Chapter 1: Strong Hand

The cold water ran over Moralez’s prosthetic fingers as he held them beneath the flow of the faucet, turning them over, flexing them as the liquid poured across the tread-like pads that helped them grip objects. He could feel the chill on the black polymer that encased the machinery and electronics within, as if it was his own skin, the sensation perfectly mimicking that of the limb that he had left behind on Kruger III.

He brought his toothbrush to his mouth, peering at his grizzled face in the mirror as he leaned over the bathroom sink. His tanned skin was a patchwork of healed scars, and the same was true all over his body. People often told him that he looked like he had been through a blender or a meat grinder, but he had no interest in corrective surgery. The doctors on the station could have him looking as fresh and as smooth as a newborn in an afternoon, and the UNN would pay for it. He was a veteran, after all. But each of those scars told a story, each one of them had been earned. Some men wore their medals on their chests, others wore them on their skin.

He touched the rubbery pads of his fingers against his cheek, feeling the stubble beneath them, and wondering if it would be worth shaving before heading out. Making himself presentable for official functions beyond wearing a clean uniform was a little pointless. He shifted his weight, the gel layer that cushioned his prosthetic leg where it met what was left of his thigh chafing a little. Maybe he’d get Kurtz to take a look at it when he had some time off, the engineer always knew what minute tweaks and adjustments to make.

In total, Moralez had lost three limbs during his military career. Both of his arms had been blown off by a grenade that had gone off at an inopportune time, and the leg had been severed by the twenty-millimeter cannon of a gunship. All in all, it had been a pretty shitty tour. Rehabilitation had been one of the hardest things that he had ever done, but now he was back on his feet, fully operational.

Kaisha leaned in through the bathroom door as he spat out a mouthful of mint-flavored toothpaste, glancing at his reflection as she buttoned up her lab coat, her ice-blue eyes meeting his. At eight feet tall, she might have needed to duck in order to fit through a normal-sized door, but this was her apartment. It was Moralez who had to stand on a crate to reach her oversized sink, as everything was scaled up to accommodate her species. Co-habitation had been a bit of a problem at first, but it was easier for him to climb up onto an oversized couch than it was for her to sit on an undersized one. Besides, he couldn’t complain about the extra living space. His old quarters would have fit into hers thrice over.

She was a Polar, to be exact, a race that hailed from the frozen ice cap of her homeworld. A coat of thick, downy fur covered her body from head to toe, its snow-white color broken up by natural camouflage that resembled dark coffee stains. Her layer of insulating fat gave her a soft, voluptuous figure, the weight settling attractively in all of the places that might entice a man. Her abundant chest strained against the fabric of her lab coat, the subtle paunch of her belly protruding over her waistline, her rear filling out her skirt. She stood on a pair of digitigrade legs, her paw-like feet tipped with black claws, a long tail like a feather duster waving back and forth behind her. Her face was human enough to be familiar, save for the flat brow, and the pink, feline nose.

“I might have to work late tonight,” she warned, pulling down her black skirt a little where it was riding up her round thighs. “One of my patients has been having issues with his prosthetic eyes, he says that they won’t focus properly, but Kurtz and I can’t find any issues with the lenses. It might be psychosomatic, or maybe a problem with the neural link. They can be finicky like that.”

It was Kaisha who had seen Moralez through his difficult rehabilitation, and at the end of the process, they had become much more than doctor and patient. Her expertise when it came to healing maimed soldiers was unparalleled, her natural Polar intuitiveness and compassion making her the ideal person to guide the damaged on their road to recovery.

“You’ll figure it out,” he replied, the electric motors in his hands whirring as he cupped them beneath the water. He brought them to his mouth, rinsing as his alien partner watched, the round ears that protruded from her slate-grey hair flicking idly. “You always do.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she chuckled. “Today is your big day, right? You told me something about lots of ambassadors showing up all at once?”

