Echoes of Time - Chapter 3: Bloodshed on Bateria

**TWO WEEKS AFTER ARCADIA**

*** Sector 3 Two Weeks After Arcadia

*** Traq Lain

He dreamed of corridors that stretched into forever.

Dark metal walls. Emergency lighting pulsing orange. The smell of recycled air and something else—something wrong, like copper and ozone and decay all mixed together. And behind it all, the whisper of seven hundred thousand minds screaming in unison.

*Find us. Find what we became.*

Traq woke with a gasp, his implant burning along his skull like someone had pressed hot coals against his brain. For a moment he was back on the Arcadia, back in that darkness, back in the grip of something ancient and hungry—

"Traq!"

Vivian's voice cut through the nightmare. He blinked, and the metal corridors dissolved into the gray dawn light of Bateria. He was lying against a bombed-out building, his back pressed against cold concrete. The sickly sweet smell of burned flesh hung in the air—real this time, not imagined.

Bateria's perpetual amber sky pressed down on them, choked with volcanic ash from the planet's restless mountain ranges. The thin highland air made every breath feel insufficient, and Traq's lungs ached from the effort of pulling in oxygen. The planet's single red dwarf sun filtered through the haze like a dying ember, casting everything in shades of rust and dried blood. Even the concrete beneath him held a faint warmth from the geothermal activity that made this world simultaneously habitable and hostile.

"You were talking in your sleep again," Vivian said. She crouched beside him, her face lined with concern. "The Arcadia?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

Two weeks since they'd fled that station. Two weeks since something vast and alien had brushed against his consciousness. The nightmares came every night now—visions of endless corridors, of minds being emptied like cups drained of water, of an intelligence older than the stars watching from the darkness.

He hadn't told Vivian everything. Couldn't. How do you explain that something broke inside you when you crossed that threshold? That it still watches, even now, even light-years away?

"We need to move," Vivian said, standing. "The battle's about to start."

Traq forced himself to his feet. The real war awaited—the human war, with its bullets and bombs and bleeding bodies. Small stakes compared to what lurked in the void.

But it was the only war he could fight right now.

*** Traq Lain

Bile rose in Traq's throat.

He leaned against the building, vibro-blade hanging limp in his hand. Blood covered the weapon—nearly forgotten now, dripping onto the concrete. The sickly sweet smell of burned flesh wafted through the air, off bodies both living and dead as medics made their rounds across the battlefield.

Cries split the air from all directions. The street stretched before him, littered with casualties next to what used to be an apartment complex for several hundred families. Combat was nothing new to him, and he'd witnessed bloodshed countless times, but this... this was something entirely different.

The twelve story apartment building was caved in along the western edge from a series of bombs dropped by the Kanian Empire. His Empire. It was a chilly reminder of the cost of this war.

Those bombs were meant for a nearby Union Base a few kilometers up the road, but improper calibration and a lack of diligence on the part of artillery teams meant civilian casualties. How many innocents had been in that complex before the bombs fell that couldn't get out? Fifty? Hundreds? Sobering.

The entirety of the ground battle had taken place over the course of five hectic minutes. Traq arrived at the scene with Vivian after the first two minutes passed, but by that point the battle had already been decided. Skirmishes like this, over the last few weeks, were usually decided in the first few shots. The rest was the inevitable press as one side gradually discovered the truth of their circumstances. Truth led to fear, and once people were panicking the battle usually ended rapidly.

That's how this fight had unfolded. The Union forces were outnumbered but held better position. The Imperial troops were still reeling from the bombs when the Fifty-Second company rolled in. The tide quickly shifted against the Unions, but the panic didn't set in until the highly trained Vanguards showed up.

The Union didn't have very many trained killers within their ranks, but Traq and Vivian had spent their entire lives preparing for bloodshed in the name of the Emperor. When Traq and Vivian cut their way into the fray the battle had quickly turned. It hadn't taken long before the enemies fled or surrendered.

Traq's mind replayed the end of the battle. Six Union soldiers were gunned down while attempting to surrender. Whether the gunmen had made the conscious decision to kill them rather than take them prisoner, he couldn't say. He also didn't particularly care, nor would he hold it against them. The trembling in his hands had finally stopped, and his legs felt like they were filled with wet sand.

The battle left him hollow, but it was watching the medics that turned his stomach.

