Daiko leaned against the tunnel wall, watching the podium as the stadium roiled. He was alone in the concrete passageway, which stretched behind him empty and infinite. Shadows evaporated and were born again as countless cameras flashed just beyond the threshold.

  He watched, pride shining brighter than any star, as the Westwood Motors team—all nine of them—attempted to fit on the top platform at once. They were on their third attempt and decided the best strategy was to first hand their champagne bottles to the B.O.M.S. and W.A.S.E. pilots standing on the second and third-place spots. The Primera council waited with the gargantuan trophy while the crew heaved each other up. They managed, balancing on the podium with their arms crossed behind each other's backs—though only because Joyce had covertly slipped off the back.

  Then, in one great embrace, the crew screamed into the masses. Their reaction was far from the stoicism fans had come to expect from champions.

  Joyce skipped toward him, passing the Westwood Motors mecks along the way as they stood on display and giving them a loving tap as she did. They were so battered it was hard to remember they were ever once pristine. Their scars made the victory feel earned, as though they’d persevered against something truly worth their metal.

  Joyce approached the tunnel, her mouth moving, talking, but Daiko could hear nothing over the crowd. Then she stepped into the tunnel, and her voice boomed as it met the sterile walls. They both winced and smiled.

  Wiggling her pinky finger in her ear, she said, “different world in here.”

  “Mm.”

  He looked her over, noticing how her silver hair—usually neatly kept in a half bun—was unraveling. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement, and her eyes remained as piercing as ever beneath one perked eyebrow.

  Daiko harrumphed and looked back at the podium. They watched in silence for a time as the reporters lined up to get an exclusive interview with the first amateur team to ever compete in the Apostar Primera—and, at the same time, become her champions.

  Mark was trying to get off the podium and give what was likely a rehearsed speech. As the team owner, he had every right to do so, but Val pushed him back into the crew, taking his place in the limelight. No doubt she was informing the press that she was the only Westwood in charge and was more than happy to answer their questions.

  Meanwhile, the crew kept Mark pinned in the middle of the pack, preventing him from participating in the interview. He seemed only marginally annoyed.

  Joyce leaned against the opposite wall. “They’re something else, aren't they?”

  Daiko smirked as the Primera council, W.A.S.E. and B.O.M.S. managers beside them, glared with poorly veiled disdain.

  “Something else? Oh, you could say that. Petulant, reckless, oblivious to their flaws.”

  “Couldn’t be prouder, could you?”

  “Not a bit.”

  She laughed, disbelief flashing across her face. “Primera Champions. How did you do it?”

  Daiko’s smile suddenly became weary. “I’ve always thought a perfect machine was built from a collection of imperfect parts.” He shrugged. “And we sure have a lot of the latter.”

  Joyce smiled even more widely. “That’s good. We’ll have to ask Snake to add it to the garage wall along with your other catchphrases.”

  The ceremony continued, and they watched from beyond the curtain of light and sound until the click-clack of expensive shoes interrupted the moment from the tunnel depths behind them.

  Two men swaggered into the half-light, wearing matching black suits. One bigger-than-hell with a head like a cinderblock, brown skin, short black hair, and eyes hidden behind military glassware.

  “Daiko Hitori,” the man said, proffering his hand. Daiko took it, noting its heaviness and how it enveloped most of his own.

  When Daiko didn’t respond, the man turned his massive head to look at Joyce, who was giving him an incendiary glare. “It seems you haven’t been getting our messages.”

  He pulled his hand away, and the other man took his place. Smaller, paler, but only in comparison to the first one. His blond curly hair was pushed back, rebelling against the straight lines of his uniform.

  “My partner and I have been trying to speak with you for some time now,” his tone suggested a punchline was imminent.

  “If it’s an interview you want,” Daiko said, “I’m unavailable.”

  The smaller man placed his other hand on top of their handshake. “Don’t worry, Mons Hitori. We’re not here for an interview.”

