Grand Admiral Mendelson stood with his legs apart and his hands clasped behind his back as he studied the room-sized holotank. The Naval Headquarters was a hive of activity as men and women bustled around, each on some important task for themselves or someone else. The admiral barely noticed, his focus was on the battle. His augments helpfully highlighted the units in the tank he was interested in, as he ran projections and watched the battle unfold.

The holotank updated with projected flight paths.

“Inform the First and Fifth Fleets to begin their flanking,” the admiral ordered. In space, flanking wasn’t quite the same as it would be on a two-dimensional field. The battle had spread out into a rough sphere. Flanking to encompass the enemy would be impossible given the distances involved. Instead, the maneuver would position Coalition craft in a pincer-like formation with Legion in the center.

Mendelson was aiming for Legion’s big flagship in the center. Obviously, it was a trap. Whatever else Legion was, they weren’t subtle on the battlefield. The biggest bullseye was too on the nose. Mendelson would feint toward it enough to trigger whatever surprise Legion had ready, but refrain from committing a significant number of ships. It was a balancing act he loved to play.

Legion didn’t need a headquarters, they had no troop morale to break, and no supply chains for basic necessities. The Coalition was at a staggering disadvantage. Normal electronic warfare would be a waste of effort; at best, they could scramble sensors and frustrate aiming systems, but knocking out communications wasn’t an option. The Coalition had to guard their communications zealously.

How Legion communicated with their mortal hosts was still a mystery the Council of Churches was still arguing over, but it wasn’t by any means humanity could intercept, much less block. The Coalition couldn’t win by forcing the other side to capitulate. They had to beat Legion to the very last ship.

It was unfair. Humanity was at a disadvantage from whatever angle considered. Mendelson almost buzzed with excitement over the challenge.

Legion had amassed a sizable fleet. If it hadn’t been for the AIs running the Naval construction yards, it would have been easily four-to-one out there. Instead, the two forces were numerically about even. Legion favored big, heavy hitters—slow to move but packed a lot of power. About eighty percent were made of these large ships, with the rest consisting mostly of fast attack ships and a small number of massive battleships.

Then there was Legion’s flagship. It was a nightmare made real. The ship was about the size of two standard dreadnoughts, but pieced together from other ships and whatever else Legion salvaged from the outer planets. There was no organization a sane and hale mind would create, and yet there was a hint of symmetry and design no mortal mind would find pleasant. The longer one looked at it, the more unsettled one felt without being able to pinpoint why. The rest of their ships fared no better. It was a junkyard from Hell.

Grand Admiral Mendelson moved his fleets like pieces on a board. Legion’s tactics were staid, uninspired, downright pedestrian. But they didn’t need to be anything else. Their war machine ground up anything and everything in its path. What Legion lacked in style, they made up for it in raw power.

And they didn’t need sleep like he did. Mendelson expected this battle to last a week at the very least. He’d have to pace himself or he’d crash before things got really interesting.

Mendelson still was working Lars into his plans. There was no way the Admiral would let Lars waste his life in some sort of blaze of glory, no matter what the cyborg had said. No, Mendelson wanted to use him to full effect. The former Supreme Commander had finally agreed to let Mendelson utilize him as a surprise tactic and had docked with the Fifth Fleet’s flagship battlecruiser, something Mendelson had kept under wraps. Let Legion stew over finding Lars on the field for as long as possible.

He gave a few more orders, then retired to his office cot with strict instructions to wake him in four hours. He fell asleep in mid-prayer.

Martin’s boots crunched through the debris as he approached what once was a beautiful commons area. He tightened his grip on his rifle, a standard auto .223 urban rifle. He had traded his Guild robes for more practical wear while stalking through the remnants of his home.

Trees and plants from around the system had been carefully cultivated into a serene meeting spot for Guild members. Tables and chairs had been scattered around. It was one of many such small oases located around the sprawling campus. Now it was a smoldering ruin. Signs of a battle were everywhere, from the spent casings to the scorch marks from something that packed a punch, and small craters where energy weapons struck. The greenery was blasted and withered and what remaining trees were mere pale reflections of their former glory.

