Tactical Two sat deep in the spine of the Hecate, wrapped in armor and sensor arrays like a pearl inside rough stone. The hatch recognized Captain Vega’s authorization and slid aside. The room beyond was a shallow amphitheater, banks of displays curving around a central holo table that rose from the deck like a blunt pillar.

  The air in here was cooler, drier, flavored with the faint ozone bite of overworked projectors.

  Three officers were already inside.

  Major Taggart stood near the far side of the table, helmet set down in front of him, thick fingers braced on the rim. His gaze flicked up as Helios Three filed in. Beside him, a thin lieutenant at a console tapped through sensor feeds, eyes rimmed in red from too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

  Overhead, the primary display sphere was dark, waiting.

  The third figure was not physically present.

  Her image hovered above the table in the dim center of the room, slightly taller than life and perfectly steady despite the micro delay in the signal. Admiral Szeto appeared in full Fleet dress blacks, not armor, the white streaks in her hair catching the light. Her eyes were sharp, set above high cheekbones and a face that had the worn calm of someone who had watched entire campaigns burn down to nothing and still woken up for the next one.

  When Vega crossed the threshold, Szeto’s gaze turned directly toward her, as if the admiral stood in the room instead of far away on the command deck of the carrier Zheng He.

  “Captain Vega,” Szeto said. “Helios Three.”

  The unit snapped to attention as one, black armor locking into place in neat rows along the sloped floor.

  “Admiral Szeto,” Vega answered.

  “At ease,” the admiral said.

  Armor relaxed in a ripple, but no one moved more than a few centimeters. They watched the holo.

  Szeto’s image dipped her head once in acknowledgment. “We will keep this efficient. Nemea Nine went from green to black in under three hours. Terraforming control lost orbital handshake, then began transmitting corrupted data. Standard failsafe routines did not trigger. Ground-based security went silent. We have had no verified communication from the surface since.”

  The dark sphere over the table brightened.

  Nemea Nine appeared in miniature, a cloudy bead the size of a helmet. Thin overlays traced orbits, old satellite shells, and debris fields. Bright markers bloomed where Fleet assets currently sat in high orbit. The Hecate pulsed in steady blue. The Zheng He appeared further out, flanked by two leaner destroyers.

  “Two hours ago, we attempted a narrow-band laser link to colony administration. No response,” Szeto continued. “We pushed an automated drone into the atmosphere. It reached low orbit, reported anomalous electromagnetic activity, then ceased transmission. All attempts to re-establish contact have failed.”

  The display shifted. The view sank closer, sliding down along lines of latitude. Weather patterns thickened into storm swirls. A single mining continent rose out of gray cloud cover, like a rust-colored bruise.

  “Nemea Nine is no stranger to electrical storms,” the lieutenant at the console put in, voice dry. “But this pattern is new. It is not seasonal. It is not moving like a front should. It is pulsing around specific coordinates.”

  “Terraforming grid?” Vega asked.

  “Mostly,” the lieutenant said. “And the main refinery hub.”

  The holo zoomed again.

  Industrial sprawl spread across the projection: atmospheric processors like fat needles stabbing the sky, long runs of conveyor lines, giant storage domes, barracks blocks, cratered excavation sites. Overlaid icons blinked in yellow and red, throwing up alarming numbers.

  “Power fluctuations. Heat blooms. Structural collapses,” the lieutenant rattled off. “We see thermal signatures, but they are… not clean. Nothing we can tag as massed human life signs. Nothing organized.”

  “Ground control?” Ito asked.

  The lieutenant looked at Szeto. She gave a brief nod.

  A smaller pane opened off to one side, showing the colony’s central command tower. It leaned at a sick angle, several of its upper levels torn away. Smoke or dust vented from fractures in its reinforced shell.

  “Emergency beacons fired once,” Szeto said. “Then cut off. Automatic signals only. No live voices.”

  She let that settle for a second.

  “You know what silent colonies have meant, historically,” she went on. “Systemic failure. War. Rebellion. Pandemics. Sometimes all of the above. We are not going to assume which one this is until we see it with our own eyes.”

  Taggart cleared his throat.

  “Helios Three will make that first contact,” he said, looking around the room. “You are dropping into Landing Zone Kappa, one kilometer from the main refinery ground zero. Additional units will secure fallback positions and shuttles. Your job is to reach refinery control, secure any survivors you can, and transmit clean recon data so we can decide whether Nemea Nine can be stabilized or has to be abandoned.”

  “And if it is something else?” Watson muttered, not quite under his breath.

  Vega heard it. Szeto pretended not to.

  “You will operate under containment protocol,” Szeto said. “Minimal exposure to any unknown biologicals. Helmets stay on until the atmospheric labs say otherwise. You do not ingest local water. You do not breathe local unfiltered air. You do not touch anything that bleeds without a good reason.”

  She paused again, letting her gaze move slowly along the ranks. When it reached Vega, it lingered a fraction longer.