The first group of field surgeons only sought out Imperial wounded. The Union casualties were ignored and the men left untreated to scream in agony and beg for drugs or death. Following them walked a single surgeon with a clipboard; the bringer of death, he held the fate of hundreds of soldiers in his hands daily. He would eye over the wounded Union soldiers, tapping his pencil against his calloused lips and jotting notes.

The ones that could be saved and held for ransom as prisoners of war were noted and left for cleanup crews. The others were offered high doses of anesthesia to ease their passing. The Kanian Empire wasn't without mercy.

A wounded soldier screamed—a raw, ragged sound that clawed at the air. For a moment, the noise twisted in Traq's ears, layering over itself, multiplying, until it sounded like seven hundred thousand voices crying out in unison. The implant along his skull throbbed. He pressed his palm against it, forcing the sensation down.

*Not real. That's not real. They're human screams. Human pain.*

But the distinction felt meaningless. Pain was pain. Death was death. What difference did it make if the minds were emptied by an alien entity or by orbital bombardment? The result was the same—consciousness snuffed out, potential erased, silence where there had been thought.

*Is this any different from what the Arcadia entity did?* The thought came unbidden, and Traq pushed it away. *At least these people chose to fight. At least they understood the stakes.*

But did they? Did anyone really understand what was at stake—not just this war, but everything?

He caught the eye of a pair of Imperial soldiers. Dina and Cecil, two of his closest friends over the last few weeks; weariness lined their faces, though satisfaction at victory showed through. They saluted him.

"Well fought," Traq said. He couldn't think of anything better, and anything more would sound self-serving. Traq had bled alongside this particular company of Imperial soldiers for the last few weeks, and he'd witnessed the agony written across their faces with each loss. When he and Vivian joined them, their unit numbered fifty-three soldiers.

Now these two soldiers were among the last twenty-two still alive. The numbers dwindled slowly but inexorably over the weeks of fighting. They were all long past the virginal thrill of combat. They'd seen the result of too many engagements to think this had been a victory. There were no real winners in a war like this. Now these soldiers were scared and dutiful, wondering if the next battle would be their last.

When will it end?

If it does end, Traq added bitterly. It was hard watching friends die.

*At least their deaths mean something*, whispered a voice that might have been his own. *At least they fight for a cause they believe in. What did those seven hundred thousand on the Arcadia die for?*

Traq nodded to Dina and Cecil but could think of nothing else to say. There was nothing poetic about death, just an end of its own. Twenty-four people lost their lives today, and twice that number was wounded and might or might not live. The ratio was two Union soldiers to every one Imperial, but that didn't make it any easier. There was nothing heroic about murdering people, no matter how well justified.

"You should get that looked at," Vivian said from his side. She'd approached in silence. She held a long length of rope that she was looping around her palm and upper arm.

Traq followed her gaze down to his own arm and blood was dripping down to his hand. There was a cut just below his elbow, but it wasn't deep. The wound had gone unnoticed.

"I'll be fine," he said. Vivian was covered in soot and ash, some from the burning buildings, and some from her opponents: the unlucky Union soldiers caught in her path as grenades went off and flamethrowers burned flesh. She had a few minor scrapes on her body and a giant tear along her sleeve, but no serious wounds. A shiver ran down his spine.

Vivian moved through violence the way other people moved through conversation—naturally, without hesitation. She had explained to him once that some people were good at killing. A general could train men and women their entire lives to become murderers, but if they weren't meant to do it then they would never become good at it. Vivian would never admit it to anyone but Traq, but she enjoyed ending lives.

And so do I. The thought twisted his gut—despicable and dirty—but it was nevertheless true. That was why he and Vivian held such a strong connection to each other. It was what made him different from most of the soldiers around him. They would shoot high.

But right now thoughts wouldn't come. His mind kept sliding off the edges of coherent ideas, repelled by the bodies cooling around him.

Yet in only a few hours the disgust would fade and he would begin preparing for the next engagement. He would even start looking forward to it. He thrived on bloodshed.

*Is that me?* The question circled in his mind. *Or is that the thing inside me now?*

"That was never in question," Vivian said, drawing him from his thoughts. "But you should stop the bleeding. We need to be ready to move in two hours."

So that was why she was packing up her gear. "We're leaving?" he intoned.

