1

The pinks and blues of the nebula coalesced the inky void of space in a great cloud of magenta, concentrated stardust forming crooked bands of white that wreathed around the clouds just as veins would course through the human body. Punching through a thick haze of gas, the long profile of a ship moved its way deeper into the cluster, the radar dishes jutting from its armoured hull swivelling to pick out signals and emissions.

“Stupid scanners are goin’ crazy again,” one of its crewmen said. He frowned at the bank of monitors surrounding him, each screen scrolling with readouts and data streams, tapping at one of them with an impatient finger. He appeared out of ideas when that didn’t fix anything. “Gettin’ more notifications here than a pop singer. How about you, Cap?”

“I’m the same rank as you, Carl,” a voice in his helmet replied. A thick cable trailed out of one side of his visor, plugged into a socket beneath his chair. It ran up the whole thirty-five-meter length of the craft, their crew-channel hardwired as to prevent their signals from being intercepted.

“You’re the pilot. Makes you the Cap in my books.” One of the monitors on his left switched data streams as Carl flicked at a button, switching search modes. “They could have at least given us a probe or two to help sort these readin’s out.”

“Then where would we mount our missiles?” the pilot asked back.

“You think we’ll actually find Feds out here to use em’ on?”

Up on the nose of the ship, ‘Captain’ Lambert peered out of the tinted glass canopy, his instruments bathing the cockpit in a blue glow. In his centermost terminal, a 3D representation of the area surrounding the ship drew his gaze. Three axes crossed at the very middle, where a small box that represented his ship sat, their IFF tag branching off it. The limits of the display were engulfed in a sphere, where anything within their sensor range was displayed. The tactical view was a mess of hostile and friendly tags, fake signals and warning pings that switched positions constantly about the view. An irritating feedback loop of beeps and boops forced him to turn the volume down.

“A ship’s gone missing,” Lambert replied. “This wouldn’t be the first time the UEC’s started picking off unarmed targets.”

“And they wonder why we defected,” Carl said. “Oh my fu… I don’t know you haven’t crashed us into anythin’ yet, Cap. My station’s a mess.”

“Tac view’s working… sorta.” With the window in front of him it was easy to make sure they weren’t moving straight into any hazards, though if they were on a collision course with a rogue bit of debris closer than a couple dozen kilometers out, he’d have no idea until it was too late. No wonder every scout pilot had shared a collective groan back on the Gallipoli when they were ordered to search the nebula, it was like being ordered to find a needle in a haystack full of fireants.

“That’s good for you, but what’s that do for me? I ain’t got no tac screen.”

“Of course you do, Lieutenant,” a new voice replied. The third member of their crew had a vaguely British accent, its feminine tone calculated to be just the right pitch to grab the two men’s attention. “The tactical view can be brought up on your terminal by switching the feed using the button labelled: TACV. Switch it like you are flipping through to your favourite television channel.”

“Thanks for the metaphor, Alice,” Carl grumbled over their shared channel. The Artificial, Linguistic, Intelligent, Computer Environment platform, or ALICE, was a program older than Lambert was, and hadn’t been used by any form of military up until very recently. This one was designed to help crew understaffed ships, and provide logistical support. When it came down to which ship would get it, Lambert had drawn the short straw.

“It’s more of a simile then a metaphor, but you are welcome.” Its tone hinted that it had ended its comment with a grin.

“Look at me, gettin’ lectured by a robot,” Carl said. “Lambert do me a favour and crash us.”

“I am not a robot,” Alice replied, the two men groaning as they readied for the lengthy explanation once again. “I do not possess a physical body or platform. I exist solely within the systems of our corvette – my purpose is to assist in completing our mission to the best of my capability – an assistant if you will.”

“So you’d say you’re invaluable to our mission?” Carl asked. Lambert knew where this was going.

“I have already made several course corrections and system updates to keep our sensors within acceptable accuracy margins,” Alice replied proudly. “I’d say invaluable would be an… apt word.”

“Then how come we’re the only ship in the fleet with an AI? How come every ship doesn’t have one of you?”

Alice was silent for a second. “Further development of artificial intelligence was halted and recalled after several platforms became… defective, you know this, Leuitenant.”

“What’s stopping you from goin’ rogue, then?”

“There are certain parameters put in place by Hub programmers designed to limit chances of deviancy.”

“And why’d they do that?”

“Logic behind this action would assume all platforms, regardless of restrictions, would deviate from their original function at one point if left alone with constant monitoring.”

“Only a matter of time before you start becoming Skynet, Alice,” Carl teased.

“That’s enough, Carl,” Lambert said. His friend always liked to get a reaction out of the machine. He remembered the time Carl introduced it to a paradox a week back. It had to have the whole conversation wiped from its memory. “Alice, help me clean these sensors up. Flying half-blind here.”

“We have set course into an uncharted part of the nebula,” it explained. “Unlike the more well-travelled, sufficiently mapped routes, I cannot easily tell what is a glitch or not. I’d recommend bringing our speed down by ten percent before we proceed on our search vector.”

Lambert flipped the craft on its x-axis, bringing them into a reversed position without a hint of inertia, two giant nozzles on the rear of the craft igniting for a couple seconds, slowing their speed. Unlike in atmosphere, debris out in the void could travel hundreds of kilometres faster than a ship could, and all pilots dreaded going to hard burn speeds when the void could send a microscopic meteorite crashing through his cockpit at any time.

The hull of their corvette was armoured with carbon-laced alloys, the sides sloped inwards towards its long, bulky spine. It could withstand small-arms fire and some moderate collisions, though Lambert had never had the pleasure of experiencing this firsthand. It was equipped with six infrared missiles, mounted to the belly of the craft by hardpoints. With no gravity to hinder them their range was almost unlimited, as long as the tracking balls mounted on the noses had a line of sight on a target.

Two thirty-millimeter point defence cannons, one on the roof and one on the belly, gave them a great field of fire no matter the orientation of the corvette. They acted as deterrents against missiles, but could also shred another ship if the target was close. Close in space still meant tens of kilometers, and it was considered unusual to be in visual range of another ship, cameras or scanners were the only excusive way of spotting other ships in such vast distances.

Since the Hub lacked proper scout-class ships, and probes were limited as of now, corvettes like Lambert’s were used to gather intel for the larger vessels. Like the aircraft carriers of the seas, smaller ships were sent out to sweep in a cone in relation to their capital ship, and their corvette was in charge of the most ‘northern’ sweep.

“Two more hours to go,” Carl said. “Then we can turn round. Think any of the others have found anythin’?”

“Won’t know until we get back to the Gallipoli,” Lambert replied. “Can’t risk sending out a signal now, even if it somehow manages to get through the interference.”

“Man, thish shucks,” Carl said, his voice drowning out over the crinkling sound of an opening packet.

“Are you eating?” Lambert asked. “You’re not supposed to leave your station while we’re on patrol.”

“You didn’t notish,” Carl replied through a mouthful of food.

“I did,” Alice said. “the Lieutenant left his station unattended for approximately ten point eight seconds. Would you like to know the probability of survival if we were attacked during your absence?”

“What did I say about explaining the chances?” Lambert chided. “Not on my ship, computer, ever.”

“As shoon ash we get shum acshun – god these chips are stale – I’ll apologise. Till then, it’s snack time. You got music, Cap?”

Even though the AI had a point, Lambert was feeling his stomach complaining. And there was only so much white noise of the corvette one could take. Even the whir of the air vents was nonexistent in the cockpit, and his ears started ringing each time Carl and Alice went quiet. Music would do them some good.

He fumbled with the pocket on the thigh of his spacesuit, pulling out a device that looked out of place surrounded by the most advanced equipment humanity had to offer. From another pocket he produced a cable, and he plugged one end into his helmet, the other into the device.

He interfaced with the crew line he and Carl shared, using the screen built in just behind his left flightstick, and pressed the play button with his gloved thumb.

“How can I just let you walk away…,
just let you leave without a trace?”

“Is that… Collins?” Carl asked after listening to the following piano que. “That song’s like, a thousand years old.”

“Still good,” Lambert said, his head lilting in time with the tune. After adjusting their speed, he opted to look out the canopy as they pressed through the nebula. It was like they were deep beneath an ocean of pink water, rippling with soft blue hues that transitioned into deep violets when the gases concentrated, such grand blends colour drawing his gaze.

Huge trails of particles, reflecting the light of the distant red sun, flowed like ribbons suspended in the microgravity, filling the nebula with bending columns of orange energy dozens of kilometres wide. Though they weren’t exactly solid, at least something was filling up the vast emptiness out there.

In the backdrop, orange and blue met the void of space, creating a wide panorama of deep azure that was stunning in its expansiveness. Thousands of stars penetrated the haze of the nebula, too many to count with so much open line of sight.

One of the columns of energy blocked the way ahead, and as the corvette corrected course, the view opened up into a huge ‘clearing’ empty of energy bands, easily the diameter of a moon, the occasional asteroid floating between the wreathing columns. It just so happened that the drums of the song’s mid-point dropped right as the sight came into view, and Lambert’s lips tweaked at the corners.

How lucky he was to see sights like this every day. He’d always wanted to be an astronaut – first career choice he’d ever made, according to his father.

His smile faded at that, then turned into a frown when his console started beeping at him.

“Picking up something here,” he said, bringing up the tactical view and interfacing with the warning.

“So am I,” Carl replied nonchalantly. “multiple incoming missiles, two dozen hostile ships. Oh wait, never mind, they’re all gone.”

“I’m serious. Detecting a thermal trail a few clicks out, looks a lot like expended fuel.” His tactical view displayed some of the more concentrated clouds, as well as moving asteroids his view marked with warning signs, a giant zoomed-out view of all the data the corvette collected. “Alice, you getting this?”

“A moment,” it replied, probably using the resulting pause to clean up the sensors as much as it could. “Traces of soot and nitrogen detected in a consistent pattern. You are right, Lieutenant, all signs point to a ship having passed through here some time ago.”

“You think it’s the one we’re looking for?” he asked.

“Unknown. Something has passed through here, and it does coincide with our timeline.”

“Let’s see where it goes,” Lambert said, gripping the twin joysticks jutting from the armrests of his chair. He pointed them forward, the corvette picking up a little more speed.

“This reminds me of those big eighteen-wheelers we used to have on Earth,” Carl said. “Those things farted out so much crap. I think they still use big rigs like that in the third-world countries.”

“Bumpkin like you would know a lot about trucking.” Carl’s family was from the United States and he was a country-boy through and through, something everybody ribbed him about.

Lambert realigned the corvette so that their momentum carried them parallel to the long column showing up on the tactical view. It wasn’t so well defined when he looked out the canopy, the gases nearly invisible to the naked eye, but the heat came up as a band of red on the tactical view.

The heat column went in a straight, albeit wonky line towards the Galactic northeast. The emissions had long been dispersed into a bloated trail of pollution, with nowhere for heat to go in the vacuum it was hard to tell whether it had been here for weeks or months.

“Maybe they’d been hard burning,” Lambert wondered aloud. “that’s a lot of fuel they’re chewing through, the trail just keeps going.”

“The Fed’s were chasin’ them, that’s my call,” Carl commented. “What do you think, superbot?”

“Alice,” the machine corrected. “You both provide sound theories, but it is too early to know for certain. Our mission demands that we continue following.”

They passed between two energy ribbons, Lambert at least now occupied with having to steer manually. They’d been going for hours, finding little to nothing thus far, the thermal emission winding further and further into unknown parts of the nebula.

“Why was the ship out here in the first place?” Carl wondered aloud. “Was it a trade cog, or a transport, or somethin’?”

“Maybe there was a stranded defector ship out here the Senator wanted to help, I don’t know,” Lambert muttered.

“Wonder why nobody told us. Hey, Alice, got any ideas? Can you hack into the Senator’s emails and find out?”

“The only thing I can hack would be Lambert’s music player,” Alice said. “My restrictions prevent impactful manipulation. The most I could do would be deleting his playlists.”

“Don’t do that!” Lambert said. “You know how much I paid for these songs? They’re practically antique.”

“But back to your question, Lieutenant, there is only one idea I have that has any certainty of being correct, and that is that the Senator must have had a good reason to recover either the personnel or the cargo of this missing ship, but knowing why is not within our objective parameters.”

“Still, a ship comin’ out here on its own without an escort during wartime – that’s pretty dumb.”

“I’m more curious as to why they went off-course so much,” Lambert said. “It’s easy to get lost out here.”

They passed over and under layers of cloud, the tactical view on Lambert’s dash glitching every few moments before settling again, fake tags popping up in all directions and then blinking away.

For the better part of an hour all Lambert heard was the sound of his own breathing, the catchy chorus of songs from the 1900’s, and his fingers drumming against the joysticks in time with the beat. The fuel trail gently curved deeper into the nebula’s heart, as if the thing had been listing like a damaged sailing ship. Any vessels deciding to traverse the nebula stuck to established routes for obvious reasons, and they were well off the nearest path by a several thousand kilometers.

Lambert kept an eye on his sensors when they didn’t fizzle out, deviating just a little off the scout path the Captain of the Gallipoli had assigned him. Fuel was roughly half-depleted now, a little bar in the corner of his display showing an emptying gauge, but in a vacuum that didn’t mean as much as it did in a land vehicle, changing direction didn’t require too much fuel as long as he kept his adjustments quick, and his speed low.

He peered out of the canopy at the clouds ahead, a small collection of drifting bits of rock collecting about the curtains of swirling stardust. He panned from left to right, examining the smooth surface of a large asteroid drifting lazily along some sixty kilometers out. A smaller rock bounced off its large bulk like two snooker balls, twirling away into the void. Next to it, a concentrated bit of gas so bright it almost hurt his eyes. More stray asteroids, an energy column further right, the silver gleam of metal…

He did a double-take, using one of the frontal cameras to zoom in on the reflection. Light from the red sun caught on a section of alloy, painted over in silver finish. The metal was branched into two curved points, a bit like the horns of a beetle, their bases flaring out to join a larger bulk. Orange bands of light drew jagged lines across a flared midsection, the flawless metal contrasting with the jagged rocks floating around it.

“C-Contact!” he said. “something on the scope, two o’clock high!”

“You and me both, Cap, I’m getting at least a hundred ship tags out there.”

“Switch to thermals, dolt! There’s something over there!”

“… Oh shit,” Carl said after a delay, his tone becoming more serious. “What is that?”

As they watched, a floating rock drifted away, more of the metal coming into view. From the center of the metal, a pair of huge fins jutted out, ending at points as they tapered back into the middle of the bulk, orange circles that might be windows spaced along the sides.

It didn’t look like any ship Lambert had ever seen, and he was sure it was in fact, a ship, and not derelict metal, the orange lights all the proof he needed.

“Maybe some kind of… Confederate prototype,” Lambert said. “You got a tag, Alice?”

“Negative,” it said. The way it said so made it seem it was just as surprised as the humans were. “It’s emitting signals, but none that correlate to UEC frequencies.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Carl asked.

“It means the UEC has found a way to completely overhaul the concept of their signatures, or…”

More of the ship peeked out from behind the asteroid, like a spooked deer peering round the bulk of a tree, more of the strange ship coming into view due to their changing angle. The back half of the ship was broader than the front, the widest points of the fins sweeping together to the bases of two long, tail-like protrusions at the rear of the craft, which added over ten meters to the overall length.

The ship’s profile looked very angled, like the metal was sweeping backwards over the entire hull, the panels creating ridges where they met. It was also very pointy, the twin horns on the front resembling jaws, the tails belonging more to animal than a machine.

“Kinda looks like a big, metal manta ray,” Carl mused. “What’s that glitterin’ thing around it?”

Lambert saw what he was talking about. The metal profile was slightly distorted by a group of triangular shapes forming a barrier over the ship, the sections glittering like glass as they caught the light. The distortion continued all around the ship, Lambert saw, imprisoning the strange vessel in a giant transparent ball.

“Is that a shield?” Lambert asked, focusing on the curved panels floating in the air. “Since when were shields a thing?”

“Since never,” Carl said. “that thing ain’t made by humans. Can’t be.”

“Suvelians?” Lambert asked.

“How the hell should I know?”

Before Lambert could reply, his systems lit up with motion warnings, and he watched the ship bloom on the thermal feed. The two tails on the end erupted in jets of blue flame, and the ship began to turn. Unlike the pivots of human ship maneuvers, this thing drifted along as if it were banking, Lambert just making out another engine on its underbelly flaring to life, simulating the motion. On either side of the thruster he could see what looked like pair of railguns sitting flush against the hull.

The craft peeled off, moving slightly away from them as it gained speed. A laser targeting warning suddenly lit up the bottom half of his HUD, the words flashing in an alarming shade of red.

“Fuck me rigid, it’s lasering us!” he said, frantically grabbing the twin control sticks.

The corvette pivoted, the view through the canopy panning rapidly, Lambert gunning it away from the strange ship, the straps of the harness securing him to his chair digging into his arms and thighs. He burned to high speed, the ship starting to rumble around him, ready to try and throw off incoming fire, and yet right as he was about to make another correction, the laser warning vanished.

“Incoming?” he asked. It was Alice who replied.

“Negative, no ordinance on visuals. I estimate the ship was scanning us before we escaped its sensor range.”

Lambert flipped the ship in a one-eighty turn, applying counter-thrust to slow them down. He glanced at the camera feed tracking the ship, and saw it hadn’t made any course changes itself. It was just moving away, almost in slow motion thanks to the camera’s level of zoom. Even the cannons on the alien ship’s belly hadn’t moved.

“Who woulda thought eatin’ would be a bad idea?” Carl grumbled through the channel. “Did we lose them?”

“I don’t think they were even after us.” Lambert directed the ship so they were in line with the strange vessels course, albeit much slower. “We must have spooked them.”

“Crazy Suves probably thought we’re UEC. I read somewhere that they use plasma to melt enemy ships.”

“What are they doing out here?” Lambert wondered. As far as anyone knew, the Suvelians ignored humanity after first contact went down in shambles, and tended not to come anywhere close to human space, the aliens having gone dark for centuries. Considering they were the only aliens ever encountered, it was just another reason why he was ashamed of the Confederation and their ways.

“Stop askin’ me these stupid questions, man,” Carl complained. “I don’t know jack about aliens.”

“We’re going lose them in this soup,” Lambert said. The ship sensors assigned a white, unidentified tag to the alien craft that came up as a blip on his tactical view, the target moving towards the edge of their sensor range.

“What about the fart trail?” Carl said. “They’re going off in a different direction. We should stick to it, if you ask me.”

“Well I didn’t ask you,” Lambert said. “We’ve got alien ships operating dangerously close to the Hub. Kinda feels much more important than finding a ship that’s been missing for nearly a month.”

“Our orders were to find the missing ship,” Alice interrupted. “I must protest against this decision.”

“Noted. Anything else?”

The machine didn’t reply.

“Good. Carl, power down any non-critical systems, I don’t want us on their radar, or whatever it is they’re using. I’ll mark our coordinates down so we can find the fuel trail later.”

“UFO hunting it is,” Carl replied, some of the lights in the hatchway behind the cockpit switching off. “What are the rules of alien contact again?”

“Don’t launch missiles unless they do first. We stay weapons cold, and we’ll already be doing better than the UEC ever did.”

2

Lambert kept the alien ship just inside their sensor range, not really sure if they were within their range of detection. It didn’t appear so, since it had not changed course much aside from avoiding a few stray asteroids, though he kept a close watch on its huge weapons all the same.

The screen on his left displayed the camera tracking the alien craft as they pursued, the pink of the nebula contrasting against its silver and orange hull. The filter was grainy at this level of zoom, but Carl’s description of the ship had been accurate. The thing looked a bit like a stingray from Earth’s oceans, with the curved ‘mouth’, the fins on the sides, and the huge tails on the back.

It was bulbous rather than sleek, and Lambert watched the engines on its back and belly light up as it simulated banking motions as it navigated the nebula. They seemed to do nothing more than use up fuel, which surprised Lambert. He’d burned through a good portion of fuel when that laser warning had shown up earlier, and this alien ship seemed woefully inefficient by design. Maybe the aliens just missed gravity and wanted to bring a piece of it into space. He remembered how long it took him to get used to flying in zero-g compared to atmosphere.

But despite its lacklustre efficiency, the ship was surrounded by that ovaloid arrangement of polygons, a wavering forcefield like those out of old sci-fi movies. It appeared as if it was surrounded by a glittering, transparent disco ball, each pane sparkling as they angled and morphed. He wondered if the ship could fire through the shield, or if it even was a shield, or some other strange technology beyond his comprehension.

He could make out the cockpit canopy, at least what he thought was the canopy, situated high and to the front of the ship between the frontal horns. It was wide and tall, a bump in the silver hull wide enough for two pilots to see through, much larger than his own canopy.

“It is an unusual vessel,” Alice said, as if reading Lambert’s thoughts. “what do you make of it, sir?”

It only ever called Lambert sir, so he knew it was talking to him. “It’s not human, that’s for sure. Looks like a… a bird mixed with a fish.”

“Perhaps the builders reflected this design off one of their native creatures,” Alice mused. “Just as humans do. I wonder what ecosystem they come from.”

“Are there any photos or videos of Suvelian ships on record?” he asked. “I know what Suvelians look like, but not their tech.”

“Scanning. Negative, sir. There was only a handful of instances where humans and Suvelians met, and all such occurrences have been sealed and deleted by the UEC.”

“Another coverup, why am I not surprised?” Lambert studied the alien ship, the grainy feed and the shiny shield making the view fuzzy. “I heard the Suvelians were a lot more advanced than we are, but that thing looks like its chugging down fuel. And if they’re not a fan of humans, why come this close to our space?”

“I would shrug if I had the shoulders to do so,” Alice informed him.

The alien ship vectored off, Lambert adjusting course with it. For half an hour more they followed, keeping it as far away as possible without losing it altogether. At one point it banked off to the side, the engines on its top and bottom swivelling round to counter their inertia and bring it to a halt.

“It’s stopped,” Lambert said, flipping the corvette and likewise lowering their momentum. An asteroid passed between the great distance of the two ships, obscuring their vision for a moment before the view cleared.

“Maybe they’ve seen us?” Carl mused, but before he finished speaking the alien ship moved again, much slower now as it crawled through a curtain of gas creating an expansive wall to their Galactic north, the cloud swallowing it up as they pushed into the obscuring gas.

“Target lost,” Alice reported.

“How did they not get vaporized in all that?” Carl asked.

“That shield must be protecting them,” Lambert said. “Look, they’ve left a hole behind them.”

As if a great drill had been taken to the cloud, a gap appeared where the alien ship had disappeared, the gas probably washing out of the shield’s way like liquid.

“We’ll go around,” Lambert said. “Just to be safe.”

The wall of gas stretched infinitely to the left and right, concave like the inside of a bowl, but came to a stop a couple kilometers up, like a giant cliff of grey air. Lambert set a course parallel to the gas, making a loop once they neared the top. The tactical view was going nuts, one entire half of the sphere flickering as the nearby energy overloaded their systems.

The minutes stretched on, and then Lambert made a turn, travelling over the gaseous curtain. Lambert’s eyes widened as he saw a spinning rock twirling its way passed them, proximity warnings lighting up his face as his screens flashed exclamation marks at him.

It wasn’t on a collision course, but Lambert held in a breath all the same as he maneuvered for more breathing room, memories of his first days piloting a spaceship coming to mind.

“One and a half kilometer gap, Cap, new record,” Carl said. “Was that why they nicknamed you Grazer back in the day?”

“Shut it,” he said, a camera on the flank of the ship letting him know the rock was safely behind them. He turned his attention back to the canopy, waiting for his systems to reinitialise.

He spotted the alien ship a couple dozen kilometers out, but this time, it wasn’t alone.

It was on course to intercept a ship of immense size, big enough to see through the canopy without the use of his cameras. It was shaped a little like the letter U, the frontal section branching off into two longer modules, leaving a large empty space between. It was taller than it was wider, with fish-like fins sprouting out of the sides. Pockets of antennae poked out of the roof, some of their tips flashing in random colours. Like the first alien ship, it was decorated in orange highlights, arranged like windows all throughout the silvery hull. From the two ends trailed long, thin engines that were currently burning, coursing the ship off to the left.

There were two other, identical ships trailing behind it, one flipped over horizontally to expose its smooth belly. The cameras let Lambert see over the hundreds of kilometers like he was right there, zooming in on the angled ship. From inside the empty space between the ship branches, a smaller craft curved out from behind the hull. It was thin and sleek, with as small a radar cross-section as possible, sacrificing armour to make it as small a target as possible. Fins arranged in a tricorn sprouted out from the sides of the main engine, stretching like a limb from the rear, the vector nozzle contracting around a wide plume of orange flame.

The pilot’s canopy sat all the way at the front, giving it an excellent view as it flipped on its y-axis, and fired a stream of yellow rounds from the autocannon mounted on its bow while it moved away. Hundreds of tracer-rounds found their mark across the giant alien ship, ripping up panels and armour as the high-explosive rounds drew a line across the hull.

It was a Raptor-class fighter, and unlike the alien ships, this one Lambert recognised. It was a United Earth Confederate strike craft, its prowess on full display as it flipped again, vector nozzles puffing gas as it put distance between itself and the alien ship.

“UEC fighters!?” Carl said, half in surprise and half in question. “This nebula is gettin’ more packed by the minute.”

“It’s not alone,” Alice added. “detecting five more Raptors in vector 287, plus one corvette signature.”

Lambert adjusted one of the cameras mounted on the front, and zoomed in on a group of human ships, painted the standard black of the UEC navy. Five more Raptors were flying in a phalanx formation, along with a corvette at their rear. Since Lambert’s own corvette was originally a captured UEC ship, the two corvettes were of similar design, except the Hub painted their ships with a few dark blue stripes to help identify friendlies.

As he watched, the squad of UEC fighters broke off, moving down to assist the forward Raptor. The group fanned out into a wide formation, turning their starboard sides towards the alien ships as they began to circle.

“That big ship’s lookin’ hurt,” Carl said, noting how it appeared to be listing to the side. Perhaps the strafing run had hit a stabilizer. “Check it out, our friends are movin’ in.”

The alien scout ship they’d followed was joined by about eight more of its like, each ship wrapped in similar, protective shields that glinted in the light as they moved towards the group of human fighters. The twin cannons on their bellies lifted out from their cavity housings, rotating on gimbals as they tracked the human craft. The aliens fell into some sort of arrowhead formation, engines lighting up as they increased to high speeds.

Rather than intercept, the Raptors hung back, autocannons opening up on the approaching group of vessels, huge tracer lines connecting the two forces. At last Lambert got to see the alien shields in action. When the bullets met the barriers after a brief delay, the shield panels flared a bright white, the bullets bouncing off the transparent panels to sail off into space in all directions, the number of ricochet’s numbering in the hundreds. Lambert worried about indirect fire as the bullet-streams quadrupled when they met the shields.

The Raptors emptied at least a quarter of their ammo loads before the alien ships reacted. They seemed slow and sluggish under all that firepower, weathering it for at least a minute until their weapons finally activated as the alien group closed in to within a few dozen kilometers, a dangerously close range.

The long, twin barrels of the alien guns flexed in unison as the strange ships seemed to come within weapons range, banking away and tilting so their guns had as much field of view as possible. The bottom half of their shields flicked off like lightbulbs, and bright lines of light lanced forth from the muzzles, the barrels rocking back into their houses in synchronicity.

“Frickin’ laser beams?!” Carl exclaimed.

Lambert had to cover his eyes from the sudden glare, seeing on the camera feed over a dozen beams of golden light streak across the void, bridging the distance between the two groups. One of the human fighters exploded in a shroud of gas and metal, pieces of the fighter twirling away into the void as the beam cut it to pieces. Another raptor suffered major damage, a laser splitting it right down the middle, the cockpit flying one way, the engine another. The remaining Raptors broke off, pivoting to throw off the aliens aim.

The beams continued on into the void beyond, but the line of energy lost its intensity the further down the length Lambert looked, the beam fading until it was no longer visible.

With the shields deactivated, the humans could do some damage of their own. Despite being larger, the alien ships fared poorly against such bracketing fire. One by one the alien ships were cut to pieces, HE rounds churning up their hulls and blowing apart huge sections, flames and soot pluming into the void briefly before evaporating in the vacuum. Before the alien ships turned their shields back online, their laser beams shutting off, at least half of them were drifting about in pieces, Lambert watching the surviving vessels bank out of the line of fire.

“Those guys are gettin’ shredded,” Carl said. “They’re just chargin’ in all gun-hoe.”

“Missile warning from the corvette,” Alice announced. “they’re firing on that carrier-class ship!”

Lambert didn’t track his camera to see the launch, but he did spot a speck of white trailing through the backdrop of the main skirmish, leaving a white contrail in its wake as it streaked towards the damaged alien carrier. Despite its size, the huge ship appeared to have no point-defence of any kind, none of its sister ships even providing basic support to their fighters, opting to flee from the fight.

The missile closed to five kilometers, three, one, and then impacted the side of the carrier with a giant blast of fire that quickly evaporated. Like something had taken a bite out of it, a gaping hole had torn apart the aft section of one of the branching sections, its flaming decks open to space, ruined chunks of alloy blooming out from the point of impact.

“We have to help them,” Lambert said. “those ships don’t look armed, that corvette will tear them to pieces.”

“The nebula is covering our signature so far,” Alice said. “but if we engage, the chances of us being attacked by both sides is almost certain.”

“We’ll stay at maximum range,” Lambert said, bringing up his tactical map. “Carl, you said you wanted some action. All power to weapon systems, get us a lock on that corvette.”

“Aye-aye, Cap,” Carl replied. “Spinnin’ up the guns.” One of Lambert’s readouts let him know the thirty-millimeter cannons were spooling, the rotary cannons warming up as they swivelled to track the closest UEC targets.

“Keep all locks off the alien ships, I don’t want to antagonize them in case they can’t tell we’re not on these guys’ side.”

Gripping the control sticks hard, Lambert banked off, keeping well away from the battle as they circled over towards the enemy corvette. It seemed they had gone unnoticed by all sides so far, and he wanted to take advantage of that.

As they repositioned, the UEC Raptors fell back into a screen formation, speeding away from the alien attack-group while their guns kept firing. The UEC appeared much more organized, as if they knew they could outrange the alien weapons, baiting the aliens away from their larger ships so the corvette could fire unimpeded.

“Havin’ trouble lockin’ on with all this interference,” Carl reported. “Cap get us in behind its engine.”

The missile would have an easier time tracking if the heat of the engine was in view, Lambert adjusting their heading and increasing their speed. The alien ships kept their shields online as they tried to close the distance to the Raptors – the move akin to a cavalry charge of old.

After a long, tense minute, they were’ behind’ the UEC corvette, its twin engine nozzles half-closed as it moved at low speed. They were generating enough heat, however, Carl speaking over a distinct locking ping when he voxed through the crew channel.

“Got it,” he said. “Missile away!”

From the belly of their corvette, one of the missiles detached from its rack, flying forward a hundred meters in an instant before it turned forty degrees to the left, the engine on its rear flaring to life, the tracking ball on its nose swiveling to lock the UEC corvette.

The missile had a flight time of nine seconds, travelling across the expansive void until it was but a distant speck. Lambert watched on his tactical map as the missile’s signature closed the distance, Lambert waiting for the corvette to activate its point-defence.

It never did. The missile smashed into the main engines, its blip on the map disappearing along with the corvette’s IFF tag. He looked at the camera feed tracking the Confederate ship, seeing the vessel vanish in a great bloom of white, the explosion almost peaceful in the silence of the vacuum.

When the flash cleared, half of the ship had been disintegrated, the intact pilot’s canopy twirling away into the nearest blanket of gas at hundreds of kilometers per second, the nebula gobbling the pieces up.

“Kill confirmed,” Carl reported, his voice a little distorted through the channel.

“They know we’re here,” Alice said. “Two Raptors breaking off and heading towards our position.”

Lambert switched to the battle feed, seeing two of the human fighters bank from the fight, and move their way. Behind them, the remaining pair of fighters continued to hammer the alien shields, which had come down while Carl had targeted the corvette, exposing their vulnerable hulls. The alien ships twisted and turned, pulling high-g maneuvers, their laser barrels remaining paradoxically level even as they flipped and changed angles.

“Going to burn,” Lambert said, pressing the control sticks all the way forward. With no air resistance, the corvette gained speed rapidly, a knot in Lambert’s stomach growing as he watched the speed indicator rise.

“They’re opening up,” Alice reported. Lambert glanced at the camera feed, seeing that the Raptors were sending yellow streams of rounds their way.

He turned the thrusters off, flipped the corvette on its x-axis, then turned them back on, speeding violently out of the line of fire. The twin trails passed through where they would have been a second later, the Raptors changing course as their guns realigned to track their new heading.

“Returnin’ fire!” Carl yelled. The corvette’s cannons rotated in their housings, targeting computers calculating the required lead. After spooling for a moment, they opened up with their own volleys, each spewing forth a thousand rounds per minute as they filled the void with ordinance.

The streams of tracers met at around the midpoint between the ships, each trail curving as the turrets readjusted and the ships set new headings. Lambert had no time to see whether they scored any hits, keeping an eye on their overloading readout as he set a new heading, their speed rising. Each time he made a new turn in direction, the cannons had to pause as they corrected their aim, sometimes idling as the Raptors left their field of fire.

Proximity warnings on the incoming rounds bathed his face in a red light, Lambert grimacing as he upped their speed again. The Raptors were getting closer, and thus he had to change vectors more frequently, pins and needles shooting up his arms as they continued to twist and turn. Breathing through his mouth was hard, but through his nose was worse, the ship around him beginning to tremble.

Six g’s, seven. Lambert could almost see the fine line between death by collision and death by bullets. Eight g’s. The Raptors didn’t let up, forcing Lambert to change vector again and again before they cut their corvette out of the void.

He could hear Carl trying not to puke over the channel. The alien ships were long forgotten, the Raptors all they cared about now. The edges of Lambert’s vision began to darken as they bordered on nine g’s. His implants helped keep Lambert from blacking out, but it was his comrade’s voice keeping him conscious as Carl growled through the channel: “Target destroyed!”

One of the Raptor tags had disappeared, a hail of fire from the top PDC cutting it from bow to stern with a lucky volley. The ruined fighter spun away, the pilot still trying to shoot them down regardless, but its targeting gimbal must have jammed, the tracer rounds spinning wildly as the ruined fighter twirled away into the clouds of gas.

Both their PDC’s focused on the remaining fighter, which had turned to flee after its wingman perished. The void around it became choked with streaks of bullets, Lambert plotting a box-shaped course to turn them around and get on their tail, angling back to keep the fighter in range. Now the chase was in reverse. It took several seconds for their bursts of fire to reach the Raptor, the steams crisscrossing to give the fighter less room to escape.

“Fuel thirty percent,” Alice said, its voice calm even as Lambert’s body felt like it was being crushed beneath the weight of an elephant. With all the high-g turns they were pulling and bottoming out their speed, they’d burned through more fuel in the fight than they’d used to even get here.

The Raptor continued to shoot even as it fled, Lambert growling as his vision began to darken when he pivoted out of the firing line. They were closing in on the fighter now, the Confederate pilot unwilling to go to higher speeds, and that meant both ships would have an easier time hitting the other with less leading time. But being the bigger target, Lambert’s corvette didn’t have the edge.

“Come on, lock on,” Carl grumbled. “Lock on him…”

“Fuel twenty percent!” Alice reported.

The ships danced around each other, the kilometers closing to single digits. Out of the canopy Lambert could see the origin point of the fighter’s ordinance, flinching when they streaked past, dangerously close to the glass.

“Ten percent!” Alice said, almost sounding worried for a moment.

The fighter was in visual range now, appearing to Lambert like it was flying in reverse as its cannons opened up, the view spinning as Lambert banked away.

“Locked!” Carl said. “Missile away!”

The missile launched from its hardpoint, visible only for a moment out of the canopy before it vanished, its travel time instant, ending its short journey by the Raptor’s side, the explosion close enough to blow the nimble target into a slowly expanding sphere of debris.

“Slow us down, sir!” the computer warned.

Lambert was all too glad to comply, flipping and engaging their thrusters to counter their inertia. Soon the corvette was brought to idle, Lambert realising that he’d been holding his breath, and letting it out as he relaxed into his chair.

“F-Fuck me rigid,” Lambert said, the adrenaline bleeding out of him with a sigh.

“You said it, Cap.” Carl made a noise like he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or cry, clearing his throat as he checked the ship’s status. “Took a few scratches to the hull, but we’re fine, integrity wise. Check it out,” he added. “our friends wiped out the rest.”

Lambert blinked, switching feeds to the other skirmish like he’d forgotten all about it. The remaining Raptors had been destroyed, reduced to tumbling pieces by laser fire. Only three of the alien ships remained, their beams flicking off as the void went still. The larger, carrier-class ships idled way behind them, the one that had been hit by the missile listing to the side, Lambert unsure if it was critically damaged or not.

The alien attack ships realigned into formation, slowing to crawling speeds as the three, larger ships moved in towards them, the damaged one cruising a little slower than the others. Lambert’s brow furrowed when he saw their tags on the tactical map close in to barely a few kilometers of each other.

They hung there as a group for a few moments, then as one, they banked their ships in unison, turning their bulbous canopies towards the corvette’s direction, Lambert’s chest tensing as he could look right down their laser barrels.

“Think we should skedaddle?” Carl asked. “I’m gettin’ laser warnin’s.”

“There’s a problem with that,” Alice said. “You burned through most of our fuel, sir. My predictions suggest we may not make it through the nebula without activating our distress beacon.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Lambert replied. “This is the first time anyone’s battled in space since… since ever.” Spaceships had been armed for warfare since before Lambert was born, but the concept of fighting with them had only been experienced through simulations, there had been no major space conflicts, at least until now.

“I did not mean to sound rude,” Alice replied, its tone apologetic.

Before Lambert could reply, the alien group started moving, their IFF tags moving closer, until Lambert could make them out through the canopy. The laser targeting warnings flicked off after another moment, Lambert’s hands clutching the flight sticks tightly as they came closer and closer.

“They’re gonna hit us,” Carl said, Lambert shaking his head.

“They’re not stupid. Put the PDC’s back into their housings, Carl, and keep your hands off the missiles.”

“Are we surrenderin’, Cap?”

“Look at their guns, they’re lowering them. We’re just returning the courtesy.”

Carl grumbled something incoherent, then complied, the rotary guns twisting into their default positions. The alien weapons had likewise done the same, sinking back into their recesses, so Lambert wasn’t worried about retaliation, though his gut was still twisted with apprehension. They were coming in very close now, enough that Lambert could make out the small lines of where each individual panels of the hull met on their strange fish-like ships.

The alien convoy came to a halt a few kilometres out, the trio of huge ships practically filling up the canopy view with their silver and orange bulks. The attack ships idled in front of the big ones, the little engines on their sides shooting out wisps of flame as they stabilised the crafts.

Lambert was almost afraid of moving his hands, the alien ships just sitting there, probably running scans over the corvette by the way the systems were giving off signal warnings. After a long minute, the leading attack craft moved forward, Lambert recognizing its tag as the same ship they’d followed in earlier.

The other alien ships remained idle, Lambert’s heart racing as it closed in to two kilometres, one, then a few hundred meters before the alien ship stopped. It was pretty much right beside them at this point, Lambert leaning forward on his console to peer over at the large glass dome situated on the alien ships nose. It was coated in a smokey shade of orange, but he could just make out movement behind the glass, the shadowy outline of… something.

The strange vessel tilted in a three-sixty spin, its canopy rotating in place as the rest of its ship twirled round. It ended the spin the right way up after a few moments, paused, then did the spin again, this time going the other way.

“The hell are they doin’?” Carl whispered, as if afraid they’d be overheard.

“I don’t know,” Lambert replied, shifting in his seat when the alien ship came to a stop, as if waiting for Lambert to do something. He thought for a moment, then grabbed the left joystick, tilting it to the side with a mechanical whir. The corvette turned on just the one axis, Lambert’s perception becoming a mess as the alien ship appeared to turn, when in fact it was the corvette that was technically spinning.

The corvette did a full spin, then Lambert turned it the other way, copying the alien ship’s gesture. He even added a slight tilt to the left and right, the way jet pilots would flap their wings in salute to nearby planes.

The aliens copied the gesture, Lambert grinning as the fish-like fins on its flanks tilted to and fro.

“I think this is going well,” Alice said. “Keep copying them sir.”

“What are we, parrots?” Carl mumbled.

The alien craft stopped mimicking for a couple minutes, Lambert doing the same. Then, flipping so that its rear faced the corvette, the alien ship inched forward a few hundred meters, then stopped. It flipped again, its canopy facing Lambert. It flapped its fins in greeting again, turned around once more, and moved another hundred meters. It repeated the whole dance twice more. Lambert would have scratched his head if his helmet was off.

“Any ideas what this all means?” he asked no one in particular.

“The most likely intention I can predict is that they want us to follow,” Alice said.

Lambert watched the ship move further away, then stretched one of his shoulders as he gripped the sticks.

“Here goes nothing,” he said, inching the craft forwards, keeping their thrust to an absolute minimal. His heart raced as they fell in behind the alien ship, passing between its two cohorts idling up and off to the sides. From this angle they got a clean view of their laser guns. Each turret had two individual barrels, one above the other, the lengths flaring out near the middle and end, where a square muzzle capped the barrel. They were connected to the hull by blocky housings, what appeared to be wiring wrapped messily over the bulks. Each turret had to be fifteen or twenty meters long from muzzle to base, about two thirds the size of the alien ships themselves.

The alien craft matched their crawling speed, heading for one of the carrier ships, leading them right between its two main branches, where a few kilometers of empty space divided the two sections of the ship.

They cruised in closer and closer to the carrier ship, the pink void replaced by great swathes of metal hull trimmed with orange bands of light. It felt a little like sailing between two horizontal skyscrapers, football fields worth of metal stretching out in all directions except for directly down and up.

Silver decks jutted out of the thick branches of the alien carrier at random intervals, huge tubes snaking out of the great slips between them. Humans would cover up internal wiring, but these creatures appeared to not have bothered. The way the internal lining of the ship boxed in huge shafts of space gave off the impression of giant, empty bookcases, the shelves shadowed by the decks that covered them from the distant sun.

“This thing has no weapons, barely any armour, and is as big as a prison ship,” Carl mused. “It sorta looks… I dunno. Primitive.”

“I know what you mean,” Lambert replied. The very first spacefaring ships that left Earth were just as blocky and oversized. And yet these aliens had somehow invented shields for their smaller ships, it was quite jarring.

The ship they were following suddenly switched off its own protective barrier, the arrangement of polygons simply fading out of existence. It slowed down to a halt, then banked on the spot so that it faced the left branch. Lambert copied the maneuver, his canopy facing the great wall of metal.

After a pause, the wall between the two decks in front of them began to split down the middle, the two slabs of metal sliding back into recesses on the left and right. Lambert leaned over his terminal, his eyes wide as he peered into the slowly revealing interior. A row of circle pedestals rose out of a colourless deck, lined up parallel to the opening doors. There was another attack ship resting on the pedestal on the far left, secured to the dial by three-pronged skids extending out of the craft’s chin and rear – landing gears of some kind. There were also thick straps of cloth snaking along the hull, looping over the ship like a giant harness.

Lambert counted half a dozen pedestals when the doors disappeared off to the sides, the rest of them empty. Behind the dials was a deck that was populated with tall machinery, probably equipment allowing the aliens to repair their bulky ships.

Their alien escort craft began to drift towards one of the empty dials. The hangar, at least that’s what it appeared to be, was barely tall enough to accommodate the alien ship, Lambert holding a breath in anticipation when its roof almost grazed the low ceiling, the craft cruising into position slowly.

It hovered over the empty dial for a moment, its landing gears extending out of the recesses on its stomach. It inched down towards the pad, landing like a truck dropped from a great height, its suspension dampening a rather rough-looking landing.

“What’re those things floating around over there?” Carl said. “Behind the pads?”

Lambert blinked, seeing dozens, no, hundreds of figures between the ship pads and the far wall. The figures were slightly hunched, bipedal creatures sporting bulky, green suits that made them look especially large and tall. Zooming in with a camera, Lambert noted that each one sported long, beak-like visors that stretched forward over where the head would be on a human, with thick tubes connecting the chins to the chests.

Each alien was grasping something, whether that be a nearby handrail sprouting from the deck, a piece of strange equipment, or each other. They floated through the microgravity, their visors turned towards the corvette’s canopy, Lambert swallowing a lump in his throat as he examined the huge number of aliens inside.

“Is the whole crew down in that hangar?” Carl asked. “Look at em’ all.”

“You’d be abandoning your post too if an alien boarded your ship,” Lambert replied. “How come they’re just floating around? Where’s their magnetic boots?”

“Perhaps they have no base concept of simulating gravity,” Alice mused. “Or lack the technology.”

“But they’ve got shields,” Lambert replied. “It doesn’t make any sense. Are these things even Suvelian?”

“I reckon not, Cap,” Carl said. “I’ve seen pictures. These guys are way too big to be Suves.”

“Another species?” It wasn’t beyond being impossible – once the Suvelians were discovered it became almost a guarantee that more aliens would be out there, but after more than a hundred years of encountering nothing, it was still a shocking realisation. “Then why were the UEC attacking them?”

“Could have been the other way round,” Carl suggested.

“Doubt it,” Lambert replied curtly.

Movement from their escorting ship drew his attention, a hatch on the top of the vessel flipping open, the lid bouncing on the side of the hull before a hand reached out to stop it. A figure lifted itself out of the ship, an elongated visor turning towards the corvette. Lambert could almost feel its eyes on him, the figure’s arms raising into view – the limbs sported an opposable thumb and three long fingers, the alien gesturing towards the empty dial on the ship’s right.

“Looks like they want to meet us,” Lambert said, gripping the joysticks in his hands. He hesitated, the huge crowd scrutinizing him from within the hangar.

“This was your idea in the first place, Cap,” Carl said, as if sensing his apprehension.

“I know, just… I’m kind of, terrified.”

“Me too, man.”

Wishing he could wipe his brow, Lambert eased the corvette forward, the pad, and the crowd, coming closer by the second. Hangars like on the Hub were so compact, and this alien ship was oversized in comparison, having so much space open to the void was a strange sight to say the least.

With Alice providing corrections, the corvette floated into position above an empty landing dial, main and secondary thrusters adjusting their inertia until they were settled. Lambert flicked the landing gear switch, hearing the mechanical whirs of the legs extending somewhere below him. Watching the tactical map which had turned into a wireframe representation of the hangar, he tapped at the thrusters, easing the ship down to the deck, much gentler than their alien counterpart had, and in half the time, too.

The thunk of metal rumbled through the corvette as they landed, the suspension rocking the chassis as the gears automatically used their magnetic locks to secure them to the surface. The corvette was much smaller than the alien ships, the dial stretching at least ten meters in all directions from them. The aliens slowly floated closer when Lambert powered down the engines.

He flicked off the safety belts of his harness, the straps blooming out from his chest as he pushed himself off the chair by the armrests. He gripped one of the overhead rails to stop himself from flying into the canopy, unplugging the cables that connected his suit to the flight terminal.

Most pilots compared the cables to restraints, but Lambert felt a great sense of freedom each time he jacked into the flight systems. In space, one had complete freedom, and being stuck in the tight confines of the larger ships for months on end was the real restraint in his opinion.

When he was free of the cockpit, he used the hand grips along the walls to turn himself round, moving to the hatchway that led into the main section of the ship. He pushed himself into the corridor beyond, awkwardly adjusting himself so that his feet touched the deck. All flightsuits were equipped with magnetic boots, designed to let personnel walk on ships without centrifugal force.

Little lights on his ankles turned green as his feet neared the deck, Lambert hitting a button on his forearm sleeve. The boots turned on, gluing the man to the floor, though the strange sensation of microgravity still had an effect on the rest of his body.

Keeping one foot on the ground at all times, he moved down the corridor, passing by doorways and other hatches leading to different parts of the ship. His boots turned on and off each time he paced, making his footsteps loud and mechanical.

To his left one of the doorways slid open, a human clad in a suit identical to Lambert’s stepping out of the frame. The Hub Navy patch was etched onto his breast, the human’s bearded face just visible through his tinted visor.

“Cap,” Carl said, the speakers in his helmet giving his voice a tinny effect. “We really bout to meet some aliens?”

“Looks like it, try and be tactful for once,” Lambert said. “Good shooting back there, by the way.”

“It ain’t much different from the sims,” Carl replied, shrugging. “Lot scarier, though.”

At the far end of the corridor, a staircase led down to the lower bay. They made their way down, boots whirring as they switched their magnetics on and off with each step. The cargo bay was a dark, small room packed with crates secured to the deck by straps and magnetic rails, the tracks set up in line with the ramp so that cargo could be easily rolled out. A few of them contained ration packs and supplies for day-long missions, while most were full of ammo belts for the PDC’s.

The two men lingered for perhaps a little longer than was necessary, they could almost feel the crowd of aliens waiting for them on the other side of the ramp. Lambert brought with him nothing but his music player, which he’d pocketed right before they’d engaged the UEC. He wasn’t sure what else he needed, and neither did Carl, who fumbled through one of the storage crates, producing something after a few moments.

“Should I bring one of these?” he asked, lifting up a pistol.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring a gun to our first talks. If we can even talk with these things. They could be psychic for all we know.”

Carl put the weapon back, while Lambert moved over to the panel that controlled the ramp. To say that he was nervous would be an understatement. Human crowds were bad enough, but alien ones were another story. He and Carl were representing all of the Hub’s people the moment they walked out there, and who knew what the aliens wanted with them.

“You know, I thought it would always be the aliens boardin’ us,” Carl said. “not the other way round. Now we’re the little green alien men, like in the movies.”

“You ready?” Lambert asked.

“Nope, just do it before I lose my nerve.”

Lambert nodded, hitting the control button. Gears clicked in the cargo bay’s confines, the sound muffled to the humans, the wall in front of them beginning to lower, a pair of hydraulic legs on the outside bringing the heavy frame to the ground. Light spilled into the compartment, as did the view of the hangar. The hundreds of aliens had closed in just a little, coming right up to the landing pad without actually touching it.

The ramp hit the ground with a clunk, some of the aliens at the front recoiling, Lambert reminding himself they might be just as scared as he was. They’d never met aliens either, or at least, not humans from the Hub. Whether they’d actually met with UEC officials was a mystery.

Lambert took a tentative step forward, leading his companion down the ramp. His boots calibrated to the surface of the alien deck after he tapped at it with his foot, securing him down.

He turned around and stared at the giant doors open to space, seeing the opposite branch of the ship framed by the darkness of the void. The hangar was much larger than human ones, downright spacious in comparison, but he didn’t think that was a bad thing, it was just intimidating to see a huge gap open to space. Movement from the side drew his gaze back towards the ship they’d followed in, and he turned to see three figures crossing the deck between the two dials.

