39. Family Values

Thirty seconds later, every dark lance battery on the Conqueror's left flank fired at once, meeting the Virulence's barrage to form a spidery web of darkness that wrapped itself around HC-1 like a shroud. It was five seconds after that when the disintegrators joined in, the heavy cruiser's shield steadily brightening as it struggled to deflect the continent-melting broadside directed against it.

Harlaown's thousand-sword spell lashed out again, pattering against the Virulence's own shields with negligible effect, and Rong-Arya couldn't help but let loose a sadistic chuckle. As countless Alpha Quadrant, Cylon, and Praxis commanders had found out, voids didn't have weak spots to hit.

She remembered sitting helpless on a bridge lit only by dull red emergency lighting, listening as frantic crewmen pounded on useless weapon controls, as one casualty report after another trickled through the speakers, the daemons inhabiting the comms system giving each name a bitterly mocking edge, and the distant rumble of nuclear detonations echoed through the hull. The stars had been faint but clear through the Stiletto's viewports, dimmed by the light of the explosions creeping across the frigate's surface. She remembered staring at them as she waited for the next missile to hit the bridge, wondering whether or not she would even see it coming. You should be thanking me, Harlaown. This is for your own good, you know.

The heavy cruiser tried to break away, zipping across the Conqueror's prow, but it was too late. The shield collapsed, and a hundred beams sliced into HC-1 at once. The engines were first to go, exploding in almost-beautiful gouts of wispy, polychromatic light, followed by the four Arc-en-ciel fins, removed from the main hull with a series of almost surgically-elegant cuts that left behind only partially-melted stumps of metal. The remainder took out the main coilgun batteries, leaving behind only a few point-defence turrets that were swiftly dealt with by a second salvo. Checkmate.

"Have the Virulence prepare for boarding – we'll cover them in case Harlaown wants to try something funny. The Temptress will- crap!"

The four fleeing Bureau ships had, as one, changed direction, barrelling back towards their beleaguered commander with all guns blazing. The Temptress was doing its best, but against an entire squadron's worth of angry mages, it was quite literally getting taken to pieces.

"Temptress, you are ordered to evacuate!" the admiral screamed down the line, heedless of whoever might be listening in. "For Tzintchi's sake, Endymion, get your people out of there NOW!"

The Mislaato-worshipper's reply was almost inaudible over the static, shouting, and crackling of distant fires that accompanied it. "... it... ma'am... sorry... we..."

Endymion's ship kept firing until the end, even as its hull melted away and its reactors died one by one, even as escape pods showered out of its underside. His final act as commander, in the seconds before a grapefruit-sized projectile struck the Temptress's bridge with the force of an eight-megaton warhead, was to personally launch two antimatter torpedoes at almost point-blank range into HC-2, laughing madly all the while.

A few moments later, the support frigate's S2 engines overloaded in a chain reaction, ripping it apart from the inside.

The Bureau cruiser coasted out of the twin fireball left by the torpedoes, trailing debris, with its wards flickering and its projector fins reduced to a fused, ruined mess. It took up station alongside the wreckage of the Chaos ship along with a light frigate, the two vessels overlapping their shields as their compatriots continued to advance towards the crippled HC-1.

"Commander, what are those two doing?" Rong-Arya asked softly.

"They... they appear to be picking up the Temptress's escape pods, ma'am," Ichiro-Faust replied, tactfully scooping up Cassandra and putting as much distance between himself and his commanding officer as possible. "They're taking its crew prisoner."

"Understood." The command throne screeched faintly as her claws sank into its arm-rests. "The squadron's remaining batteries will fire upon the two ships headed towards us until there is nothing left of them but dust and ashes. Meanwhile, we will launch another full spread of torpedoes, this time at the Temptress's last known location."

