Sergeant Jones was sweating. He had good reason, he had been called into a meeting with the top brass. To his knowledge, the officers rarely conducted one-on-ones with anyone.

Those were usually reserved for those with high potentials. Jones knew he wasn't high potential. He was efficient, and he kept his men alive; most of them anyway.

Jones knew a few other guys who had been called up to the top floor. There was Harry after that knife fight, Jesse and his indiscretion with one of the grunts. Ted and his infamous civilian incident. A few others. They were very tight-lipped about what had happened, everyone knew the Scrael overseers enacted harsh punishments for transgressions, and only the stupid crossed them intentionally.

Jones stood nervously in the cramped elevator. Every floor they stopped at on the way up was agony. He stood rigidly in his dress uniform; he rarely wore it and would have been far more at ease in combat fatigues.

The other people in the elevator tried not to stare at him too closely. As the elevator reached the higher floors, Jones could tell they were wondering what was up. At the floor just before the top-most level, one gave him a thumbs up and uttered, "Good luck."

He knew he'd need it. The words sounded like a eulogy.

Jones bit his lip. He knew this had to be about the deserters. He should have shot Peters when he'd had the chance; that kid was nothing but trouble.

A musical chime sounded, and the metallic doors swished open, revealing the executive floor. The room beyond looked like the foyer of a high-tech company. The walls were a smooth matt black, and a large logo took pride of place in the center of the wall behind an compact and orderly wooden office desk at the end of the room.

A gorgeous blonde sat behind the desk, her hair tied back in a tight bun. Only the blue tint to her skin gave away her non-human species. She peered at him through thin-rimmed spectacles, "Take a seat, Major Daily will see you shortly."

Jones nodded and took a seat and automatically selected one which put his back against a wall while giving him a good view of the room's three entry points. He was living in a war zone, and the HQ wasn't immune to attack. It was only paranoia if there weren't people out to kill you.

Time crawled as he waited. There were no clocks in the room and no way to measure its passing.

No one else entered the room, and the woman sat behind the desk rigidly watching the elevator. She didn't fidget or move. In fact, he was pretty sure that she didn't even breathe.

Another hologram Jones thought. It seemed that in this damn war, only the risk of death was real.

The delay irked Jones. The Marines ran to precision, and this was wasting time he could be using productively. Worse still, he understood that this delay was all part of a power-play the Scrael employed to remind grunts of their place in the order of things, and more importantly, who held power over them.

Still, he sat rigid while he waited, forcing himself to keep his back straight and his arms by his side. He was in enough trouble already, without looking for more by demonstrating insubordination.

While he waited, he counted breaths. It was a trick he'd learned while on sentry duty and kept you awake and attentive.

Four hundred and twelve breath's later, the blonde secretary came back to life. "Major Daily will see you now." She intoned smoothly with a voice as smooth as butter.

Jones gulped nervously and took a deep breath before rising from his seat. As he strode towards the marbled glass doors, they slid aside automatically with a slight hiss and allowed him access to the inner sanctum.

Jones felt that he had walked into someone's living room rather than a military office. The Major sat behind an impressive desk, typing quickly upon the holographic keyboard projected upon its surface. The man didn't even look up as his visitor came crisply to attention in front of the desk and saluted him.

"Hello Richard, please excuse me. I'm dealing with something important and will be with you shortly." Jones put his hands behind his back and was about to reply when the Major continued in a dismissive manner. "Take a seat on the couch while you wait."

A good soldier, Jones did as he was told without questioning. Two couches were arranged opposite the Major's desk. One on either side of a fireplace set into the wall, as if to demonstrate that cozy fireside chats were a regular occurrence here.

This didn't put Jones at ease. Toasting marshmallows wasn't something he saw in his future.

Another minute of typing passed. Slowly.

Sitting on the desk beside the virtual keyboard was a red folder. The tab on it read, "Jones, Richard." Its plain folder revealed nothing about its contents, apart from the fact that the file was slim, probably no more than a few pages. Jones idly wondered if this was part of the officer's power play. After all, there was surely no need for a physical file when the information could be stored on a computer securely.

