The walls bare—save for a scattering of awards and decorations—felt like old friends. Sparse metallic furniture amplified the frigid atmosphere. The only item of interest in the Commander’s office was the old clock. The ticking contraption always tempted Clio’s eyes. It hung above the Commander’s trophies like it was master over them, just as time was master over everything. The elaborately fashioned device was a testament to Earth’s ancestors and their craftsmanship—a masterpiece from the days before humanity had touched the stars.
When summoned to Commander Grimshaw’s office, the clock taunted Clio, but it also reminded her that it was just a matter of time before she could leave the Bakura and the Confederation Fleet forever.
She kept her primary focus on the Commander’s eyes as he scanned the incident report. Though far from perfect, Clio’s neuroptical implants allowed her to simultaneously focus on objects in her periphery. To analyze and process multiple images at once was vital for any Fleet pilot, but even more so for someone charged with flying a Starship.
The Commander’s gray uniform jacket clung tightly to his solid frame. Neck muscles trembled subtly like twisted cables around his collar. He appeared physically sound despite being past his prime. Silver-black stubble peppered a resolute jaw, and white dashed his short, black hair. A life on the battlefield had cut deep lines into the corners of his eyes and a puckered white scar across his right cheek. Clio often wondered how he had gotten the scar, but never dared to ask.
Commander Grimshaw looked up from his compad, and his cold-denim eyes drilled into Clio’s as though they sought to inflict pain. Clio understood why the crew found him intimidating, but she refused to break under his gaze. She ignored the beads of sweat collecting at the nape of her neck despite the cold air and the throbbing vein in her left temple. She would show him that her will was just as strong, if not stronger.
A sudden bang sent her jumping back in the aluminum chair. She blinked several times, ears ringing and heart racing. For all her enhanced vision, Commander Grimshaw’s fist slammed the desk so fast she barely saw it move. Was that eye twitch intentional? To lure me into a false sense of victory?
She dismissed the idea with an invisible wave. That would have required too much thinking on the Commander’s part. Nonetheless, his speed was impressive.
“What the hell is your problem, Evans?”
“As I explained, sir—”
“Less of the bullshit, Evans. I accepted your transfer off Morigan under the condition that you learn discipline and show your crew respect.”
“I am—”
“Then why am I holding a report stating that you broke O’Donovan’s face so badly he needed regen in sickbay? The nerve damage in his leg will have him limping for days. What if we happen to need our weapons officer in the event of an attack?” The compad in his left hand trembled.
Spit gathered on the back of Clio’s tongue, but she refused to swallow. “With all due respect—”
“Respect belongs to those who’ve earned it, Evans, and you have shown nothing but contempt since boarding the Bakura.” He looked down at the compad, and she took the opportunity to gulp quickly. His eyes flicked back to hers, and the boring resumed, at which point Clio was on the back foot. It took all she had not to swear.
“Six months, Evans. Six months, and you already have one of the longest disciplinary records on file.”
“Officer O’Donovan started it.” She regretted uttering the words before they departed her lips, but she couldn’t help herself. The Commander had teased them out of her, and Clio wanted to curse him for knowing what buttons to press.
“The report says that Officer O’Donovan didn’t throw any punches.” He gestured with the compad.
“He didn’t land any,” she corrected him. “It’s not my fault Riley’s a slug. He should choose his enemies—”
Commander Grimshaw slammed his compad on the table and rose from his chair like an erupting volcano. He was much taller and more imposing than Clio remembered, but she fought the desire to divert her gaze.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Evans? Our enemies aren’t in here; they’re out there.” He pointed a thumb at an imaginary porthole behind him. “This is a Confederation Fleet starship, not a correctional facility.”
“I understand, sir.” She avoided telling him that it often felt like a prison, and Clio had served enough time inside one to know. She knew the Commander’s speech was coming up soon. How Fleet usually didn’t accept people who started out in the Correctional Re-integration Program. How she’d be foolish to throw such an opportunity away. How unity would see the Terran Star Confederation in good stead should humanity ever find itself at war with the Krags again—or any other race for that matter.
