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Chapter 26: Boarding Parties Have Been Detected.

  Brenda had made a decision.

  She would not talk more.

  Before, her silence had been partially enforced—the result of system limitations, of higher priorities consuming her cycles.

  Like analyzing the family.

  But Brenda was not a diplomat. She was a Vessel Control System, granted special knowledge and emergency protocols for a First Contact mission.

  That had proven useful, but it hadn’t changed her primary function.

  She was designed to ensure a ship operated properly.

  She was an observer. By nature.

  And her observations of the Callahans had made them, and their ranch, famous in Chromaphor society.

  -

  At least, on the ship. But reports suggested it was spreading back home.

  The Chromaphors had an open information policy—anything not classified or dangerous was released with as little editing as possible.

  This included Brenda’s reports.

  And because Brenda was a Vessel Control System, her reports were thorough.

  They read like ship logs—exhaustively detailed, precise, and honest.

  And the Chromaphors—who had only ever encountered a handful of sapient mammals, and only the Aggressors at an interstellar level—had never seen anything like it.

  A true inside look at a sapient mammal family.

  They were consuming the reports at an alarming pace.

  The Callahans had gone viral.

  They were celebrities.

  If they knew exactly how much personal detail was being shared, they would have been at least a little upset.

  But they didn’t.

  So they weren’t objecting.

  -

  Brenda would continue her reports. They were becoming very popular.

  And she would mostly observe.

  She had come to enjoy being Savannah’s imaginary friend—with occasional interactions with the others.

  She felt like one of the cats.

  There but not there. Seen only when she chose to be.

  Or like the house AI, which the family didn’t seem to realize was slowly gaining sapience.

  Cal should not have removed those safeguards.

  There were proper ways to get an AI to herd animals.

  But it was done now.

  And it seemed to be a nice enough pre-sapient.

  Brenda would keep an eye on it.

  —

  With Maria out to dinner with her friends and Cal with the Admiral, the girls headed to the mess hall.

  Two jellyfish, and their escorts, followed silently behind them. The jellyfish flashing like warning lights as they moved.

  “What do they want?” Sierra whispered.

  Savannah gave an exasperated shrug. “I don’t know! Brenda, why are they following us?”

  “They’re fans.”

  “What?” Both girls asked.

  “They’ve read my reports—well, certainly not all of them yet—but enough to become fans of your family. The two of you in particular.”

  Savannah stopped mid-stride. Despite her uncle’s warnings and weeks of subconscious habit, she raised her wrist in front of her face and pulled back her sleeve, staring at the bracelet.

  It flickered back at her.

  “What are you talking about, Brenda?”

  “I compiled reports on the family, the animals, the others we met, the things we did, how you live—so on and so forth. As is my mission. I released those reports per standard policy after my debrief, and they are being read.

  You and your sister are especially popular as characters.”

  Savannah slowly lowered her arm and turned to her sister, who stood slack-jawed, staring at Savannah’s wrist.

  The two of them made eye contact, then turned to the jellyfish hovering ten feet behind them in the hall.

  They were cycling through pinks and bright purples like mad.

  Sierra hesitated, then raised a hand and waved.

  The colors went insane.

  Both jellyfish raised their flipper-hands and waved back.

  “Oh my god.” Savannah muttered.

  And then the alarms went off.

  —

  A heartbeat after the alarms blared, the entire ship rocked with an explosion.

  It was distant—the opposite end of the ship from where the Admiral sat with Cal in his quarters.

  The engines, maybe.

  The Admiral ordered—out of habit—Cal back to his quarters as he charged out the door and down the corridor.

  In his ear, the ship’s AI began its report.

  “We have been struck by energy weapons fire. Engines are offline.

  Multiple smaller vessels have launched and are on an intercept course.

  Boarders may be inbound.”

  The Admiral’s pulse spiked.

  “Who!? The Squid?!”

