Neerson tossed his headset down and turned to a Senior Lieutenant on his left. “Charter course for the Cluster, Station Victory Formation, at speed level urgent.”

“Yes sir.” The man said, and went about issuing orders.

Then Neerson turned to a woman on his right. “Get me in contact with Senators Ziggenbor and Rezkin, General Greer, and Rear Admiral Fletching.”

“In that order, sir?”

“Yes Lieutenant Mark. I’ll be in my briefing room.”

“Yes sir.”

Neerson moved through the Ascendancy deftly. The ship was not unlike other Dreadnaughts he had been aboard or commanded, and once you knew the layout, the sprawling size of the damn crafts. Floating cities, more what they were like.

When he came to his briefing room, he entered. It was empty, as he had not called a briefing, at least not of onboard personnel. He went to the his chair at the backmost arc of the round table and sat, and counted. Two hundred and eleven seconds passed before the holo projector in the middle of the table clicked to life, and a face materialized before him. It was Lieutenant Mark. “Senator Ziggenbor could not be reached. He is en route to the EMAR now.”

“Very good Lieutenant.”

“Standby for Senator Rezkin.”

Lieutenant Mark’s face rippled and dissolved into the face of an old woman. Her eyes narrowed, but her lips quirked up at the corners. “Richard.” She said. “I wondered why they didn’t specify the Admiral in question trying to reach me.”

“Heather.” Neerson said, inclining his head. “I am sure you would have not entertained anyone else so rude as to disturb you at this hour.”

“Obviously.” She said. “What do you need, Admiral?”

“You met with Senator Ziggenbor?”

“An engaging young man, I’ve always said, and one who deserves much more than to be afflicted by your interest.”

“I need to know if he’s up for the task.”

Heather Rezkin’s smile vanished. “Admiral Neerson.” She said, “You’ve set him an impossible task, if he is expected to accomplish it alone.”

“He is not alone.”

“Oh.” She said, her tone changing. “You should have told him. Then yes, he is indeed up for the task. Though it will tax him.”

“It will tax us all.” An alert on the arm of his chair pinged. “But it needs to be done.”

Rezkin nodded slowly. “Then St Angel is indeed active again?”

“I’d stake my reputation on it.”

“That little?”

“My command and rank then.”

“That is what it will cost you, if you’re wrong. And more, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“A necessary loss.”

Rezkin’s holographic face surveyed him for a moment. “I sincerely hope you are right, Richard.”

“I must take my leave.”

“I never grow tired of hearing those words from you.” She said. “Godspeed, Admiral.”

Neerson tapped a key and another face shimmered into existence. This one was a mask of fury and indignation, as General Greer looked down on Neerson in rage.

“Neerson.” The General snarled. Neerson inclined his head. “What gives you the authority to command army ground troops without my consultation, or so much as my knowledge?”

“General Vorom, Mr. Layton, and two very expensive bottles of scotch delivered to the Honored Patricia with a note reminding her of a favor she owed me.” Neerson replied in a tone smooth as ice and just as cold. “But if the General Commander and Chairman of the aforementioned military force as well as a sitting member of the Triumvirate aren’t good enough for you general, I suggest you take it up with someone who wears a tie on their chest instead of stars.” He folded his hands and waited.

Holograms never did the emotions justice, there were just too many subtleties convened in perspiration and the flush of the skin. In this case however, very little was left for Neerson’s imagination.

“An entire squad of Task Force Berghest, wiped out!” Roared General Greer. “For what?”

“As a point, Sergeant First Class Valentine is en route to the Emergency Medical and Rehabilitation station, wing 11, with critical but non life threatening injuries, and it was to save the lives of soldiers.”

“And how many of those soldiers survived, admiral?”

“One. His life yet hangs in the balance.”

“One soldier.” Greer said flatly. “Against the lives of some of the most highly trained operatives in the entire army, have you done the math on that?”

