Brigands [3.7]

War and tragedy didn’t simply alter space. In a sense, they also altered time.

The threshold between an ending and a beginning was thin, ludicrous, and maddening.

A step through the invisible, past a shadow; the delineation between an era and the next.

Nobody had quite come to terms with the fullness of their condition before the ship had begun to move. In the preceding days they had not been able to; and the maybe in the subsequent days they would fail to do so as well. When war came to Thassal, everyone’s connection to their previous future had shattered. Since then they were just pantomiming with fate.

Needless to say, nobody was truly situated when Brigand began disembarking procedures.

They had a tight schedule, and a crew that was not used to launching a “brand new ship.”

So there were a lot of sailors lollygagging still, but three conditions had been met.

First, the essential bridge crew was assembled. They had the Captain, Commissar, Helmsman, and Communications, and they also had Sonar operational. Those were the basics for running the ship.

 Second, the Reactor crew had come with the ship from Solstice.

So they were accounted for, already in position, and knew what they were doing.

Third and finally, Specialist Semyonova’s beautiful, calming voice had called out to everyone on the ship to please access their nearest terminal or use any portable minicomputer to answer a roll call, which she then initiated. Within moments, the entire roster was accounted for.

At that point it didn’t matter if the sailors were looking for their rooms still.

Most of the systems were automatic anyway.

And the ship absolutely had to move.

Perhaps before anyone could regret what they had chosen.

As suddenly as everything else, and with as little fanfare as everything else, the Brigand undocked from Thassal Station. It was officially in open water and would officially begin its months long journey through the heart of the Empire. In the same confusion, surreality and haste that had characterized the rest of the crew’s life for the past few days, the Brigand now departed.

When it did, Murati Nakara did not quite notice it because she was passing through one of the workshops leading to the hangar. She marveled at all the amazing tools they had and became excited when she walked down to the massive, wide-open hangar to inspect the Divers they had. The Hangar was bigger than the Formidable’s, which was impressive considering the Brigand was the size of a cruiser. Big, but not dreadnought big.

There was equipment everywhere, being moved, or set up, by a platoon of sailors, so the final workspaces were still heavily in flux.

Most of the sailors on the Brigand were mechanics or engineers, and it felt like Murati was staring at all of them working right there. She felt a different sensation from her past forays. She felt proud.

This was her ship, in part, that these folks were setting in order.

She almost wanted to help them. To pick up a pneumatic bolt-driver and get to work on the gantries and get the charging stations cabled-up and tested. That was not her role, however.

It was at that point that a message finally went out.

“UNX-001 Brigand has officially departed Thassal Station!”

It was the saccharine voice of Specialist Semyonova, handling bridge communications.

Murati whistled with amazement. She had felt nothing stirring in the secondary hull.

Just like that, without even knowing it, she was now at sea. Her mission had begun.

Semyonova continued with an update on initial crew duties.

“All sailors not otherwise engaged will have an hour of free time to inspect their quarters and the amenities of the ship, before joining their work cohorts for their first briefing. All officers not otherwise engaged will have an hour of free time as well. All essential personnel have already been engaged with their work cohorts and will have two hours of free time available in four hours.”

“How organized. Launch is really going smoothly, isn’t it?” Murati asked.

“I guess so. But nothing announced for essential officers?”

At Murati’s side, Karuniya was also inspecting the ship with ample curiosity.

They had been basically inseparable since their cohabitation agreement.

Though they would work different roles, they could at least live together in their habitat.

“Important officers would already be in the bridge. I’m guessing we’re not essential.”

“You’re the First Officer Murati. You should put in an appearance at the Bridge.”

“I will! I need to inspect the Divers first. I’m also Diver Leader, you know?”

“You’re just a hopeless military nerd.”

Ignoring Karuniya’s bullying remarks, Murati headed to the center of the hangar.

“Can you go ahead and see if our stuff got to the room ok?”

“Seriously? You’re going to treat me like the disposable wife already?”

Karuniya had a sly face on. Murati felt uncomfortable with the teasing.

“I’m really not trying to, and I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“You’re so defensive! I’m just teasing. You better make this up to me though.”

Murati smiled nervously. “I’ll think of something.”

