06-05-2025, 09:40 PM
I have an idea. There's a whole middle section and ending and stuff. Not sure how to get from this to the rest of it, but I'll figure it out.
He consoles himself that it could be worse.
Twenty minutes ago, he’d been shoulder deep in a substation panel, scraping everything and his knuckles trying to reach the last set of clips with his face mashed against the control board and trying desperately not to lose an eye. Now all he has to do is stand and look attentive if anybody glances his way, datapad at the ready to record whatever orders are thrown out so his Commander doesn’t have to dirty himself with a touchscreen. His priority is reduced now to ‘don’t bleed anywhere obvious’.
‘Join the Fleet!’ the cheerful poster had shouted. We could use a man like you, said the recruiting officer. Take mankind into the future, affirmed the acceptance letter. All he’d really cared about was two years of not having to pay a single split chip to anybody, a place to be that was far away from everything and more importantly everyone, and since he’d signed onto a Deepspace ship he’d come out of it with a very tidy new life, assuming he came out at all. A risk, admittedly, that had seemed rather abstract back at boot camp.
Nobody had told him that he’d be on the hook to the entire third shift Maintenance crew for the rest of his natural born life through a series of mishaps that take on the qualities of myth the more he broods about it. Or that they’d be more than happy to shave bare slivers of cred off the mountain of his debt in return for the occasional offering of blood to whatever greater power Maintenance believes in. So what if he had long arms. So what if they were also skinny and perfect for junction sections. Being yanked around by his dress tabs had really not been in his career plans.
He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and keeps his eyes trained on the opposite wall, trying hard to ignore the throbbing aches from where he lost skin. It's unfortunate that he’s on current rotation as adjunct to the second shift Commander which makes him both easy to find and easy to grab, as adjuncting mostly means running around doing whatever he’s told to do and standing around when he’s not. His dress uniform sleeve is probably welded by now to his sluggishly bleeding scrapes like the world’s most expensive bandage. At least the jacket is dark and nobody is going to look that close anyways.
He’ll say one thing for the new chain of command; nobody is late or missing to this suddenly scrambled briefing save for the person that called it. Every seat has a body in it including third shift, and every body has its adjunct behind it ready to record orders and notes. There’s even a hastily laid beverage service thrown together on the tactical table at the back bulkhead although his senior officer hasn’t asked for anything and a quick glance around confirms that nobody else is relaxed enough to want to wet their anything either.
Maybe it’s more than nobody wants a hot liquid close to hand considering how some of these briefings have gone in the last little while since the shuffle up. Nobody’s really talking but Sinton’s drumming his fingertips loudly enough on the arm of his chair to make up for it.
When the new Colonel sweeps in soundlessly some long minutes later, he straightens from the aching half slump he’d fallen into and everybody not already standing does so; some of them so slowly it’s like watching the sun rise. The Colonel doesn’t seem to notice or care at the near disrespect.
If you ask him, although nobody is going to, this new Colonel ought to go straight back to the Academy until he can at least grow a beard. Xia doesn’t look old enough to be in charge of anything larger than a drink order, let alone the point Fleetship. Sure, the uniform fits the man well enough and there’s enough braiding to choke a large animal if he wanted to, but that’s true of every senior officer in this room and it’s not like a Wanderer is going to hold still while the man drops a golden noose around its neck.
The last run they’d been on, wagtalk had it the Colonel had fucked up his orders to the Mech stations and nearly lost them into a sideslip before they’d managed to turn it around and limp back to HQ. They’ve been on the ground for weeks now, ostensibly doing repairs but everyone has been holding their breath for another command change. Most of the smart money was on Pember to get shuffled over, but he’d gone for the dark horse of Turozo to come back. If it paid off, he could get most of the way clear of Maintenance and if it didn’t, well he’d be no worse off than before.
Yet Xia’s still calling meetings out of nowhere that everybody has to stand around for.
