The Eternity War: Dominion

Book 3: The Eternity War

by Jamie Sawyer

Genres: Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Alien Contact; Hard Science Fiction; Military Sci-Fi; Space Opera

Synopsis

Following Pariah and Exodus comes Dominion, the explosive concluding chapter of the Eternity War trilogy, in which the fate of the Alliance-and the galaxy-rests in the hands of Lieutenant Keira Jenkins and her team of Jackals. The Black Spiral terrorist organization and their mysterious leader, Warlord, have unleashed a deadly virus across the Maelstrom. There is nothing that can stop them...except, maybe, Lieutenant Jenkins and her Jackals. Back in Alliance territory with new weapons, new armor, and new bodies, the Jackals are given a secret assignment: to investigate the mysterious Aeon, a potential ally in the escalating conflict, and a force that might shift the gears of war in favor of the Alliance. But there are many agencies interested in the Aeon, and too many sides in this war. Jenkins is going to have to trust her squad, the alien Pariah, and her instincts as she faces the most dangerous decision of her career-one that that will make or break the war once and for all. For more from Jamie Sawyer, check out: The Eternity War The Eternity War: Pariah The Eternity War: Exodus The Eternity War: Dominion The Lazarus War The Lazarus War: Artefact The Lazarus War: Legion The Lazarus War: Origins

Release date: November 26, 2019

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 480

Sample

The sun relentlessly beat down on the city and its surrounding sectors. The marketplace—at the edge of the conurbation of human structures that made up Shangri Capital—seemed to catch its glare most of all.

There was no hiding from the sun. All day, every day. No night, ever. There the sun was: high on the horizon, so big that it almost filled the vista. It illuminated the world’s moons too, creating six burning discs in the sky. In the twenty days that Daneb Riggs had been on-world, he hadn’t seen a single cloud. It was an anomaly caused by the planet’s orbit, so Riggs had heard. One face was always to the local star, while the other was forever in darkness. Stable weather and a warm climate on one side. Constant night and erratic storms on the other.

The planet’s name was Shangri VI, which was a reference to some Old Earth religion—a supposed Utopia. That, Riggs figured, was typical of the parasitic mites that had colonised this world. When they’d first settled here, they had brought the baggage of their mythology with them. Riggs had been like them, once. His family—his old family—were Gaia Cultists. The tradition had been generations long by the time of Riggs’ birth. He hadn’t known any better, and so he’d gone along with it. That thought made him bristle, and he grabbed for the bottle of beer on the table in front of him. It was a local brew, weak and warm. He swilled it down with an unhealthy dose of vitriol. He was different now. He was a True Believer, and Warlord had shown him the way.

The planet was one of many Outer Colonies, a string of systems along the Former Quarantine Zone. Although many regarded Shangri VI as heaven, to Riggs the place was far closer to hell. He looked out across the street, across from the bar in which he sat, and pondered why he despised the place so much. Riggs’ feelings for Shangri VI were more complex than just about the world’s proximity to its local star. The sun illuminated everything, put the world into constant sharp relief. Nothing was hidden. The blazing light exposed all imperfections.

And Riggs had many, many imperfections. Like Shangri VI, Riggs had two faces. He had tried to forget one of them, to replace it with the other. But as with Shangri, in its tidally locked orbit, Riggs knew that was impossible.

Daneb Riggs was a traitor. A deserter. A renegade. One of the most wanted men in the thirteen Alliance territories. He had turned his back on the Army, on his training, on his people. On his own Christo-damned squad… The thought of his own betrayal kept him up at night, drove him to the brink of madness. Some nights, he managed to justify the actions that he had taken—the things he had done—to himself. He had done what Warlord had wanted him to do. He had only been carrying out orders. The Alliance deserved everything they got.

But other times… Other times he wasn’t so sure. There was still some shred of doubt in Riggs, and it niggled at him. A wound that wouldn’t heal, the edges always tender, the infection never quite gone.

Riggs’ hand, he realised, was shaking. He focused on the Spiral insignia tattooed on his forearm. It snaked around his data-port; the connection that would allow him to operate a simulant. The thought of making transition again—into a new body—pulled him back into the present.

