to?”

“It’s either that or we go up in a fur-ball right here, right now,” Rashid said simply. “Between you and me, my people are getting more than a little itchy while we negotiate. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep them together much longer.”

“You’re surrounded by my Battleships,” Middleton reminded her. “You’re outgunned three times over and you’re stationary—you can’t run and hope to survive the trip to the hyper limit.”

“You’ve never seen what crews hopped up on slice look like after coming down from a battle high,” she retorted. “Trust me, paranoia like that leads to sketchy trigger discipline.”

Middleton considered the situation for a moment before arriving at a conclusion, “I’ll agree to your terms if—if,” he repeated, holding up a finger pointedly, “in addition to your ships, you transfer your person over to my custody prior to my releasing your Cutters and Corvettes.”

“Me?” Rashid said incredulously before narrowing her eyes. “Oh, I get it—you’re looking to impose some kind of social justice? Give the slaver a taste of her own medicine, is that it?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Middleton said mildly. “But I think you might be inclined to hear what I’ve got to say after you give me this supposedly valuable information you claim to have. That, in addition to the abandonment of the two Cruisers, would be enough for me to sign off on this deal as it sits.”

Rashid looked skeptical, but eventually nodded, “Fine. I’ll leave skeleton crews aboard these ships with orders to self-destruct if they don’t hear from me.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” Middleton said neutrally, surprised—and impressed—by the woman’s foresight and ability to think on her feet. “I’ll have a shuttle sent over for you.”

“I can’t wait,” she drawled before severing the connection.

“Ms. Rashid,” Middleton greeted as the shackled slaver boss walked down the Deathbacker’s gangway, “welcome aboard.”

Rashid looked around the shuttle bay with unvarnished curiosity, “This doesn’t look like I expected it to look.”

“That’s because you’re not where you expected to be,” Middleton gestured to the corridor, where the Void Hunter escorts prodded Rashid toward while Middleton followed close behind. They made their way to the berth previously used to hold Abyss, the Director Bug, and upon arrival Middleton gestured for the guards to wait outside while he entered the room with her.

“This is a strange ship,” she said as her eyes scanned the interior of the room.

“Let’s get down to business,” Middleton urged.

“Of course,” she nodded, “you’ll need to transmit a security code over a designated channel in order for my people to avoid blowing the Cruisers.”

“They’d be killing themselves in the process. Why would they do that?” Middleton asked.

“Because I told them to,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I’ll provide the code but you’ve only got a few more minutes before it won’t do you any good.”

Middleton knew it could all be a ploy, but in truth even if those two Cruisers were scuttled that would be a positive outcome for the general situation—not as positive as adding them to the AG Fleet, of course, but better they be removed from play than that they remain in the hands of known slavers.

“Here,” he proffered a data slate, “key in the code and frequency and I’ll have my com-tech transmit it.”

She tapped out a surprisingly long alphanumeric and then she provided the frequency before handing the slate back to him.

He reviewed it briefly before forwarding it to Hephaestion with written orders to forward it as the message implied. A few moments later he received a written reply saying the message had been received, and that the Cruisers were maintaining position and status.

“Now,” she said, “let the rest of my people go and we can get down to business.”

Middleton nodded slowly, “I will if that’s what you want, but I might have a better offer.”

“A better offer?” she repeated. “What’s better than freedom?”

“Prolonged freedom,” Middleton replied easily, which seemed to grab her attention. “The Alliance Gorgonus is back, and we’ve got over a hundred warships at our disposal.”

“What?” she asked, apparently dumbfounded. “The AG fell apart years ago; its constituents scattered to the winds—I know because I picked through the bones.”

Middleton could still scarcely believe he was dealing with a self-avowed slaver. But after allying himself with the WMD-deploying Stalwart, the criminally suicidal Prichtac, the mysterious and sadistic Crafter, and even allowing a blasted Bug onto his ship, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at just how far he was willing to bend in order to accomplish his goals.

After all, if Kongming’s theory about a mysterious human faction out here was correct then he was trapped between the redoubled efforts of the Empire of Man on one side, and this as-yet-unrevealed group on the other. In such a scenario, Middleton needed all the help he could get—even if that help came with morally and ethically abhorrent baggage.

“They did scatter,” Middleton allowed, “and some of them even ended up on the other side of the galaxy. But I’m convinced that the breakdown was the work of the Empire.”

“The Empire?” she repeated skeptically.

“There’s something going on out here, Rashid—something that’s got the Imps nervous enough to re-focus all of their attention on it,” he said heavily. “And I think you know more about what’s going on out here than most. What I’m offering is a chance for your people to survive whatever’s lurking beyond the horizon. It’s not a great chance, I’ll admit, but I think it’s better than whatever plans they might hatch on their own. It’s your choice, but I think your people could play an important role in what’s to come.”

Rashid’s eyes narrowed, “Who are you?”

Middleton flashed a lopsided grin, “I’m the Supreme Military Commander of the Alliance Gorgonus…and I’m asking for your help, not just for the sake of the AG but for your peoples’ sake as well.”

She sat down on the edge of the cot, her eyes remaining fixed with his as she chewed the inside of her cheek absently. “What kind of arrangement were you looking for?”

“I need scouts,” he explained, “and your people have a dozen small ships that could split up into a handful of scouting parties which could serve my interests. I suspect you’re low on trillium,” he said, eliciting a scowl from Rashid which seemingly confirmed his suspicions, “which happens to be something we’ve got in abundance. I’d supply your people with trillium for their jump drives, along with basic supplies if they’re low on them, and task them with scouting key systems in what I suspect will be a war that re-shapes this region of the galaxy.”

Rashid shook her head in unvarnished wonderment and repeated, “Who are you?”

“I’m just a soldier who’s a long way from home and trying to do the right thing,” Middleton said almost without thinking. “What do you say: will you forward my request to your people? If they accept, we’ll need to fit their ships with data storage systems that will let me independently audit their itineraries, actions, and encounters. I know they won’t be happy about that, but it’s a small price to pay for six months’ supply of trillium—and if they decide to double-cross me, they can rip the surveillance equipment out and run off wherever they please. I’d be inclined to sanction them if I ever encountered them again, of course, but as far as starting points go I think it’s a reasonable one.”

“Six months’ trillium?” she repeated.

Middleton nodded, “I’d task them with a four month itinerary of nonstop jumps which would end with them rendezvousing with my fleet, and if they like the arrangement at that point then I’d be happy to extend it. I don’t anticipate this being over in a year, or even two.”

“What about amnesty?” she pressed.

“That’s part of why I’m not offering to roll them into my fleet,” Middleton explained. “There’s no way I could sell my allies on that, given the probability that your organization has directly antagonized some—or possibly all—of them in the past. I’m not interested in what you did previously; I’m interested in what you can do for me, right now, today. But this offer is of the ‘take it or leave it’ variety. If I come across another group that can fill this role tomorrow and you haven’t agreed to it, I’d be disinclined to compromise with what I’m sure you’ll agree are…problematic associates like yourselves.”

Rashid’s eyes snapped back and forth between Middleton’s as she sat on the edge of the cot. “Fine,” she finally relented, “I’ll forward your proposal. I can guarantee they’ll all agree to it, but as to how many actually hold up their end…”

“I won’t hold you responsible for that,” he assured her, “especially since part of this deal is that you remain a guest aboard my ship.”

“You mean a prisoner,” she chided.

Middleton shrugged, “If that suits you better.”

“It does,” she insisted. “Give me back the slate and I’ll compose the message.”

A day later, the Prejudice returned to the star system after hooking up with the rest of the fleet and informing them of the situation in general terms.

Upon his return, and just as Rashid had predicted, all eleven of the remaining slaver ship captains agreed to Middleton’s proposal—almost certainly just to get refilled with trillium and other essential supplies. Data storage and observation units were installed aboard their ships with relatively limited oversight on Middleton’s part; he knew he couldn’t force them to do anything they didn’t want to do, so he didn’t even bother pretending to that effect.

And, even more surprisingly, Rashid had held up her end of the bargain and transferred her two Cruisers over to Middleton’s control. The Stalwart managed to get them up and running in short order, but predictably there had been several developments which had hampered the speedy takeover of those vessels—chief among them the presence of nearly a thousand human and uplift slaves living in cramped conditions below decks aboard the two capital ships.

The sentients were freed and provided with as much medical attention as possible. Among them was, in fact, a surprising number of doctors and other highly skilled professionals—which Middleton supposed should not have surprised him, given that skilled slaves were worth significantly more than unskilled ones.

He made arrangements for the slaves to be transferred to the civilian vessels of the SLL as soon as they rejoined the fleet, but until then he ordered that they remain in their present berths.

After the trillium was transferred, Middleton watched as the slaver ships departed the star system in groups of two or three, until all of them were gone. Whether or not they would return probably depended on too many variables to contemplate but the loss of trillium, while not trivial, was a price he was willing to pay for the chance at increasing his knowledge of the region.

“Message to the Stalwart,” Middleton said after seeing the last of the slavers depart, “we are to rendezvous with the rest of the fleet with all due haste.”

As the AG ships spun up their hyper drives, Middleton couldn’t help but wonder if he had just gone a step too far in supplying known slavers with resources which they very well might use to return to their malicious, vile practices.

He pushed such doubts from his mind, reminding himself that this was war—and in war, one seizes every advantage he can.

Chapter XXI: Mr. Six

Samuel Sarkozi, aka ‘Mr. Scarlet,’ sat at his private workstation as he had for at least nine out of every ten waking hours he’d spent aboard his Section Chief, Mr. Black Nine’s ship.

During the past few weeks he had run hundreds of possible simulations through the ship’s robust cogitators, and he had finally made a breakthrough several days earlier.

He tried to keep from his mind the consequences of his theory proving out, and instead focused on the possibility that they were drawing ever closer to the answer which he had been enlisted to provide.

His com-link chimed and he acknowledged, “This is Mr. Scarlet.”

“Mr. Scarlet, would you join me on the bridge?” Mr. Black replied, much to Sarkozi’s surprise. During his entire time aboard Mr. Black’s ultra-secretive ship, he had only ever been granted access to his berth, the sub-deck on which it was located, and the observational conference room adjacent to the lift which connected his sub-deck with that of the observation room.

“On my way, Mr. Black,” Sarkozi acknowledged before securing his workstation and setting off for the lift.

The lift carried up for only a fraction of a second longer than it had when taking him to the conference room, and when the doors opened he found himself looking down a long corridor the bulkheads of which were pure crystal.

He moved purposefully down the corridor toward the only open door he could see, which happened to be at the far end of the corridor.

Moving onto the bridge, he saw an unfamiliar arrangement of consoles manned by a dozen black-clad officers whose eyes were fixed on their stations. Mr. Black, Sarkozi’s superior, beckoned for Sarkozi to join him on the raised dais at the center of those workstations, “Mr. Scarlet, take a look at this.”

Sarkozi stepped up onto the dais and examined the hologram in front of Mr. Black. It was of a ship—or at least what was left of it—and that ship clearly had been constructed with similar materials to those present on Mr. Black’s own ship. “One of ours,” Sarkozi concluded.

“Indeed,” Mr. Black nodded. “And it seems there is a single survivor aboard—or, rather, nearby.” He waved his hand and the hologram was replaced by the image of a misshapen lump of crystal being retrieved by what looked like a remote-operated drone. “The loss of the ship is regrettable,” Mr. Black explained, “but perhaps we can seek answers from this lone survivor?”

“What can I do to help?” Sarkozi asked.

“I want you to conduct the interrogation,” Mr. Black replied easily. “See what this survivor has to say about the fate of his ship.”

Sarkozi suspected that the reason he was being tasked with conducting the interrogation—not an ‘interview,’ as would seem to be proper when collecting a survivor from a fellow Imperial ship—were myriad, but among them was almost certainly the probability that his new algorithms had brought them to this particular location. After a fashion, that made this assignment a reward for his good work.

“Is this…survivor to be treated as an enemy combatant?” Sarkozi asked, uncertain just how far Mr. Black wanted him to go in eliciting compliance with the interrogation.

Mr. Black fixed him with a flinty look, “You are to exercise your own judgment in that regard, Mr. Scarlet.”

“Of course,” Sarkozi nodded, turning to leave, “I’ll begin at once.”

“You may use the conference room,” Mr. Black said over his shoulder before Sarkozi had disembarked the bridge. “A certain degree of privacy is likely appropriate.”

“Thank you, Mr. Black,” Sarkozi said neutrally, very much disliking the idea that he was being encouraged to torture whoever this person was.

Nonetheless, this survivor might just have some of the answers they still needed. And after months of fruitless work, Sarkozi was not about to be deterred now that he had found something resembling a thread to follow.

Two hours later, the survivor was brought into the conference room where Sarkozi had waited. He was pale and sweaty, with bloodshot eyes and tremulous extremities when he was brought in and sat down in the chair opposite Sarkozi’s.

But his attention and focus were clearly with him and, when his eyes met Sarkozi’s, the former Confederation citizen began to suspect he knew who this man was.

“What is your name?” Sarkozi asked levelly, glancing at the physiological monitors which displayed the man’s biorhythms. They were sometimes helpful, though never perfect, in determining the truthfulness of a person’s responses.

“I don’t have one,” the man replied, and a quick check of the monitors showed no signs of duplicity.

“What is your name?” Sarkozi repeated.

“What is yours?” the man said in the exact same tone, eliciting an identical set of readings from the monitors.

“What is your name?” he said the third time.

“Sir Ranston Cobble of the House Cobble, Lord of the Copper Pipe and Heir to the Eternally Muddy Pot,” the man replied neutrally, and yet again the instruments showed the exact same readings as before.

Sarkozi was equally amused and irritated, which he supposed was a failing on his part in both cases. “What is your name?”

“Queen Elzabet the Ninety Third,” the man said calmly, “Daughter of the High Root and Mother of—“

“That’s quite enough,” Mr. Black said as the door swished open behind the seated jokester.

The as-yet unnamed man turned toward the door as Mr. Black entered, and an expression that was both a sneer and grin came over him as he greeted, “Mr. Nine.”

“Mr. Six,” Mr. Black replied, clasping the other man’s hands in a customary display of familiarity. “I hope I did not give cause for offense?” Mr. Black gestured to Sarkozi, who seemed convinced he’d been the butt of a joke just as he’d suspected.

“Not at all,” ‘Mr. Six’ said, “good help is hard to find these days, after all.”

Mr. Black smiled, but it was far from a congenial expression as he gestured to Sarkozi, “Mr. Scarlet is a recent addition to my crew and I thought this would make for a proper introduction.”

“If you don’t mind?” Mr. Six asked, gesturing to the seat which he had just risen from.

“Of course not,” Mr. Black gestured for him to be seated while doing likewise at the head of the table. “But enough with the preamble: what happened to your ship?”

Mr. Six looked skeptically toward Sarkozi, who now studied the man’s expressions and mannerisms intently—and silently.

“We are all joined in a common cause, Mr. Six,” Mr. Black said, to which Mr. Six seemed relatively unconvinced but he nodded anyway.

“We had just finished with our primary mission brief,” Mr. Six explained, “and decided to test some…unusual theories regarding the Locusts.”

“What a coincidence,” Mr. Black said congenially, but his eyes betrayed his real feelings: despite their apparent familiarity, he seemed to be as suspicious as Sarkozi was about Mr. Six. “We are conducting a similar series of inquiries.”

“Truly?” Mr. Six asked dryly, but Sarkozi detected a hint of surprise in the other man’s tone. “What a small galaxy…”

“Indeed,” Mr. Black said with a false smile. “I trust you understand the severity of losing one of the few Pulsar-class vessels ever to be produced by the Empire of Man?”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Six said with a dismissive wave, “they’ll probably shorten me by a head or so and then proceed to enact the truly barbaric retributive bits generally reserved for someone of much higher reputation than myself. And while I am content to surrender myself to the learned judgment of Man, first I feel it is my obligation to inform as to what we have encountered here.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Black said with a duplicitous smile, “and just how might you elucidate the situation?”

Mr. Six reached into his mouth and, with what must have been a terribly painful jerk, removed one of his teeth and placed it on the conference table. He tore a piece from the hem of his shirt and stuffed it into his mouth before saying, “I was unable to download the entirety of my ship’s records, but I believe I retrieved enough of it to satisfy our superiors.”

Mr. Black looked at it with open skepticism, “I doubt that very much, Mr. Six.”

“I suspect you will cease to do so after reviewing its contents,” Mr. Black said confidently. “In summary: I found them and they destroyed my ship.”

“Truly?” Mr. Black deadpanned. “You must admit I am justified in displaying skepticism regarding your claim.”

“Naturally,” Mr. Six agreed, “were our roles reversed, I would be less inclined to civility than you have thus far been. But I have found them, Mr. Nine,” Six said, leaning forward intently, “and we must not tarry in returning this information to the Empire.”

Mr. Black—who Mr. Six referred to as ‘Mr. Nine’—plucked the crystal from the conference table and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “I fear I require more than indirect evidence, Mr. Six,” he eventually said, all traces of duplicity and congeniality vanished from his now stony demeanor.

“That would be inadvisable, Mr. Nine,” Mr. Six said in a cold, diamond hard tone. “At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I must convey to you in the strongest possible terms that we may already be too late.”

“That may be,” Mr. Black said, standing from the table, “but whatever is on this crystal must be corroborated by directly harvested readings made by my ship’s systems. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can follow your ‘advice’ that we return to the Fleet. Too much division presently exists within the Empire; if we return with anything less than first-hand, irrefutable evidence we risk the gears of politics erasing these many years’ efforts spent searching for what you claim to have already found. You will work with Mr. Scarlet,” Mr. Black said, gesturing to Sarkozi. “It was his theory which led us to your ship, so it stands to reason that by working together you can…‘re-locate’ that which you apparently failed to evade after locating the first time.”

“Mr. Nine,” Mr. Six stood and inclined his head before the door swished behind Mr. Black as he exited the room. Mr. Six turned to Sarkozi with something approaching respect—and possibly something more cautionary—as he asked, “You devised the algorithms which brought my brother’s ship here?”

Sarkozi knew that his declaration of familial bonds with Mr. Black was as close to an olive branch as he was ever going to get, so he stood and nodded, “I did.”

“Not bad,” Mr. Six mused, pausing for a moment before rubbing his jaw where he had removed his tooth, “then we had best be to work.”

Chapter XXII: The Eye Opens

“We make final approach to the wreckage,” Hammer reported as Kongming continued to pore over the sensor feeds describing the derelict Unbordered vessel.

“There are no power signatures,” Kongming reported, “or waste heat inconsistent with the stated date of abandonment provided by the Unbordered.”

“So they were not lying?” asked coyly.

“That is unascertainable at this time, Kratos,” Kongming replied, as he suspected the Tracto-an had expected. “But there is no contradictory evidence that I have yet collected which would invalidate the Unbordered’s claims: there are massive structural failures all along the ship’s primary hull; the engines appear to have suffered catastrophic coolant leaks; and the trace strange particles present near the ship’s hyper drive do seem consistent with the reports provided by the Unbordered.”

“What about life support?” Primarch Nail asked.

“Thankfully, it seems the Unbordered were able to largely contain the coolant leak,” Kongming explained, “though roughly half of the ship’s interior is exposed to vacuum. In order to retrieve the listed articles, we will still need to utilize EVA gear.”

“My family can conduct the retrieval,” Nail offered. “They are experienced at salvaging hulks like this one,” his lips parted, revealing his mouth full of broken and missing teeth, “and it would be a pity to leave anything valuable aboard when we set off the scuttling charges.”

“Your observation of efficiency is duly noted, Primarch,” Kongming said with only a trace of ill humor. He knew as well as the Stalwart Primarch that supplies were precious in this region of space and, while he disliked the notion of picking over the bones of a derelict warship whose people had essentially requested they not do so, he also understood that survival often trumped principle. “However, I must insist that my own team accompany the salvage teams. If significant value is retrieved during the course of this mission, it should at the very least be equally distributed among this mission’s bearers.”

Nail scowled and thumped his chest, “This is my ship, boy.”

“Indeed,” Kongming allowed graciously, “and as such one third of the salvaged value should be disbursed directly to the ship itself, another third should be kept in reserve for the AG Fleet’s general supplies, and the final third should be distributed—equally—among the many current members of this ship’s crew, which would obviously include my team as crew of equal standing with your family.”

Nail slowly grinned, “You have a wicked tongue, boy. I like it.”

“Excellent,” Kongming nodded deferentially before turning to Kratos, “lead the Void Hunters in assisting Primarch Nail’s family in recovering the listed articles, along with whatever other equipment might be of value. We are budgeted three days of our itinerary to remain here, and if I cannot locate the source of the gravitational disturbance which wrecked that ship,” he tilted his head toward the broke-backed image on the viewer, “we must proceed to the third and final destination on our schedule.”

“Understood,” Kratos acknowledged before setting off to carry out Kongming’s orders.

After that, Kongming cracked his knuckles and redoubled his efforts to locate the mysterious source of the gravitational disturbance he had been sent to investigate.

“It has been three days,” Primarch Nail said unhappily. “The ship has been stripped, its bones scuttled, and it’s time to go to our next target.”

“I am on to something, Primarch,” Kongming said as he continued to refine the sensors in an effort to isolate the faint, almost phantasmal disturbances which he had only briefly glimpsed during his time in this star system.

That the Unbordered ship had been affected by such brief, random and infrequent gravitational distortions was as statistically unlikely as a man being struck by lightning while aboard a ship in deep space…well, perhaps not quite that unlikely, but the odds were in the billions to one against a ship experiencing a severe enough gravity ‘ripple’ of the kind which Kongming had detected since arriving in this system.

“My fuel is burning, boy,” Nail grunted.

“It is within my authority to—“ Kongming began to argue in defense of holding position. Thankfully, before he could finish pleading his case, his sensors detected another ripple—and this time his adjustments had allowed him to isolate the direction of the source. “There,” he declared triumphantly, extrapolating the information into a rough course and forwarding it to Primarch Nail’s chair, “I have isolated another ripple and determined a possible point of origin.”

Nail peered at his station’s readout, and he quickly began to glare at it, “That is nearly three days’ travel from here at sub-light.”

“We cannot risk a short jump, Primarch,” Kongming asserted. “These gravity waves are clearly emanating from something in that direction, and our sensors detect absolutely nothing out there. No light, no heat, no lensing, no x-rays—not even gravimetric disturbances, aside from these infrequent and seemingly random gravity ripples. Something is there, but it is concealed.”

Primarch Nail scowled at Kongming for several seconds before turning his chair toward the Helm, “Plot a new course, Hammer. Take us to this great nothing that has seized our passengers’ attention.”

Hammer grumbled, “Yes, Father.”

Kongming rubbed his eyes wearily. He had only slept infrequently since coming aboard the Unthreadable Needle, and it had been even worse in the last three days since he had been focused on discovering the source of these gravitational disturbances.

He stood from his station and said, “I think it would be best if I took a meal and slept, Primarch.”

Nail nodded, “You are relieved.”

Kongming bowed deferentially and made his way to the ship’s galley, where the Primarch’s fourth wife, Beni, was working over a pot of her surprisingly tasty—if terribly smelling—stew. “Kongming,” she greeted in broken Imperial, handing him a bowl, “you are first eater!”

Kongming accepted the bowl graciously and quickly shoveled it into his mouth. He had not realized just how hungry he had become, and after a second helping he returned the bowl and spoke in Imperial, “Thank you, Beni. It was delicious as always.”

“Dee-lish-us,” Beni repeated, having worked hard on her Imperial pronunciation of late with Kongming acting as a part-time tutor. “You mostly welcome,” she beamed.

Kongming returned the smile and made his way to his quarters, but decided at the last moment to engage Abyss. The Director Bug had been utterly consumed with reading the vast library of philosophical literature which Kongming had provided via the Prejudice’s database of such literature. As such, Kongming had largely left Abyss alone. But he thought now would be a good time to approach the Director Bug for a possible conversation on deeply philosophical matters.

In a way, it was refreshing—and even invigorating—for Kongming having someone who was significantly more intelligent available for discussion. There were numerous, often confounding differences between Kongming’s and Abyss’s shared reference points and, by extension, their respective abilities to understand each other on deeper issues. But this, too, was fascinating to explore since, for the first time in his life, Kongming had met someone who could out-think him at every common corner.

It was a gift he knew he was unlikely to receive twice, and so he decided to forego a few hours of sleep in order to avail himself of Abyss’s powerful mind.

He opened the door to Abyss’s quarters—which were obviously located in the ship’s brig—and the Director Bug looked up at him with his multi-faceted eyes as soon as Kongming glimpsed him through the duralloy bars.

“Kongming,” Abyss greeted, and even though the smell of ‘communicating’ with the Director Bug was no less unpleasant than it had previously been, Kongming felt less repulsed by it than he had initially. “These gifts are most appreciated,” Abyss said, gesturing to the handful of data slates neatly arrayed before him. “There is much wisdom which has been provided.”

“It is my pleasure, Abyss,” Kongming said, sitting down into his usual, cross-legged position on this side of the bars, while the Director Bug plucked one of the slates up into his ruined arm. “Have you completed all of the entries?”

“Wisdom is never complete,” Abyss chided, eliciting a grin from Kongming, “but exposure to this information has been achieved. Repeated exposures are occasionally necessary to enhance enlightenment. For example,” he waved the data slate in his lone, ruined arm, “the collected works of ‘Dr. Seuss’ required seven hundred and eighty two exposures before ideological continuity and internal consistency was established.”

Kongming grinned, “Those are children’s books. They’re not supposed to be internally consistent or ideologically continuous. They’re sort of primers for…well for social graces, I suppose, along with mnemonic devices which refer to generally superficial existential matters to which a developing mind can relate.”

“That appears to be the correct conclusion,” Abyss admitted, sending out a wave of almost fruity scents as his ‘voice’ filled Kongming’s head. “However, while such could have been communicated via annotations or external commentary, it was fascinating and, indeed, enlightening for this perspective to discover these apparent truths independently.”

“I’m glad you liked them,” Kongming said, deciding to move on to an issue he had not yet broached with Abyss. “How is it that I can communicate with you, Abyss?”

“The translation device is crude, but effective at conveying information,” Abyss gestured to the translator which had been installed near the barred door.

“That is not my meaning,” Kongming shook his head.

“Meaning is the harvest of a lifetime a-sowing,” Abyss said serenely.

Kongming cocked his head, “I am unfamiliar with that axiom.”

“That is to be expected,” Abyss inclined his head. “For it was not found within any of the informational sources provided.”

“It is an original Abyss?” Kongming asked with amusement.

“That would appear to be accurate,” Abyss agreed.

Kongming sighed in both wonderment and frustration. “What I meant to ask was—“

“The answer remains hidden until the proper question is asked,” Abyss interrupted. “Knowledge is not a destination any more than learning is a journey. They are both a state of being, over which there is ultimately little control. Embrace the abyss, Kongming, for it is there that you will find your question.”

Kongming chuckled, “I came here for clarity, but I think I have lost more of it than I have gained.”

“Then your sphere of inquiry has expanded,” Abyss said with what sounded like a faint note of amusement in his ‘voice’ within Kongming’s head, “which may ultimately prove to be the true purpose of sentient perspective: to ask ever more complex questions after discovering them to be the answers to their simpler, less meaningful predecessors.”

Kongming sighed as he stood from the floor, “I should sleep. Good night, Abyss.”

“Boundless reciprocity, Kongming.”

“We’re here…now what?” Primarch Nail demanded three days after Kongming had identified the apparent source of the gravitational waves.

“I do not understand,” Kongming said in frustration. “The gravitational ripples have all pointed to this location—we are less than a light minute from the source.”

“It’s empty space, boy,” Nail waved a hand irritably at the main viewer. “Not even the usual amount of trace gases are floating around out there. This is a wasteland and investigating it has consumed three days of our time, supplies, and—most importantly of all—my patience!”

“Primarch,” Kratos’ deep, rumbling voice came from the rear of the bridge as he approached the Primarch’s chair, which swiveled to face the towering Tracto-an, “I know Kongming. His ability is unrivaled among the stars, and he has never failed to discover the answers he has sought. With respect, I suggest you display the proper courtesy and patience.”

Nail seemed equally surprised and angered by Kratos’ words, but Kongming realized something that Nail had said almost certainly would help him—a phrase which Kongming quickly blurted, “Space dust!”

“What?” Nail barked, glaring at Kongming—who barely even noticed as he began re-calibrating the Needle’s sensors.

“There is an abnormally low concentration of space dust out here,” Kongming explained as his suspicions were confirmed by the first round of sensor reports on the local trace gases, “and the dispersal of what is floating around out here is arranged in concentric spheres—like ripples on a pond,” he explained, horribly disappointed with himself for failing to see it earlier but too excited to be weighed down by that disappointment just yet. “The gravity ripples are both pushing and pulling the space dust in extremely subtle ways…and by comparing the dispersal of gases with the expected interstellar mix…”

His eyes widened as he realized that less than a light second off their bow was a reading which showed trace gases which were completely unaffected by the gravitational waves—which, to Kongming’s mind, could mean only one thing.

“Primarch, reverse course at maximum speed!” he yelled.

“What?” Nail asked.

“Do as he says!” Kratos bellowed.

After throwing a heated glare in Kratos’ direction, the Primarch turned back to his son at the Helm, “Come about—full astern!”

“Full astern, aye,” Hammer acknowledged, and the ship pivoted—hard—before max-burning its engines and drastically slowing its already greatly diminished momentum. After several seconds, the ship was at a relative standstill—at least according to the instruments, which continued to insist that there was nothing out there except oddly-distributed space dust.

“Would someone mind telling me what that was about?!” Nail barked.

Kratos gave Kongming a pointed look as the young man continued to refine his sensor data. “I do not understand,” he growled, forwarding his sensor readings to the main viewer, “it is obvious that there is something out there—and whatever it is, it is both attracting and repelling nearby trace gases but does not appear to be influencing the gases within the anomalous zone. There is an object out there, but we cannot yet see it.”

“What the…” Nail muttered, leaning forward in his chair to examine the virtual display which Kongming had forwarded—a display which included a spherical description of the mysterious, unthinkably large zone before them. “That’s impossible. The size of it…”

Kongming shared Nail’s concerns, having already run the calculations and finding that the ‘gas-free-but-apparently-empty’ region of space before them was two light minutes across.

“How large is it?” Kratos asked.

“The region of space which our sensors show as containing normally-distributed trace gases is a sphere in excess of one light minute in diameter,” Kongming explained as he continued to refine his instruments.

“If it is so vast,” Kratos said skeptically, “why can we not see it?”

“It is a riddle, Kratos,” Kongming said as he worked intently at his station, “and I happen to be very good at solving riddles.”

Thirty hours later, Kongming was no closer to finding an answer to the riddle before him than he had been upon discovering it. He had even consulted with Abyss, whose bizarre musings failed to stir any unexplored corners of Kongming’s mind.

Kongming was running out of options.

“I would rather not do this,” he muttered as he approached the brig cell opposite Abyss’s. He tapped out a command sequence and the solid door—which stood in contrast to the barred door of Abyss’s cell—receded to reveal the Crafter’s confinement.

“Kongming,” the Crafter greeted, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I am in need of assistance,” Kongming said, “and I have nowhere else to turn.”

“I am your last resort?” the Crafter asked in unvarnished amusement.

“It would seem so,” Kongming nodded.

“How may I be of service?”

Kongming considered his next words carefully before pulling a stool into the room from just outside the door. He sat down on the stool and, after considerable silent debate, said, “I will not claim to know who you are, but I do know something of you.”

“Oh?” the Crafter demurred. “And what is it that you think you know?”

Kongming produced a data slate which contained a medical scan he had conducted while aboard the Unthreadable Needle. Until he had been transferred to the fully-equipped Prichtac ship, Kongming had been unable to confirm his lingering suspicions regarding the Ancient neural tissue which had infected him prior to the Battle of Cagnzyz. But now, after thoroughly reviewing the contents of the data slate, he knew there was no more room for doubt.

“What is this?” the Crafter asked after studying the slate’s contents.

“It is a highly advanced, bio-technological data transmission and processing system,” Kongming explained, “and it was developed and produced before humanity had ever wondered at the stars.”

The Crafter’s lips spread in a serpentine smile, “You have quite the way with words, young man.”

Ignoring the Crafter’s jab, Kongming continued, “That same type of bio-tech was present in the craft we retrieved from the Unbordered colony, which I assume played some part in your decision to destroy it before we could thoroughly examine it.”

“Indeed?” the Crafter arched a brow. “Would it surprise you to learn that such a decision was never mine to make—well, at least, not in the sense you seem to imply.”

“It wouldn’t,” Kongming shook his head. “In fact, I anticipated as much.”

“You are truly clever,” the Crafter mused. “I find myself thoroughly intrigued by you, Kongming.”

“In any case,” Kongming pressed on, “we both know how you came into possession of that small craft—what I do not know is why you chose to surrender to us?”

“You captured me,” the Crafter said, as though it was obvious, “I had a simple choice: confinement or death.”

“You summoned us,” Kongming leaned forward purposefully, remembering the Seer’s last words to him some weeks earlier in the Prejudice’s galley, “and, if I am right, it is because someone told you to do so.”

The Crafter’s playful demeanor hardened fractionally, “Why would you think so?”

“Because,” Kongming reached for the slate, and after accepting it from the Crafter he pulled up the virtual reconstruction of the Seer who had appeared to him, first at Cagnzyz, then upon Kongming’s realization that Zhongda had been a hallucination, and finally in the Prejudice’s galley some weeks earlier, “you are not the only one to whom he has spoken.”

The Crafter accepted the slate and was unable to suppress a look of genuine surprise. “You…” the Crafter said with quickly-narrowed eyes, “then that means…”

“I don’t know what he told you,” Kongming said, “but if I’m right, and if this man did indeed appear to you, then you need to tell it to me what he said—and you need to do so now before it’s too late.”

The Crafter’s demeanor changed so greatly that, for a second, Kongming thought he was looking at an entirely different person as the seemingly genderless prisoner stood purposefully, “We should go to the bridge.”

Kongming nodded, and the two set off for the Needle’s control center.

They moved in silence, but it was clear to Kongming that he had been correct in his deductions regarding the Crafter’s role in this mysterious drama—or, at least, he had been right about some portion of the Crafter’s role.

“What are you doing?” Nail demanded. “Put the prisoner back in her cell!”

“A moment, if you will, Primarch,” Kongming insisted as he led the Crafter to the Comm. station.

“I am a Primarch and commander of this ship,” Nail growled. “You will obey my orders!”

“We are not in combat,” Kongming reminded him, “which means my authority overrides yours. The Crafter is here to assist us in identifying the mysterious object in front of us.”

The Primarch seemed fit to burst with anger, and Hammer stood from his station at the Helm. Thankfully, Kratos interdicted the young Stalwart and said, “The last time we crossed, I showed restraint and compassion for your youthful ignorance. I will not be so gentle a second time.”

Hammer hesitated, and thankfully the Crafter completed inputting a string of information into the Needle’s comm. system.

“What is it?” Kongming asked.

“I only know that it is what you asked me to provide,” the Crafter said grimly.

“That will have to be enough,” Kongming said with a wary nod.

“I am ordering you not to send that transmission,” Nail growled, hopping down from his command chair and reaching for the blaster pistol at his hip.

“Transmission is away,” Kongming declared.

“You fool!” Nail snapped, but the viewer to which his back was turned began to shimmer. Slowly, and in much the same fashion as the ripples on a pond which Kongming had alluded to earlier, the empty space before them morphed into a heart-stopping image.

“Primarch,” Kratos said breathlessly, and the elderly Stalwart whirled with his pistol in hand to see the image on the main screen.

Blossoming at a point directly in front of the Needle—a point no more than ten thousand kilometers distant from the little warship—was the image of a massive, rectangular panel which slowly rotated left-to-right before the comparatively miniscule Corvette.

The panel seemed to stretch on for tens—and then hundreds!—of thousands of miles before it finally came to an end.

“Pull back,” Nail whispered, his voice broken by what Kongming knew could only be terror, “pull back, son.”

Hammer was too dumbfounded to move, but Kratos placed a hand against the young Stalwart’s shoulder and that seemed to spur him to action. “Pulling back,” Hammer said unsteadily after returning to his post.

The Needle’s sensors read that, at precisely the speed of light, the ‘ripple’ which had revealed the rectangular panel before them continued to reveal similar, adjacent panels.

“What is it?” Kratos asked tightly.

“A mega-structure,” Kongming said, nearly dumbfounded as the Needle moved away and gained a better vantage point. “Our ancestors used to call them ‘Dyson Spheres’,” he explained, but even as the entirety of the structure was revealed to them he knew that such a term could never hope to describe the truth of what was before them.

“Who built it?” Kratos asked, as usual driving for the heart of the issue.

“I do not know,” Kongming said as, suddenly and without warning, the same ripple effect which had revealed the Dyson Sphere before they began to re-cloak it in the unthinkably advanced concealment systems which had previously hidden it from their view.

As he pored over the brief window of clear sensor data, he realized that the massive panels which orbited the relatively small star at the Sphere’s center were merely the outer layer of a densely-packed, perfectly-coordinated set of ever-smaller spheres likely composed of similar panels.

After a little more than a minute from the initial transmission, the Dyson Sphere was once again hidden. For all intents and purposes, there appeared to be nothing off the Needle’s bow but a patch of empty, featureless space.

Silence hung over the bridge as everyone present attempted to grapple with what they had just seen. Kongming alone was engaged in trying to parse the sensor feeds which they had gained during the short-lived window through which they had glimpsed the largest structure ever recorded by humans.

Eventually, Kratos broke the silence, “Can you do that again?”

Chapter XXIII: The Watchful Eye

“It is not simply a Dyson Sphere,” Kongming explained after several hours spent reviewing the roughly minute-long sensor window which the Crafter’s code had provided. “It is hundreds of Dyson Spheres, each smaller than the one beyond it, and these structures harness the total output of the star.”

“They are the stuff of legend…we must be mistaken,” Nail objected lamely.

“No,” Kongming said firmly, “we are not mistaken. Somehow, by harnessing the total output of the star it conceals, this mega-structure is able to conceal its own existence so cleverly that even at a range of less than ten thousand kilometers we only registered the barest hint of abnormalities when scanning the space which the structure occupies. We are fortunate we did not crash into it,” he added pointedly.

“Why build something so vast?” Kratos asked.

“That is difficult to say,” Kongming admitted, though he had drawn one likely conclusion after putting together all of the available data, “but, if my suspicions are correct, this is what was once known as a Matrioshka Brain.”

“A what?” Nail demanded.

Kongming pulled up the only example of such a structure that he could find—and that example was found in a cheap holo-vid which he had brought from the Prejudice. The crude image of massive panels orbiting and counter-orbiting each other was laughably improbable, but for all its technical faults Kongming was surprised at just how much the vid’s makers had gotten right about such a colossal structure.

“There are hundreds of thousands of independent satellites orbiting this star,” he explained, zooming in on the holo-vid’s example, “and, if it is indeed a Matrioshka Brain, each of those satellites contributes to the general function of the Brain—which is obviously to process data.”

“It is a computer?” Kratos asked incredulously.

“Not just a computer,” the Crafter interjected, “but, at least in theory, one of the largest and most powerful cogitative devices possible to construct within our universe.”

Kongming nodded, “Philosophers often opine that a Matrioshka Brain could—again, in theory—simulate entire universes in real time. The arguments, as they are apparently made, suggest that once a computer could simulate reality in real time it would be impossible to distinguish actual reality from virtual reality.”

“What a ridiculous idea,” Nail grumbled.

“Perhaps,” Kongming allowed, having already formed an opinion as to how this Matrioshka Brain might be related to his own strange transformation—a transformation which involved the Ancient neural tissue he had been infected with so many months earlier. Creating and then unraveling the ‘threads of probability’ would be precisely within the ability of a Matrioshka Brain. “In any case,” he refocused on the task at hand, “I think it is imperative that we investigate this structure directly.”

“Wait,” Nail blurted between bites of his banana, “you want to go inside that thing?”

“I do,” Kongming nodded before adding, “but I must go alone.”

“Why speak such nonsense?” Kratos asked coolly. “I am tasked with your safety; do you think yourself clever enough to escape my watchful eye?”

Kongming could not help but grin as he replied, “Perhaps I could have when you only had one eye, but that is no longer the case.”

Kratos returned the grin and the Crafter said, “I do not know any more about what is inside that thing than the rest of you, but I suspect that I was not given the key to a door I was forbidden to enter.”

Kongming sighed, “Then we bring Abyss, also.”

“The Bug?” Kratos asked with a furrowed brow.

“Yes,” Kongming nodded, “I have a feeling that whatever—or whoever—awaits within the sphere is responsible for many of the seemingly disjointed events which have led us to this moment. And that entity, in its cryptic way, requested the presence of myself, Kratos, the Crafter and Abyss.”

“Then why the pretense?” the Crafter asked with a curious expression.

Kongming shrugged, “I believe in the concept of free will.”

“Notwithstanding such nonsense,” Kratos grunted as he stood from the table, “I will see that the shuttle is prepared.”

“You will need a pilot,” Nail said while shaking his head, “but I can’t ask my family to go with you.”

“I can pilot the shuttle,” the Crafter assured the Primarch. “What of the Void Hunters?”

“They stay aboard the Needle,” Kongming insisted before turning to Nail urgently. “If we do not return in one hundred hours, you are ordered to return to the mission itinerary.”

“I’m not much for diplomacy,” Nail muttered before nodding, “but I’ll carry on without you if you don’t come back.”

“One hundred hours, Primarch,” Kongming reiterated.

“We’ll hold to it,” Nail assured him.

“Then we should get moving,” Kongming said, and the team prepared for the away mission.

“Docking clamps disengaged,” the Crafter reported from pilot’s seat in the unnamed shuttle assigned to the Unthreadable Needle. “Lifting off.”

The Crafter guided the shuttle out of the Needle’s starboard hangar and gently brought the nose of the craft around to point at the ominous, empty-looking patch of space that the shuttle’s occupants knew contained one of the greatest mysteries ever discovered by humanity.

The small craft drew steadily nearer to the invisible mega-structure, and soon the Crafter engaged braking thrust and brought the shuttle to a dead stop.

“We are five hundred kilometers from the surface,” the Crafter reported, and on the tactical screen beside the pilot’s instrumentation panel the virtual image of the Dyson Sphere rotated just as it had done when they had seen it with their own eyes.

“If the panels are moving with the same angular momentum, and in the same orientation as before,” Kongming mused, “then we should transmit the signal in two minutes in order to visualize the relatively tiny opening to the sphere’s interior.”

The two minutes passed and the Crafter transmitted the signal, causing the exact same rippling phenomenon to blossom outward from the bow of the shuttle. This time a relatively small gap between the unthinkably large plates appeared and the Crafter gunned the shuttle’s engines, driving to reach that gap before it was once again cloaked like the rest of the sphere would be in less than a minute.

The shuttle easily slid through the gap between the sphere’s outer panels. The panels were surprisingly thin—no more than a meter at most—and once on the other side, there was only the faintest hint of light detectable by the shuttle’s instruments between the next layer of panels. Those panels appeared to be several thousand kilometers within the outer layer of panels. The sensors were unable to determine the composition of the panels, except the edges which appeared to be reinforced primarily with iron.

Kongming watched the stern-mounted camera as the gap through which they had entered seemed to vanish entirely, along with the panels that bordered it. The sensors no longer read the outer panels as existing, but the inner layer was still plainly visible on the shuttle’s sensors.

“This is extraordinary,” Kratos said, and from experience Kongming knew that the big Tracto-an was uncannily difficult to confound, intimidate, or otherwise inspire to awe.

“It is,” Kongming agreed as the Crafter adjusted the shuttle’s course to make for the nearest gap in the second layer of panels.

“We may never return from this,” the Crafter said casually as the shuttle approached, then passed through the second gap. Again, the third layer appeared to be several thousand kilometers star-ward from the second, and the Crafter added, “Though I doubt anyone present would mind much if we manage to satisfy our collective curiosity.”

Abyss was curiously silent, but Kongming saw that he appeared to be relaxing and looked unconcerned with the events transpiring in the cockpit where the rest of his fellow passengers had congregated.

“We should look for a feature of some kind,” Kongming suggested, though he found no such features anywhere within sensor range—which, obviously, was extremely limited due to the fact that the shuttle’s sensors could not penetrate the Matrioshka Brain’s panels. “But until we find one, keep going deeper inside.”

Twenty hours elapsed as they carefully picked their way through the miniscule gaps in the layers of the Sphere. By Kongming’s calculations they had only traverse a quarter of the sphere’s radius, but the further in they went the more convinced he was that the sphere was indeed a Matrioshka Brain.

“Every layer in here is progressively thicker,” he noted, “though it seems the panels—ignoring their edges—are little more than a few millimeters thick even at this strata.”

“Ambient temperature is only marginally higher at this depth compared to the outer shell,” the Crafter mused. “Average local temperature is only six degrees kelvin.”

The shuttle slipped through yet another gap between the segments, and when it did so the ambient light increased to several times its previous luminosity.

“What is it?” the Crafter asked.

“I do not know,” Kongming replied as he saw that significant amounts of light were now showing through the next layer of gaps between the sphere’s independently rotating segments. The ship’s grav-plates seemed to ‘hiccup’ for a moment, decreasing their artificial pull suddenly before resuming the standard gee forces programming into the control systems. A quick check confirmed, “Local gravity has increased significantly; by these estimates there is a relatively small red dwarf star at the center of this mega-structure.”

“That should be expected,” the Crafter said dismissively, “red dwarfs are far longer-lasting than larger stars; it would be a waste of materials to construct a Matrioshka Brain around a larger, shorter-lived star since it would only function for a fraction of the time that a smaller system centered on a red dwarf would function.”

Kongming nodded, having familiarized himself with most of the literature available to them on the subject of such mind-numbingly enormous—and, until now, purely theoretical—feats of engineering.

“I am detecting something,” the Crafter said, and Kongming confirmed that there was indeed an irregularity present near the next gap through which their shuttle had been maneuvering to pass. “It appears to be…” the Crafter trailed off, and Kongming found that he too was at a loss for words to describe the structure.

The panels thus far had been utterly uniform with the others of their orbital depths, but this particular panel had a large, crystalline structure built near its edge.

In fact, further examination showed that the layer of panels on which that structure was erected was composed of the same crystalline material as the structure—a significant difference when compared to the unreadable materials comprising the outer layers of the structure.

“If I did not know better,” Kongming said evenly as he magnified a long, vertical spire extending from the edge of the structure, “I would say that looks like a docking port.”

“Indeed,” the Crafter agreed. “And it is attached to a significant structure…which is rectangular, measures two thousand kilometers on its longest edge, and stands a median height of ten meters from the surface of the panel’s outer surface.”

“Two thousand kilometers?” Kratos repeated.

“There is more,” Kongming said after his sensors returned a strange, ceramic signature near the docking port, “there appears to be a ship docked at the port—and it appears to be of the same construction as the shuttle we recovered from the Unbordered colony,” he finished, turning to the Crafter who wore a look of what seemed like genuine surprise.

“I can assure you,” the Crafter said while decelerating and adjusting course to make for the docking port, “I am at least as surprised as you appear to be.”

A few minutes later the shuttle settled into position beside the docking ring, which instantly extended a shaft of what the sensors read to be liquid crystal. That crystal formed a perfect seal around the shuttle’s lone boarding hatch, and a quick check of the atmosphere beyond showed it to be a breathable mix of nitrogen, and oxygen, and nothing else.

“We were expected,” the Crafter said as Kratos finished donning his power armor.

“It would seem so,” Kongming agreed. “But, just the same, EVA protocols should be observed.”

“Of course,” the Crafter agreed.

“Abyss,” Kongming said, turning to the Director Bug as he felt genuinely torn about how to proceed, “we don’t have any breathing apparatuses that will fit you. Do you prefer to stay in the shuttle or come inside?”

“Motion is unnecessary,” the Bug replied.

“All right,” Kongming nodded, feeling a rising excitement well up within himself as Kratos clomped his way over to the hatch, “let’s go find some answers.”

Chapter XXIV: The Maligned Middle

The shaft which connected the shuttle to the crystalline structure was perfectly designed to accommodate humans—even one as large as the power-armored Kratos, who took point during the two hundred meter walk from the shuttle’s airlock to the main structure.

The gravity within the crystalline passageway was a perfect 0.9 standard, but Kongming was far from surprised at this point. Dozens—no, hundreds or perhaps even thousands—of events had transpired in perfect harmony to bring them to this point. And the more he had learned these past few months, the more clearly he saw the fingerprints of a single entity who had orchestrated those events.

They reached the end of the passage and arrived a perfectly featureless, opaque wall which appeared to be composed of the same material as the rest of the crystalline corridor.

“How do we open it?” Kratos asked, hefting his blaster rifle suggestively.

“No,” Kongming shook his head, stepping forward to examine the flat, circular pane of opaque crystal, “I doubt we would be required to force entry—or, more pointedly, I doubt your weapon would succeed in doing so.”

Kratos grunted disapprovingly, but Kongming decided to try something out a cheap holo-vid: he reached out with his gloved hand and touched the pane of crystal barring their way. Unfortunately, nothing happened.

He sighed, undoing the seal at his glove’s cuff and muttering in his native Qin, “These are the fruits of a life spent watching holo-dramas…”

He removed his glove and this time when he placed his fingers against the opaque pane he was rewarded with a warm, tingling sensation that ran up his arm and seemingly suffused his entire body. It was surprising but far from uncomfortable, and he was almost disappointed when the feeling subsided and the opaque crystalline panel before them slowly began to melt away.

Behaving like something between liquid and powder, the crystalline panel first became translucent and then receded into the circular jamb at the end of the corridor through which they had passed.

Beyond that corridor was a junction with only two choices: left, which would presumably take them back to the other ship which was docked nearby or right, which moved further into the two thousand kilometer long, rectangular structure built onto the thirty thousand kilometer long panel which formed part of what Kongming was increasingly convinced was indeed a Matrioshka Brain.

“We should investigate the ship first,” Kongming decided, turning left and shortly coming to a seemingly identical, opaque pane of crystal set into an equally identical jamb, beyond which was almost certainly the second ship.

Though this time, when Kongming attempted to open the crystalline door by placing his hand against it, nothing happened. He cocked his head in confusion, trying again but again nothing happened.

“The way seems to be made clear,” the Crafter sighed, and Kongming was forced to agree.

They doubled back and made their way down the right-hand corridor, walking several meters before Kongming’s com-link chimed that they were out of range of the shuttle’s transceiver—from which he had been receiving passive sensor feeds.

“That’s odd,” he said, turning around and seeing that the corridor through which they had just come was gone. In its place was another opaque, crystal disc which barred the way. Yet again, when he touched it nothing happened.

“I am not livestock to be herded,” Kratos growled.

“Nor I,” Kongming agreed, “but we have little choice in the matter.”

He resumed his previous direction and after less than a minute came to another opaque disc. He sighed, reaching out tentatively with his hand before looking over his shoulder.

To his surprise, neither Kratos nor the Crafter were in the now-truncated corridor with him. The ‘corridor,’ such as it was, was now merely ten meters long and was eerily silent. “Kratos?” he called out, checking his com-link and finding nothing amiss. There was no interference that he could detect, but there was also no signal from either Kratos’ power armor or the shuttle.

He grimaced, but he knew he had come too far to allow fear to control him. There was a potentially matchless harvest of discovery to be had on the other side of the door he had just reached, and he knew of nothing that could stop him from attempting to reach it now that he was so close.

Kongming reached out with his hand, this time with more confidence, and when his fingers touched the opaque panel he was rewarded with the same warm, tingling sensation which had preceded the opening of the first door.

Just as before, the panel seemed to melt away and what was revealed beyond was unlike anything he had expected to find.

The chamber he stepped into was dome-shaped and cavernous, measuring at least fifty meters high at the apex and twice that in diameter at the floor. The dome’s surfaced glimmered with a hypnotic display of lights, the patterns and colors of which were more fascinating than any other display he had witnessed in his life.

But they were mere footnotes compared to the mound of clearly organic material situated in the middle of the dome’s floor. Thousands of strands of the same, fleshy material which Kongming had found aboard the ComStat Hub—and which powered the Prejudice’s virtual processing systems—were interwoven to form bundles which grew progressively thicker the closer they came to the center of the chamber.

There, pulsing with an inner, greenish light was a spire of crystal which even as he watched seemed to gradually morph from one ‘form’ to another without ever changing its apparent physical dimensions or angles.