It’s only when the Colonel sits without more than a sweeping glance over everybody’s head, and those ranked enough to get their own chairs go back down again, that the slight figure hidden behind him until that moment becomes apparent. Just off his right shoulder and back, the precise placement for where his aide would stand - if Colonel Xia had an aide.
Which he doesn’t. He’d been three hours into command before he got rid of the one he’d been given and had replaced them with precisely nobody. The rumors had run through the corridors of the Adamant like rabid metal mice and they’d only gotten louder since. He does everything himself. He answers only to HQ and only occasionally to his communicator. The command deck is locked when he’s on it, bridge crew only. He’s not even in touching distance of the crew most of the time.
Yet, there she is, looking like she’d rather melt through the floor and fidgeting at his elbow. She’s wearing the right uniform, sure, and she’s in the right place but she’s… the tiniest little thing he’s ever seen. She’s probably barely over Xia’s shoulder when he stands and right now, if the Colonel looks sideways, he’s going to be staring right at her tits. He didn’t even know they made uniforms in that size.
He’s not the only one gawping. Everybody appears to be riveted on this latest installment of Xia’s lunacy and the girl seems to know it as he watches her face flush pinker and pinker under the attention. Somebody he can’t identify coughs into the silence and she lifts her chin, her heart shaped lips compressing. It's overall a rather cute effect, like a bunny trying to fluff up and look mean.
“We will be launching in four hours. All personnel not on ready duty are to be recalled.” All the attention snaps back to the Colonel as if the girl ceased to exist. “I want systems check online in two hours, final prep in three.”
“That’s… that’s not possible.” Morta pulls it together before everyone else, which is probably why he’s been first shift Commander for about as long as there’s been a first shift. “Launch requires twelve hours. Minimum.”
“It does not. Those twelve hours are for running equipment checks that we’ve already done and re-done during the re-cert tests. Maintenance 2 and 3 have signed off, Command has signed off, I have signed off. Orbital engines take three hours to cycle from a cold start. I’ll give you an extra hour for any hand holding you feel you can’t live without.”
Xia’s voice is light, fast and gives no opening.
“Colonel, this isn’t… this is insane.” It's Jebson this time, half risen from his chair with one hand flat on the table. “You can’t just order the ship to launch in four hours, we’ll blow ourselves up on the pad!” There are murmurs around the table, heads nodding in agreement. “Hell, half my crew is off-deck on rec leave, they won’t make it back in time.” He stares blankly at his datapad and wonders if he should be writing this down. Launch in four hours. Check next of kin is up to date. Call Tobi?
“They will be or we’ll lift without them and their pay will be docked for dereliction.” The Colonel tilts his head as Jebson starts to sputter. “I can leave you on the tarmac as well if you want to explain it to them in person? I’m sure your second will perform adequately in your stead.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not particularly. My threat displays are faster than this.” The Colonel tilts his head and the shadow of his cap covers his eyes. “This is not a request and this is not a discussion. I have my orders; take yours.”
“Cold start in four hours will break us apart,” Morta injects bluntly from the other side of the table. “I don’t care who ordered it, I don’t care if you’re saying the certification checks are enough, the strain…”
“... has been calculated and is within tolerance.”
“You’re going to get us killed. Colonel.”
The man smiles and it's not reaching his eyes. “Unlikely. I know my ships and this one will do as she was built to.” He looks around the table. “You will be given the rest of your orders once we are in high orbit. Gentlemen, I suggest you get started.”
The girl at his shoulder visibly hesitates and then leans to whisper urgently in his ear. Her dark hair, too long to be regulation anything no matter how lax the commander, falls to hide her face. His gaze lowers, his eyes half closing as if he’s actually listening. He murmurs something back as the side of his mouth curls and her face flushes again. She jerks back into position as if stung and shoves her hands behind her back, straightening painfully to a decent approximation of parade rest.
The near-smile falls off his face as he looks up again but his eyes gleam. It’s not a comforting combination.
“Why are you still here?” he says after a moment. “Your objections have been noted. Get started now.”
He consoles himself that it could be worse.
