The akritan exodus fleet was a kaleidoscope of origins.
Warships, from common frigates all the way to top-secret electronic warfare cruisers. Mobile factories, the last remnants of a small but venerable industry that had guaranteed the dynasty’s independence from the megacorps dominating the imperial core. Civilian ships, from tiny messenger boats to enormous freighters.
ADS Envoy was of the latter category, though ultimately far more valuable than the other civilian hulls. Because it wasn’t a ship of the duchy, but the dynasty, much like the message boats.
The ship itself was hardly important. It was of superior quality than the average freighter-transport hybrid cruising through imperial space, but it was the data and people on-board that mattered. The last vestiges of the dynasty’s inner core, loyalists who would rather bite a cyanide capsule than be captured by the Vogdi.
Along with the Domus Pupili caretakers and children on-board the ADS Embrace, the diplomats and bureaucrats of Envoy made up one of the most valuable -and loyal- demographics of those amongst the exodus.
They were also the last of his family, even if barely.
“Is he in any pain?” James asked, looking at the gray-haired man on the other side of the armaglass window.
The doctor looked at him straight in the eyes, and nodded slowly. “I am afraid so. Minister Polanski-Akrites’s arteries were subject to significant strain, and we cannot afford to introduce painkillers to such a weak cardiovascular system. That holds true for many of the patients.”
‘Such a cold word, ‘patients’. Entire families reduced to pained expressions and minds in stasis…what did they do to deserve this?’
Truly, the universe was a cruel joker.
“Tell me, doctor, how can we prevent this….travesty, from being repeated.”
“Prevention is….impossible, for the foreseeable future.” The doctor replied. “Hyperdrive-induced sensory overload isn’t a disease to be treated. And while gene-sculpting has gone a long way from the dark days of the Venesian Program, we still haven’t been able to strengthen the brain —not without extreme side-effects—.”
“But it can be….mitigated, yes?”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Correct. It is, in fact, already being mitigated. Hyperdrive shielding has been developed for this express purpose, all they way back before even the Imperium’s founding by the First Emperor. But that hardly helps when powered off.”
It was good, in a sense, that this had been as close to a one-off as one could get. A freak accident, thanks to a series of manufacturing flaws in the hyperdrive’s circuitry that hadn’t been spotted thanks to a slew of badly-written coding and chance. This wasn’t supposed to be even remotely possible in realspace, because hyperdrives weren't supposed to fire off without sending a ship into hyper.
It appeared that the exodus was attracting one-off’s like flies to shit.
“But the chances of recovery are high, yes?” James asked, his gaze falling on capsule after capsule. The infirmary had dozens of them…and they were all full.
“Correct, milord.” The doctor replied. “The Envoy’s excellent medical facilities and highly controlled environment allowed those of us who weren’t impacted severely to respond to the incident quickly. All of them will make a full recovery, though the nature of their injuries require significant time. Most, months. Some…years.”
James’ smile grew bitter as the man concluded his explanation.
Sure, the weight of a couple more losses -temporary ones at that- hardly shifted the weight on his shoulders after a decade of war. Yet to lose access to most of the family’s survivors, clades of diplomats and bureaucrats…that was painful.
“Thank you…doctor, for your work. Do not hesitate to contact me and my staff if anything disrupts their recovery process, and keep me updated.”
“By your command.”
…
With the immense number of casualties incurred, the Envoy’s corridors were largely empty. Only the clang of his escorts’ boots reached James’ ears, the marine-raiders dressed in their full armor as usual. His trusted bodyguards had grown ever-more protective in the last few months, knowing their charge had become the focal point of the dynasty like no duke ever before.
“They’re being taken care of by the best of the best, milord.” One of the marines spoke.
James would’ve recognized the voice anywhere, after so many years under the man’s escort. Sergeant Wulfe commanded one of a handful of squads in I Company, his velvet-coated right fist…and his closest confidants.
“I know, sergeant. But would you not feel weakened, if one of your sharpest blades cracked on the eve of battle?”
“I’m not a man of diplomacy, milord, and stars willing I never will be. Yet even I know you’re a capable diplomat; your father made sure of that.”
The sergeant’s words rang true. His late father had thoroughly drilled James in the diplomatic arts, and that training had helped him hold the duchy and its allies together year after year until the tide of ships and missiles ate them whole.
“We didn’t lose the war for a lack of quality, Wulfe. One for one every bullet, marine, ship or missile of ours could outfight the Vogdi’s three to one. It is our lack of quantity that spelled defeat, and I’m not willing to see us fall to a repeat.”
“I trust in your judgment, milord.” The sergeant offered plainly.
James nodded at his words.
Accidents, like this distasteful incident, happened. But if he managed to balance quality and quantity correctly, his dynasty would be able to survive -and maybe even thrive- even as the universe continued its cruel jokes.