24. Draevik #2
"I can do more than count crates, Draevik.
" A ghost of a smirk touching her lips. "I can start patching the atmospheric leaks in the crew quarters too.
If I'm going to stay at your side during this, I want to breathe without hearing a whistle in the walls.
I noticed a few hairline fractures near the galley vents that the drones missed. "
"Your contribution is vital." My gaze lingers on her.
"I am granting you full access to the maintenance drones.
Use them to prioritize the seals on the primary hull.
I will handle the weapon systems and the shield harmonics.
We must synchronize our efforts to ensure Virex Prime is ready for the weight of a fleet. "
We spend the next stretch of time in a focused, verbal dance.
I converse with Nyra using the ship's ambient acoustic relays as she moves to the secondary console to begin her work. I explain the intricacies of the Hegemony power grid while she counters with stories of how she used to jury-rig solar sails in the junk belts. The bridge, once a cold and silent tomb, feels alive with our shared purpose. I find myself explaining the nuances of the ship’s ancient pulse-fire mechanisms, a history silent for centuries.
"The forward cannons are at twelve percent. I need to purge the cooling vents, but the automated systems are jammed with carbon scoring. The build-up is thick, and the sensors are flagging a thermal runaway risk."
"I saw a cache of high-pressure solvent in the galley storage," she blurts clearly and decisively over the speaker.
"If I can get a drone to haul it to the maintenance port, we can flush those vents in half the time.
It's a trick we used on the old freighter I lived on—dissolves the carbon without pitting the alloy. "
"Execute that plan." I agree, a sense of grim satisfaction settling over me.
The solvent arrives within less than an hour, a maintenance drone struggling under its industrial canister. Nyra meets it at the forward weapons bay—a cavernous space beneath the bridge where the primary cannon housings sit like sleeping giants in their cradles.
I have already reached the port-side cannon, plunging my hands deep into the cooling assembly.
Without my armor, the scale of the mechanism dwarfs even me.
The barrel housing alone is wider than her Harrow's cargo bay, and the cooling vents that ring the breach chamber are clogged with centuries of carbon deposits that have baked into a substance harder than stone.
"Hand me the solvent," I request, and she lugs the canister to the base of the assembly.
We work on the vents together. I pull the intake covers while she sprays the solvent into the narrow channels, the black crust dissolving into a hissing, smoking slurry that drains into the collection trays below.
The process is filthy. Within twenty minutes, we are both streaked with carbon residue and solvent spray, and industrial chemicals and old fire coat the senses.
"Third vent is clear," she calls out as she leans back to wipe her forearm across her forehead. "The fourth has a cracked gasket, though—the solvent is leaking out the side instead of penetrating the blockage."
I move to her position, crouching beside the vent housing. I examine the crack with the same focused precision I once applied to battlefield reconnaissance, my fingers tracing the fracture line along the seal.
"Seal it from the outside," I instruct. "Apply pressure while I flush the interior."
She presses her palm flat against the crack without hesitation, keeping the gasket firmly in place while the solvent hisses through the opposite side.
I observe heat transfer through the housing into her skin, and the subsystem that catalogues risk to her body initiates a withdrawal response.
She remains steady. The carbon crust surrenders, collapsing into dark sludge.
"Port cannon cooling at sixty-eight percent and climbing," Virex Prime reports through the bridge speakers, carrying a note of something I would almost call satisfaction.
I look at her. Carbon dust is smeared across the bridge of her nose. With her soot-streaked face, she embodies a fierce survivor forged in the shipyards.
"Your freighter techniques translate well." The admission escapes me more quietly than I intend.
Every word we exchange confirms our unity.
I find myself listening for the sound of her voice even when the bridge is utterly still.
She is the spark that keeps the dark at bay.
Titles like Warlord of the Hegemony and scavenger of the void fade in the heart of Virex Prime, becoming little more than shadows of a forgotten age.
We are simply the defenders of our world.
I observe the way she handles the maintenance interface, her movements precise and devoid of hesitation. She belongs here.
"I’m seeing a discrepancy in the munitions count," Nyra reports from the sensor station. "The boarders took more than just medical supplies. They raided the kinetic slug stores in Section Seven. We're down to about forty percent of our standard complement."
“Then we shall be precise with the rounds we have left,” I proclaim as resolve carves itself into my expression. "Every shot must find its mark. I will recalibrate the targeting computers to prioritize high-value targets. We can conserve fire by ignoring their support frigates for now."