It had been a while since Ryke had seen Stamm Basin seething with the activity of war.

He watched, perched on a bench outside the main Hunter-Killer barrack, a bottle of scorch beer in one hand, a data slate in the other, and a lot of grim, grim thoughts rattling around inside his skull. The mobilisation order had come down that evening, and since then the whole base had been sent into a state of well-drilled pandemonium.

Balloon-wheeled infantry trucks rumbled off through the formidable armoured gates, shadowed by the dark, blade-like shapes of Scout Cadre skiffs. Freshly forged Hunter-Killers, their armour shining in the low dusk light, clumped out after them in between the ponderous shapes of heavily armoured Mammoth transports. The two suns of Rychter sunk low against the horizon, casting a bloody red glow over Brekka's towering walls.

Ryke knew it was only a matter of time before he and his squad joined them. Being in the eye of the storm at the Liaison Post, and having lost a pilot in the process, they had a few days – a few days to rest and to fit another new piece in to the never-ending churn of the Hunter-Killers.

He took a gulp of his beer and examined the data slate again. Reinforcements were spilling out towards the human settlements south of the city, bolstering the towns and mining villages that dotted the badlands in anticipation of a Scraegan advance.

What intelligence they had didn't show that such a thing was imminent, but Brekka's defenders had learned long ago to err on the side of caution. Reports from Scouts with long range seismics showed Scraegan war packs reinforcing their own lines – both sides drawing up their battle lines for a new conflict that seemed horribly inevitable.

Ryke swore under his breath and turned the slate off, placing it down on the bench beside him. His thoughts drifted once again to Ivy and his big brother Kelso, trapped deep in the dark of Scraegan territory – alive as far as anybody knew, but how long could they stay that way if this escalated?

And he was stuck here, hundreds of miles away, kicking his heels and drinking. A surge of self loathing washed over him and in a vicious motion he flung the half-empty beer bottle, sending it sailing out onto the concourse where it shattered, splashing its contents over the sun-backed concrete.

"Bad day, boss?"

Ryke looked to his right and saw Preese trudging across the concourse. The other pilot hopped up onto the bench beside him, holding a data slate of his own.

"You're supposed to be off duty," Ryke murmured.

"So are you," Preese countered. "But I thought you'd want to know, we got our new recruit assigned."

He straightened up at that, beckoning. "Let's see."

Preese handed the slate over. "Not wasting any time with replacements right now, are they?"

"I wouldn't." Ryke scanned the dossier on the screen; clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Couldn't have given us someone with a few dents to the armour?"

"With the truce, not so many squads missing pieces anymore." Preese's expression darkened. "Guess that's not going to last much longer."

"I guess not."

"At least his scores are good."

"We'll get the official meet and greet tomorrow morning. Old Sergeant Mulrough's got a few new gangs running through their final combat drills tomorrow and he wants us there to set a good example."

Ryke nodded, his eyes not leaving the slate. "You know the worst part about it?"

"What, about Ricardo?" Preese gave him a wary look. "That he's dead?"

"No. It's that I'm putting someone right into those shoes like nothing happened, and I don't feel... anything." He looked up, eyes fixing on the great globes of the twin suns. "I'm getting used to just putting people through the grinder. I shouldn't – it's not right – but I can't help it."
Preese was silent for a moment, shifting and leaning his elbows on his knees, looking out across the activity of the concourse.

"I wish I could judge you about it, Ryke," he said. "I really do, but I've got a feeling you're one of the lucky ones. Give it a few weeks and we'll all wish we could just get used to it."

"What a drowned world that'd be."

"Yeah, maybe, but it's the one we're living in." Preese sighed wearily. "There's one more one more thing."

"Mmm?"

"There's a briefing, 2200, at command operations. All senior Hunter-Killer officers required."

"I'm a senior now?"

"Apparently."

"Drown me, I'm eighteen years old!"

His friend shrugged, grinning. "I don't make the rules, boss."

"More's the pity." Sighing, Ryke straightened up, slapping the data slate against Preese's chest. "Alright, Corporal. Make sure everybody gets a good sleep tonight. Something tells me they're all going to need it."

