“I struggle to understand your reasoning, Anthony. The entire admiralty board shares the sentiment.”

Admiral Kierch sat behind his real wood desk, a glass of synthesized brandy in hand. His office overlooked the sector’s main habitation hub, with a wide panorama view of the busy streets beneath. It was a lovely, blue-sky day aboard the Ark. People went about the business of the day, all standard humans, unperturbed by the war on the surface.

The inside sea of the Ark’s marina shined a deep azure in the distance, the simulated rays of sunlight bouncing off the undisturbed surface of the water.

Brachus looked across the city and sniffed in displeasure. His own glass of brandy sat on a desk next to him, untouched, next to his commander’s cap. He had his hands clasped at his back as he surveyed the thousands of ants far below, living in simulated peace.

“Your last mission has seen the loss of one of our most important experimental assets in years,” Kierch went on, sipping his drink. “Project Future-proof’s loss has caused great distress among my colleagues. There’s… talk, Anthony.” The admiral hesitated as he sipped his drink again.

Brachus did not turn around.

“Her name was Valerie Amianta, and she was an exceptional soldier. Please don’t soil her memory with that title,” Brachus said, anger tinting his words.

Kierch waved away his complaint.

“Regardless, the loss has been great. It’s cost us thousands of hours of research and development, and the field test was a complete bust. And now you’re getting ready to field test another set of precious prototypes, right on the tails of a staggering failure. How do you expect me to smooth this over with the admiralty?”

Brachus turned around and picked up his cap, leaving the glass still untouched.

He sat down on a chair opposite the admiral and sighed.

“Testing the Valkyrie Type 02 was always on the schedule. Failed mission or not, we still have a schedule to keep if we aim for large-scale deployment. The admiralty knows this.”

The admiral regarded him over the rim of his glasses, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, Anthony, you’re such a great stickler for standard procedure. You’re making this into a very easy sell for me,” he said, sounding as grave as his position dictated.

Brachus shrugged.

“The mission failed, but we still need to assure large scale deployment of the new Valkyrie variant within the year. If the gap between skidrell and human technology is allowed to grow wider, we’ll only end up seeing more tragedies like the Vehement Hope. I think that’s enoughfor them to get off my back.”

Kierch sat back in his chair, with the glass of brandy held in both hands on his lap.

“You realize that your own reputation is working against you, I hope.”

“Which reputation is that?” Brachus asked. He enjoyed the look of annoyance on the admiral’s face. “Weren’t they naming me ‘Shield of the Ark’, or some other such nonsense, just a few short months ago? Now they won’t trust me because a mission got hit by one of Deana’s unpredictable storms? An act of the Goddess got in my way, so now I’m supposed to cower?”

Kierch pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Fine, Anthony, be that way. Please explain one thing, though, so I can cover my ass at least.”

“Certainly,” the commander replied, hands stippled on his lap. He knew the coming question.

“Why are you sending the sole surviving pilot out with the prototype? In less than three days since his recovery, no less? That one’s got the other admirals in a real wrinkle.”

“Must I answer that?” Brachus leaned back in his chair and checked his watch, impatient.

Kierch refused to relent. He sat straighter in his chair and set his empty glass on the table with a heavy clunk of glass on polished wood.

“Yes, commander, you must,” he said, losing the pleasant, conversational tone.

The cry of a seagull could be heard through a half-opened window, shrill and annoyed. Others followed it, as the birds had, likely, bunched up on some poor sod with an unprotected food container.

‘Horrid creatures,’ Brachus thought, and wasn’t sure if his thoughts of the gulls or of the admirals.

“Taro Tenabris is one of the most capable pilots still flying today, who’s been in more direct combat that all the admiralty combined.”

Kierch raised an eyebrow at that and his jet-black eyes grew harder.

“You may quote me on that, if you wish,” Brachus said, unperturbed. He checked his watch again.

“You haven’t had him evaluated after his return from the mission, commander. You know —”

“Yes, yes,” Brachus interrupted him, impatient. “The admiralty board likes psychological evaluations, yada yada yada. And they know, just as well as I, that these pilots can ace those, even blindfolded. I believe they even make wagers on how close they can get their score to a set target. It’s a waste of everyone’s time.”

“And yet?”

“And yet I’ll have Selma prepare the documents to appease the fat asses sitting out the war in the comfort of the Ark, yes,” Brachus relented and sighed, his anger held in check.

Kierch smiled, his lips drawing into a sharp, bloodless line. He looked smug about the entire exchange.