“Yeah, there’s a big Coalition meeting happening,” he replied as he hopped down off his crate. While his arms were modeled to closely mimic their organic counterparts in both form and function, the leg was little more than a skeletal frame, molded polymer housings concealing motors and batteries. His foot was a stylized, curved piece of carbon fiber that was flexible and springy, able to absorb impacts and push back realistically when he walked. It was little more than a skid, but it did the job admirably, affording him enough sensation to feel the cool tiles on the bathroom floor.

“The Coalition security council is meeting today to discuss admitting some new members to the alliance,” he continued as he reached for a towel. “The Araxie joined not long ago, and now we have the Valbarans and the Jarilo colony making bids to join. Nobody really knows much about the Valbarans, they live right out on the edge of Coalition space, and they’ve never been as far as the station before. It will have taken their delegates about six months to get down here. I’m curious to see what they look like in person.”

“And contact with them was an accident?” Kaisha asked.

“Yeah, that’s what I was told. A long-range patrol that was out scouting for Bugs stumbled across them and helped them defend their planet against a hive fleet. One in a million kind of thing, the right place at the right time. The way I heard it, if the jump carrier hadn’t turned up when it did, they might have missed Valbara completely. Their entire civilization would have been Bug chow.”

“And the Jarilo colony?” Kaisha asked, her tone becoming a touch less playful. She knew his history well enough, she knew how many years of his life he had dedicated to warding off the encroaching insectoids, how many friends and colleagues he had seen slain by their Drone foot soldiers. His injuries had been incurred during the campaign to free the Kruger system from their clutches, he had very nearly given his life in the endeavor.

The Betelgeusian hive fleets could appear anywhere, at any moment, exiting superlight and attacking whatever habitable worlds lay in their path. Their ruthless life cycle demanded endless expansion, forcing the fleets to either found new colonies or to attack one another like starving rats. They were as pitiless and as aggressive towards one another as they were to the inhabitants of the planets that they sought to claim, thinking nothing of genocide, and having no discernible rules of engagement. Every encounter with them was a bitter battle to the death.

“They haven’t told me jack about them,” he replied, Kaisha stepping out of his way as he exited the bathroom with his towel slung over his shoulder. “You’d think that the Admiralty would want their security chief to be properly informed, but it’s all very hush-hush. Hard to tell if it’s classified stuff, or if they just don’t want word getting out that they’re even considering the application. All I know is that one of their representatives will be arriving and that I need to keep the guy from getting lynched. I pity whoever drew the short straw on that one, lord knows the Bugs can’t speak for themselves. Literally...”

“Friendly and Betelgeusian are not words that one hears together frequently,” Kaisha added. She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms, watching as he moved over to their massive bed and began to pull on his uniform.

“Of course, they can’t keep a whole fleet quiet,” he said as he zipped up his blue coveralls. “Some of the people who came back from Jarilo talked, but it’s hard to say how much of that talk is true, and how much is just hearsay. Some of it sounded downright ridiculous, like colonists coexisting with the Bugs on the planet. Doesn’t matter how Earth-like it is, or how cheap the real estate, ain’t no way anyone would willingly set up shop anywhere near a known Bug colony.”

She marched over to him and straightened his collar, interrupting his spiel as he gazed up at her, his face scarcely at chest height to the towering alien. Her hands were large enough to encompass his head like a cantaloupe, her thick fingers tipped with fleshy pads, not unlike his own rubbery grip surfaces. Each digit ended in a wicked, black claw, curved and sharp like the talon of a predatory bird. She was careful, gentle, however. She could cradle a baby in those hands, and he wouldn’t spare a thought for its safety.

He reached up and ran his prosthetic fingers through the fur on the back of her hand, finding it fluffy and silky, its texture calming his nerves. Kaisha cupped his cheek in her palm and leaned down to plant a lingering kiss on his forehead.

“You’ll know the truth soon enough,” she said, pulling away and releasing him from her grasp. “Now, I mustn’t dawdle. If I’m back later than you, fetch me something to eat, alright?”

“Sure thing,” he said, watching as she turned towards the door to their apartment. How did the old saying go? ‘I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave.’ She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder to catch him gazing longingly at her shapely rear through the clinging fabric of her skirt. She was as wily as ever, always seeming to know what he was thinking.

