TAC 13.06.3595 — H-0945 | [CS Rotonmoor, Synaka]

  Io missed home.

  It was so strange. Though the list was long, she missed Toppik, of everything, the most. He'd loved bothering her. Were it in his power, Io wholeheartedly believed he made it his mission to irritate her. She'd lost track of the amount of corrosives he'd slipped into her tops. He'd forced her to routinely double-check the code in her pod before sleep cycles, lest it be programmed to shock her awake the instant she fell unconscious. And his stupid pranks with her hair.

  Oh, how she'd hated him.

  But she missed him.

  He'd also always helped her. If she had to clean power panels, he'd never let her, no matter his condition, work alone. He'd always accompanied her on trading trips to the village. And he always chased down bullies, no matter the risk.

  "Io?" called Sister Moran.

  Her oculars whirled as she turned to see the nun gliding over with a bucket swinging in her hands.

  "Good afternoon," she greeted, brushing dust off her knees as she rose from scrubbing the floor.

  Sister Moran offered a soft smile. "You should rest, dear. And don't go on about that robots don't tire nonsense. I've seen how you sleep."

  Io shrugged. "I'm fine, Sister. I know my limits."

  "You are frighteningly sharp and incredibly kind, my dear, but that is one thing you do not know."

  Io nodded at Sister Moran's load. "Would you like help?"

  "My case, perfectly in point." Sister Moran turned and shouted to the back of the church, "Henry!"

  A gap-toothed orphan came galloping over, sporting a stupid grin. "Yup?"

  "Io's been working for a while, now. Finish up."

  Henry deflated. "What? But Roger—"

  "Is going to join if you continue. And Roger will know exactly why he's cleaning if you don't get a move on."

  "Okay, okay." The orphan groused despondently and snatched the brush from Io's metallic fingers. "Stupid floor. Stupid."

  "Language," warned Sister Moran before looping her arm through Io's and angling for the exit. "When's the last you ate?"

  "Yesterday morning," said Io, nodding politely at a passing group of giggling girls.

  Sister Moran looked appalled. "And you've been working?"

  "I'm still full," argued Io. "I'm fine."

  "It's almost three! We're going to have dinner."

  Her father had been the same way. He'd always insisted she charge, even if she'd already topped off the previous day. A devout adherent of routine and consistency.

  She missed her father.

  "Oh, the internship!" exclaimed Sister Moran, snapping in recollection. "You never told me how the third interview went."

  Io shrugged. "Which one?"

  "Oh, we're cheeky now? Whichever you're most excited for, dear."

  "Kasimov is nice, but they're uptight and difficult to work with. The thing with charities of that size is that they need to be careful, lest their generosity be taken advantage of. It's a bit of a conundrum. You want the freedom to help, but need control to ensure it's done properly. It's a whole thing."

  "And the others?"

  "More of the same, though most aren't as powerful." She huffed. "I'm just... not sure. I'm supposed to hide and somehow help, and it's just so tiring."

  Sister Moran rubbed her back. "Then it's all about asking yourself the question."

  Io sighed. "Who does this help?"

  "And?"

  "Everyone, hopefully."

  "So?"

  "It's worth it."

  "There you go." Sister Moran leaned into her shoulder. Though only seventeen years of age, Io was closing on six feet, enough to loom over the kindly nun. "Now let's get you some grub."

  The orphanage property ranged over a forested, seven-acre sector granted reserve. The church had purchased it nearly seventy years prior in an outreach effort across Synaka in line with their 'Roofs for Youths' program. It'd grown meteorically in the past fifteen, tripling in size to accept thousands of children from all races. Governments and investors also loved the squeaky press, so their funding never dried.

  Take their Rotonmoor location. The schoolhouse was Republic standard, with technology to match. The dorms were large and clean. The food hall was sufficiently staffed and stocked to keep young bellies full. In fact, even the prayer house, which Io had been tasked with scrubbing, was reinforced with quality wood and stone.

