Hagan stretched to his full height–an impressive three-and-a-half feet. That was a few inches taller than the average Drakmundi. Perhaps even more impressive was how close his width was to his height, being rather portly for his species. His thick, black beard and eyebrows stood out proudly from his orange face, as did his long nose and pointed ears. The long purple cap on his head, encrusted with jewels around the headband, and matching tunic and tabard set him apart as one of the Council, one of the most powerful people on Drakmund.

  Dismissing the screen that floated before him, he shuffled off his chair and waddled down the hall and to the pantry where he gathered himself some snacks. Typically, he would have just let the servants bring him something, but his nerves had been on fire recently with all the strange developments. In some strange way, doing this manual labor for himself seemed to be almost relaxing.

  The initial shock of seeing one of the old gods, with his skin like a glowing star and his form wreathed in black lightning, had worn off. The creature had promised him more wealth, more comfort, more everything if he’d only play along with his plan. And Hagan gladly agreed, the rest of the Council following along with him. It was strange to send a world serpent to ally itself with another world. But the Council made the rules, and so the order had been given. He suspected that the serpent he had sent had sensed his emotions. But it didn't matter. The military was just a complex set of toys for the council to play with.

  Hagan was disappointed to see that the little cakes he had been enjoying had all been eaten. He’d have to discuss the matter with the servants. They were getting slow and clearly needed to be reminded how easily they might find themselves serving in the military.

  Somewhere in the Councilor's Palace the other members of the Council were going about their days, but Hagan tended to avoid them when he could. He often felt that they took things a little too seriously.

  Settling back down into his chair, he opened the feed from the dragon's maw that had been installed on Koomia. There hadn't been much activity as of late as their forces were gathering. He’d have to wait until they reached their destination for any real entertainment. But that was all right. He could wait.

  ***

  Skritka sat across the desk from Ulytri, engaged in a conversation about maintaining government functionality during these peculiar times. For the most part, the planet seemed to run itself, with all the individual working pieces springing back to life as the citizens emerged from their undercities to reclaim Griffonia. While there was certainly plenty of infrastructure destroyed, resources stripped, and lives lost, the refugees had come back in droves, bringing with them whatever supplies the worlds they returned from had to offer.

  "I think you've done an extraordinary job considering the circumstances," Ulytri said.

  Skritka offered a wan smile. "That's kind of you to say, Ulytri. I'll consider your suggestions, but I can't make any promises. Taking on the executorship wasn't exactly my next planned step."

  There was a knock at the door, and an aide poked her head in. "Prime Minister?" she said in the tone of a question.

  "Yes?" Skritka answered.

  "Your family is here, sir."

  "Oh, that's fine. Show them in," Skritka replied.

  Ulytri stood up. "Well, I have some other matters to attend to."

  "You're welcome to stay," Skritka offered.

  "No, I have plenty of paperwork to sift through. I'd best get to it."

  Skritka nodded, walked her to the door, and heard a commotion coming from down the hall. He looked up to see his wife, his daughter Jrenka, her husband Trek, and their two boys– his grandsons. The boys were, unsurprisingly, the cause of the commotion, running circles around the adults and playing at battle.

  "Friz's making me play the Drakmundi beast soldier," said the younger one.

  "And I'm the big tough marine," said the older, punching his brother a little more than playfully in the gut.

  "Enough of that," said Skritka's son-in-law. "Sorry, Dad. It seems the children lack any sense of decorum."

  Skritka laughed. "Playing war is a natural part of childhood, and for many, the precursor to a fine military career. But perhaps you boys should find a different game to play when in the halls of Griffin Keep," said Skritka with a wink.

  "Oh, let them be," said Skritka’s wife, coming up to give him a hug.

  "So tell me," said Skritka to Jrenka, walking back into his office with the others following, "How's my ace reporter?"

  "All well and good, thanks to you and your people," said Jrenka. "There's been a bit of a consolidation in the journalistic world," she continued.

  "Oh?" asked Skritka.

  "Yes, I've been running a kind of independent operation as of late. People remember my poster campaign and have been expecting me to be covering the war, so I've obliged."

  Skritka's face crinkled with a concerned look. "You can't have too much to report on.”

  “There's a lot of hunger still for news about the Drakmundi and a slow drip of information that's been just right for me to be able to continue writing about it," said Jrenka.

  "Yes, of course, I've seen your coverage of the Armada. And are you still getting questions about objectivity?"

  Jrenka shrugged. "Sometimes, but I'm not a straight journalist at this point. There's good guys and there's bad guys in this war, and I'm covering this story for the good guys. I'm upfront about it and the audience seems to like it."