"Shortly," she said. "Things are stabilizing here and most of the Navy has gathered across the galaxy. We are mobilizing to meet on Parwen. We'll leave Bateria and land in a hot zone in the southern hemisphere of Parwen sometime tomorrow."

"Parwen?" Traq asked, eyes wide. "The Union has pushed so far?"

She nodded. "We're making a big push back, though. With any luck the planet will be free in a few weeks."

Traq sighed. "And I was starting to like Bateria," he said, scanning the area around him. The amber sky seemed to pulse with heat, and ash drifted down like gray snow, coating everything in a fine layer of grit that worked its way into armor joints and weapon mechanisms. Despite the destruction around him, there was a stark beauty to this world—the way the volcanic light painted everything in warm tones, the distant rumble of tectonic activity that served as a constant reminder the planet itself was alive. "Minus today, that is. I'll let everyone know to start packing."

"Not this time," Vivian said softly. "We are meeting Vanguard Wade and his forces. The Fifty-Second is staying here."

Traq stared at her. "We're leaving the Fifty-Second?"

"Yes," she said. "Pack your things."

"We've been with them for weeks," he said, his throat tightening, hands balling into fists at his sides. "Do we really have to leave them to join more..." he hesitated. He was about to say 'more Vanguards' and thought better of it. Vivian chose this unit specifically because they would be helping normal troopers in smaller engagements.

They wouldn't be getting the glory of central engagements around the galaxy, but they also wouldn't have to deal with the petty squabbling of generals. It was nice just helping normal people.

Traq was twenty-one years old now, but still a child in the eyes of the Ministry. They were leery about promoting him to a full member of the Ministry to defend the Emperor. Hell, they still don't want me carrying a gun, he thought, glancing at the pistol strapped to his side. And now they expect us to jump at their command? But here we are, asking how high.

That wasn't quite fair. Traq didn't necessarily resent the Ministry; normally he didn't even think about them. They were basically a null issue to him, and normally he was good at focusing on the here-and-now issues of his daily life. His sudden spark of anger came from having to leave his friends behind.

Traq had been in sixteen different engagements with this particular company and had grown quite close to several of the soldiers. They didn't judge or scorn him... they didn't even know why he avoided the Ministry. He considered himself one of them.

And now he was leaving. "It's not our call Traq," Vivian said, sympathetic. She liked the soldiers as well, but she was better at keeping herself apart. These troopers were flung into difficult engagements in rapid succession, and without the two highly trained killers hovering nearby to help out things would get radically worse for them. "Scouts just located an intelligence outpost about six kilometers away. They are sending a squad in tomorrow to wipe it out."

"The outpost will have moved by then," Traq said, hoping he didn't sound too bitter. "Once the rest of the army rolls into this territory the Union will back out. They will just fortify somewhere else on the planet. They'll just keep sending the Fifty-Second in to die."

"There's nothing we can do."

Traq hesitated for a second. "You said two hours?"

Vivian stared at him for a long few moments and then sighed, waving her hand in exasperation. "Morty has the scout's map of the outlying region. Make it four hours, but no later."

*** Mortimer Kyle

"You're sure about this?" Mortimer Kyle asked, clutching his sniper rifle nervously and looking at the small outpost below. They were on a wooded hillock just outside the city looking down at a series of deep craters where orbital bombs had been dropped a few weeks ago.

Each crater was at least twenty meters in diameter and ten meters deep, angling down to the point of impact. The ground was blackened and scarred, leaving no trace of what the original target had been. Traq wasn't even sure which side was responsible for dropping these bombs.

The Union communications outpost consisted of a pair of ground cars with the tops removed. They were laden with long range scanners and other equipment along with a few hastily dismantled tents draped over top. They were hidden down at the bottom of one of the blast craters, out of sight for people on ground level.

A series of cement half-walls had been erected around the outside perimeter of the twenty meter wide perimeter. A pair of armed men were busy taking the encampment apart to see what was salvageable.

All told there were six civilians working here and eight soldiers. Aside from the scavenging guards, three pairs of Union soldier were stationed in a triangle around the edge of the crater to the north, south, and east, alert and ready for an attack. They had their guns leaned against the cement half-walls and were scanning for enemies. They seemed on edge, which never helped.

