Chapter 1
Commander Benjamin Roderick disliked offices. He merely tolerated them, mostly out of respect for those under his command. Ben did respect the necessity of reports, logistics, strategic briefings, and the endless parade of signatures that came with commanding an entire solar sector. Aware that administrations won wars long before any soldiers ever reached the battlefield. Yet he knew offices was where commanders slowly became strangers, and Ben refused to become one of those.
His patrol cruiser descended through the thin amber atmosphere of Haven’s Reach, a mining colony so remote that supply ships often arrived months behind schedule. The settlement clung to the rocky plateau beneath them, little more than a cluster of steel domes, landing pads, and weather towers fighting against relentless desert winds. It was exactly the sort of place senior officers rarely visited, which was exactly why Ben was there.
The landing struts settled onto the pad with a muted hiss as the engines wound down. Before the crew could lower the boarding ramp completely, Ben was already fastening the collar of his field coat.
“Commander Roderick.” A voice spoke out to him.
Ben paused for a moment as he was aware of the ship’s AI that was consulting him like it always did on missions.
“What is it?” he asked.
“You have that look again.”
“What look?” Ben asked.
“The one that says you’re about to ignore the prepared itinerary.”
Ben laughed, as the machine could read him better than people could these days and he was unsure if that was fascinating or outright scary.
“Field officers spent three days approving the itinerary.”
“I am aware of that,” Ben replied.
“And now you’re going to ignore it.”
Ben shrugged.
“They already know how to salute.” Ben explained, “And I am above such formalities. I’m here to check up on morale, not bust people’s balls.”
The colony commander nearly choked on his greeting when Ben walked straight past the assembled honor guard.
“Commander Roderick!” the colony commander called out.
Ben waved without stopping.
“They look sharp,” Ben called back. “Tell them I noticed.”
“Well, that was better than your last greeting.”
“Fair point,” Ben whispered, so no one could see him possibly speaking to himself.
Ben headed toward the maintenance hangars where several Rocket Patrol mechanics were knee-deep inside an engine housing. One of them looked up, saw the sector commander approaching, and immediately tried to stand. His head struck the underside of the engine, and a metallic clang echoed through the bay. Ben couldn’t help but laugh.
“Easy there,” Ben said as he offered the mechanic a hand and heled him back to his feet.
The mechanic rubbed his head, mortified.
“Commander,” the mechanic started, “I didn’t know you were…”
“If I’d announced myself,” Ben interrupted, “Then I’d never see what this place actually looks like. It defeats the purpose, don’t you agree?”
Ben crouched beside the engine.
“What’ve we got here?” Ben casually asked.
The mechanics exchanged surprised glances before one of them finally managed to spit out an answer.
“Injector manifold keeps overheating.” The mechanic answered.
“How man replacements does that make?” Ben inquired.
“Third?” the mechanic answered.
“Four according to inventory, Commander.”
“Fourth,” the other mechanic corrected him.
Ben reached into the housing, pointed toward a stress fracture hidden beneath a coolant line.
“There,” Ben said, pointing it out to the two mechanics.
The mechanics leaned closer.
“You’ve got vibration fatigue from the new alloy casting.” Ben informed them, much to the surprise of both men.
“How did you spot that?” the head mechanic asked.
“I spent more than a few years fixing engines,” Ben explained, “And then somebody decided I should supervise people instead. You’d be surprised how handy it is to have some patrollers out there who know how to fix something when out in the middle of nowhere.”
The hangar relaxed almost immediately. Within minutes they were discussing modifications, supply shortages, and improvised repairs instead of speaking in stiff military formalities, which was exactly how Ben preferred it.
The afternoon passed the same way. Commander Roderick ate in the enlisted mess instead of the officers’ lounge. He played two hands of cards with security personnel during their break and even helped unload medical supplies simply because there were boxes to carry. More than once, someone remarked that a commander shouldn’t be doing manual labor, and Ben always gave them the same answer.
“If I’m too important to carry a crate,” Ben would tell them, “Then I’m probably too important to command the people carrying them.”
The phrase had become something of a legend throughout the Patrol. Not because it sounded impressive, but because Ben meant it.
As the colony settled into evening, Ben climbed the observation tower overlooking the settlement. Far below, Rocket Patrol personnel moved through their routines with practiced efficiency. They were not perfect, but they never were. His people were capable, and that was what truly mattered.
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
“You know,” the voice called out, “Most commanders would’ve inspected the armory.”
Ben smiled before turning to face who was speaking to him. It was Captain Amelia Cross, the commanding officer of Haven’s Reach. She stepped onto the platform carrying two steaming cups.
“I did inspect the armory.” Ben corrected her.
“For less than ten minutes.” Amelia said.
“It was actually twelve and a half minutes, Commander.”
“It was twelve minutes, and change.” Ben corrected her, “I also inspected your mechanic bay for two hours.”
She handed him one of the steaming cups.
“They appreciated it,” she informed him.
“They’re good people,” Ben said before taking a sip.
“They are,” Amelia concurred.
They stood together watching the sunset paint the desert crimson. That silence lasted for about a minute before Captain Cross broke it.
“So why do you really come out here?” she asked.
Ben took another slow sip before answering.
“When I was a lieutenant,” Ben explained to her, “My commanding officer visited my station exactly once.”
He stared toward the horizon.
“He never learned anyone’s names,” Ben said, “When pirates attacked six months later, half my squadron died.”
Cross remained silent as she had no idea how to respond to that.
“That day I made a pledge,” Ben continued, “that if I ever commanded a sector, I would know the names of every person under my command who I was asking to risk their lives for me.”
The wind carried the distant sound of conversation upward. It was a normal wind, and rather peaceful. The kind of evening commanders hoped would last forever.
“People matter, Captain,” Ben said with a faint smile. “You can’t lead anyone if you only know them from personnel files.”
“No,” Cross said with a nod, “You can’t.”
Neither of them noticed the faint, intermittent flicker on the colony’s long-range communications array. A fluctuation so brief, that the automated diagnostics dismissed it as atmospheric interference. Nor did they know that, light-years away, another Rocket Patrol vessel had just begun drifting imperceptibly off its intended course.
A game had already begun, and no one knew it yet.