“I have, General, and so did they.” Neerson snapped. “I informed the command of Task Force Berghest that the mission was optional, and that the personnel would be by volunteer only.”

“No soldier would deem that mission, optional, admiral.”

Neerson was quiet, allowing General Greer to hear his own words. “Except one, it would seem.” He said quietly, rising from his seat. “From three stars, to two, General, shame on you. Perhaps if you were anguished over the decision I might think better of you.”

“Admiral, losses happen in warfare.”

“Whom are we fighting, General?” Neerson said, forcing his tone to remain at level. “What was the tactical intelligence that led the 3-95th battalion into the jaws of death? What foe was looming for them to be aware of?” The General opened his mouth and closed it again. “I would agree with you, General. But some itch inside my scarred soul has trouble finding peace in leaving soldiers to die when they were only carrying out their orders with half the intelligence at hand.”

“Are you insinuating that information was kept to them before their deployment to Mars?”

“Yes.”

Neerson’s gaze held, and for thirty-one seconds, so did Greer’s. The General officer looked down, perhaps busying himself with something outside of Neerson’s sight.

“Mission critical information.” Neerson pressed on. “Uncomfortable information, but information that could have saved lives. I would say countless, but the investigation and report hasn’t even begun yet. No doubt when it is disseminated I will read it before you.” And he ended the transmission, rage flooding through him. Like a feral beast in a cage, Neerson paced up and down the wall, passing the small door set into it five times before another ping came at his chair’s arm. He punched the key.

The face of Rear Admiral Amanda Falcoon appeared there.

“Take command of the Tenth Fleet, Falcoon.”

“Yes sir.” She said at once.

“I will be en route to the EMAR once the Ascendancy clears crisi protocol. Contact under emergency protocol only.”

“Yes sir.”

Neerson ended the call and spun to the small door, punching in six digits to the keypad. It slid open. As he walked through, dim lights came up, enough to illuminate the way to his desk there, but not much else. There was enough in the way of data storage and terminals that Neerson found too much light in the place distracting. For the most part the room looked like any other ship commander’s study, or as they so pompously liked to call them, Tactical Information Gathering Quarters.

Which was far more words than one needed to say ‘study’.

Neerson seated himself

At last, he breathed a deep sigh and let his face fall forward into his hands. Emotion pounded around inside the cage he had so carefully, meticulously crafted for it. It sought a crack, an opening, a weakness from which to escape. But there was not one to be found.

Five hundred seconds passed, and Neerson straightened.

His desk was carved from a solid piece of synthetically grown wood, unlike those metal slabs so many of his counterparts used. There were plants too, also laboratory grown, but alive in their own right, nonetheless. A point of many jokes from his peers. Once it had bothered him, their disdain for his interest, but since he had grown old… well, he had noticed their oddities too.

From a drawer he drew an old bound volume. It was numbered on the front, seventy-three, one of a hundred he had made for himself. Flipping it open to some two thirds of the way through the pages, he drew a modern pen and began to write.

When he replaced the notebook, he also drew a small holodeck from the drawer and placed it on the table. Twice he had to punch the address through, but on that second cycle through a bleary face came to life. “Rich?”

“Thane.” Neerson said gently. “You have an important and unfortunate situation coming your way. Can you accommodate me?”

--

Natalie Sanderson sat at her work bench, pouring over notes and technical drawings, as well as anatomy scans and x-rays. The work day was over, but there were just a last few things she wanted to fit in before turning in for the night. She wasn’t the only one, either.

There wasn’t anywhere that said it was a requirement to stay up late once the personnel of the Experimental Cybernetics and Electronics wing of the EMAR, but it was almost an unspoken challenge to see who could cram as many last minute notes about their research and findings before the Chief Doctor came and banished them all to their rooms.

