Firebrand

"Jarilan," he scoffed, "as though a change of name will distract us from your telltale appearance."

"We have no affiliation with those that you refer to as Betelgeusians," she replied, "they are not our kin."

"And I have no affiliation with the Rask," he added, gesturing across the table at Korbaz. "Yet we are both Borealans."

"Some more than others, perhaps," the Rask muttered in response.

"What has stopped other hives that the Coalition has encountered from surrendering in the same way?" Zuki asked, "what made your hive special?"

"As I understand it, our hive ships were destroyed at a crucial stage of our deployment. We were left with neither the manpower nor the resources to establish a sure foothold."

"So you admit that you would have continued to murder the Coalition forces on Jarilo if you were able," Korbaz spat, turning her attention to Admiral Vos. "You see? They admit that they would strike against us the moment that they have the strength. You would invite a traitor into our midst, and then allow them to build their forces with impunity? Why not furnish them with weapons and ships while you're at it? Perhaps we should save them the trouble and just slit our own throats!"

"No," the Bug said, remaining calm and diplomatic despite her obvious frustration. "In the eyes of our Queen, we have been assimilated. We are now a part of your Coalition genetically, our people recognize yours as members of the same hive by instinct. We only seek to make it official."

"On Ker'gue'la, entire flocks were slaughtered," Cuetz added with a flurry of angry red. "Infants were killed in their incubators, and now you expect mercy? Your kind is rotten at its core, soulless. There is no compassion, no empathy, no guilt. How can we trust you?"

"I must reiterate," the Bug continued, turning her pink eyes to the Ensi. "My people have nothing in common with those that destroyed your colony and invaded your homeworld, and those actions fill me with the same disgust that you feel."

Moralez glanced around the table, it looked like the ambassador was losing the crowd. Harry was standing near the Bug, keeping his eyes on the Valbarans, while Blackjack remained at her side like a giant guard dog. There wasn't much chance of anything happening to her with a Krell on the job, but the hatred in the air was palpable, Moralez felt like he could have cut it with a knife.

"We do not come empty-handed," the Bug continued, spreading her four arms. "We have much to offer you. Biological and technological secrets developed over eons and passed down to us by our distant ancestors, knowledge that will help you defeat hostile hives more effectively. With our help, your vessels could heal hull breaches as though they were wounds, our knowledge of genetics could cure your every ailment, and strengthen your warriors. If you seek military power, then we could provide you with millions of devoted soldiers tailored to your every need, unwavering, willing to march into the jaws of death if you so commanded."

"We should consider this carefully," the Admiral warned, "we didn't agree to bring the ambassador here because we wanted to be good Samaritans. They have things that we need. Taking Bugs alive has always been a problem, we can't communicate with them, their biological computer systems are nonsense to us. Their ships die in captivity before we can learn anything useful about them, for God's sake. The Jarilans can just give us what we need, and that knowledge can then be applied to all other hives that we encounter."

"The potential for technological advancement is great," the Broker added, the claw-like attachments on its tubular arms flexing. "This opportunity will likely never present itself again, the circumstances are unique. Information is the most valuable currency of all."

"You can't be seriously considering this," Netza muttered. "We came here seeking allies to help us fight these creatures, and now we find that we may be forced to live alongside them? Perhaps coming here was a mistake..."

Rasheth seemed to have something to add, his rumbling voice making Moralez's teeth chatter.

"Many Krell perish in wars against insects, more than we have words for, as many as there are stars. Though our lives are long enough to witness a seed sprout, and a tree wither, few remember a time before. We grieve for those who have left our circle, we mourn, but a circle cannot close. It remains open, as is its nature, as must we. The Krell will never seek out war."

It was a fairly neutral response, but it sounded as though Rasheth might be onboard. That was three votes, maybe. The Bugs had a chance.

Without warning, everything went black. There was a chorus of alarmed murmurs, and then a second or two later, Moralez felt his feet leave the deck. The gravity had been shut off too, the main power must have gone out.