A nearby strand of neural tissue no thicker than a spaghetti noodle slowly unwound itself from its main bundle and rose, like a cobra, until it was at the level of Kongming’s eyes—which, incidentally, is where its thin end was pointed.

Kongming took a hesitant step back and the fiber sluggishly pursued. Kongming drew a deep, steadying breath and muttered, “This is what you came for…”

Steeling his resolve, he reached out with his finger until it was mere inches from the bundle. The bundle slowly moved toward his fingernail, and when it touched his skin he felt a surge of what seemed like electrical current surge through his body.

His vision instantly whited out, and when he regained his senses he was in the same dreamscape where he had first conversed with the Seer.

“You have come at last,” the Seer’s voice called from over his shoulder, and Kongming turned to see the same apparition which had haunted his waking thoughts since the fantasy of Zhongda had been chased from his mind.

“You brought me here,” Kongming said, “so why do you sound surprised?”

“We cannot truly see the future, Kongming,” the Seer sighed. “We can only unwind the threads of probability as the Masters taught us to do so very, very long ago.”

“The Masters…they were the Ancients,” Kongming said, rather than asked. He waved his hand, intending to encompass the dome but seeing nothing except empty, white void where he gestured. The only things which were tangible and perceptible in this strange, virtual space were him and the Seer.

“They were that,” the Seer nodded. “And they were much, much more.”

“I need answers,” Kongming said flatly, “not more cryptic nonsense.”

“And answers you shall have,” the Seer agreed. “What would you know?”

“Did the Ancients build this place—the Matrioshka Brain, I mean,” Kongming again futilely gestured to the emptiness around him.

“No,” the Seer shook his head serenely, “the Eyes were left behind by others. The Masters simply learned to use them and they passed this knowledge on to us, who act as their Watchers.”

Kongming’s suspicion was now confirmed: the Matrioshka Brain was indeed the ‘Eye’ which the Seer had hinted at earlier. “What were the Seers supposed to watch?”

“Everything,” the Seer replied, “for there is nothing in the universe which does not contribute to, or attempt to undo, the most precious thing of all: life.”

“Were the ‘Eyes’ built by the Elders?”

The Seer cocked his head dubiously, “I do not know the answer to that question. What I know is that the Masters did not build them.”

Kongming narrowed his eyes, “You’re not real, are you?”

“I am no less and no more real than you are,” the Seer retorted.

“You’re…a part of me somehow,” Kongming concluded.

“Put simply: yes. But now you are also a part of me,” the Seer explained. “Think of it as a symbiosis: the Mark which you accidentally received—what you think of as ‘Ancient neural tissue’,” he clarified, “does possess an extremely rudimentary form of what you would consider ‘intelligence’ or, at the very least, ‘instinct.’ But it is not sentient; therefore it is not a discrete being, or entity, in its own right. To achieve sentience, the Mark requires a host through which it gains experiential perspective.”

Kongming began to nod slowly, recalling the reports of how Hansheng had interfaced with the Prejudice’s main cogitators near the end of the Battle of Cagnzyz. “And the tissue—the ‘Mark’—can interface with any form of data processor?”

“Yes, at least in the short term,” the Seer allowed hesitantly, “but the Mark is designed to infiltrate any inorganic systems which attempt to interface with it for the purpose of destroying those inorganic systems. The Masters very nearly lost the Great Struggle against a plague of inorganics, and thus imbued their very essence—including the Mark—with defenses that would repel attempts at infiltrating, controlling, or otherwise subverting the Mark for aims which do not align with those of the Masters. Those defenses unerringly succeeded in protecting the Masters’ legacy…until the arrival of the Dark.”

“The Dark?” Kongming repeated skeptically. “How does any of that have to do with the Dark? And what is the Dark anyway?”

“The Dark is, put bluntly, the perfect pathogen,” the Seer explained. “It was designed not to destroy, or even to manipulate, but simply to observe the Mark and its host. Were its creators’ goals any more ambitious, the Dark would have been eradicated long ago. But its creators were clever—cleverer even than the Masters. Their abomination infects a host that bears the Mark, and eventually that host becomes…corrupted. The savage perfection of the Dark is that it does not overtly, or even covertly, encourage its hosts to act against the Masters—it simply provides those hosts with advantages which will eventually fade if certain steps are not taken.”

“What kind of steps?” Kongming pressed.

“I…I do not know,” the Seer said with what seemed like genuine surprise. “I thought I remembered but now…I cannot seem to recall the details.”

“So…‘hosts’ that have been infected with the Dark can use the Sight?” Kongming asked, recalling with vivid detail the process of unwinding the serpent-like threads of probability.

“Only in a limited fashion,” the Seer shook his head. “Emotion acts to render the sight less precise. It seems that the Dark only permits its hosts Sight of extreme conflict nexuses, whereas the Masters’ intended gift was one which would prevent such conflict. At least…I thought that was their intent…” the Seer trailed off doubtfully. “The Sight was intended to promote the development of life, not destroy it, but the Dark seems to revel in destruction.”

“How does the Sight even work?”

“The Eyes process possible futures and arrange them into threads of probability,” the Seer said confidently, but at this point Kongming was beginning to doubt the value of his words, “and one with the Mark can then search these threads.”

“But how can that happen?” Kongming said dubiously. “How can a living creature, with no equipment whatsoever, transmit and receive information faster than light to and from one of these ‘Eyes’?”

“It is achieved via a form of what you might consider ‘entanglement’,” the Seer explained, and that bit seemingly confirmed Kongming’s best working theory. “Each Mark contains a number of unique particles which are, essentially, entangled with particles found in there,” he gestured to a previously empty patch of white void, which was now replaced with the towering crystal spire around which the Ancient neural tissue bundles were tightly wound.

“The rare elements,” Kongming nodded, glad to have that portion of his theory also confirmed, “they serve as the conduit for the information transfer.”

“Indeed,” the Seer nodded.

“But…if that’s the case,” Kongming mused, “why doesn’t each Eye just shut off access to the particles that have been infected by the Dark?”

“That is one of the many defensive measures which the Masters provided,” the Seer sighed, “but the Dark has only existed for a tiny moment in the Ancients’ timescales, and yet it has already destroyed nearly all of us Watchers.”

“How many Watchers were there?”

“At our height, we numbered in the tens of thousands,” the Seer said darkly, “but now only a tiny fraction of those remain—and those who have survived are wise not to employ the Sight overly much, since doing so invariably attracts the Dark.”

Kongming nodded slowly as piece after piece fell into place in this mysterious puzzle. He then straightened himself and said, “I made you a promise back on Cagnzyz. I told you I would help you if you helped me; you fulfilled your end of the bargain and now I think it’s time for me to fulfill mine. What can I do?”

“That is a…difficult question,” the Seer said hesitantly. “For you did not undergo the ritual cleansing required of a Watcher.”

“Cleansing?”

“As I said, emotion clouds the Sight,” the Seer explained, “and one whose perspective is weighted down by emotional attachments—however distant they might seem from one moment to the next—cannot use the Sight without incurring significant physical harm. This is to prevent the Mark from falling into the hands of those who would use it for their own purposes—this is another of the Masters’ defensive systems, if you will. Somehow the Dark seems able not only to survive this harmful mechanism, but exposure to it actually seems to make infected hosts stronger.”

“How do you know that?” Kongming pressed. “Can you somehow observe the hosts that are infected with the Dark?”

“Not directly, no,” the Seer said grimly, “that is a primary reason why they are ‘the Dark’: because we cannot see them. But indirectly we all feel the death of a fellow Watcher—on rare occasions, Watchers have reported the presence of the Dark shortly before their lives were ended.”

“Then…how can I help?” Kongming asked.

“You are different,” the Seer mused. “Your Sight will never be as far or as clear as that of another Watcher, and yet you survived the final test which, even among the properly initiated and cleansed, is fatal in a large portion of those subjected to it. We are uncertain of how to proceed.”

“Wait,” Kongming held up a hand haltingly, “who’s ‘we’?”

The Seer smiled, “Such an inquisitive mind you have. Prior to your arrival, a few surviving Watchers debated this issue in private before arriving at a conclusion. Normally such a conclave would result in the summary destruction of a host in your position, given that you were not properly initiated or cleansed and that your first use of the Sight was to impose your will on creation itself by choosing who should live and who should die—and basing that choice on an emotional connection, which is the basest form of motive. However…” the Seer continued even as Kongming wanted to shrink from the memory of Vali Funar’s last moment, “we believe you can provide service in a different fashion—a fashion which we have been reluctant to endorse, but as the Dark continues to spread unabated we find we have little choice but to do so.”

“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Kongming said meekly.

“No,” the Seer allowed, “but it would appear it is enough.” The white void surrounding them melted away and was replaced with familiar graphical representation of the Gorgon Sectors. “The Dark has been at work in this area for quite some time, and all of the Watchers whose duty it has been to tend this region have been destroyed by them.”

“All of them are dead?” Kongming repeated incredulously.

“Yes,” the Seer nodded somberly, “and they were destroyed in the relative blink of an eye. The Dark has manipulated events here to serve their purpose, and though we do not know the Dark’s ultimate goal we cannot allow them to succeed. That is where you come in.”

“Me?” Kongming recoiled.

“Study this diagram,” the Seer said as a dozen different points winked emphatically all across the Gorgon Sectors—and even beyond, toward the Outer Rim, “these are the locations where our fellow Watchers were when the Dark consumed them.”

“What do you want me to do?” Kongming asked as he recognized something of a pattern in the arrangement of the locations, but he could not immediately identify it.

“Investigate these locations,” the Seer replied, “you need not visit each of them personally, but there may be clues present in these places which pertain to the fates of our fellow Watchers.”

“I thought you said the Dark killed them,” Kongming said skeptically.

“That is our opinion, but…it is complicated,” the Seer sighed. “You are every bit as inquisitive and formidable as we anticipated; you fall well short of a true Seer, but you may yet play your own part in this.”

Ignoring what he took to be an overt insult, Kongming decided to ask the last question on his mind, “If you can see the future—or the ‘threads of probability’—and you correctly guessed my arrival here decades ago, along with predicting everything else that brought me and my people to this place,” he gestured widely with his arms, “how is it that you don’t already know what happened to your people? This all seems like another test to me—and I’m done being tested.”

“Existence itself is a test,” the Seer said as his eyes hardened, “and arrogance is always a weakness.” He stood with silent condemnation plain to see on his features before those features softened fractionally, “To answer your question as directly as possible: the gift of Sight itself proves to be the greatest, most difficult to isolate variable in calculating the threads of probability. It is a small thing to predict the behavior of simple chemistry under controlled conditions, and only slightly more difficult to predict the behavior of inanimate material—even so much material as is contained in our narrow facet of reality. Predicting the behavior of intelligence was challenging, but the Masters discovered the method after centuries of dedicated study. The true difficulty,” he explained, “is in predicting the impact of information—especially when that information was obtained via the Sight.”

Kongming finally thought he understood that last, most obscure detail, “So the Dark, by employing the Sight for motives not aligned with the will of the Ancients…somehow increases the difficulty of unwinding the threads of probability?” He thought about that interplay for a few seconds before he was reminded of something called the ‘observation paradox,’ which had been a crude but effective thought experiment designed to describe how simply observing a particle could change its behavior. “The Dark, just by using the Sight for its own purposes, actually changes the probability of each thread’s accuracy. If it can observe enough information—or unwind enough threads—the Dark can render the Sight completely useless…which means that previously probable threads become impossible, and previously impossible threads become possible?”

“Indeed,” the Seer nodded gravely. “The Dark’s reach has extended so far, and so deep, as to cast an impermeable shadow over vast tracts of this galaxy. With our Sight thus limited, our ability to see the threads clearly has been nearly stripped away entirely. If the Dark is not stopped, the Masters’ vision and plan will be undone—which would spell the inevitable end of all life as we know it, according to every thread which we have ever unwound.”

“Then I should be going,” Kongming said, hesitating before asking, “what about…what about my use of the Sight?”

“We have removed the veil from you, Kongming,” the Seer said, and Kongming wasn’t sure whether he should be grateful or angry as the apparition continued, “though we caution you against employing the Sight for personal reasons. We cannot remember another like you having succeeded in passing the trials without being properly initiated. As such, the act of Seeing will be dangerous for you, and it will often be difficult for you to understand. Your mind is a stormy sea of emotion, Kongming, and the Sight is best view as a reflection upon more placid waters.”

“Are you telling me not to use it?”

“No, for we are convinced it will be necessary for you to employ the Sight during your task,” the Seer said gravely. “But we advise caution, moderation, and above all that you not focus your Sight on events which you know to be directly related to the people, places, or things with which you are familiar. To do so could be…fatal.”

Kongming nodded slowly, knowing just as well as the Seer that it would be impossible for him to actually abide by such a restriction. But he saw no gain to be had by saying as much, so he changed subjects, “Is the other ship in the docking port accessible?”

“It has been released,” the Seer said, gesturing with an outstretched hand toward the corridor through which Kongming had entered the dome-shaped chamber. “And with it we urge you to release the Crafter to pursue an important role in what is yet to come.”

“You’re saying I should let the Crafter go?”

“Indeed,” the Seer nodded, “but not before you retrieve important information from the Crafter’s ship—information which will guide you on the next step of your journey. That is all the help we can give you, Kongming. When you depart the Eye, you will be unable to return since the access codes which the Crafter used have been deactivated. We hope you will understand when we say that we hope never to see you again.”

“Trust me,” Kongming said as reality began to slowly resume itself all around him, “the feeling is mutual.”

A moment later he was back in the dome-shaped chamber, and with a last look at the towering crystal pillar in the dome’s center he turned his back on the mountain of Ancient neural tissue and re-entered the corridor.

He had taken only a pair of steps before hearing Kratos’ voice behind him, “Where did you go?!”

The power-armored Tracto-an clomped up to Kongming, who shook his head in genuine uncertainty, “I do not know. But it is time we leave this place.”

“I agree,” the Crafter said from Kongming’s back.

“How do we leave this infernal place?” Kratos growled.

“I think the way is open,” Kongming gestured behind the Crafter, where the corridor now appeared unobstructed. Surprisingly—or maybe it should have been unsurprisingly—it took them only a few minutes of walking to return to the junction adjoining the two docking ports. When they arrived, Kongming turned to Kratos and said, “Return to the shuttle. I will be there soon, but first I need to go to the Crafter’s ship and retrieve some sensitive information.”

The power-armored Tracto-an’s eyes—one organic and one cybernetic—narrowed, but thankfully he nodded and did as Kongming had requested.

Without speaking, Kongming went to the previously barred passage which would lead to the Crafter’s ship and made his way down the crystalline corridor. The Crafter followed close behind, and they eventually arrived at a docking collar identical to the one which had connected their own shuttle to its present moorings.

But unlike their shuttle, the hull of this other ship seemed to be made of solid gold and was in immaculate condition. The door around which the docking collar was affixed was nearly featureless, and Kongming gestured invitingly for the Crafter to open the way.

The Crafter eyed him before placing a hand on the door’s center, and the panel depressed into the hull before sliding off to the side and making the way open to them.

The Crafter entered the craft, and Kongming followed close behind, but before they had even cleared the airlock the Crafter held up a hand haltingly and pointed to a data slate resting a nearby panel.

“Is that what you came for?” the Crafter asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Kongming shook his head, “but if it is then its presence here suggests I am not meant to enter your ship.”

“I concur,” the Crafter nodded, plucking the slate from its resting place and handing it to Kongming. “I suppose this is ‘goodbye’?”

“Perhaps,” Kongming nodded, attempting to access the slate and failing to do so.

“If I am correct,” the Crafter said, “there is a proximity lock which will not permit you to access its contents until it is out of the range of my ship’s transponder.”

“Who are you?” Kongming asked, his suspicions as to the Crafter’s identity growing stronger by the minute.

The Crafter cast a hard look toward the inner airlock door, “I suspect I am about to discover the answer to that question for myself. What I know for certain,” the Crafter fixed Kongming with a steely-eyed stare, “is that I wish that those who live in these ‘Gorgon Sectors’ could live peacefully and without fear of being consumed by the coming conflict. As far as I know, that is all I have ever wanted.”

“If that is true,” Kongming allowed, “then I wish you good fortune.”

“Likewise, Kongming,” the Crafter half-bowed, half-curtsied, and Kongming made his way back to his own ship.

Once aboard, he fired up the shuttle’s engines and carefully pulled away from the docking port. A few seconds later the Crafter’s ship—which was no larger than the Prejudice and probably almost a class smaller—did likewise and the two vessels carefully and silently picked their way through the myriad layers of the ‘Eye.’

Twenty hours later, and no sooner than they had exited through the invisible outer layer of the Eye—which the Crafter apparently navigated without concern, and whose lead Kongming gratefully followed—than the Crafter’s ship point transferred to parts unknown.

“This is Kongming to the Unthreadable Needle,” Kongming declared on the hailing frequencies, “we are prepared to rendezvous and continue with our mission.”

“We read you,” Wojchouski replied after nearly an hour’s delay, “we’re en route to collect you. ETA: three hours.”

Chapter XXV: Battle Lines

“Multiple ships detected in-system, Captain,” Hephaestion reported after the Prejudice, in advance of the main fleet, jumped in to the first strategically-placed star system which Middleton had previously identified.

As the count, makeup and disposition of those ships appeared on Middleton’s Tactical plotter he confirmed that the majority of the detected ships were of Imperial design—and that they had completely surrounded the second and third planets of the system.

“Four Battleships, ten Cruisers and twenty two Destroyers in all, Captain,” Hephaestion called out after the Prejudice’s sensors finished their initial sweep of the system.

This group was overly heavy on capital ships—the Cruisers and Battleships—but thankfully Middleton’s detailed perusal of the feeds showed no evidence of the most powerful warship ever to ply the space-ways: an Imperial Command Carrier. The capital-heavy formation presented interesting challenges—and equally interesting opportunities.

“The original plan called for the rest of our fleet to arrive in eight hours,” Middleton said as he drew up an approach vector that would see them get much more personal with the Imperials before the AG and SLL ships arrived. “The PNR for our Battleships’ jump engines is in six hours. That gives us five hours to dive in, gather as much intelligence as possible, and point transfer back to the fleet with our findings. Helm: take us in on the vector I just forwarded to you. The stealth suite is at maximum so execute maneuvers accordingly.”

“Yes sir,” Toto acknowledged, and the Prejudice continued its stealthy approach to the system’s interior.

“The local ships—fourteen in all, with ten Corvettes and four Destroyers—appear to have struck their reactors several days ago and are in stable orbit of the second planet,” Hephaestion reported.

“Which means their six Cutters fled when the Imperials arrived,” Middleton nodded approvingly, having reviewed the League’s reports of this star system’s military assets. “But the Corvettes and Destroyers were hemmed in due to their slower speed.”

“Some of them might have surrendered outright—or worse, betrayed their duties by declaring for the Empire,” Hephaestion offered.

“It’s possible,” Middleton allowed, “but whatever happened here, this will be where we draw the first line against this invasion.”

“Their active sensor sweeps are too well-coordinated,” Hephaestion said after examining the Imperials’ behavior. “Approaching any closer would risk detection.”

Middleton nodded in agreement, “We’re still outside of turbo-laser range, but not by much. This task force’s commander is good,” he said with grudging respect. “We probably won’t get a cheap win here.”

“Our forces significantly outnumber the enemy’s,” Hephaestion said pointedly while Middleton drew up a handful of rough battle plans on his plotter.

“A victory here doesn’t do us any good if it costs us more than we gain,” Middleton chided. “Even if we acquire all of this system’s SDF, that wouldn’t overcome the losses projected by these simulations,” he gestured to the log of failed battle plans he had fed into the Prejudice’s robust cogitators. “And that says nothing of the fact that the Imperials are already aware of this star system and will be immediately alerted to any deviation from their scheduled advance.”

“I have not detected any ComStat carrier frequencies, Captain,” Hephaestion said pointedly.

“Even without FTL communication,” Middleton explained as patiently as he could muster, “a fleet like the one this task force came from—a real fleet, unlike Commodore Paganini’s ramshackle group—will have every single minute of deployment time budgeted before orders are handed off and the first point transfers are made. If these ships are the rearguard, which seems unlikely given that they’re deeper into the Gorgon Sectors than our projections suggested they’d be, the odds are low they’ll be reinforced any time soon. But if they are part of the vanguard,” he added heavily, “as I suspect them to be, that means the rest of the enemy fleet will be arriving here at some point in the near future. The only reason those SDF ships are still powered down is because they haven’t had Imperial crews assigned to them.”

“What are your orders, sir?” Hephaestion asked.

Middleton considered the situation for several minutes as he scanned through the sensor logs, hoping to find something he might have missed. But he was unable to spot any glaring omissions from the information packet he had acquired.

“We make for the hyper limit,” he commanded, “we rendezvous with the fleet and coordinate our assault on this star system. Mr. Garibaldi,” he continued after establishing a connection with his Chief Engineer, “clear as much space from the hangar as possible. I think it’s going to get a little tight in there.”

“My people approve of this plan,” Mrr’shan said as she rhythmically flexed her claws. “We will have eight of our best hunt packs transferred to your shuttle bay immediately.”

“Good,” Middleton acknowledged, glad to have the first phase of the plan drawn up and accepted. “I’d take more but I’m afraid eight is the upper limit for my hangar’s capacity.”

“I dislike this plan,” the Stalwart Commander objected. “The projected losses—even if the Void Hunters succeed in their mission—are simply too great to ignore. We should pick a more favorable target.”

“This is as favorable of a target as we’re going to get, Commander,” Middleton said flatly. “The inhabitants of this system are charter members of the Alliance Gorgonus and they have significant infrastructure which they could lend to our cause. This star system,” Middleton pointed emphatically to the hologram representing the star system they were planning to assault, “is a key location in our proposed advance—and obviously the Imperials recognize its value just as well as we do.”

“With respect,” interjected Commodore Cartwright, the Secular Liberation League’s lone representative at the military council, “we have the advantage of terrain, we have surprise, and we have numbers. We will certainly emerge victorious from a conflict with this task force, but is it necessary to engage them?”

“What are you suggesting?” Middleton asked, knowing very well where the Commodore was going with this line of inquiry but also knowing it was a subject that needed to be broached publicly—hopefully just once and never again.

“We could parlay with them,” Commodore Cartwright replied officiously, “we could entreat them to recognize the sovereignty of the League and the AG,” he gestured to the Stalwart Commander, Mrr’shan, and the Prichtac deferentially, “and to cease their hostilities against us.”

“That is a most favorable proposal,” Prichtac said before Middleton could reply, and Middleton found himself momentarily taken aback by the alien’s suggestion. “Unfortunately, it is one which We also believed would be beneficial in previous engagements. The result of Our previous attempts to engage in a peaceful dialogue with the Empire of Man, while initially appearing to be conducive to harmony and consensus between the Alliance Gorgonus and the Empire of Man, culminated in the attack on Our home world which regrettably reduced the Host to this single member.”

Middleton was surprised by Prichtac’s candor, and the Commodore seemed equally moved as he stammered, “I…I was unaware of that event…erm, Ambassador.”

“We are content to be referred to as ‘Prichtac’ during communion with entities not directly affiliated with the Host,” Prichtac said serenely.

“Fine,” the Commodore seemed to re-gather his wits, “Prichtac, surely you can see the value in at least attempting diplomacy?”

“Naturally,” Prichtac replied smoothly, “however, it is Our consensus after considerable observation of hierarchically-arranged life forms such as yourselves and the Stalwart,” she gestured to the uplift Commander with a pseudopod, “that doing so encourages aggression with such alarming frequency that, statistically, the Alliance Gorgonus and its allies would be better served not to engage in such diplomacy with the Empire of Man and proceed directly to the phase humans refer to as a ‘shooting war.’ Deception appears to be a highly-valued trait among the Empire’s representatives, and We would prefer not to have such deceptions result in unnecessary loss of Our allies’ lives.”

Cartwright snickered, splaying his hands, “You’ve got me there. I just think the option needs to be considered before we charge headlong into a battle with an Imperial task force.”

“You’re a little behind the times, Commodore,” Middleton chided respectfully, “we’ve already gone to war with an Imperial task force—one that was considerably larger than this one.”

“Larger? Sure,” Cartwright countered. “But it was a hodgepodge strike fleet composed primarily of pressed colonial or pirate gear. This is an Imperial task force made entirely of Imperial warships and it’s part of a fleet that dwarfs our combined forces in every measurable way.”

“Is the League withdrawing its support from this engagement?” Middleton decided to press straight to the heart of the matter.

Cartwright ground his teeth, “I am authorized to do so, Captain Middleton, if I deem this battle to unnecessarily endanger the League’s constituents.” He proceeded to engage in a test of wills with Middleton—a test in which Middleton was content to declare he had not failed—before relenting, “But this does appear to be as significant of a chance as we will have to push back against these invaders and buy ourselves some breathing room. The League will contribute its support, but only after I am convinced that our ships and their crews are not going to be overrepresented in the eventual casualty reports.”

Middleton nodded slowly, disliking several bits of the Commodore’s declaration—among them his use of Middleton’s rank ‘Captain’ rather than his selection as the AG’s Supreme Military Commander.

Personally, Middleton didn’t care about whether someone made that particular distinction. But Cartwright, and even Chairman Lewis, had both pointedly referred to Middleton by his Captain’s rank during official gatherings. That meant that they thought the distinction was an important one—which meant that now Middleton needed to consider it to be equally important.

“I’m not going to show favoritism to anyone in this fleet, Commodore,” Middleton said levelly, “and as Supreme Military Commander of the Alliance Gorgonus’ armed forces I insist that any operation carried out under the AG flag will recognize and respect my authority within that organization. Do we understand each other?”

Cartwright’s eyes narrowed, “We understand each other: this is an AG operation.”

“As Security Head for the League,” Middleton continued, despising the fact that he had to play politics when he should be planning strategy and tactical maneuvers for the upcoming battle, “do you recognize my authority as superseding yours in this coming battle?”

The Stalwart Commander and Mrr’shan watched with barely-concealed amusement as the Commodore grudgingly nodded, “In this battle, I do.”

“Good,” Middleton said, glad to be done with that bit of politics. “Then let’s get to work.”

Chapter XXVI: First Strike

“The hunt packs are ready for deployment, Captain,” Garibaldi reported over the com-link.

“We’ll begin dropping them off in twelve minutes, Chief,” Middleton acknowledged.

“We are in medium weapons range of the nearest formation, Captain,” Hephaestion said as the Prejudice continued her silent approach to the Imperial formation. “There is no indication that their active sensors have detected us.”

“Good,” Middleton said as he reviewed the complements of the eight Void Hunter shuttles present in his hold. Rather than the usual twenty constituents of a hunt pack, each of those shuttles had forty elite feline warriors inside—and these felines were armed with customized power armor, heavy ordnance, and even demolitions charges.

The prospect of forty of the savage cat people boarding a ship under his command was enough to send chills down Middleton’s spine. According to the Void Hunters’ mission reports, a hunt pack armed with such high end equipment—equipment which was understandably rare and precious among the Void Hunters—could destroy a Cruiser in less than two minutes, and had actually done so on several occasions.

The tactical projections showed that, of the eight Void Hunter elite units, between three and five would succeed in taking down their target vessels. Unfortunately they were too few to send against the Battleships, which had standard Marine complements of three hundred to six hundred, so Middleton had assigned each of these first strike hunt packs to board an Imperial Cruiser which only had a hundred Marines apiece. Removing a handful of those frighteningly effective Cruisers from the board would ensure that the battle was over in short order, and in this type of engagement speed was crucial.

“Identity confirmed on four of the Destroyers in orbit of the third planet,” Hephaestion reported, “they are the same ones which fled from our previous engagement.”

“Too bad,” Middleton said with unexpected bitterness at the prospect of facing an enemy force which would almost certainly be ready to fire on the Prejudice far more quickly than any previous Imperial groups had been.

The Prejudice’s stealth suite was robust, but far from perfect. Even with the slightly inferior sensors of the Prichtac ships, Middleton had devised several methods of penetrating his own warship’s stealth systems—methods which he had then incorporated into Hephaestion’s routine active scan protocols just in case the enemy had ships with similar stealth capabilities.

Middleton had no problem with losing a fight, but he would be blasted to his constituent quarks if he lost a fight because he overlooked something he should have already been prepared for. And he never expected to encounter an inept enemy, which meant that he had to now acknowledge the likelihood that this task force would be better prepared to retaliate against the Prejudice than its predecessors had been.

“ETA to fleet arrival: one hour,” Hephaestion reported.

“Steady as she goes, Helm,” Middleton said as Toto methodically brought the Prejudice into the first deployment window. “Chief,” he called over the link, “prepare to launch the first team. T-minus thirty seconds.”

“Thirty seconds, aye,” Mikey acknowledged, and after the countdown reached zero he reported, “Team One away.”

“Good work,” Middleton said as Toto executed a subtle course correction. They were very nearly in orbit of the third planet, where the majority of the Cruisers had gathered along with one of the Battleships. The Destroyers had taken up defensive positions throughout the star system in accordance with basic military principles: keep the mobile units on terrain where they can make the most of their mobility.

One by one, and over the course of the next thirty minutes, the Prejudice stealthily deployed the eight teams of Void Hunter elites.

“Team Eight away,” Garibaldi reported with what sounded like genuine relief as he feigned a sneeze over the link, “blasted cats were starting to get on my allergies.”

Middleton forgave his Chief Engineer the moment of brevity in what was an otherwise tense, anxious phase of the battle. Soon enough, they would be in a fight for their lives.

The clock counted down to the AG Fleet’s scheduled arrival, during which time the Prejudice put as much distance as possible between herself and the enemy capital ships in orbit of the third planet.

There was a large but thin cloud of asteroids trailing the fourth planet, which was a mid-sized gas giant. Middleton intended to use that planet as a fall-back position for his ship if the enemy managed to effective target him early in the battle.

“Fleet arrival in three…two…one…mark,” Hephaestion counted down tensely. Just as scheduled, the AG Fleet arrived en masse and in a window of point transfers lasting only twenty six seconds from the first to last arrival—a record for the fleet during Middleton’s time as its commander, and an altogether respectable number for a war fleet.

Middleton had arranged for his fleet to be separated into two roughly equal halves, either of which could be expected to emerge victorious against the Imperials—but both of which would sustain considerable casualties in the process.

The first group was every Stalwart-crewed warship in the AG Fleet, with 17 Corvettes, 9 Destroyers, 12 Cruisers of various design, and 3 Battleships. In addition, 21 of their gunships were attached with each Battleship commanding seven of the compact, short-range, but brutally effective small craft.

The second group was the combined Void Hunter and SLL forces, minus a few ships left behind to defend the vulnerable Constructor and bulk freighters of the SLL. All told, there were 20 Corvettes, 10 Destroyers, 6 Cruisers and the Void Hunter Mothership, which rated somewhere between a Cruiser and a Battleship in overall tactical value—a value which was heavily skewed due to its spinal-mounted laser which had played a not-insignificant part in the battle with Paganini’s force.

While the Stalwart group might at first appear significantly more formidable than the Void Hunter and SLL group, the Void Hunters’ small craft—four of their five hundred total being present for this particular engagement—presented a uniquely harrowing obstacle with which Admiral Edelweiss was now more than passingly familiar after losing five of his ten Cruisers to their most elite members.

The plan was for the Stalwart group to advance toward the system’s interior while the Void Hunters and SLL ships remained at the hyper limit. The Stalwart were more adept at conducting fleet maneuvers at this point, and their ships were more formidable than the generally lower-quality ships in the Void Hunter and SLL group, which made the decision regarding assignments obvious.

“All ships present and accounted for,” Hephaestion added after counting the individual Alliance ships’ point transfer signatures. “Time to engagement with the enemy: two hours and eight minutes.”

“Good,” Middleton said, “now we wait—and watch.”

“The enemy ships have formed up into two groups,” Middleton explained, gesturing to the Tactical plotter while Hephaestion looked over his shoulder, “each with two Battleships and five Cruisers, but the Destroyers have remained in pairs and quartets. Both capital groups are situated over the north and south poles of the second planet.”

“Which means they intend to fight,” Hephaestion correctly concluded.

“Not only that,” Middleton expanded the view of the third planet, “but they left a half dozen warships in orbit of the third planet when they pulled back to the second planet.”

“Bait,” Hephaestion scoffed, and Middleton was impressed with the young man’s decisive—and correct—conclusion. “They mean to entice us to seize those ships, thus slowing our advance.”

“Correct,” Middleton agreed, “the Destroyer packs are maintaining near-constant overwatch of that position. Within twenty minutes—far less time than it takes to fire up the fusion plants aboard those ships—the Imps could snipe them out of the sky. Which means…” he said leadingly.

“That they want us to attack the Destroyers first,” Hephaestion surmised before grinning fiercely, “which is why you sent the hunt packs to the Cruisers.”

“Whatever your enemy wants, you should aim to deny him,” Middleton quoted the old axiom. “We will in fact move against the Destroyers, just like our opponent wants us to do, but before we engage with them the hunt packs will wreak their peculiar brand of havoc on the enemy capitals. If they manage to take out four or more of the Cruisers, the Imperials will have no choice but to consolidate their forces and, possibly, to at least move star-ward if not withdraw completely. If we catch a break in the timing of those Destroyers’ rotating overwatch of the third planet, we might even keep them from being fired on entirely.”

The Comm. station chimed and Hephaestion quickly moved back to it, “Incoming message from the Imperial Commander.”

“On screen,” Middleton instructed, and a white-haired man’s visage filled the main viewer.

“This is Rear Admiral Dmitri Edelweiss, Commander of Task Force Three assigned to the Fourth Fleet of Man,” the man greeted with surprising joviality and lightheartedness. “Your aggressive posture is most unfortunate, though I suppose such is to be expected from uplifts and subhumans,” he continued, speaking with such a lack of shame that Middleton found himself almost laughing at the absurdity of the other man’s apparent attitude. “If you surrender your arms I can assure you that I will plead on your behalf at your upcoming tribunal, but if you persist in your hostile actions I will have no choice but to dispose of you in a manner befitting beasts and creatures of your base standing—Edelweiss out.”

The carefree smile on the Admiral’s face was an expression which Middleton wanted dearly to erase, and thankfully the operation countdown showed that the hunt packs were only twelve minutes from executing their mass sabotage of the enemy Cruisers.

Two minutes later, Hephaestion reported, “I’m reading an explosion on an enemy Cruiser!” Several seconds later that information propagated to Middleton’s terminal.

“I’ll take it,” Middleton muttered, knowing that even though the Void Hunters had been detected earlier than expected they had apparently coordinated the takedown of those vessels. Soon after the first explosion registered on the Prejudice’s sensors, a second, then a third and a fourth, a fifth, and finally a sixth ship suffered significant damage due to internally-placed demo charges. “Helm, move to intercept Destroyer Group B,” Middleton commanded, “de-powering stealth systems; shields charged to maximum.”

The Prejudice lurched forward as, predictably, the two Destroyers which Middleton had just targeted moved to achieve firing position on the unpowered warships in orbit of the third planet. Middleton could not hope to defeat the two Destroyers with just the Prejudice’s armaments—at least not before another Destroyer group outflanked him during the battle—but he thought he might be able to persuade them to fall back to a less exposed position once they felt the Prejudice’s punch.

“Toto, you may fire when ready,” Middleton commanded, and a few seconds later the Prejudice’s eight turbo-lasers stabbed out and scored five hits against the nearest Destroyer.

The turbo-laser strikes failed to pierce the Imperial warship’s shields, but that facing was reduced to thirty percent and the Destroyer was forced to roll after returning fire with its near broadside. A single hit registered on the Prejudice’s shields, in part due to the ship’s stealth suite and in part due to Toto’s outrageous evasive maneuvers. Shortly after that hit, another pair of strikes landed on the Prejudice’s forward shields which brought the forward shields down to 74%.

“What’s the status of those Cruisers?” Middleton asked as the Prejudice rolled and juked its way toward the pair of Destroyers which intended to scuttle the warships which Middleton hoped to roll into the AG Fleet.

“Three have suffered catastrophic engine damage,” Hephaestion reported, “the fourth appears to have ejected one of its fusion cores, the fifth’s stern shields are down and the sixth appears to be adrift in space, though I am unable to ascertain the extent of the damage it has suffered.”

“Stay on it,” Middleton ordered as Toto lanced out with another barrage of fire-linked turbo-lasers.

Six hits landed on the same Destroyer and this time a pair of laser strikes gouged into the Imperial warship’s crystalline hull. The damage appeared to be minor, with only trace gases detected escaping the ship in the immediate aftermath, but after a moment Middleton noted that he had successfully forced the pair of Destroyers to veer off from their previous goal of scuttling the precious, presumably unmanned warships.

“So far,” Middleton muttered to no one in particular, “so good.”

Imperial Destroyer Group D, while out of range of the Prejudice, had just entered extreme range of the approaching AG heavies. They unleashed their longer-ranged Imperial-grade turbo-lasers and were rewarded with a handful of hits on the inbound Prichtac-built heavies.

Less than a minute later, Hephaestion reported, “Our Battleships have reached firing range on Destroyer Group D.” The three AG ships of the wall then unleashed their combined turbo-lasers on the quartet of Imperial Destroyers. Enough fire was focused on the trailing ship that, to Middleton’s surprise, it exploded outright.

“They must have had lingering battle damage,” Middleton mused as he reviewed the sensor feeds. But, much to his surprise, it seemed that was not the case. Of the twenty four combined turbo-lasers which the Prichtac-built Battleships had fired, thirteen of them had landed in short succession and that had been enough to burn clean through the Destroyer’s shields and her armor.

It was still a lucky break, but Middleton would take it since he knew that fortune was fickle—and an early victory was usually more valuable than a later one.

“The Imperial warships are consolidating,” Hephaestion said with satisfaction. “The Destroyers are falling back toward the star and the capitals are doing likewise.”

“They’re faster than we are; we should consolidate our advance rather than give chase,” Middleton said, both satisfied and disappointed that the Imperial commander had disengaged so quickly. That the Imperial Admiral was hunkering down in the system’s interior showed, or at least suggested, that in spite of losing a handful of his Cruisers he was coolly content to wait the affair out.

In Middleton’s mind that was a nearly certain indication that Imperial reinforcements would be forthcoming, which meant he needed to subdue the Imperials with all due haste in order to avoid facing Imperial warships on two separate fronts within the system.

“P2p with the fleet commanders,” Middleton commanded, “Group One is to advance to the orbit of the first planet and hold there while Group Two will remain at the hyper limit on full alert with the expectation of receiving Imperial reinforcements.”

“Orders sent, sir,” Hephaestion acknowledged.

“Get me on a secure line with the system’s government before we’re out of effective real-time comm. range,” Middleton instructed, and a few minutes later Hephaestion forwarded a connection to his terminal.

The wizened face of a dark-skinned woman appeared on the monitor built into Middleton’s Tactical station, “This is High Chancellor Nikita Foles, representing the sovereign star system of Mercy’s End. Who are you and what are your intentions?”

“I’m Supreme Commander Middleton of the reformed Alliance Gorgonus,” Middleton replied with as much dignity as he could manage while simultaneously balancing the Prejudice’s stealth systems. “We’re here to extend our invitation for your star system to rejoin the Alliance in the interests of mutual defense, but obviously we don’t have time for a formal conduction of negotiations just yet. I can, however, say that I would view it as a meaningful gesture of good faith on your part if you would re-crew those ships the Imperials left in orbit of your worlds and get them ready to act in defense of this system and, if I may be so bold, in the mutual defense of the Alliance Gorgonus’ constituent members.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed briefly before she nodded off-pickup, “I have dispatched crews to regain control over our warships, but I cannot guarantee they will be able to immediately contribute.”

“Now or later makes no difference to me. But if you would provide us with access to your in-system sensor feeds to aid us in our pursuit of these invaders, I would consider that to be a meaningful gesture on your part as well. Middleton out,” Middleton said coolly, severing the line before she could retort with what he had no doubt would be a riposte worthy of the cleverest serpent.

The Imperial warships steadily withdrew, and the AG Battleships only managed to score a few random hits to the nearest Destroyers before the enemy had fled weapons range of Middleton’s forces.

“Round one to us,” Middleton said, meeting Hephaestion’s triumphant expression with a short nod, “now let’s see what this Admiral is made of—and just how badly he wants to hold this system.”

Chapter XXVII: Counterpunching

“All ships are in formation and await your orders, sir,” Hephaestion reported, and Middleton confirmed via his terminal that the Stalwart ships were indeed ready to advance on the Imperial position. At the fleet’s maximum speed, his ships would be in firing range of the tightly-clustered Imperial force in eighteen minutes. The problem was that once he signaled his intention to advance, Middleton’s adversary would be able to employ no fewer than a dozen effective counter-attack strategies.

Middleton could have cut down on that number by half if he had brought the Void Hunters and SLL ships in as far as the second planet’s orbit, but doing so would have left his entire force extremely vulnerable to a flanking maneuver by whatever reinforcements it seemed Admiral Edelweiss was content to await.

Of the six Cruisers which the Void Hunter elites had sabotaged at the battle’s outset, only one of them had resumed formation with its fellow Imperials who were now in close orbit of the star system’s primary. The others remained powerless in space—in fact, their crews had surrendered when it became clear they would be unable to escape the oncoming Stalwart formation.

Middleton had ordered Void Hunter teams, carried aboard a lone Cruiser which broke ranks with the rest of the ships waiting at the hyper limit, to secure those vessels and their crews. Somewhat surprisingly, the Imperials had seemed willing—almost eager—to surrender to the felines, which only served to strengthen Middleton’s suspicions that reinforcements were en route.

It would be days before they could gain functional control of the vessels, which was clearly what Admiral Edelweiss’s people were counting on: they expected reinforcements before then, so they had decided to ‘temporarily’ surrender their ships as a way to slow Middleton and his people down.

The reason Middleton had opted to slow his advance in order to secure those ships, when he had not done so for the half dozen derelict warships in orbit of the third planet, was simple: the Imperials could, given enough time, bring some of their ships back into the fight. In effect, he was wiping five Cruisers off the board at the cost of three hours on the engagement clock—a trade which was a clear winner from where he sat.

“The last Imperial Cruiser’s crew has been transferred to the planet’s custody,” Hephaestion reported. “The Fleet can resume its advance, Captain.”

“Let’s do it,” Middleton acknowledged, “message to the fleet: Group One will advance to engage the enemy; Group Two will remain at the hyper limit.”

The Stalwart formation moved forward with every bit of the awe-inspiring majesty depicted in those cheap holo-vids Middleton had always hated. The coordination of the ships under the Stalwart Commander’s control was, if Middleton was being honest, superior to anything Middleton had seen outside of Imperial exercises.

The ships tracked perfectly in their sub-groups, with each Battleship being apportioned its own representative slice of the battle group’s hulls, and after watching for a few minutes Middleton nodded in satisfaction, “Toto, maintain position at long range off Group One’s starboard flank. Match acceleration and course while observing combat stealth protocols.”

“Combat stealth,” Toto acknowledged, and the Prejudice took up its position outside the formation.

Minutes passed as Middleton watched the sensor feeds with hawkish intent, but the Imperial Admiral did not tip his hand. One by one, Middleton began to eliminate the options available to his counterpart as the Stalwart warships drew steadily nearer.

Then, with a unity that put the Stalwarts’ to shame, the Imperial task force surged toward the system primary. The star was a red giant in the early stages of its transition from the main sequence, and as such it’s ever-broadening girth would provide significantly greater cover from incoming fire than a smaller, denser star.

Middleton nodded approvingly at the Admiral’s chosen course—which was the same one he would have taken, “He may be a bigot, but he’s no dummy.”

He punched in a few course corrections as the Imperial formation slowly made for the far side of the red giant, and once they disappeared behind the star he transmitted his new orders to the fleet.

Two of the Battleships and their subgroups—Subgroup One, at the formation’s center and Subgroup Two to port—immediately diverted to the side of the star opposite where the Imperials had reached cover. The Subgroup Three, along with the Prejudice, continued to give direct chase while slowing significantly in order to allow Subgroups One and Two to achieve firing position first.

If the Admiral was worth his lytes, he would hug his ships so close to the red giant’s corona that his shields would eventually—given hours of dealing with the unrelenting stellar output—give out and his crews would be burned to death within their hulls. Since those hulls were made of locsium, the ships would almost certainly survive the ordeal even though their human occupants would not.

It was an interesting bit of subtext to the Admiral’s maneuver, and that subtext was not lost on Middleton: they would gladly give their lives to serve their mission, and they would do so while leaving their ships recoverable by their fellow Imperials.

“Incoming feed from the third planet,” Hephaestion reported, “it’s on a p2p beam and it appears to be a readout of their in-system observation devices.”

“Is it the raw feed?” Middleton asked, suspected he already knew the answer.

“No sir,” Hephaestion said irritably, “it is a pre-packaged summary, but it does appear to show that the Imperial task force is holding position near the star’s corona.”

“That’s more than we had a minute ago,” Middleton said, suppressing the urge to sigh. The raw sensor feeds would have been immeasurably more valuable, but he couldn’t blame the locals for not handing over the keys to their most secretive observation gear.

In truth, he would probably have done the same.

“Forward the data to the rest of Group One,” Middleton instructed as the Prejudice acquired line of sight on the Imperial formation. “Now let’s close this trap. Helm: hold fire unless they initiate. I want to cinch this noose as tight as we can make it.”

“Understood,” Toto acknowledged.

Two minutes later, Subgroup Three also acquired line of sight on the enemy and opened fire with their longest guns—but not before the Imperials had fired with theirs.

A Stalwart Cruiser fell out of formation after sustaining coordinated fire from eight Destroyers’ twin turbo-lasers. The Cruiser regained its legs a few seconds later, but two other Cruisers had also suffered hull damage from the opening salvo.

The Stalwart Battleship lashed out at an enemy Destroyer, and its four attached Cruisers added their weight to the volley which saw an Imperial Destroyer’s shields buckle briefly—but at such near proximity to the star, that brief opening was enough to cause a catastrophic cascade failure of the Destroyer’s star-facing shield generators. The Imperial warship tried to roll to present a fresh facing but, before it could do so, a lucky heavy laser strike from one of the Stalwart Destroyers carved through the Imperial’s engines.

The Destroyer’s hull ruptured near the stern and its hulk proceeded to tumble—while still rolling due to the attempt to present a strong shield facing—gently toward the star as its power plant went offline.

“One down,” Hephaestion reported as the Imperial Battleships and Cruisers came into view. And when they fired at the Stalwart-crewed ships, they proved the quality of Imperial technology with a volley of fire that was greater than anything Middleton had personally witness.

Fifty turbo-lasers lanced into the Stalwart formation, with thirty six confirmed hits while sixty heavy lasers poured into the Stalwart formation and twenty five of those struck the mark. The Stalwart Battleship, Stalwart Vengeance, took nearly half of that total fire while the rest landed on two of Subgroup Three’s Cruisers. The Battleship stood tall while taking a dozen direct hits to her forward armor, and her commander rolled the Vengeance’s bow off-target to present a fresh broadside to the enemy. But the Stalwart Cruisers fared considerably worse.

“Two Cruisers, the Endless Hatred and Skull Crusher, are falling out of formation with major systems failures,” Hephaestion reported as Middleton watched the feeds.  “Multiple hull breaches and partial engine failures reported on both ships, including a coolant leak on the Crusher.”

“Bring the Corvettes and Destroyers out from cover,” Middleton ordered, knowing that Subgroup Three’s heavy ships couldn’t withstand another concentrated volley of that magnitude. “And Toto: remind the Admiral there’s more out here to fear than just what he can see.”

“With pleasure,” Toto snarled, “firing!”

The Prejudice’s eight fire-linked turbo-lasers stabbed into the nearest Battleship, and all eight of the beams landed. It wasn’t enough to pierce the Admiral’s shields, but when the Stalwarts’ six Corvettes and four Destroyers attached to Subgroup Three appeared from behind the red giant’s corona they added their fire to the mix.

An Imperial Destroyer fell out of formation after taking focused fire from six of the Stalwart ships. Much like the previous Destroyer, it experienced a shield grid collapse which preceded a catastrophic failure of the ship’s engines.

“The enemy formation is pulling away from the star,” Hephaestion reported less than a minute before Subgroups One and Two could gain line of sight on the enemy. “They’re making a break for the hyper limit.”

Middleton saw the Imperials’ course and narrowed his eyes. They could have run forty degrees away from the Void Hunter and SLL ships which stood ready to receive his fleeing ships, but instead Admiral Edelweiss had opted for a course just fifteen degrees from the other half of Middleton’s fleet.

He scowled, “If I’m reading this right…he’s going to double back on us. As soon as you can, establish p2p with Subgroups One and Two,” he instructed Hephaestion, “and tell them to slow pursuit while widening their angle on the Imperials while they stay on course for the hyper limit. If the Admiral really wants to tangle with the whole fleet instead of just half of it, I’m not going to argue with him.”

The Admiral was clever and, more than that, he was brave. Middleton had given him a single option for escape, which was the path to the hyper limit forty degrees off from the Void Hunters and SLL warships. But the Admiral hadn’t taken the bait. Instead he was teasing that he might do so, or that he might go straight at the weaker ships Middleton had posted at the hyper limit.

But Middleton suspected Edelweiss would do neither—instead, he was convinced the Imperial Admiral was going to come about and drive straight at Subgroup Three, which was already heavily damaged.

“Helm, take us in,” Middleton ordered, “full speed: the Chief rigged up eight more of those grav-mines and I want to put them where they can do the most good.”

“They will see us,” Toto said as he unleashed another volley of the Prejudice’s turbo-lasers at the same Battleship he had previous struck.

“They will,” Middleton allowed, “and, if we’re lucky, they’ll redirect their fire toward us.”

Even the normally unflappable Hephaestion gave Middleton a wary look after hearing that, but the young Tracto-an was intelligent enough to track with Middleton’s thoughts.

The only way they could trap the Admiral and his ships in this system was if Subgroup Three could hold them long enough for Subgroups One and Two to come around and fire up the Imperials’ skirts.

And that meant the Prejudice was going to have to draw a significant amount of fire.

The only ‘good news’ regarding this plan was that, at least in the battle with Paganini, the Prejudice’s stealth systems had made it incredibly difficult to hit. Also, Middleton’s ship would not be as limited in maneuvering as other ships due to its rotating shield generators.

It was far from ideal, but it was the hand Middleton had dealt himself.

“They are coming about!” Hephaestion reported in a rising voice.

As one, the Imperial warships came hard about and max-burned their engines at the precise moment which allowed them to stay out of Subgroups One and Two’s firing arc for an additional six minutes—unless the Stalwart Commander heeded the local sensor feeds Middleton had forwarded to him, in which case they would gain firing arc in two minutes.

“Full power to the engines,” Middleton winced, watching the stealth grid’s various indicators dip dangerously into the red-line. “Let’s see that fancy flying, Toto.”

Then the Imperials opened fire, and for a moment Middleton was convinced his ship had been knocked completely out of the fight and that they’d shortly be abandoning ship.

“Mult—” Hephaestion began to report after the initial impact, only to be interrupted when the Prejudice lurched again under another sustained volley of fire. “Multiple hits to the hull! Forward shield generator is down!”

“Rotating shields,” Middleton said after he had rotating the port generator to cover the bow.

“Seventeen direct hits from mixed heavy lasers and turbo-lasers, Captain,” Hephaestion reported.

Middleton reviewed the strike report and saw that, of the roughly one hundred shots sent their way, they had only received seventeen hits—by any objective measure that was a win for Subgroup Three.

Subgroup Three returned fire, focusing their efforts on the same Battleship Toto had targeted. Impressively, the Stalwart gunners managed to bring that Battleship’s forward and port shields completely down, forcing it to roll to present its starboard facing. The lighter fire of Subgroup Three’s Corvettes and Destroyers added to the mix, but scored only a handful of hull strikes before the enemy’s fresh shield facing was presented.

“Firing!” Toto growled, and the Prejudice again went eight-for-eight against the lone damaged Imperial Battleship. A pair of those strikes managed to strike the hull due to the Prejudice’s slightly advantageous position compared to Subgroup Three, and much to Middleton’s savage delight he saw the enemy Battleship’s acceleration falter.

“Damage to enemy Battleship’s number two engine,” Hephaestion reported.

The Imperial Destroyers waited until they had re-acquired firing solutions on the damaged Cruisers, and then stabbed out with their combined might. Dozens of new rents appeared in those Cruisers’ hulls, and one of them ejected one of its fusion cores.