“I like how you can be reasoned with, Anthony, when your fat ego doesn’t impede your even fatter head,” the admiral said and typed something on his data slate.

“Now you’re being juvenile,” Brachus said, trying not to laugh.

Kierch raised a finger and waggled it at the commander.

“Now I’m off the damn clock, since you were so set on checking it every two minutes. I can give you an actual piece of my mind, Anthony. And it’s quite a large one.”

He typed something more on his data slate and shut it down once he finished.

“I’ve sent my report to the other admirals and I’ll probably receive a call twenty minutes from now, from each of them. I hope you’re pleased.”

“You can wait for that over that coffee we discussed earlier, Michael,” Brachus said.

Michael frowned as he picked up his coat from its hanger near the window.

“We might as well. There’s a coffee shop near here that makes something approximating military caffeine. It doesn’t taste exactly like jet fuel, but it’s close enough.”

Brachus let out a slight chuckle. Michael had a tenancy of being everywhere at once when he prepared to leave a room. He checked his personal locker, threw away his food container for disposal, closed the window, double checked the locking sequence for his terminal. Admirals weren’t ever quite off-schedule, but there was a mandated break from work to prevent burnout, especially when they were dealing with administrative duties.

Most admirals were in no danger of overworking themselves, but Michael —

Brachus didn’t finish that thought. Michael was in front of him. He bent at the waist and kissed him, like a fluttering heartbeat, soft and quick. His beard tickled.

“You’re buying.” His black eyes filled Brachus’ field of view and would accept no refusal. He nodded.

“Good. Let’s go. I’ll chew you out on the way.”

Brachus donned his cap and exited first from the office, Michael holding the door open for him. Even if he was on shore leave for the time being, and the visit hadn’t been official, he still wore his officer’s uniform rather than civilian attire.

Michael, however, wore grey dress pants and a white button-up shirt with a blue speckled tie. He hadn’t donned his coat, but kept it draped over one shoulder. Without the experience of having served with him for over three decades, anyone would have had a hard time imagining the tall, slender man as commander of one of the most successful carriers in the fleet.

What separated he and Brachus was a keen diplomatic sixth sense that got him up the ranks in record time.

People thronged the street. Foot traffic ebbed and flowed through the narrow spaces between buildings, forcing them to make a staggered advance towards the coffee shop. Brachus tried to remember what Old Earth celebration was marked on the day. Nothing came to mind.

But the sector was modelled after a… Mediterranean city? He wasn’t sure. He rarely visited the Ark and never bothered to keep up with the customs.

“I don’t remember this sector being quite so crowded,” he grumbled as he drew closer to Michael, trying to not get swept up by the crowd.

“There’s flooding in sectors F and G. We’ve relocated most of the people to adjacent sectors.”

It still made little sense. The sectors served at half capacity under normal use, so taking the load from an adjacent one wouldn’t push the population to such density.

“There’s also a fresh batch of thawed out settlers,” Michael added as they shouldered their way through the mass of bodies. “About twenty thousand souls, if I remember correctly.”

Oh. That was bad. It stopped Brachus in his tracks for a moment before the crowd pushed him forward again, down the slope towards the marina.

Michaels veered off the main walkways, into a tight alleyway that served as an access point for maintenance engineers to some of the sewage systems.

There was no sign for the coffee shop, nor any windows to mark the location. He could only see a pictogram of a white cup on the single door marring the side of the building. There wasn’t even a bell as they walked in, just a tight set of uneven stairs that led into a dimly lit basement.

The place was as narrow as the alley that led to it. Rare incandescent bulbs hung from the ceiling, nestled between criss-crossing pipework and cable holders.

It was also empty, save for one bored looking young man that watched some loud entertainment on his data-slate, behind a grubby bar assembled out of prefab construction blocks.

“Two coffees, black, no sugar,” Michael ordered as he walked past the counter.

“You go it, admiral, sir,” the boy replied without looking at them. His hands had already started working, seemingly independent of his will.

They sat in a booth at the farthest end of the room. It was barely wide enough for two people to sit opposite one another with their knees bumping under the table. The stale smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air, mixed with the aroma of baked coffee beans.

“They have real coffee here?” Brachus asked, surprised. He had taken off his cap and held it on his lap, one hand over it. He placed his other hand over Michael’s.

“The owner is a friend of mine. They’ve got some Coffea trees growing down in sector M. Some of their production ends up here.”

“Helped along, I’m sure.”

Michael shrugged as he undid the top buttons of his shirt and loosened his tie.

