2.18.2

Desperate Times

A couple of hours later, the crew converged in the mess hall. Dell, now on his feet, ravaged his meal almost as heartily as Astrid.

Beside him, Romo divulged his discussion with the captain.

“London approved. We’re headed for an outpost station, where we’ll meet up with Ava’s brother.”

“Ava?” Eames asked. The Guardian took up a seat on the other side of Romo. He’d dressed down into civilian clothing. Which comforted Astrid. Somehow it made it easier to see the man behind his occupation.

Save for the pulsar stick he kept on his belt. The specialist chalked it up to an old habit. But given she remained the only Channeler aboard, she couldn’t help but feel it might be a little personal.

“The S.O. we picked up. Her brother just finished a mission in the Fourth,” Romo referred to the Fourth Fleet. The one in charge of exploration and patrolling the outer rim of civilized space. Astrid learned them all in basic. “Turns out he had no idea she was even missing.”

“What do you mean ‘missing’?” Tenya queried.

The chief discreetly reached for Astrid’s extra dinner roll. The Channeler gently slapped her hand away. Then, with a smirk, tore off half for her friend and handed it over.

Tenya elbowed her in retribution, but bit into her own half victoriously anyway.

“Apparently he thought she was in school,” Romo huffed. “It might actually help us out. If she didn’t tell him what she’s up to, there’s a decent chance she assumed he wouldn’t approve. And that means good things for us.”

“Let’s hope so. We might get more out of him,” Anders contributed from Astrid’s other side.

The fact he so naturally settled close to her again returned some normalcy. And finally, for the specialist, things started to feel somewhat routine.

Dell noshed his last bite and pushed his tray away. Without preamble, he gestured to the Guardian at the table.

“Hey, can I see your pulsar tool?” he asked before he fully swallowed.

Astrid admonished as lightheartedly as she could manage. “Oh, I really rather wish you wouldn’t.”

“Relax, Bug, he's not that cruel,” Romo ribbed.

Eames easily slid the stick from its place like he’d done it a hundred times. “Just don’t touch the switch.”

Dell extended the stick to full length, eyes full with interest. “I haven’t seen one up close, really. How does it work?”

“It’s a frequency thing,” Eames explained. “A very specific frequency. It seems to resonate in the nervous system. It’s only mildly annoying for us. Our brains automatically tune it out, essentially, to protect ourselves. But for some reason, Channelers can’t. It just rolls right in.”

“Pleasant,” Astrid commented into her half-eaten food.

“Are these the same models the S.O. have been carrying?” the technician wondered aloud.

The Channeler shifted in her seat. “They seem to hit a lot harder, at least when we were in that last fight.”

“That’s probably due to your advancement.” Dell’s face screwed up in fascination with the device. “If your channel is more open, or your system more sensitive, it stands to reason.”

“So, it’ll get worse?” Anders asked for her.

He and Romo exchanged anxious glances.

“Maybe we can work up a counter. Something to block it,” Tenya suggested. “Imagine what Service Research and Development might come up with to protect Division Channelers. You know, when it gets that far.”

Another flurry of nervous looks crossed the table. With their newcomer, the crew didn’t seem comfortable voicing their concerns openly.

But with the individual loyalties of the Service in question, and the results of the experiments performed in Argos, any further tests of research hardly felt a safe venture.

“They’re pretty simple tools, really,” Eames admitted. “Crude, but effective.”

When Astrid looked to Eames, he looked back. Unrepentant, but not unkind.

“Aldebaran Crew, prepare for reroute and active stations. ETA to contact, thirty minutes.”

This time, the voice of the pilot interrupted their supper. At the next table over, Shaely and Hammond also dropped their utensils.

The team shared a single grave look before seven sets of feet hit the deck and asses rose from seats.

Tenya swept all the trays up in one fell swoop, with their meals in varying degrees of completion, and delivered them back to the kitchen while the crew dispersed in double time. They left Eames perplexed and rather aimless without explanation.