“Get me a longburger from Kofe’s shop, and I’ll do that thing you like when I get home,” she added with a sly smile. He gave her a mock salute, and she stepped out onto the torus.

Moralez weaved through the throngs of people that clogged the station’s walkways, his brain filtering out the roar of muddled conversations through habit, like the sound of the surf or the pattering of rain on a roof. There were humans in both civilian and military garb, the blue uniforms of Navy personnel and the yellow overalls of engineers identifying them. The aliens stood head and shoulders above their smaller counterparts, the crowds parting to let them pass.

The reptilian Krell were easily visible due to their long, crocodile-like snouts, and the layers of spinach-green scutes that armored their hunched bodies. At around fifteen feet from their noses to their long, dragging tails, they were the largest species in the Coalition by far. They were much friendlier than their imposing appearance would suggest, almost to a fault. They were nude, save for the poncho-like uniforms that they wore, having no external genitalia to cover up. As amphibious creatures, they spent much of their free time swimming in the station’s pool, or warming themselves beneath heat lamps in their specially-designed barracks. When it came to combat, they made fearsome warriors. Their natural durability and their protective instincts had seen many a Marine whisked from the brink of certain death, and they could also carry heavy weaponry that was too large for any human to wield, making them somewhat akin to walking pillboxes.

There were a few errant packs of Borealans, too, moving in tightly-knit groups of half a dozen or more. They were similar in appearance to Kaisha, save for their more sparse fur and their muscular physiques. They hailed from the equatorial region of the planet, where it was far hotter than at the poles, and so they lacked the thick fur and insulating blubber of their Northern counterparts. Their penchant for violence and their physical prowess made them ideal shock troopers, but Moralez had also found them to be loyal, dependable soldiers. He had become more familiar with their savage, pack-based culture than he would have liked, but the majority of them were able to suppress their more confrontational impulses through socialization and training.

The torus extended in both directions, its subtle curvature only noticeable in the distance, where it arched out of view beneath the painted ceiling. The mural was made to resemble a blue sky with fluffy, white clouds, the large lamps that were spaced out at intervals approximating the heat and light of a sun. Everything about the Pinwheel, as it was colloquially known, was designed to trick the mind. The hull of the station to either side of the ‘street’ was lined with the sculpted facades of buildings, and the walkway was decorated with planters that housed all manner of trees and shrubs. There was even an artificial breeze, everything that a weary sailor might need to get all of the benefits of shore leave without actually having to ship down to a planet. It was almost enough to trick one into believing that they were on a city street, rather than inside a giant, rotating habitat in deep space. Almost...

Moralez was moving through the tourist quarter as he made his way to the military quarter where he worked. There was something that he needed to pick up before he reported in for duty today. Over time, the Naval base had become as much a hub for transportation and tourism as it was a military installation, and so the Admiralty had allowed civilians to open stores and businesses in a designated quadrant. There were restaurants, bars, clothing outlets. Pretty much anything that a traveler or an off-duty Marine might need.

There were a few ‘hey Chief’s’ and ‘morning Sir’s’ as he threaded through the crowds. As the station’s security chief, he was acquainted with most of the facility’s permanent residents, and his singular appearance made him easy to pick out in a crowd.

He arrived at a small store with a colorful awning, its imitation brickwork carved from the station’s white hull material. The windows that looked out onto the street displayed all manner of strange artifacts. There were ornate bowls, primitive rifle stocks, and trinkets that had been engraved with beautiful and complex reliefs. There were hunting scenes featuring alien animals, intricate floral arrangements, and geometric patterns of impressive complexity.

The bell on the door rang as he opened it, stepping inside the cramped store to see shelves lined with similarly artistic creations. It was narrow enough that two men would have had difficulty standing side by side, and a Krell wouldn’t have been able to fit inside at all. The ceiling was maybe eight feet high, giving the room a squashed feeling, like it was being crushed between the two adjacent buildings. The Pinwheel had a finite amount of living space, and so people had to make do with whatever they could get.

