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“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure, Hornet?”
“When have I ever given you a reason to distrust me?”
The look Hollow gives through the comm is withering, at best. Hornet just shrugs through her half-sibling’s expression and shoves her hands into her pockets. It’s not like her last mission went that poorly. If anything, it went spectacularly. The colonists were defended, her crew came out alive, and Hornet received another commendation from Captain Vespa about her stellar work ethic and leadership skills. All in all, a very good end for a standard colony mission.
Well, you know. Except for the fact that she was shot point-blank in the stomach.
“Plenty,” is Hollow’s response. From beside them, Hornet’s other half-sibling peeks into the comm and appears on the hologram. Ghost waves, silent.
The two of them are part of a planetside task force that Hornet is, shockingly, not allowed to be privy to. In spite of her commander position, that doesn’t often get her much leeway with the Army. She’s Navy, and so while she swims in the stars, her siblings are grounded along hillsides and mountains. Plus, the two of them are in the pockets of the CIA, that kind of stuff. They do very secretive, and sometimes very dirty, dangerous work.
Hence, the callsigns. Because no one actually names their kids Hollow and Ghost. Of course, Hornet is the exception since Commander Herrah was feeling oh-so creative when her daughter was born. Lucky her.
“Don’t act like you’re any better,” Hornet scoffs.
“I don’t take unnecessary risks on the field.”
“And I do? I’m a commander, Hollow, and I refuse to be treated as if I’m not. We’re not children anymore.”
Hollow’s lips turn downward. They open their mouth, stop, and then clearly decide that whatever they’re about to say is worth saying.
“But you’ll always be my little sister.”
Low blow, Hollow. Low, low blow.
Hornet sighs, running a hand through her cropped hair. She resists the urge to turn around and stride right out the comm room to avoid the rest of this conversation. This is what she gets for staying in relatively close contact with her folks.
Perhaps the worst part of these semi-often calls is the fact that Hornet is a complete hypocrite. She, too, worries constantly about Hollow and Ghost whenever they’re called on. For every intel job and hostage extraction they do, Hornet’s pretty sure she loses a year of her life just by how much she stresses about it. Anytime they mention bullets grazing their skin, enemy combatants disarming them, it sends a roil of nausea through Hornet.
It all came a head a few years ago when Hollow lost their arm while on the field. According to the minimal reports Hornet’s been able to get her hands on, Ghost was present to administer first-aid and Hollow had returned back to the base with a tourniquet around their arm made out of string and cloth strips torn from Ghost’s pants.
Still, that doesn’t mean Hornet cares for the implication that she can’t do her job well. She’s a commander for a reason. The Alliance doesn’t dole that title out to just anybody, as Hollow seems to think.
“Just be safe, alright?” Hollow says, breaking Hornet from her thoughts. “The last thing either of us want to hear is that you’ve been shot in the stomach.”
Hornet smiles, small. “How about the back?”
“Hornet.”
“I’m joking, I’m joking,” placates the commander. She raises her hands up and down, though that never really did help in calming Hollow down anytime she’d make an off-colour comment. “I will. I’m no good to the Alliance if I’m dead.”
“You’re no good to us if you’re dead.”
Hornet is about to reply before the comm begins to whir, signalling another incoming call. At the same time, the pilot’s voice rings out, alerting Hornet that the Alliance is calling. There’s no name attached to it, aside from that it’s from high-up. Hornet flashes Hollow an apologetic smile before saying her goodbyes to both her siblings. Neither of them are very happy to be hung up on.
The hologram fizzles out. Static hangs in the air as the next call is charged, sent through the hundreds of thousands of millions of miles through the galaxy to take shape in the SSV Alamo’s comm room. Hornet taps her foot and stares out over the comm deck. She wonders why Captain Vespa didn’t bother attaching her name to the call when she’s the only one who ever rings the commander—
Except, it isn’t Captain Vespa. It’s not even the Council, nor any other higher-up she’s made occasional contact with. It’s someone she’s only ever heard of in whispered voices, a rumour that exists in Citadel gossip and a recruit’s worst nightmare.
She looks like a sliver of pure silver, elegance synthesized into a single person. Golden epaulettes shine upon her shoulders as if they are truly made from that precious metal, and a dim glare hangs on them, a sign of a light fixture dangling overhead from where she is making the call.
They move slightly as she adjusts. Her hands go behind her back. Though the motion should rustle her clothes, not one bit of her navy uniform becomes wrinkled; each layer lays flat amidst the long, hidden expanse of her chest and stomach. Skin that Hornet has no doubt is covered in years of well-earned scars, stories of battles from long, long ago. History woven directly into a woman.
She affixes her gaze onto the commander. Hornet feels as if she's put her foot in a bear trap, a hunter's call echoing in the back of her head.
“Admiral Silk,” Hornet says, saluting.
“Commander Hornet.”
Admiral Silk, like many other admirals in the Alliance Navy, is a powerful person. Under her belt are a plethora of battles won and never lost, armadas and fleets that will follow her every word to their death. And on the battlefield herself, she’s lightning fast, precise with a speed that’s nearly inhuman. You only ever see Admiral Silk once, they say— because the next, you’ll be dead.
She’s a bit of a big deal, in short.
“How can I help you, Admiral?”
Admiral Silk draws her eyes along Hornet, inspecting the commander. Unfortunately, Hornet isn’t currently in her usual N7 getup; she’s instead in her regular off-duty clothes, which includes a very comfortable pair of sweatpants and an N7 hoodie. Hornet doesn’t let herself be embarrassed about it, though. If the Admiral wants to call while she’s on off-hours, then she should be prepared to see the commander in casual wear. It’s not like she sleeps in her armour.
The Admiral, on the other hand, might.
“I wished to speak directly with you about a mission,” says the Admiral. Her smooth voice fills the comm room, taking up space in each of its corners. No place to escape. “One of utmost importance.”
“I’m listening, ma’am.”
Icy blue eyes lock onto Hornet’s. Neither woman is willing the break the gaze, even as beads of sweat begin to form on Hornet’s hands. It’s all part of being in the military— and while Hornet doesn’t take part in Navy pissing contests with the other commanders, she sure as hell makes her place known with her professionalism. And so, she remains still, and doesn’t dare let her guard down when around one of the most dangerous officers of the Alliance.
“At 0800 hours, an Alliance research ship relayed an SOS. According to initial intel reports, the vessel was on a joint mission alongside the quarian Flotilla— something extremely rare, as you should be aware of— and one quarian was dispensed to the Alliance. The research ship landed on the planet of Millicent in the Exodus Cluster at 0400 hours to perform a surface analysis of the local plant life. Then, four hours later, the SOS was relayed.”
A missing ship, and a missing quarian. Not a great start, Hornet thinks, although there’s something slightly more curious about this mission brief.
“Why is the Alliance working with the Flotilla?” she asks.
Admiral Silk narrows her eyes.
“That is on a need-to-know basis.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, if I am to risk my crew’s safety for non-Alliance individuals, then I believe I am within that basis.”
Quarians are none of the Alliance’s business, to be frank. Hornet has worked alongside very few of them, secretive people that they are; although, the commander supposes that’s probably the only rational way to act after your people were banished from their home planet by a bunch of robots that your race created. Flying around space in a giant fleet without a homeworld to go back to has gotta make anyone a little paranoid about the outside.