Again, though, no bodies. Blood, yes. Signs of injuries and injured people being moved, yes. But no bodies. This was a consistent pattern Martin was seeing.

Brother Thomas stopped Martin with a touch. He had learned to rely on the monk’s instincts. The dour man had a nose for trouble. They both waited at the large entryway leading into the now devastated mini-park, breathing slow and quietly to catch any sounds, rifles at the ready. Wherever Justinian had dug up the monk, Thomas knew his weapons well enough. Though he kept his black cassock over anything Martin offered him.

After about five minutes, just when Martin was about to move, something stirred in the mess. Rocks clattered to the ground and something scraped. Martin swiveled his head toward the sound, narrowing his eyes to focus. There was a faint silhouette on a concrete planter. Martin slowly raised his rifle to his shoulder, fitting the stock snugly, before calling out.

“We mean peace, but I’ll shoot if you try anything!”

A man came out with his hands up, holding a pistol by the trigger guard looped around his thumb. He looked to be in decent shape, all things considered.

“Alright, alright! Don’t shoot!”

Martin and Thomas kept their rifles trained on the man.

“Name!” Martin demanded curtly.

“Rob Pike. You?”

“Martin.”

The man relaxed. “I heard your broadcast. Are you serious about what you said?”

“Deadly.”

Pike broke into a grin. “Then I have great news! I’m working for Sophia Vargas. She’s been trying to contact you. She’s sent out a dozen of us looking for you, but you’ve been more elusive than anyone expected.”

Neither Martin nor Thomas moved.

“She just wants to talk,” Rob stressed while keeping his focus on the barrels pointed at him. “Do you mind pointing those things elsewhere?”

Martin glanced at Brother Thomas. The other man gave a small nod. They lowered their rifles. “Fine. I assume you can take us to meet her?”

“Yes, yes I can.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Carefully, the three men picked their way through the rubble of the old Guild campus, avoiding the sound of gunfire and battle as they moved up the levels. Sometimes, they’d have to make a mad dash up a few flights of cramped utility stairs; other times they advanced up grand staircases where the marble flooring and gold-plated balustrades and huge crystal windows were still pristine, untouched by the upheaval going on.

The men didn’t speak but a few words here and there. It was surreal to Martin and Pike to move through their home with weapons at the ready and on alert for the slightest possible danger waiting ahead of them. Just last week they owned the place. Now? Haunted already by demons and the damned.

“Here,” Pike said on the twelfth floor. He stopped in front of solid-looking double doors and rapped a quick pattern. He stepped back and made sure everyone had their firearms secured.

The door opened a crack.

“Get in! Quickly!” a voice hissed at them. “We have reports of gang movement from the south!”

Pike slipped in first.

“Are you sure about this?” Brother Thomas asked. “Pike hasn’t shown any signs of deception, but who knows what’s on the other side?”

Martin stared at the doors like he could bore a hole through them if he tried hard enough. “Yes. You have my back?” Martin asked, looking at the other man.

Brother Thomas nodded. “By my faith in the Lord, I will do everything in my power.”

“Good.”

They both entered, Martin first.

Admiral Silas Moore wanted to strangle whoever back at Navy HQ gave the Third Fleet its latest order with a timeline of doing it now. Legion’s forces were chaotic. There was no apparent command structure, no clear line of command at all. It was a free-for-all. Sending the Third straight into that maelstrom wasn’t something Moore would have chosen to do with his fleet, not until the big guns had softened up the battlefield for a day or so. He ordered his fleet anyway. It had to be that show-off Mendelson. The man was going to get everyone killed for the sake of his own glory. Commander Stockwell never should have promoted him to Grand Admiral. All that aside, Moore wouldn’t give him the pleasure of dying according to his schedule.

Admiral Moore watched the main bridge’s holotank intently. He had the output filtered to show his ships as individual units, while the rest of the Coalition ships were marked as blocks. If Legion’s forces were within an hour of his fleet, the tank showed them as individual units; otherwise Legion was ignored. All except that twisted flagship. That was still hours away, but he had the tank show it in as much detail possible. It was hideous, a foul eyesore out in space. And the Third was headed straight toward it. God willing, he’d have a chance to wipe it from existence. Moore knew it wouldn’t end Legion, but that didn’t matter. Something like that had no right to exist. He adjusted himself in the bridge harness and leaned closer to the tank.

