{"id":65,"date":"2024-02-06T01:40:26","date_gmt":"2024-02-06T01:40:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/?p=65"},"modified":"2024-02-09T21:59:01","modified_gmt":"2024-02-10T02:59:01","slug":"chapter-0","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/2024\/02\/06\/chapter-0\/","title":{"rendered":"Chapter 0"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I made my sail to save some lives<\/em>
<\/em>Between the bands of heaven.<\/em>
<\/em>The ghosts from comfort watched me fly<\/em>
<\/em>Gave honor to my mission.<\/em>
<\/em>In moons of grey and rings of gold<\/em>
<\/em>We dreamt of new beginnings.<\/em>
<\/em>Now ends have come and ends I make<\/em>
<\/em>To save lives now through murder.<\/em>
<\/em>–<\/em>Citizen-Sailor, Qiroeen Nasuthul Rolaad<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

CE2032\/NC687<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

His older sister is on return from cr\u00e8che for five days when their mother wakes them both in the dead of night. It\u2019s a memory that sticks still. They shared a room, him and his older sister, because her room had been given over to their grandfather. His sister didn\u2019t need a permanent place anymore \u2013 she was at cr\u00e8che, and after she already had a marriage. So she stayed in his room and he loved it, because it was his sister, and she was home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Their mother wakes them up by brushing her fingers through their hair. He\u2019s sleeping with his older sister: Tan-ifriid has her arms around him. He\u2019s three years old. She\u2019s twelve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy babies,\u201d his mother says. He can still remember the pattern of her phos. His mother always had hers under control, never more than just a gentle rhythm of lights. Calm and gentle as she was. That night, when he opens his eyes, he doesn\u2019t recognize her, not immediately. The feeling \u2013 it still twists his chest when he remembers it – it\u2019s his mother\u2019s face, but it\u2019s not her phos. Under her skin, her blue-green blush is frothing and rapid, churning from chin to forehead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It makes him cry, immediately. He remembers the feeling, how his room went blurry. He can remember the way the greenish light coming through the windows made everything strange. Tan-ifriid said something to their mother, something he doesn\u2019t remember, because he\u2019s sure he never heard it at the time. He remembers only being carried by his sister, their mother still brushing her long fingers through his long hair, whispering wordless nothings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He can\u2019t stop crying. She looks so strange. It\u2019s making him panic and he doesn\u2019t even know why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He knows now, of course. Later, when he is older and on cr\u00e8che and took biology classes, he understood what spooked his younger self so much. Phos is how you communicate with babies, something that can dig into that old, instinctual bits of the brain. The lights bind mother to infant, the patterns match face and voice. They\u2019re your ghost, pressed to the surface, soul-under-skin, the truest expression a saehara can give.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He realized he was crying because his mother was terrified.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tan-ifriid carried him outside, where the rest of the family was gathering, from the other homes in the household. His father brings up a boat in the canal. Its sodium lamp is harsh and yellow compared to the worldshine. That\u2019s an image that\u2019s burned into his mind. He\u2019s looking over Tan-ifriid\u2019s shoulder. He can feel his mother\u2019s hand on his back. His father has the boat in the canal and Oron\u2019s rings are across all the horizon. Julshyri-kye etches its shape against them, the city\u2019s towers and subsumed mountain eating up and into the dull rainbow bands. The Oron is peeking just above the highest towers, the big bloated world half in shadow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he pictures it, he can smell the saltwater and feel the burn in his throat from crying. His nephew painted him a picture from the old house once of that exact view. He still has a scan of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s the day they have to leave their household. The whole Casuthal clan, moving inland. He never went back to his room in their old home. His father went back with the uncles, supervised by his grandmother, years later to pack up and bring the important things. Photo albums. Documents. Clothes. Mementos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s never been back. His sister, Tan-ifriid, took over the household when their mother died and started to fill it again with children and cousins and life. Much of the rest of the Casuthal family stayed out in the country where they ended up after that night. He went to cr\u00e8che, he went to apprentice at the Forge, he spent his days working with precision microelectronics and superconductor theory instead of thinking about his family, like he ought to have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He went to the stars instead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re going to die up there,\u201d she told him, the last time he saw her. He was sixteen, an idiot, and she had just had her first baby. His first niece. Then she showed him the statue she carved of him and said when it broke, she\u2019d know he\u2019d died and she would have remember to include him in her prayers to their ancestors. He\u2019d said something clubjumping like what his favorite incense was and what kind of snacks he\u2019d prefer. She cuffed him for that, the blade of her hand as sharp as their mother\u2019s. It was a nice kind of nostalgia, rubbing his sore shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s why there is a particular d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu when Sidhtrien shakes him awake in his narrow bunk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s pulling on his pants before his feet even drifted to the cold, cold tile floor. Sidhtrien wordlessly passes him the deflated condom of a pressure suit. The other saehara\u2019s phos is going furious, shocking bright ripples across his cheeks and up lines to under his short-cut hair. Just like his mother\u2019s had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2019Thivu, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There isn\u2019t much other reason to wake him up like this. There are enough citizen-sailors around the complex that his own particular talents at wiring and crawling around conduits isn\u2019t so in demand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got five minutes, Irosiid. Sorry, kid. Not my fault you\u2019re holed up down here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Five minutes. Sidhtrien, after that apology, kicked up the ladder and out of sight. Five minutes. His nephew\u2019s