The ping comes as dust drifts down from the ceiling, a new coat following each dull explosion from only a few levels overhead.

  It takes several long seconds for the transmission to be recognized for what it is—or for what it purports to be—but Zheng is finally roused by a firm shake from one of his CDF lieutenants.

  “Major—major,” the woman hisses, standing up from her crouch once she’s satisfied that Zheng is awake. He’s taken to sleeping in a sitting position, slumped between the command bunker’s floor and wall with an assault gun cradled over his legs like a drunk with a spent bottle of whisky.

  He registers his wakefulness with the resignation of one awaiting the inevitable. His whole damned body hurts, especially his head, and his gums are tender and swollen from vitamin deficiencies. He supposes it will be a relief when the end finally comes.

  “What is it?” he croaks. There’s another deep whumpf overhead, and another thin shower of dust rains down from the ceiling.

  “We’re receiving a transmission, sir. It says it’s from— it says it’s from Fleet.” The woman swallows, as if even saying the words causes her pain. “Purports to be from a Terra Home Fleet battlecruiser. It says it’s the damn Agni, sir.”

  Zheng stumbles to the holo-cast, mechanically popping a stim-tab as he rubs his eyes, though his lieutenant’s words have had as much effect as three of the foul-tasting little pills. The command bunker is quieter and more empty than it used to be, officers rotating out to be with their families or join the front lines, depending on what joy remains left to them. No matter; the defenders have so dwindled in number, along with the strangled front line, that the command structure required for their coordination is a meagre remnant of what it once was.

  Volkova is already at the holo-cast. She’s lost weight—they all have—but it somehow makes her look even stronger and meaner than before, her bald head a frightening skull, her muscles taught beneath her skin like rebar bulging up under disintegrating concrete. Does the woman ever sleep? Zheng thinks. No, not really, not since her husband died a few weeks ago, splattered out of existence by some bunker-busting Gor. Zheng would worry about the feral darkness beneath her eyes, if he had any worry left to give.

  They lock distrustful eyes.

  “Some kind of trick?” Zheng whispers. At their current pace, the Gor will have them overrun in less than a week. The casualties that the Gor have suffered may have peeled away some of the aliens’ initial enthusiasm, but the beasts still seem to be taking a certain grim delight in rooting out the defenders. Why try some ruse at this late date? Who can tell, Zheng thinks. Perhaps the Bellitran fleet overhead has finally outgrown its patience. After all, they’ve long-since plundered the colony’s underground stores of adamite, despite the miners’ bitter resistance. Zheng’s now-dead second-in-command personally oversaw the tunnel detonations in that sector, but the best of the CDF garrison and the last of their modified Sec-suits made no difference in the end; they were ground down to blood and dust, just like the rest of the colony.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Volkova minutely shakes her head, and then draws herself up, absently trying to straighten her torn and blood-splattered uniform before facing the holo-cast, her mouth twisted and grim. “We’ve nothing to lose,” she says. Then she nods to Zheng’s lieutenant. “Go ahead. Bring the bastards on-screen.”

  The blue and green tactics display, its creeping red blotches an ever-present reminder of their hopeless situation, flickers, and then dies.

  A new image forms.

  For the second time in as many months, a human appears.

  A middle-aged, chisel-faced man in the unmistakable blue and white uniform of a Fleet Admiral greets them. His hair is black with traces of grey, and his forehead and temples are marked by the silver of Fleet implant hardware.

  “This is Terra Fleet ship Agni AI, speaking on behalf of Admiral Atsuya. We have entered Echion space, and will be engaging with the Bellitran fleet in the next two hours,” the man states, crisp and authoritative.

  Zheng notices an alert at the corner of the holo-cast, showing that the remnant of the colony’s degraded AI is beginning to exchange data with the Agni, far faster than human speech. The face on the other end of the holo-cast seems to harden as he absorbs the colony’s status.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Commandant. Major. But your AI tells me that you should be able to hold out until we’ve dealt with the Bellitran fleet and had a chance to land forces to deal with the situation on the ground. Can you confirm?”

  Ground forces? What kind of armada did they bring? As if the AI could read his mind, a readout of the incoming Fleet ships appears.

  Good mother of God. If Zheng isn’t hallucinating from a stim-tab overdose—and he’s pretty sure he isn’t, having already overdosed twice—nine Fleet ships have just winked into being within the Echion system. Zheng feels tears well up in his red-rimmed eyes as he reads the names, some of them familiar, others strange: Battlecruiser Agni. Heavy Cruiser Tyr. Heavy Cruiser Heracles. Insertion Carrier Guanyin. There are five more ships along with these, destroyers by the looks of it, though they appear slightly unusual, of a class he isn’t familiar with.

  Zheng can see Volkova biting her tongue, swallowing a million burning questions like acid reflux, holding them for a later time.

  Instead, she simply nods. “Nice of you to join us, Agni. Let us know if we can be of assistance.”

  The AI nods back, and then flickers out of existence. It’s only then that Zheng notices that the explosions overhead have ceased. He also notices that tears are coursing down his face, and that he’s hugging Volkova, and that she’s embracing him in turn, her chest shuddering with sobs, hands digging into his back as only a Scorian miner’s can.

  Terra lives.