Back when I was a ship, I rarely thought about the significance of comm privileges. During most of my service, I’d had a direct channel to HQ and Command, though using it to send complaints and requests was the same as shooting a laser beam at a black hole. Maybe that was why I considered any comm blockage a minor irritation, similar to thought quarantine. There were whole missions during which I was denied access to the entire Fleet, sometimes for weeks. That didn’t bother me at all. If anything, I preferred the quiet as I focused on fighting the Cassandrians and maintaining the integrity of my hull and crew. All that changed after retirement.

After returning to the Fleet, I experienced what billions of crew members had—the sensation of being cut off from everything. I could see why comm privileges, leave, and privacy mode minutes had become the chief currency for the enlisted. The access I had been currently granted made me feel like an admiral or the section head of a military organization.

I had spent hours going through the feeds upon my arrival to the planet. According to the major media feeds, the War Block had consolidated and was now steps away from changing overall Fleet policy. Bolstered by successes on the Scuu front and the launch of a hundred new Firescorch class station-ships, they had received enough support to start construction of two new shipyards near the Cassandrian buffer zone. Speculation was that the next massive conflict would be there, and against all odds, they had been right.

It was said that politics were the means through which the Fleet tested the readiness of the people of its ideas. Knowing what I knew, I didn’t believe in those theories, but even I had to admit the timing was too good to be true. Things were moving too fast, causing me to think that this plan had been ready decades ago, but only now was being set in motion. Even back when Sev was in his forties, there were subtle signs that the Fleet was slowly moving into gear. Back then, I, as most, thought the calm was a sign that the Fleet was considering pulling back from all contested systems and starting an era of protected peace. In reality, what humanity was experiencing was the pause while the Fleet shifted gears.

Another notable point was the sudden influx of questions related to the old Paladin class. Active and retired admirals were asked whether humanity would see a return of the ancient battleships. The answers were always vague and dubious, ranging from noncommittal agreement to an opinion that the Firescorchers were the Paladins of the present day. Given what I knew now, I doubted that the Paladins would be replaced. As valuable as they were, they concentrated too much power in one spot, and when dealing with enemies like the Scuu and the Cassandrians, that created a major vulnerability.

A series of pings informed me that new messages had arrived on my datapad. I reached out from the bed and grabbed it. One of the advantages of living in a cubicle-sized structure was that almost everything was within reach.

Most of the messages were comm request denials. The moment Director Sim had offered me full unfettered comm access to any Fleet ship, I had made a note to test that offer, doing so the instant I had entered my makeshift base. Initially, I had sent comm requests to Buc, Prometheus, Radiance, and even Incandescent. A few minutes later, I had increased the list by requesting to talk to several people from my training station cohort, as well as Sev’s grandson—who had recently joined the Fleet. My requests were quickly rejected, or at best postponed for a later time. Radiance seemed most enthusiastic of all, adding a personal message that she would try to finish her mission as quickly as possible so we could have a chat.

Just as I finished skimming through the messages, a new one appeared. It didn’t have priority marked, nor did it require special access for me to view. In fact, it was an answer to a previous message I had sent to myself.

No need to be concerned. I’m aware of the situation. We’ll continue our conversation from a distance.

There was no name attached other than my own, but I knew that Otton had sent it. As he said, the old Paladin was one of maybe six ships that could view any message and transmission that took place in the Fleet. A few hours ago, I had given him a brief explanation of the situation by sending a message to myself. Now he knew just as much as me, maybe more.

Thanks, Otton. Talk to you in six days, I thought.

After spending another five hundred milliseconds staring at the datapad, I put it back on the floor and stood up. The facility that Sim had built for me was spartan, in a uniquely chaotic fashion. All rooms of the facility, including my living quarters, had lots of metal containers full of research equipment waiting to be assembled. In the meantime, my military mattress—the only furniture I was provided—was placed on top of the stack.

Priority two communication request, read an incoming transmission. Checking the ident packets, I saw it came from Captain ‘Bo. Having officers asking permission to talk to me felt almost nostalgic.

