Penny

Discovery: A Broken Galaxy

@Theyra Can we write the landing? I dont want to describe things about the ship without guidance.

Discovery: A Broken Galaxy

@Byte Medic!

Discovery: A Broken Galaxy

The Arcadian - 24 September 2190 - Main Engineering Deck

Douglas 'Hobby' Hobbs

Hobby stood in the center of the engineering deck, surrounded by a half cylinder of holographic projections. Each screen was at twenty percent mask, easy enough to read but translucent enough to maintain situational awareness. Two tech were working overhead, diamont tipped saws screaming against metal as they cut into the primary conduit trunk of reactor 4. Brilliant rooster tails of sparks flew from the blades, showering Hobby and half the deck with gorgeous color. Here and there a spark struck exposed skin, but to an old engineer the sensation was a natural as sunshine. The engineering team was taking advantage of the lull to trouble shoot their power leak. It was always like this, you could fly a ship around safe space for half a life time an narry a thing would go wrong but the first time you got out into the deep dark every bloody thing would go wrong. They had to take number 4 off line, but the five remaining reactors left the Arcadian with more than enough power.

“Lev, the fuck is going on with the recompressors in the subsidiary array?”

“Don’t know chief, it is like all the vacuum tubes are shot, but like all at once,” the young tech replied.

“That doesn’t make a lick of sense, I should be getting some readings from at least one of them,” Hobby called back.

“Yeah well you aren’t” Lev snarked, pointing a multisensor into the cavity as the other techs, suspended from lines, pulled the armored plating away, its edges still growing with heat. But not glowing enough. Hobby’s eyes narrowed.

“Chalkin, get a mass spec on that I think…” But Lev had already reached out and pulled one of the offending vacuum tubes free. One of the sparks blossomed into a pale white fireball. Chalking was pitched out of the way like a sinker on a line a half second before a second much larger fireball ripped from the junction, sparing his life. Two hundred kilos of armored junction housing whipped upwards, parting its supporting cables with a sound like gunshots. It reached the top of a short ballistic arc then plummeted to the deck below. It crashed to the deck with a sound like anvils fucking, barely slowed at all by Hobby’s right arm.

“Chief! Chief are you alive!” Kodomashi, one of the engine wipers, yelled as she rushed towards him, spraying the hot metal with a fire extinguisher that gouted retardant foam. Lev Chalkin was only as second slower, shimming down his line like a monkey despite the blisters on his face. The stink of burned hair was strong even over the chemical stink of the fire suppression systems which were, by now, pouring from the ceiling.

“CHALKIN! You god-damned idiot!” Hobby demanded as he sat up.

“Chief!” Chalkin called out, the relief in his voice so obvious that he seemed almost to deflate. Hobby brushed fire suppression foam from his face and flicked it to the ground.

“The helium from the drives, its small enough and neutral enough that it infiltrated the vacuum tubes..”

“Chief….” Chalkin interrupted, sounding queasy.
“.. then the scrubbers pumped in extra oxygen to compensate for a bogus reading…”

“Chief you uhhh…” Chalkin tried again, Kodomashi also was looking rather pale.

“...and then when you pulled the tube it exposed almost pure oxygen to the air and.. Boom.”

“Chief!” both techs said at once. Hobby finally shut up and followed their gazes to his arm. It had been amputated just above the elbow but instead of a bloody ruin pumping out his life blood, there was a sparking series of shattered components and loose wires. It didn’t exactly go quiet. The fire alarms were blaring, the bridge was calling for updates, and circuitry continued to sizzle and pop. Even so it seemed that the drama narrowed to a bubble of semi silence.

“Well fuck,” Hobby breathed, then began to sieze violently as current arced across his core, dropping him to the deck in a series of random spastic contractions.

Discovery: A Broken Galaxy

@Byte If you like I could arrange accident in Engineering that could bring you some malfunction prostetics.