Twenty minutes ago, he’d been shoulder deep in a substation panel, scraping everything and his knuckles trying to reach the last set of clips with his face mashed against the control board and trying desperately not to lose an eye. Now all he has to do is stand and look attentive if anybody glances his way, datapad at the ready to record whatever orders are thrown out so his Commander doesn’t have to dirty himself with a touchscreen. His priority is reduced now to ‘don’t bleed anywhere obvious’.
‘Join the Fleet!’ the cheerful poster had shouted. We could use a man like you, said the recruiting officer. Take mankind into the future, affirmed the acceptance letter. All he’d really cared about was two years of not having to pay a single split chip to anybody, a place to be that was far away from everything and more importantly everyone, and since he’d signed onto a Deepspace ship he’d come out of it with a very tidy new life, assuming he came out at all. A risk, admittedly, that had seemed rather abstract back at boot camp.
Nobody had told him that he’d be on the hook to the entire third shift Maintenance crew for the rest of his natural born life through a series of mishaps that take on the qualities of myth the more he broods about it. Or that they’d be more than happy to shave bare slivers of cred off the mountain of his debt in return for the occasional offering of blood to whatever greater power Maintenance believes in. So what if he had long arms. So what if they were also skinny and perfect for junction sections. Being yanked around by his dress tabs had really not been in his career plans.
He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and keeps his eyes trained on the opposite wall, trying hard to ignore the throbbing aches from where he lost skin. It's unfortunate that he’s on current rotation as adjunct to the second shift Commander which makes him both easy to find and easy to grab, as adjuncting mostly means running around doing whatever he’s told to do and standing around when he’s not. His dress uniform sleeve is probably welded by now to his sluggishly bleeding scrapes like the world’s most expensive bandage. At least the jacket is dark and nobody is going to look that close anyways.
He’ll say one thing for the new chain of command; nobody is late or missing to this suddenly scrambled briefing save for the person that called it. Every seat has a body in it including third shift, and every body has its adjunct behind it ready to record orders and notes. There’s even a hastily laid beverage service thrown together on the tactical table at the back bulkhead although his senior officer hasn’t asked for anything and a quick glance around confirms that nobody else is relaxed enough to want to wet their anything either.
Maybe it’s more than nobody wants a hot liquid close to hand considering how some of these briefings have gone in the last little while since the shuffle up. Nobody’s really talking but Sinton’s drumming his fingertips loudly enough on the arm of his chair to make up for it.
When the new Colonel sweeps in soundlessly some long minutes later, he straightens from the aching half slump he’d fallen into and everybody not already standing does so; some of them so slowly it’s like watching the sun rise. The Colonel doesn’t seem to notice or care at the near disrespect.
If you ask him, although nobody is going to, this new Colonel ought to go straight back to the Academy until he can at least grow a beard. Xia doesn’t look old enough to be in charge of anything larger than a drink order, let alone the point Fleetship. Sure, the uniform fits the man well enough and there’s enough braiding to choke a large animal if he wanted to, but that’s true of every senior officer in this room and it’s not like a Wanderer is going to hold still while the man drops a golden noose around its neck.
The last run they’d been on, wagtalk had it the Colonel had fucked up his orders to the Mech stations and nearly lost them into a sideslip before they’d managed to turn it around and limp back to HQ. They’ve been on the ground for weeks now, ostensibly doing repairs but everyone has been holding their breath for another command change. Most of the smart money was on Pember to get shuffled over, but he’d gone for the dark horse of Turozo to come back. If it paid off, he could get most of the way clear of Maintenance and if it didn’t, well he’d be no worse off than before.
Yet Xia’s still calling meetings out of nowhere that everybody has to stand around for.
It’s only when the Colonel sits without more than a sweeping glance over everybody’s head, and those ranked enough to get their own chairs go back down again, that the slight figure hidden behind him until that moment becomes apparent. Just off his right shoulder and back, the precise placement for where his aide would stand - if Colonel Xia had an aide.