At the far end of the narrow room was a faux-wood counter, and behind it was a door, from which emerged a somewhat flustered Borealan. She had red hair and smooth, pale skin on her face. She wasn’t wearing the blue uniform of a Shock Trooper, but rather civilian clothes, a tank top and a pair of shorts that suggested her work area might be rather hot and cramped.

She wiped her brow on the back of her furry hand, her orange coat extending to her elbows, where it tapered into clean skin to make it look as though she was wearing fluffy elbow gloves. He knew that the same would be true of her legs, where the fur would end at her knees. She took up position behind the counter, her long, striped tail flicking back and forth as she fixed her round ears on him.

“Security Chief,” she began, “welcome!”

“Hello, Zhari,” he replied, admiring one of the decorative plates as he made his way over to her. “Is it ready? I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry today.”

“Of course,” she replied, bowing her head in a sign of deference. “Please wait here, I shall fetch it for you.”

With that, she scurried away to the back room, leaving the door ajar. Zhari was one of the few Equatorials on the station who had taken up a trade, rather than serving as an auxiliary in the Navy. She had a knack for engraving and damascening, which was a traditional practice for the aliens, and her services had become quite popular with some of the Marines recently. It was a melding of human and alien cultures that always put a smile on his face, the same way that some of the feline aliens were starting to appear with elaborate tattoos.

She reemerged a moment later, holding a handgun in her furry paws. She passed it to him over the counter, waiting with bated breath as he began to examine it. The weapon was huge by human standards, yet not large enough to be wielded comfortably by a Borealan or a Krell. His prosthetic hand molded around the familiar contours as though it had been made for him, because it had. The XMH, or X-Species Modular Handgun, was the sidearm variant of the standard-issue rifle that was used by the Coalition. It fired a tungsten slug from a receiver that functioned like a railgun, which was then captured and accelerated by magnetic coils in the barrel.

Moralez’s prosthetics gave him greater strength and stability than that of their organic counterparts. He had been able to modify his sidearm to be larger, heavier, and harder-hitting than any that an intact human could comfortably wield. The barrel was longer than average, packed with dense coils that accelerated the projectile to impressive velocities, the servos in his arm the only thing keeping the recoil remotely manageable. It was a real hand-cannon.

The matte black of the polymer grip was now overlaid with white enamel, inlaid with a golden Marine Corps logo. The receiver and part of the barrel’s housing were damascened, a process by which precious metals were carefully hammered into the underlying material to create intricate patterns and scenes that almost resembled the tapestries of ancient times. Golden floral designs and creeping vines twisted around the barrel, leading into a hunting scene on the receiver, the trees of a forest parting to reveal a human with his rifle shouldered. The detail was incredible, almost microscopic, accented with silver where appropriate.

“Phenomenal work, Zhari,” he muttered as he turned the weapon over in his hands.

“You honor me, Security Chief,” she replied with another bow of her head.

He drew a magazine from the pouch on his belt, slotting it into the well, then stowed the weapon in its holster. Officers were permitted to carry loaded weapons on the station, and the battery was currently switched off, which served as the handgun’s safety.

“Maybe I’ll pop off one of my arms and have you decorate that one of these days,” he said, flexing his fingers.

“You jest, Security Chief, but I would not turn down the challenge.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he chuckled, turning towards the door.

The sea of casual clothes gave way to an ocean of blue and yellow as Moralez arrived in the Naval quarter, where the barracks, armory, and other military facilities were housed. Formations of Marines jogged past him, wearing their black combat armor, on their way to drills or deployments. The massive hangar doors broke up the more spartan and functional structures in the hull of the torus, leading out into cavernous bays that could accommodate vessels as large as frigates. These were not even the biggest, the Pinwheel was one of the few installations that had dry docks for servicing jump carriers and battleships outside of the orbital shipyards where they were originally constructed.

