Loading the shuttle was easier said than done. There simply wasn’t enough room for everyone, so deciding who would go and who would stay was a challenging issue, enough to try the patience of Solomon the Wise himself. That the Ixians would be the first to board was obvious, they were by far the best warriors of their makeshift army. Even hinting they might be left behind offended their rigid code of honor… a line no one wanted to cross, given how they dealt with such matters.

Despite the zeal the volunteers had shown, there were many refugees glad to remain on the surface. They had taken numerous casualties already fighting the Troika; watching friends and loved ones get blown to pieces on the field of battle was enough to take the fight out of anyone. Others feared looking weak or cowardly before their peers, putting on a brave front to hide how frightened they were. Those were trickier, as bravado would only carry one so far. It was one thing to step forward when no one was shooting at you. It was quite another to hold the line when, to your left and right, your comrades were dying. Prash, Amar, and Spata Zhai dealt with those cases personally, deciding who they could trust to stand their ground.

But the sudden burst of tremors emanating from the Precursor vault brought the selection process to a screeching halt, as all eyes turned to where their beloved spiritual leader had last been seen. As they grew in intensity, before finally ending in an explosive crescendo, many amid the throng fell to their knees; some praying for her safety, while others grieved over her all too likely death. The Knights maintained a stoic façade, projecting an air of certainty regarding Blye’s eventual return, but as they shared a look with their Ixian counterpart, they knew.

No one was coming out of that cavern alive.

Sometime later, while the last refugees boarded the shuttle, the incredulous trio stared in disbelief as a cheering crowd carried a battered and bloody Blye and Velsa on their shoulders, with more rushing to join the throng every minute as word of her miraculous survival spread. They gently set them both down as they arrived at the landing site, though it took her several moments to quiet them down before she could actually converse with the others.

“So… you are alive,” Prash said finally, nonplussed, “though I’m not gonna lie, you look like shit.”

“Feel like it, too,” she agreed.

“And the Kaihautu?” he asked.

“Dealt with,” she said evenly.

“A pity,” Spata Zhai lamented. “I hoped to reserve that honor for myself.”

“You can have the next one,” Blye quipped, before wincing as Amar tried cleaning the blood from her face.

“And the vault?” the Spata inquired.

“Gone,” she grimaced. “It’s all gone.”

“I am relieved to hear that,” the Ixian replied.

“We can debrief later,” Amar interrupted. “We’ve got to get them both to the clinic.”

“Velsa should definitely go,” Blye agreed, nodding to the nurse, who wisely refrained from argument, “but I’m boarding that shuttle.”

“The hell you are,” Prash sputtered. “There’s no room for a blind woman where we’re going, especially one who I’m betting is nursing a concussion, on top of the broken nose and teeth and Terra alone knows what else.” She hissed sharply as he pressed a finger against her torso. “Plus a cracked rib. I had a feeling, the way you were holding yourself.” The Knight shook his head. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, did you stage a coup in my absence?” she fired back, batting his hand aside. “I’m still the head of our mission, as well as this camp, unless you’re challenging my authority?” she demanded, glaring at him.

“Of course not,” he sighed, “but you’re not up for this, Blye. The people need you here.”

“Unless we take out that ship, no one down here is safe either,” she reminded him. “My staying on the ground won't make one bit of difference, but up there?” She shrugged as she laid out her case. “I might just be able to.”

“Chevalier Dibra is quite correct,” Spata Zhai argued. “Your injuries and disability make you a poor candidate for this mission.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she countered, digging in her heels. “I’m still going.”

“Damn it, don’t you get it?” Amar exploded, unable to contain himself any longer. “No one on that shuttle is coming back! Isn’t one suicide mission enough for you? Do we have to sit and watch you die, too?”

Blye rested her hand on his shoulder. “I pray it doesn’t come to that,” she said softly, “but I have to go.”

Prash was about to add his own objection when the Spata abruptly stepped between them. “Tell me why,” he insisted. “A single justification why your presence is necessary.”

She froze for a moment, struggling to come up with an answer that would satisfy him. Would he accept the truth if she were honest with him? Could he accept the strange compulsion inside her, tied inexplicably with her visions of the long-dead Precursors? Or would he think her mad?

A sense of calm came over her as she faced him. “... because honor demands it,” she told the Ixian.

