Try to help Anja: 41 votes
Try to stop Mosi: 5 votes
You ignore the gun, leaving it where it is on the atrium floor. You reach down, gripping the thin fabric at the hem of your dress and pulling as hard as you can. Enough tears free to effectively ruin the garment, but more importantly give you enough fabric to wad up and press against the gaping wound in Anja's chest.
"Anja? Anja! Look at me. It's going to be okay. We're going to get you help." Anja's eyes, glazed with pain and shock, swivel drunkenly to find the source of your voice. It takes an agonising instant before they finally lock with yours, struggling valiantly to focus on your face. "Stay with me. Please. It's going to be okay." You have no idea whether that's even remotely true. It doesn't seem okay. The fabric you're pressing hard against her wound is already soaked crimson. Her blood is on your hands, on your knees, soaking into the ragged hem of your dress and your shoes, spreading over the floor in spite of your efforts. Her breathing is almost as painful to hear as you imagine it is for her to breath. Anja's eyes, staring up at you, are a strikingly pale blue. Like clear water. Why hadn't you noticed that before?
Out of the corner of your eye, you see the formerly sleeping man try to intercede between Mosi and the door. He's a thick, flabby slab to Mosi's lithe muscle, and he folds like a wet paper bag when the butt of her pistol makes contact with his nose. Mosi spares one last look over her shoulder at you, then she's gone, leaving only pain and violence in her wake.
Anja's hand shoots up, fumbling around for the nearest of the arms you're using to keep her life from leaving her completely. In spite of the almost pitiful expression such movements induce, she forces herself to make contact with your arm, hand slapping uselessly against your wrist. Once, then again. And again. "I can't take my hands off, Anja!" you tell her. "You'll bleed out!" Does she want you to abandon her? Would she have rather, somehow, have you leave her dying on the floor like trash and instead try to apprehend your sister?
Anja shakes her head in a minute, jerking motion. You can't be sure if she's saying no, or if she's just struggling against the pain. Finally, you see grim resignation in her eyes and she takes in a shallow, shuddering breath to speak in a voice that's nothing like herself: "Here." She slaps your wrist again, fingers finally closing around that narrowest part of your arm arm. There's blood on her hand, starker against her olive complexion than against your own. "Here, here, he--" she seizes up, letting out a series of coughs that make it sound like she's tearing something open inside herself. There's blood on her lips now too. Lung damage.
"Anja, stop. You can… you can tell me later." You have no idea how your voice is so calm. How you're looking at her with eyes unblurred by tears. You know it probably won't make a bit of difference, with a wound this bad, but somehow you need to stay level-headed. To stay strong for her.
She shakes her head again, and draws in a breath to speak once more. "Her… her. Her arm. Wr-wrist!" Her grip on your arm tightens fractionally. Seeing your uncomprehending worry, a spike of frustration shows through Anja's tortured features.
"Please, it's fine," you say. "You're hurting yourself. Tell me later."
She pays no heed to that at all. Maybe she doesn't trust that there will be a later. "I saw--" coughing again, just as bad as before. "I saw... on her wrist… she's… your sister. She's… a… she's with… A new-- she's used a new--"
This next fit of coughing finally does make the stinging tears start to form in your eyes. "Please, stop," you whisper to her. Beg of her. "Please just… just stop talking. I'm here, we'll get you help. Just… lay still. For me. Please."
Anja stares up at you in mute frustration for an instant that seems like an eternity, then she settles back into silence, her grip on your arm slackening before falling away completely. A moment later, the focus leaves her eyes. "Anja, no, no, stay with me. Anja? Please!" There's no response, but the ragged rise and fall of her chest continues: She's not dead, only dead to the world. At least for now.
The sleepy man is suddenly standing over you, one hand holding onto his bloody nose, the other the clutching a cracked communicator headset to his face. "I've called the authorities," he tells you, his voice rendered panicked by shock and pain, absurdly nasal by Mosi's blow. He's lucky, you suppose, that she didn't put another bullet into him.
"Good," you say. "I hope they hurry. Anja needs help now."
"They'll help her, miss," he tells you, trying to feign confidence. You appreciate the gesture, but the waver in his voice and the blood spilling between his fingers makes it ultimately unsuccessful. "And catch that criminal."
You don't even look at him this time. "She has such a head start," you say. Your voice is dazed, far away now. Before your eyes, Anja's breathing catches, and your heart stops along with it. An instant later, and she starts again.
He shakes his head. "Station security will catch her," he declares. "She won't get away."
--
The blow strikes Mosi hard in the face, sending her reeling back against the wall with bone-jarring force, even in low gravity. Before she has a chance to do more than prevent herself from falling down to the faintly scratched floor, a powerful fist closes around her collar, and slams her back against the wall. From long practise at receiving beatings, Mosi keeps her teeth clamped shut -- biting her tongue bloody won't do anything to help.
"Well, Lieutenant, you got away," Roth's voice is incongruously quiet. A mountain lake hiding a volcanic crater. Mosi can hear the impending eruption bubbling beneath surface. "Congratulations are in order, I suppose."
He doesn't release her, but there's a long enough pause that Mosi realises that she's expected to answer. "... Sir?" she asks, keeping the response as brief as possible. A good call. She's slammed back against the wall a third time. This time, he keeps her there.
"You have endangered this entire operation!" the Lieutenant-Commander hisses, his grip tightening enough to restrict Mosi's breathing. Calloused knuckles digging into her throat. "And this entire team! The lives of every patriot in this room. I'd ask what you were thinking, but you clearly WEREN'T!" The last is a shout, loud and close enough to make her ears ring. Hopefully, these quarters have adequate sound-proofing.
The entire infiltration team is huddled in the common area. Chief Wallace stands nearby, watching Mosi's treatment with a stony unreadability. The two specialists were eying her with something close to wide-eyed disbelief. Kim stands hunched in a corner. She winces sympathetically with each bit of rough treatment Mosi receives, but is clearly trying to stay out of Roth's sight. She had covered for Mosi, after all. Mosi had repaid her by shooting a naval officer and the ensuing uproar had been entirely outside of Kim's power to obscure.
The rooms they have at their disposal are a cramped series of maintenance worker quarters at the tip of one of the low gravity habitats. Dingey and old compared to the rest of the station, they were officially listed as closed for repairs. They are secluded and unmonitored inside and even sport their own exterior airlock. Mosi had come in that way, being forced to evade pursuit by taking a nerve-wracking walk along the station's exterior with only her emergency vacuum suit.
She was certain she hadn't been followed -- it was a mark of what an appalling rush job this station had been that security has as many holes as it does. The fingerprints of Saturn's mass influx of refugees are everywhere she goes in the system. For the first time, she is forced to really imagine Amani among them.
"You will listen to me, North!"
Mosi blinks, suddenly refocusing on the enraged man shaking her. This all seems strangely surreal. Everything had seemed surreal, since that call with Amani. Since seeing her. Since watching her face after Mosi gunned down a close friend in front of her. "I am listening, sir!" she responds, as close to respectful as she could manage, with half her airflow restricted.
He growls wordlessly, before continuing. "If we get through this alive I am going to make it my personal mission to have your head for this. You are going to be demoted back to fucking ensign for this. You'll be damn lucky if it's not a court martial. You'll be lucky if it's not a firing squad. Your name is shit after this, North." He sneers. It's not hate in his eyes, though -- it's fear. "Not that your name was ever anything else. What am I supposed to do, when they send me out here with the daughter of a fucking traitor?" Even now, her mother is, somehow, making Mosi's life just that little bit worse.
There's a sound from behind Roth. It's just a quiet sigh, but Chief Wallace somehow makes it loud enough to draw everyone's attention. Roth turns to him, glaring. "You have a comment to make, Chief Petty Officer?" he snaps.
"Yes, sir," he says, unphased by Roth's anger. Wallace is a twenty year veteran with a staggering number of boarding actions to his name. Alone among the infiltration team, he actually has more combat experience than the Lieutenant-Commander. It evidently takes more than the likes of LC Roth to rattle him. He glances to Mosi, tone somehow dry, in spite of the circumstances. "The girl you shot, who pulled a gun on you -- a bridge officer, you said, Lieutenant?"
"Y-yes," she confirms, unable to breathe enough through a sudden increase in the pressure Roth is putting on her neck. If he decides to kill her, would anyone here try to stop him?
Wallace sighs again. This time, it's the definition of long-suffering. "Sol save us all from fucking green ship officers with sidearms."
Roth considers him for a moment, then lets out a snort of laughter in spite of himself. "I know the type," he mutters, easing off on Mosi's throat. Then all at once, he releases her collar entirely, sending her sliding gracelessly to the floor. Roth doesn't even look at her. He can't look at her, she senses, or he'll start screaming again. Whatever calm the moment's humor provided is a fleeting, fragile thing. It won't stand up to much. "Get out of my sight, Lieutenant," he says. His work-booted foot twitches, as if he's physically restraining himself from kicking Mosi while she's down. Mosi scrambles out of the way before staggering to her feet. The civilian work boots aren't exactly military, but the steel toes would hurt just as badly as the polished combat boots Mosi is more personally familiar with.
"Yes sir!" she says, snapping off a shaky salute, before vanishing as fast as she can into the relative safety of her bunk. Only with the hatch sealing behind her, leaving Mosi alone in the tiny, darkened room, does she finally allow herself to curl up on the thin bed mattress provided for her. Her face burns, and her back protests in such a way that she knows moving will be painful tomorrow. Not impossible, but painful.
Mosi finds it surprisingly objectionable, Wallace's gruff assessment of the unfortunate Ensign Li. Reducing her actions to the realm of schoolgirl heroics feels unfair, even if it was Mosi who had been staring down the barrel of the gun. Still, though, she recognises that the CPO had spared her more pain and humiliation, whatever his reasons. That was more of a comfort, in an odd way, than the knowledge that Roth is terrified. Pain delivered out of fear hurts exactly as much as pain delivered out of pure hate. And one can become the other at the drop of a hat.
Curled up on the floor, hands over her head, feeling boot after boot striking her. Arms, back, ribs -- anywhere they could reach. They had been her classmates. Friends, some of them, before the civil war. Before the purges and the rank terror of the occupation. After that, they had been a mob of frightened teenagers, every one of them aware that someone had to be next. And if it was Mosi, it wouldn't be them.
The headmaster had strolled by. The new one, his predecessor having vanished with half the staff after refusing to acknowledge the new administration. The sound of his boots ringing on the floor tiles had alerted Mosi's assailants, and they had all snapped to attention, leaving only her curled up on the ground, blood dripping from her mouth. All he'd said, as he looked down at her, was "I'll expect this mess cleaned up, Cadet North." His voice had been disdainful, reproachful. As if he'd found her alone, and the others weren't there. As if it were a drink she'd spilled, not her own blood. She'd croaked 'yes sir' and dealt with it then, too.
And why wouldn't Roth be afraid? Beyond the fate of his team, the invasion can't afford to falter or stall for any amount of time. They have to crush the pretender's forces on schedule. There are no supply lines past the edge of Saturn's orbit. No second fleet on its way from Jupiter. The sheer amount of resources it takes to field such an invasion over those distances isn't a trick that can be made twice in a hurry. If the initial thrust of the invasion is turned aside, they're very likely all dead.
So she can understand why he's afraid. She can't even bring herself to hate the Lieutenant-Commander for his harsh reprimand. Mosi is angry mostly with herself. With how quickly and easily she'd slipped back into the role of a whipped dog. How every ounce of pride and self-worth she'd developed in her time with Commander Green had vanished so quickly. She stays like that, not moving, for an indeterminate period of time, before the hatch opens again.
"Lieutenant." The voice is more subdued than Mosi has ever heard it.
"Ensign Kim," she acknowledges, forcing herself to painfully sit up in time for Kim to flick the light on, revealing the confines of the closet-sized dorm, filled almost entirely by two sets of bunks. Kim holds something in her hands -- Mosi, whose face is beginning to swell painfully, has never been more grateful to see a cold pack. She accepts it wordlessly, wincing as she applies it. "Thank you." There's a lengthy silence, where Kim just stands there, looking at Mosi awkwardly. Eventually, Mosi speaks. "You told me so?" she asks.
Kim relaxes visibly, shoulders slumping down. "I really did, ma'am," she points out.
Mosi laughs, short and harsh. It hurts. "I'm a bad listener," she admits.
"Mm," Kim nods, crossing her arms. "You might want to avoid the LC for a little… ever."
"We're living in a combined twenty square feet," Mosi grumbles. "But thank you for the advice."
"Was it worth it?" Kim asks, all at once. "Seeing your sister."
"It… was." Mosi doesn't quite meet her eyes.
"'Was', as in, 'would have been if someone hadn't pulled a gun on me'?"
"Close enough," Mosi admits, lying down on her back, cold-pack pressed to her face. Maybe it still was worth having seen her, despite what had happened. Nonetheless, it it's hard to deny that Amani would have been better off if Mosi had just stayed away. "She looked… good," she says instead. Truthfully. Her sister seemed healthy, probably happy. Someone living a good life.
"I have a kid brother at home," Kim admits. "He was twelve when I left. I doubt I'll recognise him when I get back." She doesn't say 'if', but the word hangs in the air between them.
"You will," Mosi promises, entirely certain. "I did."
If she'd destroyed The Titanium Rose with all hands lost, Mosi wouldn't have lost an ounce of sleep. She would have been fine killing Ensign Li face to face under other circumstances. It's hardly the first time she's shot someone. But Amani being there, her being Amani's friend… guilt claws at her as well as the anger. For the first time, Mosi is forced to admit something to herself. That Amani might not forgive her, for this or for the invasion or for what Mosi is going to have to do to their mother. That Mosi might just have to settle for Amani surviving, the life she'd built here around Saturn completely destroyed.
Amani isn't actually an enemy, thank all the stars. She isn't actually going to be wearing a uniform. Mosi will never meet her across a battlefield. If that had been the case, Mosi doesn't know that she would be able to keep pulling that trigger. If she gets any sleep tonight, it will be on the strength of that knowledge alone.
--
"--and so you, Ensign Amani North, officer of the Imperial Navy, knowingly went to meet with a criminal who was previously known to you. Correct, Ensign?" Lady Bowman hover over you, leaning over the metal table in your direction. Staring like if she can just see inside your skull, there will be something incriminating written there. The Commander's insignia on her shoulder patches and epaulettes catch your eye slightly less than the intel insignia. Or the hard stare in her dark eyes, framed by the zero gravity aura of her slate-grey hair.
"Yes, ma'am," you say. Beside her, the tacticturn station security officer makes note of your response. You're strapped in at the waist to an uncomfortably cold metal chair. They let you wash yourself, but you're still in the ruined sundress. The white fabric is a horror show of Anja's blood. "Permission to speak?" you ask, a desperate note in your voice.
"Denied, Ensign," Lady bowman replies. Her voice has a parade ground crispness that makes you feel exceptionally shabby at the moment. "You purposefully went to this meeting wearing civilian clothing, without any identifying insignia as a naval officer of any kind. Correct?"
"Yes, ma'am." You hadn't been required to -- it was shore leave, after all. You've read the regulations. Looking at Bowman, though, you know any further outburst, no matter how reasonable, will be harshly dealt with. You're not here to talk back, it would seem. A strange way to conduct a debrief. Or, more realistically, an interrogation. If it were a debrief, you wouldn't be sitting. And the room you were in wouldn't have been quite so starkly white, with a large mirrored glass window set into one wall.
"And after witnessing this criminal inflict grievous bodily harm to Ensign Li, you allowed her, still armed, to escape, taking no efforts to stop her. Correct?"
"Yes, ma'am." It seems a little much, frankly, to appeal to Anja's injury in one breath, then imply you were negligent in your duty by not allowing her to bleed to death. You have no idea even if Anja is alive or dead. The last you saw of her, she was on a stretcher attended by several quietly grim medical technicians. No one has told you anything since then.
"And I'm certain that you knew nothing about the illegal firearm carried by the non-registered station occupant identified by you as 'Mosi North.'"
"No, I did not, ma'am," you say, voice still flatly compliant. Bowman's eyes keep flicking over to the one-way wall behind you. To someone standing on the other side of it. Who is watching, you wonder, to have her so nervous? You can't help but speculate on just who was responsible for the series of security failures that allowed a 'non-registered station occupant' to bring such a weapon onto Anchiale to begin with. And if, perhaps, it would not be better off for Lady Bowman if it all turned out to have been your fault all along.
You almost think you can hear voices on the far side of the hatch. Faintly, fighting against the room's soundproofing. Almost turns to certainty as both Bowman and the security officer turn to face the closed hatch, frowning.
"--nk you," comes a familiar voice as its owner drifts into the room, catching herself on the handhold just inside the hatch. "There was no reason for that to take as long as it did."
You automatically raise your hand in salute, the same sort of attention you're always to come to when a superior officer comes on deck while you're in harness of some kind. "As you were, North." That's as much attention as Lillian Andre can spare you before being drawn to Bowman.
"Andre," she says, startled. "I wasn't aware you'd be joining us."
"Indeed," Andre agrees. There's something off in her voice. Less the weary, strained captain you're used to dealing with. "It would be hard for me to, when you go out of your way not to tell me after two of my ensigns are involved in a shooting. I only found out about Ensign Li's condition through unofficial sources." She's furious, you realise. More than you've ever seen her in your time serving under her. Positively livid. If looks could kill, Lady Bowman would be a slowly expanding cloud of irradiated plasma. "I have a right to be here," she reminds Bowman. Who, of course, knew this when she gave the order to keep Captain Andre from finding out about the incident. She's glaring openly enough to surprise you -- your captain usually knows where the line is, and what insults she has to swallow as a commoner and a mere Commander in terms of strict rank.
"Of course you do," Lady Bowman agrees, smiling as if Captain Andre were an amusing but slightly slow eight year old. She's bothered, though, you can tell. Her look promises retribution. "You were to be informed in due course."
Andre's response is oddly restrained as she drifts over to the table, grabbing the edge to pull herself down into something resembling a standing position. "'Ma'am,'" she says, simply.
Lady Bowman blinks. "... I beg your pardon?" she asks.
Andre, one hand braced against the table to keep herself from physically drifting away, slams a bony palm down on its surface with enough force to make you jump. Enough force that it must have hurt. "''You were to be informed in due course, ma'am', Commander!" she snaps.
It's then, as her shoulder moves into your view, that you realise her uniform epaulettes are different. An additional line of braid adorns them. She has, in the time you've been on leave, been promoted to the rank of full captain. And more recently than that, you suspect. Lady Bowman is staring, open-mouthed, at Captain Andre's shoulder patch. She closes her mouth abruptly. In an act that seems as though it's costing her years of her life, Lady Bowman belatedly makes a smart salute. "I apologise, Captain," she says. Then adds, in an outrageous lie: "It was not my intention to give offence."
"I'm sure," Andre says, ambiguously. There's a grim sort of satisfaction in the way she holds her narrow frame. Not happiness -- certainly not after what happened today, with you and Anja -- but an undeniable degree of pleasure at having a patronising noblewoman, a lady and a baroness, saluting the likes of Lillian Andre. "One of my ensigns needs a new lung, Lady Bowman. I am in absolutely no mood for games or childish posturing."
You feel yourself sagging in your seat involuntary, muscles bunched tight belatedly relaxing. A new lung. Hardly a good situation, but dead people don't need transplants. Mosi hasn't killed her. Captain Andre's steely grey eyes flick over to you briefly, noting your transparent relief. Her expression thaws ever so slightly. A few cracks forming in the face of a glacier.
"When did you get the step up, ma'am?" Bowman asks, unable to restrain her horrified curiosity.
"Not long ago," Andre explains. "Her highness arranged it as a token of her continuing gratitude for escorting her to Iapetus." There's a very slight emphasis on the word 'continuing.' Something about Bowman's posture changes again. Not just resentful shock. Active concern.
Captain Andre floats over to the same side of the table, strapping herself uninvited into the seat between the wide-eyed security officer and Bowman. Just as wearily prim as in the Rose's command chair. "As I've just gotten here," she says pointedly not looking at Bowman, who is pushing herself into her own seat, "I would like to request that Ensign North start over from the beginning again, in her own words." Both of the other officers look like they've just swallowed a lemon. You wonder if she knows what she's doing. If she's deliberately trying to save you.
"Yes, ma'am," you say. "At approximately 13:24, Station Time, I received a call…"
--
Beta Sphere,
Anchiale Station
Anja is laying on a bed, slender frame threatening to be swallowed up by an array of tubes and equipment attached to her body. Beeps and whirs emerge from the equipment monitoring her or keeping her alive. Keeping her alive because, as the nurse bluntly informs you, her ruined lung has already been removed, life support making up for the lack in preparation for the nebulous 'soon' when they locate a new one to transplant. She's separated from you by a pane of glass. It's strangely as if you're back in the interrogation room but, this time, standing on the other side of the glass.
In the end, you have not actually done anything wrong. Merely suspicious. Mosi admitted to nothing particularly incriminating prior to the gun being pulled, and the fact that she did not come with you and your mother to Saturn is a matter of public record. No charges, no official reprimand. Just a lot of unhappy glares, and instructions to make yourself available for further investigation. And there will be further investigation, with Mosi still at large somewhere on the station. Assault on an Officer of the Crown can be a shooting offence, when it involves a lethal weapon. You have no idea what you're going to tell your mother.
"You're not usually the one I'd worry about getting into trouble, North."
"... I didn't expect this either, ma'am."
You parted ways with Captain Andre following your release, as exhausted and beaten down as if you'd pulled two double shifts in a row. You're entirely convinced you have her to thank for your release, and you attempted to say so.
"Thank me by not shouting at anyone important, and not getting any more of my officers shot, North. Or, honestly, shout at whoever you want, if it's between those two things." Then she'd stopped, squeezing her eyes shut, massaging one temple under the brim of her hat. It's such a familiar gestures it's almost comforting, in spite of the wounding words. "I apologise, Ensign," she'd said, stiffly. "That was… unjust. But understand, me, North -- your fault or no, next time no one will be able to protect you."
In your heart of hearts, you haven't entirely convinced herself that she was wrong to say it, even if she did plainly feel badly for voicing the harshest part. Either way, that's one order you would be thrilled to comply with. You were free to go -- it was finally possible for you to find and visit Anja. All the way there, you were filled with the utterly irrational notion that your failure to come sooner might somehow make things worse.
You've been staring for a good fifteen minutes, you think, before a voice rumbles at your shoulder. "I don't think I've ever seen you looking worse." Lieutenant Grayson stands behind you, massive hands hanging loosely at his sides. Looking up into his face, he manages a weak smile at you. "And yet," he concludes, "you still look better than Ensign Li."
The laugh this elicits from you is high pitched, short-lived, hysterical. It echoes too loudly in observation room and out into the halls beyond. This hospital is like every other you've been in. Sterile colours, an oppressively hushed atmosphere heavy with the misfortune of others. A chemical tang in the air. Hushed voices in the distance.
"Sorry, sir," you say, running a hand self-consciously through your hair, face heating. It's less neat than normal.
"There's a tag still on that dress," he notes.
"My old one was covered in her blood," you say, quietly. "I put it down a recycler on the way here." The dress is actually identical to your old one, purchased from another print on demand kiosk with the same code. Glancing down at it, you're abruptly, irritably aware that you will never wear this dress again. New version or no, you can still remember too vividly what it looked like coated in your best friend's blood.
Grayson nods, quietly, and his eyes turn back to Anja. "She's mouthy," he says. "Inappropriate. No sense of decorum. Disrespectful." He lets out a deep, rumbling breath, closing his eyes against the sight of her.
"She likes you, sir," you offer, quietly. "You know how to work with her."
"I know," Grayson agrees, smiling sadly. His deep, brown eyes turn to you. Despite Grayson's sheer size, you've never thought of him as being slow or ponderous before. Now, he moves and talks like he's worried about breaking something delicate. Somehow, you can relate. "Thank you, North," he says.
You jerk your head back, confused. "I'm sorry, sir?" you ask.
"You saved her life," he says, bluntly.
"I got her shot, sir," you say.
"No." The denial is flat and somehow inarguable. An impenetrable barrier he's laid down between you. "You held her wound shut until help could arrive. She nearly died, North. If you hadn't done that, she'd be dead." He closes his eyes, then, running a hand down his face. "My valued, mouthy, inappropriate subordinate. Thank you for saving her."
You're silent for a long moment then, before speaking, in a voice that wavers on the edge of breaking: "She's my closest friend, sir. What else could I do?"
"I know," he repeats. His hand falls heavy and warm on your shoulder, giving you the briefest of reassuring squeezes. "If you'll excuse me, Ensign," he says, releasing you. "I think I need…" he looks around. At four white walls. At spotless floor tiles. At the uncomfortable seating. At everything but at Anja again. "... air."
"I understand, sir," you say, watching him slip back out into the hallway. He doesn't come back.
Other shipmates trickle in to 'visit' over the ensuing hours. Mostly to see that Anja isn't dead. They look at you curiously, but something about your bearing, curled up on one of the uncomfortable chairs by yourself, forbids asking about what happened. The news has only broadcast that Anja was shot, that another officer was involved but unharmed. That the assailant was a non-registered station occupant. None of them know that it was your only sister, returning from the grave to assault a fellow officer.
You try to work. There's not much left, you remind yourself. Even without J6, you can make progress. You can get something done.
"Amani."
"Yes?"
"Amani, how long have you been here?"
A few hours, certainly. You glance up at the time on your tablet, and do a double-take at just how late it's gotten. At how little you've gotten done. "... a while," you admit.
"When have you last eaten?"
"I had… ramen earlier." Much earlier. Your stomach abruptly lurches to life, rumbling hungrily.
"When was that?"
"Afternoon."
Abruptly, a slender-fingered hand seizes your tablet, and pulls it out of your unresisting grip. You stare up at Lori dumbly, uncertain how to respond. "I was just… trying to get some work done," you explain.
"You weren't succeeding," the Countess says. She glances behind her, at the sight of Anja on the other side of the glass, and sighs expansively. "Come on," she says, quietly.
"What?" you blink up at her. For some reason, nothing is quite making sense. She leans in closer to you. Her eyes are very blue -- darker than Anja's, but just as intent.
"You need food and a shower, Amani. And you need to be somewhere else." A hint of sterness enters her voice, and her free hand takes you by the arm, pulling you to your feet. You sway as you get up. You are hungry.
"What if something happens while I'm gone?" you whisper to her.
"I think the doctors can do their job for one night without your oversight, Ensign North."
"I thought you weren't going to call me that," you point out.
"I'm allowed to, when I'm teasing you." There's no force behind the flirting, no heat. She's pulling you toward the door now. Not knowing what else to do, you follow along behind her. "Come on. When she's better, Ensign Li won't thank you to starve yourself on her behalf."
That was true. "My quarters are on the other side of the sphere," you admit.
Lori is unconcerned. "We're not going to your quarters."
--
You can't be sure if Lori's quarters are so much larger than your own because she's a knight and a commander, or simply because she's a countess. Regardless, you find yourself standing in a spacious, openly laid out apartment, with a kitchen and a sitting area larger than anything you've had to yourself in your entire life. You waver on the threshold, uncertain what to do with yourself. The entire room has the same uncomfortably new quality that the entirety of Beta Sphere has, but this apartment in particular is so spotless it looks barely lived in.
"I've scarcely spent a night here since it was assigned to me," Lori admits. "I've been staying up near the space port. To make it easier to get to meetings and test flights." Your question answered before you could open your mouth, you feel yourself being gently steered toward the bathroom. "Have a shower," Lori tells you. "I'll have seen about food by the time you get out."
The shower stall is large enough for you to comfortably sit down. That's what you find yourself doing -- back against the tiled wall, arms wrapped around your knees, letting the deliciously warm water fall onto your head.
Anja is going to be alright. She's not dead. They'll find a match, the doctor's are certain -- her blood type isn't rare, after all. It's just a matter of a 'donor' of the right size and blood type and healthy lungs turning up.Turning up, of course, means dying themself. Lungs are not the kind of organ that are donated by a good samaritan. What will Anja say, when she finally sees you again? Or will you be dead along with the Rose's whole crew, the war simply lost? Will Anja wake up, fixed, whole… but in a version of Saturn she doesn't recognise at all?
You have no idea how long you spend in the shower. Too long, the part of you that's trained to be mindful of water waste chides. You belatedly wash as if the hot water might be shut off at any time, turn the water off, and take a towel to dry yourself with pruned hands.
The bathrobe that's hanging by the door is too large for you, sized as it is for Lori's greater height, but she has narrow shoulders, and you can fasten it tightly without fear of the garment slipping off you.
Stepping out of the bathroom, you're immediately hit by the scent of rice and curry. Your stomach growls overpoweringly and you actually feel a little weak in the knees. "I ordered it," Lori reveals. She's in a chair by the room's large window. Her jacket is put away, and her shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the delicate lines of her collarbone. Outside, the station has already slipped into simulated night. She gestures at the recently-unsealed takeout containers, their open steam vents the source of the delicious aroma. "I'm afraid the kitchen is just for show," she elaborates. "One of the disadvantages of privilege -- I have no idea how to cook for myself, or for anyone else." The daughter of a count, with servants. Then a knight aspirant and a naval officer -- you suppose Lori has never really had to cook for herself in her life. Her tone is mildly self effacing though, as if admitting to a character flaw.
"Thank you." As you open your portion, you have to exert effort to pace yourself. To not simply inhale the perfectly spiced contents inside. Lori looks on, eating her own portion sparingly. She's eying you with a mix of worry and affection, but seems to hold off on speaking up until you've finished.
"They didn't report names publicly," Lori says, finally, when you set your empty container down on the table. She's hardly touched her own, but she places it beside yours.
"I heard," you say, wondering where she's going with this. She's not meeting your eye, suddenly. Instead simply staring out the window. You shift forward in your own chair. The sitting area is grouped around a glass coffee table and a rug nice enough that it doesn't look machine printed, even though you know it is.
Lori takes in a shallow breath, then exhales. "They just said 'two junior officers from the HIMS Titanium Rose had been involved in a shooting, one seriously injured."
"... oh." Realisation hits you, soft and painful. You slowly rise to your feet, and go over to her.
"Then I heard you were one of them. Still, no one knew which one was hurt." Her arms go around you, pulling you against her even while she remains seated. Her grip is tight and secure, and you find yourself resting your head against hers.
"I'm alright," you tell her, gently. "I'm fine."
"You're not hurt," Lori agrees, pulling you down into the chair completely. There's nothing particularly amorous about what she's doing. No sign that she's intending to seduce you there and now. Just the warmth of proximity, your body moulding tight against hers in the confines of a one-person armchair.
"I'm alright," you repeat. Your head finds a spot on her shoulder, tucked partially in under her chin. One of her hands is in your still-damp hair, and when she speaks, you can feel the thrum of her vocal cords against your skin:
"Are you?" she asks, quietly.
"Am I?"
"Are you really alright?" she asks.
You let out a long breath, deflating in her arms and wondering why that's such a hard question to answer. "I will be," you clarify.
"That's not the same thing, Amani," she says.
"I've worried you enough," you point out. "I'm sorry for not calling. I should have, after. I didn't think about what you'd hear on your own."
"I am entitled to worry about you," Lori tells you, the faintest note of disapproval in her voice. "Do me the credit of not implying otherwise."
"I'm sorry," you say, mildly chastised.
"Don't be," she says, the arm wrapped around your waist tightening. "I'm just glad you weren't shot."
"Anja was," you point out.
"Yes. And I'm not happy about that." There's silence then. A long, drawn out silence where you close your eyes and your world shrinks down to the two of you. The rise and fall of her chest against yours. "These aren't," she admits, finally, "the circumstances under which I wanted to bring you back to this apartment."
"I'd hope not," you say, after a moment of extended contemplation. "If this were what you were into, I'm not sure that things would work out between us."
She seems too startled by that to respond at first. Then she laughs quietly and kisses you once on the forehead. "I'd much rather see you happy," she confirms. Then her tone turns marginally more serious again, and she asks: "Talk to me about it."
"What do you want to hear?" you murmur, breath whispering against her skin.
"Tell me what happened," she says, hand running through your hair again. "Tell me what you're feeling."
You thought you didn't want to tell this story again, that it had taken too much out of you the first time. But no one in that interrogation room, admittedly, had fed you curry and taken you into their arms. You take a deep breath, and begin to speak.
--
What are you feeling most intensely now?
[ ] Grief and worry for Anja being wounded, eclipsing all else
[ ] Betrayal and disillusionment over your sister shooting your friend and comrade
[ ] Fear and existential dread over everything going wrong in an escalating war
[ ] Guilt that you brought Anja there, that you couldn't somehow stop Mosi
OoC: I realise I'm churning these out much faster than normal lately, please don't expect this pace to continue forever.
Betrayal and disillusionment, 22 votes
Fear and existential dread, 12 votes
Guilt, 9 votes
Grief and worry, 6 votes
You wake up gradually, in a soft bed beneath a comfortable blanket, a warm body pressed against your back. Still sound asleep, your bedmate has her arms around you and her face in your hair. You let your eyes slide back shut and allow yourself to half drift off again, your own breathing synching up with the woman whose embrace you've just spent the night in.
It feels like it's been a long time since you slept with someone. Not even necessarily sex -- there wasn't any in this case, you're even still wearing your borrowed dressing gown. But it feels like it's been a very long time since you haven't woken up alone.
You trace gentle fingers along the leanly muscled forearm wrapped around your chest, feeling its owner stir slightly at your touch. Your fingers pass a few odd indentations pressed semi-permanently into the skin, common from extended use of some types of spacesuit. For some reason, this makes you think of your mother and you abruptly try to banish the thought from your head. You love you mother, certainly, but she is not quite what you want coming to mind while you're in bed with a beautiful woman.
You and Lori eventually went to bed together after talking at length about what happened to you the day before. She listened in silence, providing only mute comfort as you slowly, haltingly told her about what occurred. Leaving out the details of your work with J6, but telling her about Mosi, about her call, about your panicked response. Anja calming you down, promising to come and support you, and how disastrously that had turned out for her.
When you mentioned Lady Bowman and what transpired with her, she'd spoken up for the first time. "Self-serving, two-faced cow of a baroness," she'd growled. "Remind me to buy the Captain a drink sometime."
Your explanation had eventually come to a close and you'd tentatively voiced the question you'd been wondering all this time: "Did I make a mistake, going to see her? When I didn't know anything about how she even got here?" With your head still resting on her shoulder, you couldn't see anything of her face but the elegant curve of her jaw. Her voice had been low, thoughtful when she'd responded.
"Not unless you could see the future," she said. "It's… hard, when family doesn't live up to our expectations. When we don't know them as well as we thought."
A strange way to phrase it, but you supposed she was speaking from experience. "How did you feel, when your cousin…" you trailed off, not knowing how to finish that.
"Hm. Cyrus." Her arms had tightened around you, momentarily, drawing you closer in against her. As if seeking consolation for herself briefly, instead of just providing it to you. "I was furious," she'd told you. "And beyond hurt that he'd betray me. Then, one day, I… It's hard to explain." A deep breath drawn in, then released. You felt the swell and fall of her chest, the passage of air against the top of your head. She continued: "One day, I remembered something he said to me, the last time I spoke to him face to face. I was officially appointing him steward in my absence. I told him to look after our family's holdings and our tenants well, and not to disgrace his name or mine. He just… smiled at that, and told me if it came down to those three commands, he'd rather fail the last if it meant keeping the first two. I used to think that was a joke. I suppose it wasn't one, when push came to shove." She was silent for a moment longer, before adding: "Most people think they have a good reasons, when they do the wrong thing. They tell themselves they had no choice."
You'd stewed on that story for a few, long moments. "So, you think I should forgive her."
"I can't tell you that. When it comes to family, you have your heart, your duty and your honour. They don't always play nicely together. I forgive Cyrus as a cousin, as someone who grew up with him. As the rightful countess, as a Knight Galatea, and as a loyal officer of the empire, I can't be permitted to do so so easily. I can't decide for you if someone from your past is worth forgiving."
"I'm not sure yet."
"That's natural." She'd kissed your brow again, pressing her lips there longer than before. "You don't have much to go on, to decide something like that."
"I was ready to help her," you'd said, a touch of bitterness in your voice. "I wanted to just… pick up where we were. Whatever trouble she was in, mother would help. We both would."
"And now?"
"And now she nearly killed my dearest friend. She carried illegal firearms on a station. I'm not sure, yet." Even if Anja had fired first, it's a lot to forgive. Mosi isn't the one missing a lung, maybe facing her career being ruined if she doesn't recover properly.
Even if the conversation made you feel better at the time, remembering it here and now casts a slight pall over your morning. The mattress is just a little less comfortable, the sunlight filtering through the blinds is just a little too bright. That's not all you remember now. The gunshots. Anja's blood. Anja's eyes.
"I'm sorry, Amani! She shot first!"
"Why did you even have a gun in the first place?" you whisper.
Your eyes fall on the clock on the nightstand beside the bed, red digits gently glowing 0651. You give a little start. It's already nearly 0700! There's no indication that Lori has set any kind of alarm, nor is showing any sign at all of returning to wakefulness. A brief but intense war wages inside you, between the part of you trained for early rising and subsequent caffeine-fuelled productivity, and the part of you that would much rather stay here, enjoying Countess Perbeck's comfortable bed and even more comfortable presence.
It's with a slightly despairing sigh that you allow prudence to win out. Carefully, slowly, you wriggle your way out of Lori's grasp and push yourself up to a sitting position. You spot your dress and other clothes hanging by the doorway. You didn't wear these particular ones very long, and you steel yourself for donning the white sundress one last time between here and your quarters, where you can discard it forever as a memory of a truly horrible day.
While you have the dress over your head, a muffled voice grumbles: "Why are you up?"