The tablet computer in his pocket was already blowing up with alerts as he arrived at the security building, stepping through the automatic doors and into the lobby. It was decorated with the same matte white that was seen throughout most of the station, a few ferns in planters breaking up the monotony here and there. He greeted the two secretaries who were sitting behind monitors at their desk, then continued on his way, passing by waiting rooms and the employee lounge. The torus was far deeper than it looked from the street, and the buildings could extend quite a distance into its hull.

Moralez didn’t really think of himself as a cop, as much as the building resembled a police station, and as evocative as his title was. He was responsible for keeping the station secure and ensuring the safety of the people on it. He deployed teams of MPs to break up bar fights and to drag the offending personnel to the brig, he dealt with organizing the station’s defenses during an enemy attack, and he was entrusted with keeping everything running smoothly.

His job was akin to balancing spinning plates. The Pinwheel was in a perpetual state of carefully moderated chaos, it was as large as a small town, with tens of thousands of people passing through in a given week. Soldiers, aliens, civilians. He was responsible for every person who set foot here, and every ship that docked.

It was early in the morning, but he could see that the workday had already begun. There was an especially surly Borealan sitting on a chair that was far too small for him in one of the waiting rooms. He was of the Equatorial variety, his smooth skin a dark shade of caramel, his fur a sandy blonde where it was visible beneath his Navy jumpsuit. His furry hands were concealed beneath a pair of specialized manacles that almost resembled a child’s mittens, linked together by a sturdy chain, preventing him from making use of his claws. The room was being guarded by two MPs who were wearing white helmets and sashes on top of their black armor. Judging by the way that his nose was running and his puffy eyes were streaming tears, he had recently been maced.

“What have we got here?” Moralez asked, stopping by the door to get a look at the alien.

“Drunk and disorderly, Chief,” one of the MPs replied from beneath his full-faced helmet. “Once we’re done processing him, we’ll throw him in the drunk tank until Raz can come down and pick him up.”

The alien’s ears flattened against his straw-colored hair at that, and he gazed down at the floor dejectedly. Raz was the unofficial Matriarch of the station, the most respected among the Equatorials, and the highest-ranked in their pack structure. She trained the newcomers, tempered them so that they could interact with humans, taught them how to suppress and redirect their more savage proclivities. Moralez had quickly discovered that having her pay troublemakers a visit was a far more effective form of punishment than any pay dock or suspension that he could mete out.

“Very good,” he replied, “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

His office was at the far end of the hall, and he entered through the sliding door, flopping down into a chair in front of a bank of monitors. The room was sparsely furnished, but he found that the cramped space helped focus him. This was his control center, the readouts displaying information on the station and its operations. He fished his tablet out of his pocket and began to scroll through his alerts. It was mostly mundane stuff, but there was one alert requesting that he put a call through to the Admiral as soon as he arrived at work. There was always at least one of them on the station at any time, and they were the highest authority in the Navy.

He wasted no time, tapping into the vidphone on his desk and fiddling with his collar for a moment. Before long, a man wearing a pristine, white uniform appeared on his monitor from the waist up. The Admiral’s breast was adorned with colored ribbons and UNN insignias, his matching cap sporting the organization’s logo emblazoned in gold above the rim, a globe contained within a wreath. He was an older man, his clean-shaven face weatherbeaten, his blue eyes cold and intense beneath a pair of bushy brows.

“You asked to see me, Admiral?” Moralez asked.

“Good morning, Chief Moralez,” the Admiral replied curtly. “Our timetable has been moved up, some of the ambassadors will be arriving a few hours earlier than anticipated. I don’t think I need to tell you that I expect this security council meeting to go off without a hitch. I don’t want so much as a road bump, you understand me? We have potentially valuable new allies petitioning for entry into the Coalition, and we need to show them that we run a tight operation, that we’re as competent as they’ve been led to believe. Appearances are everything.”

“Yes, Sir,” Moralez replied. “I’ve already made arrangements to see to the security needs and accommodations of the ambassadors.”

