1808/AC02-11CRYO ENTRY

Ω CHAPTER ELEVEN: PHOENIX

“Whenever you doubt yourself remember you are unbreakable. Whenever you are scared remember pain is an illusion. To us you are infallible, to your enemies you are unfathomable, to yourselves you will be gods amongst men. Trust in yourselves, then everyone else will follow.” - Chancellor Jarrun Phoenix, COBRA Corps Director.

Skip could barely figure out how to use the device. On touch the screen would change, which made his seemingly archaic method of reading difficult. Every time he moved his finger to a new word the article would shift seemingly by itself.

“Fragging thing.” He muttered, once again recentering it.

“If you press the bottom in the bottom left it’ll speak to you.” Skip’s hand darted to his sidearm, immediately he was squared to the surprising voice. The officer looked incredibly alarmed, but she seemed more worried as to the state of this former super soldier. Skip felt sweat rolling down his neck, his eyes were quivering. He was scared. “Sorry sir.”

The standoff was uncomfortably long, with the internal fight in Skip evident on his face. When he was calm, his mind still battled his instincts. The only person he trusted wasn’t here to help. “I should be sorry mate, I… I don’t…”

“I wanted to give you these.” Only now did the officer move again, albeit her movements were jerky. Her action’s forced. The canister was dropped onto the table, and in the time it took for Skip to give it a quick look over, the man had made a hasty retreat. With only their bright green overalls giving them away in the crowd. The writing upon their back mentioned something about ‘Salvage.’

Skip tapped the button on the device, and as it began speaking he began working on the canister.

“No more than five days after the Admiralty’s triumphant takeover of the UPC did the war criminals poisoning the government start receiving their sentences. With every bureaucrat’s position relieved by a military officer, everyone found guilty of the deaths within the war were immediately executed…” The voice was obscured behind the heavy rattle of whatever the canister contained. It was metal, that much he knew. “...case basis, although of all the people who reported to work within the ziggurat that day, the guilty rate was estimated at one hundred percent. One notable case was related to the development of advanced military units…”

The world was silent when the lid came off the canister. Within its shadowed interior were two parts of himself, or rather what had always been two parts of himself. As much as the nanocomposite that saved his life, or the alloy that made up his bones. He drew the two dirks with the care and love of a father holding his child. Everywhere, for his war he had gone, they too had been by his side. They were little more than a formality, granted to the best of his kind. Yet they were a triumph, a dream fulfilled. In his hand they were always a reminder of the path taken…

Yet now they were the reaper’s scyth. A glimpse of a past he now hated. A fury he regretted.

“...found that Jarrun Phoenix, director of the COBRA corps was guilty of over a thousand counts of torture and grievous mutilation for his creation of supersoldiers. As no COBRA survived the war he was declared guilty of their actions in lieu. The reading of the charges took three days, with summary execution declared too ‘forgiving’ he was made to undergo the COBRA procedure without anaesthesia, and fully conscious at all times. He was then released into Prokhyon, with his death broadcast across the UPC…”

“Don’ go listenin’ to what that shiv says mate.” French landed on the opposite bench with a loud thump. When Skip looked up he was already demolishing some form of protein block. When he looked back down, he held his blades in a kill grip.

This world scared him.

“What actually happened then?” Skip slid his blades up his sleeves one at a time. Their sheaths felt sticky, but the instinct to sort the problem never came. Part of him never wanted to draw blood again.

“Admiralty came in, killed everyone who ruled over them, killed all who might oppose them, took over all places of leadership and then declared defiance a crime punishable by enslavement.” French said it all so casually it was blindsiding. It was as if it had become normal, like no one felt anger about it. He dished his friend a portion of his plate. “Thats what we are now you and me. And everyone in this room. Spacers are slaves, we’re expendable and the ship’s we fly are designed to be easy to salvage. They don't care if we live or die.”

“They never did anyway.” Skip spoke with a mouthful of some mysterious processed meat. It was only just better than the rations he was used to. Only just. There had to be something good left in this world. There just had to be. “So how is Monta?”

“Bah how the frag do I know. She got addicted to ‘boosters shortly after the war ended…” French unintentionally spat half his mouthful over his friend. Even as he wiped the mess off his face, Skip's confused expression lingered. “It's this stuff, rebuilds y’er body. Can hold off aging, can repair lethal wounds. They used the shiv on you I think. Given ye’ got thirteen shatter rounds embedded in y’er chest.”

“We were still using stimulants during the war, they developed all that in thirty-six years?” Skip seemed dumbfounded. He gestured with his hand. “Holo-thingys and all.”

“That and photonic induction drives, and devices that draw in a vessel’s inertia under acceleration. You name’s it mate seriously.” French listed the items off on his finger. “Even the artificial gravity systems no longer need to be turned off under thrust. OSFC has advanced tech three hundred years in thirty. Anything for the military the techies get a bigger budget than most planets... Mercurial Eye is larger than a fraggin’ moon! Boggles the mind.”