  “If this is a simple equipment failure,” Szeto said, “you will be back aboard in twenty hours, cursing me for waking you. If it is not, you will be the only line between whatever is happening on the surface and thirty-two thousand unarmed civilians in what remains of the habitats.”

  “The habitats show mostly cold,” the lieutenant murmured.

  “Mostly is not none,” Szeto said without looking away. “We do not write people off until we have their bodies.”

  That was Fleet doctrine on paper.

  Vega knew there were entire colonies whose names never made it to the standard logs. Blacked out entries. Sanitized losses. Lessons learned by people who would never admit they had needed learning.

  “We will keep this simple,” Szeto said. “Rules of engagement are standard. Anything that threatens your people or the mission, you neutralize it. If you see evidence of ongoing research in violation of Fleet biosafety codes, you secure what you can and transmit details. You do not attempt to salvage a laboratory on your own, nor do you prioritize hardware over human lives. Understood?”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Yes, Admiral,” Vega said.

  The chorus of voices behind her followed.

  Szeto’s jaw tightened once, as if she had expected to have to argue that last point with someone. Her gaze flicked sideways, just briefly, toward Taggart. He did not react.

  “Good,” she said. “Major, anything to add?”

  Taggart straightened. “You cover your sectors, you watch your corners, you do not split the squad without reason. Scan first, shoot second, but do not wait for someone on the ground to tell you what is a threat and what is not. If you see something that feels wrong, tell your captain. She will make the call.”

  His eyes locked on Vega.

  “And Captain Vega? You keep me informed every step down that chain. I do not like surprises.”

  “I will transmit as soon as we have anything worth saying,” Vega said.

  The muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched. It might have been a smile. Or the ghost of one.

  Szeto’s image shifted, as if she had moved weight from one leg to the other on some distant deck.

  “You have your orders,” she said. “You will have a live tactical uplink to Zheng He until you pass below the storm layer. Once you are under it, you may experience signal noise or a complete blackout. You are not to assume that we see what you see down there. You document everything and push the data whenever the window opens.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Vega repeated.

  Szeto’s gaze softened by a hair, almost too little to notice. “Captain,” she said, voice lowering just half a tone, “I read your record. I know what you held together on Khepri Station. I asked for Helios Three because I trust you to tell me the truth, not what anyone thinks I want to hear.”

  Vega felt the weight of thirty-seven pairs of eyes tilt toward her and forced herself not to shift. “You will get the truth,” she said.

  “Then that will do,” Szeto replied.

  The holo flickered once as some distant officer pinged her attention. “I will be on the line as long as the signal permits. Major, get them on the deck.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Taggart said.

  Szeto’s image dimmed, then vanished, leaving only the spinning model of Nemea Nine above the table and the quiet whine of the projectors.

  Silence lasted three seconds.

  “Helios Three,” Taggart said, snapping his helmet up from the table, “you heard the lady. We are green for a drop in ninety minutes. Captain, you have fifteen to lock down your plan and thirty to brief your squad.”

  “Understood,” Vega said.

  Taggart nodded, then started barking assignments to the other officers. The lieutenant peeled off toward a side console, data lots already streaming across his displays.

  Vega turned back toward her people.

  Their faces were hidden now behind polarized visors, but she knew each one. The way they stood, the way they held their rifles, the angle of their heads when they listened.

  “You have the overview,” she said. “Here is how we do it.”

  She lifted one gauntleted hand. The holo table obeyed her personal authorization, shrinking the planetary view down and expanding a wireframe of the refinery hub.

  “Landing Zone Kappa is here,” she said, marking a modest flat zone just east of the main complex. “We go in as a single element, drop, secure the pad, then push along these service corridors to refinery control. If we find intact sensors, Ito will get us eyes and ears. If not, we build our own picture.”

  Icons shimmered into being where she pointed, each tagged with a call sign.

  “Park, you are point with Alpha fireteam. You carry long guns and sweep for anything moving before it sees us. Watson, you stay with Ito and Bravo, keep his gear running, and do not wander off for souvenirs.”

  “Would never,” Watson muttered.

  “You would,” Vega said. “That is why I said it aloud. Major Taggart and the rest of Helios will hold the landing zone and establish a defensive perimeter for our return. If we do not report back on schedule, they assume we are delayed but alive and adjust the evac window by twenty minutes. After that, they pull out and call for orbital options.”

  “That early?” someone asked quietly.

  “We will not be late,” Vega said.

  That was bravado, and they all knew it, but bravado was sometimes the bridge that held men and women up over the drop to fear.

  “We go in expecting human survivors,” she added. “You see civvies, you call them out, and you get between them and whatever is chewing this place up. You see anyone in a Fleet uniform who is not answering your orders, you treat them like a possible threat until we know what they were doing down there.”

  She let that last sentence sit in the air.