“There’s something else,” the Admiral continued, his tone becoming somewhat dour. “You were informed that a representative of the Jarilo colony would be attending the conference, is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir. Although I have to say, I didn’t quite know what to make of it. I assumed that we’d be needing some extra security, so I saw to that already.”

“I’m afraid that we may need some ... special accommodations for this delegate,” he continued. Moralez cocked an eyebrow, it almost sounded as though the Admiral was reluctant to give him any more information.

“How so, Sir?”

“You were told that the ambassador would be representing the Betelgeusian hive on Jarilo, but not that the ambassador hailed from that same hive.”

“A ... Bug ambassador, Sir?” Moralez asked in disbelief. “You want to bring Bugs onto the station?”

“Watch your tone, Chief,” he snapped. “It was not my decision alone, and it was not made lightly.”

“Of course, Sir, I apologize. It just ... caught me a little off-guard is all.”

“In all fairness, I reacted the same way when the idea was proposed,” he continued. “There will be no Betelgeusian entourage, a single Bug will be traveling to the station under heavy guard, and it will sit in on the security council meeting in order to plead its case. It will be staying on the station for the duration of the proceedings, likely several days. When it arrives on the station, it will be transferred over to the custody of your security team, and you will henceforth be responsible for its safety. Keep the damned thing out of sight of the general population where possible, we don’t want to start a panic.”

“Yes, Sir. If we need to move it around, we can access the maintenance tunnels and keep it off the torus. I’ll put it in one of the vacant apartments under armed guard, get my guys to keep an eye on it.”

“I’ve read through your service record, Chief,” the Admiral said as he shifted his weight in front of the camera. He must be standing. “You’re surely aware of the animosity that many in the Coalition feel towards the Betelgeusians?”

“That’s an understatement, Sir. Practically everyone on the station has lost a friend or a colleague to them.”

“Indeed. Nothing can happen to this ambassador, is that understood? Allying ourselves with a Betelgeusian hive might sound insane, but it represents a significant security interest for the Coalition, not to mention lasting peace on Jarilo. If we can gain access to their technologies and the inner workings of their hives, then that knowledge can be applied to better exterminating their cousins.”

“If I may ask, Admiral, what’s the situation on Jarilo? I’ve heard rumors, but I don’t know what to believe. Any information that you can give me might help me do my job better.”

The Admiral paused to consider for a moment, his wrinkled brow furrowing.

“Very well, I suppose there’s no reason to refuse your request this late into the game. Jarilo is a remarkably Earth-like planet that was recently discovered by survey vessels, a veritable Garden of Eden. The surveyors also picked up signs of Bug activity, and so a fleet led by the UNN Thermopylae was quickly dispatched to claim it. They arrived before the Bugs had landed all of their troops and before the orbital defenses had been deployed, and were able to destroy three hive ships in the ensuing engagement. This starved the Betelgeusians of the resources and manpower that they required to establish a self-sufficient colony, so I’m told. There were a series of ground battles in which the enemy exhausted the remainder of their resources, and when they reached a stage where their defeat was inevitable, they surrendered unconditionally.”

“They surrendered, Sir?” Moralez repeated in disbelief. “Will all due respect, I’ve seen Drones that had been cut clean in half by anti-personnel mines drag their bodies across the battlefield in an attempt to reach our lines, I can’t imagine that a hive would ever surrender. I’m not sure they’re even sentient, they’re just mindless insects. Besides, how would they communicate that surrender? They lack vocal cords, and they have no written language. They only communicate through pheromones.”

“As you may know, Betelgeusian hives war amongst themselves as much as they war with us,” the Admiral explained. “I am told that, in rare circumstances, a hive may overcome another without actually destroying it utterly. In such a scenario, the defeated hive offers itself to the victor in the form of genetic material. If they fought well, then their genes might be of benefit to the conquering hive, and can thus be incorporated. This ensures the survival of their lineage.”

“So that’s what happened on Jarilo?” Moralez mused, scratching his stubbly chin with his prosthetic fingers. “The Bugs were put in a position where they were exhausted of resources, and then gave up, expecting us to assimilate them?”