Chapter 12 The Destiny Colony Ship, Field Trip Brock's foot tapped an impatient rhythm on the metal floor, his gaze fixed on the towering doors before him. The monolithic barriers stood as the final threshold between him and the boundless cosmos he had only dreamed about. Every passing second expanded within him, a lifetime condensed into minutes. The Destiny, with its sprawling thirty-mile length, had always been Brock's entire universe—every nook and cranny of it, familiar territory to his curious eyes and restless legs. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, feeling the constraints of the artificial world that had been his playground and prison. He knew each crevice, every hidden tunnel snaking beneath the simulated landscape where the life-sustaining warehouses lay dormant. Those vast, silent chambers filled with cryo vaults were the ship's hibernating heart, pulsing with the promise of future life upon a distant planet—a planet Brock understood he would never set foot on. The outer-hull, a two-mile buffer that cradled the interior habitat, was the destination of today’s trip. Today, at last, he would see beyond the enclosed artificial world of his birth where the whispered tales of the unexplored filled his dreams–where scout ships pierced the veil of the unknown in all directions, searching for a new world as the Destiny crawled across the galaxy. That was where he belonged—not here, surrounded by those whose interest in the field trip didn't extend beyond a day’s escape from the confines of the classroom. A sidelong glance caught the disinterested expressions and idle chatter of his peers—mere passengers on a journey they hadn't chosen. In contrast, Brock felt the fire of purpose. This was no ordinary excursion; this was a reconnaissance mission for his soul. The relentless drive that had compelled him to scale every artificial peak and delve into every maintenance tunnel was a mere prologue to the odyssey he envisioned. "Come on," he muttered under his breath, willing the doors to yield. His heart pounded in sync with the tap of his boot, a drumbeat heralding the moment he had been anticipating since he first understood the concept of 'outside'. The outer-hull door, a massive slab of engineered marvel, symbolized the gateway to his destiny—a fitting name for both the ship and his fate. The whir of the airlock cycling crescendoed into a steady hum, and Brock leaned closer, his anticipation tangible as each vibration thrummed through the metal under his palms. With a hiss and a groan, the barrier between him and the cosmos retracted, revealing the threshold to infinity. Brock's legs propelled him forward before his mind fully processed the doors opening. His boots pounded on the metal grating, every stride a leap toward the culmination of his dreams. The corridor blurred past him in streaks of gray and white until he skidded to a halt at the massive viewing window. He pressed his hands against the cool glass, forehead following, eyes wide with awe. The universe sprawled before him, an eternal canvas dotted with celestial artistry. Stars flickered like distant campfires, nebulae swirled in ghostly dances, and the velvet black seemed to invite him into its embrace. It was colossal, limitless—an open challenge to the explorer within him. Turning, Brock searched for the shared excitement, the collective gasp he expected from his peers. Instead, only a sparse gathering met his gaze. Some clung to each other; others were already retreating, their faces pinched in fear or wet with tears. The void that called to Brock's soul whispered nightmares to theirs. Confusion flickered across his features—how could they not see the beauty, the freedom? He caught sight of a boy next to him, his hand barely grazing the glass, a gesture of reverence and longing. Recognition lit Brock's expression. "Hi, it's awesome, isn't it?" Brock's voice broke through the stillness, a beacon of shared wonder amidst the sea of trepidation. He grinned, finding camaraderie in this singular moment with someone who understood the call of the stars. The nod was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there—an affirmation that the boy standing beside Brock felt the same pull to the infinite. The unspoken understanding hung in the air between them, a shared bond over the allure of the cosmos. Brock's eyes were alight with determination, his gaze returning to the vastness outside the window, then back to the boy who had acknowledged the grandeur with him. A spark of camaraderie ignited within him, and without hesitation, he projected his vision into words, voicing the dream that fueled his every waking moment. "I'm going out there someday," Brock declared with unwavering conviction, his hand shooting forward in an offer of friendship and alliance. The gesture was bold, confident—a physical extension of his inner resolve. "I know you." His fingers hung suspended, reaching toward the boy next to him, waiting for physical contact to seal the connection that had been forged by their mutual reverence for the scene before them. Brock's hand was not just an invitation; it was a pledge, a symbol of shared aspirations and the beginning of a journey they both yearned to undertake—out there, among the stars. The boy’s cheeks tinged with a hesitant flush as his eyes lifted to meet Brock's outstretched hand, the backdrop of endless space casting its cosmic glow upon their young faces. His shoulders hunched ever so slightly, an instinctive reaction to being recognized. "Me?" the boy’s voice was