Beside him, one of the assault team levels his heavy beam rifle. A soft click and energy pours out of the focusing prism and burns into the blast cover.

  Metal glows red as it heats. Bubbles form and pop leaving black slag dripping from the bright alloy. The officer keeps up the attack until the mechanisms hidden behind the protective armor collapses under the unrelenting heat. The weapon whines even after being deactivated; built in cooling coils readying the device for future use.

  Gelly kicks the door. It shakes in its mooring from the impact. Molten slag splashes against his armor and runs off in quickly cooling beads. He kicks again and the door collapses inward.

  Laser beams singe the air before the door stops swinging. One strikes Gelly's visor, blinding him before the runic arrays can safely divert the force of the blast. He stumbles backward and another officer runs past him, yelling a war cry. The words are lost in the general chaos. Voices shout in anger and pain all around him.

  Back against the wall, beside the opening, Gelly blinks rapidly. Armored bodies push past him. His eyes water, tears running down his scarred face. As soon as he can make out more than fuzzy shapes he turns and lifts his rifle.

  He bursts into the room, one of the last to enter. Around him bodies sprawl across the deck, dark smoke rising from the fallen. Not all are corpses, some writhe in pain that their fellows can no longer feel. Taking quick aim, Gelly releases a blast of charged shrapnel. The blast tears a blue and white uniformed body to shreds. Blood splatters against the already sticky walls.

  It doesn't take long to subdue the last few survivors. Gelly moves through the aftermath of the battle, checking the downed fighters for signs of life. Most of Dunc's loyal crew, better armed and wearing the current pinnacle of armors, survive. Far fewer Navy loyalists continue breathing.

  He comes to one, a young male whose left arm is now just a burnt stump. With a sigh he pulls out a roll of adhesive patching. Gelly slaps a section of it over the remains of the youth's arm. The young officer groans, unconscious, but his breathing becomes more steady. The pain relievers in the patch begin working immediately; already the young officer's face relaxes from a pained grimace to a slight frown.

  As Gelly wipes the blood from his hands onto a dead crewmember's uniform, something impacts his back with a loud slap. He takes a half step forward to steady himself, ready to fight a surprise enemy but a familiar voice calms him.

  "Nineteen rescued. Twelve captured. No other survivors," brags Dunc Wollen. His hand remains on Gelly's back in an overly familiar way.

  "Sir," responds Gelly. He takes a step forward and turns to face the Ship-Father. "Ye should check this'n here."

  The older male leans over the unconscious captive. His eyes note the missing arm and recent bandage. His lips quirk into a frown, but he nods in approval.

  "No that," Gelly quickly adds. "Under his shirt, there."

  Dunc cocks his head but bends his knees and lowers himself to a squat. There he reaches out and lifts up the hem of the captive's uniform. Yellow alien flesh wanly reflects the artificial lights. Dunc's frown deepens in disgust. He stands and backs away hastily.

  "What?" Dunc shakes his head, graying crest swaying. "Call the clinic. Get somebody down here," he says instead, dismissing the question for later. One of his subordinates hurriedly obeys, running down the corridors.

  "Can ye smell it," demands Gelly. The scent reminds him of his childhood. "That's tribal stink."

  "Impossible," erupts the older officer. "They were using weapons, tactics. We heard them shouting orders to one another, and not in that tribal gibbering either."

  "Aye," agrees Gelly.

  He walks over to another body. This one isn't breathing. The missing portion of her chest is the work of his rifle. Under the bloodstained uniform he can see yellow skin.

  "Her too," he announces.

  Continuing to search the bodies provides another five, each with patches of yellow skin grafted onto their natural gray in different places. Tonn Rojer arrives with a nurse to begin dispensing healing or mercy as needed so Gelly leaves the mess to them.

  "Not all of them, then," comments Dunc once Gelly informs him of his findings. "Of our captives, only three have signs of these grafts."

  "Can ye tell me how long those there've been on yer crew?"

  "Lendi Vesk's been with me for years. The Cabin was her first posting and she's never left. Yan Tussa only joined us recently. I took him from the Red Glow since his cousin's been such a fine fighter pilot." The elder Dunc scratches at his chin in thought. "Oliva Nosstun we've had a bit longer. Half a year? She was always so quiet and stayed out of trouble, I'd almost forgotten about her."

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Speakin' o' Tussas," remarks Gelly, remembering a young pilot. "How's Vin doin'?"

  "We recovered him safely. The mutineers were holding him with the rest," Dunc says proudly. "I'll have to promote him for his loyalty."

  "Aye, the kid's a good one," Gelly replies. "I'm glad he was no one o' them."

  "Me too," agrees Dunc. "So, Operative, what does it mean?"

  Gelly turns to regard the higher ranked officer. "Well, Ship-Father, I'd have to say no good. I'll take a sample back, to compare with our records. If these grafts are from a chief, we need to find out what they're for."

  The pair fall into silence, watching Tonn work. The medic treats each injury with the care he feels it deserves before having crewmembers carry the patients off. Some are bound for later interrogation aboard the Resurgent, but those still deemed loyal end up in their own bunks.

