On the Crosspath

[Soban]

Donagan shook his head in disbelief as Burton inhaled yet another toast.

“A sight more time than it’ll take ye tae empty Livadia’s larder o’ toast, I’ll tell ye that. I’ve read the latest technical reports, and add tae that the bodges my team slapped on at Carthage just to make her spaceworthy. It’s grim. Years, I’d reckon. Two at minimum. It’s near as ye said: like buildin’ a new ship from scratch, plus a puzzle on the side.”

He paused, sifting through the mountain of work already done. Much of it was solid but temporary—functional, aye, but nowhere near fit for a true capital vessel. A wry smile tugged at his mouth as he wondered if the current bridge could bear Burton’s newly acquired girth.

“First thing, we’ll have tae undo our own fixes an’ install proper solutions. The ship’s closer tae a Frankenstein than a thoroughbred. Even the Junkers would struggle tae call this patchwork a vessel. We kept her flyin’ by graftin’ techniques and systems from ships o’ different classes an’ roles.”

He glanced toward the Vega: most of the exterior was slathered in sealant gel to plug breaches and keep her airtight, while the massive Nephilim comms array bulged from the superstructure like a malignant growth beside the bridge.

“As for the skin, hard tae say if our standard Zoner armour will do. We’re used tae graceful curves, no’ Rheinland’s blocky slabwork. External systems should be less o’ a headache—barring that comms tumour—unless ye’re after fancy armaments?”