"It's 0700," you say. Once the dress comes back down from over your eyes, you can see that Lori has rolled over to look at you, eyes cracked open just barely enough to glower heatlessly.
"Yes, it is. So why are you up?" she repeats, groaning a little.
You tilt your head, quizzically. "This is much later than I usually get up. You serve on a naval ship as well," you point out.
"I do," she acknowledges, grudgingly.
"Shouldn't you be used to early rising as well, then?"
She sighs thunderously. "I am willing to endure hardship in the line of duty: Injury. Death. Getting up before 0930. But we're not onboard ship and neither of us has an early appointment today that I'm aware of."
"That's…" you try to find the right word for it. "... remarkably lazy."
"If wanting to enjoy a proper rest with a pretty girl in my own bed is what you call lazy."
You turn away, hiding a smile. There's something intangibly endearing about seeing the cold, severe officer you remember from your voyage like this. It's not a side of her you imagine many people are allowed to see in the normal course of things. It does something to chase away your initial bad mood, at least a little
"I'll try not to make too much noise," you promise. She only grunts irritably in response.
You perform what early morning rituals you can with what you have with you, doing your best to avoid disturbing Lori too much. Including a quick, discrete call to make sure that nothing has changed with Anja in your absence -- the news is more reassuring than not. Before too long, you emerge into the living area halfway-decently put together. Your eyes drift over to the never-used kitchen.
The cupboards are stocked with what shelf stable essentials are practical for sporadically occupied senior officer's quarters. It's spacer food, but high quality spacer food, for what value that has. You set a pot of coffee brewing before anything else, locate a few spotless pans and get to work. It's admittedly been a little too long since you've actually cooked a meal for yourself, but it's not as though you're making anything particularly elaborate.
You look up from the slowly cooking egg substitute on the stove to see Lori standing in the doorframe, doing up the last buttons on a fresh shirt. She looks bleary-eyed, but to be fair, so did you before the coffee finished brewing.
"There's coffee in the pot still," you say.
"Yes. The smell makes it remarkably hard to stay in bed." You watch, out of the corner of your eye, as she proceeds to empty two entire packets of whitener into a cup of what had previously been perfectly honest black coffee. "I'm more of a tea person, but I'm hardly going to turn up my nose."
She eyes what you're doing on the stove, gaze travelling from the eggs to the frying slices of 'bacon'. As there are quite possibly no pigs in all of Saturn system, it's bacon-flavoured plant protein cleverly configured. It still smells impressively close to the real thing -- at least according to a faint recollection from your youth. "The kitchen isn't just for show, now," you point out. She smiles tiredly.
"You seem to know what you're doing."
You glance down at the meal. Scrambled eggs and bacon is not precisely a challenge, but you suppose, rusty or not, your comfort with the stove shows. "I can break an egg," you confirm.
She raises an eyebrow over the rim of her coffee cup. "Didn't those 'eggs' come out of a carton?"
"Metaphorically." You let that stand in comfortably silence for a moment, before plating up the bacon. The eggs aren't far behind it. "I haven't done much since college, but I learned young." You falter slightly, face tightening a little. "... Mosi taught me. When she made something, I'd always pester her to let me help. Which is fair enough, that's how she learned from father, when he was less busy." Would you ever be able to think of something like that again, now? Would you be able to recall any of those cherished childhood memories of your lost family and not also think about what happened yesterday?
She gratefully accepts the offered portion, and sits down at the small dining table adjacent to the kitchen. Truth be told, there's better food to be had through takeout. But this is here now, and she doesn't seem displeased that you took the initiative. "An old family recipe, then?" she jokes, skirting the sensitive topic of your sister.
You laugh. "Trust me," you say, "you don't quite have the spice cabinet here for anything I'd call a family recipe."
She seems to enjoy the meal, at least. As do you, in spite of all this time eating actually decent food while on leave. The navy, you've decided, has done unforgivable things to both of your tastebuds. Then again, the egg-substitute actually has the texture of scrambled eggs, and the bacon is both crispy and salty. You can't ask much more than that of either.
Lori rises to help you with the dishes once you're both done, but you wave a dismissive hand. "I need to be able to do some things for you," you explain.
"Some things?" she asks, amused.
"You're wealthier than I am," you point out, putting the cleaned pans away. "And a countess. And a senior officer. And you spent all of last night being extremely considerate." You're not bothered by this, necessarily. But you want to be able to at least gesture at returning the favour.
"You're more yourself, this morning," Lori notes.
You don't quite meet her eyes, conveniently focusing on the task at hand. "Since I've had my coffee?" you say, offering her a small, serene smile.
She looks at you for a long enough moment that you think she's not content to let that particular dodge go unchallenged. "Something like that," she says, instead. Lori yawns, stretching with an arm above her head in a sinuous motion. You can't help but take note of the same indentations you felt earlier with your fingers, some of which are plainly newer, slightly red and uncomfortable looking.
"Those look a little painful," you say.
"Hm?" Lori follows your gaze, looking at the underside of her forearm with a frown. Overlaid on top of the older impressions, the newer are obviously more complex, a pattern of horizontal lines pressed into her flesh there. She makes a face. "It's from my pilot suit," she admits. "The Huntress was still using the old Lancer model, and Banners didn't take anything too different from that. But, well, as you know…" she shrugs, alluding to the new model that she hinted at before, the one she can't talk about. "The new prototypes are all using a newer design that we stole from the enemy. Or that they stole from us. The haptic points in the arm are a little more… forceful than I'd like." she rubs at the spot absently, as if being reminded has caused the discomfort to resurface. "Ito, Sol take him, somehow finagled an upgrade for that monstrosity of his." she sighs a little wistfully.
"Into his Banner?" you ask.
"If you could call it that by the end," she says, a bittersweet smile crossing her face. "It was nothing like one inside anymore. It drove the mechanics mad. To say nothing about Song. I don't know how he got a cutting-edge haptic system to even work in what's supposed to be a Banner, but… it clearly did." Her expression turns slightly troubled for a moment. Perhaps, if you had to guess, following the subject of Sub-Lieutenant Ito to that of his foster sister, lying broken in a hospital. Of how he would have reacted to any of this. Not well, you suspect. Thankfully, the conversation carries on to lighter topics.
As much as you're enjoying this -- getting to know Lori in a private setting, where rank and social standing can be safely left at the door -- you can't quite afford to spend all day at it. Before too long, you make your apologies. "Thank you," you say, quietly, standing near the doorway. "For looking after me. I promise, I'll stay in touch."
Lori saunters over to meet you, partially obstructing your exit with her body. "It wasn't just for your benefit," she says. "I wanted to see that you were fine, for myself." Looking into her eyes, you see something there that you haven't since that day in the park. Before you can process this, there's an arm around your waist pulling you hard against her.
You lean up to meet her kiss halfway. It's both long and forceful, nearly voracious in a way that leaves you blissfully numb to the world and all its troubles for a few precious moments. When she finally pulls away, her teeth briefly tugging at your lip, you're left gasping against her from the unexpected intensity of it. "Next time you share a bed with me," she says, voice a low, pleased hum, "sleep isn't the only thing you'll get."
You think you can live with that.
--
Anchiale Station,
The Spindle
"Ensign North. You weren't shot."
You've noticed before that J6 almost seems to move more naturally in zero gravity than she does on foot. When you push your way into the conference room on the spindle that her message mentioned, you find her floating in the middle of the room. She's oriented diagonally to the door, slowly drifting upwards at an angle, one hand idly sketching away at the tablet held in the other.
You called first, technically. Simply to arrange a follow-up. J6 being J6, however, the best time to meet is, apparently, immediately. Truth be told, short of wallowing useless at the hospital and staring fixedly at your black box pendant -- resolutely dead and unresponsive to further signals -- you don't have particular plans for your day. You are required to report for a follow up with station security tomorrow in order to aid in Mosi's capture, but that's not until tomorrow.
Given that this is J6, you elect to read at least pleasant relief into her comment. "I wasn't," you agree, floating inside and closing the hatch behind you.
She nods and stares, eyes very slightly frowning for a moment. "I'm… sorry," she says. Then, after too long a pause: "about Ensign Li." The basic nicety is rendered awkward and stilted in her mouth. Seeing J6 attempt to outwardly express emotion is like watching an abandoned piece of machinery creak back to life, joints stiff from neglect, operator no longer quite knowing how everything used to work. You suppose she's familiar with Anja, at least, from having filled in as a pilot on the Rose.
From anyone else, it would have seemed like a platitude. From her, it seems oddly touching. "Thank you," you say. "She's stable, but she's going to need a fairly major surgery." Is it your imagination, or does a minute shudder go through J6's body upon hearing that last word? You try not to think about her experiences with surgery, the hairline scars that you saw running between the induction plates on her limbs the one time you saw her with bare arms. She's back in full uniform today, sunburst-orange jacket hiding all of them but the ones on her neck and at her temples. You're wearing a long, grey skirt and a simple, floral top. It's only slightly more practical for zero gravity than the sundress had been, but you're by this point quite an expert at managing such garments with dignity. The new white sundress was, as planned, disposed of at your earliest convenience.
"How much time do you have here?" you ask.
J6 shrugs. "Six hours," she says. "Under normal circumstances. Her highness will return then. This conference room is near the transfer station."
You look at her sidelong. "You're here a little early, aren't you?" you ask.
"Sometimes she finishes early," J6 says, philosophically. "I wanted to go out."
You glance around the four plain walls, the unremarkable chairs, the long table with its magnetic docking plates. "There is a shopping district near here," you point out.
"Mm," J6 acknowledges. Having reached a sufficient height, she pushes off from the ceiling with one hand, sending herself slowly spinning down toward the floor. Somehow, she uses one of the chairs to arrest her fall perfectly, facing you on a plane level with the door. "You wanted to do more work?" she asks.
"I did," you say, trying not to feel dizzy from the maneuver you just witnessed. That's probably the most you're logically going to get out of her. You hold up your tablet indicatively. "Do you have your connection cable?" you ask.
"Mm," she says again, producing the thickly coiled cord in question from her jacket.
"Thank you for asking me to come right away," you say, setting the tablet down on the table where it sticks fast. "I think I need to work, right now."
J6 seems to process this as she pushes herself down into a chair near your tablet,unspooling the transfer cable as she does so. "Okay," she decides, finally.
"Okay?" you ask, pushing yourself into the seat beside her and doing up the straps one-handed.
"Yes," she confirms, attaching one end of the cable to her temple once again.
You sigh, and decide to just get to work. This consumes the next several hours of your day. Letters are discovered, layers of code peeled back. A slowly growing reference document of translated words are proposed, tested against the entire body of work by J6, discarded or confirmed. You don't have to think about how Mosi may have changed beyond recognition, about wounded friends you can do nothing to help, about the dismal prospect of being called in for a second, albeit less hostile round of questioning tomorrow. Just the honest, mind-numbing pleasure of making meaningful progress on something tedious, but worthwhile.
You don't quite realise what you're looking at at first. You've spent so much time treating this data as a puzzle to solve, as an abstract problem, that at first what you're seeing just baffles you. J6's voice is what breaks through to you.
"This makes reference to an all out assault on Iapetus by the Holy Empire," she says. "One that will happen soon." She says this in the way someone else might reference that the weather forecast calls for rain later, blinking her eyes slowly to bring them out of the glazed state they get when she accesses a system neurally. They gradually refocus on your face, slow enough to be disconcerting.
You stare back at her, stunned, then slowly back down at your tablet, eyes scanning over the raw text you've painstakingly made legible. "We… have time," you say, relieved. "It looks like we still have time." The timeframe this message alludes to isn't precise enough to say with absolute certainty when the attack is coming. However, it's not happening so soon that you've uncovered this horrible knowledge too late to meaningfully do anything about it. If this information gets in front of the right people, preparations can be made, reinforcements called in.
"It's strange, though," J6 says.
"Strange?" you stare at her, mind too filled with the grim certainty of an attack to possibly track her meaning.
"The invasion they're making reference to," J6 explains. "It doesn't say anything about how they're going to handle the defence platforms. They make anything like a simple frontal assault too costly to be worthwhile." She stares into space again for a moment, as if running through the data for anything you might have missed. Not finding it, she reaches up, braces herself and removes the cable snaking its way into her temple. She winces as she does so, gritting her teeth against whatever pain and disorientation this always seems to cause her. "Still," she says, speaking more slowly than usual, eyes squeezed shut as if to combat a sudden vertigo, "we should report this." Seemingly, the aftereffects were hitting her a lot harder than last time.
Well, of course you should report this -- that much was never in question. Despite her veiled discomfort, J6 has already raised a comm unit from her belt, is clearly ready to contact someone.
"Who are you calling?" you ask.
"I'm interrupting her highness's meeting," J6 says, matter of factly.
"You're allowed to do that?" You shouldn't be impressed, considering how close a confidant the Guardswoman seems to be, to say nothing of being the princess's personal bodyguard.
"In an emergency," she says, before halting in order to brace herself for a further wave of pain. She sets the communicator down momentarily, thrusts a hand into her pocket, and produces a small packet of blue dermal patches you recognise as her painkillers. While she proceeds to self-administer one of them with slightly shaking fingers, you look away in mild discomfort. Nothing about her bearing invites a desire for help or sympathy at the moment.
It does, however, give you a moment to consider what she's about to do, with some of the immediate panic of the discovery cooling. If J6 presents this information to the princess directly, you can't imagine that Daystar won't immediately act on it. This constitutes a major threat to Iapetus, and if anyone is equipped to bypass or at least accelerate the layers of military and civilian bureaucracy necessary to fix this situation, it's a member of the Imperial house of Helios in good standing. It might make a difference in how swift and effective Iapetus's defence is.
At the same time, Princess Daystar isn't the one who asked you to do this assignment. While Lieutenant-Commander Owusu did give you his blessing -- if hypothetically -- to get the princess involved, you're uncomfortably aware that simply bringing it to her now may well cut him out entirely, even if you contact him immediately afterward. Potentially, and not even necessarily through any malice of Daystar's, cut him out of both decision making and credit for finding this message, noticing its significance, and identifying you as a trustworthy resource for translating it. Part of you thinks you owe it to him, to ask J6 as a favour to allow you to contact him first. You have no doubt she'll call the princess regardless, but you have some hope that she would be willing to do you a simple favour here. It's not as though Owusu doesn't have contacts, doesn't know who it's best to bring this to. It might even be, that with his intimate knowledge of the local intelligence structure, he gets things started faster or quieter than Daystar would. It may also simply cause a delay.
--
What do you do?
[ ] Let J6 tell the princess first.
[ ] As a personal favour, ask J6 to please let Owusu be the one to bring the report forward.
In a few seconds, the contact medication seems to have began to work. J6's breathing has grown less strained. The tremble in her arms and hands has stilled until it's barely perceptible as she carefully tucks the medicine container back into her jacket pocket.
"Guardswoman?" you ask, tentatively.
She blinks, looking back at you as if she'd momentarily forgotten you were there. A short but blinding migraine, by all appearances. You wonder why she's so eager to directly interface so often, if jacking out has such potentially painful results. "Mm?" she manages.
"Do you remember that I was given this data and asked to go through it by an officer named Lieutenant-Commander Owusu?" you ask.
"The SRI officer," she agrees. There's a strange note in her voice when she says that. It's hard to precisely pinpoint.
"Yes, he's an SRI officer," you agree, frowning. "Is… that a problem?"
She shrugs marginally, not quite looking at you as she replies. "It's… a thing," she says, thickly. Inadequately.
Her words from before, immediately preceding her declaring herself unwilling to go on and making you instant ramen, swim up ghost-like into the subtext of this conversation: "The Empire says criminals. The Jovians say the Empire. The Navy. The SRI," she'd said, referring to whoever had bankrolled the project that had mutilated her as a child. Left her so she has these migraines. Bad associations. Like the surgery.
"Well," you continue, delicately, "it's… his case. He found the transmission, he figured out what it was. He's the one who brought it to me. Would you mind if we took it to him, first? Obviously I'd never ask you to keep this from her highness, just to let the Lieutenant-Commander take the lead on it." J6 turns, finally, staring at you for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Thinking. "As a favour to me?" you add, a little desperately.
J6 looks away again. "Okay," she says, slowly. "We can do that."
The message with Owusu doesn't take long. "What I've been working on," you say, slowly, "I found something." You don't want to be too specific over the call.
Something about your tone, neutral though you're trying to keep it, carries your meaning, however. "... what we weren't hoping to find?" he asks, quietly.
"What we were looking for," you agree. After that, it's just down to him naming a meeting place. This time, he's coming to meet you. It's not that far.
You glance up at J6. "He wants to meet me not far from here," you say. "You could come too, if you wanted."
"No," she says, shaking her head.
"Ah, I suppose your duties don't allow it," you reason, undoing your seat straps and gathering up your things.
J6 shakes her head again, hair fanning like billowing snow. "No," she says."I don't want to."
--
Lieutenant-Commander Milo Owusu gets to the location he gave you first, apparently having already been on the spindle. It's not terribly far from the Guardswoman's meeting room, a small piece of zero gravity office space that he maintains. You can't help but notice that, as you pass through the door, the signal strength on your electronics drops from five bars down to zero. So, it looks like you're doing that again.
"Glad you weren't hurt, Ensign," he says, after a perfunctory greeting. He seems to mean it, although privately you're forced to admit that you're growing weary of the sentiment in a way that's not fair to blame on anyone in particular.
Instead, you smile sadly and say: "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your concern."
He's tenser than you've seen him, the laughing quality of his eyes turned serious. It doesn't render his beauty-model-looks any less captivating, but it casts them in a different light. That tension does little to abate as he reads what you show him. He hasn't bothered to properly strap himself in at the darkened workstation, instead hovering near it in a manner that's thankfully at least less unnerving than similar behaviour from J6.
When he finally finishes, he closes his eyes and takes in a long breath, a profound fatigue settling onto his shoulders. When he's gathered himself, he repons his eyes. "Well done, North," he says, finally. "I profoundly wish there had been nothing to find."
"I can understand the feeling, sir," you admit. "I couldn't have gotten that to you this quickly if I hadn't had help from the Guardswoman, however."
"Yes," Owusu notes, finally pushing himself down into the chair with all the cheer of a man walking to his own execution. He wastes no time activating the workstation, gloved fingers gliding over its surface faster even than you can manage. Presumably already beginning to compose an initial report on your findings. "I did give you tacit permission to get the princess involved, although I frankly didn't expect you to manage that. Or considered her…" he pauses, looking more than a little awkward. "... aide as a potential resource for this project."
"I don't know that she would have agreed to help, if it had come from you, sir," you admit.
He doesn't pause working, but seems to consider that. "Yes," he agrees, "that seems reasonable to surmise." Owusu is quiet for a moment. "I realise," he says, a little awkwardly, "that it would have been very easy for you to go over my head with this. Very far over my head." At your surprised expression, he shrugs. "You're not exactly officially under my command. I could swear vengeance and try to undermine you for it, but frankly her highness could do a lot more for your career. And she has a reputation for rewarding good service with like."
"It's your investigation, sir," you point out. "I'm hardly the one who found this data on my own." You try not to let the stab of bitterness show in your voice as you add, "I… dislike people who take credit for the work of others."
He actually laughs a little at that. A sound that's half mirthless, harsher than his ordinary laugh. "Taking credit for the work of others, North, is arguably a perk of rank." You're entirely uncertain that he's actually joking. "You, however, were in the somewhat novel position of it working the other way around, and I appreciate you not throwing me under the tram line."
"... you're welcome, sir?"
"I remember that sort of thing, North. I'm not a princess, but assuming we're not all dead inside of the month…" his shrug is lithely expressive, while simultaneously giving you nothing at all. "... well, I remember that sort of thing. Did Guardswoman 'J6' want to cut me out of things?"
You blink at the abrupt change of topic, thrown off enough that you announce honestly: "Yes, but I don't think it was on purpose, sir."
"I do," he says in a tone that might have been amiable on another day. "All considered, coming from someone with her background, I don't take it personally." He looks up from his work again to give you a searching look. Perhaps your slight discomfort with this topic is obvious, because he answers the question you're thinking. Sort of. "The SRI was a different organisation at one point," he explains, carefully. "Different emperor, different Lord Inspector, different… 'mandates'." You do not get the impression that he's attempting to wave away the concern. It seems to bother him -- this is simply the conclusion he's come to over the years. "Different empire," he admits, after a long moment. "Just when things have been moving in a halfway positive direction, the bastards show up to finish us off."
"So I've heard, sir," you agree. "Is that why we're protecting it?"
Owusu snorts at that. "Abstractly yes, Ensign, but more pertinently we're protecting it so that we don't all choke and die in space. There's no clean way to take this system by force. Space around Iapetus is too crowded with people and habitats. Even in places we're not supposed to have put them. Habitat modules on defence platforms was a 'temporary measure', and yet that was nearly six years ago. As the old proverb goes, 'Nothing is more permanent than a temporary solution.'" He frowns at what he's writing at this, glancing back at the data you've provided him. "This battle plan really doesn't make sense," he says. "We're missing something. You're quite certain there's nothing further to tease out of the data?"
"Nothing I or the Guardswoman could find." If you thought there was more, you'd still be looking for it.
"If they just attack the system head on -- from any direction -- they'll need staggering strength of numbers and the kind of losses they'd take would still be unacceptable." He frowns. "If it were my fleet trying to take this moon, there's no question that I'd want to disable that defence network." He's almost more thinking out loud now. "It's going to be bloody regardless, but there's a difference between bloody and a mutual massacre. There'd need to be some way to sabotage them, or compromise them. Sleeper agents, some kind of infiltration team..."
It's a little surreal, imagining what he's talking about. The orderly little section of space that served as a brief, safe harbour subjected to the horrors of space warfare. Ships and habitats decompressing, nowhere to run but unforgiving vacuum... Of course, Anchiale hasn't precisely felt safe or sheltered since Mosi and Anja. Anja. Anja…
Slowly, one of your hands reaches up to touch your wrist, fingers sliding over the same smooth expanse of skin that Anja's own blood-slicked hand had fought so desperately to indicate to you. Your mind goes back to the feel of Lori's arms around you, your fingers against her strangely-marred skin…
"Sir?" you ask.
"It's from my pilot suit… The new prototypes are all using a newer design that we stole from the enemy. Or that they stole from us. The haptic points in the arm are a little more… forceful than I'd like."
Owusu looks up from the message he's drafting, slightly surprised. Almost as if he'd forgotten you were there. "Yes?" he asks. He does a double-take at seeing your face. "Are you alright, Ensign? You look a little pale."
"I saw-- … I saw... on her wrist… she's… your sister. She's… a… she's with… A new-- she's used a new--"
"I… think I may have seen someone on the station who might be with the enemy."
Owusu stares, his fingers finally stilling. "Explain," he says, with no trace of humour in his voice.
You hurriedly tell him about what happened with Anja, with Mosi, your abrupt realisation of what your friend wanted to tell you so badly.
He's watching you, perfectly still, face inscrutable. "Have you reported these suspicions, North?" he asks. "To anyone?"
There is a wrong answer to that, you realise. A version of these events where this goes very badly for you. "I've only just realised what she meant," you say, voice strangely steady. "It… makes sense, though, in retrospect." You feel hollow. Too betrayed even to feel shocked.
"And you're certain this is what Ensign Li wanted to say?" he asks, voice sharp.
"Yes, sir."
Owusu covers his face with a hand, staying like that for a long, agonising moment. Finally, he speaks again. "Well, Ensign," he says, "I'd suggest you break your uniform back out. You are going to be spending the next several days talking to unfriendly people far above your pay grade."
All considered, that's probably the best outcome you could have hoped for.
--
Once again, Mosi sees Saturn hanging overhead, view unobstructed by anything thicker than the polarised glass of her helmet, ears filled with nothing but her breathing, the whirr of onboard life support and the faint thudding impact as she methodically de-mags one boot and reattaches it to the section of station hull in front of her. It's an automated system, to prevent user error. User error here, of course, would result at worst in both boots demagged at once, sending Mosi drifting off into space away from the station.
There is also, this time, the voice of Ensign Kim. "Well, the rings are very nice," she acknowledges, "but I've been looking at it for a while now, and Jupiter's a better view."
"Kim…" Roth's voice is thin with nervous fatigue, and it carries a warning note.
"Sorry, sir, I've heard Earth is very beautiful from space as well, I've just never seen it."
"Radio silence," he says. The short-range of the suit-to-suit communication is unlikely to be picked up by anyone inside the station, and Kim's comments aren't quite incriminating in of themself, but it does ease Mosi's tension a little not to be talking unless necessary.
Ahead of her, the curving expanse of Anchiale's main spindle looms up at the end of the low-gravity anchor shaft she walks down, the bright lights of the space port shining a beacon toward their eventual goal. Three people in anonymous work suits. Nothing at all suspicious. It still makes her feel intensely nervous, being out of the hideout again. She half expects to be greeted at the next airlock by a cadre of security personnel with firearms.
Roth's anger has cooled to a frosty dislike, an unwillingness to address Mosi unless necessary which she is entirely willing to take over being physically assaulted. He walks at the head of the short column, with Mosi bringing up the rear. Kim, in an almost fearful way, set herself up as a physical buffer between her two superiors. Kim made it hard, sometimes, for Mosi to keep disliking her.
Mosi has to be here for this, because she does after all have a job to do. She and Kim both, one that justified grounding them here away from their units, unable to pilot anything for so long. Mosi almost doesn't care about the circumstances anymore -- she just wants to be in the cockpit of a mecha.
The small exterior airlock is set into the spindle a very short ways away from a much larger one, on the fringes of the spaceport. A small and obscure maintenance mecha hangar. Mosi watches as Roth's gloved fingers input the access code they've been given into the keypad raised above the airlock hatch, and the metallic hatch slides open. Following the other two, she bends down to grasp the handhold inside the airlock before demagging her boots completely, pulling herself inside. The hatch slides shut behind her, leaving her floating in an enclosed space with the others.
Lights on all four walls flash red, then amber, then finally, long moments later, setting on a steady, reassuring green. Airlock pressurised: Please remove your helmets flashes beneath the lights now. Mosi begins the process of declamping the helmet from her suit a few moments after Roth and Kim, more hesitant than they are. The black, merciless eyes of cameras stare at them from all sides. Supposedly, the facial recognition on these devices was disabled shortly before their arrival. If it wasn't…
Cadre of security officers.
The helmet comes off and even the over-processed airlock atmosphere tastes fresher than breathing from her suit. She blinks at the sudden brightness of their surroundings, absent the polarised dimness of the helmet. The interior hatch slams open with a much louder sound, and she watches as both Roth and Kim push their way out into the hangar.
"Good, you're not late." The man is tall but gangly, his arms well muscled enough to look almost disproportionate with the rest of him. A salt and pepper beard dominates his face, in need of a good trim. Behind him, the hangar is mostly empty and strangely silent, only one other worker present. A youth, his shoulders hunched, determinedly not looking over at the three new arrivals. Both of them wear identical Anchiale Maintenance Staff jumpsuits to Mosi, Roth and Kim, gradually revealed as the three of them begin to disentangle themselves from their suits.
"I said when I'd be here," Roth tells him, narrowing his eyes.
Their contact in maintenance, Verner, Mosi's been told, is unimpressed. "You have no idea how much paperwork is in my future for disabling that face recognition -- I had to break more than just that, to make it look halfway convincing, and it's going to be a bastard to fix."
"And you're going to have to break it again when we do the actual mission," Kim points out. "But you probably aren't going to be on the hook for those repairs after that."
Verner looks at her somewhat dubiously. Kim is already most of the way out of her suit, with Mosi a little ways behind. Roth is experienced, certainly, but he's not a pilot. When Verner's eyes drift over to Mosi, they go wide, and his face goes pale. He rounds on Roth. "What the fuck is the trigger-happy one doing here?"
Mosi bristles slightly, but doesn't rise to the insult. "My job," she says.
Verner's jaw sticks out, but Roth cuts him off. "She's right," he says. "I can do this with one pilot, but it gets a lot harder. You disabled those cameras -- we took precautions." There's a subtext here, that seems to say that if Mosi hadn't been critical to his mission, he would quite cheerfully have watched Verner push her back out the airlock, without a suit this time.
Verner accepts this with silent ill humour.
"Who's the kid?" Kim asks, pushing up and out of her suit, and effortlessly gliding up to a nearby handhold in the same motion.
"Oh, Chen?" Verner waves it off. "Don't worry about him. He's solid, he just… wants to pretend this part isn't happening."
"I know the type," Roth allows.
Without asking -- let alone waiting -- for permission, Kim pushes herself off toward the nearest mecha bay. It's occupied by a chunky, civilian grade mecha painted an eye-popping caution-yellow.
"... Cirntech?" Mosi asks, dredging up her knowledge of such machines.
"Yes," Verner agrees. He eyes Kim as though she might somehow break something on the colossal figure she's peering at. "A Builder MKIII. Both of them. The MKIV is harder to work with for the modifications you insisted on."
"Almost as big as a Banner," Kim happily declares. Gripping one of the maintenance handles around the cockpit, Kim uses her other hand to rap sharply on the squared off torso. She makes an unimpressed face at the hollow sound she's greeted by. "A standard round would go right through that," she complains.
"It's not a military mecha," Verner retorts, annoyed. "The armour is for small debris, not bullets."
"They are armed, though?" Mosi asks. Rather than opting directly for a physical inspection like Kim, she instead wants to get a few things straight with Verner.
"Yes, like you asked. The emitter on the cutting laser has been swapped out for a weapon grade version -- the heatsinks and power draw on that modification is a bitch to handle."
"Energy weapons," Kim says, face still looking slightly disdainful. "Give me some reliable, kinetic force over that any day. Or high explosives."
"We're only using the weapons in a last resort," Mosi points out. "They have to be things that will go unnoticed otherwise."
Kim sighs ever so slightly, patting the surface of the mecha as if to reassure it that it wasn't it's fault that it was deficient. Kim, Mosi knows, ordinarily pilots a Banner Heavy Type, although her file lists her as being extremely skillful. "You know what the say about Jovians and explosions," Kim had said the first time they'd met. There had been something oddly vulnerable about her when she'd told the joke -- as if it were one she were telling simply to prevent someone else saying it. Kim's parents had transplanted themselves to Jupiter in the decade before the civil war. Kim and all her siblings had been born there, but one generation's remove from the inner solar system is already enough for the realities of being born on the colonial frontier to creep in.
"What about anti-personnel?" Mosi asks, glancing back at Verner.
"Ugh." he makes a disgusted sound deep in his throat. "Yes, that. I managed to gut the rivet gun and put something in there, without changing the confirmation. When are you possibly going to need that for what you're using it for?"
"You'd be surprised," Mosi says, bluntly. Roth eyes Mosi for a moment, but doesn't object or intervene. Seemingly, as unhappy as he is with her overall, he still does recognise her as a capable pilot.
Curiosity satisfied, Mosi drifts over to examine the other modified MKIII. She pops the cockpit hatch, inspecting the interior with a critical eye. While there's a degree of standardisation within the mature technology that is mecha controls -- barring minor improvements in haptic suits and other such trivialities -- every manufacturer has their quirks, and every model is a little different. Enough to matter when one is putting their life on the line. As she straps herself in to examine the control setup, Mosi hears the whirr of motors, and knows that Kim is following suit.
The next few minutes proceed in silence as Mosi familiarises herself with this machine, runs a few discrete tests. While she can't say quite for sure how it will handle until she actually has it out in the void, she gets the impression that, true to its physical confirmation, the MKIII is liable to handle like a thrown brick. Surprisingly powerful rear acceleration, but barely adequate thrusters on all other sides. Strange in a civilian construction model, but Mosi will take having to turn to break over creeping along at a snail's pace in an emergency. The passenger compartment, necessary for the mission, is a feature she's not used to dealing with, but as long as she takes it into account during any particularly dramatic maneuvers...
"So, what do you think, Lieutenant?"
Mosi looks up to see Kim peering around the edge of Mosi's still-open hatch. Mosi swallows something terse and annoyed. Frankly, Kim deserves better than that from her by this point. Even if she does insist on being perky. "Not my first choice for getting into a fight in," Mosi admits. "But it's honestly better than I expected."
To her mild surprise, Kim nods slowly, apparently agreeing. "I think that's accurate," she says. "It's probably going to be a little clumsier than my Banner, but I'll manage. What about you? It's a big step down from that souped up little mosquito you fly around in."
"I can manage a clunkier unit," Mosi says. "I started out with a Scouting Lancer, believe it or not. Before the Vespula went into mass production and then Commander Green finagled me my Provespa." She falls silent, spending a long moment looking at the scan interface. The familiar data and mapping software -- differing significantly for the needs of a civilian mecha -- fills her with visions of a smoothly elegant girl wearing a sundress, perched on a bench across from her. It makes Mosi's throat tighten uncomfortably. "It will be a little annoying," Mosi admits, glancing back up at Kim, and giving her a small, grudging smile. "Are you still annoyed about the laser?"
"No," Kim says. "I've thought about it, and it's probably for the best."
"For the best?" This was looking like it was going to be an actual conversation, so Mosi undid her straps, pushing off and catching herself on the edge of the cockpit to face Kim more or less directly.
"I saw the stats on paper," she says, slowly, "but… actually seeing this place, Iapetus is just… so crowded." She glances over at the sealed mecha-sized airlock as if she can somehow see out into space, with the many habitats and platforms she's referring to spinning around their dead little ball of ice.
"You're worried about collateral," Mosi realises, not harshly.
Kim nods. "Even just from the plan by itself, if everything goes perfectly… the debris from the defence platforms could hit some of the habitats. And if we start an actual fight, well… lasers don't send ordinance out into space. I grew up in an orbital habitat, you know? A little one, around Ganymede. They're… fragile."
Mosi looks at Kim's face, uncharacteristically serious, looking to Mosi for answers that Mosi isn't sure she has. War in space is not merciful, and doesn't often discriminate. It's impossible to take a moon like Iapetus without civilians dying, accidental though it might be. "We're hitting military targets," she says, voice as reassuring as she can make it. She has the brief, irrational notion that Amani would be better at this sort of thing than she is. Maybe Amani should have been an officer after all. "We can't control where random debris goes, but there should be a safe buffer zone between the defence network and anywhere anyone's raising a family. It's not like we're going to deliberately attack civilian habitats, Kim. It's just navy personnel on the defence platforms."
Behind Kim, Mosi sees Verner listening in. He's frowning as she talks, and opens his mouth as if to interject or add something, but he falls abruptly silent as Roth outright glares at him. Before Mosi has a chance to think too hard on this, Roth is floating up beside them. His voice isn't overly loud, but it harkens back to the parade ground. "We are His shining sword and shield," he begins.
Without conscious thought, Mosi's mouth opens to add the next part of the Oath, spine stiffening with newfound vigour. "With one hand He wields us to strike down our enemies, with the other raising us to protect the people!"
Kim, looking more resolved than reassured, finishes: "For every one life we take in His name, a million more are saved."
"All praise to our Emperor." Roth nods, satisfied. "We have our orders," he says.
And they do. Mosi does. Amani, safe on the largest and most valuable habitat in the system, will surely be relatively safe. She will be, Mosi tells herself, part of that million. Not part of that one. When the time comes, Mosi will pilot this mecha out to their goal, and she will not hesitate.
She doesn't notice the look on Verner's face as he watches this all.
--
The port looks strangely different from this angle, watching a ship dock and its crew disembark. It's not precisely the same as the docking bay the Rose first landed at, but it's a close thing. The Herald class ship is lighter armed than a Ranger, but it's in the same size range, using an identically sized berth. You wait quietly, drifting a little by a far wall, waiting for the officers to finish gliding out of the access hatch and onto the station.
You've spent the past several days alternating between mind numbing boredom and the deep anxiety of speaking before people who had the power to end your career with a single screen stroke. Going over the same points, justifying yourself for your suspicions about Mosi over and over again.
Owusu is hardly telling you everything, but you do appreciate his willingness to keep you generally informed. The report written from the data you and J6 compiled has entirely convinced the powers that be of an impending attack, to the point that they are, he hints, quietly recalling long-range patrols to much tighter routes around Iapetus. Pulling garrison forces out of outlying stations, even at the cost of leaving them exposed. Your and Owusu's evidence for the existence of an infiltration team has received… more of a mixed response. The evidence is quite circumstantial, after all. But in large part due to Owusu's dogged persistence and frustrating charisma, you get the feeling that something is being done. More resources for the investigation, improved security at high value areas of the station. You try not to think about how that all ends for Mosi if you're right, but in your heart you know that you and your mother will have to fight hard to keep her from being shot.
You know, deep down, that your mother will fight to spare her that fate. You, for the time being… feel less certain about it. Anja is scheduled for surgery in two days. Maybe you'll feel differently when you can talk to Anja about what happened -- anything you suspect about Mosi is incredibly classified, but if Anja already knows, that might be allowed. Thoughts of your sister piloting an enemy mecha plague your dreams. You haven't even been allowed to tell Lori -- not about that part. You keep scrambling for other explanations for how Mosi would have access to an advanced, military grade mecha, but nothing else makes sense. And why else would Anja have tried to arrest her at gunpoint? Why else would she have a gun to fire back?
You tamp the thoughts down, maintaining your air of serene calm as you scan the faces of the departing officers, blue jackets smart under the artificial light. Even though you still have no idea what you'll say to the person you're waiting for, if she asks.
You spot her instantly. Tall, dark, laughing quietly at something another officer has just said. She's dressed in her ordinary uniform, marking her as a Mecha Captain, with the emblem of the Knights Lunar boldly displayed over her breast. Dark eyes that match your own catch sight of you a moment later and she excuses herself from her subordinate, making a beeline for your location.
As she glides to a halt on a handhold next yours, you bring your hand up into a smart salute, voice classroom crisp. "Welcome back to Iapetus, Dame Nalah North," you say, dead serious.