Riggs’ post on the terrace overlooked the planet’s main spaceport. It was a decent vantage point, with a view across the landing pads. Further out, a refugee camp had grown up around the port. There were hundreds of tents and other temporary habitats. The noise and smell of the encampment had expanded with its size. Eager to flee from the encroaching Krell exodus, many families came to the Outer Colonies searching for asylum. There was very little assistance waiting for them, though. Resources were stretched. The military was already overworked, and aid agencies had long abandoned the worst choke points. Many refugees never left. There were stories of groups having camped in the shadow of the spaceport for months. Stranded, left behind. Forgotten. Such were easy recruits to the cause. Already, a network of Spiral agents had infiltrated the camp, and support was growing by the day. As Riggs watched, another civilian starship crossed the sun and landed on one of the pads. Riggs made a mental note of that. It was the thirteenth ship today. He had seen several hundred since his emplacement. Like many, this one was Russian. Probably another of the survival fleets from Kronstadt, from the Mu-98 system.

“Credit for the poor?” came a broken, parched voice. “Please, sir.”

The figure to which the voice belonged was just as broken. A beggar. Black rags, typical of the underclass of Shangri VI, swathed the woman’s body. Beneath, she wore a battered survival suit, and her head poked out of the tattered collar. She had a weathered mask of a face, streaked by complicated tattoos that were sun- and age-bleached. She sat with her back hunched, hands outstretched to all that passed by. Many such beggars crowded the bars that surrounded the spaceport.

“Credit, sir?” she asked again, calling out to Riggs. Her eyes were bright jade, her dirty silver hair plaited down her back.

Riggs sneered. “Get out of here,” he mouthed.

The woman broke eye contact. She turned to easier pickings, as a group of refugees stumbled by. They looked dazed and shocked—were doubtless new arrivals. Riggs had seen that response before. It was a common reaction to the sort of horror that was enveloping this sector of the galaxy.

A shadow passed in front of the table, and Riggs looked up.

“Aren’t you worried that someone will recognise you?” the newcomer asked.

The man was taller than Riggs by a good degree, with a muscular bulk that verged on threatening. Without invitation, he pulled up a chair and sat opposite Riggs. He wore the full uniform of an Alliance Navy officer, a captain’s rank badge on his shoulder and a service cap tucked under his arm. He ran a hand over his bald head, wiped sweat from his pate.

“Not particularly,” answered Riggs. “No one cares, here. It’s been months since anyone saw the local governor. They say that he’s fled. Anyone who’s anyone has already left for the Core Systems. Law enforcement is gone, the Army’s going.”

“True enough,” said the officer. He waved over at the serving droid—a humanoid robot with a sleek metal shell made to mimic female anatomy. “Kronstadt vodka, on the rocks.”

The droid nodded and trotted back into the bar.

“You’re late,” Riggs muttered.

“We don’t work on your timetable, Disciple Riggs.”

The man’s body didn’t quite fit the uniform, and it showed—under the microscope, the disguise likely wouldn’t pass. There was, Riggs noticed, a bloodstain on the man’s sleeve. That was a reminder that the uniform hadn’t been given willingly, but had been taken by force. The man saw where Riggs was looking, and grinned. The expression made the skin of his cheeks crease unpleasantly.

“What should I call you?” Riggs asked.

“You can call me Captain Mikhailov,” he said. He wore photo-reactive lenses over his eyes, and they reflected Riggs’ image back at him. “It’s not my name, but it will do.”

“I’ve been waiting here for twenty days,” said Riggs. “What’s wrong with you people?”

The waitress delivered Mikhailov’s drink. He took it, knocked it back in one gulp.

“Since Kronstadt, military fill the space lanes,” he said. “Organising a ship took longer than expected.”

“But you have one now, I take it?”

“Of course. Why would I be here if not?”

“I have no idea.”

“Have you arranged the payment?”

“Of course,” mimicked Riggs.

He slid a universal credit chip across the table. Mikhailov glanced at it, then placed it under his glass. The chip contained a significant sum of money, and it had been burning a hole in Riggs’ pocket since he had been tasked with the mission.

“Exactly as we agreed,” Riggs said.

“Then we seal our bargain,” said Mikhailov.

“It had better be a good ship, given what we’re paying you.”

“It is. Fast Q-drive, well armed.”

“Fine.”

“Why can’t you use the Warlord’s ship?”

“Warlord is…” Riggs paused, shook his head. “Otherwise engaged. Things are about to get interesting. Real interesting.”

Mikhailov grinned again. “Interesting, I like.”

There was a small tri-D viewer in the corner of the bar. The intense sunlight washed out the image it projected, but Riggs squinted to see the feed.

