Scattered Suns by Kevin J. Anderson

EDF soldiers waited, anxious to flood into the Roamer nest.
    Smaller consolidation teams had seized and occupied the outlying stations, metal-walled storage depots, domes filled with hardy and exotic crops. The severed solar mirrorfilm drifted until it finally draped like a reflective shroud over a tiny asteroid.
    Overhead, battle-ready Remoras cruised in careful circles through the rubble field. Because of the ruptured containment dome, the main asteroid was unstable, wobbling and precessing. The EDF pilots practiced taking potshots at anything that moved, rousting out clan ships that attempted to hide in the shadows of orbiting rocks.
    A small vessel lunged away from the greenhouse asteroid like a rabbit bolting out of hiding. The pilot dodged and changed course repeatedly, making up his trajectory as he went.
    Stromo sat upright in his command chair. “Stop that ship from escaping!” he bellowed over the general comm.
    Six patrol Remoras spotted the fleeing craft and set off in pursuit. From just the glimpse on his external screens, Stromo thought it was a butt-ugly ship, a collection of mismatched parts cobbled together. But the fleeing craft actually sparkled as it flew, and its sprint engines took it on high-G-force loops that even fast EDF fighters couldn’t match.
    Stromo adjusted the flagship’s sensors to follow the escaping spacecraft as it shot about like a pinball, ricocheting through the asteroid field, partly to avoid collisions, but probably just to get away. The pilot took ridiculous risks and flew maneuvers unthinkable to Stromo. Before long, the ugly craft left the EDF’s best Remoras far behind. It was embarrassing.
    “Break off pursuit,” Stromo said. “I’ve decided to let at least one Roacher ship get away to spread the word of another crushing defeat. They’ve got to change their minds sooner or later.” The words sounded false as he spoke them, but he raised his voice to inspire confidence.
    He watched the displayed suitcam images as Ramirez led her troops through tunnels and into the domed enclosures. He could toggle from one recording lens to another in order to get as many views as he wanted. It was the next best thing to actually going out and doing the operation in person.
    The people inside the domes put up little resistance. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and—thankfully—smart enough to realize it.
    Stromo estimated they would take a few hundred prisoners. How could so many of them crawl around in these rocks? En route to Hhrenni, while planning the details of this mission, he had given instructions for two Mantas in the assault force to reconfigure their decks. Low-ranking soldiers’ quarters were turned into holding pens, not secure enough to be prisons, but sufficient to hold the captives until they could be delivered to the Klikiss planet along with the detainees from Hurricane Depot and Rendezvous.
    Finally, Ramirez announced, “Admiral Stromo, this asteroid is secure. We’re ready to receive you over here.”
    He stood up and straightened his uniform. “Do I require a suit?”
    “No need, sir. Plenty of atmosphere in here, though it’s a bit chilly.”
    Once he made his way inside, he wished he had brought an oxygen mask after all, just to cover the stink. The asteroid air was redolent of metal and dust reprocessed with fertilizer chemicals. It smelled like a latrine. Did these Roamers actually use human feces to fertilize their plants? How barbaric!
    Under the damaged main dome, EDF engineers had rigged up light panels powered by temporary battery cells. A cluster of Roamer prisoners stood among ruined plants and gardening equipment. It looked like a hurricane had hit this place.
    Stromo squared his shoulders. He enjoyed playing the part of a conquering military leader. “Who’s in charge here?”
    “I bet you think you are,” answered one middle-aged man with reddish-blond hair. His round, rough face bore the red marks of a recently worn oxygen mask. Dried