The air in the ship is as stale as its corridors are sterile. Jace notes the walls construction; each panel is flat and light beige butted against the next with airtight precision and bolted down with soft-top surface fasteners that blend perfectly with the rest of the panels semi-reflective plasteel surface. He then sees an imperfection in the panel as his eyes catch a glimpse of his own face. There’s a warp in the wall, a subtle bend, not enough to be seen straight on but just enough to make his otherwise handsome face look bent and twisted. He smirks at the imagery, his reflection betraying how he feels against how he looks. Like the ship, Jace is the image of sterile perfection being recently washed in the ship’s shower capsule and dressed in a freshly pressed crew uniform; he can’t help but laugh to himself at the ridiculousness of his current ensemble. He then becomes disconcerted with his situation, this is his first time in space in over six years. On his shoulder is a badge with the golden chevron and globe of the United Earth Colony’s livery, beneath it on an embroidered banner is the name “Prophet.” The “SpaceCraft Series Prophet” is an engineer class vessel assembled in the Star Yards over Julio-Ceti, the planet which the Prophet is headed towards at this very moment. The ship is built for the sole purpose of deep space repairs of spacecraft left derelict after catastrophic failure. It’s outfitted with a robust medical bay as well as the personnel to operate it as one of the likely eventualities of repairing derelicts is that there would be survivors in need of immediate medical attention. Jace figures he’ll be posted to the medical wing given his background as a cryostasis engineer.

     His attention is stolen away from the flaw on the wall as a hiss of gas erupts from the sliding doors behind him. He turns as they open to either side revealing a young woman wearing a sleek black business skirt and an emerald dress blouse with her straight blonde hair trimmed to shoulder length. Her gaze is locked to a data tablet she’s holding as she walks into the room, as she approaches Jace she looks up at him from over the rim of a pair of slim round lensed glasses, her expression blank and piercing. Jace feels himself start to sweat. Another imperfection.

     “Jace Howard Orion Stoltz?” she asks with a knowing tone.

     “Ma’am,” Jace’s voice comes out smaller than he expected. She holds herself with such unwavering composure that Jace finds himself losing his own. He clears his throat. “Ma’am, that’s me.” She glances at her data tablet and taps a few commands into the screen. 

     “Follow me, they’re waiting for you,” she punctuates the command with a spin and then begins to briskly walk out the way she came, her stride announced by the clacking of her heels against the ship's floor. Jace hurries after her, bewildered and now suddenly wrestling with the idea that he might not in fact be here to be assigned to the medical wing. He wracks his mind but finds it difficult to imagine any other reason he would be recalled to ship duty. 

     “Ma’am, who is waiting for me? I thought I was here to be assigned-” Jace begins, but she cuts him off with an abrupt turn down a perpendicular corridor.

     “You weren’t briefed, then?” she asks, her flat tone revealing little of her disposition. If anything she sounds disinterested.

     “No, ma’am. I was shuttled here from my previous assignment on Garda Noct.” Another turn down another perpendicular corridor. Jace follows suit, though he feels himself becoming agitated. 

     “Ma’am?”

     “Cleo,” she says with a glance over her shoulder. “My name is Cleo Hathaway. I’m the Prophet’s Personnel Chief Officer.” The two cut across a midsection hallway into a parallel corridor that stretches even further down the ship. There are windows on the right wall overlooking the Prophet’s cargo bay below. Jace steals a glance as they pass by seeing the Prophet isn’t outfitted with the standard engineer class kits. There’s no E.V.A hauler, or zero-g welding gear, not even the standard Space-Cat Dropships used to transport personnel on the ground. Instead of repair equipment one would expect Jace is looking upon a cargo bay full of United Earth Colonial Military vehicles being seen to by marines and navy alike. Everything from the turret mounted Raiders to the M99 Heavy Gun Tank named after the ancient earth mythological beast, the Dragon. His eyes go wide when he sees a small fleet of Dagger dropships and Falchion aerial dogfighters. Whatever they’re preparing for it’s not repairing derelicts. This much military ordinance can only mean one thing. They’re going into a combat scenario. 

     “Mrs. Hathaway, why is this ship outfitted with U.E.C.M vehicles? Isn’t this a repair ship?” Jace asks. He looks over to see Cleo standing at a door waiting for him. He speeds up his pace to meet her.