This wasn't going to be easy. The hillock was more than a hundred meters away from Traq's position, and only open ground and more craters spanned the distance. Once they began their approach it would be obvious what was happening, and there were a sizable number of half-walls set up around the perimeter for the guards to hide behind. It would be difficult to get close. They could jump in a series of craters, but sprinting from one to the next would leave them entirely exposed.

But Traq was short on time, and if he scrapped the mission now the communications team would manage to transport this equipment to a new base a few hundred miles away and continue transmitting orders to their planet side army.

The Imperial Fleet orbiting above was blocking most orbital communications and had destroyed all permanent long range towers on Bateria's surface, so these outposts were necessary for the leaders of the Union military to send long range communications to soldiers on the ground.

The victory earlier in the day had scattered the Union military in different directions. Destroying this equipment out here would further disorient those remaining forces into independent armies. If they were left to operate without a set agenda or communication with their commanders then the Fifty-Second would have a distinct advantage, if temporary.

"I'm sure that this needs done," Traq answered finally. "Cecil, Dina, circle around to the far side of the outpost and wait. Once you hear fire charge for that third crater and take up position. Once you get close enough, take out the ground cars. Then we can all go home."

"What are you going to do?" Cecil asked. His voice was deep and baritone and his face protruded in all the wrong places to make him attractive, but he was one of the most simple and loyal men Traq had ever encountered.

He was a large man, imposing in his heavy armor, and his gun was twice as big as Morty's. But, all told, Mortimer Kyle was the more dangerous man. He was short with a round belly; a sharp-shooter, the best in the unit, and one of the most accurate Kanian Snipers in the Sector.

Dina was small and wiry with a sharp horse face, but she was useful as a scout and good at tactics. She kept a pistol strapped to her hip and was calm. Twice as brave as the menfolk, he thought with an inward chuckle.

"What will I do? Something stupid, I'm sure," Traq said. He looked at the three soldiers. They were the three he trusted the most and spent the most time with. If there was a group of people he would trust with his life, these were them.

These are the three soldiers I would have the hardest time saying goodbye to. "Just make sure those cars don't get away or we're wasting our time."

"You got it," Dina said, slapping Cecil on the shoulder and slipping off. Traq waited until they were a good distance away and turned to Morty.

"Think you can hit those two from here?"

"Quite definitely," Morty said.

"Do you think they can hit me?"

Morty looked over the distance. He had a piece of grass stuck between his lips and chewed on it thoughtfully. "Standing still? Probably."

"When do I ever stand still?"

"Are you planning on charging them?"

"If you can keep those two pinned down or take them out of the fight, I can get close enough to hide behind one of those walls. I'll make the rest come to me."

"You know they are shooting bullets, right?" Morty asked. "Not flowers." Traq gave him a sour look.

"Hit the bastards," Traq said. He turned to the path and picked out his route. If they didn't shoot at him it would take about twelve seconds to clear the distance and get behind one of the cement walls.

Twelve seconds. Open ground. Six armed guards.

Traq's vision narrowed as he analyzed the tactical problem. The two guards by the southern barricade would react first—veterans by their positioning. The eastern pair were sloppy, weapons leaning instead of ready. The scavengers at the vehicles were civilians, no threat. The real problem was the first guard behind the nearest barricade. If he recovered within eight seconds, Traq was dead.

Acceptable odds.

He'd fought worse. The Arcadia had been worse. That moment when the entity's mind crashed into his, tearing at his consciousness—that had been worse. This? This was six men who wanted to live.

And Traq wanted them dead.

The cold calculation settled over him like a familiar coat. No fear now. No hesitation. Just the mathematics of violence—angles, distances, timing. He'd kill the ones who needed killing and go home for a shower before leaving Bateria forever.

Simple.

"At least it's downhill," Traq said. He picked up his vibro blade in his right hand and strapped it to his back, then patted the heavy pistol strapped to his side. He hoped he would get to put it to use.

He pushed himself up from his hiding spot, cursing under his breath in fear. This is a bad idea. This is a very bad idea. He took off at a sprint, hearing the percussion of gunshots as Morty let fire behind him.

The outpost guard to the right didn't have time to react. Even from this distance the guard's head snapped backwards as the bullet hit him square in the face. He was dead before he hit the ground, but the second guard was a little luckier. The bullet clipped his helmet on the side and he spun, off balance. He hit the ground behind one of the short cement walls and scrambled to get fully behind cover of the cement.