a whisper lost amidst the hum of machinery and the soft echo of distant conversations—a murmur of surprise that barely reached Brock's ears. He shook his head, disbelief etched into the subtle furrow of his brow, his gaze flitting away as if searching the star-strewn void for an escape from the spotlight. "Yeah," Brock persisted, a grin spreading across his features, undeterred by the boy's reticence. His hand remained extended, steadfast in its offering of camaraderie. "You're that kid that beat me in the big math competition. You’re Max Archer." The words hung between them, charged with recognition, and slowly, Max’s posture unfolded, the initial shyness melting away under the warmth of Brock's unwavering enthusiasm. The reality of the moment began to settle within him, the weight of acknowledgment anchoring him to the possibility of a friendship born from rivalry and respect. Max's gaze dropped to the metallic floor, a sheen of embarrassment glossing over his features. "Sorry," he mumbled, the word barely audible, a testament to his humility even in victory. Brock's hand remained extended, a bridge over the chasm of their brief history. The hum of Destiny's life-support systems provided a rhythmic backdrop to this silent tableau. Brock’s arm did not waver, did not falter, an emblem of the respect he held for Max's intellect and the sprawling future he envisioned for them both. "Don't be sorry," Brock said, his voice steady and encouraging, echoing slightly off the cold, curved walls of the outer-hull corridor. The statement was more than mere words; it was an offering of acceptance, an acknowledgment of Max's merit. "You're smarter than me, you deserved to win." In that moment, beneath the vast expanse of space that cradled Destiny like a child in its arms, a bond began to form. Brock's unyielding optimism seemed to reach out, wrapping around Max's reluctance, nurturing the fragile seed of camaraderie planted within the confines of steel and stardust. The corners of Max's mouth curled upwards, and with an unexpected flicker of courage, his hand shot out towards Brock. The gesture was firm, decisive, as if he were reaching across an invisible divide that had separated them until this moment. Brock's eyes lit up with the kind of spark typically reserved for the ignition of rocket engines, a glimmer that spoke of adventure and uncharted territories. Without hesitation, he clasped Max’s outstretched hand in his own, shaking it with a vigor that bordered on the excessive. Max’s arm oscillated back and forth like a metronome set to a frenetic pace, and Brock could sense the strength in the other boy's grip—a latent power that belied his shy demeanor. "I'm Brock. Wanna be friends?" The question hung there, suspended like a starship awaiting launch clearance, while anticipation buzzed through Brock’s veins. His offer was more than mere words; it was an invitation to explore, to dream, and to break free from the confines of their steel cocoon—together. Brock saw in Max not just a peer, but a potential co-pilot in the grand adventure that lay beyond the transparent barrier separating them from the cosmos. Max's affirmation was a simple bob of his head, his eyes gleaming with a mix of trepidation and excitement. "Okay." With the pact sealed, Brock eased his grip, allowing Max's hand to slip free. The energy between them had shifted now, as if Brock's fervor had been siphoned into Max, charging him with a newfound curiosity. "Hey," Brock said, his voice crackling with anticipation, "Wanna see something, come on." His fingers twitched with impatience as he beckoned Max to follow. Their footsteps echoed in the corridor, a staccato rhythm against the hum of the Destiny's life support systems. Brock led the way with the confidence of someone born to lead. As they approached the designated area, Brock's stride grew more purposeful. Max hesitated for only a heartbeat before matching Brock's pace. He could feel the pull of the unknown, the allure of discovery that Brock embodied—a human compass pointing towards adventure. "Hurry," Brock urged without breaking stride, throwing the words over his shoulder like a lifeline. The intense determination in his eyes reflected the glint of the few lights that dotted their path. The air grew cooler as they advanced, the recycled oxygen tinged with the tang of machinery and the endless void beyond the ship's skin. Brock's chest filled with it, energizing him, and he could sense Max's breaths syncing to the rhythm of their flight. They were two electrons, bound by an invisible force, hurtling through the circuitry of Destiny's veins. Brock tasted freedom on his tongue, a flavor he imagined mirrored the infinite expanse of space itself—a taste he yearned to share with Max. "Up there," Brock said, pointing at a red line above a ladder fixed to the wall like a distant horizon. "That's the central axis. There's no gravity there." His voice reverberated against the walls, filled with a sense of purpose that Max could almost touch. Without hesitation, Brock grasped the first rung, the muscles in his arms tensing visibly beneath the fabric of his jumpsuit. He ascended with an athlete's grace, each movement fluid and sure. Max reached out tentatively, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal, but his doubts melted away by the ease of Brock's ascent—each step up was a promise that the improbable could be achieved. As Brock climbed higher, the ambient hum of Destiny's life-support systems grew fainter, replaced by the echo of their isolated