Mississippi Sector, Battleship Singularity
It was early in the morning, ship’s time. Formal battle preparations would soon begin, but for the moment, it was quiet. It was during such time, in the waning hours before a mission, that Maria Galhino always found herself on the observation deck.
It felt as though the wide, empty space gave her room to think. There were a wealth of chairs, couches, and benches, but she never sat. She always stood, looking out the windows, practicing an analysis of what she saw there.
The wide ports weren’t real windows, but they cast the illusion of such. They were the views of telescopes on the hull, reflecting the light through an optical mirror system to produce the view here. Perhaps that seemed an unnecessary design addition, but the mirror system was far wiser than having fragile viewports on a combat ship.
Even without power, the mirrors and telescopes gave them a chance to see obstacles in the ship’s path, and while it was rare to steer a ship by sight and star, the capability to do so was a comfort. If it ever became necessary, observation decks like this gave them the view from the hull without a spacewalk. But, beside their practical purpose, the observation deck was a favorite for many members of the crew. It gave them a chance to stare out at the stars and study the colors of distant nebulas and planets as they passed by.
Others came here for recreation, but Galhino came here with a purpose: to remind herself that what she saw out there was just a fraction of the information that was truly there. Her eyes were poor tools to study the void, and that was never more apparent than staring out into the Mississippi Sector. Dark planets drifted endlessly out here. Other parts of the sector were filled with gas giants’ whose gaseous layering reflected the small amount of starlight at different wavelengths, giving them a slight marbled appearance, but their local region was now dominated by rock planets. Atmosphere-less hunks of ice-cold earth, these planets were only visible in the way they blotted out the stars. With the naked eye, it was impossible to ascertain the location of the vagrant planets.
The ship began a sweeping turn, evident by the change in the engines’ low hum. Clearly there were other planets out here besides the one that Maria Galhino thought she could make out in the darkness. But, of course, the Singularity wasn’t as blind as her crew in the constant midnight of the Mississippi Sector. That was why Galhino was here. She liked to contemplate the way their ship perceived their surroundings. As a rehearsal for combat, she liked to consider what sensor sweeps would be best applied, and the Mississippi Sector was certainly an interesting challenge.
The ship’s sensors were usually calibrated to the infrared spectrum to study changes in heat energy, but so distant from any stars, the planets adrift in the Mississippi Sector had no heat energy. They were cold. If any of the planets still had active cores, the infrared may return as a blur, but that was no way to reliably discern size or mass.
Without light, the spectroscopes were similarly useless – unable to analyze the material properties of the planets’ surface. For those planets without atmosphere, the ship’s laser sensors would be adequate to determine distance and size. They were quite useful as long as nothing scattered their focused photon beam. Still, the most reliable method of navigation in this area was to go by radar.
Most ships didn’t have the radar range to detect a planet far enough away to prevent falling into its gravity well. It was an advantage of the Singularity’s size to carry a larger array and have a greater detection radius. The Singularity’s radar had ample range to confirm the presence and range of a planet, and then check the accelerometers to obtain its gravitational force. With that, it was a simple calculation with the law of universal gravitation to determine the smallest necessary course deviation to avoid the planet and its gravity well.
It was a useful thing for the ship to have that type of navigational capability. Often, the knowledge she gleaned from the ship’s great ‘eyes’ fascinated Galhino, but there were still moments when the beauty of the visible spectrum struck her. It was strange to realize that the prismatic nebulas they passed by would never be recognized as anything but gaseous vapors by the ship, even as the crew stared in awe. Galhino could not imagine what it would be like to view the universe in that way, to ‘see’ in a hundred spectrums but be blind to the beauty of it.
As the ghost recognized it, this lonesome contemplation was Maria Galhino’s battle ritual. Every member of the crew had one, and they varied quite wildly. Some, like Galhino, woke early and found places to center their thoughts, while some preferred to beat their nerves out on a punching bag in the gym. Others enjoyed a rambunctious game of cards. A few even laid bets on the potential that the mission went off without issue. These habits were their way of waiting out tense hours before a combat mission.
