The Void Calls: Iron Suns Saga, #1

By K.D. Karnik and Solaria's Fist

A sentient station older than the sun ...

A torus where time stutters ... 

A realm haunted by the fading wails of the ripping fabric of space ...

 

A band of hardy fools choose to invade it.

 

From the rubble of humankind's worst wars have emerged a myriad claimants to the decadent civilization that the Powers of Solaria had administered for centuries. Collapsing systems erupt in renewed melees as agents of the underground run amok and infiltrators plague the ranks of Martian-Jovian militaries. Rumors about the destruction of systems at the hands of a mysterious invader abound. The defense against the Spacers has consumed a billion lives and counting, but Solaria finds its solace in propaganda—for the enemy has only retreated into the blackness they emerged from, and as humanity loses purpose, proxy wars tie up the Navy.

 

The most powerful fleet that Jupiter-Pluto can wield has decimated the Gubre System in one such proxy war, uncovering a full array of underground operations. Dozens of enigmatic Melds are found and hunted—possibly, the ruins strewn on these planets might provide some advantage in the greater conflict. The fleet settles down for occupation, and the admiral dispatches a team of what he thinks are randomly selected Marines under Lieutenant Hojaka.

 

Their mission: investigate a derelict transfer station drifting in the interplanetary gulf. As they get closer, however, their worlds and their minds stop seeming quite right. Is it a station? Or a frontwheeler photonic torus? A moon-sized Foot? Is it inhabited by corpses or is it the abode of the Meld? Gateways lead into a turquoise-skinned universe where the ancient exiled Representative AI has taken refuge, where others once resided. Greater others, now mauled and mangled by a mixture of their own stupidity and the influence of someone beyond, as the golden mountains on Planet Khundav detonate and the Navies of Solaria patrol.

 

The stakes are at levels from which causality is but superstition, ethics but an afterthought. For Hojaka, it is a desperate venture, trickery on a galactic scale. To the Meld Deluria, it is a stepping stone. A scheme has been unfolding for aeons, by the will of powers far beyond human comprehension—powers that he aims to conquer. 

 

In his quest, the Meld has come face-to-face with an entity. An entity that has lain in wait since the first black holes uttered their birth-cries, that has witnessed suns rise and fall at the hands of desperate living things who cling to the mossy cliff of survival. It is vast and dark, its tendrils reach far and wide. Now the Meld has used the splendid drama-of-humanity he has orchestrated to poke this entity with a sharp stick. He has forced it to watch. To feel. 

 

Now, it has made a move.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: F.W.P Publishing
• Release date: Dec 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393715559

Book preview

Books in this series:

The Void Calls (Book I)

Solaria’s Fist (Book II)

The Iron Suns (Book III; upcoming)

Gold Rust (Book IV; upcoming)

Join the Iron Suns Union mailing list for free copies of upcoming instalments, sneakpeeks, occasional free books and short stories and more.

Copyright © 2020 by the author.

Illustration © Barbara Groves

brokencandlebookdesigns.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission in writing from the author of this work.

Not that which the eye can see, but that whereby the eye can see: know that to be Brahman the eternal, and not what people here adore;

Not that which the ear can hear, but that whereby the ear can hear: know that to be Brahman the eternal, and not what people here adore;

Not that which speech can illuminate, but that by which speech can be illuminated: know that to be Brahman the eternal, and not what people here adore;

Not that which the mind can think, but that whereby the mind can think: know that to be Brahman the eternal, and not what people here adore.

—KENA UPANISHAD

There is no thing apart from existence. There is no one besides consciousness. There is no experience apart from that infinity. There is no second to That. Verily, thou art That.

—THE VEDANTA

-Cover Blurb-

Asentient station older than the sun ...

A torus where time stutters ...

A realm haunted by the fading wails of the ripping fabric of space ...

A band of hardy fools choose to invade it.

From the rubble of humankind’s worst wars have emerged a myriad claimants to the decadent civilization that the Powers of Solaria had administered for centuries. Collapsing systems erupt in renewed melees as agents of the underground run amok and infiltrators plague the ranks of Martian-Jovian militaries. Rumors about the destruction of systems at the hands of a mysterious invader abound. The defense against the Spacers has consumed a billion lives and counting, but Solaria finds its solace in propaganda—for the enemy has only retreated into the blackness they emerged from, and as humanity loses purpose, proxy wars tie up the Navy.

