The Valiant Starlight shuddered into a delicate calm, its trembling descent punctuated by the radiant spiral of cosmic dust slowly dissolving beyond the viewport. Here, in this fragile cocoon of safety, the vessel was cast adrift from the violence that had scarred its hull and shattered Ta’raa’s spirit. Though the blaring alarms had faded to mere echoes, their residual cadence still pounded within her mind, a reminder of recent chaos. Outside, the boundless void—open, desolate, unyielding—reflected the barren state of her inner landscape. Detached and numb, she clung to a cold rationality, knowing that any uncontrolled surge of emotion could spell disaster for both herself and her crew. From this moment onward, every maneuver, every decision, would be meticulous and by the book—a rigid adherence to regulation amidst a universe of uncertainty.
From the captain’s chair, Ta’raa’s hand hovered over the console, its surface cool under her fingertips as she opened a secure communications channel to the fleet. Her voice, measured yet tinged with hesitation, cut through the stale hum of the bridge systems:
“Valiant Starlight. This is—”
For a moment, she faltered. The title ‘Commander’ felt too weighty on her tongue, so she quickly recalibrated, almost as if shedding an unwanted mantle:
“Junior Tech Officer Ta’raa Liu.”
A sharp exhale escaped her lips—a brief, frantic sound that reverberated off the metal walls, echoing her inner turmoil. With practiced authority, she continued, issuing orders that danced between precision and desperation:
“Damage control teams, report to designated stations. Engineering corps, begin structural integrity diagnostics. Finalize logging all combat data. Medical bays—”
Her voice wavered briefly as she considered the monumental task awaiting the medics; the stark reality of what lay ahead gnawed at her restraint. Regaining her composure, she added,
“Commander Po Xan, report to the bridge, please. All available operations officers, report to the bridge.”
As the final words rolled off her tongue, Ta’raa groaned softly—a low sound of fatigue—and slumped in her seat, her posture contorting under the relentless pressure of command. Every directive, each syllable delivered, was laced with the weight of responsibility and the quiet, despairing realization that every moment counted in their fight for order amidst chaos.
Xania eased away from her console with measured grace, stretching out her arms as if to shake off the oppressive tension that suffused the bridge. The low hum of machinery and the dim glow of flickering control panels formed a quiet, steady heartbeat in the background. She offered Ta’raa a reassuring smile.
"You're doing good. Don't let it get to you," she said softly, yet with a firmness that carried room-wide.
Taking a deliberate pause, she continued, her voice laced with wry, understated wisdom:
"If command were easy, everyone would be in charge—pure chaos. Command is always best suited to those who never even wanted it."
Her words, heavy with the burden of reluctant leadership, resonated in the charged air, providing a brief refuge of clarity and resolve amid the uncertainty of their situation.
“She's right—it’s the ones that demand power, the very ones you’ve got to watch out for.” Vosvin’s measured tone cut through the ambient hum of the command deck as he moved with deliberate precision between flickering consoles and scrolling log readouts. Every step he took seemed to echo against the cold metal walls, his eyes never straying from the digital data that mapped out their precarious situation.
Pausing before a bank of dim screens, Vosvin’s gaze tightened as he deciphered the latest figures. “How long do you think we should stay here?” he inquired, the question heavy with both strategy and unease. “Judging by these preliminary reports, the fleets should be hitting around 70% efficiency soon. I doubt they’ll even begin repairs on the battleships until we secure a friendly port.”
The command deck, bathed in the muted glow of red warning lights and the steady pulse of operational diagnostics, seemed to hold its breath with him. Behind his calm exterior, a current of urgency surged—a silent alarm only the keen-eyed could perceive—foretelling that every moment spent adrift was a moment closer to an uncertain fate.
“Hmm.” The single syllable hung in the air, heavy and unresolved, as the conversation evaporated into a silence laden with uncertainty. In that pregnant pause, every heartbeat echoed the question that no one dared voice: What was our next move? Lil’lah’s plan had been a hasty exit from the hostile zone—a half-formed blueprint that left the aftermath shrouded in ambiguity. One voice hesitated, “Well, certainly we can’t just—” but before the thought could fully form, Vosvin swivelled to meet Ta’raa’s gaze. Their eyes locked, conveying unspoken deliberations and the shared weight of responsibility. “The point was to regroup, and then try again, no?” he intoned, his voice a blend of pragmatic resolve and quiet desperation as the confines of their current moment pressed in with relentless urgency.