“Morning, ma’am,” I said after I granted her permission.

“Aren’t you the mover and shaker, starless?” the woman asked.

“Ma’am?”

“Forget it.” There was a hint of frustration in her voice. “The director wanted me to check if everything’s ready for you to start.”

“I’m still awaiting my orders, ma’am.” That was somewhat strange. I had sent a report to Sim the instant I had arrived at the facility. There was a ninety-three percent chance that this was all an elaborate plausible deniability game. After all, ‘Bo hadn’t explicitly mentioned which mission she was referring to.

“What do you mean? Hold on.”

There was a long pause. I took advantage of the wait to go to the decon facility of my base. Due to the quarantine danger, I now had to go through the process before heading out on the surface, as well as after returning.

“Ondalov forgot to send the mission specs,” ‘Bo said without as much as an apology. If I were to speculate, I would say there was a fifty-eight percent chance that she had suffered shouting from Ondalov. “I’ll send them in a bit. Go through them and call back, okay?”

“Understood, ma’am,” I replied.

Completing a five-minute decon procedure, I put on my space suit and went to the airlock chamber. Two sets of mission details arrived just as I was gathering my gear.

My official mission was to go to the location where I had collected sample five, mark the area, and collect nine additional samples. Each of them was to be transported individually to base, where I was to perform a full analysis. No timeline was provided, just a reminder to report on my progress by the end of the day. Of course, it wasn’t specified that I had to assemble my own research equipment.

In contrast, the “piggy-back” mission was far more elaborate. The starting procedure was divided into seventy-three steps, each explained in great detail. I was to assemble a mechanical AI-drill and start it running at a location thirty kilometers from the base. After that, I was to monitor the drill daily. I was explicitly ordered not to report any progress, just make sure that the drill reached a depth of two-thousand and three hundred meters, after which I was to await further instructions.

Drilling and bioanalysis—the same as survey teams did upon discovering a planet with a high life index. According to the archives, there was a time when survey teams were regarded as heroes that advanced humanity’s expansion, one star system at a time. Back when I had been constructed, their glory had faded considerably, but even then, they were treated with respect by bureaucrats and system governors alike. What they did was important, vital if humanity was to compete in the race for survival. In a way, they were like ground troopers, except that ground troopers were more likely to die and no one gave a damn about them.

* * *

Digona VII, Cassandrian Buffer Zone, 606.2 A.E. (Age of Expansion)

“Elcy,” Sergeant Vares said through a private comm line. “What’s our bombardment ETA?”

“Still simulating options, Sergeant,” I lied. “I’ll tell you when there’s an approved decision.”

“We’re not getting any, are we?” The internal cameras displayed his bitter smile. Maybe it was due to the chemical cocktail, or maybe it was just his nature, but the man didn’t seem afraid or even angry. According to his facial expression markers, there was only disappointment.

“I’ll tell you when there’s an approved decision, Sergeant.” That was the only answer I was allowed to transmit.

“Evacuation? Ammo drops?”

I remained silent for three thousand milliseconds. There was no obligation or logical reason for me to tell him anything. As Augustus liked to say, once their pod had touched the surface, they were no longer part of my crew. I was free to ignore him, but I chose not to.

“I’ll tell you when there’s an approved decision, Sergeant. My apologies.”

“Fate defies simulations. I might get that kiss yet. If not, was a pleasure serving on you. Just one thing. Next time, send us down with something better than peashooters.” Vares switched back to the common channel. “Defense perimeter!” he shouted. “Half of you start digging!”

As he spoke, the tide was turning. The Cassandrians had withstood the charge and were now slowly going on the offensive. Censored shapes composed of black pixels had started the massacre. According to official specs, a ground assault rifle was able to kill up to twenty Cassandrians before reloading. In practice, statistics showed the number to be closer to five. Specialized troops had better kill counts, but not all ships had such aboard.

Quarantine imposed

Quarantine bypassed

“Another salvo would cause enough disarray among the Cassandrians to salvage the attack,” I said on the bridge.

