---Lifeboat---
I look at the planet, below, through the Bridge’s front window, which forms the ‘eyes’ on the ‘head’ of the ship.
Victor stands at my side, his arms folded, his brow furrowed in consideration.
On my other side stands Twila’s projected form, using the window to display photographs and other visual aids, as she explains “The ship was called the UTCS Leonidas. It was wrecked, in the Battle of Takynv, around 2 and a half years into the War. All hands were thought lost, since the ship itself was reduced to a fine debris cloud without sufficient time to evacuate. However, it seems that, before the ship was destroyed, the AI, named Atlantiades, had just enough time to evacuate a handful of personnel, already located nearby to the lifeboats, along with a copy of themselves, before ejecting and making their way to the nearest Terran survivable planet… This one.”
Mimicking the upward flicking hand gesture that a biological would use, she brings up twelve photos along with names and ranks.
“These twelve are the ones the AI indicates they were able to get on the lifeboat with them…” five of the pictures are defaced by blue Xs “…the landing was uncontrolled and these five didn’t survive it, the other seven managed to repair themselves with the onboard first aid equipment but this one…” one more blue X appears “…is reported killed in the first year and this one…” another blue X “…died after 4 years… All deceased personnel are recorded as being interred beside the wrecked vessel. 10 years after landing is when the onboard power generation failed and the AI was forced into hibernation. So, these five; PO Thaleia Theodoropoulou of the UTC Navy, Seaman Ilir Boshnjaku of the UTC Navy, Maj Artemas Leandros of the UTC Marines, Cpl Nemir Bulut of the UTC Marines and Dr Dimitris “Demeter” Markopoulos of the Humanitarian Corps., are unaccounted for. We know they were alive as of 23 years ago… but that’s a long time we don’t have information for…”
Victor considers this before asking “What can you tell us about the system? About the planet?”
Twila dismisses the information from the screen, replacing it with the information Victor has just requested.
“Not much, I’m afraid… it’s a temperate Class 11.8. The star has a few different names, in a few different languages of species whose skies it’s visible in, but the planet has never been named, just given an alphanumeric designation, the nearest inhabited world, where the battle was fought, is 237.1 lightyears, in that direction…” she points to what, I’m sure, must be its precise point in space relative to us “…nearest thing of any note is the lane we just came from, 33 lightyears behind us, the last visit to the system, recorded by the in-system GU buoy, was an 8.4 hour long, degaussing stop, made 1,178 years ago (which is surprisingly recent for a deathworld system to have been visited by anyone except the UTC)!… Oh, and… here are some pictures of local fauna graciously included by my fellow AI!”
Victor takes a moment to inspect the photos before sarcastically declaring “Oh, great(!) I always wanted to die at the teeth of shaggy, plum coloured t. rexes(!)”
“I have not authorised you to go down at all yet, Victor… If I do, you are certainly not authorised to die(!)”
He chuckles… but I can also see a mild look of concern pass over his face at the implication that he might not be sent down.
I turn to Twila “Twila, what are my legal responsibilities with regards to this signal?”
“None, Captain… Well you do have the responsibility to make the ODR or UTCM aware of the location of Wartime remains and the Wartime AI, if you don’t retrieve them yourself. In that case, the UTCM would send out a dedicated team to retrieve them. It’s been so long since the last record of the survivors that you have no obligation to attempt to mount a rescue. Though, likewise, you have a responsibility to make the ODR or UTCM aware of unresolved evidence of survivors. I’ve already added alerting them to my list of pending tasks. You could simply say the word and we could be on our way.”
I nod, considering for some moments, before asking “And, if I chose, would I be permitted to order a retrieval of the AI and remains?”
“You would, Captain.” confirms Twila.
“And attempting a rescue of any potential survivors?” I ask.
“That’s also permitted, Captain.”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“*Hmmm*, *hmmm*…” I say, mulling over what she’s told me.
I consider asking Victor his opinion but, from how he spoke and the look on his face a moment ago, I think it’s a fairly safe conclusion that he thinks attempting a rescue and recovery is the obvious course of action.
“Victor, I would like to attempt to bring those people home, living and dead… Can I ask you to help me in that?”
He grins “Course, Cap! Bringin people home’s almost exactly my job!”
---Victor’s perspective---
I walk through Triple M, to the room that my guns are locked up in.
I enter to see Tuun, Samus, Thran, Xon, Tymancha, Leon, Ziva and Steve all standing ready.
I look at the love of my life and, grimacing at what I’ve obviously got to do, say “Baby, I can’t let you come down!”
