To breach the enemy's walls is not the site of final victory, but the site of the first defeat. For now you have broadcast where your attack will come—and all your enemy must do is wait.
Waiting once again.
Mira was confused by the stop-start nature of the fighting. He would have thought it better to maintain momentum—to keep pressure on the Gue'vesa. That was the lesson imparted at the Fire Warrior academy. But that was for those above him to decide. His place was to fight the battle at hand.
They had reached the bulkhead, but they hadn't been cleared to breach. Even after the other teams took their positions, the waiting continued.
Many of Mira's fellows used the pause to sit and rest. They had spent the better part of the cycle clearing the ship up to this point, and they weren't even halfway finished. Exhaustion showed on their faces; many had gone still from the effort. Mira could hear the coolant rushing around his undersuit as it tried to regulate his temperature in a way his body could not.
It terrified Mira to think of the Gue'vesa's larger ships—and how long it would take to clear them. Half a day to secure a third of one of the smallest ships in the fleet. He imagined what it must take to grind through the vast battleships: half a dozen cadres, perhaps a week of relentless corridor fighting. He cast the thought aside and forced his mind back into meditation.
Deep, calming breaths welled inside him. Comfort came in the simple mechanics of it—lungs filling, pressure easing—micro-decs of bliss that helped him slide toward stillness.
Mira felt a presence standing in front of him.
The Shas'O had arrived.
He had dismounted from his battlesuit and was moving through the gathered warriors, offering words of encouragement. The Shas'nel was there too—Skysword, somehow making even the filth of war look regal. They were all dirty and tired, but his presence kept spirits from sagging.
As Mira sat with his eyes half-lidded, he felt that presence wash over him. When he opened his eyes, Commander Longsun stood before him.
Mira started to rise and bow, but the commander lifted a hand.
"May I join you, Shas'la?"
Mira wanted to say yes, of course, but the words caught in his throat. He nodded instead, eyes averted with reflexive reverence.
Longsun lowered himself to the deck and produced a ration bar from a pouch on his armor.
"Have you eaten?"
"No, Shas'O," Mira managed. "I'm not hungry. I—I was meditating."
Longsun nodded, reached to his belt, and tossed Mira a standard ration bar. Then he produced a second for himself.
"Eat. Your body won't tell you to, but you need it." He bit into his own bar with the casualness of habit. "I commend you for using the quiet to meditate. But you will have many opportunities to do so later. As wise as it is to care for your mind, you must first ensure your body survives to carry it forward."
Mira obeyed. He peeled the wrapper and took a bite. The bar had a pleasant but unidentifiable taste—engineered not only to sustain them, but to stimulate the mind in ways that kept a warrior willing to fight. But no matter how the Earth Caste refined it, there was no replacing real food cooked over a real fire.
Memories flickered across Mira's mind—"field exercises" in the junior academy. Before a student was old enough to carry a rifle and march into the wilderness under full load, they were brought out under guidance to learn survival. Some skills were taught, yes—but in truth, those camps were for the recreation of future warriors.
Mira blinked, realizing the commander had asked him something and was waiting for an answer.
"Forgive me, Shas'O. I didn't catch that. Could you say it again?"
"Are you scared?" Longsun asked.
The question was blunt. His tone was serious—but Mira could hear a trace of kindness beneath it. He considered lying. Putting on the brave face. Denying what was coursing through his veins.
"Yes, Shas'O," he said instead.
The words slipped out before he could dress them in courage.
Longsun threw his head back and laughed. His chest shook with it, and Mira felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a sympathetic smile.
"That's good. I thought I was the only sane person in the cadre who didn't enjoy being shot at."
Mira's smile widened into a grin.
"Truth be told," Longsun continued, "there's still a part of me that's just a terrified Shas'la going into battle for the first time. That fear never leaves you. But it becomes easier to step through it. Remember that."
Mira nodded as he chewed. He stole a glance upward. The commander was leaning back, eyes on the ceiling, momentarily distant.
Mira wanted to ask a dozen questions. Longsun was the vestige of everything a Fire Warrior should strive to become—second, in Mira's mind at least, only to Farsight himself.
But before he could speak, the space erupted in noise—chirps, hoots, shrieks.
Then chaos.
The murmurs of resting warriors died in an instant, replaced by the scrape of armor and the clack of weapons as over a hundred Tau scrambled to their feet.
A group of Gue'la crew burst into the compartment in a panicked rush.
Mira looked to Longsun—already on his feet, pistol drawn—
—and then sharp cracks filled the air. Misty blooms of red burst around the running humans. They fell hard.
Mira's eyes snapped past the collapsing prey.
Kroot pack hounds pursued the survivors. Those who were only wounded were seized by the four-legged carnivores, dragged down in a frenzy of snapping jaws. A squadron of avians plunged from above, talons and beaks tearing at faces and eyes. The humans screamed, stumbling, blind and flailing.
Then the Kroot kinbands caught up to harvest.
Knives, cleavers, and scythes mounted to crude rifles punched into chest cavities and opened throats with practiced economy.
One star-sailor broke through the slaughter and sprinted straight toward Mira.
It wasn't targeted—just blind panic. Mira wasn't sure the human had even noticed him, the commander, or the cadre. He was only trying to escape the pursuing predators.
An idea sparked in Mira's mind.
Take him alive.
Intelligence could matter—layout, defenses, intent. Something.
Mira stepped forward, placing himself between the sailor and the commander. He dug his boots into the deck grating, bracing. He pictured the leverage: catch the human at the midpoint, use the momentum against him, turn and throw—
But the sailor saw him.
He straightened out of his sprint, tried to break his run, eyes darting for another route.
Mira realized his mistake.
There was no escape route.
