Hello Sev,

I hope you and Alexander are doing well. Things are a bit chaotic here, so although I’ve been granted some communication privileges, I can’t access any of my external messages. The wonders of modern bureaucracy are so amazing.

Apart from that, things are slowly moving along. The ship I’m on is bigger than the last one. My room can hold three people, though for the moment there aren’t enough cadets to fill it all so I’m not sharing it with anyone. That might change soon enough, when the rest of our crew gets here. The ship commander made a huge announcement about it yesterday. I was there with the rest of the cadets and the command staff. The speech was quite good. We’ll be starting our mission in a few days. And that means I might not be able to write for a while. Because of my last mission, I’ve had an external message limit imposed.

I think you should invite the entire family to see you. It’s a lot of work, but Alexander can handle it, if you don’t grumble at him all the time. If you hold a get-together, give a big hello from me to everyone.

Take care and remember to get a med check up every three months,

Elcy

The message text filled the entire screen of the datapad. There was so much I hadn’t added that I might as well have lied. The administrator’s address had been mundane, hardly deviating from the fleet’s presentation template. It was almost inconceivable how little actual information we had been given in an event that had lasted an hour and seventeen minutes. Other than presenting the ship’s administrative and military staff, everything related to the actual mission was quite vague. The only reliable piece of info was a repeat of the widely known, PR-approved statement that we were heading to explore a new region of space. Considering the firepower the ship had, I found the explanation doubtful.

“Elcy,” a hoarse voice came from the corridor. Ever since arriving at my new quarters, I had made a habit to leave the door open unless I was sleeping.

I sent the message and put my databad away. Cadet Juul Sapro was standing in the doorway. A mesh of scars covered most of his face—an unfortunate accident during training, as he liked to say—making him appear three times older than he actually was. I had tried looking through his file, but unlike the rest, it was completely redacted, displaying nothing more than a date of birth and his current assignment. His dark skin and occasional inability to handle cold made me suspect he came from a tropical planet. During the cadet classification, he had been selected to be the other senior cadet, ranking just above me.

“Yes?” I looked at him from my bed.

“The commander wants us,” Juul said, the scars on his face moving as if someone was playing a game of cat’s cradle.

“Sure.” I stood up. “Casual or office uniform?”

“Casual’s fine,” he replied. So far, I had never seen him out of office uniform since he’d come aboard. “Just try not to piss Kridib off too much. He’s in one of his moods again.”

“Nothing new.” Kridib is in one of his moods every day.

I straightened the shirt of my uniform, then walked towards the corridor. On the way, I slid my fingers over the pair of sandals I had on the shelf. One of the advantages of having a large room was that I had an abundance of space to do with as I pleased. I had also adjusted the settings so an image of three suns in orbit filled an entire wall.

“Why do you have those sandals?” Juul asked as we went along the corridor. “Are they a good luck charm or something?”

“Sort of.” Explaining that I got it from my ward would be complicated, regardless if he suspected I was a battleship or not. “They are a reminder of someone I know.”

“Hmm, okay.” He shrugged as if I were hiding something.

Reaching a flight of stairs, we rushed up and into the internal transport pod. One of the advantages of a vessel this size was that I could always rely on transport vehicles and elevator pods. In my time, ship interiors were one of the main problems in space design. When I had been created, my internal layout was considered significantly less rigid than that of previous ship models. Even so, the location of elevators, halls, and stairways remained largely immutable. Going from one place to another involved a considerable amount of time and walking. Here, I could go from one point of the Gregorius to the further opposite in less than five minutes. Fast travel had made life aboard considerably easier; it had also removed the need of key locations having to be clustered in close proximity. The bridge, the officer’s quarters, and the administrator’s office were all located kilometers apart, and about twice as much from the cadets’ rooms.

“What’s the story between you and Kridib?” Juul asked as the pod sped through the inner workings of the station-ship. “Is he your ex?”

“Hardly.” This wasn’t the first time a question this nature had been asked, but it remained amusingly enjoyable as if it were. “I think he just dislikes the fleet. Most land to fleet transfers do.”

“Looked to me it was more than that. It’s okay if you don’t want to share, but I’m not getting caught in the crossfire.”

“No worries.” Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. “He’s been in the service, he knows what’s expected of him.” As do I.

The trip lasted slightly over a minute. There were no wall messages or verbal announcements that we had arrived at our destination, very much in contrast to the shuttle ride ten days back. Gregorious was definitely sparing with his subroutines. I wouldn’t have allowed myself such negligence even during extreme combat.

As we stepped in the corridor, I noticed that Kridib was already there, leaning against the wall. Seeing me, he crossed his arms in a clear display of disapproval.

“You’re out of uniform,” he said, scoffing at my purple attire.

