Nothing Good Goes Unpunished

by Montagne0

Regarding Inter-Dimensional travel, the Golden Rule is, "keep quiet and tread lightly, for you never know who's out there listening". Ratchet just wished somebody had warned him before. Now, old enemies make their return just as new ones emerge from the shadows. And take a guess on who they're all after?

13. Chapter 13: Another Day in the PDF

The plasma bolt clipped the paint can in the side. It sliced open the aluminium container with a wide cut, sending freckles of molten metal flying. There was a burst of red paint as the superheated projectile vaporized most of the liquid inside and sent the can tumbling down from its resting place over the metal fence. It hit the ground, spun around a couple of times amidst the dirt, and then came to a stop.

Ratchet could feel a smirk tugging at his lips as he admired his handiwork. He lowered his arm, the Combustor Pistol in his hand smoking.

"You missed the target."

"I hit it," Ratchet countered.

"You clipped it."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

"It was too far anyway," Ratchet grumbled, then shot a glance over his shoulder. "Don't act as if you could have done any better."

Sprawled on his plastic chair and beneath the garage's shadow, Grim said nothing as he took a sip from the soda can. Despite being early in the morning, Veldin's sun burned bright above. The air itself was hot and still, aside from the occasional and pitiful breeze.

"You sure you want to take that bet, kiddo?" Grim said, unperturbed. Ratchet snorted.

"Bet? There is no bet at all! Or what, you want me to believe that you can hit a target that far with a pistol?" Grim said absolutely nothing, until a wide grin made itself known on his face, stretching from one tusk to the other. Ratchet simply rolled his eyes.

"You know what? Fine. I'll take that bet. What are we betting?"

Grim shrugged. "It's early in the morning. How about the loser makes breakfast?"

Ratchet shook his head, then letting out a confident chuckle. "Sure, why not. Keep in mind though, I like my eggs with some mayonnaise."

"It's a deal then." Grim took his time to rise from his chair, his joints creaking loudly with the effort. Ratchet mentally noted that, if there had been the chance of becoming one with his comfortable chair, Grim would have probably taken that offer up years ago.

"You sure you don't need any help, old man? I can go grab a cane while I am it."

"Very funny. How about you hand me the Combustor Pistol instead?" Grim said with a frown as he crossed the distance between the two before coming to a stop by Ratchet's side. For his part, the Lombax twirled the weapon in his hand before giving it to him, handle first.

The targets, a series of old paint cans that Grim had no use for anymore, were arrayed along two intersecting staggered lines and at various distances from each other. The canyon wall behind them was pocketed with the signs of their earlier training sessions.

"So, which one?" Grim asked idly as he checked the power in the clip, his hands switching something on the weapon's setting.

"Well, the one I definitely hit was fifty metres away. How about you hit the second one at the same distance?"

Grim frowned. "A bit too easy, but I guess it's fair." Then to Ratchet's surprise, he walked past him and started moving along the firing range limit. He had taken maybe a dozen or so stride to Ratchet's right before finally coming to a halt. Only then the Fongoid raised the Combustor Pistol in one fluid motion, eyes narrowed and boring on the metal cans in concentration.

Puzzled, Ratchet glanced at him, then at the arrayed targets. The penny dropped right there.

"Wait, you are not trying to-"

Grimm squeezed the trigger and hurled a bolt of super-heated plasma screaming through the air. It struck the first target at twenty-five meters, slicing cleanly right through.

Then struck the one at fifty metres.

Then the one at seventy-five metres.

It ended its run by punching one last hole against the one at ninety metres, the plasma bolt finally exhausting its power. Ratchet could almost hear the sound of his own jaw hitting the floor. Every single target had been hit dead-centre.

Every. Single. One.

"I missed the one at one-hundred," he heard Grim comment. "I guess you were right, it really is hard. Still, a deal is a deal, right?"

It took some time before Ratchet finally managed to utter something that could have resembled proper words.

"How . . . how did you . . . I . . ."

"I like my bacon with just a pinch of salt, by the way. And do not overuse my mix of spices, it just drowns the taste."

"H-How . . ." was all Ratchet managed to say. His mind utterly did not register Grim's steps as he moved closer and by his side. He took some time to see that the Combustor Pistol was again in his hand and aimed up toward one of the targets.

"What are you-" he begun.

"You keep on freezing the last moment, just when you pull the trigger," Grim said, as he kept Ratchet's arm outstretched. "Try to remain relaxed. Exhale before squeezing. Eyes on target."

Ratchet blinked for a moment, but followed his instructions nonetheless.

"Widen your stance."

"How do you know all of that?" he asked.

"A lot of practice on my own. Now, pull the trigger when you are ready. Don't rush it."

"What about the whole breakfast thing?"

"Forget it. I've seen how you cook. I'm not letting you touch a stove ever again."

For a moment, Ratchet raised an eyebrow, only to then let out a chuckle.

"No complaining here," Ratchet said. One of Grim's hand rested firmly on his shoulder, while the other helped Ratchet stabilize his outstretched arm. His eyes narrowed on one of the targets still standing. It was quite far, yet Ratchet felt confident. He followed Grim's suggestion and relaxed his arm's muscles.

"Like this?" he asked.

"Yes. You just need to follow my instructions."

Ratchet blinked. That had not sounded like Grim's voice at all, and yet there was something familiar in it. As if Ratchet had heard it before, but he couldn't quite remember where, a seemingly trivial piece of information buried deep within a dark corner of his mind. Puzzled, Ratchet shot a look over his shoulder and behind. His blood froze on his face, his heartbeat seemingly stopping for a small eternity.

". . . Dad?"

Kaden was exactly how he remembered him. Ratchet had spent countless hours staring at Alister's old keepsake over the past years, to the point that he could recall both Alister and Kaden's faces without much trouble.

Ratchet opened his mouth to speak, but the words died right in his throat. Something was wrong in all of this. Something was wrong with Kaden's eyes. The green-coloured irises, the spark he had always seen in his father's gaze was gone. His eyes were glassy, pale and discoloured; the pupils stood out as black dots, tiny specks swallowing all the light.

Kaden's gaze was dead.

"Follow my instruction," he repeated. There was not one inflection in his cold and distant voice. "Follow my instructions."

Ratchet tried to take a step back, but 'Kaden' had his own hand on Ratchet's wrist. His very touch felt freezingly cold. Panic mounting, Ratchet jerked away, pulling with all his strength, but it was of no use.

"Let me go!"

"Follow my instructions," he said again. "Follow my instructions. Follow my instructions . . ."

Kaden's lips shifted, but the sounds did not match their movement; they were out of synch, like an old and broken holovid. The voice itself was an endless droning sound, continuous and overwhelming.

Teeth grinding together, Ratchet's eyes darted around for a way out. It was then he realized he was no longer on Veldin; the dry heat, the sun-baked rock and sand, Grim's garage, they were all gone. The air was humid, wet, and carried the stench of rot. Freezing and putrid water lapped at his ankles.

Ratchet never had the time to wonder how he had gotten there, for it was in that moment he finally noticed them.

There were bodies in the water, hundreds of them bobbing along, clad in either PDF military fatigues or bulky Blarg suits. The water around them had an unmistakable dark-crimson hue, letting out an overwhelming, gut-wrenching stench of rotting flesh. Two gargantuan metal doors towered over the rest, rising out from the surrounding swamp like a pair of black monoliths. Ratchet blinked as he noticed the sharp and geometric symbols carved across their surface. Lombax characters; an alphabet he had come to learn over the years with some difficulties, and a language he had never fully mastered.

It read, 'May the Ancestors watch over us, beneath the pale moon of Fastoon.'

The words clicked in Ratchet's mind, as if he had heard them before. Once again, however, his memory refuse to collaborate. He tried to focus, to visualize the fragments of memory twirling and twisting in his mind; he knew there was something important in that message. He didn't know how, nor why he was aware of that. He just knew it.

There was a metallic groan. The doors shook, then bulged, then groaned even louder as something tried to push its way through from the other side, the metal protesting loudly beneath the colossal pressure.

Eyes wide in panic, Ratchet took one step back. He thought about running, but by then it was too late. 'Kaden' still held his hand, keeping in him place. Their gazes met, Ratchet nearly recoiling as he stared at the black voids where his father's eyes should have been.

"She demands Her payment back in full. Open the gates. Let Her out."

The doors exploded outward as sturdy metal plates buckled. A tidal wave of blood burst forth with an almighty roar, rushing towards them as a moving wall of crimson liquid. Ratchet's screaming lasted for a mere instant before being drowned out by a crimson avalanche.

---

Ratchet awoke with a start. He blinked repeatedly as he took in his surroundings, cold sweat on his face; he was exactly where he had fallen asleep last night, though his blanket laid crumpled to the side. He shook his head and scratched behind his left ear, before letting out a wide yawn and finally deciding to get up from his coat and get dressed.

His armour laid on a metal desk beside his bed; it didn't take long for him to snap each piece into place with practised ease. Ratchet faintly remembered awaking once already, in the middle of the night, and deciding to do some maintenance on it while he waited for his drowsiness to return. As he adjusted his helmet, his sleepy gaze drifted towards one of the windows, and he frowned. The sky was a grey monochrome as far as he could see, and there was a faint drizzle tapping against the glass panes.

He glanced on a nearby holo-clock, his eyes widening slightly.

'Ten past nine. Damn, that's kinda late. I may have overslept.'

Stifling another yawn, Ratchet shook his head once more. As of late, sleep was not something he was getting much of. His dreams were getting weirder too, though he couldn't quite remember them. He never could, though if his sudden awakenings were any indication, they were probably nightmares. In that case, not remembering them was probably a good thing. He was probably just tense, he reasoned.