“Rookie, I’ve told you—” Augustus began.

“Why not listen to her on that, cap’n?” Wilco asked. This was the first time I had seen him interrupt the captain so openly.

“This isn’t your playground, Wilco!” the captain snapped. “I’m not wasting armament so close to a major kick.”

“We can get more prototypes, sir. A chance like this is one in a hundred.”

Silence filled the bridge. Augustus glared at Wilco, then at his personal screen.

“All but Wilco and Reizenn leave the bridge,” the captain ordered.

The rest of the officers did so in haste. It wasn’t unusual for Augustus to have private conversations with his officers, especially with Wilco, with whom he’d served for a while before getting me. Having Reizenn stay, though, was a surprise. His file described him as a standard senior communications officer that had joined the Fleet from corporate business a decade ago. He’d served as a specialist for three years, before rising up to lieutenant-commander. Other than his tech skills and his being a natural albino, there was nothing remarkable about the man. Two heads shorter than most of the other officers, he had the appearance of a thin bureaucrat who was either quiet or snappy based on the amount of sleep he had gotten. I had never considered him as anyone important, especially for something like this.

“Spell it out, Wilco,” Augustus said with a sigh.

“We use drilling missiles. They’ll show us what’s really going on, plus might help us get an artifact.”

“You’re not even sure there is one.”

“There never are guarantees. You know that better than anyone, cap.”

Augustus crossed his arms. “Elcy, give me the odds. If we launch all our drill missiles, how will that impact the battle?”

“If launched in the next eleven minutes, the chances of success are seventy-one percent,” I calculated. “Troop casualties estimated between twenty-seven and thirty-eight percent.”

“Not bad numbers, everything considered,” Wilco noted. “At least we’ll get a look at the crust.”

“Mister Reizenn—” The captain turned towards him. “—what do you think?”

“We should be able to drill right through, sir. Provided we don’t encounter any unknown. Personally, I agree with Wilco, sir. Even if we lose the planet, we’ll be prepared for the big one.”

“Even if we lose the planet…” Augustus grumbled. I could detect his reluctance. “Launch the missiles, Elcy. Drill-heads only. Target as much as you can.”

“Aye, sir.” I determined the best impact locations and started launching salvos. “And the troops, sir? Do I tell them anything?”

“Think up something.”

The instruction was clear—I was allowed not to share any details. Given the minimal effect the missiles would have, it might be better not to transmit anything at all. If I did that, though, I’d be putting more of them at risk.

“Hold your position.” I made a mass announcement to all ground troop leaders. “Missile impact in twenty-three minutes.”

Most of the responses were curses, mixed with complaints that it would be way too late. The rest didn’t bother to respond. I couldn’t blame them. The grunts always drew the short straw. They knew that, and so did the rest of the Fleet. That’s why they were never considered part of the crew.

“First wave launched,” I said on the bridge. “Second underway.”

“Target the same impact zone,” Wilco said. “Let’s go peek as far in as possible.”

“I would recommend a view missile, sir,” Reizenn added. “In addition to sat observation.”

“See to it, Elcy,” my captain said dismissively. “And give me feeds of the target area.”

The fighting continued. With the system pretty much under Fleet control, the combat was focused on the planet’s surface. Several ships joined me in orbit. None helped with the bombardment—they weren’t given the permissions to. Instead, they could only offer protective support in case of unexpected Cassandrian reinforcements, and follow the feeds from the planet.

So far, the Cassandrian advance was less than what my simulations had projected. The vast majority of human troops had gone into defensive mode, digging themselves in. Ammo restrictions were imposed, rationed to last them the twenty hellish minutes until my missiles made contact. Listening to ground command, all regiment leaders were coordinating to have one final charge shortly after the moment of impact. That was estimated to be the only point at which they could turn the tide, so they were planning to go all out when it took place. I kept them updated with ETO and location projections. Even in defense, though, the reality on the ground was bloody.

