Chapter 01

Amalthea looked small from orbit.

Prince Angeline stared through the double-thick thermal glass and watched the clouds roll across the distant seas. Amalthea was more sea than land, and from the backside it looked like nothing but water. She sighed and rested her face in her palm, her elbow digging into the armrest of her seat. She was tired. She was always tired when she returned from council meetings.

She rubbed her face, her gloves smudging dried sweat at the edges of her hair before putting her helmet back on. Space travel had never been her favorite, no matter how much she did it. The shuttle shuddered and rumbled as it pulled into the orbital dock. There was a load groaning and a whirring of servos as pieces fit together and gears latched into place.

The shuttle shuddered again, and then stopped. Her clear view of the blue marble of her home was obscured now by industry, the bleached-white edges of the spaceport docks and struts.

Above her, an electric seatbelt sign flicked off.

"Everything alright, milord?" came a gruff, friendly voice at her side.

"Yes, thank you," Ange gave a flicker of a smile and stood up, her joints cracking. She waited patiently as other passengers shuffled out of their seats and down the aisle towards the exit.

If she wanted to, she could probably take a private shuttle, but she would be subject to the same ILE security screens and flight regulations. It was easier to do this. There was some public image to it, too - Prince Angeline, not too proud to sit in business class with her subjects.

The docks weren't busy. They seldom were, this far out from the coremoons, this distant in their orbital cycles. She stared out the opposing window, at the field of distant rings and moons that encircled their fair planet. The sickly-grey mass of Oprheus blotted out most of her view. She shifted her weight from one boot to the other, trying to remember her advisor's name. It wasn't that she didn't like him - the opposite, really. He was friendly. Malleable.

But he was from Halcyone, an born-and-bred imperial, no matter his politeness. He was an advisor, true, but he was also a chaperone. She chewed the inside of her lip.

The spaceport sat at the terminal apex of the Amalthean space elevator, a rope dangling down from space to the capital city, a spindle of steel and wires and glass and electronics. The elevator, too, was a gift from the ILE. A constant reminder that, names be damned, Amalthea was a vassal state. There were protests when the elevator was first built. Disputes with union workers. Blood was shed.

And now, two decades later, it was a fact of life. Intralunar travel was easier than ever, and more convenient, if you allowed yourself to be subject to the indignity of imperial searches and procedures.

It was a small mercy afforded by her station that Ange was omitted from the x-ray scans and pat-downs, though she had no doubts at all that her luggage had been pried open and thoroughly searched. And for all that effort, the imperial security force would have found nothing but boots and gloves and tunics and trousers. She brought very little on her travels. She kept her flight helmet on as she moved through the spaceport. Better to not draw attention.

They picked up their luggage and slipped through the glass double-doors, some relief dripping into her by the sight of her own people, her own colors. Spaceports were tensely shared territory - on this side of the bright yellow double-line, it was imperial territory. On the other, the flag of the USF shared space with the flag of Amalthea - the royal crest proudly on display, a snake devouring its own tail. For all her childhood, Ange had been told it was about the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. She stared at the flag, watching as it shuddered in the cool recirculated air.

The crest was on the arms of Amalthean security officers, too, who saluted as Ange passed. She stopped and smiled, bowing slightly before straightening. Here, huge bay windows looked out on their small moon, far below them. And beyond that, the deep blacks of space marred only by the stray orbits of other moons.

Ange's reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the space elevator's platform. It was a piece of public transportation in its own right, a triple-decker chamber with seats for the long journey. Now, though, the elevator was empty. It took a moment for her to realize why.

It was silent, for a moment, before the bootfalls came. Local security forces, their gloved hands wrapped around bolt-action rifles, their guns leveled at their charges.

"Who are they?" Ange asked, tipping her face towards her advisor. He held a data tablet and summoned the information to hand.

"Terrorists, milord," his voice was low and furtive. "You'll recall the explosion at the communications facility in North River?"

