Approximately 120,000 km until CANVAS REACH, Same moment as the Marines expelled the Tinman, and ARC 5 launched its annihilation torpedo.

  Requesting sitrep…

  83% of forces reached the AO.

  Confirmed at least 5% failed to jump or lost during a jump drive overload.

  Estimated possible 6% to 12% out of range due to light lag when the fleet jumped.

  Confirmed HVT in the operations area.

  Missile swarm detected, allied and civilian ships endangered.

  Protocols 1 “protect civilian populace” overriding previous orders.

  “Flight core, engage, engage, engage, for humanity for the fleets!” An old weather voice commanded.

  Hundreds of flight defenders answered. “This will defend!”

  The strangely familiar, old man's voice was audible to the CIC. Sara’s heart caught in her throat in recognition.

  “It’s the fleet!” Sara Yelled. The disbelief and relief made her knees weak, and she clutched her console to stay standing as the bridge erupted in cheers! There is no way that’s Obelisk. It has to be some other old dude in HDF. She told herself, before refocusing.

  The Annihilation Torpedo was closing on the Tinman stranded in space, but the Remnant Lieutenant Berg or úlfhéenar, whatever, was still in the blast radius. Simultaneously, the massive Enigma missile attack was being contested by the smaller intercept missiles HDF fielded. Even with so many Protromas detaching from the trident frigates, she wasn't sure they would be able to intercept enough.

  Her head hurt, she felt more nauseous than before, and she struggled to stay up. When her knees buckled, she slumped to the deck, still holding to the display at the top of the console.

  “Michalson! Medic, get her!” Someone yelled. She couldn't tell who through the ringing in her ear. All she could think about was the memory of smoke and gunshots on the bridge. She closed her eyes but only saw other people’s eyes in her imagination. Scared, panicked, or dead eyes. Someone touched her shoulder, and she shrugged them off along with her memory.

  “I’m good, I just…” She began

  “Sara, you can't push your implant–” Selena yelled from her corner of the CIC.

  “It’s not my damn implant! It's… it's uh my…” She grasped at straws. She was telling the truth, but she didn't want to say she had been lost in the past. It felt nothing like her indecision, like when she was overwhelmed during the pirate attack. Fuck it, I’ll figure out what’s wrong with me later. “Electrolytes!” She lied, but as far as she knew, maybe that was true. She stood to her feet, manually reading the data on the screens, reacquainting herself with what little she had missed. “Captain, I’m good. I don't need a coffee break. Maybe just woozy from rushing here without eating.” Now that was a lie. She could still taste the nut butter at the top of her mouth. The sensation had never changed from Far Gone Earth peanut butter, even hundreds of years into the future, made from a different type of legume.

  Regardless of whether anyone believed her, Selena spoke up. “We were about to relieve the last watch, maybe we can distribute some of the food pouches and drinks bulbs, Captain?”

  Captain Abrams eyed Sara skeptically. Even focusing on her station, she could feel his heavy gaze evaluating her. “Make it happen, but double up on stations and make sure no one!” he raised his voice to be heard. “ No one drinks or eats at the same time. We all have experienced how long an engagement like this can play out, but I want focused eyes on each station at all times.”

  “I could use maybe two more hands here on sensors, sir,” Sara asked meekly. She hated asking for help, but if she was going to do anything, she had to stop juggling and focus on one problem at a time. Her tail swished nervously near the deck, the tip curled up slightly, starting to roll up on itself like some geckos. She hadn’t even realized she had disconnected, just like her tail mannerisms grew more in sync with her mood if she didn't focus on it.

  Captain Anderson stopped the man who had fetched the bag Nick had made for them. He reached in and pulled out a yellow liquid drink bulb. He eyed it contemplatively. “The strongest link is most dangerous if it breaks, Doctor Michalson. Do not over do yourself and put us at risk. You'd better be right about your electrolytes. If not, do not hide a weakness. Tell your team so we can all pull together, without failing.”

  The man with the bag handed Sara a similar yellow bulb while two bridge staffers took up stations across from her on auxiliary sensor stations.

  Approximately 80,000 km until CANVAS REACH moments before the torpedo explodes, Lt Berg is still within blast radius.

