The shuttle's descent into the Ark felt surreal after the chaos of Sector Twelve. Arthur sat across from Miranda, Ocean, and Flower, watching the transitions play across their faces—exhaustion giving way to something like wonder as the reality settled in.
"We killed a Lord-class," Flower said for perhaps the tenth time, her voice still carrying that note of disbelief. "Mass-produced units like Ocean and me. We actually—"
"You performed exceptionally," Miranda interrupted gently. "Both of you. That wasn't luck or circumstance. That was skill and coordination."
Ocean's expression remained composed, but Arthur caught the slight tremor in her hands as she checked her weapon for the third time. "Central Command's propaganda says mass-produced Nikkes can't handle high-level threats without custom-built leadership. They use it to justify the tiered treatment, the differential resource allocation."
"Propaganda's only effective until reality contradicts it," Arthur said, adjusting the reinforced pouch containing the Harmony Cube. The crystalline device still pulsed with faint warmth against his vest. "You just provided that contradiction. Command's going to have to acknowledge it."
The shuttle touched down in Bay Seven—a significant upgrade from the isolated Bay Twenty-Three where Squad Thirteen operated. The loading area was already crowded with personnel, security teams in full tactical gear forming a perimeter around the landing pad. Through the viewport, Arthur spotted 6O practically bouncing on her heels near the entrance ramp, her blonde braids swaying with barely contained excitement.
The moment the hatch opened, their operator rushed forward. "You're back! You're safe! Oh my goodness, when the telemetry showed a Lord-class signature I thought—but you did it! You actually defeated it and recovered the Harmony Cube and—" She paused, suddenly self-conscious about her enthusiasm in front of the security detail. "Commander Cousland, if you'll follow me please. Command has requested immediate debriefing."
Arthur climbed down, his prosthetic legs handling the transition smoothly despite the heat damage to his shoulder joint. The security team moved in immediately, their attention fixed not on the squad but on the pouch he carried.
"Commander," the lead security officer said, a woman with lieutenant's insignia and cold eyes. "The Harmony Cube, please."
Arthur unsealed the pouch, withdrawing the crystalline device with careful reverence. The cube's internal light pulsed hypnotically, blues and purples flowing through its structure. A team of scientists waited nearby with a specialized containment unit, their expressions mixing professional focus with barely suppressed excitement.
"Extraordinary," one breathed as Arthur handed over the cube. "After a hundred years, to find one intact—the research applications alone—"
"Secure it," the lieutenant interrupted. "Command wants it in the research facility within ten minutes."
The scientists departed quickly, cradling their prize with reverent care. Arthur watched them go, wondering what exactly they'd recovered. Technology that could reduce memory fragmentation, improve neural-synthetic integration—for Nikkes like Flower who'd forgotten their original names, like Lyra with her damaged memories, this could be genuinely life-changing.
If Command chose to use it that way.
"This way, Commander," 6O said, gesturing toward the interior corridors. Her earlier excitement had subdued slightly, replaced by something more guarded. "Your squad should accompany you for the initial report."
They moved through the Ark's upper levels, drawing stares from personnel unused to seeing combat teams fresh from surface deployment. Arthur caught snatches of whispered conversation—"Lord-class," "Harmony Cube," "Outer Rim commander"—his reputation apparently spreading faster than he'd anticipated.
The debriefing room was located in Command Section, a sterile space dominated by a conference table and display screens showing telemetry from their mission. Deputy Chief Andersen waited inside, along with Commander General Hawthorne—Arthur's graduation nemesis—and a woman he didn't recognize wearing civilian clothes with subtle Tetra Line corporate insignia.
"Commander Cousland," Andersen said, gesturing to seats. "Please, all of you. This is Ms. Akiyama from Tetra Line's Research Division. She has some questions about the Harmony Cube's recovery."
They sat, Arthur positioning himself at the table's center with his squad flanking him. Hawthorne's expression was carefully neutral, but Arthur caught the tightness around his eyes—displeasure, or perhaps calculation.
The debriefing proceeded methodically. Arthur provided tactical assessment of the warehouse complex, the Ant-type Raptures' defensive positioning, the containment unit's discovery. 6O supplemented with telemetry data, showing their approach vectors and resource recovery efficiency.