There was a sound like a thunderclap, Moralez stumbling in the pitch darkness, bringing his hands to his ears. It was like someone had hit a gong with a sledgehammer right beside his head. He couldn't see anything, he couldn't hear anything, he couldn't tell where he was or what was happening.

The lights in the room flickered back on after only a few moments, and he fell back to the floor with a thud, the impact knocking the air out of his lungs. His ears still ringing, he struggled to right himself, slowly coming to his senses. He was met with a scene of chaos.

The ambassadors had scattered about the room, Blackjack was hunched in one corner, while Harry and the Bug were nowhere to be seen. There was a fist-sized hole in the floor where the Betelgeusian ambassador had been standing only moments before, the blue carpet around the breach charred and blackened. Moralez was already moving. He checked beneath the table, finding the Araxie ambassador lurking beneath it like a frightened housecat, the fur on her tail puffed up and her ears flat against her head. The Admiral had lost his footing in the microgravity and was struggling to his feet, stooping to retrieve his white cap.

Korbaz was standing with her claws outstretched, her pupils dilated into dark circles as she glared about the room, perhaps expecting an adversary to show themselves. The Elysian delegate was brushing himself off, looking around in confusion, while the Broker had retracted its long arms into its chassis like a turtle. Its sensors were going crazy, and there was an odd shimmering in the air around it, almost like he was viewing it through misted glass. Could that be some kind of personal shield?

The Valbarans were clinging to their chairs like spider monkeys, their dexterous tails wrapped around the supports for purchase, their feathers going haywire. The Krell ambassador was in one piece, and it was probably the first time that Moralez had ever seen one alarmed before. Everyone was accounted for, except...

"Harry!" Moralez yelled.

From the corner of the room, Blackjack began to stir. He drew away from the wall, turning to reveal two figures that were clutched tightly in his scaly arms. Moralez exhaled a sigh of relief as he saw the Bug's pearly, iridescent carapace, the ambassador cradled safely in one of his massive limbs. In the other was Harry, the Marine squirming and kicking.

"Put me down, you oversized Iguana!" he complained. Blackjack complied, dropping him unceremoniously to the carpet, Harry straightening his helmet as he rose to his feet. The Krell gently placed the Betelgeusian ambassador back on the deck, and she gave him a grateful nod, standing there with her hands neatly clasped in front of her chitinous skirt as though nothing had happened. She looked more composed than anyone else in the room.

Moralez turned to the wall behind him, seeing an identical hole as the one in the floor, this one seeping a steady stream of beige-colored foam that was already hardening. It leaked down the wall like blood from a wound, droplets of it sticking to the carpet. Something had breached the station's hull, the foam had been deployed automatically to prevent decompression and to extinguish any fires.

A moment later, what seemed like an entire platoon of Marines came pouring into the room, ferrying the various ambassadors away as they had been ordered to do during an emergency. Moralez considered telling them to stop, he needed to get his head around what had just occurred, but thought better of it. The safety of the delegates was his top priority.

They cleared out the room remarkably quickly, Harry and Blackjack following suit as they guided the Betelgeusian ambassador into the hallway beyond, hurrying her out of view. Moralez was left standing in the empty room, Admiral Vos glaring at him from across the table.

"My quarters. Now."

***

The Admiral paced behind his desk, the dark, varnished wood reflecting the mellow lighting of his office. It was elegant, and finely crafted, the panels and carved feet framed with gold trim. There was a computer terminal sitting on top of it, along with a small disk that projected a holographic image of the Earth, rotating slowly as it shimmered with a ghostly, blue light. The carpet beneath Moralez's feet was the customary Navy blue, and the walls were covered with wooden paneling, the Admiral's various accolades and awards hanging from them in glass picture frames. There were mahogany shelves to his right that were overflowing with leather-bound books, and he could see a scale model of a jump carrier, the plaque on its stand illegible from where he was sitting. It was all very lavish, it was almost enough to make him think that he was in some high-flying executive's office back on Earth.

