THE ONLY COMFORT Nytalyan receives on Shalenotun VII is the Mokarran adjusting the atmosphere inside their command center to match their main command base. At least at work her eyes maintain proper moisture. Her tear ducts don’t allow for overflowing tears. If they did she’d cry for the image on the view screens.

Mokarran orders bark in her ears. Thankfully, her training consumes her as she instinctually translates the orders for all non-Mokarran staff, “Scan back to before the explosion.”

The Mokarran commander’s going to make them relive this incident—repeatedly.

Bastards have no compassion.

The view screen displays five Mokarran strolling through crowds of Shalenotun citizens. The center creature sports a green sash with command pip—civilian affairs. The Mokarran maintain civilization and promote economic growth on the planets they rule. Arguably, removing unproductive citizens improves the eco-social classes of the population. In this case, the groundbreaking of an education center.

Pelted by barbs of metal, the Mokarran disintegrate in the two blasts. The other three bombs erupt in the same flame burst, only around them dozens of thinner-skinned Shalenotun children are reduced to red clouds of mist. The white-hot metal slows as it enters soft targets, mutilating hundreds of victims—children permanently disfigured with no family assets to pay off the necessary medical repairs advanced science offers. Screams of the dying and those wishing they had perished permeate her ears. The Mokarran compound the terror. They dispatch troops over medical personnel.

So many children.

Outdated ore-processing factories rust. The dilapidated structures were to be demolished, and new education centers would be constructed. The underlying core curriculum would produce soldiers, but they would be educated.

Crowds on the view screen cheer. Another Aequipinatus linguist translates the proclamation, designating the area as the future home.

Three.

Four.

Five.

They sent in five—one bomber for each Mokarran. Not all of them got close enough to the Mokarran, but two did. Right in the middle of the translation, the Aequipinatus vaporized. All five must have worn suicide vests lined with metal scraps to exacerbate shrapnel wounds.

She’s no expert, but upon the third viewing even she notes how the fifth bomber reaches a proximity to the other four men and then they all detonate. Ingenious on the part of the insurgents. If one of them was captured, the Mokarran would herd the command staff together in order to defuse the bomb—a standard procedure—ensuring a discharge, killing those in command. Not an unknown tactical practice but a clue that someone within command feeds the insurgents information.

So many children.

The necessity of a new education facility is non-negotiable, but the herding of hundreds of children to the announcement was a pure public relations stunt, one the Mokarran normally avoid. They need control of this planet without a tyrannical fist to keep the orbital shipyards in proper operation. Revolution on this planet damages the fleet.

Foolish.

There are no more bombers. The Mokarran contingent is dead. Send in the medical teams. Restore some of the limbless children and rebuild trust among the Shalenotun. Quick humanitarian action only harms the insurgents, but the Mokarran remain villainous instead.

After the blast, even those unwounded souls shamble forward in a state of near-death, not knowing what to do or how to cope with the dying around them.

Mad, Nytalyan requests new orders. She prays her prompt will spark action.

She translates the next command, “Dispatch two more units. Deploy ground forces to secure the area.”

Newfound bravado consumes her. “Should I notify medical personnel?”

All non-Mokarran around her keep to their tasks, refusing to glance at her. She questions the command status quo in her own way and could face penalties.

“Standby medical transports,” she translates the order. “Secure the area before allowing emergency personnel within the blast zone.” Many will still die without immediate treatment. She dares not add to her risk of death by questioning command again. They might overlook her outburst as motherly emotion, but a second and she’ll never transmit the information to Admiral Kantian. Her vigilance remains questionable as on the view screen a Shalenotun toddler stares at a stump that was her right arm a few minutes ago.

A moment of hope fills her heart. A boy tears off his shirt and uses it as a bandage to staunch the bleeding of the younger child. His action sparks a wave of unwounded to do the same. Modesty forgotten as clothes shredded to rags to staunch flowing wounds. Nytalyan takes pride in the action. The Mokarran rule must fall but not with the blood of innocents.

Transport shuttles arrive. Not medical shuttles—regular transport shuttles. Nytalyan’s concern grows as no medics off-load, just men with stretchers. They grab the worst of the wounded children. She considers they might have triage stations set up away from the blast site. She paces command, as is her duty, stealing glances at strategic information off various control stations. The shuttles leave the atmosphere with the wounded for the orbital shipyards.

Nytalyan hides her concern. She has no poker face, but her species has no facial expression. They lack the muscles to smile or frown. Still, her shock could be detected. The shuttles are docking with the station in a Mokarran-only area and it lacks any medical treatment centers. She knows of the Mokarran master solution. They systematically eliminate all those they deem a waste of resources and a burden on society.

The Mokarran are not one to waste possible nutrition sources either. Without medical personnel in those station sections, the children are being transported there for only one designation—food.

Svetlana monitors communications traffic. She thwarts any off-world transmissions of this, even from being broadcasted. Nytalyan joins her at the chair-less station. “If you had your information, now would be the time to transmit. Trafficking among such a communications cluster, no one would notice my transmission.”

“I don’t keep it on me.”

“You should. Next time this occurs, I’ll do it.” Svetlana never glances away from her task.

“Saltāl wants—”

“To hell with Saltāl. He’s not here. He spends a great deal of time with Peratimas, a known insurgent.”

Nytalyan notes she didn’t even know the alien’s name. “Saltāl wouldn’t condone the bombing of children.” Not after he knows how mine died.

“Then you don’t know him.”