Zach, Chapter 4 Zack rapped his knuckles against the polished metal door, the sound echoing down the narrow corridor of the spaceship. The moment hung suspended, like a satellite in orbit, before the door slid open with a whoosh of air. The man inside loomed there, his posture rigid as if he had been counting down to this very encounter. "Your fresh sheets, Sir," Zach offered, extending the crisp bundle toward the disgruntled passenger. "Is it too much to ask for Egyptian cotton?" the man groused. He ran a hand over his cheek, his fingers skirting the angry patch of red that marred his skin—a testament less to an allergy, more to a disposition soured by inconvenience. Zach's lips twitched into a half-smile, but he caught it quickly, trapping it behind the facade of dutiful servitude expected of him. Zach arched an eyebrow, the bundle of sheets still hovering between them. "Apparently, it is," he responded, his voice laced with the dryness of the recycled air that filled their lungs. "We're lucky we've got gravity and oxygen, if you ask me." The man's face flushed a deeper shade than the rash on his cheek, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "How dare you," he replied hotly, as if the mere suggestion of prioritizing survival over luxury was a personal affront. "Do you know who I am?" Zach stood firm, the weight of the linens in his arms growing lighter as the tension between them thickened. The corridor's dim lighting cast long shadows on the man’s face, accentuating his indignation. “Yes, Sir,” Zach said, his voice steady and clear despite the gravity of their verbal standoff. “You’re the guy on my ship that thinks he should get fresh sheets every day.” He paused for a beat, letting the truth of the situation settle like dust on the control panels. “And I don’t really care if you do, because the sooner we run out of fresh sheets, the sooner I don’t have to come here every day.” The man's mouth opened and closed, his chest heaving with each attempt to articulate his outrage. A vein throbbed at his temple—a living, pulsing symbol of his frustration. "Who do you think you are speaking to me like that?” It was more than a question; it was a challenge, thrown like a gauntlet at Zach's feet. There was a moment where the air itself seemed to hold its breath, the hum of the ship's engines the only sound echoing through the corridor. Zach felt the pull of his heritage, the unspoken code of the Ceres Corporation ingrained in him since birth—a call to serve, to protect, but also to endure. "I think I’m your pilot," Zach began, his voice steady, "who doesn’t get to use sheets because I only get an hour cat-nap here and there." He gestured broadly to encompass the ship around them, "between flying this behemoth, servicing the engines, air filtration, water purifiers, preparing the rations..." He locked eyes with the irate passenger, "...and powdering your pampered backside every time you get a little rash." The humor in his voice had faded, replaced by the steely resolve that life among the stars had forged within him. With a final glance, Zach turned on his heel, leaving the man to wrestle with his own inflated sense of importance, while he, a child of the cosmos, returned to his duties. Zach's retort hung heavy in the recycled air of the narrow corridor, a small but potent defiance against the man's blustering entitlement. He wasn't just any pilot; he was a lifeline, the sinewy thread keeping this floating metal giant and its inhabitants tethered to survival. The man’s face turned a shade reminiscent of the emergency lights that blinked during drills—urgent and impossible to ignore. “I’m reporting you to the Captain,” he shouted, each word punctuated with a jab of his finger toward Zach. "Go ahead," Zach replied. “Maybe he’ll throw me in the brig where I can get some sleep.” Leaving the man to his indignation, Zach strode through the corridor—each footfall a silent testament to the Ceres Corporation's relentless conditioning. His adventuresome spirit was tempered by the reality of their situation; he was a Hunter, after all, born to navigate the stars and keep the vessel's heartbeat steady. His journey was interrupted by the sharp crack of a suite door being forced open. A woman emerged, her brow furrowed as she jabbed a finger at the offending ration packet clutched in her hand. "Can you believe this?" she huffed, the frustration in her voice cutting through the artificial calm of the corridor. "I asked for smoked salmon, not... not this." Zach stopped, turning just enough to acknowledge her complaint with a glance. The vacuum-sealed packet bore no resemblance to the extravagance of Earth's oceans—a far cry from what the wealthy passengers were accustomed to. Zach's hand darted out, plucking the Roast Beef and Mashed Potatoes ration from the woman's grip with practiced ease. In a fluid motion, he delved into his satchel and produced another packet, this one labeled Ham and Noodles. He hoped the swap might quell her disappointment, if only marginally. "Try this one," he suggested, mustering a half-smile as he handed it over. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, ready to move on from the confrontation. But before Zach could make his escape, a firm grasp yanked him back. The woman's fingers dug into his arm, her frustration boiling over into a breach of decorum that the cramped confines of the spaceship had made all too common. That was the line crossed. "Get your hands off that boy." The booming voice of the Senior Steward thundered down the corridor, turning heads and halting whispers. With the authority of a man more accustomed to enforcing gym etiquette at the Physical Fitness Center on Ceres where he was usually assigned than shipboard discipline, he charged toward them, massive shoulders swaying with each determined step. Passengers peeked from their doorways, eyes wide, only to retreat hastily, their doors snapping shut in unison at the sight of the Steward transformed from genial host to avenging titan. The woman's fingers retracted as if scalded, and she stumbled backward, coming face-to-face with the towering figure now invading her personal space. "You can complain all you like," the Steward growled, jabbing an accusatory finger into her chest, "but if I see you lay hands on another staff member, I’ll put you out an airlock." Frozen under the gaze of the imposing figure, the woman nodded mutely, any semblance of defiance evaporating into the recycled air of the spaceship. Zach watched, the tension ebbing from his shoulders. He knew the Steward wouldn't actually toss anyone into the void of space, but the threat carried weight here, in the floating metal cocoon they all called home—for now. It was a stark reminder that despite the trappings of luxury these passengers were used to, the rules were different now. The woman's voice quivered, a mix of entitlement and genuine need coloring her tone. "I'm just so hungry," she stammered. Zach watched the Steward straighten to his full, imposing height, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the woman with a sternness that could freeze a starship's thrusters. With a jab of his meaty digit, the Steward emphasized his point. "We are on Corporation War Protocols," he bellowed, causing the woman to recoil slightly. "This boy and the rest of the staff are on half-rations, while I know for a fact you stole an extra ration from the kitchen this morning." Zach remained silent, his black eyes flicking between the Steward and the woman, a hint of admiration for the Steward's unwavering stance simmering in his gaze. "And I also know that this boy has been giving his rations to the younger children on board. He hasn't eaten in three days." The Steward's voice softened, but only by a fraction. His hand shot out, quick as a comet tail, snatching the ration from her grasp before she could protest. With a swift motion, he thrust it into Zach's hands. "Go share this with your father, that’s an order." The words carried the weight of gravity, unyielding and absolute. Zach hesitated for a fraction of a second, his adventurous spirit wrestling with the sudden command, but then he nodded, turning away with the ration pack clutched in his hand. He couldn't help the trace of a grin that played across his lips; the Steward, mountainous and seemingly immovable, held a grudging respect from all aboard, including Zach himself. "Thanks," he mumbled, though the Steward was already striding away, his duty done, leaving a lingering aura of authority in his wake. Zack removed the satchel of rations he’d been passing out and handed it to an older boy he recognized as the cook that usually made pizza’s at Dirks, but kept the Ham and Noodles ration. It had been given to him by the Senior Steward, and was legally his to eat now. He would never had been tempted to steal one of the rations in the satchel, those were for the passengers. With the ration firmly clutched in his hands, Zach navigated the narrow corridors of the ship, his thoughts drifting to the Ceres Corporation emblem emblazoned on every wall. It was a symbol of unity and strength, of a collective responsibility that bound him to protect the guests now refugees onboard. He was a space rat by birth, born on a corporate salvage ship, sworn to serve the guests, and protect the corporation’s interests, but more than that, right now he was hungry. He thought of the historical figures from his homeworld—the legendary Captain Archer among them—the eternal man, founder of the Corporation, born two million years ago, and how he would've faced such trials. Certainly he would know what to do. Shuffling through the corridor with a weary gait, Zach clutched the vacuum-sealed ration pack like a lifeline. The weight of exhaustion pressed down upon his shoulders, a burden even the gravity generators couldn't simulate. He'd reached that point where the body runs on instinct, and arguing was a luxury he could no longer afford. Pushing open the door to the Bridge, he stepped into the command center of the ship—a capsule of blinking consoles and soft beeps. His father sat in the Captain’s chair like a silent guardian of their fate. Zach approached with a sense of reverence, placing the Ham and Noodle flavored ration packet onto the armrest with practiced care. “The Senior Steward ordered us to eat this,” he said, his fingers grazing against the emergency ration with hope his father wouldn’t make him take it back to the kitchen. The words were barely more than a mumble, spoken through a haze of sleep deprivation. Thomas Hunter, Captain of the vessel and Zach’s anchor in this endless sea of stars, looked up from the console, his eyes reflecting the starlight that filtered through the bridge’s viewport. There was a quiet strength in those eyes—a