The most powerful fleet that Jupiter-Pluto can wield has decimated the Gubre System in one such proxy war, uncovering a full array of underground operations. Dozens of enigmatic Melds are found and hunted—possibly, the ruins strewn on these planets might provide some advantage in the greater conflict. The fleet settles down for occupation, and the admiral dispatches a team of what he thinks are randomly selected Marines under Lieutenant Hojaka.

Their mission: investigate a derelict transfer station drifting in the interplanetary gulf. As they get closer, however, their worlds and their minds stop seeming quite right. Is it a station? Or a frontwheeler photonic torus? A moon-sized Foot? Is it inhabited by corpses or is it the abode of the Meld? Gateways lead into a turquoise-skinned universe where the ancient exiled Representative AI has taken refuge, where others once resided. Greater others, now mauled and mangled by a mixture of their own stupidity and the influence of someone beyond, as the golden mountains on Planet Khundav detonate and the Navies of Solaria patrol.

The stakes are at levels from which causality is but superstition, ethics but an afterthought. For Hojaka, it is a desperate venture, trickery on a galactic scale. To the Meld Deluria, it is a stepping stone. A scheme has been unfolding for aeons, by the will of powers far beyond human comprehension—powers that he aims to conquer.

In his quest, the Meld has come face-to-face with an entity. An entity that has lain in wait since the first black holes uttered their birth-cries, that has witnessed suns rise and fall at the hands of desperate living things who cling to the mossy cliff of survival. It is vast and dark, its tendrils reach far and wide. Now the Meld has used the splendid drama-of-humanity he has orchestrated to poke this entity with a sharp stick. He has forced it to watch. To feel.

Now, it has made a move.

PART ONE:

THE DANCE OF THE DISTANT

-1-

Occupied Koya Prime, Fringe Imperial Worlds

Year 522 of the Gruel War

THE DIN OF WAR felt like trifles compared to the peerless peace he had discovered, the peace of despairing defeat. The roar of the seeders, the sea of fresh wreckage and gore covering the ancient cities and ancient valleys made of caked blood spilled over six thousand years across the ancient battlefields of Koya Prime—it all lost its effect of Fleetmster Thesmin.

He sat in his command tent, which had been reduced from a solid composite structure once standing high in the middle of the forward armies’ positions to a ramshackle shed nestled amongst quick-grown black-leaved trees. The shed was still the nerve center of the surviving armies. The protection detail of six trillion dust-like combat nanites looked like a tornado extending from the command grove all up to orbit, sometimes swarming up during exercises to make blob-like formations that obscured the pink sun. It hadn’t been reduced at all even as the locality’s frontlines were bled white.

One of the most hideous enemy formations’ spearhead had managed to advance three kilometers the last week, their camps visible at the horizon, and in panic, Fleetmaster Thesmin had called for five thousand extra Star Troopers to surround his command tent-shed.

Inside his tent, Thesmin had removed most adornment and hung his old flowing yellow robes so it seemed like a worship room imported from his homeworld, replete with bright yellow curtains. He wore his combat skinsuit, his blackest, most undamaged one with the Imperial insignia shining in an almost ethereal manner on his left pectoral, the dim light sending him into a near-meditative state. All he had in the room were two chairs close enough to each other that the occupants couldn’t avoid touching knees with each other, and a bunch of dedicated screen-projectors for hundreds of tactical and strategic displays.

Thesmin sat on the larger chair, nursing a pot made from hard-burnt alien grass and pieces of wreckage, filled to the brim with a transparent liquid he suspected contained some sort of poison. He looked at the red-skinned slaver sitting before him, the long-bearded man with four stark-white emblems emblazoned across his chest.

Thesmin cleared his throat. Yes, messenger, what have you brought me? Besides this ... drink.

A message, of course, the red-skinned dastard said. Not from my people, but on contract from the grand War Leader Hejo Chardin. He shifted so his knees dug into Thesmin’s, sending a jolt of disgust through the Fleetmaster. I’m Mabal. That’s a contract name, I mean. Nevertheless, please lick that drink clean. It’s top-notch reliever brewed on my home rock.

I might, Thesmin mumbled. Work first. What does the War Leader say about my efforts?

Quite a bit, Fleetmaster, Mabal said. Not just you, but about the entire effort against the hideous-faced ones of the locality. I also brought a status report for you. Be warned.

