1.07

The climate of the small, parched world of Ombra Prime, nestled on the edge of The Verge deep within the Austral Corridor, ranged between inhospitable desert and semi-arid steppe.

Long thought by many to be scarcely worth the effort of settling, it had been one of the last planets in the galaxy to take on a permanent population. This barren territory, largely devoid of mineral and energy resources, was further cursed by a meager allowance of drinkable water, thus rendering it incapable of supporting a populace beyond the most meagre and scattered of habitations. 

But the air was breathable, there was potable water, and – most importantly – no good reason for the Federation to claim it as their own. After the revolution on Kaal and the rise of the PDR, they, too, saw more value in strengthening their own positions rather than expanding their slight resources to swipe up a mostly-barren, far-flung rock. 

Contradictorily, what kept most away from Ombra Prime in the first place had become the reason for its influx of immigration.

Pirates, outcasts, criminals of all stripes, merchants looking to expand their markets, war-weary veterans from both galactic superpowers – the early days of Ombra Prime descended fast into anarchy. With no theory supporting the settlement, no structure of government to ensure safety, and no sense of community, the inevitable power vacuum swallowed all but the most cunning – not the most strong. 

For it was business that brought with it a yearning for order. The more each merchant, pirate, or thief got their hands on, the more they wanted. But commerce could not expand beyond the strength of those preying on it, and soon the most avaricious of mind realized the barrier of illegitimacy was holding them back. 

Only legality could surmount the hurdles which brute force had, in the entire history of humankind, never overcome. 

By the time the pirates and criminals had dwindled into a historical footnote, the wealth of Ombra Prime had surpassed anyone’s most wild imaginings. The population ballooned from a few tens of thousands to nearly an even billion at present. 

While the PDR and the Federation traded victories in battle and (more seldom now) traded worlds, Ombra Prime was able to consolidate its strategic position and critical power, playing both sides to its own benefit – as well as to the benefit of each of the belligerents. 

The Federation traded business investments for an offworld tax haven; the PDR exchanged critical resources for a reduction in the need to over-protect their most vulnerable planets in the Austral Corridor – including Thalassar. 

Ombra Prime’s neutrality, born from individualistic greed, had transformed, astonishingly, into the singular agreed-upon peace in the entire galaxy between the United Empyreal Federation and the Planetary Democratic Republic. 

Both the PDR and the Federation had learned a valuable lesson from the planet Jakar in the Boreal Corridor – devoting military might to waging war around a neutral site had been a waste, instead of allowing the planet’s neutrality to act as the deterrent to invasion through the corridor. 

It was the demise of Jakar, caught in the rampaging Fed-PDR crossfire, that crowned Ombra Prime the only remaining individual neutral player on the galactic board.

That lesson, more vital to Ombra Prime than to the forces which caused Jakar’s downfall, had been etched into the very constitution of Ombra Prime – neither the Federation nor the PDR were to conduct war games on or around the sovereign world. 

Both then-President of the Federation and then-General Secretary of the PDR agreed to the terms – the sands of Ombra Prime would never become a battleground.

But the Jakar Accords only moved the conflict away from the cosmos surrounding the dusty little sovereign of Ombra Prime, and into the halls of Parliament.

As Ombra Prime’s Minister of Interplanetary Relations, Darvi Chal held arguably the most difficult and necessary position in the galaxy. Her sole task was to ensure neutrality was maintained and peace between the superpowers – that thin, fragile thread – never frayed to its breaking.

The air inside the Parliament’s House Chamber – a tall, cylindrical room of darkened wood and amber ambiance – felt thick. So thick, that Darvi refrained from her usual emphatic gesticulating so the movement of her red and blue ministerial robes would not upset the tenuous balance she was desperate to maintain.

Her dark eyes scanned the circular table, meeting the look of each of the dignitaries seated there, skipping over the empty seat reserved for the ambassador from the Federation. “I say it again, I say it a thousand times more – there is no alliance with the Federation. None.”

The silence that fell when she stopped speaking was every bit as commanding as the words themselves, spoken in her deep, resonant voice – a voice fueled by fiery passion, like a lighting storm over still waters. 

She held the wordless reactions without yielding, staring from behind a fallen curl of her thick, black pixie cut that tumbled over her eyes. She raised a tattooed hand to brush it away only after no immediate protest ensued. Every visible inch of her body, save for her face, had been covered in an intricate scroll-like tattoo pattern whose meaning was known only to her. 

The ambassador from the PDR – a tall, athletic man named Enmar Gondon from the planet Kaal – sat back in his seat with a sigh. Not of defeat, not of resignation, but of frustration he was quite obviously loath to continue giving voice. 

Darvi indicated Enmar with a soft, diplomatic gesture. “If you have something to say, Ambassador Gondon, you are free to speak."

“What more is there to say until the Federation ambassador arrives?” He ran a hand over his short, fuzzy hair – frustration expelling itself in whatever manner restrained diplomacy allowed. “She is aware that she is the ambassador now, correct? Can we at least have the assurance that her absence is intentional?”

Darvi fought to keep her gaze locked on Enmar instead of drifting to the vacant chair. 

She knew the Fed’s new ambassador, Triss Chapelton, from when Triss had been Embassy Counselor. They knew each other quite well. Triss would not be late without reason.

Triss’s absence concerned Darvi less than the Federation deciding to appoint a new ambassador so shortly before launching their idiotic invasion of Thalassar. Fed fleets amassed between the icy PDR world and Ombra Prime had Darvi’s nerves frying.