Torres stared at her. "Wait, the Temptress? But-"

"Executive Order Number 74," the admiral carried on in the exact same tone of voice, "states that allowing oneself to be captured by the enemies of the gods, and by extension the enemies of humanity, is an offense punishable by death at a minimum. Incidentally, the next person to question my orders will have their skin added to the Conqueror's trophy racks. This is not in accordance with an Executive Order – I shall do it of my own volition. Just so we're clear here."

The tactical officer turned very, very pale. "R-roger that, ma'am. Launching torpedoes."

A swarm of burning sparks streaked from the Zeruel-class's prow, zeroing in on their target with alarming speed. The two ships attempting to assist Harlaown's cruiser opened fire with their point-defences, but the incoming barrage from the Virulence and Conqueror was too much of a distraction and power-drain for their shots to have much effect. HC-2 and its attendant frigate would have to deal with the problem on their own.

Rong-Arya leaned forwards, the ports in her neck detaching from her throne. "Since Third Impact, our species has grown strong. Every one of us is precious to and beloved of the gods, and all they demand in return is our undying loyalty. To fail them, to breach that trust and aid our enemies by yielding to them, is to no longer be human, merely debris to be swept aside. The Bureau does not understand this. They rush blindly in to help their weakling of a commander even when he is defeated and helpless, even when he is no longer worthy of their devotion. For this, every last one of them will die. For this, Harlaown shall curse their names even as we drag him screaming to the Hall of Torments."

She smiled glassily at her tactical officer. "Torres, are those ships looting the Temptress dead yet?"

"N-negative, ma'am. They used the wreck as cover, and while they still took damage, they're operational."

"I see. The tubes have been reloaded by now, yes? Another torpedo spread, please. Same target."

"Affirmative. One moment..."

Their two targets had clearly had enough, slipping away into the Warp seconds before the next wave of antimatter explosions reached them, but the admiral wasn't looking at them any more when she relinked with the throne. Instead, the three ships immediately in front of the Conqueror were the focus of her attention.

HC-1's rescuers were a frigate and light cruiser, taking up position on either side of their wounded comrade. An aura of golden light embraced the flagship as the smaller ships began to telekinetically drag it with them, even as dozens of beams and hundreds of plasma bolts hammered into their failing shields.

"Another spread, Tactical," Rong-Arya said, still in the same quiet, calm monotone. "This time, at HC-1's escorts."

Opening his mouth at that moment was quite possibly the bravest thing Lieutenant Torres did in his life. "Admiral, we're out of ammo. That last salvo drained what was left of our ordnance reserves."

"The Virulence still has torpedoes loaded, does it not? Another spread, Tactical."

Even though the admiral's burning eyes were gazing blankly at a point somewhere in the middle-distance, it took only a moment of looking at them for the tactical officer's nerve to fail him. "Of course, ma'am."

The assault frigate's attack came from above, bracketing the enemy formation with explosions. The Virulence had only twelve tubes, rather than the Conqueror's twenty-four, but the beleaguered Bureau ships' shields were at their limits. The frigate simply disintegrated, whilst the only reason the light cruiser survived at all was because the glittering nimbus of Harlaown's custom deflector spared them from the worst of the damage.

The battered little warship pulled away, leaving its flagship behind – none of which stopped HC-1 from continuing to ward it against the endless bombardment from the Chaos weapon batteries. So that idiot still doesn't understand...

"Launch another."

"With all due respect, ma'am, I must ask you to reconsider."

Rong-Arya decoupled herself again, and stared down at her executive officer, who was standing in front of her with an expression of grim determination on his face. "I beg your pardon, commander?"

"The last enemy that could conceivably hurt us is retreating," Ichiro-Faust continued. "The only thing another salvo would do is run the risk of destroying HC-1 and killing our target. I repeat, ma'am – please reconsider."

The admiral reached down to her belt, pulling out a long flaying-knife that she began to toss up and down in one hand. "I'm sorry, but would you happen to be questioning me?"