Get on with it, messenger. Thesmin tapped the pot, taking in its roughness. On impulse, he spat into it, and the entire drink went purple. One ugly sight, eh? But Mabal didn’t react to that. The Red was fondling his beard, as if deep in thought.

The enemy has driven us to the brink, Mabal said, leaning forward and grabbing Thesmin’s hands before letting go and sinking back into his chair in a strange display of Red-zeal. You and me and all of this locality. The War Leaders of every other unit-world in the Protected Fringe have declined support for the war against Koya Prime.

Consequences being? Thesmin felt the urge to take a sip from the pot to keep calm, but resisted.

Well, they conferred and decided. Mabal grunted. They’re taking our new orbital cannon supplies away. The mid-route shops are closing down; the lasing highways have been taken down. When the sun sets in seven hours, not even one of the three million warships in orbit of this ... worthless world will stay. All will go, get redeployed.

Thesmin took a moment to absorb it, and a full minute to process it. A hot smelting pit seemed to open up in his gut. "The War Leaders are aware of month-old intelligence reports? Indicating that the Koya slavers are gathering to begin one ‘final’ assault against my weakened flanks? My four last armies are bloodthirsty, ready to sacrifice themselves to protect the vaults and get the enemies’ key, their tala. He slapped Mabal’s knee, feeling the muscles of steel within. The fleet could stay one more day. I have plans, I need orbital support. I’m a cursed Fleetmaster! No ... we could vote. The councils would’t receive the news until it was done, and a priority-two vote could give me—"

No, no, brother, Mabal interrupted in a soft, almost pleading voice. "Don’t doom ourselves. War Leader Chardin has himself sent approval—to the conferrers, straight from the Center. It makes the recall order a category-one thing, and you don’t have any option unless the entire locality votes in your favor. There still is a method..."

What?

Mabal flashed a mysterious smile. "It isn’t too hard to escape to unknown frontiers beyond the Fringe from this locality, you know. Thousands of ships, thousands of smugglers who ignore or feed off this bloodshed. Disobeying the War Leaders’ orders and hitching a ride on one of those boats ... you’d have a decent chance of surviving for a century, if you use your connections as Fleetmaster to the fullest."

There is no Fleetmaster rank outside the Empire, messenger, Thesmin snapped. "And I need—want—approval for every action I do, even breathing. I could show you my oxygen intake files for proof. I am a law-abiding person, and if you—"

Accepted, accepted, Mabal mumbled, grunting loud enough to interrupt. You were birthed as a law-abider. Nevertheless, there are loopholes—or should I say parts of constitutions that simply don’t apply in these Fringe Worlds. He shook his head. Even if your thinking starts from obedience, you’re obliged to care about your prime personnel.

So? Hence? Furthermore? What are—

"So, you don’t need approval or political support to do what is right and just get your troops out of here. Beat a fighting retreat, spit at the corrupt Masters and load up your armies into the transports within the next five hours."

Of course, messenger. Thesmin’s lips quirked. That’s within my rights. But, since I start with obedience, let me tell you that I’m also obliged to inflict as much damage as possible to the enemy while effecting such a retreat.

Do that, then.

Thesmin grinned. "It so happens that the maximum damage I can deal to the Koya while loading up my troopers is the total annihilation of this planet. Top to bottom, every artifact and ancient city, every valley of blood-cake."

Then what? Mabal snapped.

Thesmin laughed now, exposing yellowed teeth and spitting again in the pot so he could watch the drink turn and swirl purple again. "Well, messenger, I’m also obliged to capture the world, the lost layers and the Grand Caverns intact. Collect Koya, collect resources and recycle all I can to fuel the other endeavors."

Mabal rubbed his hands. Please, Fleetmaster, entertain me further.

Simple, simple, messenger. Thesmin caressed the Red’s knee. "If I’m obliged to destroy the planet if I want to escape, and I’m obliged to protect the integrity of it while capturing it at any cost, while it’s in my right to escape if I need to, and need in an active duty Fleetmaster’s case is determined by obligations, eh, tell me what I really can do?"

Stay and die. Mabal shook his head, leaning forward intensely. "No, superior, you’re missing a key point. The maximum possible damage you can do with orbital support in your command is the destruction of Koya, yes? But you don’t have the orbital guns in your command. If you’ll check your situation displays, the battle in orbit has stopped, and the Koya barges have agreed to a one-sided ceasefire. They’re in custody, and the fleet isn’t yours as long as we’re here. You’re a grounded Fleetmaster, as they say."

