Chapter 10
Zor'go
I spent the next two hours preparing. Equipment check, emergency supplies, updated route calculations for seventeen contingencies.
The mechanical process was soothing, concrete tasks with clear completion criteria.
Unlike emotional conversations, which had no established protocols and unpredictable outcomes.
The transport ship gleamed under the hangar lights, sleek lines optimized for speed and maneuverability, heavily shielded for combat situations. Vaxon stood near the entrance, reviewing manifests while his security team conducted final equipment checks.
Jalina was already aboard. I could see her through the transparent section of the hull, seated at a station near the rear, studying something on a datapad.
Her dark hair was pulled back, practical instead of pretty.
She wore the standard mission jumpsuit that somehow looked simultaneously too large and precisely correct on her small frame.
My markings flickered involuntarily, anxiety and anticipation in equal measure.
"Zor'go." Vaxon's rumbling voice pulled my attention. "Captain Tor'van said you'd be joining us. I hope you've worked out whatever emotional catastrophe happened between you and the architect, because I need both of you functional for this operation."
"We're professionals. We'll manage."
"Professionals who've been avoiding each other for three days and apparently had a public argument in the observation deck." His massive arms crossed over his chest. "Kex'tar told me. The entire command crew knows."
"Wonderful. My personal failures are now common knowledge."
"Your personal failures aren't my concern unless they compromise mission safety." Vaxon's expression hardened. "This is dangerous territory. Raiders, debris fields, potential hostile contact. I need everyone focused. Can you maintain professional conduct?"
"Yes."
"Good. Because if you let personal drama interfere with navigation, I'll space you both and handle the route myself."
He wouldn't actually. Vaxon was brutally pragmatic but not homicidal. Still, the threat was clear enough.
I boarded the transport.
The interior was configured for rapid deployment, secured equipment lockers, medical station, tactical displays, minimal seating.
The ship could hold twenty beings comfortably but felt larger with only nine of us aboard.
Vaxon's security team: four specialists armed with weapons I couldn't name.
Medical support: two trauma responders in case we found survivors.
Navigation team: Jalina, myself, and one backup pilot.
Small group. High risk. Standard rescue operation parameters for contested territory.
Jalina looked up as I entered, her expression cycling through surprise, uncertainty, and something that might have been relief before settling on careful neutrality.
"You are here," she said.
"My spatial analysis skills are essential for navigating contested sector conditions." I moved toward the navigation station, maintaining professional distance. "Captain Tor'van agreed."
"Right. Professional necessity." She glanced away, adjusting her glasses. "Of course."
The words carried weight I couldn't immediately interpret. Disappointment? Resignation? I'd never been proficient at reading human emotional subtext.
I should apologize. Er'dox had been explicit about that. But the right words wouldn't form, tangled somewhere between my chest and my vocal cords in a spectacular demonstration of communication failure.
"Jalina—" I started.
"All personnel, secure for departure." Vaxon's voice cut through the cabin. "Launch in three minutes."
The moment dissolved. Jalina turned back to her station, fingers moving across the interface with practiced efficiency. I took my position beside her, close enough to coordinate but not touching, and pulled up the navigation displays.
The contested sector map materialized between us, a three-dimensional representation of space that looked more like abstract art than functional territory.
Debris fields marked former battle sites.
Gravitational anomalies twisted navigation paths into complex knots.
Territorial boundaries overlapped in ways that made legal jurisdiction essentially meaningless.
And somewhere in that chaotic mess, a modified Liberty beacon was transmitting.
"Signal location locked," the backup pilot reported. "Coordinates confirmed. Jump calculated."
The transport ship's engines thrummed to life, building toward the resonance frequency that would tear us out of normal space and hurl us across light-years in subjective seconds. I'd experienced warp jumps thousands of times. They never stopped being fundamentally unsettling.
Jalina's hands tightened on her armrests. Small tells, she didn't like jumping either.
Without thinking, I reached over and covered her hand with mine. "Standard transit. Thirty-seven seconds subjective time. You won't feel anything."
She looked at our hands, then at me. "You're holding my hand."
"Professional reassurance. Statistically proven to reduce anxiety during warp transitions."