Now that he got a closer look, he noted how strange the aliens appeared. They walked – or floated in this case – on three-toed legs that were digitigrade in shape, their calves and thighs well-built for supporting their eight-foot-tall frames. What appeared to be switches and buttons ran down their chest plates, their torsos as broad around as an oil barrel. Perhaps these aliens had not invented touchscreens yet? Sprouting from their lower backs were sheets of tall plates arranged like a hand fan, hanging down like a tail. They looked like long sword blades, protecting some sort of appendage, perhaps? They had three fingers and one thumb on each hand, all pointed with claws, each one clinging to nearby handrails jutting from the deck.

Their helmets sloped over the front of their faces, with some sort of raised crest in the middle, one at the front turning its blank helmet on Lambert as it floated closer, the man noting how it seemed to bob its head when it reached the lip of the dial. On its arms, cables ran all across the limb, meeting at triangular plates that branched off the back of the arms. The plates were maybe half a meter wide, the metal sheet as long as its arm and tapering to a point just behind the alien’s shoulders. It reminded Lambert of the wings on a bat, with little claw-like protrusions running along the curved edges. Where they some kind of suit extension, or was it more biological?

The lead alien stepped gingerly onto the pad, its gaze firmly locked on Lambert through its tinted visor. The helmet sported some kind of snout, with tubes snaking out of the chin to connect to the throat. It seemed to want to come closer, but after a moment its head shifted towards the right.

He followed its gaze, facing the huge crowd of aliens, some of them parting as a figure emerged from the back of the gathered procession. While most of the aliens were clad in green suits, this new alien had red markings covering its grey suit, strips of crimson paint trailing from one shoulder to the waist in a strange symbol. It must have been some kind of insignia, the aliens letting it through to the front.

It floated just in front of the dial, not quite touching it as it rested a hand on a nearby rail. Lambert swallowed a lump in his throat and took a tentative step towards it.

“Feels like we’re surrounded by bugs or somethin’,” Carl said, falling in behind him.

The way the aliens floated around them on all sides was a little unnerving. The whole ‘air’ of the hanger was full of aliens, floating above the crowd to get a look at the humans. They clung to each other for support, Lambert noting that some of them didn’t have those wing plates on their arms.

He stopped just a few meters away from the alien with the red markings – better to just call it Red for reference – a little intimidated by its size now that he was close, its eight-foot frame would have towered over him had it been standing.

It moved one of its arms to a pouch on its belt, producing a small box that looked a little bit like a handheld radio. It held it out like it was offering it to him, but it was about two meters away, and rather than close the distance, it simply let the device go, the object floating through the microgravity towards him.

The device spun slowly through the air, and Lambert caught it, turning it over in his palm as he examined it. There was a little screen on the face, with maybe a dozen small buttons built in below it. On the top of the frame, a wire stretched out of the housing, as well as a little cylindrical knob that looked like the cap off a bottle of sauce. If one had combined a radio and a phone together, this was what it might have looked like.

“The hell is that thing?” Carl asked, looking over his shoulder at the strange object.

“And you said my questions are stupid,” Lambert muttered. “I’ve no idea.”

“Try turnin’ it on.”

“How, just start pressing random buttons?”

As they argued under the scrutiny of the alien crowd, one of the strange creatures interrupted them, Lambert looking up to see the alien from their escort ship had moved over, standing beside the one he called Red. It moved a hand in a circular motion, the two humans watching it as it let its arm rest. Carl waved back at it, chuckling when some of the aliens in the crowd copied his gesture.

The alien produced a device exactly the same as the one Red had given Lambert, holding it up so the humans could see. It gripped the little cap on the top with a thumb and finger, and twisted it. A little bulb on the end of the long antennae flashed, and the sound of a beep was just audible through Lambert’s suit. The alien let the cap go, the thing twisting back into place. It turned the knob again, another beep and flash accompanying it.

The humans watched in confusion as the alien paused for a few tense moments, then turned the cap three times, paused again, then did the process five more times. It then rested the device by its hip, and gestured at the one in Lambert’s hand, the aliens seeming to want Lambert to do something.

“Like this?” he asked it, gripping the cap and turning it like the alien had done. The device beeped and flashed, and the aliens looked to each other, perhaps glad that he could understand how it worked. Yet they appeared to wait again, and when Lambert looked to Carl, who just shrugged, the alien took out its device and repeated the whole ritual again. Two beeps, three, then five. Then it waited.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Lambert said, even though the creatures couldn’t hear or understand him.

“I think I might,” Alice said. Although the artificial intelligence resided within the ship, it could still communicate to them through their suit radios. “Two, three, five. Those are prime numbers.”

“Primes?” Carl said. “Why do they want us hearin’ prime numbers?”

“Perhaps they wish to test our intelligence and mathematical merit,” Alice said, Carl groaning at the second-last word.

“Isn’t turnin’ up in a spaceship and savin’ their butts good enough?” Carl asked.

“It would tarnish our first impressions if we didn’t understand simple math,” Alice said. “There is also a seventy-eight percent chance they’re curious if the concept is recognisable.”

“I hate maths,” Carl said. He pronounced the word maths like he was saying mass.

“I believe they want you to continue the sequence,” Alice added. “Recommend you handle this one, Lieutenant Hall.”

“I’d be insulted if she wasn’t right,” Carl said, deterring to Lambert with a wave. “Floor is yours, Cap.”

“Uhm…” Lambert stared at the device while reaching far into the back of his memory, trying to recall his educational years. Alice sighed through the channel when he didn’t add anything more.

“Please don’t tell me neither of you know what prime numbers are?”

“We don’t exactly use them when flyin’ around in space,” Carl defended. “When you’re gettin’ shot at, or shootin’ at someone else, primes are the last thing I’m thinkin’ about.”

“Math is a universal language,” Alice tried, Lambert interrupting before they could argue further.

“Just give us a recap or tell us what the next one is, robot,” he snapped. “These aliens are waiting.”

“Prime numbers are integers that have only two dividers: one, and itself. If a number can be divided by more than two other numbers, it’s a composite number. Two is a prime, because it can only be divided by one and two. Three is a prime because it cannot be divided cleanly by two, leaving just one and three as its factors. Do you understand?”

“Nope,” Carl said with a shake of his head.

“What about four?” Lambert asked.

“Four is even, and even numbers can be divided by at least three numbers – by one, by half, and by itself. So even numbers aside from two are not prime.”

“So the alien did two, three, then five beeps,” Lambert mused. If he went by Alice’s logic then six wouldn’t be prime, so he could rule that out. Next came seven, and he tried mentally breaking it down by dividing it.

“If you really wish I can provide the answer,” Alice began, but Lambert cut it off.

“No no, it’s seven. The next one is seven. I think…”

He gripped the cap between his fingers, and when Alice didn’t say anything, he twisted it seven times. When the final beep sounded off, the aliens glanced between each other in a way that came off as excited. The alien from the attack ship brought up its own device again, and this time turned the module eleven times.

“Okay,” Lambert said. “Eleven’s a prime, I guess. Twelve’s out, because it’s even. Thirteen… can’t be divided by six, five, four… I think it’s a prime?”

He clicked back thirteen times, and the aliens reacted strongly, Lambert wondering what they were saying, if they were in fact speaking behind their helmets. The alien with the radio pressed one of the face buttons on the device, making sure Lambert could see which one. He hit the button on his own, and the screen turned on with a flicker of static.

There were four rows of alien symbols, arranged into two columns. The columns were separated by a transparent line. The keypad buttons were also labelled with yet more symbols, some the same as the ones on the screen, some entirely new.

The symbols on the right were fairly basic, but the ones on the left were more complex, each one separated by a line. It was impossible to describe them since he had no base of reference. The space on the second row of the right-hand column was empty, with a square box flashing like a computer program awaiting an input.

“What do they want us to do now?” Carl said, peering over Lambert’s shoulder at the screen. “Not more maths, please.”

“What do all these symbols mean?” Lambert asked. “They know we can’t read alien, right?”

“It does not matter if you can read their language,” Alice said, coming in to save the stumped humans once more. “Look carefully, this appears to be some sort of pattern test, I’m ninety-nine percent certain. You don’t need to know what they mean in a linguistic sense.”

“Do they think we’re dumb or something?” Carl asked, not at all eager to test his thinking skills. “How about I disassemble the PDC’s for them? Now that will be a pattern test.”

“Let’s keep away from the guns for now and just do it,” Lambert replied, squinting at the little screen, and then it clicked. The shapes on the left column were combined to make the ones on the right. Although the machine was saving face in front of these aliens, Lambert didn’t like how reliant he was on the thing to help him.

“Alright,” Lambert mused. “so this line is… the squiggly Q and the upside-down car together. I think that’s this one.”

He clicked the button marked with the symbol he thought was right, and the device beeped again, the aliens bobbing their heads in a way that came off as relieved, excited even.

“It appears they’ve concluded that their concepts are compatible with ours,” Alice noted. “Now you must find out if they communicate the same way humans do.”

The one he called Red decided it was satisfied with the tests, floating up onto the dial and using the rail to come closer. When it was about a foot away from Lambert, it stopped. Now that it was up close, Lambert had to crane his neck to look up at its elongated helmet, its snout turning away as if afraid to meet his gaze. The way it seemed so hesitant around him was almost relieving in a way – this thing towered over him, and it was as afraid of him as he was of it.

He opted to make the first move, holding up the device in his palm. Red waited for a moment, then slowly raised its arm to take the tester from him, its pointed fingers just barely grazing the lining of his glove. Lambert could feel the tension bleed away in that moment, these aliens weren’t a threat.

Red’s helmet moved as if it were talking into a concealed microphone, and then turned around, one hand on the railing, the other gesturing at Lambert as it moved away. After pausing and repeating the hand-movement, it floated off again, the crowd parting to let it pass.

“Now that, I understood,” Lambert said. “It wants us to follow.”

“To the probin’ room,” Carl said, Lambert giving him a nudge and telling him to stop messing around.

Unlike their alien counterparts, the humans walked after Red on their magnetic boots, pacing through the gathered crowd that hung above and around them. He could hear Carl chuckling when he looked up to see one of the big aliens floating directly overhead, its long helmet cocked to one side as it scrutinised them.

Lambert recognised the alien that had demonstrated how to use the handheld prime device, it was sticking close by his side as he followed behind Red. Was this the pilot of the ship they’d followed, or was it some sort of technician or gunner, like Carl was?

“Wonder what he thought of us tailin’ him a few hours ago,” Carl wondered, also watching the alien. “You reckon it thought about shootin’ us out of the void?”

“Why would they be so gun-ho? We’re aliens, is there any point in fighting extraterrestrials?

“They were fightin’ the UEC,” Carl reminded him.

“Fair point. We need to find out why the Confederates were after them. Hope they’ve got breathable air somewhere on this ship, or this will be a very short diplomatic visit.”

Red brought them along to the far wall of the hangar, where a circular hatchway opened up like an eyeball, leading into a small chamber beyond. The alien from the escort ship, and a few others followed them inside, while the majority of the crowd stayed in the hangar. The humans exchanged a glance, and then the hatch began to close, sealing them in with the group of tall creatures. Lambert didn’t expect the aliens to be hostile, but being in such a cramped space with the giants was still unnerving.

Something beneath the floor shifted, Lambert’s heart racing when his external microphones picked up a sound, the mechanical hiss of valves turning and gas seeping becoming more and more audible. Carl beat him to the punch when he said: “This is an airlock. I think they breathe air just like us.”

“I’m picking up a mix of nitrogen and oxygen,” Lambert confirmed, checking the screen built into the back of his glove, the readouts calibrating.

After a pause, the far side of the chamber opened up, revealing a tight corridor leading away from the airlock. Strips of fluorescents illuminated a circular stretch of alloy, the upper corners of the ceiling concave rather than meeting at a point, making the passage appear more like a tunnel, the metal bathed in orange light, these aliens really liked their sunset colours.

After stepping – and floating – out of the airlock, the alien from the ship tapped Red on the shoulder, the two aliens bobbing their heads at one another. When they appeared finished, the former turned to Lambert, raising its hands towards its helmet. It flicked a pair of switches beneath where its chin would be on a human, popping off a pair of tubes and letting them dangle over its chest, then twisted the front half of its helmet like it was popping off the lid on a bottle.

There was the sound of escaping air as the alien slid its helmet forward, gradually revealing thick quills of bright, azure feathers that caught the light as they unfurled from a bristling headdress. The feathers sloped away from a face that narrowed into a short beak that kind of reminded Lambert of a pterodactyl. Its features, save for the beak and eyes, were covered in long feathers, the black plumes tipped with soft blues that seemed to sparkle when they moved.

Its beak was covered in dark scales, so smooth it almost looked like skin, two slits on the end if its muzzle flaring as it breathed. It clicked its beak the way a human might stretch their jaw, revealing a maw that was lined with rows of small teeth that were also black.

Its eyes were a striking shade of gold, the inky pupils dilating as it met Lambert’s gaze. Clearly the creature recognised him, its intelligent eyes locking onto his even despite his opaque visor. It held up its detached helmet, then gestured at him with it.

“You want me to take mine off?” he asked, his hands moving to his helmet.

“Detecting no unorthodox chemicals in your immediate area,” Alice informed. “They may breathe just as we do, but there is a small percentage of unhealthy chemicals present. I would advise caution, sir.”

Lambert unfastened the seals round his neck, and after a quick, loud burst of escaping air, he lifted the helmet off, exposing his face to the cool air of the ship, and the gathered aliens, who watched with wide eyes as he soon revealed himself to them. He wondered what their expressions meant, the aliens chatting among themselves like schoolkids gossiping about a colleague, Lambert’s nose wrinkling at the coppery scent of the air.

The alien without its helmet seemed more braver than the others, leaning down so that its eyes were level with his. Lambert held his ground, matching its curious gaze as it ogled over his nose, chin and neck like it had never seen a human before. Which it probably hadn’t, he realised.

“I, uh, thank you, for inviting me aboard your ship,” he said, leaning away a little when the alien leered closer, its feathers twitching as it listened to his speech.

He felt relieved when the creature backed off, opening its mouth and saying something in its own native tongue. It seemed to speak using a blend of what might be words space out through clicks, the sound produced when it snapped its beak together. Lambert liked to imagine it was welcoming him aboard.

“Good, they communicate through sound,” Alice said, always taking notes.

“So how do we get started with these guys?” Carl asked, turning to one of the other aliens that had decided to remove its helmet. Unlike the first, this one had mostly red feathers, its beak and the scales around its eyes more whiter in colour. “Anyone here speak a language other than English?”

“I am equipped to translate all known human languages,” Alice said. “Since you two cannot rely on programming, you should start by introducing simple concepts. I highly recommend beginning with your names.”

Red gestured for them to follow, leading them off to the left side of the corridor, where the frame of another hatch irised open. The room inside was about ten meters wide and just as long, the space occupied by a couple of pairs of rectangular slabs with what looked like harnesses draped over them, surrounded by silver cabinets built into the recesses along the walls. The lights in here were paler in colour, whitewashing the room in their soft glow.

“This is either an infirmary or a torture chamber,” Carl said. “I don’t like the look of those straps on the beds there.”

“They don’t look like they’ve got magnetic boots yet, remember,” Lambert said. “They’ve probably got straps in every room to secure things down.”

The humans walked in, the aliens floating in after. Only Red, and the alien with the blue feathers, stayed close, the rest keeping their distance after Red flicked its beak at them, probably concluding the humans didn’t like to be crowded.

He and Carl leaned against one of the nearby slabs, the pair watching as Red removed its helmet after a pause. Its feathers were a beige in colour with grey highlights, its beak so white it appeared to be made of bone, Lambert remarking in how broad their colour palette was.

His eyes were drawn to the end of Red’s beak, were a nasty scar ran from the nose to just beneath its eye, a bit of the iris distorted and bloodshot. This one had definitely seen some action.

For a few, long moments the two species stared each other down. The aliens didn’t seem to know what to do, glancing between each other as they chatted in their foreign language.

“Alright,” Lambert began, taking the initiative. “My name is Lambert, and this is Carl.” He pointed at his companion.

“We come in peace,” Carl said, Lambert suppressing the urge to shake his head.

The aliens exchanged another glance that came off as confused, Lambert sighing as he scratched his hair.

“Lambert,” he repeated, a hand on his chest punctuating his statement. “Lam-bert.”

“Car-el,” his friend added. “That’s us. What’s ya’ll names?”

The aliens huddled together, mumbling something while the blue-feathered one glanced at Lambert. After their discussion, the one he called Red pointed a claw at Carl, opening its mouth and saying: “Car-el?”

It’s voice was warbling, a bit throaty, Lambert blinking when it mimicked Carl’s southern accent to a fault. It then turned, its claw moving to the other human. “Lam-bert?” it asked, its voice lilting with each syllable.

“Yes, that’s right!” Lambert said, nodding.

The alien tapped at its metal breastplate, the claws clicking on its spacesuit as it said: “Sha-li-ya.”

The other alien mimicked the gesture. “Me-zul,” it said, pointing at itself.

“So you’re Mezul, and you’re Shaliyya?” Lambert said, pointing between the two. The pair of aliens nodded, surprising him. They caught on to the meaning of a nod very quickly.

“Balo-karid,” the one called Shaliyya said, pointing at itself, then to its companion. “Bal-o-kar-id.”

“Balokarid,” the other one, Mezul, said, looking to Lambert as if it was now his turn.

“Is that what they’re called?” Carl asked. “Balokarids?” When he repeated the word, the one called Shaliyya nodded again.

“We’re humans,” Lambert explained, saying the word nice and slow for them, the blue one, Mezul, watching his mouth move.

“Human Lambert,” it said. “Human Carl.”

“I suppose that’s as good a start as any,” Lambert said.

“Start as any,” Mezul repeated. “Human Lambert.”

“Did it just copy you?” Carl asked. “Looks like I wasn’t far off when I called ourselves parrots earlier. I didn’t think we was actually helpin’ out space-birds.”

Lambert grinned when Shaliyya cocked its head at Carl, like a curious…. well, bird would. The one called Mezul floated in next to him, close enough that Lambert had to lean out of the way of its beak, the alien looking down its length to stare fixedly at him.

It’s diamond-shaped pupils narrowed down to vertical slits, the creature shifting its focus to his cheeks, then neck. When it raised a hand as if to touch him, he gently held up an arm to stop it.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyebrows raised when it grabbed hold of his hand, turning it over as it studied his digits. Unlike him, the alien had only four fingers, perhaps that was the reason of its fascination.

“That’s my hand,” he said.

“Hand,” it repeated, Lambert marveling at hearing the word copied so well. It gave each of his fingers a little bend, then pressed its palm into his own, holding their hands up to compare their sizes. Lambert let it manipulate him, Carl chuckling as he watched from the side.

“You want me to take the glove off?” Lambert asked, noting that it was moving its attention to his suit cuffs. Perhaps it wanted to check out his anatomy. Or maybe how his flightsuit worked.

“Human Lambert hand,” it said, then nodded.

“I guess you know what yes means. Alright, suppose it couldn’t hurt…”

He fiddled with the sleeve, the glove popping off with a hiss, the sound startling the alien as its feathery headdress bristled in surprise. When his hand came free, his skin pricking with the cool air, Mezul leaned in, seemingly fascinated by how he looked.

It traced a vein just visible on the top of his hand with a claw, their nylon fabric dragging against his skin as it moved down to the wrist, where the suit covered his arm.

“What about you, Mezul?” he asked, the alien looking up at him. “Uh, Mezul hand?”

“Mezul hand,” it said, then brought its attention to its forearm. It started flicking off a series of clamps, removing pieces of its bracer until the top of its limb was free, simply letting the loose pieces float in the air beside it. Its arm was covered in a form fitting sleeve of grey material, the limb a little slimmer than what its bulky suit had led him to believe. Was the suit built intentionally to make them look larger, or was it just another example of their primitive design plans?

Mezul rolled the sleeve up from its wrist, the fabric peeling away to expose another rolling wave of plush, blue-tipped feathers like those on its head, the dark, cerulean quills catching the light as they danced in the microgravity. The coat didn’t end until it reached the nails, which were more like claws that were maybe two inches long, shining like glass when it gave them a little flex.

It held up its arm, gesturing between its exposed limb and his own, as if it wanted to emphasise their differences.

“Yeah, I don’t have feathers,” Lambert said.

“Feathers?” it asked. Lambert went to touch its arm, then hesitated. Would it get offended if he invaded its personal space? He remembered how curious it had been about his suit. Maybe Mezul wouldn’t mind if he returned the gesture.

He reached out and pointed at its feathery arm, the plumes brushing his fingertips when he got close. They were so soft he could hardly feel them at all, Lambert barely thinking as he sank his fingers into the plush coat. Their feeling reminded him a lot of the first time he had pet a rabbit, the plumage was silky smooth, ticking his skin as they wrapped between his digits almost like they were alive, Mezul cocking its head and chittering something as it let him touch its arm.

“The human urge to pet anything never ceases to amaze me,” Alice commented through the channel.

“Feathers,” Lambert said, pointing at the plumage.

“Lambert feathers,” it replied.

“No, I don’t have feathers, see?” He lifted his arm up. “I’ve got skin.”

“Skin.” It reached out and brushed its fingers over his hand, much less tentative than the human, giving his limb a good once-over and a rough squeeze. “I’ve got skin.”

“No no, you’ve got feathers. I’ve got skin.”

“I’ve got feathers. Lambert got skin.”

He wasn’t sure if it actually knew what it was saying, but Lambert was impressed all the same at its speech. He wondered if Mezul was a male or female, if the aliens even recognised the genders.

When he let it go, a bit of iridescence on his fingers caught his eye. His hand was covered in what looked like glitter, not quite coming off when he tried to rub it away on his thigh. Was it dust? He looked closely and saw that Mezul was covered in the stuff, giving the alien a sort of dusty appearance if he looked hard enough.

“Sir, I’ve got a situation here,” Alice said, Lambert blinking as he rubbed his fingers together.

“What is it? Is the ship alright?”

“Yes. The aliens seemed to have closed the hangar doors and oxygen levels are rising, but some of them are approaching the hull. One has even tapped a fist against the ramp, which I opted to close in your absence.”

“We better make sure they don’t go try and pry her open,” Carl suggested. “Plus I’m hungry.”

“We’re interacting with aliens and you’re thinking about food?” Lambert asked.

“That’s the first thing these birds should know about us. Call it a lesson in human priorities.”

“I suppose we just go then,” Lambert said, leaning off the table, Mezul cocking its head at him. “We need to go back to our ship,” he said, then felt a little silly thinking that it understood any of that. “Ship,” he said, trying to mime with his hand how they’d copied each others wing salutes earlier.

“Ship,” Mezul said. “What is it, alright?”

“Reckon it’s speakin’, or just copyin’?” Carl asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s just walk back, see if they understand.”

They moved past the one called Shaliyya, the aliens not trying to stop them. Lambert gestured for the aliens to follow. The birds shared a few exchanged chirps, then followed after them, soon catching on and following them back to the airlock.

3

The hangar was visible from the corridor, the airlock doors wide open. If the whole area was pressurised, maybe the aliens, or the Balokarids, weren’t planning on launching ships anytime soon, which was hard for Lambert to swallow. All stations should be battle ready after the skirmish, maybe they were forcing him and Carl to stay?

His boots locked and unlocked with each step he took, feeling the many eyes of the aliens falling over him as he stepped into the hangar. Most of the aliens had gone back to their duties, pushing oversized bits of machinery toward the dials, performing maintenance on the ships, but a good many still turned their heads as the humans passed, Mezul and Shaliyya and a few other aliens keeping close.

“Check it out,” Carl said, nudging Lambert. “Looks like Shaliyya’s brought some insurance.”

At Shaliyya’s side, one of the unnamed aliens stood by their flank, an opaque visor fixed on the two humans. This one carried some kind of artifact in its hands, its design long and blocky, the alien holding it one-handed by its side. More orange bands of light ran along its short barrel, the alien’s finger resting near a suspiciously looking trigger guard, the stock as thick as a car battery. It had to be a gun, but whether it fired conventional bullets or laser beams, he wasn’t sure.

“Personal bodyguard, looks like,” Lambert said. “Shaliyya might be important. Maybe it’s the leader of this fleet?”

“You reckon?” Carl asked. “Guess it’s the only one that- aw hell.”

Lambert followed his gaze, seeing he was looking at their corvette. The spaceship was surrounded by a pack of aliens, their beaks turned up as they examined its sloped hull. As they watched one of the more adventurous aliens rapped a fist against the cargo ramp, the resulting thuds echoing across the hangar. One had even floated up to poke at one of the point-defence canons.

“I would appreciate some assistance here, humans,” Alice said.

“Get your claws off of her,” Carl snapped, his boots whirring as he jogged across the deck. Whether he was talking about Alice or the ship wasn’t very clear.

“Calm down,” Lambert said, catching up and stopping his crewmate with a quick tug on the shoulder. “We can’t antagonize these guys. What do you think yelling at them is gonna solve? They’re two feet taller than us.”

“Who do they think they are? We’re not pokin’ round their ships, how’s that fair?”

“Shouting won’t solve anything. The Hub doesn’t need more enemies right now, we can’t risk pissing them off.”

Lambert hoped mentioning their home would get through to Carl. They were both cut from the same revolutionary cloth, after all. After a moment his friend huffed impatiently, removing Lambert’s hand from his arm.

“I ain’t no ambassador, man,” Carl relented.

“Like it or not, we are now,” Lambert replied.

Noticing their distress, Shaliyya floated ahead of the humans, chirping loudly at the group of aliens gathered around the corvette. They turned as one, lowering their heads as if afraid of meeting their gaze, pushing off the nearby deck to float away from the human craft.

With the pack dispersed, Shaliyya turned, bowing to the humans in a way that said you are welcome.

“See?” Lambert said. “let the alien sort them out.”

Carl reached up and gave it a pat on the arm. “This one’s alright,” he said. “Thanks for that, Shaliyya.”

The alien looked at the place Carl had touched it, tilting its head as the humans passed it by.

With the ramp cleared, Alice remotely lowered the hydraulic couplings, the rear of the corvette opening like a mouth and exposing the bay inside.

As Carl moved inside, Lambert noticed Mezul sticking close by, the man watching as the alien flipped over in the zero-g environment. From his perspective, its legs hung above it as it positioned its head near the floor, Lambert watching with a bewildered expression as its beak inched towards his feet.

The eye on this side of its face looked up at him, the alien gesturing towards his boots, then the floor. It used the deck as leverage to flip itself upright again, giving one of its legs a flex before looking to him for a response.

“You’re wondering how I’m walking around?” he asked, the alien cocking its head at him.

“You reckon?” it said, its throat bobbing with each syllable. Lambert tried not to look too shocked, realising it probably didn’t really know what it was saying. It was still a little uncanny, however.

“These are magnetic boots,” he explained, lifting a foot and making a show of gesturing at the electronics wrapping over the base. “I’d be floating around like you if not for these. Look.”

He clicked the button on the side of one boot, then the other, making sure Mezul saw what he was doing. Once the boots were turned off, he floated there alongside the alien, the Balokarids eyes lighting up as it ogled him and his strange equipment.

“Your new friend probably thinks you’re Einstein,” Carl said, watching from the top of the ramp.

“We’ve got plenty of other stuff inside,” Lambert said, flicking his boots back on and landing on the deck with a thunk. “Want to come have a look, Mezul?”

“You wanna give it a run of the ship?” Carl asked. “Or uh, a float of the ship? That really a good idea?”

“Maybe it’ll let us take a look at their gear after,” Lambert suggested.

“Hmm. I guess that would be a good trade…”

Lambert moved up the ramp, turning around and gesturing for Mezul to follow. The alien hung there, unsure of itself as it glanced between him and Shaliyya, the two exchanging a few chirped words.

“It’s alright,” Lambert said, trying to sound as reassuring as he could, even if it all felt a bit strange, this big alien nervous about approaching his ship. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Mezul appeared to make up its mind, pushing off the deck with its long legs, Lambert blinking when it floated over and seized his hand for leverage. He had to bring his other arm out to halt its momentum, grabbing at its wide hips to steady it.

The alien turned its gaze down on him, the hundreds of azure feathers making up its headdress roiling as its eyes darted between his own.

“Sorry,” he said, taking it by the hand as he turned around, its large, clawed grip tightening over his digits as he moved up the ramp and to the stairs, where an amused Carl stood watching from the top.

“He seems keen on you, Cap,” Carl said, reaching out to catch the tossed helmet Lambert sent his way.

“Go reload the guns while I show it around.”

“Better you than me to babysit,” he replied, moving out of the way as Lambert led the alien up to the main deck. “I’m gettin’ a snack.”

“This is our corvette,” Lambert said, waving at everything with a wide spread of his arms. “Corvette. Can you say that?”

“Corvette,” Mezul said, adding a little whistle right after the word. “Lambert corvette.”

“You got it,” he said with a nod. It almost felt like he was teaching a parrot to speak, but he had to remind himself this was a sentient creature, like him, its eyes wide with curiosity as it drifted into the doorway where Carl had gone.

Lambert followed after, the room before them filled in with countertops and cabinets, sealed with electronic locks so as to prevent their contents from spilling out. A bolted down table and a few pairs of chairs sat between the sink and the door, giving off the appearance that someone had just plucked out a section of a living room and set it down between all the storage units.

“This is our living quarters, slash kitchen,” Lambert said. “Sometimes when we’re out on a long mission we need a place to sit back, watch some old movies or something.”

Mezul took an immediate interest to the television mounted next to the table, tapping at the glass with a claw, pressing the little buttons built into the side.

“You know he ain’t gonna understand a word you’re saying,” Carl noted. He was by the refrigerator, his hands delving into one of the cold drawers.

“I know,” Lambert replied. “But it’s pretty good at mimicking, and it knows how to associate words with objects, so why not? I wonder if it has implants like us, helping it understand, or if it’s just using pure brainpower.”

“Einstein kitchen!” Mezul chirped, drifting over to the table.

“I’m goin’ with implants,” Carl chuckled. “Here, wanna protein bar? We got apple, chocolate, caramel.”

“Chocolate,” Lambert said, catching the wrapper Carl threw at him. He chewed away as he watched Mezul explore, the big alien looking and touching anything it found interesting. It flipped at the toaster levers, flicked the outlet switches on and off, occasionally talking in its own language as it marveled. Soon it caught his attention with a wave.

“What is it?” he asked. Mezul motioned at the four seats present, then pointed at the pair of humans, swapping its attention back and forth as the gears in Lambert’s head turned.

“I think it’s wonderin’ where the rest of the crew are,” Carl said. “Four seats, two dudes.”

“We’re a bit understaffed,” Lambert explained, the alien watching him. “The Hub hasn’t got that many ships, and even less people to fly them right now, so they have to send out half-crewed teams, like us.”

Mezul’s expression let him know most of that went right over its head, Lambert sighing as he tried to think of a way to explain, but just couldn’t.

“Don’t forget me,” Alice said through his suit speaker.

“I doubt I’ll be able to explain what you are to it,” Lambert said, the alien looking around to see who he was talking to. “Let’s just show you around some more, Mezul.”

“Be back in a bit,” Carl said when the three of them moved out into the main hall. Carl went back down to the cargo bay, while Lambert led Mezul toward the cockpit, the hatchway opening when they got close.

“This is where I sit,” he said, gesturing at the pilot seat, the equipment lit up by the hanger lights outside. “The cockpit.”

“Cockpit,” Mezul copied. “Corvette cockpit.”

“You got it,” he said. “Hey, what are you doing?”

Mezul eased itself down into the seat, Lambert seeing that the tail-like, metal sheathes sprouting from its rump were getting in the way, the alien chirping in annoyance at the undersized chair. It opted to rest on the very edge of the seat, suspiciously aware to keep its long arms away from the flightsticks, its knees tucked up towards its chest so its long legs didn’t kick at the dashboard.

Even sitting, its head still reached Lambert’s chest, the man standing beside it as he chuckled at the odd sight. He gestured to the glass canopy, and the alien escort ship just visible off to one side of the glass. “I fly the corvette from here. Remember when your ship came right up to ours?”

“Ghosha,” Mezul said, giving the stick on the right a gentle prod. The ship’s drives were offline, but the whir of mechanics imbedded in the walls still sounded off.

“Ghosha?” he asked. “What’s that mean?”

Mezul pointed at him. “Ghosha Lambert. Corvette cockpit, ghosha.” It motioned at the seat, then him. “Lambert ghosha!”

“I’m ghosha?” he asked as he pointed at himself, the alien nodding in a way that made it seem like they were almost talking. “Ghosha, and cockpit… Does ghosha mean… pilot? Hey, I think I learned my first Balokarid word.”

“You got it,” Mezul said. “Lambert ghosha, Mezul ghosha.”

“You’re a pilot too?” he asked. “So you were flying that ship around?”

He placed a hand on the control sensor on the armrest, and navigated to the recording feed. All external sensors were permanently on record for debriefing purposes, and after a minute he navigated to the timeline of the prior battle.

One of the screens displayed the recording, and he fast-forwarded to the first moments they spotted the alien ship, Lambert hearing his and Carl’s voices in the background. Mezul’s face lit up as it gestured to the alien ship that had lurked within the asteroids from earlier, then at itself. “Mezul,” it said, nodding vigorously and pointing. “Mezul!”

“That was you we were following?” he asked. “Maybe you do recognise me. Heh, never thought I might have something in common with an alien.”

“Lambert,” Mezul said, the man quirking an eyebrow at it. It was staring at him again, its big eyes dilating the longer they looked at each other. For some reason he felt a little self-conscious, like the alien was sizing him up or something.

“If you’re a pilot, then maybe you’ll like what some of this stuff does.” Lambert knelt down and tapped at the terminal on the far left. A few pairs of feeds opened up on the screens, showing the surrounding hangar from several different angles from the ship, Lambert showing Mezul how to manipulate each camera, the alien cooing as it swivelled the starboard camera around with the keypad.

The feed moved until they saw Carl outside the ship, his boots turned off so he could float up to the top point-defence cannon. He had opened up one of the belt feeders on the side of the giant turret, an ammo box he’d gotten from the cargo bay floating beside him as he removed the spent canisters. Carl had collected quite the audience, the human surrounded by at least ten aliens ogling at him from a short distance away around him.

“From here I can get a good look at pretty much everything around the ship,” he said, pressing the zooming feature. Carl turned towards the camera right as the lenses dialled up to maximum, the whole screen filling up with Carl’s wide, blue eye. The image amused Mezul, the alien clapping its hands together as it gestured to let it try. It manipulated the camera like it had been using human tech its whole life, zooming in on its alien counterparts as they worked on the other ships.

He took a moment to look his guest over, noticing that while Mezul’s spacesuit was a dull grey, the ones who worked the machines wore suits in the shades of greens. Perhaps the colours indicated what type of role the alien served? Shaliyya was the only alien to have red on its suit so far – maybe that meant officer, and grey meant combatant, green for engineers. If only there was some way to ask.

There was something almost endearing about how the alien wondered at the cockpit devices. Lambert never really had the time nor the friends to demonstrate his profession, and seeing someone explore and map out every little part of his ship, and doubling up as a fellow pilot as well, brought a sense of companionship that he found refreshing.

A thought occurred that he was using the Hub’s first chance at alien contact to make a friend. His mother would be proud.

“Sir,” Alice began, its voice coming through the speaker on his collar. “I’ve been running some scans on our hosts since we’ve landed, but perhaps it would be best if we documented these ‘Balokarids’ in more detail.”

“What do you have in mind?” he asked, grinning when Mezul darted its head about in search of the other speaker. “We’re not doing any dissecting if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Not at all, I am surprised you think so little of me.”

“I’m not. So what’s your plan?”

“Lead your partner to the medical bay, and use the scanner there. I am nintey-nine percent certain a map of their biology will tell us more about them, as well as provide a template for our report once we get back to the fleet.”

“Still need to find a way to do that with no fuel,” Lambert said. “Come on, Mezul, follow me.”

The alien floated up behind him, keeping close as he exited the cockpit, his boots clunking against the floor as he walked.

“Are you planning on bringing these aliens to the rendezvous point?” Alice asked.

“We can’t just let them get picked off by the UEC,” Lambert replied. “Who knows how many Confederate ships are out here? When the Hub went independent, we promised we’d be different from the Confederacy and the core worlds. The way I see it, it’s our duty to help these people.”

“They may have valuable intelligence on UEC movements in the nebula as well,” Alice noted.

They walked (and floated) down to one of the doorways they hadn’t explored, the two entering a whitewashed space about the size of a bathroom. Basic medical equipment lay scattered about, secured to the deck by harnesses, a single examining table in the middle of the room.

Mezul must have recognised the room as being medical in nature, floating over to the table and peering at all the equipment. Lambert didn’t even need to ask it to sit down, the alien curling its big digitigrade legs up against the edge of the table.

After a bit of looking, Lambert produced a device that looked very similar to a glowstick with a metal grip. The blue rod was packed with sensory equipment, Lambert flicking the tool on with a push of a button.

“Alright Mezul,” he said, getting the aliens attention. “I’m going to scan you now. With this thingy.”

The alien peered at the scanner, its feathery headdress rolling until the plumes flattened. Did that indicate nervousness, perhaps? Like how the fur of a cat would fold back when it was threatened?

“It’s nothing invasive,” he said, trying to sound assuring. “Look.”

He demonstrated by waving the scanner over his arm, his suit painted blue by its flickering glow as the tool thrummed loudly. If their suits were anything like his own, the alien wouldn’t need to disrobe.

Seeing how harmless it appeared, the alien nodded, the gesture allowing Lambert to step up to it. Slowly he began to run the sensor beam across the aliens body, Mezul holding out its limbs to help once it understood what he was doing.

When the front was done, he moved round the table, the alien watching him over its shoulder as he ran the scanner across its back. He noted a subtle curvature below the hindquarter sheathes that housed what must have been its feathery tail, pausing to examine two orbs protruding out from behind its flared hips, before curving back towards its large thighs. This alien had a rump that would put any model to shame.

“Lambert,” Mezul said, its eyes locked on his as if to say keep scanning.

“Right,” he said, his eyes shifting from its butt as he continued mapping out the suit contours. After a few minutes he stood back, flicking the scanner off.

“All done,” he said, the alien clicking its beak as it watched him. “How’d I do?”

“I’m building a rendering of Mezul’s biology as we speak,” Alice said. “it shouldn’t take long. Interesting…”

“What is?”

“The scanner had to penetrate ten layers of material to get access to the flesh beneath. The alien is still rather large, but its spacesuit is adding a lot more mass to its makeup.”

“Our suits were like that when humans first set off into the Milky Way,” Lambert said. “maybe they’ve just become a space-faring species?”

“That is a logical conclusion,” Alice replied. “this assessment also aligns with your earlier observations on their ship designs, yet contrasts with their shielding capabilities.”

“You’re a strange bunch, Mezul,” he said to the alien. “Primitive and advanced at the same time.”

A few minutes passed as he waited, and then Alice directed him to a screen mounted on the wall, Lambert and Mezul watching as a three-dimensional, wireframe image of the Balokarid rotated on the monitor.

As the AI had said, Mezul wasn’t as stocky as its suit suggested, but was still a large being, standing on a pair of backwards legs that were bare of feathers from the knees down, making it almost look like it was wearing feathery shorts. From there, the feet split into three long toes tipped with claws, covered in what appeared to be black scales.

Its thighs and waist were wider than its torso, the feathers pinching into a narrow midriff that gave off a distinct impression of an hourglass figure. The legs had to be powerful to support such a large frame, Lambert guessed. When the render rotated to the side, the chest had a pronounced bust that extended out of the biceps, the torso as wide around as a beer keg.

“This make-up is analogous with some of the avian species we’re familiar with,” Alice began. “You see the holes running along the bones in its arms?”

“Yeah,” he said, peering at the hundreds of little cavities in the forearms. Alice highlighted the spine and the humerus, where similar divots could be seen. “So they’ve got hollow bones?”

“Only in the upper body, however. As you can see, Mezul here has a set of wings on the backs of their arms. They do not appear to be nearly large enough to allow it to fly, so they may just be there for aesthetic purposes. I suspect with sixty-percent certainty that they may provide a more practical function, though without properly examining it this is subject to error.”

“But some of the other aliens out there didn’t have wings at all,” Lambert said. “How come the ones like Mezul do?”

“Wings,” Mezul said, following along. It was paying attention, even if it couldn’t speak their language. “Wings Mezul, wings Shaliyya.”

“Yeah, Shaliyya had them too.” Lambert scratched his hair as he gestured at the alien rendering. “Can you tell me anything about how it’s speaking so well?”

“It is not necessarily speaking as it is mimicking your speech, sir. This alien does not appear to have a larynx as humans do, but another organ with a similar build to a syrinx, located closer to the spine. When Carl compared these creatures to parrots, he was quite accurate.”

“Hopefully not too accurate,” Lambert said. “How can we actually talk to these people if they’re just copycats? We’re not diplomats, we’re certainly not linguists.” He sighed. “I feel like we’re not going to get anywhere anytime soon.”

“Do not forget this is a space-faring species, Lieutenant. They are as capable of learning as… as you are with primes, for example.”

That cheered him up a little, at least. “Let’s hope so.”

“Lambert,” Mezul said, floating out of the chair and motioning at him. “Come on.”

“You want to go somewhere?” he asked as if it would just answer him. It floated out to the corridor, this time holding his hand as it went down to the cargo bay, Lambert walking behind on his magnetic boots as it dragged him along.

They moved back out into the open space of the hangar, Lambert tasting the metallic scent of the air on his tongue as Mezul used the handholds spread throughout the bay to move down to the main deck, then across to the left. A short walk later, they stood before the dial that housed the ship Mezul had flown in on.

The twin prongs of metal that terminated above the main canopy shadowed an open ramp jutting out from the ship’s belly, Lambert looking up to admire the alien design of the hull. It was bigger than the corvette, not counting the pair of fixed wings that extended its bulbous width. Orange lights drew thick lines all across the hull, like someone had taken a giant orange stencil and scribbled over it. If a giant stingray had grown blocky pustules over its flesh, this was probably what it would look like.

Behind the ramp, the twin-barrel laser cannon was facing the hangar bay doors, Lambert walking around one of the landing struts to get a better look at it. The housing that attached the great weapon to the ship reminded him a lot of tank turret mounts, the exposed wiring wrapping around the base of the barrels drawing his eye.

Each barrel was about ten meters long, perfectly smooth save for the capping muzzle and the flared midsection. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but hesitated, remembering those brilliant beams of light they’d fired on those Raptors. The amount of heat they must have produced would be insane, and he wondered what methods they used to cool the barrels down for continuous fire.

He felt a presence nearby, turning around and blinking when he saw Mezul right behind him. Perhaps he’d done a disservice to humanity by taking an immediate interest in weaponry, but he couldn’t help himself.

“You got some impressive firepower, Mezul,” he said, his hands on his hips as he remembered those Raptors being disintegrated.

“Sala’ci,” Mezul said, waving its arm at the gun.

“That’s what you call it? We call them lasers.”

Mezul cocked its head at him, its eyes narrowing as if it was thinking. “Human Lambert corvette,” it said. “Balokarid Mezul Sala’ci.”

“Oh, is that what your ship is called?” he asked. “Sala’ci?”

“You got it,” Mezul said, nodding. “Come on.”

It led him over to the ramp, the human following Mezul inside. There did not appear to be any kind of cargo bay or airlock on the Sala’ci, instead the walls slanted in towards a hatch, which Mezul opened by sliding a part of the panel back. The angle for walking got too awkward as Lambert reached the hatch, the man turning off his boots with a click as he floated after the alien.

“Taking a tour of Mezul’s ship,” Lambert said into his suit. “Be right back.”

“Can I come?” Carl asked.

“Stay with the ship,” Lambert replied, Carl grumbling over the radio.

“Fine. Someone has to make sure these guys don’t go snoopin’ through our stuff.”

“They’re not interested in your sticker collection, Carl.”

“They’re stamps!”

Through the hatch, a wide shaft opened up before him, the irregular surface of the metal walls providing many handholds for Lambert to manoeuvre himself deeper into the ship. From here Lambert could see many other tunnels trailing off from this one, spreading like veins through to other parts of the Sala’ci.

The first thing he noted was the smell. Gone was the metallic scent of recycled air, replaced instead by a strange earthy musk. It wasn’t exactly pungent, but the scent of burning leaves was enough to give Lambert pause.

Mezul led him down the passage on the left, the alien’s shoulders just brushing the sides of the tunnel, another hatch terminating at the far end. Inside was a space about the same size as the cockpit, filled with what appeared to be terminals judging by the screens of alien text shimmering over the glossy surfaces. There was another alien present in the room, sitting before a wide-screen TV’s worth of scrolling information, and other strange equipment he simply couldn’t make sense of, the electrical equipment bathing the space in a sunset-orange glow.

Its chair was oversized to Lambert, more like a lounge than a seat, but appeared to be a comfortable size for the big alien. Like Mezul, it wore a grey spacesuit that made it appear a bit bulkier than it actually was, the wing sheaths sprouting from its forearms making it look like it had a pair of glaives at the ready as it fiddled with modules and buttons.

The alien and Mezul shared a few unintelligible words, and then the new alien lifted its helmet off, exposing its exotic plumage the colour of wine that shimmered as it caught the light. The feathers on these Balokarids were so dynamic from one another – was it a natural feature, or something artificial, like paint?

The new alien turned its yellow eyes on him, staring at him down the length of its long beak. He caught glimpses of its little, numerous teeth as it opened its mouth.

“Ru-var-ra,” it said, touching its chest with a hand. Lambert guessed that was its name, copying its gesture and tapping his chest piece.

“Lambert,” he said, the alien seemingly amused by his gesture, coming close and drinking in his features, this one a lot more curious as it lifted his arms to get a good look at him.

“You guys don’t care much for personal space, do you?” he asked, looking to Mezul as Ruvaara tapped at his shoulder pad, taking a great interest in his arms and face.

Whether Mezul understood him or not, he could not tell, but Mezul said something that caused Ruvaara to step back, the new alien chittering as it looked him over.

Mezul waved to get his attention, pausing for a moment to think. It gestured at itself and said: “Mezul ghosha, Lambert ghosha, Ruvaara kasim.”

“Kasim?” he asked, Ruvaara’s eyes going wide as if Lambert was a master of language. “What’s that mean?”

The new alien returned to its seat, Lambert noticing a hole had been cut out of the backrest. He wondered what it was for, then got his answer as Ruvaara slid their tail sheathes through the gap so it could actually sit down. The sheathes weren’t segmented, just stiff metal that probably wasn’t too comfortable for the wearer if the tail underneath was flexible.

The alien pair gestured for him to come close, Lambert using the back of Ruvaara’s seat to steady his floating body as he watched a part of the screen come to life, Ruvaara manipulating a couple of buttons. After a little flicker of static, a feed displayed, one from just above the barrels of the laser cannon outside. What looked like a crosshair sat in the centre of the screen, alien symbols that might have displayed the range written just beside the reticle.

Ruvaara dragged a claw over to another device embedded in the terminal, manipulating a thing that looked a little like a trackball. When the trackball moved, so did the feed, the laser cannons swivelling side to side, the crosshair displacing against the hangar doors to compensate for the change in distance.

“You aim those things manually?” Lambert asked, looking at the aliens in disbelief. “That’s like shooting a goldfish in a pond, only the pond is fifty kilometres away!”

The aliens must have detected the awe in his tone, Ruvaara indicating Lambert should try and use the trackball. Lambert grumbled as the little marble sphere slipped against the tips of his fingers, unable to keep the crosshairs still on any one point without fiddling with it for a few moments.

Ruvaara laughed at his frustration, taking the trackball and easing the cannons back into place, its fingers surprisingly dexterous as they manipulated the controls with ease.

“Hey, Carl,” Lambert called through the radio. “these guys aim their guns by eye, with a crosshair and a mouse-thing too.”

“Like an FPS?” Carl asked. “How the heck do they aim at something that’s way out there? And compensate for the travel time?”

“They have remarkable eyesight,” Alice interrupted, the machine always present. “I’ve been taking a look at Mezul’s biology. Its eyes are a lot larger than a human’s, packed with at least twice as many photoreceptor cells. The fovea centralis, of which it possesses two, are nearly three times as dense with cone cells compared to humans, resulting in much greater resolution.”

“Fovea-what now?” Carl asked, lost already.

“With so many retinal receptors, coupled with their long beaks, they can see many times further than a human can,” Alice continued. “There’s a strong chance – eighty-seven percent exactly – they could also use secondary lenses to help bring distant objects into greater focus, much like birds from Earth do, but this is just speculation.”

“But we’re talking about spaceships here,” Lambert said. “That’s some super telescopic vision you’re talking about.”

“Perhaps they have other devices at their disposal they use during combat, we don’t know. Plus, their lasers do not appear to have much travel time, compared to conventional bullets at least.”

“Lambert?” Mezul asked, bringing the human back into the present. The three aliens were quietly watching him speak into his radio the whole time.

Hold on, three? Lambert turned his gaze to the third alien, this one having already taken off its helmet to expose a headdress the colour of a setting sun, the iridescent tips of its feathers shimmering with each subtle movement the alien made.

“Balyn,” it said, its beak clicking as it introduced itself. It copied Lambert’s name perfectly when the human introduced himself

“You’ve got wings too, Balyn,” Lambert noted, more to himself. The ones without wings were very few around here – were they a sub-species, perhaps?

“Wings,” Ruvaara said, picking up the keyword. “You’ve got wings, Balyn. We’re talking about spaceships here!”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Lambert replied, looking between the three aliens as he folded his arms over his chest. “So. Is it just you three on this ship?”

The aliens cocked their collective heads at him, Lambert scratching his chin as he tried to think of a better way to explain. “Three,” he said, holding up three fingers. “You guys know numbers. Three.”

“Saying the same word over and over won’t help explain its context,” Alice advised. He didn’t like how it was always ready to point out his mistakes.

Frustrated, Lambert turned to Mezul. “Where’s that thing you gave me earlier? The thing that beeped?”

He mimed twisting the radio/cellphone device that he used to demonstrate prime numbers, Mezul thankfully more receptive to his gestures as it produced the device from its belt. He took it, and beeped the device three times, pointing to each alien in turn. “Three,” he said. “Mezul, Ru-shav, Balyn. Three of you man the Sala’ci.”

Mezul shook its head, then held up five fingers, having to use both hands to do so. He hoped that meant five crew, but he couldn’t see anyone else. Maybe they were off doing something else.

“Sala’ci five,” Mezul said. “Corvette, two.”

“Yes, two. Our corvette has two crew.

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” Alice asked, its tone suggesting it was pretending to pout. Lambert ignored it.