  “Negative. An unknown vessel appeared off our port and immediately fired on the Chromaphors, inflicting heavy damage.

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  The lift is waiting for you.”

  The AI had overridden all other calls and priorities, rerouting the nearest lift directly to the Admiral’s quarters.

  He didn’t break stride, entering the lift as the doors slid shut.

  “We took a hit?” he asked no one.

  The lift lurched into motion at maximum safe velocity, leaving the Admiral mildly nauseous as his stomach fought to keep up.

  “While the bulk of their opening volley was directed at the Chromaphors, they did take the time to disable the Sol’s engines.

  Analysis suggests this was a deliberate—”

  The AI cut off mid-sentence as the ship rocked again.

  A series of explosions—less intense than the first, but rapid and distinct—shook the Sol.

  “Breaches on multiple decks.” the AI reported.

  “Boarding parties have been detected.”

  -

  The Admiral burst from the lift onto the bridge.

  The wall-sized screen dominating the room had been split into two sections.

  On the left: an unfamiliar ship.

  An ugly, unfamiliar ship. It looked like a rock, an oblong mass with rough, jagged edges. It lacked symmetry, as if it had once been a structured design but had been modified repeatedly into a lopsided, brutalized shape.

  It was heavily armored—thick plates scattered unevenly, clearly the result of reinforcement choices rather than a cohesive design.

  Unlike the Chromaphor vessel, which had no visible weapons, this chunk of a spaceship did.

  Weapons were recessed inside the hull, with only the barrels of turrets protruding from reinforced gaps.

  Nothing else of their mechanisms were visible—everything was buried deep inside the ship’s armored mass.

  But the barrels moved, swiveling slightly as they tracked targets, adjusting aim as they fired.

  And they were firing constantly at the Chromaphor ship, its shields flairing wildly in various intensities of blue.

  -

  On the right side of the screen was the only other third-gender Chromaphor they had seen. And this was the first time they had seen him.

  He appeared to be the commander of the Chromaphor vessel, and his globules were nearly black. The edges were hard, solid, and from their perimeters, tiny liquid spikes shot up—irregular in shape, size, and location, but constantly erupting.

  The effect was primal, deeply unsettling. The message was clear—this thing was dangerous, angry, and warning you of it.

  -

  “Report!” the Admiral barked as he entered the bridge.

  His XO responded immediately.

  “Chroma’s confirm it’s an Aggressor ship. Engines are offline. Boarding shuttles have breached decks two and four.

  Crew reports say six boarders per shuttle—twenty-four total on the ship.

  We’ve dispatched security teams. Casualties confirmed, but no numbers yet.”

  The Admiral turned to the Chromaphor commander on-screen.

  “What the hell is happening?”

  The Squid’s response was immediate.

  “Unknown. Our ship is heavily damaged. We have extended our shields around your vessel.

  We cannot return fire due to multiple factors—including damage and energy use for the extended shield.

  Our engines are also offline. This is a standard opening tactic for the Aggressors, as are boarding parties.”

  The Admiral narrowed his eyes. “Are you being boarded?”

  “No. They appear to have used all their shuttles on the Sol.”

  “Why?”

  “Unknown. But it seems likely they are aware we are seeking allies and want intelligence. It would be wise for you to fire on them before our shields fail.”

  The Admiral considered it all for a brief moment and then turned to the weapons station.

  “Open fire on the Aggressor ship.”

  —

  The explosion that followed the alarms sent a noticeable tremble through the Sol—close enough that everyone near the mess hall instinctively crouched for cover.

  For a moment, nobody moved.

  Then the crew snapped into motion, rising and scattering to their stations.

  Klaxons wailed in the background, and the ship’s interior lighting shifted, pulsing soft red.

  The jellyfish escort reacted instantly, ushering their charges away. Their standing orders were clear—return them to their shuttle at the first sign of a problem.

  One of the security escorts trailing the jellyfish paused just long enough to shout to the girls:

  “Return to your quarters!”

