“Cold hearts are made to protect warm souls.”

  PART I: ReputationCSS LEGEND, HANGAR 1-D (5 YEARS AFTER STAR’S DESERTION)

  In a gaxy at war, information tends to move even faster than light. After five years, the memories of Vice General Valerie Star and her Mirror Squad have faded. Of course, Congress also ordered all records reted to her to be cssified by GSEB. Her betrayal was a huge embarrassment to the current administration, especially for the Defense Cabinet.

  Meanwhile, it was another ordinary morning on the CSS Legend. Except for those working overtime, the 4th Shift clocks out for the day while the 1st Shift is off to an energetic start. It was Monday, and the Legend was taking on some new meat.

  Bull and a few other officers enter the hangar to oversee the personnel reassignments. Soldiers and workers nearby salute them respectfully as they pass. Though the General isn’t required to be present for such a routine activity, he came personally to welcome a friend.

  The first shuttle hovers momentarily before nding in its spot gently, and the doors slide open. A muscur young man with longish brown hair and artificial cyan eyes is the first to step out. He wears a graphic T-shirt from a video game with his uniform jacket casually tied around his waist. Contrary to his brutish build, he has a childlike face with lines around his lips from constant smiling. The only fault is a long, ragged scar running down his left cheek.

  His name is Commander Gregori Rokov, a former Rakonberg refugee. Handsome, popur, and gregarious, he had the privilege of being mentored by Bull as a cadet. Now, after seeing how well he’s been performing tely, Bull requested his former student’s transfer to the Legend.

  Along with his own belongings, Rokov also carries the bags of two female soldiers for them. Once they get off the shuttle, he hands them their things with a suave smile.

  “Here you go, girls. See you around.” he gives them both a wink which makes them giggle.

  Bull watches the scene with his arms crossed and just shakes his head exasperatedly. Ever since GSAFA, Rokov has been a famous dies’ man. However, he never committed to any of his partners for more than a year.

  “Commander Rokov, reporting for duty, sir!”

  Rokov greets his mentor with a stiff salute. Even though Bull is only about six centimeters taller, his solid, commanding posture makes him look like a giant to Rokov. He sucks in his gut in an attempt to stand up straighter.

  “At ease, Gregori. Before you sprain something,” Bull snickers. He knew Rokov too well not to take his “good soldier” guise seriously. The Commander then lets out the breath that he didn’t know he was holding.

  “I’ve been keeping tabs on you, and seeing how well you’ve been performing, you’ve earned the right to serve on this ship.”

  “It’s all thanks to the tips you gave me in the Academy, General.” Rokov smiles humbly. “But don’t worry, I won’t rest on my urels,” he adds quickly while losing the smile.

  “Good man, Commander. Ad astra pro Humanite.”

  Bull gives Rokov a firm pat on the shoulder. The young man then salutes him one more time before heading to a quartermaster for his dorm assignment and work schedule.

  “Attention Hangar 1-D, there has been a change in schedule. A shuttle will nd in Zone 15 in one minute. Please clear all people and items from that area. Thank you.”

  The voice that just spoke on the intercom belonged to Admiral Tiberius Jasper Desha, Bull’s naval counterpart. Soft-spoken and practical, he and Bull share little in common. However, after years of fighting together, both men have gained mutual respect for one another. And even though Valerie has become a taboo subject in the Regis Fleet, Desha is also one of the few people still willing to talk about her.

  *whoosh*

  CLANK

  While Bull is lost in thought, a sleek unmarked shuttle touches down exactly a minute after the announcement. The ship was shaped like a thick boomerang powered by an array of six thrusters. The hull was painted cream white with a faint crossword-style pattern, indicating cloaking capability. The only decals are the words “Lustrous Gem” written in gold on the nose.

  Many bystanders stop and stare at the Lustrous Gem, including Bull. Its subtly luxurious design sticks out among the bulky military craft.

  “Now what’s this about?” Curious, Bull takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Desha who was on the bridge. After two rings, the Admiral answers.

  “General?”

  “Desha, expin to me why a civilian vessel was cleared for nding without my knowledge,” said Bull curtly.

  “I don’t know what you mean. Can you describe it?”