Leaning against the far wall behind the Admiral was someone who looked entirely out of place. The man wore the jet-black armor of a UNN Marine, but it was far from standard issue. There was a bulky chest rig hanging across the ceramic plating on his torso, the same black as his armor, covered in an abundance of velcro pouches and holsters. Moralez recognized spare magazines for an XMR, a grenade belt, a holster for a plasma receiver. There were cables from unknown electronics trailing from some of the pouches to his helmet, and the silver glint of a carabiner stood out against his dark battle dress. There was extra armor plating that hung down between his legs, and half a dozen zip-tie handcuffs were attached to a loop of fabric on his belt. On his right thigh was a large handgun that rivaled Moralez's own in size, and up by the strap on his left shoulder was what looked like a Bowie knife that was sheathed in a leather scabbard. There were small personal touches on everything that he was wearing, it was all highly modified. Moralez recognized an experienced soldier when he saw one.

His helmet was similarly unconventional, with hardpoints on the forehead and the right ear for attachments, the latter of which was occupied by some manner of scope or sensor. The opaque visor was decorated with a gaudy, stylized skull decal in faded white. It looked as though it should have obscured his vision, but Moralez knew that when the visor was closed, those helmets would display a feed from the embedded cameras.

That was not the most noteworthy aspect of his appearance, however. He was a quadruple amputee. His battle dress was cut off at the sleeves and at the thighs, revealing the black, polymer housing of his prosthetics. They were very advanced, the arms much like Moralez's own, while the legs were more filled out. He had opted for the same functional skids in lieu of replica feet, they were actually superior to their organic counterparts in some ways, but the calves and thighs were encased in a bulky housing that gave them a more natural silhouette.

He must be special forces of some sort, black ops, likely a passenger of the mysterious Courser that had refused to provide identification to flight control.

"What the fuck just happened?" Vos finally said, slamming his gloved hands down on his desk as he glowered across it at the Chief. "I asked you to do one thing, Security Chief, and you dropped the fucking ball."

"Sir, if I could just-"

"You promised me no fuckups! Do you have any idea how much we had riding on that meeting? What kind of message does this send to the other species? That we can't even maintain order on our largest station? That we can't ensure their protection? If we can't keep a bunch of pampered politicians safe, then why would they trust us to protect their planets?"

"Admiral, I'll get my best people on the case," Moralez insisted. "We'll figure out who did this, and how. Whatever they were trying to do was aimed at the Bug ambassador, it chewed a hole right through the deck where she was standing. I saw foam leaking from the entry point, which means that someone must have fired some kind of projectile through the hull. We need to lock the station down, recall all outgoing vessels. Whoever did this must still be nearby."

The Admiral began to pace again, his eyes unfocused, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"This should never have been allowed to happen in the first place," he grumbled with a shake of his head. "Your job is to oversee all security operations on this station, which makes you personally responsible for anything that goes wrong."

"With all due respect, Sir," Moralez began. "If it hadn't been for the Krell that I assigned to guard the ambassador, there would be Bug paste all over the conference room right now. My people did their jobs, they excelled. The second that those lights went out, my guys moved the ambassador to safety, and out of the path of whatever that was."

"The Bug should never have been in danger to begin with," the Admiral shot back, "and insubordination is the last thing you need to be giving me right now."

"Then I'll give you solutions, Sir," Moralez replied.

"You'd better," the Admiral said ominously. "This is your mess, Security Chief, and I'm going to give you one chance to clean it up."

The stranger who had been leaning against the wall at the back of the room walked over to stand beside the desk, the subtle whir of the electric motors in his prosthetic legs immediately familiar to Moralez. He stood next to the Admiral, his thumbs hooked into his belt, the distasteful skull decal on his helmet turning to the Chief as he scrutinized him from behind his dark visor.

"We give you a lot of leeway when it comes to running Fort Hamilton, Moralez," Vos continued. "There are some in the Admiralty who don't agree with your methods, your hands-off approach, but Murray and his sycophants can't protect you now. I'm the acting Admiral." He gestured to the armored stranger, keeping his eyes fixed on Moralez. "This is Lieutenant Commander Murphy, he leads one of the Navy's Special Warfare and Advanced Recon teams. I brought them in because I was afraid that something like this might happen. I'm giving you seventy-two hours to bring me a culprit, and if you come back to me empty-handed, I'll have Murphy and his men take over. They'll turn this station upside-down."

