Matt stood overlooking the RMS Outside Citadel. It was not unusual for the Senators to be away from their given stations for months at a time, especially during times of crisis or great deliberation, but to Matt it always felt like too long since he had been home. The military station was not the feat of military advancement and technology that the Venator was, nor was it the sweeping civilian architectural beauty that was the Seat of the Triumvirate, but it was home. A stalwart fortress with the amenities customary of civilian stations, and Matt hoped, well governed. The population was divided quite cleanly between military personnel and civilians, the latter of which regarded a uniform no differently than they did the clothes of the casual person.

And it was home.

The childhood memories that Matt had of the station would always be one of his dearest treasures, and often went to the sector and residence that he had been raised in. He and his brothers owned it jointly, but they were rarely aboard the Outside Citadel, a situation that was unlikely to change, he thought with a heavy heart. But they had their duties, and he had his. No matter what they did in life, that would never change.

An old, leathery voice floated up through the recesses of his mind. “A Ziggenbor without a duty is like a ship with no rudder. Find your duty for a season, execute it, and find another. Do it well and with pride, and know it well enough to talk back to anyone.”

Typical Ziggenbor, Norman had been.

Or, Matt thought to himself, perhaps he hadn’t been, and that was why he made it far when so many of the others hadn’t. These reflections often came up when Matt thought of his time in RAPIDS, his introduction into politics, the note he had burned. His hand had balled into a tightly clenched fist as he thought, and another voice, this one smooth and hard, came to him.

“Eliminate your tells. You have few enough already, but the less someone can tell about you by looking at you, the less they will do to you, with or without consent or ill intent.”

Easing his hand, Matt forced it to lay flat on the sill. Below him the lights of the Outside Citadel glowed, dimmer and dimmer as the artificial night wore on, and long since the residence had by and large turned in for the night. The station was aptly named; it was not one of the inner Cluster’s busy stations that teemed with wild life at all hours, nor was it in the second sector’s rust stations where the mark ones steadily wore deeper into dereliction and closer to decommissioning. It was a working station of intelligence gathering, the center of the Cluster’s spiderweb of covert operations reporting. Everything passed through the Outside Citadel, before or after it was deemed relevant. Most often before.

And, Matt thought, it was home.

Turning, Matt returned to his sitting room but was unable to make himself comfortable. So he retired to his office instead, noting as he often did upon returning from the W that it could not have been more different from his working station in the Senate’s heart. It was still devoid of clutter, but there were five terminals and enough data cards in filed storage to make even the most savvy intelligence officer go slack jawed for a time. There were three bookshelves, and even more unusually, they were full of books. These were old writings from years ago, and though not originals by any means, they were old enough to be interesting to collectors.

They were primarily fiction of intricate weaving. Matt had often been ridiculed for drawing the correlation between the art of storytelling and how its study could aid with the delicate art of the acquisition and analysis of intelligence. Long since he had abandoned trying to convince others of this obvious parallel, but he had not. Only a few had not dismissed it out of hand.

Sometimes he wished they had.

Seating himself at his desk, he activated the screen there and flicked through the three files he had open. The least pressing was the emptiness where he was waiting for reports from beyond the Martian Fieldings. He still expected nothing on that front until the commands ran out of excuses to drag their feet, and that could be another week or three. The most interesting of the three were the reports from both Representative Fletchings and Senator Lanset about Io and the situation happening there. It was as both had reported. He had known it, of course, when Fletchings had brought it up, but any excuse to feign surprise and raid Rezkin’s liquor collection was welcome to him. And there were appearances to be kept up. Still, the readings were always alarming, and though Fletching’s estimate of ten years had been off by about another ten at the earliest, the reports indicated that the moon would be exhausted in fifty at the most.

The most pressing of the files, at the moment, was the third. A report from the Ninth Fleet. Most of it was under the guise of this or that, busy work that Matt would revisit at a later date. But the true importance was hidden in just a few lines tucked away in the administrative notes.

Project Double Vision status level updated: Activated, site testing only.

Project Ornithomancy status level updated: Resumed

Project Passenger’s Aid aid initiated. Status level: Approved

Project Black Shuck initiated. Status level: Pending

Reports on above to follow.

“Busy man.” Matt muttered as he went back to the reports from Io, and the steps that Representative Fletchings had assured him would be taken. Silently, he wished her luck.

--

Nurse Rayne stood on one of the observation decks that overlooked Titan. The dense atmosphere of the planet shimmered away, as it always had. But the mysteries of what lay below the orange haze and the beauty it held were lost on the woman, who was subsequently consumed by both the thought of the young man in medical procedure of the experimental nature, and the slow but ringing cadence of boots coming up behind her. When the man drew up beside her, Rayne ignored him until he spoke.

“It has always been an attribute of yours,” Neerson said. “That you become involved.”

