“You know, i remember when i first met the captain of the Combat Wombat.”Cesar gravelled, adjusting the course a fraction. “Of course, it wasn’t called that back then. Back then it was the Hebride or something, to match the sister ship.” He swung an arm around, motioning to the Hercules in general. Cesar had decided on a whim that he didn’t want to go back below deck to command the ship, so had brought the bridge up to the topside. He and his technicians held a variety of holo-pads which projected a mass of dark blue interface into the morning air. Using their whole bodies, they could control the ship up there just as well as down below. 

The vast desert before them was growing choppier. Huge sand dunes towered in front and to either side. They passed the carcass of a similar size Sand ship which might have long ago had useful parts, but it had been picked clean. The sand had been churned up all around it, showing telltale signs of Sand skimmer skirmishers. Pieces of metal embedded in the sand alongside charred bodies. Cesar manipulated the ship with a sensitivity which rivalled the greatest lovers, weaving it towards the blinking red light which indicated the distressed sister ship.

“I was introduced to her at a bar in Edessa - she was a good drinker! - i remember her saying she wanted to buy the ship from our then contractor, make it her own you know? She was a woman with vision.” He laughed like an old steam engine, puffing out the consonants with unnecessary power. “We bought our ships at around the same time. I remember proposing our own prospecting company, but she didn’t want to. Said she worked better alone and that was it. She left.” Cesar’s face was grave and motionless. “Three klicks and counting.” the ensign said, breaking the silence before it could solidify. Huxley, who was eating porridge out of an aluminium canteen cup in a deckchair behind him, stood up before the Captain could turn around. “I’ll get the crew ready.” He rattled down the stairs, eyes half-blinded in the semi-dark. A tannoy announcement preceded him. “All crew, to battle stations. We are now on amber alert; possible combat situation. All security are to tool up and head to your assigned sector.” “You heard the man, let’s go go go!” Huxley called, clapping his hands together as people appeared out of a few cabins.

He made his way to the Heracles’ main armory and found his security team were already there, hefting guns and melee weapons from the racks with practiced ease and strapping body armour to their tattooed, scarred bodies. They were tough, many had already bled while protecting the ship and its crew. In actuality, Huxley was the only permanent soldier aboard, the rest having been recruited from a private security agency. They were free to go at anytime but loyalty was sewn into the fibre of their being - and the pay was good. Huxley made a bee-line for his number two, Thatcher. A huge Dutchman with a dirty blond ponytail and beard, his seven foot tall presence dominated the armory. He often boasted over a few pints in the mess that he could trace his ancestry back to the First fleet that colonized Outremer.

“Thatcher! We gotta move.” Huxley shouted over the metallic din; he maneouvered past his men till he was at the man mountain’s side. “What’s the situation?” Thatcher asked, the scar on the side of his head wiggled when he talked. “Don’t know yet, the Combat Wombat has sent out a distress signal. I need you up top and everyone else is on battle stations.” Thatcher nodded, attaching his huge warhammer to the mag-holster on his back. Huxley turned so he was facing his team. Most were fully tooled up and waited expectantly for his orders. “Get to your stations and await instructions, make sure you are signed in to the ship’s battle net so we can talk. You know the drill, get moving!” Huxley called, before motioning that his lieutenant follow him. He waited patiently for everyone to file out of the armory before grabbing an assault rifle from the racks and leaving the way he came.