Our shuttle touched down on the flight deck of the FS St. Francis just as dawn broke, settling with barely a tremor.

  She was ancient—first of her class, the Imperial Navy’s original aircraft carrier design. Four generations of sailors had worn her down. Rust veined her hull in long, sad streaks; the island superstructure canted slightly from decades of brutal modifications and harder use.

  From the outside, she looked like a war relic nobody remembered winning.

  Inside, though, she was something else entirely.

  A next-generation power plant thrummed deep in her belly. Her defensive arrays could make an Imperial battlegroup reconsider an approach.

  Her hangar bays cradled aircraft no other navy had ever seen. All of it—every impossible upgrade—courtesy of the Foundation for Freedom. Triple Foxtrot. Ask me who they really are and I’ll shrug. Even if I knew, I probably still couldn’t tell you.

  As we stepped off the Dragonfly, the Corps greeted us with hoarse, triumphant cheers.

  Another mission complete.

  Except it didn’t feel complete. Not when I’d left two of my best people behind. Every man I lose feels like a personal failure.

  Gina walked beside me in silence. We headed straight for the bridge.

  There he stood—Jeremiah “Jerry” Sanchez. My older brother. Once the youngest admiral in Imperial history, boldest strategist I ever knew, the man who taught me everything worth knowing. We shook hands. I saw the flicker in his eyes—the big-brother urge to pull me into a crushing hug—but professionalism won, as always.

  He’s taller, broader. Classic older-brother build. Only his right arm now; the left stayed behind in a meat-grinder engagement with the Union years ago.

  That didn’t stop him from rewriting half the rulebook on carrier tactics.

  When I defected, I was certain he’d become my worst enemy. I was wrong.

  There was that one battle where he had us cold—he knew every move I’d make before I made it.

  Then, right in the middle of the engagement, he ripped his admiral’s badge off, transmitted his defection, and offered himself to the Corps. To the Foundation.

  He’s still my brother. I thank God for that every damn day.

  He didn’t just defect alone. He brought the ship with him.

  The FS St. Francis—named for Emperor Arthur’s favorite saint, Francis Xavier. Arthur was reportedly furious when he learned his cherished old carrier had changed sides.

  Standing off to the side of the bridge was Harvey, chief engineer. Beard like steel wool, eyes that had seen too many impossible deadlines. The same calm voice that had guided us through the raid still echoed in my memory.

  Genius doesn’t quite cover it. Every piece of gear we carry, every weapon, every plate of armor—he either built it or improved it. When I ask how, he just shrugs.

  “Foundation.”

  One day he simply appeared, offered his mind and hands, said Triple Foxtrot sent him. He doesn’t wear the Dead Men patch, but he’s family. He keeps this battered old hull breathing and somehow makes her younger every time a new crate arrives.

  Harvey rose from his station, crossed the deck, and flashed that wide, troublemaker grin.

  “If it weren’t for me, boss, you’d still be staring at the outside of that facility.”

  I smiled. Because he was right.

  Gina handed him the chip.

  He didn’t take it.

  “Better keep that on you. It needs to go to the Foundation. In person.”

  “In person?”

  We never delivered anything to Triple Foxtrot face-to-face.

  Harvey leaned closer. “I think it’s time you kids met them.”

  He slid a slim data slate across the console.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “Tomorrow, 0700 sharp. Coordinates for the rendezvous are already loaded. Instructions will come from one of the founders once you arrive.”

  Gina exhaled slowly. “Finally. Maybe we can breathe for a minute.”

  Then the defense AI spoke—cool, female, unflappable.

  “Multiple contacts bearing west. Large formation. Union Navy surface group and attached air wing. Closing rapidly.”

  My stomach lurched. I spun to the tactical display. Red icons spreading like spilled blood.

  “Red alert! Battle stations!”

  Crew scrambled. Alarms whooped—soft, restrained. Jerry hated the screaming kind.

  My brother just smirked.

  “Panicky little boy.”

  He reached past me, tapped a sequence, then slapped the oversized red button labeled simply: JUMP.

  A deep vibration rose through the deck. Lights dimmed. The air tasted metallic, electric.

  Through the viewport, Union destroyers and carriers grew larger, fighters streaking in like hornets.

  Then—blinding white.

  Zooooom.

  In one heartbeat the ocean remade itself. The horizon snapped to a new angle. We floated calm in the far west of Sector 1, directly off the islands once called Hawaii.

  Now they answered to New Vatican. The most truly neutral ground left on Earth—no Imperial eagles, no Union hammers. Only white-robed priests, monks, and nuns tending impossible gardens in crystal-dusted sand, offering peace to anyone who could still afford to want it.

  I bolted for the flight deck like a kid on his first bike. The crew stared. I couldn’t believe it either.

  Jerry and Harvey followed more slowly, chuckling.