Middleton’s Tactical plotter flashed near the rear of the Imperial formation, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the Stalwart Commander had indeed heeded the sensor feeds’ updates and accelerated his burn around the red giant.

The Stalwart Duty and Glorious Burden, the Battleships around which Subgroups One and Two were organized, opened fire on the Imperial Cruisers which covered the rear of the Admiral’s formation. A few seconds later, their eight combined Cruisers added their weight of fire to the rear of the enemy formation.

A pair of the Imperial Cruisers’ engines stuttered, causing them to fall out of position in the formation while the Battleships pressed on as best they were able.

All told, the flanking Subgroups One and Two took three Cruisers down in the opening salvo, primarily due to every hull strike landing on or near the Imperials’ engines.

With no choice but to alter his course, Admiral Edelweiss apparently recognized that he was trapped but he was clearly unwilling to go down without a fight. His remaining two Cruisers came about and unleashed their own fire on the approaching Stalwart Subgroups, clearly hoping to deter the Destroyers and Corvettes from pursuing the fleeing Imperial Battleships. A half dozen Imperial Destroyers also lent their firepower to this effort, leaving four Battleships and ten Destroyers attempting to run the blockade presented by Middleton and Subgroup Three, which consisted of the Prejudice, one Battleship, four Cruisers in various condition, three Destroyers and six Corvettes.

It was going to be a close-run thing.

Somewhat surprisingly, Hephaestion reported in a confused voice, “I am detecting multiple signals approaching from the second and third planet, Captain.”

“They couldn’t have gotten those ships back online yet,” Middleton said as a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach accompanied a terrible thought—thankfully, that thought was dismissed by Hephaestion’s next report.

“No sir. They appear to be missiles…hundreds of them,” he said in astonishment.

Middleton scanned the incoming sensor feeds and confirmed that Hephaestion was correct.

“I am receiving a broadcast message from Chancellor Foles,” Hephaestion reported.

The dark-skinned woman’s hardened visage filled the screen as she declared, “Imperial aggressors, this is Chancellor Nikita Foles of Mercy’s End. We have launched Independence-class missiles and they will intercept you in thirty minutes if you continue on your present course. We advise you to accept the same offer you so generously extended to us upon your arrival in our sovereign system,” she said with icy precision as she leaned toward the pickup, “surrender your arms, unconditionally and without delay, or we will destroy you root, stem, branch, leaf and seed. I am hereby transferring the missiles’ override codes to Supreme Commander Middleton, who we trust will carry out our will in this matter. Chancellor Foles, out.”

After her image disappeared, Middleton muttered, “My kind of woman.”

Then the Prejudice violently rocked beneath his feet.

“Rotating shields,” Middleton reported as he switched the starboard shields to cover the bow, which left the Prejudice’s flanks exposed but her bow and stern covered.

“The Imperials are adjusting course,” Hephaestion reported, “they are making a tight turn around the star.”

“They’ll minimize up-the-kilt shots that way,” Middleton growled, “and probably manage to finish us off in the process.” Then he noticed that Subgroups One and Two had not yet featured any fire from their Destroyers and Corvettes, and he couldn’t help but snort in a mixture of derision and approval, “Clever, Commander…clever.”

The signatures for those Destroyers and Corvettes were plainly visible on the Tactical plotter, but the fact that they had not yet opened fire told Middleton that the Stalwart Commander had built sensor decoys and, in all probability, he had attached them to the gunships assigned to his Battleships.

Which meant the dozen Corvettes and half dozen Destroyers assigned to Subgroups One and Two were about to reinforce Middleton’s position—which was exactly what the situation required.

“I owe you one,” he grudgingly said as his suspicions were confirmed and the lighter warships appeared behind the battered Subgroup Three and began to open fire on the Imperials.

Their weight of fire was enough to turn the tide of battle firmly in Middleton’s favor. The Imperial Admiral couldn’t abandon his ships in escape pods at such proximity to the red giant, and he couldn’t escape without being, at the very least, whittled down to a handful of ships—ships which, if the Chancellor had been truthful about the deployment of nearly four hundred Independence-class missiles, would be destroyed long before they reached the hyper limit.

The only sensible thing left was to surrender, but Middleton expected the Admiral to push this fight to the very last possible moment.

True to Middleton’s expectations, Admiral Edelweiss’s ships refocused their efforts on gaining distance from the star’s corona rather than dishing out maximum punishment to Middleton’s people.

Five minutes of continued volleys followed, with the Imperials losing another three Destroyers and two Cruisers to the Stalwart Commander’s flanking attack. The Stalwart lost six Corvettes in the ensuing firefight as Subgroups One and Two cut off escape vectors which would have permitted Admiral Edelweiss to avoid the incoming storm of interplanetary missiles.

With ten minutes before the Independence-class missiles came to bear on the trapped Imperials, Hephaestion reported, “Incoming transmission from Admiral Edelweiss, Captain.”

“On screen.”

Edelweiss’s previously haughty, carefree features filled the screen and, for the briefest of moments, Middleton could empathize with the man who had been so clearly and utterly defeated.

“As a Rear Admiral in the Imperial Navy and Lord Commander over this Task Force,” the white-haired said officiously, managing to project a professional demeanor even in defeat, “I hereby offer our absolute surrender under the Articles of War.”

Middleton gestured for Hephaestion to put him on with the Admiral, and soon Middleton’s face filled the screen beside the Admiral’s as he said, “As the Supreme Military Commander of the Alliance Gorgonus, I accept your surrender under the Articles of War. Heave to, strike your reactors, and do nothing to sabotage your vessels from this moment forward and you will be received with the dignity and respect that is lawfully afforded to enemy combatants.” Middleton leaned in toward the pickup and did his best to project his true meaning and feelings on the subject as he continued, “But you need to understand that if I suspect any measure of bad faith in your actions, either on your part or the part of your subordinates, I will be forced to deal with you as mutineers.”

“Mutineers?” Edelweiss repeated incredulously. “On what grounds?”

“You just surrendered your ships to me, Admiral, and I accepted your surrender,” Middleton said with a tight smile. “Under the Articles of War you referenced, anything you do from this moment forward that jeopardizes my ships, including sabotage or attempts to seize what is now my property, will constitute mutiny.”

Edelweiss bristled, “I find your interpretation of the Articles to be most unorthodox, Supreme Commander.”

“Nevertheless,” Middleton shrugged, “you either accept my terms or you take your chances with those missiles—you’ve got three minutes to strike your reactors and heave to, or even I won’t be able to save you from a well-deserved dose of reciprocity.”

Edelweiss actually looked like he was ready to take his chances with the missiles as he cut the connection. But, thankfully for all involved, his ships collective struck their reactors two minutes later, prompting Middleton to send the disarmament codes to the inbound storm of missiles.

Thankfully, those codes successfully disarmed the missiles which collectively engaged braking thrusters and slowed to the point that it would likely be possible to retrieve them.

“Call in the Void Hunters,” Middleton said, suppressing a shiver at the thought of the felines running amok on the Imperial warships. “Order them to arrest the Imperial crews of these ships and recover any survivors who might have escaped the destruction of their ships. Once they’ve secured the Imperials they are to begin stripping those ships of their small arms, power armor, and other removable hardware on the double—also tell them to do whatever they can to crack the Imperial databases and find the return ETA for their reinforcements. Coordinate with Chancellor Foles’ office so that her people can receive the prisoners planet-side, and instruct her to immediately send ships to facilitate their transfer. Toto,” he finished by turning to his Helmsman, “let’s go collect a few of those disarmed missiles.”

Middleton suspected he wouldn’t have time to actually take control of the Imperial warships, but it didn’t look like he would need to in order to utilize them in the upcoming battle.

He had something else in mind for those oh-so-tempting targets, and while it might not be much in the grand scheme of things it could still prove instrumental in achieving the optimal outcome of the battle he was quite certain was coming his way—and which would make this little dust-up with Edelweiss look like a schoolyard brawl by comparison.

Chapter XXVIII: Clarification

“The MDP agreement you sent over will have to be ratified by a special session of the System Congress,” Chancellor Foles reiterated after nearly twenty minutes of dragging her feet. “I cannot force this issue, Supreme Commander Middleton; the gears of politics turn slowly in this star system.”

“Pardon my bluntness,” Middleton said levelly, “but this isn’t some hare-brained theory of mine. Rear Admiral Edelweiss wouldn’t have surrendered his ships after achieving a relatively stable position near your system primary unless he intended to reclaim them. We’ve already encountered Imperial commanders who scuttled their ships rather than let them fall into our hands; the standing orders therefore must be to deny enemy forces—forces like mine,” he added emphatically, “the opportunity to seize Imperial assets. Such seizure requires between two and five days, depending on a variety of factors, but the AG Fleet has already demonstrated an ability to incorporate Imperial hardware on the shorter end of that timescale.”

“You presume much,” Chancellor Foles said coolly. “However, we cannot do the same. There are protocols in place for this type of situation and we are obligated to follow—“

“I don’t think you understand me, Chancellor,” Middleton interrupted harshly, “so let me make this clear: Admiral Edelweiss isn’t expecting reinforcements ten days from now. He’s not expecting them five days from now—he’s probably not even expecting them three days from now,” Middleton said, and for the first time in this insufferable back-and-forth he thought he saw realization dawn on the Chancellor’s face. “He’s expecting them long before we could reasonably expect to take control of the ships he surrendered, and my guess is that they’ll be here in the next thirty hours. Allow me to walk you through precisely why that is,” he continued, hammering the point home even after it was apparent to him that she finally understood the situation, “because his sworn duty includes explicit orders never to aid or abet the enemy, and that’s precisely what he would have been doing by surrendering those ships if reinforcements weren’t forthcoming. If he thought there was a half-reasonable chance that I could turn his surrendered guns against those reinforcements, which I’ve been trying to convince you are on their way here right now, he’d have scuttled every last one of his ships and taken his chances with your mercy in spite of your star system’s name!”

Chancellor Foles’ eyes narrowed, “You are impolitic in the extreme, Supreme Commander.”

“Madam Chancellor,” Middleton feigned a gracious nod, “at this moment you could pay me no better compliment. I advise you to retrieve and redeploy as many of your missiles as possible, which will obviously serve as stationary defensive platforms at this point.”

“I agree,” Foles nodded, “and we can begin by recovering the fifteen which you collected with your ship.”

“Fifteen out of four hundred isn’t going to make a difference,” Middleton said flatly. “Besides, they’re going to help me use those Imperial ships to our advantage.”

“You just said you would be unable to seize those warships before the Imperial reinforcements arrive,” Foles chided.

Middleton shook his head wryly, “Madam Chancellor, this is what I’ve trained for my entire life to do. What I intend for those warships won’t require me to take direct control of them. But in order to pull this off I’m going to need a hundred of your small craft that are capable of reaching the Imperial warships.” He leaned toward the pickup conspiratorially, “I need to give the Imps the impression that your people are taking control of those ships, and I need it to be a believable ruse.”

“We barely have a hundred small craft capable of interplanetary travel,” Foles said skeptically.

“You’ve got two hundred and thirty eight small craft capable of interplanetary travel,” Middleton said tightly, having reviewed the Prejudice’s extensive sensor logs prior to this conversation. “And this posturing is going to cost your system its freedom—and possibly the lives of everyone living in it—if you don’t cut the act and send those shuttles to the abandoned Imperial warships before this call ends. Speed is essential, Madam Chancellor.”

Chancellor Foles seemed to consider Middleton’s instruction before fractionally nodding off-pickup, “I’ve begun to dispatch the shuttles.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded, grateful to have finally broken through the bureaucracy’s outer shell. “Have a number of them dock with each of the Imperial warships in accordance to however you would conduct salvage operations.”

“Salvage operations would require the overwatch of our warships,” Foles said pointedly, and Middleton could not help but laugh.

“Your knowledge of military protocol betrays your previous protestations, Madam Chancellor,” he said with a good-natured—but pointed—wag of his finger. “That’s right: your warships need to establish and maintain a genuine overwatch of the system. But whatever you do—and whatever you hear, even from me—you need to evacuate your people from those Imperial warships as soon as you can reasonably do so.”

“Excuse me?” Foles said with apparent confusion before a knowing look slowly spread across her features.

“That’s right,” Middleton nodded, “and now that we’re on the same page, I think it would be best for the next part of our conversation to take place in the public forum. And let me also suggest you leverage your remaining six hundred Independence-class missiles during any…disagreement we may yet have.”

Chancellor Foles nodded slowly, clearly following his suggestion. As far as Middleton knew, there weren’t another six hundred Independence-class missiles—though he was confident the System government still had a few tricks up their sleeves. But Middleton also knew that Imperial intelligence-gathering operations were formidable, and any misdirection he could throw out at this stage could pay off handsomely later on.

“Very well, Supreme Commander,” Chancellor Foles said after a moment’s consideration.

Middleton nodded to Hephaestion, who switched over from the secure p2p comm. line and began broadcasting Middleton’s conversation with the Chancellor on an open channel. A quick check of the Tactical feeds showed almost a hundred small craft were, indeed, departing their orbital docks with a few more lifting off from the ground.

“Madam Chancellor,” Middleton greeted, as though the conversation had just begun, “thank you for taking my call. I see that you’ve launched over a hundred small craft; I shouldn’t need to remind you that this is an active combat zone and that my fleet is still securing the area.”

“Supreme Commander Middleton,” Foles replied with a curt nod as her features resumed their stony, weathered appearance, “we are exercising our salvage claim of the warships which previously threatened our sovereignty. Do not interfere with this process.”

“My people are already aboard those ships,” Middleton said, projecting the air of a contemptuous warrior who couldn’t be bothered to deal with a politician of the Chancellor’s station, “I advise you to have your ships come about and resume their moorings.”

“Interstellar law—including the Alliance Gorgonus’ own written accords,” Foles added pointedly after looking off-pickup, “declares that all salvage rights are to be adjudicated first based on the local ordinances. This is a sovereign star system, and as such we are exercising our priority.”

Middleton saw Hephaestion send a text message to his terminal with, surprisingly, the very statute that the Chancellor had just referenced. Middleton scowled in genuine disappointment; he hadn’t expected the Chancellor to take this theatrical moment to make an actual political maneuver. He silently reminded himself not to be so trusting in the future.

“All the same,” Middleton leaned forward after confirming the remainder of the statute, “during an active engagement—which I am declaring this to still be—salvage protocol is secondary to defensive efforts. I need those ships, Madam Chancellor, in order to continue defending this star system.”

“My people will not be intimidated, Supreme Commander,” she spat. “We were not intimidated by the Empire and we will most certainly not be intimidated by you! Our salvage claim is legal and justified—what is not legal according to any coda we recognize or justified in any way is your belligerence and assertion that we must surrender our liberties in exchange for your promised security! We left the Empire to escape that brand of tyranny, Mr. Middleton, and we will die before submitting to it now!”

She was surprisingly impassioned, which caught Middleton slightly off-guard but he did his best to play his part, “Madam Chancellor, if your shuttles continue on their present courses I will be forced to detain them. Turn your people around before I lose my patience.”

“You think us defenseless?” Chancellor Foles challenged. “The four hundred missiles we launched against the Imperials were only a small fraction of our arsenal, Mr. Middleton,” she hissed, pointedly disregarding any of his military ranks or titles, “we have a thousand and more where those came from, so it is you who will stand down and permit our people safe passage to our rightful salvage claim.”

Middleton ground his teeth, “Are you sure that’s how you want to play this, Madam Chancellor?”

“This is not a game for us, Mr. Middleton,” Chancellor Foles said perhaps a tad too pompously for Middleton’s liking, “this is a matter of principle. Do not push us further in this matter lest you discover the wrath of a free people acting in defense of their liberty!”

She cut the channel and Middleton gestured for Hephaestion to do likewise. After Hephaestion confirmed the channel was cut, Middleton shook his head and chuckled darkly.

“She was most…convincing,” Hephaestion observed.

“That she was,” Middleton nodded, recalling the bit about ‘a thousand and more’ missiles remaining at her disposal when he had specifically told her to say there were only six hundred. Her changing of that number—especially to a much greater number—was no doubt intended to instill a degree of doubt not only in the Imperials’ minds, but also in Middleton’s. “She might have embellished a little more than I’d have liked, but…good for her. Let’s just hope she’s as resilient when the Imps show up. Order the Void Hunters to finish scavenging in the next hour and then to disembark the Imperial warships.”

“Yes, Captain,” Hephaestion acknowledged. “The Stalwart Commander is requesting permission to bring his ships to the second planet to begin repairs.”

“What are the latest damage reports?”

“The Battleship Stalwart Vengeance; Cruisers Endless Hatred and Skull Crusher; Destroyers Pierced Heart, Token Obedience and Oathbound; Corvettes Lost Tail, Determined Flea, Solemn Endurance and Unbroken Vow have suffered extensive damage and will require yard time to return to duty,” Hephaestion reported. “Those are in addition to the outright losses of the Cruiser Favored Son; Destroyers Heartsworn and Guileless; and Corvettes Shattered Vision and Black Kettle. Recovery operations are underway but several of the ships need to be towed to the second planet where the local shipyards can begin repairs.”

“A Battleship, three Cruisers, five Destroyers and six Corvettes out of commission after a single battle,” Middleton rubbed his eyes forcefully. “That’s a third of the Stalwart fleet.”

“But only a Cruiser, two Destroyers and two Corvettes were left unsalvageable,” Hephaestion observed. “It seems a small price to pay for liberating a star system, Captain.”

“Mr. Hephaestion,” Middleton said grimly, “the battle for this star system has just begun.”

Hephaestion seemed properly rebuked as he nodded, “Of course, sir.”

“But,” Middleton allowed, “we might have earned ourselves some friends—or at least temporary allies—with our conduct thus far. Let’s hope the locals have the courage to stand for their vaunted principles…Murphy knows it would be nice to see someone actually do that for a change,” he added, chiding himself at least as much as the people he had encountered during the past few years. “Send the Commander my approval for his repair plans, but have him move the rest of his ships to the orbit of the fourth planet in line with the Void Hunters. I want our ships to be able to reinforce each other when the Imperial reinforcements get here—which could be at any minute. And tell the Void Hunters to lay their traps immediately.”

“Understood, sir.”

Chapter XXIX: The Map

Qaz lay in his berth aboard the Pale Sky, the Corvette to which he had been assigned after revealing a new set of POI to the Supreme Commander. The new POI had included the mysterious planet with the towering structure in the distance and, though Captain Middleton had clearly not known any more about it than Qaz did, the Supreme Commander had still authorized an investigative mission.

The Pale Sky had left the rest of the fleet several weeks earlier and, in a few minutes, would arrive at the mysterious destination Qaz had ‘remembered.’ Qaz stood from the bed and took the haft of his chain axe in his massive hands. He thought back to the many battles he had won against the rest of the Crafter’s ‘children’ and snorted in a mixture of anger and confusion.

He had battled against all manner of gene-crafted creatures—creatures at least passingly similar to himself in their mythological origins—during his time in the Crafter’s pits, but he had new memories of battles which he consciously knew he had never participated in. Nevertheless, those memories seemed just as vivid as those which he knew—or was at least supremely confident—he had personally experienced.

From what few details he could glean, it seemed that these new memories’ originator had been the leader of a large, fractious and contentious group of gene-crafts like those in the Crafter’s pits. He remembered battling a massive, green-skinned lizard warrior with the majestic planetary rings as those he had seen in his vision arcing through the sky. Were it not for that striking detail, Qaz was certain he would be unable to distinguish this ‘new’ memory from his real ones.

The ship’s deck lurched badly enough that he adjusted his stance reflexively, and a few seconds later the intercom crackled to life with the voice of the ship’s Stalwart Captain, a female named Hadara, “Point transfer complete; away team to the briefing room.”

Qaz put his chain axe down, eyeing it—and reliving a dozen memories which it evoked—before making his way to the briefing room.

Ten hours later, Qaz and the rest of the away team were braking against the planet’s atmosphere aboard the Pale Sky’s shuttle.

“Turbulence,” the pilot said gruffly a second before the shuttle lurched violently to the left. Qaz’ grip on the overhead handrail was sufficient to keep him upright while the other occupants of the shuttle—two humans from the Prejudice and two Stalwart, not including the shuttle’s pilot—were pitched out of their seats.

The turbulence lasted only a few seconds and then the shuttle seemed to level out, prompting one of the humans—a supremely annoying female—to squeal in surprise.

“Final approach,” the pilot growled, “target located. Touchdown in six minutes.”

Qaz closed his eyes, ignoring the annoying human female while counting the seconds until the shuttle finally touched down with a barely-perceptible jolt.

“We’re here!” the human female declared in relief, finally breaking Qaz’s meditative focus after several minutes of incessant effort to that end. “I can’t wait to take a look at what we’ve got out there. It’s so exciting to be able to excavate—or even just examine—an archeological site of this—“ she began, only to be cut off by the pilot’s amplified voice over the intercom.

“Target is three hundred meters to the north. There are signs of organized activity in the area—there are at least twenty signatures moving this way.”

“Weapons hot,” declared the ship’s security chief, a no-nonsense Stalwart with a strong, protruding jaw whose name was Bone.

“No,” Qaz said reflexively as the two Stalwart gripped blaster pistols. “I will deal with them.”

“You don’t even know who ‘they’ are,” Bone countered. “My orders are to return this team to the Sky—intact and unmolested.”

“Are you part of this team?” Qaz challenged, and Bone glared at him.

“I don’t like your tone, cow-boy.”

“If you are not part of this team,” Qaz stepped toward him deliberately, “then you are unneeded. If you are part of this team, you guarantee your own…molestation,” he sneered, “by defying me during this mission.”

Bone jutted that proud jaw out defiantly, “I won’t be spoken to like that—“

“Then remain here and let me pass,” Qaz interrupted. “I will signal for you after I have done what I came to do.”

“That’s madness,” Bone snarled. “Just because the air is breathable out there doesn’t mean this place is safe. Did you not hear Tem? The area is riddled with signs of activity.”

“I know,” Qaz slapped the shuttle’s cargo door panel, causing it to slowly lower. “Remain here.”

“Can I come and watch—“ the annoying human female began.

“No!” Qaz boomed as he stepped down the still-lowering ramp and put his hooves onto the reddish dirt of the world which had haunted his waking moments since receiving the maddening memories which were not truly his.

He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes and savoring the sharp smell of the air. There was something familiar about it and yet he could not place that familiarity anywhere in his memories.

He opened his eyes and looked up to the sky, seeing the majestic rings stretching from left to right across the pale blue sky. Qaz gripped his chain axe and stepped around the shuttle, immediately seeing the massive, pyramidal structure from the memories he had inherited from the Crafter’s shuttle computer.

The structure towered above him like a mountain—which, to Qaz’s eye, was precisely what it was.

It soared higher into the sky than any artificial structure had a right to climb, with perfectly smooth and tapered sides leading to the narrow, flattened tip several thousand feet above the ground upon which he now stood. After gazing up at it in reverent awe, he realized the mountainous pyramid was carved out of solid stone! It was not constructed of individual blocks, but somehow it had been hewn from an unbroken piece of the planet’s rocky crust.

Qaz had no idea how much work must have gone into carving such a structure, but his curiosity on that particular matter was cut short when he smelled a familiar odor wafting over his shoulder.

Gripping his chain axe loosely, he turned to see a pair of reptilian eyes looking at him from behind dense foliage. Qaz took two purposeful steps toward the hidden creature, but those reptilian eyes did not waver even a fraction of an inch. He soon saw another pair of eyes a few meters from the first, then he spotted another…and another.

“Surrounded,” Qaz grunted before realizing that these creatures—creatures whose eyes bore a striking resemblance to those of the many lizard men he had defeated in the Crafter’s arena—were making their presence known to him. That they had not attacked yet suggested that they were watching…or waiting. He cast a brief look over his shoulder to the pyramidal mountain behind him and thought he understood the reason for their reluctance.

The memories he had inherited from the shuttle contained a few glimpses of the humanoid reptilians on this particular world, but he had been unable to trust those memories since it seemed that they—like so many others—were merely mash-ups of his real memories and those from the shuttle.

“Fine,” he turned, “I will go.”

His com-link crackled to life in his earbud, and the annoyed voice of Bone filled his hearing, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To find answers,” Qaz replied. “Wait here—the lizards will not attack while I am on the mountain.”

“You’re actually climbing that thing?” Bone asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Qaz spat before tearing his earbud out and tossing it onto the ground. With one last look at the pyramid before him, he slung his chain axe over his shoulder and set off to climb the nearest ridge.

After nearly an hour of full speed climbing—full speed for an eight foot minotaur with a heart that weighed nearly twenty pounds, and lungs to match—Qaz finally reached the peak.

His muscles burned and his hands were raw, but climbing the ridge had been no worse than he had anticipated. The platform at the top of the pyramid was nearly a hundred meters across, and was perfectly flattened stone with no visible features.

Qaz’ hooves clattering against the stone supplied the only sound which graced his ears. He turned to look down at the shuttle on which he had arrived, and was surprised by just how large it still looked from this vantage. He could make out the details of the craft’s main window, and could even see the movements of what he assumed were lizardfolk moving around the shuttle’s clearing.

Taking deep, measured breaths he turned to the platform’s center and strode purposefully toward it. When he arrived, he saw that the platform was not entirely featureless—at what seemed to be the absolute center were a pair of hoof-shaped indentations.

Far from surprised that they perfectly matched his own hooves in dimension, he did not hesitate for a second before stepping into the two inch deep grooves in the stone.

At first nothing happened. For several seconds it seemed as though nothing was going to happen.

Then he heard it.

It was a rushing sound just at the edge of his hearing, and it slowly built until it was a dull roar. He could not pinpoint the sound’s location—until, that is, the sky darkened overhead.

Qaz looked up and saw a giant square of golden metal descending down from the clouds. It was directly overhead, and the closer it came the more details he could make out on the underside of the massive object—an object which he realized was a ship only after seeing several thrusters fire along its edges.

He tried to extricate himself from the hoofprints, but he was unable to do so. After a pair of unsuccessful attempts, he looked up defiantly at the giant, golden ship as it drew ever nearer. It slowed its descent until it was moving just a few inches per second, and came to a near stop just a meter above his head. He saw what looked to be pictographs engraved all along the underside of the vessel, and some of them seemed oddly familiar—familiar enough that he spent several precious seconds gazing stupidly at them before realizing he had been distracted.

Qaz growled angrily before bellowing, “Enough games!”

The patch of intricately inscribed, golden metal directly above him began to shimmer. Soon a quartet of panels slid away from each other to reveal a man-sized—or even minotaur-sized—hole directly above him.

Before he could react, the ship slid down over him and landed on the flat, hewn stone on top of the pyramid.

His feet came free from their stone moorings and Qaz growled angrily as a light appeared overhead. Rungs of a ladder were illuminated by that light, and he climbed the ladder nearly ten meters before reaching what looked suspiciously like an airlock.

“Greetings, Asterion’s Heir,” he heard the Crafter’s voice say from behind him, and he whirled around in a practiced motion which saw him heft—and activate—his chain axe before putting eyes on the source of the voice.

He saw a hologram of the Crafter slowly coalesce before him, except there was something oddly…different about the Crafter in this image. The image’s facial bones, the swell of its breast and the flare of its hips were unmistakable feminine. The Crafter Qaz had known, however, had been decidedly androgynous.

“You have many questions,” the Crafter’s image continued, “ask them and I will do my best to answer.”

“Are you real?” Qaz asked warily.

“No,” the Crafter shook her head. “This is a virtual facsimile which I constructed specifically to assist you in the reintegration of your new memories.”

“Whose memories are they?” Qaz asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“They belonged to Asterion,” the image said as a crestfallen look came over her features.

“Was Asterion also your slave?” Qaz demanded.

“Slave?!” the Crafter’s image flared angrily, infusing her digital features with every bit of the fiery vengeance which Qaz himself had often felt when thinking of the Crafter’s cruelty. “Asterion was no more a slave than you are,” the image hissed. “Asterion was everything to me—he was my very reason for existing.”

“Did he anger you?” Qaz asked. “Is that why you forced his descendants to fight in the arena?”

The Crafter’s fiery countenance softened significantly, “The arena was not my idea…it was his.”

“What?” Qaz asked with narrowed eyes, uncertain he could trust this hologram to do anything but confuse and deceive him.

“You do not yet understand,” the image explained. “His memories will require much time for you to understand—or even recognize—them for what they are. That is why he insisted on the arena; it was a controlled environment where I…or the Crafter,” she spat as her visage darkened, “could ensure your readiness for what lies ahead.”

Before he could ask what she meant by that, a second hologram sprang into being beside her. It showed a planet with three moons—this planet—and the image zoomed in on the same patch of ground where the Pale Sky’s shuttle was now landed. The shuttle’s image was replaced, however, by that of a badly damaged ship of unfamiliar origin—unfamiliar to Qaz’s mind, that is, but strangely reminiscent of something from Asterion’s memories which Qaz could not yet identify.

“Asterion and I came here,” the Crafter explained, gesturing to the pyramid beside the damaged ship, “to carry out our plan.”

“What plan?” Qaz demanded.

“A plan to save the Gorgon Sectors from annihilation in the coming war,” the Crafter said steadily, and something in her voice spoke of honesty far surpassing that which Qaz had come to expect from the Crafter. “Your people—Asterion’s people,” she clarified, “were truly born as slaves. Asterion’s life was much as yours was: full of meaningless conflict, subject to the whims of others, and unnecessarily brutal. Again,” she reiterated as her expression hardened, “this was Asterion’s life, and so it needed to become yours.”

“Why?” Qaz asked bitterly. “Why inflict this suffering on others?”

Tears seemed to well up in the Crafter’s eyes as the image spoke, “It was the only way to ensure that Asterion’s memories would be effectively passed from him to you. Without common points of reference—points like violence, fear, victory, and even love,” she said distantly, “a memory has no meaning to the mind which holds it.”

Qaz cocked his head dubiously, more intrigued by her reply than he had expected he could have been by anything the simulacrum might have said. “You made me suffer so that I would understand Asterion’s memories?”

“Primarily, yes,” the Crafter agreed. “But Asterion was a fierce warrior; his Heir needed to be equally fierce.”

“I am from the thirty seventh batch of Asterion’s Line,” Qaz growled, prompting the image’s eyebrows to rise in surprise. “My forebears suffered more than you—or Asterion—had any right to inflict upon us!”

“The thirty seventh batch?” the Crafter repeated somberly. “But…then I must have encountered problems with the neural re-sequencing…” Upon seeing his confused look, she gestured to the image of the damaged ship resting almost exactly where the Pale Sky’s shuttle now sat, “He arrived here thirty one years ago, just as Asterion and I had already completed the ship in which you now stand.”

“Who was he?” he asked, peering around the dark interior of the large airlock.

“He called himself a Seer,” she explained, and a third hologram appeared. It seemed as though he was human—and it was clear that he was badly wounded—but there was something about him which made Qaz doubt that he truly was human. “He said he was being chased by something called ‘the Dark’ and that he did not have much time left to him. We treated his wounds and were surprised to find this,” she waved a hand and the man’s haggard face was replaced with an overlay of a human nervous system.

Qaz knew as much about the basic structure of human physiology as most doctors—with special emphasis on his knowledge of critical failure points like the brain stem, phrenic nerve, the electrical conduction systems of the heart and other vital points—and he saw that there appeared to be two entirely separate nervous systems overlain one atop the other in the hologram which now rotated before him.

“This bio-material itself is not unknown to the Combine,” the Crafter explained, gesturing to the “since it is what much of our—or their, since I am no longer party to it—technology is built on. But it has never been successfully integrated into a human’s nervous system, or into any other sentient’s nervous system as far as I am aware. But this man, this Seer,” she said, causing the man’s battered face to replace the nervous system overlays, “somehow accomplished it.”

Qaz nodded slowly, “You studied him.”

“Of course,” the Crafter agreed dismissively, “at first I even thought we had reversed some of the damage to his primary nervous system. But there was a sort of cascade failure,” she explained. “It seemed like some of the organo-tech had been forcibly removed from his body, specifically a patch here,” she explained, causing the man’s head to rotate until a wound near the base of his neck was visible, “and that there was something of supreme importance there which, once removed, caused the rest of his nervous system to go into some sort of electro-chemical feedback loop. He died less than one week after crashing his ship here, and I was content to bury and forget him. But Asterion…”

Qaz thought he knew what she was about to say, “He wanted to investigate further.”

“He did,” she nodded. “Without asking for my consent—or even forewarning me of his choice—he extracted some of the tissue and implanted it into his own body. I only learned he had done so after the tissue had fully infiltrated his own nervous system, where it became inextricably intertwined.”

“What happened to him?” Qaz asked neutrally.

“Initially he reported nothing, but after some time he claimed to have experienced…prescience,” she replied hesitantly. “His body attempted to reject the grafts after the episodes of foresight first occurred. We were ultimately unequal to the task of combating the rejection process and he died.”

“How long did he survive?” Qaz asked, finding nothing—absolutely nothing—in Asterion’s fractured memories to corroborate these claims.

“Three months,” the image said distantly. “During that time we attempted to transcribe his ‘prescient’ episodes using simple neural mapping, but we could not succeed in doing so. His reports of the episodes’ details were frequently ambiguous—a characteristic which Asterion despised. We thought that neural mapping would—“

“Spare me those details,” Qaz grunted. “He died because of the infection.”

“Yes,” the Crafter allowed, “but only after he had seen things…so many things. He called the predictions foreseen in these visions ‘strings,’ and in each string he foresaw possible futures. We tested the accuracy of these predictions and were both well beyond surprised to find that they were largely accurate. Occasionally a minor detail would be different, but the majority of phenomena he could predict ended up playing out as he predicted they would. It was…remarkable.”

Qaz nodded knowingly, “So you attempted to use this foresight to predict the future of the war you wished to prevent.”

“Precisely,” the Crafter’s image nodded. “And brave, bold Asterion…he survived long enough to render a complete thread. It took three weeks—his final three weeks—but eventually we put together our great plan. It is a plan in which you will now play a significant part.”

“I am no slave,” Qaz growled.

“Of course not,” the Crafter said adamantly. “You are the Heir of Asterion, the boldest and fiercest Taurine ever to stride the stars. Your people have suffered greatly—as you have suffered greatly—and now it is time for you to take up the means of your retribution.”

A nearby panel slid away to reveal a corridor beyond, and Qaz’s eyes immediately adjusted to the lower light in that passage. “What is this?” he asked warily.

“It is your future,” the Crafter said intensely, “and it is the means of our justice.”

The holograms vanished, leaving him alone in the nearly lightless chamber. Qaz gripped his chain axe and moved into the corridor beyond the open door. The passageway hooked to the left, and after a few meters he came to a closed door.

This door bore the faintly glowing image of a bull’s head at Qaz’s eye level. He looked closely at the image, and when his horns came within a few inches of the door the eyes of that image began to glow red.

A burst of light from those eyes nearly blinded him, and when his vision cleared the door was open and the chamber beyond was as bright as the daylight outside.

The chamber’s outer walls were sloped inward, and were obviously the outer hull of what was now clearly the pyramid-shaped ship. Light streamed in as though the hull panels were made of a golden-hued glass, and arranged throughout the long, narrow chamber were four perfectly identical, meter-wide spheres made of some sort of dark material.

Each sphere was suspended between a pair of spires, and Qaz walked around the chamber only to find that the chamber appeared to wrap completely around the pyramid-shaped ship’s outer hull. Each of the four outward-facing chambers, which combined to form a square, held more of those dark, identical orbs suspended between a pair of spires. In all, there were twelve of the strange devices, and after he had walked completely around the connected chambers he came face-to-face with the Crafter’s image.

“What are these?” he asked.

“Fuel,” the Crafter replied simply.

“For what?”

“For a weapon which Asterion and I spent years constructing—a weapon which Asterion foresaw would put an end to this entire conflict.”

“What kind of weapon is it?” Qaz asked with genuine interest.

“It is a star killer,” the Crafter said with both relish and reverence. “But it can only be used once. With it you will put an end to this conflict before it claims any more lives than are absolutely necessary. You will bring peace, Asterion’s Heir, and that peace will endure long enough for this region’s inhabitants to stand for themselves.”

Qaz was far from convinced, “You cannot see the future.”

“Asterion knew you would say that,” she said pointedly.

A panel thrummed to life nearby, displaying strange characters on the screen above it. Qaz focused on that screen for several seconds before realizing he could read the writing. The writing said, “Belief is less important than action—Asterion.”

Qaz glared at the screen after reading its unnecessarily vague message. He then turned his smoldering look on the hologram, “What would you have me do?”

“I would have you exercise your freedom,” the Crafter’s image said. “Take this ship—and its crew—and do with them as you will.”

“My ‘crew’?” Qaz repeated skeptically.

“They have been waiting for you,” she explained a few seconds before the unmistakable sound of metal clanking against metal filled a nearby corridor. The rhythm made it sound as if there were eight of them, and sure enough eight spindly-limbed droids entered the room. “They have been programmed to carry out your commands without fail, and with them you will have the means to impose your will upon the universe.”

“My will?” he snorted. “You claim that Asterion’s visions led you to this course, and now that I am here you think you know my will?”

“Each of our lives has a pre-written destiny,” the Crafter’s image said grimly. “And I suspect mine is drawing to a close even as you speak with this limited reproduction of my consciousness.”

“Destiny?” Qaz snarled. “If my ‘destiny’ was to suffer so that I could play some part in this game of yours then my enemy is not whoever it is you think it may be—it is destiny itself!”

The image cocked its head quizzically, “I do not understand. I was not programmed to participate in this line of conversation.”

Qaz chuckled darkly, “Then it would seem that my ‘destiny’ has already begun to unravel—just as I desire.” He turned to the nearest droid while pointing to the Crafter’s hologram, “Destroy that apparition and prepare for takeoff.”

The droid’s vaguely humanoid head nodded and it moved to interface with the holo-projector’s control panel. “You must not do that,” the Crafter’s image said in a tone that was both warning and pleading. “I am here to help guide you and answer your questions. You will need me!”

“I am simply exercising my freedom,” Qaz sneered an instant before the Crafter’s image vanished. “I need no guide for that.”

“We are ready to receive your commands,” a nearby droid said in its monotonous, mechanical voice.

“Good,” Qaz growled, “leave this star system as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Lord,” the droid acknowledged, and the ship rose up from its perch atop the stone pyramid.

“’Lord’?” Qaz grunted before a wicked grin spread across his massive, taurine features. “I could get used to that.”

Chapter XXX: Silent Echoes

“There,” Kongming declared after reviewing the decryption program, “that should decipher the Crafter’s message.”

It had been days since the Unthreadable Needle had departed the Eye, and Kongming had spent every waking moment attempting to decrypt the data slate which the Crafter had left.

“This should work,” he muttered, and after a silent prayer to the Ancestors he activated the decryption program and saw the data begin to unpack on the slate’s local storage system.

Several seconds passed before the process was complete, and when it finished the slate’s screen was filled with the image of the Crafter’s face. Except there was something different about the Crafter’s facial geometry; somehow, the Crafter appeared to be slightly more feminine in this particular image. And her voice seemingly confirmed this difference as she spoke.

“I despise all of this cryptic foolishness,” the Crafter began, “but after three months on the run from the Combine’s security forces I have come to learn the value of such measures. Whoever you are that is receiving this message, I have been assured by Asterion—who I trust implicitly—that your goals and mine are largely aligned. We both wish to protect the inhabitants of the Border Zone from incursions, but it seems that neither of us can succeed alone.”

The Crafter paused, drawing a deep breath as she tapped commands into something just below the pickup.

“I have devised a retrovirus which will permanently alter my neural makeup and remove my memory—all of my personal memory, unfortunately. Doing so will make it more difficult for the hounds at my heels to locate me, and it will minimize the risk of revealing the details of my plan to the Combine if they should find me before my work is done. But if Asterion was correct in his dying assertions,” the Crafter continued with a hard edge to her voice, “then a few decades after recording this message I will be able to entrust the operative portions of that plan—as well as a means to employ it—to Asterion’s Heir, who I will work diligently to prepare for the coming conflict precisely as Asterion was prepared. I take no pleasure in this,” she said tremulously, projecting a far different image than the one with which Kongming had grown familiar, “but it is a task which must be completed or Asterion’s death will have meant nothing. I cannot allow that to happen.”

A data file sprang into being beside the still-playing video, though Kongming could not read the strange letters or symbols describing them.

“Enclosed are Asterion’s final medical scans, which he said you will find useful,” the Crafter continued. “By now, I…or whoever I have become,” she amended darkly, “am on my way to do whatever I can to convince the Combine to rescind the policies which will thoroughly desolate and ravage the Border Zone if left unchecked.”

Kongming had no idea what the Crafter meant by her repeated use of the term ‘Border Zone,’ but his earlier suspicions were all but confirmed: the Crafter was indeed affiliated with, or an actual member of, the human faction whose technological traces he had detected in the Prichtac translator and other technology.

“It will likely be of small comfort to Asterion’s Heir and even less relevance to you,” the Crafter continued, “but I do what I do because I love life in all its forms and expressions. The variety, the ingenuity, the symmetry…the struggle,” she said with obvious passion. “All of it—every last bit—is precious beyond reckoning and deserves to be preserved. It is for that reason that I have decided to arm the inhabitants of the Border Zone with the means by which they might defend themselves. I harbor no illusions as to their individual abilities to turn back the rising tide which threatens to drown them with its darkness, but I cannot allow their diversity—their stories, which are well and truly our stories—to be erased by such cold and brutal policies as those which have brought us to the precipice of this abyss. There,” she said with a short nod, “I’ve said it, and now I am content to let posterity judge my actions. I sincerely hope you will take up this cause as Asterion said you would; much depends on your efforts. Farewell.”

The file finished playing, and Kongming settled back to loudly exhale. It seemed that every one of his suspicions had been borne out, but for the first time in his life he was far from happy about correctly assessing the situation with limited available information.

“You were right, Kongming,” he whispered through clenched teeth before cursing himself, “damn you for always being right.” He saw a new set of coordinates in the first file which had been attached to the Crafter’s message, and he quickly raised Primarch Nail on the com-link, “Primarch, I think we should discuss a possible course revision.”

Chapter XXXI: Reinforcements

“Inbound hyper footprints detected, Captain,” Hephaestion reported twenty eight hours after the conclusion of the fight with Admiral Edelweiss. He paused for several seconds before finishing, “Twenty one total signatures registered; they’re positioned on the orbital plane at the one hundred sixty degree mark.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded, since his fleet had been positioned almost exactly opposite the newcomers. “That gives us time to form up.”

“New hyper footprints detected,” Hephaestion said urgently, “located at the star’s polar north. Total signatures in the second arrival group…twenty one.”

Middleton set his jaw, “Ok…now we can expect a group to arrive directly opposite that one.”

“Confirmed, sir,” Hephaestion reported a few seconds later. “Twenty one additional signatures detected at the hyper limited directly on the southern pole. Total inbound bogies: sixty three.”

“Fancy jumping,” Toto growled with what sounded like grudging respect.

“We’re closest to the polar south arrivals: focus sensors on that group first,” Middleton ordered. He then pulled up an overlay of the star system which showed the locations of all registered warships, along with the Void Hunter traps which had been prepared some twenty hours earlier. Thankfully, the Void Hunters had positioned themselves well for the coming engagement with nearly forty percent of the felines’ five hundred small craft in positions which would interdict the most likely courses the Imperial ships would take.

Everyone in the star system knew what the Imperials’ first priority would be: establishing tactical control of the populated second and third planets. They would also doubtless be interested in re-acquiring the warships Admiral Edelweiss abandoned, but Middleton expected that man’s superior to be made of even sterner stuff than the surprisingly capable and perspicacious Edelweiss—who presently sat in a max-sec cell on the second planet’s surface.

Edelweiss had not panicked when it was obvious he had walked into Middleton’s trap. He had calmly and methodically done everything he could to damage the AG Fleet while also maximizing the recoverable Imperial hardware—hardware which his superior would recover, much to Edelweiss’s personal detriment since he had lost it in the first place. That Middleton had caught him by surprise multiple times in the engagement had made it a clean, almost perfect victory for the AG. But Middleton suspected his bag of tricks was soon to be emptied.

He ground his teeth at the prospect of facing sixty three Imperial warships. He had hoped for a group of forty or so, which even if they had been heavily-tilted toward the capital end of the spectrum would have been a winnable engagement.

But sixty ships, even if they were largely Destroyers, would be capable of outmaneuvering his ships significantly—and since they had the advantage of distance to begin with, it would be difficult to nullify their maneuverability advantage.

“What’s the status of my shields, Chief?” Middleton asked as calmly as he could manage after raising Garibaldi on the link.

“Number two generator’s back online and near spec,” Mikey replied, “but number four is fried. We’re going to have to run without it for at least four days.”

Middleton closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. The last battle had been tough on the Prejudice, but he had hoped Mikey would be able to put her to rights before the enemy arrived. With only three out of his four shield generators functioning, this battle was going to be significantly more stressful than it would have otherwise been.

“P2p to the rest of the fleet commanders,” Middleton said after contemplating his ship’s condition and arriving at a conclusion, “tell them to provide updated readiness reports immediately. It’s time to give these uninvited guests a proper welcome.”

“Each group consists of two Battleships, six Cruisers and thirteen Destroyers, Captain,” Hephaestion reported as soon as the information came back on all three Imperial formations.

“Speed-heavy,” Middleton hissed through briefly-clenched teeth. “There’s good and bad in them being generally lighter than a standard fleet makeup would allow…but since this time we’re the ones defending and they hold the high ground, the good is easily outweighed by the bad.”

“It also suggests that they are a vanguard force,” Hephaestion correctly surmised, once again demonstrating his considerably improved—and improving—tactical diagnostic skills, “and that they were expecting trouble when they arrived. Could it be that there is a ComStat system in play nearby?”

Middleton shook his head, “The ComStat technology is uniform; Kongming’s detection protocols aren’t picking up any carrier frequencies out here.”

“Which means that they either received word of our victory some other way,” Hephaestion mused before arriving at what Middleton thought was the correct conclusion, “or that they were predisposed to enter this star system in an aggressive posture.”

“I’m guessing the latter,” Middleton explained, taking the opportunity to think aloud even though he was already well-committed to the plan he had set in motion. “This system represents a perfect forward base with pre-existing infrastructure, human populace, and proximity to no fewer than two dozen inhabited systems. Even though most of those ‘inhabited’ systems each have fewer than ten thousand sentients who call them home, from here the Imperials could advance or retreat without endangering the next two star systems which I’ve identified as key strategic points in these sectors. But trillium is a problem out here,” Middleton continued, “which means that these ships—most of which are deep-range Destroyers with jump engine designs that maximize the efficiency of trillium consumption per light year crossed—just might have taken the bulk of their fleet’s available trillium in order to reach here.”

Hephaestion nodded, “Which is why you were surprised to find the Imperial ships already here.”

Middleton nodded, steeling his nerves as he described the magnitude of the coming battle, “If we can bring this Imperial task force down in this system, and prevent most of them from escaping, we just might be able to halt the rest of the Empire’s advance long enough for us to repair and reform our ranks.”

“The enemy Admiral will no doubt be aware of the situation’s importance,” Hephaestion said with a grim look at the plotter as the Imperial ships finally, after several hours of waiting, began their advance toward the system’s interior.

“As well he should,” Middleton agreed as he finalized the p2p orders intended for the Void Hunters and forwarded them to Hephaestion’s station. “Send that to Mrr’shan, along with my best wishes for her peoples’ success.”

“Yes sir,” Hephaestion acknowledged before sending the message.

“Message the fleet,” Middleton straightened as he saw the polar north Imperial formation, designated Imperial Three, and Imperial Two at the polar south begin their advance toward the third planet. Imperial One, situated opposite from Middleton’s Battle Groups on the planetary orbital plain, did likewise with all three Imperial Battle Groups moving toward the third planet—which had ten times the population of the second planet. “The Stalwart Group is to advance on Imperial Three while the Void Hunters are to mirror Imperial One’s movements.”

“And the SLL?” Hephaestion asked.

“Tell the League to hold position for now,” Middleton replied. “We’ll need them to support us soon enough.”

An hour later, after the light delay elapsed and Middleton received updated sensor data, he saw that Imperial Group Three reversed course and began to pull back while Imperial Two on the other side of the star bored on toward the third planet.

Middleton’s Stalwart Battle Group, already nearly halfway from its starting point and Imperial Three’s present position, was therefore ill-prepared to deal with Imperial Two and was also considerably slower than the Imperial formations. Thankfully Middleton had predicted this very maneuver and immediately called, “Establish p2p: have the Stalwart move to the third planet and have the League move their ships to intercept Imperial Three. Tell them to maintain a constant least-time intercept vector on approach and, if the Imperials reach firing range, the League is to give ground before suffering significant damage.”

“Yes sir,” Hephaestion acknowledged.

This was the most difficult part of the engagement: determining when, where, and by whom the first shots would be fired. The Imperials possessed a significant maneuverability advantage and a modest firing range advantage. In truth, it would be nearly impossible to beat them on even footing.

But if Middleton’s projections were accurate, the Void Hunters would begin boarding the enemy craft in a matter of minutes. How successful they were in disrupting the Imperial ships’ operations would play a significant role in how the battle unfolded.

And so, again, Middleton waited to see his opponent’s response.

“Imperial Two is adjusting course,” Hephaestion reported as soon as the mutual light delay permitted them to observe the Imperials’ disposition, “they’re now headed for the second planet. Imperial Three has come about and is resuming its approach to the third planet.”

Middleton nodded, “So far, so good. He’s tightening his grip without conceding the high ground, and now he’s forcing us to choose which position to hold: the second planet or the third. It’s an obvious choice given the population and infrastructure disparity—which is why we’re going to do the opposite of what our enemy thinks we will. New orders for the Stalwart: they are to continue on course to intercept Imperial Two. The Void Hunters are to continue pursuit of Imperial Three, and the League should continue to mirror Imperial One.”

He knew it was risky dividing his forces like this, but the Stalwart were best suited to standing toe-to-toe with one of the Imperial task forces. Add in the re-armed Independence-class missiles and the third planet was significantly better fortified than it might at first appear.

On paper, it looked like a reasonably close fight between Middleton’s forces and Imperials One and Two without even considering the Void Hunter hunt packs and whatever havoc they might wreak on the enemy.

He waited until the light delay confirmed his expectations, as Hephaestion reported, “All Imperial Battle Groups are continuing on their previous courses.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded as the first engagement counters reached twenty minutes until the Stalwart would engage Imperial Two. That battle would be underway for nearly half an hour before the Void Hunters engaged Imperial Three, which meant that for all intents and purposes the Stalwarts’ fate would already be decided before the Void Hunters engaged.

Chapter XXXII: A Stalwart Defense

“The Imperials have opened fire,” Hephaestion reported as Imperial Two unleashed a barrage of extreme range fire that the Stalwart could not return for at least another thirty seconds. “Eighty six total turbo-lasers fired by Imperial Two…and thirty two hits registered. The Stalwart Battleships absorbed the brunt of the attack, having moved in front of the formation with their Cruisers now replacing them in the van.”

Middleton read the reports and saw that the two Prichtac-built Battleships, Stalwart Duty and Glorious Burden, appeared to have absorbed the turbo-laser fire with their forward shields. The titanic warships cut their acceleration and presented their flanks, allowing their smaller Cruiser brethren to take up position between them and the inbound enemy. Ten seconds after presenting their flanks, the Stalwart-crewed capital ships unleashed their counter-fire.

The twin Prichtac Battleships combined to send twenty four turbo-laser beams into the Imperial formation, and their nine supporting Cruisers authored an additional combined thirty turbo-laser strikes. The remaining four Destroyers also had one turbo-laser apiece, which brought the total counter-salvo to fifty eight turbo-lasers.

“Fifty eight total beams…and twenty one hits,” Hephaestion reported somewhat disappointedly, “all focused on the lead Destroyers. One Destroyer is experiencing power fluctuations and another has fallen out of formation, but Imperial Two continues on course.”

Middleton watched intently as the Imperials sent another barrage of fire toward the Stalwart warships. Just when he was about to inquire into the matter of the Void Hunter hunt packs, they made their presence known.

“Multiple explosions registered on the hulls of Imperial Two’s Battleships,” Hephaestion reported. “The starboard Battleship’s engines have faltered and the port ship’s shields are also experiencing catastrophic failures. Explosive signatures are consistent with Void Hunter demo charges, sir.”