The heavy bridge door slid open with a low hiss, its pneumatic mechanism echoing in the tense silence. In stepped three sentries—two male and one female—each instantly recognizable by the iconic glow in their eyes that spoke volumes of their heritage and allegiance. They moved with measured precision, forming a silent barrier beside the captain’s chair, their postures radiating both resolve and restrained readiness.
Commander Po, the Chief Medical Officer and the highest-ranking among them, stepped forward. His face held a calm yet determined expression as he executed a crisp salute, his motion deliberate and full of unspoken authority. The quiet that settled over the bridge was thick with anticipation as he began, “Reporting as ordered, Comm—” His voice trailed off into the charged atmosphere, each syllable hanging like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
“Don’t—” Ta’raa’s command was abruptly cut off as she sprang from her seat, her arm mid-salute frozen in time. “Stop. Po, Daal, Wa’Tai—” She strode purposefully toward the holodeck at the center of the room, its ambient glow casting shifting shadows on her determined face. Turning to face the trio, she declared with urgent clarity, “We need— we’re short-staffed, as you can plainly see.”
Before she could press further, Po’s voice sliced through the stillness. “The entire ship is a bit short-staffed—grow up, Commander.” His words, laden with frustration, reverberated off the metallic walls. The admonition was etched in the hard set of his features; his short, faded reddish-grey hair mirrored his no-nonsense attitude, and a streak of organic fluid staining his uniform betrayed the intensity of his emotions. Ta’raa saw it clearly—he bore no pretense of detachment; his exasperation was raw and unmistakable.
“I apologize, Commander. That was—” Po began, his tone stumbling in the wake of his outburst.
“Cut the small talk; we don’t—well, I don’t have time for this. Some of us—” Ta’raa interjected sharply, her voice cutting through any lingering hesitation.
An icy pause fell over the bridge before Po relented with a terse, “Alright, Commander, I will be brief!” The uproar died down as Ta’raa reclaimed the silence with authority. “Most of the Operations Officers are back in Dwendenous,” she announced, her tone steady despite the tension. “This shift in manpower alters the Organization’s charts, and we need to reassign roles on the bridge immediately.”
Each word crackled with urgency, the combined strain of duty and dwindling resources electrifying the air—a stark reminder that in these moments, there was no room for idle banter when survival itself hinged on flawless execution.
Po wasted no time—his voice slicing through the tension as he stepped forward, his tone razor-sharp against the low hum of the bridge. "You don’t need me on the bridge, though," he declared, his eyes methodically sweeping over the assembled crew like laser beams, searching for any sign of dissent.
He glanced at Captain Vosvin, his tone edged with derision: "Captain Vosvin, surely you’re not following this adolescent’s orders—" Before he could finish, a firm counter echoed across the bridge, cutting through the charged air:
"On my bridge, you will address its commander, and I was appointed, not Vosvin."
For a split second, Po’s forward momentum stalled. His eyes flickered from one tense sentry to another, each face reflecting the unspoken gravity of the moment. Gradually, his rigid stance softened as he absorbed the weight of their silent defiance. With a measured, reluctant sigh, he relented, his voice losing a fraction of its earlier edge. "Alright. I see what’s going on here. Let’s see what Commodore Ghu has to say about this."
In that charged pause, the bridge seemed to hold its breath—every flickering console light and muted alarm underscoring the fragile balance between order and chaos, as Po’s words set the stage for the next act of command.
Ta’raa’s gaze swept the room with a weary precision, each glance sharpening the stark realization: Ghu was absent. In the depths of her own turmoil, she had lost track of who was present—and who wasn’t. Across the bridge, the Medical Officer had already flushed out of existence, leaving behind nothing but the echo of an indignant huff.
“That’s not good,” came a measured, yet grave voice.
