Miran’s Parade float rounded the corner on its final stretch of the city tour. Having travelled through the city’s outer industrial districts of Mercao, and Libourne, passed over the Citadella canal. In Kingsborough’s ancient, twisting streets, it came to a spectacular finale as her float lined up with the Spire down Principale avenue. Overhead, the sky parade was in full swing as dozens of aircraft flew by in flawless formation.
Soren was notably absent, having asked her express permission to skip his time on the float. Lawson Ha had disapproved. Soren had seemed somehow off-kilter when he asked Miran. Maybe since he never asked for personal favours, or maybe Miran knew that he must’ve found a woman, either way, Miran didn’t much mind. Though, standing here now as the centrepiece of the festivities with all attention drawn to her, she found the lack of steady disposition disconcerting.
The streets were lined with smiling faces, cheering as they wove federation banners. Children jumped in place, pointing at the various floats that passed by. Miran spotted a small girl and her mother, both dressed in shoddy hand-made copies of her own dress she had worn as her shuttle landed days ago at the start of the week. They each had their hair tied back with sticks just as she did. Miran flashed them a salute, sparking a craze of dancing from both of them.
As Miran’s float neared the end of the road, cannons positioned on rooftops of either side of the street let loose a barrage of fireworks. The late-day was suddenly lit with amazing colours as explosions echoed down the avenue of shopfronts and markets. Just behind her’s, Matriarch Lathe’s float brought up the rear of the procession, which positioned her to be the grand finish. The two matriarch’s floats circled each other as they entered the Spire’s grounds, coming to a stop with their broadsides facing back up the avenue, which was now clogged with jubilant citizens as they followed behind.
As the citizens approached and the matriarchs stepped down from their spots atop the floats, the firework display reached a crescendo. The craft overhead, timed to perfect precision with the fireworks, flew into a wide fan formation. At the formation’s centre, the last and largest of the fireworks erupted, sending a shower of sparks twinkling and fading over the whole of the crowd.
It wasn’t until silence returned to the city streets that Miran’s mind finally drifted back to duty, to her people, to the murderer who still evaded capture, and now to the report Brenna had shared with her. It felt as if a tumultuous wave loomed on the horizon, a harbinger for the worst yet to come.
The frenzy faded, and streets gradually cleared. The revellers caught in the mania of festival filtered out into the markets and into the taverns and restaurants with a large swath heading for the stadium and the anticipated sepak match. Miran had other obligations, however. Parade would continue on into the coming days, but now that the main event had concluded, the summit – the flock’s main reason for being here – was set to take place. And Miran knew the sober truth for the congregation.
Back inside the Spire, within the central chamber that Miran had visited upon her landing in the system, Miran endured the ceremony once again. She found herself nearly exhausted before thirty minutes had passed, making the rounds between lost acquaintances, mutual contacts, and several new faces.
The summit stood as a meeting of several factions not generally in close contact. Each of the worlds and flocks of the federation had also sent figureheads to some degree, with each faction bringing along several hundred bodies. The Bordelais made up the bulk of those in attendance, with many of them already seated in the pews on the balconies that lined the high outer walls. Her own flock comprised the second most numerous group, each in their formal wear studded with Cattleheart patches. It was a rare sight even for her to see since most of these people rarely met in person, instead opting to open ship-to-ship video bulletins to conserve shuttle fuel and needless commute.
There were representatives of the Idle Flock, too, though only a handful. Being from the other end of the federation’s sphere of influence, Miran guessed they weren’t as concerned about having all faces present. Miran couldn’t help but notice the absence of the third flock, however. Having minimal contact with them over the years was characteristic of their designation as the Veiled Flock.
Miran shook hands, smiling as was needed, all the while wishing she could get back to work weeding out the thorn that irked her. Taking a moment alone, she filtered through the feed of her task force's activity. Despite the parade, several of the team had been active, sharing what little they could over bulletin, Wellei and Dominado having skipped the festivities entirely and posting themselves up at a cafe in the outer districts.
