She dreamed of flying.

She didn’t see Earth, or the colonies or debris. No ships with cannons bearing down, frames with torpedoes ready to fire. Galaxies and nebula seemed to encompass the world around her, a menagerie of color and light. She had been in space many times, floated in the unfeeling void. She knew this wasn’t what it looked like, that she shouldn’t be surviving without layers of steel and coated fiberglass. But there she was.

She stepped forward, and knew she wouldn’t fall. There wasn’t a floor beneath her, she didn’t feel anything beneath her feet, but there she was, as if on a dance floor. Another step, longer this time, a little leap, a skip. There was nothing that would stop her; she would dance until her legs went out, her life fulfilled. This was joy, this was why humanity came here in the first place: to dance.

The weight of the universe shifted for just a second. Next to her was a being of starlight. She knew who it was, she always knew. But the words never came, the name stayed off her lips. The being was shorter than her by a hair, just as she remembered, but when she looked at their face, her eyes turned away. She couldn’t bear to look.

The being slowly, achingly took her hand. They stepped, and so did she. They walked as they always did, as they remembered, as it should have been. Before it all. Before raids gone wrong and letters left on desks and condolences delivered by courier. There was this; two people facing the universe together.

The mandatory 0600 relative time alarm Vallum station used had a trick to it. In actuality, the alarm started quieter at 0545, and steadily increased in volume. Public scientists had figured out that loud bursts to indicate time was a fool’s errand; it didn’t give the brain time to let it’s neurotransmitters warm up, and lead to unpreparedness. This method caused an uptick of readiness by 2%, supposedly.

Robin first learned about it when she was stationed here for a training flight close to a decade ago. She had hated it then, and hated it now. The clock in her room read 0550 - ten minutes of beautiful, wonderful sleep wasted. Robin could feel the melatonin wash out of her by the second; she hadn’t gotten used to this form of alarm since coming back here for re-certification.

Out of instinct, she reached over for a partner she was sure was there in her bed, only to feel air and a cold pillow. Robin sighed; she had grown used to, at some point, waking up to a new woman every day. When she was on the Concordia, a beautiful carrier that she missed dearly, her bunk was the meeting hall for every dyke on board. The good old days; days before reconstruction and migraines and simulators and re-certification and this fucking alarm.

Robin rolled out of bed, not bothering to even untangle herself from the covers and letting them float with her. It was a coin flip if she was seeing this bunk again, so fuck it, who cares. A blind application of hair gel (mirrors were expensive and slates in every room was a security risk) and she was out the door.

There were two options that Command had in store for her. Option one was playing it safe; after the Messe incident, they couldn’t risk a notable figure like her getting turned to paste by a subversive in between Lagrange points. She’d stay here on Vallum and, if she knew her history of Publica’s finest, would become leader of a defense wing. Live on base, settle down, make sure the next generation of pilots wouldn’t kill themselves doing too sharp a turn and have their brains turned to sludge by g-forces. Safe. Comfortable. A good story. She might even make Prefect, transition to a career in politics, make it to the senate. Get a wife and kids and a fucking dog.

And she’d have to live the rest of her life knowing that the barbarians who forced her here wouldn’t be crushed under her heel.

That’s why she wanted option two.

Commander Lecke had gotten her rank the old fashioned way: a purchased commission. Her father was a noble, a proud member of the Industrial-House Lecke Industries. Most of these of officers would have a quiet career as a pencil pusher on a station just like this one. The eye patch and burn across her face said otherwise.

Robin stood at attention with gusto.

“At ease, Centurion,” the Commander said. She hadn’t looked up from her tablet; the care of those under her went as far as their physical safety and not much further. “We have your test results back; 5% drop in performance compared to your pre-Messe self. Estimated performance drop was 15%.” Lecke put the slate down and made a glance at Robin; even at ease, Robin kept herself tight and straight.

“Thank you, Sir,” Robin said. The only part of her at ease was her head, which was looking directly at the Commander.

“Which means I’m shipping you out; we have a hunter legion with your name on it.” Lecke handed the slate over. “Your orders. Sign at the bottom if you agree.”

TO: CASSIA, ROBIN, CENTURION-1ST CLASS

ORDER TYPE: PCS

DATE 1012NC81

ON ORDERS OF RES PUBLIC NAVAL COUNCIL

CENTURION CASSIA (PREV. FORTRESS STATION VALLUM) IS TO BE TRANSFERRED TO VENATOR LEGION 06-5-23. CASSIA IS TO ASSUME THE ROLE OF PRIMUS PILUS AND THE DUTY OF FRAME COMMANDER. CASSIA IS TO PARTAKE IN THE MISSION TO SEEK AND DESTROY REMAINING BARBARIAN ELEMENTS PRESENT IN COLONIES AT LAGRANGE POINT 5.

