Wings of Mourning

Craig Andrews

Copyright © 2021 by My Story Productions

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Also by Craig Andrews

The Machinists:

Fracture

Splinter

Martyr

Capture

Exposure (Coming Soon)

The Forgotten Fleet:

Wings of Honor

Wings of Mourning

Wings of Redemption (Coming Soon)

For my family & friends

Your love and support mean the world to me

Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Afterword

About the Author

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1

Office, Chrylis Mining Facility

Chrylis

Alicia Menendez wore her best smile. David would know it was fake, of course—he’d learned that much in their six years of marriage. The important thing was that none of their coworkers would be able to tell the difference. To them, she was the supportive wife who had left behind everything and everyone she had ever loved and cared about to fly halfway across the galaxy in support of her husband. The worst part about the lie was that everyone else’s smiles, David’s included, were genuine.

The mood was light, festive, and relieved—a stark contrast to the usual day-to-day. They had done it. Work rotations on Chrylis lasted two long, miserable years, but due to the extended hours, inhospitable conditions, and proximity to the warfront, the job was very lucrative. After two years on Chrylis, she and David would be able to afford the life they’d always dreamt about. That was how he’d sold the idea to her, anyway.

And now the two years were up. To say they’d passed by like a blink would have been an even bigger lie than the smile she wore, but after the first three months, things had gotten easier. Her heart still ached at the thought of the children they’d left behind, but deep down, she knew things were better this way. Chrylis wasn’t a place for children.

To combat the longing, she’d embraced their new routine: David in the mines, Alicia working in Operations. They sent video letters to their kids every day, of course, and had gotten them back with nearly the same frequency. They had eventually grown shorter than the long, rambling messages from the early days. Her kids were strangers now. Jenny was seven, Mark had just turned five, and Caleb, who had lived more of his life without his parents than he had with them, was three.

So why aren’t I smiling? We’re done. I’m going home to my babies!

She just couldn’t shake the sense that everything felt premature. The new work crews wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, and the celebration should have waited until then.

No, she reminded herself. That wouldn’t have been possible.

The company ran a tight ship—she and her crewmates were allotted only half a day off every two weeks. The moment the new crews landed, they headed straight into the mines, and the exiting crew would board the returning shuttle. If they didn’t celebrate before the new crew arrived, they would never get the opportunity.

David put a thick arm around her and pulled her close. The planet had made him hard. His arms and chest were corded in thick muscle and stained black from the dust. She wondered if they would ever be able to wash it off, ever be fully free from Chrylis’s grasp.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered into her ear.

“Nothing.” She gave him an exaggerated smile that said, See? Everything’s okay here. She hoped he understood the subtext of the gesture. Unfortunately, like most men, David had as much of a nose for subtlety as a rock and was nearly as dense.

“C’mon,” he said. “I can tell something’s wrong.”

“This isn’t the place to talk about it.”

He pulled her away from the group and found a quiet corner in the office. The work colony didn’t have much in the way of comfort, and they had been forced to arrange the party in the same modular office where she’d spent the last two years working. To make room for everyone, they had pulled the desks and chairs from the center of the room, arranging them against the walls. David sat on one and patted the space beside him, motioning for her to sit.

“I know it’s been hard,” he said. “But it’s over, Ali. It’s over.”

Did he think she was suddenly nostalgic for this godforsaken planet? “It’s not that. I’m just tired. That’s all.”

“You sure?”

“Promise.”

That brought a smile back to his face. The sight was nearly enough to break her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him so happy.

I’m not the only one who has made sacrifices. He might not talk about it, but this hasn’t been easy on him, either.

She smiled back, a real one this time, and was surprised to feel tears welling in her eyes. David saw them and pulled her into a tight hug. She fell into him, her head resting against his chest.

“We’re going home,” he said softly.

“I know.” It was all she could say. Two years of pent-up emotion was suddenly ready to explode.

David’s arms loosened. She compensated by hugging him tighter, but even as she did, his arms fell away from her completely.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking up.

David’s attention wasn’t on her anymore. It was focused on the window and the rocky landscape outside. The horizon was the same pink and violet she’d grown used to. The sun was a white-hot glow that, due to the axis of the planet, was constantly low on the horizon, creating long shadows and a constant feeling of twilight. Wind buffeted the modular building, kicking loose rocks and gravel against its side, but his attention was on the streaks of light entering from the upper atmosphere.

“What is that?” Alicia asked. “Meteor shower?”

David leaned across the table, drawing closer to the window. It was tough to see, but something was definitely out there. More than two dozen in all, the streaks burned across the sky like shooting stars. They were accompanied by a roaring sound reminiscent of an approaching shuttle. Growing louder, the noise drowned out the sounds of the celebration.

The first projectile disappeared on the horizon, then a terrible crash shook the building. The lights flickered as pictures and other mementos from nearby desks clattered to the floor. Someone screamed, but the sound was cut short as the remaining objects crashed to the planet’s surface, each impact more intense than the last.

Like the deep lumbering steps of a terrible monster, the objects drew closer. As the last one struck, a shock wave of dirt and rock slammed into the side of the building, knocking out the lights and bathing David and Ali in darkness.

There were more screams, and suddenly everyone was rushing toward the exit.

“Stop!” Charles Dilawar waved a pair of flashlights at the rattled group. As Site D’s mine manager, he was used to yelling, but they had all learned to listen to him. “It seems our festivities are—”

“Turn those off,” David said. He seemed to be the only one in the room not looking at Charles. His eyes were still focused on the horizon.

“What?” Charles asked, irritated.

“I said turn off the damn flashlights!”

“Listen, David—”

“There’s something out there.”

That got Charles’s attention. He turned off the flashlight then shuffled toward David. “What is it?”

The dim light from the window was barely enough to illuminate the two men’s faces. David squinted, his eyes attempting to pierce the dust that still hung in the air. Alicia could see it too. Shadows moved through the dust, drawing closer. Was somebody out there? Had the new crew arrived early?

“Get everyone inside,” David said. “Now.”

“We are inside,” Charles said, confused.

“The mines,” David said. “Get everyone inside the mines. Go.”

“But—”

A terrible, high-pitched shriek cut off Charles.

“Baranyk!”

David took Alicia’s hand and dashed through the room, making for the door. Unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea. They bottlenecked, pushing, shoving, fighting for the same exit. Something crashed against the top of the building.

“They’re on the roof,” David said.

“What do we d—”

The building shuddered as the door was ripped off its hinges. Someone screamed, and suddenly, the mass of people pushing for the door rushed away from it. David and Alicia were ripped away from each other, and she was thrown to the ground, where she was kicked and trampled as people rushed to get away.

“Ali!” David shouted. “Ali!” Then he was there, pulling her to her feet.

She froze. Standing in the doorway with a human body at its feet was a two-meter monstrosity. With a triangular head and spear-like forelimbs, the Baranyk warrior was the pinnacle of its evolutionary line. It regarded them with cold, black eyes then cocked its head to the side and shrieked.

Even though she covered her ears, the sound seemed to pierce Alicia’s brain. It was followed by two more clunks atop the building.

It called for reinforcements.

Alicia snapped into action, yanking David away as the Baranyk and two of its counterparts entered the building. “The emergency exit. Come on!”

She pulled him past a mass of cowering miners, through another door, and into the back offices. The entire structure was built like a giant L, with the back offices reserved mostly for the management team. The emergency exit was set into the wall and opened by turning a large wheel counterclockwise and pulling the door inward.

David took the wheel in both hands, but before he could pull, the door to the front of the offices crashed open. Several terror-stricken miners raced inside. What Alicia saw through the door was something straight out of a nightmare.

The Baranyk tore through her friends and coworkers with terrifying efficiency, pinning them with razor-sharp forelimbs then dragging them into the open air of Chrylis like a predator taking its prey back to its lair. The nearest warrior had a miner pinned facedown against the ground and ripped his head from his shoulders with a single sharp jerk. Blood cascaded into the air, coating the black exoskeleton as it threw the body aside and started toward the back section of the office.

“David!” Alicia screamed. “It’s coming!”

Eyes and tendons bulging, David heaved the wheel. Metal screeched but didn’t budge. One of the other men grabbed the wheel, too, and together, they pulled. The wheel spun more freely this time, and then it was loose. David ripped the door from the wall. Wind whipped into the office, buffeting the interior with detritus.

There was a scream somewhere. Distant. Were the Baranyk taking her friends alive?

The Baranyk that had seen them through the door advanced, squeezing itself through the small opening, then lunged with its forelimbs. David hurled the door at it, the corner striking it in its triangular head. It shrieked, retreating a step, shaking its head in pain.

“Go! Go! Go!”

David shoved her out the open hatch. She crashed against the hard ground, rocks slicing her hands and arms. David was there a second later, pulling her to her feet. They were on the back side of the building, facing the direction the invaders had come from. More were on their way. Close. They couldn’t outrun the monsters. The enemy was too fast.

“To the mines!” David shouted. “Come on! We can make it!”

David ducked under the modular building. The prefabricated design was built with the floor of the building a meter above ground, leaving a small gap between it and the planet’s surface. Alicia rolled under the building, trailed by the remaining survivors.

Just as they did, the hind limbs of the Baranyk crunched onto the ground. The warrior made a strange guttural sound, its body twisting left and right, no doubt searching for its human prey.

David held his fingers to his lips.

The Baranyk’s feet scraped against the ground, moving away. Only then did Alicia let herself breathe. David nodded, and together, they began crawling. With the four other survivors in tow, they made their way across rocky surface to the front of the building, the side overlooking the mining operation.

Set deep within the mountainous regions of the planet, the office was only one hundred meters from the mine’s entrance. From their position, Ali could see its open mouth and the dark illusion of safety beyond.

“When I say ‘go,’ you run,” David said as if talking only to her. “Don’t look back. Don’t stop. You understand me? Don’t. Stop. No matter what happens. You get to that mine, and you close those doors.”

He was talking like he didn’t expect to make it.

“You too,” she said. “You stay with me.” Tears streamed down her face.

He cupped her face with his hand, wiping away the tears with his thumb. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

She nodded, afraid her emotion would betray her voice.

“Okay.” David turned back to the expanse in front of them. It was nothing but open space from the office to the mine’s opening. No cover. Nowhere to hide. When they moved, there was no going back. They would make it, or they wouldn’t.

Above them, the sounds of the attack had subsided. Alicia didn’t want to think about what that meant. Didn’t want to accept the idea that almost everyone she had known for the last two years was gone. Dead. Captured. Or worse. And for what? A nightmare of a planet rich in precious metals?

Why did I agree to come to this place? How could I leave my children behind?

Their dream of a better life suddenly paled in comparison to her longing to hold her children one last time. To hug them. To kiss them. To tell them how much she loved them.

Please, God, give me another chance.

“Go!” David lunged forward, using his arms to pull the lower half of his body out from under the building, then instead of running, he turned and took hold of her, pulling her into the open. “Run!”

He was already reaching for the next person.

“Not without you!” She reached for him.

He swatted her hand away. “Run, Alicia! I’ll catch up.”

“David—”

“Go!”

Tears streaming down her face, she obeyed. The first step was the hardest. The second was easier, then the third. By the fourth, she had momentum.

Another ear-splitting Baranyk shriek sliced the air. She didn’t dare look or even turn around. David had made her promise. But he had also promised he would be by her side. Her steps faltered as she turned. David ran toward her, but he was at least ten meters behind, bringing up the rear.

“David!” she screamed as the other survivors darted past her.

“Go!” he shouted.

But she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were on the Baranyk that stood atop the single-level building, watching them flee. With another shriek, the warrior lunged off the top of the building, covering five meters through the air as if it was nothing, then landed with a crunch and raced toward them.

“Run!” Alicia shouted, but she knew it was too late. The Baranyk warrior was covering too much ground, its powerful legs propelling it too quickly. Alicia bent to the ground, grabbing a fist-sized rock.

“No!” David shouted. “Run!”

She ignored him. She was committed now. With a form that would have made her father proud, she hurled the jagged rock as hard as she could at the Baranyk. It sailed over David and struck the monster squarely in the head. It shrieked and skidded to the ground.

David was on her now, taking her hand and pulling her toward the mine’s entrance with him. Running hand in hand with him, Alicia promised herself she would never let him go. Her children would not grow up without a father. The thought was interrupted by another angry screech.

Still running, David glanced over his shoulder. “It’s getting up! Faster!”

Alicia willed her legs to move faster. They were almost there. The others had made it—they were inside the mine. One person was already at the terminal, ready to close the blast doors once she and David made it inside.

“Wait!” David shouted. “We’re almost there!”

That’s when Alicia saw it. The man wasn’t ready to punch commands into the terminal—he already had.

“Wait!” Alicia’s voice joined David’s.

The man ignored them, hitting a final button. The ground shuddered as the thirty-meter-tall, reinforced-steel doors began to close.

“No!” David screamed. “Wait!”

“Please!” Alicia added.

The man disappeared into the bowels of the mine, the doors closing behind him with booming finality. Alicia and David arrived two seconds later.

“No!” David bellowed. He slapped the doors in futility. Then quieter, defeated, he added, “We were so close.”

Alicia turned. The injured Baranyk was advancing, though with a noticeable limp. Flanking it were four more warriors, and behind them were even more, perhaps twenty in all. They took their time, as if savoring the fear in their prey’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” David said. “I never should have brought us here.”

“Don’t,” she said. “Whatever choices we made, we made together.”

“I just wish…”

“I know,” she said.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He pulled her close, bringing her head to his chest, shielding her from the incoming nightmare. She closed her eyes, waiting for the terrible inevitability to pass.

I love you, Jenny. I love you too, Mark. And I love you, Caleb. Please forgive me, my babies.

A new sound entered the fray. Behind the scrapes of exoskeletons scratching against the rocky surface was something else. Aerial. Familiar. She opened her eyes, looking past the advancing Baranyk.

There!

In the distance, two streaks of light cut through the clouds. Instead of falling, though, they were flying. And unlike the organic structure of the Baranyk vessels, these were made of true, human-machined metal.

The fleet had arrived.

The massing Baranyk horde broke apart, scurrying for cover, but there was none to be had. Alicia dropped to the surface, cradling her head, David’s weight on her as he shielded her with his body.

Cannons opened fire. The terribly beautiful sound reverberated off the mine’s blast doors. She felt slugs punch into the ground, listened as pained shrieks filled the air, and smiled as the thunderous fighters drew closer.

And then they were gone, their pass complete.

Alicia looked up, surveying the scene. Of the Baranyk warriors who had pursued them, only one remained. It writhed in pain, its exoskeleton blasted to pieces and leaking yellow blood. Alicia grabbed another rock and started toward the wounded alien.

“Ali,” David said. “What are you doing?”

She ignored him. The words seemed to have caught the Baranyk’s attention, though, and it watched as Alicia approached.

“Fuck you.” Alicia drove the rock down into the alien’s head. “Fuck you and your whole fucking species.”

Again and again, she drove the point of the rock into its skull. A blow for each of her kids, for every friend and coworker they had attacked. She didn’t stop until her arms were covered in its yellow blood. Until it was long past dead.

2

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Chrylis

Coda looped around, angling for another pass. Flying in atmo, the maneuver was slower and more gradual than he was accustomed to. The atmosphere created drag, reducing speed, but it also caused less strain on his body. After flying almost every day for six months, his body definitely felt the strain.

“What are you seeing down there, Moscow?” Coda asked over the comm. “Any survivors?”

Moscow, his former adversary, was now a close friend and wingman. He flew in the dash-two position of their two-man formation, only meters off Coda’s port-side wing.

“Looks like we shredded them pretty good,” Moscow said. “Wait. We’ve got movement. There are survivors down there, Coda. Human survivors!”

“You sure?” Coda asked.

“Positive.”

Coda pulled harder on the joystick, tightening the turn, the straps of his harness digging into his tender body. Without a word, Moscow matched Coda’s course—flying together nearly every day for six months had its advantages. Leveling out his Nighthawk, Coda made for the survivors.

“Berlin actual, this is Coda. You read?”

“Loud and clear, Coda. What’s your status?”

“We have human survivors down here. Requesting immediate evac.”

“Copy that, Coda. How many do you have?”

“I have visual on two,” Coda said. “The rest may have blockaded themselves behind the blast doors of one of the mines. Can’t be more than a handful.”

“Copy that. Releasing the Stork now. ETA in four minutes. Keep those survivors alive down there, Coda.”

“Roger.”

Streaking in for another pass, Coda surveyed the ground. It appeared they’d eliminated the Baranyk around the survivors. His attention shifted elsewhere. Baranyk dropships continued to streak through the atmosphere. Shaped like fleshy purple eggs, the alien dropships fell from the sky with little resistance, bouncing on impact until finally coming to rest. It was then that the Baranyk warriors inside would tear through the membrane, emerging like newly hatched insects.

“They’re still coming,” Moscow said. “What the hell do they want down here?”

Coda had no clue. He couldn’t even remember what planet they were on or what the colony had been mining. He’d seen too many to tell one from another anymore. All he knew was the Baranyk wanted it—and Baranyk success meant human casualties. As the last line of defense, the Forgotten were tasked with preventing that from happening.

He and Moscow circled the survivors, patrolling the area and picking off alien troops. Without the aid of air support, it was a slaughter, not all that different from crushing bugs under one’s foot.

That was the biggest flaw of the Baranyk drop strategy. While they could launch hundreds or even thousands of the drop eggs, they couldn’t use the same carriers for retreat. They were completely at the mercy of their capital ships in orbit to retrieve them. Coda had often wondered how the Baranyk leadership convinced their warriors to fight what amounted to little more than a suicide run in battle after battle.

Fleet Intelligence was adamant that each of the Baranyk warriors was capable of independent thought, but nobody could explain why they were so eager to throw away their own lives.

The Stork emerged from a thick blanket of clouds. Coda and Moscow escorted it to the blast doors. A squad of marines dashed out of the rear hatch, secured the area, and ushered the two human survivors inside. A moment later, the blast doors opened, and the other survivors made for the dropship. The woman who had been outside the blast doors charged down the ramp into the human mass, swinging her fists wildly.

“Looks like they’re going to have a long flight up,” Moscow said.

Coda smiled. He couldn’t blame the woman. From the looks of it, she and her companion had been locked outside the mine. If all the other survivors got was a fist to the face, then they would get off easily.

With the area clear, Coda found his eyes flicking to the sky. He itched to get into orbit, where the rest of his squadron was engaged with the main Baranyk force.

Once the Stork’s ramp closed, it began its ascent. Coda and Moscow flew in the dash-two and dash-three positions, escorting it back into orbit to the Berlin.

As they flew through the final layer of atmosphere, the gentle haze washed away, giving way to the pure black of vacuum. In the distance, Coda could just make out the main battle. The Berlin was exchanging long-range fire with a single Baranyk carrier. The rest of the Forgotten had engaged and were greatly outnumbered by the Baranyk’s single-man fighters.

Since the Baranyk had rendered the Sol Fleet’s Hornet Drones inoperable, the Baranyk had pressed their advantage, reclaiming worlds and mining operations long held by the Sol Fleet. With their main defenses inoperable, humanity hadn’t sat idle, either. In the months since Coda had graduated from Commander Coleman’s training program, the Sol Fleet had assembled two other squadrons, both manned by aging pilots long past their prime. Though not as effective as the Forgotten, they were all that stood in the way of even more destruction.

Perhaps sensing humanity’s strain, the Baranyk had shifted strategies. Instead of conducting near-all-out assaults as they had at Toavis, the Baranyk now conducted raiding attacks at multiple locations, placing the human fleet under constant bombardment. Humanity was on the ropes, absorbing blow after blow, trying to remain standing. They just had to hold out until the bell, the moment the fleet’s reinforcements would arrive.

“Thank you for the escort, Lieutenant,” the Stork captain said over the radio.

“Anytime,” Coda said, then patched into the main Berlin frequency. “Berlin, the Stork is safely en route. Permission to reengage.”

“Copy that, Coda,” the tower said. “Permission granted.”

Coda took a deep breath, reorienting his battle map so that it matched the rest of the Forgotten, then plotted an attack vector. “All right, Moscow. Let’s go to work.”

3

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Chrylis

Coda and Moscow erased the distance between the Berlin and the Baranyk carrier in less than three minutes. The two enormous vessels were in matched orbits, separated only by forty thousand meters, hurling volley after volley of missiles and anticarrier slugs at each other. Coda plotted a course for the center of the fray, where the larger battle would be won.

What remained of the Forgotten was engaged with a force almost four times its number. The sleek black Nighthawks flew as fighter pairs, using nose-mounted cannons and guided missiles to lay waste to the smaller and more agile Baranyk fighters. But where the human fighters fought as a pair, the Baranyk moved as multiple swarms.

Like a school of fish, they changed direction at seemingly random intervals, diverging as they enveloped target after target then reconverging into formation when their enemies had been vanquished. The tactic made them difficult to predict, but the formations provided the human fighters with an advantage.

With the Baranyk clustered, the Forgotten could be less precise with their attacks, spraying antifighter slugs across a wide swath of space, and know that they would connect with multiple fighters. Missile explosions aimed at the center of the formation also did heavy damage, usually taking out several fighters with a single missile, debris and shrapnel taking out even more.

“All right, Moscow,” Coda said. “Here we go. You ready?”

“Does a polar bear shit ice cubes?”

“Uh…”

Another voice piped through the chatter. “That was weirder than the shit Tex used to say.” The other voice belonged to Squawks, the fastest-talking pilot in the Forgotten and one of Coda’s closest friends.

“Does Howdy Doody have wooden balls?” Noodle added, mimicking their fallen friend’s Southern drawl. Noodle was Squawks’s wingman and a Terran Fleet Academy graduate, like Coda, Squawks, and Moscow.

The banter brought a smile to Coda’s lips. Talking of fallen pilots was supposed to be taboo, but Coda had made a promise to Tex and the rest of their former comrades that they wouldn’t be forgotten. One way they honored Tex was by coming up with the most random jokes they could think of, something they thought he would have said. Coda prepared a joke of his own but was brought short by greater authority.

“Cut the chatter.” Commander Coleman’s voice was light, but his pilots took his meaning. Radio banter was accepted, even encouraged, but not at the expense of losing focus.

The chatter eased as Coda and Moscow passed through the invisible bubble that his onboard computer designated as the battle area. He let his targeting computer autoselect the nearest targets for him, then designated them Targets A, B, and C, and moved to engage.

They took enemy fire almost immediately and were forced to dart starboard. At their speed, the inertial dampeners could only compensate for so much, and Coda felt the equivalent of four Gs. It felt like someone had jumped onto his chest without warning. He felt a rib on the back side of his ribcage twisting out of position under his flight harness, ripping his breath from his lungs.

Coda’s G-suit tightened, preventing too much blood from flowing from his brain to his extremities. The odd sensation was painful since it was combined with the flight harness that cut into him, but it kept him from blacking out.

As he brought his fighter back around, the weight lessened, allowing him to breathe again. The workouts, low weight with high reps designed to strengthen muscles but not add bulk, had continued even after flight training, as had the stretching. The terrible food pumped full of experimental growth hormones that helped his body remain strong and heal faster than normal had continued as well, but the body could only take so much. Flying was as physically taxing as it was mentally.

I’ll need another trip to the doc after this.

A small group of Baranyk fighters came into range. They didn’t often fly in such small groups, so Coda took advantage. Flying perpendicular to their attack vector, Coda and Moscow sprayed the Baranyk flight path with cannon fire, using short, controlled bursts to avoid burning through their ammunition.

In a single fluid motion, the Baranyk ships altered course, moving to intercept. Moscow, however, had expected the maneuver and had a missile burning away a quarter second later. It exploded center mass, taking out all four Baranyk fighters in a single blast.

“Bingo!” Moscow shouted.

“Nice shot,” Coda said.

“Easy as killing grass,” Moscow said.

“That actually wasn’t half bad,” Squawks said. “Now you just got to teach that wingman of yours something decent, because his jokes are downright terrible.”

Coda smiled. Ten seconds was all it took for them to disregard Commander Coleman’s orders. If the man was angered by it, he kept it to himself. Like Coda, their commander probably knew that Squawks was at his best when his mouth was moving as fast as he was. And that helped keep all of them alive.

With their first targets vanquished, Coda’s computer automatically prioritized the next based on proximity. Target B was a slightly larger mass of Baranyk fighters, eight in all, and as Coda and Squawks moved to intercept, the fighters split into two equal forces, darting in opposite directions.

“They’re moving to flank us,” Moscow said.

“I see that,” Coda said. “Maintain course. Lateral spin, ninety degrees. Take them out.”

Coda didn’t wait for an affirmative. Using his navigational thrusters, he spun the nose of his ship counterclockwise so that his cannons were facing toward the incoming enemy. Then, using his port-side thrusters, he stabilized his fighter. His course remained unchanged as his fighter flew sideways in the direction of his starboard wing, allowing him to keep the enemy in his sights.

Coda opened fire. Two of the yellow-, orange-, and red-streaked fighters broke apart, spraying mucus and other fluids into space. Unlike the human ships, the Baranyk fighters were made of an organic compound. While not alive in the traditional, sentient sense, they were believed to be alive much like a tree or coral reef. Undamaged, the other two fighters split again, and again, they attempted to flank Coda.

“No, you don’t.” Coda launched a missile after the first, then he rotated to track the second and took it out with his guns. “Boom! That’s four for Coda. How are you doing over there, Moscow?”

Coda spun his fighter around, completing the maneuver just in time to see the last enemy ship explode. Its red indicator on his HUD disappeared.

“As easy as killing kittens,” Moscow said.

Coda winced. “Too morbid.”

“Damn,” Moscow said. “Sorry.”

A break in the battle brought the enemy carrier into view. Streams of needle-shaped projectiles blasted from dozens of turrets along its starboard side, targeting incoming volleys of torpedoes from the Berlin.

“Commander, we’ve got a clear angle on the Baranyk carrier.”

“Copy that, Coda,” Commander Coleman said. “Execute attack run Alpha-2.”

“Roger.”

Coda charted a course that would bring them closer to the carrier but not directly at it. He didn’t want to draw its attention. Not yet. They were just two more birds in the sky.

Unlike attack procedure Alpha One, which had been developed after their victory at Toavis and relied on using drones as blunt-force instruments, Alpha-2 was a coordinated effort with the Berlin.

The human capital ship launched a wave of torpedoes, followed by two more in carefully calculated bursts. Suddenly inundated with incoming projectiles, the Baranyk ship focused on blasting them out of the sky, opening its flank to the human fighters.

Nighthawks were already zipping in, breaking away from the dogfight to unload Haymakers into its hull. The standard-issue Nighthawk missiles were like the starfighters themselves—fast and maneuverable, designed for fighter-to-fighter attacks. The Haymakers, though, had one purpose and one purpose only—to pack a hell of a punch.

With the carrier in range, Coda altered course, moving into an attack vector, and increased thrust. Offset by fifteen degrees instead of ninety, he and Squawks would have plenty of time to launch both of their Haymakers into the belly of the beast.

“Hawk Three,” Coda said, announcing his intent to fire. “Fox Four.”

Coda’s fighter lurched as the two missiles unlatched from his fighter and streaked toward the enemy capital ship. They hit center mass, and terrible gouts of flame and organic material exploded into the void. Moscow’s capital killers struck a millisecond later, having a similar effect.

“Bingo!” Moscow shouted. “Four direct hits.”

“Good work,” Commander Coleman said. “Hawks One and Two moving into an attack vector now. ETA in—”

“We’ve picked up a tail, sir.” Ginger sounded worried. He’d been selected as Commander Coleman’s wingman for the mission.

Coda glanced at his HUD, spotting the enemy trio cutting through the larger battle to get onto their six.

“Cancel formation and prepare to—”

“Negative, Commander,” Coda said. “Continue course and let those birds fly. Moscow and I are coming around now. We’ll get your tail.”

“Copy that, Coda,” Commander Coleman said. “You let them shoot me down and there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“Never happen, sir.”

“Maintaining course,” Commander Coleman said, back to business. “Prepare to fire Haymakers in three…”

Coda settled himself deeper into the gel of his seat, his eyes focused on the red brackets indicating the enemy fighters on his HUD. His finger massaged the trigger, preparing to fire. Flying as fast as they were, he would only get one shot at this, and if he missed, he would never live it down.

Commander Coleman and Ginger ripped past him. Opting for his cannons, Coda opened fire. He laid on the trigger, spraying slugs indiscriminately across the enemy’s trajectory. Moscow did the same.

The incoming fighters had no chance. They hit the projectiles at more than twenty thousand kilometers per hour, becoming space dust before they even realized they were dead.

Coda let out a victorious shout. “Splash three more for Coda.”

“The hell you did,” Moscow said. “I took out at least two of those.”

“I fired first,” Coda said. “Early bird gets the worm, Moscow.”

“Mornings suck, and worms are gross,” Moscow said. “We should split it.”

“You got one and a half kills?” Ginger mocked over the comm. “How does someone get half a kill?”

“Because their wingman is a greedy bastard.”

Coda laughed. Six months ago, he might have taken offense at the bastard jab, but things had changed since Coda and Moscow had secured the Forgotten’s victory at Toavis. The O’Neil name wasn’t as tarnished, and as a result, Coda wasn’t as bitter. He’d also realized that many of the feelings he’d been harboring were misplaced. That wasn’t to say he didn’t still struggle with the fact that his father had been convicted of treason and promptly thrown out an airlock when Coda was an adolescent, but the wound wasn’t as raw as it had once been. He’d started to heal.

“Commander?” Moscow asked. “What do you think? Care to give a ruling?”

“Two for Coda,” Commander Coleman said. “One for Moscow.”

“Why does he get two?”

“Because it was his ide—”

Coda’s fighter gave a violent shudder. There was a brilliant-orange flash then terrible, searing pain. The next thing Coda knew, he was spinning, the world a blur. He reached for the stick but couldn’t find it. He reached again. Still nothing. And that was when he realized the horrifying reality. The stick wasn’t there. He was in space, still strapped to his seat in what remained of his cockpit, his fighter a ball of wreckage behind him.

He had been shot down, but by some miracle, he was still alive—and flying away from the battle at the same speed his fighter had been traveling.

Into the empty void of space.

How long did his suit have? Were his emergency beacons functioning? Would the rescue bird be able to get to him in time? Would it even be sent out?

Yes, Coda thought. I’m alive. For now…

4

Shattered Cockpit, Nighthawk

Chrylis

Coda didn’t know how long he’d been spinning. For the first several minutes, he’d attempted to find a way to counteract the spin, but separated from the guts of his fighter, he had no control. He accepted the new reality, talking himself through the growing nausea, assuming that like his first encounters with zero-g environments, his body would grow used to the sensation. Instead, it was like being stuck on a merry-go-round with no ability to get off.

At least I only threw up inside my helmet twice.

And the second time hadn’t exactly been his fault. The spinning motion had gotten to him first, causing him to lose his stomach. The smell was the culprit the second time. The yellow fluid, thick with the day’s half-digested breakfast, had congealed into circular balls that floated around the inside of his helmet. The worst of it was that he had no way of wiping it away.

By the time the floodlights found him, he was green, shivering, and wishing for death. Since the interior of his helmet visor was caked in vomit, he hadn’t seen the mechanical arm of the recovery vessel reach out and take hold of the cockpit remains, halting the spin in a single, jarring bang. Nor had he seen his savior exit the recovery craft, wearing nothing but a spacesuit and tether. But he felt the gloved hands and heard his voice when he held his helmet to Coda’s.

“It’s going to be all right, Coda,” the man had said, his voice muffled. The sound waves didn’t transmit through the glass of his flight helmet very well. “I’m going to take you home.”

Home. Where is that?

He hadn’t had a home since he’d left Earth, and even that wasn’t a home anymore—his mother had seen to that. The closest thing to home he’d come to know was the Terran Fleet Academy, and that was only because he’d spent almost two years of his life there. He’d also been successful there, and success brought security, if not comfort. But since those days, he’d been on ship after ship, never on the same one for more than a few weeks at a time.

When the ship they were stationed on took on too much damage, the Forgotten were moved to another and shipped back out. Such was the life of those who stood alone between the enemy and humanity’s annihilation. But their casualties were adding up. Fighters were getting sloppier, either due to overconfidence, lack of sleep, or the shear odds finally catching up to them. If something didn’t change soon, everyone in his squadron would pay the ultimate price.

Coda’s savior clipped himself to Coda then returned to the recovery vessel. They entered through a large hatch that opened like the mouth of a dropship. Once the environment inside had pressurized, the man took off Coda’s helmet. Coda took in a long, deep breath. For the first time in what might have been hours, he inhaled air that smelled like something other than his own vomit.

“Here.” The man handed him a towel. He had taken his helmet off, too, and looked to be about Coda’s age, with blue eyes and a friendly face.

“Thank you,” Coda said.

“Of course. We couldn’t let the Hero of Toavis float away, now could we?”

The Hero of Toavis?

That was a new one. People had congratulated him, of course. Some had even bought him a few drinks. A few very grateful, if overly intoxicated, women had wanted to express just how grateful they were. Still, he had never been called a hero to his face. Not since Commander Coleman had asked him what it felt like to be one. Just like that day, Coda didn’t feel like a hero, and covered in his own vomit, he couldn’t imagine he looked like one, either.

* * *

By the time the recovery shuttle returned to the Berlin, most of his squadron had already showered and left the locker room for parts unknown. Noodle and Squawks were waiting for him, though.

“You look like shit,” Squawks said as Coda entered.

“I feel like it.” Coda set his helmet on the bench that extended down the center of the room then sat down and began pulling off his flight suit. “You guys didn’t have to wait for me.”

“We were worried,” Noodle said.

“He was anyway,” Squawks said. “I knew you were fine. Took one up the ol’ cornhole, though, huh? How’d that feel?”

“Not good,” Coda said. “I’m not even sure what happened. I had no visual, no radio. I didn’t even know we won the battle until the recovery ship came and got me.”

“The Baranyk carrier jumped away right after you were shot down,” Noodle said.

“Bad timing on my part, then.” Coda removed the top part of his flight suit and tossed it into the cleaner then shed the tank top and trousers he wore underneath. Like the rest of him, they smelled of vomit.

“We’re supposed to tell you that the commander is waiting for you after you get cleaned up,” Noodle said.

“Great,” Coda said. “He want to grill me for getting too cocky?”

“Who knows?” Squawks said.

“You really do look like shit,” Noodle said. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” It was an automatic response, but once it had escaped his lips, he wasn’t sure. He was still in shock and hadn’t had an opportunity to analyze his mental condition.

“All right,” Noodle said skeptically. “We’ll leave you be. But we really are glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks,” Coda said.

Squawks patted him on the arm as he and Noodle left the locker room.

Letting out a deep sigh, Coda shed the rest of his clothing then stepped into the shower. If the commander asked what had taken him so long, he would just tell him that he didn’t want his office to smell like vomit. The truth was, though, he needed a moment to himself.

I almost died today.

The sudden realization made his hands tremble. One moment, he’d been in complete control. The next, well… it had all happened so quickly. And that was the worst part. He didn’t even know what had gone wrong. How was he supposed to correct his mistakes if he didn’t know what his mistakes were?

He rested his head against the shower bulkhead, letting the recycled water stream down his head and back. He stayed there until the timer went off and the water stopped flowing then toweled off and put on a fresh pair of sweatpants and a clean top. Finally presentable, he went to see Commander Coleman.

As the Berlin’s CAG, Commander Coleman had his own private office near the flight deck. It wasn’t a permanent position—nothing about their squadron was permanent. They’d bounced from ship to ship like a troubled foster child, but while he had it, Commander Coleman made good use of the private space.

The office was small, furnished with a desk, two chairs, and a digital display on the wall opposite the window that overlooked the pilots’ wing. Commander Coleman sat behind his desk, reviewing something on his tablet, when Coda walked in.

“Sir,” Coda said, snapping to attention.

“At ease.” Commander Coleman pointed to a vacant chair on Coda’s side of the desk. “Sit.”

“Thank you, sir,” Coda said, taking a seat.

Commander Coleman placed his tablet on the desk and leaned back, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth in an appraising gaze. “That was a close call out there. How are you holding up?”

“I’ll be fine, sir.”

Commander Coleman’s expression didn’t change. “These things can have lasting effects. Pilots can lose confidence. Become tentative. Cautious. I don’t need to tell you what happens after that.”

“A slow pilot is a dead pilot,” Coda said, repeating the mantra Commander Coleman had instilled in them since the beginning of their training.

“Speed is life,” Commander Coleman said. “Tentative pilots become a danger to themselves and those they fly with. So I’ll ask you again, Coda. How are you holding up?”

“Honestly, sir, I haven’t had much time to think about it. And with as many battles as we’ve faced, I doubt I’ll have the time to dwell on it, either.”

“You’re tired.”

“I’m exhausted. We all are. We’ve been in a constant state of alert for six months, and that’s after nearly another six months of intense training.” Coda let out a long breath. “I’m not complaining, sir. We all know what’s at stake, but it’s a lot.”

Commander Coleman’s mask of authority cracked, and for a brief moment, he wasn’t the CAG but just another pilot. Coda had known the commander was just as exhausted as they were. He’d seen it in the dark circles around the man’s eyes, the way his skin had lost its luster, and the extra gray in his hair. The commander had also been quicker to anger, his patience having worn thin months ago. But for those briefest of moments, Coda could see the true exhaustion plaguing the commander. He could see what it truly meant to be a hero.

Commander Coleman leaned forward in his seat, placing his hands on the desk. He looked at them absently, picking at a callus on the inside of his index finger. “It has been a lot. Fortunately, reinforcements are coming.”

“Sir?”

“The first graduates of the new Nighthawk training program are joining the fleet.”

“That’s… great, sir.” Using the same curriculum and schedule Commander Coleman had devised to train the Forgotten, the Terran Fleet Academy and other, less prestigious drone-flight programs had been overhauled to train pilots to fly the Nighthawk instead of the Z-18 Hornet drones the cadets had signed up for. Coda and the rest of the pilots in the squadron had been counting down the weeks until the new graduates arrived.

“We’re falling back to the forward operational facility on Meitas, where we’ll get our reinforcements and receive our next orders.”

“We’re switching ships again, sir?”

“Yes,” Commander Coleman said. “The Berlin sustained heavy damage and will need to spend a few months in dry dock. But you don’t need to be concerned with that. I want you to integrate the new pilots into the squadron. See what they’re made of. Show them what we’re about.”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but isn’t that the CAG’s responsibility?” Under normal circumstances, the question might have earned him a firm rebuke, but he and the commander had been through the shit together, and that provided some extra latitude.

“Yes, Coda. It is. But something tells me Command has other plans for me.”

A chill went down Coda’s spine. “What kind of plans, sir?”

“Oh,” Commander Coleman said. “We’ll see. We should be at Meitas in just over seventy-two hours. In the meantime, I want you back into the cockpit as quickly as possible. Get some rest. You’re flying CAP as soon as we start for the JumpGate.”

5

Admiral Orlovsky’s Office, SAS Abraham Lincoln

Meitas Station, High Orbit

Meitas had been named by someone who’d attempted to connect the story of King Midas and the might of the Sol Fleet. It was a dry and desolate planet located on the outskirts of the inhabitable zone, and it was prone to electrical storms, wind gusts, and tornados that would kick up the golden-colored soil that had inspired the planet’s name. The advanced military base was in high, geosynchronous orbit.

Commander Coleman had briefed his pilots before they left. They were officially orderless, which provided them an element of freedom they hadn’t had in months. But he warned them against taking that freedom too far. Drinking was expected. Getting blackout drunk and assaulting an officer was not. He wanted his pilots to behave, but he knew better than to expect it. Coleman was sure he would get more than one call about their behavior. That was just in a fighter jock’s nature.

Lord knows I’ve caused my share of trouble.

There was no temporary leave for Coleman. He was still very much on duty, with an appointment he couldn’t afford to be late to.

Admiral Orlovsky’s office was aboard his personal ship, the Abraham Lincoln, which was also currently docked at Meitas Station. After Commander Coleman deboarded the Berlin, a pair of junior officers escorted him to the admiral’s ship then to his private quarters buried deep within its belly.

The Abraham Lincoln couldn’t have been more different from the old, industrial ships the Forgotten had served on. While the other ships had been dark, with recessed lighting buried into the tops and bottoms of corridors, the Abraham Lincoln was bright. The white bulkhead radiated light itself, and the ship had the shine of technological promise. It felt like a private yacht rather than a warship, and Admiral Orlovsky’s personal office felt no different.

Admiral Orlovsky himself appeared as bright and clean-cut as always. With stark-white hair and a square face, the man had the look that officers in the Sol Fleet were supposed to have—regal, strong, and fair. Like the Abraham Lincoln itself, he showed no signs of the stress and exhaustion that Commander Coleman and the rest of his squadron felt. The admiral hadn’t endured what they had endured or suffered through the same front-row seat to death. Where they were broken, he was whole.

He smiled, rising from a leather-backed chair, revealing teeth as white as his hair. “Chadwick,” he said. “It’s been too long.”

Coleman smiled back. He and the admiral had been friends for a long time, long before he had risen to one of the top stations in the fleet.

“Yes, it has, sir,” Coleman said.

“Please.” Orlovsky waved a hand in front of his face as if warding off a bad smell. “No sir. It’s just us. Two old friends.”

Coleman knew better, of course. He hadn’t been summoned to a private meeting with one of the most powerful men in the fleet because they were old drinking buddies. They’d stopped being that kind of friends years ago. They were closer to friendly acquaintances who shared a fond past.

“Of course,” Coleman said.

“Sit.” Orlovsky pointed to one of the chairs on Coleman’s side of the desk.

Coleman sat and crossed his legs. “How’s the family?”

“Getting too old too fast,” Orlovsky said. “I’m married to an old woman now.”

Coleman laughed. “And she’s married to an old man.”

“That, she is. When did that happen, Chadwick?”

“Sometime in the last twenty years would be my guess,” Coleman said. “What about Victor? He must be about finished with his officer’s training. Will I see him on a ship soon?”

“He already is,” Orlovsky said. “He’s aboard the Munich.”

Commander Coleman raised his eyebrows. “That’s a nice ship.”

“Being an admiral’s son has its advantages,” Orlovsky said with a wry smile. “He’s older now than we were when we enlisted. Did you realize that?”

“Now you’re making me feel old.”

“Good. I couldn’t be the only one.” Orlovsky rose and strode over to a small bar tucked away into the corner of the office. “Want a drink?”

“Of course.”

Orlovsky filled two small glasses with brown liquor, handed one to Coleman, then sat in the chair beside him.

“Thank you.” Coleman sniffed the glass’s contents then took a small sip. The bourbon went down smooth, with a smoky aftertaste that lingered on his tongue. Coleman held the glass to the light appraisingly. “Impressive.”

“Another perk.” Orlovsky enjoyed a sip of his own then took a deep breath before exhaling through his teeth over several long seconds. “I bet you’re wondering why you’re here.”

“You mean I’m not here to get plastered with an old friend and go streaking through the station?”

Orlovsky let out a booming laugh. “No, but those were the days, weren’t they?”

“Some of the best,” Coleman agreed. “Before life grew… complicated.”

“And it’s about to grow even more complicated, old friend.” Orlovsky grabbed his tablet and typed in a command before spinning it around so that Coleman could see. “Fleet Intelligence suggests that after their most recent attack, Baranyk forces have begun pulling back from some of their forward operating territories.”

Coleman watched a compilation of time-lapse videos showing Baranyk ships in orbit of several Baranyk-controlled territories. One moment they were there, then after a flash of light, the Baranyk ships were gone.

“What happened?” Coleman asked, taking the bait. While the recently vacated worlds had been under human control prior to the Baranyk’s development of the disruptor weapon, humanity wasn’t in a position to launch an offensive. Not yet. Reinforcements were coming, but for the time being, humanity was still very much fighting a defensive war.

“We don’t know,” Orlovsky said. “But look at the time signatures.”

Coleman studied the videos, noting the timestamp on each. At precisely the same millisecond, all four Baranyk capital ships disappeared from the four Baranyk-controlled worlds.

It defied all logic. Commander Coleman had been part of many such retreats, and never in his experience had every ship and shuttle jumped at exactly the same time. Retreats, even planned fallbacks, were more of a haphazard affair and usually deliberately staggered to provide some semblance of order.

“Where are they going?” he asked.

“That’s what we want you to find out,” Orlovsky said.

“Me?”

“Command is putting together a crew to investigate the disappearance of the Baranyk forces and determine what they’re planning next. And we want you to lead it.”

Coleman drew his lips into a disapproving frown. It was the same one he used when his pilots made a mistake that they should have known better than to make. “Admiral, we’ve been through this…”

“I know we have, Chadwick, and let me just stop you right there, because it’s not going to work this time. Command was all too happy to let you work on your pet projects, but you were little more than a glorified mechanic. Something well below your rank’s credentials. Command was okay with it, because it kept you out of their hair, and they recognized the war had moved past your specific set of abilities. But that’s no longer the case. This war, this mission, plays directly into your strengths, Chadwick. There is no more qualified person to lead this mission than you.”

“Are those Command’s words or yours?” Coleman asked.

“Both.”

“I belong in the cockpit. You know that.”

“No.” Orlovsky regarded his drink. “You belonged in the cockpit, but you don’t anymore. I’ve seen your scans. You keep yourself in optimum shape—there’s no question—and you’re pumping yourself full of steroids and hormones usually reserved for advanced-combat personnel, but you’re still forty-six years old. Father Time has finally caught up with you, and unlike this bourbon here, age hasn’t made you better. Your body is breaking down. It can’t take much more of it.”

Coleman regarded the other man for a second then took a sip, giving himself another couple moments to respond. Orlovsky’s words were an assault on his ego. He, the soft-bellied, silver-haired desk jockey, was calling him old. His first instinct was to show Orlovsky just how old he was, but as Orlovsky had said before, the rank of admiral came with a certain set of perks. One of them, Coleman supposed, was that Orlovsky didn’t have to worry about angry lower-level officers trying to beat his ass.

Worse, the admiral wasn’t wrong. While Coleman liked to tell himself that age was just a number, it came with its own set of realities. No matter how much time he spent in the gym, his body was breaking down. He injured easier and took longer to recover, and those were just the physical ailments. The heart and brain scans were more troubling. But damn it, he was a fighter pilot, and he belonged in the cockpit.

“That was a low blow,” Coleman said.

Orlovsky shrugged and offered Coleman a small grin. “The perks of—”

“Of rank, I know.”

“Of being your friend,” Orlovsky finished. “I can tell you the hard truths, and you’ll believe me.”

Well, didn’t I just shove my foot into my mouth?

Orlovsky knew he had Coleman in an awkward spot. His grin grew wider. “The truth is, Chadwick, you’re afraid of the responsibilities that come with a captainship. You want to be in the cockpit because it’s just you in there. If you make a mistake, you’re dead, but it’s only you. You aren’t responsible for the other thousand souls onboard.”

“I’m not afraid—”

“Reluctant. Hesitant. Whatever. The point is the same. You don’t want the responsibility. But here’s where your logic falls apart. In this new war, you’re already responsible for every soul onboard, in the fleet and otherwise. If your squadron fails, we’re dead. It’s as simple as that.”

“It’s not that simple,” Coleman said. “I have other pilots to back me up if I fail.”

“You’re splitting hairs,” Orlovsky said, waving his hand. “You assembled the roster, trained them, outlined objectives, and devised the strategy. You do that wrong, and the fleet is gone. You can try and hide from responsibility, Chadwick, but it’s already been placed on your shoulders. And you know that, so don’t try and argue with me.”

Coleman took a deep breath. “You’re not going to give me a choice, are you?”

“I told you arguing about it wasn’t going to work this time.”

“Tell me about the crew,” Coleman said.

Orlovsky beamed, obviously sensing victory.

“I’m not agreeing to anything yet,” Coleman added.

“Of course, of course,” Orlovsky said, but it was clear he didn’t believe him. “You’ll lead it from the state-of-the-art, first-off-the-assembly-line, though recently retrofitted, Redemption.”

Coleman frowned. “Why would a state-of-the-art ship need to be retrofitted?”

“To accommodate the two squadrons of Nighthawks that will be stationed onboard.”

“Two?” No other ship in the fleet had more than the standard one. There was no need. If they got into a battle large enough to necessitate more fighters, then they either retreated or called in additional firepower.

Orlovsky only nodded. “With another two drone squadrons and full platoon of marines. I wasn’t lying when I said you were uniquely qualified to lead this mission, Chadwick.”

Coleman tapped a finger on the arm of his chair, his eyes boring into Orlovsky’s. The admiral was an old friend, but he was still the admiral—and he was looking out for his own neck. Still, he’d brought up some good points, and Coleman would be lying if he said he’d never thought about a captainship. To lead his own ship, to be in charge… he’d served under too many incompetent captains to know that even with the heightened responsibility, the position had advantages too.

Moving in for the kill, Orlovsky stood and rounded his desk. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small box, removing its top. He slid it across the table. Two gold captain’s bars glistened under the artificial light.

“They’re yours, Chadwick. All you have to do is say yes.”