The other daemonhost just grinned. "Why, yes, I suppose I am. So would you like to put that knife to use immediately, or shall I go and have it sharpened? Looks a tad rusty."

There was a long, frozen moment, and then she smiled back. "It'd take too long to get another second-in-command. Belay that last order, Tactical."

"Roger that, ma'am." Torres shot the executive officer a look of pure gratitude.

Rong-Arya sheathed the knife, and then paused to take a few deep breaths as she watched the last of the Bureau's light cruisers escape. Until that moment, she hadn't even realised exactly how angry she was.

"Right, fine," she announced at last to nobody in particular. "Freak-out over. I'm calm, I'm collected, and I'm cool as a cucumber. Everything is going according to plan. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Boarding HC-1. With our engines in the state they're in, it'd probably be best if the Virulence handles that. Up for taking a few more prisoners, Macmillan?"

"Any time, admiral," the Reiglite replied cheerfully. "Rest assured – we'll try to keep these ones in better repair."

"Good to hear. Incidentally, commander, would you mind giving Cassie back? Thanks."

No sooner had Ichiro-Faust handed the little girl back to her mother than she wriggled back onto the admiral's lap, staring up at her with her huge, blue eyes. In return, the daemonhost looked down at her daughter fondly.

"Hi, honey. Hope I didn't scare you."

Cassandra considered this for a moment with a four-year-old's infinite wisdom. "S'alright."

With that, she curled up and fell asleep, sucking her thumb self-consciously.

Back outside the Conqueror, Captain Macmillan had already begun his ship's boarding action. Again, the assault frigate could not bring nearly the same resources to bear as a cruiser, but the Bardiel-class had been specifically designed for this sort of work, and it showed. It positioned itself above the Bureau flagship, its underbelly cracking open like an unholy hybrid between a mouth and a ribcage to disgorge a colossal swarm of jagged, insectile boarding craft. With its weapons gone, the heavy cruiser could do nothing but drift helplessly as the Dreadclaw assault pods burrowed into its hull like gigantic, mechanical maggots, disgorging squad after squad of hulking Space Marines, mutated crewmen, and gibbering daemons into its interior.

Rong-Arya drew on the power of the Warp, inserting herself into Lieutenant Monza's makeshift psychic network. The array of psykers lay before her like a constellation, clustered in their two warships but with a steady stream pouring into HC-1. She focused on these last ones, looking around for a bit before she found the signature she wanted. A moment later, she opened her eyes again, the telepathic link established.

How's it going so far, brother-captain?

Not as well as it might be, ma'am, Brother-Captain Typhraxis the Corrupted, Ravager of the Weak, commander and incurable self-nicknamer of the Virulence's Space Marine company, replied. They've got some nasty automated defences fitted on this thing – even us Terminators are finding it slow going, and everyone without ceramite armour... well, they're just getting taken apart. I'm reformulating our battle-plan, but expect some heavy casualties before I'm done.

Understood. What about from an electronic-warfare stance?

If anything, even tougher. They've really hardened their networks since our initial assault on their homeworld. Our tech-priests are making progress, sure, but it'll be a while before we manage to crack them open.

We don't have 'a while'. I'll have Monza devote some of his network to helping you out – that should make things easier. Don't fail me, Typhraxis.

Of course, ma'am.

That done, she sat back and straightened her hair, a complicated procedure that initially involved persuading it to let go of the throne. There was nothing as valuable as a good first impression, after all.

"Commander, open a communications link to HC-1's bridge."

Ichiro-Faust simply saluted, pressed the appropriate button with a theatrical flourish, and backed away to let his commanding officer work her magic as Admiral Chrono Harlaown's face appeared on the bridge's main screen.

The two admirals made for an odd contrast. Harlaown was a serious-looking, conventionally handsome young man whose dark, slightly overgrown hair did nothing to conceal the bags under his eyes or the trail of dried blood leading from one corner of his mouth. He wore what could only be his Barrier Jacket, a black-and-silver garment that vaguely resembled a priest's cassock with dull metal spikes at the shoulders, creating a rather medieval aesthetic that clashed oddly with his ship's shiny, high-tech interior.

