Ryke had a lot of anger to go around.

In the makeshift training area in the Ozzmar base camp he worked out as much of it as he could on the sparring models. Red impact indicators blurted readings as he twisted and dove through the customised assault course, slinging fists and feet left and right as he went. Always keep moving. Always keep striking.

Fighting a Scraegan bore little resemblance to fighting a human being, and the soldiers of Brekka had their own brand of martial techniques for close quarters combat. With a weight ratio that favoured their limbs, Scraegan warriors tried to gather a head of steam, each great barnstorming swing dragging them into the next with an evolutionary fighting rhythm. Hunter-Killer pilots fought to disrupt those rhythms.

He twisted and dodged as automated sparring dummies thrummed into motion, swinging solid padded arms in his direction. Ryke ducked under one and ripped a savage elbow backwards to hit the dummy's centre target. A shrill bleep confirmed his hit. He launched forward into a roll as the arm swung back around, avoiding the swipe and smashing a forearm into the head section of another target positioned diagonally across from the first.

A healthy pain reverberated through him as his limbs crashed into the unyielding pads. Sweat ran down his cheeks and his breathing became more and more ragged as he pushed further, blocking out everything else in the world. This narrow assault course enveloped him.

"Sarge!"

At first he ignored the voice, too engrossed in the flow of combat.

"Sergeant! Ryke!"

His name yanked him back to reality. Panting for breath, he skidded to a halt, taking a moment to steady himself before looking back in the direction of the voice. He saw Preese standing on the edge of the training area, beckoning him. Hands on hips, Ryke trudged back across the training field, bringing his breathing back under control.

"What is it?" he grunted, stopping in front of his squad mate.

"Thought you ought to know, our replacement pilots have arrived," Preese said, the other pilot's young features crinkling with unease. He glanced back over his shoulder with a sigh. "Thought it might be better if you meet 'em first before the rest of the guys."

Ryke nodded, a bitter taste on his tongue. "Let's go."

Preese ran the nails of one hand through his stubble of dark hair, let out a resigned sigh and turned to lead the way. The pair strode side-by-side through the training area, past groups of militia blasting at simulated targets, Scout Cadre troops running flight simulators and technicians who were tasked with maintaining the machines.

With the initial shock of the Scraegan ambush now receding, a sense of bloody-minded determination had begun to seep through the task force's soldiers. Ryke itched to get back out into the field and exact vengeance on the creatures that had robbed him of two skilled pilots, and two friends. The deaths of Norville and Marylee felt hollow right now. He needed to prove that they'd been killed for something bigger than a desert skirmish.

He followed Preese to the Ozzmar base's loading areas where heavy crawlers had been arriving from Brekka in a steady stream over the past twenty-four hours. Floodlights rebounded off of shiny uniforms and even shinier guns as new soldiers spilled from their transports. Scout Cadre skiffs fresh off the production line glided past, hulls gleaming in the light.

"Have you seen them yet?" Ryke asked quietly as they moved through the bustle.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Two newbies from Brekka." Preese winced, as though he didn't want to say any more.

Ryke eyed him dangerously. "What is it."

"They've moved... ah," Preese shook his head, frustration etched into every line of his face. "Some idiot thought it would be a good idea to assign one of Miquelon's old pilots to us."

"You're joking."

"Everflowing, I wish."

Ryke's jaw tightened and he felt a low throb of pain along seam where metal met skin. He tried to quash the instinctive distrust and anger that instantly began boiling up inside him. A few of Miquelon's pilots had survived the debacle – maybe that meant they were the ones who were actually worth a damn in a fight. That might go some way to filling the hollow pit in his stomach.

Exhaling a calming breath through his nose, he nodded. "Let's just get this over with."

They tracked down the gunnery sergeant from Brekka's militia in charge of handing out combat assignments to the new arrivals. After a quick word with the man they were directed through to a long, flimsy looking tent. Inside, dozens of desks manned by administrative officers lined the walls, and hundreds of soldiers, pilots, engineers and scout troops milled around as they received new assignments.