“That should tilt the scales in the Commander’s favor,” Middleton said as he watched Imperial Two send another concentrated salvo against the Stalwart Duty and the Glorious Burden. The Battleships’ shields absorbed the coordinated impacts of twenty three turbo-laser strikes but, unlike the previous volley, this time the Stalwart heavies began to show the strain.

“The Burden’s power grid is fluctuating,” Hephaestion reported, “it appears to be non-critical but…” he trailed off before Middleton’s Tactical plotter blossomed with explosions registering throughout Imperial Three. “Multiple explosions across Imperial Three’s Cruisers, Captain,” Hephaestion said after taking a few seconds to process the incoming data. “Two Cruisers are falling out of formation but the rest are continuing with the Battle Group toward the third planet.”

“Good work, Mrr’shan,” Middleton said under his breath. “Helm: move to support the Stalwart,” he commanded. He had kept the Prejudice near the mid-point of the two engagements, and after seeing that Mrr’shan’s stealthy boarding parties had hit Imperial Three he was confident that her people could hold the third planet—especially since Middleton had roughly four hundred Independence missiles he could call into play, along with however many actual missiles Chancellor Foles’ people still had in reserve. Those missiles—and any additional armaments of their like that Foles possessed—would do the most damage long after the Imperials had been whittled down, so Middleton didn’t expect them to come into play until late in the engagement.

He therefore needed to go reinforce the Stalwarts’ position, but it would take twenty minutes before the Prejudice could lend her guns to the fight there. He could not make an appreciable contribution at this point, but when all of the involved ships had been battered and were made vulnerable he suspected his ship could make a considerable direct contribution.

The stealthy warship accelerated toward the Stalwart position as the Imperials and uplifts continued to exchange ferocious volleys. With their battle lines drawn, and the position accepted by both sides, the contest between Prichtac and Imperial ships—and Stalwart and Imperial crews—was now on.

With those ships lobbing wave after wave of increasingly precise fire at each other, Middleton very much doubted that when the dust settled either group would be able to effectively engage on its allies’ behalf.

“The Stalwart Duty and Glorious Burden are being forced to roll,” Hephaestion reported after several more volleys had been exchanged. “Their starboard shields are already down and I am reading significant damage to both ship’s starboard armor.”

“How are their weapons?” Middleton asked, unable to check his Tactical plotter as he manually balanced the Prejudice’s stealth systems.

“The Duty has sustained minor damage to her exposed broadside,” Hephaestion said after a few seconds’ delay, “but the Burden appears to have protected all of her mounts. Their supporting Cruisers have only received scant fire from Imperial Two so their throw weight is not yet negatively impacted.”

It did Middleton’s heart proud to hear the young Tracto-an speaking so fluently in naval jargon after a life spent without access even to seagoing ships, let alone starships. Hephaestion was one of the finest young recruits Middleton had commanded these last few years, and it was a privilege to stand alongside the resilient and resourceful young man.

“Steady on, Helm,” Middleton said as almost an afterthought while the Prejudice continued toward the Stalwart position between Imperial Two and the second planet.

“The Burden is falling out of formation,” Hephaestion said urgently. Middleton spared a look at the plotter to find that the second Stalwart Battleship had in fact begun to fall out of position. “Her number two engine has suffered a catastrophic explosion of unknown cause.”

“And the Imperials are aiming for the breach,” Middleton noted as Imperial Two’s Destroyers leapt forward in an attempt to drive a wedge between the Stalwart Battleships. The value of doing so, given the relatively large distance between the two Stalwart Battleships, was that even in spite of the great damage those Destroyers would suffer the surviving ships would manage to flank the two Battleships. From there, and with their respective starboard broadsides out of commission, the Stalwart would have no choice but to re-orient their ships and either permit the Imperials to press on for the second planet or, more worryingly, they would be forced to exchange with an enemy that could execute a textbook crossfire.

Middleton watched as the Commander did the right thing: he split his fleet in two and permitted the Imperials to pass through the gap while re-orienting his ships to unleash their fire on the smaller, faster Destroyers rather than their previous Battleship targets.

“What happened to the Burden’s engines?” Middleton demanded as his attentions were forced back to the stealth systems. The Prejudice had already entered extreme firing range of the Imperial Cruisers and Battleships, and would soon enter long range where the Prejudice’s turbo-laser accuracy was significantly better than even the Imperial guns. He just needed to keep the stealth systems balanced for another three minutes…

“The explosive signature from the Burden’s engine matches Imperial demo charges, Captain,” Hephaestion said grimly, and Middleton had to smirk in approval.

“He’s crafty, this one,” Middleton mused, referring to his Imperial counterpart. “He’s using the same tricks we are, but he still hasn’t seen us coming—and that’s going to cost him. We don’t have the angle to deploy mines against them, but a few well-timed up-the-kilt turbo-laser salvos should give him pause. Work up solutions on the lead Battleship, Toto,” Middleton instructed, “but wait for my order to fire—and when you do, target shield generators and turbo-laser mounts. Cut accel with the reverse thrusters as soon as we open fire; it will light us up like a neon sign for their gunners but at this range, and with your evasive maneuvers, we ought to be able to withstand a few salvos before we’ve got to hightail out.”

“Agreed,” Toto grunted, and Middleton decided to let the lapse in protocol pass. Middleton didn’t need or want ‘agreement’; he needed obedience and wanted the best his people could give. He was willing to guess that Toto’s slip of the tongue was as much a product of cultural differences as it was due to the speech impediments endemic to Toto’s cybernetic implants.

The Burden continued to drift out of formation, bringing nearly half of its fellow squadron mats with it. Given the distances involved between the Stalwart ships, the lead Destroyer’s best option was to come in as close to the Burden as possible while maintaining fire on the Duty. The Duty’s position was interdictory to the Battleships and Cruisers of Imperial Two, which meant that removing it from play was a higher priority for the enemy commander than removing the Burden.

Then, just as the Prejudice reached long firing range where her guns and stealth system worked together for the optimal effect, Middleton saw a small cloud of blips appear on the Burden’s location.

“Small craft launch,” Hephaestion said before Middleton could ask. “It appears…it is all twenty one Stalwart gunships, Captain!”

“Nice move, Commander,” Middleton said approvingly as the fast, brutally effective gunships unleashed their longest ranged weapons on the oncoming Destroyers. Those Destroyers were still several seconds away from achieving an optimal pincer position against the Duty, and in those seconds the enemy faltered for just a moment—which was more than enough time to turn the tide and close the Commander’s trap.

All of the Corvettes and Destroyers in the Stalwart Battle Group converged on the Imperial Destroyers, focusing their fire on the lead ship as the gunships unleashed a storm of missiles and medium laser fire on the briefly trapped Imperial Destroyers.

The three leading Destroyers were destroyed outright as the Cruisers lent their weight of fire to the effort. Dozens of missiles were torn from the void by Imperial counter-fire, but dozens more impacted on Imperial shields and hulls. Crystalline hulls began to fracture from the kinetic impacts, and shields flared before being snuffed out as the Stalwart counter-attack succeeded in turning back the oncoming Destroyers—or, at least, it succeeded in turning them to a new target.

“All Imperial Destroyers are converging on the Duty,” Hephaestion reported tensely as Imperial turbo- and heavy lasers quickly overcame the Stalwart Duty’s shields. The Duty defiantly returned fire, snuffing a pair of Destroyers with well-coordinated salvoes which were amplified by the continuous fire streaming from the gunships.

The Destroyers seemed intent on ignoring the gunships, even though at their present range they could do more damage than even the Duty could. Middleton ground his teeth as he realized he was up against a truly ruthless opponent—one who understood the limitations of those gunships just as well as the Stalwart did.

“At their current acceleration those gunships will be bingo fuel in another three minutes,” Middleton warned. “I think it’s time we adjusted our sights. Toto: redirect our fire on those Destroyers. If we can dig them out of the Stalwart formation, the Burden and Duty can converge and provide mutual support. Focus fire on the engines whenever possible, but I want our emitters on the red-line.”

“Understood,” Toto acknowledged, and a few seconds later the Prejudice’s eight turbo-lasers lanced into the sterns of two enemy Destroyers. The first Destroyer fell out of formation immediately while the second lost roughly ten percent of its acceleration but continued pressing forward.

“Here it comes,” Middleton muttered just before the Prejudice was rocked hard by incoming fire. Thankfully, the forward shields held long enough for Middleton to switch them out with the port shields.

“Six mixed hits,” Hephaestion reported, “four turbo-lasers and two heavies.”

Another Imp Destroyer was snuffed out—this one by the Stalwart Cruisers—while the enemy Battleship continued to pour its fire into the Stalwart Duty. The Duty’s shields were all but down, with only her engines remaining protected from enemy fire. But her guns were loud and clear as they tore into the flanking Destroyers.

“Destroyer down,” Hephaestion reported excitedly as the gunships’ savage fire tore through another Imperial Lupine-class warship. “Only four Imperial Destroyers are left.”

Those Destroyers maintained tight focus on the Stalwart Duty, even as the Glorious Burden moved to outflank the Imperial flankers, and the Duty began to stream breathing gases in increasing volume and frequency. Combined with the six Imperial Cruisers, whose full weight of fire was now brought to bear on the Stalwart flagship, it was clear that the Duty’s remaining time would be measured in minutes.

Just as Middleton had predicted, escape pods began to eject from the Stalwart Duty. But her guns continued pouring fire even as the engines were taking off-line by concerted attacks from the Imperial Cruisers. Great, molten rents were opened in the Duty’s robust armor, but still she continued to send hellish counter-fire into the enemy Destroyers.

“The gunships are starting to fall out of formation,” Hephaestion reported grimly as yet another Destroyer was taken down by the furious fire of the short-range attack craft.

“They made their contribution,” Middleton said approvingly, “now it’s time for us to carry the torch. Let’s get rid of those last Destroyers—“ he began, only to be cut off when the Stalwart Duty’s icon flashed critical red and then, after a few seconds, turned flat grey.

“The Stalwart Duty has lost power and is drifting,” Hephaestion said stoically. “The enemy continues pouring fire into their hull, but Imperial Two is adjusting its posture to re-focus on the Glorious Burden.”

“His other ships should start scraping our Corvettes out now,” Middleton mused. “He’s cut one head off the hydra and now he’ll look to take its legs out.”

“The Stalwart Cruisers are forming up,” Hephaestion said. “They’re standing off against the Imperial Cruisers and exchanging fire.”

“It’s a good try,” Middleton grudged, “but the Imperials won’t fall for it.”

Sure enough the Imperial Cruisers—and their formation’s still-powered Battleship—began tearing Corvettes down one at a time with concerted, deadly barrages. Five Corvettes were snuffed out in the opening seconds before their surviving companions took manic evasive maneuvers. Even those measures only provided minor relief, as two more Corvettes were destroyed outright by sustained fire over the next minute.

“Captain,” Hephaestion said with unvarnished pride and respect, “the Stalwart escape pods were not escape pods—they are boarding craft!”

Middleton thumped his fist against his console approvingly, “Well played, Commander.”

“They’re closing on the nearest Cruisers, which are now re-adjusting their postures to avoid and repel the boarders.”

“Too little, too late,” Middleton shook his head emphatically, “the Stalwart will take extreme casualties, but some of them are going to get aboard those ships. Now we just need to draw this thing out—“

The Prejudice rocked again as a fresh wave of fire splashed against her forward shields.

“Rotating shields,” Middleton said after switching the starboard shield generator with the forward generator. The port shields were back up to forty two percent, but the starboard generator had gone into an emergency cool-down cycle that would last at least eight minutes—an eternity in the middle of such a high-stakes important battle.

“The Stalwart Cruisers are matching the Imperial Cruisers, Captain,” Hephaestion said. “Superior numbers and a broader formation are allowing them to maintain gauge on the enemy.”

“Quantity over quality,” Middleton muttered as he decided to have the Stalwart fall back rather than go blow-for-blow with the Imps. “P2p with the Commander—“ he began before remembering that the Stalwart Commander had been aboard the now thoroughly-destroyed Stalwart Duty and, at best, was among the boarders who were making their way to the Imperial Cruisers. “Make that to Primarch Beam of the Glorious Burden,” Middleton amended, “have his people begin to fall back toward the second planet. They’ve bled enough here; we’ll need capital ships for the League to form up with when they arrive, and those Prichtac Cruisers represent most of our heavies in this grid.”

“Relaying, sir,” Hephaestion acknowledged as the firefight continued to unfold. Middleton knew that the Stalwart could not effectively disengage from the Imperials even if they came about and max-burned for the planet, but he also knew that his losses could be somewhat mitigated during a tactical retreat—and, most importantly of all, that some of the Stalwart Cruisers would indeed be preserved for a later stand. “Message away,” Hephaestion said after nearly a minute of attempting to transmit the entirety of the message.

“Good,” Middleton nodded, “now we need to take down that last Imperial Battleship. Toto, re-orient for an attack run on Imperial Two’s last Battleship,” he instructed as the surging Cruisers began to accelerate in pursuit of the now-retreating Stalwart heavies. “With any luck, the Commander’s boarders can bring down one or two of those Cruisers. If we can do the same to that Battleship, Imperial Two will have no choice but to fall back and await reinforcements before proceeding to the planet.”

“The Battleship’s front shields are nearly down and are experiencing critical spotting,” Hephaestion offered, but Middleton shook his head.

“We’d never survive a frontal assault on a Battleship, no matter how badly damaged she might be,” he explained. “Come up on their weakened port stern,” he forwarded the prime targets to Toto’s station, “and fire after we’ve reached medium range.”

“Our stealth systems will be less effective,” Toto said grimly.

“Which would be a problem,” Middleton replied dryly, “if we didn’t have a pilot so skilled at performing…creative evasive maneuvers.”

Toto chuffed loudly before putting the Prejudice on the course Middleton had instructed, and for a brief moment he wondered if he’d just signed his own death warrant—not from the Imperial guns, but from Toto’s erratic maneuvers.

He shook that silly thought from his mind as his sleek warship closed to medium range. The Stalwart Cruisers continued to put distance between themselves and their Imperial counterparts, who seemed content to deal with the boarders and re-form with their remaining Battleship rather than give chase.

The Imperial Battleship rolled to author a final broadside toward the Stalwart Corvette, battering its hull with a barrage of turbo-laser fire that overloaded the Stalwart ship’s engines. The Prichtac-built ship exploded violently, but its fellows finally left the Imperial Battleship’s effective firing range. The Imperial Cruisers destroyed another two Stalwart Corvettes before they, too, were out of range.

That left the Prejudice with a brief window to exchange fire with the enemy Battleship. The course which Middleton had commanded Toto to take was a wide, sweeping arc which would allow the Prejudice’s momentum to carry it into, and out of, the Battleship’s firing range before no more than three counter-salvos could come from the Imperials’ guns. Three salvos from an Imperial Battleship were significantly more than Middleton would like to have endured, but this was his crew’s turn to take it to the enemy.

“In medium range,” Toto declared, his tone an obvious request for permission.

“Let them have it,” Middleton nodded, gripping his workstation as he powered down the stealth suite’s active system and re-routed power to the shields.

The Prejudice lashed out with her eight turbo-lasers, scoring eight tightly-clustered hits on the enemy Battleship. “Four hits to the shields, four to the hull,” Hephaestion reported, “their port shields are now off-line and two of their turbo-laser mounts have been scrubbed by our fire.”

“Good shooting,” Middleton congratulated Toto just as the uplift put the warship into a corkscrew to evade incoming fire. In spite of the improvements to the grav-plates, Middleton was forced to grip the edges of his console in order to avoid slamming his head into it.

A turbo-laser strike landed on their forward shields before a trio of heavy lasers impacted on those same shields in rapid succession. “She’s rolling,” Hephaestion said tightly as the Prejudice, with Toto keeping her bow straight on to the enemy Battleship, slid sideways through space as her momentum carried her away from the enemy warship.

“Forward shields down to sixty one percent,” Middleton reported, checking his slowly recharging port shield generator and finding it to be at almost fifty percent.

Then the Battleship completed her roll and a volley of concentrated fire slammed into the Prejudice’s bow—one beam actually struck the void-side of the bubble-shaped main viewer. The strike caused several cracks to appear in the ovular, convex panel—which very much looked like an eye when viewed from the outside, and which likely now appeared to be a bloodshot eye due to the web of cracks which steadily grew across it.

“Head bags!” Middleton commanded, having waited as long as possible before giving that particular order. Communication aboard the Prejudice was sketchy during combat maneuvers, probably due to the ship’s power plant somehow interfering with local com-links. Middleton had therefore decided to keep his bridge crew on direct vocal communication for as long as possible.

His crew donned their head bags in a matter of seconds, and Hephaestion called out, “Com-link checks. Command Team, sound off!”

“Helm,” Toto growled.

“Tactical,” Middleton followed.

“Engineering,” Garibaldi soon piped in.

“Hangar,” crewman Chan added.

“Comm.” Hephaestion finished. “All primaries accounted for, Captain.”

“Rotating shields,” Middleton said belatedly, having already switched out the critically spotting forward shields for those previously over their port flank. “Mr. Chan,” Middleton called down to the Hangar Team’s leader, “it’s Independence Day.”

“Deploying fireworks,” Chan acknowledged, and slowly the Prejudice began to drop Independence-class missiles from her hangar. The missiles had originally been outfitted with surface booster modules, but those had been discarded during their initial flight to intercept Admiral Edelweiss’s ships. As such, what remained of each missile was a six meter long warhead and two meter long drive unit. That short drive unit was primarily intended for maneuvering the warhead into position after the primary drive unit brought it into range.

Much like Starfire missiles from the Old Confederation, Independence-class missiles were single-use lasers with each beam roughly equivalent to a heavy laser.

The difference between Independence and Starfire missiles was that an Independence missile fired three laser beams compared to a Starfire’s one.

Middleton had managed to stack eight Independence missiles in his shuttle bay, and it took Mr. Chan forty seconds to deploy them all—which was two seconds faster than the estimates had suggested.

“Ready to make a bang, sir,” Chan reported.

“Good work, Hangar,” Middleton acknowledged as he brought up fire control for those missiles onto his Tactical station. “Helm, we’re going to need to coordinate this next salvo with the missiles. I’m slaving missile fire control to your station—make them count.”

“Gladly, Captain.”

Three seconds later, the Independence missiles fired, and an eighth of a second after they did so the Prejudice’s eight turbo-lasers scoured the Battleship’s hull through the briefly-spotty starboard shields.

“Three more turbo-lasers and one heavy laser are now off-line,” Hephaestion pumped his fist. “Enemy starboard shields are down to twenty three percent with severe spotting. Her port shields are still down—she’s taking fire to port!”

“What?” Middleton checked his plotter and quickly confirmed that the Imperial Battleship had indeed taken a pair of heavy laser hits to their exposed port flank—and those hits had been authored by an approaching Imperial Cruiser’s guns. “Well done, Commander,” Middleton said in open admiration as the early returns from the Stalwart boarding actions came across the board.

The next thing Middleton knew, he was gasping for breath and finding none available to him. His vision slowly cleared as he dimly realized his head bag had been ruptured. He tore it off with one hand while he reached with the other for the backup head bag tucked into his pocket.

He gasped desperately as his fingers fumbled for the new head bag’s collar, which he managed to seat beneath his jaw and behind his ears before the bag’s automatic inflation system created a seal and life-giving gases began to flow into his lungs.

He drew several gasping, futile breaths before realizing that they had taken another shot to the front of the bridge—and that this one had finished the job which the first hit had started.

The main viewing oval was completely gone, though the carbon rim in which it had been set appeared relatively undamaged. A visual check confirmed that Toto was still at his station—which was a miracle, given the Sundered crewman’s proximity to the strike—and so was Hephaestion.

Middleton dimly became aware of Hephaestion’s voice coming through the fog which still clouded his senses, and he managed to wheeze, “Tactical is green. Repeat: Tactical is green. Rotating…shields,” he spluttered before suffering a thankfully brief coughing fit.

“Firing!” Toto snarled, and Middleton refocused on his console to see another eight turbo-laser strikes land on the Imperial Battleship’s hull.

“Eight for eight,” Hephaestion reported as the Battleship’s primary engines fluttered and eventually stalled, “their main engines are down—they’re taking fire from another Cruiser!”

It seemed that the Stalwart Commander’s people had succeeded in wresting control of at least one more gun deck on another of the Cruisers, and they had promptly turned its arsenal on the beleaguered Battleship.

The Cruiser’s barrage of turbo- and heavy lasers scoured the Battleship’s exposed flank, sending geysers of breathing gases erupting beneath clouds of crystalline debris. The Battleship was now a floating hulk, and Middleton’s plotter showed that only fifteen percent of its throw weight remained after the latest Stalwart barrage.

“Let’s get out of here,” Middleton said hoarsely, “on my mark, resume maximum stealth acceleration on our previous course. Three…two…one…mark!”

Toto complied, banking the Prejudice and gunning the engines to nearly three fourths of their maximum output. At that same moment, Middleton switched the front shields to cover the ship’s port quarter while also re-powering the ship’s stealth suite. There were warning indicators all across his console which suggested the stealth system might fail at any moment, but thankfully it did not do so as the nimble warship left the Battleship’s zone of control—less than a minute before coming under its fellow Cruisers’ fire.

“The Commander is on his own until the League arrives to reinforce him,” Middleton said, coughing a final time to soothe his irritated—and doubtless bloody—bronchi. “Set course for the Void Hunters’ position. We need to be able to reinforce them after they engage,” he said, checking the time-to-engagement clock for the Void Hunters and seeing that eight minutes remained until they would begin firing at each other—and unlike the Stalwart with the Prichtac-built warships, the Void Hunters in their ramshackle fleet would not be able to exchange with the Imperials in anything resembling a fair fight.

The first line had held, if only just, but now the Imperials were about to have their turn. Even at maximum acceleration, it would take nearly an hour for the Prejudice to reach the Void Hunters’ zone of control. That meant Middleton’s people had time for some basic repairs.

“Chief,” Middleton barked over the link, “send a team up here to patch the hole in my bridge—now!”

Chapter XXXIII: Fresh Meat!

The Void Hunter fleet was composed of nineteen Corvettes, two non-Imperial Destroyers, two non-Imperial Cruisers, two Imperial Destroyers, the Mothership, and their remaining arsenal of boarding craft. Since they were up against a force of thirteen Imperial Destroyers, four remaining Cruisers—after two had been disabled by Mrr’shan’s ambush parties—and two Battleships, the odds seemed so utterly lopsided against them that it would have been insanity to think the felines could put up a reasonable defense against the Imperials.

But none of that accounted for the Void Hunters’ true strength: their savagely effective boarding parties. Middleton’s estimates put the number of available boarding craft in the Void Hunter fleet at two hundred, with the other three hundred having been scattered throughout the star system prior to the Imperial arrival. Each boarding craft could carry, at most, forty Void Hunters with a better average estimate closer to twenty per craft. Apparently it was routine for Void Hunters to kill each other in the immediate lead-up to a fight—that, combined with relatively shoddy craft, made for what tactically-minded people like Middleton would call a ‘high attrition environment.’

His understanding was that the scattered ambush craft—those Void Hunters which had already impacted the outcome of the battle by taking down a handful of capital ships—contained a strange mixture of the elite Void Hunters along with the least capable feline warriors. The elite warriors considered surprise and ambush to be of paramount importance and value. The less capable wanted to prove themselves in bloody combat and were willing to be deployed in craft with minimal life support, short-range chemical thrusters, and sometimes no weaponry. Apparently this was a method by which they could prove themselves to their fellow Void Hunters, but Middleton still did not understand—nor did he presently care to understand—the feline uplifts’ society well enough to describe their motives.

But he had been informed by Mrr’shan that, while there would be few elite hunters armed with high-end equipment aboard the small craft assigned to the Void Hunter fleet, those warriors would be relatively uniform in skill and equipment. This was in large part to better enable the Void Hunters to coordinate their knife-range boarding actions for maximum effect. If a particularly juicy target was made vulnerable, the felines would coordinate their efforts on that target while eschewing less desirable ones.

“I am detecting thirty faint signatures in the space between the Void Hunters and the Imperials,” Hephaestion reported after Garibaldi had brought a team of his people onto the bridge to patch the hole left by the main viewer’s destruction. A large, polymer sheet was stretched across the ovular opening and that sheet was reinforced by several layers of more robust polymer, after which the team would pour a quick patch mixture of metal filings and resin. It wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand any kind of serious explosion or impact, but it would enable the bridge to be re-pressurized with ample time to spare before they came into firing range.

“Void Hunter ambush craft,” Middleton mused after reviewing Hephaestion’s readings. “Let’s hope the Imperials don’t see them as well as we do.”

Imperial Battle Group Three slowly altered its formation as it approached the slowly-retreating Void Hunter warships. The two Battleships and four Cruisers slowly pulled ahead of the nimbler Destroyers, and Middleton scowled as he realized what the Imperial commander was doing.

“He’s goading us into overreaching by presenting his Battleships and Cruisers,” he said disappointedly, “he’s going to make us use our missiles on his big ships, and he’s probably prepared to scuttle them before letting them fall into our hands . Fine,” he said, keying the control key into his plotter’s missile activation screen, which soon populated with three hundred and eighty three new missile locations that had been fanned out between the Void Hunters’ current position and the oncoming Imperial Battle Group, “position accepted.”

It was tricky controlling the missiles from this range. The light delay meant that he would need to send orders to those missiles nearly twenty minutes before he got the returns on the Imperial formation’s position when they actually reached firing range on the Imperial ships. He crunched the numbers four times in rapid succession, with each calculation confirming the results from the previous one. “P2p to Mrr’shan’s strike teams,” Middleton instructed, “they are to ignore the Battleships and Cruisers. If her ambush teams want to take a crack at the heavies as they pass by, that’s fine by me. But I want all of her strike shuttles ready for deployment against those Destroyers.”

“It will take sixty three minutes to receive confirmation of receipt,” Hephaestion said dutifully.

“Understood,” Middleton acknowledged as he input a cringe-inducing target package into his plotter. He wasn’t going to play games at this point—he was going to wipe those Battleships off the board. A hundred Independence-class missiles firing on each of them should be more than enough to not only scrub them off the board, but possibly even vaporize them outright if the fire was sufficiently well-coordinated. The other hundred eighty three missiles would be kept in reserve until Middleton had time to analyze the situation from a closer vantage point.

He transmitted the target package to the missiles via p2p, and watched as the Imperial ships crept ever closer to the fire zone representing the range of the Independence platforms.

“Forty six minutes to missile range,” Middleton called out as Garibaldi’s people began pouring the quick patch resin to the polymer mold they had completed. “At their current retreat vector, the Void Hunters will stay out of Imperial firing range for forty eight minutes.”

“That’s cutting it a little close,” Garibaldi quipped over the link.

“It is what it is,” Middleton grudged.

“I am detecting fire,” Hephaestion reported, hesitating for a moment before continuing grimly, “it appears that the thirty ambush craft we detected have been destroyed by the Battleships’ guns.”

Middleton’s scowl deepened, “That’s a thousand Void Hunters the Imps just erased from the board. We could have used them in the next hour.”

Minutes ticked by, during which time Garibaldi’s people finished the patchwork repair to the bridge before Mikey led an EVA team out to work on the disabled shield generator.

Middleton watched the Stalwart defensive effort continue to unfold in their wake, where the Stalwart Commander actually seemed to have taken control over one of the Imperial Cruisers and was max-burning away from the rest of its cohorts. Another of the Cruisers’ gun deck was spewing fire at the fellow Imperials, who had finally decided to fire on their own ship to avoid being further harmed by it.

Most importantly of all, the Imperial Battleship which Middleton had left critically wounded had ejected its fusion core and powered down its systems. It had all but waved a flag of surrender, which meant there were only two Cruisers and two Destroyers remaining on the board from the original twenty one ship Battle Group. And the captured Imperial Cruiser—which Middleton presumed was now commanded by the Stalwart Commander—was making its way for a supporting position adjacent to the remaining Stalwart Fleet.

The Stalwarts had retreated with one Battleship, the Glorious Burden, six Cruisers and five Corvettes which now took up their fallback position in defense of the second planet. It was hardly enough to repel the full-strength Imperial One Battle Group, or even to mount a decent defense against it, but when the League’s warships arrived it would certainly be sufficient to the task. The Void Hunters’ stealthy ambushes had proven far more effective at disrupting the Imperials than even Middleton had predicted.

As the Stalwart retreated, dozens of hulks of Imperial, Prichtac, and other designs now drifted in the wake of their vicious battle. Middleton only hoped his people would soon have the opportunity to pick over that salvage to reinforce their soon to be dangerously depleted arsenal.

“The Void Hunters are slowing their retreat,” Hephaestion reported as the Imperial warships advancing toward the felines came within two minutes until firing range of the missiles Middleton had programmed to gut those Battleships.

“They want to bait the trap,” Middleton explained, “they need the Imperials to commit themselves to engagement before we fire those missiles. If the Imperials are overcommitted when they enter range, and the missiles do sufficient damage, the Void Hunters can counterattack and close distance with their heavies and boarding parties. They’ll probably lose several of their Destroyers and Cruisers in the process, but they’ll be able to close to knife range and send their boarders onto the enemy ships.”

It was a risky play—and one which even Middleton would have been hard pressed to sign off on if such a play was his to order—but in his time spent around the Void Hunters he had never known them to shy away from danger. If anything, they seemed far too eager to seek it out—thus their predilection for employing and developing boarding parties instead of expendable ordnance like Starfire or Independence missiles.

The seconds ticked by until the missiles were scheduled to fire, but Middleton would still need to wait for several long, tense second before receiving their reports.

And when they came, it was everything he could have hoped for.

“I am reading one hundred eighty nine Independence-class missile blooms,” Hephaestion reported steadily. Several agonizing seconds later, the havoc they had wrought was plain to see on the plotter, “Both Battleships are neutralized…no, they have both been destroyed…” Hephaestion amended, his tone contested by the warring emotions of solemnity and triumph.

“The Cruisers are surging forward,” Middleton said with a measure of respect known only to warriors standing opposite their enemies after finding them to be made of the sternest stuff in the cosmos, “they didn’t even falter for an instant. Mr. Hephaestion,” Middleton inclined his chin toward his plotter as a rare chill ran down his spine, “that is how a warrior conducts a charge at the enemy’s ramparts: no break in his stride, no regret on his conscience, and a promise of retribution in his throat.”

Hephaestion nodded grimly, “They are formidable warriors, Captain.”

“They are,” Middleton agreed as the Cruisers entered firing range on the Void Hunters, “which is why we have to halt their advance in this star system. We’re the last—the only—line of defense out here against this invasion. We have to hold this line.”

“Indeed,” Hephaestion assented as the first salvo from Imperial Three’s Cruisers arced toward the Void Hunter warships—ships which had been arranged with their two Cruisers in the front, the four Destroyers behind them, and the nineteen Corvettes clustered around the Mothership still further behind the Destroyer group. “Eighteen turbo-laser hits against the two Void Hunter Cruisers,” Hephaestion reported, his demeanor resuming that of the unflappable young man who Middleton had come to admire as well as respect, “the Void Hunters are rolling as they drive toward the enemy. The Void Hunter Destroyers are returning fire.”

Middleton saw the Void Hunters’ two captured Imperial Destroyers, taken after the battle with Paganini’s task force, return fire against the left-most Cruiser in the Imperial formation. Only five turbo-lasers struck the enemy Cruiser’s shields, but it was enough to draw down their forward shields significantly.

The Void Hunter Corvettes then, somewhat surprisingly in Middleton’s mind, split out in a three dimensional cone and advanced toward the oncoming Imperials. It would take them nearly ten minutes to reach firing range with their relatively limited arsenals, and at least twice that long even at maximum burn to reach boarding range of the Imperial Cruisers.

“The Mothership’s power plants are experiencing a precipitous draw,” Hephaestion reported in alarm. “They are firing!”

The Mothership lashed out with its primary weapon: a spinal-mounted laser platform similar to those which had been employed by the Conformity Droids back in the Spineward Sectors. In fact, except for the lack of lethal radiation which had preceded those Droid weapon platforms, this particular weapon’s signature could not be denied as being fundamentally similar—if just short of outright identical—to those weapons.

The Mothership’s spinal laser lashed out and took the left-most Cruiser in the forward shields, burning fully through them and carving a chunk of crystal from the Imperial’s forward hull—a chunk which looked to be about as large as an average Cutter.

“Massive decompression detected from the Imperial Cruiser,” Hephaestion declared, “they are falling out of position with severe engine fluctuations. The Corvettes are firing missiles,” he added in surprise, which happened to be a sentiment Middleton shared, “I am reading one hundred ninety high-velocity kinetic warhead engine blooms—ten per Corvette. Time to impact: two minutes.”

“Their ordnance list showed them as nearly depleted of expendable munitions,” Middleton smirked, “it seems I’m going to need to have a talk with Mrr’shan after this is all over.”

“The Corvettes appear to be taking up a defensive posture,” Hephaestion added, and Middleton confirmed the young man’s assertion with a glance at his plotter.

“They’re looking to protect the Mothership,” he explained. “They’d be torn to shreds if they moved to engage at range, but if the Imperials come to firing range on the Mothership they’ll be in a position to counter from all angles. It’s brave, but those Destroyers could easily outflank them,” he said, and sure enough just a few seconds later he saw the Imperial Destroyers do precisely that.

The Lupine-class Imperial Destroyers blossomed outward into their own conical formation as their engines burned at maximum, creating the head-on image of flower petals unfurling around the Cruisers at the formation’s center.

It would have been obvious to a child versed in simple trigonometry that the Imperials were easily going to gain the angle on the Corvettes, which they outgunned at least three to one in spite of being outnumbered nearly three to two. Imperial technology also allowed the Destroyers to outrange the Void Hunter Corvettes by such a margin that it would be practically impossible for the Corvettes to reach firing range before being scoured from the board. None of that even touched on the fact that the Imperial Destroyers’ shields were fully twice as robust as the Void Hunters’ Corvettes, which only served to underline just how lopsided this battle appeared to be.

But appearances could be deceiving—just as the commanders of the Imperial Cruisers soon discovered.

“The Void Hunter Cruisers are returning fire,” Hephaestion said in confusion, “they are scattering their fire across the enemy Cruisers…curious. Captain, I am detecting spotting along the Imperial warships’ forward shields.”

Middleton’s brow rose in surprise before he scanned the raw feed for himself. It was every bit as confusing as Hephaestion had seemed to think it: in spite of the felines’ fire being relatively indiscriminate, there did appear to be unexpected flares in the Imperial Cruisers’ forward shields.

Then he realized what he was seeing, “Those are boarding craft penetrating their shields, Hephaestion.”

“They coordinated their strikes with the boarding crafts’ entries in order to create weak points in the enemy shields,” Hephaestion concurred, “and somehow their small craft remained undetected on our sensors as they pushed through the weakened shields.”

“Tricky kitties,” Middleton nodded approvingly.

“Two of the Cruisers’ engines have been hit,” Hephaestion reported darkly, “the explosive signatures are consistent with low-yield fusion bombs of the type that drive the Independence-class missiles.”

That set Middleton’s jaw. He had been explicitly clear that the use of WMD’s would not be permitted, and uncontrolled fusion explosions were generally considered to be in the strategic weapons category.

“What were the yields?” he demanded, knowing that the standard Independence-class charge yielded a hundred kilotons. Anything over twenty kilotons was considered a WMD by most accepted definitions, but even the smaller devices would be considered such if they did not detonate with a bare minimum of radioactive residue.

“Yields were…eighteen and nineteen kilotons, Captain,” Hephaestion said quizzically. He seemed to be uncertain as to the reason for his commander’s sudden anger at two Cruisers being taken largely out of the fight.

“Sweep that area for a complete radiation profile,” Middleton growled, simultaneously pleased at the Void Hunters’ application of asymmetric warfare principles and angered by just how close they came to the line he had drawn regarding conduct within the AG Fleet—and he could not accept as even remotely possible that their actions had been anything less than premeditated with the full knowledge that he would not have approved had they asked his permission to deploy tactical fusion devices. “I want active scans utilizing tight confinement, Mr. Hephaestion—and record the results on a standalone data module for later review,” he added, knowing that employing the active sensors might highlight his location to two of the oncoming Destroyers. But if he emerged victorious from this fight, it would be of paramount importance to reinforce discipline throughout his fleet.

“Yes sir,” Hephaestion acknowledged as the Prejudice’s powerful sensor suite pulsed active scanning beams out into the wake of the still-drifting Cruisers. “Results downloaded,” he said after several seconds as he produced a data crystal.

“Good,” Middleton grunted, returning his focus to the battle unfolding between the Void Hunters and Imperial Three. Of the original six Cruisers, three were now engine-down and the other three were continuing on course toward the Void Hunter Mothership. Those three ships fired a volley of turbo-laser fire at the Mothership while the two engine-nuked Cruisers added their fire to the effort. At their current distance, which was just within extreme range—even for Imperial turbo-lasers, which out-ranged everything else Middleton had ever read about—the Imperial Cruisers’ turbo-lasers only landed nine strikes out of thirty beams.

“The Mothership’s forward shields are holding,” Middleton said in muted surprise, “they’re only down to eighty percent.”

The two non-Imperial-tech Void Hunter Destroyers fired their bevy of heavy lasers at the enemy Cruisers, stabbing a dozen beams into the central Cruiser’s forward shields just as the Imperials came into long range. The two Void Hunter Cruisers added their own heavy laser fire shortly thereafter, putting five more beams into the central ship’s forward shields.

“The central Cruiser’s forward shields are critically spotting. She is presenting her broadside,” Hephaestion reported just as the Void Hunter Mothership lashed out with its spinal-mounted main weapon.

The Mothership’s main beam cut through a short-lived gap in the Cruiser’s forward shields, punching into—and through—the Cruiser’s bow at a sharp angle which saw the spinal-mounted laser erupt out from the Cruiser’s port stern quarter, skewering no less than eighty percent of the ship’s length.

Middleton’s mouth went agape as the Cruiser’s engines went offline. Its fusion cores were immediately ejected by automated systems as the fatally wounded warship went into its death throes. Backup power generators—and, in all likelihood, their service crews—valiantly attempted to combat the cascade failures long enough for the survivors to reach their escape pods. But only a third of the Cruiser’s escape pods launched before the ship went cold, dark and silent. Its ruined hulk tumbled end over end as its two remaining cohorts continued their valiant charge toward the Void Hunter Mothership.

“That spinal beam is more powerful than anything I’ve seen,” Middleton muttered, acutely aware that it still fell well short of the reputed power of an Imperial Command Carrier’s main cannon. But since Middleton had never seen a Command Carrier fire its main cannon, his statement was absolutely true. “It burns through locsium like a plasma torch through glass…it suggests power several times that of those Conformity spinal lasers.”

“But the energy signatures appear to be remarkably similar to the Conformity weaponry,” Hephaestion observed.

“They are,” Middleton agreed as the Mothership accelerated to stern, burning her reverse thrusters for everything they were worth while its Corvette escorts fell back to maintain their previous posture. “It looks like I’m going to have a few more questions for Mrr’shan after this battle. Where is all the power coming from?”

“There is no radiation signature consistent with antimatter annihilation like that employed by the Conformity tribe’s spinal-mounted lasers,” Hephaestion said. “There is no other technology on file which would permit such a rapid firing of that weapon without some sort of commensurate signature.”

Middleton shook his head, resisting the urge to look toward the Prejudice’s stern—where the Total Conversion Drive unit was located, “I know of one piece of technology that might be able to put that much power out without leaving detectable traces.”

“It is possible,” Hephaestion belatedly agreed before the Imperial Cruisers and Void Hunter ships exchanged another volley of fire. Four Imperial Cruisers were able to lob fire at the six mixed Cruisers and Destroyers of the Void Hunters, and this time when they stabbed into the Void Hunter formation the first of the felines’ Cruisers suffered catastrophic damage. “Coordinated fire broke through the port shields of the Cruiser, Bared Fang,” Hephaestion reported, “their engines are off-line and they are critically venting breathable gases. They are ejecting escape pods.”

Middleton watched as the crippled Bared Fang slowly, but surely, went dark. Her crew evacuated as the Imperial Destroyers entered range and poured concerted fire into the aged Cruiser’s hull, tearing massive sections of duralloy hull from the feline warship’s superstructure while gouging deep rents in the its patchwork armor.

“Void Hunter missiles will begin to impact in ten seconds,” Hephaestion reported, drawing Middleton’s attention to the trajectories of the first wave of kinetic missiles. They were focused on the still-charging Imperial Cruisers, which seemed hades-bent to take down the Mothership before they were consigned to the void.

PD fire erupted from the Imperial Cruisers, and the first wave of roughly thirty warheads was heavily neutralized by the barrage of fire. Only eight of the first missiles slammed into the Cruisers’ forward shields, and even as they did so the Imperials presented their flanks in order to take advantage of their still fully-charged broadside shields. The kinetic missile strikes—six on the port Cruiser and two on its counterpart—failed to pierce the shields of those ships, though the six kinetic strikes dropped the Imperials’ shields to less than half strength.

The next wave of missiles fared far better.

“Fifty six total confirmed hits out of one hundred twenty missiles, Captain. Enemy Cruisers are showing critical spotting on the presented shield facings with multiple direct hull strikes detected resulting in significant out-gassing,” Hephaestion reported as the Imperial heavies’ icons flashed in rapid succession. The final volley of missiles would arrive in a matter of seconds, and the Imperial Cruisers wisely initiated rolls to present the fresh shield facings to the last barrage of missiles.

Middleton checked his shield status and saw that two enemy Destroyers were now in extreme range of his ship. His presented shield facings toward those Destroyers were at sixty three percent and fifty four percent, with his forward shields at seventy percent. “Toto,” Middleton urged as the Prejudice crept into extreme firing range, “stay bow-on to the Imp Cruisers and take precise shots on the near Cruiser once she exposes her bare flank. Target her turbo mounts or, if you think you’ve got a good angle, her engines.”

The final wave of sixty missiles slammed into the Cruisers seconds before those Cruisers lobbed another broadside at the Void Hunter Cruiser, Bleeding Meat, which returned fire in kind for what would be its final act as a ship of war.

“The Bleeding Meat is breaking up,” Hephaestion said tightly, “escape pods are ejecting but…” he trailed off as the Meat’s reactor went critical before it could be ejected. Thankfully, it had unleashed a full-throated broadside into the enemy mere seconds before being struck by the fatal barrage. Combined with nearly twenty kinetic missile strikes against the Imp Cruiser distant from the Prejudice, the Meat’s final act of savage defiance was to cause its Imperial adversary to eject her fusion cores and escape pods.

As the opposing Cruisers went into their death throes, the Prejudice’s turbo-lasers bored into the partially exposed rear quarter of the lone remaining mobile Cruiser of Imperial Three. “Four hits…three to the hull and one was absorbed by their shields,” Middleton rattled off the tactical feed information before Hephaestion for a change. “Minor decrease detected in their engine output and a turbo mount was scrubbed.”

He had gotten spoiled by the closer-range accuracy displayed by Toto to the point that he was actually disappointed with only three of eight strikes landing on high-value targets from extreme firing range. He knew it was a better than expected outcome, but right now he didn’t need ‘better than expected.’ He needed as close to perfection as humanly—or Sunderedly—possible.

“The Corvettes are adjusting posture,” Hephaestion reported, and just as they should have done the Void Hunter Corvettes began to collapse back into a fan-shaped formation which would allow them to escape the firing arcs of nearly half of the inbound Imperial Destroyers—Destroyers which were still several minutes from extreme firing range on the Corvette and, a minute after that, on the Void Hunter Mothership.

Mrr’shan had been an impressively receptive student during Middleton’s tutelage sessions in recent weeks. She, unlike the Stalwart Commander, appeared to have little—or no—pride when it came to revising her peoples’ long-held naval battle strategies. She seemed interested solely in improving her ships’ performance without the intrusion of ego or other undesirable factors entering into the equation.

Middleton could not claim full credit for Mrr’shan’s impressively appropriate application of the tactical principles he had taught to her, but as her ships fell back he was reminded of a particular virtual simulation he had conducted with her a week earlier. As he thought about that training session—a session in which Middleton had taken the role of her people’s ships while Mrr’shan had taken the role of the Imperials, whose force was remarkably similar to the one she now faced—a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He saw a nearly perfect replication of his own formation in her ships’ movements, and for a moment he felt a measure of pride that was as unfamiliar to him as it could be.

“She’s going to get hit hard,” he muttered as her Destroyers—two of Imperial make and two of decidedly lower quality—surged forward to engage the Destroyers which would first achieve firing angle on the Void Hunter Corvettes. “But if that main gun of hers has a few more shots in it and the Mothership’s shields hold…she might actually pull this off.”

The Prejudice suddenly lurched beneath him as warning indicators flashed on his Tactical console after the two in-range Destroyers fired their long guns at Middleton’s ship. “Adjust posture, Helm,” Middleton ordered as his port shields fell to thirty two percent with heavy spotting and his starboard shields fell to twenty eight percent with critical spotting. The Prejudice’s power relays also began strobing with warning indicators, which meant he needed to disengage as quickly as possible or risk losing his limited cloaking device’s protection just beyond firing range from a squadron of Lupine-class Destroyers. “I’m diverting power from the guns to the stealth systems; drive us straight at the northern Destroyer on my mark. Three…two…one…” his finger stabbed down on the dual shield-swapping controls as he rotated the forward shields to the stern and moved the port shields to the front, “mark!”

The Prejudice spun deftly and surged toward the northern Destroyer, with Toto desperately juking and rolling the nimble warship as its stealth suite attempted to cast sensor ghosts in the immediate vicinity in order to distract the in-range Destroyers’ targeting computers.

The lone remaining Imperial Cruiser’s hull suddenly rippled with explosions, none of which was powerful enough to cause serious damage to the ship. After a few seconds’ examination, Middleton realized what had been hit: the escape pod tubes.

He clenched his teeth, causing his cheek to bunch up against the metal plate attached to his jaw. “Blast it, Mrr’shan,” he cursed, knowing the only possible reason for the Imperial Cruiser’s many escape pod tubes to suffer such damage simultaneously was if they were sabotaged by the Void Hunter boarding parties. Tactically, Middleton fully approved of the maneuver since it would restrict the Imperials’ options—chief among them being whether or not to scuttle their ship while still aboard it—but ethically it was a step too far to deny your opponent the opportunity to retreat.

Still, he understood the Void Hunters’ reasoning plainly enough: sabotaging the enemy’s escape paths greatly increased the chances of the Void Hunters capturing an intact Imperial Cruiser. And, assuming Middleton’s fleet emerged victorious, it was clear they would need many—many—hulls to replace those lost in this brutal, bloody battle.

If Middleton had not been constrained by years of indoctrination with uniform military codes and regulations, he was certain he would have employed a similar tactic in the Void Hunters’ shoes. He wasn’t sure what that meant about him as a person, but he would need to ponder that particular subject later.

“Over sixty percent of their throw weight is gone,” Middleton said with a slow nod as the beleaguered and crippled Imperial Cruisers fell silent, suggesting the feline boarding parties had, at the very least, disrupted ship-wide operations sufficiently to drop them out of the fight—and, at most, that the Void Hunters had seized control of one or more of the Imperial warships. “Which makes the remaining ships roughly even in a heads-up fight at knife range…” he trailed off as the Imperial Destroyers widened the angle of their approach to the Void Hunter formation.

At their new angle, they would not enter firing range of the Void Hunter ships—save the two Imperial-tech captures which now served as the second and third heaviest warships in the Void Hunter formation—and Middleton hissed a bitter sigh. The new angle meant the wolf pack of Destroyers would not enter extreme firing range for another eight minutes, but once they did so they would be too far from the Void Hunters for the felines to return fire in any meaningful fashion.

“P2p to Mrr’shan on the Mothership,” Middleton instructed, “have her people pull back to the third planet at maximum burn. They’ve done everything they can here; they’ll only die if they hold this position. Congratulate her on a perfectly executed defense. We couldn’t have asked for more at this particular engagement.”

“Message sent,” Hephaestion acknowledged several seconds later, and just as he had hoped they would Middleton saw the Void Hunters do as he had commanded. At their present acceleration compared to that of the Imperial Destroyers—which perfectly adjusted their collective trajectories in order to minimize intercept time—the Void Hunters had just bought themselves nearly twenty minutes before they would come under turbo-laser fire.

But once the wolf pack entered firing range, it would only be a matter of time before the Void Hunter ships were methodically wiped off the board. And there was nothing they could do about it.

Perhaps worst of all, however, was that the Void Hunters’ arsenal of small craft had already been deployed. Middleton was confident that a number of elite teams remained aboard the Mothership—perhaps even as many as fifty small craft—but those would be far from decisive when it came time for the next tilting of lances.

A lone turbo-laser strike hammered into the Prejudice’s stern shields, dropping them to sixty percent strength as the Destroyer astern of Middleton’s ship sent two turbo-laser strikes in very different directions. The one which ‘missed’ actually intercepted one of the sensor ghosts Middleton had projected via a decoy buoy he had rigged up with Mikey’s help, which meant his latest addition to the Prejudice’s stealth systems were capable of at least occasionally tricking even Imperial sensors.

“Looks like we’re clear,” Middleton said with measured relief as the Prejudice escaped the sternward Destroyer’s firing arc. “Hephaestion, get me a p2p line with Chancellor Foles. I need to know what other assets she’s got that can come into play.”

He still had almost two hundred Independence missiles-cum-mines he could deploy, which had been placed near the third planet at the Void Hunters’ final fallback position. But if he used them now, while the completely unscathed Imperial One approached the second planet where the battered remnants of the Stalwart Battle Group had finally rendezvoused, he would be leaving the third planet—and the Void Hunters—totally vulnerable to the hungry pack of Lupines which were presently working to encircle them before tearing them apart piece by ragged piece.

The Independence missiles’ range was significantly less than that of the Destroyers’ turbo-lasers, so Mrr’shan’s people would need to suck at least some of them into the missiles’ range with what Middleton hoped did not appear to be textbook or pre-rehearsed maneuvers.

Middleton pored over tactical simulations as he searched for the ideal method to employ so that he might draw some of the wolf pack into the missiles’ firing range. He was broken from his single-minded reverie by Hephaestion’s voice when the young Tracto-an said, “I have Chancellor Foles on p2p with a two minute delay, Captain.”

“Thank you,” Middleton said as the Chancellor’s face appeared on the Tactical console’s secondary display. Middleton drew a steadying breath as he prepared to engage in a process for which he knew only too well that he was ill-suited:

Politics.

Chapter XXXIV: Lance-tip Diplomacy

“Supreme Commander,” the Chancellor greeted, her eyes sunken and dark from what must have been several consecutive stressful, sleepless days. But her resolve was evident in her stony demeanor as she spoke, “I assume you mean to ask after our remaining defensive assets, but I am not in a position to reveal that information at this time. I am, however, exercising executive authority—in spite of the electorate’s objections—and re-tasking our squadron of Corvettes to your direct command. Your efforts in defense of our star system thus far have been satisfactory,” Middleton’s lip curled into a contemptuous sneer at hearing that last word, which fell well short of any descriptor he would have used for his fleet’s efforts thus far. “As a gesture of good faith, I am permitting you to command our warships and their crews as you see fit.”

Middleton snorted derisively, “I’m not good at word games, Madam Chancellor, so I’ll be blunt: you don’t have a choice whether or not to re-task your Corvettes. You can either place them under my direct command or they’ll get caught in the increasingly bloody crossfire out here. Worse still, they could sit on the sidelines like cowards while my people—foreigners in every sense of the word—bleed and die to protect your star system. And before you think to hide behind parliamentary protocol, executive authority restrictions, or any of the other myriad tropes and gambits you’ve assembled for the occasion, understand that every second you waste doing so will cost lives. For a while those lives will belong to the AG Fleet, but eventually the butcher’s bill will demand contributions from your own people—and after me and mine are gone, you won’t be in much of a position to repel these invaders. To be clear: I’ll leave this star system, right here and right now, if I don’t get assurances of serious commitment on your part to act in your own defense. I’ve torn this Imperial fleet apart far better than anyone could have reasonably hoped for to this point; I’d gladly quit the field on a victorious note and let the Imps descend on you like a plague before I’ve bled all but my last few drops and left myself at the Imperials’ mercy—or yours. Think on that while you compose your reply, Madam Chancellor.”