Morty cursed behind him and another hail of bullets flew past, hitting the cement and dirt around the other four guards as they dove for cover. The cars loomed ahead, but Traq ignored everything except the uneven ground below him. His legs stretched out as he weaved around the craters and jumped over deep holes.

In the distance Cecil and Dina blurred into position, and more gunfire erupted from up ahead as the Union soldiers returned shots at him and Morty. They didn't have a good angle from inside the crater, though, so none of the shots came close to landing. His only real threat was that first guard who fell behind the nearest barricade. If he recovered within the next few seconds Traq could be in big trouble. He was the only one with a good angle.

The ground flew past under his feet until he was only twenty-meters from the barricade. The stray shots were coming closer now as his enemies moved to better positions, but he was hopeful that he would make it unscathed.

The tip of a helmet slid above the barricade and he grimaced as a rifle barrel raised over the cement and leveled at him. Traq was still too far away to defend himself.

The barrel tracked him. Traq's chest tightened—this was it, the moment his luck ran out. He'd survived the Arcadia. Survived that alien entity tearing at his mind. The universe had let him cheat death too many times.

Time to pay up.

His left eye flashed suddenly. Heat seared across his cheek—Morty's bullet, millimeters from his face. Wind brushed where skin should have split open.

No pain.

Traq didn't flinch. Didn't slow. Just kept running as the guard's head snapped back, the top of the helmet collapsing in on itself. The rifle slipped to the dirt ground on Traq's side of the barricade, thudding against the ground.

Should be dead. Should have stopped to check the wound.

But he didn't care.

The guard was dead. That was enough.

Traq dove forward, dropping to his knees behind the barricade and putting his back to the cement.

Shots hummed close to him now, slamming the cement and sending chips flying from the opposite side. The cars laden with supplies were about twelve meters away. The two patrolling guards were crouched near the equipment at the bottom of the crater, and the other four were at the top of either side of the crater, ducking behind barricades.

"A little close, Morty?" he asked over his wrist comm.

"I almost took your ear," Morty said. "You only need one, right?"

"What do I have on the other side?"

"The two guards to the north are trying to move closer, but the other four are facing off with Cecil and Dina now."

"I got one," Dina called over the comm. "But the suckers are hiding now."

"Keep them pinned," Traq ordered, picking up the rifle lying near him. "And watch those cars so they don't get away."

"You got it boss," Cecil said.

"Keep firing Morty," Traq said. He dodged to his right, watched the hail of shots from the hill behind him, and then peeked over his barricade. One guard was approaching, just under the lip of the crater, and the other was ducked down behind a barricade, firing at the hill. Traq raised the gun to bear.

The Union soldier was out of sight for Morty, but nothing protected him from Traq. His eyes went wide when he spotted the young Vanguard.

He dove to the side, trying to reach the safety of the vehicles, but he was too slow. Traq fired the rifle, several bullets tearing into the soldier's armor around the midsection. When he hit the ground he stopped moving.

All of the civilians were crouched under and around the vehicles, clinging to each other. Traq leveled the gun toward the far barricade and took aim at the ones hiding from Cecil and Dina. Caught in the crossfire they had nowhere to go. Traq let off a series of shots, dropping two of the four enemies.

He ducked suddenly, spotting movement out of the corner of his eye. He let go of the rifle and hit his butt. A bullet ripped across the top of the barricade where his unarmored face had been less than a second earlier.

Concrete dust stung his eyes. His ribs ached from the dive—bruised, maybe cracked. Didn't matter.

Traq panted lightly and fought down his terror. A near miss with death was always enough to make his body attempt to lock up, and this wasn't the time.

Two guards left. Opposite angles. Crossfire.

He ran the calculations. If he stayed pinned, they'd flank him in ninety seconds. If he moved now, the southern guard had a clean shot for two seconds while he repositioned. Eastern guard would need three seconds to adjust his aim.

Two-second window. Acceptable.

There were two guards left on opposite angles of the triangle from him, and now both were directing their fire at him.

"Cecil," he called into the wrist comm. "Cecil, come in."

"I'm here," the man grunted.

"They're on me. Can you take care of the southern one?"

"Close up like?"

"Yep," Traq said. He flexed his hand.

"When should I move?"