Coleman took the box, regarding the contents inside. They gleamed at him invitingly. “Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I get to pick my executive crew.”

“Done.”

“And I want my squadron.”

Orlovsky winced. “That, I can’t allow. They’re the best pilots in the fleet. We need them to lead the other squadrons.”

“You have the Old-Timers. Surely, they can—”

Orlovsky waved the suggestion away. “No. They’ll be leveraged as well, you can be sure, but your pilots are the true vets of this new war, and we need to leverage their experience.”

Coleman understood the challenge. The fleet couldn’t integrate several hundred new pilots, all with zero battle experience, and expect the best. “A compromise then. Give me twelve pilots. That’ll give me four flight leaders, four seconds, and four more to fill my ranks.”

“That’s half of your remaining force,” Orlovsky said.

“Those are my conditions.”

Orlovsky seemed to stew it over for a moment. “That’s still too many, Chadwick. I’ll never get it approved. Eight. That’ll still give you four flight leaders and four seconds. That’s the best I can do.”

It was more than Coleman had expected to be able to retain. “Fine.” He nodded as if to say the negotiation was over.

Orlovsky’s stoic face split into a smile. “Congratulations, Commander. Or should I say, Captain.”

The word rang like an ominous bell. “Thank you, sir.”

“Let’s get you to your ship.”

6

Station Bar

Meitas Station, High Orbit

The bar aboard Meitas Station was the best kind of bar: dirty, cramped, and full of an equal number of men and women. Coda wanted to find a table in the back, somewhere they could be alone to observe the festivities, but Squawks and Noodle overruled him, selecting a high-top table at the center of the room, within shouting distance of the bar and near the makeshift dance floor.

Half a beer deep and having only drunk sparingly over the last six months, Coda was already more than a little foggy headed. The slight buzz was a welcomed feeling, providing him with the escape and liquid looseness he’d been craving for some time.

Since their time aboard the Jamestown, Coda had only partaken in the traditional fighter pilot festivities on two occasions: once after Whiskey’s funeral and after their first victory as a squadron. On both occasions, he had been called to battle within hours of falling asleep, and regardless of whether or not his body was better equipped to metabolize the alcohol, he hadn’t wanted to repeat the mistake. He’d even been reluctant to partake tonight, but again, Squawks and Noodle had won out.

“We’re on leave, Coda,” Squawks had said. “It’s not only allowed; it’s expected. Didn’t you hear the commander?”

“Yeah,” Coda said. “He warned us against getting into too much trouble.”

“Key word,” Squawks said. “Too much.”

“That’s two words,” Noodle chimed in.

“Can it, Noodle,” Squawks said. “We’re expected to blow off steam. And what better way to do that then get annihilated drunk and make bad decisions?”

“Sounds fun,” Coda said.

“Damn right, it does,” Squawks said, seemingly oblivious to Coda’s sarcastic tone.

Coda hadn’t fought anymore after that—not because Squawks had won but because it did sound fun. After months of being on high alert, the ability to drown his senses was a welcome opportunity. Still, as enticing as it had sounded, he couldn’t help but feel they were making a mistake. Maybe it was the months spent in battle or the fact that even now, little stood in the way of a Baranyk attack, but Coda couldn’t get comfortable.

The bartender showed up with another tray full of drinks and began placing them onto the table in front of the three men.

“Uh,” Coda said, stepping back as if the drink were a viper about to attack. “We didn’t order those.”

“Compliments of the girls at the bar,” the bartender said. “Said to say thank you for all your efforts.”

Coda followed his gaze, finding a pair of women sitting at the bar. Their physiques indicated they were servicewomen, which, Coda assumed, wasn’t a dangerous assumption as they were on a military station. But unlike the three men, they were dressed in their finest.

“You don’t say.” Squawks eyed the women, who were now giggling and smiling. “Let’s go say you’re welcome.” Squawks rose from his seat, and Noodle joined him. “Not you.”

“What?” Noodle asked.

“Not you,” Squawks repeated. “I need a real wingman. I’ve seen you talk to women. It’s embarrassing. Come on, Coda.”

Coda didn’t move, eyes darting from the women to the drinks. One of the girls smiled coyly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear, giving him a clear view of her slender neck.

What’s wrong with you? Get off your ass and go talk to them!

But as if frozen in place, Coda still didn’t move.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Squawks asked. “Let’s go.”

You’re being ridiculous. You have no fear going into battle, but you can’t talk to a couple of girls who bought you a drink?

Coda’s tablet vibrated, giving him an excuse to look away and spare him from further embarrassment. It was a message from Commander Coleman.

This is why I don’t drink.

“What’s that?” Squawks asked.

“The commander wants to see me,” Coda said.

“What does he want?” Noodle asked.

“I don’t know, but it looks like you’re up.” Coda nodded at the two women.

“Great,” Squawks said. “I knew the commander was a dick, but I didn’t know he was a cockblock too.”

“Good luck.” Coda took a final swig then headed toward the door. The last thing he heard before he was out of earshot was Squawks telling Noodle to let him do the talking.

Leaving the bar behind, Coda followed the directions Commander Coleman had sent to his tablet. They led him to a dock on the other side of the station. Commander Coleman waited outside an airlock, still dressed in full uniform. Like the rest of the pilots, Coda had changed into something less formal, sporting a T-shirt and some standard-issue trousers.

“Thank you for coming,” Commander Coleman said as Coda approached.

“Of course, sir. What’s going on?”

“Walk with me.”

Commander Coleman toggled something on the wall pad, opening the airlock, then strode into the umbilical. Unlike the docking umbilicals at the Terran Fleet Academy, this one was hard and within the station’s artificial gravity field, allowing the two men to walk down its length. When they got to the end, Commander Coleman opened the second airlock, entering the ship proper.

Coda found himself in a large corridor leading into the belly of the ship. The ship was new. Its bulkhead was a pristine white, showed no signs of battle, and seemed to glow. As a result, the corridors were well lit, feeling more like a passenger liner than an old twentieth-century submarine.

The commander continued his stroll through the adjoining corridors, en route to his destination. The farther they ventured into the ship, the more it became clear that the commander knew exactly where he was going.

“What is this, sir?” Coda asked. “Our new ship?”

Rather than answer, Commander Coleman stepped through another door, entering an enormous hangar bay. At least twice the size of anything Coda had served on previously, it stretched out in front of him far enough that he couldn’t throw a wrench and hit the far wall. He wasn’t even sure he could hit the ceiling. And lined up as far as he could see were squadrons of Nighthawks and Hornets.

“Welcome aboard the Redemption,” Commander Coleman said. He slipped between the Nighthawks, absently running a hand along their matte-black fuselages. Coda followed, trying to take in the grand sight and failing. “Fresh off the assembly line and already retrofitted to accommodate two squadrons of Nighthawks and another two Hornet squadrons, she’s about to embark on her maiden voyage.”

“She’s incredible, sir.”

“That she is, Coda.” Commander Coleman stopped and turned to face him. “And she’s mine.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve accepted command of the Redemption.”

“Oh.” Coda couldn’t help but feel a shred of disappointment. Commander Coleman had been the only commander the Forgotten had ever had. He’d assembled them, trained them, flown with them, and mourned with them. If he’d accepted a captainship, then who was in charge of their squadron?

As if sensing Coda’s frustration, Commander Coleman continued. “I never wanted this, Coda. I’m a pilot. I’ve always been a pilot. My place has always been out there.” He nodded toward the massive bay doors at the far end of the room that emptied into space. “But times change, and sometimes we need to move forward.”

“I don’t disagree, sir. And I’m happy for you. But if I may, what does this mean for the Forgotten?”

Commander Coleman nodded for Coda to follow, then exited through a door that led into the pilots’ section of the ship. Just inside the door, adjacent to the locker room and barracks, was a small office furnished with a desk, two chairs, and a digital display board. The CAG’s office. Commander Coleman stood in the doorway, looking into the office.

“I accepted the position on one condition, Coda. That I would get to choose my executive crew and handpick the pilots serving under me. You’re one of the finest pilots in the squadron, Coda. I want you out there with me.”

The shred of disappointment bloomed into something else. The commander wasn’t abandoning him after all. “Of course, sir. It would be an honor. I would have requested it anyway.”

“And I want you to be my CAG.”

“Sir?”

“I said I want you to lead the squadrons of the Redemption.”

“Me?” Coda couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d thought the commander was leaving. Now he was being asked to accompany him, to lead with him. “Sir, I’ve been flying for less than a year and in battle less than that. I want to fly for you, but surely there’s someone more qualified.”

“How many battles have you seen, Coda?”

Coda let out a long breath, thinking. “Dozens.”

“Which makes you one of the foremost veterans the fleet has to offer. You have also served as flight leader under me for the last three months and led Viking Squadron back at the academy. Except for Moscow, no other pilot in this squadron has as much leadership experience as you do.”

“What about your old wingmen? Surely one of them would be available.”

“No,” Commander Coleman said. “Unlike me, they moved on when the war passed them by. They’re either commanding ships of their own or out of the service altogether. Even the Old-Timers are being disbanded and used to train the new graduates. But even if they weren’t, they’re like me—old and slow, losing their battle with age. I need someone like you, Coda. Young. Experienced. Driven.”

Coda looked away from the commander—or was he a captain now?—taking in the office. Captain Coleman was offering it to him. All he had to do was say yes. Could he do it? Did he want to do it?

The questions brought with them something else that had been plaguing him of late. For his entire military career, he’d had a single goal: restore honor to his family name. He’d done that. He was a hero of the fleet. When he went to bars, people recognized him and bought him drinks. By all indications, he had succeeded, but if that were the case, why did he still feel like his job was unfinished? Why didn’t he feel like the man everyone saw him as? What drove him now? All questions he’d been unable to answer.

Coda stepped into the office. “What’s the mission?”

“Baranyk ships are retreating from newly conquered territory. We’re to find out why and what they’re planning.”

“A recon mission.”

“Something like that.”

“And yet, if the number of fighters in the hangar were any indication, they’re expecting heavy resistance.”

Captain Coleman shrugged. “We’re at war, Coda. We expect it every day.” He stepped into the room and slid a finger across the display that took up the entire wall. The screen came to life, displaying forty-eight fighters divided into four flights of twelve.

“Two squadrons,” Captain Coleman said. “Each with their own squadron leader and flight leaders made up of the Forgotten. The rest will be made up of reinforcements.”

Reinforcements. Meaning green pilots yet to see battle.

“Would I get to pick my squadron and flight leaders?” Coda asked.

“Of course,” Captain Coleman said. “Off of the flight roster that I’ve assembled, anyway. I think you’ll be comfortable with my choices, though.”

Captain Coleman swiped the images to the left side of the display and brought up a list of pilots on the right. Seeing his friends’ names on the roster, Coda smiled. He placed an index finger on one of the names, slid it over, and dropped it on top of the gold fighter that indicated the squadron leader of Silver Squadron. He repeated the process, completing the flight roster with its flight leaders, and stepped back, allowing the captain to see.

The captain smiled and nodded his approval. “Should I take this as a yes?”

Coda cast a final look at the board and took a deep breath. Like Captain Coleman, Coda wouldn’t be in this alone. He would have his friends and flight leaders, along with four more seconds, all made up of people he had flown with and trusted.

“Yes, sir. It’s an honor to be your CAG.”

“Good,” Captain Coleman said. There’s one last thing.”

“Sir?”

“It’s there on your desk.” Captain Coleman pointed toward a small black box sitting on the desktop.

Coda grabbed the box and, casting a questioning eye toward the captain, opened it. Inside was a gold-leaf collar device. “Sir, I… thank you, sir.”

“Welcome aboard the Redemption, Lieutenant Commander.”

7

Meeting Room, SAS Redemption

Meitas Station, High Orbit

A week later, Captain Coleman stood at the head of the table in the Redemption’s officers’ meeting room, feeling more than a little uncomfortable with the room’s eyes trained solely on him. Just off the ship’s bridge, the room felt very different from the ship’s command center. The meeting room was devoid of the electronics that fueled the navigational, communication, and tactical displays.

The table, made of solid old-fashioned wood instead of the composite materials used throughout the rest of the ship, could have belonged to a navy vessel four hundred years in the past. The steel anchors that bolted it to the floor, keeping it from becoming a five-hundred-kilogram projectile should the ship’s artificial gravity fail, were all that suggested the desk was aboard a starship and not an old sealiner.

Like the table, Coleman couldn’t help but feel like a relic, something that would have been out of place if not for tradition. As he returned the gazes of his officers, Coleman’s new reality hit home for the first time. A week ago, he had been the commander of one of three Nighthawk squadrons left in the fleet. Now he was the captain of a starship with orders to venture into Baranyk space and answer one of the biggest questions plaguing Fleet Command. With the new position had come new responsibilities, and the first had been to handpick the very people seated in front of him—most of whom hadn’t met each other yet, which was the first point of his meeting agenda.

“Thank you for coming,” he began. “I know it’s early for some of you, late for others. It’s going to take a little time to get acclimated to the ship’s schedule. First order of business is some quick introductions.” He pointed to Coda, who sat immediately to his left. He was the youngest person in the room by a wide margin and seemed to realize it, shifting uneasily in his chair.

“Lieutenant Commander O’Neil is our CAG, the person in charge of integrating the newly graduated Nighthawk pilots into the fighter squadrons we have aboard the Redemption and leading them in battle. I have personally flown with Commander O’Neil, and he was the one who devised the strategy that ensured our victory above Toavis.”

Coda sat a little straighter and nodded to the officers seated around the table. So, I’m not the only one who feels like a fish out of water. Something about that made Coleman more comfortable.

“Seated beside him is Chief Engineer Brahm Payton.”

Tall and slender, Payton had thin black hair that he kept dangerously close to exceeding regulations and wore the kind of smirk that said he was smarter than everyone else in the room and wanted everyone else to know it too.

“The chief will keep all of us warm and cozy inside our little ship as we venture into the cold, dark unknown.” This got a few chuckles from around the table, though none from the chief.

Payton pursed his lips together, his eyes narrowing at those who laughed. Why are the best engineers born without a sense of humor?

“On the other side of the table, we have Chief Science Officer Indira Naidoo. One of the foremost experts in Baranyk biology and theoretical communication, Dr. Naidoo will be joining us until we have provided Fleet Command with a viable answer to their most pressing questions.”

Dr. Naidoo had her black hair pulled into a tight bun. Where Payton wore his disdain openly, Naidoo was reserved, her face showing no hint of emotion. Coleman had met her aboard the Jamestown, and in the few conversations he’d had with the woman, he’d found her highly intelligent and more than capable.

“Lastly, my longtime friend and XO, Commander Jaime Garcia.”

A former fighter pilot in his own right, Garcia hadn’t aged well. His once-chiseled frame had gone soft with age. His belly pushed against the buttons of his jacket, and the skin of his neck was loose and drooping. But his calling card had always been his hair, and that was as thick as ever, even if it was peppered with gray.

“Happy to be aboard,” Garcia said. His voice was deep and warm, but Coleman knew it could cut and growl with the best of them. “I never thought I’d see the day where the great Commander Coleman took a captainship. Had to see it for myself.”

“And it never would have come to pass if I hadn’t been allowed to handpick each and every one of you,” Coleman said. “Our mission is of extreme importance and likely extremely dangerous.”

“A mission I’m still a little fuzzy on, if I’m being honest,” Garcia said.

“Which brings us to agenda point number two.” Coleman toggled a couple buttons on his tablet, dimming the lights, and called up the display at the back of the room. “As I have shared with all of you individually, our recon drones have observed enemy carriers jumping out of Baranyk-controlled territories, leaving them unprotected and open to human counterattack. What I haven’t shared with you is this.”

Coleman pulled up four separate images from four different systems with a global clock at the bottom of the screen. As the admiral had shown him, he showed his officers.

“They jumped at the same time?” Payton asked.

Coleman nodded. “At exactly the same time.”

“Is that even possible?” Coda asked.

“It’s possible,” Payton said. “If their ships are equipped with jump drives similar to ours, it’s just a matter of entering in the time of the jump and allowing the AI to coordinate it over the network. Pretty simple really. Now whether or not it’s probable is another story. We’ve never been able to detect a Baranyk network.”

“You’re attempting to project a human thought process onto an alien species,” Dr. Naidoo said. “What may be improbable or strange to us may be the way they naturally operate.”

“I’m less concerned with the how,” Coleman said, “and more concerned with the why. Where did they go? What are they planning? Why leave hard-fought territory open for retaking? And why do it in system after system?”

“There’s only one strategic reason to leave territory unguarded,” Garcia said. “Because you’re massing forces somewhere else.”

“Which explains Command’s concern,” Coleman said.

A heavy silence fell over the room as each of its occupants watched the display repeat the Baranyk disappearances in a steady loop.

“Were they left unoccupied?” Coda asked, interrupting the quiet. “I mean, have all Baranyk forces left those systems?”

“No,” Coleman said. “Each system has what amounts to a small rear guard. A single ship, medium size, no doubt to monitor our movements.”

“And on the ground?” Coda asked.

“We don’t know,” Coleman said. “Our recon drones haven’t been able to provide anything definitive. Early signs point to no ground activity, though.”

“Then we could be walking into a trap,” Garcia said. “They could be massing a large fleet somewhere and then jump in the moment our ship is detected.”

“Then you understand the stakes,” Coleman said. “We need to be prepared for anything. Commander O’Neil, how are the new pilots falling in?”

“They’re still arriving, sir,” Coda said. “From what I can tell, they’re well trained, but I won’t know what I have until I put them in the simulator. And even then, we won’t truly know what they’re made of until we’ve seen them in action.”

“Keep on them,” Coleman said. “They have to be ready. Our success depends on it.” He took a deep breath, shifting his attention to the larger audience. “We’re flying into the unknown, ladies and gentlemen, and something tells me our collective mettle will be tested. Stay focused, and prepare your people. We jump in forty-eight hours.”

8

Nighthawk Ready Room, SAS Redemption

Meitas Station, High Orbit

The moment the last pilot reported aboard the Redemption, Coda ordered his squadrons to the Nighthawk ready room. He gave them two minutes to assemble and find seats in the room’s stadium seating before stepping through the door and making for the podium at the front of the room, his three other flight leaders in tow.

“Officers on deck!” someone shouted, and as one, forty-eight pilots rose to their feet and snapped to attention.

“At ease,” Coda said, falling into position behind the podium. “And take your seats.” His flight leaders stopped a step behind him, flanking him on either side, not unlike their standard finger-four flight formation.

Captain Coleman hadn’t been surprised when Coda had selected Moscow, Squawks, and Noodle as his flight leaders, though he had raised an eyebrow when Coda told him that Moscow was his second-in-command and leader of Silver Squadron. It seemed that while Coda and Moscow had largely put their past issues behind them and had even supported each other as wingmen, Captain Coleman didn’t fully trust them. Coda couldn’t blame him. To say he and Moscow had been rivals was like saying the sun was hot.

Once his pilots had retaken their seats and silence again filled the ready room, Coda began. “Welcome to the Forgotten. I am Lieutenant Commander Callan O’Neil, your CAG, but in the cockpit and in nonformal situations, you may call me by my call sign, Coda. Behind me are your flight leaders, and like me, they have been in this squadron since the beginning. They have flown in battle, and they have been victorious. I trust them with my life.”

Coda paused, letting the words sink in.

“The unfortunate reality is that while I trust them, I do not trust you. You’re no doubt great pilots, the best the Sol Fleet has produced. But trust is earned, ladies and gentlemen. Through hours in the cockpit. Through blood, sweat, and tears. From you being there when I need you and me being there when you need me. And until that day comes, what will they be, Squawks?”

“FNGs, sir,” Squawks said.

“FNGs,” Coda repeated.

“Fucking new guys,” Squawks said.

A small wave of laughter filtered through the room, and Coda allowed himself a smirk. “Fucking new guys,” he repeated. “I don’t tell you this to make you angry. I don’t tell you this to make you feel inadequate. It’s simple common sense. Until we’ve flown with you, we don’t know if you’re more likely to kill us or the enemy. And until each of you proves that you’re more likely to kill the enemy than one of your wingmen, you will remain FNGs. Any questions?”

“When will we get an opportunity to prove that we belong, sir?” The question came from a pilot in the front row. She leaned back in her seat so that her long legs stretched out in front of her. Her no-nonsense expression reminded Coda of Captain Coleman.

“The rest of the crew is still boarding the Redemption,” Coda said. “We’ll remain at Meitas Station for another sixteen hours. After that, the decision is up to the Baranyk. In the meantime, each of you has been assigned to a flight leader, and that information has already been sent to your tablets. Line up according to flight, and prepare to move.”

The pilots checked their tablets, rose, and slowly milled about to determine who was in each flight. Coda turned to Moscow, raising an eyebrow.

“Move!” Moscow bellowed. “This isn’t Sunday school. Go! Go! Go!”

Chaos ensued. The pilots frantically formed into four lines based on flight. Coda smiled, taking his place at the head of his flight. His other flight leaders did the same, then he led them out of the ready room. They jogged down the corridor, entering a nearby room that had been equipped with four simulators. His pilots formed four neat rows, eyes on Coda and the simulators.

“Until I say otherwise,” Coda began, “you will spend every waking moment in these simulators. Make no mistake, FNGs—you’re still very much in training, and until my flight leaders know what to do with you, you will keep working. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!” the pilots shouted in unison.

“Good,” Coda said. “Let’s begin.”

Coda selected the first member in line from each of the four flights and told them to strap into the simulators. One of the pilots was the woman who had asked when she would have a chance to prove herself.

Over the course of several hours, Coda and his flight leaders ran the new pilots through the preprogrammed scenarios Coda had built within the simulator. Flying in small flights of four, they had a simple objective: hold off a growing swarm of Baranyk fighters for as long as possible. There was no “winning” the scenario; it simply grew more and more difficult until the pilots were finally overwhelmed. Still, it allowed him to see how far their previous training had taken them.

It didn’t come as any surprise that the woman—he’d learned her call sign was Nails—was good. Really good. Her flight lasted longer than any of the others’, and she had more kills than any other pilot. Through it all, Coda felt a growing sense of familiarity. From the cool confidence in how she held herself to her precise flying that had a flair of swagger, Coda couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d met her before.

When every pilot had taken their turn in the simulator, Coda cued up another scenario and had them begin again. He was met with a few frustrated murmurs, but nobody questioned him outright. Not even Nails. He understood their frustration, of course. It was getting late, and he’d told them they would be shipping out in a matter of hours. That meant that some of them would be in the cockpit again with little to no sleep, and since they were entering Baranyk space, there was no telling when they would catch up.

There’s no other way. I have to know what I have.

Another four hours and more than twenty flights later, practice came to an end. All in all, Coda was surprised by how well they’d flown. They were technically competent, confident, and aggressive. Still, he was only cautiously optimistic. Simulated battle was far from the real thing. When the real bullets started flying and mistakes meant death, he didn’t know how many of his pilots would lose their edge or snap under the pressure.

“Good work today,” he said in their debriefing. “You’ve had some good training. In time, you’ll be worthy of your position among the Forgotten. Over the next few days, my flight leaders and I will assign you to your wingmen and fill out the flight rosters. That’s when the real work will begin, because while you show promise, you’re still what?”

“FNGs,” they repeated in amused exhaustion.

Coda let himself smile. He couldn’t be a hard-ass all the time. Fighter pilots and their leaders shared a different kind of bond than other military units—it was good for his pilots to see him as something more than just their superior.

“FNGs,” Coda repeated. “Exactly. Now get some rest. We’ll reconvene at zero six hundred. Dismissed.”

The pilots filed out of the room in an exhausted shuffle. As the door slid closed behind the final one, he let out a long breath and turned to his flight leaders. “We have our work cut out for us.”

“Yes, we do,” Noodle agreed. “I wouldn’t trust a single one of them to understand a complex set of orders, let alone be able to carry them out.”

“They’re green,” Moscow said. “Greener than green.”

“Fucking FNGs,” Squawks said.

“What are we going to do?” Noodle asked.

“Exactly what I said we were going to do. We’ll assign them to their wingmen as soon as possible and get them flying CAP and logging time in the simulator. Then we need to fill out the flight rosters. We need to pair them up by skill set and flying styles. They need to be better together than they would be individually.”

“And you think you have enough information from only two training scenarios?” Moscow asked skeptically.

“No,” Coda said. “It’ll be a fluid process, and things will change, but we don’t have time to wait.”

“When do we get started?” Noodle asked.

“Right now,” Coda said. “Come on.”

They exited the Simulation Room and found Nails waiting in the corridor. She took one look at Coda and started to speak then noticed the others behind him and closed her mouth as if she’d thought better of whatever she was going to say.

“Can I help you with something?” Coda asked.

She hesitated, her attention darting between Coda and the rest. “No, sir. Good night.” She gave him a crisp salute and disappeared down the corridor.

“That was weird,” Squawks said, watching her go.

“Yeah, it was,” Noodle said.

“What do you think she wanted?” Moscow asked.

“I’m not sure,” Coda admitted. Then, as if the thought had just come to him, he added, “Does she remind you of anyone?”

“No…” Noodle said. “Should she?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like—”

“Captain Coleman,” Squawks said, cutting him off. “It’s that whole take-no-shit, tough-as-nails attitude that the captain has, which is where she no doubt got her call sign. Hell, she even looks like him.”

Coda looked back down the corridor. She’d long since turned down an adjoining corridor, but in his mind’s eye, Coda could still see her. Now that Squawks mentioned it, she did look like the captain. Coda couldn’t imagine him having a daughter. Captain Coleman was many things, but fatherly wasn’t one of them. If anything, he was married to his service, and the Nighthawks were his children.

“Yeah, that must be it,” Coda said. “Come on. It’s already late.”

Even as he led the flight leaders into his office to begin their work assembling the fighter pairs, the questioned needled at him. He struggled to focus as they watched clips of the flight scenarios on the left side of the digital display and moved names around on the right, putting together tentative pairs, then rewatched clips of both pilots side by side. Two hours into the process, with his flight leaders having taken over, Coda pulled up Nails’s file.

Lieutenant Aniyah Robinson had graduated from the recently refurbished Terran Fleet Academy, with marks good enough to place her within the top five percent of her class. Her instructors raved about her all-business attitude and ruminated on how she felt as though she had grown up in the cockpit. It was the latter comments that made Coda dig deeper. While Nails’s family name was different from Captain Coleman’s, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the two were related. It only took a few minutes of digging before Coda found his confirmation.

He found it in the form of a divorce filing. Lisa Robinson had filed for divorce from Chadwick Coleman, citing irreconcilable differences, and had promptly been awarded sole custody of their only child, Aniyah Robinson. The processing dates were eerily close to when the Sol Fleet had shut down the Nighthawk program. Was that why the captain had never returned to Earth, even after the war had left him behind? Because he had nothing to go back to?

Coda doubted he would ever fully get answers to the questions. It didn’t matter anyway, because new questions quickly replaced the first. Did the captain know his daughter was onboard, having joined the ranks of the most dangerous squadron in the fleet? If he did, why hadn’t he said anything to Coda about it? Or even more puzzling, if he didn’t know, was it simply coincidence that she’d found her way to her father’s ship, or had someone higher up within Fleet Command placed her there? And if the latter was true, what other surprises could the Forgotten expect?

Sitting behind his desk inside his new office, watching as his flight leaders argued about fighter pairs, Coda was left with an unsettling feeling.

Nothing about this mission is what it seems.

9

Bridge, SAS Redemption

JumpGate Meitas-2, High Orbit

The bridge of the Redemption was much like the bridges of the other ships Captain Coleman had served on. It was made up of three descending levels, with the more critical crew members closer to the center and bottom circle, where the captain and XO were stationed. The biggest difference was the size. It wasn’t necessarily bigger to accommodate more crew but to give them more space to operate in.

Commander Garcia stood at the center of the bottommost layer, his eyes firmly on the three-dimensional display that ascended to the ceiling. Coleman had known Garcia since his days as a pilot, when both had served aboard the George Washington. When the Nighthawk program was shut down, Coleman had refused advancement, staying as close to the fighters as possible, while Garcia had moved on with the times.

Like many of the other former pilots Coleman had known, Garcia hadn’t aged well. The wrinkles that stretched out from his eyes and mouth were the worst. Not only were they wrinkles of age but stress as well. Fleet Command hadn’t been kind to him—that was one of the reasons Garcia had taken Coleman up on his offer to join him.

The display showed three-dimensional wireframe images of the space surrounding the Redemption. Like the other sensors aboard the ship, the images were updated automatically as new data came in. Having undocked from Meitas Station hours ago, the only wireframe was of the Redemption, its fighters flying CAP, and JumpGate Meitas-2.

The JumpGate was shaped like a pistol, the Redemption hovering above what would be the barrel, moving slowly downward as if being loaded from above—which, for all intents and purposes, it was.

“How are we looking, Commander?” Coleman asked as he descended the final step into the bottom layer of the bridge.

“Approaching the JumpGate now, sir,” Garcia said. “Docking procedure to commence in five minutes.”

“Good,” Coleman said.

Whether it was Garcia’s words or having the bridge crew looking down upon him, Coleman couldn’t help but feel like the eyes of everyone in Fleet Command were on him. It was a far cry from the days when he’d made decisions from the privacy of his own cockpit. There had been no eyes there, and when he didn’t want to hear other people, he’d just needed to order radio silence. This was going to take some getting used to—as was the earpiece he and the rest of his command had been fitted with.

Coleman toggled the piece, opening a channel between him and his CAG. “Coda, we’re approaching the JumpGate now. Bring in the CAP.”

“Yes, sir,” Coda said.

Watching the battle map, Coleman saw that Coda relayed his command immediately. The green wireframes of the four Nighthawks on patrol altered course, moving to dock with the Redemption.

“How are things looking down there?” Coleman asked.

“Good, sir. We’ve finalized our flight rosters and fighter pairs, and each of the flight leaders have run their pilots through various scenarios in the simulator. They’re green, sir, but they’re well trained.”

“Good,” Coleman said. “Get your best two flights in the tubes and ready to launch. Let me know when they’re ready.”

“On it, sir.”

“Keep up the good work.”

“Will do, sir.”

Colman closed the line and opened a new one with his chief engineer. “I’m reading all green down here, Chief. How are my engines looking on your end?”

“Green down here too, sir,” Payton said. “The ship’s sensors should alert you if there’s any trouble. No need to get my approval before every jump.”

“Old habits die hard, Chief,” Coleman said. “I’ll be a fighter pilot until the day I die, and that means I’ll double-, triple-, and sometimes quadruple-check our processes. I’ve known too many good men who died because they trusted the word ‘should.’”

“Understood, sir.” Payton’s tone was sharp, as if he were annoyed. He likely took questioning the integrity of the sensors as questioning Payton himself. Well, his chief engineer would just have to get used to his captain being overly cautious.

“We’ll be entering enemy space within minutes,” Coleman continued. “I’ll expect regular status updates.”

“And you’ll have them, sir.”

Coleman closed the channel. On the digital battle map, Coleman watched as the wireframe image of the Redemption slid into the barrel of the JumpGate.

“We’re loaded, sir,” Ensign Richey, his communications officer, said. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun, framing a young face. “The gate crew is awaiting your order to begin the jump-initiation sequence.”

“Begin,” Coleman said.

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman took a deep breath then toggled his earpiece to channel communication with the entire ship. It was his responsibility to inform the crew what they could expect, to prepare them, and to keep them together when shit hit the fan. But damn it if it wasn’t unnerving. He wasn’t one to make speeches.

“This is the captain,” he began, his voice reverberating through the bridge’s speakers. “We’re about to jump into Baranyk territory. Command has all but assured us that the enemy forces have mostly fled, but I don’t hold to that, and neither should you. As a fighter pilot, I learned to always expect the worst. By doing so, I had a plan in place to fix whatever situation I fell into, long before it ever happened. That’s how I lived where others died. That’s why I am here and they are not. So I challenge each and every one of you: think, expect, and prepare. For every possible scenario. Coleman out.”

Coleman toggled the earpiece off.

“Riveting, sir,” Garcia said under his breath. “I got chills.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the most nerve-wracking thing I have to do all day.” Coleman sighed.

“You’re a natural, sir.”

“And you’re still a smartass, Commander. I was up half the night putting that together.” He turned back to Richey. “Where are we with the jump initiation?”

“Just finished, sir.”

“Good,” Coleman said. “Tell the gate crew to initiate jump on my mark.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman opened a new channel. “Coda, what’s the status of my Nighthawks?”

“The deck crew just loaded the last one, sir. We’re good to go.”

“Understood. Stay alert.” Then to Garcia, “You ready?”

“Let’s see what our old friends have cooking.”

Coleman spotted Richey on the ring above him. Her eyes were already locked on him, awaiting his order.

“Jump.”

10

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Cerian-7

Captain Coleman had been aboard more than a dozen ships and jumped more times than he could count, but he still never got used to the sensation. Most people described it as having the world stretch out in front of them, as if their sense of reality were somehow elongated.

For Coleman, however, it felt like being ripped out of his body altogether. It wasn’t painful, just disorienting. The world did stretch out in front of him, but as it did, so did he. He watched himself, seeing the back of his head as if he were dreaming in the third person. He felt and saw every movement during the jump sequence, which only made him even more disoriented. So he had long since instituted a practice that kept him stock-still until the jump was completed.

For several long moments, the sensation continued. Then in the span of an eyeblink, the world snapped back into focus. Coleman’s sweaty palms gripped the railing nearby to keep him from staggering.

“Report,” Coleman said, his eyes moving back to the three-dimensional battle map in the center of the bridge.

“Sensor data coming in now,” Tactical Officer Lieutenant Poiu said, not looking up from his terminal. Like many aboard the Redemption, he was young but had come with strong recommendations and high marks from the academy. “We’ve arrived at Cerian-7, sir.”

The image of the planet suddenly appeared on the display. Like Earth, it was a mix of blues, greens, oranges, and yellows. Cerian-7, though, was actually a moon that orbited the gas giant Cerian, which gave the system its name. The moon’s close proximity to the gas giant created tidal forces and volcanic activity that kept the moon, which was well out of the sun’s Goldilocks zone, warm enough for human habitation.

The real treasure of the system was Cerian itself. Rich in hydrogen and helium-3, the planet provided many of the raw materials used in the fleet’s fusion reactors. Like Toavis and many other planets before it, Cerian-7 was a requirement for advancing the human fleet. Supply lines had always been a challenge during planetary war, but they were an impossibility in intergalactic warfare. The challenge had finally been solved by the advanced mining operations of the Sol Fleet. Now, though, Coleman saw none of the standard ships, scoopers, or other mining vessels that would normally be harvesting the raw gases from the planet’s atmosphere.

He had chosen to begin his mission at Cerian-7 for two reasons: If they were able to reclaim the moon, mining operations could restart, providing vital materials to the fleet. It was also the farthest the Baranyk had ventured into human space. The end of their line had become the beginning of his.

“Readings?” Coleman asked.

“Nothing, sir,” Poiu said. “No activity coming from the planet or the moon.”

“Plot a cour—”

“Wait,” Poiu said, “I’m picking something up.”

The data slowly visualized on the display. Something was coming around the moon. Coleman recognized the carrier before Lieutenant Poiu confirmed it.

“It’s the Baranyk, sir! One carrier. And… it’s breaking orbit. We’ve been spotted.”

“Set Condition One throughout the ship,” Coleman said. “Launch fighters and plot an intercept course.”

“They left someone behind, after all,” Garcia said.

“Yes, they did,” Coleman said.

“They want to know if we came knocking?”

“Or left as bait to draw us into a trap.”

Coleman watched the display as twenty-four Nighthawks blasted out of the side of the Redemption. Immediately clear of the larger ship’s hull, they split into two flights of twelve. Forming up on the nose of the Redemption, they looked every bit like the tip of the spear that they truly were.

“Time to intercept?” Coleman asked.

“At this speed,” Lieutenant Poiu said, running the calculations on his terminal. “Four minutes.”

Coleman stared at the image of the incoming vessel, running through his options. The old starfighter’s adage rang through his head. Speed is life.

“Increase thrust twelve percent, Lieutenant Poiu,” Coleman said.

“Course, sir?”

“Same course, Lieutenant.”

Although Lieutenant Poiu didn’t question the order, he watched Coleman for half a second too long. All chatter on the bridge seemed to die, and Coleman thought he felt the eyes of the entire bridge staff. The order to increase speed ran contrary to typical engagement tactics. With their ten-meter-thick, reinforced-steel hulls, the human battle cruisers were built for strength, not speed, but as Coleman was beginning to learn, old habits died hard.

“You heard the captain!” Garcia bellowed. “Increase thrust twelve percent. Same course.”

“Increasing thrust twelve percent.” Lieutenant Poiu’s fingers moved like lightning across his terminal.

“Bring us within ten kilometers on the starboard side,” Coleman said. “I want every cannon firing the moment that ship enters range, and don’t stop until it’s out. We’re going to hit it with everything we have while we pass.”

“Course is set,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“Good,” Coleman said. “Once we’re past the enemy vessel, slingshot around the moon and prepare for another pass.”

“At that speed, that won’t give us a lot of time on the second pass,” Garcia said quietly.

“We do our jobs right on the first and we won’t need it.” Coleman brought up the frequency to his fighter squadrons. “Coda, do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“Good. Lieutenant Poiu is transferring flight data to you now. You’re my spear. We’re going to strafe past the enemy vessel, and I want you to poke as many holes in it as possible.”

“What about their fighters, sir?”

Smaller red dots were streaming out of the carrier now, moving to intercept the human force.

“Open fire, but do not pursue.”

“Sir?”

“Your primary objective is the carrier,” Coleman said. “Once the Redemption has passed, engage the fighters and draw them away. We’ll continue around the moon and assault the unprotected carrier.”

“Copy that.”

“That’ll leave you in communications blackout until we make it around the moon.”

“We’ll be fine, sir.”

“Happy hunting, Commander.” Coleman closed the channel.

“Weapons range in one minute,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

The two massive vessels drifted toward each other. The vastness of space made the dance look slow, but Coleman knew they were moving at incredible speeds, and the window of time for bombardment would be very short. Still, strafing runs were less dangerous, and with only one Baranyk carrier present, there was no reason to take any undue risk.

“Ten seconds,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Five, four, three…”

Here we go.

The Nighthawks opened fire first, cutting into the enemy fighters with a volley of missiles. Red wireframes disappeared from the display as enemy fighters were blown out of space. True to Coleman’s command, the Nighthawks continued course, heading straight for the unguarded enemy carrier. A moment later, a volley of Haymakers were on their way. Red circles appeared around the carrier’s image, marking multiple hits. Then in a blink, the Nighthawks were past, and it was Coleman’s turn.

Unlike being in the cockpit, his role in the battle was relatively limited. He had to give the order and trust his crew to carry it out. The distant rumble of batteries echoed through the ship, reverberating through the bulkhead, vibrating the deck. The display lit up as rounds streaked from the Redemption toward the enemy vessel. Over six meters in length and two meters in diameter, the capital-ship killers nicknamed the Rods from God weighed more than ten thousand kilograms and packed a significant punch. Better yet, since they relied exclusively on kinetic energy, there was no disarming them. The Baranyk’s only hope was avoiding them altogether.

“I’m showing multiple hits,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Between the fighters and our—”

The ship shook violently as the first Baranyk slugs tore into the Redemption. The enemy didn’t let up, and due to their ships’ close proximity, there were no evasive maneuvers Coleman could take. He and the rest of his crew were at the mercy of the strength of the Redemption’s hull.

“Damage report!” Coleman bellowed.

“Multiple hits along our starboard side, decks five through seventeen,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “No breaches. They’re hitting us, but they’re little more than glancing blows. Looks like our speed is making it difficult for them to get off a clean shot.”

“Good,” Coleman said, perhaps a little too triumphantly—which he was reminded of when the ship shuddered again, the already dim lights of the bridge flickering.

“That one got through,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Decompression in decks twelve through sixteen.”

“Get our people down there,” Coleman said.

“Already done, sir.”

The deck continued to vibrate as the men and women of his gunnery department kept their systems online and batteries firing. More red circles on the Baranyk ship’s wireframe showed additional hits. The ship was taking a hell of a beating, but would it be enough? The Redemption shook again with another direct hit. The enemy had adjusted their ordinance. Lieutenant Poiu shouted as decks suffered breaches and decompression.

Sweat trickled down Coleman’s back. He wasn’t used to taking direct hits. If something like that happened in a fighter, the pilot was done for.

The ship continued to vibrate as it belched fire and death on its enemy, the two ships passing in the black. And then it stopped. An eerie silence fell over the bridge, interrupted only by the heavy breathing of its personnel and the soft beeping from the shipboard computers.

“We’re out of range, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“Status of the enemy vessel?”

“Showing signs of major damage. Dozens of breaches and signs of power failure. We did quite a number on her, sir.”

“Good.” Coleman allowed himself a sigh of relief, watching the display as his fighters still at the tip of the Redemption broke off at opposite angles. The fighters swung around wide, reversing course, and prepared to engage the Baranyk fighters pursuing the human force.

“Lieutenant Poiu,” Coleman said, “plot a course around the moon. We’re going to slingshot around and finish the job.”

“Yes, sir.”

Good luck, Coda. You’re on your own for now.

11

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Cerian-7

Coda fired his forward thrusters, shedding speed. His flight harness dug into his chest, shoulders, and crotch, sending spikes of pain through his body. Gritting his teeth, he assessed the situation on his HUD.

The Baranyk carrier had launched its fighters before the Redemption opened fire, likely expecting a standard engagement. Captain Coleman’s unique strategy had thrown them off, though, rendering their fighters ineffective, except for a couple lucky shots from distance. The larger ships were slower and more sluggish, but the smaller, more nimble crafts had altered course to begin harrowing the human capital ship from behind.

Coda’s computer counted four squadrons of Baranyk fighters, leaving his squadron badly outnumbered. They were also without the cover fire of the Redemption’s point-defense cannons and the safety net the ship provided if they were forced to retreat. Fortunately, the enemy had been preoccupied with the human capital ship and had massed their fighters in offsetting square-shaped formations that allowed maximum offensive fire. It also gave the first wave of Coda’s fighters a clear shot as they came into firing range.

Targeting the nearest Baranyk fighters, Coda and Nails, his wingman on the hop, released a pair of missiles in less than a heartbeat. Four small points of light, barely brighter than the sky’s brightest star, flashed for a brief moment then winked out. Red dots on Coda’s battle map disappeared a moment later, confirming the enemy crafts’ destruction.

“Splash two!” Coda shouted.

“Splash four,” Nails echoed.

There were more flashes of light as the rest of the squadrons’ missiles cut into the meaty part of the formation. The radio rang with more triumphant shouts as the Baranyk squadrons were cut down by almost half.

That’ll make this a fair fight.

“Like shooting pigs in a barrel,” Squawks said over the comm.

“I don’t think that’s how it goes,” Coda said.

“That’s the joke, dumbass. Did you lose all sense of humor when you became CAG?”

Coda laughed, wondering what the new pilots thought of the strange banter. Then the Baranyk formations shattered, breaking into quads of fighters darting in every direction. Coda’s Nighthawk shuddered and came alive as he switched to cannons and opened fire. Tracer fire disappeared into the black, narrowly missing a quad of Baranyk. It seemed to get their attention, though, because they altered course, darting in pursuit.

Coda flipped his Nighthawk nose to tail, expecting Nails to do the same. She didn’t, leaving Coda alone against the incoming enemy fighters. Worse yet, she’d picked up a tail of her own. Busy taking evasive maneuvers, she wouldn’t be able to come to his aid.

Fortunately, his maneuver left him flying backward, his nose-mounted cannon pointed directly at the pursuing enemy fighters. Firing in controlled bursts, Coda took out the lead fighter. Its organic hull exploded like a squashed bug on concrete.

He opened fire on the next fighter and instructed his computer to get missile lock on the third and fourth. A well-placed shot in the middle of the formation would likely destroy all three remaining vessels, but before Coda could launch the missile, the Baranyk formation broke apart. Two fighters moved to his starboard side, the other to his port. It was the same strategy the enemy had taken in the battle of Chrylis when they’d tried to take down Coda and Moscow. It hadn’t worked then, but he didn’t have Moscow now—the other pilot was in charge of Silver Squadron, which wasn’t in this battle—and his new wingman had her own issues.

Coda ran through his options. He could spin horizontally, follow the pair of Baranyk fighters, and allow the third to get onto his six. If he could eliminate the pair of fighters fast enough and turn his attention to the third…

No. There’s no time.

He did the only other thing he could think of. He fired his main thrusters. Since they were pointed in the direction his craft was flying, the maneuver slowed his speed—dramatically. Coda slammed into his gel seat, feeling something twist in his chest. All-too-familiar pain erupted.

Another broken rib.

That would be his fourth, and if he wasn’t mistaken, they were breaking with more regularity now. Bones were supposed to heal stronger, but that was only the case if they were given enough time to heal to begin with.

Still, pain meant he was alive, and the three fighters had overshot, giving him a few precious seconds to escape. He weaved in and out of the melee, using the battle’s natural chaos to put some distance between him and his pursuers. At some point, the Baranyk fighters gave up, having found an easier target, and disappeared from his six altogether.

Coda found himself on the outskirts of the battle. His HUD showed a snarled mess. He’d heard dogfights described as a tangled knot that was tied back over itself tighter and tighter as the battle progressed, but he liked to think of it more as a swarm of angry bees. The swarm was roughly circular in shape, and so was the battlespace. And instead of empty space between the buzzing insects, the dogfight was filled with antifighter slugs and missiles. But the chaos, the impossibility of keeping an eye on a single object within the larger mass—that was the same.

Fortunately, where he couldn’t track every fighter, his computer could, and it told him his green pilots were holding their own. While not flying with the same precision he’d come to expect from the Forgotten, they weren’t exactly fresh meat for the grinder, either.

Since decimating half the enemy force in the initial wave, his pilots had shot down another third of their remaining forces while only taking a handful of casualties themselves. And they only needed to hold out for another couple minutes. Then the Redemption would return.

Thinking of the Redemption, Coda found the Baranyk carrier and was surprised to see it hadn’t altered course. It seemed to have slowed but had carried on its original trajectory. Had the Redemption inflicted that much damage?

Coda blinked as a pair of Nighthawks buzzed his wing. He cursed. He’d been flying on the same trajectory at the same speed for several seconds.

Too long.

He was as close to a sitting duck as there was in space combat. Settling back into the gel of his seat, he reentered the fray. Guns blazing, he shot down two enemy fighters while allowing his computer to autoselect missile targets. Getting a lock, he fired then dove negative-Z, trusting the computer-guided missiles to find their targets. When the other two red indicators disappeared from his battle map, he knew they had.

Spinning in a tight corkscrew, he went back positive-Z, cutting into the battle from its underside. If it had been a battle on the open seas of Earth, he would have had all the advantage in the world, but this was space. There was no up or down—only the battle plane, an artificial line that the fighters used as a directional reference. Although the fighters were roughly aligned to the same battle plane, they pointed and moved in every direction, so he wasn’t surprised when he found himself on a head-on course with three enemy fighters instead of below the bellies of Baranyk ships.

Moving on instinct alone, Coda went hard to starboard, performing a high-G turn. His ribs screamed at him, ripping the air from his lungs. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.

No, no, no, Coda thought, widening his eyes as if to keep the darkness at bay. He couldn’t black out. Not now. Not with three enemy fighters on his tail.

A strange thought came to him. Were they the same three fighters he had engaged with before? Distinguishing between Baranyk fighters was impossible, but he swore he saw scorch marks on the side of one—scorch marks from the explosion of one of his missiles. Could they have been tracking him? He didn’t want to find out.

“All fighters, this is Coda. I’ve got a few clingers. Who wants to be on my good side today and wipe them for me?”

“I’m coming, Coda,” Nails said. “ETA in… four seconds.”

Coda cursed. Four seconds was an eternity in combat. “Copy. Just do what you can.”

He swung his fighter back and forth in a series of basic maneuvers to keep the enemy at bay. His battle map lit up as the enemy fighters opened fire. Smaller dots streaked through the digital space, racing toward him. He held his breath, corkscrewing, waiting for the inevitable. When none of the slugs struck, he veered positive-Z then performed a tight, high yo-yo defense maneuver.

In atmosphere, the maneuver would have shed speed, causing the enemy to overshoot, but since there was no drag in space, it was no different than a standard high yo-yo. To compensate, he fired his forward thrusters, creating his own drag, slowing his fighter. Again, his body screamed. Something inside him broke. Another rib. Maybe two. And this time, his collarbone sent agonizing waves of pain up his neck.

But the sudden maneuver worked. The three Baranyk vessels zipped in front of him then attempted to veer off. Coda shoved the throttle forward, racing after them. These three had put him through hell, and he wasn’t about to let them get away with it. He took out the first with guns, while his computer got a lock on the other two. When he got tone, he fired.

As if sensing their impending doom, the two ships veered in opposite directions. But it was too late. The two missiles pursued, and unable to shake them, the pair of enemy fighters exploded in a burst of organic material.

