Zach, Chapter 6 Captain Thomas Hunter's gaze was fixed through the glass partition of the Medical Bay, where Dr. Thomas's steady hands moved with a precision that betrayed years of experience. The soft glow of medical monitors cast an ethereal light on Zach's pale face, the young boy lying still as the surgeon worked to repair the ravages of battle. It was a strange sort of fortune that had delivered Zach into the hands of one of the galaxy's most esteemed medical professionals, courtesy of the ultra-wealthy clientele who had been enjoying the dubious pleasures of the Ceres Gaming Resort when chaos unfolded. Zach's chest rose and fell with mechanical rhythm, a testament to the life support systems that were his lifeline. Captain Hunter marveled at the resilience of his son; Zachariah Hunter bore the characteristic fortitude of their lineage. Even after witnessing the extent of the boy's wounds, he knew deep down that if anyone could defy the odds, it was Zach. With a heavy heart, Captain Hunter reluctantly tore his attention from the surgery. Time was a luxury they couldn't afford—not with pirates likely snapping at their heels like ravenous curs. He turned on his heel, his boots silent against the metallic floor as he strode down the corridor. His crew and passengers' survival hinged on the next crucial hours. He pondered their predicament. The pirate vessels, though determined, lagged behind the sleek efficiency of the Ceres Corporation's ships. But even as their enemies dwindled to specks in the vastness of space, the Captain's ship was adrift from its protective fleet. A lone beacon in the void, they had dared to break from hyperspace prematurely for the sake of one life—a necessary risk, given the perils of performing delicate surgery during the distortive throes of interstellar travel. "Thirty minutes," he muttered to himself. "That may be all we have." The Squadron Commander would've ordered more jumps by now, widening the gap between safety and peril, ensuring no pirate could follow through the fading ripples of their escape. But here, isolated on an alien planet, 'safety' was a relative term. The Captain's responsibility weighed heavily upon him—a burden born from his loyalty to the Cerean code, to the very Corporation that had shaped his existence. He was a product of this futuristic society, where allegiances were etched as deeply as the stars charted in their course. Now more than ever, he felt the gravity of his ancestors, those intrepid explorers who had laid the foundations for this galactic empire. Their legacy was his compass, guiding him through the darkest reaches. As Captain Hunter disappeared into the bowels of his ship, ready to confront the myriad challenges awaiting him, he steeled himself with the knowledge that the lives of two hundred souls rested in his command. Each decision, each order carried the weight of history and the unyielding resolve to uphold the honor of the Ceres Corporation—and the Hunter name. He was swift as he secured the seals on his spacesuit, time was crucial. He would start with a quick inspection of the damage. The pressure indicator gave a reassuring green light, and he initiated the sequence to open the hatch. With a hiss of escaping atmosphere, the door slid aside, revealing the bleak landscape that now harbored their wounded vessel. The gravity of this foreign world tugged at him, a constant reminder they were far from the safe corridors of Ceres Corporation space. He stepped onto the alien soil, taking measured strides around the ship's hull. His visor highlighted the scorch marks left by the Zapper II missiles. Three distinct hits—each a testament to the pirates' tenacity and precision. Thomas approached the forward section where the first missile had found its mark. The armored shield was bucked and torn, a gaping wound in the otherwise stoic facade of the ship. Zach had been just inside when it hit. The breach seemed too precise, too calculated. Anger simmered within Thomas; these pirates had targeted the pilot, his son. They would pay. "Captain," echoed a voice through his helmet comm, snapping him back to the present. It was the Senior Steward, but something in the tone set Thomas on edge. He spun, facing the ramp, and there stood the Steward, weapon poised. A rifle—its barrel an intimidating black void—was aimed directly at him. Instinct took over. "Don't miss, you won’t get a second chance," Thomas called out, the authority in his voice belying the cold dread that had settled in his gut. The rifle's report was muffled by the helmet he wore, yet it managed to resonate with the same finality as the pirate’s cannons. The Steward lowered his weapon, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "I never miss, Captain." Thomas exhaled slowly, tension slipping from his shoulders as he observed the Steward, who stood unprotected against the elements. No suit, no helmet. How? The Steward’s eyes were looking beyond him, not at him. Captain Hunter whirled around, the threat of a rifle shot lingering like static in the charged air. Beyond him sprawled a