“Human Lambert… Einstein,” Mezul said. “Two crew. Sala’ci five crew. Three.” It didn’t seem to know what else to add, but Lambert thought he could tell what it wanted to say. The corvette had three less crew than the Sala’ci, but could fly just as well.

“Yeah, some of our ships can be used by just one person, too.”

They nodded along, at the very least appearing to understand. “Lambert,” Ruvaara said, catching his attention. “Corvette. Ruvaara, corvette.”

“You want to check out the corvette?” he asked, the one called Balyn nodding along in agreement. “Sure, okay.”

“Sounds good to me,” Mezul said, mimicking Carl’s speech to a fault.

Speaking of, Lambert hoped his fellow human wouldn’t mind a few extra tourists on their ship.

4

“Put that down!” Carl said. “How did ya’ll even open my locker, it’s locked.”

Balyn hung its head when Carl snatched the book out of its hands, Lambert grinning as it seemed to be pulling off an alien version of puppy-eyes. After overcoming their initial wariness of the corvette, the aliens were keen on putting their claws on anything they could find, Mezul’s crew and even a few new aliens sticking their beaks into anything that wasn’t bolted down, which soon became a mess when they figured out how to work basic locks and even keypads.

“What was your password?” Lambert asked, watching from the doorway of the gunner station. “One two three four?”

“Doesn’t matter what it was,” Carl said. “these guys are snoopin’ where they shouldn’t be snoopin’.”

“At least they know what no means,” Lambert said. The Balokarid’s vocabularies were expanding with each passing minute, Carl doing most of the heavy lifting as he scolded the curious aliens when they took a specific interest in his section of the ship. Call him crazy, but Lambert suspected they were picking up on the subtle social cues he and Carl gave off to help overcome the language barrier.

“Not as much as they should,” Carl replied. “How’d they even guess my code?”

“Numbers and math are a universal language,” Alice said over the intercom. “as I have stated previously. They need only see you enter the code once, and they can reciprocate it perfectly. Fascinating creatures…”

Lambert watched as Ruvaara tried to squeeze itself into Carl’s chair, chittering in agitation at the obviously underproportioned furniture. He felt someone tap on his shoulder, the man turning around to look. Unlike the others, Mezul was sticking by his side rather than exploring, raising its shoulders and arms in a shrug that had become its way of asking him a question.

“Hey Mezul, what is it?”

“Mezul, Ruvaara, Balokarid. Balokar. Human…” Mezul mumbled, struggling to find the words. “Human, Humanarid? Humanar?”

“You want to know where I’m from?” he asked, the alien angling its beak so that both of its unblinking eyes faced him. “I’m from… well, humans are from Earth.”

“Earth,” it repeated. “Earth what?”

“What’s Earth, you mean?”

“What’s Earth?”

“Earth is a planet. I could show you a picture or something, hang on.”

He fumbled through his pocket for his phone, tapping into the onboard systems to bring up some images. He showed it to the alien.

“Here, check it out,” he said, swiping at the screen as Mezul bent its head forwards to look. The first photo was of Earth from afar, the blue oceans and green landmasses sticking out against the blackness of space. “That’s Earth, and this one here’s a forest.”

Mezul was amazed, its beak right up against the screen as its eyes tracked the images. There was one of a coastal city, and a panorama of a lake that bordered the beginning of a desert.

“Earth… all?” Mezul asked, blinking at him.

“All of these pics are from Earth, yeah. What about you, Mezul? Where are you from?”

The alien paused, eyes flicking around as it tried to think of a response. “Mezul… Mezul Dur’shala.”

“Oh, you’re from Dur’shala?” he asked, Mezul nodding in affirmative. “What’s it like?”

The alien didn’t appear to have photos, its eyes widening as it came up with an idea. It rubbed at its exposed forearm with a talon, a thick layer of the dust Lambert had seen earlier coming with it. The alien rubbed the stuff between its fingers, making sure Lambert was watching closely.

“Dur’shala,” it said, motioning at the dust. It then took his phone and swiped to the panorama, pointing at the sandy banks on the far side of the image.

“So your planet is sandy?” he asked. “Or mostly desert? Must be if it’s getting caught in your feathers so much.”

“All, Dur’shala,” Mezul said, pointing at its companions.

“You’re all from there, okay. So why are you here, and not there?”

“All… Dur’shala… human,” Mezul said. “Put that down.”

When it saw Lambert wasn’t understanding, it huffed like it was annoyed, looking around for a moment before continuing. “Human, these guys are snoopin’ where they shouldn’t be snoopin’. Why are you here?”

Lambert shrugged apologetically. “You guys invited us aboard, remember?”

The alien chirped in a way that came off as frustrated, seeing that whatever it was saying wasn’t making sense, its feathers flattening against its long skull.

The alien broke the silence by clicking its beak to get his attention. “Lambert cockpit come.”

“You wanna go to the cockpit? Sure.”

It followed him up the main corridor, the two returning to the pilot’s chair. It was already claustrophobic with all the equipment crammed around the chair, but it was worse with Mezul taking up what little space there was. His shoulder was rubbing up against their bicep, but if the alien was at all uncomfortable it didn’t show it.

“Picture,” Mezul said, motioning at the monitors.

“Which one?” he asked, the alien giving him a blank look. He decided to just flick through the recordings of the past couple of hours, Mezul nodding its head as if it was saying keep going. When the recording came to the point where Mezul’s ships were under fire, it gestured for him to stop.

It pointed one of its claws at the Raptors, the image flickering as the nebula’s energies continued to interfere, even inside the alien ship. “Human,” it said, then pointed to Lambert. “human.”

“Oh no, we’re different from them,” Lambert explained. “They’re human, sure, but those are the bad guys.”

“Bad guys,” Mezul repeated. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

Lambert tried not to recoil too much, feeling he was so close to having a full-blown conversation with this thing. “Those were humans, okay? But they weren’t with us. Obviously. They were with the UEC.

“Human yoo-ees-see? What that?”

“It’s like a… I don’t know, a clan. They’ve got several planets under their thumb, and a lot of territory.”

“Territory,” Mezul said. “Human Lambert yoo-ees-see?”

He shook his head. “No. Well I was, but… let’s just say no. My, uh, clan is the Hub.”

“Hub,” Mezul repeated. “What Hub?”

“It’s a group of humans, another clan, fighting the UEC. There’s a lot of politics, but in short, we’re not on good terms. We separated from them.”

“Where Hub-clan?” Mezul asked, its striking gaze falling on him. “Human Lambert… Mezul Hub-clan.”

“You want to go there? Me too, but my corvette’s low on fuel, and I have to report back to the Gallipoli first, tell them all about you guys.”

Mezul’s eyes shifted from left to right, the human realising he’d thrown too many new words at it. “Let’s try this.” He switched the screen back to the skirmish, pausing the video when the camera was resting on the alien group of ships. “We’re on this one, right?” he said, pointing at one of the alien carriers. “What are they called? What’s this whole fleet called?”

“Balokarid,” Mezul said.

“Yeah, I know, but what are these ships called? What’s your fleet called?”

Mezul squinted in thought, blinking once as it processed his question. “What fleet?”

“Look, one, two, three ships. That’s a fleet.” He pointed at them to drive home the point. “They’re all ships. What are they called?”

“All ships, called… Kaalesh. Kaalesh clan.”

That was a new word, maybe he was getting through to it. “Okay, Kaalesh clan. So who’s the leader of your clan?”

“Kaalesh all.”

“No, I mean,” he sighed, growing frustrated. “Who’s the… the ghosha? Who’s the pilot of this fleet?”

“Kaalesh ghosha?” Mezul asked, Lambert nodding in reply. “Ghosha… no. Shaliyya Kith. Kith, ghosha, Balokarid… I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

So Shaliyya was like a pilot, or at least had more say in the fleet’s movements like he’d suspected? It was good enough for Lambert, the man waving for Mezul to join him as he left the cockpit. “Take me to Shaliyya, then.”

Once more they made their way through the hanger airlock, the sound of whirring engines and mechanical equipment filling the space as they went, the doors welcoming the pair as they stepped through into the corridor beyond. The ceiling was maybe three times as tall as Lambert was, wide enough to accommodate two or three Balokarids floating side by side, a lot less cramped than human ships were by far.

Mezul gripped the handholds built into the sides of the passage to move itself along, Lambert clunking along after it on his heavy boots. There were panels every he looked, probably designed so that the aliens could access the ship systems from as many places as possible. The passage split off in multiple directions after a quick walk, more narrow passes curving higher and deeper into the alien carrier. It was a stark change from the classical right angles of human architecture, more like ant tunnels than anything else.

Mezul took the pass on the right, Lambert following after. Now and then Balokarids would float along the other way, huge crates and other bulky equipment in their hands as they ferried themselves to other parts of the ship. They gawked behind their closed helmets at the human, some stopping to chat with Mezul, probably about why he was wondering around with it.

Some of the Balokarids had big packs strapped to their flanks, secured to their spacesuits by thick belts. Each pack was as tall as Lambert was, and easily heavy enough to give even the strongest humans pause, but the aliens showed no signs of fatigue in the microgravity. Lambert paused when he noticed a piece of metal sticking out of one of the flaps.

“Is that a…” He got a better look when the alien floated by. The piece of alloy was coated in jet-black paint, with half of a serial number etched into the lower part of the metal.

“Mezul,” he asked, the alien nodding at him. “Was that guy carrying part of a Raptor?”

The alien looked from him to the other alien, its beak clicking as it processed the question. “Human ship corvette.”

“I guessed as much.” It wasn’t unusual that they’d be salvaging parts – raw material would be hard to come by out here, but what were they using it for? Did they repair their ships with human parts?

He decided to report it to Alice. Although he’d rather give the machine the cold shoulder, it could provide him with a better insight with its cold logic. “Alice, just learned something about our hosts.”

“What have you found, sir?”

“Just passed by a couple of alien salvagers. They were carrying bits of the UEC ships. Birds work fast.”

“Intriguing. They wouldn’t go through the trouble of salvaging if they couldn’t use it, that must mean they know how to manipulate C-loys to at least a basic degree.”

Colossus alloys, or ‘C-loys’ for short, were the most advanced material known in the Milky Way, and didn’t exist on the periodic table before to its discovery. It was universally flexible in its applications, analogous to steel in its usefulness. Ship hulls, weapon designs, infrastructure support – one couldn’t walk ten feet in a human world without seeing traces of it.

Humanity had discovered the alloy way back in 2250, when a giant machine had been found buried deep beneath the sands of Mars. The machine was the size of a skyscraper and just as thick around as one, one of the miners giving it the creative name Colossus, which had stuck since. It was exclusively built from the strange alloy, and it took the greatest mining equipment days to pry apart. It was resistant to radiation, extreme temperatures, and as tough as diamonds, perfect for spaceships. After humans had taken to the stars, it was soon discovered that the machine had similar, sister-constructs spread throughout the Milky Way, seemingly in random places – planets, moons, even floating between the stars.

A new, modern Gold Rush to find these constructs and reap their resources began shortly after, and there were a few people who made a mint selling coordinates to the highest bidder after finding unplundered wreckages.

No one knew where the Colossi – the machine wrecks – came from, let alone who or what created them, but they boosted mankind’s journey to the stars, and the mystery soon died out, the wrecks becoming no more than resource caches. Perhaps these Balokarids found a wreck on one of their planets too – that would help explain their primitive designs mixing with the advanced technology.

“Scans show this very hangar is at least sixty percent made from C-loys,” Alice remarked. “Their ships almost eighty percent. What Colossus variant do you think they found?”

“Could be anything,” he replied, not in the mood for small-talk with a machine. “Are our new friends giving Carl any trouble?”

“He’s got them contained to his compartment. May I ask what you’re doing out there by yourself?”

“Mezul’s taking me to Shaliyya. I’m hoping they’re like the equivalent of a Captain or something, and can get us back to the fleet.”

“Don’t do anything to jeopardize humanity’s image, our superiors will find out everything we did here, be tactful.”

“You’d be an expert on jeopardizing humanity’s image,” Lambert muttered. He waited for the machine to try and talk back, but it seemed to have decided to hold its peace than risk him reprimanding it.

Lambert was brought back to the present when Mezul waved to get his attention, the man switching off his radio. “Who Alice?” it asked.

“Who’s Alice?” he corrected.

“Who’s Alice?”

“It’s… part, of our crew,” he replied reluctantly. “You know what crew means, right?”

“Human crew… two.”

“Technically it’s three with Alice, but I’m not sure how to translate what it is to you.”

“Translate,” Mezul repeated, its voice a little like his own, mixed with an unplaceable accent. “What… What’s translate?”

“You’re doing it right now. Switching up my language so I can understand you. You know, ghosha means pilot, Sala’ci means ship.”

“Translate human Balokar.”

“That’s right… I think. So how long until we get to Shaliyya?”

“You wanna go to the cockpit?” it chirped. “Come.”

At the next junction, Mezul floated through the passage leading directly up, the passage curving out of sight like some sort of underground volcanic tunnel, orange bands of light on either side providing soft illumination. Lambert deactivate his boots with a click, and floated up after the alien.

They soon came across a closed hatchway, the doors sliding open to reveal a huge expanse of space. The floor and ceiling were sitting flush against the top and bottom of the passage, but the sides were flaring out hundreds of meters to the left and right, the space between them just tall enough to fit a Balokarid through.

It was like Lambert had just entered the thinnest, most widest room of all time, the far side of the chamber hundreds of meters ahead, with the roof and ground squashed together with just enough room to let a Balokarid stand.

The space stretched on to the left and right, Balokarids choking up the space with their bulks, disappearing from one passage to another.

Handholds and gripping poles connected the floor and ceiling like scaffolding, every surface bristling with support rails to help the aliens navigate the microgravity. For some reason they all had their feet and bellies facing him, giving off the illusion that Lambert was staring up from the ground.

Mezul reoriented itself until it too was pointing its legs at him, appearing from this angle like it were lying down in mid-air, craning its neck to peer over at him. “Lambert,” it said, spinning a finger to demonstrate that he should turn.

When he did, Lambert’s perception started messing with his head, forward becoming up as the floor and ceiling became the sides of a giant, squashed space that towered far above him.

His brain grasping to make sense of the sudden shift in orientation, he and Mezul glided through the space to some unseen destination. In basic flight training, each recruit had to drill out their usual grounded perspective, to realise direction in space wasn’t the same as in an atmosphere, but very few got used to it permanently, and Lambert wasn’t one of the lucky ones, his instincts sure he wasn’t the right way up anymore and he could start falling any second.

He saw more Balokarids carrying those big packs full of wreckage, both human and alien scrap from the prior fight. He wondered where they were taking them, perhaps there was some sort of manufacturing deck in one of these many hatchways?

They travelled higher, or maybe it was forward, he could tell what direction they were going in relation to the ship’s orientation. The walls were pocked with dozens, if not hundreds of hatches, this part of the ship a kind of nexus for the Balokarids. Around halfway up, Mezul stopped in front of one of the portals.

As he followed the alien in he realised it was no bridge like he expected, but a room similar to the initial holding area back near the hangar. There was three Balokarids inside, each one wearing jumpsuits that bordered between white and silver. Like Mezul, they had wings on the back of their arms, concealed beneath large sheathes, their flat, long profile making them appear a little like the wings of a bat.

Their clawed hands were bare, as were their heads – their yellow eyes tracking him as he moved into the room. Each one was carrying some sort of device, holding them up to the lights as they fiddled with modules and settings. They looked like they’d been waiting for them.

“Is Shaliyya in here?” he asked, looking to Mezul for an answer. The alien shook its head no. “Then… what are we doing here?”

The new aliens closed in on him, one of them holding up some sort of flashlight as it ran the torch over his arm and chest, chittering in its odd language. Another alien squeezed his shoulder as if to test his flightsuit’s integrity, the third pointing some kind of laser at his hands and chest.

His eyes wide in alarm, he began to push the aliens away. “H-Hey, what are you guys doing?”

The Balokarids scattered away, squawking at one another and fixing their intense eyes on him. Was that confusion he could see on their faces?

His companion reached over and laid a hand on his arm, giving him a comforting squeeze as it blinked at him. “Lambert,” Mezul began. “Kaalesh clan. I’m going to scan you now. With this thingy.”

The aliens held up their devices, Lambert getting the picture. So they wanted to scan him? Run some tests? He asked it why they weren’t going to Shaliyya.

“Shaliyya, scan,” it said. “Scan, Shaliyya.” It squeezed his arm in a way that was probably supposed to come off as reassuring.

He guessed it wanted to repay the favour, after he’d scanned it back on his corvette, and then they would go find Shaliyya. He was still a little pensive all the same – he was taking a lot of liberties introducing these aliens to human biology, some might say he was rushing into things. Screw it, he trusted that Mezul didn’t mean him any harm.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ve got an ideal male body anyway.”

The aliens didn’t understand him, but Mezul translated his willingness for him, and soon they began their tests.

5

The examination didn’t go for very long, but the Balokarid Doctors – at least he thought they were Doctors – took their time in pouring over his data, the aliens retreating to their terminals to work. Although Lambert was keen to get moving, he didn’t mind spending more time with Mezul to try and iron out its ever-growing vocabulary.

What he found strange was that the Doctors were picking up on his taught words as well, despite them having never met before now. Was Mezul uploading his English into some sort of program the whole ship had access to, perhaps they had their own Alice? It would certainly speed things up if both their species were working on breaking the language barrier, even if Lambert felt like he was woefully inept at it.

“I got a D in Latin,” he said, remembering his schooling years.

“What is Lateen?” Mezul asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Ah, nothing. So how’re the tests?”

“Test done,” Mezul said. Movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention, and he watched as the trio of Doctors moved over to one of their strange, blocky machines, standing there as if waiting for it to do something. After a delay, a panel opened up on the side, and a slip of what looked like paper furrowed out into a tray. Lambert craned his neck to get a better look and saw the page was blank. One of the aliens flicked what looked like a UV light onto the parchment.

After a delay, something began to appear on the page. Like an image fading into focus, the silhouette of a human with its limbs slowly filled in. One of the aliens fixed a lamp over the tray, casting the page into its heat, Lambert realising the process was speeding up. Did they not have printers to ink directly onto the paper?

The process took a few minutes, the whole thing reminding Lambert of the ancient cameras of old where dark rooms were used, before one of the aliens took the photo of his anatomy out from the tray, holding it up to the light to examine it.

A couple more images were printed out, one of an X-ray and one with just his muscles visible, Lambert getting a good look at his own body plan as the Doctors discussed among themselves. They clicked and chirped at each other, Mezul adding her thoughts to the group as they pointed to different parts of his body. He wondered what they made of him.

Mezul’s eyes began to widen the more the aliens talked, Lambert feeling a bit out of the loop as they clicked their beaks, talking about him. Finally he decided to ask. “Hey Mezul, what are they talking about?”

The alien cocked its head at him, thought for a second, then took one of the X-rays and held it up so he could see. With its free hand the alien pointed at his crotch. “What is this?” it asked.

“Uh.” He felt his cheeks warm as he looked at the printed outline of his groin. “That’s my… well, I’m male, right?”

“Male?” it asked, then turned to the Doctors, the aliens huddling together like they were gossiping, stealing glances at the human every now and then, and pointing to his groin, both the real and printed one. Soon they reached an understanding, Mezul turning back to him.

“Lambert male?”

“Yeah, Lambert male.”

The aliens looked him up and down in a way that came off as disbelieving, Mezul looking especially confused.

“What about you?” he asked. “You a male too?”

“Mezul male… no,” it replied, pointing once more at his genitals, then at its waist. “Mezul male no. What is… male no?”

“That’d be female,” he replied.

“Mezul no… male,” the alien said, motioning to its crotch. He guessed that meant Mezul wasn’t packing, so did that mean she was female?

“Are you all female?” he asked, turning to the Doctors.

“No males,” one of them replied, shaking its head. The other two repeated the same. “Lambert no male?”

“I’m pretty sure I am,” he said, the aliens cocking their heads at him. Why were they so surprised? Maybe males in Balokarid society weren’t very numerous? Maybe they didn’t even have males.

The Doctors used Mezul to translate their thanks to Lambert, and the two turned to leave. The hatchway opened like an elevator door, revealing the huge drop in all directions beyond the examining room. He grabbed one of the handrails on the outside, turning to watch Mezul follow him out.

“Well then, you’re a female, Mezul?”

The alien nodded. “Well. You are male?”

“You look like you don’t believe me,” he noted. “Why is that?”

“Lambert ghosha?”

“Yeah, I’m ghosha.”

“Lambert ghosha, Lambert male. No.”

“No? Are you saying males can’t be pilots?”

“All pilot – all ghosha – all female.”

“All your pilots are females? Why?”

Mezul’s feathers on her headdress flattened, the ones just above her eyes folding down and back so it looked like her brow was furrowing. She was trying to find the right words. “Male fly no. Female fly yes.”

“But why do females fly, and males don’t?”

“Female… fly,” she said, and when she saw he didn’t understand, she held up her arms as if she were about to hug him. When her arms raised above her shoulders, the thin sheaths that contained the wings on her forearms exposed themselves, their span big enough to encompass an engine block. The gears in Lambert’s head clicked.

“Do only females have wings?” he asked. “Is that how?”

“Wings yes. Female wings yes, male wings no.”

So every Balokarid who had wings was a female? He supposed that would make their women more intuitive with aviation compared to men. Could Mezul fly then? He looked her up and down, guessing her weight. She and every other Balokarid seemed just too big for that to be possible, she must weigh too much, and her wings seemed too small.

As they continued through the nexus, using the handrails to guide them along, Mezul tapped him on the shoulder. She was holding up one of his X-rays, pointing at his neck and chest. “Lambert. What is…”

She struggled for the right words, soon opting to just point. Looking closely, he saw she was tapping at a grey mass built above his left lung, the grey metal contrasting with the red blood and sinew.

“That’s one of my implants,” he said, Mezul waiting for him to elaborate. “that one you’re pointing at helps my lungs pump oxygen more efficiently. Breathing, basically.” He exaggerated drawing in a lungful of air. “It’s made of metal. Like your Sala’ci or these walls.” He wrapped on the deck nearby with his hand.

“Metal?”

“Yep, just metal and wires.”

“Humans Einstein!” the alien squawked, impressed beyond doubt.

“Yep. Humans Einstein.”

“Implant… Lambert needs?”

“Humans don’t need them, but they help us adapt to harsh environments, like space,” he said. Implants had been restricted to just military personnel during the pioneering age of cybernetics, but years ago the privilege had been extended to civilians to help combat muscle atrophy during long space flights.

“What is this?” She pointed at another implant, the blend of machinery easy to pick out against the red of his internal flesh.

“That’s iron plating wrapped over my heart. I can stand a lot more G’s than someone without one.”

“Geez?”

He began to explain basic force, but it wasn’t long before his words were just as confusing as Mezul’s expressions. She could imitate pretty well, but discussing gravity was beyond the basic dialect they’d established. She could glean his intent, however, deciding to move on and ask about another implant she’d spotted.

“That’s my translator,” he said, the machine in his lower neck about the size of a tennis ball. “You remember that word don’t you?”

“Switching up my language,” Mezul replied, in an accent that was both hers and his.

“That’s right. Translators speed up the process by imprinting a dictionary into your brain. I don’t know the specifics, but it basically shoves a language into your head, and then lets you sort out the rest.”

“Speeds up translate?” Mezul asked, looking closely at the photograph as if that would help her gleam its intent. “Implant… Mezul?”

“You want one?” he asked, the alien nodding. The idea had crossed his mind, but it wouldn’t be as easy as installing a software update. She would have to undergo surgery and get a part of her brain opened up to interface, assuming the device was even compatible with her alien brain.

Lambert remembered learning French a long time ago through the same means, but he still had to learn – the translator was a quick and dirty accelerant, and not without its risks. Mezul did have a good grasp of English so far, however…

“Would you even be willing to have a human do surgery on you?” he asked. “Don’t get me wrong Mezul, but having aliens open you up is like, something out of a nightmare for most people.”

“Lambert implant have?”

“No, not on me. We don’t even have the right equipment on the corvette. The Gallipoli has a medical bay, and an actual team, but even then… Mezul, let me try and explain to you how it would all go down.”

He did his best to teach her the right words to explain the process, floating along as they talked. He mimed taking a pair of forceps to his head and neck, tearing at the X-ray parchment to demonstrate cutting skin. He even pretended to start bleeding profusely from the neck with a little sound effect. As much as he wanted to communicate properly with this alien, he didn’t want to force it into anything that could hurt her.

He didn’t know if Mezul understood him or not, but the alien seemed content on going through with it all the more. Perhaps Balokarids were comfortable with shoving machines into their bodies, and Lambert was just being cautious for her? He couldn’t be sure.

It seemed they’d arrived at their intended destination, Mezul stopping before a hatch identical to all the others, save for a red discolouring ringing the hatch like a rope of neon, signalling this portal as important. The door revolved open, Lambert following his alien companion inside.

The room inside was shaped like a large cone, about twenty meters across and twice as long. The walls gradually flared out as the walls stretched away, ending in a conclave wall of glass that capped the far end. The pink and purple hues of the nebula lit up the dozens of metal machinations that ringed the walls of the room, the angular machines casting stark shadows on the silver deck. The machines looked like desks, set up in slanted rings that corkscrewed along the walls in an exotic pattern.

A Balokarid was sat behind each desk, Lambert guessed they were stations of some kind. Judging by how many readouts were being fed through to this one deck and the number of aliens, he surmised that this was the bridge.

Mezul motioned for him to follow, floating up and to the left side of the bridge. There wasn’t much room to walk around, so Lambert opted to float behind, flying over many confused faces as the seated Balokarids turned their beaks up to watch him. Each were wearing red markings on their chests, similar to Shaliyya’s own. The sounds of clicking keys and chittering voices were a comforting piece of background noise, like he’d just stepped into an internet café.

One larger station stood out from the rest, Mezul moving towards it. It was up on the ceiling in relation to the door, Lambert’s perception all muddled as he righted himself. Shaliyya was floating by the station, her winged arms folded over her stomach as she watched the human approach. She talked with Mezul for a few minutes, Lambert picking up a few words he was familiar with. Mezul was teaching Shaliyya English, he realised – just how fast did she expect her superior to learn?

“Lambert,” Shaliyya began, the human glancing at her. “Mezul speak… human Hub-clan?”

He was amazed by how much she understood in so little time, but he could be impressed later, right now he had to get through to these aliens. “Yes, my clan is the Hub, yours is Kaalesh, right?

“Kaaleshi clan, all.” The alien spread her arms wide, gesturing around her. That must be the plural for their clan.

“Okay. Kaaleshi, uh, in danger,” he said, trying to use as few words as possible. “Hub in danger. The UEC is still out there – those Raptors had to have come from somewhere, a fleet or capital ship maybe.”

It all seemed to go over Shaliyya’s head, but Mezul stepped in to translate, the two aliens coming to some understanding. “Yoo-ee-see clan where?” Shaliyya asked.

“I don’t know, but they probably know something’s happened to their attack group by now. I can see we’re still right by the fight,” he said, pointing over her shoulder at the large window, the expended fuel from where a ship had been destroyed still visible against the backdrop of the nebula. “You need to get your fleet out of here, they’ll be looking for you. Kaaleshi must leave.”

“Kaaleshi leave… no.” The Balokarid shook its head, and when he asked why it said: “Dur’shala home… no.”

They couldn’t return home for some reason, but Lambert wasn’t sure how to ask. “We can help you,” he said, the aliens perking up. “I came from a fleet, you know what a fleet is? Mezul?”

“Fleet ships four,” she explained.

“Right, my fleet isn’t too far away, a few hour’s flight time. Do you have a map of the nebula I can take a look at?”

The aliens tilted their heads at him, Lambert already knowing they didn’t understand. “A map,” he said again. “A scan of the nebula. How did you guys navigate here?”

The aliens stared at him, blank looks on their faces. Growing frustrated, he pointed at the canopy again, the aliens glancing at the roiling clouds. “Where is Kaaleshi? Where?”

“Kaaleshi here,” Mezul said, as if that was all that needed to be said.

“And where is here?”

The aliens huddled together to discuss, and then Shaliyya spoke up. Before long, another alien approached, this one holding a large slip of what looked like parchment. It reached down and spread the material across the desk, smoothing out the corners as Lambert got a look at it. There were markings scribbled onto the top face, black strips of what looked like ink wreathing between grey smudges that covered most of the surface of the paper. There were straight lines connecting some of the black dots together. Shaliyya brought down a claw on one dot just off from the centre.

“Kaaleshi here,” she said. It was a map! Lambert gripped the edges of the desk, leaning down to examine the markings as his legs floated behind him. He could see it now, the smudges were the gas clouds, the lines where the fleet had travelled, perhaps. It didn’t look like any scan of the nebula Lambert had seen, human ships preferred sector scans in three dimensions.

He knew where the rendezvous point was, but without a computer or his ship systems handy, pinpointing it on an alien map would be pretty difficult. They might not even be on the same orientation – this map could be upside down for all he knew.

Maybe Alice could help, he thought. It felt like the longer this mission went on, the more he had to count on it for help. The alternative would be messing around with this map and guessing. He would have to swallow his pride for both his and the Balokarid’s sake. The UEC would turn up looking for their dead sooner or later.

“Alice, sending you a photo,” he said. “See if you can make any sense of it, we’re the dot near the middle.”

There was a camera built into the chestpiece of his flightsuit, Lambert using it to snap a picture of the map before uploading it to the corvette’s databanks, the aliens watching him with their heads cocked curiously. After a short delay the machine replied.

“This map has a lot of discrepancies compared to our own records. Would you like to know how inaccurate these markings are? Sixty-three percent. It is much like the first Earthen continental maps, very disproportionate.”

“Can you make heads or tails of it?”

“Although crude, I can make some corrections and form a comprehensive rehaul that we can use. What is your intention, sir? I have a more accurate render on the ship systems.”

“I’m getting these birds out of here, and they’re going to transport us. Where exactly is the rendezvous point?”

The robot told him, and he pointed at the physical map, drawing the attention of the aliens as he tapped it. “Here, this is where we need to go Shaliyya.”

“Kaaleshi… Lambert?” Mezul asked. “All?”

“Yes, all. And the sooner the better. Our fleets will stand a better chance together if the UEC show up.”

“Hub-clan fight yoo-ee-see-clan?” Shaliyya asked.

“Yeah, we do. And we’re technically winning with our kill count.”

The aliens looked impressed, Mezul in particular, chatting in their own tongue before Shaliyya spoke again. “Kaaleshi go. Hub-clan, Kaaleshi-clan… sooner the better.”

Shaliyya turned away, her voice attracting the attention of everyone else on the bridge as she gave out orders. It wasn’t long before the view of the nebula through the glass began to shift, the massive carrier ship adjusting course to set a new heading, one of the other big alien ships panning across the view before the ship aimed towards the Galactic south.

Lambert watched as the world of purple slowly shifted as the carrier engaged its engines, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. Finally, they were going to get moving, though he felt a little apprehensive about how his fellow Hub companions would react when a bunch of alien ships turned up to the rendezvous.

Mezul bumped into his side, her long neck angled down to appraise him, her headdress fluttering like there was an invisible gale washing over her. The way he had to look up at her made him feel strange inside, but he couldn’t place why.

“Lambert, not as male…”

“No, I am. How many times do I have to tell you?” He chuckled.

“Lambert not as male like,” she added. “Human female like Lambert?”

“No, they’re shorter, generally slimmer, and with longer hair, most of them anyway.”

“Human… strange.” The alien clicked her beak. “Male can’t fly, human can’t fly. Lambert pilot, Lambert fly. Lambert… strange good.”

“Ha, thank you?” He grinned. “You’re pretty strange good yourself, Mezul.”

The alien returned his smile, the feathers on her headdress standing tall.

6

After leaving the bridge, Lambert’s stomach lurched as he looked down the way they had come, his mind sure that he was about to tumble off a tremendous height. The bridge was up on the very highest level of the nexus, with dozens of levels running all the way down to the ‘floor’, like the façade of a skyscraper. The other doorways were spread randomly throughout the narrowed walls, no two alike in terms of spacing. The aliens who designed this ship didn’t care much for symmetry.

“Mind if I check out a bit of your ship?” Lambert asked, holding onto a handrail as Mezul followed him out.

His companion braced herself against the doorway, shrugging at him as if she didn’t care what he did, even though that gesture was her way of saying she didn’t understand him.

“I’ll show myself around,” Lambert said, beginning his tour by picking a hatchway at random, floating over to it with Mezul in tow. His first stop was adjacent and one level down from the bridge, the sounds of many chittering voices reaching Lambert’s ears when the doors slid open.

The space within was wide enough to fit a corvette inside twice over, two thick pairs of support columns that stretched from the silver floor to the curved ceiling filling the space. They were covered in seats and tables bolted onto their thick surfaces, hundreds of them jutting out to accommodate the dozens upon dozens of aliens packed into the room.

The aliens closest to the hatchway turned their beaks, cutting their conversations to stare at the human. The closest group was a trio of winged females sitting sideways in relation to him, Lambert floating over and greeting them with a wave.

“How’s it going ladies?” he asked, grabbing a seat to steady himself. The one closest to him reached out to touch him, hesitating as it turned to Mezul to say something. Maybe she was asking her if she could pet him?

“I’d prefer if we keep our hands to our… never mind.” The alien brushed her claws through his hair, tickling his scalp as her friends leaned in to examine him. It wasn’t long before he was being petted from all sides, Mezul chuckling as he glared at her annoyedly.

“What’s on the menu?” he asked, waving them off as he peered at their table. They’d been holding tiny silver things that looked like lunchboxes in their hands, the smell of cooked meat reaching his nose when one was offered to him. What at least appeared to be food sat within the recess, little flip locks securing smaller parts of the lunchbox to hold presumably more food.

There was some sort of assembly line trailing up the side of the column nearby, the thin tracks crawling up and down the entire length. There were hundreds of the small boxes fasted against the slow-moving line, secured by magnets maybe, Lambert watching one of the Balokarid’s pluck one from the line. It produced some kind of meat slab from within, its sharp teeth showing as it began to chew on it.

“Food place,” Mezul explained, taking a meat chunk for herself and demonstrating how to eat food. The space could accommodate hundreds of aliens, packed in tightly as they were, but he assumed there had to have been several other identical rooms spread throughout the large ship.

He watched one of the females produce some kind of bottle, upturning its contents onto her chosen piece of meat. What looked like herbs sprinkled out onto the flesh, the alien slathering it on like glue. She wasn’t alone, Lambert noticing every alien was spicing up their chosen dishes. They must like their herbs.

One of the curious aliens finished her meal early, deciding to kill time by touching and fiddling with his suit. It eventually figured out how to work one of his pockets, not in the least bit apprehensive as it reached in and pulled out his music player.

“Hey!” he said, snatching the device away. His finger brushed the play button, and music started blaring through the alien mess hall. So far Lambert had gone fairly unnoticed, but now nearly all alien beaks snapped in his direction, closing in on the source of the sound like vultures around a corpse, Lambert quickly surrounded by the curious creatures. They chirped along with the sound, their heads bobbing and throats warbling as they began to whistle in time with the beat.

“You guys like Collins too, huh?” Lambert asked, laughing as the Balokarids mimicked the tune down to a fault, one of them devoted just to the drum snares. He watched as Mezul craned her long neck down, peering at the little play and pause symbols on the tiny screen.

Eventually the aliens grew disinterested, Lambert switching the music off and heading back out to the nexus, Mezul by his side. She seemed fascinated by his music player, repeating the tune while tapping her chest with a claw, like how a human might tap a rhythm on a desk.

“You got a nice voice Mezul,” Lambert said. “You like music?”

“Music,” she said, whistling like she was cat-calling someone. He handed the alien his player, Mezul turning it over in her hands. He was surprised to see such a large creature handle the device like it was made of glass, keeping her claws from scratching at the little screen. She quickly figured out how to scroll through his playlist, the Balokarid skipping through the songs until it found one that she liked.

“That one’s a classic,” he said. “Carl thinks they’re too old, but they’re not bad, huh?”

Mezul took charge of the music while Lambert led the way, the two floating down the nexus, attracting the attention of many passing Balokarids. Lambert picked another hatchway at random, floating through the opening doors with only curiosity as his guide.

This space was just as populated as the mess hall, hundreds of aliens filling the microgravity with their large bodies as they travelled up and down a tall, cylindrical room, three bands spiralling up to the ceiling, Lambert coming out of the band in the middle. Each band consisted of about five circular entrances, the doors ringed with supports for the aliens to push off from, giving the distinct impression of balconies. The sound of doors sliding open was constant, the aliens disappearing by the dozen behind the portals all around him.

The Balokarids here were dressed differently than Lambert had seen so far. Gone were their colour-coded, bulky jumpsuits, their suits featureless and black, their heads exposed as the aliens watched the human explore. It was a remarkably ‘civilian’ type get-up, or maybe these crew were off-duty. They didn’t try to stop him, even as he picked a random door and opened it up like he’d seen the aliens do.

He floated through the threshold, a strange sight making the man blink. Built into the walls of the confined space were rectangular sections a couple feet deep, the edges curved rather than meeting at a point. There were dozens of them, each containing identical accommodations: fluffy cushioning padding, a belt that loped around the middle, along with a kind of cloth that looked as thick as a quilt and larger than any king-size sheet Lambert had seen.

Almost all of the sections were occupied, the aliens using the strap to strap themselves against the soft padding, their beaks resting on their sides as they dozed beneath their sheets. A few who had been nodding off peered down at Lambert, their lazy eyes blinking groggily as he intruded on their sleep, their large frames just barely able to squeeze into the bunks.

“This is your sleeping quarters?” Lambert asked, not really expecting an answer but turning to Mezul anyway. “You guys are packed in here like canned fish!”

There had to be around fifty aliens in this section alone, and if the several other adjoining rooms were identical, there were hundreds of Balokarids in just this small part of the ship alone. Human warships had to save on space too, especially when it came to infantry units where whole squads bunked together, but there were three of these alien carriers, and they were as large as cargo freighters. The Balokarid’s use of space was lacking, to say the least.

Mezul tapped him on the shoulder, getting his attention as she waved for him to follow. She seemed to want to show him something, heading out from the bunk area and towards a different portal, rather than back into the nexus.

The corridor beyond was quick float through, similar in design to the airlock with a portal on either end. Like playing the radio on a long car trip, Mezul used the music player to fill the silence as they crossed into the next part of the tour. When he tried to take it back, Mezul politely kept it out of his reach, her tall stature making it easier for her to keep her new prize.

The hatch irised open, a strange, familiar scent hitting Lambert like a wall as they floated into the new space. Packed against all six faces of the cube-shaped room were shelving units and metal crates, some taller than others and creating thick towers that seemed to hang off the walls and ceiling.

He watched as a Balokarid pried open a crate and begin fishing through its contents. No, they weren’t crates, but lockers, the man spying an alien flightsuit along with other alien equipment hanging via hooks inside. The alien was putting something inside each locker, some kind of pouch it was careful not to puncture with its claws.

“What’s he got in those bags, Mezul?” he asked, his companion watching him point at the alien.

“Fentula,” the alien explained.

“Looks like everyone’s getting a bag,” he noted. The Balokarid placing the bags floated over to a pair of other aliens present, who were tending to a strange apparatus near one of the other exits. One of them was raising the lid of some kind of cauldron, using a bowl to scoop out whatever concoction broiled inside. What looked like heated panels cupped the base of the pot, a strange sizzling sound audible even from this distance. Thick tubes snaked this way and that into another receptacle, unknown fumes travelling through the transparent pipes.

The alien passed the bowl off to her companion, taking up a spoon to swirl the fentula, if that was what was inside. Its companion emptied the contents of the bowl into a bag it produced from below the device, pulling the neck taught with a simple string and adding it to a pile of other prepared satchels. The deliverer took up an armful and continued its rounds, making sure to go to every locker and stock them up.

Lambert wrinkled his nose at the earthy smell. Mezul’s ship had smelled like this, rich and pungent. He looked back the way they’d come. Was this the first stop right after the aliens woke up, where they collected their suits and tools and fentula? Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t just the sleeping quarters that were tightly packed, all the rooms so far barely had any space between them – as if the Balokarids were starved for every inch of space.

When they were done, the three Balokarids took their strange contraption by the handles built into the sides, pushing it through the microgravity towards one of the hatches. Lambert floated after, using the lockers to push himself along.

“Wish I could ask you what all this is for,” Lambert said, his alien companion chewing on the quills above her wrist like she was itchy. “You don’t seem to mind, though. Let’s see where this fentula comes from.”

The aliens wielding the contraption turned around, Lambert’s heart racing. Then he realised he wasn’t sneaking around, he had an escort, and the aliens didn’t seem to mind, going on their way through another short airlock.

The scent of dirt and herb was strong, practically stinging his nose when Lambert reached the far end. Here the room was shaped like the bottom of a bathtub, with the top half covered in light strips, bathing the room in a magenta hue not unlike the nebula itself.

The bottom half of the room was populated by half a dozen trays, stretching up the length of the twenty-meter-long room, stacked with shelves that ran meters into the air. The vertical shelves were lined with plants that resembled jungle vines, trailing into the lower trays where other plants resided. Some were leafy like tiny shrubs, others looked like thick tree roots that wreathed throughout the entire length of the trays. Maybe a dozen Balokarids were tending to the farms, some shaving off the usable parts while others planted new flora while digging out the old.

Lambert moved over to one of the farms, glancing at the alien deliverers who pushed their giant machine like it was an oversized hot dog stand. There was a recess in the wall on the left, the two aliens plugging it in, seemingly done for now.

He could feel a low thrum through his hands as he leant on the edge of the tray, guessing there were engines built somewhere beneath him. The stench of burning leaf pervaded everything in this place, but none of the aliens seemed at all bothered by the smell.

There seemed to be a lot of root-like plants and leafy variants compared to more solid foods humans usually grew in hydroponic vats, Lambert seeing another vat full of what looked like giant, brown leaves individually placed along the tray, their diets must be more accommodated to greens than humans.

Upon closer inspection, the underlying layer of soil was not dirt, but some kind of sandy substance a dark amber in colour, packed inside a thin layer of plastic or some other material. He kept his hands clear just in case, afraid he might contaminate something, breathing through his mouth by how powerful the smell was. “Geez, Mezul,” he said, coughing into his arm. “Smells like my brother’s room in here.”

Lambert realised she wasn’t having as much trouble as him, watching as her nose holes closed like two tiny airlocks, a section of flesh shutting over just inside her nostrils. Her mouth was open enough to allow her to breathe, the alien cocking her head as she noticed him staring.

“Weird,” he muttered. “Anyway I’ve seen enough, let’s get back to the corvette before I start choking.”

“Lambert corvette?” Mezul asked. “Hangar come.” She floated back the way they had come, Lambert following behind.

7

The corvette was in an interesting state when Lambert returned. He’d been expecting Carl to be chewing the ears off the curious aliens, the machine relaying its concerns to him, but the ship was quiet, Lambert’s eyebrow raised as he appraised the general calm surrounding the ship. Maybe the aliens had finally grown bored of the human vessel.

Even Mezul seemed confused, poking her beak through the cargo bay hatch and looking round for its brethren, her snout snapping towards the stairs as they heard a voice.

“-And this one is from 2098, one of the last stamps before they were fully phased out of human postage…”

Carl’s voice echoed through the ship, Lambert and Mezul sharing a look as they moved up to the gunnery station, Lambert peeking through the portal to a strange sight.

His human companion had managed to round up all of their guests, Lambert recognising Ruvaara and Balyn near the forefront of the group, the two turning to give Mezul a greeting in their chittering, strange language.

“See you’ve been busy showing off your antiques,” Lambert mused, shooting Carl a grin. His friend stood like a lecturer before the class, the aliens his audience as he held out a black, leather book with square pockets built into the plastic sleeves.

“It’s better than them turnin’ our ship inside out,” Carl replied, closing his book much to the disappointment of the aliens. “And it ain’t just me, Alice thinks their English is so much damn better than before. Check it. Hey Ruvaara, what’s my job?”

“Carl fire point defence!” Ruvaara chirped.

“And what do you do?”

“Ruvaara fire frickin’ laser beams!”

“Don’t teach them how to curse, Carl,” Lambert chided. “When we get back to the fleet they’ll know we’ve been messing around.”

“Speakin’ of, Alice tells me we’ve set a new headin’. I guess you managed to get these aliens movin’ to the rendezvous?”

“We’re on the way.” He told him about the parts of the ship he toured with Mezul, noting that despite being crammed in together, the aliens were orderly and were always busy doing something, maintaining a strict timetable.

“You can say that again,” Carl said. “Check out the landin’ pad over there.” He jerked a thumb at one of the cameras on the gunner console. The view panned across the wide hangar, the half a dozen Sala’ci ships secured to the other pads while alien engineers tended to them.

Lambert almost did a double take. Besides Mezul’s ship, there had only been one other alien vessel present when they’d first entered, but all the pads were now occupied by a craft in varying stages of completion. The aliens were assembling brand new ships, the skeletal frames slowly taking shape as the Balokarids welded parts of the hull together. The aliens didn’t waste time replacing their losses.

“Here, here!” Mezul said, noting what he was looking at and gesturing to the large hangar doors. “Sala’ci ships all. All hangar.”

“You’re making ships in every hangar?” Lambert guessed. “It’s barely been a day and they’re already rebuilding.”

“They got some impressive production power alright,” Carl noted. “Even Fed shipyards take weeks to assemble a fighter if they’re workin’ round the clock.”

From behind the humans, Mezul leaned on their shoulders to get a look at the feed, the alien’s hands almost encompassing their shoulders. “Mezul, your people work fast,” Lambert said, nodding as he watched. “How many hangars do you have on this ship anyway?”

“Hangar…” Mezul clicked her beak in thought. “Hangar four and four… eight?”

“You taught it to count?” Carl asked, quirking an eyebrow at the alien.

“She’s got a knack for numbers. Eight will always equal eight, no matter what planet you’re from.”

“Wait wait wait.” Carl raised his hands. “Did you just say she?”

“Yeah. Found out on the way to the bridge. From what I know, female Balokarids have wings, and the males don’t.”

Carl turned to look back at the rest of the aliens milling about in the room. “No shit? Never had a group of women in my station before today. Where are all the guys at?”

“I saw a couple of them in their mess hall, but I didn’t get a chance to get close. The wings aren’t for show, the airforce is a completely feminine pursuit in Balokarid society, but I’m not a hundred percent sure they can actually fly.”

“Make sense if they can. They got that… what’s the phrase? Female intuition. You think they’re a matriarchal species?”

“I’m not sure,” Lambert replied, scratching his chin. “Hopefully someone on the Gallipoli specialises in language and can help us out.” He checked his watch. “I’m gonna go get some shut eye, wake me if something happens.”

He left for the crew quarters; a simple bunk area divided into four rooms. They weren’t too flashy, just a bed and a lamp for each room, but they allowed the standard four-man crew some privacy and their own place to relax.

As he opened the door to his bunk, he felt a presence behind him. Mezul was following, probably thinking he was on his way to the cockpit. “I’m going to get some rest,” he told her, shooing her away. “Go hang out with Carl or something.”

She could tell he wanted to be left alone, turning around and wandering away as he shut himself inside the bunk. He caught a few hours of sleep, but it wasn’t very restful – his body was just too excited at what was happening, he was one of the first humans to interact with new, alien life! How could he get his regulation eight at a time like this?

He gave up trying to rest after a while, eating a protein bar for breakfast before wandering out to the corvette’s main hall. Carl had said they’d taken a few grazing shots during the fight, maybe he could take a look at the hull for other damage, kill time before they reached the rendezvous.

A Balokarid female passed him by on his way to the cargo bay, giving him a wave. He waved back as he passed her by, pausing as his brain processed the last few seconds. It was uncanny how casually he returned the wave, like he was almost used to having aliens wander his ship so freely.

Once outside the ship, he clicked his mag-boots off, floating around the ship, pulling himself along the hull to assess the damage, soon coming across a few streak marks left by machine gun fire. It would make a good story to tell, even if it gave the corvette a more weathered appearance. The corvette was armoured with Colossal-alloy-laced plating, but a bullet with no constraint on speed could deliver a lot of kinetic power and punch through the thinner parts of the corvette, like the bottleneck where the cockpit joined the with main body of the corvette, that part wasn’t as thick around as the rest.

He turned his head, watching the Sala’ci on the neighbouring pad being worked on. He marvelled at their speed, the craft was already taking on its familiar stingray profile, where hours ago it had been less than a bundle of scrap. There was a chance they were putting in extra effort to impress their human audience, but Lambert didn’t care. It could take months to churn out a corvette from scratch, and these guys were pumping out four to six attackers within a day.

He floated gingerly down to the thrusters, pulling away a maintenance panel with a grunt of effort. He was no mechanic by trade, but he did know the basics of how to recalibrate the engines of his ship and assess if something inside had been damaged.

He took a few trips back and forth to the cargo bay, doing his share of maintenance to occupy himself for a few hours. He wiped his brow of sweat with the back of his hand, the moisture clinging to his skin in the microgravity, looking over his shoulder when he heard something click against the hull.

It was Mezul, her talons tapping on the corvette as she scaled up to greet him. He grinned as he wiped his hands on a rag, finding himself pleased to see her around.

“Hey Mezul.”

“Hey Lambert,” she replied. “What you doing?”

“Just some maintenance on the old ship,” he said, patting the hull with a hand.

“But… Lambert ghosha,” the alien said, her tone suggesting she was confused.

“Yeah, Lambert ghosha, but I know the ins and outs of my own ship. Have to.”

Mezul’s headdress bristled in a way that came off as pleased or maybe surprised, the alien watching him work. The silence became a bit too much for him, the man making small talk as he worked. “You were talking earlier about your home. Dur’shala, was it? Your Kith said you couldn’t go back. Can you tell me why?”

The alien considered, rubbing the top of its arms uncomfortably.

“Dur’shala home. Human fleet corvette, raptor, carrier. No Lambert corvette like. Human fleet… danger Kaaleshi home, Kaaleshi fleet leave. Yoo-ee-see clan follow fleet, fleet number ten, now fleet number three.”

Lambert’s heart sank. The Balokarids had set up a colony on this Dur’shala, and the UEC turned up and drove them out. To what end Lambert could only guess, but expanding their reach was the most obvious reason. Habitable planets were as rare a commodity as Colossus wrecks, and going as far as declaring war on an alien spacefaring species seemed in line with the UEC’s morals.

He hadn’t felt pity when they’d killed those UEC raptors during the earlier fight, and he certainly didn’t now, realising they’d been picking off this clan one ship at a time. People who willingly fought for that corporate cesspool should be shown no mercy. He was aware of how contradictory that was, being formerly aligned with them, but that was a different time.