Coda bellowed, pumping his fist, and immediately regretted it. Goddamn, his body hurt. He prepared to reenter the battle when something caught his eye. His pursuit of the enemy fighters had left him facing the gas giant, and racing around it, just coming into view, was the Redemption.

“All fighters,” Ensign Richey said over the comm, “you’re to disengage and provide cover fire for the Redemption.”

“Copy that.” Coda winced. Even talking hurt. How long am I going to spend in the medical bay? “Gold and Silver Flights, form up. Full throttle. It’s time to catch the bus.”

Coda darted out of the swarm of fighters, making for the coordinates that Ensign Richey had provided, and maximized thrust. The G-forces pushed him into his seat, pressing against his ravaged body like an enemy crushing him in a vise.

“You know,” Squawks said as he and the fighters of both flights moved into position behind Coda, “we’re going to have to rethink this whole Gold and Silver Flight thing. It makes me feel inferior.”

“You are inferior, Squawks,” Coda said. “Especially in the head. That’s how they keep convincing you to climb into these deathtraps.”

“Touché,” Squawks said.

“For what it’s worth, Squawks,” someone else said, “you’ll always be gold in my book.”

“Thanks, Stubbs.”

“Gold-plated, at least.”

“I hate you guys.”

Laughter filled the comm then died away as the enemy fighters regrouped, moving into an attack formation of their own. The battle wasn’t over yet.

12

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Cerian-7

“All Nighthawks are en route, Captain,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“Good.” Coleman kept his eyes firmly on the large battle map. His Nighthawks had plotted an intercept course that would have them rendezvous with the Redemption only moments before it intercepted the damaged Baranyk carrier. “What’s the status of the enemy vessel?”

“Showing significant damage along its port side, Captain. Sensors are also picking up massive power fluctuations.”

“Radioactive material?” Coleman asked.

“Not that the sensors are picking up.”

Power fluctuations without the detection of radioactive mass… he supposed it was too much to hope that they had damaged the main reactor.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said. “Maintain current course and speed.”

Once again, Coleman felt every eye on the bridge on him. And once again, it was his XO who voiced the unspoken questions.

“That slingshot significantly increased our velocity, sir,” he said quietly. “We’ll have an even smaller window to fire than before.”

Coleman’s eyes snapped to Commander Garcia. The man was his friend—he had taken the position because he was his friend—but the questioning had gone on long enough. Coleman didn’t intend to reprimand the man, he believed his actions and their subsequent success should do the talking, but he needed to instill confidence, let his crew know that he had a plan and that he wasn’t another flyboy flying by the seat of his pants.

“We won’t need as much time this time around.” Coleman let his gaze linger, driving his point home.

Garcia met his eye, seeming to understand Coleman’s intensity. He nodded. “Maintain current course and speed.”

“Nighthawks reporting that the Baranyk fighters are in pursuit, Captain,” Ensign Richey said. “In pursuit and attempting to get through their guard. They’re trying to get to the Redemption, sir.”

“They know their ship is nearly lost,” Garcia said.

“Time to weapons range?” Coleman asked.

“Fifteen seconds, sir.”

“They don’t have enough time,” Coleman said. “Tell the squadron to keep up the good work. The battle is nearly over.”

The seconds ticked by with impossible slowness. Coleman watched as the green and red indicators danced behind the Redemption. For every one that winked out, a pilot had died with it. Their forces were already down four fighters.

And this was just one battle. One battle with one ship.

But like the original one hundred candidates for the Forgotten, Coleman knew that this was just war’s way of whittling down the best. Those four pilots would have been chiseled away regardless. It was a morbid thought, but the cream rose to the top, and for pilots, that meant the best stayed alive to fight another day. Even if they lost twenty fighters, the remaining force would be just as deadly, maybe even more so, given their newfound experience and battle-hardened readiness.

“Five seconds, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said, continuing the countdown to firing range.

“You know what to do, Lieutenant. Take them out.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

Barely more than a second after the words were out of his mouth, the Redemption rumbled with the sounds of their batteries opening up. On the battle map, small circles expanded from the enemy carrier like ripples in water, each one representing a direct hit. The enemy vessel was taking terrible damage.

“Two seconds,” Garcia said, counting down the time left in firing range.

The Redemption continued to rumble. Coleman leaned closer to the battle map, his eyes nearly level with the wireframe of the enemy vessel.

Come on. Come on!

The ship was traveling too fast. If he was forced to angle for a third pass, it would take precious time his fighters didn’t have. He was already down another Nighthawk since his last count.

We need to end this now.

The rumbling stopped, the firing ceasing.

“Status!” Coleman bellowed. The enemy ship hadn’t disappeared from the battle map. Had he failed?

“Reading high levels of radioactive material, Captain,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Looks like the reactor is going critical.”

Relief flooded through Coleman’s body. He hadn’t realized it, but at some point during the conflict, he had taken hold of the railing again. His palms were sweaty, leaving the surface smudged as he let go.

“Reverse course,” Coleman said. “Ninety-second burn. Let’s shed some of this speed and settle into orbit.”

“Yes, sir.”

There were no unspoken questions this time.

“Nighthawks are requesting orders, sir,” Ensign Richey said.

“Tell them to RTB. Battle landings,” Coleman said, trusting the Redemption’s point-defense cannons to eliminate any remaining enemy pursuit.

As the Nighthawks made for the Redemption, beginning their landing procedures, the enemy carrier disappeared from the battle map.

“The reactor has gone critical, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “The enemy vessel is gone.”

Cheers erupted inside the bridge as the dozen bridge crew began clapping and hooting.

“Quiet!” Coleman bellowed. The din ended immediately. “All scanners, scan all frequencies.”

“You still thinking this was a trap?” In the quiet of the bridge, even Garcia’s soft voice was audible in the corners of the room.

“Always plan for the worst, Commander,” Coleman said.

A heavy silence fell over the bridge, extending for several long seconds as everyone watched their terminal, waiting for an enemy fleet to jump in. The only sound was of the ship’s rumbling and creaking as its thrusters shed velocity. Ten seconds went by. Then twenty. Thirty. A minute. Coleman let himself exhale.

“Looks like we’re in the clear, sir.” Garcia extended a hand. “Well done. A little unconventional, but well done.”

Coleman took his XO’s hand, shaking it with satisfaction. “Thank you, Commander. You as well.” Then louder, so that the entire bridge could hear him. “All of you. Well done. Now let’s get to the moon, and see why—”

“Captain!” Ensign Richey said. “I’m picking up a signal from the moon. It’s a distress signal, sir. One of ours.”

Coleman darted up the stairs to Richey’s communications terminal. “How old is it? Could it have been from the original Baranyk invasion?”

“Doubtful, sir,” Richey said. “We’ve been scanning human frequencies since we arrived. It wasn’t there before.”

“The Baranyk have been here for months,” Garcia said. “That’s a long time for a human resistance to hold out. And those weren’t soldiers down there.”

“No,” Coleman said. “But if there are survivors, we can’t let them languish any longer. I want a squad of marines on the surface the moment we’ve settled into orbit. It’s time to see what the hell is going on down there.”

13

Flight Deck, SAS Redemption

Cerian-7, High Orbit

Coda winced as he removed his flight helmet. With the battle officially behind him, his body had stopped pumping itself full of adrenaline, and now all of his bumps, bruises, and cracked and broken bones were flexing their terrifyingly painful muscles. His personal injuries aside, the battle had been a costly one, with five of his pilots having flown their last flight.

Five out of twenty-four birds. We can’t continue with those kinds of losses.

On the deck, one of the specialists rolled a ladder over. Coda cracked open his hatch then stood, grabbing the ladder’s railing with his good hand, and slowly descended its steps.

“Thank you,” Coda said, stepping from the final rung.

The deck was alive with activity. The deck chief was shouting orders to over a dozen specialists as forklifts moved the now-empty Nighthawks into their stalls for inspection, repairs, and rearmament. As Captain Coleman had taught him, Coda inspected his own fighter.

He ran a hand along the cold exterior of the fuselage, his eyes scanning for anything amiss. Its matte-black exterior was coated with Baranyk material and dented and scratched from having been peppered by the remnants of their fighters’ organic hulls, but nothing appeared overly alarming.

“She’s all yours,” Coda said to the specialist who was now rolling the ladder away. “Take care of her.”

“Will do, Commander.”

Coda strolled across the hangar, making for the pilots’ quarters through a nearby door. Most of his pilots had already returned to the ship and removed their flight gear, but some lingered behind, telling animated stories of the battle. They saw their CO, saluted, then got as far away as possible, leaving him alone in the locker room.

With one hand, Coda removed his flight suit—which was more difficult and painful than he ever imagined possible—and redressed in a pair of sweats and a tank top before making for the ready room for his debriefing.

The ready room was so loud with excitement and celebration, nobody heard the door slide open or saw their CO standing in the doorway. Coda watched them for a moment, not yet wanting to spoil their mood.

For as long as pilots had taken to the skies in defense of their family and country, the pilots’ ready room had been an open space to voice opinions. Step into any ready room across the fleet, and one was likely to hear complaints about the ineptitude of government, the shortsightedness of command, clueless voters, and a slew of other things humanity had bitched about for centuries.

The strike fighter ready rooms, however, were a different beast altogether. Where most ready rooms across the fleet were moderately informal, the strike fighter ready room had an added layer of respect. FNGs were expected to be deferential, to shut up unless spoken to. They occupied the space somewhere between invisible and insignificant. But that was only until they had flown their first mission.

“Officer on deck!” someone shouted as Coda moved into the room. Smiles faltered and laughter faded as Coda strode from the edge of the room to the front, where he stopped behind the podium.

“Take your seats,” Coda said.

The pilots found their seats and watched Coda with unenthused expressions.

“Before I get started, I just wanted to say… not too bad out there.” He smiled, letting everyone else in the room know that it was okay for them to smile too. What he got in return was a half-hearted response. “I mean it. Good work.”

The cheers intensified, some of the excitement from before returning.

“The bridge just sent me the preliminary numbers,” Coda continued, “and it looks like we had over thirty-seven confirmed kills. Not bad for a squadron that was still flying with training wheels only two weeks ago.”

More laughter.

Holding his bad arm against his chest, he toggled a few commands into his tablet with his other, dimming the lights and calling up a scoreboard at the front of the room. “Of those thirty-seven kills, your individual kill totals are as follows.”

Coda turned to look at the display. Unsurprisingly, his veteran pilots were grouped toward the top, but ahead of every other FNG was the daughter of Captain Coleman himself.

“Nails,” Coda said. “Stand up.”

She climbed from her seat, face beaming with an “I told you so” expression.

“Nails single-handedly accounted for eight kills,” Coda said. “Well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, a defiant edge to her voice.

His eyes lingered on her even after she took her seat again. If the attitude continued, he would have to talk to her about it. Disrespect was one thing—hell, complaining about superiors was as old as military itself—but insubordination was unacceptable.

“Unfortunately,” Coda said, “it wasn’t all sunshine and buttercups out there. Remove Nails, Squawks, and myself from the equation, and the numbers for many of you are downright dreadful. Factor in the five pilots who are no longer with us, and our performance leaves a lot to be desired. These kinds of numbers cannot continue. Remember, ladies and gentlemen, you’re not just fighting for yourselves out there—you’re fighting for your fellow wingmen. And every mistake you make, every shot you miss, puts them at risk.”

Coda took a deep breath, surveying his pilots. Any semblance of joy had vanished. They looked on with hard expressions, many refusing to meet his eye. He was losing them; he could feel it. But it didn’t stop him from criticizing them.

“Even you, Nails,” Coda continued. “You were to fly my wing this mission, and the moment we encountered resistance, I lost you. It nearly cost me my fighter. It nearly cost you your CAG.”

“Sir, I—”

“Can it, Nails,” Coda snapped. “If your first thought is to defend yourself, you’re missing the point.”

Nails shifted in her seat. “What is the point, sir?”

“You have to do better. We have to do better. Not for ourselves but for the people sitting beside you. We lost five pilots today. Five pilots in a single battle against a single Baranyk carrier in a system they abandoned. Five. We have to do better for them. Flight leaders, with me.”

Coda strode to the door as his flight leaders rose and moved to join him.

“Damn, Coda,” Squawks said once they were into the corridor. “I’ve heard of a wet blanket before, but holy shit. They weren’t that bad.”

“I’m their commander, Squawks, not their friend. It’s my job to give them the hard truths. It’s yours to be the hero who spares them extra duty. We’re not there yet, though. Once they’ve had a chance to decompress, get them back in the simulators. Maybe they weren’t as bad as I made them sound. I need to review the flight data first. But we still have work to do and not a lot of time to do it.”

“Of course, but…”

“What is it, Squawks?”

Squawks took a deep breath and shot a look toward Moscow and Noodle as if silently pleading with them to come to his defense.

“They’re not just FNGs anymore,” Noodle said. “We can’t continue with the us-and-them stuff.”

“You agree?” Coda asked, turning to Moscow.

“I do,” Moscow said. “They’ve earned the right to become part of the squadron.”

“What do you have in mind?” Coda asked.

“They need to be properly initiated,” Squawks said with a grin.

Coda rubbed his forehead. Squawks was proposing a celebration. The idea grated on him. They shouldn’t be celebrating. They should be reflecting. Getting better. Working harder. But even as he thought it, something in Coda understood the value. To fly as one, they needed to become one. And in order to do that, they first needed to become closer.

“All right,” Coda said. “But I need them in condition to fly. Can you do that?”

“I’ve got a few ideas.”

“Make it happen, then” Coda said. “I’ll be in sick bay if anyone needs me.”

14

Gas Mining Complex, Cerian-7

Surface

Join the marines and see the galaxy. That’s how Sergeant Haniger had been sold on enlisting. See the galaxy, visit alien planets, make a difference. All of the brochures and recruitment material had shown vibrant, alluring planets that looked like tropical paradises. Marines in full combat gear stormed beaches and ran over windswept plains, the might of the Sol forces behind them and looking every bit the heroes the recruiters portrayed them as.

Sergeant Haniger hadn’t joined for that reason alone; it was more of the icing on top. And after boot, he’d promptly shipped out to planet after planet, fulfilling the recruiters’ promise.

Join the marines and see the galaxy.

Unfortunately, the galaxy was a dumpster fire, and most planets were shitholes.

Cerian-7 was different. The dropship had dropped them at the heart of a mining operation in the northern hemisphere. The ground was rocky, largely devoid of flora or fauna, not unlike Earth’s moon or even Mars. But that view… my god, what a view.

Beyond the metal structures, pipes, and conveyer tubes was Cerian itself. It dominated the skyline the same way Haniger expected Jupiter would from Europa, and like the gas giant of the Sol system, it was a vibrant mix of reds, oranges, and whites. It left the moon with a strange feeling of being in a perpetual state of sunset.

Haniger had seen it for the briefest of moments when he’d raced down the dropship ramp, taking position, rifle raised as the rest of his squad fanned out. In that briefest of moments, he’d snapped a mental image and stored it away for future reflection. He and his marines now raced across the metal walkways, moving with precision, eyes scanning their surroundings, advancing toward the distress beacon.

They’d been told to expect Baranyk activity, but thus far, he hadn’t seen a single alien monster. No signs of life at all, in fact. The mining facility was quiet and dark, having lost power at some point. The only light came from the planet and the soldiers’ barrel-mounted flashlights.

“Sir!” Corporal Abernathy said. His rifle was angled down at the metal grating of the walkway. The dark metal was stained red.

“Blood?” Haniger asked, stepping closer to see for himself.

“Looks that way, sir.” Abernathy lit more of the area. “Lots of it.”

“We’re getting close,” Haniger said. He scanned their surroundings. The distress beacon was coming from the center of the installation, where a single structure doubled as living and office quarters. “Let’s go.”

They passed more remnants of battle as they moved toward the structure, blood and human remains, even the distinct yellow blood of the enemy.

So, there was some resistance. Good work, people. I hope you gave them hell and took a few of the bastards with you.

The living quarters and office building formed a square, two-story structure with windows that gave views of the operation. Like the rest of the installation, the windows were dark, showing no signs of life. They advanced toward the entrance, finding the door damaged and hanging sideways off its track, partially blocking their path inside. Corporal Abernathy and his fire team set up on the left side of the door, Corporal Hosaka and his team took the right. On Haniger’s order, they streamed inside, Haniger close behind.

Death waited for them inside. Blood coated the floor and walls. Human limbs were scattered about like refuse, bodies torn in two, heads ripped free, dead eyes staring lifelessly at the world they’d left behind.

See the galaxy. Visit alien worlds. That was the dream. This was the reality.

The fire teams continued their search, securing nearby rooms and corridors. Every now and then, they would pass a Baranyk corpse, though the death toll was significantly in the enemy’s favor. The miners had tried to mount a resistance but had learned firsthand just how deadly the enemy was.

Coming to a central staircase, Haniger ordered his fire teams to split up—one clearing the rest of the first level and another the top floor while he took two marines to search the lower levels. It was growing increasingly obvious that the Baranyk had fled, but that signal was coming from somewhere, and most of these installations were equipped with a security bunker. Within two-meter-thick steel walls in a bunker fully stocked with supplies, a group of survivors could hold out for days, maybe weeks. The question was, how long had these miners been hiding?

The basement level was darker than the main floor, devoid of all windows and natural light. The darkness was suffocating, almost cave-like, and even the sixty-watt barrel-mounted flashlight struggled to penetrate it, casting long shadows. Dust hung in the air, giving it a slightly hazy feel, reflecting the light and making it hard to see through.

They fanned out wide and moved slowly, advancing through the large room. Where the top level of the building was comprised of personal quarters and the main level for business functions, the basement was largely for the building’s infrastructure. Water heaters, purification systems, and heating-and-cooling systems occupied the room. Pipes and vents were exposed in the ceiling. There were no corridors or rooms, just a single space that took up the entire floor. Although the main level had shown signs of a resistance, this area was devoid of blood and bodies.

They made their resistance above while others sought shelter here.

Haniger checked the signal. He was right on top of it. He surveyed the room, slowly training his flashlight on the walls, expecting to see a door or hatch. While all of these structures had a safe room, there was some variability to where it was actually located. If not in the walls, then—

He spotted it on the floor and closed the distance in a second. Kneeling beside it, he traced the telltale grooves with a gloved hand. “I’ve got it.”

His marines were on him in an instant. Private Lopez dropped to his knees while Private Kennedy kept his eyes on the room. Haniger and Lopez slid their fingers into the crack and lifted, but the hatch wouldn’t budge.

“It’s locked from the inside,” Haniger said. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? “Hey!” he yelled, slamming an open hand on the hatch. “Hey! It’s okay. You’re safe to come out.”

Haniger waited for a response, for the lock to click or the hatch to open. But it remained as still and lifeless as the room. He pounded on it again, more urgently this time, voice louder. Still no response.

“Blow it,” Haniger said.

Private Lopez pulled a cartridge from his tactical vest then filled the crack with blast foam. After he’d gently inserted the primer, the three of them retreated, ducking behind a water tank.

“Clear!” Private Lopez shouted, and half a second later, the blast foam detonated.

Haniger darted out from around the tank, rifle raised, his scope illuminating the smoke from the blasts. Private Kennedy advanced from the other side, his scope lighting the chamber below. There was movement. Shadows. Dark shapes inside the space. Haniger’s finger squeezed the trigger, riding the millimeter between holding and firing.

One of the shadows emerged, and Haniger’s breath caught in his throat.

Holy shit.

15

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

Cerian-7, High Orbit

Dr. Rydell wasn’t happy to see Coda as he walked into sick bay. Frowning, she gave him a slight shake of the head then pointed to an open examination table. Coda climbed atop it and waited as she finished with her current patient. Dr. Rydell was a middle-aged woman with short brown-and-gray hair and a friendly, motherly face.

“You’re making this too much of a habit,” she said, coming over.

“I figured if I didn’t pop in every week, you might get worried,” Coda said.

She gave him a small laugh. Using her tablet, she ran a series of scans across his ribs, spine, and collarbone, and to nobody’s surprise, Coda’s self-diagnosis had proven largely accurate. He had two cracked ribs, a bruised shoulder and collarbone, and swelling around the spine.

“Keep this up and you’re liable to kill yourself,” she had said before getting started on a sling for his injured collarbone. “Displaced ribs alone can cause hemopneumothorax, pneumothorax, pneumonia, and internal bleeding from the laceration of internal organs including your lungs. And don’t get me started on the swelling. I have half a mind to remove you from flight status altogether.”

“Doc,” Coda said, giving her his best smile, “you can’t do that. I’m CAG now.”

“Don’t test me.” Dr. Rydell pointed at him, driving the point home. “The only person on a ship with more power than its captain is its doctor. If I tell you you’re unfit for duty, then you’re unfit for duty. Nobody can say otherwise.”

Coda held his hands in front of him as if to keep her at bay, though he knew that behind her stern words, she wasn’t being hard on him out of spite. Like all good doctors, she cared about her patients and genuinely didn’t want to see any harm come to them.

“I know, I know,” Coda said patiently. “I’m not saying you can’t. I’m only saying that you shouldn’t.” He winced. “That came out wrong. It’s just that—”

“I get it,” she said. “You’re a big dog with big responsibilities. Well, I’m just saying that unless you start taking it easier out there, there’s going to be a new big dog with big responsibilities.”

He smiled, the cocky kind that he knew would aggravate her. “Speed is life, Doc. You know that.”

“Speed is also death. I know that too.”

Dr. Rydell turned and strolled toward a closed locker. She unlocked it and pulled out a small white tube. “You know what this is?” she asked, making her way back to the examination table.

“Growth hormone,” Coda said.

“Somatotropin. A peptide hormone that promotes growth, cell reproduction, and regeneration. Engineered, of course, to expedite recovery, but the fact that you recognize it even though this tube doesn’t have any labels is terrifying. This alone can cause joint swelling, joint pain, and increase your likelihood for certain cancers.”

“Come on, Doc,” Coda said. “We both know they’ve been spoon-feeding this stuff to us since we signed up.”

“And we also both know that like this experimental concoction, your squadron was supposed to be a short-term solution to a very specific problem. Just be careful. That’s all I’m saying.” She handed him the tube.

“Thanks, Doc. I will.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said skeptically. “You know how to apply that, I’m assuming?”

“Rub it on twice a day,” Coda said, as if reading the instructions from a bottle. “Twelve hours apart.”

“And?”

“And use a glove to limit skin exposure. You don’t want me growing a third arm.”

“Exactly.”

Coda gave her a thoughtful expression. “Say, Doc? Can this make… um, certain body parts grow bigger too? I’m asking for a friend.”

“Oh, get out!” Rydell hit him on his bad shoulder with an open hand.

“Ouch, okay, ow! Bad joke. I get it. Squawks is rubbing off on me. He’s a bad influence, you know.” He slid off the examination table and headed toward the door.

“Be careful out there, Coda. I mean it. And I promise you, if I find out that stuff went anywhere near your… extremities, I’ll amputate it. Understood?”

Coda didn’t turn around. “I’ll see you again soon, Doc.”

* * *

Being CAG came with its own set of advantages, including private quarters. In his room, Coda stripped his top half naked and prepared the cream. He may have given Dr. Rydell a hard time, but he took careful note to follow her instructions.

With a gloved hand, he squeezed a line of the cream from his shoulder down his chest and began rubbing it across his injured areas. The stuff smelled like a mix of vomit and spoiled food, but it left a numbing sensation in its wake, banishing the pain. After applying a generous amount over his ribs and collarbone, he screwed the cap back on, removed the glove, and lay down on his bunk.

It was then that he was reminded of one of the disadvantages of being CAG: leadership was lonely. His pilots would be in their barracks, celebrating, telling stories, reenacting key moments of the battle, smiling, laughing, and honoring the fallen pilots. They would be growing close. Becoming one. Learning why it was so important to fight for each other and not just themselves. His flight leaders might even be taking part in the celebration. He knew Squawks would. Squawks wasn’t the kind of person who would let a good time go by without taking part.

What about Moscow and Noodle? Coda laughed at himself. Even if they weren’t participating in the festivities, what would you do? Call them up and ask them to come sit with you because you’re lonely?

Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed his tablet and propped it up with his knees. Operating it with his good hand, he went into his mail, half thinking of writing his old squad mate Uno or Buster, who had been his best friend at the Terran Fleet Academy. Both were serving aboard capital ships, members of the drone squadrons, though Coda had heard Buster was part of the Nonpareil now—the finest drone squadron in the fleet.

He was curious how things were going, wondered if they were seeing action or if they’d heard any rumors about Fleet Intelligence finally finding a way to counter the Baranyk jammer and make the Hornets operable again.

But as he opened up his mail, he found that someone had already written him, and it had come from the unlikeliest of people—his mother.

The message was short and, if not sweet, at least to the point.

Hello Callan,

I have received your Air Medal for your participation in the battle above Toavis, though why you thought to send it to me, I don’t understand. We’ve been through this, and you know my feelings, so sending it to me feels like you’re rubbing my nose in what you consider to be your accomplishments. In any case, since you seem destined to repeat your father’s mistakes, I have stored it with all of his awards and accommodations. If you return, you’ll know where to find it.

Good luck out there,

Mom

If it had been a paper letter, he would have crumpled it up and thrown it away. Because it was digital, the best he could do was throw it in the electronic trash bin, which wasn’t nearly as satisfying. They hadn’t ended on good terms—hell, they’d ended on about the worst terms imaginable—but she was still his mother. He was still her only son. More than two years had gone by. Was she still that mad? Had he hurt her that deeply? Something about that made him feel even worse.

He flung his tablet across the room and tossed his good arm over his eyes as if shielding himself from the world. Bitter thoughts plagued him as he drifted off to a restless sleep: why couldn’t she see he was doing this for their family? For her. For his father. For every other past, present, and future O’Neil. If she loved him, why couldn’t she support him?

He woke to the sound of a voice in his quarters, and it took him several moments to realize that it was coming through the walls.

“Coda, do you read?” It was Captain Coleman. “Coda, are you there?”

“I’m here, sir,” Coda said, his throat dry, voice scratchy. He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep.

“Get down here right away. We’ve uncovered something on the moon.”

16

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

Cerian-7, High Orbit

For the second time that day, Coda returned to sick bay. This time, instead of being greeted by a grumpy but well-meaning doctor and a handful of under-the-weather officers, he found the medical facility crammed with dirty strangers wearing little more than rags. Captain Coleman stood beside Dr. Rydell, speaking to a bald man who wore filth like a second pair of clothes.

“Sir,” Coda said, stopping beside Captain Coleman and Dr. Rydell. “What’s going on? Who are these people?”

“Survivors,” Captain Coleman said.

Coda looked at the newcomers with fresh eyes. Grease and solvent covered their skin, matting their hair. But there was more to it than that. Their faces were gaunt, eyes haunted, arms and legs dangerously thin. These weren’t survivors; they were the dried husks of the living. The difference between them and the dead was a matter of choice, and seeing the haunted looks in their eyes, Coda knew they were on the edge of a dangerous precipice.

“How is that possible?” Coda asked. “The system has been under Baranyk control for weeks.”

“That,” Captain Coleman said, “is just what we were getting ready to discuss.”

Captain Coleman kept his eyes on the man on the examination table until Dr. Rydell finished her scan.

“He’s malnourished, dehydrated, and suffering from a dozen other minor ailments, but he’ll live. My staff and I will administer IVs to help with the dehydration, and I’ll have the kitchen staff bring up some simple MREs. Beyond that, these people need rest. So be easy on them.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Rydell strode across the room and stopped beside another doctor to give him her orders. Maybe she truly did have more power on the ship than even Captain Coleman—at least when it came to her domain.

“What’s your name?” Captain Coleman asked.

“Gary.” The man’s voice was low and scratchy, as if he’d walked across the desert.

“Welcome aboard the Redemption, Gary. I’m Captain Coleman, and this is my CAG, Commander O’Neil. Can you tell us what you did on the moon?”

“I was a mechanic. Worked on the scoopers.”

The scoopers were the custom-built shuttles the miners used to collect raw gasses from Cerian. The process was simple and surprisingly low tech. Unlike the mines of old that relied on railcars and belts to transport mined materials, the gas miners of Cerian-7 flew from its moon to the gas giant. They manually operated booms that scooped its compressed gasses and stored it in airtight containers that were brought back to Cerian-7 for processing, storage, and transportation.

“Good-paying jobs are hard to find in Sol,” Gary continued. “So I came out here. Thought I could make enough money to start a new life. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.”

“What happened?” Captain Coleman asked.

Gary met the captain’s eye. There was a sudden life to him, fueled by an intense anger. “You left us to die.”

Captain Coleman blinked and cocked his head to the side, eyes narrow, confused. “We weren’t—”

“The Baranyk appeared in our skies,” Gary said, cutting him off. “But I knew you’d show up. I knew you wouldn’t leave your own behind. Even after our orbital defenses were destroyed, I knew you’d come. When they began bombarding our moon, I knew it was only a matter of time. I didn’t lose hope until I saw the Baranyk in person. Saw them…”

“Saw them what, Gary?” Captain Coleman asked.

“Where were you?” Gary growled.

“I assure you—”

“Where were you?”

The room went deathly quiet, every pair of eyes focused on the three of them. Judging by the looks from the other survivors, Gary wasn’t the only one seeking answers.

Coda turned to the captain, wondering how he would respond. To his surprise, Captain Coleman’s usually stoic face softened, and he crouched down so that he and Gary were at eye level.

“I’m sorry for everything that happened here,” Captain Coleman said. “But unfortunately, this isn’t the only system that’s fallen. The enemy has developed a new weapon, and we were on the defensive…”

“Were?”

“Were.” He shot a glance up at Coda. “Not anymore.”

Gary followed his gaze, as if seeing Coda for the first time. The anger in his eyes cooled, though it didn’t burn away entirely.

“How did you hold out for so long?” Coda asked.

“The operation was equipped with blast bunkers in case of a reactor meltdown. We stayed there, only leaving to find food and water when we ran out. Even found a weapons locker and thought about offering up some kind of resistance, but the Baranyk found one of our raiding parties and… they… they…”

Gary didn’t have to finish for Coda to know what had happened. The Baranyk were ruthless. They killed on sight and never took prisoners. If the raiding party had been spotted and hadn’t returned, that meant only one thing.

“They took them,” Gary continued.

Coda blinked. “They what?” The words were out of his mouth before he realized it.

“They took them.” Gary’s eyes grew haunted, his face losing all hint of emotion, everything making him human disappearing. He’d suddenly become nothing more than a husk of a person. “We heard their screams for hours.”

“What did the enemy want with them?” Captain Coleman asked.

“I don’t know.” Gary finally looked up, eyes wide and glistening with tears. “I don’t want to know.”

“Okay, Gary,” Captain Coleman said. “Thank you. You’re in a safe place now. If there’s anything you need, just let me know, okay?”

“I just want to forget, Captain,” Gary said. “Help me forget.”

Captain Coleman returned to his full height and looked to Dr. Rydell, who was administering aid to another of the survivors across the room. “We’ll see what we can do. In the meantime, get some rest.”

He strode away, and Coda followed.

“What the hell was that, sir?” Coda asked as soon as they were out of sick bay. “The Baranyk never take prisoners.”

“I don’t know,” Captain Coleman said. “But something tells me we haven’t found everything we’re going to find on this moon. Double the CAP and get me visual on the other moons around Cerian. I don’t want any surprises.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was clearly a dismissal, but Coda lingered. As much as he would rather avoid the subject, he had other things he needed to talk to the captain about.

“Is there something else, Commander?” Captain Coleman asked.

“It’s one of my pilots, sir,” Coda said.

“Command comes with its own set of challenges, Coda. Difficult pilots are one of them. Use your best judgment. If things don’t improve, let me know.”

“It’s not that, sir. This is different. It’s…”

“I’ve got a million other things to see to, Coda. Stop dancing around the subject and come out with it.”

This wasn’t going as planned. Coda wished he could just leave the subject alone and tell the captain another day, but he knew he’d gone too far. Captain Coleman wouldn’t let him get away without saying anything more.

“I believe one of the pilots in my squadron is your daughter, sir.”

Captain Coleman staggered back a step. “What did you… why…” He licked his lips, his eyes darting up and down the corridor to ensure that they were away from prying ears. Outside sick bay as they were, it apparently wasn’t as quiet as the captain would have liked.

He stepped closer, dropping his voice. “Aniyah is here?”

“Yes, sir. The squadron leaders and I were reviewing the new pilots, and she came up. Has a chip on her shoulder the size of Texas, and, well, she reminded us of you, so I started doing some digging. She adopted her mother’s maiden name, but she’s your daughter all right.”

Captain Coleman rubbed his forehead. He was more troubled than Coda had ever seen him. He’d known that the captain and his wife had split and that she had been granted full custody, but there had to be more to it than that. How deep had their falling out been? How long had it been since he’d seen his daughter? Coda’s mind went back to the letter from his own mother.

And how would I feel if she showed up here unannounced?

“Who else knows?” Captain Coleman asked.

“Nobody,” Coda said. “I don’t think anyone even suspects it.”

That seemed to mollify the captain. He took a deep breath, regaining some of his normal stature. His face returned to the same stoic expression Coda had come to know. “Good. Let’s keep this between you and me for now. At least until I’ve had an opportunity to address it.”

“Yes, sir,” Coda said. “To be honest, sir, I’m a little surprised you didn’t know. I figured you would’ve played a more active role in who served aboard your ship.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Commander. I was lucky to pick my executive crew and name you as CAG. The rest of the roster—well, that was picked by the department leaders and Command.”

“You think they did it on purpose, sir?”

“No,” Coleman said. “As bureaucratic as Command is, there’s nothing to be gained by a move like that. Aniyah’s mother and I haven’t had any communication in years, and I haven’t seen her in longer. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. I appreciate you coming to me about this, though. I’ll take it from here.”

“With all due respect, sir, that’s not going to be good enough. She’s under my command. If this is going to cause an issue…”

“There won’t be any issues, Commander. I assure you. Now get my CAP doubled and get eyes on the other moons. Remember, no surprises.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll see it done.”

Not wanting to ignore a second dismissal, Coda left the captain behind, making for the pilots’ section of the ship. He would do as ordered, but he couldn’t help but feel like the captain was using the pretense of additional Baranyk forces as a means to end the discussion. Regardless of the captain’s assurances, he was sure the situation with Nails was anything but resolved.

17

Corridor, SAS Redemption

Cerian-7, High Orbit

Coleman’s hands tightened into fists as he watched Coda disappear around the corridor. Aniyah was here? Aboard his ship? It felt like a slap to the face. A chaotic swell of emotion warred inside his chest. His thoughts were a jumbled mess. His face grew hot, blazing like the sun, as he started down the corridor toward his quarters.

Once inside, he unbuttoned his jacket then made for the bookshelf at the back of the space, passing the small armchairs, couch, and table in the center of the room. Coleman poured himself a drink and took a mouthful. Trying to quell the anger, he ran through a squared breathing exercise: inhale for four seconds, hold for an equal amount of time, then exhale for four seconds; repeat four times or as many times as needed. Coleman did ten, imagining the heat dissipating with every long breath, breathing out his anger and frustration.

Finally, he settled onto the couch, the last remnants of the heightened emotion making him feel weak. His personal quarters were plush by fleet standards, easily nicer than anything he had enjoyed in the last year—hell, the last ten years. He’d had a similar configuration aboard the Berlin, but here, he had space, which was at a premium aboard a starship. And the furnishings were new. The chair cushions were plush. The couch wasn’t sunken in, and the mattress wasn’t torn and hastily repaired with tough sewing thread that irritated his skin when he slept.

And he hated it. Now more than ever. The space was a waste. The furnishings would only make him soft. They were already making him soft.

The bathroom was nice—he wouldn’t argue with that, it was great not to have to share a toilet with one thousand other people—but it all felt so unnecessary. He was on duty for sixteen hours a day and on call twenty-four; he didn’t need all of this.

With a sigh, Coleman took another sip of his drink, letting its warmth battle the last vestiges of his unease. What the hell was Aniyah doing aboard his ship? And a Nighthawk pilot? He couldn’t imagine his ex-wife allowing her to follow in his footsteps, but Aniyah was of age now, and there was nothing her mother could legally do to stop her. Still, what were the odds? His first command, and his estranged daughter was aboard. God was playing a cruel joke on him.

From his jacket pocket, he pulled out the picture of her. It was over ten years old, creased and faded, its edges frayed and worn. It had been with him since the day the picture was taken, and save for the official pictures from her school he’d called up on his tablet, it was the only one of her he had.

Oh, how long I have dreamed of talking to you. Of hugging you and telling you I’m sorry, that I made a mistake.

Now that she was here, he realized something else: he was well and truly terrified. If someone had asked him a week ago what he would do if he saw her again, he would have said he would run to her, pick her up, and twirl her about as if she were still the little girl he remembered, the little girl he carried with him in his pocket. Now that the day was here, he understood that it was much more complicated than that.

Would I call her here or meet her somewhere else? Show up announced in the pilots’ barracks? What would I even say? How would she react? What would she say?

He was frozen with fear. He had no idea what to do, so he did nothing. How funny it was that the great Commander Coleman, no, the great Captain Coleman, decorated war hero and Baranyk killer, was afraid of his own daughter.

You’re a coward, Chadwick.

It was more than that, though. He wasn’t just afraid of her or uncomfortable with the situation. He was… powerless. In all of his dreams, he’d been the one to go to her. It’d been his decision, something he would do when he was ready, when the time was right. But that control had been ripped from him, and he wasn’t used to someone else calling the shots.

Coda had asked if Command was somehow behind the situation, and Coleman had meant it when he said no. Command probably didn’t even know who she was. She had done this. Aniyah. Nails. His daughter.

She’d commandeered his plan of arriving unexpectedly and starting their relationship anew. He hadn’t spoken or written to her in years. She was a stranger through and through, but even separated by years, they were the same. Try as she might, Coleman’s ex-wife hadn’t been able to keep Aniyah from becoming just like her father. He couldn’t have been prouder.

Returning the picture to his pocket, he took another sip. The Aniyah situation—he refused to think of it as a problem anymore—was of a personal nature, and as confusing and potentially crushing as it was, he had other responsibilities.

His conversation with the survivor of Cerian-7 troubled him. Something he wasn’t seeing was at play. He was trying to put together a puzzle without having all the pieces. His marines had completed their sweep of the area and found nothing. No other survivors or clues to what the Baranyk were using the prisoners for. Whatever the enemy had done with them, it’d happened off world.

The fleet could do nothing for the prisoners now, but Coleman had a whole sick bay full of people he could help. He grabbed his tablet from the inside of his jacket pocket and began typing his report. With the system clear, it was time the fleet returned. He could transfer the survivors to a medical ship that would take them back to the core planets, and new personnel could restart mining operations.

As for the Redemption, they needed to venture farther into Baranyk territory. Their investigation needed to continue. Once his report was finished, he brought up his map and list of worlds they’d lost to the Baranyk. By the time reinforcements arrived, he would have plotted their next course of action.

This, he could control.

18

Corridor, SAS Redemption

Cerian-7, High Orbit

Coda heard his pilots long before he made it back to the barracks. Their cheers, laughter, and—was that singing?—echoed through the corridors. More than one of the ship’s passing personnel gave him a knowing smile.

Fighter pilots had a reputation for heavy drinking, womanizing, and living life as if they were in the fast lane, and the Forgotten were only living up to it. They’d earned it. And in some way, the other members of the crew got to enjoy the spoils—even if it was through osmosis. As Coda drew closer to the barracks, though, the lyrics became clearer, and he was suddenly less forgiving.

Coda cursed. Of all the songs they could have been singing, they had to be singing one of the most offensive songs from the twentieth century. It had been updated, of course, to fall more in line with the times, but certain things had been left alone. Tradition, they’d been called. Timeless. But it was interesting how those “timeless” lyrics always tended to be the raunchiest.

The door slid open as he neared, and as before, nobody seemed to notice when he entered. The entire squadron was gathered in the barracks, crammed in as tight as a college bar during dollar-beer night. At the front of the room were the green members of the Forgotten who had flown in the battle. Stripped down to nothing but their underwear, they were drinking out of a flight helmet as Squawks egged them on.

I told him to go easy on the alcohol! Whatever Squawks was making them do, Coda was going to make him do, too, then do extra duty on top of it.

Pushing through the shoulder-to-shoulder pilots, Coda made his way to the front of the room. By the time he had shoved himself through, the song was nearly finished. Squawks was even singing now, flanked by the other flight leaders.

Those who hadn’t seen Coda erupted into cheers. Even those who had seen him celebrated, though with less vigor. The people at the front of the room, however, were completely oblivious to his presence. They screamed as if shouting at the fighter gods to let them into the mile-high club. As the helmet of booze made the rounds, they took long pulls.

Nails, the last pilot to take a drink, polished off what was left, then the entire room erupted into celebration. Coda clapped and kept clapping until he was the only one left cheering. Those who hadn’t seen him come in saw him now, and drunken smiles turned into nervous expressions. The pilots looked from him to each other, then to the flight leaders, who had obviously orchestrated the entire thing.

Still, Coda clapped. The sound, the only one in the room, echoed off the bulkhead. When he stopped, the uneasy silence was thick, and even Squawks, who was obviously drunk, struggled to meet Coda’s eye.

It’s not their fault. Don’t take it out on them. And don’t dress down their leaders who brought them into the group. Not if you want them to stay true to you.

Still not happy with the situation, Coda forced himself to smile. Those who knew him well enough would likely see the insincerity behind it, but he hoped the rest were fooled.

“Welcome to the squadron!” Coda bellowed.

The room erupted into applause that was even louder than before, and he was surprised that with it came a genuine smile this time. These were his squadrons, his pilots, and Squawks had made good on his promise. They were growing closer, and Coda had no doubt that they would fly better because of it. He just couldn’t let it get too far out of hand.

“You’re not FNGs anymore!”

More cheering.

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t have other responsibilities. Flight leaders, with me.” Coda turned to leave the room, trusting his fellow leadership staff to follow. Before he could get more than a couple steps, a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“What’s wrong, sir? Afraid to drink with your squadron?”

Coda turned to his instigator. Still standing at the front of the room, Nails had separated herself from the rest of the newly initiated. Her dark face wore a defiant expression, and her lips curled into a sneer.

“Lieutenant!” Squawks bellowed, his voice suddenly sounding very sober. “Stand do—”

Coda held up a hand, silencing his flight leader, then strode up to Nails. Stopping only when he was inches from her face, Coda met her defiant gaze, attempting to give her his best take-no-shit expression.

I should have practiced this in the mirror. I feel ridiculous.

To her credit, she didn’t shrink or shy away. Either she truly wasn’t intimidated by him or she was a damn fine actor. Neither would have surprised him. Without saying a word, Coda snatched the helmet from her hand then held it out to the side.

“Fill it up,” Coda said.

Hushed whispers echoed through the room, growing louder as Squawks filled the helmet with drink.

Taking the helmet back, Coda turned to the side so all could see, held up the helmet for effect, then began to drink. The alcohol was lighter than the alcohol Squawks and Tex had brewed on the Jamestown, beer instead of whiskey, but it still wasn’t something you’d find at a respected establishment. Coda forced down gulp after gulp, and with every swallow, the murmurs grew. By the end, the noise was deafening.

Coda tossed the empty helmet into the crowd then belched long and loud—not exactly in Nails’s face, but close enough. Cheers turned to laughter, and Coda took advantage of the sudden noise.

“I know your secret, Lieutenant,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. “I know who you are.”

She staggered backward a step, her reaction nearly identical to her father’s. Coda took another step forward. He wasn’t going to let her get away that easily.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Whatever you say, Aniyah Robinson.” He put heavy emphasis on her last name.

“Who else knows?”

“Only me,” Coda said. “And the captain.”

Her eyes blazed with anger for a moment, but she quickly wrangled it under control. Her lightning-fast ability to control herself impressed him. He’d thought her outbursts were driven by anger, but if this were any indication, they weren’t. She might not be cold, but she was definitely calculating.

I could learn a lot from her.

“It was only a matter of time before he found out anyway.” Her eyes darted over his shoulder. The din in the room was beginning to fade.

“I take it nobody else knows?” Coda asked.

She shook her head. Well, at least there was that. Coda wouldn’t have to worry about her pedigree being a distraction.

“And you know who I am, right?” Coda asked. “Who my family is.”

She nodded.

“Well, as one person who’s struggled to crawl out from under a long shadow of his own, if you ever need to talk, my door is open.”

Coda took a step back, and his eyes found hers. They were narrowed, distrusting. God, what has this woman gone through? He gave her a small nod, which he hoped came across as reaffirming, then turned and started for the door again.

“Flight leaders…” He looked over the crowd. Maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe it was the alcohol that was already warming him from the inside, or maybe he just wasn’t as much of a hard-ass as he thought he was, but Coda couldn’t bring himself to break it up. “Belay my last order. Have fun.”

Coda left the room to a cacophony of cheers.

19

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Cerian-7, High Orbit

Reinforcements arrived two days after Captain Coleman sent his report. The newly refurbished SAS Oregon, having been in dry dock since the battle of Toavis, was sent to oversee operations and provide support should the Baranyk return. In addition, the admiral had sent the light cruiser Mercy Heart for the survivors. They would get immediate medical attention and return to the core worlds for further evaluation.

The crew of the Redemption had other responsibilities. The moment the survivors were transferred to the Mercy Heart and Captain Coleman have given Captain Suarez of the Oregon his briefing, Captain Coleman ordered a meeting in the briefing room with his executive crew to align on the next steps of their mission.

They sat around the table, occupying the same seats they had during their initial introduction, with Captain Coleman at their head. “With the aid of Fleet Intelligence,” he said, “we were able to reconstruct the path the Baranyk took in claiming our systems.”

The display wall behind him showed a two-dimensional representation of space, complete with labels for human- and Baranyk-occupied systems. With a click of a button, the image began to play, showing the Baranyk’s slow march. As human systems fell, the labels changed and turned from blue to red, indicating their fall to enemy forces.

“As you can see, it wasn’t a linear progression. The Baranyk hit hard, knowing we were stretched thin, and if they hit in enough locations, we wouldn’t be able to stop them.”

The image ran through its cycle, showing the Baranyk advance, then froze to show how the situation stood currently. It started over, and Coleman paused at the beginning, stopping a series of red lines branching from a Baranyk-controlled world.

“But,” Coleman continued, “if we trace this back far enough, we find that they initiated the assault from the Koburn System. It’s there that our mission will continue.”

“Sir,” Coda said. “If I may?”

“Please.”

“We found survivors here. Couldn’t there be survivors in the other fallen systems as well?”

“There could be. But rescuing potential survivors isn’t our objective.”

“It doesn’t feel right.” Coda shook his head. “You heard the survivors. We abandoned their people to this fate. Now we have the power to do something about it, and we won’t?”

“It’s not our mission.”

“There could be other clues in those systems,” Coda said. “And—”

Coleman held up a hand, silencing his CAG. “I understand what you’re saying, Coda. And it feels as wrong to me as it does to you, but we have our orders. Beyond that, the clock is ticking. Down to what, we don’t know. We have to stop whatever is coming before it gets here and prevent other people from the fate already experienced by these people. Koburn gives us the best chance at that.”

“Koburn was a forward base on the front before the Baranyk advance,” Commander Garcia said. “Won’t it be more heavily guarded than the human worlds?”

“I wondered that as well.” Coleman zoomed in on an image of Koburn showing a stylized representation of the system. There were five planets altogether, each with at least two moons. Only one was capable of supporting life: Koburn-2 was a superplanet roughly six times the size of Earth. “Sensor data indicates Baranyk forces have retreated from here as well.”

“Retreated from their own system?” Garcia asked.

“Leaving a single carrier as rear guard, just like Cerian, but yes.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Garcia pressed. “Why advance, only to retreat even farther?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.” He surveyed the table. “We’ve got a full platoon of marines aboard this ship, and I have every expectation to put them to use. Dr. Naidoo, you’ve been asking to study a Baranyk world, observe their natural habitat. It’s time you get that chance.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Any questions?”

There were none.

“Then prepare your teams. We’re jumping at zero six hundred.”

* * *

“Jump coordinates set, sir,” Ensign Richey said from her terminal. “The JumpGate awaits your order.”

“Good,” Coleman said. He stood in the pit, studying the image of Koburn-2. It was a beautiful planet. Inviting. The image didn’t show the immensity of the planet, though with its blues, greens, and whites, it looked like a distant cousin of Earth. He’d called it a Baranyk natural habitat in his briefing, though it was anything but, and Dr. Naidoo had had the grace not to correct him. That didn’t mean danger wasn’t lurking on its surface. Coleman didn’t know why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something menacing waited in its depths. Beneath its beautiful façade was surely a terrible monster.

“The moment we arrive, set Condition One throughout the ship,” Coleman said. “The Forgotten are on standby, loaded and ready for deployment. At the first sign of enemy contact, I want them launched and setting up a defensive formation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You feel it too?” Garcia asked, his voice quiet enough that only Coleman could hear.