  They stepped into the warm afternoon sun. The buildings had been built along the east-west road leading to town, offering Io a long, winding view. On her left, the grassy fields their walkway was built onto dipped into a short valley. The children who'd soon fill it with chaotic, frenzied laughter, however, were confined behind the classroom doors behind her.

  After a leisurely walk through the meadows, Sister Moran broke away, leaving Io to admire the pond. Naturally, Peter seized the opportunity and ambushed her. He, unlike Henry, was closer to her age and therefore completely at puberty's mercy, as evidenced by his newfound fixation.

  "Did you speak to her?"

  "No."

  "What?" He stared like she'd just cut his arm off. "Why?"

  "Because I had chores. Speak to her yourself?"

  "WHAT?" Peter somehow looked even more horrified. "Why would I do that? She hates me!"

  "Then why, Peter, would you think I'd be able to change that? I can't brainwash her."

  "You're a robot!" he argued. "You can calculate her brain and stuff and make her like me."

  Io sighed. "No, Peter, I cannot. That's not even how it works. And I'm not that much smarter than you."

  That was a lie. Io was considerably smarter than Peter, though that was more a factor of his individual idiocy than Terrans in general.

  "Yes you can! You made Vera like Duke!"

  Vera had been crushing on Duke since she'd realized there was more to boys than stink and sweat. Io simply happened to be present when she came clean about it. Duke, being a virgin, was never going to say no; however, she did believe they now genuinely liked each other.

  "Vera already liked Duke," she reminded him, already knowing full well what his response would be.

  He laughed. "Right, of course. Rail thin Duke with rabbit teeth and frog eyes."

  Peter struggled to comprehend the concept of character-driven attraction. Vera appreciated how nicely Duke treated her, even when she'd been sickly and weak. For once, being tall and muscular had worked to someone's disadvantage.

  "Not everything is about looks," she counselled, holding the food hall door open.

  He, predictably again, didn't thank her. "I guess Carly, Peyton, and Gianna missed the memo."

  Those girls were superficial and materialistic. And in their kingdom of comely blindness, he was the closest they had to a one-eyed king.

  "Not every girl is the same, Peter."

  "Obviously. Why do you think I'm talking to you?"

  Io sighed. "I'm going to eat. Goodbye."

  Peter, selectively deaf, followed. The boy wasn't dangerous, but he was pushy in ways that would almost certainly land him in trouble. And based on how infatuated he was with Diana, that day was fast approaching.

  "Like, she's even seen me half naked. What's the deal?"

  "Please leave me alone, Peter. I'm tired."

  "You don't get tired. You're a robot." He tapped his chin. "Hey, do you think she likes legs more? I had my pants on. That might be it."

  Io's charging station was on the second floor. They'd moved it after she'd expressed concern over the smaller children messing about while adult backs were turned. She'd taken two steps toward the staircase when the hall shook.

  As a Xenoli, Io's senses worked differently from Terrans, or, in Diana's case, Oroni. Her mind was sharper and more capable of rapidly assimilating information, which is why she knew the lunchlady's cry of 'earthquake' was inaccurate.

  "That's a ship," she breathed, slowly turning to face the door. A series of ensuing rumbles forced her to clarify, "A lot of ships."

  Peter had never seen Io scared. But for all his posturing and stupidity, he was a decently brave boy and wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty every now and again.

  "Here? Why? We don't have a docking station."

  Io ran for the door. "Quiet."

  A single glance outside was all her gut needed to pit. Yorgans, clad in the dark blue and grey of the Analok Liberation Front, tromped out of landing spacecrafts, hefting bolters as their captains marched toward the orphanage's supervisors.

  Not again. Not again.

  "Are those Yorgans?" Peter gasped disbelievingly.

  "Go inside. Now."

  "Are you kidding? No way!"

  Sister Moran, Jonic and Vyler had stepped forward to speak with the insurgents. Io commended their composure. It wasn't every day one came face to face with intergalactic terrorists, and it certainly wasn't everyone who could hold their nerve when it happened.