Blah, blah, blah.
“But do you understand, Evans?” He tugged at the bristles on his chin and sighed. “This is what happens when we’re at peace for too long. We forget who our enemies are and turn on each other.”
“You want another war, sir?” Changing tack was risky but talking herself out of the situation obviously wasn’t going to work.
The Commander stared at her as though trying to solve a puzzle.
“I mean, all this training and preparation,” she added quickly. “Sometimes it feels like a waste, and I just can’t help but want to fight.” It wasn’t a total lie. Bullshit didn’t work on Commander Grimshaw. Clio had no desire to traipse across the galaxy, killing and avoiding being killed, but war provided opportunities to advance, and she’d already wasted precious years before getting a place on the pilot training program. She had graduated Fleet Academy later than most, but even without war, she had plans of her own.
“No.” The Commander looked exasperated or concerned. Clio wasn’t sure which since he hadn’t shown a shred of either in her six months on-board the vessel. “No one wants another war. Not me. Not the Confederation.” He paused for a moment. “And neither do you, no matter what romantic notions you might have. Those who seek war are the first to loathe it.”
“Weren’t you a hero during the Kragak War, sir?” Her eyes flicked to the medals on the wall behind him.
“That is neither here nor there.” And just like that, the steel returned to his voice, the iron to his face, and he slid back into his chair. “You’ve put me in something of a predicament given our current mission.” He tapped on the desk as he thought. “I understand you received bad news about your biological mother?”
Clio tried not to look shocked. “How did you know about that?”
“We received word from one of your old orphanages soon after our departure from Academy Four. Fleet likes to keep tabs on developments that might cause issues among its ranks, especially those with a…checkered past.”
“Think nothing of it, sir. I barely knew the woman. My father left us before I was old enough to remember and Leanna abandoned me not long after that. The streets of Dunmarra City raised me. As far as I’m concerned, I never had parents.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Even still, it could explain your recent behavior.”
Clio read his face for a moment. “Fine,” she finally admitted, recognizing the life-line Commander Grimshaw was tossing her. “Maybe it has been playing on my mind a little.”
“I’m sure I can help Captain Desmond understand. As you’re aware, the starship Goliath is along for the ride to Colony 115 this time, and all mission reports will make their way back to Admiral Thatcher. The last thing we need is a disciplinary action registered with high-command.”
“Thank you, sir,” Clio said, feeling anything but grateful.
“As punishment, you will assist maintenance for the duration of this trip, starting with the faulty navigation terminals on the bridge.”
Fire swelled in Clio’s belly, and despite her desperate attempt at control, reached her mouth. “But I’m the best damn starship pilot in the Fringe!” Addressing a superior officer in such a manner was more than stepping over the line, and her rage instantly turne
d to regret. Clio expected the Commander to chew her to pieces.
“You’re the best simulator starship pilot in your category,” he said, keeping his cool.
Clio had flown her share of fighters and short-haul transports, but the Commander was right. However, there was little difference between simulations and actual flight controls, but she decided against arguing the point. In fact, Clio found herself in the rare position of being lost for words.
The Commander filled the resulting silence. “No Fleet officer gets a golden ticket, at least not on my watch. Skill and passion are not enough to fly for the Fleet. You need discipline, leadership, respect. And I’m confident you’ll learn these in time.”
Clio didn’t need his damn confidence. She needed time with the Bakura’s flight crew. “I have to shadow—”
“You’re lucky you aren’t spending the rest of the trip in the brig. Good people have suffered a great deal more for assaulting a fellow officer. And you might suffer yet. The O’Donovans have strong connections with Fleet. If I were you, I’d keep my head down for a while.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Understood, sir.”
“And while we’re on the subject, you’ll issue Weapons Officer Riley O’Donovan with a written apology before we reach 115. If you work hard on maintenance, I’ll consider reassigning you to the flight crew on our return to Fleet Academy. Dismissed.”