"Terrorists," Ange felt the shape of the word in her mouth. "Not imperial soldiers?"

"No, ma'am. The Intralunar Empire has claimed no responsibility for the attack. They maintain that they perform no military operations on USF soil."

"So they say," Ange said doubtfully. "They're bound for tribunal?"

"It's all for show. They were caught in the act. They'll be executed as terrorists, as per USF policy." "Mm," Ange nodded noncommittally.

They would be taken to Cressida, the moon which housed the USF central council and the interlunar courts.

"Shame," Ange said at last. She reached up to her helmet and lifted the visor so she could get a better look at the erstwhile terrorists.

"And that one on the end?" Ange tilted her head closer. "Why is that one muzzled?" She stared across the hangar at a haggard-looking woman with dull golden hair. She, too, was broken - a bandaged wound around her head, covering one eye. She had more bandages on one arm. The lower half of her face was caged behind black bands of metal.

The advisor frowned and checked his tablet again. "Bite risk. She allegedly tore out a guard's throat with her teeth." He grimaced and checked his watch. "Ma'am, we should really be going. The high lords will be expecting your report."

"Of course." She hated the high lords, just as she hated the commute between her home and any given coremoon. She dreaded the descent - no amount of frills or cushions or grav-shifting could dull the nausea of orbit-to-surface deceleration. She didn't used to get sick like this. Maybe she was getting older.

She put her visor down and checked for her ID card, distracted for a mere moment when a sound broke the placid stillness of the port. There was a shout, a scream, something breaking. Before she was able to even turn, Ange felt a sharp force in her lower back. She was shoved forward and glimpsed the edge of a shiv as it slashed through her advisor's throat. His blood sprayed hot and red across the sleeve of her uniform.

The world moved as if in slow motion, each single action taking years, centuries. The body behind her was strong, taller than her, and it braced her tightly, whirling her around like a dance partner, and then she could feel the prick of the blade beneath her helmet, the tip pointed at the soft edge of rubber which would seal tight. Now, her helmet was loose, and her skin was raw and vulnerable.

The guards moved quickly, raising their rifles and pointing them at the pair of dancing bodies.

"No!" Ange shouted. "Don't shoot!" She could feel herself being dragged backwards, towards the hangars. She took the moment to get her bearings, eyes flitting between the guards and their raised rifles, the blood pooling beneath her advisor's lifeless body. The prisoners - minus one, now. The girl with the muzzle. Of course.

"What do you want?" Ange asked, gritting her teeth as she was dragged through a maintenance hatch. The girl threw her roughly to the floor and turned to shut the steel doors and smash the controls. They could hear the muted drone of alarm sirens beyond.

The prisoner grunted, roughly gripping Ange's arm and hauling her to her feet. She could feel the blade pressing against the small of her back. "Just looking for a ride."

She shoved Ange forward and forced her to march at knifepoint through the maintenance shaft. The passageway was narrow, just barely big enough for the two of them.

They reached another safety hatch, its outlines marked with fire-orange tape. The hatch didn't open. The prisoner lashed out, kicking the door in frustration. They were close enough for Ange to get a better look at the prisoner - her haggard expression, the bandages over half of her face, her worn boots and thin, pale skin marred with bruises, the unmistakable iron scent of blood. She slammed her shoulder against the hatch, frustration boiling up and over her cool exterior.

"You!" she snapped, whirling around and slipping the knife towards Ange's chest. "Open it!"

Ange held out her hands. "Okay," she said. "Okay." She reached into her pocket and withdrew her plastic ID card, whose metadata would - theoretically - allow her to open any door in Amalthean territory. She didn't want to know what would happen if it didn't work, and she was trapped here with a desperate terrorist.

The card, when tapped against the e-lock, produced results. The hatch slid open with a pneumatic hiss and they felt an influx of cold, stale air. The prisoner forced Ange out first and they marched into the cold. The hangar was military, so there was nothing to steal but combat mechs. It was good enough.