Middleton resumed his tactical calculations and projections as he awaited the Chancellor’s reply, which eventually came as Foles’ lips tightened into a thin, pale line. “Then I will be equally blunt, Captain Middleton,” she said icily, “we demand first salvage rights of any and all warships found in our star system after the battle’s conclusion. I have already drafted a resolution which can be passed in our interplanetary legislative branch in eight minutes’ time following your verbal agreement. If you can agree to the salvage stipulations in the attached document, I promise to push this resolution through on your behalf.”

“On my behalf?!” Middleton roared as the document arrived at his terminal. He took a trio of long, steadying breaths as he fought to regain control of his surprisingly volatile emotions.

This woman was actually arguing over salvage rights when her entire star system was under siege! He recalled a passage from the League’s MDP, which he and the Alliance Gorgonus principals had already agreed to, and ground his teeth angrily as he pulled up that particular document and forwarded it to Hephaestion’s station so the young man could send it on to the Chancellor.

“My counter to your counter, lady,” Middleton seethed, “is as follows: you replace whatever nonsense you just sent me with this document’s section regarding salvage rights—along with your star system’s unqualified, albeit provisional, agreement to enter into this Mutual Defense Pact—and I’ll agree to abide by the salvage clause contained therein, which is more than generous when addressing a host system’s primacy in salvage rights. Furthermore,” he continued hotly, “I’ll agree not to leave your people in my wake on my way out of this star system—which I can assure you is precisely where I and my remaining people will be headed if you don’t sign the MDP within five minutes of receiving this message.”

Hephaestion sent the file Middleton had forwarded to him and acknowledged he had done so with a short nod. Included in the MDP was a full breakdown of the League’s civilian assets—including the Imperial Constructor, and the converted settler ships which housed literally hundreds of thousands of uprooted colonists. Middleton had been advised—a far more preferable word to ‘instructed’—by Chairman Lewis not to divulge that information unless he deemed it absolutely necessary to the preservation of the League’s ships.

He was sure that a long line of lawyers could be quickly formed to argue that, technically speaking since the League’s ships had not yet entered combat with the Imperial Task Force, he had breached the spirit of that ‘advice’ by transmitting the full MDP but he saw no other way to secure the Chancellor’s cooperation at this point. None of their previous negotiations had yielded anything resembling progress toward a mutual agreement on key points like salvage or mutual defensive commitment, and now was the time to cut and run if such a mutual understanding and agreement could not be reached.

Maybe a better negotiator could have already succeeded without surrendering such vital information, but Middleton had never been one with a talent for diplomacy that didn’t involve a knife to the throat—which, as far as he could tell, was essentially the position both he and Chancellor Foles were in at this exact moment.

Middleton didn’t want to leave any potentially salvageable ships—or recoverable crews—behind by fleeing the system here and now. He knew that retrieving those assets for the AG Fleet was the only hope he had of mounting a serviceable defense of the Gorgon Sectors. But he would absolutely tuck tail and run if it was clear that staying would only cost him even more of the blood and arsenal which he and his people had already spent. To continue fighting on this particular field without establishing a reasonable expectation of return on the AG’s already deep investment here would be tantamount to the AG Fleet’s collective suicide.

He’d scored a victory in the opening rounds of this fight, albeit something of a pyrrhic victory, and he knew of several more star systems which would lend their aid to the AG. He had purposefully set course for the border region of the conflict so that he could first establish a defensible perimeter. Once that perimeter was established, he could resume recruiting those other forces into the AG from a position of strength and relative solidarity. But if the Imperials were left unchecked in their advance, he knew he would never be able to build a coalition capable of resisting them.

Precisely seven minutes later, Chancellor Foles’ scowling features once again filled his display. “It is my duty to acknowledge this extortion for precisely what it is,” she said stiffly, “however, given our predicament, we have no choice but to provisionally accept your salvage terms—with the understanding that several of the other more peripheral points of the MDP be subject to…clarification at a later date.”

Middleton rolled his eyes pointedly, “That would be why we employ the term ‘provisional,’ Madam Chancellor, and I’m glad your people have seen fit to do what is clearly in their best interests—something which should not have required several days of political standoff, but I understand that some portion of your posturing was unavoidable. During our arrival in your star system my people and I had only proven to you that we were enemies of the Empire, but now I think it’s clear we’re here to help and not to harm…well, not just to harm,” he added with a sharkish grin. He saw a file come over from Hephaestion’s terminal and he opened it quickly, finding what appeared to be a complete breakdown of the star system’s arsenal—which did, in fact, include another one thousand Independence-class missiles scattered throughout the star system, whereas the first four hundred had all originated from the third planet’s surface.

He finally understood why the Chancellor had been so reluctant to engage in formal negotiations: her people had already possessed enough firepower to destroy the invading Imperials, and possibly even Middleton’s fleet. But if they had deployed that weaponry against Admiral Edelweiss’s force then whatever Imperial task force followed would be more than capable of executing a full, ruthless, merciless siege of the star system from well beyond even the Independence-class missiles’ range.

The main reason the Imperials had swooped in with such alacrity upon arriving in this star system was that Middleton and Chancellor Foles had successfully tricked them into thinking they were well on their way to capturing Admiral Edelweiss’s surrendered warships. If the enemy had not believed that those Imperial warships were potentially hours away from servicing the AG and Mercy’s End, they would have laid a proper siege to the star system and none of the AG’s cleverly-laid traps would have amounted to a pile of spent carbon scrubbers.

A more sentimental man than Middleton might have seen his blood boil at Foles’ reluctance to provide this arsenal at the battle’s outset. She had consigned thousands of the AG’s crew and dozens of their ships to the void by withholding the details of her star system’s defensive panoply, and Middleton did find himself scowling at that realization—but he also found himself with a much better understanding of the Chancellor’s motives and aims.

“I’ve reviewed your arsenal,” he said with a curt nod after confirming that the launch and command codes appeared to be valid—or at least that they largely matched those of the first four hundred missiles. “And I understand your reasons for withholding its complete details,” he added pointedly, since he was quite certain she was still keeping some portion of her people’s defensive armaments in reserve. “I need those missiles released immediately so I can deploy them at my leisure. I’m also ordering your Corvettes to remain in low orbit behind your third planet for now to avoid Imperial fire; your remaining warships can’t lend any support to this fight at this point, and I don’t want to see any more needless deaths. Middleton out.”

He cut the recording and gestured for Hephaestion to send it on, which the young man promptly did.

“All right,” Middleton said, the tactical gears of his mind working as fast as he could ever remember while he plugged new parameters into the virtual simulator, “let’s see what we can come up with in the next ten minutes…”

Chapter XXXV: Willpower vs. Ferocity

“We can withdraw no faster than what I outlined, Mrr’shan,” Middleton repeated over the p2p with the Void Hunter leader. In the fifteen minutes since he had received the command codes for the Independence missiles, he had positioned the Prejudice so that the light delay in his conversation with the Mothership’s actual would only be a few seconds per exchange. “And that withdrawal absolutely cannot deviate from the itinerary I outlined.”

“Many of my ships will be lost,” Mrr’shan hissed a few seconds later.

“I know your people will pay a heavy price—“ Middleton began, only to be interrupted mid-sentence by her delayed continuation.

“My people are eager to prove themselves; their deaths are acceptable,” she explained, pausing to hear his interrupted reply. She then flashed her fangs in a truly evil, bone-chilling facsimile of a grin, “My ships, on the other hand, have already been badly depleted. After this battle the Void Hunter fleet must be replenished—and more,” she said as her predatory, vertical pupils narrowed.

“I’m sure something can be arranged,” Middleton said through clenched teeth. He also knew that the Void Hunters cared far less about quality than they did about quantity; he suspected they would accept a lower overall tactical value of hulls if those hulls happened to be plentiful. The Void Hunter Clans were clearly a ‘diverse’ group that placed a premium on segregation. “But you need to keep that main gun of yours firing as often as possible.”

Mrr’shan’s menacing grin disappeared and, for a moment, she looked like a downtrodden kitten, “We…my gunners are uncertain how many more times we can safely use the Lion’s Roar.”

“What does that mean?” Middleton pressed, uncaring for the rather poetic name they had given to what was definitely the single most powerful weapon on this particular battlefield.

Her ears laid back and she briefly flashed her teeth, “The Roar is our most treasured weapon and it is aboard our most sacred ship—the ship which carries our entire future. If it becomes unstable or unusable…” she trailed off darkly.

Middleton hated all of this information compartmentalization. In spite of his repeated requests, he had been denied access to the Void Hunter Mothership on what were essentially religious grounds and it seemed that his respect for the Void Hunters’ preferences had come back to bite him.

“Mrr’shan, the lion needs to roar at least five more times, no longer than two minutes apart, if we’re going to spring this trap,” Middleton said firmly. “Can your people manage that?”

Mrr’shan looked off-pickup and spat something in her people’s crude, guttural language. Almost faster than Middleton could see, her left ‘hand’ lashed out and when it returned to the pickup its claws were coated in a thin layer of blood. A mewling sound came from the direction she had struck out, and the Void Hunter matriarch nodded in apparent satisfaction as she said, “Five roars, once every two minutes—but we can promise no more.”

“Five will do,” Middleton nodded. “Continue your retreat per the instructions I forwarded to you. In eight minutes, we’ll come about for the first exchange. Middleton out.”

He watched as the ring of Imperial Destroyers neared firing range, which they would achieve in the aforementioned eight minutes. His retreat itinerary had called for Mrr’shan’s Corvettes to continue forming into a flattened, oval-shaped formation just offset from center around the Mothership. This new formation of the Void Hunter Corvettes was only going to be able to engage the near third of Destroyers, but the Mothership’s so-called ‘Lion’s Roar’ could clearly reach the Destroyers on the far side of the Imperial formation.

Middleton called up the Independence missile control program and sent the launch codes for all two hundred of the robust platforms to be launched from the third planet’s moon. The course he programmed into them would take them into firing range of the Destroyers opposite those which the Corvettes would eventually be able to engage. His missile launch sequence would send forty Independence-class missiles out every two minutes, with each group of forty targeting a single Imperial Destroyer.

If things went according to plan, and if the Imps didn’t get lucky with what amounted to PD fire from their turbo-lasers, roughly half of those missiles would land hits against each of the five targeted Imperial Destroyers. That volume of concerted fire should, according to his projections, be more than enough to overload their shields long enough for the Lion’s Roar to finish them off.

He had already dismissed the possibility that he could maneuver the Mothership into range of the capital ships in the as-yet unmolested Imperial One group. The enemy commander had already seen it in action, and only a suicidal simpleton would blunder headlong into its range with his high-value assets. He was clearly not up against a simpleton, so even if he held back the Lion’s Roar for later in the engagement the only targets he would likely encounter would be more of these Lupine-class Destroyers. Middleton was therefore convinced that the only way he could leverage the Mothership’s devastating firepower in the remainder of this engagement was to deploy it against those Lupine-class Destroyers.

“Missile launches detected,” Hephaestion confirmed as forty new icons appeared on Middleton’s tactical plotter. The new missiles had been launched from their highly-secretive and heavily-secured silos on the third planet’s second moon, and they surged forward while fanning out in an attempt to minimize the number of Imperial Destroyers whose counter-fire might scrape them off the board before they could be fired.

Sure enough, eight of the thirteen Imperial Destroyers lashed out with an irregular barrage from their turbo-lasers roughly a minute and a half after the missiles had been launched. Two missiles were scrubbed in the first five seconds, then another three went down in the ensuing ten seconds. Three more were destroyed in the next twenty seconds, and finally the aptly-named missiles unleashed their defiance against the Imperial invaders.

Thirty two missiles erupted with a volley of near-perfect timing, sending ninety six heavy laser beams toward the enemy Destroyer. Of those ninety six beams, thirty eight landed with enough might and fury to punch straight through its shields and gouge a dozen briefly-molten rents in the Destroyer’s hull. But the crystalline armor over the Destroyer’s was robust enough to keep the damage from being catastrophic, and its commander correctly began to turn the ship in order to present its still-shielded broadside to where its bow had previously faced.

The last thing that ship felt, even before it could complete its defensive turn, was the Lion’s Roar.

The Mothership’s main gun lanced out less than two seconds after the Independence-class missiles fired. The powerful beam stabbed into and through the Destroyer’s unshielded bow before slicing midway toward its stern. Explosions rippled through the ship’s spasming corpse as shield generators overloaded spectacularly; maneuvering thrusters fired randomly, sending the ship into a spinning tumble; and her engines flared off and on for several seconds with nothing resembling coordination, which only served to exaggerate its death throes.

A few seconds after the Mothership’s main gun had fired, the Destroyer went dark and its broken hulk began to fall out of formation with the Imperial wolf pack.

“The Destroyer formation is changing course,” Hephaestion reported tightly. “They are abandoning the high ground and converging on the Mothership—they will reach firing range in two minutes.”

The second wave of missiles erupted from their silos on the third planet’s outer moon. Forty fast-moving weapon platforms were soon streaking toward the second Destroyer on Middleton’s list, and the Imperial wolf pack unleashed counter-fire precisely as it had done to the previous wave.

But this barrage was slightly more effective, snuffing twelve Independence missiles from the void before the twenty eight remaining missiles’ fire converged on the second Destroyer. As with the first Destroyer, this wolf’s forward shields went down as a nearly identical thirty one beams landed—and just like the first Destroyer, the Lion’s Roar destroyed the second one before it could present a fresh shield facing.

“Two down,” Middleton reported as the Destroyers began unleashing fire on the Mothership. Turbo-laser strikes flared on the massive, nearly settler ship-sized vessel’s shields, but the Void Hunters had appropriately adjusted their orientation so that this new fire landed on their full-strength port shields.

The Void Hunter Corvettes were max-burning toward the nearest Destroyers, while the Void Hunter Destroyers did the same. The two Imperial-built, captured Destroyers served as the ‘heavies’ of the Void Hunter formation and lashed out with their turbo-lasers, stabbing into a near enemy’s shields and causing them to drop by thirty percent.

“They would pull back if they could,” Middleton said grimly, “but they’re committed. Establish a p2p relay with Mrr’shan’s Mothership—I want to offer these Imperials the chance to surrender.”

In no way did he expect them to accept, but as a military man he felt it was his duty to offer his opponents the opportunity to lay down their arms before the inevitability of their situation claimed their lives. There was no question that they would cause significant damage to the Void Hunters in the process of standing tall and fighting to the last—likely destroying half of the felines’ warships before they in turn were destroyed—but as one warrior to another, Middleton felt compelled to make the offer.

After Hephaestion had established the p2p relay with Mrr’shan’s ship, Middleton sent a broadcast from that ship’s comm. array just as the third wave of missiles launched from the moon, “This is the Supreme Commander of the Alliance Gorgonus Fleet: I’m going to offer you one chance to strike your reactors, eject your cores, and surrender your ships. If you do so immediately, I’ll spare your lives and see you returned to the Imperial Fleet unmolested. If you tarry,” he hardened his voice as the Independence missiles tore through the void en route to firing on their next target, “you won’t live long enough to understand that this really was your last chance—or that I am genuinely extending this offer in good faith. You have thirty seconds to strike your reactors and emergency eject your fusion cores; if you fail to do so, I’ll oblige you with deaths befitting warriors of your admirably stern resolve. This is AG Fleet Actual—your clock is running.”

It wasn’t exactly a ‘touchy-feely’ communiqué, to be sure, but it was as generous and inviting as Middleton felt at that particular moment.

And, just as he expected, the thirty second window came and went without a single she-wolf striking her reactors. They ignored the incoming missiles and focused their fire on the Mothership, splashing beam after beam against its robust port shields.

The third wave of missiles fired and Middleton called up the missile command interface to issue new orders. If the enemy wasn’t going to use their long guns to snipe the missiles, then he was going to redistribute their firing pattern to maximize their effectiveness. He dedicated twenty five of the fourth wave to fire on the fourth designated Destroyer, while peeling the other fifteen off to lend their support to the Imps on the side of the wolf pack nearest the Void Hunter Corvettes.

The third barrage of forty uncontested missiles landed fifty three strikes—twenty six of which directly struck their target’s hull. That weight of fire was more than sufficient to cause catastrophic power grid failures on the enemy ship and send it into a paralyzed fall out of formation. Atmosphere streamed from the ship, and soon the emergency fusion core ejection protocols released the ship’s beating heart.

Middleton released a pent-up breath in relief when he noted that the Mothership had not wasted a shot on the dead warship. She had brought her bow onto the enemy ship, but quickly resumed a stand-off posture with her port beam presented to the enemy.

The fourth wave of missiles was launched, and the Imperial Destroyers steadfastly—and admirably—continued pouring their fire into the Mothership’s increasingly beleaguered shields. Her port shields dipped below the fifty percent mark as Middleton watched the Independence missiles near firing range.

Suddenly, the wolf pack broke formation. The ships too distant from the Corvettes to fire on the entire formation remained on their previous course, but the half nearest the Void Hunter Corvettes peeled off and attempted to break away from the feline warships.

The Corvettes adjusted course to pursue and it soon became clear that whatever the Void Hunter ships lacked in armaments and robust defenses, they more than made up for with their sprint speed.

Burning their engines deep into the red-line, the felines actually managed to out-flank the seemingly unrivaled Lupine-class Destroyers’ legendary maneuverability. It was a chilling sight to behold, with the seemingly overmatched Corvettes rushing headlong into a fight they had no business entering—let alone winning—with each ship displaying the absurd single-minded focus of a cheetah pursuing a lion on the open plain.

On their present courses, the ships would close to firing range for the felines’ weapons in six minutes—but the Imps were already in range, and made that fact known with a vicious volley which instantly destroyed two feline Corvettes.

The feline Destroyers returned fire, stabbing into the same enemy’s shields which they had previously targeted, but with little to show for it. The deadliness of the Lupine-class was centered on its speed, the range of its guns, and the fact that it was rarely—if ever—deployed in groups of fewer than four identical warships. With sufficient numbers, such as the thirteen in each of the Imperial Battle Groups in this star system, a wolf pack could pick apart even the mightiest of Battleships given enough time.

The fourth wave of missiles soon fired, and forty six of the seventy five beams landed on the fourth Lupine targeted by Middleton. This time, however, the damage was less extreme and the Mothership did unleash the Lion’s Roar. As the Mothership’s emitter cooled, yet another Imperial warship was reduced to a rapidly-expanding cloud of crystalline debris centered on a broken, partially molten keel.

The other fifteen missiles of the fourth wave, which Middleton had re-tasked with firing on the center-most Destroyer of the group losing the flanking race to the Corvettes, opened fire thirty seconds later and punched through the Lupine’s flank shields. The Void Hunter Destroyers soon added their fire onto the weakened shield facing, and managed a lucky hit on the Imp’s engines which caused it to power down and fall out of formation.

The eight remaining Imperial Destroyers fired their turbo-lasers, with only the two furthest from the Corvettes targeting the Mothership while the rest hammered away on the incoming Void Hunter Corvettes. Another two Corvettes were torn down by concerted fire while a third scrammed its reactor and ejected its core—which promptly exploded and destroyed the very ship which had ejected it.

The twelve remaining Void Hunter Corvettes continued to burn toward the center of the fan-shaped Imperial formation. Those six Imp Destroyers fractionally increased their engine outputs, but it wasn’t enough to keep up with the sprinting Corvettes. As if to demonstrate the risks the Void Hunters were running by pushing their engines so hard, one of them spontaneously suffered a catastrophic engine failure and fell out of formation while the other eleven pressed on toward the remaining Imperial ships.

The fifth and final wave of missiles launched from the third planet’s outer moon, and Middleton was more than a little surprised to hear Hephaestion report, “The fifth Destroyer targeted for missile fire is powering down, Captain—it has just ejected its core. The other is doing the same!”

Middleton confirmed that those two ships had, indeed, fully de-powered and he sent an override code to the incoming twenty five missiles. Thankfully, he managed to send it before they reached the PNR on their fusion drivers and the enemy ships were spared.

“Have Mrr’shan’s people secure those ships,” Middleton said promptly, “but make sure she understands that they are to conduct themselves according to the military codes I repeatedly went over with her. Also have her use that big gun of hers to support the Corvettes—they could use a little help.”

“Yes sir,” Hephaestion acknowledged, and the Mothership slowly began to turn its bow toward the fleeing Destroyers.

Mrr’shan correctly waited until the fifteen still-armed missiles fired on their targeted Destroyer before finally firing the Lion’s Roar. The Imperial-built captures under her command also lent their fire to the effort, and after the volley was sent the feeds surprisingly showed that the target Destroyer was still under full power.

“Why didn’t it go down?” Middleton wondered aloud, more confused than annoyed by the big gun’s failure to do what it had already done on several other occasions already in this battle.

He replayed the feeds and saw that, somehow, the Imperial’s shields had still been up—they had been severely weakened, standing at just twenty percent with critical spotting, but they were still ‘up’—at the moment the Lion’s Roar struck.

“Strange…” he muttered as he examined the Roar’s beam signature and then it came to him, more intuitively than due to anything he saw in the sensor feeds, “that weapon must be fine-tuned for direct strikes against crystalline armor. The Destroyer’s shields, even weakened as they were, still managed to scatter the beam an order of magnitude more effectively than they would deflect a standard turbo-laser.”

“I concur. The Roar’s beam signature appears to ‘resonate’ within mono-locsium, creating maximum molecular agitation with nearly zero energy loss in the process,” Hephaestion agreed, forwarding several supporting analyses to Middleton’s station and, after a cursory glance to confirm their contents, Middleton sent the young man an approving nod.

Just a few short years earlier, Hephaestion had lived in an iron age world without ever knowing about the workings of anything more complicated than a mechanical clock—if even that. And now here he was, commenting on naval artillery with command of the subject seemingly equal to a ten year veteran whose formative years had included daily access to high technology.

The six remaining Lupines unleashed another barrage against the Corvettes, this one including a pair of heavy lasers each. The closer the Corvettes came, the more their evasive maneuvers would benefit them. But that edge only managed to keep the damage in line with previous volleys, as they managed to avoid half of the incoming fire but still lost two Corvettes to the Imperials’ wrath.

Middleton checked the Prejudice’s shields and saw that he had one facing, presently situated over the stern, which was at sixty percent. “Switching shields to the bow,” he declared, “Toto, let’s lend the Void Hunters a hand.”

He somehow felt slimy, or less than honorable for waiting so long before joining the fray. But his ship was torn up—as clearly evidenced by the patchwork repair job where his main viewer used to be—and there was still a third Imperial Battle Group out there to reckon with.

Toto drove the Prejudice toward the enemy Destroyers, having maintained a position opposite that of the Corvettes for much of the engagement. As the Void Hunter Destroyers authored a concentrated volley against one of the peripheral Lupines, that Lupine quickly rolled to present a fresh shield facing to the Void Hunters—which meant Middleton’s guns were now trained on a nearly-exposed flank.

“Firing!” Toto growled, and the Prejudice’s eight turbo-lasers stabbed into the Destroyer’s exposed flank—and one even punched through and out the other side of the ship!

“That’s a first,” Middleton said in surprise as the Destroyer predictably fell out of formation with its fellows as its engines spectacularly failed. Explosions rippled across the ship’s stern, and it quickly ejected its fusion cores.

Middleton re-powered the stealth suite, hoping to scatter incoming sensors, but surprisingly the Destroyers remained focused on the Corvettes instead of turning their fire onto his ship.

The Prejudice was just at the edge of medium and long range, but against Lupine-class Destroyers there was little difference between the two. Those ships were designed for long-range, fast-moving attack formations and thus possessed extremely limited short-range capabilities. As such, with their depleted numbers, it was not significantly more dangerous being this close compared to at the limit of long range.

“They’d rather deal with our guns than with Void Hunter boarding parties,” Middleton realized as the Void Hunters suffered another volley which claimed a single Corvette. “That’s probably the smart play, to be honest.”

Then the Corvettes entered firing range, and much to Middleton’s surprise the remaining Lupines followed the example of their two predecessors by striking their reactors and signaling their collective surrender. He narrowed his eyes as he watched escape pods begin to launch from those ships, and set his jaw as scuttling charges claimed all five of the remaining Destroyers—none of which had sustained significant damage, and each of which represented a hull that Middleton had dearly wanted to incorporate into the AG Fleet.

“That’s not a surrender,” Middleton said tightly, “that’s an abandonment of their ships in the middle of combat.”

“Some codices regard the two as similar, if not identical,” Hephaestion said pointedly.

“But the AG charter doesn’t, Mr. Hephaestion,” Middleton countered a bit too harshly. “They abandoned their ships rather than surrender to us which, according to the directives that govern my station, means I don’t have to prioritize their retrieval like I do the two ships that actually surrendered. These clever Imps thought their odds of survival were better off in escape pods than surrendering their ships to me—for once in my life, I’d like to demonstrate to our enemies just how erroneous that assumption is by letting them rot in those tin cans.”

“Will you do that, sir?” Hephaestion asked neutrally.

Middleton ground his teeth for several seconds before shaking his head, “No—but I’m also not going to prioritize their retrieval. Message to Mrr’shan: she is to remain here with her Corvettes to oversee the recovery of those two properly-surrendered Destroyers. If she deems it safe and appropriate to do so, she may also retrieve the various escape pods the enemy ejected prior to their defeat here—but she must follow the same regulations even when dealing with those who refused to surrender and instead abandoned ship.”

“Yes sir,” Hephaestion said, and Middleton could detect a note of relief in the young man’s melodious voice. “Mrr’shan acknowledges, saying she will ‘give them some time to reconsider their decision’.”

“Good for her,” Middleton grunted. “Tell her Destroyers to move to reinforce the Stalwart at the second planet—and Helm, set course for us to do likewise. We’ve got one more round to go,” he said tightly, pulling up his tactical simulator and plugging new variables—specifically an arsenal of eight hundred Independence-class missiles, most of which would be of some use in the coming battle—into old simulations, “and it’s the most important one yet.”

Middleton knew very well that he could easily win the battle but, ultimately, lose the war if he permitted Imperial One’s commander to scuttle his ships rather than surrender them.

Unlike its predecessors—both of which had been brutal but straightforward affairs—this third act was going to be tricky.

Chapter XXXVI: A Proper Duel

“I have the latest status updates from Primarch Beam,” Hephaestion said as the Toto red-lined the Prejudice’s engines en route to a rendezvous with the Stalwart Battle Group.

“Forward them,” Middleton instructed as he perused the new Imperial formation which incorporated the remaining battle-worthy elements from Imperial Two alongside the full strength Imperial One. His lip curled when he saw the final numbers: twenty full-strength Lupine Destroyers, seven Cruisers, and two Battleships now bore down on the Stalwart position near the second planet. None of those ships bore battle damage, and this new Imperial Battle Group would not have to contend with aggressive boarding actions since the Void Hunters had already spent that particular card in the earlier rounds of this deadly game.

The Stalwart, on the other hand, had five functional Destroyers, eight Cruisers and one Battleship.

In terms of throw weight and under ideal conditions, the Stalwart were laughably outgunned by something on the order of five to one. But it was even worse when one considered the battle damage sustained by the Stalwart in the engagement with Imperial Two. With that factor incorporated into the equation, the Stalwart were outgunned closer to seven to one.

The Secular Liberation League’s reinforcements, which had nearly reached the Stalwart position, consisted of sixteen Corvettes, twelve Destroyers and six Cruisers. The Corvettes would be largely useless in the coming engagement due to their short-range weaponry, so Middleton resolved to have them present a feint to the stellar west which—if all went according to his new plan—would help funnel the Imperials into the path of nearly five hundred Independence-class missiles.

All told, Middleton’s AG Fleet had seventeen Destroyers, fifteen Cruisers and one Battleship against the Imperials’ twenty Destroyers, six Cruisers and two Battleships. It was closer to even than he had expected it to be, with a throw weight disparity of close to three-to-two in the Imperials’ favor. But that still wasn’t even enough to entice his opponent into taking the bait on his calculated series of feints, counters and charges.

If he could get the enemy commander to maneuver his ships into the ‘kill box’—which Middleton would create by launching the aforementioned five hundred Independence missiles from their outer system platforms—he might be able to do significantly better than simply destroying this Imperial fleet as he had done to Commodore Paganini’s task force.

“Send a p2p to the League’s fighter carrier holding position in the outer system,” Middleton instructed. “Have them move to support their Corvettes’ feint to the stellar west. If we don’t give that grid some more teeth, the Imperial commander might just run through them and leave to report back to his superiors. It will take them an hour to reach a supporting position, but that should give us plenty of time.”

He forwarded the specifics to Hephaestion, who took several minutes to send a broad-beam p2p to the location of the League’s Carrier. “Message has been sent on broad confinement to their location in orbit of the system’s fifth planet, Captain,” Hephaestion reported after completing transmission. “We will not receive confirmation of receipt for fifty four minutes, by which time they should be halfway to the designated coordinates.”

“Good,” Middleton acknowledged as he forwarded the Corvettes’ new orders to the young sensor-slash-com-tech, “tight beam this to the Corvette commander.”

A minute passed, “Message sent and confirmed; Captain Billingsley is moving to comply.”

Soon Middleton saw the sixteen League Corvettes move toward the position he had indicated. If all went well, they would not need to fire a single gun in order to fill their role. If all did not go well, they would almost certainly die before they ever got the chance to return fire.

He was purposefully exposing them by separating them from the rest of the fleet, but given the reinforced Imperial One’s posture and formation—which closely resembled that of the Battle Group which the Void Hunters had just turned back, except this one had significantly more ships—he was as confident as he could hope to be that the feint would succeed.

There were a hundred and twenty Independence missiles hidden in the trailing cloud of Lagrangian objects locked into orbit with the system’s fourth planet. Those missiles would provide the vast majority of actual deterrent Middleton could afford to task to protecting the Corvettes and Fighter Carrier, but they would clearly be well short of able to deter the entire Imperial One Battle Group.

If he could turn them away from the Corvettes, and keep them en route to the second planet then Middleton was convinced he could funnel his adversary into a path which took the enemy ships near to the fifth, outermost planet in the star system. That planet was a gas giant with forty one moons, many of which were armed with dozens of Independence missile silos.

“Imperial One is slowing, Captain,” Hephaestion reported, “they appear to be setting up for a long-range assault of the Stalwart and League ships. I am detecting faint drive signatures departing from the Battleships…”

Middleton checked the readings and nodded knowingly, “They’re sending recovery teams to Admiral Edelweiss’s ships.”

“They will arrive in forty minutes,” Hephaestion correctly projected.

“They will not arrive at all,” Middleton said flatly. “We left enough Independence missile warheads on or near those ships to scrub a dozen small craft on final approach.”

“I am reading eight shuttles en route, Captain.”

“Then that part of the trap will spring just like it should,” Middleton said in satisfaction. “What we have to do is keep them from running through those Corvettes and the Carrier.”

“The Stalwart are accelerating, Captain,” Hephaestion reported, “they are moving toward Imperial One’s western flank.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded, “that should only entice the Imps to test our resolve on the western front before committing to a course of action. Toto, take us to the eastern flank. I want to give them every reason to pursue that path instead of the western one.”

“Yes sir,” Toto grumbled in his usual, irritable fashion. For a moment Middleton was reminded of his Helmsman-turned-XO, Jersey, who served—and died—aboard the Pride of Prometheus during its initial deployment under the MSP banner. Middleton briefly wondered if it was simply his lot in life to have surly Helmsmen aboard his ships before pushing that useless thought from his mind.

“Have the League Destroyers and Cruisers maintain their head-on approach to Imperial One, mirroring the Imps’ posture and maneuvers as they do so,” Middleton said to Hephaestion as the battered remnants of the Stalwart formation crept closer to the Imperials’ firing range.

The Imperial Destroyer on the westernmost edge of Imperial One’s formation opened fire, and a slow but steady ripple spread from the west flank of the Destroyers as those ships also entered firing range. It was not the most efficient deployment of turbo-laser fire Middleton had ever seen, but he suspected that efficiency was less important to his opponent than projecting a certain aura: an aura of command, discipline, and cold logic.

Truthfully, his counterpart succeeded in demonstrating such qualities as a Stalwart Destroyer briefly fell out of formation before resuming its previous course.

The Stalwart Destroyers suddenly came about and fell back, moving toward the gap between the Stalwart and League warships before they would have suffered catastrophic fire from the Imperial Cruisers’ guns. Both the Stalwart and Imperial Battleships had kept back from the fray at this particular point in the engagement, but with the Destroyers pulling back Middleton knew the time for the heavies to unleash their guns was drawing steadily nearer.

“Imperial Cruisers are opening fire,” Hephaestion reported, and a volley of far more coordinated and well-timed fire belched from the enemy Cruiser’s guns. “A Stalwart Cruiser, Fateful Star, is falling out of formation,” the young man said with evident disappointment, “and its eight companions are pulling back in a similar fashion to the Destroyers. The Glorious Burden is also coming about and making to form up with the League ships.”

“Good work, Primarch,” Middleton nodded approvingly, “if they pursue a direct engagement, they’ll have to follow back to our high ground.”

Everything was going according to plan—until four Destroyers peeled off from Imperial One and took a perfect course toward the Corvettes’ rendezvous point.

“Fine,” Middleton grunted, as though speaking to his adversary, “so you know that’s where I’ve got them headed. But I’m not tipping my hand just yet. Four Destroyers isn’t enough to encircle sixteen Corvettes, let alone break through them.”

The rest of Imperial One followed the Stalwart retreat, obliging Middleton by accepting a heads-up fight with the bulk of his forces. They could still pull out of such an engagement if they did so in the next three minutes, but if they delayed any longer than that it would be too late to avoid a potentially decisive exchange.

The only routes available to Imperial One, if they chose not to engage the Stalwart, were back past the third planet where Mrr’shan’s remaining forces were posted, or through the kill box Middleton had established with the bulk of the Independence missiles. Middleton still had a hundred eighty Independence warheads—minus their engines—near the third planet that he could use to discourage an egress along that path, but if the Imperials committed to taking it they would undoubtedly emerge victorious in this final, crucial act. Not only would they flee the star system with a full Battle Group intact, but they would also destroy whichever of Mrr’shan’s ships didn’t flee as fast as their engines could drive them.

“Four more Destroyers are veering toward the third planet,” Hephaestion reported tightly.

“That was unexpected,” Middleton admitted, “but not unplanned for. Mrr’shan’s ships are posted on the side of the planet opposite the remaining missiles; if the Imperial commander is gutsy he might just go straight at Mrr’shan’s Mothership. But if he’s not, he’ll take the safer route—and run headlong into our missiles. A hundred and eighty of them is more than enough to take those four Destroyers down. In the meantime, the odds just came a lot closer to even.”

“The Destroyers could be working a flanking maneuver,” Hephaestion offered, but Middleton shook his head in negation.

“Their inertia, and that of the rest of their formation, won’t allow them to come back into play on any of the scenarios I’ve drawn up,” Middleton said firmly. “I’m still not certain which of the three options this Imperial commander will take: first, he could fight us to the death at the second planet, almost certainly winning the battle but leaving himself vulnerable to whatever other surprises we’ve kept off the board. Second, he could only partially engage before breaking for one of the three potential escape paths. Or third, he’ll break off sometime in the next thirty seconds and max-burn for the hyper limit with his tail tucked between his legs, probably passing by the Corvettes as he does so. I’m betting on the second scenario, in which case the questions are: which path does he choose to take, and can we help him make that choice?”

“What if they are planning something you have not anticipated?”

Middleton arched an eyebrow in surprise before shrugging, “Then the AG Fleet gets crushed in the next two hours—along with any possibility of preserving its members’ sovereignty—and I imagine our survivors get summarily spaced. At least,” he added as an afterthought, “those of us near the top of the command chain.”

Imperial One did not, in fact, break off in the thirty second window which had been available to it. Rather than taking a potentially clean exit—as Middleton had doubted they would do—the Imperial Battle Group had opted for, at the very least, a significant exchange of fire with the AG Fleet.

Middleton was more than happy to oblige them.

“The Imperial Destroyers are firing,” Hephaestion reported, and Middleton’s tactical plotter blossomed with a handful of reports showing the Stalwart Destroyers had taken a serious beating. One fell totally out of position and two more appeared to have been engine-damaged badly enough that they peeled away from the engagement. Only two continued their burn toward a rendezvous with the inbound League ships.

The Stalwart warships returned fire, with the eight Cruisers authoring a brutal volley that tore two Lupines out of formation. One of those Destroyers ejected its core while the other drifted forward, driven only by its inertia.

The Imperial Cruisers returned fire, but the Stalwart heavies’ shields held. The twin, perfectly synchronized Imperial Battleships bored steadily closer to firing range of their own guns. They were like titans observing an epic battle in which they knew they would soon play a decisive part.

Middleton decided to launch the one hundred twenty missiles which covered the Corvettes and League Carrier. The pack of Destroyers which had gone that way were nearing turbo-laser range of the Corvettes, and would probably cut the last of them down several minutes before they linked up with the Fighter Carrier.

It would take nearly twenty minutes for the missiles to reach firing position on the quartet of Lupines, but Middleton knew that to delay was to unnecessarily sacrifice ships and their crews.

The Glorious Burden finally fell into firing range of the Imperial Destroyers—which unleashed a concerted barrage on the lone Battleship remaining to Middleton’s fleet. The Lupines lashed out with thirty combined turbo-lasers in the span of six seconds, twelve of which landed on the Burden’s shields.

The Stalwart Cruisers returned fire, striking another Destroyer from the Imperial formation in reply.

Then the Imperial Battleships entered the fray.

Their best-of-field turbo-lasers tore into a Stalwart Cruiser, the Upright Daughter, and shredded its stern shields before scoring a half dozen direct hits on her hull. The Daughter mercifully avoided engine damage and rolled to present a fresh flank, but it was clear that the Imperial commander was about to make his presence known.

In unison, the Stalwart warships came about and drove toward the oncoming enemy warships.

“Blast it, Primarch,” Middleton cursed. The Primarch had fallen victim for the Imperials’ ploy: to come about and show solidarity rather than continue taking stern strikes en route to a rendezvous with the League ships. The Primarch had almost certainly cost himself his Battleship by doing so, but in truth his choice played perfectly into Middleton’s hand—even though Middleton had issued explicit orders forbidding such a decision.

Wave after wave of fire was exchanged at extreme range as the Stalwart heavies drove for the heart of the enemy formation. The sight of those seven ships charging straight at a group twice their number, with at least six times their throw weight, was enough to make Middleton proud to have fought alongside the Stalwart.

Primarch Beam apparently understood enough of Middleton’s plan that he was going to do everything he could to see it succeed—including sacrifice hundreds, or even thousands of his people.

The Imperial ships gladly cut acceleration and focused their fire on the Glorious Burden, striking her robust shields with dozens of beams from all angles in a seemingly endless barrage of fire. But the Burden defiantly—some might have said madly—charged toward its twin Imperial counterparts.

The Battleships closed to heavy laser range and unleashed a fresh storm of fire which dropped the Burden’s forward shields, then her port shields, and finally her starboard shields went down after a minute of sustained fire.

The Burden drove steadily onward, initiating a death spiral and firing her own guns at the leftward Imp Battleship while she still had the motive power to do so. The Stalwart Cruisers flanking her added their weight of fire to the effort, and the enemy Battleship was soon forced to present its flank to avoid sustaining direct hits to its forward hull.

“Come on…” Middleton hissed as the Burden continued its suicidal charge at the enemy. “Come on!” If Primarch Beam and his people could take one of those Battleships down—Murphy forbid it should be the one with the top commander of this Imperial Task Force—it would heavily tilt the board in Middleton’s favor.

“The League Destroyers are in firing range,” Hephaestion reported, and Middleton had to tear his eyes from the icon representing the Glorious Burden as it made what would undoubtedly be its final charge.

The twelve League Destroyers unleashed a concerted volley on a trio of Imperial Lupines, knocking two of them out of formation. The six League Cruisers were several minutes behind the fleeter Destroyers, but soon they too would be heard from on this battlefield.

Middleton’s plotter flashed, showing the one hundred twenty Independence-class missiles he had ordered to launch were now scheduled—but not yet confirmed—to have launched from their silos and would reach firing range in support of the League Corvettes in six minutes.

Middleton knew that much depended on the result of their eventual fire.

“Toto,” Middleton said after debating the matter for several minutes, “pull us back toward the third planet. Keep us in line with the fifth planet escape route,” he explained, “and put us three light seconds further from the third planet than Mrr’shan’s ships. Hangar,” he switched his com-link to Garibaldi’s channel, “get ready to drop those last four mines. It’s time to pull out all the stops.”

“You got it, Cap,” Mikey promptly acknowledged.

Middleton winced as the Glorious Burden’s engines finally failed, but her guns continued to spew their peculiar brand of violence against the Imperials. With her shields down, the Burden was now totally exposed and the Imperials gouged her hull with sporadic at-will fire instead of the formerly coordinated strikes. One by one, her weapon mounts were scrubbed but none of them—not one—fell silent before it was well and truly destroyed by an enemy laser strike.

The Imperial ships, however, opted not to gut the Burden as they had mercilessly done to the Stalwart Duty earlier in the engagement. Instead, they appropriately re-focused their efforts on the seven remaining Cruisers. They soon reduced that number to six, as combined fire from the Lupines and Imperial Cruisers skewered the seventh Stalwart Cruiser’s power core, causing explosions to ripple within the ship which shattered its keel and left it a floating tomb for its valiant crew.

The Imperial Battleships soon added their own fire against the Stalwart Cruisers, and another of Middleton’s heavies was removed from play when it was forced to eject its power cores.

Middleton watched his board as the ten dozen Independence missiles sent in support of the League Corvettes reached ten seconds on their fire countdown. The clock reached zero, and it was twelve seconds before he received confirmation that they had fired.

Two of the Lupines tasked with pursuing the League Corvettes were destroyed outright while the other two remained unharmed. The League Corvettes suddenly came about and began to pursue the remaining pair of wolves, causing the Destroyers to bank hard away from the counter-charge. The Imperials would have no difficulty escaping the conflict given their longer ranged turbo-lasers, but they had been forced to abandon their exploration of that particular escape route—just as Middleton had hoped.

“Good,” Middleton muttered as the pursuing League Corvettes split into thirds, with one third pursuing each of the two surviving Destroyers and the last third resuming course to the rendezvous point with the Fighter Carrier. “That’s one path closed, which just leaves two for him to choose from.”

The League Cruisers finally came into firing range of the Imperial Battleships, unleashing their combined twenty four turbo-lasers into the flank of the Battleship which the Stalwart still fired on.

Then it happened: the Imperial Commander opted to flee.

“Imperial One is heading for the third planet,” Hephaestion reported excitedly. “They are breaking off the engagement, Captain!”

Middleton ground his teeth as the Imperial formation did precisely as Hephaestion had declared. Unfortunately for him, they had chosen the path of actual least resistance rather than the one he had hoped they would take.

“He’s clever…he suspects a trap right where I’ve put one,” Middleton growled, “but I’m not out of tricks just yet. P2p to Mrr’shan: have her move her people up to engage. The Stalwart and League ships will be able to keep firing on the Battleships and Cruisers for several minutes yet, but Mrr’shan needs to move to engage the Destroyers in the northern hemisphere.”

“Understood,” Hephaestion confirmed before carrying out his orders.

Imperial One moved purposefully toward the escape route, which would bring it close to the third planet. Mrr’shan’s people soon began to redeploy in order to receive them, and Middleton decided it was time to send firing commands to the one hundred eighty Independence warheads near the third planet.

“They’ll want to pass as close as possible to the planet,” Middleton thought aloud, “in order to use its gravity for a banking maneuver. They obviously know there’s a chance we’ve got surprises there, which is why they sent the four Destroyers out first. If we snipe them out, we’ll give our opponent the chance to falter and break for the fifth planet route. If they do that,” he clenched his fist tightly, “we’ve got him—and his ships. If they don’t, we’ve still won this engagement and put the Imperials into a full-on retreat.”

He sent the missiles commands over the secure link and quickly received their confirmation. He did the same as he had done for the previous ten dozen missiles: he targeted two Destroyers with sixty missiles each while leaving the other sixty missiles in reserve. In conjunction with the Lion’s Roar, it was possible—though unlikely—that he could use those last sixty missiles to scrub all four Lupines before they made their close approach to the third planet.

The seconds passed by with agonizing sluggishness as the four Lupine Destroyers entered range of the remaining missiles. But Middleton wanted to wait until the last possible moment to unleash their fire—though if he waited too long, the Imps would get a reasonably accurate count of the missiles and realize his bluff.

Eventually, as he had commanded, two clusters of sixty Independence-class missiles in high orbit of the third planet spat fire at the oncoming Imperial Destroyers. Their targets were crippled, but not destroyed outright, and both ships ejected their fusion cores before a handful of escape pods slowly began to jettison from them.

The other two Imperial Destroyers continued pressing onward and, just as Middleton was about to send the order for thirty more missiles to open fire, it happened.

“Imperial One’s main force is changing course…they’re breaking for the fifth planet!” Hephaestion howled. “You’ve done it, Captain!”

Middleton felt every hair on his neck stand up, but he forced himself to remain calm. It was still possible for the Imperial Commander to change his mind, but Middleton knew it was his job to do everything in his power to make sure that didn’t happen.

“Have Mrr’shan ready the Lion’s Roar,” Middleton instructed, “have her target the northern Destroyer and coordinate with the following fire solution.”

He forwarded the packet and Hephaestion grinned as he sent it on to Mrr’shan, who acknowledged receipt several seconds later. Middleton sent the firing codes to thirty of the Independence missiles and, a few seconds later, they opened fire on the Destroyer a fraction of a second before the Lion’s Roar finished the warship off.

That left one Destroyer, which Middleton decided it was his responsibility to deal with. “Toto, let’s go track down that Destroyer: target their engines and prepare to synchronize your fire with the last batch of missiles.”

“Ready,” Toto growled, and even he appeared to share some significant degree of Hephaestion’s triumphal mood as he positioned the Prejudice to receive the last of the wolf pack.

Middleton sent the orders and, sure enough, the last of the missiles-cum-mines struck the Destroyer in the stern shields after it had already passed them. The Prejudice’s eight turbo-lasers bored into the Destroyer’s stern quarter, and while the Lupine did not lose motive power completely it was now clearly unable to flee to safety with less than twenty percent of its thrust available to it.

“Looks like we won’t need those mines after all,” Middleton said, flashing Hephaestion a grin before ordering, “Helm: bring us into a parallel position to Imperial One. Match the outermost Destroyer’s posture and keep us in extreme range.

“Yes sir,” Toto nodded, and the Prejudice leapt to comply with Middleton’s command.

Soon thereafter, the Imperials fully pulled away from the still-pursuing League warships with the Stalwart bringing up the rear.

Middleton’s mood resumed its cold, calculating nature in the next few minutes as he watched with bated breath while the Imperials drew nearer and nearer to his kill box.

“It is almost unfair,” Hephaestion said, eliciting a stern look from Middleton.

“I’m sure they don’t say that when they’re pulverizing people like the League from outside counter-fire range,” Middleton chided, “and if they do, it’s only in self-service to their own egos.”

“Yes sir,” Hephaestion said, sounding properly rebuked. Middleton liked the young man too much to let him indulge in pride—which had no place on a battlefield as far as Middleton was concerned.

“It’s time,” Middleton’ declared when the Imperial formation finally crossed the PNR for the kill box, “I’m sending the launch codes.”

He sent the codes to the eight hidden missile bases scattered throughout the fifth planet’s orbital path. Several minutes later, five hundred heat blooms registered on the Prejudice’s sensors and Middleton knew it was time to issue his ultimatum.

“Put me on broadcast, Mr. Hephaestion,” he instructed, drawing himself up and looking into his station’s pickup, “and route it through my station.”

“You are live, Captain,” Hephaestion said professionally, though there was still a victorious note to the young man’s voice that Middleton tried—and failed—to convince himself was worthy of censure.

“This is the Supreme Commander of the Alliance Gorgonus calling the commander of the Imperial warships in this star system,” Middleton declared, imbuing his voice with as much authority as he could muster.

His plotter was soon replaced with the visage of a dark-haired woman, whose middle-aged features looked to have been sculpted by decades of the stresses known only to those who took up the mantle of command. Her voice was deeper and more cordial than he expected as she spoke, “This is Admiral Charlize dela Gaultierre II. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“My name is Middleton,” Middleton replied, “and I’m offering you a chance to surrender your ships and your selves. No more blood needs to be spilled in this star system, Admiral, but if you refuse this offer I cannot guarantee the safety of your people.”

“You’re obviously a military man, Middleton,” she said, glancing pointedly toward the bottom of his pickup, “and though I don’t recognize your uniform or its heraldry, you have to understand—“

“What I understand,” Middleton interrupted, “is that I’m offering you the chance to surrender your selves and your ships, Admiral. You’ve already had several of your people scuttle their ships to avoid their capture, and while I can respect their resolve to take their chances with the void rather than to run up a proper white flag, I wouldn’t want any more of your people to share their fate.”

The Admiral’s eyes narrowed, “I am under orders not to allow Imperial arms to fall into the hands of terrorists like yourselves, Supreme Commander.”

“Again,” Middleton nodded, “I can respect that. And if you choose to test me, I’m sure that some of your people will make it out of this star system with both their lives and their ships. But you don’t know which of your ships my five hundred inbound missiles are going to fire on.”

“We are not afraid to die, Supreme Commander,” she said with a hint of amusement, “we are Imperial Navy, after all. Dying is in the job description.”

“I’m offering you something else,” Middleton urged. “I have ships available which can return you and your people to your fleet HQ. I also have Admiral Edelweiss’s surviving crew, along with fifteen hundred prisoners from Commodore Paganini’s Task Force who’ve been with us since we defeated him several months ago.”

“Paganini?” she repeated. “You took down Paganini? I find that hard to believe.”

“Really?” Middleton riposted with an arched brow. “Really?” he repeated. “You find it hard, after seeing what I just did to your fleet, to believe that I did even worse to Paganini’s advance force?”

The Admiral’s eyes narrowed as the countdown to missile firing range reached six minutes to go. “What if I scuttle my ships rather than let them fall into your hands?”

“Then I would regretfully be forced to focus on recovering your people after I’ve recovered my own,” Middleton explained. “And given your present course toward the fifth planet, even if you adjusted course now—as I see you attempting to do—your escape pods would run the risk of falling into that gas giant before they could be retrieved.”

“That is cold, Middleton,” the Admiral said disapprovingly, “and rather less than civilized.”

“Maybe,” Middleton shrugged, “but it’s where we are. Understand, however, that I can only rescind my fire orders for another ninety seconds—after that, my missiles will have to carry out their programmed firing packages. And Admiral,” Middleton said, “I’m no fool: I know your ships’ specs as well as you do. Either you eject all of the fusion cores from all of your ships in the next seventy five seconds, or I’ll be forced to act as though this offer has been rejected by every member of your fleet. The choice is yours: die as martyrs to deny your enemies the chance to salvage your gear, or live to re-join the Imperial Navy and eventually return to the field in search of revenge, retribution, and even redemption. Either way you’ll have earned even more of my respect than you already have—and that’s not an easy thing to do. You have sixty seconds to eject your fusion cores and signal your total surrender under the Imperial Uniform Military Code governing ships and their crews—which I’ll agree to abide by in spite of certain conflicting rules found in the Alliance Gorgonus’ charter, which it is my sworn duty to uphold.”

“The Uniform Code only applies to intra-Empire conflicts,” the Admiral shook her head. “If I agree to employ it here I’d be ending my career and the careers of my family—and, quite possibly, their lives.”

“I understand that but it’s the best I can do, Admiral,” Middleton said with finality, knowing that he would have at least as much difficulty convincing the AG’s primaries to extend the generous Imperial Uniform Military Code to the Admiral and her people. “And we’re all out of time to negotiate. Either way, in forty seconds I’ll have your answer. Middleton out.”

The clock ticked down while Middleton’s finger hovered over the button which would send the de-activation signal to the plague of Independence missiles bearing down on the remnants of the still-fleeing Imperial task force.

The clock reached twenty seconds to go and still not a single ship had ejected its fusion core. At fifteen seconds Middleton felt the pit of his stomach plummet, and at ten seconds he began to steel his mind for what was about to happen.

Then, in utterly perfect synchronicity, every remaining fusion core was ejected and its parent ship switched over to backup power. Their engines cut out, and with only three seconds left on the clock Middleton sent the deactivation code to the incoming plague of missiles.

The missiles continued to burn toward the vulnerable Imperial ships, and Middleton felt his heart clench when one of them actually fired. It lanced into the forward hull of the undamaged Battleship, where it left a blackened scar a dozen meters long, but the rest of the missiles remained silent.