Still grinning like a devil, Karuniya willingly left Murati’s side.

At the hangar there were six Divers in place, five of them in various states of disarray. Only one had a complete gantry and was set in its proper place, with seemingly all of its parts assembled. The rest were sitting against corners for lack of proper gantries to dock to, missing weapons and even limbs, and had their battery packs uncharged and laid out nearby. It was a mess, but it was exciting to see the Streloks that she may someday command into battle, in their nascent state.

However, it was the remaining Diver, the assembled one, that really caught her eye.

This Diver looked like an entirely different model. It was not just a Strelok.

Rather than the almost oblong shape of the Strelok’s central body, the new model had a somewhat more triangular body shape, with more angled surfaces forward and flatter surfaces in the back. The head, rather than being flat and square, was shaped more like a triangle as well, with a central eye and multiple rotating eyes. Angled points stretched from the “cheeks” of this “head”.

While the arms were slightly sleeker, they had armored extensions covering the elbow verniers, and the legs and feet much the same. It was a much more aggressive design. She could see that the back had been completely redesigned as well. The rear flaps flared out a bit more, and there were five hydrojets rather than four. Two were set on either side of a new central jet. The intakes had been integrated into the main hull rather than being run out to attachments on the hips and upper chest. There was an extra intake around the “collarbone” of the Diver’s torso for the extra jet.

“Diver Leader Nakara, right? Taken in by the new model?”

Coming in from behind her, a man called for her attention. He wore a yellow and orange work vest over the white and blue of the fake company they pretended to be, “TBT.” He had a hard hat and safety goggles, but removed them when he approached, revealing a strong, square face with a friendly smile and slick blond hair. He reached out, and she shook his hand.

“That’s me. Are you a mechanic?” Murati asked.

“Engineer, actually. I’m a Warrant Officer instead of a Sailor. Gunther Cohen.”

“Nice to meet you, Warrant Officer Cohen.”

He raised his arms behind the back of his head and laughed, in an affable gesture.

“Nah, nah, call me Gunther! We’re going to be at sea for a while, you know?”

“I suppose so. I’ve never served on a ship for long enough to get over the formalities before.” Murati replied. All of her missions lasted days or weeks. This was her first long-term post.

“Then let’s get over them right now. Most of the comrades here are on a first-name basis.”

He had such a chummy look on his face that she couldn’t help but be nice about it.

“Well then, I suppose you can call me Murati then.” She said.

Gunther nodded his head in acknowledgment and turned right around to the Diver.

“In truth, I had been hoping that you would pilot this one.”

Murati had not really given it any thought.

She figured they would be assigned machines.

“The Diver Leader should get the best machine. It’s only proper, isn’t it? And in truth, this one’s a little tougher to handle than the Streloks. It could use somebody with a bit more experience in the cockpit.”

“So it’s not a Strelok, then?”

 Just by looking at the machine it was plain to see that it was not a Strelok.

Murati still felt compelled to ask the question out of her own curiosity.

Gunther seemed to know a lot about the suit, and he was open about his desire to show it.

“Well, we can’t deny that the Strelok is in the DNA of all our Diving suits, the same way the Rabochiy is in the Strelok’s DNA. But they’re vastly different machines. We made this one to really push Union war manufacturing to its limits. We thought, if we could imagine anything we wanted, without worrying about the cost; and there it is, the ISU-100 Cheka.”

“What does ISU stand for? Diver models had UND designations before.” Murati asked.

“Ah, I guess a connoisseur would stumble into the grimmest part of this huh?”

Murati could not decipher Gunther’s bashful response to her question.

“Well, we don’t have to go into it, I was just curious.”

“No, it’s ok. I helped with this project for the past few months, to get it over the finish line. A couple of different groups worked on it, and we kind of put together everything at the end. But the genesis of the idea was for the Cheka to be a small production line of Internal Suppression Units for the Ashura’s security division. It had to be better than a Strelok, to suppress a mutiny, in case something happened where some rebel force got ahold of our current ships and divers.”

Murati’s eyes drew wide with the recognition of this machine’s purpose. She supposed even in the kind and caring society that the Union tried to be, there were people who were tasked with upholding the peace, and they had to be prepared for the worst possible circumstances. At least she could take heart that the machine would not be used on Union citizens now.