At the far end of the tent a small group of individuals were clustered around an officer with a data slate, talking in low tones. Ryke didn't waste any time, striding up the woman and tapping her on the shoulder.

She turned, her eyes narrowing for an instant until she saw the rank bars on his Hunter-Killer jacket. Then she snapped a salute.

"Sergeant Vannigan, HK-Rupture," Ryke said, returning the salute. "I'm told you've got three pilots for me?"

"Yes, sir." The officer nodded. "I was about to send them your way."

"I'll show them around. Are their mechs unloaded?"

"Should be in the bays any minute."

"Then I'll take it from here."

The officer turned back to the gathering of Hunter-Killers, glancing down at her data slate. "Pilots Hariri, Ricardo and Carpenter – you are officially no longer my problem. Fall in with Sergeant Vannigan."

The trio of pilots stepped forward. Ryke exchanged a wary look with Preese before beckoning them forward.

"Come with me."

He didn't wait for an answer, turning around and trudging back through the seething corridors of the administrative tent. A glance over his shoulder told him they were right on his heels. He led them out of the hubbub of the arrival bays, out of the organised chaos and to a currently empty bay in the Ozzmar town square. Once there, he stopped and turned. Preese swivelled into position alongside him, arms folded as they took the opportunity to examine their new recruits.

"I'm Sergeant Ryke Vannigan, callsign Lockjaw," he told them, before inclining his head to Preese. "This is my second officer, Preese Sarassian, callsign Deadbolt. If we were back in Brekka I'd have your combat scores, personal profiles and whether you drink your shiner straight or watered. Here things are moving on the fly so let's get some introductions done here." He pointed to the fresh-faced pilot on the left. "You – go."

"Mayder Ricardo, sir!" He snapped to attention. He was a new recruit, fresh out of his training from looks of it. He was scrawny, with tanned skin and an unruly tangle of curling black hair jammed onto the top of his head. His eyes were wide; he looked like he was in a constant state of surprise that he'd been sent here. "Qualified for Raptor Pattern."

"When?"

Ricardo swallowed hard. "Last month."

"Any active combat operations?"

"No, sir."

Ryke nodded. "We all have to start somewhere." He inclined his head to the next pilot. "And you?"

The girl stepped forward, no older than her companion at first glance. She had lighter skin and a striking arrangement of auburn hair, shaved down both sides to leave a long section in the middle that swooped back over her skull and down into a tightly cinched ponytail. Where Ricardo seemed awed by his first deployment, this rookie seemed like an altogether cooler customer.

"Marlowe Carpenter, sir," she said crisply, giving him an almost languid salute. "Riot Pattern qualification."

Ryke held her gaze for a moment. "Not from Brekka, are you?"

"Crescentscar," she confirmed.

"When'd you qualify?"

"Two months back."

"Seen any fire?"

"I've done a couple of defence patrols," she replied, clasping her hands behind her back. "But no active combat operations." He saw her slender shoulders tense just a bit. Despite her outward demeanour she had the nerves of a rookie. In Ryke's mind that was no bad thing. He didn't need cocky glory hunters. He gave her a nod.

That left the third pilot as their assignee from what remained of Miquelon's troop.

Ryke turned to her. Older than the others, she stood a little taller than him and her link-skin highlighted a powerfully muscled frame. She had dark skin, sharp green eyes and a knife of a nose, with a narrow mouth pressed so tightly shut that it formed little more than a thin slash. Her dark hair was long, bunched into thick braids that cascaded down her back. She didn't look him in the eye as she delivered her salute.

"Corporal Qadira Hariri, callsign Medea," she said flatly. After a second she added. "HK-Strident."

He looked the stern-faced young woman up and down, resentment bubbling in his veins at her jibe. That answered his question on whether they were going to have any problems working together. For her part, Qadira kept her eyes front, standing stiffly to attention with her hands clamped together behind her back. He glanced at Preese; the other pilot shook his head disapprovingly.

