The junction box flexed and cracked as Rene heaved against it. His muscles bunched and strained. The ancient plasteel began to fracture like spiderwebs spreading across ice. With a final snap the ancient work hardened joint gave way and the junction box came free with a puff of dust. The box, a grey cube about a foot on each edge snubbed up against the nest of varicolored wires which fed into it. Rene blew a breath out from between his lips. In theory the box should have unclipped easily, but, like every other box they had checked, the attachment groves of this one had been cold welded by years of hull torque and neglect.

“Got it,” Solae said, reaching her smaller hands over his and popping the burned fuses, identifiable by ancient charing, from their housings and replacing them with two fresh units. Then, with economy of motion, she applied three beads of adhesive to the unit. Rene pressed the box back into position. It felt momentarily greasy before the powerful chemicals set and locked the unit into place. Rene carefully withdrew his arm from the duct, taking care not to crush Solaes. The had been at it for hours, both of them were filthy from the task but Rene was not sorry for it. They had talked why the worked, speaking of their families and their pasts. Of small things mostly, the sort of minor adventures and anecdotes that had seemed important before the chaos and bloodshed of the coup. Rene could imagine they were on a date.

“I estimate you have increased servo efficiency by 2.6 percent,” Mia purred, filling each syllable with sultry suggestion just shy of scandalous. Almost Imagine it anyway. Given the state of neglect a few points of improvement was actually a fairly impressive accomplishment. It gave Rene hope that the Bonaventure might one day be a real vessel, rather than a travelling coffin. It seemed to Rene that Solae had a real talent for it, whereas he was just a useful pair of hands. He wondered if the diplomatic corp taught a course on electronics, perhaps for the installation of listening devices or some such. Perhaps it was simply an innate talent, the way some men were artists without ever attendinging a school, or became crack shots after only a days on the range.

“Alright,” Rene responded, drawing the back of his palm across his forehead, smearing grease and grit across his tanned skin, “What is the next best gain?” They had followed a simple procedure for prioritizing repairs. Mia decided which repair would yield the largest improvement and they attended it. Then they moved onto the next largest problem, moving down the hierarchy of the Bonaventure's dozens or hundreds of minor infirmities.

“Chips 22a and 19b on board 210 are non functional, but I do not project you will have sufficient time to effect repairs.”

“What do you mean sufficent time?” Rene asked, realising the moment after he spoke the answer to his question.

“We will be exiting jump in a little under twelve minutes,” Mia crooned, “I estimate replacing the chips will take twenty one minutes at current speed.”

Rene straightened, working the kinks from his back induced by spending too much time controlling himself to reach into the various access plates and maintenance ducts. An irrational resentment filled him at having to return to the universe where he had to think and act.  There might be rebel warships on station above Panopontus, or troops on the ground. They might just as easily be completely unaware of the rebellion. Either way, he didn’t want leave this idyllic respite.

“Alright,” he said with a heavy sigh, “lets strap in.”

Extracting from Jumpspace was almost as unpleasant as entering it. The Bonaventure snapped back into the sidereal universe with the suddenness of a rubber band released from an unimaginable tension. Rene had the sudden sensation of his individual atoms dispersing through his harness and out into hard vacuum. He squeezed his eyes shut to banish the hallucination, his vision momentarily pulsing red.

No rebel warships hung in orbit around Panopontus. According to the Bonaventure’s admittedly crude sensors, the only other ships in the vicinity were a trio of freighters, two inbound and one in the final stages of atmospheric accent. Rene sighed with unconcious release as he cycled the sensors through the various bands of the electro-optical spectrum, double checking the ships conclusion as best he could. 

They were several hundred thousand kilometers from the planet, a dark greenish orb on the central display. Rene had expected it to appear blue, as Cappela did, having subconsciously associated ocean with the seas of his youth. More impressively a vast cyclonic storm seemed to cover two thirds of the distant globe. Rene turned up the gain on the sensors, rolling the magification up several hundred fold. In the close up image they could see vast whorls of black storm clouds thousands of miles long. Lighting flashed in syncopating cascades like distant artillery fire.

“Uhhh is this storm activity normal Mia?” Rene asked watching the monitor in wide eyed wonder. Worlds varied in their habitability, there were worlds where vast electrical storms danced in the atmosphere or tectonic activity rent the crust into canyons of bright magma, but in general Imperial terraforming tamed the worst of natures excesses. 

“Previous records suggest that it is not,” Mia supplied with unusual austerity, “there are also emergency broadcasts on seven hundred and twelve local frequencies which I can detect.”

It seemed that Rebellion was not the only disaster plaguging the worlds of the Eastern Cross.