"You're making that up."
"Completely."
The smallest smile flickered across her face, there and gone in heartbeats, but genuine. "You came on this mission."
"I did."
"Why?"
The jump klaxons sounded before I could answer. Reality twisted, compressed, folded in on itself in ways that made mathematics scream. Then we were elsewhere, the contested sector spreading before us in all its hazardous glory.
Jalina's question hung unanswered between us.
The debris field appeared on sensors first as massive chunks of destroyed vessels scattered across several cubic kilometers, some pieces larger than Mothership's engineering sections.
Navigation markers indicated known hazards: unstable wrecks that might explode if disturbed, radiation hotspots, territorial boundary warnings in three different languages.
"Beacon signal bearing two-seven-three mark eight," the pilot reported. "Approximately twelve kilometers into the field."
I pulled up the route calculations I'd prepared during my insomnia. "Recommend approach vector alpha-three. Avoids the primary debris concentration and known raider patrol routes."
"Concur." Vaxon studied my proposed path. "Time to intercept?"
"Forty-seven minutes at optimal speed. Longer if we encounter complications."
"We'll encounter complications. This is the contested sector." He activated the ship's enhanced shields. "All hands, combat ready. Jalina, Zor'go, I need eyes on that debris field. Any path optimization you can provide."
Jalina leaned forward, studying the holographic debris with the same intensity she brought to examining empty spaces. "There. Between those two large sections. The rotation patterns create a temporary clear channel every eight minutes."
I ran the calculations. She was right. "If we time our approach to match the rotational window, we can reduce transit time by fourteen minutes."
"Do it." Vaxon's command was immediate. "But if that channel closes early, I'm pulling us out. Not risking the ship for a few minutes."
"Understood."
We moved deeper into the debris field, the transport ship sliding between destroyed vessels with uncomfortable precision.
Jalina called out openings seconds before my calculations confirmed them.
I provided trajectory corrections milliseconds ahead of collision warnings.
The collaboration that had felt so natural during the Veritaxis rescue returned, refined by weeks of working together.
The beacon signal strengthened as we approached the coordinates. Whatever was transmitting used Liberty's frequency patterns, distinctive modulation that human engineers had designed centuries ago. Nostalgia weaponized as a homing signal.
"Contact," Vaxon reported. "Damaged escape pod drifting near that asteroid cluster. Life signs detected, three beings, all human-sized biosignatures."
Jalina's breath caught audibly. "Three survivors."
"Potentially. Could also be raiders using the beacon as bait." Vaxon maneuvered closer, weapons systems active. "Scanning for additional vessels."
The escape pod materialized on visual sensors, Liberty design, unmistakable even in its damaged state. Hull breaches sealed with emergency patches. Propulsion systems offline. Life support at minimal function.
Three human lives inside, drifting through hostile space, waiting.
"No other vessels detected," the pilot reported. "Area appears clear."
"For now." Vaxon positioned the transport for docking. "Prepare for extraction. Medical team, stand by. Security, stay sharp. This could still be—"
The proximity alarms screamed.
"Incoming vessels!" The pilot's voice cracked with urgency. "Three raiders, closing fast. They just dropped out of cloak at two kilometers."
The transport ship shuddered as Vaxon threw us into evasive maneuvers. The debris field that had been a navigation challenge became a weapon as asteroids and wreckage flashed past at velocities that made my spatial processing scream.
"Get those survivors aboard!" Vaxon barked. "We have maybe ninety seconds before they're in firing range."
The medical team moved with practiced efficiency, extending the emergency airlocks to connect with the damaged pod. Jalina had already unstrapped, heading toward the airlock despite Vaxon's security team.
"Jalina, no—" I started.
"I know Liberty pod configurations." She was already at the manual override controls. "Your medical team doesn't. I can get them out faster."
She was right. I hated that she was right.
The airlocks sealed. Jalina disappeared inside with two medical responders while the transport ship bucked and twisted through Vaxon's evasive patterns. Raiders firing now, energy weapons that left ionized trails across my navigation display.
"Shields holding," the pilot reported. "But we can't take sustained fire."