“… this is despite the unparalleled number of refugees throughout the Eastern Sector,” said the newscaster. “Alliance Command reports huge inroads at this point and suggests a potentially decisive response to the threat. Secretary Lopez has promised a press release, to explain his long-term plan for the region…”

The image showed ships advancing through a star system. Riggs recognised neither the ships, nor the sector. He’d heard rumours of the Navy repurposing fleets, but such talk was cheap. There was probably no truth in it. The news clip was as likely a stock image from the first Krell War, as evidence of a new deployment.

“This is your people, yes?” Mikhailov muttered.

“They’re not my people any more.”

“They say that Jenkins’ Jackals made it out of Kronstadt,” Mikhailov said. His accent was thick and Slavic, and every word that came out of his mouth had the edge of intimidation to it.

Riggs knew that the man was trying to aggravate him, and he wished that it wasn’t working. “There’s no proof of that.”

“They escaped at Darkwater too, as I hear it.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“But Warlord blames you, yes?”

“It isn’t like that,” Riggs said, although he knew that in truth it was exactly like that. One hand dropped to his data-ports, and he felt the urge to get into the tanks once again. He’d make this good. He’d solve this.

“Now Alliance say they can turn war. Is this right?”

“It’s propaganda,” Riggs declared. “Pure propaganda. They’re losing, and they know it.”

“Hmmm,” said Mikhailov. “There are a lot of ships in this sector. Many come here.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“This is different. They are definitely planning something.”

“They plan, we plan,” Riggs said, with a feigned air of nonchalance. “That’s the way it works. But are we going to sit around here all day, or get on with this? Time’s wasting.”

“Very well. Major wishes to see you.”

Riggs exhaled through his nose. “Good. That’s good.”

He stood from the table. Rearranged his atmo hood, so that it covered almost all his face. Despite Riggs’ bold talk of the Spiral’s control over Shangri VI, he would rather avoid capture if at all possible. Mikhailov smoothed down his uniform but otherwise didn’t move.

“You want to watch that neckline,” Riggs rebuked. “Your gang markings are showing.”

Mikhailov nodded and pulled at the collar of his uniform. The tip of a tattoo was visible there. Crude, not a powered marking like many proper soldiers had. Words in Cyrillic script. Riggs had seen those markings before and knew exactly what they meant. SONS OF BALASH: that was what the text translated as. Leon Novak—a member of Riggs’ former squad—had once been a Son of Balash. Membership of the organisation was prohibited throughout the Alliance, and their leader had become infamous in certain circles. Riggs was eager to meet her.

“So where is she?” Riggs asked, confused by the fact that Mikhailov still sat at the table.

“She’s here,” Mikhailov said.

The whir of an old exo-suit’s motor touched the air, and Riggs felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something animated from the corner of his vision.

“Disciple,” came a grating old voice.

The beggar from the street corner shuffled up to the table. Except that she wasn’t the beggar any more. Now she stood straighter, taller. Something altogether darker replaced the lost expression on her face. The transformation was remarkable. Frightening, even.

Mikhailov’s smile broadened. He appeared to be enjoying Riggs’ reaction.

“I introduce the Major Mish Vasnev to you, Disciple Riggs,” he said.

The old woman looked Riggs up and down. Her gaze was almost wilting in effect.

“You are younger than I expected,” she said. “This is surprising.”

Riggs swallowed. “Warlord wants to know that you can do this,” he started, finding his voice. “He wants to know that he isn’t throwing this money away.”

“Since when do Spiral care for money?” the woman said.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were already here?” Riggs countered. “I’ve been waiting for the last twenty days. I’ve seen you every day!”

Vasnev’s face barely moved. “We make checks. My Sons, they do not work with just anybody.”

“You… you could’ve been captured,” Riggs said.

“Hiding in plain sight,” said the old woman. “This is sometimes best way to be.”

Riggs wanted to be angry, wanted to argue, but there was something completely disarming about the woman’s aura. He was almost speechless in her presence. A tight knot formed in his stomach. This was what doubt felt like. But he knew that there was no going back now. The deal had been done, and whether Riggs wanted to work with these people or not, the Spiral’s plan needed them. This was one pact, with one organisation. Across the Alliance, other such agreements were being made, by other Spiral agents.

It’s all for a purpose, Riggs thought. All for the greater goal. He felt the swell of determination in his chest, and it finally swallowed his doubt. This was the only way. He was going to show Warlord what he was capable of. He was going to show them all.

“The starship is not far,” Vasnev said. She placed a battered old forage cap on her head, the Russian military badge on the front polished to a sheen. “We go now.”