Malleus Maleficarum: Tales of the Grim and Macabre

Emmarelda squawked as the wagon bounced up to swat her on the ass. The blow flung her into the air to hit the canvas roof of the wagon before dropping her back into the bed in a pile of rattling clattering tools and pots. The knives and bonesaws of the knackers trade jingled as she scrambled forward, the rough cobblestone of the road doing its best to hammer her to pulp. The nag was well and truly terrified all but frothing at the mouth as it pounded up the road. A few minutes of this and the damned beast would probably have heart attack, which would make Emmarelda’s life significantly easier. She clambered up and onto the drivers bench and snatched up the reigns, only to realise she had no more idea of how to drive a wagon than she did to declaim a Brasilaian eulogy. For a moment she was frozen watching the thickening woods whip past. She tossed a glance over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of dark riders coming up behind her. She let out an undignified shriek and cracked the reigns, urging the gasping draught horse onwards.

A barrage of raindrops the size of marbles slapped at Emmarelda as she frantically flogged the draft horse. The violent hammering of the cart on the cobblestones grew even worse. It seemed that the cart left the ground all together at times, crashing back down with bone jarring force. The nearest of the riders was coming up along side her, leather cape fluttering like a storm crows wing. He had a black silk mask across his face and his eyes were bloodshot. He reached up to grab at her but Emmarelda seized one of the clattering saucepans and hurled it into the man’s face. His eyes opened wide as the pan struck him in the nose with a crack that was audible even over the clatter. The masked man reeled back, over balanced and spilled from his saddle. The man’s horse, now riderless, stumbled towards the wagon, one of the spinning wheels snagged the bridle and tangled it, yanking the horse into the wheel. Emmarelda screamed in terror at the colossal crack as the horse was dragged under, its thick neck shattering the wheel and dropping the rear quarter of the wagon to the road with a deafening screech of tearing metal and shattering timber. The whole wagon slewed sideways, the momentum ripping the tired dray horse from its feet with a whiplash so violent it shattered bones. Emmarelda, still screaming, eyes wide with terror, leaped from the developing catastrophe, arms flailing. She crashed down into some bushes beside the road, the thick foliage saving her from breaking bones. She rolled off the wet slap to land in the ditch by the side of the road. The remaining two riders raced past her, hauling on their own reigns to avoid being caught up in the ruin. Emmarelda leaped to her feet and ran unsteadily into the woods, the wet leaves slapping at her.

Emmarelda had no destination in mind. Her only goal was to get off the road and away from her pursuers. By now the rain had began in earnest. It hissed down on the canopy above, only one drop in twenty getting through the leaves. The result made her skin crawl, as though she were waiting for a second more violent storm to break. The terrain dropped away into a creek filled with moss covered rocks. Very little light made it through the gathering storm but there was enough for Emmarelda to pick her way along the creek. She could hear shouts behind her in the distance but she had obviously gained some distance on the riders as they either dismounted or tried to force their horses through the woods. Her heart felt like it was trying to break its way out of her chest but she forced herself to calm down. There was little chance she was going to outrun two men in the woods in the dark. She slowed her pace and stepped behind the lichen covered ruin of an ancient watermill, forcing herself to be still and calm. The voices of her pursuers grew louder and louder until it sounded like they were right on top of her. Abruptly a one of her dark cloaked pursuers splashed across the stream close enough to her that she could have reached out and touched him. The smell of blood and sweat and horse tickled her nose and she screwed up her face to avoid sneezing.

“Where is the bitch!” he snarled.

“She must still be ahead!” another voice cried out from somewhere off to the left. Emmarelda her breath for a long moment and then the men rushed on off into the darkness. She forced herself to breathe slowly, trying to remain calm. This became much more difficult when a snuffling sound drew her attention to the opposite bank. A pair of huge golden eyes regarded her from the darkness. A great white wolf, larger than any pelt Emmarelda had ever seen, padded silently down the river bank. It paused at the edge of the water and looked at her. There was an almost electrical jolt as their eyes met. The weight of the wolf’s regard hit her like a medicine ball and it was all she could do not to cry out. For a long moment they stood staring at each other, then the wolf cocked its head and let out a chuffing sound that sounded amused. As suddenly as it appeared it was gone. Emmarelda flung herself out of her cover and turned to run back the way she had came only to crash headlong into Wil. The pair of them went down in a pile of flailing alms, splashing into the shallow creek.