  Jerry clapped Harvey’s shoulder. “That teleportation engine you just installed? I still don’t understand it, but damn if it isn’t cool.”

  Harvey smiled, humble as ever. “Foundation sent the crate. I read the manual. Bolted it in. That’s all.”

  “Best piece of engineering I’ve seen in twenty years,” Jerry said.

  They both laughed.

  Gina stepped up, arms folded, frustration finally cracking into a grin. “So much for rest.”

  The laughter rolled louder. For a few seconds the last twenty-four hours felt lighter.

  Then Harvey’s utility tablet chimed. He glanced down. His expression changed.

  “Voice message. From a founder. They never do voice.”

  He hit play. We crowded in—me, Jerry, Gina, Harvey.

  A woman’s voice, calm, measured, carrying the faintest trace of warmth:

  “Captain Jericho Sanchez of the Dead Men Corps, please meet me at Hotel Cappuchin. Bring the chip. And please be decent… Cho.”

  My academy nickname. From before the world burned.

  Jerry’s eyebrows shot skyward. Gina’s mouth dropped, then curled into pure mischief.

  “Cho?” she teased, jabbing my ribs.

  Harvey chuckled. “That’s a new one on me.”

  They all laughed. I rubbed the back of my neck, face hot.

  Jerry recovered first. “Alright. Prep the Broncos. High-speed run to the island.”

  “Two,” I said. “Gina’s coming. She’s got the chip.”

  Jerry studied her, then me. A slow, knowing smile spread.

  “Two it is.”

  We dropped to the docking bay. Two matte-black Broncos waited—low-slung, predatory things that looked more like stealth jets than motorcycles. Wide tires, razor fairings, engines fed with Hilatus Diaboli fuel. Silent at idle. Thunder when provoked.

  Harvey leaned against a bulkhead. “Careful. Those beasts bite.”

  Gina and I laughed.

  As I swung a leg over, Jerry handed me a suit pack. “She said be decent, Cho.”

  More laughter. Gina doubled over—until Jerry passed her a second pack. Inside: a simple, elegant white dress.

  “You too, Gina.”

  Harvey called from the side, “Oh my God, Gina in a dress!”

  She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Keep talking, old man. Next one’s for you.”

  We changed fast. Me in sharp black (Foundation tailoring, apparently flawless). Gina in the dress—clean lines, fabric that caught light like powdered crystal. She looked… softer. But still unmistakably Gina.

  Engines snarled awake. Thrusters kicked. We rolled to the deck edge and launched—tires leaving steel, skimming the sea like missiles on water.

  Wind tore past. Salt spray stung. Gina rode beside me, hair whipping, dress somehow staying perfect. We laughed the whole way.

  We slowed at the beach, tires biting crystal sand. Followed a dirt track inland, past quiet villages and waving white robes. The main settlement rose ahead—low white buildings, chapels with glowing crystal spires, faint incense on the breeze.

  Gina leaned closer. “Who is she? That ‘Cho’ wasn’t random.”

  I smirked. No answers yet.

  Hotel Cappuchin appeared—an old colonial resort reborn as neutral sanctuary, walls luminous in morning light. A nun in flowing robes met us at the entrance.

  “Welcome, travelers.”

  “Tourists?” she asked gently.

  “Meeting someone,” I said. “A woman.”

  Her gaze sharpened briefly. Then she nodded. “She’s waiting in the bar. This way.”

  Cool corridors lined with stained glass and crystal. Soft piano drifted from the bar—low lights, quiet patrons.

  And there she was.

  I froze.

  Faye Tassle.

  Daughter of Joe Tassle. The Union’s iron president. The man whose signature had green-lit half the horrors we fought.

  Long red hair, cherry lips, big bright blue eyes. A black serpentine dress that moved like liquid night.

  She sat alone in the corner, calm, a clear drink in hand. She looked up and smiled—warm. Real.

  Gina stopped dead beside me. “No way…”

  We approached. Faye gestured to the empty seats.

  “Sit. I thought you’d come alone, Cho.”

  “I… needed backup.”

  We sat. Gina slid the chip across without speaking.

  Faye pocketed it smoothly. “Long time, Gina.

  You look beautiful in that dress.”

  Gina gave a small, shy nod—rare.

  I had to ask. “Why, Faye? What’s the angle? Does your father know?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Another gentle smile. She slid a small bag across—thick with cash—then a data disc labeled “For Harvey.”

  I pressed. “Who’s your co-founder?”

  Faye stood, smoothing her dress. “That’s for me to know… and you to find out.”

  She walked away, graceful, untouchable.

  Gina and I stared at each other.

  A nun approached, smiling softly. “Miss Tassle arranged a complimentary stay for you and your crew. No Empire. No Union. Just peace.”

  I nodded, still numb. Took a sip of the martini she set down—cold, perfect.

  Gray light poured through the windows. New

  Vatican peace, for once.

  But peace never lasts.

  Not for us.