Matthias Ziggenbor sat in his official apartment overlooking the headquarters of the Senate, Station Unity in Understanding, known in almost universal vernacular as ‘the W’. His space and furnishings were modest. He could have afforded more, even on his first term pay, but he preferred things in the manner he had been raised; simple, quaint, with a few comforts. Salaries were fixed for the first two terms, after which it could be increased and decreased based on the well-being of the station over which you helped preside. If the people there were well, you were paid well. The converse was also true.

Swirling the whiskey in his glass, he tried to think about the conversations he had with Senator Rezkin, as she had asked. It was very difficult, knowing what was happening so many lightyears away on Mars. The lie he so often told himself about his brothers tended to crack when he was alone. And this was the first time he had a true need to consider his youngest brother’s wellbeing, outside of the usual anxiety that accompanied the long deployment of soldiers.

When the itch wouldn’t go away, he drew out a personal comlink. He scrolled down to the address ‘Z2’ and typed a message.

Is there any word on Neil?

Then he put the comlink on the table next to him and thought of the last meeting he had with his little brother. Neil’s rage had been calm and quiet, but evident and no less hurtful. That had been… two year ago, now? Sometime after Neil’s first deployment, and it made sense. They three brothers had always been idealists. How could they not be, given who raised them, but Neil was finding his hill to die on. The small glimmer of hope Matt held onto was maybe Neil had found it there.

Matt had found his sometime later, and as a direct result of that conversation. Still, every time Matt heard the phrase ‘acceptable loss’ especially in regards to human collateral tossed around carelessly on the senate floor, his rage would flare. He would stand, he would lean in, and burn with all the anger within him. Which, as the calm Ziggenbor brother, was not a lot compared to the younger two, but considerably more than most of the politicians that infested the W.

Even the thought then… Matt meant to sip the whiskey, but took a larger gulp than intended. He refused to cough, letting the burn wash through him, pass through him, and be gone. The glass clinked as he set it down on the table. In addition to the glass and his comlink, there was a circular watch on a carefully coiled, a picture, and a book. They were all relics of bygone centuries.

The book was red, leatherbound, and had never been appraised. Matt had an idea how much it would go for at some of the more niche auctions, and prayed there was never a rainy day. It was the first in a set of three, a work that had never meant to be split up. Matt considered the irony for a moment.

The picture had cost him more than a month's rent to have printed. It depicted three young boys and a beaming man, old even then. A chain drooped from his breast pocket, clipped to his shirt.

The watch was mostly worthless, even if it was of a higher quality than most of the replicas mass-produced around the Cluster. It was one of three identical copies made; the original was buried with the old man in the photograph.

All three were priceless to him.

Huffing out a sigh, Matt picked up his comlink and sent another message.

Please, Martin. Anything.

Then he stood and took his whiskey to the window overlooking the W, trying to lose himself in thought. It was a grand space station, but all of the governing headquarters were. Still, he thought, drinking the glass, the masterful engineering paled in comparison to The Triumvirate. That station too had a name that was far less used and in far less vocal tones as ‘the W’.

Matt turned to the comlink, forcing his right hand not to drum its fingers on the sill and forcing himself not to slip into the old line of thoughts, the old angers he had always felt in times like this. Nearly all the information of the Cluster at his finger tips, and the tools to understand the lines between the dots, but this… this one small, tiny piece of information that he didn’t have, a simple, easy, yes or no question: was his brother alive. He turned back to the window, and settled himself in for a long wait.

Then the comlink buzzed once, the sound against the metal surface of the table startling him and sending the empty glass clattering to the floor. He snatched the comlink up and looked at the message.

He is in cryo. Things are grim. Get to EMAR if possible.

If possible. Matt sent for transport. He would make arrangements for his absence on the way.

--

Martin entered hangar bay C to a storm of chaos, and was immediately seized by a woman and shunted to the side. “Sorry sir.” The woman said. It was standard operating procedure, an assignment to keep all personnel regardless of rank clear from the situation at hand.

“Do you have any information?” He asked as he surveyed the badly docked ship, vapor rising from it.

“No sir, I’ll have someone in the know come to you as soon as they can be spared.”

“Thank you.” Then he waited, barely hearing the commands being called from the medical staff. He saw Captain Benson, seated, two medics with him. Martin went to him and stood by. As he did, he saw the body parts being taken from the loading bay of the ship and bagged.

“Sir.” Benson said, looking over his shoulder, his gravelly voice subdued.

“Captain.” Martin closed the distance. “How are you?”

“Shook up bad, but not that bad.” He nodded to the ship. “You were watching?”

“Felbound hit you. What are the chances anyone survived?”

Benson looked back at the ship. “I’d say zero. But I’ve seen enough dumb shit to know that zero isn’t usually on the table. If that was a true hit from the felbound that door wouldn’t be attached, much less have been able to close. But it did. No vitals were coming from any of the squad, but a blast like that would have cooked anything they had in regards to monitoring equipment.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t going perfect, but it wasn’t going this bad.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Benson raised his eyebrows. “I know that, sir. I was shocked when I was even able to right the ship when we took the blast, and was praying the whole way back. If you knew me, you’d know what a big deal that was.”