“It has always been a part of my job to become involved.” Rayne replied, not taking her eyes off the moon. “It has helped me a great deal over the years.”

“I know.” Neerson responded. “I spent a long time thinking it over, throughout the years, trying to decide if it was to your benefit or detriment.”

“Your conclusion?”

“None, in regards to you. But it is to the aid of a great many in your path.”

At that, a small, sad smile graced Rayne’s face. “Then it is a good thing.”

“Good for some.” Neerson said gently. “But how many have you sat with when they slipped away? How much unnecessary death have you witnessed?”

Rayne looked down. “No one deserves to be alone when they go, Richard. I’ve always told you this.”

“There is an old text that says ‘death is a door one person wide’.”

“Yes.” Rayne whispered. “And we all walk towards it slowly, often oblivious. It’s only those last few steps that are terrifying. They are easier to make with someone at your side.”

Neerson was quiet for a time. “You feel very deeply for them both. But the sergeant's roles are rapidly approaching.”

“They are not ready.” Rayne said, her hands balling into fists.

“I know that. And they may not be ready before they are called upon, but this is the nature of soldiers. Warfare and death do not wait for us to be ready and able to confront them. Often they lay in wait for us to be caught off our guard to further their own means. You need to trust me.”

Rayne smiled a bitter little smile, she couldn’t help it after all the years of hearing that phrase. “You will let harm come to them.”

“I will equip them as best I can.”

“It isn’t enough.”

“Miriam,” Neerson said, turning to her. “They are soldiers. Not children.”

Rayne turned as well. “They are broken men who need time to heal, Richard. Their physical wounds are nothing to what they carry within. I’ve seen too much to not see the demons lurking behind their eyes.”

Pain flickered across Neerson’s face for a moment, and he turned away again. She did not. “Richard,” Her voice was clear. “We could not have prevented Red Savior.”

Neerson said nothing.

“We exhausted all avenues, took all appropriate measures, and some inappropriate. Its just like that stupid game you make all of your officers play. Strategy, diplomacy, and intelligence will only get you so far. But people are still people, and people make choices. Byron made his, Cody made hers, and there wasn’t a damn thing we could have done more than we did.”

“I know.” Neerson said gently. “But it still feels like we could have done more.”

“It always will, to a blind man like you.” Rayne sighed, turning away. “I suppose that's part of why I do what I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Men like you.” Then she looked down. “Not yet.”

“Miriam…”

“Richard,” She turned and put her hand on his arm, looking him full in the face. “I need you to return what I’ve always done. I need you to trust me.” A shade fell over Neerson’s face, and another smile that Rayne couldn’t help lifted her face. “Not so easy, is it, Admiral?”

“No.” Neerson said, straightening. “No it isn’t.”

A ping came from Neerson’s comlink.

“Neerson.”

“Sir, he’ll be awake in twenty minutes.” River’s voice came over the device.

“Thank you Sergeant.” Neerson replaced the comlink and nodded noce. Gone was the man, replaced by the Admiral again. “Nurse Rayne. May I accompany you to your patient’s recovery bay?”

They walked to the unassuming room where the procedure was taking place. The door was closed, and no sound could be heard from within. Rivers was seated on the floor until she saw the Admiral when she rose. Neil leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Sergeant Ziggenbor.” He nodded. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

Neil regarded the Admiral for a brief moment. Most wouldn’t have, Neerson noted, but the youngest Ziggenbor brother glanced at Rivers briefly and then walked off down the hallway. Neerson watched him go until he was satisfied and turned to Rivers. “Sergeant Rivers. How are you feeling?”

She blinked. “I’m feeling fine sir. Just getting used to being back on my feet.”

“Understood. How are you integrating with the other Sergeants?”

“They’re both capable NCOs sir.” Rivers said. “But I’ve mostly just been around them, not with them.” She shifted from foot to foot.

Neerson regarded her. “How long were you in cryo-stasis?”

Stiffening at that, and considered the question. “The last thing I remember was that Corporal Rivers was still alive.”

Neerson huffed out a small surprised breath and nodded. “Jeremy has achieved much since then, Sergeant.”

Her eyes went a little wider. “He is alright?”

“Your brother has risen through the ranks with distinction. He is a First Sergeant now with responsibility of Task Force Banshee.”

“I don’t think he knows I’m alive, sir.” Rivers said after a short pause and small smile. “If he did, I don’t think--”

“A matter for him to confront.” Neerson said, cutting across her as a beep came from the room. “But for another time. For now, I think that our attention must be turned to Sergeant Valentine.” He nodded to the door as it slid open and Artisan Coppersmith stepped out. “If you would, Sergeant Rivers, please fetch Sergeant Ziggenbor. Artisan Coppersmith,” He said, as Rivers jogged off down the hallway. “What is the status of my man?”