Terran Commonwealth, Epsilon Prime, Garipan City — Smai Hotel

  That day, a lot happened in Garipan, but to Jack Harlan, it all felt muffled behind thick, soundproof glass. He locked himself in his Smai Hotel room and let the holo-TV flicker on low volume.

  On the screen, President Hamilton presided over a grand ceremony welcoming the former Imperial admiral who had just “come over”— Cyril von Clausewitz. The camera focused on Cyril in a brand-new Commonwealth admiral’s uniform, his expression composed, a faint, hard-to-place smile at the corner of his mouth. A rolling chyron listed his new titles: Commonwealth Admiral, Chief Advisor to the Supreme Military Council, and Honorary Joint Professor at the Three Military Academies.

  “Chief Time-Waster Advisor,” Jack muttered silently at the screen. “Teaching our officers how to lose faster?”

  It was largely ceremonial, but Jack understood the gesture: a public slap to the Imperial court. Commentators were frothing as they analyzed it, international opinion was aflutter, and the Imperium was in chaos.

  He flipped channels. On business networks indices tied to the military industry and reconstruction were skyrocketing after the victory and the recapture of Epsilon II. Headlines scrolled across the bottom—dozens of reconstruction bills just signed by the president: tax breaks, bank support, infrastructure investments, government procurement—astronomical sums pouring into a planet freshly freed from war.

  “How fucked up,” Jack thought. “Prosperity bought with lives.”

  He flicked again. Military channels were showing fleet redeployments: over a hundred army divisions would assemble at Epsilon II for an offensive into the Vega cluster; the First and Second Combined Fleets were being reconstituted and expanded; a newly formed Third Combined Fleet would be posted to the Orion belt; thirteen hundred-plus massive drydocks were slated to rise on resource worlds…

  Jack shut the TV off. The room fell back to the faint hum of the air conditioner. He still couldn’t believe that the man he’d dragged, kicked, and beaten back to the Commonwealth—the admiral who’d been so insignificant on the global roster—turned out to be like a stone dropped into a pond, setting off ripples everywhere. Fleet retreats, a comprehensive Commonwealth victory, turmoil in the Imperium, a surge of public morale… it all seemed to hinge on that man’s “defection.”

  Jack knew the truth: Cyril had not simply defected. He’d been invited—coaxed—by Commonwealth politicians and schemers (maybe Carrick among them) into a chessier, nastier plan. Jack himself had only been the pawn tasked with shepherding “the general” across the board.

  He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten back to the dorms—maybe he hadn’t at all. For two days, he’d primarily been staring at the hotel room wall or at the celebrating crowds outside. He woke the next morning to an urgent knock, his face still streaked with dried tears.

  Groggy, he stumbled to the door in nothing but habit. Standing there was a protocol secretary from the front headquarters: a young woman whose face was unreadable.

  “Lieutenant Harlan,” her voice was like cold metal. “General Carrick orders you to report to his office immediately.” Without waiting for his reaction, she turned and walked away, leaving a rigid back.

  Jack blinked, looked down at himself—naked—and swore.

  “Christ!” He slammed the door, “No wonder she looked so sour!”

  He fumbled into clothes, clipped the black little void of a medal—The Star of Obsidian—onto his chest as usual, and hurried to Carrick’s office.

  Yuna opened the door without expression. Jack squeezed in, muttering thanks, sideways and embarrassed.

  The large office was complete. Aside from Carrick and a few familiar generals, President Valeriuston sat there surrounded by a cluster of shiny-starred major and lieutenant generals.

  Jack sucked in a breath and snapped to attention. “General! Lieutenant Jack Harlan reporting as ordered!”

  The easy conversation in the room died instantly. An admiral with his back to the door slowly turned—Cyril. He narrowed his eyes and studied Jack with a touch of amusement. “So it is you.”

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  Carrick smiled and motioned. “At ease, Lieutenant… yes, this is the same Jack, the staffer from Research Division Six who twice saw through your plans, General Cyril.”

  Cyril stared at Jack without speaking. He’d assumed anyone who’d seen through his stratagems would be a fellow political heavyweight or a cunning commander—not this pudgy mechanic of a special-forces grunt. Yet Carrick was saying it was precisely the man before him: the one who had haunted the Tartarus Legion, rescued people from their claws, and, as a staffer, read through layered deceptions to save the battle plan. All in one. He’d almost single-handedly turned the Epsilon campaign around. Cyril’s mind flipped: this man, like him, was a gambler who didn’t play by the rules.

  “Interesting. Very interesting,” Cyril said at last, and for the first time a genuine smile creased his lips.