Moralez glanced at Murphy, looking him up and down again. The Navy had several special operations teams, and those were only the ones that were public knowledge. They were tasked with missions and assignments that the Marine corps couldn't handle, often clandestine work. That explained his odd appearance and his unconventional gear.

"This station is a bloody disgrace," Murphy muttered, the speakers in his helmet giving his voice a hollow quality. He had a thick accent, Australian, or maybe Kiwi. "You run this place like it's a bloody holiday resort, you can't walk ten feet without runnin' into a gaggle of clueless tourists, or a pack of stray cats. Fort Hamilton is a Naval base, Security Chief, and that's its name. Not the Pinwheel. Do you even know who's on the station right now? How can you possibly vet and screen all the bloody civvies and aliens who come through here? You might think it's all sunshine and fuckin' rainbows, everyone holdin' hands and singing Kumbaya, but all I see is chaos. If you screw up again, and I think you will, then me and the boys are gonna have this station in ship-shape in no time. This UNN base should be run like a UNN base, and this is exactly what happens when you let idealists with a soft touch take charge," he added with a shake of his head.

"If you have a problem with how I run this station, then that's your prerogative," Moralez replied tersely. "But this is still my station, and until such a time as I am relieved of my duties, you're under my jurisdiction. I don't care what team you lead, you can call yourself the King of the Fairies for all I care. But I'm the Chief of Security, and you will answer to my MPs."

"I'm not the one flauntin' regs and bendin' the rules, mate," Murphy replied. "I know the chain of command, I'm just givin' you fair warning. There won't be any more civilians treatin' this place like a daycare center, no more slaps on the paw for cats who step out of line, no more preferential treatment for your friends. Count on that."

The Admiral interrupted their argument, clearing his throat to get Moralez's attention.

"If you two are quite finished, there's one more thing. I'm not giving you free rein over this investigation, Moralez, I'm assigning two UNNI agents to accompany you. Their job is to assist you in your endeavor and to ensure that the reports that I receive are accurate. I want to know where you are and what you're doing."

"You're sending Ninnies to babysit me, Admiral?" Moralez complained. "How am I supposed to do my job with those spooks breathing down my neck?"

"That's not my problem," Vos replied. "If you want a second chance, then those are the terms. Take it or leave it."

Moralez rose to his feet, standing to attention as the Admiral and his crony looked on.

"Understood, Admiral."

"You're dismissed," he replied. "I assume that your first stop will be the conference room? I'll have the two agents meet you there."

"Be seein' you," Murphy added, and Moralez couldn't help but imagine that he was grinning behind that tasteless decal.

CHAPTER 5: TOP PAIR

Moralez marched along the corridor, feeling the rough texture of the carpet beneath his prosthetic foot. He stopped to lean against one of the whitewashed walls once he was out of view of the Admiral's quarters, running his hands over his scarred face. He held one of them up, watching as a slight, involuntary tremor made the polymer fingers twitch. He clenched and unclenched his fist, willing the shaking to stop.

Damn it, how long had it been since his emotions had interfered with his prosthetics like this? The Admiral had it out for him, that much was obvious. Vos had always been a hardass, and it sounded like he had been one of the few Admirals who had opposed Moralez's appointment as Security Chief. The incident in the conference room was just the opportunity that he had been waiting for, and he didn't care that it was out of Moralez's control, or that he had followed regulations to the letter. An excuse to oust him had just been dropped into his lap, and he wasn't going to just ignore it.

Murphy was a real piece of work. Moralez had never known a good Marine who felt it necessary to make a show of being intimidating, the skull decal and the Bowie knife were little more than props, a costume. Moralez had served with a lot of people during his career, and he had learned to be wary of those who were too eager to kill, who built a persona around it. Joining up because you wanted to fight Bugs was one thing, but that decal wasn't for their benefit.

He began to walk again, turning his thoughts to his job. Now wasn't the time to concern himself with Vos and Murphy, he only had three days to figure out who had attempted to kill the ambassador, and how.