Malleus Maleficarum: Tales of the Grim and Macabre

With Wil's maritime experience, it didn't take long to identify the lighthouse they'd seen in the crystal ball. It was half a day's ride up the coast, perched on a deserted promontory guarding a storm-wracked peninsula. The sky was already darkening—a herald of the storm Emmarelda had foreseen. Black clouds began piling high, causing sailors to shake their heads and pull on their tar-stained coats.

"We'll need horses," Wil said as they shared a small loaf of rough bread they'd bought from a street vendor.

"I think I'm eating our last few coppers," Emmarelda replied, her mouth full of bread. The goats had confiscated her purse and the few magical tools she had hidden on her person.

"Well, it won't be the worst reason I've ever stolen a horse," Wil said, scanning the area. Just down the road, a modestly prosperous-looking inn stood, its large stable visible behind it, long lines of smoke issuing from its three ancient brick chimneys.

"You wait here. I'll be right back," Wil told her, strolling off toward the hopefully unattended horses. Emmarelda lingered in the mouth of the alley, brooding over what might be happening back in the city. The Goats might assume she was hiding among them, and who knew what they'd do to force them to turn her over? That raised the question of why the Goats wanted her at all. Wil had given vague hints about a dark prophecy, but even if that were true, why would the Goats care? The Protectorate was almost constitutionally allergic to superstition. Their view of religion was stern and puritanical, with no room for wonder or curiosity. Why, then, would those grim old men pay attention to the whispers of the very witches they despised? Who was this Duke, and who was the stranger on the boat?

While Emmarelda was lost in thought, she failed to notice a knacker’s wagon pulling up across the mouth of the alley. The tired dray snuffled in irritation as two middle-aged men, husky from a lifetime of butchering horses, climbed down and sauntered toward her, wooden mallets in hand. A gust of wind, perhaps the leading edge of the coming storm, sighed down the alley, stirring the knives and pots hanging from the skeletal frame of the wagon.

Emmarelda looked up just in time to see the knackers lunging toward her. With a startled cry, she threw up her left hand. There was a flash of light, followed by a sharp crack. Both men staggered back, crying out and clutching their eyes. Wasting no time, Emmarelda dashed between them while they were off balance. The knackers grabbed at her, but she wriggled free with the skill of a street urchin.
She was almost at the wagon when something struck her in the back. She staggered forward, dropping to her knees, as a second wooden mallet whistled past and thudded off the wagon. Emmarelda screamed, scrambling under the wagon. One of the men seized her ankle and yanked her across the cobblestones. She twisted in his grip, a short-bladed knife appearing in her hand. She slashed it across his outstretched hand. The knacker recoiled, screaming, blood spraying as he lost a finger.

For a brief moment, the two men struggled to regroup. She flicked the blood off her blade and yelped a series of words. The mortar between the cobblestones crumbled, and black mold spread up the walls as though time had suddenly accelerated. Both men fell to the ground, retching blood. The nag in the harness screamed and bolted forward.

Emmarelda barely had time to leap aboard the wagon before it tore off down the street toward the coaching inn.

Malleus Maleficarum: Tales of the Grim and Macabre

Emmarelda deliberately prodded the wound, eliciting a grunt of pain from Wil.

“What the hell!?” he demanded.

“That is for thinking I was the the Bride of Darkness,” she informed him tartly.

“In my defense I had it on the authority of the most reputable hags!” he half squeaked. Emmarelda relented and let go. She plucked a thread of silk from her scarf and gently tugged it free, drawing the bright red thread slowly until she had about a yard of silk. That accomplished she drew a needle from her cuff. She snapped her fingers and a small flame sprang into existence above her pointer finger. She thrust the tip of the needle into the flame and heated it, then quenched it in the whiskey with a pungent hiss.