     “It’s miss, and they’re in here,” she says with a little tilt of her head and a glance of her eyes. Jace notes that she didn’t answer him. He steps into the room and is met with darkness that takes a second to adjust to compared to the brightly lit beige of the Prophet’s hallways. After a moment he sees a table with numerous empty chairs surrounding it stretching down the length of the room and at the other end of the table sit two men, they stand as Jace and Cleo enter.

     “Jace Stoltz?” the taller of the two asks.

     “That’s correct,” Jace replies. 

     “Thank you Cleo,” the shorter one lets out. “You can leave now.” Cleo nods and without a word shrinks out of the room. Jace glances back at her and catches her watching him too. Her curious expression leaves him feeling more confused and worried than before. He starts to feel himself sweat again. Jace walks over to the two men trying to recognize them, neither have any indication of rank or office on their outfit, in fact they look downright civilian. His crew uniform suddenly seems over-dressed. 

     “Gentlemen. What’s this about?” Jace asks as he takes a seat with them.

     “Well,” the shorter turns to the taller. “There’s no point walking on eggshells, Donovan, we’re already in the shit.” The taller man curses under his breath. 

     “Thank you, Leremy,” he says snidely. Donovan turns to Jace with a stone hard expression on his face. He lets out a slightly deflated sigh then leans in resting his arms on the table.

     “The S.C.S Prophet is being commandeered for a rather unique operation.”

     Leremy lets out a loud “humph”

     “Cut the crap.” Now it’s Leremy’s turn to lean in, their forward motion causes Jace to sit back in his chair.

     “You know who we are?” Leremy asks pointedly. Jace looks over their clothes once more. They speak with authority which infers they hold rank over him but the lack of any insignia tells him they aren’t a part of any public facing outfit, and the fact that they’re asking means they expect him to know more than is obvious. He looks closer at their faces then he sees it. The shorter one, Leremy, has a small pellet shaped implant in his left temple. If his hearing wasn’t damaged from the engine back draft bursts of working in the ship manufacturing yards he’d probably be able to hear a gentle constant buzz coming from the implant. It’s a C.N.N.I, a CommNet Neural Interface. The little pill shaped implant lets the person using it to access the CommNet without a terminal. It’s fancy tech and disgustingly expensive, meaning only a select few organizations would have access to them, and only one of those organizations likes to play at the cloak and dagger nonsense. S.I.L.O.

     “Special Intelligence and Logistics Operations,” Jace answers, he feels himself sweating even more now. S.I.L.O is the boogeyman in the U.E.C, they’re known for going outside the law to get things done and anyone who crosses their paths has a habit of going missing for one reason or another. Sometimes it’s an unforeseen illness, other times it's a family emergency, even if the poor soul didn’t even have a family. Jace has only heard of their presence and never been directly involved with them. Suddenly Jace is hyper aware of his own discomfort. Leremy looks at him with a toothy grin and nods.

     “Correct. So you know that if we’re here that something very unpleasant is in the works.” 

     “That’s how the stories seem to go,” Jace responds.

     “The stories are only the half of it,” Donovan chimes in flatly.

     “Well this story is no different,” Leremy says, “Something very unpleasant is in the works, and you, Jace, are the missing piece to our puzzle.”

     Jace’s brow furrows as he thinks back through his life, the history of Jace Stoltz is a laundry list of secrets long since buried that he has no intention of digging up again. These two, however, seem intent on not letting those secrets remain buried, hell, if half of what is said about S.I.L.O is true then they may already know everything. Leremy and Donovan both are staring at him now, Donovan with an apathetic gaze and Leremy with a hungry one. Both only work to deepen Jace’s discomfort which is likely intentional. 

     “I don’t know what to say,” he finally says. Leremy puts on an unimpressed scowl and Donovan just shrugs. Finally Leremy breaks his pose and pulls from his pocket a data tablet. He slides it over to Jace who looks upon it, curious to the contents, but more importantly trying to figure out their game. His mind spirals down every possible thread they could pull on to unravel the truth. The possibilities are agonizing and Jace finds himself fidgeting in his seat. Leremy snaps him back to reality by slamming his palm down on the table.