Ratchet snapped the last armour piece into place with a soft click, flexed and stretched his muscles a couple of time just to make sure every element of his outfit was strapped safely to his body. They were, and the Lombax let out a satisfied grunt before pressing the overing icon beside the door. With a hiss, the door swung open and he strolled right through it.

He raised a hand to cover his eyes, stabbing light greeting him from above as he stepped inside the wide hangar. Ratchet's ears caught the low humming sound of generators and other machinery working at full capacity everywhere around him. Still, he had long since grown accustomed to it, so he simply ignored it, his attention fully directed at the starfighter resting inside the hangar, surrounded by power tools, broken metal plates, and exhausted ion cores.

Aphelion was certainly looking much better now, he noted with some pleasure. Although a few dents and scars would certainly remain, most of the outside damage was now just a memory. Her weaponry had been disassembled and waited on the other side of the hangar; one of the cannons had proved impossible to salvage and was now only useful as spare parts. The PDF had at least sent one of their own spare armaments as replacement; it wasn't at the same level as Aphelion's arsenal, though Ratchet had found room for improvement. Whether the PDF maintenance crews would have approved of such modifications, it was up for debate.

Even though he had made some serious progress in restoring Aphelion to complete functionality, Ratchet couldn't help but frowning in irritation. He had quickly come to realize that ,even if Major Pelesky had granted him access to PDF official stocks, it didn't actually mean all that much in application. Planet Basilisk III was far away, and the supplies reaching the colony were barely sufficient. Fuel and spare parts were easy enough to provide, but the same couldn't be further from the truth for more specialized components. Like a Navigation Unit, for example.

So caught up he was with his own thoughts, Ratchet almost missed his best friend standing by one of Aphelion's metal wings. Clank looked up only briefly from the data-pad he had been consulting, his metallic jaw shifting into a grin.

"Good morning, Ratchet. Did you sleep well?"

"Something like that," Rachet conceded. He failed to suppress a loud yawn. "You're up already?"

Clank nodded, letting out a soft chuckle. "I have been busy running a few scans on Aphelion's mainframe. The analysis should be completed in a couple of hours at most, but so far, her systems appear to be in good order."

"Which is exactly as I had explained him before!" Aphelion's voice suddenly cut in. "Yet, suddenly, I'm not trustworthy anymore. I could have run those scans myself and spared you the effort."

Ratchet did not miss the annoyed undertone in her voice. His eyebrow climbed up just a bit.

"Of course I trust your assessments, Aphelion," Clank explained. "But please understand, I merely wish to be thorough. Even though Ratchet has done an excellent work regarding your repairs, there may still be some damage or malfunction we have overlooked."

The sound coming from Aphelion next was an electronic groan of sorts, and an irritated one at that.

"I still believe this to be a waste of time," she finally said. "All my systems are running now within acceptable parameters. The only thing I require now is a Navigation Unit, and then I will be ready to support you once more in combat, should those Blargs show their ugly mugs once again."

Ratchet noticed the wary glance Clank shot him, and gave him a shrug as a reply. He knew what his friend meant. The Lombax might have been an excellent mechanic, but he had to make do with the tools and materials provided by the local PDF; they were not abysmal, but still were a far cry from the quality he was accustomed to. Ratchet visibly frowned, biting his lower lip in thought. Those Blarg pilots had bested them once already; he didn't want to think on what would happen a second time, given Aphelion's current conditions.

However, he refrained himself from mentioning any of that. Instead, Ratchet simply put on a confident grin.

"I'm sure you will. You know how Clank is though, he just gets worried on stuff," he said. That earned him a sceptical glance from his friend, but Ratchet kept going. "Speaking of Navigation Units, I'm sure Clank was about to go ask our PDF friends if they finally have one to spare right now, weren't you buddy?"

"Well, actually I-" Clank tried to interject, only for Ratchet to place a gloved hand on his metallic shoulder and taking him aside, making sure to put some distance between them and Aphelion.

"Okay pal, listen," Ratchet whispered. "Aphelion is acting weird as of late. Like, I'm not just imagining that, right?"

Clank frowned, then nodded. "It is a considerable depart from her usual, collected manner." He shook his head. "And also, well, how do I put it . . ."

"What's wrong?"

Clank hesitated for a few more moments, before finally shaking his head. "There is a reason I have started running independent tests on her mainframe. I believe Aphelion was purposedly distorting the results in order to make them appear better than they actually were."

Ratchet blinked in surprise. "What? She . . . she can do that?"

"Apparently yes, she can."

The Lombax stopped in his tracks, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, maybe it's time for the two of us to have a little chat then. Mind giving us some privacy, pal?"

"Of course. Are you sure you don't need my help?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it," Ratchet said with a confident grin. "I know how to talk to a girl, don't I? Got plenty of experience over the years. It will be fine."

Clank's eye-lenses narrowed for a brief moment. "For the sake of our long-standing friendship, Ratchet, I will now avoid commenting that statement."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Laugh it up all you want, pal. I'll show you what-"

Ratchet paused, then smacked loudly his own forehead. "Damn it, I almost forgot! I'd volunteered to help training some of the new local recruits this morning. I guess mine and Aphelion's little chat will have to be postponed until then."

Clank blinked quizzically. "You? Training PDF recruits? Since when?" Ratchet shrugged.

"Look, one of those PDF guys asked if I wanted to help them with a few things. As we don't have access to a Nav Unit to finish the repairs, and we are literally sitting on our rears for the time being, I decided to find a better way to employ my time."

"A wise idea," Clank said. "We are technically guests here, after all. However, I thought they would have turned towards someone more, ahem, qualified for the task. No offence, of course."

"Well, I'm just supposed to help them shoot straight, and I do happen to have some experience with that. Come on, give me some credit!"

"I . . . I really cannot contest that claim." Clank shook his head. "Very well. I suppose then that I will go back annoying our dear Quartermaster in the hope that they have finally managed to locate a Nav Unit for us to use."

Ratchet scoffed, shaking his head. "What are the chances of that?"

"Low," Clank admitted. "Very low. In the meantime, enjoy your training sessions. Hopefully, the recruits won't take much from your fire-and-forget approach at solving conflicts."

Ratchet let out a snort. He would let the joke pass, at least this time. After all, it was getting late, and the PDF sergeant he was working with was not a patient one.

---

"Zabyos! By the Zonis, if I don't see you hitting something centre-mass in the next ten seconds, I'll personally cut your tail off and make a fucking guitar out of it!"

A loud and constant staccato of gunfire echoed across the firing range, occasionally accompanied by the hissing discharge of laser weapons, even though the Tillos Militia mostly trained with standard ballistic firearms. They were cheaper and easier to produce in bulk, compared to most basic energy-based weapons. Puffs of dirt and pulverized stone exploded beyond series of moving cardboard targets, high-speed projectiles whistling through the air.

"They are improving," Ratchet carefully noted as he observed the current batch of recruits testing their own skills at the firing range. By his side, PDF Training Sergeant Castel frowned as he handed him a cup of smoking coffee, before taking as sip from his own mug.

"Yeah, they are," he said. He flashed the Lombax a grin. "Only a little."

"I'm sure. By the way, how long do you want to keep them trying at it?" Castel shrugged.

"Five minutes. Probably less though. No reason to push them too hard." The sergeant jerked his head up, scowling fiercely.

"Conrad! It's called 'aim and shoot', not 'aim and aim and aim'! Fire that damn weapon!"

Ratchet took another sip from his mug. It was warm, and the dark and bitter liquid rushing down his throat was a welcomed sensation. He glanced to the side, where Castel kept on glaring at the line of training recruits. His first interaction with him a week or two priors had not been the best one, but he liked to think the two of them were starting to connect, at least on the job.

"It's not the first time we bring an outsider in to train our guys. Mostly it's either some mercenary or a retired hero from Solana," Castel had explained him once. "In both cases, they are insufferable pricks with an ego the size of a meteorological balloon, thinking they can do our jobs better than us with half of the effort."

To his credit, Ratchet had quickly understood what it meant and had therefore decided to let him do his things, giving his contribution only when requested and limiting himself to a few pointers. A method of work that had performed surprisingly well so far. He shot another glance at Castel; his appearance reminded him of Finn's. They both had red eyes, a tail, and a set of short horns protruding out near their temples. The only thing Ratchet had missed were the cloved feet, but that because Finn had been wearing a full uniform back during their first meeting, while Castel donned a more practical outfit.

Ratchet wondered briefly if the two were from the same race. He decided to ask him.

"Yup. We are both Fauchs from Planet Canderra, not that it really matters. We both grew up without ever seeing our homeworld once," he replied.

"Why is that?" Sergeant Castel shrugged.

"Fauch communities are scattered all over Polaris. Some small, other big. We are pretty adaptable, you know, and we can survive pretty much everywhere. Canderra may be our homeworld, but our homes are elsewhere."

He sighed, looking away. "Besides, none of us are in a hurry to return on Canderra."

Ratchet blinked, puzzled. He could tell something was wrong. "Something bad happened, didn't it?" Castel hesitated only for a moment before nodding.

"Tachyon," he said, then spat on the ground. "Bastard came along with his big army. Fauchs are proud folks though, so we fought him off for a while. Right until he decided to virus-bomb the planet."

He scoffed. "He didn't even take Canderra anyway, the spiteful little prick. People still live there though, even if it's not the same anymore. A lot of cities and villages are still empty to this day, but life goes on, I guess."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ratchet said, eyebrows knitted in thought. He lowered the cup and placed it back on a nearby table. "I know how it feels to lose your homeworld."

It wasn't exactly the same thing, of course, and Ratchet was smart enough to realize it. He had not even known that Fastoon was a thing until his early twenties, and even then, his relationship with his own race was pretty much non-existent. Up until Tachyon's arrival in Solana, Ratchet had zero knowledge of the Lombaxes in general. Castel, even if he had not been present at the attempted genocide of his homeworld, probably had a much stronger bond with his own kin.