But, still. The Alliance doesn’t just work with the quarians. If anything, it’s more confusing as to why the quarians are working with the Alliance— they don’t have much in common, aside from each race producing many tech-savvy people. The fact that an Alliance research vessel has a quarian on it is a definite diplomatic move, and it’s in the Admiral’s best interest to give Hornet all the details, lest the commander steps on any toes she isn’t aware of.
Admiral Silk must notice this. She’s a smart woman, thorough in everything she does. Her lips purse, her pronounced Cupid’s Bow pinching, before she grimaces. Her muscles tighten minutely and she straightens her back even more.
“So be it,” she says. “The Alliance is currently working toward expanding its reach within the Migrant Fleet in order to secure a research deal. While the particulars of this research deal will not be made known to you, I will tell you that the quarian aboard the Alliance vessel is of great import. Her mentor— and mother figure, I am told— is a highly-regarded Admiral.”
“So, she has some sway.”
“Yes. Aside from an Admiral themselves, this quarian is the Alliance’s best chance in currying favour with the Flotilla.”
That makes sense. Getting in with an Admiral’s kind-of daughter is better than sidling up to some random captain or commander. As far as Hornet knows, the Admirals are the ultimate leadership of the Migrant Fleet, forming what’s basically the equivalent of the Citadel’s Council within all the starships.
“And who is this quarian on the research ship?”
Admiral Silk taps something on her Omni-tool. Shortly after, Hornet’s forearm pings.
“I have forwarded you the written details of the mission. Your only goal is to get the quarian and then get out. Nothing more, but certainly nothing less.”
“And of the research vessel?”
“I leave that to your own judgment, Commander.”
Though she may be somewhat hotheaded at times, Hornet is no longer the young woman she was when she first entered the Navy. She always works with her crew at the forefront of her mind, with the Alliance following at a close second.
Which makes the Admiral’s statement all the more puzzling. Hornet is beyond being tested by her superiors; she’s earned her keep and proved her mettle. Battle after battle, scar after scar, all gained in the raging heat of combat and the adrenaline to keep her soldiers alive. She’s never lost a crew member and she sure as hell doesn’t plan on starting with a mission that’s been hand-delivered by her lieutenant’s mother.
“Am I being ordered to ignore an Alliance SOS and prioritize a quarian?” Hornet presses— because she really needs to know if this is what the Admiral is trying to get her to do. A real career-ruiner, this mission might be.
“Yes.”
Well, alright. Hornet counts her lucky stars for having some kind of plausible deniability for this mission, at least. These comms are recorded for posterity’s sake.
She salutes. Her hoodie rumples in the arms as her elbow folds, fingertips nearly grazing her forehead. Forcing her expression to fall into the one she uses for commander business, she nods once and readies for this call to finally be over. Then, she can relax her muscles.
“Copy that, Admiral Silk. Is there anything else?”
“Tell your lieutenant to come to the comm next. I need to speak with her.”
Lace won’t like that. An old memory bubbles up, encased in a glassy lacquer; a night spent tangled in arms and legs, the old fireplace flickering orange shadows on their bodies. A blanket sprawled beneath them, Lace’s lips on hers. Promises whispered, curses muttered. And a conversation about a mother— despised.
“Lieutenant Lace is currently occupied,” Hornet lies. “I can—”
“With what?”
Think quick.
“Recalibrations.”
“Where?”
Think quicker.
“In the gun battery.”
“Because?”
Oh, my God.
“Because the Alamo has been experiencing delays in between firing rounds and Lieutenant Lace has a talent for troubleshooting these types of things. You understand, of course, that it’s best to have my finest on such an important job.”
Thankfully, Admiral Silk affirms. Her nod is subtle, but it is there. A swell of relief floods Hornet as she barely holds back a long sigh from escaping. Unfortunately, the commander’s win is briefer than she expects it to be as Admiral Silk immediately opens her mouth again to grace the comm room with her chilly voice.
Hornet swears icicles begin to form on the ceiling as the Admiral says, “Tell Lieutenant Lace to report to the comm room. And bear in mind, Commander Hornet, that I do so hate to repeat myself.”
Lieutenant Lace isn’t listening, but Commander Hornet briefs her right-hand anyways.
“We’re on the lookout for a quarian by the name of Shakra nar Moreh on the planet Millicent, Exodus Cluster,” Hornet explains. “Her envirosuit is apparently tinted yellow, so she stands out amongst most of the quarians— but she’ll be the only one we’re hunting for, so that doesn’t matter too much. She’s a cartographer by trade and specializes in outfitting galaxy maps. Expect her to be armed when we find her; according to reports, she’s a shoot-first-think-later type of woman.”
The mess hall is quiet at this time of the ship’s time cycle. Most of the crew is off doing the menial tasks their COs assign them, and Hornet honestly can’t be bothered to keep an eye on all of them when they’re all perfectly capable of checking the battery and making sure the air filters are clean and functioning. The only person on the Alamo that she doesn’t trust to get any of that done is the one and only Lieutenant Lace, who always puts up a stink when Hornet asks her to go verify the hull’s integrity or whatever.
Normally, Lace is all ears when it comes to mission briefs. Sure, she complains through the entire thing and bemoans why she ever joined the Navy in the first place, but she asks the right questions, clarifies the details, and points out the strange idiosyncrasies of whoever wrote the brief in the first place. She’s usually perceptive, honed and precise. Not now, though.
She’s staring at a faucet. It’s dripping.
“Her mentor-slash-mother is Admiral Imogen nar Moreh, head of the Special Projects arm of the Migrant Fleet.”
“Mhm.”
“They’re extremely important people.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s imperative to the Alliance that we secure nar Moreh as soon as possible.”
“Yup.”
Hornet pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s got a headache coming on, and it’s going to be a bad one, she can feel it. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you after a warning hissed in the earlier hours. Like a clarion call at daybreak, summoning all the little recruits to rise from their beds, but you don’t want to get up. The horns will eventually fade, and they do; your eyes flutter shut and lull you back into the world of dreams. It isn’t until the drill sergeant is screeching in your face that you’re a worthless bitch as you jolt from your threadbare, springy mattress does that headache hit you full-force.
It’s a bit like that. Hornet is anticipating that her pains will probably bite her in the ass during the mission, simply because she is so lucky.
“Lace,” she says, “if you don’t want to come on this mission, just tell me.”
Lace barely turns away from the faucet. It must be a very interesting sight because she lingers on it for longer than Hornet cares to wait, a single droplet of water clinging to the metal lip. It quivers before falling into the basin. The plunk echoes through the empty mess hall.
“No, I do,” Lace says. Hornet ignores the urge to grab her lieutenant’s face and force her to look at her commander. Not out respect, and not out of power, but out of concern. For a friend.
The commander decides to pivot. Odds are, Lace does want to go on this mission, although her listlessness is so uncharacteristic that it’s making it seem like she can’t care less about it. Maybe it’s best to tackle what’s causing that apathy.
“Is this about the Admiral?”