     “When did you last see your parents, eh Jace? What’s it been, six years or so?” Jace remains silent at Leremy’s pointed question, his gaze locked on the data tablet, an image of his parents' mugshots fills the screen, Oswald and Ismerald. “Insurrectionists”, that’s what the U.E.C.M calls them. They called themselves something more romantic, “Revolutionaries”.

     “Your family has a history with unpleasant things, don’t they?” Leremy probes, “First your parents join what’s left of the Rebel Factions against the big bad U.E.C.M and then your sister is killed in an explosion caused by one of their own bombs. Tragedy abounds,” Leremy’s sneer grows with every word causing Jace’s blood to boil. Donovan decides it’s his time to chime in again.

     “Rebel Faction activity has been detected near Julio-Ceti. The D.S.T.S has shown clear signs of Faction activity and we know your parents are still leading some branches of their organization. Ever since they escaped lockup they’ve been in the dark running things out there,” Donovan drones on. He leans in closer to Jace, his apathetic gaze replaced with a piercing one. “Where are they, Jace?”

     Jace remains in his seat fuming despite every muscle in his body aching to burst from the chair and escape from this nightmare. Who do they think they are? The nosey bastards. His mind races through memories he’s tried so hard to forget, the pain of them plain on his face. Donovan continues, this time his voice is smaller, more sincere.

     “The Factions are killing people. Some of them are sisters just like yours. You can help us stop them.” At this Jace looks up and meets Donovan’s eyes. The bastard actually is sincere. He looks away and back out towards the cargo bay. There is a window, tinted on the outside for privacy, but what lies beyond is clear as day. He sees a crane lowering a Dagger dropship in the cargo bay. He breathes deep trying to calm his nerves. It’s been six years since he last saw them, six years since his sister was killed in one of their ridiculous attempts to take down the U.E.C.M, six years since Jace’s entire life was turned inside out.

     “I can’t help you,” he says in a small voice. Leremy leans back, unimpressed.

     “Can’t, or wo-” he begins.

     “Can’t!” Jace cuts him off. “It’s like you said. I haven’t seen them in six years,” he finishes and then leans back in his chair suddenly feeling very tired. 

     “You wouldn’t be lying to us, would you?” Leremy asks in a snide tone.

     “You’re S.I.L.O. Wouldn’t you know if I was lying?” Jace replies coldly. Leremy’s lips curl into a grin and he lets out a singular laugh. 

     “You’re damn right we would.” Leremy’s ego causes Donovan to wave him off. He then stands causing Jace to stand too not wanting to be beneath these men, figuratively or literally. Again Donovan hits him with a piercing gaze, seconds pass that feel like hours. He can tell that the man is sizing him up, trying to figure what type of man Jace is. He saw that look all too often from his old man. Finally Donovan lets out a sigh and breaks his stare and pulls from his pocket a small card that he places on the table.

     “It doesn’t matter if they’re your parents, the Faction needs to be stopped. Call us if you hear anything,” Donovan gives Jace a nod then both of the S.I.L.O operators go to leave the room.
     “What now?” Jace asks after them.

     “Now you return to your quarters, Mr. Stoltz. You’ll be given your first rotation details from your room's terminal,” Leremy answers coldly.

     “Rotation details?” 

     “That’s right. You weren’t briefed.” The venom in Leremy’s voice is thick and that thin smile forms on his face again. “You’re the Prophet’s combat medical admin.” With that the two men leave the room and Jace within it. 

     “Combat Admin? What the hell?!” Jace has done everything he can to avoid combat, but it seems S.I.L.O is determined to put him on the front lines of this whole damn thing. It’s likely they hope that seeing the rebels in action will sway him to their side. Bastards! He lets out his frustration in a heavy sigh.

     Jace takes the card Donovan left and looks it over, it appears plain white until the light hits it just right revealing a CommNet number in the reflection.

     “Fancy,” he mutters under his breath. Everything feels so damn heavy. He flips the card over between his fingers as his mind races. Seeing no other option he leaves the conference space and emerges into the hallway again. Cleo is standing in the hall waiting for him, she looks him over and then approaches, never breaking her all-business attitude.

     “It says here you’re assigned to be the Prophet’s Combat Medical Admin,” she says with a gesture to her data tablet. Jace scoffs, making no effort to hide his disposition to this entire situation. If S.I.L.O was half as smart as they put on they would know Jace showing his face to the Factions is just as likely to get him killed as it is that they welcome him back with open arms. Not everyone takes kindly to members abandoning “the cause”. 