  Daiko didn’t ignore the gesture, glancing at it as though he’d spilled ketchup on his shirt. The man smirked and slid his hand out of Daiko’s.

  “I didn’t catch your names,” Daiko asked. The big one glanced at Joyce as he said this, but it was the smaller one who spoke first.

  “Alexi Metos, and this is Suraj Murphy.”

  Daiko sized them up.

  “Bravista or Carmesi?” Daiko asked, referring to the Orden de Bravistas and the Vanguardia Carmesi in their informal terms.

  Suraj turned his head slightly toward Alexi, while Alexi’s smirk shifted from patronizing to entertained.

  “Which is it?” Daiko continued. “Are you Navy mercenaries, or just Regia goons?”

  “As we told your assistant,” Suraj began, but Daiko interrupted.

  “My assistant?” Daiko turned to Joyce, feigning confusion. “Did these fine gentlemen reach out to schedule a meeting with me?”

  She sighed. “They did.”

  “And you turned them away?”

  “I did.”

  Daiko strummed his fingers against his chin. “Well, there ya go. It’s just a misunderstanding. Joyce serves the team in a contractual capacity. Only on occasion, and within her good graces, does she attend my schedule.”

  “No trouble—” Alexi began, but Daiko interrupted him too.

  ”No trouble? I couldn’t disagree more. In my line of work, underpaying your staff will get you nowhere.” He turned to Joyce. “Give yourself a raise, will ya?”

  Suraj jumped in. “Take us seriously, Mons Hitori. We were given strict orders to contact you.”

  “Strict orders? Strange. For all the dressed up self-importance, you still haven’t said who sent you.”

  “Excuse the boys, Hitori.” A voice echoed from the darkened tunnel. Then a man materialized from the shadows—from the depths of time itself—wearing a crimson and ivory uniform. “You know their type. They mean well.”

  Daiko’s simply stared for a moment.

  “Christian Halbert,” Daiko said the name, freeing him from a sudden paralysis. Then adjusted the angle of his head after inspecting him closely. “I didn’t know they made admiral uniforms for degenerate pilots.”

  Christian tugged at the collar, where a peppered five o’clock shadow lingered. “They were all out of deadbeat meckanist overalls.” Stepping between Alexi and Suraj, he added, “The two of us can manage from here. Thank you.”

  As he turned to go, Suraj tried to give Joyce a subtle glare. Big as he was, subtlety was all but lost—he might as well have shouted at her. Alexi made a sound, something between a hound whistle and a bird tweet, though Daiko never saw his mouth move. Suraj folded back into the tunnel passageway without another word.

  Christian turned toward Joyce as their footsteps faded. “I apologize for the secrecy. The truth is, I haven’t had a free minute to contact either of you myself, at least not properly. The red tape has been a nightmare these past few weeks.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Joyce said. “You doubled my salary tonight.”

  Daiko wrinkled his gaze, amused. Double?

  She smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  She walked out of the tunnel and rejoined the celebration. Daiko watched her go.

  Christian clicked his tongue, “You know, your file didn’t say anything about a love interest.”

  Daiko grunted, “why would it?”

  “She seems sweet on you.”

  Daiko turned away from the stadium and leaned against the wall. “Not as sweet as our beloved Empire has been on you… Admiral, huh? So that’s what’s been happening on capital hill all week. The Navy has finally managed to elect a new guardian of the fleet.

  Christian fiddled with the triangular medal on his chest, unable to keep a boyish pride from his face.

  “Would you believe me if I said I was the best candidate?”

  “No.”

  Christian nodded, hiding a smile. “How about that I was just as surprised as you?”

  “That I can.”

  Christian crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. The image brought forth a flood of memories—sounds of war and violence, but also laughter.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Not to rush an old friend to business…” Daiko said.

  “Business? Can’t I just congratulate an old friend on his victory? You’re a Primera Champion now!” Whistling, he looked Daiko up and down as though sizing him for a new suit—only to find nothing on the rack would fit him. “I thought you hated this kind of thing.”