CENTURION CASSIA IS TO BE ASSIGNED AN IMAGE CONSULTANT, CENTURION-3RD CLASS CLAUDII. FINAL ORDER ON VALLUM IS TO SPEAK WITH PRESS CORPS ELEMENTS. ADDITIONAL INFORMATION WILL BE PROVIDED BY CENTURION CLAUDII.

GLORY TO THE VOX POPULI, VOX DEAE.

Robin read over the orders one more time. Venator legion, hunting the barbarians. Everything she wanted and more; Frame Commander hadn’t even been a thought to her. She was about to ask about the second order when she heard the door open behind her. Robin tensed, but Lecke didn’t move.

“I apologize for being late, the transport had issues in the dock. I wasn’t able to get off until a few minutes ago,” a voice said behind her. The accent was distinct; Britannia colony, L4S1C3. Robin turned, and had to crane down to find who spoke. The woman behind her was short to the point Robin wondered if regulations had to be bent to let her into the officer corps. She had large eyes and thin, round glasses; if she wasn’t a part of a combat unit, the mandatory contact lenses wouldn’t be needed. In her hands she had her own slate, powered off, and Robin could see a small sticker of a pink unicorn near the center. Not regulation.

“I’m Octavia Claudii, Centurion 3^rd Class. I’m part of the Enterprise Marketing Corps.” That was a branch Robin had never heard of. “I’ve been your assigned as a personal assistant and image consultant for your press meetings.”

Robin had read the second order given to her, but it had barely registered compared to the first.

“The Public,” Octavia began, clearly rehearsed, “has a vested interest in your continued survival and success, Sir. I am here to make sure you put your best face on when the Press Corps asks to speak with you.”

Robin gave a sigh before looking back at the Commander, but found no sympathy in her eye.

“It’s in the Council’s hands, kid. I didn’t write this one. Dismissed.”

Robin snapped back to attention, about faced, and walked right out. Not many things intimidated her, but Lecke could cast legends to the compactor of history with a glare. A lift-grip folded out of the wall, and Robin grabbed it, letting her magnetic boots turn off and starting to float. The grip started to move, and Robin went along down the hall. Octavia followed.

“If I may, Sir,” Robin’s aide said, “I already have the speech prepared – I understand you have better things to do than write five hundred words of platitudes and thank yous. Don’t worry about being a passionate orator; they know you’re built for the battlefield.”

Robin let go of the grip and turned around. Momentum carried her forward, and the lack of gravity prevented her from stopping. “You’re pushy for an aide.”

“Oh!” Octavia adjusted her glasses with the hand holding her tablet, “I apologize, Sir. I was just so caught up in my duties, I wanted to make sure things were prepared early. I’ll make sure to consult you in future matters, Sir.”

“Look, the less time I have to spend thinking about whether or not saying ‘fuck’ in front of a press reporter, the more I can concentrate on doing my job. You can keep writing them.”
“Of course, Sir.”

Robin started to turn her facing back forwards, but a soft hit on her shoulder stopped her in her tracks. She slowly moved back, and Octavia bumped into Robin. A quick swipe of heel turned the magnetic boots back on, and Robin stood firm on the deck.
“Watch where you’re fucking going you-” Robin was ready to exercise her Officer’s Privilege, only to see the person who had stopped her on accident. Her bun was replaced with a looser ponytail, and she wasn’t in scrubs or a coat, but Doctor Cinna was there, floating slightly with her arms crossed and a smirk on her face.

“My, Cassia,” Leta said “In such a rush to leave without even saying goodbye? And is that a new woman you’re taking home with you? I didn’t know that was behavior acceptable for an officer of your caliber.”

“Doctor Cinna!” Octavia called from behind Robin. She floated as well. “It’s good to finally meet you; correspondence is simply not enough.”

“Likewise.” Before Robin could register that these two somehow knew each other, Leta turned to her. “And Robin! It is good to hear about your return to proper duty. Are you doing alright? How were you after last night?”

Robin blinked. The idea that anything could have happened last night didn’t occur to her; what had happened last night? She turned deep inward. She remembered the test flight and certification, the woman with red hair, meeting Cinna in the hallway, going to her examination room and… and…

A bottle of nice whiskey out of the cabinet. Earth made; not common considering how little was still habitable. Rare, smooth but burning. A discussion about the future, fears, hopes, dreams. Cinna talking about retiring soon and getting to see her wife. A second round, Robin had some but Leta decided she had enough for tonight. A float down the hallway back to her bunk; the usual routine. Sleep. Flight. Dancing.

