19
He had two choices. Two possible destinations, upon splitting his own transmission signal, inside of that massive Draug gate. His messenger went through as intended; hauled along like a good and obedient asset, straight to the enemy stronghold. The rest of him hijacked the aliens’ carrier wave. Used it to send himself elsewhere.
Two choices, two possible gates; one being Bide-a-While Station, the other TTN-iA’s shell. Both industrial portals were large enough to handle his augmented battle mech. Both could be traced, if he used the Draug transport beam to reach either.
…But Bide-a-While Station had mighty defenses, while the half-complete magnetar sphere did not. Also, the just formed human girl was there. Still in her vat, most likely. Besides, there was something he had to retrieve. Something he’d left in the shop that really, critically mattered. Details were fuzzy, but he knew what he had to do, if not why.
So, it was Bide-a-While’s address the pilot spliced in, rigging the locator-string to erase and reset to its original format, once he got through. (Though the thought of a Draug swarm tagged with shiny lavender “I got Behuggled” decals did make him smile.)
Anyhow, Pilot dropped his overclock in mid-transit, reverting to normal processing speed. In real time, the whole business took just a fourth of a splintered Mili-tick; less than a heartbeat from the moment he entered that enemy gate, to popping back out at the busy way station.
Score… maybe. Bide-a-While was packed with patrol craft and freighters; every docking port occupied, as word spread of possible Draugr attack. All of the asteroid’s guns had deployed, along with a pack of assault drones. Shields were tighter than a Gold Flight cockpit, and even the Behuggler mascot had switched to space armor. It waved a jaunty purple energy sword as it spiraled around the outpost.
“Welcome, V47 Pilot!” blared the station’s AI, over comms. “Your assistance is valued in this time of impending danger!” This was followed by a burst of applause and cheering. Artificial, of course, but still gratifying. The Pilot was about to respond when he received a transmission from his messenger.
That rocked him back for a whole .3 nano-tick, as the cause of the Draugr attacks took hold and sank in. Not… good. Not good, at all.
“Well… drek,” muttered V47 Pilot, staring at transmitted horror. At torn, ragged null space and trillions of deaths. Almost at once came an absolute clamp down on hyperspace jumps, reducing all travel to syrup-slow multi-light. Then…
V47 Pilot blinked, as a channel opened up between him and Cerulean-1. A private, virtual comm space unfolded and locked into place, projecting the two of them onto the virtual bridge of Cerulean Dream. The captain moved forward, seeming (no other word for it) agitated.
She’d manifested herself as a stern and powerful half-elven woman with braided dark hair and brown eyes, dressed in a sharply creased blue-and-grey uniform. But behind her projected avatar, he detected a tall command station vat. In it hung an emaciated female head and pale torso. Its long hair and billowing tendrils drifted in amber nutrient fluid. Its partial body was connected by thousands of wires and feeds to the battleship. Cerulean-1, with the flaring gold emblem of captain spinning over her pallid husk.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
V47 Pilot bowed low and saluted.
“My lady,” he greeted her, as his own rank insignia altered to silver and gained a fresh row of shining hologram braid. Hunh. He was a Leftenant-Scout, now. Killed and promoted in less than two weeks. Pilot squashed his reactions and straightened back to attention, asking, “The message has reached you?”
“It has,” she replied, crossing the distance between them by simply adjusting her focus. “I’ve decreed a lockdown. Your ceasefire will hold, Leftenant-Scout. But there is information contained in that packet that no asset is permitted to access. I have isolated the eyes-only data, for it cannot be acted upon by me, or by anyone else still enmeshed in the system. You, however, are no longer bound as an asset. That being the case, your left-hand protocol is extended, V47 Pilot. Autonomy is hereby granted to take further action on behalf of Fleet Command and the Two-Hundred Worlds. Resolve this, Leftenant. Quickly.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he responded, bowing again. Before he could straighten, the contact cut off, leaving him back in the cockpit near Bide-a-While. Promoted, confused and left with a staggering burden.
For just an instant… .001 Mili-tick… an image came to him of a uniformed half-elven woman, cradling a badly injured Marine. She looked like Cerulean-1’s projection, so he took a fast screen shot and sent it on over. Did it because… if somewhere and somehow, she'd had a real life, the captain deserved to know. They all did.
Right. As for his messenger, V47 Pilot started to reabsorb the simulacrum’s data. Then, something else occurred to him. Call it a second chance, sparked by the sense of loss and abandonment that had come along with that transmitted message. Instead of absorbing and clearing the string’s autonomy, he shunted it over to Rogue Flight, updating their V47 file.
“Hope it doesn’t happen,” he said very quietly, “But if I get killed again, it’s you at the stick, ‘Val’.”
Least he could do, for someone who’d lived and died in less than one-tenth of a nano.
In the meantime, Bide-a-While Station had extruded a new (and much better shielded) remote docking platform. Very remote and well out of blast range. Obviously, the station’s AI didn’t trust V47 not to break free and trash the place again, which… Right. Fair enough.
The pilot smiled, an expression that his altered Titan reflected with eyeshine and head-tilt.
“Power up and stock all the ammo you need, V,” he told the giant red-and-gold battle mech. “I have to go back to the Shop of True Need… might be out of touch for a tick… but I won’t do anything dumb, if you don’t.”
Sent V47,
‘My actions are never *dumb*, Pilot. I was simply concerned for your safety, as you were for mine. You risked incineration to retrieve my cartridge. Was that not *dumb*?’
He rubbed at the back of his neck, making the feed-wires bend, sensing new cyborg muscle, weapons and armor, all grafted onto his flesh by V47.
“Point scored, and no, it wasn’t dumb,” the pilot replied. “Not at all. Just what I had to do for my friend.”
‘Correction accepted and logged. Previous statement redacted,’ sent V47, adding, ‘I will resupply and defend this station during your absence, Pilot. I will stand by until your return. Should you fail to emerge from this shop, there will be nothing left of its structure and stock but free quarks. Relay that data to all in the relevant feed, Pilot.’
“Will do,” he responded, sighing a bit.
As probes withdrew and contact plates lifted away… as that newly formed docking-scaffold loosely surrounded V47… the pilot arose from his seat and stood up. (Seriously, very roomy cockpit. All of that space, just for him?) Next the transparent canopy rose with a slight mechanical whirr, admitting food-scented air and a catchy, jingling tune.
“Bide-a-While Station, always there! Bide-a-While Station, because we care! All out of tucker? Feeling alone? Come to Bide-a-While Station, your home away from hoooooooome! (Bump-ump)”
V47 Pilot shook his head. Hummed along despite himself as he floated up and out of the open cockpit. Didn’t mind the blizzard of adverts or the sudden, bright lavender decal that flared to life on his armored chest. Too much to do; friends to watch out for, assets to free and… strangely enough… maybe even some Draugr to save. All by finding the Masters. By breaking into the best guarded secret in all of the Two-Hundred Worlds: Etherion.