  Bull pauses to look at the Lustrous Gem again, then replies sarcastically, “It’s big, unarmed, and looks very expensive.”

  “Oh! She’s here!” Desha excims excitedly. “My mistake. I didn’t know she’d use her personal ship.”

  “‘She?’ ‘Her personal ship?’” Now, it’s Desha’s turn for an expnation.

  “A while back, you told Congress that you’d prefer to not have a vice general after the, well… ‘incident,’” said Desha, choosing his words carefully. “And though they allowed it at the time, two days ago, they assigned you one, right?”

  “What does that have to do with this?” Bull didn’t want to dwell on the past a second longer than necessary.

  “Because the woman piloting that shuttle is your new vice general, Isaac. Ms. Avonnica Hayton.”

  After hearing this, Bull wasn’t sure how to react. So, taking advantage of the awkward silence, Desha unceremoniously hangs up.

  CSS LEGEND, GENERAL’S OFFICE

  *buzz*

  “Enter,” Bull commands.

  The door opens with a swoosh, and a slightly pale woman with bushy blonde hair struts into his office. With every step, her heeled boots make dull clicks on the metal floor.

  To put it lightly, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. She has a rather rge head with a stunning heart-shaped face, big brown eyes, a slightly triangur mouth, and a tiny mole on the left side of her chin. Her crisp uniform jacket hides her voluptuous hourgss body well and has medals on the colr to show off her achievements. Her slender hands are covered with gray silk gloves, and Bull spots a Hayton signet ring on her right finger.

  She may have the looks of a model, but the two utility belts on her body are reminders of her true nature. The brown leather one is strapped diagonally around her waist and through a loop on her back; it contains her knife and a holster for a DH-25 Lupine heavy pistol. The other is bck with pouches and holds up her skirt; it likely has weapons inside it too. Most notably, her holster has a Silencer patch on it. Her inhibitor was probably hidden under one of her sleeves.

  “General Bull, I am Avonnica Marilyn Hayton, the eldest daughter of Robert Norm Hayton, if you were wondering. I am your new first officer.”

  She greets him formally with a small curtsy instead of a salute before sitting down. Even her speaking voice is fwless, every sylble is rigidly enunciated with practiced crity.

  “I’m aware of all that.” Some time ago, Bull remembered this wasn’t the first time he’d heard of this woman. “You’re the polymath commander of Psi-Team E1-3, are you? I heard a lot about you from the other officers.”

  “Such as?” she questions.

  “Well, you were next in line to be the CEO of Hayton Industries but chose to join the military instead. Not only are you a Silencer and tactician, but you also have experience in engineering, cryptography, and economics.”

  “Don’t forget mathematics. That is my specialty,” she interrupts smugly.

  And, you’re also a bitch, Bull comments, knowing those same officers also had nothing good to say about her personality.

  You’re a cold-blooded egotist with no regard for life. Most soldiers, your own Silencer squad included, don’t like or trust you. Even if you weren’t a Hayton, I doubt you’d make many friends. As if that wasn’t bad enough, judging from how many regenerative shots you requested for your liver, you’re an alcoholic as well.

  Of course, he kept all these thoughts to himself. Thank God not all Silencers can read minds.

  “I knew Congress promoted someone, but I didn’t know it was you. At least, they picked someone who’s up for the task,” said Bull, trying to look on the bright side. Then, he remembers another thing. “Do you still prefer to be addressed as Avon?” he asks.

  “Only by my superiors and friends.” Of course, “friends” was used hypothetically.

  The Hayton bloodline and their company, Hayton Industries, both predate the founding of the Gactic Confederacy. They have hundreds of descendants, so Avon prefers answering to her first name rather than being another “Ms. Hayton.” Additionally, she wasn’t fond of her family; they just held her back from achieving her full potential.

  “Got it,” Bull replies. “However, I don’t recognize that ship you took.”

  “It was a gift from my brother. Gactic Congress allowed me to bring it aboard the Legend,” Avon expins. “Will it be a problem?”

  Bull shakes his head. Being a cutting-edge piece of Hayton tech, that ship could be useful in the future. “A little warning would’ve been nice, that’s all,” he adds.

  “I understand. And, in time, I hope I live up to your expectations,” she decres. “In the Confederate army, no one is more esteemed than you, General. I intend to learn well as your subordinate.”