She threaded her fingers together to give them something to do, resting her hands on the obsidian marble. “Whatever is delaying Ambassador Chapelton can, and will, be relayed to her at this meeting’s conclusion–”

“It is a matter of diplomacy, not her own–”

“Allow me to finish.” Darvi spoke in another strong silence before adding, “Ambassador Gondon, you insisted upon this meeting to have a spoken assurance of no secret pacts between Ombra Prime and the Federation–”

“And to have Federation fleets withdrawn from–”

“–and I have given you that assurance, Ambassador.” Darvi continued over the echo of her own rising voice. “The Federation, for all we are aware, are presently discussing the means by which to conduct the withdrawal you speak of, and are relaying that information to the ambassador at present. Every one of us seated here is aware of the logistics of war. Things do not occur how or when we wish. Ambassador Gondon, I ask only of your patience in this moment, which I understand is unsettling for you, as it is for us...”

She concluded with a slow sweep of her hand around the table to identify the Ombra Prime representatives present – Minister of Defense, Yorma Turon; Darvi’s closest Diplomatic Counselor, Shao Sela; Admiral of the Ombra Prime Armada, Ibra Zjun; and special attention given to the Prime Minister, Jalir Yant.

Have my back any fucking time now, Jalir.

“So, please,” Darvi said, her tone now closer to the stillness of a water’s surface than lightning flashing high above it. “Let us recall that our mission for gathering here is to resolve conflicts, and you have my strongest guarantee, Ambassador Gondon, that I will not tire in my endeavor to protect the sovereignty we so painstakingly constructed and protected for decades. Again, I say: there is no–”

The old, giant hinges of the Chamber door groaned, a sound that swallowed Darvi’s unfinished guarantee and snatched the attention of everyone in the room. 

The woman who entered was tall, brushing six feet without heels, thin and willowy. Her chestnut hair was pulled up in a tight bun, with bangs cut to her brow. She wore a simple, modest white sheath dress without sleeves, and carried a tablet bearing the Federation’s winged-eagle insignia in shining gold.

Darvi had never been happier to see Triss Chapelton enter the House Chambers.

Triss, struggling with the tall, heavy door, flashed a millisecond of an embarrassed smile, and put her shoulder against the glossy wood to force the door shut. 

The ensuing slam that confirmed the door was shut froze Triss in place, but only for a moment before she proceeded, eyes on her white shoes, to her seat at the table. 

She raised her brown eyes, darting from each anticipating expression to the next, before returning them to the tablet in front of her where she pulled up a report. 

Triss brought the side of a soft fist to her aquiline nose and cleared her throat – the daintiest little sound – and read from the tablet.

“The Federation–” 

Triss cleared her throat again, likely out of nervousness from stepping into such an important role rather than any necessity to do so.

“Excuse me,” she apologized in a voice so soft-spoken and delicate – almost childlike – that every ear in the Chambers had to actively concentrate to hear what she was saying. “The Federation Security Council wishes to extend its greatest affirmation that no plans to agitate the neutrality of Ombra Prime exist. The–”

Triss raised her eyes to the others for the first time, and it looked to Darvi that she only just remembered the rehearsed action.

“The Federation Security Council,” Triss continued, eyes down again to read, “wishes also to reiterate that its commitment to neutral relations with Ombra Prime does not imply its differences with the PDR, which are irreconcilable, will not be acted upon in the theater of war.”

From the corner of her vision, Darvi noticed Ambassador Gondon’s head shaking ever so subtly. He wasn’t buying any of the rehearsed fancy talk. 

Nor was Darvi. 

“The Federation Security Council has authorized, and succeeded in, launching an attack against the hostile world of Thalassar.” Triss looked up from the tablet, as though this was the moment she must stress the most. “It is no longer hostile.”

The words “no longer hostile” seemed to freeze in the thick air of the Chamber. Enmar’s nostril exhale, even stifled, resounded twice as loud as Triss’s speaking voice.

Triss resumed reading. “The Federation Security Council was delayed in compiling their report and delivering it to me, to then deliver to you. They wish to extend their deepest sympathies.”

The Federation ambassador briefly met the gaze of the PDR ambassador from across the table. 

“Given the unforeseen development of the sudden passing of General Secretary Valeric Lendrov,” Triss read, “The Federation Security Council is asking for the assurance of the interim government, via Ambassador Gondon, that the peace we are working to maintain here on Ombra Prime will not be jeopardized by the incoming leadership.”

Triss sat back in her seat, no longer hovering over the tablet, and offered a brief “Thank you” in conclusion, hands folded in her lap.

Darvi turned her eyes to Jalir, a wordless urge for him to speak, but the Prime Minister remained as silent as a stone. Darvi knew this was not a show of trust in his Minister of Interstellar Affairs to sort out the mess of Thalassar – he was covering his own ass for when everything went sideways, leaving Darvi to shoulder the inevitable blame. 

Fucking coward.

Darvi pushed her tattooed forearms against the warm black marble, sitting up straighter. “Ambassador Chapelton, thank you for delivering the Federation’s position on where they stand. I believe it is best to proceed with the mutual understanding that, if the Federation’s position is accepting of acts of war against a world so close to Ombra Prime, the PDR’s response will certainly be framed around the same logic – any attempt to re-capture Thalassar likewise falls within the bounds of what the Federation has deemed acceptable hostility.”

“Hostilities certainly still persist in Thalassar space,” Enmar said, leaning forward in agreement. “Similarly, as the PDR is handling the fallout of Comrade Lendrov’s passing, new leadership may also be coming to the Federation. Is it correct to say that President Thorpe has not yet announced he is running for a second term?”

“Yes,” Triss said, offering no elaboration on the upcoming Federation election. 

Darvi knew that Triss was soft-spoken and reserved from working together in the past, but never saw how she would do when thrust into a prominent role where addressing Parliament on behalf of a galactic superpower was not only a requirement, it was literally the job itself. 