     “They’re deadmanning me,” he says flatly. Cleo’s head tilts, her expression foreshadows a question.

     “Deadmanning?”

     “It’s Faction slang. When you angered an overseer they’d give you a crap job, usually harmless but in this case I’m not so sure,” he explains while looking out over the cargo bay bustling with military personnel. Cleo doesn’t say anything which prompts him to glance over at her. He’s surprised to find her previous composure replaced with unfettered anger.

     “Why the look?”

     “It’s ‘Faction’ slang?” Cleo asks, her previously smooth tone now sharp and pointed. Jace just stares at her with a confused look on his face causing her to be the one to scoff now.

     “No law-abiding citizen of the U.E.C would refer to the insurrectionists as ‘Faction’,” Cleo raises her voice as if to better make her point but Jace simply lifts an eyebrow in response, the sanctimony in the air is suffocating. 

     “Who said I was law-abiding?” he asks with a smirk. Her lips curl into a scowl and she spins walking down the hall deeper into the bowels of the Prophet. Jace lets out an amused ‘huh’ and then follows her.

     The two continue through the Prophet’s corridors until they reach a convergence room where six different corridors meet and connect to one another. The room’s ceiling is taller than the hallways and in the center is a terminal kiosk with four CommNet terminals all backed against one another.

     “You can find your quarters from the terminal. Good day,” she gestures to the kiosks in the middle of the room then spins to leave.

     “Hey! Wait a minute,” Jace calls after her. She stops and faces him, her expression full of disdain.

     “What are we really doing here?” he asks. She blinks at the question, not sure how to answer.

     “What do you mean?” Cleo replies coldly. Jace takes a few steps towards her and keeps his voice low.

     “S.I.L.O pulls me, an ex-Factionist, onto an engineer class ship that’s outfitted for military engagement on the fringes of U.E.C space en route to a suspected Faction hot zone? What aren’t you telling me?” His questions cause her to look away searching for an answer, he presses the point. “On top of that I’m assigned Combat Medical Admin? That’s a combat position, rapid response medical deployment. The only thing a sniper likes to see in their scopes more than a medical admin is a field commander.”

     Cleo’s gaze snaps back to him, her eyes piercing and aghast. 

     “It’s not my job to question every order, unlike you and your rebel friends. The U.E.C.M is here for a good cause, of that I am sure. You, being an ex-insurrectionist, are a terrorist. Terrorism is treason. Treason is punishable by death. Sounds to me like justice is being served.” 

     Jace can hear the spite in her voice, every word she spits is full of conviction and hate. He takes a step back and crosses his arms. Cleo takes her leave of the convergence room disappearing down another long corridor as its door slides shut. He sits there a moment in the near silence of the ship's electric thrumming. His thoughts going back to his sister, and the last thing she said to him.

     “Get out.”

     She was Faction. Was her death justice? He feels his fists clench and decides to abandon the thought. Jace turns to the kiosk in the center of the convergence room and presses the activation button. The screen lights up with the standard CommNet red banners and amber text as it prints to the screen.

>> Insert CommNet ID Card_

 

     He digs through his pockets trying to find his ID Card. Every U.E.C citizen is issued a CommNet I.D upon becoming a citizen. Without it they wouldn’t be able to access the CommNet which is the central network for communication, banking, trade, social-hubs, employment, and basically everything else in the U.E.C. The system isn’t just local but reaches across the stars using the Deep Space Transmission System (D.S.T.S). Since he used to be with the Rebel Factions, getting a legitimate I.D card proved to be nearly impossible, so he used the last of his resources to have one forged. Jace pulls out his card and slides the scan bar into the scanner, the kiosk chirps for a moment as it reads his forgery, then finally chimes in success. 