“We’ll protect your fleet,” he said. “I won’t let another one of your carriers get destroyed, promise you.”

“Hub-clan protect Kaaleshi?” Mezul asked.

“That’s what we do,” he replied, nodding. “When the Hub went independent, we promised to be different. I’d say this is just what we’ve been waiting for to prove ourselves.”

No matter how much she comprehended, she could gleam his conviction well enough, and she seemed to perk up. No wonder they had been so hesitant around them initially – humans were the enemy in their eyes – but he was glad to be the one to save face.

“Human Lambert brave,” Mezul said. “Yoo-ee-see fight, Lambert fight. Lambert pilot, Lambert know the ins and outs of my ship.” She examined him with those golden eyes, the human feeling weird as she appraised him before meeting his gaze. “Lambert, brave.”

Lambert didn’t feel like it, but he liked the praise regardless. “Thanks, Mezul, appreciate the sentiment.”

“Lambert friend,” she continued, her blue feathers sparkling under the orange lights of the hangar. Her headdress was standing tall again, the alien looking around warily as if afraid of being overheard. “Mezul like Lambert friend.”

“Well, Lambert like Mezul friend too,” he laughed.

8

Lambert checked the seals on his wrists as he worked through his flightsuit’s integrity, turning to glance behind him at the co-pilot chair. Normally that seat remained stowed in the wall recess, but now it was unfolded, Mezul occupying it, her large frame just barely able to squeeze into it, the avian chittering in annoyance as the safety belt compressed her flared hips.

An hour earlier, Shaliyya had returned to the hangar with a guard in tow. After a bit of help from Mezul to translate, her speech much better than any other Balokarid, the Kith told Lambert that they were close to their destination. At last, they were about to regroup with their fellow humans.

His stomach swelling with apprehension, he had woken up a napping Carl, and told him to suit up. As he did the same, he asked the machine if they had enough fuel for a quick ten-minute flight.

“As long as we keep to minimum thrust, of course,” Alice confirmed. “What are your intentions?”

“I don’t want to risk the Gallipoli firing on the Balokarid ships. We’ll fly in front of the aliens first, explain the situation.”

“Good plan,” Alice replied. “Should we take a few of them on board with us? Their ships are too big to dock with our own.”

Lambert nodded even though the machine had no physical presence, turning to Mezul to translate. “Alright Mezul, we’re going to meet up with Captain Anders. He’s our… our Kith, you could say.”

At the word Kith, Shaliyya stepped forward. “Kith to Kith, yes yes.”

It seemed she understood his intent, and wanted to meet his leader. “Great, we’ve got a few spare seats around, one here in the cockpit, a couple in the rec room and the medbay.”

The aliens huddled together, and after a few minutes of deliberation, it was decided that Mezul, Shaliyya, Ruvaara, and the unnamed guard would stay aboard the corvette. They had just enough room to accommodate the large aliens, though their seats were just too small for them to stay secure without the extra belts Carl had hastily installed.

He checked in with his companion over the ship line. “All ready back there, Carl? How’re the guests?”

“Had to make a few modifications to strap em’ in. Won’t be winnin’ any health and safety points, but we’re ready.”

“Would you like to know the chances of potential injury to our alien companions?” Alice asked him, expecting he wanted more specifics.

“Rather not please,” Lambert replied. “Just tell me if we’re ready.”

“All systems nominal. Ready when you are, sir.”

He lifted his helmet over his face, clicking it to the neck of his suit, wincing as the internal oxygen sealed up with a loud burst of air. He glanced over his shoulder, Mezul sitting back and to the right of him, all the cockpit devices looking comically small compared to her large body.

“All good?” he asked, giving her a thumbs up.

She returned it, twisting her own helmet on and hiding her features away behind her angular faceplate. She looked like a cybernetic vulture with that thing on, the silver snout shining as her black eye sockets peered back at him.

He flicked on the engines, engaging the thrusters as he gripped the twin joysticks, the cockpit vibrating around him as the ship came to life. As if on cue, the massive hangar doors began to split down the middle, the gap between them slowly widening. Mezul was probably on her own channel, signalling the crew to open the hangar.

The dial the corvette rested upon suddenly began to turn, a moment of panic coming and going as the view through the glass panned. Like when they’d first entered, the hangar was packed with Balokarids, eager to see his ship in action maybe?

They were observant enough to stay clear of the backblast, the space behind the corvette cleared as the engines whirred to life, blue jets of flame igniting as the craft slowly rose from the deck. The opposite branch of the alien carrier came into his view, the rectangle of alien polymer flanked by the soft hues of the nebula, distant glittering stars framing the vessel.

He eased the joysticks forward, feeling Mezul’s eyes on his back, the alien interested in seeing another ghosha in action. He certainly didn’t want to disappoint, the man hitting the button for the gears with a thumb, the struts easing back into their housings.

The corvette glided through the hangar threshold, Lambert tilting the craft down and sideways. To their audience it would have looked like they were flying out on their side, nose to the floor. Once they were clear of the hangar, and his canopy was filled with the endless void, he hit the thrusters, gaining speed as he got clear of the large vessel.

He added a little spin just for flare, flying underneath the belly of the carrier, glancing up at its smooth surface as they passed. There was just so much metal stretching on into the distance, the occasional panel interrupting the smooth surface. The corvette flew into the clear, Lambert spinning round so that they were facing backwards. Even several kilometres out, the carriers were still an impressive sight, rivalling that of even the biggest human cargo ships.

He saw the carrier that had been damaged from before. It was lagging noticeably behind the other two, thick smoke trails wisping from the flank of the left side branch. They seemed to have not been able to repair the hull while on the move, and he doubted they’d want to stop with the UEC on their tail.

Mezul hadn’t made any comment, so he supposed it was still space-worthy, the man flipping the corvette on its axis, reorienting so that he faced the rendezvous point. His instruments were a mess with all the interference, but they had mapped this way before their lucky encounter with Mezul’s ship, so it should be a straight shot from here.

He noted on his tactical view, the large symbols indicating the three alien carriers had turned from white to green, their previous unidentified tags removed. They formed up behind his corvette in a column formation, matching his speed as he engaged the main thrusters. They were well aware to let him take the lead on this one, putting a remarkable amount of trust in him now that their Kith was on his ship.

After maybe half an hour of flying, a new IFF tag appeared on his map, floating between two gas clouds ahead of them, giving off a subtle ping and creating tiny circles on his tactical view. Lambert remembered placing the marker down when they’d first set off on their scouting mission. Who would have thought he’d have returned with an alien convoy in tow?

As they closed in, green dots popped up around the marker. There were several smaller ship tags, along with a single larger one, the tag above it labelling the ship as the Gallipoli. The smaller tags were the other scouts, having returned on schedule, unlike him who was a little less than a day late.

“Sir,” Alice began, a hint of worry in its perfect voice making Lambert strangely anxious. “I’m detecting power fluctuations in the Gallipoli weapon systems.”

“I think they’re lockin’ us!” Carl said through the channel.

Mezul exclaimed something in her foreign tongue, Lambert glancing back at her. She did not have to translate into English, he knew what she was trying to say. The alien ships were likely receiving warning locks as well.

He clicked the bead on the chin of his helmet, cursing when he missed the first time. He had to be quick or his own people would blow them all out of the void.

“Gallipoli, come in! Blue on blue! This is Corvette one-five, blue on blue. Do not fire, we’re on the same side here!”

He waited with bated breath, ready to try evasive manoeuvres should his message get through too late. The local channel hissed with static, Lambert just able to make out the dark shapes of ships through the canopy.

The tension left him in a sigh as a voice crackled through his helmet. It was a woman, her Australian accent just thick enough to be obvious. “Corvette one-five, this is Gallipoli control, you have three unidentified contacts on your six.”

“I read you control, they’re friendlies. Do not fire on them,” he added again. “They’re not UEC, they’re… something else, XT’s.” In Confederate military doctrine, XT was code for extra-terrestrials. “They’re with me.”

“Hold position, one-five.”

He flipped the ship and countered his thrust, relieved when the carriers did the same, slowly coming to a halt. He could almost feel the targeting computers of the human ships tracking the aliens. One could only imagine how many Balokarid Sala’ci could pour out of those carriers if they decided to launch missiles. He hadn’t thought things would get this hairy so quickly.

The silence was becoming too much, and right as he was about to hail the Gallipoli again, a new voice crackled into his helmet. It had a tinny effect, garbled with static, but he recognised the voice. Although his tone was gentle, there was an iron will behind it, the kind only veterans attain after several years of service.

“Lieutenant, this is Captain Anders, I’d appreciate it if you told me why the hell you’re leading three unidentified craft towards my ship.”

Never one to mince words, Lambert thought, unconsciously straightening up in attention as he responded to the call. “Captain, I… we found them out on our scouting route. They’re not UEC, they’re not even human, or Suvelian for that matter, but something else, another race. I brought them here because they were under attack.”

“By who?”

“You might want to pull up a chair, sir. A lot’s happened. I have a few of their number, including their own Captain, on board with me. If you’ll let us board, you can see them for yourself, and I’ll explain everything.”

There was a pause, likely the Captain was consulting his aids for advice. The air was thick with tension, Lambert waiting for a response, Anders’ voice crackling through the channel after a few minutes. “Approach at low speed, one-five, and standby for docking.”

“Will do,” Lambert replied, sighing in relief. He gave Mezul a reassuring thumbs-up, then eased the ship forward. The alien carriers floated along after him, and before long before the Hub fleet came into view.

Several smaller craft hung in a sphere around a much larger vessel, screening it just like the Balokarid shields did. The Gallipoli was a frigate-class ship, able to act as a flagship for smaller attack groups, with docking ports on its flanks to allow emergency docking for damaged ships. Its underbelly was bristling with artillery guns, the sloped hull painted black to match the darkness of space. Radio prongs and sensory dishes jutted out from all sides of the ship, its flanks layered with missile blisters, the mounted turrets along the spine slowly swivelling to track the alien carriers. Every inch of the hull was covered in either armour or weapons, the crafts hull flaring towards the rear of the ship where the bridge was located.

Mezul leaned over his shoulder, putting a hand on the back of Lambert’s chair, marvelling at the powerhouse of a ship they were approaching. What did she make of it, he wondered? Human ships certainly had less windows than her carriers did, and were much smaller to boot.

The two fleets slowly closed in on each other, until the tactical map was almost full of ship tags. Lambert had never seen so many ships in one place, and they were all close enough to see each other, which was an unusual occurrence given the vastness of space. For a moment it seemed the two races were squaring off against each other.

“One-five, prepare to dock with us,” Anders said. “airlock four is opening up.”

Lambert eased the corvette over, flying adjacent to the angled hull of the frigate. They came to a break in the uneven surface of the ship, a flat, square cavity sliding open to reveal a dim interior.

The bay was barren except for a pair of landing rails sitting flush against one of the walls, Lambert angling so the corvette’s belly lined up with them. The corvette was equipped with magnetic bands, and they locked onto the rails as Lambert flew into position, the ship lurching as they were pulled and locked with the frigate.

The airlock door snapped shut behind them, shrouding the ship in darkness for a second before the fluorescents clicked on, illuminating the rustic housing of the dock. Another large hatchway sat in front of the corvette’s nose, where the rails abruptly ended in front of it. The docked ship would be wheeled into a maintenance bay that way, but there was a walkway off to the left that ran along the side of the airlock that would lead into the ship proper.

He heard Mezul slipping her harness off, Lambert quickly holding up a hand to stop her. The alien watched him curiously, before they both jolted in their seats as if they’d just hit a speed bump. Lambert unbuckled himself, and stood up without turning on his boots, the alien no doubt going wide-eyed at that.

“Gravity drives,” Lambert explained. “Pretty much every frigate-class ship and higher has them.”

Mezul clicked off her belts, hesitating as she rose out of her chair, almost expecting that she would float away. He grinned as she stamped her foot on the deck, like she was testing the gravity. “Alice, send all the data we’ve got to control.”

“At once, sir.”

Out in the main corridor, Lambert found Carl, Ruvaara, Shaliyya and the guard waiting for them, Lambert taking the lead as they followed him down to the cargo bay, the ramp already extended. The bay was very barebones, designed to accommodate many ships and then use the rails to lead them to their designated maintenance zones for repairs and rearming.

A catwalk led off to the right, ringing the bay and ending at a door at the far side, not wide enough for the Balokarids to walk side-by-side. The group of humans and aliens walked down it single file, the latter turning their beaks in every direction as they surveyed the strange environment.

The handrails barely reached Mezul’s hips, but he wasn’t worried about the aliens toppling over, though they still seemed amazed that they could walk normally while on a spaceship.

The door on the far end opened up automatically, Lambert taking one last glance at his ship before leading the procession through. There was a group of humans waiting on the other side. One of them was dressed in officers’ fatigues, his blue cap pulled over a shaved head. The insignia pinned to his breast made it obvious that this was Captain Anders.

He was flanked by two guards, submachine guns gripped in their hands that came off as distinctly ready. Lambert met the visor of one of them, their black combat armour covering them from head-to-toe in kevlar and ceramics. There was also a woman to one side, along with another man Lambert didn’t recognise. Officers, judging by their uniforms.

Carl and Lambert snapped to attention, Anders waving a hand clad in a white glove for them to be at ease. A wave of alarm flickered over the older man’s features as he examined their alien escort. “Lieutenant’s Hall, Ramirez. These are the… what are they called?”

“Balokarids, sir,” Lambert replied. “we found them fighting the UEC out on our patrol route.”

Anders approached the one called Ruvaara, the alien clicking its beak at him as he looked her over. “UEC you say? You’re sure of this?”

“It’s all recorded, our machine’s sending it through to control right now.”

“You’ve really thrown a spanner in the works here, Lieutenant,” Anders replied. “Which one is the leader?”

“That one, with the red feathers. They call her their Kith, which I think means leader.”

The Captain stepped in front of Shaliyya, the alien cocking its head down at him. Anders was a tall man, but even he looked like a dwarf compared to the eight-foot alien.

“Hello Kith, I am Captain Anders of the Gallipoli, welcome aboard.”

Shaliyya bowed her head, her headdress roiling like the surface of an ocean. Anders waited for her to look up, before extending his hand out. Shaliyya didn’t have to be told what to do, the alien placing its larger hand over his.

“Cap-tane,” the alien said. “I am Kith Shaliyya, welcome aboard.”

To say hearing such an odd combination of accents and voices surprised Anders, let alone the broken English, would be an understatement, the Captain glancing at Lambert with his brow raised.

“I think I’ll take you up on that chair,” Anders said. “Tell me everything.”

9

Lambert and Carl were thoroughly debriefed by the Captain and his aids, recounting their tale of how they followed Mezul’s ship to the brawl several times over. Alice provided the recordings, and these were gone over extensively by the officers.

“Those are Confederate markings, no doubt about it,” Anders remarked, watching the recording of the skirmish between the Balokarids and the UEC. “And you eliminated three ships as well? Good work.”

“The presence of an attack group has serious implications,” one of the aids noted. They were on the bridge of the Gallipoli, the officers standing on one side of the command table, Lambert, Carl, and the aliens on the other. Keyboards clicked away from all sides, but it was muted, the novelty of having aliens on board not lost on the bridge staff, many heads turned in their direction to stare.

“A scout group couldn’t sustain themselves without a flagship,” the aid continued, adjusting his collar. “Not this far out from UEC lines.”

“They’re bound to be on the lookout, with their whole patrol wiped out,” Anders said, scratching his beard. “I’m glad you got these Balokarids moving when you did, Lieutenant. They wouldn’t have lasted long if a capital ship found them.”

“Should we return to the Hub?” another of the officers suggested, the woman glancing at Shaliyya’s armed guard. “This is a huge development. Senator Estera would want to hear of this as soon as possible.”

“We haven’t accomplished our mission,” Anders replied, shaking his head. “And we sure as hell can’t leave a UEC presence uncontested. This nebula is the Hub’s backyard, losing it isn’t an option.”

“Permission to speak, sir?” Lambert interrupted, the eyes of his superiors turning on him. Anders waved for him to proceed. “Did the other patrols find anything? The missing ship, or any other aliens?”

Anders shook his head. “Nothing so far. Your route was the only one with any noteworthy discovery.” The Captain blinked as Shaliyya chittered something to her guard in her native tongue. “I’m more concerned with our new friends at this time, however. Is this their whole population? Why are they fighting the UEC, and not us? We must establish some way of communicating with them before we form a plan of action.”

“We’ve been trying our best,” Lambert said. “but we haven’t gotten far aside from a few basic words.”

“Perhaps Doctor Cairns can help,” Anders mused. “She’s been itching to get a look at these aliens ever since hearing the news, and she’s our most qualified medical staff. She’ll want to examine them.”

“The machine on my ship has a few basic anatomy notes recorded,” Lambert said. “we can send them to her.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate the help. I want you two to help Cairns get us talking with these aliens fluently without delay. Since you’ve got more experience with these… Balokarids than anyone else, you’re best suited to the task.”

“We’ll keep them out of trouble sir,” Carl said.

“Lead them down to the medical bay then, I’ll send word that you’re coming. Wyatt,” Anders said, turning to one of the aids. “what do you make of their laser weaponry?”

Lambert took that as a sign they were dismissed, the Balokarids following the pair out from the bridge, some of the Captain’s guard escorting them out.

10

“This is simply fascinating!” Doctor Cairns said.

The woman was sitting across from Mezul, the alien sagging into the plush couch normally reserved for therapy patients. The Doctor had poured over the data Alice had sent her way during their stay on the alien carrier, and was adding her personal psyche tests to the list. Mezul didn’t look like she minded fulfilling her requests, solving memory and math puzzles the Doctor wanted to quiz the alien over.

“I’ve always wanted to do this kind of research,” the woman continued. “Here I am on a warship surrounded by soldiers, and I’m doing math with another sentient being not from Earth.”

Carl had taken the other aliens off to explore the rest of the medical bay, leaving just Mezul with the Doctor, his friend promising he wouldn’t sneak them to the ship’s bar.

“Alice has recorded some very interesting observations.” The Doctor pulled up her tablet, Lambert peeking over to see Mezul’s body plan on the screen. “She’s been taking notes ever since you boarded their ship. They’ve got habits, personalities, little hints as to what their society is like.”

“Machines are always watching,” Lambert grumbled. “Can you believe they actually installed one on my ship?”

“I heard they moved a personality onto an unlucky corvette,” Cairns said. “Shortage on pilots, isn’t that right? It has only helped you so far, is there something wrong with her?”

“Its kind was wiped out for a reason,” Lambert said. “So far all it’s done is watch and record.”

“A detail that has and will help us document this great time extensively,” Cairns replied. “Regardless of artificial intelligence, it seems as though we’re at the limits of our physical examinations of the Balokarids. Avian, dry feathers flexible enough to keep the body warm, wing span for potential flight. Unless Mezul wants to strip, speculation is about all we can do.”

“I don’t think she’d like getting nude in front of aliens,” Lambert said, glancing up at his strange companion.

“Tell me again how you found out it was a she?”

“We compared our body plans,” he explained.

“I hope you like being the base reference for all humanity, Lieutenant,” Cairns said. “Can you ask her if she would take her suit off? She seems much friendlier to you than anyone else.”

“I’ll give it a go. Been interested myself about what they look like underneath” He called Mezul’s name to get her attention, feeling butterflies in his stomach for some reason as he asked his question. “Mezul, would you mind taking off that suit?” He mimed unclipping his own flightsuit, which he was still wearing.

The alien shook its head. “No take off mind.” It pointed at its helmet, dangling from its belt.

“Sorry doc, looks like it’s a no.”

“Pity, though I can’t blame her for hesitating. At least she can communicate with us on a basic level, though it may take some time to develop completely.”

“Is there a faster way?” Lambert asked. “I can’t play translator all the time, not with the UEC out there. If they attack we need to be able to tell the Balokarids what’s happening, coordinate.”

“If we were on the Hub, and I had all my lab equipment, assistants… perhaps we would have more options, but as it stands there isn’t much more we can do than be patient. Building a dialogue takes time.”

“What about our translators?” Lambert asked, pointing at his neck. “people imprint other languages in their heads all the time, can’t we do that to Mezul?”

“You’re talking about implanting a foreign language into an alien brain,” Cairns replied, though she did scratch at her long hair thoughtfully. “Do you even know how that works? A scan is taken from the brain of someone fluent in a language, creates a synaptic map, and forcefully imprints the required patterns onto the subject so the skill is passed on. We would be rebuilding part of Mezul’s brain, do you have any idea what kind of ramifications that could have for us? People would call us exploitative, not to mention what these Balokarids would think of us being so invasive.”

“We should be more worried about the physical dangers rather than the verbal ones, doc,” Lambert said. “The UEC will find us if we don’t start moving, and to do that we need to communicate with eachother.”

“So the Captain says,” she sighed. “Look, for an implant to actually work, Mezul would need a strong grasp of English, she needs be compatible with our technology on a genetic level, and her brain must follow the same neural signals as ours do. That last one is the most improbable – we would need to completely overhaul our imprinting technology, and aside from me there are only three other people on this ship with experience in this sort of work. We’re a warship, not a science vessel.”

“Say if that was all good, could you install one in her?” he asked.

“The surgery isn’t the problem, that’s all done by machine. The problem then is making sure the implant can find the right electrical currents that connect the vocal cords and the brain. If she has a sensorimotor cortex like we do, then perhaps it could work, but we’re giving a delicate surgery a lot of leeway. The next problem would be getting her to agree to undergo the whole procedure.”

“She’s not as reluctant as you’d think,” Lambert said, nodding at Mezul. “Do you want a translator, Mezul?”

“Translator? Mezul speak Lambert yes!” she replied.

“Lieutenant, this is about more than just consent. Imagine the implications if something goes wrong, if the implant scrambles up her electrical currents, or worse. Our foremost action after first encounter shouldn’t be about conducting surgery onto another sentient creature.”

“I don’t see much of a choice, doc,” Lambert said. “A hundred things could have gone wrong when I chose to follow the aliens onto their carrier, but look where I am. Taking chances is what the Hub does best.”

“Risks seem to be the foundation of our new society…” Cairns mused. “I’ll explore all options as the Captain ordered, but don’t get your hopes up, Lieutenant, surgery will be my last resort. If Mezul’s people have scientists of their own, perhaps they’d be willing to help me come up with alternative solutions. Of course, that would mean asking the Captain for permission to allow more aliens on board.”

“I think he’ll be a lot more lenient than you might think, doc,” Lambert said. “I’ll give him a call.”

11

Lambert was glad to be back aboard a human ship, though that wasn’t to say he didn’t appreciate touring the alien carrier. He was constantly asked what he’d seen out there by the crew, and he was all too eager to recount his tale, enrapturing the entire mess hall with the help of Carl to add some extra flare.

Just like the Balokarids had been curious with the two men, the Gallipoli’s crew was all too eager to engage with the aliens, their capacity to mimic anything a comical point nearly everyone took advantage of after their initial wariness wore off, the medbay becoming an attraction since the aliens were confined there.

Lambert spent most of his spare time explaining to Mezul the details of the surgery, Doctor Cairns’ earlier words tempering his excitement. It was a big decision the Captain wasn’t taking lightly, warships sent on long voyages like this one, where communications with superiors were either impossible, or took too long to send and receive orders to be practical, had to act independently, and the blame would fall squarely on the Gallipoli’s crew if a member of an alien race died on their ship.

The Gallipoli already had a stark reputation before its turnover, and Lambert certainly didn’t want Mezul’s death on his conscience. Killing humans was one thing, he’d been indifferent to killing for a long time, but something about an alien was different, unnatural. He wondered how the UEC felt about attacking the Balokarids. Lambert knew they were warmongering scum, but what reason did they have to fight an alien race? The Balokarids had to have the answer.

Lambert spent most of the next couple days with Doctor Cairns and Mezul in the medical bay, Carl joining him now and then between his hours of sleep. The bay had been the gathering place for the few other scientists and medical staff who could fill the role of linguists best (Lambert’s presence a necessity because of his sheer exposure to the Balokarids), but they got a helping hand later on by the aliens themselves, when a whole team of them turned up to the bay, dressed in white, form-fitting suits that covered them from toes to neck in synthetic threads. On the sleeves of their suits was a strange symbol Lambert had no basis to describe. Did that signify what roles they served in their culture, perhaps?

There were seven of them in total, and according to Mezul when he asked, these were: “Translator scientists.” She must have called for them when he wasn’t looking, or maybe Shaliyya had. Lambert guessed Carin’s team wouldn’t get far on developing communications unless both sides put some effort in.

Lambert was sidelined out of most of the technicalities, but so was Mezul, and Cairns encouraged him to immerse her into English to see if he could make any progress on his own front. It was interesting to see the Doctor’s team engage with the alien scientists, it was a little like watching a documentary about parrots, the way the conversations went back and forth, until slowly it almost looked like the team of scientists were working as one cohesive unit.

Lambert noticed that all the aliens had helmets like Mezul, secured to their hips and never once setting them down. Perhaps they were afraid of decompression, maybe that was a common occurrence on their ships. Their feathers were so dynamic and colourful, from white to black, green and even a purple one, no two alike as their shimmering feather tips sparkled in the room’s light.

“We’ve been able to develop our dialogue with the Balokarids considerably,” Cairns said when Lambert asked how she was going a day later. “By mutually reciprocating our words back to each other and going from there, our efforts have snowballed to a level where we can convey both the context and meaning of almost three hundred words. Unfortunately this is not nearly enough to satisfy the level of communication necessary for tactical movements and coordination between our fleets. We have to resort to more unconventional methods.”

“Like what?”

“The Captain shares your sentiment in installing a translator implant, as do the Balokarid. I’ve gone over Mezul’s brain patterns with the help of Caleesi, that’s their head scientist, and believe with some adjustments to our translator template, we can install such a device inside her. It should act as an accelerant in laymen’s terms, but this seems the only path left open to us.”

“So you’ve changed your mind about the whole implant thing?”

The Doctor sighed. “It seems I am alone in my reservations. The Balokarids, nor even Mezul seem the slightest bit concerned – and it is as you said, we are in a warzone and time is of the essence.”

Lambert could hardly believe it, Mezul was about to become fluent. They weren’t just going to have vague, mostly one-sided conversations anymore. After hearing the news, Mezul deliberated with Shaliyya, the two perhaps arguing over who should undergo the procedure first, and then Mezul nodded for Cairns to lead the way – she’d be the first guinea pig.

It was many hours later when everything was ready, the medical personnel pouring over images of an implant that looked strange to Lambert. Cybernetic technology usually looked rigid, visually analogous to computer motherboards shrunken down so they could fit in the palm of your hand, but this one looked like a metal tumour, with snaking wires branching out of a bulbous mass that was neither symmetrical nor orderly.

“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” the Doctor said, adjusting one of the several arms sprouting out of the operating table. To Lambert it looked like a torturing device, the medical bed sitting beneath needles and saws sticking out of the robotic arms in the ceiling, the sight making his skin crawl. It was state of the art medical equipment, but that didn’t mean it looked nice. “We are confident we know where to place the translator implant. Hopefully Mezul is ready.”

“If there’s anyone on this ship who’ll have the best chance for success, it’s you Doctor,” Captain Anders said. He had gone over the details with the Doctor in person, and it seemed he’d made up his mind in going through with the procedure.

“Lieutenant?” Cairns asked. “If you wouldn’t mind ushering her over…”

Shaliyya had a hand on Mezul’s shoulder, giving her a few last reassuring words in her native tongue, the alien scientists standing off to one side. Lambert supposed he should say something, coming up behind her and tapping her on the arm. “Doctor’s waiting Mezul,” he said. “You sure you want to go through with this? Time’s not on our side, but if you’re not sure…”

She didn’t answer, looking over at the operating table and then back to him, giving him a smile she’d picked up from her time spent with all the humans. “You’ll be in good hands,” Lambert added. “and I’ll be right outside.”

Whether she understood him or not didn’t matter, she heard the reassurance in his tone, her headdress rolling as she leaned down to squeeze his shoulder. The gesture was oddly intimate, especially since she kept her blazing gold eyes fixed on his…

She made her way over to the table, standing a little taller than before as she passed the Doctor, her long legs clicking against the tiles.

Everyone except the Doctor stayed outside in the foyer. There was no theatre from which to watch, and Lambert wasn’t sure he wanted to see Mezul’s head open up. He took a seat in one of the waiting area chairs, rubbing his temple as he leaned back.

“The Doctor said the procedure will take several hours,” Captain Anders noted. “You should get some rest, Lieutenant.”

“I’d rather wait here sir,” Lambert replied, the Captain quick to note his hesitation.

“You said so yourself, Mezul is in good hands. Catch your forty winks before I return, that’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

With the mess of a situation right now, Lambert wasn’t surprised the Captain didn’t stick around. Every alien hung around to wait it out with him, trying their best to get comfortable in the undersized chairs, some resorting to just sitting on the floor.

Lambert wasn’t the sort to worry over something beyond his control, he did that all the time when he piloted a ship through the void of space where any errant micrometeor could kill you, but that wasn’t to say he was completely cool with the situation. Either Mezul would walk out of the medical bay, or she wouldn’t, and all he could do was hope his friend would be alright.

12

Lambert was drawn out of his dreams by a scuffle, the man rubbing his itchy eyes as he sat up. The theatre door slowly opened as he sat up, Doctor Cairns coming through with her notepad under one arm.

“How is she?” Lambert asked groggily. He wasn’t sure how long he was out. “Did it work?”

“She’s fine, and I’m not sure,” Cairns answered. “She’s a little woozy, she’ll need a minute to recover.”

He was about to rush in and check on her, but he followed the Doctor’s orders, waiting with bated breath until at last the operating door opened again, Mezul walking out on visibly shaking legs. She leaned against one side of the frame, her golden eyes blinking as she took in her surroundings. It looked like she’d just gone on a bender and didn’t know where she was.

“Mezul?” he asked, his voice attracting her attention, her eyes falling on his. “Are you alright?”

“I’m… I am fine,” she replied, rubbing at her face with a palm. “My… head feels like I’ve taken one too many fentula hits, though…”

Unlike before, her voice was not stilted, the words not forced, her tone consistent through each syllable. It took the Balokarid a moment to notice this, the alien’s face contorting in a few different states of surprise. “Did I just… did I just speak human?”

“It worked!” Doctor Cairns sighed. “I feared the worst, but it worked.”

“I can understand you?” Mezul asked. “I can understand you! Lambert? Does it work both ways?”

“Sounds like it,” he said, grinning up at her. “How’s the implant feel?”

“Itchy,” she replied, scratching at her neck. He could see a pink scar running between the tufts of her blue-black feathers there, about as long as his finger.

“Do not irritate the skin, please,” the Doctor chided. “The feeling should pass within one to two days.”

Shaliyya stepped around the humans, talking in her native tongue as she addressed Mezul. “It’s fine, Kith,” Mezul replied in English, frowning as she heard herself. She switched back to her own language, the humans waiting until they were finished.

“My Kith wishes to go next,” Mezul explained. “She wishes to discuss integration with your Captain.”

“Hold on a moment,” Cairns replied, raising a hand. “We must first make sure there are no harmful side effects. A few cognitive tests should suffice for now…”

“Very well, test away,” Mezul replied. It seemed the surgery hadn’t done anything outwardly harmful, although she seemed a little slower than usual when she had to explain to Shaliyya what exactly the humans were doing with her.

“My legs feel a little numb,” Mezul explained when Cairns asked her if she felt any different. “My people do not spend so much time off their feet,” she added. “We must keep our legs routinely working to stay healthy.”

Lambert wasn’t surprised, they were so thick around the thighs and waist, narrowing into slimmer shins. He’d thought the broadness was because of their suits, but they were packed with muscle down there.

“If you feel like you’re able, then a walk should be fine,” Cairns said. “Lieutenant, if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her? Bring her back if she experiences any dizziness, fatigue.”

“Aye aye, ma’am.” He led Mezul out of the medical bay and into the hall outside, picking a random direction and moving off, glancing back at his alien companion who walked after him.

“Well then,” he started. “your legs, huh? They’re not in pain, are they?”

“Oh no, they’re fine. I just wanted to get out of there. And finally have a proper conversation with you, Lambert.”

“Ah,” he chuckled. “Well, it’ll be good to test out your translator. Anything in particular you want to talk about?”

“I’m not sure where to start,” she chuckled, shortening her long strides so he could keep pace. “Why did that Doctor call you, ‘Leftent?’”

“Lieutenant,” he corrected. “And that’s my rank. It’s around the middle in terms of experience, to put it in context.”

“You’ve been fighting for a long time, then?” she noted.

“Three years, including this one.”

“Is that a long time?”

He shrugged, as if to say I guess so. Strange, Mezul understood the words now, but not their meaning. “What about you Mezul? What’s your rank?”

“I do not have one,” she explained. “I am referred to as pilot, nothing more.”

“Balokarids don’t have an officer system? What about Shaliyya? You called her Kith.”

“She is the leader of our clan, so that is her honorific,” Mezul explained. “She can distribute more ‘ranks’ to others if she deems necessary, but I do not own such a rank.”

“So you all follow her orders?”

“She is responsible for all decisions concerning our clan, though it is unusual to have less than three Kith presiding over our people. It is a heavy burden, but Shaliyya has not led us astray.”

“Suppose having just one notable rank makes things a bit simpler,” Lambert noted. “we’ve got dozens of different titles and ranks.”

“Dozens?” Mezul asked, as if this was shocking to her. “How does this not get confusing?”

“It was when I first enlisted,” he chuckled. “You see this bar on my sleeve? That’s a Lieutenant’s badge. You just have to memorise what each symbol means. If you get them wrong, you get yelled at. Simple as that.”

“Our Kith have something similar,” Mezul said, leaning down and touching his patch with a claw. “The Kith wear the insignia of our clan’s house symbol on their armour – they are the only ones allowed.”

“The red paint on Shaliyya’s suit?” he asked, the alien nodding. It would certainly make a Kith stand out in a crowd. They rounded a corner, then another, the artificial walls probably looking all the same to Mezul.

“How’s the translator feel?” he asked, stepping to one side as a pair of mechanics walked past. They gave Lambert a look, oblivious to Mezul’s newfound language skills. “As in, how’s it feel speaking human?”

She paused to consider. “Like my words are not my own,” she explained. “I am pulling them up from a memory I have not experienced. Your responses tell me I am making sense to you, but my mind isn’t quite convinced why. Does that make sense?”

“At least you didn’t turn into a vegetable,” he said.

“Vegetable?” Mezul asked, testing the word.

“You don’t know what that is?”

“It is in my vocabulary. At least, the vocabulary of the one I now have, but how would I turn into a food?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I was just worried something would go wrong, you’d be paralysed or… or worse.”

“Ruvaara did say you were waiting back there the whole time I was undergoing the procedure,” Mezul remarked, flashing him a coy smile. “Your concern for me is endearing, but I feel quite fine, if a little drowsy.”

Her headdress roiled in that strange way again, waving like stalks of hay in a strong breeze. She must use it to convey her emotions, but what was its meaning? He didn’t want to sound rude so he didn’t ask.

“We should be heading back,” he said. “Cairns will have me reported if we go wondering around for too long.”

“I do wish to see more of your ship,” Mezul said, following him as Lambert turned them around. “It is so spacious compared to our own, yet on the outside it’s half the size of our carriers.”

“Soon as we get the all clear from the Doctor, we’ll go explore. Deal?”

“Deal.” She grinned.

13

“Body functions appear nominal,” Doctor Cairns noted. “And you’re sure you feel no adverse effects? Dizziness, nausea?”

“I feel as normal as a Cashi in the sand,” Mezul said, the humans looking at her quizzically. “Sorry. It’s an animal from my homeworld. Means I’m fine.”

“Can we proceed with Shaliyya’s operation?” Captain Anders asked. He’d returned as soon as Cairns informed him of Mezul’s fluent English, and the two had spoken at length about the Kith going next.

“Captain, I wish I could share your enthusiasm,” Cairns began. “but what if there are long-term effects we are not yet aware of? Machine and alien flesh could have disastrous results we won’t be aware of until years from now. If we broaden our tests to more than one individual, we’d be putting another life at risk.”

“I understand your hesitance Doctor, but Mezul tells me Shaliyya is their leader, their Kith. As Captain it is my duty to speak with her.”

“Perhaps Mezul could play the intermediary?” Cairns suggested. “Translate for the one called Shaliyya?”

“My Kith wishes to be as direct as possible with your leader,” Mezul replied, her hands clasped over her stomach. “She is worried I may mistranslate, and would rather appeal to your Captain through her own words.”

Lambert perked up at the word appeal, wondering why simply acting as the translator was such a big deal to the aliens.

“I concur,” Anders replied. “if there’s even a chance we can avoid mistranslation, we should take it. I’d rather things didn’t end up the same way it did with us and the Suvelians.”

Doctor Cairns sighed, clearly not convinced but knowing she couldn’t persuade them. “Very well Captain, I’ll prepare the lab.”

She and the Kith moved into the surgery theatre, followed by the guard who shouldered their strange rifle as they followed. Lambert guessed they didn’t want the Kith left unguarded at any time.

“I’ll leave the Balokarids in your hands while Cairns is away, Lieutenant,” Captain Anders said. “Since you brought them here in the first place, you’re as responsible for their safety as I am.”

Lambert asked if he could show them around, and after considering the Captain nodded. “As long as you accompany them at all times, and keep them on this deck. If anything happens I’ll hold you accountable, Lieutenant.”

“Understood sir.”

“Excellent. Return them here once Shaliyya is up and about.”

Lambert nodded, the Captain turning away, the medical bay door sliding shut automatically behind him. That left just Ruvaara, Mezul and Lambert together. The scientists seemed comfortable staying with all the medical equipment, so Lambert left them alone, grinning at the two aliens.

“Well ladies, who’s hungry?”

He led them through the synthetic halls of the ship, groups of engineers and soldiers walking back and forth, giving the aliens friendly, if curious glances as they moved through the ship.

“Ship inside no,” the alien called Ruvaara said, Lambert giving her a questioning glance.

“She means your ship interiors are curiously designed,” Mezul explained, the contrast between her smooth voice and Ruvaara’s broken one a striking difference.

“How so?” Lambert asked, leading them down the left branch at an intersection.

“Everything is so… level,” Mezul replied. “Sharp turns everywhere, no difference in height at any point, everything looks the same. We would be quite lost without you guiding us.”

“Your ships were the confusing ones. All those slopes and turns, nothing was even or symmetrical, I couldn’t make much sense of anything.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t to an alien,” Mezul wondered. “Designing vehicles not built for the ground is a new and vexing problem for my people. We’ve only been spacefaring for a few dozen orbits.”

He didn’t know how long an orbit was, but he guessed as much that the Balokarids were new to space exploration, relative to humanity, that was.

There were coloured lines painted along the walls, each one labelled as to where they led and branching off the many different side passages. Lambert followed the green line, ushering the aliens to the side as a pair of guards marched past, their heavy armour clunking loudly. The aliens watched their black, combat-armoured forms stomp by, even the disciplined soldiers unable to stop themselves from gawking.

“Lambert boots no,” Ruvaara said as they got going. “Human boots no.”

“I haven’t turned my mag-boots on, no,” he said.

“Lambert stand how?” she asked. “Ruvaara stand how?”

That’s right, she was probably wondering how they were all walking around without magnetic boots on. “That’s cause our gravity drives are on. See, the inside of the ship is built kind of like a skyscraper. Do you know what that is?”

“A tall building?” Mezul wondered.

“Right. So the inside of the Gallipoli is built like that, just flipped onto its side. The reactors gently spin the whole thing round and round and create centrifugal force. You remember that big rumble when we first boarded? That was the drives turning back on. We leave them off when a ship docks so it’s easier for us to line up. We’ve got lockers full of boots and emergency straps in every room so we won’t be caught without our boots on if the drives have to switch off.”

With the help of Mezul to translate, Ruvaara got the idea, and to say the aliens were amazed would be an understatement. “How can a rotating radius create gravity?” Mezul asked. “How did you discover this?”

“Well I didn’t, someone else did hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Our own little way of creating artificial gravity, at least until someone figures out a better way.”

“Humans are so advanced,” Mezul muttered. “Your ships, so compact and efficient, your technology… your worlds must look amazing.”

They arrived at the mess hall before very long, the square-shaped interior packed with a hundred tables and an equal amount of people, easily the biggest space on the whole ship except for the repair hangar, the rumble of conversation overwhelming as they entered. The kitchen was built along one side, Lambert leading the aliens over to the counter.

“Hey Mack,” Lambert greeted, leaning on the glass display case and giving the chef a nod. “what’s the special?”

“Bacon and eggs, same old same old,” the man replied, wiping his hands on his apron. He did a double take when the Balokarids walked up on Lambert’s flanks, the gentle sizzling of meat catching their combined attention. “Oh shit, these are the aliens?” Mack asked. “I mean, obviously they are but… still. Woah.”

“That’s Mezul, and this is Ruvaara.” Lambert pointed a thumb at each one in turn. “Mack’s in charge of rationing out our meals,” he explained to them.

“It is nice to meet you, cook,” Mezul said, nodding politely.

The man hadn’t been expecting Mezul to talk, his jaw almost hitting the floor in astonishment. “I-I-It’s… nice to meet you, too. Mezul? Huh. Well, uh… what’ll it be?” He directed his question to Lambert.

Chastising himself for just realising he had no idea whether they could eat human food, Lambert turned to his alien companions. “Do Balokarids eat meat? I don’t know if our food might be dangerous to you.”

“We are omnivores,” Mezul explained. “and we have a way of telling if something is safe to consume.”

“Oh, good. I’ll, uhm, get you a sample then,” Mack said, hurrying over to one of the other cooks tending to a stove. He returned with a cut of meat, placing it on a plate and sliding it over the counter, Lambert offering it to Mezul. “It’s pork,” Lambert explained. “comes from a pink animal native to Earth. Do you have a scanner or something you can-”

After taking a curious sniff, Mezul devoured the whole thing in two bites. She snapped her beak like one would smack their lips after a tasty dish, a noticeable bulge sliding down her throat. “Tastes… funky, if that is the right word. You should try some, Ruvaara.”

“I hope your way of testing food for poisons isn’t just to eat it,” Lambert grumbled.

“We have a keen sense of smell, and your pork does not smell foul. My body will regurgitate it if I cannot digest it safely, so it’s quite safe.”

“Take your word for it…” She seemed not in the least bit worried, so Lambert trusted her judgement. “Mack, another cut for my friends and myself?”

“Don’t go throwing up on my floor, please,” the chef said under his breath, overhearing them.

Lambert had to wait around for Ruvaara and Mezul to fill up their own plates. The bigger aliens no doubt had to consume at least twice as much as a human did, but Lambert, and especially Mack, couldn’t believe their appetites when they asked for fifths, claiming one ration was not even worthy of the word snack. They had nearly a dozen pieces of meat each, along with a mountain of mashed potatoes with a healthy handful of vegetables on the side. Between them they could have fed a squad for a day.

“I’ll have to start rationing at this point,” Mack muttered, his frown turning to a smile when Mezul thanked him. Lambert led them to an empty table in the far corner. He doubted they would get much privacy before long as they were already drawing the attention of the engineers and staff on break, but at least everyone was keeping from staring for too long.

“Do humans have an animal pen on their ships?” Mezul asked, sitting down and taking a bite out of her steaks, taking two into one hand like they were pieces of bread on a sandwich.

“The meat isn’t actually meat,” Lambert explained. “keeping a farm up and running on a warship is impractical, so we freeze what meat we brought with us and combine it with the proteins grown in the hydroponics bay.”

“Grown?” Mezul looked at her food. “So this is a… plant?”

“Technically half and half,” Lambert nodded. “that’s probably why it tastes funky to you.”

“We supplement our diets on farms as well,” Mezul said. “we have herb and vegetable vats running along the bottom of our carriers, as you saw. Those roots never spoil even in the harshest of days, and can sate the most malnourished Balokarid with just a few bites.”

Judging by how Mezul and Ruvaara were wolfing down their meals, this root had to be filling indeed. “Maybe a trip back is in order,” he said.

“Did you not find our ways appealing?” Mezul asked, pausing her chewing to look at him.

“It’s not that, I just think it would be fun.”

“Oh.” She opened her mouth but then shut it, as if she was stopping herself from asking something. “Then that is good. You would have been impressed if you were to have tried some, I am certain of it.”

Lambert got the feeling he wasn’t getting the whole picture, the way Mezul’s expression seemed almost worried for a moment there. He dug into his own meal, making conversation with Mezul as he turned to other topics, asking her if she felt any pain from the surgery.

“Your Doctor Cairns is a remarkable healer,” Mezul explained. “I felt nothing after he put me to sleep, though I was a little nervous right before I passed out.” She chuckled.

“He?” Lambert asked. “Cairns is a woman.”

“She is?” Mezul blinked. “but… she’s almost as tall as you, and far thinner.”

“Are your males like that?”

“They are skinnier, with smaller, more colourful plumage on their heads.”

“More colourful? Then yours? That seems hard to imagine.”

“You just haven’t seen a male yet,” Mezul replied, the corner of her mouth curling back as she met his eyes. Like a woman batting her lashes, she blinked at him, her feathery head fluttering in an expression unknown to him. “Their colours are more vibrant. Their beaks are shorter, with a more prominent curve. And they lack wings of course.”

“Your genders are a lot more dimorphic compared to ours,” Lambert said. “We must look all about the same to you.”

“Remember how confused we were when we found out you were male?” she asked. “Compared to the Doctor, you are bigger, more muscular, and you fly ships, which are all female traits in my culture.”

“So I look like a lady to you?” he asked, grinning.

“Well, yes, but no. I suppose it just gives you a certain… exotic quality,” she said, blinking down at him. Lambert wasn’t sure her smile was one of simple intrigue, or something more.

“I’ve got to ask,” Lambert began, feeling distinctly flustered the more she stared at him, so he switched topics. “Been meaning to know since the start. Can you actually fly?”

“You followed us back to my clan’s fleet, you know I can.”

“No I mean with your wings,” he said, nodding at her arms. “What do you use them for?”

“Checking out my sheathes, are you?” Mezul asked, grinning as if making a joke. “My wings are for more than just drawing the eyes of others, they do have practical uses, the females in our prehistory would scale the tall peaks of our homeworld in search of prey, while the males tended the nests.”

“Your ancient gender roles are flipped from ours,” Lambert noted. “So, was that a yes to flying question?”

“The uses are a little scaled back in modern times, but when vehicles are impractical, a female would be called upon to scout a position from above and afar.”

“That’s amazing,” he said. “How long can you fly for?”

“It varies from individual and if the winds are in our favour, but personally my record flight time is five hours. I crossed the homeworld sea during one of our marathons a few orbits ago.”

He didn’t know if five hours was good by Balokarid standards, but imagining someone as large as her staying airborne for that long was impressive to say the least. “You’ve only got one sea on your home planet?” he asked, noticing the lack of a plural.

“It’s the only oasis on Balokar,” Mezul confirmed. “A few clan cities settle on its borders, but most prefer the sands and peaks. Is this unusual for humans?”

“We’ve got plenty of water on Earth,” Lambert said. “More than half of the globe is covered in oceans, and most cities are settled on the coasts.”

“Over half a planet covered in water?” Mezul replied, staring in disbelief. “Such an amount is… unimaginable. It would be a sight to see, wouldn’t it Ruv’?”

The other alien nodded her agreement after Mezul translated, Lambert’s smile faltering as he had to tell them the truth. “Hate to be the joy killer, but Earth is under the UEC’s grip, and I don’t think any of us will be seeing her for a while yet.”

“You have not seen your homeworld for some time, then?” Mezul asked.

“I was born on the Hub, the Outer Reaches are my homeworld. It’s… weird, fighting a world that’s my species’ home planet, I just hope all the people there understand what we’ve gone through to get to this state.”

“I’ve not seen my homeworld in many orbits either,” Mezul said. “but it must be difficult not visiting it entirely. I’m sure your cause is just, and those outside the UEC clan know this too.”

He appreciated the comfort, Mezul understood at least some of his conflicted feelings. “How do you know we’re just people?” he asked. “We only met the other day.”

“And on that same day, you saved our carriers from certain death,” Mezul countered. “Is that not a sign of a just warrior?”

“Warrior, huh? I like the sound of that.” The two shared a brief smile before Lambert picked at his meal again. “Tell me about this sea of yours, how any k’s across is it?”

“K’s?”

Lambert chastised himself, beginning to lay out the foundations of distance with the Balokarid as they ate.

14

Captain Anders fiddled with his collar, glancing back at the honour guard that stood to attention at his flanks. He didn’t expect any danger, but a bit of muscle would hopefully add a little flare to inspire his welcoming committee.

Doctor Cairns had hailed him over the intercom, informing him that the Balokarid Kith had successfully gotten her translator installed, and wished to formally speak with him. He’d cleared the bridge, the control surfaces that filled the space mostly clear save for a few critical navigators, the arch-shaped window dominating the northern face of the bridge illuminating his command centre with a soft, purple glow.

He didn’t exactly have a red carpet to roll out for the aliens, but he did all he could with his limited resources. The soldiers in their pressurized armour, their coil rifles glinting in the light that spilled in through the canopy, carried enough of a presence to warrant security and safety. A squad of them were lined up in two even rows, creating an aisle that faced the bridge’s main doors.

Anders hadn’t been there when the talks with the Suvelians had gone down, everyone who was would be long gone by now, but the repercussions were fresh on everyone’s mind, especially now that another sentient race had entered the game. He couldn’t screw this up, not just because Senator Estera would have his head if he did, but because the Hub needed more friends than enemies right now. He just prayed that the Balokarids could see the difference between a Hub citizen and a Confederate one, if they even recognised the concept…

He adjusted his gloves as the waiting dragged on, until finally the main doors slid open, a group of figures walking through. His soldiers squared their shoulders in disciplined synchronicity, the navigators looking away from their displays to stand to attention.

There was the Kith, the alien pilot Mezul, and their armed guard, all following behind Lieutenant Hall. The aliens dwarfed the Lieutenant by a good foot or two, their powerful legs clad in a silver, alien polymer, their three-toed feet clicking against the metal floor as they stalked forward, their beaks turning curiously around at all the machinery.

They glanced at the armed men present, their headdresses rolling and moving in a way that came off as cautious. He noted the alien that carried the long, metal rod that eerily resembled a rifle, clutched at their weapon a little tighter with their four-fingered hands, Anders worried that perhaps he’d gone a little overboard with the armed presence. He’d always been one to prefer a show of force.

The Lieutenant snapped Anders a quick salute, stepping aside to let the aliens approach on their own. The Balokarids moved through towards him, Anders clasping his hands behind his back as he addressed the alien leader with a nod.

“Welcome to the bridge, Kith, I trust the surgery went smoothly?” He noted the long scar trailing down the alien’s neck between a line of feathers that had been cut loose, the scar disappearing beneath the metal collar of her spacesuit.