Phantoms, all of them.

“Fine enough. No hangover, at least. Wish I knew I was getting shipped out so soon, could have finally gone to that noodle joint in the civie mess.”

“Very good. I’m sorry to say that I will be missing your speech and send off; I’m on call in thirty. I am sorry to see you go; if you re-supply here, give me a call; I’ll make time for you.” Leta gave a nod to Octavia. “Take good care of her, Claudii. Robin can be a handful.”

Octavia gave a small, informal salute, then looked to Robin. “Sir, you’re going to be speaking in Briefing 2. It’s for the best we get there ASAP, it wouldn’t be a good look to be late to your first assignment.”

Cinna had moved to the other side, grabbing a lift-grip and moving down the hallway. She stopped herself at the end and entered Commander Lecke’s office. Robin pursed her lips. Not the place she expected her to go; medical personnel usually reported up a different chain of command. Nothing to worry about, though; she was probably debriefing on another patient here.

Robin grabbed a lift-grip, something small, phantasmal, scratching in the back of her head.

Nothing to worry about.

Robin stood as still as she could in the storage space next to the briefing room. Octavia was pinning her ribbon rack in place; some newer ones were added after Messe, but Robin had been so out of it she didn’t remember the ceremony. Robin had also insisted on finding a mirror; surely somebody on the station had to have one, but Octavia had pointed out that they simply didn’t have time. “I’m quite familiar with pinning, Sir,” she said, “And early in my career, we had to fix the uniforms of embalmed service members. You’re safe in my hands, Sir.”

Robin thought about objecting, but Octavia made sense. It was odd; under most circumstances, she’d get annoyed if someone, especially a subordinate, talked to her like that. But Octavia was so unthreatening; Robin had guessed she was certainly under two meters, barely over one and a half, and less than 50 kilos. She’d handled artillery shells heavier than Octavia. It was one thing to be intimidating; Robin had put on cold airs in front of the enemy. She had seen a barbarian squad turn and run just from the sight of her emblem. But getting more than slightly curt with her aide felt like bullying.

The dress uniform was finished; the ribbon rack was level and the list of her accomplishments stood firm on the chest pocket of her double breasted overcoat. There were only two things left; one was from the quartermaster. Robin clasped a white cloak around her neck, off center; Octavia could adjust it, but this one she wanted to do herself. Commanders were the ones who were allowed to wear it; it was a mark of distinction, of class, of power. When she had first enlisted, she had seen a person who had worn it all the time, even onto the battlefield. It was not out of regulation; and Officer’s Privilege allowed the skirting of dress codes the higher in the ranks you were. Last Robin had heard, they were retired, gone into the Senate.

The second item, though, she had owned for years. Every officer received one upon becoming a Centurion; it was it’s own mark of distinction. At some of the parties she had been to, the less mature officers had stripped to everything but it. In her hands was a single white mask, polished, made of the silicate and oxides taken from Luna herself. The inset were four magnets, two on each side, to attach to a metal band that wrapped around the back of her head. Every officer, when they finished their commission, received one. For the most part, they sat in drawers unused; they were only for the most formal of circumstances, and Octavia and Robin had decided that this was one of them. They didn’t hold press conferences for regular promotions, not even for your average ascension. But this? This was an event.

She started to put it on, when Octavia said “Sir, if I may. I think I have a suggestion.”

Robin turned to her aide. Octavia was wearing service dress, rather than the full formal Robin was wearing. It was a much simpler tan collared shirt with a black skirt and an officer’s beret. A nametag and ribbon rank adorned her shirt, but it was rather plain compared to the dinner dress that Robin was dressed in.

Octavia reached into hers skirt’s pocket and pulled out a small tube out of her pocket. “Sir, I think this might work well.”

Robin sighed. “I’m not wearing lipstick to the press conference, Octavia.”

“It’s a neutral, sir. It’s in regulation, and this is being broadcast. It might be for the best to-”

“That’s an order, Centurion Claudii.”

Octavia stood still for a moment, something spreading behind her eyes. It was the same kind of energy that Robin had seen in younger officers the ones fresh out of academy. Mischief. Power. Privlege. Robin was about to get harsher when Octavia placed a her hand in front of her face. Her aide made a loud snap, right between her eyes.

A fog began to creep through Robin’s mind. She opened her mouth, tried to object, but her tongue felt heavy and fat in her mouth. Any attempt at words drowned in her throat. Octavia reached up to Robin’s shoulder and pushed down, guiding Robin to her knees. They were eye level now, and Robin for the first time how deep Octavia’s brown eyes were. They were a level of saturation brighter than everything else in the room; as if the world was fading away from her.