Coming?; she sent them only to receive no reply. It was apparent their priorities laid upon solving the riddle of the intruder. Good that they’re at least on it while I’m tied up here, she thought. Though from the report Brenna had shown her the night before, Miran knew the matter before her was equally as crucial.
A chime sounded the start of the summit signalling everyone to find their seats. Miran met Brenna upon the hall’s wide central dais, taking a chair beside her’s; the two most lavishly adorned seats in the place. Miran settled into plush leather across from several prominent figures that she recognized and others she didn’t.
On her left, Matriarch Lathe settled into her own seat with some difficulty that Miran presumed came with age. Following along the toral-shaped table to her right were Bordeaux’s System Defence Minister Horst DeBow, Ground Forces General Antoine Gerard, Ganon System representative Sara Lotts, Science Minister Lin Meembege with her chief engineer Jameth Harding, Federation Intelligence of Fringe Space Minister Mathis Claren, Idle Flock representative Pauline Tranton, and a handful of other impressively decorated naval captains. The list was long, and only the two Matriarchs at the table understood why.
As everyone sat, Miran looked out at the ground and spotted an out-of-breath Soren just now arriving as he took the empty seat next to Bullman. He waved. Miran responded with a smirk and a sardonic shake of the head. She might’ve had to have him written up on disciplinary action if he missed an event such as this – the first time ever.
The room was silent when Matriarch Lathe took the podium.
“Greetings, “ she started. “Friends and family of all creeds, you have my thanks for heeding my call to meeting. We here represent a collective in this here, the galactic west, and the best minds of our federation. I do not ask you here lightly.”
“Sure, this week has brought with it gaiety and brotherhood at levels seldom seen in the years we spend apart. Now, we find ourselves hereto gathered for what I strongly believe is paramount to the sanctity of our federation.”
Matriarch Lathe paused, her head hung toward the podium. With a deep breath in and a weight on her soul, she pointed at Minister Meembege, who directed Jameth Harding into action. The space above the dais flickered for a moment as the projection warmed up. Miran didn’t need to look up at the image as it focused. Instead, looking out at the haunted expressions that bloomed on their faces spoke more than an image ever could.
Above them, a planet was suspended. From the distinctive ember-washed seas and sprawling archipelagos, it was plain to any citizen in the federation that this was the world known as Vosaris. A beacon of federation civilization now stood before them, battered and smoking. The scan of the planet was veiled by a field of broken ships and stations that now littered Vosaris’ orbit. Beneath the fog of debris, roiling storm clouds not dissimilar from Bordeaux’s scarred the atmosphere.
The scan zoomed through the atypical weather fronts as Jameth Harding zoomed in on the planet’s surface, toggling outside the visible spectrum. Impact craters mottled the landscape. Where once were sprawling cities that far outsized Risen by several magnitudes, now was nothing more than charred rock and flattened wreckage.
The audience of the summit was still. The implications of such a calamity were few but substantial. Vosaris had been sacked.
Miran had seen the scans the night before. Though somehow, seeing them in such vivid detail, it now felt more real.
“The images before you are hard to behold. It is plain to see that we have lost many this day, to see that our friends have suffered a fate we know not,” Matriarch Lathe said, her tone heavy. “Though, I urge you all to scrutinise what you have seen here, what the ramifications of such a disaster has for us as a people. We must act, decide on a plan as a federation, and forge ahead.”
“The images were brought to us by an operative of the FISF, Sergeant Borlin Ha. His recon mission to discern the recent communication silence from Vosaris as detected by the Idle Flock ended when his craft turned up on the edges of the Bordeaux System. Through sheer luck of the nature of rift travel. Shortly after delivering this intel, Sergeant Ha succumbed to internal injuries inflicted during his escape. We owe him our homage, our admiration. For without his sacrifice, we would not know of this looming threat.”