He had shown the snare too early.
Now the human wasn't prey caught in a trap. He was a cornered animal—wild, desperate, and ready to kill.
The sailor's eyes locked onto Mira's with sudden clarity.
He wouldn't survive. But he wanted one thing—to take a life with him. To rage against the dying of his own light.
Mira could read it in his stare.
He thought back to the briefing holos—how ferociously the Gue'vesa had fought. How even killing blows didn't always stop them quickly. He remembered the knife in a dying woman's hand and wondered if the human rushing him carried one too.
He imagined the slice.
The spill of his life across the deck.
Will his cowardice show in his final moments?
Then the sailor jerked, twisted, and collapsed at Mira's feet.
A Kroot arrow jutted from his back.
Whoops and clicks and rattling quills rose as the hunting party closed in. The victorious stepped forward to claim what they had felled.
Commander Longsun moved to Mira's side as the Kroot bowman retrieved the arrow with a wet tug.
The dying human still reached forward, clawing for one final kill.
The Kroot answered by slitting his throat.
A horrific gurgle bubbled up—and died.
The Kroot hoisted the corpse over his shoulder.
Only then did he seem to truly notice the Tau standing before him. He dipped into a slight bow and greeted them in heavily accented T'au-sía.
"The T'au'va has provided rich hunting grounds this day."
The words were awkward through his beak—hard pauses, clipped grammar punctuated by clicks; smoother sounds accompanied by a faint whistle. But his confidence didn't waver.
"We give thanks to you, O'Shas'a'ng, for providing not only the prey… but the pursuit as well."
Longsun bowed stiffly from the waist—an unnecessary gesture for one of his rank—and made the sign of the gracious host.
"It is my pleasure to fight alongside your kind once more," Longsun replied. "I know no finer hunters I would rather bring to war against the Gue'la empire."
The Kroot laughed as he walked away. It was not laughter as Mira understood it—no warmth, no mirth. Only a rapid clicking of tongue against beak and the rattle of quills.
It did not sound like joy.
It sounded like a predator attempting to mimic it.
Mira knew the Kroot ate the flesh of their victims. The academy had made a priority of teaching auxiliary doctrine—focusing especially on how to tolerate the more uncomfortable habits. Mira held his gaze as long as he could, then looked away.
He had been told it was vital to Kroot biology, but it disturbed him nonetheless. In quieter moments he wondered why. Most species—including his own—ate meat.
Perhaps it was the sentience of it.
Longsun returned to sitting with his back against the bulkhead. When Mira met his gaze, the commander asked another question.
"May I offer you a maxim I learned as a young Shas'la?"
Mira couldn't help a small smile. The humor of being asked permission to receive wisdom from the expedition commander almost made him forget where they were.
"Of course, Shas'O."
Mira sat back down and made the sign of the receptive student.
"Why stand when you can sit," Longsun said as he joined Mira on the deck, "why sit when you can lie down—" he tilted back and stretched out "—and when you can lie down, sleep."
He tried to keep the line solemn, but a grin broke across his face.
Mira chuckled.
"I took it to heart for selfish reasons," Longsun admitted, "but it made me a better leader. Every time I felt discomfort, it reminded me my team felt it too." His grin softened. "The real maxim is this: a leader remains stoic in adversity, while his warriors look cared for."
Mira nodded, fingers beginning the sign of a lesson heard—then hesitating before finishing the sign of understanding.
The academy taught stoicism as a core trait of the Fire Caste. They taught it with sun-baked hours standing on uneven ground, with silent marches measured in tor'kan. But hearing the principle framed like this—as care, not pride—made it feel new.
Their moment was cut short as Skysword approached.
He remained standing while Longsun lounged with legs stretched before him, almost indecently comfortable for a commander in a warship corridor.
Skysword clicked his tongue.
"Shame on you, Commander. You should not infect our young strike warriors with your poor work ethic."
Longsun clutched at his breastplate as if wounded.
"Skysword, I am appalled at your accusation. My work ethic is just as strong now as it was when I was a Shas'la."
"You are correct," Skysword replied dryly, "to my great annoyance. You never improved, despite our mentor's best efforts. I fear it drove him to early retirement."
Longsun chuckled as he pushed himself upright. Mira scrambled to his feet as well—
—which earned him a look of admonishment from Longsun, followed immediately by a grin and a wink.
"Commander," Skysword said, the humor fading, "the forces you requested are in place. Sensors detect a large concentration of Gue'la forces beyond this bulkhead."
"I suppose it would be rude to keep them waiting." Longsun paused, turning back to Mira. "Until we meet again, Shas'la… I offer contrition. I don't believe I ever asked your name."
"I am Shas'la D'yanoi Mira," Mira said, "from the First La'rua of Inspiring Wind."
He made the sign of the humble servant and dipped into a shallow bow. Longsun returned the appropriate sign.
"Well met, Shas'la Mira. I will seek you out at the battle's conclusion. I would hear the strike warrior's perspective on this operation."
Longsun climbed back into his battlesuit. The hatch sealed. He raised his twin plasma rifles in salute as he departed.
Mira wasn't alone for long. Nirva joined him.
"Comrade," Nirva said, voice muffled by his helmet, "I fear this battle has exhausted my mind. I could have sworn I just witnessed you casually conversing with the commander."
Mira grinned.
"Jealousy is unbecoming of a Fire Warrior," Mira said, "and you in particular do not wear it well."
Nirva groaned.
"I need to get you back to people of our standing before you forget your station. By the T'au'va—one conversation with a commander and you start with the philosophical grox-waste."
With each step, Mira's mind returned to duty—to the bulkhead, to the pressure behind it, to the fight waiting just beyond the wall.
He swallowed hard and pulled his helmet back on.