The ‘duties’ that Neerson had for Martin and Benson, they found out, was combing through the raw footage and data of everything available from the first night the battalions on Mars had been attacked. Predictably, there was little enough to go on at first, and increasingly more once a satellite or three had been pointed at the position. Irritatingly there was far more footage of the 9-907th, as they had been early on predicted to be the personnel grouping with the highest chance of survival.

But Neerson had been abundantly clear that he was not interested in the events surrounding the 9-907th. “Which I don’t understand.” Martin said again, as he skimmed through seven files about the 9-907th.

“Don’t tell me.” Benson said, where he was hunched over a screen. “Is it because Neerson is obsessed with data and looking at things from every single angle available. Is it because he likes to look for connections even when there might not be any to be found? Is it because he’s a leech for knowledge and bends himself to get as much of it as he can?”

Martin winced. “Have I said it that often?”

“Five fucking times.” Benson said, looking up and shooting a look at him that was a few shades over irritated. “And it becomes hard to follow orders when you’ve got someone in your ear questioning them.”

“I’m not questioning orders.”

“That is exactly what you’re doing.” Benson said, hunching back down. “Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to put something together.”

“What is it?”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

“Is that any way to talk to an officer who outranks you?”

“Respectfully, sir, shut your fucking mouth.”

Martin grunted and moved around to stand over Benson’s shoulder. He was running his fingers back and forth over the screen, replaying the same few seconds over and over again. It was of the two Rapier glass fighters that had come in at the middle of the engagement and taken the fight to the Saber classes. They had already figured that they were differing forces, something that Neerson had tipped them off to and something that, given the way that the exchange had taken place, could be one of two obvious options.

Benson ran the footage back. As the Rapier classes came into screen, they hooked, and one wavered before holding course on the way in. Three more times back and forth, and then Benson pointed silently to the foremost Saber class in the fighter’s formation. At nearly the same moment that the Rapier class faltered, so did the Saber class. Martin wanted to ask about the connection, but had found that when the gravelly voiced pilot was irritated he was a closed book. However, when Captain Benson had a problem to solve, he often did so out loud.

Leaning back, Benson reached to the comlink Neerson had given them and keyed it. “Sir, it’s Benson.”

“Captain.” Neerson’s growl came over the comlink at once.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. Were we keeping audio surveillance on the planetary surface when the final engagement was taking place.”

“Yes. Nearly all of the signals were scrambled due to Mars’s decaying atmosphere, which lent to Specialist Flint’s inability to communicate outgoing transmissions.”

“Do we have the recordings?”

There was a pause. “We have five hours and twelve minutes of static.”

“Can you have it sent up, sir?”

“I’ll have it for you momentarily.”

“Thank you sir. Benson out.” He keyed off the comlink and put it down.

Martin frowned. “What do you want five hours and twelve minutes of static for?”

“Because there’s a difference between ground frequencies and inter atmospheric frequencies that piggyback on ground frequencies. I’m after that last twelve minutes.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“That’s because you haven’t done much IAF, Zig. And I’m gonna go out on a wild limb and say that you’ve never flown a marauder regardless of class.”

“That’s accurate.”

“I have. It’s part of what TFB pilots go through for training. Ship after ship, day after day.”

“The idea that you should be able to pick up whatever you have at hand and fly it, I’ve heard. Like the weapons specialists.”

“Yes. And all marauders have one glaring flaw in that they’re cheap, mass produced pieces of shit. Stupid easy to fly, but their handling is about as bad as you can get, and the communications is pilots only.”

“That’s a design flaw.”

“One of the first military fighters, lowest bidder, the usual shit. But you key that headset and the ship is going to jitter a little.”

Martin’s eyebrows went up. “You think they were talking to each other?”

“I know the bastards were talking to each other.” Benson said. “Now I want to know if I can actually hear what they were saying.”

The main terminal pinged and Benson pulled up the audio file. It loaded, and Benson scrubbed it forward to when the remainder of the 3-95th came under fire. Then he stopped.

Static.

Hard, intrusive, static, and nothing else. For about three minutes, until something garbled incoherent, but more than the simple white noise they had been hearing, came in on the file. It repeated in the same cadence, until a lower, more clipped sound answered it. Then more static for another five minutes, until the first sounds came back into the static. It was words, words that they just couldn’t make out, but words that were very much there. They were urgent, repeating a single phrase over and over again.

Then the unmistakable pounding of gunfire.

A minute or so more of static, and the file cut off.