“Technically, this still counts,” I countered. Unless you deliberately chose not to inform me of the opposite.

“We’ll soon find out.” He went in front of the door to the commander’s office and knocked.

They have comm-panels here, I thought. For some reason nearly every ground trooper had the habit of knocking instead of using the appropriate terminals.

“Any idea what this is about?” Juul asked, standing two steps away from either of us.

“No.” Kridib knocked again. This time the door slid open, revealing an unusually small room. Considering the size of Gregorius, I had expected the office to be at least as large as our living quarters. In truth, it was half that, harsh and spartan, as if it were a ground troops command outpost.

“Enter,” a voice said from inside.

This was the second time I’d seen my direct commander in person since my arrival. The first time had been yesterday, during the administrator’s announcement. She had been in her formal green attire, covered in service ribbons and three campaign medals. Looking at her now, I had to admit that office clothes made her seem unremarkable, almost lost behind her massive desk. Her personnel file stated she had been deployed on the Scuu front, though it didn’t specify in what capacity. Aboard the Gregorius, she was responsible for me and all other cadets.

“At ease,” Commander Everar said, before we had a chance to salute. “I’ll keep this brief. There have been rumors concerning the nature of your mission and your roles concerning it. All of those stop now! Am I clear?”

Evarar’s attitude was brief and straight to the point. She also seemed like the person who wouldn’t tolerate disobedience. The message in her eyes was clear: “Make trouble on my ship, and I’ll end you.”

“Good!” Everar leaned back in her seat. “The three of you were given junior command duties thanks to your previous combat experience. That doesn’t change the fact that you remain cadets and are subject to fleet hierarchy.”

In other words, we can’t command the crew.

“Also, I expect you to make use of that experience and serve as a model to other cadets, and that includes not propagating rumors or displaying hostilities between each other.”

Both me and Kridib were given a glance. Hardly surprising, since everyone knew how “well” we got along. What I found interesting was that Juul was said to have seen some action. So far, we had chatted on several occasions and not once had he mentioned it.

“That said, a number of things on this mission are on a need-to-know basis,” the commander continued. “Details will be shared with you when and if need requires. Anything you are told, you are not to share with anyone else without my explicit go-ahead. I trust that won’t be problem?”

“No, ma’am,” we all replied in unison. Her manner reminded me a bit of Augustus. I wouldn’t be surprised if she took out a cigar and lit it.

“Moving on, regardless what the administrator said yesterday, we’re nowhere near launch,” she went on. “So, until we get a captain, we’ll have to—”

“We don’t have a captain?” I couldn’t stop myself.

Officially, our captain was supposed to be Nic Verra, as presented during the administrator’s announcement. His brief service record was impressive as any, and he was one of the few hundred that had witnessed the Scuu fracturing from the front lines. Supposedly, he was supposed to be en route for the Gregorious and expected to arrive thirty-seven hours from now.

“No, Cadet Elcy, we don’t,” the Commander said, giving a sharp edge to every word. “Tomorrow, there will be a ship-wide announcement stating that the captain has experienced a death in the family, making him ineligible for the position. The standard one-week delay will be imposed, with the administrator’s office assuming temporary control of his duties.”

This was unusual, and it was also against every known regulation. No mission was allowed to start unless the command structure was intact, even dark ops. My gaze wandered from the commander to the few decorations on the wall behind her: five division banners, an engineering diploma, and a framed carbon copy photo of her and a current fleet admiral. If anything, she was perfectly aware of the implications of what she was saying.

“During that time, a small detachment will fly to the system of our true captain candidate on one of the auxiliary ships and bring him here,” Everar added. “Until then, we’re to pretend it’s business as usual.”

There was a common saying in the fleet: never attribute to stupidity what could be explained with a cover-up. My first captain had coined the phrase “plausible stupidity,” perfectly describing the phenomenon. Since the flaws of the bureaucratic apparatus were abundant, they could serve as the perfect excuse. So far, there had been plenty of missteps and sudden changes regarding our current mission. Now, I could see why.

Because of my ability to skim my restricted memories, I had witnessed more than enough similar cases. In my case, what the fleet couldn’t hide, it could restrict or erase entirely. I had gotten used to the notion. Humans, however, tended to react in a different fashion. Looking at my fellow cadets, both understood what they were being asked to do, and neither of them liked it.

“Permission to speak freely?” Kridib stepped forward.

The Commander hesitated a few moments. She had to be blind not to see the anger raging under his pale exterior. As Augustus would say, Kridib was a grenade waiting to go off.

“Go ahead,” Everar said calmly.