painting of his old home, that\u2019s off the plaster-coated wall with a snap of adhesive. His toolkit\u2019s already policed up, so he tosses that into the air and while it\u2019s still drifting toward the apex of its arc, yanks open his locker. He ignores clothes that are stuffed into webbing pouches, going instead for a handful of harddisks and a knife. Down comes his toolkit and he catches it on his knee, balancing the ten kilo box like it’s nothing. One handed, he flips clasps and pops the top, stuffing the disks, his knife, his nephew\u2019s painting in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He doesn\u2019t own anything else. Sidhtrien said five minutes. Irosiid needed forty seconds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vanam, tiny moonlet that it was, never had any great importance in the adventurous years of Pact exploration. A bare fraction of the homeworld\u2019s gravity makes it only slightly more pleasant than constant microgravity and the ice-dust composition that accounts for the majority of the lumpen mass leaves it bereft of mineral wealth when compared to the fabulous wealth of the Iyyesian moons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No, Vanam had been and still is a \u2018backwater\u2019 of the system. Ironic that the end comes here. Bitter, too, to have lost all the other moons, all the rest of the grand sweep of the fatherworld\u2019s rings. Driven back and back, back and back again until only a handful of ships survive, patched and battered and thirsty for helium and reactant-mass. Irosiid has been through several of them, working his trade with other engineers and electrical technicians.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vinnenos <\/em>is one <\/em>of the perched vessels he knows exceptionally well. That cruiser docked weeks ago, coming down in the soft sooty snow of the crater. A run-in with a Reach destroyer a million miles away left laser burns down its flanks, peeling back reflective coatings and searing through the thin skin of the refit vessel. Issbrechi-<\/em>class were made to be freighters \u2013 to haul equipment and supplies, people and material between the burgeoning outposts beyond the motherworld. They were never made to fight, for in the days of the Pact, there had only been dreams of peace and exploration.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now Vinnenos<\/em> sits with her remaining siblings. He plans to board her, as there have been no commands to the contrary. Everyone is moving and no one is giving orders beyond \u2018find an open spot.\u2019 There are no windows in the cramped corridors, but Irosiid has been outside since the Soshan Wing came down. Another seven Issbrechi \u2013 the last of the last. All of the hubristically termed \u2018Pact Navy\u2019, anchored down with pitons and tension wiring, bows pointed up at the fatherworld\u2019s rings. None of the ships have what could be considered a full crew. Count in the five hundred, give or take a dozen, that have made it to Vanam as other outposts fell, and there will still be room to spare.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He names the ships, he names them all in his head, as he sidles past other bustling saehara. Everyone is in motion. The Reach is coming. Like him, they carry little satchels of belongings. This facility is going to be a glowing hole in the moonlet in little time. There\u2019s nowhere to go now but home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vinnenos<\/em>. Starlight. Domasti <\/em>and Arbod<\/em>, Ringrunner <\/em>and Target Practice<\/em>. Antetumi <\/em>and Sokrach<\/em>. It\u2019s more than he\u2019s seen in one place at a time. Combined them with the last surviving Akanowyre<\/em>-class\u00a0ECM frigate \u2013 Mind\u2019s Eye <\/em>\u2013 and the three Quao Lys<\/em>-class tenders and they all mass just about as much as a single <\/em>Reach Nufengr-<\/em>class <\/em>cruiser. A single cruiser. The Lunar Campaigns were always a dream, but a good one. A pretty one, that Irosiid thought he\u2019d die for. Tan-ifriid thought so too, but the irony was that she sat with their ancestors now while he<\/em> carried a cracked statuette on a thong that never left his neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s a tremble, slight, but enough to feel through the soles of his feet. Something is taking off. He knows the feeling. It\u2019s a building grumble, low-to-high. Not sharp and immediate, like impacts would be. Wherever the Reach are, they aren\u2019t in range yet, or they don\u2019t have sightlines. Someone is taking off. The rumble continues. Maybe two someones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s Vinnenos <\/em>and Starlight<\/em>. The former, as Irosiid knows well, is still a mess. Just about the only thing left in good condition is reactor containment. It\u2019s holed through; incapable of pressurization and snaking lines of conduits run through the interior, taped down. Its electricals are a mess. There it goes, along with Starlight<\/em> of the lately arrived Soshan Wing. He peers up, open mouthed behind his gold-tinted visor. There\u2019s no sound. Vanam, around him, is white and grey and shadows dance. The big thruster bells on the two Issbrechi are just points of light now, but full burn is enough to light up this side of the moonlet. He sends well wishes to both crew. They have to be pulling multiple gs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The other six Issbrechi are casting off lines and fuel hawsers. Domasti <\/em>is the most recognizable. Of course it is. Everyone knows Commodore \u2018Inghara\u2019s command.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s the ship that\u2019s flashed phos at the Reach for years. It\u2019s the ship that ran to the sun and traded shots with an Assursan <\/em>and lived to tell the tale. It has the red markings of a Kashoross-<\/em>class destroyer on it; a solo kill. When Irosiid was leaving the motherworld behind, his nieces and nephews liked to recreate that ambush with wooden toys. It was what he assured his sister with. The mettle of the Navy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s looking at it right now. Domasti <\/em>\u2013 \u2018Heavenbound\u2019, in classic yawayn. Heavenbound<\/em>. There\u2019s so much arrogance in that name it almost reeks but the ship and its captain prove the better for it. Imagine flying a warship named Heaven<\/em>bound through the rings. Sending alien invaders down into death, in the rings<\/em>. Irosiid was raised Itrinisyi, like most everyone in Julshyri. The name borders sacrilege.