Uneasy silence reigned for a good few minutes, broken only by the boy’s quiet sobs. For all the Commodore’s talk of demonic void crawlers, at the moment all Rene could see was a frightened child strapped to a chair, tears dripping off his nose and into his lap.

“Regarding the prisoners, sir, I believe some food would go a long way towards securing their cooperation,” Rene finally ventured, his own stomach growling in agreement. As a trooper he knew that the quickest way to earn a person’s confidence was through a bellyful of hot grub.

“Hmph. Why the hell not?” servos in the Commodore’s articulated pauldrons whirred as he shrugged, “Not every day I get to break out new recipes on the synthesizer.”

“And perhaps some clothes for the little one,” Rene added. Apart from the layers of dried slime encrusting his skin the boy was as naked as the day he was born, his narrow shoulders trembling with terror.

“I’ll fetch it a space blanket,” the Commodore said indifferently. He flicked a finger at his retinue, sending some of them gliding into the shadowed corridors beyond. While each of the drones varied greatly in form and function, there were enough similarities for Rene to start grouping them into categories. At the bottom of the hierarchy were the errand boys that came loping back into view, quadrupedal drones effortlessly balancing trayfuls of crockery on the grasping limbs that extended from their backs.

These stood in stark contrast to the squat, gun-toting sentries posted at each corner of the hall. They resembled compact versions of the Commodore’s own chassis, wide fisheye lenses embedded into their torsos emitting needle-thin lasers fixed firmly on a spot between Zildiz’ shoulder blades.

Centre mass, in other words. Rene saw more targeting beams trained on the boy and could feel at least one other warming the back of his own ear. That the Commodore judged such precautions necessary betrayed his fear of Rene’s companions.

Cosmophage. The name itself held a wealth of implications, none of them pleasant. Looking at them now, Rene found it hard to believe that they were descended from a cosmic evil from beyond the veil. And yet it was an undeniable fact that the boy had survived four days clinging to the underside of the shuttle sans water, air and sustenance.

The errand drones slid their trays onto the tables, presenting them with steaming bowls of sinister red gloop that reminded Rene of the coagulated hog’s blood his Mama used to save for making black sausage.

“It’s called borscht,” said the Commodore, seeing the dubious look on Rene’s face, “The royder cosmonauts who inhabited this part of the system were very partial to it.”

Rene chanced a spoonful of the stuff and promptly fell in love at first bite. Borscht turned out to be a savoury, nourishing stew that was like nothing he’d ever tasted before. The others saw him digging in and followed suit, Zildiz scooping it into her mouth with her bare fingers while the boy dipped his face into his bowl like a bird at the water feeder. Without the use of his arms most of it was just getting smeared over his cheeks or spilling over onto the table.

“You’re making a mess,” said Rene, who could not bear seeing food go to waste, “Here, let me give you a hand—”

Rene reached over to him, but stopped when the boy shrank away in panic.

“Don’t you worry, longlegs,” Zildiz snickered, “We’re not planning to eat you… yet.”

“Quit it,” Rene told her off, “You’re not helping.”

“I don’t see how there’s anything to gain by making nice with a Leaper,” she tartly replied.

“I’m inclined to agree,” the Commodore said, “Mercy is wasted on their kind. These two will live only for as long as they remain useful to us. Ensign Rene, as soon as you’ve corrected your caloric deficit, I need you to report to the command station via the catapult.”

“Sir?”

“Certain aspects of your data require further collation,” the Commodore said, only adding to Rene’s confusion.

“And the prisoners?”

“The drones will transfer them in the brig. Don’t take too long.”

The Commodore put himself in reverse and backed out of the hall, leaving the three of them to their own devices.

“You heard what he said,” Rene told the boy as soon as they were alone, “If you expect to stay alive down here, you’ll have to sing for your supper. So start talking. Otherwise you’re liable to go swan diving out the nearest airlock. Without your exomorph, I doubt things will go as swimmingly for you as they did the first time around. Get me?”