Still, his words seemed to have some effect. The Training Sergeant shot him a sad grin.

"Thanks. It wasn't as bad as what happened to you, but I appreciate the thought." He looked up, the deep scowl returning.

"Athys! Would you please reload your weapon within a reasonable timescale?!" he snarled. He then shifted his attention back to Ratchet without missing a beat, his furious expression gone.

"I'll be honest, I thought the Lombaxes were all gone. When we first heard rumours that a surviving Lombax had in fact beaten Tachyon for good, I honestly ignored them."

It was Ratchet's turn to shrug. "Well, what can I say? I guess Lombaxes can survive anywhere too." The joke was horrible, yet it earned a chuckle anyway.

"Quite so." Castel glanced down at his wristwatch, before pursuing his lips. "Heard you also fought against the Blargs once, back in Solana."

"Oh yeah, that time." Ratchet shook his head. "I didn't have much of a choice though. Drek was determined to blow up Veldin to make space for a new homeworld for the Blargs. So, me and Clank decided to give him an ass-kicking the old-fashioned way. Next thing you know, we get both hailed as heroes, then Clank becomes a star on holovision and . . . well, the rest it's pretty much history."

"You don't sound all that happy about it."

Ratchet shrugged, his shoulders sagging a bit. "It has its ups and downs. And no matter how hard you try to hang your blaster to the wall, someone or something will come along and force you to pick it up again. Hell, me and Clank are probably on our, uh," he stopped, making a show of counting on a hand before giving up.

"Fourth retirement, I think? Fifth? Though you could probably argue that we never really retired at all, even before that whole affair with the Dimensionator. You hear that someone needs some help, and before you know it, you find yourself in the midst of a firefight with some pirates, or mercenaries, or whatever."

Castel smirked. "Sounds like you really can't do without some excitement in your life, eh?" Ratchet simply shook his head.

"That sounds a lot like an addiction though, doesn't it? Honestly, I would rather find a quiet corner of the galaxy where to set up shop as a mechanic."

"Not too bad of a proposition. Maybe once this whole thing with the Blargs is done, I might follow your example," Castel said. By his side, Ratchet chuckled briefly before his tone turned more serious.

"How did this hostility between you and the Blargs started anyway? I've been here two weeks and I've heard five different explanations already." Castel shrugged.

"Probably because nobody really knows for sure," he willingly admitted. He scratched at his left horn. "Blargs had been on Basilisk III for many years. We barely saw them, but we knew they were here. We just didn't care much; sometimes they came in the city to buy supplies, but they mostly kept to themselves, and we were fine with it."

He sighed. "Then, one day, Alpha Company returns from the Wild Zones claiming that Blargs have opened fire on them and that they have lost some of their own. Then, before you know it, we end up exchanging firefights with the Blargs on a weekly basis."

"That sounds . . . ahem . . ."

"Stupid?" Ratchet nodded. "Well, yeah. It kinda is. This whole thing is pointless, we're literally fighting over nothing, and we keep losing friends and colleagues over it." Castel spat down on the ground once more. "You ask me, the mayor ought to put an end to this bullshit. You let Dessabre handle it and, well, you know how the saying goes, right? When you have a hammer . . ." He trailed off.

"I think I know what you mean," Ratchet said with a nod. "What's a Wild Zone, by the way?"

"Uh? Oh, it's just how we name everything outside Tillos. Sector Delta, where you and your fighter got shot down? That's a Wild Zone."

"I see."

"Though I wonder sometimes what the hell Alpha Company was doing out there. Like, those guys are literally the Colonel's pets, so what the heck were they doing in Sector Omega?"

Ratchet opened his mouth, only to then quickly shut it. He merely nodded along, busy as he was mulling on what he had just heard.

'Sector Omega, uh? There ought to be something important there then, for the Blargs at least. After all, they opened fire on a PDF force. I should mention this to Clank later; looks like the kind of stuff worthy to check out.'

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt. A claxon rang out throughout the firing range. The gunfire stopped. The moving targets stopped dead in their tracks before being lowered.

"Alright, five minutes are up!" Training Sergeant Castel noted, checking his wristwatch. "Time to wrap this whole thing up."

Ratchet nodded, jumping down from his chair and stretching his back.

"So, we are doing the usual method?" he asked. Castel nodded as he produced a small data-pad to consult.

"Impress and Inspire. Still better than standard PDF training." Castel flashed him a grin.

"Yeah, we are not calling it that."

"Suit yourself. Anyway, I'm updating your data unit. You should have the results for this batch of recruits. Gotta say, not really impressive so far, so if you want to pick one, anyone might do. I'm gonna go ahead in the meantime and scare them a little bit."

His face shifted again into a fierce scowl. "Line formation! At the double!"

Ratchet observed as thirty PDF recruits moved away from the firing range, slung their weapons on their shoulder, and shuffled around on tired feet in an attempt to line up in front of the two of them. Their uniforms were worn out, and a few were twenty-year old models. A couple didn't even wear uniforms at all. The Tillos PDF was really digging everything they could from their depos in an attempt to equip their rapidly expanding force.

Training Sergeant Castel took a few step forwards, then came to a stop, his hard eyes regarding each in turn.

"Congratulations," his voice boomed across the yard, "you are now officially capable of hitting the side of a barn! If Blargs are that big, you won't have any problem hitting them!"

It was supposed to be a joke. None laughed.

"If it was up to me, I would take away your guns and put you somewhere you are incapable of doing damage. Like digging latrines. Though looking at you, I doubt you are even capable of doing that!"

Ratchet mostly ignored Castel's tirade. They had been doing that for enough time and groups he knew pretty much the gist of it. The Sergeant followed usually a pretty similar script. Ratchet glanced down at the small data-slate in his gloved hands, a frown growing on his face as he absorbed the incoming information.

Castel had not been kidding. This unit was bad. The PDF firing range operated through an integrated AI, capable of keeping tracks of users and targets. Ratchet had tried it out a couple of times already, mostly as a warming up exercise, so he was familiar with it.

He scrolled down the data before him, suppressing the urge to bite his lip. Seeing the results, he hoped none of them would ever have to face actual combat. He reached the bottom of the page, eyes settling on the worst result. He blinked quizzically.

'Recruit Sirah Tajev? Is she . . .'

Looking up and scanning the assembled recruits before him, it didn't take Ratchet more than a few seconds to spot her on the far side of the line from him. She was young, with a few freckles below her right eye, and a good span shorter than the others. Her brown hair was gathered in a ponytail, and her tail twitched nervously behind. An old, semi-automatic weapon hung loosely from her left shoulder through a worn leather strap.

All in all, she wasn't a very impressive sight. In fact, she looked entirely out of place, barely out of her teens. Still, hers was the worst score. With a sigh, Ratchet slipped the data-slate in one of his many pouches as he made his way towards her.

"You Sirah?" he asked. The Fauch nearly jumped out of her skin, then whirled around. Whether she hadn't noticed him due to his smaller size, or just because she had been listening to Sergeant Castel's very colourful language, he couldn't tell.

"Y-Yeah?" she blurted out. "I-I mean, sir yessir."

"Right. Would you mind coming with me a moment?"

Sirah blinked, hesitating.

"Relax, you aren't in any trouble," Ratchet reassured with a chuckle. "I just wanted to see if we could do something for that aim of yours." The Lombax glanced towards Castel.

"Hey, Sergeant! Mind activating one of those targets for us?" Castel touched a rune on his own data-pad. In the firing range, a cardboard target rose up from the ground.

"Alright, let's give it a try."

"Yessir."

"And please don't call me that. Ratchet will be enough," he said, as he led her towards the old firing position she had been occupying a few minutes before.

"Try to put a shot right there," Ratchet said, pointing at the target. He was aware that Castel had stopped his berating to watch, and that the others were observing them as well. That was the whole point of the 'Impress and Inspire' method.

'I guess we really are calling it that, aren't we?'

Sirah raised her weapon, lined her shot with the stationary target and pressed the trigger. The discharge echoed across the now silent range; a puff of dust appeared behind the carboard silhouette, just above the right shoulder. With a growing scowl, the Fauch lowered her weapon. Someone snickered behind.

"Your stance is too rigid," Ratchet explained. "Relax, let the shoulder absorb the recoil." He reached out with both hands, helping Sirah shift back into a more stable firing position.

"Like that?" she asked.

"Yup. Also, you keep on jerking the trigger. Don't do that. Squeeze it. Focus your eyes on target."

She nodded. Ratchet frowned just for a moment; somehow, those instructions sounded familiar to his ears, as if he had heard them before. He shook his head. It was probably nothing, and he had other things to think about.

"Okay, what now?"

"Fire when you are ready."

"When . . . when I am ready?"

"Yes. Don't rush it. This target is not going anywhere."

After some hesitation, Sirah nodded, eyes narrowed and focused on the target ahead. Then, finally, after some seemingly interminable seconds, a second gunshot echoed across the gun target shuddered as a hole exploded into its side. It was not a perfect centre shot, but it was certainly an improvement.

Ratchet grinned, patting her on the shoulder. "Nice work. Needs some practise, but not too bad." Sirah nodded, letting out a sigh of relief. Somewhere behind, a few recruits gave a timid clapping.

"Yeah . . . Yeah, I did it." She turned around, flashing him a grateful smile. "Thank you, si- I mean, Ratchet."

"Don't mention it. That was all you."

"Well, I guess miracles do happen, don't they?" Sergeant Castel noted as he joined them. He had allowed himself a small grin.

"Nice work. By the way, Lombax, you may want to take a look at this," he said as he handed Ratchet his own data-pad. "It just arrived."

Ratchet scanned the information reported there a couple of times, his eyebrows pressing together in another frown.

"What the hell is a 'tactical council'?" Castel shrugged.