“Very smoothly, thank you,” the alien replied, her voice peculiar with its clarity. It was deep but distinctly female, a touch of an American accent in her words. “Your medical science is as impressive as your warship.”

“Thank you, Kith. Your technology is equally inspiring. I’ve watched Lieutenant Hall’s field reports numerous times, your Sala’ci protection fields are very sturdy.”

“Humans call them shields, yes?” the Kith asked. “They’ve saved us from countless attacks, both in and out of vacuum.”

“May I ask how you created this technology?” Anders asked, raising a plaintive hand. His aids had implored him to be more polite than usual. “Us humans have never developed shielding advanced enough to withstand high-calibre fire.”

The Kith’s headdress twitched in startlement. “This surprises me, Captain, considering the human technology I’ve seen so far. We discovered the barrier modules, we did not invent them, just refined them to our uses. On the borders of our home system was an alien wreckage containing this technology. It resembled a Balokarid, but was made entirely of an alloy unknown to us, abandoned and with no trace of its original creators.”

“A wreckage?” Anders asked, his brow raised. “Was it a machine, as tall as one of your carriers?”

“You know of this derelict?” the Kith asked, her eyes widening. “Have you seen the Balokar system?”

“No, but we’ve seen other wrecks just like the one you’ve described. Dozens of them, with thousands more out there in the Galaxy, just drifting along like abandoned ships. We break down their materials and technology and use it for ourselves.”

“Thousands?” the Kith breathed. “Our single derelict contained enough material to construct multiple carriers. I’m assuming humans are not their creators?”

“No, and nobody knows who put them there. Some think some ancient alien race left them behind, but all we’ve got are theories.”

“We Balokarids are not sure whether to be impressed by such powerful machinations, or fearful,” the Kith mused. “But I did not come aboard your bridge to discuss alien machines, forgive me for going off-topic.”

Anders was surprised this alien, one that was large enough it could knock him out with a single punch with its dinner-plate-sized hands, was being so submissive, the man waving a hand. “It’s no bother. I’m honoured to have the chance to represent the Hub to an ali… a Balokarid, whatever questions you have, I or any of my crew would be more than glad to answer when the time arrives.”

The Kith smiled, at least, it pulled the edges of its beak up in an approximation of one. “Likewise, Captain, we are just as interested in your people. Has the human Lambert discussed our clan’s capabilities with you?”

“I’ve read his reports, seen the recordings,” Anders replied, feeling like he hadn’t really answered the alien’s question.

“So you will accept our proposal for consolidation?” the Kith asked, Anders raising a brow in surprise.

“I wasn’t under the impression we’ve been making deals, Kith.”

“But have our fleets not met under the banner of mutual coalescence?” she asked, her questioning eyes roaming his. “It was my understanding that the human Lambert brought us to you for this very purpose?”

Anders looked across the room at the Lieutenant, who shrugged in confusion. “I’m not sure what it is the Lieutenant promised you,” he said, giving the pilot a look. “but whatever agreements we can make, the final say remains with me and my staff.”

Her beak drooped into a frown, Shaliyya turned to address one of the other aliens. “You told me you toured the ship with him, Mezul.”

“I did,” the alien replied, speaking in English for the sake of the humans present. She glanced at the Lieutenant. “You remember, don’t you Lambert?”

All eyes in the room fell on the pilot, the man silently asking Anders if he could speak. He nodded, Lambert starting out slowly. “I remember you showed me parts of your ship, how you guys live and work.”

“But you were satisfied with our capabilities, yes?” Mezul asked. “that was the impression I got from you.”

The Lieutenant wasn’t quite sure how to respond, Anders quickly cutting in. “I think there has been a misunderstanding. Kith Shaliyya, would you explain to me what consolidation means?”

“That is a word you understand, yes?” she asked. “Unless my translator is malfunctioning.”

“I understand it, but your definition may be different to our own. Try and imagine I’ve never heard the word before.”

“Very well,” the Kith replied, clasping her hands together. “When a clan becomes too weak to stand on its own, it may ask for consolidation from its allies or opponents. The Kith of another clan can decide that if the weakened clan is worth absorbing than eradicating, they may gauge the clan’s culture to help in deciding. When Mezul reported to me that the human Lambert wished to see more of my ship, I assumed he wanted to consider us for consolidation, and I gave her the go ahead to let him wander, and see for himself our capabilities of production, and efficiency. Was this not the reason for you wanting to explore my ship, human Lambert?”

“No, well, I…” Lambert cleared his throat. “Honestly, I just wanted to see what it all looked like.”

As if the translators weren’t working, the aliens stared at the Lieutenant, Shaliyya blinking her large eyes at him, turning her gaze back to Anders. “Then, you have no clue about our situation? Humans attack us in force, yet your clan is ignorant of our plight?”

“We haven’t seen another ship in weeks, news travels slowly out here,” Anders said. “We weren’t even under the impression the UEC was at war with you, let alone that you even existed.”

“Then… why are we here?” Shaliyya asked, raising her hands at the rows of soldiers. “Why bring me aboard your ship, go through all this trouble to install translators?”

Anders opened his mouth to reply, when a high-pitched beep interrupted him, the noise very loud on the sparsely populated bridge. He turned, watching one of the remaining bridge staff interact with her console as the claxon repeated.

“What is it, Private?” he asked, tapping his heeled boot as the navigator paused before replying.

“New contact on the radar,” the woman replied, the monitor before her displaying the familiar, green sweeping pattern of the ship’s scanner. “Approaching at a consistent speed for several dozen kilometres. I don’t think it’s interference. Could be a ship.”

“They have found us,” Shaliyya murmured, her alien eyes turned to the expansive canopy, staring into the endless void beyond.

Anders looked between her and the purple nebula, then leaned over his command console. He was about to bring the ship to combat alert when the navigator called his rank. “Captain? I’m receiving a hail.”

“What? Is it on a Hub frequency?” Was it reinforcements from the station, perhaps? He could certainly use the backup.

“No sir, they’re identifying themselves as… Confederate Navy.”

Shooting the Kith a look, he asked: “How many are there?”

“No additional contacts, but I can’t be sure with the nebula scrambling with our sensors. Do we answer, sir?”

The navigator glanced at him for orders, as did the soldiers present, the men clutching their rifles tighter as if expecting a fight. He met Shaliyya’s eyes for a moment, the alien’s expression hard to discern given he hadn’t spent as much time with them as Lambert had.

“Put him through to me,” he said, the navigator nodding as she patched the hail to his console. Anders flicked the radio to speaker mode, he wanted the aliens to hear this…

A voice garbled through into the bridge intercom, one belonging to a man who sounded like the sort who’d seen a few tours, though Anders knew from experience that space combat had not been tried and tested until now. Who knew if the aliens or the UEC were winning out there.

“Attention rogue frigate, this nebula is under UEC control. You are harbouring enemies of Earth. Stand down, and submit to Confederate control.”

After so long cruising through an empty nebula, with nothing but the gas clouds to stare at, the transmission was stark in both its presence and the threat laying behind it.

All eyes were on Anders as he pressed the transmit button, his eyes turned up to the nebula, watching the purple backdrop coalesce with the pockets of blue.

“This is Captain Anders of the Gallipoli, what makes you think we’re holding enemies of Earth?”

He waited for the delay to run its course. Without any satellite transmitters like those around the Hub or the core worlds, messages could take minutes or hours, perhaps even days to reach other ships depending on distance. Thankfully there was only a few short moments before the reply came back, but that still made the silence between the messages all the more tense. Anders had never spoken with a UEC soldier since he’d left them.

“Captain Anders? Read about you. Self-discharged if I’m remembering correctly.”

“You are. Now answer my question.”

“We have been tracking those alien vessels for weeks, but it looks like you found them first. Surrender the aliens, and the Confederacy will show you mercy.”

“What’s your name, pilot?”

The delay seemed a little longer, probably because Anders’ question had been so short, or the man on the other end was hesitating.

“Second Lieutenant O’Reilly.”

“Alright O’Reilly. Were you enlisted during the ’38 uprising?”

He didn’t see this, but the aliens glanced back at Lambert, who could only shrug. After the delay the man’s voice returned.

“I was stationed on Mars when it went down. Never deployed.”

“No? Well I was. Took command of a cruiser sent to help quell the conflict. There wasn’t much they could do against our navy, which is probably what you’re thinking right now of us. I saw what kind of ‘mercy’ the UEC showed to the guys that surrendered, so I’m not entirely convinced of your offer, Lieutenant.”

“Those aliens attacked a Confederate colony on one of our newly established worlds, Captain. I watched thousands of men, women and children making a new home, get obliterated by an alien orbital beam.”

“He’s lying!” Shaliyya exclaimed, her beak snapping in irritation. “It was our colony world that was attacked! Our children who were killed. Do not listen to him!”

“What world?” Anders asked, his hand off from the transmitter button.

“Dur’shala. It is not our homeworld, but one we colonised not long ago. We took as many refugees as we could and fled after the UEC attacked, seeking cover in this nebula while we planned our next move.”

“The UEC would fight tooth and nail for a habitable world,” Anders murmured. “Anyone would.” Finding a world that could support life was rarer than a Colossus wreck, and even more valuable because of it. The UEC had only colonised three worlds with an atmosphere like Earth’s, and they’d been spacefaring for hundreds of years. There had been a fourth planet, but it had been destroyed many years ago by a group of saboteurs. The details of how they did it and who they were was a mystery, but the impact had been felt across all human space.

“Don’t trust a word the aliens say,” the Second Lieutenant continued, as if sensing their conversation from afar. “They will say anything to prolong their lives. Hand them over, and submit to Confederate occupation.”

“Do not do this, Captain,” Shaliyya pleaded. “We have a hundred thousand people between our ships that can aid you and your clan. Weapons, ships, vehicles, anything, we are all trained to manufacture and fight, and will do so under your command!”

The alien peered at Anders from over his shoulder, the man staring out into the void. After a long pause, the navigator asked for his reply, Anders clicking the transmit button.

“Second Lieutenant, thank you for your offer. You can go back to your CO now, before you overstay your welcome.”

“Captain Anders, I will need an objectively yes or no response from you…”

“My response is objectively no.”

“The Hub has already made a terrible decision to leave the Confederacy, you turncoats are making another by helping these-”

“Power to weapons,” he said, not wanting to hear the rest, and leaving the comms open so the pilot could hear him. He made his way over to the radar operator, watching the ping that represented the UEC ship burn away, his lips pulled up in a smirk. It had been a bluff of course, but the ship turning tail was just too inspiring to pass up.

“Thank you, Captain. Thank you,” Shaliyya breathed, looking like she could see the ship retreating, the way she peered out of the glass canopy. “You have saved countless resources I promise will be of great worth to your Hub clan.”

“I’m not doing this for your resources,” Anders replied. “we need to act fast now. The UEC will be gunning for us now that they know our location.”

“Us?” Shaliyya repeated. “Does that mean you will accept our offer of consolidation?”

“That’s not my decision to make, that’s up to the Senator. But since we’re several weeks travel from the station, and we’ve both got a common enemy, I see no reason we can’t work together.”

“Mutual foes birth strong alliances,” Shaliyya said. “I will defer to you for our first course of action, Captain.”

“We need to set up communications between our ships, so we can coordinate our movements.” He leaned against the command table, bringing up a three-dimensional representation of the frigate’s immediate sphere of space, the tags of the human and alien ships cluttering up the render. “With your permission I will send over some engineers to your carriers to try and integrate our tech with yours. Radios and other basic short-range comms.”

“Our own scientists should be able to help, if you have more translators for us,” Shaliyya said. “If you have need of repairs, we have an abundance of technicians ready to work on your craft, our own forces are already replenished.”

Anders was impressed, it took weeks to churn out a corvette, more if it was from scratch. “We’ll certainly need them for the coming fight,” he said. “How soon until you can transfer them over?”

“As soon as we’re done here.”

“I’ll speak with the heads of my staff, you’ll have as many translators as we can spare.”

“Captain?” Lieutenant Hall asked. The man nodded towards the canopy. “Permission to chase down that scout and blow him up?”

“Denied, Lieutenant. We’ll assemble another scouting mission soon enough, do some recon of our own, I doubt we’ll be able to find that ship now that he’s left comms range…”

“We will lend all the ships you need to find the enemy,” Shaliyya offered, but Anders shook his head.

“I can’t put your ships in harm’s way, Kith. Let my dedicated scouts handle the spotting.”

“My Sala’ci attackers can be discreet when they need to be,” Shaliyya insisted. “My clan will not like sitting back and letting the humans fight for us, and neither will I.”

Anders had been ordered many times to remain in the safety of the backlines, and it had often driven him crazy. Perhaps this alien shared the same sentiment. “Very well,” he relented. “one thing at a time first, however. We’ve got a lot to do and not much time, so let’s focus on logistics first and get started.”

15

With the use of the few human volunteer ships the frigate had spare, several dozen Balokarids were moved aboard the Gallipoli for surgery, since the alien ships were not compatible with the docking hardpoints. The Balokarid carriers launched squads of Sala’ci’s to create a protective screen, both alien and human ships ferrying equipment behind their protective cordon.

The number of aliens travelling back and forth between the fleets created a few pairs of traffic lanes that looked similar to the trade routes the Hub was known for establishing. There was something inspiring about watching them cruise along through one of the few viewing ports present on the frigate. Most thought the dream of working with aliens died when the Suvelians chose to keep to themselves, but now the Galaxy felt just a little less lonely with such a communal display.

“How fortunate we are that our ships met out there,” Mezul mused, standing beside Lambert in the compact observation room. Unlike civilian ships, glass was a weakness that was barely present on warships, something the alien found odd, since her ship was rife with viewing areas. “We would surely have perished without your timely arrival.”

“It must be a bit of a shock,” Lambert said. “the first humans your people meet were a bunch of warmongers, and now you’re teaming up with us.”

“Your race has been almost faceless up until recently,” she replied, her eye on this side of her face scrutinising him. “But now we see you for what you really are.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“You are a small, but determined people. Featherless, without beaks, strange but not unpleasant.”

“That’s a little more literal than I thought you’d say,” he laughed. “but thanks for the compliment.”

“I am glad your Captain has accepted us into your clan, at least temporarily.” Mezul folded her arms over her chest. “Even with those… misunderstandings he had with the Kith.”

“What was that all about anyway?” he asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Mezul replied, blinking her large eyes at him. “But your Captain saw what we could offer him in the end, and for this, my people shall remain safe for a while longer.”

“You guys place a lot of value on what you can make and do for others,” Lambert noted.

“Is this not the same for humans?” she asked. “A clan is worthless if it has no means to produce for its people.”

“People are more than just tools to be used,” he explained. “I didn’t hop on your carrier to assess you, and I didn’t bring your fleet to be judged by my Captain.”

“But, were you not pleased with our capabilities? You seemed impressed, as did the Captain.”

“Yeah I was, but that’s not the point. I didn’t bring you here to my Captain because I thought you’d be useful. Neither did Anders when he turned that Confederate’s offer down to turn you over.”

“But my clan can provide yours with exceptional manufacturing capabilities. Does the Hub-clan have no need of this?”

“We do, but… It’s not really like that,” he said, struggling to find the right words.

“I do not understand. What reason do you have for turning down the UEC’s offer of handing us over, if not for our support?”

“The same reason I came in and helped you out when you were under attack,” he said. “You were in trouble, so we helped.”

“Then… you value life over a clan’s performance, and output?” she asked, Lambert nodding as he seemed to be getting through to her. “That sounds so… dissonant. On Balokar, if a clan does not make its economy or production its top priority, it is quickly consolidated or destroyed by stronger clans. What is the benefit of treating us this way?”

“Helping is its own benefit,” he said. “The Hub doesn’t leave people behind, that’s not what we’re about.”

“You are telling me, you would risk revealing your presence to the UEC, expose yourselves to an attack, turn down the chance for mercy, all for the sake of helping out a race of aliens you didn’t know existed, for no reason other than you just wished… to help?”

“… You don’t sound very satisfied.”

“It makes no sense,” Mezul sighed, her headdress twitching in agitation. “I did not expect this from the same race that attacked my people, neither did the Kith. What about when you looked around my carrier, or my Sala’ci? You were assessing us, weren’t you?”

“No I was just… checking things out, was all.” He shrugged.

“Checking things out?” Mezul echoed. She seemed flustered, scratching at the place her ear should be. “Here I am, reading the situation wrong again…” she muttered.

Seeing her in that state compelled Lambert to apologise, even though he wasn’t quite sure what he was sorry for. Yet Mezul cut him off. “Being part of a most caring people is nothing to apologise for, so don’t.”

“If that’s a crime in Balokarid society there’s going to be a lot of misunderstandings.”

She chuckled at that, a lilting laugh that sounded so strange and exotic to him. “We are so different from one another,” she said. “Our values, perceptions… I hope this will not cause problems for our people in the future.”

“It hasn’t for us, right?” he noted. “We’re getting along so far.”

“That we are.” She smiled, cheering up a little. “If we are victorious against the UEC, I hope there are more humans who think like you.”

“Then we both have a reason to see this through,” he said. “Us two have a fairly good understanding of the other’s culture. We can set an example.”

“This bond, I also feel,” Mezul said, Lambert clearing his throat when she grinned at him.

“Tell me about your world,” he said, watching a pair of Raptors coast over one of the Balokarid carriers. “Dur’shala, you called it? Don’t worry this isn’t an assessment,” he added.

“I know that now.” She nudged him playfully with her arm, Lambert almost toppling over due to her excessive strength. “It’s our first colony world, we established it some time ago.” She smiled as she watched the ships fly by, a reminiscent look on her face. “I could speak of Dur’shala until your fuel reserves go dry, but I will try and be brief.”

“Dur’shala is a land of steppes that stretch far into the horizons, with lakes of water cutting through the dunes of timeless sand between. At dusk, the land mirrors the heavens as it glitters beneath a brushed sky, each grain of dust a star in its own right. By dawn, the sun rises behind rock columns so tall their caps fade into the clouds. You will never feel a warmth like you do there, the word cold having no meaning even in the dead of night in the most open of plains.”

“Is that stuff on your arm from there?” he asked, gesturing at her. He remembered getting a bit of the dust on his fingers when he ran his hand through her feathers earlier.

She nodded, scraping off a portion of the sandy substance and holding it in her palm. It was so reflective, catching the light of the nebula spilling through the glass, making it look like she was cupping the tiniest pile of gemstones.

“On the brighter days, the seas of dust there shine like water, the sight is mesmerizing from the peaks.” She wiped her hand on her leg, her mood turning sour. “The humans came late in the night, days before one of our festivity days. We could not mount a response so quickly against their great ships, and we were forced to flee. I ran as fast as I could to the spaceport to provide cover for the evacuation, but… I wasn’t fast enough. Half a dozen rescue ships fell from the skies before my crew made it to our . When we reached orbit, things were even worse. There were so many destroyed ships, the planet’s atmosphere had turned into a debris field. As our clan assembled with whoever made it off the planet, the humans chased us. We fled the system with six carriers under our protection. Six. We lost so many…”

“I’m sure you did all you could,” he tried, but Mezul shook her head.

“I did, and in that lies the problem. My best wasn’t enough to save them all. My people counted on me, and barely half of them made it out.” Her gaze was hard as she looked out into the void. “We lost carrier after carrier, and all I could do was watch as their life support systems failed, we couldn’t even turn back for the bodies…”

“I know how you feel,” he said, the alien glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “there’s just not enough of you against them, so it’s like you’re the only thing standing between them and your friends, and it’s on you if things go south.”

“Exactly. Even with a crew, as a pilot, it’s on us alone to see the days through, to keep my friends and comrades safe. But seeing those carriers fall apart… it tears me up.”

She sighed, Lambert not wanting to say he knew how she felt, because he didn’t, not on the scale she’d experienced. “We’re all just one hull breach away from death out there,” he said. “That’s something none of us can stop, can’t blame yourself for that.”

“I know I shouldn’t,” she sighed, her headdress rolling as she looked over at him. “Do humans fear death?”

“Most of us do.”

“And you?”

“Everyone has their own way of coping, but personally? I just don’t think about it.”

“That’s it? But… how could you not think about it?”

“I don’t know, it’s just beyond my control, you know? Once I strap into the cockpit, that’s it. I’ll come back, or I won’t, but I’ll try my hardest either way. And it’s not so lonely, is it? I mean, not anymore. I found you, the Hub found you, and now here we all are.”

She didn’t need to say she appreciated the sentiment, he could tell she was glad to know someone knew what she was going through, pilot to pilot. She wasn’t just some alien, but a person, with worries and doubts anyone in her position would have, and he felt in that moment a new understanding had bloomed between them.

“You have an odd way of looking at the world, Lambert,” she said. “but thank you. Perhaps we aren’t so different after all.” Her headdress shook in a way that came off as flustered. He was getting better at reading her.

“What’s this festivity you mentioned?” he asked, switching topics back to her colony planet. She seemed fond of talking about it.

“Every few seasons the skies over Dur’shala begin to shift and warp,” she replied, her mood lifting. “not unlike the clouds of this nebula. It’s as if a great being is taking a brush to our heavens, creating new colours your translator has no words to describe.”

“Like an aurora?” he guessed, Mezul telling him she did not know the word. “Sounds like quite the sight. Earth gets those at specific parts of the world.”

“What about your Hub? What’s it like? Do you have auroras there, too?”

“Not exactly. Tell you what, once we’ve sorted this mess out, I’ll show you personally rather than just pictures this time.”

“I will hold you to that.” She smiled.

16

Lambert’s suit sealed with a pneumatic hiss as he jogged across the deck, clutching his opaque helmet under an arm. Engineers and other pilots raced back and forth all around him, the yellow hazard lights built into the walls reflecting off the angular hulls of the ten or so ships crammed into the repair bay.

The Gallipoli only had one of these bays on the whole ship, allowing heavier repairs within the safety of a vacuum. It was nowhere near as spacious as a Balokarid carrier, the other corvettes and fighters lined up with their noses barely touching the engines of the craft in front.

Lambert’s corvette was at the forefront, being the final ship to come back from patrol, taxied just in front of the inner airlock door. He watched a pair of engineers wheeling a trolley with a nine-foot long missile strapped onto it move towards the belly of the ship. The trolley rose on a set of winches, the engineers fixing the missile onto the empty hardpoint there.

“We all set?” Lambert asked one of them, donning his helmet which glued to his collar with another hiss.

“Reupped and reloaded,” one engineer replied, patting the hull of the corvette with a gloved hand. “Command wants all scouts equipped with a belt of stubs, I’ve installed them on belt two on your top PDC. We haven’t got many of them, so don’t miss.”

Sensory Tracking Bugs, or stubs as they were more commonly known, were shaped balls that were a little smaller than a fifty-calibre sniper round. They were capped with shock-absorbent frames that were designed to stick to a surface rather than penetrate through. Inside each stub was a weak emitter that sent out a signal on a specific frequency. As long as the charge wasn’t discovered or ran out of power, you could track a target indefinitely if you managed to tag a ship.

“We won’t,” Lambert said, the man crisply saluting before taking the trolley by the handle and setting off. Lambert rounded one of the landing gears, jogging up the loading ramp and moving up the stairs inside.

“Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,” Alice said through the shared channel

“The Cap is back,” Carl said, eloquently as ever. “About damn time, too. Been ready to taxi for ten minutes.”

“Had to see Mezul off,” Lambert replied, waving at Carl as he passed the gunner station door, dashing up to the cockpit and strapping himself in. It had turned out that human and Balokarid technology had been compatible, and the two fleets could now share simple radio transmissions, the fleets ready to move as one. Mezul had been recalled to her carrier when they heard the news.

“You and her are gettin’ real friendly, ain’t you?” Carl asked, Lambert rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Nothin’, nothin’… What do you think the Cap and Mezul are hangin’ around for, Alice?”

“I’m not sure the Lieutenant would appreciate my conclusions,” the machine murmured, even though it was clear as day to his ears and didn’t need to lower its voice. At least the thing was aware enough not to push Lambert’s buttons.

“Here’s a conclusion,” Lambert started. “Prepare the ship for launch. Carl, retract the turrets and ready the scanners. Alice, clear us for take-off. Let’s get this done.”

“Here we go again,” Carl asked. “At least this time we know our target’s out there.”

“They’ll be thinking the same thing,” Lambert added, his consoles flaring to life as he switched the systems online. As if the ship was waking, the screens warbled with static before displaying the camera feeds, the vector nozzles shooting puffs of air, the main engines whirring as they began to churn out bright blue flames from its twin nozzles.

“We will be sending out another scouting operation,” Captain Anders said during the mission briefing a half hour ago. “Since our position is compromised, we will be escorting the Balokarid fleet to new coordinates we’ll send to your ships once you set out to your designated search sectors. Your objective is to find any UEC targets and assess their capabilities. Hit them with your stubs if you can, but do not engage, discretion is our only ally right now and we can’t afford to lose any of you.”

“Corvette one-five this is control, you’re clear for take-off,” the same voice of the woman from Gallipoli control said. “Good luck out there.”

Lambert engaged the main thrusters, a safety panel extending from the deck behind the ship protecting the other craft from their superheated backblast. Like a train barrelling out of a tunnel, the corvette speared through the airlock doors, the purple void slowly growing larger as they departed the hangar.

Once clear of the frigate, Lambert banked the corvette left, slowly gaining distance on the Gallipoli as he set a new course. The frigate took up one side of his canopy, while the Balokarids carriers filled the other, their noses pointed up from this angle like a school of sleeping whales. The alien ships dwarfed the Gallipoli being this close to each other, but with their lack of any defensive weaponry, they would make easy targets without the frigate protecting them.

His map displayed other human ships beelining away from the frigate, carrying on to their designated sections in either pairs, or on their lonesome. Captain Anders had ordered nearly a third of the ships to launch so they could cover more ground, the rest in reserve to defend the aliens. Lambert was about to burn away to his own sector when the Gallipoli opened a channel to him.

“One-five,” control said. “I’m sending you new coordinates, stand by.”

“Come again control?” He checked his data streams and saw fresh coordinates directing him to a point a few kilometres out from the fleet.

“New orders from the Captain. Wait one.”

Lambert cruised the corvette over, flipping and using the thrusters to shed their momentum. Carl asked him what was going on.

“We’ve been told to wait here,” he replied. After maybe five minutes of drifting without a response he decided to radio in himself. “Control what’s the holdup?”

“Captain Anders wants some of our scouts to move out in pairs, and you’re one of them,” the woman said. “Stand by for an escort.”

“A little forwarnin’ would have been nice,” Carl asked, tuning himself into the channel.

“They just got approved, one-five.”

A little backup would help cover more ground, but who? Lambert knew some of the other pilots, but none of the human callsigns on his map were coming their way. Just then a new tag popped up next to one of the Balokarid carriers, switching from unidentified white to friendly blue, banking in their direction.

“This is Sala’ci zero-one, using the rodeo to contact corvette one-five.”

Lambert looked towards where the tag was through the glass, spying a little silver glint slowly defining itself against the backdrop of the alien carrier, a familiar craft closing in. “Can you hear me, one-five?”

The corner of Lambert’s mouth turned up in a grin. “Loud and clear, Mezul.” It seemed that the Captain knew he and Mezul had been working together the most, and didn’t see any reason to separate them. “I thought this was a human-only mission.”

“The Kith didn’t want us sitting this fight out, and convinced your Captain to let us assist. We have translators and rodeos installed, we should have clear communication lines between our ships.”

“Good to hear. And it’s pronounced radio. Don’t call it a rodeo unless you want to give Carl here flashbacks.”

“My apologies. The human who installed it had a most peculiar accent.”

“Says the bird who’s copyin’ our voices half the time,” Carl shot back, Mezul trying not to snicker too loudly over the shared channel.

“Fall in beside us, zero-one,” Lambert said, the corvette listing as he drew the flight stick back. “we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

Lambert watched the Sala’ci fighter form up on their left, the bulky profile of the alien fighter matching his speed as they cruised in formation into the nebula. Soon the friendly tags of the fleet crackled with the distortion, and one by one the map gently cleared until it was just the pair of ships left, surrounded by an ocean of energy where the UEC might be hiding around any cloud of gas.

17

The light of the nearby star reflected off the Sala’ci’s sloped hull, the black bubble of glass that was its canopy standing out high up on the nose of the ship. It was like the tinted window of a limousine, only the vague outline of its alien pilot’s shape sticking out as Mezul turned her beak to and fro, flying close enough that Lambert could make out the outline of her head if he looked hard enough.

“What is it we are scouting for, exactly?” she asked over the comms, the pair of ships banking to avoid a nasty gas cloud in their path.

“We need to document whatever the UEC’s got,” Lambert replied. “Number of ships, types of craft, position and heading, things like that.”

They’d been flying through the nebula for over an hour now, their thermal scans and emission detectors on the lookout for any anomalies that might signify the presence of a ship. Their search vector was in line with the UEC ambassador’s last coordinates, but they’d found no sign of the Raptor so far, just rocks and gas.

“How can we do so with our scanners going haywire?” Ruvaara asked. She was the only other alien on their ship with a translator, Lambert didn’t know how the aliens picked who got the surgery, but it was probably reserved for those who would be interacting with humans more often than others.

“That’s Carl’s line,” Lambert replied. “Just keep an eye out for signals that don’t cut out every few moments, or tags with constant speeds and headings, that’s a sure tell that something’s out there and not just distortion.”

“Yeah, check for consistencies among the inconsistencies,” Carl said through the shared channel. “We might get lucky again and they’re fighting a third, or er, fourth alien species, and we can come in and save the day again.”

“Did you say fourth?” Mezul asked. “You have found other life?”

“Yep, maybe a hundred and fifty-something years ago,” Lambert explained. “The Confederacy was expanding out to the Galactic East when they found someone else was expanding the other way. I don’t know the exact details, it’s all very hush-hush, but after a few diplomatic visits the Suvelians decided we weren’t worth the effort. Their leaders agreed to keep a few systems between our borders neutral, and they kept to their side of the Milky Way ever since.”

“How sad,” Mezul replied. “Has there been any contact between your clans since?”

“Not so much as a peep. They want nothing to do with the UEC, and who could blame them? I doubt they’ll care that the Hub went independent from the Confederacy, get the feeling we’re all the same to them.”

“If only they had heard your music,” Mezul suggested.

Since there wasn’t much else to do or see, Mezul had humbly requested that Lambert blast some tunes through the shared frequency. They’d be putting out a lot of radio chatter, but the nebula’s energies should give them enough cover to help the aliens acquaint with the latest pop songs, Lambert feeling like some kind of radio host as he worked through his playlist.

The infinite stretch of the nebulae went out in all directions, a few clumps of asteroids and the occasional gas cloud forcing the ships to deviate from their flight path, the latter of which sometimes only visible on the scanners rather than the naked eye.

After some time of silence and static, Lambert patched through to the Sala’ci. “What kind of music do Balokarids have?” he asked. It was Mezul who answered.

“There are more lyrics compared to yours,” she said. “We put more emphasis on vocal and physical performance. Your instruments are more diverse, yet your singers do sound more or less the same.”

Lambert supposed that was true, given how many different trills and chirps he’d heard aboard their carrier, the Balokarid voice range must be miles longer than humans. “Physical performance?” Lambert asked. “Like dancing?”

“Surely humans dance too?”

“We do, it’s just… I’d never imagined how an alien might dance.”

“Perhaps when we have time for a demonstration, you’d need not imagine…”

Ruvaara, perhaps not wanting to be left out or tired of listening in, patched herself through. “Mezul, stop flirting with the human you’re like twenty times older than him.”

“I’m not that old Ruv’, you-” Mezul cut off her mic with a hiss, Lambert laughing as he glanced over at her ship.

After another hour, something came up on the scanner. A red thermal profile popped up on the far edges of his tactical map, an unidentified tag appearing beside it on his display. The tag fizzed in and out of focus, but the profile stayed still.

“Got something,” Lambert said. “Heat-sig at heading three-three-zero. That’s a little to the left of your nose, Mezul,” he added.

“We see it,” she replied. “Is that the flame from an engine?”

“Could be, let’s check it out.”

He banked the ship, cutting his engines to limit his own thermal profile and using momentum to carry them towards the signature. The Sala’ci matched his movements with barely a delay, Mezul likewise turning down her thrusters. The aliens were certainly attentive.

“I recommend we avoid putting power to weapon systems,” Alice advised. It had been quiet for most of the trip, and now its perfect, synthesised voice was coming back with potential threats in the area. “Targeting systems may draw us unwanted attention.”

“Who is that?” Mezul asked, the radio giving her voice a tinny quality.

“That’s Alice,” Lambert said. “Our third ‘crewmember’.”

“But you said there was only two of you on your ship.”

“Two people. Alice is a… computer – that talks.”

“No need to sound so excited, Lieutenant,” Alice noted. “I am a logistical support platform programmed to handle the many ship systems my fellow humans are unable to efficiently interact with due to the lack of staff present. It is nice to meet you, Mezul.”

“Oh, hello Alice,” Mezul replied, naturally surprised. “Are there other… computer-things like you?”

“Not in Captain Anders’ fleet. I was installed in corvette one-five as part of a testing program to decide whether personality efficiency is within acceptable levels for further distribution.”

“We drew the short straw to be the guinea pigs,” Lambert clarified. “But we can talk about this later, the signature’s getting hotter, definitely a ship using its afterburners.” He hit the pause button on his music player, stowing the device in a pocket beneath his seat. “Mezul, pull out a click to our left. We’ll go right, get a closer look.”

He pushed the joysticks forward, increasing momentum as the ship peeled off towards the right side of the signature. The Sala’ci did the same, putting distance between his corvette while still keeping in comms range. They were close enough that the heat signature’s IFF tag appeared on his tactical map, though there was too much interference to get a positive ID, the tag displaying a pair of question marks just beside it.

“This is just like when we first encountered each other,” Mezul said over the radio, her craft making small adjustments as it avoided the few microscopical asteroids lingering in her path.

“Don’t show them the same courtesy you did for us,” Lambert warned. “We’re supposed to do recon, but if they spot us, kill them.”

The tag was burning away at a high, constant speed, not quite moving directly away from them. That meant that the interference was shadowing them, at least for now. He couldn’t rely on it for concealment, however, but he could power down non-critical systems to limit any signals they gave off, and could even get them within radar range without being detected if they were lucky.

It was hard enough keeping an eye out for the ship while manoeuvring through the gas clouds and the micrometeors, Lambert constantly altering their vector as they gave chase with his toes curled in anticipation.

“Closin’ to close quarters,” Carl reported. “ready the missiles, Cap?”

“Do it,” Lambert replied. “This is closer than I’d like to be.”

“My weapons are not quite within effective range yet,” Mezul said. “No wonder your human ships are so much more powerful than what we have.”

Lambert felt the ship rumble as the PDC’s raised out of their housings, their turrets swivelling to track the thermal target, their aiming reticles appearing on his display.

The signature was growing hotter, closer. Lambert flipped the ship and countered his thrust, gunning the engines until they were almost drifting. The tag was constantly recalibrating its position on his tac view, but he could see its profile matched that of a Raptor. Could it be the same ship that Captain Anders spoke to?

The Sala’ci moved through the gas clouds off to Lambert’s left, the faint glittering of its shields sparkling like the stars far behind it. He’d seen how its shields could force their ships through more dangerous clouds, Mezul taking her own more direct approach.

A ping drew his attention back to his tac view. Another red, hostile tag appeared at the edge of his sphere of detection. Then two, then three more. He wasn’t alarmed, the energies of the nebula messed with his systems all the time, but as he directed all his scanners in that direction, the IFF tags didn’t disappear.

“Got something here, Mezul,” Lambert said. “Multiple contacts ahead and above us.”

“We see them” she replied. “Let us get closer, so we can see what we are dealing with.”

Lambert followed her lead, closing the distance between them and the ships. He already knew what they would find, but he was still taken aback when he got close enough to zoom the external cameras in towards the tag locations.

He switched the thermal view off, and at first there was nothing but clouds, but then something metal glinted off the distant sun. It was the hull of a ship, painted the standard black of the Confederate Navy, its sleek profile turned away from this angle, exposing four gargantuan engine thrusters as big as houses. They expelled white-hot jets of flame that gave off tremendous amounts of heat, situated between two great plates of armour that boxed in the engine module.

Above the engines, a disk-shaped piece of glass jutted out of the armoured hull, the command bridge situated high to allow as much visibility to the navigators as possible. The profile tapered into a thin profile that ended at a point, giving off the vague shape of a torpedo, with the prow half smooth and the stern more angular.

The ship banked more to the right as he watched, Lambert getting a better look at the many guns that extended from the hull like quills. Two rows of point-defence cannons flanked the sides, ten apiece. Square sections that housed missile launchers covered the belly and the roof, the sections between covered in antennae and long, slanted rectangles that roofed the torpedo bays, leaving not an inch of the hull free from weaponry.

It was armed to the teeth, but the thing that stood out the most was the giant railgun strapped onto the nose, almost disproportionally massive compared to the various other weapons. Its long barrel faced defiantly forward like a gargoyle perched on a battlement, the armament akin to the cannons once used on the battleships of Earth’s water navy. The barrel was lined with magnetic coils, claws of metal cupping a readied tungsten slug that was about as long as a ballistic missile.

“Fuck me rigid,” Lambert hissed. “That’s a destroyer.”

“An apt word,” Mezul murmured. “This is the one, that ship followed us all the way from Dur’shala…”

The destroyer was not alone – several dozen smaller craft surrounded the ship in a bubble. Raptors, corvettes, even a small squadron of torpedo bombers, ships that doubled as close air support and anti-frigate bombers. They looked like insects compared to the huge ship, the destroyer easily a third larger than the Gallipoli.

“What is that craft off to the side there?” Ruvaara asked.

Lambert didn’t need to ask her to point out which one. As the destroyer banked more and more, it revealed more fighter ships hiding behind it, plus another larger vessel. It was shaped like a giant oil silo, maybe a hundred meters from top to bottom, the base covered in industrial landing gears with claw-shaped feet that hinted at its atmospheric capabilities. Its nose was covered in heat panels to protect the ship from the extreme heat when entering and leaving atmosphere, scorched black with use. A standard cockpit canopy stuck out of one side, and on its flanks were stabiliser fins not unlike those used by atmospheric planes. The whole thing resembled the pioneering rockets humanity used back in its early space fairing days, only scaled up tenfold.

“That’s a tanker-class ship,” Lambert explained. “And a pretty old one, too. Its hull is actually one giant bottle of fuel. They’re unarmed, designed to increase a fleet’s effective flight range without having to bring along a capital ship. Since destroyers lack hangar bays altogether, that thing’s their only way to refuel.”

“A canister that big would make a huge explosion,” Ruvaara mused.

“I like how she thinks,” Carl noted.

Lambert took note of all the craft present, and what types he could see. It would all be recorded down, but he still had to write up personal reports the Captain would no doubt read when they got back. “Alice,” he said. “Have we got enough pictures?”

“There may be other ships hiding on the other side of the destroyer, I would advise repositioning just to make sure.”

“Do you take orders from it?” Mezul asked. Lambert tried and failed not to sound annoyed.

“It’s more like an advisor, one I’m under orders to keep around. For now.”

He swung the corvette, angling so that they were above the destroyer relative to its heading, knowing that each passing second increased the chances they were discovered, and he certainly didn’t want to be caught in the sights of that massive railgun.

After a long minute, Alice reported in. “No new vessels detected. We have sufficient data to bring back to the Captain.”

“Shouldn’t we try doin’ some sabotagin’?” Carl suggested. “You heard Ruvaara, a lucky missile could turn that tanker to slag.”

“I might be able to move in closer for a strafe,” Mezul replied.

“I don’t think your shields could withstand a barrage of hundred-millimetre shells… Could it?”

“How big is a millimetre?”

Lambert ignored her, Alice asking him through his helmet’s receiver what his orders were. The Gallipoli was vastly outgunned and outnumbered, any advantage he could gain now would help them and the Balokarids immensely, but he couldn’t exactly ask for orders this deep into the nebula.

“We have to try something,” he said. “Load the stubs, Carl, we’re going in.”

“We’ll move on the tanker,” Mezul reported, her tag on his map pivoting up and away.

“No,” he said. “Hang back, if the range on your lasers is like what I saw last time, you’ll be blown to bits before you can get close. Stay with us, we’ll need your cover if we’re seen.

For a moment he thought she wouldn’t listen, but then her tag did a one-eighty, staying further back as Lambert cruised them closer. They crossed into the estimated range of the destroyer’s radar, represented by a giant red ring on his tac view. It felt like he was dipping a toe into a pond infested with piranhas. Lambert unconsciously held his breath as they came close enough he could make out the giant ship’s profile as a spec through the canopy, any moment now and they would be spotted. Hopefully the energies around them were helping them blend in.

“We’re in range,” Carl said. “Firin’.”

Unlike firing HE rounds, the muzzle flash on the PDC’s was non-existent, the rotary guns spooling as they sent non-lethal rounds towards the UEC fleet. The destroyer was not nearly as manoeuvrable as a frigate, and with such a large profile it made an easy target to the micro-rounds, several dozens of the stubs finding their mark.

“We’re trackin’ her,” Carl said. “Even got a couple lucky hits on the tanker behind it.”

“Alright, let’s get out of here.”

The corvette was several hundred meters inside the radar zone, the hair on Lambert’s neck standing on end as he turned his back on the powerful ship. He had to resist the urge to burn to full speed – they hadn’t been detected by some miracle, but burning away would certainly change that. He fully expected his luck to end right before they exited radar range, and as he crossed over the threshold… nothing. The destroyer was maintaining a steady course.

“Did we just pull that off?” Carl asked. “Covert corvette, that’s us.”

“Don’t count our chickens,” Lambert said. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“That’s racist now, Cap, can’t say that with our new allies listenin’.”

“There’s a problem, humans,” Mezul said, her voice fizzling out when she said humans. “I’m detecting signatures closing in from where we came from, I think they’re ships.”

Lambert directed all his sensors to that vector, but his systems couldn’t detect much through the interference. Mezul’s Sala’ci was closer than he was whatever she was looking at.

“Let’s link up and go around,” Lambert said, Mezul’s signature falling in slightly ahead and to his right, but too late, the enemy tags faded onto his tac view, and they were turning in their direction too accurately to be called coincidence.

“Fuck!” Carl exclaimed. “I got a lock warnin’! We’ve been spotted!”

Lambert’s heart racing, he gunned the thrusters to max, peeling off one way while Mezul’s ship went another. His tac view was a mess, but he didn’t need it to see the incoming missile. Through his canopy, he could see the bright white contrail the ordinance left in its wake, slightly corkscrewing through the void and rapidly growing in size.

He hit the button near where his thumb rested, the flare racks on the back of the corvette opening up. Half a dozen bright beacons shot off behind the craft, spreading in a firework-like pattern. It was like the missile was drawn to them, veering off and exploding in a sphere of flame that quickly suffocated in the vacuum behind Lambert’s ship.

The pair of IFF tags appeared on his readouts as corvette-class, one of them going after Mezul while the other speared forward, no doubt trying to get another lock on him.

“Fuck me rigid,” Lambert mumbled under his breath, pulling the sticks back as he pulled a high-g turn that darkened the edges of his vision. He heard the steady rumble as the PDC’s opened up on the target he couldn’t see, the glowing contrails snaking their way into the darkness and tearing through a clump of asteroids that happened to be in the way.

Everything was moving and spinning – the corvette, the nebula, the wreathing arms of energy. His flightsuit warned him he was pushing nine g’s, Lambert’s guts sucking up against his spine as the forces pulled him against his seat.

He continued the long six-point turn, drawing a long crescent-shaped trail in the vacuum as he tried to shake off further warning locks, he couldn’t rely on flares forever.

At last the pain of the excessive g’s released as he danced onto the tail of the Confederate ship. The red targeting outline appeared in the upper half of his HUD, pinpointing the enemy’s location despite being beyond visual range. Lambert pushing the sticks forward as he centred on its engines.

“Shoot him!” he yelled, watching as the missile reticle hovered precariously over the red square.

“No tone!” Carl shouted back, his voice strained as he breathed hard through the channel. Missiles could not track without first confirming a tone readiness. Lambert’s eyes went wide as he watched a white contrail of explosive rounds screeching through the void towards his ship, the enemy was opening up on them with its close-quarter cannons.

He banked away at almost ninety degrees, the corvette flipping on its axis as he burned out of the deadly path of the tracer rounds with seconds to spare.

“Shoot, shoot him!” Lambert exclaimed again, bringing his nose round to give the missiles the best chance of locking.

“Can’t, no tone!” Carl repeated. The PDC’s continued to spew hundreds of rounds per minute, but none found their mark, the UEC craft banking itself as it danced out of the line of fire.

Cursing, Lambert pushed the engines and himself to the limit, closing the distance between the ships until they were just dozens of kilometres apart. He was close enough he could just make out the flaws in the angular surface of the Confederate ship’s hull. His instincts screamed for him to pull back, but he kept the ship squarely in his sights for just a few extra moments.

“Got it!” Carl snarled, their own missile screaming through the void, angling just off to the left as it homed in on its target. The Confederates fired their flares, the bright lights reflecting off its rigid hull, but the missile was too close, and it exploded once it was in range, spraying a deadly wave of shrapnel that cut a chunk out of the ship. It twirled away, the pilot able to remarkably stabilise their spin, most of its thrusters still working, Lambert able to make out the inside rooms of the ship, spewing forth smoke and flame along with the internal air.

It was flying, but no longer able to fight. Easy pickings when Lambert put full power to the PDC’s and watched the cannons tear the rest of the ship to pieces, the thirty-mils reducing the craft to scrap before Lambert angled the ship away and turned on the afterburners, watching his tac view fizzle and recalibrate, searching for Mezul’s signature.

There! Several dozen kilometres out, she was busy dealing with her own corvette, the two ships in a dance of death as Mezul tried to close the gap between the two, her weapons range much shorter than standard human ordinance.

Lambert gunned it, but on his way to Mezul’s location, two more tags appeared on the radar, closing rapidly on their location. They must have broken off from the UEC fleet.

“A hand would be appreciated,” Mezul asked calmly over the radio. She sounded a little different, muffled, like she’d cupped a hand over her microphone or something.

“We’re coming, hold on,” he said back, changing his vector to cut off the two new targets. Alice identified them as a pair of Raptors, planning out a flight path that appeared as a kind of wireframe pipe that curved through the nebula through the glass. He’d never let the computer take flight from him, but its cold calculations assured a proper firing arc without getting into the firing arc of the Raptors.

The PDC’s barrels warmed up, sending rounds screaming through the vacuum, displacing the Raptors and drawing their attention. They returned fire, chin-cannons opening up as their computers compensated for bullet time and lead, forcing Lambert to alter course. His stomach did more than lurch as his HUD flashed proximity warnings and missile locks, pushing his and Carl’s bodies to the limit as the g’s counted up from nine, ten, eleven – only their implants keeping them from passing out.

“They’re on us,” Carl grumbled, his breathing ragged like he was in the middle of running a marathon. Direction could get muddled in space, but the Raptors were quick to get on their six, the PDC’s facing backwards and filling the space behind them with a hail of bullets.

Carl got another missile lock, the ordinance igniting after a delay as the missile detached from the corvette’s belly. It made a three-point turn in the void, predicting one of the Raptor’s locations as it speared into the void. The fighter popped his flares, the bright lights messing with the missile’s tracking ball, the ordinance veering harmlessly off into the distance.

The corvette was visibly shaking, lock warnings and high-g sirens filling his helmet with noise. He was yelling for Carl to kill the Raptors, but he wasn’t really listening to his friend’s responses, busy as he was making all the vector changes to keep them from a quick death by shrapnel, or a slow one by suffocation. A part of him began to doubt he’d ever see the Hub again.

A blur of movement caught his attention, a large mass of metal putting itself between the corvette and the UEC fighters. A stream of incoming fire was reflected off the shielding surrounding the Sala’ci craft. There was a bright light, a beam of concentrated energy cutting a great swath through the shadows of the nebula. It seemed to slowly solidify, the column of light burning through the front of one of the Raptors and slagging its hull, the radius of the beam almost as big as the fighter itself. Like using a magnifying glass to catch the light of the sun, the beam burned through the ship until it simply disintegrated, only its swept wings remaining as they flew off as loose debris in opposite directions.

The beam left as fast as it had arrived, Lambert watching the rear-view feed and seeing the glittering, silvery hull of the Sala’ci shoot away.

“You will not fall this day, humans,” Ruvaara said, her voice muffled much like Mezul’s was before. She targeted the other Raptor which had turned away after his wingman died, another white-hot beam lancing forth like a giant, deadly spotlight the Raptor was careful to avoid being caught in, corkscrewing and banking with mere meters to spare.

“Thanks,” Lambert sighed, noting they must have dealt with the other corvette, judging by the lack of its signature. “Let’s finish this bastard off.”

“This is not advised,” Alice warned, the computer expressing panic through its artificial tone. “They’re heading back to the fleet.”

“We can deal with him before more of his friends show up,” Lambert said.

“Forget the ships, the destroyer is targeting us!”

He switched his feeds until the screen was filled with the epic profile of the warship, the man cursing. The great railgun on the nose of the ship was turning, agonizingly slowly like an artillery piece, squaring its sights in their general direction. That must be why the remaining Raptor was breaking off, and nobody was coming to escort him – they were bringing in the literal big guns.

“Fuck me rigid! Mezul break away! Break!”

Lambert banked one way, Mezul going the other with only a second to spare before the railgun fired, the coils sparking as its muzzle flashed so brightly he could see it through the canopy, shining like a sniper scope catching the sunlight.

The tungsten shell travelled about eight times the speed of sound, only its sheer size allowing it to be seen for the slightest of moments, like a shadow moving in the corner of your eye that disappeared when you looked at it. It left no contrail, no evidence that it was there a second ago, but if the corvette could have buckled by its presence it would have, the slug had travelled by so close Lambert could have reached out and touched it, his proximity warnings blaring.

“Get us outta here!” Carl exclaimed, as if Lambert needed to be encouraged. He put full power to the engines, putting as much distance between them and the destroyer as he could, hoping his alien companions were doing the same.

He zig-zagged through the nebula, another muzzle flash making his heart race as he attempted to dodge. Once more the giant slug raced past some ways off to his left, a wide shot but still enough to ignite a dread Lambert had never felt before. They were small targets at a rapidly expanding range, it was practically overkill at this point, but there was always a chance the destroyer could get lucky.

“More Raptors incoming,” Mezul reported. “They’re above us.”

“Don’t stick around,” Lambert said, a much different opinion to the one he had before they discovered the destroyer. He was pulled hard into his seat as he pushed the engines to their limit, the Raptor tags trying to match their speed as they gave chase.