He was pleased to see the boy give an almost imperceptible nod. Now we’re getting somewhere, Rene thought. An errand drone approached and handed him a triangle of folded fabric. Rene shook it out and found himself holding a sparkling cloak that seemed composed of a sheet of tin metal. It was a tad flimsy for a blanket, but Rene wrapped it round the boy’s shoulders all the same to preserve his dignity, if nothing else.

“Let’s start with the basics. What’s your name?”

“Neroth,” the boy whispered. His tears had dried up into quiet sniffles at this point, though he still couldn’t bring himself to look them in the face.

“Means carrion eater in their dialect,” Zildiz cheerily informed him, “Defiler of corpses.”

“Well, I like it anyway,” Rene insisted, refusing to be thrown off, “Rene Louvoture, at your service. How’s the borscht, Neroth? Need some help with that?”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Another nod, this one a shade less hesitant. Rene took the bowl and placed its rim against Neroth’s lips, patently feeding him while Zildiz looked on in disgust. When the boy had eaten the last morsel Rene wiped his mouth with the corner of the blanket, only then turning to mop up his own portion.

“I’m off to give my report now,” Rene said when he’d eaten his fill, “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“Please don’t go,” Neroth unexpectedly blurted out, “Don’t leave me alone with…her.”

He jerked his head at Zildiz, whose face broke out into a cheshire grin. She propped her legs up on the table with a loud belch and tossed her empty bowl over her shoulder, saying:

“You’re in luck, Leaper. I still have room for seconds.”

“Leave him be,” Rene wagged a warning finger at her, “You so much as try anything and these simulacrums will riddle you with holes.”

“And so? What of it?” Zildiz seemed to find the whole situation darkly amusing, “Sooner or later, the Commodore will dispose of us anyway.”

“That won’t happen,” Rene shook his head, “I won’t let him hurt either of you.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“It is. I swear it upon my honour as an officer of the Fleet,” Rene said, “So far as it is within my power, I shall protect you.”

For an instant the hard lines around her face softened, and Zildiz was the first to break eye contact. Rene felt a hot flush of shame creeping up his neck and turned away. He knew full well that he couldn’t guarantee that promise, and for the life of him didn’t know why he’d made it in the first place.

“Bold talk, Fleet-man,” she said gruffly, “But you hold no power here, or have you forgotten?”

“Maybe. But then again, neither does he. Not on the grand scale of things. Not without us,” Rene said as he strode away, “My gut is telling me that the Commodore needs us for something, Zildiz. I intend to find out what that is.”

#

The lunar base was dominated by a passage that seemed to span the length of the settlement, a single cylinder bored into the rock of the moon and curving beyond the visible horizon. Gunmetal rails ran down its middle, enclosed by a tube of meters-thick glass and shouldered on either side by raised walkways.

Rene hadn’t a clue where the command centre was, and so contented himself by strolling aimlessly along one of the platforms. Smaller passages and side chambers branched off at right angles to the main tunnel, the head of each entranceway marked in scuffed orange lettering. The hall of heroes he’d just left behind, for instance, bore the inscription “Staff Rec Room”. Printed below it was a word written in an indecipherable language that used both normal lettering and symbols that looked as if they belonged in mathematical equations. It read: Кафетерий.

Others bore labels no less cryptic like “Main Shunting Yard (Outgoing)” or “Drive Coil Control Station C3”, each legible sign accompanied by phrases in the alien alphabet.

Not that he could see the contents of those rooms anyway. Except for the areas in his immediate vicinity, everything was swamped in utter blackness. A halo of harsh fluorescence followed him wherever he went, lights fixtures ahead of him winking on as the ones behind him sputtered out, creating the unnerving illusion of a living darkness creeping up on him from behind.

