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Shulsky · 12-16-2024, 03:48 PM,

Guerrero Asteroid Cloud, Vespucci System
16 DEC 834 AS

Good heavens he hated Vespucci.

Charles LeMoor wasn’t all too attached to any of the histories in the system, between the wrecks and planet and all of it, at least not when he'd first arrived in. No, he was a good, honest Denver guy who'd just wanted a little more than trying to get a good enough education for the Ageira or Cryer pukes to let him in as a janitor. Heck, it was either that or One Police Plaza, not much in between on Denver, so he'd joined up with Bristol. Of course, they hadn’t mentioned the long as could be patrol routes.

He sighed to himself. Sometimes LeMoor wished he'd joined in with someone else…sometimes. There wasn't much in Vespucci, not if you didn't could the cursory amount of Gaians, occasional Technocrats, and the Barbados party-goers. The orange swirls of the Guerrero swirled about him, past his screens in that little Kali, while a gloved hand tapped a little discordant rhythm on one of the comms boxes.

A glance at the navmap…five more legs on the patrol, then a shower and chow. They hadn’t liked how Veracruz Munitions was holding together, between some issues here and there with the docks, so it'd been Tijuana instead. LeMoor and the rest of the three pilots hadn't much minded it, though the rooms were pretty small all things considered. Maybe it could be chow then a shower. He liked it every now and again, the curses of a rotating menu really. One hand on the stick, maneuvering lazily through the rocks, and a mind halfway elsewhere.

A tone from the sensors shook him from the thoughts. A long look down, longer than usual, soon followed before he silenced it away. Yeah, the scopes only gleaned a large object, metal, manmade, with some energy signatures, but that was enough to make his heart rate rise just a little. It was big enough to be some sort of smaller station, maybe, a station since it wasn’t moving at all. Of course if it was then it wouldn't be wanting to be found…which meant he could expect fighters soon. Instinctively, LeMoor cut his engines, paused a second to wait and see if anything came while keeping that first on his sensors.

Nothing. Not a peep of comms or a flare of engines. Maybe a wreck, then? He felt incredibly stupid at the first idea considering the second. And yet if it was a wreck it'd have to be something big considering what the scopes said. All the cruisers he'd seen in Vespucci had been practically cut in two and this one…this one was just a single object right there. It had to be just a chunk off one of the larger ships, maybe a section off a station or dreadnought. Charles breathed out, long and deep, putting his thoughts all together in that little cockpit. A glance at the crypto box, certain then that it was all good. A flip of a switch on his comms panel and he was live.

“Control, Fault Two.”

“Go for Control.”

“Control, I have a possible new wreck, major size, coordinates to follow.”

“Control copies, standing by.”

A few taps on the console, linking navmap with the channel, was all it took. LeMoor gave it a few seconds though, letting all the information get over to Veracruz. He breathed deeper now, heart no longer beating so fast. There were just procedures, suddenly, checklists of what to do that calmed him.

“Control, coordinates sent. Have you received?”

“Control receives all. Standing by for your visual sweep.”

“Copy.”

He clicked the comms off, took another breath. A few console presses after and his guncam whirred into operation, feeding video out as LeMoor brought his engines up into a low rumble. Slowly, carefully, he plodded through the orange hues until the curtain gradually began to part. First came the sensor arrays, then the sharp-angled bow, before the long hull. He stared as the rest of it came into view, a clear silhouette of the same ship he'd seen time and time again cracked in two with that aft drum practically disintegrated. A look through at exactly where he was on the navmap said that it couldn't really be possible. And yet…

This one was intact. A great big green cloud surrounded her forward hull like a halo, the gaping hole about her flight decks the probable cause, but the rest of her was just there. The engines looked all there aside from a few destroyed here, there, the drum was still intact…Charles just stared.

“Control, you getting this?”

“Control receives all. Mark off with a nav buoy on crypto and RTB, Fault-2.”

Operation Have Sea

Shulsky · (This post was last modified: 12-26-2024, 04:50 PM by Shulsky.)

Guerrero Asteroid Cloud, Vespucci System
19 DEC 834 AS

“Shifting to three minute fixes.”

Booth hadn't been sitting for the last ten minutes, his form instead looming over the navigational table while others shifted about on the bridge between their various stations, suits hindering their stride. Rough three dimensional shapes moved about that central point, the Powhatan, while a golden thread connected it to a dot in the distance. It’d been some time since he had seen a Judicator whole, something the Zoner captain was pretty well eager to see again.

He stared at little numbers here, there. Camera lines drew against the hard edges of asteroids fore and aft, green lines against the slight deviation of the red sensor lines to those same edges, positional error at its finest, while distance indicators showed against those same. He stared at the same numbers to that golden point, the cloud obscuring any more accurate readings from even such a close distance. Rubber ground against metal as the man shifted in his suit, helmet jostling just a fraction on his belt. Booth wanted to get aboard as quickly as possible. There was something appealing about it, about the ship, about what it could mean. Finally, he watched the number tick past the mark, called out to the conn.

“Slow to two thirds, maintain course.”

“Slow to two thirds aye, maintaining course 170, up 10.”

“One kilometer to anchor.”

They crawled forward through the asteroid field, fixes jumping here and there as sensor was compared to camera, and on that nav table Booth watched their ship leave a trail of twin dots in its wake. Every three minutes, an excellent or good fix was called as the positions were compared, a clock-chime that only served to highlight the monotony of the time. Minutes stretched long before him and the bridge crew, his XO drifting over amid the other stations. They'd been, as Booth understood it, a transport captain out of Erie before coming aboard Powhatan. Soon, though, hard lines appeared on the nav table: the telltale sign of the ship.

“There it is,” Booth muttered, relief washing over as he turned, ordered speed down again to one third.

“What a prize. Bering doesn't have anything close to this, not even Marshall.”

Booth glanced sideways at the XO, eyes narrow even as he fought the lack of visibility there in the stiff suit. “We'll see if she's fit to salvage, Keen. We'll see.”

“I don't doubt she is.”

Some camera lines snapped to points on the cruiser, more of her coming into view even as the midsection was obscured, fuzzy on the simple nav table display. She looked pretty well put together though, and despite the wreath of gas about her only a few holes about the armored exterior. Some question bore into Booth's mind about a possibility, a small one, that the ship could be brought back into working order. True, it was a warship, one that was old and damaged…but some part of Booth had worry.

“Five hundred meters.”

“Change course 170 level.”

“Course 170 level aye.”

Samura and DSE, Liberty and Kusari, Gallians, even, they were all encroaching here, there. There were too many threats for his tastes. There were too many powers looking in on Bristol, that place he'd made his home with and where others had made their home with too. The death of the Commonwealth, the following death of the Insurgency, the scouring at Erie, the plight at Bethlehem…a lot had poured folk into Bristol. Some part of Booth didn't want to see it again. Some part of him wanted a gun in those systems between, a weapon of one kind or another. Some part of him wanted that signal to those encroachers that Bristol should be left alone.

Of course, it was more than that. He told himself so, that it was something more. The new rise of piracy in those systems between, for instance, was a reason. They would think twice if a cruiser of such a size began patrols through Bristol's claimed space. There were other reasons. The issues of miners in the Raiden, in Galileo, who sometimes needed a place closer to moor and refuel. Judicators were pocket carriers, built to support smaller squadrons. She could be useful there, too. Yeah, of course…and yet Booth knew the biggest, real, honest reason was the first. He wanted that signal sense of more, of stability, of progress. Bristol was a company on the rise, a Zoner company settled in the cracks between the Houses, and it needed something to cement that Zoner independence.

“Three hundred meters to anchor.”

“Two hundred meters to anchor.”

The distance closed…closed…closed. Numbers ticked by like drops from the faucet, painful, slow, tedious as could be. The XO had made his way to one of the viewports, looking out to the ship with hands clasped behind his back. The bridge was quiet with the exception of occasional calls and the workings of the nav team making their positional fixes. The sensors were working as intended, though, only a few meters off in accuracy. More details developed on the model as they neared, the oddly-shaped bow developing edges and corners, the rough-shorn drum wings turning flat with angled corners, and soon enough Booth had looked away from it. He made his way to the viewport as well.

“Standby maneuvering thrusters.”

“One hundred meters to anchor.”

“Slow to one quarter.”

“Slow to one quarter aye.”

He could see the details, even among the orange swirls of the Guerrero. No emergency lights shone on the ship, the colors of the cloud playing with the green exhaust on her amidships to turn a strange, shifting color, while swirls of debris slowly drifted about the ship’s damaged sections. Supports, plating, gear spun and moved ever so, thin sections making one part disappear here, another appear there, while loose cables reached from the jagged cave like hair suspended in water. Shards of other material - he couldn’t quite tell what - sparkled against the eerie orange glow of the cloud as they turned over and over again. The red running lights from Powhatan merely added more confusion to this. Booth swallowed, watching, waiting.

“Fifty meters to anchor. Forty. Thirty.”

The count kept going, conn bringing the ship to a halt right alongside the wreck of a cruiser. Booth paused too, considering before throwing that to the wind. He wanted to see what was what for himself, see the interior of that cruiser. Turning to the nav team, hand still grasping the railing, the Zoner captain ordered, “Muster Boarding Team Io at airlock 3.”
.

The sounds of shuffling, fabric against fabric, filled the wide-spaced airlock even if it was muffled through the helmet. Booth knew it was just by the fact that he could still hear it through the padding, even as he checked through the gear of the person behind him. He could feel phantom hands and tugs against his own pack from behind, too, checks again and again about the various equipment they needed to don for a walk-through of the ship. Suits had advanced pretty far for pilots, but those pilots didn’t often have to deal with completely unshielded, unarmored moments as well as toxic gases. Booth had a few expectations of this.

