TAC 28.06.3595 — H-1545 | [CS Valson, Synaka]

  Sergeant Laer, propped against a balustrade in plain civilian wear, gazed pensively up at the entrance arch. The city sector of Valson stretched out behind him, tickling his ears with the faint sound of traffic. Horns were rare, especially with the rise in vehicular automation, but the sheer volume meant that even thousands of feet away, Laer caught a pinch. Above them, spearing skyscrapers jutted into the sky, dotting the distance in a colossal carpet of industrial infrastructure.

  Over the preceding week, the sergeant had soldiered through countless briefings, calls, impromptu courses, and more briefings to end up almost exactly where they started.

  No leads. No intel. Hopelessly bored.

  "Note to the noggin?" asked a soft voice on his left.

  Laer faced the strikingly dressed woman occupying the balcony beside him. Flaring purple slacks rode high into her midsection, swallowing the hem of a thin white shirt. A dark, matching blazer hung over her shoulders like a cloak, complementing the jewellery hanging from her ears and fingers. Glossy lipstick, wispy eyeshadow and varnished, svelte nails accentuated the image with sufficient elegance to give someone as generally unflappable as Laer pause.

  "Poor use of your funds," he chuckled, clearing his throat. "How was it?"

  "They're inside." She darkened. "Whoever's left, at least."

  Laer scowled. "We should've been faster."

  "How? No one had any way of knowing. If anything, our nets need tuning. They walked right in, and we had no idea."

  "Well," started Laer, "that's not your jurisdiction. And to be fair, it's Analok. That's what they do."

  Her brow arched. "Now who's making excuses?"

  "Not at all. I mean, assuming Terra actually sends the subsidies, paperwork, and manpower, we've still got years of construction ahead. Orbital construction, that is, which we all know are famous for punctual, efficient and predictably reliable lifespans, so yeah. Lose-lose, top to bottom."

  "Huh," drawled his companion. "Sergeant Laer, I once again find myself requesting you stop seducing my secretary, as she is a lovely, married woman with two wonderful children."

  He barked with laughter. "Please, just David. I'm literally in pyjamas. Unlike you, Mayor Kronic. Veuve, at an event like this?" Laer tsked disapprovingly. "Poor Mrs. Rahton has spent the afternoon failing to remind her husband of their marriage."

  "You are wearing jeans." Kronic eyed him flatly. "And I have a stylist. A necessity in my line of work. You, on the other hand, have no reason to keep up with the Cadmian designer scene."

  "Agreed. My daughter, on the other hand..." Laer groaned. "I would sooner face down another skynning Warband over those scorching receipts."

  Kronic giggled, draping slender forearms over the rail. "Condolences, dear."

  "Much appreciated." Laer joined her in gazing over the city, sighing. "At least someone is using the chips."

  "Agreed." Kronic nibbled her lip. "I'll be frank, David. Analok are smash-and-grab perfectionists, so progress is understandably lagging. Inching, really, which makes the… magnitude of this investigation so baffling."

  Laer nodded. "Likewise. I've got friends here and there, but they're chasing fumes."

  "I know a breach on Republic soil is nothing to scoff at, but doesn't this seem... extreme? I've never seen so much red tape, and half my staff wear Sanguine."

  The Yorgans made a Xeno. They reverse-engineered us.

  "Not on your level. Just ask Rahton."

  "Down, Sergeant. You are wonderful, but you cannot handle me." She patted his shoulder with a sly smirk. "That being said, I am grateful for your help."

  Laer snorted. "Whining over unwinnables? Invaluable, aren't I?"

  "Sergeant Laer?" called a voice behind them.

  They turned to see an officer, corporal by uniform, standing near the entrance. A beret tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, leaving a curly mop of blue hair dangling over a pair of pointed ears. Half-Oroni, Laer guessed from the muted angular features and unnaturally reflective bronzed skin.

  "Present," he replied, straightening.

  The newcomer saluted. "Corporal Ortiz. They're ready for you, sir."

  "Hooray," groused Laer, fluffing his uniform.

  Kronic, still appreciating the view, offered, "Good luck."

  Laer replied with a wave she couldn't see. "Ma'am."

  He followed Ortiz through the entrance and back into the tower. Politicians, lawyers and soldiers cycled the floor. Laer ignored them and joined Ortiz in an elevator, where the young soldier keyed them up to the seventy-fifth floor.

  "If it's no bother," began Ortiz as the doors clapped shut, "I wanted to ask—"

  "What it's like?"

  Ortiz nodded eagerly. Laer snorted. "There's a perpetual buzz in your chest. You get used to it after a few weeks. Everything gets sharper and lighter. Like the world's slowly softening when it's you getting tougher."