"Now," Traq said. He closed his eyes and forced fear out of his body. He needed to focus his thoughts and energy to do what he had in mind. He forced his mind to stay focused and calm, and then channeled energy through his implant along the left side of his skull.

Pain exploded behind his eyes. The implant burned—overtaxed, sensitive since the Arcadia. Every time he used his powers now, that alien presence stirred in the depths of his mind. Watching. Waiting. Feeding on the energy he channeled.

*Is this what we really are? Batteries for something else? Doors into our universe?*

The barrier behind him shifted a few feet toward the center of crater. Good. It isn't bolted down.

His vision narrowed to pinholes. Blood dripped from his nose—warm, metallic. The implant seared white-hot along his skull. He'd pay for this later. Migraines for days. Maybe worse.

Didn't matter.

He counted to ten and then threw psychic energy out. The cement barrier flew through the air in the direction of the guard to Traq's left. The attack caught everyone off guard. The cement acted as a flying shield against the enemy to Traq's left, and the one to the right hesitated.

A long second passed and the man raised his rifle, overcoming his awe and preparing to shoot Traq. He didn't get the opportunity.

A loud bellow sounded behind the guard and he spun, bringing his gun to bear. Cecil leapt over the barricade at the guard, wielding his heavy gun like a club.

Traq followed the flying barricade, only a few steps behind. Both cement sheets shattered as they collided and the last guard went flying backwards, bruised and battered but unharmed in his armor.

He began to stand up but Traq stepped on his chest, setting the edge of his vibrating blade against the padded cloth on the man's shoulder.

The dangerous weapon turned the heavy impact-resistance suit of armor into so many strands as it ripped the armor apart. It had the desired effect. The man dropped his weapon and lay backwards. Traq glanced over and spotted Morty walking up, cradling his rifle as if it was a baby.

"Strip him," Traq said, pulling his sword away from the man's neck and pressing a button, turning it off.

"That's kind sick, if you ask me," Morty said, chewing more grass. "But whatever floats your boat. I'm not about to judge."

Traq ignored him and faced back to the crater. Cecil was finished with the last guard, but had left him alive. Dina was rounding up the civilians and ordering them into a line before searching them. "They didn't run," he remarked. Dina shrugged.

"Guess they didn't have anywhere to run to. What do you want me to do with them?"

"Let's load them all on the cars and take this all back to base," Traq said. "Maybe they have some good information to offer in exchange for freedom."

They tied up the two guards and searched the civilians before loading everything up onto the cars. Traq had to admit, after expending so much of his power during the rapid succession of skirmishes, he was glad to be able to ride back to camp.

The ride back was quiet. The prisoners huddled together in the back of the car, terrified into silence. But as they drove through the scarred landscape—past the bomb craters and the burnt-out buildings and the places where people used to live—Traq found himself thinking about the Arcadia again.

*Seven hundred thousand people, trapped on a dead station for six hundred years. And what did it matter in the end? Their war, their politics, their petty human concerns—all of it erased by something that didn't care about borders or empires or ideologies.*

The implant throbbed. He pressed his palm against it.

*We fight over planets while something out there waits to consume us all. And no one knows. No one cares.*

The thought should have been liberating—a reason to stop caring about the war, about duty, about anything. Instead it just made everything feel more fragile. More futile.

It was a ten minute drive back over the bumpy surface of Bateria. The entire company was waiting for them when they showed up, and they were greeted by a resounding round of cheers as they delivered the prisoners. Vivian was waiting for Traq.

"I still have two hours," he said defensively. "I want to say my goodbyes." Vivian nodded at him and then gestured toward his body. He was covered in dirt and flecks of cement. "I'll take a shower too," he said. "I don't want to stink up the Adelina."

Vivian gestured at the other three soldiers with Traq. "You all get cleaned up too. You're coming with us," she said. Traq looked at her in surprise. "With numbers so low the company is dismantling and they are reassigning survivors. I requested these three as our personal bodyguards. Unless you object?"

"No way," Traq said, turning to face them. They seemed as surprised as him.

"You didn't even tell us you were leaving," Dina accused.

"I don't have to now. Let's get changed and get the hell out of here."

Traq didn't really want to admit how thrilled he was they were going with him.

Once he was cleaned up he said his goodbyes to the rest of the company, men and women he had fought and bled alongside, and then loaded up onto the Adelina.