Gloved hands above in a thumbs-up started here, there, kept up while the suited figure in the far front of the airlock waited, watched. Mikkleson was as stringent as they came for a Bosun, as far as doing the job the first time and doing it right, and he’d been one of the most vocal voices in the past about the training, training, training. Gold-tinted visor stared at the line of bulky, armored bodies, one arm slack while the other leaned a rifle against his leg. Booth finished up his own check, raised his hand up, waited for the rest. The mechanical click-click-click of air systems seemed loud in his helmet, a sing-song clock, while electrical displays inlaid above and below his line of sight read out various systems, statuses, and the time. He tried to not look at any of those.

Mikkleson raised his hand, palm out. They all lowed their hands. He went for a wrist-button, pressing down. “Comms check for receive, channel 11.”

They all raised their hands, thumb up, before going down the line as each broadcasted on the channel. There weren’t many hiccups for the process, save the built-in issue that it was slow, tedious, complete. It’d mirrored a few older Zoner protocols in a way, ritualized and practiced again and again in memorization for checking all the systems would be good and well before going off on a salvage mission. Booth knew that the salvagers in Bering were less prone to such practices, especially with the more automated systems, but that struggled in actually making sure each comms unit was actually understandable to the others. He found some comfort in the old method.

Eventually, they were all verified good. Booth breathed out, still waiting. Third in line…yeah, that was alright. Mikkleson nodded, satisfied before tapping on the console. Atmosphere bled out from the airlock, a steady hiss that died out quietly. A pause, long as he tapped on the console some more. The heavy outer door slid open and away, dull interior lighting muffled into impotence by the shining burn of the orange Guerrero. The damaged Judicator obscured much of the view of that cloud, though, dark and dirtied aft hull sections looming like some grand wall.

The Bosun stared, gauging before bringing the rifle up to his shoulder. It was bulky and long, the magnetic harpoon jutting some ways out of the barrel, and Mikkleson paused to make certain his should would be close enough to the opposing airlock. A flash along the barrel, light running down it as the harpoon head disappeared, was all the signal given that he’d fired. Thin wire whipped out from a hanging spool on the overhead, the wheel spinning fast enough that Booth could guess that it wasn’t moving at all. He got no signal that it’d stopped, either, save for the happy, eager nod from Mikkleson at his work. The suited figure turned back, lowering the rifle as he stepped to the side.

“Alright, you’ll be around five meters right of the airlock on the other side. I’ll be on this side if something ‘unplanned’ happens. Now, first man, go, go, go!”

A shuffle in the front as Kember moved into place, attaching his clip to the wire above him, making sure it was secure, before giving a slow jog out of the airlock. Booth could see the white-red suit disappear from his easy view, the man orienting quickly with his momentum to land feet-down on the hull as though he were repelling down planet-side. He stepped forward, exhaling.

Mikkleson watched, too. A few seconds passed before he nodded, calling out, “Second man, go, go, go!”

Aisa did the same, clip on and off with the jog. It was a lackadaisical jog, of course, something that would get you there but not break your knees on the other end. Booth stepped forward, the whole of space gaping out before him. Exhale, long and deep. He reached down at his belt, extending out the clip before attaching it up on the wire. A stare for shorter than it felt to confirm that it was solidly on, the Zoner looked back down.

Mikkleson turned his head back, gold visor impassive as could be. “Third man, go, go, go!”

Five, six steps of a jog and the ground disappeared beneath Booth’s feet, his legs going limp without another motion. The cruiser consumed his view as he glided along with wire forward, a brief little maneuver to reorient himself out properly, and then the cruiser became a wide, long, open field. Details flew past before becoming unclear as he got closer, closer to the hull. He braced his legs, waiting for the closing impact. Two dots grew larger as Booth slid down, turning from featureless movements to colors to Kember and Aisa. One stood by the airlock, crouched down, as the other moved between a few points near to the harpoon. Closer, closer.

He felt his feet hit the deck, the magnetic boots engaging against the armor. A clip off from it, disappearing back to the waist belt, and Booth slowly made his way over to the airlock with those measured, solid steps. Each one had questions, ones the Zoner was eager to get answered. What did the inside of the ship looked like? Exactly how bad were things in such a state? He fought the eager smile coming to his lips. It wouldn’t do to have high hopes.

And yet, Booth most certainly was eager.

Operation Have Sea

Shulsky · 12-27-2024, 04:39 AM,

Guerrero Asteroid Cloud, Vespucci System
19 DEC 834 AS

Stark shadows cut down the way of the corridor as they drifted along, helmet lights shining the way. Slivers of shrapnel spun lazily in the distance, reflecting light while clouds of metal obscured his view amid the gaseous clouds that had formed there. Booth kept his breathing calm, measured. It’d do no good for him to start becoming all excited like some first-run rookie might do. It’d do no good at all. He sucked in, heads-up display taking in all that there was in front of his view as the two shapes in front of him moved off to the side just a frame.

Bodies floated there, puppets hanging limp from wires above, below, to the side. Their uniforms hung limply from desiccated forms, thin strands of flesh and fabric like miniature flowers blossoming along the silhouette into frozen motion. Red globules, long since frozen, hung alongside the forms. He could see the toxic gasses ahead, though, broken in place by the thinnest chemical bonds in the absence of oxygen. Booth stared at the gasses, green-yellow clouds, his eyes tracing where they came from…broken fire suppression systems.

He sighed as the first man reached out with one arm, the other still grasping his sidearm to point ahead. With the gingerest of motions, careful to not start some rapid motion, Kember moved one of the forms off to the side. It rotated, the corpse’s blank gaze gliding along the column of invaders with a frozen emotion Booth couldn’t help but glare at. He wasn’t a religious man, not by many a means, but even Zoners from the Omegas could be allowed their moments and he had been long, long displaced from that kin. There was something off to that stare, that motion, those eyes…but of course, that stare, that motion, and those eyes were very, very dead. They were supposed to be off, he told himself, working out a shiver up the spine from his mind.

A click informed him that the channel opened. “Goddess, guard us from demons.” Aisa. Booth glared ahead at the back of their head, biting his tongue from the desire to declare the channel only for official measures. Let them have that little piece of mysticism, he was certain the vessel could be made ready and willing with enough willpower on their end, enough work, enough time. The cruiser wouldn’t be the first to find itself in new hands after the last had died clutching the wheel, and even the Powhatan herself wasn’t free of blood. There was a cycle to such things, Booth was certain of it, and that cycle allowed such things to come to pass. It just would take time, effort.

He could see that right arm performing a motion, sanctifying in intent and nature if it wasn’t for how cumbersome the suit was, before Aisa turned off to the side. A hand to the belt, drawing out another fist-sized shape before holding it against the bulkhead. Tap, tap, and the magnetic plate on the bottom activated along with the light. They let go, the lantern dully fixing to the metal while a shallow halo of wires adorned the base. Just another communications buoy out to the open, real world. Just another breadcrumb, Booth ruefully thought. They lit the way back to the cut-open airlock.

They kept going, drifting limply down the passageway. Shrapnel shards tumbled away with their motions, spinning rapidly to dance off the corridor walls before coming to rest in a corner here, a corner there. Light reflected from the pieces, weak beams illuminating those same corners for a breath’s moment before they lost themselves. Through the green-yellow cloud, they drifted as well, slow and steady, careful and measured. Minutes passed on by and more drifting corpses were found, shifted aside just enough to pass on by. As the distant light dulled behind, another lantern was attached above. As they kept on into the bowels of the ship, there was less shrapnel and more gas clouds. Doors were roughly pulled open before them, the locks long since failed. Booth kept his eyes dancing from what was before him to the heads-up clock, all the while the click-click of oxygen respiration filled his helmet.

There was somewhere to be, sure, and Booth’s eyes glanced down at the time. They were right on target. The plaque above the heavy door before them proclaimed that destination. Main Reactor Room.

Kember paused aside the door, retrieving a thick tablet from his belt. A wire snaked out in his hand, plugging into one of the data sockets. They couldn’t risk the laser cutter, not on this door, and Booth waited patiently as their conga line came to a glacial stop. One hand reached out, grasping a handhold above that one day would’ve been beside.
.

27 DEC 834 AS

“What the good fuck.”

The reactor control room, despite that grandiose name, was not an immense one. A console dominated one side, readouts in dull light shifting on by the gaze of five suited figures as they monitored the various efforts of repair teams. A maintenance plaque was open on one wall, various pipes and systems and tanks highlighted throughout with red x's here, there, one man beside it with the almighty red marker.

Booth watched from the back of the room, watched and listened as Powhatan's CHENG worked through the various problems in getting the reactor started up. He'd come in with the second team, a bulky little suit that was statue still with a pose the Zoner could only describe as authority incarnate. Hands clasped before him, comms always open, every now and again shifting to look over the maintenance plaque for confirmation that what he thought was actually was, Booth couldn’t help but bemusedly smile. Of course, the exclamation hadn't come from him but one of the technicians.

“OK, Team 4 reports…oh nine tac one five four tac…two five tac five is ‘evaporated’. Stuck open.”

“Oh nine tac one five four tac two five tac five stuck open, aye…where is that little guy…where is…” The figure at the plaque was leaning over now, looking through the various systems and pipeworks. Someone before had carved little lines into the plaque for different spaces but it was still a pain. There was deck oh nine…back to that frame…where was it? He paused, deciding to heck with that and doing another route. The tip of his marker hovered, tracing along the proposed transfer line before finally finding what he was looking for. An exhale, then, as they marked it off. “There you are, you twit.”