The groan that comes from Lace is more emotion than she’s expressed this entire past hour, so Hornet is pretty confident that it is because of Admiral Silk. Her lieutenant scrubs her face, little red lines dragging along her cheeks as she digs her nails against her skin. She got them recently manicured, much to Hornet’s displeasure— they’re a little long for her liking. Oh, and against Alliance regulations.
Lace says, “No.”
Of course, her dour attitude would be caused by—
“What?”
Lace shakes her head. Her hands are still covering her face, with just her mouth revealed between a pair of dainty wrists. A silver bracelet jangles as she scrubs once more. “Negative, Commander. It’s not the Admiral,” she reiterates.
Hornet has a hard time believing that. Just an hour ago, Lace looked like she was walking to the gallows as the commander led her to the comm room. Boots trudging, a shadow overtaking where the sun usually glows upon her face. She was making her way to the firing squad, the noose, the injection— and Hornet was the one pressing the door open, hand half-gesturing into the dark void where the only thing that glowed was the unmoving face of Admiral Silk. The light shone through the cracks of the door when it slowly shut closed, and then there was no sound. None at all.
Lace was just as silent when she exited the room. The only thing Hornet could hear amidst the din of the Alamo’s engines was Admiral Silk’s hologram fizzling out.
“Honest?” Hornet asks.
Lace hesitates.
“Honest,” she replies.
Despite what popular media may say, a commander’s job extends far beyond the field of battle. It’s in every commander’s best interest to keep a steady, trained eye on their crew, and to know them inside and out. Even the single bit of hesitation, overestimation, or emotion can cause disastrous results for a mission, and it’s imperative that those instances never happen in the first place. Success doesn’t come overnight, and every touchdown on a new planet is a lesson. Still, Hornet has spent enough time in the Navy to know that being aware of her crew’s quirks is the best way to make sure her jobs go well.
Therefore, when someone as important as her lieutenant is clearly lying about her wellbeing, Hornet needs to act. She hates to say it, but Lace is far less expendable than the average private or sergeant. That’s the kind of thought that gets you killed on the battlefield, and yet the commander is compelled to think it anyways.
Maybe, she thinks distantly, she’s in too deep.
“Are you sure?”
Lace looks away from her hands. Red rings trace lines around her sclera.
“Who’s asking?”
A common question between them, one that tends to come up on the battlefield. Bullets flying, blood gushing— that kind of time. It’s a marker of separation between the bonds of friendship and professionalism when duty calls and their masks need to fall into place. The last time the query was posed, it was on their last mission while Hornet’s belly was full of shrapnel and metal casings; Lace asking, “How copy?” and the commander biting back, “Who’s asking?”
“Your lieutenant. How copy, Commander?”
“Good copy. Let’s exfil the fuck out of here; some bastard blew my stomach open.”
Lace picks at her nail. A nervous habit of hers. She probably thinks that Hornet doesn’t know about it, but the commander always catches it in the night when they’re laid next to each other. The lieutenant sees Hornet’s soft breathing as sleeping, and then she rolls to look up at the ceiling and tugs endlessly on painted keratin tips, biting the skin from her pink lips.
“Your friend,” Hornet says. “Not your commander.”
“Then my answer remains the same. Drop it, Hornet.”
If they were in her quarters, Hornet would be tempted to place her hand upon Lace’s shoulder and pull her close. Physical contact always seems to calm her down. Whether she’s spitting mad or on the brink of tears, it’s that connection that brings the lieutenant down to solid ground. But they’re flying through the stars right now; the closest planet is parsecs upon parsecs away.
There’s a decision to be made here. To leave Lace, or to take her, that is the question. Hornet’s only read Shakespeare on a scant few occasions but she’s pretty sure that’s how the quote goes— alas, poor Lieutenant Lace, something something or other. Hopefully, this mission won’t require any musings on life and death.
Hornet rises from her seat to make one last attempt at plying Lace to speak freely. The chair squeals as she pushes it from the table, mission brief still open on her Omni-tool, glowing a soft orange in the clinical white light of the mess hall.
“I think I’ll get one of the sergeants to join me then,” she says.
Lace’s head snaps up in an instant.
Hook, line, and sinker.
“Excuse you, Commander,” spits the lieutenant, “but I could have sworn you just said you were going to get a sergeant to accompany you on a mission dispensed directly from an admiral. Or am I wrong?”
Hornet nods. She taps at her Omni-tool to pretend to look busy, nonchalant. Uncaring of Lace’s reaction. “You’d be right.”
“Illuminate me, then, as to why you think that is a better idea than bringing me.”
“There are plenty,” Hornet says. Her eyes are still locked on her screen. The only thing on there is the mission brief, words she’s glazed over dozens of times today from the moment they arrived in her inbox. “For one, I don’t anticipate this being an overly time-consuming or difficult mission. Sure, the target is high-importance, but that can be said for a lot of targets. It’s good practice for the kiddies.”
“Oh, so this is just a ‘practice’ mission, is it?”
“No, definitely not; but it’s experience that every sergeant needs to gain eventually. I don’t like leaving my boys out of the field for too long, you know that.”
“And what about your lieutenant, hm?”
Lace rises from her seat, as well. The chair slides soundlessly against the tile, her body leaning toward Hornet’s over the table. Her hands are laid flat against the cool metal surface, splayed wide. Inching closer, her face approaches Hornet’s with an unreadable gaze. A small smile plays on her lips. Hornet immediately recognizes it as fake, the one Lace dons when she wants something so badly that she’ll throw caution to the wind.
“What about her?” Hornet shoots back.
“You plan on leaving her out of the fun?”
Hornet rolls her eyes. “Lace, you hate working. I’m not sure if you’d consider a search-and-rescue any kind of fun.”
“Well, maybe I do.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“That I sometimes enjoy my job?” Lace guffaws. “Don’t act like the only reason I’m here is because of you, Hornet. The Navy is, very occasionally, a fulfilling career.”
Another blatant lie. Hornet won’t deny that Lace probably does like working in the Alliance from time-to-time. She gets to fly through the cosmos, shoot her rifle, and is paid handsomely. Obviously, the primary issue with this line of work is that your life is always in question, and it’s hard to say whether or not you’ll return to the ship in your boots or a body bag. Point is: Lace is the type of woman who likes petite hors d'oeuvres, jeweled finery, cosmopolitans with double the cranberry and vodka. A military life is not one she would have ever contemplated if she wasn’t already a Navy brat.
Such is life, Hornet supposes. She thinks that even if Herrah was just a civillian who lived a normal, planetside life, she still would have ended up in the Alliance’s arms anyways.
“Right,” Hornet drawls. “Are you asking to come on the mission, Lieutenant?”
Lace laughs. The sound is harsh like glass shattering against metal, a discordant clang of dismay and ill-humour.
“Asking? No, Commander. I’m demanding.”
It’s almost cliche how quickly Hornet melts underneath Lace’s requests. She’s always had a hard time denying her lieutenant, even when she wasn’t Hornet’s lieutenant. The word no simply doesn’t exist in Lace’s vocabulary, having been replaced with yes yes yes.
That affirmation falls from Hornet’s lips like the final droplet of water from the leaky faucet. Lace grins. It’s not a soft one, no; this one is carnivorous and hungry. The lieutenant leans further, closer and closer and closer.