Lieutenant Daal, a lean figure with silver hair meticulously pulled back into a neat bun, moved with deliberate purpose toward the viewport port. His arms were folded behind his back, a posture that spoke both of authority and a detached certainty as he inspected the vessel through the glowing panel of starlight and shadow. After a moment, he turned back, his eyes hard and thoughtful as they sought out the others. “He’s right, though,” he stated, the tension of the moment threading through each word. His tone carried the weight of impending chaos. “It’s madness out there. There’s trouble teeming in every corner. So tell me—are you really planning to stick around in this system?”
Ta’raa stepped closer, the tension between them palpable in the narrow confines of the flight deck. Her voice carried not just authority, but a plea for unity. “That’s what I called you here. It should be a joint decision, in the absence of the commodore, I feel.”
The reply came cool and measured, slicing through the charged silence. “Commander, this is no longer about what you feel,” he stated, each word deliberate and unyielding. “Decisions must be made on the cold, hard facts.” His words hung in the recycled air, heavy with the weight of undeniable reality as he swept his gaze over the consoles and blinking indicators of the bridge.
Leaning in slightly as if to drive the point home, he continued, “If you excuse me, Commander, if you plan any further — dare I say reckless — ventures, make sure your weapons systems are fully operational.” With that stern admonition, he turned sharply and exited the bridge, leaving Ta’raa in a swirling mix of determination and doubt, her resolve tested by the hard truth of command.
The silence on the bridge was heavy and suffocating—anything but the neat regulation they were supposed to uphold. Ta’raa slowly trudged back to the captain’s chair, each step laden with the weight of responsibility, and collapsed into it with a weary slump. In that moment of vulnerability, the title of operations officer felt unbearably thin, almost translucent—flimsy and brittle against the harsh realities of command. Overwhelmed by the pressure, she buried her face in her trembling hands, desperately trying to shield herself from the piercing sting of failure.
“I’d be happy to help!” Lieutenant Wa’Tai Nik burst forth, her voice an electrified mix of delight and exasperation. Unable to contain herself, she flitted about, fingers darting in animated gestures that betrayed her inner turmoil. “It’s a COMPLETE MESS out there!” she exclaimed, her tone rising as she pointed erratically at the arrays of blinking consoles and tangled cables. Stationed at the very heart of the bridge, her exuberance cut through the tense atmosphere like a ragged lifeline. “Oh, since I’m here—” she continued, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush, “long-range communications are down! But the short range should be highly operable—”
Her declaration hung in the charged air, a mixture of frantic optimism and the grim determination that clung to every corner of the beleaguered spacecraft.
“Highly operable…?” Ta’raa’s voice wavered as she slowly slid her hand from her face, her elbow come to rest resolutely on the cold metal of the armrest. The flickering lights of the bridge danced over tense features and blinking consoles, a silent reminder of the stakes at hand.
A calm, precise reply cut through the lingering uncertainty: “Yes. Highly operable. What that means is the surplus power from the failing long-range relay has been meticulously redirected to the short-range system—extending its capacity, just a little, at least.” Each word was delivered as if it were a crucial component in a larger, delicate mechanism.
In that charged moment, Xania’s eyes lit up with sudden hope. “We may be able to communicate with Earth!” she exclaimed, her voice rising with excitement as she leaned forward, eager to grasp this opportunity.
Before Ta’raa could finish her thought with a hopeful, “Well, my goal was actually to find friends—”, Vosvin had already surged into action. He was at the communications terminal in a heartbeat, his fingers flying over controls as he switched the system to the critical short-range relays. The tense quiet of the bridge vibrated with anticipation, only to be fractured by a sudden, unexpected internal communication interrupting his hastily initiated transmission.
The bridge burst into life as Commodore Zydan’s presence commanded the room—his holographic image flickering to life on the central holodeck. His silvery hair cascaded in a graceful, almost ethereal flow over his shoulders, and his eyes burned with a deep, dull gold that shimmered ominously, as though they held the cold finality of death itself. The rigid angles of his face carved a menacing visage, perfectly complementing the sinister timbre of his voice as he intoned,
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“Commander, this is Commodore Ghu. Where is the Senior Commodore?”
He offered no pleasantries—only an unyielding demand that sliced through the tension.