creature, inert and ominous—a large snake, its scales glinting under the alien sun like tarnished metal. The Steward stepped casually to Hunter's side, the barrel of his rifle now pointing skyward. "Thought I was aiming at you, didn't you? You should have seen your face." The words were light, but Captain Hunter’s glare could have sliced through hull plating. "I’ve never met a Steward with a sense of humor," he retorted, his voice edged with the cold sharpness of space. The Steward just shrugged, the motion loose and easy. "I'm not a Guest Services Steward. I’m assigned to the Physical Fitness Center. It’s usually ship’s crews that visit the Fitness Center to stretch muscles not used in space. They aren’t the spoiled, entitled guests that plague the rest of the resort. A little humor and less pampering is expected from them." "Very well, I can take a joke." Hunter's tone softened marginally as curiosity overtook irritation. He eyed the steward, who seemed as comfortable on this barren rock as he would in the belly of the ship. "Now, how is it you’re not wearing a spacesuit?" The Steward knelt beside the downed serpent, his fingers grazing its lifeless hide. "Ceres Corporation owns the Company that makes ships sensors. Every ship built with our sensors will give a reading of a dangerous world to be avoided at all costs, and not just this planet, but several others." His voice was casual, but it carried the weight of secrets long held. "I’m on the Hunter Team that comes here to restock our kitchens. This planet has our most expensive dishes, we don’t want anyone else having access to this treasure of a planet." A hint of nostalgia crept into his tone. "I’ve been coming here since I was a boy. You picked the right planet, Captain." Thomas tentatively hit the release button on his helmet, the seal hissing as he lifted it from his head. Fresh air rushed to greet him, and he inhaled deeply. “The air is sweet,” he noted with a hint of surprise. The Steward nodded, gesturing toward the ground. "You’ll see patches of red sand, that’s where the sweet smell comes from. The red sand is edible, and used as a garnishment. But you might not want to know how the red sand is formed." "Edible?" Thomas echoed, skepticism woven through his interest. "Do tell me." The Steward's grin widened, revealing a row of pearly teeth. "It’s this snake’s poop. You have to be careful when you collect the sand, one of these sand slithers is usually occupying that patch of sand.” Captain Hunter slapped his forehead in recognition, the memory of an exotic taste flooding back. "The red sugar! I've eaten that before!" The Steward's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Is it any worse than caviar?" The Steward queried. "Infinitely worse," the Captain replied. Thomas peered at the lifeless snake, his curiosity piqued despite himself. "Are those things venomous?" "Venom? No." The Steward shook his head, sending strands of hair awry. "No fangs to speak of. But let one of these wriggle around you, and you'll wish they were. That's why we always work in teams of three out here—it takes two to pry off one of these slithers." Thomas filed away the information, his gaze drifting from the creature to the vista beyond. His eyes scanned the horizon, seeking the next challenge, the next resource. "Are there any other edible animals?" The Steward, now engaged in the meticulous task of skinning the snake, gestured toward the vast valley sprawling out before them. "You're the luckiest Captain I’ve ever met," he stated matter-of-factly. "You managed to not only find a planet ripe with provisions but also avoided a watery grave. Out there"—he nodded toward the expanse—"is an ocean hidden under a crust of volcanic rock. A wrong descent, and we'd be swimming instead of standing." "Fish?" Hunter asked, his voice edged with the hope of further bounty as he squinted against the glare of the alien sun reflecting off the deceptive surface. "Ah, yes, Sir. The best dishes Ceres Corporation offers comes from those depths," the Steward said with a flourish of his knife, expertly separating the reptilian hide from flesh. "There's a creature down there, akin to a lobster, but without the after-taste Earth's variety carries. If we break through the crust and cast our nets, we can fill every freezer aboard with a year's worth of sustenance. We might even convert a cargo bay for additional storage—supply any Corporation ship we encounter." Captain Hunter absorbed the Steward's words, envisioning the logistical marvel it would be to turn this desolate planet into a lifeline for their survival—and perhaps a tactical advantage over their pursuers. A spark of determination ignited within him; the weight of command settled more comfortably across his shoulders with each passing moment. "Let's get to it then," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. It was not just about surviving now—it was about thriving, about fulfilling their duty to the Corporation that had raised him, trained him, and now depended on him. With a renewed sense of purpose, Captain Hunter turned back toward the safety of the ship, ready to marshal his crew and chart their course through the stars. With the weight of the limp snake over his shoulder, the Steward straightened, casting a glance to the distance. "There's a processing plant, armored dome, facilities, defensive canons," he said, stepping over the rocky terrain with practiced ease. "We could hold off the pirates indefinitely there, but we'd starve without fishing. We've depleted the waters near the plant—it will be another century before they recover. They’ve talked about moving the plant, but haven’t done it yet." Thomas nodded, his gaze lingering on the horizon where sea met sky. "Food or defense," he mused aloud. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation, a tactical puzzle demanding both immediate and long-term solutions. "We need to secure both." They trudged back towards the airlock, the planet's sun casting elongated shadows on the ground. "Perhaps," Thomas ventured, "we could ferry our passengers to the processing plant. Give them some relief from the confines of the ship, while we gather supplies here." The Steward's steps faltered briefly as he shook his head. "Won't work," he countered. "It will take all two hundred bodies to haul up enough catch for sustenance. They'll need to chip in, get their hands dirty for once if they want to eat." “Is there a caretaker staff at the processing plant?” Thomas asked. “Possible, but the evacuation order applied to all our planets,” the Steward replied. “They might have left the same as everyone else.” As the airlock doors yawned open before them, swallowing the stark light of the alien world, Captain Hunter felt the familiar press of duty settle upon him. It was not merely the safety of his crew and passengers at stake, but the honor of the Corporation—a titan that had fostered him since birth. "Call the staff together," he instructed, stepping into the vessel with the snake's body dragging behind, leaving a trail on the metallic floor. "We need a plan that includes the processing plant. I assume it has a landing pad, repair equipment?" "Indeed, Captain," the Steward confirmed, the heavy door sealing shut with an echoing thud. The air hissed as it pressurized, a sound Thomas found oddly comforting. It signified security, another barrier between them and the vastness of space—a reminder of the Corporation's reach, even on this forsaken rock. "Then let's not waste time," Thomas said, peeling off his spacesuit with deliberate motions. "Our survival hinges on swift action—and perhaps, a bit of Corporation ingenuity." The sterile scent of the ship's interior stung Captain Hunter's nostrils as he stepped over the threshold, leaving behind the alien landscape. His boots thudded on the deck plating, a stark contrast to the muffled silence of the world outside his suit. He caught sight of Seth, his posture rigid with urgency, waiting just beyond the airlock. "Sir," Seth began without preamble, "Zach is out of surgery. The doctor says he’s in critical condition and we’ll just have to wait now.” Thomas felt a twinge of relief, tempered by the weight of uncertainty. He gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Seth." His voice was steady, betraying none of the concern that tightened his chest. "I want you to stay on the Bridge and monitor the radio and radar. I dropped some micro-satellites in orbit during landing. If the pirates show up, the satellites will inform us." "Understood," Seth replied, snapping a salute that was crisp despite the situation. With determination etched into his young face, he pivoted on his heel and strode toward the Bridge. The Captain turned to the Steward, who stood with the snake carcass slung over one shoulder like a grotesque trophy. "Give that snake to the Chef. I want everyone to get a portion." "Will do, Captain," the Steward said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. His humor seemed out of place in the grim reality they faced. Yet it reminded Thomas of the resilience of the human spirit—even in the darkest times, they could find levity. As the Steward departed for the galley, Thomas allowed himself a moment to reflect. Born to the Ceres Corporation, he had been raised among the stars, taught that loyalty to the Corporation was paramount. It was more than a job; it was his life's purpose. And now, standing aboard a damaged ship with two hundred lives depending on him, every decision he made echoed with the responsibility ingrained in him since childhood. His gaze wandered to the bulkheads that encompassed them, steel guardians against the void. They were far from the opulence of the Ceres Gaming Resort, yet here lay the true testament to the Corporation's prowess: survival against all odds. "Captain?" A voice broke through his reverie, pulling him back to the present. "Report," he commanded, his focus sharpening. "The staff is gathered, sir. They await your orders." "Good. Let's not keep them waiting," Thomas said, stepping forward with renewed purpose. There would be time for reflection later. Now, they had work to do.