CHENG shifted again to look over at the plaque, grunted after a few seconds of internal deliberation. “Tell Team 4 to check one oh tac one six three tac three tac one next. Space one oh tac one five oh tac three romeo. Got that?”

The tech was scribbling it down furiously, fighting against the cumbersome fingers for that speed, pausing to look over the numbers and mentally recite back what'd been said. He repeated it aloud, though, after a few seconds pause when all the numbers finally made indecision turn to caution.

“Send em. Should be the final valve needed to get this show on the road.”

“Hans, give the valve a prayer.”

“I can't pray over a valve I'm not at, Kember. It doesn't work like that.” A pause. “Besides, I was kicked out of the Seminary School.”

“I didn't realize it had limits like that.”

Another pause and a sigh. He clicked the channel to local. A chain of thick Frankfurt Rheinlander came before accented speech came, smooth and confident in the sheer absurdity of it. “Well, screw you too. Dear Father, may the valve…” The center figure shifted, leaning over to the technician beside him to get a better look at the scribbled notes, “One oh tac one six three tac three tac one know your holy embrace and love. May it know your eternal hand, without degradation or fault, as we know your eternal hand. May your will act through that valve, and in doing so act out your holy will in the destination of this vessel. In Your name we pray, amen.”

“Amen, Brother Hans.”

“Your handwriting is horrible by the way.”

Kember snorted, a truly undignified sound over the local comms. Booth could only shake his head a little at the whole exchange as one of the technicians went still. They started nodding to themselves before giving a slowed little slap against the leg. The others looked over, staring, waiting for the news and how good it was - they didn’t dare hope for absolute victory, despite the immediate shift in posture the man took as he listened.

“Hans you hero, the valve works.”

“Bingo!”

“Told you it worked like that.”

“What the…”

Allowing them a moment in glorious wonder, letting it die down naturally, CHENG meanwhile radiated satisfaction with the sense dripping from his words like honey. “Order Team 4 to open that valve and stand by. Team 1 to…”

A number of orders came and went as the teams shifted to various positions throughout the aft ends of the ship. It didn’t take all that long for the orders to be relayed and the personnel to get moving, though there’d be a good wait before they all got to where they needed to be in order to properly start up the reactor. Inspecting that alone had taken several days, Booth knew, and actually getting the whole system online would be a feat. They’d strung a refueling line into one of the tanks still maintaining pressure, pumped in fuel as well as power lines to allow the control systems power to work. Sure, it’d be a bare minimum amount of power, but Booth expected that much. Heck, he didn’t want full power anyways. That sort of thing was dangerous.

“You know, I think this will be the biggest reactor I’ve brought online in…pffffft, too long.”

Booth looked over at CHENG, eyebrows raised just a tad behind his visor. “Oh yeah?”

“Maybe a station reactor trumps it.” A pause. “Board’s tracking this, sir?”

He swallowed, glad that visor was in place. The XO wasn’t too happy about the endeavor, either, but then of course he didn’t quite agree with the whole concept that Bristol needed to arm itself for the future. He thought that Liberty would actually protect things, look after things. It was a minor failing of Keen’s. Turning a little, Booth replied, “As much as they need to be.”

“That’s a cagey fuckin’ answer.”

“As much as it needs to be, too. Shackleton’s a minor company in their listing, all things considered. If it goes well, they get credit. If it doesn’t, I expect they’ll cut us loose. Bristol stands behind individual employees, not necessarily behind the whole actions of its constituent corps.”

“An optimist after my own heart. Hangar system will be able to take up to a freighter, though, so at least there’s that. Useful for the future if things go to hell. We’ll have to rethread the fuel lines there, though, I don’t trust any of those hoses.”

“We can work that problem later. I just want to get her moving.”

A pause. “Thought of a name?”

“Need to work that problem, too. With the group.”

“Thought of where we’re moving her to?”

“Also something for the group. I have a few locations in mind.” A few locations. Booth had been combing through shipyard info dockets for at least a few hours over the last week, working through which ones would be within range, which would be willing to take them in to begin with, which of those had empty yards within the estimated time period, and which of those they could actually afford. The list was, in all reality, not exceptionally long but that’s what one could expect when in such a system as Vespucci. Booth had crossed off Gallia and Kusari by distance, Bretonia by how busy they were, Liberty by how they felt about such ships. All that was really left were the independent shipyards, considering Bristol Bay didn’t really have the infrastructure to service such a ship as well as being all too busy with the Bulwark construction to consider pausing with that kind of project.

A chuckle, as CHENG sardonically commented, “How democratic of you, Cap’n.”

They passed the rest of the time in silence, waiting for teams to move to their places. There was nothing to hope would work that was actively being repaired, nothing to try to fix, nothing but waiting for all the pieces to fall into place, for all the people to get ready with their respective jobs here and there. There was just that pause. Booth hadn’t really thought of a name, come to think on it. He’d just assumed something would eventually come to him, that something would naturally occur. Maybe they’d actually have to come up with something. Maybe. Nothing struck the Zoner quite like a fitting name for the ship. He mused and thought on it a little. Still, nothing came up and Booth ended that own little internal inquiry with a sigh. Eventually, one of the technicians half-turned to the pair standing.

“All teams in place, sir.”

Next few seconds would either going to be really good or really, really bad, Booth thought ruefully. He exhaled in his helmet, swallowing down that sort of fear. Click-click-click. If it went bad, it wasn’t going to be his problem for long Booth supposed. “Alright. Bring her online, Chief.”

“Start primary coolant pumps.”

“Primary coolant pump…online. Feeding now.”

“Start primary feed pumps.”

“Primary feed…online.”

“Order Team 1 to open, Team 2 close, Team 3 open, Team 4 open.”

And so on, and so on, and so on. Slowly, carefully, the reactor started to burn inside the cruiser. A smile grew on Booth’s face at it. It was working. It would work.

Operation Have Sea

Shulsky · 01-03-2025, 02:04 PM,

Guerrero Asteroid Cloud, Vespucci System
3 JAN 835 AS

“Boss-man, grab a window…starboard side.”

Booth glanced up from his hand-held console, thick gloved fingers hovering over the extra wide keys as his helmet kept on staring down. Tapping up a report was annoying, but it had to be done…what could be coming alongside though at such a time? His mind went through all the possible things that could be going wrong - or right. What was scheduled for today? What…was today, really? A stare at the watch made him realize that they’d been at work for more than a dozen hours for the day. Well that really was a pain. What…was scheduled for the day?

Eryri hadn’t reported its position since confirming the signal on being requested, so that was always up in the air. Stuart had said something about not wanting to give away the position of the wreck, especially since he wasn’t able to use the official Bristol communications. He’d always been a pretty reliable sort. What else, what else…it wasn’t another transfer of materials from their waystation at Tijuana, that was still not for another week. Was Powhatan doing something or another it shouldn’t be? Maneuvering strangely? Aisa didn’t sound worried enough for that. Booth clicked off his console, mag-clamping the tablet to his belt before awkwardly getting up from that half-lean, half-sit.

A few steps that felt like forever. The Zoner hadn’t yet fully gotten used to how his legs felt encased so thoroughly, though a part of the man suspected that he’d get used to the awkwardness the moment such wouldn’t be necessary. That was how luck ran, that’s how luck always run, by falling off the asteroid and tumbling through the abyss until it hit something else completely. He snorted inside his helmet at the image. Click-click-click, sounded the respiration pump, louder in his helmet than usual. The thought to get it checked was filed away as soon as it appeared in Booth’s head. Just another thing to look towards. Just another thing to be checked and double checked. That snort was traded for a sigh.

Finally. The window wasn’t all that big, circular and reinforced as it jutted out just a bit from the hull. Booth leaned down, peered out into the void.

It was the Eryri, slowly settling into view with the wide cargo doors already opened up along her belly, pointed towards Booth. The Zoner could see little dots moving here and there, cargo-hauling skiffs and utility craft coupled with fellow-suited crew setting about to their tasks. He reached for a wrist, clicked open the comms. “Good sight for the new year, Aisa. Good friggin sight. Tell Stuart to not wait on my permissions before he gets started.”

“Aye, sir.”

A smile touched Booth’s lips at the sight, at the thought. Finally they’d be getting rid of the bad jutters and thoughts that’d seemed to surround the ship. Despite all his thoughts before, all his contemplations, the presences of the former crew had levied a toll against his, to a degree against him, and Booth was glad to see them off. Finally they’d make it more their own, more to their own purpose. It was a good sight indeed.

Operation Have Sea

Shulsky · 01-17-2025, 10:39 AM,

Guerrero Asteroid Cloud, Vespucci System
17 JAN 835 AS

“Got a…Roberts, Matthew here.”

“Roberts, Matthew aye. Normal spelling…Rank tab?”

“Yeoman, Second Class.”

“YN2 Roberts, Matthew aye. Logging it.”

Deep breaths. The Zoner looked up, manipulating the stiff object before him gingerly. He turned them over, even as another shape blocked-out the light behind him in passing. Frozen limbs kept the arms hunched over around the chest, legs splayed out straight, and the head turned with the body. Booth didn’t try to look at the face, though. That wasn’t exactly what he wanted to see, not at all. A certain amount of dismay was there, though, at seeing the arms. Booth wanted to see the name-tape, if it was still legible, try to get a name for the records, try to get a rank for the records. Thick-gloved hands worked to move the arms out of the way slowly, carefully, trying to not force them to twist about.