Thesmin froze, and an odd sensation took his head. I must sleep, and sleep now. On the verge of dropping the pot, he said, "So I can ask for the armies to be evacuated?"

Exactly. And if the uppers agree, it means the War Leaders aren’t really against it.

Thesmin counted off his fingers, shaking his head slowly. You don’t understand. I’m trapped, still. He smirked. "I still have the firepower to pulverize Koya Prime’s crust. There are enough bombs for that, but not enough to defeat the enemy forces in a straight-faced fight. The politicians could cook up some intelligence reports that the stuff wasn’t actually in the core but in the crust. Which I’d have destroyed by then, giving them lame but ample reason to put me in some jail where I’ll rot and help them get their aims. If I continued the battle for the artifact, though ... The artifact should be in the core, but what if we break through their defenses and never return? If we never find it after sending our best special intelligence into the core, trapped and surrounded by ancient Koya defenders?"

You are indeed retarded, Mabal commented. Combat fatigue, maybe. However ... Do whatever you want, superior. I was supposed to get some reports before I leave. He glanced at his palm. How many slavers do the enemy Koya have with them in captivity?

Five ships, Thesmin muttered. Each containing four hundred captives they snatched from the Grand Protector Complexes of the Protected Fringe lead worlds. A major crime, but it seems some unpalatable elements in our own administration sold them to the enemy.

Mabal puckered his lips. Well, what number did you take in retribution?

Eleven million hideous Koya beings, in the punishment chambers right under my tent.

That should be enough, Mabal said. "I suggest when the lead Koya formations attack tomorrow, if you haven’t heard me and don’t escape, capture as many of them alive as possible. Even the odds, give each grieved member of our armies the opportunity for revenge on a million enemy units each. Don’t suddenly decide to break laws."

I have divisions that have already broken enough. Thesmin rubbed his hands. But why do you say that, eh? The War Leaders left my armies alone here, made us outlaws by default, however obedient I am. What else do we have to lose?

Mabal licked his lips. I apologize for my ... earlier insensitivity, superior. No, the War Leaders haven’t abandoned us. My brothers and I used some consort tactics to get results from a few third-locality Masters.

Then what? demanded Thesmin.

Well, they’re sending compensation for you. Mabal smiled. They’ve thought of everything you have and beyond, our friends. Three hundred million troopers are coming to aid you from second-locality Fringe, manpower that’s trained well enough to defeat the impending Koya assault.

Thesmin was too suspicious to smirk back. "I think we could take the whole surface and begin the advance into the layers below with that much force, depending on lots of other factors."

Yes, you will. That is the order straight from the distant Centrals and one of Chardin’s now-dead contemporaries. You will, or else they’ll change our designation from ‘Protected’ to ‘Unprotected’ peoples.

Thesmin waited. What’s their equipment like? Their own bodies and minds, first.

They are slaves, brother, Mabal said. Not the kind you’re thinking of. Fresh category-two peoples from the further suns. All are Reds, no Blues among them, and five Purple-types made from modification to a lilting-voice-giving gene code that was there in them for the last six thousand years. It’s not bad equipment, superior. These are powerful ‘slaves’, mindless ones, who’ll save your armies in any trench-lines to come.

Trenches? Thesmin blinked and sat back. Yes, I suppose. Once the orbitals go, I’ll be reduced to trench-strategizing. You reduced us to ancient warriors ... He sighed. Go on with your news.

I’m from Tongha Cluster, superior. It’s an unspoken policy amongst mine to save the worst news for last. Mabal cleared his throat. We’re taking your seeders and epiglobic cannons away, and your ammo supplies are going to be cut by forty percent. The fleet will leave behind some excess basic logistics, but ... yes. The scourge of war will be a bit greater. Before Thesmin could reply, he pressed on, It’s all being supplied from the second-locality further worlds, from the research clusters that support many including Tongha. This is a bargain, Fleetmaster. There are some experienced laborers amongst your fissile tankers, whom we’re going to transfer to the research clusters in order to help dismantle and break down the new Palladium World a few scavengers discovered. We need every single bit of your resource-ravenous armies’ unimportant articles to fuel those ... ah, necessary activities.

