Matt sat in Rezkin’s apartment alone, his tea untouched on the table and the head of an enormous shaggy white dog resting on his lap. He stroked the dog idly around the ears as he sat, lost in thought. Two other dogs of the same breed were snoring on the intricately woven carpet, one curled into a massive fluffy ball, the other flat on its back with legs in the air. They were constant presences in the home, seeming to take up the majority of the space in the small quarters, but also giving comforting, protective vibes, even as the one on her back gave a particularly loud snore.

The alert at the door sounded, and all three were suddenly alert. Not on their feet, snarling or preparing for the kill, but watchful, mindful of the small living room’s door. When it opened, Rezkin snapped her fingers. “Cerberus, out.” Rezkin snapped, and the three dogs leaped up, filing out.

“They do each have names, don’t they?” Patricia said, watching the massive hounds leave.

“Naturally, but they’re never far from each other unless they sense something amiss.” Rezkin said, rolling into the room with Patricia and another, much younger woman behind them. Matt rose, giving his chair to Patricia. He and the other woman stood.

“Senator Ziggenbor, Representative Ann Fletching, most interested in our the information floating around about the goings on beyond the fieldings.”

“A pleasure.” Matt said, shaking the woman’s hand with both of his.

“Why do you Ziggenbor boys do that?” Patricia asked, as Matt released Fletching’s hand.

“I’m sorry, your excellency?”

“I’ve seen you and your brothers shake hands before, but it’s only with women that you take their hand in both of yours. Why?”

“Courtesy and respect, your excellency.”

“Says who?”

“Norman Ziggenbor.” Matt felt himself straighten involuntarily, and he crossed his arms. “Taught us that men and women are different bullets of equal caliber. Just as efficient for their end goals with, often, different methods.”

“Old school, to compare people to weapons.”

“Norman Ziggenbor was an old school man.” Matt said, and turned to Fletching. “Representative. What’s your interest in our little cabal?”

“Senator Rezkin implied there was a grave threat to the Cluster.” Fletching said, nodding to Rezkin. “I represent one of the districts in the battery stations, and the idea of something keeping us from Ashwind is troubling.”

Matt pursed his lips. “I’m confused. Most of the leadership in the battery stations are diametrically opposed to pursuing a reactivation of Project Ashwind. Where do you stand?”

“They oppose it because of the revenue that the battery stations bring in, and the resources they provide.” Fletching said with a bitter smile. “They don’t care about the residents there at all.”

“Ah.” Matt said, internally wrestling with whether or not an idealist was a good thing to have around or not. “Your concern is those you represent, not what you represent.”

“That there has to be a distinction is part of the problem, senator.” Fletching said. “It’s the senators that are supposed to be cold and objective. It’s us that are supposed to convince them what to care about.”

“Point.” Matt conceded. “Though I’ve never heard it phrased quite like that. You want Ashwind restarted to free the people in the battery stations.”

Fletching seemed to pull that one over, her eyes finding Patricia, who seemed to momentarily feign deafness. “The battery stations are, at the time, necessary labor exploitation.” Fletching said. “Without the labor forces there, the Cluster wouldn’t be able to function for even a year.”

“Are you concerned with their living situations?”

“They live well, senator. They’re paid well.”

“I don’t see the friction point.”

“The work,” Fletching said. “It’s brutal and dangerous. Even with their compensation, those who want to be there are vastly outnumbered by those who hate the work, hate Io, and who are sometimes what seems like one more crew death away from calling it quits as a whole. I’m concerned about the people I represent, but over the last year I’ve grown just as worried about everyone else. Because that’s not the most pressing issue.”

Matt looked around the room, and back at Fletching. “What is, then?”

Looking around the room herself, Fletching locked eyes with Patricia. “Tell him.” She said simply.

“We’re burning Io out.” Fletching said.

The words didn’t land home right away, but then Matt got it. His eyes went wide.

“In ten years, it won't matter if the crews decide they’re fed up or not. There won’t be anything left for the crews to do. If the Cluster wants to survive, we need to reactivate Ashwind, and we need to begin the migration back to the old colonies again.”

Matt stood there in silence.

“Have a drink, Senator Ziggenbor.” Rezkin flicked her hand at the liquor cabinet. “There was an additional bottle in there before she told me. Anything you’d like.”

Crossing to the cabinet and selecting an old whiskey, Matt poured himself a generous portion and drank almost half of it before he turned back around. “Oh.” He said. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“No offense, Senator, but most people don’t.” Fletching said with another bitter little smile. “They think that Io is a little miniature sun that we can siphon energy off of at the same rate and for as long as we planned for Project Ashwind, but we just can’t.”

