The Only Gods We Know, Ch 12: Dead Man’s Hand

Asgardian military doctrine had no procedure for disposable assets that refused disposal. Brynja intended to write that chapter herself-one desperate, jury-rigged FTL jump at a time.

The Skittermule. Sigrun's name for their stolen Chitin-Cog transport. On the tactical holotank, red icons moved with unnerving coordination, patrol fleets boxing them in, cutting off their route toward Armada-controlled space. The Myrkviðr system's networked brain had marked them as a problem to be cleaned.

Their situation was, to use the technical term, FUBAR. Slower. Less agile. So outgunned it wasn't a joke. A direct fight meant suicide. Their only advantage was the one thing the Chitin-Cog network couldn't model: the brilliant, unconventional mind of their quietest Valkyrie.

"Their pursuit paths are logical. Predictable." Mist's voice came low from the navigator's station, her eyes tracking data streams that would have given anyone else a fatal brain bleed. "They'll intercept us at Nav Point Fimm. Standard doctrine." A pause. Something shifted in her expression-not quite a smile. "They won't expect us to fly through hell to avoid them."

"Give me the course."

Brynja's hands were steady on the alien control interface Kára's desperate ritual had spliced into their systems. What followed was a masterclass in uneven warfare.

Mist plotted a course that looked like suicide. They skimmed the upper atmosphere of a swirling gas giant, scavenged shields groaning as corrosive gases ate at the hull. The high-G maneuvers needed to avoid atmospheric shear had the Einherjar strapped into crash couches, faces pale, knuckles bone-white on their restraints.

Then the binary asteroid field-two massive rock clusters caught in each other's gravity, a sensor-jamming nightmare where logic went to die. Tumbling mountains of iron and ice filled the viewscreen, their surfaces scarred by eons of collision, some still glowing from recent impacts. "Use the gravity wells," Brynja ordered, following Mist's frantic calculations. They cut the main drive, rode precise thruster burns to slingshot off a collision shockwave, the debris cloud cloaking their energy signature. A chunk of rock the size of a ground transport spun past their bow close enough to scrape paint. No one breathed.

The crew worked with desperate, seamless efficiency. Sigrun and the Einherjar called damage reports through gritted teeth. Astrid became a second pair of eyes for Mist, her pilot's instincts sharp as ever. "Visual contact-two bogies, port-side, using that iron ore chunk for cover. They haven't made us yet." Kára's mages, magically drained but still useful, pointed out EM-dampening fields in certain mineral deposits, subtle weaknesses in the Chitin-Cog sensor net. Hrist manned secondary sensors, her voice steady now, humbled and focused after her near-miss on the Void-Worm run. They were a single cohesive unit. Fueled by rage. By stubborn refusal to die.

One final hurdle remained: a shimmering nebula of energy-sucking particles that Intel had flagged as completely impassable.

"We go through it." Mist's voice was flat, certain. "Their logical doctrine marks this region as 100% vessel loss. They will not follow."

"It could drain our cells completely," Kára warned, voice raspy. "Leave us adrift."

Brynja's jaw tightened. A gamble of cosmic proportions. All they could do was hold breath and pray to gods who'd already abandoned them.

"Take us in, Mist."

The trip through the nebula was silent nightmare. Lights dimmed in stages-first the overheads, then console backlighting, until only emergency strips cast thin red lines across haunted faces. Life support faded to a whisper. The air grew thin, cold, stale with the taste of recycled fear.

Brynja watched power levels drop on her display, numbers bleeding from yellow to red to critical. Fifteen percent. Ten. Seven. The hull groaned-metal contracting in the particle cloud's energy-draining embrace. Somewhere aft, something popped and hissed. No one spoke. No one moved. They drifted through luminous curtains of pale violet and sickly green, beautiful and deadly, the cloud drinking their ship's life one kilowatt at a time.

Three percent. Two.

Kára's lips moved in silent prayer. Sigrun's hand found her axe, gripping it like a talisman. Mist stared at her dead console, eyes tracking calculations only she could see.

Then-light. Thin at first, then brighter. They emerged like ghosts from the grave. Systems sputtered back on emergency power. On the tactical display, the swarm of red icons had stopped at the nebula's edge, unwilling to follow into statistical certainty of death.

For the first time in days, nothing was hunting them.

Ahead lay the invisible line between Myrkviðr and Armada-controlled space around FOB Hlið Þrír. They'd crossed from the enemy's kill-zone into supposedly friendly territory. Brynja knew it might prove just as dangerous.