“What are you…”

Emmarelda thrust the needlepoint into will and began to sew, tugging the silk through in a series of neat stitches.Wil winced each time she sunk the point and tugged the thread but he refrained from crying out.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a seamstress,” he admitted as she tied off her handiwork.

“We are a practical people,” she replied enigmatically.

“What should we do now?” Emmarelda asked, sitting back on her own palette and taking a slug of whiskey. She shook her fingers and the blood staining them dried and flaked off with unnatural efficiency.

“The man you saw on the ship.. did you know him?” Wil asked. Emmarelda was silent for a long moment.

“No… I… I don’t think that it was a man. There are legends of those whose deeds were so abominable that Il-who-broke-the-earth cursed them to roam the earth forever. There was something about him… something old and vile…”

“What else do these legends say?” Wil asked, leaning forward eagerly despite his evident exhaustion.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“You don’t know?” he demanded. She shrugged her shoulders.

“This is something that old people say when they are drunk! No one believes it!” she snapped, her own exhaustion and fear fraying her nerves.

“Well whatever he is, he needs to be stopped, we should get moving…” Wil tried to sit up but Emmarelda put three fingers on his chest and pushed him down without difficulty.

“The roads will be swarming with Goats, and you are exhausted,” she pointed out. “He cannot travel by day and he was still at sea.”

“He looked like he was about to make landfall last night, I could see the coast!” Wil objected.

“That hadn’t happened yet,” Emmarelda replied absently.

“Hadn’t… happened? Like it is in the future, how do you know?”

“Have you ever scried with a crystal ball?” Emmarelda demanded.

“Uh…no?”

“Then either cross my palm with more silver or take my word for it,” she snapped. THere was a brief awkward silence.

“Fine. So he hasn’t arrived yet, how does that help us?”

“If we can get to the shore before he reaches it … I might be able to stop him from landing,” she admitted.

“Like… stop him how?”

Emmarelda sighed tiredly but looked up at Wil, her large eyes almost luminous in the dark of the chapel.

“You are from Alba, you know better than most that a land has a … a dusa… what would you call it,” for a moment she struggled with the language unused to thinking in magical terms beyond her native tongue. “A spirit? A soul?” Wil nodded his head in understanding so she pressed on.

“If you know where a person will first set foot in a land there are ways to make it anathema to them, to set the very earth against them,” she explained.

“Will that kill him?” Wil asked.

“I mean… unless he is a really good swimmer,” Emmarelda replied with a tired smile.

Malleus Maleficarum: Tales of the Grim and Macabre

The old wagon clattered down the country lane, the ancient nag huffing and blowing as it strained at the traces. Daniel Crook resisted the urge to lash the beast with the reigns only with a supreme effort of will.The village of Popley-on-Stow was typical of many villages in the country, little more than an inn, a few crofts and an old mill. Even before the war it had been losing people as the young ones were inevitably drawn away to the cities and enclosure made it harder and harder for a man to make his way as a farmer. Crook scowled at the thought. Everywhere you looked the old ways were fading away to be replaced by bastardized new ideas which took men further from the Truth. The wagon creaked into the half ruined coach yard of the old inn. The ancient two story structure was beyond dilapidated and had developed an alarming lean. Cannon balls had blasted several holes in its ancient plaster walls during the recent war where partisans of one side or another had used the inn as a base of some kind. Crook smiled as he climbed down from his covered wagon and patted his horse. The war had been good for the Ancient and Honorable Order of Swine Butchers, the mendicant meat sellers who travelled the land in their red painted wagons. One the arrival of a swine butcher in any village had been a herald of the coming winter and their arrival would be greeted with fear and excitement. In those days people had recognized that the slaughter of animals was a sacred thing and believed that the butcher took the violence of an animal's death upon himself. Like so much else that truth had faded over the years and most Swine Butchers were little more than figures of fun at harvest carnivals. Crook strode through the door of the inn and past the ancient, faded, sign that proclaimed the Slaughtered Calf. Not for much longer.

