Martin walked into the maintenance bay and winced. Benson had, evidently, found the speaker system, and was playing music that hadn’t been popular for a few hundred years at least, if indeed it had even been popular then. Looking around for the controls to no avail, and approached the craft instead. “Benson!”

No answer.

“Hey, Benson, where you at!”

A muffled voice came from inside the belly of the craft.

“Can’t hear you.” Martin said, climbing the short ladder.

Another, louder set of words came up, but Martin hauled himself into the craft and took in the scene. A pair of boots was sticking out from inside what looked like a small cubby hole. “Ay! Benson!”

Benson, still hidden from the chest up, fished around in his pocket for a moment and hit a button. The harsh music abruptly stopped. “Who’s there?”

“Zig.”

“The boss with you?”

“No, I just couldn’t hear what you were saying.”

“First I said ‘fuck you’.” The Captain counted on his fingers, the rest of him still hidden. “Then I said ‘suck my dick’ cause I thought it was you, and when you said something else I thought it might be Neerson, so I turned the music off.”

“Well. it’s me.”

Benson’s hand grabbed the lip of the wall and he pulled himself out. He was wearing thick black safety goggles that looked like they were for welding, and there was a yellow and black scarf tied around the lower half of his face. Martin started, taken off guard by the appearance for a moment, Benson stared at him.

Then he slid back into the cubby, saying, “Fuck you, and suck my dick!”

Martin chuckled as he lay on his stomach and inched closer to see what Benson was doing. “What the fuck are you doing?” Roared Benson, shoving Martin back. “Fucking hell, mate, at least get a pair of goggles, there a couple pairs for nosey fuckers like you hanging up above the door.”

Martin retrieved a pair of the welding goggles and returned. “You found something nice?”

“Oh yes.” Benson said, and the scarf shifted, indicating that trouble making smirk of his. Gesturing to three long lines, he said. “I think I found what looks like it might be the fuel lines.” He turned to Martin. “Maybe.”

“Reassuring. What does it look like it runs on?”

“It looks like it runs on oil.” Benson said. “Which is what worries me, and why the goggles.”

“Um.”

“If it looks like it runs on oil and its from…” He gestured as widely as he could in the cramped space. “Neerson’s wildly unsettling educated guess, it probably isn’t oil. And with how long this ship would have to be afloat, as well as the conditions its been exposed to, oil would have degraded by now. Assuming it originated at Pluto.”

“Did it originate at Pluto.”

“Uh, no, no it didn’t. Pluto was just the easiest fixed point past Neptune for me to assign the not insignificant amount of math to the problem.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To make sure this isn’t oil.”

“You’re sure that it’s not oil, then?”

“Absolu--” Benson stopped and considered the lines for a moment longer before looking back at Martin. “--tley. I am absolutely ninety-eight percent sure that this is not oil.”

“Jesus.” Martin shook his head. “Is there any point in asking you what it is?”

“Nope.”

“Do you always get this excited when confronted by a ship you know next to nothing about?”

“Oh fuck yes.”

Martin let his head fall to the deck of the ship with a small thump. “You got anything for the boss?”

“Yep.” Benson pulled himself out from the cubby and helped Martin to his feet. “Once I was sure that tall dark and ugly wasn’t going to spring me I was able to get into, hang on…” He put his shoulder against a sheet of metal and put all of his weight behind it. About an inch and a half of open space was able to be seen through, into what Martin saw was at the least a monitoring station. At best, “A cockpit?” He breathed.

“Not quite, unless whatever pilots it doesn’t need a place to put its ass. But go back over here.” Benson grabbed Martin by the shoulders and steered him back to the cubby, hooking his ankle and dropping him to the floor without much impact. Together the two men shinnied back into the cubby and Benson pointed down the shute that he had uncovered within. Martin’s eyes tracked. There was what looked like threadbare cushioning, and an elevated place for a head to rest.