“Lace, we shouldn’t,” Hornet says even as her stomach fills with a boiling heat. “Not here.”
“No one’s here, Commander. Just us.”
Like an actor following a script, Lace surges forward and captures Hornet’s lips in hers. It’s easy to cup the side of her lieutenant’s face, thumb rubbing rhythmic circles along her smooth, unscarred cheeks. If Hornet were a weaker woman, she’d let the kiss continue treading down this dangerous path, but she’s well-trained, well-whipped by the Alliance. She pulls back and breaks the kiss just as Lace whines into the empty air.
She reaches out, but Hornet shakes her head. She ignores the way her heart palpates in her chest at the sight of Lace and her half-lidded eyes under the glaring lights, silky hair shining and eyes glimmering with unspoken passion.
“We move out in an hour, Lieutenant. Don’t be late.”
The M42 Leopard jostles when Hornet drives over a particularly nasty tangle of roots. Lace grumbles and grabs onto the handles that jut out from where the ceiling meets the wall. She nearly crashes into the door when Hornet hits another root.
“God, Commander, did they not teach you how to drive in N-school?” Lace groans.
“You say that as if you’re better behind the wheel than I am,” Hornet retorts.
Back in Basic, the two of them had a good few rounds of working in infantry fighting vehicles like the Leopard, learning how to drive them across long fields and shoot the turret. While most of the other recruits had a hoot careening the thing around the grassy knolls, Hornet and Lace had been the outliers, finding them overly clunky and rather difficult to pilot. It’s not like driving a skycar or even a regular car, for that matter. The bulk makes it tricky to turn, though that’s probably why most people elect to use the things to just roll over their enemies.
Hornet hadn’t gotten any accolades for her driving skills. Lace, though, received a vicious dressing-down from the drill sergeant after one exercise that resulted in 12 injured people and a near-death. After that, she had been banned from driving any kind of vehicle that wasn’t a dinky, kids-sized RC car.
Lace doesn’t rise to the bait like she normally does. Instead, she turns her attention to the expanse in front of them through the windshield. Millicent is a green, lush planet that would make for a great colony world. Why the Alliance has yet to do so is for a singular reason: the plants here are… unusually active. At least, that’s how the researchers described Millicent. It’s beautiful and highly oxygenated, which makes for flora that has a mind of its own. Hornet’s not sure what to make of that description, but she guesses that the trees walk or something. It’s probably not something to be overly concerned about.
Well, to be fair, it might be since the Alliance research vessel that was supposed to be housing six scientists and one quarian was all but empty and encased in writhing vines when the commander and lieutenant found it an hour ago. It was located a few klicks away from where the Alamo touched down to let the Leopard roll out of the bay, sitting just outside a dense forest as if it was some kind of still-life painting.
Hornet and Lace had done a cursory sweep of the ship. To their misfortune, all six scientists were found dead, strangled by emerald vines that had spread like an infection throughout the ship. Some kind of safety protocol must have kicked in on the ship, though, because all of the vines were snipped where they had managed to slither through the cracks. There was no life on the vessel except for the commander and lieutenant.
They’ve since reloaded back onto the Leopard to make their way through the forest, following a set of muddy, fleeing footprints that are honestly not the best or definitive lead on Shakra nar Moreh, but it’s all they’ve got. In the forest, the trees clamber high into the sky, the sun’s rays dappled through the arcing branches above. It would be a gorgeous sight if the picture of the deceased scientists wasn’t stuck behind Hornet’s eyes, blinking corpses effused in the corners of her vision.
6 dead. They still have the quarian to find, who is hopefully more alive than the scientists are.
Hornet is about to ask Lace if she can pull up the description of Millicent on her Omni-tool when the Leopard hits another batch of roots. The commander pushes her boot against the gas, but the vehicle comes to a gurgling halt as the tires turn, turn, turn, yet find no purchase against the ground. Hornet curses and shuffles out of her seat.
“Watch my six,” she says as she jumps out of the door.
“Copy that, Commander.”
The two women exit the vehicle. Lace keeps her pistol at the ready, her rifle too unwieldy to use in a moment’s notice. Her finger lays on the trigger while Hornet bends to examine the Leopard. She almost kicks the damn thing when she realizes what’s happened.
Vines, all around the tires, have stopped it from moving. They pulse with life as they squirm around the rubber, digging deeper and deeper into the material. The tires haven’t popped, thank God, but that means they’re out of a vehicle as of now. There’s a chance they can cut the vines away— only, Hornet’s not so sure if that’s going to keep them away.
“Lace, time?”
“We have two hours and fifty-seven minutes before exfil, Commander.”
The instructions had been clear from the mission’s start. Commander Hornet and Lieutenant Lace would touch down on Millicent with four hours to find Shakra nar Moreh— and the scientists, if time allowed. Normally, they wouldn’t put a limit on how long they would have to find a missing person, but the Alamo’s pilot warned Hornet of a storm brewing overhead. Though verdant and rich, Millicent was also a temperamental lady; the planet was known to have wickedly violent storms that brewed every so often, and this was one of those instances. If Hornet had to liken the storms to anything, then they’d be like the one in the Wizard of Oz, ripping up houses and swallowing all people in its path.
The mission could play out in four ways:
- They find Shakra and exfil in time.
- They don’t find Shakra and exfil in time.
- They find Shakra but don’t exfil in time.
- They don’t find Shakra and they don’t exfil in time (i.e. everyone dies).
Outcomes one and two are the most preferable, although one takes the cake by a long shot. Remaining on Millicent shouldn’t even be an option here if either Hornet or Lace want to keep living, even though this mission came from so high up.
This wasn’t really supposed to be a life-or-death mission. Damn. It’s always the simple ones that end up going sideways, backwards, and all kinds of fucked up. Hornet should have known.
“We’ll have to continue on foot,” Hornet says, rising from her crouch. She pats the Leopard, the steel casing ringing out against her gauntlets. “The vines are fucking with the tires.”
“That’s going to extend our search time, you know,” Lace points out. “It’s taken us an hour to reach the forest, and then it’ll take us another to get out. That leaves us with a little under two hours to locate nar Moreh.”
“Then we find her.”
“And if we don’t?”
Hornet raises an eyebrow. “You’re normally not so concerned about whether or not we complete a mission. A paycheque is a paycheque, right?”
Through her visor, Lace’s expression changes. It’s a minute variation, like playing spot the difference. Luckily, Hornet has had plenty of experience in counting the angry folds in her lieutenant’s cheeks, and identifying the gentle smile that climbs atop her lips whenever she manages to pull a snagged thread from her civvie clothes without ruining the stitching. Something like annoyance— maybe apprehension— settles into Lace’s eyes as the wind howls around them. It sounds like a dying wolf, crying out for mercy.
Then, the expression is gone, replaced with something harder. Lace holsters her pistol and pulls out her rifle, checking the scope and the mag. Once she’s deemed everything is acceptable, she pushes ahead of Hornet without another word.
Hornet stands dumbfounded for a moment. Lace hates going first. She always talks about how she’s the only sniper good enough to watch her commander’s six, actively shoving other crew members out of the way when they offer to keep an eye on Hornet’s back during a mission. She snarls like a spitting dog, hackles raised. Her territory stepped on.