Darvi scowled internally at the cynicism of the Fed, treating the position of ambassador as little more than a spokesperson for the Security Council. The timing with the mess of Thalassar seemed too ideal to reside strictly in coincidence. 

“The assurances that I can provide today,” Enmar said, “on behalf of the PDR, is that Thalassar will not go unpunished. Indeed, we are at war – the Federation and the Planetary Democratic Republic. However, we are not the only parties impacted by this stage of the conflict. The sovereignty of Ombra Prime space is being directly threatened this very hour by the Federation warships gathered between here and Thalassar. It is one thing to threaten a PDR world, but quite another to directly impede Ombra Prime’s sovereignty in the process. PDR trade ships moving to and from Ombra Prime are effectively sanctioned by this Federation gathering, which directly impedes Ombra Prime’s ability to conduct itself, its business, and its trade, which is in direct violation of the Jakar Accords. Thalassar is our concern, and the PDR will address it in our own way. But the blockade is Ombra Prime’s concern as much as it is the PDR’s. It has to be lifted at once.”

Enmar did not pause once in delivering his speech, which he obviously refined down to the last detail in the interval before Triss’s arrival. The PDR ambassador to Ombra Prime for five years and fast approaching six, Enmar knew how to conduct himself in the Chambers to get the desired response. Darvi took note of how often he used the term “directly”.

Jalir spoke for the first time in his dry, tired affect, “I second the ambassador’s notion – Ombra Prime’s neutrality is at risk. This cannot be permitted to continue.”

He set his hands atop the table, the rings on his fingers clinking against the marble.

About time. Darvi nearly spoke the words aloud, but thankfully caught herself.

In lieu of her true feelings, she said, “Not at risk, but actively prohibited. The longer we delay, the more we promote the normalization of this offense. Ambassador Chapelton, please inform the Federation Security Council of our decision without delay.”

“Yes,” Triss said. 

Darvi rose to her feet, marking the meeting’s adjournment. As the others rose and began to disperse, Darvi said, “And, Ambassador Chapelton, see me in my office to catch you up on what was missed.”

The thickness of the air inside the House Chambers had followed Darvi to her own office. 

She stood in the shadows behind her desk, fists pressed into the glossy wood, head down and black curls falling, the hot setting sun of Ombra Prime painting the walls surrounding her in glowing yellow. 

Six years as Minister of Interstellar Affairs and never had she seen the single thread of peace woven on Ombra Prime so close to snapping at the mildest pluck. 

She raised her right fist two inches and punched it back down again with enough force to jostle everything at rest on the desk. 

The sheer audacity of the Federation. The nerve, the arrogance – she couldn’t find the right word to accurately describe the magnitude of their betrayal. 

How dare they. How dare they cut off trade routes with the PDR. How dare they treat the ambassadorship as a cutout for warmongers to speak freely. How dare–

Two quick raps on the office door snapped Darvi out of her private tirade, followed by two more. 

“Come in.”

The door creaked open on its old metal hinges, and the Federation ambassador entered as meekly as she had in the House Chamber.

“I’m so sorry,” Triss said as she immediately launched into an apology, her delicate voice sounding even more fragile when pleading. “I didn’t know. They just gave me the statement to read. I didn’t know what else to do…”

Darvi circled around her desk, leaving the anger of her thoughts behind. “The situation will be resolved, do not worry.”

Triss, arms crossed in front of her, stared off with worry written on her features. “They told me to read it, they told me not to make any demands, they said…they said…” She had to stop to catch her breath. 

Darvi approached Triss and tenderly took her by the hands, lowering the shield she had erected with her arms. “Triss, look at me. Look at me…”

Her voice was all stillness, no storm. 

When Triss met her eyes, Darvi placed her loving hands on Triss’s hips, pressed up on her toes, and kissed the Federation ambassador. 

She held her lips on Triss’s until she felt Triss relax, raise her arms and take Darvi's head in her hands. Lost in the warmth of Triss’s touch, in the pleasure of her lips, every concern in Darvi’s mind fled.

Slowly disembracing, Darvi lowered herself, tasting Triss’s lip balm on her own lips – vanilla and mint. “Triss…my love…everything will be settled. We will make it so.”

Her lover’s touch calmed Triss down. She drew a steadying breath, nodding as if to reassure herself. “I’ll do what I can, lily, but it might not be much. The Security Council is going to be more aggressive since Lendrov is dead, at least until his successor is appointed.”

“I had expected as much.” Darvi went to her desk and sat against its smooth edge, facing Triss. “Whatever you do, Triss, do not put yourself or your position in jeopardy.”

“But lily…”

Darvi’s expression softened every time she heard the pet name – desert lily – rolling off Triss’s tongue almost in a whisper, but Darvi knew they had to remain focused if they were to be able to stay together on Ombra Prime. 

“If they don’t think they can control you, they will send someone else.” Darvi pushed off the desk and approached Triss with gravity. “You will be recalled.”

Triss’s breath caught in her throat at the realization.

Darvi took her by the hands once more. “Let them think you are weak. Let them think they have control. Let them think whatever they will, as long as they want you to remain here. Whatever they demand, I will weather, Triss. For you, I will weather it all.”

Triss melted into Darvi’s embrace, and the two women held one another in the safety of their lover’s arms.

As they approached an uncertain future, Darvi found familiar comfort in Triss’s heart beating against her cheek, that soft and steady rhythm that so often lulled her to sleep over the two prior years – and for a fleeting gap in space and time, Darvi felt they might actually make it through the oncoming storm, together. 

Triss had been instructed to never make subspace comms transmissions outside of her office in the Federation Embassy.

She followed the rule to the letter. The office had been the most thoroughly protected space from spies on Ombra Prime since at least her predecessor, Ambassador Vale. 