“I remember hearing that all pilots pray sometimes.”

“Aye,” Benson winced, as the activity picked up around the boarding hatch. “But every pilot’s also smart enough to know what good it’ll do for them in the end.”

Martin moved for a better look, and a voice called, “Tube, tube, tube!”

One of the large cylindrical tubes was rolled through the mass of people, and five figures lifted another. Even from the distance Martin could see where Sergeant Valentine’s dreadlocks were still smoking. Both his legs were gone at the knees, and his body was a mass of burns where it wasn’t still covered in the body armor. They lowered him into the tube and slid the top closed, the tube hissing as it sealed shut.

Then there was a larger clamor, and the two most senior medical chiefs crawled into the ship. There was a time where the movement ebbed, and then one of the chiefs reappeared and leaned out. The personnel below him had just enough time to avoid the spray of vomit. “Another tube.” He said weakly. “Hurry.”

Now Martin inched forward, trying to stay out of the way but still bumped a few lower enlisted. They didn’t notice, trying to catch their own view. What came out of the hatch next was… it just looked like burnt flesh. Martin could see where a leg had been, and the elbow stump of an arm, but the mass looked to large and bloated to be a human corpse, much less anything that required cryostasis. As they lowered the mass into the tube, however, Martin caught a single glimpse of the face. A charred thing, some places burnt down to the bone, including around the eyeless socket. Teeth grinned at him.

“No…” Martin breathed.

The mass was lowered into the tube. It snapped shut, hissed, and went opaque. The other chief appeared at the hatchway door. “The rest is cleanup.” She said stiffly. “Bag it, label it, send it to the EMAR for identification.” Her eyes found Martin and she hopped down, making her way through the crowd. “Commander.” She said quietly. “Please come with me.”

Martin followed her away from the crowd of milling personnel. “Sir,’ she said turning.

“Was that--”

“The first subject removed was Sergeant Valentine.” She said with all the mechanical automation of a jaded medical professional. “From the looks of it, those of his squad who were still alive at detonation jumped on him. Each of them were dressed in level 6 tactical armor. His injuries are extensive, but there is a likely chance he will at least recover.” She drew in a breath. “The second subject was Sergeant Ziggenbor. Someone shielded him as well. Neither were dressed in anything so extensive. Whatever other factors played into this situation probably made the difference between immediate life and death for your brother, but it looks very bad sir. Some of the very worst that I’ve ever seen. You saw him?”

Martin nodded.

“That’s the start of it.” She said, “If what we saw was correct there’s a good chance that the majority of the back of his skull would have been gone. If we had tried to move the other subject, there’s an almost certainty that his brain would have just fallen out the back of his skull.”

“Do we know the name of the second subject?”

“We don’t even know the second subject's gender, at this point.” She crossed her arms. “Commander, I would prepare you and your family for the worst. The small comfort that I can give you is that he will likely be sent to the ECE wing with the RAE corps. If anyone can save a subject as extensively damaged as your brother, it’s them.”

“I know.” Martin said at once, watching the CMPs being loaded onto a long, sleek craft. The Chief nodded once, and started walking toward the craft herself. Then there was a tap on his shoulder. Ridgewater held out a headset.

“Ziggenbor.”

“Commander,” Neerson’s voice came. “Your leave and absence under the Family Emergency Protocol is approved.”

“I haven’t submitted the paper--”

“Ziggenbor, I’m a fucking admiral.” Neerson snapped. “Get on that ship.” And the line went dead.

Martin, turned. “Inform--”

“Seris knows, Zig, go.” Ridgewater said.

Martin turned, and found Benson looking at him, his eyes fierce. The Captain said nothing, but Martin nodded once and drew him alongside him. “Chief Rowan!” He called, and she turned in the hatchway of the ship. “Commander?”

“Admiral Neerson instructed me to board.”

“Come aboard sir.” She said at once, and her eyes flicked to Benson. “Did the Admiral say anything about him?”

Martin looked between Benson and the Chief and shook his head.

Chief Rowan’s lips pressed together in a tight line for a moment. “Ma’am, need room for two more.” She called into the ship. “Commander Ziggenbor and his aid.”

“Tell them to hurry, we disembark in five.”

The Chief turned and beckoned, and the two men found their seats, strapping in.

“Thank you.” Benson said, his head bowed.

“I’d say we were even,” Martin said. “But you lot didn’t let me on your ship.”

Benson smiled. “I owe you, sir.”

“Hats off, Benson.” Martin said wearily. “Martin or Zig, for now.”

“Just Zig?”

“Deviate too much, you’re talking about someone else. Fuck,” he muttered, as the hatch closed. Pulling his comlink out, he sent two messages. The first he addressed to Z1, the second to BOU.

The latter simply read, Neil inbound. Trial by blood. It’s very bad.

Then the medical ship glided from hangar bay C and left the Vindicator behind.