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s honoring the ghosts and then there\u2019s daring them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s not sure which Domasti <\/em>is doing or the Commodore \u2018Inghara. Maybe both. The rings were proven to be rock and ice and not the glowing river of Heavenly Houses long ago, but it tempts chastisement to be so bold <\/em>about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cruiser doesn\u2019t look like much. Like the others of the model line, Domasti <\/em>has a long, blocky primary hull. Rotary cannons sprout here and there, welded in and jury-rigged long after its launching but no less deadly for it. Sitting thrust-down, the fat toroid of reactor containment caps off the blocky hull, filling the space between the main fuselage and the thick bulb of the cruiser\u2019s engine. Whipple layers, radiation sinks and fiber-woven armoring wrap thick around the reactor, protecting the most precious and delicate of technologies from first the harsh realities of hypervelocity impacts and more lately the danger of maliciously aimed slugs of tungsten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Someone painted garish and bold taeshun stripes coiling down the back half of Domasti,<\/em> but they\u2019re slashed and scorched and half covered by freshly unrolled and re-tacked strips of shielding. She has scars, the old ship. The Commodore \u2018Inghara used to sail her as Search and Rescue, responding to reactor leaks and battery faults and lifting stuck equipment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid realizes he\u2019s gawking. People elbow past him, loping in bounds in the fractional gravity. No one is empty handed, but no one is burdened. With Vinnenos <\/em>going out to die, he\u2019s on the backfoot. Plans made ten minutes ago upended.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s been seen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMe?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, you. Specialty?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The saehara advancing on him has their visor down like everyone else; keeping out the sun\u2019s hard radiation, but her voice is sharp and clear over proximity comms. Accented, too. Prettily accented \u2013 chairiyish, <\/em>maybe. He smiles, like an idiot, because he has his gold visor down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cElectrical engineering and maintenance.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou good at it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s a silly question. No one out here is bad at their jobs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDecent,\u201d he replies. Tan-ifriid always said humility was more attractive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet on Domasti<\/em>,\u201d she says, gesturing a gloved finger pointlessly. Everyone knows which ship it is. \u201cStep sprightly, sailor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid taps knuckle to visor, dipping his head. She\u2019s past and shouting at another knot of uncertain sailors, sending them over to Ringrunner<\/em>.  There\u2019s a knot of citizen-sailors at Domasti<\/em>\u2019s dropped ladder. Aft entry for an Issbrechi is cramped and in higher gs, an annoying climb. The converted freighters were made to land belly-down, to on- and off-load their cargo of soilmovers and tunnelers easier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Belly-landings took longer to get up and going. No one has done those since the war started. Irosiid jostles a position in line, craning his neck up the hundred-meter length of the cruiser towering over him, the others. Through his pressure suit, he presses against his sister\u2019s totem. Don\u2019t let Heavenbound <\/em>be a prediction, he asks her. He misses her, but not that much. Not yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid is buckling into a couch when bombardment starts. At first, he doesn\u2019t notice the vibrations, muted as they are against the feel of a ship coming online. Domasti <\/em>is testing vector control and the frame of the ship is lightly shivering as first exhaust clears the main bell. But these new vibrations are irregular, random, higher and lower intensity and he hasn\u2019t spent the last eight years aboard ships without learning to recognize what should and shouldn\u2019t be felt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s in a passenger bay, where scientists and bold colonists once filled the couches as they floated out toward newborn science stations and mines. Now it\u2019s full of saehara in stained and patched and battered pressure suits, wearily going through the motions of belting themselves in. He glances along the rows, seeing most of the couches full. Each row is aligned facing \u2018up\u2019. Their backs are to the engines. Vanam\u2019s slight gravity makes this orientation a lot more comfortable than on other moons. A sailor climbs past them, pulling themselves up an integrated ladder one-handed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTriple check! Check your neighbors! If they\u2019re loose, you die too!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The saehara next to him, older than he is, notices the odd shaking of the ship too. In contrast to Irosiid, he stiffens and snaps his head around, phos suddenly flaring bright and uncontrolled across his exposed face and neck. They all have their helmets off, locked down between their feet. They\u2019ll run internal atmosphere if possible, getting as much scrubber time as possible before having to move to bottles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEasy up,\u201d Irosiid mutters, leaning to nudge the man with his shoulder. \u201cPut your feet flat on the deck.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The other saehara looks bewildered, so Irosiid demonstrates, flexing his long arch and forcing his heel down to contact the deck. It\u2019s metal grate, rugged and durable, and like this, he can feel the distant shocks of impacts better. It\u2019s translated up from the regolith to the gear, to the hull of the ship. The couches mute the sensation some.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The other man follows him, adopting the unnatural posture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFeel that? It\u2019s distant. They\u2019re hitting the other side of the moon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you know that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cArrenglas, two years ago.\u201d He offers his palm. \u201cIrosiid, Specialist: Engineering\/Electric.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVailec, Specialist: Rocketry. You were at Arrenglas?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vailec is still pale, his phos unsettled. He\u2019s pretty sure Vailec is older than he is, but if he\u2019d never been down in the dust when the Reach came, he can understand the anxiety. Arrenglas \u2013 he still thought of himself as \u2018Before\u2019 and \u2018After\u2019 that <\/em>moon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor all of it. You can tell how far the hits are by how \u2013 hard to explain \u2013 how rounded <\/em>it feels.\u201d He raps his knuckles off the shaped plastic and cushion-packed armrest of his couch, in time with one of moonquakes. \u201cCloser and it\u2019s sharper. It\u2019s a smack <\/em>instead of a boom<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vailec shuts his eyes, lips tense, focusing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026that so?