The interior of the inn was every bit as dilapidated as the outside, dust and cobwebs eddied in the draught and the cold was kept at by only by a huge fire which had been kindled in the ancient stone fireplace. An evil looking tapster with one eye was laddeling sour smelling ale into wooden tankards for the dozen men that occupied the room. With the exception of the tapster each man wore a mask made of an animal skull, mostly pigs though several cows and horses were also present. The skull was the only unifying motif. They men gathered were young and old, some dressed in the simple attire of the country while others were unmistakable city men. The call of blood could be felt even in the cities, praise be to Old Night, and some of the most enthusiastic members of the Order plyed their trades in alleys and knackers yards. The other figure who stood out was a young man who hung suspended upside down naked save for a filthy hood and struggling feebly.
“Brothers!” Crook called theatrically as he was framed by the doorway, “I bring you glad tidings, for old Night has whispered to me in my dreams! The long wait is over! The Days of Blood are at hand!”

“You dare speak to us with your face uncovered!” a cattle skulled man demanded, springing to his feet and moving towards Crook.

“You profane the…” the man’s objection ended in a choking gasp as Crook drove his hand through his chest. In place of fingers he now sported a trio of boney talons, six inches long and razor sharp.

“Look upon his blessingings and rejoice!” Crook howled, shoving the objectionable man back into the tap room. The stricken man’s mask tumbled to the ground with a crack as he tried frantically to staunch the flow of blood.

“Take him,” Crook directed holding up his unnatural appendage to emphasize his point. Cultists sprang forth and seized the dying man. A rope was looped around his legs and he was hoisted to the rafters beside the other victim. Blood pattered to the ground as his throat was cut, his blood dripping from his chin into waiting buckets. One of the butchers began to open his stomach, drawing forth his entrails with the practiced care of a craftsman.

“The Days of Blood are close brothers!” Crook repeated, flexing his fingers which seemed once again to be nothing more than the calloused digits of a man used to hard work.

“Old Night himself has returned to our shores and spoken to me in my dreams. He has work for us…” One of the butchers began peeling the skin from the unfortunate objector with a flensing knife.

“And we will discuss it while we eat…”

________________________________________________________________________

A hound brayed on the moor as Emmarelda led the way along the Old Road. It was still an hour or two until dawn and the darkness was alleviated only by the light of the city on the horizon.

“They will be sending patrols, we should get off the road,” Wil cautioned. Emmarelda nodded.

“It isn’t too much further,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Once upon a time the Gypsy clans had roamed the countryside, but since the war they had been forced to stay put in the relative safety of the city and Carnival Row. Emmarelda’s first instinct had been to return to her people, but with the Goats on the offensive and hunting her in particular she knew that would be the first place they would look. The vision of what she had seen in the crystal ball continued to trouble her. The strange man had seen her somehow, beheld her through the ball as clearly as if it had been him instead of Wil sitting across the table. She didn’t have a tarot deck to consult but she felt in her bones that he was the tip of something dark and terrible.

“Stand and deliver!” a voice shouted from the darkness. Wil shoved Emmarelda to the ground a heart beat ahead of a shattering boom. A second crack sounded almost simultaneously with the first and there was the thud of a body hitting the ground. Wil was still for a moment then helped her up, reloading his smoking pistol one handedly. A raggedly clad man with a mask over his face lay in the ditch by the side of the road, an ancient fowling piece still gripped in his dead hand.

“Bloody highwaymen,” Wil grumped. With the armies disbanded, the roads were awash with discharged veterans of both sides, and wise people did not travel by night or without strong guards.