  "Combat?" prodded Ortiz.

  Laer shrugged. "We're faster and you look slower. We all get Installed as teenagers, so it's all I know. But many get hooked on the power. You don't want that."

  "No sir." Ortiz examined the elevation console. "Used to be my mission, you know? I wanted to be a Striker. Pinpoint punisher."

  Laer considered his guide, then tapped his shoulder. "Never know. Innovations every day, kid. Somehow, the one thing R&D never do is sleep."

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "You know I'm too old." Ortiz made a noncommittal gesture as they slowed and the doors split. "I grew up. Sniping was the next best thing, so I do my punishing with a Nova, now."

  No you didn't. "And I bet you never miss."

  They stepped into a tiled office space. A receptionist desk stood guard beside a short corridor housing double travertine doors. Parked behind it, a petite Thothan woman manned a Board.

  "Sergeant," she greeted, nodding him on.

  "Ma'am," he replied while turning to a departing Ortiz. "Good to meet you, corporal."

  "Likewise, sir. Good luck."

  The doors parted, unveiling a small, amphitheatre-style room. Three chairs occupied by holographic generals formed a tight crescent above him. They were all studying out-of-frame Boards, and with sufficient concentration not to notice the doors close behind him.

  Laer halted in the designated ring and saluted. The central figure, Damien Knight, glanced up and greeted, "Sergeant, welcome. At ease."

  Laer let his hand drop and fell into parade rest. "Appreciate the call, sir."

  "Easy, Laer. He's not that handsome," snorted the leftmost general, Nikhil Biker. Being part of the navy, not the SC, he and the final general, Karan Vostov, didn't actually possess any official authority over the sergeant. That being said, Laer knew better than to try his luck against any general.

  "Doing my duty, sir."

  Knight rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. Don't mind them, soldier. Who's your commanding officer?"

  "Staff Sergeant Karchius, sir."

  Knight nodded. "Well, Staff Sergeant Karchius has been… let's say reserved with his reporting. His latest communique highlights his goal of, and I quote, 'working the case with a fine-tooth comb'."

  Laer's features fell into a smoulder. "I see."

  "Something to add, Sergeant?" asked Vostov.

  "Negative, sir."

  The general wasn't convinced. "You look proper ready to put your foot through Karchy's chin, Sarge. Spit it out."

  Laer took a deep breath. "This room is secured, right?"

  "For the amount of money we spend? I'd damn well hope so," chuckled Knight.

  "They had a fyzzing Scion, sirs. A Scion! I'm not caught up with the politics and executive games of it all, but this could change everything. If they're operationally level with us, galactic power shifts. We've got another war on our hands. So Karchius 'fine-tooth' combing anything, in my opinion, sir, is egregiously, pretentiously stupid."

  Knight nodded. "Fair. You read the file?"

  Laer nodded. "He didn't change anything important, but wasn't actually involved. We jetted immediately after ping. Literally didn't have time for anything else. He was only alerted afterwards, like always."

  "Naturally." Knight tapped his desk thoughtfully, then asked, "Local forensics?"

  "Smoke. Your brainiacs are working the transmission codes, but outside a stockpile of corpses and twenty-one dead civilians, we've got smoke."

  Biker, presumably typing by posture, faced Laer and asked, "What of your team? Other than this… hmm, Corporal Sovaluri's account, did any of them have anything to add?"

  "Svallauri, and not especially, sir. The more she ruminates, the more she confirms the Yorgan as technically indistinguishable from its compatriots, just physiologically superior and Abilitied. Nothing really threatened her."

  "And the children?"

  Laer hesitated. "Sirs, I mean no disrespect, but shouldn't you have access to this?"

  Knight said, "Yes. But it's all through Karchius' filter. We want the horse's mouth."

  "They're shaken. They weren't Analok's targets, but crossfire containment was low on the enemy's priority list. Standard cycles and sweeps. Not something kids, especially without strong support systems, walk off easily."

  Knight sighed. "This is a disaster. Synaka's governor is rightly snapping at my heels, not to mention the impatience of our dear Prime." He straightened. "Sergeant Laer, you'll be returning to duty. Officially, nothing's changed, but Karchius will no longer serve as our primary liaison. As of today, you're our eyes and ears. If the child truly is Xenoli, an intergalactic incident might be a best-case scenario."

  Laer blinked, looking disbelievingly between the generals. "Seriously?"

  "As the Yorgan's corpse. Clearly, you grasp the gravity of this operation. And we need someone with the right mindset to see it through. Can you do that, Sergeant?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Good. Head back. Keep your team in order. I'll be in touch, so don't be afraid to reach out. We'll send details to your box."