  She counted three ships. The first touched down in the fields, which, as the largest and most jagged, struck her as an intimidation tactic. The other two landed at their property's respective northern and southern borders. Though the orphanage had acreage, most was forestry too dense for spacefaring vessels.

  Yet here they were.

  The Yorgans were boxing them in.

  Not again.

  "What do they want?" muttered Peter.

  Io very, very briefly considered telling him before responding, "I'm going to get some air. Stay—"

  Screaming interrupted her. They both whirled to see Sister Moran's head angled sharply backward, a bolt jutting from her forehead. The reflective, hard-light stake sheathed itself halfway through her skull, and she toppled.

  "NO!" howled Peter, right before Io seized the back of his shirt and dragged him from the door. Bolt discharges began filling the air as the shrieking tripled and Analok began their raze.

  "Quiet. We have to run."

  Peter shoved her away. "They killed Sister Moran! Why? She's a stupid old lady! Why—"

  "Peter, I am sorry, but we have to be quiet. Stop shouting or they will hear and kill you too. Okay?"

  Peter was hyperventilating, but he managed to slow down. "Okay. Okay, okay."

  The children, hearing chaos, naturally gravitated towards the eldest present. Io crouched and warned, "I'm going to lead the bad men away. I want you all to run into the pantry, lock yourselves there and be very, very quiet. Can you do that for me?"

  Too terrified to object, they ran off. Io watched them disappear, then turned to Peter and pointed at the stairs. "Go."

  "Fyzz off. I'm not leaving you with them."

  Io took a deep breath. "Peter, listen to me. They will kill you. Go protect the kids."

  "Protect?" he laughed, dangerously delirious. "How? The bolts will punch through my body. Where are you going?"

  Io didn't have time to argue. She turned and wordlessly ran to the back door, shoving it open. Peter hurried after her as she raced from the food hall and out into a thicket of trees. Analok had encircled them from the east and west, which meant so long as she kept buildings between herself and the central ship as they fled south, they'd have a chance.

  And they came so close.

  Io had momentarily decelerated to let a huffing Peter catch up when a translucent blur punched through the back of the boy's throat. He wheezed a soundless gasp and collapsed, instantly dead. Io immediately turned and ran. She wasn't emotionless and hated to see friends, no matter how stupid, die, but she didn't have the luxury of mourning.

  Then they hit her with a thermal.

  She felt the familiar surge of excruciating heat lock her body as she tumbled to the grass, seizing. Parts of her ears, fingers, and lips melted as torment ravaged her organs.

  A horrifying realization struck Io.

  It's lasting too long. They modified their grenades.

  Slowly, miserably, her anguish dimmed. It would take an hour for the sensation to fully dissipate, and she'd be functionally useless until then. In fact, she barely managed to roll to her back and stare up into the dark, armoured eyes of a looming Yorgan terrorist.

  Armoured. She had no blood to freeze over, so dread manifested through additional weight in her lower abdomen.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He had a Xeno. He was a Scion.

  A Yorgan was a Scion.

  "Good hunt," drawled her aggressor, crouching to pluck her off the ground like a suitcase. "Stop moving. Full commission depends on condition. Consciousness doesn't count."

  She couldn't have escaped if she tried. Sometimes, Io wished she was an actual robot. No fear, hopelessness or sorrow. But she wasn't, and now she was alone again. She regained use of her fingers when the Yorgan Scion stepped into the open and back towards his fellow soldiers.

  There was nothing she could do. Either they'd be long gone before authorities arrived, or she'd be dead. And sadly, she wasn't ready to die. Not like Toppik. Not like her father. Not like her people.

  So she didn't, and instead focused on thoughts that would keep her calm. On the one place she'd last been genuinely happy.

  I miss home.