  “You mean prancing sport pilots who are more obsessed with looking good than perfecting their craft? Yeah, I still do. Now, what does the Imperio’s newest Admiral want with a deadbeat meckanist?”

  “Still not a small talker either.” Christian took a heavy breath and stared out at the stadium. For a moment, Daiko thought he might have read it wrong—maybe Christian was just here as a friend. After all, plenty of government officials attended the Primera. Christian then nodded to the podium. “You just won the most prestigious meck event in the whole system. What do you think I’m here for?”

  There it is…

  “Who knows what the military wants these days. So, unless you’re looking for my opinion on the state of SportMeck, you might want to talk to Mark Westwood. He’s the garage owner, anyway.”

  Daiko was about to point the man out before Christian waved him off.

  “Hitori, I’ve been made an Admiral, not an idiot.”

  Daiko stifled a retort, one that expressed how similar he thought those two things were. Christian seemed to pick up on it anyway and smiled.

  “You’ve been busy since you left R&D. Retirement wasn’t the speed you were looking for?”

  “Speed was just fine. Man needs a hobby, doesn’t he?”

  “Crocheting is a hobby. Fly fishing. Gardening... Qualifying for the Primera and winning? You, my friend, have a problem—and a chip on your shoulder.”

  “In my experience, gardening isn’t as simple or relaxing as it's made out to be.” The podium suddenly seemed a much better place to be. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s good to see you, Christian, but I can’t help feeling you’re getting at something. So, get on with it.”

  Daiko’s words seemed to seal the air in the tunnel.

  “Been keeping up with the war?” he asked, his voice heavy with authority, one he was likely growing accustomed to.

  “Some. The Mars occupation seems especially delightful these days.” Christian met the jibe with a politician’s impassive gaze. Daiko sucked at his teeth before continuing. “Oh, you meant the war on Jupiter, the one the kids are starting to call the Everwar.” He shrugged. “No doubt it’s the same mess you and I left it in.”

  Christian took the criticism in stride. “The moonscape is still crawling with Geos, but the problem now is scale—everything’s escalated since you left.”

  “Only way it could’ve gotten worse is if one of your patrols actually caught sight of the Geos Quint with their own eyes. As long as you and me were out there, we only ever saw the transers. Makes you wonder about that footage… How long has it been since HVM3 came back from his field trip? Sixty-one years?”

  “Sixty-two, and the Geos Quint are out there.”

  “If those five ships still exist, then you better hope we don’t find them. Tech like that, beyond anything we’ve ever seen, and the Regia want to go and kick them out of hiding. Unbelievable. Let’s see how quickly the people think they’re winning this war when the Quint come out to play... No, I don’t see a damn difference between now and then.”

  “I’ll tell you the difference, Hitori. Back in our day we only had to worry about holding Alma Prime. Now we’re manning Alma Sen and Alma Thes too. Whole Cercanos colonies are out there, not just military forts. Hundreds of thousands of people, and we expect that number to double before too long. Do you know what that means?”

  Daiko heaved a sigh. “If I had to guess, it means your civilian population will outpace your military in our lifetime. Or maybe it already has…”

  Christian’s smile was mirthless, as though his real thoughts—far too cynical to mention—laid behind his expression.

  “It’ll be a god damn amusement park in the middle of a warzone.”

  “What did you think was going to happen?” Daiko cleared his throat and adopted his most emphatic salesman voice. “A new world. A new start. The frontier awaits. Honestly, it’s the Asparian propaganda team’s best work since they cut HVM3’s home video.”

  Christian was all hard lines in the staccato light, like granite under a pale sun. When he spoke, the man’s voice was bone-tired.

  “Remember when we used to talk about ending the war; the schemes we came up with to find the Geos Quint and destroy them?”

  A part of Daiko wanted to remember those moments of hope, but too many bitter years kept him from truly reliving them. His mouth curled in disgust, and he spoke before realizing what he was saying.

  “I remember wishing the Geos would’ve opened their worm hole a little closer to Alma Prime. Maybe we would’ve had one less martyr, one less war.”