For a heartbeat, Ta’raa sat frozen before slowly straightening in her chair. Whether she bore the title of Commander of the Starlight or not, Zydan was far more than a senior Sentry of the Armada; he was a scion of an ancient dynasty that had long held a seat on the Supreme Council—a lineage of Ba’urgeon nobility, practically royalty. His imperious aura bore down upon her, and caught utterly off guard, Ta’raa’s voice wavered as she stammered to form a reply.
“Commodore Zydan, I—uh, the Senior Commodore is away; she’s back on Earth.”
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken judgement. Zydan’s eyes narrowed as he pressed further.
“So it is true. She’s abandoned her fleet then?”
Before Ta’raa could muster a defense, her attempt to interject was cut short by the demanding cadence of his inquiry.
“No! She’s overseeing the mission—”
His tone grew harsher, laced with incredulity.
“Overseeing the mission? Are there more Ba’urg down there?”
From the corner of the bridge, Xania’s hand shot up reflexively, her fingers splayed in a hasty gesture.
“Uh, yes, Commodore. Uh, roughly—uh,” she stammered, counting on her fingers as if the numbers could solidify the fragile reality, “There are about twenty-eight—”
In that charged moment, every word hung precariously in the balance—a testament to the immense pressure of command, the weight of ancient heritage, and the relentless scrutiny of authority that left Ta’raa teetering between defiance and despair amid the unyielding gaze of Ba’urgeon nobility.
“You are in command of nobody, Ta’raa.” The words cut through the charged silence like a sharpened blade, delivered with a condescending sneer that made each syllable burn. “You think you have power here? Control? Hmm? No. You can’t command this vessel. I order you, under the authority of the Supreme, to relinquish your command of the Valiant Starlight to me.”
His tone brooked no argument—a resolute decree, not a suggestion. His face was a mask of unyielding authority, every line set in stone. As his words reverberated around the bridge, Ta’raa felt her thoughts scatter in a chaotic storm. Her eyes darted, her lips parted in a silent plea for the right words to fight back. Everything was teetering on the brink of collapse—a tipping point, where doubt and defiance warred inside her.
With a deep, steadying breath, she questioned silently: Did command of the Starlight truly endow her with the power to defy this senior sentry's edict? The answer pulsed in her veins. With a tremor of resolute defiance, Ta’raa turned and sank back into the captain’s chair, snapping her posture to one of weary command.
“It seems this is where we’ve come to, Commodore,” she stated, her voice a blend of resignation and fierce determination.
“Yes, Commander. It is,” came the cold, clipped response.
For a long, heart-pounding moment, Ta’raa’s gaze swept across the assembled sentries. In the glint of their eyes and the rigid set of their stances, she sought answers. Were they as lost as she, caught in the intricate web of regulations that left them all powerless? It seemed they were simply following orders—waiting, perhaps, for someone with the true authority to tear up the rulebook and lead them out of this suffocating impasse. The weight of the command—and the burden of doubt—weighed on her, mingling with the oppressive hum of the bridge as the fate of the crew teetered on the edge of uncertainty.
Vosvin rose from his station with deliberate grace, moving steadily toward Ta’raa and positioning himself squarely between her and the imposing holodeck. The bridge’s cool, metallic ambience vibrated under his measured steps as he spoke, his tone calm yet laced with authority.
“Commander, Ba’urgeon Armada Regulations clearly state that no external authority may bypass supreme order to commandeer a Ba’urgeon vessel. The order must come directly from the Supreme.” His piercing gaze then swept over the gathered Commodores. “The only way you can be relieved of your command at this moment is if you willingly relinquish it. We are out of communication range of the Ba’urgeon Supreme.”
A surge of defiance flared in Ta’raa’s eyes as she snapped back, her voice ringing out with resolute challenge:
“If this is the game you want to play—let’s play!”
In that instant, Ta’raa’s fingers flew over the captain’s console as she activated the ship’s screens, swiping at commands with wild determination. The ambient lighting on the bridge shifted abruptly, morphing from a sterile, soft white into a deep, menacing red that bathed everything in urgent, dramatic hues.
