The universe was a large place. That seemed a rather obvious statement, especially considering the accessibility of education in the modern age, but very few seemed to grasp just how large it truly was– until their first time in space, of course.
And then it was all any of them could think about.
There was nothing quite like looking down on a planet for the first time. It made one feel both insignificant and mighty at the same time; insignificant because an individual was a small thing indeed, and mighty because that very view was proof that humanity had conquered the stars themselves. But no matter how far humankind reached, the dark between worlds always reigned supreme.
The universe was a rather large place, after all.
For that reason alone, the idea of policing the deep black was no more than a fever dream; and the few who could possibly pursue such a herculean task chose not to, for one simple reason. It allowed them space for their own less-than-clandestine operations.
Of course, this was not without merit for the common folk. Piracy was uncommon, owing to the fact that empty pockets of space were often occupied by particularly well-armed vessels.
For the common folk, that meant sticking to the established lanes all but guaranteed safety. It was an unspoken rule, of sorts. Trade was the universe’s lifeblood, after all.
Transponders were a requirement for all spacecraft, of course, but that was really more suggestion than rule. Any captain worth their ship knew how to disable it– even if they seldom did so.
But disconnecting a transponder meant disconnecting from the Common Transit Network– which, of course, made another solution necessary. Most organizations– criminal or otherwise– relied on buoys. They were cheap, simple, and could be maintained autonomously.
Of course, that simplicity made them vulnerable to tampering, but that was another rule– and one written in blood many times over. Never take away a sailor’s means of navigating. That was something sacred; even if those who relied on such devices would have scoffed at the notion. There were few deaths worse than slowly suffocating in the cold dark of space.
And that rule only extended so far. Aside from tampering and destruction, all else was fair game. There were already many nameless graveyards scattered across both colonized and uncolonized space; often a result of being caught unaware. For that reason, many ships chose to brave the void armed with nothing but their maps and memory.
The Simo was one such ship.
It was just one of many in the Intercontinental Colonization Committee’s massive fleet– many of them forged by the finest craftsmen in existence, but it stood out nonetheless. For starters, it was one of just 120 interceptor-class crafts. Officially, it carried a kill count of over one thousand– and unofficially, just shy of triple that.
Though the smallest of its class, the Simo was still deadlier than most of its sisters. It carried eight turret-mounted cannons; two pointed in each cardinal direction, as well as six bomb bays– two external ones and four internal ones, each capable of carrying a variety of payloads.
Scarier, still, were the two kinetic cannons mounted at its front. They were simple weapons, far more primitive than anything in the ICC’s arsenal, but effective nonetheless.
The laws of physics were frightening ones. And out of all its weapons, those invoked the most fear. After all, they only had one real purpose: laying siege to a planet.
Despite its many armaments, however, the Simo was a stealth ship. It was hardly half the size of its sister crafts, and required a crew of less than fifty. Forty-three, to be precise. That number could be lowered further when operating only the essentials.
In order to maintain stealth, its external bomb bays usually remained unpopulated, and its internal ones only opened for a fraction of a second when firing. Everything that couldn’t be hidden was covered in radar and light-absorbing material.
The stealth ship was powered by a single Coral engine. That engine, though small, was capable of pulling 12g maneuvers– and without risking the crew’s health. Such were the wonders of Coral. It was as if the universe’s best minds had intentionally engineered the single most useful substance imaginable.
Despite all of these things, however, there was one thing about it that stood out the most.
The person commanding it.
Admiral Stren ran one hand through his hair as he stared into the holo-feed. Once pure black, it was now peppered with white, and a long, jagged scar ran over his right eye. He could have it removed, of course, but chose not to. A soldier’s scars were badges of honor, after all. He was a large man, with broad shoulders, and a height nearing two meters.
Stren sighed, lowering his hand to clasp both behind his back. Posture was really the only military lesson that stuck, and even then, he’d learned it before joining.
At fifty years of age, he thought himself old, but knew he was young for his station. The others had underestimated him for that, at first, but they quickly learned their mistake. He paid for his post in blood, after all.
He shivered at the sight of Torrent. Even from so far away, its ghastly blue-green body took up nearly the entire feed, and no matter how far the Simo’s state-of-the-art sensor suite delved, they failed to reach past 15,000 meters.
There were structures above and below the surface, but they were all man-made; the dwellings of those who called the watery planet home. Not a single natural structure was to be found, save for the ocean– but then, the entire planet was essentially one giant ocean.
It was unnerving. More unnerving, still, was the knowledge that the planet was filled with Augmented. They really only came in three types. They either killed a normal man in the blink of an eye, struggled until having their head removed, or both. That last kind was particularly annoying to deal with.