  Sara had learned that the black-haired man working sensors with her was named Carlose, and the older white-haired woman was Beth. She closed her eyes and trusted them to manage the sensors while thinking of what to do next. She half-heartedly took a sip from the juice bulb when her eyes shot wide with surprise. It was bubbly, sweet, and so tangy it made her lips pucker. I didn’t have anything like this in my room!

  She checked the label. Handwritten labels? Did he handwrite every bulb label? Geez Nick. The label read: Half raw, unprocessed tropical fruit number five. Half mineral bubble water. Plus ? tsp of salt. She took another sip, her eyes fluttering, enjoying the complex flavor and texture on her tongue. She remembered how Nick had looked when he had sipped foamy root beer after waking up from a nightmare in a shower. She focused on the taste of her drink the same way he had, letting it ground her to something other than the chaos around her, if only for a minute. It was easier to think now as she drained half the bulb. Silently, she promised herself to thank Nick the first moment she got when this was all over. It's the little things that matter most sometimes. She thought.

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  “Okay, first order of business. She plugged her tail into the console and went to work.

  Approximately 75,000 km until CANVAS REACH moments before the torpedo explodes, Lt Berg is still within blast radius.

  Commander Price eyed the slow track of the annihilation torpedo. It was under much less thrust than normal, but it was still going too fast to spare Lieutenant Berg. The stubborn mule of a man was singing a Ukrainian rendition of ‘Valhalla calling me’. Whether it was to keep his own spirits up in the dark humor of men like him, or it was for the benefit of those watching his imminent demise. No matter what, that bile in Captain Price's throat returned from when he was contemplating getting The VI’s and VIP’s off HFS Grimoire and leaving it to die. Only this time, it felt five times worse.

  He had said a little prayer to any God that would listen, not expecting anything to come of it. Not that any gods of the Norse Pantheon had any relevance since Earth burned hundreds of years ago, but some God out there might hear his plea, if only thousands of years later, when it finally reached the remnants of Sol.

  “Commander priority message for you from HFS Grimoire.” Ensign Bowman called from operations. Commander Price didn't have to say anything. An icon for him to open the message already appearing at his console. He opened it and read it, then he read it again. A cautious smile played on his lips.

  “Amen, let's see if this little angel comes through.”

  Approximately 60,000 km until CANVAS REACH moments before the torpedo explodes, Lt Berg is still within blast radius.

  A torpedo's mind was simple, circuits and receivers feeding input from its sensors. Happily computing its final plot to its final end.

  But, pretend as Sara does sometimes when she's writing code or communing with the network. One of the many things that would become synonymous with what most would later call the lightning witch. Every one of her spells, the codes she wrote or events she lined up to topple like dominoes, felt like a love letter to whatever machine or end she aspired for it to be.

  If the torpedo could talk, it would have read the short, simple, well-thought-out line of commands and responded. “Sure, I'll dance to this tune. It's certainly better than the Vikings shanty that dirty human keeps singing.”

  At first, the maneuvers seemed like the torpedo was intentionally going to miss the Tinman, but after its first burn, it flipped around and burned a second time. Moving parallel took it further away from the floating Viking, but keeping an equal distance all the while with the Timman. When it exploded and enveloped the metal monster, the Viking blew away, flipping end over end. The Viking vomited, screamed a lot, and then passed out, but lived.

  Approximately 20 minutes ago, when there were 478,000 km until CANVAS REACH.

  The demon soars through dark skies

  Fear and death trail its shadow beneath

  If you're a survivor of violence, you were either saved by someone else's violence, were able to flee violence, or met violence with your own violence. No matter what cruelty touches you, it leaves marks on your life that weigh on your psyche. For some, it’s hardly noticeable, but for others it weighs on them forever. Few choose to remember the moments of savagery as if they were twirling a bloodied feather in their hand. Neither rejecting its malignant feathery touch nor ignoring its moral tug on their soul.

  “Authentication confirmed. Alpha, Victor, Delta, nine, two, five. Full limiter release.”

  ***

  Unit 7 wasn't supposed to use his name on contracts, not even think about it. Besides, he was too scared to think. A metal masked thing was looming over him, dragging him by his feet. It's black gunmetal arm and leg braces contrasting the matte black body flexing underneath.