“Before you go spooking yourself out of a night’s sleep like I did,” Benson said. “I think Neerson’s right. I doubt there was anything on this ship when it was intercepted.”

“You’re quite sure about that, I hope.”

“That I am absolutely sure on.” Benson said through his scarf. “One, unless they live on nothing but crumbs there wouldn’t be enough of anything to sustain what we currently know of as life.”

“It’s the ‘currently know of’ part that concerns me.”

“Sure,” Benson rolled uncomfortable on his side and shone a flashlight down the other end of the shute. “But physics are still physics, and there’s a big fucking hole down there that leads to the outside, which in space, means that even there was a crewmember it likely got a whole lot thinner going through that space. Satisfied?”

Martin didn’t have a chance to answer before a sound made him jump and crack his head painfully on the top of the cubby. His profanity clashed tremendously with Benson’s, and for a moment Martin thought that the Captain had started his music again without warning. As the ringing in his ears cleared, however, he noted that it was an alarm blasting through the flight test area.

“Damnit.” Benson said, struggling out of the cubby. “Damnit damnit damnit.” He fumbled with a circular device that had been pressed between his chest and the metal bulkhead as he had turned. Martin could hear feet running through the fog in his head, and a door banged open out in the maintenance bay. “Captain Benson!” A voice shouted. “Captain Benson, I’m coming up!”

“I’m fine!” Benson called, standing even as someone came almost running up the ladder. The head of black man with short dreadlocks poked through the entry hatch and he blinked.

“False alarm?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Benson said, helping Martin to his feet. “I didn’t know I was going to have company, or I would have given you a heads up.”

The man smiled. “Commander Ziggenbor. You look in about the same state of mind as the last time I saw you, sir.”

Martin squinted and the man’s face came into focus against the darkness and pain still lancing through his head. “Sergeant Valentine.” He managed to smile through watering eyes. “You look better than the last time I saw you.”

“Ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag looks better than the last time you saw me, sir.” He held out his hand. “Glad to see you again.”

“You as well, Sergeant.”

“Val!” Another voice called. “You alright up there?”

Martin froze, his eyes on Valentine before they darted to Benson, who shrugged. “He told me not to worry about it if you two crossed paths. Figured it would happen on its own sooner or later.”

Nodding wordlessly, Martin went to the hatch and looked out. Standing there at the base of the ladder was a young woman, and a black labrador, both of whom were looking up at the hatch. There was also a man, shorter than average, with dusty blonde hair and piercing eyes. Martin looked down at his younger brother for a few long moments, barely registering Valentine climbing down the ladder.

“You good to come down, sir? Budge up, you two, give him some space.”

Martin descended the ladder and turned again to face his brother. Neil’s face was blank at a washed slate.

His eyes were not.

Valentine put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Come on Rivers, Triss. Give them some space.” Together they left, and Martin could hear Benson making a racket up in the hatch to make it clear he was working and most certainly not listening in on the goings on below to report back to Neerson.

But Martin didn’t care about any of that.

He looked into Neil’s eyes and saw a hurricane of emotion. Out of all the Ziggenbor brothers, it had always been the youngest who felt things the most deeply. And he was feeling now. There was some hurt there, for some reason, some relief for some other reason. Maybe some anger, but that was standard with most of Neil’s moods. Martin didn’t care, and he was the first to step forward. There wasn’t much space for a run, but Neil met him in the middle, and Martin wrapped his arms around his brother. His baby brother who had gone away to war, the little mouthy shit who had told Martin to go to hell so many times it had become routine by the time they were ten. Martin wrapped his arms around his little brother, and Neil returned in kind, and together the two embraced. It didn’t matter to Martin what Neil was feeling, Martin held on like he never intended to let his little brother go again.

Relief washed through him that he didn’t know had been absent. Knowing that his brother had pulled through had been well enough in its own right, but seeing Neil there, feeling the familiar too-tight hug he had always greeted Martin with after a tour or extended training mission made it real.

