This was important information. His question betrayed a lack of perspective, a viewpoint hampered by something. He couldn't feel his perspective shift. He was weak in the mind. I forgot to move my face muscles when I responded, so my reassuring tone was accompanied with an empty stare.
"I didn't touch anything. Omega-11 has a supermassive star, Omega-41 a Neutron star, and Omega 58 a Pulsar. We're bound to experience some time-dilation."
Perspective was very important for dealing with our patrons at Altair. Things they did could change your perspective, and how you view the universe changes what you can and cannot see. The passing of time becomes invisible, or too visible. The colors you see are wrong or right. And if you saw blue where others saw red, the yellow needles will spike you all without anyone ever knowing.
He can't hear the rattle. But I can. I know that whatever we're doing is changing a perspective. His perspective was changed, and that has to be why he'd ask. I wonder what he sees differently, now. The passage of time, for certain. Locations? Ideas? Purposes? Should I cut him open to see what his eyes can see?
No, that would be a waste of time. Maybe later. We have a job to do. We have to do the job. Simple delivery. I force myself to relax, or at least to give the illusion of relaxation.
. . .Theodore Syd, Noth Squadron . . .Madsack Fragment, Omega-11 -> Omega-7 -> Vicinity of Planet Skagen, Omega-55
I sighed back, knowing that even if he didn't actually mess with the computers he'd definitely do it now to set an example. Maybe -- he's too unpredictable. All I could do is blame him anyway. Now we've entered unknown waters and the local hideouts refused to grant us shelter. Too high a profile does that to you, I suppose...
You're so full of lies... typical of you.[scoffs]Whatever. We're three hours away from the fleet's coordinates. We should get our story straight. I'm only going to say this once, so hear me out.
Yeah. Hear me out, because I'm so absolutely going to ace this novel about our lives as two best friends making a buck out of cargo smuggling. And because of the volume we carry, some of these trinkets are supposed to be inactive baubles that we just throw away... around the ship and in people's pockets. The details go on and on, making me think this op as a lot more simple than I make it to be. Drop the payload. Monitor progress. Wait for reinforcements. Get out before you're fried. Easy, right?
Right, and no numbers. Can't risk them catch a wiff of us or imply something else, so... welcome aboard The Lazarev, Walt.[low mumbling]Until the mission is over we'll work with names.
Bad idea. Horrible idea. But there was no better alternative. "Hi, I'm Twenty-Five and this is Four. We're part of a group that's looking to strip you of your shit" doesn't really work here. Soon enough we'd be right at their doorstep and we'd be on our own for good until we enter the final stages of this act of systematic suicide.
My name. It had been months since I'd heard it last. And to think, it was even addressed at me. It sounded like an affliction, like a disease biting into his voice. I suppressed my smile, I can't laugh here. Not now. It's too soon. It's more important right now to note that he is worse at lying than me. Lack of practice? Lack of dedication? It was lacking something. Perhaps creativity.
"You know, they say my name is more cursed than my number."
I cast my gaze into his eyes. People say that eyes are the windows to the soul, and I really want to see whatever it is that hides under his skin.
. . . Captain James Marshall , Liberty Insurgency . . .INS-Fretensis, The Bridge - Main Observatory / Omega-55 System
The Captain stands at the observation deck, looking with a thousand-yard stare out of the bridge's large windows into the orange abyss of the Walker nebula.
Today's the day.
Today is the day when I and my crew pull off a deal that will allow us to lift ourselves out of our destitution. Perhaps we can afford to feel earth under our feet again - a visit to Curacao would be just what the doctor ordered. My crew certainly deserve it after the hell they've been through.
The mysterious deal-maker no doubt knows they are employing a crew and ship on the brink, and like all of the miscreants we deal with, I am weary of their intentions...
He sighs.
Sir, contact! On our starboard side! the ship's intelligence officer, Lt. Wilkins suddenly exclaims.
I turn towards her console and see the radar frequency congruent with a smaller-sized vessel, approaching quickly from out of the nebula. It should have appeared on our far scopes much earlier than it had - it is not entirely unusual for the contacts we are employed by to have their ships modified for stealth. I turn back toward the observation deck's windows to see the vessel itself, the coal-black hull absorbing all of the light of the Omega-55 suns, leaving no reflection against the orange backdrop of the nebula. It is a small, Storm-class gunboat vessel, commonly flown by raiding fleets of the group of former pirates that fly under the banner of the old Sol Coalition. We've had dealings with the Coalition before, though not in some time.