"Oh, nothing. It's one of those times the PDF decides to have one big brainstorming session."

"Okay, but why me? Why do they want me there?" Again, Castel shrugged.

"You are really helpful, aren't you." Ratchet let out a sigh as he pinched the top of his nose. "I guess I can't just refuse it, can I?"

"It has Colonel Dessabre's own signature, so . . . no."

"Right," Ratchet said, suppressing another groan. "I need to first find Clank. If I have to endure this torture, I'm not doing it alone." He looked up, grinning. "Guess you'll have to keep doing this on your own."

Castel frowned. "Guess so. Tried to not them let eat you alive, Lombax."

Ratchet chuckled, but still nodded anyway. Glancing to the side, he caught sight of the rest of the PDF recruits some distance away. To his surprise, they seemed to be in the process of imitating what Ratchet had shown Sirah but a moment ago. A bit clunkily perhaps, but they seemed to be putting some efforts in it.

Ratchet should have felt satisfaction. After all, that was what 'Impress and Inspire' was all about; if they were determined to consider him a hero, then at least he could put his fame to some use.

Instead, he felt nothing. Just the growing realization that, if the worst were to indeed happen, most of them would not survive.

---

"Cover! Cover! Get down into cover!" Sergeant Finn Tajev snarled into his earpiece. A laser beam slashed through the air, missed his head by a few uncomfortable inches, and burned a hole into a tree behind. Finn dropped hard into the ditch, landing right beside the rest of his fireteam. He crawled prone all the way up to the top, shouldered his laser rifle, and let out a short burst towards where the enemy was supposed to be. Probably.

Truth was, Finn couldn't see them. How many Blargs were out there? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? And how close were they? Was Finn a few seconds away from a quick and unceremonious death, for a lucky grenade to land right into the ditch and atomize him? He shook his head, trying not to think too much about it. From somewhere ahead, came the chugging and barking of chain-guns. His earpiece buzzed loudly as he pressed it.

"Beltil, come in. You've got a visual or not, corporal?"

"Confirmed. Stand by."

A sharp crack echoed throughout the air, louder than any other sound and lasting for just a moment.

"Blarg Grenadier's down. Push up."

"Copy that. Good shooting." He switched comm-channel. "Cazador Three-Actual to all, their grenadier is down! Push! Push! Push!"

Finn did not wait to receive an answer. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, he jumped back up, scrambled over the ditch's lip, and broke into a full-on run. He could hear the grunting and cursing as the rest of his fireteam moved right behind him.

Sergeant Finn Tajev was moving up in the world. In any other case, that would have probably been an excellent thing. Unfortunately, in the Polaris Defence Force, that simply meant he was now considered a 'valuable and capable' member of the Tillos Lightfoot Militia, and as such, the top brass could now drop whatever task they wanted done right on his head. Most of the times, it was the deadly kind of task.

Crumpling detonations came his way from somewhere ahead. Finn caught the smell of smoke, burning resin and rubber.

"Three-Actual, this is Two speaking. You'd better watch out, we've just given them a taste of hell brew."

Finn scowled, long before the stench of burning flesh assailed his nostrils.

Hell Brew. A fitting name, in Finn's opinion, to describe a true hallmark of Tillos's detachment of the PDF. An improvised incendiary mixture, made up with any off-the-shelf material; sunflower oil, alcohol, crude gunpowder, and whatever supplement you could get your hands on. Finn knew for a fact that the guys and gals of Tenth Platoon had started adding sawdust to the mixture. The effectiveness of the weapon varied; the mixture catching fire prematurely was not unheard of, even if the PDF medical corps always kept substantial stocks of prothesis, especially for hands and fingers.

Hell Brew was dangerous, both to your target and yourself, and a lot less stable than the few incendiaries the PDF officially employed. Yet, it was unexpensive, easy to make, and a perfect force multiplier for the kind of war that had been going on near Tillos's boundaries for years.

Finn could now see its effects. Near the edge of the clearing before him stood the blackened and burning wreck of a Blarg recon buggy, a cloud of billowing smoke rising up into the sky. He saw just a couple of bodies laying nearby, both Blargs and both clad in their typical rebreathers and heavy suits.

It was then that Finn heard soft rustling, and he slowed his run until coming to a halt. There was a third Blarg, laying prone to the ground and trying to drag himself away. There were dark stains on his suit. Even then, the Blarg was silent; he let out not a groan, nor a sound. The hell brew had attached itself on his suit, yet had failed to caught fire. Then, he looked up, finally noticing the PDF militiamen present.

Finn said nothing. Stone-faced, he shouldered his laser rifle exactly as he had been taught to do, finger moving on the trigger.

"Wait!" The Blarg croaked, the voice coming out distorted from the damaged mask. He climbed to his knees, a labouring process due to his injuries. He raised both gloved hands. "Wait! Don't shoot, I surrender! I surrender!"

Sergeant Finn Tajev tilted his head to the side.

"I give up! Please don't-"

"Yeah, I've heard that already," Finn said. Lowering his weapon, Finn reached up to his earpiece. The rustling of leaves behind signalled him that the rest of his fireteam had joined up with him. Corporal Olivia made her appearance to his side.

"Beltil said he's got a visual on the rest of them. The Blargs are pulling back."

"Good," Finn said. He gestured at the Blarg trooper in front of him. "Have someone march him back to the HQ and patch him up."

Olivia shot a glance first at Finn, then at the Blarg. Finally, she nodded. "Copy that. Bitvas? You know what to do."

Private First-Class Bitvas grabbed the Blarg by the shoulder, before hauling him back to his feet, handcuffing him with a polymer zip tie, and then marching him back toward friendly lines, his laser rifle always trained on the Blarg's shoulder blades.

"How about Second Platoon? Where are they?" Finn asked once he was sure the Blarg POW was out of earshot.

"Right flank. They got a few injured with them though. The grenadier really did a number on them. Do we pursue?"

Finn shook his head. "We are unsupported and they are jamming our drones. We might as well walk right into an ambush. Tell everybody to sit tight for now." He made to rise from his crouch but then stopped.

"On second thought, forget that," Finn added. "We're moving at least two klicks south. Spread the message to the rest of Third Platoon."

"Two klicks?" Olivia shot him a questioning glance. "Why?"

Finn shrugged, pointing at the still burning buggy. "Recon vehicle," he simply said. "I bet they managed to relay our coordinates to their friends before Two took them out. I say we have a couple of minutes before the barrage."

Olivia nodded before touching her own earpiece and spreading the message across Third Platoon's comm-channel. To the surprise of absolutely no-one, Finn's intuition proved to be right. Four minutes later, the whistle of incoming shells pierced the air. Mighty detonations threw columns of dirt, smoke, and broken trees, showering their surroundings with hailstorms of shrapnel.

Third Platoon was long gone since then, marching south and back to friendly lines. Finn Tajev looked up as the echoing explosions reached his ears. He counted eight separate detonations, split into two four-shell barrages. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. It appeared as if not even the Blargs were trying too hard to hit them; he didn't doubt for a moment that, if they really wanted to, they would have sent pathfinders or just a couple of drones to track their position.

That was the kind of war that had been waged on Basilisk III for the last few years. There was no big, fancy battle between two sides; no masses of tanks and vehicles lined up one against the other, no cutting-edge tech deployed to annihilate your enemies from miles and miles away with lasers, missiles, and whatever project the Polaris Government decided to dump money into.

Amidst the woods and hills, streams and lakes surrounding Tillos, a much different war had been going on, one conducted through night raids and skirmishes, traps, ambushes, sniper duels and the occasional artillery barrage or two. It was the kind of war in which firepower and mobility surpassed armour and sheer numbers, fought on the ground with drones, light vehicles, mortars, grenades, small arms and, when necessary, bayonets and knives.

It was a silent war, if indeed there was such a thing; few outside of the colony itself knew about it. Finn sometimes wondered if even Igliak knew about it; they had to, they did sometime send supplies and reinforcements there. Still, he couldn't remember seeing a single mention about it on the galactic news channels on the holovision. The Polaris Core cared little of what happened in the Periphery.

Sergeant Finn Tajev shrugged.

'Polaris is vast and Igliak is far away, that's what my old sergeant said. Seems like he was right.'

He was about to get into contact with Third Platoon's forward elements to get a report, only for his earpiece to crackle to life once again. Second Platoon had lost one of their members due to a Blarg sharpshooter. Fourth Platoon had meanwhile come under attack by mortar fire, though they suffered no casualty so far.

'Another day in the Tillos Lightfoot Militia, I guess,' he thought sourly. Still, there was something else gnawing at his mind as he silently marched on, his boots half-sinking into the soft and waterlogged mud. Finn had first noticed it during their firefight in Sector Delta, and in the following weeks it had become a certainty. Especially seeing the Blarg bodies five minutes before.

'They're not from here. They're not from the local Blarg garrison. Those guys are smart enough to employ proper camo on their uniform. They know how to fight in the woods. No, these guys are new. They arrived here only recently. Untrained, but numerous. And the Sons of Orxon, those guys are here too. Why are they bringing reinforcements in anyway? Why now?'

Finn didn't want to know the answer. Knowing his luck, he would probably get it anyway.

---

'Oh crap.'

That was the first and only sentence Ratchet's mind managed to formulate as the elevator's doors slid open with a soft pneumatic whir, revealing the single occupant already present within. An uncomfortable grimace tugged at the Lombax's lips. For his part, Major Pelesky expertly concealed any emotion behind a cold mask of professionalism. Suspended within his personal life-tank, the Drophyd merely raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the small console on his body-suit's right arm.

Silently, Ratchet stepped inside, making sure to take the corner farthest from Pelesky for himself. The two made a conscious effort to look anywhere but at each other, a heavy silence hanging within the tiny space as the doors slid closed once more and the elevator resumed its ascension. The only sound was the faint buzzing coming from the light above.