“I now yield the floor to my friend, Matriarch Miran-Yi Nagoya.”
Matriarch Lathe stepped down, shuffling back to her seat. Miran knew the woman was in pain, bearing the pain of what she just delivered into her joints. Brenna took her seat with a huff, leaning to Miran and saying, “Can’t get any worse than that. Go get ‘em.”
Miran managed a listless grin, rising from her seat. Having only seen the report herself yesterday, she hadn’t had the time to prepare a full speech. Though, through some luck, some help from her equal, and a lot of wine, she believed she had something to say.
“What you have just seen is damning,” she began, her hand gripping the podium in suppressed rage. “I don’t plan on spinning tales or padding your sense of sanctuary. What we have witnessed is rampant animosity towards our prosperity. We know not what these images mean aside from earning ire from the whole of the federation. My heart breaks for those we’ve lost, those that were wiped from the face of their home with such contempt.”
Miran looked out at the crowd. She could see the faces of the federation’s leadership; each caught in their own darkening hell. Battle-hardened men and women were openly weeping as poorly contained sorrow swept through the hall. Her words, she knew, did little to stifle the blow. However, she hoped to be honest, to declare the facts, and to force them past this.
“From the telemetry provided by federation hero Borlin Ha,” Miran said, a catch scratching at her throat as she knew how Lawson Ha was going to take the loss of his brother. “we can see that the world of Vosaris was the victim of several rounds of orbital bombardment or similarly destructive eruptions. Due to the stale nature of our scans, it is hard to discern whether it was indeed due to an attack from outside the atmosphere or from within. What we do know is that this is an act of war, brutally inflicted on a populace dedicated to peace. This act is unforgivable.”
She could feel members of the audience perk up in their seats at this. If there was one binding force in the whole of humanity, it was the kinship they shared in the face of a common foe.
“We have been handed a new enemy today. And though we do not know their true face, we know their malice,” she continued. “We must be strong, we must protect each other, and above all, we must safeguard the Herd.”
“For the Federation!” she howled into the mic.
The crowd around her echoed her call; “For the Federation!”
“For the Herd!” Miran bellowed.
“For the Herd!” They said, the host of them now standing in salute. Miran raised a fist back in salute before moving to take her seat.
The crowd stayed in uproar, cheering war cries for several minutes. The generals and other leaders on the dais had joined in the sabre-rattling as well, howling their salutes out to the crowd. Miran could sense a feedback loop forming just as Matriarch Lathe stood.
With a raised two fingers and a commanding, weary expression, Matriarch Lathe quelled the crowd first to a dull roar, then everybody in the place retook their seats. Miran caught herself wondering had she tried the same, could she have coaxed the audience into calm with her authority alone. As the last of them sat down, Matriarch Lathe motioned for FIFS Minister Claren to take the stand.
“My friends,” Minister Mathis Claren began through a thick Iroquoian accent.
His skin was fair, his hair long and knotted, everything about his heritage indicating he was a recent import from outside the federation, likely from the neighbouring Terran Sovereignty. This would typically lose the man credit amongst federation fundamentalists, but it was hard to have any more hate left for something so trivial in a time such as this.
“You have every right to be angry at the loss of Vosaris, one of Federation’s most precious worlds,” Minister Claren continued. “Though if I might add a touch more insight….”
The man stiffened, straightening his back and centring himself. “My operatives have been reviewing the data gifted to us by Sergeant Ha for the last few days. As we had been given access to the data in preparation for this summit, we had only a short time to review it. What I have to share with you isn’t much, though I expect more insights to be gained over the coming days and weeks.”
Minister Claren gestured to Jameth Harding, who at this point appeared to be given the sole job as a remote switch. The images focused in on four blast zones, at the centre of each being a smoking crater.