Coleman nodded. He’d ordered Lieutenant Poiu to plot jump coordinates back to Cerian-7. It wouldn’t be a single jump, of course—the distance was far too great for that. But if they ran into a sticky situation, it would get them to safety, where they could regroup. He’d also kept the order between himself, Commander Garcia, and Lieutenant Poiu. It was one thing to go in prepared. It was something else to broadcast the thought of retreat before they’d even arrived. That type of mindset could create a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Confirming his own unease to Garcia already bordered on that. Either way, something pulled him to Koburn. It had been pulling him there for a while. Despite the uneasy feeling, it was time to see what mysteries the planet held.

Coleman took hold of the railing surrounding the battle map. “Jump.”

Ensign Richey hit her terminal, and a moment later, the world stretched. Coleman closed his eyes, taking in a slow, deep breath and exhaling for an equal set of time. By the time he was done, the sensation had disappeared.

“Arrived, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Scanning.”

The lights dimmed as Condition One was set throughout the ship. The battle map reset, going dark, then updated with new sensor data. They’d arrived more than two hundred thousand kilometers from Koburn-2, as Coleman had erred on the side of caution. If the enemy was still present, then he would have plenty of time to initiate the first jump back toward Cerian-7.

A red dot appeared on the battle map, and half a second later, Lieutenant Poiu confirmed it. “Contact. Baranyk carrier in orbit. It doesn’t appear to be moving to engage.”

“Hold course,” Coleman said.

“Launching fighters,” Lieutenant Poiu announced.

Sensor data continued to come in, updating the battle map in real time. The deck thumped as Nighthawks launched from the ship, showing up as green indicators on the battle map, forming up into defensive formations. Five seconds went by then ten. No other contacts registered. The Baranyk carrier didn’t alter course.

“What’s the status of that ship?” Coleman asked.

“Reading steady power and life support systems,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “It appears fully functional.”

“Why aren’t they doing anything?” Commander Garcia asked.

“I don’t know,” Coleman said. “Ensign Richey, are there any signals coming from the planet?”

“Nothing yet, sir.”

“Are they baiting us?” Commander Garcia asked.

“Maybe,” Coleman said. “Or maybe it’s a standoff. Lieutenant Poiu, plot an intercept course. Five percent thrust. Let’s let them know we’re coming.”

“Yes, sir. Moving to intercept. Five percent thrust.”

They were moving too slowly for the battle map to noticeably change, though that didn’t stop Coleman from refusing to look away. With his eyes glued to the image, Coleman saw the moment the red indicator of the Baranyk ship disappeared.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said, his voice confused. “The Baranyk carrier is gone, sir. It… I’m reading a jump signature.”

“It jumped?” Commander Garcia asked.

“It appears that way, sir.”

Coleman exchanged a look with Garcia. “Maintain course. Increase thrust to ten percent and deploy reconnaissance drones. I want visual on that planet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ensign Richey, still nothing from the planet?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Maybe they heard about what we did to their friends on Cerian,” Garcia said.

“Maybe,” Coleman said. “They were interested in the planet enough to leave a carrier behind. I don’t know why it didn’t engage, but they wanted eyes on the planet. The question is why. What do they expect us to find? And why was it so important for them to know when we found it?”

“I don’t know,” Garcia said. “But something tells me we’re about to find out.”

20

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Koburn-2

Coda’s eyes burned. Hidden securely inside his flight helmet, he had no way of rubbing them. No way of easing the discomfort. It was the little things like this that nobody ever talked about. Anytime pilots got together, it was rip-roaring tales of speed, high stakes, and near death. Nobody ever talked about the mundane, the small annoyances that only a pilot would understand. The way dripping sweat couldn’t be wiped away. The way an itch could never be scratched. The fact that if you sneezed, you sprayed the inside of your flight helmet and had to deal with that for the rest of the hop.

He flew in atmo, his Nighthawk bucking under him because of the planet’s high winds. From orbit, Koburn-2 bore a close resemblance to Earth, but in reality, the planet was a cheap knockoff of humanity’s home world.

The vegetation was short and squat, more bramble than forest, with sharp branch systems and no leaves. The trees, if they could be called that, more closely resembled cacti than oak or pine. Instead of rolling hills of grass, the ground was rocky, covered in what appeared to be a thick carpet of moss. Even its water, a beautiful mix of blues, greens, and pinks, was super-heated by an active volcanic system and teeming with microorganisms that fed on the acidic ecosystem. For mad spacers looking for a quick dip, the boiling water would melt the skin from their bones, leaving little indication that they’d ever submerged themselves into their inviting depths to begin with.

He’d been in the cockpit since they’d arrived in the system. For six hours, he’d been prisoner to his own sweat, urine, and discomfort, but as far as he and his squadron could tell, there was no sign of Baranyk activity. It appeared that despite all odds, the enemy had indeed left the planet behind. The marines had landed two hours ago. Coda himself had escorted their dropships to the drop zone, a mountainous region in the northern hemisphere, where thermal imaging had uncovered a complex network of tunnels.

Like many insects of Earth, the Baranyk were tunnel dwellers. Coda had never seen a native Baranyk planet, but where steel was the mark of human habitation, tunnels were the mark of the Baranyk. It was one of the things that made them so difficult to track. Different geology absorbed the different detection mechanisms in different ways. On one planet, acoustic processing might work, whereas another required electromagnetic or RF energy. Aside from putting boots on the ground, there was no universal way to determine whether a planet was infested with Baranyk or not.

“Coda,” a voice said over his comm. “It’s Captain Coleman. How are you holding up out there?”

“Well, sir,” Coda said. “The best way I can put it is this. I’m cold but sweaty. I have to pee, but I’m thirsty. Tired but alert.”

Captain Coleman laughed. “It isn’t the glamorous job you signed up for, is it?”

“Not at the moment, sir.”

“Well, I’m going to need you to stay out there for a little longer. Sergeant Haniger’s squad found something down there.”

“Found something, sir?”

“Yes. I don’t know what yet. Dr. Naidoo was on the second shuttle you escorted to the planet, and all she’ll tell me is that it’s best to be seen.”

Coda frowned. It was unorthodox for the captain himself to go planetside, though nothing about this mission was orthodox. Coda was reminded of Dr. Rydell ordering the captain about in her sick bay. Doctors, Coda supposed, liked to do things their own way, and Coleman, trusting their judgment, granted her that freedom.

“Interesting, sir.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Captain Coleman said. “I’m headed planetside now. Maintain the CAP and have a flight patrol the area. If something is amiss, I want you there.”

“Understood, sir. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Coda. I hope I won’t need it.”

* * *

Coleman’s transport ship landed at the base of the mountain range. The hatch opened, and a sharp wind assaulted the interior of the shuttle. The high concentration of sulfur on the planet gave it the smell of a spent match. Coleman felt his face scrunch up in a disgusted expression. One of his marine escorts must have seen it, because he handed Coleman a breathing mask.

“Here, sir. This’ll help.”

“Thank you, Corporal Abernathy.” Coleman slid the mask into place then took a tentative breath. The soldier was right—the smell didn’t go away entirely but was greatly muted.

The corporal led Coleman down the ramp of the dropship. The rest of his squad fanned out, assault rifles in hand, eyes scanning the perimeter. They believed the area was secure, but seeing the stiffness of the soldiers’ bodies, the alertness of their eyes, Coleman realized how little those scans meant to the marines. They didn’t trust anything but their own eyes. Their own gut.

They eventually came to the mouth of a cave, but before entering, they had to give way to a medical evac team. The medics pushed a glass-enclosed gurney that floated a few feet off the ground. Inside was a woman who looked to be in her thirties or forties, her pallid face covered in dirt and grime. Monitors on the side of the medical bed showed her vital signs.

“There’s survivors?” Coleman hadn’t expected to find any human life on the planet. None of their scans had turned up anything, and there hadn’t been any recent distress calls that indicated there might be.

“Survivor, sir,” Corporal Abernathy said, emphasizing the singular nature of the word. “So far.”

Coleman nodded. “Lead on.” He wondered what the hell the marines had found inside.

Corporal Abernathy led Coleman into the mouth of the tunnel. Marker lights had been placed on the ground, lighting a narrow passage. The walls were tight, just centimeters from his shoulders, but the high ceiling gave the system an oddly oppressive feeling.

Following the path downward, they eventually came to a wide chamber. Circular in shape, it was ringed like the bridge of the Redemption with a lower section and two higher rings that looked down upon it. Spotlights had been set up around the perimeter, lighting the central space, which was occupied by Sergeant Haniger’s marine squad and a team of scientists.

He picked out his chief science officer almost immediately. His movement must have caught her eye, because she spotted him as well and climbed up the earthen rings to greet him.

“Captain,” Dr. Naidoo said. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course, Doctor. What have we got?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it, sir. Follow me. I’ll warn you, though, it’s… not pretty.”

He followed her down into the lower tier as his marine escort fanned out through the room, positioning themselves so that they were looking outward. It was then that he realized that the chamber had multiple entrances and exit points, most leading deeper into the mountains, but it was what was at the center of the chamber that took his breath away.

Stretched out along four smooth rocky slabs were an equal number of human bodies. They had been stripped naked and bound to the slabs with a thick organic material not unlike a spiderweb. Their pallid skin had gone a milky white color but showed no other sign of injury or torture, except…

Coleman was suddenly thankful for the breathing mask. It must have muted the smell, but it also hid the look of horror that covered his face. The skullcaps of the four human bodies had been removed, exposing their brains.

“What the hell is this, Doctor?” Coleman asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” Dr. Naidoo said. “We’ve found evidence of the Baranyk studying human remains before, but nothing like this. These people had no other injuries. No signs that suggest the Baranyk were interested in anything but their brains. There’s more too, sir.”

She lifted the hand of the nearest body, a middle-aged man with a thick chest and a thicker midsection, and held it for Coleman to see. His fingertips were encrusted with dry blood, the fingernails ripped away. The rocky slab under his fingers was scratched and bloodied as if he had tried to claw his way free. Horror accompanied the realization, stabbing at his gut like a Baranyk forelimb.

“They were alive,” Coleman said, looking up at Dr. Naidoo. “They were alive when the Baranyk did this to them.”

“That’s what my team and I believe too,” Dr. Naidoo said.

“Why?”

“Best guess? They were experimenting on them. See here?” She pointed to a spot on the side of the man’s brain. “This one shows damage to the temporal lobe. In fact, they all show damage to the same spot, only… different.”

“Excuse my ignorance, Doctor, but the…”

“Temporal lobe. It’s the area of the brain that interprets language and influences behavior, memory, and hearing.”

“I thought the frontal lobe was responsible for speech,” Coleman said.

“I said communication, sir. Speech is the result of the need to communicate, but it’s not communication in itself.”

“What are you saying?” Coleman said. “The Baranyk are trying to find a way to communicate?”

“No,” Dr. Naidoo said. “I’m saying that the Baranyk are experimenting with the parts of the human brain that deal with communication. All we have here is the what, not the why.”

“But—”

“I’m a scientist, Captain. I make observations. I’ll make a hypothesis, too, when there’s evidence to support it. I can also conduct experiments to prove or disprove that hypothesis. What I won’t do is speculate. I’ll leave that to you.”

Coleman frowned. Scientists could be infuriating sometimes. Why was it so difficult to provide even a simple guess? To verbalize a gut feeling? “Thank you, Doctor.”

“There’s something else.” Dr. Naidoo stepped away from the slabs and human bodies, moving toward a dark corner of the chamber. From the distance, and away from the spotlights, Coleman had thought the mound was a rock formation, but as he drew closer, he realized how wrong he had been.

In the corner was a stack of human bodies, piled atop each other and discarded like a pile of broken ship parts. Like the others at the center of the chamber, their skullcaps had been removed.

“How many are there?” Coleman’s voice was tight.

“Unknown, sir. There are other corpses deeper in the tunnel system. Older. Their skin displaying greater signs of decomposition. These were just the most recent.”

“And they all had the same experiments? To the same area of the brain?”

“Actually, no, sir. Many of them show signs of different experiments. All still on the brain, but different areas.”

“But why?”

“Like I said, Captain, I’ll leave the speculation up to you.”

Coleman took a deep, shuddering breath. The human cost of the war was staggering, so vast that the number of dead had lost all meaning. It was just a number until one saw the death and destruction firsthand. Saw the human toll with their own eyes. Saw the blood, the injuries, the missing skullcaps.

“There’s a survivor, though,” Coleman said. “I saw her on my way in. Maybe she can tell us what happened here.”

Dr. Naidoo winced. “We’ll see, sir. There were actually three survivors when we found them. The first two died before we could provide medical aid. And the woman is showing significant signs of dehydration, malnourishment, and other, more serious ailments. To say she’s touch and go would be an understatement. Dr. Rydell will do what she can, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“Understood, Doc,” Coleman said. Dr. Rydell was a miracle worker, and he would need her to be one again. “Carry—”

A sound from one of the tunnels silenced him. At first, Coleman thought it was a rock falling, but as his mind caught up, reprocessing the sound, he realized it wasn’t something falling at all but something scraping. Like rock against rock. Or carapace against rock.

“Away from the wall!” Sergeant Haniger bellowed as he and the rest of his squad moved into position. They formed up on either side of the wall, four marines deep on each side. The front two dropped to their knees, all with guns trained on the cave’s opening. Coleman backed away, his step carrying him all the way back to the stone slabs.

Gunfire erupted as the first Baranyk warrior burst from the cave’s opening.

21

Cave, Koburn-2

Surface

The first Baranyk warrior went down in a wave of bullets but was immediately replaced by a second. The two-meter-tall alien pierced one of the kneeling marines with its jagged forelimbs, lifting him into the air, then slammed him headfirst into the rocky wall with a sickening crunch. Two more Baranyk warriors emerged behind it, then two more after that, and before Captain Coleman realized it, another marine was down.

“Get the captain back to the shuttle!” Sergeant Haniger bellowed.

The two rearmost marines fell back, moving down toward Captain Coleman, Dr. Naidoo, and the rest of the science staff in the center of the chamber.

“Let’s go, sir,” Corporal Abernathy said. He grabbed Coleman by the arm and hauled him toward the original entrance. They were too late. More Baranyk streamed into the room from one of the other entrances closer to their destination.

“Shit!” a marine shouted. “We’re surrounded.”

“Fall back,” Sergeant Haniger bellowed. “Defensive formations. Protect the captain!”

Coleman and the scientists were herded to the center of the chamber like cattle for the slaughter. There were only seven marines left, and they formed a defensive perimeter while the science team fell to their knees, terrified. Coleman remained standing, surveying the situation as it took a terrifying, unexpected turn.

For every Baranyk the marines took down, two more seemed to take its place. Unprepared to fight a prolonged battle, the marines began shooting in more controlled bursts, only firing when one of the enemy warriors lunged forward.

“Abernathy,” Sergeant Haniger screamed. “On the horn.”

“On it, sir.” Corporal Abernathy pulled away from the defensive formation, yanking something from his pack, and kneeled to the ground. He held the device to his ear then cursed.

“It’s no use, sir. I’m not getting a signal. We’re too deep.”

“Damn it, Abernathy, you’re surrounded by half a dozen scientists. Figure out a way to boost the signal.”

They’re trying to radio for reinforcements. But none are coming. We’re on our own.

Coleman tried his own earpiece, but buried in the mountains, he didn’t have a signal, either. It was worth a try. With no other options, he sprang into action. “Corporal! Give me your sidearm.”

“Can’t do that, sir,” Corporal Abernathy shouted back, firing another burst into the massing enemy. The Baranyk had them completely surrounded now, outnumbering them at least three to one and occupying the high ground.

“I’m not going to ask again, soldier. Your sidearm.”

Abernathy cursed. Keeping his rifle stock against his shoulder, he pulled his sidearm free with his other hand and held it out to Coleman. The captain took it, immediately flipping the safety off. He chambered a round, and training it on one of the enemy warriors, he unloaded two bullets into a triangular head.

“Hand them all over,” Coleman shouted over the gunfire. “All of you!”

“Sir—”

“Do it!” Haniger yelled.

Dr. Naidoo was the first to take one of the weapons, though her team expressed far more reluctance. They seemed more content to hide.

“Fight, damn it!” Coleman shouted. “Fight, or we’re all dead.”

Three more of the scientists stood, taking weapons. Only one seemed to remember their weapons training, though, switching off the safety and chambering a round. She helped those beside her do the same, then more of the scientists took weapons. In a moment, their defensive force had doubled.

It won’t be enough. Even if they were all expert marksmen, we’re still outnumbered. And the contained environment takes away our guns’ biggest advantage.

Another of the Baranyk lunged forward and was met with a barrage of gunfire. It shuddered, taking half a dozen rounds in the midsection before retreating. Yellow blood oozed from the wounds, but the creature showed no other signs that it was injured.

Damn, these things are tough bastards. Ugly fuckers too.

More gunfire rang out as a pair of Baranyk darted forward.

“What are they doing?” someone asked.

“Testing our perimeter,” Haniger shouted. “Stand firm!”

That was easier said than done. The bulk of their number were scientists who had only ever seen the enemy as a corpse or in a highly controlled environment. They were terrified, shaky, and just as likely to shoot one of their own as they were the enemy.

Sergeant Haniger must have seen it too. “We need to move, sir.”

“Where to, Sergeant?” Coleman asked.

“Any of the other cave entrances,” Haniger said. “We can use the narrow passages to our advantage. Their numbers won’t mean jack there.”

Coleman surveyed the scene with fresh eyes. The creatures’ height made it difficult to see past them, and from the bottom ring of the perimeter, Coleman had trouble spotting one of the entrances.

There!

“Seven o’clock,” Coleman said. “Their numbers are thinner. We can push through.”

“That’ll lead us deeper into the mountain,” Corporal Abernathy said.

“We don’t have a choice,” Haniger said. “Prepare to move.” He unclipped a grenade from his tactical vest and removed the electronic pin. “We’re pushing for the entrance.” He hurled the grenade into the mass of Baranyk that stood between them and their destination. It detonated a moment later, rocking the chamber, drowning out all other noise, and leaving a terrible ringing in its wake.

Coleman couldn’t hear anything beyond that ringing, couldn’t hear the marines shouting to move forward, but he felt their insistence. The human force sprayed gunfire, carving a hole toward their destination. Someone behind him was cut down. He couldn’t tell if it was scientist or marine, the warm blood indistinguishable.

The human push slowed, meeting resistance as the Baranyk regrouped. Coleman drove his shoulder into the person in front of him, pushed, seeing up close the horror of Baranyk forelimbs tearing through human flesh.

There was another explosion, and suddenly, the bottleneck loosened. Coleman stumbled forward, tripping over fallen human and Baranyk alike. He crashed into the tunnel then spun, facing the marine rear guard as they streamed into the tunnel. Baranyk forelimbs ripped through them from behind with terrifying brutality. Blood washed over Coleman’s face, then he was moving again.

It was darkness. The only light in the tunnel came from the lights in the main chamber. He felt more than heard the enemy pursuit. He ran, firing wildly behind himself. He knew it was useless—his bullets were more likely hitting the walls of the tunnel—but didn’t care. It had been years since he’d shot a firearm, and that had never been under this kind of duress. He wasn’t a marine. He was a pilot, used to a different kind of fight.

Light appeared ahead of him. Multiple lights.

Flashlights.

They were moving away.

Wait!

He tried calling ahead but couldn’t hear his own voice. Had the grenades ruptured his eardrums? Was he deaf?

Doesn’t matter. Keep pushing.

Then blessedly, there was light behind him too. Someone pushed him. There were marines behind him too.

Of course there are. They’re trained soldiers. They aren’t going to leave their captain behind. And I was shooting toward them.

There was another explosion behind him, and Coleman stumbled as rock and detritus fell from the roof of the tunnel, narrowing the passage. The enemy could still get through but would be slowed. Someone pushed him forward, keeping their position as rear guard. The rest of the barrel lamps were still ahead. They’d come to a complete stop, though.

Dead end?

As Coleman neared, he realized that it wasn’t that they didn’t have any options—it was that they had too many. The small chamber opened up into several adjoining hallways. Some led up, others down, none giving any hint of whether they would lead out of the cave system at all.

“This way!” Haniger said. “Go! Go! Go!”

Two marines, followed by the mass of scientists, rushed into the dark opening, Coleman right on their heels. The rest of the marines formed their rear guard.

Down, up, left, right they went, having to duck under rocky protrusions hanging from the ceiling, climbing over boulders on the ground. The scraping sounds of the advancing Baranyk echoed behind them.

And then there was light ahead. Not the swaying lights of the barrel-mounted flashlights but real, true light from the outside. The group rushed toward it as if they were thirsty travelers in the sand-blown dunes of the Sahara. The little resolve that remained in the scientists cracked, their panic finally winning over. They surged toward the light, taking little heed of those around them, pushing their captain and protective marines out of the way, trampling the sorry souls who had fallen.

Bursting into the light, Coleman was temporarily blinded. He blinked hurriedly then squinted, trying to get his bearings.

They’d come out of another tunnel, not even a full kilometer from the original entrance, and parked in the same position was the dropship that had brought Coleman to the surface. Blessedly, there were no Baranyk in sight.

“To the dropship!” Haniger shouted, waving the scientists forward, though he hadn’t needed to. The scientists sprinted forward, while Coleman lagged behind with the marine rear guard.

“Fire in the hole!” Abernathy hurled a grenade into the cave’s opening. It exploded just as the first Baranyk came into sight, sending limbs and carapace flying with bits of rock and stone. The entrance collapsed, blocking the enemy’s exit.

“That should hold them for a while,” Abernathy said.

Along with the remaining marines, Coleman broke into a jog toward the dropship. They made it onto its ramp just as the first Baranyk exited the other entrance. The enemy surged forward, showing no signs of giving up the chase.

“Get us in the air,” Coleman said to the pilot. He backed into the belly of the dropship, where the rest of the group was strapping in. The Baranyk streamed from the caves as the ship rose. There were hundreds of them, and more still poured out.

Above the whine of the dropship’s engines was a familiar sound. A moment later, a flight of Nighthawks in delta formation ripped past the dropship. They opened fire, carving through the massed Baranyk below. The door to the dropship closed as the Nighthawks turned, preparing for another pass.

Coleman finally took his seat. Safe and secure but still feeling the heightened effects of the adrenaline pulsing through his body, he took a deep breath. It was over. He had made it.

Five marines and a handful of the science staff remained. There had been at least twice as many. Like Coleman, now that they were safe in the dropship, their emotions caught up to them. Those who weren’t crying wore haunted expressions. The physical part of the battle was over, but their emotional and psychological war was just beginning.

The shuttle bucked as it gained altitude. Coleman closed his eyes, resting the back of his head against the bulkhead, letting the swaying ship calm his nerves.

The Baranyk had never left, he realized. Was it a trap then? Did they want us to find those bodies?

So many questions. Everywhere they went, the questions grew, and they were no closer to finding answers.

22

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Koburn-2

Everything about Koburn felt off. From orbit, the planet’s colors were strikingly similar to Earth’s, but the landmasses were in the wrong places, the shade of the water slightly off. It was the equivalent of a person painting what they thought Earth should be, not what it was. The result was just similar enough to feel familiar but different enough to make Coda uncomfortable.

The cockpit of his Nighthawk was familiar, comfortable, and a welcomed retreat. At some point during the months of training and the following months of battle, it had become home. They’d moved from ship to ship, the only constants being his cockpit and his wingmen. It was like moving from his childhood home to another. The yard and the address were different, but the things that were his—his bed, his belongings, and his friends—remained the same.

Coda melted into the gel of his seat, completely relaxed by the slight vibration of his thrusters. He had no doubt he could fall asleep if he closed his eyes. Instead, he and Nails flew CAP, their fighter pair augmented by four other pairs on staggered two-hour blocks.

He’d had little contact with Nails since their encounter during Squawks’s initiation ritual, but he hadn’t been able to escape the feeling that he’d been forced to end their short conversation prematurely. Between that and his overwhelming desire to get back into the cockpit, Coda had made last-minute changes to the CAP schedule, ensuring that he and Nails would fly it together.

For nearly two hours, they’d flown with the Redemption, one eye on the planet, the other eye on the battle map. Just like everyone else, Coda knew the inactivity on their sensors was a false negative. The planet was teeming with the enemy. As always, the challenge was that the Baranyk were tunnel dwellers who built complex underground networks of tunnels and open chambers. They’d always been nearly impossible to spot. Since the attack on the captain, the Forgotten had been on high alert, prepared for an inevitable attack, one that had, thus far, never come.

Nails let out a deep sigh, her boredom as loud as a jackhammer at Mass.

“Almost done,” Coda said. “Squawks and Tinman will be taking over soon. One more pass should do it.”

Coda had staggered the CAP so that it would receive a new pair of fresh fighters every hour, with each pair in the air for twice that. Coda and Nails’s rotation was nearly up.

“Who would have thought flying a Nighthawk in enemy territory would be so boring?” Nails said.

Coda couldn’t help but smile. Like nearly every fighter pilot he’d ever known, Nails had an overly confident attitude that bordered on cockiness. Not even a week removed from her first battle, she was already complaining about a lack of action.

“Recent history aside,” Coda said, “that’s the nature of war. Long moments of inaction followed by brief, chaotic flashes that flip your world upside down.”

“That’s not how my father always described it.”

“Yeah, well, he flew in a different time, during a different kind of war. Over the last few years, the war has slowed to a grind, becoming less about large-scale battles and more about the development of new technologies. Despite all the work we’re putting in, Nails, this war will be won by some egghead who comes up with a new technology or weapon that will give us the critical edge we need.”

“Or lose it because they didn’t think of it soon enough.”

“That’s a possibility too,” Coda said. “It nearly happened a year ago when they discovered a way to render our Hornets inoperable. If it hadn’t been for your father—”

“Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk about him as if he’s some kind of hero.”

“Sorry to break it to you, Lieutenant,” Coda said, “but he is. And he’s earned the title many times over. There’s a reason he was named captain of the Redemption without ever serving as an XO or position of true command.”

“Just because everyone believes it doesn’t make it true,” Nails said. “Or do you believe your father is a traitor because everyone else thinks he is?”

Coda bristled at the question. Had she asked him a year ago, he would have said yes without a moment’s hesitation, but the act of flying in the same Nighthawk cockpits and undergoing many of the same experiences as his father had opened his eyes. Without ever speaking to the man, Coda had grown closer to him, coming to understand the man better than he ever had. The truth was complicated, and he wasn’t sure how he felt anymore.

“My father’s sins aside, I believe your father’s a hero too. Without him, we wouldn’t have repelled the Baranyk at Toavis, and there’s no telling what would have happened after that.”

Nails went quiet. Coda could tell he had struck a nerve. Thing was, he was finally getting somewhere. She had opened up more than she had before. And while he wasn’t her counselor or psychiatrist, he needed to understand her well enough to determine whether or not her feelings would interfere with her ability to do her job. He had to keep prying but not pry hard enough to make her close up.

“He can be a bit cold, though,” Coda added, almost as if it were an afterthought. “The effects of war, I suppose.”

“Your father was the same way?” Nails asked.

“Mine?” Coda said. “No. He spent so much time away that when he was around, things were… well, things were good. My father was a completely different man outside of the uniform.”

“Mine wasn’t,” Nails said. “He was always the military man. Always thinking about flying. His mind always in the cockpit.”

“It is addicting,” Coda said, thinking of his injured ribs and how he was flying against the doc’s recommendation.

“I’m still waiting to see the allure,” Nails said bitterly.

Her words rattled something loose in his brain, and the pieces finally fell into place. Coda had thought Nails had joined the Sol Fleet for reasons similar to his own—to get out of her father’s shadow and create a legacy of her own—but that hadn’t been the case at all. She’d applied for the recently reopened Nighthawk program to understand the father who had left her behind. To understand why flying had led the great Captain Coleman to choose the cockpit over his family.

That’s why she’s so angry. It wasn’t because of half-buried feelings but because the thing he’d chosen over her had failed to live up to her lofty expectations. Nails was like a child meeting her father’s new wife for the first time. No matter how beautiful, smart, or kind she was, the new woman would never live up to her own mother.

“They cast a wide shadow, don’t they?” Coda said. “Our fathers.”

“Yes, they do,” Nails said. “But at least you’re only contending with your father’s memory. Not the person himself.”

“Sometimes the past can be more difficult to overcome than the present, but I get your point.”

Coda’s gaze drifted toward the Redemption. They flew close to it by space standards, still within visual range. It maintained an orbit around Koburn, turrets and batteries ready to open fire should the enemy return. Who would have thought such an intimidating warship would house so many personal conflicts?

“He hasn’t even come to see me,” Nails said, interrupting the brief silence. “Did you know that?”

“I didn’t.” He’d had his suspicions but hadn’t been willing to ask the captain about it. It wasn’t his business, and while he and the captain were close by commander–subordinate standards, they were not friends.

“I’d hoped… I don’t know what I’d hoped, but it wasn’t this. If he doesn’t say something soon, I will. I’ll show up outside his quarters and force him to talk to me.”

“Nails…”

“I’m serious.”

“Lieutenant,” Coda said, addressing her by her title to assume control over the conversation. “Don’t. I can’t speak for your father, and I can only imagine what you’re going through, but forcing the issue never makes it better. Your father is a stubborn man who works in his own way and on his own schedule. I’m not saying it’s right, but you have to give him the space to process things. You’ve been planning this for years. He’s only had a couple weeks. Be patient.”

For once, Nails didn’t reply. Coda understood—he wasn’t even convinced of his own explanation. The captain needed to resolve his issues with his daughter. Couldn’t he see that he was only making the situation worse? Potentially putting the entire ship in danger? Coda couldn’t risk Nails showing up at his door, but if the captain remained aloof for too much longer, Coda would force his hand.

“Thank you.”

Coda blinked, the words surprising him. “For what?”

“For listening. There’s not a lot of people I can talk to about him.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond. His motives hadn’t been putting her at ease. They were to determine her mental state and assess the risk she posed, but he couldn’t tell her that. “You’re welcome, Nails. Moscow and Cougar will be launching any moment. What do you say we bring it in?”

“Sounds good, Coda.”

“You’ve got point. Take us home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coda cast a final uneasy look back toward the strangely earthlike planet below before bringing the Redemption back into his sights. He followed the blues of Nails’s thrusters back into the Nighthawk hangar bay.

23

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

Koburn-2, High Orbit

Something about sick bay could wilt even the strongest man. Coleman watched as the normally calm, confident, and stern Commander Garcia stepped into the medical ward and seemed to deflate. His face grew somber, his shoulders dipped, eyes drifting downward as if his very gaze would disrupt the sick.

Captain Coleman spotted him from the back of the ward, where he and Dr. Naidoo were in deep conversation, and waved him over. As the man neared, Coleman could see the dark circles under his eyes and wondered how long he had been on duty.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Garcia said, his voice quiet, “but you look like shit.”

Coleman gave him a half-hearted laugh. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

“Tried to give the enemy a snack, did you?”

Coleman looked toward Dr. Naidoo uncomfortably. Gallows humor was fine—it was how some people processed their experiences—but this close to the attack and after witnessing the Baranyk’s violence up close, Coleman wasn’t one of those people. People had died down there, their heads and limbs torn from their bodies, blood sprayed across the tunnel walls like paint from an expressionist painter. And that didn’t even account for the dozens of humans who’d had their skullcaps removed and brains experimented on. No, it wasn’t a laughing matter at all.

“I appreciate you coming,” Coleman said, taking control of the conversation.

“Of course, sir.” Garcia glanced at Dr. Naidoo. “What’s going on?”

“It’s easier shown than explained,” Coleman said. “Follow me.”

Coleman stepped away from the group, making for the partition drawn across the back of the ward, blocking the back section from view. Dr. Naidoo and Garcia followed. Coleman opened the partition, nodding for Garcia to enter, then stepped in once everyone was inside.

Inside was a single occupant, a middle-aged woman with stringy hair and a weather-worn face. She was dressed in the gray uniform of the Koburn miners. Her face and hands had been washed clean, but they were so pale the skin bordered on translucent. She eyed Garcia as he stopped at the foot of her bed, then in a single sudden movement, she lunged at him.

Garcia jumped back, crashing into a tray holding various medical instruments, sending them to the floor in a noisy clatter. He shot a look at Coleman then back to the woman. She was still lunging, fighting with the restraints that bound her wrists and ankles to the railing of the bed.

“You said this would be easier seen than explained,” Garcia said. “Well, I still don’t understand what the hell is going on. What am I supposed to see, Chadwick?”

The woman calmed and cocked her head to the side, her eyes narrowing as if she heard him but didn’t understand. Garcia’s expression grew contemplative. There was something off about the woman, and Coleman’s XO was beginning to see it.

“Does she not… do you not speak English?”

The idea was unthinkable. Walk in any city across human-occupied space, and one would hear dozens of languages, but for all fleetwide communications, English was the standard. The woman continued to look at Garcia as if she had just discovered the second sentient alien species in the galaxy.

“Who is she?” Garcia asked, finally taking the bait.

“We found her in the caves,” Coleman said.

“I wasn’t aware there were survivors,” Garcia said.

“I haven’t finished my report yet,” Coleman said. “You’ll get it. In the meantime, she was the only one. Things were dicey with her too. Dr. Rydell has done wonders to stabilize her condition. Physically, she’s doing better, but mentally…”

“It’s like she doesn’t understand what we’re saying,” Garcia said. “But that shouldn’t be possible, so what are we talking about? Amnesia? A head injury?”

“None of the above,” Dr. Naidoo said. “What the captain left out is that we only found one survivor in those tunnels, but there were dozens of dead, all showing signs that the Baranyk had been experimenting on their brains.”

“They cut them open, Jaime. Opened their skulls, exposed their brains. Poked, prodded, cut parts away.”

Garcia ran a hand through his dark hair. “Jesus…”

“It gets worse,” Coleman said. “They did it while the poor souls were alive.”

Garcia gave him a pointed look, opening his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He looked back at the woman, his face growing sympathetic. “Why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but Dr. Rydell and Dr. Naidoo say they experimented with the… the…” He waved his hands in front of himself, trying to remember the medical term.

“With the temporal lobe,” Dr. Naidoo said. “It’s the area of the brain that allows for communication.”

“Wait,” Garcia said. “Are you saying they’re trying to communicate with us?”

“We don’t know yet,” Coleman said.

“Maybe they’re looking to negotiate a truce,” Garcia said. “Thirty years of war is a hell of a commitment for any species. Hundreds of millions dead. Infrastructure destroyed. The war showing no signs of ending.”

“Then why attack? If their goal was to communicate, why kill our scientists?”

“I don’t know, Chadwick. But this is—”

“Baseless speculation,” Dr. Naidoo interrupted. “And not supported by the facts.”

Garcia clamped his mouth shut then nodded. “Understood. Tell me what I’m missing.”

“We originally thought this woman didn’t show any signs of experimentation,” Dr. Naidoo said. “As you can see, her skullcap is still very much intact.”

Save for bumps, bruises, and raw skin from pulling on her restraints, the woman showed no signs of injury.

“Originally thought?”

“Follow me, Commander.” Dr. Naidoo stepped out of the partitioned area.

Garcia gave the survivor a final look before following the doctor. Coleman could have been wrong, but he thought the man was relieved to escape the woman’s gaze. Coleman closed the partition behind them and followed.

Dr. Naidoo stopped beside a nearby terminal and brought up a three-dimensional image of the survivor’s brain. One of the areas in the lower middle of the brain was highlighted red.

“The temporal lobe,” Dr. Naidoo said. “Part of the cerebral cortex, has both left and right hemispheres and is responsible for processing sensory input, including pain and auditory stimuli.”

“English, Doc,” Garcia said. “I’m a dumb fighter jock, remember?”

“It helps us understand language,” Coleman said.

“It’s more than that,” Dr. Naidoo said. “Without the temporal lobe, we’d be unable to form long-term memories or interpret visual stimuli. We know right now that we’re looking at an image of a brain, but for vision to be useful, we have to understand what we’re looking at. The ventral part of the lobe provides meaning to what we see. The auditory cortex is key to hearing and understanding human speech, but the lobe gives it meaning. Wernicke’s area in particular—”

“Okay,” Garcia said, holding up a hand. “That’s more than enough.” He turned to Coleman. “So, she doesn’t show any sign of experimentation, but her temporal lobe is… damaged?”

“It appears that way,” Coleman said.

“Then what happened?” Garcia pointed at the damaged area on the brain scan. “What caused this?”

Dr. Naidoo let out a deep sigh.

“What?” Garcia asked.

“The doctor doesn’t like speculation,” Coleman said. “Our hypothesis is the enemy found what they were looking for. Enough to advance to a different experiment anyway.”

“So instead of cutting into her brain, they did what? Targeted that area of her brain with an alien communication of some kind?”

“Maybe,” Coleman said. “Or maybe they did something to see how that part of the brain would react. It’s impossible to say, which is why the doctor loathes this kind of discussion. In either case, it appears the enemy has developed some kind of technology that effects the human brain. For what purpose, we don’t know. But I don’t have to stress how important this information is.”

Garcia rubbed his forehead. “That’s horrifying.”

Coleman only nodded. The worst part was he had seen something like this before, years ago. That information was classified, and he didn’t have enough to go on yet, but if his hunch was correct, the situation was even more dire than any of them knew.

He opened his mouth to speak—

The lights of the medical bay dimmed, emergency lights kicking on. Condition One had been set throughout the ship. Coleman and Commander Garcia shared a look then raced out of the room toward the bridge.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Poiu said in his earpiece, “a Baranyk carrier just jumped into system.”

24

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Koburn-2, High Orbit

“Report!” Captain Coleman bellowed as he and Commander Garcia stepped onto the bridge. The room was alive with activity, his crew manning their stations alert and crisp. His eyes immediately went to the battle map, where a red wireframe of a Baranyk cruiser floated through space.

“Baranyk cruiser inbound,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Maintaining an intercept. ETA in eight minutes.”

“Where did it come from?” Commander Garcia asked, descending the steps to the inner ring with Coleman.

“Unknown, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “It jumped in two minutes ago at a distant orbit of several hundred thousand kilometers. Within moments, it plotted an intercept course toward us.”

“What about fighters?” Coleman asked. There wasn’t any indication of them on the display.

“Nothing yet, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

Odd, Coleman thought, rubbing his jaw. If the ship was planning to engage, it should have already deployed its fighters. It was in the space between capital ships that the battle was normally won. Only on rare occasions did the capital ships engage directly.

“What about ours?” Coleman asked.

“Locked and loaded, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“Good,” Coleman said. “Hold them unless the enemy launches theirs or closes within a hundred thousand kilometers.”

“Copy that.”

Eyes glued on the display, Coleman and his crew watched as the enemy vessel closed the distance between them. The ship didn’t veer or alter course, maintaining a steady pace toward the inevitable.

“One hundred twenty-five thousand kilometers and closing.”

Coleman grabbed the railing that circled the battle map, the padded metal cool in his hand. He worked to keep his breathing steady, his heart rate slow, but his mind raced with images from the tunnels. The Baranyk mere inches from him, their spear-like forelimbs cutting through armored marines and helpless scientists alike. Blood cascaded through the air, speckling the walls. Then the images shifted. The Baranyk were in the ship, their black carapaces a menacing juxtaposition with the gleaming white bulkhead of the Redemption.

“One hundred five thousand kilometers,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“It’s not slowing down,” Commander Garcia said.

“Launch fighters,” Coleman said.

“Launching fighters,” Poiu repeated.

The deck thumped with the subtle beat of Nighthawks shot into space. The feeling was accompanied by additional images appearing on the battle map. Twenty-four in all, a full squadron. Names indicated each fighter, noting the pilot. Coda was out there. So was Nails. With the Nighthawks entering the battle space, Coleman expected the Baranyk to launch its own fighters, but after several moments, the battlespace remained empty.

What are they waiting for?

The relative speed between the two ships was growing increasingly disproportionate. Old instincts kicked in. “Move to intercept,” Coleman said. “Full burn.”

Speed is life.

“Yes, sir. Moving to intercept. Full burn.”

The railing rumbled under his hand as the whole ship vibrated from the immense power of the Redemption’s thrusters.

“Sir!” Ensign Richey shouted. “I’m reading some kind of electromagnetic signature.”

Coleman bounded the steps two at a time, stopping beside Richey’s station. The young officer wore a single earpiece tuned in to the ship’s communication. Her terminal displayed the signature in visual form.

“What is it?” Coleman asked. “Some kind of communication?”

“No, sir. The frequency is too high to be a radio wave. It… I’ve never seen anything like it, sir.”

“Is it just emitting it, or is the signal localized?”

“It’s definitely targeted toward our ship, sir.”

The pit in Coleman’s stomach grew worse. Something was off. When the enemy shifted tactics, he took special notice. “Scan all critical systems,” Coleman bellowed. “Life support, weapons systems, communications. If anything looks off, I need to know now.”

There was a furious rush of activity as each of the members of the bridge scanned and reviewed their critical systems. The confirmations came in a rush.

“All green, sir.”

“Weapons systems online.”

“Navigation online.”

Nothing was amiss.

Coleman’s thoughts drifted back to the woman in sick bay, to her brain scans, and to the only other person he’d seen with something similar. He toggled his earpiece, opening a channel with his CAG. “Coda, we’re reading some kind of strange signal down here. Are you…” How could he ask this question without raising suspicion? “Are you seeing or experiencing anything odd out there?”

“Experiencing anything odd?” Coda asked. “No, sir.”

Coleman exhaled a relieved breath. Maybe there was no connection at all. Maybe it was, as Dr. Naidoo liked to say, baseless speculation.

“Captain!” Ensign Richey said. “It’s gone.”

The image on her display had gone flat, no readings. Silence. “Keep scanning. If it reappears, I want to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

The ship recorded all inbound and outbound communication and would have a log of the signal for analysis, but Coleman had more immediate concerns.

“Lieutenant Poiu, order our fighters to engage.”

“Copy that, sir.”

Coleman stepped away from Ensign Richey’s station, moving back toward the inner ring.

The Baranyk ship disappeared.

“It’s gone, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “It jumped.”

Coleman froze halfway down the staircase. Silence stretched throughout the room. What the hell was going on? The enemy had jumped in, hit them with an unknown signal, then jumped away.

“Scan systems again,” Coleman said. “They hit us with that signal for some reason, and I want to know why.”

“Captain.”

It took him a moment to realize the voice was coming from his earpiece and not from someone on the bridge.

“Captain, it’s Dr. Rydell.”

“What is it, Doc?”

“It’s the survivor, sir. She’s dead.”

Coleman’s breath caught in his throat. “Say again, Doc?”

“The survivor is dead, sir.”

Coleman’s eyes found Commander Garcia’s. The other man wouldn’t be hearing the same thing he was, but it was clear he knew Coleman was getting a private message.

“What is it?” Commander Garcia asked.

“The survivor in sick bay is dead,” Coleman said.

“Dead?” Garcia asked. “How?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Coleman started for the exit. “You’ve got the bridge.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman raced through the ship’s corridors. In sick bay, he found Rydell and Naidoo at the back of the medical ward. The woman lay on the gurney, her half-crazed eyes now vacant and staring at the ceiling. Blood ran down her neck, soaking into the white sheets and pooling on the floor.

“Captain,” Dr. Rydell said, finally seeing him.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know, sir. Her vitals spiked, and when we came rushing, we found her like this.”

“Found her?” Coleman repeated. “You mean she did this to herself?”

Dr. Rydell nodded.

“How is that possible? She was restrained.”

Coleman strode closer to the woman then crouched to look at the hand that hung limply off the side of the gurney. It was no longer bound. The thumb had been pushed inward, broken or out of the socket, and under the drying blood, the skin was a tattered mess, as if it had been ripped away.

“Degloved,” Dr. Rydell said. “She broke her thumb and slipped her hand free, then broke a piece of metal free from the gurney and—”

“Stabbed herself with it,” Coleman finished.

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t hear it?”

“There was no sound. Not until she broke the railing off the gurney. By the time we realized something was happening, we were too late.”

Coleman pinched his forehead. “You’re telling me she broke her thumb and ripped the skin of her hand off without so much as a cry of pain?”

“Yes,” Dr. Rydell said. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Coleman shook his head. None of this should have been possible. He looked at the woman again. Wireless electrodes still stuck to her head, marring an otherwise-serene face. “You were monitoring her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I need you to look at her scans from the last five minutes. We were hit by an unknown Baranyk signal and unable to determine its effects. This”—he pointed at the woman—“can’t be a coincidence.”

“Will do, sir.”

“And, Doc, if you find something, get with Ensign Richey and Dr. Naidoo to compare timestamps. Determine if the new brain activity began and ended with the signal’s beginning and end.”

“Of course, sir.”

Coleman nodded and turned to leave the sick bay. He didn’t need to wait for Dr. Rydell’s confirmation. Deep in his gut, he already knew the truth. The Baranyk ship had jumped in, targeted the survivor with its signal, and somehow forced her to kill herself before jumping away.

They were covering their tracks, hiding the results of their experiments, but what Coleman had seen confirmed his greatest fears. The Baranyk had discovered a way to manipulate human action.

He had to get word to Command, but first, he had to wait for Dr. Rydell’s confirmation. Without it, the idea was too absurd. Command would call him an alarmist. He would need to get Dr. Naidoo’s opinion as well. Combined, they might be able to convince someone of the danger.

But even then, he knew they would require more information. How strong was the signal? What was its range? How widespread was it? Could it affect more than one person at a time? In order to counteract it and give humanity a fighting chance, they needed more information. But where to look?

In his favorite books and vids growing up, clever detectives were always led from one clue to the next. A card, a matchbook, a phone number—something always led them to a person or location where they would find their next clue. If they followed it far enough, they would find their answers, and the mystery would be solved. His problem was that he didn’t have that next place, and nothing that he had collected thus far pointed him toward somewhere in particular.

He could pick a system at random, but that didn’t feel right. What had those investigators and detectives done when they ran into a roadblock?

Coleman froze in the center of the corridor, an idea coming to him. Yes… as much as he’d tried to discount the idea, the similarities were uncanny. The brain scans, the changes in behavior, people acting against their will.

What did the detectives do when they were looking for that last clue? They went back to the beginning. To the place where the original crime happened.

It was time to go to Kryos.

25

CAG’s Office, SAS Redemption

Koburn-2, High Orbit

The day after the mysterious Baranyk appearance, Coda found himself in his CAG’s office with his squadron leaders, struggling to concentrate on the task in front of him. He’d summoned them first thing that morning under the pretense of optimizing the flight roster, but he was really just looking for company. Needed to hear the friendly banter between friends. Laugh at the shit-talking between rivals.

He’d known leadership would come with added responsibility, that his actions would decide the fate of his pilots, and that there would be a certain animosity among the ranks toward him. But he’d expected to have his flight leaders with him every step of the way. What he found was that there were actually two walls—one between him and his pilots and another between him and his former friends.

It wasn’t that they didn’t joke, banter, or shit-talk—they just didn’t include him the same way they had before. The situation had changed. Their responsibilities had changed. Even their rank. His most of all. The worst part was, he didn’t necessarily think it was wrong. There should be a line between him and those under his command. Get too close, and he might not be able to order them into risky situations. He just couldn’t help but feel like he’d lost something.

During his most difficult times at the Terran Fleet Academy, Coda hadn’t handled tough situations as well as he could have. He hadn’t crumpled under the pressure, but he hadn’t always risen to the challenge either. There were outbursts—usually punctuated by fights with Moscow and followed by trips to Captain Hughes’s office. He’d skipped more than one practice, but that had been while they were fighting simulated battles, when the responsibility was a responsibility of training for the future, not the responsibility of keeping his pilots safe today.

Losing a battle there meant he might drop in the standings. Losing a battle here meant his friends died. Walls and lines, that was what life had become. Walls and lines. So Coda buried himself in his work.

“We’re good with this?” Coda asked from behind his desk.

The rest of his flight leaders sat on the other side of the office, their attention focused on the digital display board that listed the names of their pilots. For the last two hours, they had been reshuffling the flight roster, compensating for lost pilots and equalizing numbers. Despite the work they’d put in assembling fighter pairs, some of their initial pairings hadn’t worked out. They needed to adjust the roster to compensate for losses, but it was also an opportunity to increase the remaining pilots’ effectiveness.

“I still don’t think it’s perfect,” Moscow said. “But it’s an improvement.”

“How many times do we need to go through this?” Noodle asked, agitated. “We won’t know how well it’ll work until we get them in the simulator and see how they look.”

“Agreed,” Coda said.

Noodle and Moscow glared at each other. They’d been through this before—tensions were high, and the two pilots had never gotten along. A lot of that was a byproduct of Coda’s former rivalry with Moscow, but unlike Coda, Noodle hadn’t put those old feelings behind him. They’d been at each other’s throats all morning.

“I want the simulators running twenty-four hours a day,” Coda said. “When the new pilots aren’t in them, I want them flying CAP, and when they’re not doing that, I want them in the cockpit flying training exercises. I don’t know how long we have until our next battle, but I know however long it is, it won’t be long enough.”