It was cramped with so many people, but no one complained. Vivian and Dina took the crew quarters while Morty, Cecil, and Traq set up bedrolls in the cargo bay. Even before they made it out of orbit Cecil was complaining about how hungry he was and Morty was cleaning his sniper rifle and singing a drinking song. It was going to be a long trip to Parwen.

*** Traq Lain

Cecil's singing was worse than Morty's. That was the first thing Traq learned once the Adelina broke atmosphere and settled into the long drift toward Parwen.

"You don't know the words," Morty accused, pausing in his rifle cleaning to gesture with an oiled rag.

"Neither do you. You've been humming half the verses."

"Humming is artistic interpretation. What you're doing is butchery."

Dina groaned from her bedroll, pulling a blanket over her head. "Both of you sound like strangled cats. Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Sleep?" Cecil looked genuinely offended. "We just survived. Again. That calls for celebration, not sleep."

"Your idea of celebration involves too much noise and not enough alcohol," Dina muttered.

Traq leaned against the cargo bay wall, watching the three of them bicker. It was strange—he'd been with the Fifty-Second for weeks, but he'd never really seen them like this. In combat, there was no time for personalities. Just training, instinct, and the desperate math of survival. Here, in the cramped belly of the Adelina with nothing to do but wait, they were just... people.

Cecil caught him watching and grinned, his oversized features somehow less ugly when animated. "What about you, boss? You know any good songs?"

"I know how to be quiet," Traq said. "It's a valuable skill."

"Boring." Cecil stretched out on his bedroll, his bulk taking up half the available floor space. "Fine, no songs. Tell us something then. Where are you from? What's your story?"

The question landed like a grenade. Traq felt his shoulders tense. "That's not—"

"He's from Geid," Morty said, not looking up from his rifle. "Undercity. You can tell by the accent."

Traq stared at him. "How did you—"

"I'm observant. It's why I'm good at my job." The sniper shrugged. "You don't have to talk about it. Everyone's got places they'd rather forget."

The silence stretched. Then, unexpectedly, Cecil spoke again—but his voice had lost its joking edge.

"My family had a farm on Kallos. Grain, mostly. My dad used to say the soil was so rich you could plant a rock and grow a mountain." He stared at the ceiling. "Union bombed the whole province during the second offensive. Said they were targeting supply lines. My folks, my sisters—they were just collateral."

Nobody spoke. Traq didn't know what to say. He'd never thought about Cecil having a family. Having anything before the war.

"That's why you joined up?" Dina asked quietly. She'd pulled the blanket down, her sharp features softened in the dim light.

"Partly. Mostly I just didn't know what else to do." Cecil's hands clenched and unclenched. "They tell you revenge will make it better. It doesn't. But it's something to do while you wait to feel human again."

The admission hung in the recycled air. Traq found himself thinking about the Arcadia—about seven hundred thousand people who'd never gotten the chance to wait, who'd had their humanity stripped away in an instant by something that didn't even understand the concept.

"I'm afraid of water," Dina said suddenly.

Everyone looked at her. She shrugged, looking almost embarrassed.

"Stupid, right? I'm a scout. I've crawled through burning buildings, outrun artillery strikes, watched friends die. But put me next to a lake and I start shaking." She picked at a loose thread on her blanket. "When I was a kid, my brother held me underwater as a joke. Just a stupid prank. He let me up after a few seconds, but I remember those seconds. The way everything went dark and cold and I couldn't breathe and nobody was coming to save me."

"That's not stupid," Morty said quietly. "Fear's just your brain remembering danger. Doesn't matter if the danger's real or not."

Dina looked at him with something like gratitude. "Anyway. That's my deep dark secret. I'm terrified of drowning."

"Well," Cecil said, forcing lightness back into his voice, "good thing we're going to Parwen. Mostly desert, I hear. Not much drowning there."

"Just getting shot," Morty said. "Much more dignified."

The joke should have fallen flat, but somehow it didn't. They laughed—all three of them, the sound ragged but real. And Traq found himself laughing too, though he couldn't have explained why.

Morty set down his rifle and fished something from his pocket—a small holo-projector, the kind soldiers carried to remember faces they might never see again.