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTrust me. Vanam\u2019s small. They\u2019re hitting the other side; this is just moonquakes coming through.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The moonlet is two hundred kilometers on its long side, lumpy and too small to round itself out. He isn\u2019t as sure as he made it seem to Vailec, but both Vinnenos <\/em>and Starlight <\/em>launched cleanly. If the enemy has an angle over the horizon, both would have been punched shortly after launching. More – all the Issbrechi poke up above the rim of the crater. That is part of why they came down, thrust-first. They are too long to all fit in the crater belly-down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cArrenglas, you said?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It isn\u2019t a memory he wants to sail down. He nods, all he\u2019s willing to offer further, buckling down the last of his straps and cinching tight across his chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you-\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCheck your webbing,\u201d Irosiid cuts him off. \u201cWe\u2019ll be taking off soon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They are chasing home. Vanam occupies a slot among the dancing moons on the far periphery of Oron\u2019s endless ring system. The motherworld is running away from them, in a lower and faster band, already one hundred and seventy degrees away on the local plane and swinging farther. If they had fuel to burn, it would be faster to circuit the long way and come toward Iyyestil on a conjunction track. Cancel out the velocity inherited from Vanam and be like Ikkan, the Rogue Moon, sailing retrograde. The deceleration to match Iyyestil\u2019s orbit would be painful but doable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Reach doesn\u2019t want the Soshan Wing to get home. They swept in from Vanam\u2019s trail, blocking off the quicker way home. They want it to be a chase, a long chase, after the homeworld that is running away from them all. In the long run, the Reach has the upper hand. Their ships are faster and they have the benefit of gravity manipulation. Their crew don\u2019t have to suffer through suffocating high-g burns. Their crew can walk and sleep and shit and feel only jostles as inertial vectors safely buffer out through tech-sinks. The Commodore \u2018Inghara once tried to capture a Reach ship, to haul the secrets of cilayd<\/em>, of neutronium<\/em>, back to the home Forges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Reach has a standing order to scuttle all ships in danger of boarding. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vinnenos <\/em>and Starlight <\/em>behind them are expanding clouds of vapor and metallic shards. The two ships bought the Soshan Wing time to light engines and escape, at the obvious and expected cost of all souls aboard. Two Issbrechi against a wing of destroyers and a cruiser? Brave, heroic: futile. Irosiid watched tracks right after they launched, as the Soshan Wing was struggling to build up inertia. At long range, the Reach wing fired hunter-killer missiles. Down here, in the colonist bay, there are screens set up, mirroring displays seen by the ship\u2019s command crew. The Commodore likes for everyone to be involved. To understand what is happening. No one should die without knowing why, or how, he is said to believe. It\u2019s surprising sentimentality and Irosiid isn\u2019t sure he wouldn\u2019t prefer for his step from the lands of the living to the ghostbridge to come on him unforeseen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He can\u2019t take his eyes away from the screens. They show the Soshan Wing, all remaining ships. Six Issbrechi. Three Quao Lys. One Akanowyre. They show the tracks of the coming Reach wing, as best as can be extrapolated. Electronic warfare is hot and screaming, trying to blank their sensors. This is why Vinnenos <\/em>and Starlight <\/em>saved them. The hunter-killer missiles, flung out from the Reach ships, would have sprinted out of a morass of radar jamming. Vinnenos <\/em>painted the missiles, relaying back to Domasti <\/em>and the ships of the Soshan Wing their vectors. Starlight <\/em>did her best to provide initial interception fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the time the launch of hunter-killers reach Vanam, most are swatted away. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid watches the missile tracks blink away, one after another. The bay is tense, breath held. Blink, blink, blink. A dozen missiles left. Less. Domasti <\/em>judders as the tracks close. When interceptor missiles are deployed, you feel nothing at all. They detach from magnetic rails, engaging full burns once far enough from the ship to not burn holes through fragile skins. When an Issbrechi trembles – that is cannons. The chunky battle-cannons, designed from scratch out here in the moons, rigged onto vessels of peace. Large calibre, magnetic rail, made to use the cheapest, easiest ammunition as could be machined to bring fire and fury to invading Reach warships. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now, it\u2019s warden-guns. Rotary guns, firing precious chemical-propelled rounds in their thousands. Stitching streams of steel through space, reaching out, reaching: blink, blink go another two tracks. The hunter-killers are close now, they\u2019ll be sprinting-<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid was not raised in a military clan. None of his aunts or uncles served, or his mother or father, or his granddams and sires. He learned quickly after the Reach came. He learned quickly when he left the motherworld behind and held out his hands in service. The terms, the slang, the moment-by-moment of life and death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The hunter-killer missiles light final burn engines. Four tracks remain. Irosiid holds his breath. This is when they are the fastest, the hardest to hit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is when – Domasti <\/em>vibrates through his couch. Weight from acceleration vanishes – his stomach rises in the sudden microgravity – the ship slams to the side – not a hit, not a hit, that was maneuvering, he knows the feel of reaction bursts – and then weight is back and more, full weight, double, triple. Someone groans, but it\u2019s not Irosiid. He\u2019s been under quintuple thrust before. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The last tracks are gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All the icons for the Soshan Wing still shine in the screens, mounted on the walls, tied into the systems that crew and command use. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vinennos <\/em>and Starlight <\/em>bought them this. Vanam is behind them. The Reach chases. The motherworld is running from them. They have a chance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnyone in here certified on Issbrechi?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With four others, Irosiid calls out. None of them can raise fists, since they are still strapped down. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cElectrical?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere,\u201d he replies. No one else does. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet up and come with me.\u201d The sailor doing the talking is floating, one hand holding onto the frame of the compartment door. The engines cut a few minutes ago, no word yet on why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re transferring everyone off the Quao Lys,\u201d she tells him and the rest of the tense passengers. \u201cThe Commodore wants to transit the rings.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s mutters now, glances back and forth, as much as the constricting couches allow. Irosiid is undoing his straps, muttering thanks to Vailec next to him as the other saehara gives him a hand. Crossing the rings outside of channels isn\u2019t done except under very, very careful circumstances. Oron\u2019s rings are as thin as a planet\u2019s rings could be expected to be – tens of meters on average, to near to a kilometer where perturbations of the biggest moons ripple them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

More things he\u2019d learned, after joining the fleet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To cross the rings, you have to match speeds and then ease through under reaction thrust. Even then, you have to expect holes punched in whipple shields and a lot of spot repairs afterward. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s been hours under acceleration. They\u2019re howling along the rings. Any collision now will gut a ship from nose to engine bell. On a straight shot, at gravity thrust, you can cross the entirety of Oron\u2019s rings from one side to another in under a day. You can\u2019t go in a straight shot. There\u2019s a planet in the way. They have to loop, extending the time, burning more fuel, fuel that can\u2019t be replaced or topped up. They have to swing wide, following the rings, just as the Reach wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Reach can do six, seven times the thrust of Pact ships. They cheat with their inertial reflex sinks. If the wing after them wanted to, they could\u2019ve overhauled them an hour out from Vanam. They didn\u2019t. Irosiid doesn\u2019t understand why. They want the Soshan Wing dead, do they not? They want the Commodore \u2018Inghara dead and displayed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The last of his straps come undone and he pushes up, out of his couch. Weightless, he takes a second to stretch, limbs shaking and joints popping. His ribs shift and it feels incredible to be free. The sailor, the one who\u2019s waiting at the hatch, beckons to him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWith purpose, sailor. Commodore will have us moving in thirty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She leads him to operations. It steals his breath. There\u2019s Commodore Ainkruss \u2018Inghara, in the flesh. In the pressure suit and flesh, head close to who had to be his Adorai, Sinthen, speaking low. You\u2019re in the company of Chiefs<\/em>, his sister says to him. Through his own pressure suit, Irosiid presses fingers against the wooden figure of her totem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fingers snap under his nose and Irosiid\u2019s phos ripples in embarrassment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUnder there, sailor. Skip to it.\u201d There\u2019s an unbound tangle of wiring spilling out of a bulkhead – probably jostled loose during maneuvers earlier. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s how Irosiid is in operations when the last citizen-sailors are transferred off the tenders. He\u2019s upside down, relative to the \u2018deck\u2019, head and arms stuck inside the crawlspace. It\u2019s a real tangle. Issbrechi, <\/em>back when the Navy was the Citizen\u2019s Void Commandery, had a handsome and comfortable cockpit at the very front of the vessel. That\u2019s where the pilot flew from, where the captain commanded, where operations chiefs managed loading\/offloading of supply. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A place like that with all the most sensitive stations and the most mission-critical personnel worked when the greatest peril were micrometeors. To be so exposed, against the missiles and shot of the Reach?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every Issbrechi\u2019s first refit was rewiring all essential controls down into the guts of the ship. Where it was varied per vessel. Here on Domasti<\/em>, Irosiid knows it used to be a damage control locker. There\u2019s still brackets for retardant foam and a rack for weld-cutters. It\u2019s why the electrical lines are such a mess. They had to run new lines across half the ship, clipping them down with twist-lock pins. If Irosiid ever met Domasti<\/em>\u2019s resident engineer, he\u2019d buy him a drink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s still reconnecting jostled loose extension plugs when the woman from before taps on his shoulder, jolting him out of his focus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s enough,\u201d she tells him and points to acceleration couches that line the rear of operations. \u201cStrap in here, we might need you again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They want him to stay. He looks over again. The Commodore \u2018Inghara is buckling himself back down. Domasti<\/em>\u2019s operations are laid out in classic Nokayayn style. The Commodore\u2019s couch is at the farthest back, elevated a little, with Engineering to his left hand, Gunnery to his right. At the fore is Piloting, paired with Navigation facing rearward, so the two are face-to-face. Every couch is a swivel mount, in case of hard maneuvers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He takes an empty couch, phos alight, feeling empty and full. Tan-ifriid has to be watching him now. He raises his left fist and kisses his forefinger on the joint, glancing heavenward. Watch me, ghosts, he thinks, because I am in the presence of Chiefs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Commodore doesn\u2019t fit his legend. He\u2019s only as tall as Irosiid. He keeps his hair cropped short and tight, as Irosiid sees before the order is given for everyone to seal helmets. It\u2019s repeated across the intercom, barked out in processed tones through the ship. Something is niggling at Irosiid\u2019s thoughts as he soaks in the sight of the crew, the crew <\/em>of Domasti <\/em>prepare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s it. There\u2019s no Router. He doesn\u2019t see one anchored anywhere. Maybe it\u2019s entwined in the ship, but it would\u2019ve probably liaised with him when he was working on the electricals. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

No Router. Everyone assumed the Commodore had one, probably one of the higher marks. With the tactics he came up with, the victories on the fly – he had to have a Router. There\u2019s not one Irosiid can see and when the Commodore gives the order to relight the engines: this is when the Router would be speaking. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