Whilst Rong-Arya's appearance was similarly anachronistic, her choice of time-period was rather different, opting for nineteenth-century flamboyance as interpreted through the warped lens of Chaos. In addition to the claws, the fangs, and the hellfire pouring from her eye-sockets, she had a small, neat pair of horns protruding from her forehead, and a whip-like tail currently curled around her body. Her chest was adorned with dozens of medals, an array of gleaming gold and non-Euclidean geometry, and her uniform was mostly comprised of the sort of pale leather that had clearly come from nothing quadrupedal, plus generous amounts of braid twisted into impossible, disquieting patterns. The overall impression was of a slender, diabolically stylish, and slightly over-decorated luxury office chair – an impression only reinforced by the small child on her knees, who was waving sleepily at the mage on the screen.

"Admiral Harlaown," the daemonhost drawled. "I've heard a lot about you. Nice to meet you face-to-face."

"As have I about you, Captain Rong-Arya," Harlaown replied formally. "Some of it even polite."

Rong-Arya simply smiled. "It's 'Admiral' now, actually, but I'll forgive you for making the mistake."

"No mistake. It's Bureau policy to address a criminal by the title they went by when the crimes were committed. So what did you want to talk to me about, captain?"

She hoped the channel's audio-pickup wasn't sharp enough to detect the noise of grinding teeth. "Why, your surrender, of course."

The stripling actually had the nerve to laugh. "Ah. Of course. Captain, I've seen the New Syracuse labour-camps. I watched the video of what you did to our boarding-party. Given all that, how can you possibly believe that I would willingly surrender to you? Please, help me out – I'm drawing blanks here."

Rong-Arya's fangs gleamed. "You know, that's a really good question. Brother-Captain Typhraxis, kill one-third of his crew. Slowly."

Cassandra, meanwhile, had woken up entirely, and was squeaking in delight. "Make him watch! Mama, make him watch!"

Her mother beamed at her and drew her into a tight hug, causing her to giggle uncontrollably. "A wonderful idea, honey. Typhraxis, have your men record their kills, and link them up to the comm-screen. I'm sure it'll be fun for all the family."

She looked back up at her opponent. "Children really are a blessing, aren't they, Harlaown? Take Cassie here, for instance. The Federation was going to let her entire homeworld's population die, do you know that? All to appease that ridiculous edict they call the Prime Directive. No, wait, of course you knew that – it's not like you'd just jump into an alliance with someone without doing your homework, right? Is it fun, working with a bunch of milquetoast bureaucrats without the balls to do what's right?"

"Not so much as deciding to demolish an entire galactic civilisation and everything in their general vicinity because of the actions of a dozen or so of their scientists evidently was," Harlaown replied lightly. "Different strokes for different folks, I guess."

Rong-Arya ignored him. "You have kids too, don't you? See – I told you I'd done my research. A big, happy family. How many is it now? I lost count. Tell me, how do you think they'd react if you died here and now? Should we rub it in a little? Send back fingers? Your heart? Maybe even your face? I'm sure we could give it a lovely little frame."

This time, it was the mage's turn to not reply, but she saw the muscle twitch in the side of his jaw. Gotcha.

"Of course, that isn't the first time that's happened to your family, is it?" she continued. "Remember your dad, Harlaown? Remember how he died, fighting to the last as his ship was destroyed around him? Remember how that made you feel? How old are some of them now, Harlaown? Old enough to deal with it as you did? I don't think so."

Harlaown's face was pale and taut now, his skin waxen.