After an uncared about length of time, they broke apart. Martin wiped his eyes and Neil blinked rapidly, giving his big brother a little shove. “You could have poked your head in sooner, asshole.” He said roughly through a thick throat.

“Christ, kid, have you met my boss?” Martin said with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah, the godman himself, Neerson.” Neil said with his own small smile and shrug. “After getting blown half to shit he doesn’t seem so bad.”

Martin let out a laugh and clapped his brother on the shoulder. The right shoulder. Under the synthetic skin he could feel the difference, the metal. The repair. And he realized, again without knowing he needed to, that he didn’t care about that, either.

“It’s good to see you, kid.” Martin smiled down at his brother. Neil glared up into Martin’s face, but his intense eyes sparkled slightly.

“Good to see you too. Sir.” He placed mocking emphasis on the tone the same way he had always done since he found out Martin’s career path. “You need to hang out here?”

“Ay, Benson, you still need me?”

“No sir.” Benson's voice came, muffled from some distance, and the music began crashing through the maintenance bay speakers as they left. Together they walked about half the considerable length of the flight testing area, turned around and walked back. They talked about much, mostly Neil and the weight he was carrying with him since Red Savior, but also what Martin was dealing with, and the game of intent and guess work he was engaged in. “And that’s all you can tell me?” Neil said.

“It’s all I feel comfortable telling you, at the moment.” Martin said, trying to sound sure in his judgment and not apologetic. “I can tell you with absolute certainty, however, that Neerson didn’t authorize you coming out here with Valentine for no reason. Stay on your toes, kid.”

“Sounds like you’re doing the dance more than any of us.”

“Matt might have me beat.”

“Matt likes to take fifty steps to get across the room. It’s not hard for him to find a reason to make things complicated.” Neil said with a shrug.

“He’s usually got a reason. And he trips a lot less than we do that way.”

Neil sighed as they came back up onto the arms room. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

Turning, Martin looked Neil up and down. “You’re still short.” He said.

“You’re still ugly.” And Neil hugged his brother. “You’ll be around?”

“When I can, but I’m mainly supposed to be checking in on Benson, making sure that operation is going well enough so that Neerson doesn’t have to.”

“He’s as good as you say? Benson?”

Martin cast an eye at the maintenance bay. “Probably better. He talks fast, but he thinks faster. And he likes being the one doing the stuff behind the scenes.”

“Someone to keep an eye on?”

“No.” Martin said with a wink, turning to go. “Someone to keep on your side.”

He started walking back toward the docking bay when Neil called to him, “What did you say the project he was working on is?”

“Project Ornithomancy.” Martin called.

--

“Your refreshments.”

“Thank you, Carga.” Damien said, taking the tray and setting it down on one of the unused work tables. It was laden with some of the best food the Journeymen had ever tasted while aboard any station, even the residential ones. It had done wonders for especially Damien’s view of the robot, since he knew that every time it, or she, as they had begun unconsciously calling her, would turn and leave for any extended periods of time, she would return with just such a feast.

Together, Damien and Natalie tucked in, and Carga stepped back. “I have a message for you both from Fleet Admiral Neerson.” Without waiting, Carga continued speaking, but it was not her voice that came from the robot, but the smooth voice of the Admiral. “Journeymen Sanderson and Drake are to be advised that I will be arriving in their area of operation at 1200 hours to personally answer questions they may have pertinent to the project to which they are assigned, and to assure them that their work is not forgotten or unnoticed.” Carga fell silent, and Damien raised an eyebrow. “He doesn’t know much about our types, does he?”

Natalie shrugged. “He’s a Fleet Admiral, Drake. Operative word being fleet, I’m sure that those under him appreciate being checked in on. Not everyone can just be turned loose on something and become obsessed. That’s why we’re RAE corps and they’re not.”

“I guess.” Damien took another bite. “But he doesn’t need to check in on us.”