Ratchet had not bothered to press a button on the nearby console. Knowing his luck, the two of them were probably headed for the same destination. The silence stretched on; Ratchet crossed his arms, adjusting Clank's weight on the magnetic frame on his back as he leaned against the metal wall to the side.

The Lombax frowned; he was at least glad Clank had gotten the hint and had not tried to start a conversation to lighten the mood within the cubicle. The last thing he wanted was to have a conversation with the Drophyd, and over the last week he had done a fine job at avoiding him. He shot a glance to Pelesky, quickly fixing his gaze back forward when he got the impression the Drophyd was about to do the same. The life-suit kept on causing parts of his mind to flare up again with sensations he had not felt for a long time. Specifically, it reminded him of someone he would have rather not remembered at all.

He just wished the elevator would just get a move on.

As if to answer his prayers, there was a loud metallic clatter coming from above. The light flickered and the elevator came to an abrupt halt. A blinking red icon appeared on the console.

"Ah, hell," Ratchet heard Pelesky mutter. "Not again." He raised his right arm, tapping briefly against it.

"We need a security override. Elevator Two is stuck again," he spoke into the integrated comm-receiver, receiving a brisk acknowledgement from the other side.

"This is something that occurs frequently, I take it?" Clank piped up from his place on Ratchet's back.

"Something like that," Pelesky grumbled, clearly irritated. "A software malfunction probably. Safety procedures go off and bring the cabin to a halt. It might take a while."

"How long would that be?" Clank asked. In his life-tank, Pelesky shifted into something that might have resembled a shrug, eyes never leaving the console.

"Maybe a minute. Maybe more. You never know," Pelesky said. "Two months ago, it got stuck for around fifteen minutes. The colonel was not pleased."

"I see," Clank concluded, and the brief chat ended. For his part, Ratchet remained silent, shooting the Drophyd another sour glance.

"Is there anything you want to say, Lombax?"

The sudden question blindsided Ratchet for a moment, giving him confirmation that the Drophyd had indeed noticed his staring.

"If I wanted to say something, I'll go ahead and say it." He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible, but none of them had any illusions about the real intention behind it.

"I'm sure you will," Pelesky said, still not looking at him. "Is there a reason you keep staring at my suit too?"

Ratchet frowned. "I was just admiring it."

"Were you now? Thinking about getting one of your own? Mind you, you'd need an actual brain for the suit to interface with."

"Interesting," Ratchet said with a nod, refusing to raise to the obvious bait. "I never got the chance to admire a Drophyd life-suit that close before." A small smirk made its way on his features. "They usually explode long before getting that close."

Pelesky finally looked up briefly, just to cast a sour glance his way.

"Ratchet, that was rude," Clank chastised him.

"Oh, I bet your friends on Fastoon got the chance to admire them alright," Pelesky spat right back.

Eyes narrowing, Ratchet felt a tingle in his hands. He suddenly became very conscious of the Omniwrench secured to his side.

"And don't you give me that look," Pelesky cut in before Ratchet had the chance to vocalize his displeasure. "If you are about to go on a tantrum about how us Drophyds helped Tachyon drive Lombax-kind off from this dimension, do me a favour and spare yourself the effort. I've heard plenty of that already."

"Oh, I bet getting constantly reminded of that time you helped a crazy bug-face perform a genocide gets really bothersome, doesn't it?" Ratchet deadpanned. "I feel so sorry for you."

"Ratchet . . ." Clank began.

"Do you think it's funny, Lombax?" Pelesky hissed angrily. "I bet it is, isn't it? People across Polaris point at us and say 'those are the guys that helped the Cragmite out'. That's the only thing Drophyds are and will forever be remembered for. We are the guys that were left holding the bag when Tachyon decided to drop dead; Igliak's comfortable scapegoat. Thanks to us, people don't have to look too hard on who actually signed up on Tachyon's whole project."

Ratchet shook his head. "If your whole excuse is 'somebody else did it too', I'm gonna tell you right now that's not much of an excuse to begin with. You don't get to wiggle yourself out of this one that easily."

"As if the Lombaxes didn't have their own skeletons in the closet."

"Maybe," Ratchet said. "But that's kinda a moot point, isn't it? They aren't here anymore."

Pelesky sniffed. "I guess not."

The conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun, and for a few minutes both Rachet and Pelesky remained silent, busy scowling or ruminating over their own thoughts, perhaps both. The bright red icon on the control panel kept on blinking red.

"So, you were on Fastoon then?" Ratchet eventually blurted out. He didn't know how that question had even come up in his mind and, by the time he realized it, it was already too late.

He half-expected Pelesky to shoot him an irritated glance, or maybe to just ignore the question altogether. Instead, the Drophyd shook his head.

"Not really. I am still alive, am I not? I got a relatively comfy job in the back-lines and managed to sit most of that one out. I would have not survived that absolute debacle otherwise."

Ratchet blinked in confusion, shooting Pelesky a puzzled glance. "What do you mean?"

For the first time, Pelesky turned around to properly face him, his cold, oversized eyes settling on Ratchet. "How much do you know about the fall of Fastoon?"

The Lombax raised an eyebrow before simply shrugging. "Aside the fact that my species got nearly exterminated by an ego-driven, maniacal Cragmite? Not much really. Tachyon wasn't keen on giving me an history lessons, you know. Unless you count the gloating too."

"Typical," Pelesky spat sourly. "I guess mentioning the fact that we slammed repeatedly into some of the densest defensive networks in Polaris's history doesn't make you appear like a great conqueror or something."

He shook his head. "Zonis, I'm surprised that asshole lasted that long."

"Assholes do tend to do that."

"That's true, that's true."

"Was Fastoon really that bad?" Rachet asked. He couldn't help but being curious; he had tried over the years to look up what had really happened the day Tachyon had taken over. Unfortunately, setting aside the vague and incomplete records of the Polaris government, the rest was just what Tachyon had decided to distribute across the galaxy as propaganda, which might have been, according to Clank, slightly biased.

Talking with someone that had been actually there, though, was quite different.

"It turns out that trying to exterminate an entire species off the galactic map is a lot harder than it looks," Pelesky said with a tired sigh. "Especially if said species really doesn't want to get exterminated to begin with. Add in an incompetent idiot as your commanding officer to the mix, and that's how you get nine months of literal hell."

"I see. And did you-"

"I'm gonna go ahead and stop you right there, Lombax," Pelesky suddenly said, an audible edge in his tone. He turned his gaze away once more. "Unless you want me to give you a really detailed picture of what an attempted genocide looks like."

Ratchet caught the implication of those words well enough. He scowled, but dropped the question anyway, and a tense silence returned within the small confines of the cabin.

"I'm surprised they let you join up with the PDF then," Ratchet eventually said, his voice barely louder than a hiss.

"They needed competent officers after the war, and I came close enough to fit that description. The fact that I had been obeying Tachyon's orders the month before didn't seem to bother them all that much."

"And the Polaris Government simply let you walk away scot-free? After all of that?"

Again, Pelesky shrugged. "It wouldn't be the first callous thing done by Igliak. It certainly won't be the last."

"What's that supposed to mean now?"

Pelesky went to open his mouth, but in that moment the icon on the panel flashed green once more. The elevator cabin shook briefly before starting up again.

"Let's put it this way," Pelesky said instead, closing the small holographic console on his forearm. "When Tachyon launched his surprise assault, the old Polaris League could have intervened if they wanted to. They didn't. Some would say they were just stalling for time. Me? I suspect Igliak always wanted someone to take the Lombax down a notch. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised to discover that some of Tachyon's funds came from the League's own coffins."

Ratchet shook his head, unconvinced. "A bit farfetched, don't you think?"

"Mabye. Maybe not," Pelesky said. "As I said, it wouldn't be the first callous thing put into practice by the Polaris Government. Realpolitik, that's how they call it." The cabin shuddered, coming to a final halt. The doors slid open.

"Tachyon attacked them as well," Ratchet pointed out.

"I never said it was a smart plan to begin with. Besides," he added as he shot one last glance his way, "Igliak got what they wanted in the end, didn't they? The last power capable of keeping the League's expansion in check is gone now. Sure, some millions have died, but hey, that hasn't stopped the League before and won't stop the Polaris Government now."

Ratchet frowned yet said nothing more. The discussion had not gone the way he had expected it to go. Up to now, he had never seriously looked into what had happened thirty years before. He never had the need to; what mattered was that the Lombaxes were alive, even if in another dimension, and that was fine to Ratchet. He and Clank had agreed that dredging up those events would do nothing but open fresh wounds.

'But now?'

"Ratchet?"

'He was just exaggerating. Probably just to mess with me. Like, there's no way the Polaris Government would just-'

"Ratchet!"

"Uh?" Ratchet blinked, the voice of his best friend breaking into his trail of thought. "What's up buddy?"

"Are you alright? Weren't we going somewhere?" Clank asked.

It took several moments before his friend's words clicked into his mind. He glanced around, realizing that the Drophyd was gone by now and the two of them were alone.

The Lombax shook his head. "Yeah, sorry. I got distracted for a moment there. I think we should get going." He stepped out of the elevator and into the corridor, before making his way to the meeting at a quick pace.

For a brief moment Ratchet scowled, as the realization that Pelesky had been headed that way as well finally struck him.

---

The room where the meeting was being held was quite different from the one Ratchet had visited two weeks before. For starters, it wasn't the main command room at all; there were no consoles and monitors dotting the walls, nor PDF personnel hurrying back and forth. Instead, it was a rather spartan-looking, windowless room with a long table at its centre surrounded by chairs, and all of that past a simple, non-descript door. In fact, Ratchet would have probably missed it, were it not for the squad of heavily-armed PDF troopers standing just outside. Much to his annoyance, they had to spend several minutes waiting as the PDF sergeant cross-checked his and Clank's IDs, run a biological and electromagnetic scan respectively, before receiving confirmation on her comm that the two of them were indeed expected and finally let them through.