Benson went back over the file again, found where the sounds had begun, and clipped it. “Well this isn’t good,” he said, picking up the comlink. “Sir.”

“Go ahead captain.”

“Can you tell the specialists that there’s an audio file in their inbox that they need to comb through.”

“I’ll let them know.”

“Thanks. Benson out.” He turned to Martin. “Alright, Ziggenbor. We’ve got to look at it all again, but from a different angle.”

When the comlink next pinged it was Martin who keyed it.. “This is Ziggenbor.” He said into it.

“Gentlemen, we are on approach. Make yourself presentable and report to the bridge.”

“Yes sir.” Martin clicked the comlink and straightened, cracking his neck and picking up his uniform jacket. Benson zipped up his flight jumpsuit and they made their way to the bridge. A young Lieutenant stood there and looked over her tablet. “Captain Benson and Commander Ziggenbor?”

“Lieutenant Commander.”

She frowned. “I would say it's an error, sir, but not aboard the Ascendancy. Come aboard, Commander, Captain.” She stood aside and they made their way to Neerson, who stood like a guardian of old overlooking the vast bridge of the Dreadnaught. “Sir?” Martin said. “Is there something I need to know?”

In answer, Neerson straightened and held out his hand. In the middle of the palm there was a pair of oak leaf clusters, black, instead of the gold that currently adorned Martin’s collar. “There should have been a ceremony, but the paperwork only just made it through. Congratulations, Commander.”

Martin nodded and began changing out his insignias. “May I ask why, sir?”

“Time in service, excellence in command, and change of assignment. Also the boards get terribly fussy about the usage of proper ranking and hearing ‘Lieutenant’ amended to your rank for the hearing would have been… tedious.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any more pending paperwork?” Benson asked dryly.

“‘Captain’ is much less of a mouthful.” Neerson said, and frowned. “I don’t suppose you have any other uniforms pending your decision to follow my directive of ‘make yourself presentable’?”

Benson looked down at his black flight jumpsuit. “Came off the Scarab Lord with this sir, and two rolls of civis in my pack. One went to him, and the other… eh, you’d prefer me be in this, sir.”

“I should have been informed. I could have supplied you with appropriate attire.”

Benson clamped his mouth shut.

“Prudence becomes you, Captain.” Neerson said. “Have either of you ever been to the Venator?”

“I have, sir.” Benson said.

Martin, however, remained silent as the Space Station came into view. It looked like meant stations, a thick pillar with three rings, one at the top, one at the middle, and one at the base. But this one was made of a darker metal than most, making it harder to make out against the inky backdrop of space. And now that they were at their orbital distance, Martin also realized that even from here, it looked as large as most stations did from half the distance. The Venator became more imperious, more impressive, the longer he looked at the dark structure, rotating very slightly in the vacuum of space.

“Controls, moor my ship.”

“Mooring ship, aye.” Came the reply.

“Come.” Neerson said. “We are awaited on the upper circlet’s third quarter.”

They boarded Neerson’s personal docking vessel and began their approach. Benson seemed… bored, almost, and if he hadn’t been seated so close to Neerson, Martin knew enough about the man to know that he would likely be sleeping.

Once they were aboard the station, Neerson turned to them. “Listen carefully. For this next neither of you will speak unless directly spoken too, and then will answer as few words as possible. Captain Benson?”

But the Captain Crew Benson Martin had been dealing with over the past days was gone. In his place sat a straight backed army officer, his eyes forward, his face in rigid bearing. “Yes sir.” He said, in that gravely voice of his.

“Commander?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good.” Neerson stood, and they followed with Benson at the rear. They were indeed expected, Martin saw, with at least a dozen uniformed men and women standing by, matching them come aboard. As Martin saw the stars on chests and collars and smart suits with expensive ties, his Commander’s rank felt a good bit smaller and much less heavy than it had a few minutes before. On the ride from the Ascendancy to the Venator he had been wondering how he would navigate the duties of both his new rank, and this mysterious new assignment Neerson had mentioned. Now, with all those eyes on him, he was simply wondering how he would navigate the next few minutes.

Stealing a look at Benson, he was chagrined to see that the Captain seemed much calmer and more collected, maintaining his military posture, but more at his ease, much more than Martin felt.

Every person there but two had some form of hostility painted across their faces. Some were angry, others were suspicious, while others just seemed like they had a problem in front of them of the particularly nasty variety.

“Fleet Admiral Neerson.” Said a man in a suit, the words hard and measured.

