“Ah, you wouldn’t understand,” went one excuse.
“For her ears only!” went another.
Imbra’s own ears were still ringing for unrelated reasons, and after listening to his bunkmates worry the subject of Asarus’s next moves for well over an hour, he proposed a saying from up north about backseat driving—forgetting, until the words came out, that his audience was mostly from the subcontinent, where nobody drove in the first place, so the analogy fell flat. Next, he tried a Novuni-wide standard about lava and water, which did better—but even then, his fellow mechanics disagreed about where the Allegiance stood on that figurative fight-or-flight scale. Members of Her Loving Embrace clung to the words lava and run in the ancient saying. Those on the Path, though, remained partial to swim, whether the invaders had more in common with cool water or not. Grott asked if Imbra was scared, in trying to get the rest of the men to change the subject, but Imbra shook his head.
“Just tired,” he said, turning in his bunk. But his fatigue was no match for the nervous energy of his coworkers, each buoyed by hormonal rushes almost alien to him now.
“The point is, we need to land one good kick in their teeth,” said one of the men on the Path, while Imbra tried to sleep. “Something nuclear, right in the heart of it all.”
“You volunteering to get close enough for that?” one of the Loving Embracers replied. “You think their AIs would even let you, if you made the attempt?”
“Well, no, but that’s why we …”
And so minutes turned into hours. By the time his bunkmates finally started sawing in their bunks, Imbra had given up on sleep and lay awake churning over the questions even their most relentless chatter had failed to answer. He could almost visualize the gap in all their proposed strategies: A hole that no mere boast of overt aggression could ever hope to fill. The hole was about the size and shape of a cornered gulch rat down on Nov, once the ragged, prickly thing had dropped to its back—claws up, eyes red, and paws out in something like submission. Like, but not quite. That soft grey underbelly always a trap.
By morning shift, footage of the heliosphere disaster from satellites in orbit around Resu played on repeat across mess-hall monitors: a not-so-subtle reminder to get back to work, because the whole damned fleet was counting on them. The first thing Imbra noticed was the speed of the Allegiance ships, tearing into view in diamond formation precisely where they’d do the most damage to Novun Prime defenses, but then slowing quickly enough to do a couple other, brutal sweeps of the region. Within minutes, the only signs of the solar system’s outer shielding and ring guard were a few glinting pieces of debris, quickly lost to the dark. The first time the images cycled through, Miha prayed for the dead in one way, and Grott in another, while Imbra studied the grainy images with an attention like reverence. Taking notes. Hearing certain gears fall into place behind the ringing in his ears.
“Huge energy consumption,” said Grott. “Coming down from a fraction of the speed of light like that. Not to mention the jerk.”
“Possibly no organics on board,” Miha agreed. The formation pattern seemed rigid enough to suggest complete autopilot anyway.
“Even then,” said Imbra. “You gotta protect the processors.”
“Ion shielding,” said Grott. “Mini-magneto spheres keep most of the nastiness out.”
Imbra whistled. “Even more energy consumption for that set-up, though.”
His coworkers nodded, Miha rapping idly at the table as he did. At the far end of the mess, the youngsters showed up in officers’ dress—Paloma and Ren among them.
“All getting bubble ships now,” said Miha. “Poor bastards.”
“Not official yet,” said Grott. “The general can still change her mind.”
“Why would she? You got a better idea, with the Allegiance already at our doorstep? Should be thanking Mother you’re not among them. Someone’s gotta prep the fleet.”
Imbra looked without looking at Paloma’s bench and thought he saw Paloma look without looking back at him, too. Ren, though—Ren stared straight at Imbra, hard as ice, then squeezed Paloma’s wrist. Grott, catching the chill of it, winked at Imbra.
“Not to worry, kitten. They can’t come for you now. Not with all this going on.”
Imbra shook his head. “Not what I’m worried about.” The last of the gears turned freely now, though his heart didn’t even have the decency to beat wildly at the risk he knew he was entertaining—for himself and one other. He pushed calmly from the table instead. “I’ll be in coolant, if you need me. We still keep copper wiring in third-wing storage?”
Miha nodded and waved him off. Imbra hesitated, then took the long way out of the mess—across the room, past the youngsters, elbowing Paloma hard as he floated through. Paloma needed little provocation—arms and legs lashing out, one hand finding Imbra’s jumpsuit and the other, as a fist, Imbra’s jaw. The other youngsters fell back, making room for ensuing blows, while the older crew proved slow to step in. When two other mechanics eventually did, though, Miha could have sworn that Imbra had Paloma’s ear and was whispering something serious enough to give Paloma pause, fist upraised for another blow.
“The hell in Mother’s name is he up to,” said Miha to Grott.
Grott shrugged. “Kittens, man,” he said. “Can’t feel much, so you’d be surprised the lengths they go to, to feel anything at all.”
Imbra might have agreed, if he’d overheard Grott’s comment. As far as lack of feeling went, even the shipyard shifts weighed hard on a