"A bit paranoid, aren't they?" Ratchet noted under his breath as one of the guards punched in the security code on a nearby keypad. The door slid open the next moment.

"It certainly appears so," Clank agreed.

Once inside, the first impression Ratchet got was that the room was crowded; several members of the Polaris Defence Force were gathered there, the table filled with reports and data-pad strewn about amidst still fuming ashtrays. In terms of apparel however, they could be split into two about even group; one was made up of uniform-wearing officers belonging to the PDF garrison, their clothes tidy and pristine. The other was instead a motley collection of locals, members of the Tillos Militia, their robes a haphazard combination of civilian and military garb, both comfortable and utilitarian.

Aside from Pelesky however, Ratchet had little to no idea who they were. The Drophyd didn't seem to have noticed his entrance, busy discussing with a uniform-wearing Cazar on the other side of the room. As for the rest, Ratchet immediately felt several pair of eyes directed his way as PDF officers whispered amongst each other. The Lombax frowned; he decided to take a seat for himself, preferably one that would grant him some privacy. He glanced to the side as his ears caught the soft murmuring, causing a Markazian provost to quickly look away. The supply officer nearby turned her eyes on her data-pad with newly-found interest.

'Okay, this is kinda getting annoying.'

The door on the far end of the room slid open. The muttering ceased. Around thirty PDF and militia officers rose from their seats as one in one fluid motion. Puzzled for a moment, Ratchet made to rise as well, until his eyes fell on the figure walking, or rather slithering, inside.

"A good morning to you all, ladies and gentlemen," Colonel Dessabre said, his tone surprisingly mellifluous to hear. "Thank you for coming. Please, take a seat."

Just as before, the PDF personnel sit back down as one.

"Clank?" Ratchet whispered. "What's . . . what exactly is him?"

Indeed, the PDF Colonel was not a species Ratchet could recall having ever met up to that point. Only the upper half of his body could be described as somewhat humanoid, aside from the turquois scales, an elongated and flat head, and the wide hood flaring around his neck. The lower half, instead, was entirely snake-like, scales rustling against the pavement as he moved. His PDF uniform seemed to have been customized to better adapt his particular body structure.

"Interesting," Clank mused. "A Naja. I have read a little about them in the past, but I never had the chance to meet one before. They seem to prefer their homeworld, and they are not seen often across the rest of Polaris."

Ratchet nodded slightly. He saw Pelesky handing a data-pad to Dessabre and whispering something in his ear, as the Naja went to take his seat at the opposite end of the table. His sharp, black pupils examined it curiously for a moment, before jerking up and towards Ratchet. Their eyes met only briefly and the Lombax didn't shy away from meeting the Colonel's gaze, yet he found the whole experience uncomfortable. He didn't know why or how, but there was something wrong in those eyes.

"As many of you are aware," Dessabre began, "we are graced today by the presence of a truly extraordinary individual. Many of you are probably aware of his most famous exploits across the Polaris Galaxy, such as the apprehension of the Prog Twins, the crisis on Corson V and, last but not least, the slaying of the tyrant Tachyon."

Ratchet pushed back the rising tide of uneasiness as every pair of eyes within the room swivelled in his direction. The sentiments behind those varied; from the interested but ultimately detached glance of the veteran PDF members, to the wide and admiring eyes of the younger cadres.

For his part, Ratchet scratched one of his ears in discomfort.

"Uh, well, I mean, it kinda got blown out of proportions on the holo-vid probably. It wasn't all that big to begin with, you know. And, well, I did have plenty of help in all those cases," Ratchet blurted out.

"Ah, a modest hero as well," Dessabre concluded with a small grin. "I'm very glad to hear it. The heroes from Solana tend to be rather lousy with their accomplishments. I'm sure this will do much to ease our collaboration."

From nearby, Pelesky cleared his throat loudly. "Sir, shouldn't we focus on the task at hand?"

"An excellent point, Major. But, before we begin," Dessabre said, snapping his fingers. "Agatha, would you mind?" As if on cue, a small humming drone made its presence known, taking its position right beside the Colonel. There was an electronic crackling.

"Scanning. Scanning. Scanning. Scan- Scansion complete," the AI announced as a LED by his eye-sensors blinked green. "Environment is declared secure from electronic tampering at ninety-seven point sixty-five percent. Privacy measures online. Activating holo-projector, please, stand-by."

A tiny compartment opened in the drone's chassis and a projector poked its lenses out. They switched on, and a deep blue glow pervaded the room. A holo-map soon took shape before everybody's else eyes, hovering just a few feet above the table itself. At its centre, highlighted by a golden-coloured and burning dot, was the city of Tillos itself, its boundaries delineated just above the network of city streets.

Ratchet's attention, however, was drawn towards something else. Some distance from the city, there were several flashing red triangles. What they meant, he couldn't say; the map was being quickly filled by additional data.

"I'm confident all of those present today have a security clearance to hear what will be discussed," Dessabre began. "I'm also confident that all those present today will exercise maximum discretion regarding the same matters."

"In short," Pelesky cut in, "keep your damn mouth shut outside of this room until you are told otherwise. Is that understood?" There were nods all around the table.

"Thank you for the clarification, Major. Now, as most of you are probably aware," Dessabre continued as he gestured indolently at the holo-map, "the situation on the planet has degenerated as of late. The Blargs have always been a nuisance, attacking our patrols across the Wild Zones and targeting shipments in and out of Basilisk III. And up to now, we have always believed that their presence was limited to a pirate hideout or two. Nothing indicated otherwise, after all."

Dessabre earlier smile disappeared, his snake-like face darkening in seriousness. "However, due to recent events, we must revise our estimates, and considerably at that. It's clear that Blarg presence on the planet is at least several hundred-strong at the moment. Furthermore, we have now visual confirmation that an entire chapter of the Sons of Orxon is present as well." There was murmuring around the table at that.

"Given the gravity of the threat, the Tillos PDF will immediately begin offensive manoeuvres to identify the Blarg base of operation, whether one or multiple, before moving to engage and destroy them."

"Typical," Ratchet's ears caught someone commenting from nearby, "how's that we never get a marine detachment for this kind of things?"

"And let me guess, the militias are going to bear the brunt of the casualties, aren't we?"

"May I ask how we intend on finding their FOBs to begin with, sir?" one of the officers, a Cazar, spoke up. "Up to now, recon missions and drones have proved to be insufficient. Besides, my pilots don't have the numbers, nor the fuel, to cover the rest of the planet anyway. They could very well be hiding on a whole other continent for all we know."

"Air Marshal Tephori does raise a fair point. However, I suspect that the Blargs are actually not that far," Pelesky said, flipping open the console on his arm and tapping casually on the small keyboard. Across the hologram, several blood-red icons popped up. Glancing at them, Ratchet quickly realized that they were all around the colony itself.

"As you can see, there have been a lot of incidents over the past week. In all cases, our patrols on the ground have encountered Blarg presence in the form of either light infantry or motorized elements, sometimes backed with long-range support but not much else."

The Drophyd frowned thoughtfully. "None of those formations can operate for a long time on their own, so it makes sense to assume that their hidden bases must be fairly close to the city. If they had used dropships to ferry their troops around, our sensors would have picked them up."

"Yeah, but what the hell are they even trying to do?" one of the militia captains interjected. She gestured at the holo-map with visible annoyance. "Like, they aren't even trying to attack the city at all. The only thing they seems to be doing is surrounding Tillos, and badly at that."

She shrugged. "If they are hoping to whittle us down with attrition, that's a losing bet if I ever saw one. Unless they decide to start bringing something heavier in the fight, I say we've got this in the bag."

"Skull Squadron is still out there, you know," Tephori pointed out with a sour face. The militia captain simply shrugged in response, jutting a thumb towards Ratchet's direction.

"Yeah, so what? The Lombax downed one of them the first time around." Then, she grinned at him. "How long have you guys been trying to nail one of those Blargs in the last five months?"

The Cazar barred his teeth, growling, before opening his mouth to respond. It was only Dessabre's raised hand that stopped him just in time.

"Gentleman, please. I don't believe now is the time for some inter-service rivalry. Furthermore, Captain Lucias, I'll remind you to show proper respects towards the Air Marshal. Even if you belong to different branches, he still outranks you."

"Aye, sir. Sorry sir, won't happen again." Lucias commented with a small salute, marshalling the least amount of enthusiasm for that. She leaned back on her chair and sulked. Silence descended within the small confines of the room, interrupted by the occasional murmur the PDF officers exchanged with each other. For his part, Ratchet ignored most of those, his curious gaze settling over the holo-map. His scratched at his chin.

"Is something bothering you, Ratchet?" Clank said from his back.

"Kinda," he replied, then shook his head. "I'm still trying to figure out why the Blargs would come here, you know? And why lure us all the way to Basilisk III. Finn was right, there's not much here. This whole thing seems odd."

"It is in fact puzzling," Clank conceded. "Even if this is revenge for what happened in Solana, it is oddly elaborate. Why target Grim when they could have gone for you directly? And why wait until now to put such plan into motion? Our addresses are well known after all. If indeed the Blargs are behind the attack against Grim."

"What do you mean?" Ratchet inquired. Clank didn't answer at once though, humming briefly to himself. It was the obvious sign that his friend was deep in thought right now, so he didn't press him further and simply waited for Clank to finish gather his thoughts. As predicted, the answer eventually came.

"It may be possible we have been correlating events that have no connection between each other. Perhaps the attack against our friend and the Blarg presence here are not in fact connected." He heard him sighing. "It is unfortunately a rather precarious theory though. We know very little on why our old enemies are here, in Polaris of all places."