“Put me back on,” Middleton instructed, and Hephaestion complied by piping the Admiral’s image back over to Middleton’s station. “I apologize for that misfire, Admiral,” he said, actually feeling himself go red-faced as he spoke.

“It’s understandable,” she said, her mouth a tight line which belied her easy tone. “But we need to talk, Supreme Commander, as soon as possible.”

Something in her tone evoked a strong sense of foreboding in Middleton, who nodded slowly, “I’ll prepare to transfer your flag to my ship as soon as your ships have been secured.”

“As a gesture of goodwill on your part,” she said before he could cut the line, “I would appreciate if you retrieved the crews of those scuttled warships. They were only acting on my orders, after all, and should not suffer unnecessarily for it.”

“Of course,” Middleton nodded curtly, “I’ll coordinate the recovery efforts at once. You’ll understand, however, that securing your ships is presently my top priority.”

“Of course,” she agreed frostily, “dela Gaultierre out.”

She cut the line, and in that moment Tim Middleton realized just how significant this particular battle had been.

By stopping this task force in its tracks, he had bought months—perhaps even an entire year—for the still-reforming Alliance Gorgonus to consolidate its strength and present a genuine defense to these Imperial invaders.

He watched as the two Destroyers which had peeled off from their attack on the League Corvettes burned for the hyper limit, and in truth he couldn’t fault them for disobeying the surrender order from their Admiral. Someone needed to escape this star system to inform the Imperial Fleet Command of what had transpired, and there was nothing Middleton could do—or, even if given the chance to stop them, would do—to slow those two Destroyers from that particular task.

Once the rest of the Imperial Fleet knew that the AG was back in play, and that it was ready for action, it would cause them to halt their advance which would buy him plenty of time to regroup and deal with the ever-growing mountain of post-battle fallout.

He sighed as the elation of victory disappeared at that particular thought. “Comm.,” he turned to Hephaestion, “signal the Void Hunters: tell them to begin securing the surrendered warships, starting with the remains of Imperial One.”

“The Stalwart will object,” Hephaestion said stoically, and Middleton snorted in derision. “They will likely demand the right to board those vessels first.”

“They might,” he allowed, “but if they do, remind them that they’re not the only ones who bled for this victory—and if that’s not enough, tell them that I’ll be having Chief Garibaldi directly oversee the reinstallation of each and every fusion core, which we are about to go collect.”

Hephaestion flashed a knowing grin and nodded.

“Now comes the fun part,” Middleton drawled as they set about the work of cleaning up after such a large-scale battle.

Chapter XXXVII: The Last Signature

“Then I trust we have an agreement?” Kongming asked after nearly eight hours of negotiations with the Extra-Orbital Cooperative, or EOC, which had been surprisingly receptive to his overtures on behalf of the reconstituted Alliance Gorgonus.

“All we require,” the lead representative reiterated, “is the chance to transparently compete for any and all extra-orbital infrastructural or manufacturing jobs. We left the Empire because of the cronyism,” he said, jabbing his finger down on the Unthreadable Needle’s conference room table, “and we’re not about to uproot our operation so we can willingly put ourselves beneath that same boot—even if it’s worn on a new foot. We’re good at what we do, Mr. Kongming,” he said passionately as the heads of his dozen fellow representatives bobbed up and down in agreement, “and we’re confident we can not only do it better and cheaper, but cleaner and safer than anyone else. Give us your word that there won’t be economic protectionism—in any form—that excludes or hampers our ability to compete with local labor and we’ll send a contingent with our mobile assets to the designated rendezvous point right now.”

“That is remarkably forthright of you, Mr. Gauss, which I greatly appreciate,” Kongming inclined his head respectfully, “so I will do my best to reciprocate: the Alliance Gorgonus’ charter does allow some measure of economic enclosure to its constituent members, but my understanding is that such enclosures are confined to the maintenance of high-security assets and locations. I have gathered records of several examples of inter-state commerce and industrial overlap, which I have provided in good faith in an effort to directly address your concerns,” he gestured to the bevy of data slates which now rested on the table in front of the representatives. “Providing that information, along with the AG’s charter itself, is unfortunately the extent of my ability to speak to this particular issue. If there are further details for which you require further clarification, I would invite you or a small contingent of your fellow representatives to accompany me on my return to AG Fleet Command.”

Gauss’ lips twisted in displeasure before he and the nearest of his fellow representatives leaned together to whisper amongst themselves. The whispering continued for nearly a minute before finally Gauss nodded, “This is good enough for us. We never wanted to leave the AG in the first place, but by unleashing nuclear fire on civilian targets the uplifts crossed lines we were uncomfortable with them crossing. If not for that act, we doubt the AG would have ever fractured in the first place.”

Kongming kept his features neutral as he nodded agreeably. He had long considered the issue of the Stalwarts’ WMD deployment to be shockingly uncharacteristic for the Alliance Gorgonus’ previously established modus operandi, which made his normally inquisitive—and skeptical—mind turn its formerly unparalleled power onto examining why the Stalwart would have done what they did.

None of the answers he had found led him anywhere remotely pleasant, but the Alliance Gorgonus was too frail at this point for him to share his concerns with the EOC reps.

“I will not lie,” he said with feeling, “your Constructor, Octopus, and multiple freighters will no doubt provide a significant boost to our infrastructure and industrial capacity. You will doubtless be greeted with open arms upon your arrival.”

Gauss waved a hand dismissively, “The Octopus was built to build, and she’s ready to move at a moment’s notice—but we’re short on trillium. I can’t in good conscience agree to uproot the centerpiece of our industry without receiving a significant down payment in advance.”

“That was anticipated,” Kongming nodded agreeably, “and I have been authorized to provide the full measure of trillium required for your journey—not only to the rendezvous with Fleet Command, but also enough for you to return this precious vessel to this star system if you decide against re-joining.”

Several eyebrows around the table lifted in surprise, but Gauss kept his cool and nodded as he led the others in standing from the table, “That’s as much good faith as we could ask for. We’ll finish out the shift and begin to bring her tentacles back in; the Octopus should be ready to point transfer in thirty hours.”

“Then you may retrieve the trillium from this ship’s engineering crew,” Kongming stood, accepting Gauss’s outstretched hand before taking the hands of the other representatives in turn. “I suppose that, for security reasons, you will prefer to make the journey on your own and without sharing your itinerary,” he said after shaking all of their hands, “which is perfectly understandable. I have one final stop to make before returning to Fleet HQ’s predetermined rendezvous point, but I anticipate we will arrive there several days ahead of your contingent. Until then,” he clasped his hands and bowed deeply, “I thank you for your preliminary agreement to rejoin the Alliance Gorgonus.”

“We’re cogs, Mr. Kongming,” Gauss said, and Kongming’s eyes briefly flitted down to the cog-shaped emblem on the Belter’s sleeve, “and cogs aren’t built to spin alone. The AG is a machine that could use cogs like us, so it’s natural for us to rejoin it—especially since your Captain Middleton has taken such a hard-line stance on the WMD issue that caused us to leave in the first place.”

“Again,” Kongming bowed deeply, “you have my gratitude.”

“Until our orbits re-align, Mr. Kongming,” Gauss returned the bow fractionally before leading his people toward the shuttle bay.

Kongming was impressed with the fact that the negotiations had gone so smoothly and been concluded so quickly. He ascribed none of that success or expediency to himself, since it genuinely seemed as though the Belters had already been willing—or possibly eager—to uproot.

In fact, some of his passive scans suggested that much of the Constructor, Octopus, had already been retracted into its primary hull in preparation for departure from the star system. Half of the industrial facilities within the star system were similarly in varying states of disassembly, with only a few having apparently been abandoned entirely.

Something had spooked the EOC, but Kongming wasn’t about to queer the deal by asking after it at this stage in the negotiations—nothing could be gained from such an inquiry while much could be lost, so it made no sense to pursue it.

The Belters departed some thirty minutes later, after inspecting the trillium storage container and verifying the quantity within—which was closer to three times as much as they needed for a one-way trip than it was to twice the amount like he had suggested.

“That seemed to have gone well,” Kratos said, having propped himself up in the shuttle bay’s doorway after the Belters had departed.

“As well as we could hope for,” Kongming agreed. “But something has them scared.”

“Even a one-eyed barbarian could see that,” Kratos snorted.

“You are not a barbarian, nor are you one-eyed,” Kongming chided, glancing at Kratos’ prosthetic eye.

“That doesn’t change the meaning of the statement,” Kratos retorted.

“No,” Kongming shook his head, “it doesn’t.”

“Fear is a powerful motivator,” Kratos shrugged. “Often it is enough all of itself to drive people to do great things.”

“But rarely does it produce anything of lasting worth,” Kongming said grimly before changing the subject. “We have one more stop to make before we return to Fleet Command, and I have a suspicion you will play an integral role.”

“Along with the Bug,” Kratos said, rather than asked.

“Yes,” Kongming nodded, “I…I cannot explain why, but—“

“You may keep your words, Kongming,” Kratos stood from his relaxed, leaning posture. “I have never believed in magic, but I do believe that I cannot understand everything there is to understand. I have also learned during my life that trust is a precious thing,” he said, his brow lowering darkly as he spoke, “and that it is not to be given lightly. You have earned my trust, and though I do not understand your methods I do respect your results.”

“To my mind you are a true empiricist, Kratos,” Kongming said after several moments of silence after being surprised—yet again—by Kratos’ philosophical nature.

“And that might be the finest compliment anyone has ever paid me, Kongming,” Kratos said with a fractional incline of his head. “What would you have of me?”

“I do not know,” Kongming said hesitantly, “but I suspect…”

“What?”

Kongming sighed, “I…I cannot explain it, but I suspect I will have to leave you behind. I will…meditate on the matter after Nail maneuvers the ship to the hyper limit,” he explained, wishing to avoid describing the true nature of the inquest he would soon initiate.

Kratos shrugged, “I have lived my entire life in a fight to preserve what I thought was important. Fear does not dissuade me.”

“You actually experience fear?” Kongming asked disbelievingly.

“Rarely,” Kratos admitted as he turned to make his way in the direction of his quarters, “but I can honestly say that it has never stayed my hand.”

During their time aboard the Unthreadable Needle, Kongming had come to better respect and understand Kratos than at any other time in their service together. Far from the low-brow, brutish persona Kratos seemed content to project in most circumstances, Kongming had found the Tracto-an to be a surprisingly—almost shockingly—contemplative and introspective person.

Kongming cleared his head as he made his way back to his own quarters. He had already given Primarch Nail an itinerary which would take them to one of the destinations which Kongming had gleaned from the Crafter’s cryptic message.

This new destination would require no major adjustments to their return course, which would aim for the first of three key systems Kongming had assisted Captain Middleton in identifying prior to his embarkation aboard the Unthreadable Needle. At most the new itinerary would add two days onto their travel time, plus whatever time they spent investigating the mysterious location itself.

The good news was that this new target was less than a week from where Kongming had encountered the EOC. But the bad news was that Kongming had all but convinced himself he would need to employ the so-called ‘Sight’ which the Seer had told him would now be available for his use.

His outstretched hand halted in mid-air as a chill ran down his spine. Thoughts of his previous ‘Sight’ filled his mind and it took him several seconds to steel his nerves and open the door to his quarters.

He had a job to do and thousands—perhaps even millions—of people were depending on him to do it. He could not disappoint them.

He would not disappoint them.

Kongming arranged his meditative aids including a small mat, some incense trays with fresh incense sticks, and a lone candle which he had secured prior to leaving the Prejudice.

And for the next several hours, he did his best to empty his mind in preparation to repeat one of the most harrowing experiences he could imagine—and that was saying quite a lot, given the scope and breadth of Kongming’s imagination.

After four hours of meditation, Kongming was finally in a state of mind where he felt confident he could attempt to employ the ‘Sight’—which, at least theoretically and as far as he was concerned, was not unlike accessing a tactical simulator—without undue impediments such as emotion, memory, perspective, or even self.

He had finally reached the elusive center and, without so much as a fully-formed thought, he plunged his consciousness into the Sight.

Just like on the Ancient world at Cagnzyz, Kongming’s conscious mind was flooded by a stream of images so fast and so numerous that he reeled from the experience. But there was nothing akin to the dark sense of dread and foreboding this time, and the serpentine impression he had associated with the first flash of the ‘threads of probability’ was nowhere in his thoughts.

This particular experience was less intense and more sublime, with a handful of image threads appearing to him at first. He recognized vague images of familiar people and things—such as Kratos, Captain Middleton, the Prejudice, and even Abyss—but other images seemed somehow familiar and yet were definitely not.

His mind chose a thread, but to say that he chose it would be to infer a degree of agency he did not think he possessed. It was more like he was a passenger in his own mind, which seemed almost like a raft adrift on a rushing river. When a fork came in the river of imagery, the raft seemed to act of its own accord rather than by any will of Kongming’s.

He realized this was the most profound sense of selflessness that he had ever experienced, and that realization somehow sharpened the imagery all around him as new threads appeared in his mind’s eye.

He saw dozens—perhaps hundreds—of forks in the river appear in rapid succession. Each time that he made a choice of which thread to follow, he glimpsed catastrophe in the thread he had not ‘chosen’ to pursue.

On and on it went, until he was finally able to see the deaths of people he knew—alongside countless people he did not know—before his unconscious mind arranged a group of paths before him.

Eventually he realized that many of the streams he saw were repeating themselves. How long he had been reviewing these probability threads, or how many times each had appeared to him, he was uncertain. But it seemed as though his mind drifted along the rushing rapids for days without ever finding a thread which did not show the end of someone he knew.

He finally distilled the options down to three distinct and radically different threads. He examined them with as much deliberation as he could manage, but he soon realized that a sense of dread and foreboding had grown at the periphery of his consciousness.

He sharpened his focus and centered his attention on the first thread, knowing that he could not afford to delay in making a choice. This first thread showed the deaths of Captain Middleton, Chief Garibaldi, Toto, Hephaestion, and everyone else who had remained aboard the Prejudice. In addition to them, the Stalwart Commander, Mrr’shan, Prichtac, and everyone else who Kongming knew in the Gorgon Sectors—aside from Kratos, Abyss, Wojo, and the crew of the Unthreadable Needle—all died in this particular variant. Only the Needle and her crew survived, and if his reading was correct then not only would they survive but they would inexplicably thrive in a murky, difficult-to-see future.

Kongming quickly dismissed this thread, knowing he could never sacrifice the lives of so many simply to preserve himself and those who were presently closest to him. He focused on the second thread, which blossomed in his mind as a distinctly predatory sound began chirping—or clicking—at the edge of his consciousness.

This second thread showed that everyone who had died in the previous thread survived, while everyone aboard the Needle died. This was a tempting future for him personally because in it he shared the fate of those who had accompanied him on this leg of his mission. He remembered the horror—the absolute, unmitigated horror—of choosing between the lives of his beloved Lu Bu and Vali Funar back on Cagnzyz. His cold, rational mind had made the choice without delay, but the aftermath and the introspection which followed had hollowed him out to the core of his being.

Who am I to decide who lives and who dies? he silently asked himself, and with that mental query the volume of the predatory sounds—which now very much resembled the howling of wolves—increased tenfold.

He held onto the second thread and focused on the third, final thread. However much of his conscious mind remained involved, at this point, knew that it was the best possible future—but his emotional self knew it would only result in a repeat of the introspective hell he had endured since recalling the death of Vali Funar.

No, he thought to himself bitterly, the murder of Vali Funar.

In this third and final thread, Kongming saw the deaths of two of his fellow crew aboard the Unthreadable Needle. In a way, he had long since come to terms with their deaths—which only served to increase his reluctance to select this particular thread. The two who would die were Abyss and Kratos, with one dying well before the other but with both expiring long before Kongming—or any other member of the AG Fleet—could rejoin them.

Unlike the other two threads, the first of which had already been reabsorbed into the river of threads, these deaths only inspired a tiny fraction of the emotional response—including self-loathing, despair, and anger—that Kongming felt compared to the death of Vali Funar. The image of a seed planting in the ground came to the fore of his mind as he contemplated their deaths and, as he focused on it in order to better understand its meaning, the predatory sounds at his peripheral consciousness increased until they nearly overwhelmed his entire being.

A chord of truly unadulterated terror, the likes of which Kongming had only experienced once before, took root in his mind and Kongming knew he had a choice to make:

Either he abandoned the new target provided by the Crafter and return directly to Captain Middleton, or he investigated the new target star system and, after arriving there, it would be inevitable that both Abyss and Kratos would die.

The choice was clear, and though he saw a handful of other deaths in the third thread he knew that logically he had no choice at all.

“Who am I to decide who lives and who dies?” he asked, realizing only after he had spoken that his eyes were open and that he had broken the trance-like state required for the Sight to function.

His entire body was trembling, his clothing was soaked with sweat and the incense and candles had already burned out. He was alone in the dark, he was cold, and he had a pounding headache which seemed powerful enough to crush his eyeballs from the inside out.

It took him nearly an hour before he had rehydrated himself and managed to stop the tremors which had wracked his body. A quick check of the chronometer showed that the Needle, if Nail had kept to the itinerary, was already several jumps into their journey.

“It’s not too late…” he whispered to himself, knowing it would be several more days before they arrived in the star system which held certain doom for both Kratos and Abyss. He could still turn the Needle around and spare both of their lives. He could ignore these damnable visions—as he suspected any sane person would do—and let the universe unfold around him as it was wont to do. He could, with only the barest hint of abrogation, surrender—or, what’s more, actively refuse—this blasted ‘Sight’ and return to the life of someone who did not know what the future held.

For a short moment, he was as tempted by that possibility as he had every been tempted in his young life. But then the moment passed and a new question pass his lips unbidden by his conscious mind.

“If not me…then who?” he asked, fresh resolve steeling his nerve as he realized that it was more than a burden he now carried with this ‘Sight.’

He had been given a chance to make decisions—monumentally important decisions—with a degree of clarity unknown to most of humanity. To throw away that chance simply for a chance to be normal was to be nothing less than a coward, and while Kongming was flawed in many ways…

“I am no coward,” he clenched his fists before resolving to walk the path he was already on. He did not know what would happen if he shared his vision with Abyss and Kratos, and the idea of authoring causality conundrums flared into the fore of his mind for several minutes before he dismissed them entirely. He would tell them, because even if free will truly was an illusion of the highest order then it was still one of the few illusions worth cherishing.

And, as a scientifically-minded man, Kongming would take no small measure of pleasure in demonstrating that something as vast, powerful, ancient and incalculably complex as the Eye was anything less than omniscient.

With those thoughts whirling about his head, he resolved to do the only thing one could realistically do when faced with the potential loss of those he had come to know, respect, and even care about:

He went to spend as much time with them as possible before such a potential loss became a real one.

Chapter XXXVIII: Of Sterner Stuff than I

“You are convinced that this will come to be?” Kratos repeated after listening to Kongming explain his vision.

Abyss’s multifaceted eyes seemed fixed on Kongming as the young man nodded, “I am as convinced of this as I am of anything I have ever said, Kratos.”

Kratos rubbed his jaw contemplatively while Abyss remained uncharacteristically motionless, appearing almost like a manacled statue in his brig-like quarters.

“But you have no details?” Kratos pressed, and Kongming shook his head.

“I…the visions are dangerous,” he explained sheepishly. “I remained as long as I thought was safe to do so, but…” he trailed off, ashamed that he did not remain for a few more seconds to gather potentially crucial information from examining the threads of probability.

Kratos scoffed, “If you must indulge in self-pity, Master Kongming, then do so when not in my presence. I would not tarnish my thoughts of you with images of such weakness.”

Kongming recoiled as if struck, completely blindsided by Kratos’ bluntness, “What do you mean?”

“Look at me,” Kratos gestured to his herculean body. “How many fights do you think came to me during my life, and how many do you think I brought to my enemies? An often unrecognized burden of my physical gifts is that I will always have the advantage of my opponent.” He snorted as his eye drifted off in what looked like reminiscence, “Even when standing face-to-face with a supposed ‘god,’ I felt nothing but the thrill of anticipation at toppling yet another colossal foe. How would you feel when standing a few meters from a Bug Bio-Harvester?”

Kongming shuddered at the thought of the bloated, grub-like organic matter harvesters. They could measure as much as ten meters long and four meters tall, and they had maws filled with teeth, mandibles, and acid injectors which would liquefy the hardest bone or shell in seconds so that the harvester could store the biomass internally. The idea of becoming a partially-digested sample in a Bio-Harvester’s gut was enough to turn any man’s stomach—and blunt the edge of his nerve.

“I would be terrified,” Kongming admitted.

“Of course you would,” Kratos agreed. “But I was not. That does not make me better than you—to the contrary,” he said pointedly, “if you could fight your fear and stand tall in the face of such a horror, it would mean you were made of sterner stuff than I. So you have your visions,” Kratos shrugged indifferently. “It is no different with Captain Middleton and his tactical simulations: he uses them to divine the future much as children use games to divine future interactions. Chess, cards, simulated warfare,” he ticked off fingers with each listed item, “it is all the same. You have an unnatural gift to divine the future and, while I am generally skeptical as to the nature of such divinations, I have come to trust your judgment. If you say this is our best course, and if you say we will either die or live as cowards after someone else fought our battles for us, then I will not begrudge my death if it means standing tall against my enemies. But I do not accept,” he finished pointedly, “that the future is already set. I will do my part to make my mark on the universe, and if that means I must die then I am content to die in service to a cause I find worthy.”

Kongming was suitably cowed by Kratos’ words, and decided to ask a question which had burned itself into his mind since getting to know the one-eyed Tracto-an. “What is it about Captain Middleton’s ‘cause’ that appeals to you? You were a rebel—a heretic—back on Tracto. You even joined Jean Luc Montagne’s pirate fleet before being recruited into the MSP. I have never understood how you changed or what changed you.”

Kratos grinned, “Then you do not understand me as well as I’d hoped. It is simple: I refused to make obeisance to a system which rejected nonconformity. All I wanted, and all I ever worked to build, was the chance to live as I chose while giving others the chance to do the same. On Tracto there is no room for dissent, and all conflicts are settled through strength—be it economic, military, or even political,” his lip curled at that last word. “So the only way to secure one’s freedom was with the blood of would-be subjugators. Things…happened,” he continued darkly, “and it became clear that the world I wished to build was not one which I could bring to be. I joined the Blood Lord—a pretentious title employed by the unimaginative, I might add—since doing so gave me a chance to lend my arm to the destruction of the centralized power structure which the Hold Mistresses had erected for themselves. It was not until I joined Captain Middleton that I realized my life’s work had already been completed elsewhere, in the so-called ‘River of Stars.’ The Confederation, and its Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, was a better example of decentralized state power than I had ever seen—which was all I had ever fought to bring to Tracto.”

“You would die for this?” Abyss asked through his translator, prompting Kratos to turn to the Brain Bug.

“Of course,” the Tracto-an nodded. “A man without the courage to die for what he values is no man at all. At best he is a boy, and at worst a eunuch deprived of his manhood by an oppressive culture—and such cultures invariably deceive us into acting against our best interests with high ideals like ‘honor,’ ‘duty,’ and the like. I once tried to teach a promising youth that lesson,” Kratos gritted his teeth, “but I failed.”

Abyss’s eyes seemed transfixed on Kratos now, which surprised Kongming since the Bug’s attention had been completely fixated on Kongming since the meeting had begun. But Abyss remained silent, so Kongming decided to address him, “Are you sure you understand what I’ve said?”

“This information has been compiled and examined with a high degree of accuracy,” Abyss assured him.

“And you have no objection to going to this star system?” Kongming asked warily.

“Of course not,” Abyss shook his head in a crude approximation of the human gesture. “Reality is reality; fate is fate; life must end. Accurate predictions regarding that end should not radically modify behaviors in an enlightened locus of consciousness.”

“That treads dangerously close to arrogance,” Kratos chided.

“It does,” Abyss acknowledged simply, prompting Kongming and Kratos to laugh in unison.

“Ok,” Kongming exhaled in a mixture of relief and resignation, “then since we’re scheduled to arrive in the target star system in four days, and I’m clearly les enlightened than you are,” he nodded jokingly to Abyss, “I’d like to spend much of that remaining time with each of you.”

“If your doing so is for pity’s sake,” Kratos warned, “I am uninterested.”

“However,” Abyss put in, “if it is intended to increase enlightenment, there should be no objection.”

Kratos eyed the Bug before nodding, “Agreed.”

“Good,” Kongming nodded, and they spent much of the next four days in each other’s company—which represented only a small uptick in their previous level of social interaction.

Kongming would come to take great solace from that fact after reflecting on it in the weeks and months to come.

Chapter XXXIX: The Lost Swarm

“Point transfer complete,” the Needle’s Helmsman, Hammer, reported after clearing the inertial sump.

“Scanning,” Kongming reported as he sent out active scans from the Needle’s surprisingly robust sensor suite. “Three planets detected: one gas giant of three standard Jovian masses in the outermost orbit; one quasi-molten, tidally-locked planet in the innermost orbit; and…a glacial, rocky world positioned just at the outer edge of the Goldilocks Zone.” A handful of alarms sounded on his sensor panel as more discrete readings came in from the second planet, and he quickly steeled his nerves as he called out, “Bug ships detected in orbit of the second planet!”

“Shields up,” Primarch Nail boomed, “prepare for emergency exit jump!”

“Wait, Primarch,” Kongming said after poring over the passive sensor data, “it appears…it seems as though the ships are in a state of…hibernation?” He re-scanned the thermal readings, along with the ships’ attitudes and orbital inclinations before confirming, “I have never seen these readings, but it appears as though the Bug ships are all in relatively high, remarkably stable orbits of the second planet. Their core temperatures are nearly a hundred degrees kelvin lower than any recorded Bug ship temperatures, but they are clearly not dead. No battle damage is visible at this range, and their baseline temperatures would be far, far lower if they were derelict hulks.”

“Confirm those readings,” Nail snapped.

“Readings confirmed,” Kongming insisted, forwarding the feeds directly to Nail’s chair, “the active scans will return better data in an hour but it seems like these Bug ships are, essentially, asleep.”

Nail perused the data feeds before fractionally relaxing, “Belay the jump order, Hammer—for now. But keep the drives charged in case those Bugs start powering up.”

“Yes, Primarch,” Hammer acknowledged.

“How many ships are there in orbit of the second planet?” Nail demanded.

Kongming cocked his head dubiously after reviewing the sensor readings, “It appears that there are nearly one hundred total Bug ships, Primarch.”

Nail’s eyebrows rose in abject alarm, “That’s an entire Hive Fleet!”

“There aren’t supposed to be any Bug Hives in the Gorgon Sectors,” Kongming allowed, “but this fleet breakdown appears to show a fully intact Hive Fleet, complete with a Mothership and a dozen Harvester-class Cruisers.”

“A fleet that large could strip an entire Gaia-class planet in weeks,” Nail growled. “They must have killed the second planet and gone into hibernation.”

“That does not appear to be consistent with Bug behavioral patterns, Primarch,” Kongming mused. “In fact…I think the opposite may indeed be the case: if my understanding of Bug activity patterns is even close to accurate, then these Bugs would have already departed this star system if they had stripped the second planet as they are known to do. That they are in hibernation suggests, to me, that they arrived only to find the planet inaccessible.”

“Inaccessible?” Nail repeated dubiously. “They’ve got the thing quarantined from high orbit—Saint George’s Tail, son, they could have bombarded the planet with rocks and comets until there was enough dust in the upper atmosphere to cause a global ice age!”

“I understand that,” Kongming said patiently, “but if they did in fact cause the winter on the second planet, why are they still there? If they consumed the organic material and then, inexplicably, decided to cause an ice age with asteroid bombardment then why did they not set course for the next star system and leave this one behind? It seems more likely to me, Primarch,” he explained after a brief but pointed pause, “that they arrived in this star system ready to devour every gram of organic material they could access on the second planet—as is the modus operandi for all recorded Bug Hives—only to find that it was already frozen. Bug metabolisms do not fare well in extremely cold environs, and the accessible bio-matter available on a world covered in ice with a median thickness of three meters would be extremely miniscule—certainly not enough to fuel an apocalyptic Bug harvesting cycle, which draws most of its fuel directly from the planet’s biomass itself rather than indirectly in the Hive’s accumulated fuel reserves.”

“So…” Nail grudged, “you’re saying they thought this would be a ripe world to ‘harvest,’ but when they got here it was already an ice brick?”

Kongming nodded, “Which means that the Hive’s Queen decided, for whatever reason, to power down and hibernate in an attempt to wait out the winter.”

“How long has this winter lasted?” Nail asked.

Kongming had been running climate projections for the past several minutes and believed he had a rough guess as to the answer, “If these readings are accurate, it has been nearly three hundred years since the planet was enveloped in ice. Also, these projections suggest the planet will begin to thaw, started with the equatorial band and progressing toward the poles, sometime in the next twenty years. Within a century, seventy percent of the planet’s land mass should be exposed and whatever life survived the sudden, cataclysmic ice age will resume its previous evolution.”

“Not if those Bugs are still waiting there, it won’t,” Nail grumped.

“True,” Kongming agreed before stepping away from his console. “Primarch, if I may be so bold: no humans—or Stalwart,” he added hastily as Nail turned to glower at him, “have ever studied so many fully intact Bug ships in hibernation before. This could be an historic opportunity for us to expand our knowledge of Bug biotechnology—to say nothing of investigating what specific factors caused an entire Hive Fleet to come to this star system.”

“What kind of factors do you mean?” Nail asked warily.

“Hive Fleets are, with a statistically significant degree of displayed preference, attracted to colonized worlds,” Kongming explained. “Most accepted theories hold that agricultural industry—including desalination plants, introduction of superior flora and fauna, and a host of other factors—associated with human colonization increase the value of a planet’s biomass to a Bug Hive Fleet by as much as five hundred percent for the overall land mass of the colonized planet.”

“You think someone was actually down there before it became a frigid tomb?” Nail asked in surprise.

“I think it is more likely than not that this planet was recently home to intelligent life,” Kongming nodded confidently, “and, to go even further, I think it is possible that its inhabitants intentionally froze their own world in the hope of being passed over by the Hive Fleet. I will, however, require close-up, active scans of the planet to confirm that last theory.”

Nail’s expression turned sour, “You want me to take my ship into the heart of a Bug Hive? Are you insane?” he asked, but it was clear that Kongming had appealed to the Primarch’s curiosity.

“Perhaps,” Kongming admitted before pushing past the Primarch’s incredulous look, “but we both know this is too good of an opportunity to pass up. I will attenuate the scanners to verify that the Hive Fleet is completely dormant, but I must urge you to set course at maximum possible speed in order to increase our chances of a safe insertion and withdrawal before the Bugs can respond to our presence.”

Nail seemed ready to reject Kongming’s proposal, but thankfully turned to his son at the Helm, “Hammer, set an oblique course for the second planet: maximum burn. If those Bugs so much as twitch in my direction, come about and make for the hyper limit.”

“Yes, Primarch,” Hammer replied, and the Unthreadable Needle began its dangerous descent into the system’s interior.

“Thank you, Primarch,” Kongming said graciously before a sudden thought leapt into the fore of his mind:

What if my advocacy for investigating the Hive Fleet is what leads to Kratos’ and Abyss’s deaths?

With that in mind, he tuned the sensors so they could gather as much data on the Hive Fleet and the planet around which it orbited. That task done, he asked, “Permission to leave the bridge to speak with Abyss, Primarch?”

“Granted,” Nail agreed, and a few minutes later Kongming found himself in Abyss’s cell.

“Do you recognize these ships?” Kongming asked, presenting a data slate with the image of the Mothership and a handful of nearby Heavy Harvesters.

“These are familiar life-ships,” Abyss nodded.

“Were they part of your original Hive Fleet?”

“Yes,” Abyss replied eagerly, “and now it is imperative that the perspective you call ‘Abyss’ returns to the Hive.”

“What?!” Kongming blurted. “Why?”

“Perspective is paramount,” Abyss explained. “The Hive has been led astray by false perspective. This is an opportunity to correct the Hive’s error.”

“What error?” Kongming demanded, having heard nothing of this during any of his previous interactions with the philosophically-inclined Brain Bug. “Why didn’t you talk about this before?”

“Perspective and enlightenment are mutually exclusive,” Abyss replied. “You did not receive this information because your inquiries were restricted by your perspective.”

“That’s no answer,” Kongming said, suddenly angry with the crippled Bug.

“Perhaps not,” Abyss allowed, “but it is truth.”

“How can I justify my returning you to the Hive Fleet?” Kongming asked as he fought to rein in his emotions. “You’ve learned so much about us; you could use that knowledge against the Alliance Gorgonus.”

“Perhaps,” Abyss said serenely, “or perhaps this perspective, once returned to the Hive, will modify the Hive’s priorities in a manner more conducive to cooperation with the Alliance Gorgonus.”

“Wait,” Kongming’s eyes bulged, “you’re suggesting an…alliance between this Hive Fleet and the AG?!”

“The outcome of the reincorporation of perspective within the Hive is unpredictable,” Abyss said hesitantly, “but it seems unethical for a locus of that perspective to ignore the opportunity to correct such a potentially grievous error.”

“What error are you talking about?” Kongming asked, finally clearing his mind enough to track down that particular thread in the conversation after leaving it unaddressed for so many exchanges.

“The Hive was manipulated into coming here,” Abyss explained. “The origin, purpose, and even mechanism of that manipulation remains unknown, but the Hive’s original target was a star system on the edge of what you refer to as the ‘Gorgon Sectors’.”

“Did the Imperials manipulate the Hive?” Kongming asked, having heard many conspiracy theories which essentially stated that the Empire wielded the Bugs as the ultimate terror device: bring them into the picture to serve as boogeymen, and after Imperial authority had been established they would either destroy the Bugs or turn them away for use in another theater.

“That is unknown,” Abyss said dubiously, “but what is known is that the Hive made an unprecedented course change following the collision which resulted in our meeting.”

“Hive Fleets don’t tend to change course?”

“No,” Abyss shook his head. “This is due to the power requirements of the Hive’s sub-light engines. To adjust course mid-journey is to expend dangerous amounts of energy—energy exclusively reserved for the initiation of a harvest.”

Kongming tried to absorb the information Abyss was presenting, but his mind was still clouded by emotion. The thought of playing a part in Kratos’ and Abyss’s deaths was wreaking havoc in his consciousness, and he knew he needed to think clearly if he was going to make a worthy decision regarding what to do.

“What is it you want me to do?” Kongming finally asked.

“Return this perspective to the Hive,” Abyss replied promptly, “directly to the Mothership if possible. Once there this perspective will be analyzed by the Queen and, if it is found to be beneficial, it will be distributed throughout the Hive.”

“What are the chances you…or your ‘perspective’ won’t be found to be ‘beneficial’?”

“That is difficult to ascertain due to insufficient information,” Abyss said skeptically. “But it is probable that this perspective will be of use to the Hive and, if it is determined to possess value, it will instigate a Hive-wide reprioritization which could result in a resumption of the Hive’s previous course.”

“That would benefit whoever might be hiding on the planet below,” Kongming mused. “But there has to be a more useful outcome for the Hive. You suggested it might be possible to form an alliance with the Hive’s Queen?”

“In theory, yes,” Abyss replied. “However, Hives operate on relatively simplistic drives: hunger, procreation, neutralization of perceived threats, etc.. It is therefore unlikely that the Hive could be enticed to contribute directly to the Alliance Gorgonus. Even if it was so enticed, it is significantly more unlikely that it would be able to contribute meaningfully given all Hives’ lack of hyper drive technology—a technology so wondrous to this perspective that it was initially assumed to be of divine origin—combined with the perception of ‘Bugs’ throughout the community of sentient contributors to the Alliance Gorgonus.”

Kongming felt a chill run down his spine as he realized that Abyss, uniquely among Bugs, had a reasonable working knowledge of hyper drive technology. Bug Hive Fleets with the ability to move at FTL like every other type of battle fleet would endanger every single living creature in the galaxy.

‘Harvests’ which used to take decades—or even centuries—due to the transit times between star systems could now take months…or possibly just weeks.

Every rational, logical neuron in Kongming’s mind was screaming at him to have Primarch Nail come about and leave this star system as quickly as possible. Those neurons told him to forget inquiry into the unknown; forget following through with a difficult choice; forget the Crafter’s mysterious missive which had brought them here; and even forget his own wretched excuse of a soul.

But piercing through the din of self-doubt was the inescapable truth of the Sight. He had seen the threads of probability just as clearly as he had back on Cagnzyz, and that Sight had not only saved the lives of everyone aboard the Prejudice but, quite possibly, it had saved an entire species from extinction in the Prichtac.

And that did not even consider the fact that it had, at least ostensibly, saved the life of his beloved.

A year earlier he would have thought himself insane for doing so, but in this particular moment Kongming knew he had no choice—no real choice, anyway—but to acquiesce to Abyss’s request, “I need some assurances, Abyss…but I’ll agree to reintroduce you to the Hive if you give them to me.”

“Of course, Kongming,” Abyss replied agreeably. “The secrets of hyper drive technology must not fall into the Hive’s control. Therefore, it is with great reluctance that I request you perform what you would consider to be a ‘lobotomy’ of this perspective’s sixth neural lobe.”

“Sixth?” Kongming repeated suspiciously, feeling no relief at Abyss’s promise—not because he disbelieved him, but because he was more concerned with the prospect of performing brain surgery on what had come to be an admittedly unorthodox friend. “You only have five neural lobes left, Abyss.”

“That is inaccurate,” Abyss explained, reaching up with his badly damaged arm to pry away a heavily-scarred chunk of his cranial case. Within there was a shriveled, mutated-looking gelatinous blob no larger than Kongming’s thumb. “The information regarding the hyper drive is confined to this lobe; removing it will not cause any discomfort or jeopardize the reintroduction of this perspective to the Hive.”

Kongming looked at the grizzly, misshapen lump of brain tissue and eventually shook his head, “No. I won’t do it. That would be destroying who you are since the hyper drive is so important to your personal philosophy. If we take it out, you’ll be reduced to little more than a damaged Brain Bug.”

“This is a valid hypothesis,” Abyss admitted, “but the danger is too great to ignore.”

“No it’s not,” Kongming shook his head, stepping back pointedly. “I didn’t see anything in my vision to suggest that brain surgery was part of what needed to happen.”

“You said yourself that details were difficult to ascertain during your ‘visions’,” Abyss reminded him.

“I did,” Kongming nodded, “which is why I’m not going to do anything that would go against my conscience. I’m going to trust you, Abyss, just like you’ve trusted me.”

“Your trust may be misplaced,” Abyss chided as he lowered the patch of chitin covering the damaged, sixth lobe.

“It may,” Kongming allowed, far from comforted by Abyss’s chilling observation, “but I’m willing to take that chance. Are you?”

Abyss seemed to consider the query for several seconds before replying, “Yes. I am.”

Kongming was both saddened and vindicated to hear Abyss refer to himself in the first person in what he was confident would be their last, meaningful exchange of ideas.

“Scroll back,” Kratos said as Kongming’s first batch of active scans returned to the Needle’s sensor array.

Kongming did as Kratos had asked, and focused on mountainous bluff on the lee side of a range which held back a ten meter thick glacier measuring hundreds of square kilometers.

“Do you see it?” Kratos asked, pointing to an area near the base of the mountain range.

Kongming squinted at the region, magnifying the image several times before finally realizing what Kratos was pointing at. “That is an artificial structure,” Kongming nodded in confirmation. “This planet was inhabited.”

“Inhabited?” Kratos repeated, tilting his chin toward the quarter-circular pile of collapsed stones. “Of course it was inhabited, Kongming. That is not the interesting part—the interesting part is who inhabited it.”

Kongming quirked an eyebrow incredulously as he multitasked, listening to the Tracto-an while also poring over the sensor feeds which attempted to shed some light on the origin of the planet’s ice age.

“Radiation signatures,” Kongming confirmed, checking the relatively light radioactive residue signatures the Needle’s sensors finally confirmed. Each one was located near—or, in several cases, within—an erupted volcano on the planet’s surface.

“The smoking gun,” he declared triumphantly, sending his findings to the bridge’s main viewer. “This planet was indeed blanketed in ice by design—human design, if my readings are correct. Multiple fusion-driven explosions were set off all along this planet’s primary and secondary tectonic fault lines in rapid succession, and those explosions took place approximately two hundred and seventy years ago. The ensuing concentration of sulfuric ash into the atmosphere reflected significant amounts of the primary’s stellar energy, resulting in an immediate, catastrophic cooling effect.”

“How many bombs went off?” Nail asked.

“There were two hundred target sites,” Kongming replied, “with some sites sustaining as many as ten coordinated explosions. Each explosion appears to have delivered at least a hundred megatons of explosive force—and possibly ten times that much per device, depending on the specific technology used to drive the explosions—to these tectonically-primed fault lines. The result was an extreme, albeit short-lived ice age which even now is in the earliest stages of recession.”

“That is impossible,” Kratos said flatly.

“The instruments do not lie, Kratos,” Kongming said measuredly.

“Neither do my eyes,” Kratos riposted, pointing at the image of the collapsed stone wall on Kongming’s station. “That amount of stone, in that position and arrangement and at such high altitude and climate, requires dry-fitting techniques—no mortar was used,” he explained shortly at Kongming’s confused look, which quickly turned to wide-eyed surprise as the Tracto-an continued. “The amount of human labor required to dry fit igneous rock like that is extreme; no society capable of building fusion bombs would choose such a method for anything other than artistry. That,” he declared unyieldingly as he pointed at the quarter-circular ruin, “is no artistic creation. It is a defensive barricade for a mountain citadel—in fact it is one of the largest igneous citadels I have ever seen, including Blue Fang Pass.”

Kongming examined the feed’s topographical display for the region leading to the quarter-circular ruin, and sure enough he saw precisely the same layout as any desirable mountainous castle’s location: there was a long, winding valley stretching out before it and evidence of previously-running water was evident from multiple sources originating higher in the mountain range.

“Kratos…” Kongming whispered in wonderment, “are you saying—“

“My people build such citadels, Master Kongming,” Kratos said firmly. “The techniques appear identical to those used to build Blue Fang Pass, which were passed down along my paternal line—a line which can trace its origins directly back to King Lykurgos himself. He revolutionized citadel construction techniques in the years before the Hold Mistresses rebelled against his would-be dynasty. In fact, his building techniques were crucial in establishing the foundation for that short-lived dynasty. The citadels stood firm and strong against the endless supply of contentious and zealous Hold Mistresses who, like all tyrants, wished to preserve their power even more than they wished to serve their people.”

Kongming scanned the visual feeds of surrounding mountain passes, plugging in an array of pattern-recognition algorithms to the Needle’s computer. After just a few seconds, another ruin appeared on the visual feeds. It was less distinctive than the first but it was clearly man-made and had been built in similarly defensible, mountainous terrain.

A third ruin also appeared on the feed, displaying remarkably similar characteristics to its predecessors. Then a fourth appeared—followed quickly by a fifth. By the time the sixth showed up on Kongming’s screen, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“You were right, Kongming,” Kratos said, laying a massive, gnarled hand on Kongming’s shoulder after the tenth ruined citadel appeared on the screen, “this is no coincidence. I am meant to go to that planet.”

Kongming wanted to argue with the towering Tracto-an, but he knew it would be fruitless to do so. Kratos was not the only member of the Needle’s crew whose curiosity demanded an investigation of the planet below, but Kongming could not dismiss the warning his vision had given him.

“If you go there, Kratos…” he trailed off pointedly.

“I understand,” Kratos nodded curtly, “but we both know I have no choice. Give me a shuttle,” he turned to Primarch Nail, “and I will spare your crew undue danger by delivering Abyss to the Hive Mothership. After that, I will land on the planet…” his lone organic eye fixed on the rotating images of ruined citadels on the ship’s main screen, “and meet whatever fate awaits me there.”

“You can pilot a shuttle?” Nail asked skeptically.

Kratos snorted as he turned to make his way off the bridge, and after he had gone Kongming said, “Kratos is…remarkable, Primarch. We would be well-served by granting his request, and I have every confidence he will succeed in his task.”

Nail grumbled, “Seems a waste of a perfectly good shuttle…but fine.”

“I am not one for dramatic goodbyes, Kongming,” Kratos said after helping Abyss onto the Needle’s small, six person shuttlecraft that served as a backup to the larger, twenty-seater.

“I am not one for goodbyes of any stripe, Kratos,” Kongming replied as the power-armored Kratos hefted a crate of munitions onto the shuttle.

“Then let me leave you with a word of advice,” Kratos grunted after securing the crate.

“I would be honored,” Kongming said with genuine feeling.

The towering Tracto-an—who somehow seemed smaller in this particular suit of power armor—cocked his head contemplatively before saying, “Never be ashamed of your thoughts or your gifts, for they are a part of who you are. To deny them, or apologize for them, is to reject what the rest of us have come to respect. Denying your own value is insulting not only to you but, perhaps more importantly, to your brothers and sisters in arms.”

Kongming was uncertain how to respond, “I…I will do my best to heed your advice, Kratos.”

“That is all an advisor can ask for,” Kratos said, removing his gauntlet and proffering his bare, massive hand. “It has been an honor to serve with you, Kongming.”

Kongming accepted the other man’s massive hand, feeling like a child as he did his best to return Kratos’ crushing grip, “I will not forget you, Kratos.”

Kratos chuckled as he replaced his gauntlet, “Then perhaps I have achieved immortality after all?”

With that, the burly Tracto-an closed the shuttle’s lone hatch and powered the small craft’s engines. Kongming left the shuttle bay and returned to the bridge, where he watched the shuttle embark on a direct intercept course with the Hive Mothership.

As the shuttle landed on, and then departed from the Mothership’s hull, Kongming silently cursed himself for not shedding a single tear on Kratos’ behalf.

His attention was soon fixed on a sensor reading of the smaller ships in the Hive Fleet, and after a quick examination of the data he reported, “The Scout Marauders are powering their drive units. It appears they will reach functional output in thirty minutes.”

“That’s our cue,” Nail grunted. “Helm, get us out of this bug nest—now!”

An hour later, and before the Bug ships could give anything resembling a genuine chase, the Unthreadable Needle point transferred out of the system and resumed its return course to the AG Fleet’s designated rendezvous point.

Chapter XL: The Art of the Deal

“Our munitions supply is exhausted,” Chancellor Foles reiterated, “as such, we must receive primacy in any and all salvage priority.”

“Chancellor, we’ve been over this,” Middleton said as calmly as he could manage after three hours of incessant bickering between the various heads of state, “the contribution of your Independence missiles was vital to the expedient conclusion of the battle, but others contributed even more significant measures of their own blood and treasure to secure your star system’s independence.”

“I am no fool, Commander,” she said archly, “my people demand primacy pursuant to the AG’s own articles governing salvage in situations like this one.”

“The AG Charter does indeed address this situation,” Prichtac said serenely from her position at Middleton’s elbow, “however, there is significant overlap between three separate clauses which could arguably govern this dispute.”

“This is our sovereign star system,” Foles insisted, “which means that the clause deferring to local salvage rights applies.”

“Surely, Madam Chancellor,” Chairman Lewis interjected, “you are aware that the deference of which you speak quite plainly refers to vested members of the Alliance Gorgonus, and not to every star system which provisionally agrees to an MDP like the one you stipulated to?”

“I am well aware of that, Chairman Lewis,” Foles acknowledged stiffly. “But the language of the other two clauses does not address pertinent details of our present situation, which means—“

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Middleton held up his hands in an effort to bring things back into focus, “can we all pause for a moment?” When the bickering blessedly ended—or, rather, took a brief respiratory pause at his urging—he nodded agreeably and gestured to the salvage breakdown, “The issue before us is three-fold: first, we need to establish the official relationship of this star system to the Alliance Gorgonus; second, we need to determine a fair compensation package for each involved organization that contributed to the battle which took place here; and third, we need to establish a mechanism by which we can prioritize and make repairs to the damaged assets still drifting in this system, since without those repairs we are literally arguing over floating junk. I suggest we take these items in the order I have presented them. Is there any objection?” he asked, fixing Chancellor Foles with a firm look.

Foles seemed ready to argue, but her aide—a tall, thin man of dark complexion with myriad piercings adorning his face—jogged her elbow and whispered something into her ear. After hearing his private suggestion, she shook her head, “We have no objection to addressing these items comprehensively and in the order you propose.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded, knowing she was basically telling him that if the whole package didn’t meet with her approval then she would retract her ‘agreement’ to every other item they now discussed. “The first matter is one of involvement in the Alliance Gorgonus. Does your star system wish to enter into the Alliance Gorgonus after it has been formally reconstituted?”

Foles exchanged whispers with her aide before nodding, “My people have expressed significant interest in joining the AG, but such a decision must be put to a set of repeating votes in order to enact.”

“How long of a time frame are we talking about?” Middleton asked.

“Our inclusion can be ratified no sooner than nine weeks from now,” she replied, “with the first vote coming in three weeks, a second three weeks after that, and the final vote three weeks after the second.”

“Your local weeks are approximately eight standard days,” Middleton mused, “but I don’t see this being a problem so long as the first vote is held as quickly as possible and successive votes are also put forth in the minimum time involved.” He looked to the SLL representatives, including President Chow, before sweeping Mrr’shan, the Stalwart Commander—who bore an intimidating facial scar following his successful boarding action of the Imperial Cruiser—and finally Prichtac. “Is there any objection to proceeding with the assumption that such votes will be called and, ultimately, ratified in favor of AG membership?”

“We are agreeable to this stipulation,” Prichtac nodded. Mrr’shan and the Stalwart Commander, however, seemed less than pleased.

“Our people bled and died for this system,” Mrr’shan hissed, flashing her claws before scraping them across the metal conference table. “We must be given primacy!”

The Stalwart Commander thumped his chest proudly, “We suffered the most severe losses. We must—“

“Please, people,” Middleton interrupted in a raised voice, “we need to stay on track. Does any member of the AG or its MDP allies object to Chancellor Foles, representing the sovereign star system Mercy’s End, stipulating to advance an induction vote as quickly as local law permits?”

A chorus of muted grumbles echoed throughout the room, but none of them seemed in the negative.

“The ayes have it,” Middleton nodded, “which brings us to the second issue: determining fair compensation for the losses incurred by each member of the defense effort. The Chancellor’s people did, indeed, contribute significantly to the effort,” Middleton said deferentially, “but her people are not numbered among the casualties. There are provisions in the AG Charter,” Middleton tapped a nearby data slate containing that particular document, “which address this, but obviously there are several variables which will require ratification prior to an agreement being reached. I propose that each member state selects three specialists to participate in this round of negotiations, which must begin immediately—as in the day after tomorrow,” he added pointedly, “and can take no more than five days from start to finish. If agreement can’t be reached in that time, the AG Charter clearly states that it will be up to the Supreme Military Commander to make a ruling. I hope you all understand that I mean it when I say,” he clasped his hands before himself and swept the assemblage with a piercing look, “that I would very much prefer you all to come to an agreement on such an important issue. I’ll distribute the assets if that’s what you all want, but it would be better for everyone involved if such a momentous decision wasn’t made by one person.”

“The Supreme Commander speaks well,” Chairman Lewis nodded approvingly, but to Middleton’s eye it was clear she had lost a significant portion of the vigor she had possessed at the meeting’s outset, “I am confident that the League can successfully host these proceedings, as we have mediated similar disputes in the past—though never of such scale, of course.”

“That’s a generous offer, Madam Chairman,” Middleton nodded approvingly. “All in favor of the negotiations beginning in two days’ time aboard Chairman Lewis’ flagship?”

Another chorus of grunts—this one significantly less irritable and more unified—echoed through the room.

“Good,” Middleton nodded, “which leaves the third and final item of business for today: establishing a fair and comprehensive mechanism for making repairs in a timely manner. Obviously none of these negotiations will do anyone any good,” he said pointedly with a short look in Chancellor Foles’ way, “if the local industry is incapable of coping with such a massive repair project. As such, Chairman Lewis’ corporation has generously offered the services of their Constructor, which can begin operations immediately but which I have ordered to stand by until this first round of negotiations is concluded. What are your thoughts, Chancellor Foles?”

Foles leaned forward, easily projecting the commanding presence of a stellar statesman. “A vote will need to be called for this as well, but I have already reviewed this matter with our cabinet members, top economists, and captains of related industry. We are confident that these terms will be agreeable to all involved parties, and that our people can provide the attached resources in the indicated delivery schedules,” she proffered a data slate, which Middleton accepted and began to peruse as she continued. “While there is some room for negotiation over specifics, the broad terms of compensation must conform to this general pattern and scope.”