breaths and the soft clangs of boots against metal. Max followed, one rung at a time, his heartbeat a staccato rhythm in his ears. With each passing moment, the pull of gravity lessened, as if the ship itself was releasing them from its embrace, encouraging them to reach for the freedom that lay just beyond reach. Max's gaze lifted to Brock, whose silhouette against the backdrop of the vast, twinkling void was growing smaller as he ascended. The larger boy's confidence seemed to radiate outwards, touching Max with its warmth and silently urging him on. The infectious nature of Brock's bravery acted as a catalyst, breaking through the thin shell of Max's trepidation. The climb transformed into a rhythmical dance, each step propelling Max closer to the brink of an unseen frontier. The persistent pull of gravity became a fading whisper with each upward movement, as if the very laws of nature were bending around Brock's unwavering determination and now, Max's newfound resolve. Max reached a platform extending from the wall, a sense of achievement surging through him, but it was quickly overshadowed by astonishment. Brock was there, hands free from any hold, body relaxed. He was adrift, surrounded by an invisible buffer that left him suspended in midair. "How are you doing that?" Max's voice emerged, tinged with awe and an undercurrent of disbelief. Despite the obvious evidence before him, his feet still felt the faint tug of the world below—a stubborn reminder of the ground he knew too well. Brock turned towards him, his smile illuminated by the stars outside—their light casting him as the hero of tales Max had only read about in books. "Let go of the ladder," Brock urged again, his voice calm, the embodiment of adventure whispering secrets of freedom. Max stared at Brock, his heart hammering a staccato rhythm against his ribs. Could he? Should he? Doubt gnawed at his courage, but the sight of Brock, carefree in the expanse, was a beacon. With a shaky exhale, Max unfurled his hands from the rungs. For a heartbeat, time stalled. His feet left the safety of the ladder, and he was falling—or so it seemed. Panic surged, a tidal wave threatening to swallow him whole. But then, the fall transformed. No longer a descent, but a drift. He was floating. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, euphoria cutting through the terror. Brock's eyes met his, a shared spark of triumph igniting between them. They were pioneers on the edge of tomorrow, and the vastness of space was their playground. Adrift in the strange limbo of weightlessness, Max felt a surge of vertigo as he watched the world tumble around him—a chaos of metal and stars blending in an impossible dance. He was drifting, slowly at first, but with each passing second, his body moved further from the safety of the ladder. "Max!" Brock's voice cut through the disorientation. "Remember, gravity doesn’t really exist on the ship, we're riding on centripetal force," Brock continued, his tone both instructive and reassuring. "The ship spins, right? That's what keeps us stuck to the ground. But along this axis—" Brock gestured gracefully with a free-floating hand, "—that force doesn't touch us, but watch out for that blue line," Brock said, his voice threaded with urgency. "You’ll fall if you go below it." Max nodded, understanding dawning like a distant sunrise. The physics made sense now, academic lessons springing to life in the most visceral way possible. Suddenly, Max's slow descent turned into a gentle tumble. His pulse quickened as he saw the walls of the corridor revolve in his vision, the blue line Brock had mentioned coming into view. It marked the boundary where their artificial world resumed its mimicry of Earth's embrace. Max's heart skipped a beat; he imagined the thud of his body hitting the deck below. But before fear could fully bloom, Brock was there with a powerful kick off the wall, closing the gap with the ease of a space-born predator. He seized Max's arm, halting his descent. "Gotcha," Brock said, pulling Max back up with a firm tug. "You've got to be careful." Hovering together, they were two points of certainty in a realm without up or down. Max, still catching his breath from the scare, gave Brock a grateful nod. Brock's grip on his arm was not just a physical lifeline; it was an assurance that in this new frontier of boundless horizons, he wasn't alone. "Thanks," Max managed, his voice a whisper in the vastness. "Anytime," Brock replied with a grin. "Just remember to keep an eye on that blue line." Together, they turned their attention back to the endless stars, the Destiny’s silent promise of adventure all around them. "Alright, get down from there," commanded a stern voice that resonated through the corridor. Max glanced downward to see a marine in a crisp uniform and a face etched with concern. The marine extended a long pole upward toward them. "Grab the pole and I'll bring you back to the ladder." Brock's laughter echoed like a challenge in the weightless chamber. "No thanks," he scoffed, his eyes alight with mischief. He wrapped an arm around Max's shoulder, anchoring him, and with a strong push off the wall, they propelled further down the corridor. Max could feel the rush of air past his ears, the thrill of defying not just gravity, but the rules. Below, the marine matched their pace, his boots thudding along the floor, pole still outstretched in a futile offer of safety. "Come on! This is nothing!" Brock cheered, his confidence as boundless as the void outside. Max's initial trepidation