Nowadays, one couldn’t see much of New Vancouver’s surface.

The joint American-Canadian world was about a billion years older than Earth, and its more biodiverse times had long since passed, making for a world that was incredibly rich in petrochemicals, if rather bleak to look at. Unfortunately, the Poslushi had realized this as well, and with a few well-placed kinetic impactors, they had blown many of the largest coal seams on the planet wide open, starting inextinguishable fires that were projected to burn for centuries, if not millennia. Already, the world was all but suffocated by the smoke.

Soon, the oceans would be carbonated, and what was left of the marine biosphere would collapse. The plant life was already perishing from the lack of sunlight across the planet, and the fauna would follow soon after. Even the fungi and other decomposers would eventually run out of dead things to consume. Without flora to convert carbon dioxide to oxygen, the rampant fires would ultimately render the world’s atmosphere completely unbreathable for at least the next few centuries without a concentrated and expensive terraforming effort.

In short, the planet was a write-off.

“Y’know, about a million people lived here ‘fore the war.” McCullough gestured at the stricken planet on the screen before him.

“I know,” Spatha nodded.

“The Canucks are just about going ballistic over this.” McCullough mused.

“Didn’t they say something about this being their first colony outside of the core worlds?” Spatha asked.

“Outside of rimward space, actually.” McCullough corrected her.

“Ah, yes.”

“Right now,” McCullough began, a grim look on his face, “there are about 600,000 people slaving away on Combine worlds because we let ourselves get outmaneuvered by that bastard Rapier. I hear the Russians got a hold of him when we blew his fleet up; if I ever meet that ant, I’ll crush him like one.”

This caught Spatha’s attention. “Wait, Rapier? As in Rapier of the Idrisat Brood?” she asked, her antennae perking up.

“Yeah; what about it?” McCullough said, shrugging.

Spatha put her head in her hand. “The Idrisat Brood is military nobility; they’ve been Battlematrons for Aralush’s Judges for almost as long as the Combine’s ruled Aralush. That he’s been captured–that he even was in a position to be captured–is going to make a lot of powerful people very angry.”

“Then why didn’t they have him reassigned earlier?”

Spatha paused for a moment, considering this. “Because when we struck at Kormoran, and the Germans repelled us, that was one thing. Then, the Americans raided our craft and took back our POWs, and Rapier didn’t strike back at them. That can get someone executed in my country, but, instead, Judge Khopesh gave him probation. He couldn’t be promoted, reassigned, or retired for as long as it lasted. Even then, if his probation was commuted, they couldn’t just transfer him out of the line of combat without being seen as a bunch of nepotists.”

McCullough nodded, the pieces falling together in his head. “So we accidentally forced the Idrisats to gamble one of their own, and they lost him.” he thought aloud.

“Exactly.”

“I’m still going to take that S-O-B out when I see him, though.” McCullough grunted, cracking his knuckles in idle anticipation.

Spatha turned to him in annoyance. “Can you not fantasize about beating my people up for one day?”

“Ain’t my fault he’s on the losing side.” McCullough said matter-of-factly.

Spatha wasn’t in the mood for another argument. With an indignant huff, she left the bridge, returning to her office. “I see that’s how it’s gonna be,” McCullough noted as she closed the door behind her. Along the way, she noticed that the general opinion of her hadn’t exactly warmed. Conversations in the halls still fell silent as she passed, and she could hear a certain few crewmen mutter various obscenities under their breaths at the sight of her.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

For all their good aspects, humans could be stunningly tribal at times. Sure, the Poslushi would sneer at you about their inherent superiority, but at least they would sneer, and maybe even still talk. Whenever a human didn’t like someone, they would forgo any interaction altogether, or, worse still, act in an overtly-friendly yet malicious manner that puzzled Spatha (McCullough called it being passive-aggressive, whatever that meant).

Turning a corner, Spatha found herself in her office, shutting the door behind her with a sigh. The lights were dim and the air was warm and humid, just as Spatha liked it. Folded over the back of her chair was her blanket, which she wrapped around her shoulders as she sat down at her desk, opening her laptop. After a few moments of mapping out the keyboard in her head and matching the Latin glyphs with their equivalents in Founderspeak, she began typing.

Persone–tap-tap-tap-tap–par–tap-tap-tap–personnel records.