  Laer nodded, numb. Speaking face-to-face with a general, no matter the occasion, was an extraordinary rarity. Millions of soldiers composed their gigantic spatial Fleet, and the idea that he'd ever be among the few to speak face-to-face with their leaders was ridiculous.

  And now he worked directly under them?

  Rezzes.

  "Affirmative."

  Knight reclined with a sigh. "Thank you for your time, Sergeant Laer, and good luck. Dismissed."

  The holograms dissolved, leaving Laer alone in dim lighting.

  "Scorching stars," he muttered, turning to leave. "Scorching skynning stars."

  Ortiz was absent upon his exit. The receptionist offered a professional smile as he stumbled into the elevator, then it was down to ground level. His ride, a boxy, dark grey van with tinted windows, wheeled itself to the porte-cochère. Laer, still reeling from his impromptu promotion, barely processed time passing before the minivan slowed outside Preacher HQ.

  Brantis, parked at the entrance, greeted him with a beer.

  "It's twelve PM."

  "Right? Drinking at noon. So exciting!"

  Laer snatched the bottle and popped the cap. "Why aren't you working?"

  "I am, brother. We're Preachers. We warn the penitent." Brantis' easygoing grin fell into a sigh as they stepped into the lobby, near the exhibits. Schools would occasionally visit to learn about Scions and see some of the booths during field trips. Laer often used tour-guiding as a punishment for anyone who pissed him off. Brantis, facing a peep board of their team, grimaced theatrically. "The Fourth Horseman dawns."

  Laer groaned. "Rezzes."

  "Amen." Brantis made a cross as they reached the elevator.

  Laer elbowed him. "If the cameras catch you and the zels arm up, I'm leaving you to rot."

  Brantis smirked as Laer punched in his office code, scanned his hand and stepped into the cage. The Sergeant then took a generous swig before surrendering his beverage.

  Brantis accepted it while laughing, "The fact that you believe yourself is probably the funniest part."

  Laer stepped out on his floor. The short corridor to his office doors did little to diffuse the festering irritation and dread. When they parted, he barely got a second to brace before Staff Sergeant Karchius was on him.

  "You took your sweet skynning time."

  Laer forced himself to slow and salute. "Sir."

  "Stop stalling. What did you tell them?"

  Laer briefly considered whether the satisfaction he'd feel informing his idiotic overseer of the change in intelligence relay offset his loyalty to the Corps. It wasn't a long consideration, and Laer silently cursed his integrity.

  "What they asked for, sir. Updates, some storytelling. Eye-witness accounts and picture painting, really. Nothing incisive. I gave 'em and left."

  "Why wasn't I contacted?" demanded Karchius.

  Laer fought the urge to scream, 'because you're useless', and instead neutrally responded, "Good question, sir. From what I gather, Knight wanted a pavement view, and I'm an accessible primary source. Horse's mouth, I think he called it. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine."

  "No, Brennan, it's better. That's why you work for me. So when they come knocking for answers, it's my Glass that pings. In fact, I'll even let you in on a guess of my own."

  Laer, still stoically stationary, looked straight past Karchius and confirmed, "Affirmative, sir."

  "I think you're getting a bit greedy, Brenny. I think this whole situation has inflated your head past a healthy size, and some stars are starting to twinkle in your tiny little eyes. You're hungry, aren't you? You want to climb, and you think I can't look up."

  Laer did not respond, as Karchius would twist whatever he said and use it as fuel to prolong the pointless confrontation.

  "And suddenly, silence. I'm no lawyer, but I know a handful that'd be licking their chops. Admissions of guilt just have this…flavour. They can't get enough."

  Laer shook his head. "I've followed orders, sir. My goal has been—"

  "TO WORK FOR ME!" roared Karchius. "YOU WORK FOR ME! YOU DO WHAT I SAY!" The Bulwark shivered with rage. "And if I so much as sniff you sizing up my promotions, I will bury you so deep in this fyzzing planet, they'll need a new skynning license to dig you out. Understood?"

  "Affirmative."

  Karchius shoved his way out of the room. The man was D-rank, same as Laer, but with a focal completely skewed to [Force], easily outmuscled him. In a Duel, they both knew Laer would lay him out, but this wasn't a fight. These were politics and mind games, something Laer somehow liked less than killing.

  I need to retire, he concluded tiredly, waiting for the elevator doors to close before sagging out of rest and into a slouch. His spinning chair caught him with a dull squeak. Laer allowed a minute of recovery, then booted up his Board and began the arduous process of uncovering what exactly Knight had assigned him and his team.

  I really need to retire, he reaffirmed internally as the eight-hundred-page document finally loaded onto his screen.