Skip’s eyebrows raised, he poked at his food with the fork-like implement. Even the cutlery had changed. Nothing was the same anymore.

“You got a bit of culture shock?” His friend asked after a gentle kick, bringing Skip from his daydream.

“More than a bit mate.” He wanted off of the topic. It was beyond terrifying. He felt archaic. As ancient as a sword in a world of matter-cannons. “So what happened to the kids?”

French froze. Literally like time had stopped. He let the implement fall from his hands, and ran his free hands through what little hair he had left. “Golden Vale happened mate.”

French rapped the table with his knuckles, he looked like he couldn't even find the words to describe it. Skip watched his friend carefully, the pain in his eyes was heartbreaking. “It were a colony to be settled in Attsol Indignes… They was aboard the colony ship, it and it’s fleet carrier just… Never arrived.”

“Never arrived?” Skip jumped back slightly as French’s hands crashed loudly down on the table.

“Lost. Lost in the depths of space. No confirmation of arrival. No detection from flybys. They just vanished… just like you were…”

“They could turn up mate… I did.” Skip gave his friend’s hand a squeeze. French withdrew from contact quickly, his facade was back on in a snap. He never did show signs of any weakness.

“They stopped searchin’ years ago now… The authorities just told us ‘Forget and move on’... Wasn’t as easy as that.” French’s voice still lacked the usual flare. But nonetheless he forced the subject away from what was now gone. “Got a new family now. Vascia, she's a Tychion. Don't hold it against her though, she knows jack all about mining.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“I’m sure she's a very patien-” Skip’s banterous reply was cut short by a ping from a long forgotten datapad. They’d used it as a coaster, but it's toppings were quickly ridden of when it’s announcement came through. “And… it seams we have a ship…”

“Lovely jubbly. Does it say a class?” French’s eyes lit up like a child. “God I hope it's a Hyperion… No a Providence… No a-”

“Doesn’t say anything… Just a message from Wulf…” Skip began his best impression of the upper class admiral. “Instruct Quartermaster to enter the commission form regardless.”

French was at his feet with such an urgency he didn’t care that his legs had caught the table, and knocked it’s contents everywhere. “Hurry up young lad! We’s gettin’ a ship!”

He was already down the hallway when Skip was at his feet. Mouthing repeatedly in surprise “Young Lad!”

“Ye’ had a think on crew?” French asked as Skip finally came alongside him.

“Crew?” Dasher, Dev, even Fougey. How could he replace them? Skip couldnt recall a time he’d crewed with anyone who wasn’t a COBRA. He doubted he even knew how to make a lifesupport system work. “Haven’t thought of it beyond you and me.”

“Well we gotta get a proper bunch together. I know a few interestin’ ones.” French said as he moved through a group of spacers like a glacier through trees. “Got a lad called Goty who's a mad hand when it comes to modifications.”

“Could do…” Skip nodded, they rounded a corner and at the sight of Wulf’s dreadnought through a viewport another idea sprang to mind. “What if we jab him in the eye?”

“We’d be shot before we even tried it.” French took a moment to figure out what Skip had meant. “You mean get a crew that he’d hate?”

“Aye, the best of those he deems as the worst, assemble a motley crew that don't much care if the rules are followed. They’d have potential beyond anythin’ a lad he’d recommend.” Skip stopped, and shortly after so did French. “In my experience Space is big. We can live free if we tow the line enough. Was always the way.”

“Guess it depends what lady we pick up don’t it?” French smacked him hard on the shoulder, as he always did. The silent agreement was comforting.

When the duo arrived at the quartermaster's office, it hadn’t taken too long to find. The room was barely larger than their quarters. Centerpiece was a large black desk, various benches on one side were taken up by various captains-in-waiting, whilst the other was dominated by a grumpy looking officer and a large, sealed airlock. Skip tapped the countertop a few times, still failing to get the attention of the awaiting officer.

"Oi! Prick!" French barked, startling everyone in the room. Skip shut his eyes in indignation. Some things never change.

"Yes sir?" The officer seemed both irritated and bored. Evidently irritated at being bored.

"Got given a ship requisition form." Skip announced, handing over the datapad. The quartermaster took one look at it and immediately handed it back, preparing his smug sense of superiority in this matter.

"You haven't had your OC fill out ship class, bulk tonnage or really any of it." He clicked his tongue. "Bad luck."

"Yeah. I think Wulf anticipated that he told us to 'do it anyway'." Skip insisted, imitating the Admiral once again, at least one of the captains started snickering. The quartermaster huffed, and snatched back the datapad.

"Fine. Nothing better to do have I?"

"No you really don't." French growled, near the point of peeling this officer. The man got the message, and hastily worked with his tail between his legs. It took a few minutes before he said anything, seemingly bewildered by what was displayed in front of him.

"Ok, haven't seen one of these before." He finally muttered, frowning at the information.

"How exciting." French murmured sarcastically, earning a snicker from the other officers who heard. The quartermaster had either not heard or ignored him.

