“Yuutsah’Zhoz!”

Spata Zhai charged, leading his fellow Ixians against the Aggaaddub defending the cross-junction, their blades flashing as they descended upon the defenders like a whirlwind. But the enemy crewmen didn’t go down easily, their own weapons raking the corridor with murderous fire that tore great rents through the attackers’ formation, before finally dying on their swords.

There was no time to mourn, or even a spare moment to rest. They had to keep moving, for fear the Troika would lock them down and immobilize their small horde… a force growing rapidly smaller with every engagement. Forcing open the hatch and locking it in place, he and his fellow warriors surged forward, leaving the more prosaic tasks of redistributing weapons and seeing to the wounded for the refugees that followed. It was an equitable arrangement, though some of the camp’s residents, emboldened by their success, dropped their quarterstaffs and picked up more powerful weapons their previous owners no longer required, attaching themselves to the Ixian vanguard.

Unfortunately, their enthusiasm far outstripped any actual skills they might possess, with most of the spunky volunteers falling in battle before ever firing a shot. It didn’t matter, as others gladly took up the blood-stained weapons and carried on… while the handful that survived learned from their mistakes, in the most brutal learning curve ever devised.

Consulting the map downloaded from the shuttle’s computer, he pointed to the left. “That way,” he ushered the others, following the passageway as it took them deeper inside the massive ship. A ripple of thrumming vibrations beneath their feet announced the Baishain were still in the fight, though how much longer they could hold out was anyone’s guess. There had to be some way to take the pressure off them, some way to knock the enemy back on his heels and buy themselves more time. But how?

Jogging forward with the others, he examined the map once again, hoping to find inspiration. Most of the compartments served mundane purposes, with the more dangerous ship functions relegated aft near Engineering. But some systems still required distribution throughout the ship; power, data, water, air…

A sinister grin appeared as an idea occurred to him. Glancing briefly at the diagram, he found what he was searching for, located two decks up, three compartments inward. It was a gamble, if it failed it would slow their advance to the bridge, perhaps even halt it completely, but if it worked, it could throw the odds into their favor if the ancestors showed them favor.

And given the tactical situation, they needed all the luck they could get.

“There is an access tube at the next intersection,” he informed his men, as his grin got even wider. “Take it and climb to Deck 18.”

“I wish to bestow a modest gift...”

“Covering fire!”

Prash and Amar unleashed a volley at the defenders, before rolling back behind cover as the Ixians rushed forward. Both had long since upgraded to pulse rifles taken from fallen Aggaaddub crew members and put them to good use, shielding their allies while they made their way forward. In the artificial environment of shipboard combat, their swords were quite effective once they were within range.

The quarterstaffs the untrained refugees carried, less so.

“How many have we lost?” Amar asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

“I stopped counting,” Prash admitted, sending another burst downrange as a Troika defender poked their head out. His lifeless body fell to the deck in a heap a heartbeat later.

Checking the map, the former Valkyrie stifled a curse. “We’re still half a klick short of our objective,” he grimaced. “At this rate…”

“Can that shit,” Prash snapped, “we don’t have time for it.”

A blue arm appeared ahead, waving them forward. “On your feet!” Amar shouted to the refugees taking cover behind them. The two Knights rose as well, rushing forward even as the passageway suddenly lurched hard to port, sending the attackers careening into the bulkhead.

“... big one,” Prash observed as they righted themselves and shook it off. “Must be close.”

Amar just grunted in reply, nodding to the Ixian waving them through the freshly secured hatch as they made their way to the next set of compartments. As bad as the fight on Sonoitii Prime had been, this boarding action was shaping up into something equally disastrous, the only difference being the scale involved. It brought back memories… none of them pleasant.

Joining the blue-skinned warriors as they prepared for their next assault, Prash quickly got their attention. “We have to speed this up,” he urged them, “we’re bogged down, and behind schedule.”

The Ixian viewed him dispassionately. “I am open to suggestions,” he informed them. “The Troika defends its territory with vigor, as it always has.”

He looked to his partner for support, who simply shrugged helplessly in return. “Is there a data hub we could hit, something that might speed our entry?” he said hopefully.

The Ixian sighed. “Certainly… in Engineering.”