  TAC 13.06.3595 — H-1000 | [CS Valson, Synaka]

  SC Sergeant Laer was not having a particularly eventful day. His shift started quiet and boring, with the most notable highlight being the coffee his corporal spilled across his jacket that morning. The beans, having been imported from out-of-system planets, meant that even a lost drop was keenly felt among his group, and said corporal spent hours weathering death stares for his troubles.

  Laer's assignment was simple. Be out of the house by six, drive to his office, a tower located in the planet's fifth-largest city, Valson, and support the sector as elite law enforcement. Due to Synaka's status as a mine world, most crime involved equipment theft, misuse or corporate shenanigans. He had patience for none, and with any luck, once his three-year posting ended, two-thirds of which had already elapsed, he'd finally be able to get back to managerial ascension. For all the glitz and glamour of Scion-life, twenty-five years of active service and forty-four of life had dulled the appeal of diving through explosions. Though he was a D-rank in his own right, and a strong one at that, Laer quickly found himself growing increasingly appreciative of the quiet found behind a Board.

  He was halfway through a traffic summary when a notification broke his concentration. Laer glanced up and scowled as he accepted the call.

  "What?"

  Corporal Brantias, still bashful of his beverage blunder, replied, "Ping, sir. Three automatic and a manny. Confirmed civilians and casualties. Hostile specifications unconfirmed."

  Laer groaned. "Local enforcement?"

  "Destroyed." Brantias ground the word out.

  Laer's irritation evaporated, and he straightened in his chair. "Elaborate."

  "Would if I could, sir. We've got crumbs for data, but it says there's a ship."

  Laer was now out of his chair. As his Board was fixed to the table, he unclipped the collapsed Glass magnetically anchored to a band fastened to his wrist and inflated the tiny square to a translucent, tactile blue screen projected from a quartet of metal corners. A single tap was all it took to transfer the call.

  "Red bell!" he barked, and immediately an alarm blared through the building. Laer held the Glass up to his mouth and warned, "En route. If Eigrid isn't out of her fyzzing couch by liftoff, you're all on crossing guard duty."

  "Copy."

  Brantias hung up as Laer's doors split for him to jog to the elevator. The moment it began descending, he consulted his Glass to preemptively trip their ship's ignition sequence.

  He emerged on sub-level six, or as his team affectionately named it, the Pit Flap. This, of course, was due partly to the fact that it was underground, so the only way for their ship to take off was through the gull bay doors built behind the tower.

  The Pit itself wasn't much to look at. Command sent engineers to keep the motors running, but drones handled cleaning, and some admin could either be handled by computers or the other handful of non-Scions working on ground level. That meant the hundred-yard basement they'd been left to oversee was almost empty, save a handful of supply crates and two moderately large corvette-class vessels, one of which was humming welcomingly.

  Laer's squad awaited beneath it, all sporting expressions of annoyance.

  Svallauri bowed. "No crossing guards here."

  "Shut up and file in. Declan!"

  Their lead engineer, buried in a Glass, perked up as they began to board. "Sir?"

  "Complications?"

  "Never. She's purring."

  "Copy. Shout if that changes."

  The techs had designed their Boards to remain keyed in to their ships' sensors and systems, allowing Laer's group to focus on the mission at hand.

  "Affirmative. Good luck, sir."

  Laer threw a wave over his shoulder and marched across the ramp, allowing Samphire's thrusters to kick and carry the craft towards the splitting ceiling. Laer strode past the three Scions to check its console for autopilot malfunctions before reaccessing his Glass and opening the brief in his Gridbox.

  By the time Samphire switched from ascension to propulsion, he'd breezed through the frankly nonexistent intel they had on whatever the hell was happening in Rotonmoor.

  "Alright, clam it." Laer faced his squad while collapsing his Glass. "Patrol Team Preacher, as of seventeen minutes ago, what appears to be concealed ships breached the Synakan atmospheric border via fictitious documentation before losing radar tags with high-level cloaks. From what we gather, they've reappeared over one of Rotonmoor's rural subdistricts and opened fire on an orphanage."