"Power at fifteen percent, climbing slow." Relief colored Mist's voice. "We're alive."

"For now," Sigrun grunted.

***

Their new status became clear the moment they approached the outer patrol perimeter.

"Unidentified vessel, you have entered a restricted Asgardian military zone." The voice on the standard hailing frequency was cold, official. "You are flagged as hostile, unknown configuration. Power down engines, cease transmissions, prepare to be boarded. Failure to comply will result in immediate destruction."

On the viewscreen, four Valkyrie interceptors broke from patrol pattern and moved to intercept. Their sleek forms-a painful reminder of what they'd lost-had weapon ports glowing with contained energy.

Brynja took a breath. The recycled air felt thin. She keyed the comms, broadcasting on the emergency command frequency.

"Valkyrie patrol, this is Ghost-Lead, Brynja Vingfalk, former commander of the Stormbringers. Broadcasting on emergency command frequency with Commander Geirskögul's last acknowledgment code. We are confirmed survivors of Operation Loki's Gambit, returning in a captured hostile vessel. Friendly, repeat, friendly. IFF corrupted, but bio-signatures are Asgardian. Do not fire."

Long pause. The patrol held position-four silver predators waiting for the kill order.

"Your callsign is not on active roster." The patrol leader's voice carried confusion, suspicion. "Stormbringer element listed KIA. High Command has issued no advisory on survivors. Stand down. Prepare to be boarded. Only warning."

The intention was clear. Containment, not welcome. Their survival was a problem, an inconvenient variable in a tidy after-action report. A loose end someone wanted tied off.

Brynja's mind raced. If she powered down, they lost all leverage. Custody by a low-level patrol, ship impounded, testimony buried under classifications before they ever saw a flag officer. Disappeared. This time for good.

"Negative, patrol leader." Her voice came out cold, hard as void-steel. "We will not stand down. Maintaining current vector, direct approach to FOB Hlið Þrír."

"That is a negative, Ghost-Lead." The patrol leader-Vígdís-shot back, voice tight with by-the-book stubbornness. "You are in violation of direct order. Power down now, or we disable your drive."

On the viewscreen, the lead interceptor began to glow. Gungnir-lance powering up.

"That self-righteous little shit is actually going to fire on us." Astrid's hand moved toward the jury-rigged weapons console. "I say we give her a face full of Chitin-Cog plasma before she gets the chance."

"Stand down, Astrid."

"They're about to fire on us!"

"Then let them."

Brynja's gaze locked on the charging weapon. A colossal bluff. Chicken at relativistic speeds. She was betting everything on one slim chance: that a Valkyrie patrol leader would hesitate to fire on a vessel claiming to carry other Valkyries.

She keyed comms again. "Patrol leader, I am logging your intention to fire on an unarmed Asgardian transport carrying decorated combat survivors. Be advised, this action will be reviewed by High Command. If you fire on this vessel, you will be firing on the Valkyries of the Stormbringers."

Vígdís hesitated. Gungnir-lance at full charge. It didn't fire. Brynja pictured her on the other end-a line officer caught impossible: follow orders and risk catastrophic friendly fire, or disobey and risk censure.

Then comms crackled with a priority override code so high it made Brynja's console flicker. A new voice entered-not warm, not friendly, but solid and unyielding as mountain fortress.

Commander Geirskögul.

"Patrol Leader Vígdís, stand down." Cold iron. A commander's voice that cut through all chatter. "Repeat, stand down and disengage. Direct order from Sky-Reaver Actual."

Stunned silence. Tension on Brynja's bridge thick enough to cut.

"Commander..." Vígdís stammered, confidence shattered. "This vessel is unsanctioned, listed hostile. My orders-"

"Your orders have changed." Geirskögul left no room for argument. "That vessel and crew are under my direct authority, pending full debrief. They carry sensitive intelligence pertaining to Operation Loki's Gambit. My Raven squadron is en route for escort. Maintain standoff until arrival. Copy?"

The political trap was perfect. Vígdís couldn't defy a verbal order from a commanding general. Geirskögul had publicly claimed them on an open command channel, put her own neck on the line, forced the situation out of trigger-happy grunts' hands and into High Command's lap.

"Solid copy... Sky-Reaver Actual." Vígdís's voice mixed confusion and relief. The Gungnir-lance powered down.

Astrid let out a shaky breath. "The old wolf. She actually did it."

Something flickered in Brynja's chest-fragile, cautious. Hope. She didn't know Geirskögul's motives. Honor. Duty to lost warriors. Professional suspicion of Loki's casualty-ridden plans. It didn't matter. The Commander had heard their message. She'd intervened.