 

>> CommNet ID Card - Accepted_

>> Welcome to the CommNet - Jace Stoltz_

>> Browse safely, and remember_

>> HUMANITY ENDURES_
 

     Jace enters in his I.D PIN number as well prompting the kiosk to open up a ship board network. He searches his name in the kiosk and an entire dossier on his current posting is drawn up on the screen. Everything from his falsified background that he used to get his first job after leaving the Faction to his latest posting aboard the Prophet. It’s on this page where he finds the location of his quarters, cell 377-d. Each cell is a two-hundred square foot room outfitted with a bed, a locker for belongings, a shower pod for cleaning, and wall mounted hidden faculties such as a retractable sink and the standard folding toilet unit found aboard engineer class ships. Where the ship usually has a pristine appearance the functionality leaves a lot to be desired considering these features are always broken in one way or another and, especially aboard older ships like the Prophet, are rarely fixed. Jace looks over the schematics for cell 377-d, unsure for how long S.I.L.O will keep him here he figures he best get familiar with his new temporary home and make peace with whatever faculties are broken there. 

 

:: S.C.S Prophet - Command Wing ::

:: En Route to Julio-Ceti ::

:: January 17th, 2855 - 1230 hours UT ::

 

     Cleo’s gait features a forward lean and long strides as she actively distances herself from that traitor. She comes to the doors to the Command Wing which slide open as she approaches allowing her to pass through without even a hint of slowing down. Her mind is clouded in frustration and fury at the mere fact that Jace is even aboard this ship. An actual insurrectionist being allowed to live and work aboard a U.E.C.M controlled vessel, all their expenses being paid for on the dime of every citizen who lives in fear of the very people he once called “family.” It’s disgusting. She stops herself suddenly and stands in the corridor, it’s empty of all except her and her rage. Next to her is the door to a restroom. She enters it and locks the door behind her. Finally in an isolated space Cleo sets her data slate on the counter and leans her back against the wall. She looks into the mirror and sees her red cheeks, the puffiness around her eyes. She must’ve been crying and didn’t notice. She bellows out a shrill cry and buries her head in her hands as her mind wrestles between her duty and her hatred.

     “It’s so stupid. Don’t be stupid. It’s so stupid. Don’t be stupid,” she repeats to herself numerous times until finally taking a deep breath and collecting herself. She looks into the mirror at herself looking suddenly very disheveled. She goes to the sink and splashes some water on her face and uses a napkin to wipe her eyes. Feeling refreshed she steps back and takes another look at herself, she looks better but still feels the disheveledness in her chest like a clot putting constant pressure against her lungs. She’ll ask the Captain about S.I.L.O’s plans and why they’re hosting a traitor aboard the Prophet, perhaps he’ll know better on what’s happening and can help her understand. Maybe then she’ll be able to get a grip and not feel so damn angry about it. Besides, it’s as her brother would say “Don’t be so quick to anger, it makes you seem weak.” Her brother would often say “It makes you seem weak.” It was never meant to belittle or rebuke her, but to inform her of ways in which she unintentionally undermines herself. She always appreciated his advice, even now she relies on it to keep her head on straight.

     Cleo leaves the restroom and continues down the corridor, data slate in hand. She walks for a while more then enters the Prophet’s Command Bridge, a dimly lit room with amber lights along the floor and ceiling borders. The lights coming from each terminal screen casts a warm golden wash over everything in the room which is starkly contrasted by the bright blue light of the central command table. The table holographically displays whatever data is being streamed to it from the ships sensors and terminals allowing for the Captain to see in real time the surroundings of the ship, a vital feature when in space and navigating complex environments such as asteroid fields or ship wreck yards where debris can easily get in the way. While debris alone won’t do anything to the ship’s thickly plated exterior there are numerous sensitive repair instruments attached to the hull of the Prophet that could easily be damaged and even destroyed if impacted by a stray piece of bulkhead from a dead ship. She looks around the room and drinks it all in, the atmosphere of the Command Bridge always felt comfortable to her, like a second home where she could truly thrive. Finally feeling more grounded, Cleo approaches the Captain of the Prophet, Captain Rickter. He greets her with a subtle head nod as he pours over a data slate at the central console.

     “Captain,” Cleo says with a salute. “S.I.L.O has met with their asset, they have assigned him to the Prophet as combat medical admin. His quarters are cell 377-d in the southern block.” She stands at attention waiting for Rickter’s reply. After a moment of silence she glances over at him to see if he heard her. The man is taller than most standing at six feet two inches tall, he holds himself with a wide and opened chest making himself look larger, when in a relaxed posture though Cleo knows that he’s actually rather slim. His face is adorned with a thick and brushy mustache trimmed perfectly to frame his lips without getting in their way. Cleo clears her throat before speaking again.

     “Sir?” she starts, but Rickter cuts her off.