melted into exhilaration, the anxiety of falling away replaced by the thrill of flying beside his newfound friend. The pursuit was a strange dance - two boys gliding through the air, and a determined marine stalking them below. It wasn't long before another figure entered the ballet. "Enough, Brock!" The authoritative tone cut through the corridor's gentle hum. A teacher appeared, hands on hips, her expression a mix of exasperation and resolve. She stood firm, a sentinel against Brock's boundless enthusiasm for the untamed realms beyond the blue line. Brock met her gaze, his smile unfaltering, the embodiment of youthful rebellion and dreams too vast to be tethered. With a final twist of defiance, he adjusted his trajectory, steering himself and Max away from the watchful eyes below. "Come on, Max. There's more to see," Brock said, his voice a whisper of adventure. Max, heart pounding, couldn't help but follow. "I said get down here, do you want me to call your father?" the teacher's threat echoed sharply in the corridor. Brock rolled his eyes but surrendered to the inevitable. A smirk played on his lips as he reached out and grasped the pole extended toward them. With the ease of an athlete, he wrapped his leg around the smooth metal. "Watch this," he said to Max, a daredevil spark lighting up his eyes. He pushed himself down with a deft twist of his body, riding the pole like it was second nature. The artificial gravity began to reclaim him as he descended past the blue line. Max's gaze followed Brock's controlled drop, the seamless transition from floating to standing evidence of Brock's adventurous spirit and physical agility. Brock's boots made contact with the deck; he bent his knees and absorbed the impact, landing with the grace of someone who understood every nuance of motion aboard their cosmic vessel. The teacher's stern face softened just a hint at Brock's display, a reluctant admiration for his skill. Brock flashed a triumphant grin, shoulders squared with the pride of a young man who'd just shown the universe that he could dance with its rules and still come out on top. Max clung to the pole, his knuckles white against the cool metal. Suspended in the zero-gravity zone, he watched Brock's confident landing below and felt a chasm of doubt widen within him. The platform seemed like an island he had left behind, and the ground—a distant shore he wasn't sure he could reach. "Come on, Max!" Brock's voice floated up, a lifeline thrown across the expanse of uncertainty that separated them. "Just slide down. It's easy!" "I can't do that," Max's voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear that anchored him to the spot. "Sure you can," Brock called up with unwavering certainty. His gaze traveled upward, locking onto Max's eyes, a silent pact forming between them. "You can do anything, you just don't know it yet. Come on, I'll catch you if you fall." "Promise?" pleaded Max, the word hanging between them, a fragile thread in the echoing expanse of the corridor. "I'll always catch you if you fall, I promise." The words resonated in the air, strong and clear. Max's breath hitched as he considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he could trust in the words of this boy who defied gravity as if born to it. Brock stood ready, his stance wide and arms outstretched—a gesture that spoke more of friendship than of mere physical support. With a tentative exhale, Max loosened his grip on the pole. The air around him felt thick with anticipation, and for a fleeting moment, he was paralyzed by the myriad of outcomes that flickered through his mind. But then, something shifted within him—a spark of courage kindled by Brock's fearless spirit. He mimicked the motion he'd seen, wrapping his leg around the pole and letting gravity—or the lack thereof—guide him. The descent was a blur of motion and sensation, a dizzying rush that was over too soon. Before he knew it, his feet found purchase, and Brock's hands were there to steady him, easing the transition from flight to grounding. "See? What'd I tell ya?" Brock beamed, a hint of pride coloring his words. Max's chest swelled with a mix of relief and newfound confidence. He had done it, and the impossible suddenly seemed within reach—as long as Brock was there to catch him if he fell. Brock's gaze met his, and something unspoken passed between them—a connection forged in adrenaline and the shared awe of the cosmos. Brock's grin transformed, edges softening into a solemn vow. His eyes, bright with the same starlight that painted the void outside, held an unwavering certainty. "Hey," Brock said, dusting off his hands with an air of casual bravado, "my dad gave me some money for the field trip." His eyes sparkled with a new scheme, one that pulled at Max's curiosity like the gravity of an unseen planet. "Let's go to the gift shop and buy two maps of the galaxy. One for you, and one for me." Brock’s voice carried the undertone of a dreamer outlining the blueprint of future escapades. "We can be pen pals and mark all the places on the maps we're going to go someday." The idea seeped into Max's imagination, unfurling like a banner against the star-studded blackness outside. A map? Pen pals? It was a promise of exploration, a testament to the bond that had formed between them under the most extraordinary circumstances. As he followed Brock toward the gift shop, each step felt lighter than the last, charged with the potential of worlds waiting to be discovered and the silent pledge of friendship that would carry