If what you’re saying ... is the Empire short on resources? Thesmin broke out laughing again. He grabbed the pot with both hands and downed it, feeling the swirling purple drink rush down his parched throat as a sick feeling erupted like a geyser in his midsection. He threw the pot so it travelled to the doorway and slammed onto the ground, shattering and sending a shard of ... material straight into Mabal’s suit. The messenger raised a thin brow. Thesmin commented, "Unexpected, that fragility. But my tanks and equipment are just as fragile. This world is ancient, messenger, many layers in this war. But if the incoming slave troops are such ... good fighters, how do you expect us to keep control over them?"

No, no, Mabal said immediately. They’re powerful, but they’ll be in control. Their brains are made for fighting, and as long as you keep them on the frontlines and give them spring-powder guns, elemental knives, flingers and warsleds, they’ll be busy, keep procreating between battles, and be in manageable numbers once the Koya start attacking. He smiled. I have more. That, superior, is all you’re staying here for. Once the next two Koya waves are defeated, if you’ve not been able to advance into the lower layers, you’re going to take orders and talk with the local emperors in a conference at Tongha.

I need something more to drink.

Drink some good news, then, Fleetmaster. Mabal’s smile widened. The War Leaders sent Fleetmaster Wel Grandose of your very own family, out with a decrepit but full-scale expedition fleet. He’s going exploring the further suns, on probation, in a strange region. His fleet of antiquated Orbs and Disks should be enough to handle the bubbler-peoples.

The Bubble? Thesmin shook his head. More than one alien race lives in that place?

"Yes. Two, both in the twenty-second dark sector with ‘borders’ quite near each other, who don’t know each other. Though only one of them I’d call really alien. An interesting place ... But Grandose doesn’t know about their existence or military capabilities, and he has a clean chit with enough materials to wage war for years, freedom to invent his own tactical protocols and code of honor. It’s a test of your locality’s war-makers. If Grandose can handle his own warlike tendencies long enough ... we might even come into the War Leaders’ good sights."

"When did he depart?" Thesmin demanded.

Six revolutions ago, with seven thousand self-sufficient warships. He should have reached far bubble-stars by now. Mabal chuckled. But he reached a month ago, expending quite a bit of fuel. Predictably, then, he failed the first test, and the supportive War Leaders have abandoned the thought of him. He sent news already, and we sent him punishment orders. Grandose has gone rogue, your worlds have fallen in reputation.

Thesmin found it hard to keep a straight face, irritation and humor bubbling up at the same time. Wait, when ... what did he do?

Mabal laughed for the first time, and pulled out the pot-shard stuck in his suit with ease. He spent a half-minute like that. "Fleetmaster Wel Grandose started a war, superior. He committed his entire fleet, weaponized all his stocks and turned the cargo and auxiliaries into hundreds of extra Orbs, and invaded the dominions of both bubble-races. He managed to incur the divine leelas, it appears. He even found out so-called ‘names’ of both races main combatant factions. The Descendants of Parvell, the Sapiens Humans or something ... but most of his scouting and research happened after his first attack. Quite vicious attacks, really. His rather inexperienced crews committed over a hundred different atrocities on three Sapien-Human worlds, and another of his divisions decided to leave a defeated system unguarded just because they wanted to preserve Star Trooper lives after defeating the enemy mobile forces. Haphazard maneuvers, clunky methods ... his reports were truthful enough, I suppose."

Well, is that not good? Thesmin asked. He’s showing himself to be a fool, but he’s fighting ... or is the fighting itself his punishment? Why would he send truthful reports if he’s flailing around? Mabal waved his hands in vigorous denial. What then, messenger?

Listen on, Mabal said. "Grandose was attacking the beak-faced aliens before going mad. He then ignored his successes coming from underequipped but focused assaults, and when the Descendants of Parvell fought back a bit at a few battles, he stripped down his auxiliaries and built a dozen extra Disks with salvaged material. Foolishness. He built some rudimentary slave-worker intelligences and performed crude experiments on very alien captives, lost respect, and then interrupted a first contact event between Parvell and Human factions with blazing guns. He decided to fight on both fronts at whim, squandered more standby resources and invaded the strongest Sapien-Human factions while going genocidal against four Parvellan worlds."

Thesmin muttered to himself, tasting the residue of the pot-drink while contemplating it all. "That doesn’t sound quite good to me. Assuming he is building his Transceiver Ring as per protocol, though ... what’s the real problem? Mabal’s hesitation and cryptic smile irritated him. Don’t shrug like that, it’s disgusting. Tell me now, messenger. What’s Grandose doing?"

"Fleetmaster, he’s winning."