"And then there's your wife. Pretty little Amy Limiette. Now, I don't know the exact details of the Bureau's widows-and-orphans fund, but I do know that in the long run, those things are never quite enough, especially with a brood as big as yours. How long until it starts running dry? How long until she has to start supplementing her income the fast and easy way? Do you think her meal-tickets will care for your children? Do you think they'll even notice them? As for her... well, there's only one way things can end, after you've abandoned her with half-a-dozen-or-so mouths to feed and no real support. How many do you think she'll spread her legs for before she starts to resent you? How many before she forgets you? Come on now, make a bet. For me."

"You bitch..." he grated.

The daemonhost chuckled throatily. "Appreciate the compliment, sugar, but you should know that I don't go for the married ones. Still, I'm feeling charitable, and that's why I'm going to tell you that there's another option. A way that you can be with the people you love, whilst experiencing rewards beyond your wildest imaginings. Monza – you're up."

Harlaown recoiled as the corrupted mage shuffled into the light, his hand-claw clicking softly. "Wait – Florio? Is that you?"

Rong-Arya smiled thinly at his reaction, and went back to checking up on the status of the boarding mission. Typhraxis, I'm not seeing a whole lot of recorded deaths here yet. Talk to me.

That's because we haven't found anyone yet, ma'am – just dozens and dozens of mines, barriers, and sentry-turrets. Good news is we've almost got through their electronics – that sorcerer network's really helping. I'll let you know when we're in their system.

Good. Do so.

As she spoke, Monza's facial tubes writhed and spread apart with a hideous sucking sound, forcing even the Conqueror's bridge crew to look away. A mouth opened between them, too wide and in entirely the wrong place on his head, filled with jagged, uneven teeth and a nest of worm-like tongues.

"Hiya, Chrono," he rasped, every word seeming to come from several dozen throats at once. "Long time no see."

"Kaiser's blood, man, what happened to you? What did they do to you?"

"Do? They did nothing. I chose this. What I see now... it's not just this grey, mundane world we live in. I can't describe it. You can't comprehend it. But I can show it to you if you let me, if you join us – and believe me, it is glorious."

"Florio, you're sick, they've brainwashed you... I don't know. Just let me help you – it's not too late. It – it can't be too late." The mage was stammering now, shaking his head in frantic denial.

A wheezing, gurgling noise came out of Monza's mouth, causing several of his audience to stare at him in confusion before they realised it was laughter. "You don't get it, do you? You're alone, Chrono. Alone in the cold and dark, and the monsters are at your door. You can't help me. You can't help anyone. I can help you, though. I can help your family, your friends... everyone. All you have to do is surrender. That's it. I did it – you can too."

Harlaown seemed to collapse while standing up, every part of him sagging inwards. "You're right, aren't you, Monza? I can't win."

"That's the spirit!" the lieutenant said reassuringly. "See, ma'am? I told you I could- ma'am?"

Rong-Arya was staring at her command throne's projectors, her face ashen. "Say again, brother-captain. I... I didn't catch you the first time."

The ship's empty, ma'am! It's just us, the turrets, and Harlaown! We checked the security cams, the bio-sensors, everything – there's nobody else on board!

In that instant, the daemonhost noted two things. First, that a light cruiser had spent an awfully long time near Harlaown's ship despite minimal apparent gain, and had received an unusual degree of protection from somebody at the end of their metaphysical tether. Second, that both the Conqueror and the Virulence were well within two hundred kilometres of a TSAB heavy cruiser.

"Damn it, Typhraxis, shut down the weapon controls! Do it now!"

We can't, ma'am! The system's locked us out! Oh gods oh gods oh gods...

"Then get to the bridge, you idiot! I don't care about the casualties – kill that son of a bitch!" She was yelling at the top of her voice, sweat pouring off her forehead. "Macmillan, pull out! Helm, fire the retros! Abort the mission! ABORT THE FUCKING MISSION!"

On the screen, Harlaown was smiling, the terror and defeat gone from his face in an instant. "Well, I guess the rest of the fleet should be safe by now. Thanks for clumping everyone so close together, by the way – I appreciate it."