I never thought I’d end up here. Stren knew of the planet’s importance, of course– everyone did– but he’d only ever thought of it as an important strategic resource; nothing more. He’d been given every pertinent piece of information beforehand, but also knew that his idea of pertinent differed greatly from whatever fool wrote those reports. Not that this expedition had really yielded anything new. They were much too far away for that.
The sound of someone’s footsteps interrupted the hum of artificial gravity before stopping before his door. That was one of the things he’d noticed about it. The sound. The scientists– and there were many of them– swore up and down that there should be none, but he heard it all the same. None of his crew did, however, and he was thankful for that.
“Come in.” As he turned, the cabin door slid open to reveal a single man. He seemed young, no more than 25 years of age at most. That in itself was already cause for concern, but the young man’s appearance could be summed up in two words: pure white.
His eyes, skin, and hair were all white– even his fingernails. His garb, too, was the color of unbroken snow; a simple garment that was more cloak than jacket.
Stren knew that, if wounded, he would bleed white. He was suddenly very glad that he’d left his weapon out of sight. It was an old thing, passed down through his family, but still deadly. Not that it mattered to the Sulian. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“I wasn’t expecting the presence of someone so… acclaimed.” His voice remained calm and level. He’d met more powerful people face-to-face. Rubbed shoulders with them, even.
The Sulian laughed. “Yes, our employers value my appearance greatly. I personally find it quite ironic. No matter how far our kind delves into the stars, we have yet to find a way of replicating my fair skin.” He held out one hand. “My name is Vessa. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
Stren raised an eyebrow at that. This was not the first Sulian he’d met. “Forgive me,” he said, aware that Vessa noticed his expression. “You seem…” He hesitated, considering his words in an attempt to avoid being rude. “Significantly less detached.” He was fairly certain he’d failed, but the Sulian just smiled in response.
“I happen to take that as a compliment. So please allow me to offer my thanks.” Vessa bowed, and his long hair draped over his head like a white veil. “And I must say, " he continued, straightening. “You command a beautiful ship.”
“Thank you.” There was no reason to hide his pride, nor did he have any real desire to do so. The Simo was a beautiful ship, forged on Tali and tempered by its system– just as he and his crew had been.
“The stealth configuration is quite impressive. If you’d not so graciously given me your locational data, I never would have found it.”
Stren nodded. As far as he knew, the Simo was the only ship in the ICC’s entire fleet that completely lacked a transponder. Others simply turned them off when necessary.
Perks of being an Admiral.
“... Though I couldn’t help but notice that it seems smaller than others of its class.”
That gave him some pause. Not the comment on size– only a fool took placed importance on such things– but the implication that the young man before him had set foot on another interceptor-class vessel. Multiple, at that.
Just what sort of role does he play?
In all his many years with the ICC, he had never seen one of the Simo’s sisters. That was largely due to the sort of missions he and his crew were tasked with, but each and every interceptor was a closely-guarded asset.
“Different weapons serve different purposes.” And the Simo was a weapon, there was no doubt about that.
“Aptly put.” Vessa gestured to the holo-feed. “May I join you?”
“Suit yourself.”
The pale blue-green of Torrent stained the Sulian’s being as he stepped forward. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” He asked, eyes fixed on the holo-window. “They have nothing of value, safe for the most valuable resource in the universe. And that will be their downfall.”
“I’d rather you not linger,” Stren said stiffly. Even if he came in a stealth ship of his own, the odds of their being discovered together were exponentially greater than separate.
Vessa nodded. “A wise decision.” His hand disappeared into the folds of his cloak, appearing a moment later with a paper envelope in his hand. “Here. The details of your mission, or so I’m told.” His smile returned. “I understand you have a family. You should know, this doesn’t appear to be a short mission.”
“I know.”
“Oh?” He raised one eyebrow. “It seems you possess information I lack. No matter,” he added, seeing the Admiral’s lack of concern. “It’s of no consequence to me. I am but a messenger. I have, however, been instructed to observe you reading it. So if you don’t mind…”
Stren turned his attention to the envelope. That it was a physical one was odd in itself, but then– such were the stakes. He opened it with steady fingers; the letter inside held a single block of text, and under that, a signature.
“Is it as you expected?”
He nodded. “It is.”
“Good. Then if you’ll excuse me…”
“Wait.”
The Sulian stopped mid-step, his back towards Admiral Stren. “Yes?”
“... Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not at all.”
“What do you think of all this?”
Vessa turned back slowly, his pure white eyes alight with curiosity. "That''s an odd question."
"I''d like a perspective that isn''t so... human."
"I''m sorry to disappoint you," he answered slowly, "but I lack the capacity to care."
"A Sulian... quirk?"
He shook his head. "No. Although my people''s tendency for... callousness is well-deserved, not all of us ascribe to that philosophy."
"What is it, then?"
