Chapter 7 The resounding blast of the horn shattered the stillness of the afternoon, signaling the start of an ancient competition etched in the tradition of youth: Capture the Flag. Max's heart pounded with an adrenaline-fueled rhythm as he observed his teammates break into a coordinated sprint, their bodies cutting through the dense air with a collective resolve. They swarmed forward, splitting into strategic factions, each person melding into the fabric of the woods with purpose and intent. But amidst that orchestrated chaos, Max stood motionless, his feet anchored to the ground by the weight of rejection. Brock, who usually wore camaraderie like a second skin, had turned on him with a rare bite in his tone just moments before. "Let me play one game without you clinging to me, okay," Brock had said. The words had hung between them, heavy and charged with an unspoken finality that left Max adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Max's gaze followed Brock, who was now flanked by two friends—friends that were not Max. He watched the distance grow between them, as if with every step Brock took, the gap in their friendship widened. An internal struggle brewed within Max, should he pursue the comfort of Brock's shadow or concede to the solitude that seemed his only companion? The decision gnawed at him, but as Brock's figure grew smaller, swallowed by the thicket and laughter of camaraderie, Max made his choice. With a surreptitious glance to ensure he remained unseen, Max trailed behind. His steps were hesitant, a stark contrast to the assured strides of his estranged friend. Max could feel the sting of isolation pricking at his skin, the sensation urging him to retreat, to find solace in the quiet corner of a field and become a spectator rather than a player in this game of alliances. "Go ahead, sit down," he whispered to himself, the temptation to withdraw almost overpowering. But something in him rebelled against the thought of surrender. Despite the pang of hurt that Brock's dismissal had caused, Max couldn't bring himself to abandon the chase. So he continued, a ghost haunting the footsteps of a friendship that felt increasingly out of reach. With each crunch of leaves underfoot, Max berated himself for this weakness, for this inability to sever the ties that bound him to Brock. He hated the way his own loyalty betrayed him, hated that he was here, skulking in the underbrush like some discarded afterthought. But most of all, he hated that he cared so much about someone who seemingly cared so little in return. Max crouched low, his breath shallow as he peered through the lattice of leaves. Brock was a blur among the trees, darting with uncanny agility; his movements were fluid, a choreographed dance skirting the boundary of the permissible and the impossible. In this emerald labyrinth, Brock seemed untouchable, each feint and pivot dismissing his pursuers like they were mere phantoms. The enemy players, with their eyes fixed on Brock's every move, appeared indifferent to Max's presence. He was just another shadow in the forest, inconsequential and invisible. For a fleeting moment, Max entertained the thought that he was a ghost, unseen by friend and foe alike—perhaps they all wished him gone, swallowed up by the woods around him. But as Max tracked Brock's progress, he noticed a pattern emerging from the chaos. The enemy wasn't merely chasing; they were herding. Like seasoned hunters, they steered Brock towards an unseen snare. Max's heart raced as realization dawned upon him—the enemy had circled back. They were not aimlessly wandering but executing a plan, one that centered on Brock. Max pressed himself against the earth, his body hidden beneath the brush, as he watched the strategic net tighten. The thirty adversaries, once scattered, now converged with military precision, forming an ironclad ring around Brock and his companions. Their faces were masks of anticipation, ready to spring their trap. Brock, ever the linchpin of victory, seemed oblivious to the impending ambush. His confidence bordered on arrogance, the belief in his own invincibility clouding his judgment. To Max, it was clear: Brock was so much more than just fast—he was exceptional, his reflexes belonging to a realm beyond their youthful games. And then it happened. Brock and his two friends, caught in the thrill of evasion, barreled headlong into the waiting throng. A collective gasp rose from the encircling enemy—a gasp of triumph—as they closed ranks, ensuring no escape. They didn't need to lay hands on Brock; the mere presence of their bodies was enough to ensnare him within the rules of the game, where physicality was forbidden. From his hidden vantage point, Max could only watch as his best friend found himself suddenly powerless, trapped by the very speed that usually set him free. Brock's face, always alight with the joy of the chase, fell into a