Sam
Date July 12, 2116 Time 15:22 Human Circadian Standard Location Merili Nebula
Search. Rescue. Repair.
Like all First Responders Corps vessels, the circular corridor wrapping around the FRS Nightingale’s bridge was decorated with the organization’s creed.
Those words were laser-etched into every inch of those matte-blue walls; scrawled out in every modern written language of every culture known to travel in Coalition space. Spiraling Zelanian. Northern Continental Oxionzan cursive. Xednandais. Arabic. English. Japanese. Xhosa. And so many, many more.
Of course, the inclusion of every language meant that none of the text was more than a centimeter high.
Even so, it served its purpose.
Every member of the crew, regardless of origins, could take a stroll around that ornate corridor, and find a reminder of their duty to turn the unfathomably immense Empty of space into something survivable.
As Captain Samantha Healy returned to the bridge, her stomach pleasantly full of tacos, she ran a few dark-brown fingers over the phrase, written in braille, just above the keycard sensor.
A nice reminder of home.
But home was far, far away, and at that moment, she didn’t have time to savor the memories.
Sam smoothed down the sides of her neon green-and-blue uniform, rested her palm against the sensor, and stepped inside as the door hissed open.
Out of practicality, the bridge itself had none of the ornateness of the corridor. The walls were a simple, non-reflective gray, light enough to prevent its edges from blurring in with the corners of the main viewscreen when it was active, but dark enough to not cause an afterimage if they shifted focus.
Which of course, they could at any time.
The viewscreen itself was simply a projection of a collection of cameras and data from sensors affixed to the outside of the hull. Technically, they could retract the bit of hull directly behind the viewscreen to turn it into an actual window, but Sam had never felt a desire to do so for any reason other than making sure the mechanisms still worked. Whatever transparent alloy they made the viewscreen out of was supposed to be as strong as the outer hull itself...but the captain had seen enough wrecks to know exactly how comforting that boast truly was.
People could roll back the hullshutters in the privacy of their self-contained quarters and stargaze all they wanted...but it was best not to chance it on the bridge unless they had a very, very good reason.
Compared to a luxury vessel, the Nightingale’s controls had an almost-retro vibe: chunky keys, switches, and knobs controlled most of their displays. Parts easily repaired or replaced…and without the risk that Basil’s hand would slip on a touchscreen in the middle of a rescue mission, and send them skipping into the next galaxy over.
A safety feature especially important for time-sensitive missions like the one her crew currently faced.
Sam made a beeline across the domed room to the primary communications station, where her outreach officer, Hamid, sat wearing large headphones that flattened sections of his short black hair. He stared at a screen covered in window after window of waveforms and text boxes.
“Any new messages?” Sam asked him. Sometimes dropping out of a skip nearly overloaded their coms with localized frequencies that were incompatible with quantum transmission, but she doubted that was the case this time.
Even under optimum conditions, that usually only happened over colonies, and the Miril Nebula was too far from any Coalition colony. The Isolationists were pretty close by…but as the name suggested, they mostly kept to themselves.
“More of the same,” the man popped a headphone off one ear, but didn’t take his eye off the screen. “Just a decent analogue loop of the original distress call. The radio signal’s getting stronger on our current trajectory.”
So they were still headed in the right direction. “Any new information?”
Hamid squinted at the screen. “The callsign matches a Coalition cargo ship called the Dolos. Registered as a mid-sized transport with a skeleton crew. Compliment of eight, and...ah. Systems overload, with failed redundancies. Minor injuries. Their skipper’s shot, and life support will only last another couple more hours, based on the time stamp encoded into the message. That seems to be it.”
Oh.
Well, that could’ve been a lot worse. Thank goodness they were close enough to help, while there was still someone left.
“Give Spacedock 59 a heads up,” Sam ordered. “It will take a while for Imani’s team to replace that skipper, and we won't be able to leave until we're certain the life support is completely back in working order.”
Hopefully no other major calls would come in. The Responders’ presence this close to the Isolationists was…well…embarrassingly weak.
“Yes, Captain.”
Sam crossed to her own station, sat in her comfy swivel chair, and scanned the readouts funneling through from all over the bridge.
No signs of approaching vessels. No signs the Isolationists were going to pop up in their typical trigger-happy manner, and ruin the rescue.
Hopefully it stayed that way.
Reaching the distressed ship didn’t take long. They’d plotted their skipper’s course to drop them a safe distance from the coordinates given out in the original message, in case of debris, but close enough to easily pick up the short-range analogue transmissions used to pinpoint vessels within a system.
Like a bat listening for pings in a foggy forest, the Nightingale honed in on the source through the nebulous debris.