Moore grimaced as part of his board lit up. Internal security had hit a panic button. Like he needed another distraction right now. He should let his chain of command handle this, but he didn’t need surprises in the middle of a firefight.

“Moore here. Report.”

Master-of-Arms Philip Foster responded immediately. “Sir, the situation is still fluid. The Bishop is on it now.”

Bishop Ortega? That didn’t sound good. “Is there anything I need to worry about?”

“No, sir, we’ll have the situation contained.”

“Over.”

Moore turned his attention back to the battle, moving his forces to keep a shield around his battleship. He’d trust his captains to do their duty to the last.

Bishop Juan Ortega’s left hand held the man by his throat to keep the fool from talking while his right held his crucifix high. Two security officers held Sergeant Hill in place.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen!” the Bishop shouted as Hill thrashed.

The sergeant tried to croak out something. Ortega tightened his grip to keep anything blasphemous from spilling out.

“Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei Jonas Hill,” intoned Ortega.

Hill thrashed harder.

“Hold him steady!” Ortega ordered the two officers. They both settled in and really applied pressure to Hill’s arms.

Bishop Ortega pressed the crucifix against Hill’s head. It didn’t burn, but there was a hint of brimstone wafting in the air. “Hold on, Hill, we’re almost there,” Ortega muttered as he repositioned himself. “Quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum vocare dignatus est, ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos et saeculum per ignem!”

“Amen!” shouted Ortega and the two officers at once.

Hill frothed at the mouth but the look he gave was more human than possessed.

“Tu autem effugare, diabole; appropinquabit enim judicium Dei!”

Ortega loosened his grip on Hill’s throat so the man could speak.

“Abrenuntias satanae? Et omnibus operibus ejus?” Ortega asked sharply.

Hill writhed and coughed for a bit before settling down.

“I… I do! I do!” Hill croaked out.

“Credis in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae?” Ortega followed up intently.

“Yes. Oh, God! Help me! Forgive me!”

Bishop Ortega gently made the sign of the cross on Hill’s forehead with his right hand.

Hill screamed at a pitch beyond human vocal cords, then went limp.

Ortega relaxed and nodded to the two security officers. “That should be it. Get Hill into a cell and turn his bunk inside out. Something got to him, and we need to know what. Let Foster know what happened, too. I need to make some calls.”

“Aye!”

Bishop Ortega pushed away from the sergeant and floated into the corridor. The battleship rumbled and groaned from whatever chaos happening outside the hull. Ortega crossed himself as he thanked God he didn’t have to deal with that problem.

He propelled himself back to the chapel and into his office much faster than he normally did. He passed his senior deacon without so much as a nod. Ortega requested a channel to the Second and Fourth Fleets flagships on the high-priority ecumenical line. He didn’t have to wait long until the voice-only connections were established. The line was full of static from the energies surging around them.

“Gentlemen, we have problem,” Ortega said, getting to the point.

“You too? I was about to start this call myself.” Chaplain Norman was with the Second.

“Aye, lads, I have my hands full already an’ it’s looking worse,” groused Exarch Michael Walker.

“Demons?” Ortega asked.

“Full-on possessions. Nothing like what Rho reported but—” Norman replied.

“Too many, too fast,” Walker said curtly.

Bishop Ortega rubbed his temples. “Okay. You know the drill. Isolate and investigate. Report everything back to HQ, we’ll sort out the details later.”

“Copy,” they replied.

“What about the First and the Fifth?” Norman asked.

“Orders were to maintain radio silence,” Ortega responded.

“Any reason why?” the exarch asked sharply.

“Orders were direct from HQ.” Ortega shrugged, even though he knew they couldn’t see him.

“Figures. Copy and over.”

They all signed off.

Bishop Ortega signed off, leaned back in his chair until it creaked in a threatening manner, then sat upright, almost launching himself in zero gravity. His senior deacon looked in the room to see what the bishop was doing.

