Chapter 6 Destiny Colony Ship, the present Captain Trevor’s fingers tightened around the worn strap of the satchel, the weight of its contents more symbolic than physical. He stood before the giant metal doors of the sealed and empty hanger bay, their surface cold and unyielding to the touch, guardians to a legend that had persisted longer than any living memory. Above him, the digital display blinked impassively, each change of its numbers marking another moment in an inconceivable span of twenty-eight hundred years. His gaze drifted from the clock to the rows of mail storage boxes arrayed like silent sentinels in front of the hangar bay. They were filled to the brim with envelopes and packages, each one a testament to a life lived, their words eagerly awaiting eyes that might never read them. The earliest boxes bore the personal marks of family and friends, hopeful at first, then tinged with the melancholy of absence. As time marched on, newer additions came from comrades who had returned from their own voyages, touching back to reality from the dreamlike state of cryo, only to leave again into the vast unknown. A swell of pride rose within Trevor's chest, a slow burn that honored the crew with these boxes of precious letters. Their names and faces were mysteries, yet their legacy was etched into the very fabric of the Destiny they had vowed to safeguard. He thought of the yearly procession of cadets and Fleet Personnel that came here to honor this absent ship and its crew, their steps echoing in this cavernous space as they paid homage with bowed heads. This annual rite was more than ritual; it was a collective promise to remember, to carry forth the values of sacrifice and unwavering commitment the empty hanger bay represented. The satchel in his hand held none of the deeply personal missives of the earlier parcels. Instead, it was filled with fresh letters, penned by young hands in classrooms throughout Destiny—a new generation reaching out to their ancestors. Their projects, crafted with innocent earnestness, sought to forge a connection to the Fleet Pilots and Marines whose duty took them to the edges of the known universe. The innocence of their words stood in stark contrast to the silent, enduring monument before him. With reverence, Captain Trevor approached the designated box, ready to deposit this latest collection into the river of history that flowed through this place. Each letter, whether from a child or descendent, was a fiber in the tapestry of dedication that these absent heroes had woven—a tapestry that now wrapped around the heart of every person who understood what it meant to serve the Destiny. Captain Trevor released the satchel with a soft thud into the open maw of the nearest box. It landed atop a mound of similarly unaddressed packages, the collective dreams and aspirations preserved, eager for an audience that may never arrive. He began his slow promenade along the row of boxes, his fingers trailing over the cool metal edges. His gaze settled on the colorful envelopes and parcels, each adorned with the clumsy penmanship and vibrant stickers that spoke of classrooms buzzing with life. These tiny time-capsules carried the innocent curiosity and boundless hope of youth, a stark juxtaposition against the silence of the hangar bay. As he took in this tableau of history, Captain Trevor pondered the solemn duty that awaited the scout ship's crew upon their mythical return. They would sit, perhaps right where he stood, and sift through centuries of correspondence. They'd absorb the joys, sorrows, and mundane details of lives that had flickered out like distant stars. And then they would respond. He imagined their hands, possibly shaking with the weight of time and isolation, crafting replies to these long-forgotten children. Their words would be beams of light flung back across generations, connecting past to present. He envisioned classrooms of the future, where children would crowd around displays showing letters from the legendary crew, their faces alight with wonder. This vision imbued Captain Trevor with a quiet resolve. The ritual of remembrance continued not only in wreath-laying ceremonies but also in these acts of communication—bridges spanning epochs, ensuring that the spirit of exploration and sacrifice lived on in the hearts of those who would follow. The Scout Ship, somewhere in the vastness of space, twenty-eight hundred years from Destiny The perpetual darkness of space enveloped the scout ship as it continued its silent, unwavering journey. For twenty-eight hundred years, the vessel had been a sleek shadow against the tapestry of stars, drawing ever closer to the system with its asteroid-laden belt—a treasure trove not of habitable lands but of invaluable resources. Max's eyelids lifted heavily, reluctance written in the slow motion—a testament to the extended sleep that preserved his body across the millennia. His mind clawed back consciousness as if emerging from a thick fog of dreams and deep oblivion. A murky grogginess tethered him momentarily before reality sharpened into focus. Methodical and precise, Max ran through the wake protocols, his fingers brushing over the cold surface of the control panel. Green lights blinked their assurance at him—it was safe to exit. With practiced