“So that’s why it is an ISU. It’s not a Union Navy Diver, but an Internal Suppression Unit.”

Gunther finished his explanation running his hand through his hair, looking offput.

“It’s fine.” Murati said. “Thank you for explaining it to me. I don’t hold anything against you or against that machine. I’m happy that it will get to see a more worthy use. I will pilot it.”

If for no other reason that no one else should be responsible for that kind of firepower.

“Great!” Gunther clapped his hands together and brightened up instantly. “I saw data from your recovered Strelok in Thassal. For someone who had never fought a real battle in a Strelok before, you showed a lot of potential. And, I mean, I say that as number-crunching nerd– I’m absolutely terrible as a pilot. From the data, I think you’ll love what the Cheka can do.”

“At a glance, it looks much more sophisticated. But what can it do, better than a Strelok?”

Gunther rubbed his hands. “I’m glad you asked. The Cheka is a meter taller than a Strelok, but it’s actually faster. It has more rear thrust, stronger verniers for better snap maneuverability in combat, and instead of using those huge battery packs, it has Agarthic energy cells built-into the works of the hull and backpack. That’s how we saved so much on space and weight in the design.”

“I see, but then, that means the power unit is not interchangeable. So if it gets damaged, it has to be repaired in place, and then it can’t just be hot swapped in the field, isn’t that true?”

Almost thoughtlessly, Murati came out with a criticism that floored Gunther.

“I mean– well, yes. That’s true. But the performance gains are crazy to make up for it!”

“And it has all the standard weapons, correct?”

“It can use the AK-pattern rifles, and tube-launched torpedoes. Um, well, funny you ask, but another place where we differ from the Strelok is encumbrance. It can’t really support huge cannons or a lot of the shoulder weapons. The Strelok just has a heavier, stabler center mass.”

Gunther sounded embarrassed every time he had to mention a flaw in the Cheka.

Murati understood the changes, however. This was a Diver meant for a new era, when outmaneuvering enemy fire and clashing with enemy Divers would become more important. It was forward-looking and highly specialized. Maybe it really was a suit tailored for her own ideas.

“That’s fine. I would love to take it out for a test.” Murati said.

“Absolutely! I can get authorization right now.” Gunther said.

He patted her on the back in a cheerful fashion, as if they were all best friends who had agreed to go to the bar for some drinks. Murati was nearly swept up in his frenetic energy.

“Wait, right now?”

As she asked that terribly important question, there was a sudden blaring of klaxons.

Everyone in the hangar stopped what they were doing.

First they looked up, at the alarm lights and sounds being played.

They then turned to the nearest console for an explanation.

For messages like this, a video from the bridge crew would play.

Soon enough, the pretty, round face of Communications Officer Semyonova appeared, her blond hair expertly tied up, her makeup neatly applied. Many of the sailors were captivated with her and began to joke that being startled by a test of the emergency system was a small price to pay for getting to finally see the face of the beautiful siren-like voice that had been bossing them around. For a moment, as they watched her appear, they smiled and waved at the screens.

It was not a test.

“Battle stations! All crew, battle stations!”

All of the sailors, men, women, both and neither, who had been expressing their feelings for Semyonova, practically fell over backwards on their discarded tools and messy work areas. They scrambled to find something to do or some place to be. Many had not been fully briefed. While the chaos reigned in Engineering, Semyonova continued to explain the situation.

“At roughly 1135 hours, our bridge crew detected the active biosonar of a Barding-class Leviathan approaching from roughly north-northwest in what we assume is a steep, high speed dive. Due to our heading, we must assume we have now been detected by the Leviathan. We don’t know the reason for the Leviathan’s appearance, but it is possibly injured, and therefore erratic and aggressive. We are now 10 kilometers from Thassal Station and must assume we will be the only responders. By procedure we have labeled this Leviathan “Union-Sighted Leviathan 96” or USL-96. All crew assume battle-stations and await further orders for action against USL-96.”

Semyonova’s face vanished from the consoles, which now displayed diagrams drawn up by the predictive computers. This showed the Brigand and its heading, and the potential route of collision with the Leviathan. They would do their best not to near it, but the Leviathan moved faster and with greater agility than any ship, so it was likely they would have to euthanize it.