Vígdís and her patrol peeled back to wary distance. Minutes later, a new squadron arrived-matte black airframes marked as Geirskögul's elite Ravens. They formed tight escort around the battered Skittermule, movements precise and professional. Their formation was perfect, textbook, each fighter maintaining exact spacing. Guardians or jailers-hard to tell the difference.

No friendly chatter. No "thank the gods you're alive." Only cold, professional silence over the comms, broken by nothing but occasional nav updates in clipped, emotionless tones. An armed escort leading heroes-or prisoners-home.

Brynja didn't know which they were yet. But Geirskögul had bought them a chance to tell their story. A chance was more than they'd had an hour ago.

They were no longer ghosts. And their arrival was about to cause a political shitstorm of epic proportions.

***

The Ravens boxed them in, guiding the Skittermule not to the main landing area but to a quarantine bay on the far side of FOB Hlið Þrír. The kind of place for captured enemy ships. Or plague vessels.

Brynja watched the approach on the viewscreen, jaw tight. Not a hero's welcome. A containment procedure.

Through the magnetic docking corridor, she saw the welcoming party. Heavily armed Einherjar from the Allfather's honor guard, storm-bolters at low ready. They didn't look ceremonial. They looked like a firing squad in waiting. Medics stood by with trauma kits-positioned behind the Einherjar line.

"Rolling out the red carpet," Astrid muttered.

"Hostile decontamination," Sigrun corrected, hand resting on her energy axe.

"Everyone, on your feet." Brynja's voice carried through internal comm. "Look sharp. We walk off this rust-bucket like warriors, not whipped dogs. No matter what happens-no fear. Understood?"

Grim acknowledgments answered her.

The Skittermule settled with a shuddering groan of tortured metal. Docking clamps engaged with a clang that echoed like the sealing of their tomb on Jötun-Kjarni. Silence. Then the boarding ramp lowered with hydraulic hiss and grating screech.

Brynja squared her shoulders, took a breath of stale air, and stepped into harsh hangar light.

Her crew followed. A battered, ghostly line. Exhausted, wounded, armor a patchwork of scorch marks, jury-rigged repairs, and dried gore that had turned brown in the recycled air. Hrist leaned heavy on her spear, favoring her injured leg, her jaw set against showing pain. The mages looked like wraiths-Kára's hands trembled slightly, her reserves burned to nothing. Sigrun's face was stone, her energy axe humming at her hip. Survivors, not victors-and every warrior in that hangar could see it. Could smell the desperation on them, the void-cold and alien blood baked into their armor.

Waiting at the ramp's foot stood the ones who'd planned their ordeal.

Lord Tyr. Rigid, one hand clenched at his side, the other-the one he'd lost to the Fenris wolf in a war predating the Asgardian expansion-ending in a gleaming prosthetic that caught the harsh hangar lights. His face was an unreadable mask of controlled fury, jaw muscles working beneath weather-scarred skin. Beside him, Loki's holographic projection shimmered into existence, that infuriatingly calm smile playing on his lips as he surveyed the wreckage of his "disposable assets." His image flickered slightly-transmitting from somewhere safe, somewhere far from the consequences of his schemes.

Behind them both stood Commander Geirskögul, her face showing conflict-professional duty warring with something Brynja couldn't read. Gray streaked her close-cropped hair now; the campaign had aged her. She'd answered their call. She also stood with the gods who'd signed their death warrant.

Tense silence filled the hangar. Thick with unspoken blame, the low hum of charged weapons. Tyr's eyes swept over Brynja's crew-cold, calculating. Weighing political cost of executing heroes against the security risk of letting them breathe. Loki simply watched, smirk widening slightly, enjoying the drama.

Brynja knew: first to speak controlled the story. If Tyr or Loki set the frame, they'd be labeled rogues, deserters, combat-psychotic-testimony dismissed as delusion. A loose end, tied off.

She took two precise steps forward. Slammed Storm-Singer's butt to deck. Snapped to attention, eyes locked on Tyr. Her voice rang through her helmet, loud enough for every Einherjar to hear.

"Lord Tyr! Valkyrie Commander Brynja Vingfalk, ad-hoc callsign Ghost-Lead, reporting!"

The formal address caught him off-guard.

"Operation Loki's Gambit was a success." Cold steel in her voice. "Primary objective, Chitin-Cog Data-Hub Jötun-Kjarni, confirmed neutralized. Enemy command and control network in cascading systemic failure. Heavy casualties sustained. Surviving members of my operational unit present and accounted for."