But before he could say anything, another voice was raised behind the group. “Oh good, I haven’t missed him!” And a woman in a completely solid black suit came forward. She was in her prime, beautiful, and had eyes that Martin very seriously did not fall on him. But it was not him who garnered the attention of the woman, nor was it Neerson. “Captain Benson.” She said, with a warm smile. “It is good to have you back aboard the Venator.”

Benson inclined his head. “Your excellency. It is my honor, my privilege, and my pleasure to return here.”

“Your manners have improved since last we spoke.” She turned to Neerson. “Your doing?”

“The man is insufferable, but a damned good pilot, your excellency.” Neerson said. “I enjoy men like him under my command.”

“Insufferable you say?” She said, “You enjoy your own company, Neerson.”

“I always have.”

Then the Honored Lauren Patricia, sitting member of the Triumvirate, turned to Martin. “Commander Ziggenbor.” She held out her hand.

Martin shook it with both of his. “Your excellency.” He said. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“My condolences on the death of your youngest brother.” She said, “I am hopeful that the matter here can be solved quickly, and resolution come to.”

Martin just caught himself from blinking and swaying on the spot. From the furthest most corner of his peripheral vision, he could see Neerson standing like a statue, his eyes forward.

“He always knew where his path could lead him, your excellency.” Martin said. “Thank you.”

“Will you be staying for the hearing, your excellency?” Neerson cut in smoothly.

“No, though I wish I could be a fly on the wall. I was passing through, heard you were on approach and decided I would wait to welcome you personally. You’ll be back in the cluster soon, I hope?”

“I hope not, your excellency.” He smiled. “Cities and bright lights never suited me well.”

“Someday.” Patricia sighed. “We’ll share a glass of that excellent scotch. Thank you again.”

“Repayment, your excellency. Consider our debts paid.”

“I’ll have to think of another way to tip the scales in my favor. Do you need me to make introductions?” She turned, and Martin noticed for the first time that every person standing there was doing so in rigid and tense postures, silent as tombstones.

Neerson regarded them with cold eyes. “No, your excellency. Thank you, I think I can handle things from here.”

“Indeed.” And as she walked passed, Martin heard her breathe. “The rest is on you.”

Martin didn’t turn to watch her go. He stood at Neerson’s right shoulder looking at the people in front of him. Gone was every expression, even those that hadn’t been hostile, and each of them replaced by one single thread: wariness. Twitching his head, Martin saw that Benson had taken up a position mirroring his own at Neerson’s left shoulder.

Together they three faced down the group. “You were saying, Governor Cade?”

But the man said nothing, and when all the others followed suit, Neerson nodded, and made his way forward, his officers following along behind him. They walked in silence until they reached a lift. Then they rode the lift in silence, and walked again to quarters. “I’ll be by in a few hours to collect you for the initial briefings.” Neerson said. “Patricia leveled the playing field for us, but make no mistake: the people here are not your friends, regardless of rank. They are not your allies, regardless of branch of service. We three are the only ones we will speak directly to, unless you are otherwise directed by myself. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.” The two men said together.

“Ziggenbor, I’ll have need of your mind. It sees things in a much more focused way than my own. Benson, I’m going to have need of you as well.” Neerson looked the Captain up and down. “Keep that uniform laundered and presentable, but don’t change it.”

“Yes sir.”

“The next few days will be unpleasant, gentlemen.”

Neerson stepped out, and the door slid shut. After a heartbeat of standing in darkness, Benson flicked the light sensor. “What,” He said. “The fuck did we just walk into?”

“Bullshit and fuckery.” Martin said. “Or so Neil would say.”

“Well, there it is.” He said. “The least surprising thing I’ve heard all day.”

“I told you earlier that you were the quintessential subject to be found next to the definition of the word ‘jackass’.”

“Oh, right.” Benson said, running a hand over his hair. Then he breathed out a long sigh, letting the breath flap his lips together. “Fuck me, this is going to suck.”

—

Twenty-four hours of Neil being stable came and went. That was when they had come down to fit Neil with synthetic skin. The eyelid was the trickiest, Matt noticed, though the man that Natalie had introduced him to the day before, Damien, Drake, most with as much deft skillful expertise as Natalie herself did. They did some medical magic with the rest of the burns as well, and at the end of the four hours the youngest Ziggenbor brother looked like he always had. A fit man, the shortest of the three, but there was still something that Matt could tell felt different. “It might be the perfection of it all.” Natalie said without ego. “Artificial skin always looks like that at first, like everything everyone in the cluster spends thousands on, trying to make themself look smooth and perfect.”