  When it slammed him against the wall and started binding his feet with thin garret wire, he whimpered. “What, what do you want from me?”

  A smooth, expressionless metal face reflected his stupid monster-looking mercenary helmet at him.

  In a raspy, robotic modulated voice, it said one cold word, “Scream.”

  It plunged a knife into his stomach, sharp, horrible pain. As it quartered his gut and cracked his helmet into the wall, the mercenary complied with a bone-chilling wail.

  ***

  The bloody murder scream made Unit 11 jump. He and seven others of his squad rushed towards the wailing of their stolen squadmate. Unit 11 hadn't led the charge into the smoke, but he was the first to find unit 7, clutching entrails in his hands like grotesque eels that kept slipping through his fingers.

  Through a broken visor, he cried like a dying animal, “Mum mummy!” The side of the helmet was cracked and broken by what must have been multiple strikes against the dent in the wall. His mouth was bleeding, and blood flecks splattered the edges of the broken visor and parts of his chest collar. Even for a grey-skinned human, he was far too pale from all the blood loss. The poor man didn't have long to live. Unit 11 hadn't even known he was a fellow human until he saw his face. That was the last thing he ever saw.

  The black blur plunged the knife into Unit 11's chest over and over. Unit 7 whimpered as it pulled 11’s side arm and shot another figure coming through the smoke point blank in the visor. It stepped on another wire, and another figure suspended by the neck in the smoke. Unit 7’s primal fear sent him into another fit of begging for his parents as the Razgriz shot or stabbed more figures. Ending its killing spree by pulling the last flailing suspended mercenary until a sickening crunch echoed.

  Unit 7 was a shivering mess, but no longer screaming. The demon produced a long metal staff from behind its waist. It stuck the end under the man's neck, pausing as if contemplating. Then the shock baton lit up end to end with lightning until unit 7 slumped. If not from a fried brain, he would soon die more peacefully from blood loss.

  ***

  “This damn ship is haunted,” Unit 5 screamed.

  Commander Bly grimaced. He would not adhere to the idea of the supernatural. They had been sent to retrieve so-called virtual intelligences. But what would the client need an actual virtual intelligence for? This thing was more than human, and he suspected the virtual intelligences were actually full AIs. No man can move like that thing. When it first appeared without warning, to the orchestra of a dozen thrusters popping and spitting, it had rocketed down the long hallway at speeds that would have made a normal man faint from exertion. Smoke billowed from its belt, spewing its obscuring mist. It took unit 7 and dragged it down the hall, the last yards.

  When everybody had heard the screaming and the wailing of 7, they cautiously made their way to save him. That had cost him eight more units. His remaining mercenaries would be combat ineffective if he had any obligation to take care of the wounded. Ignoring the possible survivors he had himself plus five mercenary units.

  “Keep moving towards the starboard entrance to the main hole. Will let that monster–” Commander Bly stopped hearing the telltale sound of hissing smoke approaching. Everyone took firing positions, but we're only greeted by two smoke grenades rolling around in the corner.

  “5 and 8 watch rear.” He ordered the two imbeciles. At least they did as they were told and swiveled to point their weapons the way they came. That thing had gotten the drop on them before with distractions. That's how they lost units 9 and 11.

  “I don't see anything, Sarge!” Unit 8 whimpered. Blye was getting exhausted of telling the stupid muppets that this wasn’t a fucking video game and he wasn't a sergeant. He was the contract Commander, not even the rank, just the one in control.

  Bly turned on his thermals on a whim. The smoke was thin enough that he could just make out a long heat signature obscured by the growing smoke rolling into the hallway. Bly was too slow to respond.

  Three chest shots echoed in quick succession, took out 3, then 12 fell just as quickly. Bly grabbed 5’s armored collar as he followed 15 into a side room, cursing as the damn demon shot 8 in the back. Now I have one less asset. How am I going to get out of here with only the three of us?

  The simple answer was he wouldn’t. He realized that as soon as he recognized that they had trapped themselves in a windowless, single-exit room, that might as well have been a cold, concrete box.

  The demon cackled. “And then there were three.”