A defiant holographic message then sprang to life, its voice crackling through the tense air:
“You can try to lock this bridge down all you want, but you forget who maintains this vessel. Me!”
The hologram vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving the charged silence to hum with the promise of impending change.
Attempting to cut through the palpable tension, Xania ventured softly, “I think now we need a plan more than ever. We can’t just sit here forever.”
But Ta’raa, her gaze flitting anxiously from one vigilant sentry to the next, pressed on, “But, he can’t get in here. Right?” Her question, filled with a mix of desperate hope and firm resolve, hung in the electric stillness of the bridge—each pair of eyes mirroring the weight of the moment and the unyielding will to fight on.
“Ta’raa.” Wa’Tai’s voice cut in sharply from behind, as if she couldn’t bear another moment of Ta’raa’s uncertainty. She finished swiping rapidly at the console before turning, her eyes smoldering with both urgency and reproach. “Don’t act like you don’t know Commodore Zydan. I know you’re new to his unit, but as a technologist, you haven’t seen how he treats the Sentries—and worse, the Stai’tics—under his charge.”
At those words, Ta’raa’s face shifted imperceptibly, doubt and understanding warring beneath her composed exterior. She recalled every meticulously maintained protocol under Zydan’s iron fist. He ruled the Valiant Starlight with uncompromising precision, commanding every ounce of maintenance and engineering like a seasoned maestro. Memories of the academy flooded back—the way Zydan’s presence had transformed every classroom into a crucible of power, each command unquestioned due to his storied lineage. Yet, she wondered, did that absolute control extend into the depths of this ship’s chaos?
Before she could form a response, Wa’Tai’s words sprang back, buoyed by a restless energy as she bounced around the bridge. “He’s not bluffing,” she declared, her tone tinged with a mix of admiration and forewarning. But then, mid-sentence, her voice faltered—“He doesn’t—”—and the words died, strangled by the palpable tension in the air.
In that charged moment, Ta’raa instinctively opened her mouth to draw in a calming breath. Instead, she was met with a disconcerting invasion of cool, oxidized gases that slid into her lungs like a silent, unnatural tide. There was no soothing expansion of life-sustaining air—only a hollow emptiness that clawed its way into her chest. Her throat constricted painfully, each inhalation a jagged struggle akin to swallowing shards of broken glass, until, inevitably, the crushing weight of panic took over.
It was instantaneous—a brutal, violent cascade of neural alarms igniting with desperate urgency. Ta’raa’s chest convulsed as if in a frenzied search for a lifeline, each heartbeat a frantic plea, each gasp a silent cry for something that wasn’t there. Her skull pounded with the relentless force of a war drum, while every fiber of her being tightened around the overwhelming absence, her mind splintering ceaselessly between a raw desperation and an emerging, pervasive horror.
Time itself contorted, stretching each second into agonizing eternity as her hyper-aware consciousness registered every faltering beat, every trembling whisper of failing flesh. Thoughts collided—reason clashing with instinct—as a stark, haunting question echoed inside her mind: “There’s nothing... Why is there nothing?”
At the margins of her vision, she saw her cohorts—their faces and forms fading, caught in the silent struggle against an encroaching void that seemed to deflate their will as surely as it shrank their chests. Then, with the sudden inevitability of a collapsing star, Ta’raa crumpled to the floor. Her hands clawed at her neck in frantic desperation, trying to seize onto any remnant of life, even as her mind trembled with the insidious certainty: *I’m dying… No force, no enemy, no reason… nothing…
In that shattering moment, every sensation merged into one—a paralyzing, suffocating awareness of the void consuming her, leaving behind only the raw, agonizing truth of her unraveling existence.
#
…Nothing.
In the oppressive darkness, a hollow void seemed to swallow every sound and thought. Ta’raa sat motionless, ensnared in a cocoon of silence and confusion. Her mind wrestled with disjointed fragments—the last desperate moments of dying, of gasping for life—now reduced to a faint, traumatic echo. Slowly, a ripple of movement broke through the stillness, and she whispered, almost in disbelief, “Am I dead?”