The request was approved faster than expected. A green light, no questions asked. One of the patrol wings linked up just outside our zone, silently and waiting, like they didn’t want to be there either.
We ran a full pre-check, everything tight. No room for error, not when you’re heading into a question mark.
But nothing prepared us for this.
We didn’t find anything.
Not debris. Not radiation. Not a signal spike or an anomaly to log. Not even cosmic background noise.
It was like the sector had been carved out of the universe and forgotten to exist.
A void, yes, but not space as we know it. No starlight reflection. No particle drift. Just… blank.
Kael kept adjusting the scans, recalibrating, double-checking the instruments like a woman possessed.
She refused to speak for a while. Just kept tapping the same few keys like she could will the void to register something.
Jace muttered something under his breath when we crossed the threshold. I didn’t catch it.
Something religious maybe, or a curse. Either way, he stopped talking after that.
The fighters stayed in tight formation. Too tight. I don’t blame them, I caught myself gripping the armrest so hard I left marks.
We all felt it. Not fear, exactly. But this… pressure. Like we shouldn’t be there. Like something was looking through us and saw nothing worth keeping.
Carrick, he was the first to say it out loud. “It’s not empty,” he whispered, “It’s missing.”
And he’s right. There’s a difference.
Empty means something was there and is now gone. But this? This is the absence of ever. The kind of blank that screams.
Even our comms acted strange. Not static, just silence. Like even our voices refused to echo in that place.
We didn’t stay long, I made the call. Told the fighters to fall back, had us break orbit and burn hard back toward the Fretensis.
And now that we’re back, something is still off.
No one’s talking much. Kael shut herself in diagnostics. Jace hasn’t left the armory. Carrick, I don’t even know where he is right now.
I’m writing this down because I have to. Because I need to remind myself it happened. That we went out there and came back.
But I can’t stop thinking about that sector. About what wasn’t there.
There you are, wounded like a dog, licking its wounds expecting them to heal just like that. My finger slides over the console, opening a direct channel to that hulk's command bridge. The connection was poor, even this close. Sometimes words would lose themselves in the static, I know it.
"This is err...we've got a delivery for you." why did I stumble in my own words? I've practiced this all day. "We're supposed to see it through with you. Can you let us in?
There I am now, waiting roughly seven clicks away from whatever is left of that fleet. A minute passed, then five. The green light did not turn on -- that tiny LED that's supposed to flare up when they're transmitting. I started to fear for the worst when their fighter patrols were deployed. Did they see through us, I wonder? They couldn't have. The intel had to be right.
"Maybe the officer's out for a leak." words have never been spoken more sarcastically. Then my head turns to my co-pilot. "Hey, Walt. Keep an eye on the intercom. I'll bring us something to drink while we wait."
In reality, I just needed an excuse to leave that tiny bridge in order to do anything other than wait in silence. Climbing down the ladder I'd find myself staring at a small hallway containing both beds and kitchen -- more importantly, a small fridge under a bolted down counter containing about ten bottles of prime quality Liberty Ale. I never understood why everyone hates it. That fuzzy sweetness is nothing to scoff at. Especially when they're cold.
I slam a bottle against the counter in a swift motion, then the next. Nothing beats that satisfying pop as soon as the cap releases that sweet, fruity flavor in the air. First whiff, then taste.
"Perfection." -- I just needed to take in the moment now. Wait one more minute before heading back.
I sat forward in my chair with not much to say, offering only a nod to telegraph my understanding of his request. Some parts of my internal monologue were rhyming, speaking was risking saying things that didn't need to be said. In front of us was something I almost found impressive, an armored and armed bag of rats clinging to a life, glory, and honor that they haven't had for some time. The rattle was almost as loud as the voices, and the colors bled out that violet hue of desperation.
I heard the hiss and pop of a drink, bitterly distant, somewhere deep down the halls, and I mentally wrote off Twenty-Five's help for the next five hours. His effectiveness was low enough without an allied crew to infect with charisma, alcohol was going to lower his control of the social dynamic. Our targets certainly couldn't be in the best state of mind, but it would be a waste of time telling him to not drink on the job, as well. Inefficient.