She returns the salute just as gravely. "Thank you, Ensign North," she replies. She looks at you for a few more seconds before the facade breaks, and she grins broadly, pulling you into a tight hug. For all that you're a woman grown and an officer in your own right, Sol help you if it's not exactly what you needed. Hugging done, she pushes you out to arms length, letting the two of you drift along the wall. Her shipmates either politely ignore this, or smile to themselves, obviously noting the strong family resemblance. "Look at you," she says, radiating pride so obviously that you feel a small lump forming in your throat. "You father would be so, so proud."
"Thank you," you whisper, smiling more reservedly. "I missed you."
Your mother sighs, still smiling. "Well," she says, "I do hope one day we're stationed anywhere near each other. We're all the family either of us has left in the world, after all."
This confirms what you already strongly suspected. She has no idea about Mosi. Not about her even being alive, let alone possibly with the enemy. The former has been kept tight to the chest in media broadcasts, the latter is actually classified. Still, though, part of you had hoped that one of her "friends in Comms" might have slipped her something before she arrived. Something to prevent you from having to be put in this position.
"I'd like that," you say. "Titan is just a little too far to be able to see you here."
"One of the realities of serving," she says, sadly
You open your mouth to respond to this, but you stop as you see a familiar figure floating in across the arrival area, clearly cutting a path toward you and your mother. Lori has been spending a lot of time around the spaceport, you know, testing out the mysterious prototype you may have somehow convinced her to give a chance. And she looks it now, still wearing her blue and silver pilot suit, blonde hair tied back in a knot the way she always does when she expects to have to wear a helmet. Following your gaze, Dame Nalah turns to look at her, and frowns curiously. She squints at the crests on Lori's pilot suit, recognising them shortly before she arrives. "... Perbeck," your mother mutters, and not quite with the sort of relish you'd prefer.
"Dame Nalah," Lori says, stopping gracefully beside the two of you. She salutes your mother coolly.
"I believe you have me at a disadvantage," your mother lies, returning the salute.
"Countess Gloriana Perbeck," Lori says, thankfully not rising to the mild provocation. "The two of us have never been formally introduced. I've served on the Titanium Rose as mecha Commander with your daughter, this past voyage."
Your mother releases you in order to grasp a nearby handhold, apparently feeling she needs grounding for this conversation. You're left drifting between the two of them for a moment, until you grab another, putting you beside Lori. Dame Nalah looks from you to Lori, before speaking again. "I'm pleased to meet you, Countess -- your reputation certainly precedes you." She shoots you a questioning glance, before adding: "I'm surprised you'd know each other. I've been mecha commander on a similar vessel, and I can't say I had prolonged contact with junior bridge officers."
"Yours precedes you as well," Lori says. Then she shrugs lightly, glancing at you. "Ensign North helped my crew with some software issues relating to scans -- we took losses partway through the voyage, and she was good enough to volunteer."
You nod, happy to play along for now. "Lady Perbeck is a very dedicated officer," you say, attempting to project respect and admiration, rather than romantic affection.
"You've said," your mother agrees, looking between the two of you again. You're each demonstrating nothing but cool, professional respect for one another. Your mother's eyebrows raise fractionally, and your heart sinks. "It was a rough voyage, I've heard," she says to Lori. "You have my sympathies for your losses -- it's always hardest when it happens on a milk run."
Lori closes her eyes for a moment, face unreadable. "Thank you," she says. "My pilots were both… very young."
"Our mecha squad was exceptionally brave," you say. "We wouldn't have made it through without them."
"Or without a very capable scans officer," Lori says, with no trace of flattery. You feel your face heating very slightly at the praise in front of your mother.
Your mother, for her part, has been continuing to look between the two of you, eyebrows continuing to steadily rise with each exchange the two of you make. "Doing my job to the best of my abilities is the least I can do, ma'am," you say, hastily.
"I've seen the least that can be done, Ensign," Lori says, dismissively. "And fortunately for us, you exceed it."
Your mother's eyes abruptly narrow, and you struggle not to squirm under her regard. You should know better than to even try to lie to her, even by omission. Now simply didn't seem to be the best time, and you admittedly had wanted to see her and Lori talk as officers before dropping any awkward news. "While I am very pleased to have spoken with you, Countess," your mother says, finally, "I am due to deliver a report soon, and I would like a few moments more with my daughter before that." Then she gives Lori a broad, almost threatening smile. "I hope we see each other again, under more casual circumstances," she says. "I'm sure we'll have… a great deal to talk about."
"I'm certain," Lori agrees. "I hope you enjoy your time together. Good day, Dame Nalah. Ensign North." You watch her drift away a little helplessly, fully aware of your mother's continued scrutiny.
"So," she says. "A countess."
"It more or less just… happened," you say, lamely. She gestures for you to follow her, heading out of the arrival area. "I'm sure it did," she says. "... with a junior officer, no less."
"It's not as though I'm in her chain of command," you say, keeping your voice low. "And we're hardly… doing anything onboard ship. It's just since we've been ashore."
Your mother gives you a long, searching look, then sighs, deflating a little. "Well, you're a grown woman," she admits. "I'll trust you to have some sense." Her face, for the first time, shows the signs of stress, of sleepless nights, knowledge of the invasion. "Sol knows, I can understand needing… something."
"Thank you," you say, relaxing slightly.
She sighs, regaining some of her good humour. "Still… you don't aim small."
You miss your next handhold, keep sailing and hit a bulkhead. Your mother looks back at the muffled thump, eyes wide. "Amani? Are you alright?"
"Fine! Fine," you say, warding off her offered assistance. "It just slipped out of my hand." What kind of cosmic joke was it, to have her pick the same words Mosi had? Mosi looks so painfully much like your mother. Same complexion, build, hair, voice. Even, you realise, the same manner of speech, the same mannerisms. You wonder how much Mosi knows about the last.
"Okay," your mother says, deciding to accept this. She nods at a nearby row of transit shafts, smiling apologetically. "We'll meet up again soon," she says. "I appreciate you coming out to meet me. And I haven't forgotten about that Bal girl, Faiza -- I'll be keeping my promises there, the moment I get a chance."
"Good," you say. "She needs someone not to just leave after getting her hopes up, I think."
Dame Nalah sighs. "Yes," she agrees. "I got that feeling." She reaches out to press the button "Message me later, Malaika? We can catch up properly, before we end up not seeing each other for another six months."
Now, at the moment of departure, you're suddenly gripped by the reality -- blissfully postponed by the awkwardness of her putting two and two together about Lori -- of her not knowing about Mosi. If you let her go to deliver this report, you have no doubt that someone will tell her something about it. About you having been involved in a shooting, about her eldest child being miraculously alive.
You've been instructed not to say anything about your suspicions, and even telling her about Mosi being alive at all is dodgy, but… this is your mother. This is her mother.
--
Do you say anything to Dame Nalah?
[ ] Don't tell your mother about Mosi
Better safe than sorry. You can talk later, in private and hope she doesn't blame you.
[ ] Tell your mother Mosi is alive, about the shooting
She has a right to know her eldest child is alive, and that part isn't as sensitive.
[ ] Tell your mother Mosi is alive, possibly with the enemy
She has a right to know, in spite of security concerns.
Gazereindeer: Your "fuck mom, we're not telling her shit" vote is going to blow up and take over the world soon right
VagueZ: Vote total tripled in pretty short order.
Gazereindeer: Just has to keep up that exponential growth
VagueZ: yup
Tell your mother about Mosi, about the shooting, 28 votes
Tell your mother everything, 18 votes
Don't tell your mother anything, 3 votes
"Mother, wait a moment? There's something important I have to tell you." Dame Nalah catches herself up short, turning to face you curiously. She glances back at the lift briefly but seems to decide that, if you're bringing this up now, this must be important.
You lead her off to the side, to a quiet rest area in an alcove away from the general flow of human traffic. "What is it?" she asks, looking slightly worriedly at your unhappy bearing.
Then you tell her. About getting the call, about Mosi being alive and well. About Mosi shooting Anja, nearly killing her and running off. About your suspicions that Mosi must be involved in 'something dangerous' without telling her what you really think that specific something dangerous is. Ordinarily, this would be dodgy. As you and Gloriana just demonstrated, your capacity to hide things from this woman in particular is generally handicapped. However, by the time you get even halfway through the story, she's in no fit state to discern anything so subtle.
Your mother's initial relief at hearing that her eldest is alive, is here on Anchiale, was heartbreakingly profound. Rendered momentarily speechless, she had covered her mouth with one hand, looking on the verge of some more emotional outburst. But she'd mastered herself, particularly as your guarded, worried look had communicated that something far less welcome was to come. By the time you've finished, her happiness is a memory. She stares at you, something close to horror in her eyes.
"Sol, what has she gotten herself into?" Nalah asks. She lets go of her handhold, letting herself float in place for a moment, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
"It's hard to be sure," you say, blending truth with lies. Your stomach twists with guilt. "There's an investigation to search for her, though," you say. "After what happened."
"Of course there is," Nalah murmurs. After a long, worrisome silence, she whispers something, almost too quiet to hear: "This is my fault."
"What do you mean?" you ask, floating closer to her. "How could this be your fault?" You have a sinking feeling you know the answer.
"I… thought for sure she was dead. After what they did to Amir, they didn't need her as leverage. I thought…" she opens her eyes again, and they're not quite brimming with tears, but she looks startlingly her age in a way you've never noticed before. As if the lightning strike of your news has sent a lifetime's worth of regret and self-recrimination bubbling to the surface, temporarily robbing her of all vestiges of her youth.
"She and father weren't your fault," you tell her, voice firm. You don't know how many times you've told her this. She knows it, logically. You've never been convinced she accepts it emotionally.
"I… thought they'd killed her," she repeats, as if she hadn't heard you, eyes wide and haunted. "And I had you. I had to at least protect you. So I left her there, on Mars. In the Holy Empire. I left her behind."
"What could you have done?" you ask. "Flown in and staged a one-woman assault on the academy, if she was even still there? You're not invincible, mother."
"Something." She sucks in a deep breath, letting it out in an attempt to master herself. She looks abruptly like she wants to hit something. Experience with the transfer of kinetic energy prevents her from punching the wall and sending herself spinning slowly backward. "I should have tried. She was alone all this time, Amani. Who knows what she's been through? I… I should have done something."
"Then you'd have died, and I would have been alone too." She flinches at the exasperated note in your words, and you regret it. "I'm sorry," you say softening your tone, "but you can't be everywhere, mother. You did the best you could."
She continues to look so deflated that you push yourself closer, reaching a hand out to gently take her shoulder. Abruptly, she snatches it out of the air. Not refusing your touch, but looking at you with an earnest intensity that makes your heart sink -- you know what's coming next. "We need to find her," she tells you, voice firm and determined. "You are going to help me find her. And we'll help her with whatever it is she's dealing with, we'll… we'll be a family again!"
"Mother," you try to caution her, "there's an official investigation--"
"We're going to find her before it comes to that," Nalah says.
"The authorities are already looking," you say. "Station security and Navy intelligence."
"Why are you being so reluctant?" Dame Nalah asks, eyes narrowing, searching your face.
"She shot Anja!" The words come out of your mouth without too much thought -- one instant, you'd been searching for some explanation that avoids the classified parts of the story, the next something truthful-but-ugly is falling out. "I wanted to help her," you say, lowering your voice again to avoid stares, "I told her we could help her. And instead she shot my friend and shipmate. Anja almost died, mother. She has a family too."
Your mother looks at you, slightly taken aback, looking uncertain how to respond. "You said Mosi wasn't the first to shoot--"
"Why did she even have a gun?" you demand. "Anja knew something was wrong. That's why she got shot."
"She's your sister," your mother urges, almost as if you'd forgotten.
"I know that!" you hiss back. Your shoulders slump, and your face falls. All of the frustration seems to leave your body. "I know that. But… we don't know who she is anymore. You don't know. We have to be careful."
Her face softens again, and you find yourself pulled into another hug, this one one-armed as she reaches back to anchor the two of you to the nearest wall. "We know who she is," your mother says. "She's your sister. She's my daughter. That's who she'll always be. We're all the three of us have left in the solar system, Amani."
"I know," you say.
"I'm sorry about your friend."
"I know you are."
You're deeply conflicted as she finally goes, hurrying to prevent herself from being late. Frustrated at your inability to communicate the depth of your misgivings about Mosi. When they eventually all come out, you hope your mother can understand.
--
Iapetus Outer Defence Network Control
Several days later
"You watch. This is going to turn out to be nothing, and we'll still be the ones holding the bag," Commander Sanchez mutters, glaring at the message on his workstation. "Our evacuations are 'inadequate?' With how little time they gave us? And where, pray tell, are we meant to be sending them? They told us this was a temporary solution while they built more dedicated habitats for these people. That was years ago!"
"Well, you know what they say, sir," a technician quips, working her board. "There's nothing as--"
"If you tell me there's nothing as permanent as a temporary solution, Miel," Sanchez growls, "I swear to every star I will have you spaced."
"Yes, sir! Sorry sir!"
It would appear that the officer of the watch has heard this joke one too many times. After a moment's industrious silence, he predictably continues where he left off. "And there's this addendum from that pretty boy of a spook -- 'discretion is paramount.'" Sanchez lets out a derisive snort. "So, we need to evacuate all the habitat modules, and we need to do it quickly, and we need to do it without tipping anyone off. Three different directives from three different agencies."
"And whose neck is it on the line if it all goes wrong?" a corroborating voice speaks up from overhead. The control room is build along the lines of an Imperial warship, the ubiquitous chevron shape made cramped in the tight quarters of the nerve centre for Iapetus's precious defensive array. Located in the heart of a platform in an orbit directly above Iapetus's north pole, space is at a premium. On this platform that will never see gravity, for once the Navy is willing to bend its design ethos and risk disorientating personnel by mirroring the truncated chevron on "floor" and "ceiling."
"It'd be better, surely, if it's just a waste of our time." A half-dozen sets of eyes turn to look at the woman who spoke up, a lone ensign seated in a corner, who blushes at her sudden observation. "Begging your pardon, sir," she clarifies. "But, if it weren't a waste of time…"
"... yes," Sanchez agrees, reluctantly. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, imagining as everyone sitting around the control centre is imagining, precisely how bad an actual full-scale assault on Iapetus would be in earnest. They had, miracle of miracles, managed to evacuate a scant third of the civilians crammed onto these defence platforms ahead of a mysterious enemy attack, and a possible sabotage attempt on the array itself. There was precious little space to fit them all, even with the available space being constructed in Anchiale's Beta Sphere being snatched up as soon as it's cleared.
That still left thousands.
"Mind you," Miel says, trying her hand at humor again, "if nothing happens, those extra marines might just destroy the place themselves out of sheer boredom."
To Miel's evident relief, this time Sanchez snorts with laughter. "Just throw more people with guns into the situation," he mutters. "Never mind how to manage feeding and housing them on all the platforms."
"Sir," Miel says, suddenly wearing her official news voice, "we have a scheduled maintenance crew coming through in under two hours -- two mecha with technician passengers, from Anchiale."
"Routine?" Sanchez asks, wondering at Miel's pensive frown.
"Should be, sir," Miel says. "But, um… I might just be forgetting, but I'd swear that Maintenance Team 015 wasn't on the rotation at the beginning of the month." She seems torn between looking firm and cringing in her seat, well aware that she is deciding this position on what amounts to gut instinct and the strength of her recollection, going against hard data from an official source.
Sanchez frowns, looking at the schedule Miel has just sent him. It all looks perfectly routine. Ordinarily, this is hardly the sort of thing that would rate any degree of extra scrutiny. He glances over to the several messages he'd been complaining about moments before, then back to the listing, eyes narrowing. "Keep an eye on it, Miel," he says, finally. "We're on high alert, after all. And maybe... it doesn't really matter which platform they do the network diagnostic on, if this is above board. Pick one of the platforms that's been evacuated and change their route."
"Yes, sir," she says. "I'll take care of it and let you know if anything looks strange."
--
Anchiale Space Port
It's rare you get an exterior view of the HIMS Titanium Rose. Staring through the large viewing port in the private observation lounge overlooking the shipyard, you take in its exposed length at berth, surrounded by figures going over the repaired-hull in spacesuits and maintenance mecha. The distant figures flit here and there, checking on the finishing touches.
The observation lounge is deserted aside from you, your companion, and the remains of the lunch the two of you shared. The short row of plush chairs is vacant and the internal airlock between the room and the rest of Anchiale has been sealed behind you. An airlock rather than a simple hatch because you're not looking through a view screen, you're looking through an actual window into space busy with traffic.
Your ship seems substantially repaired, compared to the diagrams you remember from when you docked here. The damages were significant, of course, but through the combined gratitude of Princess Daystar and the shipyard's administrators -- the former for your protection, the latter for the recovery of the Menschy Matter this shipyard needs to continue the construction of new vessels -- the Rose seems to have been bumped up further in the queue than it normally would have been allowed. It's going to be as good as ever in no time.
Better than ever, in fact, unless you're very much mistaken.
It's been an incredibly busy few days, between the continued battery of increasingly nerve wracking reports you've had to deliver and the stress of waiting for the results of Anja's surgery. The latter, at least, has resulted in good news -- it was conducted successfully, and she should make a full recovery, as long as she has sufficient time on life support in order for her body to adjust and acclimatise. For the time being, she's being kept under sedation. It's taken a massive load of anxiety off of your shoulders.
Or it normally would, if it weren't for your knowledge of the impending enemy attack, Mosi, and your mother's response to her continued missing status. You shared dinner with her last night, and it's all she seems to be able to think about.
"Dame Nalah seems like someone I could like," Lori says, breaking your contemplation of the ship and startling you with such a direct reference to the subject of your brooding. "Although I'm not entirely certain that that's mutual."
Oh no.
You look back over to where she hovers beside you. Today she's dressed in her standard uniform again, but her hair is already back in the knot that tells you she intends to change into a pilot suit soon enough. She looks more amused than upset, but the prospect of what your mother may have done or said to leave her with that impression is worrisome. "She wasn't... unpleasant, was she?"
"Hm," Lori looks thoughtful. "I'm not sure if I'd go that far. She cornered me in an officer's lounge yesterday over a drink."
"Cornered?" you ask, wincing.
Lori shrugs. You suspect she's enjoying keeping you in suspense about this. "We 'talked'. About me and my service history, mainly. Given that she's a decorated, superior officer, it wasn't precisely the kind of conversation you can just walk away from easily. It felt a little like I was being evaluated."
"I'm sorry," you say, slightly embarrassed. "She can be a little... protective."
"Oh, don't be," Lori says, airily. "I'm not trying to take her for a lover." Then, catching you by surprise, she reaches out and tugs you toward her, hooking an arm around your waist to keep you from bouncing off when you bump into her.
"We're both in uniform!" you say, eyes sweeping the lounge in search of a camera. "What happened to decorum and setting a bad example?"
"I'm sorry," Lori says, glancing around the deserted observation lounge with a decidedly more ironic air than you, "is there a group of spacers hiding behind those chairs for us to set a bad example for? Neither of us are back to regular duty yet, and there's not exactly going to be many opportunities for this then." She follows your gaze up to the room's discreetly hidden camera, and adds: "Enough important visitors spend time in these rooms that the footage is going into a closed database that can't be accessed without a very impressive warrant. Even then ,only for specific timestamps. It's fine, as long as you don't intend to set off an explosion in here."
Despite her words, you take a second or two to relax. You do relax, however. It feels a little dodgy to do this here, but at the same time... you have no idea how things are going to go for Iapetus, or for either of you.
"I can definitely tell you two are related," she decides, face close to yours.
"... and what is that supposed to mean?" you ask, amused in spite of yourself.
"Just something I noticed after being covertly grilled for half an hour," Lori says. "Let's just say that, in another few promotions, you are going to be very intimidating to your subordinates, when you want to be." When she kisses you, you return it, oddly pleased by the summation. Family resemblance aside, it's not often you, the junior scans officer, get compared to your war hero mother in that way.
What transpires is a pleasant way to pass some time, although at the end of it, you seem to be forced to straighten out your uniform quite a bit more than Lori has to. She has a decidedly self-satisfied expression on her face as she watches you at this.
"... you're enjoying yourself," you murmur, slightly flushed, slightly short of breath.
"I am," she agrees, "although less than I was." She pauses, continues watching for a moment, until her expression falls slightly, as if remembering something. "There are... rumours," she says, slowly.
"Rumours?" you ask, having finally tucked your shirt back into your skirt with an adequate amount of crispness. The smart fabric helps. You have a sinking feeling you know the sort of rumour she's going to reference.
"Leaves being cancelled on short notice," Lori says. "Extra security in strange places. Ships coming into dock one at a time that were meant to be out for weeks more. Civilians being moved around quietly, without normal notice being given -- just shuffled around. I've heard there have been complaints, but they're being kept quiet through emergency provisions." She looks at you curiously, noticing your lack of a reaction. "... this strangely doesn't seem to be news to you."
"I can hear rumours too," you offer. Which, given that you are an ensign at the beginning of your career with little real social status, is perhaps a bit of a stretch.
She narrows her eyes a little suspiciously. You somehow feel the look is attempting to spear someone else through you, not you yourself. "Just what," she asks, "has Milo gotten you caught up in?" Somehow, Lori using Lieutenant-Commander Owusu's given name feels like a sign that she's more annoyed with him rather than less.
"I'm not..." you begin, not without a slightly sheepish look, "at liberty to discuss, I'm afraid."
Lori continues the look, then sighs, irritated. "I'm going to have to have a few words with him, when I can pin him down."
"He might not actually dislike that," you admit. "He's... stressed enough that he'd probably like a chance to be sarcastic at someone."
Lori covers her face with one hand, letting out something like an irritable growl. "The fact that you've spent enough time around him to know that just makes me more concerned."
"Please don't be," you caution. "It's not anything that... wouldn't have affected me eventually anyway." This is ominous enough that you watch her stiffen with discomfort. "I've been doing important work for him. It hasn't been anything dangerous, but it's worthwhile."
She seems to unbend a little, with some effort. "Getting wrapped up with the SRI is never good, Amani," she says. "And not just because they'd give someone like him a commission. What they deal with is dangerous."
"Some things are going to be dangerous regardless," you say, giving her a long, speaking look while your hands, working on autopilot, finish buttoning your shirt collar up. "How do I look?" you ask, spinning yourself around in space for her inspection.
"Like you haven't just been pawed over by a pilot," Lori offers.
"Good." You'll have to check yourself in a bathroom first, just to make sure every last button and crease is perfect -- you have your last scheduled debrief today, at Owusu's request. You wish very much that you could tell her about it -- about everything. About the attacks, about what you realised about Mosi partially with her unwitting help. Even more than you wish you could talk about it with your mother, in some ways. It's less emotionally fraught.
"Still nothing from the sister, I assume?" Lori asks, startling you a little. "I assumed you would have said something otherwise," she adds, "but I just thought I'd ask."
"Absolutely no contact," you confirm, "and no one seems to have spotted her." You frown. "Mother's not taking it well, but, well..."
"She's entitled not to," Lori says, "when her child returns from the dead and then violently disappears." She glances out the window, looking at space. "I am hoping that this trip out will be my last, at least for a little while. I am very tired of flying circles in space and writing tedious reports about it afterward."
"Are you meant to be telling me about that?" you ask.
"It's fine, as long as I don't specify what I'm flying them in. You'll see it before long, I imagine." She gathers up the discarded lunch containers floating above the nearby table. "Honestly, though, it's dull enough I almost wish something exciting would happen."
"You should be careful what you wish for," you say, frowning at her.
"I should," she agrees. She catches herself on a handle near the airlock, you close behind. "Are you free tonight?" she asks.
"I should be," you agree, relaxing a little. "I'm meeting mother in Beta Sphere anyway, but I'll be able to see you after that."
"Good," she says. She darts in to give you a quick, hard kiss, before pulling away again. "That will be something to think about while I'm going out of my mind with boredom."
You decide that it's a good idea to enjoy yourselves while you still can, although you don't regret not pushing things along faster than this. You push your worries out of your head for now -- hopefully, the war will keep away for one more night, at least.
--
Iapetus orbit
As Mosi expected, much of her nerves simply fall away the moment she's back in a cockpit. Even if she's effectively gone from flying a state of the art, blazing fast prototype unit to a glorified power welder.
Mosi proceeds along at a slow, methodical pace, following the pre-approved trajectory provided to 'Maintenance Team 015'. Verner, or their mysterious contact in admin, had arranged for this months ago. Once it was in Anchiale's system, as far as Iapetus should be concerned, they're legitimate.
Mosi spent the hours prior to the mission sitting ramrod straight, staring at a wall, trying to keep everything that could go wrong out of her mind. A team of marines at the mecha hangar, ready to arrest or shoot them. A squad of enemy Banners cottoning on and intercepting them on the way. The defence platform detecting the infiltration and blowing them to pieces. Even the simple fact that, as per her original plan, Mosi is the one whose unit will be carrying Lieutenant-Commander Roth is hardly calculated to set her mind at ease.
Kim, ever a study in contrasts to her fellow pilot, filled this same period of time with fidgeting, pacing, and endless chatter which Mosi absorbed less than a tenth of. To her surprise, Mosi almost finds it calming. In particular since the incident with Amani, Kim has grown on her.
Here and now, though, in the bulky pilot suit that matches the civilian worker unit, Mosi is at home, she's in control. She has the power to fight for her life and the mission, to live or die by her own abilities. That's everything to her. As long as she's in a cockpit, she isn't helpless.
For such a small, desolate moon, space around Iapetus teems with life and the infrastructure that supports it. Seemingly endless rings of habitats, smaller than Anchiale but each surrounded by an array of focusing mirrors. Communications satellites, observation platforms, the points of light that are ships going in between them. Flying in the direction Mosi is now, the two mecha appear to be heading directly toward Saturn. Whatever Ensign Kim might think about Jupiter being prettier, it's a beautiful planet.
"Attention, Maintenance Team 015. This is Iapetus Outer Defence Network Control. Do you read?" The officious sounding, female voice comes through Mosi's helmet speakers loud and clear.
"Control, this is Maintenance Operator Kaskazini leading Team 015, I read you," Mosi says. The rehearsed response comes easily to her lips in a calm, matter of fact voice.
"Operator Kaskazini, please be advised that we are overriding your prescribed course. Instead, please proceed to Defence Platform 00-A-23-07 on the following heading."
Mosi blinks at the new information queuing up on her screen. The course she is being given now deviates sharply from their plan, having them take a slow, meandering right turn, weaving around several established 'lanes' of space traffic in order to arrive at an entirely different defence platform from their original destination.
Quietly, Mosi mutes the call from Control and opens wired comms with the passenger compartment. "Sir," she says, "are you getting this?"
"We have the audio, not the course data," Roth's tense voice replies. While Roth seems to be determined to set aside his continued fury at Mosi insofar as she's one of only two pilots he has, she can well imagine that relying on her assessment of such a situation hardly makes him happy.
"The course data is just the most direct path to Platform 00-A-23-07 instead of our original goal," Mosi explains.
"Specialist?" Roth asks.
The passenger compartment's other occupant, Specialist Jackson, speaks up: "We... should be able to do this with any of the networked platforms." Jackson's voice is uncertain. He hastily adds, a little more confidently: "There shouldn't be a problem, sir."
Roth sighs. "Adjust course as instructed. We aren't going hot at this stage, that would be suicide. And not even useful suicide. Inform the other unit."
"Yes, sir," Mosi agrees. She renables audio on her call with Control. "I understand, Control. Changing course now. Advising Operator Park of the changes in course now."
Kim, acting as Operator Park over wireless comm, is slightly less tranquil in her performance than Mosi. "... understood!" she says, with agitation or fear playing beneath her superficial calm. "We'll just keep following you, then, Operator Kaskazini."
Gradually, the defence platform becomes more than simply one dot among many on the scan map being displayed on the visor of Mosi's helmet. Seen through the mecha's main camera, it's an ugly, slightly lopsided thing. The guns and scan array modules that make up its core glint lethally in the light of the distant sun, newer modules awkwardly appended onto the ends. Notably, a number of these appear to be set onto rotating shafts for the purposes of inertial gravity simulation. More than Mosi might expect -- she hadn't thought the personnel on these platforms would be assigned long-term.
Long minutes stretch by, filled with the sound of whirring controls, the blinking of lights, and the satisfaction of Mosi getting a handle on this unit's forward-thrust-heavy propulsion setup. Hardly a precision tool, and she doubts she'll express this opinion in front of Kim, but frankly it handles easier than a Banner does, in terms of acceleration and deceleration in a hurry.
"Attention Control, this is Kaskazini. Maintenance Team 015 is approaching Platform 00-A-23-07 and will arrive in approximately three minutes, matching velocity with the platform now."
"Confirmed, Operator Kaskazini. Your team is cleared to begin the diagnostic portion of your maintenance sweep."
Mosi and Kim slow themselves gradually, adjusting rotation until the platform seems to hang still in space. Slowly, carefully, Mosi eases herself forward until she can engage the high-powered magnets on her unit, clamping her MKIII's feet down onto the flat surface of the the defence platform's exterior maintenance pad. The pad shudders slightly as Kim lands beside her.
Mosi is already opening her passenger compartment, allowing the space-suited forms of her two companions to drift out, still tethered to her MKIII until the magnets in their boots have stuck them fast as well. It's only a short time before the remaining two passengers drop out of Kim's compartment.
Now begins the dangerous part, as the two specialists carefully make their way over to the array of access panels and ports built into the partial shelter of the exterior landing pad, the ports overlooked by the blinking, red eye of the camera set above the two airlocks leading into the cramped interior of the defence platform. Whether it be through noticing the malicious infiltration piggybacking on top of the legitimate maintenance sweep, someone watching them on camera noticing that the collapsed tool on the belts of the Lieutenant-Commander and the Chief Petty Officer are in fact vacuum enables SMGs, or some other unforeseen calamity, they are truly on the clock now.
"We're in the system, LC," Specialist Jens says. "We have enough access to begin infiltration." The words are spoken over very short-range, suit-to-suit comms, although there is always the possibility of interception, literally standing on the station. It's small enough to discount.
Mosi finds herself casting an eye toward space. At the orderly little lunar system, filled with life. With people like Amani, just trying to get through their day. Soon, Mosi knows, death and chaos will be introduced to Iapetus. Will any of them thank the Divine Navy of Correction for delivering them, one day? Will they appreciate that accepting the Emperor's peace is preferable to living with a proverbial sword hanging over one's head? Will Amani? It's been a long time since Mosi has questioned that particular bargain.
"It... doesn't make sense," Kim's voice abruptly comes in over the comms. Sounding confused, troubled. "Why would they put that many grav rings on a defence platform? They shouldn't need that many long term residents."
"Keep the channel clear of chatter, Ensign," Roth snaps, "And your mind on our mission." Mosi can't help but think that there's a new, strange sort of tension in Roth's voice. A degree of mild alarm at Kim specifically.
"Yes, sir," Kim says, still troubled.
Time passes, with minimal developments beyond a few curt status updates to and from Control.
"Sir," says Specialist Jens, sounding a little uncertain. She looks up from where she and Specialist Jackson are clustered around the control panel, supposedly performing a diagnostic on emergency thrust ports on all the networked defence platforms. In actuality, doing something terrible to the networks FOF system that will make the defence array literally blow itself out the sky. "We've hit a... stumbling block."
"A what?" Roth demands.
"It's fine, sir, we can still get access," Jackson cuts in. "A slight delay, that's all. This is almost definitely automated -- we haven't been made yet."
"Make sure it's only slight," Roth growls.
"Wait!" It's Kim again, this time sounding both horrified and outright panicked.
"Ensign, I tol--
"Sir! Those are long term res modules!" Kim cuts in. "I'm sure of it! That's not... just for a few naval personnel. Those hold two hundred people each!"
Roth doesn't immediately respond and the two specialists seem almost oblivious to the entire argument. The CPO is characteristically silent. Mosi speaks for the first time: "Kim, if these platforms were full of that many people -- that would have to be thousands in the whole array -- we would have had intel about it. There's no way we could know as much as we did about these platforms without even knowing that." Roth should jump in at that. Mosi expects him to. He doesn't, a pregnant silence ensuing. Then, all at once, she knows without a trace of doubt.
"Sir?" Kim asks. "I'm sure those are civilian hab pods. There's no--
"It doesn't matter," Roth says, turning to glare up at the hulking form of Kim's MKIII.
"Sir!" Kim gasps, "How can this not matter? This is completely different!"
Mosi is the one who answers, voice almost eerily calm. "He knew," she says. "When you mentioned collateral back when we were running tests, Verner started to tell us about this. But the Lieutenant-Commander glared him silent. There are civilians in these platforms. We did have intelligence about it. It was just kept need to know."
"It doesn't matter!" Roth shouts into his mic, loudly enough that it makes Mosi wince. "Do you have any idea how many of us will die if the fleet arrives and this array is still operating? It's not our fault if the heretics are using civilians as human shields!"
"... sir!" Jens' voice is actually a little shrill from the tension she's otherwise successfully ignoring. "Sir, we have-- we have partial control. Wait... Jackson, what's that?"
"I signed up to destroy military targets!" Kim is shouting. "Not to blow residential habitats like a fucking Jovian separatist!"
"You signed up to do as you're damn-well told for the good of the Empire, Ensign!"
Mosi listens to ensuing argument with a curious feeling of detachment. Was she really, in her heart of hearts, surprised that the Holy Empire would do this in the name of the glorious cause? She wants to say no. If asked out loud, she'd say no. It would be a lie. For every one one life taken, a million more saved. Who, exactly, are they saving?
"That... was an alarm," Jackson finally decides. Then, louder, trying to pierce the increasingly strident exchange between Kim and Roth: "Sir! That was an alarm!"
"How long do you need to finish?" Roth demands.
"I don't know! More time. If we activate it now, we'll only blow about a 4th of the array. That's within the minimum, but barely."
"We don't have time," Roth decides, all at once. "We're going to have to blow it with what you have."
"Sir, we just need a few more minutes!" Jens insists.
"They're all going to die," Kim moans, "and so are we."
Mosi almost more feels her hand reaching out to press the button, rather than consciously deciding to press it. From where she is, deep in her cockpit, she hears the sound of machinery whirring to life. The sound can't carry through vacuum, shouldn't be picked up by her mic without voice recognition turning it on. But for some reason, by some sixth sense, Roth looks up at her MKIII
He looks into the barrel of the anti-personnel weapon hidden in the mecha's left arm as it extends, and begins to spin up, ready to obliterate all life on the maintenance platform. For a moment, the angle is just right that, even through his polarised helmet, Mosi enjoys the fancy that she can almost see his shocked face. See the fear in his eyes. "North, what the fuck do you think you're--"
Mosi unloads the weapon, the machine-gun spewing out a hail of death, piercing spacesuits, cracking helmets, sending red mist bubbling out into space. The burst only lasts for a second or two, but it does the job. She stares for a fraction of a second longer, simply taking in the shredded human wreckage she's left floating in space, breathing hard. Finally, she masters herself enough to speak into her microphone again:
"Marines, sir." It's perhaps slightly unnecessary -- the corpses that clutter space around the first of the airlocks are obviously wearing marine hard suits. Corpses, because, seeing them pouring out of the airlock, Mosi had acted on lethal reflex. Necessary or not, Mosi feels a need to fill the air, staring at the men and women she's just killed in the interests of protecting the team and the mission. "There will be more behind them. Mecha as well. We can't stay here."
"Sir!" Jens calls, voice shaky, "Jackson--" The second specialist's body is rooted in place near the control panel by his suit's magnetic boots. Evidently, in their death throws, one of the marines still managed to fire off a burst that shattered Jackson's helmet and vented the contents of his skull out into vacuum.
"There's nothing you can do for him!" Roth recovers from his shock, having clearly thought that Mosi had been intent on sweeping her weapon over him and the team members on the platform, rather than using it to save their lives. "Specialist, blow the platforms now -- however many you can -- or we won't have a chance to blow any!" he's already making a beeline for Mosi's opening passenger hatch.
"Yes, sir!" Jens says. Then, the next moment. Scant moments later, she's throwing herself into the MKIII's passenger compartment, and Mosi is pushing off from the platform, Kim following with the CPO likewise retrieved.
"Sol, Sol, Sol," Kim is moaning. "We're all going to die for this. We all deserve to--" She's forced to cut herself off as the horrible spectacle they've just set off begins in spectacular fashion -- a railgun shot strikes the station they've only barely gotten clear of, its shields flaring visibly as its own weapons re-orientate to return fire on the other platform that hit it.
They have a perfect, front row view of the guns on so many of the defence platforms swivelling and, silently, beginning rain devastation on one another. The damage is already extremely impressive, platforms crumpling and blowing, venting their compartments into space under the sustained friendly fire. It's the herald for an even larger, and more devastating kind of destruction that Mosi knows is already bearing down on Iapetus, but the sight more than sobering in its own right.
She tries very hard, and largely unsuccessfully, not to think about how many innocents are dying at this moment, even with the sabotage being so dramatically less successful than they'd intended. She tries even harder not to imagine what Amani would think of her.
Most of all, though, she tries not to think about how she'd spun her AP gun up before she'd known the marines were going to come through that airlock. And what she was going to use it for before they came pouring out.
--
The HIMS Titanium Rose, the trusty ship you serve on, has finally been repaired and just in time for you to need it at its best again. But, seemingly out of gratitude for several different outcomes of your otherwise-disastrous patrol mission, the ship is now better than ever.
What has been improved on the Rose?
[ ] Improved weapons systems
Ranger class ships are already well armed for their role and size category -- Thanks to an unexpected upgrade, the Rose is now particularly formidable, able to hit above its weight class and more easily penetrate heavy shielding.
