Chapter 4 Max sat, limbs folded, on the metallic bench that lined the perimeter of the g-ball arena. His gaze wandered listlessly across the zero-gravity field where players soared like comet-tailed stars in a choreographed celestial dance. The rotating axis at the ship's core made for a spectacular venue, but danger was as much part of the game as the neon-framed goals—players whizzed past each other with only the thin safety nets sparing them from falling if they dipped into the gravity field. The game itself seemed frivolous to Max, an opinion he held silently, save for the rolling of his eyes whenever the ball ricocheted off the nets. He had never asked to be part of this; it was merely a requirement, another box to check off in the academy curriculum. The coach hadn't given him a minute of playtime since he'd joined, and Max wasn't holding his breath for a chance today. A surge of cheers erupted from the stands as Brock, a human blur, scored yet another goal—a display of acrobatics and precision that earned him the title of top scorer. Max acknowledged the feat with a nod, but the competitive thrill that electrified the crowd evaded him. "Max," the coach's voice cut through the din as he took a seat beside him. "This is it. We need your help." Max turned, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. "Do I get to play?" he asked, half-hoping the answer would affirm his prolonged bench-warming. "Let's leave the field to those who've been sweating it out all season," the coach replied, gesturing toward the players. "What we need from you is that hyper-thought brain. I need you to analyze the opposing team's plays, and come up with a strategy for us." Max frowned, a crease forming between his brows. "That doesn't sound fair," he countered, the weight of his moral compass pressing against his chest. "It sounds like bad sportsmanship." The coach leaned in closer, his expression earnest. "Everyone has a role, Max. Yours just happens to be off the field." As the game continued to unfold before him, Max couldn't ignore the tug of conscience. He could dissect their strategies with ease, predict their moves before they even thought of them—but at what cost? He watched as the players twisted and turned in the zero-gravity ballet, and knew he had to make a choice. His contribution wouldn't be in finding ways to exploit the spirit of the game. Not today, not ever. The final buzzer echoed, and a collective groan rose from Max's teammates as the scoreboard displayed their defeat. The opposing team's cheers reverberated through the open air, filling the zero-gravity field with the sounds of victory. Max remained seated on the sidelines, his gaze fixed on the players as they slowly descended from the mid-air tangle at the game's climax. "Max! This is on you!" a voice pierced through the tumultuous mix of disappointment and celebration. He turned to find several of his teammates floating towards him, their expressions contorted in anger and frustration. "Look," Max said firmly, pushing off his seat to stand before them, "I won't cheat to win a game, or anything else." His voice carried a steely resolve that left no room for argument. "Leave him alone," Brock interrupted, forcing his way past the group with a protective fervor. There was a clear note of disappointment in his tone, but it was overshadowed by his sense of integrity. "If he says he won't cheat, then he won't cheat." "You're always taking his side," one of the boys snapped back, his face flushed with the sting of the loss. Brock's eyes met Max's for a brief moment before he responded. "You're right. I am," he admitted, his voice steady. "And I don't want to cheat either. I should have quit the first time you asked him to cheat." The tension hung palpable among them, a thick veil that seemed to dampen the exuberance of the winning team's celebrations. Eventually, the disgruntled teammates dispersed, leaving Brock and Max alone amidst the dissipating crowd. Together, they headed for shuttle that would take them back to the surface with an unspoken agreement to leave the game behind them. Brock's shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched tight. "Sorry, I know you wanted to win," Max finally ventured, breaking the silence that stretched between them like the void outside the ship's hull. Brock's expression was hard, tinged with an unfamiliar touch of anger. "You did the right thing," he muttered, his words clipped and strained. "Just don't talk to me right now, I've never lost a game before." Max nodded, respecting Brock's need for distance even as they walked side by side. The loss weighed heavily on both of them, but Max felt a quiet confidence in the choice he had made. In the vast expanse of space, where every action could mean survival or disaster, integrity was not just a word—it was a lifeline. 