There’s nobody here. Nobody listening.

His eyes narrow, his lashes a dark tangle. “You sound like Velith.”

“My time as ambassador taught me to argue my points well.”

“To hell with protocol,” he mutters at last. “We’ll both go. We’re taking a full squadron with us, so the risk should be minimal.”

Ah, well. If I had to choose between making him admit his feelings and being left behind, I’m glad it fell out this way. Despite my slight disappointment, I smother a smile. Faced with the inarguable point that I’m right, he’ll be damned if he sits and waits to find out what happened down there. I’ve done my share of sitting and waiting, so I understand his reluctance. Authority doesn’t come easily to either of us; we aren’t the sort who delegate tasks, then expect other people to do the work for us.

He makes one last comm. “Lieutenant, you have the ship in our absence.”

The first lieutenant is a capable clansman who will keep things together while we’re gone. That settled, March leads the way to disembarkation, where squad one is already assembled. They’ve gathered the need for protective gear and are suiting up. I pull a small one out of the nearest locker and start my preparations as well.

The mood is somber. Everyone knows what we face today. Our first fight against the Morgut in this war isn’t occurring out among the stars, behind the protection of shields and reinforced hulls. Instead, we oppose them in our fragile flesh, eighteen brave Armada soldiers. If I were a poet, I’d construct a verse in honor of the occasion, but I have nothing like that to offer.

Once everyone is ready to go, suits on and weapon packs to hand, March studies us lined up beside the hatch. “You are the best this ship has to offer. If you’ve never fought Morgut before, beware their bite for its paralyzing effect. It’s better to take them from a distance. Use your Morfex grenades.”

Damn, we have heavy artillery, then. Good to know. I received a memo from March earlier in the week about a new toxin Tarn has commissioned. It’s a synthesized poison gas based on Ithtorian physiology. The Morgut absorb it through their pores and mucous membranes; they die within ten minutes of exposure.

March lists off a few more issues to beware, like web traps and their spiky limbs. To their credit, none of the soldiers around me stir. They’re listening. They’re ready.

“Moving out.”

Outside the ship, rock crunches beneath my boots. The horizon is dun and gray, no sky to liven our progress. There’s rock, more rock, and a pit so vast it seems it must extend straight to hell. Within the crevasse, I can hear the distant hum of machinery.

We pass by the three dead Morgut ships. At this range I can see the scoring along the hull, see where chunks have been torn away by the stress of landing. It doesn’t look like a hatch opened so much as they crawled out of the remaining pieces. Only one of them looks like it could be repaired.

“Tracks in the dust, Commander.” The scout’s mouthpiece distorts his voice slightly, adding an edge of reverb. He kneels briefly, then indicates a path so wide I could’ve followed it. “Based on the size of the ships and the prints here, it looks like they lost a good portion of their number.”

Dina says, “Unless they were running a skeleton crew.”

I’d rather believe that a bunch of them died on impact, at least until that becomes impossible, like when we’re staring at way more than we expected. Without further discussion, we continue toward the facility.

To me it looks like a train made into living quarters. The buildings are strung together like cars, connected as the man said, by a series of locks. It stretches an incredible distance, forming a semicircle around the open pit out of which they bring the uranium. On the other side of the complex, there’s a proper landing area, but if we want to come in quietly and have a chance at taking the Morgut by surprise inside, we need to sneak up behind them.

“I don’t think they’ve had time to nest,” March says.

That’s in our favor.

Each step feels slow and heavy in these weighted boots. There’s not much gravity out here, just a tiny residual, and if I wasn’t wearing the suit, I’d go floating off this rock. But even in the protective gear, I notice that the squadron marches in cadence. They keep pace to the song I can still hear in my head.

Lachion tried and Lachion true,

We will bring the war to you.

We reach the outer door without incident. My nerves string tight, adrenaline pumping in anticipation of the coming fight. One of the soldiers steps forward to examine the door.

“The Morgut came this way,” he confirms after a moment. “See the scoring here and here?”

March nods. “Then we must follow. All comms off but mine, please.”

The soldier disengages the lock and slides from sight. One by one I watch them go. I’m among the last. Taking a deep breath, I, too, pass into the dark.

CHAPTER 38

“Welcome to Dobrinya mining colony,” the computer tells us, as the door seals. “Please do not remove your gear until decontamination and pressurization has completed. This process will take approximately four minutes.”

That leaves us standing while yellow rays beam out all around us. I don’t think we came across anything radioactive in our trek, but I understand their caution. Radiation sickness, or Bluerot, as miners fondly call it, isn’t anything to trifle with, particularly so far from real medical care.

The interior is almost anticlimactic.

It’s a locker room in dingy gray-green, that industrial shade you find all over places like this. The floors have been tracked with dust and dried Morgut blood. So they came bearing injured. That’ll help.