There was a certain type of person who took bodies, moved them, buried them, and those people tended to go into those trades on their own. He wasn’t them, he knew he wasn’t them, and some tiny voice in the back of the Zoner Captain’s mind questioned why the heck he was there dealing with the dead, not seeing to the engineering problems that yet lay ahead.

Booth didn’t like the idea of moving bodies, but with the amount of time available he’d started asking for volunteers from the Powhatan. It seemed only reasonable that he should volunteer, too. If there was any standard the man lived by, he supposed it should be that any task he asked of the crew, he’d do himself. An inward sigh came at that thought. There was something about it that was absolute pain, and yet…it did seem right to Booth. They needed to clean up, as it were. They needed to get the dead off, to get them settled for the next, and there was something to be said that whatever would haunt Booth afterwards surely paled in comparison to the actual deaths the crew before had suffered. They’d fought and died for what they believed in, idealistic as it was, though he thought that it proved very little compared to the contorted faces of the dead.

A glance up. The lack of oxygen had impeded the flesh from rotting, but the desiccation was still there. Hollow cheeks sunken into the skull, mouth open just a little in the surprise of an exhale, eyes widen open to stare ahead. Thin strands of hair wisped about in a halo, Booth pausing to stare. There was something about the expression, haunting as it was. The scrunch of the skin about the eyes that spoke of worry, fear. The eyebrows raised up just enough, surprise at the world and what had happened. The eyes focused on something close enough by. All of it pointed to something that was only half-registered before life fled off and away. He breathed out a shuddered exhale.

“Need a hand there, sir?”

It broke him from the spell. “Yeah. Yeah, having a bit of a struggle.”

“Fair enough. Hold ‘er steady, lemme just move the arm a bit.”

Another pair of hands joined his, Porter coming beside him in that short little shape of a man. Gloved hands, sheathed in thin plastics, went to work with the left arm to gingerly lift it out and away. He was struggling a bit, too, the joint not quite bending fully in rigor mortis. A sigh over the open comms.

“Ma’am, just…let me get your name…c’mon…OK, there it is.”

He stared for a few heartbeats, the arm lifted just enough to see the chest pocket there on the crewman’s coveralls. Another sigh. One hand went to click on the wrist comms circuit, poke the records-keep man for the section with a harsh double beep. “She was new, that’s for sure. No nametape.”

“No nametape, aye...Jane Doe. Gimme a descriptor?”

“Female, aged early twenties, black hair, found in compartment two tac four zero tac five, BDS three.”

“Copy, we’ll reference it over with records.”

Porter clicked it off, helmeted head turning just a fraction. “You got it from here, sir? See some more by that pump.”

He could just sigh at it, his own comms off, looking again at the woman’s face. A thumbs-up and an awkward nod of the helmet was his answer.

“O-kay, I’ll leave you to it.”

With that, Porter drifted off to leave Booth with the woman again. He took her by the arms, drifting slowly to the entrance and that little sled of the other collected Legionnaires. The Zoner couldn’t quite look down at the woman though and a part of him, that little voice in the back of his head, asked again why he was doing it all. Booth couldn’t quite answer it, not fully, but then…she needed some bit of recognition, some look to the face, some remembrance that this is had happened, these people had fallen. Some little bit.

Operation Have Sea

Shulsky · 02-02-2025, 03:40 PM,

Guerrero Asteroid Cloud, Vespucci System
31 JAN 835 AS

The smell of fresh-made coffee and muffled hum of machinery filled the wardroom as they slowly filtered in. Booth had taken up his usual spot, a time-worn recliner in the corner, with a steaming tin cup in both hands and a heavy coat draped over both shoulders. There'd been something absolutely wonderful about taking a shower and fresh clothes after a few days, he'd been looking forward to it after dealing with all those...people and the like on only nutrient injects and recycled water.

A deep breath. He still really didn't enjoy remembering the faces, the postures, the looks, but there they were and there it was. People died and it was a fact, the Zoner told himself, and he’d distracted himself by fussing over the dead for long enough. He’d put off the meeting, even if the XO and CHENG wanted it, and Booth watched them file in with the rest of the Powhatan's leadership, Bosun and MPA, Electro and the rest. A deep breath, then a long draught of the coffee, as he waited for them to pick through, pour their coffee, take their seats.

Booth left the silence fill the room before he started. "O-kay. Engine light-off for the cruiser is scheduled for day after tomorrow, zero nine. We'll cut lines at eight?"

A gesture to Bosun prompted the bald man to suck his lip before nodding. They'd need to cut all lines in case there was a bit of thrust to the engines or the whole issue would make problems. Some malfunction wouldn't be alright, Booth knew, and the rest of them knew too. "Eight'll give enough time to reel back fuel and transit lines. Muster em all up at zero seven thirty or so for my end."

"Engineering will have to muster what...six, to get over there?"

"Six works, but..." CHENG's mouth went wry with an unspoken little complaint before he sighed, shaking his head. "We're putting in a lot for this, especially to just scrap the thing. What exactly is your plan here?"

Booth swallowed, leaning back a fraction. "We bring her online enough for travel, then back to Bering. At that point, it either becomes study material for our shipwrights or a more complete restoration."

"Bristol Bay doesn't have the facilities for that, boss. You know it doesn't. So...what, definitely going to study with a maybe for restoration?"

The XO, Keen, piped-up. "No shipyard in Liberty will take us. They wouldn't let a former Insurgency ship like this through even on a normal day and DSE will puppet them with all the crap going on in Galileo. Only other route is through Rheinland. What...Alster? Rheinlanders there have their hands full with other contracts, don't they?"

"Assuming they even let us through."

Booth let it flare out and away before dying down, taking another long sip of his coffee. They were as sharp as he hoped, through somewhat forgetful of a few factors. "The Rheinlanders will let us through because that cruiser, in their eyes, is going to Bristol Bay purely as a research object. That or we cut a deal with them, depending how pliable they're willing to be. We're not taking her to Alster though, you're right they do have their hands full."

CHENG was the first to get it, though he got it with a frown. They'd contracted out before, though it'd only been a train last Booth recalled. "Unioners? At Pacifica? Why in the good hell would they help us to make a cruiser work? Why the hell would they not just steal the thing?"

"Bristol is becoming one of the few friends the Unioners have in that corner of the sector. Well. 'Friends' is strong for what there is, but the Corsairs don't build their ships at Pacifica, nor can the LWB afford them, nor does the Bundschuh trust them, independent pirates can't crew what's normally built at Pacifica, and the Red Hessians have always hated them. Right now, far as I can tell, Pacifica builds for Pacifica and that sort of cycle doesn't bring in the credits. They sure don't raid enough to bring in the credits. So...there we are." He swallowed, frowning just a little. "As for why they don't just steal it, well...because by that time, Pacifica's precise coordinates will have been sent back to Bristol Bay. We disappear, they disappear with Rheinland or Liberty blowing them straight to hell."

"Why would they even help us, though. And what will the Rheinlanders think?"

"Full design schematics for the ship, which will help them out a bunch...Unioners are still engineers, some of them...and a payment for materials and labor should cover things pretty well. As for the Rheinland government, well, we just don’t tell them. Bristol Bay did a miracle, and that'd be that."

"Hell...why not just bring it into Alster, then?"

"Because Rheinland might be less nervous with a possible warship than a definite that-is-the-plan warship, Alster will cost more, they're up to the eyeballs in contracts with the RMF already, and it'll piss off the Unioners who are a good bit closer in Bering, Electro."

Keen was taking a sip of his own mug before setting it down, leaning forwqrds in his chair with hands clasped before him. Booth frowned, raising one eyebrow unconsciously at the motion which clear enough said the XO had something of his own to say. "Alright, let's assume lying to New Berlin and dealing with those pirates is alright with everyone here. What then? Keeping the ship in Bering is just another cost for nothing gained while we can't move up through Liberty because, well...it's Liberty. So what? Out to the Omicrons? One more cruiser to support Phoenix won't break the Corsairs and even if it did, Pygar doesn't get us jack except points with everyone hating Corsairs."

"Calm down Keen. Dealing with pirates is a part of life. It'll support Bristol interests in Galileo, where our platinum mining is. Guard and supply miners, as well as show the Bristol flag. We'll move her up through Sigmas and the Copernicus corridor."

"Doesn't GMG get a say in that?"

"They're probably are as well armed as any group at this point and if everything is going to be publicly seen for the ship, can't start running blockades left and right. We'll have to talk to them, too." Booth looked about the room, palm outstretched to each. "Well? Any other questions?"

"I still don't like it, but...hell, no."

A pause filled the room as the Zoner captain waited, weighed out what else there was to discuss and contemplate. Finally he broke the silence. "She'll need a name. Can't do anything too close to Insurgent names or else New Manhattan will start screaming. I figure...Shackleton, that explorer we're named for, sailed in ancient days aboard the Endeavor. This seems to be our endeavor, too. Anyone hate it?"

"I hate it."

"Keith, you'd name every battleship The Big One if you could."

"Well, yeah."

"Anyone else?"

A breath passed before Bosun spoke. "Seems to work, yeah. It's not horrible."

"A ringing endorsement if I've ever heard one. Okay, we'll start up again day after tomorrow, assemble here at five thirty.”
.

02 FEB 835 AS

“All stations, set boards to green.”

The bridge of the Judicator - to which Booth had taken to calling his Endeavor in his own personal thoughts - had been fairly clean originally. He’d supposed it had been one of the places the crew had originally evacuated when radiation and gasses had flooded the vessel. They’d found the ubiquitous hard-plastic blue folders here and there, messages being routed and chit requests for qualifications that’d been halfway abandoned once Veracruz had all gone to hell. They’d found coffee mugs still clamped to the sides of consoles by magnets - “world’s best dad”. It had been a curious and curious time.