them across the stars. The two boys ran together, laughing, the infinite beyond silhouetting their youthful exuberance. The Aurora Colony ship, fifteen years later Brock wove through the sea of despondency, each step an effort against the tide of humanity that had no rhythm or reason to its movement. The ship's habitat, once a vision of order and open communal spaces, had constricted into a congested artery of despair. He pushed past a young couple whose blank gazes were fixed on some unseen horizon, their hands empty, safeguarding against the predatory gaze of thieves. With a sharp tug at his collar, Brock shrugged free from the tattered rags that had shrouded him in anonymity. The sight of his uniform beneath—a sharp contrast of his clean battle-gray fatigues against the filthy rags of the aimlessly wandering crowds—brought a moment's pause in the crowd's shuffle. A thief, eyeing a potential mark, hesitated as recognition dawned; the uniform was a herald of authority, a dangerous target for petty crime. The borders of territories, invisible lines drawn by desperation and guarded by watchful eyes glided past him as he moved through the press of chaos. Brock strode with purpose, his posture straight under the weight of silent challenges from guards who tracked his progress like hawks circling prey. Yet they held back, wary of the insignia emblazoned on his chest—an insignia they did not understand, but knew was not to be trifled with. Brock’s eyes scanned over the skeletal remains of the Water Works to one side of the broken road, while the other side held the decayed remains of the Power Works, each claimed by rival War Lords and separated only by the hopeless march of the despondent and hungry masses between them. Further along, the smell emanating from the Sewage treatment plant, another War Lord’s territory, needed no wall and few guards to keep the procession away. And among the most curious, an old middle school repurposed into a sanctuary where knowledge was secondary to the cultivation of precious garden plots guarded by katana welding Samurai. There were even a dozen cherry blossom trees that appeared to have been purposely planted to hide the orange grove behind them. Each faction clung to their patches of green like sentinels guarding the last vestiges of hope, the gardens a symbol of life amidst decay. Brock passed them with measured steps, taking in the desperate ingenuity that had transformed these spaces into fiercely protected havens. He understood then, the value of soil and seed in this dying metal world was the currency of survival, more precious than the coin or credits that had once dictated wealth. Here, amidst the entropy of a failing system, life persisted stubbornly in the form of cultivated earth, a defiant spark in the encroaching darkness. Brock's gaze flickered to the imposing façades of larger structures, where figures in Ares livery stood watch. Their presence brought a semblance of order amidst the chaos, their uniforms marking them as mercenaries for hire rather than guardians of peace. He kept his distance, mindful of their scrutinizing eyes that might discern his intent. Brock wasn't ready to reveal his purpose or his destination within the Ares-controlled sectors; doing so without understanding their network—if they had one—would be folly. Tugging at the hem of his uniform, he adjusted the fabric to sit more comfortably over his lean frame. The pockets, once bulging with rations, now felt disconcertingly light against his thigh. His supplies were dwindling far faster than anticipated, his careful rationing no match for the delays and detours thrust upon him by the dense press of bodies and the unpredictable currents of the crowd. What should have been a day's journey seemed an insurmountable odyssey. He wove through clusters of desolate souls, each step taking him deeper into the heart of suffering that gripped the ship. The air was thick with despair and the acrid taint of smoke that curled from failing oxygen generators—a grim reminder that their haven was failing. The once-vibrant forests, engineered to breathe life into their world, had withered to all but memory, leaving behind only the stark reality of metal and desperation. Stifling a cough from the smog-laden air, Brock paused to survey the remnants of a garden, now trampled underfoot by those searching for anything edible. It was a cruel irony—the very source of sustenance turned battleground in the fight for survival. The notion of convincing this mass of humanity to enter cryo-sleep was daunting. How could he sell them on the promise of a future dream when it was obvious this artificial world was dying without hope? The Destiny, with its potential aid, hung like a distant star beyond reach—a little over two-thousand years too far. Brock wrestled with the cold truth; time was a luxury they didn't possess. As he pushed onward, the weight of his task settled upon his shoulders, a burden he carried through the dying vessel that had once promised a new beginning. Brock's gaze drifted upward, fixating on the dim sun lamps that clung to the rotating central axis like aging stars slowly fading from existence. Their once radiant glow now offered only a dull shimmer, barely enough to stave off the eternal night of space encasing their metallic world. His engineer's mind dissected the problem—power supply or physical damage? The answer eluded him, but the symptoms were clear: the ship was on life support, and the prognosis was terminal. A sense of urgency propelled him forward, his boots