Then, with a sudden barrage of resounding thuds, the room ignited in harsh, pulsating light. The darkness retreated to reveal a startling truth: she wasn’t alone. Scattered across the space lay three other bodies—the remaining Operations Officers, their forms eerily quiet in the sudden illumination.
Desperation clawed at her as she reached out, shaking the nearest figure—Wa’Tai—trying to rouse some semblance of life. A groan escaped her lips, heavy with bewilderment, “Where are we?” Her voice trembled as she stretched and scrutinized the chaotic scene, desperate for answers amid the harsh light and lingering shadows.
Her primal urgency forced her to nudge Vosvin and Xania awake. In a hoarse murmur laced with confusion and mounting anxiety, she pleaded, “I don’t know…I just woke up right before you did.” Each word vibrated with a raw, uncertain energy—a stark testament to the disoriented terror that now gripped them all as reality closed in like a tightening noose.
“It doesn’t look like confinement,” Wa’Tai declared, her voice a mix of curiosity and urgency as she sprang to her feet. She swept her gaze over the smooth, metallic walls, noting every subtle imperfection in the ambient light. The room revealed itself as an airlock—a threshold leading deep into the ship’s labyrinthine corridors. “It’s not just any chamber—it’s a battleship,” she said, her tone shifting to one of awe as she pointed toward a massive, stark emblem emblazoned on the wall.
Before her stretched a huge black illustration: a phantasmal figure, its features twisted into a rictus of maniacal glee, served as the war vessel’s warmark. The ghostly insignia of the ‘Cosmic Horde’ seemed to cackle in the dim light, an eerie reminder of a turbulent past. “This is the ‘Cosmic Horde’ war vessel. I trained on this ship,” Wa’Tai continued, her voice thick with a strange blend of pride and sorrow as memories flickered in her eyes. Her words trailed into a hesitant question, “Why would they drop this unit’s battleship—”
Before she could complete her thought, Xania, already on her feet and dusting herself off as if emerging from a long, grueling ordeal, interjected with a cool, decisive tone. “Because that unit doesn’t exist anymore,” she stated flatly, the silence that followed punctuating the gravity of her words. “They’re a quick-strike force,” she explained, eyes narrowing as she glanced around the room, “we deploy them first. Most likely, their survivors have been consolidated onto one of the other two battleships.”
As the implications sank in, the airlock seemed to pulsate with the weight of forgotten strategies and hidden agendas—a silent stage set for the grim realities of their situation. Every line and shadow carved across the walls, every echo of their voices, spoke of battles past and a future steeped in uncertainty.
Vosvin slumped in his seat, a hand pressed against his bruised head as though trying to erase the memory of impact. His voice carried the weariness of recent conflict as he addressed Ta’raa. “Ta’raa, you were poring over the fleet logs right after the battle. Do you remember what was wrong with this vessel?”
Before he could linger on the question, Xania, sensing the urgency of his query, quickly hauled him to his feet. “We might be able to fix it—” she began, hope mingling with determination in her tone.
A sharp interruption came from Wa’Tai, who planted her arms firmly on her hips. “We?” she challenged, her voice laced with a blend of incredulity and pragmatic resolve. “You mean Ta’raa and I? Let’s not play coy.” With that, she strode purposefully toward the doorway, every step echoing a confidence born of long experience in the ship’s underbelly.
Pausing only for a breath as she surveyed the corridor with an experienced eye, Wa’Tai announced, “The engine bay—plus the cooling system and the refrigeration unit—they’re all down this way.” Then, as if leaving behind any lingering doubt, she continued through the doorway with a brisk, determined pace.
In that moment, the battered wall and half-lit passageway seemed to whisper of both ruin and resolve, every clank of metal and distant hum of damaged machinery underscoring the tense promise of a fight not yet lost.
#
Ta’raa scoffed bitterly, her fingertip slapping the cold, unyielding surface of the bridge viewport with a resounding smack. "They knew exactly what they were doing. I hate that Ghu," she spat, her voice seething with fury and disappointment. For a moment, she fixed her gaze on her own reflection in the glass—a face etched with loss and failure, hauntingly reminiscent of the command she’d once held, now stripped away, leaving her marooned in a void where hope seemed to have died.