Even the ship’s old cook had a ritual. She woke and cooked as much as she always did, but many of the crew were too nervous to eat or otherwise occupied, so Ripley dished up small plates and snacks for the crew to take with and eat later. That wasn’t the fleet standard, of course. Food was supposed to stay in the mess and lounge areas, but everyone knew better than to argue with the old woman. The crew took Mama Ripley’s prepackaged snacks with gratitude. Usually, when all was said and done, eating that snack was the first thing they did.
The ghost was often drawn to the cook during these hours, partially because her aura was calm. No matter the mission, she treated it as if she were sending the younger crew on a simple supply trip and packing them snacks for the road – not feeding them what could potentially be their last meal. The other reason the ghost lingered nearby was because Ripley would often speak to her as she packaged up the leftovers. “How are you doing dear?” the cook asked, snapping a line of food storage containers closed as she moved down the counter. “Are you feeling ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the ghost answered.
“Ma’am?” the cook let out a tsk and turned to put her hands on her hips. “Enough of that nonsense. You can call me Mama just like anybody else.”
The ghost smiled a bit. “Yes, Mama.”
“That’s better,” the cook huffed, turning to stack the containers. “Now, Kallahan told me there was an incident last night. Were you hurt?”
“No.” Gaffigan’s assumptions had been painful in a way, but she knew it was no fault of his own. He had meant well.
“That’s good,” the chef said, stepping over to wash and dry her hands at the sink. The noise of the water halted the conversation for a moment, but soon enough she went back to work, checking on the bread baking in one of the ovens. “I’d hate to see you hurt in a misunderstanding, dear.”
The sweet scent of the rising dough hit the air strongly, carried upward by the warmth of the air escaping the ovens. “Those need another ten minutes,” the ghost told her.
Ripley pursed her lips, “Since when are you a chef?”
“I’ve watched you make that bread so many times, if I had hands, I could probably do it,” the ghost told her.
Ripley set the timer above the oven for another ten minutes. “Don’t get snarky with me, young lady,” she countered, narrowing her eyes enough to deepen the crow’s feet around them. “I’d hate to have an excuse to cook my favorite recipe.”
The ghost chuckled. “My apologies, please spare the crew.” While she was not forced to eat it, she had gleaned from the rest of the crew that Ripley’s favorite recipe, ‘meat stew,’ was universally disliked. The cook knew the recipe was hated, but she loved it too much to permanently restrain from it. In the interest of not hurting the old cook’s feelings, the crew forced themselves to eat the stew, but none of them were very good actors.
Ripley let out a boisterous laugh, and it turned into a reminiscent sigh. “How long has it been since we were on the offensive? Feels like forever.”
“Nearly two years.” The ship had seen action but had not been on a planned attack operation in quite some time. Their engagements since had been either defensive or unplanned. In that sense, these old battle rituals were welcoming. They lent a sense of preparedness to the combat looming ahead.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Ripley began to tidy up the galley, hanging pots and pans back where they belonged, and sheathing the knives left to dry on the side of the sink. “And how’s the Admiral, my dear?”
“He’s tired, I think,” the ghost answered, “but that rarely seems to slow him down.” Exhausted or not, the Admiral had finalized the plan for the mission, and Zarrey was looking it over now.
Ripley hummed, “You know how he gets. Best to keep an eye on him.” He often let his work swallow him. Come to think of it… “He’s not doing what he usually does at this time, is he?”
The ghost purposefully averted her gaze. “No?”
Ripley crossed her arms. “My dear, you might just be the worst liar I have ever seen.” But that should not have been a surprise. Subtlety was in no way her strength. “And come now, if he never rests, those injuries of his will never heal.”
“This is his favorite.” The ghost had not been willing to discourage him. After last night, he had been looking forward to it even more than usual.
Ripley sighed, knowing a lost cause when she saw one. “At least Ensign Feather will make sure he eats.” Someone had to make sure the man didn’t work himself into an early grave.