“James, pull together all our holy water. Call everyone in, we’re going to form at least three teams—two always on patrol and one stationed here. And we’re going to need everyone constantly praying the Rosary. If we’ve ever needed our Blessed Mother and all the Saints praying for us, it’d be now.”

“Bishop?” The younger man seemed confused as to what was going on.

Bishop Ortega rubbed his temples again. Everyone had been trained on how to respond this, but it was different when it was actually happening. “Legion’s attacking us from the inside, too.”

“Oh,” said the younger man in a small voice. “I’ll get on it right now.”

“Admiral, we have a small squadron beginning a fold.”

“Engage counter grav generators. Order the Juniper and Twice Shy to eradicate.”

“Aye.”

The big battleship rumbled and the lights dimmed as the grav generators drew power. Things were starting to heat up as the Third drew closer to Legion’s flagship.

Moore checked the numbers. Still at eighty-three percent fighting efficiency. Better than anyone could hope for. They had lost only the smaller fighters. All ships had suffered damage, mostly superficial. Good. They were fully committed at this point.

“Ach,” grumbled Exarch Michael Walker. He shook his right hand. It stung a little from when he punched a crew member, knocking him out cold. “Toss him in quarantine with restraints. We’ll hafta exorcise him after he wakes up.”

That was the third one already. He had his acolytes combing through the possessed crew members’ belongings and sending a record back to HQ. One thing that had come to light was that all three had missed church services for months.

The Exarch knew of others who also hadn’t been attending as much as they should. Nobody else was fighting demonic possession, though. Something was still eluding them. He ordered his people to keep digging.

Lars fumed.

He didn’t know where he was. Somehow, he allowed Mendelson, Hannibal, and Iskandar to convince him to go along with this plan. He stopped his flight toward Legion to wait for the Coalition forces to catch up. Then, the Fifth’s giant battlecruiser swallowed him into one of the holds. They had shut down everything around him, cut all communications, and kept him in the literal dark. He hated being idle like this. Things would start to itch, phantom limbs to a body gone long ago. Lars hadn’t fully counted on his ship feeling similar to how his cyborg body felt. The best he could do was sense the fluctuations in gravity and pick up the shock impacts of attacks against the battlecruiser.

Lars understood the reasoning behind hiding him. Legion would see him as a prize to destroy. Springing him out when the demons least expected it would give him the best chance to really put the hurt on Legion. He understood, but he didn’t like it.

That damned itching returned, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

The battle raged on. The two forces intermingled into a mess of ships; all apparent coherent structure was gone. Except to Mendelson. He could still see the shapes of Legion’s intentions and kept his navy out of their clutches. The First and Fifth were almost in position, their progress had been slowed but not stopped. The rest of the fleets were pulling apart Legion’s forces, driving the heavier cruisers into lanes of fire, beating off the smaller attack ships with their own. The damage was extensive to both sides. The admiral was doing everything he could to keep as many men alive out there while trusting in his command structure to do the same.

Against all odds, they were starting to get the upper hand. Slowly, but surely, the Coalition was defeating Legion’s naval forces, due to no small part to the AIs keeping things working, acting as advisors, relaying messages faster than the human chain could when needed. They were everywhere at once.

Grand Admiral Mendelson took one last long look at the holotank.

“Bill, I’m going to grab some shut-eye. Don’t wake me until Legion throws their ace card.” Mendelson paused. “It’ll actually be an entire deck. We’re going to need Heaven’s favor when that happens.”

“Sir. I hate knowing the unknown is coming.”

“Me too, Bill. Me too.”

Martin sat in a chair that didn’t match the rest of the meeting room, while Brother Thomas stood behind him, scowling as usual. At the other end of the long table sat Sophia Vargas, flanked by two bodyguards, one being Pike. She wasn’t smiling. She sat back with her arms folded, legs crossed. Despite everything going on, Vargas still looked put together in her cargo pants and gray combat shirt. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

Martin didn’t need years of training to read her body language and what he was reading wasn’t good. He started to say something but she held up her right index finger, slightly crooked, while raising her left hand’s ring and pinkie fingers from her arm.

