She climbed the steps to the communications terminal, sat down, and swept the interface open. She cleared her throat and opened the channel.
“SCS Tempus, this is the SCS Argus, hailing on high priority Legion X band, please respond.”
She waited in silence, then expanded the frequency selection screen.
“Tempus, this is the Argus, I’m opening to wideband, broadcasting across all channels, unencrypted. Please respond.”
She chewed her lip.
“Tempus, this is the Argus. Please be advised: Optio is recommending Tempus return to dock immediately.”
She waited.
“Tempus, please respond.”
Only static came back. She took a shallow, sharp breath.
“Griff…”
The light in her periphery bloomed as her unblinking eyes focused on the pitch-darkness of the void before her. She cleared her throat, forcing strength back into her voice.
“SCS Tempus, this is the Argus, hailing on all frequencies…”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Five years ago and ninety-three million light-years inward, Dextera Adequin Rake sits across a polished mahogany desk from the commander of the First, Praetor Reneth Lugen.
A single sheet of paper crinkles in the praetor’s hand. He looks up from it, narrow face drawn tight across sharp cheekbones. He waits for her response.
“‘Without us, you will perish,’” she says.
“That’s all they said?”
“Yes, sir.”
He folds the paper in half and leans back. He looks out the slatted floor-to-ceiling window and the honeyed glow of the setting sun warms his pallid complexion.
“Who else knows about this?”
For the first time in her career, she lies. “No one, sir.”
“You expect me to believe you killed your way through ten kilometers of Viator and Drudger forces, up a mountain”—he points upward with an incredulous finger—“without any backup?”
“I’m a Titan, sir.”
“That’s true. And it’s not that I don’t believe you’re capable of it. But I happen to know you flew a Levate cruiser off that planet.”
She doesn’t waver. She says nothing.
“Which takes two to fly.”
She wavers. She’s a terrible liar. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Your comrades are safe, I assure you. But I need to know who was there so I can mitigate the damage.”
She considers lying. Naming someone else. Not implicating Griffith. But she can’t. And he wouldn’t want her to. “Bach, sir.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
A drawer creaks open. He lights a match and burns the paper. They watch in silence as it’s reduced to a pile of smoldering embers and ash atop his opulent desk.
He looks up at her.
“You’ve been granted the rank of excubitor, and all the rights and responsibilities the title carries.”
Her heart stops. She expected to be court-martialed, hanged, drowned, thrown from a dropship in atmo, ejected out an air lock, publicly shamed, publicly executed. Not promoted.
“Excubitor? That’s…” Her fingers twitch as she tallies the ranks mentally. “Four ranks.”