The ghost decided not to address the fact that Admiral Gives had been gone by the time Feather reached his quarters. The food Ripley had sent with her was on his desk steadily cooling to room temperature because the Admiral had not returned to his quarters after doing his usual rounds.
Instead, he had headed to the far starboard side and made his way down to the ship’s lowest decks. There, he found one of the closets that stored emergency supplies and grabbed one of the environmental suits. He threw the suit’s rubbery mass over his shoulder, tucked the helmet beneath his arm, and snagged the mag-boots with his left hand, wincing as their weight strained his lingering burns. Still, he ignored the injury, unwilling to let it keep him from this tradition.
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He carried the suit back to the nearby airlock and kicked off his shoes, sliding them into the storage cubby beside the airlock. He pulled the mag-boots on in their stead, kneeling down to tighten their adjustment straps. It took a few moments to size them comfortably to his feet, and then he tucked his pantlegs in to keep them from getting caught on the ring seal that attached the boots to the suit. It was a practiced movement, made more difficult by the constant snagging of the glove covering the bandages on his hand. But, better the glove than the bandages, he supposed, straightening up. The last thing he wanted was to return to his quarters to re-bandage his hand. He knew anyone he met there would try to talk him out of this.
He had grown tired of their arguments years ago, which was why he had taken to using spare equipment instead of the flight suit that was actually sized to fit him. This environmental suit, stored near the airlock for emergencies would work just as well for his intent. All the emergency equipment was regularly checked and used by the damage control teams, but it was not as comfortable as his flight suit would have been.
Carefully, he peeled the thin black glove off his wounded hand and set it aside. Then he undid the silver buttons on the front of his uniform jacket and shrugged it off. The fabric drooped as he held it, worn soft. Even the collar wasn’t as stiff as it should have been. This was one of his older jackets, near, but not yet in need of replacement. Reaching out, he could find the two patches that had been sewn in to fill the bullet holes in the front, reminders of the last mission General Clarke had sent him on. Still, a pair silver pins glittered on the collar: shiny silver stars on matte silver bases, the symbol of a Fleet Admiral with a Flagship under his command. He considered them for a moment, but the coolness of the air on his bare forearms prompted him to continue and hang it beside the airlock.
He felt vulnerable without the jacket. The feel of its thick, yet breathable fabric was familiar to him, the weight a constant reminder of the duty he had to his ship and her crew. The absence of that reminder did not unburden him, just uncomfortably distanced him from his purpose. That purpose was a part of him, something that he had lived so long with, that he hardly knew how to do without. Perhaps that was why he hesitated to let the jacket rest on its hook. It, and the duty it represented were a large part of him. Without that, he was no Admiral.
He was hardly anything at all.
He’d never held a desire to return planet-side and had no one who would seek to meet him elsewhere. His duty was the only thing that gave him a place, and the black uniform jacket that accompanied it was a form of armor. Its long sleeves concealed the scars on his arms, and he made certain most of the crew never caught him without it. He didn’t want their questions, or their pity, or their doubt. And truly, he knew those scars would make them doubt whether he was fit to hold a command. Perhaps as they should, he thought, recognizing the two new red cuts on his forearm. They were not the first knife cuts he’d endured, not by far, and they were small, so small they likely wouldn’t even scar – not on top of the marks already there.
With a sigh, he let his hand fall to the patch on the sleeve of the jacket. The stitching of the insignia was familiar to him as he traced his fingertips over the red and yellow flaming sun. The symbolism behind it was never lost on him. Regarded as a sun, it was a sign of glory and royalty. Regarded as a star, it was a sign of nobility. Predominantly red, the color that symbolized military fortitude, it was a reminder of the ship’s power. Yet, the flames that reached out behind were yellow – the color of generosity, a reminder of the ship’s sacrifice. The dying star was always given a black background, denoting grief and constancy. That emblem had never changed, even as the rings around it had been altered. The lettering now read ‘Battleship’, where once it had read ‘Flagship’, but the detailing was still in silver, a reminder that this insignia had once belonged to a flagship. All other ships detailed theirs in gold.