“Sir, I need you to listen. Are you listening?”

“Yes, Claudii.” The words came out slurred and strained. Robin tried to focus, something was wrong, horribly wrong. She couldn’t think, couldn’t process. Any power in her felt as if it was buried in an echo resonating in her mind.

“The makeup, I hope you understand why I think it’s a good idea. This is going to be broadcast to the station, and redistributed to military and civilian channels. This is going to be more than just a camera in your face, this is a chance for Res Publica to see The Red Star for the first time. You’re already in dinner dress, right? This is just to show you’re taking your new job seriously.”

Why was Robin being so unreasonable about something so simple? She wasn’t one to truly care about her appearance; she kept her hair short because she hated putting it in a bun during basic. When she wasn’t in any type of uniform, she kept to comfortable flannels and khakis with her boots. Of course shed didn’t know as much about this; she never cared to learn. And that was okay, that was who Robin Cassia was. But Claudii knew what she was doing; best leave this to a professional, so she can focus on her actual duties.

There was another snap, and the world made sense again.

ARCHIVE: VALLUM STATION NEWS BROADCAST 10 12NC81

...barbarian elements in the trade corridor, there will be a water shortage effecting Vallum station and supporting elements. Please limit showers, non-MRE food items, and non essential hygiene. For the next twelve hours, service members will not have their service debt increased if seen with non regulation facial hair. Excessive water use will result in disciplinary action.

The following is a snippet from C1 Cassia, Robin’s speech to the press corps regarding her ascension to Frame Commander of Venator Legion 06-5-23. The full recording can be found in Vallum station archives.

CASSIA: “...that these traitors to humanity shall not stand. Res Publica is the guiding light of civilization in this world, and we have a duty, a burden to share our enlightenment to all in the Solar System. My duty did not end at Messe, and it will not end until I am sure that The Public can be assuaged that our livelihood is safe, that prosperity can continue, that the barbarians are dead…

The full speech is available at Vallum public archives. It will be distributed to other station and colony archives in due time.

STARGAZERS: The L4 Localnet Forum All About

The Red Star and the People Who Love Her

QOTD: If you were to propose to Robin, how would you do it??

TOPIC: Robin makes her big speech at Vallum and assumes command of a Venator Legion!!!!

[Page 2 of 42]

RED_CHASER: Goddess she looks fantastic in that mask… Is that the first time we saw of her in dinner dress? I gotta update the LEWKS chart; I think her last full interview was in Service Dress…

MILDA0083: Last interview was during recovery I think. At least for the sit down.

RED_CHASER: That one doesn’t count; she was still pretty out of it and her doctor did a lot of the talking.

KILLER_MICHELLE: Who was that woman behind her, the really short one who took the questions after the speech? Wish we could have heard her answer the questions directly; Robin’s voice is so husky, I need to hear it more. Leaked radio logs can only do so much ;n;

ART_OF_WESTERN_CIV: wait what

SLAVE_4_ROBIN: Speech was beautiful, and I hope whoever she finds gets thrown in the obliuette for all eternity and their pillow is always too warm. But I was a bit distracted cuz she looked different, then I figured it out. She’s wearing makeup! Do we gotta add this to the LEWKS chart?

RED_CHASER: BULLSHIT!

SLAVE_4_ROBIN: Check an archive; it’s Grace #4, Nude Peach. My wife has the same shade.

ART_AND_BEAUTY_PROTECTOR: Your wife can afford makeup?

MISFIT_IN_ROBINLAND: oh no :( i hope she isnt turning femme that would be so sad I love her I think it would be bad if she did that

SLAVE_4_ROBIN: Eh, I bet it’s juts for the speech. If we get a sortie pic of her with in eyeliner tho I think you’d start having to take her butch card. (though she would look amazing in anything!)

RED_CHASER: No………….. don’t even say something like that………………………….

MILDA0083: If you can’t handle her at her Wifepleaser And Steel Tipped Boots you don’t deserve her at “put on makeup that one time,” Red_Chaser

[the discussion continued for forty more pages. When the site’s bandwidth was exceeded, emergency Localnet limiters activated. Stargazers: The L4 Localnet Forum All About The Red Star and the People Who Love Her is still in the que awaiting restoration.]

Robin took a moment to place her hand against the wall of her new quarters. She had boarded the ship, a Leo-class assault carrier dedicated Cicero, just an hour ago; they had left space dock just a few minutes after boarding. Under most circumstances, there was pomp and circumstance; naval traditions. No time for that; the Captain had agreed to get her and her Legionnaire aboard as quickly as possible. The barbarians they were hunting must have entrenched themselves at their new home, and Robin wanted to make sure that not another moment could be spent letting them prepare for the arrival of the squadron.