That got his gears working. One thing the Guild taught its members was a simple language of gestures and movements disguised as normal movements. Just like with human languages, there was more than one dialect, the Grandmasters knew one that the lower ranks didn’t. Vargas had indicated she was starting a message for Grandmasters.

He scratched his left eyelid.

Vargas closed her fist. Then opened it before placing her hand on the table.

Martin tugged his right earlobe, then cleared his throat.

Slight shake of the head.

Martin frowned.

She blinked three times, then once slowly.

Martin opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but this time she cleared her throat and shot him a warning look.

That was enough. Martin crossed his arms in response, shutting his mouth with a snap. The two sat in stony silence, glaring at each other.

Martin got the overall message. Vargas said, in shorthand, she didn’t fully trust whom she was working with. He wanted to glance back at the monk to see if he picked up anything, but that would certainly give the game away. So he waited.

After a short eternity, a door leading to a different office opened, and one of the Division Heads came in. Martin understood why Vargas was worried. As far as he had known, all the heads were compromised by Legion.

Former Division Head Hanna Laurent adjusted her robes and pushed up her glasses to peer at Martin. He had met her—several times in fact—but of all the heads, she had seemed to be the least impressive.

Laurent was a slight woman of indeterminate age, mousy brown hair, and glasses for a vision problem that could easily be fixed. She was thin and tall. More reedy than willowy. She also had one of the largest divisions, the vaguely named Advanced Systems, which had inroads in one form or another to every division. To keep her position, Martin knew she was efficient, intelligent, and ruthless. But she came across as a distracted scientist who was more focused on her latest experiment than what was happening around her in the wider world. Which always worried Martin. Her demeanor didn’t match her reputation.

Martin stood as she came in and gave a little bow.

“Division Head.” He hoped he had the right tone to start. He had to open neutral if he wanted to have a chance of eliciting any sort of emotional response from her.

“Oh, please. Former Division Head. Things aren’t what they used to be.” Hanna Laurent waved her hand casually. “Just ‘Laurent’ will do.”

“Of course.” Martin didn’t use her name.

They both sat down. Laurent sat closer to Vargas in the center point of the table where Martin would have to swivel his head to see one or the other. He sighed. Even now, they were still using the Guild playbook against him. He racked his brain, trying to remember anything about the former division head that would give him an edge, some crack he could use. It had to be fast and hard. Laurent would be expecting something from him.

“Now, we all heard your broadcast, Martin. Both of them, in fact. I’m curious about what you think you are doing?” Laurent fixed Martin with a mild gaze, like the hooded eyes of a snake wondering if the prey in front of it was worth the trouble of killing.

“The Guild is completely blind to what is happening outside our campus. We can’t even contact our members out in the field or the satellite locations.” Martin didn’t even glance at Vargas. There was nothing she could do anyway right now.

“True. So?”

“Our house is in chaos and shambles. We’re out of this fight with Legion for now. No, that’s not right. Our battlefield is here.”

“And?”

“We have got to get the word out!” Martin was getting a little heated. These one-word questions were starting to get under his skin. Applying Guild techniques against a Grandmaster was even more annoying. Which was what Laurent wanted him to feel. She wanted to knock him off-balance. Martin gave in a little, after all, these feelings were genuine. It was much easier to reveal a little of what was already there than to lie about it. It’d buy him time and give a false impression she was able to control his emotions on demand. “We know how Legion works. They find a crack, slip something in, and break down social order. Quickly, too. It’s chaos and fighting and death with them. How many cities and organizations are vulnerable right now? How many will fall if we don’t raise the alarm!”

“What is it to us?”

Martin stood in one smooth motion. “Then I have no further need for you.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

Martin stared down at the former Division Head. She was as cold and calculating as the rumors. “Because what made you a fantastic Head is just hobbling you now. You’ve limited yourself and will only serve as dead weight.”

That hit something. Laurent frowned, the first real expression Martin had seen on her.

“Me? Do you know who I am?”

“Yes. And that’s why I can say what I said.” Martin leaned forward until he was supporting himself on the table with his hands. “You are ruthless, efficient, pragmatic to a fault, and you only see people as resources to be utilized and spent. In other words, outside of a specialized environment, you are useless. No, worse, because you will hamper people wanting to do the right thing for the right reason, despite the inefficiency of it all.”