"You have free pickings, anything up to a destroyer. New or refurbished. Max tonnage of eight thousand, and max bulk of mid. Gives you quite a choice." The man explained. He was smiling now, he too had felt the winds of change begin to blow.

"Ah man go for the Näësos, it's such a good interdictor, fits the margin perfectly." French said excitedly, fantasizing about the vessel's majestic lines. Skip had thought otherwise though. He knew immediately what he was going for.

"What were those ships being built around three weeks ago?" He asked, the image of that ship appeared in his mind's eye.

"Let's have a look..." The officer tapped his screen a few times. "Chariot Mark Five. They’re gonna be the first of the new line of Chariot class gunboats. System says they’ve just come off space trials. They’d fit the requisition better than a Näësos."

"Also a good ship. Cramped and they cut corners on ‘em since Chariot III. They were nearing the price of a frigate per piece, they was too valuable. Four man crew… Guna need to find two people as fragged in the head as we are..." Skip frowned at him, the man shrugged. "What's your hobby? Oh yes. Stargazing... How boring."

"I want to inspect them." Skip ordered. The man stared at him blankly, sighed and then nodded. He waved the two spacers after him through a large, and heavy, bulkhead.

The expansive hanger unfolded afore them. A massive metal roof had seemingly been placed on the lip of a large, metropolis sized crater. The floor was solid ferrocrete, and littered with thousands of vessels from fighters to carrier's. It seemed large enough to fit the entire navy in it, and despite appearing crowded large areas were completely devoid of even litter, barren ferrocrete wastelands the size of city blocks.

They had emerged on the craters rim next to an almost honeycomb-like network of docks. They covered the wall for half it's span, the rest being made up of various sizes of airlocks. In most was a vessel. Freshly born and unused, waiting for their new captains, or withered warriors receiving their long overdue attention.

The quartermaster gestured towards a small group of identical craft in a series of much smaller docks. These ships were barely noteworthy compared to a lot of the drydock’s other vessels, but they still held an eerie dominance over the men and women that walked this mighty hanger. Each one gleamed, their sharp lines and aerodynamic looking hull made them a sight to behold. The dull grey of their raw armour shone under the gentle red glow of gantry lights.

"Take your pick I guess." The quartermaster instructed, he looked around briefly, spotting another ship nearby. "They're your Chariots. And that behemoth there is a Näësos."

French carried on nodding towards other vessels naming them with what would’ve been remarkable accuracy. He was like a child in a toy store. Skip however didn't look anywhere but at one vessel.

She was identical to her sisters in nearly every way, right down to it’s overlapping armour plates and the buffed chrome highlights that decorated it's surface. It was made on the same line, from the same patterns, from the same materials as its sister ships…

But she had a spirit, leagues different from her sisters. Alive almost, it had greeted him on sight, even if only a flash of it's viewports under the light, whilst her sisters hadn't noticed their presence, considering themselves worthy of better. He walked up to her as if she were an animal, tilting his head and taking steady steps. He reached for her nose, it felt surprisingly warm to the touch… Inviting...

"It was you… wasn't it?" He asked her. There seemingly was silence for a minute. He noticed the finer details. The lines of rivets, the faintest dents, the dullest scrapes. The differences were almost organic… She was made the same yet she wasn’t identical. "It was you."

“Is he right in the head?” The officer turned to French. The man looked at his friend, noticing and recognising the fascination.

“We joined the navy when people didn’t see these as things.” He gestured at the Chariot. “If she’s talking to him then she’d serve him best.”

“Ships don’t talk thats stupid.” The quartermaster dismissed the statement with a laugh, yet French shook his head.

“They do if you listen hard enough…”

"Sir?" The quartermaster approached, eyebrow raised. "Is this your ship?"

"Yes she is." The bond between ship and captain was forged then and there. The memory of the Pegasus lured him in, yet even meeting his former command hadn't been as... emotional. They were reborn into this world together.

"What you gonna call her Skip?" French had drawn himself away from the vessels, choosing instead to look over their chosen vessel. He cringed at the light weaponry gimbals and the sight of anti-ion grids just filled him with rage. But she looked fierce. She looked strong. She looked like home...

“We name her after Jarrun…” He didn't even take time to consider, he simply thought of the last person he looked up to. A politician surely long dead by now, but who had fathered him and his fellow soldiers until they were ready to fight his war. She would bear his name until her final days, it was only fitting.

“Well considerin’ I never learned how to say ‘Garrun’ I don’t think it fit her.” Skip turned with a frown to his friend. He raised his hands in surrender. “But she’s your girl mate you can do it. Though I think Whiplash sounds better.” Skip began to tune him out. “Or Flamin’ Fanny, or Fireflash…”

"Trust in yourself, everyone else will follow..."

“Y’know Frenchie I think you’re right… His last name then.” French was just looking on in surprise. Skip took a few steps back, taking in her sharp lines, and her angular frame. She looked like she was supersonic even when stationary. She was graceful even when clamped to the dock’s bulky machinery. Very much so. "How’s about ‘Phoenix’?"