thudding hollowly against the road. He needed to find Max and leave this dystopian world, there was nothing they could do to save these people. The Aurora's end was near, no amount of engineering marvels could outlast the decay that now clawed at her innards. A collective gasp sliced through the despondent murmurs as the crowd parted abruptly, dropping to their knees in an almost reverential manner. Brock turned, his eyes tracing the cause of this spontaneous act of deference—a convoy of all-purpose land rovers rumbling down the makeshift thoroughfare. He couldn't help but let out a scoff, the irony bitter on his tongue. Those vehicles should have remained untouched, stored in vaults for the generation that would have made planet fall, waiting to roll across the surface of a new world. As the sleek hoods caught the weak light, reflecting a glimmer of Earth's forsaken industry off the big bold letters affixed to the hood, Brock rolled his eyes and felt like smacking himself on the forehead. He had assumed the Ares faction was named after the God of War, but there on the hood was the source of their name–ARES, the specialized land-rovers built specifically for the colonists by the Ares Motor Company on ancient Earth. With resolute steps, Brock navigated through the sea of bowed heads, each one a silent testament to the fall of human order. He moved with purpose, driven by the dual needs to find Max and to confront the present wielding the remnants of the past. The trucks rumbled through the haze, their cargo beds filled with Ares soldiers. He stood defiantly in the center of the road, a solitary bulwark against the tide of need that swelled around him. The lead truck, a behemoth among the convoy, ground to a halt before him, its engine idling like a beast at rest. From behind the wheel, a man emerged, his grin wide and incongruous amidst the sea of hollowed faces. He approached Brock with the air of one who dealt in the currency of rumors and whispers. "Are you the one everyone is talking about, the POG Priest?" His voice cut through the murmur of the crowd, eyes searching Brock's face for affirmation. Brock's response was clipped, each word heavy with purpose. "I'm looking for Lord Ares." His declaration hung between them, a challenge laid bare beneath the faltering glow of the sun lamps overhead. The man's wide smile faltered for a moment as he sized up Brock, noting the firm set of his jaw and the resolute glint in his eyes that seemed to cut through the omnipresent gloom. "What do you want with that scoundrel?" he asked, his tone laced with a mix of curiosity and humor. Brock shifted his weight, feeling the press of the crowd around them, their collective breaths mingling with the recycled air of desperation. "I'm searching for a friend," he replied, a hint of impatience threading his voice. Brock's gaze didn't waver; his mission was clear, and this obstacle, whether ally or adversary, would not deter him. The man assessed Brock, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. He recognized the resolve of someone who wouldn't be swayed by intimedation—traits all too rare in the fragmented society aboard the dying ship. "Aren't we all?" The man's voice was a mix of empathy and resignation as he glanced at the insignia adorning Brock's arm—a reminder of order in a world undone. He turned away, dismissing the significance with the ease of one who had long navigated chaos. The man strode to the road's edge where the crowd huddled like penitents seeking absolution, their faces etched with hunger and despair. "Let's see what you got for me," he bellowed, his voice cutting through the thick air and stirring the downtrodden assembly into motion. Trembling hands rose, clutching relics of a bygone era—scraps of metal, fragments of plastic, all that remained of the Aurora’s past. The man moved among them with a practiced eye, plucking an object from a man swathed in tattered rags. It was the carcass of a hydrogen container, its purpose spent, its value questionable. Yet, he examined it with deliberate attention before delivering his verdict: "Half a potato." A jealous murmur rippled through the onlookers as a subordinate handed over the decreed portion to the ragged supplicant, whose fingers closed around it with a fervor born of starvation. Brock watched, his mind swirling with calculations and strategies, each trade a tiny window into this new economy of desperation. Another item was lifted into the air—a device with a crack across the screen cradled in the desperate grip of a woman whose eyes pleaded more than her silent mouth could. "What do you think of this?" The man thrust the broken tool towards Brock, seeking validation from someone who bore the remnants of authority. "It's a broken multimeter," Brock responded, his voice betraying no judgment, merely stating a fact. "Half-potato," came the swift assessment. The exchange was brisk, the woman wasting no moment to consume her scant reward. The bartering resumed, a rhythm of survival dictating the pace until another device emerged from the sea of outstretched arms. "What about this?" the man queried, holding the object aloft for Brock's inspection. Pushing through the press of bodies, Brock took the offered device, his thumb flicking a switch. A crackle of static affirmed life within its circuits. "It's a working Geiger counter," he declared, the words imbuing the object with sudden significance. "Valuable?" The man's eyes narrowed, weighing the potential of this newfound asset. "Very." Brock's affirmation was