  Biosafety violations. Illegal research. The kind of words that did not show up in official orders but hung behind them like faint chemical smells.

  “Questions?” she asked.

  None came. There would be plenty later, in the shuttles, in the dark, when adrenaline settled, and nerves had room to whisper. For now, everyone knew their slot and their path.

  “Then get your kits final checked and be on the bay deck in twenty,” Vega said. “We are going to meet our quiet rock.”

  They filed out again, armor whispering, voices low. As they went, the holo of Nemea Nine continued to turn, storms pulsing in slow, unhealthy rhythms.

  Vega remained a moment longer, watching the miniature world.

  Ito waited at the door, one hand on the frame. “You thinking what I am thinking?” he asked.

  “That depends,” she said. “What are you thinking?”

  “That someone knew this was not routine long before they woke us,” he replied. “And they woke us anyway.”

  “Would you rather they had left us on ice and sent a different unit?” Vega asked.

  Ito considered. “No,” he admitted. “Just would have liked the memo.”

  She nodded once. “We will write it on the ground,” she said. “Come on. Gear check.”

  They left Tactical Two and stepped back into the corridor.

  As they moved toward the drop bay, the ship around them grew louder, more urgent. Claxons bleated brief, steady notes to mark changes in flight status. Cargo lifts rumbled in the walls, shifting ammunition pallets and fuel. Overhead, the distant thunder of maneuvering thrusters rolled like a coming storm.

  By the time they emerged into the drop bay, ground crews were already swarming over the squat, ugly bodies of the descent craft.

  Nine shuttles waited in a staggered row, their hulls painted in matte gray, their bellies blackened from old reentries. Hydraulic ramp mouths yawned open. Cables and fuel lines snaked away in orderly tangles. Drones hummed through the air, scanning hull plating, making final calibrations.

  The bay stank of propellant, hot metal, and the stale sweat of a hundred previous missions soaked into every surface. It was the smell of leaving safety behind.

  Vega felt something in her chest loosen that had not been able to inside the quiet of Tactical Two.

  This was familiar. This was the part she understood absolutely. Load the people. Load the guns. Point them at the unknown and go.

  She stepped to the edge of the deck, looking down toward Shuttle Three, their assigned ride. Its tail designation glowed faintly on its flank. The drop cradle locks sat ready to release.

  Helios Three fanned out across the decking, each squad peeling off to its marked shuttle. Crew chiefs shouted last-minute checks. Armor systems pinged and synchronized with shuttle networks.

  “Helios Three, Shuttle Three,” a crew chief barked, waving them on. “Ramp is yours, Captain.”

  Vega nodded.

  “Mount up,” she called.

  They went.

  Inside, the shuttle was a steel tube lined with crash couches and restraint harnesses, lit by strips of cold light. The sound of the bay faded as the ramp rose and sealed, leaving only the hum of internal systems.

  Vega took her place at the forward end, just behind the cockpit bulkhead, where she could see both her people and the status panels above the hatch. Ito strapped in to her right. Park took a seat near the ramp, rifle stowed between her knees. Watson and the rest filled in, armor buckling into gravlocks with metallic clacks.

  “Helios Three, this is Shuttle Three,” the pilot’s voice came over the internal speakers, easy and level. “We have a clean vector to Kappa. Winds are rough, storms are worse, but that is why you bring us and not the interns.”

  A few soft laughs answered that.

  “Time to atmospheric interface, nine minutes,” the pilot continued. “Time to dirt, twenty-three. Last chance to admit you are afraid of heights.”

  “Just of landings,” Ito said.

  “Good news,” the pilot replied. “We only do those once per mission.”

  Vega felt the shuttle sway as the cradle clamps disengaged. A low, rolling shudder passed through the deck as maneuvering jets fired, swinging them out into the bay’s open void.

  Weight shifted. Her stomach rose a few centimeters toward her ribs.

  The overhead display showed the bay doors irising open, revealing a slice of star scattered black and the swollen curve of Nemea Nine.

  “Helios Three,” Admiral Szeto’s voice came through, clearer now, patched into the internal channel. “You are go for drop.”

  Vega touched the side of her helmet. “Copy, Admiral,” she said. “Helios Three is away.”

  The shuttle lurched as the main engines engaged.

  Acceleration pressed her back into the harness, a steady, building force. Outside, the bay doors fell away, replaced by the endless dark and then, gradually, by the widening shape of the planet below.

  The first fingers of the storm reached up to meet them, flickers of lightning dancing along the upper atmosphere. Instruments chimed warnings. The shuttle’s frame creaked like an old ship in heavy seas.

  Vega closed her eyes for a second, not to hide, but to focus.

  Thirty-seven Marines. One dead rock. One admiral who wanted the truth. One major who did not like surprises.

  And something on the ground that had eaten a colony’s voice.

  “Helios Three,” she said on the squad channel. “Lock it in. This is our world now.”

  The shuttle plunged into the storms.