"And the Lord-class engagement?" Akiyama asked, her stylus moving across a data pad. "Your report indicates your squad destroyed a Thermite-class Rapture without casualties. That's... unusual for temporary squad formations."
"The squad performed exceptionally," Arthur said. "Miranda's tactical assessment, Ocean's precision targeting, Flower's timing with explosive ordinance—all critical to survival and mission success."
Flower shifted beside him, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. Ocean remained composed, but Arthur saw her subtle nod of acknowledgment.
"Yes, about that," Hawthorne interjected, his tone carefully measured. "Commander Cousland, your after-action reports from both Squad Thirteen and Squad Seven show remarkably consistent patterns. High unit cohesion, minimal casualties, extraordinary performance from mass-produced Nikkes who've been... problematic under other commanders."
"I'm not sure I understand the concern, sir," Arthur replied evenly. "Successful missions with minimal losses should be encouraged."
"The concern, Commander, is sustainability." Hawthorne leaned forward, his expression hardening. "You've now commanded two separate squads for brief rotations. Both times, you've achieved results that contradict established performance baselines for those units. Which suggests either the baselines are wrong—calling into question decades of operational doctrine—or you're implementing methods that may be... problematic long-term."
Arthur felt the temperature in the room drop. "Problematic how?"
"You're forming emotional attachments," Hawthorne said bluntly. "The rotation protocol exists specifically to prevent commanders from viewing Nikkes as anything beyond combat assets. Emotional compromise leads to poor tactical decisions, hesitation in critical moments, inability to make necessary sacrifices."
"Respectfully, sir, that's bullshit."
The room went silent. Miranda tensed beside him, and 6O made a small sound of distress.
Hawthorne's expression turned dangerous. "Excuse me?"
"Emotional attachment—mutual trust, unit cohesion, respect—those aren't liabilities in combat." Arthur kept his voice level despite the anger rising in his chest. "They're force multipliers. My squads perform well because they know I value their lives as much as my own. Because they trust I won't waste them on pointless objectives or use them as expendable shields. That trust translates to better coordination, faster decision-making, willingness to take calculated risks instead of just following orders blindly."
"It also translates to commanders who refuse orders," Hawthorne countered. "Who prioritize individual Nikkes over mission objectives. Who undermine the chain of command because they've convinced themselves they know better than Central Command's strategic planning."
"Maybe I do," Arthur said quietly. "Given that my missions succeed while yours get commanders killed."
Hawthorne stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "You arrogant—Commander Cousland, you are a *probationary* graduate with exactly two missions completed. Your success is statistical noise, not vindication of your methods. And your attitude is grounds for disciplinary review or outright dismissal from the Academy program."
Arthur started to respond, but Andersen raised a hand. "That's enough, Commander General. Ms. Akiyama, do you have further questions?"
The Tetra Line representative shook her head slowly, her expression thoughtful. "No, Deputy Chief. The recovery operation appears straightforward. Tetra Line thanks Commander Cousland and Squad Seven for their service."
"Then this debriefing is concluded," Andersen said. "Squad Seven, you're dismissed. Commander Cousland, remain please."
Miranda hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave Arthur alone with hostile superiors. Ocean and Flower looked similarly concerned. But orders were orders. They filed out, 6O casting one worried glance back before the door sealed.
Arthur sat alone facing three superior officers, acutely aware of how vulnerable his position had become.
"Commander Cousland," Hawthorne began, his voice cold with suppressed anger. "Your Academy sponsorship is classified, but that protection has limits. Continue undermining doctrine and challenging authority, and I will personally ensure—"
"Commander General." Andersen's tone carried warning. "That's premature."
"Premature? Deputy Chief, this man is—"
The door opened without warning. A woman entered, tall and elegant in an immaculate dark suit, her silver hair pulled back severely, her eyes sharp behind thin-rimmed glasses. She carried herself with absolute authority, the kind that didn't need introduction or explanation.
Hawthorne stopped mid-sentence, his face paling slightly. Even Andersen straightened, something like wariness crossing his expression.
"Gentlemen," the woman said pleasantly. "I hope I'm not interrupting. I heard Commander Cousland was being debriefed and thought I'd check in personally."