Which he doesn’t. He’d been three hours into command before he got rid of the one he’d been given and had replaced them with precisely nobody. The rumors had run through the corridors of the Adamant like rabid metal mice and they’d only gotten louder since. He does everything himself. He answers only to HQ and only occasionally to his communicator. The command deck is locked when he’s on it, bridge crew only. He’s not even in touching distance of the crew most of the time.
Yet, there she is, looking like she’d rather melt through the floor and fidgeting at his elbow. She’s wearing the right uniform, sure, and she’s in the right place but she’s… the tiniest little thing he’s ever seen. She’s probably barely over Xia’s shoulder when he stands and right now, if the Colonel looks sideways, he’s going to be staring right at her tits. He didn’t even know they made uniforms in that size.
He’s not the only one gawping. Everybody appears to be riveted on this latest installment of Xia’s lunacy and the girl seems to know it as he watches her face flush pinker and pinker under the attention. Somebody he can’t identify coughs into the silence and she lifts her chin, her heart shaped lips compressing. It's overall a rather cute effect, like a bunny trying to fluff up and look mean.
“We will be launching in four hours. All personnel not on ready duty are to be recalled.” All the attention snaps back to the Colonel as if the girl ceased to exist. “I want systems check online in two hours, final prep in three.”
“That’s… that’s not possible.” Morta pulls it together before everyone else, which is probably why he’s been first shift Commander for about as long as there’s been a first shift. “Launch requires twelve hours. Minimum.”
“It does not. Those twelve hours are for running equipment checks that we’ve already done and re-done during the re-cert tests. Maintenance 2 and 3 have signed off, Command has signed off, I have signed off. Orbital engines take three hours to cycle from a cold start. I’ll give you an extra hour for any hand holding you feel you can’t live without.”
Xia’s voice is light, fast and gives no opening.
“Colonel, this isn’t… this is insane.” It's Jebson this time, half risen from his chair with one hand flat on the table. “You can’t just order the ship to launch in four hours, we’ll blow ourselves up on the pad!” There are murmurs around the table, heads nodding in agreement. “Hell, half my crew is off-deck on rec leave, they won’t make it back in time.” He stares blankly at his datapad and wonders if he should be writing this down. Launch in four hours. Check next of kin is up to date. Call Tobi?
“They will be or we’ll lift without them and their pay will be docked for dereliction.” The Colonel tilts his head as Jebson starts to sputter. “I can leave you on the tarmac as well if you want to explain it to them in person? I’m sure your second will perform adequately in your stead.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not particularly. My threat displays are faster than this.” The Colonel tilts his head and the shadow of his cap covers his eyes. “This is not a request and this is not a discussion. I have my orders; take yours.”
“Cold start in four hours will break us apart,” Morta injects bluntly from the other side of the table. “I don’t care who ordered it, I don’t care if you’re saying the certification checks are enough, the strain…”
“... has been calculated and is within tolerance.”
“You’re going to get us killed. Colonel.”
The man smiles and it's not reaching his eyes. “Unlikely. I know my ships and this one will do as she was built to.” He looks around the table. “You will be given the rest of your orders once we are in high orbit. Gentlemen, I suggest you get started.”
The girl at his shoulder visibly hesitates and then leans to whisper urgently in his ear. Her dark hair, too long to be regulation anything no matter how lax the commander, falls to hide her face. His gaze lowers, his eyes half closing as if he’s actually listening. He murmurs something back as the side of his mouth curls and her face flushes again. She jerks back into position as if stung and shoves her hands behind her back, straightening painfully to a decent approximation of parade rest.
The near-smile falls off his face as he looks up again but his eyes gleam. It’s not a comforting combination.
“Why are you still here?” he says after a moment. “Your objections have been noted. Get started now.”
![[Image: abyssw-alker-v0-wx0feo9sd3yod500x100.jpg]](https://i.postimg.cc/LXBKwXgL/abyssw-alker-v0-wx0feo9sd3yod500x100.jpg)