     “I heard you, P.C.O Hathaway,” he looks down towards her, his expression grim. “So, S.I.L.O plans on commandeering this ship one way or another. I was hoping their asset would give the vultures a reason to leave us the hell alone.”

     “Their asset?” Cleo asks.

     “Our cargo bay wasn’t filled with military equipment for no reason, P.C.O.” He returns his attention to the central console.

     “Auxiliary, Osiris,” Rickter calls out. The central console lights up and shimmers as the holographic image changes to that of a small man with green skin and a skull for a face. Golden stripes cover his body and can be traced from his head to his feet and he is clothed in a purple robe.

     “Hello, Captain. What do you need from me, sir?” the holographic man says, each word filtered through a digitizer. Cleo has yet to see the Prophet’s new auxiliary. She leans in for a closer look, the holographic isn’t the most detailed, but she can clearly see the features and colors portrayed. Osiris notices her staring at him.

     “Is there something wrong?” he asks matter of fact like. Cleo steps back slightly embarrassed at herself.

     “No, It’s just- I’ve never seen a ship board auxiliary before. Read all about you, but never seen one in person,” she goes on. Osiris turns and faces her.

     “Am I everything that you’d read about?” he asks. 

     “Let’s get down to business,” Rickter interjects. Cleo catches a side glance from him and she steps back from the console. Osiris faces Rickter again and stands at the ready.

     “Osiris, pull up the official reports of ship activity in the local area network, range of a lateral surface area of twenty-two-hundred astronomical units. Designate Julio-Ceti as the origin.”

     “Of course, Captain. One moment.” The console goes dark as Osiris disappears in a digital shimmer. Suddenly the table is lit up again with all the cosmological bodies of local space drawn and tracked showing orbit paths as well. Next the holographic draws a sphere with the Prophet at the dead center of it. Surrounding the sphere a mesh is drawn in bright red showing the D.S.T.S connections that Osiris is pinging off of to collect the data necessary for the graphic. Within the sphere what feels like a million different icons are drawn simultaneously of every shape and color indicating various conditions of the astronomical bodies being tracked within the sphere. 

     “Osiris, clear the noise,” Rickter says. Suddenly the holographic dims as icons shimmer out of existence leaving merely tens of thousands left on display. Each one representing a ship currently in space and showing the trajectory they are on, where they started, and where they’re going.

     “Set date range from January 2845 to current date.” Rickter’s command is followed without pause and again the holographic shifts. The ships become more numerous as an entire decade of space traffic is accounted for in a single display. Cleo watches as Rickter continues to analyze the holographic.

     “Osiris, display only cataloged distress signals code four-zero-four-nine-zeta as well as ships designated as lost or inoperable via black box broadcast seven-alpha-seven.” Rickter’s command is again followed without a word. Cleo wonders if the auxiliary can only talk when he’s on the display himself, or if he’s just diligent in following orders. Rickter gestures to the holographic display and faces Cleo.

     “What do you notice?” he asks. She’s caught off guard by the question, then brings herself to, clearing her throat and taking a closer look at the display. She looks it over to see if she can find any patterns in the data, but nothing is immediately obvious to her.

     “I’m not seeing anything of note here, sir,” she says.

     “Look closer,” Rickter replies. Cleo leans in and scours the holographic display. No matter what part of the sphere she looks through she can’t seem to find any pattern. Sometimes the ships go missing, other times they’re hit by some astronomical anomaly, other times their demise is caused by a transit calculation error and they fly directly into an asteroid field. She continues to look, then she finally sees it. The center, where the Prophet is, there’s a ping there that’s brighter than the rest. 

     “Osiris,” Cleo says, calling for the auxiliary. “Can you expand on the origin point of the data set? Two-hundred percent, please.”

     “Of course, ma’am,” Osiris replies. Cleo catches herself smiling, apparently all it takes is a more gentle demeanor for the auxiliary to respond vocally. The holographic instantly zooms in on the origin point where the Prophet is located. Suddenly a highly alarming pattern emerges, Cleo looks to Rickter who wears a knowing look on his face. The holographic shows a clear pattern of ships flying into the region around Julio-Ceti and then going missing after alerting JC-Security to hostile ship activity. JC-Security, however, never seems to receive the messages. The most common type of ship that sends the alert is engineer class vessels. 