  “Believe me, you’ll surpass me before we know it,” Bull assures her half-heartedly.

  Even though Avon just showered him with compliments, the General wasn’t convinced her admiration was real. And while she may be a narcissistic jerk, she’s also a known workaholic who’ll greatly lighten his workload.

  “Okay, now that we’ve taken care of the formalities, here’s your agenda for today.”

  Bull hands Avon a diginote containing a list of tasks. The new vice general scrolls through it slowly, her eyes darting back and forth as she reads.

  “I also need you to read over recent reports from the CSS Incursion,” Bull continues while handing Avon another diginote. She carefully stacks it on top of the first one. “I want an assessment of their progress on the Veriyan front by the end of the week.”

  “Finally, are you still a liaison to Hayton Industries?”

  Avon nods. “I am.”

  “Good. Then these are some parts required by this ship, the Veritas, the El Dorado, and the Ishtar Spear.” Bull produces another four diginotes for Avon to add to her stack.

  “Compile them into a purchase order for the Defense Cabinet by the end of the day. And ask for a discount, the Defense Cabinet budget has been tighter recently.”

  “Is that all?” Avon inquires in a challenging tone. “I expected more.”

  Bull pauses for a moment to think. Right now, this girl has big shoes to fill, and she knows it. A small test of humility and Human interaction might give her a push in the right direction.

  “Actually, there is one more thing, but it’s only a suggestion,” Bull starts. “Have breakfast in the mess hall today instead of eating in your quarters like usual.”

  “Why?” Avon frowns in confusion. This was not the kind of suggestion she’d expect from a renowned general.

  “Part of being a vice general is interacting with the entire ship, not just the officers you work with regurly,” Bull expins gently.

  “With all due respect, sir, I’d rather not.” Contrary to popur belief, Avon is not the social type. While the heiress knows how to appear personable when necessary, it’s both exhausting and a waste of time.

  “I’d prefer it if you did,” he insists. “You’re an elite, Avon. People are going to make assumptions about you and your new position. And some of my more undisciplined comrades aren’t afraid to do something stupid.”

  Actually, Bull can empathize with those unnamed soldiers. Even though Haytons are thoroughbred Confederates, they aren’t well-regarded as people. Plus, Hayton Industries has cornered the aerospace and automotive markets for centuries. In fact, every vehicle used by GSAF is made by them. The company has a long history of corruption and exploitation.

  “Your new subordinates have to follow your orders, so you must earn their respect and loyalty. Providing them with a realistic image to dispel any initial depictions is usually a good start.”

  “There’s no time like the present, so think about it,” Bull advises. “Consider this my first lesson to you.”

  Avon might not be happy with what was being asked of her, but Bull was her superior. She closes her eyes in surrender and sighs heavily, already feeling a sense of dread in her stomach in addition to hunger. She did spend much of st night flying, after all.

  “I understand.”

  CSS LEGEND, RECREATION DECK, MESS HALL

  Out of the four eight-hour shifts most Human warships have, the first is always the busiest. It’s breakfast for the 1st Shift, so the mess hall is packed with soldiers, officers, and civilian workers. After all, no one should miss the most important meal of the day.

  Once Avon purchases her meal (grilled chicken breast, rice, vegetable soup, and a can of grape juice), she wordlessly takes a seat in a secluded corner. Even though she tries to avoid eye contact, her presence quickly causes a stir. The Legend was a community, after all, and she was an outsider.

  As Avon tucks her napkin into her shirt out of habit, a nearby table of soldiers leers at her with hateful eyes. “Hey, check out the little princess,” smirked a marine with a rge tattoo on his face.

  “Pfft, what a brat. Can’t believe she’s our CO now,” agrees his friend, a shock trooper with metal teeth. He rudely picks some sad out of them with a fork while talking.

  The woman sitting next to him, a brunette sharpshooter with cybernetic eyes, looks away in disgust. She opted for a set with dark sclera, a short-lived trend among snipers that started and ended two months ago.

  “Word, Barrett, she’s making me feel outta pce. Should I go buy some tea to fit the mood?” the marine quips.