There was a strict policy on their quarters. No business. This was established after so many of the Apprentices and Journeymen of the RAE corps had simply begun not sleeping to continue their research. And when their bodies had decided that it was time to sleep whether the personnel wanted to or not, they had begun researching sleep substitutes, or other means of pushing their waking hours to the absolute max. That was when things had changed. They could read approved works for pleasure, listen to music, but tinkering even with seemingly innocent hobbies or ‘recreational lectures’ was off the table. And at 2200 hours on the dot, all non essential power was cut from their rooms, leaving them in darkness with only the option of ambience of their choice, audio and lighting.

A product of her upbringing, Natalie liked silence and darkness. Occasionally she would put on white noise that consisted of swells and crashing water that she was told had been what the natural oceans of Earth had once sounded like. She had seen it simulated before, she had even seen footage of the awesome expanse of water, cloud coverage over it with thunder and lightning too. Sometimes, though, she found herself doubting such a thing could have ever existed. The proportional requirements for that much water…

Shaking her head, she put it out of her mind. Nature could always trump the laboratory. That had been beat into Natalie’s head along with all the other Apprentices when they were nothing but RAE recruits. They didn’t question things like weather and eco systems, unless it was your area of study and practice. Even then, the old sciences were only handled by Artisans or Doctors.

She stuck to simple things, like cybernetic appendages and optics with a focus on human subject application. Taking a needle she jabbed at the robotic hand she had on a rig in front of her. It was partially covered with artificial flesh, and the sensor lights flashed over a monitor to her left in color coded hughes on an image of a hand. The readings were… getting better. The discouragement she had felt when she had first presented her progress to the Artisans was lessened when they had told her exactly how many nerve endings there were in the palm. 17,000, thereabouts, and each would need to be able to act and react like their living, fleshy counterparts did. The half hearted recommendation that she move her focus to something a bit less complex had fallen on deaf ears. Expected, but that was the way of the RAE corps, more often than not. Pliable, stubborn, and curious, where the unofficial attributes of Apprentices.

A single soft pinging sound echoed through the work bay. Thirty minutes until it was time to turn in, which meant that all across the work stations grumpy apprentices were beginning to clean their station. The Journeymen would be through later in the evening to make sure that the stations were cleaned to standard, and in the morning one of the Artisans and one of the Doctors would be through to make sure that the Journeymen had checked to standard. If anything was amiss, there would be paperwork, mostly in the form of sarcastically written essays, about the importance of a clean workspace, its necessity to foster a productive research environment, and its importance to the military mission.

A second much closer sound, a buzz, next to Natatie’s elbow drew her attention for a moment. The address on her comlink read: Z2.

“Much progress?” A deep voice said behind her.

Natalie put her comlink down and turned to look up into the face of Damien Drake, another Apprentice, though he was very near achieving his rank of Journeyman. She would have been looking up at him even if her feet hadn’t been swinging off her stool. He was in her area of study as well, though where she liked to poke and prod hands, he enjoyed deconstructing optical sensors and comparing them with the more mysterious details of optometry.

“Day six bazillion of nerve calibration.” Natalie said, waving a hand absently at the monitor before she powered it down and began boxing up the prosthetic. “It’s not all lighting sliders and coloring with hands.” She said with a wink.

Damien placed a hand over his heart but returned the wink with a smile of brilliantly white teeth that contrasted starkly with his dark skin. “Need a… hand… clearing up? I’ve got my station square.”

“There’s not much today, but if you need help carrying your bag I can give it.”

That drew another laugh, seeing as they both knew Damien’s bag was nearly the size of the tiny young woman. As she finished, another sound echoed through the bay. This one was not as melodic and resonant as the alert that their research time was almost concluded. It was a whirring, unpleasant sound that swelled once.

Damien’s brow furrowed. “A drill?”

Another swell of the alarm and every Apprentice in the work bay was on their feet. Natalie turned and picked up her comlink and tapped the message from Martin.

As the third sounding of the alarm came through the bay and every other Apprentice began moving, Natalie’s hands began to shake.