“Forget it,” Amar sighed, checking his weapon. “It’s a slog. It was always going to be a slog.”

Prash nodded in mute acceptance as yet another muffled explosion echoed in the distance. “Stand ready,” the Ixian urged. “Aggaaddub have been spotted guarding the next checkpoint.”

Taking their position, the Knights found cover and sighted in on the hatch, while the refugees waited out of sight. “Go,” Amar hissed, as they raised their blades high.

“Yuutsah’Zhoz!”

Feeling her way along the corridor, Blye stumbled over something blocking her path and fell to her knees, her free hand outstretched to catch herself as she went down. It landed on something soft and yielding, cool to the touch, and when she yanked it back it was wet with a thick, viscous substance.

She winced as realization hit her. A body.

Running her hand across the corpse, it didn’t take long to identify it as Qi-Tam, a refugee. One of the many who had joined this crusade because of her, only to die scant meters from the shuttle. Probably one of the first to fall.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she knelt beside the remains.

How was she ever going to make this right? Somehow, this cult of personality had sprung up around her, and nothing she did dissuaded them. Her every action just seemed to drive them to even greater acts of zealotry. And the worst part of all? She’d shamelessly traded on that faith to bring them here, knowing full well their chances of survival were negligible. She’d killed them, just as surely as if she’d pressed a gun to their heads herself and pulled the trigger.

And nothing she did was ever going to wash away that stain.

Blye wept silent tears, even as all her training shouted to get up and get moving. Staying here, out in the open, scant meters from the shuttle they’d arrived in, was tantamount to suicide, and yet somehow, she couldn’t budge. Leaning on her staff she shoved against the deck with all her strength, yet she remained pinned to that spot. As if… she was supposed to stay there.

Maybe this is how I pay my debt, she thought numbly. How else can you atone for leading the innocent to their death, unless you share in their fate?

Well. So be it then.

Making herself comfortable, Blye waited for the wheel of karmic justice to cycle around once more, but when she settled in, a familiar sensation came over her once more. Her head slumped forward, groaning, “Terra, not again,” as the darkness whisked her away.

Blye already knew what to expect before she even opened her eyes. She held off for as long as she could, out of pig-headedness more than anything else, but as the seconds ticked by, she finally sighed, bowing to the inevitable. As her eyes fluttered open, she was unsurprised to find herself on Threshold once more, seated before the same burbling pond, with the same blue-white dryad crouched before her, eyeing her sadly.

“I did not expect to find you here again so soon,” they said in mild disapproval. “Why have you returned?”

“Hey, this wasn’t my idea!” she snapped. “You’re the one that keeps bringing me back here.”

“In fact, it is you that brings me here,” they corrected her. “If you search out your memories, you will see the connecting thread that binds each of our encounters.”

She stared at the Precursor for a moment, struggling with their words. She was the one doing this? That made no sense at all. As for a connection, Blye began replaying in her head each time they’d met in her dreams… visions… whatever they were. They’d talked about many things, but no single topic had dominated the rest that she recalled.

… Until she realized with a start, it wasn’t the subject that they were alluding to.

“Death,” Blye whispered. “Each time I was near death, or contemplating it.”

The dryad nodded in agreement. “Just so. And what have I told you each time?” they prompted her.

A bone-weary sigh escaped her. “That I had to live.” She looked up at the ancient being, pleading with her. “I don’t think I can. Look at what I’ve done,” Blye said in despair.

“Yes… look at what you have done,” they agreed. “You have defeated your greatest enemy, against all odds. You have united your people, taught them to stand and fight for what is theirs. And, you have overcome tremendous hardship, emerging even stronger for the lessons it taught you.” The dryad smiled, cupping her chin. “As in so many things, each of us sees what we wish to see.”

Blye froze, staring in shock. “You mean… this has all been a test?” she said in incredulity. “Some sort of crucible, to mold me into something I’m not? What gives you the right to interfere in my life?” she demanded.

“The choice was always yours,” they said gently. “At any point along your journey, you could have said ‘No’. But think carefully regarding that decision.” Pulling Blye to her feet, they led her to the pond, before sweeping their hand over the still waters. “Observe…”

At first, all she saw was the pool and the waving fronds below, but as she looked closer, an image coalesced. It took several moments for it to clear, but when it finally did, Blye gasped in horror.