frown of disbelief. It was a moment of vulnerability that Max had never seen before—a rare glimpse of Brock as something other than the invincible champion. Brock's hands were up, a silent concession as the circle became a snare. Max's heart pounded in sync with the thumping of feet closing in around his best friend. The enemy team, a ravenous pack, pounced with outstretched arms, their fingers grazing the fabric of Brock's blue towel before snatching it away. A symbol of defeat clutched victoriously in their midst. Max's breath hitched, eyes unblinking as he witnessed the downfall of a titan among children. Even from his concealment in the underbrush, he could see the stoic set of Brock's jaw, an uncharacteristic stillness that replaced the usual kinetic frenzy. They escorted him, a captive, through the foliage, each step a march towards ignominy. The tin shed loomed ahead, primitive and cold, its door creaking open to swallow Brock and his allies whole. The metallic clang of the latch resounded with finality. Brock was inside, isolated from the field of play, and Max felt the weight of silence descend upon him. Two guards stood by the shed, their vigilant eyes sweeping the surroundings, unwitting of the observer hidden mere yards away. A cheer erupted from the enemy camp, a chorus of premature victory. They scattered, emboldened by their success, leaving behind the echo of their revelry. Max's limbs trembled with indecision. Brock had made it clear – no following, no clinging. Yet there sat Brock, imprisoned because of his own hubris, and here hid Max, faced with a choice. He could leave; after all, Brock might have wanted it that way. But as the cheers dwindled into the rustling leaves, a sigh escaped Max's lips. He couldn't do that to Brock—not when every cell in his body screamed for action. Hurt feelings aside, this was about more than just a game. It was about loyalty, about friendship. Max's eyes locked onto the tin shed, resolve hardening within him. Brock needed him, even if he didn't know it yet. With careful movements, Max began to inch forward, his mind racing with possibilities, each more daring than the last. Brock was his best friend, and Max would not let him down. Not today. Max's heart pounded against his chest like a drumbeat, urging him forward as he crouched low in the underbrush. His breaths were deliberate and controlled, the cool air of the woods filling his lungs. A plan, reckless and fraught with uncertainties, unfurled in his mind—a spark that threatened to either ignite a triumphant blaze or fizzle into disappointment. He shifted, muscles tensing as he prepared to execute the hastily concocted strategy. With a quick glance toward the enemy camp, Max seized the moment. "They're attacking the base, we need everyone, quick," he bellowed with all the authority he could muster, his voice ricocheting off the trees and piercing the false tranquility of the woods. Then, like a shadow melting into the forest floor, Max pressed himself flat behind a fallen log, its rough bark biting into his skin. The guards, startled from their stoic watch, scrambled past him, eyes alight with urgency, oblivious to the ruse. For a fleeting second, Max felt a surge of victory—his ploy had worked. With no time to waste, he sprang up, darting toward the shed, his sneakers kicking up a spray of dirt and leaves. There, just as he had hoped, Brock's and his two friends' blue towels lay discarded on the ground. Scooping them up, Max fumbled with the lock, his fingers clumsy with adrenaline. The door creaked open, revealing Brock slumped against the far wall, an amused grin etched across his features. "I can't believe that worked," Brock chuckled, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and admiration. Max approached, extending the captured flags toward his friend. "I'm sorry, I know you said not to follow you, but..." he trailed off, unsure of how his intervention would be received. It was then that one of the boys, who'd been sitting beside Brock, fixed his gaze on Brock with a look that melded shock and disapproval. "Seriously, you told him not to follow you?" he questioned, his tone laced with disbelief. "Mine never talks to me, he's a stuck up fleet snob that thinks he's better than us lowly grunts, and yours wants nothing but to be like you. I thought you were cool, maybe not." Max felt a swell of mixed emotions wash over him as the boy’s words hung heavy in the air—accusation and camaraderie entwined in a single breath. He stood there, the blue towels clutched in his hand, a silent witness to the unfolding realization between friends. Brock’s expression softened, the edges of his grin fading into a more somber line. He pushed himself off the wall and stood, dusting off the seat of his pants with a few pats. "I deserve that," Brock admitted, meeting Max's gaze directly. His shoulders slouched slightly, a physical manifestation of