7 years later. The cockpit of the scout ship was a cocoon of blinking lights and softly humming consoles, an oasis of calm amid the turmoil of pre-launch checks. Max's fingers danced over the controls with confident familiarity, every switch and button an old friend greeting him for another adventure among the stars. "Systems check green across the board," Brock's voice came through the comms, steady and assured from the Crew Chief Station. The quiet thrum of the engines was a soothing backdrop to the anticipation that buzzed in Max's veins. "Ready for countdown," Max replied, his hand hovering over the throttles. He could already feel the push against his back as he imagined the surge of acceleration when they would break free from the Destiny's massive gravitational pull. It was a feeling he'd come to crave—the freedom of the void, the dance of starlight on the hull. "Five," he whispered to himself, poised to launch them into the unknown. "Four," the thrill of discovery quickening his pulse. "Three," a lifetime away from the conflicts of his past. "Two—" "HOLD, HOLD, HOLD, do not launch!" The urgency in the tower control's voice sliced through the atmosphere like a shard of ice. Max's hand stilled, inches from initiating the sequence. "What's going on?" His brow furrowed as he keyed the mic, eyes darting across the panels for any sign of malfunction or danger. "Change of mission, Captain Harris is on the way to brief you." The response crackled through the speakers, terse and devoid of explanation. Confusion knotted Max's stomach. A change this abrupt, at the cusp of departure—it wasn't standard protocol. His mind raced, analyzing potential reasons, the strategic part of him that had served so well in the past spinning up to full speed. "Copy that," Max acknowledged, leaning back in his seat but keeping his gaze locked on the viewport. Whatever was coming, it was big enough to divert them from their path. And in the great expanse of space, where every decision rippled out into infinity, Max knew that adaptability was crucial. Brock's presence was a silent reassurance beside him; a steady force in the face of uncertainty. In the years they'd stood together against all odds, their bond had only solidified, tempered by shared challenges. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it," Max murmured, more to himself than to Brock. But the words hung in the air between them, a vow made once again as they waited for the captain to arrive, for destiny to unfold its new path before them. Through the transparent material of the viewport, Max's eyes fixed on a rapidly approaching Fleet Shuttle Bus, its size dwarfed by the size of the scout ship. The glint of light on its sleek sides gave it an ephemeral quality against the dark backdrop of space and the sprawling infrastructure of the launch bay. "Bro...," Max started, pressing a button on his helmet to activate the intercom, but he was too perplexed by the unfolding scene to complete his thought. Brock straightened from his station, his broad frame casting a shadow over the console. "What's up?" His voice crackled with static in Max's ear. "Take a look at this." Max's command was calm, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity that Brock recognized immediately. Leaning over Max’s shoulder to peer out, Brock's eyes widened as he took in the sight. "What in the blazes is going on?" His tone was tinged with both confusion and a trace of excitement. It wasn’t every day that the routine of pre-launch procedure was shattered so dramatically. As the shuttle bus came to an abrupt halt, its door slid open and people began to emerge, a stream of bodies moving with purpose, carrying baggage secured in large plastic cases designed to withstand the rigors of space travel. The bustle of activity was a stark contrast to the usual stillness of the launch bay. "Isn't that Lieutenant Alara and Sergeant Carina?" Max questioned, more to himself than Brock, as two familiar figures emerged. The duo were legends among the fleet—pilots with records that spoke of skill, bravery, and an uncanny ability to dance their fighters through combat. "Yep, that's them," Brock confirmed, his tone carrying a note of respect. "The best we've got." Max's mind raced, connecting dots with the precision that had made him indispensable in strategy sessions. "If Fleet Command is sending them with us, this isn't a simple two-man scout mission anymore. They're loading us for a full crew mission." "Sorry, buddy," Brock said, his hand coming down reassuringly on Max's shoulder. With a wry grin, he gestured theatrically at the captain's chair. "I think you just lost your chance to pilot this beast." Pretending to wipe imaginary dust from the seat, he added, "Here, let me clean this seat off for you." Max shook