“Admiral on deck!”

  Nearly a hundred Fleet officers spring to attention as the shout is raised across the Agni’s cavernous command bridge; even those who are interfaced with the Agni mechanically raise fists over chests and bow their heads, though their eyes are vacant, minds elsewhere in the monitoring of the capital ship’s systems.

  “Carry on, crew,” Lanis replies—perhaps a bit quickly? she thinks—as she strides across the raised platform to the central deck, Ash close behind, rows of terminals and blue-jacketed Fleet personnel to either side.

  “Will they stop doing that if I command them to?” she mutters under her breath to Ash.

  Ash glances around at the upturned faces that have only fractionally relaxed from their salutes at Lanis’ reply. “You could try,” she whispers back. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Lanis inwardly groans. She’s had more than two years to try to get used to the awe that she inspires in others, but she still finds it gratingly uncomfortable. Personally, she thinks it was a mistake for Fleet to detail her role in repelling the Anomaly’s attack on Terra or her subsequent time spent on the Dwellers’ ship. Alas, the decision never rested with her—or even fully with Fleet, for that matter. Once certain details became public knowledge, Fleet and Planetary Administration simply decided to “embrace the opportunity,” as Admiral Ren put it. They reasoned that a hero might be useful during a time of civilization-threatening emergency.

  Perhaps. But Lanis’ self-assurance hasn’t quite caught up to the mythology that has been built up around her. At least the hero-worship isn’t quite so pronounced here among the command-bridge officers of the Agni—but the undercurrent is still palpable.

  “Captain. Lieutenants," Lanis greets the officers who surround the bridge’s central holo-cast. The ‘cast, nearly four meters in height, is a collection of several different projections: the star system, with its clumps of green and now depleted red, streams of simplified data, from fission core stability to point-defense functionality, and several jerking vids of the Guanyin’s lead assault teams.

  “Admiral,” the collection of officers replies in unison, bowing their heads. Foremost among them is Vice-Captain Julien Dupont, the senior officer on-deck. He’s a short young man, equal to Lanis in height, with black hair, blue eyes, and an almost comically pretty face. He’s younger even than Lanis, having been in his third year at the Academy when the Anomaly struck. Then again, besides the smattering of Mars Fleet veterans that are scattered amongst the ships and the specialists that Fleet cobbled together from the highest echelons of corporate talent, nearly everyone at a Fleet officer level is young, some shockingly so.

  “The crew has performed to the highest standard, Captain. Well done,” Lanis says as she steps up to the holo-cast, staring into the abyss of the recent battle.

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Dupont replies, bowing again. “Of course, Admiral Atsuya and the Agni were truly magnificent. But as you say, I believe the entire crew performed exceptionally well.” There’s a slight, pleasant accent to Dupont’s Terra Standard, the product of a cloistered upbringing in a small town in old Europa before he was swept up in the dragnet of Fleet’s mandatory exams. His integration levels weren’t quite high enough to land him an integrated command role on one of the other ships, but from what Lanis has seen so far the Agni would be in capable hands if Atsuya or the AI ever suffered a catastrophic break. For now though, he is a kind of substitute, dutifully awaiting a turn at the integrated helm that may never come while overseeing the rest of the crew.

  “So, how are we faring?” Lanis asks as she tries to absorb the streams of data that spill across the ‘cast. She isn’t connected to Ether or the Agni, as per Fleet protocol; it’s healthy to fully disconnect after a long integration session, especially post Warp jump, but she feels slow as a result.

  “Guanyin is landing troops as we speak, and the last Gor support ship has been destroyed,” Captain Dupont briskly replies. He narrows his eyes, and the ‘cast magnifies an image of five newly-built Insertion Units roaring through Scoria’s thin atmosphere, followed by several dozen support shuttles full of smaller Suits and medical teams.

  “And the Trixilii ship?”

  Dupont hesitates, and Lanis notices his mouth fractionally pinch. “Our assault ships have successfully breached the disabled Harbinger, Admiral. Minor casualties. The Harbingers aren’t really equipped for boarding repulsion. But… well, perhaps it is best if I bring it up on the ‘cast.” He nods to one of his lieutenants, whose hands flutter at an unseen image. “Scoria’s Commandant just shared this transmission with us. It is from the initial negotiation between the colony and the Bellitran fleet.”

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  Lanis’ new role as Vice-Admiral, not to mention that of hero, requires a certain gravitas, a projected sense of calmness and control. It wouldn’t do for her to slam a fist into the edge of the holo-cast, or to unleash a string of expletives. Instead, her only outward reaction is a darkening of her eyes, a shallowness of breathing that is forcibly controlled as the video of Colonel Weber is replayed, his blinking code-speak of ‘Resist’ translated in real time. She can feel Ash tense beside her, and a pall settles across the bridge as pale faces gaze upward at the ‘cast or have the news fed to them from their interfaced connection to the Agni.