Murati ran from Gunther’s side and made for the nearest console.

Authorizing herself as the First Officer she was able to get a priority line to the bridge.

In a moment, Captain Korabiskaya’s face appeared on the screen.

“Lieutenant, good to see you. I’m glad you were in the Hangar as I assumed.”

“I was inspecting the Divers. I apologize for not coming up.” Murati said.

There was no aggression whatsoever in the Captain’s response.

“It’s all fine. We expected to have more time to sort things out. We’ve barely left port!”

Murati nodded. “Ma’am, I need to deploy in the Cheka.”

Captain Korabiskaya drew back with surprise at this sudden demand.

“That experimental Diver in the equipment list? Is it even set up yet?”

“It is completely ready.”

In terms of firepower, any ship could potentially kill a Leviathan. However, firepower was the least important factor in a confrontation between humans and beasts. Larger vessels suffered much more from the impacts and attacks of Leviathans. They presented larger targets that a Leviathan’s biosonar would interpret as another Leviathan class enemy, and it would bring out the worst and most targeted of their aggression. Bigger, slower ships could not avoid a Leviathan easily, and might suffer terrible damage trying to fight off the faster, more flexible creature.

If they had a fleet, they could use their faster escort ships to engage the monster.

They did not have a fleet. They had one large ship, and Divers.

Murati’s heart was full of determination, and her face reflected it.

She believed strongly that if she did not protect everyone their mission could be over.

Captain Korabiskaya seemed to sense the stubbornness engraved in her brows and lips and sighed with exhaustion. “Lieutenant, I’m hesitant to authorize this. Right now nothing is set up, you’ll have no backup out there.” She said. “We need to get everyone organized, and then–”

“I’ve got enough help right here. Gunther!”

Murati turned around. Gunther was still near the Cheka, standing around in confusion as the world moved at a frenetic pace around him. Calling his name seemed to snap him out of his anxiety and he ran over to the console. When he laid eyes on the Captain, he immediately saluted.

 “What was all that about formalities?” Murati said.

“It’s the Captain! It’s different!” He said stiffly.

“Captain,” Murati turned back to the console and locked eyes with Korabiskaya. “This man worked on the Cheka. He knows more than just what’s on the datasheets or programmed into the computers. Gunther, do you think the Cheka could stand up to a Barding-class Leviathan?”

Gunther scoffed. “It was designed to fight Streloks 1 against 3 and win, of course it can!”

He collected himself immediately and made a nervous gesture at the Captain.

Murati gestured with her palm up toward Gunther and winked at the Captain.

“I have Gunther here who will help me deploy. And the Cheka can handle the rest.”

“You’re too stubborn, Murati Nakara. You’ll have to work on that when you return.”

Captain Korabiskaya’s gaze avoided her, and her lips turned in a worried expression.

At that point, the video feed cut off, and a message authorizing the launch appeared.

On the Cheka’s gantry, the locks were undone automatically by the bridge crew.

The suit’s heavily angled forward surfaces moved to reveal a hatch, allowing entry.

Murati was still dressed in the TBT half-jacket and pants, but she wore a full bodysuit under it, and told herself this was adequate enough for a snap deployment. Without changing into a diving suit, she rushed over the front of the gantry, climbed up to the Cheka’s hull and slipped into the cockpit. Behind her, the frantic energy of the Hangar was silenced as the hatch closed.

For an instant, she was alone in the pitch black. She could hardly believe where she was.

Then her instruments began to light up. It was all familiar.

She was a Diver; ready to fight.            

On one of the screens, the words ‘For the workers’ revolution!’ briefly appeared.


Previous ~ Next

Brigands [3.4]

Go fuck yourself, you drunk, womanizing cad.

Yana found a response written on a massive computer window left open in her room’s wall.

Her overnight partner, Aaliyah, was long gone. There was no trace for her. Even on the bed, any fluids they expelled in their passion would have been evaporated by the room as part of its cleaning routine. Yana sighed heavily, sinking into her bed. At least she would be leaving soon.