Ryke stood there, letting the silence sizzle between them as he weighed up how to tackle this obstacle. Whatever anger she was holding onto, he could understand it well enough. Most of her squad had been obliterated. The fact she was still alive meant she'd gone against Miquelon's orders to escape the burning wreckage of the Mammoth, but that didn't mean she owed Ryke any kind of loyalty. Riverlords, for all he knew she blamed him for the loss of her squad mates.

This needed to be handled delicately. He'd never been particularly good at being delicate.

"Preese," he said quietly. "Take Ricardo and Carpenter. Introduce them to the squad, and assign combat pairings."

"Okay, boss." Preese jerked his head in the direction of the Hunter-Killer bays. "C'mon, you two. Come meet the family."

The two rookies fell in wordlessly behind Preese and he quickly led them away to be swallowed into the base's fervent activity. Ryke waited until he was sure they were out of earshot before he spoke.

"Okay, corporal, out with it," he told her.

"Sir?"

Ryke bristled. "I really don't have time to drag this out of you. We're going to be shipping out to a combat zone in a matter of days whether we like it or not, so whatever you want to say to me, say it now. And have the decency when you look me in the eye when you talk to me."

Qadira's face twitched and her eyes snapped to meet his.

"Alright, sir," she said. She simmered for a moment before the dam broke and she started talking. "I know what you Brekkan bastards think of us – of our soldiers and our pilots. Ever since we came here we've been dealing with your piss-drowning supremacist crap. A lot of my friends died out in that desert but you probably think the Scraegans did you all a favour, cutting out the dead weight. You're probably glad that Miquelon's dead so you can take charge, as if you're so much better than us."

A bitter laugh slipped from her mouth and she waited for a moment, as though she expected him to interrupt. But Ryke kept a hold of himself and let her talk. He needed this out in the open, right now.

"So now I'm expected to just hop, skip and dance under the command of someone who thinks like that? I don't want to be a part of your squad, Vannigan. I don't want to fight beside someone who doesn't respect or trust me, or even care if I die."

Ryke breathed long and slow, keeping his anger from bursting forth. He needed to let those accusations slide off of him, at least for now.

"I wouldn't want that either," he said simply.

That seemed to take the wind out of her sails a touch. Her brow furrowed. "Well... then we're stuck, aren't we?"

"We don't have to be." Ryke placed his hands on his hips and began to pace slowly back and forth, using the motion as a release valve for the furious energy that her accusations had ignited. Calm. You have to stay calm.

"I'm not going to lie to you," he began. "And frankly, I'd rather they'd transferred you to a different squad as well, but they didn't. You're here and nothing you or I say is going to change that. And you're right that I didn't trust Miquelon. He wasn't ready."

"Sergeant Vannigan, you might be a superior officer," Qadira hissed. "But I would choose your next words carefully."

Ryke stopped pacing, looking her in the eye once more. "I'm not blaming Lieutenant Miquelon – River carry him – for anything. He had courage, and he did his best, but that's not enough out here. He simply didn't have experience, and shouldn't have been our commanding officer. You walked out of that Mammoth because you knew he was wrong. You disobeyed his orders and that is the only reason you're still alive."

"Maybe." She cast her eyes down, trying to stare a hole into the concrete of the square.

"Does that mean you wanted him dead?"

"Of course not."

"Then maybe you understand how I feel better than you think." Ryke shrugged. "Like I said, I'm not going to lie to you, but none of that means that I wanted him, or anyone else to die. We're all in this together."

Qadira let out a shuddering breath. "So where does that leave us now?"

"Well, we can either stay at each other's throats and pray that doesn't end up getting both of us killed," he replied. "Or, we can try to make this work. You say I don't trust you? If you're in my squad I don't have a choice but to trust you. You want to be respected? Follow my orders, make the best of what we have, and you'll earn that respect."

He stepped towards her. Her head rose and he could see the emotions burning behind those bright eyes. Ryke's voice hardened as he laid down his challenge to her.

"So soldiers from Brekka look down on you. This is your chance to get out there and prove them wrong – prove me wrong. And if you can do that, maybe neither of us needs to worry about the other one dying."