*

The command operations module – an armoured sphere several levels below Stamm Basin's main command building – was a very busy place. Ryke joined a sea of Hunter-Killer squad leaders, militia officers, high ranking tech specialists, Scout Cadre troopers and militia soldiers.

He waded into the throng until he reached the gangly figure of Major Farrell 'Typhoon' Kwendo, the current commander of Brekka's Hunter-Killers.

"Reporting, sir," Ryke said quietly, saluting as he pulled level.

"You and half the damned city, sergeant," the man chuckled. He turned, returning the salute, his tanned features, crinkling with a smile. His cap was tucked under one arm, revealing a short, tight bundle of dark braids tied tight back over his skull.

"Guess the rumours are true."

"Let's wait and see what the brass have to say, eh?" Kwendo slid one hand into his trouser pocket, the other drumming patterns against his thigh. He inclined his head towards the command dais. "New boss is here."

He followed the major's nod, looking up onto the raised platform that filled the centre of the room.

Ryke knew most of the commanders pretty well. The rangy figure of Colonel Hackley prowled back and forth like a caged animal, her single good eye narrow with unease. Colonel Morrow, in command of the militia and mobile infantry stood nearby, arms folded with a few of his senior officers clustered around him. There were captains from the Scout Cadre, officers from the Engineering Cadre, and several grim-faced Blackwater operatives.

But there was a new face among them. After the events of the last year, the aging general Thiekvaal had retired from service, leaving a both thankless and coveted position in his wake. Ryke neither knew nor cared about the politics, personal animosities and machinations that might have gone on behind the scenes, but he had to admit to a level of surprise when he discovered who their new commander would be.

A large man by anyone's standards, the newcomer stood at the command dais with his hands clasped behind his back, dark grey uniform fitting immaculately to his bulky frame. He had very dark skin and a thick beard of steely grey around his wide mouth. From the command briefings Ryke had received he knew the man had served six years in the Hunter-Killers, and another eight in the militia, before eventually joining Brekka's commissariat as part of the city's defence planning committee.

New faces always put Ryke a little on edge, but he was glad to at least have someone in charge who understood what it was like to look a Scraegan in the eye.

The newcomer appraised his command staff with eyes undimmed by his sixty years of age. A smile filled the big man's face and he inclined his head to each of them in turn.

"Good evening," he rumbled, his voice rich and deep. "I had hoped to meet most of you under better circumstances, but war waits for no-one. For those who do not know me, I am Major-General Anilade Bosede. I have overall operational discretion over the deployment of our military assets."

A series of salutes and a low rumble of 'sirs' went around the room; Ryke joined them. Bosede removed one hand from behind his back, raising it to quiet the sound.

"You all know why we are here," he told them. "We had a truce – a hard fought, long sought-for truce – but it is gone now. War is knocking on our door again." His broad shoulders swelled with a sigh. "I do not care about politics. I do not care about whether we should or shouldn't have worked with the Scraegans. I am not here to debate philosophies or morals. I am here to ensure the safety of this city, whatever form that might take."

His gaze darkened as he appraised the assembled soldiers. "I am not a warmonger, and I will not tolerate bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed. That, ladies and gentlemen is how wars are lost."

A different atmosphere enveloped the room, and Ryke noticed several of the soldiers present exchanging shame-faced glances, some of them lowering their eyes to the floor. Bosede waited, but no voice of dissent made itself known. He nodded approvingly.

"Your advance briefs will have made you aware that the incident at the Liaison Post was caused by one of your own. A man from within your own ranks who wanted nothing but dead Scraegans. Thanks to him, and those who aided him, thousands more lives may now be forfeit. If it comes to that, we will fight, and we will win." Bosede indicated the main map table on the dais with a nod of his head. "While we get our own house in order, measures must be taken to protect our people. When the Scraegans react – as I am sure they will – we must be ready."

Over the next several minutes Bosede outlined the deployment orders for the next stage of what Brekka's commanders were referring to as 'aggressive defence', packing the outermost towns with huge concentrations of static firepower, while smaller mobile forces roved between them, hunting for Scraegan incursions.

It was a strategy designed to keep the Scraegans at bay, not to win a war.

At least not yet.

As Bosede and the other senior officers designated their battlegrounds and killzones, he couldn't think of anything except that small pocket of humanity that no-one had yet deigned to mention.