[ ] Cutting edge shield technology
During the repair process, the Rose's shield system was simply ripped out and replaced with a new one. The new system is from an entirely new generation of shield array that helps to compensate for the the Rose's inherent fragility to increase survivability.
[ ] Quasi stealth system
While most of the technology developed for the Night Lily requires a purpose-built vessel, several of the more minor innovations included in it are applicable on any ship within certain parameters. This would allow the Rose to be harder to identify and keep track of on conventional scans.
So, it's been three days, and as this vote means more about the upcoming battle than it does immediately for this next update, I already have update 031 finished. I've gone back and forth a little over whether or not to just let this play out a little more, but the actual vote hasn't changed in about five hours, so I'm just going to err on the side of posting.
Quasi-Stealth, 32 votes
Shields, 28 votes
Weapons, 2 votes
Anchiale Space Port
Central Iapetus Combat Information Centre
"Lord Secretary. I can well understand your concerns. But, frankly, I do not have time to entertain them." Lord Admiral Sikes doesn't even look up at the other man, eyes focused ahead on the information coming through the main display screen in front of him, bathing his narrow, sour face in orange light.
"Excuse me, my lord?" Lord Secretary Song isn't a man who is used to not immediately getting his way. That comes with the territory, Sikes has to suppose, when you're the younger brother of an Imperial Elector, the infamous Duchess Song herself. Out of the corner of his eye, Sikes can see Song's face getting more and more florid with shock and anger. Most of the time, for all that he's one of the most powerful men in the Imperial Navy -- and by extension one of the most powerful men in what's left of the Empire -- Lord Admiral Sikes finds it prudent to play nice with people like Song. The repercussions of throwing his weight around are rarely worth the momentary satisfaction it garners. This moment not most of the time.
"We are dealing with a matter of national security," Sikes says, bluntly. "If you wish to remain to observe, Lord Secretary, I will insist that you take your seat in the back and refrain from interruption. I will be happy to answer any number of your questions, when we are not staring the prospect of a full invasion square in the face."
Song's jaw clenches, but for once, he masters his temper. Seemingly, he's not a complete imbecile. "I will be sure to do so, my lord," he says. When it becomes clear that Sikes doesn't intend to acknowledge him further, Song pushes himself past the other man, heading up toward the back of the large chamber.
The command centre for Iapetus and the Outer Fleet is large, filled with row upon row of workstations, seemingly all currently filled. The news, after all, couldn't possibly be more dire. "Sir, we have the full scan data, from before the Tulip was destroyed." The speaker is a woman in her thirties, his aide.
"How bad is it, Rao?" Sikes sighs. Rao, like Lord Secretary Song, is a close relative of an Imperial Elector. Unlike him, however, Duke Rao's youngest daughter has seemingly avoided developing a pathological need to remind everyone around her of the fact.
"Bad enough, sir. I've sent it over to your station -- this isn't just the raiding force that's been encountered previously." Rao points a gloved finger at the place on his personal workstation where the scan data has just appeared. "This is a full invasion fleet. Bearing right down on Iapetus."
Less than an hour before, an urgent upload had come from the HIMS Black Tulip, a Herald class reconnaissance ship on a short-range scouting mission around Iapetus. The message had revealed that the Tulip had encountered precisely what it had been sent out to look for -- the leading edge of an enemy invasion fleet. Shortly thereafter, the Tulip had been engaged by the enemy and unceremoniously destroyed. As nearly-ubiquitous scouts, the virtues of the Herald class were many -- durability and firepower were not chief among them.
Sikes pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Wonderful," he mutters. "Well, we've been forewarned, at cost of lives. Still, though, with these numbers, can they really get through the defence array?"
"They shouldn't be able to, sir," Rao opines. She frowns. "Although... there's a call from a Commander Sanchez, officer of the watch for Defence Array Control. He's being highly insistent, although with this situation, we haven't had time to review it too closely."
Sikes thinks for a long moment. He has a dozen things to juggle right now, preparing for a full-scale assault by the Holy Empire's forces. But the dire warnings that kept coming across his desk from that smarmy SRI operative resurface. Stories about possible infiltrations, enemy operatives becoming involved in shootings with ship ensigns...
"I'll take him," Sikes decides.
A moment later, the call has been patched in, much to the watch officer's evident exasperated relief. "Sol above, finally!" Commander Sanchez growls. "Who am I talking to?"
Almost amused, in spite of everything, Sikes responds, in his flattest, least impressed tone: "This is Lord Admiral Sikes."
There's an audible clicking sound as Sanchez's teeth literally snap shut on his prepared response. Evidently, he had not anticipated his call actually garnering this much official attention. "Sir," Sanchez begins, "My lord. I apologise if--"
Sikes cuts him off. "I don't have time for apologies, Commander. What did you need to tell me?"
Sanchez accepts the reprieve like a drowning man thrown a life preserver. "Sir -- we have discovered a group claiming to be an officially scheduled maintenance team doing something suspect with the defence network. I have redirected them to Defence Platform 00-A-23-07 and authorised the extra security troops stationed there to attempt to apprehend them."
Sikes starts. "You have what?" he demands.
"I reported this as it happened, sir," Sanchez says, with a flash of his original annoyance, "but I've been getting three layers of assistants handing this up the chain of command. They're-- those maintenance mecha are armed!" the latter is a genuine exclamation of shock and horror, heedless of the audience or the original sentence.
"Rao!" Sikes shouts, causing a dozen heads to whip around in his direction, to say nothing of the woman in question practically giving herself whiplash turning herself around to look back at her superior.
"Sir?" she asks, looking uncharacteristically wide-eyed.
"Scramble whatever we have that can get to Defence Platform 00-A-23-07 as soon as possible! Use my authorisation! There's an attack on the defence array!"
"Yes sir!" Rao practically shoves the man in the seat nearest her aside in her haste to get to his workstation.
Meanwhile, Sikes prepares to make his third call of the day to the Lord Mayor of Anchiale. The measures they've taken so far will not be sufficient.
Sanchez's voice, even more alarmed than before, stops him cold. "It's too late! The platforms are--" his voice cuts off abruptly. Too abruptly. Collectively horrified, all eyes in the CiC have turned upward to the largest display screen, the one showing a huge, real-time scan map of Iapetus and its surrounding space.
One by one, clustered over Iapetus's northern hemisphere but expanding rapidly, dots representing the defence platforms are blinking out. Blinking out, along with hundreds of personnel and civilians, vented out into hard vacuum as the fragile walls of their little worlds are savagely breached.
Sikes knows, then, that if he survives this, even if he successfully rallies his people in the defence of Iapetus in a truly heroic fashion, he will be tendering his resignation afterward.
--
Anchiale Station Spindle
You glide along a broad, zero-gravity thoroughfare, sipping your coffee pouch in a moderately perturbed way. On one hand, you had not needed to deliver that report after all. On the other, the suddenness of this change in plans and the wide-eyed, harried expression on the woman who had asked you to leave did not inspire confidence. Not even terrible coffee helps.
You hope that seeing your mother will go well enough today, although you have your doubts -- she's entirely, if understandably, wrapped up in what's become of Mosi, in the lack of any news about her whereabouts. Or, substantially, at least -- you were very pleased to hear that, despite everything, she did bring Faiza to the attention of the head of the newly opened Imperial Academy branch in Alpha Sphere. The girl, apparently, made an impressive showing during her practical examination. Even if her manners leave a little to be desired.
You decide you'll ask if your mother's going to make good on her promise to let Faiza 'watch' as her Fenris Lancer is serviced -- you feel that it is perhaps in the best interests of all involved if you remind your mother to have someone keep a very close eye on her.
Thoughts about an evening spent in Lori's company, and what the likely end of the night will entail, are somewhat more welcome. The feeling of her lips against yours, and her hands running over your skin are still a very recent memory.
Along the entire length of the large shaft, video view ports are set into two walls, crafted to seem like exterior windows in spite of the significant distance between this large, well-populated space and the spindle's outer hull. Each shows a majestically rendered view of space, Iapetus on one side, Saturn currently on the other. On both, ships and stations wheeling through space against an endless backdrop of stars, the sun staring back small and remote from the bottom of its deep gravity well.
You're watching the side showing Saturn as you go along. At first, you don't realise what's happening when you see a distant flare of light near the top of the screen. Then as you see another, and another, by the time you've pulled yourself up short to stare in fascinated horror, you put two and two together: Those distant points of light, barely distinguishable from stars at this distance, are the defence array. And you're watching it be destroyed.
You feel your coffee pouch float free of your hand as your grip on it goes slack, hear gasps of alarm from around you as the crowd begins to collectively notice the same thing you have. You hear snatches of conversation you can't bring yourself to concentrate on.
"--at in the world?"
"Is it an atta--"
"My husband works on--"
Then the image disappears, replaced instead by a white background with a scrolling, flashing warning that begins to be read aloud over the speakers:
ATTENTION ANCHIALE OCCUPANTS: THIS IS A STATE OF EMERGENCY. PLEASE PROCEED TO YOUR NEAREST LEVEL 3 SHELTER POINTS, UNLESS FORMALLY INSTRUCTED OTHERWISE. ATTENTION ANCHIALE OCCUPANTS: THIS IS A STATE OF EMERGENCY. PLEASE PROCEED--
Your tablet buzzes, and you pull it off your belt to see a similar message. This one, however, likely falls into the 'OTHERWISE':
Ensign North, all leave is hereby cancelled, you are ordered to proceed to the HIMS Titanium Rose immediately, where you are to take up level 2 battle stations.
There's a precise location for the Rose, but you don't need it, considering where you ate lunch earlier.
You think of the number of people you knew were still in the defence array. The families waiting patiently for long years for a relocation that would never come. And you think of your sister. Your sister who looked after you when you were little, who taught you to cook, who defended you from bullies and tried, unsuccessfully, to teach you to fight. Who had hugged you so tightly when you'd met again, who had been undeniably thrilled to see you alive and well.
As you turn to force your way through the crowd, back in the direction of the spaceport, you know in your heart of hearts, that that same sister is responsible for this now.
--
Space around Iapetus
Mosi breaks hard to avoid a spinning, white-hot shard of debris the size of her MKIII. She narrowly avoids being impaled. The sabotage program, partially successful as it was, has proven to be horrifyingly effective on the parts of the defence array it did work on. She and Kim find themselves navigating a fast-moving cloud of lethal debris as they struggle to clear the destruction of platform 00-A-23-07. Mosi watches as guns, hull and habitat pieces go hurtling past, feeling more relieved than she should at not seeing any bodies.
They're there, she knows, but space is big.
As dangerous as the debris is, it's also at least temporarily making it impossible for the enemy to track them remotely, giving them a precious window of partial safety with which to avoid pursuit and get safely back to Anchiale, where their escape vehicle is waiting. This will be made much easier if Kim stops having a panic attack.
"What have we done, what have we done, what have we done?" Kim's voice is more than slightly hysterical over the comm. "We killed them all!"
"Ensign, listen to me!" Mosi says, trying to convey both urgency and calm. It would be easier, if she were feeling anything even approaching calm herself. Kim is, Mosi knows, a combat veteran who has taken lives before. There's a difference, though, between destroying an enemy mecha trying to kill you and this.
"It's just like... Sol, it's just like... my family lives in a habitat like that!"
"Kim!"
"We're going to die, we're going to die, we deserve to fucking die!"
"Su-jin!"
Kim's given name, coming from Mosi's mouth for the for the first time, seems to pierce her fog of self recrimination more than either her rank or her family name. "Lieutenant North?" she asks, almost confused.
"Ensign, do you want to die?" Mosi demands.
... No, ma'am?" Kim is slightly surprised to realise this. Under other circumstances, it would have been comical. "No, ma'am!" she repeats, more forcefully.
"Good. We're going to get out of this. You need to see how old your brother has gotten, remember?" It's manipulative, Mosi knows, but it feels extremely necessarily, just then.
"Right," Kim mutters. "I... I... I can do this."
They continue flying in the direction of Iapetus, this time heedless of any pre-arranged flight path. As they travel with the spreading debris cloud, however, Mosi sees two dots on her scan map moving much less erratically than the others.
Two ISM07 Lancers, configured for guard duty, moving as if searching through the debris. "Ensign, do you see those Lancers?" Mosi highlights them on her map, sending the relevant data over to Kim.
"I see them," Kim confirms.
"We're going to have to go right past them," Mosi says, grimly. "We'll lose too much time going around."
"So we're fighting in these after all," Kim mutters.
"North, avoid engagement if at all possible!" Roth's voice snaps in her ear.
"I'll keep that in mind sir," Mosi says, voice hard.
The lancers see the two MKIII's, first one, then the other changing course. The sleek, old-fashioned design of the ancient combat models a stark contrast to the unwieldy bulk of the worker units.
As they get closer, Mosi raises her cutting laser, tracing a line between her and the nearest. It darts aside, even as the second swoops in, firing on Kim. Kim's attacker's shot goes wide, and perhaps underestimating its opponent, is cut in half by Kim's own laser.
The first Lancer overcorrects in its attempt to get out of Mosi's range, and is promptly crushed against a flying piece of gun emplacement.
"Hostiles down," Mosi says, "expect more trouble."
Already, the further in they move the more obvious it becomes that Kim's original worries about collateral -- before she'd even known about civilians on the actual targets of their attack -- had been well founded. The scan map is full of various habitats and orbital satellites being struck by odd pieces of debris, their shields flaring dangerously.
"Lieutenant, what's that?"
This time, Kim is the one who sends Mosi scan data, highlighting an object moving at the very edge of Mosi's map. Moving fast. "Is that a mecha?" Mosi asks, dividing her attention between the unknown object and keeping herself from being smashed ignobly the way the unfortunate Lancer just was.
"It is!" Kim decides. "Unknown model. The output on it, though..."
She doesn't need to finish the sentence: Mosi has access to the same data she does. The unit in question isn't just moving fast -- practically dancing through the expanding debris -- it's actually accelerating. And it's heading almost directly toward them. Too fast for it to possibly stop. "Evade!" Mosi shouts, burning hard out of the mecha's path. Kim follows suit, but neither of them need have bothered. It makes a minute adjustment, shoots past them, dodges half a rapidly spinning habitat pod, and somehow comes to a halt, directly in their path, matching velocity with so little margin for error that Mosi can suddenly see it on her cameras.
The mecha has a strange silhouette. A head with a novel, five-sensor camera cluster, the central camera much larger and seemingly more powerful than the others, all glowing ominously blue like staring eyes. Its underlying frame is sleek, almost slender, but the adjustable thruster array it sports is anything but. And the long, dark shapes folded up on its back... "Is that a-- is that a railgun?" Kim demands. It is. Mosi has no idea what the similar shape alongside it is, however. At maximum magnification, Mosi can actually see the paint on its armour -- factory pristine. Olive green, with commander's decal and heraldry split between the gaudy emblem of the Knights Galatea, and the ancestral crest of House--
Mosi fights down a powerful urge to slam her head hard against the hatch of her cockpit. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."
"Lieutenant North?" Kim asks, "What's wrong? Do you know what--"
Kim is cut off by a video message appearing on both of their screens, the strange prototype's military codes automatically overriding the accept/decline feature on their civilian mecha. A helmeted face appears in front of Mosi. European features, with blonde hair and hard, blue eyes glaring daggers of ice at her. "Attention 'Maintenance Team 015,'" the heretic naval officer begins, "This is Commander Countess Gloriana Perbeck, piloting the ISMX40 Artemis. You are fleeing the site of a suspected terrorist attack. Surrender immediately, or be destroyed."
--
"--questing permission to engage again, Control." Lori tries to keep her voice calm, reasonable as she temporarily mutes the call with the two probable terrorists. Two faces stare back at her. 'Operator Park' is plainly scared out of her mind -- the kind of fear that belongs to someone pushed to extremes, not the kind that indicates helplessness. 'Operator Kaskazini', on the other hand, has a blankly desperate look in her dark, almond-shaped eyes. Strangely familiar eyes...
"We're... reviewing the specs for your unit now, Lady Perbeck," the harried sounding operator says. Lori can almost see the operator wince, as someone in the background distinctly demands:
"It has what mounted on it? That close to inhabited space?"
"I do not intend to arm either of this unit's long-range firing solutions," Lori says. She doesn't literally add obviously to the end of that sentence. Not responding directly to her call, the imposter operators are attempting to scatter, fleeing off in slightly different trajectories, using the debris as cover. It's obvious that they're both trying to go to the same spot, however -- Lori easily keeps pace. They're flying industrial equipment well, but they're ultimately still flying industrial equipment. If these were Banners, it might have been a bit of a problem. As it is, even in this close, the Artemis should be more than a match for both of them.
If Control ever bloody authorises her to engage.
Lady Per--" the Control officer cuts off as the second voice apparently snatches the microphone away from him:
"That thing you're piloting could hole half the platforms we have in orbit!" the second voice says, sounding agitated, on the edge of panic.
Lori is forced to dodge back, as Kaskazini's cutting laser lashes out with impressive accuracy, although not impressive enough to catch Lori's new prototype. "With all due respect," she growls, "They've already holed half the platforms you have in orbit. I just need permission to engage in close combat -- this unit is also outfitted with an anti-mecha rifle and a cutter. Surely those can't be such a risk that it's preferable to let dangerous lunatics fly around unchecked."
"The others that were scrambled--"
"Are busy dodging debris and trying to stop it from destroying occupied habitats!" Lori fires back. "I was an ISM016 Huntress pilot for years -- I'm not some trigger happy amateur who doesn't know what a rail cannon can do. Do I have permission to engage or not?"
There's an uncomfortably long silence, long enough that Lori is worried they're purposefully ignoring her. "You have authorisation to engage in close combat only, Commander," the reply finally agrees.
She spent all this time flying in circles, half wanting something to happen to allow her to really put this new unit through its paces, to see how it really stacks up to her beloved Huntress. And when that something finally comes, untold numbers of civilians are dead and she's being ordered to use a long-range prototype with enough firepower to sink a small battleship for close combat. There are reasons, Lori acknowledges as she extends the Artemis's mono-filament cutter, why tempting fate is considered bad luck.
She puts on a gratifyingly intense burst of speed, striking out at Park's clunky, slow unit with all the murderous intent in the world.
--
Kim barely escapes Perbeck's meteoric attack, and only then through Mosi's cutting laser causing the countess to change course. Immediately, the strange prototype executes a sharp turn, coming back around at them. The part of her that's still faintly caught up in ego and professional pride notes with some satisfaction that, while its acceleration might be faster, its fine maneuverability isn't quite up to snuff with Mosi's own Provespa.
"We can't win this!" Mosi says.
"Then what's the plan?" Kim demands.
"Evade, use the debris for cover, support each other!" Mosi breaks hard, changing course to put a large chunk of station between her and Perbeck's unit. The particular irony of fleeing for her life from the wrath of Amani's lover is not lost on her, as inconvenient as it is right at that moment. "Don't die!" she can't help but add.
"You're taking us too far off course, North!" Roth's strained voice suddenly breaks back in over the comm. "What are you--
"Sir!" There is a particularly dangerous edge to Mosi's voice as she talks over him, "If you don't keep your mouth shut while I try to save your life, I will space you. I am not joking." Wisely, he keeps his mouth shut, although Mosi can see over the camera feed from the passenger compartment that he's silently fuming. Jens, strapped in beside him, has her head in her hands, and might simply be praying.
Perbeck comes for Kim again, the cutter shearing off a chunk of lateral thruster on the first pass, the entire left arm of Kim's MKIII with the other. Mosi attempts to swoop back in to assist, but the arc of her cutting laser barely wards Perbeck off.
"Why is there a countess just... randomly out here in this thing?" Kim practically wails.
"My guess? She's test piloting it," Mosi says. "Not the most important thing right now."
"I mentioned that I really don't want to die, right?" Kim adds, tone getting increasingly close to hysteria once again.
"Just focus, Kim," Mosi instructs her. "We can get through this." It tastes like half a lie in her mouth.
Kim sucks in a shuddering breath, letting it out slowly. "Ma'am, I--" her words are cut off in a cry of alarm, as the Artemis reemerges alarmingly close to Kim's MKIII again. It dodges under her cutting laser, darting in to grab the wrist of the arm the laser is mounted on, wrenching it up in a move that brings Kim's unit in close.
"Ensign!" Mosi throws all caution to the wind, intent on nothing but saving her. Fuck the rest of the team, at this point. She doesn't want Kim to die. Or, for that matter, the solid, stoic Chief Petty Officer Wallace, silently stowed in Kim's passenger compartment. He'd been the one to talk Roth down, to save Mosi from a worse beating than she'd gotten. She knows she's going to be too slow to save either of them, though, before she's even halfway close enough to try.
Perbeck puts the barrel of an anti-mech gun directly against the torso of Kim's MKIII. Against the cockpit. "I'm... I'm sorry," Kim says, as if all the air has been sucked out of her. As if she knows what's coming. "I didn't--" The automatic bust from Perbeck's weapon rips through the civilian model's torso armour like it's nothing, shredding cockpit, passenger compartment and everything in between. What's left of Ensign Su-Jin Kim is just more broken, mangled debris, left in pieces too small and insignificant to track.
Mosi breaks hard by turning her back to her destination, sending herself off at an erratic course taking her between as much debris and other objects as she possibly can. It's a losing proposition, she knows -- they had a shot, before, running interference for one another, as ineffectual as that had been. Now with Mosi on her own, she's stalling. Anchiale is getting closer with each passing second, but she's now very close to overtaking the edge of the debris field, and she knows all too well exactly how long she'll last out in the open against the Artemis.
Just as Mosi clears the debris field, she twists out of the way to avoid being run through, and a bulky leg goes flying off into space. She rotates as fast as she can, bringing up the cutting laser -- this time, she scores a faint line in the Artemis's paint... before the arm with the laser weapon is removed as well. Increasingly, desperate, Mosi has to resort to physically kicking out with her one remaining leg, connecting with the faster mecha's chest. The cutter still slices deep into the MKIII's torso. Mosi winces, bracing herself for the end, but it doesn't come -- instead, she's just treated to the sounds of shrieking alarms.
Almost as an afterthought, Mosi looks back at the feed from the camera in the passenger compartment. A huge rent has been shorn into it, showing space beyond. Jens is simply gone, her straps slashed wide open. Roth wasn't quite so lucky -- what's left of him still hangs in his own straps, blood still misting out from the spot where his upper torso was sliced away from the rest of his body.
"Well, sir," Mosi says, voice too loud, smile too wide, eyes too scared -- there's no one listening anymore, "I guess you won't be getting me court martialled after all." They're all dead. All of them. Mosi is the only one left.
Her last, desperate line of defence, Mosi takes aim with her anti-personnel gun, the rounds ricocheting uselessly against the Artemis's armour. She's still close enough to see what a royal mess she's making of the crest of House Perbeck. That, at least, is a small satisfaction, before the cutter takes that away from her too.
The cutter stows away and Perbeck reaches out to get a grip on the now unarmed civilian mecha, gun aimed squarely at her cockpit as they continue heading in-system, straight at Anchiale. "Well flown," she says, face reappearing on Mosi's screen. She doesn't sound particularly gracious, staring at Mosi like she's the lowest piece of trash in the solar system, "But it ends. Surrender now, and keep your life."
For now. Execution almost certainly waits at the end of a long interrogation, should she surrender. Or a short interrogation, considering the Divine Navy is due to attack any hour now. She almost considers it, in light of that. But her mouth, so excellently trained that it doesn't need her mind anymore, is already moving: "I will fight to my last breath for my Divine emperor and I die in His name!"
Perbeck narrows her eyes. "This is your last breath. Die a zealot as well as a traitor, a coward and a murderer."
Something bubbles up from deep within Mosi. A confusing blend of fear, guilt, anger and blind defiance. And she's shouting something that she was decidedly not trained to say: "Yeah? Well, you're fucking my little sister!"
Blank, stunned recognition flashes over Perbeck's stormy features, and for a fraction of a second, she hesitates. "You're--"
Mosi braces her remaining intact limb, the right leg, against the Artemis, and pushes with everything the MKIII has left. She rockets away from the prototype, now on a direct crash course with Anchiale station, going too fast to slow herself now. She can feel that something's broken in the controls, the crude haptics in her maintenance pilot's suit going disconcertingly slack around her. With a growl of effort, Mosi scrapes up the last of her skill and energy as a pilot to at least aim toward an emergency landing hatch.
Then her world goes black.
"... happened?"
"... know, but..."
"She's still..."
"... tting more like her before too..."
Mosi's eyes don't flutter so much as they lurch back open, almost drunkenly disorientated, fighting ineffectually at hands reaching for her, pawing at her, hands undoing the straps that hold her in her cockpit.
Techs. Maintenance techs. Mechanics.
"... miss, miss!" a large man is shouting in Mosi's ear, "can you hear me, miss? Are you hurt?"
They don't realise who or what Mosi is. She realises this all at once, and for a few more seconds, she doesn't know what to do with it. "Hit... my head," she admits. "The bruising's from-- it's from before," she adds, shaking her head like a dog, trying to make the world make sense. Those same strong, helpful hands are lifting her delicately out of her ruined cockpit, out of the wreck that is the MKIII, floating her up and away toward medical attention.
"What happened out there?" a woman asks, voice fearful. "Was it an attack?"
"Elise," the first man says, frowning. Mosi can see clearly enough now to make out his face, "give the girl a chance to--"
Mosi's arm catches him in the throat, and she shoves off away from them all before anyone has a chance to catch her. Already, she's reaching around behind her, clumsily gloved fingers fumbling over the surface of the vacuum-capable SMG she has there -- like the ones Roth and Wallace never used. There are shouts behind her, cries of alarm, demands for her to stop. She doesn't. She flings herself away toward the nearest shaft, barely registering the wide open space of the mecha hangar around her.
Mosi checks the time as she leaves the hangar behind. All around, there's chaos, raised voices, warnings flashing on screens. Obviously, they know about the attack. Once again, that's precious confusion Mosi can use to her advantage -- there's a shuttle waiting for her, an extraction to get her out ahead of the invasion. She can still survive this. But, still...
But still...
This episode has reminded her, in a way she shouldn't need reminding of, of just how ruthless the Emperor's Divine Navy can be in their pursuit of His goals. Of how many people they're willing to crush simply for being in the way, not committing any real crime against Him or His empire.
Non-combatant or no, civilian or no, innocent or no... Amani isn't safe here. Mosi unlatches the gloves from her pilot suit, leaving them behind her to float in the shaft, then begins to work on her helmet. She knows what she's thinking is crazy. Beyond crazy -- it's ridiculous. But she has to. The suit finally breached enough for it, Mosi reaches a trembling hand down beneath her collar and pulls out her black box, lining it up with the battered tablet that came clipped to the side of this pilot suit. She had been the older sister. She had been responsible for Amani's safety. Their mother had made well certain that she'd be able to find Amani, if the worst happened. In an emergency.
A small, solitary dot blinks on the map Mosi has brought up, moving along the station's length to the spaceport. To the shipyard. Mercifully close to where Mosi is now.
This certainly counts as an emergency.
--
Anchiale Shipyard, interior
"I'm on my way to the Rose, sir. We're shipping out, it looks like."
"Yeah, I'm not surprised," Lieutenant-Commander Owusu's voice is a drawn, hollow shell of his usual good cheer.
"Are you alright, sir?" you venture, catching yourself on a blind corner to let a stream of unfimiliar ship workers rush past, before you venture out onto it, going as fast as you safely can.
Owusu laughs mirthlessly. "Getting to say 'I told you so' is never as satisfying as you want it to be, Ensign. There's your life lesson for the day."
"How..." you hesitate, before steeling yourself to continue, "... how bad is it?"
"We have no idea how many dead," he replies. "The worst hit areas had already been partially evacuated. Partially. And the team was intercepted in the middle of the sabotage, so they only got... a bit more than a quarter of the array. But there were still hundreds of civilians there. Operating crew. Marines on security duty that I pushed for." He sighs heavily, wearily. You can image his handsome face crumpling wherever he is, on the other end of the call. "Honestly," he says, "we needed to catch this sooner."
"Sorry, sir," you murmur.
"What? No. No! I didn't mean... look, North, I told you you did well. You did do well. You helped me get this information sooner than I would have gotten it. We did what we could, with what we had, in the time we had. Doing everything right doesn't always feel like winning, but it's better than nothing, right?"
You consider that for a long, bleak moment. "Sometimes," you admit, "it just feels like losing less badly."
He laughs again, still not an entirely happy sound. "Better than nothing, right?" he repeats.
"I'm sure you're right, sir," you say. You're in the shipyard, or around it, headed straight for the Rose, as fast as you can make your way there. So far, you haven't run into any of your shipmates, but you suspect you're taking a strange route -- the narrow, twisting shafts inside the arms of the shipyard are infinitely more confusing than the broad, brightly-lit thoroughfares of the spaceport and the main spindle that stretches out to either side of them.
"Bad shit is coming, North," Owusu cautions, "I'll probably be in the fighting as well."
You blink. "Really, sir?" you ask.
"I'm a pilot as well, Ensign. Not just a devastatingly good looking operative." This time, the levity doesn't feel quite as forced. "I know it can be hard for one woman to keep track of my many, many talents."
"It's a constant burden, sir," you say, dryly.
"Anyway, North. Try not to die. Like i said, you're wasted on front lines scan work. Special Reconnaissance and Intelligence can always use good--"
Before you can even process the offer of advancement properly, you feel an arm seizing your shoulder, yanking you to an abrupt halt. The headset slips down off your face, and barely snags around your neck. The grip is tight -- too tight, in fact. You begin to struggle, pushing against your accoster, until you see the barrel of the gun. Instantly, you go limp, eyes tracking to the face of the one holding it.
"Mosi?" you gasp.
"Why," she demands, shaking you hard, eyes looking almost a little crazed, "why are you wearing that?"
You follow her gaze, taking note of the blue of you uniform, with its prominent Titanium Rose ship patch, then look back up at her, your own eyes hardening. "I told you," you say, "I'm a scans officer. I worked -- I work with Anja."
Mosi is shaking her head, as if to deny what she's hearing. "Why are you..." she repeats. Stops, seeming to realise that she's already asked that. "Why..."
"What have you done, Mosi?" you ask, cutting her off. "That was you, out there, wasn't it?" you gesture with your free hand, trying not to make any movement that was too rapid or alarming. "You killed all those people."
"I-" Mosi's words seem to catch in her throat, and she shakes her head again. "I... I... I serve my emperor," she says, with the air of flailing for words of more comfort than substance. "His Divinely-ordained--"
"Stop!" you say. You'd known -- you'd believed what you were telling Owusu about her. But hearing such words from the mouth of your own sister, seeing the almost desperately fanatical light in her eyes is turning your stomach. "You were just following orders to murder hundreds of civilians, it has nothing to do with you. Is that what you're telling me, Mosi?"
Her mouth works, as if she's trying to think of what to say. She's wearing a bulky, ageing civilian pilot suit, prominently missing the gloves and helmet. And she looks terrible. An older, purpling bruise discolours her dark face, like someone's punched her there repeatedly. There's a fresher one on her forehead, shaped as if it has made hard contact with the interior of a helmet. "You're... you're coming with me," she eventually decides, unable to muster a better defence. With her so armed, you're forced to let her haul you along.
"Where are you taking me?" you demand.
"Away," Mosi says.
"Away where?" you demand again.
"To the fleet!" she snaps, at the edge of hysteria.
"The Divine Navy, you mean?"
"Yes, the fleet!" she tugs you around a sharp corner, barely looking back. Almost afraid to look back at your face, you imagine. "It isn't safe here, Amani."
"But I'll be safe with the enemy?" you demand. She winces at the last two words, as though they'd landed across her shoulders with physical force. "I'm a loyalist officer, Mosi!" you point out. "I serve the rightfully elected Empress. What do you think your fleet will do to me?"
She wheels around to face you, mouth half open as if to deny the truth of what you're suggesting. She can't seem to lie to herself on this score.
"They'll kill me," you tell her.
"I won't let that happen!" she says, irrationally, tugging you along the shaft again, grip tightening on the gun. "I won't-- you can't stay here, Amani," she says again. "You can't fight Him... us. Your empress is the losing side of a war, and those who oppose him-- I've... seen. I know. You aren't safe."
Your initial impression that Mosi isn't well -- perhaps injured worse than she's letting on, perhaps in shock from what's occurred -- has only strengthened. She's not speaking rationally. She's not acting rationally. You can't be sure what she will or won't do with that weapon, should you push her unwisely.
The other thing you know, however, is that you never hung up your call to Lieutenant-Commander Owusu. Your headset is still caught around your neck, and Mosi doesn't seem to be in a fit state to notice. Every self-incriminating word she's said so far is being listened in on, and you have to believe help is on the way. When you've gotten her talking, she's slowed, or even stopped. If you can stall her long enough, it might be enough for help to arrive before she can take you wherever you're going.
--
What do you use to stall and distract Mosi?
[ ] Anger, accusations
Try to get through to her about how wrong what she's doing is, how she's disappointed you
[ ] Guilt, confusion
Ask if she realises the gravity of her actions, how you would have helped her if she'd trusted you
Be advised, this post in particular contains flashbacks of abuse toward a minor, at more length than previous depictions.
Thanks in particular to @Kei for significant help and feedback in terms of early structure and character direction with this update, the end product would not have turned out as well without it. Thank you for your hard work and for continuing to put up with me.
Guilt, confusion, 42 votes
Cold disdain, 15 votes
Anger, accusations, 3 votes
hug mosi : ( 1 vote
Finding Amani has not, as Mosi hoped, made things simpler, or clearer. As she hauls her sister down the hallway at gunpoint, Mosi can barely stand to look at her, to see that uniform, with its HIMS Titanium Rose ship patch gleaming so proudly silver in the light of the ancillary station shafts she's dragging her through. Everytime she sees it, she thinks back to all the times she wanted to sink that ship. How she tried her hardest to do so, not knowing she was fighting to kill her own sister. Her mother is one thing, but Amani? It's enough to make her sick to her stomach all over again. Somehow, what makes matters worse is that Amani wears it well -- even now, she exudes a comfort in the garment that few ensigns manage. Like she was born to wear it. If Mosi doesn't do some very fast talking back at the fleet, she's also likely to die in it.
She can feel Amani's dark, familiar eyes on her. In Mosi's mind, they're harsh and judgemental, a mirror for every bad thing she's thinking about herself at the moment. As the initial, disorientating shock finally begins to fade, she registers that Amani's still talking. Mosi blinks, stealing another painful glance at Amani, at Ensign North of the United Solar Empire's Imperial Navy. To Mosi's surprise and relief, she's not glaring, although the mix of hurt, fear and intense scrutiny she finds looking back at her isn't much better. She makes herself concentrate on the words, rather than just on their eventual destination.
"I said, do you even know how many people you've killed?" Amani is asking, voice thick with something like disbelief. As if still in shock that Mosi, her own sister, could have done something so--
So--
"Yes!" Mosi snaps. Squeezes her eyes shut, forcing herself to open them again before it's time to take them down another sharp corner. "... No," she admits. "Not exactly. I... I have an idea. We... I didn't know."
"You... didn't know?" The incredulous note in Amani's voice makes Mosi want to cringe away from her.
"I didn't know!" she says. "About... about the civilians on those platforms. Not until right at the very end!"
"But you did it anyway," Amani points out. Appalled. She's as horrified as Kim had been, Mosi realises. She's just more composed about it.
"It was too--" had it been too late? No, it hadn't been. Mosi could have shot Roth and the others. She could have prevented it, for once. "... why were there even civilians on defence platforms?" she asks, the anger in her voice surprising her. "How can you be defending people who'd use civilians as human shields?"
"Mosi, there was nowhere else to put them. After the exodus, there were too many people and nowhere near enough habitats to keep them all in. We did what we could." 'We'. That's as hard to hear as the uniform is to see. That particular 'we' is what will get her sister summarily executed. "... and why would we have bothered to try using civilians as shields against the Divine Navy, even if we were that heartless?" Amani continues, "It's not as though the Holy Empire has ever been shy about murdering civilians. The Utopia purges."
Mosi flinches. "Dad wouldn't have died if he'd just... done what he was told," she says, speaking quickly. She stops short of taking them down a wrong turn. "He could have saved himself! He just needed to stop defending her and swear allegiance. Dad could have lived."
"Even if they hadn't shot him, Mosi, plenty of other people died that day. You were on Mars, you must know that. I've seen footage."
Mosi looks at her suddenly, wild eyed. "You--" Amani shouldn't have seen that. She shouldn't have heard the screams or the gunshots, or seen the sea stained as red as the Martian soil, let alone-- Not Amani. Not even on video. She swallows her revulsion, forces down the memories. Tries to forget the feelings of that day. The smells. There are enough atrocities going through her head at the moment, without dredging up the past. "Being there was worse," Mosi says, voice abruptly hollow, far away.
"Why are you working for these people, Mosi?" Amani whispers. "Why are you doing this?"
She serves His Divine Majesty and carries out His will. The rote response comes readily to mind, and nearly to her lips. But this isn't a Divine Navy officer or a Holy Empire official. This isn't someone watching her like a vulture, looking to report any sign of weakness she shows. This is Amani.
So Mosi lets the quote from the Divine Navy's Oath slip away, and lets the truth come out of her mouth instead, a bitter and petty sentiment, next to the grand religious statement. It's been so long since she's voiced anything close to it, that it feels strange, and a little exhilarating. Mosi looks at Amani and gives a quiet, derisive snort. "Call it the last thing dad ever taught me."
"He taught you to serve his murderers?" Amani asks, voice flat, judgemental.
"He taught me to do what I'm told and say what's expected and I won't be the next one shot! I did what I had to!" Mosi snaps, anger flaring. "I'm... I'm still doing what I have to." She glares for a moment, until her face falls again, and she admits, voice suddenly haggard, "He'd be alive, and I wouldn't have been... I wouldn't have had to..."