When she sat in the brown leather chair at her desk, she put into her cell comms a secure routing request for her contact in the Security Council on Usona. Her breath was as steady as she could hold it when the request was accepted.

Triss held the cell comms to her ear with one hand and smoothed her tight dress against her lap with the other. She repeated what she would say to herself in her head to boost her confidence, and hopefully sound natural.

Like a droplet of water rolling down a desert dune, her confidence disappeared instantaneously at the sound of the retired Admiral’s strong and imposing voice. 

“This is Admiral Faraway,” Clayton said.

Triss was on her feet and pacing before she could get her first words out. “Admiral…it’s Ambassador Chapelton.”

“I know. Just give me a summary of the minutes.”

Triss swallowed, forgetting what he meant by minutes until it returned to her. “The PDR and Ombra Prime both want the blockade lifted, right away.”

“That was the original objective, but new intel from Thalassar has shifted our strategy,” he said, emotionless.

Triss thought about asking To what?, but thought the better of it. 

Clayton continued, “The snow storm is delaying our ability to extract our target, so stand by for further instruction. In the meantime, placate them as best you can. Really sell our desire to wait for a successor to Lendrov.”

“I will.” Triss wasn’t sure if she should ask who the asset was, and decided it was best not to push for intel that was likely of no consequence to her position.

“Good girl,” Clayton said. “What about that bitch of a minister, whatshername?”

“Minister Chal?” Triss offered.

“I don’t care what her name is,” Clayton spat. “Keep her in your sights. She’ll cause you more trouble than anyone else. Vale tells me you had a close working relationship?”

Fingertips absently brushing the spot on her lips where Darvi kissed her, Triss said, “Yes, very close.”

“Good. That’s why we’re keeping you there, so maintain that rapport as best you can.”

“I plan to,” Triss said with the most confidence she has yet felt that day, and the allure of spycraft came into sudden focus – having information others did not was a powerful feeling. 

But the dread of the Security Council (or ANYONE) learning of her private affair with the Minister of Interstellar Affairs (an ironic title) – far more powerful. Triss felt she could never be a spy.

Clayton wasted no time getting to his final command. “We are finalizing our new plans and will deliver them to you once our Thalassar target is extracted. Be ready. Faraway out.”

The call ended before Triss could say anything more, and in the silence that followed, her confidence faded like a mirage. The cell comms slipped from her limp fingers onto the padded chair at her desk, and Triss hugged herself as a swell of emotion surfaced. 

“Darvi…my desert lily…what am I doing?”

Silently, Triss stood crying in her office, unheard even by spies. 

More than anything, she had wanted to stay on assignment on Ombra Prime after Ambassador Vale’s retirement, and spend two more years as Embassy Counselor. She cared nothing for advancement.

As long as she could stay with Darvi.

Triss got her wish, and her greatest nightmare, packaged all in one – she had become the Federation’s newest and most important intelligence asset.

_________________________

The Politburo thundered with argument.

Esmeray paced in the back of the chambers, arms crossed, eyes down. It still didn’t feel real. Val was there one day, and gone the next. Not from a space battle or a planetary invasion, but from the pressure of it all. 

War spared no one, it seemed. 

She spun the wedding ring on her bony finger, terrified of what was to come. The grey marbled walls closed in around her. Voices raised. She wanted to cover her ears and shut everything out, to find a single moment of stillness, re-center herself.

A gavel’s BANG against the striking block yanked her back into reality. 

“Please, comrades…let us retain some order.”

The voice was not that familiar deep resonance and deliberate cadence that had graced the Politburo chambers for three decades. It was measured, careful, softer in a way unsuited for debate upon which tens of billions of lives depended. 

Esmeray parted the curtain of golden waves that was her hair, and found the PDR Minister of Public Relations, Vance Fadeon, standing in Lendrov’s spot. 

The thrum of voices diminished gradually, like a storm cloud giving way to clear skies, but Comrade Fadeon’s presence did not yet yield a guiding light. As each member of the Politburo physically in attendance began taking their respective seats, Esmeray wandered to hers. All the while, she tracked the sure posture and confident movements of the representative of planet Skorik. 

Evzen Savek did not sit. 

He remained upright, assuming the stature of a load-bearing pillar for the Planetary Democratic Republic’s very survival. He addressed the Minister of PR directly. 

“Comrade Fadeon, your presence is most welcome in this fog of uncertainty. Given the emergency which has presented itself to us, let it be said at the start of our unfortunate gathering today…”

Esmeray couldn’t believe what she was hearing: a voice that remained untroubled as he spoke of tragedy, as though Valeric was getting dental work and not lying cold in the morgue.

Savek turned to the others seated in the room and those represented in hologram form. “Despite our comrade’s sudden departure, the material reality is that the war marches on. It cares not for our mortal troubles – and nor does the Federation, who will incontrovertibly seek to capitalize on our moment of greatest weakness. I find it imperative that we demonstrate to the Federation that our true strength lies in our collective unity, not within any singular individual.”

Esmeray held her head in her fingertips, elbows rooted against the cold marble countertop. She listened to the wicked perversion of Lendrov Thought spit from the viper tongue of one of its greatest opponents – exploiting the General Secretary’s death to demand more loss of life. 

She didn’t know whether to cry or vomit or scream in rage – but nothing could bring Lendrov back to them. She shifted weary eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, down the counter to Casimir. 

He must have felt her gaze because he returned the glance, with an accompanying frown. 

Esmeray lowered her hands and gave a subtle, urging motion to Casimir Lovren. It was up to them. Savek knew that, and he did not even wait for Val’s body to stiffen before stepping up in an effort to claim the mantle.

“As we are certain the Federation’s attack will be swift,” Savek continued, “We must meet it with equal or greater force.” 