ease, he pushed aside the glass lid of the cryogenic pod and sat up, legs swinging over the edge. He felt the chill of the metal floor even through his boots—boots he hadn't forgotten this time. Silence hung heavy in the air; it seemed almost sacrilegious to disturb it. Ignoring the pods housing his crewmates, Max left Brock undisturbed, trusting in the plans laid before they embarked on this long slumber. His path to the bridge was a solitary one, each step a silent assertion of command and purpose. Settling into the pilot's seat, he allowed himself a moment of quiet anticipation. The hum of the ship coming off auto-pilot accompanied the flurry of his fingers across the console, a symphony of readiness as calculations and diagnostics scrolled across the screens. They were three days out from the asteroid field's boundary, where a star cast its dim light onto barren planets and metal-rich debris. In the shadows beyond, where fewer asteroids dared to roam due to the harvesting by an unseen hand, the enemy waited—a colony ship cloaked by the gas giant's immensity. As Max charted courses and ran simulations, he knew that every action taken now was pivotal. The ship behind the gas giant would be anticipating their arrival, yet had shown no signs of aggression or defense. That passive stance did nothing to ease Max's caution. "Patience," he whispered to the silence around him, the word a soft reminder of the delicate situation awaiting them just beyond the horizon of rocks and ice. Three days to plan, three days to prepare for what was to come—a confrontation or a truce, only time would reveal. Max's brow furrowed as he peered through the bridge viewport at the scattered rocks orbiting in silence. It was unsettling, the absence of any defensive maneuvers from the enemy ship—a stark void where he had expected a skirmish of patrolling fighters. "They've waited," he murmured, a hint of disbelief in his voice. An adversary lying in wait for millennia, a dormant predator whose intentions were shrouded in mystery. He scanned the asteroid field, analyzing trajectories and masses until a suitable cluster appeared on the display. A natural camouflage. With calculated precision, he charted a course and nestled the scout ship within the stony embrace of a sizeable, nondescript asteroid. The ship's engines powered down to a whisper, its presence diminished to a mere shadow among the cosmic debris. Retreating to the quietude of his state room, Max seated himself at the small desk that bore witness to countless strategies and now, a solitary pen poised above paper. The letters had to be explicit; there was no margin for error or misinterpretation. For Brock, each sentence was a directive—a cascade of steps to be taken with unwavering exactitude. For Lieutenant Alara, instructions lined with an underlying caution, a knowledge of her potential dissent. He signed off with a steely resolve, knowing full well the weight of command he placed upon their shoulders. The cryo vault greeted him with its familiar chill, the still forms of his crew held in frozen vigil. He approached Brock's pod, lifting the cover gently. The letters, two silent sentinels of parchment, found their rest upon Brock's chest. Max's hand hovered above the wake cycle initiation, then withdrew. Not yet. He programmed the pod for a delayed start—an hour to secure his departure, an hour to carve a path toward uncertain diplomacy. Stepping into the shuttle bay, Max surveyed the compact vessel that would carry him forth—a lone envoy on a mission of peace over war. The cryo pod within seemed almost an afterthought, its presence unnecessary for the imminent task. Securing the hatch behind him, he initiated the launch sequence. The shuttle disengaged from the scout ship, slipping out like a silent wraith against the backdrop of stars and stone. His hands moved with experienced ease over the controls, plotting a delicate route through the tumbling asteroids toward the imposing gas giant. The nukes onboard the scout ship lingered in his mind—a destructive option he vowed to avoid. There must be a way beyond annihilation, a shared future gleaned from the bounty of metals and untapped wealth this solar system offered. "Let's find a peaceful end to this waiting game," Max whispered to the void as the shuttle glided forward, threading its way through the celestial maze. Ahead loomed the gas giant, a sentinel guarding secrets yet unveiled, and Max steered onward, intent on unveiling a truth centuries in the making. Max's shuttle coasted into the shadow of the gas giant, its swirling storms dwarfing his solitary vessel. The silence was absolute, a stark contrast to the usual chatter of communications and sensor alerts that would greet a visitor in such a strategically significant location. His fingers danced across the console, pinging the massive ship's landing bay with hails that echoed unanswered into the void. "Come on, give me something," he muttered, squinting at the readouts displaying no hostile moves, no scrambling fighters—nothing but the cold indifference of space. It was disconcerting, the absence of defense, the lack of recognition that a foreign entity lurked mere hundreds of feet from their hull. Max's gut coiled tight; this was not standard protocol for a colony ship with so much