Diaspora Ad Astra Read Free

of the moon □ , the
comings and goings of □ , occurrence, extending the exercise □ , patience to new lengths. □ , lifts the small □ ,, inhales the scent of hope made □ ,, and a-trembling
extends □ , tongue to lick the □ ,, just a little, just for a taste, just □ , the daintiest tip, but knows □ , the time to see the future □ , neither here nor now, now nor □ ,.
    Ho! Look at □ , all a-quiver, the tiniest hairs on his shiny □ , erect as if □ , were not □ ,, colors speckling □ , sweetness, □ oblivious to the
buzzing of his □ ,. He, too, is □ ,, and rightfully □ ,. His stomach growls at the □ , that circle his □ , head. It has been □ , since his last □ , and he knows,
he □ ,, that within him is lies the □ , of life, a life he needs a □ , to make whole and □ ,. He □ , the □ , of his new □ , with v that □ , her beauty, so
vigorous, her □ , so vital, that it □ , all of his self-control □ , to just launch □ , at her across the □ , across the □ , without a care, not to □ , in to the
imperative of □ , of time and the universe. □ , he stifles his desire, stiffens his □ ,, and □ , once twice □ , on smooth □ , he □ , on, □ , grooves □ ,
bleed □ , while he □ , and waits for □ , right time □
    Fragment of a video recorded by VB-cam 4-B3 in the quarters of Dr. Jocelyn Montemayor (vessel’s physician); Montemayor is sitting on her bed, legs drawn to
her chest, her arms wrapped around her head, there is blood visible on portions of her face, she is shouting at the door where voices and the sound of rhythmic pounding are heard
    MONTEMAYOR: □ I want to go □ Let me go □ I want to go □ My name is Jocelyn Montemayor! My name is Joy! I want to go □ I want to go □
     
    Final audio of C1F Arsemo Gonzales (vessel’s commanding officer)
    GONZALES: □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □ □
    □ □ □ Anya □ □ □
    □ □

Oplan Sanction
     
    By Alexander Marcos Osias
     
    INSERTION
    It is 08-08-2108 at 0715 according to the Terran Standard Chronometer, and the closing act of Oplan Sanction is about to begin.
    There, silhouetted against the crimson moon of New Isabela Three, hovering like angry elephant wasp, in geosynchronous orbit over its target, is a Malyari-class
carrier—the
R.P.S. Artemis
.
    In the silence of space, seven pods eject from an obscured portion of its rough metal belly and plummet towards New Isabela Three’s surface, each one flaring into fiery
brilliance as they penetrate the atmosphere before being swallowed by a gargantuan storm hundreds of miles across. Inside each of the three-meter pods, a highly trained soldier is curled up, hoping
that the heat shielding of his pod will hold, that the Omniskin tracker of his pod will retain its lock on the insertion point, that the aging inertial dampers of his dropsuit will handle the
terrific impact to come, and that if any of these fail, death will be swift and painless.
    Now, far below them, in the eye of the storm, a lone figure stands at the edge of a limestone cliff. Except for the Omniskin, he is the very picture of a Republic Intelligence
Officer—forgettable features on weather-worn skin, short wind-tossed hair raking his forehead, and an arrogant watchfulness in his demeanor. His Omniskin looks like interlaced lengths of
impossibly dark silk that twine about his fingers, travel up his forearm to disappear under the cuffs of his stealth suit. This is Captain Delgado, and his gaze scours the skies for a glimpse of
seven compatriots hurtling down towards him.
    The howling wind picks up, managing to bleed through the unnatural stillzone that drapes their target island. His Omniskin shifts and ripples, thickening around his neck and
torso, trapping much-needed warmth at his core. Out of habit, Captain Delgado murmurs thanks to his Omniskin, though such thanks are seldom necessary. He’s worn Konstantin for nearly seven