She nodded and made for the door. Writing an apology didn’t bother Clio but getting assigned to maintenance was an unfortunate setback.
“One more thing, Evans.”
Clio turned back to the Commander. “Yes, sir?” Appearing respectful while gritting her teeth was far from easy.
“Control that temper of yours. Don’t make me regret allowing you on-board. We still don’t know why the Goliath is with us, but Captain Desmond sure as hell wants to impress them.” He rapped the desk with his knuckles. “And I can assure you; she’s a lot less lenient than I am.”
“Of course, sir.” Loathe as Clio was to admit it, the Commander seemed to have her back, though she couldn’t figure out why. She knew how important it was for the mission to go without a hitch. Whatever the Confederation’s reasons, they were important enough to warrant Fifth Fleet’s flagship. Initially, Clio had worried that it was related to the data she was supposed to retrieve for her contact, but the measures seemed a bit too extreme for such a thing. It also didn’t account for the Aegi that were rumored to be on board the Bakura. “I guess with Aegi on board; I should be more cautious, sir.”
The Commander’s pupils dilated, and he briefly lost his composure. It barely lasted a second, but by then Clio had already worked it out. The rumors are true then. But he didn’t know.
She cheered internally and fought back a smile.
“Report to maintenance at once,” he snapped. “And I expect a copy of that apology ASAP.”
“Yes, sir.”
The office doors hissed behind Clio as she made her way to the bridge, allowing her smug smile free rein. She wondered why the Commander hadn’t been aware of the Aegi. Clio wouldn’t have known about them either if she hadn’t overheard talk in the mess hall before the fight broke out, but a senior officer not knowing something so important was unusual.
Commander Grimshaw believed he had her on a tight leash, but Clio savored the taste of victory, as bitter-sweet as it was.
Being assigned to maintenance wasn’t ideal, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized how much it worked in her favor. Repairing faulty bridge terminals meant access to systems that were otherwise barred to her: systems she needed for reasons known to her alone. Her timing had to be perfect if she wanted to keep things secret. If anyone discovered the real reason Clio was on board the Bakura, they wouldn’t just send her back to Morigan. They would send her back in a box. Contrary to what Commander Grimshaw thought, everyone on the Bakura was her enemy, and she was theirs.
They just didn’t know it yet.
3
Unexpected Guests
The Bakura’s systems thundered through her walkways, mirroring the storm brewing inside Grimshaw. He hurried along the central atrium and balled through a group of bewildered cadets who had the misfortune of crossing his path. If there existed a scale capable of measuring one’s anger, his current state would have obliterated it.
That Captain Desmond had kept three Aegi secret from him was unforgivable but learning about them from that constant thorn in his ass, Ensign Evans, was almost too much to bear.
The kid had one foul temper and had caused nothing but trouble since joining the crew. Sometimes Grimshaw wondered why he cut her so much slack, but deep down he knew he had a soft spot for the girl. She reminded him of someone he used to know. Evans also happened to be extraordinarily talented, acing every simulation the Fleet could throw at her. But that didn’t mean she didn’t infuriate him, and to make matters worse, Captain Desmond had hung up on him mid-conversation.
Grimshaw punched a command into the serial interface gate on his left arm. A ping from the SIG informed him that the Captain refused his call again. Ever since the Goliath appeared, she’d been sketchy outside of the bridge. Grimshaw didn’t consider it his place to question orders, but three Aegi boarding the Bakura without his knowledge was something else entirely. Other than the undue power and influence granted them by the Galactic Council, he had nothing against the Aegi, but he was supposed to be responsible for all personnel on board. Captain Desmond keeping passengers secret meant he couldn’t do his job.
Grimshaw turned a sharp corner and almost knocked the chief of engineering off her feet. He carried on without so much as a backward glance.
Lieutenant Yelchin called after him. “Is everything okay, sir?”