In a moment, the unclassified files of almost the entire crew appeared before her; Spatha didn’t think she’d ever get used to the sheer availability of information that humans had. Slowly, she scrolled down, reading the names as they passed by, then quickened her pace as she remembered that humans organized their files alphabetically rather than by seniority, going all the way down to the letter M and opening McCullough’s file.

As she read through the attached documents, it wasn’t the inconsistencies that attracted her attention as much as the overwhelming cleanness of everything. If her experiences in her own military were of any value, then most personnel records were drafted by harried, overworked clerks in logistics corps that just wanted to get their jobs done and go home; it didn’t exactly make for the best bookkeeping in the universe. However, McCullough’s file was immaculate, with almost every detail perfectly accounted for, and that made the few inaccurate dates and wrong locations stick out in an almost painful way. Something was dearly wrong with these documents, but Spatha couldn’t ascertain the exact nature of the problem.

The air stank of frustration. With an annoyed exhale, Spatha returned to the start of the documents and began reading through them, one by one. She had to make sure everything was in order, for Darren’s sake, but she couldn’t even delegate this to someone lower for fear that McCullough would catch wind of it.

This was going to be a while.

—

The first thing Rapier noticed was the feeling of foam cradling his body, and then he felt the cold air rushing over his skin. He could smell bitter antiseptic, but not the kind he remembered smelling. The sounds were different as well; he could hear the pained moans and wails of other Poslushi, sending a frightened shiver down his spine. With a start, he opened his eyes, trying to sit up only to be stopped by a set of elastic straps wrapped around his torso.

He was in a bed, but not of the same kind as he remembered falling asleep in. The air smelled stale as well, and he could hear the whoosh of an overhead ventilation system. The walls were made of some sort of sterile white ceramic, and Rapier could feel the whir of distant machinery. Then, it occurred to him that all of these sensations were familiar; he was aboard a spaceship. It wasn’t a particularly surprising revelation; he had long since accepted that he would be captured in the process of getting away from Wakizashi, the creep. Still, he had expected to spend at least a little longer on Novoarkhangelsk, but he wasn’t exactly complaining; the place was unbearably cold anyway.

A sensor on his arm began beeping rapidly as he awoke, then began playing a pre-recorded message, interspersed with a synthetic voice speaking the specifics.

“Hello, [Captain-General Rapier of the Idrisat Brood]. You are currently aboard the SS [Catherine the Great], a hospital craft of the [Russian Astronavy]. You will be transferred to a prisoner-of-war camp in [Alpha Centauri], where you will have the option of either:

“A). Awaiting extradition to your home country following the end of hostilities. You will be returned to the Poslush Combine in the event of a peace between it and the Coalition of Aligned Solar Territories.

“B). Applying for citizenship in a CAST member state. Human-language courses and translator software will be provided free-of-charge to all prospective citizens. Prisoners-of-war applying for citizenship may also choose to attend educational institutions or guided tours of human recreational and commercial facilities.

“C). Enlisting within the Free Poslush Army. The Free Poslush Army is a reformist force fighting for a better Combine. Following a mandatory background check, all prisoners-of-war are eligible to fight with the FPA. The Free Poslush Army, for the glory of Sunsword’s children.

“In the meantime, you will, upon being assessed as medically healthy, be allowed to visit, under supervision, the SS [Catherine the Great]’s recreational center, as well as socialize with fellow inmates.

“Additional notes: [Movie night is every week. Check the recreational center for scheduling].”

With that, the sensor seemingly switched off, leaving Rapier to his thoughts. If what they were saying was true, then they were far more hospitable people than his own. The Combine’s prisoner camps, where they even existed, involved back-breaking labor and penal battalions drafted to fight, and the only way one could get a citizenship was by getting a neuroforming mask shoved onto them. Certainly there weren’t any rec rooms, not unless one considered watching escaping brothers-in-arms getting shot a form of entertainment.

Still, for all Rapier knew, this wouldn’t last long. After all, before CAST first encountered the Poslushi, they didn’t even know what neuroforming was. Rapier shuddered at the idea that he would be subjected to the same fate that befell many of those who went on to serve in his unit before his capture. He loved the High Judge and he loved the Combine, though he had to leave it for his own safety. He didn’t want to be turned away from that love, even if it killed him.

Now that he thought of it, it very well might.