Maybe if she survived all of this mess she would skip town and move to Lyser.

Throwing her casual clothes on the ground, she laid in bed in her wetsuit for hours.

She asked herself, constantly: What should I feel about this?

For the past five years she had avoided work on ships.

Nagavanshi was right. She blamed herself for the Pravda. Nothing would change that.

Yana had thought the best medicine was to disappear.

She had served ten years in the military, from cadet to Captain. She had been promoted faster than any of her peer group and completed many more assignments. For years she had been obsessed with work. It was her right to retire to a peaceful life. And she had some good years, some great parties, some amazing exes. Fun stories to tell. Those first few years of drinking away the memory of the disaster that had befallen her served to erase her past; but also her future.

Now that she was older, she felt pressured to change herself. To become somebody.

Old habits die hard.

“That’s just stupid excuses, Yana.” She told herself. “I keep wanting to do this shit.”

Anyone who wanted could judge her, for the drinking, (for the womanizing.)

None of them could hurt her more than she hurt herself.

None of them could her feel more ashamed than she did.

And none of them could change her or what she felt.

In fact, no one had even tried. Everyone, including herself, found it easier to give up.

Until Nagavanshi — that woman was a demon.

She had a way of dominating anyone.

Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya of the UNX-001 Brigand.

Why was she doing this? Nagavanshi had placed so much importance on this ship.

Yana almost felt scared. To think that she would be responsible for a crew again.

After all she had done, for years, to avoid any responsibility for her actions.

“It’s Nagavanshi who wants me there. She said all that crap, didn’t she?”

There was a part of her, buried deep beneath the detritus of the past few years, that felt a strange thrill at the idea of commanding a ship again. And it was a ship on a historic mission, too. Nagavanshi had called her a hero. She had praised her so much. That praise pissed her off; it was so presumptive. Yana did not see herself that way– but she hated that she couldn’t feel that pride.

“But what if I could earn it again? What if–”

Nagavanshi’s voice in her head interrupted her thoughts.

What if she could redeem herself?

That was what Nagavanshi had explicitly offered her.

Could she ever actually redeem herself? Was she redeemable at all?

Yana grit her teeth, shook her head. She could not keep thinking about this.

She was so exhausted. Her head was pounding.

Manipulating the wall computer, she summoned a gentle violin melody.

All around her the lights dimmed.

“Wake me up an hour before the meeting.” She murmured as she typed the words.

Yana threw herself back against the bed, shut her eyes, and had a long, dreamless nap.

Hours passed. All of the darkness of the past few hours washed out of her body in sleep.

She awakened a few minutes before her alarm, in time to hear it go off and feel annoyed.

Purged of emotion, and cured of her headache, Yana felt as ready she could ever be.

Standing at the door to her wardrobe, she hesitated, fingers hovering over the door handle.

“Nagavanshi said it can only be me. So, let her bear the responsibility then.”

Disabusing herself of the burden of her fate allowed Yana to throw open those doors and push aside the cocktail dresses, the tailored blazers and pants, the erotic lingerie, and other regalia of the life she had pursued. Behind all of it was her military uniform. Thankfully, her figure had not changed overmuch from when she was active duty. She had kept fit enough for uniform.

For the first time in years, she donned a full bodysuit, dress shirt, uniform skirt and coat. Her rank insignia, a yellow bar with three circles with a small star inside for Senior Captain, shone proudly on both the lapel of her coat, and just above her breasts. Her blonde hair was again tidied up behind the back of her head with a claw hair clip. Professional; confident; maybe even austere.

Maybe even too austere. She dabbed a bit of red lipstick on before leaving the apartment.

Having just a little bit of party girl in her would not hurt crew discipline.

With makeup, her face looked remarkably like she remembered it before the Pravda.

Was the woman staring back at her truly 36 years old? Had that much time passed?

Yana touched her own face.

“God, I still look like a girl.”

Having lost perspective on this, her idea of a girl was herself, in her late 20s.

That was the face she saw looking back, the face that surprised her.

For some reason she expected she looked much more wearied, worn.

“I guess there’s a little bit around my eyes.”

Yana really had to strain to see the tiny wrinkles there.

Nevertheless, she dabbed a little concealer from her makeup kit around her eyes.