Not that Hornet is her territory, no. That would be… something. Hornet’s not sure what to call it. The hazy boundaries of their friendship and nightly embraces aside, the two of them know when to place the borders and get down to brass tacks. And if that sometimes comes with Lace’s misplaced protectiveness, then so be it. People are always vigilant of their friends, especially in this line of work.
But— Lace is different. Even before their time in the Alamo, she’s been the emotional type. Quick to act, easy to anger. The number of times she got into shouting matches with other recruits in Basic was nearly record-breaking.
Hornet watches Lace’s back slowly shrink into the foliage. After a few more paces, the lieutenant glances over her shoulder and catches the commander’s gaze in her own. She quickly turns forward once more, almost embarrassedly. Hornet remembers herself then and jogs to catch up with Lace.
That kind of emotion— the variety that flares at the slightest spark— is sometimes more dangerous than a gun on your temple. In some cases, you are the one holding the gun to your own head, allowing a crew member to be so voraciously hot-blooded.
They’re about another hour into their mission. They’ve been following the muddy footprints all through the forest, passing by boughs and greenery. Hornet makes the occasional attempt to strike up conversation, except Lace only replies with those hms and uh-huhs that she dispensed earlier on the Alamo. Dismissive, silent, entirely focused on the goal at hand when she should be waving her gun around and complaining about the dirt on her pretty white armour and how much she’ll have to clean her beloved M-92 Mantis when they finally get back onto the ship.
The last time Lace was entirely engrossed like this was when she received an email from her mother following a failed mission a few months back. Hornet hadn’t seen the full message, only catching glimpses of it on Lace’s Omni-tool over her shoulder, but it hadn’t been good. After that, Lace had been all business, steely and cold and absorbed. Her boots were on the ground, and her mind was locked onto gunning down every combatant she saw.
Whatever Admiral Silk said to Lace in the comm room, it must have lit a fire under the lieutenant’s ass to get to work. Hornet would be lying if she said it wasn’t worrying her.
Lace’s head is craned down, watching the footprints until she suddenly stops in her tracks. Her neck swivels. Up, and then down; left, and then right.
She clicks her tongue, annoyed. “The footprints stop here.”
Shit. Hornet takes a glance downward at where Lace stands and sees that the lieutenant is correct: the prints completely stop right here, as if Shakra nar Moreh just vanished into thin air. This is their only lead, as flimsy as it is, and if there’s no way to locate the target in the next half-hour, they’re going to have to leave immediately. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Hornet informs Lace as such. She expects Lace to react as she usually does when a mission seems likely to fail— shrug and say, “That’s working in the Navy for you.” Of course, that doesn’t happen, not when all the stars have aligned today to coerce Lace into a defensive, mother-appeasing stance.
Instead, she says with more conviction than Hornet has ever heard from her, “We have to find nar Moreh.”
“I agree,” Hornet says, nodding, “but this mission’s success isn’t worth sacrificing our lives, even if it did come from Admiral Silk. We either find nar Moreh now, or we leave.”
That seems to set something off in Lace. A film forms over her face as she narrows her eyes, searching high and low for any sign of life other than the flora. She says nothing as she hunts around for clues, clicking away at her Omni-tool and scoping through her rifle. Hornet doesn’t comment on it— doesn’t dare to when her lieutenant is so wound up like this. Rather, she gets to work and does her job.
Only, it appears like that job won’t be getting done today. The clock ticks on until thirty minutes have passed. The air smells like ozone, a thick, cloying scent that heralds the incoming storm. If she focuses, Hornet can sense the petrichor, heady and heavy in the atmosphere. They need to leave.
“Lace, it’s over. I’m requesting exfil,” Hornet says as she taps the side of her helmet. Her comm doesn’t get the chance to buzz before Lace’s fingers are wrapped around her wrist, yanking her hand away. Hornet looks at her lieutenant, bewildered.
“No,” she hisses. “We’re finding that quarian and we’re not leaving this planet without her.”
Hornet tries to pull her wrist away from Lace, but the lieutenant’s grip is solid and sure.
“Lieutenant, what the hell? The storm is coming— are you trying to get us killed?”
“I’m trying to do my damn job, Commander. Maybe you should start doing yours, too.”
The two of them fight all the time, as if each argument is Alliance-issued. Sometimes it’s about small things. Sometimes it’s about big things. But every time, the heat behind their words isn’t a true flame; the anger fizzles out the moment it leaves their mouths, and then all is well between the commander and lieutenant.
Not this time. Now, Lace’s words are moulded into poisoned darts, leaving stinging lacerations in their wake. Hornet feels them pierce through her armour, through the cracks visible only to Lace. The cracks that Hornet lets only her see.
“I’m going to ignore that comment of yours, Lieutenant, but I advise you to remember who your CO is,” Hornet warns, her commander mask taking shape. “We’re getting out of here and that’s final.”
The next ten seconds are a blur. It’s only with hindsight that Hornet should have seen this coming, just like how she should have known this simple mission was going to go terribly wrong before it ever had the chance to go well.
The first thing that happens is Hornet reaching for her comm. Time slows down as her hand inches toward her helmet. Then, Lace is pouncing, ripping her wrist once more from the side of the commander’s head. There’s a momentary struggle between them, backs hitting tree trunks and boots crinkling twigs beneath them. A few swears are said, questions asked but not answered— things like “What the fuck are you doing?” and “Why don’t you want to complete this mission?”
Then, the forest ripples. It shudders, shivers, and the trees begin to move. Clouds gather overhead, grey and miserable and filled with torrential rain that’s poised to fall on all who dare to walk without a titanium-enforced umbrella. Vines climb out from the tops and pool around Hornet and Lace’s feet.
They yank.
“What—”
“The hell—”
That’s how they get here, hanging high in the sky with vines coiled around their waists, legs, and arms. Hornet struggles to reach for her gun, tries to blast the things away with her biotics, but she can’t gather the strength to do either. The most she can do is shake her shoulders and shout out for help. She can’t even radio her ship and demand they land in the middle of a forest to get their asses out of a most unfortunate situation.
Lace is in a similar position, though the dread of death has taken a hold of her. Mortality is a funny thing in the military. Everyone needs to accept that it’s going to come for them eventually, whether that be from a gun or old age. Most soldiers know that it’s their birthright to die on the battlefield, and the brats know it to be a simple part of life. But Lace, as always, is so different from other the soldiers.
“No— fuck,” she croaks out. Her shoulders quake violently, though there’s no chance for her to escape, not when her arms are being pulled at by tongue-like vines. Hornet continues her own wrestling match, but fails all the same as her lieutenant.
It’s then that Hornet realizes that this may actually be the end. As the vines encircle her even tighter, now climbing up to her armour-covered throat, this could be how she goes.
And if Hornet is being frank, she hasn’t accepted that she might die on the field, either. Nevertheless, reality seeps in just as her armour creaks under the immense pressure of the vines, and it’s only a matter of time before both she and Lace lose consciousness to the pulsing plants.
The commander looks over to Lace and her heart breaks. Her face has turned ruddy with tiredness, the lack of oxygen compelling her fight to slacken; tears have gathered in her eyes and their glassiness makes them look like precious pearls, beautiful things that should be held in safe hands. Hornet tries to reach out for Lace— her lieutenant, her friend, her something— though her arms are wrenched back.
