Junus was a Patrician and an experienced pilot, the veteran of a dozen battles. He’d been hand-picked by Commander Vennius to lead Invictus’s six squadrons. He’d been a typical pilot of the fighter forces in his youth, all aggression and arrogance with a constant need to prove himself fearless. But he’d seen enough death around him—and almost died himself several times—and now he was cooler, wiser, his thoughts more tactical, less emotional. He suspected that was one reason Vennius had chosen him for the post. The relationship between the Commander-Maximus and Commander Rigellus was well known, and Vennius had spared no effort to ensure that his informal daughter had the best the Alliance had to offer.

Junus didn’t resent his assignment, though. He liked Commander Rigellus. He’d long been an admirer of her career from afar, and her daring assault on the enemy pulsar cannon at Heliopolis had only increased his esteem. He’d jumped at the opportunity to serve on her new command, though he’d had mixed feelings about the mission itself. The fighter pilot in him, the cockiness and senseless courage that still remained, was thrilled to be on the vanguard of a new invasion. But the commander, the man who’d lost so many pilots in the Alliance’s constant wars…that part of him was apprehensive, both about the mission itself, and the war that success would surely bring.

None of that mattered, though. It wasn’t his place to pass judgment on the high command’s orders. Duty came first. It was the way, and he was no more able to meaningfully question his orders than Kat Rigellus was herself. Junus knew officers such as the two of them could nurse their doubts, even their disagreements with the directives they were given. But neither could ever—would ever—speak of such thoughts, nor allow them to influence their decisions. And they certainly would never let their subordinates to see anything but total confidence in their demeanors.

He twisted his body, trying to get comfortable. The Talons were a bit larger than the old Rippers, but little of that extra space ended up in the cockpit. He’d never noticed how cramped the space was when he was a young pilot, but now his legs ached, half a dozen old wounds taking their toll on an aging warrior.