  Skritka nodded. "As long as you tell the audience what they need to hear and not what they want to hear."

  Jrenka laughed. "Of course, Daddy. Now, how about you? How are you holding up?"

  "Oh, he's been better," said his wife chidingly.

  Skritka spread his hands in false exasperation.

  "This has all been a bit much, darling," she continued lovingly.

  Skritka nodded. "It's true, but my term as Prime Minister is fast approaching its end."

  "Ah, an inside scoop," said Jrenka. "What are your plans going forward, Mr. Prime Minister?"

  "I'm afraid this is going to have to be strictly off the record," said Skritka, giving his daughter a piercing look.

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  "Alright, alright," she said with a light laugh. "All the same, then, what are your plans, Dad?"

  He looked over at his grandchildren who were scrambling through his things, trying to pry the lid off of a jar of candy, and gave a sigh. He walked over and plucked the lid off the jar, handing it to the eager children. "I've been approached about taking on the executorship."

  "You wouldn't dare," said his wife.

  He winced, gave a small shrug. "I haven't said no yet," he said honestly. "But there's a real power vacuum right now. I'd hate to see somebody take the job out of a sense of power hunger.”

  “And I'd hate to see someone take the job out of a sense of duty when it was more than what they needed to take on," said his wife.

  He smiled at her. "As I said," said Skritka, "I haven't said yes. Come on now. I think the boys have spoiled their dinner well enough with candy, but perhaps the rest of us can go grab something to eat."

  ***

  The Wingspan stopped a safe distance from Hest, allowing themselves to detect any Drakmundi ships while silencing all their communications to keep themselves hidden.

  "Looks like we’ve got plenty of planet between us and the Drakmundi orbital station that Fremig described," said Triflin.

  "All right," said Hunt. "I think the best thing to do is to land the Wingspan. I would feel more concealed on the surface than I do floating out here in the aether. And it never hurts to take on a little extra water. What do we know about life on the surface?”

  “Fremig says that the locals are not very technologically advanced and are generally docile,” answered Triflin. “Their farms provide the necessary grains and protein to fuel the Drakmundi military. He described the locals as small and hardy mammalian humanoids."

  "Where can we consider landing?" asked Hunt.

  "Well, there's a small band around the equator that's comfortably habitable. That’s where the civilizations and agricultural activities are located. It's the only part of the planet with liquid oceans. The temperatures are temperate, but not exactly balmy."

  "All right," said Hunt. "Let's land in a region that's currently experiencing the night, somewhere not too far from the equator. Discuss potential landing zones with Fremig. The normal procedure would be to send Talon Squad first, but again, I really don't like exposing ourselves out here."

  "Understood, sir," said Triflin. "I'll track down Fremig and we'll have a proposed landing site for you shortly."

  ***

  A few hours later Vanbrook was excitedly hopping into the ATUC with the rest of Talon Squad. They had found a spot on the surface that Fremig believed would be far from most civilization, as well as one that offered wide open plains by unfrozen lakes. After waiting for sunrise, it was finally time to do some exploring.

  Given the limited space on the ATUC, D’Jarric had offered to stay behind. Vanbrook hated to go without him, but was sure they’d be able to handle themselves without the mighty Solaran warrior.

  Vanbrook was somewhat disappointed that Hunt had landed the entire Wingspan before the Squad got first crack at exploration, but the shuttle was still in rough shape and Hunt’s concerns about being more exposed out in the aether rang true. It was often much easier to spot a fleet floating in orbit than it was to locate one landed on the surface of a world, where it could be tucked away from all but the most vigilant eyes.

  Reclan was less excited about the new world, grumbling to herself as she drove the ATUC down the ramp onto the wind-bitten surface of Hest. They were all in cold weather gear and, given the planet’s relatively high gravitational pull, Reclan, Vanbrook, and Darvik wore light exosuits to reinforce their core and limb muscles. While she didn’t mind the exosuits so much, Reclan despised the cold.

  “It’s not that bad,” said Vanbrook. “It’s even a little above freezing.”

  “Look at those lakes!” whined Reclan. “They’re ringed with ice! Those mountains to the south, which are closer to the equator than we are, mind you! Snow-capped! Anyway, where are we going? I’d like to get back to the climate-controlled interior of the Wingspan as quickly as possible.”

  “Let’s head for that brushy area to the south,” said Doc. “There’s not much to see on these plains biologically, but there might be some interesting flora over there. Might as well gather some information on the planet while we look for civilization.”