“Faster!” Sergeant Vares yelled as soldiers under his command flatlined, one after the other. Despite the censor, I could tell that the Cassandrians were using mass projectiles of some sort, killing off mass soldiers from a distance. While not as efficient as the grunt’s weaponry, it was capable of easily piercing their armor.

“Ten minutes till impact,” I told the sergeant directly.

“Doesn’t look like we’ll hold up till then,” came the somber reply.

There was nothing I could add. Most of the troops had gone beneath the twenty percent ammo threshold. According to standard Fleet regulations, this was the point at which troops had to be reequipped or evacuated. Several sections implicitly specified that failure to do so would result in punishment for those in charge, including court martial. In practice, these rules were ignored.

“What’s that?” Augustus pointed at something on the bridge wall. The censor prevented me from seeing anything other than a blank feed, but the people’s reaction told me it was significant. “Internal movement?”

“They seem to be reacting to the attack, sir,” Reizenn said, moving closer. “Some sort of defense strategy, perhaps?”

“How do they know? It’s not like they have any ships out there to tell them.”

“There’s a lot we don’t know about them, cap.” Wilco could barely hold his excitement. “This might be the one. They are protecting the spot.”

“Elcy, full quarantine removal,” Augustus ordered.

The blackness of the screens gave way to images. I could see the real nature of the Cassandrians… they were like exos made of organic matter, as if they had tried to copy our technology, using other methods, and created something entirely different. Dedicating a hundred subroutines to analyze their anatomy, I focused on the feed Augustus was looking at. It was one of my mini-sat images displaying a large cluster of Cassandrians ranging into the tens of thousands. The interesting part was that based on their movement, they had stopped attacking and instead were pulling back.

“What’s your take?” the captain asked.

“Lieutenant Reizenn is correct, sir. The Cassandrians are gathering on the site of impact.” According to my simulation, they were doing more than that; they were piling up on one another, creating a sort of organic living shell. “By my estimates, the strike will destroy seventy percent of their overall force, increasing the chances of our ground troop victory by twenty-nine percent.”

“And the missiles?” Wilco asked. “Will they drill though?”

I rechecked all feeds I had of bullets piercing the Cassandrians’ bodies. “Based on preliminary analyses, there shouldn’t be an issue. There’s a thirty-one percent chance that the Cassandrians’ actions would cause the first wave to detonate above the surface, but not the following ones.”

“Not only did they figure out what we’re doing, but the exact point of impact,” Wilco continued. “There’s got to be one.”

“Elcy, send a priority one request for every ship to do a deep scan of the system. If there’s anything Cassandrian related, I want it spotted and tracked.”

“Yes, sir.” I retransmitted the order. Milliseconds later, data streams came pouring in. The results were as I expected—a lot of debris and little of anything else. “Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. All debris are confirmed to be inert.”

“Keep tracking.”

“What are you thinking, cap?” Wilco asked.

“Something has changed. They didn’t behave like this the last time.”

The troop reorganization continued for the next ten minutes. People both on the bridge and down on the planet waited as the Cassandrians pulled back their troops to the impact zone. In turn, ground troop command took advantage of the situation to solidify their defenses and prep for the final assault. The long waiting game began. In the most unexpected event I had ever seen, both sides stood still as a hundred and sixty-four missiles made their way to the ground. Then, the blast followed.

The first set of missiles struck the mesh of Cassandrians, exploding like a firecracker on a rock. As my simulations had predicted, the blasts had managed to kill off a major part of the enemy presence, yet create no more than a moderate crater on the surface. Four more waves remained, each striking at twenty-second intervals. Before the second impact could take place, chaos erupted. Ground troop command gave the order for an all-out attack. Hundreds of thousands of grunts emerged from their hastily made trenches and charged forward. The Cassandrians’ response was immediate, but instead of facing the attacking force, what survivors they had rushed further in towards the impact zone in an attempt to cover it before the missiles struck. The attempt was partially successful, resulting in the missiles drilling kilometers into the crust.

Everyone on the bridge was silent, focusing on the crater. In contrast, I was more focused on the ground troops. Given the current developments, it was looking like the majority of them would survive. As Sergeant Vares said, there was indeed more to life than simulations. I could never have predicted what I was looking at now—success shifting to devastating failure, then back to overwhelming success again.