depth that spoke of battles fought and hardships weathered. “I know,” Thomas replied, his voice a calm contrast to the tension that thrummed through the ship's metal bones. “I saw what happened on the security camera.” He peeled back the top of the vacuum-sealed packet, releasing a scent that was more chemical preservative than culinary delight. “He’s right, we can only deny ourselves food for so long before we have to eat.” Zach watched his father take the first bite, a small bite, as if he were still reluctant to indulge while others went without. But then Thomas nudged a chunk towards Zach with the makeshift spork, eyebrows raised—a silent command dressed as an offer. "Come on, Zach. Fuel up." Zach took the piece, and another followed—each bite from his father paired with two for him. It was a dance as old as time, a parent ensuring their child ate, even if it meant going hungry themselves. But Zach's mind was too clouded by exhaustion to notice the imbalance, too tired to do anything but chew mechanically. The last bite of the ration passed between them, a final act in their modest feast, and Zach’s head lolled forward, his chin nearly touching his chest. His eyes fluttered closed, the world blurring into darkness. "Let's get you to a bunk," Thomas murmured, rising from his chair with a soft groan. Age was catching up with him, but the concern for his son outpaced it every time. Zach felt himself being lifted, carried with the same ease his father had managed when he was much smaller. There was a comfort in that strength, a reminder of the countless times he’d been borne away from nightmares or childish accidents. Now, it was just another part of life aboard a Corporation ship—an existence where the lines between personal and professional blurred into oblivion. Thomas settled Zach into the narrow bunk designated for relief pilots, though none other were aboard. There had been too many guests to ferry to safety. Every ship had been pressed into service, often with only two or three crew to watch over hundreds of the guests fleeing from the alien invasion. As he tucked a thin blanket around his son, a glint of pride shone in his expression—a pride for the young man who bore the weight of responsibility as fiercely as he did a joystick in a high-stakes game. "Rest, son," Thomas whispered, his hand briefly resting on Zach’s forehead. "For both of us." Zach drifted, somewhere between waking and dreaming, a memory flashed through his mind—his father recounting tales of their ancestors on Ceres, how they'd banded together in crisis, how they'd held fast to duty. Those stories had always filled him with a sense of pride, but now they served as a beacon of hope. If they could endure, so could he. So could they all. The bridge was silent, save for the hum of the engines and the soft beeping of consoles—a lullaby to a ship on the edge of despair. Thomas Hunter sat in the Captain's chair, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the holographic star maps that glowed faintly before him. His fingers danced across the touch-sensitive surface, plotting courses, searching for hope. "Commander," he spoke into the Comm., his voice an anchor in the vast emptiness of space. "We have a situation." "Go ahead, Captain," came the static-laced reply. "Supply ship is overdue. Three days left of rations. There's a pirate cache in sector twelve. It might be our only shot." "Prepare a plan, send it over, Captain." Thomas ended the transmission and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes for just a moment, allowing himself the luxury of a deep breath. The weight of command pressed down on him—a burden he bore out of duty, out of necessity. For Zach, for all the souls aboard. They needed him strong, decisive. "Let's hope the pirates are elsewhere," he murmured to himself. Four hours passed like a heartbeat in the eternity of stars. In the dim light of the bunk room, Zach stirred, his dreams interrupted by reality. His eyes snapped open at the sight of his father, clad in armor that reflected the cold artificial light, a stark contrast to the man who had carried his son with such tenderness not long ago. "Are the aliens attacking?" Zach blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips as he scrambled from the bunk. "No, son." Thomas's voice was calm, a steady force amid the storm of Zach's sudden panic. "Get ready. We've got work to do." Zach found himself at the weapons locker, fingers automatically checking seals and ammunition counts—actions drilled into him until they were almost as natural as breathing. The scent of metal and synthetic oil filled his nostrils, a sharp reminder of the reality they faced. Not aliens this time, but a threat of starvation that loomed just as deadly. Together, they readied themselves for the task ahead. Responsibility to the Corporation, to their fellow passengers, to each other—it bound them, drove them forward. On Ceres, survival was secured through financial excellence and service to their guests that bordered on the illusion of divine magic, but here among the stars, it was different, primal. Zach's heart hammered against his ribcage as the cool metal of the weapons locker pressed into his back. He drew a breath, steadying himself, but the sight of his father in battle gear showed just how dangerous things were getting. "What now?" Zach asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the