I strapped my handguns to the holsters on my thigh and chest, both covered by my coat. I also put on a deployable wrist blade, just in case. I'm not good in delicate social situations, so if Twenty-Five fails the speaking portion of this, I'll need to drag the both of us out of this. The memory of a demented tarot card flashed past my eyes. Aspirant, hmm?
. . . Captain James Marshall , Liberty Insurgency . . .INS-Fretensis, The Bridge - Comms Console / Omega-55 System
"Sir, we are receiving a garbled transmission from our visitors." he says as Lt. Shepherd motions toward a display of the radar signature of the small gunboat-class vessel. He patches it through.
The captain hovers over the shoulder of Lt. Shepherd, making sense of some of the furtive words through the static and interference caused by the twin stars and the nearby Reykjavik nebula.
This is it. Our ticket off of this decaying metal husk.
I had given the order for our snubcraft - at least, the ones that remained in good working order - to launch and keep a perimeter and further, to keep an eye on our guest. We've had our dealings interrupted before, and I was not taking the chance with our new contacts.
Lt. Wilkins had little time to compile a threat assessment of the vessel and its possible complements, but she provided a hastily summarized report. She gauged a meeting with the vessel and its occupants as a low-risk, and, as the vessels identifiers were not logged in any be-on-the-lookout for or kill-on-sight lists that are still in our possession from the Insurgency main dataframe. She admitted in her report some limitations of the assessment - the dataframe has not been updated in some time due to the loss of Fort Leniex and the remainder of the Insurgency's intelligence assets. Additionally, it was relayed to Lt. Shepherd to search for outgoing frequencies from the vessel, of which none were found, more or less ruling out an ambush.
I must concede and agree with her that there is some risk letting an unknown ship dock with us, though it is not as if a small vessel such as a gunboat could carry a large enough armament to overpower us - yet we are well under full strength. It is certainly a risk, and a risk we've taken on many a time before with other underworld ilk, but you know what they say. You've got to speculate to accumulate.
The Captain gives the order to the crew - we're going ahead with the deal. Allow them to board.
The communicator showed no response, but the automated docking mechanism began, showing green lights across the board. I suppose I've handled more dubious things. I didn't have much to say, but I suppose I had to acknowledge the vessel before us somehow.
"This is Walt. We're showing green lights for docking. Proceeding apace."
As a force of habit, I began making a plan. The soonest they could attack us, if this is merely an ambush, is the second the bay doors open. If they were simply gunning for lives, they'd have fired when we came in visual range, therefore they'd be looking for the loot. The ship deploys a ramp when unloading cargo, that could be used as cover. It's unlikely that they would open with anti-material rifles, two individual unarmored humans wouldn't call for it.
After that, it was pointless to continue planning. I didn't know much about the interior layout of the battleship, I'd have to strategize on the fly. On top of that, I'd have to protect Syd as much as I can, as he would be key to getting back towards friendlier skies. No one would look for a missing Four. A missing Twenty Five, on the other hand...
The rattle did not get any quieter, and the color of their desperation got no less vivid. At the very least, this wouldn't be boring.
. . .Theodore Syd, Noth Squadron . . .Madsack Fragment, Vicinity of Planet Skagen, Omega-55
There's something real interesting about enjoying a cold one while the world around you turns to shit. You already know what's going to happen, because it lies right there in front of your eyes. It's safe to say I'm experiencing the same thing right now, leaned against a makeshift counter. We're about to board this beast and only god knows what'll happen. All of this for what? Recognition from One? No thank you.
["This is Walt. We're showing green lights for docking. Proceeding apace."]
And there's my que. Back home they just call me 'Judge', but out here? Who am I supposed to judge? These guys are clinging to dear life on the only thing left that's familiar, but so is the Squadron. It's either them or us, the way I see it. No morality required, just pure survival instinct.
Wonderful. I say dryly with a slight twitch in my left eye. The other bottle of Liberty Ale finds its way into Walter's hand -- only slightly warmer than when I got it out of the fridge, water droplets still covering the glass bottle. Here. Sorry for the wait.
I was, in fact, not sorry. I would've delayed this whole thing by days if I could, but this time I could only do a few minutes.
![[Image: Dx66btb.png]](https://i.imgur.com/Dx66btb.png)