“These four sites, though unrecognisable now, were once the cities of Dondrada, Fossburg, Ganges, and Meltspring. If we track the trajectories of all ejecta and debris scattered from the blast sites, we can extrapolate the force applied to each. The power factor of the weapons used is estimated at around three hundred petajoules. This metric is consistent with conventional nuclear armaments stored on Vosaris. We can therefore surmise, though I stress that this is only speculation, that the attack was instantiated from the planet’s surface and not from an external source.”
“What the hell does that mean?” A man said from the audience, standing as a lone tree in a flattened forest.
“It means,” Matriarch Lathe said, interjecting, “that whatever was done to Vosaris did not come from above but was the result of those weapons once meant to protect its populace, instead harnessed by one faction to wipe clean another.”
“But what we see here is total destruction,” Minister Claren clarified.
“So they were trying to cover their tracks,” A stout man to Miran’s left said. She recognized him as Ground Forces General Antoine Gerard. “–to sweep the whole world under the rug,” General Gerard said.
Miran had thought that too. It was plain to see that someone was trying and succeeded in erasing Vosaris from the Quarter. With the disappearances onboard her flock, and now this, Miran caught herself gripping the arm of her chair again in frustration.
General Gerard was now at the podium, though Miran wasn’t hearing him. The spiralling pit she found herself walking down was slippery. She hadn’t felt this out of control since the first moments after finding those bodies in cold storage. Miran imagined Handen Kide standing at the podium in place of Gerard. She could see the look of utter defeat in his eyes again, a look that would be echoed across his daughter and mother’s face, who Miran imagined sitting across from her at the table. Her heart raced, thinking of the people on Vosaris who must’ve been just as defeated when they had confronted the destruction that befell them.
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Just as her blood boiled to a breaking point, the gunshot rang again in her head, echoing throughout the auditorium. Only, it wasn’t in her head.
A loud crash reverberated throughout the hall, stopping the confused General mid-sentence. Heads in the crowd looked about, each one attempting to find the source of the noise. It wasn’t until Miran’s terminal chimed and she looked to see it had entirely lost its signal that she snapped back to reality.
Just as members of the crowd began to stand up and enter the aisles, the room shook. The walls were shaking with the force of an earthquake as people started to lose their footing. A soldier from one of the high-up pew levels tripped over the railing and plummeted to the floor, impacting the carpet in one of the aisles. Miran leapt to her feet in alarm, as did Matriarch Lathe and several of the other dignitaries.
The shaking abruptly stopped, and unrest spread across the crowd. Miran looked to her colleague, who was attempting to get a signal on her own terminal in vain. Trying her own terminal again, she tried to open a bulletin to The Dream, to her shuttle, to her flock, to the task force, to anyone. No signals were going out. Some of the dignitaries began to mobilise, yelling to their forces in the crowd as they did. Sections of the crowd started to reform and unify, breaking off and out of the main hall, each taking care to step around the fallen man in the aisle.
“What do we do?” Miran asked the other matriarch.
Brenna shrugged, “Damned if I know. I’m not getting any reports, nothing but darkness on the bulletin.”
“Me too,” Miran confirmed, “What was the shaking?”
“Felt like a quake, though that rarely happens on Bordeaux. Especially with that intensity,” said Brenna.
“And your man in the aisle?” Miran asked.
“Right,” said Brenna as she motioned to one of her staff. A team of three in Bordeaux uniform moved through the crowd towards the fallen man, only to drag his corpse out of the way of foot traffic and sat him upright in one of the floor-level pews. His head fell limp on one of his shoulders.
That’s all they can do for him right now, Miran supposed.
“I can’t reach my flock,” Miran said to Brenna, “Wireless range booster in my shuttle isn’t responding. It’s almost as if there’s some sort of atmospheric interference. Don’t suppose you knew of another way I could get the word out?”
Brenna thought for a moment before responding, “There’s a hard line that runs up the Spire’s central conduit. It follows the path of the space elevator and up to an array on the orbital station. It should be sufficient to get a signal from there out to your flock.”
“Great,” Miran said, finally getting a shred of good news. “How do we access it?”