“Come,” said Mikhailov.

Major Mish Vasnev, head of the Sons of Balash, turned into the street. Mikhailov and Riggs followed in her wake. The trio disappeared into the crowd.

Space was bright with plasma fire.

“Is it too much to ask that you just get us down there in one piece?” I argued as the dropship made another sudden jink. Safety-harnesses held the occupants of the troop cabin in place, but we were still liberally thrown around. There was a harsh clatter as armour struck armour.

“Christo!” said the dropship’s pilot. “You Sim Ops are all the same. This isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“Who cares?” growled Novak. “Are plenty more bodies where these came from.”

Lopez shrugged, lifting a perfectly arched eyebrow behind the face-plate of her tactical-helmet. “Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, right?”

We were somewhere in the Drift, on the outer edge of the Maelstrom, and approaching the planet Vektah Minor. An ancient Krell dynasty that Science Division had labelled the Red Claw Collective once occupied this sector. The Red Claw was one of many Collectives that had fallen to the Harbinger virus, and that was the very reason space was currently on fire.

I was in a new state-of-the-art simulant, armoured in a Class X Pathfinder combat-suit, and armed with an M125 plasma battle-rifle. Printed across my torso was my callsign CALIFORNIA, along with other miscellaneous battle-honours. Most importantly, a stylised dog-head was stencilled on my shoulder-guard.

“The orbital defences have woken up,” said the co-pilot. “We can expect the drop to get hotter from here on down.”

“Hot, I can take,” said Feng, chewing the words around his mouth. “Scalding? Not so much.”

I scanned the battle-net, both visually through the images projected onto my HUD, and mentally via my combat-suit’s neural-link. The net was constantly refreshed with data from our dropship and the other nineteen ships that were also involved in the mission. Among the squads on those transports were such stalwarts of the Sim Ops Programme as Tsung’s Finest, Walker’s Dead, the Gallow Dancers, and even Phoenix Squad.

Our current mothership was the UAS Providence. The strikeship was the base of operations for this mission, and where our real bodies currently lay in state: immersed in simulator-tanks, remotely operating the simulants via neural-link. The entire strike-force—all twenty dropships, and all forty squads—was composed of simulants. Another stolen glance at the surrounding battle space made it pretty clear that simulants were a necessity for an operation like this. We were being hit, and hard.

Lopez was reviewing the same data, and she sucked her teeth. “Got to be said: when the Alliance goes to war, it puts on a damn good show.”

“When Sim Ops goes to war,” Feng corrected. “It’s us doing the dying, Lopez.”

“I hear that,” Novak growled, rousing from his seat.

Our Cougar’s cabin was tightly packed with two squads of troopers. Each wore a tactical-helmet, like mine, with the visor semi-polarised so that the wearer inside was only just visible.

These were my dogs: Jenkins’ Jackals. My HUD showed the biological signs for each trooper, confirming that they were at optimum combat-performance. A carefully balanced cocktail of combat-drugs kept them that way.

“Is going to be fine, people,” Novak drawled in his laconic Slavic accent. “Is all under control.”

Private Leon Novak—callsign CONVICT—was strapped into the seat opposite me. His face was blunt and hard. In his real skin, Novak was covered in tattoos and scars. The tattoos were the reward for decades as an enforcer for the Old Earth bratva, while the scars were the prize for his time under my command.

Novak stroked the hilt of a sheathed knife, taped to his thigh. He carried a bewildering selection of weapons across his armour. His Pathfinder suit was covered in Cyrillic script and crude pictograms; imitations of the markings on his real skin, back on the strikeship. Novak’s dark eyes widened and twitched as he tracked the Cougar’s external cams. He was almost entranced by the flashes of light and explosions that populated the interior of his HUD

“Is beautiful, yes?” he said.

“Only you could describe something like this as ‘beautiful’, Novak,” replied Lopez.

PFC Gabriella Lopez—callsign SENATOR, after her father—sat beside Novak. She too was watching the conflict, but her reaction was very different. Lopez was the daughter of Secretary of Defence Rodrigo Lopez. Some said that Lopez Senior was the greatest man in politics, while others said that he was the most dangerous. Whatever the truth, he was a serious future contender for the position of Alliance Secretary General. My Lopez was smart, sharp and pretty: another dangerous combination. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back from her angular face; a pale moon behind the visor. Like Novak, she looked very different in her real body. She was the product of an opulent upbringing, and had enjoyed the benefit of the best skin-sculptors in human space.