Seeing herself in uniform, all made up, and moving on to a new ship, it surprised her. All of these touchstones to a past she felt had been completely obliterated, gave her a tiny bit of hope that allowed her to gird herself for the future. To go back to the Naval HQ, after half a decade of military abstinence. She almost enjoyed how she looked in the coat and skirt.

She struck a pose with her fists on her hips, leaning forward.

Mustering up her most commanding voice, she pointed a finger at her reflection.

“Launch torpedo #8! Go for the enemy’s forward ballast!”

Even more surprising, she found herself smiling in front of the mirror.

“My, oh my.”

She winked at her reflection before departing her room.

Nagavanshi had not given her a specific time she should appear at the HQ, so she figured she could make it in by 1800. That was the second shift at the offices. To simulate “night,” a concept which was scientifically understood but not experienced beneath the sea, the lights around the station started to dim. By 1800 the Station would start to transition to its night life. People would open up co-op bars and even tiny pop-ups in the halls and plazas. There was music and dancing, and a flurry of colors provided by party drones, balls of LED lights with basic programming.

All industrial production in the Union was controlled by cadres of workers that answered to the central Union government. This is what gave the Union its name at first. It had risen out of labor unionization. This continued to be the case, but the Union allowed home-made goods, and anyone who wanted could apply to purchase or trade the raw materials to make their own textiles, alcohol, and computerized devices. When there was a surplus, some materials were even free.

For alcohol in particular, there was an additional restriction that home-made drinks could not be sold during the “day” when people worked. So walking the halls at night, one would see all manner of tiny places open out of personal rooms or shared workspaces, selling their own brews.

Yana was tempted, but she valiantly resisted. She had work to go to, after all.

Her journey took her past a few makeshift clubs, like the ones she would have loved to frequent on any other night. There was beautiful music and gorgeous singing, people dressed in the nicest outfit they owned (or could borrow), close dancing. There was a tight, sweaty, sensual atmosphere to the clubs that, in the most intense places, would even waft out into the hall.

She pushed herself to walk faster and avoided looking through those doors.

For people who lived in and worked either in small, thriftily organized spaces, often by themselves or in tiny groups that would rarely deviate from their work; or worse, out in the terrifying void that was the Ocean surrounding the Station; there was something about the clubs, which formed in open or mid-size spaces, that gave the inhabitants like Yana a lot of comfort. Even the most packed club felt lived in, organic, in a way the Station halls and room could not be.

“No clubbing for you. You’ve decided to be a responsible adult, remember Yana?”

Finally she reached the elevators and took them up to the docks and the Naval HQ.

During the day, the Naval HQ was a chaotic flurry of activity, but at night, it was downright serene. Aside from a few Rabochiy still moving cargo, and a paltry few security officers patrolling with rubber-grenade rifles in hand, there was little traffic, and one could see how broad the thoroughfares were in the Docks and around the Naval HQ. Up above, and all around her, the glass panels looking out onto the berths were brightly lit and allowed Yana to see many ships at rest.

None of those berths contained the ship in the picture, the Brigand. (Her own ship?)

Yana wandered into the Naval HQ, where a receptionist was organizing the front desk, perhaps for want of anything else to do. When Yana arrived, she quickly made herself available.

“Commissar-General Nagavanshi is waiting for me.”

“Oh! Authenticate in the elevator and then tell it to take you to the Observation Spire.” The receptionist said. “While you’re here, by the way, did you see too many people outside?”

Yana shook her head.

“Great! Time for a break.”

With that, the receptionist pressed a button on her desk, and a window appeared on an LCD panel on the adjoining wall, indicating that the reception was closed for 25 minutes.

“Enjoy your break.”

Smiling, Yana ambled past the reception desk and into the elevator.

Inside, a robotic voice acknowledged her presence.

“Senior Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya.”

It had detected the computer chip embedded in her coat. Her credentials still worked.

She saw a few buttons on the wall, but those manual controls were only for the publically accessible floors. In order to access the highest levels of the HQ building, one required credentials that had to be authenticated by machine. Yana had been authorized, so she could verbally select a normally classified destination. Those who were prohibited access didn’t even have the option.