“General Gerard?” Brenna said, waving the man over from where he had been petrified in place at the podium. The man stumbled over in a daze.
“Antoine, are you with us?” asked Brenna.
“Yes– yes, I’m okay,” he said, struggling to regain composure.
“Good. I need two good men and a technician to go with Matriarch Nagoya and her team. Can you arrange that?” Brenna commanded. Gerard waved a contingent over; two soldiers pushed through the crowd to reach them.
“You can take Sergeants Haqif and Jureau. They can get you where you need to go. Though I’m afraid none of my technicians are in attendance at this summit,” said Gerard.
“Take Jameth,” said Minister Lin Meembege, offering an unsure Engineer Jameth Harding.
“Great,” said Brenna, “now ensure that Matriarch Nagoya is taken to the archives on level one hundred thirty-two. And Jameth? See if you can’t patch the matriarch’s terminal into the Spire’s main line?”
Jameth, seeming a touch uncertain, only shrugged and nodded.
“Sir?” Sergeant Haqif asked. “Our weapons?”
Miran assumed he was referring to the custom of not carrying a sidearm or rifle during the summit. A practice she found ridiculous, having disregarded it and concealed her own sidearm.
“Pray you don’t need them,” Gerard said, brushing the men off.
Haqif and Jureau saluted before turning the leave. Miran, following behind, was trailed closely by Soren and Bullman, who had only now just made their way through the crowd to where she was.
“Here,” Soren said as he and Bullman each tossed a spare sidearm to the sergeants. Their gratitude was noticeable as now having some assurance of safety seemed to put a bounce in their step. The sergeants hurried ahead to secure the aisle, forcing the thinning crowd out into the pews.
“What are you going to do?” Miran shouted to Matriarch Lathe.
“Gerard, DeBow, Claren, Meembege and I are going to stabilise things here,” Brenna assured her.
“Matriarchs!” said a soldier just now reaching. She was holding her terminal high above herself as if carrying a ceremonial torch. The soldier pushed the terminal to Matriarch Lathe without explanation.
Brenna’s eyes grew wide as she quickly passed the terminal over to Miran to take a look. The terminal showed an image that had just been taken from one of the Spire’s outer observation decks. The city outside, showing a handful of smoking blemishes on several of the taller buildings and a few gaping craters on the park-roofs, was punctuated by something Miran hadn’t thought possible.
The streets around Ternor Stadium had erupted in mania as fans streamed out of it not fifteen blocks from the Spire but still within the city’s central core. What Miran wasn’t expecting, what she hadn’t imagined was possible, was that half of the stadium was now missing as if vanished into thin air.
“How is that–?” Miran began to ask.
Brenna took the terminal back from her, not inclined to explain. Instead, she said one word; “Go.”
Miran and her escort hastened down the main painting-lined corridor out of the hall, while behind them, they could hear General Gerard, Minister Meembege, and Matriarch Lathe begin to argue. She wished she would have time to help plan the offensive, but she had to get word from her flock. Soren, Bullman, and the sergeants moved ahead, arms drawn. Jameth followed behind her, his nerves beginning to show.
“In here, Matriarch,” Soren said, directing her to a stairwell, “Haqif says the lifts are out, so we’re walking up.” She nodded, following behind Soren as they climbed the steps. Bullman closed the door to the stairwell behind them, bringing up the rear.
“You think we’ll encounter resistance in the Spire?” Bullman shouted from the previous stairwell landing. Miran recalled that neither of their group besides her had seen the images of outside.
“I’m not sure what to expect. Best we stay on guard and move quickly,” said Miran.
“Heard anything from Lieutenant Ogunye? I didn’t see him at the summit.” Soren asked, huffing as he climbed the steps ahead of her.
“Olajide was on perimeter duty, surveying the lower levels of the tower. I’m sure whatever’s going on outside, he’s on the front line,” said Miran.
“Probably,” Soren agreed. “As intransigent as that man is, I’m sure glad to have him on our side.”