his regret. "I'm sorry, Max, that was mean and plain wrong of me." Max's fingers twitched around the blue towels, still warm from being gripped in the heat of the game. He offered a small, resigned smile, the kind that comes from understanding rather than happiness. "Naw, I know I can be a pain," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. Shadows from the bars of the shed played across his face as he shrugged, a gesture heavy with a mix of forgiveness and self-awareness. "I shouldn't follow you all the time. You need time with your friends." The air between them hung thick with unspoken words, a quiet acknowledgment of their bond. Max looked down at the folded towels in his hands, then back up at Brock, his eyes clear and resolute. This was more than just a game; it was about knowing when to stand together and when to give space—a lesson hard-learned on the battleground of childhood friendship. The hinges creaked as Max pushed the shed door open, letting in a sliver of waning sunlight that cut through the dim interior. Brock's companion, who'd been leaning against the corrugated metal wall, straightened up and stepped forward. His eyes were alight with a mix of humor and respect as he reached out, his hand coming to rest on Max's shoulder with a firmness that spoke of camaraderie rather than consolation. "You're okay, Max," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to fill the cramped space. "You can hang with us anytime." The boy's gaze shifted briefly to Brock before returning to Max, an implicit invitation hanging in the air between them. "And if you ever get tired of this ungrateful lump, you can call me." A smile played at the edges of his lips as he gave a playful nod toward Brock. "I'll gladly trade my worthless lump of a pilot wannabe for you." Max's response came in the form of a grin, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the tension that had built up over the course of the game. He shook his head, a gentle but resolute motion. "Thanks," he said, the gratitude genuine and heartfelt. "But I'll keep Brock; he's my best friend." The words carried a weight, a declaration stronger than any flag captured or territory won on the makeshift battlefield outside. In that dusty, metal shed, amidst the captured flags and whispered strategies, it wasn't just a game that was won—it was the affirmation of a bond that would last far beyond the echoes of childhood cheers and the fading light of day. The air in the shed was thick with the smell of dry earth and metal, carrying with it the subtle undertones of childhood determination. Max, still clutching the blue towels that symbolized freedom in this grand game of strategy and stealth, watched as the boy's gaze lingered on Brock with a mix of admiration and reproof. "Dude, you're lucky," he said, his voice low but clear. "This kid is going to be a real pilot." The words hung there, not just a compliment to Max, but a reminder to Brock of what he almost lost through a momentary lapse in judgment. Brock rose to his feet, the dust from the shed floor rising with him like a cloud of contrition. His eyes met Max's for a fleeting second—enough time for unspoken apologies to pass between them—and then shifted to acknowledge the others. His posture was straight, his resolve firm. "I know, I know, I screwed up," he admitted, the words echoing slightly against the tin walls. It wasn't just an admission; it was a vow—a promise etched in the seriousness of his tone and the set of his jaw. "It won't happen again." The declaration was as much for himself as it was for Max and the rest of the team huddled within the confines of their impromptu prison. "Come on guys," Brock continued, his voice gaining momentum, the leader within him stepping forth once more. He extended a hand toward Max as if to physically pull him back into the fold. "Let's go win this game." Max felt a surge of camaraderie as he handed the towels to their rightful owners, his earlier self-doubt washed away by the current of shared purpose. Together, they would charge back into the fray, no longer fragmented by hurt feelings or bruised egos but united by the prospect of victory and the bonds of friendship reaffirmed under the most unlikely of circumstances. Twenty-eight hundred years later Asteroids danced a silent waltz outside the view window, a chaotic ballet that only Brock seemed to understand. Each rock spun in its own orbit, a magnificent pattern emerging from what once looked like random drifts of space debris. Max's words echoed in his mind, a cryptic puzzle now assembling itself into a map—Max had known, somehow, he'd known. "It's been a week, and still no word from your 'Captain'," Alara's voice sliced through the stillness of the bridge, laced with a bitter edge that could rival the harshness of space itself. Brock remained motionless except for the steady rhythm of his thumb brushing against the