his head slowly, more in wonderment than disappointment. "I can't even remember the last time they sent a full scout crew out. Something more serious than making sure we don't have a tail following us is happening." Before they could speculate further, the screech of tires redirected their attention to the arrival of Captain Harris. Max unstrapped himself, rising to meet the situation head-on. He strode down the gangway, his boots thudding dully against the metal grating. As he reached the ship's airlock, he watched Harris exit his vehicle, an armful of papers clutched against his chest. "Is this why you left the promotion celebration early?" Max asked, unable to mask the edge of concern in his voice. He noted the urgency in Harris's movements as the captain dropped the stack of documents onto the hood of the vehicle with less care than usual. "This isn’t an easy sneak and peek two-man mission anymore," Harris said, meeting Max's gaze squarely. There was a gravity in his voice that underscored the significance of what lay ahead. Max felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders, heavier than any physical burden. "You won't have time to be pilot and captain." Harris continued, his tone brooking no argument. "Lieutenant Alara will pilot the ship, and you'll plant your backside in the Captain's chair where it belongs. These orders come direct from the top." Max nodded curtly, he was ready for the role of captain of a full crew, but it was a surprise to have come so suddenly. He glanced back at the ship, its form now cast in a new light—not just a vessel, but the harbinger of an unknown mission that would test them all. Max's fingers traced the edges of the engineering report, his brow furrowed in concentration as he absorbed the implications of the beacon's unexpected orientation. The cold metal beneath the reports offered no comfort, only a reminder of the void that surrounded them. "The engineers finished analyzing the tracking beacon," Harris said, breaking the silence that had enveloped the room. "It wasn't pointed behind us, it was pointed in front of us." Max nodded, his attention still on the report's schematics and data points. It was a subtle but crucial detail—one that shifted the entire dynamic of their mission. "So, we don't have a tail behind us, we have a possible ambush in front of us," he concluded, lifting his eyes to meet Harris's steady gaze. "Exactly," Harris confirmed with a nod. "Your orders are to proceed three-hundred years ahead of the Destiny, then stop, wake the entire crew, and take a look around. If you find another colony ship, return immediately." The ghost of a frown touching his lips, Max sensed the tendrils of something larger at play, a hidden agenda woven into the fabric of their directives. "And if we don’t find another colony ship?" he probed, his instincts honed from years of navigating the complexities of space and command. Harris exhaled slowly, the weight of secrecy momentarily visible in the set of his jaw. "We hope you don’t find another colony ship, this is where your larger mission will begin,” he stated, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "What I'm going to tell you is classified. I only just found out about it." Max listened, every muscle tensed in anticipation of the revelation that would undoubtedly redefine the scope of their journey. Harris's words carried the gravity of stars colliding, pulling Max into an orbit of uncertainty and responsibility. "Twenty-five hundred years from your waypoint is a star. There is a large asteroid field around the star, and we've discovered planets, but none that appear viable for colonization; however, planets mean endless resources. We're planning to make a stop there." Harris sighed, the admission seeming to age him before Max's eyes. "Like I said, I only just found out about this. We're going to set up mining facilities and build three more Titan-class colony ships." The information settled like a comet's dust on Max's consciousness, each particle sparking a question, a concern, a strategy. His confusion was mirrored in his eyes as they locked onto Harris's. "Why?" Max asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Max, we're over-populated," Harris uttered, his voice a low rumble that resonated with the severity of their predicament. The revelation seemed to warp the very air around them, and Max's breath caught in his throat. Max's head shook almost involuntarily, his mind racing to make sense of the numbers. "How? We only have 30 million in cryo, and plenty of room in the inner cylinder." The figures didn't add up; they couldn't. His years of intimate knowledge of the ship's capacity told him this was wrong. Harris, however, remained resolute. "No, Max, we don't," he corrected him sharply. "This has been kept from the