"But you're not, Mosi! You didn't have to do any of this!" Amani say. "None of those people had to die. None of this had to happen. You could have done the right thing."
"The right thing?" Mosi asks, incredulous, almost surreally indignant. "The right thing?"
"Yes!"
The latest burst of anger subsides, and when Mosi next speaks, her voice takes on a clear streak of cold bitterness again. "You have no idea what the 'right thing' is," she mutters.
"I know that the right thing isn't spacing a few hundred civilians, Mosi!"
That hits home. In spite of Mosi's indignation at Amani, she feels the horror of that moment claw in her chest again. "And it's not leaving your thirteen year old daughter to rot so you can die pretending to be a hero," she says, voice filled with real venom. "I've been on my own, surviving for ten years, Amani. What do you want from me? Just flip a switch and... and..."
Amani cringes at the harsh characterisation of their father's last moments, but pushes past that with visible effort: "You haven't had to be on your own since you found me," Amani insisted, "you could have just told me. You could have just admitted what was going on, and we would have done whatever we could to help."
"You would have helped me?" Mosi lets out a harsh bark of laughter. "You would have helped me, Ensign North? Yeah, I'm sure your influence would have been enough to keep me out of a dark cell somewhere."
"I would have done what I could!" Amani says, visibly stung. "And I didn't just mean me -- Mother's a knight, Mosi. She would have done whatever she could to help you, no matter what kind of trouble you were in. She would have used all the pull she had. She-- Ow!"
Guilt piercing her blinding rage, Mosi forces herself to relax her suddenly painful grip on Amani's arm. "Don't," she says, voice low and menacing, "talk about her helping me."
"... why? She would help you!" Amani says, voice thick with confusion. "No matter what you've done!"
Mosi takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She hooks a foot into a handhold on the shaft floor, feeling a sudden urge to stop. "I'm going to kill her," she hears herself saying.
"You're--" Amani is momentarily speechless, caught off guard by the black determination in Mosi's voice. "What?"
"I've been planning to kill her for years," Mosi says, deadly serious. "I swore I'd do it."
"Mosi..." Amani is still at a loss, staring at Mosi like she's saying something insane. "Mosi... she's our mother! She lov--"
"She's a heretic fighting in opposition to the guiding will of our true Divine Emperor! Heretics defying His will deserve no mercy!" Mosi's words are automatic, drawn from the deep well of opinions it's safe for her to have, the ones that have kept her alive all these years. Even so, the force behind it is genuine, livid anger.
"So am I," Amani points out. "Does that mean you're going to kill me too?"
"No!" Mosi recoils as far as she can without letting Amani go. "I'm not-- You don't... you don't understand!" Abruptly, she hauls on Amani's arm, pushing off to send them floating down the shaft again, faster this time.
"What don't I understand about you wanting to kill our mother?
"She... She..." Mosi, flailing, blurts out, "it's her fault you're in the navy! It's her fault you're wearing that! You never wanted to be a spacer, you told me!"
"That was when I was a little girl, Mosi," Amani objects. "I've wanted to be an officer since they killed you."
That's enough to momentarily break through the hate and pain directed at Dame Nalah. Mosi opens her mouth to respond, but she can't seem to muster anything. She's silent for a moment before asking, softly, in a strangely halting voice, "Did she tell you they killed me?"
"Everyone did," Amani says. "We all thought you were dead. What don't I understand, though? Why do you want to hurt mother? Stop giving me these empty, meaningless answers! Why?"
"She... she!"
"Why?"
Mosi sucks in a deep breath, as if she's going to scream, but what eventually comes out is barely above a whisper. "... she left me." It's the first time she's ever said it out loud, and it leaves her feeling unmoored, uncertain.
"What?"
"She LEFT ME!" The shouting comes belatedly. So loud that it reverberates around the walls, makes Amani's head jerk back from Mosi. "She left me behind in that place! Where they... they..." Her eyes go blank, and for a numb, harrowing moment, she's sixteen years old again:
Rough hands seizing Mosi, pulling her, dragging her out of bed in nothing but her undergarments, startling her from a deep sleep, feminine voices jeering as she hits the cold, hard floor. Staring up to find herself surrounded by uniformed girl-cadets. Girls in Mosi's own year, who have long since realised that being cruel to a traitor's daughter -- one who may not even survive to graduation -- wasn't just acceptable, it was a good way to prove their loyalty to the Divine Emperor.
"Get up, Mosi." The sing-song voice of the ring-leader. Limin, whose older brother had died in the purges, like Mosi's father, every vindictive line on her face saying 'as long as it's you, it's never me.' Mosi's face suddenly bathed in the a crackling, blue light of a riot-baton presumably liberated from the Academy's armoury, forcing her to scramble to her feet to avoid a poke aimed at her eye. It grazed her bare stomach instead. Gasping, lancing pain shooting through her, muscles seizing momentarily. Seeing, then, that Limin was hardly the only cadet so armed. "Come on, Mosi. Let's go for a walk."
Mosi going with them, herded through darkened corridors, head bowed in shame-faced, terrified submission, feet bare against tile floors chilled by the Martian winter. Their destination, it became clear, was the third year boy's dorms. 'Nothing' happened after they'd shoved her loudly in and blocked the door -- none of the sleepy, startled, young boys in the dorm had touched her, but their stares and jokes and callous comments, the stark humiliation of the moment, were all frightening enough. The threat of what hadn't happened was still something that would keep Mosi awake at night for years to come, alongside the other worst episodes from her time as a cadet.
"You don't know what it was like!" Mosi says, back in the present, dragging a girl of her own at weapon-point through very different passageways. "You have no idea what... what..." She gasped in a shuddering breath, forcing the panic down, forcing the hand holding the gun not to press the muzzle into Amani's skin as the slideshow of traumatic incidents continues through her head. "... ping-pong balls," Mosi says, suddenly. Amani can feel the shudder of revulsion that just went through Mosi's body, she's sure. "How many... how many of them do you think it takes... how many of them do you think someone can--"
The growing confused horror on Amani's face is enough to force Mosi's throat to click shut in a moment of blind panic. Judging by her expression, Amani doesn't entirely understand -- she's not imaginative enough for that. For a fleeting moment, Mosi is entirely overcome by a surge of overwhelming relief. She never wants Amani to understand.
"You saw videos?" Mosi demands, as if she hadn't started the previous sentence at all, "Of the massacres? I was there, they made me watch when they... I saw--
Amir North, slight, unimposing, a man who had never held a gun in his life. The short but intense swell of pride Mosi had felt, watching him refuse to denounce his wife and kneel to the terrifying warrior cult that had overthrown the government.
That pride had died when he had, when Mosi had seen his blood and brains strewn over the beach, watched his body drop dead and useless to the ground.
"You can't... you can't know... you weren't there." Mosi's initial anger at her mother peters out into something closer to anguish as she struggles to catch her breath. "I'm... so, so glad you weren't there," she adds, in a much softer voice.
Amani stares for a long moment, wide-eyed, before she can seemingly find her tongue again, voice hoarse and shaken. "She really thought you were dead!" Amani insists, urging Mosi to understand this. How much she wants Mosi to believe it, to accept it as an excuse, is intolerable.
"She gave up on me," Mosi says, refuting Amani's claim with single shake of her head -- an oddly brutal gesture. "She left me for dead. I would have died there, if it hadn't been for Professor Green, and for... for the Commander, afterward." Her flight instructor and his brother, the active-duty officer she'd served under for years. Her unlikely saviours, when she'd had no one else. "If it wasn't for them and... and everything I-- everything I did, everything I had to do... she left me!"
Amani's voice has grown gentler again as if she keeps trying to be soothing. It makes what she's saying all the more grating. "What could she have done against the entire rebel army, Mosi? Their fleet in orbit? She's not invincible."
"Something!" Mosi snaps, simultaneously knowing it's irrational, childish even, yet still feeling the old betrayal of it. The full weight of years filled with torment and misery pressing down on her, with no escape or outlet. With no validation or acknowledgment as she spent her days in silent suffering. "Anything! She could have tried!"
The words are met with a ringing silence, so much so that Mosi twists around again, staring at Amani hard. Amani has a strange expression, one that Mosi doesn't like. She's studying Mosi's face like she's seeing something there that Mosi can't perceive. Not pityingly, but sadly, as though she's surveying the scene of a tragedy.
"What?" Mosi demands.
"You don't even really know, do you?" Amani asks.
Mosi slams her foot down, and barely brings them to a stop again without spilling them both through the air. "What don't I know?"
"How much like her you are, sometimes."
It's not rage so much as blind panic that spurs Mosi's next action. Heedless of the gun, she releases Amani's arm, and grips a handful of her jacket. "Don't you dare compare me to her!" Then she flings Amani back against the far wall, hard. For a horrible moment before Amani impacts, Mosi thinks of herself being slammed again and again against a wall by Roth, and she wants nothing more than to take it back. She can't, though -- Amani's back collides with the wall, and she lets out a pained cry.
Mosi begins to move over to her, apologies spilling out of her mouth frantically. "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have done that, I never wanted to hurt you!"
"Mosi!" Amani says, voice sharper than it's been any time before. "You're kidnapping me at gunpoint! You can't just do that, or shoot my friend or space hundreds of civilians and just be sorry afterward!"
"I--" Mos catches herself on a ceiling handhold, stopping herself from getting too close to Amani. Afraid to, suddenly, as if she might hurt her again without meaning to. Mosi hadn't wanted this, any of this. She just wanted Amani to live. She wanted, somehow, inadequately, to be able to protect her. "I... I just wanted--" Whatever she'd meant to say, however, catches in her throat as she sees the object -- a naval-issue communicator headset, still lit from an open call -- drifting in the shaft between them. From where Mosi has just inadvertently knocked it loose. "You had a call open!" she shouts at Amani, an irrational feeling of betrayal twisting inside of her. "Who was listening to that?"
"Mosi, it's not too late. Just, turn yourself in," Amani says. "You can still try to make this right!"
Mosi looks at her for a moment, conflicting feelings roiling inside her. She wants to make things right. She has always wanted to make things right, ever since she found herself trapped on Mars, surrounded by people who wanted her to suffer, who wanted her dead. Now, it's all she can do to increase her chances of surviving, find some measure of security so that she can be sure no one can torment her again. This is as good as things get. This is as good as anything will ever get. Making things right isn't real. It isn't possible. Things haven't been right since the civil war. Instead of right, what she has was... This.
"No," she says, shaking her head, "It's ten years too late." And with that, she launches herself down the shaft alone, leaving Amani behind. Leaving Amani to die when the Divine Navy takes the station, and finally giving up on the cruel dream of saving anything from that hazy past where she had anything in her life beyond serving and fighting. Would Amani have had any more of a chance if Mosi hadn't left her? No, she's sure of that now. And not because of the uniform: When Mosi thinks about Amani talking like this, of the Right Thing, of fine morals, of what Mosi should have done, it's not her younger sister's face that Mosi sees in her head. It's her father's.
As she goes, trying to remember the way with frayed concentration and shattered nerves, she keeps expecting for a shot to ring out, for her to be seized by the hands of security officials. As it is, the worst that she encounters is a group of spacers who she all but bowls through. They're annoyed, but they don't notice the gun.
She almost doesn't believe it when she reaches the shuttle bay, when her hand slaps down on the door of the small shuttle standing idle there. But suddenly, she's inside it, and the pilot, his hatch left open, has twisted around to regard her, half frantic. "Oh thank fuck!" he says. Blinks. "Wait, where's--"
"Just me!" Mosi says, hurriedly sealing the door and strapping herself into the nearest seat. "We need to go now. We've been made."
"Made?" the shuttle pilot demands.
"I'm probably being chased. You should go before they realise that I'm on this shuttle."
He noticeably pales, his outer-Saturnian accent getting even thicker. "Fucking dammit," he mutters. "Fine. Fine! You kicked enough of a hornet's nest that I can pass for a relief shuttle for a while, but-- Sol."
"The worst that happens is they kill us," Mosi says.
"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about!" the pilot snaps, quickly keying in his ignition sequence. "If I somehow make it out of this, I am never doing another favour for Heinrich Lee."
--
You watch Mosi go, stunned and dismayed, simply floating in the shaft for a moment. The physical force of hitting the wall -- it will leave a bruise, nothing more serious -- is nothing compared to the barrage of emotion that your sister bludgeoned you with before fleeing.
Watching the veil of fanatical religiosity fall away from Mosi was both encouraging and discouraging at the same time. On one hand, your sister isn't a mindless zealot incapable of reason or moral thinking. On the other, what she does appear to be is a girl who has had every ounce of fight kicked out of her by things too horrible for her to even try and convey to you. You vividly recall those multiple times where you could tell she was forcing herself not to voice something particularly horrible. That might prove to be equally unreachable, in the end, and it doesn't change the fact that she has such openly murderous intent for your mother.
Regardless of whatever else, just hearing her talk like that broke your heart.
You know your words affected her, and it's clear now that she was never actually going to shoot you, but you have no way to know whether any of what you said actually sunk in. Or what it could accomplish if it did.
"North? North!" A hand is gently shaking you, and you snap back to alertness.
"Sir!" you say, looking up at the concerned face of Lieutenant-Commander Owusu. Behind him, you catch sight of a group of security personnel armed with handguns, clad in sinister black rather than the ordinary station security uniforms. Gathering up your wits, you point in the direction Mosi vanished down. "She went that way!" you say. "She has some way off the station, I think!"
Owusu gestures the security team onward, and they leave without him. "Are you alright, Ensign?" he asks.
"I'm fine, sir," you say. "She only shoved me, right at the end. Did you... get all of that?"
"Yes," he says, nodding. "You were doing well on stalling her, right up until you hit that nerve about Dame Nalah."
"I..." you shake your head, trying to clear out some of the distressing clutter. "I... should get to the Rose, sir."
"She's gone," he says, pushing back from you. He's wearing a pilot suit, you realise. Mint green like his regular uniform, with the SRI eclipsed sun clearly visible on the breast. A black disk rimmed in a white penumbra, the final result like a staring eye. "The Rose unmoored a few minutes ago. Your unplanned sibling reunion made you miss it."
You groan. You're so keyed up now that the thought of being forced to wait around uselessly on Anchiale while a battle goes on makes you wish Mosi had slammed you against the wall a little harder. Owusu is eying you, though, glancing between you and the empty shaft that Mosi vanished down. Finally, he mutters: "Justice won't do much good if everyone's dead."
"Sir?"
"I'll be most useful out there anyway," he says, "rather than in here, chasing a fugitive. The security team will catch her or they won't, with or without me breathing down their necks." He looks at you sidelong. "Are you sure you're alright for ship duty right now, North? We're going into combat and... that was a lot just now. I heard it. Even ignoring the gun."
You close your eyes again, shaking your head. "I just want to do something useful," you say, hoping he understands, "I just want to do my job. There's no time to fall apart while we're about to have a battle."
He looks at you for a moment longer, before finally nodding. "Well, in that case, I think I have a way to still get you to the Rose before the fighting starts."
You look at him, uncertain. "... how, sir?"
--
Dame Nalah North stares down at the busy signal on Amani's comm line, before sighing, setting all personal calls to silent, and snapping the tablet back to her belt. Things were moving quickly and chaotically enough, ships launching as fast as they could be safely cleared, that she'd half expected not to be able to get ahold of Amani before the battle. Still, though, before they're both forced to risk their lives again, she would have dearly liked to hear her youngest's voice.
Nalah looks up at the towering form of her Fenris Lancer, the sleek, black paint interrupted by the freshly retouched blue emblem of the Knights Lunar. The pleasing, smooth lines of the classic Lancer design, for this proposed replacement, had been reshaped into something both elegant and dangerous, its singular main camera glowing large and green, periodically blinking on as pre-flight tests continued to be run.
All around, the hangar was filled with the sounds of shouting voices, power tools, mecha joints being slowly tested. Nalah's wing, consisting of three full squads, had already gone through post-mission maintenance by the time of the Defence Array blowing. However, they hadn't been quite ready for active deployment. Now, there is a scramble to fix that in time for the enemy attack that is bound to be on the catastrophe's heels. This isn't going to be a minor skirmish or a light fleet action -- Nalah can somehow feel that in her bones. It has been the better part of a decade since she's been involved in a truly grand engagement. Not since the Asteroid Belt. Not since Ceres. A battle that had ended with, in terms of troops alone, two hundred thousand dead, by conservative estimates. In Nalah's experience, conservative estimates are almost always wrong about such things.
"Can't I just wait here for you all to get back?"
Nalah is startled, slightly, by the small, childish voice at her elbow. Faiza Bal hangs next to her, holding onto a wall handhold with both hands. "You should have left already, Miss Bal," Nalah says, eying the girl a little sternly. "What was the deal about me letting you watch my unit being serviced?" At Faiza's continued, half-insolent silence, Nalah sighs, and reminds her. "You agreed to follow instructions."
"So I have to go to a shelter?" Faiza whines.
"It's not safe for you here," Nalah agrees. "Go on."
Faiza lets out a long sigh, comically weary coming from a 12 year old who could pass for 10. "You're not going to die, are you?" She asks it in such a straightforward way that Nalah has to choke back a bark of laughter. Faiza frowns. "I'm not joking. Do you promise you won't just go off and die?"
Eying the girl more seriously, Nalah shakes her head. "I don't make promises that I can't keep. You're old enough to understand." Faiza looks at her for another silent moment, before slowly, glumly nodding. Thawing a little, Nalah reaches out and ruffles the girl's dark hair. "I'm damn hard to kill, though," she says, by way of reassurance. "At least compared to most people. Now, get to safety. Go straight there."
"Okay, okay," Faiza agrees, reticence almost verging on melodrama. But in the end, she obeys, navigating out of the zero gravity hangar with an agility that no one born on any kind of a planet could hope to match. "You'd still better try your best!" she calls over her shoulder.
Grinning in spite of herself, Nalah watches to make sure she leaves. Despite what one might assume, the quick shine Nalah has taken to the girl has little to do with her reminding her of either of her own girls at that age. She doesn't: Faiza bears little resemblance to Amani's earnest, quiet sweetness, nose in a reader app, all manners and gentle smiles even then. She bears just as little to driven, self-seriousness pre-teen Mosi -- preparing for her first year at the Imperial Academy on Mars, the crowning ambition of her young life. Determined to be the best student she could possibly be. Determined, Amir had insisted, to live up to Nalah.
The truth is, Faiza's mix of genuine prodigy and cocky bravado, obscuring that deep loneliness the girl was too proud to admit to, is deeply endearing to Nalah all of its own sake. She likes the child, and wants to help her.
"Chief, did Jonah ever tell you about that faulty thruster array?" Nalah asks the thin, composed looking Chief Warrant Officer Zhu as he glides past.
He stops himself short on the nearest mecha limb not currently being tested and turns to face her, eyes narrowed. "No, ma'am, Lieutenant Jonah did not mention anything like that. While we were spending days already servicing these machines." His voice is pitched to carry to the young man in question, despite seemingly having not having raised it at all. It is, as far as Nalah can tell, a skill mysteriously possessed by all warrant officers.
"It's not faulty!" Jonah calls, shooting Nalah a look worthy of a schoolboy being told on for slacking off on his work. "It's just... I just have to compensate a bit, Chief! I'm used to it."
"You being used to your unit being fucked doesn't do your squad a lot of good if you get killed over it, sir," Zhu growls. "And it sure doesn't do me any good when I have to explain why a mecha I serviced failed in combat." The 'sir' manages to communicate 'you brainless idiot' well enough that Jonah very nearly flinches. He theoretically outranks Zhu, but the practical dynamic between a chief warrant with 20 years of service and a young mecha lieutenant whose Banner Recon Type is currently in the former's hangar is somewhat more complicated than that.
Nalah's sympathies are limited. Jonah has been putting off getting the problem fixed for months, and she'll be damned if he's going to go into combat like that. He's her newest squad leader, and he has to learn that being a hot shit pilot isn't licence to set that kind of example. She could have simply chewed him out, but at this point, he deserves to have a senior NCO doing it instead.
"Glad you got to that, Cap'," a gravelly, feminine voice notes, from the other side of her. "You took your time -- you've been out of it lately."
"Thank you for your valuable opinion, Tran," Nalah says, eyeing the middle-aged career lieutenant, half amused at the near insubordination in spite of herself. "I do always appreciate you telling me how to do my job."
"It's not a good sign when I'm the one trying to," Tran notes. She stares hard in the direction of the still closed mecha hatch. "This is going to be shit, ma'am. The zealot fucks have killed a lot of people already, and we haven't even started fighting yet. Do you have your head where it belongs?"
Nalah's humour evaporates, and she eyes Tran with uncharacteristic gravity. In spite of holding the same rank, in practical terms a mecha captain does not hold quite the hierarchical prestige of a full ship's captain. Regardless, Tran's conduct would still be very unwise, even leaving Nalah's knighthood aside, were it not for a long enough working relationship to presume a degree of familiarity. Tran's greatest asset is not her manners at the best of times, and Nalah can tell that the defence array blowing has her rattled. Or furious. Or both. "My head's where it needs to be, once we're out there, Lieutenant," Nalah tells her.
Tran sighs. "It always is in the end, ma'am. I just don't want to watch you die over something stupid anymore than I do the kid." she glances at Jonah, where he's sheepishly showing Zhu and several specialists the subtle malfunction on his thruster array.
"It's like I just told the girl," Nalah glances back in the direction Faiza has just vanished in, "I'm hard to kill."
"Respectfully, no one's hard to kill, ma'am," Tran says, flatly. "You know that as well as I do."
"I do," Nalah concedes. She can understand where the concern is coming from. She's been distracted over concern for Mosi. But she isn't lying when she says her thoughts will be where they're needed once she's actually behind a set of mecha controls.
In spite of that, she is, of course deeply worried about both her girls. It still doesn't seem real, thinking of Mosi as a person in the present-tense, as a grown woman who spent ten years on her own in who knows what kind of hell hole. Part of Nalah -- in spite of how badly she wants to talk to her, apologise to her, even just see her face -- hopes that she got off of Anchiale right after the shooting. Hopes she's somewhere far, far away from the fighting, when it starts. Stars all know, Nalah can't even hope as much for Amani. Scouting ships often don't end up in pitched combat, Amani's disastrous first voyage aside, but one way or the other, the Titanium Rose would be in pitched combat this time. Ranger classes had just enough guns to make them a worthwhile target, and just little enough in the way of armour to make them go down distressingly fast under sustained fire.
Nalah finds herself thinking, suddenly, of Gloriana Perbeck. With her golden hair, frosty formality and vestigial title. She's still entirely unconvinced that the countess is any kind of a good match for Amani, but if she manages to keep that little ship safe amid the fury of the coming invasion... well, Nalah might find it in her heart to buy her another drink, on friendlier terms.
"I had a friend stationed out there," Tran explains, belatedly, "in the Defence Array control centre. Probably not seeing him again."
There will be no shortage of that kind of story to go around, Nalah knows. "We'll make them bleed for him," Nalah promises. "For all of the dead."
Tran nods. "Very good, ma'am. He owed me money."
--
When your third call goes unanswered, you're forced to accept that you're not going to get through to your mother. You'd wondered if Lieutenant-Commander Owusu would raise an objection when you voiced the intent to warn your mother about her eldest daughter's murderous intent toward her, but he hadn't. As much good as that did you, in the end. "She's probably prepping to sortie," you say, glumly.
"Cheer up, North," he says, "even if she manages to get herself into something combat-worthy, space is big and there are a lot of mecha involved in these things. Your mother won't exactly be easy to pick out of the crowd."
"She flies a Fenris Lancer, and I... told Mosi that when we first met. She asked."
He grimaces awkwardly. "Oh. Uh, well, space is still big, and Dame Nalah isn't exactly known for being a pushover when it comes to a fight."
You don't find yourself particularly comforted.
The mecha hangar Owusu brings you to is small and empty aside from a single occupied bay. "Maintained for SRI use," he explains. "I'm the only pilot we have here at the moment. So it's just my Empress."
The machine he's referring to is quite clearly a Banner, but... different, somewhat, from what you're used to. More sophisticated looking armour, housing subtly different thrusters in addition to a significantly more advanced anti-mecha rifle. The classic, monocular main camera has been augmented with several smaller ones.
"The ISM32ex Empress Banner," Owusu clarifies, watching where your gaze has landed. "Limited production model, for now, " He's gone over to a storage locker in one wall, quickly keying it open with one gloved hand. A moment later, he sends a green, folded garment sailing across the hangar toward you. "Should fit you," he comments.
You catch the pilot suit, frowning down at the SRI emblem over the breast. "Is it legal for me to wear this?" You ask.
"'Under emergency conditions, it is permissible for an individual to don emergency life saving equipment bearing insignia of rank, title or office to which they are not entitled, so long as a clear and concerted attempt is made to disavow any assumptions of rank, title or office implied by said insignia.' It comes up more often than you'd think." He points to the far side of the hangar. "Change over there, North. I'll have it online in a moment."
You only have a brief opportunity to look at yourself in the mirror, to note your appearance in the relatively form-fitting pilot suit that feels so strange against your skin, before you gather your folded uniform up into a sealed, plastic bag and push yourself back out into the hangar.
The mecha is now active, the camera that serves as its 'eye' glowing a steady white. Owusu floats near the open hatch, waiting for you expantly, although not yet impatiently. As you send yourself gliding on a direct course for the hatch in the torso, he smiles a little approvingly. "That's a better colour on you than turquoise," he notes, tossing you over a helmet in the same shade. You catch it in one hand, latching onto the handle beside the cockpit with the other.
"You are getting increasingly unsubtle with this, sir," you say. With your momentum halted, you let go of the mecha in order to gather your hair away from your neck and slide the helmet down in place. The seals on the helmet, at least, are the same basic technology as a standard navy space suit, and you manage them without any difficulty. Sound cuts out almost completely for a split second before the exterior audio pickup kicks in.
SYSTEM STARTUP... proclaims the block text in the upper corner of your vision projected onto the interior of your visor. PRESSURISED, OXYGENATED ENVIRONMENT DETECTED: ENABLING PASSIVE AIR FILTERS. In the presence of a sudden drop in atmospheric pressure, those same tiny filters will slam shut instantly. They can also be deactivated at any time. As is, they allow the suit's internal ultrapressurised air supply to remain full for the event of an actual emergency.
Owusu has already slipped his own helmet on, considerably faster than you have with the aid of long established muscle memory. "Well, we might be dead before I have to make good on the career advancement hints, so I might as well be."
The cockpit is cramped, and after Owusu straps himself into the pilot seat, you're forced almost up against him while he engages the final launch procedures. Your helmet continues to display information, seemingly going through an automated setup through simply proximity to the mecha.
SYNCHING WITH ISM32ex PRE-PRODUCTION UNIT 0000024
You gasp a little as you feel the haptics throughout the suit activate, rolling over your skin in an uncomfortable wave as the pilot suit tests that everything is functional.
ATTENTION: PILOT SLOT OCCUPIED, SETTING DESIGNATION AS "PASSENGER 01"
WARNING: THE ISM32ex IS NOT RATED FOR PASSENGERS. CONFIRMATION OVERRIDE REQUIRED.
ATTENTION: OVERRIDE AUTHORISED BY PILOT LCdr M. OWUSU. PLEASE EMPLOY EMERGENCY STRAPS FROM UPPER LEFT.
"Here," Owusu says, dragging the strap down from the top of the cockpit. "You'll need this, or you'll get thrown around."
You struggle to pull the strap down across you. It takes some awkward maneuvering before you're properly secured. In the interests of not obstructing his arm movements, you find yourself in a fairly awkward position -- had there been gravity, you'd be practically sitting in his lap. The fact that you're in pilot suits, along with the shock and dread warring in the pit of your stomach prevents this from being intolerably embarrassing. Fortunately, he does not seem inclined to comment or find humour.
While you were strapping yourself in, the lieutenant-commander has been speaking with Anchiale Control. You have yourself arranged adequately just as he's finally cleared to leave and a scan map appears on the inside of your helmet alongside a feed from the Banner's main camera array.
"Alright, North?" he asks, as Anchiale begins to recede behind you, and you're greeted with the busy expanse of space around Iapetus.
"I think this may be some kind of harassment, sir," you tell him, lips pursed. This would never work in actual combat -- not only would it be unsafe for you, there would be too much chance of fouling up the pilot's movements. The two of you aren't planning on fighting like this, however.
Despite your heart not really being in the repartee, Owusu laughs. "I hope not," he says, "you have a scary-- oh, wow, that's timing for you."
A video feed opens up, occupying one corner of your helmet's display -- an entirely familiar face, calling Owusu from within a cockpit of her own. "I see you have your destination flagged as--" Lori stops, mouth partially open, clearly taking in who, precisely, is sharing a cockpit with her old 'friend.' "Milo?" she asks, blue eyes narrowing almost dangerously.
"Yes, Lady Perbeck?" Owusu sounds entirely too by the book, all of a sudden.
"Why is Ensign North sitting on you?"
You resist the urge to point out that you're hovering in front of him, rather than sitting on him. "I was delayed and missed departure, ma'am," you say, hurriedly, "Lieutenant-Commander Owusu is permitting me to come with him to the Rose."
She glances at you in some confusion. "I... see." Not just confusion -- there's something there, some hesitation, something troubling her as she looks into your eyes for that brief moment. When she looks back to Owusu, however, her eyes narrow again.
"Ensign North was taken captive by an enemy infiltrator," Owusu says, bluntly.
Gloriana's eyes widen, her head jerking back. "What?" she demands.
Owusu sighs. "This is still technically classified -- please keep it under your hat -- but, one of the infiltrators who blew the Defence Array was Mosi North. She seemed to be trying to take Ensign North with her back to the Divine Navy's fleet."
Notably, Lori doesn't actually register surprise as she learns about your sister's identity. Instead her face darkens. "I should have killed her." You find yourself shocked more at the conviction in her voice than at the implication that she had the chance to do so. "Ensign North, are you unharmed?"
"Fine, ma'am," you say, quietly. In that particular moment, the need for professionalism chafes.
Lori scrutinises your face a moment longer, as though trying to detect a lie. Then she once again gives Owusu a hard stare. "I take it you let her escape, Lieutenant-Commander?"
"From the sound of it," Owusu says, mildly, "I'm not the only one."
Lori frowns, producing a harsh, self-critical sound from her throat. "Granted," say says. "She's the one I missed." You're not sure, just then, how to feel about this. Had Gloriana killed your sister under such circumstances, it would have been difficult for you to blame her for it. That's not the same thing as being happy about your lover having to kill a family member. How your mother would respond, by contrast, doesn't bear dwelling on.
One particular dot on the crowded scan map, labelled HIMS Titanium Rose, is flagged as your destination. You can see that the two of you are approaching it faster than you expected. Being in a mecha cockpit is nothing at all like being on a ship. You can feel every minor change in course or momentum, hear the steady thrum of the war machine's innards all around you. Even accounting for two bodies occupying a space intended for one, it's a little claustrophobic. Strange lights and ancillary screens fill your beyond the helmet, the pilot forced to contend with all systems on this smaller craft rather than just a singular station. Readouts on thrust, reactor temperature, hull integrity and weapons systems crowd the periphery of your visor, bewildering in their multitude, even as you can't help but feel that the scan suite on display is frustratingly rudimentary.
"If it's alright with you," Owusu says to Lori, "I'd prefer if we could talk face to face, once I'm onboard. I'm contacting the Rose now and requesting permission to land."
"Very well," Lori allows. With one last look at you, she cuts the feed.
"Attention, HIMS Titanium Rose," Owusu says, opening a new channel, "This is Lieutenant-Commander Milo Owusu of the SRI, piloting the ISM32ex Empress Banner. I am formally requesting permission to land."
The voice that responds to him isn't unfamiliar, but it takes you a moment to recognise that this is Anja's temporary replacement. It's a strange feeling. "To land, sir?" The mecha coordinator sounds hesitantly confused.
"Yes. I have one of your junior officers with me."
"You--" the coordinator's frown is all but audible. "I'll... relay the request, sir?" Fortunately, the request is accepted, and the two of you are placed in the short landing queue, right after Lori.
The process of docking with the Rose isn't particularly involved. Matching velocity with the ship at a safe distance, you get your first look at Lori's mysterious new unit on the Empress Banner's main camera. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the railgun on this new unit is seemingly even more substantial than the Huntress's. It would have to be, to lure Lori away from her agile, long-ranged classic.
Before long, Owusu has locked his unit into the exterior of the Rose's mecha hatch. The massive doors slam shut, cutting the mecha off from vacuum. A few moments later the gigantic airlock fills with atmosphere again and the interior doors finally slide open. Seeing the familiar space of your ship's mecha hangar from this angle is almost surreal, and you continue to stare as the hangar crew guides the advanced Banner unit to Bay 02. Sub-Lieutenant Ito, obviously, will not be using it.
As the cockpit hatch finally opens, you have to get out first. As soon as you've cleared cockpit, you're greeted by the sternly concerned face of Lori, in person, helmet already removed. In the space of time it takes for you to salute and move aside, Owusu is out beside you and has somehow already removed his helmet.
He snaps off a salute that is both picture-perfect and somehow obscurely mocking. "Countess Gloriana Perbeck," he says, crisply, "I would like to formally put myself and my unit at your disposal for the coming battle."
Lori returns the salute, a small frown on her face. Her eyes stray to you as you grapple with the release on your helmet, but she's doing an admirable job of acting like you're someone she hasn't been kissing, intimately touching or aggressively pinching within the past 24 hours. "Why?" she asks.
He smiles charmingly. "I'm just one pilot, in a battle like this," he says. "I know you're not an idiot, and I know that you still haven't replaced the two lost pilots who were assigned to this ship. Ma'am."
Her eye twitches slightly, mollified only a little by the belatedly added honorific. "There were a few names that went over my desk," she muttered.
"None of whom are actually here," Owusu says, agreeably. "You know I can follow orders."
"I do," Lori says, almost despairingly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Going into battle with a squad made out of three different services. Sol help me."
When she says three, you think to glance over at Bay 03. To your surprise, it's occupied by the familiar mirror-finish bulk of the IDIMX Morrigan, all three of its drones repaired and properly stowed, the Imperial Guard emblem freshly repainted over the torso. You frown at this, until you spot an even more familiar human-sized figure, clad in a sunburst-coloured Imperial Guard pilot's suit. J6 studies the emblem on the chest of Owusu's newly arrived mecha, before her eyes track upward to the two people floating beside Lori. When she recognises you, newly liberated from your helmet, she gives a long, slow blink. For her, the equivalent of a double take.
You feel oddly self conscious as she launches herself up to you, eyes on the SRI insignia on your pilot suit. When she draws level with you, you have to fight the urge to immediately babble out an explanation. "I didn't expect to see you still here, Guardswoman," you say, politely, aware that the two higher ranking officers beside you are looking on.
"Her Highness is on Anchiale," J6 explains. "We're defending Anchiale." She's silent for a beat, before admitting, quietly, "I don't want this ship to be sunk."
You find yourself oddly touched by this sentiment. "I would have been left behind there too, if the Lieutenant-Commander hadn't brought me over," you say.
"Ah," she says, nodding fractionally.
"That's why I'm wearing the SRI pilot suit."
"Mm," she acknowledges.
"A pleasure to finally meet you, Guardswoman First Class," Owusu suddenly says, taking the brief lull as an opening. He's reorientated himself toward her, giving her a friendly smile. "I understand you were a great help to Ensign North on the extra-curricular assignment she was working on for me." Beside him, Lori casts him a skeptical look. "Lieutenant-Commander Owusu," he says, by way of introduction.
J6 looks at him, eyes tracking from the eclipsed sun on his chest up to his face and back again once or twice, holding her silence for an uncomfortably long moment. Then, as if he hadn't said anything at all, she turns to face Lori. "My Morrigan is prepped to go when the time comes, Lady Perbeck," she says, giving the Navy Commander a salute.
Looking half amused at Owusu's expense, half grim about squad cohesion, Lori nods. "Thank you, Guardswoman," she says.
With a nod at you, J6 pushes off again, not even looking at Owusu. He stares after her. He waits until she's most likely out of ear shot before speaking in a low, frustrated mutter: "Well, it's probably best to leave well enough alone there. Sometimes, I'm not sorry that most of the Jupiter Branch SRI died in the war."
"It's good to have you on board, Ensign," Lori says, able to turn her attention to you, finally. "Ng's perfectly competent, I'm sure. But I saw his face when Mazlo told him he'd be filling in for you in combat. It didn't inspire confidence."
"... oh," you murmur, wincing. You suppose that a fleet action is probably a bit much for him, all at once. "If we're still on Level Two Battlestations, I can relieve him," you say.
"Please do," Lori says.
"Ma'am, Sir." You salute the two of them again. Then you push off from Owusu's Empress Banner, bag with your folded uniform in tow, and prepare to change as quickly as you can.
--
The HDMS Righteous Fury,
Divine Navy Oak Class Carrier
When Mosi's Saturnian smuggler pilot, forehead dotted with sweat and shoulders trembling visibly, finally brings the shuttle to a stop in one of the Fury's large bays, he lets out a ragged groan, and slams his head down against his board. "Fuck," he says, emphatically. "Fuck. How are we not dead?"
"They were distracted, and you know what you're doing," Mosi says, bluntly. "It wasn't as bad as you're making it sound." The smuggler doesn't answer. Instead, he seems to be hyperventilating.
To be fair to him, as Mosi floats alone out of the passenger's bay, finally returned to the bosom of the Divine Navy, she stares around at the expanse of the carrier's shuttle bay as if in a dream. She still feels both stunned and sick at heart, unable to process such an abrupt return to normality. To what had become normality, for her.