Now, the bridge was crowded with bulky atmospheric suits. They’d gotten the reactor up, that was true enough, but the teams were stull in the process of cleaning out all the ventilation systems as well as testing and securing a corridor of spaces that were still structurally sound. A number of seams had opened up along the outer hull, between battle damage and simply being in the cloud, and more than a few would have to be re-sealed again at drydock. For now, the bridge was full of bulky atmospheric suits and lanterns mag-clamped to the walls and overhead.

“Set boards to green, aye. Engineering, bridge, set board to green for engine ignition.”

The comms circuit crackled with the response, as well as a number of other responses throughout the bridge. CHENG had been hard at work with figuring out the primary drive’s damage and certifying the maneuvering thrusters for start-up, though he’d made a point that a number of problems might arise from starting-up the drum. Lucky enough as Booth saw it, most the damage was relegated to the forward primary hull while the drum had been pretty well clear of destruction save for the normal impacts from small bits in an asteroid field. Booth paused, waiting, watching.

It was a dialogue without dialogue, that back and forth, back and forth. A station, comms shack, reported manned and ready, that was replied back, and then the log keeper in the back piped out his own response to it, then on and on. Engineering reported a problem here, a problem there - fuel line 3-A failed pressurization test, rerouting through 3-B secondary line, pressurization test sat, and on and on. With every report, he acknowledged it as well. Powhatan reported they were clear and standing by should any issues arise, while the Eryri was already well clear of the whole field on the last run out to Tijuana.

Waiting, waiting…all the reports and things flowed and moved, repeat-backs and say-agains interrupting the motion on occasion, but altogether the internal comms circuits were working as intended. Booth breathed out a good, happy enough sigh at it, though his own circuit was off and the whole of the bridge could not hear. If there was anything that would’ve complicated things, it would be failures in communications. As it stood, things were going well.

“All stations manned and ready, my board is green.”

“Very well.” Clicking the circuit board before him, on that angled console, he opened up a line to Powhatan. “Powhatan, this is Endeavor. I am commencing my engine run. Stand by for effect.”

“Endeavor, this is Powhatan. I copy. Standing by.”

Clicking it off, Booth looked up to the bridge and his Operations Officer. A wry smile came to his face, the thrill of bringing a ship alive and well finally catching up with him. It felt like the moment one started their first ship up, the anticipations of feelings the ship in motion a good bit of joy. “You may commence engine light-off.”

“Commence engine light-off, aye! Engineering, bridge, initiate primary drive, initiate primary drum.”

“Engineering copies.”

More of a pause. More of waiting. The tension seemed to fill the air, at least to Booth. One hand gripped the side of the console, the hand-bar there, the suit too bulky to allow for any sort of fidgeting. The helmsmen stood at their station, doubtless in their own closed circuit and talking about something or another elsewhere, while Conning Officer stood beside them. The log keeper waited, paused.

“Drum reports movement, sir.”

“Drum movement, aye!”

“Bridge, this is Engineering. Primary drive, primary drum online.”

Booth let out a long, long exhale, chuckling finally at the end. Clicking onto the line, he acknowledged it before turning to the rest of the bridge crew. “Alright, let’s start our run. Conn, give me five knots.”

Operation Have Sea

Shulsky · 05-22-2025, 08:13 PM,

Guerrero Asteroid Cloud, Vespucci System
22 MAR 835 AS

There was gravity, just enough to keep the feet on deck and a body satisfied without the usual medical concerns, but the bridge was still full of heavy-suited bodies working away at their various consoles. Booth sighed inwardly, though he knew it was a far cry better than the alternative. The alternative was that there was no alternative, because really the whole ship was contaminated and stars only knew how structurally sound the bridge was. Booth was cautious enough to test that, same with his caution for most things with the ship.

He'd sent away Keen with the Powhatan. It made no sense dragging along a transport, not like that through Rheinlander space that may or may not go poorly. The Zoner wasn't sure about having such a ship in close proximity if engineering had problems in the trade lane, nevermind something or another elsewhere. He paused. Hadn't talked to her in a while, not since the whole operation started. Put her off onto Cleveland when she'd raised up a storm about going to Vespucci, her and the kids. Booth swallowed. She hadn't been happy with it, or him, old memories that had never truly healed and old grudges that'd never be sated. He should send a message. Later. He’d send it later. Booth pushed the idea away.

“Bridge, Engineering, pump ten seized. Stand by.”

“Bridge copies,” answered the OOD, clasping her arms behind her back and breathing out. They’d been having minor engineering problems all day and a few the night before, though admittedly those two things had blended together into what had been a very, very annoying period for the engineering crews. Booth had contemplating requesting more personnel from Bristol Bay, though admittedly that would have taken time and set the schedule further to the right. He didn’t need that, not when it might make the Rheinlanders rethink their whole deal.

“So. Our escort?”

He turned to the JOOD, nodding. “Should be already en-route out of Tijuana. Another Rheinlander in command, Helheim. Frankfurter, I think.” He’d read the file some days prior after being informed by Bristol Bay that’s who they were sending over. A former Kruger man, one of the big Rheinland companies that’d seemed to mess up really most of…everything, looking at it from a point of view like Booth’s. Older man, though. He looked forward to meeting the man personally later on, in Bering.

“Ah, there’s the man now, I think. Bristol IFF on long-range.” A short pause as the crewman read the console again. “‘Pocket The Rocket’. What a guy. He’s closing range with us, sir.”

Breathing out and shaking his head just a moment - Helheim did seem to have a sense of humor - Booth reached up for the bridge-to-bridge line. Clicking the connector wire out of its socket, leaving the phone set, he plugged it into his wrist. Collecting his thoughts, the Zoner clicked the circuit on.

“This is Bristol warship Endeavor to escort. Glad you've arrived. We're currently completing final engine checks and go-ahead from Rheinwehr authorities on escort.”

“Copy that.”

He waited a few moments, staring at the viewscreen as they passed on by. A civilian gunship with weapons ready, the ship was near-exactly what Booth had initially requested. He’d needed something able to tow them, should it ever come to that. Well, at least that was good. Finally, something broke the silence and minor little reports here, there. “Bridge, Engineering, we’ve isolated pump ten. Green on our end.”

The JOOD acknowledged it, nodding to himself. Looking up from his bulky suit at Booth, his voice crackled over the local circuit. “Sir, we’re good to go.”

“Very well.” Booth clicked on the channel again.

“Final checks complete, my board is green. We'll be moving on through Omega-55 and Omega-7 and then through Rheinland. Final destination Bristol Bay.”

“Sounds good. Let's hope we will not have too many interference.”

“Affirm. Starting up cruise engines.”

He paused, thinking over what exactly Bristol Bay might have told the escort. It’d be good to remind them about the exact terms of the whole arrangement with the Rheinlanders, especially if things ever went poorly.

“Be advised, my primary armaments are currently disarmed for Rheinland passage.”

The gunship acknowledged over the secondary channels and the two ships began to make their way through the Guerrero. He could feel the deckplates shaking just a bit as they came under thrust, a rattle here, a steady hum there. Orange swirls moved about them, as well as the larger tan rocks of the field. They weren’t to pass anywhere near the wrecks that littered the Guerrero from the Liberty Navy offensive, but Booth knew that somewhere in the field there was that station, that battleship, both lost as enormous wrecks. He had no doubts that such had already been stripped clean of anything worthwhile by the Xenos, Gaians, and a dozen other groups who had moved through the system, but still it made him somewhat a little sad. The Zoner could still remember when the station and ship lived.

They began to near the Omega-55 Jump Hole, the comms circuit crackling to life with the escort gunship.

“I'll check the other side.”

“Clear.”

The movement through Omega-55 was quiet, calm, Conn and Helm calling out movement orders and having those logged. Lava-scorched rocks flew past the ship, clattering against the navigational shields, and in the distance Booth could see that Junker base as they passed on by. They wouldn’t bother a cruiser and gunship, as far as he knew, though doubtless the Junkers could both do some underhanded nonsense to even the score as well as eventually notice that the cruiser wasn’t quite operating at full capabilities. If they were quick, the locals wouldn’t get a chance to notice. Booth didn’t feel like that needed to be said to Helheim. He’d understand. Luckily enough, the system wasn’t all that large and they soon closed with the jump hole into Omega-7.

“Again I'll check the jump hole.”

“Clear, you can proceed.”

The acknowledge light soon followed on the secondary circuit. Some issue on the other end? Booth wasn’t sure if the gas clouds had already begun to have an effect on such things, but it was too late to pull out now, and they entered into that jump hole. The ship shook and groaned under the kaleidoscope of colors, the stars circling past in rivers of light. Soon enough, they exited to find the Pocket The Rocket there as well, and soon enough after followed the gunship through the orange Walker.

“Gas pocket ahead.”

They watched as the isolated bits of explosive gas came into view, a detonation in the distance splashing against the gunship’s shields while smaller pockets began to shudder the cruiser. Reflexively, Booth grasped one of the nearby consoles, breathing out through his nose. Comms signalled an acknowledge to the Pocket The Rocket, continuing on to monitor long-range signals for any interceptions. They weren’t to stay long in the Omegas, but it was still a concern that something - Hessians, Corsairs, independent pirates - might somehow notice the transit. Thinking it over for a moment on what exactly might cause difficulties, he clicked on the internal circuit.

“Engineering, Bridge, status?”

“Multiple disruptions across 3-A, we’re isolating the problem now.”