general public, but... we have one hundred and twenty million in cryo, it's why the outer hall of the southern hemisphere is off limits. The pods are stacked twenty high in thirty columns for miles." He let the enormity of the statement hang between them like a supernova about to burst. "That's not possible, how?" Max's question was more of a demand, a plea for some kind of sanity in a suddenly upside-down world. Max closed his eyes for a moment and entered hyper-thought to solve the math equation. He opened his eyes and shook his head. "That's 90 million in the southern hemisphere's outer hull, and the rest would be in standard vaults under the inner shell. We have a total of 550 square miles of surface area per hemisphere, which is enough room, but the ship is expending too much energy to keep that many pods active, and..." Max's eyes widened with realization. "...we were almost at the breaking point. That's why everyone was so excited when I was thirteen-years-old and improved the hydrogen collectors by nine-percent. We're running this ship on my extra nine-percent fuel effeciency." "Yes, Max. We were very close to having to make a horrible decision," said Harris. "You were going to shove them out airlocks," accused Max, his stomach turning at the thought. "How did this happen?" Harris's eyes darkened, his jaw set in stone as he recounted the newly discovered history. "We had no population control for the first twenty generations after our launch from Earth. The quality of life had become so bad, there was an attempted coup. It was put down by the Fleet, but only just barely." "We forced all the traitors into cryo. Our first asteroid harvest was to build the cryo units we needed." Shock rooted Max to the spot, his gaze fixed on Harris as if trying to discern truth from potential fiction. "And they've been there ever since?" he asked, his voice a whisper lost in the vacuum of space. Harris nodded solemnly. "Yes, but now, with unlimited resources, we're going to build three more ships, transfer the cryo pods to the new ships, and wake their leadership. From there, they can do whatever they like." He paused, the weight of his next words apparent. "We'll transmit their engine start-up codes to them after we leave. They'll be on their own, it's fair, it's humane, and more than they deserve; they're traitors." Max's mind reeled, yet another layer added to his mission. "And you want me to scout out that solar system?" he managed to ask, his mind struggling to keep pace with the escalating stakes. "Yes, if the other colony ship is already there, negotiate with them. There's more than enough resources for everyone." Harris's face was etched with the lines of countless difficult decisions, the kind that a leader must bear alone. Max offered a nod, accepting the burden. "If they refuse?" he asked, although part of him feared the answer. Harris sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the sorrow of the stars. "We're loading nukes onto your ship. You are authorized to do whatever you feel is necessary to secure that solar system." Each word hung heavily in the confined space, a potent mixture of dread and duty. Max understood the gravity of what they were asking him to potentially do. Such an act would be to sacrifice his own humanity. He would protect Destiny, yes, but there must be a way to do it without becoming like some of the other colony ships that had committed horrific war crimes. Max took all the documents, saluted Captain Harris, and retreated to the scout ship’s briefing room, now to become a capsule of strategy and secrets, the walls humming with the energy of countless critical decisions. Max stood at the head of the table, where the ancient history of Destiny lay splayed out before him like a map of their collective past, fraught with mistakes and triumphs. His orders sat atop them, stark and unyielding in the harsh light. Max had only called Brock into the meeting. "Are you really going to nuke another colony ship?" Brock's question sliced through the tension, his face etched with concern. Max met his friend's gaze, feeling the weight of command heavy on his shoulders. "I told Harris I would do whatever was best for Destiny. If I refuse outright, he'll pull me from the mission and send someone that will. I need to stay on the mission." Brock nodded, understanding the delicate balance between duty and moral compass they both navigated. It was a silent acknowledgment that some orders were heavier than others; this one could tip the scales. Dawn crept across the expanse of space, casting a pale glow over the scout ship as the final cryo pods were installed alongside the ominously silent nukes. In the Captain's chair, Max let the quiet authority of his position settle around him. He watched Lieutenant Alara, her fingers dancing across