Mary, I wish we had Vel with us. He’s poisonous to them, whereas we’re a sought-after delicacy. I didn’t really expect Morgut to be lying in wait just inside the door, but once your muscles coil, nothing but a battle will do to ease your nerves. Still, it’s a relief that we have a place to put our suits.

“No contaminants found,” the computer announces. “Atmosphere now habitable for most humanoid species. Unlocking inner doors. Please enjoy your visit.”

Following March’s lead, I begin stripping out of the environmental gear. Nobody would choose to fight in these; they limit mobility and peripheral vision. Not to mention, if we need to retreat and run for the ship, we can lock these doors behind us, but we can’t repair a suit if it tears on the fly. Better to secure our safety net.

I choose a locker at random and stow my suit. It has a thumb lock, which means only I can retrieve my suit when I’m finished here. The device codes itself to the last user in a onetime pattern, so that once unlocked, it becomes cleared for use. Very convenient for a mining colony where freighters are always passing in and out.

The commander lets our scout take point, which surprises me faintly. I know how tough it is for him to hang back. Overhead, the lights gutter in staccato fashion, indicating some fault in the electrical system.

Weapon at the ready, Dina tips her head back. “That’s going to get old. If I could find the maintenance area, I could fix that.”

March agrees, “It’s annoying, but not a high priority. We’re here to exterminate some pests and rescue civilians.”

For my part, I’m just glad the lights aren’t out and the place isn’t dripping with human blood. That would offer echoes of Emry Station, where we failed to save anyone but that little girl. Here, I have some hope that we’re not too late.

The first body scares the shit out of me.

I barely manage to stop myself from recoiling in terror, shaming myself in front of the men. Too late, I notice that it’s not moving. This is proof that not all the Morgut made it. Its blood stinks like hell, and it’s smeared all over the floor.

Drake, our medic, kneels to investigate. He’s not much older than Argus, and I think they might be related because they share bone structure and the line of the jaw. However, he has deep brown eyes, marking him as unsuitable for a jumper. Half the ship bears the last name of Dahlgren, so March has instigated a policy of differentiating them via rank and first name.

“Not combat wounds,” he determines, after scanning the body. “Cause of death appears to be the result of impalement here—” He gestures. “And here.”

Dina nods. “During the crash. The skull’s damaged, too.”

Despite myself, I lean in, fascinated by this close look at our dire foe. In death it looks no less monstrous, that paralyzing saliva crusted like brown rot on its fangs. The triangular head looks even more arachnid in the pulsing light. Its forelimbs still look like spears, and the hairy, segmented body makes bile rise in my throat, so I take a step back.

“Interesting they didn’t leave it on the ship to die,” the medic says. “They tried to save their comrade.”

But that makes them less horrible. Less loathsome. Even monsters love their own.

“Search it for any tech that might help us.” March toes the corpse.

Drake checks it over and comes up with a device that slightly resembles Vel’s handheld, but when we touch it, the thing begins to emit blue sparks. The medic drops it on the body and scrambles backward. The glow intensifies, filling the hallway with a searing electrical field.

“Shit. Fall back. Fall back!”

As one, the squadron retreats at a run. I’m near the back, but I don’t look behind me. I have to keep up. If that light touches us—

Someone moans behind me, and the world narrows to the stink of cooking meat. Despite my terror, I keep moving. Eventually, the light dims, giving us one smoking, dead soldier to abandon like that Morgut corpse.

“They trap their dead,” March says grimly. “Even if they have no reason to suspect pursuit. Noted.”

A costly mistake. So maybe it wasn’t that they wanted to save him. Instead, they use his meat. Staring down at the first casualty, I feel sick to my stomach. His face is burned almost beyond recognition, and the smell leaves me reeling. I fight not to remember what it was like trapped in the wreckage of the Sargasso. Damn. I thought I’d conquered this.

Drake squats and pulls the name patch off the shirt. “His mother will want it, back on Lachion.”

March nods. “I’ll see that she receives his death benefits.”

Everyone knows we can’t take the body with us, so we spend a moment in silence. Then there’s nothing left but to move on. But I must wonder: How many good soldiers will die, saving these civilians? And how many people will shrug later and say: That’s their job.

Our scout goes out into the dark alone to check the facility ahead of us. He’s quick and quiet, the best hope we have of staying unnoticed, assuming they didn’t have sensors on that dead one. I’m none too sure they aren’t watching us already. Then again, they may have left the trap to slow down pursuit while they patch up their wounded. It’s just impossible to guess why Morgut do anything. They’re simply not like us.

Eventually, the scout—I believe his name is Torrance—loops back to us silently. “There are five heat signatures up ahead, Commander.”