“Good god, man,” Squawks said. “You sound just like the captain. I swear, if I just closed my eyes…”

“It’s the chair,” Noodle said. “There’s something about that chair that makes all commanders sound the same.”

Coda bristled, his blood rising. You’re damn right it’s the chair. And the responsibility that comes with it. But as soon as the thoughts crossed his mind, he realized the wall between him and his friends had come down—even if only for a brief moment. Squawks had an innate ability to read a situation and know what to say. It was one of the qualities that made him a great flight leader and a great friend.

Coda grinned, trying to think of a retort, but he was too slow, and the moment passed.

“They really didn’t do too bad,” Moscow said, steering the conversation back on track. “All things considered. We’ve only lost five fighters, none since the initial engagement. And even with our retooling, more than sixty percent of our original fighter pairs remain intact.”

“I know, Moscow,” Coda said. “But we both know how many kills the squadron had once you removed the Forgotten veterans from the equation. They may have had good training, but they’re still green. Unless we can improve their effectiveness, I’m afraid our streak of victories will come to an end.”

“Everyone but Nails,” Squawks said. “That girl is something else, let me tell you.”

“If she can learn to stay with her wingman, she’ll be even better,” Coda said.

“You really are the most pessimistic person I’ve ever met.” Squawks added a grin to let Coda know he was joking, but there was too much truth to the statement. “I wouldn’t mind flying with her, Coda, if you’re up for making another tweak to the roster.”

“No,” Coda said. “She stays with me.”

“She’s one of the best,” Noodle added.

“Which is exactly why she’s staying with the CAG,” Squawks said, apparently not willing to let Coda off the hook. “Coda’s watching out for his own ass.”

“You’re damn right I am,” Coda said with a wry grin. “Unless you want me to get shot down so you can take over…”

“And sit in that chair?” Squawks said. “No thank you. I can’t start talking like the captain too. It’ll ruin my best trait.”

Coda laughed. It wasn’t a hearty thing or even terribly deep, but it was a start. And it felt good. Thank you, Squawks. I needed this. “All right. You know what needs to be done, so make it happen. I want daily progress reports and honest assessments with a critical eye. If the new pairs don’t take to each other immediately, we’ll try something new. We don’t have—”

“Time,” Squawks finished for him. “We know.”

Coda didn’t know how other squadrons operated, but he was pretty sure other flight leaders didn’t interrupt their CAGs. But this was the Forgotten—their whole existence was an abnormality.

Before Coda could respond, a knock at his door drew their attention, and Captain Coleman stepped into the room.

“Sir,” Coda said, jumping from his seat and snapping to attention. The rest of his flight leaders followed suit.

“At ease,” Captain Coleman said. “Gentlemen, I need a word with my CAG.”

“Of course, sir,” Squawks said. “We were just finishing up anyway.”

The three squadron leaders gave the captain a final salute then exited the office, closing the door behind them.

Captain Coleman’s eyes fell on the display board. “Tweaking the roster?”

“Just making some small adjustments, sir. Balancing the squadrons, tweaking fighter pairs, trying to increase their battle effectiveness.”

“It was a successful first battle,” the captain said.

“There’s always room for improvement, sir.”

Captain Coleman smiled a knowing smile. “That, there is, Coda. That, there is. And every loss hurts.”

“Yes, it does.”

“It gets easier.”

“To be honest, sir, I’m not sure I want it to.”

“Oh?” Captain Coleman raised an eyebrow. “You like the guilt that comes with losing pilots?”

“No, sir. But I don’t want to get to a place where their losses don’t affect me, either.” His thoughts went back to the original members of the Forgotten who’d died during training or above Toavis and the promise he’d made to ensure their memory was never lost.

“There’s a balance, Coda. You have to accept the fact that those under your command will die. That sometimes you will have to order them to die. And you can’t collapse under that responsibility. You can’t let those actions define you or, worse, break you.”

“I understand, sir. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Captain Coleman made no effort to sit, and his face took on an expression Coda couldn’t place. Whatever the captain had to say, it must have been difficult.

“I’ve decided where we’re headed next.” Captain Coleman’s eyes went hard. “Kryos.”

“Kryos? I’ve never heard of it.”

“No,” Captain Coleman said, his voice suddenly somber. “I suppose you haven’t. Coda… Kryos is the Baranyk planet we were assaulting when your father… the battle of Kryos is where it happened.”

The words slapped him, sending him spinning. He fell into his chair. “Why?” was all he managed to get out.

“I’m looking into something,” Captain Coleman said. “Something that might be related. That might give us answers. Anything more than that, I can’t say. But I wanted you to know.”

“I… don’t know what to say, sir.”

“Just tell me you’ll be ready.”

Coda thought he saw concern in Captain Coleman’s expression. Maybe guilt.

“And if you see or feel anything… abnormal,” Captain Coleman added.

“Abnormal, sir?”

“Yes.”

It was clear the captain wasn’t going to elaborate further. “Of course, sir.”

“I know I’m being vague. But you’ll know what I’m talking about if it happens.”

“I’m sure I will, sir,” Coda said, having no idea what the hell the captain was talking about.

“Good.” Captain Coleman nodded and seemed to stand up straighter, as if a terrible burden had been removed from his shoulders. “Kryos is deep in Baranyk-occupied space, and Fleet Intelligence hasn’t been able to get us an update. Even if they had, Koburn reminded us that that kind of intelligence isn’t worth the paper you wipe your ass with.”

“Understood, sir,” Coda said. “We’ll be ready.”

“We aren’t near any JumpGates, so Tactical is plotting a series of jumps now. We expect to begin in twelve hours. You’ve got that time to work out any remaining kinks.” He nodded toward the display board.

“We’re on it, sir.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

Coda saluted Captain Coleman again then watched as he walked out of the office. What the hell was that all about? He wasn’t sure what the captain was hoping to find on Kryos—or what it had to do with his father. What is he not telling me?

His mind preoccupied, Coda barely noticed the captain stop dead in his tracks. Someone was approaching him.

Nails. And she didn’t look happy.

Apparently, I’m not the only one confronting demons today.

26

Corridor, SAS Redemption

Koburn-2, High Orbit

Captain Chadwick Coleman had been a member of the Sol Fleet for nearly thirty years. He’d flown starfighters at speeds beyond human comprehension, fought in battles that had claimed the lives of tens of thousands of people, been hunted, pursued, and nearly blown to atoms. He’d stared into the cold, lifeless eyes of death itself, yet nothing he’d ever faced unnerved him as much as his daughter’s chocolate-colored eyes.

Aniyah was both younger and older than he had expected. On some fundamental level, he had known she was twenty years old—or was she twenty-one now?—and she looked every bit the part. A full-grown woman, she was taller than her mother and broad-shouldered like him. Her skin was smooth, missing the stress wrinkles that scarred his own face. But those eyes—they blazed with a simmering hatred in a way that only a child’s eyes could. And yet there was more. Pain. Loss. Distance.

Oh, child. Life isn’t fair, is it?

“Uh,” he said as the moment stretched into an uncomfortable length. “Hello, Lieutenant.”

“Sir.” She said the word without even a hint of emotion. A perfect military greeting, replying to decorum with decorum. A subordinate to her commanding officer, not a daughter greeting a missing father. And why should it be any other way? He hadn’t been her father for years.

“Welcome aboard Redemption.” He stuck with the role of her CO, the one he was more comfortable and familiar with. “Congratulations on your recent success in the cockpit. You’ve been the talk of your squadron leaders.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve been fortunate to train under the best fighters in the fleet. My success is a testament to their leadership.”

The best fighters in the fleet. Was that a slight? The hint of a grin on her lips certainly indicated it was.

“Commander O’Neil is a good man and a better pilot,” Coleman said, deciding to play dumb and not take the bait. “And one of my own students. You’d do well to listen to him. He can teach you much.” Okay, maybe not completely dumb.

“Of course, sir.”

He meant it as a dismissal, but she didn’t seem to be taking it as such. Did she want to talk? Did he?

Maybe. But he didn’t know the first thing to say, and she wasn’t helping things. As first meetings went, things could have gone far worse, though.

“Carry on, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman stepped past Aniyah, moving down the corridor. He felt her eyes on him all the way to the door. He glanced her way as it slid open. Sure enough, her eyes followed him, her face expressionless. When his eyes met hers, though, she turned away, returning to her original path.

“And, Lieutenant,” he called out.

She turned back to him.

“It’s good to have you aboard.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t so much as nod. That was fine with him. Their first awkward encounter was behind them. The ice was broken. Their first steps had been taken. They would talk again, and when they did, it would be a real conversation. The one they had both been dreaming about for years. That scared him more than whatever waited for them on Kryos.

27

Corridor, SAS Redemption

Koburn-2, High Orbit

Coda left his office in a haze, only conscious enough to want to give the captain and his daughter a modicum of privacy. His mind was a jumbled mix of half-formed thoughts, his emotions a tangled web of anger, confusion, surprise, and hope. Captain Coleman was taking them back to Kryos. Back to the planet where his father had turned on his wingmen.

I flew with your father. He was a good man.

The words echoed in Coda’s memory. Captain Coleman had said them the first time he and Coda met. Coda had known then that Coleman knew something he wasn’t telling Coda. And now he was taking him back to the beginning.

Coda strolled through the corridors, unsure where he was going. He had to move. Couldn’t sit still. To remain still was to confront uncomfortable feelings. Eventually, he found himself in the Simulation Room, which, despite his order, was empty.

For once, he didn’t care. In this moment, he wasn’t a commander. He was just another man looking for a distraction, and the amazing machines in front of him offered the best kind. He toggled through the various scenarios preprogrammed into the simulator then settled on the one that would require the least thought: a simple sole-survivor scenario that pitted him against wave after wave of enemy fighters. There were no objectives except to stay alive as long as possible.

Once inside the cockpit, Coda pulled on the VR helmet and waited for the simulation to begin. In the simulated Nighthawk cockpit, an empty abyss of stars stretched to infinity around him. There had been times when the moments in the empty vista and accompanying silence were his most cherished moments, but after the bombshell the captain had dropped on him, it was oppressive and restricting, giving him too much time to think.

His HUD beeped as the first wave of enemy contacts appeared. Half a dozen in all, they flew in a wall formation, three fighters wide, two tall. Coda initiated his thrusters, darting toward them. They saw him then shifted formation, moving from the wall into a line that stretched away from him, each of the fighters hidden behind the one at its head.

Coda locked on to the first target and launched his first missile. As soon as it was away, he opened his guns and fired four bursts. The first enemy fighter exploded, taken out by the missile, and then his bursts took the next one in line. Debris eliminated a third.

That’s why you don’t play follow-the-leader.

The remaining three fighters broke formation, veering off in three separate directions.

And now the real game begins.

Coda selected another fighter that had darted positive-Z. He moved after it, easily falling in on its six and achieving missile lock. Each wave of the simulation would replenish his weapons, so he didn’t worry about wasting a missile on easy prey. He squeezed the trigger, launching his second missile.

Four down, two to go. For the first wave at least.

He took the next fighter out as easily as the previous one then moved on to the last. It came at him from his right flank. Coda dove negative-Z, narrowly avoiding an incoming barrage of fire, then swung his fighter around ninety degrees and punched the throttle. In a real battle, the maneuver would have been dangerous, and even the idea of it caused Coda’s ribs to ache, but within the confines of the simulator, the pain was nothing more than a memory—and he used that to his advantage.

Coda closed in on the last fighter, countering its evasive maneuvers with his own, keeping it in his sights until his computer got missile lock. He fired another missile and watched it as it disappeared into the black. The yellow indicator on his HUD streaked toward the enemy fighter. There was a distant flash, and the fighter disappeared, destroyed.

Silence and stillness returned as the simulator began its next phase.

You were there, weren’t you, sir?

In the silence, more memories invaded his consciousness. This time, he replayed the conversation he had with Commander Coleman after the Battle of Toavis. Like it had during so many of their previous conversations, the specter of Joseph O’Neil had hung large, and it was the closest Commander Coleman had ever come to opening up about what he’d seen.

I was there.

The captain hadn’t said anything more. He’d given Coda a vague promise to tell him when the time was right. That was six months ago, and things have changed. The time is right now. Tell me.

But like the real Captain Coleman, the imagined version wasn’t talking. He remained silent. And unlike the real thing, this one didn’t have answers.

Coda’s HUD beeped as the next wave of fighters appeared. There were twelve in all, and from Coda’s experience, each would fly with more skill than any had during the initial wave.

He settled into the seat of his cockpit and fought wave after wave, falling into the rhythm of the battle. He lost track sometime after the seventh. By the time he was done, he was sticky with sweat and mentally spent. He had no idea how long he’d been in the simulator, but by the time he removed his VR helmet, his eyes burned with fatigue.

Getting out of the simulator was a difficult task. With the cockpit located in the center of a gyroscope, a ladder had to be moved into position to let the pilot into the cockpit and then moved out of the way once he was in. Coda had been able to get into the cockpit then shove the rolling ladder away. Getting out was an altogether different task.

Someone was rolling the ladder to him, though. Coda realized he wasn’t alone.

“Not bad, sir,” Nails said as she moved the ladder into position.

“Thank you,” Coda slid out of the cockpit and took a series of uneasy steps down the ladder. Her presence annoyed him. He’d come here seeking solace, not to confront a pilot who had given him a hard time from the moment she’d joined the squadron. “Is there something I can help you with, Lieutenant?”

He regretted the words the moment they left his lips. So deep in his own issues, he had completely forgotten that she and the captain had run into each other outside his office. He could see the hurt in her eyes now. Her normally razor-sharp posture was compromised. Her shoulders slumped, chin downcast.

“No, sir.” Nails nodded toward the simulator. “We had the same idea. You just beat me to it.” Even her voice was somber.

“It can be a hell of a stress reliever,” Coda said. “Do you want to take a run?”

Nails shook her head. “I’m good. Thanks. You flew well.”

“Not in that last run. I was overconfident, and it did me in.”

“I guess,” Nails said. “Though in a real battle, you’d never be out there alone.”

“As long as my wingman doesn’t leave me behind.” Coda meant it as a half-hearted jibe, but his delivery was off. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“No,” Nails said. “It’s okay. You’re right. I’ve been studying you. Watching old battle vids. Watched you today. When we go into battle next, I’ll be ready.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I grew up playing sports, and the best watch game film to prepare for their opponent. Battles are like that to me. They’re complex, and every one is different, but if you break it down to its individual parts, your targets become more predictable.”

“Most people only have three or four moves,” Coda said.

“And they usually only use one or two,” Nails said. “It never becomes a problem, because the enemy is always different. We never face the same targets twice. They never have time to learn our individual tics. But I did.”

Coda found himself smiling.

“I’m serious,” Nails said, obviously taking the expression the wrong way.

“No,” Coda said. “I get it. I was just realizing how similar we actually are.”

“What do you mean?”

“I studied pilots too. Only then, we were all competing for a position in the squadron, and I did it to beat them.”

“It worked.”

“Yeah, it did,” Coda said. “You’ve got me curious, though. We can’t wait until the next battle. Grab a helmet, and let’s see what you’ve learned.”

“All right.”

Coda toggled the next battle simulation as Nails found a VR helmet. When the simulation began, Nails proved to be a woman of her word. She was better. She wasn’t perfect, of course—there was a difference between knowing what your wingman was going to do and reacting to it and flying together as one. But with time, Coda had zero doubt they would make a hell of a fighter pair.

With every passing moment, every blast of cannon fire, and every missile launch, he and Nails understood each other a little more. Not only on the superficial level but down to the core. He could almost feel her anger toward Captain Coleman. After years of abandonment, their first conversation had been a brief encounter filled with military decorum. Coda thought she could feel his continued desire to prove himself. He was always fighting with the specter of his father in front of him, shadowing his every deed—almost the same way Nails’s father outshined her own achievements. Their backgrounds were different, but there was enough overlap to be hauntingly familiar.

Coda didn’t know what to expect at Kryos, but he was learning what to expect on his wing. And for the first time since accepting the role of CAG, he was ready for what the next day would bring.

28

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Deep Space

Coda nodded to the passing officers as he made his way to the bridge. Already dressed in his flight suit, he was ready for whatever awaited them on the other side of their next jump. Tensions were high, especially in this part of the ship. They had jumped more than two dozen times, drawing closer to Kryos with every leap. Now, all that stood between them and the alien planet was a final jump, which would happen within the hour.

Moscow’s squadron was already loaded into the Redemption’s fighter bays, ready to be launched the moment the ship arrived at its destination.

Kryos.

There was more waiting for them on the alien planet than any of them were privy to. Its skies were a mystery, but the planet represented the very foundation Coda’s adult life had been built atop. He might have been going to the planet for the first time, but in many ways, he felt like he was returning—and he didn’t know what kind of welcome he would receive.

The bridge was alive with activity as Coda entered. Officers relayed orders to and from the executive deck, counting down the moments to the jump. Captain Coleman and Commander Garcia stood at its center, observing the three-dimensional display. Coda had never seen it in person but was impressed by the quality of the images. It might not have been as grand as the one at the academy, but it was damn close.

“Condition One has been set throughout the ship, Captain,” Commander Garcia said. “Battery-loading operations complete, and the engineering and emergency crews are on standby.”

“What about my fighters?” Captain Coleman asked.

Coda didn’t think the captain had seen him enter, but he spoke up anyway. “Squadrons are locked and loaded, sir. Just waiting for your order.”

For the first time since Coda had stepped onto the bridge, the captain tore his eyes off the display. He looked at Coda with a surprised expression. “Very good, Commander. But shouldn’t you be with your pilots?”

“Loading and preflight operations are complete, sir. Moscow’s squadron will launch first. The rest are on standby and already manning their ships. The flight crew will begin loading operations as soon as Moscow’s are launched. There was nothing left to do but await further orders, and I thought I could do that here, sir.”

Captain Coleman grunted his response, something Coda took as approval, or at least not disapproval.

“EmDrive charged and stable, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Awaiting your order.”

Coleman nodded. His hands tightened around the waist-high rail surrounding the imaging display. Coda steadied his breathing, taking long, slow breaths in and out of his nose in an effort to quell the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The exercise brought with it an added level of clarity. His senses were heightened; the world seemed to slow. He could make out details he hadn’t been able to make out before. The small sweat marks that Captain Coleman’s hands left behind on the rail. The subtle creaking noise they made against its metal surface. The space between the cacophony of beeps, clicks, and hums emanating from the various electronics on the bridge. The hushed voices of the crew. Their heightened breathing. For a split second, Coda thought he could hear the hearts of the crew beating as one as they waited for Captain Coleman to give the order.

“Jump.”

Barely more than a second later, the jump sensation interrupted what was left of the moment. Coda’s perception of reality shifted, stretching out before him as if he were suddenly having an out-of-body experience. He saw himself more than he felt himself, and what he saw was elongated by the infiniteness of time and space.

Then it was over. The world snapped back, and Coda felt for a moment as if he were going to fall over. He didn’t, blessedly, but others did, and he thought he saw more than one holding on to their terminals for support.

“Jump complete, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

The battle display was already updating, the first readouts becoming available. At first, it was a yellowish blob, pixelated and roughly spherical in shape. As the scans continued to come in, the image grew clearer, and Coda found himself looking at what looked like an arid planet, its yellow surface accented with browns and oranges, marking canyons, valleys, and deserts. Blue-green water dotted the landscape, looking like little more than puddles against the vast rocky surface. Kryos looked like an entire planet that personified the worst that Earth could throw at them. A hellish planet if Coda had ever seen one.

“Launch fighters,” Commander Garcia said.

Lieutenant Poiu relayed the order, and half a second later, Coda felt the telltale signs of the ship’s launch mechanisms reverberating through the deck. He’d never known they could be felt here, deep within the belly of the ship. There was something comforting about that, even if his stomach did twist into a knot at the thought of his pilots being hurled toward that terrible, desolate planet.

“Sir!” The urgency in Ensign Richey’s voice cut through the din of the bridge like a line through water. “I’m picking up…”

“What is it, Ensign?” Captain Coleman moved so that his back was to the display and he was looking up directly at the young communications officer.

“I don’t know, sir. The scans are still coming in, but—”

“The planet is under attack, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu interrupted.

“Under attack?” Captain Coleman turned back to the display, which continued its update. “Where?”

“Isolating.” The display shifted, moving toward the ice-capped northern hemisphere. Two black dots, little more than dark shadows against the warm colors of the planet’s surface, became visible.

“What the hell is that?” Commander Garcia asked.

Captain Coleman didn’t answer. He turned to Lieutenant Poiu. “Have the loading procedures begun for the standby squadrons?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want them launched as soon as possible. But keep them tight. Defensive positions only. Don’t go after the targets until my order.” Captain Coleman turned back to the screen as the black dots resolved into the telltale images of two Baranyk carriers.

“They’re attacking their own installations,” Commander Garcia said. “Why would they do that?”

Captain Coleman gave Coda a knowing look. “Because they don’t want us to find whatever’s there. Get to your ship, Commander. I want you in the next wave of fighters.”

“Yes, sir.” Coda turned to leave.

“And, Coda.”

Coda stopped, turning back to the captain.

“Be quick about it. We can’t let them succeed. We have to know what’s on that planet.”

29

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Kryos

Coda was thrust into his gel seat as his fighter raced down the launch tube. For a brief moment, it felt as if the weight of the universe stood on his chest. It subsided the moment he shot into the black and his inertial dampeners kicked in, offsetting some of the Gs.

Calling up the battle map on his HUD, he immediately reassessed the situation. His squadrons formed a defensive perimeter around the Redemption. One of the Baranyk carriers maintained its assault on the planet’s surface, but the other had broken away. They were still several minutes out, and this far away from the enemy vessels, there wasn’t any danger. Still, Coda knew the Baranyk would be analyzing them every bit as much as they were analyzing the enemy.

Coda radioed Captain Coleman directly. “Captain, it’s Coda. I’m out.”

“Good,” the captain said. “One of the Baranyk carriers is moving to intercept. They’ll deploy fighters any minute. Prepare to engage.”

“Yes, sir.” Coda returned to the all-squadrons frequency. “All right, everyone. Bad Dogs, Yellow Jackets, and Dragonflies, on me. Scarecrows, stay close to home in case any of these buggers get through.”

A series of affirmatives echoed through his speakers.

“Finger-four formations and prepare to break on my mark.”

The three flights broke in half, moving into six smaller formations, their flight lead and seconds flying point. Coda moved to intercept, having his onboard computer calculate the incoming Baranyk carrier’s distance and time to intercept.

Six minutes.

Except he knew the enemy would never get that close. And as soon as the thought solidified in his mind, the enemy’s confirmation came.

“It’s launching fighters,” Moscow said as the swarm of Baranyk fighter crafts barreled toward them at much higher speeds than the larger carrier.

“Prepare to engage in… one minute,” Coda said.

“Just a single carrier’s worth?” Squawks asked.

It took a moment for Coda to realize what Squawks was talking about. The second carrier could have easily launched its fighters as well but hadn’t. Something didn’t make sense about that, but Coda forced it to the back of his mind. Squawks’s bravado aside, the incoming enemy fighters posed a very real threat.

“They’re trying to stall us,” Coda said.

“Yeah, well, they better send in the cavalry, because my Bad Dogs are going to be on them like a geriatric who popped his first happy pill.”

There were a series of groans across the comm.

Each of his flight leaders had named their flights. Squawks had originally chosen Horn Dogs, but Coda wouldn’t let that fly, and they’d settled on Bad Dogs instead.

“Stay focused,” Coda said, biting back a smile. If there was one thing he could always count on during their prebattle banter, it was Squawks doing his best to make everyone laugh, keeping everyone loose. “I don’t want anything flashy—understood? Quick and efficient.”

“He means boring and by the book,” Squawks added.

And sometimes he can take things too far. Coda watched as the alien fighters neared. They were almost into firing range.

“Let’s do this,” Coda said. “Break!”

On Coda’s command, the various finger-four formations broke in half, breaking into fighter pairs. Nails matched Coda’s course effortlessly, veering from their original vector to come around at the incoming force at an angle.

She’s good. Learns fast.

Aside from the time they’d spent in the simulator and their battle at Cerian-7, this was the only conflict they had flown together. Something had changed since that first flight, and it felt like they’d been on each other’s wings for years. They cut through the first line of fighters with gratifying efficiency, leaving nothing but broken organic parts and viscera in their wake.

Once the two waves of fighters had passed each other, they brought their fighters around, and the real battle began. Coda let his targeting computer identify potential targets. Each was given a numerical representation: B1 through B15, representing the bogey and its original position within their formation.

He selected one that was close in proximity and matched a similar vector—or as his old friend Tex would have said, “Easy pickings.” He sent the targeting information to Nails and altered course, moving into an attack vector.

The enemy never saw them coming. The moment the fighter winked from his HUD, another took its place, glowing more brightly to indicate that it was the computer’s recommended target. There was no need to disagree, and so again, Coda and Nails knifed through space, hot on the enemy’s tail.

The enemy fighter saw their approach and began evasive maneuvers, increasing speed and darting back and forth in an illogical pattern that made it difficult to lock on to. Coda was forced to counter every maneuver and was tossed around the inside of his cockpit like a pinball. For the thousandth time, he was thankful for the gel seat, five-point harness, and healthy dose of growth hormones that the fleet had been feeding him since he’d first begun his training.

Through it all, Coda’s missile lock drew closer, the square bracket nearly encasing the enemy fighter on his HUD. But Nails got off the shot before he did.

Nails let out a whoop. “Splash Three!” she bellowed. “Come on, Coda, don’t let me have all the fun.”

“Sounds like you should be her wingman,” Squawks added.

Coda ignored the banter, already focused on the next fighter, which had inadvertently flown into their current trajectory. Squawks and Nails weren’t even done laughing by the time he had taken it out.

“Stay focused,” Coda said in his best take-no-shit voice. “That could have just as easily been one of you.”

Altering course to the edge of the battle, Coda zoomed out on his battle map, getting a God’s-eye view of the entanglement. Of the first wave of Baranyk fighters, only about half remained, and with every moment, another seemed to blink out of existence. It was a rout, and the enemy saw it too.

In a single, unified maneuver, the remaining enemy crafts disengaged, retreating to their carrier. Under normal circumstances, Coda would have ordered a pursuit, harrowing their six until they entered a more vulnerable place in Baranyk space. But that had been before the squadron’s numbers had been reinforced. Before they’d been tested. Before Captain Coleman had brought him to Kryos to face his personal demons.

“Moscow, Squawks, pursue the enemy fighters. Dragonflies, stay with me.”

Squawks and Moscow voiced their affirmative, and a moment later, they were zipping toward the enemy fighters. It would be a race to see how many they could take out before the Baranyk fighters got back to their carrier, and that number would be determined by how good the enemy was at slipping missile lock.

“All right, Dragonflies—”

A terrible, high-pitched squeal sliced through Coda’s eardrums. It felt as if someone stabbed directly in the soft tissue of his brain and twisted the knife. His mouth gaped, though no words or sounds came out. Eyes bulging, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. It was complete and utter torment.

Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. Coda gasped, sucking a lungful of air into his oxygen-depleted lungs. He couldn’t tell how long the noise had lasted.

“Coda?” Nails sounded worried. “Coda, can you hear me?”

“What the hell was that?” Coda asked between gasps.

“What was what?”

“That noise,” Coda said. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“Noise?” Nails sounded genuinely perplexed. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Didn’t hear anything? My brain felt like it was going to explode! Coda blinked, trying to refocus. “Never mind. Must have been feedback of some kind.”

“Feedback?”

Coda ignored the question, flipping his comm to the all-squadrons channel—except he was already on it. Everybody had heard his conversation with Nails.

Shit!

“Coda,” Captain Coleman said, and this time, it was a private frequency, “what’s going on out there?”

“It’s nothing, sir.” Coda blinked, squeezing the flight stick between his legs, trying to refocus and return to the battle zone he’d been in before. The focus eluded him, slipping away like a talented enemy pilot. The subtle ringing in his head didn’t help.

“It’s nothing,” Coda repeated, not sure if it was for him or the captain. “Plotting an intercept course now.” He didn’t wait for the captain to respond. “Dragonflies, hammer formation. Let’s end this. Biscuit, lead us out.”

“Yes, sir,” Biscuit, Coda’s second in the Dragonflies, said. “Dragonflies, on me.”

Coda and Nails took up a position at the rear of the formation, and within moments, they were off, ready to be the hammer that crushed the first carrier.

I just hope we’re not too la—

The shriek returned, twofold this time, blinding him with pain. His head shook, and his body spasmed as if he were having a seizure. Then he went rigid. The pain continued, but Coda’s response to it died away. It was like he entered a state of shock. Even his mind felt alien.

Coda reached for his helmet, except… his hand didn’t move. Panicking, he tried again. Nothing happened. Same with the other hand. His entire body was unresponsive. He wasn’t paralyzed—he could still feel his hands and feet. He just couldn’t move them. Couldn’t move anything.

What the hell is happening?

He tried speaking, but his mouth wouldn’t work. Tried blinking commands to his HUD, but his eyes wouldn’t respond. He was trapped in his own mind. A prisoner in his own body.

And then his body moved on its own. He felt his hands tighten around the joystick, thumb switching to missiles. He watched helplessly as he overrode his targeting system to target the pilots of Dragonfly Flight. He screamed in his head as his index finger pressed the firing mechanism. His fighter rocked as the missile launched toward his friends and fellow wingmen.

To everyone watching, it would appear as if Callan “Coda” O’Neil had betrayed his wingmen, just as his father had done above the same skies of Kryos.

30

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Kryos

Chaos. For an undefined amount of time, Coda’s reality devolved to madness. Prisoner in his own body, he could do nothing but watch, listen, and dread what happened next. It started with the radio, a dozen voices speaking at once.

“What the—”

“Contact!”

“Coda!”

“—hell was that?!”

“Grizzly, do you copy?”

Pause.

“Coda, do you copy?”

The voices were coming in so quickly that he had trouble deciphering who was speaking. Half a dozen more spoke over each other, making their words incomprehensible.

“Coda, what are your orders?”

There was another break in the communication, and it was then that his body, as if it were a drone being controlled from some distant location, made its next move.

He launched his second volley of missiles. This time, though, his pilots saw them appear on their HUDs and took immediate action.

“Evasive maneuvers!”

The formation broke apart; even the fighter pairs shattered. It was every pilot for themselves, and four of them had missiles on their tails. As tight as the formation had been, they had no time to escape. They erupted into four separate flashes of light—four more deaths caused by Coda’s hand.

It was a nightmare. Worse than a nightmare. It was as if his every fear had been realized, and he was powerless to stop it. He had no control over his actions. No control over his body. He couldn’t help. He couldn’t even voice a warning.

“Coda!” Squawks said, terror and betrayal in his voice. “What the hell is going on?”

Another barrage of missiles streaked away. The only saving grace was that with this volley, he was out of missiles. His ability to dole out death was severely hampered. Then his thumb switched the firing mechanism from missiles to cannons. Whoever—whatever—was behind this wasn’t done yet.

“Coda!”

His fighter thrummed as his cannons opened up with short bursts that he felt more than he heard. His fighter turned hard, throwing him against the side of his cockpit. His G-suit tightened around his extremities and midsection, preventing his blood from ending up in his feet and staving off blackout.

Another flash of light. Another death. Coda’s hand was bringing his ship around, seeking its next target. He tried to talk, to warn them, to shout to get the hell away, but like the rest of his body, his mouth didn’t work. All he had were his thoughts.

“Goddamn it—”

The line went dead in mid-sentence.

They’ve shifted frequencies. I am now an enemy target. Coda could see it in the way the squadrons were regrouping, fighter pairs reassembling, the way he was being flanked in five different directions at once. This is how I die. As an enemy to my own people. Shot down by my own pilots. By my friends.

Whatever was controlling him had no intention of going down without a fight. His hand shoved the throttle forward, increasing thrust, then altered course so that he was on a direct heading toward an incoming fighter pair. His missiles expended, he launched a burst from his cannons across their incoming trajectory.

Cannon fire took one of the Nighthawks across the tail of the ship, ripping off its rear starboard wing. The fighter veered, emitting puffs of gas from its navigational thrusters as its pilot worked to regain control. And then it was past, safe from further fire.

Coda turned toward another pair of fighters. These had already opened fire on him, missiles streaking in his direction. He tracked them on his HUD. His stomach lurched as the fighter dove negative-Z then performed a tight, high-G maneuver, spinning toward the reassembling Bad Dog Flight.

Please no. Not Squawks. Don’t make me kill Squawks.

His finger tightened around the firing stud. One burst. Then two. Three. He sprayed cannon fire across multiple trajectories. It was like throwing nails into the middle of the highway. Sooner or later, one of the fighters would get hit. The bursts also provided cover fire as his Nighthawk blasted into the incoming formations.

Fighter pairs from Bad Dog Flight veered from the incoming fire, giving Coda a clear path through. The moment he was past the first fighter, he yanked hard on the stick, bringing his fighter around perpendicular to the other fighters, jumping straight into their flight path. It was a highly dangerous maneuver that would likely result in a mid-space collision.

Coda tried to scream. Still, nothing came out. He couldn’t even close his eyes. To his great surprise, his fighter somehow avoided a collision. The two missiles hot on his tail didn’t have the same luck, however, striking two helpless Nighthawks.

The blasts shook his fighter, throwing him off course and sending him spinning. Coda’s hands fumbled with the controls, struggling to reorient his ship. It took longer than expected, and by the time his fighter was back under control, the remaining squadrons had fully regrouped. Four more missiles were heading his way, and eight other fighters nearly had a firing angle.

Looking at what amounted to his imminent death, Coda couldn’t help but feel a moment of pride. A hawk had attacked the chicken coop, bombarding the pilots when they were most vulnerable. And yet they’d fought well, wasting little time before doing what needed to be done: marking him as an enemy and neutralizing the threat he posed. He didn’t know how many pilots had lost their lives due to his actions, but that number had been smaller than it could have been.

And yet, whoever was behind his movements still wasn’t finished. His hand reached for the throttle, throwing it forward to max thrust. More missiles closed in. A Nighthawk’s maximum thrust wasn’t enough to outrun the Terran weapons.

He emptied his chaff. A pair of explosions erupted behind him, but it wasn’t enough. Two more were hot on his tail. He had three seconds, maybe four, before they caught up to his fighter.

His hand remained steady on the stick, not veering course. Despite his attempt to run, whoever was behind his actions wasn’t interested in fighting anymore. They were content to let him die.

Finally. He wouldn’t have to watch his friends and comrades die by his hand anymore. That, at least, was a blessing.

Something zipped by his fighter. Then another. And another. They were flying in the opposite direction.

Baranyk fighters.

The second Baranyk carrier, done bombarding the planet, had entered the fight. There were a series of blasts behind him as Baranyk fighters threw themselves at the incoming missiles, sacrificing themselves to save Coda. He couldn’t believe it. Refused to believe it. The Baranyk were killing themselves to save him.

What the hell is going on?

Despite their best efforts, they were unable to destroy every missile. One slipped through the cracks of the incoming enemy, taking Coda’s fighter directly in the bow. There was a flash, searing pain, then darkness.

Coda’s last thought was of his father and how he would never know what had happened to him above the same alien world. How he would never know what had happened to himself.

31

Unknown

Kryos

Consciousness came in fragments, small glimpses of life, as if he was looking at the universe through a tiny hole. Coda was floating, spinning slowly toward a yellow planet.

Kryos, he remembered distantly. No. That’s somewhere else. This is… He didn’t have a name for it, just a feeling. A series of images that in themselves made no sense.

No. It is Kryos. Or at least that’s what he had called it. Did it have two names? Two meanings? And why did it feel familiar?

Darkness was followed by a bright light. It appeared and disappeared. Pressure. He stopped spinning and was pulled toward the light. Pain.

Coda kicked, punched, flailed, bit, elbowed, kneed, lunged, and headbutted. He was savage, like a cornered animal with no other recourse. Out for blood to… to… what? Why was he fighting?

He didn’t stop. If anything, he fought with even more urgency. He swung wildly, his gloved hand connecting with something solid. A distant part of him thought that was odd, but he didn’t have time to think on it. The next moment, something hard slammed into the back of his head, and again, all he saw was blackness.

More lights. Flashing this time. No, not flashing—streaking. He was moving, being pushed down a long corridor. Heavy steps echoed around him as if he were being marched toward an inevitable doom. He tried to sit, roll, slide off the gurney, make a run for it, save himself, but his body didn’t respond. Again, he realized he was wrong. His body wasn’t the issue. It was the restraints.

Panic coursed through his veins, his heart rate spiking. He had to get out. Had to get to freedom. Safety. The blackness returned.

When the images returned, they came faster but were less vivid. With them came additional coherence. He was dreaming but was somehow more aware. It was an unnerving sensation. Kryos’s yellow hue called to him like a siren from deep space. She was inviting and comforting, familiar in all the right ways. But there was something else beneath the surface, something that a part of him rebelled against.

The feeling made him nauseous, but it also scared him more than the armored guards, restraints, or anything else. He didn’t trust it, knew its calling was false. The feeling became more insistent, as if it were forcing its will on him. What did it want?

The feeling was demanding. It refused to accept disobedience, and that was when Coda became aware of its true nature. It was madness, violence, and slavery. An overlord with incredible power. And yet he didn’t withdraw. Among the madness, violence, and suppression was something else. It wasn’t coming from the overlord, not directly, but it was part of it. And it felt familiar.

Coda moved toward it, knowing on a fundamental level that it was only his consciousness that moved. Somewhere else, his body was strapped to a gurney, his imprisoners doing God knew what to him. The Coda that remained didn’t care. He was here, a part of a network of sorts, and despite the overwhelming will of the overlord, he went deeper, toward the only beacon of light visible to him.

The closer he drew, the stronger the will of the overlord grew. It was scared, Coda realized. Scared of what he would find. That fear strengthened Coda’s resolve, and he pushed harder. Moving faster, he streaked through the network of consciousness as if he were a speeder through water. Bubbles of other consciousness drifted by, and despite any interactions, Coda knew that those bubbles were like him. They were other people. Other beings. All with their own will and sense of self. All part of the same network.

The light grew brighter. He was almost there. If he hadn’t had the overlord’s full attention before, he did now. Almost immediately, Coda’s progress was halted. The light was just beyond his reach. He imagined himself extending a hand toward it, reaching, grasping, and pleading with everything he had. That light felt familiar. Warm. Of home and family.

But he was pushed back. Pulled away. The light grew more distant, and with it, the sense of warmth and home diminished.

No! Coda couldn’t speak in the network, but his defiance radiated through it. And the light seemed to notice. Coda couldn’t move toward it, but it moved toward him. As fast as the overlord pushed him away, the light flew toward Coda.

Coda reached for it again, and this time, he was met with the image of it reaching for him too. An arm, familiar hands, though older. More calloused and wrinkled. He’d seen them before. Held them. Been comforted by them. Pushed them away.

No more.

Coda dug in his heels, fighting back, resisting the overlord with every fiber of his being. Distantly, he felt his body tense and heard his own screams. He was giving everything he had to this fight—mind, body, and spirit. Nothing would stand in his way. He’d waited too long for this.

He didn’t know how, but he felt his momentum change. He was still being pulled away from the light, but it was somehow slower. The light grew brighter, closing the gap between them. His resistance was working, and his success fueled his determination. He’d thought he’d given everything to the fight before, but he’d been wrong.

Now. He committed himself fully. Now. He fought with the determination of a being who knew his own survival and that of everything they’d ever loved and cherished was at stake.

The overlord met his enhanced determination with its own. He thought he heard it growl, and in his mind’s eye, he saw terrible fangs. Thick saliva dripped from their jagged tips, coating its exoskeleton, giving its dark coloring a slick look. For the first time since the battle of wills had begun, Coda saw his enemy. It was terrible, huge, and… only a Baranyk.

No… this one’s different.

It was bigger, not just in height but in girth. Its legs were wider, more powerful, and its coloring was off. Instead of the matte-black exoskeleton, this one had charcoal-colored stripes cutting across its armor. And its eyes burned with sharp intelligence.

Coda had never seen a live Baranyk up close. He had either shot them down from a safe distance or seen them dead on a gurney, but he knew they didn’t look like this. The monstrosity in front of him was different. More dangerous. A leader of the soldiers he’d destroyed. And even that word—soldiers—felt off.

Behind the terrible beast, the light grew brighter. The overlord’s triangular head turned toward it then back to Coda. It roared at him, and Coda could almost feel its warm, humid breath on his face and smell its stench of death and decay. The Baranyk leader lunged toward Coda a final time, snapping its jaws at him, but in an instant, the overlord disappeared, and Coda was one with the light.

Images flashed before him, faster than before. He saw himself in the third person, reliving moments from his childhood. He was a kid on Earth then an adult in space. He was swinging then flying. Hugging then pushing. Throwing. Jumping. Running. Always running. The images kept coming, more furious now, so fast that they were more feelings than images. Love. Loss. Despair. Rebellion.

It was more than Coda could take. He tried to pull away. But he was in the light’s grasp now, and as insistent as it had been before, it was even more so now. It wasn’t going to let him go without a fight, probably not even then.

More feelings. Regret. Sorrow. Longing.

And through it all was a voice, different yet familiar, distant but close. It was both the greatest sound in the world and one that brought him to his knees.

Callan?

32

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

Deep Space

Coda had no idea how long he was out. Waking was a slow process, and as he made his way through the corridors of his consciousness, he was beset with a tangle of memories, thoughts, and emotions. They mixed together like the ingredients of a soup, becoming something greater than their individual parts, all boiling and threatening to blow the lid off the whole pot.

It was the voices that had brought him back and shown him the way. Not the same voice as before but equally familiar.

“I still want you to proceed with—”

“Extreme caution. I know, Doctor.”

The voices belonged to Dr. Naidoo and Captain Coleman.

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Captain Coleman continued. “Am I clear to see my pilot now?”

Coda opened his eyes slowly. He was in the medical bay, flat on his back, and it appeared they had cordoned off the back area, leaving him alone and away from view.

“One last thing, sir,” Dr. Naidoo said. The voices came from the other side of the partition that blocked off Coda’s section of the room. “Until we know the signal’s limits, or if there are any traces of it left embedded in his consciousness, he remains a risk. He should remain bound and under guard at all times.”

“Understood, Doctor.”

“And by no means is he to be allowed back into the cockpit.”

It wasn’t until the last bit that he realized they were talking about him. He tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. Panic flared through his veins. Not again.

But no, it had tried to move. Something held him in place. Bound him.

Captain Coleman appeared from around the curtain, his step faltering when he saw that Coda was awake.

“Sir,” Coda said, tilting his eyes so that they met the captain’s.

“Coda,” Captain Coleman said then called for Dr. Naidoo.

She appeared a moment later and stopped beside the captain, keeping her distance. “How are you feeling, Commander?”

“I can’t move.”

Captain Coleman’s eyes traced Coda from his head to his toes and back again, a sad expression on his face. “We had to bind you, Coda. For our protection.”

The comment actually relieved him. His body was his own again. He was just restrained. They also confirmed his nightmare—and the horrible things he had done. He took a sharp breath and looked away, trying to hide, but there was no escape. Tears welled in his eyes and fell unrestrained to the gurney’s sheets.

“Coda.” Captain Coleman stepped closer, moving from the foot of the gurney toward its head. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know…”

“Coda.” The captain’s voice took on a softer tone, consoling and compassionate, that of a loved one talking to someone they cared about. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Coda looked back to the captain and saw the sympathy in his eyes. “I wish I knew. We were…” Coda grimaced, trying to replay the sequence of events. “We were preparing for our attack run and then… there was a terrible noise. It hurt. Bad. It felt like it was splitting my head open. Nobody else heard it, though.”

“Nobody else heard it?”

“I thought it was feedback.”

Captain Coleman shared a look with Dr. Naidoo. “What happened after that?”

“It happened twice. It was worse the second time. And then…”

“Then what, Coda?”

“I lost control.”

“Lost control, how? What do you mean?”

“My hands… they moved, but I wasn’t the one moving them. I couldn’t control them. Couldn’t stop them. It’s like I was a…” He struggled to come up with an apt comparison. “A puppet. Like one of our drones. I knew what I was doing, but I was powerless to stop it. I was a prisoner in my own mind.”

Captain Coleman’s face went hard. Coda recognized it as the mask of authority; he had even tried to emulate it a time or two. But in the moment, it was terrifying.

“Sir,” Coda said, growing frantic. “You have to believe me. I can’t explain it, but that wasn’t me out there. I wouldn’t do that. I would never… you know that!”

Something in the captain collapsed. His mask broke, his eyes falling to the deck, refusing or unable to meet Coda’s.

“You know me…” Coda’s voice fell, losing all of its frantic intensity. “I know how it sounds. I wouldn’t believe myself either.” His vision went blurry, and it was his time to look away.

“I believe you.” The words were soft, quiet, a secret held for years finally spoken.

“You do?”

Captain Coleman nodded. “Dr. Naidoo, undo this man’s restraints.”

“Sir,” Dr. Naidoo said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“We’re four jumps from Kryos, well out of range from the enemy. And as you can see, he’s no longer under any form of Baranyk control.”

“We have no evidence to support that.”

“Doctor.” Captain Coleman was more forceful this time, fixing Dr. Naidoo with his best glare. “I trust this man. Undo his restraints.”

Dr. Naidoo let out a curse but did as instructed. She started with his legs, then moved up to his wrists and arms before undoing separate straps on his chest and forehead. It was no wonder he hadn’t been able to move.

Coda sat up gingerly.

“Easy, Coda,” Captain Coleman said. He watched Coda, but with a focus that suggested he was more worried about him hurting himself than anyone else around him. Dr. Naidoo, on the other hand, watched Coda with an intense glare as if he were a loosed predator. When it became apparent Coda wasn’t going to attack either one of them, she exhaled, though she didn’t fully relax.

“What happens now?” Coda asked.

“Now,” Captain Coleman said, “we have an honest conversation about what we think happened out there. Make no mistake, though, Coda. What I’m about to tell you is both highly classified and includes a significant degree of speculation. This is a working theory at best, understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

“What happened to you…” Captain Coleman paused. “What appears to have happened to you has happened before. Do you remember Koburn?”

“Of course, sir,” Coda said. “You found people in those caves. The Baranyk had rounded them up and slaughtered them.”

“Yes,” Captain Coleman said. “And no. It appeared they had taken prisoners with the purpose of experimenting on them. We found dozens of them, Coda, each with their skullcaps removed. The enemy was experimenting on their brains. More specifically, the area of the brain that enables communication. And we found a survivor. She was in a terrible state, and Dr. Rydell was able to get her stabilized, but she was… off. Then when the Baranyk returned, and… well, come with me.”

Captain Coleman nodded to the side and stepped out of the partitioned area of the medical bay, walking to a display mounted against the bulkhead. Dr. Naidoo and Coda followed. Captain Coleman punched in a series of commands, bringing up a pair of images. One appeared to have been taken from the exterior of the Redemption; the other showed a frail woman strapped to a gurney. She looked to be in the same partitioned area of the medical bay that Coda had been in.

“I remember this,” Coda said. “The Baranyk carrier jumped in, plotted an intercept course, then jumped away.”

“Exactly.” Captain Coleman played the video. The Baranyk ship grew larger, but Coda wasn’t watching the enemy. He was watching the survivor.

She fought against her binds, letting them dig into her skin, then pulled. Her hand came free and her skin with it. Blood soaked the gurney. Her hand was a mangled mess, but she didn’t appear to be in any pain. She broke a small metal support off the gurney, then to Coda’s horror, she viciously stabbed herself in the neck with it. Falling back to the gurney, her body spasmed as blood pooled on the floor.

The medical staff rushed in and tried to provide aid, but it was too late. The woman went still. At that same moment, the Baranyk ship disappeared. An uncomfortable knot formed in Coda’s stomach. The way that woman had moved was inhuman. Still, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for a survivor of unspeakable violence to end their life. Stress and trauma could do terrible things to the human mind.

Captain Coleman brought up two more images and began the vid. One appeared to be a brain scan. The other was some kind of waveform. The same moment the waveform spiked, the color on the brain scan changed. It was also the same moment the woman began to fight her binds to break free. The signal continued until the woman lay dead on the gurney. Moments after the signal stopped, the Baranyk ship jumped away.

“Okay…” Coda ran a hand through his closely cropped hair, thinking. “The ship jumped in, hit us with some sort of signal, her brain activity goes crazy, the survivor kills herself, and then it jumps away? You’re saying that ship brought her under Baranyk control?”

“Watch it again.” Captain Coleman began the vid again. This time, he stopped it the moment the signal spiked then backtracked to the millisecond before it began. When he advanced it one hundredth of a second forward, the signal spiked, and the brain registered abnormal activity. “I’ve watched this image a thousand times. The time signatures match exactly. There’s no doubt that whatever signal the Baranyk hit us with was intended for that woman. And it caused her to take her own life.”

The parallel was uncanny. The horrible image on the screen darkened his mood, but Coda couldn’t help feeling vindicated in some way. He hadn’t been in control. He’d known it, but here was his proof.