They\u2019ve done it all on their own. At creche, when he was young – younger, at least – one of his friends had begun to specialize in astrogation. He tried to help her with her projects once and felt like he had a headache for days later. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPeliati<\/em>,\u201d \u2018Inghara says. \u201cYou have the path. Adorai, send the word.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Adorai Sinthen, who is a handsome woman, speaks and calls to the rest of the Soshan Wing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe enter,\u201d she says. \u201cAs prepared, Domasti <\/em>leads.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charts refresh on tactical boards fastened to bulkhead walls. There\u2019s the sweep of Oron\u2019s great rings, thick and dense and close enough to touch. Irosiid sees the idea. All three Quao Lys, slow and chunky, shift to the fore of the Soshan Wing. The six Issbrechi – wait, where was the Akanowyre<\/em>? – form into a chain behind them. Like a pack of tasheun, walking a mountain pass, one after another. The Quao Lys <\/em>turn sideward, plunging toward the rings. Issbrechi are slender, narrow and long. Quao Lys <\/em>are fat and wide, and turned sideways\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Quao Lys <\/em>will clear the path.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid swallows hard in his dry throat. They\u2019ll be battering rams. They\u2019ll punch a hole and while it’s open, the Issbrechi can needle through. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCall the ghosts,\u201d the Commodore says, tone dry but serious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid hears a few murmured beseechings. He would touch his sister\u2019s totem, but weight is piling on his chest again. Watch us<\/em>, Tan-ifriid<\/em>, he mouths. Watch us, mother, father.<\/em> On light hands bear us.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first Quao Lys vanishes the instant it intersects the rings. The icon is there, then gone. Wide eyes watch the screens. Irosiid\u2019s mouth dries and he wills himself not to blink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The second plunges in after its obliterated sister. The icon winks out too, but it takes a moment longer. The third Quao Lys\u2019 <\/em>icon tumbles, spinning and spiraling, but it remains. On the other side of the ring. Domasti <\/em>is next. Irosiid clenches his fists tight on the couch\u2019s arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPrepare for triage,\u201d Adorai Sinthen calls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Blink and it\u2019s missed. The line of the rings, on display, slides past their icon. Domasti <\/em>bucks. It rings like a bell. Klaxons suddenly hoot. There is a high-pitched whistle. A black speck of a hole, as thin around as his finger, mars the forward display. There is a matching one at the rear of operations, about a hand\u2019s width above the Commodore\u2019s helmet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPunctured,\u201d says Engineering. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere?\u201d the Commodore asks. Everyone is so calm. Conversational. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The other Issbrechi <\/em>of the Wing follow, their icons crossing the line of the ring in sequence behind them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDrain atmosphere into tanks. Soshan Wing, reverse thrust.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It isn\u2019t enough to have leapt through the rings. The track of the Reach wing behind them, creeping closer, remains on the other side. The Commodore gives the order and Irosiid\u2019s mouth hangs open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They\u2019re going to charge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Iyyestil is a dot of blue and green and tan. He can see it, if only there were windows. The representation on tactical boards is tantalizing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Reach wing followed them through the rings, but they did it trusting their fields. Three gunships came apart. The fields of every destroyer were stripped, but their hulls untouched. Fields are reformed, in time, but that was why the Commodore ordered a retrograde charge. When the nine Reach destroyers saw the Soshan Wing again, after clearing the sensor-scattering ring, they saw all six Issbrechi bearing down on them, already launching missiles and filling space with tungsten slugs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And they had no fields.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Each Kashoross <\/em>destroyer is half again the size of a Pact Issbrechi. Their guns are bigger, their range greater. They don\u2019t tend to carry many missiles, preferring the more easily resupplied guns to do the trick. Their armor is decent, but their fields are what require a four-to-one ratio for the Pact to hope to have a chance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Without fields, with a swarm of sprinterdart shipkillers already inbound?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two Reach destroyers were holed and killed, going dark as high explosives punctured armor and shredded interiors. Clouds of tungsten rounds as long as a saehara\u2019s hand overmatched and degraded destroyer armor. The next clouds made messy constellations across another destroyer. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then the Soshan Wing was past, dancing close at a thousand kilometers, daring, thumbing their noses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s deserved and Irosiid felt faint, watching it play out. Watching status icons sprout like fungus beside markers for the Reach warships. Like the air in his tank was a lesser mix, because six Issbrechi just killed four destroyers. Three outright and a fourth crippled. There were only five destroyers left – but the cruiser. The cruiser, a fat, ugly Nufengr<\/em>-class sloped down through the ring as the Soshan Wing whips by and it reached out with its artillery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ringrunner <\/em>came apart and then the Soshan Wing was five.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That had been an hour ago. He is still shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Iyyestil is a dot of blue and green and tan, but it is still too far. Tactical boards tell the bitter truth and the Commodore looks grim. They are under two gravities and while the Reach wing behind is chastened and had to reorient after their surprise pass, they are gaining. The cruiser is the farthest back, but the remaining destroyers slowly chew through the remaining distance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Iyyestil, home, motherworld, is seven hundred thousand kilometers away. The Reach destroyers will be in optimal range in moments. They creep past a hundred thousand kilometers behind. They aren\u2019t firing yet. They\u2019re waiting – one single, decisive volley. That\u2019s what Irosiid thinks. They\u2019ll do it all at once. They\u2019ll blow the Soshan Wing out of the sky right at the threshold of Iyyestil, and won\u2019t that be a symbol. They\u2019re chasing us down like catheil. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019re almost home. Tan-ifriid, we\u2019re almost home<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt has <\/em>been a good try,\u201d the Commodore says, and Irosiid is afraid he spoke his fears aloud. He didn\u2019t – through the corner of his eye, he can see the Commodore has a button pressed beneath his thumb. Other voices reply. Irosiid knows one of them – Captain Uszvhelatt, over on Target Practice<\/em>. He spent time on her command, a few years back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe get to see her, Tskavi<\/em>,\u201d Uszvhelatt says. Irosiid wonders who that is – until the Commodore replies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can live with dying in the motherworld\u2019s light.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tskavi? He knows the Commodore\u2019s full name. Who doesn\u2019t? Ainkruss \u2018Inghara Mevass Nokayayn. The man is from Notasychi, his name is nokayayn formation, what is Tskavi – <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tears sting his eyes. Tskavi is the Commodore\u2019s blood name<\/em>. Irosiid knows nokayayn; they make up at least half of the Pact Navy. He knows their culture almost as well as he knows his native Julshyrii. They never give out blood names, not to any but their closest friends, family. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Commodore gifted his to his Captains. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019d like this noted down,\u201d the Commodore continues. He can\u2019t think of him as anything but his title. If they\u2019re to die, now, Irosiid wants to die alongside the Commodore \u2018Inghara. He can\u2019t know his blood name, he hasn\u2019t earned it. He isn\u2019t one of the fearless Captains that flew in the Wing. He\u2019s just here by coincidence. Circumstance. It\u2019s not right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m giving myself a battlefield demotion. I\u2019m renouncing the rank of Commodore. I am going to give the command to turn Domasti <\/em>and engage the motherless Reach bastards at our backs. This isn\u2019t a command. I\u2019ve given enough and this is where it led us. I\u2019d rather die fighting than running.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVasryi sh\u2019henom, Tskavi. It doesn\u2019t have to be an order.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c<\/em>Target Practice needs to live up to her name!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe still have missiles over here on <\/em>Arbod. I don\u2019t like to waste.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c<\/em>Antetumi goes where <\/em>Domasti goes, Tskavi.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid hears the emotion in the Commodore\u2019s voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou honor me, my friends.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve honored us, o Commodore,\u201d Adorai Sinthen murmurs. The rest agree. Irosiid wishes he could vanish into his couch. This isn\u2019t his moment. This isn\u2019t anything he should be here for, but he feels a joy all the same. It wars in him; he is intruding on this sworn moment of honor, at the edge of death, but he is being blessed <\/em>by it. He is among Chiefs, and he will be among Chiefs when he dies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s all he could ever have dreamt of. Tan-ifriid will chide him for it later. She will say: it would have been better, to live and die as a Chief among Saeherid, than to merely die in the shine of their glory, but he\u2019s Irosiid. He is an idiot from Julshyrii. He takes what he can.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Domasti <\/em>prepares to die. Gunnery calls out ammunition status. It all seems like pantomime. They\u2019re going to die in the first pass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What a glorious pass it will be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cArbod<\/em>, if you have missiles, launch a fan in our draft. Our deaths might hide them until they are close enough, and maybe a destroyer will be our price.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll do it, Commodore<\/em>.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPrepare to disengage thrust and rotate,\u201d Commodore \u2018Inghara commands. Irosiid clenches his teeth tight, tasting iron in his mouth. His phos are wild and he can even feel their heat rise in his cheeks. His heart pounds in his chest. His hair, pressed tight under his helmet, twitches and wants to rustle. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDisengage in five, four, three-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSurfacing!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The word is nonsensical. It means nothing. It means nothing to Irosiid. It means, something<\/em>, to the Commodore, who barks out a demand in response.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShow me!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The tactical board changes. New icons appear. That doesn\u2019t make sense. They had all of local Iyyestil orbit already tracked. You can\u2019t hide easily, not in the openness of the approach up from the plane of the rings. The motherworld arcs above them, separated by a hundred thousand and more kilometers, depending on the day of the week. There are no clouds to hide in, no high-albedo debris to lurk behind. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where did they come from?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA surfacing?\u201d Adorai Sinthen spits, like the words are acid. \u201cHere? <\/em>Now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cResolving – one Assursan<\/em>. Nine more – I don\u2019t know what they are. The recognition library isn\u2019t giving me anything. They\u2019re smaller than we are. Wait – five more. Mid-mass Reach haulers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Assursan<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The largest Reach warships ever seen. True battlecruisers<\/em>. Assursan<\/em>. The Pact Navy fled from Nufengr <\/em>light cruisers. Every citizen-sailor had nightmares of an Assursan<\/em> appearing on the track. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBelay maneuvering,\u201d the Commodore orders. \u201cHow are they here? How?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSurfacing events. They dove here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t dive <\/em>here!\u201d Adorai Sinthen declares, angry, angry at the universe for allowing this. There can\u2019t be a final charge for the Soshan Wing. The Assursan <\/em>and its wing are two hundred thousand kilometers distant. Within range. Just the battlecruiser can swat all five Issbrechi with a fraction of their armaments.