She turned on her boots and sat on the bed, not letting gravity take this soon to be rare moment of respite. Goddess, she was exhausted, and she didn’t know why. The speech went fine, as far as she could tell. When Robin tried to focus on it, there was nothing but flashes of memory and image vague hints, rather than something concrete. But her focus had to lie elsewhere: the mission. She could think on the speech later; a brief moment’s rest to get herself adjusted and Robin would be back where she belonged. The only person on this ship that could outrank her, Captain Buchannon, had given her a duty roster and a list of equipment. It aligned with the other ships she had served on in the past; six standard Legionnaire frames, two cannon types for support, three interceptors. The exception was her own; the High Mobility Type stuck out on the roster, alone, shining.

Robin deactivated her boots and took them off; she was free of the deck now, but her back against the wall so she wouldn’t drift around the room. Pants went off next; she could get Octavia to run them to the cleaners, there was some dust on the knees. Cloak, jacket, dress shirt. Soon she was just floating in her room, nothing but a white tank top and black boy shorts.

She had kept the thought to herself, considering how much of an honor it was to wear, but she hated that uniform. All the finery, the epaulets, the way the pants weren’t tight to her body; she felt like a clown. So instead she let her bare arms and legs chill against the recycled air of Cicero. Robin curled up, hugging her knees into her chest, and started to spin.

I just need to float here. That’s it. I’ll be ok ay . The moment I step outside, I’ll be the Red Star. But I can just be Robin in here for a second.

The only thing she could hear was the hum of the engine, reverberating throughout the ship. Vallum was crowded and the walls were thin; even in her bunk, she could hear activity in the layers above and below her. This was better; it had taken until her first time away, on an extended month long leave, for to realize how much she hated being off a ship. The tight corridors and the guns beneath her feet, this is what she lived for. This is what mattered. This is where she was meant to be. Until her body gave out, until she was a smear inside of a cockpit, this is what mattered.

She was Robin Cassia. This is where she belonged.

Robin continued to float, keeping herself compressed, until her body started to protest. Duty called, and this private bunk didn’t have it’s own head. Ah well. Her wardrobe had some working uniforms; plane navy blue jumpsuits with flame retardant coating and an optional hat for when they were docked in a colony.

On the way there, she saw an enlisted man taking one of the grips down the hall. He let go, gave her a salute. On his face was awe.

Robin’s business in the mess was quick, and she was soon out, washing her hands. Waste water was ejected into space, gray water recycled. She’d get used to using this same amount of water often. When she was finished, she moved to wash her face, but stopped.

Her lips. The makeup had dried, coming off in flakes where Robin touched. She’d only ever worn it when she was very young, at schola meetings where it was mandatory. Otherwise, back then, she was out scraping her knees on the pitch and looking at her classmates in ways that felt wrong. She must have neglected to take it off this time; too much to worry about, replete with little things that could go wrong.

Robin’s was weak in her chest. Why the hell had she let Octavia do that?

She remembered the room next to the briefing area. Octavia helping with the uniform, asking if she could help, and then… what? Much like the rest of this evening, there was just nothing there to latch on to. No emotion, no physical feeling. It was trying to look through a photo album, and rasterized images were in the place of photos.

Like Cinna’s question and the memories it spawned; there were phantoms where sensation should be.

There was doubt, for a brief moment. Maybe something had gone wrong with recovery. They weren’t gaps, not the way she had them described to her before. These were out of body experiences; distant looks at memories

She scrubbed to get the lipstick off. This was an issue for another time; when the mission was over, she could cry about this to a therapist.

Robin stepped out of the bathroom, headed back to her bunk. There was a duty roster to examine after all. Another person walked by, a young officer. She stopped in her tracks, gave another salute. Robin returned it, but there was a lingering question in her mind. It was rare that people in the Public’s Navy truly cared about heroes like this, or were this in awe of their commanding officers. Robin had served under the legendary Leta Volso; she never felt that way about her. Was it the speech? Once again the fuzz in her head surrounding that event frustrated her; she’d have to rewatch the speech, even if she loathed to hear herself talk.

In her exhaustion, Robin started to rub her eyes, but stopped.

The feel cold stone on her fingers. The mask. She must have forgotten to take it off when she got to her bunk. An easy mistake. Robin reached up to take it off, trivial with the magnetic seal, but a thought washed over her. The person she knew who had worn his commander’s cloak for so long; it was a show of power, right? A bit of identity.

She kept the mask on.