-2-

Gubre System, Contested Sector, Thousand Suns

October 21, 2538 (200 since Autarchy)

THE Chamaka and its passageways had lost their grandeur after seven months of war. Whether that was because she’d been living and sweating in them for a half-decade, or because the corridors were like the myriad windpipes of a massively vast whale that had killed and devoured more creatures than it could bother to count, Lieutenant Hojaka didn’t know. It was the flagship of Punatambe’s fleet, and as all flagships, Chamaka itself had fired less than a hundred missiles over the entire duration of the battle.

None of those hell-burners had been during actual combat conditions, of course. All fighting that Chamaka had done—that Admiral Punatambe had done—had been against feeble defenses of hell-burned and desperate defenders or fanatics trying to not give up their world in Solaria’s hands without gift-wrappers made of molten lava. Chamaka and its sisters had bombarded them, annihilated those pathetic people who’d considered their dozen-family communities perpetually in vac-suits living inside hollowed asteroids to be their whole world.

Lieutenant Hojaka would expect every corner to reek of death, for that sort of reek had a quality of traveling faster than light from the actual place of bloodshed to establish itself in the innards of whatever machinery had been used to cause it, whether it be manned or unmanned.

Her comm-handworker crackled from her waist, and Major Dengle’s gruff voice spoke. Your team ready, Lieutenant? He sounded like he’d gulped a couple glasses of whiskey or petroleum.

Hojaka slapped the handworker, silencing it. Of course, sir. These halls are dreary, but it doesn’t seem they’re weak. I got the ... unit you said. Found it in storage six-three-nineteen.

Perfect. Move now. The admiral’s taking a nap, and he wants the dissidents gone before he wakes up. His chuckle was accompanied by a faint sound of metal tearing apart, and someone panting. No pressure. Major Dengle, out.

Hojaka folded her hands, looking down at the soft-seeming battlesuit covering them. Advancements were coming quick enough to make her Marines’ exoskeleton armor look like winter clothes, though laser ranges had gone up by a millimeter in a decade. Wondering what that meant, she turned a corner and rapped at a modest-sized hatch marked LAUNCH EIGHT. One part of her expected it to swing open into empty space, and her life to end in the nanosecond-long tremendous roar of explosive decompression. It could, of course, if Major Dengle had fulfilled his promise and persuaded the shuttle into launching without her aboard.

The helmetless, long-bearded Corporal Gongh opened it a crack, blinked at her with his deep eyes, smiled and let her in, an immense dark-blue cannon pointed at her the whole time.

I didn’t bring guests, Corporal, Hojaka said, receiving a grunt from Gongh. She stepped past him into a two by three meter compartment didn’t seem much like an airlock but claustrophobic enough that she felt an urge to punch the corporal. Why don’t you have your helmet on? We’re in battle mode.

"You don’t have a helmet either, ma’am. We both have to smell each others’ breaths for the next ten seconds." He pointed at the beeping—she liked to think of it as burping—airlock hatch.

Hojaka felt a flash of annoyance at his typical-of-him comment, but since it was coupled by wanting to grab his beard, she waited. Ten seconds later, the airlock completed its checks and let them into the shuttle’s main compartment—sole compartment, since the cockpit was just the forward two seats with an extra-large porthole in between, besides the john. The bulkheads were plain, and nothing seemed to hide the fact that one depleted uranium round at half-combat speed would rip it all apart, and even if this mission was just one of the little systemwide skirmishes of a winding-down war to Admiral Punatambe, the stakes were always the same for grunts like her. Win, lose, die or kill. She treated her team with an attitude stemming from a deeper version of that, and though they didn’t banter like most of Chamaka’s detachments, they’d survived sixteen full battles.

Fourteen Marines stood in loose ranks near the forward compartment, busy discussing maneuvers that might increase odds of survival if the shuttle got stuck between two armed-to-the-teeth battlewagons that were looking at each other funny. The current conclusion appeared to be ram one of the battlewagons and try jumping off before you die. They stopped and turned to her in near-unison. Didn’t Gongh tell them I was coming? Didn’t they hear my knock? Or were they doing something else and started doing this just for me to watch?

Second Lieutenant Rahat grinned at her, standing outside the cockpit. Situation, ma’am? He answered himself. We’re going to the rock? He was short, stocky, white-haired and held—had, though he claimed to have stepped on some alien skull in a mission on Ganymede once—the bones of his father. His father, according to the most accurate resources one could get hold of, was a Jovian sub-governor, though he claimed to have several Asiatic generals and colonels in his family as well as long, well-nuanced stories to support assertions and entertain his fellows. He was a pilot, a burner, a storyteller, and her second. She was unsure about his status as potential love-friend or hate-target yet.