  The president and the other generals were equally stunned. They’d heard the name—a lieutenant who’d led a squad behind enemy lines and brought back two hundred prisoners alive. The story had been hammered by Commonwealth propaganda and had gained tremendous political traction. They also knew Jack’s warning had nearly averted disaster in Project Thunderbolt. They hadn’t expected him to read Cyril’s layer of plans a second time—enough to salvage the situation and secure today’s sweeping victory.

  History is full of coincidences. Carrick had casually shoved an unremarkable mechanic—an accidental hero—onto the front lines. That decision had unexpectedly saved the Commonwealth.

  Valeriuston looked at Jack, then at Cyril, feeling the urge to laugh out loud.

  Pure chance. How delicious. Luck was on the Commonwealth’s side.

  Carrick turned to Jack. “Lieutenant, General Cyril greatly admires your military acumen. The president and the generals would like to meet our Commonwealth hero. Also…” He paused. “Given your extraordinary contributions, before we decide how best to honor you, we’d like to hear from you—what would you request?”

  Jack felt faintly unreal. Nya’s words drifted into his head—“Sometimes I feel so useless, like there’s nothing I can do.” He’d thought that by not running, he could protect what mattered. Now? Meadow’s whereabouts were unknown. Medals and promotion? Were those what he needed? A rank above major in wartime meant you were never leaving. He needed freedom. He needed to find her.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want medals or promotion. If you must give me something, I only want to know about one person.”

  The room went still. Was there actually anyone who didn’t thirst for rank and power—even a man of extraordinary battlefield talent? He’d just achieved the impossible twice. Why would he refuse honors? What was he thinking?

  Carrick’s expression tightened. The president exchanged a look, then hesitated. The Commonwealth needed heroes—crafted, polished heroes. This man was perfect for that role; his story would sell. They could fix his rough edges. But he didn’t want to be used. He hated being celebrated. Carrick had told them about his panicked pleading to be let go, his thirteen recorded escapes. That didn’t make for a comfortable public symbol. And yet, precisely because of his oddness, he’d been shipped to the front and become the miracle worker. The propaganda and publicity apparatus had invested heavily; they couldn’t let him slip away.

  Valeriuston asked, “Who would you like to hear about?”

  “Meadow Hayashi,” Jack said, throat dry. “Attached to the 16th Special Recon Battalion—the unit medic. Second lieutenant. We lost contact. She was a former prisoner. She matters to me.”

  The president looked to Carrick. Carrick furrowed his brow and answered quickly: “I will have people look into it.”

  At that moment, a general who had been one of Jack’s earlier supporters stood up. “Mr. President, Lieutenant Harlan’s deeds merit something greater than a single Star of Obsidian. I propose we award him the Pathfinder Medal—recognizing the extraordinary resourcefulness he showed in desperate circumstances. Along with the medal, grant him the right to attend any level of operational meetings and access to classified files at any clearance level.” It sounded like a joke, but it appealed to the president: authority plus honor, without the complications of formal rank promotion.

  Valeriuston laughed heartily. “It’s settled.”

  As Jack prepared to salute and leave, the typically taciturn Cyril spoke up. “Wait.” He looked at Jack. “I want you as my protégé. I will teach you everything I know about military science. You have the capacity to become the Commonwealth’s finest strategist. Perhaps… even greater than me.”

  The generals erupted—Cyril as a mentor was exactly the kind of legitimacy they wanted to attach to the academy and to the cultivation of future commanders.

  Jack looked at Cyril and felt an increasing aversion. The earlier sense of kinship was gone. He snorted. “I’m still young? Your lessons don’t interest me. There’s plenty I want to learn that you can’t teach. Also—just so you know, the person who really saw through you was Leo, a data-intel intern.”

  He opened the door and walked out, leaving a stunned Cyril and a room full of frustrated generals behind.

  Back in the dorm, Jack splashed water on his face and stared at the stranger in the mirror. Cold amusement looked back at him. He’d walked out of the generals’ circle having gained something he never wanted.

  At that moment, he felt lost. He’d joined the military, fought, earned two medals—did that mean he had courage? When Nya said she felt powerless, he’d been just as bewildered. Why did the people he cared about always seem to slip away at the most crucial times? Parents, when he was a child, now Meadow. What could he do to protect what he loved?

  He looked at the cold Star of Obsidian pinned to his chest. What were these two medals worth? Could they bring Meadow back? Bring back dead comrades? They proved nothing about bravery—only that he was better than others at finding a roundabout path on the road to hell.

  He slammed his head into the basin and buried it in cold water.