to protect. He sighed, knowing hesitation could cost him dearly, but the void around Aurora offered no clues, no guidance. No other options remained. With a resolute flick of his wrist, Max directed the shuttle toward the ghostly open maw of the landing bay. The thrusters whispered as they nudged the craft inside, its hull lighting up with the faint glow of dormant running lights. As the shuttle's landing gear deployed with a mechanical clunk, Max peered through the viewport at the expansive deck below. Layer upon layer of dust painted every surface, untouched, it seemed, by human hands for eons. The vast emptiness of the bay seemed to swallow the sound of his arrival whole. "History's about to repeat itself, or we'll make a new path," he said to himself, steeling his nerves. His eyes lifted to the superstructure arching above, where the name of this mysterious twin to Destiny was emblazoned. 'Aurora,' it read, in letters that might have been proud once but now only whispered of faded glory. With the shuttle secured, Max drew a deep breath, ready to step into the belly of the ship that had waited as long as legends—or fears—could imagine. Whatever awaited him in the dormant corridors of Aurora, it was time to face the enigma head-on. *** Brock's eyelids flickered open, a rush of cold awareness flooding his veins. Instinctively, his hand dropped to the knife at his belt, fingers brushing against the familiar leather sheath. His gaze darted around the dimly lit cryo chamber, seeking out shadows that might hide threats. But there was only the hum of machinery and the soft glow of control panels. Where was Max? That thought clawed at him as he noticed the absence of his commanding officer—no watchful eyes, no steady hand ready to assist. The control panel blinked idly, green lights across the board. No alarms, no warnings. A stark silence hung in place of the expected protocol alerts. Then his eyes caught on something unusual—two envelopes resting on his chest. It was a peculiar sight, envelopes weren't standard operating procedure here. Max's handwriting stared back at him from the paper. He ripped the envelop open, and a silver set of insignia dropped onto his chest. Brock couldn't help but let out a wry chuckle. "Classic Max," he muttered under his breath, recognizing the captain's penchant for the dramatic. His eyes scanning the letter with a nod of understanding. He had known it; Max had gone rogue on a crazy one-man mission. The second envelope was addressed to Alara, and Brock didn’t hesitate to break the seal on that one too. A grin split his face as he read. Oh, how Alara would bristle at these instructions. Wasting no more time, Brock swung his legs over the side of the pod, his movements decisive and swift. He snatched up a nearby storage box and made a beeline for the weapons locker. Within moments, he had armed himself—an efficient triad of sidearms secured at hip, back, and ankle. He swept the remaining weapons into the box, their metallic chorus echoing in the empty vault. Amongst the crew's belongings, he rummaged with purpose, retrieving four additional pistols and, from Sergeant Carina's stash, a solitary rifle. These were not weapons of last resort, these were weapons belonging to people expecting to mutiny even before they’d boarded the ship at the last second. With the weight of the box in his arms, Brock navigated through the ship's corridors, his mind working over each step ahead. Hiding the cache within the scout ship wasn’t an option—Sergeant Carina was too skilled, too thorough. A grim determination set on his features as he donned his spacesuit, its fabric hugging his frame like a second skin. The airlock cycled with a hiss, opening to the expanse of space. The stars watched silently as Brock concealed the box in the void's embrace, tucking it away within a crevice atop the ship's hull. It was a temporary measure, but necessary. Once done, he sealed the airlock behind him, the sound final in its surety. Back inside, Brock steeled himself for the next phase. He approached Lieutenant Alara's pod, his finger hovering over the wake cycle control. With a press of a button, the process began, the machine humming to life as it prepared to bring her back to the world of the conscious. "Time to play your part, Lieutenant," he whispered, though the words were for him alone. Brock stepped back, watching as the pod's vitals signaled the end of Alara's long sleep. The scout ship, silent and waiting, felt suddenly charged with the tension of what was to come. Lieutenant Alara's eyes flickered open, the cold fog of cryosleep dissipating rapidly as her pilot's instincts kicked in. She scanned her surroundings, noting the steady hum of the ship's systems and the absence of Captain Archer from his pod. "Are we at the 300-year point?" she asked, her voice carrying the rasp of disuse. Brock sat motionless, a silent sentinel by the cryo vault's door. "No," he said without inflection. "We're at the solar system, and believe we've located the other colony ship. Captain Archer has gone to negotiate with them." Alara swung her legs out of the pod, her movement fluid despite the long sleep. Her gaze locked on Sergeant Carina, who was beginning to stir in her own pod. "Sergeant, arrest Gunnery Sergeant Brock and put him back