“Keep me posted.” He clicked on the external circuit.

“I copy. Engineering reports energy disruptions on minor subsystems.”

They kept on moving through the system, gas clouds slowly dying away as the thick-faced screens flickered here, there. The monitors’ green glow had long been drown out by the orange hues of the Walker, the flashes of detonations gone from each opaque visor on the bridge. He waited. He waited for news from Engineering, from CHENG. 3A…What precisely did that control…it was a number of systems that generally didn’t have much need at this point. Ventilation, for instance. He waited. The circuit crackled on again.

“Where we will meet with RM?”

“We'll proceed on to the Jump Gate and stand by for their go ahead.”

“Noted.”

As they neared the gate, the crude circular shape in the distance emerging with detail, he set about at the communications display. The Rheinlanders had given a few frequencies that could be useful, frequencies to reach out to them for one reason or another, and this seemed as good a reason as any. Of course, such were also not encrypted. He felt as though it was just broadcasting out into the open. An uplink alert for the channel clicked on his heads-up - the Rheinlander Helle Wolke, gunship from what he could guess.

Booth paused, thinking through exactly what he wanted to say. A phrase stuck in his head, something grand. Well, perhaps not so grand. Something about as aspirational as anything else, but really the issue didn’t exist. After all, they didn’t have the usual type of craft for Bristol. He clicked on.

“This is Bristol warship Endeavor. Be advised I intend to halt at Jumpgate into Stuttgart and standby.”

“Affirmative, we'll prepare to meet you.”

Switching to the local bridge-to-bridge channels, he could almost smile.

“Message sent to local Rheinwehr forces.”

The acknowledge light came on in response, and an empty feeling was there in the pit of Booth’s stomach. They were about to step off. It would all turn from just a project into reality. It would turn from the theoreticals purely within Bristol and Shackleton into a project involving, of all things, the Unioners. It felt unreal. The local circuit broke him from the thought.

“Bristol warship…sir, it’s a good phrase considering what we have up right now.”

He chuckled. “Well, JOOD, you just have to be a bit creative.”

“Sir, my car back home has more power than this right now. At least that I can outrun the LPI toll cops.”

“Not what it can do now that matters. Besides, can’t call it anything else.”

“Pfffffttt.”

An engineering alarm rang out on the bridge, tinny and harsh, constant until silenced. The console operator’s helmet tilted up in a little gesture, the local circuit clicking on as he gave his report to the OOD. Engineering reports, Booth could hear, on the reactors. They’d not pushed them hard, not by any measure, but the whole of the issue was that the systems likely had damage they didn’t know about. It wasn’t a good thing. The OOD gave her own report.

“Reactor 2 is having power fluctuations, sir. Engineering is troubleshooting now.”

“How serious?”

A pause as the OOD relayed the question down. “Three percent flux as it stands.”

“Very well. Let them troubleshoot.”

“Aye, sir.”

A pause followed, tense even without the engineering alarm.

“Engineering believes it’s the coolant, clearing reactor vents 3 and 4, rerouting 1 and 2 to supply reactor 2. They intend to cycle out the coolant on reactor 2.”

“Very well.” Booth clicked on the communications circuit.

“Be advised, currently have spikes on reactor 2.”

“Might be the nebula dust?”

“Engineering is shutting down reactor vents 3 and 4, standing by for coolant purge on reactor 2.”

Another pause as they watched on the monitors a few thin streams of blue-green liquid shifting off the aft sections before dissipating with the mere fact of motion. Booth knew that there could be problems here, with the coolant cycle, but they couldn’t do much better than it. There could also be the idea that the coolant wasn’t the problem, but they couldn’t troubleshoot much further while on the move. He watched as the asteroids and such moved on past. Finally, the operator gave a thumbs-up, both hands from their console. There it was.

“Engineering reports coolant replacement successful.”

An acknowledge light came on from the Pocket the Rocket, the ships continuing to cruise to the jump gate. It didn’t take especially long; the sprint across Omega-7 wasn’t a far one, and soon the asteroids of the Furstenfelde cut away into the cleared section around the gate itself. They paused, waiting with the trade lane noticeably disabled. Booth stood still, the thickness of his suit preventing the nominal tapping against the console that would accompany his thoughts. Elbe’s doing, perhaps, or simply the normal times of the Omegas? Likely the latter. They weren’t going to include every single Rheinlander law enforcement base in the House, after all. Finally, the exit point of the gate flashed and two ships emerged, an Oder ID’ed as the Helle.Wolke and a Spectre, ID’ed under a squadron designation.

Pocket the Rocket spoke first, Booth ready to click onto the circuit.

“Greetings.”

“Bristol vessels, Admiral von Richter has told us to expect you.”

“Greet... Guten Tag Citizen.”

“This is Bristol warship Endeavor to Rheinland vessels. Afternoon, gentlemen, glad to see you. Be advised my main munitions have been disarmed. Standing by for instructions.”

“Affirmative, you may have gunners on standby, otherwise we'll take you through. We don't expect much resistance, after all nobody should know this is happening.”

“Copy all, Helle Wolke.”

“We'll jump through first, Ulm has already been informed of our arrangement.”

“Endeavor copies.”

“Affirmative, jump, mark.”

With that, they moved through the gate and on past Ulm. The Helle Wolke, rather unnecessarily, informed them that they would be using the lanes and to not get too close to the Westfalen. Well, yes, Booth thought. Of course they wouldn’t get too close and use the trade lanes. Some part of him suspected that the gunship hadn’t been fully informed of the agreement and conditions that had been made before, just being told to escort them on through.

The trade lanes weren’t as bad as the cruise engines, Booth knew, the ship shaking far less, the reactor outputs far less, but he could still feel the force of the motion struggling against the hull and frame to turn the ship into debris. The Zoner swallowed at the idea and image, though doubtless it would turn a relatively calm voyage into a very public and impressive event of ‘Several large panels slingshot into station, dozens dead at least’. He pushed the image away. It wouldn’t be good to do that.

They moved past Freiburg and Breisgau, up to see Stuttgart loom into view and the Westfalen engaging with her guns and escorts a few LWB fighters on what Booth could only guess was a rush to damage Neckar’s cargo bays. Of course, the escorts had already driven them away from that target, pushing them into a dogfight as Westfalen launched a few more. Their own escorting Disir moved in to join the fray, the Helle Wolk pausing a few hundred meters off the trade lane.

“All engines halt!”

“All engines halt, aye, zero’ing my speed.”

“Very well.”

“Speed zeroed.”

They waited for the gunfire to die down and for the last LWB to burst into self-fueling flames and debris, tractor beams picking through to find survivors and such. As the escort returned, the comms circuit came to life.

“Hostiles gone.”

“Westfalen has cleared us to proceed, adjusting heading now.”

Booth picked through his thoughts, figuring that it would do to mention the other portion of the annoying arrangement with the Rheinland Government: the halt at Alster Shipyard. While he toyed at the idea of simply not telling the escort and, if they felt the grand need to skip that halt take advantage of it, it would likely not do too well. They needed the good graces of the Rheinlanders, if anything else because it smoothed things over in the future, and some bureaucrat or high-ranking Admiral would find such a discrepancy indicative of a need to not trust Bristol in those future endeavors. That wouldn’t do at all. As the ships moved through the trade lane, Booth started.

“Be advised that due to the escort arrangement we will have to halt at Alster.”

“Alright, so good so far, no security stops in New Berlin, we'll head straight for Hamburg.”

“Noted.”

On through the jump gate to New Berlin as well, the ship shaking a good bit more than before. One gloved hand grasped at the console before him, Booth swallowing as his eyes glanced above and around him. They exited though, just as before, and still with no hull seams opening up along the critical decks. That was good enough for him. The comms signal popped on again.

“Alright, we're clear, proceeding to Bonn.”

“So far the worst issue is traffic.”

“Affirm.”

As they cruised through the trade lane, Booth couldn’t help but chuckle. Worst issue was traffic…that was the truth. Too many transports moving around for something that was as directed and somewhat time-sensitive as moving a cruiser through House space. Of course, moving through Rheinland along the trade lanes and jump gates was necessary. The only other option was slow-boating through to jump holes, and Booth wasn’t sure if the engines would last so long. That wasn’t even mentioning the strain the jump holes have given them compared to the gates. It wasn’t an option at all, but still it was the truth. Too many transports, Imperial and Kruger and Synth Foods. Finally, they got to the gate.

“Alright, just signalling Lübeck so they know we're coming.”

“And we're clear, proceeding through gate now.”

“Copy. Engineering status currently green.”

And so they went, Lübeck popping into view amid the swirling lights with her guns already firing out against a squadron of Red Hessian fighters. Some few of the border station’s own fighters were engaged, but the numbers were near-even, and Booth stared for a moment. He watched their own escort follow down to join the fray below them, considered if they could help. In all reality though, they couldn’t…he watched on one of the sensor screens the icons cluster together and shift before falling together again, some switching or overlaying their targeting data as the not-yet-repaired targeting computer struggled and failed to make distinguishments. Besides that, the dogfight was too far below. But he did see their escort make quick work of the Hessians, coming back into formation. As they did, a question popped into Booth’s mind.

“Sorry for the delay. Station requested for a quick help.”

“Alright, just one more lane to Alster.”

“Interrogative, is there a specific berth for this refueling?”

“Secondary yard, upper berth.”

He returned the information with the acknowledge signal, half-turned as the OOD was already setting about with orders. There was something good and fine about the way it was done, quick and snappy as waypoint data and standby helm commands were relayed across from them to JOOD to Conn and back again. JOOD started to relay signals down to Engineering for the fuel booms, the gear getting ready for unlock as soon as they exited the trade lane. A smile crept against Booth’s face at it. Snappy, good, honest.