Finally, Daily got up and sauntered over to sit across from him on an identical leather recliner. In contrast, to Jones's rigid formality, the officer leaned back into his seat.

"So Richard. How's it going?" The man's face flickered slightly as he spoke, another hologram, he presumed. The officer appeared human, but Jones had his doubts.

Jones swallowed and forced himself to concentrate on the conversation, "Fine, Major. Thank you for asking, Sir."

Daily nodded.

"Fine, fine. Look, Richard, I asked you up here because, despite the limitations of your species, you've shown competence and loyalty in your service."

"Sir?" Jones inquired cautiously. The man's awkward phrasing put him on edge.

"However, it has come to my attention that some members of your squad have not always shown the same loyalty."

This was it. Jones let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He said nothing and waited for the situation to unfold. Never give your enemy the bullets to shoot you with.

"You reported Private Peters as MIA in your report for," The man paused as he flicked through the file in his hands, "Mission 324-B. Is that correct?"

"That is correct, Sir." He watched his opponent as he spoke, trying to ascertain what he knew.

"Good, good." The officer muttered as he read further through the papers. "It appears your report wasn't correct. The man is very much alive, as far as can be ascertained, he is operating with a small squad as an independent contractor."

Daily gestured into the air, and photographs of Peters appeared shimmering before him. Swiping his hand caused the photos to move, moving through a series of shots. Peters was present in each, along with the strange alien bug he'd befriended and the Orcess Kutwa.

This was bad news. The kid had gone AWOL under his command, and now the brass had found out.

The stakes for this poker game had been raised considerably. Icy fear flooded his veins as he realized that it was possible the stakes now included his life. Nevertheless, this was no time to fold. Jones kept his face carefully neutral and nodded as he waited for the office to continue.

Daily didn't beat around the bush, "I hold you responsible for the problems these traitors have caused. Normally you'd be removed from the ranks." The officer paused and looked closely at Jones, searching for weakness or perhaps guilt. Then, finding none, he continued. "However, outside of this incident, you've proven to be efficient and useful."

"Thank you, Sir." Jones intoned solemnly. He looked at his feet and hoped the officer would consider this an act of subservience and apology. His heart was racing now, but he fought to keep his demeanor as calm as possible and used the opportunity to open his mouth and take in a calming breath.

"I will require some guarantees if you are to continue your service, you understand?"

Jones looked up and met the man's strangely unblinking eyes, then nodded.

The officer acknowledged this by gesturing once more—this time shoving the flat of his hand towards the NCO. Ripples appeared in the air that quickly coalesced into many pages of small printed writing. Jones groaned, there was little he hated more than paperwork.

"Until now," Daily stated, "you have simply been a conscript within the Imperial Numeri. However, if you agree to these terms, you will become a permanent member of the organization. This will grant you certain advantages, although it also ensures specific punishments can be automatically applied if you fail to meet the required standards."

Sarge flinched slightly. He understood precisely what the Scrael meant. He'd heard of men collapsing to the floor in death throes when they'd been insubordinate to an officer. If you formally joined the Imperial forces, you joined until death, and often it came for you quickly.

"Take your time to read through the agreement." The officer said with a smile that was never in danger of reaching his eyes.

Jones breathed deeply and saw the trap for what it was. The Numeri didn't want an army of intelligent, cautious soldiers who considered options. He knew that turning down this agreement would have negative consequences. Besides, deep down, all NCOs know that arguing with the brass is like playing chess with a pigeon. It doesn't matter how good you are or whether you're right. The bird is going to crap on the board and strut around like it won anyway. The only sensible option is to let them get on with things and try to avoid the shit when it rains down.

"No need, Sir." He waved his fingers in a lazy signature over the paper and watched as ink fell into place on the virtual pages. He was now a virtual slave, serving the Scrael at their whim until his death. He frowned, that brat, Peters, was the cause of all this. If the damned kid hadn't gone AWOL, then this wouldn't have happened.

Daily smiled approvingly at him. "I think you'll enjoy your next mission. The existence of deserters would be bad for morale if others find out about them. I want your squad to hunt down and destroy them."