into cryo," she commanded sharply. "They violated their orders. I'm the Captain of this ship now." "Actually," Brock interjected, tapping the insignia on his uniform, "you're not. Captain Archer promoted me to acting Captain before he left. It's all quite legal." He stood, holding her gaze as he casually placed an envelope on the table. "These are your orders. Report to me on the Bridge once you're ready, Lieutenant." The bridge was quiet except for the soft whir of computers when Brock settled into the Captain's chair. Moments later, the hiss of the door signaled the arrival of trouble. Brock anticipated the rustle of fabric, the barely discernible shift in air pressure as Sergeant Carina lunged toward him with a trained ferocity that belied her recent awakening. With reflexes honed through countless drills, Brock rolled smoothly from the chair, capturing Carina's wrist and using her momentum to bring her down. Alara stormed in next, her face contorted with anger, but Brock met her charge with a well-placed kick that halted her advance and knocked the wind from her. "Enough!" he barked as he hoisted Carina up and thrust her toward the Crew Chief's station. Alara he grabbed next, her slender form surprisingly light as he deposited her in the pilot's seat. He stepped back, his presence commanding the room. "Listen closely," he began, his tone even but laced with steel. "You were sent here under false pretenses, to push Max into committing an atrocity. But those who spun this web are long gone. Your treachery dies with their bones. I’ve locked you out of the nuclear missiles, and I’ve deactivated the engines. You will sit here quietly and wait for further instructions." He met their stares unflinchingly. "Mutineers like you would normally swing from the gallows, but I'm offering you a chance. Live, follow my lead, and you might see Destiny again—where you'll retire in silence." Brock's ultimatum hung heavy in the air, a lifeline extended over a chasm of betrayal. The silence that followed Brock’s departure was charged, a live wire crackling between Lieutenant Alara and Sergeant Carina. The tension was palpable, the air thick with the heavy weight of disappointment and the acrid scent of failure. They exchanged glares, both sets of eyes smoldering with the embers of plans now turned to ash. Alara's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and commanding despite the setback. "Sergeant, get on reprogramming those missiles," she insisted, her tone brooking no argument. "We're firing them immediately." Carina’s incredulous stare was the only response at first, a silent testament to the absurdity of the order. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the chair creaking under the sudden movement. "Are you kidding? I couldn't reprogram his coding in a thousand years," she shot back, her voice tinged with both respect for Brock's skills and frustration at their predicament. Alara leaned forward, her brows knitting together in confusion. "Why, what's so special about his coding?" she pressed, seeking some sliver of hope that their mission wasn’t completely doomed. Carina’s expression softened, an odd mix of admiration and resignation painting her features. "I thought you knew, don't you know who Brock is?" "Of course I do," snapped Alara, her patience waning. "He's that hyper-thought freak's bulldog," she said dismissively, though her words lacked their usual venom. Carina let out a low chuckle, one that held no humor but brimmed with irony. "Well, yeah, he's that. But there's more." She paused, gauging Alara’s reaction before continuing. "Have you heard of Death Knight?" Alara's face registered recognition, but also puzzlement. "Isn't that the top gamer on Destiny? Nobody knows who he really is, though." "Turns out they did find out," Carina replied, her voice dropping as if sharing a secret that could turn the tide of war. "And he's more than just a gamer. Death Knight is that kid who hacked into Destiny's defense network." A beat passed as Carina let the revelation sink in. "I was on the shuttle when they brought him to the academy—Brock, that is," she mused, her gaze distant as she recalled the memory. "He was in handcuffs. They gave him a choice: prison or join the Marines. Max would have never followed someone who wasn’t his intellectual equal," Carina said, a knowing look in her eye. "Brock and Max share the same IQ, but while Max has hyper-thought, Brock... Brock's a walking mountain with muscle to match his mind. He hacked the defense network when he was thirteen, can you imagine?" Alara remained silent, processing this new information. Her posture had lost some of its rigid command, replaced by a dawning respect for the man they had underestimated. "Rumor has it," Carina added with a hint of reverence, "that Brock has the same genetic mutation as Max, though manifesting as hyper-reflexes instead. Did you see how fast he took me down? I barely saw him move." The two women sat in a state of enforced impotence, surrounded by the machinery of a ship now beyond their control. The bridge, once a symbol of authority and power, had become their gilded cage. As the realization settled, a new hatred for the enigmatic figure of Brock began to take root in Alara’s mind. There had to be a way to defeat Max’s bulldog.