The image zoomed out, showing the bridge crew his hands – and, more importantly, what they were holding. One was placed on the glowing hemisphere of a Magical Interface System control crystal. The other held a small plastic key, jammed into a bright red box – the firing system for an Arc-en-ciel. The crystal flared, and the blue deflector shield appeared once more around HC-1, the Bureau flagship Claudia, brushing aside the Chaos warships' desperate attacks.

"Your information wasn't entirely accurate, captain," he continued, his body shaking as magical feedback ravaged it from the inside. "My father was not killed by boarders, or some other external force. He evacuated every one of his crew from his ship, and then he personally arranged its destruction – and yes, I hated him for it. I hated him for years, and I can only hope that my own children end up being a little more understanding than I was. Even if they aren't though, I would sooner die a thousand deaths than deliver them into your hands. Oh, and Florio?"

"Yes, admiral?" Monza asked.

"Sorry I couldn't save you too."

Admiral Chrono Harlaown turned the key, sending unfathomable energies surging into the Claudia's ruined focusing array. In the nanoseconds before it exploded, Rong-Arya belatedly wondered if there were some things about sacrifice that she did not understand after all.


The daemonhost rubbed her eyes instinctually as the light faded, only to yelp in pain a second later as she scorched her hands. On the plus side, that means I still have hands – and, presumably, arms. I was worried about that for a moment.

"Commander, how badly were we hit?"

"The entire front two klicks of the ship're gone," Ichiro-Faust replied glumly. "No retros, and most of our weapons and manoeuvring thrusters are out, too. To be honest, we're lucky it wasn't worse."

Shit. "And the Virulence?"

He just shook his head. "It was closer than we were."

"Well, at least we're still alive," she said with forced cheer, absently running her claws through Cassandra's hair. "Fire up the distress beacon, check the breached sectors for survivors, and- what is that idiot doing now?"

Monza was laughing again, his head tilted back and his horrible pseudo-mouth yawning wide, as he spread his arms as if to embrace the distant stars. The curious thing, Rong-Arya noticed, was that once you got past the rather significant obstacle of the man's mutated larynx, it wasn't even a particularly insane laugh – just the pleasant, delighted chuckle of someone who'd finally figured out the punchline to a rather good joke.

"What's so funny, lieutenant?" she asked, exasperated.

I've been dreaming for the past few weeks, you know that? he said inside her head, not bothering to use his real voice. Such wonderful dreams – they let me see things I could never have imagined, let me escape to places that defied belief. I've enjoyed our journey, captain, and not just because of your hair. There's one thing about dreams, though. One very important thing.

"And that would be?"

Eventually, you have to wake up.

She only saw it as a flicker of movement at first – a massive panel of ceramite armour, ripped from the Conqueror's hull by the explosion. It was headed straight towards the bridge, moving faster and faster as a faint magical aura pulled it along.

Florio Monza was still laughing as Rong-Arya emptied an entire clip from her bolt pistol into him.

She vaulted off her throne, carrying her protesting daughter under one arm as she sprinted for the main elevator. "GET OFF THE BRIDGE! NOW!"

The next few seconds were a mad, blurred rush, more a series of static images than anything else. She saw tech-priests desperately trying to extricate themselves from their stations, their mechadendrites hopelessly entangled in the machinery. She saw Ichiro-Faust, bellowing and red-faced, marshalling the panicked crew into carefully-planned exit routes. She saw men, women, and indeterminates trip and fall, their comrades stampeding over them as their doom crept ever-closer. She saw herself, as if from a distance, shoving Cassandra into a maintenance worker's waiting tentacles and leaping out of the elevator, grabbing her idiot of an executive officer, and dragging him back inside with her just before the door slammed shut. Then, there was cramped, oppressive silence, broken only by the rumble of the elevator and the distant crash as Monza's final gift obliterated the Conqueror's bridge.