It led them, alarmingly, to a ship-shaped black void.
Sam frowned.
Painting a ship black was against Coalition law.
At least, for civilian ships.
Military vessels had their own set of regulations, but everything else, from a First Responder’s floating hospital to a senator’s yacht to a standard cargo carrier, should have been painted either bright white or a fluorescent hue.
Intentionally visible.
Intentionally easy to track down for rescue or recovery by sight alone if necessary, even if all power was completely gone, and both the emergency lights and distress signals could not be used.
It also helped to avoid crashes while attempting to dock at a space station. No sentient species with vision could miss the Nightingale’s eggshell-white hull, or the stylized Rod of Asclepius painted in startling scarlet red on its bow, stern, aft, port and all of its wings.
First Responders vessels very rarely crashed.
This…thing…in front of them, however, was an accident waiting to happen, if it ever went near a port.
Even more concerning, Sam didn’t see symbols of any kind painted in contrast on ship’s matte-black hull. Not so much as a smudge to indicate where it might have been scraped off by space debris, or a wavering pattern in the paint that would make her believe the ship’s hull had simply been scorched in some way. Even military vessels had to have a bright insignia somewhere on them, unless they were in an active combat situation...which hadn’t happened in Coalition space for decades.
Sam tried to tamp down the anxiety gnawing at the back of her brain.
Maybe it was an Isolationist ship? It would explain the blatant disregard for safety regs.
But Isolationist ships didn’t call for Responders. They either had their own rescue fleet, or maybe just relied on luck to avoid disasters…but in either case, their distress signals never made it to Responders’ hubs.
And the callsign embedded in the distress signal belonged to an active Coalition-registered cargo transport.
Concerning, in its own right, under the circumstances.
Pirates were the next possibility that flashed through Sam’s mind.
Unfortunately, the medical black market was a well-known vice across many corners of Coalition space. Even though the Responders gave out medications and treatment freely to whoever might need them, the dubious cocktails mixed up and sold using stolen supplies fed the recreational drug habits of many souls unlucky enough to have gone down that path.
But pirates tended to get their stolen medical supplies by smuggling them out of a colony’s stockpile. Or pilfering from a disabled cargo ship, like the one the Nightengale was supposedly being asked to aide. They weren’t typically brazen enough to lure a Responders ship in to a trap.
Mainly because they knew that not only were Responders vessels fully armed in case of such an attempt, but an attack was one of the fastest ways to set the Coalition Guard on any pirate’s heels. Even if the Guard wasn’t already tagging along with the Responders as backup.
So even with the odd hull, the chances of it being a pirate attack were very, very low.
…Still, best to be cautious.
“Mary?” Sam called over to her defense officer at a station to her left. “Are you seeing any charged weapons on the scanner?”
“Not right now, no,” the woman’s long brown ponytail shook in counterpoint to the rest of her head. “But there’s a lot of distortion from the Nebula, so I can’t be completely sure. I don’t like the looks of this, Captain.”
“It’s definitely suspicious,” Sam sighed.“But if their life support really is failing, then we might not have time to wait for backup. Keep the shields up for now. We’ll try to make contact before risking a rescue.”
“Aye Captain.”
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The captain set her monitor’s intercom to her lead Chief Recovery Expert’s frequency; pressed the button. “Jill, are you looking at our visual on the Dolos?”
“If you can call it that,” Jill responded, clearly annoyed. “Permission to have Tiffany and Xivix pack a stun-gun apiece?”
“Granted,” Sam suppressed a wince. “Just keep them holstered unless absolutely necessary. We don’t want any misunderstandings. Hold in the docking bay for the time being. I’ll let you know as soon as I can if the mission is still on.”
“Sounds good, talk soon.”
Sam swiveled to look at the communication’s hub. “Hamid, please update Spacedock 59 again, and include a photo of the Dolos.”
“Drafted, and prepped to send. Do you want me to include a request for an escort?”
Sam nodded. “Their answer likely won’t have changed, but maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Message sent. Would you like me to—Ah.”
“What?”
“The Dolos beat me to it,” Hamid pointed to a new waveforem on the screen. “We’re being hailed.”
The captain felt the knot in her stomach ease a little. Pirates weren’t known for talking before an attack. Still nowhere near a guarantee, but they would take precautions.
They had time, after all. It wasn’t like the ship was venting atmosphere.
“Thank you, Hamid. One moment...” Sam looked down the bridge, to their pilot. “Basil, are you ready for some defensive flying?”
“My favorite kind,” the bluish-green-skinned Xelanian flicked out his long, blue forked tongue with a cocky flourish. “Can I do a barrel roll?”
She let herself smirk. “We’ll see.”