  “Nah, if someone gave me a heads-up, I woulda busted out my poofy dress!” The three soldiers ugh with their sharpshooter friend. Soon, the jeering spreads to other tables, making the trio bolder.

  Despite being able to hear all the insults, Avon ignores them completely. Her face doesn’t waver for a moment as she manages her anger with trained poise. To distract herself, she cycles between the many trains of thought in her head. Work, basketball, science, stocks, anything to avoid giving them a reaction.

  “Hey! Cut it out, you guys!” Rokov stands up and bangs his table. That, and his loud voice cuts through all other conversations to get their attention. “It doesn’t matter how fancy she is, she’s still our superior officer!”

  “You’re right, pretty boy, but wanna know a secret?” the sharpshooter sneers. “I don’t give a shit!” Her friends and many others double over in another bout of ughter at her dismissive words.

  “I don’t get how that’s funny…” sighs Rokov.

  The marine stands up and gestures to the others to do the same. “C’mon, let’s have a word with her.”

  “Just one, Ty?” whines the sharpshooter.

  “Course not, Diane,” Ty ughs. “Say as many as you want; just be creative.”

  “But–!” Rokov starts but is completely ignored.

  Despite his protests, the three soldiers stand up and surround Avon. When she sees them, she calmly turns around to look them in the eyes. “Can I help you?”

  “Nah, Goldilocks,” Diane scoffs. “My bros and I just wanted to congratute your… ‘hard-earned’ promotion. Did you pay Congress in dolrs or dick-sucking?”

  “If you have nothing important to say to me, then leave. I am trying to eat in peace.” Avon turns back around, but Ty stops her by grabbing her shoulder hard.

  “Alright, lemme tell it like it is, ojou-sama. No one in their right mind’s gonna let a leech like you tell ’em what to do.” Avon mentally chortles at Ty's ck of Yamatoan cultural knowledge. By calling her “ojou-sama,” he unintentionally complimented her.

  “All you elites are living trash!” he shouts angrily. “And if they find you with a bullet up your ass, be thankful I made it quick!”

  It didn’t take a genius to see that Ty has a grudge against the Haytons, not Avon specifically. She grinds her teeth while growling lightly at his ignorance.

  “Hey, it’s rude to ignore people, you know!” Barrett joins in. “You think you’re too good to look at us ‘commoners,’ right? Is that it, you dumb blonde!?”

  At this point, Rokov couldn’t handle watching them harass her anymore. He drops his food and approaches them with his fists clenched.

  “She’s not being rude,” he yells. “She’s being the bigger woman and ignoring your childish attempts to provoke her!”

  “Piss off, newbie! We’re just leveling the scales of justice!” Ty flips him off.

  “‘Justice?’ Seriously!?” Rokov is astonished by their sheer delusion. “You guys are real dumb if you think name-calling makes you a hero.”

  Barrett cracks his knuckles and his neck. “How ’bout a beatdown, then?”

  “That’s even worse!”

  “Well, if smacking the perfume outta her for the crimes of the Haytons is ‘petty,’ it is what it is!” Diane retorts.

  “And unless you wanna get smacked too, mind your own business!” Ty shoves Rokov while Diane grabs Avon’s jacket.

  CLANG

  *thud*

  A second ter, Rokov stands behind Diane with a metal tray he grabbed to knock her out. Her head left a dent in the middle. The entire mess hall goes quiet when she hits the ground.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Enraged, Ty sms Rokov into a table. In response, he seizes a cup of soda and flings it at him. Unfortunately, he misses by a mile and accidentally douses an innocent scout pying a mobile game.

  “Agh! The hell was that for, shithead!?”

  To add insult to injury, she wrongfully accuses another bystander and punches him across the face. Then, she gets tackled and stomped on by the bystander’s girlfriend sitting nearby. In seconds, the entire mess hall is engulfed by a combination of a food fight and a brawl.

  Not knowing what to do, Avon flips her table and hides behind it. When she peeks out, she notices Rokov desperately protecting her, covered in food, blood, and bruises. Rokov wasn’t a very skilled fighter and got knocked down many times. Still, his strength of will allowed him to keep getting up.

  “Are you just gonna sit there, Vice General!?” he screams while freeing himself from a headlock.