armrest—a subconscious tic that surfaced during moments of deep concentration. His gaze didn't waver from the celestial spectacle before him; to look away would mean to lose the thread of understanding that was just beginning to form. "That is true," he thought, his mind acknowledging the weight of her words without diverting his attention. No distress signals, no comms chatter, not even the whisper of a searching patrol vessel disturbing the void. It was as if Max, the enemy colony ship, and all its potential threats had vanished, leaving behind only this intricate maze of rocks as a testament to their existence. In the silence that followed Alara's accusation, he found clarity. The asteroids weren't merely floating; they were guiding, pointing the way through their spirals and spins. Max had seen it, the subtle hand of physics at play, and now Brock saw it too. "I'm going to go get him," he declared, his voice firm with resolve that bordered on obsession. To retrieve Max was to give validity to a vow taken long ago. Alara's incredulity was palpable, though Brock never turned to confirm it. He didn't need to see her face to know it was etched with hate and venom. Brock stood up, the decision cemented in his movements, the room around him fading to nothing but a backdrop for the mission taking shape in his determined mind. The pattern was there, Max had left it for him, and he would follow it to the ends of the cosmos if need be. Alara's voice cut through the silence, sharp as the edge of a knife. "You're going to risk the ship, their defenses will tear us to pieces," she said, her concern thinly veiled by the assertiveness in her tone. "Have you seen any defenses?" replied Brock without turning around. His hands moved over the control panel with practiced ease, pulling up sensor logs and scanning them for any hint of the threat Alara imagined. The screens showed nothing but the vast emptiness of space and the erratic dance of asteroids. "We haven't so much as seen a shuttle." He knew Alara was right to worry; the enemy had been silent, their tactics for this unknown. But this silence, this absence, it spoke volumes. It hinted at an unseen vulnerability, a chink in their armor that Max had perhaps stumbled upon. And if there was a chance, even the barest sliver of possibility that he could exploit it, Brock would take it. "I'm not going to take the ship," he continued, finally swiveling his chair to meet Alara's gaze. His eyes were a reflection of the steel within him. "You'll stay here with the ship until I get back." Brock stood up and strode toward the hatch, his movements decisive. Behind him, Alara's presence loomed like a question unasked, her doubt an unspoken shadow against the backdrop of stars. But Brock couldn't afford to entertain doubts—not when every second brought Max closer to an unknown fate. The hush of the bridge followed him out, the soft hum of machinery a constant reminder of the life they carried with them through the void, and the lives that hung in the balance on an enemy ship somewhere in the black expanse beyond. Alara's voice echoed in the cold stillness of the bridge, her skepticism piercing the silence. "And how do you plan to do that, walk? That ship is six million miles away," she shouted after him. He paused for a moment, looking back at Alara framed in the hatch to the Bridge, her stance an embodiment of defiance. A part of him yearned to divulge the intricacies of his scheme, to unfold before her the mental map he'd charted that led into perilous unknowns—yet he refrained. Alara's voice broke the stillness, her words sharp but laced with an undercurrent of anxiety. You've disabled the ship's engines, what do we do if you don't come back?" "Get in your pods and sleep a couple millennia until the Destiny arrives," Brock replied, his tone even, devoid of irony or jest. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the kind of grim acceptance one might use when discussing the weather. With a resolute step, Brock turned and strode through the narrow corridors of the ship, the weight of his decision anchoring each footfall. The bridge's tension-laden atmosphere dissipated behind him as he entered the mechanical tranquility of the cargo bay. His eyes, accustomed to the dim lighting, quickly found the EVA sled—a testament to human ingenuity, now the centerpiece of his daring plan. He approached it with familiarity, its sleek design a contrast to the cluttered surroundings. Brock ran his fingers along the metallic surface, feeling for imperfections, finding none. The sled was ready, prepped by his own hands in anticipation of this very moment. His inspection was methodical, a ritual honed by years of training and experience. He checked the air tanks, their gauges confirming a month of breathable atmosphere. The extra fuel canisters were secured in place, their contents vital for the journey ahead. Food and water