He clicked his beak happily.
Sam rolled her dark brown eyes.
Pilots. Adrenaline junkies the lot. As a former pilot herself, Sam felt justified in saying that.
Next, the captain swiveled to another chair off to the right, to a Human with short, purple hair, who had been taking notes on the conversation.
“Sidney?”
“Yes, Captain?” The ship’s clerk looked up from their log.
“Send messages to Imani and Lukas. Let them know the details of the distress signal, and the state of the ship. Best case scenario, the infirmary’s going to have eight low-risk patients to look over in about half an hour. Worst case...Make sure Imani has the skipper prepped for an emergency exit.”
“Yes, Captain.” They pulled a pocket-com from their bright-green trousers; turned away; began to speak into the device in a quiet voice.
Sam took a deep breath; nodded. “Patch them through, Hamid.”
The viewscreen flicked to life, and Sam found herself looking at what seemed to be a pale Human with messily-cropped blond hair that curled up around the ears.
The person’s face was only semi-visible through the dim light reflected back from the monitor they were staring into. The video itself was so distorted, Sam couldn’t tell if the red outfit the figure wore was a Coalition Guard uniform, or something else altogether.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” The voice, at least, was clear as the bell it resembled. And sounded as worried and relieved as the captain knew to expect from someone stranded in space.
“We can,” Sam gave a warm smile. “I’m Captain Samantha Healy, of the FRS Nightingale. Are you on the Dolos?”
A grin flashed in the glitching screen. “Yes. I’m Captain Tilly Crier. Thank you for answering our call. We’ve had a major systems malfunction. Our skipper’s completely offline, and we continue to have major systems malfunctions that put the entire crew in danger. We’re dead in the ether.”
“So your message said,” Sam nodded. “We can help you with that. But first, I think you know I need to ask about the paint?”
She was pretty sure she saw the figure tilt their head. “The paint?”
Sam’s smile wavered.
…Alright.
Not the response Sam had been hoping for. Especially from the supposed captain of the Dolos.
“Your ship is painted black?” Sam coaxed.
“Oh, right, that,” the figure sighed. “Apologies. Long day. I can’t go into detail, but I can say we’re under military contract. Our paint is perfectly legal.”
Sam raised an eyebrow at that. “Is there anyone we can contact to verify that?”
“There’s no time for that,” Tilly said. “Our systems are too unstable. We need immediate evacuation”
“Do you have a shuttle?” Sam suggested. “If you can gather your crew, and wait in a shuttle until we receive verification, then that should give us plenty of time to––”
“Some of my crew doesn’t have that long,” Tilly snapped. “There was another malfunction about an hour ago. It evacuated the atmosphere in a main corridor, effectively cutting us off from the docking bay. We have multiple people trapped in their quarters. We need your shuttle to pull them out. Quickly.”
…Alright.
There were the alarm bells again.
She had to keep calm. If it was the truth…well, that did up their timetable a bit, but it was still definitely do-able. Jill and her team were fast. They could evacuate a crew of eight in under an hour, even if they had to go room by room to do it.
And if it was a lie, they were still safe with their shields up.
There was time for a few more questions. Just to be safe.
“Your distress signal says the injuries were minor,” Sam reminded the Dolos’ captain. “Why didn’t you update the message?”
An annoyed laugh. “And risk another system blowing out? Are you seeing the quality of this signal?”
Yes. She was.
“I’m seeing a distorted, garbled image, and hearing crystal-clear audio. Can you tell me why that is?”
There was a pause this time. “Do you always waste this much time in an emergency, Captain?”
Sam set her jaw. “I put the safety of my crew first. We can’t save anyone if we’re in a trillion pieces. Now, do you have any idea what is causing the malfunctions? My team needs to know what to expect--”
“You’re wasting time,” Tilly claimed. “Do I have to keep repeating that we’re under a military contract? I can’t tell you exactly what’s happening, I just need you to send over a ship before half my crew-- ”
An alarm sounded through the screen.
“No no no!” The Dolos’ captain rushed out of view.
“Captain!” Mary called out. “It looks like an airlock just opened up on the Dolos’ starboard side. I’m counting at least four humanoids in the void. No signs of suits.”
Sam’s mouth went dry.
…Oh.
“Does that look fake to you!?!” Tilly came back into the range of the flickering screen. “Help us! Please! Help!”
Oh god.
Part of Sam still screamed that the situation was far too suspicious. That there wasn’t a captain in the universe that would forget the color of their ship. That the timing of the ejection seemed far too coincidental, given how long the Dolos had gone without incident prior to the Nightingale’s arrival.
But four people had just been ejected into space.