“Just peachy.” Grimshaw’s jaw hurt from clenching his teeth.
“I didn’t realize we had Aegi on board, sir!”
To Grimshaw, the announcement felt like a jab, even if it wasn’t meant as such. “Neither did I, Lieutenant,” he called over his shoulder.
Like most starship engineers, Yelchin had an uncanny knack for pushing people’s buttons, whether she intended to or not. Grimshaw wondered if it came from working with complex ship systems. Human minds must have been elementary in comparison.
He turned onto a recently refurbished walkway, his lousy mood worsening with every step. Before the Bakura’s departure from Fleet Academy Four, Grimshaw wondered why Captain Desmond had ordered a refit of three cabins. At the time, he couldn’t piece together who she was trying to impress, but now he knew.
When the damn woman wasn’t currying favor with some official, she was tickling the ears—and possibly other parts—of some merchant. She would have made an excellent lawyer or politician. If the Captain knew one thing, she knew how to get her way, but she knew jack about running a military vessel and that was what irked Grimshaw above all else. He knew he could do a better job and then some. Not that he wanted to be in charge of a glorified transport like the Bakura. If he ever served as Captain, it would be on a capital ship of his own, preferably in First Fleet. Yet here I am. Half a life dedicated to the Confederation, and what has it got me? Service under an incompetent superior that would sooner ply her crew with spice and wine than ready them for battle.
Since the end of the Kragak conflict, humanity had enjoyed relative peace and prosperity, so a combat situation was unlikely. But Grimshaw knew that peace didn’t last forever. One always had to be ready, especially when being ready was one’s job. He was all too familiar with the consequences of a complacent military.
Grimshaw’s heart raced suddenly, as the sights and sounds of Gorthore flashed before his eyes. Gunshots. Screams. Roars. Faces twisted in pain. Flesh melted from bone by plasma. His breathing quickened, and ringing pierced his ears. Grimshaw grappled with the panic before it could take hold and forced it back into its little box, just as his therapist had taught him.
His hands touched something cold, and he realized he was white-knuckling the walkway
railing. He looked both ways and was relieved to find he was alone. It had been years since the last flashback. Captain Desmond and her Aegi stunt was doing a number on him.
Grimshaw wiped cold sweat from his brow, smoothed the front of his jacket, and resumed his march on the Captain’s quarters with renewed purpose. He made a right into a shallow recess before the bridge doors and found the cabin status light glowing green, indicating that the room was occupied. Grimshaw pressed the buzzer and waited for an answer. When none came, he raised a meaty fist, ready to pound. Before his hand came down, the door hissed out of existence.
“Ah, Jason.” Captain Desmond gestured with a glass from a couch opposite the entrance. She sounded like she had just climbed out of bed, and smoothly pressed uniform aside, looked like it too. “Come in. Come in. I was just pouring our guests a drink.”
Before accepting her offer, Grimshaw scanned the cabin as he did any room before entering: a habit developed as a Marine back in the day. A bottle rested on the table in front of the Captain, its bright yellow contents frantically slushing around of its own volition, as if desperately reaching for freedom. Grimshaw knew better than to ask what it was. The room’s other three occupants held twisted ornate glasses containing the same vile-looking fluid.
Two female Shanti and a human male reclined on a second couch. They wore state-of-the-art tactical exoframe kits, their breastplates decorated with Aegi winged crests. By technological standards, Confederation Fleet TEKs were vastly inferior, and Grimshaw was glad not to be wearing his.
The two females surprised him. Little was known about the Aegi, let alone the organization’s structure, but the stories had always painted the fabled warriors as male.
Grimshaw stepped into the cabin, trying not to seem overly frustrated. The aroma of sweet perfume, tangled with stale alcohol and Shanti musk, permeated the air.
“Nakamura was just finishing an exciting story about the uprising on Tlalox Prime. A tale worthy of the finest Claracian wine. Care to join us?” The Captain offered him a glass.
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