supplies were stowed efficiently, calculated to sustain him with military precision. Continuing the inventory, he verified the small hydrogen collector, its compact form capable of siphoning abundant resources to provide power for a thousand years. The survival shelter—a cocoon of safety—and a portable heater to ward off the cold embrace of space, all were nestled next to his arsenal: a selection of weapons for contingencies he hoped to avoid. The comms-equipment sat silently, waiting to bridge the light-years with whispers of hope, while basic tools and medical supplies filled the remaining compartments. Lastly, an extra spacesuit lay folded, an extra promise of protection against the unforgiving void. Brock allowed himself a brief nod; the sled bore the hallmarks of readiness. It had to be—the margin for error was non-existent. Max's equations, the cryptic dance of celestial bodies, now became the map to an improbable rendezvous. Max had never intended his work for such a high-stakes gamble, but necessity was the mother of adaptation. In the silence of the cargo bay, Brock felt the solitude settling around him like a premonition. The ship, Alara, the unspoken fears—they all seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the path ahead. With a last glance at the sled, he reaffirmed his commitment; the risks were monumental, but so were the stakes. "Max, I'm betting everything on your numbers," he murmured, almost as if speaking to the absent captain would tether him to reality. Brock's gaze hardened with resolve—he was ready to weave his way through the cosmic labyrinth, a solitary figure against the vastness of space. He donned a beast of a spacesuit designed for mining, it would provide extra protection. His gloved hands moved with methodical precision, securing the clasps of the heavy armored suit. It was a hulking thing, built for durability rather than elegance, and its weight settled on his shoulders like an old friend. He knew its cumbersome shape would be an advantage against unexpected micrometeorites and harsh conditions outside. With a final tug at the suit's seals, he felt the comforting hiss as the internal atmosphere established itself, encasing him in a life-sustaining bubble. He stepped towards the EVA sled, its utilitarian lines bathed in the cold light of the cargo bay. Brock positioned himself at the head, integrating into the control harness with clicks that spoke of security and readiness. His fingers danced over the console, waking the sled's systems with practiced ease. The display flickered to life, indicators glowing green across the board. "Time to dance among the stars," he whispered, just loud enough for the suit's comms to pick up and disperse into silence. The bay doors yawned open ahead, revealing the infinite tapestry of space, punctuated by the tumbling ballet of asteroids. With deft control inputs, Brock eased the sled forward, the familiar hum of thrusters vibrating through his seat. The tracking tag he'd dispatched earlier blinked steadily on the navigation screen, a beacon amidst chaos. Navigating the asteroid field was akin to threading a needle while riding a bull—thrilling and fraught with danger. Brock's gaze remained locked on the shifting patterns, his body tensing with each maneuver. Suddenly, a rogue asteroid, jagged and imposing, veered into his path. Larger than a habitat dome, it hurtled towards him, indifferent to his existence. Adrenaline surged as Brock's reflexes took over. The sled's thrusters fired in a controlled burst, nudging them aside by mere inches. Close enough for him to see the pockmarked surface of the rock, close enough to etch his name with a fingertip drag across cold stone. A dangerous temptation, but Brock's focus remained unshaken. "Nice try, universe," he muttered, the rush of near-miss already fading into determination. The hunt continued, each minute stretching longer than the last. Persistence paid off when, nearly an hour later, his target came into view—the asteroid he sought, marked by nature's own signpost: a cave. The entrance beckoned like a siren's call, shadows playing across its threshold, promising shelter and a chance at stealth. Brock guided the sled across the asteroid's uneven terrain, the low gravity making the task less about flight and more about a series of calculated hops. Up close, the cave's maw was even more pronounced, a scar upon the landscape that offered respite. "Home sweet temporary home," he announced to no one, allowing himself a tight-lipped smile. He brought the sled to a halt, hovering at the cave's entrance, where soon his plan would unfold—or unravel. In this game of cosmic hide-and-seek, Brock was betting everything on the silent sentinels of equations and a hidden ace in the form of human ingenuity. With a final nudge of thrusters, Brock settled the sled just outside the cave's mouth, the stark silence of space enveloping