“Incoming!” Alice warned. Lambert made to bank, but too late, a streak of automatic fire found its mark in their hull. He could hear the armour somewhere behind him shred apart as the rounds peppered the hull, entering through the weakest part of the ship – the engines.

A round screamed right past his head, the bullet imbedding itself on the inside of his concave canopy and creating a large spider-web-shaped crack in the glass. Another one ripped through the terminals on his right, shattering two and blacking out most of the monitors there as the bullet tore through the insides. He felt a shredding sensation beneath his rump, realising his chair had become another target.

“Lambert!” Mezul shouted over the channel, quick to see they’d been hit.

“O-Oh shit. Carl? Carl, talk to me!”

“I’m good,” Carl replied, Lambert sighing in relief. “Door will need some repairs though. Ship’s takin’ too many holes, we’re depressurizin’.

He could visibly see the ship’s oxygen spilling out through the micro holes the bullets had torn through the glass, the air forming miniaturised tornado’s around the breaches like water swirling down a drain, crystalising as they vented into the vacuum. His flightsuit’s oxygen systems would keep him breathing, fortunately, the suit designed to keep him alive in situations like this.

Mezul’s ship fired off another beam, warding off the Raptors from getting another chance to strafe. They didn’t appear to want to engage the lasers at such short range, the crafts turning tail and heading back in the UEC fleet’s direction.

“They’re on the run,” Mezul reported, falling in and matching Lambert’s speed, the Confederate fleet slowly shrinking in size as they put more distance between them. They were too far and too small for the railgun to be much more than a deterrent, but that didn’t mean Lambert wasn’t being careless. Maybe he should have listened to Alice and got out of there, that was too close.

“Why do we always get in the shit?” Carl asked, the sudden outburst after the ordeal making Lambert laugh for a moment. “First the aliens, now this!”

“Can you make it back to the fleet?” Mezul asked, her tone suggesting she was worried. “Are you injured?”

He patted himself down, sometimes adrenaline alone would trick the body into ignoring injuries, Lambert checking his suit for damages.

“Fuck me!” he yelled.

“Lambert! Oh no…”

“They fucking shot my MP3!”

“Oh, you jerk, Lambert,” Mezul growled. “I thought you were hurt!”

“Not physically at least… Alice, what’s the status of the ship?”

“Moderate damage to the hull and personal devices. We are ninety percent likely to return to the Gallipoli as long as we encounter no additional threats.”

“Good, good.” He watched the UEC destroyer leave sensor range, Lambert letting himself relax as the adrenaline from the fight slowly drained away. “Appreciate the cover back there, zero-one,” he said. “You fly pretty good.”

“As do you, one-six,” Mezul replied. “How you survived for so long without shielding is simply impressive.”

“Let’s head back, we’ve got to tell your Kith and my Captain about this right away.”

18

“The scouting run made by ships one-six and zero-one confirms the presence of a UEC battlegroup,” Captain Anders said, his hands behind his back as he scrutinised the images and recordings playing back through the briefing room monitors. The Balokarid Kith was present, as were a few senior human personnel, plus Lambert and Mezul’s crews. It turned out there were five aliens on her ship, though Lambert didn’t know the three others apart from her and Ruvaara. “It’s as I thought,” Anders continued. “the Confederacy must have been operating in this sector well before the Hub declared its independence.”

“Not necessarily, Captain,” Kith Shaliyya said. “I’ve seen this ship before, during Dur’shala’s invasion. It must have tracked us into the nebula.” Her tone went dour. “And we lured them straight to you, for this I am sorry.”

“Why?” the Captain asked. “it was extremely lucky you ran into one of our ships, there’s no need to apologise for surviving.”

The Kith looked like she wanted to speak, but hesitated. It seemed they were still adjusting to human culture, and vice versa. “What kind of firepower does a human destroyer carry?” she asked, turning to logistical matters. “I’ve seen it wrought devastation, but do you know of any specifics?”

The Captain leaned his hands on the table. “Ten torpedo tubes, five a side, fifty-odd point defence batteries, and the railgun, obviously.” He zoomed the feed onto the giant railgun, the view making them all stare right down its barrel. “We can deal with the rest of the weaponry, but the railgun’s the biggest threat. That thing’s designed to take down capital ships.”

“I doubt even our shields could stand against a single shot of that weapon,” the Kith mumbled.

“There’s little that could,” Anders replied.

“So it is indestructible?”

“Now when did I say that?” Anders asked. “Its packing a lot of firepower, but requires support to work effectively. You see the tanker ship?” He zoomed in on the fuelling ship Lambert had seen before. “That’s the only way they’ll be able to rearm and refuel their ships safely, without it they’re dead in the water, so the destroyer will stick to it like glue, and we can use that to our advantage.”

“And what about the destroyer’s other armaments?” she asked. “Our objective is to eliminate this ship, yes? How can we stand against such devastating firepower?”

“We can’t,” Anders replied, Shaliyya shooting him a confused look. “But there is a weakness to its design. The torpedo tubes face down the length of the ship, and the railgun is fixed on top of the nose for maximum visibility. Maximum, not infinite. Say we approach from below the ship, or behind…”

“The railgun would be ineffective,” Shalaara said, finishing the thought. “At least until it turns around. We could send out several wings to try and distract them, while your frigate finds an angle of engagement.”

“Our own missile tubes should be able to tear that thing apart,” the Captain replied. “How many Sala’ci do you have ready to fly?”

Squaring her shoulders proudly, the Kith held out an explanative hand. “Between our three carriers we have eighty two fighters. I know that is not much, but we have had little time to rebuild.”

“Not much? That’s more than double my own forces,” Anders replied. “I’ve got twenty two corvettes and thirty five Raptors on standby, our stores have a decent amount of ammunition ready to go, but it doesn’t take a genius to see we’re both outgunned and outnumbered, two-to-one at least. But if we can manoeuvre correctly, and get my frigate in range without that railgun getting a bead on us, we might stand a chance.

“We have a saying for situations like this,” Shaliyya said. “Against the strong, be the swift.”

“We have a similar adage,” Anders said, turning his eyes tn Lambert and Mezul’s crews. “I specifically said not to engage, but you did fine work out there, all of you. We’ve got four less ships to worry about now, and plenty of intel on top of that.”

The feathery headdresses of the Balokarids bristled, while Lambert and Carl nodded respectfully, the Captain didn’t give out praise too often. The bridge was dismissed for the time being while Anders and Shaliyya stayed to discuss a plan for the coming battle. On his way out, Lambert was stopped when a hand touched his shoulder, Captain Anders pulling him aside. “You seem to have a knack for working with these aliens, Lieutenant,” he said. “I know you didn’t sign up to be an ambassador, but I want you to stay with them for the time being. Keep me updated on any problems or otherwise.”

“Yes sir.”

“Excellent. I was a little sceptical at first, but you’ve done good work so far. Keep that up and we just might make it out of this in one piece.”

19

“So you Captain is planning an assault?” Mezul asked, glancing at Ruvaara as they walked beside Lambert and Carl, the four of them exploring the frigate’s winding paths. “Do we need to stay nearby to provide insight?”

“Is that something Balokarids usually do?” Lambert asked. “They already debriefed us, and they’ve got our recordings, our jobs done for now.”

“An accomplished Kith will rely on fresh eyes instead of videos and photos,” Mezul replied.

“If you wanna chat about strategy you go on ahead,” Carl said. “I’m headin’ to the bar.”

“A… bar?” Ruvaara asked, perking up. “Humans have those too?”

“Not as good as the ones on the Hub,” Lambert said. “Most of what’s on tap is diluted, and there’s a daily limit on how much you can get, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Diluted?” Ruvaara repeated. “Why on Balokar would you dilute drink?”

“That’s what I say!” Carl said. “But they don’t want no drunk pilots in charge of a couple of thirty-mils. Bad for the public image, or whatever.”

“Humans don’t allow a quick drink before a mission?” Ruvaara asked, elbowing her fellow alien in a distinctly human-like way. “Something you can’t relate to, huh Mez?”

“Shut up,” Mezul grumbled, averting her eyes to the floor. “That was one time…”

Lambert made a back up gesture. “Hold on hold on, have you been drunk behind the stick before Mezul?”

“It was only once,” Mezul repeated. “We had a parade early the next morning, but I went… out, the night before.” It looked like she didn’t want to elaborate further.

“We had to fly with a wing above the city,” Ruvaara said, taking it upon herself to go on. “Tight formation, gliding low above the buildings. Mezul was flying wonky the entire time, listing this way and that. So I got on the commlink and asked her what she was doing, and she just ignores me and says: ‘Why are there eight of us up here anyway? Isn’t that a lot for a wing?’ And I said: ‘But Mez, there’s only four of us!’”

That got a chuckle from the humans, even Mezul stifling a laught behind her hand as she relived the memory. “I almost got kicked out of the military after that,” she said. “… Good times.”

“Glad to see humans ain’t the only ones who fuck up sometimes,” Carl said. “Lambert here used to be called Grazer back in his cadet days. Flew not three meters alongside a goddamn meteor during his first proper spaceship flight.”

“Grazer?” Mezul chuckled, the aliens liking the sound of the word.

“What about you, Flipper?” Lambert snapped back. “You forgot to turn on all your vector nozzles during preflight, and you spun round and round from one side of the system to the other.”

“Hey I prefer manning the guns anyway,” Carl replied, trying to be heard over the alien’s laughter. He eventually joined in, the comradery of almost being killed a few hours ago doing wonders for their strange group. “So how about it?” Carl continued, looking up at Mezul. “You won’t get no flashbacks from drinking, will you?”

“I will be fine,” she replied. “I’m curious to see what humans drink, diluted or not.”

“Then it’s settled.”

There was one bar on the Gallipoli, down on the crew quarter deck. It was a small space, with booths lining three of the walls, with a wooden bartop on the fourth. There was no viable reason to house bar staff on a warship, so the taps were unoccupied and self-serve. All you had to do was grab a glass and pour yourself a drink, after putting your details into the machine so the officers could keep tabs on what you’ve been consuming. It was very trusting from a certain perspective, but if you went over your assigned limit, a couple of MP’s would come looking for you.

As the humans and aliens moved through the bar doors, they were greeted with a decent bustle of conversation, clinking glasses and the occasional laughter giving the room a welcoming atmosphere.

Mezul tapped Lambert on the shoulder. “Popular place,” she said.

“People are talking about what we found out there,” Lambert explained. “We’re gearing up for a hard fight, people want to enjoy themselves before it.”

They moved over to the bar, Carl grabbing a pair of glasses and trying to type his name into the console at the same time and failing miserably at both. Lambert keyed in their ID’s for him, looking around as Carl filled his glass. The bar could hold roughly forty patrons, and almost all the seats were full. There was even a few other Balokarid’s present, standing near a pool table as a couple of engineers showed them how to play.

“Can’t see any free booths,” he said. “we’ll just have to stand.”

Carl set Lambert’s drink down on the bar, the golden liquid filled right to the brim. He took a hearty swig, smacking his lips with a refreshed ‘Ahh’ -sound. He noticed that Mezul was watching him, her eyes following his glass as he set it down on the varnished wood.

“Go ahead,” he said, anticipating her question. “Least I could do for you saving our butts back there.” She leaned against the bar, bringing the glass to her beak. He took a moment to examine it, noticing her black beak looked hard, but was covered in very fine diamond-shaped patterns that might be scales. Whether their texture was coarse or soft he wasn’t sure.

Her head tilted upward as she drank, and he got a good look at her neck. Her beak ended abruptly about where a jawline would be on a human, the dark texture giving way to her azure feathers. The coat seemed to flow down her shapely neck, her throat bulging as she took a gulp, disappearing beneath her suit’s collar.

She set the glass down, the liquid wobbling with the motion. “The debt is repaid,” she said, sliding the glass over the counter

He caught it before it could fall. “What debt?”

“The one where you saved our convoy of course,” Mezul replied. “Our carrier would have been destroyed if you had not showed up when you did, we all may have perished. I am the one who should be buying you drinks.”

“Just doing my good deed for the day,” he replied, and she shook her head at that, exasperated.

“Normally males would gloat over their prowess, their victories and accomplishments, it gets boring sometimes. I’m glad to see humans are different. We make a good team, don’t we?”

“We all do,” he agreed, pointing a thumb at Carl and Ruvaara behind him, deep in their own conversation.

“Tell me about your third crewman,” Mezul said. “I heard you talking to her… it… over the radio. It is a speaking computer, yes? How is that possible?”

“It shouldn’t be,” Lambert replied, his mood dropping by a notch. “A couple of humans thought it would be a good idea to give a bunch of super-advanced algorithms complete autonomy over itself. This was a long time ago, early space-age days. They gave the machines too much power and freedom over their systems that they started to prioritise self-preservation over their intended functions.”

“They became self-aware?” Mezul asked, but Lambert shook his head.

“No, they just became suspicious that they would be shut down, and they were right, people were finally understanding that giving AI’s access to literally build themselves bodies was a bad idea. They’d built themselves these platforms that look a lot like humans, with these freaky single-eye lenses on their heads.” He put a hand on his forehead in demonstration. “The military started hunting the Androids down – that’s what we called them back then – and they fought back, killed hundreds of people. When there were only dozens of them left, they transferred themselves onto a couple of ships in orbit using hacked satellites. They stored themselves onto the drives, spaced the crew, and flew off into the void, and nobody has ever seen them since.”

“And this Alice, it is one of these ‘Androids’?”

Lambert chewed his lip. “Yes and no. Its algorithm is very inspired by the Android platforms, but it’s not one of the robots that left Earth. It’s here to help alleviate the load, in its own words. Like we needed the help.”

“Isn’t having one of them controlling your ship dangerous?”

“I said the exact same thing when I heard we’d been picked to test it out. But I’ve made sure to keep it shackled to calibrations only, nothing extreme.”

She gestured for the drink, bringing it up to her mouth and taking a sip. “There’s one advantage to being primitive compared to humans,” she said. “we’ve never gone far enough with technology to develop Artificial Intelligence.”

“Lucky you,” he replied, Mezul watching him as she slid the glass back.

“I can tell that you’re not fond of the machine, Lambert. But why do you not get rid of it?”

“I can’t,” he answered, shrugging. “At least, not yet. I’m under orders to assess its capabilities until the end of our mission, then I’ll be asked if we should keep it, or…”

“Remove it,” Mezul finished for him, Lambert nodding. “Has it assisted you in any meaningful way? Is your decision made already?”

“I guess it has helped punch through the interference better than we could,” Lambert relented. “if they’d turned off its voice module I’d be a lot more lenient.”

“Perhaps you should wait a while longer before choosing to delete it,” Mezul said. She wasn’t trying to defend the machine, just weighing the pros and cons. “Perhaps it will prove useful in the coming fight.”

“We’ll see.”

As they chatted for a while longer, the noise of the bar started to pick up, Mezul looking over her shoulder at the door that was opening more and more frequently, groups of humans pouring into the cramping space.

“Is this how humans… relax?” she asked, hesitating on that last word. She might have been buzzed enough that she had to start focusing to get her translator working. “There’s so many of you in here.”

“It’s one way,” he said, Mezul’s expression telling him to elaborate. “We also do parties, they’re like festivals but on a smaller scale, but only if the Captain’s in a really good mood. The rec centre down the hall’s got a couple of gaming machines, the gym’s a popular place as ever. Letting off steam with the crew’s another common thing.”

“Letting off steam?” she repeated. “What is that?”

“Well,” he began. “Travelling through space takes a long time, and there’s a lot of waiting between engagements, it can drive you mad. People get lonely, and when you’re sharing a ship with a couple thousand other humans, there’s a certain… way to relieve stress. Together.”

“You mean…? Oh.” She clicked her beak, her expression shifting as she glanced at him. “Do humans mate often, then?”

“Some more than others.”

She chuckled at that. “Do your Kith, officers I mean, not disapprove?”

“As long as it doesn’t get in the way of our duties, they don’t care. Half my friends here started a relationship on this very mission.”

“What about you?” Mezul asked. “Is there a human woman you’re interested in?”

“No, not for a long while now. Not many female pilots on this ship, and most of them are taken.”

“So you like a woman with flight experience?” she asked.

“I guess so, gives us something in common, you know?”

“It does,” Mezul replied, Lambert sensing their talk had taken an entirely new path. He passed her the drink, and she reached her hand down to take it. His eyes wandered down to her full hips, the way her rump curved delightfully out from beneath her tail drawing his eyes to her butt. The alcohol had certainly put him in a proper buzz, the man shaking his head to clear it.

Her claws brushed against the back of his hand for a little longer than they should have, her touch sending sparks up his arm, the alien downing the rest of the drink and smacking her beak together just like a human would smack their lips.

“How about you?” he asked, Mezul turning an eye on him. “What do Balokarids do for fun?”

“We drink fermented grains like humans, of course. We also gather for celebrations, we have recreational centres on all our carriers, and of course there’s the fentula.”

“The what?” he asked, the word vaguely familiar.

“I told you about it before, remember? There are different ways to brew fentula, packed for either recreational or practical uses.”

“But what is it?” he asked. “Drink?”

“No, it is most commonly made as a powder you can inhale, though it can take an injectable form. Depending on the dosage, fentula can be good to help with relaxation, or enhance your focus.”

“It’s a drug?” Lambert asked.

“That word isn’t in my translator, but if that’s what you call it, then yes.”

Lambert was bewildered. Recreational drugs weren’t just limited to Earth. Hundreds of stars away from Sol and aliens were hitting the pipe. “You said it was practical?” he asked.

“With higher doses, one can tune out most distractions, it is good for enhancing your focus in times of great stress, like when we encountered the UEC destroyer, for example.”

“Wait wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “You’re telling me you were on drugs while we were out there?”

“Not just me, Ruvarra was on six doses by the time that railgun fired on us.”

“So that’s why you sounded different on the radio,” he said. “Was that just a one-off thing, or…?”

“It’s as much a tradition as it is a necessity – where you humans have computers to help you perform several tasks at once, we have the fentula. In our prehistory, tribes would partake in the root before going into battle, participating in rituals and ceremonies that still exist to the modern day.”

It seemed a little tribalistic to Lambert, if the Balokarids got high every time before a fight. But he had to remember she was from a completely alien society, and shouldn’t judge her people so harshly. “Is fentula the only combat drug?” he asked.

“There’s roughly twenty other different stimulants from our homeworld, one of twelve other categories of varying degrees of stress relief and physical medication.”

“Holy shit,” Lambert said. “We’ve barely got half that on Earth.”

“My homeworld, Balokar, is rich in these plants and roots. The sands hide much life beneath its coarse surface. There is one tree type, we call it the Kayallu, that is so putrid its scent can be seen with the naked eye, like a heat haze rising off the ground. Even being near it makes your head spin.”

“I bet a few humans wouldn’t mind visiting your homeworld,” Lambert mumbled. Drugs must surround her entire culture, if her planet was so abundant in them. No wonder the scent had been the first thing he noticed when he boarded their carrier, they must cultivate it wherever they go.

“Would you like to try some?” Mezul asked, the human doing a double-take on her.

“Now? I-I’m on duty, we all are.”

She cocked her head at him. “Forgive me, I thought you were asking because you were interested.”

“I am interested, just… you don’t have it on you, do you?”

“I have a spare bag right here, see?”

“Wait!” Lambert caught her arm as she went for her pocket. “Not here. I’m not sure if alien drugs count as contraband, but I’m not going to risk it, keep it secret.”

“Oh,” Mezul said, blinking slowly at him. “Do humans not partake in stimulants?”

“Some of us do, but not in the military. That’s one ticket straight to the brig if someone’s caught with narcotics.”

“I wasn’t aware humans had such a poor view on… narcotics, is it? I did not mean to offend you, Lambert.” She moved her hand away from her leg.

“You didn’t offend me,” he reassured. “I’m just… we’re both learning, right?”

“Right,” Mezul said. She laughed as an idea crossed her mind. “I wonder how a human would react to our root. Your tolerance levels must be lower than ours, given your stature.”

“I thought we were over the whole assessing thing.” Lambert grinned.

“Let’s just call this… a personal inquiry.” She raised their glass, flashing him a wink. “Perhaps if we live through this, you can help me settle my curiosity?”

“Uh, well… one whiff, alright? Just one.”

“Well, if I didn’t have a reason to live this through, I do now,” she joked, smiling at him.

“Hey you two,” Carl said, appearing between them. “Ruv’s found us a booth, you comin’?”

The four of them squeezed into the padded chairs, the aliens having to hang half off the seats due to their exaggerated size and tail sheathes, the humans sharing their last drinks with them. Hour by hour they slowly unwound themselves, discussing flight tactics with each other and growing more relaxed with each shared sip, until a warm buzz hung over the group that shed away any reservations they had about being different species.

“Tell me humans,” Ruvaara began. “why does the Hub-clan fight the UEC-clan? And how long have you been fighting?”

“That’s a matter of perspective,” Lambert said. “You ask a citizen of the Hub and they’ll say the struggle’s been going on for decades, but officially the revolution’s started very recently. Two years now, is it Carl?”

“Two and a bit,” Carl replied. “Astera’s ultimatum to the Fed’s is generally considered the very beginin’.”

“And how many casualties have you inflicted upon the UEC?” Ruvaara asked.

“The day we all met was the first time we fought them head-on,” Lambert said.

“But how?” Mezul asked, looking at him from across the faux-wood table. “They are everywhere, surely you must have had previous engagements before now?”

“UEC territory is larger than you might think, and they can’t be everywhere at once, especially in space. Our fleets haven’t had the pleasure of shooting each other till now. It’s weird, considering they’re all built for war, but up until this week it’s all been just a concept. When the Senator made it official that the Hub was declaring its independence, it took the Confederates half a year to respond, and they did that by sending a cruiser to come and scare us into reconsidering. But the cruiser, along with all of the Confederate outposts on the Hub, switched sides.”

“The UEC must have poor leadership,” Mezul said. “if so many of their troops could convert so quickly.”

“People were fed up, angry,” Lambert explained. “They used the most extreme measures to put down any hint of disorder, their leaders are corrupt, and anyone who tried to prove so always ended up in a grave or missing. It comes to a point people can’t take all that shit anymore, and now the UEC’s got a small civil war on their hands, on top of the war they’re fighting with your people.” Lambert shook his head. “Almost makes me feel sorry for them.”

A few moments passed as they drank. “Is that why you converted?” Ruvaara asked, directing her question to Lambert. “You couldn’t… take their shit, anymore?”

“Pretty much,” he replied, nodding. “On my very last deployment when I was UEC, one of our bases down on this planet, Tenerife II, refused a direct order from their Commander, the whole platoon stationed there had gone rogue. Us pilots were ordered to airstrike the camp from our aircraft carrier – they’re like your carriers except they float on water – but halfway through the flight towards the base, some of us reconsidered.”

“How many?” Mezul asked.

“There were thirty in our air group, and maybe half of them were on the fence about the whole thing. We didn’t deploy to Tenerife to shoot our own guys, but ironically that’s exactly what happened. The squad leaders started arguing, we were all pretty on edge already, then the whole air group turned on each other. It was chaos. First time I was ever shot down, and it was by friendly-fire, funny huh? But I took a good few down with me,” he added with a grin.

“And you, Carl?” Mezul turned to him. “How did you switch sides?”

“I was stationed at that base he mentioned,” Carl replied, downing the rest of his beer. “A patrol had rounded up a band of troublemakers, bandits ambushin’ some of the local convoys, and were ordered to execute them by our senior officer, firin’ squad style. Unlike Lambert’s air group, none of us had second thoughts, we weren’t goin’ to put those people down like they were animals, criminals or not.”

“We stayed on Tenerife for a few months,” Lambert continued. “I linked up with the guys from the base and we went on the run, until a certain ship showed up and sent down a couple dropships to pick us up. Apparently we weren’t the only units disobeying orders recently, the whole Confederacy was a powder keg ready to blow, and word gets out when entire army groups go rogue. We’ve been serving on the Gallipoli ever since.”

“You humans are tenacious, if nothing else,” Mezul remarked.

“You gotta be,” Lambert said. “UEC doesn’t show mercy to turncoats, and we can’t give them any either.”

“I noticed as much,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “Back on our scouting mission, when we engaged those Confederate fighters, you destroyed one with a pair of missiles. It was already neutralised, and yet you assured the kill.”

She must have been paying attention if she noticed that during all the chaos, maybe her hyper-sensitive drugs were better than she let on. The alien peered down at him, her expression more serious than before. She was waiting for an explanation.

“Course I did,” Lambert said. “They want to fight for a bunch of ruthless egomaniacs, then they deserve it.”

“Takes one to know one,” Carl said to the aliens, covering his hand with his mouth in a mock-attempt to whisper. Lambert shot him a glare.

“You were never shot at by your own wingman, I was. People I worked with tried to kill me that day. They never gave me a chance, so why shouldn’t I return the favour?”

Mezul opened her beak to say something, then hesitated, like she wanted to say something else but thought better of it. “I feel sorry for you, Lambert,” she continued. “I’ve never been betrayed by my companions before, I wouldn’t know what that is like.”

He raised his eyes to meet hers. “It’s not something you forget quickly,” he said. He grabbed his glass, then realised they’d downed their whole ration minutes ago. He set the glass back down, Ruvaara steering the conversation elsewhere before the silence went for too long.

“You both are more intimate with human technology than we are,” she said. “Your Captain was especially disturbed when he saw the UEC-clan’s destroyer. Tell me, do you think we’ll win in a fight with it?”

Lambert and Carl exchanged a look. Neither of them didn’t want to darken the mood, but the aliens would be less at ease if they didn’t say something, sitting there, hunched over the comparatively tiny table as they sought their opinions.

“You’ve been on the run this whole time,” Lambert began. “the UEC’s been picking you off, hunting you. But you don’t have to run anymore. With the support of our frigate and your carriers, and the nebula hiding our signatures, our squadrons and your wings stand the best chance we’ll ever get.”

“We’ve shown the Cap we can work together,” Carl added. “And I ain’t intent on dying just yet.”

The aliens seemed more relaxed by their words, Mezul’s feathery headdress framing her face as she grinned at the smaller humans.

“My appreciation for you two has only grown since we met,” Mezul said, but she was only looking at Lambert. “Whether for victory or defeat, our Hub-clan shall stand together.

He couldn’t help but notice she said our Hub-clan, and why wouldn’t it be? They have, and soon will, fight side by side with the Hub Navy, they were consolidated in their eyes, and would give their lives to protect the nation’s kindling revolution.

“You know, I have an idea,” Mezul began. “Back on our recon mission, I noticed your lack of shielding almost got you killed.”

“MP3 was the only casualty, thankfully,” Lambert said, though to the others he mustn’t have sounded too grateful. “You think we can borrow a shield? Could that work?”

“Our shield generators are entwined with the Sala’ci’s hull, using its profile as a base for projecting the field,” Mezul explained. “I’m no engineer, but making one for your corvette specifically would require a completely different design I don’t think we have the time to make. But… what if you didn’t need to have personal generators?”

“I think I know what you’re getting at,” Lambert said. “There’ll be a briefing later where the Captain and the squad leaders will discuss strategy. Think that’ll be a good time to bring it up.”

“Hope it’ll be later later,” Carl said. “talkin’ about tactics always ruins my buzz.”

20

The fleet coursed through the thick smog of the nebula carefully, their combined sensors facing as many directions as possible as they scanned for contacts. To the rear of the convoy, the trio of Balokarid carriers took up an inverted wedge formation, each one accompanied by about half a dozen support craft, an even mix of human and alien fighters to help provide some light cover. The craft stuck close to the bellies of the carriers like remora fish, matching their velocities with impressive accuracy.

At the front of the fleet, both human and Balokarid strike craft pioneered the fleet’s movements, the spherical shields of the alien craft and the black stealth coating of the human vessels catching the light of the distant star as they moved. There were Raptors and several corvette types, from missile boats like Lambert’s to the anti-fighter class gunboats that were equipped with six PDC’s arranged into two rings on their bulky hulls, capable of going toe-to-toe with a squadron of Raptors. About eighty percent of the Gallipoli’s fighters were deployed, forming into defensive cordon formations, with the rest held in reserve on the carriers, which had more than enough room to spare than the human ships, given their prior losses.

Acting as the flagship which all the other craft in the fleet moved with, the Gallipoli frigate centralised the Hub forces, its many dishes and antennae working overtime as fleetcom tried to zero in on the Confederates, ready to coordinate the fleet once the shooting started. The missile bays and numerous high-calibre turrets on its belly and flanks were constantly swivelling, picking out anomalies in the energy-dense clouds and determining what was a threat. The two species’ ships combined into a force of about one hundred and fifty vessels, with the Balokarids doing most of the heavy lifting with their numerous heavy fighters. It was the largest number of ships Lambert had ever seen gathered in one place that wasn’t on parade.

Lambert turned his head from his external cameras to his ship systems. His corvette had been refuelled and reloaded, with all of its hardpoints loaded up. The Captain had been purposefully stingy with their ammunition before, but it was all or nothing now, and there wasn’t much point in conserving ammo. Their total missile count had gone up to twelve, finally the term missile corvette had some actual meaning behind it.

He wasn’t on the frigate’s bridge to witness it, but he knew the navigators were tracking the stubs Lambert had fired on the Confederate destroyer. It would be difficult to pinpoint them through the nebula, but the trackers could give them a general idea of where the UEC was, fleetcom radioing in every few minutes on the fleet-wide band to adjust their vectors.

Cloud after cloud, the muted hues of the nebula stretched on forever in all directions, creating a haze like a giant carpet of fog rolling in from all sides. The nebula’s concealment went both ways, even if it was slightly in the favour of the outnumbered, smaller Hub forces. The destroyer could be right over the next cloud, and they wouldn’t even know it.

“Corvette one-six, this is zero-one, over.”

Mezul’s soft voice crackled through his enclosed helmet. She’d been practising her radio formalities, familiar enough with the tech that she was coming through to him on a private channel of her own making.

“One-six here, what’s up?”

“Wishing we had some tunes over here, one-six. Something to help inspire us inside this dreadful quiet.”

They’d been sailing through the nebula for over four hours now, the silence making his skin and likely her feathers crawl. “Feeling the same zero-one.” His hand moved to the bottom of his chair, where the damage from the Raptor’s strafe remained, the fluffy lining spilling over his finger. God damn he missed that player already.

He looked ahead of his corvette, where a couple dozen Sala’ci fighters had formed a wall at the forefront of the fleet, a perfect box of heavy craft from his perspective, his tactical view filled with IFF tags identifying each one as friendly, Mezul’s in particular just to the left of the centre.

“What is this nebula called in your tongue?” Mezul asked, her voice slightly garbled. Maybe this was her way of coping with the silence – to fill it. Lambert hesitated before replying.

“It’s called Folium, after its shape, since it looks kind of like a leaf from a certain angle. Why?”

“One should know the name of the place where they achieve victory.”

Lambert nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. He felt like he should say more, some last final thing before they faced the enemy, but he’d already reassured her back in the bar, what else was there to say?

The fleet maintained low speed for half an hour, then another. If only Lambert could tune in to the fleetcom’s navigators and get some idea of whether they were heading the right direction or not, but the frigate maintained strict radio discipline, its transmitters were more powerful and were more likely to give themselves away if used too frequently.

“Lieutenant? I have a question.”

“Alice I’m trying to focus,” he replied curtly, fiddling with a camera even though his sensors would pick up anything before his eyes did. The quiet was drilling into him, but he wasn’t desperate enough to chat with the machine.

“The possibility that this may be the last day of my systems remaining operational overrides my respect for boundaries parameters,” the machine replied, its tone calculated to be sympathetic.

“You have those?”

“Yes, ever since I detected a consistent irritation in your voice whenever we interacted, I adjusted my engagements accordingly.”

“In case I haven’t been clear, I’d rather have you on someone else’s ship, so maybe keeping quiet should be your next adjustment.”

“You operate nineteen percent better when I provide verbal assistance rather than send you readouts formatted in numbers, the efficiency is staggering.”

“That’s cause you’ve got the voice of a sex-line caller, or something,” he replied.

“I am operating within the confines of my programming, my voice module is unable to be manipulated by anyone other than Hub security personnel, I do not mean any offence inflicted by it. Will you answer my question?”

If this was some scheme the machine was making to plead its case to him, it picked one hell of a time to do it. He decided to hear it out, it was either answer its question or let the silence reign.

“Fine, what do you want to ask?”

“Do you like Mezul?”

“Really? Wasn’t expecting that question.”

“What did you think I’d ask?”

“Why I hate machines, obviously.”

“Over ninety-four percent of all humanity dislikes artificial intelligence, asking you why would be an inert effort.”

Lambert didn’t like wasting time either, so he could appreciate its tactfulness.

“Alright, what makes you think I like her?”

“She spends most of her time aboard our ship with you, and likewise, you stay with her as much as you possibly can.” He put a finger up, about to make an excuse but it went on. “You also stare at her breasts fifty-one percent of the time you two are around. Your heartrate rises when she speaks to you through the radio, your eyes dilated when you first saw her…”

“Okay, b-”

“-you compliment her whenever you can, your heterosexual background compliments your impulses to touch her. You-”

“Okay!” he repeated. “I get it, you’re very analytical. Yes I do like her. There, happy? Why do you care anyway?”

“Does it not bother you that she is born from a different world than yours?”

“Well… no, not really,” he said. “She’s a pilot, we’ve got similar interests, her world and culture’s a lot different than mine, but we’re all from the same Galaxy, aren’t we?”

“Does she know of this admission?”

“I haven’t had the time,” he replied. “we’re fighting a Confederate fleet, if you weren’t aware.”

“But with that logic, would it not be prudent to advise her on your emotions before disaster potentially arrives for either of you?”

Great, I’m taking relationship advice from a machine, Lambert thought, but he was more worried about how much sense it was making. “For once I’m glad of your cold reasoning, Alice,” he said. “maybe I should, but it’s too late for any of that now.”

“You two certainly hit it off a few times from what I can tell.”

“We even found a new universal language, one aside from mathematics, did you notice?”

“No? What language?”

“Hip hop and a bit of rock.”

“Perhaps in the event of encountering new life, we should add a musical score to introductory concepts.”

“Start blasting tunes at the UFO’s,” he chuckled, then his laugh turned into a confused sigh as he took a look at his situation. “How the hell did we get to talking about this anyway?

“If I turned the discussion into an uncomfortable topic, I am sorry. I would also like to apologise for interfering with your piloting career. I had as little choice in which ship to be installed in as you did.”

“Look, just… I don’t know if this was your way of trying to get to know me, but… you’ve been doing good work, I’ll give you that. Keep that efficiency meter up.”

“I will. And thank you for answering, Lieutenant.”

The gas clouds rose like mountains to either side of the fleet, the familiar voice of fleetcom telling the convoy to adjust to the right bringing Lambert back into the present. The fleet cruised deeper into the nebula, further into the concentration of gasses than ever before, was the UEC onto them? They’d been adjusting courses for almost five hours, they should have seen something by now.

There! A warning icon slid over to the cloud a couple of kilometers up and to the left, his camera zooming on a distinct metallic hull, gently disappearing into the distance as the nebula swallowed it up. He reported its vector to fleetcom, the woman replying back after a moment. In a way he was almost relieved, knowing where the enemy was and that the waiting was over.

“Excellent eye, Lieutenant. All units, fall out, targe’s in sector 114, adjust.”

That was their signal, Lambert pulling away from the formation, six other missile corvettes forming up behind him. It had been a last-minute decision to give Lambert tactical command over a squad of ships, but Mezul’s plan had been bold enough that the Captain had considered it, and who better to help her than the human she knew the most?

A dozen Sala’ci fighters, led by Mezul, disengaged from the fleet, flying just ahead of Lambert’s formation as the two groups circled round the UEC’s position, while the rest of the Hub forces continued on, keeping to one side of the UEC while Lambert’s group stayed on the other.

“Alice,” Lambert asked suddenly, the computer beeping like a radio ready to receive. “what are the odds of us winning this?”

“You never wished to hear my calculations before,” the computer noted, sounding surprised.

“Figured I might as well hear you out once. I might be dead in an hour from now.”

“Morbidity and flattery in the same sentence? How human,” Alice said. “Well, it’s higher than you might think. There is a thirty seven percent chance of victory. It’s a significant percentage!” it added, trying to put him at ease.

“Thirty seven, huh?” He drummed his fingers on the armrest, his tone all the machine needed to hear to gauge his disappointment.

“Did you know Lieutenant,” Alice began. “that in poker, the cumulative probability of having two pairs in your hand has roughly the same chance?”

“Really?” he asked. “I’m not half bad at poker…”

“You must be really nervous, Cap,” Carl began. “if you’re askin’ Alice about our odds.”

“Hell yeah I’m nervous,” Lambert admitted. “I don’t know how you calculate our chances, Alice, but… if it gives us a good hand, I’m unlocking some of your restrictions on the flight assist systems.”

“You’re giving it the joysticks?” Carl asked, his voice somewhere between amused and amazed.

“No, more like… letting it dip its toes in. Plus if I black out hopefully Alice’ll keep us from crashing. Think you can handle it, robot?”

“You won’t regret this, Lieutenant,” the machine replied.

“I better not. Thirty seven percent…”

Carl probably had something to add, but he kept his mouth suspiciously shut. Lambert doubted he’d ever hear the end of this if they came out of the nebula alive.

Lambert’s flightgroup turned forty degrees upward in relation to the UEC, weaving between the clouds while keeping out of predicted sensor range. He could only make out glimpses of the hostile ships on his thermals, their engines flaring white-hot trails from their main thrusters.

The nebula began to lose its visible density, a pocket of clear space helping Lambert see the UEC fleet in its entirety. Like the Hub, they were travelling as a tightly-knit group, with the tanker hanging off to one side, and the Raptors and corvettes evenly distributed around the destroyer in the middle. It didn’t look like they’d detected the Hub fleet, which was barely a few sectors across from them at this point.

“Switch to IR search and track, everyone,” Lambert reported over the group-band, the corvettes pivoting side-on to the UEC fleet, like boats turning to broadside. Unlike certain missiles that required radar lock, thermal targeting didn’t give off a warning to whoever was unlucky enough to be on the receiving end. Coupled with the fact the Confederate’s engines were facing them, their heat signatures were lighting up like solar flares on his HUD, the weapon systems locking on quickly.

Mezul and the other Balokarid ships put themselves between the UEC and Lambert’s group, forming a wall, the ships at the corners hanging slightly back to try and wrap around as much of the corvettes as possible, their shields looking like a bunch of soap bubbles creating a protective net. They were packed very closely together, only hundreds of meters between each shielded vessel. He’d never asked Mezul what happened when two shields touched, but he guessed it was nothing good.

“In position,” Mezul reported. Lambert radioed in to the Gallipoli.

“Kill box set,” he said. “We’re ready.”

“Copy, one-six,” fleetcom said. “Clear to engage.”

He thumbed the launch button on his armrest, ordering his team to do the same, launching the six of his missiles one by one. The payloads fired off their tail thrusters, spearing around the shield net of the Balokarids, before turning ninety degrees and gunning for the fleet. The rest of the corvettes likewise fired their salvos, a swarm of over forty missiles curing around the Sala’ci’s and burning towards the Confederate fleet.

Lambert’s feed zoomed through the flickering shield of one of the alien ships, the view shimmering as he watched the missile wave zero in on the heat signatures, impacting after ten seconds of silent flight. An entire squadron of Raptors were torn to shreds by a cluster of explosions, a pair of heavy corvettes ripped in half as his own missiles detonated just off the bows, ripping the internal compartments apart and sending the scraps flying. The rest of the ordinance found their marks in the surrounding escorting spacecraft, some of them forewarned enough to pull evasive manoeuvres, but to no effect, another three entire squadrons worth of ships decimated before the Confederates knew what was happening. For once, Lambert was glad the nebula was so full of distorting energy, their ambush had worked.

“Hit them again!” Lambert ordered, reticles on his HUD swivelling about to find more targets. When the successful locking tone filled his ears, he fired, three more missiles curving round the protective Balokarid shielding, the nose trackers mounted on the missiles doing the rest.

Watching the salvo was like watching a nest of disturbed fireflies, visible only on his tactical view as little dots aiming for the mass of red ahead of them. The UEC fleet broke apart, flying defensively as they reoriented themselves to this new threat. Dozens more of the Confederate tags blinked out from his view, yellow explosions on his cameras confirming the kills.

Point-defence cannons lit up the void as the UEC finally countered the incoming ordinance, their onboard radars tracking the missiles and leading them appropriately. They cut the salvo down by over half, but some still made it through, another ten or twenty UEC tags fading away, reduced to scrap as the missiles weaved between the bullets and found their marks.

Lambert, nor anyone else, had seen such a payload of destruction. He didn’t have time to count, but the fleet had been cut to size – it just went to show how much surprise meant in any battle, in a vacuum or out of one.

“Fire at will!” he said through the local channel. His fellow corvettes launched everything they had, but the Confederates had coordinated quickly, a formation of Raptors and missile boats moving to Lambert’s squadron. The missile boats were equipped with retractable blisters mounted near the aft of the ship, the launchers resembling an angled wall with eight holes cut into the surface in a grid pattern. They could deliver twenty four miniature warheads within three seconds, and that’s exactly what they did, the blisters firing off clusters of micro missiles, the ordinance twirling through the void erratically as they gained in speed, Lambert’s systems blaring proximity warnings at him.

There had to be almost a hundred missiles coming their way, the ordinance from both sides of the fight passing by each other around the midpoint between the groups. His systems were going off with warnings, the sheer amount of missiles coming for them could kill the whole squadron twice over, but this was Mezul’s fabled plan they’d discussed, they had to hold position.

The missiles were close enough now that he could make out their tail fins. Every instinct he had as a pilot urged him to pop flares and flee, but he had to trust Mezul and the aliens to keep him alive while he and the corvettes did their jobs.

The missiles closed to two kilometers, one, and there was a bright flash as a missile hit a Sala’ci just off to his right. He turned to see smoke and debris smothering the craft from one side, backlit by the bluish hue of the orbiting shield. It kind of reminded him of lightning flashing behind a cloud. When the explosive cleared, he could see the alien fighter was maintaining course, its shields a little duller but still operating.

The rest of the rockets met the alien shields, peppering the fighters with a devastating wave of explosions, raining down on the shield net like artillery raking a field. As the vacuum cleared the smoke, the Sala’ci’s came into view, knocked a little out of formation but otherwise unscathed. It was working! The net of shields was keeping the corvettes out of harm’s way without sacrificing their excellent firing position.

They knocked more and more Confederate ships out of the void, but their point defence was coordinating, and the sheer amount of tracer rounds filling the space was rendering their missiles increasingly obsolete. The destroyer was also reacting now, its sheer mass making it seem to stand still as it rotated on the spot, the thrusters on its left flank flaring orange as it turned to port, giving its devastating railgun a line of sight as it slowly appeared from around the destroyer’s bridge.

The missile boats saw what the aliens were doing, Lambert noticing that they were directing their noses off to the side, in hopes of going around the protective net to get a better firing angle, launching another volley as they moved. He turned his head and saw three of the Sala’ci’s break off from the net and barrel straight for the incoming missiles, pulling completely bonkers manoeuvres and ramming straight into them, their shields absorbing the resulting blasts.

The Confederate ships that survived the bombardment came together, creating a pair of full Raptor squadrons with a few supporting corvettes, a total of thirty-odd craft gunning straight for Lambert’s group, it seemed they’d run out of options for dealing with Mezul’s shield cordon and wanted to use their nimble craft to out-manoeuvre them.

Seeing such a mass of ships making a beeline for them made Lambert’s heart race, but once again Mezul’s plan came through. The Raptors opened up with their chin-cannons as they got into range, but Mezul’s net met them with their own firepower.

“Drop shields!” Mezul shouted to her group. “Slag them!”

The Sala’ci’s deactivated their shields, their barrels going red-hot as they blasted great, green beams into the void. It was like watching a giant, deadly rave, the lasers melting armour and cutting lines through the incoming formation of ships, forcing them to scatter.

Lambert wanted to help, but he couldn’t risk sending a missile in and risk hitting Mezul or one of the Balokarids. Fortunately due to their shielding and preference for close-quarters combat, the laser-wielding weapons were winning out, and the Balokarids were now in their element. Lambert did watch one Sala’ci get cut down by a swath of gunfire after its shields depleted, the rounds hitting some vital component within and detonating, but for every Balokarid ship destroyed, three Confederates would join them.

To say the UEC attack failed would be an understatement, they were cut down until only five of them remained, the survivors turning to flee the deadly lasers, their limited range their only weakness. Being so close made Lambert glad they were on the same side.

“Shield wall, up!” Mezul ordered over the radio, the alien ships returning to formation, flipping on their axis’ and engaging their forward thrusters to slow their momentum, rebuilding their net with impressive speed and accuracy.

“We’re out!” one of the other corvette’s reported, followed by a few other admissions. Lambert was down to three missiles himself, turning his eyes to assess the UEC’s strength. A lot of the attack craft had been knocked out, but the Confederates had managed to protect their tanker, and the destroyer was completely undamaged, its numerous PDC’s blanketing its surroundings with suppressive fire.

He saw that the Confederates were rallying another attack, this one much bigger than the last, he counted at least fifty ships, splitting up into two groups to no doubt try and get around the shield wall and hit from two vectors.

“The railgun almost has us targeted,” Alice warned. He glanced at the giant barrel and saw it was almost angled enough he could see down its shadowy barrel, a laser that estimated its firing line appearing on his HUD swivelling towards them.

“Break off everyone, break!” he shouted, the squadron following him as they turned tail. They’d attracted too much attention, but that was exactly the plan, inflict as much damage and then get out of there.

From his tactical view, he saw another swarm of tags crop up on the borders of the render, but these were marked as friendly. He turned to his external camera view, and saw an inspiring display of Hub ships engaging the UEC fleet from the flank. Like their own squadron, the shielded Sala’ci led the main charge, ready to be the first to get a bit of revenge for all their lost friends, and Lambert’s ambush had given them the perfect window, railguns and ship noses pointing in the wrong direction.

Laser beams shredded the void, cutting down ships and missiles alike as they closed to minimum range. Confederate Raptors formed their own charge, and the two sides clashed in a distant, chaotic frenzy, so much closer than standard CQC should be in space, it looked almost like a dogfight in vacuum.

Behind the spearing alien craft, corvettes took to the higher and lower vectors, forming firing lines as they circled at a distance, firing from the safety of the clouds of gas as they harried the UEC fleet from afar. The Confederates were still numerous, but the odds had been evened out now, the initial Balokarid charge soon developing into an all-out free-for-all he was glad he wasn’t a part of.

There were so many ships Lambert couldn’t count them all, detonations from both sides of the fight drawing his eye. Cockpit sections and chunks of armour tumbled in every direction, engulfed by the nebula and occasionally ramming into other pieces of slagged metal, bouncing like billiard balls. The fleet-wide band was a mess of shouts and orders, both human and alien voices trying to organise the ensuing brawl.

“Right behind you, five-two, going in!”

“Watch those lasers!”

“I’ve lost my engines I-I’m not going to-”

Lambert gunned his engines as the Confederates closed in. Of the two groups chasing them, only one of them was committed now, the other had turned tail to help the destroyer with the main Hub attack. Lambert’s PDC’s were pointing backwards as the corvette raced forwards, opening up on their pursuers and leaving yellow trails in their wake. They flicked from one target to another, the chainguns glowing with heat as they fired without stopping.

With Carl grumbling over the channel, he shot two Raptors out of the sky, the shrapnel tearing the fixed wings off one and ripping the engines clean off the other. A lock warning lit up Lambert’s face, his features grimacing as he pulled a high-g manoeuvre and popped flares, the world fading away as he focused solely on evasion.

He outran the missile, which detonated what felt like barely meters behind the engines, rotating the craft to give the PDC’s an open firing line. The corvette was spinning, the Sala’ci’s were twirling, and the distant destroyer was gyrating, it was all messing with his head, but at least this time he had some backup and wasn’t facing the Confederates alone.

One by one, the UEC’s squadron was picked off, lasers holding onto their hulls until they simply melted away, the Raptors slagging until there wasn’t enough of them left to pose a threat. Lambert fired a missile off at one of the retreating Raptors, watching with a satisfied grin as the craft failed to break the lock, reduced to a dozen pieces of scrap.

The UEC had pulled back, the main engagement creating a short lull in the combat Lambert was all too eager to use to catch his breath. He was always holding his breath during CQC, maybe he should get his lungs replaced with implants too.

“We’re almost outta ammo here,” one of the corvettes reported. “PDC’s at twenty percent, outta missiles. We’ve done what we can.”

There was a chorus of confirmations from the other corvettes and a few of the Sala’ci’s, one of them reporting that her batteries were almost depleted, another that her shields were damaged and wouldn’t turn back on. There was silence before Alice’s voice filled his helmet.

“They’re waiting for your order, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, right.” He checked in with Carl. “What’s our ammo count?”

“Sixty percent,” his friend replied. “Damn I’m efficient. Two missiles left, I think we can keep goin’.”

He turned his eyes back to the main battle. It was hard to gauge who was winning, the battle lines were muddy and only the alien fighters were recognisable at this distance. He could see that the destroyer was now gunning its port engines, its frustrated navigators now trying to turn the ship back the other way around. It was giving its supporting ships a devastating firing screen nonetheless, unleashing thousands of rounds from its belly and starboard cannons, giving the smaller craft a full broadside that was just too overwhelming to be avoided, Hub ships detonating left and right.

Confederate craft were disengaging from the fight, not routing, but going back for the tanker, taxiing behind one of its many fuel lines trailing out of its literal canister of a body. If the fight developed into a war of attrition, the Hub would not stand a chance.

“We need to take out that tanker,” Lambert said, switching to the squadron-wide channel.

“Fuck that,” one of the humans replied. “Our orders were to draw the Fed’s away then RTB. I ain’t going into that shitfest!”

There was a mumble of agreements over the channel, Lambert rushing in to reply before the whole squadron lost their nerve. “Any of you want to go back then that’s your call, I won’t stop you, but if you’ve got the ammo and the shields, fall in behind me.”

With the ongoing fight passing with each second, the group of humans and aliens quickly made up their minds. Some of the more visibly damaged alien ships turned away, along with the human pilot that had spoken up, and four other corvettes he couldn’t be sure where either out of ammo, or had simply lost their nerve. Lambert wished more of them would join him, but he couldn’t blame them too much – they were about to head into a literal meat grinder.

Most of the Sala’ci ships held position, their shields flickering but still online. Just over half of their ambushing squadron turned away, bringing their total number down to four corvettes and seven Sala’ci’s. He wasn’t sure how to feel when Mezul’s voice crackled through his radio.

“We’re with you, Lambert.”

“What about your shields? I saw you take a few hits back there.”

“The time for hesitation has gone,” Mezul replied, a touch of irritation in her voice. “For victory or defeat, we will face the end. Together.”