The prisoner dragged Ange to the side of a combat mech painted in Imperial colors. She kicked, slamming her boots into the back of Ange's knees and sending her buckling to the floor before shoving her away. Ange's crumpled body remained as a shield, a warning to prevent any stray shots from the rapidly-approaching guards.

Imperial and Amalthean security alike spilled through the doors, rifles raised, muzzles flashing. Bullets plinked harmlessly off the sides of the mech as it began to whir to life.

The girl must have been a trained pilot - she was quick to boot it up and get the engines turning. Ange could see her through the cockpit and watched as she turned the mech's upper half, pointing it towards the doors.

A blast of heat filled the hangar as a beam of light splashed against the doors. They held for a minute, glowing bright white-yellow before bowing outwards. The hangar doors burst open and the vacuum of space took over, pulling everything towards its maw.

Ange, thankful for her foresight, reached up to seal her helmet. The guards who were less lucky tumbled down the floor and towards the grasping vacuum of space. Ange stumbled to the wall and gripped onto a safety railing. She watched in twinned horror and amazement as guards tumbled towards the melted hangar door, their bodies splattering uselessly against the metal, fragments of humans pulling out into space.

And then the doors closed, and the mech was gone.

Ange scrambled towards the maintenance shaft and back towards the wide bay windows, flanked by her own soldiers who flocked to her side.

"Milord, get behind me!" one of the guards shouted, his badge proclaiming him a local captain. He tried and failed to catch up as Ange clambered up the stairs and out into the elevator dock.

The other prisoners had been executed - no sense in prolonging the inevitable, then. Their crumpled bodies slumped in pools of blood against the window, the glass chipped and cracked where bullets had harmlessly struck them.

Ange pressed her hands to the window and stared out into open space, eyes searching for the mech.

She spotted it at last, not for itself but for a flash of light. Another beam of heat sliced through open space, bisecting a security mech that had scrambled to intercept.

The prisoner-pilot was good. She let the laser cool off while she switched to physical munitions, plastering another oncoming mech with machine-gun fire. Bullets couldn't pierce the armor itself, but the pilot was smart - her shots pinged against the joints, severing wires and cables amd leaving the enemy's weapon-arm useless and dangling in low-orbit gravity.

The prisoner gunned the engines and slammed her mech's shoulder against her foe before drawing her blade, a sword that she used to cleanly pierce the cockpit. Blood sprayed the cockpit glass and exploded out into space.

In her combat-fervor, the prisoner's mech whirled around, cannons raised to fire on - "No!" Ange shouted.

A laser beam clipped the tail of a transport shuttle, sending it spiralling dangerously towards the dock.

"Give me a radio!" Ange shouted at one of the guards. "Now!"

The mech raised its machine-cannon.

"This is Prince Ange of Amalthea," Ange shouted into the radio. "Stop firing, I repeat, stop firing! That's a civilian ship!"

She stared out the window in horror, waiting for it to come. A terrorist wouldn't care about casualties. An imperial wouldn't care, either - not about Amalthean civilians.

The mech turned, and for a moment Ange could see through it, through her own glass bay window, through the vast distance of empty space and the cockpit glass, at the haggard and bandaged pilot.

The mech's gun lowered.

"Thank you," Ange said into the radio. "Thank you."

The pilot stared at her.

Ange took her helmet off. She lifted the radio again. "Whoever you are, th-"

Before her sentence finished, a projectile crashed through the mech. breaking it into splinters of metal. Ange recognized immediately the handiwork of the imperial defense railguns. A single shot was enough.

Ange stared out the window at the pieces of trash floating through space, the broken limbs and glittering metal of the destroyed mech. The cockpit's auto-eject had done its job, and among the debris and refuse was a small capsule, about the shape of a human body. It spun, slightly, and after a minute a small red light began blinking on it.