“We’ve also gone through your scans, Coda,” Captain Coleman said. “Your flight helmet gives us a steady stream of data. We were hit with the same signal at Kryos. We’ll have to run an analysis, but my guess is it was right before you started complaining about feedback. Then again when you…”

Coda met his gaze. Captain Coleman’s face was as soft as he’d ever seen it. “We don’t know how it’s possible, but if we’re correct, Coda, we have proof you were under control of the enemy.”

Coda wanted to shout, to scream, to laugh, to cry. It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t turned on his wingmen, hadn’t had some sort of mental break like his father had. He wasn’t a traitor. But even as he thought it, he knew that regardless of who or what was responsible, his pilots were still dead.

“You said it yourself,” Captain Coleman continued. “It was like you were a puppet. A drone. You were, Coda. Once they hit you with that signal, you weren’t in control.”

“I… I don’t know what to say, sir,” Coda said, attempting to put his feelings into words. “It’s a relief in a way, but… why me? And how? If they could do this to two of us, why not to everyone else?”

“We’re working on that,” Captain Coleman said. “And we have some ideas. Fortunately, we have additional evidence.”

The captain let the words hang in the air, obviously thinking they would have some sort of profound impact. Coda was missing something. He scanned the images of the woman, the signal, the Baranyk carrier, and the brain scan. What other evidence could they have? The only thing that wasn’t on the screen were the images of his own brain. Captain Coleman had said they’d retrieved those from his flight helmet.

What am I missing? Something about the flight helmet…

The answer hit Coda like six Gs, ripping the air from his lungs. The flight helmet design hadn’t changed since the early days of the Baranyk war, when Captain Coleman and the rest of the Sol Fleet had relied on human flight—when his father had flown.

“My father…” Coda whispered.

“Yes,” Captain Coleman said. “What if he, just like that woman, just like you, was under control of the enemy?”

It was too much. Coda couldn’t think. He staggered, found a medical bed, and sat down. He held his head in his hands, his eyes staring blankly at the dull gray of the deck.

“You knew…” Coda said softly.

“No, Coda,” Captain Coleman said. “I never even suspected. But this tells a different story. When we take this information back to Fleet Command, your father will be vindicated.”

“You were there,” Coda said. He’d known the captain had flown with his father when he’d turned on his squadron. Coda had even pressed the captain to tell him what had happened, but the captain had refused. He’d said the conversation was for another time. That time had come. He looked up, feeling his face grow hard as he met the captain’s eye. “I need to know what happened, sir.”

Captain Coleman’s lips parted, but whatever he had been about to say died on them.

“It’s time, sir.”

Captain Coleman looked to Dr. Naidoo, either for support or for another opinion, but the doctor remained expressionless. This wasn’t her decision to make. Finally, the captain nodded. “Fine, but not here.”

He led Coda to his private quarters, told him to sit, then toggled something on his tablet. “The truth about your father is classified high enough that I would be court-martialed and thrown in a military prison just for telling you. So it goes without saying that this conversation doesn’t leave this room.”

“I understand,” Coda said. “You can trust me, sir.”

“The official story about your father was that he went AWOL, disobeying a direct order that resulted in the death of his wingmen and many more aboard the Benjamin Franklin. That’s what’s been leaked to personnel to quell questions, a story to tell over drinks at the base bar. The truth, however, is much different.”

Coda leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He had to force himself to breathe.

“I could tell you what happened,” Captain Coleman said, “give you my firsthand account, because, as you have already guessed, I was there. But it would be easier if I showed you.”

Captain Coleman held the tablet out to Coda. The image on it was dark and looked to be a first-person view taken from the pilot’s helmet cam, the only lights being those from the cockpit’s buttons and switches.

Coda grabbed the tablet and held it reverently before him. His hands were shaking. An odd mix of conflicting emotions roiled inside him. He’d been looking forward to this moment for years. The story of what had happened to his father had always felt incomplete. It wasn’t until recently that Coda had gotten over his feelings of anger and abandonment to realize that the man he knew and the man his father had been made out to be didn’t match. His anger had twisted then, some being directed at himself for harboring undeserved resentment, while the rest was directed at those driving the false narrative.

It had become apparent to him that his father had been turned into a scapegoat. A distraction from something much worse. But what happened if the man Coda had come to remember wasn’t accurate either? What if he was the villain? What would that do to him?

“Hit Play, Coda,” Captain Coleman said.

Looking up from the tablet, Coda found Captain Coleman as he’d never seen him. His face was soft, his eyes understanding. The only two men who still cared about Joseph O’Neil were his son and his former friend, and both were in this room.

“Hit Play.”

Coda thumbed the triangular shape on the center of the tablet, and the vid began to play.

33

Captain Coleman’s Quarters, SAS Redemption

Deep Space

The world disappeared around Coda. The moment the video began to play, he was transported directly into the cockpit with the pilot—a pilot he quickly realized was Captain Coleman himself.

Lieutenant Coleman, Coda reminded himself. This is the captain before a series of promotions, when he was just a fighter jock like me.

The visuals were hauntingly familiar. The cockpit of the X-23 Nighthawk was identical to his own, the radio chatter was familiar, and most of all, the arid landscape of Kryos was the same.

“All right, everyone,” Lieutenant Coleman said, “form up. Arrow formations. Delta Flight, offset forty-five degrees at five thousand meters.”

“Roger that,” a familiar voice said. “Delta Flight, you heard the man. On my wing.”

The point of view shifted as Lieutenant Coleman’s eyes flicked toward the battle map on his HUD, following the green indicators that moved into formation behind his own flight. There were twenty-four fighters in all, a full squadron, with Lieutenant Coleman the squadron leader in command of Alpha Flight. The other flight leader was Coda’s father. Behind them was a larger ship, a legacy-class carrier much like the Jamestown. The only other objects on the HUD were a blue line that arced from one edge of the HUD to the other, symbolizing the curvature of the planet, and a series of medium-sized red dots.

Coda watched the red dots intently, but unlike the human fighters, the red dots didn’t move. What were they? An enemy fleet in waiting? Orbital platforms? The latter seemed unlikely—Coda had never heard of the Baranyk leveraging anything of the sort, but the war had taken on many different iterations, so it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

“Remember, Warriors,” Lieutenant Coleman said, addressing his squadron, “this is a hit-and-run only. We’re poking them with a stick to see how many little bees come out of the hive. Contact in three minutes.”

The fighters raced toward the red indicators. Their pilots spent the time bantering. It was the same prebattle bravado Coda had grown accustomed to. He’d known on a fundamental level that all fighter jocks were cut from a similar cloth. In every flight, squadron, and wing, there was a Squawks who talked faster than he flew, a Noodle who often became the butt of their jokes, a Moscow who flew for honor, a Nails who was out to prove herself, and a leader who kept them all together.

To Coda’s surprise, his father was none of these. He was quiet, staying out of the banter, not even laughing. Was that normal or a precursor to what was to come? He’d somehow almost forgotten that he was watching a video of death and betrayal. That many of these pilots were flying to their doom.

“Contact in sixty seconds,” Lieutenant Coleman said. “Commence radio silence. Good luck, Warriors.”

As the fighters drew closer, the objects that the red dots represented began to come into view. They were diamond shaped and enormous, almost as big as a ship, and there was activity around them.

It’s a Baranyk mining operation.

Kryos was originally an unoccupied planet, something humanity and the Baranyk had fought over due to the wealth of its mineral deposits. To those who succeeded in capturing it, the planet was a great forward base, limiting the dangers of long supply lines and bringing those much-needed supplies to the front.

Without further orders, the human fighters closed in on the larger vessels, appearing like specters in the night, opening fire. Missiles rained down on the vessels, explosions riddling their surfaces like ripples in water. In moments, the vessels were destroyed, cracking open like giant eggs, spewing slime and organic material into space.

The human fleet split, moving with a grace that Coda had never thought possible. Alpha Flight, helmed by Lieutenant Coleman, altered their vector, moving toward another of the orbiting supply ships. Bravo Flight, led by Joseph O’Neil, moved toward the other. The action took them on diverging paths, blasting away from each other at incredible speeds.

Although tens of thousands of kilometers apart, the orbiting supply ships were close to each other by space standards. Lieutenant Coleman left his battle map alone as the green indicators of Bravo Flight disappeared from its edges. He focused on the next vessel, changing the flight’s formation so that they would attack the installation in two waves. There still wasn’t any resistance, and Alpha Flight easily took out the installation. By then, the enemy was inbound.

“Contact!” a voice bellowed. “Enemy fighters inbound. Two hundred thousand kilometers and closing, nine-o’clock, positive-Z twenty-six degrees.”

“I see them.” Lieutenant Coleman’s eyes were on the battle map. A full squadron of Baranyk fighters was closing the distance between them. “It’s only the vanguard. No capital ship, though it’s no doubt en route. Break off your attack and prepare to engage.”

“Roger that,” the first voice said and was followed by other affirmatives.

“Here we go,” an eager voice said. The giddiness reminded him of Squawks, though the slight Southern twang kicked up memories of Tex.

I miss you, you big silly bastard.

“Fighter pairs!” Lieutenant Coleman bellowed. “Break!”

The twelve fighters within the flight broke as one, splitting into six battle pairs with an efficiency that continued to impress Coda.

This is what Captain Coleman needs us to be. Coda made a mental note to request access to more battle footage from the early days of the war. His fighters were a blade, but he hadn’t realized how sharp they could be until watching a true squadron in action.

Together, we’ll sharpen them. Me and my wingmen… if I get the chance.

Lieutenant Coleman and his wingman, Tank, sliced through the incoming Baranyk formation, getting missile lock on one enemy vessel before changing course and going after another. A quick glance at the HUD by Lieutenant Coleman told Coda that he was tracking the missile via the battle map, though he was obviously confident it would find its target.

If it doesn’t run out of maneuvering fuel first.

The Nighthawks themselves hadn’t had any sort of upgrades since they’d been decommissioned, meaning the fighter Lieutenant Coleman had flown was the exact same fighter Coda’s squadron flew. But the armament, primarily its missiles and the new torpedoes used by the newly formed bombing squadrons, had been upgraded. More fuel provided longer range and more navigability, while enhanced AI helped use it more effectively.

Lieutenant Coleman was right not to worry about this one. The Baranyk fighter either didn’t realize that the missile had lock, or it didn’t care. The craft altered course to make a pass at a human fighter pair. Before the fighter could engage, Lieutenant Coleman’s missile struck, blasting it to atoms.

With his missiles running low, Lieutenant Coleman flew aggressively, moving into short range and opening his cannons. Coda imagined his trigger finger riding the edge of the firing stud, the slightest of movements the difference between firing and not, between a double burst and a triple.

Within moments, Lieutenant Coleman and Tank had eliminated another enemy fighter. Coleman had baited it by spraying ahead of its vector, forcing it to alter course. Tank was waiting for it and opened fire a split second after Coleman, anticipating the enemy’s new flight path. He guessed correctly, peppering the enemy craft with his cannons. Organic material leaked into space as the fighter flipped end over end.

It was a fantastically performed maneuver, which Coda had done with his wingmen before. The biggest difference was that Lieutenant Coleman and his wingman had done it without a word, working as two arms of the same body, each knowing exactly where the other one was and what it was doing. The maneuver wasn’t just more efficient; it was many magnitudes more deadly.

Lieutenant Coleman eyed his HUD, using the small break to assess the battle. His other pilots were just as deadly. Already, the enemy squadron was down more than half its number, with the remaining fighters broken and alone. The human fleet pounced on them like a lion, claws and teeth ready to sink into flesh in the glory of the kill.

Lieutenant Coleman’s radio lit up with screaming, shouts, and curses. The sudden shift in tenor jarred Coda almost as much as it had Lieutenant Coleman. His eyes lingered on the battle map, and for a second, Coda didn’t know why. Then it dawned on him.

He’s trying to understand. To see what he’s missing.

The human forces had already shot down another pair of Baranyk fighters. The screaming wasn’t coming from Lieutenant Coleman’s flight, which meant…

Coda took a shaky breath. He looked up from the tablet for the first time since hitting Play. Captain Coleman was seated across from him, his eyes on the floor.

As painful as this is for me, it’s twice as much for him. He didn’t just lose a friend that day; he lost several. All under his command.

“Merlin! Merlin, come in!”

“Where the fuck did that come from?”

“Another missile! Break! Break! Brea—”

Lieutenant Coleman disengaged, his wingmen only a split second behind. “Bravo Flight, this is Alpha. What the hell is going on over there?”

He waited for two breaths. The only reply he got was more confused radio chatter.

“I can’t shake it!”

“Eject! Eject! Eject!”

“Ghost, get out of there!”

“Razor, what the fuck is going on over there?”

Still no answer, except…

“It’s one of ours!”

“Ghost!

“Nooo!”

Coda tried to swallow the lump in his throat but found that his mouth had gone dry. The radio distress was too familiar. He’d heard the same when he was under Baranyk control. It was almost too much to bear. He almost turned the video off right there, but he’d asked for this. Demanded it, even. And as painful as it was, he had to see it through.

Lieutenant Coleman’s hands jetted across the navigational controls to plot a course back toward Bravo Flight. “Alpha Flight, on me. We’re going to see what the hell is going on over there.”

Lieutenant Coleman broke away from the battle, his fighters in a loose formation, hot on his tail. They blasted toward the other flight, accelerating at speeds that were high even for space combat.

“Razor, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but we’re on our way. Acknowledge.”

No response.

“Razor, this is Spitfire. Acknowledge.”

Still nothing. The radio chatter continued—screams, shouts for help, cries for fallen comrades. As fast as Lieutenant Coleman was traveling, it seemed like he was still going to be too late. His fighters would be dead before he arrived.

“Malice, Malice, it’s Spitfire. We’re on our way.”

Malice didn’t reply.

“Goddamn it, someone fucking acknowledge!”

“It’s Cherokee, sir,” one of the pilots said, but what he said after was unintelligible.

“Come again, Cherokee?”

“I said it’s the flight leader, sir. It’s Razor.”

“What is Razor, Lieutenant?”

Coda knew what was coming, which somehow made everything worse.

“The attack, sir,” Cherokee said. “I don’t know what happened, but Lieutenant O’Neil opened fire. We can’t keep him and the enemy off our backs, sir. We need to retreat.”

“You’re not making any sense, Cherokee. Alpha Flight is en route and will be there in…” Lieutenant Coleman glance at his HUD. “Twelve seconds. Stay engaged.”

“He’s coming around on my tail!” Cherokee suddenly bellowed. “Troll! Troll! I need immediate assistance.”

From the inside of Lieutenant Coleman’s cockpit, Coda watched as the green indicators on the HUD grew ever closer. One in particular, with the ID Razor, was indeed moving behind Cherokee. Under normal circumstances, it would have been impossible to tell if Razor was moving to engage or to assist. Coda, though, already knew the outcome.

“He’s moving into firing range,” Cherokee continued to scream. “Troll, where the fuck are you? I need immediate—”

“Lieutenant O’Neil!” Lieutenant Coleman broke in. “Break off immediately and move to heading zero-six-five. I repeat, break off and move to heading—”

“He’s firing!”

“Goddamn it!” Lieutenant Coleman screamed. “Razor, disengage! Shut off guidance on that missile and disengage. That’s an order!”

His missile away, Lieutenant O’Neil altered course, ignoring a swarm of Baranyk fighters, making for another human vessel.

“Razor!” Coleman bellowed one last time, but like every other attempt, this one went unanswered. Two more shuddering breaths later, Lieutenant Coleman gave the order. “All fighters, this is the CAG. Eliminate Lieutenant O’Neil. I repeat, eliminate Lieutenant O’Neil.”

Coda’s eyes went blurry. Not only because he’d just heard the order for his father’s death but because of the profound pain he heard in Lieutenant Coleman’s voice. This was a man sentencing one of his best friends to death. The weight of leadership was heavy, but rarely was it that heavy.

Lieutenant Coleman’s fingers typed in a series of commands, combining the remnants of Alpha and Bravo Flights into designation Charlie and marking Razor’s fighter as an unknown enemy vessel. His final step before entering the battle himself was to shift the radio frequency so that it excluded Coda’s father.

With Lieutenant Coleman’s fighters entering the fray, the battle took on a fevered pitch. The radio went silent as the pilots focused on two things and two things only: staying alive and dealing out death to all enemies, including the traitor in their midst.

Lieutenant Coleman had eyes for only one ship, though. His former friend and flight leader.

“Why?” Lieutenant Coleman said, his tone mournful. “Just tell me that, Joseph. Why are you doing this?”

The radio remained silent as Lieutenant Coleman cut through an enemy formation, Tank still on his wing. He preserved his missiles, opening fire with his cannons. Two ships broke apart before Coleman was through the formation, angling around to move into an attack run. If Lieutenant O’Neil saw him, he didn’t indicate as such and instead terrorized the human lines, targeting fighters at will.

“Please don’t make me do this.”

Coda wasn’t sure if the CAG had opened up a private line with Lieutenant O’Neil or if he was just talking to him from the inside of his cockpit. It didn’t matter. Razor wouldn’t have replied anyway—even if he’d wanted to. Coda knew that much for certain.

Lieutenant Coleman’s fighter drew closer, almost into firing range, but not before another human ship exploded into a ball of light. Coda flinched with every human loss. They were like body blows that struck at his very core. He wanted to yell at his father, to scream, to tell him to break off, plead with him, but he knew it would never do any good. He was watching a specter of the past. A memory that Captain Coleman had lived with for more than a decade. A nightmare that he himself had imagined for just as long.

“I’m sorry,” Lieutenant Coleman whispered the moment he got tone. His finger squeezed the firing stud. His fighter rocked as the missile sped away.

Coda couldn’t watch. He let the tablet fall between his legs and covered his eyes with his other hand.

“Coda…”

“No.” Coda shook his head. “I can’t do this.”

“Coda, finish the video. You have to see how it ends.”

“I know how it ends,” Coda said. “He dies. You killed him. His friend.”

“Finish the video, Coda.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, and you need to.”

There was something in Captain Coleman’s voice that Coda couldn’t describe but that compelled him to finish the video. Coda pulled the tablet back up and tapped the screen—it had paused when he’d let it fall.

The missile blasted out of sight, disappearing into the inky void of space. Lieutenant Coleman tracked it on his HUD. The yellow indicator streaked on a course that would intercept Razor’s fighter. Before it reached it, though, a mass of Baranyk fighters flew in front of it. There was a brief flash, then the yellow indicator disappeared from Lieutenant Coleman’s HUD.

“They sacrificed themselves,” Coda said, eyes fixed on the video.

“Why?” Captain Coleman asked.

Another missile, Coleman’s last, rocketed from his wing. It erased the distance between the two fighters in a matter of seconds, but like the first, it didn’t find its intended target. Just as before, a wave of enemy vessels swarmed in, smothering the missile’s flight path until it struck a Baranyk fighter.

“They did it again,” Coda said.

“Why?” Captain Coleman repeated.

“They’re protecting him.”

Captain Coleman nodded. “Why would they do that?”

“He’s under their control.”

On the screen, Captain Coleman and a host of other fighters expended their remaining missiles in what the lieutenant had explained would overwhelm the protecting forces. They only needed one to get through. But the Baranyk fighters were too numerous, the missiles too few. When the last of them had been intercepted, the human fighters were left with too few options.

Lieutenant Coleman cursed, his eyes focused solely on the indicator of Lieutenant O’Neil’s fighter. After a few moments of indecision, he gave the order. “Full retreat. All fighters back to…”

The Baranyk fighters altered their vectors. No longer concerned with the human fighters, they were swarming toward the Benjamin Franklin, and because the human fighters were out of long-range weapons, there was little they could do to stop them.

“All fighters, full burn! Back to the Franklin!” Lieutenant Coleman’s hands flew across the controls, plotting an intercept course to the heart of the Baranyk swarm. They didn’t have enough time. The enemy would get a full wave of attacks in, maybe two, before the human crafts would cut into their flank.

“Benjamin Franklin, Benjamin Franklin,” Lieutenant Coleman bellowed. “This is the CAG. Enemy fighters inbound. I repeat, enemy fighters inbound.”

“We see them, Lieutenant,” said a voice on the radio. “Launching emergency fighters and preparing antifighter bombardment.”

“Roger that,” Coleman said. “We are hot on their tails, but we won’t make it before they get a couple shots at you.”

“Negative, Lieutenant.” It was a new voice on the radio this time. Older. More authoritative. Coda had little doubt that it was the captain of the Benjamin Franklin. “At that range, our antifighter batteries won’t be able to distinguish between you and the enemy. Move to heading two-four-five, forty degrees positive-Z, and prepare to engage.”

There was a slight pause, followed by, “Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant Coleman set a course that would take them beyond the Benjamin Franklin, out of danger from friendly fire and ready to engage once the enemy completed their attack run. It also left the human capital ship completely exposed.

The enemy fighters cut across the bow of the ship a moment later, and terrible gouts of flame and precious fluids and gasses billowed out of its reinforced hulls. But even without the Nighthawks, the ship wasn’t defenseless. Antifighter gun turrets fired without discrimination, firing into the center mass of the swarm. Baranyk ships burst apart, spraying thick, mucus-like material against the side of the Franklin and coating its dark hull yellow.

As the enemy altered course, preparing for another attack run, Lieutenant Coleman’s fighters cut into them. Without long-range weapons, they had to fly dangerously close, shifting from snipers to bare-knuckled brawlers, and Lieutenant Coleman was the best. He sliced through the enemy formations with a controlled aggressiveness Coda had never seen. His captain had always been precise, not necessarily by the book, but clean. This was entirely different.

His finger squeezed in a steady rhythm, his guns shooting in bursts that almost had a musical quality to them. If it was a song, it was a song of death and destruction. He shot down three fighters, then four, staying hard on the enemy tail. The Baranyk fighters shifted this way and that, trying to shake him, but Lieutenant Coleman and his wingman had their teeth in them and weren’t letting go.

By the time the enemy swarm broke apart and left the coordinated formations behind to shift to an every-man-for-himself battle, more than half their number had been cut down. Still, the Nighthawks didn’t let up, and the Franklin’s batteries caught any enemy spacecraft that ventured too close.

Three-quarters of the enemy was destroyed, but their work wasn’t without success. Another ten percent of the human force was gone, and the rest were dangerously low on ammunition. Then, as quickly as the battle had begun, it ended, the remaining Baranyk vessels bugging out.

“They’re retreating,” one of the pilots said, her voice an equal mix of surprise and exhaustion.

And that was when Coda heard it. Crying. Lieutenant Coleman heard it, too, because he sat forward in his seat, his hands going to the side of his helmet as if trying to hear better.

“I’m sorry,” the crying voice said. Coda’s father. “I’m so sorry.”

“Razor?” Lieutenant Coleman found him on his HUD. He had been part of the Baranyk swarm, but now that it had disengaged, he was left to drift aimlessly.

“I don’t know what happened,” Lieutenant O’Neil said. “It wasn’t me. I swear. That wasn’t me.”

Nobody said anything. Silence filled the radio, broken only by Lieutenant O’Neil’s quiet pleas. “You have to believe me. I would never…”

Before Lieutenant Coleman or any of the other wingmen had a chance to respond, two new indicators appeared on the battle map. They’d been fired from the Benjamin Franklin itself and were streaking toward Razor’s ship.

“No!” Lieutenant Coleman bellowed. “Benjamin Franklin, this is Lieutenant Coleman. Cease fire! That is a human vessel. I repeat, that is one of ours!”

He desperately punched a series of commands into his computer, changing the designation of Lieutenant O’Neil’s fighter from enemy to friendly, then sent it out to his fighters. But while he had the ability to override the fighters’ computers, he didn’t with the command ship. The two missiles streaked toward the human fighter.

Lieutenant O’Neil’s pleas intensified. “I had no control. They were my men. I would never—”

“Razor!” Lieutenant Coleman interrupted. “You have two missiles inbound. Evasive maneuvers!”

Lieutenant O’Neil’s ship didn’t alter course.

“Evasive maneuvers, goddamn it!”

Nothing.

“Eject! Eject! Eject!”

There was a flash of light, then Lieutenant O’Neil’s fighter disappeared.

Coda blinked, pulling the tablet closer. Lieutenant Coleman had a similar reaction inside the cockpit, making the battle map larger. The two yellow indicators of the Benjamin Franklin’s missiles were still there, now shooting into the depths of space, but Lieutenant O’Neil’s fighter was nowhere to be seen.

“Franklin actual, this is the CAG. What the hell just happened?”

“We’re reading a jump signature, Lieutenant,” the voice said.

“Jump signature? To where?”

“We don’t know. Gather your remaining fighters and return to base.”

“Damn it, Lieutenant Gwynne,” Lieutenant Coleman said, his voice tight. “What the fuck happened to Razor’s ship?”

“It’s gone.”

The words hung in the air long enough that it took Coda several moments to realize that the video had ended. Confused, he looked up at Captain Coleman then back down to the tablet as if the frozen video held more answers.

“I don’t understand, sir. My father died. But this…”

“No, Coda. The official story is that your father was executed for treason, but as you can see from that video, your father was alive at the end of the battle.”

“Alive?” Coda nearly choked on the word.

“Yes, Coda. And he was under enemy control. He wasn’t the villain he’s been made out to be.”

Coda wasn’t listening. His mind was in another place on another voice.

Callan? The voice had been so clear. So familiar. Tinged with genuine human surprise. It couldn’t have been a figment of his imagination. Couldn’t have been a dream. Couldn’t have been a symptom of being under Baranyk control. No, something had been there, a presence every bit as real as the overlord. He was as certain as he’d ever been about anything in his life. But how was it all connected?

“What happened after he jumped?”

“Well, the jump range on the Nighthawks is very limited. We drew a perimeter then cross-referenced it with known habitable planets and moons and began a search. But we never found any trace of him.”

“He’s still alive.” It was less a comment than it was a realization. Coda jumped to his feet and began pacing.

“No, Coda. I don’t want you to get your hopes up. He likely jumped and ran out of oxygen before he found refuge.”

“No.” Coda was grinning now. “No. Something happened after I was shot down, something I haven’t told you. Before I regained consciousness, I was… somewhere else. I don’t know how to explain it. But I was connected to some kind of network. And there was this force. It drew me in, tried to command me. To control me.”

Coda paused, closed his eyes, thinking back to the moment. The experience had felt like a dream, but now he was sure it had been something more. “I fled. It was like I was racing through space, and I passed other things. Other beings, all connected to the same network. Then there was something else. A newer presence. A light. It was familiar and comforting, and I raced toward it. That’s when I heard it.”

Coda opened his eyes, meeting Captain Coleman’s. “I heard him. I heard my father.”

Silence stretched out between them, as vast as space itself. Spoken out loud, the whole thing sounded ridiculous.

“It was him,” Coda repeated, as much to fill the empty silence as to reaffirm his belief. “I know it sounds crazy, but he said my name, and he sounded as surprised to see me as I was him. He’s alive, sir. I know it. I can feel it with every fiber of my being.”

Captain Coleman rose from his seat and walked past Coda to his bookshelf, where he poured himself a glass of water. “It doesn’t sound crazy, Commander. Not after everything we’ve seen. Collect your thoughts. I need a full report, everything you can remember. In the meantime, I need to think. We still have a mission to complete, and we have information Fleet Command needs, but there are other things at play here. Things we can’t ignore.”

“I can do that, sir. It’ll be good to get it written down. It might help me remember something I’m missing.”

“Good,” Captain Coleman said. “And thank you, Coda. I know none of this is easy. But we’ll unravel this mystery.”

34

Brig, SAS Redemption

Deep Space

Human progress has often been measured by technological advancement, from the development of electricity to the first automobile, commercial aviation, or even the EmDrive that helped humanity claim the stars. The Redemption itself was progress for the Sol Fleet, the pinnacle of human engineering. With an upgraded EmDrive, improved weaponry, powerful scanners, and quantum computing, it was everything the best and brightest minds of humanity could assemble. Although the ship was a great example of human ingenuity and the culmination of hundreds of years of pushing the limits, its brig was a timeless construction.

Coda’s cell was the most basic of human structures: three solid walls and a fourth of round steel bars. Eight small cells filled the brig, each equipped with a cot, sink, and toilet. Coda sat on the cot, his back resting against the bulkhead. He hadn’t been surprised when Captain Coleman had ordered him here or even when he had escorted Coda himself. Whether it was Coda’s fault or not, his hand had killed five human pilots, and his being under Baranyk influence was not common knowledge. To everyone beyond Coda, the captain, and Doctors Naidoo and Rydell, he was a traitor—not only to his own men but to his entire race.

In the loneliness of the brig, Coda couldn’t help but think about the things that were likely being said about him. He had a pretty good idea—he’d heard them said about his father. His pilots would be commiserating over drinks, some quiet, others telling anyone who would listen that they had seen this coming.

“Of course Coda was a traitor,” they would say. “He had traitor blood flowing through his traitor veins. They should just kill him and his whole family to keep the disease from spreading. Cull the herd.”

The worst part wasn’t even what the others thought of him—it was what he thought of himself. He knew he wasn’t responsible, that the enemy had played him like a puppet, but that didn’t stop him from remembering the joystick in his hand or the feeling of his finger pressed against the firing stud. That knowledge didn’t erase the images of missiles streaking from his fighter or the flashes in the dark as ships were destroyed. It didn’t drown out the voices of his squad mates dying.

He tried to sleep but couldn’t escape the feeling that he was somehow at fault. It didn’t help that the bed was harder than concrete and the pillow thinner than paper. He hadn’t expected comfortable accommodations, but whoever had designed the brig had outdone themselves.

Captain Coleman had left a tablet with him so he could complete his report, and seeking a distraction, Coda had jumped into it full force. He included everything, from the moment he’d heard that terrible noise to the odd feeling of being a spectator in his own body. He explained the odd sensations that had come after he was shot down, of being in another place, something outside his body, pursued by an evil force, and finding refuge in a familiar light.

In doing so, he realized that during his conversations with the captain, he had never mentioned the strange Baranyk he’d come to think of as the Overlord. He didn’t know who or what it was aside from the fact that it was evil. Was it some kind of leader? A king? An emperor? He didn’t have any answers, but something about the strange being felt important.

Unfortunately, even with thinking through the encounter and explaining it in painstaking detail, Coda completed the report in a couple hours. And after giving the tablet to the marine on guard, who had it sent to the captain, Coda was reacquainted with the silent loneliness that allowed his mind too much time to wander.

Coda had often heard that imagination was generally worse than reality. The imaginary monster was scarier than the real thing. That theory was tested when the door to the brig opened and three sets of heavy boots thudded to a stop outside his cell.

Coda found himself looking at his three flight leaders. They had been drinking, their faces flushed, eyes glassy, and they watched him as if he were an alien creature on exhibit. Coda opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. What could he say? He was bound by secrecy, tied by pride, and overcome by shame. Coda lowered his head in resignation, eyes falling to the deck.

Squawks spoke first. He stepped forward, taking the bars in his hands, resting his head between them. “How could you?” he asked, his voice quiet. “You promised us, Coda.”

Coda didn’t respond. Didn’t even look up. He couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes. The words were well timed and well placed, striking the most vulnerable parts of his soul.

“You promised us!”

The worst part was Coda knew exactly what his friend was talking about. He remembered the day like it was yesterday. They’d been standing in their barracks aboard the Jamestown during the early days of their training. Coda, so sure of himself, had told them that he wasn’t like his father, that he would never hurt them. He had looked each of them in the eye and offered his heartfelt promise.

When it became obvious Coda wasn’t going to respond, Squawks muttered a curse and stepped away.

Noodle took a different tactic. “What happened out there, Coda? What are we missing?” His voice was soft but somehow tinged with hope. Even after the death of five of their companions, he believed in Coda. He trusted that everything would make sense after a simple explanation.

Coda wanted to hug the man, to tell him how much that meant to him, but he couldn’t even look up from the deck.

“It’s really like this, huh?” Moscow said. “After everything, you really are just like your father?”

It was too much. Couldn’t they see he was quiet because he couldn’t say anything? That he was bound by orders? He couldn’t tell them because doing so would only put him and the captain at risk. It would put them at risk too.

“Unbelievable,” Moscow spat.

The anger and shame broke Coda. “You don’t know anything,” he said.

“Then tell us, Coda,” Noodle said. There was that hopeful tone again. “Tell us what happened.”

“I can’t.” Coda turned his back on his friends. “Go away.”

“Coda…”

But Coda wasn’t listening anymore. He found a room in his mind and locked the door. Nobody could hurt him there. Not the Baranyk who tried to control him. Not his friends who wanted more than he could give. Not even himself and his dark thoughts.

“Come on, Noodle,” Squawks said, a disappointed tone in his voice.

Moscow left him one last parting gift. “I thought you were better than this.”

The door to the brig opened, and his friends left. Coda curled into a ball, eyes on the bulkhead, back to the world. He’d thought he was lonely before, but what he found now was a profound emptiness. Everyone he had ever known, everyone he had ever grown close to, had abandoned him. And he was powerless to bring them back. To help them understand. There, in the dim light of the brig, Coda finally understood what it felt like to be his father.

I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.

Something stirred in the back of his mind, like a sun-starved flower rising on the first warm spring morning. Coda felt himself compelled, drawn toward a conclusion he hadn’t seen until this moment. The idea snapped together as if it had been a forgone conclusion.

Thank you, Moscow. You don’t realize it, but you just saved me.

35

Captain Coleman’s Quarters, SAS Redemption

Deep Space

Captain Coleman read his report from the top. It was vital he was as clear and concise as possible without overblowing or oversimplifying the threat. He was trying to deliver terrifying news without implicating Coda as a person—and that was easier said than done, especially with his family’s background.

He’d included all of the key details they’d uncovered so far, including their data on the Baranyk signal as well as Dr. Naidoo’s assessment including the data points they had shared with Coda, but Coleman didn’t feel like it was enough.

They were no closer to discovering where the Baranyk had retreated to or if they were massing at an unknown location. They had no idea how strong the Baranyk signal was, if it was mechanized or a natural ability inherent to their physiology, how widespread it was, or most importantly, how many humans were susceptible.

Doctors Rydell and Naidoo continued to pore over data, and Coleman had been clear in his report that these questions were still unanswered. He couldn’t wait anymore. They had proof that the Baranyk had developed capabilities to control humanity and further proof that they had used that ability before. One of the biggest unknown questions was how long had the enemy been doing it? How many sleeper agents did they have within the fleet?

Satisfied with the report, Coleman deployed an emergency communication drone and sent it in. With that behind him, he left his quarters. He knew he should sleep while he had the chance, but he also knew that wasn’t in the cards right now. Even if he were to lie down, he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. He had too much on his mind. So he did what he always did when he needed to think—he moved.

The corridors were active. The ship ran on a twenty-four-hour schedule with staggered shifts. His crew saluted him as he passed, and deep in thought, he offered small nods in return.

He couldn’t help but feel like he was being pulled in opposite directions, torn between duty and personal ambition. His duty was to his ship, his crew, the entire fleet. He had information that put them all in serious danger, and he owed it to them to get to the bottom of it. But it was also his duty to answer the other questions plaguing Fleet Command.

The problem was his thoughts kept returning to what Coda had said about his father. Coleman couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched the vid of Joseph turning on his wingmen. He hadn’t needed to—he’d experienced it and watched it enough times to have it memorized. He’d dissected it, broken it down frame by frame, searching for answers but never finding them. Finally, he’d succumbed to the reality that it was a mystery he would never solve.

Except he had—or at least he was getting close. If Coda was right, then the answers were before him, and all he had to do was seek them out. And based on everything they had found so far, the new Baranyk signal signified a greater threat than a massing fleet.

For that reason, Coleman had convinced himself to continue the search for his old friend. Joseph was connected to all of this—that much was clear—and Coda was certain he was alive.

Could it be true? How is that possible? Coleman had been part of the search party. He’d scanned those systems, looking for signs of his fighter, put visual on the ground with his own eyes. In every instance, he’d come up empty. The universe was bigger than humanity could fathom, but due to that size and habitation requirements, there weren’t a lot of places for an unprepared human to hide.

But Coda was so damn adamant. If his story that his father had found him inside the Baranyk network and saved him from the Overlord was true, then Coleman’s old friend could not only access the Baranyk network but could manipulate it. With that kind of access, he might have vital information about the enemy, how they communicated, their command structure, and who knew what else.

That’s a worthwhile diversion, isn’t it?

As far as he knew, Joseph O’Neil was the only other human who had succumbed to the Baranyk signal. He might even offer further insight into the signal. Coleman roamed the halls, mulling over his thoughts, reviewing the situation from every angle, trying to ensure that his decisions weren’t swayed too far toward the personal direction.

“Captain?” Dr. Naidoo said in his ear.

Coleman pushed the top of his ear to his head, activating the earpiece. “Yes, Doctor. What’s going on?”

“I’ve found something you should see.”

Coleman surveyed his surroundings for the first time in a while. It took him a moment to determine where he was—deep in the heart of the ship toward its bow, where the main engineering facility was. It was about as far from the medical bay as he could be. “What is it?”

“I’ve found a commonality between Commander O’Neil, his father, and the woman from Koburn.”

Coleman stopped in the middle of the corridor. “Say again, Doc?”

“I said I’ve found a common trait among the three people we know have been vulnerable to the Baranyk signal. It might help answer why they were targeted and give us insight into how widespread our vulnerability is.”

This is it. This is what you’ve been waiting for. “I’ll be right there.”

He was halfway to the medical ward when his tablet vibrated. He slowed, pulling it from his pocket. The message was from Coda, and he’d deemed it a high priority. With luck already on his side, Coleman opened it and scanned its contents.

Coda had a plan—an audacious plan—and depending on what the doc had to say, it might offer them the quickest path to answers. He slid the tablet back into his pocket, moving with more speed now. First things first, he had to see what the doctor had uncovered. He hoped everything would fall into place after that.

36

Brig, SAS Redemption

Deep Space

Coda’s flight leaders didn’t return, and no other pilots came to visit. The captain came twice to clarify different points of Coda’s report and ask a series of follow-up questions, but he didn’t elaborate on his own thoughts. Coda didn’t press. Either the captain didn’t trust him or he would tell Coda in his own time. In either case, there was nothing Coda could do to pull information from the man. So he waited.

Having told the captain everything, Coda was able to keep the worst of the despair at bay. That wasn’t to say he was always successful. In his worst moments, he was almost comatose in his grief, but fortunately, those moments were becoming fewer and farther between. He had a plan, and with that plan came a purpose. All he had to do was wait.

That moment came three days after he’d been sent to the brig. The marine guards didn’t say much, just unlocked his cell door and ordered him out.

“Where are we going?”

“Hands,” one said while the other waited nearby, gripping a stun gun.

Coda held his hands in front of him. The marine cuffed him and pushed him toward the door. They escorted him toward the captain’s quarters. It was a humiliating walk, flanked by armed guards, hands in cuffs, seeing personnel he knew, feeling the weight of their gazes. Many wore their hostile emotions on their sleeves. Others muttered curses. One even acted as if he would spit on Coda. Blessedly, they were far from the pilots’ section of the ship, and he didn’t see any of his pilots.

Another pair of marine guards stood outside the door to the captain’s meeting room, and seeing Coda near, one banged on the door. A second later, the captain appeared and ordered Coda in.

Stepping through the portal, Coda froze. The Redemption’s entire senior command sat around the table at the center of the room: Commander Garcia, Dr. Naidoo, Chief Engineer Brahm Payton, and to Coda’s biggest surprise, his three flight leaders. He’d expected he was on his way to talk to the captain, maybe work out the finer points of their plan. He hadn’t expected this.

Noodle shot a look toward Squawks, but for once, the mouthy pilot seemed speechless. Moscow did little to hide his disapproval, wearing an angry expression that was all narrowed eyes and sharp eyebrows.

They didn’t know I was coming either.

The door closed behind him, and the captain returned to his seat at the head of the table. “Sit down, Commander,” he said, motioning toward an empty seat near him.

Coda sat, placing his bound hands on the table.

“Now that we’re all here, we can begin,” Captain Coleman said. “The truth is, we’ve uncovered a real shitstorm. We’ve discovered what we believe is a new Baranyk weapon—one that strikes at the very heart of the Sol Fleet. At the men and women who fill its ranks.” He turned to Dr. Naidoo. “Doctor?”

He and his chief science officer must have prepped ahead of time, because she picked up where he left off. “The Baranyk are targeting us with an ultra-high-frequency signal that penetrates the temporal lobe of the human brain in a way we’ve never seen before. In doing so, it replicates the signals our brain sends to our body, taking complete control. The subjects we’ve uncovered who have been hit with this signal convey losing all mobile faculties, and our data appears to confirm their statements.”

“We first uncovered evidence on Koburn,” Captain Coleman said. “But we were unsure until Kryos.” He glanced at Coda. “We have clear evidence that suggests Commander O’Neil was hit with a Baranyk signal that intercepted his bodily control and essentially turned him, against his will, into an enemy combatant.”

Feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on him, Coda kept his eyes on his hands, picking absently at his calloused fingers. He’d expected the truth to give way to relief, but he was just as hollow as before. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with him. That he was weak. That everyone else in the room could see it.

“Fortunately,” Captain Coleman said, “the signal appears to be highly limited. We’ll get into more of that later, but it appears to have a limited effective range and needs to be hyperfocused. It’s not something they can broadcast widely to turn dozens of our people against us. We believe they can only target a single individual at a time. Still, I need to stress the implications of this. If the enemy can turn individuals on a whim, then the entire integrity of our fleet is in jeopardy.

“I’ve already sent an emergency communication to Admiral Orlovsky detailing our discovery and outlining our evidence. I have made that report available to you as well, but for our purposes here, it’s important to understand that the weapon has also given us vital information about the enemy. Following the attack, Coda was connected to some kind of Baranyk network—their hive mind, if you will—and saw a special kind of Baranyk no one has ever seen before. It appears to be some kind of leader. We don’t know any more than that, but we’re calling him the Overlord. Unfortunately, Coda couldn’t uncover more. Our thinking is that if we can lure the Baranyk into using the weapon again, it’ll allow Coda to reconnect to the Baranyk network and learn more.”

“How do we do that, sir?” Squawks asked.

“We return to Kryos,” Captain Coleman said, “and feign an attack. We expect them to hit Coda with the signal again, and when they do, he’ll connect to the hive mind and uncover why the Baranyk have fled occupied systems and discover where they’re massing. It will also give Doctors Naidoo and Rydell another opportunity to study the signal.”

“What’s to stop them from targeting someone else?” Commander Garcia asked. “What’s to stop them from hitting me with that signal? Or you?”

“The three brains we’ve analyzed that have been vulnerable to the Baranyk signal have been structurally different from other brains,” Dr. Naidoo said. “They have a thinner temporal cortex. The nucleus accumbens and amygdala appear smaller as well, but with only three samples to study, we can’t say for certain.”

“It’s a risk,” Captain Coleman said. “There’s no getting around that, Jaime. But it appears only a subsection of the population is susceptible to the new weapon, which might explain why it hasn’t been used more broadly.”

“Or why we haven’t discovered it until now,” Moscow added. “Who knows how long they’ve had it.”

Captain Coleman nodded. “That’s a good observation, Moscow. And the truth is… we have evidence they’ve had it for some time.” The captain’s voice was slow and deliberate. It was clear he wasn’t going to say more, but it was also clear he didn’t think he had to.

Moscow’s mother had died aboard the Benjamin Franklin when Coda’s father had been hit with the same signal at Kryos. Moscow could draw the obvious conclusion, and in a moment, it seemed he had. He flinched as the realization struck, his eyes going wide, mouth opening as unspoken words died on his lips.

Coda looked away when Moscow’s attention turned to him. He picked absently at his hands.

“Like I said,” Captain Coleman added, “the signal, while devastating, appears to be highly limited. The good doctors have also analyzed the rest of the squadron, plus everyone in this room, and are working through the rest of the crew. So far, no one else appears to have the abnormality.”

“Sir,” Squawks said. “Are you saying Coda isn’t right in the head? Because we all knew that already.”

Noodle groaned but couldn’t help but laugh. Even Moscow smirked, but if the rest of the executive staff saw the humor, they didn’t show it.

“He’s not, Lieutenant,” Captain Coleman deadpanned. “None of you are. It takes a special kind of crazy to climb into the cockpit.”

“Amen, sir.”

“But to your point—Coda’s brain structure is rare. And that’s why we believe if anyone is hit with the weapon, it’ll be him.”

Coda looked up from his hands. Squawks was already looking at him and gave him the smallest of smiles.

He’s trying to move on. Trying to apologize.

Only Squawks would apologize with an insult. Coda nodded back, letting him know he appreciated it, a silent promise that they would talk later.

“That’s a lot of ifs and shoulds,” Commander Garcia said. “And isn’t there something we’re missing? What happens when the enemy hits Coda with that signal? It was devastating enough last time. He killed five of our pilots.”

“He didn’t,” Captain Coleman said. “They did. Coda was powerless to stop it. And we’ll take precautions. We can have the chief remove his missiles and cannons. He’ll still be able to fly, but we’ll neuter his ability to attack our own.”

“Won’t that tip the enemy off to the ruse?” Noodle asked.

“From all the data we’ve been able to gather,” Dr. Naidoo said, “it appears the Baranyk can take control of bodily function, but they don’t have access to thoughts. For lack of a better example, it really is like how we control our drone fighters.”

“But you also mentioned Coda connecting to the Baranyk network,” Noodle pressed. “If Coda can get information from them, isn’t it also possible for them to get information from him?”

Captain Coleman tapped the top of the table with his finger. “That’s a good point, Lieutenant.” He looked around the table. “Any ideas?”

“We could minimize the fuel in the missiles,” Chief Engineer Payton asked. “Give them just enough to fire but run out before they cause damage. We could disarm them too.”

“Disarmed or not,” Commander Garcia said, “there’d still be a missile in the battle space. One more thing to avoid.”

“We’ll manage,” Squawks said.

“I’m sure you will, Lieutenant,” Commander Garcia said. “My other concern is what stops Coda from a suicide run? If it becomes apparent that his weapons are malfunctioning, we obviously run the risk of showing our hand, but they might also try to run him into the ship itself, kamikaze style.”

“During basic flight instruction, our instructors had an override,” Captain Coleman said. “A button they could push that would shut the fighters down in the event a pilot blacked out or was out of control. I’ll see if the chief has something he can rig up.”

This seemed to quell the commander’s concern.

“Any other concerns?” Captain Coleman asked. “What else are we missing?”

“The only thing I can think of, sir,” Squawks said, “is what do we tell the other pilots? I’m sure this isn’t something you want getting out, but they’ll ask questions if Coda’s out there.”

Captain Coleman thought for a moment. “Tell them you’re incorporating a new pilot into the squadron but because they’re green to give them a wide berth.”

Squawks made a face. He clearly didn’t think that would be enough.

“One of the benefits of command, Lieutenant,” Coleman said, “is that you don’t have to get their permission or offer an explanation. Tell them to focus on themselves and their wingmen, and that’ll buy us enough time. We can worry about other questions later.”

“Yes, sir,” Squawks said.

“Okay.” Captain Coleman looked around the table, giving each member of the crew an opportunity to raise additional objections. When he got to Coda, he gave the smallest of shrugs. It was a question.

“I’m ready, sir,” Coda said.

The captain nodded. “We have our plan, then. Arm Coda’s fighter with missile duds and fake cannon fire and assemble a disarm device. When that’s ready, we’ll jump back to Kryos, feign an attack, and allow Coda to tap into the hive mind to learn what he can. We’ll use the disarm device to disable his ship, recover him and his fighter, then jump back to safety to debrief and regroup. Any questions?”

“No questions, sir,” Squawks said. “But that has to be the craziest plan ever concocted.”

“It’s a good thing I’ve got pilots crazy enough to pull it off then, isn’t it?”

“Touché, sir. Coda isn’t the only one messed up in the brain.”

“We already knew that,” Noodle said.

“All right,” Captain Coleman said, back to business. “You have your orders. Let’s get started.”

37

Meeting Room, SAS Redemption

Deep Space

“Coda,” Captain Coleman said, “hold up a moment.”

Coda, who had just risen from the table, nodded and remained close, letting the rest of the room’s occupants filter through the door behind him. When it was just him and Captain Coleman, the captain gestured at the cuffs binding his wrists.

“I’m sorry I had to do that,” Captain Coleman said. “I feared the response we would’ve got if you showed up unbound.”

“I understand, sir.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine, sir.”

Captain Coleman gave him an appraising look, the kind that said he didn’t believe Coda and expected an honest answer out of him.

Coda’s façade collapsed under that gaze. “It’s been hard, sir. But I’m working through it.”

“We have a way of beating ourselves up even when we’re the victim. It’s one of the curses of humanity. Some can avoid all feelings of responsibility, casting blame on anything and anyone around them, but people like us accept it even if it’s not ours to bear. We accept it and do something about it. We act. It’s one of the qualities of a leader.”

Coda studied the captain for a moment. Captain Coleman was hinting at something that had never crossed his mind. He knew about the signal. He knew about your father. He blames himself.