  “I–”

  “You are a vice general, aren’t you!? Do some–”

  Before he can finish, a rge soldier grabs Rokov by the shirt and throws him on the ground. With a loud grunt, he manages to push him off with his legs but not after sustaining a few knuckle-duster punches to the gut. However, another one quickly pins Rokov again and grabs his throat. It was Diane.

  “You know… some of my best dreams start… with a goth girl choking me,” Rokov taunts.

  “Ugh, you’re gross.” She finds a shard of gss and holds it over Rokov’s head.

  “Not the face, not the face–”

  BANG

  Everyone freezes at the sound of a gunshot. Meanwhile, Bull stands at the entrance to the mess hall with his smoking pistol pointed in the air. He holsters it and walks to the center of the room, stepping over an unconscious body on the way.

  “Who started it!?” he demands. All the fighters look at each other with quizzical expressions. They were so busy fighting each other, they forgot what the brawl was about.

  “Fine, have it your way. Get yourselves cleaned up, then start running three ps around the ship’s perimeter. Move it!”

  The soldiers slowly start to leave with their tails between their legs. Three ps around the Legend is over half a marathon. Rokov and Avon go with them, but Bull grabs them both before they leave.

  “Not you two,” he tells them. “My office, now.”

  “May I wash up first?” Avon asks innocently.

  “‘Now’ means now, Avon.”

  CSS LEGEND, GENERAL’S OFFICE

  Inside his office, Bull gives each of them a towel to wipe off. Compared to Rokov, Avon isn’t that dirty, but she did feel like it. Moments like this remind her she’s still a woman of privilege weak to First World problems like hygiene. It makes one wonder why she was chosen to become a Silencer despite training in the officer corps. Once they finish, the two of them sit in front of his desk.

  While squirming uncomfortably in her seat, Avon shifts away from Rokov who’s still covered in filth. Not skipping a beat, she immediately pleads her case.

  “General, I apologize. I was responsible for the fight. I failed to do as you suggested,” she says while lowering her head in shame.

  “Yes, this is technically your fault, Avon. Just not in the way you think.”

  “I beg to differ,” Rokov argues. “I threw a drink at someone I didn’t mean to hit.”

  “That’s also true. You seriously need to work on your aim, Rokov.”

  The Commander also lowers his head. Maybe if he had hit his mark for once, he could’ve prevented the whole incident.

  “But neither of those are why I’m especially angry at the two of you. The truth is, I expected better from my new vice general and a soldier I personally mentored.”

  He turns to address Rokov first. “Rokov, I thought you knew being a soldier meant representing the strength of the Gactic Confederacy, both on and off the battlefield. Instead of trying to diffuse a tense situation, you made things worse. How can we defend Humanity when we’re too busy tearing each other apart?”

  “General–” Avon didn’t want her protector to take all the heat. Yet, Bull silences her with an angry look.

  “Don’t think I forgot about you, Vice General Hayton,” said Bull with extra emphasis on her rank.

  “You’re lucky I showed up before any weapons were drawn, but I wouldn’t have had to if you had taken some initiative. I know what you’re capable of, but as a superior officer, you have to assert yourself. Dignity may be important for elites, but it shouldn’t overrule your authority.”

  “Next time you need to get your hands dirty to maintain order, suck it up and do it. Understood?” Avon nods quietly.

  “Even though you disappointed me, I still have faith in both of you. And first days always tend to be full of mishaps. So, let’s make this a one-time incident, okay?"

  “I’d like that very much, sir,” said Rokov.

  “Me too,” Avon agrees.

  “Great.”

  “Rokov, get cleaned up and start on those ps. Avon, you got work, so you’re off the hook.” Avon sighed in relief. Given her “natural weight vest,” she’d choose dull paperwork over running ps any day. “You’re dismissed.”

  Once they leave Bull’s office, Rokov works up the courage to say something to Avon. “Um… Vice General?”

  “If it is all right, Commander,” Avon mumbled. “I’d rather not speak in this shameful state.”

  She opens her arms to show the grime on her outfit before passing him to walk to her new quarters in the upper levels. Hopefully, all her stuff has been moved there from her old room by now. Meanwhile, Rokov heads in the other direction for the showers. Eventually, the clicking of her heeled boots is out of his earshot.