“Time to exit?” Orson said. He knew he could check himself with a few simple button presses, but he felt the need to break the tense silence that had descended across the bridge, smothering everything like a blanket.
“About thirty seconds, sir,” Nguyen said. Her fingers were pressing buttons on the panel before her faster than Orson could keep up, even in the heavy armour. That was another problem Orson had, the armour moved by pre-empting the intentions of the wearer, copying their movements with a tiny millisecond delay. Some of the other crew didn’t seem to have any problems with it, simply shrugging their shoulders and stating it was “like a video game” when asked about it.
“Have the fleet check-in ready.” The fleet. It sounded so formal. Four civilian ships with barely any weaponry and a lone Council ship of the smallest class was hardly a fleet. It was barely even a gang, a smattering of people with guns and a grudge. “Make sure we exit at the same time.”
Time didn’t quite work the same in jump space. One ship exiting a few seconds before the others could translate into a few minutes in real space. As far as Orson could tell no one knew exactly why. His brief attempt at educating himself to the mechanics of faster than light travel revealing hundreds of competing theories.
Nguyen nodded back to him. “Everyone is reporting ready. I’ve already synced their navigation controls to ours. We’re good to go. Ten seconds left on the clock.”
“Helmets on,” Orson said as he lifted his from the floor before him. He slid it over his head and felt the bottom of it click into place. The helmets connected to the armour through a complex linkage that kept an airtight seal whilst allowing full range of movement. It was impressive, but it felt wrong to Orson. He had done spacewalks during his time at NASA, and something about the size of the suit he had worn then was comforting, like its bulk was protecting him against the darkness of space, swaddling him against the void. Whilst trooper armour was certainly bulky, it didn’t have that same feeling. It was almost like sitting in a car in the depths of space and somehow being able to breathe. You were fine for now, but somewhere in the back of your mind was this fear that could change at any second.
“Five seconds, sir.”
“Moment of truth,” Orson whispered to himself.
Vossix was sat on the captain’s chair of the bridge, his legs up on the console before him. He wasn’t a captain; he wasn’t even a trooper second class. He was, however, the most senior of the troopers who had survived the radiation leak. Like the rest of the survivors he was Gassarox, his unit transferred from garrison duty on his home world just a few days before the leak. Gassar was a planet with unusually high radiation compared to most worlds. Under most category systems it was listed as unsuitable for life, but life hadn’t seemed to have cared about that.
Vossix lifted his legs from the console, placing them flat on the floor so that a repair bot could pass him. The machines were short barrel-chested things with two arms and two legs. A small ball protruded from the top of it, a collection of sensors that acted as the machine’s head. The thing rattled as it moved, its rounded chest was quite literally stuffed to the brim with tools and spare parts. The bots were more walking supply crates than anything else.
“Working hard there, buddy?” Vossix said.
“This unit is automated. Please direct all queries to the station helpdesk.” The machine continued its walk across the bridge. The reactor leak had been fixed, but a starship the size of The Shield of the Valorous was a surprisingly complex thing and knock-on effects from the reactor failure had led to hundreds of tiny flaws that needed fixing. Most of the work was done, the ship was scheduled to leave within the next standard day.
“That one always cracks me up,” Vossix said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “You bots are a funny lot, you know that?”
“This unit is automated. Please direct all queries to the station helpdesk.”
“Good talk.” Vossix lifted his legs back onto the console. He looked down at the tablet in his hands, his exoskeleton clicking against the plastic backing as he moved his fingers. Vossix shifted in the chair, getting comfortable. The repairs had meant he was finally able to catch up on his favourite comic, The Approved Adventures of Missionary Mizath. Vossix didn’t like the current storyline, and he had already written a strongly worded comms message to the publisher, ready to send off once they reached the next comms buoy, along with his subscription payment for the next hundred issues.
“Vossix,” said a voice, its deep tone thudding through the ship’s intercom like the beating of a drum. “Bots are giving the all-clear for the engine room, finally.”
Vossix twitched his antenna. He would have rolled his eyes, if that were physically possible for his species. He put the tablet down, the comic would have to wait. “So, are we free to leave, Yurx?” He directed his words at nothing, trusting the ship’s computer would recognise it as a response and automatically transmit it to Yurx.
“Ahead of schedule, it seems.”
“Amazing, can’t wait to get on the frontlines quicker. Sounds like it’s a blast out there.”
“We still need to pick up a crew,” Yurx said. “That will take a few days at least.”
“Nope. The latest order is to head right to the frontlines. We’re going to get recrewed from the rest of the fleet, a couple of people from each ship. Besides, this ship is old. They probably expect to get one fight out of her and that’s it. You can run it from the bridge mostly, and if it’s throwaway why bother having repair teams or anything?” Vossix released a long rattling noise, like a can of spray paint being shaken. It was his peoples’ version of a sigh.
“Makes sense. They wanted us to join the fleet on the way to Purnax, but the bots said no.”
“Yeah, that’s a weird one.” Vossix let his feet drop to the floor, exoskeleton clicking against the deck. “Purnax is nowhere near the frontline. What would Substrate ships be doing there?”
“No clue. I’ve got a broodling with that fleet. Last message I got from him reckoned they were being sent out to fight something else.”
“Worrying.” As Vossix spoke, an alarm began to blare. He had switched the standard sensor readings to the main viewscreen, and words across it now declared ships had exited jump space dangerously close to the ship. “Just like that. We’ve got incoming ships. Rhythm damn it they aren’t transmitting codes.”
Vossix stumbled to his feet, scrambling to get to the weapons controls. He slipped- the small step that kept the captain’s chair raised just slightly above everyone else proving his undoing. He fell embarrassingly, knocking his head on a safety railing. He did not appreciate the irony.
“Rhythm damn it,” Vossix mumbled as he struggled to his feet. He made it two more steps before a sudden violent shaking caused him to trip a second time.
The plan was simple. Get into the ship, take the important locations, win control. The intercepted communications were clear there weren’t many defenders aboard, Orson’s fighters would actually outnumber them. The real trouble was that defenders always had the advantage when boarding. After all, the enemy had no choice but to walk down corridors into a hail of energy blasts.