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHold on – hold on -\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The universe agrees with Adorai Sinthen. It agrees that, in fact, an Assursan <\/em>\u2018diving\u2019 – which Irosiid now remembered was what the Navy called the form of translight the Reach commanded – to the doorstep of Iyyestil, right before them, is quite wrong. The universe agrees with the handsome Adorai and the universe adds an addendum.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid watches as new tracks explode onto tactical. Everyone is shouting. The Commodore is shouting. The other Captains are shouting. It\u2019s chaos. The tracks breed until there is a wall of ordinance bearing down on the Soshan Wing. Irosiid doesn\u2019t know what the markers mean – he\u2019s an electrical specialist, heaven\u2019s sake – but he doesn\u2019t need to know the symbol to understand the meaning. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The tracks show icons that denote missiles, that denote predicted trajectories of cannonshot. The tracks are lines, and every single track bypasses the Soshan Wing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every single track from the Assursan <\/em>and its unknown escorts slides uncomfortably close to Domasti <\/em>and Arbod <\/em>and Target Practice <\/em>and Antetumi <\/em>and Sokrach<\/em>. None intersect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They intersect with the Reach wing behind them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At current ranges, in the hundreds of thousand of kilometers, there are only tens of seconds until impact. A half a minute, at most. Reach ships can be agile, but to Irosiid\u2019s untrained eye, they seem shocked. Stunned. None of their icons sprout new vectors. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Operations falls silent when the first shots, flung out by the accelerator cannons of the Assursan<\/em>, intersect the first Reach destroyers. One icon flickers, turns grey. Killed<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another. Swarms of missiles switch into sprint and dart past the Soshan Wing. Someone thinks to bring up external hull cameras. They see points of light streak past, like shooting stars. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Over the span of a minute and a half, the entire Reach wing is erased. The Commodore seems stricken. He hasn\u2019t given any commands. The other Captains are silent. Destroyer after destroyer drops off the plot. Gunships die in panicked maneuvers. The Nufengr<\/em>, in the rear, runs away. They watch as its icon grows new vectors, indicating full emergency burn in the opposite direction. It\u2019s running<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid doesn\u2019t know what to think. He isn\u2019t sure he can think. His mind is empty and full, humming with white noise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn a standard Reach band,\u201d Adorai Sinthen says, breaking the silence. \u201cI\u2019m – there\u2019s – on a standard Reach band. Open encryption. There\u2019s – they\u2019re transmitting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAloud, Adorai,\u201d the Commodore says, eerily level in tone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s looping,\u201d she says, and then another voice, scratchy with interference fills operations. It\u2019s speaking a dialect of the Reach. Irosiid can understand it. To sail in the Navy, you had to learn Kalathivu, the tongue of the invaders. This isn\u2019t quite Kalathivu; there\u2019s an accent to it and phrasing is different. It\u2019s like nachulni is to his native julshyri. A dialect. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTo the five vessels fleeing Reach warships. Come about and make for our squadron. We are not a House of the Reach. We are from a world called Earth, which has suffered under Reach predation as well. We have defeated our attackers and are here to render aid. This is the Battleship Endurance<\/em>, calling the five vessels of the species native to this world. I repeat: we are here to render aid. Come about and make for our squadron for escort. Message repeats.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

CE2048\/NC695<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd that was it,\u201d Irosiid admitted, finally reaching for his glass and downing half of it in a few determined gulps. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou tell it faster every time,\u201d Seegs said with a chuckle, tucking back into his plate of rehydrated steak. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s it?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Irosiid studied the woman across from him. Seegs – Subodh – he already knew. He was a friendly face on a new assignment and naturally it was Seegs that drew this story out of him. Around the table in the officer\u2019s mess, the rest of the command staff were new. The woman frowning at him: Hulling, Katherine Hulling, his new X.O. His new captain, James Dawson, sat at the head of the time, slight smile on his face and otherwise quiet, letting it all play out. Dawson had a reputation and a good one in the Fleet, but Hulling he didn\u2019t know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s it,\u201d Irosiid confirmed. \u201cAfter that, we followed Endurance <\/em>into Iyyestil\u2019s orbit. The rest is history. No, I didn\u2019t meet the Lord of War or the Lady Sword. I was locked up in debriefings for the next month and I missed the end of the Siege.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are the odds, mm?\u201d Seegs said, like he always did when they played out this dance. \u201cYou get a front row ticket to the Intercession because you were a wire monkey.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank you, Seegs.\u201d <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

His older sister is on return from cr\u00e8che for five days when their mother wakes them both in the dead of night. It\u2019s a memory that sticks still. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":69,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_mi_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"cybocfi_hide_featured_image":"yes","footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[14],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/65"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=65"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/65\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":75,"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/65\/revisions\/75"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/69"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=65"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=65"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tales.ecumene.space\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=65"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}