You stare at the sensor readings in utter disbelief. You prod the console to request confirmation on the match. 99.7 percent match for the SES Robert Harbird and 98.8 percent match for the SES Ann Child. The only discrepancies marked out are the damaged sections. You hear Midshipman Engel trying to establish contact but you know it's pointless. According to the ship logs on your screen both ships were dispatched on a colonization mission in April of 8206. Communication was lost in October of the the same year and the ships were classified as lost will all hands to causes unknown in February 8207.

“Secure the communications attempts Midshipman Engel. Those ships have been listed as lost with all hands for forty five years.”

“Aye aye Sir, securing continuations attempts. What do we do now?”

“The Surveyor's Corps does have standing orders for this situation actually. They're a bit dated, from back when FTL comm links weren't quite so quick or reliable, and they don't account for having a crew size of three humans. We are to board, search, and secure the ships for recovery. Seeing as we do note have the crew needed to send the ships home under a 'prize crew' we are to signal home for a recovery slash reclamation crew. Get a preliminary 'lost ship located' message together for Surveyor's Corps Celesmore and Navy Celesmore, information copy to the Ministry of Colonization. There should be a template in the Night Horse's archives. I'm not sure who has the salvage tugs available on short notice for this, or if the ships will be deemed worth bringing back into service, but that's for heads more senior and seasoned then ours to sort out.”

“Aye aye Sir, message being prepared. Who is going to be boarding the ships?”

“With a crew this small? Myself, two eggheads, and twenty standard automatons. Draw straws with Midshipman Huckle for which of you accompanies me to board the Ann Child, the other one gets to follow aboard for the Robert Harbird.”

“Aye aye sir.”

May 26th, 8252

Rear Admiral (Lower half) Aquila Barantyn the 2nd, commanding officer, Surveyor's Corps, Celesmore detachment sits down at his office desk with tea in hand (EIC #4 blend, milk, two sugars, exactly as her prefers) and prepares to deal with the morning message traffic. As is his tradition he sorts it into three piles based on the sender's priority marking. 'For (your) information only' is by and far the largest pile, overflowing it's basket with minutiae, memos, and bureaucratic debris. 'Standard priority' is the next largest, mostly standard reports form the survey and exploration ships under his command. Aquila snorts in lordly disdain at the self-important reports from the six mismatched ships of his 'squadron' and the would-be lordlings commanding them.

“Not a single well-born man amongst them, guttersnipes and plodders the lot. None of them could cut it in the real Navy. Doubly so for Night Horse, I don't know who that man bribed for his command, but he should never have been made an officer.”

Morning bitching thus concluded Aquilla sips his tea again and turns to the 'Priority Dispatch' pile. It's short for once, only two messages deep instead of the usual fifteen to twenty, but one is the red-cornered envelope of an emergency message. He checks the originating ship, sees that it is Night Horse, rolls his eyes, and sets it aside for the other message.

“Let's see here... Ah, the navy burned out that Golrak nest in the Munmore system and they'd like a ship to re-scan the system. Excellent, at least some officers of His Majesties' Navy are capable sorts. Lord Magnus Must was in command was he? Well that's another feather in his cap. Let's see here, what ships do I have available... the Blue Diver is due back in the next three days and the Thunder Marker in seven. Well, whichever of them finishes refueling fist gets the job then. Now, what fresh stupidity has Night Horse managed to get herself into?”

Aquila flips open the paper message and skims the header. His left eyebrow rises and he lays the message flat on the desk. Smoothing it flat he reads it again, tracing the words with his finger. His right eyebrow rises up to join the left.

“Well well well, what do we have here? The answer to an old mystery I see. Two ships forty-five years dead, fifty years out of date, and merchant built at that. Oh well, nothing for this office to do, I've neither tugs nor spare crew to recover anything. I'll draft a memo to that effect later.”

Aquila folds the red-cornered message up, sets it aside on the corner of his desk, and promptly forgets about it.

You close the helmet of your old carapace armored void suit and check the seals. It's not standard issue officer's equipment even in the Surveyor's Corps where officers are expected to wander into danger in person on occasion. It's a piece of kit you managed to hold onto from your days as a midshipman assigned to 'ride heard on' boarding parties. You somewhat miss the combat shotgun you were handed to go with the suit but not so much as to give up the Dragoon plasma pistol that the Surveyor's Corps sent along. It's a tad dangerous to use aboard ship, but you can;t deny it's effectiveness or the pure prestige that comes with carrying such a powerful weapon. Your old boarding cutlass is still plenty serviceable however.

Midshipman Huckle meets you in the launch bay with the two eggheads and the score of crew automatons. While not the most adaptable crew you have had the pleasure of commanding, their ability to operate in environments without heat, air, light, or regard to radiation levels may well prove invaluable. Midshipman Huckle is wearing his light exo suit, up armored and with an enormously enlarged power pack on its back. You note the the trigger guards on both his laser pistol and laser carbine have been widened for his gauntlet clad fingers.

“How long is the power pack good for?”

“Five hours at maximum power but I've added on a portable RTG generator Sir. In 'economy mode' It can operate on a scale of years. I'll run out of air or food first.”

“And the medical suite?”

“Standard spacer's overrides Sir, the same as yours I expect. Starvation won't be a concern.”

“Agreed. Load them up Midshipman, it's time to get moving.