Mosi goes rigid as a heavy arm falls across her shoulders, trying to force herself to relax as she belatedly recognises the voice of the man it belongs to. "Just you, huh, kid?" Commander Green says, grinning in open relief to see her alive and mostly well.
"Looks like, sir," she replies. Her voice sounds far away in her own ears, something someone else is saying.
"Well, shame about the rest of them," Green acknowledges, "but Roth was a bastard anyway. If you don't mind me speaking ill of the dead."
"You're... not wrong," she mutters, too quietly to carry.
The shuttle bay of an Oak class carrier is nearly as large in of itself as the main mecha hangar on a Flower class like the Amaranth. The large chamber is filled with activity, spacers and specialists scrambling to last minute battle preparations, she assumes. More friendly faces than she's seen in weeks. Well, 'friendly faces.'
"The Admiral is going to want to be debriefed, Kid," Green says.
She gives a start. "Countess Nakamura? Personally? By me?"
"Well, by Roth, ideally." Green lets go of her shoulders. "It's a little above your paygrade, normally."
"That would be hard," Mosi admits. "He lost his head."
Green raises an eyebrow. "Figuratively?"
"No. We were jumped on the way back. Cutter went right through the passenger compartment on this tub they had me flying." Mosi runs a hand down her face, and is startled to realise it's shaking. She glares at it, trying to force the digits still through sheer will.
"You're keyed up," Green advises her. "She'll have heard that your shuttle arrived -- go shower
and put on a uniform."
"Right, sir," Mosi murmurs.
The intervening minutes are a blur of busy ship shafts, white tiles, hot water and hot air. At the end of this, Mosi is floating in front of a wall-mounted mirror, staring at her reflection in the crisp white jacket of the Divine Navy of Correction. "Lt. M North" is proudly proclaimed in gold. She is looking at very nearly the sum total of everything she's fought and clawed her way to achieve, these past years.
"I've wanted to be an officer ever since they killed you."
The young officer staring back at Mosi from the mirror is abruptly unrecognisable to her. And not just because of the bruises still on her face.
She shakes her head hard, trying to drive the strange thoughts, the memory of Amani's words, the look in her eyes when she'd said that, out of her mind. It doesn't work -- if anything, it only seems to force all of them into even sharper focus.
"I wasn't dead!" she insisted to the officer in the mirror. "I survived!" The forceful whisper she'd intended is undercut by the look in her reflection's eyes. Uncertain, afraid. Adrift. The version of Amani in her memory is unmoved, giving her that strange, sad look she'd had at the end. A brief, sudden burst of anger wells up, and she raises a hand to smash against the mirror, muscles straining with the last minute effort of stopping the punch as it fizzles out again. Mosi had survived everything. She'd done what she had to. She's still doing what she has to.
What she has to.
"You don't even really know, do you? How much like her you are, sometimes."
Shortly thereafter, she finds herself trailing along after Lady Nakamura's aide, the officious young man giving Mosi frequent, censorious glances. "Not precisely a ringing success, was it, Lieutenant North?" he asks.
"We completed mission objectives within acceptable parameters, sir." Her voice is flat, cold, firm. Everything it's meant to be. Like a thin sheet of ice -- enough to hide what's underneath, but too brittle, Mosi suspects, to hold up to much pushing.
He acknowledges the point with a sniff, coming to a halt at a hatch ahead of her. "Barely." His gaze hardens. "Her ladyship is expecting you inside."
"Yes, sir."
"Do not waste her time, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
He gives Mosi a hard look. Without breaking it, he keys in the comm code beside the hatch. "Ma'am," he says, "Lieutenant North is here." His tone apprends 'finally' to that sentence.
Then Mosi is floating past him, catching herself on a handhold in the room beyond the hatch in order to bring herself up to attention at the front of the sumptuously appointed admiral's office. Countess Nakamura famously began the Civil War as mere knight and Captain. The Emperor, however, rewarded many of his most fervent early supporters handsomely. Those who had survived the war, and who hadn't subsequently fallen out of favour and vanished, at least. Nakamura had threaded the needle to avoid the latter fates through a mixture of skill, luck, and sincerely vicious fanaticism. In person, she's a sturdy woman in her 50s, imposing in her brilliantly white uniform, weighed down by the gold trappings of her rank and titles, the Medals of Deimos and Ceres prominently displayed over her heart among their less famous companions. She pushes herself up from her workstation in order to face Mosi. Mosi finds herself studied by brown eyes, unreadable in their intensity, even as she forces her own gaze to remain somewhere above the Admiral's shoulder.
"Lieutenant Mosi North," Nakamura says, voice flat and faintly rusty. "You're what's left of our infiltration team, I understand."
"I am, ma'am," she confirms.
Lady Nakamura reorientates herself, holding onto the edge of her desk in a more relaxed posture. As she shifts, Mosi can see the rough outline of the files displayed on the admiral's workstation. Planning documents, fleet movements, all with a distinctive, bright red CLASSIFIED STATE SECRET hanging over the top. The Admiral presses a button in order to start a recording. "Lieutenant -- your mission was a mixed success. Within acceptable parameters, but well short of our hopes. Report."
"Yes, ma'am." Mosi's voice takes on a steady, robotic cadence. "At approximately--" The version of the mission she delivers is highly edited, omitting her own escapades surrounding her sister, omitting Kim's panic at the end. She lies without thinking about it, aware that to do otherwise is even more perilous. It's possible, of course, that she'll be caught out on this. That a worse punishment will come down on her at some later date. Why is it still so hard to care?
Throughout, Nakamura is impassive. As Mosi finishes, she gives a fractional nod. "At ease, Lieutenant," she says, finally, belatedly allowing Mosi to adopt an easier position to hold than zero gravity attention. "Not ideal," she says, "but Roth made the right call. A shame he didn't live to hear it." She eyes Mosi with an expectant air.
"He died in glorious battle against the foes of our Emperor," Mosi says, the response coming without hesitation.
Nakamura nods, vaguely approving. "Enough of the defence platforms blew, at least, to ensure the attack's success." She frowns sharply. "What are we going to do with the rest once we take the moon, though?"
"Use them, ma'am?"
Nakamura gives a start, and to Mosi's mortification, she realises that the question had been rhetorical. That she answered with anything but obliging silence is a strong indicator of Mosi's mind being half somewhere else. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?"
"Any remaining defensive infrastructure still intact when we captured the moon can be put to our use, ma'am," Mosi says, thanking every star that her complexion makes it difficult to tell when she's blushing.
Nakamura stares at her for a long moment. Longer, Mosi thinks, than the moment warrants, with all that the admiral must have left to do. "Yes. I would suppose so," Nakamura says, finally. The blandly noncommittal note in her voice sends a prickle of dread down Mosi's spine, for reasons she can't immediately identify. "At any rate, Lieut--"
"Ma'am?" Mosi recognises the voice on the comm as belonging to the prissy aide who led her here.
Nakamura sighs. "Yes?" she asks.
"Captain Bresden would like your approval on changes to the Fury's assigned ship placement."
"Changes?" Nakamura's lips curve down into a sharp, displeased frown. "Now?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, he is insisting that--"
"I'll be right there," she snarls, "this won't take long."
Mosi, seemingly forgotten, watches out of the corner of her eye as Lady Nakamura launches herself out the hatch and into the shaft at a borderline undignified speed, leaving Mosi not entirely certain what to do with herself. She hasn't, after all, been dismissed.
At first, Mosi simply stares unseeingly at the frames on the wall, the ornate decorations built into the surface of the false wood of the desk, the luxurious amount of space even aboard a ship as large as an Oak class. Again and again, however, her eyes keep returning to the one place she doesn't want them to linger.
It's a little like when she primed her anti-personnel gun back on the defence platform -- very nearly as though her body is taking action without her explicit sayso, to the point that it takes Mosi a moment to fully realise that she's standing in front of Nakamura's workstation... left carelessly unlocked. Mosi forces her eyes to focus on the plans on the screen. Not, she realises, simply pertaining to the coming invasion of Iapetus. These include documents pertaining to the high level strategy of the Saturn campaign, some containing what looks horribly like the Emperor's personal seal.
There's no time to read it all. Mosi shouldn't even be doing this much. It's foolish, bordering on suicidal. She needs to just turn around and go back to her place. Mosi instead reaches down to her belt, and slowly snaps off her tablet.
By the time Nakamura returns, Mosi is exactly where she was to begin with, floating at ease. The admiral eyes her, with an air of reminding herself of who, precisely, Mosi is. "Ah, Lieutenant," she says. "I never did dismiss you."
"No," ma'am," Mosi agrees.
Nakamura closes her eyes as she reaches the desk, face briefly being allowed to show both fatigue and stress. "Too many things happening at once," she murmurs. Then, louder: "You're free to go, Lieutenant. You are, of course, excused from participating in the coming battle. Get some food and some sleep."
"Ma'am?" Mosi asks, carefully.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" Nakamura asks, frowning. Clearly she hadn't been anticipating an answer other than 'yes ma'am'.
"I would like to respectfully request permission to participate in the invasion, ma'am."
Nakamura looks at Mosi with mild interest. "You haven't had enough, North?" she asks.
"Not yet, ma'am." There are few things Mosi can imagine being worse at the moment than laying in a sleeping bag with only her own thoughts for company, while outside battle goes on. "Commander Green is here, ma'am," she adds.
She looks as though she's prepared to leave things at that, but unexpectedly, the admiral's frown turns understanding. "... You're the North girl," she says, as if this explains everything.
"Ma'am?"
"I can understand why you might want to participate in this battle in particular, Lieutenant," she says. "You're dismissed. Report to your Commander."
"Thank you, ma'am."
As Mosi leaves, she realises what, precisely, had disturbed her so much earlier. The admiral's bland reaction to the suggestion that surviving defence platforms would be useful to them once the Holy Empire took over Iapetus and its population centres -- somehow, it had reminded her of nothing so much as Roth lying to Kim about the civilian habitats on the Defence Array.
"Why are you working for these people, Mosi?"
"So they won't kill me," she whispers under her breath to her sister's ghost. "I can't just stop. I follow orders, I serve my Emperor." The tablet at her belt, somehow, seems to be weighing heavier than it should.
Food, then changing into her pilot suit. She couldn't have told anyone what she actually ate -- one of the beautiful things about Navy issue spacer food is that it's possible to ignore unimportant details like that. Or it might just be the sense of unreality she continues to feel, back with the Divine Navy. Her body almost on autopilot, doing what it needs to, sheltering her from reality until she's confronted with something she needs her wits for. It's been a long time since Mosi has felt that particular way. Not since graduation.
The next time she resurfaces, though, she's wearing her pilot suit, staring up at the familiar, sleekly black form of the most valuable thing anyone has ever trusted her with. The almost insectoid proportions of Mosi's cherished Provespa have been completely repaired since her extended skirmish with the strange Imperial Guard mecha, and she knows that it will serve her well today. Even if her receiving it to begin with had been entirely the Commander's doing, its sinister, three-eyed 'face' is somehow more welcome than almost any other she's encountered since arriving back at the fleet. She hadn't entirely expected it -- she and Commander Green, along with their mecha units, had been assigned to the Amaranth, with the lighter raiding fleet, rather than this larger one.
Regardless, it will be good to be able to just go out in a mecha and see actual combat. To do the one thing Mosi is really good at. To aim a weapon and fire. But just who would she be aiming at, this time?
"You don't even really know, do you? How much like her you are, sometimes."
And just what had that been meant to mean? How is Mosi anything like Nalah? Was Amani accusing her of running out on her family? That makes no sense, given how fervently Amani had argued in their mother's favour. But the bizarreness of the statement, how out of the blue it had been, that stuck in Mosi's head, nagging at her.
"Glad you're joining us, kid," Commander Green says from behind Mosi.
"You know I hate sitting around during combat, sir," Mosi reminds him, turning to give him the barest hint of a smile.
"I know the feeling," Green agrees, "that's part of why I got us transferred out here."
"Both squads?" Mosi asks.
"Yes. I got Sir Ivanov to sign off on it, and the invasion force here was hardly going to turn us down. Your Vessies are here too, next hangar over -- make sure you check in on Smith."
"Yes, sir," Mosi agrees. The outfit that Green commands is slightly irregular, originally an anti-piracy task force putting down brigands and rebels in Jupiter. It had grown to the point that there had been talk of simply promoting Green and making it a more permanent unit... but being reassigned to the invasion of Saturn had put that on the backburner.
He looks at her a little sidelong. Behind him, the ordered chaos of a carrier hangar being prepped for combat is plainly visible, almost comforting in its familiarity. Almost. "You sure you're up for this, kid? You look a few thousand clicks away."
Mosi swallows, before quietly admitting, "The heretics had put civilian habitation pods on the defence satellites. I didn't know, until the last minute."
Green's expression cools slightly. "It's a good thing we'll be removing the illegitimate government who would do such a thing from power, then. Using civilians as human shields is a prime example of heretics having no honour."
Mosi blinks, most of her wanting to take heed of the warning note in Green's voice. "Sir," she says, slowly, unable to stop herself, "I think-- I know that Roth knew, ahead of time. Command knew, ahead of time. I almost--"
Green holds up a hand, stopping her short, his expression turning a little graver. "I think you'll find, kid," he says, "that the official explanation will be that the gutless, heathen rulers of Iapetus put those people there as hostages to stymie our attack, that their deaths were unfortunate but necessary."
Mosi's voice is suddenly a little brittle as she responds: "The official explanation, sir. But not the truth."
Green glances around in a way that looks casual but, Mosi is suddenly aware, is masking a growing anxiety on her behalf. "The official explanation is the only truth that matters," he tells her, with the air of reminding her of something he expects her to already know. "Come on, kid. You're smarter than this."
"Sir, it's just... I..."
"You can have doubts, kid," Green says. He reaches a gloved finger out to physically tap at Mosi's temple, "but you keep them in there. You keep them in there, and you bury them. It doesn't matter with what. Just keep them down until one day, they go away. I've told you that before."
"It gets hard, sometimes," Mosi whispers.
"It's staying alive, kid. Sometimes, staying alive is hard."
"Yes, sir," she says.
"Kid-- Lieutenant." He's looking at her with increasing concern. "You know why I picked you up out of the Academy, all those years ago?"
"Because Professor Green asked you to?"
"Yes, because my brother asked me to," Green agrees, with so much bluntness that Mosi can't help but giving a snort of bitter laughter, "and your simulation scores were through the roof, sure. But the real reason? I took a look at you, this skinny, underfed teenager, and I could tell that you were willing to do what it took to live." He gives her a thin smile. "Survival instinct makes up for a lot, kid."
"I know, sir," Mosi murmurs, shoulders slumping. "I hope you know I'm grateful."
"I know," he says, smiling at her with something like pride. There's a moment of sad, companionable silence, before he asks: "Did you find out anything about your mother?"
Mosi sucks in a breath, and slowly lets it out. "Yes," she says. "She's captaining a scouting wing, piloting a Fenris Lancer."
"An 07fx?" He smiles at that. "There aren't many of those left operational, kid. If you set your scans to ping a Fenris, she'll stick out like a sore thumb, even in the mess you're likely to see out there."
"I've heard they're fast," Mosi says, the feeling of savage catharsis she usually experiences when contemplating her mother's death is somehow diminished, now that the opportunity is finally within reach. Amani's horrified, confused stare at the pronouncement somehow seems to have sucked some of the enthusiasm out of her.
"Sure," Green says, shrugging, "That Fenris Drive they packed onto them is pretty impressive, for its day. Made the Lancer actually viable in combat. But it's still an over-a-decade-old modification to an ancient design. I'd fancy your odds, considering what you're flying." He Glances up at Mosi's Provespa, smiling wider.
"It'll be that easy?" Mosi asks.
"Fuck no, Lieutenant. Dame Nalah North is not famous for being easily shot down, and it's too much to hope that she's lost her touch in her old age. She'll go down hard. Youth and agility versus age and experience."
"You still think I can take her, though?"
His smile turns into a grin, one with a nasty edge to it. "Bury your past here, kid. Stab it through the heart and let it asphyxiate in the fucking void. No one will be able to call you disloyal then."
"For the glory of our Emperor," Mosi agrees, her answering smile not entirely making it to her eyes.
"Exactly."
After Green leaves to see to the rest of his people, Mosi sets about doing some routine checks on her Provespa, cracking the cockpit in order to hover there, looking at tests on the monitors and on her linked tablet. Everything looks fine, barring a few personal adjustments that the techs hadn't known to set for her. It's almost comforting in its uneventful monotony.
The tests aren't quite enough, however, to distract Mosi about the file on her tablet. The one she categorically should not have. The one she took from Nakamura's workstation. The sensitive strategic planning documents that, if they somehow found their way to the enemy, could spell disaster for the entire invasion campaign. She should delete it, of course -- delete it, reset the tablet's hard-drive, 'accidentally' put the tablet out an airlock, hope her highly illegal activities never come to light. She should do that. And she should categorically not open or read it.
With a trembling finger and a studiously blank expression, hidden in the shelter of the Provespa's cockpit, Mosi expands the document and quickly begins to read. Not all of it, of course, but she skims enough to understand precisely what the Holy Empire's plans are for Iapetus and for Saturn as a whole. Each new sentence seems to send ice dropping into her stomach. When she's finally finished, she carefully attaches the tablet to her pilot suit, and pushes herself out of her cockpit.
For the first time in years in the preparation for battle, Mosi finds the nearest washroom and empties her stomach completely.
"Why are you working for these people, Mosi?"
--
The HIMS Titanium Rose
When you quietly slip onto the bridge, dressed once again in your turquoise uniform, Ng is the first one to notice you. The stark relief on the ship's scans second is so great that you're forced to smile uncomfortably, and reflect that, harsh or not, Lori had a point when she expressed doubt about him being ready for this.
Mazlo looks up as Ng begins to leave his seat, noting you with a frown. You salute him dutifully, and he returns it with an air of ill humour. "Well, Ensign, perhaps you're quite finished with your dramatic entr--"
"Mazlo, I need quiet," Andre says, sharply, as if he should know better. Given that he's the comms officer and is likely the one who set up the call Andre is in the process of taking, very likely she has a point. Andre's grey eyes note you taking your place beside Mazlo with distracted interest. Up on the main screen, what looks like a conference call is queuing up. As it begins to populate, you hear the sound of the bridge hatch sealing -- evidently, you made it just in time.
The face that appears is dimly familiar to you as Lord Hawk, the commodore in command of the escort fleet that saved you in your near-disastrous last engagement, seemingly a lifetime ago. His is followed by several smaller faces, all officers seemingly either sitting on small offices or in the command chair of a bridge like the Rose's.
"Good, you're all here," he says. His jaw is set firmly, and there's a fierce glint in his eyes, but something about horse-like features seems a little too rigid. Someone forcing themself to project the idea of iron will, rather than someone who is actually exhibiting it. He seems almost at risk of snapping in two. "Light Attack Group A, under my direction, will consist of the [/i]HIMS Titanium Rose, the HIMS Red Thorn, the HIMS Steel Violet, the HIMS--" Hawk continues down the list, in the end naming some 10 ships, mostly Ranger or Herald class, along with one aged Dagger. All, it quickly becomes clear, are light, fast ships intended primarily for scouting. The term 'attack group' applied to such ships is slightly ominous, and a sign of just how desperate a struggle the coming battle might be.
While Andre is paying rapt attention, it plainly takes her by surprise when her name is directly mentioned. "Captain Andre, you're the ranking officer," Hawk says. There's a brief stir among the faces of the other scouting ship captains. The others all wear commander insignia, and many are considerably younger than she is. Highborn officers at the start of their career, you suspect. Almost belatedly, Hawk adds, with a weak but genuine smile, "... and I should say, congratulations are in order, Captain, for the promotion. It's regrettable that this came up before you could be reassigned to a more suitable command."
"Thank you, sir," Andre says, attempting to keep the surprise from showing too much in her voice. You suspect that, for all her years of service, not being the bottom of the proverbial pile in terms of interacting with other ship captains is a novel experience for her, still. "I've been through a lot with the Rose," she says, "Another battle or two with her won't offend me."
"Very good," Lord Hawk says, nodding. You have a strong suspicion, all at once, that he's not simply being polite to an officer he's previously encountered. By drawing direct attention to her new rank and standing in front of the others, he's ensuring that, should she need to give orders to any of the others, they'll know to listen. It's still strange to hear. On one hand, you knew that Captain Andre now possesses a rank that entitles her to a more prestigious posting than the HIMS Titanium Rose. On the other, considering that this is a woman who once bluntly described the scouting ship as the likely end point for her career, it's strange to think of her moving up to commanding something else. Of a different captain being given command of this ship in her stead. You're pleased for her nonetheless. Of course, all of this is entirely contingent on the Rose's survival.
The scan map of Iapetus that Lord Hawk is displaying shows a transparent web surrounding most of the moon, with a conspicuous gap in which numerous other ships are already beginning to muster. The Defence Array, clearly. A cone of light is projected onto the image, highlighting the gap. "Just under 1/4 of our defence platforms have been destroyed or disabled," Lord Hawk explains. "The platforms are designed to have enough overlap in their firing arcs to make the actual hole in our defences somewhat smaller than that in practise. In short, we know which direction the enemy will have to come from, if they want to reap any advantage from their sabotage efforts.
"The task of Light Attack Group A will be, using the cover of the remaining Defence Arrays, to commit hit and fade attacks on the enemy flank within the highlighted sector, working in conjunction with Groups B and C to divide the enemy's focus and destroy targets of opportunity where possible. Prolonged engagement is to be avoided at all costs." Hawk finishes, and an uncomfortable silence ensues, briefly.
Even taking the remains of the Defence Array into account, this will be highly dangerous. Neither the Rose nor the other ships in the Attack Group have the offensive or defensive muscle to truly last in and kind of commited fleet battle, and will have to rely on a combination of agility and skill in order to make this work. The combined firepower of the small ships, especially the four Rangers, will be not-inconsiderable, but it will be a fragile sort of firepower.
The Rose, at least, will have the benefit of the newly-installed and largely untested quasi-stealth array installed within its hull, confounding enemy scans and making it harder to hit, particularly in a fleet action around an occupied moon where a misfired shot has a relatively high likelihood of hitting something the enemy doesn't want destroyed. You don't look forward to the day when that particular piece of tech eventually finds its way into the hands of the enemy. It won't make your job any easier.
Part of you, as you listen to this plan be described, is simply sick with worry. About the fate of what remains of your broken little family, even if half of it is apparently trying to murder the other. About Lori, who will as always be at even greater risk than you will be. And about what is to come of Iapetus, the people of Anchiale in particular, who you'll be fighting to defend. It seems unlikely to you that the Holy Empire would want to destroy such a valuable station deliberately, but 'mistakes' do happen in the heat of battle. And even if the station were to survive an enemy conquest of the moon, such an occupation would be far from safe or pleasant. The footage you saw of the mass executions at Utopia has been conjured freshly to mind by your confrontation with Mosi. It's easy to imagine similar scenarios playing out in the spheres of a habitat like Anchiale. You think first of Faiza, but a number of faces pass through your head. The awkward young man who gave you information about your mother when you first arrived, the teenage barista who had sold you your first truly great cup of coffee in months, the other refugees, glimpsed briefly, in the repurposed barracks Faiza is staying in. All of them are depending on your successful defence of Iapetus. And for their sake, you're determined not to let your anxiety over recent events stop you from doing your job to the best of your abilities. On top of what you managed to accomplish in helping Lieutenant-Commander Owusu, that will have to be enough.
As the preliminary scans pour into your workstation from various sources -- forward scouts, outward sentry buoys, the long-range scans on the Defence Array and the assembled allied ships -- you can tell conclusively that this engagement will be far beyond anything you've had to manage a scan map for before. The number and size of enemy ships converging on Iapetus, already seemingly greater than the assembled defenders, is nearly overwhelming to you. You wonder if you can really survive something like this, if there's any hope of you not being utterly lost to the point of uselessness.
You give yourself a mental shake, and force yourself to get over that feeling. You'll have to. This time, The Rose is just a tiny part of a larger battle. Nonetheless, you tell yourself, it can still make a difference, and that tiny corner of this battle contains far too many people you care about to give up on it that easily. The fighting will be intense and you know many people are about to die regardless, but you'll all fight your hardest to prevent yourselves and your allies from joining that number.
As you begin to make preparations for managing the combat scan map, you are, for once, almost spoiled for choice. The number and variety of friendly scan feeds available to you extends far beyond The Rose and her compliment of mecha. You'll have the entirety of Attack Group A to pull from, to say nothing of the Defence Array and the rest of the fleet. That's a tremendous amount of information, much of it redundant, for you to sift through -- your job in this scenario is simply managing the glut of information the Rose is receiving in order to interpret it in an actually useful form.
A few approaches immediately jump out at you, and you enter into the familiar calculus of weighing them against each other:
--
What is your approach?
[ ] Conservative
Rely primarily on the Rose's scans for the scan map, using additional information only for extending her range. This will create a more consistent scan map within range of the Rose's scans. It is technology you're familiar with, and you don't need to worry about losing scan sources to battle attrition. This may slow your response time to urgent information sent from other sources, however.
[ ] Broad
Concentrate your effort on gathering and matching up data from as many sources as you can. This will present more data at once, and build overlapping sections from multiple sources over as wide an area as possible. However, this may cause issues with consistency with the various types and ages of technologies on the battlefield, and may lead to lag as allied ships and mecha are damaged or destroyed.
[ ] Daringly Meticulous
Go all out and spend your time seamlessly combining the Rose's scans with alternative sources. If there's ever a time for you to pull out all the stops, this is it. Employ various tricks and advanced techniques in order to painstakingly stitch together sources in nearly real time, combining the strengths of both. This will be difficult and require intense focus, but this is your job, after all.
The enemy fleet silently slides into scan range, dots on your map, streams of data from your feeds. Battleships, cruisers and their sundry escorts moving in formation, deceptively slow on your displays. The relatively close confines of the debris choked bottleneck that marks the hole in Iapetus's outer defences soon turns space into a shooting gallery as the larger ships came into range of one another, swarms of tiny mecha flying in from all directions to clash with each other, attack and defend the ships.
To you, it's all abstract. All numbers and display. You can barely spare a thought for the grand narrative behind it, the lives being lost, the habitats being threatened with every stray shot. Iapetus is heavily populated, and the desperate attempt to evacuate the entire population to the far side of the planet is only fractionally complete, adding to the carnage and confusion from the earlier disaster.
You're only academically aware of the Rose, along with several of the other small ships in the Attack Group, focusing fire on an enemy cruiser's escort corvette. The ship's shields flare, then fail. An instant later, the Singh is all but torn apart, atmosphere and debris venting from multiple hull breeches.
"The cruiser is coming to bear on us."
"All ships, retreat to the safe zone!" Beside you, Mazlo is struggling with his own task -- namely, keeping open the lines of communication between the Rose and nine other light ships, to say nothing of the rest of the fleet, so that a crucial order doesn't come a moment too late.
You're only peripherally aware of this. All you can do is your best, and hope that the people you care for make it through the day.
--
The HDMS Righteous Fury
"You are cleared for launch, Lieutenant North."
"Lieutenant Mosi North, taking off with the ISMX17 Provespa." The words are routine, utterly rote, and as the mecha-sized hatch slams open in front of her, Mosi doesn't even need to think before she's flinging herself out into space. The rotund bulk of the carrier grows small and distant with a speed that once would have surprised Mosi. Now it would be routine even if her mind weren't decidedly on different subjects.
"Glad to have you here, LT," Smith's voice says, coming in over the comms. It's good to hear him, in the end -- even if he is a little overly excitable for a scout.
"I don't sit out a fight, Ensign," she reminds him.
Mecha combat is something that Mosi usually finds strangely calming. It cuts straight through the petty politics and looming sense of mortal peril that accompanies her day to day existence within the Divine Navy. It's simple, pure almost -- follow mission parametres, complete objectives, keep her people alive. It's possibly the one thing Mosi can say with certainty that she utterly excels at. Shooting or cutting an opponent down, sinking an enemy ship -- the pleasurable feeling she gets from these actions is the satisfaction of a craftsman plying her trade. She dresses it up in the appropriate religious rhetoric later -- dead heritcs and the glory of the Emperor -- but at the heart of it, that's what it is:
She lives and dies by her own skill and her own wits. When she destroys an enemy machine, it's because she was better, or smarter. When she's in the cockpit, maybe only when she's in the cockpit, Mosi has control over her own destiny. Today that feeling is gone and scattered to the wind, leaving in its wake only grasping, blind indecision.
The tablet is still clipped to her pilot's suit. She can feel its slight presence through the garment, snapped to her belt. Why does she have that? What possible use could she have for that data? Space all around and behind her, displayed on her Provespa's scan map, is alive and teeming with her allies. Space in front of her is likewise filled with the enemy, who will shoot her down and kill her. What can she possibly do with this tablet, in the face of that? One small cog in a mammoth, plodding machine grinding its way over everything in its path. What can she possibly do, other than she she's ordered to?
Two answers spring to mind, in two very different voices. Neither of them are particularly soothing:
"The right thing!"
"Something! Anything! You could try."
All at once, the battle is joined. Mosi realises she's been issuing orders this entire time, as well as accepting them from Green -- now, when she resurfaces, his heavies are making a run on an enemy cruiser, their bulky mechas almost gracefully juking around the close range beam weapons of the ship, while Mosi's lighter units run interference to keep the enemy's own mecha off of them.
A Banner is in front of Mosi, close range, filling up her camera. She dodges the enemy pilot's comparatively clumsy arc of fire, pivoting in order to slam them in the chest with one of the Provespa's legs, using her thrusters to build off the momentum of the move. She loops around beneath the enemy, raking them with point blank fire before coming up behind them and ramming her energised spike straight through the main thruster pack. The Banner is abruptly disarmed and flailing in space, but the pilot is almost certainly alive. Had she done that on purpose?
An instant later, Smith empties enough rounds into the helpless Banner to make the point entirely moot. "You missed one, LT!"
"... Thanks," she acknowledges.
"Heretics deserve no mercy."
Mosi's throat feels dry as she echoes the statement. "Heretics deserve no mercy."
--
Space, near the HIMS Titanium Rose
As the shot strikes the enemy corvette in the engines, metal and chemical debris scattering in a lethal cloud, Gloriana is forced to reluctantly, belatedly admit that the Artemis is an improvement over her old Huntress. Here, in private, in the heat of battle, at any rate. If Patel and his surviving R&D flunkies ever heard her say that, he'd be beyond insufferable.
"Group approaching the Rose from the following coordinates," J6's familiar monotone informs her. "Intercepting."
"I'll be there to assist you in a moment, Guardswoman." Milo still sounds infuriatingly cheerful, even in the heat of battle and dodging machine gun fire. It's one of his more maddening qualities. Still, though, she's relieved that the two of them are at least cooperating in combat.
"Understood," comes J6's clipped reply.
As the Rose and half of the accompanying light ships do a coordinated strike on a Divine Navy cruiser, Gloriana runs a series of firing solutions with assistance from the ship, levelled the Artemis's railgun, and contributed several shots. The cruiser's shields flare and die, and while the enemy ship gets a few licks in before the lighter ships come out of range again, it definitely takes more damage than is advisable. Gloriana glances at the scan feed she's getting from the Rose appreciatively. It's astonishingly detailed for a battle as chaotic as this, updating much faster than she could reasonably expect it to.
Ordinarily, seeing this and knowing that the ship's scans operating was such an eager young officer would have worried her. In an extended fleet action, burnout is a real concern, and consistency is often much more important than sheer skill. However, as the high quality scans allow Gloriana to land unfailingly accurate shots, instead she feels something akin to a smug, proprietary pride. It could be argued that Gloriana is a bit partial on this count. And not simply because the officer in question is a girl who she cares for. Amani has genuine talent, which is rare enough, and good sense, which is much rarer in an officer of her age. Gloriana is, at this point, entirely comfortable with putting her life and the life of her squad so heavily in Amani's hands. Although there is the one, small part of her that, at the thought of all of this, can't help but think that, when they survive this battle, the moment she can get Ensign North alone, she'll take--
A burst of gunfire, too distant to be effective, completely banishes everything but the current moment from her mind. She adjusts her trajectory, neatly avoiding the gunfire entirely. Before she even has a chance to target the enemy unit herself, Milo's Empress Banner has flown in to half cut it in two.
"Any damage, ma'am?"
"None," she confirms. "Thank you for the save, Lieutenant-Commander."
"It's why you tolerate me." Three different services or not, having competent, experienced pilots is doing her a lot of good.
Something familiar flashes by on scans -- mecha sized, going fast. She frowns, mouth working into an unhappy line. She recognises that signature. It's the prototype they encountered at Pheobe and again later, the one that had killed Ensign Song. It's just barely close enough to bring up on her main camera, confirming it. As luck would have it, she does this just in time to see the prototype employ a particularly slick maneuver on an allied Banner, evading and disabling it in one smooth, agile motion. A slick, familiar maneuver. One that was employed on Gloriana mere hours before this, albeit with a one-legged construction mecha rather than a state of the art prototype.
"Mosi North," she growls, jaw clenching with a sudden rush of hate. What Mosi had done around Iapetus would be reason enough for anger, to say nothing of actually having held Amani hostage, however briefly. But there was another part to this anger now. Gloriana is a professional soldier, and she tries hard not to take combat deaths overly personally. In one sense, Ensign Song had come up against an enemy combatant, fought them and lost.
In another sense, Ensign Song had been a 19 year old girl whose remains the techs had practically had to scrape out of her cockpit. A 19 year old girl in Gloriana's care, entrusted to her by influential parents who had had enough of a say in where the rookie pilot had been assigned to pick a fellow aristocrat who they thought they could rely on for Song's continued development. Gloriana really should have killed Mosi before, shock or no shock.
She takes aim at the formation of enemy scouting mecha that Mosi leads, the firing solution taking seemingly an eternity to calculate. There are a lot of moving pieces in space right now, and the last thing anyone wants is for Gloriana to fire a railgun into an ally, or into a helpless habitat. But once it's done, she knows she'll be able to obliterate the problem once and for all. She almost has it. Almost...
"Lady Perbeck, enemy formation approaching the Rose."
Gloriana tries not to outright scowl at the timing of it, abandoning the bead she had on Mosi and reorienting herself to deal with the new threat. "Understood, Guardswoman."
--
The HIMS Defiant Storm is in trouble. Separated from its escort by debris from the defence array, the ailing cruiser is being beset by at least two teams of Banner Heavies, while its crew struggles to deal with the damage from an earlier engagement. Dame Nalah North feels a guilty thrill in the pit of her stomach. Good spacers are dying, just now, and for nothing so important as the whims of a tyrant a billion kilometres away. There is still part of her, though, that simply lives for this. "Jonah, take your squad up to deal with those light mechas screening the heavies. Tran, you take the heavies closest to us. I'll take the ones farther away."
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Sure thing, Cap'."
The wing splits into three, then, her lieutenants taking their individual squads in different directions as Nalah lead the remainder.
"Engaging, ma'am!" Jonah's squad hits their targets first, Banner recon types tangling with the sleeker, newer lines of the enemy scouting units. Vespulas, Nalah knows, are fast but might as well have been made of wet tissue paper. The strange prototype, similar but not identical to the other two, is more worrisome... but it's Jonah's problem now. She'll trust him to handle it.
The heavies are slow to turn as Nalah's squad hits them, and she has the satisfaction of slicing deeply into one with her extended cutter. Her Fenris Lancer practically dances around the wounded brute as it attempts to swing its oversized main weapon around to bear, weapon fire arcing uselessly in her wake. She darts in to cut it again and again -- heavy armour or no, she knows where to hit a target to make sure it stops moving. The Heavy goes still, drifting for a moment, before the Storm blows it up with a point defence beam.
Nalah dodges another burst of fire, this one considerably more expert. It's close enough for her to note the officer decal on this new mecha -- a Commander. To her surprise, it opens a video hail. She hesitates momentarily, before accepting. Let the fool have their last words.
"Nalah! As lovely as ever."
It takes her a moment to recognise the pale, rugged looking man grinning at her from inside a Divine Navy pilot's helmet. "Tyrone Green," she says, displeased. "For a moment I thought I was going to regret having to kill whoever you were."
He laughs, dodging backwards with impressive grace as she tries to pepper him with bullets. "It's been a long time since Luna, hasn't it?"
"Not so long," she says, reasonably. "I remember knowing you back then. And I remember you betraying us at the first opportunity." She doesn't try to hide her disgust. What's the point, with a dead man?
"I saw where the winds were blowing, and I did the only smart thing."
"And now," Nalah says, giving him an almost feral grin, "you're going to die anyway." Swooping in, she slices off a chunk of armour, barely missing the Heavy's head. Her two squad members are locked in combat with Green's last Heavy, its pilot proving cannier than the one she so easily dispatched.
"Hard words from a woman who abandoned half her family," he shoots back.
The smile dies, and she knows her eyes have clouded over with anger. "... I'm going to enjoy doing this," she snarls, ducking under his latest barrage of weapon fire to sheer off the Heavy's main gun at the barrel.
Green can't win this. She knows it and so does he. She can see it in his face now -- Nalah's better than him, even if all other things were equal. And they're not. Her Fenris can fly circles, spirals and helixes around his Banner Heavy. He's good enough to drag this out, and spiteful enough to get a few licks in before his inevitable death. Even if they're emotional ones. "Still, a sight better than the husband did, of course. With you, at least it was only half the family."
"Don't you dare spit on a brave man's sacrifice!" One of the Heavy's arms comes off. Another gun goes silent. Green's grin, if anything, only gets wider.
"Amir North wasn't willing to do what needed to be done to save his own child. He took the easy way out. The coward's way--" Green's last words are cut off in a sharp cry, as Nalah plunges her cutter very nearly into the cockpit, a secondary explosion within his own cockpit obscuring her view of him.