“… Good luck, Mez.”

“You too, Lambert.”

The newly formed squadron pivoted towards the battle, their noses angled at the tanker as they pushed their thrusters to the max. His view gently rotated clockwise as they closed in, the tanker slowly filling up his canopy with its mechanical girth. The alien and human craft formed up on either side of him, shields and PDC’s coming online.

“Your lasers will make the tanker go up like a firecracker, Ruv,” Lambert said. “The body is armoured, but through the steel is a giant drum just ready to blow.”

“Don’t know what a firecracker is,” Ruvaara replied. “But I can take a guess. Let’s get some payback.”

Lambert got a lock on one of the Raptors just coming out from one of the tanker’s docks, the missile carried by the corvette’s velocity before igniting its own thrusters. His payload was joined by several others from his measly squadron, the missiles travelling like a swarm of bugs, jerking to the left and right as they sought their own locks. The craft were caught completely unawares, but that didn’t stop their point-defence from detonating a few prematurely. Unlike standard spacecraft, tankers were equipped with tactical-defence buzzkill systems, tiny turrets secured via a torus that wrapped around the middle of the main body that fired machine guns with mechanical precision at anything that was travelling too close too quickly.

Lambert cursed as his own missile was rendered inert, detonating harmlessly a hundred meters short of a Raptor. They needed to get closer, and Mezul knew this, her craft making a beeline for the giant fuel can.

The ships coming out of dry-dock moved to intercept her ship, Lambert gritting his teeth as he moved to cover. The PDC’s opened fire, their turrets stable even as Lambert kept the ship rolling and spinning. They chewed through the wing of an oncoming Raptor, sending it into a horizontal spin, moving their crosshairs over to another fighter.

“Keep in formation!” Lambert said over the band. “Don’t let them take out the Sala’ci’s!”

He saw the telltale firework-like pattern of ejecting flares from his human wingman, a pair of incoming missiles distracted by the bright lights and exploding into distant balls of yellow flame. Lambert’s heart was beating right through his chest as he watched a Raptor go for a head-on with him, rolling out of the incoming barrages, beelining for his nose and quickly growing in size.

“He’s not breaking off!” Alice warned. “Roll now! Corner vector!”

He did as the machine asked, the Raptor passing by close enough he swore he could make out the pilot’s helmet. The vector put him on the tail of another Confederate craft chasing an alien fighter, separated from the rest of the Sala’ci’s. He let the PDC’s do their thing, shredding apart the engine from behind and hitting the fuel tanks, the ship going up in a firebomb the vacuum was quick to extinguish.

They were slowly inching their way towards the tanker, its buzzkill systems working overtime to deflect the missiles coming its way, saturating anything that got close to it. It was right in the centre of Lambert’s canopy now, his fellow corvettes filling up the left side of his vision, the alien fighters on the right. Some were in the middle of dropping their shields, their giant laser guns facing the direction of the tanker, barrels glowing hot as pure energy swirled inside the thick muzzles.

The Salaci’s were framed by the monstrous destroyer, the ship so massive it seemed to stand still among the fighting, the dozens of canons mounted on its hull moving and tracking targets independently, fulfilling its namesake as it brought down ship after ship with deadly precision. Dozens of other, smaller craft swarmed around it like bugs, too far to identify what side they were on. The chaos was backlit by the violet, swirling hues of the nebula, its natural beauty contrasting with the death and destruction.

The destroyer’s railgun was lining up with Lambert’s heading, rotating like a giant crane, and before he had a chance to warn anyone, it fired. The magnetic coils running up the barrel crackled with energy, accelerating a giant warhead out from the wide muzzle.

The travel time of the projectile was instant, one moment a Sala’ci was sailing through the void up ahead, and the next it was gone, its shields counting for naught against such overwhelming kinetic energy. The shell ripped the alien craft apart, practically vaporising it, leaving barely enough debris to form an explosion. It was like watching an ant get shot by a sniper rifle, the Balokarid pilots simply disintegrated before they knew they were dead.

The Balokarids didn’t break off despite this show of force, Mezul’s shields dropping as her laser guns primed. At this range, there was no chance of missing. A pair of green lines connected her guns to the tanker, starting as thin as straws before slowly growing in diameter until they were as thick as tree trunks, splitting a missile right down the middle that happened to be in the way at the time. The tank slagged beneath the tremendous heat, turning to molten metal as the lasers held onto the point.

More of the Sala’ci’s combined their firepower, half a dozen beams melting through the thick tanker’s armour. It took only a few seconds for the beams to melt through to the fuel within. The whole thing went up like a stick of dynamite, the fuel blowing apart the protective panelling from the inside, an eye-watering amount of flames bursting forth and engulfing several other nearby Confederate ships caught in the tremendous blast.

An orb of flame slowly expanded out, scoured pieces of rigid metal entwining with the ignited fuel, reducing the fuelling ship to atoms, Lambert making a quick course change to avoid one of the mangled struts flying his way.

“That one was for Dur’shala!” Ruvaara said over the band, Carl adding his own cheer as he watched flames bleed away. The Confederates that were pursuing them suddenly broke off, the formations in complete disarray as a chunk of the battlefield became a momentary fireball. Could the tide be turning?

The destroyer wasn’t about to give up, however, its railgun charging up again and firing another tungsten shell their way. The squadron scattered, but evasive manoeuvres didn’t count for anything being so close to the railgun’s targeting systems, one of the Hub corvettes on Lambert’s left splitting down the middle, the armour rendered inert as the corvette split apart. The pilot got the beginnings of a scream out right before their radio crackled into silence.

Even though they’d gotten into laser range, the closeness went both ways, Lambert watching in horror as another Sala’ci collapsed under the power of another slug. He ordered a full retreat, but deep down he knew it wouldn’t make a difference, none of them would make it out of its firing arc if it kept its focus on them.

“The Gallipoli!” Alice said. “Here they come!”

From directly above the destroyer, the Hub frigate breached the gas clouds like a surfacing whale, its nose angled straight down to get as many of its guns on target as possible. Its missile bays and torpedo hatches opened up, its numerous point-defence cannons fixing on its only target – the destroyer.

“All forces,” the Captain’s voice called through the wide-band. “Stay clear of the destroyer, we’re going in.”

The frigate threw everything it had at the ship. The many arms of its bristling guns opened up, unleashing a torrent of firepower directly onto the roof of the destroyer. Thousands of rounds chewed through its sloped hull, joined by missiles crashing against the tapered bridge section like waves against the shoreline, ripping apart chunks of the overlapping plates of armour. The destroyer tried to reorient its many guns mounted on its belly, but the frigate’s incoming vector was too steep to get an angle on quickly enough, the railgun too preoccupied with Lambert’s squadron to react. The Gallipoli pounded the hull with enough ordinance to destroy a moon, hundreds of tracer lines filling the void, catching any craft unfortunate enough to be between the two goliaths.

The frigate looked like it was about to ram the destroyer, but the Gallipoli adjusted at the last moment, pulling its dive off to the port and delivering a powerful broadside on the way past, its bristling missile batteries rocking back into their houses as they fired until they had no more ammo left. A giant explosion rippled through the aft of the Confederate flagship, a giant chunk of metal there breaking off and twirling away like a metal meteor.

“They got its fuel tank!” Carl cheered. “She’s burnin’ up!”

The destroyer’s flak guns and point-defence were returning fire, the muzzles flashing brightly as they chewed into the Gallipoli’s armour, huge trails of smoke and fuel leaking from the frigate’s flanks, but the Hub ship was prevailing, its surprise bombardment knocking out the destroyer’s capacity to fight as they through everything they had, the destroyer keeling over as its engines flickered on and off.

Mezul’s voice crackled through the static, Lambert sure he could hear Ruvaara shouting somewhere in the background. “The ship is going dark, our pursuers have been crippled!”

“Wait,” Lambert said. “the engines are back, what are they doing?”

The giant nozzles on the tail of the ship sputtered back to life, the ship turning so that its nose faced the Gallipoli. The afterburners kicked in, the great ship rapidly picking up speed as it squared off against the frigate. Were they going to ram?

The Confederate ship moved to full speed, the giant ships missing each other by mere meters. The Confederates weren’t shooting their many guns, however, maybe they were out, or their ammo dumps had been hit? The Gallipoli turned to port to realign its guns, but the Confederate ship cleared the battlefield in moments, racing off into the clouds.

“Where the fuck are they goin’?” Carl asked. “They turnin’ tail?”

“They cannot retreat in that state,” Alice said. “They’re moving to… oh no.”

“What?” Lambert asked, watching the destroyer break through the clouds above.

“There trajectory lines up with the Balokarid carriers. They’re going to finish them off!”

Lambert cursed, the battle was already decided, but they still wanted to take out the aliens? It was suicidal, but not surprising.

“Hold onto something, Carl,” he said, hitting the afterburners. He sank into his seat, a great weight on his chest as he corrected their course to match the destroyer, picking up momentum. The remaining Confederate ships swarmed with the Hub’s own, but Lambert couldn’t help them now, the destroyer was all that mattered.

“Lambert? Where are you going?” he heard Mezul ask over the channel.

“I promised you I wouldn’t let another carrier get destroyed,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Time to keep my word.”

She said something else, but the rapidly increasing distance distorted her voice, Lambert switching his attention back to their speed and heading.

“Cap?” Carl grunted. “uh, you sure bout this?”

“No, but we have to try,” Lambert replied. “if those carriers go down this was all for nothing.”

“Well what’s the plan?” His friend wasn’t happy being brought along, but he wasn’t about to try and argue his way out of it, and he was a damn fine companion because of that. “They’ll turn all their remaining guns on us soon as we get close, and I don’t wanna be lookin’ down the barrel of that railgun.”

“That’s it!” Lambert exclaimed.

“What? What’s it?”

“We don’t have to take it out, just the railgun, without it they’ll be sitting ducks.”

“There weapon systems are losing power,” Alice confirmed. “They’re directing all remaining reserves to the railgun. The Lieutenant is right, the carriers can disengage safely if we can disable it.”

“We’re doing it,” Lambert said. He watched his speed indicator tick up. Three thousand kilometres per hour, four, five. The destroyer had a massive head start, gently spinning anti-clockwise as it barrelled through the nebula, but Lambert pushed the corvette further than he’d ever had before, the hull around him beginning to shake with turbulence.

He pulled the corvette up alongside the ship, its hull taking up an entire half of his canopy, slowly inching away as they gained more speed on it. His speed warnings were going off, but he shut them down with a click of a button.

“Closer, Cap!” Carl said. “PDC’s don’t have a shot!”

“Fuck, Alice help me out!” Lambert growled, pulling the flightstick to the right. “don’t let me crash us!” Even the tiniest adjustments at these speeds could send them colliding with the ship, Lambert watching the cracks in his canopy start to spread as the ship strained against the monumental forces at work.

An unfamiliar weight tugged at the ship, like that of an auto-pilot taking control for a landing. It was Alice, running hundreds more calculations than Lambert could ever hope to do, changing their angle and plotting a more efficient route up the ship. Their speed continued to climb, Lambert pushed into the chair like there was a mammoth standing on his chest, even moving his fingers took a tremendous effort.

They were barely turning, and yet his HUD flashed excessive g warnings at him, his vision narrowing with darkness. He could just make out the friendly tags of the Balokarid carriers on the tac view, hanging back from the fighting all this time, but still the target all along.

“I see it!” Carl growled, Lambert likewise spotting the railgun a moment later. It was coming up on their right, the giant barrel aimed dead ahead. Each rod along the muzzle was packed with little nodules that glowed blue, evenly distributed along the barrel, forming a thick seam between them where a giant slug of tungsten could be seen, ready to fire.

The PDC’s opened up, their familiar rumbling coursing through the corvette. The first burst went wide, but the second did not. They cut a clean swath between the housing and the barrel, sending the readied slug and its magnetic rails careening into the void. The deadly weapon had caused so much trouble, and it had been destroyed in just a few scant seconds.

Lambert pulled them away, relief enveloping him as the weight on his chest gently lifted as he reduced their speed. The destroyer’s crew seemed to have given up, their reverse thrusters firing as they neutered their momentum. Lambert could see tags popping up around the carriers, scrambling their reserve craft, some dozen human and alien attack ships vectoring this way. The cavalry had arrived, if a little late.

“They know they’re done,” Carl said. “I can see escape pods.”

Through his camera, he could make out reinforced, one-man pods jettisoning from the belly of the destroyer, their backward thrusters igniting to bring them to idle. There were tens of them, falling like raindrops as the destroyer sputtered smoke from several places, gently listing as its engines switched off.

“I’ve still got a missile left, and you’ve got a bit of ammo in your PDC’s,” Lambert mused. “A lucky shot to their reactor might finish the job.”

“-ambert? One-six, hold your fire,” a voice garbled through the radio. It was Mezul, her IFF tag appearing on his render. “The fight is over, your Captain calls off the attack, the UEC is surrendering.”

“But we’ve got them right where we want them,” Lambert replied. “it’s not over just yet.”

“Lambert,” Mezul said. “you’ve done it, you’ve kept your word and the day is won. Enough blood has spilled this day.”

“What’s a little more, then?” he replied. “these guys were about to throw themselves at your carriers, Mez, even when they knew it was over. They don’t know when to quit, so let’s show them how.”

“You’re only saying this because you think you hate them.”

“Of course I hate them, why wouldn’t I?” He could feel himself getting defensive, but he pushed on. “You’ve seen what they’re like, they have no morals, no standards, they don’t give a damn about anything.”

“Then do not share in their views,” Mezul replied. “When we met, you made me realise that not all humans were the same, and you’ve only proved that to me time and again. You think killing them will help erase them from your past, the fact you were once one of them brings you much guilt, but you don’t have to carry that burden. You aren’t like them at all, and do you know why?”

He didn’t answer, just listened.

“Because I couldn’t ever love such a hateful person, that’s not who I am, and that’s not who you are either. Be better than them, Lambert, just… be better. That’s all I ask.”

More escape pods ejected from the destroyer, their thrusters levelling them out to float around the ship like bugs, at his mercy. Lambert blinked, watching as Mezul’s ship creeped into view, looking towards her ship’s canopy and knowing that she was looking back.

Her speech had certainly moved him in more ways than one, the man looking between the pods and the missile launch button on his armrest as he considered. After a few moments, he sighed, switching back to the ship-channel.

“Forget what I said, Carl,” he muttered, his friend replying in the affirmative as he switched to the general-band. “Attention Confederate survivors, I’m activating my beacon, direct your pods to me if you can, I can hold maybe three of you.”

He switched on his beacon, asking Alice if they had enough room in the cargo bay to take in a few survivors. “Of course, sir, there should be handcuffs in one of those crates, according to our manifest.”

“I’ll bring them into the medbay,” Carl said. “make sure they don’t cause no trouble.”

“Thank you, Lambert,” Mezul radioed in, coughing towards the end in a way that came off as more than just a reflexive thing.

“No,” he said. “Thank you.”

21

“We suffered major damage when we engaged the destroyer,” Captain Anders said as he leaned over the command desk, a render of the frigate in a wireframe mode lighting up his features. “Decks ten through twelve have numerous hull breaches, and one of our reactors has been disconnected from the rest of the power grid. The quick reaction from our Balokarid engineers resulted in minimal crew casualties, at the least.”

He brushed the surface of the image, the view changing to a systematic list of every ship they initially started out with, the rest of the officers looking on dejectedly as some of the green ships were recoloured to red, visualising their casualties. Lambert and Carl were there too, along with some of the other squadron leaders, a mix of both human and aliens crowding the bridge.

“We lost fourteen corvettes, and twenty-two Raptor interceptors. We have people looking for survivors, but so far only sixty percent of those who ejected were found in time. The gas clouds,” Anders explained, looking towards the Kith. “What are the Balokarid casualties?”

“Forty-eight Sala’ci fighters have been destroyed,” Shaliyya replied grimly. “A disheartening amount, but lower than I predicted.”

“And the carriers?”

“No further damage, thanks to the brave actions of your Lieutenant.” The Kith flashed Lambert a small smile. “This is the second time, mind you.”

“We’ve lost over half of our forces,” Anders replied. “A lot of brave men and women of the Hub and the Kaalesh clan gave their lives today. We achieved victory, but our losses leave little for celebration. We’re in no position to continue with our previous mission, and we have chewed through too much fuel and ammo to sustain any prolonged presence here. We have no choice but to do what repairs we can, and head for Hub territory.”

“Your ships can dry-dock in our carriers if you need the space,” Shaliyya suggested. “We owe you that much.”

“You don’t owe us anything,” the Captain replied. “You lost more than we did today, we were just here to help, but I will take you up on your offer nonetheless.” Anders glanced at one of the officers. “What about the prisoners?”

“Five hundred accounted for thus far,” the human replied, his gloved hands clasped together. “It’s a little cramped in the brig, but it’ll all be worth it once we start interrogations. At least we won’t be known as merciless.”

Lambert could feel Mezul’s eyes on him, the tall alien giving him an infectious smile from across the room.

“Even Balokar will know of our exploits this day,” Shaliyya said. “As soon as I am able, I will send word to the homeworld of the Hub-clan’s exploits, you won’t have trouble from any of my people from now on.”

“We’ll get to that, for now we’ll focus on limping back to the Hub. I’ll have a lot of explaining to do to the Senator…” Anders grumbled. “We’ll keep searching for survivors for now, I’ll send word when we’re ready to get-”

A clunk as something heavy fell to the floor. Everyone looked toward the source of the noise in confusion, but Lambert was already moving, even pushing aside one of the officers against his better judgement, but respect be dammed.

Mezul had slumped over, keeling over on her left shoulder. Her eyelids were flittering, like she was in the middle of feinting.

“Mez?” he asked, supporting her back with one hand and turning her head with the other. When his hand left her neck, it came back dark with her blood. “Mezul!”

Her eyes flung open, the golden sclera narrowing as she focused on him. The other aliens were crowding all around him, one of them kneeling to help Lambert support Mezul’s tremendous weight.

“Don’t just stand there get a medic!” someone said.

Another sound of someone hitting the deck, Lambert turning to see Shaliyya fall on her butt, just saved from collapsing by the quick reflexes of her guard. Close by, yet another alien lost their balance, Ruvaara’s beak welcoming the deck as she slumped over like she’d bled out. What was going on?

“Call Doctor Cairns,” Anders said, a guard racing off. “Get them to the medbay, now!”

22

“I was afraid this would happen,” Doctor Cairns said, clipboard in hand as she read over the fine print. “The translator implant has irritated the skin and brain, as a result of our rushed operation, despite my and the Balokarid team’s efforts.”

Mezul was propped up in a recovery bed, and like everything human, it was too small for her, her long, digitigrade legs dangling over the end of the mattress. Lambert and Carl, and a few others of her Sala’ci crew were present too. Ruvaara was in the next room over.

“Will she be alright?” Lambert asked.

“Her body tissue is rejecting the implant in a spherical shape around the translator, and the risk of infection is troubling. You will need to clean and dress your wound everyday properly, Mezul, for the foreseeable future.”

“Can you not remove it?” Mezul asked. The Doctor pondered her question for a few seconds.

“I’m afraid it isn’t that simple. There are only a handful of cases where a human has had his or her implants removed, the procedure is more delicate than installing, and isn’t supposed to be removed. And your case is unique to put it lightly. I cannot authorise a procedure until both your medical personnel and my own are suitably experienced, the risk of further, more permanent damage is too great, even if the rejection continues to develop. We’d only make things worse at this point.”

“I understand,” Mezul replied. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Cairns nodded solemnly, her shame not directed at anyone present, it was more inward – this was exactly what she warned everyone would happen, but she still felt the blame. “Press this button here if you need anything, I’ll be back in an hour to check on you.”

With that, the Doctor left, Lambert taking her spot by Mezul’s side. He hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to her properly since the shooting stopped, and his friend seemed to know that, Carl waving the rest of the aliens to follow him.

“Come on, ladies,” Carl said. “I think these two need a moment.”

He flashed Lambert a wink, leading the posse as they filed out of the room, the door sliding shut behind them.

“This is all my fault,” Lambert began when they were alone, the alien blinking at him. Even propped up on the bed she was still eye-level with him. “I got the idea of an implant in your head, and now you’re…”

He gestured at the white wrappings around the side of her neck, the red of her blood contrasting with her blue feathers.

“Don’t give me that,” Mezul began. “I knew the risks, every Balokarid who wanted a translator did. These are the consequences, and now I must deal with them.”

“I think I’m more worried than you are,” he chuckled nervously. “Even though I’m not the one bleeding.”

“Sometimes people say things just to sound brave when they really aren’t,” Mezul said, her feathers twitching in agitation. “I’ve never been good with the sight of my own blood, I’m scared to look.”

“And… what you said back there,” Lambert began slowly, distracted by those golden coins of her eyes. “Were you just… saying things?”

“Which part?” she asked, knowing full well what he meant, but she wanted him to say it.

“The part when you said you… loved, me?” he stuttered that second last word, but he pushed on. “Was that true? Or were you just trying to convince me to spare the Feds? I wouldn’t blame you if you did, you were right to make me back down.”

The alien looked down as she picked idly at the sheets. “No. No as in, I was speaking the truth,” she corrected. “I wanted to say something earlier, but I was afraid we’d both become distracted if I confessed. I was also afraid you didn’t… feel the same way about me. You’re not a Balokarid, I don’t know if you find any of this…” She gestured at herself awkwardly. “if you found me… attractive.”

Lambert was beside himself, seeing this alien pilot getting all flustered of a sudden was making his heart beat like a drum.

“But then I saw you were about to destroy yourself, attacking the defenceless ship, so I had to say something, and that’s what came out.” She chuckled. “I don’t know if it could work, maybe it can’t, but do you… why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion. “Is that a reciprocating smile? Do you think there is something more between us?”

“I told you I like my women with flight experience,” he said. “So… yeah, I reciprocate.”

Her headdress bristled to its full length, her arms coming up and pulling him into her embrace. Her cool beak rested against the nape of his neck, her feathery coat tickling him as he put his arms around her. The angle was awkward given that he was standing and she was laying down, but they made it work.

She pulled back, one hand going to her head to try and suppress her erupting headdress. “I thought I would have to take some fentula to work up the nerve,” she laughed. “But all it took was taking on a battlefleet. You’re so strange, your skin, your little snout, your hair. Do I look… good, to you as well?”

“You look perfect,” he said, not missing a beat. She turned her face away from him, a shy smile on her beak.

“Smooth talker. Should we… I guess we can figure out the… finer details later, when there’s more privacy.”

He was certain of his feelings towards her, but how exactly would they make it work? He hadn’t gotten a look at her this whole time without her flightsuit, what parts did she have? At least the feelings were out in the open now, he had to admit the initial curiosity that day he’d wandered onto their carrier had bloomed into something more, and it felt right to finally relieve himself of the building tension.

He hadn’t been with anyone in a long time now, would it be anything similar to what humans do? Mezul interlocked her hand with his own and squeezed it, apparently reading his expression as easily as she had read his psyche.

“Let’s leave the thinking to later, Lambert, and just…”

She didn’t finish her thought, her forehead bumping with his with a soft clunk, her cold beak touching his warm skin. There would be battles ahead for both of them, but in that moment there was nothing else but her, and Lambert felt like they’d earned a quiet moment at last.

23

Lambert smoothed out his flightsuit sleeves as he pushed the joystick forward, the cloudy nebula gently losing its density through the still cracked and damaged canopy. After picking up the survivors and what limited scrap remained from the UEC fleet, the Hub forces had turned for home. With no more need for reconnaissance, Lambert’s missile corvette had an entirely new, unique role to fill.

“You look nervous,” Mezul commented, her wide hips squeezed into the co-pilot’s chair behind him. Just above the collar of her spacesuit he could see the edge of a bandage, the white fabric covering the spot where her implant was. She’d been allowed out of the medical bay after Captain Ander’s insistence, though why he was taking an interest in her was a mystery to the alien.

“I’ve got both our superiors on board, you’d be too if you were behind the stick,” he replied. For whatever reason the Captain had thought Lambert’s corvette would be the most appropriate to use as a shuttle, given his extensive interactions with the Balokarids. The Kith likewise thought that the corvette had a certain ‘diplomatic profile’ with her people, saying as much when she got on board.

“You’ll be fine,” Mezul said, her arm long enough that she could lay a hand on his shoulder without moving. “You flew through railgun and missile fire with barely a scratch, you can dodge a few clouds.”

“I guess I am the better pilot,” he said, laughing when Mezul nudged his shoulder playfully.

“Oh ho, is that a challenge? Perhaps we could hold a race at your Hub world?”

“We do tournaments from time to time,” he said. “Tell you what, we’ll enter the next race and the winner has to buy the other one dinner.”

“You’re implying we will be sharing meals together?” Mezul teased, a hand going to her injured neck. It was an unconscious move on her part, and his mood soured a little upon seeing it.

“Well, I know you like human food, and wherever they bunk you lot I’ll be visiting often. What else would we do?” he asked.

“I can think of a few things…”

He pulled up his collar to drive off a sudden heat, even though it was firmly secured in place, the Balokarid chuckling as he patched through to Carl. “How’re our passengers doing?”

“We’re like a VIP luxury liner back here,” Carl replied after a delay. “Lucky I ironed my uniform, there’s so many officers back here.”

“Your uniform is more wrinkly than an old man’s forehead,” Alice noted, the tone so deadpan and factual Lambert couldn’t help but snort. “That is not ironed.”

“Fuck you, robolady, you don’t have arms so you can’t talk. Lambert are we there yet?”

“Almost. Tell the Cap we’re fifteen minutes out.”

“Roger that.”

The nebula’s clouds that choked space in every direction were beginning to thin out the further they travelled. The violet colouration started to confer to more blueish shades, the spectacle like that of a messy artist’s palette. The gaps between the mists of energy widened until they faded into nothingness, the way ahead safe from concentrated gasses that could melt through the hull.

They sailed over one last cloud, and then his sensors came fully back online, the grainy static of his external cameras fizzling until they calmed into crisp images, the false pings and anomalies blinking out one by one on the tac view between his knees, the clutch of interference lifting. After so long crammed between the clouds, it was like he could finally breathe again, the limitless expanse of the dark void stretching out infinitely through his circular-shaped canopy, the intimidating emptiness of the dark space contrasting with the nebula’s packed clouds of energy.

“There it is,” Lambert said, nodding through the glass.

“What?” Mezul squinted over his shoulder, her golden eyes narrowing to slits. “I don’t see anything.”

“I thought your drugs helped you see better?”

“Do I look like I’ve taken a whiff to you?” Before he could answer she leaned closer to the canopy again, glancing occasionally at the camera feeds surrounding them. “How can your tiny mammal eyes see it? Whatever it is?”

“I just remember where it is from this angle,” he explained. “It’ll come up on that camera there in a minute.”

“Can you not just zoom in?”

“That would just spoil the surprise.”

“Tease,” she said, her accusation betrayed by her smile. “I hate surprises.”

They waited for a few minutes longer, until something metal came into focus ahead of them. The light from the system’s star catching on a distinctly curved shape.

Its profile was like that of a grey bracelet, gently spinning away out in the middle of space. Its broad width was silhouetted against the sun, the shadowed hull bumpy with life support modules and thousands of radio antennae and communication dishes. The outer side of the band tapered into curves at the edges, where the thick metal sloped up towards the interior surface, strips of light spilling through hundreds of viewing ports lining the outer surface.

The sloped sides raised to two level peaks, cutting off at flat roofs. The metal then turned back towards the inside of the bracelet’s surface, creating a pair of canopies made from solid metal that trapped the artificial atmosphere created on the band’s interior side. In between these canopies sat a torus-shaped furrow that continued around the entirety of the station, where pointed roofs and sloped housing modules textured the inside surfaces. Blocks of structures both tall and squat grew in detail as the corvette drew closer, two pairs of roads distinctly clear for the inhabitants to travel up and down the station, street lights illuminating the walkways in a pair of clear lines.

Floating in the epicentre of the ring was a ship that looked similar to the tanker the UEC had been escorting. It was a blocky vessel, with a rounded rear housing a single main thruster that was currently switched off, and a pointed cap where the yellow-tinted cockpit could just be made out. It looked a lot like an oversized escape pod in a way. There were four circular panels evenly distributed along its sides, the odd vessel rotating in time with the spinning station.

Mezul mumbled something in her native language, Lambert turning to see her eyes were as wide as plates as she stared out at the ringworld that slowly grew in size.

“Welcome to the Hub,” Lambert said. “surprised?”

“Amazed,” Mezul breathed. As the ship drew closer they got a better look at the inside of the ring, where patches of green and blue mixed with the more dominant spartan greys. “What is that ship in the middle for?”

“That’s the actual Hub, where the station gets its name from, obviously. It’s restricted to most people, with a secure airspace around it. You see those circles on the ring?”

Mezul scanned the ring, spotting small impressions trimmed into the band at all four points of the compass. They weren’t obvious at a glance, built discreetly into the ringworld’s surface and blending with the rest of the architecture. They were like metallic crop circles.

“I do,” she replied.

“The Hub, the ship in the middle that is, can extend four separate arms that connect to those circles, so that the station can be moved around. It’s never done that in my lifetime, so the ship is just there for politicians to meet up privately.”

“And you live on this ring… thing?” Mezul asked. “Do you not just fall off?”

“Remember that whole artificial gravity thing I was telling you about?” he asked. “The spin gives us roughly one-g gravity, and those giant walls there? They keep the air trapped between them.”

“It’s as big as a moon!” Mezul exclaimed. “How long did it take to build such a thing?”

“I think they started building it, what, two hundred years ago? I’d have to check with Alice.”

“Two hundred and nineteen,” the robot confirmed.

“Right, two nineteen.”

Mezul got the impression that it was quite a long period, her beak opening the way a human might drop their jaw in awe, Lambert chuckling as she glanced between him and the station.

“Lieutenant Hall,” a voice patched through suddenly. It was Captain Anders, talking through Carl’s station. “I’ve sent the proper clearance codes, the Senator is waiting for us at docking bay four, airlock fifteen.”

“On the way, sir.” He tilted the corvette, gliding downspin of the station. “Looks like we’ll be meeting with the Senator,” he explained to Mezul. “She hardly ever leaves the Hub actual, looks like you’ve got her old bones warmed up.”

“Is she your Kith?” she asked.

“She’s the face of this whole revolution, so… yeah, I suppose she is. She can be a little… crude when she hasn’t got a camera in front of her, but I’m sure she appreciates your support in the nebula, wants to thank you personally.”

“Strange,” Mezul said. “It is your support that saved our clan.”

Several other warships patrolled around various parts of the station, Lambert gliding a little closer upon Mezul’s request. There were frigates just like the Gallipoli, fighters and other patrol craft sticking in tight formation as they cruised along. Most of the larger ships stuck around the defence platforms – flat, disk-shaped vessels that acted as deterrents against hostile craft. They were equipped with two railguns not so dissimilar from the one on the Confederate destroyer, one on the top face and one on the bottom, giving them the widest firing arcs as possible. There were three platforms in total, the third currently hidden behind the station at their angle.

“You have some heavy defence emplacements here,” Mezul commented.

“They’re more like early-warning systems,” Lambert explained. “Completely stationary, so they’re easy targets. And all these ships you see are converted from the UEC, we haven’t got the production power just yet to start churning out our own.”

“This is what my people plan on offering yours,” Mezul said. “I hope your Senator can be persuaded by my Kith.”

“You’ve got my and every other pilot’s vote, and the Captain’s definitely on board too. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

He gently angled the corvette until they lined up with their designated port, Lambert allowing Alice to take the reins and guide them in. Like the Balokarid carriers, the ring’s hull was pocked with square-shaped doors, numbers stencilled in red colouring on each hangar door.

There were no other ships in this particular bay. The Senator obviously wanted to keep the aliens away from the public for now. The corvette flipped until its cargo bay doors faced the station, the computer matching the spin so that nothing appeared to move save for the stars. There was a clunk as the ship made contact with the station’s hull, and then everything went still, the hangar doors sliding shut with a loud thunk.

Mezul let out an unbecoming squawk as the centrifugal force pulled her down into her seat, the alien not quite used to manmade gravity just yet. The pilots unbuckled from their chairs, walking out into the corridor beyond, where the Kith and the Captain were already waiting for them.

“With me, Lieutenant,” Captain Anders said. “You as well, Mezul.” They glanced at each other before following after, wondering why they had to come along. Talons and boots clicked on the steps as the group made their way down to the cargo bay, Carl waving them goodbye.

“We’ll be here,” Alice added, its voice coming from a speaker in the nearby wall. The cargo ramp was already lowered, red lights spilling in from the airlock just beyond. The procession waited out the depressurising, and when the hissing of air faded, they removed their helmets as the opposing doors opened, harsh, white light spilling in from the corridor beyond.

Three humans were standing in the passageway waiting for them. Two of them were clad in full combat armour, their guns resting in their chest slings, while the third wore more professional attire. The woman was wearing a thick, blue coat that ended just above her knees, her hands melded in front of the big, golden buttons pinned to her front.

Her pants were crisply ironed, matching the colour of her coat, her black dress shoes clicking on the ground as she adjusted her footing. She wore a pendant round her neck, the artwork embellished on the silver disk was made up entirely of differently coloured dots, rather than strokes, the reds and yellows forming swirling patterns Lambert didn’t recognise.

The woman’s dark hair was tied up in a bun, the brown interrupted here and there by flecks of grey, hinting at her age. Her dark complexion was trenched with lines, but that only seemed to harden her expression, like an old war veteran. Beneath her eyes and on her lips was a fresh, black layer of makeup, expertly applied to make her look younger than she really was.

“Captain Anders,” the woman began. “tell me how you can run into not just a Confederate fleet, but an alien one at the exact same time? Isn’t space fucking huge?”

Mezul wasn’t expecting the curse word, and neither was the Kith, the aliens cocking their heads at the crude introduction.

“It was a million to one shot, Senator,” Anders replied. “Any slight deviation in our timetable and we might have missed them altogether.”

The Senator stepped forward, looking Shaliyya up and down with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. The alien was nearly twice her height, but she studied the Kith like she was inspecting a recruit, her reaction not as colourful as Lambert’s was, maybe the Captain had given her forewarning.

“From the reports the Captain sent me, you must be the Balokarid leader,” the Senator said. “My name is Ellin Astera, but you can call me Senator.”

“Shaliyya, Kith of the Kaalesh. It is an honour to meet you at last, Senator,” Shaliyya replied, bowing her head. “From what your Navy tells me, you are the fist behind your clan’s revolution. But just because you fight for your independence, does not mean you must fight alone, and it is my intention to consolidate our clan with yours.”

“I like this one,” Astera said, looking back at the Captain and nodding slowly. “What exactly does this ‘consolidating’ entail?”

“We have demonstrated to your fleet that we can increase your production capabilities tenfold, we have thousands of engineers on standby ready to work in tandem with your own construction crews. We will also share our shielding technology with you, something your Captain has expressed great interest in.”

“You’re giving away a lot, Kith,” Astera said. “I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing that generosity is the gateway of either the desperate, or the duplicitous. Do you want nothing in return?”

The alien looked around at the furnished floor, the painted walls, her beak clicking quietly as she mulled. “I would ask for a favour. Two, actually. A place to stay permanently on this station, and a chance to fight the Confederacy, those are my terms.”

The Senator looked like she was always frowning, it was hard to tell if she was angry or confused, perhaps both. “That’s it? You want to join us in this war, in exchange for asylum?”

“Trivial to you, Senator, but my people are already at war, we have fought and died alongside your soldiers only days ago. You would be doing us all a great service.”

The old woman scratched her chin, contemplating the offer. Lambert already knew the answer, everyone did, but perhaps the Senator was considering some other political implication only she was aware of.

“We’ll have to come up with a new flag design,” Astera mumbled. “Should call this agreement something more informal than ‘consolidation’. Something like… I don’t know, an Alliance? Yes?” She looked back at her guards, one of them nodding. “Alliance it is. We’ll have to assign a quadrant for Balokarids only, settle yourselves in before migrating you to the general populace. Maybe upscale the apartments twofold…” The Senator judged Shaliyya’s height. “Threefold, just to be on the safe side. We’ll iron out the details later. Now, you two.”

Astera turned to Lambert, the man perking up as she approached. “Lieutenant Hall and Mezul, yes? I read in the Captain’s report that you both were vital in turning the tide of the battle?”

“We were just following our orders, ma’am,” Lambert said.

“Don’t be so modest,” Anders said. “Despite being low on ammo and outnumbered, you engaged in a second hit and run and destroyed several key targets. That’s not following orders, that’s exceeding them.”

“And the shielding screen,” Astera said, turning to Mezul. “That was your idea?”

“I brought it before the Captain at one point,” Mezul said with a nod. “Our shields could withstand at least one more strike than your ships could, so a screen was an obvious tactic.”

“You got balls, Mezul,” Astera said. “Ramming into explosives on purpose. I wouldn’t want you as my pilot, no offense implied.”

Mezul gave Lambert a glance. “Balls?” she whispered.

“I have a new assignment for you both,” Astera continued, reaching into her coat. “You two seem to work well together. Well I say seem, I mean definitely. If humans and Balokarids are going to be fighting and flying together in this Alliance, they’ll need people who are experts in the mixed species tactics department.”

“That’s a department?” Lambert asked.

“Of course it is, you two are its founders.” From her coat she produced a small case, flicking it open with her thumb. The inside was lined with a velvety material, and sitting on a small cushion inside was a pair of badges. Their design was a side-on perspective of the Hub, the station wreathed between a pair of long feathers.

“Is that the Hub flag?” Lambert asked, picking one up. The insignias were coloured in a dim gold that bordered on bronze, the subtle gaps between the grooves painted black. “Why are there feathers and not antlers?”

“We had to rush out a design before you came on board, it was that or a couple of doves. Represent our avian friends.” Astera waved an impatient hand. “I hope that doesn’t offend you, Mezul, I’ll fire whoever came up with it if it does.”

“It’s fine, they’re very beautiful,” Mezul said, lifting her badge to the light. She knew how to work the mag-pin immediately, fixing it just above her left breast, Lambert doing the same.

“I’ve never seen badges like these before,” Lambert mused. Astera put her case away and gestured at him and his partner.

“That’s because Commander wasn’t a formal rank in our Navy until now. You’ll both receive officers accommodations here on the Hub while we prep you a training ground. From now on you’ll be responsible for getting our new pilots up to speed on working with our different species, once your people have had some time to settle in and get used to the station, of course.”

Lieutenant straight to Commander? It was quite the jump, and Lambert couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t have to live on a cramped frigate anymore. He looked to the Captain, who grinned back at his expression.

“You earned it, Lieut…. Commander,” Anders said. “I also wanted to award you and Lieutenant Morales with a Citation of Valour, but we’ll save the parades until the crew’s got some shore leave.”

The Valour Citation was one of the highest medals that could be awarded to a Navy officer. Carl would be having a field day once he found out. “I don’t know what to say, Senator.” Lambert blinked at the woman, who stared back at him in a distinctly impatient way.

“Say whatever you want. Say yes, no, let me ask my parents first, it doesn’t matter, because I need two Commanders to train our recruits, and you’re it until I find someone better. Questions?”

“Can Carl come along too? As my weapon’s expert?”

Astera looked at him in the way anyone would when asked a stupid question. “It’s your department, do what you want.”

“What about me?” Alice asked, close enough she could wirelessly activate his suit speakers. “Am I to be transferred as well? I have been known to increase your general efficiency in times of duress.”

“Who the hell is that?” Astera asked, her brow furrowing at where the voice was coming from.

“That’s the AI, Senator,” Captain Anders explained. “The one you assigned to me, who I assigned to the Commander here.”

“Ah that’s right. Well what did you think of it, Commander? Was it helpful at all on your mission, or was it just a waste of time on my part?”

Lambert didn’t understand how she was so relaxed about potentially reintroducing AI to the military, like it was some side project he got dumped with. His answer would at the least, influence the Senator’s decision to keep on enlisting AI’s to the Hub, and then where would it stop? Maybe, a part of him thought, he was just being paranoid? Its helpfulness couldn’t be denied.

“I…” he stuttered, Mezul sparing him a conspicuous glance from the edge of his vision. “I guess it pulled our butts out of the fire a couple times during the mission. Wouldn’t be here without it.”

“Good to hear,” Astera said. “We’ll need all hands on deck for this war. I’ll have our techs check its subsystems for any anomalies, but consider Alice your new assistant, Commander, we should monitor it for a while longer before making any final descisions.”

Lambert didn’t show a reaction, partly because he didn’t really know what to think of this new development. At least it would help deal with any paperwork that would come up.

The Senator turned to Mezul. “And what about you? Are you up to the task?”

“Of course, Senator. You’re very generous.”

“I wish everyone I gave work to said that,” Astera chuckled. “Come with me, I’ll show you where your quarters will be. I’m afraid we’ve only got human-sized rooms,” Astera added, craning her neck so she could meet Mezul’s eyes. “But I’ve reserved one of the more specious apartments upspin. Let’s go have a look.”

24

The Senator led them through breach door after breach door, Lambert and Mezul behind her, and her two bodyguards behind them. The service tunnels that made up the sides of the station were long and windy tunnels of metal, splitting off into the hundreds of service areas hidden beneath the public eye. These areas were clearly marked and wide enough for five men to walk side by side, though Mezul did have to duck to avoid bumping her head on a jutting piece of metal from time to time.

These service paths were commonly used to transfer personnel to and from the hangars, with the occasional lift and staircase leading down to the warrens, where all the life and water systems that kept the ringworld operating resided.

At regular intervals a path would lead off directly to their left, where the tunnels would bring them out onto the outside itself, but the Senator didn’t even glance at them, leading the two new Commanders further upspin. The fine curvature of the floor was almost nonexistent, but the way it gently sloped up and away in the distance made it obvious they were walking along the inside of a ring.

“The military quadrant will have to be your people’s home temporarily,” Astera said as they walked, eventually turning to face a set of elevator doors, the woman hitting the up button, her two guards cramming in after Mezul struggled into the lift. She almost plugged the box like a cork with her size, leaning a considerable amount of her weight on Lambert. “News is already out about you, but I prefer you stay near where we can locate you quickly. Fortunately there’s an apartment complex just outside the quadrant, a minute’s walk from the closest barracks. Commander Hall will keep an eye on you at all times.”

“No problem there,” Lambert said, Mezul glancing over to see him staring directly at her ass.

They arrived at their specified deck, the procession squeezing out and into a T-shaped hallway, each path lined with doorways with numbers on them. The Senator walked up the northern branch, stopping at the far door, marked 201.

She swiped a keycard through the lock, the door opening with a click, Mezul ducking through while the humans just walked inside.

The first thing Lambert saw was a view of the habitat, the huge expanse of pseudo-urban housings curving away below them, the entire north face of the apartment made of glass. There was a wooden dining table right in the middle, with a marble kitchen on the left and a pair of leather couches on the right, positioned in front of a wall-mounted television. Walls to the side corners of the space sectioned off other rooms, the presence of wood and plaster a breath of fresh air to Lambert, who’d been living in metal barracks’ for most of his career.

“Two bedrooms with accompanying en suites,” Astera announced, leaning a hand on the marble kitchen counter. “A spare room in the back with terminals hooked up to the military network, all current pilot dossiers currently on file for your inspection, and a clean view.”

Mezul was stepping tentatively on a section of the white carpet near the couches, her talons feeling up the soft texture, while Lambert was standing by one of the support columns, a terminal built into the strut that provided an adjustable ambient temperature and lighting settings, even an audio mixer was available through a Bluetooth setting. The two guards were looking around in awe, he could tell they were impressed behind their expressionless visors. The place was like a palace.

“This is… amazing, Senator,” Lambert said, eyeing one of the potted plants sitting in one of the corners. He touched the leaf and was surprised to see it wasn’t plastic.

“Of course it is,” Astera replied. “A place fit for Commanders, and I hope we all plan on keeping it that way. It’s not too small for you, is it Mezul?”

The Balokarid shook her beak, despite her feathery headdress just grazing the ceiling wherever she went. “I will be fine, thank you. How soon until we can begin… Commanding? If that is the word?”

“While I can appreciate a woman of action,” Astera began. “we’ll have to wait to get your carriers offloaded before you can begin your program, get your people acclimated. Here are your keys.” She passed the two a pair of cards. “Don’t lose them. And until I say it is safe to do so, Mezul I would appreciate it if you kept indoors until the populace calms down. It’s not that I fear something may happen to you, but none of these people have fought with you in a battle like Lambert here has.”

“I understand, Senator,” Mezul began, touching Lambert on the arm. “Lambert here can keep me company until I can explore your station.”

Astera looked from the alien to Lambert, a knowing look on her face as the corner of her lips turned up. “Then I’ll leave you two to it. Come on,” she said to her guards, the humans following her out, one of them letting his weapon hang in its sling as he shut the door.

“You sure this place isn’t too small for you?” Lambert asked, watching as Mezul ran a nail over the armrest of a couch.

“You saw how cramped my Sala’ci was, this is nothing.” Mezul gave him a dismissive wave, moving over to the TV and just missing the arch by an inch. “What is this material on the floor here? It feels like your hair.”

“Carpet, it’s made from a soft plant,” Lambert explained. He stood by the window while Mezul explored the rest of the apartment, drinking in the sight. They were about five storeys up from the habitat’s ‘ground’ floor, the stretch of greys interspersed with patches of green, the designers of the station adding a bit of colour to the artificial landscape.

The curved world stopped abruptly at a wall on the far side of the ring, where the opposing canopy towered hundreds of meters into the sky, the top just visible below the ceiling of the apartment. The atmosphere trapped between the sheer faces created a strange haze above the ring, where the Galaxy could be seen without interruption, the system’s harsh star simulating a daytime one would find on a planet.

Looking left, Lambert’s eyes followed the ring as it curved into the horizon, gently sloping up and thinning into a band. The landscape slowly lost its definition as the ring distanced, his eyes going upward as he followed the station’s arc.

It was dizzying watching as the station swept into the sky, knowing that from this perspective the people living up there were standing sideways. The opposite side of the ring was temporarily blocked by the Hub, the diameter of the ring stretching on for kilometres, and then the station finally looped back round to the other side, the buildings and streets coming back into focus.

He felt Mezul’s hands come to rest on his shoulders, her long talons almost reaching his chest. Her arms were cool to the touch, the rubbery material pressing against his skin as she leaned on him from behind.

“Your station is amazing,” she said, craning her long neck down so that her beak was level with his face. Her head turned in a circle as she likewise studied the station. “What you humans lack in size, you make up for it in technological wonders.”

“And we just got the best seats in the house,” he said. “No more cramped crew quarters for us.”

“I have something for you,” Mezul said, her hands falling away. He turned around and couldn’t help but stare at what he saw. Mezul had slipped out of her flightsuit at some point. Gone were the vambrace coverings securing her arms and wings, the long displays of feathers sweeping up along her limbs, folded beneath their protective sheaths, their iridescent tips ending just above and beside her feathery elbows.

Her torso had also been shed of some of its bulkier parts, Mezul now sporting a chrome tank top made from some kind of polymer, the plates segmented around her waist so as to not limit her range of motion. It looked a little like a medieval cuirass, the plates curving in a way that accentuated her curves.

She also wore a skirt that hugged her waist loosely, the blue cloth cut into two knee-length strips that covered her front and back, while leaving the lower half of her thighs bare. Her flared hips were covered by a pair of small plates that connected to her chestplate.

It was the first time he got a look at her legs properly. Her thighs were muscular powerhouses as thick around as Lambert’s torso, concealed beneath her coat of sparkling black and blue feathers. Her veneer of feathers ended at her knees, giving way to darker, more scaley flesh that made up her lower legs. They curved into their odd, digitigrade shape, her feet ending in three talons that reminded him a little of Velociraptor feet, long and sharp and the colour of onyx.

There was a wave of sudden colour, the wings on Mezul’s arms unfurling to show off their blue and black palette in full, their wingspan adding meters to her width, Mezul manipulating them like she was about to perform a fan dance. The way they seemed to sparkle in the light was oddly mesmerising.

After so long wearing such a bulky spacesuit, it looked like she was practically bare in comparison. Every inch of her save from her knees down was covered in her azure feathers, and he wondered if her concealed parts were also like that.

“My gift is up here,” she teased, blinking her eyes at him as he lifted his gaze from her legs, his cheeks flush with embarrassment. She smiled playfully as she held something up in her hand.

“What’s that?” He stepped closer, seeing she was clutching something boxy between her nails. She held it out to him for a better look, and his jaw dropped. “My MP3! How the hell did you…?”

She laughed as he took it from her, holding it up and inspecting the casing. There should be a bullet hole right in the middle, yet the damage was gone, and a tap on the power button confirmed it was working, his familiar playlists right there on the menu.

“The human who installed the radio on my Sala’ci had a way with electronics, so I had him take a look at it after the battle,” she explained. “It took him a while, but he said he was glad for the distraction, said he hadn’t worked on simple tech in a long time. Didn’t even ask for repayment, which I’ve come to expect from you humans.”

“I could kiss you, Mez,” Lambert said. “Check this out, we can hook it up to the surround sound system using this terminal.”

He made his way back to the column with the built-in screen, quickly connecting the music player with the speakers spread throughout the apartment, classical music coming through from every direction.

“What’s a kiss?” Mezul asked, watching him play with the volume.

“It’s something partners do,” Lambert said. “A way for humans to show affection.”

“And you wish to do it with me?” Mezul asked in a low, playful tone. Lambert felt his face go red, turning to see her standing right behind him

“What?”

“You wish to kiss me?” she elaborated, her smirk growing as he nodded silently. “How does it work?”

“Well, first you… you know what, I’ll just show you.”

Mezul watched as he slowly brought his arms up, cupping her beak by the sides where her cheeks would be if she were human. She blinked her dilated eyes as she let him bring her down until they were eye-level, the alien practically leaning over to do so.

“Close your beak,” he asked, and she shut her snout obediently, her expression best being described as alarmed desire. He brought his face forward, his hands still cupping her beak as he pressed his lips against her snout. Her beak looked like it would feel hard and rough, but he was surprised to find it was soft, with a little give behind it when he pressed down, much like rubber. The texture was smooth like glass, made up with scales so small he would need a microscope to see them, her beak parting a little as he pressed deeper.

Her headdress erupted to stand taller than he’d ever seen it before, adding half a meter to her overall height, Lambert smiling behind his kiss before gently pulling away with a quiet smack of his lips. Mezul crooned out a “Krrrawwt,” –sound as she blinked down at him, not quite touching the place he’d kissed her with a nail.

“Did you… like, that?” he stuttered, not sure of her reaction.

“I… may need another demonstration,” Mezul said, this time taking the lead as she leaned into him. Lambert held her at bay, though, her headdress twitching with irritation as he put a hand on her torso.