"Director," Hawthorne managed. "We weren't expecting—"
"No, I imagine not." She smiled, the expression warm but somehow dangerous. "Commander Cousland, a pleasure to finally meet in person. Your performance has been quite impressive. Both missions exceeding projected parameters, squad cohesion metrics well above baseline, and now successful recovery of lost pre-war technology. Most promising."
Arthur stood, instinctively recognizing this woman represented something beyond normal command structure. "Thank you, ma'am. Though I'm not sure we've been introduced."
"No, we haven't. Not formally." She extended a hand, her grip firm and confident. "Director Sarah Caldwell, Strategic Research Division. I'm also your Academy sponsor."
The revelation landed like a physical blow. Arthur heard Hawthorne's sharp intake of breath, saw Andersen's expression shift to carefully controlled surprise.
"My... sponsor," Arthur repeated slowly.
"Yes. I've been watching your career with great interest, Commander. Your background, your unique qualifications, your approach to command—all exactly what I was hoping to find when I authorized your Academy admission." Director Caldwell turned to Hawthorne, her pleasant expression never wavering. "Commander General, I understand you have concerns about Commander Cousland's methods. Those concerns are noted. However, I would ask that you allow my project to continue without administrative interference. The Strategic Research Division has specific objectives regarding command doctrine evolution, and Commander Cousland is central to that research."
"Director, with respect, unorthodox methods can't simply—"
"With respect, Commander General, they can when I authorize them." The steel beneath her pleasant tone became evident. "Commander Cousland operates under my authority. His continued assessment requires operational freedom. I trust that won't be a problem?"
It wasn't a question.
Hawthorne's jaw worked silently for a moment before he managed, "No, Director. No problem."
"Excellent." Director Caldwell turned back to Arthur, her expression warming marginally. "Commander, you have a seventy-two-hour stand-down before your next assignment. I suggest you use it productively. Your previous squad, Squad Thirteen, has formally requested permanent assignment under your command. I've approved that request, contingent on your agreement. Report to my office tomorrow at 0900 if you accept. We have much to discuss."
She departed as abruptly as she'd arrived, leaving silence in her wake.
Andersen was the first to speak. "Commander Cousland, you're dismissed."
Arthur saluted mechanically and left, his mind racing. Director Sarah Caldwell, Strategic Research Division. His mysterious sponsor finally revealed, not as some benevolent patron but as someone with clear objectives involving his unorthodox approach to command. Someone powerful enough to override a Commander General's authority.
Someone who'd been watching him long before the Academy.
The corridor outside was empty except for Squad Seven, waiting despite their dismissal. Miranda approached immediately, her expression concerned. "Commander? Are you—"
"I'm fine," Arthur said, still processing what had just happened. "Mission complete. You're all officially cleared and commended."
"That's not what I asked," Miranda said softly. Then, before Arthur could respond, she leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth—brief, warm, unmistakable intent. "Keep leading the way you do, and I might follow you home one day. Fair warning."
She pulled back with a slight smile, then nodded to Ocean and Flower. "Come on. Let's get back to our assignments before Command remembers we exist."
Ocean paused beside Arthur. "Commander... thank you. For treating us like soldiers. Like people. That matters more than you know."
Flower was less composed, her eyes bright. "I'll remember this mission. I'll remember fighting beside you. Even if I can't remember anything else, I'll remember that."
They departed, leaving Arthur alone in the corridor with more questions than answers. Director Caldwell's intervention had protected him, yes, but it also meant he was part of something larger—a project, research into command doctrine evolution.
He was being used. The question was whether their objectives aligned with his own.
Arthur headed back toward his quarters, his prosthetic shoulder still aching from heat damage, his mind full of crystalline cubes and Lord-class Raptures and mysterious directors who appeared at exactly the right moment.
Tomorrow at 0900, he'd get answers. Tonight, he had seventy-two hours of freedom and a decision to make.
Squad Thirteen wanted him permanently. Scarlet, Lyra, Nyx—the outcasts who'd trusted him first, who'd started this entire unexpected journey.
The choice should have been easy.
Somehow, Arthur suspected nothing about his future would be easy again.