Miran could agree with that. There were a fair bit of old guard still making up the seniority of her military forces from her predecessor, each with their own ageing views on what her reign should look like. Despite this, she trusted that they were fit for any job, especially the attack that they were square in the middle of.
“Keep going!” Sergeant Jureau bellowed, “Three more levels to climb!”
Miran stopped for a moment and gripped the rail. She didn’t know if she was waiting for her breath to catch up with her or for this whole situation to just sluff away, but either way, she had to keep moving. A concerned Soren stopped for a moment making eye contact with her. In his expression alone, Miran could see the same fear that reverberated in her bones. Despite this, he motioned for her to catch up and catch up, and she did.
As they reached the door for the hundred-thirty-second level of the atmosphere-spanning tower, Soren and Sergeant Haqif took cover on either side of the frame, as Jureau took point, while Miran and Jameth Harding hung back. Jureau flung the door wide, bursting into an empty hall, narrower and more spartan than the grand hall they had just come from.
“Clear!” Jureau called.
“Move!” Haqif ordered. Soren and Haqif burst ahead, motioning for the matriarch and Jameth to follow. Bullman followed up behind, closing the heavy door softly as he did.
“Archives are at the end of the hall, due west, just above the auditorium. the Spire’s communications station is at its centre,” Jureau said, ushering them past him as he took the east wing of the hall.
Just then, a tremor shook the hall, nearly knocking Miran off of her feet. Several seconds later, another tremor was followed by a rapid succession of them.
“Earthquake is back!” Jureau screamed.
Miran looked around to see Jameth Harding pushing himself off the floor while Haqif was unperturbed and entering some command in a wall console near the door to the Archives. Soren paused, only to continue moving as Bullman reached her. Helping to regain momentum, Bullman guided the matriarch, hand-in-hand, towards the slowly opening Archives’ door.
She looked back down the hall in time to see a section of the Spire’s outer wall erupt behind Sergeant Jureau. He was taken off-guard as fire singed the back of his head. Shrapnel burst through his chest, sailing the length of the hall and impacting the opening Archive doors. Stepping through the widening gap, Miran watched in horror as Jureau’s limp body crumpled to the floor. Haqif slammed a command on his terminal, and the doors began to close. Miran’s eyes were fixed on the suddenly inanimate Jureau left behind until the grey metal of the doors obscured him from view.
The party looked at each other, each wondering what just happened. It seemed like an eternity before Soren spoke first;
“So… Not an earthquake,” he said.
“Then what was that?” Jameth asked, “What can cause that much damage this high up?”
“If the space elevator cable snapped…,” Bullman offered.
“Definitely not. If the cable snapped, it would have taken the whole structure with it. It was designed to outlast a meteor strike,” refuted Jameth.
“Engineer Harding,” Miran said, breaking up the conjecture. “Get me the hard-line. Now, please.”
Jameth nodded, moving into the Archives.
The Archives were extensive, extending several levels up just as the auditorium had, lined with equal rows of balconies. Now, though, the balconies were taken up but rows upon rows of some bookcases and some large humming server racks. It seemed like this was the central storehouse of knowledge on Bordeaux’s Folly.
“Sergeant Haqif, can you continue?” asked Miran, sensing the man’s bewilderment at losing his counterpart. Haqif didn’t answer. Instead, shaking his head as if purging water from his scalp, he chased off after Jameth. Soren shot her a look of barely contained panic before hurrying ahead. She and Bullman raced after them.
Jameth Harding didn’t ask for permission, adrenaline taking him over. As they reached the central console, which was laid out just as the auditorium’s dais’ table was several floors beneath them, Harding slammed one of the side panels open. He knelt and opened the panel with such ferocity that he split the skin on one of his hands that started to pour out onto the electrics.
Soren tried to offer the man some help, only for Jameth to rudely hold the bloodied hand in his face. Not pausing for anything, Jameth tore off a section of his collar. Gripping the shred like a bandage, he continued pulling out cable and scanning the wiring diagram on the backside of the panel.