"Her name was Lira," he said, activating the device. A woman's face flickered into being, young and laughing, her hair caught in what looked like wind from an open field. "We were going to be married after the war. She was a medic. Died at Karresh, trying to save some lieutenant who probably wasn't worth saving."

He stared at the image for a long moment, his usual cynical expression stripped away. In its absence, he just looked tired. And old, despite being barely thirty.

"I keep this to remind myself why I'm still fighting. Not for the Empire. Not for revenge." He clicked the projector off. "Just to make sure someone remembers. That's all we can really do, right? Remember the people who deserved better."

Traq thought of Vivian. Of the conversation they'd have later tonight. Of all the things he couldn't tell her about what the Arcadia had done to him.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's all we can do."

Cecil was asleep within minutes, his snores rattling through the cargo bay. Morty returned to his rifle, but his movements were slower now, almost meditative. And Dina lay with her eyes open, staring at nothing, her fingers absently tapping out a pattern that might have been Morse code or might have been nothing at all.

These are my people now, Traq realized. Not because of orders or circumstance, but because they'd chosen to trust him with their fears and their grief and their hope. That meant something. That had to mean something.

*Don't let them become like the Arcadia*, he told himself. *Don't let them become just another number. Seven hundred thousand and three.*

It was a promise he wasn't sure he could keep. But as he settled onto his own bedroll and closed his eyes, he made it anyway.

*** Traq Lain

Later that night, when the others had fallen asleep, Traq found Vivian in the Adelina's cramped cockpit, staring at the stars.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, sliding into the co-pilot's seat.

"Never could, after a fight." She didn't look at him. "You?"

"The dreams." He didn't need to say more. She knew about the Arcadia. She'd been researching the station's origins for years before he'd ever set foot on it.

Silence stretched between them, comfortable in a way that only came from fifteen years of shared history. Vivian had found him when he was six years old—a feral child living in the undercity of Geid, surviving on stolen scraps and raw violence. She'd seen something in him that no one else had bothered to look for.

"Do you remember what you told me," Traq said, "the first night at the Ministry compound? When I tried to run?"

A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "I told you that running was pointless. That you'd just end up somewhere worse."

"You also told me I wasn't broken. That the things I'd done to survive didn't define me." He swallowed hard. "I didn't believe you."

"I know." She finally looked at him, and for a moment the hardened killer fell away, leaving only the woman who had taught him to read, who had held him through the nightmares of his childhood, who had believed in him when he couldn't believe in himself. "When did you start believing?"

"When you didn't give up on me. Year after year. When everyone else at the Ministry wrote me off as damaged goods, you kept pushing. Kept teaching." He met her eyes. "You're the closest thing to a mother I've ever had."

Something flickered in Vivian's expression—pain, maybe, or regret. "I've killed more people than I can count, Traq. I'm hardly mother material."

"And yet here we are." He gestured at the cargo bay behind them, where Cecil's snoring echoed through the ship. "You just adopted three more strays."

She laughed—a rare sound, rusty with disuse. "They remind me of you. Of who you were before the Ministry polished off the rough edges."

"Before you polished them off, you mean."

"I didn't polish anything. I just gave you the tools to become who you were meant to be." She turned back to the stars. "That's all any of us can do. Give people the chance to find themselves."

Traq watched her profile against the starlight. There was so much he wanted to tell her—about what the Arcadia had done to him, about the presence that still lurked in his mind, about his fear that he was becoming something other than human. But the words wouldn't come.

Instead he said, "Thank you. For everything."

She reached over and squeezed his hand—a brief touch, almost awkward. Physical affection had never been her strength. "Get some sleep. Parwen will be ugly."

"Vivian?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Whatever happens there... I want you to know that everything I am, everything good in me, came from you."

For a long moment she said nothing. Then, quietly: "The good was always there, Traq. I just helped you see it."

He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she was wrong—that without her, he would have died in the undercity, or worse, become the monster everyone expected him to be. But her attention had already returned to the stars, to the war that awaited them.

Some things, he realized, didn't need to be said. They were understood.

He went back to his bedroll and lay down, listening to the steady rhythm of Vivian's breathing from the cockpit. For the first time in weeks, he slept without nightmares.

***

Traq didn't know it yet, but Parwen would be where everything changed.

Where the war became real.

Where he'd watch Vivian die.

And where he'd finally understand that the Arcadia had never really let him go.