  “Works for me,” said Reclan moodily.

  Shortly thereafter, the Squad had arrived at the edge of the scrublands. The shrubs and trees became too thick to drive through, so Reclan parked the ATUC and they continued on foot. The shrubs and short, twisted trees that dominated the landscape were small and hardy, with thick trunks to help them counteract the planet’s high gravity. They were also tough, growing out of the slimmest cracks in boulders and rocky hills as the land became rougher heading towards the mountains.

  The hike was a quiet, peaceful affair until Vanbrook’s exosuit froze without warning. He was midstep when it happened and unable to adjust his balance, so he fell unceremoniously to the ground.

  “Uh, guys?” he asked plaintively. He looked around to see Darvik, Reclan, and Doc similarly paralyzed.

  Only Fremig remained in motion, and his sharp, dark eyes darted over the crags and shrubs looking for trouble. Trouble found him first as white and tan figures shot from unseen hideaways all around them, snarling and barking. They threw spears at Fremig, focusing their strength on the only one of their enemies that posed a threat to them, switching to hatchets when they got within range. The glassy, glittering, impossibly sharp stone blades cut through Fremig’s tough hide, but not deeply enough to stop his counter attack. He swept the first wave of barbarians away with his forearm, roaring his rage at them.

  One of them stepped up and knelt by Vanbrook, fiddling with a small, crystalline device that looked Drakmundi in origin, though it was strapped to a bone handle with strips of leather. The creature holding the device was short and rabbit-like, stout with long, wide, padded feet and ears that grew straight up out of the top of its head. There was a look of concentration on its large, round features as it tinkered with the device. It wore thick furs and its prominent sideburns ended at the bottom with short braids. The snow goggles on its head, which had slits instead of glass, completed the strange techno-barbarian appearance of the creature.

  Vanbrook took this all in as he was fiddling with the exosuit control panel on the palm of his right hand. Finally managing to punch in the proper code, the suit unlocked, allowing Vanbrook to roll out of it in time to see the small creature lift his device, aiming it at Fremig. Realizing it was an energy weapon of some kind, Vanbrook rushed to tackle the creature. He did so, but only with great effort, his body weighing nearly twice what he was accustomed to. His impact with the barbarian was similarly weighty, eliciting an “OOF” from Vanbrook as the two figures tumbled to the ground. The shot went wide, and the device skittered across the cold, rocky ground.

  There was a barking, squeaking command from the creature Vanbrook had tackled, and some of the little warriors came scrambling over, hatchets raised high.

  Fremig began yelling in a tongue Vanbrook couldn’t understand but recognized as the native tongue of Drakmund. He plucked two of the advancing warriors off their feet, saving Vanbrook from being cut into pieces, at least for another moment. Tossing them aside, Fremig scratched a strange symbol into the earth with one of his long claws. He began with a circle that did not quite connect, something close to a “C” with the opening facing down, and then drew a jagged line through the middle of it horizontally. The goggle-clad warrior, who had retrieved his device, began to bark excitedly, signaling to the others to stop.

  “What’s going on, Fremig?” asked Vanbrook, huffing where he stood, a number of hatchet-wielding warriors hemming him in.

  “I have signaled to them that we are not friends of the Drakmundi,” answered Fremig. “They plan to bring us back to their chieftain.”

  “That’s fine, but I’d like to tell Hunt we’re going,” said Vanbrook.

  “You misunderstand, Vanbrook,” said Fremig. “We are prisoners.”

  Vanbrook frowned. “Then we fight our way out.”

  “That would be unwise,” said Fremig. “These people could prove to be stalwart allies, we should not shed their blood lightly. Besides, I am not sure we could take them all. We are not accustomed to their gravity, and they have neutralized our technology.”

  Vanbrook nodded, his face grim. Darvik and Reclan had squirmed out of their exosuits and walked over to join them.

  “What about Doc?” asked Reclan.

  Fremig turned and spoke to the leader of the warriors. The conversation was slow and halting.

  “He says his warriors will carry the Robot,” relayed Fremig to the others. “They will not allow technology to function in the open. He also says we are to hand over any weapons and follow him.”

  Darvik, Vanbrook, and Reclan sullenly set their weapons on the ground in a pile, where they were scooped up unceremoniously by the warriors. A few others took up Doc’s motionless form, hefting the weight a little too easily for Vanbrook’s comfort. He shot one last doubtful look at the three empty exosuits and the ATUC in the distance and turned to follow the tiny, strange barbarians. In retrospect, Vanbrook thought they really could have used a mighty Solaran warrior, after all.