The maintenance tech wordlessly handed her daughter back, and she clung onto the girl as if she were a lifebelt in a storm.

Whenever they had raided a world in the Alpha Quadrant, all the prisoners had been treated the same way regardless of their prior stations. They had been left in the cargo hold, exposed to infinitely-looping propaganda videos carefully selected to break their wills, and given food and water tainted with the Warp. By the time they reached their home-base at the New Syracuse colony, some prisoners would be dead, others would be insane, and most would be mutated.

Once they were planetside, the ones who were still alive would be separated from their families and branded with serial numbers, denoting them as members of one of the many work-gangs dedicated to expanding the colony and serving its inhabitants. Those who could not accomplish this to their masters' standards, whether due to age, infirmity, or simple incompetence, would be dragged away by the colony's medical staff in order to be modified for greater efficiency at their allotted task... and nobody who had seen the results of those shadowy figures' handiwork would consider that to be a reward in any way.

The one way to escape this was to offer oneself to the Stiletto's sorcery cadre and ask them to assess your worthiness as a disciple of the gods. True believers had runes carved into their foreheads at grand, public ceremonies that celebrated their rebirth as children of Chaos, granted all the rights and privileges of full citizens – which were not terribly extensive, but at least they weren't slaves any more. Those who approached the psykers with deceit in their hearts, though, whether to better themselves or just to make the hurting stop, also had their fates made public... and for some reason, there tended to be a lot more of them. Eventually, most captives would quietly resign themselves to being slowly worked to death, letting the chosen ones recreate the luxuries that had been granted to them by divine benevolence on their long-distant homeworld.

That was the fate of the ordinary citizenry, the unthinking sheep who had let the Alpha Quadrant's injustices persist through their own fear and indolence. The Bureau, though... they were different. They had blasphemed against the gods, murdered her people, and rejected her message of redemption on a scale hitherto unprecedented.

For them... she would have to think up something a little more imaginative.

Cassandra whimpered as her mother's claws dug into her back reflexively. Rong-Arya didn't notice.


Jaghal Nine was simply one of the dozens of Bureau listening-posts dotted across the edge of Wild Space, and far from the only one to be up-gunned and expanded to serve as a staging point for the war effort. In fact, it was, if anything, one of the quieter ones, which was why it was such a surprise when the station's sensors detected a trio of battered, scarred warships approaching it through dimensional space.

"Incoming ships, state your identity and purpose," the local commander ordered blearily, trying to sound authoritative as the caffeine slowly kicked in.

"This is Rear Admiral Camargue, commander of the heavy cruiser Indomitable and former commander of the Bloodhaven front," replied the voice from the speakers, sounding, if anything, even more exhausted than his own. "We request repairs, resupply, and use of your station's communications systems."

The station chief sat up a little straighter, his tiredness forgotten. "Of course, sir. Who do you want to send a message to?"

"Two messages, captain. A formal report to Naval Command, and... and a private line, to one Amy Harlaown. Her husband is... on patrol."

Though the words were spoken softly, they echoed through the listening post's command centre as if he had shouted. None of its personnel knew Admiral Harlaown personally – with the limited media available aboard Jaghal Nine, only a rare few even knew what he looked like. Even so, there were some traditions that were older than the Bureau, older even than space travel itself.

As one, every soul present stopped their work and bowed their heads. For a moment, there was silence... and then life, as it was wont to do, carried on, if perhaps a little more quietly than before.


Author's Notes: 'On patrol' is a real-world euphemism, used by the US Submarine Corps (among others) to refer to missing/dead personnel whose bodies have not been recovered. A slight departure from the TSAB's usual, more British, military inspiration, and a bit anachronistic in-context, but they're more than multicultural (and multiplanetary) enough for it to be acceptable, I'd say.

Though the fact that we're starting to head towards exam season may present some delays, rest assured that I shall attempt to post the next update as soon as possible. Join me then, as we enter the calm before the storm...