"Sir!" Ryke raised a hand when a moment of quiet inserted itself.

"Vannigan." Colonel Hackley turned to him. "What is it?"

"Ma'am, what about the forces we have at the Scraegar Labyrinth? The dig site?"

"From our reports," one of the Blackwater officers interjected. "There has been no sign of hostilities at the site."

Ryke gave the man an incredulous look. "Maybe not yet!"

"There's little we can do except maintain contact," Hackley said. "They are too far out of reach for us to do more than that. The closest forces we have are already assigned to their defensive sectors."

Her blasé response was like a slap in the face. She didn't care about Ivy or Kelso – maybe she didn't even care about the work they were doing. As he scanned the other officers he could see they felt the same – the big picture was all that mattered. He felt a tide of anger swell up inside him and he stepped forward.

"We have to send reinforcements – Hunter-Killers!" Ryke blurted, pointing at the display. "All they've got there is a few units of Blackwaters. If fighting starts – if we go to war again – they'll be dead before anyone gets within a hundred miles of the labyrinth."

"Sergeant-,"

"My people are ready to go," he continued, unheeding, looking desperately at the commanders. "Just give us a Mammoth and we can set out in the morning."

"No-one is leaving," she said firmly. "We have an operational plan already in place."

Ryke looked at her aghast. "Ma'am... ma'am we have to do something! There are good people out there. We can't just abandon them."

"Vannigan, I understand how you feel," Hackley said, her voice level. "But we cannot sanction it. The Scraegans will not let anyone through without a fight. It would be suicide."

"You don't know that for sure," he growled back, desperation creeping into his voice.

"Maybe not, but I'm not about to risk thousands of lives on that assumption, so you can go and play the hero for your little lover!" Venom shot into her voice as she took a step towards him. "You are a soldier, sergeant. Start acting like it. Everflowing River, we could be at war the next time the suns rise. The people at that dig site have their evacuation plans, they are well-trained and they are just as much a soldier as you or I. Now stand down!"

Ryke felt his shoulders trembling, the muscles in his neck taut with frustration as two parts of his mind went to war. Emotions thundered in his veins, crashing up against the immovable dam of his military discipline. He dug his fingers into the coarse fabric of his grey fatigues, aware of every eye in the room fixing on him.

In the corner of his vision he could see General Bosede, the new commander's brow creased, more with interest than with anger. With an effort, Ryke battled for some control and stepped back from the dais. Still trembling, he bit back the words the wanted to come spitting out of his mouth and instead saluted.

That seemed to be enough for Hackley. She nodded once.

Bosede, however, still looked interested. With surprising grace, he propelled his bulk around the table, his eyes never leaving Ryke.

"You are Sergeant Vannigan?" he said. "Sergeant Ryke Vannigan, commanding HK-Rupture?"

"Yes, sir," Ryke forced out, pivoting to face his new commander.

"I've heard a lot of things about you, sergeant." Bosede's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Most of them are good."

"And the rest?"

Bosede exchanged a knowing glance with Hackley. "Open to interpretation." The general clasped his hands behind his back again, looking at the map table. "Conservatively, Colonel, how long would it take to deploy a relief force to aid our people at the labyrinth?"

Hackley scowled. "At least a week of straight travel. And that's without Scraegan intervention."

Bosede nodded and turned his gaze back to Ryke. For a moment no-one spoke, and Ryke found himself squirming under the general's stare. For all he knew he was about to be disciplined and thrown in a cell.

"Colonel Hackley is correct," General Bosede told him, and Ryke felt his cheeks flush with fresh anger as the man continued. "Deploying any kind of relief force and striking that deep into Scraegan territory has only one outcome."

"But we have to do something!"

"Yes," Bosede said quickly. "Yes we do." One foot tapped against the floor plating as he rotated to consider the map. "Sergeant, I understand you have had some... unique dealings with the Scraegans?"

Ryke tried to keep his voice level. "You could say that."

"Would you call yourself a diplomat?"

"Riverlords, no, sir."

Bosede chuckled. "Good. I think we need something more than that."

"Sir, what are you suggesting?" Hackley interjected, her voice heavy with unease.

"I haven't quite decided yet." Bosede looked Ryke in the eye, his face filled with curiosity. "But I think you and I have some things we should discuss."