A low murmur broke through the tension, someone offering, "We have enough resources to last us for a little time, but…" The trailing words faltered into a silence as thick as the darkness outside, laden with unspoken dread.
Then Vosvin, shedding the formal restraints of authority that had bound his speech until now, spoke up with a raw, unburdened candor as he leaned forward. "We're going to die out here," he declared, his tone laced with bitter irony as he continued, "and I especially find it almost laughable how they left that old Harbinger-class cargo ship behind." His eyes burned with the realization of a fatal miscalculation. "Locking ourselves in the bridge was a fatal mistake, Ta’raa," he stated, the finality of his words echoing like a death knell against the backdrop of imminent doom.
"I'm sure we would have found ourselves on a battleship anyway.” Xania’s calm tone cut through the rising tension, her measured words drifting out as if to douse the embers of argument before they could ignite again. She eased herself into the communications console, the soft glow of its screen painting her face with shades of blue and white. "We gain nothing by arguing," she continued, her voice steady despite the uncertainty that lurked behind every syllable.
Her eyes flicked across the array of readouts as she explained, "These systems have been disabled manually—not due to inherent damage. At least, that’s true for the communications systems. However, the propulsion systems and power generators... they've taken a harder hit. There's critical damage there—we’re missing key components crucial for making any sort of effective repair." Her fingers danced lightly over the console’s controls as she assessed possibilities. “I might be able to repair the comms, but I don’t think there’s a port anywhere close enough—certainly not one we’d label as friendly.”
Meanwhile, Wa’Tai had already dropped to the floor beneath the desk, her silhouette merging with the scattered panels and tangled wires. The room’s ambient hum was punctuated by the soft clatter of displaced equipment as she inspected the damage. "They did a sloppy job, but it’s nothing we can really restore," she grumbled, her voice a muffled murmur barely rising above the drone of failing systems. She paused, the gravity of their situation seeping into her tone as she added, almost in a hushed warning, "Aren't you worried about hailing a hostile vessel?"
Every word from both Ba'urgeons hung heavy in the air—a potent blend of pragmatic resolve and an undercurrent of dread. The damaged console and scattered panels painted a scene of desperate survival as they struggled against the encroaching silence of a vessel slowly succumbing to its fate.
Vosvin chuckled, the sound a low rumble over the steady drone of diagnostic beeps emanating from the battleship's core. He had been meticulously poring over streams of data, sifting through endless logs of faulty modules intermingled with the few components that still clung stubbornly to functionality. "What, hostile like the Starlight?" he teased, his voice a blend of irony and disbelief as if daring the cosmos itself to challenge their plight.
From beneath a jumble of scattered panels and tangles of dislodged circuits, Wa’Tai’s head bobbed into view. Her eyes, narrowed in exasperation, met his with a flicker of urgency. "No," she blurted, her tone rising as she adjusted her stance, "I mean—hostile like another battleship—" Her words faltered, hanging in the charged air as if the very idea carried too much weight.
The word "battleships" echoed in the silence that followed. Ta’raa tore her gaze away from the haunted reflection staring back at her from the viewport. Instead, she focused on the void beyond, where two looming silhouettes of battleships materialized against the star-scattered darkness, nearly identical in their ominous majesty to the one they occupied. Her heart hammered with a cocktail of awe and desperate hope. "The other battleships!?" she exclaimed, voice trembling with excitement as realization struck. "We can salvage parts from them!"
Spinning on her heel, Ta’raa fixed her gaze on her assembled comrades—the resolute Sentries whose eyes now gleamed with a cautious light. "You think that old Harbinger can get us there?" she pressed, urgency lacing each word. "Maybe we can strip this ship of its working parts and use them on one of those battleships." As she spoke, her eyes shone with a fierce determination lit by flickering emergency lights and the promise of survival, igniting a spark of hope amid the oppressive void.
Wa’tai stood up, her eyes gleaming with determination. “I’ve already identified the first part that I can salvage!” She burst through the door before stopping. “Hey, if we manage to get one of these things operational, where are we headed?”
The crew exchanged glances, the moment suspended in the air. Then, with a confident roar, Ta’raa spoke up. “Earth!”