Some ships had more complex insignias, extravagant in detail and bountiful in color, but as far as he cared, the dying star was the only one worth wearing. He was honored to carry that symbol, and rarely went anywhere without it. Even without his jacket, that insignia was stamped on the left side of his black shirt, and attached to the left shoulder of the environmental suit as he began to pull it on.
The environmental suit was flexible and had a rubbery texture to its outside. Its dark color had a strange oily sheen but was not slick. Without rigidity and without a partner, the environmental suit was awkward to pull on, but by pressing his back to the wall, he held the air recycling pack in place long enough to secure it and start sealing up the front of the suit.
The environmental suit had a weight to it, necessitated by the thermal and radiation protection it carried, but unlike the Marines’ armored suits, it had no rigid structure. With that design, its wearer – usually engineers on a repair run – could squeeze into tight locations. Given their flexibility and ease of use, these environmental suits were the most common type of vacuum suit. After so many years in space, Admiral Gives knew the steps to put one on like he knew how to tie his shoes. It was a process to check the seals as he connected the boots and gloves, not to mention resize the spare suit, but it didn’t take long. He was able to relax and listen to the soft noise of the ship’s engines as he finished up.
The helmet was the last piece, but soon enough he pulled it on and twisted it onto the collar seal, where it clicked audibly. Reaching back, he hit a switch on the side of the air pack, and the suit temporarily over-pressurized itself, puffing up a small bit. This was the easiest way to check for a leak or bad seal. The burst of pressure would force air out the gap, and the passage of air across the suit’s rubbery surface would make it squeal like a deflating balloon – a rather hilarious noise until the wearer remembered that hearing it might signify their imminent death, courtesy a compromised suit.
The suit was quiet this time, but he did a physical check of all the seals just in case. All good, he determined, so he reached down and activated the mag-boots, kicking toward the deck to check them. As expected, the magnetic field grabbed his foot and pulled it down to the metal. Satisfied, he opened the airlock, stepped inside, and spun it closed behind him. Reading a hard seal, he punched the controls beside the door to start the flush cycle, and the whir of the air pumps kicked in, growing quieter and quieter as the air was pulled from the lock.
While the airlock cycled, he checked the equipment on the suit belt, finding an electric torch, suit patch kit, magnetic anchor and spool of cable. Good. That was all he needed.
The light to the side of the outer airlock door flashed green, and a few seconds later, he felt his feet pull against the boots that anchored him as gravity was cut from the airlock.
Regulations dictated he do a communications check to confirm the functionality of the radio in his helmet, but he knew how that would end, and had no desire to be interrupted on this walk. However, the promise of silence was not worth dying over if anything went wrong, so he reached up to the radio controls on his helmet. “Base, requesting comms. confirmation for a spacewalk from the starboard flank.” The radio crackled a little bit on the transmission, a favorable indicator.
“Comms. confirmed. Try not to get lost, Actual.”
He let out a sigh of relief, hearing the ghost answer the call. She must have intercepted it before it reached the crew. This way, he had confirmation, but could still maintain his solace. “Thank you.” He was grateful. “And you know I’m not ‘Actual’ unless I am actively commanding from CIC.” That was the radio tag given to the officer in charge at that instant. Right now, that was probably Lieutenant Johannes, the head of the night watch.
“Agree to disagree.” As long as he was on the ship, she would always defer final command authority to him.
He sighed, trying not to read into that response as he checked the atmospheric test strip on the right wrist of the suit. It had turned dark, signaling that not only were conditions not breathable, but there was no atmosphere around him at all. The internal pressure gauge further up on the suit’s arm was nominal though – no sign of any leak, so he reached out and began to open the airlock’s outer side.
