NYTALYAN’S EYE FLUTTERS. The woven cloth prevents her view. Pain prevents her arm from reaching for—gauze. Her right eye is protected by a layer of gauze. Seconds ago, she escorted Saltāl into the command center. Now she’s prone.

She gave Svetlana the data crystal.

Buzzing in her ears drowns any other noise.

Sitting up—prevented by—

A hand pats her shoulder.

Flakes of light pierce two holes in the gauze. So many questions. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears. Think back.

••••••

THE SOLDIERS QUESTIONED and inspected them at the entrance point. She was shuttled on through. They questioned Saltāl further, concerned about his extended times off the compound and his need to wear a protective vest. She heard Saltāl explain about his mission status and needing protection from any Shalenotun rebels.

What status? What mission?

It’s a lie. Not an issue for her, considering they engaged in tenuous activities. But why necessitate an untruth possibly confirmable? She answers her own question. Because low level perfunctorilies don’t question those who out rank them. Saltāl’s orders seem to come straight from Mokarran command.

Fear—fear keeps them all in line.

A strap keeps Nytalyan’s arm from lifting. She needs to move the gauze. She needs to see.

Saltāl never seemed concerned as the guards triple checked his vest. He must have worn it through many checkpoints, allowing him the opportunity to practice his calm.

She remembers speaking to Svetlana for a moment before she assumed her post.

The buzzing and the gauze need to go. Nytalyan wants up. Spasms tense her back from being lashed to a hard surface.

Departing Mokarran command members overwhelm the control center. Even before her transfer to Shalenotun, Nytalyan’s never seen so many Mokarran in one chamber. The Shalenotun insurgents would never pass the opportunity to damage this many Mokarran at once. Plasma and projectile weapons would never pass security. Nor would any Shalenotun. It had to be a command member. A trusted command member. And no one in command would betray the Mokarran.

If someone would turn down the buzzing she could hear.

For being at the controlled environment of command, her skin remains moist. It’s only been minutes since they arrived. As dry as the atmosphere makes her, she shouldn’t have this level of discomfort.

Nytalyan needed only half a minute to interact with Svetlana. She slipped her the data crystal containing all she translated of the Mokarran religious sermons.

Nytalyan desires sleep.

When she closes her right eye, the buzzing quells. Sleep’s not possible even if the buzzing volume lowers.

Saltāl didn’t follow her to her command station. The insurgents realized they had one last chance to damage—

Nytalyan remembers she was caught in command when the shuttle blew. Insurgents destroyed the shuttle. Power cells aggrandized the explosion. Mokarran shuttlecraft lack the shield capacity of heavy battle craft. Enhanced shields actually hold in the explosion for a quarter second, allowing those with enough dexterity to move away from the impending blast. Still death for most, but those few far enough away may spare the ventral organs major degree burns.

Why cover my eyes in gauze? Why don’t I remember—

Nytalyan gave the data crystal to Svetlana, warning her of an imminent attack. Within seconds of a disaster the Mokarran lock down all communication—seconds are all Svetlana needs.

Nytalyan had no idea the distraction would be the destruction of command. Her mind distracts her from the spasms. Arcing pain raises her body as high as the straps allow.

Gauze. Pain.

The shuttle approaches command. Nytalyan saw it. The flash.

Head trauma damages short-term memory. The last few seconds, possibly minutes, fail to record.

The blast destroyed the shuttle. So many Mokarran leadership. A better target than children. The insurgence hoped to gain support through the deaths of so many innocents, but the Mokarran spin doctors’ propaganda machine twisted misinformation and prevented the uprising necessary to secede from the Tri-Star Federation.

Shalenotun won’t be released from the TSF. The shipyards building the latest in battle cruisers necessary to stave the Throgen Empire won’t be surrendered. Mokarran council will evacuate, and if necessary outside personnel will flood the planet to access the necessary resources.

Her right eye flutters against the gauze. She needs to see. Stretching would decrease the pincer in her back.

Her memory swims around the shuttle. The explosive blast swept over the craft, not the opposite.

Nytalyan doesn’t want to accept the memory flash. She slipped Svetlana the data crystal. Before she returned to her station, Saltāl burst into the control chamber. No, he marches in as if to deliver vital information to his Mokarran handler. Reaching the conclave—

Guilt.

I should have known.

I should have prevented.

I should have loved him.

Those Mokarran were the hierocracy of command for this sector of the galaxy. If they were all killed in the blast, a major upheaval would cripple the command structure. Not only Shalenotun, but half a dozen other systems will rise in rebellion.

No tears will flow for her friend, even if she could cry.

Nytalyan questions if Svetlana transmitted her data.

She finds herself floating into the air.

No—the backboard has been hoisted.

The gauze slips from her right eye.

Teams of TSF medics cleanse command.

Success?

Saltāl may have felt he protected her further by destroying command with her in it. No operative would risk being in a bomb blast. Had Saltāl confided in her more, she might have been able to avoid being in the immediate blast radius.

The stretcher locks into place on a medical shuttle.

Buckled into a jump seat adjacent to her head, she knows the reflection. Covered in dried blood, Svetlana nods at her.

Success.

“Left dermal and complete retinal damage on the left side,” a medical voice relays.

Nytalyan asks, “Where are we—”

The medical voice knows the question. “All non-Mokarran wounded are to be transported to the space station for treatment.”