If there was even a sliver of a chance of saving them, Sam had to act.
“Mary, drop shields,” the captain ordered, then turned to her intercom. “Jill, we’ve got four void exposures. You’re cleared to launch immediately. Top speed.”
“You got it, Captain,” Jill acknowledged. “We’re about forty five seconds out.”
More than enough time, if they were extremely lucky.
Extremely.
Sam turned back to the viewscreen. “Captain Crier, we’re sending a shuttle now. They’re heading straight for the exposures--”
“Oh, there’s no need for that, Captain.”
Sam blinked. “Excuse me?”
The pixelated figure on the screen seemed to freeze in place. In a new, light tone, Tilly chuckled from an unmoving mouth. “You people truly are gullible, aren’t you? I heard the First Responders Corps was full of bleeding hearts, but for a moment I thought you, Captain Healy, might actually have enough spine to be a problem. But, here we are. I suppose I don’t need to hold any refuse in reserve, do I?”
What in the everloving hell was that supposed to mean? What was going--
“Captain!” Mary’s voice cracked. “More bodies, from the aft airlock. At least seven or eight this time. I…from what I’m seeing, I think they’re already dead. There’s…there’s so much blood.”
Sam felt bile creep into her throat.
She forced it down, and tried to stay calm as her mind quickly recalculated their situation.
Definitely dealing with pirates.
Pirates who had definitely killed the actual crew of the Dolos.
And who suddenly seemed eerily too open with their malice.
Sam jammed at the button to contact the extraction team. “Jill, turn around now! Abort mission, they’re pirates! They’re--”
“I’m jamming their communications, captain,” the figure said with an unmoving mouth. “Not that it would truly matter if they doubled back at this stage anyway. My virus finished uploading halfway through our little debate. It just needed its final trigger, which you supplied a moment ago, when you lowered your shields. Amazing how distracting a little bit of theatrics can be, isn’t it?”
Sam stared in shock; her stomach clenched. Had...had she just said…
No.
No, the Nightingale’s systems were completely secure. Dozens of firewalls, There was absolutely no way to get through their digital security without a manual interface––
“Captain!”
She turned to Hamid just in time to see his pixelating screen cut to darkness.
“Long-range communications down,” Hamid pushed his chair back, and began to quickly unscrew the front panel of the terminal.
Sam knew what he was scrambling for, and grimly hoped he was fast enough to disconnect it; to prevent whatever virus the hacker had uploaded through the channel from spreading––
“Navigation’s not responding,” Basil’s skin began to take on a pink hue in his frustration. “We can’t move.”
No.
No, this was not going to happen.
Absolutely not.
“Keep trying.” Sam turned back to the screen, to the figure that seemed impossibly still. “This is a bad idea, Captain Tilly. The Coalition Guard has dispatched a ship to rendezvous with us. They should be here any minute. Your best chance to avoid getting blown to pieces is to undo whatever you’ve done to my ship, and--”
“This won’t take that long, Captain.” There was a shuffling from beyond the frozen screen. “Do not resist, and I will be in and out of your hair astonishingly quickly.”
No.
“Do not attempt to board us,” Sam commanded. “We will defend ourselves. Whatever you’re after, it’s not worth--”
“It truly is, actually.” Another chuckle from the frozen face. “Don’t worry, captain. I mean no harm to your kindhearted crew. As a matter of fact, I believe, in time, you will look back at this moment and understand how removing this little infection from your midsts helped not only my aims, but your ability to live the virtuous little life you claim to crave.”
What kind of bullshit riddle was that supposed to be?
“What do you want?” Sam demanded. This wasn’t the time for games. Not when who knew what was heading for her and the people she cared about.
The figure stayed frozen. “Just a monster. Nothing more. One you’re better off without. Stay out of my way, and that is all I will take.”
The viewscreen went dark.
“There goes shortrange,” Hamid said with a frustrated groan.
“Optics are gone,” Mary turned to her. “Captain, permission to pass out the emergency weaponry--”
“Granted.”
No time to waste.
Not when they had no idea what was coming.
Secure the ship.
Contact the department leads.
Seal soft targets, like the infirmary--
“And there goes the intercom!” Hamid took one of the small stun pistols Mary held out to him. “We’re down to personal coms.”
Which meant one contact at a time.
Shit.
Prioritize.
Engine room first. Then the infirmary. Then everywhere else.
Hopefully she had enough time.
Sam fished her personal com from her neon green coat’s left pocket, flipped it open, and called Imani, their lead engineer. “This is Captain Healy. A virus has been introduced to the ship’s systems. Seal the engine room and disconnect the skip––”
Her pocket com’s screen glitched out.
The bridge went dark.