“Observation spire.” She said.

There was no answer from the elevator.

“Observation spire. OX-1917.”

“Location not recognized!”

The elevator was not a thinking entity — no machines could think for themselves, no matter how advanced. It was designed to receive certain input and to take action in response. Clearly it was not working. Yana sighed. She got closer to the control panel and found a manual input for location codes. That was also the location of the elevator microphone. She put her lips near it.

“Observation spire.”

“Location not recognized!”

Grumbling, she put the manual code in for the Spire into the elevator.

Finally there was a slight vibration as it got going.

So much for the glitzy, computerized future.

There was a significant amount of computerization in the Union. They had less manpower than the Empire and less space. Any job a computer could handle was a job that a human did not have to do and freed those humans up to do jobs a computer could not be programmed or trusted to perform — such as firing weapons or offering good service. It was plain to see however that some automation decisions had been poorly thought out, poorly implemented, or both.

Once the elevator got moving it quickly raised Yana through the interior structure of the Thassal mound, and the core pylon holding up the mound and the station. She was lifted up to a point just over the docks. She exited out onto a room with a domed roof that appeared as if it was glass. In reality, it was all LCDs displaying feeds from high-powered cameras outside, making it seem like they were windows and that she was under a dome of glass. A central set of steps led up to three tiers of bulbous observation rooms that offered their guests an unimpressive view of the outside. It was all dark and murky, no matter how well lit or how powerful the cameras.

She could see the outline of at least one ship out there in the dark, however.

As she stepped out of the elevator, she saw a few people loitering about the area in uniform.

Two approached her. One was Nagavanshi, who had a friendless look on her face as usual. Beside her stood a woman in uniform.

Black coat with red trim, and a skirt, over a body stocking.

“There you are, Korabiskaya. I want to introduce you to the Commissar here–”

The Commissar accompanying Nagavanshi was a young woman. Her light olive skin and long dark hair looked devastatingly familiar, as did a pair of fluffy cat-like ears sticking out of the top of her head. Her slender figure, gentle orange eyes and thin, lightly reddened lips brought Yana back to a place she would have rather forgotten all about, and a time similarly fraught. Clubs, liquor pop-ups, the dimly lit station streets. Sweet words, invigorating conversation. A bedroom, the pair desperately undressing. Lifting her up, teasing her, gently nipping the tips of her breasts–

Yana wanted to sink through the floor and be crushed by the sea outside.

And the woman staring daggers at her looked no less mortified, but far more furious.

“This is Commissar Aaliyah Bashara. You two will share command of the Brigand.”

Nagavanshi introduced them. She seemed unaware of the volatile auras between them.

Aaliyah extended her hand silently when prompted.

Filled with a desperate need to cause no further trouble, Yana took the hand.

They exchanged a single, extremely stiff shake, before averting their gazes.

“Her role will be to help you with discipline and personnel decisions. I still expect you to take charge of strategy, but she is a great strategist also and will advise you. I fully vouch for her.”

Curiously, Aaliyah did not have a matching Naga armband. Nobody else in the room did.

That was perhaps the only comforting observation Yana had made of the situation.

“I’ll convene everyone for a briefing in a few minutes.”

Suddenly, Nagavanshi turned around and left them, heading upstairs.

An awkward silence ensued as Aaliyah and Yana stared at one another.

“Got anything to say to me?”

Aaliyah moved first, crossing her arms. Yana withered under her piercing glare.

Despite thinking over everything she could say, the words practically stumbled out of her.

“I hope we can have a professional relationship.”

It was so bad! The worst thing to say!

Aaliyah’s face softened at first as if she could not believe what she heard. Her ears stood on end, and her tail was curled. Then her shaking hands became fists. She bore her fangs.

“I’ll be perfectly professional. A word of professional advice: if you think a girl is so easy you can just fuck her and leave without aftercare, maybe you shouldn’t whisper so many sweet words to her and make yourself out to be so sensitive and caring and oh so in love. Be honest about playing me. Playing me so hard, you didn’t even want to see me wake up, or even two hours later.”

Like Nagavanshi, she turned around and walked away the instant of her last words. Yana was left standing there speechless, mortified, unable to mutter an apology.


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