“I like coffee. Report me.”

They sat in amiable silence for a few minutes until the server brought them two steaming cups.

“A moment if you please, Marcel,” Michael said as he held up his payment chip. The youth stopped with a lurch.

“Yes, admiral, sir?” he asked.

“I want privacy. See that I have it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The reply had been so sharp and clear that Brachus expected a military salute to accompany the words. It surprised him when it didn’t come.

“Good lad. Thank you.”

Marcel took the chip and ambled up the stairs to lock the door. He made himself scarce inside a side room, likely the kitchenette of the establishment.

“That was quick,” Brachus said.

A sip of his coffee confirmed that it, indeed, tasted close to jet fuel. He grimaced and almost spat back the foul black liquid. In all fairness, it reminded him of the unmentionable fluids they used as a base for their caffeine, back when he was an ensign aboard the Summer.

“I thought you said it was real coffee.” He moved the cup away from him, careful not to spill even a drop on himself. It would have probably eaten clean through his uniform.

“It is real coffee, just not a good one. I like it.”

Michael hadn’t touched his cup yet. Steam curled above it, drifting up into the vents.

“I’d like a report without bullshit now, please,” he said, taking his hand away from Brachus’. “This is a secure location and we won’t have anyone eavesdropping. I’ve made certain of that.”

Back at his office, they had to play the parts that were expected of them. Their relationship wasn’t a secret to the admiralty. It had taken considerable effort over time to build certain expectations concerning their off-the-books behaviour. The commander loathed the entire thing, but Michael was insistent on keeping up the charade for as long as it would serve their purpose.

“The kid’s a plant?” Brachus inclined his head towards the door. The raucous sound of that broadcast program was still coming through, muffled somewhat.

Michael didn’t reply. He looked over the rim of his glasses and gave a tiny, tight smirk.

“Valerie is aboard the Delirium,” the commander said after some moments of consideration. He had picked up the cup again and sipped from it again. The acrid, acidic taste wasn’t that bad, once he lost sufficient taste buds.

“And Tenabris?”

“Selma tells me he’s stable, for now. He’s getting some upgrades to better handle the new Type 02. I have gone to some lengths to make sure the people working on are trustworthy.”

Michael drank. He had the gall to smile after the first taste.

“I didn’t think you had it in you to send that mission out; knowing what we know.” His tone was soft, but that only made Brachus’ anger flare up.

“I do what I must do,” he said, voice tight.

“Don’t get upset with me. I’m just worried. Sacrificing —“

Brachus waved away his concerns.

“I’ll pay for whatever I did when the time comes. For now, I still have a spy to root out and dispose of.” He let out a slow, ragged breath and composed himself, letting Michael’s worry wash over him. “Why is the sector so overcrowded? Why aren’t we rotating people back into cryo?”

His friend shrugged.

“We will, eventually. But to do that, we’re going to need to bring in soldiers in riot gear. People don’t want to go back into cryo. Volunteer numbers are at an all-time low.”

“People don’t want to go under? We’ll run out of space.”

“I’ll forward your observation to President Yannis. Maybe another voice added to the chorus of ‘We’re going to die if you don’t shut the fuck up’ will finally sway him to shut the fuck up.”

Michael rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat. He looked tired with bags under his eyes made even more obvious by the sparse light.

“His propaganda has people believing we’re this close to terraforming this miserable ice ball.” He pinched his index and thumb together, leaving just the tiniest space between them. “We’re all going to starve in a year because of that imbecile.”

Brachus sipped his coffee, thoughtful. They both lapsed back into an uneasy silence.

“What about Eden? How’s that coming along?” he asked, setting down his empty cup. He would have wanted a second.

“Slowly,” Michael said, his tone dispassionate. “The colony’s almost self-sustaining, but crops have a hard time adjusting when we keep having to shut down all solar collectors every time there’s a skidrell craft flying overhead. For now, it’s sparsely populated, but once we move people in, we’ll need every ship to defend it. Then it’s either Eden, or the Ark.”

Brachus sighed and chuckled.

“No pressure.”

“No pressure,” Michael confirmed. He swirled the dregs of his coffee around the edge of the cup. “We need that decisive blow, Anthony. Bar that we need the skidrell cloaking tech. Things are getting ugly in here.” He looked up at Brachus without the faintest sign of a smile. “How sure are you of Tenabris? It seems to me like you're experimenting with a live wire.”

“Taro will fly. He doesn’t have a choice but to fly.”