"Keep talking!" she shouts. "Go on! I am going to RIP YOU OUT OF THAT COCKPIT and then I'm--"
"Dame North, Lieutenant Jonah's down!" comes the panicked cry of one of Jonah's ensigns. Then she has to burn hard to move out of the path of the strange, black prototype as it plunges toward her like an avenging angel, putting itself between her and the stricken Commander Green.
--
On her third pass with the Banner Recon, Mosi realises, to her confusion, that she's going out of her way not to kill the enemy pilot. He's not terrible -- he maneuvers his light mecha with skill and seeming confidence -- but she's better. Faster. She's had three openings to take his life so far, but she simply... hasn't.
A Divine Navy battleship blows up in the distance, a point of light on her cameras, a warning sign on her scan map. This battle is not turning out to be the cakewalk that it was intended to be. Somehow, that realisation, that the Divine Navy can lose here, makes everything snap into focus: Does she have to do this anymore? Was Amani, sheltered girl that she is, actually right, on that one point? Mosi is acutely aware, still, of her tablet, the data that could change the course of this invasion, if it fell into enemy hands.
Mosi thrusts away from the Banner Recon's latest pass, an unfamiliar sense of panic coming over her. Can she surrender here, to this pilot? Will he simply blow her out of the sky, will her squad turn on her? No one ever teaches you how to defect in the middle of a battle. Defect. Defect. Even thinking the word sends a shiver down Mosi's spine. Can she really--
The sight of something approach Commander Green fast on the scan map obliterates all such thoughts. For a fraction of a second that seems like an eternity, she only stares at the scan signature of the mecha engaging her superior. When she sees that he's losing, though, that he's about to die--
The Provespa's energised spike punches straight into the enemy pilot's cockpit with an almost nonchalant ease as every superfluous emotion boils away to leave behind nothing but a rage the likes of which she's never felt before. "Leave him alone!" Mosi screams, heard by no one but herself as she coaxes every bit of speed she can out of the Provespa, streaking down straight for the Fenris Lancer.
Straight for her mother.
Mosi sees that the Fenris is going to dodge the initial blow at just the right moment, expertly engaging her breaking thrusters to keep herself from simply rocketing past. Her body strains against the straps with the suddenness of the stop. A distant part of her mind acknowledges that it hurts, but that detail is so laughably unimportant she barely even pauses before lunging in for another stab directly at the Fenris's torso. The spike is deflected at the last moment by the Fenris's cutter.
Mosi barely realises she's opened a voice channel until she hears the distinctive sound of it being accepted. "Dame Nalah North," she growls, every syllable a promise of death.
"You're all so talkative today," replies a voice that's so achingly familiar that Mosi just wants to scream and scream and scream. She'd known that this was her mother -- that this was the woman whose death she had dreamed of for years. But hearing her voice, that same confident alto that she had so desperately tried to imitate as a child, somehow makes her angrier. The thought of this woman nearly killing Commander Green, one of the very few people who actually gives a damn about her is so intolerable that she feel her hands shaking on the controls.
"LT!" Smith's voice. She's still responsible for him.
"Grab the commander, get him back to the Fury. He's hurt."
"But--"
"Now!"
"Yes, ma'am!"
Mosi thrusts backwards as Dame Nalah strikes back at her, the cutter literally grazing the Provespa's paint with its passage through space. It's fast, no doubt, and she can already tell that its hated pilot knows how to eke out absolutely everything from that speed.
As a child, Mosi had loved her grandmother. One of her earliest memories was the kind old woman giving her a snowglobe -- Mosi, who had never seen snow, never been to Earth or Mars, found the nature scene with its evergreen forest utterly enthralling. It had been her most prized possession. Then, when she was six, her grandmother had died.
The two of them trade blows furiously, neither gaining good purchase, the two high speed mechas going faster and faster and faster until almost nothing else on the battlefield has a hope of catching them. "You're going to die today!" Mosi informs her mother, voice shaking with righteous fury.
"How old are you, little girl?" comes Nalah's infuriatingly blasé voice.
"I'm not a "girl!" Mosi practically screams. How dare she treat her like a child? How dare she not take this seriously?
"You're not, huh? You sound damn young, regardless. I'll warn you once -- I'm not about to lose to some hotshot commissioned yesterday, looking for a notch in her belt."
"I won't lose to You!"
"This isn't the path to a long life, girl."
"NEVER call me that!"
Amani had been too young to understand, too young to cry. Mosi, the big sister, had felt an absurd pressure not to look like a baby beside a literal toddler. She hadn't cried when they told them, or during the funeral. She'd held her fragile calm for over a week afterward. Then one day, alone in her room, she'd snapped.
In spite of the speed she's pushed this duel to, the fury with which she presses her attacks, Mosi's technique never wavers. She's lethally precise, fighting better than she ever has in her life, driven finally to this one grim purpose. Every shot picture perfect, every strike like something out of a training video. And it doesn't matter. Nalah, in spite of her older years and older machine, is like a ghost, always just one step ahead of Mosi, movements tauntingly minimal. Mosi snarls with frustration. She wishes she could just reach through the cockpit, through space, and physically wrap her hands around Dame Nalah's neck to throttle her. "I've waited so long for this chance!"
A snort of disdain. "The chance to butcher thousands of innocents?"
Mosi forces herself not to flinch. The comment is far too close to something Amani said. Wait. Amani. Amani. "... it's your fault she talks that way!" Mosi accuses.
"I beg your pardon? Now you're just a dead girl who isn't making any sense." The expert cutter stroke nearly takes out Mosi's main camera array before Mosi blocks it with her extended killing spike.
"Amani!" Mosi shouts back. "That's why she talks like that! It's your fault!"
The confused silence is almost tangible on the other end of the line. "How do you... wait!" A ping for a video call now. Mosi almost ignores it, but in the end she can't resist. She's older than Mosi expects. Somehow, irrationally, she hadn't anticipated that her mother would change. In her mind's eye, it was always the way she'd looked when Mosi had said goodbye to her that last time, at age 13. Staring straight into Dame Nalah's dark eyes, so much like her own and Amani's, Mosi has the satisfaction of watching some of the rich colour drain from Nalah's face, returning Mosi's glare of loathing with a look of horrified recognition. Her voice is strangely soft when she speaks next: "Mosi?"
She'd been furious at her grandmother and all the world in that instant, and she'd taken it out on everything she owned. Furniture tipped over, objects hurled across the room, clothing torn, until it had all passed, and she'd been just a shell shocked little girl, sobbing in the wreckage of her bedroom. That was when she'd seen it -- the snowglobe, lying shattered against a wall, glitter and chemically-laced water spreading over the floor amid the shards of glass.
Mosi doesn't relent. If anything, her attacks redouble. With every blow, Mosi remembers the pain she had to endure because of Nalah. She pierces one of the Fenris's arms, and it's the burning sting of Limin's riot baton. She sheers off part of the Fenris's head, and it's Mosi being beaten behind an outbuilding for a minor mistake until she has to crawl part of the way to the infirmary afterward. She lands a hit on Nalah's thrusters, and she's back in the dorm rec room at the Academy, two girls holding her down, a third standing over her, something small and deceptively harmless in her hands and a cruel smile on her lips: "Now let's see--"
"Mosi, please! I don't want to fight you!" And she's not, Mosi abruptly realises. Her mother is merely defending herself... barely, no longer actively fighting back, no longer lifting a finger to try and harm Mosi. The fight has completely gone out of Dame Nalah, leaving behind only a pleading look in her eyes.
"Then just fucking die!"
"Mosi, Malaika, please--"
"You abandoned me in that place!"
"I thought--"
"You left me there!"
At those words, Nalah's face freezes up, staring at Mosi in renewed horror, as if she has no recourse from the accusation, her mecha momentarily dead in space. Mosi shows no mercy. She snaps off the Fenris's oversized cutter, smashes off the gun arm at the elbow joint -- it smashes hard into the Provespa's head, sending warning lights dancing up in Mosi's eyes, but she ignores that for now, grabs hold of the Fenris by its damaged head with one hand, pulling back the arm with the retractable spike with the other for the killing blow. Without a moment's hesitation, she screams out ten years of neglect and suffering, plunging the spike directly into Nalah's cockpit.
Mosi had fallen to her knees, huddled over the ruined snowglobe, frantically trying to put the pieces back together with her bare hands, fingers bleeding from a dozen tiny cuts. She had to fix this, somehow, this thing that she broke, this thing she'd never get back, even as she realised that it was hopeless. Suddenly, a presence kneeling behind her, arms going around her, gentle hands holding her by the wrists, pulling her own away from the sharp glass.
"What have you done to yourself, Malaika?"
"Can we fix it?" Mosi demanded, frantic, not caring about her own injuries. "Can we... can we glue it?" Even as she asked, she knew they couldn't. She still needed to hear it.
"No. Sometimes, when we break something, it can't just be put back together." Mosi, unresisting, allowed herself to be pulled away and brought to the bathroom, stinging soap and water on her cuts, those same gentle hands applying sealing spray.
Mosi's voice, uncharacteristically small and timid, had ventured, more a comment than a question: "People can't be fixed when they break either."
Thoughtful silence for a long moment, then soft lips kissing her forehead. "No," Nalah agreed, "sometimes they can't. That's why we have to be careful."
Mosi hauls so hard on the controls that she feels something pull in her shoulder. Too late to stop the blow she's already set into motion -- instead of plunging into the cockpit, of crushing Nalah to death, it instead plunges into the Fenris's side, destroying internal components along the way. On the video feed, she sees the force of the blow rock Nalah... and then lets out a gasp of dismay as sparks and smoke from a secondary explosion light up the Fenris's cockpit. As they clear, Mosi can only stare at the flickering video image, in which her mother hangs from her straps, barely moving.
"I... I... I take it back," Mosi says, so quietly she's not even sure if her mic picks it up. Nalah doesn't stir. Sucking in a deeper lungful of air, Mosi says, enunciating more clearly: "I surrender!" Dead silence continues to reign, and a horrible, gut-clenching fear begins to settle in to the pit of her stomach. "I said I take it back! I surrender!" Nothing. Silence. Stillness. Mosi knows in that instant that she's done what she originally set out to do -- she's killed her mother. Bile rises in her throat. There's no catharsis, no expected sense of accomplishment. Just this empty, hollow feeling of... what? "I'm sorry, Amani," Mosi whispers.
With how inattentive she's being to her scans, Mosi is lucky that she isn't simply blown up by railgun fire. It's the proximity to Nalah's dead Fenris that saves her from this fate. The first thing she's aware of is anti-mecha fire rattling against the Provespa's armour, followed shortly by a screaming proximity alert. She releases her mother's unit, spinning the Provespa around just in time to dodge a cutter blow.
The ISMX40 Artemis hangs in space in front of her for the second time in less than 24 hours. The audio hail comes before Mosi can even make the call herself. "This is Lieutenant Mosi North of the Divine Navy of Correction! I have valuable intelligence to trade and wish to surrender!" she says the words in a rush.
Rather than respond, the cold voice of Countess Gloriana Perbeck comes over the comm without even waiting for Mosi to finish. "I should have ended this before." Then the Artemis is flying at her again. Mosi parries, eyes wide and breathing ragged.
"I said I surrender!" she practically shouts.
"No last words? Suit yourself."
"You can't hear me?" Mosi dodges the next blow, weaving around the less maneuverable mecha. "You can't hear me!" It's with a strange mixture of frustration and elation that Mosi realises the truth, what those warning lights meant before -- her outgoing comms are fucked. She passively dodges a few more of Perbeck's attacks, before letting out a growl of frustration. She doesn't want to kill this woman, in spite of what happened to Kim, but she won't just let herself be hacked to pieces.
Mosi ducks under the next cutter swing, smashing the Artemis hard with a sideline blow from her energised spike, thrusting away from the Countess and attempting contact again in an air of faint desperation: "I surrender!" She risks switching to local general comm, in spite of her worries of the Divine Navy picking it up. "I--"
More mecha fire. Getting her bearings, Mosi realises that her fight with Nalah has put her out of the centre of the battle, off to the flank where a number of smaller enemy ships make risky, darting runs on the Divine Navy's fleet. One of them, she realises, is none other than the HIMS Titanium Rose. She's being driven away from the Artemis by a strange looking Banner with, of all things, SRI decal.
"This is Lieutenant Mosi North of the Divine Navy of Correction! I have valuable intelligence to trade and wish to surrender!" Mosi repeats, hoping beyond hope to reach someone. There's no response, leaving her to dodge and weave frantically, fighting for her life. Then the third mecha looms up ahead of her -- the mirror finish Imperial Guard prototype she fought before. Mosi realises that she's surrounded, cut off from help. That she's going to die.
The laughter, heard only by Mosi, is long, hard and bitter. Here she is. Finally, belatedly, doing Amani's 'right thing.' And she's going to die for it.
... Amani.
It's all Mosi can do it dodge the Guardswoman's drones -- she's taking hits, and they're adding up. Although she knows it won't help matters in that regard, she swoops in close to the Rose, dodging point defence fire as best as she can. One hand leaves the controls, reaching out for the small object clipped to her belt, right next to her tablet.
--
The HIMS Titanium Rose
You're still buried in your work, sore fingers operating your workstation with stalwart persistence, doing your best to block out everything around you not immediately pertinent to your job. You watch the progress of the battle on your scan map in an oddly detached manner -- see the defending forces mostly holding their own, if slowly giving ground. The enemy is advancing past the breached defensive array, but they're taking heavy losses. Your updated map notes that an enemy battleship no longer exists.
The Rose and several remaining attack group members put the finishes touches on a flagging, out of position cruiser, the general chaos and the ship's new quasi-stealth system having allowed it to substantially escape damage thus-far. You try not to let yourself become distracted by the terrifying elation of that moment, or, less uplifting, by the captain of one of the other ships frantically informing Andre that they've taken heavy damage. Or the scan dot that is Lori moving and fighting and taking fire. The dot that you know is your mother racing across the battlefield locked in combat with an enemy unit. Through Herculean effort, you don't scream when that dot is flagged "INACTIVE." You do your job.
This professional haze continues to cloud your vision, until it's eventually pierced by the sensation of something vibrating against your chest. You ignore the distraction at first, but when it persists, half irritably, you hook a finger under the cord around your neck... and pull out your black box, thrown for a split second by the object's mere existence. Mosi? That shouldn't be possible, she's not on the Rose, and the range on the little communicator doesn't extend terribly far. Your eyes then flick to the tiny enemy dot moving dangerously close to the Rose, harried by the ship's defences, pursued implacably by J6. The same unit, you're dimly aware, that was fighting your mother.
Your workstation recognises the presence of the black box, and without conscious thought, you allow it to transmit to a quarantined area. A short message, text only, hurriedly transcribed from voice:
AMANI, I'M SORRY, AM TRYING TO SURRENDER. HAVE VITAL INFORMATION FOR THE WAR. COMMS ARE DOWN, CAN'T TELL ANY OF THEM. PLEASE HELP, THEY'LL KILL ME. I'M SORRY. INTEL IS STRAIGHT FROM THE ADMIRAL'S OFFICE, HIGH LEVEL. -- MOSI
You continue to work even as you read the message, struggling to process it and do your assigned task at the same time. You don't immediately know what to do... but you need to to decide right now, or you won't have a chance later.
--
[ ] Do nothing.
Ignore the message, forget you saw it. This is too little too late, whatever intelligence she's claiming to have.
[ ] Pass the message off to Communications
This is Mazlo's job. Let him handle it. You've never known him to be petty in an active combat situation.
[ ] Pass the message off to Communications, requesting it go to Owusu
(Unlocked!) If Mosi isn't lying this is above your paygrade and Mazlo's. Mazlo doesn't like you, but you've never wasted his time with something like this before.
[ ] Try to contact the pursuing mecha directly
Ignore your duties and bypass Comms and Mecha Control in order to send information directly to the pilots. This is too important to go through Mazlo.
Pass the message off to Mazlo, ask Mazlo to give it to Milo, 54 votes
Try to contact the pilots directly, 7 votes
Do nothing, 2 votes
Pass the message off to Mazlo, 1 vote
"Sir."
Mazlo doesn't respond at first, instead launching into a brief report to Captain Andre, who acknowledges the update with the most fractional of nods, her eyes as focused on her screens as you are on your workstation, this current moment aside. The Captain, on one hand, seems as well put together as ever with her creaseless uniform and expertly positioned cap. This close, though, even with the minimal amount of your attention you can spare for such things, you feel that the hard set of her bony frame is more brittle than it is solid.
Once he's finished, you try again, a little more forcefully. "Sir"
This time, Mazlo's eyes snap over to you. He seems to only have two settings when dealing with you -- irritated or smug. Today, the former is barely discernible beneath the stress of combat. "Yes, Ensign?" he growls.
You ignore your own stab of annoyance at being addressed in such a way under these circumstances. As if you'd be bothering him if it weren't important. "Sir, I've received a message. I am bringing it to your attention."
He's suddenly more confused than he is irritated. "You've received a message, North?" You've already forwarded what Mosi sent you, however, and soon enough he's reading it, frowning deeply. "This is..."
"From an enemy pilot, sir," you say, eyes glued again to your own work. "If I may make a suggestion, I think it should go to the Lieutenant-Commander."
"An ene--" you can hear the scrutinising look he's giving you in his voice, even if you can't see it for yourself. "Go to who?"
"Lieutenant-Commander Owusu, sir," you say. "Of the SRI."
"... that pilot? While he's in combat, North?" Mazlo is silent for a split second, and you try to ignore the tone of his voice. The one implying you're an idiot who doesn't know what she's talking about. "... SRI," he mutters, at last. "I'll put it in the Mecha Coordinator queue," he finally relents. Then, a almost immediately later, as if realising that this is, after all, time sensitive: "at the top of the queue. Now I suggest you focus on your work, Ensign."
Grudging or not, he's doing what you asked, and you have at least the sense of having done all you can do here. There's less an immediate feeling of relief associated with that and more... you don't know. You have no idea how to feel about your sister, who you strongly suspect has just murdered your mother in the culmination of a strange, misdirected, decade-spanning vendetta. It's too much, too many things at once, and you don't have the mental or emotional bandwidth to process it at the moment. You have your job to do.
The battle is beginning to look bleak. While the enemy has been taking increasingly heavy losses -- horrifyingly heavy, in all honesty -- they are incrementally winning, the line of defending ships reforming in good order every time they retreat, but retreating nonetheless. It's less obvious from the Rose's Attack Group's constantly changing position near the enemy's flank, but the overall trend is impossible to ignore.
You can't suppress a gasp as the entire ship rocks, horribly familiar alarms echoing through the bridge. Damage reports are being shouted over your head. You deliberately ignore them, aching fingers continuing their frantic manipulation of the scan interface. You're forced to heavily revise part of the map in a hurry as one of the Herald Class ships in the Attack Group blows up in no-doubt spectacular fashion, the background noise of its captain's frantic voice over the comm cutting off with awful finality.
No matter how hard you're blackening their eye, no matter the fact that your losses aren't quite unacceptable yet from a larger sense, it's impossible to deny that you're losing. You're just doing it excruciatingly slowly.
--
Space, near the HIMS Titanium Rose
Guardswoman First Class J6 hangs nearly slack in the specially structured cockpit of her Morrigan, seeing through its many camera-eyes as though they were part of here body, controlling each of the drones as easily as someone else could raise their own hand. She knows she'll pay for this later. After a battle this intense and this long, she'll be laid up with horrible migraines for at least a day, maybe more. For now, though, it's worth it.
J6 isn't a blank puppet. She doesn't lack emotion entirely, so much as she's been conditioned not to show it. But the overwhelming feeling she experiences as she uses her drones to encircle and blow apart the annoyingly fast enemy prototype, piece by piece is... nothing but a faint sense of satisfaction. Like the pilot represents a difficult problem she was unable to solve previously.
Now, she's definitely solving it. It's managed to pull far enough away from the Rose again that it's not going to get blown up by point defence weaponry by the time J6 takes out most of its advanced thrusters, but it's still only delaying the inevitable. It's very faintly impressive, the way it struggles and twists and does what little it can to present non-critical components to face her every shot. The pilot is good, she's forced to acknowledge. Not for much longer, though. Legless, one arm crippled, head damaged from an earlier fight, the enemy prototype tries to put a shot into one of J6's drones. The glancing blow does little damage, and the drone's returning fire cracks open the armour around the prototype's cockpit in a rush of atmosphere and minor debris.
J6 catches sight of a white pilot suit inside the damaged compartment, movements unnaturally stilted, one arm frantically patching a minor suit rupture misting red blood into space. A wasted effort, if a tenacious one. Raising the Morrigan's own rifle, J6 takes aim--
"Guardswoman, stand down!"
With a mental frown at the hated voice, J6 nonetheless responds, the flatness of her tone masking her deep annoyance. "I am not your subordinate, Lieutenant-Commander."
"No, but in matters of national intelligence, you are required to give way to me."
A third pilot speaks up, Lady Perbeck's voice thick with something close to fury. "What do you think you're doing, Milo?"
"Lieutenant Mosi North has offered to surrender and claims to have valuable intelligence to trade. This is outside your jurisdiction -- she is now under SRI custody." His own voice is calm and level, without any of the usual smarm or ironic lilt that makes J6 privately want to punch him in the throat. She suppresses a flicker of confusion at the surname, but it's the sort of thing that might be important after the battle. Not right now.
"We're in the middle of a battle!" Perbeck shouts. "You told me you could follow orders!"
"The situation has changed," Owusu says, bluntly. Then he addresses someone else entirely. "Lieutenant North: I am aware you cannot directly reply to this message, but if you can hear me, power down all weapons and thruster systems, open your hatch, and position yourself at the edge of it, unarmed. Failure to comply will result in your elimination with no further warnings."
There's a split second delay, but, to J6's faint surprise, the enemy seems to comply. The prototype goes nearly dead, and, in spite of the earlier damage she herself inflicted on it, the cockpit's front hatch manages to open, first straining to move, then flying open with far too much force. Even in zero-gravity, the white-clad figure that floats free of the cockpit, catching a handhold with her one good arm, does not seem well. If there had been any doubts in J6's mind that she had been mere seconds away from putting an end to this enemy Divine Navy pilot, they would have been neatly quashed by the sight of 'Lieutenant North' now.
Whatever strange twist of fate, whatever unlikely decision by someone sparked this outcome, though, even with her frustration at being ordered around by Owusu, J6 understands that this woman's personal war is over, as much as if she'd simply been blown up. Without any specific feeling of ill-will towards the new prisoner, she withdraws her drones. "Understood," she says, before flying off to resume her earlier guard position ahead of the ship.
--
The HIMS Titanium Rose
There's a sense of blindsided confusion on the bridge, amid the controlled chaos of the battle in general, as Captain Andre is informed directly by a mecha pilot that medical facilities and the brig will be temporarily commandeered by the the SRI in order to secure a potentially valuable prisoner.
"Fine!" she half shouts, eventually, "I don't have time for this! Get her onboard before we have to move again!"
So, your sister isn't dead. For now, at least -- the mention of medical facilities isn't encouraging, and you're increasingly certain that you'll all be dead soon enough, her included now that she's on the ship. The battle continues with the enemy fleet pushing further and further past the debris-choked bottleneck and closer to the bulk of Iapetus's orbital habitats, Anchiale included. The Rose and the rest of the Attack Group cease to be able to effectively fade away after a coordinated hit, and you feel the ship tremble again and again from successive hits, glancing or serious.
Something's strange, you eventually decide. The defending fleet is giving space too easily, in spite of the casualties that the enemy fleet is sustaining. It's almost as if your side is letting the enemy past the gap in the defence network. It would have been nice for your anxiety levels if this thought had been immediately followed by a shocking turnaround that made everything make sense. Instead, the battle grinds on for more than an hour before that eventual payoff comes, the mecha squad locked in heavy combat just to keep the enemy off of the Rose long enough for it to keep operating.
Then, at the far edge of your scan map, far outside of effective weapon range, an enemy carrier blows. The others struggle to respond to something seemingly off the edge of the map, and the ripples of disorder affect the formations that make up the bulk of the enemy fleet. As friendly ships begin to appear at the farthest extremes of scan range, appearching Iapetus from vectors that place them between the attackers and the 'bottleneck', you remember what Owusu hinted at in that frantic period of meetings and briefings you were forced to help him with -- that the Outer Fleet had been convinced by the data you'd helped him compile to pull back the majority of its strength to Iapetus in preparation for this attack. Evidently, either not all of them had arrived by coincidence, or more likely they had been ordered to muster elsewhere and proceed as a separate force to attack the enemy once the invaders had put themselves far enough beyond the gap in the defence array to be trapped.
You watch, heart in your throat, as the invading fleet is beset by fire on multiple sides, suddenly surrounded and effectively outnumbered. A ragged, peremptory cheer goes up around the bridge.
"Quiet," Andre says, "we're not out of this yet, as long as the vicious bastards are still shooting." Even she can't hide a relieved looking smile, however. The fighting isn't over, and things can certain still go wrong for the Rose or any other individual ship or pilot in this battle... but the fact of the matter is undeniable: You've won.
--
Advanced warning was received, saving most of the defence array and summoning reinforcements to surround the enemy.
The Rose's experimental upgrades allowed it to go for much of the battle almost unscathed. Countess Perbeck was convinced to switch to a high performance prototype unit in place of her Huntress, increasing her effectiveness. The vacant spots on the mecha squad were temporarily filled by Guardswoman J6 and Lieutenant-Commander Owusu.
There is no response from your mother's Fenris Lancer. Mosi's Provespa was damaged heavily before your intervention seemingly saved her.
The outcome of this battle was, in the end, utterly decisive. The Divine Empire has lost. Nothing, though, is more dangerous than a cornered animal. What was saved and what couldn't be?
Pick three. Votes will be counted in blocks.
[ ] Anchiale Station didn't take catastrophic damage
[ ] None of the mecha pilots close to you were among the many lost
[ ] The Rose didn't take serious damage
[ ] The enemy fleet didn't manage to retreat in good order, and was utterly broken or scattered
[ ] The defending fleet, on the whole, didn't take catastrophic losses
Anchiale didn't take catastrophic damage, the defending fleet didn't take catastrophic losses, no pilots close to you died, 45 votes
Anchiale didn't take catastrophic damage, the enemy fleet didn't retreat in good order, no pilots close to you died, 22 votes
The defending fleet didn't take catastrophic losses, the enemy fleet didn't retreat in good order, no pilots close to you died, 6 votes
The defending fleet didn't take catastrophic losses, no pilots close to you died, the Rose didn't take serious damage, 3 votes
The enemy fleet didn't retreat in good order, no pilots close to you died, the Rose didn't take serious damage, 1 vote
It's difficult to imagine a worse situation for the enemy. Hemmed in by the the surviving defence array, an enemy fleet ahead, a fresh one behind. Lady Nakamura, the Divine Navy admiral, has precious little time to reach a decision, but reach one she does.
Even though it's the enemy dying in such numbers, part of you can't help but feel a little sick at heart at just how many people are dying behind your carefully curated scan map. You watch with a sense of almost stunned disbelief as the enemy fleet rallies, reorganises, and over the next hour and a half, proceeds to ruthlessly sacrifice two thirds of its remaining number in an attempt to allow the last third to break through the line of reinforcements and retreat in something resembling good order. You're sure, as the Rose's guns fire, as the light show dazzles any who look up at the actual camera feed, as you see ship after enemy ship go inactive on your map, that significantly less than that third actually make it out, but make it out they do.
It's a pitiful, last gasp of minor victory in the face of such a crushing loss. The bulk of the attacking fleet has been sunk, has been rendered too heavily damaged to continue, or has surrendered finally in the wake of such overwhelming odds. The gap in the defence array is now so choked with debris, ships, mecha, spaced corpses and unpredictable stray rounds that still require mapping that it's been rendered very nearly unnavigable, making the already astronomical job of mopup and rescue that much harder.
The Rose itself took several concerning hits along its hull. One exterior hatch has been ruled unsafe to utilise without extensive repairs, and the armour on one side is worryingly thin. Ultimately, though, as a trial run for the quasi-stealth system, your ship has fared considerably better than most of the other scouting crafts in the light attack groups, just under half of which were sunk or rendered inoperable, in spite of the best attempts of all involved.
Hours later, when the all-clear is given to drop out of active battle readiness, Captain Andre finally orders a relief crew to take over in the bridge, looking at least twice her actual age as she turns back to her workstation, clearly having no intention of taking a rest herself. Worrisome though that is, it falls to Grayson to attempt to talk her out of working herself to utter exhaustion -- on your way out of the unsealed bridge, you catch sight of the First Officer's bulk floating purposefully in the direction of the command chair.
You put all thoughts of both him and Captain Andre from your head as you float almost aimlessly down the shaft, head and gut swimming as the adrenaline high of the battle finally falls away, leaving you to deal with everything you'd formerly been able to suppress or push from your mind all at once: Your mother is dead. Your only sister, her killer, is onboard through your own efforts, but badly injured enough herself to need direct medical attention. Mosi's presence in the medical bay, or the brig, or wherever she is seems to radiate out at you like an aura of distress and confusion, even though the many layers of metal, plastic and ceramic separating you from her.
"... old me you could follow orders, Lieutenant-Commander!" You stop short as you register Lori's voice, cold and brittle and jagged with fury. With fumbling hands, you pull yourself to a stop on a handhold before you can sail onward directly into the middle of the ensuing disagreement. Neither of the pilots notice you, caught up as they are in staring one another down.
"I can follow orders, Lady Perbeck," replies Milo Owusu. His voice is serious and businesslike. There's no sign at all of the veiled laughter in his eyes that's normally present even in the midst of a crisis. "However, the mandate of Special Reconnaissance and Int--"
"When you tell me that you will obey my directions," Lori says, "I expect you to do so. Not to go over my head and order other subordinates of mine to stand down in the middle of battle!"
A flicker of displeasure goes over Milo's face. "I regret you feel that way," he says. "However, my duty was clear."
She looks almost as though she'd like to strike him. "Your duty was--" At this point, she trails off, having apparently caught sight of you hovering nearby. You hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but once you stopped moving in the vague direction of your quarters, it was surprisingly easy not to move anymore. And a less than professional part of your mind is simply happy to see both of these pilots, but especially Lori, alive and seemingly unharmed, if not quite well. Both of them, still in their pilot suits, look utterly exhausted and in need of a good shower.
"I apologise, ma'am, sir," you say, offering a belated salute. "I did not mean to listen in."
You must look bad, because there's a noticeable pause before either of them returns the gesture, while they both look at you, frowns of an entirely different nature forming on their faces. You note with a distant pang that Lori's hand twitches up very briefly, as though the countess intended to reach out to you before propriety, regulation and good sense forced her to stop the gesture.
"It's perfectly fine, Ensign," she says. Her tone is utterly neutral, but there's something close to alarm behind her blue eyes as they take your own expression and bearing in.
Owusu glances between the two of you briefly, before pushing himself forward a handhold, approaching you closer. "Your sister isn't going to die," he tells you, without preamble. "Although not for any lack of effort by our Guardswoman." He studies your face, noting your lack of a visible reaction, before he offers: "I could let you see her, if you like. As a personal favour." You can't help but notice that, over his shoulder, Lori is glaring at him again.
You have no idea how to feel about the offer, or whether you're even pleased that Mosi is alive. You open your mouth to say something. What comes out is: "Did she kill mother?"
Something close to a grimace passes over Owusu's beautiful face. "I don't know. She... doesn't seem sure. And the final casualty lists aren't anywhere near compiled yet."
You nod. "I see."
He sighs. "I'm sorry, Ensign. If I hear anything about her, I'll pass it on to you."
"Thank you, sir. I... don't think I should see her, just now." Whatever fragile outward calm is holding the ugly mixture of raw emotions inside you in check, you instinctively know it won't survive seeing your sister's face. You're dangerously uncertain of what you'd say. What you'd do if you were in the same room as Mosi in this moment.
How precisely you extricate yourself from the conversation, you're not sure. Soon enough, however, you're keying open the hatch to your quarters, pushing yourself inside, and sealing it behind you.
Alone in the tiny space, the shaking starts, and you feel your breathing speed up and up and up until you're curled in on yourself, hyperventilating hard enough that you feel dizzy and light-headed, the sobs you feel building in your chest trapped there by your own belated panic. Finally, like a dam bursting, they come pouring out, harsh and wracking, unheard by anyone but you.
All of it hits you at once, crashing over you again and again in waves. The stress of being threatened with a gun by someone you should have been able to trust, your helpless grief as you watched the only family you have left doing their utmost to kill one another, the thousand small scares you felt for Lori, for the other participants in the battle you personally care for. The fear that you yourself would die, that the Holy Empire would take Iapetus, would take all of Saturn, strung out for hours and hours before finally being relieved.
You can't be sure how long you stay like that, simply floating in your quarters, making no attempt to wash up or get food or get any real rest. But at long length, you become aware of a notification sound. Bleary with exhaustion in mind, body and soul, it takes a moment or two of numb fumbling before you accept.
"Ensign Amani North?" the voice on the other end asks.
You blink stupidly, your tongue thick in your mouth and your voice creaky, before responding: "This is Ensign North."
"Good." The voice on the other end of the call sounds even more exhausted than you, age and gender impossible to discern. "This is Specialist Hart with the medical relief ship HIMS Merciful Star."
Hearing this, you feel your heart hammer up into your throat. This is it. Confirmation, one way or another.
Instead of giving you news, however, Specialist Hart continues: "Transferring you now, ma'am."
There's a subtle change of audio quality and background noise as the transfer takes place, a half second of relative silence ensuing before a new voice speaks. This one is heartbreakingly familiar.
"Amani?"
You swallow, relief slamming into you almost painfully. It doesn't even sound like your own voice when you finally reply. "... Mother? I thought you were... are you...?"
"Yes, I'm alright. It's going to be alright."
Your eyes sting, and you're crying again, this time out of sheer relief.
The institutional grey and white of the interrogation room feels utterly insulated from the station outside, the populace still in a state of mixed grief and euphoria for the lives lost and saved during the nightmare that was the Battle of Iapetus. It's remarkably similar to every other professional interrogation room in the Solar System -- bare walls all around, harsh lighting overhead, a metal table bolted fast to the centre of the tiled floor. Lieutenant-Commander Milo Owusu puts his tablet to sleep with a definitive motion, before standing up slowly from his place at the table. Beside him, Lady Bowman of Imperial Navy Intelligence follows his lead. "Well, Lieutenant North," Milo says, forcing a smile, "that does it for today, I think."
Still seated on the far side of the table, the tired, battered form of Mosi North nods. In contrast to the two United Solar Empire officers -- Milo in SRI green, Bowman in Navy turquoise -- Mosi is wearing plain spacer clothes in charcoal grey. One arm is bound to her chest, obviously broken in addition to lacerated. A subconjunctival hemorrhage in one eye, on the same side, adds to her lopsided, battered appearance, and when she moves, there's a muted stiffness to her body. Milo can see the resemblance to her sister physically, if not quite in personality. For a woman who had been involved in the sort of things Milo knows for a fact that the illustrious Lieutenant North has been, she has a surprisingly honest face, guarded by none of Amani's graceful poise. But then, the two of them have certainly not lived terribly similar lives.
He exchanges a brief glance with Lady Bowman. Behind her usual mask of aristocratic disdain, Bowman is as rattled as he feels. Reviewing how, precisely, Mosi got ahold of the intelligence she's shared with the SRI, as well as the contents itself, has done little to put either of their minds at ease. The jubilation Milo felt upon the enemy being driven back from Iapetus -- in substantial part due to preparations he advocated for -- has been utterly eclipsed by the knowledge that the elder North sister carried to them.
"What happens now?" Mosi asks.
"You get very used to the sight of this room," Bowman says, voice caustic. "And the walls of a very cozy cell, I suspect. Frankly, you're lucky we don't have you shot. You--"
Milo shoots Bowman a look, and she falls silent, although not quite with good humour. She outranks him, militarily and socially, of course, and the SRI and Naval Intelligence are not quite friends, but Mosi North is in SRI custody, and Lady Bowman is a guest here -- her access to the prisoner being permitted in good faith. "We'll see what happens with the information you've provided," he says. Then, for the benefit of both women, he adds: "We are not the Holy Empire." In response, Bowman looks affronted, but holds her tongue. Mosi gives a very slight flinch.
Milo lets Bowman through the door ahead of him, closing it firmly behind him with a click. "It's better," Bowman hisses, as soon as the door seals, "if she thinks we might just have her shot. That way, she won't hold anything back."
"Well, ma'am, I suppose it's too late now," Milo says, with amiability he doesn't feel. "Although, I must note, the Norths are not known for cooperating while under such thr--" As he turns around enough to see over Bowman's shoulder, he trails off, face going blank.
Lady Bowman is fractionally slower than Milo is, but as she turns to see who it is that has taken up a seat in the observation area, she's the first to speak, voice slightly frantic with delayed courtesy: "Your highness! I was not informed you would be attending!" Bowman bows respectfully, to precisely the correct degree from a Countess and a military officer to an Imperial Princess.
"You weren't," Princess Daystar agrees. She acknowledges first Bowman's bow, then Milo's with a nod each. "Nor was the SRI, however. This was... very illuminating to listen in on, nonetheless." She sits in a hard-backed office chair, as composed and regal as if it were a throne. She cuts a strangely surreal figure amid the drab mundanity of the observation room, with her elegant gown in mourning colours and the almost luminously bright orange-red hair characteristic of the Imperial Family. Carefully, she sets a tablet down on the table beside her and Milo instantly recognises its white and gold colour scheme -- the princess has been reading through the original copies of the Divine Navy files, on the very tablet that Mosi North delivered them on.
"I'm sure, your highness," Milo agrees.