“You can tell him if you want. How’re the optical sensors?”

“Like nothing I’ve worked on personally. Some of it is theory, but that might be why it’s out here instead of being worked on.”

“Still theory? Most of mine is straightforward sensory simulation.”

“Have you gone over the notes?” When Natalie shook her head, Damien smiled. “Go over the notes. What time is it anyway?”

“Current standard time is 1123 hours.” Carga said at once. “Be advised, the admiral is often early to his appointments.”

“I’m shocked by that.” Natalie said. “Just shocked, given who I had to deal with growing up. What’s a realistic expectation?”

“Fifteen minutes prior to set appointment time.”

“Seems reasonable. Did he say anything about the state he wanted the workshop in?”

“No.”

“Well, let's clean up some anyway.” Natalie said, taking one last bite and pushing the tray away. They spent the next five minutes straightening up their working areas and making sure their uniforms were at least passable under their current living situations. When Carga announced the docking of a shuttle, they stood by, and a few minutes later Neerson walked into the workshop.

The Admiral looked between the Journeymen, then to Carga, then to the workstations, then back. “Journeymen.” He said, inclining his head. “I see your assignment is proceeding, then.”

“Yes sir.”

“The initiative of the members of the RAE corps is upheld by you both.” He walked to their work stations in turn and looked over each in turn before turning and fixing his eyes on Natalie. “Journeyman Sanderson.” He said. “It is good to see you again.”

“You as well, sir.” She said, feeling her face grow hot at the memory of their last encounter. “Thank you for finding an assignment for me on board the Vulcan.”

“It was my pleasure. Having you aboard the project will ensure its expediency, I hope. If your work on your cousin is an indication of your expertise, I will have no need to worry.” He then turned to Damien. “Journeyman Drake, we have not met officially, I believe. Fleet Admiral Richard Neerson.”

“Journeyman Damien Drake.” Damien said, shaking the Admiral’s hand. “Thank you for bringing me aboard.”

“Your advancements in the area of cybernetic optometry are well known, even among the Artisans. I was fortunate I was able to call in a favor to have you.”

“I’m sure it helped that I applied for the position, sir.”

“It did indeed, but you were my first choice regardless. I was subjected to three separate conferences expressing their views that such an assignment would be a waste of your considerable skill. I endeavor for us to prove them wrong.”

“I as well, sir.”

Neerson walked to another of the unused tables and seated himself. “I am here to make my presence known.” He said simply. “Though I understand that such work is better left to minimal interruptions. I am also here to field any questions you may have in regards to the nature of this assignment, or the standards in which you are expected to operate within.”

He went quiet. The Journeymen looked between each other.

“Speak freely. Direct order.” Neerson said.

“Most of this is impossible, sir, at least for the next couple of decades.”

“Impossible is not a word often associated with the RAE corps, Journeyman.”

“Highly theoretical, then, sir, look,” If Damien had a fault, it was that he spoke with his hands as much as his mouth, and it came through strongly here. “They want the optics to be built into the visor shielding itself, and be damn near indestructible to… almost everything. They want it lightweight, they want it almost unnoticeable, like whoever is wearing it to not even realize they’re having their senses augmented at all.”

“And this is theoretical?”

“Certainly for the capabilities we have now, sir.”

“Who is they?”

“Sir?” Damien said, frowning.

“You said ‘they want’. Who is ‘they’ in question?”

“The notes, sir. I can get them if you’d like.”

“Appreciated, but unnecessary at this time. Please have Carga send me files.”

“Yes sir.”

“These notes you’ve indicated outline the desired specifications of the Hellhound armor?”

“That’s what it looks like, sir, but as I said,” Damien spread his hands.

“Highly theoretical.” Neerson finished with a nod, turning to Natalie. “And you, Journeyman Sanderson? Are you experiencing similar issues of the highly theoretical nature?”