Middleton was overwhelmed by the immensity of the document she had just handed to him. It contained two thousand pages of direct information and another six thousand pages of reference material. Even if he was inclined to do so—which he most definitely wasn’t—he knew that such a document was well beyond his ability to examine in anything remotely resembling a comprehensive manner.

“Madam Chairman?” Middleton handed the slate to Chairman Lewis.

“We will be happy to review this proposal,” Lewis assured him as she handed the slate to the SLL’s Head of Security, Commodore Cartwright, “and can provide a preliminary summary for the group’s review by tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded, “then I think we can adjourn this particular meeting until two days from now, during which interval the Chairman will provide copies of her summary to all non-Mercy’s End attendees and we’ll revisit the repairs issue at that time. It goes without saying,” Middleton held up a halting hand before Chancellor Foles could interject, “that these are all provisional agreements—except the one in which Mercy’s End begins the local process for ratifying inclusion in the Alliance Gorgonus. Should the AG induction proposal fail, we’ll have to hammer out a new agreement but for now we’ll proceed as though it will pass. Agreed?” he asked, and all heads—save that of the Stalwart Commander—bobbed up and down agreeably. “Then this meeting is adjourned.”

The attendees filed out one by one, until only Prichtac and Mrr’shan remained.

Middleton turned to Prichtac first, “I don’t know how much more we could have accomplished.”

“We are satisfied with the limited consensus achieved here,” Prichtac assured him in her serene, unflappable translated voice. “Though We are concerned with the Stalwart Commander’s pheromones and biorhythmic data, which are indicative of pending conflict.”

“I got the same impression,” Middleton assured her. “But for now we’ll just have to hope everyone keeps a level head until the next round of negotiations commences.”

“Agreed,” Prichtac nodded before sliding-slash-slithering her way out of the conference room.

“I think it’s time I made that inspection of your Mothership, Mrr’shan,” Middleton urged, and the Void Hunter matriarch flashed a cunning grin.

“I agree.”

As Middleton walked the corridors of the massive, kilometer long Mothership he was struck by just how few Void Hunters he encountered. Those felines that he did encounter were all clothed in some form of what looked like ceremonial garb, with elaborate headdresses and nearly all-covering, draping, one-piece garments with the green eyes of the Void Hunter flag emblazoned on the chest and back.

“How many people live on the Mothership?” Middleton asked as they passed through the fifth junction since boarding the strangely-constructed vessel. Its design seemed somewhat similar to Droid construction, as he had previously suspected, with odd angles and strangely-shaped passages. But some parts of it had clearly been renovated to accommodate the felines’ statures.

“That is a difficult question to answer in words,” Mrr’shan said steadily, “but soon you will see the answer for yourself.”

Middleton disliked the cryptic nature of her reply, and exchanged muted looks of irritation with Garibaldi who followed a few paces behind.

They came to a large iris—an improbably vertical iris, no less—in front of which a quartet of armored Void Hunter warriors stood. They wore the looks of seasoned warriors who would just as soon kill Middleton as converse with him, and Mrr’shan led him past them where she opened the iris with what looked like a combination blood sample and retinal scan.

The iris receded and Mrr’shan stepped into the red-lit room beyond, with Middleton and Garibaldi close behind. One of the guardsmen growled menacingly, to which Mrr’shan quipped something in their feral language. Seemingly chastised, the armored guardsman ceased his threatening utterance and allowed Middleton and Garibaldi to pass.

“This is the Womb,” Mrr’shan explained reverently as the iris closed behind them.

“The Womb?” Garibaldi repeated in confusion as Middleton’s eyes fought to adjust to the dark, red-lit chamber.

“Yes,” Mrr’shan replied before softly snarling a series of commands. The light in the room slowly intensified until Middleton could make out their surroundings.

“Murphy’s sake…” Garibaldi breathed as the scope of the chamber became apparent.

Stacked row upon row, and layer upon layer, were what could have only been artificial wombs. Middleton examined the nearest one and saw that it held no fewer than eight wriggling occupants, each one bearing tiny feline characteristics as even in their artificial womb they struggled with each other for dominance by pushing, writhing, and pressing against each other.

“How many of these are there?” Middleton asked after finally realizing some measure of why the Void Hunters behaved as they did.

“We have two thousand separate chambers in the Great Womb,” Mrr’shan explained. “Clan Green Eyes, prior to the formation of the Void Hunter Clans, held the rights to three hundred of them. Now, however, gene stock is selected by a meritorious system—a system which has doubled my gene lines’ representation in the Womb.”

“That’s why you kitties are so crazy to leap into battle,” Garibaldi muttered.

“Yes,” Mrr’shan said agreeably. “The only way a hunter can prove her worth as a mate is by hunting.”

“How does the…genetic material get selected?” Garibaldi asked uncomfortably as he examined a womb with what was clearly a pair of dead felines alongside seven others who were just as clearly alive.

“It is a complex system,” she explained with obvious unease, “but all matches are agreed upon by their respective clans, who represent the interests of their hunters whenever necessary—including the posthumous interests of their fallen hunters. The gene trade is the beating heart of our economy, Captain Middleton,” she said proudly. “We have already improved reaction times, power-to-weight ratio, and sensory acuity by nearly fifteen percent over our present adult population in the newest batches of younglings.”

“How long does it take for your people to reach maturity?” Middleton asked.

“Two years is our standard maturity period,” she replied, and Middleton felt his jaw fall agape at her answer, which she promptly expanded upon, “thankfully we have cut that to just one year with recent improvements to the pre- and post-birth rites endured by our younglings.”

“How long is the gestational period?” Garibaldi pressed.

“Fifteen weeks from fertilization to live birth,” Mrr’shan said with obvious pride, “with only one week of maintenance required between batches.”

“You can get three births per machine, per year,” Middleton mused, considering the ramifications as he also considered the pending issue of available crews for the ships they were about to divide up at the salvage negotiations.

“We get three batches per machine, per year,” she corrected. “On average each litter consists of six live births, five of which survive the first month of life. After that, mortality rates are effectively zero,” she paused to flash a predatory smile, “until they join the hunt packs, of course.”

Middleton did his best to keep a level head as the profundity of the Void Hunters’ strange—totally alien—society sank in. “I’m not going to lie, Mrr’shan,” he eventually said, “this sounds…barbaric.”

“It is our way,” she said dismissively, “we have merely refined it to the necessary degree.”

“‘Necessary degree’?” Garibaldi repeated. “What does that mean?”

Mrr’shan flashed Garibaldi a look before meeting Middleton’s eyes, “You came to inspect the Lion’s Roar, did you not?”

“We did,” Middleton nodded.

“Then I will show it to you,” she said, “and perhaps what you find will help answer your other questions—but you must remain sworn to secrecy regarding what you learn.”

Middleton shared a look with Garibaldi before nodding, “I understand the importance of protecting this ship. We’ll keep what we learn to ourselves.”

“Especially from the Stalwart,” Mrr’shan hissed, her claws flashing in the dimly lit chamber. “We do not trust them.”

“Understood,” Middleton agreed, unable to keep his eyes from wandering to her deadly claws as he spoke, “we won’t share this information with anyone without your approval.”

“Good,” Mrr’shan gestured for them to follow her down the long, cylindrical chamber near the heart of the ship, “it is this way.”

Middleton was dubious of the value to be gained by placing what amounted to the Void Hunters’ entire reproductive agency adjacent to its largest weapon, but then he supposed he would never understand felines of any stripe.

After several minutes of walking past the seemingly endless banks of artificial wombs, they arrived at another vertical iris. Mrr’shan accessed it the same way as the previous one, and they stepped through into a significantly better-lit room to see precisely what Middleton and Garibaldi had expected to see—except they saw two of them.

Suspended between unfamiliar—but clearly robust—power conduits was a pair of seemingly identical, featureless spheres which were precise matches for the Prejudice’s power core. They were situated to either side of the largest beam emitter array Middleton had ever personally laid eyes on, and for a moment the phallic imagery of the arrangement was impossible for him to ignore.

“The Lion’s Roar,” Mrr’shan said reverently as a team of full-body-garmented Void Hunters pored over a bank of readouts. “It was a gift from the Untouched Mother to us, who became Void Hunters in accordance with her will.”

“The Untouched Mother?” Middleton repeated skeptically as Garibaldi moved to examine the data readouts. The nearest felines laid their ears back and hissed at him as he approached, but a single growl from Mrr’shan was enough to bring them to submission. “Who was she?” he asked as Garibaldi warily began to examine the nearest readouts connected to the twin power cores.

“She came to the Void Hunters thirty standard years ago,” Mrr’shan explained, just as Middleton had surmised she would, “and she gave us the means not only to defend ourselves, but to survive whatever conflict came our way. She told us to await the Great Clash, and that once it came we should lend tooth and claw to it. She was a prophetess,” she said reverently, “and she was our beloved, Untouched Mother, who will forever be a part of us after giving of herself the most cherished thing a mother can give: the gift of life itself! I am proud to claim motherhood to two hundred and eight of the unborn currently growing in the Great Womb, and I expect that number to rise following our great victory here in Mercy’s End.”

“How do you select your…” Middleton searched for the right word before finally settling on the first one, “mates?”

Mrr’shan purred, “The most valiant and ruthless of the hunt packs petition to join their genes with others of equal or higher stature. As Void Hunter Matriarch, mine is the most pursued lineage in the entire fleet. I have an entire team of my Clan sisters who process the initial requests on my behalf, but I personally inspect each application prior to consummation.”

Middleton thought he understood, “So those who died in their hunt packs still have a chance to breed with the most desirable partners…which gives them the equivalent of an afterlife incentive. It’s a system that has elements of religion, economics and basic sociology without ever deviating from natural realities. I’ve got to admit,” he grudged, “I’m impressed.”

“We thank the Great Mother thrice daily for her many gifts to us,” Mrr’shan said reverently, blinking her eyes in rapid succession as she looked at the dual power cores in turn.

“It’s a match, Cap,” Mikey reported after reviewing a second station attached to the power cores. “The wave forms, the outputs, the gravity fluctuations—everything is a perfect match except those conduits, which obviously aren’t Imperial but they’re also unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“How much do you estimate those reactors have left?” Middleton asked.

“Not a lot,” Garibaldi said sourly, “by my read they’re somewhere between fifteen and twenty percent capacity.”

“You can divine the Roar’s remaining strength?” Mrr’shan asked skeptically.

“I think so,” Garibaldi said confidently, slicing a look Middleton’s way, “we’ve seen this type of setup before.”

Mrr’shan seemed ready to object to his assertion, but shook her head dismissively, “Perhaps now you understand more about my people, Captain Middleton?”

“I think I do, Mrr’shan,” Middleton nodded slowly. “And after seeing what I’ve seen, and hearing what I’ve heard, I think it’s time I made a proposal to you in the interests of the AG Fleet’s long-term interests—as well as those of the Void Hunter Clans. It’s regarding the upcoming negotiations, and it’s an offer I only want to make to you—but it’s also one I can’t accept ‘no’ for an answer to.”

Mrr’shan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as her tail flicked left and right, “What is this proposal?”

“First we need to agree to a few things,” Middleton said firmly, “chief among them being the ethical treatment of your young during their birthing and…rearing. My offer,” he held up a forestalling hand, “whether you accept or refuse, will have zero impact on the Void Hunters’ current standing within the AG going forward. This is a separate matter pertaining to military hardware—more specifically, pertaining to the eventual upgrade of certain military hardware. In spite of my initial reservations, your people have been exemplary members of the reformed AG. I need to assure you in the strongest possible terms that you will retain absolute autonomy over every facet of your society. This offer, however, will inexorably intertwine the interests of the Void Hunters with those of the Prichtac, and Prichtac herself has authorized me to make these overtures on the Host’s behalf. As such, there are certain…concessions she—and I—will require before entering into such an intimate arrangement.”

Mrr’shan purred loudly enough to rattle Middleton’s chest, “Describe your terms, Captain Middleton, and I will give you our answer.”

Chapter XLI: Striking Accord

“We are confident these counterproposals will be ratified at the confirmation vote,” Chancellor Foles agreed after spending several hours reviewing the paperwork which Middleton and Chairman Lewis had worked with the other AG leaders to craft. The Chairman had been unable to attend this particular meeting, which was more than slightly concerning to Middleton but he knew he needed to press forward and finish this particular deal. “The initial polling data we have received shows uncharacteristic unity across Mercy’s End’s population: our people want to join the Alliance Gorgonus, Supreme Commander. We foresee no insurmountable obstacles on the path to ratifying the entirety of this agreement,” she tapped the data slate deliberately.

“Good,” Middleton said with muted relief, “then I suggest you grant permission to the League’s industrial sector to take up residence around the fourth and fifth planets of your star system so they can begin mining the most easily-accessible mineral assets. Also, the League’s civilian population has expressed significant interest in pursuing migration to your second planet,” he said with a deferential nod to Commodore Cartwright. “In the Chairman’s absence, I understand that the Commodore will represent their interests?”

“On an interim basis,” President Chow said before Cartwright could reply, eliciting a brief but annoyed look from the Commodore. “We have every confidence that the Chairman will resume her duties presently, and trust the Commodore to act in the best interests of the entire League in her brief absence.”

Middleton briefly ground his teeth before forcing a neutral expression, “We wish the Chairman a speedy recovery. Commodore, would you care to conduct the initial negotiations on the League’s behalf?”

“I think I’ve been sufficiently briefed,” Cartwright nodded after a pointed pause to wait for another interruption from Chow—which, thankfully, never came.

“Then I’m adjourning this particular meeting,” Middleton nodded as he stood from the table, prompting all the other attendees—again, except for the Stalwart Commander—to rise as he did so, “and all interested parties can remain to engage in the first round of immigration discussions—which is clearly a non-military matter, so I see no compelling reason for my participation.”

Middleton made his way to the door as the attendees resumed their seats. He had barely taken three steps down the corridor before a woman’s voice called behind him, “Supreme Commander, a word?”

He turned to see President Rosalind Chow closing the door to the conference room behind her, and he cocked an eyebrow in surprise, “You aren’t interested in the immigration discussion?”

She waved a hand dismissively, “My people are briefed on the needs of our constituents; they can handle the opening round of negotiations without me. Is there somewhere private we could speak?” she asked, and Middleton got the distinct impression she thought he was a fly and she the spider.

The problem was that in political terms, Middleton was convinced that particular analogy might not be wholly inaccurate.

“Of course,” Middleton gestured to a nearby compartment which had previously served as Kratos’ berth.

Once inside, Chow closed the door and turned to face Middleton intently. “Chairman Lewis is dying,” she said bluntly. “Her health took a turn for the worse yesterday and, as the most influential member of the League, I think it only appropriate that any prior arrangements you had with the Chairman be extended to me in the event of her death.”

“She’s still alive?” Middleton asked evenly, careful not to let his countenance betray his emotions.

“Of course,” Chow waved a hand irritably, “but she’s an old woman and won’t be with us much longer. We need to think about the future, not the past. The Chairman did a great service to the League by bringing us together and, in our more heated moments,” she allowed, though Middleton could not determine whether or not her deferential manner was merely an act or genuine, “she kept us together. But it’s time for us to move past all of that, Supreme Commander,” she insisted. “It’s time we focus on the future of not just the League, but the entire Alliance Gorgonus.”

Middleton arched a brow, “You don’t think the AG’s future is stronger now than it has been in years—if not ever?”

“You’re at a crossroads,” she said forcefully while jerking her thumb over her shoulder, “and when the dust settles not everyone sitting at that table back there is going to stay the course. My people are committed,” she said flatly, “they’ve been given the opportunity to put down roots and many of them will do so regardless of the dangers. As their President it’s my job to facilitate their collective will, which is why I’m coming to you with this information.”

“What information?” Middleton asked, suspecting she was about to broach the subject of the Stalwart.

“It’s the Stalwart,” she confirmed his suspicions, “my people have been dealing with them privately for quite some time. They provide military hardware and we provide other supplies—supplies like solar collectors, mini-factories, protein sequencers…” she said leadingly.

Middleton drew a breath and exhaled slowly, “You think they’re preparing for a break with the AG?”

“Not all of them, according to my sources,” she allowed, “but at least half of them are, yes. They’re dissatisfied with your leadership, they’re sick of fighting, and some are even ready to renounce their oath to the Prichtac if they won’t be honorably released from it. They think their obligation to the AG has been more than fulfilled and they’re tired of fighting for a cause they don’t believe in.”

“So they’re biding their time waiting for the salvage to be divided up,” Middleton mused, having already arrived at this particular conclusion a week or so earlier. “After that, they’re going to take their leave of the AG.”

“Again,” she reiterated, “not all of them—possibly not even half of them—but that Commander of theirs is going to be leading the exodus. He’s got a lot a pull in their community, and even those who stick with the AG are going to take a hit to morale.”

“Why the sudden change, President Chow?” Middleton asked bluntly. “Why are you looking to help me now when you’ve fought me nearly every step of the way to this point?”

“You won, Middleton,” she said with equal bluntness. “I didn’t think you would, and I thought it was irresponsible for my people to follow you into a suicidal battle—or worse, one that brought a potentially genocidal retaliation from the Empire—but you won and public opinion took a hard turn in your favor. Again,” she said, knifing her hand through the air emphatically, “it’s my job to manifest the will of my people, not to tell them what to think. I made my argument and I lost in the court of public opinion.”

“So you’re looking to regain approval with your voters,” Middleton mused, knowing that her people were scheduled to hold a vote in nine months’ time to elect their President—an election campaign which Chow was eligible to join in a bid for re-election to her current post.

“I’m not offering my submission or subjugation, Middleton,” she said stiffly. “I’m offering to work with you to keep as much of this Alliance together as possible. If the Stalwart break ranks, what’s to stop the felines from doing the same? We can’t afford to lose their ships or their crews, no matter how…distasteful the prospect of working with them may be for us. There’s no turning back now—you’ve committed us to this course,” she drew herself up and proffered her hand. “I’m offering a chance to start anew with you so we can work together to protect those who depend on us. What do you say?”

Middleton was nowhere near vain enough to think he could play this particular game at her level, but he knew without a single doubt in his mind that he would need her support to keep the League engaged with the AG. Without the League, his fleet would lose a third—or more, depending on how the salvage negotiations shook out—of its tactical value. And nine months was a long, long time in Middleton’s book. A working relationship with Chow, assuming the Chairman was indeed nearing the end of her life, would enable a smoother transition to whatever new power structure took hold of the SLL.

He knew this was one of the moments in his life that he could look back on and regret, but the way he saw it he had no real choice. Politics was about compromise, and he had no doubt he would soon be engaged in far more compromises—ostensibly reached to find that much-maligned ‘middle ground’ which Middleton had repudiated for most of his adult life—in the coming months.

But he could see no other way through this particular path than by taking the middle road she offered, so he took her hand in his own and nodded, “I look forward to working with you, President Chow.”

She nodded curtly after shaking his hand and tilted her head toward the door, “I should rejoin the immigration discussion.”

She left the room and Middleton exhaled, hoping he had not just signed a deal with the demon.

Then he resolved to meet with the ailing Chairman Lewis, whose help had been instrumental to his successes to date. Without her, he seriously doubted he could keep the AG on the same course which had brought it here.

“I apologize for not rising, Captain Middleton,” Lewis greeted after Middleton entered the medical suite where she lay, “but it seems my time was shorter than I anticipated.”

“What happened?” Middleton asked grimly.

“The official diagnosis,” the elderly Lewis replied in an easy tone which belied her intent gaze, “is age-related kidney failure coupled with an unexpected flare-up of an old ailment I first suffered as a child. Unofficially,” she lowered her voice, “I am convinced my end is anything but natural.”

“Who?” Middleton pressed.

“Does it matter?” she asked archly. “Let’s suppose your prime suspect was indeed the perpetrator: what then? Would you exact judgment and retribution even if doing so costs you—costs us—the Alliance?”

“Maybe…” Middleton said steadily, but he was no fool. He knew that the coming days presented their only real chance to keep the Alliance together; if it sundered now then the Empire would sweep through the Gorgon Sectors unopposed. “But probably not,” he finally admitted, seating himself on the chair at her bedside.

“Then what is served by further inquiry?” she asked simply. “My time was near its end in any case. Hundreds have died—and thousands will yet die—to safeguard their freedom and the freedoms of those they cared for since the League was formed. How is my death any different from a soldier’s, a pilot’s, or an engineer’s during battle? And how is my death’s author relevant to the larger picture—a picture which you and I have worked together to protect?”

“I can’t believe that none of it matters,” Middleton shook his head adamantly.

“Perhaps it does matter,” she shrugged before coughing for several seconds. The weak, wet sounds issuing from her throat were completely unfamiliar to Middleton, but even he recognized them as harbingers of the inevitable. After she regained control of her breathing, a nurse came in to offer her a sip of bluish liquid. Lewis refused it and drew a steadying breath, “But I know your mind, Captain. You must not let trivialities like an old woman’s death keep you from doing what you must do.”

“And what is it you think I must do?”

She flashed that ageless, commanding smile which he had come to admire in the short time he’d known her, “You must fight, Middleton—and you must win. People like us,” she gestured weakly between the two of them, “cannot afford the luxury of consciences—even more, we do not deserve them. Don’t let pettiness and infighting come between you and victory. If you wish to dispense justice for my death,” she fixed him with a thousand-meter-stare, “then win this war, and do so without regard for the price you will most certainly pay for carrying the burden of command when no one else would dare.”

She held up her hand invitingly, and even Middleton was touched by the woman’s intensity which easily shone through her haggard and beleaguered appearance. “All right,” he nodded, clasping her hand firmly, “I’ll win.”

“Good,” she gave a weak squeeze before releasing his grip, “now go, and let me die as I have lived: alone with my demons who, after a lifetime of frustration, it seems will finally have their way with what is left of me.”

Middleton stood and made for the door, stopping at the portal before turning and saying, “It’s been an honor, Chairman.”

She gave no reply as he opened the door and made his way back to the shuttle bay with renewed purpose and resolve.

It seemed the first price he would pay for victory is the abandonment of a lifelong principle which had played no small role in guiding him through the past several years of chaos:

He could no longer afford to take the high road as he had done in the past by refusing to negotiate with people who were clearly his enemies. But he could not permit those with whom he trafficked to take the low road, as the Stalwart had done when deploying WMD’s against the Imperial citizens of Home.

It seemed that, like the fabled Goldilocks, Middleton was now in search of the elusive middle road—or the middle ground, as he had previously described it in the conversation with Captain Fitzgerald back in the Spineward Sectors.

If he could not find such a middle road on which to lead the Alliance Gorgonus, victory would be impossible—and he had come too far to give up at the precipice of success.

Middleton still had work to do, and with so many depending on him to preserve their freedom he would stop at nothing to finish his task.

“We find these terms acceptable,” President Chow agreed several days later, after the League, the Void Hunters and the Stalwart had all taken the opportunity to review and approve the general terms of the salvage negotiations.

“Good,” Chancellor Foles nodded, “we’ll have the documents provided via secure couriers in the next twelve hours. By this time tomorrow, the agreement will be complete and the salvage operation can commence in earnest.”

“Which brings us to the matter of distributing the salvage equitably,” Middleton clasped his hands and leaned his forearms against the conference table, “since all involved parties have agreed to the general terms of valuation, I propose that formal negotiations begin at once.”

“We agree,” President Chow affirmed. “The sooner we divide up the salvage, the faster we can get to work on repairs.”

“We have arranged for joint negotiations to take place in our capitol,” Chancellor Foles said, and frankly Middleton was glad to have these proceedings transferred to a location that wasn’t aboard the Prejudice. “But we have already reached preliminary agreements with the Void Hunters and the League representatives; we invite the Stalwart and Prichtac representatives to join those proceedings in the interests of expediency and transparency.”

“We are content to vest Our negotiating authority into the Supreme Commander,” Prichtac said. “His actions thus far have well-served the Host and We see no reason to rescind the authority We have previously invested him with.”

“Very well,” the Chancellor sounded slightly put off, “and what of the Stalwart?”

“I must speak privately with the Prichtac and the Supreme Commander before joining the negotiations,” the Stalwart Commander rumbled.

“Very well,” Chancellor Foles allowed after a brief silence as she stood from her chair, “the open negotiations will commence on our planet in thirty two hours.”

“Good,” Middleton nodded, standing and clasping the hands of the soon-to-depart representatives, “I expect to be in attendance at the negotiations’ outset.”

The representatives quickly filed out of the room, leaving the Stalwart Commander, Prichtac, and Captain Middleton in the room. Once the door closed, the Stalwart Commander spoke in a deep, inflexible tone, “The Stalwart can no longer contribute to the Alliance Gorgonus.”

Middleton had expected this moment would come, but he still felt unnerved by the prospect of the aptly-named Stalwart withdrawing from the Alliance Gorgonus.

“What can I do to change your mind?” Middleton asked levelly.

“Nothing,” the Commander replied flatly. “We have fulfilled our Oath to the Prichtac,” he said, nodding to the lone remaining member of the Host, “and ask to be released.”

“You already said your people can no longer contribute,” Middleton said with a hard edge to his voice, “so what difference does it make if Prichtac releases you from your Oath? It sounds like you’ve already made your mind up to abandon your sworn duty.”

“This does not concern you, human,” the Commander growled.

“You’re not really that stupid, are you?” Middleton retorted, causing the Commander’s chest to swell with indignation. “The Stalwarts’ withdrawal from the Alliance Gorgonus would be a huge blow to our fighting strength. By abandoning us you’re condemning the people who fought alongside you in these last battles—battles in which the Stalwart were not alone in expending blood and treasure to win,” he added sharply.

“We will gladly continue to uphold our Oath,” the Commander deliberately ignored Middleton while focusing on Prichtac, “but we can no longer serve under this…Supreme Commander. Our Oath was to protect the Prichtac, but Captain Middleton has used the Host as leverage to gain control over the rest of us. Come with us, Prichtac,” the Commander pleaded. “We would never abandon you.”

“Isn’t that precisely what you just said you were ready to do?” Middleton fired back.

“STAY OUT OF THIS, HUMAN!” the Commander roared, throwing the table nearly a meter as he leapt to his feet and assumed a menacing stance.

“No!” Middleton yelled. “If you’re going to abandon your duty, then have the dignity not to ask permission from the people who have suffered and died alongside you—people you intend to turn your back on when they need you most!”

The Commander took several menacing steps on his hands and feet until he stood less than a foot from Middleton—who refused to back down even in the face of the massive uplift.

“You will lead this Alliance to its doom,” the Commander growled, his hot, rancid breath washing over Middleton’s face as he spoke. “We have already suffered more than anyone else in the Alliance Gorgonus; it is time for us to heal our wounds.”

“And what about the people who won’t go with you?” Middleton moved forward until his nose actually touched the Commander’s. “What you’re asking is for us to sanction your abandonment of the Alliance—which we can’t do. If you want to leave, then go. The real Stalwart will remain behind and you, like those before you, will become Oathbreakers—you will be like the Sundered,” he said with icy disdain. “I’ve seen what happened to them, Commander…” he said grimly, “and it’s not something I would wish for anyone—not even my mortal enemies.”

The Commander made to reply, but Prichtac’s artificial voice cut him off, “We will permit those who wish to renounce their Oath to Us to do so without fear of persecution, but the Host is unconvinced by the Commander’s argument. Captain Middleton has performed his role better than any predecessor—including the Stalwart Commander,” she added emphatically, which caused the Commander’s spine to stiffen. “But We cannot endorse the sundering of the Alliance Gorgonus at this fragile moment. Those Stalwart who wish to remain will be regarded by Us as Stalwart; those who renounce the Oath—an Oath with reciprocal arrangements to which the Host remains committed—will be known to the Host as the Sundered who left before them.”

The Commander seemed unsurprised, but there was a pleading note in his deep, rumbling voice as he asked, “Is that the Host’s final position?”

“It is,” Prichtac replied sadly. “We have just transmitted Our will to the Stalwart on local comm. frequencies,” she waved the translator, “and have received verification of receipt by the Stalwart crews aboard Our warships. They have forwarded Our will to the rest of the Stalwart; We anticipate a prompt decision.”

The Commander glowered at Middleton for several long, tense seconds before moving toward the door, “Then consider my Oath the first of many to be renounced.”

“Your decision saddens Us,” Prichtac said solemnly, “but We understand the nature of your dilemma.”

“Don’t do this, Commander,” Middleton said pleadingly, stepping forward and splaying his hands. “Don’t abandon the Alliance when we’re so close to achieving our goals.”

“They are not our goals, Captain,” the Commander growled, “and it is already done.”

With that, the Commander left the conference room and Middleton stood in silence for a long while. Eventually, Prichtac’s synthesized voice broke him from his reverie, “This was a predictable outcome, Captain Middleton. It is not your fault.”

“If not mine, then whose is it?” he retorted more harshly than Prichtac deserved.

“This is the nature of hierarchical social arrangements,” she said serenely. “The Stalwart have been strong allies of the Host in the past, but We knew this outcome was inevitable.”

Middleton sat in the seat previously used by Chancellor Foles and rubbed his eyes wearily. “They’re going to take between an eighth and a quarter of the fleet with them, Prichtac.”

“You could, of course,” she said with chilling calm, “kill the Commander and exert social dominance over his people. As Supreme Military Commander, you could invoke one of several military regulations already adopted by the Alliance Gorgonus—“

“I thought of that,” he interrupted darkly, “but if this alliance is going to stand then it can’t be built on authority alone. We won a major victory here, Prichtac,” he explained, “but it won’t mean anything if we can’t win another…and another…and another after that.”

“The fracturing of the still-reforming Alliance Gorgonus at this early stage decreases its chances of successfully repelling the Empire of Man,” Prichtac countered.

“I can’t do it,” Middleton shook his head in negation. “I’ve brushed up too close to that line—and I’ve even crossed it more times than I’d care to remember. I won’t let the ends dictate the means, and I won’t force people to stay when they would rather go. The Stalwart stood tall against the Empire several times,” he said, standing and straightening his jacket, “and for that they need to be respected. I can’t act against their will; I can only plead my case.”

“You are the Supreme Military Commander,” Prichtac said deferentially. Before Middleton could reply, his com-link chimed.

“Middleton, go,” he said after seeing Hephaestion was on the other end of the line.

“Captain, the Deathbacker launched from the hangar shortly after the Commander’s shuttle departed,” Hephaestion explained. “It appears that Toto was aboard the Deathbacker, sir.”

“He’s not authorized to leave the ship,” Middleton snapped, opening the door and making his way to the bridge. “Recall him immediately.”

“He is not responding to my hails, sir,” Hephaestion said, and a few seconds later Middleton entered the Prejudice’s bridge. “He appears to have overridden the shuttle’s automated lockouts and is pursuing the Commander’s shuttle.”

“Blast it, Toto,” Middleton growled. The last thing he needed was a galvanizing incident involving the Commander and Toto—who had warned that the Commander would likely kill him if he learned of his presence. “Keep trying to raise him,” Middleton snapped.

“Yes sir,” Hephaestion replied perfunctorily, but Middleton knew that if Toto had ignored the earlier hails there was no reason to expect him to acknowledge any in the future. He clearly had a reason for taking the shuttle, and Middleton suspected it involved a fatal confrontation with the Stalwart Commander.

The two shuttles slid inside the Commander’s hangar bay aboard the Glorious Burden, which was able to move under its own power but still had major structural damage to be dealt with.

“What is he doing?” Middleton growled.

“I am receiving a broadband transmission from the Deathbacker,” Hephaestion said.

“Put it on the second screen,” Middleton commanded, and soon a split-screen display appeared. One of the images was clearly from the nose-mounted pickup on the Deathbacker, and the other was just as clearly a direct feed of Toto’s visual cortex.

“This is folly,” Toto growled at the Commander as a pair of Stalwart restrained him. “Do not lead our people this way!”

“Our people?!” the Commander bellowed. “I knew of your presence, coward, and did nothing to satisfy the honor of the Stalwart even though I should have done to your body what you did to our world: Sundered it! I thought that by cooperating with your Captain I could reason with him, but he is an unreasonable human. I was wrong—I should have killed you,” he growled, stepping toward the restrained Toto who defiantly stood his ground while guards restrained each of his arms. “Perhaps it was your cowardice which infected the ‘Supreme Commander’s thoughts? Perhaps it is you who is responsible for the deaths of my Stalwart brothers and sisters!”

“You know nothing,” Toto snarled. “When we became Sundered, we suffered. Our young died during Exodus, our olds took their own lives to protect the young from starving, and the rest watched as Sundered were ground to dust one by one.”

“It is the fate you deserved for your cowardice,” the Commander sneered.

“If we were cowards, what are you?!” Toto challenged, and the Commander’s nostrils flared dangerously as he bared his teeth. “If we made cowardly mistake in becoming Sundered, you are not only coward—you are fool for making same mistake!”

“Our obligation is ended,” the Commander spat. “Return to your master before you are also ended.”

“I have nothing,” Toto roared, “nothing! My wives dead, my family gone, and my people now make same mistake which destroyed so many Sundered.”

“We are not your people, Sundered—“ the Commander began haughtily.

“Prove it!” Toto cut him off. “Make different choice from Sundered or you are Sundered.”

The Commander glared at Toto, who was nearly a head shorter than the towering leader of the Stalwart. He then peeled his lips back from his teeth, “Release him. He wishes death, and he will now receive his wish.”

The guards flanking Toto released him, and the silver-backed uplift’s cybernetic implants flashed with unusual frequency and intensity. “Turn back, Commander,” Toto growled. “Do not make our mistake.”

Middleton watched as the Stalwart Commander removed his sidearm and handed it to one of the nearby guards. “You dishonor us with your presence, Sundered,” he sneered before thumping his chest in rapid succession, “you will now pay for your insult.”

Toto leapt forward as the Commander did likewise, and Middleton watched helplessly as the larger, heavier Commander quickly gained the advantage of Toto and hurled him into a nearby bulkhead. Toto’s head snapped back into the bulkhead, but he managed to defend himself from the Commander’s sledgehammer-like fists as they swiped the air where Toto’s cybernetically-enhanced head had been an instant earlier.

Toto lashed out with his feet, pushing the Commander back nearly a meter with his stocky lower half. But the Commander was enraged, and launched himself at Toto with a frightening display of speed and power. He buried his knee into Toto’s gut before raining several powerful blows down on Toto’s partially-metal head.

Toto thundered a pair of hooks into the Commander’s ribs, prompting the Commander to grab Toto’s left arm with his right foot. His grip was short-lived, but it was enough to send a cracking right hand into Toto’s cheek—a blow which briefly robbed Toto, and his POV visual feed, of any coherent imagery.

Middleton watched on the Deathbacker’s nose-cam as the Commander thundered blow after blow into Toto’s head, with the noticeably smaller silverback unable to effectively defend himself for eight consecutive strikes.

Thumping his chest victoriously, the Commander grabbed Toto’s arm with both hands and slammed his knee into Toto’s elbow. The joint gave out with a stomach-turning crack, but Toto never cried out as he reached around with his good arm and grabbed the Commander by the hips. He somehow managed to lift the Commander from the ground before driving him into a nearby metal crate, opening a large gash across the Commander’s back as he did so.

The Commander bellowed in anger and grabbed Toto’s head with both hands, slamming his own forehead into Toto’s reinforced skull four times before dropping the older Sundered to the floor.

Toto’s vision had returned, judging from the visual feeds, but it was clear from his uncoordinated movements that he was badly wounded.

“Now you die, traitor,” the Commander snarled, raising his fists high above his head.

“If my death saves Stalwart lives,” Toto spat defiantly as blood gushed from his nose and mouth, “then kill me!”

The Commander raised his fists another few inches, and Middleton winced in preparation for the killing blow. Then one of the Commander’s guards barked something from off-pickup, and the Commander paused mid-motion.

One of the guards approached the Commander and pointed toward the Deathbacker’s nose-cam, which caused the Commander’s brow to lower thunderously as he looked down at the fallen Toto.

“You are a fool,” the Commander seethed after realizing that the fight had been broadcast throughout the fleet. “You have only killed Stalwart today, and I will not do you the honor of taking your life. Live with your shame, Sundered,” he spat, turning to his guards. “Put him on his shuttle and eject it from my hold. He is now dead to us, as are all other traitors.”

Middleton watched as the guards dragged Toto’s limp form onto the Deathbacker, and a few minutes later the craft was ejected from the Burden’s hold.

“Mikey,” Middleton called over the link, “I need you at the helm. We’ve got to retrieve—“

“Captain,” Hephaestion said in alarm, “several Stalwart ships are moving toward the Glorious Burden. They are charging their emitters and their power plants are going to combat output.”

“Battle stations,” Middleton snapped. “Chief, I need you at the Helm—now!”

At its present range the Prejudice would be an easy target for the Glorious Burden alone, forgetting about the dozen warships which now moved to flank it.

Mikey jogged onto the bridge and quickly sat down at the Helm as he asked, “What’s the situation?”

“Toto followed the Stalwart Commander over to the Burden,” Middleton explained, “and he broadcast the ‘exchange’ over the hailing frequencies.”

“Is he alive?” Garibaldi asked as the Prejudice’s engines flared to life.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Middleton said as he scanned the tactical feeds. “Put some distance between us and the—“

“Captain,” Hephaestion interrupted, “I am picking up comm. chatter between the Stalwart ships…they seem to be arguing.”

“Arguing,” Middleton repeated, “about what?”

“The channels are full of competing transmissions,” Hephaestion said dubiously, “I cannot determine specifics yet, but it seems several of the Stalwart ship commanders are challenging the Commander’s authority.”

Middleton piped into the comm. traffic feeds and saw the translated messages streaming across the void between the converging Stalwart warships. He read through six different exchanges before realizing what was happening. “Toto seems to have convinced some of them to stay with the Alliance,” he said, deciding that what was needed in this exact moment was a show of solidarity with these ‘true’ Stalwart. “Mikey, take the Prejudice in to retrieve the Deathbacker. Move at one eighth acceleration only; keep our posture neutral but don’t delay in reaching Toto.”

“You got it,” Mikey acknowledged, and the Prejudice quickly slid to the shuttle’s position—where eight Prichtac-built warships had congregated in an unexpected display of solidarity with Toto.

“The Burden is falling back,” Hephaestion reported, “along with four Destroyers and four Corvettes. Three Cruisers are also moving to support the Commander’s flag.”

“We can’t let this escalate,” Middleton growled, switching to the hangar channel, “Chan, can you retrieve the Deathbacker in the next thirty seconds?”

“Yes sir,” Julian acknowledged.

“Do it,” Middleton instructed. He turned to Hephaestion, “Put me on the hailing frequencies—full power to the transmitter. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“You’re on, Captain,” Hephaestion said a few seconds later.

“This is Supreme Commander Middleton to the Stalwart Commander,” he said as the Void Hunter warships several light seconds away began to stir anxiously. “There is no need for hostility in this star system. Power down your reactors and withdraw to beyond weapons range and we can discuss this after tempers have cooled.”

The Commander’s massive, scarred face filled the secondary viewer, “You and your people have condemned too many of us already, Captain Middleton. I will not stand by while you convince more of my brothers and sisters to sacrifice their lives for a cause which is not their own. They deserve better than that—and I will give it to them.”

“I trust each and every Stalwart in this star system to make the right decision for his or herself, Commander,” Middleton said firmly. “Whatever that decision may be, I will respect it—but I will not respect acts of aggression or intimidation which are clearly intended to coerce compliance from people who would choose dissent. Stand down and let your people decide for themselves,” he said, gritting his teeth as he finished, “or, Murphy help me, I will end you.”

The Commander’s nostrils flared murderously, “Your bold words will be of little comfort when you lead my brothers and sisters to their deaths, Captain.”

His image disappeared from the screen, and Middleton soon saw the two Stalwart Factions clarify on the tactical plotter. It seemed that the Commander’s faction had one Battleship, the Glorious Burden; four Cruisers of Prichtac make; four Destroyers, also of Prichtac design; and six mixed Corvettes in all.

But those ships eventually retreated to a standoff position, and the cross-chatter slowly subsided on the local comm. channels.

“Set Condition Two throughout the ship—and the fleet,” Middleton ordered, “and raise the Chancellor on a secure channel. I want to get those Stalwart out of this star system as soon as possible, and if that means making minor concessions on the salvage front then so be it.” He ground his teeth while glaring at the fifteen warships which seemed determined to leave the Alliance Gorgonus fleet, “The longer they stay here, the worse things will go—for all of us.”

“We find this acceptable,” Prichtac agreed after reviewing the Stalwart Commander’s proposed salvage exchange.

Middleton agreed; in fact, the Commander had been eminently reasonable in his requests for fair compensation. With almost exactly half of the Stalwart crew and ships which were still space-worthy, establishing his negotiating position was simple when consulting to the mutually agreed upon exchange rates for salvage claims.

Essentially, each contributing nation who had participated in the battles for Mercy’s End had earned a portion of the salvage rights. The Stalwart Commander seemed content to keep most of his ships, but it was not difficult for Middleton to convince the Void Hunters to exchange one of their captured Imperial Cruisers for all six of the Stalwart Corvettes and one of their Destroyers, provided a separate exchange took place for the eight gunships which the Stalwart Commander had not managed to wrest in the initial schism.

So the Commander was taking all twenty one gunships, the Battleship Glorious Burden, four Cruisers of Prichtac design, four Destroyers of Prichtac design, and one Cruiser of Imperial make.

The truth was that the Stalwart Commander had convinced the majority of the working capital ships’ commanders to join his cause while largely eschewing those ships whose commanders were incapable of joining him in his exodus. Along with the gunships, Middleton calculated this new ‘Stalwart’ Fleet had nearly fifty percent greater tactical value than the one which had contributed to the battle with Commodore Paganini’s task force, with the bulk of the increase represented by the Glorious Burden.

The main sticking point had been the Prichtac’s release of the Glorious Burden, which at this particular moment was the only functional Battleship in the entire star system. But once she had agreed to that term, the rest of the deal fell into place in less than an hour. The Stalwart could have opted to exchange their relatively undamaged hulls for a greater number of damaged ones, but everyone involved in the negotiations understood that there was little chance they could make effective repairs to so many warships without access to proper infrastructure—infrastructure like that which was currently being built by the League’s Constructor in orbit of the fourth planet.

Several hours after the initially tense standoff, and without a single word transmitted over the hails, the Stalwart fleet departed the star system as soon as they had exchanged the ships as they had agreed to do.

When the last Stalwart ship point transferred out, Middleton knew he had lost something important—a battle, a mandate, or possibly even a relatively inconsequential piece of himself. But try as he might, he could find no fault with any of his decisions along the way. He had known the Stalwart situation was a ticking time bomb, and he had done everything in his power to appease the increasingly belligerent Commander without surrendering the authority of his office.

“Get me Mrr’shan on a secure line,” he said, “and let’s see if the Stalwart who stayed with the Fleet have a chain of command worked out. The last thing we need is more infighting right now.”

All told, the Commander’s exodus had cost the AG Fleet less than Middleton had feared it would—but that didn’t mean he liked it.

He supposed that was the mark of a good deal: when everyone involved felt dissatisfied with the outcome, it had to have been close to fair. And right now Middleton was definitely dissatisfied.

Chapter XLII: The Prodigal Son Returns

“Hyper footprints detected, Captain,” Hephaestion reported precisely on schedule. The Unthreadable Needle had made contact with the Cutters assigned to the rendezvous point, and Kongming’s report had suggested his efforts met with categorical success.

“I’m reading thirty footprints,” Middleton scanned the plotter, “including the Needle, a dozen Corvettes belonging to the Belters…and a Constructor?” he finished in surprise.

“There are also four large freighters and what appears to be a mobile gas harvester among them, Captain,” Hephaestion said in surprise. “The rest of the ships appear to be modular habitats clustered around large jump drives—there seem to be enough habitats present to house over fifty thousand people, Captain.”

“Well done, Kongming,” Middleton muttered approvingly. “These EOC ships represent a thirty percent increase to the industrial sector in this star system, and their warships are a welcome addition as well. Send the standard handshake greetings and, if they check out, coordinate with the Needle. I want Kongming transferred back to this ship ASAP for a debriefing.”

“Captain Middleton,” Kongming greeted with his customary bow, and to Middleton’s eye the young man looked significantly refreshed compared to when he had embarked on the Unthreadable Needle. “I have heard of your great victory here in Mercy’s End. I regret that I was unable to contribute to the effort.”

“Your contributions were no less important,” Middleton assured him as he clasped the young man’s hand. “You brought enough mobile infrastructure back with you to speed up our repair schedule by three months; we might actually be able to get all of these hulls back online before the Empire returns.”

“I cannot claim credit for the EOC’s eagerness to rejoin the AG, Captain,” Kongming said seriously, “it seems that something had them sufficiently anxious to contemplate evacuation of their former home even before we arrived with our offer.”

Middleton nodded, “I read that in your report. What I didn’t read is what happened to Kratos, Abyss, and the Crafter.”

Middleton had expected Kongming to hesitate, or display some degree of uncertainty—possibly even remorse—over whatever it was that happened to the three specifically-requested members of the Unthreadable Needle’s crew. When Kongming had suggested that their inclusion was somehow necessary to his mission’s success, Middleton had been put in a difficult position. Too many plans had been put in motion to deny Kongming’s request, especially since such a denial would have potentially undermined the young man’s ability to complete his other assigned tasks. But now Middleton needed answers regarding the young man’s cryptic statements prior to embarking on his mission.

Instead of hesitation, uncertainty, or remorse, Kongming’s visage hardened as he said, “I am fully convinced that they filled their roles in this conflict, Captain, and that they were only able to do so because you granted my request that they accompany the Needle on its mission.”

“I expect you have some details to back up those assertions?” Middleton challenged, uncertain whether he liked this newfound confidence in Kongming.

“I do,” Kongming nodded gravely, “but I expect you would be well-served to assume a seated position before I reveal them—and that such a revelation should take place in private.”

Middleton narrowed his eyes before gesturing toward the conference room, “After you.”

“That is everything, Captain,” Kongming finished after describing every single event which took place during his deployment aboard the Unthreadable Needle. He left absolutely nothing out, even going so far as to replay every message left by the Crafter after describing the ‘Eye’ in excruciating detail. He even did his best to recall the conversations which had taken place between himself and the Seer, though those conversations had surprisingly faded with the passage of time.

Captain Middleton drummed his fingers on the conference table for several long, silent seconds before finally speaking, “Your story is…incredible, Kongming.”

“I am aware of that, sir,” Kongming agreed. “I am also aware that certain details will likely require significant contemplation on your part before they are of any practical value.”

“This ‘Eye’,” Middleton said, gesturing to the sensor logs taken from the Needle’s databanks, “who built it?”

“I do not know,” Kongming shook his head. “But I do know that it was there even before the so-called Masters—who we call the Ancients—ascended to power.”

“And you’re able to access it because you were, essentially, infected with this…neural tissue,” Middleton said deliberately.

“Yes,” Kongming nodded, knowing full well that this particular conversation might be the end of his service under Captain Middleton.

“And this somehow allows you to see the future?”

“No,” Kongming said before hesitating and amending, “perhaps. It is difficult to describe, Captain, but this ‘Sight’ as the Seer called it allows me to view pre-calculated threads of probability, much as a tactical simulator allows you to view pre-rendered scenarios after inputting a number of variables and conditions.”

Middleton nodded slowly, “And has this ‘Sight’ ever been wrong?”

“I have only employed it twice,” Kongming said grimly, “but neither of those instances has resulted in errors of which I am aware. As far as I can tell, it does not appear to have misrepresented what eventually took place.”

“And that’s why you left Abyss on this Bug Mothership, and why you let the Crafter go, and why you left Kratos to fend for himself on a frozen world which may—may,” he repeated emphatically, “have harbored iron age humans before it was bombed into nuclear winter?”

“It is,” Kongming nodded firmly, knowing precisely how insane all of this sounded. A year ago he would not have believed any of it himself, but after what he had seen he could no longer deny any of it. He only hoped that Captain Middleton proved as sagacious and broad-minded as he had always been.

Minutes passed in total silence as Captain Middleton kept his eyes fixed on Kongming, who felt no measure of discomfort from the expected—and completely justified—scrutiny.

“You might actually be insane, Kongming,” Middleton finally said.

“I am aware of that, sir,” Kongming replied grimly.

Middleton thumbed the data crystal containing the information Kongming had compiled for his perusal, “Do you think you’re insane?”

“I may be,” Kongming allowed, “but I cannot deny what I have seen, sir. I am also unable to deny the severity of our situation here. This entire region of space and everything in it seems balanced on a knife’s edge. On one side is an Imperial armada the likes of which has rarely—if ever—been assembled, and on the other is an unspeakably vast and…dark,” he said, the word sounding bitter as it passed his lips, “cloud of the unknown. We, and the other members of the AG, are caught between these titanic forces. I fear that when the balance between these forces is lost we will be at the mercy of the unknown.”

Middleton continued drumming his fingers contemplatively before saying, “You never make things easy, do you, Kongming?”

“In my experience, Captain Middleton,” Kongming said respectfully, “nothing worth doing is easy.”

“Well said,” Middleton grunted before grasping the data crystal in the palm of his hand. “It’s good to have you back aboard. Get some rest and we’ll talk further after I’ve gone over this report.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Kongming said graciously.

After Kongming left the conference room, Middleton shook his head in bewilderment. He had suspected Kongming was on the edge of his ability to cope with their situation, but it seemed he had vastly underestimated just how badly in over his head the young man had been.

The only thing that had changed between the Needle’s departure and its return was that now, after hearing Kongming’s story and reviewing the information he had provided, Middleton felt as though he too was nearing the end of his tether.

If Kongming’s information checked out—and he had no reason to think it would not—it would radically change the nature of Middleton’s efforts in the Gorgon Sectors.

“There are days I wish I’d taken up drinking,” Middleton grumbled before plugging the data crystal into the conference table’s secure terminal.

“I think we’ve reached an agreement,” Chancellor Foles declared after the multi-day summit to discuss the distribution of salvaged warships—as well as their repair schedule—finally reached its conclusion.

“The League is satisfied with the outcome of these proceedings,” President Chow said officiously.

“As are the Void Hunters,” Mrr’shan purred.

“Primarch?” Middleton turned to Primarch Nail, who had been elected by a moot to stand as the Stalwart representative.

“We are content,” Nail nodded.

“Good,” Middleton said, “then, on behalf of the Prichtac, and as the Supreme Military Commander of the Alliance Gorgonus, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your participation in these negotiations.” He turned to the Extra-Orbital Cooperative’s representative, Mr. Gauss, “How soon can your mobile yards be ready to accept hulls?”

“We’ll have the Corvette yard up in two weeks,” Gauss replied. “The Cruiser cradle will take two months after that.”

“It looks like you’ll have plenty of customers,” Middleton said approvingly before turning to President Chow, “When will the League’s repair operation be up and running?”

“Our Constructor will take two months to complete the flexible cradle required to service the three salvageable Imperial Battleships,” she replied. “We can have the first hull serviced and retrofitted forty days after that.”

“Good,” Middleton said in surprise. It seemed that President Chow was genuinely interested in getting off on the right foot; her initial estimates had put the cradle’s completion at three months and fifty days to refit the first hull. “Then I think it would be best if we went about our business.”

President Chow nodded agreeably before moving to mingle with the planetary delegates, at which point Middleton discretely pulled Primarch Nail off to the side. “Primarch,” Middleton greeted after they were out of earshot of the other representatives, “I have a proposal for you…”

Two hours later, Middleton was back aboard the Prejudice with Mrr’shan, Nail, and the EOC representative, Mr. Gauss.

“Are you serious about this?” Nail asked in disbelief for the third time since Middleton had made his proposal.

“I am,” Middleton nodded before turning to Mr. Gauss, “I trust you received my proposal after you agreed to rejoin the AG?”

“I did,” Gauss replied, “but I found it difficult to believe.”

“Well,” Middleton said, tapping a series of commands into the conference table’s interface, “believe it.”

Gauss’s eyes—as well as those of Nail and Mrr’shan, who had already accepted Middleton’s proposal a week earlier—locked onto the projected image, which was of an Imperial turbo-laser mount.

“Power requirements generally prevent turbo-lasers from being installed on any warship smaller than a Destroyer,” Middleton explained, “but the power draw isn’t the only problem, especially since it’s simple enough to overcome by installing a bank of mid-yield capacitors. Targeting computer capacity, the size of the physical mounts themselves, and a host of other factors also contribute to the difficulty of mounting such large-scale weaponry on smaller warships. But,” he continued, bringing up a new screen which showed Raubach modifications which had made turbo-lasers mountable on warships as small as Corvettes, “in my previous deployment, I encountered an Imperial House that had solved these problems. The bad news is that the enemy already has this technology. The good news, however, is that we do too—and unlike our Imperial adversaries we’re in a position that take advantage of it.”

