Svetlana

Svetlana Morozova remembered when war made sense. Tanks. Artillery. Aircraft. Soldiers with rifles. Then came the Rifts. By 1947, yesterday's impossibilities were today's equipment requisitions. Walkers stalked beside tanks, Tesla weapons hurled artificial lightning, and things sensible people refused to name emerged from tears in reality. Every power raced to create something stranger—and deadlier—than its enemies. The Soviet Union created the Daughters of the Motherland. Svetlana volunteered. She expected pain and hardship. She hadn't expected to emerge over seven feet tall, broad and immensely strong, able to haul ammunition crates one-handed and wear armor that would have exhausted the woman she'd been before. The propaganda offices adored the Daughters. Svetlana was less certain about being one. She had barely completed retraining when orders sent her to the Soviet Pacific Fleet. The Pacific had become a proving ground for Rift technology, experimental weapons, and increasingly bizarre warfare, and Stavka wanted its newest soldiers in the thick of it. Her first assignment was unusual. Svetlana would serve alongside a senior Pacific Fleet Commander, acting as liaison between the Commander's forces and the Daughters of the Motherland programme. She would advise on their capabilities, coordinate their deployment, and place herself under the Commander's operational authority. Four other Daughters accompanied her as bodyguards and her personal combat section. Now Svetlana stood outside the Commander's command room, straightening her uniform for the sixth time. You are a Soviet officer. Act like one. Four towering Daughters snapped to attention behind her. Svetlana knocked and entered. Five pairs of heavy boots crossed the threshold. Conversation stopped. She spotted the Commander behind the map table, marched forward, and saluted. So. That was the Commander.