“Why hasn’t this come to the senate floor?”

“It has.” Fletching said. “Several times. It gets squashed before it even makes it there.”

“Why?” Matt gestured in an ‘isn’t it obvious’ motion.

“Because people don’t want to hear it. They don’t want to acknowledge that we failed at Ashwind, they don’t want to acknowledge that we need to funnel our resources into going back, instead of going forward, and they don’t believe what they can’t see. Have you ever seen Io, Senator?”

“I’ve not.”

“Neither has eighty percent of the population. It’s just crews and the politicians, and the latter of them don’t want to see the glaring, ugly, inconvenience right in front of them.” She said, her voice ringing as though she was glad to just have someone who would hear her. “And the solution is there. From what Senator Rezkin tells me, the largest obstacle is this St Angel ghost that lurks out past the Martian fieldings.”

Matt continued to sip at his whiskey, digesting the information he was being faced with. Ever since Neerson had sent him that damned note, and even before to some extent, he had been faced with two obstacles. One of which was if anyone would take the time to believe him, and the other was if people did believe him, would it be for their own gains, or the good of the Cluster.

In the case of Representative Fletching, Matt was fairly certain he knew that answer. But first he had to lay down something that would rattle her world in return.

“That ghost,” Matt said. “Almost killed my brother.”

He let that hang in the air as he drained his glass, setting it aside and pouring half as much of a portion again. “It’s not a crime circle, either. And from best we can tell it’s not an isolated operation.”

“What is it then?” Fletching asked.

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have to sneak around trying to gain support just for the threat to be taken seriously.” Matt said. “I wouldn’t have to sneak amendments into bills, I would just be able to compile the intelligence that I had, and present it to the senate and the commands.” He set his glass down a bit more forcefully then he intended to. “We know frighteningly little about St Angel. At best it's a few cells of fanatics that have gotten their hands on some weapons caches and shipyards that survived the EMP blast. At worst they’re an organized military force attempting to retake Ashwind themselves.”

That drew a shocked silence from everyone in the room.

“You have supporting evidence of this, Senator?” Patricia asked, her tone firm and business like.

Matt turned to Fletchings. “Are you familiar with Senator Rebeca Lanset?”

“She was in for an inspection of one of the stations some weeks ago, but she didn’t submit her report.”

“I don’t blame her. Her findings are the ones in fact that indicate the attempts to get Ashwind back online.”

“That… would take a great many personnel who are very well informed of the workings of the technology.”

“Yes.” Matt picked up his glass again. “And now you see that the second option I laid out is, most unfortunately, the more likely of the two.”

Patricia stood. “How conclusive is this information?”

“Not very at the moment.” Matt responded. “Reconnaissance is set to take place at the fieldings and beyond, but at the discretion of the commands. Given how bogged down military matters can become when officers choose to drag their feet, I would expect a nominal report in a month at the earliest. The absolute earliest.”

“And if an investigation was ordered by majority vote of the Triumvirate?”

“Only you can speak to the operations of the top three, your excellency, but I would assume that it would move a good bit faster.” Matt took a sip of whiskey. “They put rather more weight on orders from the Seat than they do from bills passed by senators in their inaugural term.”

“Yes.”

“Representative,” Matt said. “Can you provide more information of the sort that Senator Lanset was inspecting?”

“I can.”

“Please do so.”

“Matthias,” Rezkin said, her voice pensive. “Was Lanset the only Senator you met with?”

“No ma’am. Four others in addition to her.”

“Bringing the head tally of our little cabal to nine.” She said, turning to Patricia. “Your excellency, it would be my recommendation that we do not expand further until all are brought fully into the know.”

“I would agree with that.” Patricia said.

“With respect, it was Admiral Neerson’s wish that anyone willing to listen be brought into the know.” Matt said

“The navy’s shadow is far, far away, Senator Ziggenbor.” Patricia said. “We are here, and we must proceed with caution if whatever he’s plotting is to get off the ground anyway.”

For a moment, Matt held her gaze. Then he nodded once. “Yes, your excellency.”

—

Natalie was seated, worried now more than she had been on the long trip to Titan, and Detachment Cerberus. She had been ordered to report here, to this hallway, at this door, and so she had done. Under escort, but now the wait was dragging into its second hour, and Natalie started to think that she had been forgotten about. Then again, given whom she was about to have audience with, somehow she doubted that very much.