  Brantias' eyes widened. "You're kidding."

  "Their identities, motives and armament are unknown," continued Laer. "As they've likely killed civilian children, we will not attempt negotiation and will proceed with immediate evacuation and hostile excision."

  Eigrid flashed a dark grin. Her grey eyes had always been startling against dark skin, especially paired with bright white teeth. "Finally. I haven't killed anything in months."

  "Prioritize," snapped Laer, "the acquisition and secure relocation of the civvies. Do not make me write you up again."

  She waved him off as they began peeling off their jackets and pants to expose form-fitting bodysuits. "Yeah, yeah. Can we suit up, or is there another stanza in your speech?"

  Laer glanced back. "Samphire, ETA?"

  "Forty-five seconds," replied the ship.

  "Understood. Preacher, Summon."

  Laer's underclothes rippled as sleek white metal surged from his body and solidified over his tights in a dense, interlacing pattern that plated him in reflective armour. A matching four-foot sword manifested alongside a white kite shield, then his vision briefly went dark as the metal flexed over his head. A moment later, as his helm settled and the world spun back with stronger definition, Laer swept Samphire's cabin with a wheeling scan.

  His three officers confirmed, "Green."

  Laer checked back to see them clad in unique armour of their own, then clopped over to the ramp.

  "Remember," he insisted grouchily, scowling at the sealed hatch, "kids. They're gonna be crazy and stupid. We do not need more dead kids on our hands."

  Thirty seconds later, lights inside the Samphire shifted from red to green, and the ramp snapped open. Laer, who'd sheathed his equipment, did not hesitate to dive. His team glided out after him, where they plunged almost a thousand yards before coming within range of a forest.

  "Catching," warned Brantias boredly.

  Gravity inverted, and Laer's momentum suddenly decelerated to zero. He hit the ground soundlessly, cracked his neck, then ordered, "Spread three. Eigrid and I will hunt, Lauri and Brant sweep."

  "If you say 'spread three'," sighed Svallauri, "then we know the formation. Repeating it is a redundant—"

  "Move!" barked Laer, blasting forward.

  Unshackled rocketed him forward. He and Eigrid weaved through arboreal traffic at incredibly high speed, covering over half a mile in less than twenty seconds before skidding out into a clearing.

  His accelerated brain registered nineteen hostiles in a fraction of that. Laer, as a pro, didn't startle at the sight of a Yorgan cell invading a Republic planet, but his brain did momentarily chew on that worrying tidbit.

  Then he started fighting.

  Yorgans were tall, thick-skinned brutes. Their militant culture ensured they evolved taller, tougher and more ferocious than any other race. Among the multitude of towering, multicoloured complexions, Laer spotted furs, spikes and tribal markings adorning the Warband. Tusks curved up from thick lips, some even pierced with hoop rings. Some were bald, some had braids, some lingered somewhere in between. They were terrifying. In fact, an average Yorgan easily outmatched a powerful Terran. An average Yorgan outmatched ten Terrans.

  But then again, Laer wasn't an average Terran.

  A small spurt of Charge brought him within range of the nearest hostile, thirty-five feet away. The invader didn't even have time to turn before Laer cut its torso from its legs. The Yorgan had been in conversation with two colleagues within arm's reach, so Laer carved the second's chest in half, then beheaded the third. Its body was crumpling when the others processed his arrival and began rotating their weapons to bear.

  Force Fling.

  Laer's shield flashed and trucked a massive energy wall forward. The hostiles stood between twelve and almost thirty feet away at a forty-degree spread. His Ability instantly bulled through six, crushing their bodies flat before blowing the rest airborne.

  He twisted and Unshackled to run the closest down, then had Arc Song slather electricity over his blade. The Yorgans could only watch as he staked his sword and carpeted the grass in tendrils of energy that tore their bodies apart. Five unfortunately survived, so he steamrolled them with Force Fling.