A few minutes later they turned off the road and headed down a weed choked path that looked like it hadn’t been used in many years. After a half mile they came to a tumble down ruin of arched masonry which had once been a monastery. There had been many such buildings once before old Queen Kate had defied the Arch-Prelate and declared herself the head of the Church. Now a days the Old Church was proscribed and its few remaining adherents practiced in secret or had fled to the continent into the Imperial Territories.

Emmarelda lead the way into a ruined chapel. Inside an old coat room she began to probe the stones with her fingertips till she found the stone she was looking for. She pressed it in and there was a long groan of grinding masonry as a section of wall withdrew revealing a steep narrow stairway. She gestured Wil inside then followed him, sealing the door behind them. At the bottom of the stair was a large room that might once have been a cellar. Several pallets lay against the wall and barrels of food and drink stood under a canvas tarp.

“What is this place?” Wil demanded.

“Followers of the Old Faith use it to hide their priests,” Emmarelda explained, “Despite the best efforts of the Protectorate, they still slip here and there to preach their gospel.”

“We will be safe here,” she added, “... at least while the sun is up, I have a sense that after sunset we would be wise not to trust anything.”

Discovery: A Broken Galaxy

September 24, 2190
USF The Arcadian
Marine Barracks One
Kashvi Sikander Sadek
Polaris System

---

“First squad, on your feet!” Kashvi roared in a voice that seemed much too loud to have come from a slender woman. Marines leaped up, scattering playing cards, credit chips, and pornography of a staggering number of designs in all directions. Those marines not in first squad scooped up the mess with practiced efficiency.

“I want gear for an EVA suited and booted in five minutes, armor and breaching gear!” The chaos in the barracks resolved into military efficiency in a surprisingly short amount of time as the armory was opened Corporal Kent began to slide out the reinforced plastic cases that contained the powered boarding armor. Marines were already stripping naked to put on their pyjamas, a rubber undersuit that was inseam with hundreds of sensors to help their armor mimic their body. Battle buddies began attaching the composite plasteel armor plates and syncing the pieces together. Kashvi stripped off herself and began pulling on her own pyjamas. Steele crossed to her and began to help her get strapped in.

“Weapons ma’am?” Stelle asked as she strapped a shoulder guard into place.

“Listen up!” Kashvi roared again, cutting through the excited babble. “We are going to be boarding an unknown vessel” The murmur grew in volume as the world ‘alien’ spoken by a dozen lips.

“We aren’t planning on hostilities but…!” she paused until silence could assert itself, “If this is our first contact with alien life it would be pretty fucking embarassing if some jar head blew the head off the first ET we meet. Lock. Your. Safety. And anyone that unlocks it without my say so better be looking forward to spending the rest of the tour scrubbing the shitters with her toothbrush!”

Steele slid the clamshell chest plate over Kashvi’s shoulders and sealed it with a series of pressurized hisses.

“What is this?” she demanded, pointing down to her suit. The letters KSS had been stenciled on the breastplate in regulation fashion but someone had added a small ‘i’ between two of the characters so her armor now read ‘KiSS’ Steele shrugged.

“You should be so lucky, I got ‘GuNS’ Griselda Steele admitted. Kashvi couldn’t hold back a snort. Steele was the armorer but she also didn’t lack for a bust that was worthy of the epithet.

“I shall consider myself blessed,” she promised.

“Ma’am!” Charming called as he entered the barracks from the opposite end at a jog. He had come from the office the two of them shared at a run, his weapon tucked in the crook of his arm. There was a click and Charming’s voice began to pipe through a comm implant in her mastoid bone, inaudible to anyone but her. His voice was being cast by a microphone affixed to her First Sergeant's throat that allowed him to subvocalize ensuring privacy for sensitive discussions between the senior personnel.

“Requesting permission to lead the second fireteam,” he said without preamble. Kashvi began to shake her head but Steele was trying to put her helmet on so she aborted the effort and let the armorer seal the helmet into place. First squad consisted of ten marines, a corporal and medic. It would be split into two teams one led by Corporal Hussien the other by Kashvi herself.