ghosts that might linger aboard the derelict craft in front of them. Thomas didn't look at his son. His gaze remained fixed on the space station coming into view ahead of them, a forgotten relic now repurposed by those who thrived in the lawlessness between worlds. "We only have 3 days of food left, I’m leading an assault on that cache,” Thomas said, his eyes scanning the monitors that displayed the darkened corridors of the station. “I have the three Stewards with us, they have military training, and I found six more among the guests that have former military service.” “Dad, I can lead the assault, you’re not supposed to take risks,” Zack said, the slight quiver in his voice belying the boldness of his offer. Thomas turned, regarding his son with a mix of pride and concern. Zach could see the gears turning behind his father's stern exterior. The Captain was calculating odds, weighing lives, always with the Ceres Corporation emblem shining like a beacon in his mind. "Remember, Zach," Thomas said, his voice firm and resolute. "That’s a peace-time rule, we’re in war protocol now. They need to see their Captain up front leading the assault. Now don’t argue. You bring the ship up next to that thing and get a good lock on it. We’ll enter and take whatever food we can find." A sigh escaped Zach, short and defeated. His father had made up his mind; there was no changing course now. Taking a seat in the pilot chair, he felt the simulated leather contour to his body—a brief comfort before the tension of responsibility gripped him again. He glanced at the console, fingers dancing over the controls, initiating the approach sequence with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times in simulations and real life. The view outside shifted as the ship edged closer to the abandoned space station. Zach saw the other ships of their squadron, like silent guardians, moving into place to form a protective perimeter against any unforeseen threats. "Come on, old girl," Zach murmured to the ship, coaxing her forward with gentle thrusts. The targeting system blinked green as they approached the derelict station, indicating a solid magnetic lock. He toggled the switch, and the ship latched onto the station with a reassuring thunk. Zach watched the security video screen as his father and the makeshift assault team disappeared into the depths of the station. He could almost hear his father's footsteps echoing down the metal corridors, each step a testament to his unwavering dedication to their mission. The minutes stretched into an eternity until, at last, figures emerged from the shadows of the station, hauling crates marked with the unmistakable seal of emergency rations. The sight sparked a spontaneous eruption of cheers that cascaded through the corridors and cabins of the vessel. It was as if they had plundered the very treasure troves of legend, not just scrounged leftovers from some spacefaring bandits. The passengers' applause thundered through the ship, filling the void with human triumph. "Nice work, Dad," Zach whispered, pride swelling in his chest as he watched the successful operation unfold. But his eyes never strayed far, darting between the cargo transfer and the star-studded blackness, vigilant for the telltale signs of pirate ships swooping in to reclaim their stashed goods. As the last crate crossed the threshold into their ship, the stewards worked double-time, shuttling the precious cargo toward the other waiting vessels. Even as relief washed over him, Zach's fingers danced across the controls, prepared to disengage at a moment's notice. Finally, Thomas strode back onto the bridge, his armor-clad form casting a large, reassuring shadow. Without a word, he removed his helmet, revealing a face etched with fatigue but underscored by a steely resolve. He methodically stripped off the gear, each piece hitting the locker with a definitive thud. "Good job getting us in close, Zac." His voice was rough but carried warmth. "Couldn't have done it without you." "Wasn't much," Zach replied, a hint of his usual humor peeking through despite the exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. Together, father and son shared a silent understanding, their bond unspoken yet stronger than the alloy of the ship that cradled them. Here, in the vastness of space, their duty to the Ceres Corporation, to each other, and to the souls under their care was as unwavering as the stars themselves. "It wasn’t much, it’ll only give us a few more days, but I know where another cache is," he said finally, his voice firm, a captain's confidence woven through the tired lines of his face. Zach perked up at the prospect, muscles tensing with an instinctive readiness despite the fatigue that made his limbs feel like they were made of lead. "Another cache?" he echoed, eyebrows raising slightly. Thomas nodded solemnly. "We'll keep this up as long as we need to." His declaration hung in the air, a promise and a plan all at once. "Then let's get to it," Zach replied, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a fleeting grin, a spark of his usual jest hidden in the gravity of the moment. His fingers danced across the control panel, plotting a course under his father's watchful eye. Responsibility weighed heavy, but it was a burden he bore willingly, a mantle passed down from generations of service to the Corporation.