The realization brought a wave of… not anger. It was nothing as clear as that, but for a brief moment, Coda had a path out of the darkness. The captain was responsible. It was his fault. He alone had known the dangers and hadn’t taken proper precautions or even warned his crew of the possibility of danger.

But even as he thought it, Coda knew he couldn’t follow that road. As the captain said, people too often avoided responsibility, letting someone else take the blame. He wasn’t that kind of person and never had been.

Captain Coleman must have misread his silence, because he reinforced the point. “I’m serious, Coda.”

“I know, sir. And I agree. It’s not easy, but it’s a burden I’m willing to bear as long as it helps keep the rest of our crew alive.”

“You’re a good man, Coda. Be careful. We don’t know how the Baranyk network works or what we’re exposing ourselves to. As Noodle alluded to, there’s a very real possibility that the enemy can extract information from you just as easily as you can from them. Probably easier. So get in, get what you need, and get out. Understood?”

In other words, focus on the mission and don’t get distracted by your father’s presence. “Understood, sir.”

“Good. The guards outside will take you back to your cell. I’ll send for you when we’re ready.”

“Sir,” Coda said. Unable to salute, he inclined his head then strode out of the room.

The guards fell into step behind him, prepared to escort him back to his cell, but Coda stopped a few steps into the corridor. Squawks, Noodle, and Moscow stood at the junction. They saw him and waited, obviously torn between waiting for Coda to come to them or closing the distance and joining him. They chose the latter.

“One moment,” Coda said to the guards behind him. “Please.”

Surprisingly, the guards gave him some space. Coda wondered what orders Captain Coleman had given them.

“Hey,” Coda said as his friends stopped in front of him.

“Hey,” they said.

An awkward silence stretched between them. Squawks opened his mouth to speak then closed it again, obviously at a loss for words. Moscow wore a hard expression that Coda couldn’t make out, and Noodle was… smiling.

“I knew there was something you weren’t telling us,” Noodle said.

His friend’s joy nearly brought a smile to Coda’s own face. “Yeah… I wish I could’ve said something. Not being able to tell you guys nearly destroyed me.”

“But you’re good now, right?” Noodle said, then he seemed to notice Coda’s wrists were still cuffed.

“Not yet. But I will be. We’ll talk more once this is all over.” Coda glanced at the two marines behind him. They were starting to get antsy. “I’m not sure if I’ll see you guys again before the mission, but if I don’t, stay safe out there. I have a feeling it’s not going to be as straightforward as we all hope.”

“You too,” Moscow said. His voice was forceful, ripe with other meaning.

Smiling, Coda nodded and started down the corridor.

“Coda.” Squawks’s voice drew him up short again.

He turned, barely able to see his friend and his troubled look through the gap between the two guards.

“We really are sorry.”

“I know, Squawks,” Coda said. “I am too.”

With that, Coda and his guards strode back to the brig, back to his private cell of seclusion. But for the first time since that terrible battle, he didn’t feel alone.

38

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Deep Space

Coda ran his fingers gently across the instrument panel of his Nighthawk. It felt good to be back in the cockpit. For once, he didn’t mind the confined nature of the G-suit or the warm recycled air that blew through it. He wasn’t nervous or anxious, settling into the gel seat with a calm determination. After everything he’d been through, including several days in the brig, he was home.

Radio chatter filled the line as Coda went through his preflight sequence. He was muted, of course. His presence in this flight was meant to be a secret. They’d even given him a fake call sign, one aptly named Trickster. But if he spoke, the secret was out. Nobody would mistake the voice of their CAG.

Moscow was filling in that role, and the captain hadn’t made any mention of whether that was a temporary promotion or permanent. It didn’t matter. Coda was back in the cockpit, where he belonged. Everything else would fall into place around that.

“Trickster is go for launch,” Coda said over a private line.

“Copy that, Trickster,” Moscow said. Then softer, in the voice of a friend, not the CAG, he asked, “You good?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Coda said.

“Glad to hear it. Time for some payback, huh?”

“Definitely.”

Coda’s Nighthawk jerked as one of the forklifts on the flight deck hitched to it and dragged it into the launch bay. There were more thumps and clicks as the craft was locked into the skid. It was attached to a pulley system that would throw his fighter out the bow of the ship like a bullet from a gun.

After several minutes, the launch bays were loaded with the full squadron of Nighthawks, and the chatter that had been so prevalent before died away. This was always a quiet time, a moment for self-reflection and coming to peace with the fact that many of them might never return.

Coda wasn’t a religious man. He’d always used this time to focus, to shed away distraction and review the mission plan. Today, there wasn’t much to review. He wasn’t to engage, had no weapons, and wouldn’t partake in any formations or maneuvers. He was out there to draw the attention of the enemy and coerce them into striking with their new weapon.

Once that happened, he had no idea how things would play out. Before, he hadn’t connected to the Baranyk network until after the battle, when he’d been in a state of semiconsciousness. Would it be the same again, or since he had connected once, would he connect faster this time? And what happened once he did? The experience before had been like floating through a dream. What if he didn’t know how to find the information they needed? What if he failed?

They were all normal feelings and concerns, the type that Coda would normally have been able to banish with preparation and visualization. But he was venturing into the true unknown. As far as he knew, he was only one of three people to have ever connected with the Baranyk network. He couldn’t know what to expect, and the two people who had weren’t available to give advice.

Feeling his heart rate increase, Coda forced himself to go through a squared breathing exercise. Coda took a slow breath, five seconds in length, as Moscow did his final roll call. He held it for an equal amount of time as the squadron checked in, then exhaled as he privately sent his green status.

“All right, Captain,” Moscow said over the main frequency. “Loading and preflight checks are complete. Nighthawks are go for flight.”

“Copy that, Moscow,” Captain Coleman said. “Prepare to jump in two minutes.”

That time went by quickly and in silence. One moment, Coda was waiting patiently in his cockpit. The next, the world stretched before him. When it snapped back into place, Coda knew they had arrived at Kryos.

A presence wormed its way into the back of his head. It had already been there, Coda realized, and had been since they’d abandoned Kryos days ago. But it had been muted, somehow lesser. The presence stirred, washing over his consciousness like oil coating the bottom of a pan. It didn’t hurt or pry. If anything, it felt curious.

Coda’s breath grew short, coming in quick bursts. He knew that presence, recognizing the way it made him itch, as if it were a spider crawling across his brain. It took everything Coda had not to try to swipe it away. Doing so would only alert the Overlord that Coda knew of his presence.

But something was wrong. He hadn’t anticipated the presence being so quick. He had expected it after the engagement had begun. He needed to do something, to warn the captain. He opened his mouth to speak and—

Nothing happened.

Oh no.

Coda panicked, trying to fight, trying to move, but he was little more than a prisoner beating against the bars of his cell, unable to escape. His hand moved against his will toward the joystick, slow and methodical. His hand cupped it, fingers tightening around the firing stud, thumb moving toward the safety switch.

His missiles were disarmed, but if fired, they would still launch from his fighter. It might not cause the catastrophic damage the enemy wanted, but it would damage the launch bay and potentially more.

Coda’s thumb switched the firing mechanism to missiles. His fingers squeezed, and… he lurched forward. The launch bay raced past him, the black dot of space advancing like an incoming target. Then he was free.

The Redemption fell away from him as he was blasted from its hull. Around him, the other Nighthawks formed up by subflight, creating six delta formations. Coda didn’t have a visual, but his HUD showed an enemy carrier in the distance, and it was launching fighters.

His fighter raced forward on the same launch trajectory. The sudden launch seemed to have thrown off the Overlord’s plans. He could still feel it, and he didn’t have control of his body, but the presence was somehow lessened, distracted. When it returned, it returned in full force. Gone were the slow, methodical movements. Instead, it was sharp and decisive.

Coda’s Nighthawk banked hard, angling toward a subflight. He toggled one of his own ships, the Nighthawk getting missile lock, then launched the first missile. In an instant, the flight broke into three fighter pairs. With the enemy in their midst, the other flights did the same. And then the fight was on.

Coda watched in alarm as his fighter raced after fighters, firing indiscriminately. If the Overlord realized the missiles were disarmed or that its cannons had been replaced by digital projectiles, there were no signs of it.

For the moment, his friends were relatively safe—at least until the enemy fighters arrived, which appeared to be imminent. But those, they could handle.

He had a different task. Unable to control his body, Coda imagined himself taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. He focused on the presence, fixated on its weight, and let it envelop him. Then there was more.

Not just the Overlord but hundreds of other presences. Thousands. Millions. More than he could ever dream to count. It was as if he had entered another galaxy. He was connected to the Baranyk network.

39

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Kryos

Coda could move. It wasn’t a physical thing, as he had no body in this strange place, but he was able to compel his presence forward. The world seemed to shift around him. Bubbles of consciousness streamed by like bubbles of air rising toward the surface of water.

They didn’t appear to be congregated or massed in any sort of order, no resemblance to the squadrons of human and Baranyk around him in the real world. Coda couldn’t be sure, but it appeared that real-world location and proximity had little to do with the associated location of the consciousness in the network.

He moved toward a single bubble, somehow knowing the presence represented someone like him, a life-form connected to the Baranyk network. Little more than a speck of light in the darkness, an image of a black Baranyk warrior formed in his mind’s eye as he drew closer. It didn’t seem to notice him, focused on its own task. Coda withdrew, and the image dissipated.

He kept moving, passing other bubbles of consciousness, close enough to form images in his head. More Baranyk warriors. Thousands more. Millions.

He moved faster, the bubbles floating by like a river. Most were Baranyk, but other things passed as well. Planets, moons, and other life-forms. Some were like the Baranyk, resembling insects from Earth. Others were land dwellers, while more lived in vast seas or the skies of gas giants. Many were truly monstrous in their alienness.

Humanity had questioned its place in the universe, asking for centuries if it was alone in the cosmos and had learned in horror it wasn’t. But in the decades since the first Baranyk was discovered, on all the planets and habitable moons humanity had colonized, it had never encountered another intelligent life-form.

Some had come to question again just how populated their neighborhood of the galaxy was, even questioning if the Baranyk themselves were some sort of punishment sent to put humanity in its place. But here, Coda could see that the universe was more expansive than they’d ever realized. There were millions of habitable planets and moons, hundreds of millions, their ecosystems diverse and complex. He reveled in it, amazed and overwhelmed.

He moved through the network. There was no sense of time, but he knew he’d grown distracted. He continued to search the consciousness, letting impressions wash over him, but he struggled to assemble them. It was as if he were on a beach, trying to paint a picture of the landscape by studying a single grain of sand at a time.

The network was vast, as broad and expansive as the universe itself. How could he ever hope to search it? How could he ever hope to find what he was looking for?

He paused, letting his presence drift. And that was when he felt it. A shadow fell over him. The presence blanketed him, compelling, controlling, demanding. But Coda resisted. He’d felt the Overlord’s presence before, the way he had tried to subjugate him through violence and bonds of slavery.

Coda kept his distance. Somehow, he knew that if he ventured too close, the Overlord’s power and influence would overwhelm him. Already, he was trying to bend Coda to his will. He fled, racing through the network as if it were a highway. The Overlord pursued. Coda was in his realm. There was nowhere to hide, and Coda wasn’t fast enough. The Overlord was gaining on him, his strength growing with every moment. Coda screamed, growing frantic.

He zigged, zagged, and turned as if piloting a Nighthawk, but it was to no avail. The Overlord couldn’t be shaken. He was on Coda’s tail and wasn’t giving up.

Then as before, there was suddenly another presence. Where the Overlord was darkness, hatred, and subjugation, this was warmer, familiar, and caring. It raced toward Coda with purpose, extending itself as if extending a hand, and Coda went to it, reached for it, letting their two consciousnesses collide.

The network vanished.

Coda stood on a grassy plain. Straws of golden grass rose to his waist, their tips tickling the palms of his hands. It almost reminded Coda of wheat, but it was different in a way he couldn’t place. The air was warm. A gentle breeze carried the scent of seawater. Waves crashed against a rocky shore in the distance. It could have been Earth, except for the purple sky. The entire image had a dreamlike quality to it, as if Coda were looking at it through a foggy glass.

“Callan?”

Coda started. He knew that voice, had heard it before, had grown up with it. He turned slowly, nervously.

A man stood in front of him. He was Coda’s height but broader in the shoulders and thicker in the chest and midsection, and there was more gray in his dark hair than Coda remembered. But there was no mistaking him. No mistaking those brown eyes, nearly black, that square jaw, or the compassionate expression.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

“Dad?” Coda’s voice came out soft.

The man smiled. Coda covered the ground between them in an instant. Collapsing into the man, Coda squeezed him, holding him as if he could disappear at any moment. His father squeezed him in return, slapping Coda’s back with enough force to knock the wind out of him. But Coda didn’t care. The pain made everything feel more real.

“How?” Coda said. “How is this possible? Where are we?”

“Shhh,” his father said. He held Coda for several more moments, his tears wetting the side of Coda’s face, before stepping back to appraise him. “You’ve grown.”

Coda laughed, wiping tears from his own eyes. “I’m not the same kid you left behind.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve grown into a man. A fighter pilot, too, I see.”

Coda looked down. He hadn’t realized it before, but he was still dressed in his flight suit.

“You’ll have to tell me how you convinced your mom to let you join. She hated me flying and the Nighthawks even more. She always said she wouldn’t let you near one.”

Coda felt a tinge of regret. His mother hadn’t approved of him joining the Sol Fleet, and that had been when Coda was joining to become a drone pilot, not joining the experimental Nighthawk program. Things had only gotten worse since then. Best to leave that topic alone for now.

“I thought you were dead,” Coda said. “That’s what they said. For years, I thought you were gone.”

“No, not dead. Gone might be a different story, though.” He strode over to a large rock, took a seat, then patted a spot next to him. “Sit with your old man for a minute.”

Coda obliged, sitting next to his father. The vantage had them overlooking the cliff, watching bioluminescent waves of blue, green, and purple crash against the white shore below. It was breathtaking, more beautiful than anything Coda had ever seen in his life.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” his father said.

“Where are we?” Coda said. “What is this place?”

For the second time in as many minutes, his father avoided the question. “I’m sorry, Callan. I haven’t been there for you. I’ve missed so much. But my love for you has never stopped. You were my world. My everything. Still are. I need you to know that.”

Coda nodded—it was all he could do. Talking would mean losing control. He had to keep his mouth shut to lock the emotion away. Not only because of the words and the strength behind them but because Coda hadn’t always been so loyal. How many years had he been bitter? How long had he thought of his father as a villain instead of a victim?

Exhaling slowly, Coda turned to the man. He had an easy quality about him. Calm and confident with a natural swagger. A fighter jock, even to this day. He wasn’t in a flight suit like Coda, though. Instead, he wore a simple shirt and pants.

“Tell me how to find you,” Coda said. “I’m under Chadwick Coleman’s command. He’s always spoken highly of you. If you tell me where you are, we’ll come for you. You don’t have to hide anymore. We’ve discovered—”

“No. Not here. It’s not safe.”

Coda closed his mouth, surveying their surroundings with fresh eyes. They were alone, not a soul or other life-form in sight, but the space had the same dreamlike quality as before. Warm. Idyllic.

“This isn’t real,” Coda said. He’d somehow already known that. Of course it wasn’t—it was too good to be true. His father couldn’t be alive, let alone sitting beside him, telling him how much he loved him.

“It’s real,” his father said. “Just not in the way you mean it. We’re in his domain.”

“The Overlord.”

“Is that what they’re calling him?” his father asked.

“It’s what I call him,” Coda said.

“I guess that’s as good as any description I’ve come up with.”

“What is he?” Coda asked.

“Evil. A slave master. One over an entire race and more. He’ll bring us under his power if we let him.” His father let out a long breath. “But it’s not safe to talk about that here, and we don’t have much time.”

“Why not?” Coda asked. Then before his father could answer, he added, “I need your help. I…” How could he say this without sharing too much? “I’m here because I was looking for something. But this place—this network or whatever it is—is too big. I don’t know how to find what I’m looking for. But you obviously know more about this. Maybe you can find it. Maybe you could help us.”

“Callan—”

But Coda wasn’t listening. The plan was solidifying in his head. “We can prove what happened to you, but if you help us, there wouldn’t be any doubt. Help us, Dad. Help me.”

“Callan, stop.”

Coda’s pleas died on his tongue. He looked at his father in shocked resignation. Had he just refused to help him?

“I need you to listen and not say anything, okay? Just listen.”

Coda nodded.

“When you were little, I took you to a baseball game. Just me and you, remember? And somehow, we got separated and I couldn’t find you, remember?”

“Yeah, but, Dad—”

“No.” His father shook his head. “No talking. I couldn’t find you, and even to this day, that was the scariest moment of my life. An usher found you alone and crying. You were scared and hiding behind a garbage can.”

Coda wanted to say something. He remembered the moment vividly. That sense of true terror, being surrounded by thousands in a gigantic world but feeling alone and not knowing what to do. What did that have to do with anything? Coda needed information, and his father was the only one who could help him find it.

“We’ve been separated again, Callan. But this time it’s me who’s missing. It’s me who’s hiding. Understand? It’s me who’s at the baseball stadium, hiding behind the garbage can.” His father gave him a knowing look.

“I don’t understand,” Coda said.

“You will,” his father said. “I’m hiding at the stadium.”

“Dad—”

“Think on it, son.” His father stood and gave him a warm smile. “Please.”

Coda blinked, not understanding. He was growing frustrated. Why couldn’t his father just say what he meant?

“Please, Callan.”

“I will.”

His father seemed to relax, his shoulders loosening. “Good. Now come here and give me a hug before you go.”

“Go?”

“He’s coming, Callan.”

Panic spiked in Coda’s chest again. With his father’s warning, he could feel it now, that sense of foreboding. The Overlord’s presence was growing stronger. He pushed it down, not letting the feeling spoil the precious moments he had left.

Coda stood and hugged his father tighter than before. For all he knew, this was the last time he would ever see him. The last time he would ever talk to him. His first, last, and only chance to say goodbye.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, son. It was good to see you.”

“It was good to see you too.”

Then he whispered in Coda’s ear, “Remember. I’m at the baseball stadium.”

Coda tried to say he would. He tried to nod, but couldn’t. The grip of emotion was too strong.

“Remember.”

40

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

Kryos

Captain Coleman paced the medical ward. He’d been there with Dr. Naidoo and Dr. Rydell since the second battle of Kryos had ended. Their part had gone as well as he could have hoped. Much of the Baranyk force had already withdrawn from the planet, leaving a single carrier in reserve as they had at previous abandoned systems. His squadrons had engaged, and they’d detected the signal. Coda had once again fallen under the influence of the enemy.

Though unlike before, the threat had been neutralized. Without missiles or cannons, Coda was toothless. Not harmless exactly, but a lion without claws. Shortly after they’d engaged and before the Redemption and the Forgotten could inflict too much damage, the enemy had bugged out. With it, Coda’s fighter had gone lifeless, making no maneuvers whatsoever.

They’d found him unconscious, and though he showed no signs of being under Baranyk influence, he displayed heightened brain activity reminiscent of before. Something was happening, and his doctors couldn’t explain it.

Come on, Coda. Pull through. Whatever’s going on, fight like hell. We need the information in your head.

“Captain!” Dr. Rydell said.

Coleman’s back was to her, his steps having taken him close to the door. He spun. Coda was strapped to the gurney—they were still taking precautions—and sensors of all kinds were stuck to his temples, forehead, and exposed chest. The monitors surrounding him gave readouts of his heart rate, oxygen levels, blood pressure, and brain activity. The scan showing his brain, which had been a wild array of colors before, had gone still. Not devoid of activity, which would obviously be a bad sign, but it had changed.

Coleman strode toward Coda, stopping at Dr. Rydell’s shoulder, watching from beside the bed. Coda’s fingers moved first, then his legs. His head rocked back and forth sluggishly. Then his lips parted, and he took a long, deep breath.

“Easy, Commander,” Dr. Rydell said. “Take it slow.”

Coda showed no signs that he’d heard the doctor. His eyes opened slowly. They were clouded, pupils constricting against the light slowly as if he were drugged.

“Can you hear me? It’s Dr. Rydell. I’m right here, Coda. Can you hear me?”

Coda gave her the slightest of nods.

“Good,” she said. “You’re doing good. Just take it slow.”

Coleman waited impatiently. Coda hadn’t taken this long to come out of the trance before.

Coda was blinking now, growing more alert by the second. He tried to move, pushing against the straps, then groaned as they held him in place.

“Coda, it’s Captain Coleman. Can you hear me?”

Coda groaned again, but it was different this time. Coleman took it as an affirmative.

“Good. You’re tied down, Coda. For our protection. Nod if you understand.”

Coda nodded. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s me.” Then again, stronger, “It’s me.”

“Undo his binds,” Coleman said.

Dr. Rydell didn’t protest; they’d been through this before. And maybe it was his lethargic state or lack of Baranyk-induced brain activity, but Coda didn’t appear to be a threat. Dr. Rydell undid the binds then helped Coda sit up.

“Welcome back,” Coleman said.

“Thank you, sir.” Coda grimaced, shifting on the bed. “How long was I out?”

“Nearly sixteen hours. You’re safe now.” Coleman wanted to say more, to question his pilot and pull everything he could from him, but he knew that would only overwhelm him. They needed to take it slow. “You look like hell, Commander.”

Coda gave him a half-hearted chuckle, but the expression faded quickly.

“What is it, Coda? What’s wrong?”

“I failed, sir,” Coda said, his eyes falling from Coleman’s. “I connected to the Baranyk network, but… I failed. I couldn’t find what we were looking for.”

Coleman drew his lips into a line, refusing to believe it. “Listen to the doc, Coda. Take it slow. I’m sure you’ll remember more as you come around.”

“No,” Coda said. His voice was forceful, erasing any doubt. “It was too big. Too many connections. I can’t explain it, sir, but I couldn’t do it.”

Coleman remained expressionless. He was already running through the series of other options he’d come up with, trying to decide on their next move.

“I couldn’t do it,” Coda repeated. “But I know who can.”

Coleman’s attention snapped back to his pilot. “What did you say, Commander?”

“I said I know who can.” Coda smiled. “I saw him, sir. He’s alive. He helped me. The Overlord was pursuing me, and I don’t know what would have happened if he caught me, but my father was there. He… I don’t know what he did. He took me somewhere safe. Somewhere we could talk.”

Coleman hesitated. If it had been any other pilot at any other time, he would have dismissed the idea, chalked it up to battle fatigue or some such. But Coda was dependable. Trustworthy. His CAG. This was a thread, and the conviction in Coda’s expression told him they needed to pull on it.

“Tell me what happened,” Coleman said. “Start at the beginning.”

Coda paused, seemingly collecting his thoughts, then began his report. Coleman listened, never interrupting, letting his pilot explain the unexplainable in the only way he knew how. Coleman didn’t understand half of it and struggled to believe the other, but Coda was so sure.

“He wouldn’t tell me where he was,” Coda said. “He said we were in his domain, and I think he was worried about being overheard, like he was worried about being found.”

“By the Overlord?” Coleman clarified.

“Yes,” Coda said. “He said he was evil, a Baranyk that had enslaved an entire species and more. That he would bring us under his power if we let him.” He looked up, eyes going wide. “Sir, he was right. Before my encounter with my father, I came across other presences. They weren’t human or Baranyk, something different, other alien life-forms.”

“What else did he say?” Coleman asked, trying to steer the conversation back. Fleet Intelligence had long assumed there was other intelligent life in the galaxy, and while the information was potentially groundbreaking, it wasn’t entirely pertinent to their mission.

“He’s building an empire,” Coda said. “Expanding his influence across the galaxy. How do we defeat that, sir? How do we defeat not one alien race but several?”

“That’s a problem for another day, Commander. Tell me why you think your father can help us.”

Coda looked at Coleman, suddenly aware he’d gone off on a tangent. “He knows how to navigate the network. He found me and created somewhere we could talk. Somewhere safe from the Overlord, at least temporarily. I’m sure he can find other things. Maybe I’m wrong, but he’s our best chance. And…”

Coda didn’t need to finish the thought. Coleman could see the want clearly on his face. For as long as Coleman had known Joseph O’Neil’s son, the young man had been driven by a desire to restore honor to his family. He’d done that above Toavis, but this was an opportunity to vindicate the man entirely.

No, it’s more than that. This is about reuniting father and son and rebuilding a family.

Coleman’s thoughts drifted to his own broken family, of the daughter he hadn’t spoken fifty words to since she’d been assigned to his ship, and felt a sudden longing. He’d let fear control him, let shame hold him back, and used the excuse of duty to justify it.

“It’s a good idea, Coda. But there’s a problem. We don’t know how to find him. As I told you before, your father disappeared. We searched but never found him. Not even a trace. What makes you think it’ll be any different this time?”

“This time, he wants to be found,” Coda said. “Just before I left, he told me a story about when I was a kid. He took me to a baseball game, and we got separated. I got scared and hid. He told me he’s the one hiding now. He told me he was at the stadium.”

“At the stadium?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s on Earth?” Coleman didn’t believe it, and Coda clearly didn’t either.

“No. It doesn’t make any sense, but it was important to him that I remember.”

“What was the name of the stadium?” Coleman asked.

“I don’t know,” Coda said. “I was too young. I don’t even remember the name of the team. The Plymouth… something. They were a—”

“What did you say?” A chill went down Coleman’s spine. “Did you say Plymouth?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Coda, one of the planets within jump range of your father’s Nighthawk was New Plymouth.”

Coda’s eyes went wide.

“He didn’t want to tell you because he couldn’t risk the Overlord coming for him, but he gave you a clue that only you could use to find him.”

“Oh my god.” Coda ran a hand across his head. “What do we do now, sir?”

“We’re going to New Plymouth, Coda. If you’re right, your father will be expecting us. And if we’re lucky, he can get us the information we need before it’s too late.”

41

Brig, SAS Redemption

Kryos

Despite the captain’s excitement and mutual desire to find Coda’s father, there was still planning to be done. So Coda was sent back to his cell. It was an odd contradiction: having the captain’s complete trust, sharing a secret only the two of them were in on, and being viewed as a villain by the rest of the crew.

Fortunately, appearances only had to go so far. This time, the captain had sent Coda his tablet. The captain needed his report, but after completing it, he was free to do as he wished.

Coda spent the time researching New Plymouth. From the satellite images, it was a beautiful planet. If Kryos represented the worst of Earth, then New Plymouth was the best of their biological home.

As green as polished emerald, New Plymouth had four major continents, all located within ten degrees of the equator and covered in mountainous ranges, deep valleys, and expansive plains. Deep-blue seas surrounded them, with small ice caps at the poles. With a thick atmosphere, New Plymouth was warmer than Earth, closer in climate to Central America and just as fertile. Its biggest downside was that it was located on the edge of human-controlled space and lacked the rich metal deposits of other planets to make it a strategic resource.

Instead, its rich soil and multiple water sources made it an ideal farming planet, where the homesteaders grew genetically modified wheat and other staples. It was home to people craving a simpler life that harkened back to an earlier time. The promise of their piece of land in the galaxy beckoned to them as the modern version of forty acres and a mule. It was, on the surface, a perfect spot for a deserter to hide.

Eventually, Coda shut off the tablet and tried to sleep. It was a fitful rest full of incomplete dream fragments as his unconscious mind stored and categorized recent memories. When he woke, he felt worse than before and was about to attempt to return to sleep when he noticed the dimmed lights and yellow lighting. The amber alert meant a jump was imminent.

How many had Captain Coleman said it would take to get to New Plymouth? Coda didn’t know how many of those he’d slept through already, but the result was the same. With every thirty-minute interval, the time it took to spool the EmDrive back up and plot their next jump, Coda was getting closer to his father.

* * *

Captain Coleman let go of the railing as the world snapped back into focus. He stood on the bridge, letting the sound of his tactical and communications chatter wash over him.

“Jump twenty-eight complete, sir.” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Beginning the final jump sequence now.”

“Good,” Captain Coleman said.

Twenty-eight jumps. That was more than he’d taken in his last year, and had it been any other ship in the fleet, they would have been forced to take an eight-hour break after ten, but with the Redemption’s upgraded EmDrive, they’d been able to push through. Even with the improved spooling time, it had taken them just over fourteen hours to make it this far—a relatively short distance by galactic standards.

“You’ve got the bridge, Commander,” Coleman said to his XO. “I’m headed to the flight deck.”

“Yes, sir. Good luck.”

His bridge crew saluted him as he walked out. Instead of heading to the flight deck, however, he made for the brig. It was located in the bowels of the ship, and Coleman arrived less than five minutes later. He found Coda sitting on the edge of his bed, scanning through something on his tablet. He looked up as Coleman strode in, jumping to his feet and offering a quick salute.

“At ease.” Captain Coleman palmed the cell door, overriding its lock command. It popped open, and Coleman held it wide. “It’s time to go.”

Coleman led Coda out of the brig and down several decks to the Forgotten’s Ready Room. From there, they entered the adjoining locker room, where they put on their flight suits. All told, from the time he’d left the bridge to the time he and Coda set foot on the flight deck, no more than twenty minutes had passed.

Sergeant Haniger waited with his squad of marines, standing in a crisp line in front of the dropship. Coleman may not have been expecting a fight, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going in prepared for one. They snapped to attention as he neared.

“At ease,” Coleman said. “Your men ready to go?”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Haniger said. “Ready to rock and roll.”

“Good,” Coleman said. “Strap in. We jump in five.”

“You heard the captain!” Haniger bellowed. “Load up!”

The dropship, nicknamed the Stork by those it carried, was more elegant than Coda had originally imagined. With long wings, a broad fuselage meant to carry up to twenty-five passengers, and a large tail, it couldn’t have been farther away from the bird it was named after, but the fleet’s nicknames had never made much sense.

Captain Coleman and Coda made their way past the marines through the belly of the ship to the cockpit, where they strapped in. Coleman took the pilot’s chair. He powered up the ship, closed the rear hatch, went through a quick flight check, and began pressurizing the ship. With all systems go, he radioed Commander Garcia.

“I’m strapped in and green for flight,” Coleman said.

“Yes, sir,” Garcia said. “Have I told you that I don’t agree with you going down there? Not after what happened on Koburn.”

“Only about a dozen times,” Coleman said.

“Let’s make it a baker’s dozen then,” Garcia said.

Coleman laughed, shooting Coda a glance. He’d intentionally communicated through the radio instead of the implant in his ear, choosing to keep Coda in the conversation.

“It’ll be fine,” Coleman said.

“You still haven’t told me what to expect down there,” Garcia said.

“I will.”

“You know, sir, I expected the XO would be included in making more decisions.”

“Noted, Commander,” Coleman said. “Chalk it up to growing pains on my end. I’ll do better at including you in the future.” The conversation was taking a turn, and Coleman was suddenly regretting the decision to use the ship’s radio. Fortunately, Coda didn’t seem to be paying any attention.

“Thank you, sir,” Garcia said. “Setting amber alert throughout the ship. Jump in thirty seconds. Good luck down there, sir.”

“You too, Commander.”

The lights of the flight deck suddenly dimmed, turning amber. At the same time, the interior compression doors began to close, isolating the Stork on a deck that would shortly be an unpressurized chamber. Unlike the Nighthawks, the Stork wouldn’t be hurled into space. It took off directly from the unpressurized area of the flight deck.

Ten seconds after the compression doors closed, the ship jumped. Shortly after the world returned to focus, the exterior blast doors opened, and Coleman piloted the Stork from the Redemption.

They’d jumped directly into orbit of New Plymouth. The beautiful emerald planet shone brightly below. Sensor data sent directly to the Redemption was immediately patched through to the Stork’s onboard computer. There were several settlements on New Plymouth, each with a few thousand residents. Unlike the mining and manufacturing operations on other planets, farming, it seemed, didn’t require as many people.

“There,” Coda said, pointing to an installation near the coast of the western continent.

“Why there?” Coleman asked, already plotting his course. They had nothing more to go on other than a vague hint from an impossible vision, but it was as good a place as any to start. If anything, it would give them a logical starting point, allowing them to work north to south, west to east from there.

“It was always my father’s dream to live on the beach,” Coda said. “And that’s where we were during our conversation.”

The Stork bucked as they entered atmo, its outer hull glowing orange from the heat and friction. The ship may not have looked like its namesake, but it was a tough bird and got them through without incident. White clouds gave way to a green-and-blue expanse. The mountains were several hundred kilometers to the north and east. Coleman flew low, gliding across the land.

The installation was located several miles inland, but there was a single structure on the coastline. Coleman didn’t need Coda to tell him where to go—he made directly for that residence. It was a small dome-like structure, one of the prefabricated units supplied to the planet’s inhabitants. It would be short on amenities but wired and plumbed, ready to hook up to the local infrastructure. There were worse ways to begin a new life.

Coleman circled the establishment, looking for signs of life. There were none, but his sensors were picking up multiple signals and heat signatures. Something was down there. He brought the Stork down in a flat area a couple hundred meters from the structure, deployed the rear ramp, and shut down the engines.

Sergeant Haniger’s marines were out a moment later, securing the landing site. Coda took an exaggerated breath as he unbuckled and removed his helmet. His eyes were wide and alert; he was nervous with anticipation. Coleman motioned for Coda to go ahead of him, then followed the younger pilot through the ship and down the ramp.

The wind gusted as they set foot on the soft ground, smelling of brine and seaweed, though with a sweeter scent than Earth. The thin, waist-high grass swayed in the wind, making a swishing sound like soft static. Coda seemed to notice none of it, however. His eyes were focused solely on the structure ahead and the man who stood outside it.

He was bigger than Coleman remembered. His once-chiseled frame had gone soft since it no longer had to deal with the rigors of spaceflight. His hair was longer and tinged with gray, and his face, lined with age like Coleman’s, was covered in a shaggy beard. But that smile, the way it rose higher on one side of his face like a cocky grin, was the same. He was staring at his old friend.

Coda was right.

“Stand down,” Coleman said to Sergeant Haniger. “There’s no danger here.”

Sergeant Haniger ordered his marines back, leaving him, Coda, and Joseph O’Neil alone on the cliffside. Coda moved first, something between a walk and a bound, and his father moved to join him. Coleman kept his distance, giving father and son their moment.

Joseph and Coda came together in a crash, a gesture punctuated by the sound of cresting waves below. It was a long, fierce hug. Joseph squeezed his son’s flight suit as if afraid to let go, then slapped him on the back, hard enough Coleman could hear from ten meters away. Their laughter mixed with cries, their joy overcoming years of pain. They reveled in seeing and holding each other again, regretting the years they hadn’t. Their happiness was the kind only possible after years of tremendous pain.

This was what Coleman had wanted to share with Aniyah, but he had screwed that up. Instead of a warm embrace and making up for lost time and lost hugs, instead of holding on like he would never let go again, instead of even calling her by her name, he’d hidden behind decorum. Frustrated with himself, he was still happy for Coda and Joseph. After everything they’d been through, they deserved this moment.

When their embrace ended, Joseph laughed, wiping tears from his eyes, and Coleman moved to join them.

“You look different,” Coda said.

“Fatter, you mean,” Joseph said, his smile bigger than Coleman had ever seen.

“And this wasn’t there before.” Coda rubbed his own chin, stroking an imaginary beard.

“Yeah,” Joseph said, “well, when you don’t have to keep it short for regs or have to worry about it itching under your flight helmet, you have a little more freedom.”

“I mean it wasn’t in the vision, or whatever that was.”

“Ah, I see. No, it wasn’t. I’ll explain later.” Joseph’s eyes fell on Chadwick, his smile faltering a little.

The lack of reciprocated happiness surprised Coleman. He hadn’t expected the same kind of reunion as Coda, but he hadn’t expected hostility, either.

“Hey, Joe,” Coleman said.

“Chadwick.” Joseph looked over Coleman’s shoulder at the Stork behind him and the marines standing guard.

He’s wondering if I’m here to arrest him.

“Don’t worry about them,” Coleman said, nodding toward the dropship. “They’re here for my protection. Last time I went planetside, I nearly became lunch for some angry Baranyk. It’s good to see you, old friend.” He offered his hand.

Joseph eyed it, then his smile returned. He took Coleman’s hand in his, giving it a firm shake. “It’s good to see you too. Come on. Let’s go inside.”

He pulled Coleman in his direction and slapped him on the shoulder as he passed. With Coleman leading the way, Joseph wrapped an arm around his son as they walked toward the small home.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

42

House, New Plymouth

Surface

His father’s house was small and utilitarian. Like many things throughout humanity’s colonies, the single-room residence was a templated design, likely printed through additive manufacturing and assembled onsite. The dull-gray walls were unadorned, and aside from the bed, it housed a kitchenette, space for two chairs, and a private bathroom. Coda’s quarters at the Terran Fleet Academy had almost been more accommodating.

Coda and Captain Coleman took a seat in the chairs, while his father sat on the edge of the bed.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” his father said. “I couldn’t tell if you’d understood the hint.”

“I almost didn’t,” Coda said. “Why couldn’t you just tell me where you were?”

His father started to reply but stopped short when Captain Coleman cleared his throat. “We’ll get to that,” he said instead. “Right now, I think we have other ground to cover first. What’s on your mind, Chadwick?”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Captain Coleman said. “If we start in the middle, we’ll miss something. Start at the beginning. We have our theories about what happened on that first mission at Kryos, but I need to hear it from you. What happened? Why’d you run? And how the hell have you stayed hidden this long?”

His father’s happy playfulness disappeared, replaced by a haunted expression as he recounted his story. It had been years, but he still remembered it like yesterday, and all told, it wasn’t that different from Coda’s own story. The ships and people were different, and so was the mission, but the way he’d lost all control and become a bystander in his own body was all too familiar.

Though where Coda had explained it as being a drone, his father compared the experience to being a marionette. His actions were controlled by someone else, directing him with invisible strings. The worst part was that it was only a physical experience.

“I knew nobody would ever believe me,” his father continued. “That was made clear when the Franklin launched its missiles. I panicked. By then, I had regained control, and I had two choices. I could die there, forever known as a traitor, or flee. I didn’t know what the second choice held, and had I known, I might have chosen death. But in that moment, I wasn’t ready to go. So I ran.”

The story twisted Coda’s insides. He understood the guilt all too well. He may not have been in control, but it had still been his hand that had killed his friends and wingmen. He could feel it, and try as he might, he could never forget that.

He wanted to tell his father that he understood, to give his father the comfort he so desperately wanted himself, but Captain Coleman was his commanding officer and in control of the conversation.

“So you ran,” Captain Coleman repeated. “Here.”

“Yes,” his father said. “Sort of. I didn’t have a plan and had no idea where I was going. I just knew I had to get away. But after a couple jumps, I slowed down and started to think it through, and I went as far away as I could manage. I barely made it here before my oxygen ran out, but when I did, I ditched my fighter and laid low.”

“We searched for you here, you know,” Captain Coleman said. “Swept the whole planet with every sort of sweep you could imagine, including visual. There was no trace of you.”

“I destroyed the transponder and other sensors,” his father said with a shrug. “They taught us how to do a lot more than that during FAM Phase.”

Coda found himself smiling. His own experience in FAM Phase hadn’t been so helpful, but the idea of his father using it to best the fleet was amusing.

“What about the locals?” Captain Coleman pressed. “The population here isn’t big enough to assimilate unseen, and everyone would be part of the manifest.”

“The people here are different, Chadwick. There’s a strong live-and-let-live streak. If you show up, work hard, and keep your mouth shut, they don’t ask many questions. And they sure as hell weren’t going to give me up.”

“And you’ve been here the whole time?” Coda asked, finally rejoining the conversation.

“Yes. Life here is hard, nothing but early mornings, long days, and no vacations, but there are worse ways to live. No, my days aren’t what haunt me. It’s what I missed while I’ve been here.”

He gave Coda a pained expression. “That’s my story. Now I need some answers of my own. Why’d you come for me after all of these years, and why was my son a part of the Baranyk network?”

“For that,” Captain Coleman said, “we need to back up too.”

Captain Coleman proceeded to explain how the Baranyk war had changed, the fleet turning to drone fighters instead of human-piloted Nighthawks and how that had left them vulnerable when the enemy developed a new weapon that jammed the signal. Desperate, the fleet had recruited a number of pilots to assemble an experimental squadron and had Captain Coleman instruct them.

He explained how the enemy had pulled back and that they’d been ordered to investigate where they had pulled back to and why. He left nothing out, telling Coda’s father about the survivor on Koburn, Coda’s own experience, and the discovery of the signal. Captain Coleman stressed the latter part—how it was evidence that what had happened to him was nothing more than another enemy attack. But his father wasn’t listening. His eyes were back on Coda. And they looked angry.

“They did it to you too?” his father asked.

“Yeah,” Coda said.

“That bastard.” His father ground his teeth, his hands squeezing into fists. “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch! He’s taken everything from me, and now he’s taking it from you too.”

His father’s anger scared Coda. It was hot and unbridled, the raw kind of emotion that was real and burdened with personal experience. He’d never seen this side of his father before, but he’d seen it in himself. He’d felt that anger too often and had lost control of it a great number of times.

“It’s okay,” Coda found himself saying.

“It’s not okay, Callan. You don’t know what he is. What he’s capable of.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Captain Coleman said. “We need your help. Our mission was to determine where the Baranyk are retreating to and why. Recent events have uncovered a greater threat. If the enemy can control us as they did you and Coda, how many more have been used? How many other accidents have there been? How many are still under enemy influence?”

Coda’s father was shaking his head now. “It doesn’t work that way. The Baranyk are all part of a collective network, some kind of hive consciousness. From what I can tell, it’s how they communicate. But one in particular, the one you call the Overlord, can control other creatures within the network. They’re like hands and arms to him. Billions of hands and arms, billions of fingers. But we’re different. I don’t know what it is. Maybe its humanity’s strong sense of individualism or something. But he can only control us one at a time. When he’s done, we regain control, but part of us remains connected to the hive.”

“That still doesn’t answer the question of how many other people have been used,” Captain Coleman pressed. “Our research suggests only a small percentage of humans are vulnerable to the Baranyk signal, but even a small percentage across billions can add up to a catastrophic liability.”

“What makes us vulnerable?” his father asked.

“Some sort of brain abnormality,” Captain Coleman said. “Dr. Naidoo can explain it better than I can when we get back to the ship.”

Captain Coleman spoke as if his father’s return to the fleet was a foregone conclusion, but Coda could see in his father’s body language that it was anything but. Even with his anger subsided a bit, Coda could see his discomfort. His antsy gestures, the way he never stopped moving, his leg bouncing up and down, the way he was wringing his hands.

This was a man who’d been hiding for a decade. He’d been used, chewed up, and spit out, and now his son and old friend were at his doorstep, asking him to return to the grinder. Whatever man he’d been before, the sense of duty he’d harbored had disappeared when the enemy turned him into a puppet, had died when his own fired on him.

“Hey,” Coda said, keeping his voice firm and reassuring. “You never told me why you couldn’t just tell me where you were.” He hoped the subject was something his father would know better and be less threatening.

“Because he’s looking for me, Callan. We were in his domain, and he was already in pursuit. If I’d told you, I might have led him directly to me.”

“Why is he looking for you, though? You’re just one man on a distant planet.”

“One man on a distant planet who can access the Baranyk consciousness. Who can… control it in a way.” He nodded toward Captain Coleman. “You’re worried about Baranyk spies. Well, so is he.”

“So you’re hiding,” Coda said. “Not just from the fleet but from the enemy as well.”

“Yes.”

“This is your opportunity to change that.”

Coda’s father looked at him. Coda saw fear, not just of repercussions but of leaving a life he’d lived for the past decade. Whether it was the life he would have chosen to live was irrelevant; it was the life he knew. Leaving meant change. It meant facing his past. Maybe even accepting punishment. Regardless of what Coda and Captain Coleman thought, it wasn’t a simple request.

“Mom hates that I joined up,” Coda said. “She told me that following in your footsteps was the biggest betrayal she could ever imagine and that the day I left would be the day she mourned my death. And she’s pretty much kept her word. She didn’t send me off or attend my graduation, and the only letter I’ve got from her only reinforced her stance. As far as she knows, she’s lost two men to the war.”

“Callan…”

“But what she’s never been able to understand is that I didn’t sign up for myself. I did it for her. I did it for you. I didn’t know the truth, so I’ve been trying to undo the damage you did to our name. I’ve even succeeded a little. But the only person who can truly do that is you. I know you feel responsible for what happened. I know you can still feel your finger on that trigger. Still hear your wingmen screaming at you, their last moments believing they were betrayed by one they trusted. Still see the explosions, each one another sign of a life you’ve taken. I know you experience all of that, because I do too. But this is our chance to tell the world the truth. This is our chance to clear our name. So I’m asking you to come with us. Help us. Help me.”

There were tears in his father’s eyes, and Coda knew that he’d gotten through to him.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Captain?” Coda asked.

“Coda accessed the network himself, looking for information about the Baranyk fleet, but couldn’t find anything. He wasn’t proficient enough in navigating it. But you are.”

“You said it yourself,” Coda said. “The Overlord is afraid of you. Afraid of what you’re capable of. Well, prove him right. Show him that he should be afraid of you.”

“Help us find the Baranyk fleet,” Captain Coleman added.

“I don’t have to fly again?”

It took Coda a moment to process the words. His father wasn’t just afraid of leaving his life behind or of returning to the fleet. He was terrified of being back in the cockpit.

“No,” Captain Coleman said. “Just access the Baranyk network and help us find answers.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I can do that,” his father said.

“Good.” Captain Coleman rose to his feet. “Take a moment and grab your belongings. We’re up against the clock with this one.”

“I don’t have anything to take,” his father said. “The only belonging I care about is right here.”

He pulled a faded picture from his pocket. The edges were rough, and one corner had been ripped away, but Coda recognized it instantly. He’d seen it on his father’s cockpit display dozens of times and knew that he’d kept it there every time he went out. It was a picture of the three of them together, taken by a stranger while they’d been on a hike. The last picture taken of their family before his father’s disappearance.

“It’s the only thing I have from before.”

“Let’s fix tha—” Captain Coleman froze, his words dying on his lips. He raised a hand to his ear, obviously getting a communication in his earpiece. “Repeat!”

Coda watched the captain intently.

“We’re on our way.” Captain Coleman dropped his hand from his ear, eyes hard. The captain was back. “Three Baranyk carriers just jumped into the system and are inbound. I don’t know how, but I think we just led the enemy directly to your doorstep.”

43

New Plymouth

Surface

They doubled-timed it back to the shuttle, Coleman in the lead, Coda and his father close behind. The marines inside the shuttle saw them coming and fanned out, guns raised, expecting an ambush.

“Stand down,” Coleman said as he neared. “The enemy’s out there, but inbound. Strap in and prepare for takeoff.”

Coleman strode through the belly of the ship and into the cockpit and settled behind the controls. His hand raced across them, initiating the prelaunch sequence, closing the hatch, pressurizing the cabin, and starting the engines. The shipboard computer synced with the Redemption’s, giving him his first view of the incoming enemy.

As Lieutenant Poiu had said, three Baranyk carriers were inbound. They’d already launched fighters, and judging by the number of enemy icons on the display, they’d launched every available one.

Coda fell into the copilot’s chair beside Captain Coleman and began putting on his flight helmet. Coleman hesitated, watching him. The other pilot was still susceptible to the enemy weapon, and he couldn’t risk Coda losing control again. Not here.

“Sorry, Coda,” Coleman said. “I’ll take this one.”

Coda seemed to understand and returned to the cabin, where he strapped in to one of the harnesses that lined the sides of the fuselage. Coleman knew that wouldn’t be enough. He grabbed two pairs of restraints from a central compartment and found Coda and his father in the cabin. Coda looked at the restraints then at Coleman.

“It’s for everyone’s protection,” Coleman said.

“I understand,” Coda said, resigned, then held out his hands.

Coleman quickly bound them and turned to Joseph, who sat on the other side of the cabin. He didn’t look as comfortable as Coda.

“I’m sorry, Joseph, but we can’t take the risk.”

Joseph wavered. He was a wanted man; the fleet would likely execute him on the spot if they got the chance. Allowing himself to be bound was akin to turning himself in, which wasn’t something he was prepared to do.

“It’s only temporary,” Coleman added.

Joseph finally relented, holding out his hands. With both potential risks mitigated, Coleman returned to the cockpit, strapped in, and prepared for takeoff.

“Lieutenant Poiu,” he said, channeling the Redemption’s command frequency. “We’re on our way. Rendezvous in thirteen minutes.”

“Copy that,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “The enemy’s launched fighters. Our squadrons are preparing to engage, and I’ve sent an escort your way. Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Coleman increased thrust and brought the belly of the ship off the ground, angling the engines to increase altitude. As the dropship climbed, Coleman took another look at the battle map. His escort was en route, only forty seconds out, while the rest of the force—marked by an overwhelming number of red indicators—was still inbound. Damn, there were a lot of birds out there.

The ship rocked against the coastal wind, gaining altitude. Moments later, two Nighthawks broke through the clouds above, shot past the dropship, then circled around and formed up on each of the Stork’s wings.