Spata Zhai sucked air across his teeth, rocking back on his heels. He was silent for a long moment before finally bowing his head. “One cannot refuse the demands of honor,” he said in understanding, before stepping back aside. “No matter how much we may wish otherwise.”

Amar looked on in dismay, while Prash shook his head in defeat. “I hoped to keep your name from the Memorial Wall,” he said quietly. “Too many of our clan have fallen already.”

“Those decisions are not up to us,” she gently reminded him. “We go where needed and serve all who ask. As for the rest…” Blye simply shrugged. “Mother Terra decides our fate.” Taking up her staff, she gave the end piece a twist, pulling the katana blade free a few centimeters to double-check its fit, before snapping it back in place.

“And just how long have you been carrying around that little surprise?” Prash observed.

“If I learned anything from Maggie, it’s keeping an ace up your sleeve for when you need it,” she said wryly. Taking a deep breath, she gazed sightlessly towards the shuttle.

“I believe it’s time, gentlemen,” she said softly.

The phrase, “Packed like sardines” would have been almost charitable in describing how overloaded the shuttle was. The engines could easily handle the extra mass, but Life Support was struggling to keep up. So far, they’d avoided suffocation, even if the air was getting dodgy.

Blye had intended to ride with the others, standing and jostling for space like all the rest, but the refugees, Ixians, and her fellow Knights had absolutely balked. They insisted she have one of the coveted cockpit seats, relatively free of excess body mass and blessed with a separate oxygen recycling system for the crew. She’d protested, loudly in fact, only reluctantly giving in when she realized the others would cheerfully slit their own throats, rather than let the “Saint of Taing’zem” be inconvenienced.

Oddly, she found herself reminiscing yet again about Maggie, and how angry she’d been when Blye had first learned her true identity. They’d argued bitterly the day before over the boy Diggs, but when she’d gotten her DNA results and discovered, to her amazement, the scruffy Tinker was none other than Lady Maggie Al-Hajjah, it absolutely mortified her. One of only a handful of living Terrans to have actually visited the old homeworld of Earth, and she’d had the audacity to treat her like an unruly child!

Well, she had to fix that immediately.

At the first opportunity, she’d begged her forgiveness, horribly ashamed by her actions… only to get slapped down hard by the woman. The Tinker practically threatened her, demanding she forget all about who she really was. She’d goggled at Maggie’s demand, unable to comprehend why she wouldn’t want to be recognized for her achievement. It made no sense; why would a great and noble lady pass herself off as an itinerant beggar?

It wasn’t until much later that she realized she’d had those personas inverted. The threadbare misanthrope was who she truly was, while the title bestowed upon her had been without her consent or approval. She’d fought bitterly against it her entire life, declaring it felt like an anchor around her neck, dragging her down. Upon her own return from Earth, Blye finally understood what she’d meant. She, too, shunned the title and the accolades, preferring the quiet simplicity of service. It was one reason she’d picked Amar to join her team when he transferred over from the Valkyries, bearing a note from an old acquaintance. He’d served with Rúna and the late Sergeant Kai, who had kept the Earth mission a secret. When they finally admitted the truth, they quashed any notion of special treatment, making him the perfect candidate to serve alongside her.

Besides… she owed it to a friend.

And now, she was some sort of demigoddess, blessed with a healing touch. Confidante of the Ancients, guardian and protector, oracle and seer of visions. A beacon for all to follow… and Death Incarnate to those who would dare stand against her holy mission.

It made her physically ill.

If that’s how you truly feel, then what in the hell are you doing up here? her inner critic demanded. Prash and the others were right; there was absolutely no place for a blind woman in the middle of a boarding action. At best, she was a distraction, at worst, an impediment. What was she going to do… smite the enemy? The only way she was going to take down one of the Aggaaddub was if she blundered into them by accident, and even then, only with a great deal of luck. She could cheat, as she had with Kaihautu Yugha, but unfortunately, she was fresh out of poison. So why was she here?

She knew the reason, of course, the real reason, though she hadn’t wanted to admit it, not even to herself. It had nothing to do with logic, or tactics, or strategy, and while her presence might help boost the refugees’ morale in the coming fight, that wasn’t it either. No, her motives were purely emotional; she simply couldn’t bear to let the others face death alone, not without confronting it as well at their side. It was stupid and selfish, and perhaps the worst decision she’d ever made… and none of that mattered. She just couldn’t do it. “They also serve, who only stand and wait”. Well, not her.