There’d been a time when Lopez had struggled with military leadership, and I’d questioned whether she was taking it seriously. But now I knew who she really was. She caught my eye, through her face-plate, and gave a slight nod. That communicated everything I needed to hear from her. I’m ready for this, the look told me. I’m hungry for this. Lopez had a Widowmaker sidearm holstered on her thigh, and she kept one hand there, the other on the strap of her seat, prepared to disengage when the moment came.

The Cougar shuddered again. In no sort of formation, the dropships made hard thrust towards the objective, moving at maximum velocity. They were streaks of light against the blackness of space; engines firing on all cylinders. Each laid down a blistering wall of weapons-fire as the battlegroup advanced, filling near-space with missiles and defensive flak-gun fire.

“Hey, what warheads are you carrying?”

The question was directed at the Cougar’s crew, but it pulled me back into the cabin. It came from PFC Chu Feng—callsign CHINO, former Directorate clone-trooper, latterly turned Alliance simulant operator. Of all the Jackals, Feng’s simulants looked most similar to his real skin. He was muscular and broad, which made his boyish-looking face almost out of place. Feng had been custom-grown in an Asiatic Directorate military creche, and his features were a handsome South Asian mix.

“Banshee-type 3As,” said the pilot. “For the air-to-air, at least.”

“What about for ground targets?” asked Feng, leaning forward in his seat.

The co-pilot clucked his tongue. “This guy knows his stuff, right? We’ve got Delta 3s, cluster munition. That satisfy you?”

“Interested to see how they work out, is all,” said Feng.

There were two flyboys in the pit. I’d never flown with them before, but they were both veterans, and operating next-generation simulants.

“Ah, ma’am,” asked another voice. “Permission to speak freely?”

I swivelled my head and searched for the speaker. The name REED, PIERRE and the rank CORPORAL flashed up on my HUD, by way of identification. Reed was from the other squad being dropped in our Cougar: Reed’s Rippers. Unfortunately, the squad name appeared to be ironic, because the Rippers were about as green as they came. They were fresh meat for the grinder, wearing recon-suits that denoted their junior role on the operation.

Corporal Reed looked very young; his ruddy complexion visible through his face-plate. The simulant tech is weird like that. The cloning process was supposed to capture the operator in his or her prime, and to breed a sim that represented the best that a user could be, but so many operators coming up through the ranks were barely in their prime. Reed was such an example; his simulant’s nose was freckled, and he looked too young to be playing soldiers.

“Go on, kid,” I offered.

“Is it true? What they say about the Jackals, I mean?”

Now that was a question. People said a lot of things about the Jackals. Some good, others not so much.

The kid could’ve been referring to our achievements in the war to date. The Jackals had rescued the Pariah from North Star Station. We’d been on Kronstadt in the hours before it fell. We’d secured vital intelligence on a third alien species, the so-called Aeon.

On the other hand, the Jackals had gone rogue. We’d disobeyed standing orders by not returning to Unity Base after our mission into the Gyre. My Jackals had even worked against the Alliance on Darkwater Farm, under the auspices of former Lieutenant-Colonel Harris, the legend also known as Lazarus.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Reed eyed up Feng, sidelong, reminding me that there was still hostility towards the trooper. Through no fault of his own, Feng’s loyalty to the Alliance had faltered during the closing stages of the Kronstadt operation. He had been “activated” as an enemy agent by his creator, Surgeon-Major Tang. Science Division had removed the control module from Feng’s skull, and given him a clean bill of health, but that wasn’t exactly reassuring. They’d done just the same prior to his activation: no one had even realised that Feng was carrying around Directorate tech in his skull until it was too late.

It was Lopez who spoke in Feng’s defence. She narrowed her eyes.

“What exactly have you heard, trooper?” she asked, pointedly.

Reed looked nervous, as though he was worried he’d insulted us.

“That y’all have done this before,” he said. “That you’ve seen infected Krell, up close.”

I was relieved that we weren’t going to have a situation here.

Lopez nodded and answered for the squad. “It’s true. No big deal. They die just like anything else.”

“Is this your first transition, Corporal?” I asked.

Reed’s squad nodded in unity.

“First combat transition, ma’am,” Reed said. “We’re damn glad to be going in with the Jackals.”

Novak made another grunting sound, which he probably intended to be a laugh. Lopez provided some encouragement.

“Everyone has to start somewhere,” she said. “We’ve all been through it.”

There was a chime over the joint battle-net.