     “We’re bait?” Cleo asks in disbelief. 

     “Exactly,” Rickter says. “S.I.L.O is hunting whatever is out here killing our ships, and we’re a worm on the hook.”

     “How can S.I.L.O get away with this? If the Prophet is destroyed then they’ll in effect be responsible for over twelve thousands deaths. And that’s only accounting for the ship personnel, saying nothing for the additional military presence.” Cleo realizes she’s completely abandoned her decorum and in her alarm had raised her voice at the captain. She quickly lowers her face as her cheeks become flush with embarrassment. Rickter doesn’t reprimand her but instead addresses her in his usual composed manner. He understands the shock of their suddenly compromising situation.

     “When has S.I.L.O ever been held to account for their actions? Unfortunately they kept me in the dark on this and now we’re out here with a ship full of trigger happy marines. They want to find something over there, and they want to fight it.” Rickter looks at Cleo, his expression stern.

     “I want you to send out a sub-wave message to personnel CommNet I.D’s. Nothing on the ship that S.I.L.O can see, only personal I.D handles. Tell them that only essential personnel are required for this voyage. If S.I.L.O plans on taking my ship they can have it, but my crew doesn’t need to go down with them. Only those necessary to fly this boat will be needed for the upcoming mission.”

     Cleo looks at Rickter with a swell of pride. He’s a good Captain, she’s flown with him many times and every voyage into the darkness of space holds potential danger. This is different though, now they know there is danger, not just that, but they’re going to try and find it. In the face of a known threat he’s ready and willing to send his crew to safety while he stays behind to fight, even if it’s against his will. She brings up her data slate and begins typing out the message letting all non essential personnel know they are dismissed from duty on this flight and can board the nearest shuttle to the surface of Julio-Ceti, upon their return they’ll pick up the crew that remains. Just as she hits “send” on the data slate the entire ship lurches to the side with a deafening crack followed by a thunderous boom. The ship's lights go dark and the emergency systems kick in, illuminating the command bridge in pulsating red lights accompanied by blaring alarms. 

     “Report! What just happened?!” Rickter barks at the nearest ensign. The man is barely back in his seat looking at the terminal screen when he answers.

     “Unknown detonation portside near the stern! A hull breach is detected and the area is sealed off, sir.” The other ensigns and bridge crew collect themselves and man their stations anticipating their captain’s next orders.

     “Status report on the central console, and get me a medical report from the hull breach!” Rickter’s commands are met with immediate action from the crew. He turns and addresses Cleo.

     “Hathaway, report to your station and get as many of the non-essential personnel off this ship.”

     “Yes, sir!” Cleo salutes and then runs from the bridge. Her run quickly turns into a sprint which takes her all the way down the corridor she came from to the elevators. She bursts past the elevators knowing they’ll be on lockdown and opens the stair hatch where she runs into another crewmate, he’s from the ship's maintenance department.

     “What’s happening?” he asks in a panic. Cleo looks at the fear on his face searching for the words when the ship's intercom system cracks to life and Captain Rickter’s voice breaks through the noise.

     “All personnel, report to your battle stations, I repeat, battle stations. We are under attack. Non-essential personnel evacuate the ship immediately.” With that the intercom goes silent and another impact shakes the ship forcing Cleo to catch herself on the railing. The crewmember flies back down the stairs letting out a terrified yell as he falls. His shouting is abruptly silenced by a wet thud as his head cracks against the back of a step killing him instantly. Cleo gasps in shock and looks away from the dead man. Moments pass and it’s only another shudder in the ship that stirs her to collect herself. She slowly makes her way past him taking great caution not to look at him or step in the blood that has begun to pool around him. Once beyond him she continues down the stairs as fast as she can. She can hear the doors to lower floors opening as other panicked crew members flood into the stairwell. Getting to her station to help others evacuate is going to be difficult with the additional traffic. Another impact hits the Prophet, this one louder, closer, causing the walls to creak and bend as the explosion presses against them from outside. Its impact knocks her off her feet and sends her flying down the stairs a single floor. She hits the wall on the level below and knocks her head against the panel leaving a dent in it. She collapses to the floor stunned as her head throbs in agony. She presses her hand against her temple and pulls it away hot and sticky with blood, her vision blurs and goes dark as she passes out. Just then another explosion rocks the ship.