Daughter of Nox

Chapter Twenty-One

"Her?" the black-haired boy said. "What possible reason could you have for putting her in charge?"

The way he'd asked the question might have stung more had she not been thinking the same thing.

The sergeant's eyes flashed with annoyance. "She's a First Marshall."

"I'm a First Marshall." the boy interrupted." "My mother is Agrippina Pompeii, First Marshall of Saturn."

"Your mother is Agrippina Pompeii?" the girl with dreadlocks said in wide-eyed wonder. "As in, the, Agrippina Pompeii? So you're–"

"Nero." The boy's face smoothed into a look of practiced arrogance. "I'm not surprised you've heard of us."

Her awed expression withered into a look of scorn. "I could care one slagging bit who you or your mother are are. All we want is for you to shut your stupid mouth so we can hear what we're supposed to do."

Color flooded the boy's pale cheeks. Freya thought he was about to say something more, but a low growl from the girl seemed to make him think again.

"Now that we've settled that," the sergeant said. "She's a First Marshall, but more importantly she's the one Command wants in charge."

The others shifted uncomfortably, but kept their mouths closed. Either orders from Academy Command seemed to be enough of a reason, or they didn't want to bring on the wrath of the dreadlocked girl.

"We've got a cache of weapons here, plus a few extra assets," he gestured to Freya. "All of which will be under her control."

Freya cocked her head. "What kind of assets?"

"You'll see shortly" the sergeant said. "Now, unless anyone else thinks I care about their First Marshall parents, we're heading out."

The sergeant stepped off, leading the group through another door that split off from the main room. As they walked, Etta tucked in beside Freya.

"Is it just me," Etta said. "Or does this plan seem to be lacking any kind of sense?"

"I can barely make sense of what's happening right now, Etta." Freya wrapped her arms around herself. "I mean, attacking Separatists? With me in charge? Is he serious?"

"We'll be fine," Etta said. "It'll be just like all those other times we stormed Separatist strongholds that also happened to be armories."

Freya laughed. She couldn't help it. The situation was so absurd, so completely insane, that if she didn't laugh then she was almost certainly going to cry.

"You're laughing? Really?" the boy, Nero, said from behind them. "Personally, I don't see anything funny about this at all."

"It's tragic," Etta said. "All that dying stuff. But we're laughing because Freya is going to send you into the armory first."

Freya was saved from having to hear his response when the sergeant spoke up from the front.

"Turn here," his voice boomed back to them.

Freya looked up and found the group turning into a room half the size of the one they'd left. Hover pallets lined the walls, their surfaces stacked with what looked like enough plasma rifles for every Founder in the galaxy.

"Arm yourselves," the sergeant said, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. "One rifle per Novice."

Freya stared at the weapons. She'd shot one before–she used to bullseye target drones in canyon terrain sims back home–but it had always been in training, and always with an instructor.