succinct, leaving no room for doubt. "Two potatoes," the man declared, a nod sealing the transaction. The woman’s face split into a smile as she was handed her prize. She shared it with a child beside her, two pairs of hands eagerly delving into the flesh of the roots. Their small feast was a poignant vignette amidst the desolation. As the bag of sustenance lightened with each trade, Brock shadowed the man, offering insights when prompted. Each answer served as currency in this crumbling society, hopefully buying him passage through the throngs of people whose lives now hinged on the mercy of strangers and the allure of even a portion of a potato. Amidst the disarray of desperate souls, Brock followed the Ares man back to his truck. The man who had been distributing hope by the half potato carried an object that caught the fading light—a slender metallic piece that seemed out of place amidst the scavenged trinkets. "Well then, Priest," the man began, his voice tinged with a mix of respect and curiosity as he brandished the item before Brock, "you are very useful, but you didn't say why this little toy was so valuable, or why I paid five potatoes for it." Brock eyed the cylindrical object. "I'd suggest you find a place to put that thing, preferable behind a wall of lead," he advised, his tone grave. "That little black line on the side tells me it's only half depleted, but the shielding is still intact, so it's safe to handle. But if it were to break open, it would kill anyone that came within twenty feet of it." The man's expression shifted from intrigue to caution. "What is it?" he queried, holding the rod at arm's length now. "That's the fuel rod for a portable nuclear generator," Brock revealed, underscoring the gravity of what the man held. "You probably should send someone to ask where he found it. If there's a working generator out there, it would provide power for decades." The man, catching onto the importance of Brock's words, signaled to the one who had previously been the bearer of sustenance. "Go get the man we got this from, and put him on the truck." His command was firm yet devoid of malice. "Don't hurt him," added Brock, his warning sharp and clear. He understood the desperation that could grip a person in times like these, but he also recognized the man's attempt to maintain order without resorting to violence. "That's not my style, Priest," the man said with a smile that hinted at a code of ethics not yet eroded by the surrounding decay. Brock hoisted himself into the vehicle, feeling the sturdy metal under his hands. The man's lips curled upward once more, an acknowledgment of Brock's unspoken request. "I assume you want me to take you to Lord Ares?" The question hung between them, the weight of their exchange measured by the solemn nods and subtle movements—a dance of necessity in the face of entropy. Brock settled into the seat, ready to navigate the uncertain roads ahead. With an air of resignation, Brock nodded. "Yes," he replied, the word carrying the weight of his worries and the urgency of his mission. The man's chuckle was a brief disturbance in the pervasive gloom that clung in the air like cobwebs. He swung himself into the driver's seat with practiced ease, the movements of a man who had adapted to thrive in chaos. The engine rumbled to life under his touch, a beast awakened from slumber, its roar momentarily overpowering the murmur of despair outside the vehicle's metal walls. "Your friend left with the Sunners," the man began, eyes scanning the rearview mirror as if searching the past for details. "But he escaped them," he continued, shifting gears as the truck lurched forward, parting the sea of hopeless faces with its bulk. Brock's hand tightened on the edge of his seat, the texture of the worn fabric grounding him. The man's next words came over the growl of the engine, tinged with uncertainty, "I don't know where he is now." Every jolt of the truck over the uneven terrain seemed to echo Brock's racing thoughts. Where could Max be? How would he find him in this labyrinthine tomb of steel and sorrow? As the truck plowed through the haze, Brock's resolve hardened like the shield walls he had once studied. No matter where Max had gone, he would find him. The truck jostled over the uneven ground, its heavy tires finding purchase amidst the detritus of a collapsed civilization. Brock braced himself against the metal frame, keenly aware of the enigmatic figure at his side. Their shadows danced on the dashboard, cast by the flickering lights that struggled to pierce the gloom. Brock was tired of the game and suddenly spoke. "Why the subterfuge, Lord Ares?" Brock asked, the question cutting through the hum of the engine like a knife. The man turned his head to Brock, the corner of his mouth curling up in a grin that held both amusement and a hint of respect. "Ah, you are clever, Priest. How did you know?" Brock caught the gleam of confidence in the other's eyes, a spark that betrayed knowledge and power despite the disarray around them. This was not merely a man who had adapted to survive; he was one who orchestrated survival for others, a savior cloaked in the guise of a War Lord. Brock knew then that unraveling the mystery of Lord Ares would be pivotal to their uncertain future. "See how they prostrate themselves?" Brock's voice was low but edged with an unspoken gravity. "The crowd dropped to their knees, they only do that in the presence of nobility." Lord Ares kept his hands firmly on the steering wheel, a knowing nod acknowledging the truth