  Lanis takes a moment to compose herself after the vid finishes, staring at the last frame of Colonel Weber. A light sheen of sweat has collected over the man’s forehead, and Lanis can recognize the fear behind those eyes now. The bravery, too. Finally, when she is confident that her voice will not break, she asks, “How do we know if it’s true? What he said about Etana?”

  If Dupont is similarly distressed at the vid of Weber, he hides it well, only a terse frown betraying his inner thoughts. His gaze becomes distant as he receives a stream of updates from Fleet and the boarding parties. “The assault teams are attempting to retrieve the Trixilii data logs,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying in the near total-silence of the Agni’s bridge. “They’ve fried them all, of course, wiped their machines. But there’s always a chance that something may remain. We’ve captured several Trixilii alive as well, but it will take some time to properly interrogate them.”

  Lanis tries not to dwell on what that interrogation might entail. “And what about Weber?” she asks, taking a deep breath, consciously slowing her heartbeat. “Are there any other people on board?”

  Again, Lanis can feel Dupont’s hesitation. Then the small shake of his head, and a further hardening of his pretty, now totally unreadable face.

  “There were prisoners, Admiral. But, none alive. It is… not a pretty thing, Admiral.”

  Lanis swallows, and brings her chin up, trying to set an example of steadfast calm. This will not be the last horror of this campaign, she thinks. There will be no illusion of what we face after this, if ever there was. Then she nods. “Bring it up on-screen, Captain. For everyone to see.”

  Dupont slowly nods back, and a new series of scenes is brought to the forefront of the central ‘cast. A low groan, something primal of rage and despair, sweeps across the Agni’s bridge.

  Clearly, the Trixilii took their time with Weber.

  The man lies, splayed—or at least what’s left of him—in a kind of vat of transparent liquid at the center of a large white room. From within the vat, surrounding him in silver clusters and needle-like ridges, is an array of what Lanis can only assume is Trixilli medical equipment, repurposed for a more sinister use.

  Lanis remains expressionless as she stares at the body. Then she gives a sharp nod to Dupont, and the image fades. She can only hope that the Trixilii hit an artery before he suffered too much.

  “And the Bellitran?” Lanis asks, spitting the last word. There will be one of the monsters somewhere on the Trixilii flagship, the true leader of the whole armada and the League’s subservient races. A kind of navigator, priest, and general, all rolled into one hulking form. A twisting in her gut seems to tell her what she already knows.

  Another image expands.

  It’s confusing at first, coming from the jerking cam of a Fleet assault soldier, their raised lance-rifle and armored fists occasionally intruding into the frame. Lanis can see other members of the unit, dark blue and grey forms in tactical armor and dark-visored helms fanning out along the walls of a large bright space. Then the soldier pauses, seemingly satisfied that the room contains no imminent threat. Their weapon is lowered, the vid slowly pans, and Lanis is able to appreciate the sickening grandeur of the chamber.

  As a child, Lanis remembers studying the histories of the ancient empires: emperors reclining upon looming thrones, surrounded by supplicants, knights, and cowed subjects; cathedrals and mosques and temples, from which priests communed with gods and promised salvation, suffused in arched gold and the ancient artifacts of saints.

  The throne room of the flagship’s Bellitran would outdo any of them. It is a dome of opulent, resplendent worship. Scenes of Bellitran victories rise up on the walls, at least twenty meters tall judging by the small figures of the advancing Fleet assault units—fresco-like images encrusted with glittering jewels and arcs of star-flung precious metals: here is the stylized form of a Bellitran crushing the first of its subject races into submission, another wresting with the representation of an Ursox wyrm; there is even, Lanis can briefly see, an image of one of the monsters devouring a vaguely Human-shaped form.

  And there, at the center of the chamber, lying bloated upon its throne-dias of crystal and worship, is a Bellitran itself.

  It is a huge thing, the size of an elephant at least, and a similar shade of dusky grey, though there the similarity ends. There is no Terran equivalent for its shape, though the mind struggles to place some familiarity in the fully alien form: an octopus, perhaps, is the closest comparison, but what then to make of the pitch black eyes that ring its equivalent of a head, so much like a spider’s? What of its cilia-like organs that ring its tongue, or proboscis, or feeding organ, which now hangs like a braided column of tendrils from its giant slit of a mouth?

  It is dead, of course, though even its fetid corpse will be a coup for Fleet’s science and intelligence corps if they can get it back to Terra. No Bellitran has been captured alive, and by the look of the great dripping mass of greenish fluid leaking from its tendrils, this one activated its termination implants the moment its flagship was disabled.

  But that isn’t the worst of it. Far from it.

  “Are those…?” Lanis breathes, stepping closer to the ‘cast.

  Dupont nods, his face a mask.

  Bodies, piled around the dais like offerings to a god. Hundreds of them.

  Humans.