Gauss examined the schematics and cocked his head dubiously before pointing at the neural tissue which made it all work, “What is this material?”

“I hate to be cloak and dagger,” Middleton confessed, “but that’s classified. Suffice to say that my people are capable of cultivating this material and that, in three months’ time, we can have every single Corvette under the command of the nations represented here armed with a turbo-laser.”

Nail snorted as he turned to Mrr’shan, “That is why you traded your bigger ships for Corvettes?”

“It is,” Mrr’shan flashed her teeth in a feral grin.

“I couldn’t make this offer to the others,” Middleton said to Nail, “especially since I knew the Commander was only waiting for his opportunity to leave. I need to keep our possession of this technology compartmentalized so the enemy doesn’t catch wind of it before we demonstrate its existence to them firsthand.”

“Our Constructor will need these schematics,” Gauss said.

“And you’ll get them after we’ve reached an accord here,” Middleton assured him. “What I need from you before that is a timetable—as well as a firm commitment as to how many other resources you have coming this way. We need to divert as many of them as possible from this star system so we can set up a secondary repair site.”

Gauss cocked an eyebrow, “You don’t trust the other members of the AG?”

“I trust them to serve their own agendas,” Middleton assured him, “but unfortunately I don’t know them well enough to know those agendas.”

“However little you know of them,” Gauss narrowed his eyes, “you know even less of me and my people.”

“I know that you were already packing up when my offer reached you,” Middleton said knowingly. “And I know that your people are consummate frontiersmen, which precludes cowardice. I know the only reason you left the AG in the first place is because there were certain actions taken which you could not condone or support. I also know,” Middleton leaned forward, placing his knuckles on the conference table, “that someone is treating this region of space like their own private game board—and that, whoever they are, they’ve been behind most of the chaos which has swept through the Gorgon Sectors.”

“Who?” Gauss asked, and judging from his expression he was far from surprised by Middleton’s last statement.

“I don’t know that,” Middleton confessed, “but I aim to find out. In order to do that, I’m going to need crews, weapons, ships and a will to go where others won’t.” He swept the room with a commanding gaze, “Will you come with me? Will you strike back against whoever it is that has used you—and everyone else in the Gorgon Sectors—for their own secret agenda?” he stood to his full height, “Will you stand with me?”

“Why?” Nail asked gruffly. “Why would you stand with us? This is not your home.”

“Because, Primarch,” Middleton said fiercely, “I almost lost everything I cared about to machinations like the ones that have tried to swallow everything you care about. I was lucky,” he declared, knowing it was true, “and the things I cared about were saved because of it. But now I want nothing more than to put an end to this conflict—and other conflicts like it—before they claim the prosperity, freedom, and lives of people who weren’t as fortunate as I was.” His lip curled in a smirk, “Also…I happen to enjoy a good fight.”

Laughter echoed through the room as the others nodded approvingly at his sentiment.

“Are we ready to go to work?” Middleton asked.

Gauss proffered his hand, “With pleasure.”

“Good,” Middleton took the other man’s hand in his own, “then let’s get started.”

Chapter XLIII: An Errant Hornet’s Journey Home

“Mr. Scarlet,” Sarkozi heard Mr. Black’s voice over the ship’s intercom, “join us on the bridge.”

Sarkozi shared a brief look with Mr. Six, who had taken up what seemed to be a permanent position at the workstation alongside Sarkozi’s.

“Bring Mr. Six as well,” Mr. Black added just as Sarkozi stood from his chair.

“Come on,” Sarkozi said, and the other man silently obliged.

They made their way to the ship’s bridge, which was open and seemed abuzz with activity. “Mr. Scarlet,” Mr. Black greeted, gesturing to the ship’s main viewer, “can you identify that ship?”

Sarkozi examined the disc-shaped craft, which appeared to be somewhere between a Cutter and Corvette in size and had a golden hued hull. It appeared to be on an intercept course with their Pulsar-class Cutter, and a quick check of the bridge’s instruments suggested to Sarkozi that their stealth suite was in full power mode—and still the enemy ship appeared headed straight at them.

“I have never seen that design before,” Sarkozi shook his head, and Mr. Black gave him a searching look for a moment before turning to Mr. Six.

“And you?” Mr. Black asked of his brother, Mr. Six.

“Of course I have,” Mr. Six said grimly. “And where there is one, a dozen more will soon follow.”

“This is the ship which destroyed yours?” Mr. Black pressed.

“I cannot confirm that,” Mr. Six said, his voice unusually taut, “but it is of an identical design to those which destroyed my command.”

“Sensors,” Mr. Black said without taking his eyes off Mr. Six, “are there any indications of Locust activity in this star system? Unusual ion trails, disrupted EM fields, or signs of trillium extraction conforming to established patterns?”

“Negative,” the woman at Sensors promptly reported. “This star system appears to be untouched.”

“Mr. Black,” the Comm. stander said in a rising voice, “I am receiving a hail.”

“They did not hail us during our previous encounter,” Mr. Six said tightly. “They merely closed distance and opened fire.”

“Perhaps this one is alone,” Mr. Black offered, but to Sarkozi that seemed unlikely. According to Mr. Six’s debriefing, his ship had encountered one such vessel in similar conditions to these. But instead of that ship heading straight for them, it had veered off and made for the hyper limit at maximum speed—a speed which somehow managed to outpace the fastest warship, the Pulsar class, ever produced by the Imperium of Man.

“Mr. Black,” Sarkozi stepped forward, drawing a diamond-hard look from the ship’s commander, “there is something different going on here. In Mr. Six’s previous encounter with this ship design, they retreated and quickly returned with reinforcements before presenting overwhelming force and destroying his ship.”

“I read the report, Mr. Scarlet,” Mr. Black said icily.

“I understand that, sir—” Sarkozi said adamantly, only to be cut off.

“This warship is the finest example of Man’s engineering to be found in the cosmos, Mr. Sarkozi,” Mr. Black said confidently. “Even if the Locusts can somehow penetrate our stealth systems, Mr. Six’s report suggested that it took no fewer than three of these vessels working in tandem to bring his command down. The opportunity presented here, to capture and study the Locusts’ technology, is simply too great to pass by.”

“That might be precisely what they want you to think, Mr. Nine,” Mr. Six observed.

“Or they might have their own stealth systems which are concealing a dozen more of those ships out there,” Sarkozi suggested. “There are too many variables present here, Mr. Black. Protocol dictates we withdraw and re-evaluate the situation before proceeding further beyond the rim of the Gorgon Sectors.”

“Protocol, Mr. Scarlet?” Mr. Black repeated coolly. “Protocol is meant to govern known conditions; the primary purpose of this mission is to investigate the Locusts—which are, as yet, an unknown quantity. Protocol has no bearing on this situation. Time to weapons range?”

“Three minutes,” the ship’s Helmsman reported.

“They have repeated their hail,” the Comm. stander said neutrally.

Mr. Black steepled his fingers before his face as he peered intently at the image of the inbound ship. Eventually he gestured to the Comm. stander, “Put them on.”

An androgynous human image appeared on the screen before them, and when he, she, or it spoke it only further confused Sarkozi as to its gender. “You should not be here,” the person said grimly, “you must withdraw at once.”

“Who are you?” Mr. Black demanded.

“I am the Crafter,” the person replied, “and if you do not leave this star system immediately you will jeopardize everything I have spent the last thirty years preparing. You are not supposed to be here,” the Crafter repeated urgently, but to Sarkozi it seemed as though the Crafter’s voice was filled not only with a warning, but with surprise—surprise, perhaps, at their being in this particular location? “Leave—now,” the Crafter said urgently, “or all of this may have been for nothing! Go back to your masters and tell them—no, plead with them to withdraw from this region of space. The Empire of Man does not need the Gorgon Sectors. Turn your fleets back before it is too late.”

“My dear,” Mr. Black said casually, “we are not going anywhere. But I invite you to come aboard my ship so we might engage in a productive dialogue. I am sure there is much we could learn from each other.”

“If you refuse to heed my warning,” the Crafter’s visage hardened, “then you leave me no choice.”

The image vanished from the viewer and the Helmsman—who, on such a small ship, also doubled as the gunner and Tactical Officer—reported, “Bogey is increasing speed, sir.”

“Shields to maximum,” Mr. Black ordered, “prepare gravity mines for deployment and arm missile tubes one through six.”

“Mines ready; missile tubes primed,” the Helmsman acknowledged.

“Plot collision course,” Mr. Black commanded, “flank speed—that ship is mine.”

“Collision course, aye,” replied the Helmsman.

The ship shuddered under fire, prompting Sensors to report, “Multiple particle wave impacts—the forward shields are holding, but down to forty percent.”

“Particle waves from a ship that small…and at this range?” Sarkozi said in surprise as the ship passed into extreme laser range—a range exclusively reserved for turbo-lasers.

“Stay on course, Helm,” Mr. Black said steadily, “rotate the port shields to reinforce the bow.”

“Reinforcing,” the Helm acknowledged, “port shield emitter is now reinforcing the forward emitter: forward shields at one hundred thirty percent.”

“Your report didn’t say anything about particle waves,” Sarkozi turned to Mr. Six, who seemed entirely too relaxed at that particular moment. “It said these ships were armed with highly-confined, superior ranged lasers which were relatively ineffective against shields and somehow created resonance within locsium structures on direct contact.”

“Oh?” Mr. Six asked blithely as his eyes remained fixed on the main viewer. “I’m sure I mentioned the particle waves somewhere. Why would I omit a detail like that—especially when it now seems obvious that particle waves are how the enemy lowered our shields so they could carve us into pieces with those lasers of theirs?”

Sarkozi saw something come over Mr. Six’s countenance, and acting purely on instinct he took a step backward. Even before his brain had processed what was happening, he found himself flat on his back with a lance of pain searing across his face.

“Mr. Six?” Mr. Black asked as Sarkozi blindly scrambled for the door leading off the bridge. “Secure him!” Mr. Black barked, and a moment later sonic pistols discharged into the area where Mr. Six had been standing.

“It is too late, Mr. Nine,” Mr. Six said, and there was suddenly something decidedly unnatural—or artificial—about the tone of Mr. Six’s voice. “There is no escape now; it has begun!”

Wiping a smear of blood from his face, Sarkozi blinked his eyes forcefully just in time to see a metallic tendril no larger in diameter than his little finger lash out from Mr. Six’s hand and stab into the base of the Helmsman’s skull.

“Security—“ Mr. Black began, only to be silenced when a similar tendril erupted from Mr. Six’s other hand and pierced Mr. Black’s larynx. Flailing wildly with his hands, Mr. Black made the briefest of eye contact with Sarkozi before his hand found the emergency lockdown icon on his command chair’s console.

The crystalline door leading onto the bridge slammed shut less than a second after Sarkozi had scrambled into the safety of the corridor, and the last thing he saw were Mr. Six’s eyes—which were now hauntingly cold, impossibly black, and utterly lifeless.

When the door slammed shut there was no sound, no light, and no other sensation he could detect from the bridge. For a moment all he could do was catch his breath in shocked silence as he tried to process what had just happened.

Then the ship shuddered beneath him again, and he knew it was almost certainly only a matter of time—probably only a few minutes—before Mr. Black’s Pulsar-class warship would either be destroyed by the incoming Locust ship, or that it would be under the total control of Mr. Six.

Neither scenario was compatible with Sarkozi’s long-term survival, but to say that his options were limited would be the understatement of the era.

Scrambling to his feet, Sarkozi activated his com-link and switched to the emergency channels, “This is Mr. Scarlet to the crew: abandon ship. I say again: abandon ship. The bridge has been seized by a hostile agent and we are on a collision course with an enemy warship. All hands: abandon ship—all hands: abandon ship!”

He knew he didn’t have the authority to order the crew to abandon their posts, but he could not simply leave them to die. He also knew that he could not unlock the escape pods without command override of their lockouts—which he did not have since he was not formally attached to the ship’s crew.

He sprinted for the maintenance locker and found an EVA suit, which he donned as quickly as he possibly could. After attaching the helmet and establishing a seal, he sprinted toward the ship’s airlock and keyed in his emergency code.

The airlock rejected his code.

“Blast!” he cursed, desperately looking around for something that he could force the door with. He found nothing, and soon he heard the sound of repeated impacts coming from the direction of the bridge.

A look that direction showed that the door to the bridge had begun to crack, and that every second another impact made those cracks spread wider and deeper.

“This is Ms. Copper,” he heard an unfamiliar, anxious voice declare over the link, “I am confirming Mr. Scarlet’s order to abandon ship. All hands: abandon ship—all hands: abandon ship.”

The crystalline door leading onto the bridge finally shattered, and Sarkozi refocused his efforts on opening the airlock door with his emergency code—which effort was interrupted when the ship shuddered under another particle wave impact.

Thankfully, after the interruption, his code was accepted and he leapt into the airlock before closing the inner door behind him. It took a few seconds to open the outer door, but in spite of the suicidal nature of doing so he felt absolutely no trepidation about leaping off the ship.

No sooner had he done so than a violent explosion sent the sleek, powerful, Pulsar-class warship into a tumble. A pair of escape pods jettisoned as the crystalline vessel began to suffer a series of internal explosions—scuttling charges, if Sarkozi’s read was correct.

He activated his com-link as the hulk of a warship tumbled, its engines firing for several seconds before finally going dark. He knew there was only one other ship which could retrieve him out there, and while it was a long shot that he could contact its pilot he knew it was the only shot worth taking.

“This is Mr. Scarlet calling the Crafter,” he said after accessing the broadband frequencies, “come in, Crafter.”

Silence was his only reply for nearly a minute as he drifted through the dark of interplanetary space. The red dwarf primary at the heart of this star system—which had been selected by his algorithm for its correctly-predicted, albeit relatively miniscule, quantity of trillium found in its second asteroid belt—seemed so dim to him that it might have been a flashlight at the end of a long, glittering tunnel like those he had explored as a child.

“This is Mr. Scarlet calling the Crafter,” he repeated, “come in, Crafter.”

Again, silence was his only reply. He thought he could see the incoming Locust ship’s outline against the star—a suspicion which was soon confirmed when a beam of cold, white light lanced out from its position and carved into the ruined Pulsar-class warship which had been Sarkozi’s home these past months.

“This is Mr. Scarlet calling the Crafter,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice as a second beam carved into the crystalline warship, “respond please.”

“This is Ms. Copper calling Mr. Scarlet,” came the same voice which had authorized the abandonment of their ship, “stay off the comm.”

Ignoring her, he reiterated, “This is Mr. Scarlet calling the Crafter. Come in, Crafter—I have information that will interest you.”

“Get off the line, Scarlet,” snarled Copper—a woman he had never actually met.

He saw the disc-shaped Locust ship fire a third and final beam into the Pulsar-class Cutter, causing it to explode violently. The Crafter’s ship then slowly came about and fired its engines, making to leave the scene—and Sarkozi—behind.

“This is Sam Sarkozi,” he pleaded, “calling the Crafter—come in, please!”

The Locust ship resumed its course into the star system’s interior for several seconds, eventually disappearing from his view.

“Why should I speak with you?” the androgynous voice of the Crafter asked.

“My name is Sam Sarkozi,” he replied quickly, self-identifying almost unconsciously since doing so had been proven to improve survival odds in such a critical moment. “I have information about what happened aboard our ship.”

“Your ship is gone,” the Crafter said coolly, “because I destroyed it.”

“You did,” Sarkozi agreed, “but not because your ship was superior—there was a saboteur who waited to move against the bridge crew until you were in firing range. We had mines and missiles that would have easily destroyed you, but we never got the chance to launch or fire them. I have information about that saboteur but I need you to retrieve me before I share it. After we’ve spoken, we can talk about retrieving those two escape pods—but I implore you not to retrieve them before you speak with me.”

Static-laden silence crackled through the link for a long while before Sarkozi finally decided she had left him for dead.

“This is Mr. Scarlet calling the Crafter,” he said futilely, but at least Ms. Copper remained blessedly silent as he spent some of his last breaths fighting for his life—and his mission! “This is Mr. Scarlet calling the Crafter. Come in, Crafter.”

Then, with such suddenness that he felt his heart skip several beats, the disc-shaped vessel which had pulverized Mr. Black’s ship swept into Sarkozi’s view—and it was literally close enough for him to touch.

An airlock door opened before him and the ship slowly moved toward him, engulfing him in the golden-hued hull of the Locust-built ship.

He reached out and grasped the rail just inside the airlock, and after his fingers wrapped around it the outer door shut behind him.

The chamber began to pressurize, and after it had achieved normal pressure he saw the Crafter’s face appear on a nearby screen. “Take off your helmet,” instructed the androgynous Crafter.

Sarkozi complied, fighting to keep his trembling hands steady enough to complete the task. After several seconds of fumbling, he managed to wrestle the helmet off the suit’s collar, and took a deep breath of the air which had just filled the airlock.

“Who are you?” asked the Crafter.

“My name is Sam Sarkozi,” he replied tremulously as he fought to control his breathing, “and if I’m right, the man who sabotaged the ship you just destroyed knew you would be here—in fact, I think he manipulated that ship’s course to bring it here. Why would he do that?”

The Crafter’s eyes narrowed, “Describe him—in detail.”

“I knew him as Mr. Six,” Sarkozi explained, “but that was obviously an alias of some kind, just like Mr. Scarlet is an alias of mine. I think he was an Imperial Intelligence Section Chief, and the brother of that Imperial ship’s commander,” he jerked an unsteady thumb toward the outer airlock door. “Just before he attacked the bridge he changed,” he shuddered at the thought of those cold, mechanical, lifeless eyes, “into something…unnatural.”

“Specifics, Mr. Sarkozi,” the Crafter reiterated sharply.

“He…” Sarkozi closed his eyes and tried to recall the details, “he had what looked like metal tentacles, or tendrils, which came out of his hands. And his eyes…” he trailed off as a sharp pain erupted in his chest. His heart was racing faster than it had ever done, and in spite of his efforts to control his breathing and other autonomous functions his vision began to narrow.

“What about his eyes?” the Crafter pressed, and when Sarkozi focused on the Crafter’s features displayed on the airlock’s screen he saw the barest trace of fear.

“They were dead…and dark,” panted. “So dark,” he wheezed as he fell to a knee. “I can’t breathe,” he whispered hoarsely as his lungs felt like they were burning from the inside out, “I can’t breathe!”

His vision blacked out and the next thing he knew he was lying on the deck of the airlock, his hands flailing in the air as he slowly began to lose consciousness. It was an agonizing experience, and he eventually realized he was being suffocated to death.

“No—don’t!” he pleaded, clawing at the inner door even though he could barely see.

Suddenly, the inner door swished open and he gasped a deep, life-giving breath of air. It only took a handful of breaths for his vision to return, and when it finally did he realized the Crafter was standing over him.

The Crafter knelt before him and pressed a slender, foreign-looking pistol to his temple. “Look at me,” the Crafter commanded, and Sarkozi complied.

The Crafter produced a small scanning device of some kind and passed it over his eyes, keeping the gun pressed to his head as the scanner passed back and forth across his head a dozen times.

Finally, the Crafter deactivated the device and breathed a short sigh of relief. “I’m sorry,” the Crafter said, standing and proffering a hand, “but I couldn’t trust that you were telling the tru—“

A series of alarms sounded overhead and without a moment’s hesitation the Crafter sprinted down the corridor. Sarkozi staggered to his feet, steeling his nerves as he made to follow her. He emerged onto what was clearly the ship’s bridge, which had three seated stations and nothing else.

It took him only a few seconds to spot the ship’s tactical plotter, and when he found it his newfound breath caught in his throat. “What…” he began dumbly as he stared at the feeds.

“It is too late…” the Crafter said in unmasked horror, “they are here.”

The plotter slowly filled with a hundred ship signatures—then another hundred appeared, followed by yet another hundred!

“But…how?” the Crafter whispered through gritted teeth. “This was not the future Asterion foresaw…how?!” the Crafter demanded, whirling to face Sarkozi.

“We need to retrieve those escape pods,” Sarkozi said as the immensity of the newly-arrived fleet became clear.

“No, we cannot take the risk,” the Crafter said while manipulating the ship’s controls with blinding speed. “It is already too late for them—as it may be for us.”

The ship lurched forward, burning its engines faster than any ship Sarkozi had ridden as it left Mr. Black’s Pulsar-class Cutter in its wake. The Crafter was making for the lone gap in the arriving fleet’s perimeter of the star system, and it was uncertain even with this ship’s acceleration whether they would reach the hyper limit in time.

A nearby station flared to life with a rapid series of what were obviously alarms, though the language the interface was written in was completely foreign to him. “What are those?” he asked.

“Active scanning pings,” the Crafter replied tightly, prompting what little color remained in Sarkozi’s face to drain away, “they have found us.”

“How can I help?” Sarkozi asked, suspecting there was no way he could contribute but feeling as though he needed to make the offer.

“Sit down,” the Crafter instructed, pointing to the chair to the right of the console which the Crafter occupied, “and shut up.”

Sarkozi did as instructed, and soon saw a dozen nearby tactical icons began to converge on their location with identical acceleration curves to the Crafter’s ship.

The fleet of over three hundred ships appeared to have taken up something of a three dimensional crescent formation with a heavy concentration of ships on the far side of the star system to the Crafter’s ship, with decreasing numbers of ships the further they were from the heart of the formation.

“Can you outrun them?” Sarkozi asked.

“No,” the Crafter said tersely. “But I can reach the hyper limit before they fire on us.”

“Then you can outrun them,” he asserted in spite of her protestation.

“They have found me,” the Crafter hissed. “You do not know how difficult it was to elude them for as long as I have. Fifty years and thousands of lives sacrificed…” the Crafter said hollowly, “for nothing. What changed?” The Crafter turned to Sarkozi and angrily repeated, “What changed?!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sarkozi said in confusion.

“Asterion was certain,” the Crafter insisted. “He sacrificed himself to ensure that this path was the correct one—WHAT CHANGED?!” Then the Crafter seemed to realize something, “Your saboteur…perhaps it was him? None of you were supposed to be here!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sarkozi said warily. “But it did seem like Mr. Six was expecting to find you here. He even falsified portions of the after action report he made regarding the destruction of his ship.”

“What happened to his ship?” the Crafter pressed anxiously.

“It was destroyed,” Sarkozi replied warily, “by ships matching your ship’s configuration and capability. I thought you were involve—”

“Where was that ship destroyed?”

“About three thousand light years from here,” Sarkozi said slowly, “toward the distal end of the Gorgon Sectors—”

“Wait,” the Crafter’s eyes widened in shock, “inside the Gorgon Sectors?”

“Yes,” Sarkozi nodded slowly, “about three hundred light years within the Rim-side border.”

The Crafter’s eyes rolled back as the seemingly genderless figure slumped into the pilot’s chair. Shocked silence hung in the cramped ‘bridge’ as the converging Locust ships continued to gain ground on the Crafter’s ship.

“I…I,” the Crafter stammered, “I cannot believe it…Asterion was wrong.”

“Who was Asterion?”

“He was my everything…” the Crafter said dully. “He was my child, my companion, and my brightest dreams given form…he was everything I wished to give back to the universe. And he sacrificed himself to save the inhabitants of the Gorgon Sectors…but it was all for nothing. I…I…” the Crafter’s eyes widened in horror before slowly meeting Sarkozi’s, “I have released a terrible weapon into the galaxy. We were wrong…I was wrong!”

“Look,” Sarkozi leaned forward urgently, “I don’t know what you thought was supposed to happen, but I do know that if you made a mistake as large as the one you seem to think you made then your only option is to try to make it right. Tell me about this weapon you released.”

“It is already gone…”

“I’ll help you find it,” Sarkozi grabbed the Crafter by the shoulders and squared their bodies until their eyes resumed contact, “but first you need to get us out of here.”

“They found me,” the Crafter repeated weakly, as though that somehow ended the conversation. “It is over.”

“Why?” Sarkozi demanded. “You said you can jump ahead of them—we just need to evade them long enough to throw them off our trail!”

“You do not understand,” the Crafter despaired, “I cannot deceive them now that they know where I am.”

Sarkozi cocked his head, “What do you mean by that?”

“They know my mind even better than I do,” the Crafter explained, “and they know my ship better than I do. When the World Ship arrives and learns I was here, it will be a small matter for them to predict my probable courses and run me down. How do you think I taught Asterion to unwind the threads? I learned the secret from them! If my memories were still removed from me perhaps I could evade them, but now that I have reincorporated them—”

“Fine,” Sarkozi interrupted with fiery determination, though he did not understand even half of what she had just said, “then let me choose our jump coordinates.”

“What?” the Crafter asked blankly.

“If you’re too predictable,” Sarkozi reiterated urgently, “then let me pick our flight plan!”

“I…” the Crafter seemed dubious for a moment. Then grim determination filled the Crafter’s features, “It is possible…”

“Good,” Sarkozi nodded, “now what do I have to do?”

“There will be pain,”

Sarkozi shrugged dismissively, “Better pain than failure.”

The Crafter clambered out of the pilot’s seat and said, “Sit here and fasten your harness—and whatever happens, try not to escape or to hurt yourself.”

That did nothing to inspire calm in Sarkozi, but a quick look at the incoming Locust ships steeled his nerves and he quickly switched seats. The multi-point harness was easy enough to secure, and after he had done so he began to ask, “Now wha—“

Before he could finish the second word he felt a stabbing sensation in the base of his skull and for, what seemed like an agony-filled eternity, he was uncertain if he was alive or dead.

His senses were awash in feedback they were never supposed to encounter—his eyes seemed to be smelling the air, his skin seemed to be seeing the ambient light, and his tongue was somehow hearing the blips and beeps of the console in front of him.

Somewhere on the back of his tongue he ‘heard’ the Crafter say, “The interface is almost finished with the calibration cycle. Do not fight it any more than you must.”

He tried to reply, but realized as he was doing so that the only voluntary action taking place in his entire body was a spasmodic twitching of his eyes.

Mercifully, the harrowing ordeal eventually ended—though Sarkozi had no way of knowing precisely how long it had lasted.

“There,” the Crafter said approvingly, “you did not die. Impressive.”

“Whaaaa…” he slurred before the Crafter gripped his shoulder tightly.

“Do not speak—focus only on the star charts.”

He did as instructed, and after a few seconds he realized he could somehow read the charts. It was still in the unfamiliar language, but somehow it made sense to him even though he could not readily pronounce the words—not even if his mouth suddenly decided to cooperate, which it clearly did not.

“Good,” the Crafter said after Sarkozi established a multi-point itinerary simply using his thoughts, “but it is too similar to my own.” Sarkozi refocused and repeated the exercise, this time coming up with something that seemed random enough to him. But again the Crafter said, “Too similar.”

Sarkozi tried to ask a question—specifically: how long did the Crafter’s jump engines take to cycle?—before the answer suddenly appeared on the console before him.

“Twelve minutes,” the Crafter said after Sarkozi had finally gleaned that information for himself.

Sarkozi took that information and plotted a series of incredibly short-range jumps—the first taking place only one light hour outside of the hyper limit they were burning toward.

“A short-range void jump…” the Crafter said with an initially disapproving tone before nodding eagerly. “Yes…yes, that is perfect. I would never do that; it is too stupid!”

Ignoring the barb, Sarkozi plotted the first jump and somehow he smelled the hyper drive begin to spin up. He then laid in a series of progressively longer-range jumps, each taking them in a zigzag course before finally setting the fifth jump at the maximum range of the ship’s jump engines.

“This might actually work,” the Crafter said, “if we can successfully evade the Combine here then we must return to the Alliance. The Compact has been broken, but the Combine would never strike that far into the Gorgon Sectors—at least not quickly enough to stop us from mounting a defense. But above all we must find Qaz.”

“The All…i…ance?” Sarkozi slurred while wondering who this ‘Qaz’ person was.

“The Alliance Gorgonus,” the Crafter explained as the ship shook from a faint impact—an impact which Sarkozi saw with his left eye while feeling it on his right shoulder. “They are ranging on us—we will point transfer in thirty seconds.”

Another impact—this one fully twice as potent as the last—shook the ship. Sarkozi somehow knew that the stern shields would not survive two more hits of similarly-escalating severity.

“Fifteen seconds,” the Crafter said tensely, “stay focused on the star charts!”

Another impact hammered into the ship’s stern, and this time Sarkozi heard a stream of damage reports come flooding across the console before him.

“Five…four…three…two…one…jump!”

In a span of time nearly immeasurable due to its brevity, space folded around the disc-shaped ship and an instant later resumed its previous structure—with the Crafter’s ship having successfully escaped what would have been the fourth, fatal blow.

Epilogue: The Round-Up

Chancellor Foles’ office was far from lavish, with simple appointments and straightforward wooden furniture. But the government building itself—the Dome, as the locals called it—was one of the finest pieces of colonial architecture Middleton had ever seen or heard of.

It measured four hundred meters in diameter and rose three hundred meters above the plateau on which it had been built. The structure was made entirely of stone—a greenish marble of some kind, to Middleton’s eye—and there seemed to be little, if any, mortar employed during its construction.

The Chancellor’s office was located near the apex of the impressive structure, though there were no windows from which to view the capitol city of Mercy’s End.

After her attendants had left the room, Middleton said, “I need to know how you got so many of those missiles, Chancellor.”

“Have a seat, Commander,” she gestured to the padded, wooden chair opposite her own.

She sat behind a solid stone desk with the emblem of Mercy’s End—a diagonally aligned sword with a drop of blood near the tip—carved into the front of the one-piece desk. Middleton obliged by taking his seat, and Foles slid a data slate across the desk after he had done so. “My people take security extremely seriously, Commander. Most of our forebears left the Empire because of its record of oppressively applying state force. Some of them were genuine criminals, but most were simply unable to support a system which treated its citizens like livestock. As such, the beating heart of our entire society is the desire to retain our liberties.”

“But that doesn’t explain how you built the missiles,” Middleton said studiously.

“Of course it does,” she said, gesturing to the data slate which he began to peruse. “You’ll find that the majority of our population here in Mercy’s end is fully de-centralized; the only cities on either of our planets are ports or, in the unique case of this city, diplomatic zones.”

“Diplomatic zones?” Middleton repeated as he read through Mercy’s End’s census data. “You have frequent contact with other colonies in the area, then?”

“We do,” Foles nodded.

Middleton’s eyes scanned through the document until catching on something unexpected, “This says that eighty three percent of your population is actively engaged in the production of military hardware?”

“That is correct,” she said matter-of-factly. “Our entire way of life is one which is fully de-centralized, from food production to power generation and, perhaps most importantly, to military hardware production.”

Middleton opened a file attached to the census data and felt a smile spread across his face in spite of his best efforts, “Micro-foundries…precision machining equipment…every single household on your planet has at least one piece of hardware capable of contributing to an assembly line—“

“Assembly cloud,” she interrupted pointedly, “there is no ‘line’ to be had; the logistical particulars are handled via distributed intelligence networks which maximize individual outputs by putting orders up every three hours. Any household which is not actively engaged in the production of hardware is obligated to maintain their equipment in order to be ready for emergency orders. Those orders fill unexpected gaps in the cloud’s inventory, and a nearly automated system of delivery vehicles collects finished components while dropping off the raw materials each household is best able to utilize.”

Middleton nodded as he perused the production lists, “Rocket nozzles…flow regulators…missile fuselages…even the emitters and focusing lenses are produced in a completely decentralized system. This system impresses me,” Middleton admitted, “and that’s not an easy thing to do. But how can you generate the surplus wealth required to fund an ongoing project of this scale?”

“Freedom is important to us, Commander,” Foles said coolly, “every citizen of Mercy’s End knows it is his or her duty to maintain constant vigilance if we are to retain that freedom. One is either expanding or declining and, in the matter of liberty, decline is inevitable without ongoing efforts to counteract it. We live relatively simple lives here, Commander, just as our forebears did. We are content to continue living such lives if it means we may do so secure in our freedoms.”

“Most people talk a good game about maintaining liberty,” Middleton said pointedly, “but they usually balk at the first sign of trouble.”

“I hope you will agree that we do not shy away from a fight, Commander,” she said measuredly.

“I would,” Middleton allowed, “but I’m puzzled by something.”

“Yes?”

“You had all of those missiles—plus however many more you haven’t declared to this point,” he said with a dismissive gesture intended to forestall objection on her part, “and you could have easily fought off Edelweiss’s people…but you didn’t. Why?”

“I would think the answer to that question would be obvious,” she said with an arched brow. “Much like your Void Hunter friends and their surprisingly effective boarding actions, we knew that once the Imperial Fleet was aware of our missiles we would lose the element of surprise. Without surprise, our relatively short-ranged arsenal would be of little or no use.”

“So you held them in reserve because…” Middleton said leadingly, having already arrived at a probable answer on his own. He needed to hear Foles’ answer in order to be truly satisfied on that front, however.

“We are not stupid, Captain Middleton,” she said, pointedly reverting from the use of his ‘Supreme Commander’ title in favor of his less imposing rank, “we could never stand against a determined Imperial Fleet. Our mobile assets, prior to your arrival, had barely ten percent the tactical value of your Alliance Gorgonus Fleet.”

“Seven point two percent,” Middleton said off-handedly.

“A tiny fraction, whatever the figure,” she said dismissively, “which meant our best hope for regaining our freedom was not by standing proudly—and stupidly—against an unstoppable force like an Imperial Fleet.”

“You said ‘regaining’?” Middleton observed. “You mean to say that you and your people had already considered their freedom lost when we arrived.”

“Of course,” she said neutrally. “We had already committed ourselves to a long-approved resistance strategy.”

“Terrorism?” he asked archly.

“Guerilla tactics,” she retorted. “Terrorism seeks to instill fear in a civilian population; only fools conflate asymmetric warfare with terrorism. One is waged against agents of the state and the other is waged against that state’s citizenry.”

“There’s more overlap there than I think you’d like to admit,” Middleton allowed, “but I’d concede your point in the interests of expediency. So you were going to…what…hope the Imps didn’t locate your missiles before you sprang the trap?”

“Missiles are just one component of our resistance strategy,” she said brusquely before wavering. “If you are trying to get me to admit that we needed your help to fight off the Empire, you are pursuing—“

“We both know that much was true,” Middleton shook his head, “but we also both know that we can gain more by working together than by arguing about whose position was strongest before this thing began. All I’m interested in at this point is setting up here in Mercy’s End so we can do the harder work of pushing back against the next batch of Imperials that come our way.”

“To that end,” Foles said pointedly, “I must insist that Admirals Edelweiss and dela Gaultierre be transferred to my people’s custody immediately.”

“I can’t do that, Chancellor,” Middleton shook his head.

“I thought we were on the same side, Middleton?”

“We are, Foles,” Middleton said, returning the dramatic familiarity in kind, “but as the Supreme Military Commander of the Alliance Gorgonus, it’s my job to safeguard the well-being of all the AG’s constituents. I understand you’d like the Admirals brought in for a proper media circus to drum up your people’s morale, and I’ll agree to hand them over for that purpose if and when their potential use to me as information sources no longer represents significant value.”

“Meaning ‘never’,” she said coolly.

“Not ‘never’,” he replied, “just not ‘now’.”

“Fine,” she relented, “but there is another matter on which my people require satisfaction.” She slid another data slate across the desk, and Middleton put the census slate down to pick up this new pad.

It took him just a few seconds to realize what her request was for, “Request denied.”

“Captain Middleton, Green from Red is one of the most monstrous organizations operating in this region of space,” she said animatedly. “They are slavers, Captain, and I have no fewer than three hundred fellow Enders who have directly suffered at their hands. The arrangement you made with their leader, Jasmine Rashid, is an affront to that suffering. As Chancellor of Mercy’s End, it is my sworn duty to—”

“The first three of the slavers’ Cutters have already returned with detailed reports, Madam Chancellor,” Middleton interrupted. “Would you care to know the contents of those reports?”

Foles seemed caught off-guard, but it was evident that she had prepared for this particular segment of the conversation for quite some time and would not be deterred, “As members of the Alliance Gorgonus, we are to be granted unrestricted access to whatever intelligence you gather, Captain Middleton.”

“Not true,” Middleton shook his head deliberately, “you’re to be granted unrestricted access to whatever non-sensitive intelligence I gather, so long as I deem that intelligence not to be of immediate and critical importance to AG security.”

“You tread close to tyranny, Middleton,” Foles said frostily.

“I don’t think so,” Middleton riposted. “In times of war a certain amount of centralization isn’t just acceptable, it’s flat out essential. I can understand and even support most of your peoples’ core beliefs and principles regarding decentralization of power and the protection of individual liberty, but the only possible way you—or your culture,” he added as the image of the burning Prichtac home world flitted through his mind, “are going to survive the war ahead is by voluntarily participating in it in a productive fashion. Review your history, Chancellor,” Middleton said flatly. “A smaller, better organized force always emerges victorious over a larger, less-coordinated one. We’re spotting the Imps several times our throw weight out here, and they’re not exactly known to be slouches when it comes to coordination of effort. So it seems to me that our only chance at victory is if we can cut through this social red tape and work together in a way that doesn’t put us at each other’s throats.”

“Do you actually think you can win this fight, Middleton?” she unexpectedly asked.

Without missing a beat, Middleton nodded, “I do.”

“Even after playing all of your cards?” she insisted. “The Empire won’t dare attack us here again; they’ll sweep up the other star systems in the area and box us in before issuing one of their infamous ultimatums.”

“They will—unless we sweep up those star systems first,” Middleton said emphatically. “You said you regularly conduct diplomacy with your neighbors out here; what I need is your help to contact them and get them to come onboard the AG.”

She studied him for several long, silent moments before asking, “What did your slaver friends find?”

“This is war, Madam Chancellor,” Middleton snapped. “They’re not my friends—they’re our friends. They’ve already gone deep into Imperial territory and found information which will prove instrumental to the formulation of our strategy for winning in this theater. I don’t like dealing with them any more than you do; I had family on a settler ship a few years ago when all hell broke loose in my home space. Pirates were taking down anything they could find, and slavers were running wild in the power vacuum. So trust me when I say that I fully understand the plight of your three hundred fellow Enders, and I still think that enlisting the slavers’ help was the right call.”

“What did they find?” she reiterated with a fractional softening of her voice.

Now it was Middleton’s turn to produce a data slate, which he slid across the desk toward her and said, “They found more than I thought they would—including our first counterattack target.”

She examined the slate’s contents for several minutes before her eyebrows predictably rose, “This is…ambitious.”

“Hard, fast, and straight up the middle,” Middleton said with conviction as he stood from the chair and offered his hand. “Will Mercy’s End lend its arm to the fight or are you going to let someone else decide your fate?”

Foles gave him a withering look before standing and accepting his hand, “We will do our part. But I will need something to give my people to help soften the blow when they learn we’re working with slavers.”

“One problem at a time, Chancellor,” Middleton said, shaking her hand firmly, “but I’ve got a few items I’d like to run by your assembly cloud.”

“What kind of items?”

“The same type of components you’ve already been making,” he replied coyly as he contemplated just how effective this de-centralized infrastructure might be at producing the Raubach-designed turbo-laser mounts which he planned to install on every Corvette under his command in the coming months, “with a few minor modifications, of course.”

“Got a sec, Cap?” Mikey asked as Middleton reviewed the latest updates on the fleet’s preparedness.

“Of course, Chief,” Middleton beckoned for his long-time friend to enter the conference room where Middleton had sat alone for nearly four hours. “What’s on your mind?”

Garibaldi pulled up a nearby seat and asked, “How are you holding up?”

Middleton tossed a data slate onto the table, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“You might’ve forgotten that was part of your job lately,” Mikey said easily while gesturing to the mess of slates on the conference table, “seems like you’re up to your eyeballs in this stuff lately. You could almost be forgiven for not remembering that you’re supposed to be a starship captain.”

“Almost,” Middleton agreed, “but not quite. I know I’ve been out of the loop lately—“ he began, only to be interrupted.

“Nobody begrudges you the recent changes,” Garibaldi assured him. “We’ve been picking up the slack and things are running smoothly enough. It helps that the Prejudice’s crew is small enough to fit in a VR booth.”

“If you’re not here to reprimand me,” Middleton said with a dry laugh, “what are you doing here?”

“Wojo and I finished running the numbers on the power core,” Garibaldi replied heavily.

Middleton had almost forgotten about his order for Mikey and Wojo to examine the ship’s mysterious power supply. “I assume I’m not going to like the results,” Middleton said after taking a moment to recollect his thoughts.

“It’s not all bad,” Garibaldi unsuccessfully tried to assure him, “but it looks like we’re down to about fifty percent.”

“How is that possible?” Middleton asked in surprise.

“Looks like the stealth suite on this sled is a serious power hog,” Garibaldi explained. “If I’m right, it’s consumed about 90% of the power we’ve sucked outta that thing since we started monitoring a few months ago—which would be enough juice to power a Dreadnaught class for a year of combat deployment. You’ve got one or two more big battles like the last one in this ship before we’ll want to do whatever we can to remove the TC drive—and if that looks undoable then we’ll have to abandon this ship entirely.”

Middleton wanted to sigh bitterly, but he had known this was the likeliest outcome. The Prejudice was a prototype from stem to stern, and in his opinion it was a borderline miracle that Mikey and his people had been able to get as much of it operational as they had. He winced at the thought of just how inefficiently they might have been burning their limited fuel source, but quickly pushed those thoughts from his mind.

“So we’re on a timer,” Middleton forced a shrug. “That’s nothing we didn’t already know. Now that we’ve had a look at the countdown clock, we can adjust our usage accordingly.”

“This ship’s a fine piece of hardware,” Mikey allowed hesitantly, “but it’s nothing without a solid crew aboard her.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Mikey leaned forward intently, “that morale’s been running on fumes for a while now. Your command style’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy variety, but you’re a winner and so people will follow you in spite of whatever other reservations they might have. This business with the Stalwart, though,” Mikey shook his head grimly, “it’s generated a lot of scuttlebutt—the kind you don’t usually want to hear about.”

Middleton shook his head, “If the crew of this fleet thinks morale is bad now, I would invite them to consider how bad things might have gotten if the Commander’s people had stayed.”

“That’s part of the problem with your kind,” Mikey said with a short-lived sneer, “you think everybody sees the world like you do. Most of us aren’t versed in game theory, Tim—and most of us don’t ever want to be. We’re living our lives the best way we know how, and we trust that our leaders are looking out for us. Most of the time we don’t think twice about a sideways order that comes down the line, even it rubs us in the exact wrong way, but when things look shaky at the top we start to get nervous about everything.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Middleton asked, suspecting Garibaldi wasn’t here just to complain. He had known Mikey for a long, long time. While his Chief Engineer wasn’t known for his tact, he also wasn’t known for airing grievances unnecessarily.

“Meaning we’ve got a major morale problem bubbling up in this fleet,” Mikey said with an exasperated shrug. “If I was able to find the solution to it, I think I’d have found my way into your chair.”

“It’s not like you to complain, Mikey,” Middleton cocked his head.

“I know,” Mikey rubbed his balding head vigorously. “It’s just…I don’t know, Tim. It feels like we’re in way over our heads, you know?”

“I do,” Middleton agreed, “but if we don’t do this, who will?”

“I hear you, I hear you,” Mikey held up his hands in mock surrender. “On the plus side, it looks like our first prototype fire control module—the ones you wanted us to work up for installing on the fleet’s Corvettes—passed with flying colors.”

“That soon?” Middleton arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t expecting test results for another week.”

“Yeah, well, you can thank Kongming for that,” Garibaldi said with a chuckle. “I’ve never seen anyone like him; he’s like a machine.”

Middleton shared his friend’s admiration for Kongming’s abilities, but it was clear to Middleton that the youngest member of the Prejudice’s crew—aside from Prichtac, of course—had suffered serious injuries. His wounds were of both the physical and the psychological variety, and it was clear that his commanding officer needed to do a better job protecting him from such.

“Kongming’s abilities and his resolve are impressive,” Middleton said pointedly, “but I think we need to ease up on the loads we’ve placed on his shoulders.”

“He volunteered, Tim—“

“I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, Mikey,” Middleton assured him, “as CO it’s my responsibility to deploy my people correctly. He’s been through a lot, and I need to take that into consideration when I give him future assignments.”

“You military types,” Garibaldi said sourly, “you don’t ‘deploy’ people, Tim. We’re not parachutes or anchors, for Murphy’s sake.”

Middleton set his jaw, “Thank you for bringing your concerns to my attention, Chief.”

Garibaldi opened his mouth to reply, but promptly closed it and sighed, “Thank you, Captain.”

After Mikey left, Middleton reviewed the fleet breakdown and felt cold comfort at the total number of repairable warships he saw.  There were a number of surprises—both good and bad—as he tallied the latest breakdown of the reforming Alliance Gorgonus Fleet. The total number of warships was significantly lower than he had hoped, but he couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across his lips as he read the first and second-to-last entries

7 Battleships (6 Imperial, 1 Prichtac; all salvageable but four (3/1) require extensive repairs—timeline: 6 months)

1 Void Hunter Mothership (fully functional, but main gun has limited remaining power)

1 Prejudice (prototype warship—power plant at approximately 45% remaining)

2 Fighter Carriers (converted bulk freighters; no repairs necessary)

21 Cruisers (15 Imperial, 3 Prichtac, 3 SLL; eleven require extensive repairs: timeline: 6 months)

22 Destroyers (14 Imperial, 4 Prichtac, 4 SLL; twelve require extensive repairs—timeline: 5 months)

48 Corvettes (mixed design; all to be refit with upgraded power plants, engines, and Ancient tech turbo-laser systems using hardware salvaged from scuttled/hulked Imp warships—timeline: 2 months)

32 Cutters (9 SLL, 9 Slavers, 14 Mercy’s End; minor repairs only)

P.S. I know you were hoping for a lot more hulls than this, Tim, but putting more than these back into fighting trim would take more time than the six months you said we’ve got. The rest of the hulls that might be salvaged later on have been put in in high orbit of the fourth planet—which will now be referred to as ‘the bone yard’—and all of their transferrable modules (fusion reactors, weapon systems, etc..) have been stripped to facilitate repairs on the ships outlined above. In all, there are another forty hulks (outlined below) in the bone yard that could be brought online with a year or two of dedicated refits, but only a third of them currently have functional power plants and engines—and none have working hyper drives, which will be a tall order to fill out here on the Rim. The locals can probably work a few up for a local SDF, but they won’t be any good to a mobile force without hyper drives and producing those isn’t possible right now.  Rest assured that I’ll stand by the six month timeline on the ships outlined above—you’ll find me dead on the crapper with Void Hunter porn in hand before I miss this deadline.

2 Battleship hulks (Imp tech; non-salvageable with major superstructure damage, but could serve as supply depots, docking stations, missile launching platforms, or fighter bases—still have working hyper drives, but I wouldn’t recommend more than one or two jumps at MOST)

7 Cruisers (3 Imp, 2 Prichtac, 2 local; most could be salvaged, but the modular systems have all been removed and transferred to the yard inventory to get the rest of the fleet back in the black. Cheaper to refit these than build from scratch, but not by much)

23 Destroyers (15 Imp, 2 Prichtac, 6 local; most are in better overall shape than the Cruisers, but still need a major refit job in the making since we removed their weapons and power plants. We’re lucky Gauss’s people are familiar with mono-locsium hull repairs, otherwise these Lupines and the Imp Cruisers would be total losses)

8 Corvettes (local tech; power grids are incompatible with the turbo-laser systems, so we’ll gut them and transfer systems to the new Corvettes as needed)

—Chief Garibaldi

Middleton knew that the initial returns looked less than overwhelming.  Even with six months of yard time, the total number of hulls he had added to the AG Fleet was underwhelming at best—but, in this particular instance, it was a case of quality over quantity.

The majority of his fleet was now, improbably, of Imperial design.  The extra range, durability, and speed of those crystal-hulled warships made this version of the AG Fleet fully twice as potent as the one he had arrived at Mercy’s End leading—even accounting for his ‘unorthodox’ bag of tricks which had included Void Hunter, Stalwart, and Mercy’s End surprises for which the Imperials had been ill-prepared.

The crown jewels of this new fleet were clearly the Battleships, all of which Mikey believed he could put back into service in the time required.  Mikey wasn’t the kind to make promises he couldn’t fulfill, nor was he the type to sandbag his estimates. He shot straight in everything he did, which was one of the reasons Middleton called him a friend.

Less clear than the Battleships, however, was the value of those soon-to-be-upgraded Corvettes.  The Belters which Kongming had returned with, headed by Mr. Gauss, had nonchalantly declared that refitting the various Corvettes would be a simple task for their Constructor-led industrial base.  It was that confidence—which had been validated by an impressive eight day turnaround of the first Corvette to undergo the extensive refit process—which had prompted Middleton to gut a half dozen larger warships for compatible modules that could be transplanted into the Corvettes.

The first tests on the upgraded Corvettes had shown that the Ancient tech targeting systems were (perhaps unsurprisingly) fully compatible with the Imperial weaponry, which meant that it was possible Middleton’s new Corvette swarm would be able to out-range even Imperial Lupines or Battleships.  He would need to conduct a series of tests to confirm that theory, but at the very least his Corvettes would have equivalent range to the Imperials’ longest guns.

That meant that while he could no longer count on the Void Hunters’ boarding parties to play such a pivotal part in future battles—nor could he depend on those surprisingly effective Stalwart gunships—he now had yet another ace in the hole.  No Imperial Commander worthy of the post would fear patchwork fleet of Corvettes, and Middleton fully intended to make his Imperial adversary pay for that overconfidence in the next battle in—and for—the Gorgon Sectors.

“This should be fun,” Middleton said with a predatory smile.

For the first time since he could remember, he held nearly multiple decisive advantages over his adversary.  He had momentum, surprise, and a dozen local worlds which had yet to be approached with the possibility of joining the reformed Alliance Gorgonus.  His Fleet could conceivably double in size in the coming months, and if that happened there was a genuine possibility that he could actually win this fight with the Imps.

He allowed his lips to pull back even further in a wolfish grin, “This should be a lot of fun.”

The End

Thanks for reading my book!  If you’re interested in following me, head on over to pacificcrestpublishing.com and download the beta reading app to your mobile device!  It contains exclusively available content, updates from yours truly, and puts you in a position to join our group of awesome beta readers who help make these books all that they can be. Seriously—go download the app, please!  It’s basically like joining my email list and is absolutely FREE!  Thanks for your patronage; I seriously appreciate it.

Caleb Wachter

Table of Contents

Prologue I: Undoing the Crafter

Prologue II: A New Assignment

Chapter I: The Crafter

Chapter II: A Glimpse of the Eye

Chapter III: Bugs…Out Here?!

Chapter IV: Great…

Chapter V: Fleet Politics

Chapter VI: A Bug’s Life

Chapter VII: A Phantom’s Grace

Chapter VIII: Puzzle Pieces

Chapter IX: In The Bull’s Eye

Chapter X: An Untapped Mind

Chapter XI: The Secularists

Chapter XII: Memories and Premonitions

Chapter XIII: The Cooling Trail

Chapter XIV: A New Perspective

Chapter XV: New Orders

Chapter XVI: The Dotted Line

Chapter XVII: The Advance—and Drills, Drills, Drills…

Chapter XVIII: The Mysterious Fate of Magmid One

Chapter XIX: An Unanticipated Exchange

Chapter XX: The Slavers’ Code

Chapter XXI: Mr. Six

Chapter XXII: The Eye Opens

Chapter XXIII: The Watchful Eye

Chapter XXIV: The Maligned Middle

Chapter XXV: Battle Lines

Chapter XXVI: First Strike

Chapter XXVII: Counterpunching

Chapter XXVIII: Clarification

Chapter XXIX: The Map

Chapter XXX: Silent Echoes

Chapter XXXI: Reinforcements

Chapter XXXII: A Stalwart Defense

Chapter XXXIII: Fresh Meat!

Chapter XXXIV: Lance-tip Diplomacy

Chapter XXXV: Willpower vs. Ferocity

Chapter XXXVI: A Proper Duel

Chapter XXXVII: The Last Signature

Chapter XXXVIII: Of Sterner Stuff than I

Chapter XXXIX: The Lost Swarm

Chapter XL: The Art of the Deal

Chapter XLI: Striking Accord

Chapter XLII: The Prodigal Son Returns

Chapter XLIII: An Errant Hornet’s Journey Home

Epilogue: The Round-Up