If that was how he treated Lendrov, Esmeray thought, she did not hold much faith that he would value the rescue of Sorenna Tal any more. 

Speak, Esmeray mouthed to Casimir. 

It had to be him. She had resisted Savek’s arguments routinely. If new voices did not join in her chorus of one, with Lendrov unable to moderate and Sorenna not returning any time soon, Esmeray’s greatest fear would come true – all the threads of the war spiraling out of control, and not enough hands working to braid them back into something they could ever hope to control. 

Savek went on, again addressing Vance. “In the most unlikely turn of events, latest reports indicate the Starlancer sent on the trans-core mission to Liber has returned. Is that information correct, comrade?”

Vance, still on his feet, pressed his hands into the marble counter before him. “The Starlancer Chrysalis has, in fact, returned. That is correct.”

Expressions of surprise floated through the chamber. 

The news struck Esmeray hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs. Gasping, she shot a glance at Casimir once again, but he stared at Vance in dismay at the news of a successful trans-core infiltration of Federation space.

What Esmeray had assumed to be a suicide mission destined for failure, against all odds, succeeded? 

She slumped back in her seat, all the fight slipping from her. Had the dying Rear Admiral, the Vinskian Captain, and the old junker of a ship failed, she could mount a far stronger debate against further escalation. 

Mission success meant that Savek had been proven correct – they could attack Fed space from the core. 

The hard grey marble walls pressed inward, and Esmeray found herself wishing, from a dark, pragmatic corner of her mind that she seldom searched, that the Chrysalis had not made it back. 

“In what condition is the ship?” Casimir asked. 

Esmeray turned her tired, defeated gaze to the representative from Tveren, who had, finally, stood up. Mustering whatever lingering resolve she had left, she pushed herself upright in her chair. The war was not over yet.

“Condition stable, details unknown,” Vance said. “What we are aware of is that the Chrysalis has returned without any compromising damage from the journey, or from the engagement at Liber. They returned to PDR space nearest the Karidiev star zone. Five Strix pilots were lost.”

A heavy quiet settled over the Politburo chamber as the magnitude of the report came into sharp relief. 

By the looks Esmeray witnessed on the expressions of her comrades, the battlespace of the war had been flipped on its head. If a slapdash mission doomed from the start had succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest imagination, and with only five lives lost in the effort…

Suddenly, it seemed anything was possible.

It looked, perhaps more than ever, that the PDR had a real chance of winning the war. Not in some distant, idealized future – but in the life Esmeray had lived for more than half a century.

She would live to see the war’s end. 

Esmeray caught herself holding her breath, and her next exhale toppled a weight from her chest that previously felt everpresent. 

She allowed her eyes to slip shut, if only for a moment. 

One single, brief, re-centering moment of stillness.

She opened her eyes to the seat across the chamber, reserved for the representative of Thalassar – still empty. And the cold, grey walls squeezed her back to reality. 

“Comrades.” Savek’s voice cut through the uncertainty with the sharpness of a blade. “The lives given to preserve our great experiment of self-governance are approaching uncountable figures. To learn that only five comrades have not returned is a tremendous outcome, for certain. Not one of us in this room or attending in hologram form believed such a favorable outcome was possible.” 

Casimir remained standing. “This news is most certainly a surprise to us all. Would it not behoove us to launch an immediate examination of the Starlancer Chrysalis, to further our understanding of what is possible moving forward?”

He concluded by lowering himself to sit – a non-threatening gesture. 

Savek pivoted to address Casimir. “The Federation will not wait idly by while we conduct an examination of a ship that, we have been assured by its command, is structurally stable.”

The Minister of PR opened his mouth to speak, the slight smacking of lips and short intake of breath drawing Savek’s attention. 

Esmeray could see that this man, Vance, knew how to conduct himself diplomatically – likely the reason the Central Committee appointed him to attend the chamber meeting. However, she wasn’t convinced that the way past Savek could be forged through decorum. Not anymore.

That the Central Committee was convinced, however, brought the familiar weight back to Esmeray’s chest. She drew a heavy breath and sighed it out quietly.

For as much the war changed, so much remained the same. Victory, it seemed, could not be found without an accompanying defeat.

“The CMC has given orders for the 17th fleet, to which the Chrysalis belongs,” Vance said, “To proceed to Thalassar. This order was given prior to the return of the Chrysalis, so perhaps an exception could be made–”

“The Starlancer Chrysalis has returned in combat-ready condition,” Savek said. “It has lost only five Strix pilots. The path from Karidiev to Thalassar resides along the Austral Corridor, through which no trans-core travel is necessary. They shall encounter no Federation fleets on this journey through PDR space. Comrade, I can fathom no reason for the ship not to join its comrades in the rest of the 17th fleet at Thalassar. Is the rescue of Comrade Tal not our highest strategic priority at this juncture?” 

Esmeray hated listening to the rising murmurs of agreement. 

Casimir would not return her gaze. Was that as hard as he was willing to push?

Esmeray balled her fists, but set them carefully and silently atop the marble. She smoothed her fingers out against the hard grey gloss, and then raised one hand. 

Vance motioned to her. “Comrade Covral from Ostravamara, would you like to speak?”

Esmeray lowered her hand, remaining seated. “Comrade Savek makes two excellent points: the first is that the return of Comrade Tal to these chambers is, at present, our greatest concern. The 17th fleet has been dispatched specifically for that purpose. The second is that our great strength lies not within individual action, but through collective effort. The 17th fleet is perfectly capable of operating without one singular ship, particularly with the aid of the remaining 9th fleet.”

She could see, even from where she sat, Savek’s jaw tightening in the light spilling from overhead. 