By the way the mechanisms hesitated to turn, he could imagine they creaked, but without air to carry the pressure waves that made sound, the airlock opened in a perfect silence, and darkness yawned out before him. Yellow light splashed down from the airlock behind him, quickly swallowed by the emptiness ahead. There were no stars, not yet. Getting through the airlock had only allowed him passage into the space between the ship’s hulls. The secondary hull maintained the air and living conditions for the crew, insulated against heat and radiation. It was armored, thicker and tougher than any civilian ship would be, but it was nothing compared to the shielding of the primary hull, which donned the ship’s battle armor. From the airlock, a catwalk linked the two, held between the beams and supports that comprised the ship’s structure.
Absently, the Admiral reached up and clicked on the headlamp attached to his helmet. The white light cleaved into the darkness, casting the shadow of the path ahead down into the depths below. Looking down, there was no ground to be seen, layers and layers of structural supports caught pieces of the light until what was left faded into a dim haze. The discomfort of vertigo rose, but he discarded it as quickly as it came. Without gravity, there would be no falling. He could easily have pushed off and sailed to the footway’s end, but he chose to keep his feet grounded and test the mag-boots.
The boots made a clang when they hit the metal, then a clicking noise as he pulled his feet up, disengaging the magnets to take a step. They weren’t loud, but it was easy to fixate on the sound when it was the only thing he could hear. In the vacuum, an otherwise perfect silence encased him.
A few particles hung in the void, unmoving as he passed. Without air currents, they were frozen in place, only to be shifted during accelerations. Still, for a portion of the ship that was usually kept at vacuum to limit damage from hull breaches, there was more dust afloat than he ordinarily recalled. No, he realized, finding a large gray flake, not dust. Ash. This was ash from the fires that had burned after the nuke. The nuke had torn through both the ship’s hulls, so air and ash had flooded out during the decompression, and some of it had settled upon the structural beams. Now that he was looking, he could see a thin film discoloring their surfaces. Later, they would need to pressurize and purge the space between the hulls, section by section. The ash wasn’t directly harmful, but it could obscure visual inspections, so it was best to keep everything clean.
Moving along the footway, the Admiral made his own inspection of the surrounding structure. The cross sections of the beams and flanges made the shadows shift strangely, but he saw nothing out of order. The ship wasn’t new. There were a few scratches and scuffs on the beams, but nothing deep enough to inflict a meaningful stress concentration. If he studied close enough, he could still find the remains of fretting on the joints, but that was old damage now. The afflicted regions had been resealed, and new oscillation dampeners had been applied, the way they always should have been. Now, the discoloration and minor pitting on the metal were only reminders. The bumps were so slight he couldn’t even feel them through the gloves of his environmental suit, but he knew what they felt like. After all, he’d been the one to discover its severity all those years ago. Compared to what it had once been, the fretting was nothing more than a harmless blemish. A simple stain on the metal.
Searching, he could spot the strain gauges placed throughout this forest of beams. Wires ran from them, taking the sensors’ data for structural integrity analysis. Further in, on dimly lit beams that he could barely discern, there were streaks of white. Subtle and thin, they crawled across the beams. Sometimes splaying out into a web, and sometimes twisting together, the fibers looked strangely organic, somewhere between spider silk and veins. He studied them for a moment, certain the neurofibers had not always been so prolific in their growth, but ultimately dismissed it. No portion of this ship was beyond the neurofibers’ reach, and he had realized that long ago.
Eventually, he met the hatch that would take him through the primary hull. Technically, it was designed as an airlock, but it rarely operated under pressurized conditions, so he passed through without much thought, bringing himself to the final door. This one operated a little differently. Its controls were mounted on the bulkhead beside the door. There was an electric motor designed to open the door, but it was kept disengaged, used mostly for times when the airlock saw high traffic, or for the unfortunate occasion where someone or something needed to be spaced. This close to the hull, everything was kept as simple as possible, as damage was considered inevitable. The motor was an easy to replace module, and keeping it disengaged ensured that the operation of the airlock did not have to fight the resistance of the motor in a failure.
Wrapping his hands on the textured wheel, he began to turn it. The gears behind it resisted a little, but that was no surprise. The extreme conditions of the void were difficult on moving components, but still, designed for this purpose, they yielded, and the exit began to slide open, revealing the stars.