The colossal Murkata guards are waiting for them in the foyer, along with Booker, Sander, and Mirem, who spring up before the wooden double doors have even fully opened.

“What’s the word?” Sander asks, eyes furrowed in concern as he takes in Ash’s pale face. He glances at Tran’s Fleet uniform in confusion.

“God, I don’t even know where to begin…” Ash says. Lanis ignores Sander’s question, as well as Tran for the moment, and moves instead to tightly embrace Mirem.

“Mirem, the orbital docks…” Lanis whispers.

Mirem takes a shuddering breath in Lanis’ arms, returning the tight embrace, and then pulls away. Her face is a mask of pain, and her eyes are damp, but Lanis can almost see her pushing the grief down, burying it somewhere deep.

“I figured as much. I’ll let myself feel it when this is over,” Mirem says, her voice gravelly. Her eyes glaze over for a moment, turning over a painful memory that only she can see.

“So, what happened in there? And who is this?” Mirem says, casting a look at Tran and pulling herself back from the precipice of breaking down.

Lanis hesitates at Mirem’s abrupt shift, but then nods. She too knows what it’s like to suppress grief—and to find comfort in action. She also knows that the dam will break eventually, and she gives Mirem’s shoulder a squeeze to let her know that she’ll be there when it does.

Lanis turns her attention to Tran, who has been quietly standing aside from their little group as Ash attempts to explain, in halting lurches, the situation to Sander and Booker.

“This is Lieutenant Tran. My fucking therapist,” Lanis says, turning to Tran, her arms held stiffly at her side. “What the hell are you doing here Tran? Shouldn’t you be dead with the rest of Fleet?”

Tran’s face remains impassive as he calmly accepts Lanis’ anger.

“Fleet has a substantial planetary presence, as you well know,” Tran says, his voice quiet. “As to what I’m doing here, I was brought along with the Fleet delegation, at Admin’s counsel. They thought I might have some insight as to what’s happening, having debriefed with you on numerous occasions. I tried to tell them that that wasn’t my job. I’m a Fleet psychologist, not a psych-strategist.”

For the first time, Lanis detects emotion in Tran, the barest quiver of his left eyelid.

“It’s not just you I helped debrief, you know. The Demeter, and Captain Harris, and the rest of the crew. But you’re the only one who had a psychosomatic response. You’re the only one it touched, as you have put it. And so, in a way, you’re the only one who matters.” He sighs, and lifts his chin , and Lanis catches a glimpse of grief behind those inscrutable eyes, as deep as anything that Mirem, or she, or any of the others have just experienced.

“I know that you hate Fleet. For your interpretation of its carelessness. For the way it built you, and then broke you. For the way your medical discharge was handled, and Fleet’s unwillingness to let you go, despite the illegality of keeping you within the Service against your will. And now this. I am part of that system, and so I will not absolve myself of your anger, but I cannot help but point out that I did press home your concerns. My superiors chose to do what they did with that information.” He spreads his hands, and shakes his head.

“Hate me, and what I represent, if it makes you feel better. But it won’t help any of us now,” he says.

Lanis clenches her bruised hands. She imagines herself punching Tran, the full force of her joint augments coiling into one heaving blow to crush the man’s face and all he represents: the unfathomable magnitude of Fleet’s galactic hubris and their wanton disregard of what one cadet knew. Her body feels electric with a swell of recent emotions, aching for a release.

She slowly unclenches her fists as she stares back into Tran’s somber, red-rimmed eyes.

She feels herself sag as the weight of something goes out of her. Not her anger at Fleet’s failure, or her disappointment, but something deeper, and harder to place. Hatred, perhaps, but the kind born of love; a hatred that has been festering in her ever since she awoke from her resuscitation, one that required a sense of Fleet omnipotence. Fleet had been her life before the incident, her obsession.

No; she had not just loved the service. She had worshiped it, and given it her soul.

But Fleet is not a god. And Tran is just a man. A sleep-deprived, middle-aged man, with two days of stubble greying across his chin.

“Come on,” Lanis says quietly, tearing her eyes from the man and walking slowly to the elevator. “Let’s find something to eat.”

The pale Murkata officer who first met them off the transport is still waiting beside the elevator, patiently eavesdropping on their conversation and probably relaying it all to his superiors. Without preface, he hands each of them a decidedly old-fashioned key card on a lanyard as they shuffle into the elevator.

“I’ll show you to your dormitory rooms, and the cafeteria,” he says as the elevator accelerates upward. “Your access will be somewhat restricted for the time being, until the situation clarifies. I’m to be your liaison for any questions you may have.”

“So we’re just supposed to sit around? Do nothing while the war wages?” Ash asks as the elevator opens to an unfamiliar floor and the officer leads them down a winding hallway.

“That question is beyond my authority to answer,” the man says impassively. “But you should have an update in approximately…” The man checks some internal sense. “One hour and forty minutes.”

A white door glides open, and the group is led into a large cafeteria room, long benches and chairs set around groups of tables. Meal dispensers line the walls, along with rows of drinks bottles and bowls of fruit, like some modestly priced buffet. Lanis recognizes some of the Versk team sitting in clusters, and they turn, some bandaged, all in fresh Murkata uniforms, their faces breaking into relief to see familiar faces. There are several men and women in Fleet uniforms as well, quietly eating in clusters at the edge of the room. Tran exchanges a nod with one of them, and Lanis wonders at how big of a contingent Fleet has sent, and if they have some purpose besides intelligence sharing.

“I suggest you try to get some rest. The dormitory rooms are through there,” the officer says, nodding toward a door at the far end of the room. “I’ll be back soon.” With that the officer turns on his heel and leaves.

The others move to the groups of Versk technicians, clapping them on their shoulders and giving them what updates they can, while Lanis and Tran fill their bowls with different flavors and consistencies of nutrient-rich paste. At least the fruit is real, Lanis thinks, hefting an apple, as she grabs a handful of protein packets for good measure.

They rejoin the Versk team, and Lanis has the odd sensation of being disjointed from reality as she listens in to Ash fill the rest of the team in on all that’s occurred: the orbital disaster, Murkata’s response, and Lanis’ own background, any thought of confidentiality having long since disappeared. It all sounds so absurd, when spoken aloud to these familiar faces.

When they’re done, sitting in weary, stunned silence, Booker shakes his head and leans back, his large body slightly bending the protesting chair.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, running a hand across his bandaged head. “And I thought babysitting at the Cauldron was the worst thing that could happen this month.”

A few chuckles follow the remark, the kind that don’t come from humor, but from exhaustion and the absurdity of surviving.

Lanis shakes her head along with Booker, and eats a protein packet. An hour and thirty minutes remain until the Murkata officer returns.

Just enough time for a nap.