“Can’t do it Top,” she replied as she flexed her gauntlets, her helmet visor lighting up with green tell tales that informed her everything was functioning within specifications.

“I could stand in for Hussien,” he insisted all but bouncing with eagerness. In his heart of hearts Charming wanted to be where the action was, and especially wanted to be one of the first humans to board an alien vessel.

“We cant put the whole command staff on a single boarding mission, on the off chance we all buy the farm,” she pointed out.

“Understood Ma’am but you said yourself there was no indication this would be a hostile AO,” Charming wheedled. Kashvi knew what the regulations said but she also knew that Charming was one of the few veterans in her cadre. Given the importance of this op…

“Fine,” she decided, “suit up.” She cut into first squads comm-net with a flick of her tongue against a selector in her helmet.

“Top will be joining us, leading element two, so put your game faces on,” she declared. Charming was beaming from ear to ear as he put his own chestplate on. PRC had been enhanced to PRinCe by their graffiti artist.

“XO,” Kashvi declared, the word switching her to a link with the executive officer, “Marine element ready for embarkation, moving to the shuttle bay now.”

Discovery: A Broken Galaxy

September 24, 2190
USF The Arcadian
Observation Blister 3 Starboard
Kashvi Sikander Sadek and Douglas "Hobby" Hobbs
Polaris System

---

Observation Blister 3 Starboard was one of six armored nodules along the side of the ship. There were few reasons to spend the huge sums required for armored industrial diamond windows while simultaneously weakening the hull. No glass could ever be as strong as layered composite steel and sensors were thousands of times more sensitive than the human eye. Few reasons didn’t mean no reasons of course. Observation Blister 3 Starboard was situated above the primary starboard hangar bay and allowed eyeballs on for launches and landings. It was empty now, hanging instrument cradles neatly folded and packed. A heavy blast door sealed it off from the ship in general quarters, leaving the observers relatively exposed but there were no easy posts on a warship. Hell you could die crossing the road.

Kashvi stood by the window, staring out into the odd not quite rightness of hyperspace. It gave her the same thrill she felt when she jumped into the void. A place humans were never meant to go, but they conquered with guts and ingenuity. The blast door opened and Chief Hobbs stepped into the bay.

“Oh great,” he grumped as he stomped over to the window. Kashvi lifted her chin by way of acknowledgement. The ice between them was palpable but neither tried to push it into an argument.

“What are you doing here?” Hobbs asked after a moment. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a battered silver flask. With a flip of his thumb he opened it and took a slug. It had the eye searing dryness of industrial alcohol, probably bled off a hydraulic line and mixed with enough water to keep it from being lethal. Booze was normal aboard ship and wise officers made sure it was kept in check rather than fruitlessly trying to stamp it out.

“How many chances do you have to see stars no one has ever seen?” Kashvi said after a long moment.

“Right?” Hobbs agreed. Further conversation was interrupted by a chime warning the crew that they were about to exit hyperspace. A holographic count down rolled down to zero on one of the displays and then with a shudder a starfield exploded into existence. To the naked eye it looked no different to others but there was an undeniable frisson of the new and unexplained. Hobbs cocked his ear and frowned.

“Problem?” Kashvi asked, arching an eyebrow. Hobbs shook his head.

“Reactor six is back to full output,” he stated, though clearly his mind was back in his engineroom. He sounded like a child who had been presented with a fascinating puzzle despite his age.

“You can tell that from here?” she asked.

“Can you tell if your armor is out of alignment without putting it on?” he asked.

“Fair,” she agreed, nodding her head to concede the point. Her spat with the Chief was no reason to question his competence. He grinned and handed her the flask. She lifted it to her lips but before she could drink her wrist comm blipped, summoning her to the bridge.

“Saved by the Bell?” Hobby suggested.

“Dharma,” Kashvi replied and handed the flask back. Without another word she turned and looped off towards the bridge, leaving the old man alone to ponder the alien stars.