“Stow it, troopers,” I said. “Incoming comm.” I thought-activated my suit’s communications-system and accepted the transmission. “This is California. We read you, Command.”

“This is Providence SOC,” came the response. “You’re looking good, Jackals. Your feeds are clear.”

I recognised the voice. Zero—Sergeant Zoe Campbell—was the squad’s intelligence handler. She was currently aboard the UAS Providence, in orbit around Vektah Minor, manning the Simulant Operations Centre. From there, she watched the op via our combat-suit video-feeds, and monitored intelligence provided by other Alliance assets in the theatre. Zero was the squad’s lynchpin and a great intel officer.

“Looks hot and heavy down there,” Zero said. I could sense the smile in her voice, and imagine her poised over the vid-terminals, hungrily drinking in every aspect of the mission.

“Just how the LT likes it,” Feng added.

“Just how you like it, if the rumours are to be believed,” Lopez countered. “Or that’s what Zero says after a few drinks, anyhow.”

Feng blushed and fell silent. He and Zero were having some sort of relationship—the details of which weren’t really known to me, and to be honest, I didn’t really want to know. Zero and I went way back, and we were friends more than anything else, but she was a big girl now and she had to make her own mistakes…

Zero was a little too professional to take Lopez’s bait, and she ignored the comment.

“Standby for mission update,” she said. “Captain Heinrich wants to give a further briefing.”

“Captain wants to give us briefing now?” Novak probed. “We have fiery ass!”

Lopez sighed. “You mean we have fire on our ass, right?”

“Is what I said,” Novak muttered.

“We’re ready to receive, Zero,” I said.

Putting it as neutrally as I could, Captain Heinrich was a piece of work. His face appeared as a transparent blue holo, right in front of mine, and he scowled critically. Even though he was addressing the entire strike-force, I couldn’t help but feel that the expression was directed at me. Heinrich and I had never got along, and the Jackals’ most recent foray into the Maelstrom hadn’t changed that. Although I’d travelled light-years to escape Heinrich’s command, history had a funny way of repeating itself, and Jenkins’ Jackals had fallen back under his leadership.

Heinrich had a youthful appearance; more boy than officer, and the moustache that graced his upper lip was blond and thin, somehow making him look younger still, although it was obvious that the opposite had been his intention. He wore formal Alliance Army uniform, which bristled with accolades and badges, and his bright blue eyes peered out from beneath an officer’s cap. Although he seemed to know an awful lot about it, Heinrich had never actually been in combat. He was the epitome of a desk jockey; a real REMF. Heinrich held a senior post in the Simulant Operations Programme, but he wasn’t actually operational: he wasn’t even capable of operating a sim.

He solemnly pursed his lips, and I had no doubt that he was assessing the data-feeds, tracking the progress of every dropship individually. “Micro-management” was Heinrich’s middle name.

“Listen up, troopers,” he said. “This is Captain Heinrich, aboard the Providence.” He paused dramatically. “You all have your orders, but you can expect the LZ to be hot. The Krell down there are infected, and this place is crawling with the Harbinger virus.”

“Tell us something we do not already know,” Novak muttered.

Heinrich neither heard nor responded to him. I’d muted Novak’s line so that he couldn’t communicate with Command.

“There can be no deviation from your orders. Follow them to the letter. In the case of extraction, we have further dropships ready for launch. You’ll be sent back into the fray until we can secure the objective. In T minus two minutes, the spearhead will breach Vektah’s orbital defences. That’s when things are really going to get dangerous.”

Across the cabin, Reed’s squad collectively grimaced. The Jackals remained cool. We’d all heard this sort of spiel from Heinrich before. He had a way with words, to say the least.

“The Science Division ships are to be protected at all costs,” Heinrich said.

On the external cams, those ships towards the centre of our flight group were highlighted. They were heavier, bulkier craft; up-armoured, much bigger than the Cougars. They reminded me of civilian cargo haulers, except these ships were equipped with null-shields and carried automatic cannons on their noses. Their grey camouflaged hulls were plastered with the Science Division badge.

“Exfiltration of the target requires that the Science Division transports get down to the surface. Once the spearhead makes planetfall, I want a foothold established. The primary objective is to secure a specimen.

“For those squads with special orders, you know what to do,” Heinrich said. That was obviously directed at the Jackals. We had the most special order of all. “Support assets are inbound.”

There was only one asset that mattered. Despite myself, I thought-activated my scanner and watched its progress. Even without checking the battle-net, I knew that the asset was still alive.

“No slip-ups,” He