the control panel with practiced ease. "Take us out, Lieutenant," he ordered, his voice steady despite the storm of thoughts brewing within. "Roger, Captain," Lieutenant Alara replied, initiating the launch sequence. The ship shuddered gently as it began to distance itself from Destiny, hurtling towards an uncertain future. Over the next three days, the crew busied themselves with preparations for cryo-sleep, the normalcy of routine contrasting sharply with the extraordinary nature of their mission. When the time came, Max oversaw each crew member's entry into their respective pods, his resolve unwavering even as Alara turned to him expectantly. "Captain, we should enter cryo together," she suggested, her tone professional yet insistent. He shook his head, his role as captain binding him to a different set of protocols. "I'm the Captain. I'll be last asleep, and first awake," he stated firmly. Once the crew was secured in sleep's embrace, the ship fell into a hush, leaving Max to traverse the silence alone. He moved through the rows of pods, pausing at Brock's. With a decisive press of a button, he activated the wake cycle. "Are we there?" Brock asked groggily as he emerged from the depths of artificial slumber, his eyes blinking away confusion. "No, you've only been asleep for twenty minutes," Max replied, his voice low but urgent. "What's going on?" asked Brock. "I don't trust Lieutenant Alara, or any of them. You're the only one I can trust," Max confided, revealing the unease that had taken root in his mind. "I want you to reprogram those nukes so they can't be fired without my Captain's key, and then I want you to hide the key, even from me. If something happens, I think you can resist unpleasant physical persuasion longer than I can." The corners of Brock's mouth lifted in a wry grin, a spark of camaraderie igniting in his eyes. He swung his legs over the edge of the pod, stretching out the lethargy of the brief cryo stint. "I hoped you'd do something like this. You've never sacrificed your morals before, and I hope you never do. Alright, I'll get right on it." With a nod of thanks, Max gave over his Captain’s key and watched as Brock set off to fulfill the task, a silent prayer floating through his mind that they would navigate the stars without losing themselves to the darkness. Max's gaze was locked on the canvas of stars beyond the viewport, each one a testament to the vastness they traversed. The silence of the scout ship’s bridge was punctuated only by the soft clacks and beeps emanating from Brock’s console as he worked to reprogram the nuclear arsenal. The weight of command pressed down on Max in the Captain's chair, a throne that offered no comfort. His fingers restlessly tapped against the armrest, betraying his internal conflict. He could almost feel the cold metal of the nukes lurking below decks, an invisible burden that seemed to distort the very space around him. But his resolve remained firm; those weapons were not going to be loosed on his watch—not if he had anything to say about it. "Almost done here," Brock's voice cut through the quiet, measured and precise. "I've set up the lockouts. It'll need your key to arm them now." Max nodded, his eyes never leaving the void outside. "Good. Make sure the coding is tight. We can't have any slip-ups," he replied, his voice belying none of his repulsion for the plan they were thwarting. "Understood," Brock confirmed, his fingers dancing one final sequence across the panel. In the reflection of the glass, Max saw Brock's focused expression, a mirror of his own determination. Despite the years since their academy days, some things didn't change—Brock's loyalty being one of them. The thought brought a fleeting sense of warmth to Max amidst the chill of space. He was the Captain, charged with safeguarding not just the lives aboard but also the soul of the mission. There had to be another way to navigate this crisis, a path that didn't require them to sacrifice their humanity for survival. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Max murmured, more to himself than to Brock. "There's always another solution." "Agreed, Captain," Brock replied, standing up from his station, his task completed. "But sometimes, you have to prepare for the worst while hoping for the best." Max finally tore his gaze from the stars and met Brock's steady look. "We'll find a better way," he said, the conviction in his tone wrapping around them like a shield. "We have to." As Brock returned to his pod, Max settled deeper into the Captain's chair, his mind racing through scenarios and strategies. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it head-on, guided by the same principle that had steered his course since those days on the sidelines of a g-ball game: Win or lose, integrity was non-negotiable.