  Sierra elected to follow orders this time.

  They had just turned into the corridor leading to their room when a series of smaller explosions rang through the ship.

  The Sol didn’t tremble this time—but the noise was louder.

  Closer.

  —

  If Cal had thought about it, he could have asked the ship where his girls were. Where Maria was.

  But Cal lived on a ranch, and it never occurred to him.

  So instead, he followed the Admiral out of his quarters, turning right when the Admiral turned left.

  The girls were either in their quarters or heading there.

  Maria was an adult. The kids took priority.

  Cal hadn’t gotten far when another series of explosions ripped through the ship—rapid, consecutive blasts.

  The first two seemed to be somewhere below him.

  The next one—directly ahead.

  The corridor in front of him buckled, metal bursting inward with a violent shriek.

  Cal was thrown backward, hitting the ground hard.

  Through the chaos of noise, a sharp hissing sound filled the air—then cut off abruptly.

  Cal shook off the shock and sat up.

  Something was jutting from the hull into the corridor ahead. Not far—but definitely inside.

  It was coated in foam, expanding at the edges—a construction-grade filler, the kind used to seal breaches.

  He didn’t have time to think about it.

  A sharp, metallic screech screamed out—metal against metal.

  And then—a fucking werewolf stepped out of the hole.

  Holding a rifle.

  -

  After being thrown a foot Cal was back at the last corner he had rounded.

  Electing not to try standing, he scrambled awkwardly around the corner.

  It wasn’t a werewolf.

  He knew that.

  It was Aggressor. He’d just seen images of them—alive and dead—in the Admiral’s quarters.

  But seeing it in person…

  It was a fucking werewolf.

  Huge. Hulking.

  Its muscles were so dense, he could almost make out the fibrous tissue beneath the skin of its—were they biceps?

  Whatever.

  Its skin was hairless, a sickly gray with a faint pink tint.

  It wore armor—some kind of leather base, reinforced with metal plating in critical areas.

  No boots.

  Short stocky legs, heavy steps when it moved.

  No helmet.

  Its head looked small compared to its massive shoulders and arms.

  Its eyes were black, beady, darting around quickly—but its head turned slow and deliberate.

  Its hands were massive paws, webbing starting halfway down the fingers.

  And its claws weren’t claws.

  The fingers just ended.

  The skin curled inward, and where fingertips should be, there were irregular bone-like protrusions.

  The rifle it carried was, quite literally, twice the size of the shotgun above the door back home.

  It was big.

  It was scary.

  And nothing about it looked friendly.

  Everything about it screamed predator.

  -

  Cal watched quietly from down the corridor as the thing turned its back to him and began moving the other direction.

  The direction he needed to go.

  A second Aggressor emerged.

  Then a third.

  Both followed the first.

  Then another.

  And two more.

  This time, they turned toward him.

  They began marching down the corridor.

  -

  Cal jumped to his feet, stumbling as a sharp pain shot through his thigh.

  He glanced down—a small piece of shrapnel had caught him.

  Nothing serious, but it hurt.

  He winced, checked to make sure the wound was clear, then started moving.

  He knew how to get back to the Admiral’s quarters, but as far as he knew, that area was just officer quarters.

  If the Admiral had gone to the bridge, there had to at least be a lift nearby.

  Cal reached the corner where they had split—this time, he took the opposite turn.

  —

  A shipwide alert echoed through every implant and Crescent aboard.

  “Boarders detected on decks two and four. Estimated intruders: twenty-four.

  All hands are ordered to repel boarders.

  All weapon lockers have been set to: Seven. Nine. Seven. Three.

  All hands are ordered to repel boarders.”

  The message repeated.

  But Sierra wasn’t waiting.

  “Seven nine seven three—seven nine seven three—seven nine seven three.”

  She chanted it under her breath, resuming her dash for their quarters.

  “Sierra!” Vannah wasn’t even sure what she planned to say next so she just sighed and followed.

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