Vessa shrugged nonchalantly. "At the end of the day, I''m human." He pointed towards the video feed. "I know there are people down there. Feel a kinship towards them, even. But they all have lives of their own... Loved ones of their own. Each and every one of the is just as unique as you or I, and and learning about the intricacies of their individuality would take an eternity." His eyes fixed on Stren''s. "They''re simply people. I will mourn their deaths, just as the rest of the universe will, but I know nothing other than their names and home world. They matter... but just barely. This is the choice that every member of our race makes, is it not?"
It took Stren a moment to parse the meaning of those words. He was a soldier, not a scholar. "You think we choose to ignore the suffering of those around us?"
the Sulian tilted his head. "Is that not the case? You know that millions are starving across colonized starspace, yet you push ahead regardless."
"... I never thought of it that way."
"Then, may I ask a question of my own?"
"Go ahead."
"How do you handle it?"
"Handle what?"
Vessa gestured to the letter in the Admiral''s hand. "You''ve just been handed a rather heavy duty, yet you spared it little more than a glance."
"... My daughter."
He blinked. "Oh. You''re a family man. That''s unexpected."
"Have you traveled far?"
"Yes. I skipped across three systems."
"Then you know how large of a place the universe is."
"Very large indeed."
"... There''s no grand reason. It''s like you said. I''ve been to more systems than I count. Seen and met more people than I could possibly remember. But no matter how far I travel, I''ll never find someone like her again. And she''s... my daughter." Stren faltered, unsure if that single word sufficed.
Vessa''s white lips curved into a smile. "I won''t claim to understand the inner workings of your mind, but I admire your resolve nonetheless. But I wonder... have you stopped to consider whether she''ll think of you as a hero, conqueror, or executioner?"
"As long as she''s alive to wonder that it doesn''t matter."
"I see." The Sulian laughed, apparently satisfied with that answer. "Good! I like you." He turned back towards the door. "In any case, that concludes my duty here. Give your men my thanks for their hospitality."
"May the silver stars above light your path in the dark below."
"Oh?" He paused partway through. "That''s a new one. How am I meant to respond?"
"And yours."
"And yours, then. I''ll be in touch. And... I hope you make it until the end."
The door clicked shut after those ominous words, interrupting the hum of artificial gravity once again.
Stren grimaced as he sat behind his desk. I''m going to remove that damned module from my ship. He''d driven the engineers half-mad and the crew even madder before finally realizing the correlation between the two. He''d scolded himself to no end for that- a captain needed to know the ins and outs of his ship.
He didn''t understand the technical terms, but he understood enough. The ICC techies swore up and down it was safe, but that was simply another reason to doubt it.
Safety regulations were written in blood, after all.
This wasn''t the first time the Simo received experimental technology- and it certainly wouldn''t be the last- but one misbehavior was already more than he was willing to risk. He''d wanted to remove it sooner, but they insisted.
No matter. He would indulge them no longer.
Stren pulled up a holo terminal with a flick of his wrist. "Ras."
His head engineer''s face appeared on the semi-translucent screen. "Sir?"
"Turn off that gravity unit. Rip it off if you have to. Try not to damage it, but if those damned techies don''t want to pick it up, jettison it."
"Still hearing it, sir?"
"And I''m sick of it."
"Right away. Anything else?"
"How is the stealth coating holding up?"
"Not well." Ras delivered the bad news without so much as a blink. "The Coral spill off is worse than I thought. It''s degrading fast- and I''m worried about the hull, too. Most ships that orbit even semi-regularly get treated beforehand, and it''s outright required for any that want to land."
"How long until it becomes an issue?"
"Hard to tell. Not a lot of other ships use the same composites. There''s no danger right now, but... I wouldn''t push it."
Stren nodded. He had no intention of doing so. "How long to treat the body?"
"At least two weeks, not counting travel time. Six if you want me to try and maintain stealth- and I can''t promise anything, either."
He closed his eyes. Six weeks... "Find us a service area. And take your time. I''ll have to disembark anyways."
"Sir?"
"What do you think about all this?"
Ras'' face scrunched up. "I don''t really have an opinion," he answered after a moment. "Neither does anyone else. Above our pay grade and all that."
Stren laughed. "Fair enough."
"We''ll follow you to our deaths, captain. Remember that."
"All the more reason to be careful."
"Sir." Ras saluted, then terminated the connection. His message arrived a moment later.
Stren keyed in the coordinates, then went to lay in his bunk. He felt the planet''s gravity shift as the Simo turned. The filtered air took on a soft blue-green hue as the ship pumped Coral into its many cavities.
It was an odd thought, to be sure- breathing in rocket fuel, but it would keep the crew safe as they traveled. Just another of the many technologies made possible by Coral, and just one of many reasons behind its value.
The dim hum of artificial gravity cut off, and for the first time, the Admiral felt himself relax. Sleep came for him soon after; he allowed it to take him, smiling as the void of unconsciousness washed over him.
He would see his daughter soon.