Given that no immediate counterargument was volleyed, she continued, “Our comrades on the Starlancer Chrysalis have just accomplished a feat never assumed possible, in enemy territory, at an enemy world. They have lost five comrades. They are tired. They are hungry. Comrade Fadeon, please correct me if I am mistaken, but we are not aware of any potential internal damage that may hinder the functioning of the ship in battle, nor are we aware of how many munitions were expended during the Liber operation.”

Vance simply nodded to confirm she was correct.

“Comrades,” Esmeray said plainly to the others, “To thrust the Chrysalis back into immediate combat would be to needlessly jeopardize the lives of the only human beings who have ever successfully traversed the galactic core. They lived! They have knowledge, a first-hand experience only they can relay. Should the Chrysalis be shot down at Thalassar…we would lose so much more than lives and a ship.” 

The mumbled sound of minds working out loud in hushed conversation resounded louder than Esmeray anticipated. She could feel Casimir’s eyes on her now, but she held her own gaze softly on Comrade Fadeon, staring past Savek.

A thin smile cut into the stone of Savek’s face, instantly replacing the visible contempt he held for the old woman from Ostravamara. 

Savek raised both hands in Esmeray’s direction and spoke with subtly mocking consolation. “There is a lesson to be learned in Comrade Covral’s wise words: she speaks only to present an unassailable point…”

It took every muscle in Esmeray’s face working in tandem to not permit a scowl.

Savek turned to the room at large. “Indeed, the crew of the Chrysalis will require rearmament before proceeding to Thalassar. During this interval, which will be brief, the ship’s logs must be uploaded to the nearest comms outpost to preserve the irreplaceable data therein. The crew shall rest and continue to Thalassar to reinforce the collective strength of the 17th fleet. Any rest and recuperation gained from this respite is undoubtedly orders of magnitude greater than what the Federation is allowing for Comrade Tal. If she does not rest, we must likewise remain unwaveringly vigilant in our rescue effort.”

“Comrade Savek,” Casimir said, rising halfway to stand. “This would still jeopardize the crew of the Chrysalis, who cannot possibly record their experiences in such a short timeframe.”

When Casimir was back in his seat, Savek said, “That is a fact, Comrade Lovren. It is also a fact that Comrade Vokler on the Chrysalis is a Rear Admiral, thus denoting the ship as part of the reserve, not the vanguard. This positions the ship in a strategic spot as likely to see action while unlikely to face the brunt of Federation weapons. Which is to say, in all likelihood, they will survive.”

Casimir started to stand again but Savek kept speaking, bearing down like an avalanche. 

“Furthermore, victory at Thalassar will be found not strictly in the firepower of our numbers, but also in the fear those numbers instill in our Federation foes. The more ships we can afford for Comrade Tal’s rescue, the greater our chance of success.”

“That is to say nothing of the boost in morale.” The words were spoken by the hologram of Amarovir Vhodhar from planet Callistok. “Seeing the Chrysalis return might instill greater confidence in the 17th fleet.”

Savek nodded at Casimir but said nothing. He didn’t even look at Amarovir – an act (or lack of) which had Esmeray shaking her head. Callistok had historically supported Lendrov Thought over more aggressive doctrine. Savek’s allies had grown greater than Esmeray had thought. 

She spun the wedding ring on her finger faster than before, tumbling blonde locks shadowing her careworn face. 

Valeric Lendrov was dead, and Lendrov Thought seemed to be drawing its dying breath, giving birth to a new and reckless adventurism. 

Try as she might – and she spent sleepless nights trying – Esmeray could not see a way around Savek and back on the path that had kept the PDR stable for 30 years.

Not without Sorenna. 

The Politburo liked her. They respected her. They listened to her as they listened to Lendrov. They wanted her to take the party mantle when Val stepped down, or when he…

Esmeray could not even voice the word in her head. It still did not feel real. 

From complacency grew fear, and in times of crisis, people flocked to the strongest voice, not the wisest one. The Politburo was no different. Esmeray was staring this truth in its cold, emotionless face.

The highest priority was not the rescue of one individual, but the stability brought by that person’s return. If one more ship helped in that effort, then perhaps, on this point, Savek was right…

The Chrysalis had to go.

_________________________

“Looks like the shuttle is through,” Cade said, and gave a quick scratch to his dark goatee. 

Rane was beside him in a second, staring out the observation window at the swirling white storm blanketing the world of Thalassar. 

“Get a secure comms line open to the Vindicator,” Rane said without averting his gaze. 

“Yes, sir.”

Rane drew a long breath and forced it out slowly. Now was the time to fuck up what Scothern and the Security Council had fucked up for him. 

“Duncan…”

Rane turned when no response came, finding the Dreadnaught’s captain slouched in his seat with his head down. 

He walked over and kicked Duncan’s boot, startling him awake. “Beauty sleep’s over. It’s showtime.”

Duncan pushed himself up, blinking in adjustment to the bridge’s lighting. “Did we win?”

“Look alive,” Rane said as he oriented himself toward the auxiliary video screen. 

He didn’t anticipate the moron to accept anything more than audio, as with their last call, but he could never tell with Roland Scothern. There was a value in the unpredictability of stupidity. 

The thought left Rane’s head the moment Scothern’s voice blared through the audio-only comms line. 

“Dryden.” The word sounded like acid on Scothern’s tongue. “Don’t you have a ball to chase?”

“Only a member of the Politburo,” he said, turning back toward the observation window showing Thalassar. 

Scothern’s laughter boomed. “And seize my glory? Not so fast, Dryden. The bitch is mine. Now, go find another party to spoil. Maybe you might even get someone willing to allow you to piggy-back off of their success.”

Rane strode to the nearest officer, Cade, and whispered to move the Dreadnaught between the Vindicator and Thalassar. 