Laurent flushed a little and cleared her throat. “Be that as it may, don’t you think now would be a good time to have me reorganize our tattered remnants?”

“And how would you do that? According to Guild guidelines?”

“Well, of course, those are—”

“Those are what got us into this mess!” This time Martin stood ramrod straight and spun on his heel. “Useless. Don’t get in my way,” he said over his shoulder. He nodded at the monk and the two of them left with determined strides.

The two men swept out of the room and shut the doors with emphasis. Martin stopped in the hallway and held up his hand to Brother Thomas. The other man stopped with Martin, his face passive now. Martin said a silent prayer of thanks for the monk, and turned to face the doors. He didn’t wait long.

The right-side door swung open as Vargas stepped out.

“I knew you’d be waiting.” Vargas didn’t smile.

“And I knew you’d want me to.” Martin did.

Vargas jerked her head to indicate for them to follow her. They walked down the hallway, past offices that were now empty and silent. Not even the hum of equipment sounded. Martin wondered is Laurent had diverted available power away from here because it was unneeded.

Finally, they reached a small alcove next to a stairwell and bathroom. The hallway turned sharply at ninety degrees and ran along more meeting rooms on one side, while the right side had tall windows looking out to the late evening sky.

Martin noticed the sun’s position with a jolt. He had lost track of time. At least here they could see in both directions, and the stairwell door’s indicator was set to locked. It was as secure as it was going to get around here.

“So? Did I ruffle her feathers enough?” Martin asked as soon as Vargas relaxed a little.

“So much so she asked me to see if you’d come back for more discussion.” Vargas smiled like a cat that ate the canary. “She’s been out of the field long enough that while I’m sure she knew you were trying something, she didn’t know what.”

Martin shook his head. “I just spoke the truth. And played hardball. Basic stuff, really.”

Vargas regarded him skeptically. “If you say so.”

This hit Martin hard. He admired Vargas, but she was still so bound by the Guild mindset she couldn’t see other options. Hardball didn’t have to be anything more than standing your ground. No tricks of the trade needed. Well, maybe a dash.

“What’s our next step here?” Martin asked.

“I don’t fully trust Laurent. All the other division heads fell to madness but she didn’t?” Vargas shook her head as she frowned. “But I haven’t found anything to explain what happened.” She looked around furtively. She leaned in closer to Martin and spoke in a low tone. “She claims to have been so busy she failed to notice the changes in the others and kept missing the meetings.” Vargas frowned deep, crinkling her forehead. “It’s possible, but I can’t confirm anything she’s said.”

Martin broke into a grin.

“Good news, former Grandmaster! I have with me someone who can shed light on even the most puzzling of predicaments. He can get to the bottom of anything, no matter how sus—”

Brother Thomas shoved Martin hard enough to make his teeth snap together. It was almost enough. Martin felt something punch his left shoulder as a shot rang out.

Again?! was his last thought as he crashed into unconsciousness.

Martin came to when something slapped his face.

“I’m awake!” he mumbled, shaking his head, trying to clear the cobwebs and remember what was going on.

“Can you stand?” someone shouted at him over the sound of gunfire.

“Yeah, yeah. Give me a second here.” His left shoulder throbbed in pain. Wincing, he pulled himself more upright and everything snapped back into focus.

Martin had been shot in his shoulder, again. His left arm hung limply. He could twitch his fingers, so that was a good sign. Someone, probably Brother Thomas, had bound up his wound hastily with strips of cloth. He had been dragged into a stairwell—the cold concrete felt good to him—and given he probably hadn’t been out for very long, it had to be the stairwell where he and Vargas had been talking.

Brother Thomas stood over Martin, worry etched on his face. “How do you keep getting hit in the same place?”

Martin held out his right hand and the monk helped him to his feet.

“I’m just lucky,” Martin grunted as he regained his balance. He worked his conditioning until the blood flow stopped and some feeling returned to his arm. He was going to need medical attention and soon. The rifle round had punched through near his other wound, and the two of them were almost more than he could manage to control. He had to get some synthskin in there soon or it’d be a mess.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Martin asked.