Blye knew she should probably speak to someone regarding that character flaw, but she had a feeling it would prove moot. The odds she’d ever get the chance were vanishingly small.

A hand touched her shoulder. “We’re nearing Implacable,” Spata Zhai informed her. “No sign they are aware of our deception.”

“Unless they’re just waiting for us to get closer,” Prash snorted.

“And if they require docking information from us?” Blye asked. “Or a code?”

“That’s why we kept this one alive,” Amar growled, referring to the pilot.

“Then let’s hope he doesn’t decide to be a hero,” she said with feeling.

“Oh, he won’t do anything stupid,” the former Valkyrie chuckled, though there was a dangerous undercurrent to his humor. “Will you?” he asked the Aggaaddub prisoner.

The pilot didn’t respond, at least not vocally. Probably a wise decision, considering Amar had his sidearm jammed against the reptilian’s tympanum, the membrane his species possessed as opposed to an external ear opening. One false move, one slip-up, and his brains would decorate the inside of the cockpit. Not that it would ultimately matter, as it would mean their ruse had been discovered. They might have two whole seconds before Implacable destroyed the shuttle.

“How are we doing this?” she asked them.

“‘We’ aren’t doing anything,” Prash corrected her, harsher than clan protocol generally allowed, given their relative positions. “You, on the other hand, are staying put. We can use the shuttle as a casualty collection point. But you are not going into that battle zone blind.”

Blye had reluctantly come to the same conclusion, though it galled her to admit it. At least she could treat the wounded, assuming they got the chance. Not trusting herself to speak, she managed a brief nod instead.

“Complex instructions are wasted on this group,” the Ixian proclaimed. “They may mean well, but they lack experience. We, therefore, keep their orders simple. Half will head forward, towards the bridge, the rest aft, towards Engineering. Their goal is to prevent the ship from firing on the surface, by whatever means necessary.”

“And kill anything that gets in their way,” Amar said hungrily.

“He’s right,” Prash agreed. “We can’t let ourselves get bogged down. Our only chance is to move faster than they can react.”

“Agreed,” Spata Zhai said. “Speed of movement is our ally. We must reach our objectives quickly in order to disable their weapons systems. If we can accomplish that,”… a rather big if, considering… “then our next target is the ship’s engines. We must put both permanently out of action in order to safeguard the planet.”

“And then?” Blye asked.

“We send word to the Alliance, requesting support,” he explained. “With luck, they will reinforce us and help protect this world.”

No one bothered commenting on what would happen if they weren’t lucky. There was no point.

“Coming within docking range,” Prash said quietly.

There was a grunt from the pilot as if someone struck him. “Time to earn your pay,” Amar ordered, “and don’t even think about getting cute.”

There was a long period of silence, broken only by the sound of someone entering commands to the shuttle’s computer and com system… the pilot, most likely. Apparently, he did as Amar demanded since there was no shouting or sudden gunfire to ruin the mood.

Blye heard a “click” as something was activated. “We are nearing the docking ring,” Spata Zhai announced over the shuttle’s loudspeakers. “Stand ready to assault the airlock the instant the hatch opens. Follow your section leaders and keep pressing forward.” Given the refugees’ lack of experience, they’d broken them down into sections and assigned Ixian commanders. It was better than nothing. “Do not slow down, do not stop,” he continued, “until you have reached your objectives.”

There was another touch. “Is there anything you wish to add?” he asked her.

She had to say something. They were counting on her to be their divine inspiration, the wise shepherd that watches over their flock. Time to fulfill her role in all of this.

“We come from many worlds,” she told the others, “and once you may have looked upon each other with scorn. But no longer, for the Troika have made our choices brutally clear. Either you are with them, or else you are merely a target, awaiting disposal.” She paused, letting that sink in. “We have one chance to make our camp, our home, safe. Fight bravely, and know that Mother Terra and the Ancients watch over you… and so do I.” The words tasted like ashes in her mouth. She just hoped they made a difference.

A shudder rippled through the over-packed craft, followed by a muffled clang. “We have hard dock,” Spata Zhai apprised them, “ten seconds until airlock clearance. Stand ready.” The seconds seemed to stretch out to eternity until at last, she heard the hatch cycling open.

“... Yuutsah’Zhoz!” the Ixians roared, the cry echoing even among the refugees, as their Forlorn Hope surged forward.