They came out of the lane and the local circuit burst into activity with all the prepared commands released, a dam of information broken out. They made for the secondary yard, coming about port as braking thrusters fired to pivot them about to the right orientation, while amidships Booth could see on the screen the refuel booms opening out starboard. Fuel lines along their lengths snaked and slowly whipped with the motion, coming tight in curved arcs between the connectors as the booms came to a halt.

The Endeavor slowed to a halt, booms extending out and magnetically locking with their respective ports. The hoses went straight again, reeled in to kill the slack. A report came and went from Engineering. Refueling was in progress. Booth could only smile still as he clicked the comms on.

“Clamps set and hoses are across for refueling.”

“Roger, Soltau is awaiting our arrival for final checks, then we'll proceed into Bering.”

“Affirm. Will inform you when complete.”

It didn’t take long, in all reality. The Zoner suspected that Engineering had only diverted fuel to the tanks confirmed to have a void pressure; such a thing would mean that they weren’t ruptured in any way and, to be sure, that was as important as anything. Of course, they’d also worked to confirm that the tanks didn’t have any significant spall damage on the interior lining, something that would destroy their fuel systems. That cut down the number of suitable tanks down even further. But then, they only needed to make it to Bristol Bay and, after that, only need to make it to Pacifica. Booth could afford to only have short jaunts.

A report came up from Engineering and they set back to work again. The fuel lines were cleared, purged with a blast of gas through from Alster and diverted out into the void, and as the cloud dissipated outwards Booth could see the magnetic clamps retract and the boom swing back into its resting position slowly. As it did, they started up the engines. Helm commands flew about quickly.

“Disconnecting my lines.”

“Right, ready to proceed through lane.”

They came up alongside, soon enough entering the trade lane and watching as Hamburg came further into view. Soltau and Altona came into view as well, the carrier being a little further and hard to see amid the black of space. Some shipping was there as well, though from behind the planet Booth could see a Rheinlander Battlecruiser with its own escorts. Booth sighed, watching them fly on past the green-gray hulls.

“Alright, one last lane until Bering. We're to continue escort until you make it stationside.”

”Danke.”

On through the jump gate again, and on through the trade lanes. Booth felt far more at ease at that moment they entered Bering, seeing the Tanner belt as it was, in the distance Akutan and the rest of it. In the distance was Pacifica, too, their destination once everything calmed down and passed on by. It was a good place to be, even if they had to deal with the Rheinlanders for a little while longer. In reflection, the pair hadn’t been all that bad compared to what they might have otherwise gotten.

“We'll proceed first.”

”Copy all, much obliged.”

“Enroute to junction now. Alright, let's head on to Bristol Bay.”

There it was. Home, or at least as close to it for the next long while. Bristol Bay Station was there, Bristol escorts, all of it. He could see the ad-hoc mooring point for it as well, on the aft section of the station nearer than Booth would love to the Freeport reclamation efforts. He clicked on the comms, nodding to himself inside the cumbersome helmet as, belated, the Zoner prepared the data package to the gunship.

”Much obliged on the escort, Rheinland.”

”That's an affirmative, try not to lose it.”

”Before I forget, transferring the inspection documents from our repairs to your unit, Helle Wolke. Since that was requested prior by the Herr Admiral.”

”Affirmative, Admiral von Richter will be most pleased with this.”

”Best of luck to you, Rheinlander.”

”We're making heading back to the Soltau, best of luck.”

Watching the Rheinlanders depart, the Endeavor came in for the final approach. Booth could just smile again at it. One step closer, he told himself, one step closer.

Operation Have Sea

Shulsky · 06-08-2025, 03:42 AM,

Bristol Bay Station, Bering System
25 MAR 835 AS

Three days. They’d loitered by Bristol Bay for three days and, all things said, the attention had died down. Preliminary repairs had been made to the outer hull, that was true enough, as well as more thorough inspections done on the reactors and the vent-coolant systems that had failed before during the Omega-7 transit, but by and large Booth knew that such things were just supplementary information for Unioners.

He’d had several meetings with the Board, various members and the like. The feelings had been mixed from several, the older feeling like Booth was moving too fast about the whole thing, latter feeling like a greater degree of firepower than ever before. True, as the Mollys in Dublin had proved, mining vessels and other retrofitted transports could prove able in a pinch, but there was always something iffy about that whole idea to the Zoner. The miners would doubtless get called on if anything happened one way or another in their systems; something that would threaten Bristol stations would threaten their moorings, their ships, their livelihoods, but they’d never be sailors, marines. That wasn’t their job. In his mind, there needed to be that distinction, that dedication towards training and the like.

Of course, that had caused further talks. The idea that the ship would be running a deficit, a bigger one than any of the current security vessels, made the most frugal executives balk and calculate. He’d been glad that Blake had been a supporter of the idea before it had all gone through, and was a supporter still. They’d be able to shift enough commodities to pay for the repairs and the operating costs, Shackleton and a few of the other more cooperative companies in Bristol.

Booth sighed as he stood at the docking collar. The talk had been long, and she hadn’t been happy. Adriana wasn’t someone who enjoyed dredging up the past like that, said it had been dangerous, that’d it would continue to be dangerous, that there was so much they’d built since then and even more they could build. He wasn’t sure what she wanted, exactly, that they could get as the company stood now. A house on Erie would never be possible, nor one on any planet in Liberty or Rheinland really. Some part of Booth didn’t trust the government, the nearby people, the language barriers, how they’d react if they ever found out where the family was from, a variety of issues with both those Houses. He’d never want to go down to Gran Canaria, nor out to Pygar, and the stations they were on were as good as any other station they could go to. Booth really, really wasn’t quite sure where she wanted to go next, or really if she wanted to get something better at all. Some part of the Zoner figured she wanted him to finally settle down, and yet…and yet he still had that itch to do more, make more. He sighed.

Three days. Finally they’d pull the ship in. Finally they’d start getting down to the actual work. It was about time.

One boot thudded against the deck-plate, and another, and another.
.

The hull shook a good deal less than before. The Tanner Belt flew on past, the pitted and patched hull no longer letting loose fuel and debris into the void. The drum spun, as it should, even as one of the mounted engines had failed its recent light-off. They’d been forced to compromise, kill an engine on the other side too, but altogether there was a sense of good, honest pride towards the whole of the issue. The crew of Endeavor had gotten underway again, and it’d happen more times after that. Booth was near-sure of it.

Bridge crew ran smoother, too. They’d started getting into that rhythm, the call-backs and copies and affirms. Some of them, he knew, had sort of missed that life. Some of them, he knew, were at the very same stations they’d been at before, the last time they’d manned a cruiser such as this. A good number were younger folks, people who had been dredged up at Erie and elsewhere, the Omegas out to the Omicrons, stragglers from a number of port-calls and visits. He’d been smart to pick the right ones for the Powhatan, and they’d performed well for the years that stretched on. They kept performing well now. It was comforting.

Larger rocks came into view. In the distance, the sensors filtered out the Tanner, found instead a number of small craft. The background noise was filled with the steady, tinny beep-beep-beep as the firing control system picked out individual craft amid the shifting rocks, acquiring them and loosing them with a singular beep before picking them out again. Calls and call-backs came and went, the scanners holding a few long enough to get identifications. Arbeiters and Soldats, Unioner vessels out of Pacifica. A breath out at the sight. It’d have been worse if they were damned Rogues.

The weapons systems, of course, wasn’t quite up to speed yet…for a moment, Booth had a thought, a cruel little thought. What if the man before, Direktor Hollywood, hadn’t had as much control over Pacifica as he’d said before? What if he’d been removed in that interim period, since they’d last talked? What if there had been a trap laid by the more creatively stupid members of that organization, the ones who wanted a cruiser for themselves like the greedy bastards they were? He paused. What if. What if, what if. If that happened, keep calm, bring the ship into Pacifica, and overload the reactor.

Space, he hated the what if.

A pause came, tense enough as before when they were resurrecting the ship for the first time. It went away far quicker though. A thick Rheinlander accent came through over communications, in and out as the transmitter - or indeed the receiver - failed intermittently.

”Bristol vessel, welcome to Bering. We are to escort you the rest of the way. Do not alter your course suddenly or you will be fired on.”

“Endeavor copies all.”

Well. There were worse ways for a thing to go, the Zoner supposed, even if the reception was as frosty as could be. ‘Welcome to Bering’...some of the bridge crew were already shaking their head at the bold moves of the small craft as they began to take up escorting positions around the Judicator. Of course, the bombers were far in the rear, positioned to remove the engines about as quickly as one breathed, and the fighters moved in and out of sight with weaves and dukes. ‘Welcome to Bering’ was a statement that the system wasn’t Bristol’s, it was theirs, and though Bristol Bay Station disagreed by mere existence it was clear some pilots still held on to the old beliefs of Unioner supremacy.

They moved on, though, the comms not crackling a bit. No Liberty Rogue vessels came and went either past their flight plan, something Booth suspected - if he were being charitable - that Hollywood had a small hand in. At least, to a degree. They had shifted off the transponder some half hour before, once the cruiser had gotten out of standard sensor range from the trade lanes, so in theory the Unioners could claim they were bringing a prize of their own creation. In theory. He bristled at the idea of them taking the ship, or really rather trying to, and put the concerns away. They’d made plans on how to respond to that.