The whole time Martin was getting back on his feet physically and mentally, he could hear the sounds of a pitched battle outside the door.

“We were attacked. Not sure if we were targeted, or this is just a crime of opportunity, but they sure are fighting hard for just a kill-and-loot crew.” The monk checked his rifle to confirm he had a round in the chamber.

“Vargas?”

“Don’t worry, your girlfriend is fine,” the monk deadpanned.

Martin narrowed his eyes at that, but let it pass.

“She yelled at me to get you out of the way and started shooting back.” Thomas shrugged. “She might be outnumbered, but she’s making them work to get any closer.”

“Did anyone try talking them down?”

“Yeah, while I was yanking you out of the way before you bled to death, Vargas invited them for tea and crumpets. They declined. Brusquely, if you ask me.”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture.” Martin thought quickly. His blood thundered in his head. He could hear the ebb and flow outside the door. Two against three, his side outgunned since he couldn’t fire a rifle like this. He closed his eyes and used every trick of visualization he had learned. He placed the positions of each combatant from the sounds. The battle’s dynamic had collapsed from chaotic to calculated risks. He kept focusing, ignoring the throbbing from his arm. There. A slim thread of a chance. Well, God hadn’t let him die yet from his stupid mistakes—maybe he’d survive this, too. He snapped his eyes open.

“Brother Thomas, could you help me get my left arm secured? I don’t want it flopping around.”

The monk stared at the other man as they tied Martin’s left arm to his body with whatever they had on hand. Martin readied his pistol in his right hand.

“On my mark, Thomas.”

“What are you planning on doing?” The monk’s usual grumpiness melted into concern.

“Surprising our new friends.”

Brother Thomas hesitated, then nodded and moved into position.

The sounds were slowing down but not stopping. Martin paused to make sure the battlefield positions hadn’t changed.

God, if this fool deserves mercy…

Martin nodded to the monk. Thomas kicked in the door and the two of them burst out of the stairwell. Thomas ran to cover and away from Vargas, who was peering around the corner and firing sporadically to keep their assailants pinned down.

Martin walked straight down the hall, holding his pistol in front of him. He turned his body to the side, like he was in a duel.

There was a moment of confusion from his opponents.

Martin shot the first man, who was crouching behind a hastily constructed barricade, in the forehead. Martin ignored the bullets hissing around him. Karl Johnson. Martin had no time to feel anything more than a flash of remorse when he recognized him.

The second man was on the left, popping out of a door frame to fire bursts. Martin hit him in the left arm and shoulder. He hoped it was the same guy who had shot him, then felt bad for thinking that. The man dropped his rifle—no sling, the moron, Martin noted—and stumbled out of view.

The third man tossed a stun grenade at Martin as he turned and ran away. Martin froze as the grenade arched toward him. There was nothing he could do, not even dive for cover. A shot cracked out, and the grenade exploded with a fizzle, struck in mid-air by a round.

Martin stood, chest heaving from the fight, left arm ablaze, and watched the last man run down the hall until he was out of sight. He could have shot him in the back, but that didn’t sit right with Martin.

“What in the name of everything green and holy were you thinking!” Vargas partially shouted as she ran up to him, punching him in his good arm.

Martin flashed her a grin and holstered his sidearm. “Doing what they couldn’t expect.” He nudged the grenade fragments with his boot. “Nice shooting.”

Vargas rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible!”

Martin kept his grin and winked at her. “Now, let’s go talk to the survivor.”

“I’ll handle that,” Vargas said grimly, eyes flashing. “You need medical attention. We have a small infirmary set up back at our base. You and, what did you say his name was? Thomas? You two go back now, and we’ll follow soon enough.”

Martin was about to protest but the throbbing pain in his arm changed his mind. “Thanks.”

Vargas rolled her eyes.

“You know, this might be the blood loss and adrenaline talking, but you are cute when you’re excited.”

Vargas punched him in the arm. His left arm.

“Shuddup and go get fixed. Idiot.”

Martin couldn’t help but smile as Brother Thomas escorted him back the way they had come.

“See?” Thomas actually seemed pleased. “You better make a move. No telling when your luck’ll run out. God is patient, but I wouldn’t test Him that much.”