“Err,” Natalie looked apologetically at Damien. “Not exactly, sir, but I think I might have a little bit more to go on than Journeyman Drake. And the fields of study are different.”

“No less complex, I’ve come to understand.”

“Not exactly, sir.” Natalie said. “Cybernetic application in regards to appendages is a lot broader than optometry. Hands and feet, sure, there’s a lot of artificial nerve endings there, but for the most part I have a lot of big pieces. Journeyman drake is working with a very small, very complicated, very exact area of cybernetic engineering. I don’t think I could do what he does.”

“What is the reason for that?”

“Well,” Natalie said, her voice falling a bit flat. “I don’t want to, for one thing sir.”

Neerson chuckled. “Well said. A Ziggenbor in all but name. But your work is proceeding well? Does your area also have documentation?”

“Yes sir.”

“Have you gone over it?”

“Um, no sir, I haven’t.” She said, feeling embarrassment rush through her again. “I will though, today.”

“I would recommend it. Carga has told you the objective of the Hellhound armor?”

“She said it was for a project called Black Shuck, sir.” Damien said.

At this Neerson was quiet for a moment. “And I take it she gave you the names of the individuals the armor was intended for?”

“Yes sir. She did.” Natalie said in a quiet voice.

Neerson nodded and allowed the silence to stretch on for an uncomfortably long time before saying. “I do not bring this up to place unwarranted pressure on you, Journeyman Sanderson especially. But this armor in its prototype phase did much for the lifespan of soldiers in compromising situations. It could be that, and much more, with both of your applied expertise.”

“You say prototype, sir.” Damien said. “Was there a reason it was never widely circulated?”

And angry shadow crossed Neerson’s face. “Because there is an archaic and foolish corner of military doctrine that still plagues my navy, and the army, and indeed the Trident as a whole. When the cost was calculated to perfect this technology and circulated to even just the task forces, those who wear ties and suits instead of military uniforms balked at the resources, and decided that the Acceptable Loss Protocol was applicable in this particular matter. The project was rendered to be nonoptimal for current warfare situations, but slated for revisitation when the technology needed for it to be convenient was more inline with the original designer’s vision.”

“It got tabled.” Natalie said.

“It got tabled, as you say.” Neerson said.

“Then why are we here, sir?” Damien asked.

“Because I, Journeyman Drake, am a Fleet Admiral of the Republic Navy. And I disagree with them.” He rose. “I also have the resources, allies, and the knowledge of military regulations to reopen the projects that have been tabled in this station without violating the law, military or otherwise.” He smiled wryly. “I also have three of the Nine backing me. It is my understanding that you have met Grand Admiral Reven.”

“We did.” Natalie said. “When we first arrived.”

“I advised against him making the trip, but he wanted to do a walkthrough of the station personally before he allowed other naval personnel aboard.”

“Sounds like a good officer, sir.”

“I regard him as perhaps the greatest influence on my command.”

“He…” Natalie fished for the right words and came up short. “Looks like he’s a good bit younger than you, sir.”

Neerson’s smile grew slightly wider. “In this situation, you are quite right, though he is not quite as young as he appears. He and the Fleet Admiral Rookwood took the Blustering Captain under their collective wings and taught him a great many things.” He walked for the door as if about to leave, and then seemed to remember something. “There is a man who may call upon you in the next few days to have you look over some technology of the,” he looked at Damien. “Highly theoretical variety.”

“What type, sir?” Natalie asked.

“The spacefaring sort. There’s a ship in maintenance that he is currently doing much the same to as you’re doing here. To his great chagrin, he is at the end of his considerable knowledge and deductive reasoning on a few matters, though no one has had the courage to inform him of it, present company included. I made your services available to him.”

“Uh, yes sir, but neither of us have any sort of experience in spacecrafts of any kind.” Natalie said.

“Indeed not. But six pairs of eyes with three good brains are better than two eyes with one expert’s mind, no matter how formidable. Good day, Journeymen.”