  Nine seconds, nineteen dead. Laer slowly scanned the field of corpses as he queued his comm and radioed, "Eigrid, sitrep."

  "Nine o'clock."

  Laer glanced left, where a ship, about three hundred yards away, was attempting liftoff. It managed ten feet before a green blur ripped through its left thruster, violently canting the vessel. Eigrid rolled out of her charge and thrust out her hand, extending a glowing cord that fastened to the ship's nose and ratcheted her against it. She used the momentum to slam her fist into the windshield, spreading cracks before the glass shattered.

  Laer missed the rest as the ship was now violently spinning. Two seconds later, it crashed, then exploded into a fireball.

  "Snipers down," updated Eigrid, shedding her invisibility beside him.

  Laer faced the orphanage proper. It appeared to follow a 'hug the river' layout, clustering along a central road. He recognized buildings from the fleeting brief he'd consulted en route, including a blocky school and prayerhouse. The nearest, however, was the food hall, so he decided to start there.

  Laer nodded to Eigrid. "I'll dig. Cloak cycle the perimeter." He punched his comm and ordered, "Lauri and Brant, find the other ships."

  "Copy," assented his team.

  Laer shifted the sword in his grip and took off running. He neglected use of Unshackled to remain alert, then easily shoved the locked door open.

  An empty food hall greeted him. Long benches, tables, and a buffet line built into the far wall sat silently under a domed roof adorned with religious imagery. Several plates, most of which were unfinished, rested on said tables. Laer also noticed steam wafting from the buffet line.

  Frowning, he pushed his senses to scan the shadows and found nothing. At least, not visually. His helm's enhancement of his hearing meant he picked out panicked breathing and muffled cries somewhere below.

  Laer ignored the clashing of combat outside and jogged to a nearby staircase. A quick flight later and he was in the basement. The door producing noise was on his right, and from the increase in panicked breathing, they knew it too.

  "My name is Sergeant Laer," he announced preemptively. "I am a Scion and member of the Terran Fleet. My team is dispatching the foreign hostiles as we speak, but it's imperative that I evacuate you all in case they counterattack with something stronger. I could pull the door open myself, but I would rather you trust me and do it yourself. Is there anyone injured there?"

  No one replied. Laer sighed. "The people killing outside wouldn't ask to be let in. And if someone is hurt, they need to be given priority. Do you have any casualties?"

  "No," said a quiet voice.

  Laer forced himself to remain patient. "Good. Can you let me in, please?"

  He heard shuffling, then the creaky wooden door slowly wheeled outwards to reveal a dishevelled teenage Oroni girl in a flowery blue dress marred by dirt and dust. Her face looked gaunt and terrified, and Laer could see streaks on her cheeks. One of her pointed ears trickled with dark blood. Behind her, Laer counted almost two dozen children huddled up near the back of the room, filthy and trembling in terror.

  "Thank you." His helm blocked his face, so she couldn't see his expression, but he did notice her eyes widen in amazement. He lowered to a knee while sheathing his equipment on his back. "What's your name?"

  "Diana."

  "Hello, Diana. It's nice to meet you. I know this is scary, but you've already shown yourself to be very brave. Are you the oldest here?"

  She nodded numbly, then shook and quietly wept, "They killed the nuns."

  Laer's eyes narrowed. "I'm sorry to hear that, Diana. I need you to focus for a moment. How many children live in this orphanage?"

  "Eighty-three."

  Laer scanned the crowd. That would make this, what, a fourth of them? Rezz. "Do you know where they could be hidden?"

  "There are other pantries," she sniffled, "but I don't—"

  "DOWN!"

  Diana screamed as Laer twisted at superhuman speed to catch a volley of bolts from further down the basement hall on his shield. He tagged the four storming Yorgans and stomped lightning into the ground, which flexed out to ram the hostiles into the ceiling. They punched impressions into the stone, then peeled off to be plastered against Force Fling. Their dense, armoured bodies crumpled like foil and slapped against the far wall as flattened plates of flesh and bone.