“Lace,” Hornet chokes. “Lace.”
Lace blinks. Tears fall.
“Commander— Hornet. I’m scared.”
The vines shuffle, and their bodies are moved closer together. It’s almost as if the forest is giving them one last chance to say their goodbyes before they’re subsumed into the dirt, destined to become part of the planet. Their helmets clink against one another’s. Hornet leans her head forward as far as she can and lets her visor chime on Lace’s.
“I know. It’s okay— it’ll be okay.”
“Hornet,” Lace cries, arms jerking at her sides even while under the vines’ constriction, “when we die—”
“We’re not going to die.”
“We are. We're going to die.”
Hornet grits her teeth. A renewed strength rocks through her, the panic in Lace’s eyes spurring her to find some kind of solution— anything that will give them a few more moments of survival. But they’re up shit creek without a paddle here, and the only thing Hornet can spot from her vantage is a branch around ten metres away that’s shaking like some kind of creature is atop it. The leaves are too thick to see through it, though there is certainly something there.
“No, we’re not.”
The movement in the branches becomes more rapid. It increases tenfold, shuddering in the wind. Hornet sees it approach where she and Lace dangle above the forest floor.
“I have to tell you—”
“Tell me when we’re out of this fucking mess.”
The branches tremble.
“Commander—”
They shake.
“Lace, stop.”
Then, the barrel of a shotgun peeks through the leaves.
“Hornet, I love—”
The blast is deafening, although that’s not surprising when it’s practically in their faces. Hornet and Lace both wince when the shot goes off. Their muscles tense and eyes shut as the shell spreads through the air, embedding themselves into the vines. The forest seems to shriek as the vines retreat, curling away from their bodies. They tumble through the air and land on the ground in a heap, but Hornet just barely manages to get her biotics to cushion their fall. It’s still painful, though a lot less so if there hadn’t been anything to soften it. Hornet and Lace groan and catch their breath before their shotgun savior leaps from the treetops to the ground.
It’s a quarian. Her envirosuit is yellow and black like a bumblebee’s, or perhaps a wasp’s. The suit clings tight to her curves, dipping along her shapely hips and pinched waist. Her head cocks slightly before she reaches down to help both soldiers from the ground.
Her accent is heavy when she speaks, something along the lines of an Earthly Eastern European sound. “You are Alliance Navy, both of you?”
Hornet nods as she massages her throat. Those vines did a real number on her. She’s sure she’ll be bruised around the soft, fleshy parts of her body for a while after this mission.
“Yes,” she says once her breath returns to her. “I’m Commander Hornet, and this is Lieutenant Lace, my second-in-command. We’re here on a mission from Admiral Silk to rescue you.”
“Ah, it is good that you have come. I am Shakra nar Moreh— you may call me Shakra. A rescue is, indeed, in order.”
“Seems like you did most of the rescuing, though,” Lace coughs out. She’s making a joke— good. That’s very good. It means she’s still here, conscious enough to be aware that their fuck up of a mission hasn’t been completely lost like their pride as soldiers.
“This is true. But do not worry, soldiers. This forest is a curious place that most humans fail to comprehend.”
“How so?”
Shakra waves her shotgun around, the barrel pointed to the branches above. “The forest is hungry. From what I have seen, it appears to feed off flesh— you saw the research ship, no? That seems to have been its first good meal in some time. It is now ravenous, searching for meat.”
“But it backed off when you shot it.”
“Yes. It is attracted to sound and movement. The two of you must have done something to make it react in such a way, hauling you into the air. Loud, sudden sounds make it retreat, though not for long. The forest, it learns eventually.”
As if on cue because this day can’t get any worse, the forest shudders. Vines begin to crawl out from the trees like searching fingers, but this time there are more than just a few creeping out of the woodworks to capture its prey. A wave of vines grows in the deep shadows of the forest. The deluge hovers above and the clouds rumble along with them, the storm making its approach.
There’s no time to think. No time to stand around. Hornet grits her teeth and grabs both Lace and Shakra’s wrists, tugging them back the way they came out of the forest. They break out into a sprint when the forest groans, vines shoving massive trunks out of the way to reach its meal even faster.
Lace’s boot catches on a root. A branch. A whatever— it doesn’t matter what it is because the lieutenant goes crashing down and the vines are gaining on them. Shakra’s footfalls grind to a halt beside Hornet’s.
“Go!” Lace shouts. She tries to pull herself up, except a root has her stuck to the ground. She could take her boot off, but that would require her to remove the bottom half of her armour, all those latches needing to be flicked to disengage. “I can get myself out!”
There is no way she’s suggesting what Hornet thinks she’s suggesting. Just the thought of it makes a strange anger climb up the commander’s throat, and she sprints back to Lace with a determination she hasn’t felt since receiving her N7 designation.
“No fucking way, Lieutenant,” Hornet grits out. She reels her arm back as she presses a button on her gauntlet. An Omni-blade forms in an instant on her arm and it sails down onto the root. The stench of burning metal fills the air as the blade burns through the thick wood, freeing Lace without a hitch. The lieutenant stands hurriedly and stumbles to join Hornet and Shakra in their mad dash out of the forest.
Hornet’s lungs are burning. Adrenaline can only take you so far and it feels like she’s coming to the end of the line, forcing her legs to continue beating against the forest ground. Thankfully, the Leopard comes into sight just as she feels her body begin to falter in its steps— the vines have fled the tires, most likely scared away by the shotgun blast earlier. The entire forest must react to the sound, then. Something to file away later to inform Alliance researchers about.
There’s one problem, though.
“Lace, get the fuck out of the driver’s seat— that’s an order!”
But even as Hornet says this, she climbs into the passenger side door. Shakra scrambles over the centre console to sit in the small back seat and Lace takes her place in the driver’s side, smile spreading like jelly across her pretty face. She grips the wheel and then slams her foot on the gas. The Leopard shoots forward, a bullet dislodged from a barrel, gunpowder and gasoline propelling them forward through the forest.
Their eyes are all locked on the dusty path ahead of them. Lace barrels the Leopard past the trees, over the roots and sticks, making the entire machine jump with each thing she hits. She just grins through it all until something comes into view— a mistaken turn they took, an area they don’t recognize.
Hornet’s eyes widen when the forest finally parts and she’s able to see what’s ahead of them. Her comm buzzes momentarily with a message from her pilot, informing her that they need to take off soon. They’re about five klicks away from the Leopard’s position, meaning that if they gun it, they’ll make it back into the cargo bay with a moment to spare.
You know, if they survive the giant fucking cliff that they’ve stumbled upon and are currently hurtling toward even as Lace stomps her foot on the brakes.
“Lace!”
“Hold on, Commander!”
“I want your driver’s license on my desk by the end of today. That’s an order, Lieutenant.”
“What if I told you I don’t have one?”
Hornet’s eyes widen. “You’re fucking with me. I know you have one. I was there for your test.”
