The rustle of the grain stalks to her left made Cate turn sharply, instincts kicking in. The tall, golden plants were similar to wheat but stood unusually high.

"Ssshhh!" came a hushed voice.

Peering through the dense stalks, she spotted two children—a girl around ten and a boy of similar age—beckoning her toward them. The distant bark of harsh male voices to the east sent a surge of urgency through her. Without hesitation, Cate crouched and scurried over to the children, prepared to whisper her thanks, but the girl swiftly held a single finger to her lips. Universal sign: Silence.

They moved swiftly, weaving through the field in a zigzag pattern designed to throw off any pursuers. Five minutes later, they arrived at a small depression shielded by thick shrubbery. The girl crouched and pulled away the foliage, revealing a collection of equipment neatly tucked away—Cate’s ready pack, her emergency survival kit, an M4 rifle, and an additional pack. They had retrieved everything from her downed 302’s emergency compartment.

Cate blinked. “How did you—?”

“We saw you come down. We knew the soldiers would be looking for your things,” the girl explained matter-of-factly.

Before Cate could ask more, a rustling from the opposite side of the brush made her tense. A young man emerged—sandy-haired, dressed in the same gear as her, though far more weathered and patched. He grinned, boyish enthusiasm lighting up his face.

“I saw you bail out. Hell of a fight you put up before they clipped you.”

Cate sized him up, noting his lean build and the casual confidence in his stance. He extended a hand. “James Doolittle.”

Cate arched a brow. “Doolittle? As in Jimmy Doolittle?”

The young man’s grin turned a bit shy. “Yeah. He was my great-great-uncle.”

Cate was about to reply when James abruptly handed her an old-fashioned pair of binoculars. “I rigged your 302’s self-destruct before they could get their hands on it.”

Cate lifted the binoculars, scanning the horizon. About a kilometre and a half northeast, in a shallow ravine, she spotted her downed fighter. Several figures were moving toward it. Just as they neared, a massive explosion tore through the wreckage, sending a plume of fire and debris skyward. When the dust settled, bodies were strewn across the landscape.

Cate exhaled sharply. “Damn.”

From above, the distant roar of engines drew her attention. A squadron of F-302s circled the area, one flying particularly low. The flash of lightning insignia on its tail confirmed it—Chekov’s Thunderbolts. Relief flooded her. She reached for her emergency beacon, but James swiftly snatched it away.

“Sorry, but the Alliance can track that too.” He stuffed it back into her pack.

Cate adjusted, grabbing her personal ready pack and motioning for James and the girl—who introduced herself as Allowyn—to carry the remaining supplies. As they moved southwest through the fields, Cate discreetly reached into her pack, pulling out a compact mirror. She angled it toward the sun and flashed it three times.

___________________________________________________________________________

Above in F-302-127

Lt. JG Travis Riddick, patrolling in his fighter, caught the triple glint from below. His heart pounded. It was the signal they’d been waiting for. Instinctively, he tilted his aircraft left, then right, twice, acknowledging receipt. He refrained from immediate radio contact—if the Alliance was listening, they couldn't afford to tip their hand.

When his shift ended, Riddick returned to his ship, where he debriefed Captain Kovacs.

“Sir, I saw the signal,” he reported. “Three flashes, clear as day. I confirmed with a tilt response.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Kovacs leaned forward, his expression grave yet hopeful. “You’re sure?”

“Positive, sir.”

A slow nod. “Good work, Lieutenant.” Kovacs turned to an awaiting officer. “Pass it along to Commander McFearson. Her girl is alive.”

___________________________________________________________________________

A Moment of Reflection

A signals officer hurried up to Elle, handing her a freshly decrypted note from the Chekov. She scanned it quickly—confirmation from Captain Kovacs. A broad smile spread across her face.

Cate was alive.

Within minutes, the news spread like wildfire through the Invincible. The reaction was immediate. Cheers echoed through the corridors, whoops and yells from every deck. Pilots clapped each other on the back, engineers let out triumphant shouts, even the most battle-hardened officers grinned at the news.

For the first time since Cate went down, there was hope.

Eventually, the excitement began to settle, replaced by quiet determination. The mission wasn’t over. Cate was still out there.

Elle walked slowly down one of the Invincible’s long passageways, her hands loosely clasped behind her back. The hum of the ship, the occasional echo of boots on metal, accompanied her steps. In her head, a melody played—Ave Maria, soft and distant, as though carried on a breeze from another time, another place.

She wasn’t sure where she was going at first, only that something was pulling her forward. It wasn’t until she reached the chapel doors that she understood.

Inside, the lighting was dim, a quiet sanctuary amidst the steel and circuitry of the warship. The faint scent of aged wood and candle wax lingered in the air, though the flames had long since been replaced with soft electric light.