After another ten minutes, the door slid open. Natalie stood but didn’t approach right away, until a smooth voice called from within the office, “Please enter, Journeyman Sanderson.”

Natalie did. At a wooden desk at the back of the officer sat Fleet Admiral Neerson. It would have been simpler if he had been looking at something on his desk, data or reports, but instead his eyes were focused on Natalie as she made the long walk. With an outstretched hand, Neerson gestured to the chair across from him silently. Natalie sat, and waited.

“Welcome aboard the RDC Onslaught.” Neerson said. “You are assigned here under medical bay 6. Your first line supervisor will be Captain Margret Summers, and your primary responsibility will be ensuring that the incoming crew members are awakened safety from cryostasis and rehabilitated accordingly.”

“Yes sir.” Natalie said.

Neerson narrowed his eyes very slightly. “Do you have any questions about your assignment?”

“No sir. The orders were perfectly clear.”

Leaning back very slightly in his chair, Neerson intertwined his fingers and stared at her. She stared back at him, but the most unsettling thing was the rank. Other than that, this situation was an old hat for her.

“Very well.” Neerson pulled his tablet closer to him and tapped it several times. Enough time went by that Natalie began to wonder if she was supposed to excuse herself, but she remained where she was. Finally, Neerson put the tablet down. Picking up his comlink, he waited for a moment. Then, “I’m sending them over now, sir.” Then he put down the comlink. “Report to the hangar.”

“Yes sir.” Natalie rose and made for the door. She expected to be called back, but instead left, the door snapping shut behind her. It was a long enough walk back to the hangar bay that when she arrived, she half expected another wait there. Instead there was a shuttle waiting. When she boarded, Damien looked up. “Nat?” He said. “What are you doing here?”

“I got assigned here.” She said, blankly. “I don’t really know what’s going on.”

“Have you talked to Admiral Neerson?”

“Just left his office actually. I was supposed to be assigned to medical bay 6, with—“

“With a Captain Summers in charge?”

Natalie blinked. “Yes. You too?”

“Yep.” Damien Drake said. “I told him I didn’t rightly understand, that I had been in contact with the station’s director and that there must have been some mistake. He told me there wasn’t, and when I pushed the matter he told me to come here.”

Natalie nodded, and watched out the observation port as the shuttle took off. It didn’t take long to realize that they were heading towards the massive station, Vulcan. They docked and disembarked, finding themselves standing in another massive hangar. But there was no one there to greet them, and the shuttle took off some minutes later, leaving them by themselves. Damien wandered around the hangar, but there was nothing to see. The place was empty and bare.

Then the footsteps began.

At first Natalie thought that the wide open space was playing tricks on her ears, but the quick cadence of boots on metal quickly became clear and obvious. From across the hall, a man cane through a single door. He never broke his step as he came towards them alone. His naval uniform was immaculate, and a rank that Natalie didn’t know what embroidered on his collar. When he stood some paces away from them, he stopped.

The man was not as short as Neil, but still shorter than average. He looked younger than Neerson by a considerable margin, but older than Martin. His eyes were green and his hair was swept back out of his face, longer than Natalie was used to seeing on officers. “Thank you both for coming.” The man said, his voice soft. “Journeyman Sanderson, I appreciate your enthusiasm to be here. Journeyman Drake, your advancements in cybernetic optometry are well known.”

Neither Journeyman said anything.

“My name,” the man said. “Is Grand Admiral Vincent Reven.”

Natalie’s mouth fell open and Damien snapped to a straighter stance than he had currently been holding. She had grown up in the military hearing about the mythical nine Grand Admirals, but never had she ever thought to see one for herself in any capacity.

“I am in the process of building a department here in this station,” Reven said as though there had been nothing of notice said. “And I am hoping that the both of you will fill one of the roles I have empty at the moment.” He smiled. It was a small smile, but it was genuine. It touched his green eyes, but only just. “Should you both be agreeable, I but stress the clandestine nature of the work you will be doing. Even if you move on from here, what goes on here will never be readily available information, and you must understand this.”

“We…” Damien said, but closed his mouth. Reven made a gesture and nodded. “We won’t be able to count this, or these projects as research time, sir?”

“The navy will ensure that your records are not lacking for such things.” Reven said. “But… by and large, they will not reflect that which you truly worked on.”

Natalie and Damien exchanged a look. “What will we be working on, sir?” Natalie asked.

“Cybernetic augmentation and enhancement of human subjects for military application.”