in Brock's words. The reverence of the downtrodden was a currency more valuable than any trinket bartered for survival. "Then let me counter with a bit of my own cleverness," Lord Ares replied, his tone shifting subtly as he met Brock’s steady gaze. "You are not a POG Priest." He paused, letting the implication hang between them like the dust motes dancing in a shaft of weak sunlight. “You’re not even from Aura. My grandfather told stories about people who would come from the stars in a ship called, Destiny. I hope that’s you, I only have three months of food left to feed this unruly mass, then the riots will begin." Brock's expression remained composed, though the weight of the revelation caused a tightening in his chest. The man knew of Destiny–they had been waiting, most likely to seize the ship in the beginning, and then just a hope for salvation. He turned to Lord Ares, his eyes narrowing slightly as he sought to unravel the tapestry of history woven into the man before him. "Were you in cryo, from an earlier age before technology was completely lost here?" he inquired, his voice steady but probing. A flicker of mirth crossed Lord Ares' weathered face. "No, I would never get into one of those coffins," he began, shifting his weight with the movement of the vehicle over a bad patch in the road, "My great grandfather and his marines were the last of the Ancients to come out of the death sleep. They found us, we used to be called the Grunnies, were and still are the best fighters on Aura," he explained, his hands instinctively maneuvering the truck over the terrain, "Grandfather changed our name to Ares," Lord Ares continued, a note of regret threading into his words. "He couldn't fix the ship, but he did give us the vault, and taught us to read and write, and a lot of the history we’ve forgotten. I’ve even been to the outer-hull and seen the truth." The revelation lingered in the charged air between them like a spark about to ignite. "You only got four generations of food out of the vaults?" Brock pressed, his voice steady despite the implications of what he was suggesting. The question seemed to rock Lord Ares as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, his head snapping towards Brock, a mix of disbelief and hope etched into his rugged features. "Wait...what? You said, vaults. I only have one, there's more?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying the controlled exterior he presented to his followers. Brock could see the gears turning behind Lord Ares’ eyes, the possibilities unfurling like sails in a strong wind. Here was a man who had known only scarcity, whose lineage had been defined by the constant struggle against the dying light of their once proud ship. To learn now that there might be more—more resources, more solutions, more hope—it was a staggering prospect. In that moment, Brock knew he had just changed the game. He had provided not just information, but the potential for salvation. The knowledge hung heavy between them, a lifeline in a sea of despair. Brock's affirmation was a simple nod, an almost imperceptible dip of his chin that held the weight of untold futures. "There are five vaults intended to supply the colonists when they make planet fall." "Five vaults?" The words spilled from Lord Ares like precious water from a cracked canteen. His incredulity was as palpable as the stale air they breathed; hope flickered in his eyes like the weak sunlamps above. Brock could see the machinations in Ares' gaze as the man pieced together what this newfound knowledge meant for their survival. "Then there might be enough food to turn this around." His voice had taken on a new texture, one woven with threads of possibility and determination. Ares shifted his stance, the posture of a born leader assessing his next move. "And... there would be repair parts, can you fix the ship?" The question was more than a mere inquiry—it was a grasp for hope where there was none. Brock felt the responsibility settle onto his shoulders, but it was most likely the ship had already reached the point of no return. How could he tell this man his home was doomed? "Maybe,” said Brock. “But there is so much damage and so little time…” “What do you need?” “To start, I need the friend I’m searching for.” This was something the man understood; I give you something, you give me something. Lord Ares' response was immediate, the seasoned leader moving with a decisiveness born from years of steering his people through crisis after crisis. He snatched a radio from the dashboard of the land rover, the device crackling to life under his firm grip. "This is Ares, I'm on the way back, assemble everyone," he commanded, his voice resonating with an authority that rippled through the static. The radio squawked an acknowledgment just as Lord Ares turned his attention back to Brock, the glint in his eye betraying a renewed sense of purpose. "We'll find your friend," he said, his tone brooking no argument nor doubt. It was a statement that carried the full force of his commitment, a vow made in the face of impossible odds. As the rover hummed beneath them, Brock felt the tension in his muscles ease ever so slightly. In this maelstrom of desperation and dwindling hope, here was a man who understood the gravity of command, the responsibility to those under his care. And now, their fates intertwined, they shared a common goal—a beacon amidst the chaos. The search for the Max was on, and with it, perhaps, the salvation of the Aurora and all who remained aboard her fading halls.