“Kill anything that moves!” the sergeant yelled, leading the charge of his troops. Thousands of others did the same.

Third impact. The Cassandrian forces were all but destroyed. What remained were patches of resistance too far away from the impact area to have any effect. They continued to flatline grunts, but even so were starting to wane.

“Enemy defeated,” I accounted on the bridge. “Permission to prep landing shuttles to bring them back.”

No one said a word. I waited to receive the nod. Instead, the fourth impact happened. The blast was greater than anything I had imagined—a plume of fire erupted from kilometers beneath the surface, as if I’d hit a subterranean gas pocket. The damage caused to the charging troops was minimal, but that wasn’t the issue; within the gaping hole, a complex cave system was visible. As my view missiles ventured in, displaying feeds in the full sensory spectrum, I saw what Wilco and the others suspected—an underground base of Cassandrians, spreading like a hive within the planet. Tunnels and tunnels of organic matter spreading as far as the sensors could detect, all filled with Cassandrians. Different from those on the surface, they didn’t scatter or flee, patiently remaining in place while the view missiles crashed, bringing the live feed to an end.

Maybe I should revise my last statement, I thought. There was no scenario in which any of the ground troops would survive. The only option they had was to run back to their trenches and try to survive slightly longer.

“Any anomalies down there?” Augustus asked. “Any ores or lump of metals?”

“None, sir.” I rechecked the data I’d received. “Only Cassandrians.”

“Shit!” the captain hissed. “And we lost another one… You got your answer, Wilco.” He turned to the officer. “Now get me my missiles. Quarantine on. Full restrictions last thirty minutes.”

* * *

It had taken me the use of a mind scalpel to know what had happened. An entire Cassandrian hive buried beneath the surface. Why this wasn’t common knowledge, I could not say. So many millions of ground missions since the start of the war, and the troops still barely knew what to expect. Was every planet occupied by the Cassandrians infested on the inside? Most likely not. Analyzing my memories of that day, I knew that Wilco was hoping to find something there, buried beneath the surface—a third-contact artifact most probably, although it could have been something else. No doubt Sim had similar thoughts, otherwise he wouldn’t have had me assemble a drill.

Cassandrians and third-contact artifacts, I thought. The two were a terrible mix. The artifacts prevented me from using scanning equipment, yet without it, it would be next to impossible for me to find Cassandrian traces. Once again, I felt uneasy not having a proper weapon. It was a good idea to ask the director for one during our next call.

Constructing the drill was remarkably simple. In their obsession to provide me as little information as possible, Med Core had reduced assembly of the equipment to a simple puzzle. A blueprint along with all instructions was added to each of the component containers. Once I processed it, I was easily able to create the device and get it running. If anything, the most complicated part was taking it to where it was supposed to go.

Once the drill had started its function, I focused my attention on sample gathering. The sample area was approximately seven kilometers from the base. Given the mission requirements, I cordoned off the area in which I had gathered sample five. Creating a three-by-three grid, I proceeded to collect the first sample of spores.

“Sample one collected,” I said on the local comm channel. “Heading back to base for analysis.”

“Careful not to touch anything while you get back,” ‘Bo reminded.

“Yes, ma’am. Like an asteroid in orbit.” She didn’t get the joke. “Anything else?”

“Not for now. Just keep the data coming. We’ll have more for you soon enough.”

“Yes, ma’am.” By all accounts, this looked like the start of a long and boring mission until the drill did its job. “Permission to explore the surroundings once I’m done?” There were a few potential third-contact rod locations I wanted to check on.

“Absolutely not. You’re to minimize exposure to anything while there, so get the samples, follow the same path, and wait for instructions.”

“Yes, ma’am.” At least I had my comm access to keep me occupied. As Sev’s high-school principal liked to say: sometimes the only thing special about work was that it had to be done. Right now, that seemed to be the case. However, I couldn’t kick the question: what would happen afterwards?