Ratchet nodded. Then looking up, he felt the literal lightbulb turning on in his brain.

"Well, maybe we should just ask it then."

"Uh? What do you mean?"

Ratchet simply raised his hand, loudly clearing his throat. "Ah, excuse me, everybody?" he called out. The murmur within the room died down, and Ratchet felt the piercing stares of everyone present directed squarely on him. Donning the most confident smile he could muster, Ratchet decided to just endure the newly found attention.

"Sorry to interrupt whatever you're discussing, but mind if I ask a question while we are at it?" Colonel Dessabre cast a curious glance in his direction before giving a nod.

"Right, so, not sure whether you've mentioned this one before, but why exactly are the Blargs here? Me and my friend Clank dealt with them back in Solana a decade or so ago, you see, but we've mostly been out of touch since then."

The Naja tilted his head momentarily to the side. "Yes, of course. I did read something regarding that in your old PDF files. You did liquidate their old Chairman, yes?"

Ratchet nodded. Then, he blinked. "Wait, I have a PDF file?" Dessabre nodded.

"Your brief collaboration with Captain-General Apogee required your addition to the PDF Central Database. The file is in fact quite considerable in size." A small grin appeared on his face. "As to answer your question, however, I am afraid that our information on the matter is quite limited, aside from the obvious fact that the Blargs have illegally occupied a sizable chunk of the old Zarkov Sector and that all diplomatic attempts to have them vacate it have proven unsuccessful and . . . yes, Major?"

"With all due respect, sir," Pelesky pointed out, "we do have plenty of information on why the Blarg are on the move right now." The Drophyd looked up across the room, his brows furrowing.

"In case somebody else here wasn't aware of this, the Blarg homeworld of Orxon has been declared Lost nine months ago. In essence, that means the planet itself is considered hostile to organic life. Since then, the Blarg exodus from Solana has reached peaks unseen before, and it will likely keep on increasing. As the Solana's government have never hidden their outright hostility to the Blargs, they seem to be doing everything they can to encourage said exodus."

"Don't see much of a problem really," a humanoid wearing militia garbs pointed out from the other side of the room. "The Zarkov Sector is big. If they want to settle there, why should we care?"

"Aside from the obvious fact that the Polaris Government would find a heavily-militarized population right on their border?" Pelesky scowled.

"Yeah sure. And who's gonna go ahead and fight them anyway?" Captain Lucias commented with a scoff. "Igliak doesn't care about anything outside the Core, unless we are giving bodies to the PDF! Heck, the Periphery is still a mess after that whole dimensional pandemonium thing!"

Ratchet did not hear the rest as the discussion quickly descended into a shouting match. On one side were the representative of Tillos militia; on the other the official PDF officers. In the midst of it all, Colonel Dessabre maintained a silent, yet increasingly irritated expression.

"Clank?"

"Yes?"

"Do me a favour and switch your speaker on for just a moment."

"The speaker? Why would you-" His eye-lenses blinked. "Oh, I see. Just a moment then."

Ratchet tapped his earpiece a couple of time. Then he spoke.

"Can everybody shut up please?"

Everyone winced in pain, a few clutching their ears with hisses and curses, as Ratchet's voice boomed through Clank's integrated speakers. Still, he had gotten what he wanted, and silence had return to the room.

"Thank you," the Lombax said. "Now, as much as I would love to hear a bunch of guys and gals in uniform shouting at each other for the next hour, I've got things to do, and a starship to repair. Also, dinner is in ten minutes." That last part earned a chuckle from somewhere.

"So, I think we should start wrapping this whole thing up," Ratchet said as he rose to his feet so that everybody could see him. His tone had hardened, smothering some of that earlier casualness.

"I believe we can all agree that nobody really wants a shooting war with the Blargs, right?" There were nods around the table, even by the PDF personnel.

"Good. Now, as we've established that, I think everybody will also agree that we should avoid escalating matters until we've managed to figure out what exactly the Blargs want." He glanced towards a scowling Pelesky and the two locked gazes. "And as far as I am concerned, attacking them directly it's exactly the kind of things we should avoid."

"Hold up," Captain Lucias spoke up, arms crossed on her chest. "Are you saying we should talk to them? As in, the same Blargs that killed some of our own?"

Ratchet shrugged in response. "I'm sure you've killed quite of their own as well. Look, what I'm saying is, you've got two options as far as I am aware." The Lombax lifted two fingers in the air as to emphasize the point he was making.

"You can either keep this whole tit-for-tat killing thing going for the next years, or you can try and make peace with the Blargs." Again, he shrugged. "I don't know about you, but I like the sound of the second."

Lucias frowned, unconvinced, yet said nothing. The other militia leaders had already begun muttering amongst themselves, deep in discussion.

"I'll be honest with ya all," a militiaman with heavy mining googles strapped to his face spoke from the back of the room with a grin. "I do kinda like that idea. I'd like it if my kids didn't have to follow this line of work of mine." There were a few nods around.

"Oh sure, that's one brilliant plan, isn't it?" Major Pelesky commented. "I bet the Blargs will be thrilled to discuss a ceasefire with the same guys hiding the Lombax who killed their last Chairman. Have you considered that maybe we have tried negotiating with the Blargs before? Or that maybe they don't want to negotiate at all?" The Drophyd scoffed. "I thought the Lombax Hero would have been smart enough to realize it."

"If you want to fight the Blargs so much, Major, then be my guest and go ahead. And if the Blargs really do want me, well, I don't see why I should involve the rest of you in my mess," Ratchet replied evenly, causing a few to snicker. The Drophyd scowled visibly, but Ratchet ignored him, turning his attention to the militia captains. "What do you think instead? Want to keep this whole charade going or what?"

For a few seconds none spoke. Eventually, Captain Lucias let out a sigh. "Well, it's better than following the plan of Major Fish-Face over there."

"Captain . . ." Dessabre warned her.

"Yeah, sorry, I meant Major Pelesky, of course. Slip of the tongue, sir." She shrugged. "I guess we could send some of their prisoners back with a message, though that's something that should be agreed with Mayor Wettsworth." She shot a scowl look at Dessabre's direction. "Who, for the record, should have been here as well."

"Mayor Wettsworth is a civilian. He has no business, nor authority, in taking part to a military council," Air Marshal Tephori pointed out.

"Nearly eight thousand colonists have joined the Militia, and most of them voluntarily. We are basically eighty percent of the PDF here. I bet all those folks would appreciate to know that their elected representative is making sure they are not being designated as cannon fodder for the PDF," Lucias replied with a tight smile.

Before anyone could reply, however, Colonel Dessabre raised his hand.

"Very well. Each of you has brought an interesting point to this discussion," he said patiently with a small smile. His eyes shimmered as he glanced around the room. "However, time is short, and preparations are still needed no matter the course we choose. I suggest therefore for this meeting to be adjourned later. I'm confident each one of you has, after all, their own tasks to attend to. Besides, as mister Ratchet pointed out before," he added with a grin, "it is, in fact, almost dinnertime."

There were some grumblings, a few nods and sighs, but none raised any issue.

"Alright then, everybody. You are dismissed," Pelesky said. Ratchet noticed the dirty look the Drophyd threw his way, only to reply with a glare of his own. Their eyes met with the same friendliness of two targeting arrays getting a reciprocal lock on each other. Only Clank's voice eventually broke him off.

"I must say, Ratchet, I am very impressed," he commented with some mirth. "I did not know you were such public speaker."

"Uh? Oh, you mean that," the Lombax said, scratching his head with some embarrassment. "It was nothing, really. Just, you know, letting out some thoughts for everybody else to hear. Not sure if somebody really listened to them."

"Perhaps, but it was quite the style of negotiation."

He let out a little chuckle. Glancing around, he noticed that a good chunk of the PDF officers had already started exiting the room.

"I bet it was, pal. Let's go now, I'm starving." He stopped when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Looking back, Ratchet noticed Captain Lucias standing behind him, grinning, together with a couple more of her comrades. Ratchet raised an eyebrow at that.

"Hey, Lombax, some of my colleagues were thinking about go out to eat something. Wanna come with us? We know a place just outside the Citadel."

Ratchet frowned for a moment. "I . . . well, I appreciate the gesture, really, but I've left my bolts back in the hangar and-"

"No worries. Tab's on us this time." Her grin broadened. "Time to show you some proper cuisine rather than the groxh dump that pass for food in the mess hall. And besides," she added as she leaned in, her tone quickly turning to a whisper. "We've got a few things we would like to talk about far away from prying eyes. What do you think?"

Ratchet took a few moments to consider it. It did sound a bit sketchy, though he liked the sound of a free meal. Surely there wouldn't be anything wrong with that.

He shrugged. "Sure, why not. Count me in." Then, glancing over his shoulder, he added, "Clank, what do you think?"

"Well, we do not have anything urgent to do at the moment," the bot reasoned. "And I always wanted to do some proper sightseeing of the city. The PDF Citadel does feel a bit impersonal and cold, on the long run that is."

"Awesome! Right this way then. The others are probably waiting for us just outside," Lucias said, placing a hand on Ratchet's shoulder and leading him out of the room with more energy that was necessary. As they exited, Clank was the only one to notice Dessabre's tight pupils boring intensely into the back of Ratchet's head.

---

"I was informed you wanted to see me, mayor," Colonel Dessabre drawled as he slithered his way inside the office.

His appearance startled Wettsworth. He jumped in his seat, and the pair of glasses perched precariously on his squat nose fell down, hit his desk and tumbled over the edge.

"C-Colonel! How unexpected!" He moved quickly to shut the holographic monitor before him. Dessabre managed to catch a glimpse of what he was confident to be an episode of 'Lance & Janice'. He decided to not bring it up.