She looks at me like I’ve just backhanded her, full across the face!
Her mouth falls open, revealing the tips of her long canines.
She stares at me dumbstruck for a few moments, seeming to be waiting for me to say I was joking or something.
Eventually she manages “You don’t think I can…?”
“It’s nothin’ to do with your capabilities, Tuun…” I interrupt, earnestly “…It’s to do with what the mission is… If there’s anyone alive down there, they’ve been there since the War!… I know Don never fought for the GU but they prob’ly won’t!… They may not give you the opportunity to explain things to ’em!… War veterans who’ve spent the last three decades as castaways ain’t the kinda people you wanna fuck around and find out with!… For those reasons, you ain’t coming on the expedition.”
She just looks at me like I’ve ripped her heart out of her chest and crushed it in my hand before violently hurling it to the floor… but she seems not to be able to fault my reasoning.
Wordlessly, she storms past me, leaving the room.
I really regret having to risk playing into her insecurities but… leaving her up here is definitely the right choice… I’d prefer her upset and alive to satisfied and dead!
I look at the group, their faces giving me various mixes of sympathy, concern and, in the cases of Tymancha, Leon and Ziva, seeming indifference.
Then I realise something.
“Anyone here know anything about preWar or Wartime tech?” I ask.
Tentatively, everyone except Thran and Tymancha puts their hand up.
“Anyone reckon they can remove the parts of a Wartime lifeboat that an AI would’ve transferred themselves onto?” I add.
Everyone’s hand goes down.
“Does anyone reckon they could identify those parts?” I ask, not sure exactly what I’m hoping for.
No one’s hand goes up.
Fuck, this is really going to rub salt in the wound when Tuun finds out but “Samus, get Mouse… tell her she’s needed.”
---later---
The ground team make our way through the shuttle bay.
Mouse looks very out of place being surrounded by the eight of us, all wearing some mixture of durasteel, conventional metals, skin-hugging utility clothing (except Tymancha in his leathers and Steve in his khakis) and all being armed.
Her tool box, a stretcher and a dozen hermetic containers (each bearing a label for us to write names on) along with digging tools are following behind, strapped to a hovertrolley. The chances of all twelve of those boxes getting filled are not great. The last person to die won’t have had anyone to bury them and their remains will almost certainly have been scattered to the four winds… just in case, though.
We board the shuttle and take our seats.
The hovertrolley follows us in, physically locking itself in place, on the floor, just for if there’s a failure of the grav plating. That addition was my suggestion, which I managed to convince Cap of by demonstrating on a watermelon what happens when loose, hard, flying objects strike organic matter!
“Twila?”
“Yes, CSS Taylor?”
“Am I right in thinkin’ that the operational language of the Leonidas was Greek?” I ask.
“That is correct.” she states, professionally.
I think before asking “And is Greek the mother tongue of all five of the possible survivors?”
“No: Boshnjaku’s mother tongue would be Albanian and Bulut’s Turkish.”
I mull that over.
On the one hand, I know there’s a language everyone we’re looking for will speak. On the other, there are two people who might have gone 23 years without speaking it…
I decide “Alright, Twila… take us down. Once you’ve dropped us off at the crashsite, I want you to circle, at a distance of 5km out from that location, at an altitude of 1km, and give the following announcement, first in Greek, followed by a high pitched, alert tone, then Albanian, followed by another tone, then Turkish before cycling back to Greek; ‘Survivor’s of the UTCS Leonidas, we are here to recover you, if you are able, please rendezvous at the lifeboat you arrived on. If you are not, please do as much as you possibly can to flag your location to us. This message will repeat in X seconds.’ Can you do that for me, Twila.”
“Certainly, CSS.” she answers before sealing the door and jettisoning from the Bright Plume.
I’m able to see out of the window as the flamboyantly technicolour planet seems like it’s rushing towards us.
We level out as we approach, flying over multicoloured forests mixed with wide flat plains where giant dinosauroid fauna, all covered in flashy, shaggy fur, graze.
I see a plateau, looming over the forest in front of us that reminds me of the Maiden Castle earthwork. Though, unlike Maiden Castle, this one’s clearly natural.
Perched on top of the landform, I see the harsh, angular lines of a small ship, even if the metal underneath has been covered by 33 years of native lichen and moss analogues.
Behind the craft is the, still visible, impact scar, beside it is a small collection of stone cairns.
My heart sinks as I count them.
“Eleven graves…” announces Xon, as we come in to land, clearly having gone through the same train of thought as I just did “…maximum of one survivor.”