Daystar scarcely looks less grim than the two intelligence officers. Rather than immediately continuing the exchange, she looks to the one-way window set into the wall adjacent to the interrogation room, scrutinising Mosi's hunched over form narrowly. "Surely," Daystar says slowly, as if pondering the matter even as she speaks, "she's earned some degree of consideration."
Bowman's eyebrows -- elegant, raven-black curves against her European complexion -- turn down in an expression of displeasure at this. Briefly, before she remembers who precisely she's speaking to. Milo eyes her narrowly. "Her mother has served the Empire admirably," he says, in seeming agreement with Daystar, "and sacrificed more than many."
This is too much for Lady Bowman to endure. "Lieutenant-Commander," she says, shortly, "this woman nearly killed Dame North. It's a little much to appeal to her family's legacy."
"She did," Milo acknowledges. "But, the Dame Knight seems quite pleased to forgive her the momentary lapse in judgement."
"And I suppose the survivors of the Defence Array attack will all be as forgiving?" Bowman shoots back. "Or the families of all the fallen in the battle that would not have taken place without said attack?"
Before Milo can respond, Daystar clears her throat in a quiet, dainty manner. Both he and Bowman fall silent, turning their attention back to the princess. Her strange, amber eyes look to him. "Has Dame North officially petitioned for clemency on Lieutenant North's behalf?" she asks him.
"She has," Milo confirms. "It was very nearly the first thing she did after regaining consciousness, after checking on the status of her unit and her daughters."
Daystar nods. "I daresay, considering that this information tells us her life is in danger, that my aunt -- long may she rule -- will consider a pardon."
"Long may she rule," echoes Bowman.
"Long may she rule." Milo eyes the princess thoughtfully. Considering how close Daystar is rumoured to be to her aunt, the empress, such a blithe piece of speculation carries considerably more weight from her than from anyone else. Of course, it did come with the silent corollary: "as long as help can reach her majesty in time." Bowman knows all this too -- he can see her shoulders slump in resignation.
Daystar glances back to Mosi on the other side of the glass, frowning slightly. "Whatever it was that possessed her to bring this to us, she did bring it in the end. Would it be... entirely unreasonable to provide slightly more comfortable accommodations then a 'very cozy cell?"
Parsing the suggestion for the polite order that it was, Milo nods. "I will see what can be done, your highness." Particularly when they're hurting as badly for such spaces to process and keep the glut of less cooperative prisoners taken in the battle, as both the SRI and Naval intelligence is at the moment. If he can solve a practical consideration and make the princess -- not to mention Dame North -- happy in the process... well, Milo does always like to kill three birds with one stone when possible. Doing right by Amani as well would be nice, but Ensign North herself had not been terribly capable of expressing a preference when last he spoke to her.
"Well," Lady Bowman says, primly, "I do have a report to compile. By your leave, highness?"
Daystar gives her an almost dangerously unreadable look, lasting slightly longer than was entirely comfortable for Bowman. The baroness's tone, it seemed, had not gone unnoticed. "Certainly, Lady Bowman," she says. "Good luck to you."
Milo and Daystar watch after Bowman's stiff-shouldered form through the window on the door as she departs down the hall. As she disappears around a bend, Daystar's eyes flick down to the Divine Navy tablet, expression clouding anew. "Do you have anyone on Titan, Lieutenant-Commander?" she asks. "Any family?"
"No family," Milo replies. A common enough refrain to require little elaboration. He sighs. "I have people there, however, highness." Through the window, Mosi closes her eyes, drooping in her seat from fatigue, looking miserable. To Milo, Daystar only nods, a look of grim understanding on her normally serene face.
--
Time blurs together for Mosi, left alone as she is in the anonymous interrogation room, affected as she is by the cocktail of painkillers she's been prescribed for her injuries. The world after the battle has a faint quality of unreality about it. A future she never really expected to experience, by the end of things. She looks vaguely in the direction of the far wall, uncertain if there's anyone watching from the other side still. She only belatedly reacts to the sound of the door unsealing, glancing over to see a figure that is most definitely not Lieutenant-Commander Owusu.
The woman stands in the doorway for a long moment, just looking back at her. Mosi has no idea what to say, what to do. Her thoughts feel too sluggish to adequately keep up with the complex emotions tightening in her chest. Slowly, stiffly, she gets to her feet again. The woman she's facing is injured as well, although differently from Mosi. Bandages are visible on her neck, across a large expanse of her face, on skin exposed by the rolled up sleeves of her turquoise Navy jacket.
Face to face, wounds aside, Mosi is struck by the bizarre sensation that she's looking into a mirror, one showing a vision of herself in twenty years. The family resemblance between the two of them is almost eerie -- same eyes, same expression of neutral regard, same complexion a shade or two darker than Amani's. Seeing her like this, in person after all this time, after their previous 'meeting' is almost excruciatingly awkward.
With intense misgiving, Mosi watches as Dame Nalah North approaches her, moving around the table to stand directly in front of her, looking wordlessly into Mosi's face. Mosi only has time to note, disconcerted, that she's now only a scant half inch shorter than her mother, when Nalah lunges forward without warning. Mosi's reactions are slowed by fatigue and medication. She doesn't have time to stop whatever's coming, to get her hands up to ward off the attack, or to dodge out of the way. All she can do is stand there dumbly as... she finds herself wrapped up in a hug.
It's a little bit like being blindsided by an emotional truck. Mosi is completely at a loss, not sure whether to feel anger, or guilt, or relief or resentment. She's thankful, briefly, for her broken arm -- both for the limitations on how tight and how close the hug can realistically be, and for the excuse not to return the gesture. This is the same woman she's hated for over ten years, the same one she tried her very hardest to kill not very long ago. Change of heart or no, it's difficult to go from that to this out of nowhere.
"I'm sorry." If there was anything Nalah could have said to increase Mosi's confusion, this was it. She's... sorry? Mosi stares at the wall, looking over Nalah's shoulder almost ramrod straight as her mother continues: "I'm so, so sorry for leaving you." The arms around her shoulders tighten fractionally, and Nalah's voice has a fragile, wavering quality in her ear. At first, the only thing Mosi feels is a briefly renewed surge of the old resentment. She was sorry? After all that, Mosi gets a sorry? It doesn't last long, though, and when it fades, all that's left is a half numb sense of regret. How had she ever thought -- thirteen years old or not -- that this beaten down, aging woman who Mosi can actually feel trembling against her was going to single handedly rescue her from that place, storming the Martian airspace like an avenging angel or an action movie heroine while a triumphal insert song blared? Somehow, in spite of all the ugliness, suffering and bitterness, the final death of her childish conception of her mother is uniquely heartbreaking.
Real life doesn't have heroes. Mosi should know that by now.
"You're getting out of here, Mosi. We're going to... we're going to get you help." So, no dark cell somewhere, then. She opens her mouth, knowing she should respond. She has to say something. There's a long silence before she finally finds a small, almost broken voice from somewhere:
"Okay, mom."
Nalah's breathing turns ragged, almost pained. She presses her head into Mosi's shoulder, and with an almost horrified start, Mosi realises that she's crying. Mosi's uninjured hand raises at her side, briefly wavering, before falling back down. In the end they just stay like that for long minutes -- Nalah holding Mosi, quietly sobbing and Mosi staring over her shoulder, eyes wide and seemingly bone dry.
--
Beta Sphere,
Anchiale Station,
Saffron Hotel
Once again the Rose is in queue for repairs. This time, your little ship is far down a much longer list, however, even with facilities as extensive as Anchiale's -- thankfully not heavily damaged themselves in the fighting. As great a tragedy as the loss of the population of the ancillary spindle habitats would be, to say nothing of the horror that would be one of the spheres being breached, from a cold-blooded, strategic point of view, the loss of Anchiale's spaceport and shipyard would have been an unmitigated disaster. As it is, the station is already pushed to capacity. You keep this in mind as you approach the blandly impressive prefab building. The blue, atmospheric haze of Beta Sphere overhead seems particularly fragile today. There were a few close calls, but, thankfully, the outer hull was never quite breached.
It's early -- you have been given half a day's leave from the Rose, owing to, as it was diplomatically phrased, your 'family circumstances.' Of all the places you expected to be directed to, a hotel was not high on that list. It's a typically round-cornered structure five stories high, new in the way that so many of Beta Sphere's buildings are, with the decorative shrubs adorning the grounds mostly consisting of rows of dark soil lined with saplings. As you pass through the double doors into the pleasant, comfortable lobby, it occurs to you, not for the first time, that whatever Mosi had to bargain with, it must have been worth a great deal. While you never had any doubt that your mother would fight tooth and nail on Mosi's behalf, you had rather thought that things would be a bit bleaker than this, starting out.
You're guided by an unsmiling woman in an SRI uniform to the elevator, up to the fourth floor, which has been cordoned off in the interests of controlling access to this particular prisoner. You're guided a little ways the hallway, and to a door no different from any of the others. The suite, predictably, is somewhat bigger than your temporary quarters had been, although not quite as nice as what Gloriana had been given. Bright and well furnished, with several cramped rooms. A far cry from a dark cell.
You feel a brief sense of uncertainty as you think of your lover, how furious she'd been with Owusu earlier over his decisions regarding Mosi. You're not sure how she'll feel about all of this when you have a chance to speak with her in private next. Thoughts of Lori, however, are driven from your head, as your mother pulls you into a quick, tight hug.
"I'm glad to see you," she says, after she's done knocking the wind half out of you. She smiles broadly. Looking at her, you see concern behind that smile, but at the same time the weight she'd been carrying around with her since you told her Mosi is still alive seems to have vanished from her shoulders. Certain other things are worse than you expected, however.
"You said a few burns!" you gasp. You take in the side of her face, plastered as it is with naval issue smart-bandages, bright white and extremely obvious against her dark skin. "That's not a few!"
Nalah sighs, releasing you. "It's fine," she says. You notice further bandages on her forearms, her neck, and wonder if it's even worse than it seems, how many more are hidden by her clothes. "It's being treated."
"She... did that to you?" Your eyes track unavoidably to the door that must lead to the bedroom, separating it from the tiny combination sitting room/kitchen. It's the only closed door, and the only logical place that Mosi can be hidden.
"She stopped when it counted," Nalah says, tightly.
"Is it going to scar?"
Nalah sighs, lowering her voice. "Please, try not to..." she trails off, grimacing. "Don't upset her, Amani. She's been through a lot."
"So have you," you say, frowning.
"Amani."
You take in a deep breath, steadying yourself. You weren't prepared for the amount of violence such injuries on your mother -- from a mecha battle, no less -- imply. "How is she?" you ask, finally.
Predictably, Nalah looks a great deal graver about this question than she had about her own health. She glances away. "That Guardswoman nearly killed her," she says.
You bite your tongue on the obvious remark that Mosi had likewise almost killed your mother. "Guardswoman J6 is very good at her job," you acknowledge. "How badly is she hurt?"
"A broken arm, some bruised ribs. Some... damage from where her suit breached. She patched it quickly, but you know vacuum exposure." There's a distant, pained note in her voice as she says this. But she salvages her smile in time to sum up: "She'll be fine, though. Just, as much bed rest as she can get."
You nod, still remarkably uncertain as to how you feel about anything pertaining to your elder sister. You glance over at the door to the bedroom again, crossing your arms pensively.
Nalah looks at you thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again. "Would you like to talk to her without me there?"
"Yes." You hear the terse response being spoken with your voice before you have time for conscious thought. "I'd just like to see how things are between us."
"She's your sister, Amani."
"I know she is, mother."
Your mother gives you a long, searching look, before wearily sinking down into one of the living room area's two low-backed armchairs. "We're all the family any of us have left," she reminds you.
You sigh. "I know, mother." What does that mean at this point, though?
Inside the bedroom, Mosi looks worse than you expected. Fully clothed, laying with her eyes closed above the covers of the hotel bed, new injuries piled on top of the ones she'd had the last time you saw her. Having two mecha violently dismantled around her in 24 hours will do that, you suppose. As you close the door behind you, her eyes crack open, revealing that the sclera of one of them has gone an alarming blood red. Combined with the bruises already present on her face and the arm bound to her chest in a sling, Mosi does somehow look worse than Nalah.
The two of you regard each other for a second or two, from across the impassable, three-foot gulf that is the distance from the door to the bed. A tiny smile twitches into life on her lips, tentative and, you realise, scared. Your hand is still firmly on the doorknob. It's with a strange amount of effort that you finally you release it. "Hey," she says.
"Hello." Your tone, as well as your expression, is studiously blank in the face of her fragile overture. Her smile flickers -- almost a flinch -- but she forces it to remain.
"Amani, I'm..." she looks remarkably helpless as she trails off, as if she doesn't know how to begin to finish that sentence. There's only one way she could have intended for it to finish, however.
"Sorry?" you suggest. "For what, specifically?"
Mosi closes her eyes again, letting the smile go as she heaves in a deep, slightly pained breath. "Holding you at gunpoint is a good place to start."
"To start, yes." This time, she definitely flinches. You plunge on. "I thought you'd killed her," you say, eyes flicking away from Mosi's face entirely, studying the winter scene framed on the wall above her bed.
"Right," Mosi mutters. "The Li girl. I told you I was sorry about that, but... I was glad when they told me she's going to make it."
"Not just Anja," you say, although that is hardly something you've entirely made peace with just yet. "I'm First Scans Officer, Mosi. I saw you fighting mother. I thought you'd killed her."
There's that helpless, uncertain look again as she visibly struggles to find anything to say to that. Seemingly failing, she makes due with: "... I'm sorry."
"I thought our mother was dead, Mosi!"
"So did I!" It's half a shout, and it seems to startle both of you. Your shoulder slams into the door where you jumped back in alarm, much to your own annoyance. Mosi looks instantly, frustratedly repentant. "I thought... that I'd killed her too," she says, making a conscious effort to lower her voice, eyes growing far away and haunted. "I wanted her dead. I... so, so badly wanted her dead. I forgot about everything else for a while. Then, right at the last moment, though, I... I tried to pull the blow. I thought I was too late, though. When she wouldn't wouldn't respond, and... and..." There's genuine, pained remorse in her voice. When you don't respond, she presses on, almost with a panicked quality creeping into it: "The entire time, when I got back to the fleet, even in the battle, I couldn't get what you said out of my head. It stuck, I guess, some of it. "
"Eventually."
"I came around, though! I'm here, aren't I? Can't you just... can't we just..." her words grow tremulous, and she trails off to give you a pleading look, plainly terrified of what might be behind your blank mask. Once again, though, you know what she wanted to ask. Can't you just be normal. Can't the two of you just start over. Can't the two of you just be sisters again.
Can you, though, after everything she's done? After everything you've both been through? Is it really that easy?
--
How do you feel about Mosi?
[ ] Hug her
Words aren't necessary.
[ ] In the end you're family
Things are a mess but in the end you, Mosi and your mother are all any of you have left in the Solar System. It's not going to be easy, but you're going to try and make it work.
[ ] You need time
You can't just be normal with her right now. You know Mosi went through hell, but it's all a lot to forgive, and you need time and space. It won't make your mother happy, but it's what you need.
[ ] You don't know this woman
You loved your sister, but that girl disappeared a long time ago. This Mosi is a stranger to you, and you don't owe her anything, let alone forgiveness, whatever your mother thinks.
Voter turnout this time was massive. I am extremely grateful to everyone for reading, and for engaging with my quest. I realise that the voter-base was split quite sharply on this decision, but I hope that anyone who didn't get the option they wanted can still enjoy this outcome going forward.
In the end, you're family, 50 votes
You need time, 42 votes
Hug her, 6 votes
You don't know this woman, 5 votes
After all she's done and been through, the battles she's survived, your sister is looking at you in unconcealed terror. Terror that you'll leave. That after all this, after throwing away everything, she'll lose the one relationship from her old life that wasn't destroyed or tainted for her somehow. She wants some sign that the two of you will be okay, plainly more than anything.
You put one foot in front of the other, cross the few feet that had seemed like an infinite gulf in a matter of seconds, and tentatively take a seat at the foot of her bed. You're not okay. Not with what happened, with what she's participated in. With what you've seen her do. It upsets you to think about it all, and you need her to know that you're not entirely okay yet. At the same time, you also need her to understand that you want to be.
The smile that finally breaks through your carefully schooled composure is both small and extremely tired, but it's still a smile. "I can't just put everything out of my mind," you admit. "I can't just be... fine with everything instantly. But... you're my sister, Mosi. I want to be a family again."
The tension leaves Mosi's body and she looks even more exhausted than you feel, her injuries only amplifying the effect. She squeezes her eyes shut, and you can tell that she's trying her best not to tear up. In spite of these efforts, her voice nearly breaks when she promises: "I'll try to make it easier on you from now on."
You take a risk, go out on a limb to guess what she'll respond to in this situation, and let yourself laugh, just a little. There's pain in it, but also genuine mirth. "Setting a low bar for yourself, Miss North?" In spite of the burst of laughter, your voice isn't ungentle.
Her mouth twitches up into the shadow of a relieved smile. "Babysteps," she says with faint resignation.
You give a lightly amused sigh and for a long moment, you both fall into a companionable silence. "You're going to have to apologise you Anja eventually, I suppose," you eventually say. Your best friend holding an active grudge against your sister for shooting her in the chest goes somewhat beyond awkward, regardless of who fired the first shot.
"Yeah, that's going to go well," Mosi mutters, cracking an eye open. "'Sorry I shot you during an extra-legal infiltration.' I have no idea how anyone is supposed to respond to that."
"Fuck you."
Mosi, in spite of her position propped up in bed, does a physical double take. "What?"
You smile wider. "It's what she'll say. Although you should still apologise anyway. Don't take it too personally -- her foster-brother was killed in one of the skirmishes we had with your strike force."
Mosi winces. "A pilot?" At your nod, she presses, tentatively, "... what did he fly?"
"The custom Banner." There had only been one, and the customisations on Ito's unit had been extensive and obvious. You anticipate Mosi remembering it.
"That thing," she says, faintly exasperated, "I fought it at Phoebe. Couldn't get much purchase -- the armour was too thick, and he wouldn't let me close with the spike." She sobers again, as she adds: "The pilot I killed there was flying a standard Banner."
"Ensign Song," you confirm, unable to avoid putting slight stress on the surname.
Correctly interpreting what this means, Mosi blinks, too surprised to consider whether or not to feel repentant about what had, after all, been a combat death during an assault on a legal military target. "I killed a Song?"
"Duchess Song's niece," you confirm. "She was nineteen."
"Smith's 18," Mosi says, not seeming particularly moved. "She took the leg off his Vespula before I killed her." She sighs. "I hope he's not dead. He bought into the religion a lot more honestly than I ever did, but he's still a good kid. Did Li's brother die in that ambush around the Strawberry?"
"Yes," you agree, "protecting Lori. Lady Perbeck, I mean."
"Costa's team were the ones on them," Mosi says. "It wasn't me -- I was too busy trying to fight my way past that Guardswoman of yours." Her face freezes up, presumably remembering that she'd been trying to fight her way to the ship you serve on, in order to sink it. When she speaks again, the matter of fact manner has disappeared, and her voice is brittle once more. "... I'm so, so glad she stopped me," she admits.
"I am too," you say, not without a trace of irony. She chokes out a burst of laughter.
The conversation goes on for a short time after that, halting and awkward, but with both of you trying. By the time Mosi is too tired to go on, you feel emotionally drained, but somehow you have more hope for things than you did coming in. It's going to take a long time, maybe, before the two of you can feel as natural speaking to one another as you'd like, but you're both clearly willing to try.
Back out in the living area, your mother sits, stiff-shouldered, talking overly loudly into a communicator headset. She glances over to you conspicuously as you close the door behind yourself, but she doesn't interrupt whoever she's listening to.
"Yes, well, we do have good mechanics here, you know," she says, after listening to what was apparently a lengthy explanation from whoever she's talking to. Despite her tension, the grin spread across her face seems genuine. "... I'll be sure to let Chief Warrant Zhu know you said that. From a distance. Amani just came back out. Do you want to say hello?"
As you look at her quizzically, your mother switches the call to speaker. "Hey," comes the young voice from the other end of the call, forced nonchalance almost painfully obvious. "So I guess you didn't manage to blow yourself up either. Good -- I did a lot of work on that ship of yours."
"It's nice to hear from you too, Faiza." Your own smile, exchanged with your mother, is softer than hers. You try to ignore how whatever injuries are concealed behind Dame Nalah's bandages have rendered her wolfish grin unfamiliar and lopsided. "I was glad to hear you made it through the battle safely as well."
The girl scoffs. The eye-roll is practically audible. "You don't have to make it weird."
"How is telling you I'm glad you're not hurt making it weird?"
She mutters something dark and unintelligible, her face seemingly turned away from the microphone. That's for the best, you suspect. "Anyway, I have to go," Faiza says, clearly regretful. "I just wanted to ask Dame North about her Fenris. Which she trashed."
"I had help," your mother points out.
"... well, yeah, I'd hope they expect you to stop running headlong into walls by the time they make you a knight," Faiza shoots back. "Of course you had help. Sorry, I do have to go. Talk to you soon?" She can't help but add the slightly vulnerable, questioning note at the end. It reminds you of how young she is, bravado and sarcasm or not.
"Talk you to soon, Miss Bal," Nalah agrees.
"Have a good day," you venture, politely. Faiza sighs, and ends the call.
"Good kid," Nalah says, approvingly.
"You're certainly taking an interest."
"Should I not be?" Nalah raises an eyebrow.
"I'm glad," you assure her. "She needs... something stable in her life, I think."
Nalah deflates, ever so slightly. "I've never been good at being that to young girls," she says, voice too quiet.
"Don't start," you warn her, sitting down across from her. "You've always done what you could. Don't say you what you could should have been more."
Your mother, whose mouth is already half open to say just this, stops, looking at you mock reproachfully. "Am I getting that predictable, in my old age?"
"Yes."
She sputters momentarily, before grinning again, shaking her head. "How did it go?" she asks, finally.
You sigh, trying to think of how best to describe what went on between you and Mosi. "We're trying," you decide. "It's hard, but we both want to... fix things."
Nalah shoulders slump in obvious relief, as tension leaves her body for the first time since you arrived at the hotel. "I tried to ignore the shouting early on," she says, "but it was hard when it was about me."
You grimace very slightly. "Well, it was bound to come up. We talked about it."
"Good. She's going to need you, Amani."
"She has you too," you point out.
"She does," Nalah acknowledges, "but I don't think she knows how to feel about me. And it's going to take time to fix that. You have no idea how happy I am to know we're going to be a proper family again."
You glance up at the ceiling, studying the drab panels overhead. "We'll certainly do out best, I suspect."
--
The message, received mere moments after leaving the hotel, had been both welcome and deeply nerve-wracking. Lori, informing you that she had a brief window of time on station between commitments, asking to see you in private. The thought of seeing her in such a setting is undeniably tempting enough that you agree without hesitation. Still, though, you remember her anger at Lieutenant-Commander Owusu on the subject of your sister -- the same sister you've just commited to repairing bonds with.
You're still trying to decide what, precisely, you'll say to her on the subject -- and many others -- right up to the point where you're standing in the doorway of the same temporary apartment you spent the night in once before, looking at her face to face. Her jacket's off again, shirt untucked, golden hair unbound, while she looks you over with an intense scrutiny. Almost as if she's checking you for damage, for hairline cracks that she might have seen in that dreadful moment back on the Rose. When you'd thought your mother was dead. She doesn't seem to find them, looking now..
"Are you alright?" she asks, finally.
"Yes," you say. And you are, by and large, even if there are still many things to work through from here. How to even begin to explain that? How you felt during the battle, during your kidnapping, what she'll think about your decision earlier that day. Uncertain of what you intend to say first, you open your mouth again, trusting words to come out.
They don't have time to, because, after giving a shallow, relieved nod, Lori has crossed the room, pulled you close, and claimed your mouth with hers. Your startlement swiftly melts away, your hands twined together behind her neck, while she pulls you forcefully in the direction of the bedroom with one hand, the other already impatiently tugging open the buttons of your jacket. For a while, at least, all your troubles are driven from your mind, chased away by the intensity of what comes next.
It doesn't last quite as long as either of you would have preferred. Given the recent days you've both had, though, you were never going to have quite that long. You take a moment to relax and come down from the rush of it all, laying on the rumpled sheets of her bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the shower running, followed by a hairdryer. You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath and letting it out.
She's almost as efficient about getting ready again as she proved to be about undressing you, when properly motivated. By the time you open your eyes -- how long were you resting them? -- Lori is standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, uniform mostly reassembled perfectly and staring at you with as intensely self-satisfied an expression as you've ever seen.
"What?" you ask, pushing yourself reluctantly to a sitting position.
She continues to stare, and her voice is as smug as her smile. "I do good work," she says, nodding with satisfaction.
You let out a brief burst of laughter at the absurdity of it, but you're not actually going to argue with that assessment, as good as you still feel. "You didn't waste much time," you note.
She shrugs, languid as a well pleased cat. "I made a promise to myself early on in that battle," she says, utterly shameless, "about what I'd do to you the moment I got you alone afterward."
You tilt your head, giving her a deeply amused look. "All of it?"
"Circumstances forced me to think in generalities. There were people shooting at us, at the time."
"I remember," you acknowledge. You feel her eyes still following you as you make your way to the now vacant washroom, your mutual timetables demanding you leave the twin comforts of Lori's bed and Lori's presence. As you close the bathroom door behind you and slip into the shower, you're forced to acknowledge that this was not the most expedient use of your time together. You can't for your life manage to regret it, however. You're in and out of the hot water with barely enough time to enjoy it -- now isn't that a poignant sort of metaphor -- and wipe fog away from the mirror in order to scrutinise yourself while you attend to your hair as best you can. You decide, optimistically, that the few... interesting marks you can see left on your skin don't show up too badly.
You do regret having to get dressed and ready to leave as soon as you come out of the washroom. It's a slightly undignified scavenger hunt, finding all your discarded clothes left in a rough trail from the door to the bedroom. Underclothes back in place, you kneel down to scoop up your shirt, feeling profoundly grateful for wrinkle-resistant smart fabric. As you straighten up, you only have a split second to register Lori's presence close behind you, before her arms wrap you up in a tight embrace.
"If you were going to keep at this sort of thing, it could have been before, my shower," you point out, quite unable to continue getting dressed. Which, you acknowledge, was probably part of why she'd done it. It's hard to remember why you're complaining, as she nuzzles into your neck from behind.
"You weren't this warm before your shower," she says, reasonably. Her hands are largely behaving themselves, but she does seem to be taking the opportunity to enjoy this temporary quality left by the hot water against your skin.
"Do... we have a lot of time for this?" you murmur.
"No," she's forced to acknowledge. She doesn't let go. After a moment of pleasant silence, she speaks again, lips close against the side of your throat. "Your scanmap saved my life during all that, once or twice."
You feel a rush of entirely different pleasure at the implied praise. "I try my best," you say. "It's hard not to feel helpless, though. Just watching it all happen from the bridge, where all I can do is fiddle with scan feeds and data. I know it's important -- it just feels... very passive, sometimes."
She lets out a hum of amusement. "But you didn't just fiddle with scan feeds this time, did you?"
You tense up ever so slightly, your original anxiety creeping back in at the edges of your feelings. "... are you unhappy about that?" you ask, half a whisper.
"Do I seem unhappy?"
You're forced to acknowledge that she categorically doe not. "No."
"I was--" she stops herself, and she's still close enough that you can feel her frown as she starts again. "I am angry with Milo, for... going over my head, such as it was, in the middle of combat. And, I'll admit, that I did very much want to kill your sister. I saw what happened at that defence array up closer than most, and she'd just tried to kidnap you at gunpoint. To say nothing of how I recognised her unit as the one that killed Song back at Phoebe." She paused slightly too long, before with an air almost of reluctance, adding: "I didn't know she was surrendering, though."
"Do you still... want her dead?"
Lori sighs. "I don't kill enemies trying to surrender or prisoners of war, Amani. And she's your sister."
Your relief battles with remaining caution. "You're fine with this, then? With me having just gone to see her, before I came here?"
"I'm trying to be," she says. Then, as if in consolation, she trails several quick kisses down your neck, arms tightening around you as your breath catches in your throat. "Admittedly, I do have incentive."
"... happy to provide."
"When all this is over," she says, voice affectionately amused, "I really am going to take you for a nice dinner on Titan. Something that will make you put on a nice dress again."
Your smile widens, and you close your eyes again, momentarily. "I won't complain about that."
--
You arrive at the hospital shortly after leaving Lori. You must have retraced the path you took the night you spent in that apartment, right after Anja was shot, in reverse. Your memories from that night are so hazy and clouded in misery, though, that you recognise almost nothing about the trip.
For a moment, when you first see her laying in a recovery bed, eyes closed and peaceful, you're reminded of Mosi. The comparison ends there, though. Unlike Mosi, there aren't any visible injuries, and somehow that hospital gown in place of her uniform robs Anja's soft features of their usual air of wry canniness. At least, until she hears you enter, opens her eyes, and gives you a tired version of a familiar grin. "You ever been shot, North?" she asks, without preamble.
"No."
"Well, for your reference, I do not recommend."
As you approach her bed, the air is filled with low, distant voices, the quietly repetitive sound of hospital equipment. Much like the last time you were here, but under thankfully happier circumstances. This hospital, like all of them, is filled to capacity, and you get the feeling that they want Anja out sooner rather than later. As it is, you're hardly the only two in the room, but you all do your best to give one another the illusion of privacy.
"I'm glad to see you again," you say with complete honesty. Then, with a trace more difficulty -- you have no idea quite what to say -- you quietly add: "I'm sorry. For... getting you shot." Worrisomely, she doesn't respond to that. Instead, just just looks at you, a small frown playing over her lips. Eyes narrowing as if she's studying your face. "... Anja?" Is something wrong? Is she mad after all?
"North..." she says slowly, beckoning with an arm festooned in sensors and tubes, "come closer."
Dutifully, you step up right to the bed and lean in, heart pounding, mouth dry. The past few days have been a roller coaster of surprises, and you're almost afraid of some terrifying revelation that Anja has been sitting on all this time. You whisper: "What is it? What do you need?"
Instead of answering, that same hand shoots out and nonchalantly grabs your collar, tugging it down slightly. The small frown on her face turns back into a grin, this one with an ever so slightly lurid quality to it. "Yeah, thought so," she says, releasing your collar so that you can jerk back, shocked and indigent, "those are very definitely teeth marks."
"... you can't just say that, we're in public!" you hiss, re-adjusting your collar with what little dignity you can muster, as an intense heat spreads through your face.
She shakes her head, tone mock-accusatory. "So, let's get this straight. While I'm here, lying in my death bed--"
"You're not dying!"
"--you've been in bed with your hot, rich, really scary girlfriend. Who unsurprisingly likes to take things a little rough. I see how it is."
"It wasn't planned like that!'
"Uhuh."
"It was spontaneous!" You struggle to keep your voice low, to stop from glancing around in utter mortification. "She just-- it just happened!"
She laughs at you, before breaking off abruptly, wincing in muted pain. "Fuck, North, don't make me laugh right now -- I guess all I had to do to finally break that prissy girl composure of yours was to nearly die. I'll keep that in mind for the future."
You glare at her for a moment, but you can't stay mad, with her alive and conscious and grinning at you. Even if she is being insufferable. You feel yourself relax, and you smile back at her, if more than a little sheepishly. "I doubt it was worth it."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Anja says, as airily as she can manage. But she lets the grin slip into something gentler, more sentimental. "It is good to see you, North. I'm glad you made it through that battle -- now that was some shitty fucking news to wake up to. 'Hello, Ensign Li, glad to have you back with us. Oh, by the way, the Divine Empire might blow us all up at any moment. Try to get some rest.'"
You let out a splutter of amusement at her tone, in spite of the far from funny context.
The two of you fall into a companionable silence that stretches out for over a minute, before, with an air of broaching an unpleasant topic that's been driving her crazy, Anja asks: "So... did they catch your sister?"
"Ah." You expected that, you suppose. An awkward topic, all considered. "... Yes, I suppose. She's currently a guest of the SRI."
"So, a dark cell, then," Anja says, nodding with satisfaction. "Good." Then she catches herself, looking at you half-guilty, as if seeing how much Mosi's presumed hardship bothers you.
"Well, no," you say, slowly. "A... hotel, actually."
Anja blinks. "... what."
"When I say she's... a guest of the SRI, I'm not being euphemistic." You take a seat, finally, in the chair near her bed, taking slightly longer than is necessary to fold your hands primly in your lap. "A suite at the Saffron. It's... nice enough, actually."
"... what."
"It's for security reasons," you offer, filled with a desire to somehow smooth things over, even as you're well aware that it's not working. "We're being overwhelmed with prisoners of war, and the SRI has to share detention facilities with naval intelligence. And she ended up defecting during the battle, with valuable intelligence. So."
Anja glowers, plainly not through with her grousing just yet."I got shot," she reminds you. "And now I'm stuck here sharing a hospital room with three other people! My ass is hanging out of a hospital gown, and she gets a hotel suite?"
"It... worked out that way," you admit. "Mother wanted them to put her up in a hospital, but there wasn't room and they decided her injuries weren't bad enough to need more than bed-rest, after initial treatment." You shrug. "Still, minor vacuum exposure..."
Anja winces at that, almost resentfully allowing some of her irritability to fade away. "While you get screwed by a countess," she nonetheless adds, almost accusatory.
"Are we really back on that?"
She gives you a grin, finally, if one tinged with further black humour. "There are advantages, when your mother's a knight."
"There are," you agree. Then add, "mother's alright as well. It was a close thing, though, for a moment. I... saw her unit go inactive, on scans."
"I'm glad she wasn't dead," Anja says, earnestly. You can see, in the pale blue of her eyes, her replaying a similar moment, with a different mecha going inactive on the Rose's scan map.
"We all are," you say, softly.
There's another moment's silence, before Anja ventures to ask: "Any idea what the intel she traded was?"
You shake your head. "No. No one's handing me classified intelligence just to have a look." Anymore, you don't add. That's a discussion for another day.
Anja huffs, but ultimately relents. "Whatever it is, it had better have been damn good. A hotel! Fuck me."
--
On board the HIMS Titanium Rose
'Good' is a complicated thing to quantify, when it comes to intelligence pertaining to an ongoing invasion.
As you arrive back on the Rose, instantly you know something's wrong. The mood onboard had been warring between somber exhaustion and muted jubilation when you'd left. Now, every face you see as you drift in through the ship's one functioning airlock is characterised by varying degrees of blank-faced horror. The good feelings from your emotionally fraught, but ultimately positive series of encounters back on station abruptly flee and anxiety is reintroduced to the pit of your stomach. You catch yourself at an intersection, uncertain whether or not to flag someone down then and there to ask what's going on.
You're still trying to consider this as you drift your way toward the mess hall, and come face to face with your immediate superior officer.
"Sir," you say, crisply.
Sub-Lieutenant Mazlo looks up from the tablet screen he's been studying with an impatient, distracted look to him. Immediately, you regret approaching him at all. He only belatedly returns your salute. "Ensign," he says. He studies you, and there's an odd flash of resentment on his face. "I see you're back from the family outing."
Even from Mazlo, the level of contempt he's directing at you is seemingly crossing a line. You weren't prepared for it. "I am, sir," you say, caught off guard. You almost don't ask, but you decide you'll tolerate his moods, if it means finding out what's wrong. "Is something... the matter, sir?" you ask, looking around at the mess hall, silent as a crypt. "Did something happen while I was gone?"
"We're shipping out again," he says.
You're stunned, blinking in astonishment. The Rose hasn't received anything but the most rudimentary of repairs, after all. "Sir?"
"We got the news while you were gone," he confirms, belatedly.
"What news, sir?"
Mazlo glances back at his tablet, thin, pale face practically carved out of stone. The scar on his cheekbone -- remarkably out of place for such a bland looking officer -- stands out particularly prominently in this lighting. He's quiet, staring at the screen and not answering your question for long enough that you're certain he's doing it on purpose. Finally, he lowers the tablet, and you catch sight of the screen. Displayed there is nothing but a single photo that you glimpse only in passing -- a woman in civilian garb, standing with two young children, all three smiling against the distinctive yellow backdrop of the Titan sky. Then the screen is hidden again.
"What we just dealt with was less than half of their full invasion force," he says, flatly. You feel as though your whole body has just been drenched in ice water, grip tightening painfully on your handhold as you wait for him to go on. He takes a deep breath, and continues. "They have a larger fleet in-system. It's en route to invade Titan." You don't even have time to properly process this before he heaps even more bad news on top of everything. "The Divine Navy aren't trying to take Saturn intact. They never were."
"What do you mean, sir?" you frown at him.
"I mean, North," he says, "that Lord Admiral Sikes made a joint announcement with her highness, Princess Daystar an hour ago, informing all selected ships of the invasion, and that the enemy's goal is to destroy Saturn's capacity to field any kind of space military presence whatsoever. They weren't trying to take Anchiale, North. They were trying to destroy it, along with its shipyard. They are not concerned with civilian loss of life as long as they avoid another Jupiter after they take the system."
Your voice is quiet and very dry, as you croak, "... and Titan." You begin to realise where this is going, horrified by the sheer, unimaginable loss of life suggested by applying these same tactics to Saturn's most industrialised and densely populated moon, on top of the potential decapitation of the government and the military.
"Yes," Mazlo agrees, Jaw tightening. There's a slight, pained hitch in his voice. "And Titan. That, Ensign North, is what is the matter."
You stare back at him, not remotely knowing how to respond, but half certain you need to say something, before this moment passes:
--
What do you do in this immediate conversation?
[ ] Take your leave neutrally
Accept things as they are, don't make things worse.
[ ] Offer discrete insult
Nothing that you can be reprimanded for. He shouldn't be taking this out on you, and he has it coming.
[ ] Try to repair some bridges
Reach out to him. You're all in this together.