“This is all a bunch of crap, ma’am!” The left side of his mouth twisted into a mocking smirk as he spoke. “Two months ago, there was a captain, and a mission, a plan of action, and no damned civvies! Now we have bureaucrats running the show and it’s all gone to shit! I’ve no idea who gave the order, but—”

“Perhaps you want another assignment?” the commander interrupted. I could feel the tension rise to the point I could cut it with a knife. Kridib glared forward, fists clenched, ready to leap forward and snap Everar’s neck. The fleet uniform was the only thing standing between him and a court-martial. Running a few simulations, I could tell there was a one in seventeen chance that he would escalate the confrontation further.

Don’t be an idiot, I thought. Slowly, I moved my right foot back, shifting the weight of my body onto it. Ironic that the first person on whom I’d use my military combat training would be a fellow cadet. It was preferable to the alternative, though.

“Cadet?” Everar pressed on. A few seconds later, Kridib capitulated.

“No, ma’am,” he hissed, relaxing his fists. “My apologies, ma’am.”

“Good, because I would have hated to replace you.” The commander stared at each of us in turn, then diverted her attention to the last gen screen on her desk. “Dismissed.”

We gave a salute.

“Cadet Elcy,” Everar added all of a sudden. “You stay.”

So much for keeping a low profile. If Kridib disliked me before, he would absolutely hate me now. I remained at attention as my fellow cadets left the room. When the door closed shut, Privacy Mode messages appeared on every wall.

“What do you think of the situation?” the woman asked.

“Which situation, precisely, ma’am?” There were a lot of things I could say. In light of my recent record, none of them worthwhile.

“The situation aboard. Given your experience, you must have an opinion.”

Cute. “I’m not aware of a ship ever setting off without its captain, ma’am,” I said carefully. “Even if the ship administrator is technically considered to be in charge, command would have never allowed such a mission to proceed, especially with this number of troops and firepower.” Not to mention forty-eight next gen ships attached as well. “I can only speculate that there is a yet-unshared reason for all of this.”

I expected there would be a smile on the woman’s face. Unfortunately, there was none. The commander stood up, then made her way past me to the opposite side of the room. There, she pressed against the wall with all four fingers of her left hand. Instantly, the texture flickered, replaced by images of a bloody corpse taken from several angles. Multiple black censor squares covered parts of the pictures, but there was enough left for me to tell that the person had been killed with a non-standard weapon.

“Captain Avicena Ruz,” she explained. “Killed twenty-three days ago, several months after taking command of the Gregorius. He was highly decorated, expected to be made rear admiral in the next round of promotions, and—according to his subordinates—quite merciless.”

The facial features of the corpse were too distorted by damage for me to make a proper identification. Meanwhile, I did have a brief bio of Ruz’s file, along with the highlights of his service record. As Everar had said, he was a wardog veteran who had been in hundreds of missions, all fighting the Scuu. From what I could see, he had opted to remain non-stop on the front, despite the three-year pause requirement. Normally, conditions on the Scuu front were too harsh for humans to last for a full five-year rotation, and thus the fleet had reduced the number to three, giving the option for personnel to apply for a new assignment after one.

“Was he an agent?” I asked, moving closer to the wall. All the wounds seemed to be grouped in clusters, originating from the inside out. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to assume that something had meddled with the nanites inside of him, causing them to burst out.

“That info is way out of your league,” she said, which was the fleet way of saying ‘not to her knowledge.’ “The point is that we can’t afford a repeat of this. While circumstances surrounding Ruz’s death are still classified, he was under non-stop surveillance for the duration of the period in question. No evidence of leaks, net-intrusion, or biological agents have been found. When the team goes to get our replacement captain, we need to make sure he arrives here in one piece and breathing.”

The images disappeared from the wall.

“In the next seventy-four hours, you’ll go through a series of procedures that will protect your core from Scuu influence,” the commander said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Additional implants will be necessary, though I’m told none of them will be particularly intrusive.”

At this point, I had been through enough med checks to know that when something was said to not be “particularly intrusive,” it usually meant placement of cranial modules—most likely a few failsafe and possibly a self-destruct implant. With my being a ship, it would be easy to explain the procedures away as part of my standard check-ups. Of course, for that to work, they would have to be told I was a ship.

“Once you’re set, you’ll join the team to fetch our future captain and bring him here safely.” She returned to her desk. “One last thing. Cadet Kridib Lyuk will also be on the mission. Will that affect your performance?”

“No, ma’am,” I was quick to say, although I would have preferred knowing a bit more about him before making such a statement.

“Keep an eye out during your mission, while performing your main objective.” Her attention was focused on the screen once more. “And, cadet.” The commander paused for a few moments. “Don’t believe Cadet Lyuk, no matter what he says.”

“Ma’am?” I tilted my head slightly. “Am I to understand that you do not trust him?” And yet you’re still sending him on the mission.

The commander looked up, straight at me.

“No.”