“Thanks, Sugar!” the chief called to the cook. “Duty calls!”

~~~

The group marched to the Bridge to find the captain overseeing a call.

Shaely slid into her seat and immediately took over controls for the relief crewman without a word.

While she chatted away with the other side, the team went straight to their captain.

“What is it, sir? We gearing up?” Tenya asked first.

“Not this time, Chief. We’re using the big guns for this one.”

The lieutenant-commander then marched down to the helm’s platform, to commandeer the pilot’s ship comm while Shaely’s station remained occupied.

“Crew, prepare for ship-to-ship-combat. Seal the Engine Room. Response team prep distress suppression gear.”

His voice carried in echo from the room to the speaker system.

Astrid looked to the others to see what she should do next.

“What’s the call, sir?” Romo probed next.

“The Alfirk. The ship the Third Fleet dispatched to Raphael. They’re en route to Mercedes. But they’ve picked up a tail. We’re the closest to them.”

“The S.O.?”

“That’s our guess. Likely crossed paths on the way to the Sanctuary themselves.”

“Wait,” Astrid realized, “the Alfirk was on their way to Mercedes? You mean they already have the Channelers aboard?”

“Yes,” London informed her. “And we’re going to keep the S.O. from getting their claws on them.”

Tenya looked to the window of passing sky and stardust. “Good thing we haven’t made it far.”

“They’ll take that ship out before they let it go.” Dell’s face hardened with sober certainty.

“If those Channelers panic…” Romo drew his sentence to a close, rather than to a forgone conclusion.

“They’ll have Guardians with them,” Astrid reminded. “A pulsar will keep them from disrupting the ship too much. It’s nasty but still preferable to death.”

Not that the prospect quelled the flip in the specialist’s stomach.

Nevertheless, in the thirty minutes that passed, the Aldebaran’s crew passed out the oxygen masks, just in case.

A near-pointless contingency, Astrid knew. But it still felt somehow better to have one lashed to her belt.

Dell departed, temporarily, to make sure the rest of the crew secured their own gear and tucked into their stations. And presumably, to give Eames the quickest rundown of protocol ever delivered.

The Aldebaran raced through the perpetual night, with Astrid tense in her boots the entire time.

She joined Ricks and Anders at the front, and let the chatter of London, Shaely, and the others fall into the background.

But just as they approached the point of rendezvous with the Third Fleet’s transport, Ricks brought the blast windows down and switched to projected visuals.

Astrid leaned in to make sense of the various monitors with her face scrunched in worry.

Finally a blip, then a second one, popped up on the right most screen and Anders came to join her.

“There,” he pointed for them both. “That one has Fleet codes and…”

The second representation, little more than a cartooned visage to Astrid, chased after.

“Ship engaging.” Ricks no lingered bothered with manual work of the comm. He left it open, for all of the Aldebaran to keep time with their efforts.

“Don’t bother with the warning shot, Ricks,” London ordered. “They know very well what they’re doing.”

“Why isn’t the Alfirk firing?” Astrid whispered aside to Anders.

“It’s not protocol to get in a dog fight with so many civilians on board. Not unless they have no other choice. We’ve got good engines. In this case, it’s enough.”

Under the deck, the ship’s weapons roiled to life.

Astrid hissed under the assault on her senses, unprepared. Though not the first time she felt the guns' charge shake the ship, last time her senses dulled with grief and a limited channel stream. But like with the pulsars, this grew worse with her sensitivity.

She bit down before anyone noticed her trouble.

A blast through the ship rushed through her gut in tandem. She could only imagine how they looked, tearing from the side flank while the enemy ship chased single-mindedly for its target.

“Hit confirmed. Port side, under,” Hammond announced from his own station.

Ricks also checked his instruments. “Son of a bitch, they’re still going for the Alfirk!”

“Keep on them, we’ve got to get their attention!” Anders insisted.

The captain gave no override to the order.

Again, the guns gathered their power, and Astrid braced herself.

The second shot pummeled through her core. And a tight groan escaped her throat.

Anders glanced to her, but she quickly masked her discomfort.

“I just want them gone.”

She blamed the involuntary growl on furor but wouldn’t look at him.

“Miss,” Hammond reported bleakly. “Detecting enemy weapons. They’re still trained on the Alfirk.”