Lace’s smile is wry as she, Hornet, and Shakra make their way through the Presidium, the heart and soul of the Citadel. As the busiest area of the Citadel, it’s no surprise to feel other people bumping against Hornet’s shoulders, hearing the odd conversation, and seeing other folks bustling about. In a corner, she can spot a few salarians talking science. In another, there’s a group of asari and human women giggling over galactic fashion trends, though they always fall out of style faster than a flying comet. It’s business as usual in the Presidium, and its monotony helps lull Hornet back into her commander senses.
Their escape from Millicent could have gone better. Hornet won’t bother repeating the dull details, as all that really matters is that they made it back safe into the Alamo for exfil. The Leopard’s structural damage notwithstanding, of course. Its steel casing broke the fall well enough, the beefy vehicle that it is, and the three women escaped with only some minor bruising and probably a new fear of heights or cliffs. All’s well that ends well.
They’ve since docked at the Citadel after Hornet informed Admiral Silk that the mission was a success. She was quickly requested to head to the Presidium to drop off Shakra at a certain office number— Room 8008.
And so here they are, striding along through the white light of the Citadel’s core. Hornet has learned a bit more about Shakra since the mission’s completion, such as her relation to Admiral Imogen nar Moreh. While she is not Shakra’s birth mother, who apparently perished during the arduous task of doing so, the admiral basically raised Shakra since she entered this galaxy. They have a close bond, the kind that only mothers and daughters can have. Although, when pressed about where Imogen is, Shakra is mum on the matter.
Hornet counts the office doors as they walk through the many halls of the upper office areas of the Presidium. The numbers flit by until she lands on 8008. She reads the nameplate below.
Admiral Silk, Alliance Navy.
Lace makes a sound not unlike choking. Hornet glances over at her lieutenant, whose face is now draped in horror. She takes a single step back as her mouth gapes open like a fish begging to be thrown back into the water. Her shoulders shrink. Her body wilts.
“Lace?” Hornet asks. “Are you okay?”
The lieutenant blinks before sliding her mask over her face. False confidence and Navy bravado take shape along her features. “Of course, Commander. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Hornet and Shakra share a look. If Shakra wasn’t here, then Hornet would be inclined to let Lace skitter away— she knows how much the lieutenant despises contact with her mother, whether it be through a screen or real life. As a commander, it’s absolutely the incorrect thing to do. Lieutenants are often required to stand aside their CO to deliver a full report of any incidents or missions, no matter who they’re reporting to. But as a friend, Hornet can remember the tears, the sobbing rains of Lace on that night in her apartment; the day that Lace had turned down a promotion and received nothing but pain in return from her mother dearest.
Goddammit. Hornet bites her lip. She looks between Lace’s trembling chest-puffing and Shakra’s quiet contemplation. Admiral Silk probably knows they’re all here already; three sets of footsteps is easy to identify when you’ve been in the military for long enough.
Defeated, Hornet says, “If you say so, Lieutenant.”
The door is knocked upon, and the admiral allows them entry. The three of them shuffle through the door and Hornet immediately sees every bit of evidence of Admiral Silk’s Navy prestige. Medals, trophies, and certificates decorate the walls and shelves. There are very few aesthetic-enhancing decorations in the room itself as it’s primarily dedicated to all the victories under the admiral’s belt, although there are a couple of potted plants with flowers that are just barely blooming. A few pictures sit on a large, mahogany desk. Some have Admiral Silk in them, and some don’t. There’s a single photo of Lace as a child, standing beside her sibling, Phantom. Behind both of them is Admiral Silk in her Navy blues, golden epaulettes glimmering in the sunshine. It’s almost like she never takes the uniform off, even while around her children who are both in civilian dress.
Hornet and Lace salute. Shakra stands beside them, arms folded.
“Admiral Silk,” the soldiers say in unison.
“At ease.”
They let their arms fall behind their backs. Hornet is always straight-postured when it comes to business while Lace is her mirror image, slouching and yawning through every conversation with a higher-up. Hands in her pockets, twiddling with her jewelery. But in the admiral’s office, her spine is made of titanium, a metal bracing keeping her stood more rigidly than a ruler.
Admiral Silk turns to Shakra. Her eyes soften, though Hornet immediately recognizes it as an act, some play she puts on for honoured guests. She extends a hand and Shakra takes it in her own.
“Shakra nar Moreh, I am glad to see you in one piece. I trust the Alliance has treated you well thus far?”
Their handshake breaks off as Shakra nods. “Yes. Your Commander Hornet and Lieutenant Lace were critical in my rescue. The Flotilla thanks you for your assistance, Admiral.”
Admiral Silk’s expression shifts. Her fake smile falters for a moment and something mean and ugly takes its place instead; like a horn sounding out the approach of an army, a promise of destruction. The admiral’s lips are a loaded handgun, tongue on the trigger.
She turns her head. Not her body— just her head. Her arms move behind her back and that perfect uniform stays perfect, smooth and untouched. Immovably elegant.
“Lieutenant Lace attended the mission?” she asks, voice icy.
Shakra must miss the way Lace shakes her head because she affirms the admiral’s question.
That’s all that’s needed for the army to step foot onto the battlefield that is Admiral Silk’s face. Boots stomp, rifles jump; a flag flies overhead with the Alliance’s colours. And at the other end, there’s a single enemy in their sights. Thousands of men, thousands of soldiers, poised to shoot and kill, targeting a single woman in snowy armour at the field’s edge. Lace trembles but does not move.
“Lieutenant Lace,” Admiral Silk hisses, “I believe I instructed you to not attend the mission, or am I wrong?”
Lace pulls her shoulders in. “No, Admiral.”
“Which tells me you deliberately disobeyed orders from an admiral. Or am I wrong again?”
“No, Admiral.”
The soldiers train their sights onto Lace. Admiral Silk waves her hand, and they shoot.
“Once again, you go off acting on your own. When will you learn, Lieutenant Lace, that the Alliance asks of you one thing, and one thing only: obedience. And if you cannot comply to this simple, enduring rule, then you will be the only one in our family disgracing what we’ve done for humanity. Look upon these walls, child, and tell me that I have not done my duty, as has your sibling— though they remain on Earth. What have you done for the Alliance, Lace? Answer me.”
But Lace has no answer. Her lips are wrenched tight, wrinkles forming around the sides of her mouth; Hornet can’t imagine what she’s wrestling with in her head, debating if she should take part in the argument or let her mother’s wrath take centre stage. The warmongering will happen regardless, and so Lace elects to stand in silence with her head down, like a child who has been scolded for the umpteenth time about her repeated misconduct.
Hornet is about to open her mouth but Shakra beats her to the punch.
“Admiral, if I may,” says the quarian, “but I believe without Lieutenant Lace, this mission may have gone quite differently.”
Admiral Silk says nothing, though her warpath halts for a moment. Shakra continues her explanation, weaving a tale of heroics that certainly did not happen on that backward mission. She says something about Hornet and Lace rescuing her from a monstrous cluster of vines, and it was Lace’s ingenious thinking to aim for the vines’ weak points that made them retreat, giving the three of them enough time to huff it out of the forest. Only minor injuries were sustained after all was said and done, and they made it back to the Alamo without a hitch. She pointedly does not mention the fact that they also drove the Leopard off a cliff.