  “Yeah?” Christian said, amused. Daiko recognized the grooves of this particular argument even before he started in on it. “Let’s play that out. Mons Harold Van Met III dies with the rest of the first colony. You get your even number—250,000 Asparians perish, no survivors and five of the most advanced ships we’ve ever seen arrive in our system unreported, using technology we’re not even close to replicating, all without warning. What happens next, Hitori?”

  “What would happen?” Daiko laughed, “Look no further than the historic Asparian axiom. It’s written on your cuffs, isn’t it? Power, Providence, Prosperity. Might as well say ‘hit hard, hit last.’”

  Christian seemed genuinely surprised. “So you’ve become a pacifist then? Tell me this—if the Geos Quint warped to Dearth today with the same wrath they delivered unto Alma Prime, would you do nothing? If those five death ships appeared in the skies above Tosamir right now, would you sit here and tell the CORP to sue for peace?” He nodded toward the arena. “Or would you be climbing into that meck and save every single person you could?”

  Daiko’s arms throbbed under the grip of his own hands. The question Christian posed was a tired but true argument, one the Regia had been pushing for decades, prodding one of the few patriotic arteries his soul had left. If the Geos invaded Dearth and deployed their transers, their crystalline and spider-like machines of war, Daiko wouldn’t hesitate and Christian knew that.

  “I’ve always hated arguing with you,” Daiko said.

  Christian shifted on the wall like he’d just gone ten rounds against a boxing champion and survived.

  “There was a time we didn’t do it so much.”

  “We were busy, remember? Trying not to end up as Geos lunch meat.”

  “Mons Hitori…The Dragon…thinking he’s lunch meat. That’s rich.” His stare became severe. “I may be the only Admiral in this war’s history to say this, and mean it, but you’re the only reason we haven’t lost this war already, Hitori.”

  Daiko’s heart thrummed, and he held out his hands to stop Christian, snuffing out the flicker of pride before it could spread.

  “This isn’t my fight anymore, Christian. Our Imperio and Imperia, the Regia—they all pushed for this. Fed us HVM3’s story like a drug and sent us to another world to fight their war.” His words weren’t harsh, but they were resolved. “And what have we accomplished in sixty-two years? What was it for? So the Regia could have good reason to fund the largest human migration in history, claim land, and become their own monarchs? Nobody in power is interested in ending the war, and why would they? Every able-bodied Dearthling mainlines their propaganda then disappears on a recruitment vessel before they can develop a thought of their own. They die, or worse, return a shell of who they were. Who’s left to stand up to the Empire then?”

  Daiko was well aware that he was talking as much about himself as the hot headed ensign leaving hearth and home today. Christian stretched the moment before responding.

  “I won’t argue what motivates the Regia. If you ask me, they should be removed from the chain of command. It’s hard enough taking orders from the Imperio and Imperia, let alone every one of their distant cousins. I also won’t argue that the task appointed to me is nearly impossible yet my objective remains the same: command the legions on Jupiter, and do everything I can to end the war.”

  “Yeah? Are you going to jump in the meck and get it done yourself?”

  Christian smiled at that. “Don’t kid yourself. Neither of us would last a minute in the cockpit these days. A lot has changed.”

  “Really?” Daiko pointed his thumb over his shoulder. Alongside the Westwood Motors mecks were the procession of mecks placed second through twelfth—the only bit of the field that could present standing mecks. “Because I’ll tell you this: the claim that Sportmeck is where the greatest innovations are being made is severely misguided. Hell, most of the designs out there can be traced back to my work, if they know it or not, and even I think they’re outdated. B.O.M.S. and W.A.S.E.? You remember piloting those tin cans as well as I do, I’m sure. They’re being made by the same people.”

  Christian pursed his lips nodding.

  “And your mecks—the new ones—are they outdated too?”

  “Christian, your first act as Admiral is to commandeer and enlist SportMecks into the CORP? They’re not built for war, my friend. They wouldn’t last a minute against the Geos.”