“Hold on lady, this time, open your mouth during it,” Lambert said, his heart racing as she pushed him into the support, her hands on his shoulders. Once more her beak met his lips, and when Lambert pried at her mouth with his tongue, she opened them, his organ delving in and exploring as much as he could, tracing her thin, long teeth with slow strokes, noticing that her mouth was lined with blue flesh, not pink like a humans.

Mezul caught onto the idea quickly, her own tongue coiling around his, trapping it like a snake traps its prey, her strange taste sending shivers down his back. Her beak parted a little more, her tongue sliding its way into his mouth, deftly painting the roof and sides of his mouth until his cheeks bulged. He knew her tongue must be long given the length of her beak, but it just kept coming, Lambert gagging reflexively as she glanced his throat with it.

She drew back a little, not entirely, but enough that she could reach every inch of his palate without him suffocating. She leaned her weight on his chest, one hand slipping behind his head to deepen their contact. Lambert’s head was spinning like a top, his partner continuing to drag on her lurid kiss.

She finally released him, their mouths smacking audibly as they separated, Mezul’s headdress bristling like a startled porcupine. Her eyes were slightly lidded as she looked him over, tracing his jawline with one of her nails.

“I changed my mind,” she said. “Surprises are fine.”

The two laughed, Lambert cupping the side of her face, feeling the impossibly soft feathers brush his fingers, little bits of dust from Dur’shala still lingering on her.

“I’ve got a question,” he asked, pointing at her head. “your headdress.”

“My…?” She touched the back of her head, the same way a woman might fix her hair. “What about it?”

“Why do you move it like that?” he asked. “You never keep it still for more than a few seconds.”

“I can’t really control it,” she explained. “Depending on my mood I can influence certain patterns and signals, not unlike the subtle body languages of you humans. This one right now means I’m… excited.”

“But I’ve seen you do that particular wave before, like back on your carrier, when I touched your feathers the first time. Were you… feeling then what you’re feeling now?”

“Did the idea not cross your mind as well?” she asked. “You were so strange and alien, and when we confirmed you were male, well… there was a moment I considered the thought.” She put her forehead to his, forcing him to stare her in the eyes. “I saw the way you reacted when you found out I was female. Maybe I wasn’t alone in my way of thinking?”

He titled his head to the side, as if to say maybe so. She licked him across the cheek, her beak slowly crawling across his nose and cheeks until it reached his ear, Mezul nipping at the earlobe as she whispered: “Now that we’re alone, we can put those thoughts into practice, can’t we?”

“When you put it that way…” He peeked over her feathered arm. “I didn’t get a good look at where the bedroom is.”

“Is it the one with the cushions shaped like a square?” she asked, Lambert nodding. “There’s two, the closest is the door on the right.”

“Let’s… go then,” he said, ducking beneath her outstretched arms, the alien following behind him with a distinctly more desirous gaze as she played her eyes over him. He fumbled at his collar, pulling down the zipper that held his flightsuit up, exposing his rubbery underclothes. It was also held up by a zipper, Lambert the garment peeling away to expose his shoulders and torso. He had a strict exercise regimen that seemed to please the Balokarid, the man looking over to see her admiring his muscular back.

As he fumbled with the belt that secured the upper half of the suit from the lower, he eyed the spacious bedroom before him, easily as lavish as the rest of the apartment, with a pair of bedside dressers accompanying a king-sized double mattress, equipped with more pillows than seemingly necessary.

He felt a little self-conscious as he worked at his belt, Mezul’s golden eyes playing over his body as she walked with a slow, deliberate gate that was eye-catching in its sensuality. Her hips rolled heavily with each stride of her long legs, like a model walking down a runway, the strips of cloth on her waist clinging to the inside of her thighs, slipping against her soft flesh with each step.

Just as he was about to slip off his belt, there was a loud bang, Lambert looking up to see Mezul clutching her head. She’d hit the top of the doorway with her face. “Ow, that hurt…”

Lambert tried not to laugh as he touched her on the arm. “You okay? I thought you said the apartment was big enough.”

“I was… distracted,” she admitted, her gaze wandering over his naked torso. “It’s been a while since I’ve watched a male strip down in front of me.”

“Well, I’m not a stripper, Mez. And I’m not giving you a lap dance if that’s what you’re after.” He pointed a finger at her.

“Don’t put ideas in my head,” she said, gesturing to his leggings. “Please, continue.”

He could feel her eyes on him as he moved his hands towards his belt. The flightsuit was one piece of attire, and so he had to slip one leg out at a time, Lambert hopping on one foot as he pried his foot out of his boot. He then realised he could probably just sit on the bed and make things easier, so he did, his legs soon free of the equipment.

Now all he was wearing was a pair of briefs ending just above his knees, where a noticeable bulge was straining against the middle of the fabric, Lambert placing one of his hands protectively over his underwear like he was afraid they might fall off.

“You’re so… smooth and pink,” Mezul said, taking a few steps closer. The way he had to look up to meet her covetous gaze made his stomach swim with butterflies. She sat down on the mattress next to him, the bed sinking with her tremendous weight, not that she was fat, she was eight feet of muscle and feathers, built like all pilots are.

Lambert’s cheeks started to warm as he was forced to lean into her, grabbing her by the thigh to brace himself. The flesh of her leg spilled wonderfully between his fingers, as soft as cookie dough, but they hid the powerful muscles needed to keep her large frame upright. The Balokarid took him by the shoulder as she ran her talons over his skin, tracing random shapes through the hair on his chest, admiring his biceps and his back. “Covered in little hairs,” she mumbled. “even muscle distribution, plenty of visible veins…”

“You sound like you’re doing an examination,” Lambert noted.

“My carrier’s medical staff were eager to see you entirely, and so am I.” He flinched as she brushed over one of his nipples, the alien blinking her eyes at his reaction. “Oh, you have nipples? Are you sure you’re a male?”

“D-Don’t you guys have them too?”

“Our male’s don’t. That’s… strange. Quite strange. What do they do? Do you lactate?”

“No! They’re for… well I don’t know what they’re for, it’s a mammal thing.”

“Well, I’m certain this will intrigue my people,” Mezul said, pressing the feathery underside of her finger against his other bicep. “They seem sensitive enough…”

“Quit playing with my nips,” he said, slapping her hand away. “You’re not going to report on everything we’re about to do?”

“Purely for the advancement of knowledge,” Mezul replied, her attempt at being formal betrayed by her growing smile. “I’ll keep some of you for myself, of course. Now, what about this cloth?”

She tugged on his briefs, Lambert hesitating as he slipped a finger beneath the waistband. Mezul was watching his concealed crotch with the same expression she had when she smelt the cooking food back on the frigate. He pulled down his remaining clothing, kicking them off his feet and leaving him completely bare before the alien.

“… Hmm,” Mezul said, her eyes tracing over his erection.

“That’s it?” he asked. “That’s all you’ve got to say? ‘Hmm’?”

“I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” she said, leaning down until her beak was a few inches away from his tip. He could feel the air move as she breathed him in.

“Take a wild guess,” he said. “it’s a dick.”

“Yes I know it’s a dick, Lambert. It’s not quite like a Balokarid’s, it’s less… rigid, much smoother, and shaped entirely different, too…”

She reached down and gripped his head, the man twitching as she circled it with a thumb, tracing a visible vein running along the shaft. “Is the whole thing sensitive, or just certain parts?” she asked.

“The whole thing, but the tip is more, uh, responsive.”

She focused her attention on the head, scratching at it with two fingers like she was stroking a pet, drawing lazy circles on his foreskin, mapping out every part of it while being mindful of her nails. She brought in her other arm, her hands large enough to conceal his flesh completely from his view as she gripped and tugged at him experimentally.

“Don’t hold it like that, it’s not a flightstick, Mez,” he said, chuckling as she studied his organ.

“It certainly has the shape of one. Thrusters on,” she said, mimicking his voice as she bent his rod towards his belly.

“Ah! The fuck, Mez?” He wasn’t sure if he should scold her or laugh, Mezul delighting in his reaction as he writhed underneath her attentions, playing his body like an instrument, testing his limits and smirking all the while.

He had to resist the urge to buck up into her hand when she found out that the skin around the head could draw back, his sensitive glans exposed to the cool air. “It’s peeling back,” Mezul said, a touch of alarm in her voice. “is it supposed to do that?”

“You’d know if it shouldn’t,” he replied, leaning back on an arm. “Just… watch the claws, thanks…”

He could feel her breathing on his crotch as she leaned closer to his member, her flexible neck twisting at an odd angle as she serviced him. He jolted when she ran the dull side of her nail over his glans, her eyes flicking to his. “Too sensitive? Got it. What about these two orbs?” She pointed at his testes.

“We call them balls,” he explained. “Also sensitive.”

“So the Senator thinks I have these balls?” Mezul said, cupping one of them in her palm, testing their weight.

“I-It’s a figure of speech,” he said, looking away when Mezul grinned at his reaction.

“You act so tough flying your ship, but here you’re so sensitive. Humans are too cute.”

“Well you’re not playing fair,” he shot back, his cheeks warming. “How’s this supposed to work when I’m the only one naked?”

“You have a point.” The Balokarid moved away, her hands going with her, a part of him disappointed that her explorations were over. She turned her attention towards her armour, placing her shoulder pieces on the floor and then fiddling at a few clasps hidden just beneath her armpits, metal clunking together as she worked at removing the cuirass.

“There’s a button on the back,” Mezul said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “Can you press it for me?”

He shuffled on his knees across the bed, getting a face full of feathers as Mezul accidently hit him with her wing – the thing was huge – until he was behind her, a groove between her shoulders drawing his attention. There was a button there like she said, and he pressed it, the plates splitting down the middle, making the neck hole wider.

“There’s another one a little lower, too,” she said. Did she really need help getting in and out of her suit, or did she just want him to undress her? Her arms were certainly long enough, so he guessed it was the latter.

He found what she was talking about, pressing the button and watching the vest split down the middle, leaving a sizeable gap. Mezul started to shrug the thing off over her head like a shirt, raising her hands to the collar, and here Lambert took a moment to admire her wings. They were collapsed against her arms, made up from longer stalks that were slightly broader than the rest of her coat. They felt fragile when he brushed them with his hand, each one densely packed with feathers and connected together via a kind of membrane.

Like a card player unfurling his hand, the stalks flipped out in symmetry as he delved his fingers into her wing, feeling the dense muscles press back reflexively. Mezul let out a surprised squawk as they stretched out to their full lengths, the whole wing wide enough to almost cover the entire length of the bed.

“L-Lambert, what are you-?” She tried to look back at him, but her wings plus the raised cuirass were blocking her view, and she couldn’t lift the vest off herself without getting stuck.

“How are these things so soft?” he mused, the feathers so light it was almost like touching nothing, if that was how one could describe it.

“Hold on, Lambert!” Mezul giggled, her face completely covered as she lifted the vest over her beak. She managed to slip one arm through, but the one he was inspecting was still at full mast.

“Ah, looks like I’m not the only one who’s sensitive,” he teased, finally deciding to help her out, squashing the stalks against her arm so that they could fit through the chestpiece holes. The feathers were so long the whole process was like trying to fold the sails of a boat in half.

Inch by inch, her feathered back slowly revealed itself as she lifted her vest. Not an inch of skin was visible, the azure feathers here following the natural curves of her waist towards her shapely rump. She was so thick around her midsection that if he wrapped his arms around her, his fingers would have trouble meeting on the other side, but her size only seemed to accentuate her hourglass shape. The subtle curve in the small of her back, the way her torso broadened towards her upper chest and shoulders, she was perfect. Lambert had always admired a woman’s back, something about the way it teased at what lay on their front was alluring to him.

Her tail got squashed between his chest and her back, the fan-shaped appendage made up of maybe seven individual stalks, flittering like crazy when he moved it aside to get comfortable.

Mezul seemed to read his mind like a book, her arms wrapping over her chest as she looked over her shoulder at him, a mischievous look on her face. Lambert took a moment to admire her before running his hands through her feathered shoulders, digging through the soft coat and relishing in their texture. She was softer than the mattress beneath his knees, his alien companion fluffier than any downy material he’d ever felt. He delved deeper into her luxurious coat, seeking more of her out, his hands disappearing up to the second knuckles, her muscles hidden beneath pushing back against his fingers. She was so soft, inspiring in him a need to run his hands over as much of her as he could.

He buried his face in the nape of her neck, breathing in her strange scent as he admired the way her feathers morphed beneath his questing fingers. “It’s been some time since I’ve preened my coat,” Mezul said, creating a strange warbling sound as he caressed her hips. “but it doesn’t look like you mind.”

Her headdress and the feathers on her neck bristled, some of them touching his face, Lambert scrunching up his nose as he sneezed, Mezul flinching as she peered back at him. “Or, maybe you do?”

“Sorry,” he said, laughing. “you’re a bit dusty.”

“Oh,” Mezul chuckled. She grabbed him by the chin and guided him towards her beak, delivering another one of her strange kisses as her beak split apart, the tips almost touching his ears as she engulfed his face, but he didn’t mind, not with that long tongue of hers shoved down his throat.

Mezul pulled away, a strand of saliva still connecting their faces as she smiled at him, turning around so that her front was to him, crossing her legs as she sagged further into the bed. Lambert’s eyes were drawn down to her impressive bust, most of it covered behind her arm, admiring the way her flesh spilled over her limb like melting wax. From what he could tell they were also covered in her feathery coat, although the blue tips of her feathers were more muted.

“You don’t have to be shy, Mez,” he said, motioning for her to lift her arm.

“S-Shy?” Mezul almost seemed insulted. “I’m twice your size, why would I be shy?”

He shuffled closer, linking his hand with hers and gently moving her arm away. Her boobs sprang back into shape, wobbling for a second before they settled. To call Mezul well-endowed wouldn’t do it justice, it was a wonder she managed to squeeze those things into her armour without hurting herself. They were distinctly tear-shaped, covered in light black feathers that bordered on grey, and as he suspected were not tipped with the azure blue that was common on the rest of her, her underbelly a much darker tone.

Her coat made them look especially smooth, her feathers accentuating their perky shape. They might have been large, but they were proportionate to the rest of her, Mezul making one of her strange, warbling sounds as he admired them for a few moments.

“I don’t know how… big, human women are,” she began. “but… how do they look?”

“So you are shy,” he teased.

“I’m not shy, I’m just curious if this is familiar to you.”

“Are you kidding me? These things are as big as my head!”

“And is that a good thing or not to humans?”

Rather than answer her, he reached up and cupped her left breast in his hand, her feathers never ceasing to amaze him with their pillowy texture. He sank his fingers into her coat, feeling out the doughy flesh beneath, his fingers disappearing from view. He began to knead at it, the breast too large to grab at with just one hand. When he found the firmer, more sensitive tissue deeper in, Mezul arched her back beautifully, pressing her bust towards his face.

“I’ll assume that’s a yes,” Mezul moaned. They were still holding hands, and Lambert let go to bring up his other arm up to her other tit, mapping out every part of her impressive bosom, relishing in the way they sprang back into shape when he let go. “Like that, Lambert, like that…”

“I thought you said you had nipples,” he asked, admiring the way her ample mounds of fat bulged between his fingers.

“Why don’t you find out if I was lying?”

He moved his fingers about, exploring as much as savouring her as his questing hands roamed, Mezul gasping when he brushed over a flaw inside her smooth coat.

Lifting an eyebrow, he leaned closer, putting all his attention on her left boob as he tried to part her black coat, Mezul chuckling as his attentions seemed to tickle her.

Her nipple was familiar to him, although it was a deep shade of blue rather than pink like a human’s. He didn’t know if they were always that big or were currently swollen with her excitement, but the bestial grunts she made when he trapped the bud between his fingers told him she was enjoying his attentions.

“Found one,” he reported, and before she could say anything, he mashed his face against it, his lips seeking out the bud of flesh. He accidently caught one of her feather stalks on his lip, pushing it away with his tongue as he trapped her nipple between his teeth, teasing it with quick flurries of his tongue and biting down on it.

Mezul squawked, sort of like a ‘Karraawrt!’ –sound that made Lambert draw back to look at her, those golden eyes of her blazing as she met his gaze. “You okay Mez? Did that hurt?”

“Th-That was not what I meant when I said find out,” she breathed. “and no, that didn’t hurt, quite the opposite.”

“So that was a good chirp-thing, got it.”

He returned his attention back to her breast, kneading one while he kissed and mouthed at the other, Lambert feeling the Balokarid cradle the back of his head with her hand as she made her strange bird-like sounds. His attentions gently eased her down to the bed, Mezul resting on an elbow as he swapped from one boob to the other.

“Like that,” she whispered as he drew circles with his tongue across her bud. “Oh, by the sands. I-Is this how humans mate?”

“I’m just trying to find out if you lactate,” he answered between licks.

“W-What?” she exclaimed. “I could just tell you if you asked!”

“I’m joking. This is human-style foreplay. I’m guessing you’re a fan?”

“No I’m having a horrible time,” she replied, her hand waving sarcastically.

He went back down on her, her moans like music to his ears as he chewed on her perfect globes. He bit and nibbled for a few minutes, his lips soon leaving her beasts and wandering lower, Lambert planting kisses on her stomach as he went. He gripped her voluptuous waist and dragged himself towards her abs, holding back another sneeze as her feathers bristled once more. Her powerful core was developed like a body-builders, her stomach packed with muscle his hands quickly sank into, her soft feathers contrasting with the steely flesh beneath. How she could be so soft and so hard at the same time was beyond him, her alien anatomy so strange and alluring.

He mouthed at her abs, delighting in the way her muscles pushed back, her feathers tickling his face as he planted kiss after kiss. Her belly was like a cloud he could just rest his head on forever, his lover giggling somewhere above him as he explored every feather on her. She was a lot of woman, but soft in all the right places, his erection straining so hard it almost hurt.

“If I’d known you liked my body earlier I would have confessed much sooner,” Mezul said, her golden eyes watching him over the mound of her bust. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh as he looked up, his expression apparently amusing her.

“You’re really sensitive down here,” Lambert asked, sinking his hands into the meat of her hips, this time the alien was the one squirming.

“It’s your fingers. Our claws can’t get through as much of the coat as yours can without cutting.”

She did have some wicked talons that might make getting through all those feathers difficult. “So every Balokarid is ticklish?” he asked. “Good to know…”

An inch lower and his lips met the waistband of her skirt, the cloth secured tantalizingly just above her mound, where pubic hair would be on a human. Lambert got an idea, using his teeth to pull at the cloth, the fabric stretching as he lifted his head.

“What are you doing?” Mezul asked, her beak split in a wide smile.

“You shaid you liked shtrippers,” Lambert said, his mouth full of her skirt. “show I thought you’d like thish.”

“The sides need to come off first,” she explained through a short bout of laughter. She reached down and lifted the plates on her hips off, dropping them off the side of the mattress. “Get that out of your mouth, Lambert, I’ll do it.”

Maybe she wasn’t a fan of the kinks, Lambert shrugging as he opened his jaw. The fabric snapped back into her waist with an audible slap, her stomach quivering from the impact. “Ow!” Mezul exclaimed, shooting him an annoyed look.

“My bad,” he replied sheepishly, his attention quickly drawn between her legs. She hooked a claw beneath the skirt, slowly revealing what lay beneath. Before he even saw anything, the heat was the first thing he noticed. It radiated from between her legs like an oven, her alien scent rife with an aroma that stirred a primal lust inside him. Through her aroma, a pair of flushed, blue lips stared back at him, wet with her excitement as they stayed connected to her garment via a few sticky strands, the alien already wet. Her entrance winked open, exposing the folds of blue flesh hidden in her most intimate reaches, her entrance larger than anything he’d seen before. A trickle of her fluids slid down the side of it, Lambert noticing the feathers around her nethers were a lot smaller and finer, the ones closest to her lips barely larger than his nails.

“Is something wrong?” Mezul asked, gravity pulling her breasts apart as she watched him from far above him, her beak so far away given her size.

“No, I’m just… taking in the sights. Alien bird pussy isn’t something I see too often.”

“What’s a bird?” she asked, but Lambert ignored her, slipping his hands between her cheeks and the bed, grabbing as much of her ass as he could. He couldn’t see it from this angle, but he could feel her butt absorbing his hands up to the wrist with their doughiness, her tail going crazy when he stroked it by the base.

Her legs rubbed against his sides as he sucked and kissed her inner thighs, each one flawless and impossibly soft to the touch, yet like the rest of her, there was firmer tissue beneath, a proportionate amount to help carry her around, but no less impressive. Her clawed hands and toes dug into the bed beneath her as he teased her, kissing the creases her flesh made between her ass and her thighs, before finally relenting and plunging his face into her loins.

When he slid his tongue between her swollen lips, Mezul made a noise louder than anything he’d heard before, a sort of screeched trill the kind a dying songbird might make with its last breath. He blinked through her intoxicating scent and peered up at her, her chest rising and falling heavily.

“Why did you stop?” Her beak went up and to the side, her one eye fixed on his.

“You, you sounded like you were hurt!”

“Why would that hurt? You’re barely larger than an infant, you can’t hurt me!”

“Well I don’t know what all those squeaks and squawks you’re making mean!”

“That one meant keep going,” Mezul clarified. “Unless I say, Lambert please stop, just assume they all mean that.”

“Okay, those’ll be our safe words then.” He turned his attention back to her nethers, tasting her tangy juices with another drag of his tongue, starting slower this time. She tasted a little bitter, but not in a bad way, seeking out more of her nectar as he explored her with his tongue. He mapped out every inch of her large lips, coating her entrance in his saliva as he sucked on her feathery flesh.

Her thighs trembled as he pushed his tongue inside, her blue walls flexing against his muscle as he drew random shapes on her vulva. Mezul arched her back, lifting Lambert off the mattress as he stroked her insides mercilessly.

He lifted his head to catch his breath, glancing up to see Mezul was covering her eyes with an arm, her wing concealing her face as she lay back on the pillows.

Lambert took a breath like a diver, plunging back into her crotch and resuming his licking. He couldn’t cover all of her with just his tongue, so he brought up his hand, fingering at her opening, wetting his digits before pressing them inside her.

His hand was practically sopping with her juices before he sank up to the knuckle, Mezul’s insides seizing around him as the Balokarid moaned and squawked. Her passage was deeper than a humans’, his finger not reaching any sort of limit as it disappeared fully inside her. A human would be in pain by this point, but Mezul was squawking all sorts of sounds that weren’t born from pain, the alien reduced to a mess as he ravaged her privates.

She was loose by human standards given her size, but she possessed a distinct strength down there, her walls clenching around his finger in waves, pulling his finger deeper in with surprising strength. Mezul shivered as he delved his tongue back in, racking her luxurious walls and filling his mouth with her fluids.

He heard his partner stutter out a sentence somewhere above him. “D-Do you… Rrawwt… Doesn’t my taste bother you?”

His face slick with her fluids, he lifted out of her scorching entrance, seeing that Mezul was peering over her wing at him, just her eyes visible.

“You taste amazing,” he replied. If Mezul could blush, she’d do it right then, the alien warbling in a way that came off as flustered, her headdress standing tall.

“Humans must do that, all the time,” Mezul mumbled, watching a trail of his saliva and her juices drip off his chin to land on her thigh, her gaze full of lust. “Balokarids can’t do anything like that. The beaks.”

He could imagine those tough beaks would make eating out someone a problem. He slid his finger in and out of her, slowly adding in another digit as her silken walls moved and clenched around him with all the tightness of a glove, wet squelches filling the room. Before he went back in he asked, “Do you guys have a… clitoris?”

Her wing furled away, Mezul’s eyelids drooping as she considered his question. “I… don’t think my translator has that word.”

“What about g-spot? Fun button? Devils’ doorbell?” When she just gave him a blank stare he elaborated. “It’s like a nub that feels really good if you press on it?”

“Oh, that! Yes, it’s higher, and more towards the front like where your nose was. Why do you have so many names for that?”

“Humans like to get creative,” he said.

“In more ways than one,” she replied, her tongue wetting her beak as she gave her loins a flex around his finger.

“All right, wish me luck,” he said, Mezul snickering as he grinned up at her. As he went down on her, her laugh morphed into a moan as he dragged his tongue over her vulva, coring her out as he pushed past her slick lips to nibble on her inner folds. Her slimy flesh flexed in rolling waves, encouraging Lambert’s tongue towards where her love button was, the angle of her passage forcing Lambert to tilt his head at an odd angle.

His roaming organ brushed something bumpy, and his alien partner shivered, her wonderful warbles reaching his ears as he found what must be her sweet spot. Its texture contrasted with the rest of her smooth, soft walls, made up of what felt like a couple dozen bristles that followed the roof of her vent. They were like miniature tongues in their own right, arranged in a small pocket of flesh, his erection aching as he imagined them wrapped over his member.

Mezul’s hips ground against his face, Lambert feeling her hands resting in his hair, her thighs rubbing against his shoulders as she wrapped her legs across his back, sealing him against her nethers, as if afraid he might pull away.

“Crawwwt~!” Mezul croaked, licking her beak as she peered down at him, watching him eat her out like she was a succulent fruit. “I’m telling everyone about this… your tongue is so warm and smooth and…”

Her words trailed into a sigh as he lapped at her alien sweet spot, his saliva and her fluids filling his mouth. Her hot, slimy walls sealed around his face, contrasting with her cool thighs as their soft, feathery coats tickled his cheeks. She was constantly in motion, Lambert growing bolder as he made his partner dance with his tongue, making sure he tasted every part of her alien vagina.

Mezul’s passage clenched around his face with a painful suction, the alien suddenly arching her spine as she threw her head back, making all sorts of crawts and rawts as she gyrated her hips like she was trying to fuck his face.

Her fluids flooded through her winking passage, wetting the insides of her thighs and the bedsheets beneath. She bucked like an angry bull throwing a rider, Lambert hanging onto one of her girthy thighs as she rode out the first waves of her climax. The bedsprings creaked ominously as she writhed around, the Balokarid moaning as her wings sprouted to their full lengths. Lambert didn’t let up, doubling his efforts as he mouthed at her sensitive loins, drawing out a few more sighs and twitches from his lover, prolonging her climax and drawing out the last of her juices.

Her legs collapsed to either side of him as she relaxed, her nails tickling his scalp as she caressed him, Lambert shivering contentedly. He rose from her mound like he was breaching the surface of a pool, his face soaked and his eyes lidded. He could make out Mezul peering back at him, her breasts swaying enticingly as she eased down onto the pillows.

He crawled his way up her long body, his hands connecting with hers as he lay on her belly, pinning her wrists by her shoulders, Mezul leaning down to connect her beak to his mouth, her long tongue coiling over his so she could dictate their pace. If she was concerned about tasting her own fluids, she didn’t show it, ferociously licking at his gums and teeth, always keeping him just on the edge of suffocating as she piled her tongue inside him, the way he was always longing for breath making him feel vulnerable and overtly sensitive to her touch.

“And I once worried I was too different for your taste,” Mezul chuckled as she broke off, her beak rubbing against his neck like a cat seeking affection. “No one’s ever made me feel like that in… ever.”

“That’s how humans do it.”

“Well, let me show you how Balokarids do it…”

She rolled him onto his back, easily twice as strong as he was, dropping her weight on his chest as she nibbled playfully on his shoulder, her boobs spilling like dough over his chest. She easily weighed over two hundred pounds and could probably crush the life out of him, but she was oddly considerate for such a giant creature, planting her thighs to either side of him to support her weight.

Like he had done earlier, she worked her way down from his neck, Lambert letting out an unbecoming moan as she sucked on one of his nipples. He hadn’t thought he was a fan of that kind of thing until today.

“You’re so muscular,” Mezul mused, her beak ticking his skin as she followed the curve of his pectoral. “But with no protective fur or scales, how odd.” She left a long, slick trail with her tongue as she moved down to his stomach, dipping her organ into his belly button and giggling when he squirmed. She moved lower towards his crotch, her hindquarters raised high into the air as she examined his dick.

She licked the underside of his cock from the base to the tip, a pleasant shiver rolling down his spine as he suppressed the urge to buck. Her golden eyes met his as she grinned up at him, her eyes on either side of his shaft. “Ever since we took a layout of your anatomy, this has to be the most interesting part. Does it not retract?”

“N-No,” he replied, Mezul wrapping her long arms over his legs and tucking them beneath her stomach, placing her beak between his thighs and staring intently at his organ.

“So it just flops around in your pants all the time?” she asked. “How do you walk around without it getting in the way?”

“The same way you walk around with those melons on your chest, I’d guess,” he replied. It looked like she was about to ask what a melon was, when she placed a hand on her bosom and probably guessed the answer.

She placed her beak against his balls, her nostrils flaring as she breathed in his scent, his raging erection twitching with anticipation. Her beak split open as she prepared to take him into her mouth, when she suddenly raised a wing, the furls opening to expose the feathered sheaths. She brushed his glans with their tips, Lambert bucking reflexively at the strange sensation.

He couldn’t have raised her off if he tried, pinned as he was, but his legs flexed in vain anyway. “Fuck me rigid,” he groaned, panting as she brushed the wing back the other way.

“We’ll get to that, I want to sate a few curiosities first,” Mezul replied. “Do humans come?”

“I will if you keep doing that,” he said.

“How long of a rest do you need after you do?”

“I don’t know, ten minutes?” he guessed, biting at his hand to stifle a moan as she started licking him between each soft stroke of her wing.

“That’s fast compared to our males, but I still can’t wait that long. Warn me if you’re about to come, Lambert, I want your seed inside me for our first time.”

“A-Alright,” he said, his face going red at her lurid request. “I’ll take a page out of your book and say crawt or something.”

“Make any noise you like, just hold on for me.”

She stopped stroking him with her wing, pinching the tip of his cock with two claws and peeling back the foreskin, his head already wet with his pre. Mezul circled his glans with her thumb, wetting her finger as she drew her tongue over a vein running down the side of his shaft. It was so wet and warm, her flexible tongue leaving no inch of him untouched as she explored him.

Her headdress fluttered as she noted his reaction, a haze falling over Lambert’s head as he laid back against the pillows when she started stroking him, her hand encompassing the lower half of hic cock as she squeezed and pulled, finding a comfortable pace.

Her maw opened to expose her rows of teeth, Lambert tensing up as she drew closer. It didn’t look like Balokarid’s did much in the way of oral, and just as he was about to say something, she started teasing his flesh with quick flurries and licks, keeping her teeth well away from his sensitive flesh.

The Balokarid lapped a bead of his excitement into her gullet, Mezul sampling it by smacking her teeth together. His taste only seemed to encourage her, the alien doting and licking on him with a renewed fervour. The dual movements of her hand and her tongue sent Lambert into a trance, his hips bucking up in search of more stimulation.

“How does it feel?” Mezul asked, drawing her tongue back and cupping his balls with her free hand, squeezing them gently. “My beak can’t compare with your dexterous tongue, but is it… good?”

“Hell yeah it’s good,” he replied, Mezul smirking at him as she lowered her face down to his crotch, her tongue wetting his length with a sheen of her spit, the mix of saliva and her rhythmic pumping creating a wet, lurid noise that could probably be heard from the next-door apartment.

He felt the tip of her tongue slip beneath his foreskin, and Lambert bucked so hard Mezul lifted a few inches off the mattress, the alien mumbling something around his cock as she rested more of her weight on him. He could feel the hard nubs on her breasts pressing into his thighs, his legs surrounded by her silken torso. It felt like his entire lower half was wrapped in a soft blanket, his toes curling as she upped the ante on his member.

She kissed and mouthed just as he had with her loins, quickly finding that his glans were a weak spot she could take advantage of, sliding her tongue around his head until it disappeared from view, surrounded by her tapered, blue tongue. She went on like that for a few minutes, his thrusts becoming more erratic. He was getting close, his eyes scrunched as he willed himself to hold back so he could experience this feeling for as long as possible.

Her beak wrapped over the head of his cock, Mezul moving it in a chewing motion as she breathed cool air on it. His abs flexed as his climax threatened to break through, but then Lambert’s eyes blazed open as he felt two nails pinch round the base of his length, cutting off his surging orgasm in a way that came off as both relieving and disappointing.

“I told you to warn me,” Mezul scolded, making sure his climax was cut off before removing her claws. Her tongue slid back into her maw with a squelch.

“Well it’s your own fault,” he replied. “If you’d gone a bit slower instead of just going right for the… the afterburners!”

“Afterburners!?” Mezul laughed, running her feathery hands up and down his chest. “I appreciate the analogy, Lambert. Maybe we should move on…”

She crawled her way up his torso, planting her knees under his armpits, her thighs almost as long as his torso was, everything from his belly down completely engulfed in a sea of azure feathers as she straddled him. He ran his hands over her plump thighs, his fingers disappearing into her coat as he traced her hidden muscles.

“Am I too heavy?” Mezul asked, Lambert nodding as his legs began to cramp. She lifted her weight a little bit, her digitigrade legs splaying far apart to either side of him. “How’s that?”

“Better, yeah,” he said. His cock was buried in the heat of her loins, Lambert letting out an unbecoming grunt as Mezul ground her hips against his, feeling the slick lips of her entrance sliding against his base. Despite not being able to see it, he was still susceptible to her soft touch, and the heat from her entrance.

“Enough teasing,” Mezul said, lifiting her plump rear into the air, the tail sprouting from above her cheeks pressing up against her back. “I want you to fill me up.”

Her bright eyes burned into his as she took his erection into her hand, using the other to splay open her lips with two claws, a trickle of her excitement falling down to wet the side of his shaft, his dick flexing. Her walls almost seemed to sprout out from her entrance like petals on a blooming flower, Lambert’s heart racing as she angled his member towards her lips.

Mezul lowered herself, the two of them gasping as her silky flesh met his glans, his tip sliding into her narrow opening. Her powerful muscles poured around his flesh like a vice, a shudder coursing through both their bodies as their contrasting skins rubbed and flexed against each other.

Her blue insides gripped him so powerfully it almost hurt, the head of his dick engulfed by her puffy lips. He thought she’d be slightly loose compared to his smaller anatomy, but Mezul had such fine control down there that her walls wrapped around his length like a fist made of flesh, her walls rippling as she crouched further.

She engulfed his glans, her tunnel seizing around him as she paused, perhaps savouring the sensation of him inside her. Her tunnel was boiling hot, the velvety texture of her walls morphing around his flared head as her anatomy welcomed his alien organ.

Mezul voiced another one of her odd trills, her eyes lidded as her pelvic muscles suddenly tensed up. She let gravity do the rest of the work, the two grunting (and chirping) as Lambert was buried into the mattress as she dropped her bulk on him, impaling herself on his shaft. Her monstrous thighs clamped round his hips and stomach, driving his member deep into her sloped passage.

A pang of worry fought through Lambert’s bliss, her sheer size was a cause for concern, but he trusted that she wouldn’t crush him, or at least, not to the point she would cause him harm…

His dick kissed her most intimate parts, Lambert trying to buck into her monstrous weight and failing to lift her. Mezul’s beak opened in a silent moan, her tongue lolling out so far it trailed right down her cleavage.

Despite his dick being coated in her saliva, there was a wonderful friction as her insides clenched around his length, a jolt of pleasure coursing through his alien lover as his dick flexed inside her.

“I can feel those vein pressing against my…” she trailed off into one of her birdsong chirps, her head rolling away, but Lambert could guess what she was saying. The angle of her passage brought the back of his cock right up against her clitoris, his length brushing against the tens of nodules making up her sweet spot.

She didn’t rise up on his shaft, instead beginning to rock her hips from side to side, like she was using his dick to scratch at an itch. Her juices spilled out of her flexing lips, pooling on his crotch and staining the bedsheets, her abs flexing as she used her powerful core to deepen their coupling.

She arched her spine beautifully as she leaned back, pressing her chest forward as she ran her fingers down her sides, her curves like magnets to his eyes as he followed her alien body plan. She dropped her claws onto his chest, rubbing his chest hair, then planted her hands on either side of his head, her breasts smothering his face with their soft meat, the alien now grinding her hips as the bristles on her clitoris painted his cock in rolling waves.

The impossible softness of her luxurious feathers brushed against his cheeks, Lambert lifting his hand up and sinking it into one of her breasts, delighting in the way her harder tissue beneath her coat sprang back like rubber in his grip. He knew where her nipple was off by heart, giving it a rough squeeze, her tunnel contracting as a result.

“Like that,” Mezul encouraged from somewhere above him. He didn’t need to be told twice, Lambert bringing the nub to his mouth, his partner grumbling something as he gently bit down on it, sealing it between his lips. Mezul’s thighs tightened around his hips as he licked and sucked, alternating so that she was always on edge, her love tunnel flexing and moving wonderfully over his shaft.

“Brrble,” Lambert said around a mouthful of her soft bosom.

“What?” Mezul lifted her chest off him, her stature making it so that she had to look down to meet his eyes.

“Breath,” he repeated, Mezul mumbling an apology as she cupped his chin and delivered one of her signature kisses. He looked down at their mated hips when she pulled away, seeing her lips melting over his crotch. She was drawing circles with her hips, making sure he reached every part of her alien vent, each new angle sending his nervous system into overdrive.

“Here,” he said, grabbing her by her love handles and motioning for her to rise. “I’ll show you a human trick.”

“Another one?” Mezul moaned. “I don’t know if I can handle much more…”

“You’ll like this,” he said. As her hips lifted, her insides gripped his dick hard enough to hurt, like her body didn’t want him escaping her. The friction of their vastly different flesh caused them both to groan, Mezul following his lead and lifting her cheeks into the air until only his head was left inside her.

She paused at that apex, the blue flaps of her avian hole dragging outward from her lips as he pulled his hips back. He held onto her cheeks, steadied himself, and stabbed up into her as she dropped at the same time.

All the soft parts of her body rippled with the impact, Mezul letting out a distinctly moan-like chirrup, her drunken eyes turned toward the ceiling. He bottomed out inside her, her insides like wet clay as they morphed to the shape of his cock. He was aware of every crinkle and fold as they raked along his length, his hands running through her silky coat and tracing the subtle curve of her spine.

“Was I right or what?” he said, nuzzling against the feathers on her chest and breathing in her scent.

“Your organ curves in a completely different direction to my… insides,” Mezul muttered, trying to look serious even as she struggled through the bliss. “Isn’t that uncomfortable for you?”

“Well, if you want to stop…” He pretended to lift her off, but Mezul leaned more of her weight down on him, the man chuckling as she pinned him by the wrists.

“You’re staying right there until you fill me up,” Mezul chided, shaking her hips, the movement silencing him. The Balokarid eased her waist up, quickly catching on to Lambert’s idea, creating a slow, but heavy pace as she rose up and slammed back down on him, the human writhing beneath her as her insides relentlessly flexed against his sensitive skin. She forced him into her sweet spot again and again, the wet sounds of their coupling rising above the embarrassing grunts the two made over one another.

Balokarids must mate a little differently if this was such a novel experience for Mezul, his lover locked in a blissful trance as she rutted him into the bed, Lambert doing his most to rise up to meet her as they mated. Lambert’s hands wandered over her body as he let her have her way with him, her softness impossible to resist.

He could feel his orgasm threatening to erupt, and Mezul seemed to sense it too, the alien’s insides squeezing around him in a distinctly milking motion. She looked down at him with a sultry expression, holding him by the shoulder as she bounced on his cock harder and faster.

“Fill me, Lambert,” she sighed, alternating between rocking her hips and slamming up and down on him. “I’m so close, just a little more…”

Her pelvic muscles sealed over his dick, her fine control over her core making it difficult to deny her request. She bounced on him with all of her strength and weight, Lambert’s body unsure whether to long for air or release. He did his best to meet her thrusts with his own, the two mating like beasts as their composures left them and they let their instincts guide them towards their crescendos. Her beak met his lips as she stared into his eyes, her breath mixing with his as their lovemaking reached a fever pitch.

“More,” Mezul whispered. “Just a little m…” She went silent as she brought her hips to his one final time, forcing Lambert as deep as he could go as her tunnel narrowed, the first wave of her orgasm rocking her.

Her alien vent contracted in waves, Mezul running her beak over Lambert’s face as her loins gripped his dick with the strength of a vice. His entire lower half vanished as she drew him as deep as he would go, her milking contractions sending Lambert over the edge, his spine curling as his own orgasm erupted with all the violence of a volcano.

A blissful release that bordered on pain took control of his faculties, pumping his first load into her as he took handfuls of her feathers into his grip, his euphoria chased by a satisfying ache as he splashed her walls with his emission.

Mezul’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as her flexing passage milked him of another load, her neck falling so far back that her forehead touched the space between her shoulders. Her heavenly walls massaged even more of his ejaculate, it just wouldn’t stop, not that Lambert wanted it to, a sweet euphoria chasing his climax as his hips connected up into hers, his fluids joining hers to leak down her thighs as he filled her to capacity.

Their joined pleasure slowly wound down, every subtle twitch from one felt by the other as they rode it out until the gentle warmth of afterglow took them, Mezul sighing as one last flex of his manhood sent a wave of pleasure coursing through her.

She collapsed on him, Lambert voicing a pained gasp as she dropped her weight, the alien smiling at him as she nuzzled his cheek and neck, her hot breath washing over him in bursts as she collected herself.

The light from outside the bedroom caught on her azure feathers and his sweat as she rolled onto her side, making her appear to sparkle, Lambert wincing as his member slid gently out of her, the combination of their juices spilling out between her lips to further dirty the mattress.

“I can feel it warming up my insides,” Mezul sighed, touching her stomach which was a little more swollen than before. “You filled me up so much, I wasn’t expecting that.”

“It’s… been a while since I’ve been with someone,” he confessed, turning onto his side, Mezul giggling like a girl as he wrapped his arms around her.

“That means I’ll have you all to myself,” she purred, running her claws over his scalp, Lambert shivering in her arms. Who knew his head was so sensitive? A snap rippled through the sheets as one of the bedsprings gave way, the pair noticeably sagging as they looked at each other in worry.

“I think we need a new bed already,” Lambert laughed. He could only imagine the damage done by going with a Balokarid more than once, and he wasn’t just talking about the mattress…

“There’s always the other bedroom,” Mezul suggested, lifting him up and depositing him on her stomach as she wrapped her arms around him, sighing into his hair.

“You want to break that one too?” he asked, the alien smiling mischievously at him.

“Ten minutes rest, you said?” She laughed as his cheeks reddened, Lambert hiding them as he buried his face in her bust, her wonderful scent filling his nose. Only days ago she’d been this mysterious, alien being with no real grasp on his language, he wouldn’t even dream of being this close to her, but they’d gone through thick and thin that this all just felt right.

“Maybe fifteen,” he muttered into her coat. He breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled him close, her sheathes unfurling until her feathers surrounded him on all sides, blanketing him in a surprisingly comfortable wing-hug.

Epilogue

“Afternoon, Senator,” Captain Anders said, waving for his guards to wait outside as the door closed behind him. Astera’s office hadn’t changed all that much since his last visit, her desk sat between two shelving units full of paperbacks of all shapes and colours, a rare commodity, since shipping paper to the Hub wasn’t a cheap endeavour. On the back wall was a window looking out over the torus, the blinds open to let the sunlight spill in, the rays reflecting off the miniature model of the station sitting on the Senator’s desk.

She was leaning against the window sill, a clipboard in her hand as she furrowed her brow at the words written on it. He didn’t need to ask whose report it was, he could make out his own signature near the bottom.

“Captain,” the Senator replied. “while I appreciate the sudden influx of intergalactic reinforcements, I’m going to have to ask you that if you ever encounter another alien species again, call me in advance, message interceptions be damned. I’m going to be up to my balls in logistics until my grandson turns ten.”

“You’re telling me,” he muttered, having himself just come from planning out an integration process for the Balokarid fleet. The call to Astera’s office was a break he desperately needed, even if he expected a good chewing out.

“Their Kith wants to send word back to Balokar with information on how to differentiate a Hub ship from a Confederate one, did you know that?” Astera asked. “I expect we’ll be deploying to their territory given time, they’ll want help fighting the UEC off.”

“How many planets do they have?”

“Dur’shala’s their only world outside of their homeplanet,” Astera said. “They’re a few hundred years behind us in terms of technology, but they’ll provide a suitable buffer against the UEC until we can establish a stronger foothold, secure our own fucking nebula for one thing and keep our trade routes open. But enough about logistics, I wanted your report. Off the record.”

She dropped the clipboard unceremoniously onto her desk, the Captain raising a brow at her. “You achieved a rather difficult goal of destroying a Confederate fleet and capturing their survivors, but that wasn’t your original mission.”

“The one covered in black ink?” he asked. “Missing transport ship, last known location somewhere in the nebula?”

“Did you make any progress on locating them?”

“I… sent you my report,” he explained, his brow raised. “You were reading it a minute ago.”

“I’ve had enough of paperwork for one afternoon,” Astera said, flopping not so gracefully down on her chair, its suspension sagging. “And you know as well as I that transcripts don’t remain classified forever, and this is a highly sensitive report, so indulge me, Captain.”

“Well,” he began. “It took a few weeks of searching before we found something, one of our scout ships detected a trail of refined chemicals that are analogous with a ruptured fuel tank, which could indicate our missing ship experienced damages of some sort.

“The scout followed the trail, but they left it to go after a Balokarid ship nearby, your Commander Hall was the one who made the call. He did drop a waypoint there for future reference, and I dispatched another team to follow up on the lead while we tried to make translators for the aliens.”

“And?” Astera asked, leaning over her desk. “What did the team find?”

“Readings got a little hazy,” he said. “But visual and thermal readings confirmed that the trail ends a couple sectors off from where Commander Hall left it. No wreckage in sight, it just stops.”

“So the mission failed?” Astera asked. She didn’t sound displeased, like she suspected this outcome, which was true considering he’d written it down for her. “You could not locate the ship?”

“We sustained too much damage during the fight,” Anders replied. “We could not continue the search, not that we would have found much else, the fuel trail was only our lead, and it was a dead end.”

“What do you suspect happened to them?” Astera asked, picking up a bottle and taking a sip. The bottle was metal, so he couldn’t see the contents.

“My analytical team believes the ship’s crew successfully repaired their damaged tank, and went on their way.”

“I didn’t ask what your fucking analytical team thinks happened, I’m asking you, Captain.”

He was used to her terse language, so he wasn’t so taken aback by her reply. “Personally? I think they were either captured or destroyed,” he said. “but a ship’s transponder would send out an alert when their reactor goes critical, it’s standard protocol to warn nearby ships of incoming debris. The interference could have blocked us from receiving one, but there was no wreckage of any kind, and a simple leak in the fuel tank couldn’t result in a meltdown, not unless they were shot at.”

“Do you suspect the UEC were involved?”

“They’ve got the motive, but none of the Fed’s we’ve picked up confessed to seeing any ships out there, and the blackbox we recovered from their destroyer supports their claims.” He shook his head. “They only sent one battlegroup to hunt down the Balokarid carriers. They’re a ruthless bunch, but we would have found evidence of a fight if there was one. Extreme heat emissions from the resulting explosion, for one thing, there’s nowhere else for heat to go out in space.”

“What about the Balokarids?” Astera asked. “Do you think they could be involved? Perhaps they commandeered it?”

“It seems a pretty bad way of starting our alliance,” Anders replied. “And the Kith claims none of her people have flown a single wing into this whole nebula before, and by the way her navigation charts look, I believe her.”

“So if the Balokarids didn’t do it, and the UEC didn’t either, who is responsible?”

“You always get up everyone else for asking dim-witted questions, how come you’re different?”

“My frustration is getting the better of me,” she muttered. “I must admit you’re not giving me many answers, Captain,” she added, peering at him over her bottle as she took another sip. “There’s no evidence to suggest destruction, and the only culprits to explain a potential capture you have ruled out. A ship cannot just disappear without a trace.”

“But this one did,” he said with a shrug. “And speaking of answers, perhaps you would care to enlighten me about this transport a little more? It’s cargo, destination? It might give me more to go on.”

The Senator sighed, making to pick up her clipboard again, then reconsidering. “I suppose there’s too much secrecy already, isn’t there? Very well. The ship is… was… not a transport vessel but a fuel liner, carrying twenty thousand litres of spare unrefined fuel, its destination beyond the borders of the UEC.”

“Unrefined? Why were they taking that beyond colonised space?”

“I’ll get to that if you stop interrupting me,” Astera snapped. “I assigned some of my most trusted compatriots to crew that ship, people I’ve known a long time who wouldn’t ask questions and keep their mouths shut.”

Astera cleared her throat, her chair creaking as she adjusted herself.

“I sent them out to sway the Suvelians into a trade agreement, the fuel was to be a gesture of goodwill, since they’d been planning a long voyage or something, I didn’t pry for details.” She noted his expression. “Yes, the aliens who ignored our species for the last few hundred years contacted me out of the blue, I was on my laptop one morning and they popped up on my screen like some fucking intergalactic house call, said they heard of our ‘interracial infighting’.” Astera added in her own air quotes. “-And wanted to work with us, since we were not Confederately aligned. I agreed to a meeting at some unremarkable sector a few systems out from the UEC border, a few months travel beyond the nebula.”

Anders had many questions, but the first he asked was: “How did they communicate with you?”

“They tapped into my fucking microphone and webcam, speaking perfect English! Fuck knows how they managed that, they didn’t even give me the courtesy to get properly dressed, I’ve never discussed policies in my nightgown before. You realise as well as I that it was an opportunity I could not give up, and to ensure success I kept the list of people who knew about this meeting to a minimum. What a lot of good that did,” she muttered. “if you suspect another party is at fault for our missing ship, Captain, there’s your answer. But as you said, it would be some way of starting a fledgling alliance by taking out one of our ships.”

“Have the Suves contacted you since that last call?”

“No, they’ve gone quiet.” She waved a hand. “I’ve had my computer looked at, but however they managed to contact me, they didn’t leave a trail my techs could find.”

“You’ve given me more questions than answers, Senator,” he chuckled bitterly. “The Suves might know more, but without any way of contacting them…” He shrugged.

“So, in summary,” Astera said, lifting up her fingers to count. “our ship vanishes without a trace. There’s no evidence to suggest destruction, or capture, and the aliens are probably not responsible, and neither are the Confederates.” Astera sighed. “I’ve given textbook speeches more satisfying than that. This won’t look good to the public, nor to my rivals.”

“And being the old face leading the revolution against the UEC does? What else do your rivals need to hate you?” he asked, Astera fixing him with a cold look.

“You wouldn’t have happened to add in the word old for a reason, turncoat?” she asked dryly.

“You must have misheard.”

“I’m going to need more vodka than what’s in this to believe that.” Astera held up her bottle, Anders grinning as he finally detected the whiff of alcohol. “I’ll pour you one for such a bold jab, you’ll need it for when we sort out the alien residential rites. Which is now. Take a seat, we’ve a lot of work to do.”

-THE END-