Rene felt like a grave robber buried alive in the mausoleum of a race of giants. Why did the Commodore leave it all so lifeless and ill-kept? Was this state of disrepair a conscious decision on his part, or was the master of this moon incapable of restoring the works of the Exodians? Rene knew there had to be some machinery still operational. Po Chai’s subsurface was remarkably warm for a desolate ball of ice. Through the dust-choked grilles of the ducts above him Rene could hear the chug of an air circulation system. This was drowned out in the next moment by a rhythmic vibration emanating from right below the platform. This gradually rose in intensity as a sleek locomotive came streaking up the tube like a silver mirage.

The thing slowed to a halt beside the pathfinder without ever making a sound against the rails. Hairline cracks appeared in the apparently featureless glass as sets of transparent doors slid open to admit him. Rows of motheaten seats lined the aisle. No sooner had he plopped down in one of them than the car was set in motion again, the entire facility flashing by as it delivered him to the opposite end of the base in a matter of seconds. Before he knew it the transparent doors were sliding open again, and he stumbled back onto the platform, struggling mightily to hold down the borscht as it tried to climb back out of his gullet.

“I trust you had a pleasant meal?” the Commodore asked, emerging from a nearby antechamber.

“Sir,” Rene swallowed the vileness back down and offered the Commodore a ragged salute, “You wished to see me?”

“First I must apologize for not permitting you the standard period of post-planetfall recuperation. Space travel can be very taxing on the human physiology, especially one as unaugmented as yours. I mean that as a complement, of course,” the Commodore added, “I mean, that’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it? To preserve our pure, unaltered subspecies at all costs?”

“Aye, sir,” Rene said, unsure how else to respond.

“Excellent. So glad we could agree on that,” the Commodore said amiably, “Now, the real reason this interview couldn’t wait is because, well, frankly I couldn’t wait any longer. It might not have seemed like it back there in the cafeteria, but I’ve been very excited ever since I caught the emergency ping from your T.O.R.U.”

“Excited for what, sir?” Rene said cautiously. The Commodore’s demeanour had undergone a complete reversal during the brief interlude of his absence. Rene had heard that prolonged isolation and loneliness could lead to a number of mental defects. He could only wonder at how the Commodore had managed to remain cogent after all this time. Perhaps this sudden mood swing was a symptom of a deeper illness? In any case, what the Commodore said next took Rene completely by surprise:

“Why, to start planning our imminent counteroffensive against the Vitalus, of course.”

“I thought you said that our strategic situation was totally hopeless?”

“Bah!” the Commodore flapped a dismissive tentacle at him, “Had to, didn’t I? Couldn’t let on that I had a play up my sleeve in front of those two stooges back there. Appear weak when you are strong—just your standard opsec measure courtesy of Sun Tzu.”

“I knew it! So there is a chance at victory after all!” Rene shook a triumphant fist up at the ceiling, though he didn't know who Sun was or what his zoo had to do with anything.

“There’s a sliver of a glimmer of a snowball’s hope in hell,” the Commodore clarified, “At least, if the warsims I’ve run are anything to go by.”

“So how do we it? How can we win?”

“All in good time. I’ll upgrade up your security clearance level as H-Hour approaches, but for now certain details of the operation will have to be kept under wraps.”

“But of course, sir,” Rene agreed, trying not to let his disappointment show.

“Oh alright, fine! I’ll give you a hint,” the Commodore said, folding under no pressure at all. He had all the gleeful exuberance of a schoolgirl imparting the latest gossip to her gaggle of friends. Clearly his plan had been in the works for many years if not centuries, and he was happy for the chance to finally share it with someone else, “The very first phase will require us to strike with overwhelming force, crippling the Vitalus’ higher-function cilial nodes and depriving it of immediate retaliatory capabilities.”

“What instrument could possibly cripple a god?”

“Why, the very same thing you rode in on,” replied the Commodore. One of his telescopic lenses flashed a laser pointer through the glass tube and at the bare gunmetal lines of the train track.