  On Dunc's orders, Tonn takes tissue samples from the fresh cadavers, as well as numerous scans with his field equipment. Gelly observes silently as he helps separate the corpses by faction. It hurts to see so many young bodies, dead trying to support a government that doesn't care about them beyond how useful they can be.

  Eventually the work is done. Gelly wipes drying blood from his hands, then turns to Ship-Father Dunc.

  "Ye gonna be able to get this heap back to civilization, or will ye need an escort?"

  "Tell Jim that I'll be able to manage without him pulling me down the path," Dunc responds in a voice drained of energy and emotion.

  Gelly starts to ask another question, but Dunc raises one hand to forestall him.

  "But if he wants to lend me a few crewmembers, I wouldn't argue."

  "There's a few might be willin' to join ye," answers Gelly, nodding thoughtfully. "Ye've a few holes in yer command structure, that'll tempt a few."

  Dunc, too tired to reply, nods. With a sigh, the older officer begins walking to the command room. He makes a gesture, almost as an afterthought, inviting Gelly along.

  The wiry officer chuckles but follows. The corridors bear scorch marks, evidence of fighting in close quarters. Occasional overhead light panels flicker or are entirely dark. The decking needs mopped; smears of dry blood sucks at the two officers' boots.

  Inside the command room officers bustle about restoring order. They pause when their Ship-Father enters but hurriedly return to work after he acknowledges them with a curt nod. Dunc plops heavily into the command seat, leaving Gelly to stand awkwardly in the walkway. Seeing his distress, Dunc says, "Just take the Weapons Operative position. I'm sure you're familiar with it."

  "Thanks," grunts Gelly as he takes the offered seat.

  Dunc waves, then asks, "I'm tempted to hire on some Tserri. Mostly for crew positions, but you know how things go." He pulls a data tablet out of a slot on his seat.

  Gelly nods with a knowing smile. Promotions can come quickly for skilled or lucky crewmembers. "And?"

  The older officer's answering smile is bittersweet. He activates the device, then after a few moments says, "I'd like to request that Vren of yours." On seeing Gelly's quick frown he hurries on, "Not to keep. I, well, I think I trust his judgement better than my own for choosing good Tserri crew."

  "Ha!" Gelly exclaims, startling the busy officers around them. In more subdued tones, he continues, "They're just people, Dunc, same as any."

  "I know that," says Dunc defensively. "But they've got their own factions, and I'd rather someone who knows them well did the recruiting. Alright, Operative?"

  "Aye," answers Gelly, struggling to keep a smirk from his face. "Just remember to ignore the modifications they'll be makin' to yer uniforms."

  Dunc shrugs. "To be honest, I think that'll help the crew learn which is which."

  "Well, I'll be headin' back, do no want Jim thinkin' I've left him," jokes Gelly. His joke fails, Dunc already too busy scrolling through messages and alerts stored aboard the ship's computer.

  After a final, mostly respectful wave to the Ship-Father the wiry officer begins stalking through the damaged corridors on his way back to the shuttle bay. There he takes charge of the three captives. Each has their arms tied behind their backs. An injection of soporific chemicals, courtesy of Dunc's medical officer, assures their complacency during the short trip.

  Bella meets him outside the shuttle, back aboard the Resurgent. Grease smears on her face and hands tell Gelly that she hasn't been idle; their shuttles are probably in better condition than ever. The look of impatience she wears tells him that she's ready to end her shift and isn't happy that she'll have to check over the Hopper before she can quit for the night.

  "Do it tomorrow, lass," he says, only half teasing. "I'll need to wait here 'til these three are escorted somewhere secure."

  She nods, clearly displeased. "Yeah, fine." An evil smile crosses her face. "I'm gonna go let Nett know you're back."

  "Please do," Gelly answers sincerely. "And if ye see him, send Vren as well, yeah?"

  Bella stops, mid chuckle. "Vren?"

  "Aye. Dunc wants to offer him a temporary job aboard the Cabin."

  "Huh. I'll tell him, then," Bella replies over her shoulder, already walking away. "A job?"

  In her distraction she barely acknowledges Drev on his way into the hangar. Drev in return ignores the way she mutters to herself. The alien glides over to where Gelly is lounging against the Hopper. He stiffens when he draws near.

  "Ye can smell it too, then?"

  "Aye," answers Drev. "Those are your people, are they not?"

  "Aye," Gelly replies, then thinks better of it. "Well, yes and no. There's somethin' wrong with them. Infected or some like."

  Drev enters the shuttle for a closer look at the three prisoners. From inside he calls, "Do they still possess their reason?"

  Sighing, Gelly climbs through the entry. The smell of chief is strong inside the close space. "As far as we can tell, aye. Go let Jim know I need him, would you?"

  "Of course, Don," Drev says, bending over Lendi Vesk. None of the prisoners are awake, but Gelly can hear Lendi arguing with someone in her sleep. "Shall I notify anyone else?"

  "No. Once Nett gets here we can take care 'o the rest."

  "Very well, sir," Drev answers with unnecessary formality.

  He straightens his stance, pausing long enough for Lendi to mumble, "No, I love my peepaw," before he slides out of the shuttle on rustling tentacles.

  With a resigned sigh, Gelly retrieves a tablet from underneath a console. He decides to fill out the forms later, first he's got a letter to write. Nett's better at paperwork, anyway, he muses.