Elle paused just inside, letting her eyes adjust. She wasn’t alone.

A single figure sat in the front pew, his head bowed, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Dusty.

She approached slowly, her boots barely making a sound against the deck plating. When she reached the pew, she turned slightly and spoke, her voice gentle.

"Mind if I join you?"

Dusty lifted his head, surprised, then gave a small, tired smile. "Yeah. Sure, Commander."

Elle slid into the pew beside him, settling in. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with something else—thoughts, prayers, maybe even unspoken fears.

Finally, Elle broke the stillness. "It’s good news. We know where she is now."

Dusty let out a breath, rubbing his hands together. "Yeah. Yeah, it is." His voice was rough, like he’d been holding something in too long. "I just... I wish we could go in now. Get her out. But we can’t rush it. Not yet."

"We will," Elle assured him. "And Cate can take care of herself. She’s tough. You saw how she handled those bogeys before she went down."

Dusty gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah. She’s a hell of a pilot." He hesitated, then added quietly, "She didn’t deserve this."

Elle turned slightly, watching him. "No, she didn’t." A pause. "You care about her." Another pause. “A lot?”

Dusty tensed slightly but covered it quickly. "God, no—Commander, I barely know her." He said it too fast, too stiffly.

Elle smiled faintly. "You’re a terrible liar, Dixon."

Dusty exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t confirm it either. Instead, he leaned back against the pew, staring at the altar ahead, lost in thought.

Elle let it go, shifting the conversation instead. "We still have a mission ahead. Cate’s just one piece of it. We have to find the missing scientists, the Gamma team... there are a lot of people counting on us."

Dusty nodded slowly. "I know."

A comfortable silence settled between them again.

After a while, Elle lowered her head, clasping her hands together in her lap. Dusty did the same. They didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. They just sat there, in the quiet glow of the chapel, lost in their own thoughts—praying, hoping.

Waiting.

___________________________________________________________________________

The Underground

After nearly an hour of trudging through relentless heat—Cate estimating the temperature at least 35°C—she finally asked, “How much further?”

“Not far,” Allowyn chirped. “Maybe another hour.”

Cate sighed, wiping sweat from her brow. She was still in her G-suit, which felt like wearing an oven. James, whose own flight suit had been destroyed when his 302 was lost, had already cut the sleeves off his makeshift attire. Cate found a small clearing among some bushes and turned to the group.

“I need to change. Don’t peek, boys.”

James chuckled, turning away with exaggerated innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Ally stayed to help Cate and gasped when she saw the scars on her back—raised, whip-like marks.

“What happened to you?” the girl whispered.

Cate hesitated before sighing. “Long story. If we have time, I’ll tell you.”

Feeling more comfortable in her desert-cam BDUs, Cate adjusted her sidearm and handed the M4 to James. The group pressed on, eventually arriving at what remained of a farmhouse. The main building was a burned-out husk, but the barn was still intact. The children led them inside, past stacks of tools and old equipment.

Cate was about to ask what next when Pharam, the boy, approached a hulking old threshing machine. With a heave, he lifted a concealed panel at its base, revealing a hidden passage. A metal staircase descended into darkness, lit by caged wall lamps that looked like something out of the 1960s.

“Oh wow,” Cate breathed, exchanging a look with James.

The tunnel stretched straight at first before winding in unexpected directions. The only sound was their footsteps, but gradually, a distant hum reached them—voices, machinery. They emerged into a massive underground space, part bunker, part factory. Teenagers—some no older than fifteen—worked on weaponry, assembling rifles, grenades, shoulder-mounted launchers.

Cate's stomach turned. Had one of them shot her down?

“Did one of you fire on my 302?” she asked cautiously.

A boy shook his head. “No. The Alliance stole our technology. They’re lazy and corrupt. They take, but they don’t build.”

Another child scoffed, “They’re worse than rats. At least rats don’t burn your home and kill your family.”

Cate listened as they spoke of their origins—descendants of people taken from Earth two thousand years ago, specifically from a place called Wales. Their ancestors had resisted their Goa’uld oppressor, Morrigan, and had built these tunnels in secret over 1,500 years ago.

James frowned. “And you never fought back?”

“We always fight back,” a girl replied, her voice tinged with steel. “But we never had the numbers.”

Cate’s heart clenched. “Where are your parents?”

Silence.

They passed through another chamber, this one humming with radio transmissions and strategic plotting. At the centre of it all stood a young woman, tall, with golden hair pinned back. Her presence radiated authority, her eyes sharp and intelligent.

She turned, meeting Cate’s gaze.

“My name is Allienna,” she announced, her voice carrying weight beyond her years. “Daughter of Morrigan.”

Cate’s breath caught. The room fell silent.

This just got a hell of a lot more complicated.