“Will it stay that way?”

“It’ll pick up dings and scrapes along the way, and then it will look a little more natural. It’s only slightly more durable than natural skin, though obviously without the ability to repair itself. There’s a certain amount of maintainable steps he’ll be able to do himself, but if something really drastic happens, He’ll need to come back in and get refitted. It’ll need to be done anyway, when there needs to be work done on him.”

Matt winced. Work done on him, like a ship or transport vehicle. Like his brother was nothing more than a machine now. There were pictures of the early stages out there of early generation mechanical alteration, and Matt was glad at how far they had come. “When will they wake him up.”

“Tomorrow, provided he doesn’t dip again.”

“Will I be allowed to be here?”

“You and Sergeant Valentine are the only two non-medical personnel being authorized. They’ll bring him down when it’s time.”

“Where will you be?”

“As of right now, here. They want to minimize the bodies in there when he comes out, even though he’ll be restrained, just in case things go badly.”

“And if they do?”

Natalie sighed. “Resedation and they’ll try again another day, keeping him up a little more each time. It’s… still a first.”

“Are—“

“How many more questions are you going to ask?” She asked in a pained voice.

“I’m sorry?” He said at once.

“No… it’s just, I’m used to being the one asking questions. I never realized what a pain it is to answer them all the time.”

Matt raised his eyebrows.

“Oh shut up.” She muttered, crossing her arms. “It’s not like I asked you questions all the time.”

That hurt, even though Matt knew she hadn’t meant it the way he took it. “I’m just worried about… if he’ll still be angry or not.”

Natalie turned entirely to face him, her eyes narrowed. “About that stupid bill you were getting ready to vote on?”

“It wasn’t a stupid bill, it was the contingency on whether or not we were going to—“

“Abandon Project Sustained Future or not, yeah.” She nodded. “How did you vote?”

“I voted the way that every senator should have.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well talk to me like I’m not a senator.”

“You’re not a senator.”

“It should be easy then. And I’ll ask you, why should we spend resources to get back to the Project? It failed, didn’t it?”

“On many, many levels. But it’s still operational. There’s engineers in the power cores that still get readings. Half of what they should be, but still.”

“Well there’s less than half of the sphere remaining, so it makes sense. But I still don’t get it, we have enough power here from the cores. Why bother going back?”

“Is that a question you’re looking for an actual answer on?”

“Obviously.”

“Because as efficient as the cores are, they’re still just machines. Finite, after a fashion, and we’re going to be locked in an endless cycle around Io, and slaved to Jupiter for god only knows how long. But if we can get back past the Martian perimeter, reclaim the space beyond—“

“Reclaim?” She cut him off. “What do you mean reclaim, the crime circles were destroyed.”

“There’s always more cropping up.” Matt said quickly, cursing himself inwardly. “There’s always free floating pirates and smugglers, and if they can somehow resettle earth—“

“Difficult with the giant fucking holes in the atmosphere.”

“And start harvesting the sun’s energy for themself, it could be disastrous. A crime circle with that much sustainable energy would be difficult, even for the navy’s armadas to combat.”

Natalie stared at him. It felt uncomfortably like when Neerson or Senator Rezkin stared at him, like she was putting pieces together that he very much wanted to be left where they were. Unnoticed, quiet.

“Reclaimed from what?” She asked. “What’s out there?”

“Empty space.”

“You’re like Neil.” She said, “Except that Neil knows he’s a bad liar and doesn’t try to be a good one.”

“I’m a politician.”

“That means you’re an efficient liar. It means that you can tell a lot of lies and keep track of them. And with stupid people that’s usually enough, because there’s no truth around to compare it to. But there’s a problem with that.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not a stupid person.”

“You also know me.”

“Neil isn’t stupid either. He’s not the smartest of you three, but he’s probably got the most common sense, and his bullshit detector is probably a lot more sensitive too.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well one,” Natalie said, as though explaining the obvious. “Have you met privates?”

“Point.”

“And two, he raised me.”

Matt looked back at her. “We all raised you.”

“You and Martin were involved.” She said. “You voted yes on that stupid bill, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Then maybe. I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Either way, I doubt that it will be the first thing on his mind. And I think that you’ve probably got other things in this situation to worry about than yourself.”

The words were said without scorn or judgment, but they pierced Matt all the same.