Martin wanted to shrug but his left side hurt too much to move like that. He had to admit, though, the monk had a point. Vargas had been his supervisor. Now, that didn’t matter. First, though, he needed to get patched up.

The broadcast went out from Legion’s capital ship. The standard, most commonly used frequencies carried the signal, ranging from mono audio to multi-band holotank.

The Coalition communications team scrambled to analyze the signal, passing data between them and the AIs. No one trusted anything coming from the misshapen ship. The data was isolated and examined in secure jailblocks, the physical hardware a kill-switch away from having power and network cut.

“Sir, this is scrubbed, leaving just the vid and audio.”

Admiral Mendelson thanked the aide and turned his attention to the holotank.

A woman appeared in the center with a gentle smile on her delicate face. She was beautiful, yet Mendelson shuddered. She had an unholy allure about her—a beauty attempting to ape the sublime. The face didn’t quite look like a face, the smile not quite a smile, the eyes sparkled not from the soul’s brightness but from exterior lights shining on them. A wax mannequin made by inhuman hands brought to life.

“To anyone within the sound of my voice, I represent the group called ‘Legion’, a smeared and lied-about group.” Her voice was lilting and light, and somehow more hollow because of it all. “We’ve been miscast as your demons and devils from that old, barbaric tradition of old Earth. I admit, our first contact with you could have gone much better. Alas!” And she covered her face with her hands, as her delicate shoulders shook in feigned grief. “But this time, we hope to show you we mean no harm. Just like all of you, we’ve crossed great distances between worlds, like you we’ve sought what was best for all of us.” She smiled a blank, empty smile, like someone who’d only heard what a smile should look like. “It’s true we don’t have bodies of our own, our species needs a host, but we’ve asked for every single host, never taken. You will find we are honest and frank with our dealings.” She spread her arms wide. “Let us set aside our differences, end this conflict, and start a conversation. I believe we have much we can learn from each other! We have agents everywhere, just waiting for a chance to talk to anyone. We are Legion! I eagerly await your response!” She clasped her hands in front of her as if to plead for mercy, her dead eyes and dead smile the last thing visible as the image faded.

The message repeated.

Mendelson stood with his mouth slightly agape. Then he laughed. Great peals of laughter as he laughed until tears were in his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” he panted, trying to get control, clutching his side and wiping his eyes. “Okay. If Legion wants a response, I’ll give one.” He cleared his throat as he nodded at the aide next to the comms board. She quickly set up an open mic.

“This is Grand Admiral Mendelson of the Coalition, acting Supreme Commander. I have a response.” He waited for a beat. “Nuts.” He slashed his hand downward and the aide killed the broadcast.

“Now, someone contact General Tavares and General Lee immediately. Legion isn’t going to wait out our current battle before making their next move.”

“Aye, sir!”

General Brian Lee absentmindedly chewed the top of his stylus as he read the reports from Hannibal and Iskandar. Months and months of planning, preparation, and training were about to be tested. Even Father Justinian’s Templars were ready to be deployed. He ran a hand over his bald head, feeling some prickles from what remained of his gray hair. He was almost due for another shave.

His desk unit chimed. It was from the highest-level line.

“Lee here.” For a decorated warrior, Lee had a soft voice when he wasn’t shouting.

“General Lee, this is William Taraves, Grand Admiral Mendelson’s aide.”

“Listening.”

“Sir, if you haven’t listened to the broadcast yet, Legion has threatened to attack on the ground while we’re still engaged.”

“I haven’t yet. Doesn’t surprise me one bit.” Lee paused. “God have mercy on us all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You boys send them back to Hell out in the Deep, and we’ll do it on land.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Over.”

Lee tipped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a minute, thinking things over.

“God, I know You’re already besieged with prayers. I’m going to do my level best here. All I ask is that I can do my duty to the very end. Amen.”

He waited a bit longer before sitting up and punched in his personal code. He pressed his thumb on the reader and waited until the DNA sequencer cleared the connection.

“It’s time to mobilize.” Lee hung up, not waiting for a response.

The ground forces received their orders within minutes and started to move.