him as he detached from his seat. The bulky armored suit resisted his movements, but he wrestled with it persistently until he stood on the asteroid's surface. He inspected the cave: its depth was modest, sixteen feet or so, the walls rough and uneven—nature's own handiwork. "Good enough for government work," he muttered to himself, a phrase Max would often use back when plans were more about hopeful improvisation than precision. The sled, though cumbersome, complied with his coaxing as he pushed it into the cave. Once inside, he retrieved the emergency shelter kit, a compact bundle of high-tech fabric and sealing mechanisms. Unfolding it with practiced hands, he anchored the material across the cave entrance, leaving an integrated hatch unsealed. This would be his airlock, crude yet effective. Next came the life support setup. The hydrogen collector unfolded like a metallic flower seeking sunlight—except here, in the void, it sought the scant atoms of hydrogen to fuel the generator. Once deployed, it hummed quietly, a testament to human resilience and ingenuity. Satisfied with the seal, he initiated the pressurization sequence. His ears popped gently as the cave's atmosphere adjusted to a breathable level. Only then did Brock allow himself the luxury of shedding the heavy mining suit. With relief, he stepped out of the metal cocoon and into the skin-tight suit underneath—a second skin that felt liberating after the earlier confinement. The unpacking was methodical: food rations, water pouches, medical supplies—all arranged with the meticulousness of a man who knew the devil hid in disorder. Each item had its place within the cave, which now held a strange semblance of home. "Fourteen days," Brock whispered, double-checking the calculations etched onto a handheld device. Max's equations scrolled across the screen, lines and numbers that charted an invisible path through the cosmos. This asteroid, their unwitting ally, would slingshot him within striking distance of the enemy ship. "Easy peasy," he repeated the mantra, a half-smile tracing his lips. His plan was simple yet audacious: infiltrate the enemy ship, locate Max, commandeer any available craft, and escape back to the safety of their scout ship. A daring one-man rescue mission powered by hope and steely nerve. Brock took one last look around the makeshift base camp. It was snug, functional, and temporary—but it would do. Now, all there was to do was wait for the silent dance of celestial bodies to align. And when they did, he'd be ready to strike from the shadows, a ghost amidst the stars. The gentle hum of the generator was a lullaby to Brock's strained nerves as he lay on the makeshift bed cobbled from supplies and survival gear. With his hands folded behind his head, he allowed himself a brief respite, eyes closed, his mind racing through tactical scenarios. Each potential challenge aboard the enemy ship unfolded in his head like a complex puzzle waiting to be solved—the hidden passageways that snaked behind walls, the likely guarded sectors, the quickest routes to the detention cells. He knew the Destiny inside out, its twin design etched into his memory. That knowledge was a beacon in the looming uncertainty. His breaths came slow and even, belying the coiled readiness within him. Hours—or was it days?—slipped by with excruciating lethargy. The passage of time was an abstract concept in the isolation of space, marked only by the routine checks on equipment and the silent revolution of asteroids outside. Eventually, impatience nudged him from his contemplation. He rose, his movements fluid in the skin-tight suit that clung to him like a second epidermis. He navigated the cramped interior of his asteroid hideout, making his way to the hatch that served as his portal to the stars. A press of a button, a hiss of equalizing pressure, and he stepped out onto the desolate surface of the asteroid. His boots crunched over the regolith, leaving shallow imprints as he moved toward the point where he could best gauge his trajectory. There was a balletic grace to his motion, each step measured against the pull of minimal gravity. In this void, he was both anchorless and steadfast, a solitary figure against the backdrop of infinity. A check of the handheld device confirmed it—he was getting there. The calculations held true; the trajectory unwavering. Yet the enemy ship remained a ghost beyond visual confirmation, shrouded by the colossal gas giant that played the role of cosmic gatekeeper. With a steadying breath, Brock raised his gaze to the immense planet, its swirling storms a canvas of ochres and creams. Beyond that turbulent veil lay his objective, the sterile corridors of the enemy vessel harboring both his friend and foe. "I'm coming, Max, just hang on," he whispered, his voice whisked away by the vacuum, unheard but fervent—a promise etched in determination and the cold fire of resolve.