It was the camp, but not the camp she knew.

Bodies were strewn everywhere, their cloying stench filling her nostrils, choking her. The outbuildings blazed as smoke billowed in the sky, while familiar faces, contorted in death, mocked her. Akuum Wuzah, chained to the bottom of the well he helped dig, drowned in cruel sport. Spata Zhai, spikes driven through his limbs to hold him fast, his very flesh flayed from his bones in agonizing torment. The refugees, shot for the Troika’s amusement, burned alive, or blown apart like so much meat.

But worst of all was the vision of her fellow Knights. Amar and Prash, locked in gladiatorial combat against one another, each forced to murder the other to the delight of their Aggaaddub audience. She wept bitter tears as she gazed at their broken bodies, before finally turning to the dryad once more. “Is this real?” she whispered. “Are you real?”

The dryad smiled. “I am as real as you need me to be. No more, and no less.” Patting her cheek, they stepped into the water, returning whence they came.

“Wait!”

The being froze, swinging back around to face her. “Can’t you answer even one question without it being a damn riddle?”

The dryad chuckled. “What is life, without mystery?” With an almost human wink, they slipped beneath the water and disappeared.

A ragged volley of fire echoed throughout the passageway, as Spata Zhai made the final adjustments. His second poked his head through the hatch. “I believe they have divined our stratagem,” he informed him.

“Then they are too late,” the Ixian leader grinned fiercely. “Begin falling back, but do not let the Aggaaddub realize we are ceding this ground freely. They must take it from us… by force.”

“Understood,” the second said gravely. “The refugees then?”

“Regrettable, but necessary,” the Spata replied. “Their sacrifice will not be in vain. Tell them to hold for as long as they can, then retreat to the previous junction. We will circle around to starboard when our bounty is revealed.”

“As you command, Spata Zhai,” he answered, saluting him.

Drawing his sword, he thrust it deep inside the console before him, severing several vital connections. “It is done.” Re-sheathing his blade, he took up his rifle. “Come. There is not much time.” The pair exited the compartment, sealing the hatch behind them. It wouldn’t hold the enemy for long… but then that wasn’t the point.

The sound of weapons fire increased substantially as they withdrew, the enemy smelling blood in the water. The refugees held for as long as they could, but soon the survivors were racing back to join them, bearing fresh wounds or assisting others too badly injured to escape themselves. Looking over the ragged band, Ixian and refugee alike, he noted with regret just how few were left.

Enough for the finishing stroke, I pray, he reflected. Afterward… I doubt it will matter.

Running the rough calculations through his head once more, he checked his chronometer, nodding with satisfaction.

Soon.

An exact countdown was impossible under the circumstances, as there were simply too many variables involved, too many unknown polynomials to render a proper solution. At best he could approximate, bringing him back to the vague yet accurate “soon” as an answer, assuming it worked at all. The Troika forces might have intervened in time, or his mathematics might have been off. There could be hidden safety features he had missed, or…

… Implacable reared up on its long axis as a massive explosion ripped through its belly. It tossed him and the others about like small toys, slamming into bulkheads and tumbling down the passageways as ripples of kinetic energy radiated outward in all directions.

“It appears to have worked!” his second laughed, struggling to regain his feet.

“Then there is no time to waste,” he snapped, gathering the others for the final assault. Sabotaging the ship’s Atmospheric Generator had proved every bit as destructive as he’d hoped for. While not as volatile as the ship’s engines or fuel supply, reserve air for life support was stored as simple water, then created as needed via electrolysis. A straightforward application of basic chemistry; but when one disabled the valves shunting off the excess volatile hydrogen, allowing it to mix with highly reactive oxygen, the results were devastating.

“Forward!” he shouted, “before they recover!”

“Yuutsah’Zhoz!” the others roared.

A massive lurch along the ship’s hull threw them to the deck. “What the hell was that?” Amar demanded.

“Let’s hope it was Zhai lending a hand,” Prash answered. “Forward!” he screamed.

“Yuutsah’Zhoz!”