“Terminal,” Jameth commanded, opening his bloody hand to take hold of Miran’s terminal. He connected a lead out of the back of the console to her terminal. Standing, he rested the terminal on top of the console.
“Connection established,” Jameth said. She was surprised at the man’s ingenuity, and for a moment, she caught herself thinking of the equally brilliant Stanley Dominado. Not wanting to distract herself from the matter at hand, she told herself that Stanley was safe since he was supposedly accompanied by Wellei, who Miran knew was steely in her own right. Which surprised her when Wellei’s icon appeared on her terminal’s display, indicated she was trying to open a bulletin.
Stunned, Miran answered, “Wellei, is that you – are you alright?”
“We’re fine,” the image of Wellei said, pulling Stanley into the frame. The connection was spotty, and the audio kept cutting in and out. “It’s hell down here, but we’re managing.”
“What is it– what’s going on down there?” Miran pressed.
“Hard to explain. Dominado and I– cafe– but were able to make it away–” Wellei said through static. It was evident to Miran that the pair were running down one of Risen’s streets, Parade banners passing overhead.
“What can you tell me? Be blunt,” Miran urged.
“There was an attack. Have you seen the stadium?” Wellei asked. “Don’t know what you can see from there– several craft struck– Spire.”
Soren looked at her, equally as confused at the stadium’s dissection as the comment about the several craft.
“Come in, Wellei. Did you say that our aircraft are impacting the Spire?” Miran asked.
“No. Spacecraft. We’re under attack from outside atmo,” Wellei clarified before changing topics. “Have you been able to contact the flock?”
“Negative. I was just about to try when you called,” Miran said.
“Don’t bother,” Stanley chimed in. “I’ve already tried. Got myself a direct line to the Spire’s space cable connection; nada. Seems whatever our attackers are doing is making a two-way bulletin impossible.”
Miran’s blood roiled at this. How could this enemy have blindsided them this much?
“You said two-way doesn’t work, but what about one-way?” Miran asked.
“Way ahead of you. I wrote a worm and was able to send an S.O.S. when the attack first began. So far, no response from the other side.”
“A worm? Can you patch it over to me?”
“Already sending. It’s text messages only, though,” Stanley said, “And, matriarch?”
“Yes, Stanley?” Miran said, only now realising that that was the first time ever using his name.
“Be safe, and give ‘em hell,” Stanley said as the connection terminated.
Miran unpacked the worm and opened a bulletin on her terminal direct to her flagship.
In distress, send aid. Cannot reach the shuttle. Your orders are as follows: Send pickup. Ensure flock safety at all costs – even at the cost of my own life. If other ships in orbit, scramble support ships out of range. Your priority is evacuation.
She ended the message, knowing what such orders meant for her own safety. Should it come to it, she would be willing to sacrifice herself for the good of her people.
“What now?” Soren asked, ready to move. Miran could see he wanted to ask about more details regarding the stadium but kept his silence.
“Now we get the hell out of here,” Miran said. “We need a shuttle to escape the city. Assuming ours is too many levels down, what are our options? Sergeant?”
Sergeant Haqif stirred, standing from the nest of sorrow he had made for himself on the Archive room floor. Gripping his pistol, he wiped some tears from his eyes and leapt to his feet. Ushering them through the aisles, they went to the back exit of the room, entering a stairwell. This stairwell was different, however, looking more like an emergency exit.
“Why didn’t we take this way before?” Bullman asked from somewhere behind Miran.
“No re-entry this way,” Haqif said bluntly. “Come, I know of a shuttle – Matriarch Lathe’s private shuttle – on her estate level. I have the passkey.”
“More climbing then?” Soren asked the sergeant.
“Much more,” Haqif said, huffing his way up the flights ahead of them.
Climbing for what felt like hours, Miran could make out the muffled sounds of more explosions on the Spire’s exterior as well as several waves of screams.