  Laer glanced down, where Diana had curled up against the doorframe.

  "Sorry about that. I must've missed them. Are you alright?"

  She didn't react. Laer ground his teeth. Civilians in general were frustrating, but children required a level of extra patience that made the headache just that much stronger.

  "Diana, I know that was scary, but I can't help your friends without you. Take deep breaths, then try to stand up. I'll help you."

  She shakily followed his instruction, then allowed Laer to pull her upright.

  "Good job," he commended. "Now, you were telling me about pantries?"

  Diana's wild eyes were fixed on the mangled corpses of the Yorgans. "Was that him?"

  Laer had already spread his senses further so as not to be caught unawares again. He cocked his head and asked, "Was that who?"

  "The bad Scion." She looked up at him, tears streaming from her eyes. "The one who took Io."

  Laer's head immediately snapped to the ceiling. "Samphire, sound grey!"

  Eigrid, through comms, exclaimed, "What?"

  "Potential hostile Xeno in play," he barked furiously. "Check your backs and stay nimble, Preacher." He looked back at Diana. "Do you remember what he looked like?"

  "Copy," hissed Brantias.

  "Like them." Diana pointed to the Yorgans. "But glowing and with metal in his skin."

  Laer was very, very glad his face was covered, because if Diana had seen his horrified expression, everyone would've panicked.

  "A Yorgan," he repeated slowly, "had a Xeno?"

  "He took Io," she blubbered, disconsolate. "Why do they have to hate Xenoli?"

  Laer froze. "Io was a Xenoli?"

  Diana nodded. "Can you please look for her? Please? They're going to hurt her."

  "I'll try," he stammered, aghast. In all of twelve seconds, this mission had skyrocketed out of his paygrade. Considering the exhaustive documentation that would no doubt follow, he needed to do this by the book.

  "Diana," he started, unsheathing his sword and moving towards the steps, "can you step inside the room and think hard where the other children might be?"

  "Okay." She scampered through the doorway, then peeked out to see him calmly waiting for the three Yorgans blindly sprinting down the steps. Laer minced two with a casual diagonal, then punched the third in the chest hard enough to blow the pulverized remains of what was once a ribcage out of the Yorgan's back.

  Diana flinched. Laer rolled his eyes and instructed, "Okay, now I want you to have everyone hold hands and follow me upstairs." After a pensive pause, Laer crouched to drag the corpses over to the side. "Tell them to keep their eyes forward."

  Two minutes later, a procession of children marched up the steps. The terror was so palpable, Laer had to strain to hear the sniffles and whimpers.

  "Surfacing," he warned his comm while motioning for Diana to wait. Laer then cleared the remaining nine steps with a hop, crunching his shield into the nose of an approaching Yorgan, then hurled his weapon through the terrorist's partner's forehead. The whole thing tore from the shoulders and lodged in a far wall, thirty feet away.

  "Brant, I need protection. Samphire, initiate boarding sequence on my position."

  "Copy," replied the corporal, moments before their ship's AI did the same.

  Laer glanced back at Diana. "You've all been very brave up until now and should be incredibly proud of yourselves. We're going to put you on our ship now and get you far from here, okay?"

  Several nods rolled through the crowd.

  "Good. So when I say, you're all going to sprint outside and run directly up the ramp. Do not touch anything, just face the console and sit, okay?"

  "Sarge?" called Svallauri through comms.

  Diana's mouth had opened to reply, so Laer jerked back with his hand out for 'wait', then replied, "Go."

  "Found the rogue."

  He stalked across the hall and ripped his weapon from stone. "Condition?"

  "Smoked. That guy was early C at most. But there's something else."

  "He's Yorgan?" Laer's jog back to the children stuttered to a stop.

  Svallauri paused. "How do you know that?"

  "WHAT?" exclaimed Brantias. "The Scion was Yorgan?"

  "Brant, where is my shield?!?"

  "In position... now, sir. Sam's right above me."

