[center][h2]”Reckonings In One Hand, And…”[/h2][/center] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qBVcRyG.png[/img][/center] JP by [@Xandrya] and [@sail3695]. Cal Strand and S.A.M.A.N.T.H.A. appear courtesy of [@wanderingwolf]. The urgent message echoed throughout the shipwide comm system. [b][i]“China Doll! China Doll! You’ve got four boats inbound, closing fast at your seven o’clock! Rabbit! Rabbit now!”[/i][/b] For an AI with SAMANTHA’s processing speed, the 2.65 seconds it took for China Doll’s servo motor supported radars to reset to their standard operating positions seemed eternal. During this time, she busied herself with a probabilities study regarding the identity of their surprise pursuers. Though she sent information queries via the cortex, communication with the now distant relay station K-29B was extended to an excruciating 7.4 seconds per leg, not counting the innumerable network and server delays required of her surreptitious usage. Therefore, utilizing her onboard resources, SAM deduced that the raiding party closing on their position were likely one of three organizations: (1.) Pirates. Her studies, both during and after their docking at Little Moriah Skyplex had revealed it to be the base of operations for [b]The Blackborne Riders[/b], a local pirate fleet under the control of one Bartholemew “Buck” Sadler. He’d made a name for himself as a privateer during the war, converting vessels into masked auxiliary cruisers. Armed with letters of marque from both sides, Sadler filled his coffers and built his fleet by taking both Alliance and Independent prizes, relying upon the “fog of war” to conceal his skulduggery. In the present day, his piracy was passed off as the act of Reavers, which played neatly into Alliance claims of Reaver attacks actually being the handiwork of unrepentant Browncoat terrorists. (2.) The Alliance. Though China Doll had been careful to avoid the Miranda ‘no fly’ zone, her captain had commented that “we shaved the fuzz off that peach,” as regards the forced narrowing of their flight path. Probability that they’d been sighted by the Alliance was unavoidably high. Still, the most telling reason that the AI ruled them out was the lack of a terse wave. Without a harsh warning to “heave to” and the fact that the First Mate reported no missile launches from the inbound vessels, SAM was left to choose either item (1), or… (3.) Reavers. Human beings who’d been stripped of all compassion and empathy, their intelligence and industry bent toward unceasing service of an insatiable lust that exceeded psychopathy. In the heavily scrubbed and redacted databases of the present day Alliance, there were few reliable texts from which to draw. Much had been replaced by propaganda. SAM had located personal accounts, some similar to Abby’s story of that violent Sunday morning at Three Rivers. Of the two probabilities, SAM weighed the outcomes, and arrived at the odds of the crew's survival. She’d opted to hold that number back, revising as their status shifted. Though SAM's current situational awareness deduced an undoubtably dire circumstance facing Calvin Strand, her algorithmic intuition surmised that for the moment, he didn’t require his trusty AI spouting off those odds by percentage. The radars finally lifted into place. “Three targets,” SAM reported, “moving abreast in an uneven line, with a fourth trailing behind. ETA 35.2 seconds.” For those left on the surface, the message had been loud and clear. Imani processed it for a second or two before her body was moving. She had dropped her tool, getting to her feet to rush over and reunite with Abby and the first mate. "Where did they come from?" She practically shouted into the mic as she went, her voice laced with that urgent tone of hers. The question was hypothetical in nature of course. She looked up beyond her fellow crew to see the lights slowly approaching from a distance. "...and what do they want?" a whisper, thinking out loud to herself as she rapidly grew fearful of what they would very soon face. Yuri’s eyes tracked the incoming boats. “Can’t be good,” he replied. Yuri’s warning caught Cal flat footed. In the time it took his radars to cycle up, he mighta been surprised to learn just how close his thinkin’ came to that of his AI. Then, with SAM’s ETA for these encroachers still ringing in his ears, the Captain’s thoughts had to go a few steps further. Thirty-five seconds was barely time to spur this old boat to a trot, let alone get her to a full gallop. He had three on the surface, but if he tarried to pick ‘em up that could be a death sentence for all ten of the folk on his crew. Calvin Strand felt the tightening of his jaw, the clenching of a fist upon the handrail…his backbone rising up with ire toward whoever the hell this was comin’ down on him an’ his. The Captain’s first impulse was to order his helm about. Put China Doll’s nose straight at ‘em and scatter ‘em proper with a righteous chicken run. But no, his cooler head prevailed. Til he knew just who it was come to call, his best move was to steer clear of any target locks. And that meant a choice to put a hot ball of horror right smack dab in the pit of his stomach. “Get us outta here,” he ordered his pilot. “Hightail it.”