She framed it as complete, by-the-book success. No mention of betrayal. No abandonment. No "sacrifice." As if everything had gone exactly according to plan.

The effect was immediate. Not a rogue agent complaining about betrayal-a victorious commander reporting successful black op. Orders followed to the letter, mission success undeniable. The Chitin-Cog network chaos would already be appearing on fleet intelligence reports.

In front of dozens of witnesses, she'd made it politically impossible for Tyr to execute them. They were victorious warriors returning from a High Command-approved mission. Punishing them meant admitting the operation was something other than officially reported.

Loki's smirk widened into genuine appreciation. A professional acknowledging another's work. He gave an almost imperceptible nod-and for just a moment, something like respect flickered in those calculating eyes. The Trickster knew he'd been outmaneuvered, and he was enjoying it.

Brynja held her salute. The silence stretched. Somewhere, a storm-bolter's safety clicked off, then back on. Tyr was trapped, and his face showed it-raw anger at their survival, grudging respect for her tactical move, cold political calculation churning beneath it all. His prosthetic hand flexed, servos whining softly. He couldn't deny their success. But their existence, their breathing presence on his deck, was living proof of a truth he and Odin had intended to bury in Jötun-Kjarni's cold heart.

The God of War took one step forward. His shadow fell across Brynja like a judgment.

His voice came as a low, dangerous growl.

"Valkyrie... you have some explaining to do."

***

Military Terms Glossary

• Actual: A radio code indicating the commanding officer of a unit, rather than a radio operator or subordinate. (e.g., Sky-Reaver Actual is Commander Geirskögul herself).

• Bogies: Unidentified or confirmed hostile aircraft/spacecraft.

• Crash Couch: A heavily cushioned, shock-absorbing seat designed to keep crew members alive during High-G maneuvers or impacts.

• EM: Electromagnetic. Often refers to sensors (EM spectrum) or concealment (EM-dampening).

• FOB: Forward Operating Base. A secured, forward military position used to support tactical operations. (e.g., FOB Hlið Þrír).

• FTL: Faster Than Light. The propulsion method used for interstellar travel.

• FUBAR: "Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition" (or Repair). A situation that has gone completely wrong; a catastrophic failure of plan and circumstance.

• High-G: High Gravity. Refers to maneuvers that exert extreme G-forces on the crew and airframe, potentially causing blackouts or structural damage.

• IFF: Identification Friend or Foe. An electronic transponder signal that identifies a vessel as friendly to allied sensors. If corrupted or missing, the vessel is flagged as a "bogie."

• KIA: Killed In Action.

• Low Ready: A weapon handling position where the firearm is shouldered but the muzzle is depressed about 45 degrees, allowing the soldier to scan the environment but raise the weapon to fire instantly.

• SitRep: Situation Report. A concise update on the current tactical situation.

Asgardian & Operational Specifics

• Chitin-Cog: Slang for the primary enemy force. A bio-mechanical race or faction that utilizes technology fusing organic insectoid matter ("Chitin") with machinery ("Cog").

• Einherjar: The standard elite infantry of the Asgardian military. In this setting, they serve as heavy shock troops and honor guards.

• Ghost-Lead: An ad-hoc callsign adopted by Brynja Vingfalk to designate her command over a unit that is officially listed as dead.

• Gungnir-Lance: A heavy directed-energy weapon mounted on Valkyrie interceptors. Likely the primary anti-ship weapon in the Asgardian arsenal.

• Jötun-Kjarni: The target location of Operation Loki’s Gambit. Likely a "Giant Core" or massive enemy installation.

• Mag-Lock / Magnetic Docking: The mechanism used to secure ships together in a vacuum or low-gravity hangar environment.

• Ravens: Elite stealth/escort squadron under the direct command of Geirskögul (referencing Odin’s ravens, Huginn and Muninn).

• Skittermule: Sigrun’s derogatory slang for the captured Chitin-Cog transport vessel. Implies it is ugly, insectoid ("skitter"), and used for hauling ("mule").

• Stormbringers: Brynja’s original operational unit. An elite Valkyrie squadron presumed wiped out during Operation Loki’s Gambit.

• Valkyrie: Specialized Asgardian pilots and special forces operatives. Distinct from the standard Einherjar infantry; they usually pilot interceptors or lead high-risk insertions.

• Void-Steel: A fantasy-metal alloy used in Asgardian ship construction and armor, known for high durability in the vacuum of space.