Shaqueem Royce Miller preferred Roy. He was twenty-two, a Nike First Class with Ground Combat KOA 11-CT, recently accepted into KALT — KAVOE Advanced Lancer Training. He wanted to become a Command Lancer, and explicitly did not want an officer commission, because he believed the strongest leaders remained beside their stellors.
The Son of Woody
His father Woody appeared over ACS aboard the Jotunn-class Samson. "I'm going to make Lancer. Lancer Specialist. Lancer First Class. Command Lancer." Woody smiled. "There it is." Roy leaned back. "Why do you always say it like that?" "Because you've told me approximately eleven thousand times."
Woody's expression became serious. "I never saw combat. My entire career." Roy stared. "You never shot at anybody?" "No." "Nobody shot at you?" "Not intentionally." Roy laughed. Woody didn't. "I spent years making sure things didn't happen. Ships didn't collide. Civilians didn't panic. Two disputes never became wars." He smiled. "Nobody writes songs about a properly inspected pressure seal." He pointed at Roy. "You young stellors talk about combat like it's validation. Serving isn't proving that you're brave enough to fight. Sometimes the best mission is the one where everybody complains that nothing happened."
The Asteroid
The asteroid rescue mission had been described as training. That description survived approximately thirty-eight minutes. The Samson was operating near the Gliese 667 C region — Leirth territory. The civilians were asteroidologists inside a partially excavated mineral body. Their distress call was real. The failure of the first Vulture rescue unit was real. The second unit disappearing was also real.
Roy's squad leader Jabocs checked each stellor personally. "Nobody plays hero." The first pirate shot struck Jabocs. His suit ruptured. The pirates did not scream. They did not announce themselves. They fired from cover and changed positions. Professional. Disciplined. Efficient. Jabocs was going into shock. Someone needed to make a decision. Leadership, Roy discovered, did not always wait for the correct insignia.
He remembered that pirates wanted resources. "Move those ore cases." He pointed toward the mining charges. "Put them there." He transmitted a deliberately sloppy withdrawal call on a frequency he suspected the pirates had compromised. Greed plus urgency could make professionals predictable. He waited until four were inside the marked zone. "Now." Four pirates collapsed. One escaped deeper into the asteroid. Roy followed. That was stupid.
The Gardener
The pirate was smaller than he expected. Female. Beylthian. She drove a knee into his side, hooked a leg behind his, and he fell. A weapon appeared in her hand, muzzle pointed at his visor. Then she lowered the rifle and threw it aside. "I surrender." Her name was Minuet Krauss.
"Why piracy?" "Terrible career guidance." She was from Hecate, in the WASP-96 system — an AMBER colony. A solar flare hit. The early-warning senticom system missed it. Gruboxes failed. Emergency stores ran out. Resupply didn't come. "What did you eat?" "Rodents." He waited for the joke. None came. "Insects. Local fauna. Plants." "And the rest?" "One family found out." Six hundred seventy-three people. Finally one Grubox arrived. Then raw food in containers — not properly radiation-shielded.
The colony director had diverted resources. Minuet requested an audience, waited almost a month, and was let in. No guards. "I stood behind him. Pretended to massage his shoulders. I reached around. And pulled as hard as I could. It opened rather easily, actually." She looked out the window at the savannah for thirty-two minutes. Then: banishment. "You could've gone somewhere outside Consortium authority." "Among aliens." "I didn't want to." "Why?" "Because I am also allowed to make bad choices."
KALT
KALT on Sudana introduced Roy to Hansen Cooper, who put him on the floor three times in under a minute. Master Lancer Marley was excellent — hard, fair, funny, and a zero-G football fanatic. They watched games over gizzeroth burgers. Roy liked Lancer First Class Felton too — her cultural specialties were culinary arts and history. "A machine can duplicate every ingredient." "Probably more accurately." She hit him. "But it doesn't know why my grandmother folded the dough that way."
The moment that changed everything lasted less than a minute. Roy returned to retrieve equipment and heard voices. Felton. Then Marley. One angry. One frightened. He saw enough. Marley stopped. Felton pulled away. Roy looked at Marley — zero-G football, gizzeroth burgers, Olivia, Francis, Gwen. Then Felton — pastries, history, her grandmother's dough.
Then someone explained what conviction could mean. Banishment. Citizenship revoked. Genetic marker. Consortium worlds legally barred from assisting the banished. Employment nearly impossible. Roy thought of Minuet. I do this because I can't do anything else. He called Woody. "What should I do?" Woody said nothing. "Dad." "What do you want me to say?" "Tell me." "No." "He might be banished." "I heard you." "Then help me!" "What does justice look like?" "That's your answer?" "No. That's your question." Roy ended the connection and sat in the dark. Gem called later. "Whatever you're deciding, I hope you can live with yourself afterward." Roy stared. "That's terrible advice." "I know."
The Hearing
The hearing took place on Krillus, a GREEN-zone ice world. Consortium judicial officials were called Domars. No theatrical jury. Marley denied assaulting her. Felton testified that he had. There was evidence. Not enough. The Domar called Roy. "Nike First Class Shaqueem Royce Miller." Roy stood. His legs felt strangely light.
He walked forward. Marley looked at him. Afraid. Not monstrous. Afraid. Roy remembered Minuet's calm voice: I'd do it again. He remembered Woody: What does justice look like? He remembered Gem: I hope you can live with yourself afterward. He remembered Felton handing him a pastry. Handmade. The Domar spoke. "Did you personally witness Master Lancer Marley sexually assault Lancer First Class Felton?"
Four days later, Roy sat inside a KAVOE transit station. A young officer sat nearby — Kraken assignment markings. "John Andelian." "Roy Miller." John looked at Roy for a moment. "You look like somebody ran over your dog." "I don't have a dog." "Then this is worse." At the door, Roy almost said nothing. Then: "Be careful what you think something deserves." John frowned. Roy shook his head. "Nothing." John Andelian walked toward his transport. He had no way of knowing that soon John would stand aboard a Kraken-class vessel, look at a living creature large enough to dwarf ships, receive an order to kill it — and discover exactly what Roy had meant.
The story continues in “The Beautiful Thing.”