“The craft–” Miran said between belaboured breaths. “The spacecraft that Wellei mentioned, that’s what is hitting the Spire, that’s what killed Juneau!”
“You think they are kamikazeeing against the Spire? That would be a pretty foolish attempt at bringing the structure down,” said Soren, his breathing far steadier than hers.
“They’re not kamikaze, then!” Bullman said. “Think about it. They’re boarding craft!”
Miran realised what that meant. She knew the tactic well, though from what she knew of boarding craft, they were used almost exclusively in space during ship-to-ship combat to transfer soldiers. She had never heard of them being used on a terrestrial structure, let alone in the atmosphere.
“Here– Why?” Miran asked.
“Think about it. The Spire is basically just one gigantic landed ship. Same rules apply here except for all the gravity fields are pointed in one direction,” Soren affirmed.
“What does that mean for us then– why would anyone need to attack the Spire?” asked Miran.
“‘Fraid I’m no help there,” Soren admitted, “Kalin?”
“No idea,” Bullman responded.
“We’re here!” Haqif said from the upper landing. He flashed his terminal and opened the door onto the opulent estate level. The group entered directly into Matriarch Lathe’s living room, the same space Miran had visited less than twenty-four hours ago. Several food trays were still left out, along with one or two more empty wine bottles that must have been open after she had packed it in for the night.
A blast from across the room ruptured the wall of the observation window, taking with it the leftovers, wine bottles, and the two chairs. A large slender, ebony craft slid in, carrying a burst of ejecta and smoke ahead of it. Several dull shards impacted Miran’s face as she turned to shield herself from the wall of heat and noise. Jameth and Bullman were themselves knocked backwards against the outer wall.
Soren lay by her side, while surprisingly, she remained standing. She looked ahead to see Haqif across the room, opening the door to the corridor. She watched as he dropped his terminal, both hands moving to grip a chair-sized shard of glass that jutted out of the right side of his abdomen while narrowly missing his spine. He turned to face her – shock in his eyes – before dropping to his knees against the open door.
As the smoke and dust began to settle, a hiss sounded on the black craft. The front of it slid open, revealing a red-lit interior and several shapes stepping out. Miran could see the silhouettes of men in glistening black battle armour and muted faceplates.
Bullman regained his feet. Miran pulled Soren up, who, although dazed, managed to regain his balance. Miran knew he had suffered a concussion just from the way he held himself.
“Run!” said Bullman just as the black suits raised their rifles. Miran raced toward the door, as did Soren. Jameth was still lying against the wall at which he’d been thrown, blood streaming down his face.
Bullman planted his feet and raised his pistol. He took three shots, one at each of the advancing soldiers. Each shot, though perfectly placed, ricocheted off their black helmets and embedded in the concrete walls and ceiling. Bullman’s arms slumped as he turned towards his friends, who were now exiting into the corridor. Miran and Soren looked back, yelling for him to run. And run, he did.
Lieutenant Kalin Bullman made it halfway to the doorway before the black suits opened fire. Their rifles let out muted trills as they fired. A hailstorm of rounds flew through Bullman, indiscriminately shredding his flesh and blood-stained jacket. Gore sprayed the wall behind him and what was left of him crumpled to the floor in a ragged heap.
Soren took a step towards his dead friend in a vain attempt to rescue what was already lost. Miran grabbed him by the forearm, tugging him down the corridor as bullets began to fly their way. Rounding the corner, Soren stops and screams in agony. The panic of the day finally spilled out of him, boiling over to a breaking point. Miran slapped him across the face.
“Get ahold of yourself, Captain,” she said, urging him to keep quiet. She could hear the boot-steps of the soldiers as they rush down the hall after them. Feeling defeated and resigned to her fate, she barely noticed as the wall beside them opened. Two sets of arms flung themselves out of the darkness at them, hauling them in. Darkness enveloped them as the wall closed itself off from the corridor.