  "Copy. Lauri, bring the body. Eigrid, report."

  "Found another burrow. Total of thirty-one. There's an adult here, and she tells me if there's anyone else, they'd have fled to the farms. Tracks, given hostile dispersion."

  "Affirmative. Standby for exfil. Lauri, change of plans. Swing over to Eigrid with the loot and support."

  "Copy," confirmed Svallauri.

  "Eigrid, how—"

  "CONTACT!" screamed Brantias, right as the roar of a turret and the screaming hiss of spraying bolts filled the room. The children instinctively cowered. "A corvette is lighting me up! I'm catching, but you need to hustle!"

  Laer spun to the orphans. "Outside, now! Run as fast as you can to the ship and get inside!"

  He then whirled and Unshackled to erase the twenty-five yards between himself and the door in two loping steps. The oak stood no chance against his shield and shattered to splinters as he barrelled through.

  Samphire had reoriented its defences to protect against the deluge of ammunition pouring from a hovering Yorgan craft sitting over the church. Brantias also triggered his force field Ability to divert the rest of the assault, but the larger rounds were clearly giving him trouble.

  "Flanking," Svallauri warned calmly, then a spear arrowed in from the east and rammed the corvette's underside. Energy erupted, but the hostile ship's shield held. Svallauri made a sound of annoyance as she recalled her weapon.

  Laer glanced back to see about half the children successfully boarded, with Diana dutifully standing by in encouragement. Brantias heaved as another volley riddled his barrier, spreading cracks through the Dome.

  "I can't hold it, Sarge," he hissed. "They're gonna punch through."

  Laer was inclined to agree before panning his vision left. "Down!"

  Brantias dropped his barrier and sprinted over to specifically pull a Veil over the remaining orphans, but was stopped by an earthshaking impact.

  All eyes flashed skyward as the Yorgan vessel's wing tumbled to the ground. The rest veered drunkenly, leaving itself open to a second cut that split the craft in two. Laer watched debris topple and shouted, "I'll wedge, you bubble!"

  Brantias nodded and raised another barrier, this one against the ground as Laer primed Force Fling, then punched it forward the instant the ship landed. The ensuing blast and debris hit his Ability and pinwheeled away, leaving part of the fiery shockwave to sweep past and dissolve against Brantias' protective Dome Veil.

  Laer, grimacing, watched the new Scion deactivate the platforms keeping him aloft and plummet a hundred feet. He landed in a crouch, sheathed his polearm, then sprinted over to their group.

  "Guarding song?" inquired Laer.

  "Preaching verse. Private Aild, PT Primus, of the Curgan sector. Help's coming, just slower." Aild rotated slowly, fingers twitching. "Where's the traitor?"

  Laer glanced back to see the last of the children filtering into Samphire. "There is no traitor. We're bringing back a body. And there are more kids, so update your people."

  Aild nodded, though through thorough confusion. "I don't understand. We heard grey."

  "It's a Yorgan."

  "What?"

  "Yeah. We'll bring Sam around. The other half of my team is southwest, underground. Help them."

  "Copy," promised Aild, spinning to shoot off with a flash of energy.

  Laer gave the clearing a final sweep, then hurried up Samphire's gullet. Inside, Brantias, now with a moment of reprieve, had begun to fully explore the ramifications of the mission.

  "How?" was all he asked.

  Laer shook his head. "Doesn't matter. They picked up a Xenoli. Let's try and cork that before it spirals."

  "Fantastic," groaned Brantias behind his helmet. "This has gone from bad to worse to hell."

  Laer checked his rear as the Samphire rotated to locate the rest of Patrol Team Preacher, finding Diana near the front of her group, looking expectantly at him.

  "We'll try and find your friend," he promised. "Thank you for helping me get the children out of the cellar."

  Diana nodded numbly, then curled into her knees. Laer, for all his civilian-centred reservations, couldn't blame her. Brantias was right.

  Things really had gone to hell.

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