"I . . . I mean, yes, I did send for you, but I thought you were all too busy with the that whole . . . ah . . . you know, thinking about it, m-maybe I was hasty in my . . . yes, clearly I was. Maybe tomorrow morning it would be a better time to . . ."

Dessabre said nothing. He stopped paying attention to whatever Wettsworth was babbling about. Had he not done so, he might have failed to reign in the sudden urge to strangle that useless worm with his own tail. Thus, he limited himself to a cordial smile as he bent down to pick up the fallen glasses and placing them back on the desk.

"Not at all," Dessabre said. "I can always set some of my time aside for less important matters. As you know, dealing with the daily matters of running a PDF garrison does take most of it." There was little light inside the room aside from the one coming out of a desk lamp, causing his cold eyes to glint amidst the penumbra. He knew the sight unsettled Wettsworth, thought the mayor never had the courage to bring that up. Even now he was trying to look anywhere but at him, showing clear discomfort in doing so.

Dessabre allowed himself a small grin. It was one of the few things that made his stay there bearable.

"Yes, yes, of course. A-Again, apologies for keeping away from your duties, it's just . . . well, it's evening so . . ." he muttered under his breath as he adjusted his glasses back before his large yellow eyes. Wettsworth, like many other of his race, was rather short, with a meaty and flaccid nose placed between two short tusks. Thick brown fur covered most of his back, except for an almost barren scalp. All in all, he was a rather ugly sight to behold, and Dessabre preferred not to deal with him unless he absolutely had to.

"As I said," Dessabre continued, "do not worry about it. I believe there was something you wanted me to discuss with me, yes? After all, I couldn't help but notice you have dismissed the rest of your staff rather early."

Wettsworth nodded, fidgeting at his coat, his left hand trembling slightly. "Yes, of course. Better to be safe than sorry, right? It is a very sensitive matter, you see. The walls have ears too." Dessabre arched an eyebrow at that, but remained silent.

"The truth - if you would agree with me, colonel – is that our beautiful colony of Tillos has found itself in a rather . . . well, unpleasant situation."

"Quite astute, sir. I've noticed it too," Dessabre deadpanned. The irony, as expected, went right over Wettsworth's head.

"Exactly! Never before our peaceful community has been under such danger from aggression! We had some disagreements with the Blarg community present here over the years, but the situation has truly gotten out of hand!" He shook his head. "I fear for the safety of my citizens should the worst indeed come to pass. Surely, none would benefit from open war between us and the Blargs, wouldn't you agree, colonel?"

Dessabre shrugged. "So it would appear. Sadly, we might not have a choice in the matter."

"But what if we had one?" Wettsworth quickly added. He paused for a moment, tossing a suspicious glance around before gesturing the colonel to come closer. After some hesitation, Dessabre pushed past his discomfort and did so.

"I cannot stress how important discretion is in this matter, colonel. Only the two of us must be aware of this, at least for the time being." A pregnant pause. "In the last few days, I've managed to set up a diplomatic channel of sorts with the Blarg leaderships on the planet. It was difficult at first, in no small part due to their general distrust toward us, but now I think we have managed to reach an understanding. Or at least, something close to that. They still are quite vague on the terms."

"You . . . you did what?" Dessabre couldn't hold back his surprise. After all those years as a spineless coward, trying to not upset everyone too much, Mayor Wettsworth had actually shown some initiative in something?

"I know, I know. I should have brought this to your attention before, and I apologize. I was just waiting for the proper moment. You looked so tremendously busy, and I did not dare to disturb you."

Dessabre blinked slowly at first. Then, his eyes narrowed to slits. "You were busy negotiating terms with the Blargs, and you did not think to warn me until now?" he hissed.

"Well, w-we weren't really negotiating, you see. It was more of a, uh, an informal meeting between . . . b-between, ah . . ." Wettsworth eventually fell silent under the colonel's withering stare and looked away, wringing his hands in silence.

"What did you talk about then?" Wettsworth cleared his throat with some embarrassment.

"A-A lot of things, actually. Though their own leader mostly presented me their grievances due to the presence of the chairman's murderer on the planet."

"The chairman's murderer?" Again, Dessabre blinked, though the confusion lasted for but an eyeblink. "You mean the Lombax?" The mayor nodded enthusiastically.

"Exactly! The Blargs appear to be convinced that we have invited him here, and they consider such act both a threat and an insult. Us! Can you believe it?" He shook his head. "Naturally, I tried to reason with him, to explain the circumstances of the Lombax arrival on the planet and that we have absolutely nothing to do with it. He was not very convinced, you see."

"An understandable reaction."

"It may be so," Wettsworth conceded, "but that's not all. He also accuses the PDF of being the true instigator of that old incident in Sector Omega. He demands a joined inquiry in the matter."

That last part caused a surge of unease through Dessabre's body. He had hoped the matter about Omega had been buried deep; he had made sure for the matter to be buried deep. That someone would start looking back at that day, consulting field and after-action reports, and criss-cross witness accounts to piece together what had really occurred . . .

Well, that would have been very problematic.

"Those are baseless accusations," Dessabre stated, making an excellent job in hiding his nervousness. "I trust my subordinates to act professionally in the field."

Wettsworth nodded. "Of course, I never wanted to insinuate anything, but . . ." He hesitated. "This is a unique occasion, colonel. We can finally begin negotiations and put this unpleasant affair behind. The Blarg leader has even agreed to avoid further engagements with us for the time being, so that we may fully discuss the matter within the colony."

Dessabre opened his mouth, but then shut it as his mind fully processed what he had just heard.

"W-Within the colony?" The mayor nodded, and enthusiastically at that.

"Yes, of course. I have already informed the municipal council of a meeting here in two days' time. I will personally inform them of the matter, so that we may reach a unanimous resolution quickly." He smiled. "Of course, as I appreciate the efforts you and the PDF put in defending Tillos, I thought of warning you in advance on the matter. So, what do you think?" He looked at him expectantly, not so different, in Dessabre's opinion, from a pup waiting wide-eyed to finally receive a bowl of food from its master.

The colonel said nothing. He was, in fact, very still. From the outside, some might have started to wonder if he had stopped breathing entirely. Eventually, his lips parted slightly, letting out a soft, almost imperceptible, hiss.

"You have given me much to think about," Dessabre said at length. "I would have preferred if you had brought this to my attention sooner . . ."

"Once again, colonel, I wish to apologise for-"

"Nevertheless," Dessabre continued, "this is in fact a very important matter. One that I should examine with my subordinates. With your permission, I believe we should resume this discussion before the rest of the municipal council, so that I may better state my case."

Wettsworth blinked, then nodded enthusiastically. "Why, yes of course! It's only natural, after all. I'm sure they all would like to hear your opinion."

"It is settled then. If there are no more matters you wish to discuss, I'll then take my leave. I know my way out. Have a good evening, mayor."

Wettsworth's reply reached him by the time he was already at the door, but his mind utterly failed to register it. For some time, he slithered in silence through corridors and past rooms, making his way towards the parking lot. There were indeed few civilian personnel in the building at that time, and most preferred to keep their distance. Dessabre was perfectly fine with it.

At a first impression, the colonel might have appeared calm, serene even; his face betrayed nothing of the veritable hurricane raging through his mind. It was, as with most things regarding Dessabre, a well-elaborated deception.

Then, a frown. To say things were not going Dessabre's way was a severe understatement. A possible ceasefire was bad news in on itself; without a doubt, the municipal council would whole-heartedly support the mayor's proposal. None of them wanted open conflict with the Blargs, and the recent skirmish in Sector Delta, where the Lombax had been involved, seemed to have finally shaken those idiots out of their torpor.

Problem was, of course, that Dessabre needed a war. Specifically, he needed something he could comfortably call a victory. Claiming he had defended a planet from a foreign aggressor was exactly the kind of fame he needed to bring his career back on the right track. He grinned to himself; especially if the Lombax Hero had been involved. True, he was showing some resistance on the idea of open war as well, but Dessabre was confident in his ability to work around him. His arrival had been a veritable stroke of good luck. Involving the Lombax in this would have meant making him complicit in what Dessabre was about to do; if someone was to later critique his course of action, they would have been inevitably forced to shift the blame to the Lombax Hero as well, kissing their political career goodbye in the process.

To think it had been going so well up to that point . . .

Dessabre shook his head, resisting the urge to bite his own tongue. A pause in the fighting meant that people would have a lot of time to look back at the events of three years ago. It meant people would start asking questions, which would eventually reach Dessabre's superiors in due time.

A shudder travelled down Dessabre's own tail. If Captain-General Apogee realized what had really happened, who had really opened fire first, then Dessabre was done for. All his time spent currying favours would have been for naught; his own name would become overnight akin to radioactive material. He would be lucky if that Markazian limited herself to merely stripping him of his rank and forcing Dessabre to a very early 'retirement'. That in turn meant returning home to Planet Janos.

In disgrace.

The mask of serenity crumbled, Dessabre's face twisting in an unnatural snarl. The leather hood surrounding his head flared open for a brief moment, before he managed to get that under control.

Dessabre would not return to Janos like that. He refused to go back to his family as a disgraced PDF colonel, as a failure, forced to waste away in his family estate for the foreseeable future; to endure his relatives' gaze, filled with scorn and pity for the family's black spot. Maybe if one of his sisters felt charitable, he would find a boring, lifeless cubicle in the family's company. Dessabre would have sooner taken his own service gun, shoved it in his mouth, and blown his brains out.

'Death before dishonour', that had been his father's favourite aphorism. Dessabre would get the fame and glory he deserved, and to hell with everybody else. And if his path to success needed to be paved with the corpses of a few hundred PDF troopers, then so be it.

By the time Colonel Dessabre had reached his personal hov-car, a customized model tailored to his own body and fancy in equal measure, his mind had reached its destination as well. Namely, it had reached an inevitable conclusion.

Mayor Wettsworth had to die.