Another rock came into view, though, as well as the scaffolding attached to one side that made out three drydocks, clear and industrious as Alster’s. A Hel class stood in one, another outside the docks in what seemed like a refitting stage of maintenance or production, while Grendel gunships occupied the second in a number of stages. Tugs and equipment ferries, too small to ever be sold on the open market for a pilot not owning a shipyard, moved here and there with their loads while fighter patrols made lazy loops about the cleared section of the asteroid field. It was vaguely impressive, even with the broken nose of a Rheinlander Bismarck jutting out from one face of the asteroid, and something that Booth had definitely never seen the likes of.

They got the docking instructions, though, and came in for the final approach as the escort veered off to other, more normal duties. Three days, Booth thought, finally they’d gotten over. Finally they could start getting to work. He breathed out.

Operation Have Sea

Shulsky · 06-14-2025, 07:00 AM,

Pacifica Base, Bering System
14 JUN 835 AS

Booth, altogether, had worse months before.

The observation deck was perhaps as quiet as one could find on the station; that is to say, it wasn’t at all. Some used it as a makeshift bar, drinking and chatting at a table with a box of Rhienbehr doubtless liberated from some Imperial convoy. Some used it as a place to get away from other prying eyes, couples seated here and there held close. Some had thin trails of smoke drifting up into the air from between their fields, creating taffy-clouds of white before air systems caught them. Some used it as a place to get away from their work, just looking out at the asteroid field as booted feet tapped against the deck to the beat of the music. The smells were fairly varied, the sights even more so.

They wore a number of uniforms, the Zoner could see, though universally there was a sense of practicality over all other aspects. Jumpsuits, some having old-as-sin grease stains, a few somehow new, all lacking the patches that likely once adorned them could be seen in the crowd. Most were worn loose, the hammer-and-eagle of that cause scattered about on shoulders or sewn on collars in a number of patterns. Booth could pick out styles he’d recognized from Imperial Shipping, Kruger, even a few old DSE patterns likely as not sold-off by a warehouse in Texas who asked so very, very few questions.

The rest of Pacifica, at least those sections which the Bristol crew could take some use in, was fairly good by the standards Booth had expected. It had been built as a long-term installation, after all, and any crew worth their experience needed some taking care of before they would begin to try jumping ship. True, space had been roughly at a premium even if the asteroid was fairly big, and the quarters provided for the Bristol crew were cramped, but they were serviceable nonetheless. There wasn’t any hot water, though, and Booth had already grown somewhat tired of the synth paste extravaganza. Texas. He looked forward to a jaunt to Texas at one point or another. But that most certainly lay in the future.

Outside lay the Endeavor itself, sections of the damaged hull cut away to reveal the interior hangar decks and the fuel tanks. A number had already been replaced with a variety of types, while the decks themselves were reconstructed bit by bit with a number of drones and small-craft. Further aft, sections had been removed to allow access to the reactors, the pieces hanging on the shipyard scaffolding like shirts hung to dry on the clothesline. All told, it was going well Booth thought, though of course he wasn’t the only one to think on the issue.

Booth hadn’t yet seen Direktor Hollywood; he supposed the man had a lot on his plate, after all, and the job had already been taken over by Schiffswerftdirektor Ute Mayr. She was a generally unpleasant woman. She was also extremely practical and forward with what exactly there needed to be done. It was just unfortunate that Mayr tended to express herself in the most blunt of ways. The pair were seated on the observation deck, looking down at the scaffolding and the cruiser itself, sheets of paper spread before them on the table.

“Ordinarily, for these sections here…” Her finger traced the schematic before them, different areas highlighted by fluorescent marker. “Normally, we would reconstruct traditionally, like the flight decks, but here there is an opportunity. We could cut time with starbase module systems. It’d turn months to weeks if done well.”

He nodded; it made sense, though would make some small difficulties in procurement. All told, though, the concept appealed to him. Mayr continued, sucking on her lip in contemplation. “For the size, we’ll need Model Nine modules for the interior. The seals…verdammt noch mal, diese Freiheit-müll…they will need to be of DSE type for best compatibility with the rest of the ship. That shouldn’t be too much a problem for you, no? Alles klar?”

“And the rest of the ship?”

“The engineering drum is…absolut beschissen. No-go on any of the weapons mounting points there. The shock absorption components there were liquified - possibly by the toxic gas from where you found it - before then solidifying once the gas was removed. Electrical connections are also destroyed there. We’re working on plating-up the points to remove weak points on the drum, which will be fairly simple. Hangar and support systems are coming along as expected. A few weeks time and that will be complete. The reactors, despite the patchwork repairs, aren’t in too bad a shape. We’ll need to replace reactor two. Otherwise, the ship is ok.”

Ok. Booth gave a long enough exhale. Four weapons mounts lost, as well as a good section of the ship generally uncovered by any sort of defensive fire. There could have been better news, but that was it. Wasn’t much to do on that front, and he tapped his fingers briefly.

“Alright. Keep me posted.”

“Ja, ja.”

Operation Have Sea

Shulsky · 06-21-2025, 05:46 PM,

Pacifica Base, Bering System
21 JUN 835 AS

“Set the Sea and Anchor Detail. Set the Sea and Anchor Detail. All stations make manned and ready reports to the pilothouse.”

He had watched the reactor housing - deconstructed from a Rheinlander Order, as the Zoner understood it - slot into place along the aft of her. He had watched the little worker bees flit about, Bristol and Unioner, to work to gently bring the new reactor two into place. He had watched the armor slide over the exposed section, sealing it away. They had done the work some ways away from Pacifica, the whole of the ship powered down save for emergy power provided by wire from the tugs. Standard procedures, Booth knew, to do such hazardous work away from the rest.

“Bridge, CIC manned and ready.”

“CIC manned and ready, Bridge aye.”

They had brought the station modules in as well, watched as DSE modules disappeared under Commonwealth plating. It had been something of a trial in acquiring those components, considering their size compared to the usual developments. In the end, the modules had been sourced from shipments into California’s Riverside Station, support modules and housing for the biodomes normally built there. A few bribes here and there to the right people, posing as representatives from Yuma who desired building something discrete in the Barrier Rim gave rise to Bristol’s acquirement of the modules out from Cortez. Moving them had been slightly difficult, though Booth had made the issue happen through a number of conspiring ships.

“Bridge, Deck manned and ready.”

“Deck manned and ready, Bridge aye.”

The work forward, to the flight decks and supporting systems, had all been completed days prior. The hangar doors had closed, sheltering the number of drones that Booth had brought in from Bristol Bay. There would be a lot of space to cover, the Zoner captain knew, and they could make do with the unmanned systems to extend out the sensor coverage. It’d be especially useful in Galileo.

Now, though, it had finally been all said and done. The bridge crew stood at their posts again, still in their environmental suits but with the helmets off, placed beside or dangling from belts. Booth had little worry that the ship would so soon find itself under attack on the first underway, the shakedown cruise as it were, but it would nevertheless be a true annoyance if they were caught in a fight with the bridge depressurized. Luckily enough, he supposed they wouldn’t always have to be wearing the bulky things. They wouldn’t always be so visible.

“Bridge, Engineering manned and ready.”

“Engineering manned and ready, Bridge aye. All stations report manned and ready.”

“Sea and Anchor detail set, time one minute, forty seconds.”

Booth reached out, grasping at the comms set. It was large in his hand, a telephone by any other name that would look comical if he ever had seen it in the Houses with the curled pigs-tail wire as thick as a little finger. Holding it up to his ear, he paused for a second before speaking. There wasn’t much to think on as the Zoner spoke, the sheer fact removing any potential for doubt, for stammer, for uncertainty or the wobble in the tone. No, Booth just spoke, the set crackling with static as he held down the transmit button with his thumb.

”Pacifica, this is Endeavor. I am ready to begin launch procedures.”

”Pacifica copies. Decouple from all points and stand by for verification.”

”This is Endeavor. I am beginning decoupling.”

Clicking the phone to line seventeen, Booth breathed in for a second before speaking. “Deck, Bridge, decouple all lines, secure all stations.”

“This is Deck, decouple all lines, secure all stations aye.”

Clicking the set off and setting it down, he watched on the overhead screens the variety of motions and work that was being done. The cameras aft and fore, along the sides of the ship, showed the connection points to the scaffolding and securing beams being undone, one by one, sometimes in pairs, and the Unioner docks folding the arms out of the way into the shipyard structure. It was almost like watching a strange spider release a bit of prey, one leg at a time, though the simile was broken as Booth noticed that the last few arms had been released on their end.

“Arms free, OOD!”

“Arms free aye. Stand by for their reports.”

A pause, before the speakers static’ed to life. “Bridge, Deck, lines are decoupled and stations secured on our end. One mike to Unioners completing theirs.”

The OOD acknowledged, watching as the other members of the bridge team went about their way to log that, log this, pausing, waiting in a way. It was a wait without a wait, still moving, still gaining positional fixes for the immediate outbound movement from Pacifica, still giving reports on the other ships around the Unioner station that could interfere with their motion to go outbound. A pause without stopping, until Deck reported that the Unioners had completed their end of things.

”Pacifica, this is Endeavor. I am undocking, time now.”

”Pacifica copies. Wahrschau, Wahrschau, all vessels keep clear of Dock Two.”

Clicking the phone set down again, Booth half-turned. A smile had crept up against him, edging against the corners of his mouth with the feeling of good, honest joy. He looked to the Conn, hand against one of the consoles to steady himself. In a way, the Zoner was desperately trying to not like the excitement turn an order into a shout. “Conn, commence your run.”

“Conn aye. Helm, maintain course, increase speed five. Stand by for quick turns.”

“Helm aye.”

”Underway, Shift Colors!”

Operation Have Sea

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