Earlier, while the landing craft was still following Hawk Four over the treetops, the mood inside the cockpit had been a great deal less certain than it would be by the time the doors opened on Halley.
"Where do you think they're taking us?" Chris asked, and his voice sounded small against the walls.
"Probably to their ship or some kind of hideout," Oscar said, his jaw clenched. "This could be a trap. For all we know, we're walking right into it."
Mario glanced at the console strapped to his wrist. "Halley's signal is getting stronger. Whoever has her is close. We need to be ready for anything."
A chime came over the comm before anyone could answer, and Oscar tapped the screen. "It's Hawk Five. Put it through."
The voice that came alive in the cramped space of the landing craft was familiar in a way that made Oscar's shoulders tense before his mind had even caught up — warm and easy, honeyed with the casual cruelty of old friendships and older grudges. "This is Stefan Ronalds, commander of the Pascal Rebel Forces. Nice to see you, old friend."
Stefan was chaos wrapped in muscle and charm. As commander of the Pascal rebels he led not with strategy but with instinct, adrenaline, and a grin that made even seasoned generals nervous. His black hair hung long and wild to his neck, never tied back and never tamed. It suited him perfectly, because nothing about Stefan had ever been tethered or predictable. He was built like a brawler, broad-chested and thick-armed, the kind of man who could punch through a bulkhead and then offer you a drink right after. His booming voice filled war rooms and campfires alike with laughter, half-baked plans and the kind of stories that left you wondering whether he was brilliant or just lucky. Most likely he was both.
Oscar's gut tightened like a fist. That name carried weight, and it had teeth. "Why did I have a bad feeling about this?" he muttered.
"Os! How are you, buddy?" the voice went on, as sweet as syrup. "Been a long time, right?"
Youri leaned over from his seat by the viewport. "Who is this guy?" he whispered.
Oscar rolled his eyes. "We served together in the United Army once. He's a loose cannon with a big mouth. He's trouble."
"I heard that," Stefan said cheerfully. "So how's Halley? Loud as ever?"
Oscar's answer was clipped. "We're here because she's missing. We think she was taken. Do you have a base nearby?"
There was a pause on the line, the kind of pause a predator takes while it considers something. "Yes. It's close," Stefan said. "Actually, I think she might be at my base right now." Oscar could hear the grin in his voice even without seeing it. "Relax. She's tough. We'll get there in time."
Oscar did not like the sound of that at all. He looked out at the forest and thought about every argument Halley and Stefan had ever had in the old days. There had been a great many of them. "Let's just hope it's not what I'm thinking," he said.
Outside, the trees closed in around them like a living wall. The landing craft's hull whispered as it skimmed low over the canopy. All around them the life of Altea seemed to exhale, then hold its breath, as if the planet itself was waiting to see what these strangers would do.
They were still moving when the hangar doors of the base groaned open ahead of them, revealing a concrete apron cut out of the jungle. Another ship was waiting there — sleeker than theirs, heavily armed, its hull marked with a jagged insignia that crawled across Oscar's memory and left something cold behind it.
"Wait," Mario whispered, and there was an edge of fear in it. "They've got another ship with them?"
While Stefan was busy greeting old friends on the landing pad, Major Sergei had slipped away to a small room at the far end of the bunker where no one ever went. He locked the door behind him, checked it twice, and only then opened a channel that he was very careful never to use where anyone could see.
The answer came almost at once, from a sterile line routed through more relays than Sergei had ever been able to trace. "Major Sergei. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"
"Marquis Miller," Sergei said, straightening in front of the screen. "I have a report for you."
Marquis Norda Miller was not just a warrior; he was the Empire's living legend. In his early fifties, he stood tall, his build carved out of decades of battle, discipline and unyielding pride. His presence alone could silence a war room. He moved like a man who had never tasted defeat, because he never had. His blond hair was slicked back with military precision and gleamed under the command deck lights like polished steel. His weathered, regal face bore the marks of countless campaigns — not scars, but lines etched by wind and grit and victory. When he looked at the screen now, he looked the way a king looks at a servant bringing tribute, mildly curious about whether it would be worth his time.
"Really," he said. "And what's the news?"
"Our drones picked up activity on the far shores," Sergei said. "It's the Tartarusios. They're hiding right under our nose."
For a moment, Miller simply stared at him. Then he laughed, and the laugh was pure contempt. "So those bastards are right under you, and you only tell me now? Don't expect any thanks for it." He was already turning away from the screen, barking orders at someone out of view. A moment later the line went dead without another word.
Sergei stood there in the dark for a few seconds after the screen went black, and his face showed nothing at all. Then someone knocked at the door, and he composed himself before he opened it.
"Commander Stefan has landed," the soldier outside reported.
"I'm on my way," Sergei said, and he walked out of the secret meeting with Marquis Miller as calmly as if he had been checking the supply logs.
Aboard his flagship, the Marquis stood at the rail of the command deck, reading the message his aide had just handed him, and with every line his fingers tightened on the paper.
"My lord," the aide said carefully, "the council says to wait. They want the gods present for the apprehension."
Miller crushed the paper in his hand until it was nothing but a crumpled ball, and he let it drop to the deck at his feet. He had served the Empire for more than thirty years. He had won wars the council had only read about afterward, and he had never once needed one of their precious gods to do it for him.
"I bow to no council," he said. "Prepare the fleet. We sail for Altea." He looked out through the viewport toward the distant point of light where that blue-and-green world was waiting. "We will make those blue skies red."