Yes, we are going to the rock, Hojaka announced, making sure it was loud enough to carry through the Marines’ skulls and encourage them to listen. They did fixate on her, and most of their hands moved to hover over their battlesuits’ chest-controls, some closing their helmet visors, as if her voice indicated Chamaka was sailing into a sun or something. She tapped her belly, feeling the hard pointiness of the half-bomb, half snake-oil magic mystery unit that she’d picked up from a closet before coming here. Major Dengle had asked her to not look at it until they’d arrived at the transfer station.

The ‘rock’ the Admiral told me about turns out to be a derelict transfer station belonging to one of Gubre-Seven’s former space-based conglomerates, she told her needy-eyed subordinates. The New Arabians killed everyone in it by a stray photonic gamma-burst, apparently during their hasty retreat following Punatambe’s ‘merciful broadcast to all systemwide Provinces’ six months ago.

Second Lieutenant Rahat commented, That tone, ma’am, is not how we refer to the Admiral. It was nonchalant, and Hojaka let it pass.

Well, the sixteenth scouting arm sent out a bunch of gullivats in this direction the day before yesterday, with a dozen swarmcraft wings accompanying them, Hojaka said, running her eyes over her Marines’ far too confident forms. "The flotilla captain decided to inform Admiral Punatambe directly, when our good old Chamaka was taking a dip in Gubre-Six’s atmosphere without any escorts."

Remember that bliss, ma’am, haan? Gongh said. Me and Bhikaji were standing on the ship’s hump and practicing how to shoot.

When the fleet had been taking down Khundav—the fourth planet from Gubre System’s sun—they’d detected suspicious activity on an asteroid-moon of the sixth planet, a gas giant whose local name they hadn’t bothered to find out. The fleet had sent a bunch of slow missiles to nuke that moon, and because Gubre-Six was also the most unpopulated—which meant safe—planet, Chamaka’s crew and troops had taken some quasi shore-leave by coming to hover there.

Well, holiday’s over, she told them. Shooting drones got boring, so shoot people, haan?

Gongh nodded.

Hojaka heard a clack from her windpipe, followed by numbness. Her brain threatened to pump not-good chemicals into itself, so she struggled to bring her lips back into normal human shape, feeling a strange tickle in her throat and the socially ominous possibility of words about to tumble out in nonsensical combinations. "The admiral appears to be eager to show off his own hardiness, for instead of sending any of the flotillas nearby, he decided that we have extra Marines aboard Chamaka who haven’t seen enough battle yet, who for some reason must be itching for exciting combat, and those include us. So we’ve been accelerating for the last five hours here, making no effort to hide the flagship from any occupants of our target. To top off the admiral’s confidence about the transfer station being a dead trophy, Chamaka is alone." She paused to gauge their reactions, knowing an interruption was near.

Alone? Private Asana said. What does that mean, ma’am?

Gongh raised an eyebrow like a pointy pine tree in winter.

"He brought our—his, this, whoever owns a ship—flagship in deep interplanetary space alone. No escorts, no swarmcraft, apparently. As if we’re not in a war zone, running an exercise. Except that we are at war, and not exercising. The nearest ships are ten light-minutes away."

I think captains own their ship, Corporal Bhikaji suggested. She’d folded her arms and put her face inside them, nestled in her crash couch with her helmet half-closed as if the shuttle was already under hard acceleration. Only her dark nose stuck out of the visor, and its twitching indicated either barely suppressed violence or nervousness.

I never do know what my own team wants, do I? Hojaka told herself. She didn’t know what her own answer to that was either. Well, did that happen because I drank coffee with a Meld or because I have a unique form of PTSD?

I suppose it also means that he’s using his baby as a bait, Rahat said.

What? It took a moment for her to realize Rahat meant Punatambe and Chamaka, not Hojaka’s coffee-confused PTSD.

You okay, ma’am? Gongh said.

Course, of course, she said. I’m in deep thought about the mission. What the heck to say to them? Oh yes. Keep briefing them. We’re a team, a family. We don’t want to screw up and die alongside loved ones, haan?

What’s the admiral’s plan, ma’am? Rahat said.

Hojaka remained expressionless, but inserted a pinch of sourness in her voice that could be interpreted according to