Cade nodded with a tiny grin of satisfaction. 

“We’re just trying to help out” Rane said as calmly as he could, which was quite calm. “Positioning to hold Thalassar is crucial. The 11th fleet can hold its formation while we secure the prisoner, and no one is put in a jeopardizing situation.”

He finished with a smirk at Duncan, who was silently laughing himself awake. 

“Oh, Dryden…” Scothern spoke with unmasked contempt. “You think I’m some kind of fool.”

Rane’s eyes went wide and he nodded with great intent, which sent Duncan into another laughing fit. 

“No, Dryden. You have your own fleet designation. This is an operation of the 11th fleet. I can have the Security Council strip your of your ra–”

Scothern’s pause lingered only for a second.

“Wait, what are you doing? Why is your ship moving?”

“Like I said, we’re going to take the prisoner.” Rane's voice did not waver as he watched the enormous form of planet Thalassar shift in the observation window. 

Scothern’s, however, turned increasingly furious. “Dryden, get that fucking – you’re cutting off our line to Thalassar, you idiot!”

Rane wished there was a video feed so Scothern would see the delight on his face when he said, “Yeah, I guess we are.”

_________________________

“Faraway! Move us around to block the Dreadnaught’s approach!” Scothern’s face had turned as red as a PDR uniform.

Sayre was upright and plotting the sequence to cut off the 6th fleet ship within seconds. She initiated the sequence which nudged the Vindicator into motion – the second time she had ever done so.

Her brow was sweating and she wrestled against the urge to glance at the bridge’s door to watch for Specialist Barron’s return. 

Instead, she stole a quick exchange of eye-contact with Rhoda, who sat at the communications station.

This is it. This is when I prove myself.

By Rhoda’s firm expression, she didn’t agree.

Sayre swallowed hard, studying the coordinates, mentally mapping an alternative should their current path get cut short by the Dreadnaught. She knew she could do this. All she needed was more time to actually do it.

Whatever petty squabbling the two Vice Admirals were bickering over, Sayre didn’t know, but a part of her was thankful for the conflict giving her this opportunity. 

“Faraway, for fuck’s sake!”

Scothern’s bellow jerked her out of her concentration – just long enough to see the Dreadnaught altering it’s approach vector.

Sayre’s attention snapped back to the controls. “Okay…okay…I can do this…”

“Then shut the fuck up and do it!”

Pulse hammering in her temples, Sayre punched in the alternate sequence, sweaty fingers slipping on the last button. She had to delete her mistake and type it in once more. 

Captain Shipley marched up to Sayre’s console. “Get it right, Faraway!” His teeth did not part as he growled the command.

“I am, I’m trying – I mean, I am, sir…”

Scothern threw his arms up and shouted at the Dreadnaught, “What is he doing now! FARAWAY!”

Her collar was hot and damp. “Yes, sir. I’m trying – I will, sir–”

“You’re leaving our flank exposed,” Shipley spat as he hovered over her, scrutinizing every move. “Layton, call Barron back up.”

Sayre punched in another sequence which pitched the Vindicator down to come up from under the Dreadnaught. “No, wait – sir, I can do this. I can do it–”

“Know your place, Faraway,” Shipley said. “When you receive a command from a superior officer, you keep your mouth shut and you follow orders, am I clear?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Good,” he added. “Now, if–”

Shipley was cut off by Scothern hollering to Sayre, “Get us in position to fire a pulsar torpedo at the Dreadnaught.”

Shipley snapped upright. “What?!”

“I said I would fire on Dryden if he pulled any of his shit, and god dammit, that’s what we’re going to do!”

“We are not firing on a friendly Wraith Reiter!” Shipley was in Scothern’s face before Sayre could draw her next breath.

She simply stared, wide-eyed as Scothern replied, “Their shields are likely at full charge. One pulsar torpedo won’t hurt anyone, it will only send a message.”

The pissing contest continued, Vice Admiral vs. the ship’s Captain, with Sayre caught between them. 

She glanced across the bridge to the comms station, expecting to find Rhoda’s unsurprised glare awaiting her. But Rhoda’s expression had turned deadly serious, engrossed in an incoming message…

“Captain,” Rhoda called from the comms station. “PDR ships approaching from subspace!”

The schoolyard bickering silenced only for a moment as the reality of the alert shook everyone out of their personal troubles.

“How many?” Shipley demanded to know. 

Rhoda, hand to her earpiece to better hear the alert, said, “Full fleet strength.”

Shipley spun back to Sayre. “Faraway, get us back into position before they arrive. Our flank is still uncovered!”

Sayre, fingers trembling above the sweat-slicked keys of the astrogation console, stared at the immense array of buttons and screens. The one that she needed had to be accessed through a separate screen, but to pull that up meant she had to…

She had to…

Oh no.

“FARAWAY!” Shipley screamed in her face.  

I know this…I know this…

She’d seen it in the manual she’d been studying obsessively, it was clear in her mind’s eye – but seeing the console in person, actually using it, actually punching in the commands, was a different beast – one which she had not been afforded the opportunity to tame. 

Before she could even think another thought, Shipley’s hand was on the collar of her uniform, his fist tight as he yanked her clear out of the seat, sending her tumbling across the bridge floor. 

Sayre rolled to a disheveled stop, gaping up at the Captain in shock.

“Someone get me an astrogator who knows what the fuck they are doing!” He turned his fury to Sayre. “Out of my sight!”

Sweaty palms squealing against the polished deck, Sayre scrambled to press herself up, tripping over her own legs as she sprinted out the bridge’s door.

“I know it”, Sayre repeated through tears for the 100th time. “I know it I know it I know it!”

Furiously, she flipped through the pages of the Wraith Reiter’s astrogation console operations manual as she sat on her bed, choking back sobs. 

