Zheng wants to start shouting questions, but instead he clenches his thick fists so hard that they hurt.

  The man on the holo-cast, a big, handsome, blonde-bearded fellow, introduces himself as Colonel Weber, of the CDF. He says he’s a survivor from Etana, one of humanity’s largest and richest colony worlds. The devastating implications of that news can be read across every grim face in the command bunker. So, that’s it then? Humanity is defeated, enslaved to the League? Zheng bitterly thinks.

  “So you see, Commandant, the only rational choice is to surrender. Come, and join us at humanity’s place within the Harmonious Confederacy, where all are equal below the Bellitran,” Weber says, using the Bellitrans’ preferred translation of their iron-fisted empire. “It was only the sick, misguided pride of Fleet that prevented this natural union long ago. But I have now seen the Bellitrans’ wisdom: together we will stand strong. Surrender, and together we will cleanse the galaxy of Ursox, Ir’lani, Androvans, and all others who would destroy us. An age of peace and prosperity, greater than the galaxy has ever seen, shall blossom from the Bellitrans’ wise rule!”

  The more Weber speaks, the more Zheng begins to feel unsettled. There’s a leaden vacancy to Weber’s eyes that can’t be explained by the holo-cast link, and a little twitch at the edge of his mouth. The man keeps blinking, too. Zheng exchanges a look with one of his lieutenants, and he knows that he isn’t alone in his feelings.

  They’ve all known for years that some horrible disaster has befallen Humanity, but the why and the how of it all has haunted them for years: some virus that even the Fleet AIs couldn’t bio-engineer their way out? An implausible civil war? A series of defeats so catastrophic that no ships could be spared for their colony?

  While Scoria may be small, it doesn’t lack strategic value, as the Bellitran League’s presence proves. The product of the colony’s mining, its stores of adamite, are used to shield the vital organs of Fleet’s ships. It is rare, difficult to extract, and incalculably precious. It’s also, from what he’s been told through the Fleet grapevine, one of the easiest Warp jumps to make from Terra, whatever that really means. So the absence of even a single visit from a Warp-capable Fleet ship has been damned odd, even if Fleet suffered a series of military defeats. And now here’s this man, seemingly saying that all the colonies suffered a similar fate? And Terra too? Fleet ships have been able to hold their own against Bellitran armadas before, giving just as good as they got. What changed? The Colonel is too damn vague. Something just doesn’t add up.

  Volkova has remained silent as the man speaks, letting his words wash over her face like water over an immovable boulder.

  Finally the man’s strange face is still, all except his eyes, which continue to awkwardly twitch.

  Volkova draws herself up, raising her chin. She looks to be making an effort not to sneer. “You certainly make a persuasive argument, Colonel. But I will have to put the decision to surrender to a colony vote. That is how things are done here, on Scoria. After all, the Bellitran League has a certain… reputation, does it not? In the rather poor treatment of its newly-conquered subjects?”

  The man’s left eye twitches again, and he seems to attempt a smile. It comes out as an awkward curl of the lips.

  “The Harmonious Confederacy is just and wise,” he says, each word now grating against Zheng’s nerves. “The armada will give Scoria ten Sol-hours to reach its decision. We hope you will not take it amiss that our ships reposition themselves in case of an unsatisfactory decision.”

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  Volkova nods. “Of course, I understand. They will do what they must. Good day Colonel. I wish you the best.”

  The transmission has barely flickered off before Volkova is barking questions. “Admin! What was he blinking? What’s our readiness report?”

  An ethereal voice glides out of the holo-cast: “Fleet code-speak, Commandant. Slightly garbled, but a repetition of R-E-S-I-S-T is apparent. Readiness report: non-combatants are moving belowground. Defenses are primed. Orbital shield online. Weapons distribution is ongoing, forty percent readiness and rising point five percent per minute.”

  “Good. Tell the council about the offer, and about Colonel Weber’s warning. I doubt we’ll be seeing the poor bastard again. Even the Bellitran aren’t that stupid.” She chuckles, the first time that Zheng has heard her laugh, if that’s what you could even call it, in all his time on Scoria. It’s a sound that makes him deeply uneasy. “I wonder if they actually thought using him would win us over. Admin, I expect the council’s decision on whether to put the armada’s ‘offer’ to a full colonial vote in ten minutes.”

  She turns to the officers around her, her face returning to its natural glower. “Until then, we proceed with invasion prep.”

  In ten hours the Bellitran fleet is orbiting Scoria. The colony was fully ready in less than two. The remaining hours are spent in farewells to loved ones, and in the tense boredom that has always been a hallmark of war.

  There was a fleeting consideration, dismissed with embarrassment, to keep some details of the invasion force secret from the general population. But that is not the mole-mound’s way. If they die together, it will be with full knowledge of their shared fate.

  As Volkova predicted, it is not Colonel Weber who greets them on the holo-cast when the ten hours are up, but new Bellitran servant: a Trixilii Admiral.

  “Where’s Weber?” are the first words out of Volkova’s sneering mouth, and Zheng smiles, out of view, at the way the Trixilii ruffles its plumage.

  A short series of high-pitched squeaks and whistles emulates from the beak of the bright green creature, its white sash heavy with little emblems of past victories. The sounds are translated into a rather dull Terran-standard monotone. The Admiral ignores Volkova’s question.

  “What is your decision, Human?”

  Volkova pouts, as if considering the question, and then shakes her head. She leans forward, her fists resting on the edge of the holo-cast’s table.

  “We do not yield, Admiral. It seems that my people are as proud as a Bellitran. I would suggest that the League turn its attention elsewhere.”

  The Admiral receives this with its expressionless, unblinking eyes, and then tilts its head in an almost Human-like response. Its whistles are slower, its inter-species bafflement apparent:

  “So, you would wait to be devoured by the Ursox, or flayed alive by the Ir’lani? Perhaps you think the Androvans will offer better terms? They will not.” The creature pauses, as if considering. “We know what your Colonel relayed. That was unfortunate. He is not well, physiologically, mentally, emotionally. You understand: stress. But I tell you, on my honor as a First Talon Servant of the Bellitran, that our terms are just. Humanity will prosper.”

  Yeah, I think I’ll trust a CDF soldier willing to sign his death warrant over a talking duck, Zheng thinks. Though, to be fair, the Trixilii looks a fair bit meaner than a duck.

  Volkova withdraws from the holo-cast’s dias, glaring at the alien with narrowed eyes. “Withdraw your ships, Admiral, and spare us both bloodshed. If you do not do so, we will be forced to consider you our enemies.”

  The Trixilii ruffles its feather-like plumage again, likely in some mark of displeasure, and stares silently at Volkova for several seconds with its beady black eyes.

  Then it opens its beak wide, revealing rows of sharp teeth-like bones, and emits a long, piercing scream.

  It is something that cannot be translated, but which is readily decipherable.

  Then the holo-screen goes dark, and the battle for Scoria begins.