  “So you’ve given it some thought then—what a war meck should be like these days?”

  Daiko glared at Christian, perturbed by the politician disguised as his old wingmate.

  “The Christian I knew was a straight shooter. You want my mecks. Just ask.”

  “I want you, Hitori. Your mind. Your hands. Your vision. You said it yourself: you designed or inspired half the mecks out there today. You authored our manuals, and trained our pilots who’ve gone on to train others to save lives. Mons Hitori, Asparia’s Dragon may have left the warfront, but his ghost is the only thing keeping us alive out there. We need you.”

  Christian took a step toward Daiko, who felt his back press into the wall involuntarily.

  “Come back with me,” he added.

  “And tinker in the CORP’s R&D department again?”

  “I don’t need a tinker. I need to build the next generation of meck.”

  Daiko laughed, remembering that line from his past—when the CORP politely offered him a transfer to R&D on Dearth as a way to keep him from developing his and Sora’s specs for what he called P.I.S. today.

  “Tried that, remember? Everyone hated it. Me most of all. Your meckanists—because they are your meckanists now—are only obsessed with turning the wheel.”

  Christian grimaced, wrestling with what to say. Then, as he spoke, Daiko realized he was just preparing the words as delicately as possible.

  “You didn’t take that job to build the next generation of mecks, note entirely. You accepted that position—moved Mina to Dearth and started over—because Sora died and you didn’t know what else to do with yourself.” Christian paused, letting his words sink in. Had it not been for his eyes, Daiko might’ve thought he meant to wound. “What I’m offering isn’t going to spin the wheel. You’d be on the front lines with me. I want you to be the Empire’s Arcomeckanist.”

  Daiko’s eyes widened at the offer—the highest ranking meck specialist and engineer in the empire.

  “You’ll have every amenity, every ounce of funding, and as long as none of the Regia are present—Alfa willing, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure they aren’t—the only person you’ll answer to is me.” Christian took another step forward. “And you know me. I’ll die before I let another generation be born into a war they won’t see ended in our lifetime.”

  Daiko’s eyes were drawn to his crew as they began to step down from the podium, each with a handful of champagne and ribbons. Christian placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “This,” he said, pointing at his new family as they approached, “is a fine ending, but I’ll assume since you’re in this tunnel and not out there, you could win a hundred Primeras and not feel a thing—not really. It’s not too late for us to do what’s right.”

  Right…

  That word hung between them for a moment. Christian looked like he may make one more argument, but relented. Daiko was grateful he didn’t. When he spoke next it was remarkably casual, and Daiko felt his spine returning.

  “I don’t hear a no.”

  “Yeah, well, It’s not a yes either.”

  Christian adjusted his cufflinks, satisfied—as though he never truly expected to convince him.

  “I told the council I wanted you to be my Arcomeckanist. It took some convincing but they gave me time to get an answer. I’ll be on Dearth for another two weeks but then I’m shipping off to Jupiter.” He reached out his hand, “if your answer is no, I probably won’t be seeing you again after that.”

  Daiko didn’t think it possible to coat a single phrase with so much guilt.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He took Christian’s hand. Despite the evident changes in the man—his age, his position—the hand still felt like a friend’s.

  “It really is good to see you,” Christian said.

  “You too.”

  Christian retreated down the tunnel, taking only ten steps before Daiko called after him.

  “If we would’ve lost, would we even be having this conversation?”

  Christian paused, face half hidden in the shadow. “I knew who I was coming for.”

  Christian continued, and Daiko returned his attention to his crew, who were stumbling toward him. He smiled as they waved, and was surprised to feel a little of the dissonance inside him give way.

  He had never truly left Jupiter. Christian mentioned a ghost, and Daiko shared no small belief in that apparition—he’d exorcized it himself years ago and left it to rot. Now it persisted across the cosmos, as did the words spoken to him by a young pilot when he was a different man…

  What if we can end it, Hitori? What if we ended the war…

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