Crying was weakness, her father had said. Weakness doesn’t win wars. She had to be strong. 

Sayre smudged a palm up her face, smearing snot and tears into her hair. 

Only babies cry.

“I know it…I know it…I know it…”

She located the page which outlined the sequence she had been dying to remember, but it did her no good now. Not in her bunk, far away from any ability to actually DO it.

All that meant was that she had to study harder. 

They can’t win. They won’t win. I won’t let them. 

Sniffing back her tears, Sayre read and re-read the page over and over and over again, and then read it again, all the while repeating, “I know it. I know it. I know it. I know it.”

The swell of emotion became too much, and Sayre slammed her eyes shut tight to keep the tears at bay. Only babies cried. 

She squeezed two fistfuls of snot-crusted hair, screaming, “I KNOW IT!!!”

But her scream reached no one. 

The astrogation manual slipped to the floor in a thunk, and Sayre buckled forward, bedsheets swallowing her sobs. 

She hadn’t heard the chime of someone at her door. She only pulled herself up when the door whooshed open and Rhoda stepped into the room. 

Sayre, hair wild and feral, face red and wet, stared in absolute defeat at her closest confidant without saying a word. 

Rhoda stepped over the fallen manual and sat gently on the edge of the bed, facing Sayre. 

In a quiet, measured tone, Rhoda said, “Here’s what we’re going to do…”

Sayre listened to the defection plan. She heard it. She understood. 

When Rhoda was finished, she calmly stood up, backed up to the door, and opened it. She said nothing as she left. 

The door shut and left Sayre alone once more in the solitude of her own failure. 

For a long stretch, Sayre sat staring at the tearstains she had left on her bed.

Then, she reached down to the floor, retrieved the astrogation manual, and continued reading in silence.

_________________________

“I said get up.”

Visser’s command echoed in the Thalassar Assembly Hall as Sorenna, with some effort, pushed herself up to stand. 

Devana grabbed the bottom of Sorenna’s grey sheath dress with energy-cuffed hands. “Sorenna, don’t…”

“It’s okay,” Sorenna said with no worry in her voice. 

Visser marched to stand in front of her. “Today is your lucky day.”

“It is?”

Visser motioned for two Federation soldiers to take Sorenna. “You’re getting out of here.”

A Fed soldier reached for Sorenna’s arm but she shrugged away, her gaze held on Visser. “Nobody is going anywhere in this storm.”

“Nobody except you. You’re a special gift for President Thorpe.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Sorenna said, some urgency creeping into her voice now. “I’ve lived here my whole life. I’ve seen what Thalassarian winters can do to ships in the atmosphere. Nobody can leave. That is not an opinion, it is an examination of the material condi–”

A soldier’s sharp grip on her upper arm stopped her argument. “Let’s go.”

Visser, stone-faced, betrayed no hint of disbelief in his escape plan.

Sorenna chanced a look in Bolan’s direction. It was almost time. It had to be.

Bolan turned his eyes down to his wrist comms. 

When he looked up and his eyes met the shattered face of Sorenna Tal, his look said it all. 

Any second now.

Devana ambled up to her knees awkwardly with bound wrists, but Sorenna eased her back with a gesture from a bloodstained hand. 

“It’s okay,” Sorenna repeated. “It’s time.”

Sorenna locked her good eye on Devena’s expression and watched an understanding set in. Devana didn’t know the whole plan, but she knew Sorenna had something up her sleeve, and that, by Devana sitting back down and ceasing her protest, was good enough for her. 

“Okay,” Sorenna said. “Let’s go.” 

The Fed soldiers pushed her forward and strode beside her. They kept their hands on their beam rifles. That was good. A facade of compliance meant granting her more freedom of movement when–

The lights in the Assembly Hall went out.

Darkness fell. Startled shouts filled the cool air.

With one swift movement, Sorenna thrust her elbow into the gut of the soldier to her right. His beam rifle clattered to the floor, identified by its glowing blue core.

Sorenna dove on the weapon instantly, flicked the dot sight on, panned until she saw black armor and squeezed the trigger. 

The soldier that had been on her left dropped dead on the stage, armor sizzling. She put a beam through the skull of the stunned soldier on her right.

She found more targets standing and put blue bolts through each one. 

Behind, someone clambered onto the stage – Bolan, face illuminated by the red glow of his PDR beam rifle taken from the hidden stash.

Blue and red beams crossed the stage, utter black following each brilliant glow. Voices raised and bodies fell. Boots trambled in the direction of the nearest door. 

Sorenna aimed, fired. 

The scream came from Visser. His body toppled from the stage and into the seats below in a cacophony of defeat. 

The blue beams stopped, Fed beam rifles lying stationary on the stage. The red glow of PDR weaponry dominated the cold void.

“I think we’re clear!” Bolan said. 

Sorenna threw her Fed beam rifle away, its charge nearly spent. “Get those cuffs off Devana. Bolan, secure the doors. Everyone with a weapon, sweep the Hall when emergency lights kick on.”

As soon as she entertained the question of why they had not already, the faint red glow of emergency lighting bloomed from overhead. 

Bolan tossed a fresh PDR beam rifle to Sorenna, who caught it.

Sorenna flicked the safety off. “Anyone hurt?”

“Not terribly,” someone said. “I can still go.”

The energy cuffs came off Devana, who went to the injured comrade. He took a beam straight through the shoulder but remained standing.

With the power shutting off, so too did the building’s heating system. There wasn’t much time.

“Assembly Hall secure!” The shout echoed across the cavernous room.

Surging from adrenaline, Sorenna allowed herself one deep, steadying breath. And then:

“Comrades,” she said. “Let’s take back our home.”