After the story is over, the admiral turns to Hornet. A woman like that is used to getting what she wants, no matter the cost. Hornet knows this all too well.
“Commander Hornet, is this true?”
Without missing a beat, Hornet says, “Affirmative, Admiral.”
They’re overlooking the Presidium, right over the central garden. There’s a family taking a walk through the flowers, a father with three giggly daughters who are trying to hold back their urge to pluck the blossoms. Their mother comes up from behind one of them who has her hand on a bloom and gently coaxes her child away from the petals.
Shakra’s ride back to the Flotilla has been arranged. She won’t be flying with the Alamo; and while Hornet would prefer to keep her mission target with her, an order’s an order. Shakra will go with one SSV Warsaw, along with its commander and lieutenant.
Admiral Silk had dismissed all of them once the last bits of the mission were relayed. She no longer had any use for them (except Shakra, perhaps), and told them they were free to go. Lace was out the door first, with Hornet and Shakra following closely behind. They wandered back into the central atrium of the Presidium in silence, thoughts brewing in the quiet.
Lace breaks it as she leans against the railing. She’s watching the mother and daughter below, smiles on their faces, the kind that you can only have when you’re a child without a care in the entire galaxy except for the fact that your mommy won’t let you pick the garden’s flowers, but she will let you choose out a bouquet at the florist for grandma’s upcoming birthday.
“What’s your motive here, Shakra?”
Shakra turns to look at Lace. It’s hard to tell what quarians are thinking with that misty visor over their faces, but Shakra’s body language tells enough of a story that Hornet can piece it together. There’s a subtle confidence that sits in her hips and in the way her shoulders are canted. She expected this question.
“What do you mean, Lieutenant?”
“You covered for us,” Lace says, gesturing at both herself and the commander. “You had no reason to, especially with how that mission went. What’s your angle?”
Shakra looks away. The Presidium lights glare against her visor, and for a moment, Hornet thinks she can see through the hazy lacquer. She spies a pair of bright eyes, defined cheekbones— an elegant face hidden beneath a necessary evil of a nomadic life amongst the stars, away from the simple pleasures of having a homeworld to go back to.
She says, “Because I do not trust that woman, though I do you two. I will admit, I have not been entirely honest about why I am working with the Alliance. While Admiral Silk thinks it is for research in exchange for favour with Admiral Imogen nar Moreh, the truth is that Admiral Imogen has been missing for the past few weeks. The Alliance has the resources I need to find her.”
“So, your stint with the research vessel wasn’t actually for research?”
“Correct. Your Alliance vessel was headed to Admiral Imogen’s last known location, but it ended up being a dead end filled with vines. If I cannot locate her, my mentor— mother— will be replaced by another admiral very soon. Even worse, I fear she will be lost forever in the cosmos. The galaxy is always hungry, though I never thought it would be my family it would swallow. Quarians, we are part of the stars now; to think that they would betray us like that— it is unimaginably painful, you understand.”
Another silence settles over them as Hornet and Lace take the words in. Hornet is the next to speak, saying, “I understand. We both do, I think.”
Shakra nods. “I thought, perhaps, if I cover for you two, then you will cover for me. All I ask is that you keep an eye out for Admiral Imogen; and if you happen to find her, you will always have an ally in the Flotilla.”
It’s a simple request, but Hornet can’t deny that it’s being made under the table. Things like this— interspecies deals— are meant to go through diplomats and politicians and a million pieces of paperwork before the orders ever pop up in a commander’s inbox. It’s just not how things are done. Hornet isn’t the middleman, nor is she the one taking the deal on; she just does the job.
Lace probably senses her commander’s apprehension because she argues, “Hornet, I don’t think this is a good idea. Going against Admiral Silk’s back could get major targets put on our backs if she finds out.”
Once more, Shakra turns her attention to Lace. The two are locked into a stare, Hornet standing between them.
“Admiral Silk is your mother, no?”
Lace frowns. “Yes, she is.”
“Then our mothers have much in common. Strict, disciplined women, they are; their hopes are high for their daughters. But that is where their similarities end, I fear. For you, Lieutenant Lace, appear to still be under your mother’s heel.”
Lace jumps up, face full of offense. She bends closer to Shakra as she braces herself against the railings, leaning over Hornet with an accusatory finger.
“You did not just say that to me.”
Shakra remains undeterred. She continues, “I saw how you shrunk under the admiral’s accusations. And even when Admiral Silk learned that you had played an important role in my rescue, she dismissed you without a word of encouragement or commendation.”
Lace’s finger retreats, slow. She melts back into her spot next to Hornet. In less than a second, Shakra has torn through the lieutenant’s mask and left it in fetters on the ground, crackled metal sitting in shrapnel piles.
“That’s not true,” Lace says, though there’s no conviction in it. They’re just words— empty and meaningless.
“Just remind yourself, Lieutenant Lace,” Shakra hums, “that the stars are wide and plenty. Living in the Flotilla teaches quarians that family can be found in many places, and closeness is not tied only to blood. Your home is everywhere in the galaxy— not just where you were born.”
The family in the garden leaves. Hornet spots the littlest daughter gripping her mother’s hand, skipping giddily alongside her family. Behind her, she holds a single flower. A piece of stolen happiness.
Three weeks and a few covert, off-the-books missions later, Admiral Imogen nar Moreh is located on a remote planet in some backwater cluster that doesn’t have an interesting enough name to remember. Apparently, she was testing out new weaponry on a special type of flora on the surface and was injured in some sort of freak accident that forced her to remain planetside. She had been surviving on rations during the time, though she was running low when the Alamo finally found her. Shakra and her mother-mentor have since been reunited, with Shakra having sent Hornet an email full of effusive thanks. She told the commander that the Special Projects arm of the Flotilla was ever in the Alliance’s favour. If they required anything, simply call upon Admiral Imogen and the fleet would respond.
Hornet relays all of this to Lace in bed. They lay next to one another after a night of quiet touches and soft sighs under the stars. Lace is staring up at the ceiling and the porthole that rests above them; little white dots twinkle in the darkness, winking cheerily.
“I can’t believe we almost died trying to save Shakra,” Lace says.
“I can,” scoffs Hornet. “It’s part of the job description.”
Lace rolls over with a sigh. Her back is turned to the commander, and Hornet takes a moment to let her eyes trail down her nude form. Lace has very few scars, though the ones she has are large and bold— the woman doesn’t do anything by halves. Hornet drags her hand along the small of Lace’s back as she rests her head on her lieutenant’s shoulder.
“What were you going to tell me earlier?”
Lace tenses. “Hm?”
“In the forest, during the mission. You said something about love.”
Hornet’s hand is jostled from Lace as the lieutenant rolls back over. In one swift move, she captures Hornet’s lips in hers, hot breath mingling in the interim. Lace shoves Hornet down onto the bed and sits astride the commander.
The confession comes in a quiet exhale. Lungs giving way, moulding around a beating heart.
“I love working with you,” she whispers.
Above, Lace looks like a statue carved from the finest of materials, a true goddess that’s come to life. Hornet rests her hands upon her lieutenant’s hips and digs her fingers deep into the plush flesh that connects her thighs and hips.
“I love working with you, too,” Hornet says.
That night, they don’t sleep. Not that they need to— not after a job well done.