“Good to see you, Captain,” Lieutenant Little said. He was one of the newer members of the Forgotten, having joined the squadron after his recent graduation. “Let’s see if we can get you back to the ship in one piece, shall we?”

“Sounds good, Tiny,” Coleman said.

The other pilot remained quiet, and together, the three ships entered the clouds. Losing visual, Coleman’s eyes drifted back to the display. His fighters engaged the incoming enemy, who… didn’t engage back. The enemy slipped past the human squadrons, maintaining course, heading straight for the planet.

A cold sense of dread formed in Coleman’s gut. The tactic was little more than a suicide run. The enemy left their flank open, something the Forgotten were already making them pay for, but greatly outnumbering the human force as they did, it wouldn’t matter.

“Lieutenant,” Coleman said, channeling Tiny’s fighter. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Yes, sir. The enemy is slipping through our defenses.”

“And if I’m not mistaken, headed straight toward our ship.”

There was silence on the other end, followed by a soft curse.

“What do we do, sir?”

Coleman studied the display. Their trajectory had them flying toward the Redemption, but it also had them closing the distance with the enemy. Meanwhile, the inbound fighters, exposed as they were, took on heavy losses.

“What’s our ETA with the Redemption compared to the ETA of the enemy fighters?”

“Looks like… shit. ETA with the Redemption is four minutes after the enemy fighters enter firing range.”

“Okay,” Coleman said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. The Redemption is in geosynchronous orbit roughly above our position. I’ll have her plot a new rendezvous point to this region here.” He sent the coordinates to Tiny’s fighter. “That should buy us some time and give our fighters a chance to inflict more damage. With any luck, it’ll force the enemy to engage.”

“I like it, sir.”

“Okay, plot a new course and break on my mark.” Coleman channeled his radio to the Redemption’s frequency. “Commander Garcia, we need more time. I’m sending you coordinates now. Bring the Redemption around to a new rendezvous point.”

“Yes, sir,” Commander Garcia said. “Coordinates received. Plotting a course now.”

Coleman channeled back to Tiny. “All right, Tiny. Here we go. Follow my lead.”

Coleman pulled the joystick back and angled it toward his inner left thigh, bringing the dropship around to port. It bounced and swayed under the strain, sending his stomach into his throat. God, he hated flying in atmo. It was a completely different sensation than flying in the black.

On Coleman’s display, the Redemption started to move. The Stork’s tactical display wasn’t as sophisticated as the Nighthawk’s, but Coleman could imagine the two trajectories moving to a single intercept point—solid lines showing where they’d traveled, dotted lines showing the space to cover.

“Tiny,” Coleman said, “what’s the updated ETA?”

“Calculating, sir.” It took a moment for Tiny to come back. “It’s going to be close, but I think that did it.”

“Good,” Coleman said, the cold sense of dread melting slightly. Every moment, more and more of the enemy fighters were shot down. At some point, the Nighthawks would inflict too much damage, and the Baranyk would have to engage. This was going to work. It had to work.

“Sir!”

Coleman saw it the moment the urgent voice came over the radio. The incoming fighters had altered tactics. The bulk of them flipped to engage the Nighthawks, while the remaining force, little more than a dozen fighters, continued pursuit, somehow increasing thrust.

That shouldn’t be possible!

“I’m reading increased heat and radiation signatures,” Tiny said. “They’re overloading their engines, sir.”

Coleman didn’t need to have Tiny recalculate the rendezvous. If it had been tight before, then they weren’t going to make it now. The only question was how long could the overworked Baranyk propulsion systems withstand the added stress?

“New plan,” Coleman said. “Drop back fifty meters and stay on me.”

“Roger.”

Coleman dove. The ship shook as it cut through the clouds, angling back toward the surface. The Stork wasn’t designed for high-G maneuvers like this, and it groaned under the stress. It could withstand them if necessary, but it was going to let him know it didn’t like it.

He kept the ship on a course that took them away from the incoming fighters. His only hope was that their overloaded engines would give out first or at least that their numbers would be decimated enough that his escort could engage and be victorious.

They fell toward the planet’s surface in a steep dive that was damn near free fall, thousands of feet per second. Supplies rattled in the cabin behind him, and he thought he heard someone throw up. At ten thousand meters, he pulled back on the stick gently, beginning to level out. The ship shook violently, screaming and grinding. An alert sounded, ringing loudly, accompanied by flashing red lights. Like the incoming enemy, he was pushing the limits of his ship.

“Come on!” Coleman said, urging his ship on, still pulling back on the stick. “Come on!”

The ship leveled out, and the shaking subsided as it skimmed the surface at a thousand meters. Ten fighters were still inbound and—

They fired.

Blue plasma fire reminiscent of arcs of lightning streaked past his ship. At the enemy’s range, it was a lucky shot to even be so close, but it was too close for comfort. The escort didn’t wait for a command. They broke formation, turning to engage the enemy. Four fighters broke with them, engaging and leaving the rest in pursuit.

Coleman cursed. They weren’t going to make it. He scanned the countryside, looking for something, anything, that could buy them time. They were nearing one of the large farming installations, but a few hundred kilometers beyond it was a canyon. His hand tightened on the stick as he envisioned a canyon run. He just needed time. Only time.

Unfortunately, time was the one thing he didn’t have. A second blast arced past the cockpit, this one dangerously close. He tried to take evasive maneuvers, but the Stork was too bulky. And the enemy outnumbered him.

The next blast took the starboard wing. The explosion rocked the ship, shrapnel shattering the cockpit window. The ship lurched and spun, diving toward the surface. Coleman screamed as wind buffeted him and the ground raced up to meet them.

For the first time in his life, he’d been shot down outside the simulator. In the deepest parts of his brain, he’d always known it would happen. Death came for all fighter pilots who flew long enough.

44

New Plymouth

Surface

The blistering heat brought Coda around. His eyes opened sluggishly, his thoughts coming even more slowly, taking precious moments to realize the fire nearby was burning him. Searing pain lanced down his face and neck as he fumbled with his straps. Several agonizing seconds went by before he realized his problem—he was still bound.

Coda groaned, taking in his surroundings, looking for someone who could help. The dropship was destroyed. Terrible rents in the bulkhead offered a glimpse of the surrounding landscape. Guns, ammunition, and other supplies littered the cabin and were strewn outside like a trail of history, showing the direction they had come from.

Many of the other occupants were still strapped in. Others littered the ground like the cast-about supplies, while more, still held by their harnesses, bore multiple shrapnel wounds. The marine nearest him had been sliced clean through, his upper half ending abruptly at his waist, dripping blood onto the deck. His legs were nowhere to be seen. The smell of burnt plastic, blood, and viscera hung thick in the air.

The sights barely registered with Coda, though. The pain was too great, demanding all of his attention.

“Help,” he croaked. Then he managed, more loudly, “Help!”

Nobody moved.

“Help!” Coda tried again. “I can’t move!” He was growing more alert with every passing second, the agony increasing with it. He could feel his skin bubbling and blistering. “Please! I’m stuck!”

This time, he thought he heard something from the front of the ship. The cockpit was in ruins, the front windshield was shattered, and the navigational display was shooting sparks. Remarkably, a figured appeared. Blood dripped from his head, the crimson a stark contrast against his dark skin, and he held a hand to his side, where another wound was bleeding through.

“Sir!” Coda shouted. He tried to move, tried to give himself an extra inch or two from the fire. Coda shook, pulled, and fought, growing frantic now that he had hope, but the straps held firm. “I need help!”

Coda succumbed to the pain, letting out a terrible scream, his pain and terror creating an awful chorus. The captain staggered his way, dazed, as if barely aware of his surroundings. Something else moved from the other side of the cabin. Not something—someone. Sergeant Haniger knelt in front of Coda, shielding himself from the flames, and cut Coda free. He fell, and the sergeant caught him.

“Can you walk?”

Coda nodded, though the response must have been habit, because the moment Sergeant Haniger let go, he dropped to the deck. His hands slipped in something wet, sending him sprawling. He rolled to his feet, more carefully this time, using a nearby bench for support. He took great lengths not to look at the fallen marines still strapped in as he stumbled out the back of the ship.

Four other marines waited outside, eyes glassy and faces burnt but alert. They held rifles in hand, keeping their attention on the sky. His father was with them, bloodied like the rest of them, but alive. He looked at Coda, relief on his pain-stricken face. They’d crashed in the middle of a field of crops. Shoulder-height golden-colored genetically modified wheat stretched out for hundreds of meters in all directions.

In the distance, their Nighthawk escorts were engaged in a dogfight with the enemy, but the enemy fighters that had shot them down were already angling for another pass, ready to mop up their remains. The farming installation was close. Sunlight glistened off the tops of its metal silos and girders like a beacon.

“Move!” someone shouted. “Make for the facility and take cover!”

Needing no other prompting, Coda ran. His bound hands made the effort awkward, but he moved, driving his legs as fast as they would carry him. Around him, the marines formed a defensive circle with Coda, his father, and Captain Coleman at the center. The soft terrain squished under his feet. The wheat was long and thin, but fortunately, there were no rocks hiding among it.

With a roar, the incoming Baranyk fighters closed the distance. Coda knew that sound and compelled his legs to move faster, but he knew he could never outrun it. The sound grew closer, and as it did, it changed tenor.

“Down!”

Coda dove then rolled sideways, putting distance between himself and where he’d been. Four Baranyk fighters streaked past, and blue plasma fire rained from the sky, leaving small craters in its wake. Wet soil splattered around him. Coda jumped to his feet and was running again. The complex was getting closer with every step, but the enemy was already angling for another pass.

Coda repeated his move, diving, rolling, and hiding. He had no idea what had happened to the rest of their group, but he assumed they’d scattered. Bunched together, they offered an easy target, but spread out and taking cover, they had a chance.

Two more times, the Baranyk fighters came, and two more times, Coda was able to avoid their fire. This time when he ran, he made it to the complex. It was little more than a few dozen buildings. Most were massive one-story structures, big enough to have stored large spacecraft. Instead, they held industrial farming equipment and massive bales of wheat and other crops. A solar farm made up another section of the installation, while huge grain siloes occupied its center.

As Coda raced from the surrounding fields into the complex, he was joined by the survivors of their group. It appeared most of their number had avoided the Baranyk fire. They ran toward Coda, who ducked inside one of the large structures. Once inside, they kept moving until they were at its center then hid under one of the massive tractors. The fighters screamed above but blessedly didn’t fire on the installation.

“Thoughts?” Captain Coleman asked.

“It’s too big,” Sergeant Haniger said, “with too many entrances. We need something we can protect with minimal forces. Preferably something with multiple fallback positions. If not that, something with multiple levels.”

“I’m not sure we’re going to find something like that.” Coleman scanned the upper levels of the building, where a raised walkway ran its length. At the back of the building, it ended at a man door. “What about up there?”

“We’ll make it work, sir.”

“Good,” Captain Coleman said. “Move.”

As Sergeant Haniger ordered his marines into position, Coleman held a hand to his earpiece. “Redemption actual, this is Captain Coleman. We’ve been shot down and are taking shelter in a farming complex. Sending our coordinates now. Requesting immediate evac.”

Coda and his father left the captain behind, following the marines to a set of metal stairs that led to the second-story walkway. They stopped on the landing.

“You all right?” his father asked as he inspected the side of Coda’s head, where the skin still burned.

“It hurts like hell,” Coda said. “But I’ll manage. You?”

“I’m one of the lucky ones. We all are, I suppose.”

They scanned their surroundings. Sergeant Haniger had positioned his marines toward either end of the building, ensuring they had visual on both of its large entrances. Coda jogged down the metal grating to the man door. He opened it to find a walkway connecting the building with another identical-looking structure.

Streaks of light in the sky rained down like meteors, shooting across the sky in their general direction.

“Sir!” Coda screamed. “Enemy forces incoming!”

Sergeant Haniger appeared at his shoulder, muttering a curse as the first of the enemy drop eggs bounced, rolled, and came to a stop a few hundred meters from their position. From its protective confines, enemy warriors emerged. More drop eggs followed, and within moments, the enemy had assembled a force much greater than their own.

“I don’t like the looks of that,” Coda said.

“Ah, c’mon now, flyboy,” Sergeant Haniger said. “This is when the fun starts.”

As if on cue, the enemy rushed in their direction.

“All right, boys!” Sergeant Haniger bellowed. “It’s time to show your worth.”

Coda turned from the door, walking back toward the center of the building. His father waited there and had taken a seat on the metal grating.

“I feel powerless,” Coda said. “I know they won’t let me help, but…”

His father’s gaze was distant, unchanging.

“Dad?”

Still nothing.

“Hey.” He nudged him with a boot. When his father still didn’t show any signs of acknowledgment, Coda knelt down in front of him. “You all right?”

A shiver went down his spine. He’d never seen that look before, but he knew what it entailed. His father wasn’t with them anymore, not consciously, at least.

“Contact!”

Gunfire echoed throughout the building. Then Coda felt his consciousness pulled too.

45

Baranyk Network

New Plymouth, Surface

Coda fought the force pulling him into the Baranyk network. It was an odd sensation, almost like fighting a strong desire. His mind was at odds with itself, the logical side resisting, while the animalistic side was compelled, craving the deeper connection the network offered.

He collapsed next to his father, sweat beading on his forehead, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Someone spoke to him, but Coda couldn’t make out the words. When he tried to reply, the animalistic side took over, winning the battle of wills. The view of the building’s interior vanished and was replaced by the network.

It wasn’t visible in the normal sense of the word, no more than a dream or mental image was, though Coda could see it. The view reminded him of an expansive starscape, a void of darkness punctuated by millions of distant points of light. But unlike the expanse of space, the network was more navigable, and instead of an empty void, it was accompanied by an oppressive feeling. That feeling was stronger today than it had been in the past. Much stronger.

Is that what drew me here?

Coda spun, half expecting the Overlord to be standing over his metaphysical shoulder, but all he found were more distant points of light. Not knowing why he was there or what had drawn him in, Coda tried to leave. He imagined himself disconnecting, the network disappearing back into reality, but when he opened his eyes, it still remained.

Resigned, Coda floated, observing, afraid to do anything more. One of the lights moved toward him, growing brighter as it neared. The sense of caring and comfort accompanied it, and as it drew closer, a fuzzy impression of his father filled his mind’s eye.

It’s me, the impression said. Rather than a voice, it was the idea of a voice, something closer to a feeling.

Coda’s animalistic side responded by projecting a mental image of itself as if saying, It’s me, too, then conveying confusion. What’s going on? Was it you that pulled me here?

Yes, his father said. Then Coda saw the image of cuffs and a feeling of helplessness. We couldn’t be any help there. Here, we can be.

How?

Captain Coleman is looking for answers. I can get them for him, and you can help me.

Me? I don’t know the first thing about this place.

There are many ways to help. Follow me.

His father’s presence fled, and as if Coda were back in his cockpit following the blue thrusters of his wingmen, he trailed after his father. They didn’t have to wait long. Together, their light burned brighter than any of the presences around them, and none of the others seemed to be moving. It appeared they were the only ones actively connected to and exploring the hive mind in this way. That kind of activity drew attention.

The sense of hate and oppression grew, weighing on him like a terrible burden, crushing his spirit. The Overlord was somehow in pursuit and all around them at the same time. How could he run from something like that? How could he hide?

Coda’s father must have felt it, too, because he stopped. Coda moved close to him, curious.

The Overlord slammed into him with the force of a thousand suns. He thought his spirit had felt crushed and burdened before, but this was the feeling of true subjugation. He wasn’t worthy of bathing in the mucus that dripped from its terrible maw. Coda tried to run, but he was in the Overlord’s grasp now, and the terrible being wasn’t letting go.

Coda was suddenly transported somewhere else.

It was a red planet, dry and dusty. The sky overcast with thick orange clouds. The heat was unbearable, and the air was thick with the smell of smoke. Each breath was toxic, burning his insides with acrid poison. Coda covered his mouth, realizing that he had a body again, then turned, his eyes growing wide.

No, it wasn’t a red planet… it was a burning planet. Coda stood atop a hill overlooking what remained of a city. Burning buildings dotted the skyline like flaming refuse. Fallen bridges protruded from poisonous waters like the fingers of a drowning man reaching for the surface a final time before the waters claimed him. What wasn’t burning was black, having already been claimed by the fire. Screams echoed from the distance, wails of agony, terror, and despair.

Coda tried to look away, but everywhere he looked, the view was the same. Destruction reigned, and humanity had fallen. He closed his eyes, and through the cries and despair, he felt the presence. Even before he opened his eyes again, he knew the Overlord was with him. He had brought Coda to this hellscape. There was no mistaking the implication. The Overlord had brought the apocalypse.

Coda finally turned, ready to confront his oppressor. The Overlord stood in his full glory. Over two meters tall, with a long, powerful body, he stood on four legs, keeping two more forelimbs close to his body. The orange sunlight reflected off his black carapace, highlighting gray-and-white striations. Antennae twitched atop his triangular head, his dark eyes reflecting the world he’d destroyed.

Coda took a reflexive step back and tripped over a rock, falling flat on his back. The Overlord sprang. He moved faster than Coda had ever imagined possible, landing atop him, his two forelimbs piercing Coda near the shoulders, pinning him to the ground. Coda screamed, writhed, and tried to move, but the pain was too great.

Helpless, he spat at the Overlord. Spittle sprayed the black carapace, and Coda felt a surge of satisfaction as a little even got in the Overlord’s eye. Though if he noticed, Coda couldn’t tell.

The Overlord opened his maw, displaying dozens of razor-sharp teeth, and let a glob of thick mucus drip across the side of Coda’s head. Coda shivered, shaking his head back and forth, but it only smeared the mucus across his face and through his hair. The Overlord chittered, his antennae vibrating.

Is that laughter?

“Just do it already!” Coda screamed. “What are you waiting for?”

The Overlord just studied him, waiting—for what?

“Come on! What do you want?”

An image of his father flashed in Coda’s mind. In the shock of finding a desolate planet and coming face-to-face with the Overlord himself, Coda hadn’t realized his father was nowhere to be seen. He was alone. The realization brought with it a terrible sense of betrayal.

There are many ways to help, his father had said. His father had used him as bait.

46

Farming Complex, New Plymouth

Surface

Gunfire echoed through the installation. The metal roofs kicked it back with nearly the same intensity, rattling Coleman’s very being. He stood atop the elevated walkway, positioned near the central stairs, while the rest of the squad was positioned on both ends of the long building, manning its entrances. An open staircase of metal steps connected the upper and lower floors.

The Baranyk moved in a single mass, charging the building as if they were a medieval army storming the walls of a castle. More drop eggs had fallen, giving the Baranyk a horde of reinforcements and a significant numbers advantage. The ground crawled with them, allowing Coleman to fire indiscriminately into the mass, blowing off limbs, heads, and bits of carapace with ease. Yellow Baranyk blood sprayed in the air, coating the bodies of their nearby comrades, the ground, and farm equipment housed in the building.

Still more Baranyk charged, gaining ground. They were already halfway into the building, converging from both sides. They’d tried to jump to the second-story walkway, their powerful legs shooting them high into the air, but fell a meter short. Having failed at that, they’d tried scaling the walls, but the thin metal tore like cloth, sending the Baranyk back to the ground. With their options limited, they’d settled on a strategy that relied on numbers and brute force. Between that and the squad’s limited ammunition, it was looking like it would be enough.

“Fire in the hole!” Corporal Abernathy bellowed as a wave of Baranyk neared the stairs then threw a grenade into the mass.

Coleman ducked, shielding his head as the grenade detonated, throwing limbs and deadly forelimbs into the air. Shrieks rang through the building as Baranyk crawled over their fallen comrades. Coleman returned to position, squeezing the trigger, spraying more bullets into the advancing enemy in an effort to keep them from the stairs.

Click. Click. Click.

Out of ammo. Shit!

Coleman thumbed the release on his rifle, ripped the empty magazine free, and tossed it aside. Fumbling at his belt, he grabbed another before slamming it into place and chambering a round. The brief moment gave the enemy the only advantage they needed. They surged forward, charging up the stairs.

Focused gunfire rained down as other marines rushed to provide support. With the building overrun, their only objective was keeping the enemy from taking the stairs. As long as they held the high ground, they stood a chance.

The lead Baranyk fell, but as quickly as it was eliminated, another took its place. There were too many. It was only a matter of time before they broke through.

“Take out the stairs!” Sergeant Haniger shouted.

“That’s our only escape!” Coleman bellowed.

Haniger wasn’t listening. “Do it, marine!”

Corporal Abernathy pulled another grenade from his belt then dropped it to the central landing on the stairwell. The explosion ripped a hole in the Baranyk horde and sent the metal stairs crashing down. It also tore a new hole in the building’s exterior and damaged the support beams fastening the walkway to the structure.

The metal grating under Coleman’s boots lurched. Metal squealed as it tore away from the building.

“Move!” Sergeant Haniger bellowed. He and Corporal Abernathy grabbed Coda and Joseph, rushing toward the man door.

Coleman was right on their heels. The sudden movement did more damage to the wall, shattering more fasteners. The walkway collapsed behind him, dropping a trailing marine into the maw of the enemy below. His screams were cut short as the enemy ripped him to pieces.

Coleman didn’t have time to mourn or do anything except push for the door. He threw it open, rushing onto the exterior walkway. More drop eggs fell from the atmosphere, bouncing and shattering open, adding more Baranyk ready to enter the fray.

“Redemption actual, it’s Captain Coleman. Where’s our goddamn dropship?”

“It’s en route,” Lieutenant Poiu said in his ear. “We had to send a second because the enemy destroyed the first. It’s taking a different route to avoid the enemy forces, but it’s added time to its ETA.”

“How long?”

“Eight minutes.”

“Eight minutes?” Coleman repeated. “You have to do better, Lieutenant. We don’t have eight minutes.”

“Working on it, sir.”

“Work harder.”

Coleman rushed across the walkway and opened the door to the next building. Baranyk streamed up the stairs and raced down the walkway toward him. He slammed the door, throwing his back against it, digging his boots into the metal grating for leverage. Sergeant Haniger rushed toward him.

“What is it?”

“Grenade!” Coleman shouted. “Now!”

“I’m all out.” Sergeant Haniger turned to the marines rushing toward them. “I need a grenade!”

The marines grabbed at their belts but came away empty. They were all out.

Sergeant Haniger was already moving to plan B. “Find me something to barricade the door!”

The marines doubled back, but before they’d made it halfway to the other building, a massive weight crashed against the door. It shoved Coleman forward, and the door opened half a meter before Coleman’s weight and leverage won out, slamming it shut again. They were stuck between two buildings. Nowhere to run. No escape. No fallbacks.

“How long until the dropship arrives?” Sergeant Haniger asked.

“Too long,” Coleman said. “Too fucking long.”

47

Baranyk Network

Farming Complex, Surface

The Overlord wanted Coda’s father. Coda laughed bitterly. He hoped his father was accessing the network, making good on his promise to investigate its billions of connections to answer the fleet’s most pressing questions. A tinge of doubt had crept into his mind, the last vestige of distrust after years of thinking of his father as a traitor.

“You want my father?” Coda said. “I don’t know where he is!”

That part was true, though that didn’t seem to matter to the Baranyk leader. Using his needle-like forelimbs, the Overlord lifted Coda off the ground and held him at eye level in front of his triangular head. Coda screamed, his body rigid with pain.

The Overlord’s black eyes peered into his, and in an instant, the vision of the burning planet disappeared, replaced by something entirely different. The terrible orange sky and broken human skyline were replaced by an alien world Coda had never seen. It had green skies and a blue landscape with massive stone structures, each of them collapsed. Rubble was strewn across the landscape, and fallen bodies of creatures Coda couldn’t begin to describe lay motionless.

The image flickered, becoming a new world. Great coral-like structures jetted from a turquoise sea. Some of the structures seemed healthy, but others were a dull white and brittle. Coda watched as one of the towers collapsed, crashing into the water, sending waves that tore bits away from other nearby structures. Bobbing in the water under Coda, at the Overlord’s feet, were strange amphibious beings.

Another image showed tall crystalline structures vaguely reminiscent of human skyscrapers protruding from a rocky ground. Winged aliens littered the rocky terrain, purple blood leaking from bulbous exoskeletons.

More images, more worlds, more death.

It was as his father had told him. The universe was teeming with life, but planet by planet, life-form by life-form, the Overlord was extinguishing it, spreading death and subjugation on a scale the cosmos had never seen.

The images continued. Five more. Ten. Twenty. Each one was different, and each one was the same. Worlds fell to the Overlord. Life was enslaved under his rule. The scenes flickered, moving in rapid succession, becoming more familiar: Fallen human cities. Destroyed buildings. Burning trees and fauna. Collapsed bio-domes. Flooded cities. Broken space stations drifting in space.

“No,” Coda said, barely even recognizing that he’d spoken aloud. “No.”

Crushed bodies floated in water and drifted through space. What was left of humanity resisted. They fought. Ragged soldiers with guns, starfighters flying in imprecise lines, wounded starships giving the fight everything they had. In every scenario, the human resistance was overwhelmed.

Baranyk warriors tore through bodies, throwing blood and limbs into the air with a carelessness that made Coda sick. Starfighters flying in atmo crashed to the ground in horrible gouts of flame. Starships exploded in space, shattering into a million pieces, spewing their crews into space.

Somehow, Coda’s resolve grew. “No,” he said, his voice stronger. “We won’t be like the others. We’ve fought you for over a decade. We can win. We will win.”

The Overlord seemed to pull back.

“Yeah, you can understand me, can’t you? Then hear me now, you son of a bitch. You’ve never fought anything like us before. We’re the baddest motherfuckers in the galaxy. We’re stubborn, idealistic, self-righteous, capable of terrible evil, but good in our core. Leave us alone, and we’ll kill each other, but you’ve given us a common enemy and woken a monster you’ll never defeat. No… you’ve never fought anything like us before. Everything you’ve shown me will only strengthen our resolve. We’re going to be your downfall.”

The Overlord shrieked then flung Coda with his forelimbs, sending him flying through the air. Coda slammed into a rock, his vision flaring white. By the time his vision returned, the Overlord was above him again, raised on his back legs, forelimbs ready to stab downward.

Coda tried to roll, but the pain was too great. Blood poured from the massive puncture wounds under his shoulders.

The forelimbs took him in the chest and spread as if the Overlord were trying to rip him in two. Blood flooded Coda’s mouth. He choked and spat as blood poured from his mouth and down his chest.

The Overlord lifted him again, and with the movement, the landscape shifted. This time, the image was more familiar: blue skies, tall golden crops, and simple human structures. It was New Plymouth, where they made their stand. Broken drop eggs littered the land, pouring organic Baranyk material over the fertile ground. Smoldering wreckage of fallen Nighthawks billowed black smoke into the air. The ground was trampled by hundreds of legs marching toward the farming installation.

Hundreds of Baranyk raced toward the human structures where half a dozen men fought desperately atop a raised platform connecting two buildings. Two tried to hold a door closed, but Baranyk legs slipped through the open cracks, pushing. It was only a matter of time before they got through. Below the walkway, Baranyk were piling atop each other, creating a hill of writhing alien bodies that other warriors could climb. There was nowhere to go. No escape. The only question was which path would get the enemy to the human survivors first.

The image pulled back as if a camera had been zoomed in on a specific location then zoomed out. Coda was in space now, watching as the Redemption raced from three Baranyk carriers. The Forgotten resisted but were greatly outnumbered. The battle was lost.

Then they were somewhere else—above a rocky orange planet that Coda instantly knew was the Baranyk home world. Thousands of ships flew in orbit, larger than any fleet ever assembled against them.

The Overlord was making one thing clear—he was stronger and more powerful. He had greater numbers. And he was coming for them.

“It won’t be enough.”

Coda blinked. That wasn’t his voice.

The Overlord turned, giving Coda a clear view of the person standing behind him. His father. He was as Coda had seen him in the vision. Leaner, his hair less gray, face less weathered. No beard. It was as his father saw himself, Coda realized.

“It won’t be enough, because I know your weakness,” his father said. “And now I know where to find you. Get ready, you son of a bitch, because I’m coming for you.”

The Overlord threw Coda to the side and charged his father. Coda’s father didn’t move, just watched as the massive creature raced toward him, forelimbs ready to rip him to shreds. As they came crashing down, Coda’s father… vanished. The Baranyk shrieked angrily then turned back to Coda.

Stabbed in four different spots, Coda couldn’t move. Unable to get his father, the enemy seemed content to settle for killing Coda. The Overlord sped toward him and leaped into the air, angling its forelimbs downward toward his head. Coda flinched, slamming his eyes shut, and was ripped away.

I’ve got you. No words, just images of Coda being held by fatherly hands. Safe. I’ve got you.

Coda relaxed, letting himself be carried away. When he opened his eyes, he found blue skies, sunlight, and excruciating pain. He was back, and it seemed his injuries had come back with him.

48

Farming Complex, New Plymouth

Surface

The crash on the other side of the door was nearly enough to throw Captain Coleman from the two-story walkway. Despite his low stance, which provided him as much leverage as possible, he was pitched forward, slamming against the railing.

Corporal Abernathy rushed to the door as Sergeant Haniger struggled to hold it closed. He shoved his shoulder into it then turned, pushing against it with his back, getting low and using the metal grating to his advantage. They’d found nothing to barricade the door with, so instead, they used the only thing available—human strength.

The door banged again as the enemy made another push. Sergeant Haniger and Corporal Abernathy screamed in defiance, though it did little to prevent their combat boots from sliding across the metal walkway. A black carapace leg reached through the crack, swinging wildly, scraping against the marine’s armor.

Below them, the enemy continued to mass, crawling atop each other to create a hill of bodies that new Baranyk climbed, getting closer with every second. More drop eggs fell from the sky. It seemed the enemy had an unlimited supply of those. If something didn’t change quickly, they would be overrun.

Coleman rushed back to the door and stuck the barrel of his rifle through the crack. He fired. Shrieks of pain emanated from the other side, and the Baranyk leg withdrew as the alien creature retreated. Coleman continued to fire, knowing there were plenty more to replace it.

Click. Click. Click.

Coleman continued to squeeze the trigger, the clicks taking several moments to register. Out again. Shit!

“I’m out!” Coleman bellowed. “Give me a magazine!”

That’s when the scene took on a different sound. Shrieks and cries sounded from all over—from behind the door Sergeant Haniger and Corporal Abernathy held closed, from the Baranyk below, from the building they’d come from, and from the marines themselves shouting their defiance. What the scene was missing was other gunfire. Nobody else was firing. Looking at the soldiers now, Coleman realized he wasn’t the only one who was out of ammo.

Coleman took one look at Sergeant Haniger, saw the same realization on his face, then rushed to provide more help with the door. There was nothing left to do. They would hold out as long as they could, giving themselves every possible second for the dropship to arrive.

A new scream entered the fray. Pained. Human. For a moment, Coleman thought it came from one of the marines, that a Baranyk leg or forelimb had found a vulnerable spot in their armor, but then he saw Coda move. He rolled on the metal grating, rocking back and forth, holding his chest, in clear agony.

“Check on him, sir!” Sergeant Haniger bellowed. “We can hold this.”

Coleman darted across the walkway, dropping to where Coda lay. The pilot had been nonresponsive since before they’d blown the stairwell. Coleman hadn’t known if he was fighting Baranyk control or had accessed the enemy network, though he’d hoped for the latter. Coda’s face was ashen, and blood leaked from his mouth, staining his lips a violent red. He didn’t have any noticeable wounds, but something was very, very wrong.

Joseph woke, pushing himself up from the grate. He surveyed the scene, his eyes wide and mouth open.

Welcome to hell.

When his eyes fell on Coda, he rushed over then began undoing his flight suit.

“What are you doing?” Coleman asked.

“He’s hurt,” Joseph said.

“How? He’s been with us the whole time. Nothing has gotten to him.”

“I don’t have time to explain.” Joseph pulled open the flight suit then lifted the undershirt. The skin of Coda’s chest was pale, with blood pooling under the skin. “He’s bleeding internally. We have to get him help.”

“Look around, Joseph. We all need help.”

“Damn it, Chadwick, you don’t understand. He faced the Overlord himself. He knows where the enemy is.”

Coleman breathed through his teeth, nodding. He held a hand to the side of his head. “Redemption, it’s Coleman. Tell me that fucking ship is close.”

“It’s breaking atmo now, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “You should see it any second.”

Coleman’s gaze went to the horizon, scanning the blue skies and clouds. He didn’t see anything.

“Captain!” Sergeant Haniger screamed.

Coleman stood, ready to race to the door and offer more help, but the marine was pointing at something behind him. Turning, Coleman saw Baranyk legs hooked around the railing, pulling itself onto the walkway.

No!

They had no grenades or ammunition. His options limited, Coleman picked up a discarded gun by the barrel and rushed over to where the creature was trying to gain purchase. He swung wildly, aiming for central mass. The creature squealed, flailing its limbs. One tore through Coleman’s flight suit, cutting him across the chest and neck.

Coleman growled, swinging with more ferocity. Joseph joined him, grabbing at the Baranyk legs and pushing. The alien fell, rolling down the mass of writhing bodies, but already, another one was taking its place. The last marine not at the door rushed to help, using his gun in a similar fashion—swinging, hitting, pushing, fighting to keep the Baranyk from gaining purchase.

A boom echoed from above. Coleman’s eyes went skyward, spotting the dropship. It fell like a rock, tearing a hole through the clouds. Two Nighthawks flew at its wings, and thankfully, nothing appeared to be in pursuit. The Nighthawks blasted forward, taking a new attack vector.

“Push!” Coleman bellowed. “Push them back!”

He stabbed downward, using his rifle for extra reach, stabbing at the climbing Baranyk before they reached the pinnacle of their pile. One hooked his gun with a leg, ripping it from Coleman’s hands, nearly dragging Coleman with it. His chest slammed into the railing, feet pulled from the grating, eyes looking straight down. The Baranyk lunged at him, swinging at his face. Coleman pulled away, narrowly avoiding the attack, then stumbled backward.

Cannon fire erupted in the distance as the two Nighthawks tore through the enemy’s ground forces. Dirt and limbs flew into the air. The Nighthawks streaked toward Coleman’s position, firing controlled bursts into the enemy. The hill of Baranyk didn’t retreat or take cover. They were too close to their prey. They grew more desperate, climbing, jumping, flailing.

The marine took a forelimb in the neck and was ripped from the walkway to the ground below. That left only Coleman and Joseph. Sergeant Haniger and Corporal Abernathy still held the door.

The Nighthawks swung around wide to take a more aggressive attack vector that would allow them to hit the enemy at its heart. Coleman ducked, cradling his head as the Nighthawks approached. Cannon fire thundered, rattling every bone in his body.

Wind ripped across their position as the Nighthawks raced past. Coleman looked up, watching them fly by, already sweeping around for another run. The mass of Baranyk had collapsed, but they were already remassing.

The dropship approached then spun so that its rear hatch was facing them, drifting into position a meter from the railing. The hatch opened, and two marines took position on the ramp, guns angled toward their position.

“Come on, sir!” one of the marines shouted.

Two more marines appeared behind them, firing into the Baranyk mass below.

The first marine held out his arm, and Coleman took it, climbing onto the ramp.

“Let’s go!” Coleman shouted.

Joseph had taken Coda in his arms and carried him to the edge. The marines took Coda from Joseph and carried him up the ramp. Joseph climbed atop the railing and leaped into the hatch, following his son into the belly of the ship.

“He’s bleeding internally,” he said over the roar of the dropship’s engines.

Coleman watched as Sergeant Haniger and Corporal Abernathy held the door. He waved at them, beckoning them forward. “Come on!”

Corporal Abernathy was first, lunging forward and running down the walkway toward the ship. With less weight holding the door, the Baranyk heaved, sending Sergeant Haniger sprawling. He landed on his face but was on his feet in an instant. Baranyk streamed through the open door, meters from Sergeant Haniger, gaining ground with every step.

“Move, Sergeant!”

The marines on the ramp opened fire, taking careful aim so as not to hit their comrade. Baranyk blood flew into the air as bits of carapace were torn free. Even as the enemy fell, more took their place. But Haniger had some distance now, and Corporal Abernathy was already on the ramp. Sergeant Haniger leaped, a boot landed on the railing, then he propelled himself into the hatch. The marines continued to fire, holding the Baranyk at bay.

“Go! Go! Go!” someone shouted.

The dropship pulled from the building, angling upward and gaining altitude. The Nighthawks swept in behind it, shooting two missiles into the installation, laying waste to the compound and any Baranyk still inside.

Coleman let himself exhale then strode into the ship with the marines. The ramp closed behind them, leaving them in the dark cabin. They had Coda laid across the deck and were administering a shot. He’d stopped moving.

“How is he?” Coleman asked of no one in particular.

“He’s beyond my ability to help,” the person beside Coda said. She was dressed in a flight suit and had an open medical kit beside her. “Whatever’s wrong is internal. We’ve radioed the Redemption to have a medical team standing by. That’s all we can do for now.”

Coleman nodded, and the woman left to see to the other survivors.

“He’s going to make it,” Joseph said, holding Coda’s hand in his own. “He has to. I’m not losing him again.”

Coleman crouched so that he was eye level with Joseph. “What happened?”

Joseph kept his eyes on his son. “We were useless in there. You never would have let us fight, so we did the only thing we could do to be useful. I accessed the Baranyk network and pulled him with me. The Overlord was waiting for us, and he pulled Coda into his consciousness. I don’t know everything he did or everything he showed him, but when I found him, he was hanging from the Overlord’s forelimbs, bleeding, and near death. I don’t know how it works, but even though he was only in a different conscious state, some of his injuries are real. His body is trying to reconcile what happened there.”

“Where were you while Coda was with the Overlord?”

“Searching,” Joseph said. “He was distracted, and it gave me unhindered access to the network.”

“But you didn’t find anything,” Coleman said, disappointed.

“No,” Joseph said. “I found plenty.”

“What do you mean? What did you find?”

Joseph met Coleman’s eye. “Planets. Moons. An entire system teeming with Baranyk. More than I’ve ever seen in one place. I found your missing fleet, Chadwick.”

“But before, you said…” His gaze fell to Coda.

“I wasn’t going to leave him behind,” Joseph said. “He’s my son, and I’ll do whatever I can to protect him.”

Joseph had lied to him. Something inside Coleman bristled at that, but at the same time, he couldn’t blame the man. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry at him. If it had been Aniyah, he would have done the same thing.

“He’ll be fine,” Coleman said. “He’s strong. Determined. More stubborn than anyone I’ve ever met, including you.”

The ship’s rocking and bucking subsided as they broke atmo.

“This system you found,” Coleman said carefully. “Do you know its name?”

Joseph shook his head. “No, but I can do you one better. I can show you where it is.”

“You can show…” The rest of the words died on Coleman’s tongue.

“Yes, Chadwick. Give me a star chart, and I’ll show you where you can find your lost fleet.” His eyes dug into Chadwick’s. “I’ll show you where you can find the Overlord.”

49

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

Deep Space

The steady beeping eventually brought Coda around. He woke in the medical bay, which was unfortunately becoming a second home to him. Though, in this moment, the familiar sights and sounds offered an element of comfort. His eyes opened slowly, seeming to resist, and the white light burned. But irritating or not, it meant one thing above all else. He was alive.

Wireless electrodes covered his chest and torso. He even felt them on his temples, no doubt monitoring his brain activity in addition to the standard heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen levels. He tried to sit up, but his movements were uncoordinated and sluggish, and they were accompanied by a stabbing pain on his insides. He groaned.

That seemed to trigger something in the room. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye as someone approached. He exhaled slowly, ready to put on his best face.

“Hey, Doc,” Coda said.

A calloused hand took his. “Not the doc, Callan. It’s me.”

Coda turned his head, surprised to find that even that took maximum effort and concentration. His father stood there, leaning over him. He spoke in a soft voice, as if concerned that talking too loudly would somehow injure Coda further.

“Dad,” Coda said. His voice was quiet too. Maybe his father was just mirroring him.

“Hey, son.”

“It sounds good to hear those words.”

“It feels good to say them.”

Coda smiled and let his eyes close again. He didn’t know the extent of his injuries or even how long he’d been out, but with his father nearby, he felt better.

“How are you feeling?”

“Great,” Coda said. “Except that I barely have the energy to hold my eyes open and feel like I’m being ripped in two.”

His father laughed. “Well, that’s about as good as you can hope for at this point.”

“How long have I been out?”

He thought he heard his father exhale. “Six days.”

Coda’s eyes were open again. “Six days?”

“You’ll be here for another couple weeks, and who knows how long it’ll be before you’re in the cockpit again.”

“What happened?” Coda asked.

“Later, Callan. You need to rest.”

Coda had meant the question to be about the state of his injuries, but his father seemed to have taken it as something else. Memories flooded back. Images of the Overlord, of fallen civilizations, death, and destruction, of the massive Baranyk fleet.

“You used me as bait,” Coda said.

“No, son.” A weight settled next to him as his father sat on the edge of his bed. He squeezed Coda’s hand for emphasis. “Not bait. I’d expected us to search the network together. Find answers together. But the Overlord came, and I used his distraction to our advantage. I figured you’d understand that.”

The subtle rebuke made Coda angry. He wanted to argue, but he didn’t have the energy for it. The added moment helped him realize something too. He wasn’t angry at his father’s criticism—he was angry because his father was right. Coda should have known better.

“I thought you used me.”

“No, Callan. I’d never do that. You have every right to be angry with me, but don’t be mad at me for that. I’d never do that to you.”

Coda tried to nod, but the motion left him dizzy and nauseous. “Were we successful?”

“Yes. We did it, Callan. We found the Baranyk fleet and their home system. We sent a stealth probe to confirm, but I already know it’s true. I saw it myself.”

Coda wanted to be excited, but the truth was that the Baranyk fleet represented a greater threat than anyone realized. There were too many ships. The Sol Fleet couldn’t hope to hold them back.

“I saw it too,” Coda said. “The Overlord showed it to me.”

“Then you know what we face.”

Coda grimaced, replaying the images of the Baranyk fleet in his head. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. Fortunately, that’s not our decision to make. And it’s not something I want you to worry about right now. You need to rest.” His father squeezed his hand as if to say goodbye.

“Don’t go,” Coda said. “Please. I’ll rest. Just don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, son. I’ll be right here when you wake up. I promise.”

Coda moaned and settled into the bed. His father was right. He didn’t need to worry about the Overlord or the enemy fleet right now. He’d done his job. He’d brought his father into the fray. In turn, he had discovered where the Baranyk were and the threat they posed. His new priority was to rest, to heal, and when the time came, to be ready to fight.

50

Captain’s Quarters, SAS Redemption

Deep Space

Captain Coleman groaned as he sat. He was in the comfort of his own quarters, and damn it, but it had been a long few days. Hell, it had been a long few weeks. He leaned back, closing his eyes, his hand absently swirling the snifter of whiskey.

Dr. Rydell had informed him Coda had woken a short time ago. Coleman had thought about going to see him, but Joseph was already there, and he’d already gone back to sleep. Coleman was relieved. It had been touch and go for a while, and even after Dr. Rydell had stabilized his condition, she hadn’t seemed optimistic. Whatever had happened to Coda inside that network had left him severely wounded.

Coleman took a deep breath. That was done now. New Plymouth was lost, and the Redemption was licking her wounds, but they were safe. He took a sip of his whiskey, letting the alcohol sit on his tongue before swallowing. It burned going down, warming his insides and calming his nerves. He exhaled again, settling into the couch. He sat like that, taking periodic drinks, relishing the peace, knowing that it was only a matter of time before it was interrupted.

That interruption came after he’d nearly finished his drink. The door chimed. It was late, and he wasn’t expecting anyone. He stood with another groan, his knees cracking and popping, and made his way to the door, where he thumbed the keypad to open it. The door slid open.

Aniyah stood on the other side.

“Lieutenant,” Coleman said, immediately reverting to decorum to mask his surprise. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, sir.” Her tone was soft and vulnerable, quite different from when she had confronted him in the corridor. “I was hoping we could talk.”

I’m not ready for this. Not today. Not now.

“Of course.” Coleman stood to the side, motioning for her to enter. “Come in.”

She stepped into the room, eyes scanning its contents.

“Have a seat,” Coleman said as the door slid shut. “Do you want something to drink?”

“I’m fine, sir,” she said as she took a seat in one of the chairs. “Thank you.”

Coleman returned to his spot on the small couch, his eyes on his daughter. An uncomfortable silence extended between them. She looked at him, expecting him to say something, but he didn’t know how to begin. What does a person say to someone he hasn’t spoken to in years?

“Look—” he began.

“I wanted to—”

Their words crashed into each other.

“Sorry,” Coleman said.

“It’s fine.”

“Go ahead. What were you going to say?”

“No,” Aniyah said. “You go.”

Coleman smiled. This couldn’t have gotten off to a more awkward start. “I was just going to say that I’m glad you came by. I’ve been meaning to come find you, but…” He held up his hands as if to say, “You understand.”

“But what?” she pressed, unwilling to let him off the hook that easily.

“But I didn’t know what to say,” Coleman said.

“How about, ‘Hi. How are you doing?’ or ‘It’s been a long time.’”

“You’re right,” Coleman said. “Can we start over? Let me try again?”

“Sure.”

Coleman leaned forward, ensuring he had her attention. “Aniyah… it’s good to see you. I wish I had come to see you sooner, but I’m a coward. I’m terrified of my own daughter. Ashamed of my own past. The truth is, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time, and I’m glad you’re here.”

Damn, that felt good to get out.

Aniyah took a shuddering breath and nodded. It was a clipped motion, short and small. She turned away, breaking their eye contact. For a moment, he thought she was mad, that he had said something wrong, then a single tear crested her eyelid and ran down her cheek. She was too stubborn to wipe it away.

“Hey…” Coleman reached for her, taking her hand in his. She didn’t pull away. “It really is good to see you.”

“I know, Dad. It’s good to see you too.”

Dad. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d heard that word directed at him, and he wasn’t sure he had the words to describe how great it was to hear.

A heavy quiet filled the room, ripe with implication. Coleman didn’t know how long they sat there in silence, but it was different from the awkward silence of before. Something had changed between them. He knew that things weren’t good, but they had taken the first step toward healing.

Eventually, they started talking, telling stories of mundane things, sharing histories, and filling in the holes of lost time. They laughed, cried, and laughed some more.

He found out that his daughter was a rabid sports fan and that she could have played college basketball if she hadn’t enlisted with the Sol Fleet. His stories were less interesting, but she wanted to know what he’d done since the Nighthawk program had been shut down and why he hadn’t returned to Earth or been part of her life.

He’d never had a good answer for that, and when he tried to explain it, his words sounded hollow. The simple fact of the matter was that he didn’t have a good explanation, and that was something they were both going to have to get over. Rather than dwell on it, though, they shifted to happier topics and talked well into the night.

He hugged her when she left, holding her tightly, the same way he had always dreamed of. And she hugged him back. It wasn’t a perfect moment, but it was close. And when she left, he watched her until she disappeared around the corner. He closed the door and returned to his spot on the couch, a smile on his face. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, a thousand people under his command and relying on him, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like a burden had been lifted.

The feeling, unfortunately, didn’t last.

“Captain?” Lieutenant Poiu said in his earpiece.

Coleman sat forward, immediately on alert. He touched his earpiece, opening the channel to his tactical officer. “Yes, Lieutenant. What is it?”

“The stealth drone has returned, sir. Sending you the information packet now.”

His heart already racing, Coleman grabbed his tablet from the table and opened the information package Lieutenant Poiu had sent. What he saw terrified him to his core.

The drone had taken a series of images from the system. As Joseph had said, it was teeming with Baranyk activity. In all, three planets and five moons were inhabited, but what shocked him the most was what orbited the largest planet. It was orange and rocky, and without being told, Coleman knew it was the Baranyk home world. Above it were thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of Baranyk ships.

It was the largest fleet Coleman had ever seen. More numerous than all of the ships humanity had ever assembled combined. Christ above, how are we supposed to stop that?

He toggled the last piece of information. It was a video. At first, it seemed to be the same as the images, but Coleman let it play. The drone wouldn’t have marked it as important if its onboard computer hadn’t thought it worthy of viewing. Coleman downed the last of his drink, then nearly spit it out as the video flashed and hundreds of ships disappeared. With another flash, more ships disappeared. Then again. And again.

In moments, the entire fleet had disappeared. A cold sense of dread washed over Captain Coleman. The enemy was moving. Their fleet was coming. And humanity wasn’t ready.

Afterword

If you enjoyed Wings of Mourning, please consider leaving a review on Amazon. Aside from purchasing a book or recommending it to other readers, leaving a review is the single most helpful thing you can do for an author and I’d be incredibly grateful.

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About the Author

Craig Andrews graduated from Portland State University with a Bachelors of Arts in English. Growing up on a healthy diet of fantasy and science fiction, some of his favorite memories include being traumatized by the TV shows Unsolved Mysteries and The X-Files. He currently lives in a small town outside of Portland, Oregon with his wife and two boys.

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